Gregg Hurwitz - The Program

Leah found the desktop icon for the mock site – only when it was finished would they put it online. At the top of the screen, a clock ticked off the minutes, an added luxury. 6:23 A.M. She hardly remembered the last time she'd been able to ground herself in time.

Seized by an impulse, she jumped up and ran to the tiny bathroom. Sure enough, a mirror. No window provided natural light; her shadowy outline stared back at her. Gathering her courage, she reached for the light switch, feeling it brush her fingertips. Finally she could get a real look at herself, not just a blurred glimpse in the back of a spoon. She froze, her corrective thinking clamping down fast and absolute. She skulked back to the desk and buried herself in her work.

Though Chris had left the site in good order, there was a tremendous amount to be done before the launch date. After the first few minutes, Leah stopped glancing at the clock. She furiously wrote code, nibbling her fingers as she used to in college. That a combination of ones and zeros could engender a digital world never ceased to amaze her. First there was nothing, and then all of a sudden a berth existed in cyberspace, a resting place for weary Web travelers, an omnipresent oasis. From chaos, order.

It wasn't until she stood and nearly fainted from light-headedness that she realized it was past three o'clock.

She went to the locked door and banged on it. Only the rush of wind and the scrape of a tree branch on the roof answered her. She banged harder, the thought of the mod's isolation just beginning to creep under her skin when a key slid into the outside lock. Lorraine pulled the door open, adjusting a robe over her bare body. She did not look pleased. "What?"

"I need to see TD."

Lorraine shot a sigh and headed across the clearing. Randall and Skate were nowhere in view, though one of the Dobermans lay on the porch, piercing them with its blue-black eyes. They scooted past it into TD's cottage.

TD reclined on his bed, shirtless, his lips pursed around the base of a ripe strawberry. "Leah, dear. Have you eaten at all today?"

"No."

"You're such a strong worker. Been hacking away in the mod since morning. Amazing." Pausing to suck at the strawberry, he rolled his head on his plush pillow, directing a languid gaze at Lorraine. "Maybe if one of my other Lilies worked as hard as you, she would have been awarded the Scottsdale ambassadorship."

Lorraine lowered her eyes. He pointed at the floor, and she went to her knees.

"Now, Leah, what can I do for you?"

"I need to get online to download an add-in for some Flash animation."

He dropped a lazy hand off the bed and stroked Lorraine's hair. "Go locate Randall. He's re-marking the boundary lines on the north edge of the ranch."

Lorraine vanished in an angry swirl of robe.

TD slid off the bed. As he drew near, Leah dropped her gaze from his hypnotic eyes. Barefoot, he was about her height. She took in his scent, its hints of bark and iron. His head darted forward, mouth seizing her lower lip. She felt the gentle grind of his teeth, then the pluck of his lips as he pulled his face back off hers. He turned and headed to the kitchen.

Readying her lunch with his own two hands, he lavished her with attention. As she ate, he stood behind her and stroked her shoulders, her arms.

His hands ceased. "You made a special connection to one of the Neos at the colloquium. Tom Altman."

She felt her insides go slack. "I guess so."

"He asked you back to his group. And in the bus on the way home, you remarked to Winona that he seemed nice."

TD always knew everything.

"He's a very special new member of the Inner Circle. I'd like you to be his Gro-Par when he arrives." He paused, but she was too shocked to respond. "There's something upsetting in Tom's past that's holding him back, something about his daughter's death. You could be helpful to him as his Gro-Par by helping him name what that thing is. He'll share a room with you. See to his needs."

A great weight pressed down on her chest.

He studied her face knowingly. "You're upset that you're losing Janie."

Before she could respond, a gust of wind announced Lorraine and Randall's entrance. Bits of dead weed clung to Randall's overalls. He looked supremely displeased that his work had been interrupted.

"Leah needs a phone cord to log on to the Internet."

"I already put the phone cords to bed. The call sheets are done for today."

TD just looked at him.

Randall gestured for Leah to follow and led her to the shed. Two narrow cots crowded the floor. Randall gripped one by its metal frame and lifted it, stained sheets spilling over his arms. He set it atop the other, then got down on all fours in the cleared space and blew on the floor. Dust swirled up, revealing a safe embedded in the concrete. A single dot of metal where the cot leg ordinarily rested shone cleanly through the grime. Randall bent down, tongue poking into his upper lip, and worked the dial. He swung the lid open.

In the cavity lay a bundle of neatly wound phone cords.

Randall removed one tenderly. They headed back to the mod, and Leah plugged it in to the wall and the modem port on the computer.

Randall drew up a second chair. She logged on, found the appropriate site, and started the download. His elbow resting against hers, Randall kept his eyes trained unblinkingly on the screen.

Weapons of influence." Bederman settled into an outmoded armchair. "They've accompanied us into our most shameful hours. Witch-hunts. Blacklists. Death camps. Between the pages of suicide-terrorist training manuals. Up a con man's sleeve."

Tim set down his cup of now-cold tea, the cushioned wicker couch creaking with his movement. The country-decorated ranch house, located in the better section of Westwood just north of the university, could have been acquired from the producers of Mister Ed: checkerboard curtains, horsehair rugs, and a barn-red front door with white crosspieces. Save the bars on the windows, the lineup of dead bolts, and the occasional bleep of the security system, the place was old and homey and bizarre for a single man in his sixties. A cinnamon candle burned somewhere out of sight. Tim decided that Bederman was either a widower or he'd inherited his mother's house; if he were gay, he'd surely have better taste.

"Betters has added some clever, malicious riffs to an age-old song." Bederman polished his spectacles. "Vertical emotional dependence, directed deference to authority, a tightly controlled system of pseudologic, internal language walling up the insiders, dislocating newcomers. He's married two cult models, the psychotherapeutic cult and the self-improvement cult – think the Sullivanians meet Lifespring. Tell me the Program Source Code again?"

"Take sole responsibility for your life. Delete your Old Programming. Overwrite your Old Programming with your New Programming. Maximize your growth by minimizing your negativity. Negate Victimhood. Your behavior is for you. Exalt strength, not comfort. Strive for fulfillment, not happiness. Get with The Program." Tim could almost hear the chants in his head as he named them.

"And our dear friend Tom Altman wisely presented as a doer. I'm sure the Teacher sized you up as such – that's the biggest type of fish to fry for this kind of cult. Believers are automatically out, thinkers get tangled up in the logic, and feelers are too easy – no challenge for a show-man like TD. Doers are men and women of action, which means they've almost certainly made mistakes in the past for which they hold some measure of remorse that can be turned against them. They also tend to have financial resources and they make great subleaders. I'm not surprised you made the cut from the LGAT -"