Tamara’s Gift

By Robin Matchett

Tamara’s Gift, the enthralling sequel to Kennedy’s Ghosts, unfolds six decades later, tracing the extraordinary journey of a baby girl left at an orphanage doorstep, humorously claimed by the matron to be delivered by a ‘stork.’ This whimsical tale harbors a grain of truth as this enigmatic girl blossoms into a formidable force of modern times, spearheading a revolutionary paradigm of A.I. interfacing technology and beyond. But who is she? Possessing an intellect that’s off the charts and a mysterious celestial connection, could she be a harbinger of more global unrest or the key to long-awaited peace?

As the saga unfolds, weaving in characters and descendants from the first book, it challenges our notions of humanity’s place in the cosmic tapestry. From America to China and back, Tamara’s odyssey unfolds towards a sinister, yet enigmatic climax, seemingly guided by higher beings striving to steer humanity away from a precipice of annihilation. The uncovering of her genetic lineage unsettles the geopolitical balance, igniting a tussle between the forces of darkness and light.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9798889106104

Robin Matchett

Robin Matchett was born in France to Canadian parents. Living on a farm in Ontario, Canada from an early age, he developed an interest in literary pursuits. He won a Toronto Arts Protégé Award in 1992.

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About the Author

Robin Matchett was born in France to Canadian parents. Living on a farm in Ontario, Canada from an early age, he developed an interest in literary pursuits. He won a Toronto Arts Protégé Award in 1992.

Dedication

Irina Mazur

Copyright Information ©

Robin Matchett 2024

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Matchett, Robin

Tamara’s Gift

ISBN 9798889106081 (Paperback)

ISBN 9798889106098 (Hardback)

ISBN 9798889106104 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023921085

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

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Acknowledgment

I would like to thank the Publisher and those involved with this novel for their assistance. As well, thanks must be conveyed to Ella Foster for her drawing of the cover. Writing my novels has been a lonely and largely unaided task, though thanks must be extended to those individuals who encouraged and supported my efforts, specifically my long-deceased godfather, Jack McClelland.

Part One

The Nephilim were on the earth in those days,

And also afterward, when the sons of God came

Into the daughters of men, and they bore children to them.

Genesis 6.4

1

Strange Fruit

The day began typically for Dr. Mollie McBride, as she drove to her office into San Francisco from Muir Beach in Marin County. A psychiatrist, semi-retired at seventy-four years old, she had kept a few patients, mostly women, and rarely took on new ones, having referred them to younger colleagues. Leading a tranquil existence since her common-law husband had died four years ago, she divided her time between professional work and her extensive fruit and vegetable garden, an avocation which he had started at least thirty years before and for twenty years kept a stall at a local farmer’s market in Mill Valley. She had never been one to take a hands-on interest in gardening, but found it in keeping with the spirit of their long relationship and helped defray her loneliness, though now maintained by a young couple, Bert and Jenny, who originally took over the operation throughout his illness managing both the garden and stall. Moreover, the garden and the constant renewal of life symbolized in it had become a kind of mantra for her professional philosophy.

Crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, she looked out to sea as she always did, but that day her memory was jolted somehow, triggering her distant past, the shock of losing her mother at sixteen years old and torn suddenly from Washington DC, where she was born and had grown up, to move to Los Angeles and live with her father. Back then, she had survived her grief by eventually embracing the sixties counterculture as a lifeline in effect, becoming a hippie, a deadhead, living an immaculate freedom which for all intents cured her of the post trauma of discovering the bodies of her murdered mother and her lover, the father of her then boyfriend.

However, it was a trauma that still reverberated in her deepest self, her seemingly perfect young life annihilated; the loss of her great love, though healed over time, never truly redeemed itself in others. She could not abide relationships of any permanency until Dan Hunter, her deceased common-law husband, a slightly younger man who found a way into her heart. But even he, with his quirky charm, musicianship and kindness could not ultimately heal her sadness and guilt—her dark secret. Yet it was through this sadness and guilt that impelled in her the desire to heal others, and for almost fifty years she managed to find great success earning a reputation for giving thousands of her patients the ability to begin anew better lives.

Her children, Deborah and Hugo Morris, forty-nine and forty-six, were raised unconventionally in a number of ways, one of which was never knowing their father, in part having died when they were little, and not being replaced by a step-father, yet they were always told that they were conceived in love, and had known a number of would-be fathers—Mollie’s boyfriends—who seemed to go away after a while. As for Deborah’s paternity, Mollie never actually revealed the truth, having kept that little nugget of mystery inviolate. Her wayward lifestyle back then was a necessary self-cure for her particular melancholy. Her reasons were deep and personal. Her own father suspected the truth—and indeed saw it in the like appearance of his granddaughter—but never challenged her for fear of upending the applecart. Her history was just too sensitive. But now, Mollie, since leading such a solitary life of late, felt some urge to dig up the past and root out her problem once and for all. She would often confront her inability to surrender the truth, ironically something which she consistently worked on her patients to do. At times, she thought of herself as a professional fraud, and on numerous occasions had admitted to her colleagues, even some patients, telling them in her sincere open-hearted way that the mind at times was not something she could make any sense of; and that only compassion and knowledge of her fellow sufferers would show them the way forward. Her children saw her differently: she was tough though forgiving and when they were older, knew her to be vulnerable. For all her professional levelheadedness and natural bonhomie—the reliable friend, mentor, and mother—few knew how shattered she was inside. It was a cross to bear, yet she bore it well.

Once across the Golden Gate, she continued on 101 which became Lombard then Van Ness and through numerous lights until her turn on Russian Hill. Her mounted cell rang suddenly the personalized ring, the first few bars of Dark Star, and she answered.

‘Hey, sweetie.’

‘Mom,’ her daughter’s voice came loudly through the speakers of Mollie’s new black XC40 Volvo.

‘What’s up?’

‘I need to speak to you about something.’

‘Is it urgent? I have a patient in ten minutes.’

‘One of my clients is in trouble.’

