short timers: Episode 1c

Last section of the Short Timer introduction. Please be aware... that I am aware (painfully so) of the many grammar and punctuation issues. Editing is the bane of all writing craft... ugh.

Morgan sat in his main control room, watching Jance and Stella through the left hand monitor of his computer system. They were both in the Decon process, showering the sweat and grime off their bodies, and getting prepped for their physicals.

He felt tension.

The two had completed their mission, and done well. But Morgan was still twitchy with agitation.

Why was he so angry with the kid? He looked at Jance on the monitor, wondering what the kids emotional state was and trying to figure it out without going into the Field and trying to eavesdrop. Jance was just too hard to hide from, if someone accessed the field he would know.  

Jance stood naked and in full view of the camera, as did Stella. They had all become used to the lack of modesty required by the poking and prodding scientists over the last months. Stella was the least happy with the torment, but she adjusted quickly enough when she felt her energy waning.

Morgan scowled at the monitors, boring his attention into the problem at hand.

He knew why he was pissed at Jance… Morgan was jealous. Plain and simple.

Jance possessed the ability to enter the Psyche Field at will, and to watch with a natural intelligence as the secrets of the Field were laid open to him. Morgan couldn’t.

Morgan had always been a warrior, his life was based on the idea of war. His hands only felt comfortable when they were wrapped around a weapon, and he could only truly relax when he was armed. He hated the detached feeling of the strategist, which is what he’d been forced to become when the outfit became functional. Also he struggled with the compartmentalization of the Short Timers abilities.

Ed and Jimmy were the bruisers. Stella and Tsang the assassins. Jance was the intelligence. It was Morgan’s belief that any effective military squad should be able to function on all lines of thought, independent of whether or not one was out of commission. Each soldier in the field needed to be versatile enough to operate on all levels. This was a huge gap to bridge with this group. And with Jance’s latest discovery, the gap just got bigger. Morgan knew that if he were to be in the battle field he could be as proficient at all the talents that each individual possessed, and in some cases even more so.

Except Jance.

He sighed deeply. Perhaps his problem was he was a micro-manager. Or maybe he was frustrated with having to live vicariously through his people through a holographic computer system. Watching all the action, and not being able to join the battle.

Inwardly he knew that if he’d been in Jance’s position, he would have acted in the exact same way to help Stella. Jance had followed a gut feel, and had been successful. He wasn’t angry with the kid for his actions. He was angry because while Jance was out f*****g around, Morgan was essentially useless, and blind to what was going on. Morgan was pissed because he wanted to be able to maintain the connection to the Field the same way that Jance could.

The weakness in his view, was within him. And that simply would not do. He didn’t care what the effort it took, he would learn to be as proficient as Jance or more so. Everything that the Short Timers did needed to be cross linked between all members. Period.

Ultimately Morgan had a view of what they had the potential to become. The perfect fighting squad. A handful of individuals, shifting and reforming their talents to meet the demands of a situation no matter what chaotic aspects the battlefield threw in. Able to move in and be efficient and deadly without outside support or information.

Communication had become the Achilles’ heal of the modern fighting force. Satellite, GPS, radio signals, radar…everything was based on communications working perfectly. Leadership roles were defined less on a commanding officer's ability to rule with discipline, and more on the commander's ability to communicate. Every soldier needed to know how to follow orders, and every leader needed to know how to give them. That universal truth of war was broken down the moment Jance discovered how to use the Psyche Field in an effective way. There was no need to bark orders, a commander could just send an impression of a command and give a target through a mental perspective. At least in theory. The truth was, that despite the need of the Psyche Field, Morgan and most of the other Short Timers knew almost nothing about it. The telepathy was attached to it, but only secondarily. They were just scratching the surface of what the Psyche Field was capable of, and Morgan wanted to know what his tools were.

Morgan wanted to trade Jance places, be able to study and understand the Field the way the kid could. Let Jance be the guy behind the computers, and let Morgan do the killing. But that would defeat the purpose of his creating well rounded soldiers. Particularly if the short timers base of operations came under attack. If Jance was killed, the short timers would be blind in a place they couldn’t afford to be.

Morgan’s thoughts were quiet for a moment. He knew what he needed to do, but wasn’t certain if it would work. He countered that doubt with a simple oath….He would make it work. No matter what it took. He would have to expose a great amount of himself to the kid, but when it worked, it would give Morgan what he wanted: The perfect squad, with him out in the battle field, right in the front and center of the action. He knew it would work. And with that knowledge he could see the accomplishment of his war, without having to watch it from the safety of a computer screen or a holotube.

He looked down at the screen in front of him, Stella and Jance were getting dressed in their strange grey gowns getting ready for the physicals the medics and scientists had in store for them.

The scientists were another problem that he needed dealt with, and soon. They were starting to want more subjects to work with. And they were getting very brave about who they chose.

Stella and Tsang had both been extremely dangerous subjects. He’d not been wrong in the assumption that they would be great additions to the group, and he’d been correct when they both opted for death than to be forced into service. Morgan would have done the same thing. However, with some gentle persuading, he’d convinced them that to join the group would be a good thing…for all of them. The persuasion tactic was simple; give them something they wanted when money counts for nothing.

Give them revenge.

Morgan knew their pasts, and knew that he could offer them the information they needed. But what about when they had their revenge? Would they want to just find somewhere to die off? Would they want to go out guns blazing? (more info)

The science group was asking for another two subjects, neither of which Morgan knew. He’d have to research them, and see what he could use to motivate them, and what he could use to ensure their loyalties.

The other issue Morgan had to deal with was the Short Timers dependency on the science group for general maintenance and survival.

