MIND FIELDS
Authors: Brad Aiken
MIND FIELDS
Brad Aiken
CONTENTS
Acknowledgements
My thanks to the writers of
Star Trek: TNG
for being the first to put nanites in my head and planting the seed for this story, to my fellow members of the South Florida Science Fiction Society who support my passion for science fiction (a quality that many have, but few admit to), to Susan Cummins for cleaning up some of the rough edges in
Mind Fields
, and to Diane Raetz and the hard-working folks at Padwolf for making this all possible.
On a more personal note, I’d like to thank my Aunt Carol and Uncle Buzz for helping me experience a different side of Aspen so critical to this story.
Mind Fields
is dedicated to my most avid supporters and least critical proof-readers — my wife Laura, my mother Arnita and my grandmother Elsie, who I sorely miss.
Mind Fields
© 2007 print, © 2012 e-book Brad Aiken
www.bradaiken.com
Cover Art
© 2012 Roy Mauritsen
Padwolf Publishing, Inc.
www.padwolf.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any means electronic or mechanical, including recording, photocopying or by an information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the copyright holders. Unauthorized reproduction is prohibited by law. This is a work of fiction. No similarity between any of the names, characters, persons, situations and/or institutions and those of any preexisting person or institution is intended and any similarity which may exist is purely coincidental.
Chapter One
June 5, 2045
Lazio, Italy
James O’Grady glanced up at the blazing afternoon sun as he crouched in the shade of the lone remaining wall of what was once a glorious Roman villa. Ancient ruins were scattered along the surrounding hillside, now barren except for the occasional gnarled trunk of an old olive tree, the last vestige of what must have once been a fruitful grove. He could feel the sweat roll down the nape of his neck, adding its moisture to his already heavy camouflage suit. There was not even the hint of a breeze to cool the skin or stir the eerie silence of a hot summer’s day.
“See anything yet?” he asked.
Trace McKnight peered intently through his binoculars, gazing down into the arid valley toward the one paved road that led into the town of Diavola. “Nah, nothin’ but grass and dirt.” He wiped the sweat from his brow in disgust. Trace hated foreign assignments, especially ones that deprived him of a bachelor’s nightlife. A stakeout in the Italian countryside was not his idea of a good time.
“I sure hope that gadget of yours works, Trace.” Jimmy’s knees ached. He envied the restless energy of his young partner. “If not, God knows how were gonna get to Stalletti.” He glanced down at the walled in city a quarter of a mile away across the valley.
“Don’t worry, Uncle Jimmy, it will.” Trace grinned with pride. He was anxious to prove his worth as an NSA agent to his uncle and partner, Agent James O’Grady.
The parched earth of Lazio was as rich as its history. Giovanni Stalletti was the new generation of leadership, proud of the heritage left to him by ancient conquerors. Everyone in Diavola was either family or worked for the “business.” Weapons smuggling was lucrative, and the townspeople lived well. They would not let any harm come to “Papa Giovanni.”
“You sure he’s coming?”
“I’m sure.” Jimmy grabbed the binoculars. “Stalletti would have the kid’s head if he didn’t show.”
All O’Grady could see were waves of heat emanating from the asphalt road. He handed the field glasses back and stretched, taking in a deep breath. The scent of grass baking in the sun permeated the arid air of the Roman countryside.
“Arrogant son of a bitch.”
“That’s what they say, kid.”
No one outside of the family really knew Stalletti. He never ventured outside the village walls, and no outsiders ever entered, except one. One of Stalletti’s eccentricities was his demand for fresh fish. Everyday, he had to have fresh fish.
All outside delivery trucks were stopped at the gate, a half-mile from town. Packages were inspected and transferred to Stalletti’s own cars to be brought into town. On Sundays, deliveries were forbidden; the road was silent. The only traffic that day would be the delivery boy, riding in from the gate on his bicycle with the catch of the day. Every Sunday at two PM, he arrived in his truck from Positano then made his way up to the village on his bike. This Sunday would be no different, except for the new helmet that he would be wearing, an anonymous gift courtesy of Trace McKnight.
“He won’t be so arrogant after today.”
Jimmy glanced at the remote control in Trace’s hand. “You sure that thing is gonna work from this far away?”
“Relax, Uncle Jimmy.” He lifted up the remote. “This thing’s got a range of a mile and a half.”
O’Grady looked over at the town. “Even through stone walls?”
“Just leave the tech stuff to me, would you?” Trace laughed.
“Hey,” Jimmy pointed down into the valley, where dust swirled up from a small patch of the road, “what’s that?”
Trace lifted the binoculars to his eyes. The rider was on his way in. “That’s our boy.”
He followed the bike up the road as Jimmy looked on anxiously. “All right, he’s in.” Trace handed the binoculars to Jimmy. “Show time.” He smiled and pressed a button on the remote, activating a hidden camera in the helmet, then held the remote up to where Jimmy could see the small screen. They watched through the eyes of the delivery boy as he rode up to Giovanni Stalletti’s house. He looked down at the large refrigerated container that held the fish as he lifted it to carry into the house.
