Chapter 287: Handed Over

Wednesday, January 25 to Friday, January 27, 2006

The guard's shift changed at 6am again, just as tersely as the time before. Most importantly, with no mention that I wasn't to be fed breakfast. I crossed my fingers.

The time for breakfast came and went. I moved around so he'd hear that I was awake, but I got no response. What was worse, I also got no breakfast.

I gave it half an hour, then asked, "Excuse me, is there any breakfast or just a drink of water this morning?"

"No. No talking."

#7: <It was worth a try. Lunch is going to taste MIGHTY good, even if it's cheese sandwiches again.>

#1: <That prick better not summon us for another interrogation just before lunchtime again.>

#3: <Asshole.>

Meanwhile the aforementioned prick of an asshole was having a busy morning. Moran was dividing my file up into digestible chunks chosen to lead a reader to the same theory that Moran had about me, but without his having to say it out loud, or even worse, in writing.

^

[[Some background information for you.

In the course of his long, distinguished career serving the American people, Moran had made many contacts and friends. One of the latter was Kyler Wright, another fairly senior manager from the same unaccountable agency they'd both worked at a few years ago.

When the DHS had been created, it'd had to hire a huge number of people quickly, as a result of which its hiring procedures hadn't been very good. Nor had they been good or even poor - they'd been bad. The DHS had been a mess right from the start. "Start as you mean to go on," Mom would say, although the DHS had started bad and then gone downhill. That's what happens when you have too many bad managers.

Kyler Wright differed from Moran in having a scientific bent. No particular expertise, but he liked to think otherwise. He got himself employed in a too-senior position in the Sciences & Technology Directorate of the DHS, their research arm.

The DHS as a whole was created with no clear vision of what it was meant to do, and with even less vision about how it was meant to do it. It was formed as a direct consequence of 9/11, "To protect the territory of the United States from terrorism." Unfortunately for the DHS, the War On Terrorism was more a political justification than a trillion-dollar reality, and to what extent it was real, even that was distorted at the whim of changing political objectives. Politics is not known for its long-term consistency, or even its short-term consistency, so the research directorate of a politically created and directed agency has got a serious problem because it takes a long time to bring new "Sciences & Technology" through the R&D process. Consequently the leaders of that directorate need to be very clear-sighted, intelligent people, and to receive high quality input from the senior management in the other directorates they're tasked to anticipate the needs of and support.

That's what the Sciences & Tech Directorate needed, but it certainly wasn't what it got. As a result, DHS's S&T Directorate was one of the worst run directorates in the entire DHS. Being that bad took a major effort, as the DHS was one of the worst run departments in the entire government. How much effort it takes to be one of the worst departments in a government like the American one, I'll leave you to have your own opinion about. I will insist though, that the previous two levels are NOT matters of opinion, but of verifiable fact. Studies have confirmed S&T's and DHS's positions at the bottom of their relevant barrels.

The Sciences & Tech Directorate didn't know what it should be doing, or even what it actually was doing. And even if it had known, it wouldn't have been able to do it properly. It wasn't in danger of going off course, because it'd never had a clear course, or an effective captain (leadership). Without clear direction from the top, less senior management found their own things to do. Often with good intentions, or to look busy, to pursue pet interests, or for other reasons. Senior management had too much unaccountable autonomy. Further down the ladder, people were even less accountable and competent, so the situation was often even worse.]]

^

Moran called Wright, and after the usual exchanges told him, "I've got an unusual file that suits your area of expertise much more than mine. It's unusual and requires an open-minded approach, so I'm going to send it to you in pieces. Read the first part then call me back if you're interested in receiving more."

The first chunk started with a one-page biographical summary of me (name, age, etc.), then included my OSU transcripts, several of OSU's internal emails about me, and the result of my IQ test from school.

Wright quickly called back, amazed at my genius.

Moran agreed it was amazing, although he personally didn't believe it. My having super-intelligence in addition to my mind control powers was too unlikely. Much more likely was that I'd simply used my mind control to make all my teachers and examiners give me top grades.

