Battle Lines

by Will Hill

  I have to find out who he is, she thought. I don’t even know why it’s become so important to me. I just have to know.

  * * *

  Half a mile to the east and almost the same distance down, the prisoner Larissa was so desperate to identify was finishing his morning shave. Under normal circumstances, prisoners were not allowed anything they could conceivably do themselves harm with, especially nothing as obviously dangerous as a razor blade. But the circumstances surrounding Julian Carpenter were far from normal.

  Bob Allen may have had no option other than to lock him up, but he had brought the contents of Julian’s jeep down to the cellblock and handed them over to him personally. Julian presumed they had been checked thoroughly first—his old friend was anything but stupid—but he was grateful nevertheless.

  Changing his clothes every day, shaving his face in the morning, brushing his teeth in the evening: They were small things, but they made him feel as though he was still human, still himself. He laid the razor on the rim of the sink and looked in the polished sheet of metal that passed for a mirror. His face was paler than ever as a result of more than three months without exposure to natural light. His skin seemed loose; it hung from his cheekbones and beneath his chin.

  He looked like an old man.

  The situation he found himself in was almost blackly comic. He had overridden a lifetime of training, years and decades of forcing himself to make decisions based on logic rather than emotion, and handed himself over to NS9 because he had been desperately, terribly worried about his son. The vision he had seen in the desert cave with the cured vampire who called himself Adam had seemed terrifyingly real: his son as a vampire, with red eyes and gleaming fangs, telling him he was too late.

  Despite Adam’s pleading, his warnings that visions were unreliable, Julian’s mind had been instantly made up. He had needed to know that Jamie was all right, and surrendering to NS9 was the only way he could think to do so; his last remaining contact inside Blacklight, from the time before he had been forced to fake his own death, was missing, presumed dead. And he had been right: Bob Allen had managed to persuade Henry Seward to tell him that his son was alive and well.

  Julian’s relief had been enormous, but short-lived. It was not enough to know that Jamie was all right; he wanted to help his son, wanted it more than anything else in the world, and he had put himself in a position from where it would be absolutely impossible for him to do so.

  Stupid, he thought, staring at his reflection. Weak. Stupid. Old.

  At the end of the corridor that ran down the center of the detention block, the heavy metal door clunked open, and footsteps clicked across the concrete, getting louder as they neared his cell. Julian dried his face with the thin towel that was standard issue for NS9 prisoners and waited for Bob Allen to arrive—there was no question of it being anyone else. The detention-block duty officer brought food three times a day, but never spoke a single word. Julian could have tried to engage him, knowing he would be under orders not to respond, but he had no wish to make the man’s life harder. It wasn’t his fault that Julian was where he was; it was no one’s fault but his own.

  The footsteps stopped outside his cell. Julian heard a series of soft clicks as the access code was entered into the control panel, before the door swung open and the NS9 director stepped into his cell, a tired half smile on his face.

  “Evening, Bob,” said Julian. “Good to see you.”

  “You, too,” replied General Allen. “How are you doing, Julian?”

  “I’m in jail,” he said. “I’m having a ball. Yourself?”

  Allen grunted with laughter, then flopped down into the plastic chair that was one of the cell’s three pieces of furniture. Julian pushed himself across his bed and sat with his back against the wall.

  “I’m tired, Julian,” said Allen. “We’ve destroyed or detained about forty percent of the Supermax escapees. Another fifteen percent are under surveillance. We couldn’t track the rest of them. So they’re gone.”

  “That’s good, Bob,” said Julian. Allen had told him about the coordinated prison breaks and the frightening strength and speed of the newly turned vampires, even though he was breaking about a dozen regulations by doing so. Julian had been full of grudging admiration for the tactics of the vampires. The chaos that had been created had sucked in every supernatural Department, and showed no sign of ending. It was a huge, audacious piece of misdirection, designed to keep them all busy with something other than looking for the still-recovering Dracula. “You’ll have more than half of them by the time it’s all said and done, and that’s not bad. You had no warning, and no reinforcements you could call in to help you out. Half is good, Bob. Don’t beat yourself up.”

  “Thanks,” replied Allen. “I appreciate you saying so. And we got some of the very worst. My special ops team took down the entire leadership of the Desert Cartel in Nuevo Laredo, with a little help from our vampire guest.”

  “Larissa,” said Julian.

  The revelation that NS9 had a vampire working for them had been one thing. The fact that she was actually a member of Blacklight on loan to the United States was another. And the further fact, confirmed firsthand by his friend, that she was the girlfriend of his son, was the icing on the cake. He was desperate, truly desperate, to meet her. He had begged Allen for the opportunity to do so, for just five minutes to ask her about how Jamie was doing and the person he had grown up to be, but the director had refused. Julian had seen on his face that it pained him to do so, and hadn’t pushed the issue.

  Not yet, at least.

  “Lieutenant Kinley,” confirmed Allen. “Tim Albertsson, the special ops leader, said he’s never seen anything like it. Apparently the head of the cartel shot her point-blank in the stomach with a shotgun and she didn’t even notice it. I think he was a bit scared, to be honest with you.”