Morgan’s ultimate target was much further away than just a few blocks down the road from the facility. His crosshairs, were focused south. The suits were sustainable, the Field was sustainable. But the Short Timers energy systems were not. Physically, their bodies couldn’t sustain energy enough to survive for longer than about a day without needing to infused.

He looked at his monitors again, Stella was laid down on an uncomfortable hospital table. She had a tube rammed down her throat, and two chemical drips attached by IV tube plugged into the veins in either arm.

She was running low, Morgan could see it in her face. Her eyes were half lidded and heavy dark circles were forming around her lids. She had the look of her profession: serious. She possessed a hard beauty. Her skin was very fair, her eyes a dark burnt brown. She could be of any race, or none. Her large eyes and sharp cheeks and jawline could be from African descent, or even Indian. But the oval cast of her eyes could be oriental. She had thin lips that tended to disappear when she was angry, which was often.

The Short Time procedure created a certain look on the faces and bodies of those who’d received it. Each one had a chiseled stone like look to their features. Sharp angular lines, set in extremely defined musculature. Morgan had met men in the military that spent 4 to 6 hours a day in a gym, on heavy protein diets that looked in less physical condition than any one of his group. The body was amped up to the point that no fat was ever sustained. The body drank everything that could produce energy, and each individual's metabolism ran 45 and 50 percent higher than their maximum. It was like being on military grade amphetamines constantly. Which was wonderfully useful when maintained properly, but when the balance was tipped, the Short Timers experienced a sort of physical systems crash. The body wanted to hibernate, plain and simple. But the mind stayed fast. (revise the stomach tube, or find some good bullshit.)

God that feeling sucked. Like being drained and exhausted, but unable to sleep. Without the infusion of chemicals the doctors administered, the Short Timers would slip into a semi-conscious coma. Unable to move more than inches in any direction, but unable to rest their still very active minds. It was worse than any prison, a feeling that Morgan knew from experience.

Jance had the same ultra-conditioned look on his face, and he also looked very drained. He lay on his hospital bed, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t look like a scientist, even before the procedure. He had short brown hair that always looked combed but never really was. When Morgan met Jance, the young man was wearing cheap thin framed glasses that weren’t really necessary. Morgan assumed it was part of a look, to try to make him look a little older. It didn’t work then. But now,  there was a hardness in the set of the young man’s jaw that spoke of a different type of age. One based on experience, and struggling conscience. A pinched line in the center of the forehead. Clenched jaw. He didn’t have to read the Field to know the young man was worried about his future conversation with Morgan.

He had a great many things to discuss with the very talented young man. Many things. But for now Morgan needed to be patient.

It was Morgan’s least enjoyed talent.

He was good at it. But he hated every second of it.

Jance lay on the table, calmly and stoically accepting all the little discomforts of being a Short Timer. He knew what they were doing to him and why, but it didn’t make it pleasant.

He tried to zone out, he tried to prepare for his talk with Morgan.

He wanted to stay away from the Field. During his entire Decon process he kept thinking about the men he’d killed down on the docks. He was still having a hard time adjusting to his new self definition.

He was a killer. A murderer. He was no longer an innocent scientist. Even through the eyes of the scientist, trained to look at the colder aspect of the deed, he couldn’t get past the feel of the gun going off in his hands, and the sight of the first mans head disappearing in a bright flash of light and a spray of blood.

He kept feeling how the bullet had torn into his own body.

There was still a vague warmth there, as his body tried to heal from a wound that wasn‘t there. One of the scientists passed a device over the upper part of his chest and paused over the spot. He looked at the screen, and asked Jance if he’d been hurt. Jance paused for a moment, then nodded, then shook his head. The scientist looked confused for a moment, looked back on his screen, and then shrugged his shoulders at Jance with a dismissive click of his tongue in his throat.

‘Looks like you’ll live.’ He said. ‘But you might bruise.’

‘Yeah, ain't life a b***h.’ Jance said, mouthing around the stomach injector, and with a voice hoarse from neglect. The tech gave no sign that he heard or understood.

Prick. He thought.

What was he going to say to Morgan? Maybe Morgan would save him any hassle and just get into ripping into him as soon as he set foot in his office.

He grinned, despite the uncomfortable tube stuffed down his throat.

There’s always sarcasm. He thought, and drifted into a mid range meditative state, as close to sleep as any one of the Short Timers could ever expect to get. He could feel the chemicals taking effect in his body. A few more minutes and he’d be back up and moving.

He rested that way until he felt the one of the needles pulled from his arm, and the tube yanked out of his throat.

He felt better, the infusion had done it’s job well.

He looked over to the scientists and med techs, four in all. Ranging in age and discipline, though the ones in this room we’re micro chemists, neuroscientists, and medics. They’d all been infused with the first stage of serum. They seemed very bored.

At some point since the inception of the group, and the formation of the Short Timers as a military team, a line was created. Between the scientists and the operators.

Jance had been ‘created’ to hopefully bridge the gap between the two groups. Jance felt the pull away from the scientists almost immediately following the procedure. What was worse, Jance had a very hard time not listening to their thoughts. It took all his effort to stay out. After all he knew how scientists think, and it was his nature to be curious. Moreover, he knew how he thought, and the comparison would give him a perspective on the nature of scientific thought vs. individuality. In this case he discovered the scientists that he saw were cookie cut replicas of arrogance and disdain for him and the group in general.  

He’d read their thoughts in the past, and been a little disturbed at what he found there. Not for their lack of knowledge, or their reasoning; it was their lack of humanness that bothered him.

The thought made him chuckle to himself. Here he was, a newly formed killer espousing judgment of inhumanity on a group of people who’d never killed. What a f*****g joke.