The next chunk was made up of extracts about Archibald Williams and my $11.1 million roulette win, the subsequent kidnapping, and how it'd ended (Moran had written, "Archibald Williams is Anderson's girlfriend's father"; a definition that reinforced my being the focus and making no mention of Prof being a prof).

Wright called back confused. "The roulette win is amazing, but where are you going with this?"

"You'll see."

The next chunk was about my physical prowess, including sound bites from my interrogation:

• My 10k running race win and my admitting I hadn't trained all that much.

• Quotes about my fighting expertise from the police notes about the Eaton Family Attack and the School Urinal Attack incidents, and my talking about only recently starting to learn Aikido at the time of those events.

• Quotes from the agent that'd watched me playing soccer, and my talking about joining the team a couple of years ago.

Wright called back, "He's a physical AND mental prodigy?"

"There's more. I'll send the next extracts."

The last chunk was made up of a timeline:

• "Average student at school," (school records were attached in support), "until Jan 2004. IQ test and leap in grades indicate an overnight leap from average to extreme genius."

• "April 1, 2005. Loses virginity," (appropriate extract from my interrogation attached).

• "Mid April, added a second lover," (another extract from my interrogation).

• "Late April, added a third lover," (another extract, plus a fourth extract of my explaining Julia's tolerance to my having other lovers, and a fifth extract from when he'd made me admit that the girls and I sometimes had sex all together).

• Then successive points for each of the six girls that got rapidly added during the last few weeks of summer, with appropriate verbal commentary, including about our sometimes all going out together.

The email also described that I had an unrestricted driver's license, obtained by the Dean of OSU and the Mayor going to bat for me, and quite a few more emails (e.g., from the Corvallis and Oregon Boards of Education to my school), all of which talked about providing me with "every assistance" or other such highly cooperative language. Some of the Boards' instructions to my school's Principal - after the bullying background was removed - appeared unbelievably over the top about their willingness to help me. They were effectively ordering the Principal to do whatever I wanted.

Wright said, "This boy is living THE life! He's got everything: money, girls, wild sex, he's an athlete and a genius, and people are falling all over themselves to help him."

"'Falling over' is an appropriate expression. Dominic King and Tom White," (the kidnappers) "fell over too. Possibly also to help Anderson. His winning $11 million was very helpful too."

"What're you saying?"

"I'm not saying anything. I'm waiting for you to say it; science is your area. Anderson is currently in my custody, but I don't want him around me any longer. I want him out of here."

"What've you got him for?"

"The file says it's because he might be intending to finance terrorism."

"Is there any proof of that?"

"There are indications that he might be intending to."

"I see. He's too young to work for us?"

"You know that's not what this is about. The boy is phenomenally physically and mentally gifted. I want you to think about how gifted he might be, whether his gift is becoming more powerful, and whether he's a threat that needs to be countered. I'll send you the whole file. I'm not equipped to deal with him, but he needs to be dealt with. Get back to me before the end of the day."

^

I spent the day sitting on my ass, going nowhere. I did have an idea for how to get some food though.

I searched through the cupboards looking for suitably thin food, but only the cheese qualified. That was okay, as there was plenty of it, and it was reasonably good food. Being made from milk, I assumed it had a high water content too, which was something I was worried about.

I checked that the guard was still engrossed in his book (I repeated this every few seconds during the following, but I'll not bother mentioning it again). I opened the fridge and NP'd out a package of cheese, flying it into the least likely to be used cupboard. I removed the individual slices from the package, then the cellophane from each of the slices. That left me with a pile of packaging to get rid of. I didn't want to put it in the room's trash can because the extra wrappings might be noticed, so I stashed the discarded packaging down the back of the fridge.

I repeated the process with two more packages, giving me thirty six slices of cheese. When this was over, it'd probably take me a while before I wanted to eat cheese again.

It took a bit of pushing, but I managed to put a small amount of pee into my bedpan. I carried it to my door, put it down, then called, "Would you empty my bedpan please?"

