Puppet: Agent!

I have published another short story in the Puppet universe called Puppet: Agent.  As usual, it is available from Smashwords by clicking the image or you can go directly there via https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/334024

The cover image is Cover photo “Secret Agent Man” by Jack Zalium.  His site is
http://www.flickr.com/photos/kaiban/with/6998898690/ and you can find the image at http://www.flickr.com/photos/kaiban/6998898690/

It only took three tries to get things (mostly) correct and since I had a cold at the time I am claiming a new record.

Share and enjoy.

Smashing Words

This is a shameless plug for a short story I just wrote and published on smashwords.com called "Puppet."  You can check it out via https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/234868  My author page is https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/what0607 The primary reason for my using smashwords is that you get several different formats: PDF, kindle, etc. when you publish via that outlet.

Also, smashwords is free.  Not that I'm cheap or anything.  OK, so I am cheap but smashwords is still a great place to find good e-books.

The story itself is about an alien invasion by a race of critters that look like blobs of mercury and that have the ability to "possess" human beings by attaching to their backs.  The book is free and is intended to be the first in a series of two or three more books detailing the story of a boy and his blob.  The book is based on Robert A. Heinlein's book The Puppet Masters.

Quantum Toast

It’s a strange feeling to shoot someone, to watch them crumple to the ground, all without knowing why you shot them.  Nevertheless, that was where Byron, the world’s worse bodyguard, found himself as he stood watching the Governor on floor.

The noise of someone pounding at the door shook Byron from his pondering - he would have to think of something quick to get out of here.  He holstered his gun as he walked up to the door and unlocked it.  He didn’t remember having come into the room.

Restroom, he corrected himself.  The Governor was slouched against the wall across from the sinks in the men’s restroom.  Or at least he hoped it was the men’s restroom. 

Arriving at the door, Byron calmly unlocked and opened it.  One of the Governor’s aides tumbled in.  Apparently, he had been trying to batter down the door and Byron had opened it just as the man was in mid-batter.

"The Governor shot himself."  Byron said calmly.

"What?!!" The aide said retrieving his glasses and looking over to the corpse.

"I said the Governor..."

"I heard you the first time!" snapped the aide as he got off the tiled floor.

"I’m going to call an ambulance."

The aide gave Byron a strange look, though everything felt strange just then, but then turned to regard the Governor’s corpse.

Byron left the room.  He decided that his flimsy excuse wasn’t going to last long, especially when the aide noticed that Byron had not called an ambulance.

Maintaining an outward calm, he strode over to some escalators heading down as he tried to figure out what had happened. 

One moment he had been waiting outside the restroom for the Governor to take care of business, the next he was standing there with a gun after having shot the man. 

This was not going to look good on his resume.

Arriving at the ground floor, he strode over to the street doors and left the hotel.  Approaching the nearest intersection he walked up to a car that was waiting at the light, opened the driver’s side door, pulled out the driver, got in the car, and drove away before the hapless motorist could figure out what was going on. 

It was while he was driving that he realized that he had no destination, beyond getting on the nearest highway.  Where could he go?  What could he do?

The police were not going to buy and excuse of "Sorry, I don’t know why I shot him" but he didn’t have anything else.

Thinking back to the moment, he remembered lining up the target, choosing the bodyguard as a convenient tool and executing the Governor. 

The really odd thing was that he was certain that these were not his memories. 

Before he could ponder this further, Byron found himself being pulled back to the point where he had just shot the Governor.  It was like watching and old movie except he was there.

As before, he turned to go to the door, but there was a strange stickiness or reluctance to move this time.  Byron felt like he was having a headache along with a sense of deja vu. 

As he strove to reach the door, the hand holding his gun rose and then, alarmingly, started to turn on his own head.  Byron stopped walking and mentally commanded the hand down.  His hand moved down for a but then started rising again.

Taking a different tact, Byron tried to get his had to drop the gun.  Obediently, the gun fell to the floor, just before his hand would have brought it bear on Byron’s head.  Byron go the distinct impression that his hand was upset with him, but by that time Byron was trying to use it to open the door from the men’s room.

Abruptly, the headache and the sense of deja vu disappeared as Byron opened the door and came face to face with the Governor’s aide. 

"The Governor has..."

But the aide cut him off before Byron could finish.

"You!  You’re not supposed to be able to do that!"

The aide glared at him as Byron pushed past the man. 

"Get back in there and be arrested!  Or at least shoot yourself."

Byron actually stopped and stared at the man, who looked like he expected Byron to actually do what he told him.  Shaking his head Byron walked down the hall towards the door to the parking lot. 

The feeling of deja vu returned as he stepped out into the noonday sun.  He walked briskly to his car and got in.  He sat there for a few moments as if he expected to be interrupted again, but everything remained still. 

Byron started the engine and drove out of the parking lot.

*    * * * * *

Byron sat in the motel room with his face in his hands.  A news program on the TV droned on about the death of the Governor and that Byron was the only suspect.

Definitely not good for his resume. 

Before he could think too much about it, the door to his room burst open and two SWAT team members rushed in, guns at the ready. 

Byron dove for the bathroom as one of the cops opened fire, the bullets stitching a line across the back wall.  Desperately, Byron closed the restroom door and dropped.  A moment later another line of bullets tore through the cheap pine door at roughly chest level. 

"Hey!  Don’t shoot him - ask him to surrender first!"  One of the SWAT team members yelled at the shooter. 

"Ohhh....good idea, get him to surrender, then shoot him!"

"No, no, no!  Get him to surrender, then arrest him!"

A pause.

"Could we shoot him after we arrest him?"

Byron looked around desperately, but the only exit from the tiny bathroom was a window that was too small for him to crawl through.

"Hold your fire!"

A new voice sounded from the room.

"Dammit, I told you we should have shot him!" complained a SWAT team member.

There was a muffled conversation in the other room that Byron, though he tried, could not hear.  Then:

"Alright, Mr. Anderson, come out of the bathroom."

