The Harbinger Break

by Adams, Zachary

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  NASA Mission Archives, 1985, Mission Highlights

  The first space relay launch, ESA and NASA sponsored, documented under the USSSN conjoined with the ESSN, satellite reconnaissance, set for 387 million miles to orbit Jupiter. As proposed in Scott's Presidential Directive of '82, the mission is the first of many to allow basic reconnaissance of the deep solar system. The S11-Transceiver, with a 2.4 gigahertz bandwidth, a low noise amplifier, a frequency translator, an output band pass filter, and a power amplifier, is set to record and relay the extra-terrestrial activity on Europa.

  Highlights: Before launch, two of three auxiliary power units caught fire.

  Chapter 5

  "Patches."

  "Long time, Claire."

  Sam watched silently, awestruck, as the two polar forces stared silently at the other. Then Pat turned to Sam. "You didn't tell me you'd been in touch with Claire Waltz."

  Sam stepped back, waving away the air between them. He was certain now–between Claire and Pat, he was going to die.

  "S-she just came over, I swear!"

  Claire rolled her eyes. "It's true."

  Sam watched her look Pat up and down and wished she'd looked at him the same way. Pat had an intimidating presence, shadows seemed to accentuate his relatively pale features, and he stood out stark contrast between the three of them–Claire's tanned and healthy glow and Sam's own red-tinged naturally tan skin. Pat also had at least half-a-foot on them both.

  "So I hear you're a murderer now, Patches."

  "Call me Pat, Claire. We're no longer kids."

  She chuckled, but his face remained grim. "Pat, sure darling. A friend of yours visited me the other day, came asking questions about you."

  "The FBE agent. Sam told me."

  "Sam's been talking a lot lately," Claire said, still keeping her eyes planted on Pat. "Told me you think the aliens are already here. Isn't that something? And here I'd thought you were just dead."

  Sam closed his eyes and willed himself to be invisible.

  Pat kept his heavy gaze upon her. "What makes you think they're not?"

  Claire rolled her eyes. "Listen, crazy–I couldn't care less about the aliens. And if you want to go out and kill people until you get yourself killed–be my guest. It would make my life that much simpler to see you both dead and that humiliation of a childhood erased."

  Pat glared at her. "That's cute."

  Claire matched his gaze. Sam wondered if he could wander off without them noticing.

  "What's cute?"

  "You. Seduce a lot of men with this pseudo-feminism act?"

  " 'Pseudo-feminism' . So that's what they're calling confidence now…" Claire grinned.

  Pat shook his head, keeping his eyes on hers. "There's a difference between genuine confidence and obnoxious, over-bearing, in-your-face pseudo-confidence."

  Claire laughed condescendingly. "Like the word 'pseudo' much?"

  "It means fake. It's no coincidence that I've used it twice to describe you."

  "You don't know me, Patches."

  "I know you. You used a boy infatuated by you. Manipulated him, and used his innocence to feed the ego shell protecting your significant insecurities. And instead of maturing, and facing your fears, you built your thick ego thicker with meaningless luxury. Does that designer tweed trench keep you warm at night?"

  "It's a wool blend, and not as warm as my thread count, bastard."

  "That's what I thought. Sam?"

  Sam, who'd been inching backwards towards the kitchen stopped. "Yeah?"

  "Get your keys. Take a drive."

  "What?"

  Pat's voice dropped to a growl. "Leave. Now."

  Claire's eyes opened wide. Sam grabbed his keys from the small table by the front door and left, glancing back one last time at the pair before walking out. The time for heroics wasn't now–he had too much to live for to die like this.

  He walked to the driveway, slid into his Honda Civic, and drove off down the road. He hadn't had lunch yet he thought as he pushed away the screaming fact that he had just given a psychopath permission to murder a beautiful woman in his home.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Summers took I-95 north back towards HQ. He could've taken the Skyway, but he wanted to clear his mind, and driving helped relax him. He wanted to call Paige, but couldn't. The thought of what had happened twisted his innards, and he knew the sympathy in Paige's voice would just bring him to tears, and the last thing he wanted to do was get emotional. He'd sooner be berated and yelled at than sympathized with, which led him to call Barnes, his boss. He needed a good berating right now.

