Raiya had always made a conscious effort to put her work out of her mind; she imagined her latest study subject’s file as an old paper version in a cardboard sleeve being placed in a drawer and that drawer locked. This time it didn’t work.
She entered the institute’s interior parking zone through a door which opened after confirming her identity. The same physiological/DNA scan would take place on leaving in her car. No one left or entered the institute without this thorough scan. Perhaps this was one of the most secure buildings in Canada. Yet, when the primary lighting failed to illuminate, she knew something was wrong beyond a mere technical glitch.
Then in the muted yellow light a tall, darkly clad man seemed to appear from nowhere, intercepting her just before she reached her vehicle. After the initial shock, she couldn’t help but muse over his curiously outdated fashion: the dark suit and a homburg style hat – it was a revivalist look from about twenty years ago.
‘Hello, ma'am,’ he said, removing his hat in a oddly courteous manner. Ma'am; there was something in the way he emphasised that word which made her feel only more intimidated.
‘Yes, can I help you?’ she asked, aware of the tension in her voice.
‘Indeed, I believe you can,’ he affirmed. ‘You have recently been studying a file of Torbin Lyndau. He has had some rather ... curious experiences, I believe, the nature of which is of interest to our organization.’ The accent was strange: not quite Canadian or from any state of America, but as if a mixture of regions.
‘Organization?’
‘The Western Alliance Security Directorate.’
‘WASD. Never heard of them.’ She knew it was standard protocol to ask for ID, but somehow, here, the question seemed unreasonable – a step too far.
‘Of course not,’ he snapped, ‘we’re a highly covert organization. After all, if people knew about us it could compromise our effectiveness. We deal with matters affecting national security.’
‘I don’t understand. How does Torbin Lyndau affect national security?’
‘The technology he had been involved with was highly dangerous. And if technical knowledge of his research were to fall into the wrong hands ... Well, who knows the trouble it could cause if, for example, a terrorist or dissident group were to use it for their own ideological ends.’
Raiya felt trapped, overwhelmed, like a small animal in the gaze of an unknown predator, something her twenty years of training and experience could not explain. Maybe it was his face: gaunt and hollow with sharp etched features. Also his height, of over two metres, added to the effect. He was standing too close, she realised. But to back away from him was not an option. Instead she took a breath, tried to calm her nerves. Focus.
She said, ‘As a psychiatrist I am bound by a strict code of confidentiality. Furthermore, this institute has a sufficiently high level of security to ensure the safe-keeping of all our files. And thirdly: as far as I can gather, Mr Lyndau has not revealed any technical information of his project.’
‘Doctor Fortenski, pardon my brusqueness, but I must point out that the account file you retrieved may well contain random spaced encrypted code; in other words, embedded data pertaining to the project.’
‘I don’t see why he would do that.’
‘Because of the highly prized nature of his research, the like of which has not been able to be replicated since.’
‘I understand he was quite a genius. But it’s not as if his work remained at the theoretical stage. I presume you know how his research led to the development of warp phase starship drives.’
‘Of course,’ he replied, as if insulted by her even mentioning it. ‘His work facilitated such technology. However, there were aspects of his research which were – could never be – used for space travel, the like of which was regarded as highly dangerous, hence the reason for the project to be on Mars.’
‘Dangerous? In what way?’
‘Such details I cannot go into, at least here. But suffice to say that anyone within viewing distance of his experiments may well have experienced some ... peculiar effects.’
‘I’m intrigued to know more Mister...’
‘Standford. Ebon Standford.’
‘Well, Mister Standford, perhaps you would like to accompany me to my office.’ Every protein in his body would be scanned before he got anywhere near her office. And then highly trained security staff would greet him and check his credentials.
‘No no, Doctor Fortenski, that’s not how we operate. You are obliged to bring his file in its original form to us, at a chosen location.’
‘But how do I know you are who you claim to be?’
‘You don’t. My organization operates at an above top secret level, which means without the knowledge of state authorities.’ He examined the hat he still held in both hands as if looking for some imperfection.
‘There are simply two options to consider,’ he continued. ‘Either you bring the file to us at the time and place of our choosing or we extract it.’
‘By whatever means. I see.’ She wasn’t used to being frightened in this way.
‘You will receive the coordinates, the time and date on your personal console. But don’t bother to trace the message’s origin, and do not bring anyone else or any recording device; we can scan for either of those presences. Is that clear?’
‘Clearer than a datacrystal.’
‘Then I wish you good day, ma'am.’ He walked off briskly, seeming to blend into the muted light before passing through an exit door. A second later the momentary dazzling white of full illumination.
Raiya pressed the comm tab affixed to her lapel. ‘Jannson, can you check a scan from the last few minutes from my location?’
‘Sure thing, Dr Fortenski,’ came his reassuringly familiar voice.
She waited half a minute.
‘No anomalies... Err, what did you want me to check for?’
‘Unauthorized personnel.’
‘The system would have flagged that. Nothing on visual except – lighting’s dim. That’s odd. And you ... appear to be talking. Audio is off line. I’ll run a diagnostic.’
She waited about two minutes, this time.
‘There appears to have been low level EM interference. Still, an intruder should have left some kind of trace pattern. How curious,’ he remarked.
‘Thanks, Jannson. I’ll check back with you tomorrow.’ She closed the link, then hurried into the welcome security of her car.
‘Home,’ she told it. The vehicle drifted gently away as the parking bay door parted for her exit.
This time no music or newscast; her mind would not focus on anything other than her strange visitor.
But analytical thought failed, had done right from the time he appeared, as if all those years had been stripped away when she needed them most. One word sprang into her mind: Sinister. No, not adequate. She simply wasn’t able to read him.
Clearly there’d always be the risk of being targeted or stalked by an ex-patient or client, and hence the need for utmost security surrounding her at all times. Some had been borderline insane, and would in any other century be institutionalised, except these days medication or neuro re-sequencing were able to fix even the most extreme psychotic tendencies. The ones she feared most were the obsessives, usually male: those who thought that allowing access into the private recesses of their psyche was something specially intimate, feeling what they believed to be true love with the only person who truly understood them. At least these men were predictable; her professional network a constant source of support and understanding, as a counter. Not that she’d break the code of confidentiality with any of these patients (or clients as the nomenclature many preferred); only the specific threats were discussed.
Something, someone, a threat outside of this protective realm had got to her in the way no psychotic or obsessive ever could. Even the thought occurred to contact her ex-husband – just a reassuringly familiar voice. No. Instead she’d stay at home, nervous, but too proud to admit it ... well, certainly to him. Her only company a subsentient minibot cleaner.
***