"Move to the back."

While the guard was getting up and moving to my door, I moved the stack of naked cheese slices out of the cupboard and down beside the kitchen's doorway. The noise the guard made sliding my door's slot open covered the sound of the kitchen door opening a couple of inches. The kitchen was behind the guard, and they keep their eyes glued to the peephole or slot when doing a delivery or pick up, so I was easily able to fly the cheese into cover behind his desk.

When he picked up the bedpan, I said, "There's not much because I'm suffering from dehydration, but it's very smelly."

He didn't seem to care, carrying it to the toilet as normal. I didn't try to transfer the cheese while he was in the toilet because they just tip the pan, flush and return, taking barely a few seconds. I'd try the tricky part of my plan on his return trip. Just as he was about to start sliding my door's panel closed after putting the pan into my cell, I distracted him by turning and quickly walking toward the door, saying, "Thanks for..."

He called, "Stay back!" while rushing to close the panel, not noticing that some invisible NP-fingertips blocked it from closing all the way.

I froze in place, apologetically saying "Oh, sorry."

He stood up and walked back to his desk.

I picked up the pan, banging it against the door while I said, "Sorry about that." The rattle and my voice covering my sliding the panel open the little bit more I needed. As he walked around the left of his desk, the cheese flew around the right. Then I just had to wait for him to settle down into his chair and put his feet up on his desk. That lowered his head enough that his desk hid the cheese's intended flight path. I confirmed that with a sight blob just above his head.

I moved the sight blob to where I could see the flight path and the guard, moved myself to sit just inside my door, then sent one slice of vertically hanging cheese flying across the room to my door. The gap in the slot was wide enough for a single piece of cheese to slip through. As soon as a corner was inside my cell, I grabbed it, then sent the fingertips back for the next piece. I repeated that thirty five more times as fast as I could. I soon had a very nice pile of food in my lap. And soon after that I didn't.

I'd been tempted to save a few to add to the sandwiches I'd hopefully be getting for lunch, but it wasn't worth the risk. It was better to destroy the evidence.

I watched the guard making my lunch of cheese sandwiches. I was looking forward to the bread. The cheese I'd stolen hadn't come from the half-used package. Instead I'd stolen from one of the other packages in the back of the fridge, and he didn't notice anything wrong. But I think he noticed that the panel wasn't fully closed when he was about to open it again. (I'd thought about closing it, but was scared of the noise it'd make.) He closed it firmly after delivering lunch, and again after removing my dishes.

I spent ALL day in my cell. I was reasonably sure that there was some sort of time limit on how long the DHS could keep me under wraps like this, although I didn't know what it was as I'd heard too many different numbers in the news, applicable in different circumstances. Somewhere between two days and two weeks I thought, although I thought the longer values only applied to enemy combatants caught overseas. Moran didn't seem to be worried about that though, as he'd effectively wasted the third day.

Speaking of "waste", the cheese went through me pretty fast. I had to use my bedpan for a runny crap. I felt even more dirty afterward; I could REALLY do with a shower.

#1: <The lack of any facilities here implies they don't keep people for long.>

#3: <Yeah, but maybe because they kill them and dump the bodies somewhere. I don't really think that, but we can't read too much into there being no shower and exercise yard.>

I can't say I enjoyed doing so, but I watched the guard while he cleaned the pan. He had disposable gloves and cleaning products in the kitchen, and he did a good job. I DEFINITELY didn't want to work for the DHS (it's a shitty organization). It took him a few minutes, so if I needed to get him out of the room for a while having a crap would be a good tactic, provided I had anything to crap.

Dinner was a small can of baked beans on two pieces of bread, and a cup of water. I was still very hungry, but I didn't feel threatened enough to try pulling my cheese smuggling stunt again. Holding the slot open wouldn't work often, and repeatedly reducing the supply of cheese would be noticed too, so I'd wait another day or two before I did it again.

