Code Zero

by Jonathan Maberry

  I nodded.

  “We don’t yet know if these are connected to each other or to the situation developing on the Net.”

  “Yeah, Bug sent something for me to watch, something about a hacker video, but I haven’t had time to take a look. It didn’t seem to be our sort of thing.”

  “Take a look now, Captain,” he said. “I think you’ll find that it’s very much our thing.”

  He picked up a remote and pointed it at the flatscreen on the wall. The face of a pretty Korean gal appeared on the screen. Betty Page haircut, big sunglasses, bright red lipstick.

  “Okay, monkeys,” said the Korean girl, “pay attention, ’cause there are three things you need to know and Mother Night is here to tell you.”

  We watched the video. Twice.

  “Crap,” I said. “Mother Night? She’s back? How old is this?”

  “It’s a combination of a brief prerecorded video loop used as a placeholder, probably to attract attention, followed by what appears to be a live feed.”

  “That girl … she looks like the one I…”

  Church’s eyes were dark marbles behind the tinted lenses of his glasses. He waited for me to continue. “Very similar,” he said, “but we ran facial recognition on both women and they are not a match. This woman is likely as much as ten years older. And before this video began there was a second video, a loop of yet another Asian woman in an identical costume.”

  “What’s that mean? Is Mother Night a them rather than a her?”

  “Unknown.”

  “Jesus,” I said. “We should keep a lid on this. Who’s seen the video?”

  Church sighed. “Too many people. This ‘Mother Night’ video, as it’s already being called, appeared in an extraordinary number of places via a Trojan horse that contained some very sophisticated intrusion viruses. Conservative estimate is two hundred million computers have been infected, very likely over a period of weeks or months. Bug said you could position this kind of Trojan horse on search engines like Wikipedia or stream sites such as Netflix and Hulu. Naturally, every news network has broadcast it. Bug tells me that it has already gone viral on YouTube.”

  “Shit.”

  “There’s more. Vice President Collins has been in touch with me.”

  “Of course he has,” I said sourly. When Ghost heard the name Collins, he made one of his low growly noises. Not the kind of noise you’d want to hear when your name was mentioned. “Dare I ask what he said?”

  Church pursed his lips. “He has officially informed me that his Cybercrimes Task Force is taking jurisdiction of this matter because he is convinced it falls under the umbrella of the VaultBreaker case.”

  “Really? ’Cause I think that whole attempted-murder thing in Baltimore dribbled the Mother Night case into our court.”

  “Not according to him,” continued Church. “The Veep went on to say that we are to offer additional field support to the CTF.”

  “‘Field support’?” I said, giving it the same inflection you’d give “nutsack pimple.”

  “Yes. He would like us to run down a few things for him.”

  I smiled. “Like what? Pick up his dry cleaning and walk his dog? I mean, did I miss the part where we became his lackeys?”

  “If so, then I missed the same memo. And it’s highly likely that task list will be misfiled.” Church pursed his lips. “The Veep is a difficult man to admire. However, our immediate concern is Mother Night.”

  He replayed the video.

  “What’s the deal with the anarchist rant?” I asked.

  “The phrasing is a bit glib,” he said. “It could be a deflection. Nor does it give us insight to her real agenda.”

  “Oh boy.” I thought about it. “And Labor Day’s on Monday. Are we thinking that the anarchy thing and Mother Night’s field trips to mad science labs are connected? It’s a stretch, but I can see it. Maybe. Labor is work, working for a wage, working for the system, working for the Man, that sort of thing. Could be some kind of proletariat link there—”

  “It’s possible,” Church said dubiously.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time some bonehead’s confused anarchy with socialism or Marxism. Most people don’t know the difference.”

  He made a noncommittal sound, unconvinced.

  I changed direction. “Much as I really hate to do it, I could also make a case for the anarchist comment and the bombs in Gettysburg and Lexington to be connected.”