The camera swung up as the door opened, and the screen filled with the face of Giovanni Stalletti. “Shit! There he is.” Trace was surprised to see Stalletti answering his own door.
The gangster stared, and Jimmy held his breath. He could swear Stalletti was looking right at the camera.“You sure he can’t see that camera of yours, boy?”
“I’m sure, Uncle Jimmy, I’m sure.”
Stalletti smiled and nodded. He turned away from the door and signaled to one of his men to open the container.
“Christ, he’s coming over to the kid. Activate it.”
Trace fumbled with the remote.
Stalletti’s bodyguard reached for the lid of the container.
“Come on, Trace. Quick!”
Trace hit a three-button sequence on the remote, and then watched the screen intently. The delivery boy deftly reached into one of the cooling pouches on the side of the container, obediently following the sequence of commands transmitted into his brain from the bike helmet, which Trace had just activated. He pulled out a laser pistol and fired two quick shots. The first hit the bodyguard square in the forehead at point blank range. He was so close that the two NSA agents could clearly see the searing hole even on the small screen on Trace’s remote-control device. The second shot was a longer pulse, arching across Stalletti’s chest just before he fell to the ground.
The screen image blurred. The next thing that Jimmy and Trace could see was the image of a second bodyguard standing over the helmet-camera, looking down at his young victim. The biker was motionless on the floor, and the last view on the screen was that of the bodyguard’s foot swinging toward the camera, just before he kicked the rider’s lifeless head, sending the helmet flying.
Trace shut off the remote.
“Too bad everyone in the world doesn’t walk around with helmets on, eh, Trace? It would make our job a hell of a lot easier.”
“Guess we’ll just have to find a way to put the controllers
inside
their heads,” Trace smiled deviously.
“Sick bastard. If you figure out how to do that, how will I know you’re not going turn
me
into one of your robots someday?”
“You won’t, Uncle Jimmy,” Trace winked. “You won’t.”
Chapter two
June 5, 2045
Baltimore, Maryland
Dr. Sandra Fletcher didn’t often dream, but when she knew life was about to slam her with one of its many cruel jokes, she retreated into the solace of her youth to escape the torture of insomnia. Tomorrow would be one of those days; public speaking was not Sandi’s forte. As she lay in bed clutching tightly at her pillow, she forced her restless mind back to the most serene time and place she’d ever known.
Wisps of cottonwood fluttered through the air and danced like dandelion fluff in the warm summer breezes, swirling around Sandi as she trotted her horse, Feather, up the trail toward Maroon Bells. She was sixteen again, and just like every other summer since her twelfth birthday, she was spending her vacation at her Aunt Darcy’s ranch in Aspen, Colorado. Each year she would pack her bags as soon as school was out and fly to Aspen. She would work in the barn helping to care for horses boarded there by wealthy celebrities who entrusted their treasures to the care of Darcy Fletcher.
Stable work was not easy, but Sandi loved it. Feather had been born just one week after Sandi arrived in Aspen that first summer. She had never lived away from home before and was feeling homesick until that very special moment. Sandi was present when Feather came into the world, and the two of them had a unique bond. Feather was quiet and kept to himself most of the year, but come summer, he was a different horse. He somehow knew when Sandi would be arriving, and that anticipation breathed new life into him each year.
The congestion that sprawled out from Denver through Summit County and far beyond by the mid twenty-first century had ruined the pristine Rockies for many, but Aspen was different. The tightly enforced building codes had limited development and protected the area from the fate of many of the surrounding resort towns. Urban sprawl and smog weren’t totally absent, but were limited. Aspen in summer was glorious. The snow-capped mountains cascaded down in fields of green grass, groomed into forested slopes; the same slopes that would attract thousands of skiers each winter now lay quiescently green, basking in the summer sunlight. Scattered wildflowers of all colors dotted the valleys, and were transplanted into meticulous little gardens that accented the quaint Victorian homes of the old city. The summer sun was warm, and the clean, dry air nourished the soul. It was the essence of life, reborn each year out of the cleansing of the bitter-cold winter stillness that enveloped the area.
These were the memories of Sandi’s summers and the dreams of her life. About the only thing she loved more about Aspen than Feather, was teen heartthrob Ryan Taylor. She had nearly fainted when she heard that Aunt Darcy was boarding his horse. Each summer she would dream about riding with him, but every year she would go home disappointed. The summer of 2037 would prove to be different.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee beckoned Sandi to the kitchen. Darcy looked up as her niece shuffled in, clad in a flannel nightgown.
“Good morning, sleepy-head.” Darcy Fletcher was an early riser; ranch life had that effect on people.
“Mornin,’ Aunt Darcy.” She stretched, and inhaled deeply as the scent of sizzling bacon made its way across the room. “Umm.”
“It’ll be ready in a minute. Why don’t you pour the coffee?”
Sandi walked over to the coffee maker and poured two cups, as her aunt scraped the bacon and eggs onto the plates. Darcy was unusually quiet as they sat down to eat. Sandi didn’t notice at first, as she devoured two strips of bacon. She looked up as she reached for her mug, and couldn’t help but notice the wry smile her aunt was trying so hard to conceal.