Summary: As a child, Jarod created the ultimate SIM. Now a man, Jarod will have to find a way around his perfect scenario in time to save the President. As options become few, the Pretender realizes that he'll need all the help he can get.
Meanwhile, Miss Parker, her father, Sydney, and Broots all realize what it truly means to work for the Centre, and what it can cost.
[Season 3 opens with part 11, a shorter chapter of Toby's view! R&R?]
Categories: Crossovers Characters: All the characters
Genres: Suspence/Mystery
Warnings: None
Challenges: None
Series: None
Chapters: 11
Completed: No
Word count: 15073
Read: 39977
Published: 10/02/09
Updated: 30/05/09
1. I: A Sudden Arboreal Stop by Dash Nolan
2. II: Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc by Dash Nolan
3. III: A Proportional Response by Dash Nolan
4. IV: Five Votes Down by Dash Nolan
5. V: The Crackpots and These Women by Dash Nolan
6. VI: The Lame Duck Congress by Dash Nolan
7. VII: The Portland Trip by Dash Nolan
8. VIII: Shibboleth by Dash Nolan
9. IX: Galileo by Dash Nolan
10. X: Noel by Dash Nolan
11. XI: H-Con - 172 by Dash Nolan
I: A Sudden Arboreal Stop by Dash Nolan
The Pretender: The Administration
by Dash Nolan
A Sudden Arboreal Stop
Sharp footsteps echoed through spacious lobbies, their sound demanding respect while presenting intimidation. Miss Parker traversed the Centre's Blue Cove locale at her usual determined pace, practically radiating authority. Between the look in her eye and the haste with which she moved, it was understandable why even the armed Sweeper agents were stopping to allow her to pass. They knew what she was up to, for she had been ferociously chasing the same task for nearly two years. Had it taken any of the rest of them more than a month to bring in a target, they'd be reassigned in a heartbeat. However, circumstances beyond Parker's control made her lack of progress over the past twenty-seven months understandable. They certainly didn't envy her.
The doors to the Centre's information services department parted silently at Miss Parker's command. She could make the trek from her office to Mr. Broots' terminal room on instinct by now, and she assumed it was a similar situation for her team member, Sydney. While she hated to admit it, the computer programmer and the psychologist had become the closest she'd had to family in quite a long time. She still couldn't decide if that was a positive thing, but it certainly didn't appear to be helping her career.
Miss Parker casually pushed aside the door and stepped into what could charitably be called Broots' office. In reality it was simply a drearily-lit computer terminal access room, but her personal hacker had made the room his. Everywhere else in the massive Delaware complex, Broots was like a shy child who was simply sorry for intruding on everyone else's place of work. But in here, he could do everything from tracking down a small personal jet on the other side of the globe to swiping a business mogul's entire digital fortune in minutes. In here, Broots had control.
At least until she walked in the door.
"Broots," Parker said.
The thin, prematurely-balding computer programmer apparently didn't hear his name as he continued to speak into the telephone's receiver.
"Really, Honey? That's great! So, what are you and Grandma going to do this afterno-"
"Broots!"
He nearly tossed the phone clear into the air out of shock. Turning to face his virtual boss, Broots shyly nodded and spoke quietly into the phone.
"Debbie, sweetie, I'm going to have to call you back later, okay? Be good for Granny."
Miss Parker casually made her way to Broots' desk, lifting the phone out of his grasp and back onto its cradle. Cigarette in hand, she turned to lean against the edge of the computer desk.
"Good to hear the munchkin is doing so well." Parker remarked, the sarcasm thicker than the smoke she exhaled.
"What, uh, what do you need," Broots asked as he spun to face the trio of computer monitors.
"A vacation, a raise, and a personal Sweeper agent more intelligent than my neighbor's Doberman."
"I'm sorry?"
Miss Parker's frustration was easily visible. "Jarod, Broots! Where the hell is he?"
"Oh!" The programmer immediately began typing into his console's custom keyboard, windows soaring by on his multiple monitors. "Well, after he won that Motocross competition in Maine, a tracer team was able to follow his trail for several days as he gradually made his way south. Unfortunately, as you know, they lost his scent around Newark." Broots input a few more commands before continuing. "Considering that he seems to be following a rather steady path along the coast and his rate of travel, I've narrowed his likely location down to the Chesapeake Bay area."
Parker inhaled deeply from the coffin nail between her fingers before turning to face Broots' computer screen.
"That's good work Broots, considering the "Chesapeake Bay area" only covers Maryland, Washington, and half of Virginia. You've really earned your paycheck today."
Broots was still struggling with a response when the door to the terminal room gently moved aside to reveal Sydney.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Broots, Miss Parker." He nodded to each in turn as he approached the desk.
"Well," Parker began as she faced her older team member, "Our esteemed cartographer here has determined that Wonderboy is somewhere south of Canada. I'm having the jet prepped as we speak."
The aging psychologist simply smiled and leaned back as he gathered his thoughts.
"Jarod's last Pretend relied heavily on reflexes and coordination, so he will be looking for an opportunity to use his mental capabilities this time. Possibly a controlled environment such as a business or administrative office."
"An administrative office, eh, Syd? Sometimes I start to think that you have a dartboard tucked away in your office with vague job descriptions and emotions."
Sydney leaned forward, his elbows resting upon his knees. "You know how this works, Miss Parker. Jarod will let us know where he's going when he wants us to know."
The armed Centre agent frustratedly rubbed her cigarette out in the cheap plastic ash tray on the corner of Broots' desk. Broots doesn't smoke.
"Well, where ever he is, I just hope he's going through as much bureaucratic hell as I am."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
A young man, possibly in his early-thirties, with slicked-back jet black hair stepped between a set of double doors. The man wore a neatly-tailored suit beneath a gray overcoat and a laminated identification tag hung loosely from his neck. He stopped before a police officer seated at a small desk. Quickly signing the open book in front of the officer, he continued past before stopping again in the center of a massive lobby. People moved at determined paces all around him, moving from hallway-to-hallway. The man took in his surroundings with a small smile as a rather tall woman with shoulder-length auburn hair approached him.
"Hello, I'm C.J. Cregg." She extended her hand before continuing. "And you must be our new Media Consultant."
The man smiled and shook her hand. "Yes ma'am, I'm Jarod. Jarod Sorkin. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
"Well, on behalf of myself, my co-workers, and the Administration, welcome to the White House, Jarod."
II: Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc by Dash Nolan
The Pretender: The Administration
by Dash Nolan
Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc
"So, Mr. Sorkin, what brings you to the White House?"
While easily in her early forties, C.J. Cregg moved with the grace of a woman half her age, accentuated by a finely-tuned wit. She was unusually tall, easily able to look Jarod in the eye, yet she was able to retain an undefinable feminine quality.
"Please, just call me Jarod," he responded as he slipped past a frantic intern from the O.E.O.B. across the street. "I've grown tired of the private sector over the past couple of years and have been looking to do something a little more worthwhile. I have to admit, I wasn't expecting the Press Secretary herself to greet me."
C.J. smiled over her shoulder before rounding the corner. She and Jarod were navigating the White House's intricate halls on the way to what the Pretender assumed would be his office. At first he thought the woman was in some sort of hurry, but soon realized from watching other employees in the building that the brisk pace was standard procedure.
"Your resume is impressive, Jarod," she called back to him, reading the employment record while deftly avoiding several collisions. "Three years as head of public relations for the Gage Whitney Pace firm in New York, two years with various NBC affiliates, another four-and-a-half as head of media relations for Kawasaki's American branch?"
Jarod kept the smile from reaching his lips, knowing that the woman would never realize that he had accumulated the impressive record from a week of research on the Internet and a few library rentals.
"I go where I'm needed," he simply returned.
"Well, we could certainly use you here. After a few foul-ups involving everything from hats to ill-tempered golfers, our public image could use some polish."
"I don't think it will take too much work for the people to see the good works being done here."
At this last comment, C.J. came to a halt next to the corner of two intersecting hallways. Jarod instinctively moved up against the nearest wall to avoid another hallway collision.
"I've got to say, that is the first time I've heard anyone in the public relations field talk about "good works.""
"Well, if there aren't any of those around here, I'm sure we can make a few up."
The Press Secretary smiled in return, but didn't laugh as Jarod had expected her to. "You'll fit in just fine, Jarod."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Local residents claim they heard three gunshots..."
"...President announced yesterday a new plan..."
"...though police have issued an Amber Alert, they caution..."
"Reports are just coming in that two large trucks collided on..."
Small television monitors hung from the ceiling against the surrounding walls, their screens facing inward toward the office to create a cacophony of constant information. Within the ring of local broadcasts were a series of strangely-positioned desks and filing cabinets. Atop the desks were stacks upon stacks of manila folders pilled high, full of awkwardly-scribbled notes and black-and-white photographs. Men and women, ranging between their late twenties to mid-forties, moved between speaking hurriedly on telephones and writing furiously on yellow legal pads.
