Operation Blackout

by J. L. Middleton

  She was in a large, darkened room, and her eyes struggled to adjust to the dim conditions. Light from the streetlamps streamed in through one uncovered window, while its neighbors had their shades firmly shut against the outside world. She could see the faint outlines of a bed, a dresser, and other furniture, and she heard the soft, even breaths of a sleeping person. Mr. Lionhart tightened his grip again, seeking her attention, and then released her hand. Still wearing his mischievous smirk, he brought his finger to his lips in a shushing motion and then pointed to the bed. She approached it quietly.

  As her eyes adjusted, the features of the bed’s occupant became clearer, and she saw that he was a young man a few years shy of her age. She glanced back at Mr. Lionhart, who gave her an encouraging nod from the foot of the bed, and she tried not to think too much as she moved her stethoscope from around her neck to her ears. For an experiment to be valid, she had to monitor his vital signs and establish his initial condition, which was difficult to do without waking him. Fortunately, she had soft a touch and she was able to determine that he was a normal, healthy man.

  She set her stethoscope aside and retrieved the syringe and vials. It was difficult to operate in the dark, but she was able to supplement the dim lighting with muscle memory as she uncapped the syringe and carefully drew the contents from the first vial. She tilted the syringe, collecting the air in the tip, and squinted as she sprayed the excess out; while she was usually more exact, allowing only a drop to be expelled, the gloomy conditions didn’t allow for precision. Clinical procedures complete, she turned back to her patient and seized up. The patient was clearly asleep in his bed, helpless and oblivious to his pending death, and she was about to violate the Hippocratic Oath. She recoiled, stepping back into the firm encircling arms of Mr. Lionhart, who cradled her gently.

  “Don’t lose heart now, Miss Martin,” he said encouragingly. “Go on. You’re almost there.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t. He’s a human being.”

  His grip on her arms tightened, belying his fatherly tone. “We’ve discussed this, love. He’s a monster. You can do it.”

  “No. No, I can’t do it,” she replied, her determination to disobey him undermined by her shaking voice. “I can’t break my oath.”

  He smiled kindly and explained patiently, “You can’t break your oath against a nonhuman.”

  “Even if he were one of those things, I still couldn’t do it,” she insisted fervently. “It’s still breaking my oath. I won’t do it! You’ll have to find someone else.”

  “You will, Miss Martin,” he countered angrily, digging his fingers into her biceps until they were bruised, “because he is a lesser creature, and so are you.” He pounced as swiftly as a jungle cat, wrapping his free hand around her neck and hooking it beneath her jaw. She felt her jugular vein and esophagus crush under the sudden pressure of his unnaturally strong grasp, and her visceral panic at being unable to breathe was quickly overtaken by incomprehensible agony. She seemed to detach from her physical body, yet she still suffered what felt like her cells individually vaporizing, and after an eternity, the episode ended as quickly as it had begun. She was paralyzed, completely exhausted, and collapsed into Mr. Lionhart’s embrace. Although her strength returned quickly, her animal instincts resisted movement, lest she gain the attention of the predator with which she was now trapped.

  The force of Mr. Lionhart’s loathing retreated as he uncurled his lips and relaxed his brow, setting his face into an expression of assured superiority. He set her back on her feet lightly, allowing her a moment to rest and regain her balance, and then he caressed her cheek after she’d recovered sufficiently. The simple gesture was oddly affectionate, yet she felt utterly violated as his manicured fingers touched her skin. “Do we have an understanding?” he asked genteelly.

  She suddenly understood that the monsters of her childhood were real and that she was at the mercy of the worst of them. Mr. Lionhart had told her tales of the terrifying Vampire, and all this time, he had been speaking about himself. She wanted nothing but to flee, but she was powerless in his presence. She nodded deliberately, hoping that her drive to survive would guide her through the situation.