‘That’s sounds like your job description, dear; what kind of trouble?’

Deborah Puentes was a psychologist in Palo Alto and a PTSD (Post-Traumatic Syndrome Disorder) and EMDR specialist (Eye Movement Desensitization Reprocessing) though took on other clients some of whom worked in tech companies throughout the Santa Clara Valley, ubiquitously known as Silicon Valley.

‘I can’t talk about it over the phone.’

‘Is this another security issue?’

‘Yes. It’s out of my range. She’s a lovely girl, and I feel she needs you.’

‘That’s quite an admission, honey.’

‘I can’t get through to her. I’m out of my element with her.’

‘How did she come to you, BlueWater?’

‘Yes.’

BlueWater Resources was a well-known private service company that tech corporations used to help them with various personnel security issues and vetting, including health related, which they outsourced to doctors and psychologists like Deborah Puentes.

‘Are they accusing her of something?’

‘Not yet. They don’t trust her. When they did a recent review or analysis of her performance using a new software system, she failed.’

‘You mean she was stealing technology?’

‘They have no proof. She says she answered their questions truthfully. She claims to know how to make new ideas work, or how they should work.’

‘I don’t know, dear. I’m sure you or your people can handle it.’

‘Mom, there’s something about her.’

‘Can you be more specific?’

‘Not over the phone.’

‘Does she have any friends?’

‘Not really, maybe one.’

‘A girlfriend, boyfriend?’

‘I think a boyfriend who likes her but she doesn’t return the affection.’

‘How smart is she in your estimation.’

‘Her IQ is off the charts, over 300. I think that’s the problem.’

‘Really? That’s beyond incredible. Crazy. And she’s not famous?’

‘She downplays it as flawed,’ said Deborah. ‘Calls it 200.’

‘Okay, right. But why now?’

‘They ran these new employee tests and I suppose it red-flagged her.’

‘What does BlueWater want from you?’

‘A thorough examination.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Tamara Tomken.’

‘Well, alright. You’ve piqued my interest—a 300 IQ? I wanted to speak about something to you as well.’

‘Great. When?’

‘Why don’t you come for dinner?’

‘I meant when can you see her? She’s been suspended until we sort her out.’

‘How about 3 PM?’

‘I’ll text her. She doesn’t drive. I could bring her and she could take public transit back.’

‘Fine, then.’

*

After her morning client, a woman whose only child died many years before, Mollie looked at herself in the mirror of the washroom. The tired green eyes gazed back, though she forced herself to smile, ‘Old bag,’ she murmured. Her gray hair, once dark brown still thick and wavy, was tied in a short pony-tail. The beauty of her youth had never quite faded, having aged so gracefully, she could still attract the roving eye of man, some even half her age. Flattered, naturally, she deferred to wisdom and took it with a grain of salt. She never thought of herself as beautiful, as she was a cerebral creature always looking for higher needs—the relative beauty of mind over matter. But matter had a way of always coming back to her big regret in life, the secret of her love child. This child had been like a cure, a martyrdom that gave her life the power to survive. But life had a funny way of turning back on itself, which in this sense had come to haunt her. She would admonish herself: How could she do that to Nevin? Debbie? Pedro for that matter? How selfish she was, but at the same time it seemed to have emboldened her to lead her new life without complicating the old, dashed by tragedy. Rearing her child was the toll she paid to free Nevin and herself from that tragedy. It was her choice to carry that burden, which turned out to be no burden at all. Deborah was the spitting image of her father, and gave Mollie all the strength she needed to carry on alone. A life with Nevin would have been too painful and would likely have led to an enduring misery. She knew it had been the right thing to do given the circumstances. And Nevin went on to eventually find true love and happiness in Lizbet Greenfield, the brilliant daughter of Harley and Hannah, one-time cold warriors of a different age, both of whom she had never met, but knew to be wonderful according to Carolyn, Nevin’s older sister, a family doctor. The thought of Nevin’s happiness often brought tears to her eyes, a strange compounding of love and anguish, a blessed sacrifice, her love for him never wavering for a moment.

Another patient came and went. She received a text from Deborah to say Tamara would meet with her that day. Having an hour before the appointment, Mollie went downstairs for a tea and snack in Mira’s Deli owned and operated by her granddaughter, Mira Puentes, a twenty-nine year old artist. Mira, half Hispanic, had long, dark hennaed hair, lovely light brown skin, sharp aquamarine eyes, an agile curvaceous build and in appearance a bit like her father, Enrique, who was the captain of a ballistic submarine stationed in Hawaii. For large parts of her life he was absent, though her parents remained married, living separate lives. He loved the sea. Her mother loved her job in Palo Alto. When he was home in Menlo Park, they carried on like he was never away. Mollie owned the little building which contained two large apartments on the second floor, her office on the third floor with an additional apartment that Mollie kept for her own use from time to time. Mira lived on the second floor in one apartment, and a retired gay couple, Darren and Larry, lived in the other apartment. The café-deli-bakery and Mira’s studio were on the ground floor, where she spent a good deal of her time. Jeff, Ivor, José, Diane, Katie, Monica, Daisy, Mickey and Ayla rotated two eight-hour shifts as her employees seven days a week from six in the morning to ten in the evening every day. Business for the deli was brisk in the community, attracting many locals over the years. In fact, before Mollie purchased the building over thirty years ago, Norm’s Grill had occupied the space since before the Second World War. Jeff and Daisy were just finishing their shift before 2 PM, while Diane and Monica had just arrived. At least, a dozen customers were either sitting, sipping, reading, ordering or browsing for specialty items on the shelves, such as local or rare honeys from Bali, Morocco, and pine honey from Europe; teas and coffees, dairy, non-dairy and vegetables; as well as unique local pastas and artisan breads, pastries and a whole host of interesting products including frozen exotic fruit purées such as pink guava from Brazil.

‘Thanks, Daisy,’ said Mollie, paying and taking her tea and cinnamon roll.

