can calibrate the imagers to pick up even the weakest telepathic bond so there'll be no chance of him faking anything."
"And if there is no link?"
"That, Ms. Callander, is when it starts to get interesting."
Chapter Four
Nick tossed his car key onto the dining room table and switched on the HV. It was all he could think about on the drive over. Go home, call up every John Bruce holocast you can find and see if there's a change.
One that nobody had noticed.
It would have to be something subtle. Maybe a slight loss of motor skills—was that why he'd left NASA? Or gaps in his memory, or . . .
The HV prompt light came on. All he needed now was the remote which, as usual, was hiding—probably buried beneath last night's Indian take-away. Or was that the night before's?
Someday he really had to find the trigger to his tidy gene.
He found the remote, wiped off the red sauce and switched to voice input.
"John Bruce," he said and selected 'news.'
A news anchor materialised in the corner of the room—the image, half life-size and floating two feet off the ground. She smiled at Nick and spoke in a soft southern drawl.
"John Bruce will be leaving the campaign trail today to attend a SHIFT reunion in Florida. The thirty-one year-old former spaceman is currently trailing third in the polls in New Hampshire but . . ."
Nick froze the image and asked for a list of every John Bruce appearance, with titles and dates. The news anchor disappeared to be replaced by columns of text scrolling through the air. Nick selected a handful either side of the launch date and flipped between them. Did Bruce show a discernible change?
He walked around each image, flipping between the slightly nervous but always smiling spaceman and the relieved hero. All the interviews looked staged and undoubtedly were. NASA was fixated on image, paying as much attention to public perception as they did to their programs. John Bruce would have been coached from day one.
Nick extended the search into entertainment, documentaries and beyond. There had to be some candid shots surely, some unguarded moment away from his NASA minders?
Text scrolled and faded. Images flashed. There were a few extended interviews, some passing appearances on live documentaries. But Bruce always appeared guarded. Impeccably polite, quick to smile, friendly . . . but he never really opened up.
Even when he talked about his religious experience . . .
Nick felt like slapping himself. How could he have forgotten! John Bruce had one of those religious born-again experiences during the SHIFT flight.
He froze the image. "New search. John Bruce. Born again."
He tapped at the remote, extended the search into the God channels. A new list appeared. Shorter. He selected the first. No good. The second . . . the third.
John Bruce materialised in front of him. He was sitting in a chair, on a stage somewhere, being interviewed. He looked dumbstruck—eyes wide open, mouth slightly parted.
"It was incredible," began Bruce, his voice slow and wavering slightly. "I saw this white light, brighter than anything you can ever imagine."
The holocameras zoomed in on his face, ballooning John Bruce's head to twice normal size. Nick could see the spaceman's eyes tearing up; the slow bemused shake of his giant head, the faraway look.
"And suddenly I felt this rush. So much joy, so much peace. It was like I was bathed in light. All my sins, all my worries being washed away. It was then that I knew I wasn't alone in the Pegasus. God was with me."
"Hallelujah," shouted a disembodied voice from the studio audience.
Nick agreed. Hallelujah, indeed, and froze the image. White lights, feelings of euphoria. Everything you'd expect to see if the brain came under stress during the flight. Distortions of the visual cortex, a massive release of endorphins. Was this the proof he'd been looking for?
He bounced to his feet and paced around the frozen image. He so
"And if there is no link?"
"That, Ms. Callander, is when it starts to get interesting."
Chapter Four
Nick tossed his car key onto the dining room table and switched on the HV. It was all he could think about on the drive over. Go home, call up every John Bruce holocast you can find and see if there's a change.
One that nobody had noticed.
It would have to be something subtle. Maybe a slight loss of motor skills—was that why he'd left NASA? Or gaps in his memory, or . . .
The HV prompt light came on. All he needed now was the remote which, as usual, was hiding—probably buried beneath last night's Indian take-away. Or was that the night before's?
Someday he really had to find the trigger to his tidy gene.
He found the remote, wiped off the red sauce and switched to voice input.
"John Bruce," he said and selected 'news.'
A news anchor materialised in the corner of the room—the image, half life-size and floating two feet off the ground. She smiled at Nick and spoke in a soft southern drawl.
"John Bruce will be leaving the campaign trail today to attend a SHIFT reunion in Florida. The thirty-one year-old former spaceman is currently trailing third in the polls in New Hampshire but . . ."
Nick froze the image and asked for a list of every John Bruce appearance, with titles and dates. The news anchor disappeared to be replaced by columns of text scrolling through the air. Nick selected a handful either side of the launch date and flipped between them. Did Bruce show a discernible change?
He walked around each image, flipping between the slightly nervous but always smiling spaceman and the relieved hero. All the interviews looked staged and undoubtedly were. NASA was fixated on image, paying as much attention to public perception as they did to their programs. John Bruce would have been coached from day one.
Nick extended the search into entertainment, documentaries and beyond. There had to be some candid shots surely, some unguarded moment away from his NASA minders?
Text scrolled and faded. Images flashed. There were a few extended interviews, some passing appearances on live documentaries. But Bruce always appeared guarded. Impeccably polite, quick to smile, friendly . . . but he never really opened up.
Even when he talked about his religious experience . . .
Nick felt like slapping himself. How could he have forgotten! John Bruce had one of those religious born-again experiences during the SHIFT flight.
He froze the image. "New search. John Bruce. Born again."
He tapped at the remote, extended the search into the God channels. A new list appeared. Shorter. He selected the first. No good. The second . . . the third.
John Bruce materialised in front of him. He was sitting in a chair, on a stage somewhere, being interviewed. He looked dumbstruck—eyes wide open, mouth slightly parted.
"It was incredible," began Bruce, his voice slow and wavering slightly. "I saw this white light, brighter than anything you can ever imagine."
The holocameras zoomed in on his face, ballooning John Bruce's head to twice normal size. Nick could see the spaceman's eyes tearing up; the slow bemused shake of his giant head, the faraway look.
"And suddenly I felt this rush. So much joy, so much peace. It was like I was bathed in light. All my sins, all my worries being washed away. It was then that I knew I wasn't alone in the Pegasus. God was with me."
"Hallelujah," shouted a disembodied voice from the studio audience.
Nick agreed. Hallelujah, indeed, and froze the image. White lights, feelings of euphoria. Everything you'd expect to see if the brain came under stress during the flight. Distortions of the visual cortex, a massive release of endorphins. Was this the proof he'd been looking for?
He bounced to his feet and paced around the frozen image. He so
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