“Foster,” Fitz Hume stepped forward to make the perfunctory introductions. “This is Celesta Elango, our head of security.”

  Both stepped awkwardly toward each other, and tentatively shook hands.

  Foster wondered just how much she knew of his situation. Or more precisely, did she know that he had just been released from a mental institution. A judgment was problematic, given Celesta’s reserved demeanor. She was either very well trained or ignorant of the facts.

  “These two, you already know.” Edgar waved a dismissive hand at Saunders and Justine.

  The dazed and aging field operative and his impetuous partner looked like they had just been punched in the face by the impossible. Only 24 hours earlier, Foster had been his prisoner, and now he was personally escorted by the director as if they were friends… even confidantes.

  Paralyzed by the twist of events, everyone was at a loss for something else to say save one inquisitive scientist.

  “So, you are our reclusive genius I’ve heard so little about.” Samuel Mosley moved forward and extended his hand. “I must say, I’ve been having a tough time putting a pin in anything about you. And for me, that’s saying something.”

  “That’s not surprising,” Foster smiled and shook his hand, “I have been tucked away for a while.”

  Recalling their private conversation 24 hours earlier, Samuel and Fitz Hume stared at each other awkwardly for a long moment. Foster picked up on their duplicity almost immediately without giving their machinations a second thought. “Though, I guess you probably already knew that.”

  Once the introductions were complete, Foster deftly navigated past the sea of confused government employees. His only pause on the way to the workbench was an imperceptible stutter step in front of Justine.

  “You still haven’t told me why you left Brad alive?” He said in a mocking tone.

  “How do you know his name is Brad?”

  “I’ll tell you how, if you tell me why,” Foster kept eye contact with the young agent even as he kept moving toward his package.

  Justine wrinkled her slightly wind burned nose in a juvenile attempt at ignoring his question. “That’s not going to happen.”

  Smiling even bigger than before, Foster leaned over the workbench to survey the package. To his amusement, he saw the infamous ball-peen hammer sitting inches away from the case. Smirking at their futility, he pushed the crude implement to the side.

  “It looks like someone has been trying to crack open my little egg, Edgar,” he looked suspiciously at the director. “I thought we had an understanding.”

  “We do,” Fitz Hume loathed being spoken to that way, especially by someone he considered beneath him. “I gave explicit instructions not to touch it. You were there.”

  “I’m afraid that’s my fault.” Samuel eased up beside Foster and quickly tossed the hammer into a nearby toolbox. “Some of my technicians were just a little bit curious about your delivery,” he searched in vain for Ronald’s embarrassed face. “Some more than others, but nothing they did seemed to put a scratch on it.”

  “That’s how I designed it.” Foster turned around to find the entire group, including Mosley, confused as to how this could occur. This observation was especially accurate for Agents Saunders and Rushing. “I’m sorry,” he mocked in a false sympathetic tone. “Who here knows anything about coiled carbon chains?”

  Dumbfounded, everyone in the group looked to Samuel for an answer to the question. Just as confused, he threw up his hands in defeat. “I’m a theoretical guy, proofs, paradigms, the big picture, that’s my specialty. Not the rubber meets the road stuff.”

  “You’re a dreamer?” Foster leaned back up against the workbench.

  “Yes…” Mosley found the term to be appropriate.

  “Well, then this should be right up your alley. Coiled Carbon Chains are exactly what they sound like, chains of coiled carbon. I could give you and your technicians a week with all the specialized equipment in the world, and you still couldn’t crack this thing.” Foster pulled the scuffed-up Blackberry out of his pocket and laid it down beside the box on the workbench.

  “Was that an answer?” Justine didn’t know.

  Neither did Samuel, “I don’t think so.”

  Foster stood over the case with a puzzled look on his face. “Were the R and D guys able to get the biometrics working right, or do I have to open it the other way?”

  The earpiece that had been dormant since the meeting with the director chirped to life. “Just last week… still, it should open just like we talked about.”

  Since no one could hear Hoover besides Foster, everyone just stared wide-eyed waiting for something to occur. Justine, who had some experience with this behavior, was the first to speak. “Who in the hell are you talking to? And don’t give me any crap about an artificial intelligence.”

  “Artificial intelligence,” Samuel’s ears perked up. “What do you mean artificial intelligence?”

  Justine snatched up the phone from the workbench and thrust it into Samuel’s waiting hands. “Mr. Evers says that he talks to this phone. He claims it knows things.” Confused but intrigued, Samuel began checking the cracked casing for anything out of the ordinary.

  “I’ll take that.” Foster, annoyed by Agent Rushing’s actions, snatched his phone back.

  Also annoyed, Hoover asked indignantly, “Why is she touching me?”

  “Calm down,” Foster said, trying to diffuse the situation. In the meantime, Justine stamped her feet threateningly, still wanting an answer. “Through the phone, I said ‘through the phone.’ Besides, how in the hell would a person fit an artificial intelligence into something as small as a phone?”