‘Enjoy, Liti,’ replied Daisy, smiling. Daisy, in her forties was Mira’s manager. They all called Mollie Liti, an acronym for abuelita—granny in Spanish.

‘I will. Has Mira been around?’

‘Yeah, she was here during the morning rush as usual.’

‘Good.’

Mollie went back behind the shop, where doors led to a storage and staff room, then into a hallway where the main entrance, elevator and stairwell were situated. A delivery door led to the trash bins at the back of the building and private parking lot for the occupants and another door led to the studio. The door was locked. Mollie knocked.

‘Mira?’ she called.

A minute later the door opened. Mira let in her grandmother.

‘Sorry, Liti, I was cleaning up.’

‘Oh, just visiting. Your mom is coming in an hour.’

‘I know; she texted me.’

Mollie looked about. The painting in progress was covered; the typical disarray of artistic paraphernalia and paintings all about.

‘Please sit,’ said Mira, indicating the old sofa and side table. She herself plopped down folding one leg beneath her facing her grandmother. Mollie followed, putting her hot tea on the table. ‘Feeling shy about your painting?’ asked Mollie, smiling. She adored Mira, of course, but had always considered her an odd duck. ‘Another nude?’

‘You know me. It’s unfinished.’

‘I’m not the critics, darling.’

‘You’ll be the first to see it.’

‘Really? Who is it?’

‘A client.’

‘Not Lew?’

‘Lew and I are taking a break.’

‘Oh.’

‘He’s been having an affair.’

‘Lew? He didn’t seem the type. I’m sorry. Are you okay?’

‘Not really. But I’ll live.’

‘I should hope so.’

‘I was unfaithful too,’ admitted Mira.

‘Ah, the plot thickens.’

‘I told him the truth that when we met I was still sleeping with Errol.’

‘I remember. That was a tough time.’

‘Yup. I was confused. Errol was so pushy, and had his way with me. Finally … well, you know.’

‘You did nothing wrong.’

‘Lew assumed Errol had raped me.’

‘But he didn’t.’

‘I told Lew the truth because I love him, and now this.’

Mollie went and hugged her across the sofa. ‘He’s bluffing.’

‘He told me he fucked a whore, Liti!’

‘Mira! You surprise me using that invective, after all.’

‘I have that right to use it because I know what it is.’

‘Well, on the upside, you’re both obviously jealous. And I prefer sex worker. I’ve had numerous patients, aside from you.’

‘Whatever. But Lew jealous? Strange way of showing it.’

‘And slapping you around like Errol did as an alternative?’

‘No. I just don’t understand men. They’re so hurtful.’

‘It goes both ways, Mira; but Errol was the abuser.’

‘Still, I lied. And I abused Errol. Psychologically.’

‘Alright, he’s history. But don’t believe Lew.’

‘Why not? He’s not a liar.’

‘That’s right. He’s a very bad liar, which amounts to the same thing.’

Mollie settled back and drank her tea. ‘Here, have a piece of cinnamon role?’ She pulled off a piece and handed it to Mira, who took it and ate it without a word. Her grandmother could always make the world feel less hostile. Mira had tattoos up her arms, and elsewhere from her wild youth. She was tough, a modern woman who yet confided in her grandmother things she never revealed to her mother, including her sex life, and having laser-removed all of her pubic hair, apparently done at Chico’s instigation years before in her early twenties Chico being the boyfriend at the time who manipulated Mira horrifically, even pimping her to fuel their lifestyle. There was a family crisis after Mira was hospitalized from drugs and a beating when she quit him. He ended up in prison for a long time.

On the whole Mollie didn’t quite understand women’s choices now. It seemed as if the greater the equality in gender roles today brought out a greater objectivity, something she had eschewed during the women’s liberation movement of her youth, when sexual freedom and growing hairy armpits and legs seemed to go together naturally. Now the pendulum swung the other way, where feminine inclinations were almost perversely orientated to optimize their power over men, the beauty industry taking a central role. Maybe it had always been that way. Then there was the me too debacle where women had been forever used horribly, even raped by powerful men. In Mollie’s mind, these men should have been charged from the get go; women can’t let themselves be abused without recrimination.

Though she supposed it was easier said than done given the sexual political climate at the time. Certainly Mira didn’t factor Errol as having sexually abused her; she admitted they were very compatible that way and she in a way still loved him. But Mira needed to be in control and she dominated Lewis Martin, an honest, successful, if irresolute computer service technician, who worked for himself. This seemed to satisfy her present state of affairs.

‘He’s so lucky to have me,’ Mira said. ‘I chose him.’

‘Why?’ asked Mollie.

‘He’s beautiful; makes good money; he supported me in everything; my moods, my art, which nobody buys; my ethnicity, everything.’

‘A man needs to assert himself in ways that women don’t take for granted.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying give him his freedom. Let him trip over his insipid ego.’

‘I’m afraid I’ll lose him.’

‘Maybe. But then you’ll know if he’s worth it.’

‘How?’ asked Mira.

‘He’s your same age, right?’

‘What does that have to do with anything?’

‘You’re both going through a test: a consolidation—I’ve seen it in many twenty-nine year olds—almost thirty. He’s gotta become a grown-up man; and you a grown-up woman. If you pass the test, you’ll either fall into each other’s arms or bust, and move on, hopefully justified in your self-worth.’

‘Did you pass the test?’

Mollie half expected her typical impertinence, in which Mira and Deborah had often clashed, once having been estranged for a year. Mollie kept her cool.

‘Yes Mira, by default. I had your mom at twenty-three; lost Hugo’s father at twenty-six. I lost my mother at sixteen. It still hurts.’

‘I’m sorry; I didn’t mean it to sound so careless.’

‘Honey, the sixties was a time that many of us believed in universal love, a sexual revolution, in spite of the violence at the time. It was experimental, a sea-change that had profound consequences on a personal level and cultural, a necessary reaction to post-war militarism.’

‘But nothing’s changed.’

‘Oh, but it has, those history books haven’t been written yet.’