  “I agree with you on that much,” Church said. “It’s why I sent teams to each location. Dr. Sanchez and Circe are currently reviewing the video in hopes of decrypting any possible subtext. It’s Circe’s fear that if this is an anarchist matter then the ‘burn to shine’ reference may be a coded call to arms.”

  “That’s the same phrase Violin said had been painted in blood on a lab full of dead people.”

  “Yes,” Church said, nodding. He tapped a key on his laptop and Bug’s brown, bespectacled face filled the big screen on the wall. “Where are you with the ‘burn to shine’ analysis?”

  “I have a couple of things so far. Oh, hey, hi, Joe. And is that Ghostie? How’s it going, pups?”

  Ghost thumped his tail a few times. He likes Bug. He doesn’t wag his tail around Aunt Sallie or Dr. Hu. Ghost is a very discerning dog.

  “Bug…” Church prompted.

  “Right, burn to shine. That’s a very pop-culture phrase. Kind of a twist off the old ‘candle that burns brightest burns half as long.’ Or maybe the other one, you know, it’s better to burn out than fade away.”

  “Specific examples?” asked Church.

  “Sure. Burn to Shine is the name of a series of direct-to-DVD film projects created by Christoph Green and Brendan Canty—he used to be the drummer for Fugazi. Get this—for each DVD they select a house that’s scheduled for destruction and then get a local band to curate the event. They do a rock concert as part of the daylong event to destroy the house. The DVDs document each house’s history and so on. Not recent, though. Last one was in 2008.”

  “‘Destruction of houses,’” I echoed. “Gettysburg and Lexington…?”

  “Possible,” said Church, “or a general reference to destruction of any established structure or organization. Government, schools…”

  “There’s more,” said Bug. “First off, a lot of musicians seem to grab that as a title or lyric. There was an album of that name by Ben Harper and the Innocent Criminals back in 1999. Rudy thinks that ‘innocent criminals’ could be one extreme interpretation of anarchists who cause destruction based on their beliefs that society needs to be torn down. If it’s what society needs then it isn’t criminal.”

  “Got it,” I said. “Anything else?”

  “Lots, but one more that Circe thinks might fit.”

  “Hit me.”

  “Remember that show, The Sopranos? The theme song was by a group called Alabama Three. There’s a line, ‘You’re one in a million. You’ve got to burn to shine.’”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Well, get this, in the context of that song that advice is given as a quote from the singer’s mother. And, guys, remember, in the beginning of the song he wakes up and gets himself a gun.”

  Church said, “Ah.”

  “I’m compiling a list of all references in music, song, books, whatever. It’ll be a long list, though, ’cause I’m including direct quotes and anything that kind of says the same thing.”

  “Good work, Bug,” said Church. “Keep us posted.”

  “Wait,” I said quickly. “Bug, did you get anywhere with those text messages I’ve been getting?”

  Bug looked troubled. “Actually, Joe, Samson Riggs got one, too. Right after the fight in Virginia.” He told me about it. “Same thing, though. No real caller ID and a dead end on a traceback.”

  “How’s that possible? The only person who could block MindReader was Hugo Vox, and we now have that tech courtesy of that weasel Toys.”

  Toys, aka Alexander Chismer, was a wanted
criminal who had first served as assistant and valet to Sebastian Gault and later to Hugo Vox and the Seven Kings. He was on the most-wanted list in thirty countries.

  “What can I tell you, Joe?” said Bug.

  “You can tell me where I can find Toys so I can park my car on him. If he’s selling Vox’s technology—”

  “He’s not,” Church said. “In fact, Mr. Chismer was quite helpful to us since he resigned from the Seven Kings organization. He is not currently on our wanted list.”

  “He’s on mine,” I insisted.

  Church gave me a long look through the tinted lenses of his glasses. “No, Captain, he is not. I believe you’ll discover that Mr. Chismer has become quite a useful ally. He is, of course, under constant scrutiny. However, he is designated a friendly and that means all hands off.”

  It was not an invitation to a debate, though if there had been fewer things catching fire I might have pushed it. I wanted to know why Toys was no longer in the crosshairs.

