Pay the Piper – Chapter Twenty One

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“… Stryper, Dokken and Judas Priest.” Jackson finished pouring himself a glass of wine, holding the bottle in a linen napkin, and then held it out to me, offering a drink. His mind had already moved on to other things – he knew I wouldn’t take the offer – but his subconscious drove him to make the offer in spite of the fact. “Convinced yet?”

“Well, I wouldn’t have pegged you for a metal fan, to be sure,” I admitted. “But I’ve heard of all of those bands so… I suppose it’s possible that I put that list together for you on my own.”

Jackson took a sip of his wine. His face remained totally impassive but there was a glimmer of something at the back of his mind. Distaste? My eyes narrowed and at that moment I saw a pattern like the shifting of a constrictor snake in the branches overhead, a warning of hidden intent. “You don’t like wine, do you Mr. Jackson?”

He smiled and carefully set the glass down in a cupholder built into the tabletop. “Please, AJ is fine. And no, I don’t. If I admit to testing you, is that a point in my favor or against?”

“I’m not sure.” I mulled it over for a minute. “Jackson is a famous conspiracy theorist…”

“You really think I’m a delusion, don’t you?” Jackson laughed. “Before I met Hat Trick I never thought psychic powers would make a person so afraid of their own mind. Now I wonder if the Gift is more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Most psychometrics share your doubts.” Hat Trick wasn’t a psychometric alias I was familiar with. The father I had been looking for was Helio, his daughters hadn’t been assigned aliases before being placed in care. Another point in favor of this being the real A.J. Jackson. “You know, there’s a really simple way to prove you’re real.”

“What’s that?” Jackson reached in to his jacket’s inner pocket and pulled out a flask as he asked the question.


He hesitated, the lid of the flask held loosely in one hand. “You… want me to explain my evil plan?”

“It’s certainly not something I could make up off the top of my head, no?”

Instead of answering he took a long pull on the flask. I’m not telepathic so I wasn’t sure what was in it but he definitely approved of it a lot more than the wine. Jackson’s jaw and lips moved about in a weird mix of reacting to the burn and thinking over my suggestion, then he put the cap back on the flask and put the whole thing away. “You know what I hate the most?”

“I don’t know what your Hat Trick friend told you, but we’re not actually psychic.”

Jackson leveled a finger at my chest. “That. I hate smug bastards, no matter what their color, shape or mental state.”

Apparently that had come out snarkier than I’d intended. “I’d remind you that I’m the one who’s been put in a choke hold then drugged and dragged out on to the open ocean.”

“Doesn’t change the facts.” He sat back and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Do you want to know how I learned your name?”

“From you psychometric friend, Hat Trick I’d assume.”

“I was looking in to the Harris art heist. Really minor case.” He leaned back on his bench folding his hands behind his head, rocking subconsciously with the motion of the boat. “You remember that?”

“A couple of paintings stolen while on display at Berkley, by art student Richard Harris,” I said. “That was what, four years ago?”

“Harris made copies of the paintings – really good copies – and swapped them for the originals. It took the State Police all of two days to trace him and bring him in. Suspiciously fast. I was working on the presumption that there was something special about the paintings – it wasn’t the first art theft that had been resolved with suspicious speed in the last few years – and I thought there was some kind of connection.” Jackson pulled his chin down and looked at me without sitting up. “But the truth was actually more bizarre. They’d brought you in and you’d identified who painted the fakes just by touching them. It was enough to get a warrant and find the originals in the storage facility Harris rented. Open and shut case, nice and easy.”

“You didn’t have to touch an original Van Gogh to confirm its authenticity.” I suppressed a shudder. Paintings aren’t much better at holding psychometric imprints than a book or a wooden wall but something about art objects cause them to collect weird impressions from the people who look at them. It can be deeply unsettling and the more evocative the painting the more unsettling the detritus that builds up around them. It’s like walking through a dozen daydreams at once, and none of them are yours. Copies can do that, too, but for some reason original art always seem to attract more and stronger impressions.

“There you go again, making your Gift sound like a curse. Anyway, I didn’t learn your name then. But I managed to put together that it wasn’t the painting of the old tree that got the case closed so fast, it was who they asked to investigate. Someone well connected graduate in Silicon Valley had asked a personal favor of some hush hush private investigator and that was all it took.”

Vinny had gotten me that contract. He’d gotten his degree in Computer Theory at Berkeley. It had been a small case and I had almost forgotten it. I certainly wouldn’t have pegged it as how Jackson learned about me. “How did you learn my name, then?”

Jackson slowly levered himself back upright. “Believe it or not, it’s because I went to cover Newell High.”

It felt like a sliver of ice had slid down my back. “That is pretty hard to believe. I didn’t work that case.”

“No. But High Top did, and it killed him.” Jackson shrugged. “I knew what to look for, by that point, I knew the signs of psychometric involvement in a criminal case. Warrants are issued unexpectedly. Lines of inquiry vanish with no apparent movement on them. Forensic evidence is invoked over witness testimony without enough time to ship anything to a lab, much less get back tests on it. So I got curious and went to take a look.”

“Why did you think the disappearances were faked?”

Jackson blew out a heavy sigh. “I didn’t. Not really. But, Armor, you’ve got to understand. I have… a brand if you will.”

“So you insulted worried and grieving parents because of your brand?” I snorted in contempt.

“No. Well – ” Jackson cut himself off and pulled his mirrored glasses over his head and dangled them on one finger in front of me. In the process a seismic shift in his thinking process took place. I’ve never seen an actor coming off stage and breaking character before but it fit the descriptions I’d heard from psychometrics who had. “I play a character, Armor, it’s part of how I entertain people and keep them coming back.”

“And conspiracy theories are part of that.”

