FIC: The Centre Cannot Hold (3/?)

Chapter Three

The Falcon Cannot Hear the Falconer

"Well if you told me you were drowning,

I would not lend a hand.

I've seen your face before my friend,

But I don't know if you know who I am.

But I was there, and I saw what you did

Saw it with my own two eyes,

So you can wipe off that grin,

'Cause I know where you've been,

It's all been a pack of lies.

I can feel it coming in the air tonight,

Hold on...

And I've been waiting for this moment for all my life,

Hold on...

Can you feel it coming in the air tonight,

Hold on...

Hold on..."

--Phil Collins

"In The Air Tonight"

In his room in a sub-basement of the Centre, the tortured young man known only as Angelo squirmed in his chair, his eyes staring wildly from behind his nest of black curls, constantly darting back and forth between two different computer monitors, his mind absorbing every image, every word like a sponge. Images of vampires flashed across the monitors at lightning speed, interspersed with sites and details from a small California college. "Monsters," he muttered to himself. "Monsters are out there, monsters out to get Jarod, out to get Miss Parker..."

Angelo was a testimony to the intellectual acumen of the Centre, as well as to its utter disregard for human life. A child prodigy, Timothy was taken by the Centre as an infant, much as Jarod was. Through various exercises, up to and including massive shock therapy, Mr. Raines had succeeded in boosting Timothy already preternatural empathic traits, at the cost of the young man's mind. His mind was now attuned to the minds he had encountered before, feeling what they felt on a subconscious level. But his own mind was erratic, conflicted, unable to hold any linear thought or even regard himself as a distinct individual. The Centre's experiments succeeded in destroying his mind. Where once there was an entity named Timothy a human being capable of laughing, loving and dreaming, there now stood the hyper-empath known only as Angelo, only capable of serving the ambitions of others, with no capacity for any ambitions of his own.

He sensed intuitively that Jarod was in great danger, probably greater than any the pretender had ever known in his chaotic life. What endangered him was more than Centre politics, more than Miss Parker's relentless pursuit, more even than Lyle's insanity or Mr. Raines' white-hot hatred of the entire human race. He sensed that Jarod would soon come face to face with true evil, and that knowledge was driving the already unstable empath further into a downward spiral.

A sudden sharp latching sound broke his concentration, and he spun in his chair, glancing behind him. The grating over the ceiling air vent hinged open, and then fell clattering to the floor. A black-clad figure dropped feet-first from the vent, landing in a crouching position on the concrete floor beneath him. The figure turned his head toward Angelo, removed the ski mask that obscured his face and smiled. "Hello, Timmy," he greeted him knowingly.

Angelo craned his head at three different angles, sizing this new visitor up for ten whole seconds; the wavy gray hair, the hard-worn expressive face, the authoritative spread of his shoulders. All this and something oddly familiar overlaid across his face. "You know Jarod?" he asked. "You seem a lot like him."

"I should," the visitor answered, "I'm his father. Call me Major Charles. Jarod sent me to break you out of here. Don't worry, Timmy, I have some medicine that Jarod recommended for you. We'll make you better again."

The mention of Jarod's name sent Angelo into a more violent seizure. "Jarod's in trouble," Angelo shouted as he backed away from the Major, his head twitching from side to side, his eyes darting furtively back and forth like a jungle animal trapped in too small a cage. "Something's happening to him, something evil's going to happen."

"Yes, yes," the Major spoke in soothing tones as he approached the frightened young man, "Jarod told me himself. He's up to his eyeballs in something big. And knowing him he's having the time of his life. Now, let's get you out of here before..." Almost as if on cue, alarm sirens keened, and flashing lights colored the dark room a vivid red. "Damn and blast," Major Charles muttered under his breath. "Lyle's goons will be here in a minute! Quickly, Timmy, we have to get up the vent!" Charles stood under the vent opening and held his hands three feet above the floor palm-up, his fingers interlaced.

Angelo nodded once, and stepped onto the offered hands, allowing Charles to push him upward into the vent. Once he saw Angelo's foot disappear from view, he jumped upward, grabbing the edge of the opening, and strained to lift himself up.

"Uh, uh, uh!" the voice behind him chided like honeyed venom. "On the floor, Major, hands where I can see them."

Major Charles let go of the ledge, landing on his feet and holding his hands over his head. "Isn't this rich?" Lyle smiled darkly behind the .9 millimeter he had aimed at the Major's heart. "You have no idea how pleased I am to see you here."

"Believe me," Major Charles snarled, "the pleasure's all yours."

Lyle shrugged off Charles' comment nonchalantly. "Let me guess; your son the lab-rat sent you to rescue Angelo from the big bad Centre, right?"

"Something like that," Charles answered.

"Silly rabbit," Lyle commented. "You should be aware that the Centre no longer wants Jarod alive. Mr. Raines has ordered the Centre sweepers to kill Jarod on sight now. Such a shame, the loss of a son. I think you'll agree with me that no father should live to see the death of his son, so..." he squeezed the trigger slightly, just enough to cock the hammer of his pistol. "No hard feelings, right Major?"

Charles shrugged his shoulders and said, "Oh, I dunno." He twisted on his right foot, and shot his left foot out with blinding speed, impacting Lyle's right wrist with his heel. The gun skidded on the floor and under Angelo's computer desk. "I'll bet that felt pretty hard," Charles added as Lyle tended to his broken wrist. His hand thrust forward and grabbed Lyle by the throat, pinning him like a chloroformed moth to the wall. All civility faded from his features, as a righteous rage fired his eyes.