This line of questioning and thought brought him to the metaphoric cliff's edge, where a choice needed to be made. He was smart enough to know that not all scientists were like these people. They couldn’t be. Was it the procedure itself? Did the first stage chemicals used on the scientists, create within them the cold arrogance that he saw so many times when he looked into their heads? And how did that differ from what Jance saw with the full Short Time procedure? The decision was simple, but required him to alter his sense of self. Considering his over all metamorphosis in the first place, the decision was almost made for him. He embraced the hearts of the warriors he worked with directly. Even though they had all killed more men than he was even interested in counting (he still wanted to maintain some sense of conscience), whether he liked it or not, he felt more at home with the murderers than the science group.

The Short Timers felt his presence necessary and useful. The science group didn’t. For the most part the men and women involved within the group were too busy trying to be smarter than one another. Before he’d decided to submit himself to the procedure, he was just another geek with little extra to contribute to the overall knowledge pool. But, with the Short Timers, Jance felt a sense of home and family that he’d never experienced before. Albeit a dysfunctional family, but a family nonetheless.

“You're ready to go Jance.” Said Carl, the lead Microchemist of the group.

“Thank you,” Jance mumbled, “I really needed that.”

Carl gave an apathetic shrug, and a half grin. Jance returned it, and walked out of the lab and headed towards Morgan’s lair.

The halls were quiet. The walls were cement, the floors a heavy grey industrial tile. It looked like an abandoned ER, or mental hospital. The lights were too bright, and his ears picked up the ever present hum of the excited neon.

The grey scrubs, the only other clothes the Short Timers could wear apart from their mission suits, maintained that wispy barely covering feel of pajamas. He would have liked at least a bathrobe to cover himself from the cold unfeeling air. He understood that this was essentially a military installation, and that budget left little room for decoration, but damn. This coldness was ridiculous.

He kept his eyes half lidded, almost squinting against the bright lights. The Short Timers eyes were very sensitive to light. He felt that slow ache above his eyes that was usually a sign of an oncoming migraine. He wanted to get to Morgan’s room quickly, but didn’t. He knew that the only light in that room would be the console and the holotube. The monitors and holotube were filtered, so that Morgan could stare at them for long hours without the concern of getting the massive headaches. He’d designed the computer systems used by Morgan and all the Short Timers. Using himself as the testing guinea pig. He hadn’t heard many complaints from either Morgan or the other Short Timers in regards to their personal consoles. He could have been a salesman for all his concern for customer service. He wished everyone in the complex was that courteous.

He wondered what the building had been used for, before they called it their home. He thought of all the possibilities, and thought that if he had the time he’d look it up. If he had to guess, he would call it an office building with a subterranean morgue.

The Short Timers complex was a seven story building, five floors above ground, and two floors below. The main entrances were sealed off. The only way in or out was either the basement, or the roof. Security, as with all military installations, was the highest priority. Everything was monitored, up to and including human waste. Much of this information was based on his initial signup and orientation. He knew how military installations worked, he didn’t need to ask for further clarification than what the procedure was for security breach. The lead scientist who’d given him the orientation let him know anyway, at least in a roundabout way. He’d said, ‘non compliance will result in termination and liquidation from the project.’. Jance decided to take the definition literally and figured the consequences for security breach would probably be a bullet to the head, and an organic acid bath, followed by a trip down the garbage disposal. The military takes its black project protocols seriously.

Jance was the only individual, other than perhaps Morgan, who’d spent any significant amount of time on the upper floors of the complex. The upper four floors were for the science group, the top floor for storage and some living quarters. The walls there were decorated with mathematical equations, printed theoretic papers, and project analysis posters. The upstairs reminded Jance of his college math department. There were always people mingling in the halls, outside of the rooms, talking science and theory. After Jance had been ‘Short Timed,’ he’d discovered that only a handful of scientists and medical technicians even knew of the existence of the Short Timers. Jance assumed that it was an old military trick of reduced liability in order to maintain secrecy. It was a trick that worked. Let the worker bees only know so much of the subject, and let the really big brains put all the information together when all the peripheral science was discovered.

As soon as Jance had been ‘Short Timed’, he was no longer allowed upstairs. He understood why, and didn’t hold against Morgan, or anyone else. He had become a completely different person. He looked different. He doubted very much that anyone would recognize him from when they knew him before. But he would very likely be bored to death with any conversation with them anyway. After this evening's events, he would very likely kill them for their ignorance.

Ignorance? I’m turning into a very serious prick. He thought to himself.

Join the club kid, Came an almost instant reply from Stella.

Yep, I was thinking we’d put together some T-shirts. From Jimmy.

Jance sighed. Will you a******s get outta my head for a minute please? I gotta go get my a*s reamed by Morgan, and I’d like to have some composure before I get bent over.

There was a general mental chuckle from three different sources.

Lighten up kid. That was from Ed, just below Morgan as far as seniority as a Short Timer. Morgan’s not as rough as you think. Just be as absolutely honest as you can, and avoid devolving into slobbering fits of whimpering and you’ll be fine.

Slobbering fits of whimpering? Jimmy asked.

Oh shut up, you know what I mean. Show some backbone and you’ll be alright. Ed replied. Ed was a genuine good guy despite being one of the most violent killers. Jance was glad to hear from him.

Won’t he Morgan?

Jance’s heart stopped.

Well. The longer he takes to get here, the less his chances of survival. You read me kid?

F**k. Yes sir, I’m almost there.

Well I distinctly remember putting a rush order on that plate of bullshit, so get your a*s over here before I ask for my money back. Jesus.