‘Is my grandfather really Hugh Morris?’

Mollie sighed. Back in her epic youth what had passed for ideological enlightenment had now transpired into reckless acclaim, or worse, as if fate had laid waste her past innocence like a victim in the crosshairs of generational change. Mira had touched on the very nerve. Hugh Morris. Pedro, as he had been known among friends, had drowned white water rafting on the Colorado River in 1973 with some male buddies who survived, just three months after his son, Hugo, was born that February. He had helped raise Deborah as her convenient surrogate his word while Mollie attended medical school. He was the trip leader in their erstwhile psychedelia, and the very crux of her deepest secret. Pedro knew Deborah wasn’t his, but loved her anyway as a matter of hippie principle, and never said anything to anyone because they were a family living together and loved Mollie and Deborah unconditionally, but knew that Mollie didn’t love him the same way, even though she gave him a son, which in effect accumulated in his self-destruction. His profusive thank-yous and unabated self-medicating proclaimed in his mind a form of compensation—the truth of the matter being her insistence of love for him fell on deaf ears. He realized in his irrepressible way that the visceral, faithful love she had for another—the holy Nevin—could never be compensated. She was convinced Pedro had died gratefully, in spite of his genuine acceptance of the permanency in her life, and only then could there be compensation. He was right. Among friends, there came an unlifted shadow about them historically. It was nothing sinister, yet nothing known, though only Mollie and Pedro knew the truth, and others had sensed it ever since his fateful death, which seemed destined in hindsight to follow their trajectory after the phenomenal Woodstock Music and Art Fair at White lake, New York in August, 1969.

‘That was a very painful time, Mira. But I do have something to say about it, only that your mom needs to hear it too.’

‘So there was something.’

‘Something.’

Mollie finished her tea and stood up.

‘I have to prepare for a patient now. Will you come out for dinner with your mom and me later?’

‘Maybe.’

*

By the time her patient, Tamara Tomken, was sitting on the comfortable sofa in Mollie’s large office, all kinds of bells were ringing in her head. In fact, the moment Mollie laid eyes on Tamara in the entrance, as she gave Deborah a hug—she felt them ring as Tamara had stood looking into her eyes. It was those large, cool black eyes, not unfriendly, and yet oddly full of light, almost felicity shining darkly. Perhaps their effect was the way they appeared in contrast to her pale, smooth almost mother-of-pearl skin, framed by short thick silver-blond hair trimmed to her ears like a punk doll. There was an electric charge emanating from those eyes, as if her soul wished to emit some telekinesis. Taller than average, her body was skinny and shapeless—her arms and legs long, and fingers, though curiously her pinky was only half the length of the next digit or ring finger. Braless, her breasts so flat only two slight nipple points protruded her navy mock turtleneck, with hips and bottom feminine as if a prepubescent girl, though altogether she seemed ageless. And the elastic but still loose-fitting jeans hung on her as if she were a rebellious teen; even her petit nose and mouth seemed unreal, almost anime, prompting Mollie to wonder what she was like naked, or absurdly like a mannequin, whether she even had privates. Mira had painted an eclectic number of male and female nudes, so it occurred to her that Tamara should be part of her bizarre portfolio, though she would never suggest it in a million years. Could it be that Tamara was the quintessential modern woman in light of the feminist couture of the day? But no, Mollie thought the opposite: here was a woman who had no makeup—she didn’t appear to need it—she had lips that looked purplish magenta as if permanently and purposely colored. Poor girl, the empathy rising in Mollie, signaled someone who undoubtedly attracted all kinds of unwarranted attention. No wonder she dressed like a grunge kid.

Tamara hadn’t said a word or anything and remained quiet as a mouse in those few moments. She looked about the office, and out the large central window that from the elevation of Russian Hill offered a lovely view of San Francisco Bay and Alcatraz Island. Besides the desk, bookshelves and a blooming small hibiscus tree in the corner, the mystic blue painted walls and natural linen-colored painted ceiling, moldings and window frames, made the room seem cheery, airy, with a homely Grecian feel. So it surprised Mollie when Tamara then turned from the window and looked at her sitting opposite to utter in a soft succinct even diminutive yet projecting voice, ‘I am grateful that you have taken the time to see me on such short notice, Dr. McBride.’ Of course she would have a voice like that, thought Mollie—a new weird progenesis: where do these young people come from?

‘Call me Mollie, Tamara. I made an exception for you simply because Deborah said there was some urgency in your situation. And I am semi-retired with a lot of free time.’ She smiled. Tamara had the expression of smiling without smiling. Mona Lisa came to mind.

‘Oh, that’s StarSystems,’ she replied, ‘they’re always like that. They need me.’

‘But they suspended you pending a review.’

‘My boss, Fremont Golding, advised the security people. It was due anyway. I told him to, actually.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘We’re working on sensitive stuff. I’m a designer of new generation software.’

‘Then why was it a problem?’

‘He’s the genius, and I’m the underling.’

‘Yet …’

‘I was telling him what to do.’

‘I see. So you’re the genius and he’s the underling.’

‘He’s in love with me.’

‘Okay,’ said Mollie, ‘let me get this straight: you’re in trouble because he discovered that you’ve been stealing secrets about what you invented yourself? And he loves you?’

‘In a way, yes, but not stealing.’

‘In a way what happened? Or in a way he loves you?’

‘Both.’

This session was going altogether faster than Mollie anticipated. On the surface, Tamara seemed as transparent as her complexion, or was it a foil?

‘Tamara, is he jealous of you?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘It sounds like he is and he’s hurting you by doing what he did.’

‘But I told him to.’

‘And maybe he did that just to prove that he loved you?’ asked Mollie, trying not to sound incredulous.

‘No, to create a smokescreen.’ Tamara looked out the window again, as if Alcatraz held some interest.

Mollie felt exasperated and knew now why Deborah was out of her depth. She felt out of her depth with this kooky woman.

‘Am I missing something here?’ she asked. ‘What smokescreen?’

