Robert Reed - Mind's Eye

Illustration by Shirley Chan

The most dangerous minds in the solar system stand about in little knots and horseshoes, sipping watery drinks, breathing the sea air, and gazing skyward, reveling in their good fortune. It’s a clear night on the heels of an excellent dinner, and, according to coded reports, nothing of substance has affected their timetable. But best of all, Kaybecker has yet to arrive. Their project manager has reportedly been delayed—an unexpected blessing, and all the more sweet because of it. The scientists tingle with nervous excitement, referring to their internal clocks as the evening progresses, marking the minutes, then the seconds, whispers joining into a single shared voice that ends with a shouted, “Zero!” at precisely twenty-two seconds after 2200 Pacific War Time.

In that moment, the entire earth plunges into a blackout, cities and military posts sipping from stored power, while every tokamak, solar array, and shit-burning turbine funnels its output into a single weapon system.

Fifty thousand kilometers overhead, a breach and muzzle are being woven from invisible magnetic juices.

In that, nothing is new.

These blackouts and the subsequent barrages occur daily. It has been the routine for decades. Forever, it seems. But new tricks are coming online tonight. The pulse will be briefer than ever, and hotter, a bolt of charged particles and viscous plasmas focused on the enemy’s final stronghold. And to give the blast even more muscle, orbiting railguns have been launching warheads for the last hour—ceramic-jacketed thousand-megaton bullets raining down on the hapless target, waiting to be ignited in a single apocalyptic moment.

Seattle lies several hundred kilometers north of the celebration, and, when the blackout comes, its silvery glow fades away in an instant, the stars and orbiting stations brighter, and the full moon suddenly close.

People begin to quietly applaud the sky.

A thundering voice interrupts, shouting, “What a night! A perfect night for lovers, isn’t it?!”

Kaybecker arrives. Resplendent as always, he wears a long robe adorned with vivid orange and black stripes patterned after a species of poisonous treefrog. The requisite body armor beneath gives him bulges and even more than the usual bulk. His helmet is a mirrored blister. His transparent flash-mask distorts a wide, pugnacious face. Gripping his shoulders is a long black cape. Woven from photoactivated aerogels, its fabric is nearly weightless, keyed to respond to reddish light. The instant that Kaybecker steps into the open meadow, his cape feels the moonlight, and it rises and begins to billow, resembling a breath of tethered, unhappy smoke.

Kaybecker’s eyes close, and for a long moment, he says nothing.

Then a wide hand lifts, and his voice bellows, “Hello, darlings! My children! How’s the barbecue coming…?”

A hundred geniuses suddenly feel foolish, unable to recall what they had just said or even why they are here. Kaybecker has that effect. He is brash and insulting, and despised, and, in his own peculiar fashion, unquestionably brilliant. Just his presence is enough to make subordinates shiver, more than a few glancing up at the moon, wishing things could end now. Please, now.

Huddled together in their own corner of the yard are several dozen military and civilian observers. Kaybecker approaches, shaking hands and greeting each by name, a magnificent smile married to an aggressive charm. “How do you like the weather?” he asks. “I demanded it. Pulled in some favors. Not one fucking cloud, you’ll notice. Farms need rain, but, the way I see it, my people deserve a clear night even more.”

The ranking general—a tall woman, homelier than homely—gestures at the cliff behind them. “We’d see more from underground, what with cameras and sensors.”

Kaybecker dismisses her with a snort. “We’ll have the rest of our lives to watch the recordings,” he argues. “But what we’re doing here… this is standing on the front lines… nothing between what happens and us but our own eyes…!”

The logic fails to impress.

Kaybecker doesn’t care. He sweeps a drink from a passing platter, then tells the officer beneath, “I want to see your captain. Bring him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that one officer… Nagel…!” He closes his eyes, and smiles. “Have Nagel bring my dinner to me, please.”

“Yes… sir…”

The captain is a beautiful man of imprecise race. He wears a dress uniform and military eyes that resemble polished anthracite. In charge of project security for only the last five weeks, he offers a crisp salute, saying, “You asked for me, sir?”

Kaybecker’s human eyes open, his smile changing. Hardening. “Tell me everything’s going well.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Our enemies aren’t about to attack, are they?”

The captain hesitates, reading data projected into his thick flash-mask. Then he tells everyone in earshot, “No, sir. The rebels are confused. No one notices us…

The project’s labs are buried in the nearby mountains, and the entire area is bathed in EM camouflage, three equally plausible cover stories explaining their little gathering, including false communication nets run by competing agencies, none of which knows the project’s true purpose. “Everything is on track, sir.”

Kaybecker smiles at the captain, at the artificial eyes and his handsome, arrogant face. Then the smile vanishes, replaced by a stew of expressions laid one on top of another, and no one, not even Kaybecker, able to follow his emotions.

“Is there anything else, sir?”

“I don’t know. Is there?” Kaybecker gives a big wet sigh, then says, “I remember asking for my dinner—”

“Here it is, sir.”

With identical motions, both men turn toward the voice. Officer Nagel stands in moonlight, a plate balanced in little hands. Fixed to a smaller face, her glass eyes appear larger than the captain’s eyes. She wears a crisp purple-black uniform over battle armor, plus a simple mirrored helmet. Rebel fire, weak to begin with and diluted by the atmosphere, would never kill her. The real danger is closer, and cooler. “Oh, good,” it tells her. “I was hoping to bump into you, Nagel.”

She can’t help but glance at her captain.

Then she looks away, remembering to smile.

Kaybecker finds some reason to laugh. “It’s Callene, isn’t it?”

“Callene Nagel. Yes, sir.” She offers a tiny nod, then the plate, betraying hopefulness when she tells him, “My post is at the beach, sir. Serving guard duty—”

“Fuck that,” Kaybecker roars. Then he turns to the captain, adding, “She stays with me. Find someone to stand in for her, if you think it’s necessary.”

“I think…” The captain sputters, then regains his voice. “What’s necessary is that my officer stays where I put her—”

“Why? Are the rebels going launch a beach assault?” Kaybecker pounds him with a hard laugh, then says, “She stays. You’re excused. Captain.”

“I would prefer—”

“No,” Kaybecker warns.

Scientists watch the drama. Privy to the gossip, they know exactly what’s happening, and exactly how it will end.

“Very well,” the captain relents. “May I go, sir?”

“Christ, please do!”

Glancing at Nagel, the captain shakes his head slightly, then turns and walks across the yard, vanishing among the partygoers.

With a massive hand, Kaybecker claims his dinner plate. Then he throws his free arm around the woman, squeezing armor and a shoulder. “You’ll be my personal assistant for the evening. What do you say?”