MJ-12: Inception

7

Brennivín was a beautiful, horrible thing.

Passed off to tourists as a kind of homemade liqueur with birch and licorice flavors, it was marketed as something that little Viking grandparents would have in little glasses before an early bedtime under the Northern Lights.

But among themselves, local Icelanders called it the “Black Death,” which was very typical of their dark but good-natured humor. Brennivín went down with all the grace and subtlety of strong vodka.

The fisherman at the bar on Laugavegur Street was already several shots deep by 6 p.m. — although that wasn’t particularly noteworthy given that the sun was already down. In the few short months he’d been working on the Reykjavik waterfront, he’d become a regular, and one that his fellow patrons had grown to tolerate. He wasn’t from around there, and never would be; Iceland was a small country, and either you were from Iceland, or you’d always be from somewhere else.

It didn’t hurt, though, that he had a biting wit, and an eagerness to smooth over ruffled feathers with alcohol. After the Black Death, it just didn’t seem all that important, and so the outsider grew to suit many of the locals just fine. They were fishermen and dockworkers, laborers and tradesmen, all hard workers who drank just as hard and smelled vaguely of salt and crud at the end of the day anyway.

The fisherman knew where he stood, and he’d worked hard to earn the locals’ respect, even if it was a rather begrudging one. So, he was irritated this particular evening when two military men entered the bar. It wasn’t the first time the British and Americans had ventured into local establishments like this one, but most saw the woolen-clad fishermen — and the distinct lack of women — and turned right around, or stayed for a single drink if they were feeling particularly polite or brave. It didn’t feel like these two were going to do either.

The fishermen slowly lowered his eyes, fixed on the brennivín in front of him. He desperately wanted a beer, but Iceland was a curious and antiquated place; prohibition laws forbade it. Leave it to the descendants of Vikings to outlaw beer but wholeheartedly embrace the stronger stuff.

“Excuse me,” came a voice from behind.

The fisherman didn’t look up. “Láttu mig í friði,” he replied, hoping they’d take the hint or at least be confused by the language. None of the Allied troops really bothered to learn Icelandic, anyway.

He could hear the chatter behind him. “You sure about this, Commander?” the stern voice said.

“Yes, sir,” a younger man replied. “It’s him, all right.”

Aw, hell. The fisherman turned around and looked at the two, trying not to register surprise when he noticed the older, lanky fellow had two stars on his collar. “Ég veit ekki hver þú ert. Þú ert rangur maður. Leyfðu mér að drekka í friði.”

The younger man — a Navy guy, glasses, nebbish-looking — smiled. “Your Icelandic almost fooled me.” He held up a file folder with, presumably, the fisherman’s photo in it. “The beard ages you, Lieutenant.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Frank Lodge grumbled, grabbing his shot glass and downing another Black Death. “I’m discharged fair and square, guys. Medical discharge, in fact. Section 8. So, I don’t know what you’re looking for or why you think I have it. But you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

The two-star wasn’t having it. “I’m Major General Bob Montague, and this is Commander Dan Wallace. And you know damn well you never really leave the Army, son.”

Frank shrugged. “And here I thought the Army left me. Got more shock therapy in mind, General? Or did that English shrink come up with something worse? I ain’t your guinea pig anymore, fellas.”

“You were right all along, Lieutenant,” the young guy said. “We didn’t understand back then, but we do now. What you reported in Berlin in 1945… all of it was right. We’ve learned a lot since then.”

In a violent, sweeping motion that made the local barflies gasp, Frank rose and grabbed Danny by his pea coat lapels. “Yeah? You believe me now? What about then, when I was fucking crazy and trying to figure out just what the hell I saw? I suppose I’m expected to just forgive and forget? Let bygones be bygones, huh?”

“We can help you, Frank,” Danny said, trying to look the angry man directly in the eye — and not do anything to attract any more attention than they already had.

It was several more seconds before Frank finally released him and slumped back into his seat. “Don’t need your help,” he muttered before turning to the bartender. “Annan drykk.”

“Come on, Wallace,” Montague said, putting his hand on Danny’s shoulder. “I told you this was a waste of time.”

Danny took a long, hard look at Frank, and Frank looked right back. Then he shrugged and turned back toward the exit, taking a few steps toward the door. That was easy, Frank thought, and had nearly turned back to the bar when Danny stopped in his tracks.