‘I don’t want them thinking that I’m the genius.’

Mollie wanted to laugh. It triggered the memory of a study group she had been involved with at Stanford in the early seventies, in which a select group of supposedly sane people, including herself, had themselves covertly committed into psychiatric hospitals on an experimental basis which ultimately concluded, by standard protocols, that with the therapy and prescription of medication there was no distinguishing between the sane and insane. And for a time they wouldn’t let her out! She had felt completely dehumanized.

‘So you’d rather be accused of corporate espionage than lauded as the next Einstein.’

‘In a way, yes,’ she giggled.

‘Well, I’m glad we got that straight.’

Tamara twittered like a female Woody-Woodpecker, her dark eyes squinting, and hand to her mouth. Mollie couldn’t help herself but laugh, relieved that their brief introduction actually made some sense. But after a few moments, and both sitting calmly, Mollie realized this girl was actually very coy.

‘What are you really trying to hide, Tamara? Are you really that smart that hiding it will make it go away?’

‘I’m not that smart. Actually, I think of myself as emotionally stupid.’

‘I doubt that. But let’s talk about Fremont. What’s he like?’

‘Fremont is a dick.’

‘But he likes you.’

‘Yeah, he told me he wants to marry me.’

‘Does that make him a dick?’

‘I think so. I’m not really good material for marriage.’

‘Do you like men?’ asked Mollie, regretting the question.

‘I didn’t say I didn’t like him. I don’t like or dislike many people, men and women; he’s one of them.’

‘You’re anti-social.’

‘Sort of.’

‘Have you been involved with someone before?’

‘You mean have I had sex?’ she uttered, her dark eyes opening wide.

‘I didn’t ask that. What I meant was having a close relationship, platonic or otherwise.’

‘Yes, lots of times.’

‘With Fremont?’

‘No, I like him too much.’

‘Correct me if I’m wrong: you don’t feel worthy of him, so you resist his advances.’

‘He calls me Pixie.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he said I looked like one.’

‘And that bothers you.’

‘No, I really like it.’

‘Okay, so what then? Do others call you Pixie?’

‘No,’ she said defiantly.

‘Then tell me about these relationships,’ urged Mollie.

‘That’s classified.’ She laughed.

‘Alright, that’s fine. But I’m going to be tough on you, Tamara. From one strong woman to another, and you’re strong. According to Deborah, they want a full examination, including a physical; and if I’m going to try and help you, I will need your full cooperation. I will need to know your personal and medical history, family, everything you think you know about yourself, and what you don’t know. At this point, I can suppose any number of ways to help you, but I want you to help yourself. You’re not emotionally stupid at all, in fact the opposite. You’re more than likely emotionally dishonest, if your friendship with Fremont is any indication. Don’t play games with me, because I see through just about everything. Am I making myself clear?’

‘Yes, Mollie. Sorry.’

‘There’s nothing to be sorry about.’

‘I lied to you.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘I’m virgin.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with that.’

‘I have a membrana.’

‘You mean an intact hymen.’

‘Mine is different.’

‘Have you been diagnosed?’

‘No.’

‘Then how do you know?’

‘I just know.’

‘Have you ever tried to penetrate yourself?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘It wouldn’t go in no matter how hard I try.’

‘What with?’

‘A little dildo vibrator.’

‘Can you achieve orgasm?’

‘It feels good, but I’m not sure, according to what I read about them.’

‘If you had an orgasm, believe me you’d know.’

‘Then, no.’

‘That may be your inhibitor to deeper relationships, Tamara.’

‘Really?’

‘Do you have regular periods?’

‘No, I don’t menstruate.’

‘How old are you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Come on, Tamara. What does it say on your identification?’

‘September 8, 1977.’

‘That makes you forty-two. And never any blood, even spotting?’

‘Never.’

‘You don’t look forty-two.’

‘You don’t look seventy-four.’

‘Deborah told you?’ She nodded.

‘Well, thank you, Tamara.’

‘You can call me Tama.’

‘Is that what everyone calls you?’

‘No, just my friends.’

‘I’m honored, dear.’

‘I’m an orphan.’

‘Your parents are deceased?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m sorry. Do you miss them?’

‘Not really.’

‘Oh. How old were you when they passed on?’

‘Age makes no difference,’ remarked Tamara. ‘They were nice, but were never close.’

‘Why is that?’

‘I was adopted.’

‘How old were you when you were adopted?’

‘Twelve.’

‘Twelve? Where did you live before?’

‘In an orphanage in New Jersey.’

‘What happened?’

‘I didn’t want to leave the home—called Cherry Hill Home For Children. The woman in charge, Betty Ferris, ran the large foster house affiliated with the Children’s Aid Foundation, and kept me close. I helped her look after the kids. Then she died of a heart attack.’

‘That must’ve been very difficult for you.’

‘It was more difficult for my brothers and sisters.’

‘The other children?’

‘Yeah. They saw me like a mom.’

‘That’s interesting.’

‘I kept in touch with some of them. That was the condition I went willingly with my adoptive parents, and the authorities were not adverse to it.’

‘Thank goodness.’

‘Do you know who your biological parents are?’

‘No. Betty said that a stork delivered me to the orphanage like in the cartoons.’ They both laughed.

‘Oh, Tama,’ as their laughter subsided, ‘could I get some blood samples? I’ll need them to understand your problem better.’

‘Sure, if it helps.’

‘It will, if I’m to get the holistic picture. As well I’ll arrange for an MRI at the clinic.’

‘Great.’

