Operation Blackout

by J. L. Middleton

  - - -

  Sone and Fission were having a quiet but intense conversation, to the extent that they were ignoring their respective meals, when Naught entered the canteen. She was honestly surprised that Fission continued to remain among their number: the shy young man of Japanese descent had been sent by SION to be an ambassador during the Tōhoku earthquake and had narrowly dodged interception by the BSI’s Japanese counterparts when he’d used his abilities to assist with the nuclear cleanup. Since Naught had signed on, Fission had been kept on quieter assignments, primarily teaching their newest recruits how to safely control themselves, but he had still been the primary candidate when the Nepalese earthquake had struck the previous year. During his Japanese trip, he had garnered experience with relief workers, and he knew how to establish rapport with survivors, even if his supernatural power could not provide succor this time. After he’d spent several relatively quiet months in Nepal, he’d again run afoul of international Blackout enforcers when he’d discovered a Nepali Other named Hira. While Naught wasn’t privy to the specifics of the resulting confrontation, she knew that Hira had not accompanied him home, and Fission had refused to speak of his time in the Kathmandu Valley. The introvert she’d met had become even more reserved and soon developed pacifist and even nihilist tendencies. Although SION was meant to be a refuge—not a bastion of warriors—each of them expected that they would need to defend themselves against the BSI one day. VSION protected them but couldn’t be everywhere.

  As she did not want to interrupt them, Naught claimed a seat a few feet away, but she could still overhear their conversation.

  “Come on,” Sone insisted. “You’ll be safe with me.”

  Fission scoffed. “There’s no such thing as ‘safe’ for us. You’re asking me to directly confront the BSI.” His voice was tight, his fists clenched, and his fingers tense, their knuckles pressed together in an effort to prevent his hands from shaking.

  “Not directly,” Sone said, speaking slowly as he determined the most tactful path to take, “but they may be there.”

  Fission’s light eyes went to the television playing in the corner. “I’d say it’s a definite,” he replied pointedly. Naught turned her attention to the device, which was tuned to a news station that was currently running the headlines. Patrons of a drugstore had suffered a disturbing, terrifying, semi-collective delirium while shopping at their local chain. While the media provided vivid witness accounts—though the details varied—the story’s denouement was a video caught by the store’s cameras that showed the victims reacting simultaneously to absolutely nothing. Initially, it was believed by the authorities that it was some sort of mass hysteria, the cause of which they could only speculate, but a reporter had managed to connect the event to a similar incident in a city park the day prior, and it was then assumed that the two attacks had been related and that they had been the result of terrorist activity. The scaremongering had continued with conjecture that Scotts Ridge had been the test bed for some sort of bioweapon and had been the precursor to a nationwide campaign.

  Frustrated, Sone sighed heavily. “That’s why we need you, Fission. Vanguard numbers are dwindling,” he explained carefully, and it was true: VSION’s effectiveness as a fighting force had been dissolved in the short time since Antithesis had been introduced to the field. All Others were helpless against her ability to nullify powers, and she’d helped the BSI make short work of their base in San Diego. Members of the Vanguard had stayed to cover the retreat of the noncombatants, and all of them had been captured or killed. The defeat had dealt a harsh blow to SION morale. “We need your combat experience.”

  Fission scowled angrily. “Don’t you know what radiation does to people? What radiation poison is?” he growled. Like a steadfast mountain, he declared, “I’m not going.”

  Naught’s ears were still intruding upon their conversation while her eyes soaked in the images from the news program. They played the same images over and over: men, women, and children in concert taking cover, crouching, or freezing in fear. They cried, screamed, or threw stock from store shelves in an attempt to fight back, and one individual sprinted from the store. The newscaster explained in her voiceover what viewers were seeing and the top speculations of experts, complete with handy arrows, boxes, or circles around evidence to prompt viewers to agree. It was through this helpful lens that Naught noticed another detail. Squinting briefly, she realized that she recognized the man who had sprinted out of the store. “Aaron?”

  Sone continued his lecture. “Don’t you know the damage this Other could do to our image? We’re already labeled as terrorists. This could change the government’s minds about even bothering to spare our kind. The danger we pose would far outweigh any use the government would manufacture for us. This is Eric Dane all over again, but he’s not a poster child for clemency this time.” He pointed at the screen, which was now showing a tearful woman recalling her personal vision, which she said echoed a traumatic event that was the worst night of her life.

  Sone hesitated, grinding his teeth as he contemplated sharing what was on his mind. It was not a popular opinion, especially among the refugee-like main body of SION, but because Fission had also suffered the darker side of the BSI, he didn’t think he needed to pull punches when it came to talking about taking the offense. “Besides, do you know what someone like that on our side could do? He or she could be our Antithesis. You wouldn’t ever have to go into combat again.”

  “I’m already not,” Fission replied flatly.