  In an act of misplaced defiance, Justine pulled her iPhone from her sweatshirt pocket. Attempting to outwit Foster’s bravado, she replied, “What about Siri?” She asked about the personal assistant that came standard with the newer versions of the iPhone. “Isn’t that an artificial intelligence?”

  Foster’s earpiece practically exploded.

  “That bitch!” was the only words discernible from Hoover’s opening tirade. Without any real experience with Siri, Foster had no frame of reference to pass judgment on her question. But from the amount of Hoover’s cursing, it was apparent he had. “I can’t believe Apple would try and lie to the public like that. Artificial Intelligence my digital ass. You should read my blog. That’s where you’ll find the truth.”

  Foster was still amazed that a program he wrote eight years ago had a blog.

  “Agent Rushing,” Hoping to move things along, Samuel took it upon himself to say more nicely what Hoover was screaming, and Foster was thinking. “Siri is a souped-up voice pattern recognition program. But it’s not true artificial intelligence. The programming required to bring true artificial intelligence into existence, not to mention keep it running, would fry that little BlackBerry to a crisp. Actually, it would fry a thousand of those little BlackBerrys to a crisp.”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Exactly Mr. Mosley,” Foster said. “It seems Edgar always did have an eye for talent.”

  Still hovering just outside the fray, the director couldn’t decide whether that was a slap in the face or a backhanded compliment. Either way, Foster was supposed to be in a hurry. “I thought speed was your main concern right now, Foster. Not teaching moments.”

  “You’re always right, Edgar.” Foster nodded politely, placed the phone back down, and then stood over the case without doing or saying anything.

  “Look at him,” Justine whispered condescendingly to Saunders while shoving her non-A.I. phone away. “He’s admiring it.”

  “But, Agent Rushing…” Foster slammed both hands down onto the shadowy case. After a couple of tense seconds, a blue light began emanating from around the edges of his palms.

  Previously solid metal began to spread apart like an invisible zipper was being pulled across its surface. And from these brand-new seams, an all-encompassing crack formed around the edges of the case. Eventually, that same bluish light not only enveloped his palms, but it poured forth from every new crevice.

  Foster took a measured look at Justine’s flabbergasted face. With that same sly grin from last night’s car ride, he said, “there’s a lot about this case to admire.”

  Upon the utterance of those words, the case expelled a small amount of gas. Then, with a final click, the case cracked in two just like an egg. Foster quickly pried the top off and everyone, including the director, inched closer to see what was inside.

  “That’s it,” Justine said incredulously. “Talk about your anticlimax.”

  Tucked neatly into the bottom half of the case was a small black duffle bag. Made from a thick mesh material, Saunders recognized its design immediately as one of those canvas army satchels from World War 2. It was practical, he thought. But for all the buildup, to say the group was a bit underwhelmed would be an understatement.

  “That’s it?” Foster scoffed at their looks of disappointment as he secured the bag over his shoulder. “It’s all I need.”

  The bag’s flap opened quickly, and it only took a second to find what he was looking for. Resting in his hand was a small computer tablet. Twelve inches long, eight inches wide, and at least two inches thick, the pad appeared to be constructed from the same material as the case, only with a shinier finish. Justine’s Sci-Fi mind couldn’t help but flash to Star Trek’s famous tricorder.

  Her wimpy iPad seemed dull by comparison.

  “That thing must weigh a ton. What is it?” she asked greedily.

  Foster shook the device. “Coiled carbon fibers remember, so it’s much lighter than it looks. But...” With the hands of an engineer, he instinctively knew something was amiss. “Why is this thing so heavy?”

  Everyone huddled around the workbench and looked at each other searchingly even though the question was aimed directly at his co-designer. “What do you mean?” Hoover asked as innocently as a program could. “No more than four pounds, those were the specs you gave me.”

  “Bullshit, this thing has to at least weigh five.”

  Hoover didn’t have an answer right away. Foster considered pressing the matter, but as Fitz Hume had so helpfully said before, time was of the essence. Tabling the mystery, for now, he shoved the tablet back into the bag without saying anything else about it. “Have you briefed them on the mission, Edgar?”

  The question was innocent enough, but the way Foster said “Edgar” implied impatience and disrespect. The director usually didn’t respond well to someone pressuring him. However, for the sake of his conscience and time, Fitz Hume allowed the remark pass. “I was just about to.”

  Zeroing in on Justine and Jeffrey, he began. “Agents Saunders and Rushing, you’re tasked with escorting Mr. Evers to a town near the Pennsylvania, New York border called Elmira. Once you arrive, contact the local authorities and brief them on your mission.”

  “And what is our mission?” Saunders asked.

  “Officially, you will be responding to a potential terrorist threat at the nearby college. Tell them you’re there to do some routine leg work. But let me be clear, the local law is on a need to know basis only. Any actual intelligence gathered in the field will be considered top secret for my eyes only. Is that understood?”

  Both agents curtly nodded.

