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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
The Pretender: The Administration
by Dash Nolan
The Portland Trip
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."