Broots and Sydney both stood against one of the large window panes facing the outside hallways and watched the chaos with a quiet appreciation. The aging psychiatrist had already picked out three of the reporters in the room and had been studying their actions intently for nearly twenty minutes. Broots was studying the scene as well, though not nearly as scientifically, having fallen victim to the awe of the modern news room.
Meanwhile, Miss Parker was standing the center of the noisy room, nearly unaffected by the chaos passing her by. Turning toward a pair of reporters to her right, both of whom were nosily chewing away at sticks of gum, the Centre agent resumed her mental count of how long she had lasted without a tobacco hit. Her timer had just reached fifty-three minutes, a personal best for the week.
"Sorry to keep you waiting."
Miss Parker faced the older African-American man as he approached her from an office on the other side of the room. His name was Isaac Jaffee, and he held the position of News Director at the Maryland NBC station Miss Parker had tracked Jarod's trail to. Held beneath Mr. Jaffee's arm were three sizable books and a familiar red notebook. Upon spotting the notebook, Sydney made his way over to Miss Parker, Broots quickly following.
"This is everything that he left," asked Miss Parker, her voice revealing her impatience.
The News Director handed her the stack of books without warning. She accepted them only long enough to hand them off to Sydney.
"Besides a Pez dispenser, that's everything he left," Jaffee said. "He never brought in the typical things our previous Assistant News Directors schlepped into their offices. It's like he knew he wouldn't be here for long."
Sydney and Broots began to examine the thick books as he continued. "It's funny, I've never seen someone take the job in stride like he did. It was as if he'd been working here for ten years after his first four or five days."
"You don't say," responded Parker with her perfected insincere smile.
"Yeah. A week into the job and he had already busted up a pretty intricate scam the reporters from this and the other local stations were running. I couldn't believe my ears when he came to me talking about three of our top investigative reporters working with others to prevent news of local robberies from going to broadcast. But damned if Jarod didn't have footage of the guys admitting to every part of the scheme."
Miss Parker could almost feel Sydney's smile from over her shoulder. She knew that every time the old shrink heard about Jarod righting one society's little wrongs, he felt a little less guilty for practically robbing the Pretender of a childhood. It was vicarious vindication, and Miss Parker often found herself wondering if it was keeping her from getting Jarod back into a Centre sim lab.
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Jaffee," Parker said before turning toward her two teammates. "Well, what has the lab rat been studying in the ways of this time?"
Syndey offered her the books, which she took one-at-a-time, naming them aloud as she did.
""Blunders of Modern Media", "The People's Eyes and Ears", and "Communicating With the Masses"."
"I already went through the red notebook. All it contains are the news clippings from the conspiracy Mr. Jaffee over there was discussing with you."
"So what, your little prodigy wants to be the next Brokaw?"
Sydney leaned closer to his female accomplice so as to be heard as he spoke quieter. "This was more of a learning experience than Jarod's last two positions. He was most likely using this to ready himself for a larger, more intense job in a related field."
"This doesn't help, Syd. He left clues to a job he already had. Where the hell do we go from here?"
Sydney began to answer, but was cut-off as he spotted Mr. Jaffee approaching with another book in his grasp.
"I was doing one last check of Jarod's office and found this in the back of his desk drawer."
Miss Parker was about to lash out at the News Director for having missed the book the first time, but a quick glance from Sydney as he accepted the book kept her from striking. Broots was the first to get a good look at the last piece of evidence.
""Power Plays: Making It Happen In the Boardroom and On the Hill". What does that mean, "on the hill"?"
Parker snatched the thick book from the programmer's grasp and a sly smile crept across her glossed lips.
"I know where Jarod is."
III: A Proportional Response by Dash Nolan
The Pretender: The Administration
by Dash Nolan
A Proportional Response
"Are you out of your mind?"
Miss Parker refused to allow herself to be embarrassed or ashamed by the Head of Operations' reaction. The steel-willed Centre agent had long since learned to control her reactions to her father and his lack of tact. Instead, she simply stood her ground, a lone force of will in the massive chamber of Mister Parker's office.
"We've worked with the government many times before," she said, her works rock-steady. "The Centre's provided the NSA, the CIA, and the FBI with hundreds of simulations, and our liaisons in the Pentagon are very well-received. I don't see the problem with simply going to them and saying that Jarod is in their midst."
The aging Centre official sighed heavily and fell into his chair. Though he had held the position for nearly two decades, there had never been a time when Mr. Parker's position wasn't in jeopardy. It seemed like the Tower was never content with its staff, always wanting to keep those at all levels on their toes. Sometimes he could practically see the Triumvirate sitting around a darkened room, cigars and brandy sifters in hand, musing about when the old bastard in charge of Blue Cove was finally going to have that third heart attack. Many at the Delaware facility thought Mr. Parker was finally gone when the Triumvirate brought in their rising prodigy and his sweet-toothed assistant. But he would never be taken out of the picture that easily.
He was too smart for that.
"Sweetheart, if we tell them who Jarod is, or more importantly, what he can do, we'll never hear from him again. I hate to see Jarod causing mayhem out there just as much as you do, but imagine if the NSA suddenly had a Pretender under their belt. Every other week you would see another foreign official dead of some freak accident. If Jarod wanted to, he could be the next Alexander the Great. Do you really want to see him in the hands of the United States government?"
Miss Parker inhaled deeply and her hands formed tightly-balled fists at the small of her back.
"You're right, Daddy."
Her father rose from behind the desk and approached her, that fatherly smile that she couldn't stand forming on his cracked lips. He placed his hand on her shoulder, squeezing reassuringly, and he spoke in the tone that made Miss Parker feel as though she were seven years old again.
"I admire your drive, dear, I always have. It's that same determination that first attracted me to your mother. Seeing you with that fire in your eye, well, it always reminds me of her."
She smiled, but only at the sudden memories brought on by the mention of her mother, and not at the loving words of her dad. Miss Parker figured he couldn't tell the difference. She placed that familiar kiss on her father's cheek before taking the long walk out of his chambers. The second the doors closed behind her, Parker's smile was long gone and her brisk step returned.
"Jarod's coming home. If I have to lead a team of Sweepers down Pennsylvania Avenue, then that's what's going to happen."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Hey Jarod, what do you think C.J. should say when she gets asked about the Agriculture Secretary's comments?"
The Pretender looked up from the laptop beneath his fingertips to meet the eyes of the Deputy Chief of Staff, Joshua Lyman. Despite only being in his mid-thirties, the curly-haired Lyman was a very powerful political operative, having worked everywhere from the floor of the Minority Whip's office to directly under the second most powerful man in the nation. Among those in the nation's capitol, he was one of the most resilient, having taken a .357 Magnum bullet in his lung during the Presidential assassination attempt a mere six months earlier. How he took everything in stride was a mystery even his closest friends couldn't solve.
"In response to Speaker Walken's comments on drilling in ANWR," asked Jarod.
"Yeah."
"Tell her to stand firmly behind the Secretary. It's his job to stand in front of the tree when the chainsaw-wielding Congress comes calling. Let's put that tree behind a Secret Service post."
"Right."
Josh began to leave, but halted mid-step when he spotted the blocky device sitting next to Jarod's aging laptop. The device looked vaguely like a seventies-era personal computer, but held a series of miniature CDs upright in front of a 4-inch screen.
"What's that?"
Jarod was able to restrain the horror bubbling up within his gut before it could manifest in his eyes. Instantly remembering that Lyman was anything but proficient when it came to computers, he smiled and nodded toward what was actually a Centre mini-disc reader.
"A new Zip drive with a data content viewer."
"Ah, I think Donna has one of those. Anyway, I'll let C.J. know what you said."
The Pretender nodded a good-bye, still wearing the wry grin. Jarod gave himself a good three minutes after Josh had closed the door before he turned back toward the Centre disk reader. His smile quickly fading, Jarod placed on of the many discs into a slot just below the small screen. A black-and-white image flashed to life of Jarod and Sydney. In the corner of the screen were plastered the words "For Centre use only" and the date of the recording, which revealed the disc to be only five years old.
Sitting in the center of an eerily-empty room was a scaled model of a two-lane street with buildings on either side. Two black SUVs, a black limousine, and three more Suburbans behind it, were apparently driving through the tiny city. Scaled miniatures of about a hundred people lined both sides of the road.
"So, Jarod," the younger Sydney began,
"With at least a thousand people in the crowd, Secret Service marksmen on the roofs of every building in sight, and District policemen lining the road, how could you possibly take the President's life?"
The monochrome pretender made his way around the table, carefully eying over every inch of the tiny urban area.
"The cars?"
"The Suburbans are filled with Secret Service agents, all armed with Sig Sauer P226s. There is also a container in the back of each of the vehicles containing two Colt M4 assault rifles. The President's limousine is plated with bullet-proof metal and the glass is completely impervious to projectiles."He paused once more to study the Hot Wheels before moving on to the areas on either side of the road.
"Does the President use this road often?"
"Yes, roughly twice-a-month. It's the quickest route to the airstrip where Air Force One sits."
