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Chapter or StoryAuthor's Chapter 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
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?"
