Origins (Remote) (2 page)

“Great. We’re going to love being damn babysitter for three hours every day of the week,” Farrow said. He and his partner Andrew Ruff were sitting in a conference room across the table from Cutter. “How the hell did you let yourself get roped into this Jim?”

“Because it’s the only way to keep this thing going,” Cutter replied. “We haven’t made enough progress to keep Archer happy. What have we given him? Next to nothing. If he pulls the funding we’re toast. We go back to living in crappy apartments and eating bag lunches.” He knew he’d hit home when he saw Ruff’s face change. Ruff had been a student assistant, working on his Doctorate when Cutter approached him. Farrow hadn’t been much better off. Archer’s funding had put them all on what any college professor in the country would call Easy Street. None wanted to return to the austerity of the teaching life. As noble as it might seem to the outside world, in reality it was stretching every dollar, putting in long hours for the outside shot you might fall into the good graces of the administration and get tenure. More likely you’d be out on the streets in a few years or teaching at some podunk college in the sticks. Farrow knew that. Ruff especially knew that.

“Okay, I got it,” Farrow said, “but do you really think kids are the answer? Even if they’re better at what we want, how do we go about using them? You’re opening up a can of worms here.”

“We’ll worry about that later,” Cutter said. “Let’s concentrate on these kids. We can string it out for a while. That will give us time to come up with a new angle.”

Ruff spoke for the first time. “Well, I’m in. I’ll be damned if I want to go back to living with my sister and her husband and eating bologna twice a day. Besides, I’ve never been to New Orleans. I kind of like hanging around in the French Quarter on the weekends. There’s some good eating around here. What have we got to lose, Clint?”

Farrow shrugged. “You’re the boss, James. Let’s get it done and move on to something else.”

“That the spirit,” Cutter said. “Now, you know what we’re looking for. Each kid will be run through the tests just the way we’ve designed them. We’ve got fourteen schools and twenty-eight kids lined up. After Week 1 we start weeding them out. We want to get this thing down to the two most likely kids we see before we start the real thing.”

“Jesus Christ,” Farrow said, shaking his head. “It’s like we’re starting our own game show. “Little Psychic Warriors coming in the fall. What have we gotten ourselves into?”

Cutter had had enough. He stood up, buttoning his coat. “Just do the job, Clint. Let me worry about the results.”

Farrow and Ruff watched as he left. “You heard the man,” Ruff said. “Let’s dig up some Alpha Brain Wave babies and let him do the worrying. Then we’ll go drink a Hurricane or two. I’m buying.”

Ronnie Gilmore was in agony. Being sent to the office was bad enough, but to be there with
Cassie Reynold was almost more than he could bear. The object of his discomfort was sat across from him, blissfully unaware of the distress she was causing. Her legs swung back and forth underneath the hard- backed chair. On her feet were black patent leather shoes worn over short white socks with frilly- laced tops. Her red plaid dress hung over her knees, and her brown hair, an abundant mass of curls framing her face, was topped with a matching bow.

Ronnie had been in love with
Cassie Reynold since fifth grade; — three long years of agony. In all that time, he hadn’t had only spoken to her once. Once, she’d dropped a book, and he’d picked it up and said, “Here.” She’d responded, “Thanks, Ronnie,” and skipped off, leaving him there with his heart pounding. Now she sat across from him, legs still swinging. He figured if he was ever going to talk to her now again, he had to just do it.

“Do you know why we’re here?” he asked her. “I didn’t do anything. I was just sitting in Mr. Mueller’s class, and they came and got me.”

Cassie, who’d been staring at her feet, looked up at him. He could see nothing but brown eyes and curls.

“No,” she said. “I thought you might know. Are we in some kind of trouble? My mom will kill me if I get a detention.”

“I don’t know,” Ronnie said. “Maybe it’s just….. I don’t know.” He shrugged his shoulders and looked lowered his gaze to his own feet. He didn’t think he could keep looking at her and keep his words straight.

