Operation Blackout

by J. L. Middleton

  Fortunately, Moise did not oblige her to answer. “Ah, I have made you uncomfortable,” he continued, clasping and rubbing his hands in front of him apologetically. His subsequent grand gestures suggested that he might make an excellent public speaker. “Allow me to explain this awkward situation,” he offered gently. “My gratitude is a very special gift. I created my first human statue, and she is carved in your likeness. I would very much like your opinion before I reveal her to the public.”

  His grin widened while taking on an air of self-consciousness, and he diverted his eyes briefly before leaning in and admitting, “I could do this at my gallery, but the truth is that I very much would like to also prepare dinner for you. It is a pleasure to cook for a beautiful woman, and I hope you will grant me that honor.” While his expression was charming, she also felt his emotions ramp up in anticipation of her answer.

  Amanda found his offer sweet, and more importantly, she felt her cheeks burn between his words and his sincere passion. She heard common adulation and praise from her staff, business partners, and constituents, and her stylist often complimented her beauty, but she could not remember the last time she’d flirted, and she actually felt flattered that someone would try. While she was by no means old or even seeking a partner, her focus on her career was such that his overeager, almost hungry attention was gratifying.

  What was a date anyway but harmless fun? She needed the practice—it had been too many years since she’d had an enjoyable, nonbusiness-related dinner, even before Johnathan’s untimely death—and the rendezvous would help her establish the rapport that she desired to have with him. She might even lead him on for a bit, as she found his unexpected formality regarding dinner strangely attractive, and she knew that there was no risk involved; she could later manipulate him in such a way that her gentle rejection wouldn’t affect any burgeoning loyalty. “I may be able to clear my calendar this evening,” she replied coyly.

  Moise laughed; it was a low, rumbling sound like liquid sloshing in a barrel. “You have made me a very happy man, Mrs. Darling-Whitcomb, and I will not disappoint you.”

  “Under the circumstances, you would not be remiss in calling me Amanda.”

  He echoed her small but sincere smile with his own, but his grin was wide enough to split his face. “I did not want to presume, especially since this meeting has gone so well.”

  “You have made quite the impression, Moise.” She then added teasingly, “If I may?”

  “It is only fair,” he allowed. “I am only at my best because you brought it out of me. And that is why I must repay you.”

  Her smile grew, softening the subtle aging lines of her face as her cheeks reddened; she was like a schoolgirl again, and it was refreshing, if a bit embarrassing. “Well, when you put it that way…” She leaned toward him, crossed her legs, and awaited his next verbal riposte.

  Surprisingly, he withdrew against the seat back and shifted slowly in his chair. “I’m afraid I must excuse myself,” he said apologetically, eliciting unanticipated disappointment that their interaction had already come to an end. “I have many preparations to make, and I have already taken much of your time.” His face lit up with another grin as he took her delicate hands into his and kissed her thumbs softly. “I will see you tonight,” he promised.

  - - -

  “Why are we doing this?” Orion asked sulkily.

  “You said you wanted to stick to your ‘cold cases.’ This is called investigation.” Connor glanced at him with a smart sneer and added snarkily, “It’s what the analysts do back at headquarters and what you’ll do between cases.” The two of them sat at Orion’s kitchen table; Connor was directly in front of his weathered laptop, and Orion was seated slightly to the side. The agent had entered the encryption key for the BSI database, and they were waiting for the network connection to complete so he could download pertinent files and teach Orion how to piece together information when building a new case file.

  Connor had affected his usual pseudo-enthusiasm when he’d arrived earlier that morning, but Orion’s sullenness had been so impenetrable that he’d dropped the pretense and had allowed it to infect their interaction. He didn’t have the energy to deal with a childish tantrum, especially when the subject in question didn’t appreciate what had been placed on the line for him.

  Orion scowled. “They’re not my ‘cold cases,’ and I meant Mr. Kabamba specifically.” He crossed his arms petulantly. “Why are you so fixated on this guy?”

