Spotted Edited Version (Presented For Edits)

SPOTTED

A story of unconventional airport security.

Time was, Clem mused, when a man’s thoughts were his own. They were private; nobody else’s business. These days that wasn’t true anymore, at least not if you wanted to travel somewhere. While he was busy thinking about this and sipping his coffee, Laura was leaning with her forehead against the wall, eyes screwed shut and cascading red hair moving from side to side as if swaying in a breeze. One of her hands was balled into a tight fist and the other was pressed to the textured concrete next to her face. It looked as if she were crying. When she turned around, she was.

“There’s nothing,” she had said.

A little over an hour later, while Laura was sleeping through her terrible headache, GlobalAir Flight 205 broadcast a static-filled, panicked message before exploding midair. Clem saw the news on television and clenched his jaw, tears springing to his briefly widened eyes. He couldn’t believe it had happened!. He was relatively certain Laura would lose her license as a spotter. As a bleeding heart who worried constantly about events just such as this, Laura was one-hundred percent going to lose her shit. , because she was as a bleeding heart and who worried constantly about events just such as this. It was a wonder she wasn’t an alcoholic yet., but After this, Clem could bet she was going to be a good deal closer to it than she’d been an hour ago. He sagged, glum, into a chair in the smoking lounge, took a drag off his cigarette.

Courage.

Back in the security offices, Laura’s cubicle was empty and spotters had gathered around the coffee maker in the break room, to clucking among themselves. Clem begged off interaction and sat at his desk, staring over the short wall into Laura’s now empty cube.  The chatter faded and Clem heard a sniffle behind him. He turned to see Senior Spotter (or some such fancy pants rank that will make people hush up because that’s what you do when big boss types come around) Dana emerging from the back hallway that led downstairs where scores of investigators had set up shop.  Her face was red and mottled, (insert eye color here) eyes swollen from sobbing.  She  had been on the team was one of the senior spotters who that had checked him and Laura for intoxication and fatigue before putting them on the point. Their eyes met and she stared at Clem helplessly, her guilt obvious to even him.  He lifted his hands in a silent gesture, face full of puzzlement.  As she walked past him on the way to her office, Clem couldn’t take her sorrowful gaze, and slid his focus to his upturned palms.  Her partner, Steven, was nowhere to be found. Steven doesn’t really matter. And ending on a thing with Clem’s hands will bring it more into focus. Ha, focus.

When Dana had fled the Spotlight offices at last, the talking picked up again.

“She’s been really stressed out lately—Laura, I mean.” Debbie said, then glanced around before lowering both her head and voice dramatically “I guess she’s been having some problems, you know, at home.” She nodded sagely, fingering the fat fold of her purple turtleneck collar and turning away with her coffee cup.

The gossiping clutch grew noticeably uncomfortable when Fred, Clem and Laura’s Handler, walked through, his tie unclipped and flapping around. All breathing seemed to stop when he touched Clem’s elbow and asked him to step into the conferment room.  Clem’s stomach lurched in protest. Fred passed through the gossiping clutch with his tie unclipped and flapping around as he walked. Another silence fell over the group when he touched Clem’s elbow and asked him to step into the conference room. Clem’s stomach lurched.

As they walked out the door, Clem shot a glance back over his shoulder, looking into the eyes of his workmates. He couldn’t tell what any of them was thinking.  Laura would have called it stress.  He didn’t want to think about Laura right now. He made a fist and counted his knuckles silently.

“Clem, we wonder if you might know something about what happened today with Laura. You were on the point with her.” Fred’s face was intense and his jocular manner had become abrupt.  Clem was scared. He felt miserable and he thought he might be sick. He examined his fingers and wondered if Fred believed he had anything to do with Laura’s failure to spot the terrorist who blew up Flight 205. He struggled to maintain his composure, glancing up and trying not to look like he was obviously attempting to read Fred’s thoughts. As a Handler, Fred was nothing more than a human lie detector. Fred wasn’t a spotter; typical of handlers, he was a human lie detector. 

“I…like Laura.” Clem’s green eyes, framed by his straight, dark brown hair, glistened as he lifted them to Fred’s watery blue ones. “I don’t want to get her into any kind of trouble.” He was worried for Laura but he didn’t want to get caught up with her either. He had a life of his own.

