Operation Blackout

by J. L. Middleton

  “Yes.” While her tone was certain, her body belied her confidence; she could meet his eyes for only a flickering moment before they dropped to the floor to search for an answer there.

  “I don’t think it works that way, Doc, and I don’t think you do either,” he said, scolding her softly. He took a step forward, closing the gap between them, and rested one hand on the counter beside her. He used the other one to emphasize his point as he made his argument in a quiet yet assertive voice. “In any case, his ability to project visions is a powerful one. We need a weapon like that if we’re going to win against the BSI.”

  She clenched her jaw and let her arms fall to her sides. “We’re not at war, Sone,” she replied in a low, tense voice. “We’re just trying to survive.”

  “Sometimes survival requires going on the offensive.”

  “I’m not going to let you use him as a weapon,” she hissed. She tightened her fists and broadened her stance, taking a step backward, but not in retreat.

  He caught a movement out of the corner of his eyes and noticed that the shadows had acquired a depth they hadn’t previously had. However, he was not going to be intimidated by this development; she was not its source, and it only reinforced his belief that Aaron’s ability needed to be honed. “That’s not your decision to make,” he argued, and while having her on his side would make it easier to recruit Aaron, she wasn’t a necessity; all he needed was for her not to stand in the way.

  “I’m not going to let you bully him either,” she asserted, as prepared to fight him as she had been the agent at Primrose. The stakes might be lower, but she was no less protective of him. “He’s very sick, and he needs help. He’s been through a lot, and he’s seen plenty of death—more death than any of us.” She stuck her finger in his chest. “I’m not going to let you put him in a position where he might experience that again.”

  “Doc—” he began, but his protest was cut short when his breath was caught in his throat. He felt his whole body tense and then coil like a spring, and his blood rushed through his ears. Stubbornly, he struggled to maintain eye contact with her, feeling that a failure meant acquiescence, but in the end, animal instinct won over, and he glanced about the room, searching for danger.

  In contrast, she appeared largely unaffected and waited, hands on her hips, until Sone was little better than a jackrabbit anticipating an owl swooping down from the sky. “The answer is no,” she maintained, and after staring him down, she sprinted from the canteen to her room. Moments later, Sone could breathe easily again, and he collapsed, barely catching himself on the counter. He smiled weakly, amused by the ironic thought that Naught’s immovable mind-set meant that she would have made an excellent member of the Vanguard after all.

  - - -

  Much to Connor’s surprise, Félicité proved to be as popular as its promotional materials claimed, yet Moise Kabamba was still able to meet them personally, and according to him, the current volume of customers was lower than normally expected, a deficiency that he attributed to a new exhibit opening across town. He was more gracious about the decreased patronage than Connor had expected, as the latter honestly believed that small business owners in New York were cutthroat, given the current economic climate. After taking a few moments to excuse himself from the main floor, Moise led the two agents back to his office. While one would have believed that hosting a social gathering every night would be stressful, Moise instead seemed contented, and he happily offered them drinks.

  “I am surprised to see you again so soon,” Moise said, pouring himself another glass of wine. He extended a second offer of refreshments, which was again declined, and he continued, “I thought perhaps you would be satisfied with the earlier walkthrough since you were gone when I returned.”

  “There were a few things we wanted to check out based on Ms. Shah’s story,” Connor explained and began pacing, gravitating toward the office entrance. He had previously refused a seat for this express purpose. Like Félicité’s entranceway, Moise’s personal space was decorated with his own work and ostensibly his favorites. Each of his pieces portrayed small yet incredibly detailed subjects, and while they were typically the delicate blossoms of a flower, the displays of insects showed his true talent: There were beetles, fragile casings lifted and poised for flight, while the wings of butterflies were almost translucent with their shaved slimness. Clearly, Moise had a steady hand and a lot of patience.

  Moise raised an eyebrow, and his jovial expression diminished slightly. “Ah, you saw her today,” he concluded, his eyes following Connor as he made his measured circuit around the room. Orion remained at the entrance, watching Connor with growing confusion: His posture had relaxed—he no longer appeared as rigid and anxious as he had in previous interviews—and he seemed to be growing into his role of authority. He hadn’t expected Connor to conduct an interview since they had only come to review the security tapes.

  Connor lingered in front of one of the larger displays, which depicted a butterfly, struggling to shed its cocoon, along with several of its brethren in various stages of emergence. One imago stretched its wings, drying them so that it might take its first flight, but the subject that caught his eye was the one set furthest back in its labor. The surface of the chrysalis expanded slowly, a thin veil separating the pupa from the outside world, and the slightest breeze in the room could disturb the cocoon and cause it to sway. It seemed to Connor that the rigidity of the material—in this case, some type of wood—should not allow that motion, but he couldn’t be positive that a fishing line or some other malleable material wasn’t in fact supporting the chrysalis.

  “You have quite a talent,” he interjected, temporarily shifting the discussion toward art. “I was reading your biography,” he continued, turning his back on the display, and he gestured toward the other installations, which had been shaped from woods and stones of varying hardness. “You exhibit this kind of talent across several mediums. How did you get so good?”

