White Space Season 1

memory.

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Chapter 11 — Stephen Anderson

    Stephen Anderson closed the door to his son’s room, then relaxed into the slight limp he’d kept well hidden while inside, quickly putting distance between his son’s room and his still bleeding conscience.
    Fifty feet from trading the bright white of the hospital for the dim gray outside, Fur Elise rang in his pocket. Stephen froze as a thin sheet of icy fear frosted the top of his boiling rage.
    He held the phone, stared into his palm, and tried to keep his face calmer than his voice. “You have a lot of goddamned nerve calling me. My son was nearly killed! You said nobody else would be around. You said no collateral damage.”
    The grayed image on the other side of the call said, “You might want to remember who you’re speaking to, Mr. Anderson. I don’t do well with a lack of manners.” The best Stephen could do to mind his manners was stare and say nothing at all. The voice without a face said, “What does Milo know?”
    “Nothing,” Stephen lied.
    “Are you certain? Because Paladin has shared a different story, and you know how I like my stories to look one another in the eye.”
    “Don’t worry,” Stephen swallowed his lump. I’ll make sure he can’t connect the dots.”
    “You’d better, Mr. Anderson. Or we’ll activate his chip.”
    “Wait,” Stephen huddled against the wall, the phone now inches from his face. “You put a fucking chip in him? When? How?!”
    The grayed face crackled into a black screen.
    The when and how was answered by the smiling surgeon, Dr. Edward Stone, nodding at Stephen as he stepped through a swinging set of double doors.
    They now had him exactly where they wanted him.

TO BE CONTINUED…

::EPISODE 5::
    CHAPTER 1 — Jon Conway Part 1 (age 13)

    Jon stormed home from school, through the house and into the kitchen, where he dropped the cardboard box on the floor with a resounding thud. He then tore open the refrigerator and grabbed an IBC root beer from the front of a neat column, leaving another eleven behind.
    Mrs. Rasmussen appeared behind Jon, smiling.
    “I can’t believe you didn’t take a jacket with you,” she said, shaking her head. “And why do you look like something that’s about to start shooting steam from its ears? Was it the ferry ride that has you all bothered, or the science fair?”
    Jon twisted the cap from the top of his bottle, then pitched it into the trashcan.
    “I suck.”
    Mrs. Rasmussen crossed the kitchen to the fridge where Jon was still standing, then knelt to the floor, crossed her legs, and pulled Jon to the floor beside her.
    Though Jon was plenty used to Mrs. Rasmussen’s unique brand of conflict resolution, the gesture still caught him slightly off guard. He had to balance his bottle on his way to the floor, tipping a sip’s worth of liquid over the lip of the bottle, where it splashed onto the Pietra Firma tile below.
    Jon looked up at Mrs. Rasmussen, horrified.
    She said, “Like you’re going to clean it up?” then laughed.
    Jon laughed, too, but looked down, embarrassed by the truth.
    “So what happened?” she said. “Your homemade plastic didn’t go over so well? Is that what has you looking like you’ve been sucking on a jumbo bag of Sour Patch Kids all afternoon?”
    “I’m not sucking on Sour Patch Kids.”
    “Well, you’re 13 now, young Mr. Conway, and pouting is for children. So let’s start all over and tell me what’s in that head of yours?”
    “I suck.”
    Mrs. Rasmussen said, “Say that again and see what happens.” Her crimped blond hair draped between her breasts. Like always, it made Jon think of a mermaid. Mrs. Rasmussen was pretty, especially for being so much older then him, and Jon imagined she had been quite attractive, and maybe even beautiful when she was young.
    She had on her dangerous face, even though her, “Say that again and see what happens” had never led to any sort of cruel or unusual punishment, or really anything at all. After years, Jon was curious. But not curious enough to push her. Not today.
    Jon had gone to the science expo in Seattle with his class. His project was his own brand of homemade plastic. Jon hadn’t known much about plastic, much less that you could make your own, until he started his research. Even though Jon couldn’t see caring much beyond his presentation, he did find the research relatively interesting. Though most plastics had to be made in factories, Jon used a recipe that allowed