^

Wright and Moran had another conversation in the early evening. It's not worth repeating in full. Wright did some fishing, "Why did you single out the roulette win? Do you believe he or they cheated in some way? How?"

Moran was noncommittal, "There's no evidence for my team to investigate, but it screams significance. You've got to wonder how he did it if Binion's and the Fibbies couldn't find anything."

Wright asked, "How do you think he did it?"

"I don't know. I'd like to find out, but I haven't pressed him on it. He says it was luck, and that the second bet had no other possible explanation, but I'd bet my pension the fix was in. He needs to be tested properly. I wouldn't know what to look for or how to find it; that's why I called you. Do you have any ideas how he did it?"

After some more back and forth, Wright finally raised the possibility of my mind being capable of things normal people's minds couldn't do, then the conversation proceeded much smoother, including Moran's stating, "If he has such abilities, they're currently weak. I had my people minimize their conversations with him and each other, and didn't leave him in a group. There is some indication that his persuasiveness works best when he can play one person off against another."

The conversation ended with Wright saying, "I'm going to need time to get my people onboard or they'll think I'm crazy. If that goes well, we'll pick him up some time Friday."

"Make it Thursday night or very early Friday; I want low visibility on the transfer. And don't be late; I want him gone before the weekend. I'm not comfortable having him here."

"Yeah, I can understand that."

"You've got computer techs at your end who can get rid of all trace of the emails I sent you?"

"Of course. I'll get them onto it, and the phone records too."

^

The rest of Thursday was a boring time for me. Boredom was better than being interrogated, especially because it gave Moran no opportunity to cancel any more of my meals. I was VERY eager to get as many meals as I could. They were so small that I was perpetually hungry. One cheery thought was that I was sure I could survive far better and longer on half rations than on none at all. I decided not to steal any more food as my need wasn't high enough. Nor did I send another text message, as there was nothing new.

There were some very minor discoveries or changes, such as:

• I found out that my guards arrived at work several minutes before the shift change, going straight up to level five (they pressed that button on the elevator). A few minutes later they'd arrive back down here to take over. That would presumably be how the newly arrived guard had known not to feed me breakfast.

• The guard started getting a call every couple of hours, which he usually said, "Fine" to. [[Moran was worried about the guard being in my presence for so long. He couldn't ramp up security as much as he wanted without it possibly coming back to bite him later, as he was going to pretend to lose interest in me shortly. Upgrading security would conflict with that, so he trusted in my ability to control minds being weak (which it was; VERY weak).]]

• Moran himself popped in a couple of times, just to eyeball the place and me to make sure everything was truly fine. He never talked to me and ignored my questions to him.

I was unable to see anything in all my sight blob searching that gave me any clue why nothing was happening or what was intended for me. My guess was that Moran was having the facts from my last interrogation confirmed before bothering to have another one. In which case, I just had to keep sitting on my ass. The facts would check out pretty well. Not perfectly, as I'd had sex with thirty six girls by now, but my being the only guy on the planet to understate the number of his conquests was hardly justification for keeping me locked up indefinitely. Sooner or later, and it definitely SHOULD be sooner, they'd let me go.

Late Thursday night, Moran came into the jail, telling the guard and me that he was letting me go.

It was difficult for me to bite back the many bitter comments I wanted to make, and it was doubtless best to wait until I was free before I started swearing and ranting.

I was removed from the cell, handcuffed again, then Moran took my wallet, cellphone, etc., out of his jacket pocket and put them into one of mine. I caught a quick look at my wallet, and it looked as full of money as it'd been before (about $2,500 worth), so DHS agents are apparently hardworking and honest moronic assholes. He took my arm and steered me to the elevator, up to the ground level, then out the front door. He pushed my arm to direct me down the street. It was very dark and quiet, the streets virtually empty of traffic. I was puzzled why he hadn't simply let me go at the front door, but I wasn't going to risk saying anything unless he took me back inside.

We walked several dozen yards down the street, and were approaching a parked SUV, when four guys got out of it and stood waiting for us to arrive.