  “Good girl,” he declared, widening his sinister smile. “Now get to it. We don’t have all night.” Obediently and with no further protests, she injected her unaware patient with the first vial of sodium thiopental. Though he flinched, he never stirred and she continued until there were no more doses to administer. Then she set the syringe aside, retrieved her stethoscope, and monitored his vital signs. As predicted, his respiration slowed to a halt, and she listened to his heartbeat fade. Though she couldn’t see it, she knew that signs of cyanosis had begun to appear on his lips and fingers, and finally, after several minutes, his heart stopped.

  - - -

  Orion was lost; but although he could not find his way through the strange gray mist, he was not afraid. Suddenly, there were fingers interlaced with his, and he turned to see his sister dressed in a long, snow-colored sundress. She gave him a serene smile and pulled him forward, taking the lead. He didn’t know for how long they had walked, nor did he have any sense of direction in this alien place, but he trusted her to guide him safely. A towering, shadowy wall appeared in the distance, and the mist gradually parted to reveal the unremarkable, cookie-cutter façade of his former apartment in Brooklyn. The entryway was dark, like a gaping mouth ready to swallow him, and his belief in his sister faltered. He hesitated, pulling back suddenly, but she urged him forward into the foreboding entrance with a sweet smile and a mild tug. When he continued to resist, she turned to him and gently insisted, “You must.”

  “Why?” he asked, suddenly suspicious. His sister had still been an infant when they’d left Bay Ridge, and she had no memory of the apartment, so there was no reason to take him there now; she had no attachment to the place, which was becoming darker and more foreboding by the second as if it were gathering shadows around itself.

  “Because there is something you must know,” she replied. Patiently, she cupped his face with her free hand and continued, “You are afraid, but there is no reason to be. I am here with you.” Her touch, blessed by the purity of her affection, washed away his doubts; he had nothing to fear with his sister by his side. He reclaimed her offered hand and took the first difficult step into their former apartment.

  He awoke suddenly. He felt as if an electric current was coursing through his veins, and every lungful of air he inhaled was more delicious than the last. While the lights had been shut off before he’d crawled into bed, the streetlamps had provided enough illumination for his dilated eyes to see into every darkened corner, and for one distressing moment, he thought he’d seen a dreadful phantasm. A young woman’s face had floated in the dark, distorted by a mixture of wonder, fear, and regret. He had been able to make out the pale outline of a restraining hand on her shoulder, clawing into her skin without breaking its surface, and another at the nape of her neck. The figure standing behind her had truly struck terror in his heart: It had been his father—shorter and a few years older, yet still undeniably him. As soon as he’d made this identification, the figures had faded from view like ghosts fleeing from daylight, and Orion had been left to wonder what had just occurred.

  His heartbeat and breathing slowed as the adrenaline drained from his system, and he realized that he must have experienced a nightmare, albeit one that was harder to discern because he did not recall waking a second time; it was the only way to explain the apparition of his father and his female hostage, whose appearance struck an unsettlingly familiar chord.

  He’d again dreamed of the strange mist, which had filled him with concern as well as serenity this time. He recognized the dream for what it was, but he couldn’t quite convince himself of the same with his father. Impossible though it might be, he was certain that he’d seen his father alive in his room, and i
t terrified him like a child afraid of the dark. He was tempted to turn on the light to search his room and then the apartment beyond, even though he had vivid memories of the blackened patch where his father had died and the unnerving smell it had left behind.

  He sighed deeply, knowing that he was entertaining the realm of foolish thoughts, and he decided to concentrate on another aspect of his dreams: Cassie. He had yet to speak to his sister directly, despite leaving her several voicemails and texts, and he was uncertain how to proceed. He knew that he had to give her time to adjust to her new circumstances, but he missed her and was certain that the feeling was reciprocated, even if she was currently maintaining a rebellious silence. He considered calling her, hoping she’d answer without checking the number, until he glimpsed the early hour and decided against it; it was still a school night, and she rarely slept her full eight hours.