"How often are those snipers on the buildings there?"
"They take their positions two hours before when the President's convoy is scheduled to pass by."The younger Jarod leaned over and began looking in the spaces between the various buildings.
"The snipers have good position on the entire area and would see anyone preparing a grenade or RPG long before they could get it off. The single best way would be to have a group of people hide on each one of these rooftops before the Secret Service got there. When they did, take out the agents, disguise themselves as them, and take up position with a RPG or other explosive launcher. They would have to take the all the rooftops at once or else one of the Service agents could warn those in the convoy."Jarod sighed heavily and turned off the viewer before carefully seting it back into its steel suitcase.
End Notes:
This is where the old stuff ends. Part 4 will be up some point soon.
IV: Five Votes Down by Dash Nolan
The Pretender: The Administration
by Dash Nolan
Five Votes Down
As the room fell silent, Jarod interlaced his fingers behind his head and leaned back. Closing his eyes, he breathed deep. Even in his new office, the air was heavy in a combination of sweat and old papers, like a library in the middle of a gym. Jarod's head lolled back as his breathing slowed, and the scents were gone. The sounds of organized chaos from outside his door faded away. Jarod opened his mouth, tasted the stale air. His fingertips were cold, pressing against an unyielding surface.
He opened his eyes, and his vision was filled with a bright light. Turning left and right, the light seemed to bounce off a shield around him. While it was painful to look at, the light couldn't harm him here. His back was sore, apparently cramping from having been curled for so long. His upper thighs pressed against his chest, and he realized that he was inside a sphere. The enclosure was a simple design: a plastic ball suspended from a steel pillar above. But he had been here countless times before, and the safety it granted allowed him to leave his body unprotected. Don't worry, he said to his adolescent form inside the bubble, I'll be back in a minute.
Suddenly he was an architect, his hand running a wide pencil furiously back-and-forth on a wide sheet of paper. The design was already on the paper in a pleasant glowing blue, his hand was only tracing out the image in his mind. It wasn't terribly complicated, Jarod thought. It would widen from the base to a level several stories up, then slowly focus to a point over the course of tens of floors. Cut like a gem, the sides wouldn't be simple four-sided panels, but instead triangular surfaces alternating up-and-down.
He stepped back to admire the design, allowing a tiny smirk to slip into his expression. At nearly one-hundred-and-ten stories, with a base of about two hundred square feet, the tower was a triumph. It was an unspoken memorial to defiance. "You will not bring this down," it shouted. In his pause, he felt as a drop of sweat rushed down his brow and into his right eye. Blinking and rubbing, his vision blurred away. As it returned, he refocused on a bright white light focusing down at him. He was back in his bubble. Turning right, Jarod watched as four men in long, white coats scurried around a wide table with pens.
Shifting, Jarod pressed against the plastic of his little shield and squinted at the sheet on the table. It took a second to recognize, but that was his beauty on the paper. The men in the coats had, a few slips aside, faithfully drawn out his tower.
"Is there anything else you would do to the design?"
Jarod recognized the voice. It was a middle-aged man, a thick French accent woven throughout his English prose. Despite the purposeful and demanding question, the voice comforted Jarod. Between the voice and the plastic bubble, he thought a nuclear bomb would simply turn in the other direction before attempting to pierce this perfect shield.
"No. But this would be one of the biggest construction projects America has worked on since the Empire State Building. It doesn't make sense to put this on the edge of a new city, it would never work."
"Don't worry about that. Your beautiful building is complete."
"But it needs to go somewhere, and what you said about the land doesn't make sense. Considering the resources needed and its probable uses, it only makes sense to put this in the middle of a major city. Tampa, Seattle, Los Angeles, and Chicago all would want it, but they don't really have the money."
"Jarod," the French-American said, now more pressing. "There are people whose job it is to work this out. Don't bother yourself with it, your job is done."
"But Sydney, I can figure it out now." Jarod heard himself say. His lips were moving, the sounds were coming, but somehow he wasn't in control of the sounds. "The only place that would need a building like this, something that meets everything you asked for, is New York."
"You can stop there," said the man.
"But there's already several buildings doing what this does. The Empire State Building, the World Trade Center, several corporate buildings. Why would New York need another building like this?"
The man sighed, and Jarod could have sworn he caught a small laugh from him. "Cities have to be prepared. Fires, earthquakes, what-not. Jarod, you just gave a city a future that, in times of tragedy, it can be proud of. Someday you'll see what you've done, and you will be as proud as I am."
The light grew brighter and brighter. The shield around him was fading away, and suddenly Jarod was falling. Wind rushed past, lifting his arms and legs away in a free-fall. Air rushed into his lungs, and his eyes opened again. His arms out, Jarod's hands slapped against a solid surface.
He was back in his office, around six-foot-tall and wearing the same style suit he laughed about Sydney wearing day-after-day as a child. He was still a pretender, and there were still people out there using his mind to plan out the killing of President Bartlet.
"Someday you'll see what you've done, and you will be as proud as I am," the voice echoed in his head.
"We made so much, Sydney," Jarod said, his voice full of quiet anger. "How could you let me do this? He's a good man, a good leader. I can't believe you would let me put together something that he couldn't get out of. There has to be a way out of it."
Gripping the desk before him, Jarod could feel his fingers shaking.
"Bartlet won't die because of us, Sydney."
End Notes:
This is the first chapter from the new material. Curious to hear if there's any progress.
V: The Crackpots and These Women by Dash Nolan
The Pretender: The Administration
by Dash Nolan
The Crackpots and These Women
"Bonnie, I needed those stats on diabetes hours ago!"
"It's been twenty minutes."
Phones continuously rang, and even though people were picking up receivers, the amount of ringing never seemed to lessen. The glass partitions sectioning this part of the building off from the rest of the flow were well-placed and elegant from an architect's point-of-view, but they did little to take away from the chaos in the halls outside. Jarod looked up from the magazine in his lap to watch as a man walked briskly into what had been dubbed the "Communications Bullpen." He was a gruff man, the hair on his head forming two rings: one around the back of his head ending over each ear, and the other surrounding his mouth. Despite the air of perpetual annoyance that Jarod could practically taste from his direction, the man's large eyes and small pot belly painted a sympathetic picture.
The man continued past the desk of a young black woman who gave him a practiced look of irritation. This was how the two of them had learned to operate, and something in the look he gave the woman told Jarod that the pair had built up an unbreakable relationship of professional respect. He smiled.
"Jarod's here to see you," she said, nodding at the Pretender.
The man didn't stop moving toward his office as he gestured for Jarod to follow him inside. He smiled at the assistant, whose name he had learned a few minutes ago was Bonnie, and stepped into the office, closing the door behind him. Bonnie's apparent director tossed a stack of papers onto the desk before finally turning toward Jarod.
"So," he said, exhaling with every few words. "You're our new relations guy."
Jarod nodded and extended his hand. "Jarod Sorkin."
"Toby Ziegler," the man said, shaking Jarod's hand with little energy.
"You're the Director of Communications. I met Sam Seaborn yesterday, he said not to expect the warmest welcome."
Toby moved behind his desk and picked up the papers he had put down a minute ago. He shuffled through the first few sheets, stopped to read something, then dropped them onto the desk again. Picking up a manila folder on the edge of the desk, he flipped it open and kept his eyes on the papers inside as he spoke.
"We just started prep work for the State of the Union last week. It doesn't get much worse around here than during these months."
Jarod smirked. "And it can't help that I'm another voice to challenge ideas and slow everything down."
Toby looked up from the file just long enough to give him a humorless smile. "Not really, no. These would go by much smoother if no one was here to remind us of the eight-trillion people who are going to be watching live or hearing about it for the following week. Expect to be representing the lowest common denominator for the next seventy-or-so days."
"Aren't they the majority of the voters that got you guys here?"
"Yes, it's terrifying. What did you want to talk about?"
Jarod leaned forward, his fingers interlaced. "I know I don't have time for much catching up, so I'll ask what I can and run with that. When it became clear that Charlie Young's relationship with President Bartlet's daughter was the force behind the Rosslyn shooting, why didn't you address it in any of the following conferences?"
Toby started to step out from behind his desk, the stopped, looked down, and messaged his forehead. It was several long seconds before he responded.
"I don't see what this has to do with being the target of our annoyance while we plan-" Toby said, stopping himself with a slow breath. "By the time we had all recovered enough to get back to work, it was too late to use it. It would've looked bad."
"To those who thought about it too much, maybe. But that press wave could have secured the President's reelection right there through the ethnic vote. You had the chance to simultaneously put the Klu Klux Klan on the most-wanted list, and get the most Black support behind a President since Lincoln. Why did you tell him not to?"
Jarod didn't like what he was doing. These were old wounds that probably still hadn't healed. The President that these good people were willing to walk through fire for had taken a bullet, and Josh Lyman, the capitol hound dog that everyone in the West Wing either greatly loved or greatly respected, had been a lung down and inches from death. Jarod also knew this was his best chance to get inside and come away with the information he needed. But he didn't have to like it.
