the full forty-eight hours to come up with the little guy. It is programmed to take yer frequency to Rory’s bot so he doesn’t know there is a difference, but while it does that, it’ll also wrap itself around the previous bot and take over. It’s all delicate though and time consuming to kill that other bot. If we do it too quickly, he could go into shock or shut down. So this time the bot is creating an illusion like ya are not there and he is actually just dreaming about ya. It might give ya some time to sneak around. The bot will create the world around him; ya won’t have control over where ya go, but yer reactions will be yers. And its purpose is going to be to create a world where he triggers other memories and a new playing field each time. We are trying to get him to lead us to the place where ya can learn how he came to know of the lodge. Once ya do, get out.”
“This is a terrible idea. Genius and terrible.” I give her a look. “Does anyone else know you did this?”
“The one person who needs to know.”
She means the president, given that he’s got the ultimate authority over our operations. “Does Dash know?” I whisper my question, scared of the answer.
She winces. “No.” She’s lying.
I bite my lip. “How bad?”
“Worry about it when ya get back.”
I lie back and close my eyes, taking a deep breath. “He’s going to kill me.”
“Me first. It was all my idea. Oh and if ya get in there and it’s just black with nothing, it means the new bot accidentally fried his brain so come back out,” she says, and it’s the last thing I hear before the whispers of my own voice fill my mind.
I’m falling, just for a second. It isn’t like landing in the mind of a person who doesn’t expect me; it’s much more turbulent this time, like an invasion.
Walking down the torchlit hallway the new bot is programed for me to see is not something I’m excited about. It’s dank and it smells. It’s always dank here. His world stinks.
I walk to a door with a light making an outline around it, like the other side of the hallway is bright, compared with this place. I press against the door, pushing it open slowly and peeking around the edge. I’m exactly where I expected to be.
The photos Angie showed me have made a perfect picture and hopefully he doesn’t know I’m here.
I slink past the door, stepping into the light of day in a slum-like place. It’s something I haven’t seen in a long time. I glance at the street, won der ing where to start, if he has seen me yet. Or sensed the game is afoot.
This isn’t a regular mind run. I’m alert and aware of who I am, not trying to convince Rory I’m him or to persuade him to let me into his world or share memories with him. This is all meant to trick him with an interactive bot that will change the scene we are in, in response to Rory’s memories so he will take me to the brothel in the mountains.
I creep from the shadows and down the road. His house should be here, on the right. He showed it to her once, Angie. He took her here and let her see his house, above the cleaners on Clowney Street.
The name makes me think of pedophiles picking up kids.
The houses are rather small—row houses, with one window on the main floor and one window up top. They have small doors and tiny gates. The alleys have barred doors on them and everything is so little I feel a bit lost.
Northern Ireland was not peaceful when I became a spy, but it was peaceful enough that I didn’t ever spend much time here.
Clowney Street shows the parts that weren’t quite peaceful enough in murals and graffiti on the brick walls. The hunger strike of ’81 is depicted in a mural and the riots of ’69. There is an old mural with something about 350 years of occupation and 350 years of resistance. It’s about the strangest thing I have ever seen.
I hurry along the concrete of the narrow street, passing the UPS storefront and another before stopping at the
“This is a terrible idea. Genius and terrible.” I give her a look. “Does anyone else know you did this?”
“The one person who needs to know.”
She means the president, given that he’s got the ultimate authority over our operations. “Does Dash know?” I whisper my question, scared of the answer.
She winces. “No.” She’s lying.
I bite my lip. “How bad?”
“Worry about it when ya get back.”
I lie back and close my eyes, taking a deep breath. “He’s going to kill me.”
“Me first. It was all my idea. Oh and if ya get in there and it’s just black with nothing, it means the new bot accidentally fried his brain so come back out,” she says, and it’s the last thing I hear before the whispers of my own voice fill my mind.
I’m falling, just for a second. It isn’t like landing in the mind of a person who doesn’t expect me; it’s much more turbulent this time, like an invasion.
Walking down the torchlit hallway the new bot is programed for me to see is not something I’m excited about. It’s dank and it smells. It’s always dank here. His world stinks.
I walk to a door with a light making an outline around it, like the other side of the hallway is bright, compared with this place. I press against the door, pushing it open slowly and peeking around the edge. I’m exactly where I expected to be.
The photos Angie showed me have made a perfect picture and hopefully he doesn’t know I’m here.
I slink past the door, stepping into the light of day in a slum-like place. It’s something I haven’t seen in a long time. I glance at the street, won der ing where to start, if he has seen me yet. Or sensed the game is afoot.
This isn’t a regular mind run. I’m alert and aware of who I am, not trying to convince Rory I’m him or to persuade him to let me into his world or share memories with him. This is all meant to trick him with an interactive bot that will change the scene we are in, in response to Rory’s memories so he will take me to the brothel in the mountains.
I creep from the shadows and down the road. His house should be here, on the right. He showed it to her once, Angie. He took her here and let her see his house, above the cleaners on Clowney Street.
The name makes me think of pedophiles picking up kids.
The houses are rather small—row houses, with one window on the main floor and one window up top. They have small doors and tiny gates. The alleys have barred doors on them and everything is so little I feel a bit lost.
Northern Ireland was not peaceful when I became a spy, but it was peaceful enough that I didn’t ever spend much time here.
Clowney Street shows the parts that weren’t quite peaceful enough in murals and graffiti on the brick walls. The hunger strike of ’81 is depicted in a mural and the riots of ’69. There is an old mural with something about 350 years of occupation and 350 years of resistance. It’s about the strangest thing I have ever seen.
I hurry along the concrete of the narrow street, passing the UPS storefront and another before stopping at the
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