Operation Blackout

by J. L. Middleton

  He let his insouciance float between them for a few moments, allowing himself a chance to reconsider because he had not yet crossed the line, and when he did not, his face twisted sourly. “The point I’m trying to make here is that you need to take her and leave, soon,” he urged him. “When the containment team rolls up in a few hours, your sister is going back to Plum Island, where they’ll euthanize her, and there’ll be no staying of this execution.” He felt drained; it had to be hours after midnight by now, and he was exhausted from the evening’s events.

  He glanced behind him, checking on the young woman. She’d sunk back into her stupor, arms wrapped tightly around herself like a blanket. He shook his head, malcontented, as he turned back to his partner and added regretfully, “She’s had a hand in too many deaths.”

  The lines around Orion’s tired face deepened. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked, warily searching Connor’s face. “What happened to protecting the populace and preserving the public good?”

  Borderline angry, Connor chuckled acridly; after all they’d been through, he still hadn’t regained the younger man’s trust. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to question a gift horse?” he chastised him. Then he forced himself to relax, trying to release the tension that he’d built up throughout the evening, but he knew that it would take him a long time to recover from the night’s events. It suddenly became easier for him to study a spot on the ground, and he bowed his head, placing his hands squarely on his hips. “Now get out of here before I change my mind,” he murmured reluctantly, though he was secretly relieved that he’d managed to spit it out.

  Suspicion gave way to sincere gratitude as Orion realized that Connor hadn’t been making a crass joke; the agent had been speaking with disguised candor. Unexpectedly, he wrapped his arms around him, pulling him into a tight, emotional embrace. Connor greedily reciprocated in spite of himself, indulging for a moment before breaking contact and shoving Orion away. “Go on, then,” he urged, suddenly biting back tears.

  Orion nodded silently and went to collect his sister. Cassie started at his touch, and then she pounded her anger into his chest. He whispered something to her, drawing her face close to his. Connor couldn’t catch his words at his distance, but they clearly had a palliative effect. Cassie clung to her brother’s form, squeezing him as tightly as he had embraced Connor moments before, and as he led her from the warehouse, Connor couldn’t resist giving him one last piece of advice.

  “Don’t head off to SION for help. They say they help Others, but they’re not the type of people you want to be associated—” He cut himself off, realizing that he was only prolonging their departure. “Just take my word for it, eh?” he warned, taking the edge off with an impish expression.

  Orion matched him with an earnest look. “Thank you, Connor.”

  He nodded, acknowledging the final kind gesture between them, and turned his back on the siblings; it was easier to concentrate at the task at hand than to watch them leave. He still had a scene to contain, and there would be a lot of questions, especially with the Starrs missing. He’d undoubtedly face criticism, a few write-ups, and perhaps even a demotion, and Connor mused cynically that it might be time to start a new career.

  - - -

  A column of thick, black smoke rose into the air, blotting out the horizon like a stain, and the sky grew brighter as the BSI caravan approached its destination, painting everything orange with the occasional splash of red to give it variation. A police barricade blocked its path, and no amount of credentials could get the agents past the perimeter line—not now. Johnson wanted to pressure the cop minding the cordon to grant them entrance, but fellow agent Danvers held him at bay and preached prudence: The call had been for containment and had made no mention of an inferno. They needed to find the agent who made the call, debrief him, and then proceed; if containment required commandeering the scene, especially because Cassiopeia Starr had violated her probation, the decision would be made at that point.

  Fortunately, Connor was easily found sipping cocoa in the back of an ambulance. Despite the seriousness of the situation, he appeared quite pleased with himself, and the cozy blanket wrapped around him only covered the extent of his injuries; his wrist was bandaged, and his outfit was in more disarray than normal, with his suit jacket and tie missing entirely. He was also sitting alone in the back of the only ambulance, which meant that their target was missing.