  Optimistically, he checked his phone anyway and was rewarded with a pending text notification. While he was initially hopeful that the sender would be his sister, he wasn’t disappointed to discover that it was Connor. Despite promises to check in on him, he hadn’t heard from the agent that day, and he found that he was actually disappointed by the missed appointment; it was as if Orion had begrudgingly accepted Connor into his daily life. He knew that tomorrow he would recant the sentiment when Connor picked him up for their next case, but looking forward to the visit helped put his mind at ease and allowed him to push his childish fears about his father toward the back of his mind, where they would hopefully remain. His father was dead and could no longer be a menace to his children.

  - - -

  Connor’s knock was a bit more reserved and polite than it had been of late—if he was going to distance himself from his charge, he had to start off on the right foot—and he expected Orion to greet him with minor irritation, as had become their custom, but the younger man was quiet and appeared pale with dark circles under his eyes, which darted across the hallway behind Connor. Orion didn’t allow him to close the door, instead electing to lock and bolt it himself before retreating to the familiar territory of his kitchen, where he began wiping down the bar with a towel. Connor frowned, suddenly concerned, and deliberated taking a softer approach, rather than engaging in his usual abrasive teasing, before he remembered that he was trying to reclaim his objectivity with the Starrs. He pushed forward, adopting a wide, supercilious grin. “Mornin’, mate. Didn’t sleep well?” he quipped, sitting down at the bar. Orion stared behind him, his eyes still on the floor; the young man really needed to learn confidence and eye contact. “Ah,” he continued, taking the absence of an answer as an affirmative, “maybe we could grab a cup of coffee on the way. Need you to be performing at your best.”

  Orion didn’t react at all, and Connor couldn’t maintain his pretense of detachment. His half-cocked grin fell as he snapped his fingers in the young man’s face to gain his attention. When he finally focused on Connor, he could see how unnerved he was; the young man’s state reminded him of a few airmen he’d met in the desert. “Come on, then,” he encouraged, ensuring direct eye contact. “This is not like you. What’s wrong?”

  Orion shifted his gaze to an area behind Connor, and he crossed his arms uncertainly around himself. “Was my father really cremated?” he asked quietly.

  Connor realized that the young man hadn’t been avoiding eye contact with him; rather, he had been focusing on the bleached spot behind him that had been his father’s final resting place. “That’s an odd question,” he said carefully.

  “Just answer it.”

  “Yeah, as far as I know.” Because he’d been hospitalized, he hadn’t been present for the entirety of the Starrs’ visit to the BSI, but he’d followed up on the case and its results, and to the best of his knowledge, nothing untoward had been uncovered about the family. He searched Orion’s face, examining the lines of fatigue for the root of the conversation. “Look, if you’re worried about keeping his body for experimentation, that’s SION bullshit. They might run a test or two, but for the most part, the bodies are cremated with or without a request,” he told him. This was mostly true: Deceased subjects were examined, and when nothing else could be learned from them, they were destroyed so that they couldn’t fall into the wrong hands. A few were preserved, but this was rare and only occurred when they had extreme scientific value. “Besides, your father wasn’t an Other, so there was no reason to keep his body.” He leaned closer. “No one’s trying to pull the wool over your eyes, mate,” he reassured him. “So what’s this about, eh?” Orion turned his back to him, finally relinquishing the attention that he had been paying to his father’s death site, and he started wiping down another counter. Connor waited patiently, but when Orion didn’t answer, he added, “Fine. Keep it close to your chest.”

  He bit his tongue to stop him from pressing the younger man further; curiosity like that was what had caused him to lose his objectivity in the first place. If Orion wouldn’t freely share his concerns, then Connor wouldn’t pursue them. His job was to ensure that Orion made the correct decisions regarding his fate at the BSI—that is, to become an asset—not befriend him any more than was necessary to achieve this goal. Orion was a tool in the private war between the bureau and SION—nothing more. Connor cleared his throat as he took out his phone to sift through his email and find the picture of their next subject to show to Orion. “Right, so this is a live one, too,” he announced.

