by K. A. Excell
Ms. Green stood, and turned to address the person standing in the corner. “You really expect me to believe that the devastation you’re leaving behind is justified? I don’t care what the Company’s mission is, or who you’re fighting. You leave an unacceptable amount of destruction in your wake. If you tone down your operations, then we’ll downgrade your threat levels. Otherwise, we’ll continue to bring in any operative that is deemed a threat.”
“You can’t possibly be that naive,” Ms. Graff spat. Then she stopped—likely due to a cue from the person standing in the corner.
Ms. Green was shaking her head. “Threat or not, it’s none of our business. If the Turnips find out about Psionics because of your reckless operations, there will be no going back. I am not going to be responsible for the mass chaos that will ensue if that happens. If that means I have to lock up every single one of you—yes, even you, Director—then I will. You will stay out of our way, and tone down your operations. I won’t ask so nicely again.”
She started to leave, only to stop as Ms. Graff pounded her fist on her desk.
“They’re taking Turnips now, not just neurodivergents. Are you blind? This is the Institute we’re talking about! They don’t want to keep this secret—well at least we’re trying. Having to work around you doesn’t mean we do it more quietly, it just means more Turnips get hurt, and the Institute gets more fodder for their experiments. If we don’t nip this in the bud, it’s going to get a whole lot worse.”
“And if you escalate to open warfare, even more Turnips will get caught in the middle. Now I have a dozen other meetings. Elaine, I will see you at the next staff meeting and, Director,” she inclined her head, although her eyes were spitting fire, “Stay out of our way.”
She strode out of the room, leaving a shocked Ms. Graff behind.
A man stepped out of the corner, but the angle was too steep for me to see his face.
Ms. Graff nodded. “Yeah, that could have gone better. What are we going to do now?”
He turned to leave the room, and I gasped. The picture of his face through the camera was so blurred, I couldn’t make out a single detail.
Ms. Graff stiffened to attention. “Yes, Director.”
He left.
I bolted from the dorm room, headed for the hallways the man would have to take in order to get back outside. While I ran, my thoughts raced. His blurry face had to be caused by some sort of electronic interference, right? Making a device that would blur camera recordings was stupidly simple. For a moment, I wondered why he would care about being caught on camera, but then I shrugged. As the director of such a powerful organization, he probably needed to be very careful about where he was seen. A clandestine meeting with the Agency’s Director probably wasn’t something he wanted recorded.
There was a part of me that desperately needed to see his face. I wanted to see the person who had put together the organization that recruited so indiscriminately, and who had employed Earl West.
I calculated his last known speed and set up a path that would put me on an intercept with him—but when I reached the spot where our paths should have crossed, he was gone. I spent the next ten minutes searching the hallways, but to no avail. I looked back at the screen on my phone that showed a now-empty office. The Company’s Director was a ghost.
I re-checked my calculations, but it didn’t help. The director should have been right here!
A timer in the corner of my vision flashed, reminding me that I was currently missing class. I looked back at the phone one more time, then archived the footage. That would come in handy later, face or no face. I stowed the phone and strode toward Mr. O’Brien’s class.
During the rest of the day’s classes, I analyzed the video of Ms. Green’s meeting with Ms. Graff and the Company’s Director, but it yielded little extra information. Who was the Institute, and what could they possibly gain from experimenting on Turnips? Neurodivergents, I could understand, but Turnips? They were just normal people living their lives. It made no sense.
I set the video in the night’s evaluation queue to see if a more in-depth analysis could help me reach any conclusions, but the only thing it gave me was a headache. Frustrated with my mind, and all the unanswered questions, I hurried through classes. Maybe if I could find a good time to find Steele and break into Martial Academy’s server room, I could see if they had any information on the Institute—or on the Company’s Director.
By the first Martial period that morning, I’d decided to use Ms. Graff’s habit of sending me off for errands to go find Steele. Unfortunately, she wasn’t accommodating and I found myself sparring with Hunt again. She was upset about something, and working faster than she usually did. It took most of my attention to keep up as she lashed out at my head. I grunted as Hunt got inside my defense and delivered a half power blow to my temple. The world flashed with stars, but she didn’t stop. I triggered the BYE-BYE module to clear away the distracting thoughts, then tied the PREP module in. I barely intercepted the next strike, and it was a good thing I had. Even with a proper block, the skin of my forearm stung as she pulled back then went in for another strike.
I refocused on the clash-separate-clash rhythm of the exercise. It was a 360° drill we’d been doing since the first time I’d joined Mr. West’s class, so it was nearly automatic. But nearly automatic wasn’t automatic enough.
I could hear Ms. Graff yelling over the labored breathing and grunts of an exercise-in-progress about working slowly; adjusting to our partner’s ability; practicing hard, but safely. Hunt obviously hadn’t heard any of it. We were running at almost six times the speed as all the other groups, but I was working with a Prefect, so no one said anything. Graff just ignored us.