  “Any of your people get hurt?” asked Julian.

  Allen shook his head. “Kinley lost an ear along with her gunshot wound, but they fed her blood and she was back on her feet a minute later. No other injuries, and only one civilian fatality.”

  “After a night assault on the headquarters of a Laredo cartel,” said Julian, “you’ve got to be pleased with that, Bob.”

  “I am,” replied Allen. “To be honest, I wish we could keep her, and I’m not the only one who does. I think I could persuade Cal to let me have her, but she wouldn’t come without her friends, and there’s not a chance in hell that he would transfer your boy. Not after everything he’s done.”

  Julian smiled. He was immensely proud of his son and would never be able to forgive either Thomas Morris or himself for conspiring to prevent him from being able to share in Jamie’s triumphs. He was a man who had a great many regrets, so many that he had long since committed himself to not thinking about them unless it was entirely unavoidable, but none were greater than how he felt about his son having to fend for himself, having to fight and struggle and survive without his father.

  “That’s sort of why I’m here, Julian,” continued General Allen. “I spoke to Cal this morning. He’s sending a team here overnight. They’re taking you and Larissa home in the morning.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t tell you that. They’re working on something big, and Cal says they need Larissa’s help. To be honest, I think he wants to tie up any Blacklight loose ends.”

  Julian’s expression didn’t change. “Are they reinstating me?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Allen. “But if you want my advice, I would suggest you prepare yourself for disappointment.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” said Julian, his voice rising. “I didn’t betray anyone, and I didn’t get the Harkers killed.”

  “A warrant was put out for your arrest, and you faked your own death rather than answer it,” said Allen, evenly. “I understand why you did what you did, and I’m sure Ca
l does, too. But you died, Julian. Or at least you let everyone think you did. If you’re expecting Cal to give you a big hug and hand you a new uniform, then you’re delusional. You have to see that.”

  Julian slumped on the bed, his eyes downcast and red at the corners.

  “So, what?” he asked, his voice now little more than a whisper. “What do you think is going to happen to me, Bob?”

  “Best guess? They’ll clear you of any wrongdoing and send you on your way. I think they’ll let you have a life, Julian, but I don’t think it will be inside Blacklight.”

  “And my family?”

  Allen looked away.

  “What about my family, Bob?”

  “I can’t tell you what Cal will do,” said Allen, looking straight at his friend. “But I know what I would do.”

  “What would you do?”

  “I’d forbid you from ever contacting either of them,” said Allen. “Jamie is an operator, and Marie is in Blacklight custody, and they both think you’re dead. I wouldn’t let you anywhere near them, at least until the Dracula situation is resolved. If it gets resolved.”

  An uneasy silence hung in the air for a long moment, thick with the dismal prospect that Bob Allen had described. Julian couldn’t believe that Cal Holmwood would do that to him, not after all the years they had fought alongside each other, but he knew that his friend was suggesting a genuine possibility. If they wanted to keep him away from his family, it would be easy for them to do so.

  Their case for doing so would also be easy to make: that his return would provide a distraction to a serving operator as they approached potentially the darkest period in their long history. He was sure that Marie and Jamie would be furious if they found out, but therein lay the central problem: With his son and his wife living inside the Loop, merely letting them know he was still alive would be almost impossible.

  “I hope you’re wrong, Bob,” he said, eventually.

  “So do I, Julian,” replied Allen. “More than you know.”

  The two men sat in silence for a long while. Both of them looked old and tired, the cumulative wear and tear of years spent walking into the darkest corners stood out in the deep lines on their faces.

  “Is it worth it?” said Julian, suddenly.

  “Is what worth what?”

  “What we do,” he said. “Everything we’ve done and everything we’ve given. Was it worth it? Did we ever do anything good, Bob?”

  There was a long pause. “I don’t know,” said Allen. “There are people who are alive because of the things we did. That has to count for something.”

  “There are just as many who are dead, maybe even more,” said Julian. “Men and women we killed because they were vampires, not because of anything they’d done. I think of some of the things I’ve done, and I can’t even begin to imagine how I justified doing them.”

  “Orders,” said Allen. “Following orders.”

  Julian grunted. “Right,” he said. “I’ve heard that excuse before, Bob. Heard it used to excuse the same thing, in fact: destroying people because of what they are, not what they’ve done.”

  “Jesus, Julian,” said Allen. “I get it, you’re locked up down here, and everything looks black. But don’t do this to yourself.”

  “Do you remember Kosovo, Bob?” he asked.

  “I remember.”

  “What was that, 1999? 2000? Christ, I can’t even remember.”

  “It was ’99,” said Bob, his voice low.

  “There was that Albanian girl in the square. Do you remember her? What the vamps had done to her?”

  “Yeah,” said Allen. “I remember.”

  “We found them up in that barn behind the church,” said Julian. “The vamps and their women and their kids.”

  “Julian . . . ,” said Allen, helplessly.