This brought a chorus of laughter and ominous sounds of concern from the other telepaths in the building.

Who the f**k talks like that? Jimmy said, and broke into cackles.

The only one Jance hadn’t heard from was Tsang, who was probably in his quarters either in deep meditation, or blinking his eyes and shaking his head at the ridiculousness of westerners.

Jimmy reached Morgan’s door, a thick metal obelisk with no windows, and he grabbed the stainless steel handle and pulled.

The interior of the room was dark except for a thin yellow glow from the holotube. Morgan’s bald head and bare hands, seemed to float in midair. He was wearing his mission suit except for the gloves and mask. The nano’s weren’t active, but the suits grey material still blended into the near darkness of the room.

“Time we had a chat Jance.” He said, in a deep voice.

Jance was confused, but responded with his own voice.

“Yes sir.”

The door closed behind him, and their meeting was started.

Ed leaned back in his chair, the green light of his console illuminating his face in the darkness of his room. The kid would do alright. He knew what Morgan’s issue was, he knew what it was like to be a warrior behind a desk and how hopeless that feeling was.

He went back to studying. The equilibrium of mental acuity and focused attention resumed. For the moment he was a sponge, taking in all the information the holographic representation of printed material speeding across his vision, in a three dimensional scrolling vortex, as fast as he could. Speed reading textbook material on everything from Quantum Mechanics to Postmodern artistic revolutions, and cross linking the information with current political positions in the Western Civilization. Far from the most useful information, but he was bored, and had a full tank gas from his recent infusion. He had about a 95% retention rate, and wanted to capitalize on the e clung to his taste buds.

information while he could. In another hour or so he drop down to 90% and then settle on about 85 for the rest of the day. He was planning on working with Jimmy on their tactics later during the evening, then a quick early morning discussion with Morgan after he’d had a chance to work with Jance.

He desperately wanted to work with Stella in the gym. She had natural techniques of stealth and balance, every movement seemed perfect. He’d had years of sniper training, and was still top of his class when he left the outfit to join the CIA, but his movements looked like the Polka compared to Stella’s ballet.

She was still too angry though. She was trying to incorporate, but was still having a rough time of it. He’d try to coax her tomorrow, but didn’t hold a lot of hope.

Jimmy was in the gym, hammering his muscles. Hammering his bones. He’d been on the computer working through several different martial arts techniques the day before, and he wanted to see if muscle retention was similar to their mental retention. So far so good. He needed to see if he could con Morgan or Ed into some sparring practices. He might even consider talking to Tsang.

He practiced one move in particular that showed up over and over in his mind. His muscles liked to perform it, his mind liked to tweak it; each practice was more refined and powerful. Throat punch, solar plexus knee, elbow to C4, neck snap. He’d tried it earlier in the evening with great success. The men he’d killed never made a sound, and died quickly. He needed to work on his distance strikes, but for the moment he was enjoying the close work. He like to see the surprise on the faces of his opponents before they died. He like to be close enough to hear their hearts flutter then stop.

Tsang was in deep meditation, just as Jance had suspected. He’d been given the tools to gain his enlightenment and forgiveness, and he was on the path beyond them both.

He didn’t care for the men he’d killed this evening, and he really didn’t care for the men that he killed for. They were a means to an end. He felt no reason to give Morgan his loyalty, other than his ancestral sense of honor. That was enough for the moment. But he couldn’t help but imagine his freedom, to pursue his own cause. He wondered if that would require murdering the men and women that he associated himself with now. It didn’t matter. None of them mattered. Least of all him.

He was beyond time and space for a moment. In a place that he’d never been before. He felt himself leaving his body and traveling nowhere, he was lifted beyond the cares of this life. His breathing calm and slow, his mind a subtle blank. His spirit was free, in a place of mysticism and grace.

Stella lay on her chair. Staring at the ceiling. She masked her thoughts as best she could. She went over the night in her head. Slaughtering the men, feeling the touch of their lives, seeing the light go out. She felt the weird force that had entered her body. She could still feel it. It didn’t touch her as much now.

She remembered the night her father was killed. And remembered the face of the man that killed him. She looked at that face, grinning at her over her father's bloody corpse over and over again. She memorized every line, the twinkle in the cold eyes, the dark hair, and the set of his jaw.

She would see him again. Soon. Then what happened to her was not important.

Though she admitted to herself, she kinda liked this group of misfits that she was with. Even Tsang offered her a challenge that she could never find on the outside world no matter how tough the job was. He was quickly becoming her new challenge. She wanted to dance with the short Japanese man. She wanted to dance with blades drawn. Even if it meant her death. She’d make sure he bled a little too.

“So tell me what happened when you blocked me out.” Morgan said, still an intense looking floating head and hands.

Um.. Well sir..

“Speak to me kid. I got enough voices in my head. Call it nostalgia.” Morgan’s voice was little more than a whisper, with a little bass that barely illuminated the power beneath it. Jance was certain his voice caused more than a few nightmares during the course of the man’s life. It was certainly something that he wouldn’t want to hear coming from the dark behind him in a deserted alley.

“Yes sir,” Jance’s own voice was far less intimidating in his own ears, and was still wispy from neglect.

“And quit with the ’sir’ bit. You're not a military man, and I don’t demand that kind of treatment. What I do demand however is the respect of keeping me in the f*****g loop.”

Jance took a moment to gulp and clear his throat and head. The monolog he’d been working on in defense of his actions disappeared from his head, and he stammered ahead without grace or preamble.