“I don’t bring up those I know are false, just mention those that have a chance at being true. Moon landings were real, but who really killed JFK, you know?” He shrugged and seemed to deflate a little, looking much more like a skinny old man all of a sudden. “And sometimes, when there’s no conspiracy to be had, I make up something that feels harmless.”

I could almost buy that but there was one little problem with the theory as stated. “You said they faked their kids’ disappearances, Jackson.”

“I…” He spread his hands, real regret and helplessness running through his mind. “You found the paintings so fast. Almost every case with a psychometric investigator assigned to it I could find cleared up fast. And with good results. I honestly expected the kids to be found, safe and sound, within a day or two.”

“But it was weeks,” I murmured, “and the kids were dead.”

“It was my mistake, and I own it. That’s why I settled with the parents out of court.” He sighed. “I was working with Hat Trick by that point, so I showed his card to one of the surviving investigators, Ink Spot, and managed to ask a few questions.”

Ink Spot I knew. “And you got my name from him. Never trust an Alan Moore fanboy.”

“No comment on that count,” Jackson said. “But yes, that’s how I learned your name.”

“You know, I recently started working with one of the FBI agents who worked on the Newell High case…”

The boat actually rocked a bit with the force of Jackson getting to his feet in exasperation. “I can’t believe this.”

At this point I was mostly just pulling his leg. I was eighty percent sure he was real, and willing to let the other twenty percent go. But to my surprise he pulled up the seat of the bench he’d been sitting on, revealing a kind of locker space beneath. From there he pulled out a package about twenty inches square wrapped in brown cloth, opened it and set it down in front of me.

It was Van Gogh’s “A Wind Beaten Tree”, the painting from the Harris case. Or more accurately, as I realized the moment I touched it with my bare hand, it was Richard Harris’ copy of that painting.

“Once the case against Harris was over it wasn’t evidence anymore and I offered to buy it from his family to help cover their legal costs,” Jackson explained. “Hat Trick seemed to think it would be useful dealing with you so I brought it along.”

I sat back on my own bench and studied A.J. Jackson with a new appreciation. He was a man used to taking gambles and playing the long game. And that suggested something else that was interesting. “Okay, Mr. Jackson. I’ll admit you’re as real as anyone else I’ve ever met in my life. So why have you spent all this time convincing me of that. Why not just toss me off the pier in the marina after you knocked me out?”

Jackson smiled, as if he’d been waiting for that question the whole time. “Because I want you to break ties with the FBI and work for me.”

Pay the Piper – Chapter Twenty

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The nice thing about concrete is, while you can try and sterilize it with an EMP, since it’s not conductive you won’t get very far. The science on psychometry is still mostly out, but we do know it’s somehow related to electromagnetism. Conductors retain psychometric imprints poorly – especially when you hit them with an electrical current – nonconductors retain it well. So concrete is one of the best candidates for long term retention in modern life. But impressions can also be covered over by new layers, so a person walking down a sidewalk will leave traces of his passage but other people crossing the same stretch of sidewalk will quickly wipe them away.

It’s really a lot like other kinds of forensics in that respect.

The FBI was already swarming over a half a dozen parking lots and public parks inside the theoretical launch zones they’d established for the crop duster attacks. They’d started in those areas because the drones used in to spray the peanut oil required a fair amount of clearance for a safe liftoff and were on the large side – larger than the drones used in the previous two attacks – so the working theory was that they were brought in and out via a truck or large car.

It was a solid theory based on the logistics and timing of the crime. It was also turning up exactly zero.

Each of the two overlapping sections of map that they were checking was about a mile square and that covered a surprising number of parking lots or similar suitable launch zones. Eugene told me as we left headquarters that they’d covered most of them and were beginning to look at rooftops and other more inaccessible places the attack might also have been staged from already.

Four hours later, standing in parking lot number five, I was tired, irritable and hadn’t found anything more on my side of things. It was full dark and Eugen had gone to get something for us to eat, leaving me surrounded by normal FBI agents who hadn’t been read in on psychometrics and were clearly wondering why the Asian guy in beige was wandering around and poking at the concrete with ungloved hands every so often.

At least they were polite enough not to give me a hard time about it.

Unfortunately most of them were wondering if I was some kind of psychologist or similar profiler brought in to waste taxpayer money as they did the hard work of collecting evidence that could actually be taken to trial. At least, that’s what I assume the suspicion, annoyance and contempt signified. I couldn’t blame them. I wasn’t getting anything they couldn’t have gotten on their own and it’s not like they knew I could pick up on their inner emotions. Normally I’m good at tuning that kind of flack out but the last couple of days had wrung me out pretty good and I was well on my way to total exhaustion today, too.

I pulled my gloves back on and crossed the street to the low railing running by the boardwalk. Below it was a quaint little marina full of sail boats and other personal watercraft. Gingerly I rested my forearms on the metal railing and stared out at the moonlight on the Pacific.

The ocean is a fantastic psychometric insulator. Unless water is very pure it’s an excellent conductor, plus it’s a liquid so it’s always in motion even in a sealed container so even in distilled water psychometric impressions tend to break up quickly. Young psychometrics are told to imagine waves on a beach as a basic exercise to help them insulate themselves from psychometric overstimulation as one of the first mental disciplines we learn. Some days you just have to go back to the basics.

With eyes closed it was easy to imagine myself on a boat far out on the ocean, rocking along quietly, with no FBI or homegrown terrorists making demands of my time or energy. Adrift on the waves I was even insulated from the constant demands of my own Gift, free of the dozens of types of mental “noise” that bombarded my synesthesia addled brain day by day. If you really wanted to hide from a psychometric forget about EMPs, you could just –

I snapped back to reality with a horrible realization, touching the SIM card in my pocket just long enough to send a text to Eugene. And Natalie and Hennesy for good measure.