“There is just one thing I’d like to know before we leave. Where did you learn Icelandic, Frank?” Danny asked. “Your file says you have no foreign language skills, and yet this is one of the rarest languages in Europe. Sounds like you speak it well.”

“Just enough to get drunk,” Frank said, giving the kid a sidelong glance. The little prick was on to something. “What’s it to you?”

Danny opened the folder. “Over the past two years, you’ve lived in Ireland, France, Portugal, and now Iceland,” he said. “Each time, you’ve taken on jobs that require working with — and communicating with — the local population. Fine, the Irish speak English OK, but French? Portuguese?”

“Guess I’m a quick study,” Frank said, frowning through another swig of brennivín.

“Specialized jobs, too. Takes a lot of know-how to be a good fishing hand,” Danny said. “Trust me, I hated basic seamanship at the Academy. But before this, you did construction in France and worked a railroad in Portugal. How does a Harvard man like yourself just happen to have all those trade skills under your belt?”

Frank slammed down the glass. “Why don’t you cut the shit and just tell me why you’re here, so I can tell you again, a little less polite this time: fuck off, and let me get back to my drinking, all right?”

Montague straightened up taller, looking as if he was restraining himself from punching Frank in the nose. “We’re here, Lieutenant, to offer you a clean record and a job. I can have that Section 8 changed to an honorable discharge or even a full reinstatement. And you can help us out with a project we have going stateside.”

Frank actually laughed at this. “You think an honorable discharge is going to change my mind? I got everything I need right here. Good job, good drink, enough goddamn fermented shark meat to last a lifetime. Why go with you?”

Montague glanced at Danny, who nodded back. “Because we think we know what you’re capable of, Mr. Lodge.”

“Yeah? What’s that?” Frank snorted.

Danny took a deep breath. “When someone dies, you can absorb things from their lives as they… depart this world. It happened with that soldier next to you in Berlin—”

“That soldier’s name was Mike Petersen,” Frank interrupted, suddenly getting very serious. “Mike. Petersen.”

“Right,” Danny said slowly. “Mike Petersen. His memories, his life experiences, his learned skills, they all transferred to you. This is also how you’ve picked up all these languages, different trades, isn’t it?”

Frank sat silent.

“It’s hard on you,” Danny ventured.

“It’s damn hard,” Frank said under his breath.

Danny nodded. “Hard to control, too?”

Frank slumped further on his stool. “I can’t even walk by a hospital anymore without getting hit by it, having someone’s life flash before my eyes. Sometimes, I can’t even focus it. And I can’t shut it off.”

“We can help,” Danny offered. “We’re working with others.”

For the first time in two years, something clicked inside Frank. “Others?”

“Others. Like you, Frank.”

“…Berlin. It was Berlin.”

Danny opened his mouth to reply but caught a stern look from Montague. “We can talk about all that later. There’s… well, now, all you need to know is that we can help you. And in return, you can help us out too.”

Frank thought hard, the alcohol swimming around in his head, making everything just a little fuzzy around the edges. It’d been a tough couple years… so many lives, lost and borrowed. Too many voices in his head to listen to each and every goddamn day. No matter where Frank would run, he couldn’t escape them. Not even freezing his balls off in the middle-of-nowhere Iceland. And God, he hated the taste of brennivín.

“Fine. You help me with this, clear my record, and if it’s not too shitty a job, I’ll help you,” Frank spat. “So, what happens now?”

Montague nodded. “Get your things. We’re leaving.” The general tossed a few krónur on the bar and, turning on his heel, strode out of the building, leaving Frank to put on his coat while Danny watched uneasily.

“I said I’m going with you, kid. What more do you want?”

“When it happens, you know… does the person dying have to be… killed?”

Frank looked at the Navy man with an odd smile. “You’re wondering if we’re going to have to rub out people so I can practice?”

Danny shrugged. “Surprisingly, it’s not the strangest question I’ve asked over the past couple years.”

“I’ll bet,” Frank said. “And no… any old death will do. The violent, sudden ones, though… they’re tougher, harder to control. But I think I get more out of them.”

Danny held out his hand toward the door. “We’ll start slow.”

“Great,” Frank muttered as he ventured out into the brisk, dark Reykjavik afternoon.