  The phone rang a few times, then Barnes answered.

  "Directly to me, Summers? Shit must've hit the fan this time."

  Summers sighed. You could say that again. "I've got a situation boss. It's bad."

  Barnes didn't respond, so Summers continued. "A kid at GenDec grabbed my gun, flicked off the safety and shot himself."

  The moment of silence flipped Summers’ stomach upside down. He could imagine Barnes pouring himself a heavy drink.

  "Kid dead?" Barnes finally asked.

  "Yes."

  Barnes sighed. "Keep your phone nearby. I've got to make a few calls."

  He hung up, and Summers put away his phone. The phone call was likely to upper management. He knew GenDec had no legal reason to release the information of the kid's death, and that the FBE had no legal reason to do anything to GenDec about the situation. The kids there were deemed unstable from day one, and it would be simple for Berry to claim the kid was psychotic and that they did the best they could, but it was no use.

  Summers knew he was fucked, and welcomed it. He could've lunged and grabbed the gun, there were a million things he could've done to save that kid. Prior to his arrival at the facility he hadn't considered his gun–he was so accustomed to wearing it that he hadn't considered leaving it behind.

  In retrospect, of course he should've left it behind, but at the time he'd thought nothing of it. How had the kid unclipped it? Summers thought back. The kid must have the first time he lunged–he'd probably been planning his move from when he first laid eyes on it back in Berry's office. It was his plan all along.

  Summers took the exit to Atlanta, Georgia, found an inexpensive inn, and booked a room for the night. He needed to clear his mind–he needed to figure out his next step. He ascended the stairs, but as he did so the weight of the world caused his legs to shake and lack the strength to carry his body, let alone the world. He was a wobbling playing card castle, and the slightest touch, regardless of stabilizing intentions, would send him crashing down.

  His cell rang. Great. Probably dispatch. He checked, and it was–he wondered if he could handle it. It was too much–this wasn't why he got into this line of work. He just wanted to help people and save lives.

  He answered. "Chris Summers."

  "Chris…"

  He sighed. "Paige."

  She sounded more than distressed. "It's Barnes. I'll transfer you now."

  What had he sensed in her voice? Trepidation? Pity?

  "Summers," Barnes said, also coated in distress.

  "Barnes."

  "The kid shot himself with your gun?"

  "Yeah."

  "Summers, this is from the top, we're letting you go, cutting all ties–"

  "You're firing me…"

  "Sorry if this sounds heartless, it's not me. Reputation of the FBE, you know how it is, we just can't keep you on if we'd hope to recover from this."

  It didn't sound genuine, but Summers didn't care. He knew this would happen–the kid had killed himself with his gun, end of story. It was his fault, regardless of the circumstances, and he felt sick.

  "Summers? You there?"

  "Yeah."

  "Come back to HQ asap, meaning skip the Skyway and take the Camaro at 90 ten minutes ago… Summers?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Real sorry about all this kid. Damage control. You understand."
>
  "Yeah."

  "I'm giving you back to Paige."

  Bzzt.

  "Chris."

  He didn't respond. He couldn't.

  "Chris?"

  He had to. She was dragging him kicking down the wet-eyed road. "Yeah?"

  "I'm… listen, I'm really sorry."

  "Why are you apologizing?"

  "A kid shot himself with your gun, I know you did everything you could even though I know you don't think you did. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that happened. And now this. I'm so sorry."

  "Paige, please."

  "I–"

  "Paige. I know."

  "You know it's not your fault right?"

  He squeezed shut his eyes. She was going to get him again. Mentally prepare himself as much as possible, it didn't matter when it came to her. It felt as if his card castle collapsed a while ago, and she simply forced him to realize it.

  "Chris?"

  "Please, Paige. I really have to go."

