Michele Jaffe - Minders

“‘Failure of compliance,’” Hector Ames had read aloud, chuckling, as he filled the line with his oversized signature. “Sounds menacing. Fortunately, that’s not something we’ll have to worry about. My girl likes nothing more than following rules.”

Sadie felt a tightness between her shoulder blades and, glancing down at her speedometer, saw that she was five miles an hour over the posted speed limit. She tapped the brake and made herself take a deep breath.

The road, smooth and wide now, looped between swaths of rolling green grass, past another guardhouse, and climbed to the top of a small hill. Below it, settled between the hill and the lake, was an old-fashioned-looking cottage. It was half-timbered, with gabled windows, and surrounded by elaborate gardens. Compared with the modern glass-and-steel house Sadie had grown up in, it looked surreal and impractical, somewhere Pinocchio or Snow White would feel at home, not the kind of place that would foster cutting-edge science.

The clock on her dashboard read 9:56 when she pulled up in front of the building. It seemed substantially bigger up close, about the size of a small hotel. Another guard stopped her car in the pebbled drive. He took her keys and gave her a plastic security badge with the photo of her squinting on it. She bent to reach for her overnight bag, but he stopped her. “There are no personal items allowed inside the Manor.”

“Not even a toothbrush?” she asked, immediately feeling foolish.

“Everything you need will be provided.” He gave her an encouraging smile, but his eyes were cold and appraising, and Sadie felt a slight chill inch up her spine. “Please go straight in to the main reception room, Miss Ames. The others are waiting for you there.”

The others , Sadie repeated as she walked down a dimly lit, green-carpeted hallway that smelled of wood polish and fresh-cut flowers, toward the sound of voices. One of her deepest secrets was that rooms full of strangers made her panic. All those eyes looking at her. It was idiotic, she knew, a sign of weakness she hated. The only person she’d ever admitted it to was her best friend, Decca, who loved attention and whose first reaction had been to laugh.

“You’re pretty, impeccably groomed, and, thanks to me, well dressed. If I wasn’t so self-centered, I’d totally hate you. What are you afraid of people seeing?”

“I don’t know. My mind freezes up, and I can’t think of anything to say.”

“Pretend you’re at a debate tournament,” Decca suggested. “You always have plenty to say there.”

Sadie had shaken her head. “That’s different. We prepare for that. I know exactly what’s going on, what I’m being judged on. What the rules are.”

Decca shrugged one shoulder. “So make up your own rules.”

Sadie remembered feeling shocked. “You can’t just make rules up.”

“Rule one,” Decca said, holding up a finger, “breathe. Rule two, pause in the doorway and survey the scene and tell yourself you’re going to have a good time. Rule three—”

“You want me to stop in the doorway so people can stare at me longer ?” Sadie asked incredulously.

“It will make you appear quietly confident,” Decca assured her. “Nothing diffuses hostility like quiet confidence.”

“You should be secretary of state,” Sadie said.

“Rule three,” Decca went on, ignoring her, “get a beverage. And rule four, talk to the cutest guy in the room.”

“I think I liked the hanging-around-in-the-door part better. You know there’s no way I’m going to seek out the cutest guy in the room and start chatting with him.”

Decca looked at her pityingly. “Of course not. You won’t have to go looking for him; he’ll already be standing next to you.”

Sadie had laughed and said, “I think you’re talking about yourself.” Which was true. But the memory of the conversation made her feel a little better as she turned a corner and found herself on the threshold of a room filled with people.

It was large and square, the wood-paneled walls hung with portraits of someone’s distinguished ancestors. A large brass chandelier lit a round table with an elaborate bouquet of flowers in the middle, surrounded by tiers of muffins, scones, croissants, and individual coffee cakes. There was a silver coffee urn to one side, and servers in dark pants and shirts circulated, refilling cups and clearing plates.

The other Fellows clustered around the pastries, making halting conversation and eyeing the doors cagily, watching to see if anyone important was coming in. Sadie could tell that every one of them was used to being number one and that none of them was excited to share that position. She took a deep breath and felt like she could smell the animosity in the air.

In Decca’s honor she paused just inside the doorway, but she only had time to repeat “This is going to be fun” once before she heard a soft click and the doors closed behind her. A moment later someone clinked a spoon against a water glass, and all eyes swiveled toward the other end of the room, where Curtis Pinter, the man who had interviewed her, was standing.

He wore a well-cut navy blue suit and a light blue oxford-cloth shirt with no tie. He looked younger than he had at the interview, only a few years older than the Fellows, in his early twenties.

With his wavy dark hair falling forward and his eyes and skin the color of expensive honey, he also looked much more handsome. Definitely the cutest guy in the room.

As though he knew what she’d been thinking, his eyes met hers, and he gave a small, wry smile. Sadie felt her pulse speed up, and her cheeks got warm. She was relieved when his eyes moved past her, taking in the room at large.

Like a master showman he let the silence stretch until the anticipation and excitement in the air was almost unbearable. Without preamble he said, “Imagine seeing inside Picasso’s brain while he was painting. Sitting in while Shakespeare thought of ‘To be or not to be.’ Hearing what Mozart heard as he penned Don Giovanni . If we’d known then what we know now, we could have. You could have.”

He gestured around the room at them. “You are about to embark on a voyage of exploration to the only place science has yet to reach. In just a few days you will join the elite group of people to experience Syncopy, the ability to live in someone else’s mind. I can’t promise that you will enjoy it—in fact, there will absolutely be parts you don’t enjoy. But I can promise unequivocally that after the next six weeks, nothing about your life will ever be the same.”

What is Syncopy?” Curtis asked. “As one of our researchers put it when I asked her to boil it down to one sentence”—he read from a paper he’d pulled out of his pocket—“‘Syncopy is a form of heightened interperception that allows Minders’—that’s you”—he glanced up at his audience—“‘to shadow the thoughts, feelings, sensations, and memories of their assigned Subjects.’” He carefully folded the paper and tucked it away, and Sadie was struck by how precise and neat his movements were. “In other words, it’s like getting to play God without any of the responsibility, blame, or endless posing for portraits.”

He paused for their laughter, then went on. “Syncopy is the merging of old interperception technology with new stasis technology, to create something that is far more than the sum of its parts. During Syncopy you will literally be an observer in someone else’s mind. You will learn their deepest secrets and their worst fears. That’s why you are prohibited from meeting your Subjects. You know things about them that would be far too easy to exploit, even unintentionally.”