"For that first month, we would have had the whole country behind us. His approval rating was something ridiculous, around eighty percent." Toby's words were louder, but not quite to the point where others would take notice. This was now a debate. "Afterwards, we would try to shift to the rest of the country's problems, and people with much more time than us would be left wondering where we went."
Jarod sighed, realizing that this wasn't going to go anywhere useful. He needed thoughts and voices that weren't his own if he was going to find a way around the plan he had crafted all those years ago. Jarod knew the video on the sim disc had only been the bare bones of the project because he could distinctly remember working on varying scenarios and alternate steps. In fact, he had searched for hours on end for any recordings of these other sessions, but came away empty. Either the sessions had never been recorded, a possibility Jarod could hardly believe he was considering, or the discs containing them weren't in his archive file.
Either way, Jarod needed a sample of the minds closest to last attempt on the President's life. Only with a large number of different views could Jarod piece together where to go next. Toby had put up a wall, and this wasn't going to accomplish anything until Jarod was past it.
"In the past," Jarod said, taking a quiet breath to try and ease the tightening in his shoulders. "The President had always exited public buildings under overhangs and canopies. That night, the Secret Service decided not to have a canopy covering his exit. Without that canopy, I would assume it was significantly easier for those boys to do what they did."
Toby slowly brought his hand down his face, and the look he gave Jarod nearly stopped him there. But Toby resumed moving, pulling a black binder out from under a series of folders and starting to read its contents.
Jarod continued, "That wasn't a call the Service would make. Someone around here told them to take the tent down. From a public relations view, whoever made the call knew what they were doing. This was an important night in the President's term, showing his character and reaching out to the youth of America. Walking out in the open air and shaking hands with the people in the rope line was a perfect ending to the night. It was a good call. You wouldn't happen to know who it was, would you? I'd like to ask them a few things."
And every molecule in the room froze. There lights didn't buzz or fluctuate, the noise outside focused on a singular pitch, and there was no discernible movement in the office. Toby's eyes slowly rose from the binder in his grasp to the Pretender on his office couch.
The two stared at one-another for a long moment. Jarod was trying desperately not to look away in guilt, while still not coming off as accusatory, as he continued to match Toby's stare. Finally, Toby exhaled deeply and returned to whatever was in the binder as he spoke.
"Another item on a list of thousands of things I would've liked C.J. to put out in her releases. The Secret Service took enough hell for letting him walk out of there without cover. It's ridiculous that they had to carry the blame of making the decision too."
And there it was. Jarod closed his eyes and breathed deep, having finally touched the humane side of Toby. He could feel his mind shifting as the lifetime of Toby's psychological growth and moral development rushed into his consciousness. Toby Ziegler was no longer another walking, talking, oxygen-conversion machine to Jarod. To the Pretender, the speech-writer was as much a living being as himself. Using the techniques Sidney had helped him develop during those days spent in that wonderful plastic bubble, Jarod pushed back the cynicism and annoyance rising within him. He had to take control of the read off Toby, and not the other way around.
Jarod stood, silently hoping that Toby had read his behavior as simple conversation-driven thought, and nodded toward the Communications Director. "In the same shoes, I probably would have recommended the exact same thing." Toby either didn't hear this olive branch, or actively ignored it. Jarod went on. "I've already met C.J., but how hard do you think would be to get a few minutes with her?"
Toby closed the binder and looked at Jarod without distraction. "You got a few minutes with me, and I don't like anyone."
And then he laughed. It was the weak laugh of a man who lived and breathed cynicism, but somewhere in the expression, there was amusement.
End Notes:
This is the longest and, in my opinion, best chapter so far. I made some leaps in this from Jarod's POV, a little risky, but I think worth it.
VI: The Lame Duck Congress by Dash Nolan
The Pretender: The Administration
by Dash Nolan
The Lame Duck Congress
In one practiced motion, Miss Parker slipped the pack of cigarettes from her skirt pocket, thumbed it open, snatched a nail coffin out of the container, and jammed the cigs back into her pocket. She lit up, closing her eyes to focus on the smoke as it caressed her mouth, throat, and lungs. Holding her breath just long enough to hear her heart slow just enough, she released her tensed muscles and the smoke rushed from her lips and nostrils. Yes, she had at least one ulcer. Yes, she was asking for lung cancer by forty-five. But these little sticks of release were the only things keeping her from marching through the Centre's halls, Sig Sauer-in-hand, and settling business.
The fantasy was not an unfamiliar one: hunting down Mr. Raines and not pulling the barrel away from his temple until she knew everything there was to know about the web of lies surrounding her father, her mother, the Pretender Project, and anything else that came to mind. It would be so easy. Unless a sweeper was specifically-assigned to one of the executives, every fool in the building with a suit and gun was supposed to follow her when told and fire where she pointed. She would be twenty feet from Raines' office before the smartest of the sweepers even began to question where they were headed. It would be so easy.
Miss Parker took another slow, deep breath through the burning leaves. As her heart slowed once more, she was reminded of why it would be that easy. No one could pull that sort of maneuver, not even the daughter of the Blue Cove Instillation Director, and make it out of the building alive. Sure, she would have her answers, but she wouldn't be able to appreciate them for terribly long.
"Such is the theme of this place," She said to her empty office. "So close, and yet so far away. Family, answers, targets..." The putrid smoke filled her chest, rushed right back out. "Jarod."
He was always one step ahead of her. Where she was, he had been there moments before, sometimes when she wasn't chasing him. Even when she took time out of her Centre duties, if such a thing was possible, to search for the truth about her own past, Jarod's footprints were fresh. Everything she knew about her mother, everything that she hadn't gathered from foggy childhood memories and her father's ramblings, had been practically presented to her with a silver bow courtesy of Jarod. Before, she had questioned it. Her mind wasn't willing to accept that Jarod was doing this for her, or anyone else's sake. At the time, the only explanation her mind could level with was that he was tossing these bits of history to keep her off his tail. It had certainly done that, but Parker was finally allowing herself to believe that maybe it wasn't just a means to his end.
As Sydney was constantly reminding her, she thought, they had only proceeded as far as they had because Jarod wanted them to. Jarod wanted Miss Parker to know that her mother hadn't killed herself. He wanted her to know that her mother had been saving countless children from bleak futures in the Centre's halls.
But there was still a barrier within Parker's mind that wouldn't allow her to see Jarod as a separate, individual person. To her, at least partially, he was still the walking, talking results of years of conditioning and simulations. He was a Centre asset. It would be a long-time still before she could accept him as more than a snatched valuable.
There was a knocking from her office door. It didn't register.
Miss Parker hadn't always had this level of freedom. At one point she herself had been a goon with a gun, moving from assignment-to-assignment, killing or detaining the unfortunate bastards that caught the Tower's attention. More often-than-not, they were ex-employees who had run off the second they had any scrap of threatening information. Perhaps they hadn't been able to handle the choices that crossed their desks, or maybe the offers from rival organizations for Centre documents was too high to ignore.
Another series of knocks.
But they had all been simple-minded fools. Easy to track, easy to predict, and easy to bring down. It hadn't been her decision to do what she did to those targets. Her hands were clean of those actions, Parker silently claimed. But she was in charge of a unit now, a unit assigned to one of the most important Centre assets to see the inside of a "Sim" room.
And that asset was relaxing within the secure halls of the White House, likely smiling at his pursuers' helplessness to get at him.
Whoever was on the other side of Miss Parker's office door knocked once more, louder than before, and she was finally roused from her nicotine reminiscing.
"What?"
"Miss Parker?" came a nervous male voice through the frosted glass.
The perpetually-annoyed Centre operative buried the cigarette into a steel ashtray and sighed.
"Come in, Broots."
Broots cautiously entered the office, nervously smiling as he met Miss Parker's gaze.
"I've been searching through congressional office staff listings," he began, his words hurried from excitement. "From Congressional aides to something called minority "whips", all the records have been public and so, of course, not anything Jarod would be interested in."
Miss Parker sighed loudly, stopping Broots in his tracks, and leaned back in her chair. "I already knew all of this. Do you honestly think Jarod would be stupid enough to make himself a face that hundreds of Congressmen and political drones would see everyday? He's put himself somewhere in the White House, somewhere protected."
Broots stared at her for a minute, his mind trying to fast forward to the part in his speech that Miss Parker had just skipped-to.
"Right, so I have an active search running through active White House staff, but with the way they have their staff divided into entirely different branches and listings, it could be-"
"There are fourteen-hundred people working at the White House, and they all think they're helping to run the supposed "free world." Do you really think they update their staff lists regularly?"
Broots started to respond, but the words never came. Instead he simply looked down, admiring the intricate marble work in the office floor. Miss Parker went on with a new cigarette between her fingers.
"Jarod gave us his position early, which means he knew we wouldn't be able to reach him until he wanted us to. We are exactly where he wants us to be." She took a long hit from the coffin nail before continuing. "What a surprise, right?"
