Operation Blackout

by J. L. Middleton

  Steeling himself for the conversation ahead, he walked across the room and sat on the bed next to her. Without missing a beat, she stood and repositioned herself several inches away from him without diverting her attention from her phone. He suppressed his urge to sigh in exasperation, instead reaching inside himself for a stern voice and asking, “Cassie, what happened?”

  Though she was turned mostly away from him, she shifted again so her back was to him while somehow managing to keep her phone screen covered. Her fingers had remained still since he’d entered the room, so he didn’t believe that she’d been texting. He wondered how many of her New York friends she’d retained after the identities of the Bramble Butchers had been released; he’d have to ask her about it once communication was reestablished between the two of them. Since she wasn’t texting, she might have been reading, and he wondered what the subject might be; between her arrest and her new uncouth style, he fretted that she might be browsing more iconoclastic literature, which would only exacerbate her obstinate attitude toward him.

  “Tell me what happened with the fire,” he demanded, his voice bolstered by his recent experience in cross-examination; at least his compulsory position with the agency was being put to some good use.

  “Why should I?” she grumbled, sinking further into her smartphone. “Charlie and Tim already did.”

  “I want to hear your side of it,” he replied, using the same reasonable, soothing voice that Connor had taught him how to cultivate during the Scotts Ridge case. She made a deep noise—almost a dismissive growl—that came from her throat, and then she shifted again, propping herself up against the headboard while apparently texting. He tried to stare her down—another technique he’d learned—but he was thwarted by the lack of eye contact, and he folded. “Please, Cassie,” he insisted. “Help me understand what happened.”

  Reluctantly, she looked up from her phone, and yielding to the idea that she wouldn’t be rid of him until she answered his question, she sighed heavily and rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she agreed petulantly. She sat up, pulling her ripped-stocking-clad knees closer to her chest, and tossed her phone onto the pillow beside her. “Whenever we ditch, we go out to this shack by Route 316,” she explained. Orion scowled reflexively, but he knew that she’d been prone to skipping classes; she’d just been smarter about it in the past. “Tyler and Felix decided they wanted a smoke, and one of those idiots dropped the lighter, trying to be cool.” She then injected all of her annoyance into her final statement, spitting, “That’s it.”

  “Why didn’t you try to stop it?”

  “Why would I?” she scoffed, glowering at him with her arms crossed. “You already think I started the fire, and I’m not stupid enough to run into a burning building.” Although Orion had meant extinguishing the fire with her ability, he could see the caution behind her lack of action. Despite having worked alongside an agent, he didn’t know how the BSI detected or tracked Others, so he agreed that it had been prudent of her not to use her ability in a situation in which her involvement might be questioned. He stood up and went to her side, pulling her into a tight embrace. He’d assumed that she’d lied about the event and had perhaps even started the fire out of juvenile spite, and he was grateful to be wrong. He shouldn’t have doubted her, as she was often more intelligent and responsible than her peers, a few incidents notwithstanding, but weeks of one-sided communication efforts had disheartened him and warped his perspective of his sister.

  “Get off me!” Cassie suddenly pried his arms loose and shoved him away from her, shattering his enjoyment of the reunion. He was surprised by the vehemence in her voice; her anger seemed so deeply rooted that he knew that it was not related to her being scolded or grounded. “Cass, what’s wrong with you?” he asked, failing to disguise the hurt he felt. His sister simply crossed her arms and pointedly kept her attention focused away from him, but she didn’t answer. Hastily recovering from his shock, he resumed his stern approach and said warningly, “Cassiopeia.”

  She leaned away from him, ostensibly regretting the failure to move earlier, and gave him a sideways glance of ire. “First, my name is ‘Cassidy,’” she snapped. When she’d been placed with the Vickers, he’d also had her name legally changed to Cassidy Green to further elude media attention. The agency had initially suggested the surname Evans, after their mother’s maiden name, but Orion couldn’t stomach the idea and instead chose Green after one of his sister’s favorite authors.

  “I thought you might like it,” he mumbled defensively.

  “I hate my name, Ryan! It’s dorkier than yours.”

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized. He’d never been bothered by the uniqueness of his name, and the derivative “Ryan” was in common usage. Conversely, he thought that the astral connotation of his sister’s name was less apparent, with some people only recognizing the constellation’s Greek progenitor; he also believed her fortunate not to have been called Andromeda, Virgo, or a more conspicuous name that couldn’t be disguised by an innocuous diminutive.

  “It’s close enough that I thought it’d make transitioning easier,” he explained. His rationalization didn’t seem to satiate his sister’s wrath, and she continued to glare at him, unmistakably trying to place some distance between them without actually moving. While he wasn’t offended, her posture was bordering on ridiculous, especially as she tried to keep her balance. He suppressed an urge to smile as he turned toward her. “What else?” he encouraged.