Byron thought about this and then asked "Are you going to shoot me?"

"No."

"Promise?"

Another brief, muffled conversation.  Byron could have sworn he heard a whined "Alright," then "Promise!"

Crawling over to the door, Byron reached up and opened it a crack.  In the other room stood several men all dressed in identical black suits.  There was also a woman, also wearing a black suit.  The two SWAT team members were no where to be seen. 

Byron got up and opened the door completely.  He walked into the room.  He noticed that all the people in black were also wearing dark sunglasses.

"Mr. Anderson!"  One of the men drawled.  Byron gave him a confused look.  The man’s colleagues also looked at him.

"Sorry, I just always wanted to say that."

"Mr. Anderson, we have come here to arrange your return."

"But what about the Governor?"

The woman tilted her head to the side and said "We would have thought that you of all people would understand that."

"Ummm...OK, so where are we going?"

"And we can offer you considerably better employment than your previous, custodial job."

Byron looked at the man who had interjected.

"What are you talking about?"

The various members of the group looked at each other.

"You mean you’re not Frank Anderson?"

"No, I’m Byron Holmes!"

The various dark suited people looked at each other and then filed out of the room.

From outside, Byron could hear them talking to the SWAT team members.  There was a sudden exclamation of "We can?!" and then the two SWAT guys came back into the room.  One of them raised his gun and grinned broadly.  Byron gave out a startled "shit!" and dove for the bathroom again.

Sitting in the bathroom, his life flashing before his eyes, Byron wondered how the police had found him so quickly.  He thought back to the point that he had checked in to the hotel for some clue.

Byron pictured the scene in his mind.  Coming up to the desk, reaching in his pocket for his wallet and...he was standing in front of the desk, holding his wallet, just as he had earlier in the day.

"Be with you in a second." the clerk hollered.

Byron looked around, feeling very confused.  The motel manager came up to the desk.

"You want a room?" the manager asked in a somewhat belligerent manner.

"I’m not sure." Byron responded, still trying to figure out what was going on.

The manager crossed his arms.  "Well, make up your mind."

In the background Byron could hear a TV news show blathering on.

"So that’s how..." Byron said softly to himself.

"Made up yer mind?"

Byron looked back at the manager and then headed sideways towards the door without saying anything.

"Frickin tourists" muttered the manager as Byron left.

Byron got back into his car and stared at the dashboard.  While the larger question of what was going on tugged at him, the more pragmatic side of him wondered what he should do.  The police would have his license plate number, other people would  be bound to recognize him like the clerk had, or rather like the clerk would, in fact it might be a good idea to get moving right now.

Byron started the car and pulled out of the motel parking lot.  He needed some time to think.  Driving along the road he saw an iHop and stopped there.  He hoped they didn’t have a TV that anyone was watching.

Byron sat in a booth and stared listlessly out the window.  A waitress came up to his table and asked for his order.

"Just some coffee."

A man, wearing a hat, sat down across from him.  Byron looked up, startled, and stared at him.  The man said.

"I’ll have some pancakes."

"What flavor?" asked the waitress.

"Plain" the man replied.  "And some white toast, oh, and some orange juice."

The waitress walked away.  Byron couldn’t think of anything to say except "You know, that orange juice is really just sugar and water, I mean it’s made from concentrate."

The man glared at Byron.  "Do you have any idea how much trouble you have caused me?"

Byron frowned.  "Have we met?"

"Yes and no."

Byron considered this.

"Well, explain the yes part."

"Remember the men’s restroom in the Hilton down the road?"

Byron looked indignant. "You’re some sort of pervert!"

"You know, the one where you shot the Governor?"

Byron’s face registered relief "Oh, that restroom."

"You’re being hunted by the cops for murder and you’re worried about...about encounters in a restroom?!"

"Yeah well, you can get diseases from that sort of thing."  Byron said sincerely.  Then "What do you have to do with all this?"

"Now he begins to figure it out.  Sheesh, I can see why you are still a bodyguard."

"And I’m not paying for your pancakes."

The man starred at Byron for a while.  "I also ordered toast...and orange juice."

"I told you, that stuff is not orange..."

"Shut up" the man said flatly.

"So who the hell are you?"

"Frank."

Byron cocked his head to one side.  "You know, I ran into some people who were looking for you."

"Really?"

Thinking back to the event, Byron realized that it had not exactly happened.

"Well, actually, no."

"You are a pain."

"How so?"

"You’re messing up all the timelines."

"So they are time jumps after all!"  Byron was excited.  Frank just starred at him.

"Aren’t you worried that I’ll think you’re crazy?"

Byron considered this.  "Well, that’s coming from someone that thinks the iHop serves real orange juice."

"You know, that does make a certain amount of sense...from an insane point of view."

"You haven’t lived through my morning."

"Don’t be too sure of that; but I have some good news: your life won’t be bothering you for much longer."

Frank concentrated on Byron, who felt his hand move to his shoulder holster.  Byron didn’t try to resist.

"You forgot that I dropped it in the restroom."

Frank cursed.  Byron’s hand came back under his control.

"That doesn’t seem like a time travel sort of trick."  Byron observed.

"It isn’t." Frank said, massaging his forehead. 

Just then the waitress came back and asked Frank "Did you want white or whole wheat toast?"

"Whole wheat would be healthier."

Frank locked eyes with him.

"White."

"Whole wheat."

The fabric of reality seemed to tear.  The waitress left the table.

"What just happened?" Byron asked.

"If things went the way they were supposed to or if something screwed up?"

"Suppose that everything went OK."

"Then I’ll get white toast."

At that moment, the 5 black suited people that Byron had seen in an alternate time line sat down in the booth across from them. 

"That’s them."  Byron remarked.

"What?" asked Frank.

"The guys who were looking for you...sort of."

Frank looked across at them.  "Who the hell are you?"

"Agent Davidson." said the closest.

"Agent Albertson." said the next closest.