He wished she would stop swinging her legs. Then he didn’t. They were nice legs, an olive brown set off by the white socks. Her complexion was the same year round. Some girls he knew got pale in the winter and dark in the summer. Not
Cassie. She was always the same even olive shade. It was one of the things he wondered about, a simple thing that set her apart.

“Hey, maybe we won an award or something.” He lifted his head again. “Remember when we had to write those essays? Maybe we did really well, and they want to give us a trophy or a certificate or something. Do you think?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t think mine was that good. You’re the smart one. I know you get all good grades.” She was looking him in the eye for maybe the first time.

“Hey, you get good grades. Tommy Vince told me he copies off you all the time. He says you get all A’s on your tests.” Ronnie couldn’t believe his luck. Here he was, actually talking to
Cassie Reynolds. And she was talking back. At that moment, he didn’t care if they took him into Mrs. Keating’s office and beat him with a barber strap. It was pretty much worth it. He ducked his head and grinned.

“Ronnie?”
Cassie said. He looked back up at her. She was smiling, now and he could see the first traces of a blush on her cheeks.

“Now why would you be talking to Tommy Vince about me?”

Before he could find an answer, if he could ever find the right answer to that question, Ronnie was rescued by Mrs. Keating. She came bustling into the room with two men in tow. One was tall with close cropped tie clipped to the shirt with a small golden bar. Mrs. Keating introduced him as Mr. Farrow. The other man was considerably shorter, his squat frame carried a little too much weight and his hair needed a trim. He was introduced as Mr. Ruff. He too wore a black business suit but it was showing signs of wear, the cuffs slightly frayed.

Mrs. Keating wasted no time in getting things moving. “Now,” she said, addressing Ronnie and
Cassie, “these two young men are going to be doing some testing with you, they’re very interested in intelligent young people like yourselves. I want you to cooperate and do the very best you can. I know you’ll do fine. When you get done, report to your last class as you usually do.” She turned to the taller man. “Mr. Farrow if there’s anything else you need you just let me know. I’ll be in my office. There’s a water fountain right down the hall and restrooms are on your left.”

“I’m sure we’ll be just fine Mrs. Keating,” the taller man said. “If we can get started we’ll be out of your way in an hour or so.”

With that, Mrs. Keating bustled away. Ronnie watched as Ruff gestured to Cassie, leading her off down the hall to another room, her black patent -leather shoes scuffing along the floor. Before she turned into the room she looked back over her shoulder at him briefly, giving him a smile he thought was uncertain before she disappeared.

Farrow looked Ronnie over for a minute before leading him down the hall to another classroom. He gestured for Ronnie to sit down, pulling papers from his briefcase. He laid the papers out and sorted them into piles before speaking.

“What we’re going to do here, Ronnie, is let you take a few tests. Most of them are pretty easy, and you can’t fail them, okay? I guess Mrs. Keating went over this with you, didn’t she?”

“Yes, Sir,” Ronnie said. “She just said you were looking for smart kids who might be able to get money. Like for college or something, if we do well.”

“That’s right. Now, I want you to relax. Some of this stuff might seem funny to you, but the important thing is that you answer with the first thing that comes into your head. Don’t worry about being right or wrong. It’s not that kind of test.”

Farrow launched into a series of inquiries questions he read off of a tall yellow legal pad. Ronnie gave answers on his health, his hobbies, and what he wanted to be when he grew up. Farrow gave him a short story and he filled out a list of questions on what he’d read. Farrow then pulled out a deck of cards, not playing cards like Ronnie was used to seeing when his parents had people over, but cards printed with single numbers, or squares of printed color. He broke them up into sets, allowing Ronnie a quick look at each set before shuffling them and placing them face down on the desk. The next few minutes were spent with Ronnie guessing what was on each card without being able to see it. At one point Farrow stopped.

“Now, why did you say this card was green?”

Ronnie shrugged. “I don’t know, I just thought it was green.” Farrow gave him a long look. He put away the cards, placing a photograph on the desk in front of Ronnie.

