Chapter Three
“Relax,” Richardson says.
When Hamilton opens the lab, I cautiously follow the old man and Jimenez into the room before Clark Kent enters and closes the door behind us. My heart rate rising, Richardson and Jimenez move closer to the table. Hamilton stands behind me, perhaps guarding against a potential escape.
“Take a good look, Calvin. It’s got a long, confusing scientific name,” Hamilton says, “but we just call it the Change Machine.”
I turn back to Richardson and Jimenez. “I’m guessing there’s no scenario here where any of you get strapped onto that table.”
“Affirmative,” says Jimenez.
“What if I said no?”
“You haven’t even heard what it does yet,” Hamilton says.
“Cal,” the old man says, “remember when you said your would-be first assignment would never listen to you?”
“Yeah.”
“One round with this thing and you could grab anyone’s attention.”
“How is that?”
“Calvin, this machine will give you the ability to take any human form, among other things.”
“Huh?”
“You’d be a polymorph,” Jimenez says. “A shape shifter.”
I take a long look at Jimenez before my eyes flit over to Richardson. “First you poison and kidnap me, then you tell me you’ve been stalking me for God only knows how long and, now, you want me to believe that you can somehow give me magic powers?”
“Calm down, son,” Richardson says, holding up a hand.
“It’s perfectly safe,” says Hamilton. “We’ve all gone through the procedure.”
I look at Hamilton, then over at Jimenez. “You—”
“Absolutely not. This is a hundred percent real,” she says, advertising her circuitous figure the way Vanna White flaunts the letter ‘L.’
Richardson chuckles. “No, Calvin. We’re all in our God-given forms right now.”
“We have to be,” adds Hamilton. “The first rule of being an Agent of Influence is to be yourself, so to speak, whenever you’re in an A of I facility. Unless it’s necessary.”
“It helps prevent the abuse of our abilities,” Richardson says. “Don’t want to lose sight of why we have them in the first place.”
“Well, that’s very admirable of you but—”
Swoosh!
The sound, a hum like that of a snake moving across a leather surface, comes from Jimenez. Before my very own eyes, her skin tone gradually turns a lighter shade, her frame straightens, her hair grows longer and darker, and her eyes shrink. With the transformation complete, a new person—a few inches shorter than Elena Jimenez—stands before me.
“Ronni,” I say, breathless. Jimenez is a spitting image of my lifelong friend. The only thing missing is one of Ronni’s signature smiles.
“How did you … ?”
“It’s the machine, Calvin,” Hamilton says. “And Jimenez is the best Change Machine engineer on the East Coast. Nobody knows it better. You’ll be in good hands.”
Jimenez doesn’t hesitate to change back into herself. I think she grew tired of me gawking at her.
“Why do I have to be someone else to be … influential?”
“In theory, you don’t always have to be,” Richardson says. “In fact, we can do more than change our appearance. Every once in a while, everyone just needs a lucky bounce.” The old man winks and the top button pops off of my shirt, landing at Jimenez’s feet.
“What the—how did you—why is that even necessary?”
“You could have been a widower at a coffee shop, Elena could have been a lonely spinster.”
I exhale and rub the bridge of my nose. “What the hell is going on?”
“You’re being recruited.”
I engage in a stare down with Richardson, as I try to wrap my brain around all of this. I can become other people and move objects with my mind?
Think of everything you could accomplish in Nicetown.
No, too good to be true.
“What’s next? Is there an Agency of Troublemakers or something?” I say, snickering. My nervous smile subsides when Jimenez and Richardson trade glances. “You’re kidding.”
“They call themselves the Agency of Justice. And, believe it or not, they're mission complements ours. Has for centuries.”
“Centuries?”
“Yes, the two agencies date back to the 1700s,” Richardson says.
“Of course they do.” I look at the contraption again, curious yet hesitant to learn more about it. “Where does the machine get its power from?”
“Have you ever heard of the Arrowhead of the Seminole?”
“Like football at Florida State?”
“No,” he says with a chuckle. “That was a trick question. It’s not something I would expect you to know.” The old man explains that the Arrowhead of the Seminole is a relic that has remained in obscurity for almost five hundred years. As European settlers began coming to the New World, a very powerful and very mysterious member of the Seminole native tribe, a shaman—who was also a polymorph—took to the task of making a more effective, ethereal kind of arrowhead, one which could instantly kill its victims, regardless of the severity of the wound it caused. The shaman purposely gave the Arrowhead ornate markings so as to make it standout but erred, however, by imbuing the weapon with the wrong power. Instead of being lethal, the Arrowhead bestowed upon its carrier shape shifting and telekinetic abilities.
“He accidentally transferred his own power to the Arrowhead?” I say.
“Exactly. And, knowing the threat it posed, he kept it hidden … until Ponce de Leon stole it from him after sailing from Spain to Florida to find the Fountain of Youth. Four centuries and a few, um, exchanges later, both agencies are harnessing the Arrowhead’s power.”
As I listen, I come to one conclusion: never trust a Spaniard.
