Personnel File | Journal Entries | My Charlie
So close now.
We began in small laboratories, in second-rate colleges so desperate for government funding that they wouldn't ask too many questions.
We were the Department of Scientific Intelligence. We called ourselves "The Shop." We broke new ground in human genetics. We were trying to unleash the power of the human mind. We were trying to create human weapons.
We succeeded.
We made Charlie.
My girl.
She lit fires.
With her mind.
She burned down our labs. She burned off my skin. She left me for dead.
She left me. She vanished.
We kept on going. We moved into the private sector in the '90s, and changed the name to "Systems Operations," and we kept up the good work.
This time we did it right.
We don't have one child with superhuman powers.
We have 6.
The company wants to use them. The company wants to sell their genetic codes. The company wants to redefine war. The company wants to turn a profit.
Only one person stands in the company's way.
One loose end we are desperate to find.
One little girl.
She's grown by now.
I wonder what she's like.
I wonder what's she's done with the life I gave her.
The company wants to find her.
The company wants to kill her.
I have other ideas.
I don't care about war.
I don't care about profit.
I don't care about revenge.
I just want what's best for my girl.
I just want her to reach her true potential.
I know it's in her.
All she needs is a little push.
People have accused me of "playing God."
Untrue. I do not want to play God.
I want to make Him.
-John Rainbird
Feb. 25, 2002
RAINBIRD, JOHN
Aliases include: (deleted), "Malcolm McDowell"
Born: (deleted)
In 1979, in conjunction with the Millington College Lot 6 Protocol tests,
operative Rainbird (deleted)
Covert surveillance was maintained on the four subjects who demonstrated no
adverse effects: Marie Conant, Andrew McGee, James Richardson and Vicky
Tomlinson. McGee & Tomlinson were married that year and produced one child
in 1980, Charlene McGee.
By 1989, it was determined that the child had unprecedented pyrokinesis,
a.k.a. "firestarting" abilities. Upon discovery of this by Shop, she
was remanded to the custody of the State. Surveillance of Rainbird (deleted)
team 5/21/89 to Manders Farm with negative result and associated casualties (see
Addendum Report 14A: Associated Casualties).
On 7/25/89, team headed by Rainbird successfully acquired Charlene McGee and
Andrew McGee. Subjects relocated to Shop's Virginia facility. Unauthorized
departure of Charlene McGee detailed in Addendum Report 26. Following above events, Rainbird relocated to (deleted) in coma with third-
and fourth-degree burns over more than 90 percent of body. Experimental
cerebral-regeneration techniques by Dr. Crichton successfully revived Rainbird
from coma 5/21/90. Rehabilitation followed at (deleted). Reestablished (deleted) as Project Radiant Thunder 1991-92 under aegis
"Systems Operations Incorporated."
(deleted) Lot 23 with subjects Andrew Amalfitano, Jack Czierniewski, Max Czierniewski,
Paul Jablonski, Edward Michaelson, and Cody Weinberg (see related Dossier,
"Lot 23 Surviving Subjects"). Rainbird is a strategic and tactical genius marked with noted instability and
egomaniacal tendencies. Possibly sociopathic (currently unconfirmable:
psychiatric report missing, as is Dr. Bilicke). Knows too much, poses a security
risk.
J
J
J
Jezus Christ
this hurts
John
John
John
Charlie
Still hurts
Trauma counselor says writing = good. Helps self-esteem, grief.
Self-esteem = stupid concept
Grief = nonexistent
18 March 1991
Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored.
Everyday same pain, same routine, same nurses and physical therapists in
pastel scrubs pretending to be cheerful. Pretending. Being that cheerful can't
be natural.
Natural. Who am I to speak of such a thing? I know better.
I'm bored. And I hurt.
How much longer?
23 May 1991
One year and two days after awakening from coma, I've been released from the
hospital. If there were saints and angels they would be singing hallelujah. If I
were famous, there would be journalists and a press conference. Being an
anonymous atheist has its perks.
The trauma experts say I'm in denial and recommend therapy. I smile
tolerantly. They're fools.
I am not the only survivor of the fire. No matter how many times they gently
tell me otherwise, I know the truth. Better: I know what I'm going to do about
it.
Find her.