“You’ve done very well, Ronnie. This next step is a little different, kind of an imagination test. You can’t pass or fail, it’s not that kind of test. We just want to see what you can come up with. I’m going to give you a few minutes alone to look at this picture. Relax and study it. When I get back, I want you to tell me a story about what you see in this picture. In the meantime I’ll get you something to drink. Take your time and really try to relax, let your imagination take over. I want to hear a good story when I get back.” He put the remaining papers back in his briefcase and set it down beside the desk, patting Ronnie on the shoulder in a friendly way as he went past and out the door.

Ronnie was left alone in the room and picked up the photograph. Across the top was printed a series of numbers and letters: N517-5963. The picture was poor quality. It looked as though it had been taken from an airplane or something up high. In the center was a long, narrow building. Across the top there were straight short pipes with little caps on top to keep the rain out. What looked like a fence ran all around the building, and there was a smaller structure next to what might have been a gate with a dirt road leading through it. Behind the main building was a third one with a short walkway between the two.

Make up a story, Make up a story and go home
. He closed his eyes and gripped the photograph. For some reason, he didn’t like that, so he put it back on the desk and opened his eyes again. The building didn’t seem to be anything special, but there was something wrong with it he couldn’t understand. Just staring at it on the paper made him nervous.
Make up a story
. So he did.

Dr. Clinton Farrow was sitting at a small table in a bar in the New Orleans French Quarter. Outside, the streets had been recently flushed, and the smells of the street were breezing in the door. Across from him was Dr. James Ruff, and a man named Thorne. Both Ruff and Farrow were working on their third beer, talking in low tones. Despite the sounds of the street, which was beginning to liven up as the evening wore on and began to build into a New Orleans weekend, they kept their voices low so as not to be overheard. They had filed their reports with Cutter and, within minutes, been instructed to present their findings to this man. Where Cutter actually was they didn’t know.

Thorne did not share either their mood or their reluctance to talk. He was a tall man, his hair parted on the right and combed neatly. He could have been a business man out for a night with a pair of friends. It was an appearance that served him well. What he actually was, neither Farrow nor Ruff knew. They knew him only as Mr. Thorne, a name he picked out of the air. They did know that he was influential enough to call them in from Stanford and order them around like privates in his own army, a situation they both found uncomfortable. But Cutter, who they both thought of as their boss, had made it clear that this Thorne wielded immense power in the project which had taken an unexpected turn that afternoon.

“Why so glum, gentlemen?” Thorne asked. “It seems to me for men in your position that you’ve hit upon something valuable to your research. This is the kind of thing that could make your careers. Or many careers.”

Farrow rubbed his hand across his head and picked up his beer.

“There’s got to be some kind of explanation. Maybe just random chance. I want to run a lot more tests before I say anything else.” Across the table, Ruff nodded his headed in agreement.

“We’ve got to think this through before we go too much further,” Farrow said. “These are just kids. It’s not like we can just hire them to do research. We’ve got teachers involved, not to mention parents. The whole thing could get really complicated.”

“It’s already complicated Dr. Farrow,” Thorne said. “You’re talking a breakthrough on a major project with national security implications. You two have stumbled on something unexpected. Even Merlin is still mulling around in the dark. So far, your results have been comparable to his, and now you’ve got the chance to outshine him. I understand your caution, but if there’s a chance you’re on to something we’ve got to pursue it. Tell me again about these two children.”

Farrow took a breath and began speaking, taking Thorne through the whole afternoon. Farrow had been designated to take the boy: Ronnie Gilmore, age thirteen, a shy but bright young man in the eighth grade. The principal had pointed to Ronnie as being exceptionally talented in the areas of language and mathematics. Farrow had conducted basic intelligence test and found that to be true. The boy’s IQ was in the range of one hundred thirty. He was exceptionally quick with the language portion. The specialized tests had been extraordinary. Ronnie had been off the charts in the tests that compared chance guessing to the detection of extrasensory perceptions. Given a choice of ten pictured objects on cards placed face down on the table, the boy had confused only two, and they were both similar, an apple and a pear. The number perception had been even better. He was perfect, identifying correctly the numbers on ten cards turned face down.

“If I were going to Vegas,” Farrow said, “I’d want this kid with me every minute.”