  The brightness returned to Moise’s face. “It’s a trade secret,” he replied and then chuckled. “Practice. Years of practice.”

  “Yes, of course,” Connor allowed. He called upon his few, feeble years of study in public school and any documentary he might have caught on television to create a semblance of knowledge of the art world. “But don’t most artists only specialize in one medium?” he asserted, hoping it was true. “Like the difference between stone and wood has to be as vast as the difference between oil and water, eh?”

  Moise nodded. “A bit. But I have dedicated my life to improving my skill.”

  Gently, he caressed the base of the butterfly statue; even though he was suspicious, he had to respect the mastery of the piece. “This reminds me a bit of Hephaestus,” he said casually while his keen eyes swept back to, and kept careful focus on, Moise’s face. “They say his skill with metal was so good that he could bring his creations to life like little automatons. It almost seems like your creations could do the same.”

  The grin on Moise’s face widened so much that it could have outshone the moon. “You pay me a great compliment!” He laughed before continuing, “I told you this morning that artists survive on their egos.”

  If Connor was expecting another reaction, he was disappointed, but he was not ready to concede defeat. He believed that he had discovered Moise’s weak point—a tactic to force him to expose himself—despite his conjecture having no substance; they were not even certain that an Other was involved in the construction accident, let alone what Moise’s part in it might have been since his alibi placed him off the premises. Nevertheless, he pushed forward, pursuing his implausible lead. “You ever thought they were real?” he asked, assuming an appropriate mesmerized, distant tone. “You know, late at night when no one’s around, maybe one of them moves.” He shrugged and smirked, acting facetious while insinuating that he might have been sincere. Moise politely ma
intained his smile, though he shifted his eyes questioningly toward Orion, who was less poised and clearly perplexed by his partner.

  Having failed to invoke any response, Connor continued after a beat as if the tangent conversation hadn’t occurred. “We wanted to check out those surveillance videos after all,” he explained, all pretext gone from his voice, as he turned away from the sculpture and paced back toward the center of the room. “See if we missed anything.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and winked at Orion, signaling that the digression had been a ruse. “Don’t worry; it’s just a formality, and then we’ll wrap up.”

  “Ah,” Moise replied, breaking eye contact as he crossed his hands in front of him. Regretfully, he added, “I would like to cooperate, but I’m afraid there aren’t any videos of the incident. The cameras in that room were uninstalled that afternoon as part of the renovation efforts.”

  “We noticed some cameras facing the room.”

  Moise shook his head. “They would not have captured anything. They are meant to focus on their respective displays. I think you will find their view is obstructed.”

  “We’d like to view them just the same.” He shrugged, adding, “Just to be thorough.”

  “Of course,” Moise agreed, clasping his hands. He gestured toward the doorway. “Please. After you, Agents.” Connor exited first, followed by a bewildered Orion, and Moise brought up the rear, directing them toward the video room. After introducing them to the security guard, who showed them how to operate the playback system, he left them to their own devices while the security guard excused himself to make his rounds.

  “Did I miss something?” Orion asked when they were finally alone. He had occupied the lone seat in the room at Connor’s insistence; the latter preferred to stand, as it gave him a better view over the bank of screens. It also placed Orion in a better position to operate the system.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s just that you seem awfully interested in Mr. Kabamba instead of the case we’re on,” he replied as he worked. He glanced up toward him. “Do you think he’s the Other?”

  “It’s a possibility,” Connor revealed, deciding to keep his full opinion in reserve; informing Orion that he was operating on a hunch would only confuse the younger man, who was supposed to be learning proper investigative procedures.

  Orion knitted his eyebrows. “What about Ms. Shah?” he asked curiously. “I thought you trusted Agent Reeves’ opinion.”

  “I’m not discounting her entirely either,” he said. “It’s just that something is going on here that I can’t quite place my finger on, so I’d like to follow all leads.” If he allowed himself to explore his feelings, he’d characterize his suspicion of Moise Kabamba as similar to what he’d felt in Pierce’s presence. Before the fateful encounter with him in the Starrs’ apartment, he’d passed him in the hallway—a chance meeting that he’d only recognized in retrospect—and he’d felt a brief tug in his direction, as if the man had his own gravitational pull, but he’d disregarded the strange feeling offhand. It was the same with Moise Kabamba, though the nature and intensity of the sensation were different, manifesting instead as a nebulous, nagging impression driving Connor toward recklessness. Pierce Starr had not been an Other, but Connor had to pursue the queer instinct to its end, even if it developed into nothing, because he could not forgive himself if he discounted it and another violent encounter ensued. He had been uncannily fortunate during his confrontation with Pierce, and it was unlikely that a probable victim would have equal luck.

  When Orion frowned, Connor recognized it as an expression of his frustration, and he knew that this snit was about his supposed lack of communication skills. This prompted him to reluctantly offer, “When I have something, I’ll tell you. Right now, it’s just a gut feeling.”

