Operation Blackout

by J. L. Middleton

  He’d only meant to get slightly buzzed to help him write his report, but the more he’d contemplated what to write, the more alcohol he’d ended up consuming. He generally didn’t drink; it aggravated his already problematic sleeping difficulties and revived thoughts he’d rather keep buried. However, this case created ethical challenges that he never thought he would encounter, including what he might do when he had Brian’s powers at his personal disposal. Marilyn Chamberlain couldn’t hold a conversation, but with more practice and refinement, Brian might actually be able to bring someone back to true life. If that were the case, maybe death would cease to be an insurmountable obstacle, and Brian could bring back someone who had been dead for years. This line of thinking had been a dangerous path to take, especially for Connor, and he had tried to wash it away with whiskey. But instead, he had drunk himself insensible.

  He regretted receiving the tip-off from John Reeves because it had placed him in a difficult situation. Reeves had his own suspicions about Marilyn Chamberlain’s resurrection, but with closely monitored resources and heavily scrutinized receipts, it had been difficult to pursue his investigation to the full extent necessary without substantial evidence. However, he had uncovered enough data to warrant a recommendation for further scrutiny by the Exceptional Division, and as they had been previously acquainted, Reeves had forwarded the case directly to Connor. The report had piqued Connor’s interest, and while he had initially suspected the husband, his first visit to the hospital had dispelled this assumption.

  It was true that Others tended to use their abilities for the first time in periods of heavy emotional stress, but Robert Chamberlain had been practically paralyzed by his grief, and her resurrection had only served to plant the seed for his dysfunction. Connor hadn’t even tried to interview him; being in the same room had been enough to illustrate that Robert wasn’t the Other, and despite Peggy’s protectiveness of the Chamberlains, she hadn’t fit the profile he’d expected either.

  This had left him with two other suspects: Melissa and Brian. Both were young, which meant they would be more malleable for training, but Connor hadn’t been comfortable with the idea of another potent young Other so soon after Cassiopeia Starr, and his uneasiness had grown as soon as he’d met Melissa. Since Marilyn’s ambulation had stopped soon after Melissa’s absence, he’d sincerely hoped that she had been the Other. An eleven-year-old would have been easier to deal with: less emotional, longer attention span, and more maturity. Unfortunately, he’d sensed that it hadn’t been her before she’d even spoken, and her emotional detachment from the situation had confirmed his assessment.

  So what would he do about Brian? He was young and still prone to tantrums. Though partial resurrection itself wasn’t dangerous, his abilities seemed to stretch beyond that, and while specialists back at the BSI might be able to nail them down exactly, they would be exposed to an unquantifiable hazard in the meantime. Connor couldn’t make a training recommendation without solid evidence that the staff wouldn’t be placed in undue jeopardy.

  Brian had touched Connor during an emotional outburst, and he hadn’t suffered any ill effects. He hadn’t experienced withering flesh like the grandmother, which could indicate that the boy had some measure of self-control. He also had not witnessed any life energy transfer firsthand, so he could indicate in his report that this specific danger was only related to him by secondary sources like Melissa. Except that he had observed it—the patch of dried grass near the partially revived garden, which also indicated the range of the boy’s abilities. Connor suspected that if Reeves had checked the funeral home shortly after Marilyn’s recovery, he would have noticed wilted flowers or some other indication of transferred life, and he wondered whether the supposed desiccation of the flowers during Brian’s tantrums meant that energy had been transferred elsewhere. Connor couldn’t even reliably test Brian’s self-control as he had done with the Starr girl; trying to trigger the child would put him and anyone nearby at risk every time, and he knew instinctively that provocation would be disastrous in this case.

  Connor had borne the heavy burden of a difficult decision before, but not with someone so young, and he wasn’t yet prepared to accept responsibility for the inevitable recommendation: Brian Chamberlain was too unpredictable to train, and this meant that he had to be euthanized for the public good. Under different circumstances, perhaps the boy could have gone years without being detected and could have developed his self-control on his own so he could become a BSI asset. But Connor knew of his existence and the potential danger he posed, and there was now only one outcome. He took another swig of whiskey and began to write his report.

  It took him less than an hour to complete it. Reeves’ investigation had provided a good base, and Connor’s account would primarily be an addendum explaining Reeves’ observations in Exceptional Division terminology and outlining the steps and procedures that both men had followed. The detachment that he had keenly cultivated allowed Connor to experience a feeling of numbness as he typed the boy’s death sentence, but it also provided an unexpected insight: Antithesis. The newest BSI asset could produce a field that nullified supernatural abilities, and she had been trained specifically to apprehend dangerous Others. She would be an ideal instrument to contain Brian Chamberlain’s talents and the dangers they posed until the BSI could properly classify and train the boy. Unfortunately, the recommendation was a long shot: while Antithesis and Angel worked in tandem to escort Others to the Plum Island facility, her vital role was combating VSION. Taking her off the field for an extended period—however long it might take for Brian to learn to control his powers—was not strategic if his abilities weren’t unmistakably advantageous to that war or Operation Blackout. Nevertheless, the proposal eased his troubled conscience.