"Agent Reynolds."

"Agent Porter."

"Agent Atkins." said the woman.

"Do you know these people?" asked Byron.

"No clue" said Frank.

"But you are Frank Anderson" cut in Agent Reynolds.

"No." replied Byron.

"Not you, this guy." said Agent Porter, pointing at Frank.

"Well yes" admitted Frank.

"Mr. Anderson!" drawled Agent Davidson.

"Yeah, yeah, you’ve always wanted to say that." said Byron in a disgusted tone.  Agent Davidson looked taken aback.

While they were talking the waitress had returned with Frank’s pancakes and toast.

"At least it’s whole wheat." commented Byron.

"It looks white to me" said Frank.

"No way, it’s wheat!"

"White!"

"Wheat!"

Agent Porter cut in "Look, Mr. Anderson, we’re from the government and we’re here to help you."  Agent Atkins elbowed him in the ribs.  "That is, we’re not from the government and we’re not here to help you."  Agent Atkins elbowed him again.  "OK, we’re not from the government but we are here to help you." 

Atkins went to elbow Porter again but thought better of it.

"And?" Frank prompted in a disinterested manner as he munched some of his toast.

Byron picked up a slice of toast and took a small bite.  It tasted like whole wheat.

"We can take you home, Mr. Anderson." said Agent Reynolds.

"Back to my wonderful life."  Frank drawled and reached for another slice of toast.  As it so happened, Byron had also grabbed that particular piece.  After a brief struggle, they each were in possession of the same slice, which was disconcerting.

"We can offer you a bit more, Mr. Anderson." said Agent Davidson.

"Yeah, and what’s that?" said Frank.

"We can get you a promotion to custodian first class."

"You were a janitor?" asked Byron as he nibbled his toast.

"Shut up." Frank said flatly to Byron.  Then to the agents "Thanks, but I think I’ll pass on your ‘generous’ offer."

"Do you guys know what caused all this?" Byron directed his question to the agents.

"Yes" said agent Davidson.

"That’s classified." said agent Atkins.

"That is, no." said agent Davidson.

"Well, what didn’t happen?" asked Byron.

"Are you familiar with the storyline from the computer game Quake?" said Davidson.

"No" replied Byron.

"Well, if you had, then you would know that didn’t happen." Davidson finished.  Byron frowned.

"Can you add anything to that?" Byron asked Frank.

"Well, just because it’s not what these clowns want, I’ll tell you."  Byron and the agents leaned in.

"I was cleaning up in the lab one night..." Frank began.

"Where was this?"  Interrupted Byron.

"SUNY Buffalo." answered Frank.

"Don’t you mean MIT or some government lab?" interrupted Byron again.

"No, they turned me down there." Frank snapped.

"For a job as a janitor?" Byron asked incredulously.

Frank glared at Byron "Look, do you want me to tell this or not?"

Byron held up his hands; the agents glanced at each other.

"So I was cleaning up one night and I must have hit a switch or something because some gizmo..." Frank explained.

"The anti-graviton emitter" interrupted agent Reynolds.

"Some gizmo" Frank continued testily "lights up with all kinds of electrical whoojamajoobies and lights and stuff.  The next thing I know I’m in someone else’s body and back a year in time."  Frank picked up a slice of toast and munched it. 

"Still tastes like white to me." Frank mumbled.

"You can switch bodies?" Byron asked.

"Yeah" Frank looked smug.

"In fact, he has to." interjected agent Porter.

"Every couple of weeks." said agent Davidson.

"And I thought my life was chaotic." mumbled Byron.  He looked up again "So you are just zipping around, changing bodies, killing people for no reason?"

Frank looked hurt "Not for no reason, I’m just trying to get back."

"To your life as a janitor" Byron supplied.

"Well now that you put it like that it does seem like rather a waste."

"We can help you there." cut in agent Reynolds.

"Yeah, how?" asked Frank.

"That’s classified" said Atkins.

Frank rolled his eyes.

"Is it dangerous?" Frank asked.

"Absolutely not." answered Reynolds.

"Wonderful." said Frank.

"Look, this is all very interesting, but I’m sitting here, being televised on America’s Most Wanted.  Isn’t there anything you can do about that?" Byron asked.

The agents looked at each other.  Frank shifted his eyes about.

"How many days of vacation do I get a year?" said Frank to the agents.

Byron massaged his forehead.  He thought back to how nice the day had started out.  He had woken up in his crappy, mid-town apartment, he had noticed the time and panicked...and he was back.

Byron turned around slowly to confirm that what he had thought had happened, had actually happened, as it happened.  It had happened.

Byron sat back down on his bed and pondered the situation, then picked up the phone.  He called in sick, weathering the tirade from his boss secure in the knowledge that, whatever he had to go through now, it was peanuts compared to what waited for him.

As he hung up the phone Byron reflected that the old maxim was true: while hard work did pay off eventually, being lazy paid off now.  He went back to sleep.

GroupThink: the Lighter Side - Chapter 7

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Year Minus 5

“So how do you know that these guys exist again?”

August Hanson shifted uneasily in his chair. The director of operations was staring at him like he expected him to proclaim himself Napoleon. As it was, he could kiss his career in the Bureau goodbye.

“The impossible level of coordination between individuals in the colony sir.”

“Riiiight. So basically, these people are working together?”

“Not just working together, Sir, they are anticipating needs, pooling resources and communicating with other colonies elsewhere in the nation, perhaps even the world.”

Robert Muller leaned back in his chair and looked at August.

“A world-wide conspiracy?”

“Possibly, sir, but at present I’m only concerned with the United States.”

His face expressionless, Muller raised a questioning eyebrow at Thomas Pickard, the deputy director. “Captain Pickard,” as only someone who outranked him would address him, gave a very slight shake of his head.

“And aside from this very high level of coordination, what do you think has demonstrated their intent?"

Augie tried to look the Director in the eye. He hoped he wasn’t sweating.

