Operation Blackout

by J. L. Middleton

  Connor’s probing had also revealed that the girl’s loss of control had happened before and that she had hurt someone. He doubted it had been a minor burn, judging from the strength of her reaction, but either the incident had never been reported or the signs had previously been overlooked. It had taken decades to hone the BSI’s screening techniques to flag seemingly mundane accidents for investigation. Of course, such incidents had to meet specific criteria, and he was not privy to the intricacies of BSI’s procedures. However, he would not be surprised if an earlier episode had slipped through the net.

  With all of these factors in play, in addition to her youth, he was hesitant to recommend anything but training. Despite being an elementalist, she appeared to have enough control that she would not pose a threat to the general population if placed on parole, and if this didn’t suit the BSI, she might still prove to be an asset to the government. Perhaps she could extinguish the raging autumn wild forest fires of the California hills when they occurred; help forensics teams determine the cause of a blaze; or, better yet, prevent fires before they broke out. He had seen Others with powers as potent as hers euthanized before, so her life depended on how he wrote the report. He stressed the restraint she’d exhibited during their interview, along with the mitigating factor of imminent physical threat when she’d used her ability defensively. He then closed his report with a list of hypothetical uses for her abilities, making sure to recommend that she be taken under the BSI’s wing and trained to possibly become an asset. After a hesitant moment, he added that activity related to her brother, Orion, should be flagged for future observation. His intuition told him that the young man may also be an Other, though he had no evidence to substantiate his hypothesis.

  He reread his report several times, editing several sections to emphasize his point or to be more concise. He eventually revised it so many times that it barely resembled his original draft. He had an uneasy feeling about the report and did not want to submit it in its present form.

  Finally, after his fifth edit, he selected the entire document and deleted it. He needed to start fresh and more critically consider the words he used to describe Cassie’s case. This time, he underscored her apparent control over her abilities, stating that she had demonstrated her finesse with fire. Then, realizing that this embellishment made her sound like a murderer, he deleted it and began again. He restated the girl’s words: that it had been an accident and that nothing like this had ever happened before. He retained his analysis of her apparent control while also positing that the incident had been a one-time event: Her life had been in danger, and she had reacted, but her powers were otherwise negligible, and she should be trained and then released.

  He hesitated again. He could not in good conscience write that she was harmless. The corpse in the morgue testified to the fact that she wasn’t, and the reactions of Cassie and her brother had revealed that her loss of control had occurred previously. Furthermore, for BSI trainers to perform their duties, they needed to be sufficiently advised about their students’ abilities. Misinforming them could put their lives in danger if Cassiopeia Starr was ever stressed to her breaking point again. Connor had a duty to protect not only his agents but also the general populace. With a heavy heart, he erased the latest draft and did his best to recreate his original report. It was inarticulate in some places and needed work to adequately get his point across, but that would come tomorrow morning.

  He glanced at the clock on his nightstand, which displayed the bottom of the eleventh hour, and tried to rub the fatigue from his face. He had a flight to catch in the morning and little time to make it to the airport, and he still needed to find the time to polish his report before he left. He carelessly removed his tie, which was already askew around his neck, and unbuttoned his shirt. His jacket already lay in a pile on the chair in his room, and it was soon joined by his trousers. He was not one for neatness—he had quickly tired of immaculate creases and tidy clothes during his stint in the military—and a few more wrinkles in his outfit wouldn’t hurt; he’d have the suit cleaned and pressed after he’d been home for a few days. After stripping down to his boxers, he climbed into bed and turned out the light. The night terrors came under the cover of darkness, so it would be a few hours yet before he could sleep, but at least he could have some semblance of slumber.

  - - -

  Tom Bryerly had moved up in the world—at least by his own estimation. Nine years ago, he was a skilled locksmith—only not in the legal sense—who had a knack for making doors open spontaneously. Unfortunately, this skill was not accompanied by luck or brains. He stumbled into occupied spaces or opened empty safes just as frequently as he scored. Moreover, he was never very good at finding a trustworthy fence; more often than not, they sold him out to the cops to buy themselves more time to cover their own illicit dealings. Tom spent as much time in jail as he did on the streets, and after his first stint in juvenile hall, he was unable to find lawful employment, and the few employers who hired him did not keep him for long.

