“No more Humungous Fungus this week, I’ve had enough, buddy.” They gave me several fingers. I silently watched them fiddle around some more.
“So what has your hair on fire?” he asked after a pause.
“No more Humungous Fungus for us, I agree,” I replied. “Something is seriously wrong with this place, and we are going to find out what.”
This stopped them in their tracks. Sid looked at me.
“Now you’re finally talking turkey.”
He cracked a smile.
“Sid, drop everything.”
All his phantoms immediately dropped to the ground.
“We’re getting the band back together.”
“Jimmy too?” asked Sid. Vicious was already shaking his head.
“No, I think we’d better let Jimmy sit this one out.”
Jimmy had bigger fish to fry right now. Not only that, but something about him made me very uneasy.
“But I’m going to ping him and tell him that we’re going to mount a search of our own, to try and help figure out the situation. That way we won’t raise any alarms if we scan the perimeter.”
I thought about that for a second.
“Plus, I want him to know what we’re doing.”
I wasn’t sure why. It was just intuition.
“Sure,” said Vicious carefully, “but just don’t tell him too much.”
That wasn’t a problem. I didn’t know too much.
“I think we should get Vince in on this too,” added Sid.
Nodding, I pinged Jimmy and shifted my primary subjective into a tight and secure channel space he immediately opened up to me.
Now I was sitting in a small, pristine white room at a white interview table. Jimmy was sitting before me, his hands clasped on the table, staring directly into my eyes.
“Did you find Wally yet?” said Jimmy as I fully arrived, cracking the faintest of smiles. “What’s going on? No surfing today?”
20
Identity: Jimmy Jones
“No,” replied Bob, “even I couldn’t handle what’s going on out there right now.”
That was the truth. The storms had converged, and the winds were beginning to tear at the forests as our beaches were pounded mercilessly by an angry ocean. Surface access would be shut off soon as we finished stowing everything and everyone below decks.
As we entered American territorial waters, their air force and navy had scrambled to surround us, battling their own way through the storms. Despite that we were close allies, the prospect of suddenly having a wholly independent country slide across the map to invade their space had raised some hackles, even if they understood we had absolutely no choice in the matter.
The world was already a dangerous enough place from their point of view, and they weren’t too happy about us invading their space. Of course, the prospect of two giant hurricanes simultaneously slamming into one of America’s most populated coasts had them occupied with their own typically belated emergency preparations.
Communications were strangely incoherent. It may have just been the storms, but we seemed to be getting contradictory diplomatic messages from one moment to the other.
And, of course, the storms were getting worse. As they neared the coast, and each other, they defied all physics and were gaining in strength, progressing into Category 5 and still intensifying. Unless we could do something about it, we would be beached on the continental shelf just south of Los Angeles, and the prospect of a fully energized fusion core running aground in America had raised the diplomatic tension bar just that much higher.
I had a plan of how we could escape, and was running phutures of it right at the moment Bob had pinged me. As busy as I was, Bob’s primary subjective calling me on an emergency channel was unusual enough to warrant the attention of a splinter.
“So what can I do for you?” I asked, not bothering to explain how busy I was. Bob was many things, but he wasn’t stupid.
Bob took a deep breath. “Look, I’d like to help out. I think I may be able to find a way to see what is happening.”
“Really?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. “And just how do you propose to do that?”
“I know how busy you must be so I won’t waste time on details,” he said looking down at his feet, “but you know I have special abilities, from all the time we spent together. Just trust me, Jimmy, is what I’m asking, and open up some ports for me to scan the multiverse.”
I looked at Bob. Memories flashed from our long past childhood friendship, and memories more recently as my adopted brother. Maybe he could help somehow.
“Okay Bob, go ahead,” I replied, “you have our cooperation. Just feed us back anything you find.”
In all cases, I’d keep a close eye on them.
“You got it Jimmy.”
I closed the connection and returned to the simulation underway. A giant fireball filled my primary mind.
“Seems like it will work,” said Samson, my proxxi. We were going over my plan for escaping from the hurricanes, which we were scheduled to explain to the Council within the hour. “Why don’t you take a quick break and decompress before we present?”
That seemed like a good idea. The fireball slipped away and I relaxed, letting my mind wander back to the meeting with Bob. I was surprised he had any interest I helping out, but then again, the last time he had helped me out had been the biggest catastrophe of my life growing up. I dispatched several agents to watch what he was up to.
I’d secretly thought of Bob as my big brother, as a kid, and in another twist of fate, that’s exactly what he’d become when his family had adopted me at Patricia’s suggestion.
I’d always had a hard time fitting in. The easy way that the other pssi-kids socialized and made friends had always escaped me, but Bob had often tried to be there for me, and had done his best to help me fit in when others had ignored me.
My special skills in conscious boundary systems had quickly brought me to the attention of the Solomon House Research Center, so academically my life had taken off from an early age, but my interpersonal skills had floundered hopelessly, and pssi-kids could be mercilessly cruel.
As I got older and gained in pssi power, my only relief was that I finally managed to escape from under the oppression of my parents. I began to easily slip past their every attempt to corner me and I gained my own freedom.
Nancy Killiam’s thirteenth birthday party was the defining disaster for me as a kid. My own thirteenth birthday was just around the corner, and I was worried that nobody would come to my party, most especially Cynthia, the girl I’d developed my first crush on.
While girls had generally ignored me, Cynthia had magically started to talk with me one day, asking about my research work at the Solomon House. I had no idea how to react or what to do, so I went to the only person I knew to talk to.
“Look,” said Bob back then, “you just gotta stop acting so weird.”
Bob was squinting into the slanting sunshine as we walked across the beach at the end of the day. He raised one hand to shade his eyes. We were walking towards the large blue and yellow circus tent where Nancy’s party was being held. Waves broke softly and rhythmically in the background and the air was filled with the smell of cotton candy and the sound of children at play.
I shrugged. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. All that snooping around, hiding where you’re not supposed to be,” he answered, looking me square in the eyes.
My face flushed red. The other pssi-kids had already begun their tentative sexual explorations of each other, not just rag dolling or flitter switching, but taking a real interest in their blooming, newly adolescent bodies.