Fred nodded three times, scratched the side of his neck, and huffed.  “There’s no way this should have happened. Here, of all places, with Laura, of all people.  The two of you were on the point and someone didn’t get spotted. Now three hundred people are dead and we’re not getting anything from Laura except a lot of hysterics and apologies.”

Clem’s eyes dropped. He couldn’t keep up his gaze any longer. It would probably make him look guilty, but it was easier to stare at his hands and let Fred talk.

“This is a huge failure for us, courtesy of yourself and Laura,” continued Fred. “It’s an absolute blight on the face of Spotlight. You’ve never missed a spot, Laura’s never missed a spot. We don’t miss spots here. You know who misses spots? Lazy spotters, tired spotters, distracted spotters. Not spotters handled by Fred Marguey.“ His eyes narrowed for a moment and he shuddered, gritting his teeth.

“Something happened in that line today and one of you is going to tell us what it was. Steven and Dana cleared both of you and now they’re under the gun too. I need to find out who went wrong and where. If we don’t get some answers, doubt is going to spread through this entire program.  Help me stop that from happening, Clem. Did you notice anything unusual this morning about Laura?  Anything at all? I don’t like having to do this and I know you don’t, either.  Talk to me, Clem.”

Clem’s face turned away from Fred’s, just a bit. Just enough to let that Fred knew know there was something. Staring at the floor, he remained mute.

“Clem!”

Running his fingers through his hair, he debated with himself before relenting, setting his hand on the table with an unintentionally loud slap. “Fine, okay. I just didn’t think anything of it really, until afterward.” Fred watched him, noted his obvious distress. Laura was Clem’s senior and it was clear he wanted to protect her.

“Go on,” Fred prompted.

“I told her that I spotted something while I was walking the line, but I couldn’t be sure where it was coming from. When I came around the wall, she was trying so hard to home in on it but she just couldn’t spot anything. I…I mean in the past the same thing has happened and everyone says that sometimes it takes a few years for a spotter to be able to really feel out a false alarm. Fred…” Clem looked directly at him again, eyes full of confusion and fear. Fred pitied him. “I feel like it’s all my fault for not calling Steven or Dana [or one of the other whatever her title is…es]…but I didn’t want to go over her head and she was never wrong before and she tried so hard to verify my spot, she looked like she was really straining. I could tell because when she turned around to tell me there was nothing, tears were coming out of her eyes. She had to go right to sleep after that so I walked her into the baffle because her head hurt so badly.” Everything rushed out so fast that Fred had a hard time keeping up, but he could see Clem relax a little as he finished speaking.

“Don’t you find that a little strange?”

“What?”

Fred grunted. He hated this whole thing, hated the eye of suspicion being cast on members of his staff. “Laura’s record has been exemplary. This one time, the time she ‘strains’ herself to verify a spot- a correct spot- she tells you there’s nothing, and then there’s a terrorist attack.  There’s something seriously wrong with this scenario, Clem.  Someone wasn’t doing their job.”

Clem couldn’t think of a reply, but it was obvious Fred was torn up about the whole situation.  Everyone liked Laura, and Fred had been her handler her entire twelve years at Spotlight. Clem didn’t envy him a bit. Fred fell silent for a few minutes. Clem fidgeted, thinking of the cold hard chairs Steven in the basement and being questioned by authorities, surrounded by spotters and handlers. His next step. His next test. Fred dismissed him and, with heavy, halting steps, Clem trod back to his desk to wait. He knew he’d be next. 

His reverie was cut short when Fred abruptly dismissed him. With heavy, halting steps, Clem trod back to his desk to await his turn in the ad-hoc interrogation chamber.

After Clem left the room, Fred stared at the forms in front of him and rubbed his hands over his face. Nobody in the world wanted this crap to roll down the hill onto them and yet here he was, covered in it. “How could anyone have missed this?”  He forced a deep, shuddering breath into his lungs to alleviate the sensation of crushing pressure all around him.  “Dammit, Laura.”