  Although Johnson was eager to begin the hunt, anticipating that Cassiopeia Starr had escaped custody, Danvers was the ranking agent and, therefore, held the authority to debrief Connor. Nevertheless, she asked Johnson to accompany her so that he could hear the information firsthand and facilitate more informed decisions when it came time to deploy Antithesis, who had remained at the caravan with the rest of the team. Johnson stood at the rear bumper while Danvers took a softer approach and sat next to Connor after introducing herself. As expected, Connor didn’t seem too impressed with the sociable gesture. “Can you tell me what happened?” she asked.

  “’Course I can,” Connor replied. He sounded a bit hoarse, as if he’d been delayed in his flight from the warehouse, and now that Johnson was cued to look for it, he noticed that the visible portions of his coworker’s shirt had become desaturated by smoke and sweat. Danvers waited patiently, staring at Connor until the silence grew uncomfortable, and he smirked. “What, now?” he quipped irreverently. “Well, alright then,” he agreed, placing his cocoa on the cold, laminated floor beside him. “Where do you want me to start?”

  Danvers was unfazed. “How about the beginning?” she suggested, adopting a tone that was simultaneously professional and cordial. “You didn’t say much over the phone—only that you needed a cleanup team and Antithesis. What are we walking into?”

  Connor chuffed. “Nothing now,” he responded and immediately amended, “The aftermath.” He gestured casually toward the warehouse and its towering inferno; though the blaze had been a multi-alarm fire, the crew had been able to gradually coax it under control, and it was now only a matter of time before it was snuffed out. “That right there is the result of the second skirmish. The first…” He smiled bitterly, contorting his face into a grimace. “You’ll be glad you missed that one, too.”

  He only briefly described the events leading up to the warehouse: The kidnappers had contacted Orion directly, preventing Connor from intervening until his only option had been to tag along, and he’d attempted to act as backup, observing the proposed exchange from a secret location, but the goons had discovered him anyway, and he’d been captured. From there, his narrative became a bit fuzzy, and it wasn’t from Danvers’ lack of trying to understand him; rather, Connor remained fixated on the unidentified Other and constantly redirected the conversation back toward him to emphasize how dangerous he was.

  “Agent Connor,” Danvers interrupted delicately, having somehow not allowed her patience to wear thin. In contrast, Johnson was agog with the prospect of confrontation, especially after such a long drive; he was similar to his inhuman partner in this respect. “We understand this man is dangerous,” she said. “However, this isn’t the end of the story, and we need the entirety of the picture to ensure the safety of our agents.”

  “Antithesis will neutralize the threat,” Connor answered facilely, scowling disapprovingly as if her statement wasn’t worth their time. “That’s why I asked for her.”

  Connor was displaying the secondary cause for his isolation from his peers—his abrasive, often sarcastic attitude—which Johnson had learned to ignore over the course of their frequent collaborations. Surprisingly, Danvers retained her composure, letting his condescension slide for the moment. “What about the fire?”

  “It was Supernova,” Johnson assumed.

  Connor winced, stretching his mouth wide and tilting his head. “Yes and no,” he replied evasively, as if the answer physically pained him. “If
you recall, I reported that she was practically comatose,” he continued evenly, relaxing his face as he looked to Danvers for confirmation; she met his eye and nodded encouragingly. “She was a bit traumatized, what with her brother being dead and being the victim of an attempted murder. There wasn’t much I could do for her until you lot showed up, so we just sat there.” Casually, he reached back into the ambulance to reclaim his cocoa, which must have gone cold by now, and Johnson wondered whether Connor had been more unnerved by the situation than he was letting on. If that were the case, he was performing admirably, but he also didn’t believe that the incident could have been as disturbing as Connor maintained; the mystery subject had only “fed” on an Other—not on a fellow human being.

  Abruptly, Johnson’s mind latched onto another detail, and as it occurred to him, he asked, “What happened to the other guys? The humans.”

  Connor was perturbed by the interruption. “I told you: They were taken care of,” he replied dismissively.

  Johnson frowned; it was not at all clear what had happened during the firefight, including the actions that his coworker had taken. The only thing that was clear was that Connor and the girl had remained alive by the end of it. “How–?”

  “In any case,” Connor said, urgently resuming his account; Johnson thought he might’ve flashed him an irritated sideways glare as he replaced his cup on the floor and turned back to Danvers, resecuring her attention. “Less than ten minutes after I made the call, VSION decided to show up,” he continued, baring his teeth in annoyance. “I don’t know how they found us, but they were determined to take the girl.” He shook his head regretfully, adding, “She didn’t take too kindly to it.” He nodded toward the warehouse, where the roaring blaze was dying slowly, and then took offense when Danvers appeared to write down the allegation in her notebook. “Hey now, it was self-defense,” he snapped, offering vindication indignantly.

  “You know the rules,” Danvers replied coldly, not even looking up from the paper as she finished her personal remarks, and Johnson agreed with her decision; circumstances might mitigate a sentence, but it didn’t eliminate penalties altogether. “This was her third strike.”

  “It’s not the girl’s fault that she was the target of two wild kidnapping schemes in the same night,” Connor admonished her, his voice like a keen knife. Then his angry disgust dissolved, turning sour with remorse. “Not that it makes much of a difference.”

  Danvers raised a bushy eyebrow. “Why not?”

  “Well, she’s dead,” Connor announced impassively, seemingly shrugging off the remainder of his emotions. “I shot her in the head before they could make off with her.” Danvers leveled a skeptical gaze at him, though Johnson kept his opinion in reserve; while Connor seemed too emotionally invested with the subjects under his care, he’d also metaphorically signed the death warrant for a six-year-old several months ago, so for him, the extrajudicial execution of the Starr girl was still in the realm of possibility.

  Connor returned the scowl reproachfully, as if he didn’t appreciate his integrity being questioned obliquely. “Just because I sympathize with her doesn’t mean I can’t still do my job,” he grunted. “I wasn’t going to be able to get her back, and I couldn’t let her fall into their hands.” He looked away, breaking his domineering eye contact with Danvers, and then added cynically, “The solution to that was rather simple, especially if you were going to euthanize her anyway.” As he hesitated, his face twisted wryly and he bit his bottom lip. “It’s also why the inferno got so bad,” he admitted faux-sheepishly, quirking the corner of his mouth, and his dark eyes twinkled mirthfully as if he weren’t taking the state of affairs seriously. Knowing Connor’s psychological profile, this was likely an illusion of detachment—a mask to protect his inner self from whatever he was feeling. “Without her around anymore, it just sorta raged out of control.” He fixed his gaze on Danvers’ notebook. “I just want it posthumously recorded that she defended herself.”

  Danvers lowered her head, deliberately overlooking his glibness, to express her commiseration, but she did not revise her comments. “You made the right decision, Agent Connor,” she said, because the company manual instructed them that it was sometimes necessary to reassure agents of their moral authority. Judging from Connor’s abrupt changes in demeanor, he could be suffering from situational stress or even doubting the mission, so it was a safe bet to verbally support his difficult choice.

  “I know, but let’s not focus on that, yeah?” he replied blithely, rejecting her sympathy. His easy expression hardened as his eyes flitted back to the warehouse and then tightened, exposing every wearied line that had been carved into his face. His eyes narrowed as he continued in a more sober manner. “We need to focus on finding that body.” It was not a suggestion; it was an order, and it was one that Johnson felt compelled to obey due to the gravity in Connor’s voice. “After what I saw, I want to make sure he’s dead.”

  Danvers nodded gravely. “We will,” she assured him steadily. “You made a good decision with your requests.” She redirected the flow back toward the mission, revealing her endless patience, and inquired about probable threats. “Are they still in the area?”

  “VSION?” Connor confirmed, evidently needing a reminder that hazards existed outside of his new menace. “No, they cut their losses and cleared out about the time everything went to Hell,” he replied critically and then laughed uncomfortably. “Good thing, too. I was out of ammo.”

  “Alright,” Danvers breathed, bringing the conversation to a close decisively by standing and reclaiming her position at the center of focus. “There’s not much we can do until the fire’s out. I’ll go talk to the incident commander to see if he’s willing to turn the case over to us before they get a forensics team in here.”

  Connor’s expression darkened as he pulled the blanket tighter around himself. “Why would they need a forensics team?” he asked with concern.

  “A fire this big could be arson, so the city will want to conduct an investigation,” Danvers explained matter-of-factly. “I’d rather have our professionals on the site and in control. Cleanup is much easier when we have direct access to official files.”

  Connor’s sharp exhalation sounded like a vocalized wince. “’Course,” he agreed, likely remembering protocol. It was seldom needed for him to become involved in cleanup, particularly in the less noble necessities of falsifying official documents, so his memory lapse was understandable.

  As Danvers walked away to command her team, Connor firmly clenched his jaw shut, chewing his inner cheek aggressively, and Johnson wondered what had prompted his odd response to the inclusion of a forensics team. Before he had a chance to inquire, Danvers summoned him to the van so he could prepare his preternatural instrument, and the trivial observation was forgotten.

  - - -

  Though it had been several weeks since the incident on the waterfront, Connor was still finding it difficult to resume a normal life. Returning to Greenport had not been easy; his apartment had seemed cavernous, even though he’d always resided there alone, and it had taken some time to readjust to the silence. He’d missed the cacophonous hum of Little Italy, even the constant din of traffic far into the evening, and the days had become hollow now that he’d been deprived of someone to share them with— or, more accurately, a tolerant target for his well-intentioned harassment.

  Headquarters had been a hive of chaos since Connor’s return, from the angry buzzing of Danvers’ cleanup team, who had to battle locals over jurisdiction, to the nervous skittering of a borrowed and blended forensics team comprising NYC locals and BSI personnel. Under Summers’ intense scrutiny, the BSI tried eagerly to piece together the identities of those who had perished in the fire, and it became steadily obvious to Connor during the ensuing aftermath that it wasn’t as difficult to conceal the bizarre nature of Others from the public as he had been led to believe
. Alternatively, it could have been that the BSI’s detection techniques were not as ubiquitous as publicized.

  Though the thought of a professional investigation of the warehouse fire had initially made Connor uneasy, its threat was mitigated by carefully applied bureau interference. Summers pressured the forensics team to disregard the role of accelerants in the blaze; the speed at which the conflagration spread undoubtedly pointed at some sort of accelerant before any chemical analysis had been conducted or other evidence had been studied by the team, and the bureau reasoned that closer examination unnecessarily risked the possibility of civilian authorities discovering the existence of Others when no trace of a mundane accelerant could be found. Fortunately, the bureau was unaware that the speculated accelerant was in fact of mundane origin: Connor had discovered kerosene stored in a back corner and had poured the drums’ contents over the gathered bodies, ensuring that the inferno would destroy the most ephemeral evidence. While his actions had obfuscated the number of Others who’d been present in the warehouse, it had not fully eradicated the identities of those involved.

  Connor had taken for granted that the kerosene fire would be hot enough to partially cremate the remains, and despite the precautions taken, he hadn’t considered the possibility that all six bodies might be recovered from the ashes—only that some might be. Though their names would need to be determined via dental records—a process that would be thwarted by the sheer number of possibilities and no dependable leads—he had not realized that gender could be established based on skeletal structure, thereby revealing that Cassiopeia Starr’s body had not been among the deceased. When Terrance confronted him with this fact, he could offer only a dubious explanation: Following her death, the inferno under her control must have consumed her first, leaving nothing but ashes, and while Terrance seemed to accept his rationalization, Connor knew that he was treading on thin ice. Her brother’s body hadn’t been properly identified either; the bureau relied on Connor’s testimony that the two bodies with damaged faces belonged to Orion Starr and the unknown dangerous parasitic Other. Knowing that his build was similar enough to Orion’s, Connor had placed a bullet in the back of the lanky thug’s head to obliterate his dental record, and then he’d claimed that the body belonged to his partner. As long as Connor’s credibility as an agent was undamaged, the Starrs would remain safe; it, therefore, became his duty to be incontrovertible.