  Orion glanced back at him and, deciding he preferred the new line of conversation, fell into his normal habit of inspecting his empty refrigerator. “I thought we were sticking to the ‘cold cases’ for my development,” he replied, discarding an empty bottle of mustard in the trash can.

  “This one just fell into our lap, courtesy of one John Reeves,” he sneered, his voice injecting bitterness when he mentioned his colleague’s name. He liked Reeves, but that did not exonerate him for his role in bringing Brian Chamberlain’s case to his attention. “He believes there’s a telekinetic on the loose in Manhattan.”

  Orion scowled. “Shouldn’t that be Paranormal’s jurisdiction?”

  Connor smirked in spite of himself; Orion knew when to question assignments. “You would think,” he replied mordantly, “but there’s a fine line dividing our divisions sometimes. In this case, it’s funding.” Realistically, this dividing line existed for most cases: If a case was worth pursuing, but the investigating unit didn’t have funding, it would be forwarded to their division, which would, in turn, screen it for relevance to Others. In his experience, most of these cases weren’t worth pursuing. “Plus, telekinesis is traditionally a mental power, yeah? Which means she’d be an Other.” He shook his head. “That paranormal stuff… really interesting on the surface, but it’s nothing but pseudoscience when you get down to it,” he scoffed derisively.

  He paused; he wasn’t exactly being fair. The BSI had been founded to protect the population from all preternatural threats—not just Others—and it wasn’t the fault of the other divisions that their focuses simply didn’t exist. The bureau was still peopled by good agents who just couldn’t produce results.

  “Except this guy, Reeves,” he admitted reluctantly. “He really knows his stuff, so he knows when he sees an Other.” He recalled when he’d first met John Reeves during his first few months as a novice agent. Connor had traveled to Massachusetts on a hunch to investigate a recent sighting of will-o’-the-wisps in the southeastern part of the state, ignoring the local folklore of the Hockomock Swamp and Bridgewater Triangle to focus on the ghostly orbs’ increasing encroachment on a city. Despite it being a questionable lead, he had been able to convince the division that the assignment had been worthwhile because the strange orbs hadn’t behaved like the traditional phenomenon. While Reeves had felt similarly, he had been unable to secure funding and had been forced instead to make the trip as a “vacation” at his personal expense. It was Reeves who had identified the “spoo
k lights” as foxfire bioluminescence gathered together and set on the wind, and the two of them had been able to trace the fairy fire back to a bored little girl. Reeves had taught Connor some valuable lessons and had created the foundation of his ability to approach Others and their abilities safely.

  “He just got assigned to the wrong division,” he finished. He shook his head and shrugged, commiserating, “Bad luck.”

  “So what about this case?” Orion asked impatiently.

  Connor smiled lopsidedly. “Well, it’s an interesting thing this,” he replied. “It’s a bit like your cold cases—based on previous footwork and a dead end—only we’re picking up the trail because it’s heated up.” He explained the supposed haunting that had taken place upstate a decade prior, revealing only the details that pertained to the telekinetic theory, and then he filled him in on the recent accident at the art gallery, which Reeves had surmised was the reemergence of Sitara Shah’s ability. Orion asked the appropriate questions, specifically about the existence of any surveillance cameras, and while Connor cautioned him that most Others avoided revealing themselves publicly, he praised Orion’s improving investigatory skills and was proud of the younger man in spite of himself.

  - - -

  Orion’s unsettled attitude eased on the ride to Félicité, and though Connor was relieved it had passed, he deluded himself with the lie that his solace was based on the fact that the younger man would now be better able to concentrate on the task at hand.

  The outside of the gallery was unremarkable, primarily due to the drab, stony exteriors of the neighborhood, and it wasn’t much better once they entered the building. Connor had never understood art, even as a subject in school, and museum visits didn’t inspire any additional comprehension. He saw walls covered with paintings, sculptures, and other installations, and they were no more noteworthy than what he’d seen for sale at the local Ikea.