False Memory

Skeet, and subsequently the need had arisen for a few shorter— but unprecedented—repair sessions in which deteriorating aspects of his program were reinstalled.
    Occasionally, Skeet even surrendered himself for control after hearing only Dr. Yen Lo, the activating name, and Ahriman didn’t need to lead him through the haiku. The security risk posed by this easy access was intolerable.
    Sooner rather than later, Skeet would have to take a paper clip, figuratively speaking. He should have died Tuesday morning. Later this evening, for sure.
    The dice tumbled to a nine. The deck of cards gave up a queen of diamonds.
    Swiftly calculating, Ahriman determined that the next shot would come from a figure positioned at the southwest corner of the Alamo roof: one of Eliot Ness’ loyal subordinates. No doubt, the grieving G-man would be hot for vengeance. His weapon was a marble, which had greater lethal potential than a mere paper clip, and with the benefit of his high vantage point, he might be able to deliver extreme woe to the surrounding Mexican soldiers and to the gangland scumbags who would rue the day they agreed to do Al Capone’s dirty work.

     
     
    “She didn’t commit suicide,” Dusty repeated, speaking softly, leaning forward conspiratorially in the booth, even though the roar of voices from the bar prevented anyone from eavesdropping.
    The certainty in his voice left Martie speechless. Slashed wrists. No indications of a struggle. A suicide note in Susan’s handwriting. The determination of self-destruction was irrefutable.
    Dusty held up his right hand, and with each point he made, he let a finger spring from his clenched fist. “One—yesterday at New Life, Skeet was activated by the name Dr Yen Lo and then together we stumbled to the haiku that allowed me to access his subconscious for programming.”
    “Programming,” she said doubtfully. “This is still so hard to believe.”
    “Programming is how I see it. He was waiting for instructions. Missions, he called them. Two—when I became frustrated with him and told him he should give me a break and just go to sleep, he went out instantly. He obeyed what seemed like an impossible order. I mean, how can you drop off to sleep in a blink, at will? Three—earlier yesterday, when he was going to jump off the roof, he said someone had told him to jump.”
    “Yeah, the angel of death.”
    “Granted, he was whacked on something. But that doesn’t mean there wasn’t some truth in what he said. Four—in The Manchurian Candidate, the brainwashed soldier is capable of committing murder on the direction of his controller, then forgetting every detail of what he’s done, but, get this, he’ll also follow instructions to kill himself if necessary.”
    “It’s just a thriller.”
    “Yeah, I know. The writing’s good. The plot is entertaining, and the characters are colorful. You’re enjoying it.”
    Because she had no answer to that, Martie drank more beer.

     
     
    General Santa Anna was dead, and history was being rewritten. Al Capone must now assume command of the combined forces of Mexico and the Chicago underworld.
    The goody-two-shoes bunch defending the Alamo had better not start celebrating just yet. Santa Anna was a formidable strategist; but Capone had him beat for sheer ruthlessness.
    Once, the real Capone, not this plastic figure, had tortured a snitch with a hand drill. He locked the guy’s head in a machine-shop vice, and with henchmen holding the turncoat’s arms and legs, old Al had personally cranked the drill handle, driving a diamond-tipped bit through the terrified man’s forehead.
    Once, the doctor had killed a woman with a drill, but it had been a Black & Decker power model.

     
     
    Dusty said, “Condon’s book is fiction, sure, but you get a sense that the psychological-control techniques described in it are based on sound research, that what he proposes as fiction was pretty much possible even at that time. And Martie, the book is set almost fifty years in the past. Before we had jet airliners.”
    “Before we went to the moon.”
    “Yeah. Before we had cell phones, microwave ovens, and fat-free potato chips with a diarrhea warning on the bag. Just imagine what specialists in mind control might be able to do now, with unlimited resources and no conscience.” He paused for Heineken. Then:
    “Five—Dr. Ahriman said it was incredible that both you and Susan should be stricken with such extreme phobias. He—”
    “You know, he’s probably right that mine is