  Into the awkward silence, Bug said, “I have one more thing about ‘burn to shine.’ There are chat room rumors of an unlicensed video game called Burn to Shine that’s being distributed through underground networks. We’re trying to get our hands on a copy.”

  “What kind of game?” asked Church.

  “That’s where I think we’re going to overlap with Mother Night,” said Bug, “because from the chatter online it sounds like something that would appeal mostly to the real extreme anarchist crowd. Very edgy stuff. Rape, random murder of civilians, insurrection, and that sort of thing.”

  “Whatever happened to Pong?”

  “Whatever happened to bearskins and stone knives?” replied Bug.

  “Point taken.”

  “Find a copy of that game,” ordered Church.

  “Working on it. Apparently the CTF has tried several times to obtain copies but has not so far succeeded.”

  “The CTF couldn’t find its ass with a GPS,” I observed, and no one disputed me.

  “Got to go,” said Bug, but he paused and spoke quickly to someone off camera, then came back to us. “Wait … hold on … something just came in. We’ve been running pattern searches on how Mother Night could have uploaded that video, and I think we figured something out.”

  Church brightened. “Tell me.”

  Bug launched into an explanation of how he tracked the video to a source, but it was total gobbledygook to me. I grunted to give the impression that I understood what he’d said.

  “Give me the bottom line,” I said. “Where was the source file uploaded?”

  “I’m about ninety percent sure it was done at a cyber café called the Surf Shop in Park Slope. Corner of Fifth Avenue and Garfield Street.”

  That was an upscale part of Brooklyn.

  I smiled and stood. “I’ll take Top and Bunny. Maybe we’re about to catch a break.”

  “We could use one,” Church said. “I have a call scheduled with the president in five minutes, and I’ll be talking to State later this morning.”

  “Does that mean you think we’re seeing foreign nationals blowing up our fellow citizens? Because that would be really fucking big. Like missiles-in-the-air big.”

  “We haven’t reached that conclusion yet, Captain,” said Church. “We don’t yet know if Mother Night is a foreign agent or an American working with them. We don’t yet know if her current actions are her carrying out orders given by foreign powers or if this is something else. Something internal. In short—”

  “—we don’t know. I’ve been using that phrase a lot lately.”

  “Anonymity is a very effective weapon in the terrorist arsenal.”

  “Yeah, and doesn’t that suck?”

  As I turned to the door, Church asked, “Did anything else stand out from Mother Night’s message?”

  “Sure,” I said, nodding to the plate on his desk. “If I was superparanoid I’d think the cookie reference was aimed at you. Could be a coincidence, though.”

  Church studied me in silence as he took another bite of his vanilla wafer.

  “Or not,” I said after a beat. “But aren’t we reaching pretty far to take that personally?”

  “At this point we don’t know how far to take anything.”

  I nodded, depressed by that thought. I clicked my tongue for Ghost and headed out to find Top and Bunny.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The Hangar

  Floyd Bennett Field, Brooklyn

  Sunday, August 31, 11:42 a.m.

  Once he was alone, Mr. Church swiveled his chair to face the big flatscreen mounted on the wall. He hit some keys and the screen was filled with the Seal of the President. A few seconds later that was replaced by the face of the president, who was seated at his desk in the Oval Office. Paula Michelson, his chief of staff, came and stood behind him as they both stared into a laptop webcam.

  “Deacon,” said the president, “tell me something that will lower my blood pressure.”

  “I wish I could, Mr. President,” said Church. “I have dispatched teams to Gettysburg and Lexington, and Captain Ledger is currently en route to a cyber café where we believe the Mother Night video was uploaded.”

  “That’s something.”

  “We’ll see.” He then gave him everything from Circe, Rudy, and Bug. “We may be seeing the opening moves of something much larger.”

  “More bombings?” asked the president, his face grave.

  “Impossible to anticipate, but I would not place a heavy bet on having a peaceful rest of the day.”