And then it hit her. Looking to the mauve office walls to Broots' right, something in her mind clicked. All this talk of her, all this talk of "we."
"We're the ones after him," Parker mumbled, smoke escaping from her lips.
"Miss Parker?"
"Jarod is playing this game against us. You, me, Sydney, the Centre, we're the ones after him. All he thinks he has to do is beat us, and he's home-free, right?"
"I, uh- I guess, yeah."
"We've been dancing to his tune. There has to be another side we can hit him from."
Miss Parker's eyes finally abandoned blankly-staring at her office wall and oriented toward the man in her office.
"Broots, you have access to Centre transfers, right?"
"Outbound, you mean? Sure. Unless it comes from any office at your father's level or higher, I can pull it up."
"And you check those?"
"Of course. I have to look over the major data transfers from the Centre-out every week. Pretty much, every time this place gets money for data like text or a Sim video, I have to review it."
A smile crept across Miss Parker's glossed red lips.
"And is our best customer still the D.O.D.?"
Broots' brow arched in confusion, but he answered without argument. "As of this last week, the Department of Defense topped our list of singular data transfers with six. There's a seventh scheduled to go through, but I got a message from the second-level department that it may-"
"That's perfect, Broots. Do you have contacts in the Department? Names, numbers?"
The young computer analyst looked to the side, thinking, before responding. "Not me specifically, but each data transfer is sent to a specific server within the D.O.D.. I could trace the requests from those deals and probably get you some names and e-mail addresses of people who have been working with the Centre."
"Inside the Pentagon and the White House?"
"Yeah, sure."
There was a moment of silence, and that same little click that had hit Miss Parker moments before had now crossed the air and was sounding off inside Broots' head. He slowly turned towards his boss, smiling. It was a more optimistic, less predatory smile than that of Miss Parker, but for a brief moment, they smiled together.
Then Parker realized she was sharing a moment of humanity with another member of it, and quickly returned to a mildly-aggravated glare.
"Get me those names and numbers, Broots."
VII: The Portland Trip by Dash Nolan
The Pretender: The Administration
by Dash Nolan
The Portland Trip
Between himself and the solid sheet of black above, Jarod couldn't help but stare at the thousands of tiny specs casually drifting downwards to meet him. The fell at a slight diagonal, occasionally bursting one way or another as a quick wind current made its way through, then returning to their lazy descent. He wasn't nearly as familiar with the crystal flakes as a person who had spent their entire childhood in Delaware should have been. One of the very few happy memories he could recall from his adolescent days involved him taking a screwdriver to an air vent, crawling through ventilation shafts and sneaking through corridors for a solid twenty minutes, simply to take five or six precious steps into falling snow. He remembered smiling, giggling, reaching his arms out and looking upward, hoping to take in as much of the charming substance before the inevitable spotlights and sirens. For those precious few seconds, he had been human: a young boy experiencing his first snow fall.
Jarod stumbled to his right as something hit his right foot. He turned around just in time to watch a woman with short-cut black hair try to catch her balance. It took her several steps to do-so, but the woman regained her composure, nodded a silent apology to Jarod, and resumed her pace, all without losing her cell phone or her messenger-style bag.
Jarod smiled weakly and shook his head, returning his attention to the pay phone he had been leaning against when the season's beauty distracted him. Taking a breath, he lifted the receiver to his ear, dropped a dollar's worth of quarters into the little chrome box, and began pressing numbers. It was a twelve-digit combination Jarod had memorized ages ago and had made use of many times since, but his stomach always tensed when he dialed it. After the twelfth number, he waited. There was a moment of silence, then a woman's voice came across the line in soothing monotone.
"We're sorry, the number you have dialed is not a valid number. If this is an international call, double-check the international code for the country you are calling."
Jarod counted down from three, then pressed four more numbers. Two familiar clicks, and the line was ringing. The pretender looked once more to the sky and began counting the crystals as they twisted and tumbled downwards. And older male answered the line, his French accent lingering in his words.
"This is Sydney."
"Eight-hundred and sixty two," Jarod said, still looking to the night sky.
"Jarod?"
"Hello Sydney."
Sydney's voice took on a slightly happier tone. Jarod could envision the man smiling in his mind. "Eight-hundred some-odd of what?"
"Snowflakes that I could see in the time it took you to answer your phone. And if I'm only counting the ones directly above me, how many do you think melted against the ground in those few rings?"
Jarod heard Sydney try and cover a laugh.
"What's so funny," asked Jarod.
"Just two days ago, Mr. Raines was admonishing me for having given you that snowglobe of the Eiffel Tower."
"That was over thirty years ago."
"I know, but he is of the belief that the snowglobe was what inspired you to begin actively planning your escape."
"You know better than that."
"I do now, yes. So, why have you called?"
The anger was beginning to well within him again. Jarod pressed the cold plastic receiver against the upright box long enough to breathe deeply, forcing his tightening neck and shoulders to relax.
"Simulation One-six-seven."
"Jarod, we have been over this. I don't know most of the simulations by the numbers the Centre archives assigned them. Give me the subject of the program, what we were working on, and I will likely be able to recall it."
It was an honest answer, but something about Sydney, the engineer of the simulation, not recognizing it, infuriated Jarod. Considering what he was about to say, Jarod lowered his voice and leaned closer to the insignificant aluminum shell surrounding the pay phone.
"Terrorists take positions on roofs with R.P.G.'s and wait for POTUS.' limo."
Sydney paused, gently tapping the phone against his chin as he thought, then returned to the line.
"Yes, I remember the simulation. It was commissioned by the Tower, but the Director at that time deemed it too sensitive and had it locked away in the secure archives."
"I know."
"Then why do you bring it up?"
Jarod sighed, silently cursing the Centre's bureaucratic structure. Had they any respect for a man's work, Jarod thought, Sydney would already be just as concerned as himself.
"It's not there," Jarod said.
"What do you mean?"
"The sim, One-six-seven. It's not in the secure archives anymore."
"And how do you know this?"
"The same way I know everything else about the Centre: by taking advantage of how secure you all think it is."
"It could have been stored away. Broots was just telling me a few weeks ago about how an old archive file he was looking for had been stored and-"
"Sydney," Jarod shot in. "The file was transferred out of the Centre network. I couldn't trace it past that, but it's gone."
Another period of silence filled the line. Sydney spoke up, cautiously.
"Is this why you're in Washington, Jarod? Do you feel that the President's life is in danger?"
"I know no-one's tracing this call. I already showed you how pointless it was to try. It's safe to assume Miss Parker, Broots, and whoever else already know where I am. But you're the only one who knows why. How about, instead of telling the others and forcing me to slip away, you try and stop the machine you help start. We're both responsible for this, and you know it. Someone is sitting somewhere with the plans we made, gathering everything they need to kill President Bartlet."
Jarod paused to let Sydney absorb everything he had said. He could hear the older man breathing heavier than before The pretender went on, now without the anger he had released in those last sentences.
"Sydney, you came to me in that bar, asking for my forgiveness. You showed me stories about lives lost due to your work and my mind. This is how we make it stop. This is how you're redeemed."
He hoped that Sydney would feel what he felt. Jarod knew that Sydney was, above all-else, a good man. Jarod prayed that the older man would be able to push aside his other entanglements and realize what was truly important.
"I'll do what I can."
VIII: Shibboleth by Dash Nolan
The Pretender: The Administration
by Dash Nolan
Shibboleth
Jarod deftly stepped aside to allow to men talking amongst themselves to pass. Jarod had seen the tall Caucasian man and the shorter Asian man trekking the halls countless times since taking up his new position at the White House, but their purpose had always eluded him. He had spotted the pair at meetings pertaining to everything from the budget surplus to national security, but as far as he could tell, they had no specific offices or places-of-work. It was a curiosity.
The pretender walked at a speed that anyone not regularly within the hectic offices would call a decent cardio workout, finally ending on the outside of a partially-walled office. At the desk was a pretty young woman with long black hair and thin eyes. Jarod knocked on the near-by glass partition.
"Does she have a minute?"
The woman, Carol Fitzpatrick, looked up from a stack of yellow legal pads, and stared at him for a quick moment. Jarod realized she couldn't immediately recognize him. But then she smiled up at him, her fingers still firmly pressing a pen against one of the notepads.
"If you're going to wait for her to have a free moment," said Carol, "You're going to have to camp out here for the better part of five-and-a-half years."
Jarod's brows rose out lack of understanding. Then a wide, honest smile crossed the false Media Consultant's mouth and he laughed.
"Oh," he said, containing his laughter, "Because that will be at the end of the President's presumed second term. That's funny!"
Carol smiled uncomfortably at him, then appeared to push away a question forming in her mind and used the pen to signal at the office door behind her.
"Go on in, just make sure to knock first."
"Thank you."
Jarod moved the past the desk and lightly rapped against the door. A woman on the other side shouted "Come in," and he did so. The office was similar to many of the other executive advisers' offices: a couch and a couple of chairs, a desk covered in organized materials, and a tall bookshelf filled with binders and thick volumes. One unique touch Jarod immediately noticed was the goldfish doing casual laps within a bowl sitting atop the corner of the desk. There was a miniaturized rendition of the Press Secretary's podium in the middle of the bowl, complete with tiny Presidential Seal.