  He read and refined his report, trying to feel better about the outcome, but guilt started to eat away at him. The boy, sans ability, had the right to a long life, and the failure to save him was on Connor’s shoulders. Connor was alive only because he had been saved years ago, and he needed to save as many lives as he could to repay that debt. If he didn’t, Connor lost his right to live.

  Conversely, it was useless to feel guilt; he couldn’t change the report in good conscience, so he sent it without further review. Dwelling on that perceived failure would only cause him further distress. He stripped off his clothes to get rid of the smell of alcohol and took a quick shower. He then took a handful of his medication in the hopes that the dreamless slumber they caused would better salve his roiling emotions.

  - - -

  As soon as the alarm went off, Jack Everest sprang from his bed and began his morning athletic routine. He had cultivated a muscled physique to counteract his small stature, and he often thought of himself as a tiger—an unassuming creature that could strike quickly and devastatingly when it chose to. At this point in his life, brute strength was a frivolous hobby; his struggles against his larger foes took place primarily in verbal spars and could hardly be called contests. Any physical confrontations were easily ended by siphoning away the life force of his opponent, which was something he could accomplish with the slightest touch. No, his physique was compensation for when he had been William Hart, a little street urchin who’d labored to scrape together enough pence for week-old bread and who’d been too slow and hungry to catch rats. Being overweight would have been enough recompense for those lean years, but in this day and age, a healthy physique and dark complexion indicated that his wealth was enough to allow him ample leisure time, and his long years had cultivated increasing vanity as he’d gained prosperity.

  The light blinked red on his phone, indicating that he had received a new email on his clandestine business account, so he logged onto his computer to find that Morgan Connor had sent another report to the BSI. Coincidentally, Jack had also finally received the BSI’s personnel file on Connor the previous night, and he meant to review it this morning. He de
cided to read the latest report to compare his style to the previous one on Cassiopeia Starr and to build his own profile on the agent. Connor had taken care to demonstrate Starr’s trainability to his superiors, which had intrigued Jack because it was uncommon; most agents dogmatically suggested euthanasia and certainly wouldn’t endanger themselves by directly evaluating an Other’s abilities in person. Fortunately, the BSI would soon forget Starr’s existence; the report that Jack had submitted in Connor’s stead indicated that the subway incident had been a freak accident that had been exaggerated by the filing policeman.

  He opened the latest report and discovered an entirely different tone from Connor. This time, the agent was clinical as he catalogued each known episode and its severity, including suspected but unconfirmed incidents that had been gleaned from previous reports. There was no impassioned plea to train the child, as there had been for Starr; Connor had devoted only one sentence to his decision, and it seemed his suggested reprieve had only been added as an afterthought. Jack didn’t know who Antithesis was, but his curiosity was now piqued, and he would try to gain access to her file if the opportunity presented itself. While anyone who could restrain an Other might create a setback, it may also be an advantage if he played his cards correctly, and he usually did.

  The callousness with which Connor had dictated the boy’s fate titillated Jack. It displayed a sense of inhumanity that he sought in his future associates, and since he intended to keep an eye on Connor anyway, it would be more beneficial to Jack to turn him into a subordinate rather than expending resources on surveillance. He was also eager to obtain a reliable connection within the BSI. With sudden enthusiasm, he began to read Connor’s file.

  The file described a modern tragedy, the details of which Jack skimmed over because they bored him and reminded him of the setups of the ridiculous penny dreadfuls of his youth. Instead, his attention was caught by what appeared to be intrigue: The BSI suspected that Connor could sense Others, much like Jack could, and had opted not to inform or instruct him on improvement. This was the only way they could explain his exemplary track record without chalking it up to pure luck. Jack also subscribed to the BSI’s plan: It was better to have a loyal drone to sniff out enemies than train a more efficient one who may eventually question his morals and change sides.

  The revelation also altered Jack’s strategy. To decrease the likelihood of being discovered, he didn’t feed often, but he couldn’t afford to be highly selective of his victims either. If he failed to feast on a fellow Other within a reasonable time frame, he knew that he would wither and die. Connor could find new quarry for Jack, who could then expend his freed resources elsewhere, and the agent’s discoveries might improve the quality of his feasts, such as Brian Chamberlain would have. Jack couldn’t harvest the child—not with the surveillance the boy was now under—but in the future, this bloodhound could uncover more tempting morsels.

  Part III

  Code Name: Sone

  It had been years since Sone had gone by his given name, but he had long considered his nom de guerre his true identity. Most Others, particularly those in SION, adopted a new name to reject human society and reflect their unusual nature—Sone was no different in this regard—and it was also a reappropriation of the soulless designations that the BSI used to dehumanize Others. However, he had an additional motivation: Being Chase Moreau, the son of SION’s leader, made him a higher priority for the BSI, whereas Sone was just another member of the Vanguard. His activities already made him a target, so there was no reason to give himself even greater value.