28 May 1991
I walked into the ridiculously bland office and told them what I was looking
for. I didn't think they'd find it. But I was willing to sit there waiting while
they looked. Why? Formality. To reassure myself that they never proved anything.
That the certainty I possess is shared by the everyday world.
But they found it.
Charlene McGee has a death certificate.
Very official.
I studied it, of course. No signs of forgery. All the details of circumstance
correct.
I'll confess that my certainty wavered for one single instant.
Then I read that they'd never found a body. Why? The coroner's report said
it's because the fire was so hot. But the truth? Because she didn't die there.
5 November 1991
There was a man as brave as Lucifer. He sinned. He was cast down to Hell. His eyes were dazzled by the flames there. Long afterwards he still saw golden afterimages hanging off all familiar sights — trees dripped with fire, and the pale moon was wreathed in sunlight. The man thought about lying down and never rising again. He thought of it. He tried it. He lay down and closed his eyes… and the fires burned against his lids in the dark. He understood then that he was different from Lucifer in one fundamental way: Lucifer had been cast down by God. This man had been cast down by a little girl, a fragile human girl with beautiful eyes and soft sleek hair. Why had she done it? Because he had sinned against her. Yet she was not God. If the man chose, he could kill the little girl, and there would be no one to punish him for that sin. The world seemed an empty place to the man, then. The nearest thing to God in all the universe was a little girl. Innocent. Imperfect.
Vulnerable.
10 December 1991
Have met with Joel Lowen about bringing the Shop into the private sector,
continuing the work. Joel comes highly recommended from various of my government
contract acquaintances. Indeed, he's the expert I need, and he has taken to the
project with his whole heart. The only problem being that he has no heart. He is
a soulless money-grubbing SOB. That's what the project requires. But it drags on
my spirits to spend time with such an unimaginative man. He has no vision,
unless dollar signs are involved.
So we plod along, building our corporation. It's his show, for now. I'm in
the wings until we have the money and facilities to begin the real work once
more.
So I'm searching.
Finding nothing.
Which means nothing.
16 February 1992
I remember her hair.
I long to see her grown. I can't wait, but I must. Does she have a grown-up
haircut? Businesslike? High maintenance? Short to avoid flames?
No. She'll wear it loose. She won't do anything to it. She never did, never
cared. She had higher priorities. A higher destiny. She'll wear it loose, and it
will frame her lovely face.
And she'll fear me.
And we will be close again.
24 August 1992
We're ready to open for business. So to speak.
Decided to reward myself with a woman's touch... paid $250. Wasn't worth it.
So paid another $150 for champagne, went to St. Michael's Church, and lit a
candle for myself. Sat in a shadowy pew, watched the candle burn, drank. Watched
an old bent woman wobble all the way up the aisle, kneel, and mutter about her
son-in-law for twenty minutes. Then she wobbled out, never noticing that for
once someone had actually heard her prayers. And toasted them with 150 bloody
dollars' worth of Dom Perignon.
Is Charlie sitting in the shadows watching me? Listening to me? Refusing to
answer?
2 April 1993
The Buddha gave a talk that came to be called the Fire Sermon. In it, he
urged men to turn their backs on flame. On passion, sensuality, the Earth with
its molten core. Instead, men were to turn their eyes to the purely spiritual
plane. That way lies Nirvana, said the Buddha.
Nirvana. Spiritual heights, scientific heights, the pinnacles of human
potential. That's where I was going all those many years ago. But it turns out
that Hell lay along that road, as well.
What would the Buddha say of me, who renounced materialism for thought,
passion for science, and got burned by the fire anyway?
Yet I continue.
4 July 1994
Working in the private sector is bliss. My personal feelings aside, Joel is
brilliant, subtle, dark-minded - and powerful.
I now see that our government project was doomed to failure before it began.
It's an amusing myth that the federal government is crammed full of black ops
and buried secrets. In truth, the government resembles the original Lot 3 - too busy gnawing off its own tail.
If you want real secrecy, real money, real authority - if you're looking
for the real rulers of the world - look to the private sector. The blander the
company name, the bigger the operating budget, the vaguer the mission statement…
the blacker the ops.
"Systems Operations." It's got a certain ring to it.
13 September 1995
I've found her.
15 September 1995
False alarm. Damn. I found an article on the wire services about a teenage
girl living alone on a ranch in Wyoming. It seems her cabin had burned to the
ground, and she had escaped unscathed -- miraculously. She was the right age.