This wasn’t a copycat attack. It was the same group but using a new method of attack. Assuming our terrorists did know about the existence of psychometrics, they couldn’t use EMPs to sterilize every attack site they operated from. The collateral damage from a pulse strong enough to suit their purposes would highlight the staging area they used like a spotlight. A half a city block losing power would be all it took for the dozen local and Federal agencies looking for them to zero in on their location in seconds. San Francisco police response times weren’t the best in the nation but they wouldn’t have to be.

And that was before taking in to account that someone had apparently set up a satellite to observe the area for the foreseeable future.

No, it would obviously be much safer to simply do the operation from a boat and let the ocean do all the work sterilizing the environment for you. Then you could sail a ways out and finish the job with an EMP far from potential collateral damage. Assuming you were even worried about scrubbing the trace evidence from your boat. It’d be a high bar to clear just to get a warrant to search the thing.

A high bar, but not impossible. A new idea occurred to me and I pushed off the railing and started towards the marina’s main office, scanning the railing and light poles until I saw what I was looking for: A dingy metal sign that said, “Protected by video surveillance.”

A few of those cameras had to look out at the ocean, and the FBI probably wasn’t going to get the video from them unless they asked for it specifically. I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask for it. That was my second mistake for the day.

The main office was locked but I saw an intercom that I was willing to bet would let me talk to a security switchboard. I was fishing through my pockets, looking for my magnetized rod to push the intercom button with when they knocked me out from behind.


Psychometrics don’t react well to violence.

I know that sounds absurd on the face of it. No one reacts well to being bashed in the head. But psychometrics react poorly to causing violence as well. Not just killing each other and sparking a chain reaction, like I’d described to Natalie. Causing violence demands a certain level of detachment take place in your mind. Most psychometrics who cause violence of any kind have a very hard time recovering from that detachment, one of the many quirks of our psychology we don’t really understand. My personal theory is that this is similar to the way higher level math or religion also disrupt our thought processes. Like those unhealthy influences, violence is not something we experiment with, choosing to keep a certain distance from it instead.

Of course, that doesn’t keep violence from coming to us on occasion. As with all human mental states, the mind of a violent man or woman is something the Gifted pick up on and is influenced by. So we can wind up in a state of permanent mental detachment even when we’re the victim of violence rather than the perpetrator of it.

All this is to explain why, when I woke up and found myself lying belowdecks on a rocking boat, listening to the waves, I thought maybe my mind had finally imploded in on itself and shut itself away from all the depraved thoughts I’d found in my career as a forensic. It certainly had all the hallmarks of a delusion. It was focused on something I’d been thinking about right before being clock in the back of the head. It didn’t follow directly from where I’d been before. And it had a certain dreamlike quality to it, right down to the ridiculously dressed man sitting on the bunk across from mine.

He was wearing a black suit and cowboy boots. His trademark aviator sunglasses hung from a strap around his neck, revealing mirthful, intelligent eyes beneath. He had graying, curly hair cropped close to his head and laugh lines around his eyes that most of the public probably never saw though his mirrored eyewear. He was the one puzzle piece that didn’t fit in the whole fiasco and I’d been trying to cram him into place since he first came up, so clearly my finally getting to meet him had to be the final touch on this fancy delusion I’d crafted for myself. It was almost as good as the fugue trap from earlier, I told myself, but still every bit as unreal.

That was my third mistake for the day.

When he saw that I was awake he clapped his hands on his knees and said, “Good to meet you, weakArmor. Do you mind if I use your working name?”

His voice was radio smooth and surprisingly deep for what look like a thin man. I stared for a moment and snorted a laugh, weakly looking around at my environment, surprised I wasn’t restrained at all. At least, not directly. The room might be locked.

“Do you know who I am?”

I focused back on the other person down in the hold with me. “Well, I know who you look like.”

“Oh?” That seemed to amuse him. “Who’s that?”

“A.J. Jackson.”

Pay the Piper – Chapter Nineteen

Previous Chapter

On day two of waiting for word on the elusive Arizona trio of Gifted something new got dropped on us. Again. “They targeted tech firms again,” Hennesy said, looming over me at my crowded workspace as I analyzed some bit of drone hardware recovered from somewhere in the case. The shape of his thoughts left no doubt about who he was talking about. “Very surgical this time, they’re learning that public opinion isn’t with them.”

“What did they do?” I asked, only partially relaxing from the sudden feeling of dread. Whatever it was, at this point they had to know they were only digging themselves deeper. So surgical must mean precise, not necessarily harmless.

“They crop dusted the employee parking lots at four major firms as the dayshift was leaving.”

“Crop dusted?” I raised an eyebrow. That could be harmless or a major escalation. “With what?”

“Whatever it was it had peanuts in it. Over two dozen people had allergic reactions of varying degrees.” Hennesy snorted. “If this was supposed to be a joke then I don’t think people will find it very funny. Lots of people are allergic to peanuts.”

It didn’t sound like an escalation at first blush but Hennesy was right. A lot of people would probably see it as such. Maybe that was what they wanted, maybe they just hoped the ambiguity would buy them a little more time before they were seen as really malicious. I wasn’t sure who they were hoping wouldn’t see them as malicious if the later was the case, the news hadn’t been kind to them and we were already pursuing them as hard as we could. “Any obvious connections between the companies?”

“I’ve been digging into Silicon Valley firms since before you were licensed to practice, Armor,” Hennesy said. “Every company here is connected to all the others. It’s a terribly incestuous place, kina like Wall Street. And yes, all these firms also have connections back to Company A as well. I don’t know how they all shape up yet, but we’ve got people working on it so we should know soon.”

“Are they looking into connections with A.J. Jackson?”

Hennesy hesitated for a moment. “You’re really invested in that line of investigation, aren’t you?”

“His name has come up pretty much since moment one.” I shrugged, knowing just as well as Hennesy did how little that often meant. “I get it, he could just be Silicon Valley’s whipping boy of the week. Still, I’d rather run it down than leave it to chance.”

