Operation Blackout

by J. L. Middleton

  He concluded the interview, and they left the apartment, catching a train back to the city center. Although the train was fairly populated, no one paid them any special attention, and Connor turned to his protégé to discuss his perspective of their visit. “What did you observe?” he asked at a conversational volume.

  Orion sighed deeply, crossing his arms and pressing his lips together; he had known that this was coming, yet his frustration didn’t appear abated. Connor thought that he’d progressed as an instructor, sharing his insights openly during the last case, so he didn’t understand his partner’s apparent dissatisfaction. “Well,” Orion replied, “last time we had this conversation, you said I needed to observe body language. She appeared irritated, and you made it worse.” He paused, adding pointedly, “On purpose. Which means, I think, that she was lying.”

  Connor nodded approvingly. “Your observational skills are improving,” he said. “Do you know what she was lying about?”

  The younger man mulled over his answer, watching the tunnel walls zoom by for a few seconds before saying, “No.”

  “Neither do I,” he admitted with a shrug and a short, clipped chuckle. “But I don’t think she’s our Other.” He paused, breathing deeply as he reexamined what they had discovered so far. He trusted Reeves’ opinion, knowing that he performed good research and fieldwork, and though Sitara had proven to be a dead end, he strongly felt that they had missed something; perhaps Reeves was onto something, but had just pointed them in the wrong direction. “I think we should head back to Félicité and see what else we can dig up there.”

  Orion shifted in his seat, turning so he could see Connor’s face better. “I thought you didn’t think it was worthwhile.”

  “I didn’t say that.” Connor leaned back, sinking into the threadbare cushions. It was difficult to relax on the subway, especially when it was crowded, and his nose picked up the scent of everyone’s collective body odor or their efforts to conceal it. “I said we should do things the old-fashioned way,” he continued, choosing instead to lean forward to rest his forearms on his spread legs to ensure the least contact between him and his malodorous surroundings. “Which we have, and it’s not turned up any results, so it’s time to follow that other lead you suggested.” A wicked smirk grew on his face as he leered at his partner. “It’s going to be a long night watching all those videos, though,” he teased, knowing full well that Orion was imagining a night full of his jibes and wisecracks; but, in truth, Connor was picturing another confrontation with Moise Kabamba. Although the artist proprietor had been polite and had given no reason for suspicion to be cast on him, Connor wanted to restart his investigation of Félicité by focusing on him.

  - - -

  Of all the guests, dignitaries, and donors she’d hosted for breakfast over the years, Amanda Darling-Whitcomb preferred the company of beneficiaries the most. Like most of her meal companions, these individuals spoke at length about themselves, their accomplishments and dreams, and what her donation meant to them. But they also came with the bonus gift of flattery, and Amanda enjoyed having her ego stroked as much as the next person. Moise Kabamba was a pleasant variation on the theme.

  Moise was a self-made man—his wealth had been derived from natural talent—and she was certain that his good looks improved his commercial capability. He filled his suit nicely, and though most men shied away from baldness, he embraced its early arrival and shaved his head; this complemented him, deducting years from his face in return. While his accent and diction were odd—not typical of his native country, in her experience—they resonated with his timbre to create a cumulative uniquely pleasant effect.

  She’d eaten lightly this morning, as she did with the majority of her meals, though this time, her dearth of calories was to make up for a missed gym visit. Her nutritionist and fitness instructors would both have disavowed her decision, reminding her that she had made a technically unhealthy choice, but she knew that one had to make sacrifices for one’s public image. She’d already seen what an inconvenience an illness could be on the campaign trail, and she’d hate to see what a few pounds would instigate among both her constituents and opponents.

  She placed her fork on her plate delicately, folded her hands in front of her, and smiled charmingly. “I apologize again, Mr. Kabamba. It seems Mr. Everest will not be joining us this morning,” she expressed regretfully. “Normally, his firm sends their regards if they cannot make a meeting.”

  “It is no problem, Mrs. Darling-Whitcomb,” Moise replied. “I am just happy to meet even one of my benefactors. You have no idea what this means to me.”

  She smiled, knowing he meant that it was easier to secure funding from her than a personal loan from a financial institution. Moise’s collateral was his artwork, and while it was valued highly now, this might not always be the case, and banks liked to hedge their bets. “I like to cultivate personal ties to the city to show my support for our people, and I must say that your dedication to exposing up-and-coming artists is inspirational.”

  “It is the least I can do after someone took a chance with my talent,” he replied, being genuinely modest. “But this new addition is what is most important to me.” He explained that the gallery had been named after his “aunt”—the wife of his godfather—who had helped to raise him after he’d fled persecution in Zaire. Even though he had no blood ties to this woman, she’d cared for him as passionately as any natural mother. The gallery’s new wing, adjoining the original south wing, would initially display installations of motherhood and eventually transition to support immigrant artists, and a portion of the admission would go toward assisting others to escape the Congo. “And you helped make it happen.”