  Connor sighed. “I told you before that there’s something off about him, and now that our case is closed, I can focus more on him. See what he’s hiding.” Orion narrowed his eyes as he twisted his mouth skeptically, and Connor suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “You can doubt me all you want, but I’m the senior agent here.” He smirked, remembering that Orion hadn’t corrected Moise’s assumption about his federal status, and then he added vindictively, “In fact, I’m the only real agent, so we’re going to do things my way.”

  Orion shook his head and muttered, “Whatever.”

  “You shouldn’t be so impertinent. It doesn’t suit you,” Connor chided, causing Orion to sink further into his brooding. He’d explained the purpose of the database before, but only in bits and pieces, and as the system loaded, he took the opportunity to describe its function and capabilities in greater detail. The database had been filled with details of any suspected Other activity from the modern day stretching back to antiquity, when it had first been created. The intent was that the background information would allow researchers to better predict how subjects would behave. When there were instances of activity that could not be explained, a profile was built for the perpetrator, and the case was tagged with key words. While it was an extensive database, it was not perfect; it was restrained by the flaws of human programming and human observation. Some cases were not connected until years later, creating a plethora of one-off events, and these were the kinds of assignments that Connor and Orion were originally supposed to work on: read up, do legwork, connect the dots, and hopefully apprehend the culprits. This was actually step one of the process, but Orion hadn’t been ready for it when they’d begun training, so they’d started somewhere closer to the middle.

  Connor initiated a search, starting simply with Kabamba’s name, and while they were awaiting a response from the system, Orion’s cell phone rang. The younger man excused himself, stepping a few feet away to the landing to speak in quiet, solemn tones, and Connor immediately assumed that the call concerned his sister.

  When the database returned nothing regarding Kabamba, Connor changed his focus to instances of material manipulation, primarily that of stone or wood. The few results he received were either associated with Others who had either died by an uncontrolled outburst of power or had already been apprehended and euthanized, including a member of the Vanguard. The single unresolved instance of dendrokinesis was unsubstantiated and provided him with no valid leads. He broadened his search, casting a wider net that would hopefully uncover cases that were more germane to his investigation, but he was instead rewarded with complexified, irrelevant data. The glut of information only further obscured his search, with nothing matching the profile that Connor had constructed for Kabamba, and his frustration grew. Despite his certainty that Moise was an Other, he couldn’t uncover any evidence either at Félicité or in his agency’s own data banks.

  Tetchily, he pulled up his email account to draft a request to the analysts at headquarters. When Orion returned to his side, his pale face was drawn with worry, and his lips were a thin line. His eyes remained downcast, almost submissive rather than socially anxious, and his tone was respectful. “I need to leave for a few days.”

  “Why’s that?” Connor asked casually, shifting to look at the younger man.

  “I have some business to take care of.”

  “Yeah, and what’s that? Would
it be about your sister?” He was severe, almost caustic, and he eyed Orion eagerly, waiting for his body language to give something up. Orion flinched almost imperceptibly, as if he were a dog anticipating a beating, and Connor slouched deeper into the wooden chair, digging his heels into the floor as he crossed his hands in his lap. “I recall telling you the onus is on her to succeed,” he lectured. “That means in life, too. You can’t just go running off to help her every time she’s in trouble.”

  Orion drew confidence from some hidden reserve and dared to reply, “If you want me to trust you, you need to let me go.”

  “You want to talk about trust?” Connor’s face twisted, barely suppressing the sudden rage welling up inside his chest. “That’s real rich considering the circumstances.” Surrendering to an inimical impulse, he added unkindly, “Did she set fire to something again, and you’re running to cover it up before we find out?” He regretted his words instantly, having implicitly condoned her execution, but he stubbornly refused to retract his comment.

  Surprisingly, Orion didn’t yield or submit to his own anger. Instead, he humbly requested, “Please.”