  One night, Tom made the unfortunate decision to jimmy the lock on a classic red Jaguar E-Type with tinted windows that was parked just off Broadway and 53rd. Since it was during the weekend and within the Theatre District, he thought the vehicle would be an easy score—its owner would likely be occupied with a nearby event for hours, allowing him ample lead time to take the car to a chop shop. Unfortunately, the vehicle was still occupied when he opened it, and he never had a chance to run. The occupant, a young blond man of short stature, snatched him by the back of the collar. Tom didn’t know how it happened—the first thing he’d learned was how to elude pursuers, and the then-young thief was quick—or even what happened. But the blond grinned, his blue eyes twinkling. “Allo, gonoph. Mighty fine talent you have,” he said ominously in a thick Cockney accent.

  Tom didn’t know why, but the man took him off the streets and put him to work. Their “partnership” was harrowing at first: The blond, whom he knew only as Mr. Lionhart, drove him to the outskirts of the city, where Tom believed he would kill him. Instead, he forced Tom to demonstrate the true depth of his skills: While Tom could manipulate locks the old-fashioned way by hand, he learned at a young age that he could manipulate the metal so that the tumblers would simply shift to allow him entry without the need for any tools. Though his primary talent was with locks, he had limited success with other mechanical devices, and Lionhart helped him hone these abilities. When Tom graduated high school—only a year later than his peer group and with no plans, means, or motivation to head to college—the English patrician also gave him starter money for a business.

  After some time and plenty of mistakes, Tom’s repair shop began to make money, in no small part thanks to Lionhart. While Tom owed him a great debt, his feelings would always remain ambiguous toward his benefactor, because despite Lionhart’s gentlemanly airs, he could be a sadistic brute when enraged and sometimes turned his temper on Tom. He’d gained at least one prominent scar: a six-inch gash across his temple that was partially concealed by the shaggy hair that fell from his forehead across his face and then behind his ear. Tom had received the gash from being hit with a sturdy metal pipe when he’d failed to pay Lionhart his dues on time. However, fear, resentment, and love shared equal portions of his heart; Lionhart was the only real father he had known, even if he’d filled the role belatedly, and this was the reason Tom was skulking outside the hotel room now.

  He had not broken any major laws since high school. He knew how to balance his books and make sums disappear or new merchandise appear on his shelves without his distributors noticing, but he hesitated before breaking and entering. He tried to convince his nerves that he was only reliving the old anxiety that his score would be nothing despite his hard work. However, he knew that deep down, he feared being caught and sent back to jail. Real jail was different from juvie, and he had grown somewhat soft over the last nine years.

 
Then again, he didn’t want to displease Lionhart, because associates who earned his ire met an unfortunate and often violent end. In one case that particularly haunted Tom and convinced him of his benefactor’s malice, the recipient of Lionhart’s anger became a dried husk that was no more recognizable than the Egyptian mummies in the city’s museums. Tom didn’t know how it happened, nor was he willing to find out, but the memory was enough to drive him to continue his portion of this endeavor.

  The hotel door opened at his touch, and he tiptoed into the dark room, which was illuminated intermittently by reflections of streetlights breaching the closed curtains and making phantom prison bars on the walls. The ambient light was enough for him to cautiously navigate his way around the few personal effects in the room.

  A glass of water and a bottle of medication rested on the nearby nightstand, and the tenant was snoring in the bed. He watched the sleeper for several moments, confirming the man was completely oblivious to his visitor before he got down to business.