“Every branch uses a replica carved from the original,” the old man says, lifting up a tube-like compartment out of the machine’s mainframe. “Ours is right here.”
I move closer to get a better look. Indeed, the Arrowhead is very decorative. It has an Aztec-like design on both sides as well as three red stones set into each side.
“Where’s the original?”
“Even if you join us,” Hamilton says, “he won’t tell you. They don’t tell agents where the Arrowhead is kept.”
“So no one steals it,” I say.
“Or breaks it,” Richardson says.
“Someone actually broke it?”
“No, but it’d be catastrophic if they did.”
I open my mouth to ask another question but Hamilton cuts me off. “We should tell you, Calvin—the effects of the Change Machine procedure are irreversible.”
I nod my head as the tidal wave of information washes over me.
Hamilton nudges me with his elbow. “So, what do you think?”
“Honestly?” I say. “This is all a little too … strange for me. I can’t go through with this.”
“Yes, you can,” says the old man.
“I’m sorry,” I say with a snicker, “but I don’t know that I can trust you guys.”
“Bullshit!” the old man exclaims, throwing a tense pump of the fist in there for emphasis. This jars me and Jimenez behind him. “You know you want this. You’re just scared.”
Fact. Remember when I thought the old man would be the toughest person of the trio to outwit? The truth is that this is exactly the kind of opportunity I’ve been looking for, except I haven’t actually been looking for it because I never knew it existed. In reality, I am scared. People with this much power either fail in epic fashion, become targets of those who envy their power, or go mad. I have no interest in partaking in any of those activities.
Sensing that he has me on the ropes as I stand before him, punch-drunk and weakening, the old man approaches me and goes in to deliver the proverbial knockout blow.
“There’s a role to be played
by all of us, Cal,” he says. “Which will it be for you? You can go on working a job you hate if you want. We’ll let you walk out that door, no questions asked. It’s your choice, son.”
I hit the mat like a ton of bricks.
I exhale deeply and take a long look through the window, peering into the cold, lifeless hallway.
In the reflection of the glass, I see Richardson, Hamilton, Jimenez, and the Change Machine, all awaiting my next word. Most importantly, I see myself, Calvin Newsome III, Ivy League-educated African-American male with big dreams who has yet to actually accomplish anything. Regardless of what I decide, the man in the reflection won’t be the same after the choice has been made, for better or worse, and I’m not sure I’m comfortable with the consequences associated with either option. Still, my longing for a greater purpose is due, in large part, to the fact that I’ve taken very little risks, calculated or otherwise, in my twenty-nine years on this planet. My ideal path has been laid before me but it will require my greatest leap of faith.
“I’m in.”
Richardson smiles and extends his hand. “Welcome aboard, Agent Newsome.”
As I shake the old man’s hand, essentially congratulating him for winning our heavyweight bout, Hamilton gives me a sturdy pat on the back. Jimenez, on the other hand, goes right to work, flipping switches and striking keys. She then holds down another button, causing the table to tilt backwards, eventually stopping when it’s horizontal to the floor.
“Wait,” I say, “what about my job at Maxwell?”
“I’d say you’ve worked your last day at Maxwell,” the old man says.
“I should at least give two weeks’ notice, don’t you think?”
“Does it matter?” Hamilton says.
I look Hamilton in the eye. He’s probably right. It sounds as though being an Agent of Influence is akin to being a Supreme Court Justice, especially if this procedure is irreversible.
Jimenez pats her hand on the table. “Up.”
With my heart racing, palms sweating, and legs shaking, I sit on the table before swinging my legs onto it. Jimenez then takes my left arm and lays my wrist into the leather bind, fastening it tightly before moving to my left leg. Even though I’m fully clothed, the table is ice cold to the touch.
“Relax,” says Hamilton. “It will only take a few seconds for the machine to take effect.”
Jimenez swings around to the other side of the table and fastens my right ankle and wrist. “You’ll be unconscious for about five minutes.”
“Is this going be a regular occurrence for us?”
She goes back to the buttons. “Just relax and try to think about something nice.”
I force my eyes closed. The first thing that comes to mind is Jimenez. She’s a little too serious for my taste but—
“Anything but me,” I hear her say. Hamilton chuckles in the background. “This will hurt for a few seconds.”
I feel like a kid getting his first shot at the doctor’s office. Where’s my mom to hold my hand when I need her?
That’s right, she’s in St. Louis.
I hear a buzz coming from Jimenez’s direction, gradually rising in volume. The buzz is then followed by a crackle and a few pops. Suddenly, I feel a jolt through my nerves. Control of my body is slipping away from me. The more this continues, the more I wonder if I am even going to survive this. As the jolt spreads through my body, a panic rises from my chest.
“Stop the machine!” I scream.
“Just hang on, Cal,” I hear the old man say.
I let out a loud, throaty groan as the buzzing sears my nerves. “Please!”
As I start to feel my body shake uncontrollably, I open my eyes. The last glimpse I catch is that of the three agents standing before me, as stoic as they were the moment they first revealed themselves to me.