  "Chris, you couldn't have known. Listen, who the fuck considers a kid suicidally depressed enough to do something like that? Not carrying your weapon would've been irresponsible, it's your job to be prepared, some lunatic could've just as easily stormed the facility with a weapon and shot up the place, and you'd be kicking yourself for leaving your weapon behind. It's not your fault that kid did what he did, it's GenDec's–please, Chris, I'm begging you–don't blame yourself."

  "He shouldn't have been able to grab my gun in the first place. Paige, really, I appreciate it–but I have to go."

  "Chris–wait!"

  He paused.

  "Chris?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Please be safe."

  That was the killer. If he'd been successfully holding back tears before, those three words broke the dam.

  It was her inflection behind them that did it, and as he felt his eyes moisten he choked out a "Yeah," as normally as he could before hanging up and collapsing, hating himself more than ever.

  After a moment he stood and took a deep breath. He had to return to the road. A hassle, but at least he wouldn't be trapped alone in the room with nothing but his thoughts and guilt. He'd never even taken off his jacket, where underneath, blood still coated his shirt.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  With his hand slowly pushing the door shut, Pat blocked her exit, apparently deep in thought. She noticed his focus seemed to have retracted internally, and desperately wished she had a knife, to stab him while his guard was down. He was going to kill her, and she couldn't even defend herself.

  "I can't decide whether or not to kill you, Claire," he said, looking up, piercing her eyes with his. "You're overcompensating. As a human or an alien, I'm uncertain."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You were at GenDec. Something strange took place there. The food was drugged. Who knows where else the food is drugged?"

  "What does that have to do with me?"

  "You want me dead. Why?"

  "I don't care whether you live or die. I just want your silence."

  "So I know something about you, something that you're afraid I'll spill."

  "You know, Patches–for a supposed genius, you're an idiot."

  "I asked you to call me Pat," he said without even a hint of malice.

  "Pat, fine!" she laughed angrily. She hated him for igniting her with this fear. In his warped mind, he'd labeled her as an alien, which she could almost understand. She'd flown south on a whim to confront Sam about their time at GenDec, which she agreed was odd. But she did so to protect her reputation, which was everything to her. But how could Pat understand that? In his eyes, of course she was overcompensating, because she was–but she had to.

  He continued speaking in his soft tone. She had to strain to hear him. "Why did you fly here? Why did you threaten my friend?"

  How could she tell him? Her weakness frightened her more than his insane accusation. Let him condemn her as an alien, better that than the truth. But she didn't want to die.

  "I didn't want him spreading rumors about me," she said.

  "He told the agent the truth, that's all. Sam knows something, something you don't want getting out, a detail he doesn't realize he knows, that I may be overlooking as well. But I don't have to figure out what that detail is. All I have to do is kill you."

  "I'm not an alien, Pat!"

  "Prove it."

  "What do you want to hear?"

  "The truth. What are you, Claire?"

  "The truth? Oh! I didn't realize you wanted the truth! In that case… I'm not a fucking alien, Pat."

  "So what are you, Claire?"

  "What are you even asking? Seriously. What am I? Like what do I do? Is that what you want to know?"

  "Sure, start with that."

  She brushed her hair from her eyes. "I'm the lead sales rep at Precision Efficiency Advancements. I sell software to large corporations."

  "Sure. Do you enjoy it?"

  "I'm rich enough to retire comfortably. Yes, I'd say I enjoy it."

  "Why?"

  " 'Why?' "

  Pat glared at her, she rolled her eyes. "Are you serious?"

  "I'm dead serious, Claire."

  "Because I'm fucking good at it, that why. What the fuck do you want me to say, Pat?"

  Pat paused for a moment, and then absentmindedly took his knife out his pocket, looking it over.

  "I don't know, Claire. I guess you can't say anything. Maybe you aren't an alien, maybe you're just crazy, but I can't take that chance." He turned towards her, and she stared at the knife, willing him to drop it.

  He lightly felt the edge of the knife with his finger, drawing a dot of blood. "I don't want to have to kill you if you're innocent. But I can't leave here uncertain."

  "What do you want to know?"

  "Why do you enjoy it?"

  "Because, Pat. Jesus."

  "Because why, Claire?"

  "Because I do! Fuck, Pat, can you explain why you enjoy everything you enjoy? Why do you feel the need to be a hero? How are you so intelligent, yet so idiotic and delusional to think that you're actually good, instead of what you are: a psychotic killer?"

  Pat paused. "You're right. Maybe I am wrong. And if I am, the blood from my slaughter is on my hands alone–a burden that I'm willing to bear. Because this is bigger than me, bigger than a couple innocent lives. Seven billion lives are at stake, Claire. I'm making the decision nobody else can make. And I'll deal with the consequences in this life and the next."

  "You do realize you're probably wrong."

  "On what grounds?"

  "Show me proof."

  "I have my gut, I have what I've seen, and I have the drugged food. I have logic. And the sacrifice is insignificant compared to the consequences of my logic if I'm correct."

  "You see yourself as the Abraham of an Isaac world."

  "You could say so."

  "You're insane."

  "What makes you human, Claire?"

  "What?"

  "What drives you?"

  "Pat, I don't get what you want to hear."

  In a flash, Pat turned furiously and stabbed the wall. Claire screamed and stepped backwards.

  "Why did you really fly here?" he growled.

  Tears inexplicably filled her eyes, and she hated herself for it.

  "Fuck Pat, I don't know!"

  "Think harder," he said, withdrawing his knife from the wall and advancing.

  She ran around the coffee table, putting distance between them.

  "Stop!" she screamed. "I don't know!"

  "Then I have to kill you."

  "No! Pat give me a second to fucking think!"

  "You don't need to think. Answer. Stop hiding!"

  "Fuck Pat!" she tripped backwards and fell onto the couch. He approached, knife drawn.

  "So you really are an alien…"

  "No!" she wailed, "I'm not!"

  "Prove it!"

  "I don't know!"

  He placed a hand just below her neck, holding her d
own. She clawed at his arm, drawing blood, but she couldn't get away. Her bloodshot eyes widened, darting back and forth, as if looking for anything that might save her.

  "Then I have no choice," Pat said, knife poised to strike. "Your secret, whatever it was, is safe."

  "Pat wait!"

  His knuckles whitened from his grip on the knife as he cocked his arm back.

  "I'll say it!" she screamed as he stabbed downwards.

  His knife stopped a hairsbreadth from her neck.

  "Say it."

  Her eyes were red and wet. "Goddammit Pat. You have no idea what it's like. Being a woman in this world, coming from where I've come from. Where we came from."

  He stepped back and sat down on the coffee table. "What are you talking about?"

  "I'm at the top. You think that was easy? Everyone wants to bring me down, everyone. I have to be perfect, I have to be inhuman. It's the only way to survive."

  "That doesn't help–"

  She sat up. "–Let me finish. Men have an obvious weakness. Me. How I act, how I look, what I am–I use to get what I want. Where I work, no one knows where I've been, where we were. I'm perfect. I'm Aphrodite. And they turn to putty in my hands. If this got out–if word of where I grew up spread, I'd be ostracized. Finished. I wouldn't be worth a damn, I'd be nobody, like you, like Sam, like every other Goddamn soul that left that Goddamn place. You think anyone would take a lunatic from GenDec seriously? And then, you think I'd allow nothings like you to crumble what I've built?"

  Pat closed his eyes and stood. "You haven't changed a bit. Manipulating people gets you off–always has."

  She wiped her eyes. "Manipulating people is all there is. Suckers do the paperwork."

  "So why fly here?"

  "Sam told the agent how I was. Luckily, federal agents don't normally go spreading rumors about their cases. But I can't have Sam, or you, or anyone, talking about GenDec, using that against me. I can only hide so much."

  "You'd kill to hide the truth."

  "I would."

  "I kill to expose it." He pocketed his knife. "No, I don't think you're an alien, Claire. You're just a weak, frightened little girl, same as you've always been."

  She stood, eyes bloodshot, face glowing with perspiration, and glared at Pat.