that followed. Judgment was finally catching up with him.
He opened his eyes and saw movement in front of him, knowing they had surrounded him.
But just then a huge explosion came from somewhere behind, engulfing him in its heat.
Ears ringing, he twisted at his waist, Edward’s head still in his lap, and looked up to the hill. It was in flames. He didn’t understand. And then a stinging sensation erupted in his neck, and his vision began to fade. He shook his head, the world heaving, the park rolling like an ocean out before him. He thought he could see a figure approaching him, reaching out to grab him and, with one last faltering remnant of consciousness, he somehow managed to drop the ring into his pocket.
His last thought was, “ Israelis ?”
11
S ounds came from some other room, a whisper gliding through the crack beneath the door. Talking. It was his mother, but he could only make out fractions of what she was saying, bits and pieces of the whole, an obscure fog of something he understood to be intelligent...
People are trained from birth to think within a small designated space…
But it was strange, as if her voice was stolen and used by someone else — someone in the future that would understand the importance of what it was she was saying. He shifted, straining to hear more of the once familiar voice. The voice … No, his mother had died when he was thirteen. It couldn’t be her.
And it wasn’t. In fact, it never was, the voice masculine. His father’s voice.
The Orwellian creed — “ignorance is strength” — put forth in 1949, is the perfect example of man’s inability to think.
He was familiar with that creed. But no, this wasn’t right either. His father had killed himself after mom died.
The extent of the hypnosis is almost unthinkable. People still waving the flags of a country that no longer exists.
His teacher at the Farm, giving a lecture to all the young recruits! He remembered that day well, what he was feeling, what he was thinking, wondering if he’d get Operations or Intelligence. He remembered being assigned by the Directorate of Operations and sent to Tehran. No, Baalbeck… Salah Al-Din? Whatever, he knew he was in Islamabad. Or at least Iraq. But then he was pretty sure he was in all of them. He was there right now, in all of them. Every single one. New Delhi, Kabul, Medina, Jerusalem, even London. What he was doing there, he couldn’t tell. Something important. Something dangerous.
He tried to focus on his teacher’s voice…
The real war that is waged is a war for the mind, but the people won’t fight it. Why? Because it doesn’t exist? No, because those waging war on them tell them it doesn’t exist. And so it doesn’t exist. The pairing of ignorance with the death of history has become the ultimate patriotism.
He was confused, disturbed. Nothing he’d ever heard from his teacher at the Farm sounded like this. No, he couldn’t be there, and he wasn’t in the Middle East or Europe either.
Slowly, he began to regain consciousness, gathering enough cognitive awareness to enlighten the words he thought had been spoken by people once familiar to him. In fact, there were no voices speaking the words he’d heard. They were merely products of his own thoughts mixing with faces he once knew, different personalities peeking through his subconscious, checking out this twisted world of his.
Scott finally opened his eyes, and his pupils retreated in the face of a blinding light. After his eyes adjusted, he could tell that the source of the light came from a bulb hanging above him. Instantly, he was back in Iran, back in a room he’d spent years trying to forget. He shut his eyes, concentrated on clearing his head. As the disorientation faded, his senses began feeding information to his brain. There was the light above him, the cold stale air against his face, the faint voices coming from somewhere beyond, and a throbbing headache just getting started behind his
He opened his eyes and saw movement in front of him, knowing they had surrounded him.
But just then a huge explosion came from somewhere behind, engulfing him in its heat.
Ears ringing, he twisted at his waist, Edward’s head still in his lap, and looked up to the hill. It was in flames. He didn’t understand. And then a stinging sensation erupted in his neck, and his vision began to fade. He shook his head, the world heaving, the park rolling like an ocean out before him. He thought he could see a figure approaching him, reaching out to grab him and, with one last faltering remnant of consciousness, he somehow managed to drop the ring into his pocket.
His last thought was, “ Israelis ?”
11
S ounds came from some other room, a whisper gliding through the crack beneath the door. Talking. It was his mother, but he could only make out fractions of what she was saying, bits and pieces of the whole, an obscure fog of something he understood to be intelligent...
People are trained from birth to think within a small designated space…
But it was strange, as if her voice was stolen and used by someone else — someone in the future that would understand the importance of what it was she was saying. He shifted, straining to hear more of the once familiar voice. The voice … No, his mother had died when he was thirteen. It couldn’t be her.
And it wasn’t. In fact, it never was, the voice masculine. His father’s voice.
The Orwellian creed — “ignorance is strength” — put forth in 1949, is the perfect example of man’s inability to think.
He was familiar with that creed. But no, this wasn’t right either. His father had killed himself after mom died.
The extent of the hypnosis is almost unthinkable. People still waving the flags of a country that no longer exists.
His teacher at the Farm, giving a lecture to all the young recruits! He remembered that day well, what he was feeling, what he was thinking, wondering if he’d get Operations or Intelligence. He remembered being assigned by the Directorate of Operations and sent to Tehran. No, Baalbeck… Salah Al-Din? Whatever, he knew he was in Islamabad. Or at least Iraq. But then he was pretty sure he was in all of them. He was there right now, in all of them. Every single one. New Delhi, Kabul, Medina, Jerusalem, even London. What he was doing there, he couldn’t tell. Something important. Something dangerous.
He tried to focus on his teacher’s voice…
The real war that is waged is a war for the mind, but the people won’t fight it. Why? Because it doesn’t exist? No, because those waging war on them tell them it doesn’t exist. And so it doesn’t exist. The pairing of ignorance with the death of history has become the ultimate patriotism.
He was confused, disturbed. Nothing he’d ever heard from his teacher at the Farm sounded like this. No, he couldn’t be there, and he wasn’t in the Middle East or Europe either.
Slowly, he began to regain consciousness, gathering enough cognitive awareness to enlighten the words he thought had been spoken by people once familiar to him. In fact, there were no voices speaking the words he’d heard. They were merely products of his own thoughts mixing with faces he once knew, different personalities peeking through his subconscious, checking out this twisted world of his.
Scott finally opened his eyes, and his pupils retreated in the face of a blinding light. After his eyes adjusted, he could tell that the source of the light came from a bulb hanging above him. Instantly, he was back in Iran, back in a room he’d spent years trying to forget. He shut his eyes, concentrated on clearing his head. As the disorientation faded, his senses began feeding information to his brain. There was the light above him, the cold stale air against his face, the faint voices coming from somewhere beyond, and a throbbing headache just getting started behind his
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