  Her scowl deepened as she threw her arms into the air melodramatically. When he failed to understand her gesture, she motioned toward the front of the house, and with a finality born of exasperation, she clarified, “Charlie and Tim.”

  “You don’t like them?” he asked, frowning. Though she’d expressed nothing but contempt for her new guardians, he’d assumed that the antagonism would pass once she’d settled into her new and infinitely more stable life. He’d interviewed the couple, who shared his outlook and values, and he’d left the meeting with the impression that she’d experience the normalcy that she’d desperately craved for so many years. If he’d miscalculated and she actually disliked the Vickers, then he wouldn’t hesitate to relocate her to another household, but if that were the case, he wished that she would have communicated it sooner, as her transition was meant to be as smooth as possible.

  “That’s not the point!” she retorted.

  She clenched her jaw and tightened her lips, but no hostility was redirected at the Vickers; instead, it remained on him in the form of her physically trying to leave the conversation. She scooted across the width of the bed, snagging her phone along the way, and then went to stand in a corner, turning her back to him. He gave her a moment to continue before he rose as well. “Then what is it?” he asked, stopping several inches away from her to give her space. She pretended not to hear him, burying her head inside her phone again, and he stretched out the moment, staring at her expectantly. She turned even further away, still facing the corner, but she glanced furtively toward him and eventually relented under the pressure of his silent gaze.

  She continued to face away from him as she slowly unwrapped her arms from around herself. “I didn’t care about Mom and Dad’s deaths, but as soon as it happened, you dropped me off with a pair of strangers,” she admitted quietly, shivering as she released her pent-up emotions. “That wasn’t supposed to happen. It’s been you and me against the world for as long as I can remember.” Her fists tightened as her eyes began to water, and she tried and failed to reclaim her composure. “I knew things weren’t going to be the same after they died, but I didn’t think you’d abandon me, too.”

  Orion’s heart sank, and his face burned as he berated himself for failing to foresee her reaction. While he’d stopped seeing his parents on a regular basis at age ten, his sister’s memory of them at her age was murkier; as far as she was concerned, they’d never been around fo
r any extended period. He immediately closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into an affectionate embrace that she didn’t resist. “I’m so sorry, Pickle,” he apologized, stroking her feathered hair gently before kissing the top of her head. “I was trying to do what was best for you. I didn’t know how long the media circus would last, and I didn’t want you to experience that,” he explained as he began to cry, too. “We’ve never been normal, even though you’ve tried so very hard, so I wanted to give that to you by sending you to the Vickers.”

  He squeezed her tighter, cradling her face in his shoulder, and he kissed her again. “I love you, Cass, and I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just wanted you to be safe.” His voice broke as his mind returned to their apartment, where their father had attacked them, and to its reenactment at Primrose. He’d spent the majority of his life watching over her, attempting to shield her from harm, but twice in the last few months, he’d failed at that duty, and though the latter incident had been only a vision, its disturbing impact on his psyche was significant enough to still count. Perhaps it had been the best choice to place his sister with the Vickers in spite of the emotional damage it had caused her.

  Heedless of his reproachful internal reflection, the outside conversation continued. “I can take care of myself, asshole,” she murmured, but now there was no venom in the sentiment.

  He smiled into her hair, injecting appeasement into his tone. “I know, Cass,” he lied. Though he knew that she could handle herself against a bullying peer, the incident with the mugger had proven that she was still a child in spite of any façade, and he would be remiss as a brother if he had not tried to protect her.

  He held her closer for a moment before taking a step back to look her in the eye. Her tears had streaked her eyeliner, undoubtedly also staining his shirt, and she met his gaze expectantly despite her red and puffy eyes. “Look, this wasn’t meant to be a permanent solution,” he began. “When I’m done with training, I promise I’ll try my best to set it up so you can join me, but you have to promise me you’ll behave.” Sternly, he added his conditions, “That means you’ll have to actually do well in school and obey a curfew and come home at night.”

  “You’re gonna kill my social life,” she complained, but the faint twinkle of a smile in her eyes suggested that she was secretly pleased. A new arrangement would suit him as well: The apartment was cavernous without her, so she’d bring some life back into it, and he would especially need the company if they moved to a new place.

  Gradually, he released her from the hug, and they parted, moving separately toward her bed. Though she took a seat, he chose to remain standing in an effort to maintain the momentum of his confidence, but he still faltered and dropped his gaze to his feet. “Hey, Pickle, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask,” he announced hesitantly, massaging the back of his neck. He noted that his hair felt greasy, which meant it would become even more unruly if he didn’t wash it soon, but he dismissed this line of thought as a distraction; he knew that he didn’t want to continue and was finding a reason to avoid the topic. “I’ve got Mom and Dad’s ashes, but I haven’t done anything with them yet. I was wondering if you wanted to get rid of them with me.” While he’d received his parents’ remains almost immediately after they’d been cremated, he’d placed the box that contained their ashes on a high shelf in the closet because he’d been ambivalent about their passing. Though they had given him life and provided for him, it had been up to him to raise himself and his sister, and his parents’ crimes had guaranteed that there would be no public ceremony to give him closure. He’d delayed granting them their valediction, as he imagined his sister had also done, until he could better articulate the emotions he felt at their passing, and while he understood them no better, he believed that it was closer to the appropriate moment to address the situation.