For the next few days Clem stayed home from work, avoided phone calls, and fielded visits from various authorities. He grew tired of explaining, over and over, the events surrounding Laura’s failure to confirm his spot and her subsequent behavior. He holed up inside his apartment with the blinds closed and the television off, not checking the news, not reading the paper, not even checking his email. He envisioned his coworkers hovered near his cubicle and speculated as to whether he would be coming back.  They would, as usual with anything terrible happening, compare it to the TransFlight wreck and someone would rhetorically ask if anyone remembered that.

Of course everyone remembered that. “This is just like that horrible TransFlight wreck, remember that?”Debbie was wearing a slate blue turtleneck this time and she nodded in agreement, shivering at the memory. Everyone remembered that. It was due to, as Fred would say, an intoxicated spotter back in the days when spotters worked alone with a single handler. Back when spotters were new and there seemed to be a new iteration of Spotlight every other month. Then, they were just called airport psychics.

It had started when a security guard named Earl Waits got “the shivers” from a passenger and remarked on it to a fellow guard. He’d said there was something about this guy, as if there were a spotlight shining on him out of all the people in the crowd. After takeoff, the passenger mounted a frenzied attack with a hidden weapon. He managed to kill two passengers before he was overcome and killed by an air marshal, who also died. Waits went on to point out other passengers he “spotted” and he was always right. Nobody knew how, but he had a long and successful career in airport security before he went on to create Spotlight, a training program for the similarly gifted. Eventually the laughable “Airport Psychic” became “Spotter” and nearly every airport in the country had one.

Clem wasn’t sure he wanted to be a part of this any longer.  His and Laura’s suspensions were about to come to an end, but a strong part of him did not want to go back. He felt bad for the position he had put Laura in, like he had sold her out. She was undoubtedly getting it worse than he was as she was his superior.  He wasn’t sure he could look her in the eye again and not have to immediately look down at his hands.  He wasn’t even sure he could do his job without constantly relying on that obvious focus to comfort him.

While the office was abuzz with speculation after Clem’s and Laura’s workspaces had been plundered of evidence and office supplies, and interviews had been conducted with the staff, Clem was at home, hoping Laura was okay. He felt bad for the position he’d put her in, like he’d sold her out. She must be getting it worse than I am, he thought. He’d been bled dry of information and couldn’t tell what anyone was thinking. Fred recommended time off, and Clem gratefully took it. He was weak with relief when suspicion was finally off him and wondered if it was time to quit.

His decision was made for him when he received a call 2 weeks after the incident, just when he had 3 off days left and was panicking about going back, facing a new partner, and not being able to spot anyone. Wearily, he answered the telephone.

“Hello?”

“You can turn in your badge now.”

The familiar (male? female?) voice on the other end of the line was smug with triumph and Clem could feel all the tension leaching away with the knowledge that his job was done. Still, there was Clerc…

“You’re thinking about Clerc.”

Clem retorted, “You must be psychic,” and then grimaced.

“About as psychic as you are!” The two broke into rueful laughter, until Clem’s throat tightened and he stopped so he wouldn’t start to cry for his loss.

“Leave tomorrow. Just call in and quit. You’re stressed out, you aren’t dealing with the whole situation well at all. We’ll get all your stuff moved out. Daisy’s coming into town, as your sister who is handling things for you. Good job, Clem.”

“You can stop calling me that now,” Clem joked, but the call had already ended. With a wan smile, he went onto the bathroom and plugged in the electric shaver he had placed on the counter in anticipation. Finally the hair, the beard, the contact lenses and the carefully practiced nonregional accent he had acquired could be shed. He wasn’t Clem anymore, and after a shave and a shower he didn’t look a thing like Clem either. That night, he got the best sleep he’d had in a while.

Next morning he not-Clem shouldered a meager backpack and a clean identity, then departed, leaving all of Clem’s documents in the apartment along with everything Daisy needed to settle Clem’s business and zero out his existence. He drove right past the airport where he’d been an employee just a day before, and on to the next state where he left the his long-term rental car in overnight parking for pickup. Strolling through the airport, not-Clem he wondered if any of his comrades were there too. He sipped coffee until his boarding call came, and when it did he lined up at the gate with everyone else. He looked at his hands, studied his fingers and didn’t think about the spotters. He didn’t think about Daisy, didn’t think about Clerc or Laura or Fred. His mission had been successful.  The proof had been in Clerc’s eyes as he’d walked past Clem, past Laura, past the security gates on the way to sacrifice himself and the 300 others on Flight 205.  Not-Clem He looked up and glanced around idly. He couldn’t spot any spotters, but he grinned because they couldn’t spot him.