  A new clip played, this time from another angle and with a recitation of witness statements. As Naught listened to the commonalities between them, she realized that there was a familiarity to their words. The visions echoed Aaron’s late-night confessions to her when he’d woken from his nightmares: his heavy guilt manifested in the guise of elementary schoolchildren stripped of their innocence and forced into shadowy, spectral forms who laughed at him for his failure. Her stomach dropped as her mind resisted the conclusion, but she knew the truth. This was Aaron’s fault. He carried a heavy burden and had somehow learned to share his torment with others over the interceding years.

  It also meant that she was in the best position to help him. She was familiar with his suffering, and perhaps this time, she could ease it; she owed it to him. “I’ll go,” she volunteered.

  Sone gave her an incredulous look. “What? No, we need you here, Doc,” he said and then turned to Fission. Deliberately and with a healthy dose of reproach, he continued, utilizing her interjection to support his argument, “We can’t expect our only doctor to leave. What if something happens like in San Diego? We need her here to attend to patients.”

  She cut in again. “We both know I’m not a real doctor.”

  Realizing he was now fighting on two fronts, Sone granted her his full attention. “You’re the closest thing we have to one,” he argued.

  “I know him,” she said persuasively and indicated the screen again, pointing out the fleeing man. “That’s our guy. That’s Aaron Grimm. We used to date. Don’t you think that will make it easier to recruit him?”

  “How was the breakup?” Sone asked skeptically.

  “Amicable enough.” It was only partially a lie. In the months leading up to her departure, their relationship had become strained, causing long bouts of silence. Neither of them had the energy to work through their problems, and they’d each known that the relationship was ending.

  As a last-ditch effort to dissuade her, Sone asked, “What about your experiment?”

  She scowled disapprovingly, recognizing his efforts at deterrence and misdirection. “There’s a small likelihood that the new protocol will even work, even if I were a real doctor. I have to wait for Dr. Moreau to secure new supplies to continue the trial, and we both know that we can’t afford them without new funding. Millions of dollars of funding,” she responded curtly. S
he believed that she’d uncovered the gene responsible for the manifestation of their abilities, and with SION’s blessing, she’d begun experimentation on how to suppress it. The quality of life for many Others diminished once their talent surfaced, and many would appreciate the better control that her treatment might bring. However, her research had progressed at a snail’s pace between her inexpertise and the lack of proper equipment. “Any other reservations you’d like to air or fabricate?”

  “No, Doc,” he replied, defeated.

  Her expression relaxed slightly, and her voice lost its edge. “I lived in Scotts Ridge with Aaron, so I know where we can probably find him,” she reasoned. “I’m a better choice for this mission than Fission, and you know I wouldn’t volunteer for the hell of it. I like my cozy lab and my lack of involvement with VSION.”

  He nodded slowly, acquiescing to her request. “Sorry, Fission,” he apologized softly. Fission’s response was a terse nod, and he favored her with a faint, grateful smile as he left the table. Sone shook his head, either at Fission’s prior refusal or at his attempts to pressure him into action, and he reset his body from a confrontational to a receptive posture. “What can you tell me about this guy? Why do you think it’s him?” he asked encouragingly. She recited her reasoning and then began to recall their relationship as an impromptu dossier.

  - - -

  Connor smiled warmly. “Thanks again for your cooperation, ma’am,” he said to the woman as they stood on her doorstep. It’d taken some time that morning to convince Orion that he hadn’t been joking about who would be conducting the interviews, but the delay to prep him for the process had been unexpectedly fortuitous. Another incident had occurred during their commute to Scotts Ridge, and the related information, which had needed to percolate through BSI channels before getting to them, had arrived via email while Connor had been coaching his protégé in interview techniques. The two of them had reviewed the videos captured by internal cameras and the dossiers that had been speedily established by headquarters, and Connor had concluded that one of the recorded patrons must be their Other.

  Despite Orion’s nervous inexperience, they had been able to conduct several interviews that morning, and this woman, who was a part of the triad that Connor was certain had seen the perpetrator, had recognized the man fleeing the pharmacy as their missing perpetrator from the park. Even though the BSI had been unable to identify him, they were one step closer to tracking down their target.

  The woman nodded a weak reply. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she kept her arms wrapped firmly around herself. Orion fumbled, uncertain how to conclude the interaction, and half-bowed feebly before retreating down the stairs. Before Connor also took his leave, albeit more gracefully, he made a mental note to make Orion see a therapist about his social anxiety. The woman withdrew into her apartment and shut the door as Connor met Orion on the sidewalk. “You’re improving, mate. You just need to work on that confidence.” He clapped him on the shoulder.

  The younger man gave him a sideways glance and was forming a retort when Connor spotted a familiar figure across the road. “Sam?” he muttered, his brain trying to recollect her proper name. When his memory clicked, he called more confidently, “Sam!” The blonde still didn’t turn her attention from her companion, who was getting into the passenger side of a car, so he commanded loudly, “Sam Anderson!”