‘That’s all very interesting Dr. Farrow,” Thorne said. “But we’re not running a casino. I’m more interested in his reaction to the photograph.”

Farrow nodded. “That was pretty weird, I have to say. I figured the kid would give me some story about a factory or a warehouse or something like that but it’s not what I got. This kid has some kind of imagination.”

What Farrow had listened to after asking Ronnie Gilmore about the picture was still fixed firmly in his mind. The boy had been upset, but he came up with a very vivid story, one that Farrow wouldn’t soon forget.

“I think this is a place where bad things are happening,” Ronnie had said. “The people inside are dressed in space suits with tubes attached to the wall. And there’s bugs all over the place and all over the people, but it’s like they don’t even know it. They’re just walking around with all these bugs all over them, like cockroaches and spiders and stuff and they don’t care. They like it. There’s a guy in there, a big fat guy, and he tells people what to do. Someone brought him a big glass jar full of bugs, really ugly bugs, and he smiled like it was a Christmas present or something.”

Farrow had been stunned at the story and he was still shaking his head over it as he told Thorne.

Of the three people sitting at the table, Thorne was the only one who had true knowledge of the building in the photograph and what Farrow had just related shook him, though he showed no sign of it.

N517-5963 was a satellite photograph taken of a facility in the American Southwest. The area’s existence was unknown to all but a handful in the U.S. government. The carefully screened staff that worked in this facility were among the best chemists and microbiologists in the country, all highly paid, most either current or former military. They were single and unattached. Most existed and lived under an alias, their former lives wiped out of all records. That made them deniable and in a worst case scenario, expendable. They were as deep into black as they could be, working on the next generation of biological weapons technology, both offensive and defensive – mostly offensive. Every type of disease known to man was contained within the lab, some of which could wipe out entire populations if released.

“And the girl?” Thorne asked, turning to Ruff.

“High spectrum perception,” Ruff said. “Passed all the tests with flying colors. IQ in the upper one-forty range I’d say. She missed two on the number problems, but that’s still unbelievably high. I ran the object screening twice, and she aced it both times. Excellent vocabulary skills. Her story wasn’t anything as graphic as the boy’s, though. She saw a whale.”

Thorne raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?” Thorne said.

“A whale,” Ruff repeated. “She said there was a whale in the building and the whale was sick and there were people in the building making the whale better. I asked her if she thought they were doctors or veterinarians or something, and she said she didn’t think so. She didn’t know why they were different, but she didn’t think they were doctors. It’s all in the reports and on the tapes.”

Thorne put down his beer and reached for his coat. “Continue this line of investigation. I’ll get things squared with Mr. Cutter on exactly how it will be presented to the school and to the families. Mr. Cutter and I will also send you an operational plan on exactly how we wish to proceed. Have a nice evening, gentlemen. You’ve done well.” With that, he stood and headed out the open door and down the street.

By the time the raucous sixties melted into the seventies, the Cold War with the Soviet Union was decades long and showed no signs of abating. The silent battle continued, each country unwilling to cede any knowledge or advantage to the other. The Unites States defense system was on constant alert, the intelligence system in a controlled frenzy. Normal intelligence gathering operations were flush with cash and personnel, each trying to outdo the other in terms of prestige and performance.

If there was a camera in the sky the intelligence community wanted a better one. Photographs were invaluable. A facility seem from overhead could be sliced and diced, analyzed to no end, and conclusions could be drawn from traffic patterns, entrances and exits, and movement.

All of that was known by the Soviets so it became a great guessing game, a chess match between necessity and deception. If the U.S. wanted to take a peek they couldn’t be stopped. But the Soviet Union could control what they saw. Satellites were charted and plotted, open windows scheduled, and movement regulated, skewing results and forcing decisions on what was real and what was staged.

The same applied to the interception of communications. Mundane messages flew around the globe on a constant basis. Content could be manipulated, a cover for hidden messages within. The security of inside information could be compromised and misleading news leaked once discovered. While the U.S. intelligence organizations did manage to imbed spies or turn some remarkable informants within the Soviet hierarchy, each report was exceedingly dangerous to deliver. Double agents weren’t unusual and the discovery of a plant within any organization presented a unique opportunity to do serious damage to an opponent if handled correctly. In other words, “Leave them be and use them to your own advantage.” One word could spell success or defeat, and the constant conflict between trusting your source and doubting their veracity left huge questions in seemingly obvious opportunities.

