BBC NEWS - US & Canada

19 June 2001

Fugitive Scientist Speaks Out Against US GOV.

Just last week, what was believed to be a terrorist attack against a research facility in Aspen, Colorado, has taken a rather bizarre turn. Scientist Dr. Robert M. Hughes, who had fled back to his home in Southern Wales, says that he narrowly escaped a group of armed men waiting for him there. He currently has an order issued for his immediate extradition back to the United States, but this reporter was able to get in contact with the brave physicist who has vowed to let the world know exactly what really transpired BBC WORLD Dr. Hughes, what exactly were you commissioned to do at the Aspen research facility? Dr. Hughes Four years ago, my team was awarded a sizable grant from the Americans, specifically by a division overseen by Def. Sec. Ron Kane, to develop a way to contain, and harness Boson WaviclesBBC Boson Wavicles? H. Quantum particles, believed to be a vital link separating energy from becoming matter, and matter from energy. Until recently, the only way one could view a Boson Wavicle is to use a machine that would essentially recreate the Big Bang, sending two atoms at light speed colliding into each other. The Aspen Facility allowed us to do so. BBC Im afraid you lost me at Quantum Particles. In lemans terms if you please? H. Essentially, Quantum Theory suggests that these invisible particles hold the key to unlocking everything we want to know about how life was created, and currently carries on. In physics circles theyre commonly called the god particle. BBC So, you were essentially commissioned to steal fire from the gods? H. Yes. BBC You succeeded? H. Yes. BBC What would be the implications if one were to harness this power? H. It would be something one, or many would most certainly be willing to kill for.
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Chapter 15 June 22nd, 2001 Everything seemed backwards today. Marshal could clearly remember how much he had waited, how strong he had wanted to spend a day, a week, months at a time with his father. It wasnt very long ago either. On the morning of this backwards day, moving through his typical routine and counting out his push-ups, Marshal was afraid. He was now afraid to share the same house, not to mention the same truck as his father. Youre goanna be with me today, all right Scout? said a passing voice. No, it wasnt all right. It was backwards. Why after Marshals pleading and begging to know his father that today someone, who was clearly not his father, would accept his request? Marshals heart still ached to dig deeper into the mystery of the man who walked in front of him through the kitchen and out to the garage. Yet, every time Marshals mental ax struck into the mystery, the deeper and darker the mystery seemed. By his own hand, Marshal had carved a divide between the memory of his dad, and this stranger before him now: Greg. Why was there a file on Allisons mom in Gregs office? What is she being audited for? Why couldnt Marshal return to what he once knew? Life now seemed to have far to many questions, and too few answers. Marshal wanted something tangible, something definite. Right now though, he had to stay focused; Greg couldnt discover Marshals secrets before he uncovered his fathers. Closing the door to the black Crown Victoria, Marshal kept his focus out toward the backyard. He almost regretted punching councilor Brad in the gut. He would rather be running through the woods. He should be running, Marshal agreed with himself.

His focus was intense enough to dismiss the sound of the engine coming to life, but he flinched when Greg put his hand on Marshals head. Hey, relax, I just said you need a hair cut. Oh, sorry, Marshal said pushing his bangs away from his eyes. He hadnt even noticed his hair was now nearly down to his shoulders. Watching his dad back out of the driveway up the ramp leading up to the cul-de-sac, Marshal thought he should start digging. Small questions first. So, um, dad what happened to the truck? His father shifted into drive, speeding up the lot, you dont like the Crown Vic? More questions. Fantastic. We had a lot of good memories in that truck is all. You remember when we had to drive to Austin to get Mr. Winston? Marshal was thrown against the side of the window as Greg jerked the wheel steering around some biker riding in the middle of the street. Readjusting himself in his seat, Yeah, that was a good trip. I didnt know an English Bull Dog could make it that far. Must have caught a ride on a Gray Hound. What ever happened to Winston? His dad turned left onto Elm Street, his eyes on the road, we had to let him go. Utterly baffled, you let him go? I didnt want to bring it up, because of what happened to your sometimes, even things we care about have to he was a good dog Marshal. So he died? He was a good dog.

