Chris Jordan - Torn

The speaker, by now trembling with nerves, is staring at Shane the way an unarmed hiker might look at the sudden appearance of a grizzly bear on the trail. His eyes flitting to the exits, calculating where to retreat and how fast he has to run to get there, all the while not wanting to antagonize the bear in his path.

“We’re, um, not allowed to give out any personal information,” he says.

“Sure, a course. But you know the Barlows, right? At least you heard of them?” A flicker in his eyes confirms that he has, indeed, heard of the Barlows. “Are they home by any chance? Maybe you could call ’em yourself, tell ’ em Ron Gouda from Dayton happens to be in the vicinity. They want, they can call me. No loss of privacy, we do it that way, right? Whattaya say, Mr. Two Level, can you help me out? Can you call the Barlows?”

“Um, not directly, but I’ll, um, see what I can do.”

“Fantastic! Tell you what, you’re ever in Dayton I’ll buy you the biggest steak dinner you ever seen. Thirty-two ounces of prime, grain-fed steer. Or we could do the pork rib barbecue. Your choice.”

“Sure, I’ll keep that in mind. Could you excuse me? I’m, ah, running late.”

“Eldon and Missy Barlow! As a personal favorite to me.”

“Yes, yes. If you’ll just go along to the Hive.”

“Absolutely,” Shane says, letting the man get by him. “Free hot chocolate, cookies. Wouldn’t miss that for the world.”

Five minutes later Randall Shane has found an exit from Profit Hall. As he steps out into the beautiful, frozen landscape of the Conklin Institute, his eyes scanning the mountainside residences for activity, he’s thinking two things.

One, there’s a pretty solid chance that a security cruiser will be dispatched to warn, and/or question the Barlows about the presence of a potential troublemaker, and with any luck he’ll be there to see it happen.

Two, he really, really regrets leaving his new down parka at reception, because if something doesn’t happen in the next fifteen minutes he’ll be frozen solid.

He’s trying to dance the cold away, stamping his feet and flapping his arms, when the flinty-eyed grab-and-go queen shows up, all decked out in an ankle-length parka, fake-fur earmuffs, and long and very pink wool scarf.

“What in the name of God are you doing out here?” she wants to know, clapping her mittens together “We’re having a cold snap! You’ll get frostbite!”

“Just clearing my lungs! Stuffy in there!” Teeth chattering, Shane tries to respond cheerfully.

“I thought we got all the nuts in Southern California,” she says, staring up at him. “Apparently they kept a few in Ohio.”

Shane grins like a madman. Maybe if she thinks he’s crazy she’ll leave him alone. Whatever, he’s invested now. Has to stay out in the open ground where he’s got a clear view of the surrounding community, the terraced streets rising above the campus. Looking for any sign of security response that might lead him to the Barlow residence.

“You know what the temperature is?” she demands, her California tan turning almost as pink as the scarf. “In the last hour it’s fallen to five degrees! That’s without the windchill. With the wind it’s below zero.”

“Feels good!” Shane tells her, hugging himself. “Gets the old heart pumping!”

What gets his heart pumping is the sight of a BK Security cruiser speeding along one of the upper streets. The cruiser stops, dome light strobing, beneath a massive, multilevel ski lodge. His eyes are watering so badly that he can’t see much more than that. Does the responding officer get out and ring the bell or whatever? Is the lodge even occupied? He can’t tell, but it’s a place to start.

“You’re right, I better get inside!” he says, abruptly excusing himself. “It’s c-c-cold out here!”

Then he’s running in huge, loping strides, across the hard-frozen ground, heading for the entrance to Domicile One.

There’s a new crew at the reception desk, but Shane manages to retrieve his parka with a minimum of fuss. Although he’s again disconcerted to find that staff people he’s never seen before seem to know him by sight.

“Did you enjoy the seminar, Mr. Gouda?”

“Yeah, yeah, it was great. Opened my mind to a whole new way of thinking.”

“Wonderful. You don’t want to miss the welcome party. They’re expecting you.”

“Me personally? Really? That’s great. Just got to get something out of my car.”

“One of the staff can take care of that, Mr. Gouda,” the desk clerk says, holding out his hand for the keys. “That way you won’t miss the party. Just follow the arrows back to the Hive.”

Really, it’s like dealing with robots. Polite, personable young robots who won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. In open defiance, Shane zips up his parka. “It’s a personal matter,” he says, striding out the door, car keys in his fist.

A glance back reveals that the desk clerk has already lifted a phone, no doubt reporting an uncooperative guest.

Shane hurries out to his vehicle, hoping it will start. Fortunately the Grand Cherokee is equipped with a good battery-plenty of cranking amps-and although it hesitates and then shudders sluggishly, the engine somehow manages to chug to life on the first try. Not waiting for a warm-up, he guns the beast a few times, watching the tachometer spike, and then puts it in gear. No squeal of tires-the Big Cheese is just going for a little old sightseeing ride-but a firm application of the throttle pedal.

He’s keenly aware of the tracking device clipped to the visor, and would dearly love to heave it out the window, but doing so would automatically alert security, and that will happen soon enough, thank you. He’s also thinking he’s never before in his life been in such a controlled environment. This is the kind of total surveillance the old Soviets and Maoists only dreamed about. Call it a silicon curtain, with every obedient citizen reduced to a pulsing dot on a monitor, guided from one indoctrination to the next. Not for nothing was Arthur Conklin an expert in insect hive dynamics. His followers might preach a kind of Darwinian individualism-the self above all-but when it came right down to it they were obsessive about instilling group behavior into would-be Rulers, from the very get-go.

The interior of the Cherokee has all the warmth of a walk-in freezer-how long does it take these things to warm up?-but he doesn’t have time to fully appreciate his discomfort before decisions are upon him. There’s a circular road around the campus, and no immediate clue as to where it joins the road that rises up the mountainside, providing access to the residential area. Should he go left or right? He decides to retrace the way he came in, figuring the residential access must split off somewhere back before the signs that had so helpfully guided him down into the campus the night before.

Speaking of night, the shadow cast by the setting sun is rapidly crawling up the mountainside, leaving the valley dimmed. Ominous, somehow. Four in the afternoon and already the lights are coming on. No doubt the temperature is dropping even further. All of which confirms his decision not to attempt a recon on foot.

Randall Shane, human Popsicle. We found him after the spring melt, your honor, no idea how he wandered off, or what he was looking for.

By the time he’s found his way back to the entrance to the valley, the interior of the vehicle has warmed up sufficiently for his breath to stop showing. And there, unmarked, the road does indeed split off, a narrow fork of well-sanded tarmac curving away, and upward. Grateful to the rental agent who suggested he opt for four-wheel drive, he sets out on the elevated road. After the first steep rise the roadway levels off, hugging the mountainside, and he’s able to see down into the valley below, where the lights of the campus beckon like a nagging teacher. Return to your seat, grasshopper. Drink your hot chocolate, nibble your cookies, and obey, obey, obey. Well, screw that. He’s not here to expose some money-sucking self-improvement scheme, however cleverly presented, he’s here to develop enough evidence to justify a search warrant, hopefully bring in the FBI, or at the very least the Colorado state detectives. Some law enforcement entity that can cut through the crap, find Haley Corbin and her kid before the whole place goes Jonestown.