#6: <What the hell is this? I thought he was letting us go, but this doesn't look right.>

#1: <Unless they're going to drive us home?>

#7: <God knows. It's impossible to know what the hell they're thinking, even having read our file. Apart from the short guy, they look like the usual DHS goons, so we can't do anything extreme unless we're certain we're in grave danger.>

#3: <Moran's the first one to get his brains blended if that's the case.>

My walking speed slowed. Moran's grip on my arm changed. I expected him to push me to move faster, but instead he pulled me to a stop about ten yards short of the waiting group. He moved behind me and started removing my handcuffs.

That was the good news. The bad news was that the three waiting goons spread out left and right a couple of yards. The center goon pulled out a pair of cuffs, and the flanking two put their hands on the butts of their guns, looking at me intently.

I asked, "Who are you guys?"

"DHS," said the little guy, who was visible in the gap between two of the goons.

"Show me some ID."

"Shut up!" demanded Moran, stopping the little guy who'd already started complying.

The aborted showing of ID wasn't proof, but it was an indication that they were DHS. That plus the dark SUV, their suits, body types, their having handcuffs and guns, and the situation, all added up to their almost certainly being DHS. What was more of a mystery was what the hell was going on. The new group was standing ten yards away from me, and Moran had removed my handcuffs and was about to push me in their direction. He wasn't going to push hard enough to propel me thirty feet, so I'd easily be able to stop myself reaching the new goons. Admittedly two of them were on the verge of drawing their weapons and it'd be very difficult for a person to get away in these circumstances, but it was still an extremely weird way to pass me onto someone else. I was also confused why Moran had said back in the jail that he was "letting me go", because that wasn't what was happening.

As his ki had indicated, Moran gave me a moderate push on my back. I didn't resist it, so it sent me a couple of steps away.

I stopped and asked the new group, "Wh... ,"

"Shut the fuck up!" demanded the goon with the handcuffs. "Come here NOW!"

That wouldn't have been my choice. I wanted to pull out my cellphone and order a taxi, but I couldn't see them letting that happen. The four new guys were all highly alert and tense, acting as if this was a dangerous situation, so Moran's releasing me and walking away casually made no sense.

My certainty that they wouldn't wait patiently until a taxi came for me increased even further when the middle goon told the one to his left, "Shoot him in the thigh." The left goon started drawing his weapon.

I could think of several choices:

• Start a small war. Actually a big war, as every cop and DHS agent in America would be after my ass. It'd turn into whatever the level above "clusterfuck" was.

• Run away without attacking them. I wouldn't get far.

• Stay where I was while I asked them to explain what was going on and what was going to happen to me. Even when they hadn't been about to shoot me, every DHS agent I have ever met has had in common a total unwillingness to answer my questions. I'd be better off running, if only to put them to the bother of shooting a moving target.

• Advance toward them the way they clearly wanted me to.

The first two options weren't options at all. I very much wanted the version of the third option where they answered all my questions before I had to decide whether to put myself back in their hands, but I knew there was no possibility of them answering me, and there was a real possibility of their shooting me if I didn't walk forward.

#3: <I know we joked about the assholes kicking us out of the door when they released us, but that's definitely what I'd prefer now. I don't feel good about this weird pickup.>

#8: <Me neither, but we have to wait for our imminent death before we can act. Only three of them have got guns, and we shouldn't have too much trouble taking down all four if we need to.>

#All: <Agreed.>

I walked forward, wishing I knew what the fuck was going on with this strange handover, and everything else too.

The potential thigh-shooter returned his gun to his holster as I advanced, but kept his hand on it. All of them stayed alert and cautious, looking like they expected trouble. When I was within range of the central guy, he grabbed me, spun me around and pushed me against the SUV, then cuffed me. The contents of my pockets were removed again, the SUVs rear door opened and I was ordered, "Get in the car."

"Whe ... oof."

I'd proximity sensed the gut-punch coming, so the "oof" was mostly theatrics. It hadn't been a hard punch, merely the DHS's version of insisting that I keep quiet. They appeared unwilling to participate in polite conversation.

