gadgets. It is impressive, actually, seeing as he comes across as very old school, pen, paper, and cell phone, what’s a cell phone?
“Eric Sullivan, 34,” I say. “But he’s got to be at least 50.”
“This is from his file in Arizona, back when he was still in custody.”
“But Caldwell could pass for much younger,” I argue.
“So he’s been dying,” Brinkley says, referring to the fact that I don’t look a day over seventeen despite that my 25 th birthday was last month. It’s true that death-replacing or dying in general, helps us not age. When we die, we get that metabolic boost as our bodies heal the damage. It just so happens this boost doesn’t discriminate between normal cell deterioration and that caused by trauma. Death-replacing is certainly the only explanation I have for Caldwell’s preservation. But the Church believes we are soulless and they use the fact that we don’t go anywhere when we die as proof. I can’t believe they’d follow a leader who openly revealed his NRD. It must be his dirty little secret.
The machine in Brinkley’s hand whirls and clicks as we stand in the shade of the maple tree, just far enough off the trail that should someone approach, they can’t see us immediately.
“I just don’t understand why he would infiltrate the Church and secure a high position. And how would he do death replacements without media attention? He’s watched constantly.”
“He could be working off the radar. And they might not be replacements, just dying—for other reasons.”
Enough deaths are happening off the radar already. Almost two thousand in the last few years combined. And not just death-replacement agents are being cornered and killed, or even those living openly with their NRD in mainstream society. Many of the victims had not yet made their condition public.
This meant someone with power and authority is able to discover who has NRD and is turning that information over to the wrong people.
But who is doing it: the FBRD, the Church, or the military? That’s what I’m trying to help Brinkley figure out. He pulled me out of the barn fire that killed me eight years ago. He gave me a new life and purpose. The least I can do is help him.
“Did you look at this picture next to a picture of Caldwell?” I say. This is the first picture I’ve seen of Eric.
Brinkley nods. “It’s close but not exact. My consultant believes Caldwell had slight facial reconstruction. Just enough that his body wouldn’t reject the alterations.”
“Then Caldwell is my father.”
“Jesse—”
“No.” I stop him from patronizing me. “I need to accept the fact that the guy who wants to kill me is also my dad. If I don’t get it through my head he’s going to catch me off guard again.”
“A father and a dad is not the same thing,” Brinkley argues, looking up from the whirl and click of his device to warn me with fiery eyes.
I remember being little and lying under a car with him—Eric—Caldwell—my father . He was telling me what different parts of the car were. He had a great smile and his laughter was the laughter of a good-natured rogue in one of those swash-buckling movies. I also remember blaming him for dying and leaving me at the mercy of Eddie, my mother’s pervert of a second husband. I remember crying myself to sleep, wearing his old mechanic shirts for years. Begging him to come back. Begging .
And all I want to know now is what happened.
What happened to him when he died? What happened in that internment camp in the desert? What happened when he escaped? And why didn’t he ever come back for me? If he loved me, he would have come back to his daughter, back to his wife—wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t have run to the Church, run to the monsters and then become one. I want answers, but—
“This is encrypted,” Brinkley says, breaking my thoughts. “I’ll need to see a guy before we figure out what’s on it.”
“Suckfest,” I say.
“In the meantime,
“Eric Sullivan, 34,” I say. “But he’s got to be at least 50.”
“This is from his file in Arizona, back when he was still in custody.”
“But Caldwell could pass for much younger,” I argue.
“So he’s been dying,” Brinkley says, referring to the fact that I don’t look a day over seventeen despite that my 25 th birthday was last month. It’s true that death-replacing or dying in general, helps us not age. When we die, we get that metabolic boost as our bodies heal the damage. It just so happens this boost doesn’t discriminate between normal cell deterioration and that caused by trauma. Death-replacing is certainly the only explanation I have for Caldwell’s preservation. But the Church believes we are soulless and they use the fact that we don’t go anywhere when we die as proof. I can’t believe they’d follow a leader who openly revealed his NRD. It must be his dirty little secret.
The machine in Brinkley’s hand whirls and clicks as we stand in the shade of the maple tree, just far enough off the trail that should someone approach, they can’t see us immediately.
“I just don’t understand why he would infiltrate the Church and secure a high position. And how would he do death replacements without media attention? He’s watched constantly.”
“He could be working off the radar. And they might not be replacements, just dying—for other reasons.”
Enough deaths are happening off the radar already. Almost two thousand in the last few years combined. And not just death-replacement agents are being cornered and killed, or even those living openly with their NRD in mainstream society. Many of the victims had not yet made their condition public.
This meant someone with power and authority is able to discover who has NRD and is turning that information over to the wrong people.
But who is doing it: the FBRD, the Church, or the military? That’s what I’m trying to help Brinkley figure out. He pulled me out of the barn fire that killed me eight years ago. He gave me a new life and purpose. The least I can do is help him.
“Did you look at this picture next to a picture of Caldwell?” I say. This is the first picture I’ve seen of Eric.
Brinkley nods. “It’s close but not exact. My consultant believes Caldwell had slight facial reconstruction. Just enough that his body wouldn’t reject the alterations.”
“Then Caldwell is my father.”
“Jesse—”
“No.” I stop him from patronizing me. “I need to accept the fact that the guy who wants to kill me is also my dad. If I don’t get it through my head he’s going to catch me off guard again.”
“A father and a dad is not the same thing,” Brinkley argues, looking up from the whirl and click of his device to warn me with fiery eyes.
I remember being little and lying under a car with him—Eric—Caldwell—my father . He was telling me what different parts of the car were. He had a great smile and his laughter was the laughter of a good-natured rogue in one of those swash-buckling movies. I also remember blaming him for dying and leaving me at the mercy of Eddie, my mother’s pervert of a second husband. I remember crying myself to sleep, wearing his old mechanic shirts for years. Begging him to come back. Begging .
And all I want to know now is what happened.
What happened to him when he died? What happened in that internment camp in the desert? What happened when he escaped? And why didn’t he ever come back for me? If he loved me, he would have come back to his daughter, back to his wife—wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t have run to the Church, run to the monsters and then become one. I want answers, but—
“This is encrypted,” Brinkley says, breaking my thoughts. “I’ll need to see a guy before we figure out what’s on it.”
“Suckfest,” I say.
“In the meantime,
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