by Chris Hepler
On the drive down, we have a pleasant conversation about cooking, in which I discover he's vaguely competent in the kitchen and has a connoisseur's taste for various yogurts. I never thought of that as a thing, but apparently, biomancers spend a lot of time with the stuff. When they generate energy in their core, sometimes it kills off digestive bacteria, so it's yogurt to the rescue. My own culinary confession is my loathing for recipes that require homemade sauce since a sauce's role is to help rather than become a project in its own right.
I also discover Roland lives alone.
As we enter the door to Yarborough's room, it's all smiles and a chorus of heys. I'm gratified to see that my guess was correct. The whole team has turned out—none of them is going to abandon a brother in arms. I take my sunglasses off. I have to blend, bright lights or no.
"I may be wrong," I say, "but I believe someone owes someone a bottle of Jack Daniels."
"Been there, said that," says Olsen. She indicates a brown paper bag on the table with a bottle neck sticking out. "He tried some to kill the pain. Bad idea."
"Stitches in my cheeks," says Yarborough. "It's like a mouthful of bees."
"Isn't your jaw wired shut?" I ask. "You said that really well."
"Can still talk with my teeth together. Try." The Y comes out a little buried, but I have no problem understanding him.
"Can't believe I'm doing this," I say, teeth clenched. "Howzat?"
"Like sweet poetry." I set the soup down. Roland, who has been the pack mule, hands me the bowls and ladle. Soon everyone is thanking me. It's a tactic I learned early, dealing with my father—feed him, and I have a little bit of power. I could change his mood, change his focus. If I fed him, we had something to talk about that didn't involve punishment.
Punishment had practically been his way of talking.
"You made this while recovering from a knife wound?" asks Ebe. "I feel like a slacker."
"I thought anything that involved chewing would be painful, so it's just canned tomato. How's the chief? I heard you got banged up."
"My back's the worst part," says Breunig.
"You got hit in the back?"
"No," says Olsen, "but his back's got all the muscles that have to compensate keeping him upright. So, they're strained."
"I need a week lying on a beach in Tahiti."
"Jasper, baby," says Yarborough.
"What's that?" I ask.
"Yar's gonna take us skiing in Jasper when he wins the lottery," says Breunig. "Not the jackpot. That's stupid. But he's got this system to win ten grand or so."
"You get good skiing in Virginia?" I say, once again feeling too new.
"Canada," says al-Ibrahim. "Roland discovered it. Go to Montana. Take a right—"
"—drive north for eight hours," Yarborough and al-Ibrahim finish together, obviously having said it a hundred times before.
My eye catches Roland, standing by the door, looking out with his arms folded and hands empty. "You sure you don't want any?" I call.
"I'll have some in a minute," Roland says, attention on the hall.
"He's letting us relax," Breunig confides. "He does that."
"Did something happen?" I ask. From the looks passing around the room, something has.
"Roland's been with the company longer than us," explains Breunig. "He knew some of the original people who, uh... turned. So, whenever we're social, and he thinks a vipe might show up to retaliate, he volunteers to watch. It's no big thing."
I try to avoid looking alarmed, but before I say anything, Olsen jumps in. "Looks like he did a job on your neck," she says.
"Yeah, it was pretty incredible," I say, wondering if Roland has been so intimate when healing Olsen or the men. Surely, they've been wounded before?
"Was there saliva contact?"
"Please, I just met the man," I blurt, and everyone laughs. Olsen turns red, and knowing that she's going to follow up, I prepare.
"The vipe who cut you," she says. "I'm still not clear on the details."
"There were two of them, a human and Morgan," I say, adding "Lorenz" at the last second, just before it sounds unnatural. "Morgan must have bitten the guy, then had him lie in wait for me with the knife. It all happened really fast."
No sooner is the lie out of my mouth than I know it won't hold up.
"How did you know he was human?"
"He leaked like a human," Roland says, and I can breathe again. Roland closes the door so we can talk freely. "I saw two shapes fleeing the scene. I took out the slow one. A single burst, and he went down. The rest was just insurance."
"And the vipe didn't try to feed?"
"No," I say. "He was practically out the window."
"This may sound harsh, and I don't mean it to," says Breunig, "but we have a policy about engaging vipes alone. You were faced with a bad choice once Jackson went down. If it had been the vipe holding the knife, you'd be infected right now."
"Right." I nod and wonder when he's getting to the harsh part.
"This isn't the place to talk about the details, but we're all going to have to give an after-action report. And my report is going to say your partner was taken out, and you had no choice but to continue against your better judgment."
"Sure," I say. "We went to great lengths to pursue, yadda blah."
"Kern may come down on you, but we're on your side, and we want you to know that."
"'Specially me," adds Yarborough, and for a second, I'm not sure why he's said it. Warning bells are going off that they're all being too nice to me, but then I think, why not? Yarborough went from a vipe sitting on his chest to waking up with that vipe shot in the back of the head. Acting on instinct saved me... instinct and a phenomenal amount of luck.
"Well," I say, "feels good to be part of the family."
"Everyone give Mom a hug," calls al-Ibrahim, who leads by example. The sudden movement makes me tense. I want to throw him. I should throw him; but I allow it.
"Respect, Ebe," warns Breunig.
