Allen Zadoff: The Lost Mission

“Better now?” Dr. Acosta says through the speaker.

“Much,” I say.

“A few more seconds—”

The machine whirs to a stop, the assembly moving up over my head and away from my body.

I take a deep breath and glance through the window.

Father is gone.

“We’re done,” Dr. Acosta says.

I rub the area over my scar.

“Can I get my lollipop now?” I say.

“Darn, we ran out,” Dr. Acosta says. “I promise I’ll get you one next time.”

“I’m very disappointed, Doc.”

“Life is filled with disappointment,” she says. “Rest there for a few moments and someone will be in to get you.”

I WAIT FOR THE RESULTS IN A NEARBY EXAMINATION ROOM.

Twenty minutes go by before Dr. Acosta comes in. She seems more energetic than before, her hair freshly combed, her cheeks ruddy with blush.

“Excellent news,” she says. “You’re approved for assignment.”

“Anything I need to be concerned about?”

“Father will tell you everything you need to know.”

“Father’s not a doctor,” I say.

I turn on the charm, giving her a warm smile. My intuition is telling me I need to see the results of the scan. My hand unconsciously rises to my chest, my finger probing the scar there. I purposefully put my hand back by my side.

“He’s not a doctor,” Acosta says, “but rest assured he understands the information I share with him.”

“I have no doubt,” I say. “But I’m thinking a peek at the results would be helpful. I’m a raw data man.”

She studies me for a long moment.

“A peek at the results isn’t possible,” she says. “But there’s something else we should do before you go.”

She begins to unbutton her lab coat. It takes a moment to understand what I’m seeing. Then she unbuttons the top button of her blouse and there’s no doubt of what I’m seeing.

“Is this part of the physical?” I say.

“In a manner of speaking. Let’s just say it’s a component of my professional duties.”

“Father’s idea?”

She shakes her head. “Mother thought you needed some R&R.”

She undoes the remaining buttons of her blouse, revealing a pink lace push-up bra beneath.

“Nice of Mother to think of me.”

“Forget about Mother,” she says. “You’ve got more interesting things to focus on.”

A hint of perfume rises from her cleavage as she reaches for me.

We kiss. Her lips are soft and warm, wet with some gloss she must have applied before she came back into the room. I think about what’s going to happen, the pleasure and possibility of it.

Then I think of something else.

I put a hand on her shoulder to stop her.

“What’s wrong?” she says.

My last mission is in my head. The things that happened in New York.

“I can’t,” I say.

“Can’t?”

“I don’t want to. Not now.”

She searches my eyes for meaning, but I don’t show her any. After a moment she steps back. I suspect this will be included in her report. Mother and Father will wonder about it, but I’ll deal with that when the time comes.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment,” I say.

“There’s no sentiment here. This is strictly professional, which incidentally doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have enjoyed it.”

She hesitates for a moment, perhaps giving me another chance. I don’t take it.

She sighs, tucking in her blouse as she walks to the door.

“Maybe another time,” she says.

“I wouldn’t rule it out,” I say.

She smiles at me and I smile back. I consider changing my mind, but I don’t. Better to focus on the mission at hand. Everything is easier when I’m on assignment.

She turns before going out. “Good luck with everything,” she says.

“I don’t need luck.”

“I know you don’t,” she says. “But it’s what normal people say to each other.”

I’m not a normal person.

That’s what I think, but I don’t say it.

She opens the door to find Father waiting. She nods once, hands him my medical chart, and continues on her way. Father comes into the room and closes the door behind him.

“Did you enjoy your visit to the doctor?” he says.

“I was too distracted to enjoy it.”

He looks at me, concerned.

“The assignment,” I say. “I’d like to get started as soon as possible.”

“I can understand that,” he says.

“You saw my test results?”

“All positive. Dr. Acosta has cleared you for assignment.”

I pick up my shirt, but before I can put it on, Father steps forward to examine the knife scar on my pec. “This has healed nicely,” he says.

I glance at the scar. I think of Samara asking about it before we made love in New York.

“It’s an identifier,” I say to Father. “A vulnerability.”

“We’ve thought about that.”

“I’d like it gone.”

Father nods. “We’ll schedule a plastic surgery in the near future. We’ll cover it up forever.”

“Good.”

“But not now. Now we need you back in the field.”

“That’s what I need, too,” I say.

“Then it’s time to begin,” he says.

Father walks over to an IV infusion pump, the kind commonly found in any hospital. What happens next is not common. He opens a camouflaged plastic port on the side of the device and out telescopes a small antenna. He then programs a code into the pump. I hear an electronic click and a blue light begins pulsing in the center of the device.

“What’s it doing?” I ask.

“We call it an MSRR—mobile safe room relay. Mobile because we can camouflage it inside other devices and move it as needed. A safe room because all signals into or out of this room are now blocked. It uses active noise control technology to feedback on whatever sound is generated in the room, effectively canceling it out. We are, for all intents and purposes, in a comms black hole.”

No comms means no communications of any kind.

“This would be great for the bathroom,” I say. “Total privacy.”

“Haven’t used it for that,” Father says with a smile, “but thanks for the suggestion.”

He takes an iPad out of his bag and puts it on the counter in front of us.

He says, “While the MSRR blocks all external signals, it also provides us with secure digital-satellite uplink.”

“Why do we need all this?” I say.

“Because we’re going to finish your briefing now,” Father says.

“We?”

Father performs a special finger gesture on the surface of the iPad, a version of the gesture I use on my iPhones. All of our digital devices in The Program have covert operating systems that run parallel to the system on the surface.

A moment later a window opens on the iPad screen.

It’s Mother.

She’s sitting in an office somewhere. She looks at me on the screen, a digital earpiece glowing on the side of her head.

My back stiffens, my body automatically shifting to attention, the posture of a soldier in front of his superior.

“Your father tells me you are well,” Mother says.

“I am,” I say.

“I was worried when we didn’t hear from you.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “It won’t happen again.”

“You are so valuable to us,” Mother says. “To me.”

Valuable. Possessions are valuable, not people. But I understand what Mother means. I am a soldier, an asset to The Program. And in her own way, I believe Mother cares about me. After all, she took me under her wing and trained me to become the person I am today. She gave my life a new purpose after my father was killed.

The part we have never discussed: It was likely she who ordered the killing in the first place.