If there was one tangibly positive thing Roidon had gained from this assignment it had to be this car. A top speed of Mach 7.8, acceleration that almost knocked him unconscious. In theory he could go anywhere, but in reality he knew the B’tari were monitoring his every move. This time there would be no deviating from the plan. At least not for the first stage.
His destination was Nevada, in a valley below mount Jefferson. Predictably the location was somewhere isolated from the mainstay of civilisation, like a combined cliché of all those survivalist and religious cults from centuries past, Roidon mused.
As he stepped from the car the heat hit him. The almost totally still air made it feel all the more oppressive. Even after the worst effects of global warming had been reduced, places like this could still manage 45 degrees C in mid-summer. Now, in early May, at six pm, the temperature was 32 Celsius and dropping only fractionally.
Of course, there was no question of touching down near their compound, so he walked the three kilometres – what was deemed a safe distance. The car, in any case, would make itself scarce in whatever area it thought to be inconspicuous.
The various scans confirmed to his retinal projecting PDU that he was within visual range. The compound was a series of cabins surrounding a larger metal building. Hardly inconspicuous, but then there was nothing illegal to their existence, their practices, at least what they made openly available to the media. In fact, they were openly advertising for more recruits. The US and Canadian governments viewed this as defiant of what was considered these days to be the cultural norms of a settled and contented (mostly) society. There was something about this group, Roidon thought, to be admired: they were not taking the line of conformity, and those in governance were bewildered (if the media interviews of officials were anything to go by) at such defiance. Yes, he’d seen this before, centuries back, although this time the cause was not so clear. This group’s motivations could be explained. But how they knew – or even had an inkling – of what was to come … he would find out.
As far as he could see, there was no security: no fences, no protection fields that his scanner could detect. The whole complex looked like it had been built a few centuries back. At the front of the metal building amid two adjacent tinted windows there was a basic door, a simple intercom button at the side, instructions for any new arrival to press the button and speak into it.
It wasn’t like Roidon to experience nerves. After all, he’d been in some life-threatening situations, had risked capture by a deadly regime by putting himself up in front of a rebel group as their guest speaker. Yet something felt very wrong here, a feeling that even the most astute logic could not inform. His mind was telling him it should not be this easy, that he was about to walk into some kind of trap.
He pressed the button. A young woman answered. ‘Yes. How can I help you?’ came her tentative voice through a tiny speaker.
‘Hello, my name is Ebulen Chander, and I am here to become a Transcender.’
‘Oh. I see.’ Unsurprisingly, she didn’t sound convinced.
‘I tried to contact Parmayan. I’ve been sending messages but have had no reply.’ And to that he got no reply.
For about two minutes Roidon waited, his thoughts playing games of doubt and, yes, apprehension. Then the door opened with such a flourish it made him stumble back. Roidon didn’t notice much about the man standing before him, all he really observed was the gun – it’s threatening aim and its tapered rectangular design.
But as he wondered whether he’d truly miscalculated and that actually death was imminent, his world became a watery morass of pain. Even after a few seconds, death would have been welcome. After all, he’d done death before, come back with no knowledge or at least memory of it. No big deal for him, not with the B’tari as his benefactors.
Except he remained conscious. It wasn’t possible to identify who it was now carrying him along. There were two of them now supporting him either side. His legs had virtually no strength, feet being dragged along like lifeless clumps of bone and flesh. It was as if all his body had been rendered useless, an encumbrance.
Eventually, in a brightly lit room, he was put down onto a hard-back chair. A face he was having trouble focusing on peered down at him, then looked away to one of his assistants.
‘You say he had no weapons, but did you do the full scan.’
‘We did a level two. If he’s carrying anything it would be subdermal. But as far as we can tell, he’s clean.’
‘I have my suspicions about this one. No one just appears out of the dessert.’ The man then looked to Roidon. ‘What is your name – your real name?’
‘Ebulen Chan---’
‘No, your real name.’
‘Roidon Chanley.’
‘Why are you here, Roidon?’
‘I’m here to find the truth.’
‘I’ll tell you why you are here, Roidon, you are here to spy on us for the authorities.’
‘Authorities?’
‘I know a government agent when I see one.’
‘No sir, you are mistaken. I have no affiliation with any government.’
The man hit him. The pain was not as bad as Roidon expected; whatever weapon before stung him had perhaps overloaded his pain receptors. The man continued: ‘We will soon find out who you are when we perform a deep level memory trawl. I cannot guarantee it won’t do permanent damage. But since you seem intent on lying---’
‘I represent the beings you know of as the Bortati.’ Roidon could now clearly see the man in front of him – someone not as imposing as had first seemed, perhaps rather short and slightly built … and – from the objective criteria – bordering on ugly.
The man said, ‘Why should I accept your word?’
‘If you scanned my DNA you would know I am not registered on any database. Furthermore, you will also see that I am no older than two years.’
The man facing him gave a look that suggested he had a bad odour under his nose, but eventually nodded his head and said, ‘Very well, Mister Chanley.’ He then turned to his assistant who, needing no instruction, went off and returned with a small plastic cylinder he handed to his boss.
Roidon felt this the time to slip in the question: ‘Are you their leader Parmayan Redandich?’
‘Who I am does not concern you,’ he said as he took the swab out of it’s casing. ‘Now open wide.’
It seemed a curiously old fashioned way to take a DNA sample, but Roidon complied nevertheless.
The assistant returned with a palm-sized PDU and handed it over to his boss – the man Roidon was sure must be Parmayan Redandich. Parmayan studied the screen for what seemed like a minute, making the occasional sound of surprise. And then: ‘Interesting. I am tempted to suggest that this computer is giving me a false reading. The only alternative is that you are indeed telling the truth. In which case, tell me why they created you. Are you a clone?’
‘I am a recreation of a former incarnation.’
‘It gets better!’ the man remarked.
‘I can understand your scepticism, even in the face of the evidence. Therefore I don’t expect you to believe me when I tell you that I am on a mission to prevent what is considered to be inevitable.’
Parmayan nodded and smiled, not so much out of comprehension as an ironic incredulity. ‘Sent by the Bortati, here to rescue us all,’ he mused.
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘Alternatively, you could be working for their enemy, the Anihilists – those who believe all humans should be erased from time.’
‘No. We share a common enemy.’
Perhaps this group was being led by someone acting truly independently. But a man only in possession of some of the facts was all the more dangerous for his lack of a complete picture. The desire for self aggrandisement, while perfectly logical, gave fuel to an already raging fire.
‘You know some of what is true,’ Roidon continued, ‘but not all you have been told will come to pass.’
The man Roidon suspected to be Parmayan shook his head and produced his stun gun, shooting Roidon with a pulse right between the eyes.
***