The woman behind the desk, C.J. Craig, typed away at the laptop in front of her. Jarod stood patiently next to one of the chairs. Finally C.J. looked up from the small screen to Jarod.
"Well?"
"Well...what?" Jarod asked.
"What do you need?"
"I wanted to speak with you about my current role. So far all I've been working on are response comments and recommendation on daily events. Congressional rumors, local news stories, polls and such."
C.J. sighed and smiled half-heartedly. "The DNC recommended you pretty highly, more-so even than the last person in your job, and we had picked her out ourselves. Toby and Josh wanted you working on the State of the Union when you walked in the door, but I saw that most of your experience had been commercial, so-"
"So you thought you would give me the press-room-floor stuff to get my feet wet? I appreciate the thought, but I came here to help craft the message."
"You know, some of the best things we've done came out of that "press-room-floor" material."
Jarod wanted so desperately to agree with her. He wanted to shoot from his chair and hug her, shouting his praise for the great works done everyday by townsfolk across the country that never got more than a half column below-the-fold. But he wasn't Jarod at that moment, he was Political Adviser in Media Consulting Jarod Sorkin.
"I'm sure that's true, but you guys didn't bring me in to tell you what to say in response to the "Fairfield County Annual Chili Cook-Off". The State of the Union is in a little over two months. Give me an issue you can't agree on."
The Press Secretary leaned forward and gently grasped her chin, smirking curiously. Jarod allowed his mind to slip completely into the Pretend, giving him the perfect balance of professionalism and confidence without crossing too far into arrogance. C.J. chuckled quietly and leaned back.
"Alright," she said, puling another yellow notepad from the chaos atop her desk. "We need one major issue that we can get bi-partisan support from the House and Senate on. It needs to be something that will take some wrangling, but not so much that it consumes every hour of the day. "Come together, right now, over me," you know what I mean?"
Jarod nodded. "Sure."
"Good. This is a list that Sam, Josh, Toby, and Leo put together of issues that they don't think would work for this purpose. You're welcome to start putting together proposals for anything else."
The pretender accepted the legal pad, scanned through the top three pages, then looked back up at C.J..
"This is every major political issue ever."
"Sure you don't want to go back to the chili cook-offs?"
"I'll figure something out."
"I have no doubt you will. Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?"
Jarod redoubled his focus, understanding that this was the moment for which he had actually come.He had to be casual. He had to be relaxed. He had to appear nonchalant about what could become the most consequential moment in American history since November 22nd, 1963.
"When is the next major trip on the President's plate?"
"Why?"
"We're going to get the most done on the speech when the President isn't here."
"And where did you get this idea?" C.J. asked in a tone that didn't suggest he was wrong in the least.
"Becuase that's when Carter's advisers said they got the most work done in the book I picked up from the library," Jarod wanted to say. Instead, he rested against the back of his chair.
"When all you give your media consultant are local news clippings and young pollsters, he has the free time to ask some questions and get a lay of the land. That's what you wanted, wasn't it?"
C.J. sighed. "I underestimated you, Jarod. It won't happen again, so don't come complaining to me when you have to redefine a "good night's rest" as four hours of mild unconsciousness."
"Fair enough," Jarod said, laughing.
C.J. hit a few more keys on her laptop, then looked toward her open office door and calling for Carol. The secretary was almost immediately in the doorway, but her stance suggested she had casually sauntered over at her boss' call.
"When is the President's China trip?"
Carol stepped back to her desk, pulled a spiral notebook from within her desk, and was rustling through it pages when she returned to the office. She stopped at a page, hardly glancing at it before returning her attention to C.J..
"Next Thursday, wheels-up at oh-seven-thirty."
"Thanks," C.J. said, then turned to Jarod. "The President will be meeting with various leaders in Beijing as part of a closed-door summit on metals trade and supply in, like she said, ten days."
"Then I've got nine days to put together a report that will sell the "boys" on a Blue Ribbon Commission on...'" Jarod paused just long enough to steal a glance at the list. "Social Security reform."
"Good luck. Josh put that on the list. He's convinced the Republicans in the House will never be able to get over privatization."
"I'll talk to him," Jarod said, smirking.
C.J. seemed to share in Jarod's amusement, but for an entirely different reason. Josh Lyman was notorious for being the single most stubborn man in the building. For a commercial-bred P.R. newbie like Jarod Sorkin to walk in the door and claim to be ready to tell Josh what's-what, well, that was comedy gold.
Meanwhile, despite his smooth and disarming smile, Jarod was silently wondering if ten days was enough.
Centre simulations weren't cheap, and that was before you considered the cost in connections to find out what the Centre really made and how to contact the higher-ups. This meant that it was pretty easy to assume whoever acquired Sim One-six-seven was both well-funded and well-informed. Jarod had dealt with plenty of people with large amounts of cash, but little mental ability. Jarod had dealt with plenty of people with complex minds, but few resources. The pretender had even defeated several people with both funding and intelligence, but they had required an extensive knowledge of past motives and operations to bring down. Jarod had no idea who had acquired the simulation, much less the person or group's modus operandi.
Watching the little orange fish make its way around the podium, Jarod realized what it was like to be completely unable to stop something, to save someone, by himself. He needed the help of someone in the Centre, and it was entirely possible Sydney didn't even know who to speak to about executive-level data transfers, much less the name of the Tower executive that had sold the file. Jarod needed someone with direct ties to the top.
Jarod needed Parker.
IX: Galileo by Dash Nolan
The Pretender: The Administration
by Dash Nolan
Galileo
The lightning arrived, disappeared just as quickly. The window, a fairly large piece of glass to a girl that small, shook against its frame as the audible wake struck the house. Her fingers dug into the pillow held tightly against her heaving chest. The pillow was her best friend in the world right now: it was soft, quiet, and didn't expect anything of her as it caught the third of what would be many, many tears. She took the break between flashes to lift her head and swallow down full breaths. To her right, the rest of the over-sized dining room stretched, ending on the plain white door opposite her window. The door wasn't completely closed. The dark crack between its edge and the door frame seemed to expand and contract spastically with each series of flashes, but she knew it wasn't moving. She knew that the storm couldn't hurt her in here. This was her haven. There the logs in the fireplace were probably still burning, gently warming the table before it. On that mahogany surface, her thimble was probably right where she had left it on Baltic Avenue. It was a Christmas postcard still life.
And there was the little girl, huddled at the end of the dining room, the only thing separating her from the raging winds outside was a vibrating sheet of glass. She placed her hand against the window, embracing the its cold. It reminded her of the crystal glasses and plates her mother had brought out the last time they had hosted a big dinner. She saw in her mind the heavy glass slipping from her grip, falling past the edge of her dinner dress. It shattered into hundreds of pieces across the wood floor. Another flash of lightning, another boom, and the window shook against her fingers. The thunder didn't sound like it had before. At this point she could hardly remember what the world sounded like without the torrent, but she had grown used to the booms, and this one was different. Thunder faded, window settled, but the booming continued. The anger wasn't coming from the world outside, but from within her haven. It wasn't mother nature, but her father's nature. She hated how his voice could carry anywhere in the house no matter how many closed doors were between him and herself. There was another crash, but not light to go with it. The noise was followed by the sounds of lots of small things landing in different directions. Her little metal thimble wasn't anywhere near Baltic now.
She held her breath. The technique had worked for her countless times before. When something was going terribly wrong, she would hold her breath. While her mind focused on resisting the urge to inhale, the problem would solve itself or an exit would reveal itself. Ten seconds went by, then twenty. As she was about to hit thirty-five, she heard a loud smack from the living room. It was a familiar sound, and she was almost certain what made it, but she had never actually seen the cause. She didn't want to. But the storm was getting worse, and every time the glass shook against her shoulder, the little girl was reminded of the fragile crystal cup. She stood, leaving the pillow on the little ledge under the window. Her feet were unsteady, as though she hadn't walked in months. The voices weren't getting any louder as she approached the door. In fact, they seemed to be calming.
The girl cautiously reached for the door, her tiny hands gently shaking. As her fingers were mere inches from the brass knob, the door opened toward her. She almost leapt back, but instantly calmed as her mother's face appeared from the darkness. She was beautiful woman, her smile warm and eyes full of grace. But something was different. There was a large red and yellow circle around the woman's left eye, and a pink mark covering her opposite cheek. And yet she continued to smile. Her words were gentle, comforting. The little girl could hardly hear what her mother was saying, but it didn't matter. She could feel her heart slowing, her breath calming. The girl wanted to run through the doorway, latch herself around the young woman's waist, and never let go. She wanted to say and ask a thousand things of her mother, but she never got the chance. Her mother smiled again, slipped back into the living room, and shut the door behind her. The room instantly filled with light, plunged into darkness again. The boom returned. The phone rang.