“None sir. But the point is that no one ever shows this level of coordination for prolonged periods of time. Not even religious fanatic groups! And I’ve found 3 colonies already!”

“Well, are they engaging in some sort of terrorist or criminal activities? Could we bring some of them in on other charges for questioning?"

“Not that I’ve been able to witness or determine after the fact…”

“In fact the level of crime in these “colonies” has dropped dramatically since they moved in, right?”

“Yes that’s quite correct, but the thing is that the original residents were not pushed out! They were assimilated into the colony. That’s how it seems to grow.

“OK, well, it sounds like you laid the ground work for an investigation to proceed with. At this point I’d like to confer with Pat, figure out what the options are, what resources we have available, that sort of thing. Then a plan can be created to deal with this…thing. How about if you go back and organize your information, check your sources in preparation for the next stage.”

Mr. Muller did have a nice way with people, particularly Bureau people, that could make them feel like they were marching off on a critical mission instead of, say, being nudged out of an office while some people could figure out what to do with him.

As the door clicked shut, a bit of pressure left the room as well. Muller regarded Pickard in a friendlier manner.

“So what do we have here, Captain? Romulans trying to invade Walmarts?”

Pickard winced at Muller’s statement but rallied. “Well, one thing that Hanson didn’t get to was the potential for such communities to hide fugitives. We know about Attica…”

“Yeah, 1200 people, convicts, guards, the whole bunch disappear. One of the groups Augie describes would be a perfect place for them to go, but why? A lot of them were pretty nasty guys. Why would a community want to have anything to do with rapists, armed robbers, convicted murderers and drug dealers?”

“It make no sense, I think he’s gone off on a long and expensive tangent. At best we have some people who are trying to clean up their neighborhood. At worst we have another “commune” style approach to urban living.”

“What about Mr. Hanson?”

Pickard looked down at his hands.

“When he started at the Bureau he was bright, eager to get his career moving, you know the type, and above all, sane. I’m afraid that this investigation may have been too much for him. I’m considering putting him on some boring routine project and see how he progresses.”

“What about making him the F B eye for these groups?”

“I’d be nervous with that. He has not shown any…odd behavior outside of his interest in this case. Giving him more exposure could exacerbate the problem. On the other hand, he is good at spotting these groups, so if we really do want to keep an eye on them he would be very useful.”

Rob and Thom got up.

“We need to know if this Augie guy is going to be someone to nurture or someone to discard. I’m leaving it up to you to decide.”

“I see.”

* * *

Augie walked back to his “office.” Lately, the FBI had borrowed from the corporate world and inflicted cubicles on its employees instead of the more traditional offices. In fact, to increase efficiency, Augie actually shared a cube with…

“Mulder!”

“Hi Scott.”

Scott Slaughter, or “Dr. Slaughter” as people sometimes called him was a person who appeared to much more of a Bureau man than Augie was. He had taken to comparing August with Fox Mulder from “The X-Files” lately. Against all expectations, the two were actually friends.

“So how’d the meeting with Capt. Picard go?”

August sighed.

“Remember when we rehearsed it?”

“That bad eh?”

“Worse.”

“Augie, Augie, Augie. I warned you that this was a bad idea…”

“I know.”

“…and that this investigation of yours is a waste of time and taxpayer money…”

“I know.”

“…and that if you want to rise up in the ranks you need to do something that is going to make them look good and that all this does is make you look crazy.”

“I know.”

“What were you thinking?!”

Augie paused and frowned.

“I don’t know.”

“Well look. What say you put this little X-File behind you and get crunching on something real? Take those Iraqi refugees…”

“We already looked into them. They’re just a bunch of slobs who fled the country and are trying to get by.”

“Yeah, but the point it that they barely speak English, go to mosque 3 times a day, listen to a cleric that is borderline, and people around them have heard them voice anti-American statements.”

“They’re just frustrated because they thought America would be some paradise and it turns out that things aren’t quite that simple.”

“That’s beside the point. We’ve received word from on high that we need to be more proactive in our approach to counter-terrorism. Rounding up these guys and detaining them in a nice, public way will send a message to the rest and make your boss look good.”

August had to admit that Scott had a point. Augie didn’t have any good leads to follow up, so doing that would show that he wasn’t just following wild goose chases.

“Hey man, it’s almost quitting time. Let’s head down to Grand Slam, have a few beers, talk this over…”

“You could hit on that new assistant.”

Scott clapped him on the back.

“That’s the spirit.”

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GroupThink: the Lighter Side - Chapter 6

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Year 10, Month 12

I can't believe this!

200 men fidgeted nervously.

Eventually the Coalition realized it was doing this and tried to tell itself to relax.

The group stopped fidgeting, but nonetheless appeared nervous.

After months of planning and preparation, the Coalition's plans of "relocation" were finally ready. Everything was in place and ready to go. And it was hesitating. At the last moment.

Just get on the damn bus!

But what if this doesn't work?

What if we get stuck in a lab?

Are you sure we can't just stay here?

Look, we've been over this before. If we stay here and do nothing someone is bound to notice! If nobody else, the families of your victims will notice.

Except for me.

Right, except for Fred.

Because I was wrongly accused.

Right, who was wrongly accused.

And who spent the last 10 years of my life…

SHUT UP!

The Coalition tried to count to 10, then noticed that everyone was counting.

Really, it couldn't blame them; if for no other reason than it literally felt their fear, their dread of what would happen if things went wrong.

Look, guys, we need to either go or scrap this. Everything depends on following the plan.

The men shuffled around nervously.

I don't want to go back on the drugs.

And I don't want to have to deal with that stupid gang.

And I don't want to get beaten up all the time.

The list went on and on...a list of misery and suffering that spanned the range of human experience. Many of them had more doubts and more problems than your average person, hence their current abode. But it all boiled down to one thing.

I'm scared too.

What? Huh? What did he say? Is it really a he?

I've only been alive for a few months. I don't want to die either.