“I was trying to help Stella sir…I mean, well…yeah. She was headed into a situation that presented very serious risk of discovery and harm. Not only to herself, but the rest of the operators in the area.” Jance took a deep breath, considering if he should say more, and deciding it would be better if he just let it lay at that statement. Simple and to the point. Morgan seemed to accept that and moved on.

“Was there no way to maintain the field when you moved forward in your…what, out of body experience?”

“None that I could see. I reacted out of instinct and a little desperation. I know that rationally it didn’t make sense, and it was kind of wing and a prayer, but it’s been a theory that I’ve been working on with the Field since its discovery. I gave Stella specific instructions not to go out until I told her I was ready.”

“Are you trying to push blame onto Stella?”

Jance was a little surprised by this, but went on.

“No sir…ah s**t. I mean, no. I realized later that she had to act based on the distraction that I caused, as well as when I sent her the message that I thought I’d been shot. Her decision to move and join the battle was tactically intelligent considering the situation. It was my decision that was foolish.” Jance paused for a second to see if Morgan agreed with him. When there was no immediate response except for a severe raised eyebrow above intense blue eyes, Jance continued.

“I will say that under similar circumstances I would have done the same thing. Though I could have done without the getting shot part.”

With that said, Morgan cracked a grin. “Yeah that part does suck.” He said. One floating hand reached down to his console and tapped a button.

“Your post mission physical came back. It looks like there were no lasting effects except for this knot of psychic energy at the point of the wound.”

The holotube flipped through an image of a three dimensional transparency of a man. A label beneath the feet of the yellow glowing person stated that this was Jance, A. third generation. ST. Operational. And various other information stating his age, weight, race, and countdown to next infusion.

“Yeah. I still feel the shot, though I know it’s not there. My mind keeps going back to the memory of it, that’s the explanation for the knot.”

“Is that pertinent?” Morgan asked.

“Not necessarily. I believe that the knot will go away when I get busy doing something else. However, every time I remember getting shot, I will remember the pain and impact, and the ghost of it will probably show up on the image. This may only cause confusion with active operators, on missions, remembering former wounds.” Jance had slipped into information mode. The same mode of thinking and speech he’d used to get through his various degree programs when defending dissertations for final graduation.

“Agreed.” Morgan said. Staring at the monitor for a moment, then clicking another button that brought up another three dimensional figure of a man. He was labeled, Morgan, J. First generation. ST. Operational. There was another set of letters beneath that information that said, REAL TIME, in glowing yellow letters.

The figure spun, and Jance watched as several bright spots covered the floating figure. Two centered on upper thigh, one to the left of the abdominal muscles just below the rib cage. Several crisscrossed shapes on the forearms and upper arms. One to the neck, and several to the head and face.

Jance’s jaw dropped. This must be a representation of all the wounds that Morgan had sustained over the course of his life that he remembered. He wondered how many he’d forgotten about.

“Enough scar stories,” Morgan said, and the figure whipped away with two or three clicks on Morgan’s panel. A large floating brain replaced the image.

“So, where did you go? I assume you focused on the field and projected into the target where you temporarily took control of his body. Am I correct?”

“You are. He seemed the most viable choice for that tactic.”

“Why?”

“He seemed susceptible due to his brain wave patterns, and his weaponry. May I?” Jance gestured to a panel next to Morgan’s left hand.

“By all means, show me.”

Jance picked up the wireless control panel and tapped two or the keys and actuated a slide key. The floating transparent brain rotating in front of them gained a small vibrating cloud deep within the center of it. Another few clicks, and another smaller cloud formed in the center, this one blue in color. One more click and the entire brain lit up gold, vibrating about twice as fast as the red cloud in the center.  

“I think that this man in particular had a set of brain patterns that I could match and ‘bump’, the others were more complex and would have required more time and effort to copy. Once I figured out that I could do it, I tried to suggest things to him.”.

Tap, Tap, slide click. Tap. Another brain with different wave patterns came up next to the original one with different colored signals. Then the signals changed to reflect a close approximation of the other brain.

“I couldn’t get him to do what I told to. Even though he seemed to like the idea. So instead, I sort of moved in and made his brain patterns match mine. At that time I had control of his body, and I could use his weapon.”

“Why the guy with the shotgun?” Morgan asked. “Wasn’t there anyone else with his kind of brain patterns?”

“Yes, there were. But they were more focused.” Click, Click. Slide click. Two more floating brains showed up, and pulsed at different rates.

“This one,” a brain came forward. “I believe he was the one talking. And he was very focused on the joke. See how his blue glow is more erratic?” Click, click. Brain came forward, the first one disappeared. “This one, the glow on the cortex was far less than I could achieve. I think he was partially disabled, or potentially very drunk. He was half asleep. I think I could have taken him over with some struggle, but he didn’t have the weapon that I would ideally have like to use.”

“So you made a choice on weaponry? Why?”

“Cause I can’t shoot a handgun worth a s**t. I felt competent with a pump action shotgun due to my familiarity with that type of firearm from my youth.”

“So you did some duck hunting when you were a kid?”

“Exactly.”

“So why was this guy's brain patterns the way they are? And why did you feel you could take them easier than the others?”

“Well, looking at the cortex of our two brains together you can see that they are vibrating at similar speeds.” Click, slide. Back to the two brains, Jance’s and the shot gunners.

“Why should that guys brain be so close to yours Jance? Was he a genius?”

“No sir…s**t sorry. No. Far from it. I think he was on some sort of external stimulus, or, some mind altering substance. Most likely the latter.”

“Are you shitting me?” Morgan said, his floating head coming forward and fixing Jance with a hard look. “You could take this guy over because he was stoned?”

Jance, nervous again, but being completely honest. “No sir, not stoned. Higher than a kite. He was probably on major amphetamines, or serious amounts of Coke, or both.”

