THE COUNSELOR
By James Robert Smith
She picked up the office phone immediately. She had an old
style with handset and cord. Why? She had wondered that often, and
couldn’t think of any reason for it, other than nostalgia. And it wasn’t
nostalgia from her own youth, because by the time she had been born almost no
one used that kind of clumsy contraption anymore. The instrument rang once
before she had it to her ear.
“Loraine Gaskins,” she said. She hadn’t even bothered to
glance at the ID pad to see who was calling her this early, and now that she
did she realized that the readout was blank. Damn. That meant only one thing.
“Dr. Gaskins,” the voice on the other end told her. She
recognized him instantly with some distaste. She only spoke to him occasionally
and generally when her time with the Agent was going to be either cancelled or
curtailed. “This is Mills, over at the Service,” he told her. As if there was
only one government service of any importance and he was gainfully employed directing the local branch.
“Yes, Mr. Mills. I recognize your voice.” She tried to speak
through clamped jaws, but it wasn’t coming off too well. She always made
certain that she had cleared her schedule of all other matters on days when she
was going to counsel her superman, and now she knew that he would not show. “I
take it my morning appointment will not be kept?”
“I’m afraid that it is so,” Mills told her. She could
imagine his dark features in a Spartan office somewhere in a tower some miles
distant. The IDS never marked their headquarters or their mobile offices. It
was all strictly secret, even if their most prominent members were there for
everyone to see. Of course, that had always been the plan. What good was it to have
Enhanced Humans around to protect the population if the people couldn’t see
them?
She found herself twirling the plastic cord on the handset
around her left index finger. She knew that she shouldn’t do that; the material
was growing ever more stressed and prone to tangle because of it. But she
couldn’t help herself.
“No chance to rescheduling later today?” she asked,
hopefully.
Mills actually chuckled on his end. “I’m afraid not, Dr.
Gaskins.”
“A bad situation? Like the one he faced yesterday?” Without
looking, she stepped back until she felt her bare calves meet her office chair
and then she settled into it with a barely repressed sigh. The Agent was gold
to her. She never failed to be both mystified and impressed by her interviews
with him.
“You know I can’t comment on such things.” She imagined his
dark face again, uncomfortable with even the idea of sharing classified
information. “I’m sure Agent 67 will tell you about his work when he can make
another appointment.”
“And that would be?”
“That would be telling, Dr. Gaskins, and you know we don’t
do that sort of thing.”
She hated Mills. He seemed to enjoy monopolizing the Agent’s
time.
“Very well,” she finally said. “But, Mills,” she added,
afraid that he would suddenly cut the connection.
“Yes?”
“I’ll still be available. If, by some chance, the
appointment could be rescheduled today.” She winced, wishing she hadn’t said it
as soon as the words had left her mouth. Sometimes she acted like a lovelorn
schoolgirl when it came to her patient. Like so many involved with that man,
she had been hired specifically and exclusively to minister to only the Agent.
“Of course, Dr. Gaskins,” Mills said. She could see him
grinning at her on the other end, wherever that was. He had perfectly straight,
perfectly symmetrical, perfectly white teeth, she recalled. All thirty-two of them flawless.
And all bared in amusement at her silly performance. “You’ll receive a prompt
when you need to get in touch with Agent 67,” he told her.
And then the line did go dead and there was no longer a
chance to speak, to negotiate, to beg.
“Shit,” she said.
*
Ten miles from Gaskins Mills looked across his own desk and
addressed one of his junior agents. Small “a” agent. Not the big guy. Not the
one who counted most. Not the walking, talking, take-no-prisoners bonafide
super-human Agent. This was just a regular field associate new to the area. William
Tanger, two months out of college. A good kid with a good attitude and a simple
education in Criminal Law.
“What’s so funny?” the man asked, a bemused
expression on a young face seemingly cut from flesh someone had molded to be obviously
Germanic. To Mills, the kid looked like that Nazi soldier who climbed out of
the Tiger tank in that Clint Eastwood comedy from his grandfather’s days.
“Just the psychologist who sees Agent 67,” Mills said. “You’ll
meet her at some point, so it’s no harm for me to tell you about her. I have to
write my reports on her, just as she has to turn in her notes about our resident
superman.” He cleared his throat and tried to wipe the grin from his face. “It’s
just that she has some real issues with him.”
“What? She doesn’t like him? I’ve always heard that there’s
something worked into their genetic string that creates…I don’t know…some kind
of positive charisma, or something. Isn’t that true about them?” The kid was
genuinely puzzled.
“Far from it, Tanger,” Mills said. He brushed some lint from
his otherwise spotless dark blue suit. The fabric was, in fact, so dark blue as
to be almost black. “I mean, yes to your second question. All Agents are imminently likable. But as for Gaksins...she’s actually hooked on him some way.”
The kid made a sophomoric motion with his right index finger
and the “O” shape he’d made with his left hand.
“Hell, no,” Mills exclaimed. “You’d better believe that
would never happen. Not only does Gaskins know better, but they cook these
Agents up to be Boy Scouts. I swear to Almighty God they do no wrong. Their
only purpose on this Earth is to protect us.” Mills motioned, pointing back and forth between Tanger and himself. “We are the end-all and be-all of their existences. You
need to keep that in mind. Agents are here to protect us and to do the right
thing where we’re concerned.”
Tanger was nodding. “Then what’s her problem?”
Mills smiled. “Don’t get me wrong. She might not bang the
Agent…but I can guarantee you that she would if she could. My bet is that she’s
as wet as a towel in a steam room every time he goes in for one of their gab
sessions.”
“Oh,” Tanger said.
“Well, that’s enough of that. I’m sure you’ll meet her
someday, so forget I said anything. She’s pretty damned good at her job and she’ll
be able to spell your personality into a perfect single paragraph when you
finally do meet her. And that’ll all be from you just walking into the room.
“I see,” Tanger replied. He made a fluttering motion with
his hands. “It’s all forgotten. Gaskins who?”
“Good man,” Mills said. The director stood then, towering
over his desk, towering over his junior associate, and suddenly all but
blotting out the big painting of his wife and son that hung on the wall behind
him. “We’ve got work to do.”
Looking like the college lineman he once was, Director Erwin
Mills walked across the room, opened the door for his new trainee, and allowed
the youth to precede him through the exit. “We’ve got to head to where the
action is going to be.”
“Will it be a sure thing, then?” Tanger looked up at his
hulking boss.
“Yes, it will. You will get to see Agent 67 in full,
monster-killing action. There will be much bloody violence and absolutely no
prisoners taken.”
“None?” the kid asked. He’d been told earlier that they
needed to hang onto a few for questions and live dissection.
 |
| "I swear to Almighty God they do no wrong." |
No comments:
Post a Comment