The response was a stone cold silence.

But if we stay, we'll all die. Not literally I guess. But we won't be able to stay together. We'll have to go back to the gangs and drugs and the killings…it's not going to stop, not unless we do something. We can't stay straight, not if they break us apart and they'll never trust us.

Believe me guys, I don't want to do this. If there were any other way, we'd use it, but there just isn't anything else.

With a great deal of hesitation the men started getting on the buses. As each one left, the Coalition could feel a little more of itself slip away. The distance between them was just too great – it couldn't hear everyone when they were that far away.

It was almost funny. It wasn't afraid of getting caught in the conventional sense. The Coalition knew that it could deal with any one person or even a group of people with ease; but only if it could think, if it could hear everyone, if everyone could hear its voice.

When it traveled like this – separate, unable to think, it was vulnerable. The only good point was that it was like falling asleep: slow, gradual. You could only be aware of it if you were really watching.

The Coalition was so busy calming its people, trying to assure them that the plan would work, that it couldn't concentrate on "staying awake."

When enough people had left that its consciousness had disappeared, some panicked. It was like drowning in silence. The ones that were left ran for the buses and piled aboard, trying to catch up.

Thankfully, none of this was apparent to anyone else. The men had time to calm down. They were still scared, but at least they weren't panicking. They weren't mobbing the buses, but there was a definite sense of urgency to get moving.

Weird flashes of "semi-consciousness" would appear and disappear, like someone waking up in the night and going back to sleep. These were punctuated by moments of fear: would the plan work? What if they couldn't regroup? What if someone mobilized the National Guard? The sense of urgency became more …urgent as the last few buses left.

* * *

Yahoooo!

This is killer!

Hey - check this out!

It had been 2 weeks since the Coalition arrived in the city, and in that time, it had gone completely berserk.

The place was like some mental version of a drug – so many minds, so many different minds! He had been inducting new members faster than ever before. And there were so many to choose from, so much to learn. Musicians, politicians, homeless, rich, poor, students, teachers, addicted, clean – it was like a smorgasbord of thought, feeling, experience.

Travel had been very disconcerting.

As planned, the men arrived and gradually consciousness returned to the Coalition. Things had been dicey at first – some of them had panicked and run off. Others milled about in groups large enough to draw attention. It had taken a full day to get everyone back together and settled in.

Finding a place to stay had been laughably easy. Abandoned buildings were common enough. The problem was dealing with local gangs, derelicts and others.

With its encyclopedia-like knowledge of all things criminal and the months of preparation, The People were quickly housed. By "concentrating" on a few key gang members, it was relatively easy to bring them into the Coalition and thereby bring the gangs under control. After that, The People had a place to stay and a modest source of income.

Plenty of places had crappy, low paying jobs where few questions were asked. The Coalition was very good at managing money and combined with no-rent housing and rather boring but cheap and nourishing food, its expenses were few. The People spent the time repairing their new place of residence and getting basic necessities back up and running.

By that time, new members had started being "recruited" on their own.

Inducting women into the Coalition had come as a shock. It wasn't that they were different the strange part had been how similar they were. Different thoughts and emphasis but still basically the same basic drives, needs and desires as men.

The Coalition's background being what it was, it had a rather strange view of the opposite sex. The more normal members viewed them as more people, while the "socially challenged" people viewed them with fury, anger and disgust.

How do you stay angry at someone, though, when you can feel their thoughts? The basis for much of the anger was founded on their being a difference between someone else and you. What do you do when you see their insecurities, drives and needs mirrored by your own?

Marla had been the first woman inductee, and had gone largely unnoticed until the Coalition was making another plan for purchasing supplies.

Rice: check

Beans: check

Spiderman band-aids: check

Sanitary napkins: what?!!

It was like a gigantic eyeball swerved to examine her.

Whoa…

Check it out.

Who brought her in?

Umm…hi, guys…

What are we gonna do with her?

It is an odd feeling to be, at the same time, the subject of scrutiny and the examiner. Questions unbidden surfaced and were answered. A mental hush settled on the consciousness of Coalition. Then came the equivalent of a shrug.

Sanitary napkins: check.

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GroupThink: the Lighter Side - Chapter 5

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“Would you please tell me what’s going on?”

Ed glanced over at his wife, Mary, as they left town. The last few hours had been hectic, throwing some things into the car, grabbing Mary from work and heading out of town. The whole time, Ed had felt the “eye” of the Coalition watching him. Some of the inmates had even given him helpful tips:

Don’t forget your toothbrush!

Oh, thanks, …get out of my head!

Sorry.

Now, as he put miles between himself and Attica, the voice seemed to be slowly fading.

But what should he tell Mary? “Hey Mar: there’s this weird mind-control thing going on at the prison so I thought I’d leave before…no.” How about “you know how in ‘Planet of the Apes’ there were these guys would could control minds so…no.”

They stopped for some gas and Ed used the restroom. He looked in the mirror, trying to figure out what to say. Thinking back, he recalled a time when he had to tell a girl whom you had actually hit it off with that he had to leave. It was a sad time, when they had decided to rescind his parole.

Abruptly Ed realized that it was not his memory.

Ed left the gas station and kept driving. Mary seemed to have resigned herself to whatever Ed was doing and kept staring blankly out the window as they drove through the night.

Ed woke up the next day and sat bolt upright. Mary stirred next to him and rubbed her eyes. Looking blearily at him she said:

“What is it?”

“Nothing. I hear nothing.”

“Wonderful.”

“Don’t you see? It’s back to the way it was!”

“What was it like before?”

“About the same.”

Mary gave him a “well…he’s my jerk” look and went to the bathroom. Ed looked around and tried to put his finger on what the difference was, but it eluded him. He tried “remembering” the foreign thought he had last night, but failed. He tried “calling” on the voice but could not hear anything. Ed was on the verge of dancing when Mary came back in the room.

“Why are you so happy?”

“I’m free!”