“Jesus Christ.” Morgan said, and sat back. His floating hand came up to his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Jance was concerned when Morgan was silent for a minute. Then he relaxed when he heard the sound of the hard and intimidating leader of the Short Timers chuckling.

Ed paused his studies for a moment, he could feel something, out there in the ether. He looked at the wall, and tilted his head. He resembled a dog that just heard the noise of some small critter shuffling through the walls scrounging for food or making a nest. It was a tiny feeling. As indefinite as a creaking branch in the forest on a windy day. But it was a creak caused by something other than the wind. A few moments passed like that before he gave up and resumed his study.

He’d switched his focus from politics to underlying strategic relationships between conquerors of old world China and Europe, while simultaneously reading several books based on the ideas of Confucianism and Christianity. He sighed.

Christ I gotta find some new hobbies. He thought. And resumed his reading. The little noise seemed to go away, but there was still a nagging little hole in the back of his mind. Like an Alzheimer’s disease sufferer, who can’t quite figure out why the milk won’t stay on the cereal when he forgot to put it in a bowl.

“Is there anything else you need to know?” Jance asked.

Morgan fixed him with a severe look, both stern and distant. Jance wondered if that was the look of the ‘thousand yard stare’ he’d heard about in movies.

Morgan’s bald head glowed in the gloom from two small lights set high up in the ceiling. They weren’t set low enough to cause the man’s eyes to glow, thank God. Jance was certain that he’d be almost totally unhinged if he had to look at the flashing reflection from beneath the intense brows. He still caught the flicker occasionally, but only when Morgan was looking directly at the holographic glow of the holotube. Where Jance was directly facing the computer monitors, he was certain that his eyes were glowing in the dim light, and he wondered briefly what he looked like.

Morgan’s ultra lean features and blocky skeletal structure, gave him the look of being carved out of a piece of granite. And the pale luminescence of his skin didn’t help the image that Jance could very well be talking to the floating head of a ghost. The two lights being turned on after the holotube was turned off did illuminate the man’s wide and lean shoulders though. Jance looked at the suit he was wearing, and noticed that it was a lot different than the ones Jance and the other’s normally wore. It was sleeker, and seemed to hug the body much closer. The armor plating was thinner and looked like it meshed much more cleanly. He thought to bring it up, in an effort to break the silence, but just as he was about to speak, Morgan addressed him again.

“I’ve given some very serious thought to a problem that has plagued me since we discovered a use for the Psyche Field.” Jance noticed the use of the word ’we’ as opposed to ’you’. But he also realized that he did the same thing. He wondered why everyone seemed to talk around the Psyche Field, without placing a specific ownership or credit.

“You seem to have an uncanny knowledge of it’s use.” He said.

Ah ha, there it is.

“The trick is that, when you went out of body, which I must commend you for to help Stella get through that group of f**k ups, the rest of us went dark.” His tone was severe and flat, despite giving a compliment, Jance felt like he’d just been kicked in the guts.

“The reason I bring it up, is because Ed and Jimmy were extremely confused. If I didn’t have a vocal link with them they would have had no idea what the hell was going on. The same went for me, I know now that you had told Stella what you were doing, and she didn’t pass the information on before the lights went out.”

Jance felt his eyes dropping. This was the a*s ripping that he was expecting to get, and he did honestly deserve it.

“I am sorry Morgan.”

Morgan was quiet for a second. “I know you are kid. And don’t beat yourself up too hard, you still did good. But the expense of that act could have cost us considerably. Now this isn’t to say that I don’t have faith in Ed and Jimmy’s abilities, but it is always nice to know, from a mission standpoint anyway, what the hell is gonna happen, and when it’s gonna happen.” He paused for another second, leaning back in his chair taking on a more relaxed position.

“Now what I want from you, Jance. Is your solemn promise that you’ll let everyone know what you're planning to do, and keep your field experimentation to a minimum. Is that fair?”

“Yes sir, that is fair. And I promise.”

“Also,” Jance winced, wondering what the man wanted now? “I need you to tell me everything that you know about the Field. How you access it. And how you maintain it.” Another brief pause.

“Uh, ok. Is there any reason why?” Jance asked, regretting the question as soon as it was out.

“Because we still need to use the Field if you get killed. And so far as I know, you are the only one of use that can act as a conduit. I need all of the Short Timers to be able to use the Psyche Field the same way you do, so that we can maintain communications that we have. It’s a hell of a trick that you’ve discovered, and we all need to capitalize on it’s usage.”

“Sir…”

“I said quit that s**t Jance.”

“I know, I’m trying.” Jance felt his face flush. “Morgan, my one argument is that I have barely scratched the surface of what the Psyche Field is capable of. Tonight is just another example, what if there are other things out there that can access the Psyche Field? Who’s to say they can’t kick us out of our bodies?”

“Like who?”

“S**t I don’t know, could be something military like us. F*****g aliens. Christ, Cockroaches! Who knows? All I know is that whatever the Psyche Field is, what it really is. I don’t think we were supposed to discover it yet.”

“I appreciate your concerns Jance. But you are going to teach me how to use the Psyche Field, and probably Ed and Jimmy as well.” Morgan was as bull headed as any University professor Jance had ever met.

“Why not Stella and Tsang?”

“Oh I’m sure we’ll get to them. But I need to make sure they are not going to bury their knives into any one of our backs for the moment. As soon as I’m convinced that they are on our side, I’ll be more than happy to make sure they understand how to use it. But. You need to teach me first. Period.” Morgan let the statement hang in the air, and he fixed a very hard stare at Jance. A moment passed.