  “And our unofficial assignment sir,” Justine was confused but focused. “What are we actually there to do?”

  “Unofficially…” The director struggled with the proper phrasing for such an utterly preposterous thing. “Unofficially, you two are there to help Mr. Evers solve an eight-year-old mystery. One that is beyond your scope of pay and ability to understand.”

  Saunders and Rushing were speechless.

  “I thought you were also sending me.” Samuel looked outraged and hurt. “You know… as part of the technical backup.”

  “I am,” Fitz Hume gritted his teeth and prayed for this nightmare to end. “What about your other field tech? Who’s going to be assisting you?”

  Samuel took a precautionary step to the left in case Celesta decided to strike. “I’ve decided to go with Barbara Abbott.”

  A waifish girl in glasses stepped away from her perfectly kept workstation. Rather plain, save for her garish auburn hair, the young scientist raised a hand to signal she was the chosen one. Both Fitz Hume and Celesta looked her up and down in a judgmental kind of way, but neither felt threatened nor impressed.

  “She’s a bit green in the field,” Samuel said. “But she’s the best mathematician we have on staff.”

  “That’s acceptable.” He turned his attention back to this newly formed group. “You’re leaving right now. If there’s anything personal you need, buy it in Elmira. Tech wise, the mobile lab is more than equipped to meet your needs. Though, I fear I need to make a redundant statement. This operation is highly classified, so no talking about this to your wives, husbands, girlfriends, or boyfriends about what you might find up there. In fact, besides yourselves and me, everyone else should be considered a security risk.”

  “What about them?” Saunders gazed around at the nervous looking technicians standing just outside of earshot. The ones that weren’t going on this still unbelievable trip to the middle of nowhere.

  “Have you discovered anything yet?” Fitz Hume asked.

  “No,” Saunders answered honestly. “Not yet.”

  “Then don’t worry about them.” The director sighed and impatiently rubbed his face. “I’ll debrief them later.”

  “So, are we leaving or what?” During this scattershot briefing, Foster had stealthily made his way to one of the working loading bay doors, slid the latch free and used the motorized chain roller to open it. Standing on the edge of his first real freedom in eight years, he smiled. “You can’t solve any of the really good mysteries of the universe in a lab. Can you?”

  Samuel thought about mentioning his discoveries at CERN but quickly bit his tongue. Now wasn’t the time to toot his own horn, he thought. Let the braggart brag, soon enough he would find a way to discover Foster’s secrets.

  Saunders rounded up his new team and began slowly leading them towards Foster's position. Meanwhile, Justine hung back from the brain trust far enough to have a private word with the Fitz Hume.

  “Director,” she said carefully. “I thought I was on suspension.”

  “Your presence on this op was at the behest of Mr. Evers. Not mine, Agent Rushing.” This news caught Justine off guard. Why would he want her on this mission? “To be honest, of all the crazy things that have happened over the past two days, that part is by far the most out there.”

  Coughing once, he continued, “but allow me to make my feelings on this matter clear. I know you’re a top-flight operative, Agent Rushing. But I’ve seen your file… all of it. I don’t care how long ago it was or how much you’ve adjusted.” Anger flared behind his normally calm eyes. “If it were up to me, you would be parked at that crappy little apartment of yours waiting for your conduct review. End of story.”

  He wasn’t this angry at their meeting, she told herself. So where was all this hostility coming from? Maybe Foster was getting under the director’s typically thick skin.

  “Director,” she said, bracing herself for the worst. “If I’m going into the field, I will need my gun.”

  Suddenly, the director's frown turned upside down, and Justine knew that nothing good was coming her way.

  “That was my condition for you going on this little adventure.” He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a small object. Placing the piece of metal roughly into her palm, he whispered, “as far as I’m concerned, this is all the protection you’re going to need.”

  Blinking a couple of times, it took a second for her eyes to adjust to the darkness of the alley. When they did, her face became awash with horror and disappointment. He had handed her a small, civilian stun gun.

  “Thank you, director…” Were the only words she could muster.

  “You’re welcome, Agent Rushing. Now hurry up. You don’t want to miss the bus.”

  She turned on her heels and jogged toward the door. Out in the alley, Justine saw the others gathered around a small child. After a second, he spoke. Only the child’s voice was anything but childlike.

  “Hello everyone, my name is Malcolm Purvis.” His voice was a deep baritone with a hint of hungover tenor. “And I’ll be your driver for this little excursion.”

  Ignoring their prattle, her attention remained focused on the director’s pitiful gift. What the hell was she going to do with a stun gun? Hesitating, she teetered on the edge of tossing it into the bushes, before finally tucking the play gun into her sweatshirt pocket next to her iPhone.

  What was the worst thing that could happen anyway? They were only going on a short trip to New York on another babysitting gig. It’s not like anything dangerous was going to happen. Suddenly, a horrible feeling of déjà vu punched her in the stomach.

  Why did every bad thing in her life begin as a short trip where nothing could possibly go wrong?