  His partner, Rho, kept an easy pace beside him despite being a few years older. Sone didn’t know the muscular man’s real name, nor much about what he had done before he’d joined the Vanguard, but he nevertheless knew him: his loyalty, his savagery, and his intense determination to keep Others free from outside interference. Rho’s ability had manifested while on a military base, of all places, and he’d had to escape utilizing his physical prowess because he hadn’t yet developed control over his power. Still, Sone suspected that this wasn’t the worst of his past, and Rho never delved into his personal history nor spoke of his family. The only hints of Rho’s previous life lay in his long, unruly hair and the tattoos he kept shamefully covered regardless of the ambient temperature.

  “I feel her closing in,” Rho said in his clipped speech. Sone looked at him with concern; he could not feel anything, but he trusted his partner’s senses. Rho had once described the sensation as a heavy fog drifting into the edges of his mind and making his brain feel like molasses.

  “She’s tracking us somehow. She’s got to be,” Sone replied.

  “Or her handler is. We’ve never figured out how they find us.” They stopped to rest in an alleyway. Rho leaned over and placed his hands on his knees as he sought to catch his breath. The wind kicked up, rattling cans and carrying with it the sharp scent of urine and rotting trash. “We can’t make contact with her now,” he panted. “Things are too hot. We’d just lead them straight to her.”

  Sone shook his head and drew in a long breath before replying. “They already know she exists. That’s why it’s so important that we get to her. We need to retrieve her before the BSI does.”

  Rho exhaled deeply, though Sone wasn’t certain if he was sighing or simply catching his breath. Catching Sone’s dark eyes, Rho knew that they were on the same wavelength. “We know how to fight them off. She doesn’t,” he said, voicing Sone’s argument. “I don’t suppose you’ll wait for the situation to cool down some?” Sone shook his head. “’Course not. Then we need to evade them a bit longer—maybe get a few hours’ head start and swing back ’round. Maybe they won’t realize we’re after her.”

  Sone smiled as he looked around. “This might make a good ambush point. Then we can lose them in the crowd. Use Blackout to our advantage.”

  Rho surveyed their alleyway as well. “The noise we make might negate their directive, and this ain’t a good pinch point. But…” He closed his eyes a moment. “The subway’s right below us. Give me your hand. We’ll make them take the long way.” Sone did as he was told, grasping Rho’s offered hand tightly, but no amount of trust would quiet his anxiety about the process. He never felt the transition, and his brain could not compensate for what his eyes saw as they slid between atoms. His every cell suddenly felt as if it was filled with static; this was the best he could describe the feeling. Then, his vision returned, and they were in an alcove off a brightly lit tunnel. If anyone had witnessed their appearance, they must have quickly moved on, and the two men blended effortlessly into the subway’s pedestrian traffic.

  - - -

  Orion grimaced as the front door slammed against the wall, knowing that the doorknob had probably dented the plaster. The doorstop had broken last week, and he hadn’t yet had the chance to repair it. Under normal circumstances, he’d merely call the building super and ask him to fix it, but lately he’d been smelling smoke and finding candles with burnt-out wicks in puddles of wax around the apartment. He didn’t know what his sister’s thoughts were—whether she believed that she needed practice or she felt threatened by the government visit a few weeks ago—so he wanted to take care of it himself rather than risk her exposure a second time. He added patching the wall to the new list of maintenance needed.

  He dumped his backpack on the floor, but as much as he wanted to, he didn’t fall onto the couch for a nap. Instead, he removed his hoodie, taking the time to hang it up on its hook by the front door, and headed into the kitchen to start dinner. First, however, he grabbed a soda from the fridge and chugged it with little grace, spilling some out the side of his mouth and onto his shirt. He groaned and dabbed it with a dish towel.

  He’d not slept well since the BSI agent’s visit. At first, fearful imaginings had danced through his mind about what the agency might do to his sister when they came for her, but as the days had rolled on with
no sign of the BSI or even a follow-up from the police department, he’d begun to think that they’d forgotten about Cassie. Unfortunately, that had not granted him the relief he’d sought, and in its stead, worries had grown about a hostile sister who barely spoke to him even when she had to. She had gone through phases since being left in his stewardship: She would reject his authority, sometimes rebelling against him as strongly as any teen against her parents, but she generally wasn’t openly hostile, and since there had been a marked change in her behavior since the agent’s visit, he’d decided that it was what had triggered the change.

  Cassie had also always been a social butterfly, rarely roosting at home during their parents’ sporadic visits, and she never wanted for companionship. Even so, she had always been respectful enough to let Orion in on her plans, especially if she was going to be gone for a long period. But as of late, she had begun to neglect this duty. It was a relief that he’d had the foresight to build a network with her friends’ parents, for they were the ones who kept him updated on her whereabouts. He also knew that he could expect her home tonight, as finals were coming up, and most of her friends’ parents emphasized earning decent grades. Orion knew that he should be studying for his own finals, except he wouldn’t be able to concentrate until he knew his sister was sorted.