“I get you,” Hennesy replied. “But we don’t have the manpower to follow every lead. I’ll try and get someone looking at it. On the bright side, the folks in Arizona can keep looking for your missing sisters and their dad without impacting things in here. I’ll let you know if we hear anything.”

“Do you need me at any of the crime scenes?” I was pretty sure I knew the answer but I was also curious to see what a place looked like after a malicious crop dusting.

“No.” He answered without hesitation. “There’s not much in the way of physical evidence to look at other than residue from whatever it was they misted the places with. And we don’t want anyone touching that until we know what it is. There’s a bright side, though.”

There was a clear tinge of malicious satisfaction behind that simple declaration. “What’s that?”

“This time we caught them on satellite.”


Actually we caught their drones on satellite, not the perpetrators themselves. It was a step in the right direction but not nearly what I’d originally hoped for.

“There’s a formation of four at each location, pretty standard agricultural machines,” Eugene told me, pulling the image up on his screen. “They swoop in, make two passes over people as they come out of the building, then leave. There was no attempt to pursue anyone leaving the building or avoid empty portions of the parking lot so our guess is they were preprogrammed, rather than piloted.”

“How did we even get these shots?” I asked, visions of military spy satellites dancing in my head.

“I don’t know, and I don’t think we’re going to find out.” Eugene’s mind was going to much the same places as mine but nothing in his thoughts pointed to him actually knowing the answer any more than I did. “I’m not an expert but the files looked like they’d had all info on their source scrubbed. But this is a really high profile case, so maybe they got the military to move some resources into geosynchronous orbit. Not our problem.”

“But what does that really tell us?” I asked, straightening up and moving away from his desk a bit. Eugene’s naturally antisocial personality permeated his surroundings and radiated off of his workspace like it was asphalt on a sunny day. I’d need to move the conversation out of his cubicle soon or I’d get a serious headache.

“Two things. First, they’re using a different type of drone, one that looks like it matches one of three commercially available models popular in the northern part of the state.” He clicked over to a different image that showed three different models of drones, the mismatched background showing they’d been pulled from different sources. Probably advertising materials. “We’re trying to see if anyone’s placed a large order from any local dealers recently.”

“Wouldn’t farmers want more than a couple of these?” I asked. “We could wind up with a lot of dead ends…”

“Trust me, at what these things run most operations aren’t wanting more than three or four. More importantly, they have a top speed of fifteen miles an hour and a maximum flight time of half an hour.” Eugene pulled up a map showing the four attack sites in relation to each other with large red rings showing how far the drones could have travelled with their flight capacity. The two southern locations had overlapping rings, as did the two northern locations. “And just like that we have launch zones. Standard forensic teams are already combing these areas over with a fine toothed comb. If they find anything it’s definitely coming back for a psychometric evaluation.”

“Why did they change pattern?” I wondered aloud.

Eugene turned in his chair to give me a skeptical look. “It was a drone attack targeting Silicon Valley. How is that a break in pattern?”

“Based on the hardware we found in the car wreck right before the electrical grid attack I’m certain that was done using custom drones under remote operation. Same for the initial attack, based on how delicate positioning a drone in the loading dock door at the exact moment that delivery truck entered must have been-“

“The drone didn’t show up on security cameras around the dock so we think it must have somehow attached itself to the truck before it arrived,” Eugene interjected.

“Either way, an operation that you can’t just program into it,” I pointed out. “And all those attacks used custom drones, not commercially available ones. Do we know what they sprayed?”

“Officially? No. Unofficially, it looks like it was just peanut oil diluted with something to make it mist better.”

“On the other hand, if I understand the other two attack properly, they were both at least partially facilitated by pinpoint EMP use.” I tapped my gloved fingers thoughtfully on my chest. “They were symbolic.”

Eugene was used to my thinking out loud so he just motioned for me to go on.

“The first two attacks were technological attacks on firms that have created some the most influential technologies of our time and, arguably, were misusing the resulting influence. A reminder that they shouldn’t get too full of themselves – there’s always someone better out there.” I paced out of the cubicle, moving away from its headache inducing atmosphere. Eugene got up from his chair and trailed along behind. “But today… none of those threads. New companies, new attack method, no symbolism. Unless it’s agricultural versus service industry? No, that doesn’t seem likely…”

I stopped short and swiveled back to Eugene. “Looking at evidence won’t cut it. I need to go and look at one of those staging ones myself. Have you seen Agent Chase?”

“Not this morning.”

I titled my head, tapping my sim card and calling her phone. I let it ring for a minute, then hung up. “No answer. Eugene, I need to get out there before any trace impressions left behind fade.”

“You think this might be some kind of misdirect?”

“Or a copycat attack.”

Eugene sighed and doubled back towards his cubicle. “I’ll get my keys. Meet me by my car.”

“Want me to let Hennesy know we’re leaving?”

“I’ll do it,” he called back, his surface thoughts clearly indicating he wouldn’t. “This had better not get me in trouble, Armor.”

He was hoping nothing would come of it and so he wouldn’t catch any flack for doing something technically another Agent’s job. For all his pessimism about human nature, Eugene’s remarkably optimistic about events working out the way he wants. I could have told Hennesy we were leaving myself, but I decided to humor him and let his little white lie stand.

That was my first mistake of the day.

Pay the Piper – Chapter Eighteen

Previous Chapter

It turned out that Galaxy did, in fact, keep tabs on the Gifted they knew who had gone insane. It was just one of many services their mental health division provided to members, periodically sending someone without the Gift to visit the ill in their care facilities. It was a bit like the Red Cross but for crazy people. A very small, narrow group of crazy people.