2

Cloudy with Sunny Breaks

On February the Nineteenth, 2020, the day after her birthday, Hannah James landed under overcast skies in San Francisco International Airport from Washington DC. Although excited to be there, she was still rather wistful having broken up early that year with her black boyfriend, actor Delmore King, who had recently landed a minor role in a new prime series produced in New York. They had been dating for almost three years, during which time Hannah had recently established herself as a junior analyst in the relatively new Directorate of Digital Innovation at the Central Intelligence Agency. The CIA was rather hereditary as her mother, grandfather and grandmother before her were agents, though in a very different capacity. Hannah was soon mentored by Roland Murray, the chief operating officer (COO) who had for many years worked closely with Hannah’s mother, Lizbet James, and he knew her father, Nevin, who had been years ago a senior counsel with the agency. In the New Year, Murray had had her moved there from the Directorate of Science and Technology (DS&T) where she entered the agency with her computer skills; it was felt that with her abilities she should be in the kitchen where new technology acquisitions and applications were paramount to keeping ahead of the intelligence curve for the entire agency. When it came to computers and IT—information technology—she was not only the new go-to person in her professional field as someone who had that fifth sense for ingenuity—it went without saying, her family also depended on her for everything computer-tech related. Just twenty-six years old, though not near the linguist as her mother, Hannah was still brilliant who aside from English, could speak fluent French, Spanish, Italian, Hebrew and good working knowledge of German, Yiddish, Arabic, Russian and Chinese with smatterings of Farsi, Pashto, Urdu and others. Since the New Year, her position was in a highly compartmentalized research unit (RU-8) directly under the personal control of the Deputy Director Deirdre Price, head of the DDI. Very quickly, it became apparent to the DD that she was someone who commanded great confidence among her colleagues as the new reigning tech sorceress. Her immediate boss, Sam Handy, supervisor of RU-8 known among them as Sarge, couldn’t believe his lucky stars her joining his team, and confided to DD Price without knowing the family history:

‘Where in God’s name did we find her?’

‘It’s in her blood,’ was the reply. ‘Her grandmother was OSS-CIA and a cold war field operative behind the Iron Curtain.’ Sarge had been a Special Forces Staff Sergeant in Intelligence having served two tours in Afghanistan and Iraq before losing a leg below the knee in Helmand Province in 2005 from an IED—improvised explosive device. Conversely, since his divorce no one but Hannah seemed to attract his undivided attention from a female, the truth of the matter being he had a looming crush on her that all his training could barely suppress for his dutiful professionalism, the mission at hand. Hannah, naturally, could read him like a book, but admired his level-head, as he was no fool. Their responsibility to the mission was first and foremost, and workplace romance frowned upon, if not forbidden.

‘I’ve given you this assignment,’ he had said the week before, over lunch in the huge cafeteria, ‘because one of our private sector affiliates, StarSystems, has red-flagged someone in their employ.’

‘I’m a computer-tech analyst, Sarge,’ she replied. ‘Sounds like a field-op for the FBI.’

‘It’s very sensitive, and I don’t know why. Please call me Sam, privately.’

Hannah looked at him, his dark, receding hair sprinkled with gray, languid blue eyes and facial stubble—its shadow progressed like a phase of the moon from shaving only once a week. Athletic, in reasonable shape, he had two children who he looked after every other weekend, some holidays and special days prearranged.

‘Sure, Sam. Who’s pulling strings here?’

‘Roland with DD Deirdre’s endorsement. He wanted you on this.’

‘I’m flattered, but why me?’

‘Why not? StarSystems is owned by ARW Aerospace. They’ve been involved with black projects since before Eisenhower, though a number of transformations have occurred, most notably the CIA is no longer in that loop since Bush Sr. was DCI in the Seventies—so Roland tells me.’

‘Then who is in the loop? And why use us now?’

‘The owners, I suppose—their think tank. We’re off the radar and need to penetrate it. You’re to liaise with someone there for a debriefing and potential upgrade of our software. The protocol has been that we get special status and first dibs, apparently.’

‘Sounds like begging. Can they be that far ahead of us?’

‘These are the questions that need to be answered. I do know their A.I. interface is beyond our present platforms. You’re going shopping, Hannah.’

‘Do I get a free shopping cart? Who is this liaison?’ she asked, blithely.

‘No, just window shopping. I’ve video-faced with him. Fremont Golding. He heads their advanced applications works—AI interfacing.’

‘He’s been red-flagged?’

‘No, a woman who’s been suspended pending a vetting—a background psychological analysis.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘He wouldn’t say, but likely he’ll bring you up to speed.’

‘When do I leave?’

‘Next Wednesday, the nineteenth; see Beth Wilson, she has your ticket and itinerary.’

‘Wow, thanks, Sam. Do I wear the collar up on my raingear?’

They laughed.

‘Just be yourself, Hannah. They know you’re CI on a fact-finding mission. It’s quid pro quo.’

‘What’s in it for them?’

‘As usual, one large but cut-rate secret customer I’d hope.’

A Ford Fiesta rental car was reserved for her under her alias Brook Baudelaire, as well as a room with a king-sized bed high up in the Hyatt on the bay near the airport. Hannah plopped herself onto the bed and lay there, so far enjoying the trip more as an adventure than anything. There didn’t seem much to it: meet a geek named Fremont, and perhaps this undisclosed person under review. Find out what they know. She lay there for a while settling down after the hustle of travel. After gaining three hours, it was only noon Pacific Time. Getting up, she walked to the window and opened the transparent inner curtains with the drawing rods. A view to the south revealed the vast spread of the so-called Santa Clara Valley or Silicon Valley, at least the northern edge of it. She quickly pulled out her blue 128 gigabyte iPhone XR and called the contact number. A woman answered and said she could meet with Fremont at 5PM.

Having a few hours to kill, Hannah drove south toward Palo Alto and after a quick tour of Stanford, found the StarSystems building a few kilometers south of the university in an industrial area where multifarious businesses were situated, including tech giant HP, and even Tesla, though they were to move to Texas. StarSystems was tiny in comparison, a smooth granite-faced cube of a building near a residential area. Finding a café, ordering black tea and a vegetarian snack, she researched online many of the local sites to get the lay of the land. Finally, a bit early to the appointed hour, she entered the car park, where gate security let her in after accessing the computer guest list and checking her ID. Directed by the front desk to wait in a comfortable sitting area with large windows, a large screen showing news and a huge iconic satellite video feed of earth from space, she sat back watching it and then browsed through the latest SAE tech magazine. Finally, a man dressed in jeans and dark Denver Hayes long-sleeved crew neck shirt, exited the elevator and approached her. Funnily, her first impression of him was the Archie Comic character Jughead though with a light-brown complexion—an East Indian somewhere in his genetic fabric—a mop of dark brown hair, lidded eyes and glasses but no cap. Her older brother, Billy, had a number of them kicking about when she was a kid. He was smiling and had his hand out ten paces away from her, walking with an edgy lope.

