The Thirteenth Skull

“In reference to a skull,” I said.

“What skull?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

It was a cozy little cabin. There was a fireplace, a couple of rustic rocking chairs, a bed with a small writing table beside it, and a bathroom in the back. I opened a slatted door by the bathroom and saw thirteen identical OIPEP jumpsuits hanging there. There was that number again. I wondered if somebody cosmically connected was trying to tell me something. “What now?” I asked Ashley.

“Try to rest. We’re getting started first thing in the morning.”

“No TV?”

She smiled. “The reception here isn’t very good.”

“There’s always satellite,” I said.

She left. I heard something go snick when the door closed. I tried the handle.

I was in lockdown.

04:04:25:31

That night I dreamed I was flying. Maybe it was the eagle I saw the day before, soaring high and alone over the mountains, but I was flying, arms outstretched, a thousand feet high, and below me I could see mountains and rivers, vast plains and open, empty desert. And cities, from sprawling metropolises to mud hut villages, until I soared past a rocky coastline and then I was over the open ocean, heading west toward the setting sun, cut in half by the horizon. I was alone, and for once it felt good to be alone, above a tranquil sea that had no boundary, the sparkling ribbon of reflected light from the dying sun the path that guided me.

I dove down like a seabird going in for the kill, my arms against my sides, and the wind drove my hair straight back away from my face. I wasn’t afraid. I felt alone, but in this aloneness there was a sense of complete freedom.

I woke up kind of dissatisfied with the fact that eventually you have to wake up from dreams. Someone was knocking on the cabin door.

“Alfred,” I heard Ashley call. “Alfred, it’s time.”

I washed up, pulled a fresh jumpsuit from its wooden hanger, slipped on my hiking boots and parka, and then followed Ashley up the trail to the main cabin.

Breakfast was already laid out, and we ate alone by the crackling fire.

“Where is everybody?” I asked. The place felt deserted and had an almost haunted-house feel to it. I thought it would be crawling with Company operatives, doctors and researchers and the support staff, like cooks and maids and maybe even a bodyguard or two. But the only people I had seen since arriving in Canada were the two guys from the airstrip, Abby, Ashley, and Nueve.

“They’re in the conference room upstairs,” Ashley said. I guessed she was talking about Nueve and Abby. “Meeting with the board.”

“The board is here?”

“By video phone.”

“Oh. Why are they meeting with the board?”

Before she could answer, a door slammed upstairs and Abby Smith came rushing down, Nueve hot on her heels.

“I don’t care,” Abby was saying. “It wasn’t the bargain we made, Nueve.”

“A bargain impossible to keep, Director,” Nueve said. “As the board pointed out to you.”

Abby whirled on him. “This is entirely your doing.”

He had stopped three steps above her, and his back stiffened when she snapped at him.

“I am the Operative Nine. All Items of Special Interest fall under my jurisdiction.”

“He’s not an ‘Item,’ Nueve. He’s a human being.”

Ashley stood up. “What going on?” she called across the room.

They turned and stared at us. I don’t think they knew we were there.

“Ah, Alfred,” Abby Smith said with forced pleasantness. “How did you sleep, dear?”

“I had a great dream,” I said. I looked at Nueve, then back at her. “And now I’m kinda sorry I woke up.”

Nueve said to Abby, “Tell him.”

She came over to me and put both hands on my shoulders. “Alfred, I’m afraid there’s been a minor modification to the extraction protocol.”

I shrugged her hands away. “Cut the Company double-talk and tell me what’s going on. Are you going to extract me or not?”

“The short answer is yes,” Nueve said from the stairs.

“I’ll handle this,” Abby snapped at him. She looked up at the ceiling. I looked up too, wondering what was the matter with the ceiling . . . and then I heard it, the low growl of helicopters in the distance.

Nueve fairly bounded toward the front door.

“They’re here,” he said. He flung open the door and then flung himself outside, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Who’s here?” I asked Abby.

She sighed. “My guess is Dr. Mingus.”

“Mingus?” I asked.

“Mingus!” Ashley gasped.

“And a security detail,” Abby added. “Nueve is quite thorough.”

“Who’s Dr. Mingus?” I asked Abby.

“The head of GD,” Ashley answered when Abby hesitated. “Why is he here?” she asked her.

“I know what ‘GD’ usually stands for,” I said. “But what does it stand for in OIPEP-speak?”

“Nueve ordered it,” Abby said. Her face was very pale. “Before the conference call, obviously. He must have already known the board’s decision.” She gave my arm a quick squeeze. “He’s here to conduct the standard preextraction evaluation, Alfred. It’s part of the protocol and perfectly SOP.”

Ashley choked out a laugh. “SOP—right!” She turned to me. “Alfred, ‘GD’ stands for Genetic Development.”

04:03:43:05

Abby led us to a conference room on the second floor. We sat at a long table, Ashley right beside me and Abby Smith across the table with a laptop in front of her. She pressed a button and a screen slowly lowered from the ceiling. She tapped another button and the lights in the room dimmed.

“What’s going on?” Ashley demanded. “Alfred has a right to know.”

“A minor shift in the extraction protocol.” Abby hit a key on the laptop and a picture faded in on the big screen. It was an aerial shot of a tropical island on a sunny day. Palm trees, waves breaking on a sparkling white beach, a few buildings with whitewashed walls and straw roofs. It looked like something from a travel-agency poster.

“What is that?” I asked.

“That is Camp Omega-I, an uncharted island in the South Pacific,” Abby answered. “And our most secure base, other than headquarters. Besides the personnel permanently assigned to COI, only myself and the Operative Nine—and now, Ashley, of course—are even aware of its existence.”