“You picked the right location,” he said, barely hearing his own words over the thudding of his heart. The shape loomed large in the view screen. With its sharp angles and flat edges, it couldn’t be anything other than what Caleb knew it to be.
A pyramid.
3
The card’s trio of wavy black lines multiplied in his vision as his eyelids began to flutter and droop.
“Triangle,” said the candidate — the fifteenth of the day? Or was it the sixteenth? Orlando Natch stopped counting an hour and two Red Bulls’ ago. To say this wasn’t going well would be monumental understatement, like complaining that a trek into Mordor to destroy the One True Ring would be ‘a pain’. Each prospective remote viewer or want-to-be psychic was worse than the last, no one showing any glimmer of power.
Where were these rejects coming from? Oh wait, he thought, don’t answer that, we know who’s sending these people. The same a-holes who actually made Stargate account for every dollar spent.
This was all the worse, because he had been sure he had sensed something from this one, picking her out of the remaining six in the waiting area. Thin and wiry in an athletic way, with long dreadlocks, looking a bit like he imagined a young Madame Marie Laveux would appear back in the Voodoo New Orleans era, she alone among the bunch exuded confidence. She seemed certain in her abilities and a little impatient to prove herself. He recognized all those qualities as ones he himself had shared in the weeks before he signed up for the Initiative.
This candidate — Victoria Bederus — had been sitting next to another youngish man who gave off that grunge look, a guy who was part angry Kylo Ren and part sorry-for-himself Luke Skywalker. A compelling combination in some circles perhaps, but Orlando didn’t like it. Maybe the kid…well, not really a kid…perhaps in his early thirties, maybe this guy had some talent as well, but he seemed a bit too calm for the situation. He’d been waiting all day, since 7 AM with the others, who were all fidgeting, anxious and some just ready to bail. That was all part of the process, Orlando knew. He needed to see who could hack it, because this business wasn’t all adventure and Indiana Jones (or Caleb Crowe) excitement; not all spelunking, scuba diving and dodging enemy gunfire while hunting ancient treasures and magical artifacts.
Nope. Orlando knew all too well the hours put in with pencil and paper, or in his case, graphics tablet and stencil, but it was the same: ninety-percent waiting around. It was all about patience, perseverance and above all, trust in yourself.
Maybe that’s what was bothering him now. That guy outside…Boris something? He had that trust, that confidence. Despite the dark vibe, that guy had something, and he was patiently waiting his turn. This woman, well she was impatient as hell, but still — Orlando had been sure she would be advancing. Her early screening had been superb. She had excelled at the Morpheus questionnaire, a personal survey designed with questions that had only one revealing answer each, one that indicated if the candidate had a vision or blast of insight to answer the question. Victoria crushed that survey and answered 80 percent of the questions accurately — more than anyone else in years.
So why was she crapping out here?
Twenty cards in, and she had missed every single one. Not even close. Once even, she answered with a sign that wasn’t even one in the deck. How was that possible? It was like she was drunk, or failing on purpose. Simple chance would let even the non-talented applicant get one of these right. Worse, she seemed so confident in her answers, responding right away, closing her eyes for a moment after Orlando flipped each card, then nodding and giving another wrong choice.
Finally he drew the last card — a triangle.
“Circle,” she said, smiling and exhaling a great sigh. Her eyes were shining, her teeth flashing. Her muscles relaxed and her shoulders loosened as if a great weight had been removed. It was over, and Orlando imagined she felt like he did after he had scored 1600 on his early placement SATs as a freshman so many years ago.
He set down the cards, forced a smile and led her back to the waiting room.
“You can go for now.”
“When will I hear?” she asked, her voice cracking. Her eyes met his — and if he hadn’t just seen concrete evidence of her lack of talent, he would have sworn she glimpsed into the future and saw her absence at this facility. She knew, but that was probably because Orlando was a terrible poker player.
“Soon,” he said and motioned to the door. Then he sighed as she left with her head down, and he looked to the last candidate left. The others had apparently given up for the day.
The young man raised his chin and his dark, unsettled eyes swam into view as he pushed back locks of jet black hair. He smiled, then looked around the empty room. “Guess you saved the best for last?”
“Let’s hope,” Orlando said. “Boris…Zeller, is it?”
Boris stood. “It sure is. Glad you had time to get me in today. So looking forward to this.” He smoothed his button-down shirt that fit a little too large for his frame, and was untucked over beige cargo pants, left his hooded USC sweatshirt on the chair and followed Orlando in.
“You know,” he said, “I really enjoyed that home questionnaire thing, but nothing beats a good sit down, a face to face interview. The good old days, right?”
“I honestly wouldn’t know. I got all my jobs through Skype. Could’ve been wearing just my underwear.” Orlando hoped maybe that would put this guy off his game, but it didn’t work.
Boris just laughed and took a seat. “Hey that last girl…she didn’t look so good when she left. I hope you’re not too rough in here, although if it’s just a card game, I can’t imagine I’ll lose.” That smile again and those damn inscrutable eyes. “I’m really good at games.”
“Okay Boris, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Orlando took a seat. Shuffled the cards. Met this last candidate’s eyes and almost dismissed him right away. Even if he had talent, you also had to have another intangible: the ability to meld with the team, and already Orlando had him at strike two.
He finished shuffling, and began.
From the Stargate central control room, which had been a security center designed to provide observational capability to the entire facility, with camera feeds from almost every room, hallway and exterior access point, Phoebe watched the last interview her husband performed on Victoria. Watched and listened, adding audio access.
After talking to Caleb, Phoebe needed a little downtime, and she really needed a cup of their surprisingly excellent espresso from the gold-plated machine she had ordered last year. She liked to sit here sometimes. She felt like she could catch up on days’ worth of activities, even while her time was now so limited, being a mother to two demanding six-month old twins. They were just down the hall, watched by a sitter, but even now she felt their absence like two lost front teeth, and ached to have them back in her arms. But first…just an espresso and a few minutes to watch her man at work.
Observing, hearing the woman’s clearly confident responses…she had never seen anyone so sure. No candidate, however talented, ever saw things that quickly. This test wasn’t a gut-instinct visual exercise; it required focus and direction and more. Phoebe herself was hardly any good at it, needing quiet and real thought toward her objective. Some remote viewers were like that, and only a few got more than a third of the cards right in this test. This applicant seemed to think she was going to ace this one.