‘Ms. James,’ he gushed, ‘I’m so sorry I was delayed. Fremont Golding.’

‘Hannah. No problem.’

‘How was your trip?’

‘Fine.’

They went up the elevator and got off at the top floor, where she followed him to his small office with a window that looked west to the Santa Clara Mountains. Sitting behind his huge stainless steel desk, which oddly had nothing on it except a black, smooth stone—radically paperless she presumed—he leaned back on his swivel chair, as she sat in one of the two synthetic leather navy blue chairs facing him.

‘Welcome to Palo Alto. First time west?’ he fidgeted immediately with the black smooth stone as if it held the answer to some tantalizing mystery, not uncommon among technophiles. She knew enough of them, though she herself didn’t come across that way. Massaging the stone, he observed the bright green eyes gazing calmly back at him, intimidating him almost immediately, because in his imagination he had expected some cagey spook like the last time. But her relaxed demeanor, though hint of a cute scowl, healthy complexion, Botticelli face and lithe youthful body had him already tied in knots. She’s a spy? It seemed incongruous. Her thick, blond auburn-tinged shoulder-length hair in a simple pony-tail, dark gray pant suit and collarless light pink shirt revealing a simple platinum pentagram on a necklace finished off any notion of pretending he didn’t love her already. Medium tall, she wore—curiously to Fremont—comfortable brown rubber-soled booties. No heels for this girl, just like Tamara. ‘To the Bay area, yes,’ she replied, ‘but I’ve been to the mountains skiing with my family. I’m a snowboarder, actually.’

‘Oh, great.’ He now sat forward hunched over his elbows on his vast desk looking dwarfed.

‘Not a skier?’ she asked, sensing a discomfort.

‘Nah, never caught the bug. I used to be poor. I do free climb, occasionally, and hike.’

‘Really?’

‘An artificial cliff in a gym.’ He laughed, nervously.

‘Oh, still, that’s very brave of you,’ she remarked, playing to his ego.

‘I’m training for a free solo up el Capitan,’ he declared, proudly.

‘Yosemite? No way,’ she gushed unabashedly.

‘Yeah, in my dreams,’ he replied, giving away his deception, then continued laughing almost like he was stoned the way his lidded eyes glazed and diaphragm heaved, but she assumed it came to him naturally. It occurred to her there may well be a rock climber in that lean awkward carriage of his, twisting strangely to reach an impossible hold. She thought him to be about forty, and perhaps wise enough to keep el Capitan in his dreams. But, there was obviously more to him than what his quirky behavior displayed.

‘Not my thing,’ she responded. ‘I watched an amazing fellow free climb it on National Geographic … who was he?’

‘Yeah, Alex Honnold. Immaculate feat. If we could replicate that in our program here, in a symbolic sense … I mean the sky’s the limit.’

‘Incredible, spectacular; I was cringing. I could barely look—no ropes!’

‘That’s the thing. You don’t look down.’

‘I guess not.’

‘There’s only one way, and it’s up to succeed.’ They remained quiet for a few moments.

‘My boss said I should take you out for dinner, on the house.’

‘Lance Wilkes, really?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Sounds good. Now tell me what this is all about,’ she said, urging him on.

‘Going to dinner, or why you’re here?’

Hannah laughed. ‘I didn’t come to Palo Alto to go out for dinner.’

‘If you knew what this was all about, you would come all the way out here to go out for dinner with me.’

‘If you say so, Fremont. Well, I’m here now.’

‘It’s all in this.’ He hands her a USB drive from the drawer.

She took it. ‘What’s in here?’

‘Our latest breakthroughs in ML—machine learning—virtual agent interfacing—Vestal. No one’s come close to what we have, but we’re not there yet. No applications for sale just yet until some adjustments are made.’

‘Okay, explain.’

‘In my opinion, our A.I. optimized chips don’t cut it. With the new biometric algorithms—at least what we deem to be destination paths for innumerous solutions—everything from simple collation of massive amounts data to theoretical formulations to brute force—actual thinking—runs into a brick wall. It’s like information overload in a human brain; in other words, I think platform—like our silicon circuit boards and alloys are not up to snuff. We need more brain power.’

‘Backtrack here. Then what’s the breakthrough? Something must’ve gone right.’

‘Oh, yeah, promising advancement but child’s play in terms of my expectations.’

‘In a nut shell: what do you have for us?’

‘Friendly hardware, new virtual graphics, A.I. optimized silicon chips that can boost info productivity by thirty percent in everything like healthcare and management, and of course biometrics—touch, speech, image, body language, as in our security software Vestal. This was designed for your kind of needs. Humint.’

‘Sounds great: thirty percent is fantastic.’

‘Integration will take some more work.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We got a message—at least that’s what I think—our hard drives ultimately failed not by corruption or crash or anything; they just stopped with refresh arrows going around and around as if prompting for more internet service capacity. As it is we can generate at least a thousand EBS (exabytes) which is all the data computer space on earth a hundred times over, but it’s not enough. It’s a fundamental impasse. The pathways inadequate, corrupted.’

‘Shit cakes. Are you religious?’

‘Religious?’ He laughed. ‘Like God’s a tech nerd?’

‘Whatever comes up in your estimation,’ she suggested.

‘We don’t even know what that paradigm is yet.’

‘Sounds like you’ll need a prayer to get through that wall.’

‘You mean something numinous, something evolution can’t account for?’ he asked more seriously.