There were very thorough records kept on each case and to my surprise they found fourteen cases in total where psychometrics known to be insane had recovered and left care. I’d thought that was impossible but apparently I was wrong. “It’s not common,” Mix said as he handed me the files on the people in question. “But it’s not unheard of either. It’s not something we tend to broadcast because people tend to get careless when dealing with potential mental health situations, thinking they’ll be one of the exceptions. Top minds have been trying to figure out what causes it but no luck so far.”

“If this can happen, why does everyone say it’s impossible?” I asked.

“Do they?” Mix countered. “Or do they just say no one they know has ever recovered? Those are two different things.”

They were, and he was right. It was still unsettling to know that something I’d taken for granted for so long was based on a totally erroneous understanding of what I’d been hearing. Still, I knew better now and there was all the information I’d needed with no fuss. It was almost too good to be true. Almost.

Fourteen names is still a lot of people and we needed to narrow it down. We started by eliminating anyone who didn’t specialize in psychological or neurological fields, as Vinny made it clear that was the secret sauce to making a therapy fugue work. That left us with five names. Two of them were active and accounted for already, it was possible they were involved in this case somehow but distance and timing made it unlikely – one was in the Arctic Circle, helping keep people sane, the other lived in Hawaii and hadn’t travelled enough to have offered the kind of hands on work necessary to program the software in a new type of fugue generator.

By the end of the first day we were down to only three names. It was almost too good to be true. Almost.

“Two of them recovered in the last six months,” Natalie said. “That puts them well inside the one year timeframe to work on the Backboard project. That just leaves us with one possibility.”

I was paging though the relevant files and handing the relevant pages to Hennesy. “But there’s a catch.”

“Of course there is,” Hennesy muttered. “It’d be too good to be true to just have the right guy drop into our laps, wouldn’t it?”

“None of these three have checked in with their handlers since the most recent two recovered,” I said, ignoring his griping. “Also, they’re all related. A father and his two daughters.”

“That can’t be a coincidence,” Hennesy said.

“We don’t think it is,” I said. “But we – meaning Galaxy in this case – apparently don’t track cases like theirs as a matter of course. I’ve reached out to Mix to see if the Constellations will order a check-in, but I don’t know how long that will take or even if they will agree to do it.”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Hennesy asked. “I thought Galaxy was offering us full cooperation in this case.”

“We’re offering all the investigative power we can muster,” I said. “But we’re still psychometrics. We value our privacy. I’d be hesitant to even ask for a check in if it wasn’t for how important this situation is.”

“Let’s hope your Constellations agree with you,” Hennesy grumbled. “I don’t want it to turn out I spent days chasing nothing.”

“Well, that’s one thing we can reassure you on,” I said. “I forgot to mention that all three of our missing psychometrics live in Arizona. The same state A.J. Jackson is from, and the same place where public filings show Project Backboard’s offices are.”

Hennesy eyed me for a moment then did a little psychometry of his own. “Let me guess. The Gifted who recovered first was the father, and you think he worked with Jackson to help his kids do the same.”

“It’s simple, straightforward and fits the facts,” I said.

“Nothing’s every that straightforward,” Hennesy said. “Let us put some feelers out on these people. We have connections Galaxy probably wouldn’t even think of.”

“You read my mind.”

Hennesy snorted and waved us out of his office.

“So are we waiting for results or does the Federal Government have somewhere else they’d like us to go today?” I asked as Natalie and I headed back towards her cubicle.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “Honestly I think anything specific to your skillset got farmed out to others when you didn’t show up on time. So I guess we’re waiting. I don’t know if you need to stay here or not.”

“Mix will call for me here so I might as well stick around.” Honestly I was just as interested in hanging around because Natalie was here and I did kind of enjoy her company. Going back to the hotel meant being alone or possibly with Aurora and after they day before I wasn’t really prepared for either one. “Any idea what kinds of resources the FBI will put into finding Helio and his girls?”

“It’s not the highest priority we have right now,” Natalie replied. “And it’s in another jurisdiction so just how seriously they’ll take the request is anyone’s guess. But I’d say we’ll know by tomorrow, if not sooner. What about Galaxy?”

“Mix told me someone left to check on them pretty much while we were talking. I’m expecting him to call any minute.” I dragged a chair over from an empty cubicle and sat down, putting my feet up on the edge of Natalie’s empty trash can. “It’s kind of amazing to me that someone would agree to help make this kind of mess just to get two people out of a catatonic state.”

Natalie hesitated in the middle of logging into her work station for whatever job she had been about to start on. “Really?”

“Well, I mean, I don’t have kids, but…”

“Neither do I but I do have parents.” Natalie gave me an incredulous look. “Do psychometrics really never visit each other in the hospital?”

I shrugged, suddenly very uncomfortable. “I can’t speak for all of us. My parents weren’t Gifted, so they had no issue with it. I’m sure it varies from family to family.”

“Armor, crazy isn’t catching. It doesn’t work like that.”

Slow breath in, slow breath out. There were parts of my life that I knew didn’t make sense to those without the gift. “Natalie, I know you’re not trying to be deliberately provocative so I’ll give you a pass. But don’t presume to tell me what is and what isn’t the mechanics of our minds. I’m sure you never thought a man could turn catatonic from just touching a body either.”

“Armor, they were family. How could they stay away from each other?”

“It’s not a question of how they were related or how close they are to each other. It’s a question of whether or not there was anything they could do for each other. Staying clear headed when you’re surrounded by madness isn’t simple. That’s probably what drove him to trying a fugue state in the first place.” I shuddered a bit, trying not to let the helplessness of my last trip to fugue land get at me. It may have been meant as a way to treat the ill but the memory of being stuck in my own head with no way out still gave me fits. Maybe that was part of how the treatment was intended to work. “The point is if you’re not a trained psychologist with the Gift – or, apparently, a mad scientist – you can’t visit them safely. And I’m not sure getting around that justifies making war on the entirety of the California coastline. Natalie, twice as many people died in hospitals because of the power failures resulting from this mess as he saved using his miracle technology. Maybe lack of empathy is the chink in my armor but I just can’t make that balance out in my mind.”