  Tom found the man’s suitcase and began to rummage through it when he spied the laptop balanced haphazardly next to the bottle. He shifted the device gently and opened the lid to wake it. Predictably, the laptop required a password, but Lionhart had taken care of that. The jumpdrive that Tom slipped into the USB port could infect the drive without being run manually, and after a few minutes, it permitted him entry into the system. He left the drive in as he worked; not only did it need more time to complete its malicious installation, but he also needed a file that was stored on it. Luckily, the email program was still up, as was the document that he was meant to replace. The switch seemed simple enough, and he was not curious about the contents of either file. He sent the email with the altered attachment, shut the laptop, collected the hacking device, and slipped out of the room before securing the door behind him.

  Part II

  Code Name: Revenant

  “Marilyn’s personal accomplishments may surprise some of the younger members of the audience, who are more familiar with her devoted service to her two children, Melissa and young Brian. Marilyn was a constant—”

  There was a sudden lapse in the mourners’ murmurs as a deep reverberation echoed through the funeral home. Slightly unnerved but convinced that the sound had been caused by temperature fluctuations, the pastor calmly resumed his eulogy. “She was a constant ornament in the fundraising community, assisting her daughter’s soccer team and the local theater. Last winter, she became the driving force behind—”

  The sound echoed again, this time deeper like a groan, and the coffin lid seemed to rise ever so slightly, as evidenced by the gentle springing motion of its flower centerpiece. This time, the pastor paused, and the silence became pregnant with expectation. The aggrieved widower stopped drying his eyes, frozen momentarily in the terrible thought that this could be a dream or a nightmare. Beside him, his daughter clutched her motionless brother tightly and murmured into his ear.

  When no more activity occurred, the pastor cleared his throat. He could believe that the disturbance was a mere fantasy of grief, as he had been close to Marilyn as well. In a small town, it was easy to know one another, and her vibrant personality made her unforgettable. The terrible tragedy that had befallen her family had taken her far too soon. Composed again, he continued in his strong voice. “—the driving force behind the fundraising for Mrs. Craft and her class to visit New York City for a well-deserved vacation. I think all of us have seen the pictures. In fact, I believe this one here—”

  The thick padding of the coffin could not muffle the dry gasp that emanated from within it, and if nothing else, it directed and exaggerated the desperate wheeze. Air passed over dried vocal cords, rattling them like a thunderstorm against shutters, and squeezed out through the feeble gap provided by the raised lid. Robert, the husband, sprang to his feet and threw open the casket before the person nearest him could even gather his senses. Freed, the dreadful groan grew louder, but it caused no hesitation on his part. He embraced his revived wife tearfully as the congregation fell into chaos.

  - - -

  John Reeves had never liked the smell of hospitals. They reeked of disinfectant and had undertones of death and sadness. The scent reminded him of his early youth spent sitting in waiting rooms while doctors spoke at great length with his parents. The two of them would reappear from private rooms like silent ghosts, and none of their conversations would be explained to him. He had known instinctually that one of them had been dying or deathly ill, but he hadn’t known which one, and for the longest time, he’d imagined that it was both of them. Once, he’d fantasized that he had been the ill one and that this had been why his parents had kept the meetings secret. While the morbid fancy hadn’t helped his developing brain, he had eventually figured out which of them had been wasting away to cancer.

  Unfortunately, hospitals had become an important part of his job, as his investigations inevitably necessitated at least one visit to the emergency room or morgue. Although his district covered the northeast, some of the south, and Appalachia, he traveled only infrequently. Most of his time was spent with the handful of staff back at the office, combing through police reports, eyewitness statements, and the occasional crackpot tabloid article, rather than on the road chasing down rumors and crazy stories. He’d made the unfortunate choice to join the Paranormal Division, which never saw any real action and had thus become so stringently funded over the years that incidents that were slated for closer investigation had to be carefully selected lest the district go over budget. The only reason his department had sent him by plane this time was that it would be more cost-effective in the long run than the delays and subsequent additional fees that a bus or train ride might have generated. His department typically couldn’t afford a rental car, necessitating him to pay for it out of pocket or take inefficient public transit, but the fare for the taxi ride from the regional airport would have been so exorbitant that he’d been able to convince the comptroller that it would be more economical to rent a vehicle for the short time he’d be on assignment.