Miss Parker's eyes shot open. She blinked a few times, reflexively wiping away the water beginning to form in her eyes. Her heart was racing. The Centre agent spun in her leather chair toward her office's window, watching as a solid mass of thunderclouds slowly marched across the bay. The rain was blowing straight towards the large building's face, and it looked like the storm would only get worse. Miss Parker took a deep breath and held it, trying to push back the dismay swelling inside her. She focused as hard as she could on the simple mechanisms of her lungs, but the sadness wouldn't be ignored. She grimaced, let her breath come, and slipped a pack of cigarettes from her breast pocket. Drawing a coffin nail and slipping it between her glossed lips, she lit up. First the smoke, then the burning. It took six excruciating seconds from ignition, but her body finally began to settle down. The breathing trick had failed again. It hadn't worked for years, ever since her mother had stepped onto that elevator.
The phone continued to ring. Allowing herself a few more puffs, Miss Parker jammed the cig into the tray on her desk and answered the demanding receiver.
"Parker," she declared, her tone implying that her name alone should answer most of this caller's questions.
"Hope you weren't planning on walking home today, Miss Parker. A nice young man at Naval Weather said that the Delaware was going to get slammed today."
"Jarod."
She resisted the urge to snatch the dead cigarette from the tray and relight it. It was a wonder Jarod couldn't hear her grinding teeth through the line.
"It's a little overcast here," he said, ignoring his name. "We'll probably be hit with what you're seeing in an hour or two."
"I don't know why you had to call Norfolk, you were a meteorologist a couple of months back," she responded, managing to turn weatherman into an insult. "How is D.C.? I hear the mall is lovely this time of year."
"I wouldn't know. It's on my list of places to see, but I'm not quite there yet."
"Stuck at the White House?"
"You're always right on top of where I am, it's a wonder I'm not back in that bubble by now."
"Oh, it's a mystery for the ages. I'm assuming tracing this line would be pointless?"
"If your father let you use those hunches of yours more often, I'm pretty sure I would-"
"Do not bring my father into this," Parker shot in.
There was a momentary silence. She looked at the dead cig, rolled her eyes, and drew out a new one.
"A conversation for another time, then," Jarod said, his tone as casual as ever.
"Oh, we'll have plenty of time to talk after I drag your ass back here."
She heard him chuckle as she drew deep from the leaves.
"Every time you call," Parker began, forcing the smoke out her nostrils, "I think it's just to drive me closer to that aneurysm. Then you're cryptic, I figure out what you're trying to tell me, and at the end of the day I'm just as aggravated as when I sat up in bed. So why don't you cut through the B.S. and tell me why I know where you are?"
"I'm not sure that I can do that. You see, it involves your father, but you just told me not to-"
"Jarod!" She shouted, smacking her open palm against the desk.
"I'm not giving any more questions this time, only answers. Unfortunately, I don't have them."
"Then how in the hell can you give them to me?"
"You want this or not?"
She hated him. She hated how he knew more about her life, her family, and her company than she ever would. She hated being completely unable to resist any piece of information about herself and the Centre that he dangled in front of her.
"What is it," she asked before nearly biting through the tobacco.
"You have to promise to share the answers with me after you get them."
"And I would do this because..."
"Because you won't understand them without me."
She scoffed. "I have to tell you, Jarod, condescension isn't the best strategy when you're asking for help."
"Is that a "yes"?"
"It's a "show me what you have and I'll get back to you"."
"Fine. Ask Broots about One-six-seven. When he doesn't find it, ask him how secure it is. Sydney will know how to reach me."
There was a click as the line went dead. Parker dropped the receiver back into its home and turned toward the storm. It continued to grow worse.
End Notes:
Yep, I'm back. *crickets* Don't everyone miss me at once. Hopefully this will be the first of a continued working on this story. Just a bit of writer's block that needed demolitiononinging.
Author's Notes:
I'm back to this story again, and this may be the best chapter I've thrown in. Hopefully. Maybe more frequent chapters will follow. I'd like to think they will, but you know me.
The Pretender: The Administration
by Dash Nolan
Noel
The halls were completely devoid of life, yet they were busy and full of suits and shoes. Sydney stepped outside his office, pulling the door inwards, then stepping out of its way as he had always done. He waited for the door to completely close and its lock to click into place before taking his first step forward, as he had always done. He took a second to observe the people moving through the halls before him, pickng a few out of the crowd to study for a second's time, like he had always done. But after this ritual, he had always gone on his way. Sydney would put one foot in front of the other, percieve that day's pace, and allow himself to be picked up and carried with the popular tide until he was near his destination. It was how people were moved in the small, less opulent office departments in the rear of the Centre's Blue Cove building.
But today was apparently going to be different. Unlike most of the other offices up and down the halls, Sydney had a small bench to the left of his door. Being the most important man in this department, people who came to see Sydney were sometimes forced to wait while the elder psychiatrist dealt with other issues. He was likely the only person with an office this small who encountered the problem. Sydney did have an office to work out of in the main wing of the building. Part of the prestigious main hall, this office was a stone throw's distance from both Miss Parker's office and Broots' data center. But to Sydney, that had never felt like his office so much as a public workstation that suited his needs more than others. The masses were welcome to it. He liked his little piece of privacy in the office department of the Centre and its small bench outside his door.
Sydney took a seat on the bench, deciding to extend his usual people-watching session. Despite how exhausted most of the people Sydney saw appeared to be, he knew of no time when anyone besides people who specifically needed to see him had ever used the bench to rest. Considering this, the old Frenchman quietly chuckled. It had occurred to him that, from an outsider's perspective, he was now waiting for a chance to speak with himself in his office. Hopefully he had an appointment.
Ever the scientist, it occurred to Syndey that he'd impulsively done something outside his normal routine. The fact that he had noticed this about himself was amusing, but not nearly as much as the fact that he had found his discovery of his own odd actions humerous. Sydney was sometimes a circular man, and it fascinated him. Still pondering, he stood and headed toward the Centre's primary halls.
Sydney searched for anything that had significantly changed in the past few days. Miss Parker had increased her tobacco usage, and Broots had shown a sudden interest in canoeing. However, these differences were only parts of larger patterns: Miss Parker's cigarette intake fluctuated over periods of weeks, and Broots' daughter had just joined her school's crew team. Sydney continued to rack his mind, searching for a sudden, chaotic shift in his life.
And then he remembered that the President's life was in immediate danger thanks to his work. He realized at that point that this revelation had been the cause of his waking up, covered in sweat, the previous night.
Why was he acting so strangely? Lives had been lost thanks to his work before. Jarod had run simulations based on countless scenarios, including many military strategies, under Sydney's tutelage. Terrorist attacks, Central American kidnappings, small outbreaks of genetically-altered diseases: these had all become part of the man's legacy. But these had all been easily classified as collateral of scientific progress. Each death associated with his work with Jarod pained Sydney, but he had enough perspective to conclude that they were as Japanese deaths to Oppenheimer. Progress had to made, and the human mind was the least-explored space on Earth.
And then Jarod grew, and Sydney began to realize that Jarod's urge to leave the Centre wasn't simple childhood rebellion. Each day, Jarod was less and less a subject, and more and more a son. Suddenly, Sydney saw in the eyes of progress' victims not sacrifices, but fellow human beings with families and futures. Jarod had come to represent every life Sydney's work had stolen, and the aging psychiatrist was now willing to do almost anything to make it up to him.
Having realized that he was going to help with Jarod's mission in D.C., an amusing question popped into Sydney's head: Having all the information that he did now, would Sydney have been willing to sacrifice as much as he was now to save the President's life if Jarod hadn't been the one who asked? The question didn't fail to distract him from the anger building within. It was a primal, basic frustration that had been building in Sydney since stepping out of the lesser office section and into the Centre's primary marble halls. The reason for Sydney's anger was obvious to him, but such raw emotion was unfamiliar to him and it was taking everything he had to keep contained. He had to be composed for what came next.
Sydney knocked on one of the frosted glass doors, and the gruff "come in" had hardly met his ears before he was pushing through. He continued into the long, over sized office, passing the abstract artifacts of long-dead cultures without note. The pieces had been brought in when Mr. Lyle had taken over the office, but the proper Director had decided to leave them for reasons passing understanding. Sydney stopped mere feet from the Director's desk. This was usually when the person in Sydney's position spoke his business, which explained why the balding Director continued to read through a binder's contents for a solid ten seconds before finally looking up at Sydney.
"Sydney," he said, turning his shock into friendly surprise. "What can I do for you?"
"We need to speak," Sydney said.
For the briefest of moments, Mr. Parker seemed to consider having the conversation at all or tossing Sydney out, but the look that betrayed this thought to Sydney was flawlessly turned into the Director looking over his desk and casually organizing several loose folders.
"Does this concern Jarod? Because I already spoke to my angel, and while we know he's at the White House, it could be potentially catastrophic for us to rush in there."
"I completely agree," Sydney said.
"Oh, well good. What was it you wanted, then?"