Pulling into the parking lot across from the bank, next to the IGA where Allison ran her moms motorcycle into a parked car, his dad cut the engine. It was an abrupt end to a passable excuse of a conversation. Lets go take care of that hair, Greg said closing the door behind him. Opening the door to the barbershop was like time traveling to a cigar shop in Pensacola, Florida in the late fifties. Old men sat in faded chairs and watched the news. They waited not for their turn at the barbers chair, but for enough hair to grow to be cut again. By the looks of things, theyd probably been waiting for quite sometime. Greg! a gravely voice spoke, come grab a seatwell, whos this mop-headed rascal you brought in with you? This is my boy Marshal. Ah, this is the young Scout from California. Whatll it be today? Crew Cut? Marshals dad had already taken his seat amongst the flock of old men, eyes locked on the television. The Scout spoke up for himself, actually, if you could just clean it up, get the bangs out of my eyes- Hell have a crew cut Pete. Sure, sure, the old man replied and showed Marshal to his seat. Marshal followed. No sense in making a scene in a barbershop. He could sacrifice his hair for questions that badly needed answers. The smell of formaldehyde and cigarettes sat in Marshals nose as he watched his dad watch television. Just as Marshal had gathered the courage to dig for answers, the bells on the door jingled. The old men collectively turned their heads as a local Sheriff came through the door.

Hey Phisher, Ill be right with you as soon as Im done scalping this one. Sure thing Pete, the officer replied, taking an empty Barbers chair. Easy day so far? Easy enough. That Steel Borders Act doesnt really impact the day to day here. One of the older men spoke up, voice trembling, bout time they close the doors on this place. To many of them people just waltz in here-- think they own the place. This was Marshals least favorite place to be, in the middle of a conversation where men spoken over and around him, but never with him. Whos coming in where? The old men exchanged glances. Had someone else just spoken up? Theyre talking about illegal immigrants Marshal, Greg explained. Our President made a law that will make it harder for people to break into our country. Thats exactly what it is; theyre breaking into our country. Theyre breaking into our homes! Marshal thought for a moment before recollecting; but didnt that officer say that the Steal Borders Act didnt really matter much here, in Missouri? The old men snorted, turning back to the warm glow of their television. His dad continued to explain that, it affects the whole country Marshal. This country is for those who come here legally. America is for those that want to work, and obey the law. I bet the Algonquians didnt think the Colonists settled here legally. Pete finished with the clippers and sat them back on his counter, sounds like you got your boy out of California just in time there Greg. It wasnt my decision Pete, but youre probably right. What in the Fuck was that supposed to mean?

Before Marshal let loose a volley of expletives, the crackling voice on Officer Phishers radio startled the young boy. Control to David-12; David-12 respond. David-12, go ahead control. We have reports from DNA Officers in the area of a 10-80a in progress on Owl Drive and Hawthorne, please respond. Acknowledged control, David-12 in route, ETA three to five, looking back to Pete, goanna have to get a rain check on the trim Pete. At least I know my tax dollars are going to work. The officer jogged out the door, followed by Greg, lets go Marshal. Pushing a hand through where his hair used to be, whats our next stop? Right now Marshal. A deflated, yes sir. Left Marshals lips as he hurried after his f- after Greg. --His heart skipped every other beat, as Marshal got closer to Allisons house. He couldnt remember what a 10-80a was from when he studied for his Criminal Justice Merit Badge. All that concerned him was that Allison was in trouble, and it was Marshals fault that he couldnt get to her in time. Every chance he got to sneak a letter to Allisons mailbox, he had delivered a promised that he would get them both to the farm house he had found on his map. If there was one thing he hated more than being left without any answers to mysteries, it was being thought a liar. The police car ahead of them pulled off to one side and kept its lights flashing. Marshals dad kept going through the blockade, pulling along side a pair of unmarked police cruisers. Cutting the engine and exiting the car, Greg greeted two men in suits that

matched his own. Marshal opened his door, but before he could set foot on the ground he heard, stay in the car Marshal. He couldnt. He had to know what happened to Allison. His father had already marched up to the door, I need you to stay in the car, understood? Whats going on? Marshal didnt even get a response; he got a finger. He wasnt even worthy of words now? He looked back at his dad pointing his finger and stern look, as if Marshal were Winston looking to runaway again. That may have been true, but Marshal was no dog; he was a Scout. Pulling on the door handle did nothing. Child locks. He would have hoped out the through the front, but the Plexiglas patrician was in his way. At least he could still watch his dad. He watched him converse with the men in tan suits. They kept gesturing to the house until finally Greg took the lead, walking up the driveway. Marshals eyes stayed on Greg until he disappeared through front door that had been kicked in. After a few minutes, Marshal felt his stomach twist into a Sailors Knot as Greg walked a familiar twenty-one speed Black Diamond Bike out the garage. A few moments more, there was a knock at Marshals window, and the door opened. His father, flanked by the two men in suits, spoke slowly, Marshal, this is your bike, isnt it? Yes. Whats it doing here? I I let her borrow it. You let who borrow it? My friend.