  Amanda knew that an influx of immigrants would be unpopular in the current political climate, yet it would help her establish her credibility with the international community and, therefore, develop her résumé for her future presidential run. Besides, Moise was a tremendously popular artist, and he was making his own influential connections. In fact, he’d contracted Milton, Chadwick, and Waters and had secured Kevin Chadwick’s donation independently; Jack Everest had been due at their morning meeting as the firm’s customary representative only because he liked to remind her of their regrettable connection. “I do what I can,” she replied magnanimously, managing to make the platitude sound sincere. “Mr. Kabamba, I hope it’s not too personal, but you only mentioned your godparents,” she said in an attempt to cultivate familiarity; she needed to nurture their rapport if she wanted to access his connections or use his star power in the future. “What happened to your mother and father?”

  Moise, who had politely stopped eating when she had, reclaimed his fork and pushed his food around his plate like a child reluctantly finishing a meal. As Amanda was about to interpose an apology, he finally spoke in a low voice. “I am afraid I do not know, and I have been trying to discover that myself for several years,” he replied solemnly. “I was taken out of the country in secret by my godfather, and they did not have enough currency to pay passage for everyone. My father was likely an enemy of Mobutu and spent time in his prisons, if he was not outright executed.” He shook his head. “I know less about the fate of my mother.”

  “I’m sorry I brought up a painful memory,” she replied remorsefully.

  “No. I do not remember much of them, but I remember their sacrifice.” He fell into a somber silence, which Amanda respectfully kept until he gently took one of her clasped hands. “Ah, I must apologize for darkening such a nice meal,” he said, the timbre of his voice lightening as his expression relaxed. “This happened many, many years ago. You are burdened by a great many things in your position, and I have only this one.” He kissed her hand in a gentlemanly fashion, and temporarily nonplussed as she did not understand this peculiar change of tone, she let him lead.

  “You have a public face to maintain,” he continued, “and i
t must be very tiring to give special attention to so many people. Let us speak of happier things.” Yet, he asked about her, and remarkably, she found herself opening up to him in a cathartic confession of her more public frustrations. While he may not have actually cared about them, she found the unexpected release gratifying and his interjections enjoyable enough that she considered adding him to her rotation of regular breakfast partners.

  - - -

  Sone waited patiently in the canteen. It was emptier these days, with patrons lingering no longer than was necessary, and even though there was nowhere else on the compound to eat comfortably, many opted to grab their meals, wolf them down, and leave, if they tarried at all. This SION complex was small, crowded into a disused basement, and overflowing into sewer and electrical accesses beneath the streets, so space was premium. It was for this reason that the medical clinic was located off the canteen: It promised cleanliness as well as convenience. But unfortunately, the arrangement was proving problematic since they’d acquired their most recent refugee. Naught, for all her expertise, was unable to contain Aaron’s episodes to her designated space, and they had spilled into the common area.

  Sone was present during the initial incident, which occurred only a few hours after Aaron arrived. Sone saw the creeping shadows slither through the cracks and around the corners and pool in the center of the room, although they advanced no further. Instead, an almost corporeal dread, heavy like lead in the stomach, permeated the area and choked the minds of anyone unlucky enough to be in attendance. He’d been harkened back to the Primrose Bed & Breakfast and his secret battle. It had been insinuated in the pharmacy news reports that the victims had seen their greatest fears, and he’d expected to see some tangible terror, but he’d instead been gripped by an existential panic. His mother, all that his father had aspired him to revere, had appeared in a bleak, spectral form with nothing for him except chastising words of disappointment. She’d listed his failures and had been unable to accept that she had wasted her life for him. Eventually, when he had been unable to stand any more of her callous diatribe, he had retreated inward, allowing his combat mind to reawaken and seize control. He hadn’t spoken about his vision to anyone—not even to Naught—and had swallowed any shame associated with the incident. He had planned to forget that it had ever happened. But the memory had been reawakened by Aaron’s fit entirely too soon after the original wound had been opened.

  The compound episode was brief yet amply distressing, and word quickly spread that no one should linger in the canteen any longer than was necessary. Despite the fleetingness of the few occurrences, it was understandable that no one wanted to risk experiencing them for themselves, and everyone steered clear of the area.

  Finally, Naught entered, having left her hollow for food, and Sone pounced on her immediately. “Do you have a moment, Doc?” he asked, matching her sluggish pace as she walked across the room.

  She smiled and shrugged. “Sure,” she replied as she gathered a tray, dishes, and utensils from various stacks across the counter surface. “Just grabbing some food for me and Aaron.” She looked exhausted, and it was little wonder; she’d rarely left Aaron’s side since he’d come to join them, save for the few excursions to get him medication. Since SION did not have the resources to acquire his medication legally, Naught used her extraordinary speed to sneak into pharmacies and abscond with their stock, and she’d collected a wide selection to give herself treatment options. Sone did not think that she’d slept since Primrose; yet, she was still in good spirits.