Natalie just shook her head and went back to her computer, working at who knows what. Listening to her disapproval rattle around in her subconscious was not the change of pace I had hoped for.

Pay the Piper – Chapter Seventeen

Previous Chapter

“Gone for two and a half days and you think you get to just walk in here and ignore us? This isn’t a charity operation, Armor, it’s a Federal office.” Hennesy, who according to Vinny was my subconscious avatar of high standards and hard work, came charging into the makeshift work area I’d set up at the FBI headquarters looking positively livid. My subconscious sure knew how to pick its avatars. “First your damn Constellations threaten to pull you off the case and keep you out of the office for forty eight hours. Then they say you’ll come back. Then you show up three hours late. What kind of a joke do you think this is?”

“I’m being perfectly serious, although I’ll admit I should have cleared my activities through you this morning,” I said. I hadn’t because I wasn’t sure Mix would agree to pass on the message for me – or let me so far off the reservation. Aurora had been nervous about me looking any further into the fugue trap I’d found on my ‘day off’ and any hint Mix got that I was still pursuing that angle was sure to make its way back to the Constellations. Galaxy’s insistence on working through designated intermediaries had its drawbacks. “I’ve been off the reservation, but for good reason. There’s an angle to this I’ve been following up on my own and at this point I think I need Bureau resources to keep looking into it.”

Hennesy fumed, looking like he needed a couple of days off himself. “This had better be good.”

Persuasion isn’t my forte but I did my best to make what I’d discovered during the dive on the Backboard servers and my subsequent talk with Vinny sound convincing. Unfortunately as I went through the chain of events it started to sound flimsier and flimsier, even to me. There wasn’t anything directly tying A.J. Jackson to the events of the last few days, there wasn’t any reason to think prying into a conspiracy theorist from Arizona would shed light on terrorism in California and there wasn’t any reason I could think of that therapeutic fugue state tech might tie back in to it all. Part of me was beginning to wonder if maybe I should try and get a job crafting theories with Jackson rather than investigating with the FBI.

For better or worse Hennesy didn’t see it that way. He just listened to what I had to say, thought about it, then walked out of the cubicle. Left to conclude I had his blessing for the moment, I went back to poking through various government casefiles and databases in an attempt to locate some of the people whose names Vinny had given me. I was have depressingly good luck.

While Vinny and I have pretty exclusive lines of work it’s still pretty easy for us to lose track of people. Vinny works alone and, as I’ve noted, the Gifted have good reasons to avoid each other most of the time. The  Venn diagram of people we’d lost track of and people who had dropped off the grid was nonexistent and none of the people I could find looked like they were in any way associated with Jackson’s media or infotech work. I had a lot of names to check on but I was more than halfway done when Hennesy returned with Eugene in tow. “Okay, Armor,” he said. “Run all that by Fitzgerald for me.”

He’d found an expert. How nice. I did as the man wanted.

Once he’d heard it all Eugene paused for a few minutes, working through the implications, then he said, “Follow a strange line of questioning for me. How many psychometrics are there in the US?”

“Maybe four thousand,” I replied immediately. “It’s hard to tell.”

“How hard?” Hennesy asked. “I thought there were only two groups of you.”

“Yes, but we don’t have a radar or genetic test we can do to locate each other. You can recognize certain mental habits that sane adults with the Gift have to develop to stay alive and sane but normal people develop them sometimes, too.” I pointed at Eugene. “It’s like seeing a redhead. I can assume there’s a good chance Eugene’s of Irish descent but until I do some research it’s not a guarantee.”

“True enough,” Hennesy mused, eyeing Eugene’s hair. “So you assume some percentage of the psychometric population is outside of Galaxy or the Masks. Do you know how much?”

“We know about ten percent of them choose not to join either organization. We presume between twice and three times that number have never heard of us or have and choose to remain independent, but we’ve never heard of them.” I shrugged. “It’s not an exact science, but we assume the breakdown of the sane, adult Gifted to be about forty percent in Galaxy, thirty to forty percent independent, twenty to thirty percent Masks.”

Eugene leaned forward and asked, “How many insane psychometrics are there?”

I froze for just a moment. Then, “I’m sorry?”

“You’ve qualified all of your numbers as dealing with sane psychometrics, yes?”

“Yes, because our abilities take a toll on our sanity. Not everyone learns to – or wishes to – safeguard against those costs.”

“What percentage of the population is that?” Eugene asked.

I was tempted to ignore the question, it was a very sensitive topic among the Gifted. But I could tell he thought he was on to something very important. “Maybe a third.”

“Do you monitor them?”

A shudder ran up my back. “Monitor how?”

“To see if they recover.”

“We can’t recover from-” And suddenly Eugene’s line of reasoning made sense. “You think the fugue state I found was used to cure a mad psychometric.”

“A therapy trap,” Hennesy muttered.

“I know that it’s axiomatic among the Gifted to say that you can’t recover from insanity,” Fitzgerald said. “But maybe one could. Maybe A.J. Jackson knew a psychometric who went crazy and tried to cure him or her. Maybe that’s why he built this fugue state you describe, rather than just buying a commercial fugue trap off the market. It wouldn’t have done what he wanted.”

That was certainly possible. But, just like Aurora, I dealt primarily with the intersection physical things and the Gift. I didn’t know much about how we dealt with purely mental things. “I don’t know if we track insane psychometrics or not. I’ll need to make some calls. Possible take it all the way to the Constellations.”

“Before we spend too much time on that,” Hennesy said, “I need to know if it’s relevant to this investigation. I’m sure curing mental illness is very important to Galaxy but it’s not going to stop whoever is terrorizing Silicon Valley if there’s no connection between Jackson, his Backboard project and the attacks of the last week. Would curing an insane psychometric help him pull off what’s happened?”

