8
Samantha Emilson sat alone in the dark, waiting to see who would be next to come through the iron door. She’d been in the room for over an hour—waiting. She’d experienced this before; keeping her waiting was a standard interrogation technique. As usual, she sat quietly frustrated and stared straight forward at the door, thinking of all the work that she could have been doing instead.
However, there was something a little different about her agonizing wait this time. Usually, the whole lab was dragged in together and questioned. The FBI wanted to know everything about the research taking place in the Aldous Gibson lab. They constantly checked and rechecked, even though the lab worked with multiple government grants from DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. The constant monitoring of their work was stressful, to say the least, but at least it had always been about the lab.
This time, however, it appeared to be only about her.
Finally, the metal door slowly creaked open and the friendly, wrinkled countenance of Professor Aldous Gibson appeared.
“Aldous!” she exclaimed, relieved, as she sprang to her feet and embraced him, happy to see a friendly face. “What’s going on? Do you know?”
Aldous pulled her in front of him and locked eyes with her, his grip surprisingly strong for a man of his age. He looked as though there was something he wanted to say but couldn’t; however, his expression appeared to say she should trust him.
“They have a recording of you saying you don’t support the war or the government,” Aldous began, as he guided her back into her chair and took the chair on the opposite side of the small interrogation table. “It was recorded earlier today—a conversation between your husband and yourself.”
Samantha was nearly dumbfounded. “Are you serious? They recorded that?”
Aldous nodded. “Yes.”
She shook her head as though rebooting, her shock at the idea of being recorded quickly being replaced with indignation. “Well, so what? Am I not allowed to have an opinion in this country anymore?”
Aldous held his hand up to calm her, the same trust-me expression remaining earnestly across his face. “You can have your own opinion, but given the sensitive nature of both yours and your husband’s involvement with top secret projects, you can understand why they want to be sure—”
“No, I can’t understand it!” Samantha retorted, cutting Aldous off. “I’ve done everything that’s been asked of me! Why am I being treated like a prisoner?”
Aldous smiled, leaning forward toward his young protégé, taking her hand calmly in his and relating in a low, conspiratorial voice, “You’ve done nothing wrong. This will lead only to a simple lesson learned for you, Sam. In this brave new world of ours, it’s best to remember that people in sensitive positions must sometimes keep their opinions to themselves.”
The metal door swung open behind Aldous, a high-pitched squeak accompanying the movement, as a large man in a dark suit and navy-blue tie entered. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Professor, but it’s time for me to proceed with the interview,” the man announced.
“No trouble at all, my good man,” Aldous replied. “I’m sure Samantha is eager to get this misunderstanding behind her as quickly as possible.” He turned to Samantha and flashed a warm, calming smile. “I’ll see you soon, Sam.”
Aldous left, and the man in the suit closed the door behind him. He wore aug glasses and appeared to be reading a file. “I’m Agent O’Brien,” he announced matter-of-factly.
Samantha laughed but quickly stifled it.
“Something funny?” O’Brien replied, his face stone cold.
Samantha shrugged. “Are you serious? O’Brien is here to interrogate me?”
O’Brien’s face remained unmoving.
Samantha pointed to the door. “You know that door is marked 101 on the outside?”
O’Brien’s face didn’t twitch. “Is that supposed to mean something?”
She shook her head and inhaled deeply. “You really have no idea what role you’re playing in history, do you?”
Finally, O’Brien cocked his head to one side, curious. “What role is that, Professor Emilson?”
“Orwellian. It’s right in front of you, but you can’t even see it.”
“Orwellian?” O’Brien removed a Bluetooth pen from his pocket and began to write on a computer-generated notepad that only he could see through his aug glasses.
“As in 1984. George Orwell.”
“Ah,” O’Brien said, finally understanding the reference. “Never read it.”
“No kidding.”
“I do know what it’s about though—big government controlling the heroic populace. Is that correct?”
“Sure.”
“A Luddite government perhaps?”
“You really oughtta read the damn book.”
“As you have, Professor Emilson? Will I then see our government as evil and wish to rebel against it, like the hero of 1984?” It was clear from his rapidly moving eyes that O’Brien was fumbling to look up 1984 on Wikipedia or Sparknotes like a C- student, desperate before a final exam. “Like Winston?” he announced, hoping she didn’t recognize his use of a technological cheat sheet.
Samantha looked up at the ceiling and placed her hands on top of her head as she exhaled a long, frustrated sigh. “I’m in Hell.”
9
The SOLO team stood only inches apart from one another, all of them facing the starboard side of SpaceShip3 as they waited for the drop order. They were fully garbed in their SOLO suits, the Nomex outer shell giving the suits a sleek, wet look. The exoskeletons component of the suits were designed with structural batteries that took the shape of working parts so no single, heavy battery pack was necessary. The exoskeletons were imperative so each man could carry his large backpack, which housed his parachute and weaponry. The fuselage had mostly been depressurized, and the members of the team—five humans plus Robbie—stood at the ready, the humans flexing nervous fingers and toes inside their life-supporting suits. SpaceShip3’s pilot periodically engaged the hybrid rocket thrusters to keep the craft over the target area as the group waited for word that the fallout had descended to an acceptable level in the landing zone.
“Listen up!” Wilson began, keeping his position at point in the triangular formation in which the SOLO members stood. “Remember, your SOLO suit doubles as a nuclear, biological, chemical protection suit, but we’ve never jumped into fresh fallout like this before. The NBC suits will increase our exposure time, but even they have their limits. The Kevlar woven into the material isn’t likely to be enough to stop the armor-piercing ammo the Chinese have, so if you take a bullet down there, don’t try to stay in the fight. Get your ass to the extraction point as soon as possible, because you don’t want to see what that radiation exposure would do to you. Is that clear?”
“Hooah!”
“Okay, we just got our orders. We’re sixty seconds to drop time,” Wilson relayed excitedly. A green timer began counting down on the OLED heads up displays on each of their visors. “It’s time to stop breathing, boys. Hold your breath and activate your respirocytes.”
Craig tried to resist the instinctive urge to take in a last gulp of air, but the SOLO suits only had a minimal air supply—just enough to make it possible for the team members to speak to one another. Instead, he closed his eyes meditatively and concentrated on not taking in another breath. Just as before, only hours earlier in the presence of the doctor with the beautiful smile, Craig found himself marveling that he could live without air.