I staggered back as Hunt tried something that wasn’t in the drill and it connected with the side of my jaw. I got my hands back up, ready for her to come in again, but Hunt just shook her head with disgust. No wonder you got beat up by Houston so bad, she thought. Aloud, she said, “Keep your mind on the fight or you’re really going to get clobbered.”
I snorted. “Ms. Graff was just telling us to work slowly. I’m new at this, remember?”
“That was slow. It was also right outside your comfort zone. Well, deal with it. We aren’t all nice happy teddy bears who want to give you a hug. If you can’t remember that, then you’re going to get killed.” And dead isn’t the same as a little bit alive. They won’t be able to bring you back this time.
I bit down hard on a retort and went to get a drink from my water bottle on the edge of the mat. When I looked back at Hunt, she was over with Ms. Graff. The two were talking with their faces away so I couldn’t read their lips. After a moment, Hunt started back toward me.
“Come on. Let’s try the drill again,” she said and led me back toward the space we’d claimed on the mat.
She’d squared up and was just about to start the round when Ms. Graff stiffened. I caught an unfamiliar stream of thoughts come and then leave her mind. Someone had just projected a message to her—and they hadn’t been careful about it. Still, speed had made up for secrecy. I couldn’t intercept any of the messages. Ms. Graff turned to Hunt. “Something just came up. You’ve got the class.” Then she left.
“Yes, ma’am.” Hunt frowned at me, and I started examining her thoughts more closely.
Alright Farina, I know you’re listening. It’s a bad habit, but useful right now.
My eyebrows rose. Hunt was a Company operative. Why would she be directly communicating with the enemy? I revised that thought as soon as I had it. The Company wasn’t our enemy—no matter what Ms. Green said.
I need some help from someone like you.
I stiffened. She wanted help? Just because the Company wasn’t my enemy didn’t mean that Ms. King wouldn’t come down hard on me just for thinking about helping her.
Relax. It’s not directly Company related. Look around. What do
you see?
I scanned the room, but nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary.
Where’s Briggs?
I looked around again, but he wasn’t there. Actually, he hadn’t been here all day. I remembered how terrified he’d been, talking to Hunt last week.
::What happened to him?::
Hunt shook her head. I don’t know. The Company flagged him as a possible kidnapping target—not for us to kidnap, understand, but someone has been taking Turnips off the street. Mostly military types or bullies like Houston. I was supposed to watch him. He never came in for classes this morning. No one else seems to notice. Ms. Graff just said she hasn’t even heard of him. Someone’s messed with an awful lot of memories to make him disappear, and we don’t have the intel to find him.
I balled my fists as I saw Briggs’s face in my memory. The image faded as an unfamiliar program came into play, redirecting me away from his current whereabouts. I wiped the program away, and a dozen notifications flooded into my mind. Briggs was missing!
I clenched my teeth. I knew something was wrong! Why hadn’t I dug into his mind to figure it out, sooner? If I had, maybe I could have protected him.
Hey, don’t blame yourself. These people are sneaky. We had our telepaths go over him, but they couldn’t find anything. The Institute—the people we think have him—is very good at mental manipulation.
::What do you want from me?:: I asked, silently.
Just talk to Smith. She knows I work for the other team, so we don’t exactly get along. Also, keep an eye out. I’ve heard a rumor from the top that the Agency’s picked up some important things that might shed a light on this whole situation. You don’t have to tell me if you figure something out—I work for the Company, after all—but do me a favor and tell Medina? He’ll know what to do with the information. He’s paranoid, sure, but he’s not a bad sort.
How did Hunt know about Medina? I started to ask, then stopped. Did it really matter?
::I’ll see what I can find out.::
Hunt smiled. Thanks, Farina. Now I think something else has happened. Something big, or Graff wouldn’t have left like that. You should probably get downstairs.
Then, aloud she said, “It looks like we don’t have even numbers anymore. Farina, you’re going to run an errand for me.”
Downstairs. Hunt clearly wanted me to go down to the Agency base, and was giving me an excuse to do it. But why? I dove past Hunt’s surface thoughts and sifted through her mind. The answer was well hidden, but present. She was a double agent. She might be working with Ms. Graff, but she was also feeding Medina information. How had the Company Projectors missed that? Had they even thought to look? The Company was less choosy about who they allowed in their ranks, which was how they’d ended up with Houston. Did that mean they weren’t looking for Agency spies?
Regardless, I had the information I needed. I pulled out, nodded to Hunt, and left.
Smith met me as I turned down the hallway. “Farina, there’s an emergency meeting for all tac officers and analysts downstairs.” Then she paused. “I was supposed to get you from class. How did you know?”
I started to answer, only to stop. Ms. King said that one of the most difficult situations an agent could be in was working for two different sides at the same time. Spreading Hunt’s status as a double agent around would make her job nearly impossible. But Smith was waiting for an answer.
“Ms. Graff left suddenly. I figured I might be needed.”
Smith closed her eyes a moment, then she smiled. “So the Social History class has been good for you.”
I nodded. Between laser tag games, we spent most of our time talking about what was acceptable in what cultures, and how to navigate certain circumstances. How to lie to cover a friend’s six was one of those circumstances. There had also been a few lessons on seduction, poisons, blackmail, and everything in between.