“Yes sir.” He said.

“Goddamn it Kid!”

“S**t! I’m sorry!”

Morgan started to chuckle, and Jance feeling the need to let out some tension, joined him.

Jance got up and went to leave the room with specific instructions to form  a type of lesson plan for later in the afternoon. He and Morgan were going to begin exploring the Psyche Field as soon as possible. Neither of them had anything pressing on their schedules for later in the afternoon, so they mutually decided that then would be a good time. Jance was in a fairly good mood when he reached out to open the door. The a*s reaming that he expected to get hadn’t been nearly as severe as he’d originally expected.

As Jance pushed the door open to leave Morgan’s office, he nearly ran into Tsang in the hallway. He stared down at the small man, staring back at him with sleepy almost bored looking oriental eyes. Jance immediately began apologizing.

Tsang, to Jance’s complete surprise began bowing and apologizing as well, he stepped back out of the doorway and to the side. Tsang’s apologies came in a strange mixture of garbled English, and his telepathy came in rapid fire Japanese. Jance didn’t know what to do so he continued apologizing as long as Tsang did. This went on for nearly a minute before Morgan finally shut them up by shouting Tsang's name, with his voice and his telepathy.

Quit f*****g with the kid and get your but in here Tsang. He said it in his mind, but his mouth was laughing.

He is very polite Morgan, perhaps you should not let him get so close to getting killed? Jance was extremely confused. He looked at the small man's mouth and he had a wide, somewhat malicious grin on his face. The soft skin with hard blocky bones gave the assassin a strange other worldly look. A prominent scar ran down the length of his face, from between his eyes across his cheek and ended at his jaw just beneath his ear. Jance had heard that Tsang was sometimes referred to as ‘Half Dragon’.

Do you like the scar? He asked, his cold eyes untouched by the grin.

Uh… yes sir.

What did I tell you about that s**t? Jesus Jance.

Sorry, I um….Yeah. Jance looked back at Morgan. So, I’ll see you this afternoon? Cause I suddenly feel the urge to…well…I mean…Yeah. I’m out Morg, I’ll see you soon. This last came out in a rush, as the young scientist/killer made his best effort to not scurry away from the shrinking stare of Tsang.

The door closed behind Tsang and he sat across from Morgan, the smile still stretched across his face.

He’s a good kid Tsang. Morgan said. Still using the telepathy, and then switching to normal speech.

“So what can I do for you?” Morgan eased himself back into his chair, and watched the small man's face settle a little. The scar disappeared in the dull light of the room. The backlight from the computer screens behind Morgan lit Tsang’s eyes, and they glowed bright silver. His black hair was combed back, but a few strands fell forward giving him a slightly animal look.

“The young man has discovered a very powerful weapon.” Tsang was a Japanese national, and his voice still held the accent. However it was light, and it made his speech both foreign and pleasant to listen to. Morgan enjoyed speaking with Tsang.

“Yes he has, I’m very impressed with what he’s discovered. However I’d like some caution considered while we continue to work with it.”

“I understand, and agree.” He said, then his face turned more serious. A slight pinch formed between his smooth brows. “However, we don’t have much time to be patient. The clock is ticking my friend. On all of us. It would be wise to handle Jance’s new skills with a certain sense of efficiency.”

“This is true.” Morgan replied. Knowing full well the time pressure. He felt the clock ticking in the back of his skull constantly. He was the oldest of the Short Timers, the first generation, when the infusion was very much in its experimental phase. By his clock he had a little under four years left.

“That is why I’m going to learn how to work within the Field the same way Jance does. It’s going to be necessary for all of us to use it, with the same results expected.” Morgan continued.

“That is wise. If I can offer one caution my friend; The Field has blind spots, even to Jance.”

Morgan was confused. “I don’t understand.” He said.

Tsang gave him a very knowing look, and let Morgan figure it out. Morgan’s bald head creased slightly, and he thought hard and fast. Blind spots? What does he mean by blind spot? He hid this message from Tsang, and believed that it worked….Wait a minute….

“You were there weren’t you? You were there on the Pier and Jance didn’t know. Is that what you're telling me?” Morgan said, a little concern and excitement entering his voice.

Tsang gave a single slow nod of the head.

“I sat behind Jance for more than ten minutes, and he had no clue. I could have killed him a hundred times over.”

“How did you do it?” Morgan said. Still baffled by what Tsang had just told him.

“I could explain it to you, but it would be lost on you until you understand this Field better.” Tsang said, his eyes glowed wickedly in the light. Morgan suddenly felt blindsided, and more than a little pissed. But he knew that it wasn’t Tsang’s fault, but Morgan needed to understand more of the people that he intended to lead.

“You don’t need Jance to maintain the field, do you?” Morgan asked.

“No I don’t. The Field is always there, accessible at anytime by almost anyone if they know how to concentrate.”

“Does this include people who aren’t Short Timers?”

“Yes, though it takes years of discipline and understanding. And even then they don’t get a fraction of a percent of the information available to us.”

Morgan leaned back and sighed. Staring up at the ceiling lights. This piece of information changed everything he’d come to believe.

“You will be able to learn the techniques required to access the Field just fine Morgan, I have all faith in your abilities.” Tsang’s voice was soft and unemotional. “But the thing that I urge you to consider, is to watch for the blind spots. I was there, right behind Jance, hidden from him though I was right under his nose. Also, on the way back to the complex I was with Jance and Stella. And neither one of them could detect me.” He sighed a little. “I am not the best assassin in the world Morgan. And in the Field I am not the best. But I have enough skill to hide from your most talented students. (Tsang considered Morgan a type of teacher, which never ceased to baffle him.) All I ask is that you begin to understand everything of this new weapon, and the people you intend to use it, before you rely on either one.”

