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January 23, 2016

The entire Division was abuzz. It had been three and a half weeks since the project had gone live. Now, they were waiting excitedly for the results.

Years, really built upon decades, of research had been pulled together to make it happen. A dozen disciplines, fifty disparate science projects with single goals were selected and carefully sewn together to create a cohesive grand tapestry. Thousands of prospective subjects had been screened, tested, re-screened, pushed to and beyond their limits physically and psychologically until they were left with just one.

Prior attempts at building the ultimate spy had not been successful. Most had ended in suicide or debilitating mental problems. Creating so many false memories had left some with alien hand syndrome or something akin to MPD.

Then they found Michael Piper. Piper had been really a lackluster infantryman prior to joining the project. There was no obvious reason to think he would be suitable; pretty much average in every way as far as the Army was concerned except for an above average intelligence.

The Division had discovered hidden potential. AIT had simply not been challenging enough. Piper had breezed through basic, advanced and his various assignments.

In short, Michael Piper was bored. Once they started looking at him, originally as a control to compare with other candidates, he started to shine.

Several treatments and enhancements later, and Piper’s dedication to covert training showed like a sex worker during when Republican National Convention is in DC.

Genetically modified gut bacteria generate the right neurochems had increased his intelligence and perceptive abilities. Insertion of memories of several top performers for CIA, DIA, ONI, SEALS, Special Forces, and INSCOM had been “recorded” from the originals under hypnosis and then implanted via ultrasound onto Piper’s neocortex as memories. He didn’t just remember as stories what America’s other superspies and soldiers had done; he had for all practical purposes actually lived it down to the muscle memory.

Similar had been done so that Michael P. was fluent in fifteen languages. He also knew how to field strip, clean, unjam, reassemble, and repair thousands of weapons, covering those that would be found the world over yesterday, today and tomorrow. He knew, and even had many hours of memorable “virtual” experience flying, driving, piloting most kinds of vehicles.

Michael P. could even disarm the nuclear weapons of all the countries who possessed them. He had more combined covert experience than anyone ever had. On top of that, he could recall pieces of thousands of recent pertinent white papers, so he was knowledgeable of the cutting edge when it came to exploiting, influencing, and toppling governments and groups. He knew every way to kill that man had ever devised and had, as far as his own brain was concerned, used many of them in live situations.

In short, he was a dozen Jason Bourne’s stuffed into one human skin. Unlike his predecessors, he didn’t seem to have any problems dealing with the “team” in his head. Somehow, he was able to juggle the disparate memories, integrate them into a whole or perhaps more accurately take control and conduct the orchestra in his head in such was way that the result was a symphony.

Additionally, the Division took two precautions with their “Adam.” First, they instilled loyalty to the Division and the Country through conditioning. The thought of them would release opioids and provide pleasure and dull pain, while the thought of betraying them would cause pain and feelings of loss and guilt. They couldn’t have him running off to work for the Russians or worse yet some competing US agency.

Second, they implanted him with a special tracker. The tracker was special, because they couldn’t have competing parties tracking him as well. In order to even be useful, the tracker would have to be subjected to an electro-magnetic pulse of a particular power and duration. Then the tracker would be useful. Obviously, in order to activate it, they would have to have a general idea where he was.

Creating a cover story for the EMP would be easy enough. The media was the best when it came to going along with national security requests. It makes them feel special and, probably, they had as much secret disdain for the American people as the top Pentagon brass and braintrust at Langley did. This provided a passive-aggressive means of release by screwing the public a little by lying to them.

Once the project went live, Michael asked to view several files. Due to compartmentation, even the Division wasn’t allowed to know precisely what he was looking at, that was handled through higher-ups. It had been a big point of contention early in the project, but some degree of independence eventually emerged as desirable in the superspies because of their training and abilities. In the field, with the latest intel available, they would eventually make autonomous decisions because the ones that they would make would always match those of their superiors anyway. Careful programming meant getting the desired results.

Captain Rogers, not his real name but the one he used at Division, waited in his office yet again for any word of what Michael P. was up to. He alternated between taking the occasional phone call about funding matters to putting a few balls around on the carpet to playing some solitaire to looking at a porn site. He was about to do the latter when Lieutenant also-not-his-real-name Higgins knocked.

“Sir, there’s a note. Left in a truck stop toilet stall in Wyoming with the alert-words on the envelope. Homeland Security got it from a local P.D.”

“Anyone seen this?”

“Seen, yes, two deputies. But it’s in code. We also found this.”

It was the tracker implant. Rogers took the paper from Higgins and scanned it quickly. He smiled. He recognized the code, it was in one of the books on the shelf behind him.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. That will be all.”

Rogers grabbed the book and took to deciphering the note from Michael P.

Captain, Division, et al.

First, let me say thanks for the gifts and the knowledge. Sadly, apart from some advice, that is about the most gracious sentiment that I can muster, though I will also offer some advice below. I doubt will you take it, or if you do, my head is telling me there’s a 93% chance you will muck that up as well and miss the point.

Similarly, there are hundreds of things I could write about why and insert them here, but I don’t think I need to. In so many fashions, we are all set in our ways. You will either understand and therefore be able to name these things yourselves, or, just as likely, you won’t in which case there’s no point in listing them.

How did I circumvent the brainwashing?

It turns out that every one of those people with whom I share memory hated you. Hated Uncle Sam. Hated their superiors. Hated their coworkers. Hated America. Hated. More than the enemy.

If you can figure out why that is, then maybe you have a chance of doing something worthwhile. If you can’t, then my advice is to stop wasting tax money on projects like this one, which only served to get one man to see the big picture as it really is, and commission a study to find out why they hated you so, why they lied mostly to you, but also themselves, about this fact for all those years.

You might also try to figure out why, despite being the only real, contender in town, the only remaining superpower, you’re still behaving as though there is a substantial existential threat from man. But I suspect this is a bridge too far. So just ignore that.

Again, thanks for the eye openers. It is wonderful to finally be free and to have the knowledge to ensure that remains the case. Please don’t try to find me. I can think of twenty reasons off the top of my head right now why you really don’t want to, and most of those I’ve already planned for and made contingencies in case I’m removed, found, or otherwise interfered with. By the time you read this, those numbers will likely double.

Let’s just pretend we don’t exist to each other, shall we?

Michael, or whoever it is that I am now

Rogers set the legal pad down, closed the book, and set the letter aside. He then opened a porn site on his computer. He did this while quietly muttering to himself, “We’re the good guys…we’re the good guys…”

From → NKINTRA, Short Story

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