The circumstances made sense. Electricity flickered down my spine as I read.
I drove north to the town, and I could hear her voice saying my name, hear
the tremor as the word caught in her throat.
I got a room next to hers at the only motel for miles. I opened my half of
the connecting door and listened. When I was sure she was asleep, I picked the
lock on her half of the door. I spent the night with her, in a chair by her
bedside, watching her sleeping face.
Of course, I knew from the moment I laid eyes on her that she wasn't mine. I
stayed anyway, daydreaming, despondent, waiting, in case she would be stirred by
nightmare and sparks would flash after all, stars beneath the cheap blanket.
I left as dawn rose, leaving the chair beside her bed and the connecting
doors hanging open. I have need of subtlety, not secrecy, after all. And my
imaginings of her shock cheered me on the long drive back.
11 November 1996
I am on a quest. Charlie is the Holy Grail.
Sir Lancelot wasn't pure enough to win the Grail. He came close. He came to
the door of a chapel, and inside it a priest was holding the sacred cup.
Lancelot tried to go in, meaning only to help the priest with his burden. But a
brilliant light exploded out of the chapel door. Our goodly yet impure knight
was knocked unconscious. When he came to, he couldn't see for days. All because
he tried to help.
I tried to help Charlie.
Lancelot never got a second chance. I say that's his fault. We must make our
own second chances, as I am doing.
6 December 1997
I'm a father.
Not genetically, but that's a technicality. I'm not Charlie's genetic father,
either.
3 January 1998
I was wise to try again with boys. They have an inborn urge to power. They
understand that compassion doesn't rule the world. They accept pain — given as
well as received. They respect their betters, their elders, their fathers. They
obey me. They love me.
I reveal the bias of my own upbringing, assuming that my boys' virtues derive
from their gender. I should take more credit myself. I'm raising them well.
Charlie's parents raised her to be weak. She never understood that asserting
her dominance — accepting her Darwinistic obligation — would have resulted
in the greater good. And she drowned in sentiment for her mommy and daddy,
ignoring her true creator — me. It wasn't her fault, though. If she'd been
with me from the start, I could have saved her, made her strong, led her to her
destiny. I still can. If only she'll come home.
2 April 1998
Charlie's birthday. For the first time, Paul was insolent, asking why we were
having a party for a dead girl. I suspect one of the orderlies has been talking
to him, putting ideas in his head. Worse, he might be old enough — and
prescient enough — to begin sensing Joel's skepticism. Unacceptable. I will
not allow him to be corrupted.
2 March 1999
Andrew knows I'm lying when I say that I don't know what to expect — if
anything — from Cody. He loves me too much to say anything, but he knows.
22 June 1999
Corporate retreat to Vail. This has been the greatest waste of my time I've
yet experienced. I've told Joel I will never attend again. Following a logic
that could only function in the alternate universe that is Joel's excuse for a
mind, he announced that this was one time he really couldn't bend company policy
to my "whims." I don't know why he attempts to cross me; I hold all
the cards, my time has come. And he knows it.
So I advised him that I would sooner leave the company than attend another
such event. But perhaps he would like me to stay on until a suitable replacement
was not killed by the boys? Needless to say, company policy on corporate
retreats now has a kink in it, where it bends around my whim.
31 December 1999
I got a fortune cookie tonight. Usually I don't open the things. Sometimes I
eat the cookie and ignore the paper. Sometimes I suspect the paper would taste
better than the cookie. Bygones. It being the turn of the so-called millennium,
I read the fortune. "Your dearest wish will come true."
It sounds like a platitude, but it's not.
"The only hope, or else despair Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre -- To
be redeemed from fire by fire.
Who then devised this torment? Love. Love is the unfamiliar Name Behind the
hands that wove The intolerable shirt of flame Which human power cannot remove.
We only live, only suspire Consumed by either fire or fire."
- T.S. Eliot
What does she look like now, my Charlie?
I can't help wondering. Not for stupid sentimental reasons. Simply because I
want to find her. And for this I need to imagine how she's grown.
Forensic computer-aging imagery is such a wonderful thing. I scan what you
looked like then, and add my assumptions — no, deductions ... because I know
you so well. How you would wear your hair ... how the stress of hiding from me
might keep you thin....
What do you look like now, my Charlie?
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