I thought about it for a moment, then shook my head. “No Gifted person I know has ever been insane. I have no way of knowing…”

Pay the Piper – Chapter Sixteen

Previous Chapter


“Not all of your Gifted companions think of a fugue state as a trap, Armor,” Vinny said, consulting something in his personal files. “The technology that makes it possible has a lot of other uses. I’ve had several Galaxy-funded and independent psychometric researchers approach me about utilizing fugue state coding and hardware to create one thing or another. The one trying to simulate true telepathy was particularly interesting.”

“Yes, but as a therapy tool?”

Vinny stopped what he was doing long enough to give me a patient look. “You saw representations of your five core personality facets, right? The woman who kept taking charge was your extroversion, the wet blanket was your neuroticism, and so on. Surely you realize there’s a lot of room there for encouraging self-discovery and growth.”

In other words, it was the opposite of being trapped. Of course Vinny would like the idea, it balanced the other use of his technology. I should have seen that coming. “I suppose you could use it that way. I’m not an expert on the psychology part of it but I’ll take your word on its usefulness. Have you actually sold this tech to anyone who was interested in it?”

He was paying more attention to his screen than me and I was deeply tempted to try and brush against his computer and see what he was looking at but I knew better than to do that with anything belonging to the leading designer of antipsychometery tech in Silicon Valley. “If I did I couldn’t tell you about it under the terms of our typical contract,” he muttered, still browsing. “What I can tell you is we haven’t built anything that has produced experiences anything like what you described.”

“You’re sure?”

That finally got Vinny to pull his nose away from his monitor and turn his attention to me. He was having a hard time taking me seriously. “Armor. This is my bread and butter. I know where my projects are.”

“Of course you do,” I murmured. “But you think it wasn’t intended as a trap?”

“I have no way of telling, since it wasn’t something I designed.” Vinny steepled his fingers and thought for a moment, the wheels in his mind spinning away. “But if I had to speculate, I don’t think it was built as a trap. It might have been repurposed. After all, a toy car isn’t meant as a trap. You can use it as one. I might be able to speculate more if you told me where you found this fugue trap.”

“I can’t talk about any ongoing investigations, Vinny.”

“No, I suppose not.” He sat back and rested his hands on the arms of his chair. “There’s other places that could be working on this kind of technology, of course. But they’d have to have a pretty close working relationship with a group of psychometrics in order for it to make sense. You’re the only ones who can test fugue state software and the only ones who could make use of it. And based on the experiments we’ve run it’s not the kind of thing you can build without a test subject on hand to give constant feedback.”

“Assuming you could get the basics of the technology from someone, be it you or someone else, how much expertise would it take to adapt it to a therapeutic fugue state?”

Vinny was lapsing deeper and deeper into his regimented, balanced, cause and effect headspace. Or, more accurately, he was letting the mask of normal human behavior he wore over his deeper, more mechanical thought process lapse. He was now almost motionless in his chair, looking straight forward, his mind whirring and expressive but his mannerisms bordering on a trance of his own. “The hardware is simple, assuming you don’t want to miniaturize it. A server farm or some networked GPUs is all it would take. The software is more challenging but really it doesn’t take formal training, just lots of experimentation. It’s hardly an exact science. With enough time, any computer science grad could probably learn to do the necessary work.”

That answer didn’t offer a lot of possible angles of attack. In fact, there was basically just one. “How much time?”

“It took me eighteen months to bring up my last raw initiate to the level of independent coding,” Vinny said without hesitation. “A really brilliant mind could do it in ten.”

Which led nicely into the next obvious question. “How long did it take you?”

“Eight months.”

“That long?” I shook my head sadly. “Vinny, I had such high hopes for you.”

“You need a Gifted individual to work opposite you as you learn, and generally working with the same one works best. Not everyone can keep up with my work routine.”

From anyone else it would sound like throwing shade. From Vinny it was a simple statement of fact. “How long has therapeutic fugue states been around?”

“To the best of my knowledge they don’t exist yet.”

And from someone that dense it really wasn’t that annoying. “How long have people been trying to make them?”

“At least five years. That’s when I was first approached about adapting fugue traps, although I declined that offer and most like it that have been offered to me.” Vinny was beginning to come back to his normal disposition, where he looked and spoke more like a normal human and less like a computer terminal. I can tell most people find this extremely focused state of his disturbing as it hides all of his social cues but personally I’ve always found it oddly disarming. He’s a Gap, and that means some part of his mind will always be alien to me. At the same time, social ineptitude is something I see on a daily basis and no matter how severe it may be, that kind of weakness just humanizes him to me.

“Why did you never take any of those offers? It seems like something you’d like.”

He was amused, both that I’d caught on to the fact that he did like them, and that I hadn’t figured out why he wasn’t invested in the field. “My calling is maintaining people’s secrets, Armor. Secrets exist for good reason and we can easily harm ourselves in revealing them, even to ourselves.”

Large scale balance outweighing small scale. As always, a clear principle but one I hadn’t figured out how he applied. “Let’s set aside a new person working on this therapy fugue for a moment. You and I work in small communities, Vinny. Let’s see if we can figure out known experts that dropped off the grid five years ago and work from there…”

Pay the Piper – Chapter Fifteen

Previous Chapter

“Each person is a mask over a single soul that unites us.” I strolled along, watching as people passed one another on the street and admiring the breeze off of the bay to the east. “I always thought it sounded like a noble, zen philosophy until I actually met a Mask.”

Aurora had her attention split between me and the people we were passing as we walked. The hotel wasn’t in one of the major homeless parts of the city but there were still a lot of stressed, obsessed and generally distressed people passing us and it was a hard distraction to ignore. “I wouldn’t have called you someone interested in the Masks when we graduated, Trevor.”