‘Something like that. Now tell me what happened. A woman, I gather, is in trouble. Why?’ Fremont frowned, giving himself a few moments to collect his thoughts. Hannah almost felt relieved that his silly grin was gone.

‘Perhaps not trouble,’ he finally replied. ‘Just a problem with Vestal the new software she designed.’

‘Go on.’

‘Are you hungry? Because I am,’ he remarked.

‘A little.’

‘I know a great sushi place.’

‘I’m vegetarian, but sure, I make exceptions for occasional seafood.’

Hannah followed Fremont in his Tesla a short distance onto El Camino Real and soon exited to California Avenue and parked at what appeared to be a very decent sushi restaurant. Once seated, they ordered tea and looked at the menus. The atmosphere was modern with simple wood paneling and seating. ‘Excellent value,’ stated Fremont, putting down his menu, as he knew what he wanted without reading it.

‘How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?’ she asked.

‘The big Four-0 in July,’ he said. ‘And you?’

‘Twenty-six, yesterday.’

‘Congrats. Care to celebrate?’

‘What do you have in mind?’ she asked, not wanting to discourage him.

‘Nothing really. I’m not a party guy.’

‘What then?’

‘Oh, for me a hike along the coast. It’s not far.’

‘How thoughtful,’ she said.

‘There’s always Yosemite; it’s a four hour drive though.’

‘Like you say, there’s always Yosemite. Some day.’

‘Just check it out when you get the chance.’

‘I will. Now back to business. Who’s this woman?’

‘Her name is Tamara Tomken.’

‘Yes …’

‘She’s been with StarSystems for at least ten years, a few years before I arrived.’

‘What happened?’

‘Between us, honestly, on the face of it, she red-flagged herself. She’s the brains behind Vestal, this security software that does mind and body imaging similar to magnetic resonant imaging—MRI—but directed by an artificial intelligent interrogator—Sibyl, who asks you questions while being scanned.’

‘Must be a glitch.’

‘She called it a smokescreen.’

‘That doesn’t make sense. If she red-flagged herself, that’s hardly a smokescreen.’

‘Tamara has a strange way of expressing herself; she’s smarter than me. In view of that, I felt it was unnecessary to say anything to security about Vestal being a smokescreen for her. For a month since its implementation, it’s worked like a charm.’

‘Who runs security?’

‘Julie Dupont. She’ll likely want to meet you.’

‘Fine. I still don’t know anything about what’s actually at risk here. Tamara’s a very smart programmer by the sounds of it. How can she be a threat? She must have the highest clearance as it is.’

‘She touched a nerve somehow,’ said Fremont. ‘It was ARW Aerospace the parent company that pushed for a review.’

‘I see.’

‘Did Dupont deal with it?’

‘Yes. Tamara was hooked up to Vestal and tested—kind of like a lie-detector but way more sophisticated. The result was inconclusive because it kept coming up error, then they tested me, Julie, and others and it was working fine. I was cleared with three green bars,’ he said proudly, almost cynically.

‘So as the designer they assume that she tampered with it? It still doesn’t make sense if she was red-flagged.’

‘She claims the program is protecting her, by creating a smokescreen.’

‘Protecting her? What on earth is there to protect? It’s destroying her!’

‘So it seems, because Julie thinks she’s hiding something.’

‘Okay, let’s presume it is protecting her and she’s hiding something, so then why red-flag herself?’

‘I have no idea; maybe she didn’t red flag herself. It just happened. The software recognized her as Mommy.’ He laughed.

‘Very funny,’ she replied, adding, ‘but possible I suppose.’

The waitress came and served them tea, then took their orders. Hannah excused herself to use the washroom. She needed to sort out what appeared to be the strangest situation she had ever found herself in. She thought perhaps that this Tamara Tomken simply wanted to be fired. Was she crazy? The question was: what was her real motive. What does she know that could be so sensitive to ARW? Hannah decided upon a new tact. Reverse psychology. If this woman was as smart as Fremont admitted, she was maybe on another wavelength; one that could have had her smokescreen Vestal, turning the tables as it were. It followed that if that were the case, she was sacrificing herself for something that she alone knew, something Vestal would have revealed, so she tweaked it somehow. ARW had for decades been one of the most secretive companies rumored to have reverse-engineered alien spacecraft. Both her mother and father acknowledged the veracity of these rumors on account of whistleblowers. Their old friend, George Melbo, the Canadian journalist, though long retired, had spent much of his life searching for the truth. His supposition was that the very nature of the secrecy had gone through numerous transformations, where presently the legal workings of government were almost completely cut out from the loop, including the president, legislatures, intelligence services and military. And only specifically chosen individuals imbedded within the government were involved operating illegally with various private corporations. The media had all but ignored the phenomenon and by its disinterest were de facto endorsers of the secrecy. There had been opinion polls taken that revealed that a majority of the population believed aliens were here and had been here long before we developed the atom bomb. It was an open secret. Countless thousands of people had seen UFOs—ETVs (Extra-Terrestrial Vehicles) all around the world. Some with vivid video documentation. Did we have our heads buried in the sand? thought Hannah, as she sat down again. Was Tamara involved somehow?

Miso soup and seaweed salad was waiting for her. Fremont had already started.

‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I’m famished.’

‘Go for it.’

He continued eating.

‘Can I ask you a personal question?’ she queried, digging into her salad.

‘That depends on the question.’

‘Where does your name come from?’

‘I was born in Fremont, across the bay—my mother’s dry sense of humor.’

‘Funny Mom. You really are a native.’

‘Sure am.’

‘And Tamara?’

‘Cherry Hill, New Jersey.’

‘New Jersey?’

‘American father, Ukrainian mother, at least second generation. Both deceased.’

‘How?’

‘Father died in Texas when she was fourteen, a training accident in the Air Force. Lieutenant Steve Tomken. He was a big influence in her life. Shoot for the Buttermilk Skies—inside joke—turned her on to Texas Swing—you know, pedal steel, Bob Wills and the Playboys; she inherited his