  “The ATF is coordinating with the FBI on the bombings,” the president said.

  “Apart from the oblique reference by Mother Night,” asked Church, “has anyone stepped forward to take credit for those attacks?”

  Paula Michelson fielded that. “I just got off the phone with Central Intelligence and they’re as flummoxed as the Bureau. There wasn’t a whiff of this in the pipeline. No warnings, no threats, nothing.”

  “Who’s tracking threats from the disenfranchised?” asked Church.

  “The FBI is combing through recent events by suspected anarchists,” said Michelson. “So far, nothing jumps out as a connection.”

  The president said, “This is Labor Day weekend, Deacon. That’s not a particularly political event.”

  “No,” Church agreed. “However, it is one in which we have people gathering in crowds for parties, games, and events; which means that a great number of people are going to be in motion and away from homes or offices.”

  “What does that matter?” asked Michelson.

  Church’s expression was flat. “It means that bodies may be harder to identify.”

  The silence was fierce.

  Church eventually added, “And our infrastructure is working on a vacation schedule except for police, who will be challenged with crowd control and traffic management. If there is some kind of coordinated terrorist action—either by a foreign power or something homegrown—this is a ripe opportunity.”

  Interlude Six

  St. Michael’s Hospital

  Baltimore, Maryland

  Four Years Ago

  Artemisia Bliss sat in a car and watched a hospital burn.

  Twenty-five minutes ago there had been more than one hundred and eighty-six civilians in the east wing of the hospital. Doctors and nurses, staff, patients, and visitors.

  Now there was only flame and smoke. And a few fading screams.

  Thirty-one minutes ago EMTs brought in a gunshot victim named Javad Mustapha, a suspected terrorist who’d been shot by a Baltimore police officer during a joint police/Homeland task force raid on a cell by the docks. Sergeant Dietrich told Bliss that several other terrorists were dead and some cops had been hurt. The E.R. was busy. But Javad Mustapha was definitely DOA.

  Except that he wasn’t.

  Somehow he wasn’t.

  Impossibly, he wasn’t.

  The video-cam feed from the Baker Team agents who had intercepted Javad and accompanied him
to the hospital was like something out of a fever dream. Horror show stuff.

  Working on some sketchy intelligence that Javad might have been infected with some new kind of weaponized pathogen, Mr. Church ordered Baker Team to oversee the transport of his body to the hospital and the taking of all appropriate samples.

  But something went wrong.

  As the body was being transferred from a gurney, Javad suddenly woke up.

  If that was even the right way to phrase it.

  One moment he was slack, clearly dead from gunshot wounds, and then he sat up, grabbed the closest agent, and bit his throat. There was so much blood. Pints of red driven by that hydrostatic pressure, bathing Javad’s face as he tore at the dying agent’s windpipe and jugular.

  The second agent drew his weapon and shot Javad in the side. Twice, three times.

  But instead of collapsing, Javad turned and hurled himself at the agent. The Baker Team shooter fired twice more as he was borne to the floor, and the bullets punched all the way through Javad’s stomach. One hit the ceiling and the other hit the pathologist in the chest.

  The agent and Javad rolled around on the floor and for a moment the helmet cam showed nothing but wildly blurred movement.

  The screams, though.

  The screams.

  They told what was happening with grotesque eloquence.

  Aunt Sallie was in charge of the Tactical Operations Center at the Hangar and she immediately ordered backup into the hospital. The rest of Baker and Charlie teams raced inside. Twenty of the best special operators in the world.

  Their helmet cams were all working.

  Bliss and Hu watched all of this from inside a DMS SUV parked outside the hospital where they waited for the collected samples and also for the computer records from the task force raid. They were not even aware they were holding hands, but later each of them would have bruises on their fingers.

  The car’s TV monitors played the images from all of those helmet cams. They saw more impossible things. The two agents that had been bitten came surging out of a stairwell and fell upon their comrades. The incoming agents did not fire.

  Not at first.