Out of Sight (Presented for Edits)

Master Sergeant Hisaki Shibukawa storms into his commanding officer's meeting still clad in the light armor used on training runs. Blood, mostly from the fresh squad he almost lost, coats his arms and chest piece. Fragrant splashes of the clear bile that serves as the blood in their advanced combat training drones create visual distortions on the armor.

            He slides between two officers who recoil from his approach and slams a fist full of ghost collars onto the meeting table. The collars are still wet. Blood oozes through his fingers as his eyes, burning with rage, meet General Maxwell's across the table.

            “Gentlemen,” the General addresses the seated personnel, “if you would excuse us.”

They hurry to leave. Maxwell adjusts his uniform and smiles at Hisaki. The General's cold blue eyes, an unnatural match for his mahogany skin, gleam with smug superiority.

            “Master Sergeant. What brings you here on this fine day?” He gestures out the window to a bright and sunny afternoon.

Hisaki’s dark gaze remains fixed on the General.

            “You know damn well what, sir. That wasn't battle training. There shouldn't have been any ghosts within a hundred miles of that site. It was a green squad with pop guns for Christ’s sake.”

            Maxwell stands and turns to the window, looking out over the parade ground.

“You know I don't often stand for insubordination, Master Sergeant,” he says calmly. “Yet you are still here. Doesn't that strike you as unusual?”

            Hisaki's jaw works and he stops himself from clenching his hands into tight fists. The General has a point. MPs should have escorted him halfway out of the building by now.

            Maxwell reaches back to the table for a glass of water and then returns to the window as he sips it.

“I suspect you would find it equally unusual to walk in on a meeting that is solely about you and your recent accomplishment. You had a squad of untested, scared, sniveling new recruits with nothing better than rocks to defend them against 40 combat ghosts all loaded for bear. You were outnumbered two to one yet the ghosts were annihilated and five of your men didn't even need to be hospitalized. We lost a lot of good officers to find you, Shibukawa.”

            Hisaki freezes. Maxwell eyes him then checks to make sure the door is closed before he continues.

“Out of fifty training missions that accidentally encountered a full complement of ghosts, yours was the only one with survivors.”

            Hisaki takes a moment to let the General’s words sink in. More than a thousand soldiers executed mere weeks after joining a cause they believed in. Kids trying to prove themselves, to make their families proud…all dead while their General shows no remorse. If anything, he seems relieved. Hisaki can hardly conceal his disgust with his commanding officer.

To his credit, Maxwell seems to notice Hisaki’s obvious inner struggle and softens his expression. When he speaks, his voice is level and almost sympathetic.

“This project was not undertaken in vain. There are innumerable lives that will be saved by what has happened and what you will do.”

Hisaki frowns and growls: “What exactly will that be, sir?”

            “You will be briefed on the ship waiting for you,” Maxwell says as he turns back to the window. “You are dismissed, Master Sergeant.”

********

This is the second private transport Hisaki has embarked on in his entire career.  These are the cushy vessels reserved for high end diplomatic missions or special events.  He was a kid travelling with his ambassador father for his first trip.  His dad thought it would be fun for him to live like royalty for a few days.  It wasn’t.  He felt out of place the entire time and not much has changed.  This trip has less servants, but still has the silk sheets. 

            He’s on this trip with three dropships and their pilots.  All of them were ordered not to talk to each other and none of them were to see the crew of the transport.  He’s being ordered to put his life in a lot of strange hands and he’s not sure if he likes it.

            His briefing is pretty straightforward.  The transport will drop them off in the middle of nowhere.  They will then follow a path known only to the dropship pilots to the planet where his package has been imprisoned.  There, they will drop him off and wait.  He will traverse four miles of jungle following a pre-approved route that he is not to deviate from until he reaches the prison where his package is being held.

