The Ghost in Exile

Alex Reed labored with the peaceful cadence of experienced solitude, miles away from the sterile splendor of the Aerie, beneath the enormous, uncaring sky of the Pacific Northwest. The smell of moist dirt and pine resin filled the air as his tiny, dilapidated cottage stood tucked away among tall Douglas firs. The only obvious indication of human presence for kilometers was the smoke curling languidly from the stone chimney. It was a land of rough-hewn logs and intentional amnesia, his self-imposed exile.

As Alex swung the axe, a round of seasoned maple was deeply bitten by the steel. In contrast to the cacophonous racket he had been striving for years to quiet in his mind, the clean thump echoed around the clearing. He was thinner than when he worked for the Agency, the city pallor browned by the sun and wind, the tailored suits swapped out for faded flannel and denim. However, the fatigue was more deeply ingrained, appearing not just in the creases surrounding his grey eyes but also in the methodical, almost defensive manner in which he walked, as though he were always ready to strike. A life lived on the outskirts was indicated by the scars, which were pale lines on his tanned forearms. He split wood meticulously, not only for warmth but also for the repetitive, grounding repetition and physical effort that occasionally warded off the ghosts.

The closest town, Port Renfrew, was seldom visited by him; instead, he preferred the companionship of the tide patterns and the silent assessment of the old trees. He received news intermittently through a crackling battery-operated radio that he only turned on seldom, mostly for weather updates rather than global news. He had developed a shield of detachment. He didn't care if the world burned. He had witnessed too much fire already.

The abnormality happened in the middle of the afternoon. The old radio inside the cabin, which had mysteriously shut off hours before, sputtered to life as he was carrying split wood toward the porch. Instead of music or static, use a voice that is calm, clear, and resonant. Aurelius Victor.

A log was halfway to Alex's shoulder when he froze. A phantom limb ached with recalled pain, the word hit him like a physical blow. His knuckles were white as he carefully and slowly dropped the wood. He approached the cabin, opened the door, and stood in the dark inside to listen. The voice filled the little room as it described a scheme so bold and so completely crazy that it was impossible to believe. nuclear weapons. A link to the heart. Disarm or perish. A year.

Without moving, his face unreadable but for the tensing muscles around his jaw, he listened to the entire program. Alex finally moved when the dead air that followed Victor's image disappeared from the hypothetical displays he didn't possess. The click was abnormally loud in the sudden calm as he walked to the radio and turned it off. With his forearms resting on his knees, he sunk onto a basic wooden stool and gazed at the uneven plank floor. Victor. In his mouth, the name tasted like ash. It had been years since he'd heard it said out loud. Its announcement of a worldwide death sentence was definitely not what he had anticipated hearing. It appeared that the past had a persistently long reach.

For a long while, he remained there, the only sound being the crackle of the fading fire in the hearth. He hoped the isolation would starve him, but a familiar icy fear was creeping back. He was sickly positive that this was not the end of it. nor for him, nor for the world.

Hours later, close to dusk, the sound was heard. It was a guttural, deep whump-whump-whump so out of place in his wilderness. Birds flew from the canopy as it grew louder and louder, resonating off the mountains. Despite the rust, Alex's old instincts kicked in and he was immediately standing and heading for the window. He caught a glimpse of it through the trees: a sleek, unmarked, matte-black helicopter lowering into the tiny clearing he had meticulously prepared for his truck.

Naturally, his hand moved to the small of his back, where nothing was left. He had moved on from that phase of his life. Or so he had believed.

As the machine settled and the rotors flattened the thick grass, the turbine whining diminished. Two figures ducked beneath the slowing blades as a side door slid open. The dark, utilitarian outfits they wore were a ridiculous contrast to the forest's surroundings. One was younger, keen-eyed, and looking around with a trained alertness. The other was more familiar and older. Thorne, Marcus. Former Special Operations Deputy Director. Alex's caretaker for almost ten years. Thorne appeared worn out, older than Alex had recalled, and his face was deeply wrinkled from worry.