  “How’s the treatment going?” he asked neutrally in an attempt to ease her into the conversation; her attention had become so focused on treating Aaron that she had lost sight of the larger picture, and she needed to be reminded what else was at stake. Casually, he leaned against the counter, resting on his palms, and crossed his ankles.

  “Eh, as well as it can,” she answered, sighing deeply, but there was still a trace of her normal playfulness in her tone. She went over to the dingy refrigerator and paused to review its contents before diving in. Her voice was thick and slow, and she took care to project it while she scrounged. “I think I’ve determined the correct medication, but it’ll take a while to figure out the dosage. He doesn’t remember how many milligrams he was taking, and he never took it consistently, so I have to increase the dosage slowly until he’s stable and comfortable.” She shook her head unhappily as she resurfaced from the fridge. “That’ll take a few months because the medication needs to build up in his system before it’s even truly effective,” she continued clinically, talking to him directly while leaning on the refrigerator door. “It makes it harder to judge the right dosage and frequency, so it’s a sort of trial-and-error situation, especially since I’m not a psychiatrist.” Her grimace was exaggerated, as if she was doing it for humorous self-deprecation, but he could see that she was frustrated with her lack of qualifications.

  “That’s still pretty good, though,” he assured her sincerely; even though she hadn’t finished medical school, her expertise had made a difference in their lives and would continue to do so if her research ever received funding. “But,” he said, drawing the word out cautiously, “do you think you can keep him contained in your clinic? His episodes, uh, leak into the common area, and it’s unsettling the others.” He gestured to the deserted canteen, which was empty apart from the two of them.

  She finally absorbed the misplaced quiet and exclaimed, “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t realize that was happening.” She smiled sheepishly, revealing a few more lines that age had carved into her face and that hadn’t existed a few weeks ago. “He’s technically still having psychotic episodes, but the intensity has dropped off significantly now that I have him on the correct medication.” She scowled, looking troubled as she admitted, “I think I technically overdosed him to get him back on schedule and at the levels he should be, but I’ve got him grounded in reality again. It’s nothing like we saw in Scotts Ridge with the kneeling and cowering and stuff—more just sweats and panic attacks—so I didn’t think he’d been projecting. I’ll try to keep him engaged so his subconscious doesn’t get out of hand.”

  He nodded. “Thank you.” She smiled again and then buried herself in the refrigerator once more. He knew that the refrigerator offered a variety of ingredients, though he wasn’t certain who shopped or how frequently, and he often chose to reheat leftovers or prepare an instant meal. Given her distaste for the bags of withered vegetables in her hands, she wasn’t impressed with the selection either. Nonetheless, she carried them over to the cutting board and separated the worst offenders from the rest.

  Sone took this moment to reflect on the situation. He knew what his plan of attack would be once he engaged Naught, and he strategized on the words he would use and how he might deflect any protests. But the reality of putting his plan into action was still difficult. His original acquaintance had been with a compassionate yet actively disengaged individual; nevertheless, she had been the one to volunteer to go on the mission in Fission’s place, and she had aggressively defended Aaron against the BSI. She was a different person from the one he’d met in the beginning, and going forward, he needed to handle the situation delicately. “How long do you think it’ll be until he’s well?” he finally asked.

  “He’s regained cognizance pretty quickly, and like I said, his episodes seem to be easing. They’re also becoming less frequent, though, from a clinical perspective, I don’t know how often he normally had them. I believe that having a steady supply of medication and a real support system will help him greatly,” she answered. She stopped slicing, placed her knife on the board, and turned to him, crossing her arms in front of her body. “I think he’ll be ready to enter the general populace in several weeks… maybe a month if I push him,” she continued, shaking her head to indicate that she wouldn’t. “And then there’ll be another adjustment period. He’s still pretty uncertain about the existence
of Others.” She grinned roguishly, though the smile didn’t make it all the way up to her eyes. “It makes it kinda hard to differentiate between reality and fantasy when reality itself has been redefined, but I couldn’t really ease him into the truth of our situation. The first time he sees one of us use our abilities, he’ll immediately regress, and we’ll lose any progress we’ve made.”

  He nodded. “How long until he can train with the Vanguard?” he asked carefully.

  The smile, real or not, fell from her face, and she tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “Why would he do that?” she asked suspiciously, her eyebrows arched.

  “He needs to learn how to control his ability, right?” he replied in his most persuasive voice.

  She shook her head, and her arms tightened around herself. “No,” she answered firmly. “I don’t have all the right equipment to create a good metric, but as Aaron’s mental state improves, I believe he’ll utilize his ability less. It’s a defensive reflex of some kind—the result of trauma and an inadequate coping strategy. I think once he’s recovered sufficiently, his ability will never manifest again.”

  He straightened, returning to his feet. “So you think his ability is a direct result of his mental state?” he asked pointedly, digging at her motivations.