  “Special Agent Reeves,” he said to the receptionist as he flashed his badge. “I’m here to see Mrs. Chamberlain.”

  She looked up languidly from the notes that she had been writing on the paper on her clipboard and scowled when she spotted his badge. “What does the FBI want with her?”

  “Actually, I’m a part of the DHS,” he corrected her. “They’re investigating if she might have been the victim of a biological attack.” Supporting his cover story, he added offhandedly, “The CDC should be by later to do their own follow-up.”

  She sighed heavily. “You should all just leave her alone. The family has been through enough already,” she replied as she gave him the room number begrudgingly. Reeves followed the corridor to a scantly occupied private room. A woman lay sunken into the bed with blankets piled on her as if to give her more substance. Her skin was pale—almost translucent—and her eyes were clouded over as if affected by cataracts, though it had been reported that her vision had been perfect prior to the crash. Her head was bandaged, and most of her hair was shorn. Her arms rested above the covers, one in a cast and the other laying perfectly still at an odd angle. An IV provided fluids, but they seemed to collect at the entry point and then bulge beneath the skin like an angry boil. A ventilator and heart monitor kept rigid time, and if not for her open, sightless eyes, Reeves would have believed that she was sleeping.

  Her husband droned on in a hypnotic voice, as if he was trying to seal himself away from reality behind a wall of sound, as he read aloud from a novel. His voice was tired, and the halting manner in which he spoke made it obvious that he didn’t believe that his wife was actually listening. He had dark circles under his eyes and a few days’ worth of stubble, and his rumpled clothes had probably been worn for a while. Even when Reeves knocked and introduced himself, Mr. Chamberlain didn’t look up, so the curious agent pic
ked up the patient’s chart from the end of the bed and took a look at it.

  “What are you doing?” chastised a nurse who had suddenly appeared behind him. “Are you supposed to be in here?”

  Reeves answered her without relinquishing the chart. “I’m Special Agent Reeves. We’re concerned that Mrs. Chamberlain’s condition—”

  The elderly nurse, whose name tag read Peggy, shushed him quickly and led him into the hallway. She also expertly regained possession of the patient’s chart as stealthily as a pickpocket would. Her stern look reflected her belief that Reeves should be more mindful of the Chamberlains. “Continue,” she ordered matter-of-factly.

  Reeves frowned disapprovingly at her discourteous treatment, but he obliged in a professional tone. “We’re concerned that Mrs. Chamberlain’s condition might have been the result of a purposeful biological attack. I’ve been sent to assess the situation.” He paused, hoping that the silence would wordlessly rebuke her for taking the chart before he had read it. She didn’t yield, instead continuing to hold the chart in her crossed arms, and he allowed her to maintain the upper hand. He pressed onward, soberly prompting a continued discussion. “Could you tell me more about Mrs. Chamberlain?” he requested in a more polite voice. “Tell me the circumstances surrounding her case.”

  Peggy checked her surroundings cautiously before speaking in hushed tones. She explained what he already knew: Marilyn and her husband had been heading back from a party late in the evening. Wet roads had caused a semitrailer to blow a stop sign and plow into their vehicle. Marilyn had been pronounced dead at the scene due to massive trauma, and Peggy believed that her autopsy had been performed simply as evidence for possible criminal proceedings. The driver had seemed unusually unresponsive to police, but later tests had determined that he had been perfectly sober, and his odd behavior had been attributed to shock setting in. Robert had escaped with bruises, several broken ribs, and a concussion, while the driver, who had been relatively unharmed physically, had been able to resume his route within a few days when the police were finished with him. The crash had been deemed an unfortunate accident, no charges had ultimately been filed, and Robert had chosen to shift the blame to his own shoulders. “I doubt either of them were contaminated with anything, or he would be showing symptoms by now,” Peggy asserted. “And he’s as healthy as he can be, under the circumstances. His healing has been slow, but that’s probably because he refuses to eat unless I force-feed him. That poor truck driver quit, as far as I heard, but he was healthy when he was discharged, so I don’t think he was hauling anything dangerous.”