  “Maybe even tonight,” he suggested. The locale he had in mind for their final resting place was back in the city, which meant he’d be commuting for the majority of the day, but it would be worth it to finally be liberated from their parents’ shadow. Besides, his sister would be present with him for a portion of it, allowing them to catch up on the time they’d spent separated.

  Cassie gave him a dubious look, crossing her arms as she repeated suspiciously, “Get rid of them?”

  “It’s exactly what it sounds like,” he assured her. “Dispose of the ashes. No ceremony. No catch. Just the two of us.”

  He could see the conflict in her face. He’d never spoken directly to her about their parents, save for his occasional reminder that he and Cassie were their offspring and should, therefore, respect them. Based on her behavior and the derogative terms she used to describe them, he’d drawn the conclusion that she disliked them, but though she’d never expressed any fondness for them, she’d regularly withheld affection from him as well. He could only assume that she felt no real attachment to them—seeing them as strangers who visited on weekends and holidays—but she appeared to feel as ambivalent as he did. She must have come to a conclusion, for she slowly began to smile. “I think I might be okay with that.”

  - - -

  Little Italy was a shell of the historical neighborhood it had once been. Formerly an insular village, it was now a tourist destination peopled by vacationers who wanted to touch living history during their breaks between visiting New York City’s larger attractions. It was also the terminus for citizens who couldn’t afford the higher rent of SoHo, which was why Morgan Connor’s studio apartment was located off Mulberry Street. Since Orion Starr’s training was to take place in familiar territory, headquarters had determined that it was more fiscally sound to lease a fully furnished, extended-stay residence than to continue renting a single hotel room nearby. Upon entering the apartment, the first thing that Johnson noticed was that although Connor had lived there for months, there were barely any signs of habitation, let alone any attempt at adding a personal touch.

  Initially, Antithesis flanked the door, taking a position against the wall before settling uneasily into one of the chairs. Johnson scanned the room and scowled. “Where’s Starr?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry about it. He’s on an errand,” Connor assured him, urging him into a seat as well. “What have you got?”

  Chomping on a toothpick, Johnson gave him a sideways glance before he sat down on the pristine couch and pulled out his phone. Connor would receive the data via email shortly as well, if he hadn’t already, and Johnson had been tasked with explaining the information, so he began without delay. “I’ve got some bad news. There wasn’t much time to research between last night and now, but nothing they found was encouraging.” A preliminary inquiry into Moise Kabamba’s background had traced his origins back to a village near Dekese, so analysts had searched the archives in the hopes that their Zairian counterpart’s data had been saved. While the records had been copied prior to the nation’s dissolution, they had proven to be of little use. Zaire under Mobutu had bred corruption, and even those charged with keeping Blackout had not been immune. There had been plenty of references to enfants sorciers—child witches who had been accused of causing droughts, famines, and the like whenever a village had suffered—and unfortunately, the allegations had become so common that the majority of the enfants sorciers had simply been unlucky children used as scapegoats, and not actually Others.

  The Zairian files had been so unreliable that they still had not been transferred to the electronic database; instead, they had been kept by hand, and two references could be found. The first was to a Kabamba who was a deserter or escapee from Mobutu’s army and who may or may not have been related to the target. The second related to an incident that had occurred in Moise’s tiny village. The first was still being retrieved, his record having been misfiled or lost, while the second referred to the sudden petrification of a decades-old Okoumé tree. A major panic had been avoided by the imm
ediate declaration of an enfant sorcier, an eight-year-old boy who had subsequently been exorcised. Unlike the traditional Catholic rite, the child had been starved and beaten in an attempt to secure a confession of witchcraft, and during the third week of this abuse, the child had died. If Moise Kabamba had lived in the village during this time, it was understandable why he’d fled, but his presence alone proved nothing. The Okoumé, which had transformed overnight from a living tree into a twisted stone chimera, had been burnt on the same cremation pyre as the boy, so no hard evidence of the event had remained.

  “That’s it then,” Connor nevertheless insisted, indicating the passage regarding the tree.

  “How? It doesn’t prove a thing,” Johnson replied sternly; it was a coincidence at best, even assuming that the account was accurate.

  “It proves enough to bring him in for questioning, doesn’t it?”

  Johnson shook his head. “It’s a tenuous lead,” he reasoned begrudgingly; it would be difficult to plausibly follow Connor’s instinct based on the information at hand. “Do you even know what his ability is?”