A dozen threats circled in his mind: from a rising of the Keepers to the Custodians, to other government agencies and rogue psychics…
“Several threats,” Phoebe said as they followed her out into the hall, moving at a fast clip to the main conference room at the end of the hall. “Including something new, one of our recruits…”
Caleb’s mind, sharp and on high focus, asked the question instantaneously — and was rewarded with a glimpse, a peek into the past, or the present or future, he wasn’t sure, but it was crystal clear.
A fleet of vehicles, black SUVs and sedans several blocks from the Stargate entrance. A flash, and inside the second car… a hooded figure gazing back, calmly expecting this intrusion, perhaps even welcoming it.
9
Boris Zeller waited patiently behind the driver. Thinking that soon he could be back where he belonged, at the Black Lodge, donning different vestments, a more elegant robe and a hood like those worn by the elder masters for millennia.
He belonged among them, and yet he feared he would never ascend to the levels the others enjoyed. Boris was different. Young and untested, and yet…he had what they didn’t: powers they couldn’t employ. He served a more valuable role than many of the other leaders, as far as he was concerned. They were impotent to act directly, and instead moved within and behind the shadows, luring others to do their will. It was a strategy that worked throughout the ages, causing strife, misery, disease and death; laying waste to entire civilizations while birthing others; guiding humanity down promising paths only to pull out the rug and send them spiraling back down into fear and lawlessness, hopelessness and ruin.
Boris admired every step of the way, every element of this hidden history he had studied and committed to memory from a young age. As soon as he’d been identified as special, and susceptible, he’d been taken, indoctrinated, enhanced, and given every chance at training and harnessing his skills.
He had no equal, and as far as his masters knew, none had come along with his gifts. He had done so much in their service already, but this was the culmination of his ascendency.
Taking down the enemy in a brilliantly coordinated set of attacks involving misdirection, false visions and now, finally…
Direct force.
“It’s time,” said the familiar deep voice, from under the black hat.
And as one, the vehicles surged forward, converging on entrance and exit points from the Stargate facility.
Enjoy your last few minutes of blissful ignorance, Boris thought, closing his eyes. He shut out the sound of doors opening, boots hitting the pavement, guns clicking, chambers loading and men rushing across the street. Shut out everything but the highly-detailed and preconceived visions he had formulated and committed to memory, placed in mental compartments not unlike different cards in a stacked deck.
Mindlessly, he stepped out of the car, dimly aware of the small army of black-clad, well armed and armored agents rushing into the facility, and he reached out, sending his mind’s eye soaring.
He found the targets inside, noted their location — the conference room, as he’d figured. He tagged each of the major players as he would with a targeting program in a video game.
And then he dealt the first card and flung it out, directing it to split, expand and fly to where it would land, stick and do the most damage.
Smiling, he fixed his hood tighter, readied the next mental image card, and followed the men inside.
This was his operation, and he had no doubt of its success.
For he had already seen it: all their enemies subdued, the building emptied of all its rats, and the program — the only adversary his masters ever feared — destroyed utterly.
10
This time Caleb didn’t feel any of the usual squeamish distaste when he looked upon the face staring back at him on the teleconference screen in the main conference room. Oak walls, mahogany oblong table, plush leather seats and soft afghan rug, he was always fond of this room, having many comfortable and productive meetings here with members across the country and even the world.
From Geneva, Xavier Montross spoke to them gravely through the voice of Mason Calderon, and it was his image that for once Caleb didn’t associate with the his prior enemy, a man that had nearly consigned all of existence to oblivion.
“…not much time,” Montross said, snapping Caleb’s attention back to the moment, to this table and the select members of the Stargate inner circle, which today comprised only of Diana, Orlando and Phoebe. All the others were out getting settled into new assignments or continuing with their previous objectives, taking time relaxing and clearing their minds for new tasks, while others (non psychics) scoured intelligence reports and scouting lists, looking for new targets and new members.
“I’ve bought a few more minutes while the others are scrambling to confirm or deny what I already know to be true.”
“Which is?” Orlando hadn’t taken a seat. Instead he just paced behind Phoebe, wringing his hands. “What happened with Al-Hansi? We all saw it. There was no shield, nothing in the way…”
Montross shook his head. “False vision. That’s all I know. It’s happened before if we’ve asked the wrong questions, or allowed ourselves to be led by imaginative hopes, our minds formulating rich visions that were ultimately incorrect.”
“Yes,” Orlando countered, “but that’s why we have double and triple blinds.”
“Hell,” Caleb said, “for this operation we confirmed the visions through what, a dozen of us? We didn’t all ask the wrong questions or supply consistently similar expectations. That would be impossible.”
“Not,” said Phoebe, “if we were directed to all see the same thing.”
That silenced the room for a moment, until Montross said: “That was my thought as well, as unlikely as it seems.”
“It’s not unlikely,” Phoebe said. “In fact, it all makes sense now.”
Caleb rotated in his chair. “Explain. What’s been going on?”
“A new kind of psychic,” Phoebe said quietly, glancing around as if suddenly concerned about being overheard. “One of our recruits. Earlier I just thought he was a…well, an asshole who screwed over a more promising candidate so he could get the job.”
“Boris Zeller,” Orlando chimed in, reaching over to the keyboard built into the table. On the screen beside the Geneva feed appeared a photo of Boris, sans hood, from their dossier on the young man.
Caleb frowned. “And what did this guy do?”
Phoebe spoke clearly and quickly. “We know there are ‘shields’, people who can block visions. Like our own Aria, and the terrorist we previously dealt with named The Eye, and Nina who can pull out visions from others. So, it stands to reason there are other kinds who may have nuanced abilities around remote viewing.”
“Instead of blocking,” Montross said, “this guy can project visions?”
“Seems that way,” Phoebe said. “I talked to the woman outside, the one he showed false visions to, and she claimed, just as we all did here, that she had no reason to doubt anything she had seen. Other than the fact that the visions were so clear and almost needed none of the usual effort it would have taken her to call them out.”
“So there’s that,” Caleb said. “And I don’t know about the rest of you, but this Al-Hansi operation, I do remember being pleasantly surprised by the ease with which we all saw the same thing. But I took it as confirmation that we had great supporting intel, and formulated the proper questions to rule out other extraneous details or false visions.”