Morgan was quiet for a long time, thinking as quickly as he could. Tsang was an independent entity in the group, as was Stella. Both incorporated vast amounts of knowledge in the real world crime systems. Tsang was a very quid pro quo character, which meant he only offered his services with an equal partnership. He wanted something. Something bad enough to come forward with information that Morgan desperately needed to know. Morgan chewed on this for a moment while Tsang waited patiently.

“The question still stands Tsang. What can I do for you?”

Tsang grinned a little, and changed the main topic.

“So I understand that you dealt the crippling blow to the East Coast Syndicate tonight. They’ll never be able to get the drug trade off the ground after this last exchange. The  Columbians will never trust them with a shipment, correct?” Morgan took the bait, out of curiosity and using the conversation to study Tsang.

“That’s the theory, though we know they’ll be back. They’ll either outsource their drug trade or hole up for a bit protecting their initial holdings. We’ve shut them down financially on many levels, but they’ve got a huge savings account spanning several different countries. If we could pin them down for two or three decades I think we’d actually be able to accomplish something long term, but only a few years is not going to cut it. They have generations of people to work with, and we simply don’t have that kind of time.” Morgan stated this truthfully and without concern. He knew that hammering the East Coast Syndicate was futile on the short term scale, but he hadn’t decided to pick on them with any intention of eradication. His job was to test a new weapon, and he was accomplishing that task very well.

“So with that in mind, what do you think the next targets will be? If the East Coast shuts down.”

“Oh, they’ll shut down, at least for now. As for who to target next? I’m thinking we made need to broaden our horizons further south. We may even need to relocate to Florida. The East Coast has long fingers, but I don’t think they’ve managed to tackle Miami and that particular nest of rats.” Morgan said.

Tsang thought for a moment, then leaned back in his chair. A very western gesture.

“Bullshit.” He said, and grinned.

Morgan sighed. “Yeah.”

“Still trying to be the ‘unknowable leader.’?” Tsang asked, his grin still there, eyes glowing with an almost laughing dance to them.

“Of course.” Morgan wasn’t surprised or upset with Tsang catching the lie. He had hoped for some leniency from the man however. “Do you have another suggestion?”

“Nothing more than you were already planning, despite your attempt at misdirection. I know well enough that you don’t intend to move this facility. I wanted to discuss with you the potential avenues the East Coast may employ to further their survival as a valid crime syndicate.” He gave the statement a second to sink in, seeing if Morgan had something to say in return.

“Yakuza.” Morgan said.

“Yakuza.” Tsang mimicked. “The East Coast is going to call in a debt. One that the fathers are not going to want to honor, but they will have to. It’s just the way of things.”

“I understand, that’s the fingerprint of the Yakuza. Honor bound until the bitter end.”

“Yes. The East Coast allowed them to make a small contribution to the drug and sex trade on this coast, thinking that it would be good for business. Which it was. A little healthy competition is always good for business in any sense, not just criminal. This is common knowledge to many people.” Tsang continued. Not needing to, but enjoying the conversation. “The Yakuza don’t like the East. They prefer Hawaii and places on the West Coast, if they want to deal with the American’s at all. However, with the critical weakening of the East Coast Syndicate, the grounds look far more fertile than they did before. Globalization has allowed for massive expansion of their chapters. The Old Fathers have lengthened their fingers through the advances of communication. It’s much easier for them to discipline their soldiers now. There is now a vacuum along the upper East Coast for opportunistic crime lords to set up business.”

“How does this involve the Yakuza?”

“My former brother.”  Ah ha! Morgan thought to himself. Here it comes. Tsang paused for a moment, allowing Morgan the unneeded time to make the connection himself. “Sees the East Coast as a potential breeding ground for a new chapter of Yakuza. However, he is honor bound to the East Coast bosses for allowing him to come to their soil in the first place. He can do them no direct harm. However, he intends to push them out by offering the East Coast a generous helping hand in their time of need. Affecting a ‘soft takeover’ of the area under the ruse of compliance. My brother will extend his helping hand, and slowly cut the throat of the East Coast Syndicate as he helps them to their feet.”

Morgan’s plan to bleed the Yakuza as they attempted to do just what Tsang had described just came under fire. “So what are you asking?”

“Continue with your plans to slaughter the Yakuza. I have no loyalty to their dogs. However, I ask you, under our own agreement of honor, not to slaughter my brother. I owe very few people in the world debts of honor. But he is one that I still do.” He fixed Morgan with a stern gaze, that was very hard to hold, even for him. Morgan understood that Tsang believed that he owed a debt to Morgan, and this was going to be a way for him to pay it off.

“What is your plan.” Morgan asked.

Tsang smiled, genuinely this time, and leaned forward. He produced a hand for Morgan to shake, and then in the other hand, a small ceremonial flash of saki and one tiny drinking cup. “I will explain, but first, let us drink.”

Morgan was amazed at what the dangerous Japanese man was offering him. He knew what some of the rituals were, and this was one he’d studied. He knew that refusing such an offer was the same as asking to have his throat slit. But to accept it may be just as dangerous. Without hesitation, Morgan took the offered cup and held it steady while Tsang poured the sharp liquid into it. He took one tiny sip, then bowed deep and long. He returned to his position and Tsang mimicked the same movements.

Morgan had just made a very serious pact. Though he was concerned for what it may mean to him in the future, he also knew that he’d just earned Tsang’s trust and loyalty.

Tsang made the tiny flask and cup disappear, and then began to describe his plan.