  “We started shooting, and then I grabbed my stake, and when it was over, I couldn’t lift my arm above my shoulder for two days. I remember that, Bob. I’ve tried to forget it, but I can’t. I just can’t.”

  “We did what we had to do,” said Allen. “What we were ordered to do. They were killers, Julian, we saw what they’d done with our own eyes.”

  “The men,” said Julian. “But the women? The kids? What had they done to deserve a stake?”

  Allen didn’t answer.

  “If Dracula rises,” he continued, “then it’s over for us, and everyone like us. But even if he doesn’t, even if you manage to stop him in time, I think it might still be over. Nothing lasts forever. We keep the biggest secret in the world, and we’ve killed and killed and killed to keep it safe. But how long until someone finds out what we don’t want them to know? Or until more people find out than we can lock up or kill? What happens when the world sees the things we’ve done?”

  “I don’t know, Julian,” said Allen. “And neither do you.”

  The two men looked at each other, the weight of history bearing down on them.

  It was a long time before they spoke again.

  48

  BEHIND THE CURTAIN

  Matt Browning ran down the center of the Level D corridor and skidded to a halt outside the entrance to the Blacklight Science Division. He pressed his ID card against a black panel on the wall and waited impatiently as a series of locks released. When the panel turned green, he pushed the heavy security door open and stepped through it.

  He emerged into a large square room containing a wide reception desk and the open-plan workstations that were occupied by the division’s administrative staff. The woman behind the desk frowned at Matt as he approached—his arrival was unscheduled, and his eyes were a little too wide for comfort.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m Matt Browning,” he replied, putting his ID on the counter. “Who’s the duty officer? I need to speak to them, please.”

  “I’m sorry,” replied the receptionist. “Dr. Cooper is in the lab. Can I take a message?”

  “No,” said Matt. “I’m sorry, but you can tell him I need to speak to him right now, on Zero Hour Task Force business. I don’t want to involve the interim director in this, but I will if you make me.”

  The receptionist narrowed her eyes, and for a moment Matt thought she was going to call his bluff. He suspected that Cal Holmwood would back his demand to speak to a senior member of the Department without notice, but that he would also not be thrilled about being forced to do so. The receptionist stared at him for a long while, then lifted the telephone from her desk and dialed a number. She spoke quietly into the receiver, turning her head away from Matt and shielding her mouth with her hand, then replaced the phone in its cradle.

  “Dr. Cooper will see you,” she said. “I’m to take you through.”

  She got up from behind the desk, her body language making it clear that there was literally nothing in the world she would less like to be doing than assisting him. Matt fought to keep his temper, which rarely showed itself, in check. When the receptionist waved her hand in a way that vaguely suggested he should follow her, he bit his tongue and did so.

  In the wall behind the administrative desks stood three heavy white metal doors. Beyond them, the Science Division comprised three large research labs arranged in a semicircle, each one home to two of the division’s six primary areas of research: Computational and Information Sciences, Sensors and Electron Devices, Human/Supernatural Research and Engineering, Survivability/Lethality Analysis, Vehicle Technology, Weapons and Materials Research. There was a large proving ground at the southern edge of the Loop’s grounds, as well as ranges and experimental chambers of all sizes and specifications spread throughout the underground levels, all of which were highly classified. Access to the labs was controlled by a series of double airlocks, and the entire Science Division was monitored at a microscopic level; the complex of rooms was fully automated and could be loc
ked down instantly in the event of a breach or an accident.

  The receptionist unlocked the middle door and led Matt into a short corridor. At the other end stood the entrance to a gray airlock, identical to the one that guarded the containment block four levels below. She gestured for Matt to step inside and was making her way back toward reception before the airlock door had even closed behind him.

  Matt fought back claustrophobia as the light inside the tight space turned first red, then purple. A billowing cloud of gas rushed up from vents in the floor, and he shut his eyes, waiting for it to be over. When the roaring ceased, he opened them in time to see the light turn green and the inner door swing open, revealing a tiny man in a white coat with a big smile on his face.

  “Matt?” he asked, extending his hand. “Matt Browning?”

  “Hello,” said Matt. He took the outstretched hand. The man in the white coat pumped it up and down enthusiastically.

  “I’m Mark Cooper, director of the Science Division. It’s great to meet you.”

  “Is it?” blurted Matt, slightly overwhelmed by the warmth of the greeting.

  “Absolutely,” said Cooper. “Cal Holmwood shares some of the Lazarus Project reports with me. Amazing stuff, truly. It’s incredible what you’re doing down there.”

  “Thanks,” said Matt. He suddenly found himself trying not to laugh.

  “You’re welcome,” said Dr. Cooper. “I met Robert Karlsson a few years ago, in Geneva. A great man.”

  “He is,” said Matt. “We’re lucky to have him.”

  “No doubt. Now what can I do for you, Mr. Browning? I’m guessing it has something to do with our recent arrivals?”

  “It has,” said Matt. “Can I see them, please?”

  “Of course,” said Dr. Cooper. “Follow me.”