"Y'know, Lyle," he hissed at the hapless Centre official, "As much pleasure as I would derive in pummeling you until you're just a greasy smear on my fists, I just don't have the time, and neither do you. Right now, my advice to you is to start shredding. Every Centre document you have, turn it into confetti. Ethan, my other son, remember him? He hacked his way into the Centre mainframe just this afternoon, and he's downloaded a few hundred Centre files. All the crooked deals that the Tower's made with the Triad, the Yakuza, the Russian Mafia, Al-Qaeda, practically every nation that ha s a hate-on for the States, plus enough video footage of the Centre's torturing of children in the Pretender project to keep Oliver Stone busy 'till Judgment Day. I have no idea how you're gonna keep your face off of 60 Minutes! Plus that little detail I read about your predilection for raping and slaughtering young Asian women. I can't wait to see that on the networks." He let go of Lyle's throat, just long enough to slam his fist into Lyle's left temple, knocking him out instantly. "That was for Jarod."

Charles heard rapid footsteps down the hallway, and knew he didn't have more than a few seconds before Lyle's sweepers started shooting. He rushed back to the vent and jumped, grabbing the ledge with his hands. He felt hands grabbing his arms, and smiled as Angelo helped pull him up, until he could shimmy all the way into the vent. "Thanks, Timmy," he panted slightly as he finished pulling himself into the vent. Just as he cleared his foot over the vent, he could hear scuffling feet, and the distinct bang and whiz of a bullet flying below his foot. He scurried behind Angelo, barely eva ding as bullets pierced the vent wall behind him. "We have to get to an outside shaft, one that leads out of the building before they initiate lock-down sequences!"

"This way," Angelo whispered tersely, taking a sharp turn as the vent branched to the left. "I know a way out of here."

"Lead on," Charles nodded, as he followed the younger man down the dark metal tunnel.

<<>>

Under the house lights of the Rialto Theater, Jarod sat silently in one of the back row seats, ticking off the items on his checklist; Shelly, the aspiring actress he had paid to assist him in this 'simulation' was ready in the lobby, he had tested the DVD player and the digital projector twice to make sure they worked properly, and he had memorized the layout of the building perfectly, especially the locations of the exits. He knew in his heart of hearts that Miss Parker would make an attempt to apprehend him. She was nothing if not persistent. And predictable.

He checked his Mickey Mouse watch again; ten minutes before his special audience was due. He sat back and prepared himself mentally for the evening, knocking back another piece of candy from a Pez dispenser. As the sweet artificial cherry flavor hit his tongue, his cel-phone rang with a distinctive tone he had programmed into it a few months ago; the five-tone melody from 'Close Encounters of the Third Kind'. He lifted the phone to his lips and responded, "Jarod here."

"I got Timmy out, Jarod," Major Charles announced quietly. "We're at the safe-house."

"Thank God," Jarod breathed. "You have the medication for him?"

"I have it here at the safe-house, Son. I also have Emily, Ethan and Debbie here with me. Ethan and I have been going through the files he downloaded from the Centre. I still can't believe even Mr. Raines could be planning this."

"Believe it, Dad," Jarod intoned angrily. "I've read the Initiative file from cover to cover. That's why I'm doing this. I can't just run from the Centre anymore. One way or another, it ends now."

On his end of the connection, Major Charles breathed anxiously. "I'm afraid that Mr. Raines agrees with you on that score. I had a run-in with Lyle while retrieving Timmy. He informed me that Raines handed out a 'shoot-to-kill' order on you for all sweepers. He wants you dead."

"Nice to know he cares," Jarod harrumphed. "Look, you just stay safe, and keep the others safe. And tell Ethan and Emily that I love them. You've done so much already. I can't ask any more from you, Dad."

"You don't have to, Jarod," Charles chuckled. "I for one will take immense pleasure in helping to bring Raines down."

"So will I, Dad. So will I. You take care. I love you, Dad."

"I love you too, son," the Major answered. "And watch your six, Jarod."

Jarod chuckled as he hung up his phone and sat quietly in the darkened theater. Things were moving so rapidly that Jarod had barely enough time to mentally prep himself for his confrontation with Miss Parker. He took the time to sit down and center himself, to prepare for the battle to come.

Alone with his thoughts, he reflected on something he had once asked Sydney during one of their chases, a question that had continued to haunt him every day of his life since he first escaped the Centre;

"How many people died because of what I thought up?"

*****

February 17, 1975;

Inside the windowless metal-walled room, Sydney looked on as a thirteen-year-old boy stared determinedly at the folder full of charts and diagrams, his mind racing in circles as he digested the information before him. "Sydney," the boy asked the distant yet kindly doctor. "I don't understand the purpose of this simulation."

"What is the matter, Jarod?" Sydney asked.

"The question involves evolutionary patterns, and whether humanity or a new evolutionary offshoot would survive," Jarod passed his notes and writings across the table to the psychiatrist, "but it seems that the results Doctor Raines wants would lead to mutual destruction. No matter how I work the sim, the results are the same; nuclear exchange, total destruction."

"Hmm, so if your notes are correct, neither homo sapiens nor a hypothetical homo superior would survive a future evolutionary leap." Sydney rubbed his chin, pondering Jarod's predicament. "I have a question, Jarod. Is the only option conflict?"

Jarod lifted his head, thoughts running through his head, developing like photographs, revealing new possibilities, opening closed doors. "Yes," he breathed, taking hold of his notes again, "cooperation instead of warfare. There would be distrust at first, but if both species could reach an amicable solution…"