The package is actually a group of forty people between 30-40 years of age.  Most of them are not combat trained.  He is not allowed to talk to them past giving them orders and finding out their first names.   He may touch them with gloved hands, but skin to skin contact will mean automatic court martial. A greater than 20% casualty rate will also mean automatic court martial. Once he releases them, they will have approximately ten minutes before roughly 300 ghosts try to kill him and them without prejudice.

            Easy.

            He’ll break them out and have them home in time for dinner.

*******

        Hisaki runs as fast as his armor and gear will allow, the forty prisoners keeping up with him admirably despite how miserable and drenched they look.  They’re all dressed in the clothes they had been wearing when captured; there’s a lot of business casual.  He feels a little guilty wearing climate controlled armor in this hot, dense jungle, but he really likes staying alive.  At least they have comfortable shoes.

            He spots one of his landmark trees and points left down a barely visible game trail. He stops one of the de facto leaders: a young woman with sharp brown eyes and long auburn hair named Aislynn.

            “Go straight to the clearing, but do not enter until I tell you. Do you understand?”

            She nods with a barely audible “Yeah” between panting breaths then turns to the group and repeats the order.  They take off.  Hisaki raises his rifle and waits, counting as they rush by. One man, Ethan, his eyes as wild as his unkempt sandy beard, has picked up a rifle from a ghost Hisaki killed and brings up the rear.  Hisaki doesn’t object to his being armed; he moves like a man with military training, but he has no idea how he had time to stop and grab the weapon.

            Ethan is almost to Hisaki when a bolt of superheated plasma catches him in the lower back. He grunts and spills forward, cradling his rifle to his chest. He pushes himself over and sits up, taking aim at his attacker. Hisaki and Ethan open fire simultaneously on the ghost, sending it to the ground with a volley of armor piercing rounds. Ethan then slumps back down.

            Hisaki kneels next to him, but Ethan waves him off. With a labored breath he says, “Go.”

            “I'm not leaving anyone behind.”

            Ethan slaps the growing puddle of blood underneath him and says with more force: “Go!” He points at Hisaki's equipment: “Grenade.”

“I'll do you one better.”

He unslings his pack and digs out his last antipersonnel mine.

            Ethan smiles, his teeth tinted red, and laughs. Hisaki tries to hand him the mine and it’s pulled from his hand by an unseen force instead and floats over to land in a spot a few yards away.  Slightly, shaken and surprised, Hisaki wraps Ethan’s hand around the detonator.  He turns to Hisaki with a grin and his free hand raises to his brow.

            Freezing up on a field of battle is a great way to get killed.  Hisaki shakes himself free of the shock and returns the salute and takes off down the trail. He taps his radio and manages a steady voice.

“Firebird one, copy.”

            There’s a burst of static and the pilot of the lead dropship replies in a slow drawl: “Read you five by five, Sarge."

            “I'm going to need some deforestation at waist height in a few minutes. You think you can do that?”

            “Where do you want it?”

            “On my beacon. Give me ten seconds after I turn it on, no more. Once they detect the signal, they’ll be all over us.”

            “Still think there’s at least two hundred of them out there?”

            “What do your sensors say?”

            “Twenty; thirty tops.”

            “Ever see a cockroach colony?”

            “Can’t say that I have.”

            “Once I turn the beacon on, you will.”

            “Whatever you say, sir. Firebird one out.”

            The radio clicks off as he reaches the group of prisoners crouched at the edge of the clearing, barely able to see over the tall grass. He pulls up next to Aislynn.

“Everyone accounted for?”

            “All but you and Ethan.” She looks over her shoulder down the trail.

            An explosion shakes the trees and spooks most of the group.

            “He’s not coming.”

            Aislynn swallows and gives a single nod.

            Hisaki stands up to address the others. “We have five hundred meters to the rendezvous. When I say go, you run. When I say stop, you lay down flat on the ground until I give the word. Understood?”

            There is general assent. He scans the edges of the clearing and yells “Go!” at the top of his lungs.

            They break cover and run. Hisaki is out in front, surprised to find Aislynn keeping up with him. He yells for them to stop and drops to the ground facing the group, clicking on his beacon once he’s sure they’re all down.

            The three dropships are already in the air behind him. When the beacon lights up, Hisaki hears the ships wheel toward the clearing and Firebird one starts the countdown.