“Great. Now what do we do?”

Ed’s mouth dropped. A good question. Hundreds of miles from their home, no job…not a good situation.

Back at Attica, the Coalition was pondering its next move.

If that is how non-convicts react to us, we are going to be in trouble soon.

Just then another person joined. The Coalition gave the mental equivalent of a hand wave.

The possibility that Ed might tell the police did not concern the Coalition – it was rather amusing to think of poor Ed running around telling people about “the voices in my head.” What did concern it was having members arrive and leave by the hundreds. If things kept up the way they were going, all 2000+ inmates would be Coalition in 12 months. There would simply be no way to avoid the problem if it came to that.

What we could really use is the warden.

Yes, but just thinking about a guard caused Ed to join, and look what happened with that.

Good point…wait a minute! I am the warden!

Uh oh…

Over the next month or so, several other guards and prison employees joined the ranks of the Coalition. A quick examination led it to the conclusion that it wasn’t that prison held societies criminals, prison just held the ones who had been caught.

Having the warden join the Coalition simplified the problem immensely. It effectively halted the release process. When you got right down to it, people were very concerned that criminals go to jail, but there was much less concern around ensuring that they got released.

While the basic problem remained, the Coalition had some breathing space.

* * *

Year 10, Month 6

Breathe in.

For a person whose life is chaotic, a moment of sanity can be jarring.

Breathe out.

In the case of the Coalition, many members had gone their whole lives in a blur of chaos. Victims of abuse, foster homes, and the just plain socially maladapted – they covered much of the extreme end of a chaotic life.

Breathe in.

One thing about the day-to-day in prison is that it is very predictable. One day is very like the next on the inside. When you factor in complete control of the prison itself, like the Coalition had, there was very little to upset the rhythm of life.

Breathe out.

Japanese traditions call this “Wa” or harmony. Some of the members of the Coalition who had been to Alcoholics Anonymous called it “Serenity.” Whatever it was, the People (as the Coalition called its members), were experiencing this feeling on a very large scale.

There were no fights, no threats, nothing out of order. Many of the People felt like they were underwater. The sound had been turned down. There was nothing touching them. Serenity. Wa.

Breathe in.

Being one of the People also gave perspective. The odd thing was how easily guys like the warden meshed with the rest. Sometimes it seemed like the difference between those on the inside and those outside was luck: the ones on the inside had been caught.

Whatever the case, while some of the People were extreme, most of them were not a whole lot different from the non-convicted members. Many of the non-cons were just as surprised at experiencing serenity as the convicts were.

Breathe out.

If harmony was strange and new, the concept of group meditation was even stranger. The Coalition had to be careful when doing this: otherwise everyone would stop what they were doing and meditate all the time. The feeling was contagious and somewhat addictive. Those who were better at it could help the ones who had trouble, hence, the group as a whole learned very quickly.

Open your eyes.

200 people simultaneously came out of the meditative state. In various states of repose, they got up, moved about and left the room so that another 200 could come in. The Coalition had to limit the time and size of the groups.

If the rest of the inmates thought something weird was going on before, now they felt that the place had been invaded. The inmates had a tendency to be paranoid to begin with, but these days some of them were jumping out of their skin at the slightest noise.

The Coalition gave a mental sigh. The day was coming soon when it would have to leave. No paroles and no departures for 6 months was pushing its luck. It didn’t help that some of the non-members had been talking about how weird Attica was before the People had managed to get control of the mail going into and out of the prison.

What was coming was risky. The entire population was going to have to leave in the space of one day. This was going to make the news all over the world. There might even be nation-wide panic. How do you explain 2000+ prisoners vanishing, and worse, how do you explain that you can’t find them?

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Groupthink: the Lighter Side - Chapter 4

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Year 10, Month 1

So much for the “bitter-sweet years of childhood” he thought sarcastically. Whereas human beings do not have a defining point where they become aware, the being that was made up of about 1,000 inmates in Attica Federal Penitentiary’s moment came and went like a 12 ton boulder hitting the ground. Once he became aware, there was no going back.

It was definitely a he, a male, owing to its being composed of all men. It did the mental equivalent of sitting on a stump and thinking, trying to come up with a name.

“Adam?” too biblical. “We?” too generic. “Coalition?” that would do for the time being. He also liked the ominous, 50s-esque overtones it implied.

If the prison guards had thought the inmates were on drugs before, now they thought they were all on some sort of sedative. There were no fights, no shouting matches. People didn’t even talk much. What’s more some “gnomes” seemed to have moved onto the premises.

There had been some broken tiles in the shower area for the past 5 years, for example. Occasionally, an inmate would cut his foot and complain (or worse) about it. Then one day a guard noticed that the tiles had been repaired.

Everything on the cellblock where Nate lived was spotless. The floors scrubbed, the cells neat and orderly.

One of the strangest things of all was that many of the prisoners were not applying for parole. Sometimes an inmate might do that when they know they'll be turned down anyways, in can shorten the sentence. It can result in being released earlier then if they applied. But these inmates were model reformers, every last one of them. It was like they didn’t want to leave.

As it turned out, they didn’t. One large problem the Coalition faced was that of what to do with people who left the prison. Before it had become conscious, this was not as much of an issue: people didn’t know they were part of it, so they didn't care if they left. But now that it was conscious, individual members did not want to leave.

This came as a surprise to the Coalition, who thought that someone like Nate, for example, would jump at the chance of getting out of his mental grasp. One thing no one had counted on was the intense feeling of…serenity that people had.

There was precious little to worry about. Other inmates simply did not mess with members, at least not anymore, and definitely not twice. The unfortunate who chose to do so would find themselves attacked on a thousand different fronts. Usually it was not physical, but, for that person, everything would go wrong. His cell would be trashed, he kept getting tripped and pushed by other inmates. Anything that could be reported to the guards was reported, his mail was lost, his laundry had holes, etc.

The violent ones were simply killed.