  The younger man sighed, seemingly satisfied with the promise for now, and brought up the footage from the previous evening. “Ready?” he inquired snarkily, reminiscent of his sister and perhaps even Connor himself.

  As they watched the night’s silent surveillance recordings, it became obvious that Sitara was not a telekinetic as Reeves believed. Pictures and objects would move ever so slightly out of their places when no one was visible, and as Sitara passed through the area, she would straighten every askew object as if she knew instinctively that they’d been put that way. While her actions built a strong case for an ability, the movement happened whether or not she was present in the area, and she didn’t always make a circuit through the affected areas.

  Once, one of the pieces was knocked from its pedestal onto the floor, and it levitated back to its place, albeit moments later and not in the same position; Sitara was in her office at the other end of the building during the incident, coincidentally fixing another misaligned artwork.

  “Do you think it’s actually a ghost after all?” Orion asked, trying to explain the apparent lack of causation.

  Connor snickered. “No such thing,” he derided scornfully. The video continued onward into late evening after everyone in the building had gone home for the night, leaving Sitara alone with the construction worker. Sitara briefly entered the room, momentarily casting doubt on her testimony, and then departed, retreating toward the office. As Moise informed them, the angle of the cameras prevented any real coverage of the incident, so it was entirely possible that there was a completely mundane explanation for the accident: Sitara herself, who subsequently claimed innocence.

  Then the accident occurred off camera, signaled by a lone paint canister that rolled into the frame as it spread its contents across the ground, and Sitara turned on her heels immediately, reacting to a sound the playback hadn’t recorded. As she made her way to the accident, a strange thing happened on the main cameras: Paint-laden footprints manifested, leading away from the expanding puddle, and it improbably seemed that a pair of disembodied feet attached to a single leg were the source.

  When Sitara approached the scene, she immediately drew her cell phone to call the emergency services. The call had been recorded by the dispatch center, so her lie had not been about the accident itself as Connor had suspected. She headed into the scene, disappearing as she waded into the spill toward the downed construction worker, and the phantom footprints, which had fled the scene in the opposite direction, turned back. The change in perspective further obfuscated what the video showed: The leg, which had only been covered in paint down the side, appeared flat, while the feet appeared hollow. The cameras also picked up two floating, paper-thin palms, which had been obscured by the comparable whiteness of the wall against which the image had initially been caught.

  As the exposed phantom returned to the scene and moved out of camera range, Connor realized what Sitara had been hiding. She was not an Other, nor was she followed by a poltergeist she called Billy; he may have even solved her brother’s disappearance.

  - - -

  One of the advantages of owning an art gallery was the guarantee of a reserved private area in which to work. Moise could have utilized his former studio to the same effect, but he appreciated the convenience its collocation offered; he could duck out of the gallery to create a new piece whenever he was inspired, and he was inspired often these days by the more attractive clientele his displays drew.

  When he’d been an art school student, Moise had discovered Carrara marble—the same white marble that had been used by the ancient Romans. Since then, he’d endeavored to surpass the master sculptors of the age, especially their ability to simulate cloth, and he had drawn flattering comparisons due to his delicacy when depicting the more fragile aspects of life. While Metamorphosis, which the federal agents had admired earlier, was the epitome of his efforts, he had first invited attention with the intricate fur he’d formed, which had caused one critic to be stunned that the hairs did not flex or soften when he stroked the sculpture.

  His career was all a li
e.

  Art school had imparted mechanics: how to pose a subject, ratios for proper proportions (which was useful but often superfluous for his method), and that art was created to instill emotions. While this foundation of tradition allowed him to better align his aspirations with the community, he had no natural talent. He could not chisel stone into a recognizable shape or whittle wood without wounding himself. He couldn’t even select quality materials.

  Instead, the root of his artistic ability was a supernatural talent that he had unlocked years ago and slowly harnessed over the interceding decades. Moise could transfigure material from one state to another and transmute it at an atomic level. As a child, the skill had nearly gotten him killed, inciting an angry, superstitious mob, and the gift had languished in secret for years, withering until he’d found the courage to tune it. Ferocity, the beautiful tabby at the front entrance, had been his first true success, but many others had swiftly followed.

  However, he had reached a creative plateau. It was no longer exciting to capture the essence of his subjects; the exercise no longer tested his limits, which was why his latest piece strived to portray motion with the same subtle intricacy. Moise meticulously set up the scene: a cherry suspended over a petite pool of water. On his mark, the fruit would plummet into the container and rebound with sufficient force to lift back up from the liquid. If all went according to plan, the cherry would be balanced atop its drop impact and would be surrounded by the corona ripples—all frozen and reinterpreted into wood. His previous trials had involved a high-speed camera, which had encapsulated the event as it had happened and had allowed him to strategize. All that remained was the live attempt, and if it did not succeed, he would have wasted almost a day of dry runs and a week of planning. Conceivably, his ability would allow him to transmute the materials back into their original forms to allow for a second shot, but he knew that his heart wouldn’t be in it; he had to get it right the first time.