  Connor could see the pain he’d inflicted in his eyes—his dilated pupils struggled to maintain a determined focus—and despite his erstwhile toughness, his posture was still subservient as if he’d realized that he’d better achieve his goals through diplomacy than acquiescence or confrontation. He was currently begging, but Connor knew that he’d take the first opportunity he could to rush to his sister’s aid. As his supervisor and de facto handler, Connor didn’t want to make an enemy of him or place Orion in a situation in which his status with the BSI would be threatened.

  Even though his sister was his weakness, Orion was intelligent enough to mitigate risks on both their behalf, and if Cassie had broken the terms of her parole, he knew it was better to inform Connor than try to resolve it himself. Therefore, Connor should give the kid a break; they were only going to clash until some distance had been created from last night’s argument and its inception at Primrose.

  “Fine,” Connor relented, huffing as he jammed his hands onto his hips. “Get it sorted, and get back here. Your whinging is just going to distract me anyway.”

  Orion smiled slightly, ambiguously in relief or amusement. “Thank you!” he replied, already heading toward the doorway. Realizing he needed more than just himself, he quickly trotted up the stairs without waiting for his response.

  “Yeah,” Connor muttered cynically as he turned back toward the computer. He was already questioning whether he’d made the right choice, and he immediately silenced the disbelieving voice by diving back into his work. He became absorbed in his email, being only vaguely aware of Orion’s farewell and subsequent departure, as he tried to cover every angle he could conceive. Since Moise’s name had returned no results from the database, it was possible that Moise Kabamba had not always been his legal name. Connor requested a deeper probe into his background: name changes, locations close to unsolved Other activity, and known associates. This opened another avenue: his family. While it had not been proven that genetics could influence the development of abilities, the existence of the Starr siblings validated its possibility as a factor, and a similar connection might be made to Moise. Finally, he applied for permission to place the target under twenty-four-hour surveillance; it was a long shot and a request that he expected to be denied due to a lack of both staff and evidence, but he couldn’t devise any other plan of action. If these inquiries also returned negative results, then he had followed the peculiar lead to its end, and he would have to be satisfied that he’d done all he could.

  - - -

  Jack Everest relaxed in an armchair in his modern flat. He did not approve of contemporary amenities with their unnecessary plushness, believing that they nurtured softer citizens than in his time, but he understood the value of appearances and had hired a talented interior designer to create a tolerable living space that would impress his professional colleagues. At least the decorator had good taste in tumblers and stemware, the latter of which he was currently using to drink cognac as he reflected on what he had learned from his experiment.

  He had witnessed with his own eyes the death and resurrection of his grandson, Orion Starr, and it had been confirmed by a medical professional that the boy had returned in completely good health. It had been a peaceful death, as he’d slipped quickly into unconsciousness, and he wondered if the boy had experienced pain upon the moment of his passing. In his younger years, Jack had nearly expired from starvation, and each moment had been filled with a gnawing in his stomach until his appetite had finally been sated. He still experienced aches and stings whenever he was harmed, so it could not have been different for his grandson when he’d passed.

  However, pain was an obstacle that could be surmounted with enough determination. Jack’s reluctance to fight stemmed from a fear of death, not injury, so he’d only ever engaged the enemies whom he knew he could overpower. Absorbing Orion’s ability would bring something new to the table—a certainty that he could not be defeated. True, he could still fall, but now it was only a matter of time before he’d resuscitate to reassess and redirect his plan of attack. He would be emboldened—no longer held back by the final restraint.

  Yet, there was still reason to stay in the shadows. An immortal could still be entombed or otherwise incapacitated, which meant the BSI and its sister organizations remained a threat and he needed to circumvent them wherever possible. He also did not yet know whether he needed to continue to hunt his fellow Others for sustenance; if he were lucky, Orion’s ability meant he would only need to consume Others as an occasional delicacy. Regardless, he needed to elude Operation Blackout’s attention by maintaining a shroud of secrecy, albeit one that did not need to be as carefully constructed.