Alex let the screen door smash behind him and went out onto the porch. He made no attempt to greet.

Thorne came, pausing at a polite distance. Alert, the younger agent hung back. Thorne murmured, "Alex," in a strained tone. "It's been a long time."

"Not long enough," Alex said in a monotone voice. "Thorne, this is private property. Get off that thing and turn it around.

Sighing, Thorne wiped his face. "I wish we could," he said. "You saw the broadcast?"

Alex just gazed without responding.

Thorne urged, "It's real, Alex," his voice trailing off. "Everything. We're locked out by him. Totally. It's dark in Command & Control. There is no response from the silos. The subs—God, they are self-sufficient ghosts awaiting his cue. We are helpless and blind. hostages.

"Tragic," Alex replied with a sharp disdain. "One man now has the trigger, and the world has created a million ways for it to end itself. "Poetic."

"This isn't the time for cynicism, Reed," Thorne yelled, displaying a return to his former dominance. "This isspecies-level extinction event potential." He moved in closer. "We need you."

Alex's laugh was harsh and devoid of humor. "You require me? Remember how the Agency threw me out? After Khartoum, I was buried. Persona non grata. "Ghost in the machine."

Thorne responded, "Exactly," as his gaze met Alex's. "We require a ghost. Someone who doesn't follow the protocols since they are no longer useful. Someone who isn't listed on Aurelius' official roster may have compromised." He stopped and lowered his voice even further. Additionally, there was a person who knew him. Previously. Prior to anything that broke him, before the money, before the castle."

Alex's face became stern. "Don't."

Thorne said, "Project Chimera," the designation Alex hadn't heard in fifteen years. "Zurich. What actually took place in that laboratory? And the aftermath in Khartoum. Alex, you were present. You witnessed his family's fate. The principal agent was you.

A chilly fist tightened in Alex's stomach. He averted his gaze to the woods that were growing darker. "A lifetime has passed since then. Victor Aurelius has passed away. This is something different.

"Is he?" Thorne posed a challenge. Or is this the outcome of all that took place at that time? Alex, you filed the reports. After the bombing, there was psychological suffering and a disconnection that almost reached dissociation. We put it on hold and concentrated on the mission aftermath. Perhaps we need to have focused more." His voice was urgent and low as he came onto the porch. "Yes, the intelligence indicates that he is isolated, but the system is connected to him. His biometrics. His heart. For everyone, a frontal assault is suicide. We require an angle. A psychological secret. Back then, you were aware of his triggers. You were aware of his shortcomings.

Alex uttered the words softly, "And maybe I was one of them," laden with untold history.

"Maybe," said Thorne. "So you could be the only one who can physically or psychologically come close enough to put an end to this. To calm him down, or... to eliminate the danger before his heart stops beating on its own."

Alex turned back to Thorne and said, "You want me to assassinate him," his eyes furrowed.

Thorne retorted, "We want you to stop Armageddon," "It's up to you how you do that. Out of the books. No backup, unless you specifically request it and we are able to supply it. Reasonable denial. The typical nightmare. He smiled without amusement. "Just like old times."

The black helicopter, an alien scar on his environment, caught Alex's attention after he had looked at Thorne. He recalled the peaceful mornings, the sensation of solid wood beneath his hands, and the illusion of tranquility he had painstakingly created. All broken. He pictured Victor's face on the fictitious screen, the icy assurance in his gaze, and the pressure of his past mistakes. Khartoum. The child's doll lay among the debris, the flames, and the cries. Victor's subsequent numb astonishment. Alex, had he missed anything? Fifteen years ago, could he have stopped this chain reaction?

Running wouldn't be effective. It wouldn't help to hide. Not from this. Not Victor's. Not from the spirits.

His lungs filled with the smell of pine and impending dread, he exhaled slowly and deeply. He responded, "Alright, Thorne," with a surrender-like taste in his voice. "Alright." The fatigue gave way to a bleak, renewed focus as he fixed his erstwhile handler with his gaze. "Share all of your knowledge with me. And remove that fucking aircraft from my yard."