In all situations, the Coalition made it very clear why the retribution was being exacted. People didn’t mess with it.

Another problem was that the Coalition was growing. While he didn’t think about recruiting more people and he certainly didn’t try to induct more it happened anyways. In one month alone, about 100 new members had joined. They’d just notice at some point that they were part of it.

All this added up to one big problem: if things kept on going like this, the Coalition was going to end up in a lab somewhere or it was going to be forced into escaping from Attica. The lab wouldn’t work out. After a few weeks (days at this rate), all the experimenters would end up part of the experiment. Surprisingly, allowing a few people to escape would be child’s play. It was getting everyone out that was the hard part.

What the Coalition needed, he thought ruefully, was to get one of the guards on his side…

Standing on the grounds in front of the courtyard where the prisoners will milling about, Mr. Ed White, a guard with 4 years experience at Attica, had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched.

As it was, Ed was having a nerve rattling day.

He would have liked to have said that the inmates were acting up, but they were behaving ridiculously well: lining up before it was time to do so, no fights, courteous…it was unnatural. While that was “bad enough” today felt especially weird.

Ed would turn around suddenly and notice that people were not staring at him. He would walk up to groups of men that were not talking about him. If it were not for the fact that he got lousy pay and benefits, Ed would have taken a sick day.

Ed glanced at his watch and then back at the inmates. Then he glanced back at his watch again. Late! It was past the time when the inmates were supposed to head out! At least his vigilance was paying off!

Ed blasted a shrill note on his whistle. The inmates looked up.

“Alright convicts! Time to get moving!”

“But we just got here!”

“Don’t give me any of that! It’s 1:15 and time for the next group.”

“We are the next group!”

“Now don’t try any of that crap on me!”

The inmates just stared at something behind him.

Ed glanced over his shoulder and noticed a group of men, neatly lined up, waiting for him to take them back to the cell block. One of them waved uncertainly.

“Right! I knew that! OK funny boys, back to the cell block!”

At least now he had a reason to feel like people were watching him, what with him leading a group of 100 inmates. After delivering his group Ed was waiting at the vestibule between the cellblock and the rest of the complex for the next one. He traded some banter with Joe, the guy who opened and closed the gates.

“This place just keeps getting stranger.”

“You’re telling me! The other day I found out our computer system lost my personal day from last year!”

I am utterly alone Ed thought to himself.

I used to feel that way too.

Ed glanced at Joe sharply, but the man was still blathering on about lost vacation days. He looked around but didn’t see any other suspects.

It’s someone talking to you, exactly.

Ed turned around slowly but still didn’t see anyone.

“And here come our fine fellows now…” Joe observed dryly.

The next group of inmates came up to the vestibule. Joe buzzed them through. The inner door shut and Joe buzzed open the outer door. The group of men started walking towards the courtyard and Ed had to run for a bit to catch up.

Some guard I am.

They understand what’s going on.

The man nearest to Ed turned towards him and gave him the “thumbs up.”

“You, ah, can hear him?”

The man turned back. Ed felt a bead of sweat running down his spine.

Um…er…hello?

Yes, I am still here.

What’s going on?

I don't believe you.

Then things will be harder for you.

It was almost exactly like talking to himself, except that Ed was sure the thoughts were not coming from him.

What do you mean?

You have no choice.

What are you saying?

You are already part of us.

But…but I’m ME!

So are we.

Then…why can’t I read someone’s thoughts?!

Have you tried?

“Yo shithead!”

Ed glanced up angrily. Now this he could deal with! Ed strode over to a group of inmates who were standing in a circle.

“Which one of you maggots said that?!”

“Right here dipshit!”

Ed whirled around to confront Nate.

“Alright convict! You’re about to have yourself a little time out!”

“You read my mind, putz.”

“What? Are you looking to spend the next year in the hole?”

“Even if I were in there, you'd be right there with me.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Have you seen my lips move?”

“What?”

“When I talk are my lips moving?”

Thank you, Nate.

The inmate gave Ed a huge grin and turned away.

But…but…but…

You will be able to tell if someone is a member just by looking at them. You will pick up the knack in a day or two.

How do I leave?

You can’t. None of us can.

This isn’t fair!

No, it isn’t.

Ed glanced around wildly for a few moments, then he realized something.

You chose me!

Not exactly. I was merely studying you.

Why?

I…we need to escape from this place. If something isn’t done, some of us will soon be forced out.

Then why have all of you have been passing on the chance for parole?

Now that I'm conscious, none of us want to leave.

But why would anyone want to be part of this…this…thing?!

Yeah, pathetic, isn’t it?

Ed heard a new voice. An image came unbidden to his mind of a prisoner. At first he had trouble recognizing him, but then the man came into focus.

Heh…self-image. Never quite the same as what other people see, is it?

You want to be part of this?

Not when you put it that way but…have you ever doubted yourself? Me, I doubted myself my whole life. I’m a screw-up and I can’t do anything right.

And now?

Well, I still may be a screw-up, but I don’t have to deal with it alone.

Every doubt, every fear, every worry that had ever visited Ed…

Check!

Same here!

Me too!

I said that!

Word!

Every dirty secret, every crime, every transgression…

Been there, done that.

Yup.

Me too.

I never thought of using a gerbil like that…

Enough!

Ed was crouched over and gasping for breath.

I was wrong about you. Unlike most others you do have a choice. Since you can come and go from this place more or less at will, you could probably get far enough away that you will not hear my voice. You will escape. If that’s what you want.

You wanna time me?

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Groupthink: the Lighter Side - Chapter 3

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Year 8

If Nate hadn’t already been sure he was crazy, he would have started wondering.

It seemed like he couldn’t do anything without someone anticipating it and helping him before he even started. There hadn’t been a real fight in his cell block for 2 years and even the guards called it “creepy.” Lately, he wasn’t even sure about them either.