  Of course, his newfound immortality hinged on the procurement of his grandson. Without him in hand, all of his plans were placing the cart before the horse, so he needed to focus on Orion. The boy was under the watchful eye of the BSI, but it did not have a firm grasp on him; Connor was only a leash, and like all humans, he was fallible. With the proper motivation, Orion could slip his collar and disappear long enough for Jack to acquire him. All he needed to do was manipulate his grandson’s other leash, and he would come straight to Jack.

  - - -

  The flat, featureless road stretched out before Orion, seemingly elongated by his anxiety. The radio, which was tuned to some talk show, played softly in the background, and though it created the illusion of company, he was still alone with his thoughts, which were far louder than any background voice. Cassie had not been returning his calls since she’d gone to live with the Vickers, and while he’d tolerated it in an effort to give her time to settle into her new life, he wondered if it had been the correct decision after all. Charlene Vicker was aware of his sister’s “uniqueness,” so when she’d called about a suspected arson, she’d immediately reassured him that Cassie hadn’t been responsible to ease his mind. However, the Vickers were unfamiliar with how often his sister lied; she was not very good, as he’d learned to distinguish her “tell”—a term that Connor had taught him—but that didn’t stop her from nevertheless attempting it, and the Vickers weren’t as experienced as he was when it came to dealing with her.

  Arson. Cassie and a handful of her new friends had been arrested by the police, processed, and held long enough to frighten them and instill a lesson about breaking the law. Thankfully, none of it would go on an official record, as the damage had been done to an abandoned property in the woods, and Timothy Vicker—who had, mercifully, been one of the arresting officers—had personally persuaded the owner not to press charges. Nevertheless, it was a dangerous game that Cassie had played, one that she could have lost easily if the Vickers had contacted the BSI instead of him. Connor’s earlier remark had cut deeply: If it had been determined that she’d violated the terms of her paro
le, she would be euthanized. Orion wanted nothing but to flee with Cassie and go into hiding, but Connor had cautioned him against what he’d called a foolish action. Moreover, despite the current friction between the two men, the agent had released him on his own recognizance, and inexplicably, Orion didn’t want to disappoint him. When his business with his sister was complete, Orion knew that he would return to New York and his training.

  By the end of the four-hour trip, Orion’s nerves were frayed, and yet he had formulated nothing wise or even suitably reproachful to say to his sister. He parked the rental car in the driveway, exchanged polite but clipped greetings with the Vickers, and headed back to Cassie’s room, where she was to be restricted for an undetermined amount of time. The grounding might have meant something to her back in the city, but here in Waynesboro, it might not have made a difference.

  Cassie was seated at the foot of her bed, staring sullenly at her smartphone; while Orion would have confiscated it, the Vickers felt that they should not restrict her access to her brother, even if she never contacted him. His eyes drifted upward, scanning the walls, which were clad with posters of classic punk bands that she had never heard and would never listen to, including the Ramones and the Sex Pistols. These had been placed alongside posters of more recent bands, movies, and sentiments with which he was unfamiliar, and he noticed a distinct hostility to the bedroom’s décor, in contrast to the welcoming vibrance of her room at home. She’d never invited him into her room, but at least he hadn’t felt like an invader there.

  He was also surprised by the change in his sister’s appearance, and though the Vickers had forewarned him, it hadn’t been adequate preparation. He’d been so used to her long locks and expensive wardrobe that seeing her dark transformation was like walking in on a stranger. It wasn’t that the new hairstyle, makeup, or even the overly theatrical attire bothered him, though he didn’t necessarily approve of it; rather, he was disturbed that the drastic makeover had occurred at all. Since becoming a teenager, his sister had been obsessed with fashion and had taken vindictive pleasure in adopting new styles before her peers; in contrast, this girl didn’t seem like she’d be concerned about trends other than to challenge or contradict them. What had happened to his sister?