We mounted up without any talking. The head goon drove, the non-agent looking guy took the front passenger seat and two other goons sat to either side of me. We drove until we reached a small airport. I'd have preferred to get onto the highway heading south, but maybe they were going to fly me home. Nothing they were doing made sense, so it was damned hard to predict what it meant.

We drove up to a private jet, quite similar in size to the one I'd rented for the Rodeo Drive trip, where I'd be very happy to go now. I was taken up the stairs and into the plane. All of us went, leaving the SUV on the edge of the tarmac, which made me momentarily curious about what would happen to it after we left. That wasn't my biggest concern though. [[Funnily enough, my families ended up owning it, but that's a long story (this one, as it happens).]]

The inside of the plane wasn't as luxurious as the one I'd rented. This one had no bed and the seats were smaller. I was sat down in the fourth row, window seat, and buckled in. Goons sat around me. The pilot finished pulling up the stairs and closing the door, then he headed to the cockpit. That gave me an idea, so I bowed my head, closed my eyes and sent a sight blob into the cockpit. I easily found what I was looking for: a clipboard containing a flight plan. It was from Portland to Washington D.C. I wanted to go eighty miles south, but apparently the plane was going over two thousand miles east.

I was sure that if I tried to speak, all I'd get out would be another "oof", I was handcuffed, belted into an airline seat and surrounded by armed goons. So it looked like I was going to Washington D.C., probably to the DHS's head office, I guessed. If I was right about that, it seemed I hadn't done a very good job of convincing Moran of my innocence, although I was starting to fear that "innocence" might not be the issue anymore.

It was possible that the flight plan didn't apply to the flight we were about to make, so I mentally crossed my fingers and waited to see what happened when we took off. If we were flying to Corvallis, it'd barely be worthwhile raising the plane's wheels after takeoff before they'd have to be lowered again for landing, so I'd soon find out. I could send a sight blob outside the plane too; that'd give a very good view (the window covers were all down, so my real eyes had no direct view). I was wondering how my sight blob would be able to tell which direction the plane was flying in, especially with it being late at night, when I realized that it was a pretty safe bet that the cockpit would have a compass. I waited until we'd taken off and had turned into what seemed to be our long-term heading, then I pretended to try to sleep. We were heading east.

One of the ideas that crossed my mind was leaping out of the plane. I weighed about 180 pounds and my eight-mind maximum NP force was just over 160 pounds. With my clothes I'd be about 25 pounds too heavy. I had a big surface area if I spread out flat, so chances are my terminal velocity wouldn't be very high. On the other hand, belly flopping into the ground at even just 20 or 30 mph didn't sound like fun. In another three months my maximum force would be 180 pounds, and I might've been tempted to blind everyone including the pilot and leap out. With any luck they'd think my body had been destroyed in the crash. I knew there were far too many major problems with that idea, but it was impossible not to think about it for a few seconds. I'll just have to wait and see what happened.

Another thought that occurred was to use my NP to crash the plane on landing bad enough that several of us would have to be hospitalized. Hopefully my identity would get out and I might be rescued. I was almost hopeful about that idea, because I could immediately think of several ways that I could cause a crash, but then I realized that the Government's ability to control the emergency services was too high, so word of my identity was very unlikely to leak. And even if I somehow did get released, the DHS could pick me up again whenever they wanted.

I was curious to try, so I sent a sight blob outside the plane. We were flying at 415 knots. I didn't know the knot-to-mph conversation factor, but I'd heard somewhere that the number was somewhat higher in miles per hour. It didn't really matter, so call it 450 mph. The sight blob in formation with the plane, just outside my window, flying through the air at something like 450 mph, and it might as well have been inside the plane for all the effect I could feel. If that didn't prove sight blobs had no wind resistance, nothing did. I was tempted to create an NP-fingertip out there, but I already knew it'd be instantly blown backward. I was pretty sure nothing bad would happen, but I'd rather not risk it, especially since I needed to keep my wits about me.