And just to put the cherry on the whole shit sundae (as Nate liked to say), lately he was getting these weird feelings. Every now and then, he would be doing something when he suddenly realized that he wasn’t the one doing the doing as it were. On one occasion he had glanced in the mirror and seen someone else.

While in many ways Nate felt more in tune with everyone around him, he also felt incredibly alone. Many of the things that used to part of his life were gone. Beating other people up: gone. Fear of the guards: gone. Black market: gone.

To take away the structure of his life left the man feeling uncertain. Frightened. Alone.

Nate had never been able to talk to other people before, but now he did so even less. While it seemed like he didn't need to talk, he also missed it. How can you ask for a magazine when someone hands it to you before you ask? How can you threaten someone when they know you can't follow through?

While this applied to the "members" of his "group," the other inmates avoided him like he had a disease. Everyone seemed to think that Nate and his crew were "spooky" and "weird." Nate's crew did not use drugs, they were inhumanly helpful to each other, and they didn't start fights. If someone else messed with them, however, they stopped fast or they got dead.

Four other people had died since the incident with Bull. Two of them were run of the mill prison deaths involving a fight, but the other two had involved threats of some kind against one of Nate’s people.

While none of them died by the same means, Nate was certain that he was somehow the cause. In one case, the guy had died of a supposed heart attack. This was fine as far as the infirmary boys were concerned, the inmate had been incredibly overweight and had a family history of coronary problems. It was just that he had been 40 years old at the time. Unlikely but it did happen.

Somehow, Nate knew that it had been potassium cyanide. Mind you, Nate couldn’t even spell the phrase, but he felt certain that it could be mistaken for a coronary if you didn’t know what you were looking for. He could describe how to get it from some of the stuff around the prison, how to make it tasteless, and how to get it into the man’s food without him suspecting. He could visualize some of the steps.

The other man, whose nickname was Shark, had died in a fight, which was not remarkable in a prison filled with violent offenders. What’s more, Shark was known for his violent moods and had gotten into several fights during the previous weeks. What made it strange to Nate was that he somehow knew what had set him off. He could recall talking to the people he had fought and telling them some bit of information that would set Shark off. It seemed to Nate that Shark's fights were a series of carefully orchestrated events with one goal: eliminating him. While Nate was sure about how it had been set up, he was equally sure that he hadn’t done it.

Every time it involved many people, acting seemingly on their own, but with an incredible degree of coordination. It would have been impossible for a bunch of men like Nate's crew to do this on their. Someone would always talk or it was just one person.

It never occurred to the warden that it was a conspiracy. He was just happy that he was able to run the prison on so little money while still managing to keep his "retirement fund" going.

And then there was Mr. Doe. John Doe, the gimp just lay or sat around most of the day. But Nate could swear that he had talked to the guy. There had been one incident where a letter had arrived for John from the state telling him of the death of a relative. Nate had opened it and exclaimed “Aunt Jo died?” At that moment, he could have told you everything you ever wanted to know about “Aunt Jo.” Of course, Nate had never even seen her.

All-in-all, the peace and serenity that permeated Nate's block just seemed more and more…unnatural.

* * *

Year 10

Things had reached “critical mass.”

Nate was sure that something big was about to happen, but he couldn’t say what. Sometimes, he felt like he wasn't in control of his body. He would have periods of time that he couldn't account for.

Then there were the periods where he remembered things that he was sure did not happen to him. A shrink would have described Nate's "whiteout" periods as delusions. Of course, the fact that they were actual events made things a bit more complex.

The feeling decreased as time went on, which was comforting. Then one day the prisoner realized that it wasn't happening less, he was just becoming accustomed to it.

He’d been trying to deal with the feeling all morning when he realized that a guard was yelling at him.

“It’s lunch time, idiot!”

“I heard you the first time.” Nate growled in reply.

The guard looked at him strangely and walked away.

“And get Mr. Nate to move too!”

Nate opened and shut his mouth. He glanced over at a bewildered man who stared back at him like he had grown another head. Abruptly, Nate realized he was looking at himself.

“Stop it!”

Nate looked around and was calmed by the fact that he seemed to be back in his body. He heard yells from around the block. It appeared it was catching.

As the inmates of Nate’s block shuffled towards the dining room, bumping into each other, doorways, walls, etc. one of the guards shook his head and said:

“Think they’re on some kind of drug?”

Nate turned and glared at the man, who suddenly took a step back. Normally, the guards never showed that kind of fear in front of the inmates. Nate realized that everyone had stopped to glare at the guard.

Self-consciously, the men got moving again.

Sitting at the lunch table, Nate grumbled: “Pass the damn salt.”

He looked up to see 6 salt-shakers and dozens more being handed to him from all over the room.

“Dammit!”

The last word had been echoed by everyone in the room. Nate glared at one of the salt shakers, and realized that he was not Nate.

In a flash he realized that he was.

He had hundreds of arms, legs, heads. He could see everything in the room in precise detail. Consciousness was a vast and unexplored universe that he had never visited. Knowledge undreamt of was his to command. Someone else was in his mind.

Just as quickly as the feeling had come about, it shattered. Nate found himself sitting in the lunch room holding a salt shaker. He felt his blood turn to ice as he realized what was happening; as he realized that he had no way of stopping it.

Everyone around him seemed to be dazed as well.

Nate looked around, desperate to find something to latch on to, something that he could concentrate on that would prevent that…thing from taking control. He looked at the table, his plate, his hands, his shoe anything that he could focus on.

The minutes crawled by. How long could he keep this up?

The bell rang, signifying that lunch was over. All around the room men got to their feet, all of them trying to avoid letting their minds wander. Trying to hang on.

It was hard to walk and do this at the same time, you tended to bump into things. Abruptly that passed. Nate let out a mental sigh, seeing the way ahead…even though he was looking down. The consciousness returned. The feeling of the other returned.

For most people, the feeling that they are, that they exist as something separate from everyone else, is something that does not occur at a single point. For this new collection of people, the transition was abrupt.

I am.

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