Jeremy Robinson - Blackout

His streak of good luck had actually begun more than two months earlier when, completely out of the blue, he had received an invitation to attend the Global Energy Future meeting in Paris. A lifelong resident of the American Midwest, Downey had never even considered taking a European vacation; his idea of a getaway involved palm trees, fruity cocktails adorned with umbrellas, and lots of women wearing bikinis. But this was an invitation he simply couldn’t refuse.

As operations manager of Omaha Public Utility District station 4-a coal-fired 1,200-megawatt producing power plant on the banks of the Missouri River-attending regional conferences was part of the job. The city usually picked up the tab for travel and lodging, and supplied him a stingy per diem, but that hardly made up for the long hours spent poring over charts and statistics in an endless succession of Powerpoint presentations. That the GEF conference was a much higher profile event-not just regional or even national, but global in scale-taking place in the legendary City of Lights, barely made an impression on him…until he read the invitation letter more carefully. Oh, there would be speeches and presentations, but the conference organizer was handling the logistical side, to include business-class air travel and a week’s stay at the legendary Hotel Ritz, with complimentary concierge service. The sponsors of the event seemed to have very deep pockets and no compunction regarding how their money was spent. The program for the conference was built around three six-hour days, leaving ample time for site-seeing and nightlife, culminating in what promised to be a spectacular casino event aboard a private riverboat on the Seine. As he reviewed the letter, Downey’s first thought had been: This is too good to be true. But after another reading, that had changed to: This is too good to pass up.

The conference itself had been unremarkable, focusing on vague strategies for dealing with the increasing need for more energy production in developing countries, the importance of retrofitting existing power grids and developing a comprehensive energy policy that included alternative and renewable sources-what Downey thought of as hippy-dippy bullshit. But the short presentations, which he wasn’t even obligated to attend, had passed quickly, while the nights had been amazing. The concierge had directed him to the best nightclubs in the city and although he hadn’t managed to close the deal with any Parisian ladies, he’d had a lot of fun trying. All his life, he had heard that the French, and Parisians in particular, were rude, stuck-up and hated Americans, but that had not been his experience. Of course, that might have had something to do with the Platinum AmEx card the conference organizer had given each attendee.

Downey was still primping when an insistent knock disrupted his musings. He shot a glance at his watch. Six-forty, he thought. He had arranged to have a car waiting at quarter to seven, but there was no reason not to get a head start on the night’s activities. Odd that they came to the room, but whatever.

He ambled through the luxurious suite and threw open the door. “You’re early…”

His voice trailed off as he found himself once more facing his reflection. No, that wasn’t right. A mirror would show a perfect image of him, as he was now, one hand on the doorknob, a quizzical expression on his face. This was something else; him in every detail, standing motionless with a determined, but faintly amused expression. “What the-?”

With an almost unnatural swiftness, the double stepped forward into the suite. With one hand, he swept the door closed behind him. The other hand reached out for Downey, who caught just a glimpse of the oblong black object in the newcomer’s hand as it was pressed against his abdomen. A loud crackling sound filled his ears and every muscle in his body contracted instantly. He went rigid and a burning pain spread through his extremities. A moment later, Downey dropped where he stood, his legs folding awkwardly beneath him. He was still conscious, but that mattered little; he felt as if he had been unplugged from his body.

He saw the face that was an almost perfect duplicate of his own hovering above him, but even as he struggled to regain control of his flaccid limbs he felt a sting in the side of his neck and his world quickly dissolved into darkness.

King quickly withdrew the hypodermic needle from Bill Downey’s neck and after slipping the safety cap over the glinting metal tip, deposited it in the pocket of his dinner jacket. Then he drew back a few steps and breathed in through his nose, fighting an impulse to sneeze. The fragrance wafting up from the motionless form had triggered some kind of allergic reaction; it smelled like the man had practically bathed in some kind of cologne or body spray. A good sneeze would have been very satisfying, ridding his nostrils of the offending vapors, but the professional make-up artist who had, eight hours previously, transformed King’s rugged features into an almost perfect likeness of the power plant manager had cautioned him to avoid any activities that might dislodge the applique of latex and cosmetics.

“Sorry you won’t be making the party,” he told the unconscious man when the irritation in his nasal membranes subsided. “But look on the bright side. I spared you the disappointment of rejection. Here’s a tip for next time: subtlety.”

King suppressed a chuckle. Laughter was another proscribed action, as was eating, and as he knelt over Downey again, dragging the body over to the neatly made bed, a deep rumble in his gut reminded him of just how hungry he was.

He vividly remembered the last real meal he had eaten, that wasn’t a power bar or quickly devoured snack food. Two days earlier, he’d been enjoying a well deserved and much needed day off, relaxing with Sara and Fiona-his family-at a cabin in New Hampshire’s Pinckney Bible Conference Grounds, which had been turned back over to the owners and re-opened to the public. Manifold Alpha, the secret base hidden beneath the mountain behind the campground, had been converted to better suit Endgame, the new black ops organization of which Chess Team was the core. Endgame had also purchased a number of the cabins, which could be used by personnel for recreation. It had been a strangely perfect day, strange because for the first time in a long time, he hadn’t felt like ‘King,’ hadn’t felt like the field leader of an ultra-secret special operations team, but instead had savored the chance to just be Jack Sigler.

Except that wasn’t quite right. His Chess Team callsign wasn’t an alter ego, a secret identity that he put on and took off like some kind of comic book superhero’s costume. He hadn’t sublimated the ‘real’ Jack Sigler to become King. If anything, becoming a spec ops soldier, leading the lethal shooters of Chess Team into dangerous and highly classified missions against the worst kinds of terrorists, literally saving the world from threats that most people would find incomprehensible, was the very essence of who Jack Sigler was.

Or rather, who he had been. Lately, he had begun seeing things from a very different perspective.

Two days ago, hunched over the barbecue grill turning burgers and brats, with his girlfriend Sara lounging nearby sipping a Sam Adams and his foster daughter Fiona exploring the adjacent woods…that was when, for what seemed like the first time in his life, he’d gotten a taste of what it would be like to live as a normal person. And to his complete surprise, he found that he kind of liked it.

He didn’t harbor any resentment for the sacrifices he had made in the name of duty, no sorrow for the life he might have had. It wasn’t like that at all. He was proud of his service, proud of what Chess Team had accomplished. The world would never know how close or how often it had come to the brink of total destruction. If not for Chess Team, there would be no family vacations, no scenes of domestic tranquility, for anyone at all, and that was not something he took lightly.