"I'm being respectful."
"You totally couldn't do that in Qatar, could you?" says Breunig.
"She's from L.A. They hug in L.A.," al-Ibrahim declares, then confides in me. "It's his hang-up. Breunig doesn't even hug his kids."
I fake a smile, and just as I wonder if Breunig is going to take that, the others leap to their leader's defense.
"Ebe, you are so full of shit," says Olsen. She sounds as if she speaks from long experience. "He's jealous 'cause Breunig actually gets laid, while he's waiting for some webcam princess to dump her boyfriend. It's a very tragic tale."
"It's only tragic if it never happens," retorts al-Ibrahim.
"So, you have kids?" I ask Breunig. "Do they know what you do?"
"Not all the details," he says. "I tell them the police can't catch all the bad guys themselves, so our company helps out."
"Huh," I say. My F-prot team in L.A. had happy people, married people, and people with offspring, but I've never seen all three in one. "Is it hard?"
"Nah, it's good motivation," Breunig says, as the others dig into their soup. "I want them to grow up in a world without vipes and whatever else." My heart kicks up a notch, but I know this dance. Pretend to agree. Words aren't literal poison. You can smile through them, no matter the dose. He fills space. "You figure people have been messing around with active qi for what, twenty years, give or take? This is the tip of the iceberg. When something else comes down the pike, it's going to be bigger and nastier and stronger."
"And we're gonna be there," says Olsen.
"Giving some!" says al-Ibrahim, and they bump fists. The others pass it along, and Olsen even walks over to reach Roland. I return the gesture, escaping into the moment to feel the vibe. As the conversation carries on, I look at each F-prot. They feel closer to me than I do to them.
I can live with guilt—I know this from experience. It makes me tougher when I feel it and freer when I don't. If I just forget about what's right and what's wrong for a little whil
e, I can feel loved by good people. And if it takes a double life to get that feeling, then at least I've managed to increase my chances somehow.
But I can't forget forever. And when I see Roland by the door, waiting for some vipe to try something, I know he's waiting for me.
19 - INFINITY
August 19th
Kern emerges from the fitness center pool after one lap and strides over to a towel he's tossed on a white plastic chair. I hardly recognize him out of pinstripes. I wouldn't be surprised if he's selected the meeting place just to show off his body, which looks pretty good for someone his age. He's not triggering my appetite, though—all I smell is a nose full of chlorine.
"Have a seat," he says, working the towel. "I guess you don't have a suit."
"Fresh out." I'm fully dressed and jacketed with little plastic booties over my footgear because the swim area likes hygiene more than recycling. "You pick this place for a reason?"
"No listening devices," he says. "And it clears the head. I could use some circulation. That conference room was deadly."
"When you called, I wasn't sure I'd still have a job. Or you either. I thought in our company, failure means you wake up with a horse's head in your bed."
Kern smiles, which is not what I expect. "Not everyone in our structure is a staunch ally of the F-prots, but it'll take a lot more than Morgan Lorenz to bring me down." Eye contact, easy posture. Is he clueless? "You don't believe me."
"When someone says they're invincible, that's when I start measuring the coffin. They've got to consider having you resign—I mean, if everything goes public, it just takes one guy in management or one F-prot to roll on you."
Kern shrugs. "The F-prots' hands are dirtier than mine. People up the food chain are more dangerous, but there's a more likely scenario than whistleblowing."
"Which is?"
"Everyone's giving contradictory strategies, and no one's respected enough to be in charge."
I absorb that. "Okay. But the news said we're having a hearing soon…"
"Our legal department has more coordination than management does."
I don't give a damn. I focus on playing Little Miss Wide Eyes. "I heard Lorenz can't technically have a class-action suit in Virginia or something."
Kern makes a face. "That's why it's federal. The damages he wants are over five million dollars, so strap in, and say hello to the honorable Param Bayat."
"Were you the one who suggested the defense? Because it's kind of… unusual."
Kern's face goes flat, and for an instant, I see a hint of deadliness. Then, it disappears. "Roland always said this was going to happen eventually, no matter what we did. But we had two reasons for F-prot, and keeping the secret was the less important one. The vipes have to be contained. We need to make that argument, and this is going to be our best chance."
He hasn't really answered my question, but I jump on his last statement. "And if we lose in federal, then what? Take it up to the Supreme Court or something?"
"We're not going to need a second shot," says Kern. "You know why?"
I don't give him the satisfaction of guessing. My eyes dart over to some skinny, old guy doing laps in the pool and a teenage lifeguard watching him. No one is within hearing range—the kids yelling in the shallow end take care of that.
Kern answers himself. "This isn't the same world as it was ten years ago. It used to be athletes were on steroids. Pretty soon, they'll be juiced with so much active qi, you'll be able to bounce bullets off the chests of the Ravens' defense. Used to be kids were prowling college hangouts with date rape drugs. There's cases now of stimwebbing the girls and giving them orgasms just by touching their wrists."
I've never heard of this shit. "Say what?"
Kern nods, barreling on like it's nothing. "Yeah, try convincing a jury you meant 'no' while questions about that are flying. Now, you take all that and put it in front of a judge who is what, seventy-five years old and hates everything about this century from data plans to mandatory electric cars, and you've got yourself a chance. