by Ralph Gibbs
PARIS ISHIDA, FBI, BADGE NUMBER 4281. REQUEST
VISUAL THIS CIRCUIT. AUTHENTICATION CODES LOST.
URGENT CONTACT REQUESTED WITH PAPA-1.
Once the request was sent, she closed the laptop and opened the computer with the longest battery life. Just before powering it up, she heard a noise somewhere in the store. Closing the lid, she moved behind the counter, pulled out her knife, and waited for her night vision to return.
**********
Tech Sergeant Kayla Miles leaned back in the hard, uncomfortable chair with her feet crossed atop the government desk and smiled broadly, and at times laughed, while reading her book and sucking on a grape lollipop. Against the wall in front of her were three rows of eight computer terminals that monitored and transmitted satellite communications.
Finishing the chapter, she flipped through the pages of the novel and found there were five remaining chapters. Rifling the final pages like a deck of cards, she estimated a hundred pages. Not nearly enough to see her through till dawn. Pressing the book flat against her chest, Sergeant Miles leaned her head back over the lip of the backrest, closed her eyes, and tried to decide which book she would read next. Maybe she should wait a few days to start the next one. She inwardly frowned, not liking the idea, but she may not have much choice. When President Dixon was in quarantine, and her twelve-hour watch standing duties required her to act as his secretary, she felt it would have been unprofessional to read anything other than training materials. Now that she was free from the secretarial obligations and back to standing watch, in what was effectively a seldom-visited crypt for twelve hours, she was burning through books. She estimated, at the rate she was going, she would be out of physical reading material within two months. There were still the flash drives.
Just before the world went to shit, she had illegally downloaded ten thousand novels from the Internet. However, reading an electronic version of a book wasn’t the same as holding a physical copy. With a hardback, you could feel the smooth printed page brush over your fingertips and hear the satisfying rustle as you turned the page. She flirted with the idea of printing out the books but knew she would get in trouble for wasting copy paper and printer ink. Still, she might get away with printing an occasional chapter.
When she wasn’t reading, she was daydreaming about all the bookstores that were sitting idle waiting for her to burst through their front doors. Until authorities lifted the quarantine, which could be several months to a year from now, the bookstores might as well be sitting on the moon. Once lifted, though, she planned to surround herself with books by opening a library. The world would need places where individuals could find the knowledge to survive, and she couldn’t think of a better place than an old-fashioned library full of old-fashioned books. It would need to be someplace, which could hold millions of physical books.
Toward that goal, Miles believed the best course of action would be to convert one or more of Colorado Springs’ high-rise buildings into a library. There were a few candidates that would work and imagined they would be easy enough to acquire, especially as most people were looking for places to live near the security of The Mountain. Still, any claim would come with problems. Mainly enforcing the claim and staying alive. The answer to both problems was hiring muscle. That meant trying to find a way to pay for security that didn’t involve the currency between her legs. Right now, if rumors were believed, the only reliable currency was weapons, medicine, sex, and food.
The second part of the equation was filling the library with books, and that meant mounting expeditions to other libraries and bookstores, first in the state and then across the country. She would also need to hire scavengers to search for books in people’s homes. That was where all the best how-to books would be found. A bookstore or library might have the newer books on woodworking, but a man that made his living as a professional or semi-professional woodworker might have dozens of books and magazines on the subject. Even a hobbyist would have an extensive collection. How many books did a bird watcher or amateur astronomer pick up in their lifetime? She still ran into the problem of how to pay for the expedition and the scavengers.
The final part of her plan was simple enough. Once she established the library, she would charge people to access the knowledge within. Need to learn how to plant corn? I have a book on that. Need to learn what plants are poisonous? I have a book on that. Need to learn how to build a chicken coop? A bookcase? Couch? Chair? I have a book on that. In fact, I have a book on anything you need. Need to build a nuclear missile? Bingo.
She sighed heavily. It was a nice dream, but most likely, it would be a decade before the dream was fully realized. Maybe by then, the security situation would be such that she wouldn’t need to hire muscle. Always look on the bright side of life. Oh great, now that song was stuck in her head. She lifted the book from her chest and flipped the page when she heard a chime from one of the computers. Shocked, she threw the book on the desk and scanned the row of computer terminals.
“Holy shit,” she said loudly into the empty room when she found and read the email. Scanning the phone list taped to the top pullout drawer, she found Captain Gordon Wells’ stateroom number, picked up the phone and punched in his four-digit code.
“Hello?” Wells said. “Sorry, I mean, Watch Supervisor.”
“Sir, Tech Sergeant Miles here.”
“Who?” Captain Wells asked and then chided himself for asking. Despite there being eighteen different watch stations, he should know who she was and what station she was operating. Wiping his eyes, he watched the clock on the nightstand change to 2:14. Okay, maybe he didn’t need to be hard on himself.
“Tech Sergeant Miles, sir, I’m in the computer communications room.”
“What is it, sergeant?” he asked sharper than he intended.
“I’m sorry I woke you, sir . . .”
“It’s okay,” he said more evenly. He was trying to remember why the computer communications room was important. It would have to be important if there was a watch rotation. He made a mental note to investigate in the morning. Right after he figured out where it was.
“I had a ping.”
“A what?”
“A ping. An email from one of the satellite circuits.” Now he remembered why the place was important.
“Is it from those poor bastards on ISS-2?” he asked.
“No, sir. The email is from someone named Paris Ishida. Claims she’s an FBI agent.”
“Um . . .” he said, trying to think of the correct procedures and then remembered. “Has she authenticated?”
“No, sir. She claims to have lost her authentication codes.”
“I’ll be right down,” he said, throwing the covers aside and hanging up the phone. Fifteen minutes later, Captain Wells and Calvin Walsh rushed to the president’s stateroom.
**********
Once her night vision returned, Paris moved silently through the store with practiced ease, not just from job experience, but with an experience gleaned from youthful indiscretions. As she stalked her way toward the back of the store, she caught a quick glimpse of a shadow from the corner of her eye. When the shadow stopped, she kicked a display stand into the intruder who screamed. Paris rushed over and grabbed the intruder by the hair and threw them to the ground, placing her knife at their throat.
“It’s me! It’s me!” Nate screamed, a look of terror on his face.
“Jesus Christ Nate,” Paris said panting, the knife not moving from his throat.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” he said rattled. “Honest.”
“Don’t cuss,” she growled.
He felt the blade’s edge tickle against his jugular. “Hey, whatever you say.”
Paris visibly relaxed. “I’m sorry,” she said, as she started to pull the knife from his throat. Nate let out a loud breath and then sucked it back just as loudly when he saw the anger suddenly develop in her eyes.
Paris flipped the knife-edge over so that the dulled end was facing him. She pre
ssed the knife back against his throat and leaned in close, almost touching his cheek with her lips.
“You know what? I’m not sorry,” she hissed in his ear. “What the fuck are you doing here?” She was irritated with Nate for being here, for leaving the safety of the housing complex, but at the same time impressed with Nate’s hunting and tracking skills. How in the hell did he manage to follow her all this way without her knowing? Were her skills so far gone that she didn’t know when a child followed her? Hell, at this point, she wouldn’t have been surprised to discover Anita with him and at this very moment was sneaking up on her with a Wiffle bat. She fought the urge to look.
“Why do you get to cuss?” he said his voice breaking.
Paris pressed the knife harder, and Nate shut up. “Because I’m the one holding the knife.” Inwardly, she laughed at the look on his face when she pressed the knife harder. He tried to squirm away, and Paris imagined if he’d been upright, he’d be standing on his tiptoes. “Now, why are you here?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” he said in a rush. “I walked outside and saw you. I thought you couldn’t sleep either, so I was coming over to say hello, and then you rubbed dirt in your face, and I figured you were up to something. I was curious. So, I followed you. Danica’s guards sure do suck, ass.” Paris lowered the knife, got up, and helped Nate to his feet.
“I said don’t cuss,” she snapped.
He rubbed his neck. “Fine. Fine. So, what are you doing?”
“Contacting my superiors.
“Really, have you talked with them before?” Nate asked, sounding excited.
“Not since I left,” she said, making her way back to the laptops.
“Why not?”
“I was afraid if I did, they would order me home, and I owed Franklin a debt for rescuing us.”
“Why not just ignore them?”
“That’s not the way I operate . . . usually.”
Nate looked puzzled. “But didn’t you break the rules by following Franklin?”
“Technically, no,” she said, having had this conversation with herself before. “My orders were to find Gunilla and return to Colorado. I’m doing that . . . eventually.”
“Seems like you’re splitting hairs.”
“That’s a pretty astute observation,” she said, wondering if he was a telepath because that’s exactly what she told herself every time she had this argument. “Look, if I allow you to get older—and that’s a big if—you’ll understand that sometimes rules have to be bent if a greater good can be accomplished. In this case, the greater good was seeing Franklin reunited with his son. He could have done it on his own, but I owed him a debt, and debts sometimes outrank rules, especially if you can do both.”
“I think you’re making too much of it. It’s not like there are rules anymore.”
“That’s not true,” she said, turning on him. “There are always rules. The world runs on rules even when it looks like there are no rules. When those men grabbed your sister, what did you do?”
“I went after them,” he snapped.
“So, one of your rules is ‘mess with my sister and pay the price.’” He seemed to think about that. She pressed on. “For the foreseeable future, society will be based on the principle of survival of the fittest, and right now, people everywhere are making up rules on how best to do just that.”
“How am I going to know what the rules are?” he asked as they reached the counter.
“You’re not,” Paris said as she opened a computer.
“That’s not fair.”
Paris looked down at him. “Rule number one; life isn’t fair. It never was, and it’s even less so, now. Remember that, and you’ll live a long life . . . Maybe. Now shut up while I make contact or go home.”
“I’ll be quiet.”