One of the two men stepped in, where did your friend- Greg silences him with a gesture, and begins again, Marshal, I need you to be very clear, and very honest about what you know about your friend. Is she in trouble? Is she alright? Do you know where she is Marshal? Do you know where Allison Brooke Arrowynn went? No. Marshal, where did she go? I dont know. The two men turned to Greg, unimpressed. Ill talk to him, is all that was said, and the door closed once again on Marshal. He watched as one of the Suits walked his trusted bike across the street to a black van with DNA written on the side. As the drivers side door opened up, and engine turned over, Marshal sat back in his seat for another silent ride.

Pulling back into the driveway, Marshal waited for Greg to park and open the passenger door. Eventually, Marshal was let out and led firmly by the shoulder through the house, down the stairs, and into Gregs basement office. Why dont you take a seat, Greg ordered in a low voice. What happened to Allison? Is she alright? Take a seat Marshal. No.

Silence. Greg sat behind his desk, hands folded, eyes locked onto Marshal like a gun barrel. Taking in a deep breath, Marshal dared to break the ice; theres too many questions already. I cant take it anymore! I need answers. Not bating an eye, Greg responded slowly, Allison is not alright Marshal. Panicked, what happened to her? She broke into our country Marshal. Allison and her mother, Mary, they broke into our country, and theyre trying to steal from us. Marshal tried to take this in, chewing through the ridiculousness of the statement he just heard. Miss Mary and Allison are trying to steal from us? Why? How? Greg sighed, as if he really had to explain something so obvious; they came here illegally. They broke into our country in order to steal our jobs, our resources, and our- Thats ridiculous! Thats the most ridiculous thing- Its very serious Marshal. Its our job to protect America, and keep Her safe from strangers that steal what isnt theirs. Are you going to let someone steal from your country Marshal? Shes not a stranger, shes my friend. No, no shes not. Marshal, I wouldnt lie to you. Allison and her mom arent here to be your friend; they are here to steal from America. Do you want someone to walk into your home and steal from you? I dont have a home. Marshal, this is your home. I know I wouldnt want someone to steal from you. I dont have anything to steal.

Finally frustrated, Greg losses his calm, Marshal, if you dont help me, a lot of people could get hurt, do you understand? No, I dont understand. I dont understand why you sold the truck. I dont understand why you gave away Winston, or my bike. The only one taking things away from me is you! Marshal, you have to help me find Allison. The sooner that I find her, the easier it will be for me to protect her. Protect her from what? Breaking into America is a very, very serious crime Marshal. Our Country has asked me to hold certain people accountable for their crimes. If you care about Allison YOU BETTER NOT HURT HER! His own anger, and the phone ringing on the desk startle marshal. Greg let it ring before taking a breath, and gathering a stack of papers, shuffling them together. If you know where she is, you should tell me before she gets hurt. Lifting the phone off the receiver, Gregs voice changes completely as he answers, Good afternoon Sweetie no, I cant pick up the twins today Im sorry, something has come up Standing there, watching some stranger talk to some other stranger, Marshal realized everything boiled down to two options: (A) Marshal could help Greg hunt down an eleven-year girl old who, along with her mom, was attempting to destroy America. (B) Marshal could pack up his gear and go find his friend Allison: the last person on earth that he cared about.

Jogging up the stairs, down the hall, and into his room, Marshal realized he would have to act fast. After all, Allison was probably on foot-- footprints. Just bellow his window, Marshal saw two size six, mud shaped Converse prints. Slowly. Marshal closed the door behind him. Making his way carefully towards the closet door that had not been shut properly. Marshal barely had his hand on the door when Allison sprung out, fists clenched, tackling Marshal to the ground. Before he could say anything, she put her hand over his mouth. What did you tell him? What did your dad do to my mom? WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY MOM!?!? Pinned under Allison, his face covered in her long blonde hair, and his mouth covered by her hand, Marshal said nothing. You better tell me right now! Mm MmmH MMMh Mmmh MMHhhmmM. What? Removing her hand from his mouth, Marshal answered, I didnt tell him anything. He wanted to smile. He wanted to let her know how overjoyed he was that she wasnt captured by whomever Greg was sending to get her, but he couldnt. Not now. From the stairs Marshal heard the distinct march of his Fathers footsteps. Quickly, Allison got up off of Marshal. Her eyes grew wide, and her hands were shaking. Marshal opened the closet door, and without any further prompting Allison ducked inside with Marshal shutting the door behind her. Just as the closet door closed, Marshal had just enough time to leap onto his bed before his father opened the door. In the now familiar low tone, Greg asked another one of his questions that werent really a question, Are you going to tell me what youre doing in here?