Smith turned and hurried off. A few minutes later, we followed the stream of people through the rotunda and into a sort of lecture hall.
Medina, Ms. King, and Ms. Green all sat at the front of the room, facing rows of seats stuffed full of tactical black, lab coat white, and the casual dress of Analysis and Admin. There were representatives of every single department here. Hunt was right. Something big had just happened.
Ms. Green placed a small, sticky dot the size of an ant on her throat and called for everyone’s attention. Her voice reverberated around the room, and I smiled. That thing on her throat was a mic I’d seen while working in R&D. It was one of the technologies set to go on the civilian market in a few years as it bore little military use. Except for times like this, apparently.
“Now, I’m sure you’re all wondering what’s going on.” Her voice was crisp and clear as it rang through the room. Some of the tactical officers nodded their heads. “We received notice that all Company operatives were just recalled from their patrols and that the few that have gone out have been in forty-agent squads.”
Now some of the analysts were nodding. They’d probably seen this info come across their desks.
“Then, roughly twenty minutes ago, they called on their reserves to go active.”
That brought a collective hiss. Why would the Company call on their reserves? Obviously they thought they needed the extra brain-power. Was there really something that could pose that much of a threat to a neurodivergent organization? Were they preparing to declare war? Whatever the reason, I didn’t like where this was going.
Ms. Green’s eyes swept the room. “Consider this a warning, especially you going out in the field. Though InDep is refining what little data we have, we don’t know much about what the Company is up to. As of right now, we are at General Alert 3. For those of you who haven’t been here long—and there are a few of you,” she looked at Smith and I, “General Alert 3 means that you are to be ready to be called to both external and internal operations at a moment’s notice. Anyone authorized to have a weapon is to be armed at all times.” Her voice deepened in seriousness. “This is not a step we take lightly. Watch yourselves, and report anything suspicious directly to your superiors. Now, if you’ll direct your eyes to the screen, Director Medina has some intel he’d like to share.”
Ms. Green returned to her seat as everyone’s curiosity spiked. Medina accepted the dot-mic and started up a display with the standard deployment of Company teams we were used to observing. He outlined the changes in firepower and the technological advancements we’d observed—including the new mind shields. I tuned out the buzz of noise and focused on Ms. King and Ms. Green’s reactions to all this. Doubtless, they’d heard it before. Ms. Green’s face was unreadable, but Ms. King’s face held something almost predatory. She wasn’t worried. No, it almost looked like she was…waiting?
Medina finished the briefing and dismissed the crowd. We filtered back through the door, and I stopped at my locker to retrieve my duty weapon. Briefly, I wondered what would happen if I had to use it on a Company operative. Briggs would tell me to decide now that I would do whatever I needed in order to protect myself and my team, but I couldn’t. I’d seen what horrible people the Company employed, and I’d seen what damage they could do—but I still wasn’t convinced that the Company was evil. They were desperate.
Could I bring myself to shoot someone whose only crime was desperation? I dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come. I could cross that bridge when, or if, I came to it.
Chapter fourteen
I got transferred to Ms. King’s advanced Krav Maga class the next day, and spent half my time working with a ‘guest instructor’ named Neal Black. After that, I got detention twice. Once from Ms. King, and once from Vera Hunt. When I presented myself at Ms. King’s door that weekend, Black was the one to open it.
“Come on,” he said, jerking his head toward the door that led into the game area and then to the Agency below the school. “Ms. King wants me to work on y
our combat. Sounds like she wants to turn you into a real Hitter.”
I frowned. That was the one Tac job I wanted the least. I could handle being the projector telepath for the team, and I could enjoy being their analyst, but that thing with Houston was a fluke. It was a tactical team for a reason, and Tolden made sure we knew it. I wouldn’t be sent down solo again and we already had Black and Tolden as hitters. We didn’t need a third.
When I told Black that, he spun around and looked me straight in the eyes.
“That might be how an Intel team is set up, but Flex teams like us don’t have the leisure of manipulating the situation so only the people who should be in the line of fire are. We take the situation as it is. Sometimes that means getting sent in solo while the rest of the team sets up, and I don’t plan on carrying you into the chopper again. Got it?”
So we worked for two days straight at everything a hitter needed to know. As the weekend progressed, Black got steadily grimmer.
Finally, I stopped. “What’s wrong?”
He looked up from polishing his gun and then jerked his head at the targets down the range. “More bullet holes, less talking.”
I safetied the gun and set it down on the table. “Something is bothering you, Black. It has been all week.”
He just grunted and went back to his gun while I waited. Seven minutes later, he still hadn’t responded.
I started to pick up the gun to go back to the shooting exercise when Black finally slammed the last piece of his weapon back into place and sighed. “You ever get the feeling that someplace is too quiet?”
I nodded.
“Tac 47 hasn’t been called out all week—not even for a cursory Intel scan. The last time that happened was 9-11. Something’s in the works now, but I have no idea what. Tolden’s worried too, and Steele—if he would pay any attention.”