This was tough. While Sydney was one of the greatest resources when discussing the word games and conversational ploys of others, he was sometimes at a loss when trying to participate. He had to build the Director to a specific point, but getting there was going to interesting.
"The Centre has done something, and I think it was unusually unwise."
"Oh? What have we done now?"
"Apparently, a sim of my early work with Jarod has left our network."
Finally, Mr. Parker seemed to be listening. Still holding a manila folder, he leaned back in his overstuffed chair and blinked at Sydney. "Left...how? Stolen?
Sydney shook his head. "Purchased."
"How did you find out about this?"
Sydney paused, unsure how to answer. How was this game played? He thought of his many conversations with Miss Parker, and realized that vagaries and diffusion was his best ally in this situation. "I work in the Research Department. We are hardly told anything. I have learned how to find out things for myself."
"Ah," Mr. Parker nodded, accepting it as any other answer. "Nonetheless, I was not aware of any such deal. What was the sim about?"
"It was very..." Sydney searched for the right word. "Sensitive."
The Director looked at Sydney, waiting for him to continue.
"I had been asked to work Jarod through a simulated "perfect" assassination of the President. At the time, I was told this had been requested by the Treasury in order to seal holes in the President's security. Strangely enough, after it had been completed, I was told that you had personally seen to sealing the sim in the secure section of the archives. When the archives were digitized, you again stepped in to make sure it was secured."
With hardly a noise of comprehension, Mr. Parker cupped his chin in thought. It was several moments before he returned attention to Sydney.
"I'm assuming you don't know who handled the transactions?"
Sydney shook his head.
"Well," Mr. Parker said, leaning forward and clapping, "It looks like the Treasury finally wanted their data. Just like the American government, huh? Try to give them what they-"
"Don't!" Sydney declared, slapping his knee.
The anger within had been waiting behind a gate, restless to see if the Director would take his concerns seriously. He had not. It was the doctor's conversation now, and Miss Parker's father was here to listen.
"I am not your daughter, Mr. Parker. Her misplaced love for you may be enough to hide the truth when you are with her, but not here, not with me. The Centre used to represent the pinnacle of man's research, but in the last five years it has been reduced to a quick mart for military stratagem and fringe science. A group is going to use the Centre, you, to kill the President of the United States. This is not family intrigue, this is a moment in our history that
will not be forgotten!"
Sydney continued to stare at the man before him, but his eyes seemed to look past him. Breath-after-breath, Sydney slowly regained composure. Mr. Parker stared at the psychiatrist with an inexplicable look. It was the look of a man finally understanding that his superiority was out of place in the current environment.
Finally, Mr. Parker spoke. "We used to be better than this, didn't we?"
Sydney lifted his head from its rest in his hand and smiled weakly. "We did, yes sir."
The Director flexed his hands and drew out his laptop, looking at its loading systems with an energy Sydney had not seen in the man since he, Mr. Parker, Dr. Raines, Catherine, and his brother Jacob had been running the place.
"I'll tell you now, it wasn't me," Mr. Parker said. "And I've been keeping a close eye on Lyle. He's been trying to bring his old Asian connections into the Centre's dealings, but nothing like this." He began typing furiously into the laptop as he went on. "After all the hubbub involving him, I ended up with more frequent and involved conversation with the Tower."
Sydney's fatigued mind perked up at the Tower's mention. The mysterious, Illumintiesque entity was usually the Director's trump card in arguments. For him to mention them so casually meant that they were going to get somewhere.
"Mr. Parker," Sydney began, but he didn't know how to finish the question.
He looked up to Sydney and smiled. It was a small, honest, slightly guilty smile. "Don't worry about me, Sydney." He paused, looking at the picture of himself holding Miss Parker. "I always thought what we did with Jarod was our masterpiece. Maybe showing we're still human after it all is our real test, huh?"
XI: H-Con - 172 by Dash Nolan
The Pretender: The Administration
by Dash Nolan
H-Con - 172
A typical day. Toby moved past the open door to the resident office secretaries for the head of Housing and Urban Development, ignoring the burst of telephone rings and urgent voices. In a public statement that morning, an event covered only in case a bomb snuck under the podium meant for someone more influential went off early, had taken some questions she shouldn't have. One would think, Toby said to himself in thought, that after calling half of the country racists and bigots, the director would walker with softer steps into the public field.
No such luck. As it stood, the woman his administration had put in charge of the most sensitive poverty- and crime-stricken cities in the country had declared that white gun owners, Baptists, and the Family Values Alliance were part of a vast conspiracy to put "blackie" in his place. She hadn't said exactly that, but after the last press cycle and three hours of talking heads, she might as well have been standing in the street, taking a blast from a fire hose, thrusting her fist into the air. Toby knew he was going to spend the next three days of his life doing, among other things, damage control for her.
It occurred to him that if the Mets hadn't won last night, it's entirely possible he would be parading through the cramped halls with a machine gun, blasting interns and snippy temps. He almost smiled. The homicidal fantasy had occurred to him no less than eight times in the past two days. This was only unusual in that he only envisioned putting hot metal through the foreheads of his coworkers two or three times between weekends. Toby came to an intersection of hallways and paused, another unusual act for that week, and prevented himself from colliding with a young man with curly red hair packing two feet of papers. The boy didn't notice him.
Where ever those papers went to, what they had to say would end up in Toby's lap. He was the singular, invisible voice of the administration, country's government, taxpayers, and President. He had irreplaceable help in the form of Sam, but Toby had realized Sam's thoughts as a significant part of his own thoughts ages ago. Whatever was happening, between the Communications Director's office and the Jordan Valley, was going to be filtered through his and Sam's voice before becoming part of President Bartlet's legacy.
Slipping past a young black woman in quite the hurry, Toby found himself at home. A room surrounded by glass partitions, letting them see the chaos of the world without having to be a part of it, the older man embraced the controlled mayhem of the Communications Bullpen.
"Jarod's in his way over."
Toby faced his secretary, a young, attractive redhead in her late twenties, waiting for her to explain.
"Jarod Sorkin, the image guy th-"
"I know who he is," Toby said in is typical annoyance. "Why is he headed here?"
Ginger snatched up a spiral pad of specific paper and leafed through it furiously, focused, until looking back up at Toby.
"You put this meeting together. 'Full of-' well, you said he wasn't telling you everything he knew. Look, he's new. I don't need to be a part of this."
Then he remembered: He had asked Ginger to scheduele a follow-up meeting with Jarod the second the new man had been out of earshot. To anyone who gave a second's care about the day's events, it looked like Toby and Jarod had had productive meeting and would need a seocnd session later. To Toby, it was a chance to sit the man down and find out where the hell he really came from. At the time Jarod had persuaded Toby to let slip one of his deeper personal issues, Toby's shock hadn't allowed him room to think about how Jarod might know everything he did, and why he wold be asking the questions he was.
Toby had taken some time.
"Yeah," he said. "Just tell him to knock. Thanks."
That last touch of courtesy fell to the air. Ginger was already making a note of wha Toby had said before he thanked her for it. Either she already knew how thankful he was for her immeasurable help, or she never expected anything resembling common courtesy from him. It was something that had occurred to him many times before, and once again, it took a backseat to the issue at hand.
Toby slipped into his office, stepping past the sofa and around the long desk. Papers were strewn across every surface inch, three teevees projected people behind hand held microphones, and the muted light filtering through the blinds suggested rain within the hour. This was his domain. Whoever should enter through that door was here to speak to Toby's points.
The older man reclined back, thinking on Jarod. The young publicity expert had blazed in, quickly solving several low-level issues that Mandy, the previous person in that office, would have painted with the same big brush. Her way may have solved the problems just as well, but it would have led to a larger issue. Jarod had dealt with each issue individually, using full precedence, without passing the buck to an other entity in he building.
In thought, it didn't make any sense. A press-related staff's job was to read the whole's train of thought and advise accordingly. Jarod ad taken specific issues head-on. Then he stepped into Toby's office.
"You wanted to see me," Jarod asked, just as bright-eyed and honest as the first time he's stepped into Toby's office. Of course, there was no reason for Jarod to have changed in these few days, but it was awfully odd to Toby for the younger man to act so surprised by everything. This was the same man who had called Toby out on the singular reason behind the President's bullet scar in is lower torso.
"Yeah," Toby said. "What are your thoughts on the HUD secretary's comments?"
It was a feint. He simply wondered if Jarod saw in him what he saw in Jarod.
"It's a tight issue. We must stand by her, obviously. Mabe there is a multiracial issue we can have her help introduce? A church-based local movement she can hop onto?"
Toby reached into his desk and drew out a light red rubber ball. Looking at Jarod for a brief moment, Toby slammed the ball against the floor at a specific point. It bounced from the thin carpet, hit the glass between his office and Sam's, and returned to his hand. He threw again. Bounce, bounce, catch. Jarod's eyes moved between the balll and Toby's face, then the ball, and back to the speechwriter's face.
Toby caught the ball and Jarod's glance in the same moment.
"Were are you from, Jarod?"
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.