  It took a few moments for Naught to register that her given name was being shouted, and when she looked for the source of the sound, she was genuinely surprised to see an old college friend rapidly approaching her. “Morgan?” she exclaimed and stopped mid-motion, half in the car and half out, to embrace him. “Look at you! I never thought I’d see you in a suit,” she beamed. Sure, the suit appeared a bit worn, but so had most of their clothes in college, and the look flattered him; he’d cleaned up handsomely from the stressed, emotionally starved student she’d known.

  “Yeah, well… goes with the territory,” he replied sheepishly. “I ended up being a government stooge after all.”

  Her grin widened. “You can still take down the establishment from the inside.”

  Exchanging an equally mischievous smile, he indicated the long locks of white that framed her face and temples and teased, “Is that what the hair’s about?”

  She shook her head, her expression dampening slightly, but her tone remained light. “No, that’s natural… unfortunately.” She noticed a young man in their company. He was quiet, flaxen-haired like her, and dressed in a properly fitted new suit in contrast to his companion. He also hung back several feet, not intruding on the conversation but also not wanting to become involved. Naught decided that wouldn’t do, so she stepped around Connor and offered Orion her hand. “Hi, I’m Sam,” she said, introducing herself.

  He hesitated, regarding her hand as if her gesture might be a trick of some sort, and finally took it in a malleable grasp. “Uh, I’m Orion, Morgan’s partner.”

  She smirked. “Awfully young for you, isn’t he?” she teased Connor.

  “Work partner,” Connor replied firmly. “We work together.”

  She chuckled fleetingly but quickly cleared her throat and became appropriately shamefaced. “Oh, sorry,” she said to Orion while attempting to hide her amusement.

  Changing the topic, Connor asked, “What have you been up to?”

  “Oh, I’m still a free spirit, you know,” she replied flippantly, and the simple phrase put Connor on guard. Something was off. Maybe it was the tone of voice she’d used or the way she’d rubbed her eye when she’d said it, but it had been subtle like a signal of some kind. “Maybe a little more maturity… a little less partying,” she continued. “Anyway, we’re in town visiting a friend, so we should probably get going.” Her clever grin reappeared; it was so much like the one he often wore, and it was likely that she had influenced him during their years together. “It’s nice seeing you again. Glad you made it. You deserve it,” she said sincerely. She gave him one last hug and then got in the car, where her companion was waiting patiently.

  “Thanks,” he replied, speaking to her through the door. As she shut it, he leaned in and slyly kept his hand on the car door, preventing her from moving away too soon. “You take care, Sam,” he said deliberately.

  “You too,” she replied with a smile. Since she hadn’t done anything further to trigger his vigilance and she hadn’t directly asked for his assistance, he didn’t have much choice but to let her go. Maybe he’d imagined a problem; it had been years since he’d seen her, and her body language had probably changed. He waved briefly at the dark-haired man in the passenger seat and stepped away from the car. Seconds later, she drove off, and Connor turned to Orion. “Ready to head to the police station and follow up on this lead?” he asked, his tone businesslike, and Orion merely nodded his agreement; he was already practicing what he’d say to the authorities, because he knew that Connor would make him do the talking again.

  - - -

  Sone watched the two of them suspiciously in the side mirror as they drove away. “They were BSI,” he stated matter-of-factly when they had put enough distance between them and the agents as if the latter might have overheard.

  “Morgan?” she chuckled incredulously. “No. Definitely not.”

  Certain, he nodded sharply. “Remember the girl Rho and I went after? That blond guy was her brother. I bet dollars to donuts that after the incident with her father, they went in and scooped both of them up. They were already watching her and the house.” Naught switched her gaze to her former friend, whose form was retreating in the rearview mirror, and felt uncertainty creep up on her. While Sone had been in this game longer than she had and was, therefore, more knowledgeable about the people and players involved, she couldn’t help but believe that his conclusion about her former friend was incorrect.

  She and Morgan Connor had belonged to the same social c
ircle: children, often damaged in some fashion, who had miraculously escaped poverty through the magic of a college acceptance letter. While Naught had embraced her newfound freedom, her stunted ambition and lack of maturity had been an obstacle that she had been unable to surmount long enough to enable her to graduate. She had wanted so badly to get out of her house that she hadn’t given much thought to what she would do once she’d accomplished this goal. Morgan, conversely, had worked hard—the hardest of those in their circle, in fact—and had been kind and generous with his time, if not his money. He hadn’t spoken much about his family, aside from vague allusions to a dead father and his mother’s dependence on drugs and alcohol. When he’d left abruptly in the middle of his junior year to return home to his mother, who’d suffered some sort of not-quite-medical emergency, Naught had known that he’d been pulled back into his toxic situation. Since she’d left soon after his departure, she hadn’t known what had happened to him, but based on his clean, professional appearance, it was clear that he’d managed to improve his situation, and if he was anything like his past self, Morgan was not capable of the evil she knew the BSI committed.