            “Ten.”

            Hisaki hears the ghosts rushing through the grass.

            “Nine.”

            Shrieks, barks, and growls pierce the air.

            “Eight.”

            A few of the prisoners start to whimper in fear. One man looks around, frantic.

            “Seven.”

            Hisaki sees the outlines of the ghosts darkening the sea of green.

            “Six.”

            Aislynn whispers next to him, willing the group to remain calm.

            “Five.”

            Her whispers become more insistent.

            “Four.”

            Hisaki sees the frantic man’s arm muscles twitch. Aislynn begins to crawl toward him.

            “Three.”

            Aislynn reaches the man as he begins to stand.

            “Two.”

            Hisaki slides towards Aislynn.

            “One.”

            The man reaches his full height.

            “Fire!”

Hisaki grabs Aislynn’s ankle and drags her backwards as hard as he can. The dropships open fire and thousands of bullets tear through the air. The frantic man’s upper half drops to the ground in front of Aislynn, his bottom half toppling to the side. She watches as his blood pours over the ground, her brown eyes wide with horror and anger. Hisaki jumps to his feet the moment the guns go silent.

“Run!”

Everyone stands and sprints toward their designated dropships—except for Aislynn. Hisaki drops to one knee and leans in close.

“You need to stand and you need to run.”

She closes her eyes and takes a breath. When she opens them, Hisaki sees they are clear and focused. They stand and sprint for the remaining dropship. With forty meters left, Aislynn hits the dirt, pulling Hisaki down with her. A bolt of plasma cuts through the air where his torso had just been and burns out on the gray hull of the dropship.

Hisaki switches his beacon off and leads Aislynn in a slow combat crawl. He scans the brush behind them and curses under his breath in Japanese when he sees nothing. He’s aware that Aislynn is moving towards him but doesn’t pay her much attention until her hands are working off his helmet.  He immediately pulls away, not wanting a court martial and suspicious of who exactly these people are.

“Trust me,” she says.

“Easy for you to say.”

“You asked me to trust you and I have.  I’ve not regretted that yet.  Give me the same consideration.  Please.  Whatever awaits us at home—at least we’ll be able to get there.”

Hisaki frowns but lets her remove his helmet. Then her hands are on either side of his head, the first two fingers of each hand on his temples.

“Close your eyes.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Close my eyes? So I can see them?”

“Are you seeing them terribly well with your eyes open?”

Hisaki concedes and closes his eyes.

“You’re very tense, Master Sergeant.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

“I need you to be calm or this won’t work.”

Hisaki takes a deep breath and forces his mind and body into a calmer state. It’s soon replaced by nervous energy and a strong prey drive. This confuses him until he realizes that he’s feeling the ghosts that surround them and it dawns on him who these people are and why they’ve been imprisoned.  What he doesn’t understand is why something so dangerous is being let back out. 

Suddenly, momentarily, none of that matters.

He knows where the ghosts are.

Hisaki turns to his back, unclips a grenade from his belt, and throws it into the highest concentration of ghosts. They’re not as far away as he would like and he rolls Aislynn beneath his armored body and covers his head with his arms. The explosion rattles his teeth and sends dirt and body parts flying over them.

As soon as it’s clear, her hands are on him again. He doesn’t balk this time, doesn’t fight her even though everything he’s been taught tells him not to let a psi within ten miles of his person.  Right now, he needs to use every tool he can so that his person can get within ten miles of safety and home.

Now that he knows what to look for, it’s easy to pinpoint the location of the remaining ghosts. They’re alarmed but determined. He burns their locations into his mind then opens his eyes and looks down at Aislynn. She gives him a supportive smile and nod and releases him.

Hisaki replaces his helmet and activates his camouflage. He takes a deep breath, stands, and opens fire. By the time his magazine is empty, only wind moves through the grass. Hisaki quickly reloads, keeping his weapon at the ready. When nothing returns fire, he yells for Aislynn to run.

Aislynn sprints for the dropship with Hisaki at her heels, acting as a shield. He’s relieved when she leaps into the dropship and jumps in behind her. He hits the door controls then taps his comm.

“All clear.  Let’s get these people home.”