“I wasn’t. I met my first Mask when I was sixteen. During that trip to St. Petersburg for the lower tiered people, remember? You complained for weeks after I got back.” I carefully ran a gloved hand along the railing that ran along the sidewalk, over the sloping rocks that led down to the Pacific Ocean. Whispers of a dozen thoughts tugged at the edge of my mind, leaking through the flimsy barrier between my hand and the railing. Most were a variation on admiration for nature, which made it easy enough to tune them out.

Aurora’s embarrassment was much clearer and more amusing. “It wasn’t fun to be left behind with all the other super Gifted kids. We had to work so hard to ignore each other.”

That was a drawback of teaching the Gifted in groups of their peers – we’re at our most comfortable among those more or less sensitive than ourselves, since it’s harder to guess how much of our thoughts they know, and easier to maintain the illusion of privacy. I’d always wondered if the struggles of being surrounded by tier five psychometrics was one of the reasons it took so long for Aurora’s normal mental state to coalesce. “It was an important skill to work on, and you know it.”

“I was just a late bloomer, and you know it,” Aurora replied, showing she was monitoring my thoughts better than I’d thought. “How did I never realize you’d met a Mask when you were sixteen? And what was one doing in St. Petersburg?”

“The ‘we are one’ idea has adherents worldwide, and unsurprisingly they try and link up with one another constantly.” I paused and looked out over the ocean, one of the few things in the world that carried no psychometric signatures at all, and wondered what things were like in Russia now. “Communism created a lot of true believers of the Masks variety and I think they were trying to escape Yeltsin-era Russia for greener pastures. I never did find out what happened to him after. Hopefully he never found the russkies he was looking for.”

“How come you never told me about this?”

“It was a bad time for you, Aurora. And I didn’t know what happened so I didn’t want to worry you. It wasn’t our responsibility anyways, we were still teenagers.” My memory drifted back to that day for the first time in years, inviting Aurora to go along with me. Nevsky Prospekt was a bustling thoroughfare at the time, with the Admiralty building standing at attention on one side and the Leningrad Hero City Memorial anchoring the other. We’d gone there to see the world, of course, but also to face for the first time in our short lives the depth and weight of the violence people inflicted on one another and realize how present it is to this day.

For nine hundred days the city was besieged, and walking the Prospekt one could still feel the famine, terror and cold of its darkest days more than sixty years after the armies were gone. That was the day my interest in psychometric forensics began to form. It was also the day I met the Mask.

The villains of the Soviet era were larger than life, easily caricatured figures that are hard to forget. The great villain of the Gifted proved very different, a small, almost forgettable man who slouched past on the street, a neurotic ball of anxiety and hostility focused outward with almost no sense of self. The Masks believe that by yielding themselves back from the void from whence all things came they can mend all fractured relationships and bring all humanity together in one community again, a belief shared by many philosophers and even some religions the world over. But in that moment, in a chance meeting on the Prospekt half a world away, I saw something very much the opposite. A deranged and ultimately alone man struggling to create a mask that would unify him with thousands of other, similarly masked people.

Boundaries have always been hard for the Gifted to make and maintain, but that Mask was the cruelest solution to the problem I’ve ever seen.

Back in the present Aurora leaned against the railing with me and sighed. “You can hear stories about what they’re like but I guess it doesn’t make sense until you see it for yourself.”

I gave her a sideways look. “You’ve met a Mask?”

“No. Even with what you tried to show me there, it still doesn’t add up.” She joined me in leaning against the railing. “Is that why you spent a year chasing them with Agent Fitzgerald?”

“No, that was a job. Eugene is the one with a vendetta against them, not me. Personally, I don’t think the Masks will ever pull together enough to pose a threat again. They’re too afraid of each other to be effective against us.” I picked at my teeth and thought about what Natalie had said, how we might need every psychometric we could get in order to crack this terrorism case. “This whole situation has got to be driving them nuts…”

“You can think about how to solve the case when you go back tomorrow,” Aurora said gently. “For now, relax.”

“Relaxing is a weakness of mine,” I admitted. “I know that for a fact since my own subconscious said so earlier.”

“That must have been an interesting experience,” Aurora said, genuine intrigue trickling into her conscious mind in spite of her revulsion at the idea of something like a fugue trap. “Do you think meeting your own personality traits was the intended function of the trap or a side effect?”

“Can’t say without talking to the person who built it,” I said, mulling it over out loud. “It would depend on what you accomplish by such a thing, wouldn’t it? I mean, I don’t think my impromptu counseling session was intended to give me a method to escape, even though it did. The real question is whether doing that, rather than the usual method of showing people something they find really pleasant or at least mildly interesting, helped the trap function in some way.”

“What if it wasn’t a trap?” Aurora asked. “Can you do anything else with a-“

She caught herself and shook her head. “Now look at what you’ve done. You pulled me into helping you spitball the case. Stop that.”

“You came along on that ride all by yourself.” I was teasing her but it felt good knowing I could still drag her along that easily if I had to. We need more space around each other these days, thanks to our Gifts, but I still do enjoy Aurora’s company. It was nice to find a simple moment of camaraderie from time to time.

And she had a different perspective. Life is not as suspicious when you live a life of medicine, your mind goes to different places by default. What if it wasn’t a trap? The question had a lot of merit. I couldn’t answer it, programming is not my forte. But I knew someone who could.

I did what Aurora wanted from me, I took the rest of the day off. In fact, I did one better and didn’t go in to the office the next morning either. Instead I found myself standing in a familiar office, watching an old friend over one shoulder until he found a moment to spare. As he set aside his soldering iron Vinny gave me a skeptical look and said, “I was not expecting you here before an announcement about the excitement of the past few days. What can I do for you today, Armor?”