Paris opened an email that provided detailed instructions on how to establish video chat capabilities. When she downloaded the application and finished with the configuration, she hit the connect button and was immediately linked with a young woman dressed in an air force enlisted uniform. There was an annoyed expression on the girl’s face as if she’d rather be doing something else, then waste time talking with her. In contrast, though, when the woman spoke, there was kind gentleness to her voice.
“Good morning Agent Ishida—”
“Good morning,” Paris said automatically, interrupting what the girl was about to say. “Sorry, I didn’t mean . . .”
The girl smiled a toothy grin. “Don’t worry about it,” the girl said. She looked around as if she wanted to ask her some questions but then thought better of it. “I’m Technical Sergeant Kayla Miles. I’ll be putting you through to Jackrabbit-1 and Papa-1 as soon as I verify your identity.” Paris wanted to ask who the hell Jackrabbit-1 was but held her tongue. “Please hold one hand approximately two feet from the computer’s camera, palm facing the screen.” Paris complied. “Move out a smidgen. More . . . More. . . Perfect. Hold while I verify finger and palm prints.” The screen went black, but almost immediately came back to life. “Sorry for the delay. You’ll be happy to know that you are who you say you are.”
“Thank you, but—” Paris started to say more, but Miles forged ahead without hesitating.
“Stand by while I connect you with President Dixon.”
Paris’s eyes went wide. “Wait, what, who?” Paris nearly shouted as she grabbed the side of the laptop as if that could keep Sergeant Miles from leaving. Sergeant Miles just smirked and tilted her head as if to say good luck. Before Paris could prepare herself, President Dixon and five other people she didn’t recognize flared to life on the screen in separate panels.
“Agent Ishida, it’s good to hear from you,” President Dixson said. “Always nice to see someone alive thought dead.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Paris said. “Always nice to still be counted among the living.” She lowered her voice. “My partner wasn’t so lucky.” The president looked down as if checking his note.
“Agent Phillip Latham?” the president asked.
“He preferred Cleveland.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your partner.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Plague?” Paris shook her head. “I see. Where are you?”
“Charlotte, North Carolina, sir.” The president looked down at his notes again. “Charlotte? That’s a long way from Mammoth Cave.” He turned to someone off-screen. “Mr. Walsh, was she doing something else I wasn’t briefed on?”
“No, Mr. President,” the man in the computer frame next to the president said. President Dixon turned back to Paris.
“Things went sideways,” Paris said.
“Mr. President,” said an older gentleman with an accent similar to Gunilla’s. “I’m sorry—”
“No, no,” the president said, waving his hand. “I understand Mr. Olofsson.” The president turned back to Paris, but Paris spoke over him.
“You’re Gunilla’s father?” Paris said, more than asked.
“Did you find her?” he asked. “Is she alive?”
“She is,” Paris said thankful to deliver good news. Now she was flabbergasted. Two reunions in one day. This one wasn’t face-to-face, but it was a reunion, nonetheless. Maybe the odds of people finding loved ones wasn’t as farfetched as she thought it would be. “She’s back at camp, a few miles from here.”
“Alone?” he asked, suddenly sounding worried.
“No,” Paris said. “She’s with friends.”
“Thank you, Agent Ishida,” Sten said as he wiped tears from his eyes. He reached out and grabbed someone’s hand off-camera. “I owe you a debt I can never repay.”
“You’re welcome, sir,” Paris said. “She and I have become good friends.” She didn’t bother to tell him that up until last week she wanted to strangle her for no other reason than she was breathing. Sometimes she still did. Would her underlying resentment of Gunilla ever go away?
“Can you tell us why you’re in North Carolina?” the man in
the marine uniform asked, sounding impatient.
“And you are, sir?”
“My apologies,” President Dixon said. “Let me introduce you to everybody.” The president took a moment to introduce Calvin Walsh as the new head of Intelligence, which effectively made him her boss. He was a slight man, probably only a couple years younger than the president, with no real distinguishing features, which made him perfect for the position. The only thing she could remark about him was that he was well dressed, but they all were, which only continued to not set him apart from the others. Vice President Marion White, she knew through his decades of work in the House on different committees. He looked more frail and older than the last time she’d seen him, with both his hair and beard turning white. She wondered if he had recently recovered from the plague. Pundits often said working in the White House aged a person. After looking at White, she believed them.
The last two introductions were Generals Paula Angles, a recent appointee to the joint chief of the army and air force, and General Garrett Jackson, also a recent appointee to the joint chief of the navy and marine corps. Paris thought it was amazing just how much these two generals looked alike even though one was a man and the other a woman. Both seemed to be in their mid-sixties with short, graying brown hair and both wore the camouflage versions of their uniform. They even looked to have the same scowl pasted on their face.
“Is that the president?” Nate asked, leaning in to look at the computer screen.
“Behave,” Paris said, putting a hand on Nate’s face and pushing him out of the screen.
“Hey,” Nate said, sounding indignant.
“Who’s the boy?” the president asked, almost laughing.
“Nate Eckhart, sir,” Nate said, leaning back in and giving his best salute.