Into that whirling chasm of information came even more disquieting news. Word was out that the Soviets had begun a program intent on developing the most covert of all intelligence gathering, the use of psychics. Long spurned as the imaginative arena of crazies and easily manipulated masses, the idea seemed incredible. But in the unending war of intelligence, no stone was being left unturned, and in fact, the U.S. government began turning them over new stones in the late 60s at Stanford University.

By the time the ’70’s, began the program was in full swing. Dubbed Stargate, the black operation began to draw interest from several quarters. Despite ambiguous results, funding was being provided without question. But there were glimmers of hope. Information gleaned months earlier was often found to be relevant once events unfolded, its value realized only after the fact. Picking it out in time to be used was the problem, as well as separating the wheat from the chaff. It Clues could be right in front of an analyst, yet lost in the sheer volume of information.

Stargate was run under full scientific control using blind studies and hidden subjects. Vague results were keyed to known elements in the real world and seemed to reveal something. Possibly.

The man in charge, Major General Aaron Merlin promoted his program relentlessly, a true believer in the method and the cause. If the United States government could gain even the slimmest of advantages, it could leverage the knowledge into huge gains. In full swing, Stargate had generated results, but knowledge was seen only in hindsight, and heavily subject to interpretation.

The other branches of the system turned to Merlin and their remote viewers only when all other methods had been exhausted and every attempt to procure information had either been thwarted or proven impossible. Stargate used rigid science and produced results statistically more accurate than pure chance but not revealing enough or clear enough on which to base decisions or make predictions.

While the results of Stargate were suspect, the implications were not, and the project had not gone unnoticed by those in power. Like most government operations, there was the open, the secret, the Top Secret, and the completely black. Stargate may have been Top Secret, but it was not the only operation of its kind.

The United States was engaged in what those in power believed to be a battle for life and death, or at least world supremacy. Stargate cruised along under a silent banner but operated operated under certain restraints. The remote viewers used came primarily from within the military and the Signal Corps, volunteers willing to take a career risk for what they believed to be a viable alternative to traditional intelligence gathering. But it was not the only remote viewing project.

Within the CIA, there was considerable scepticism regarding the value of remote viewing. But having been burned more than once, the agency wasn’t willing to overlook any possibility. General Dennis Archer, retired from regular dutties and running one of the blackest organizations in the CIA, was one of those willing to take a risk, with full knowledge that failure could be buried, but success could be exploited. He appointed Thorne to look into the subject.

Thorne operated with few restraints. It was not an unknown point of view. The agency had been involved in other projects, that had they been made public, would have outraged American citizens.

In the early 1950s the U.S. government, concerned about the possibility of chemical and biological weapons warfare by the Soviet Union, had used the city of San Francisco as a testing ground for studying the spread of contagious germs by a foreign power. The results had been uninteresting, except to those who either got sick and recovered or the citizens— (merely a handful) —who died. Those in charge deemed the knowledge gained as marginal but worth the risk and continued the controlled release of bacteria in continuing studies. Not many years later it was deemed necessary to test the use of psychedelic drugs on soldiers and in some cases students, without their knowledge. Again, the results were somewhat inconclusive and important only to the families of the affected, including a prominent scientist who ended up throwing himself out of a hotel window after being given a potent dose of acid in his wine.

Of course, in the nuclear age and with the constant threat of atomic warfare, it was important to understand the effects of radiation. Secret tests were run, involving the direct injection of plutonium into unsuspecting subjects. The American public was not informed of those or any of hundreds of projects deemed necessary for the protection of freedom and the good of the public in general. Into that malaise and flying under the radar, a twin remote- viewing project was conceived that would run concurrently with Stargate, but be subject to less stringent guidelines —unhampered by morality or the possibility of discovery : COSMOS.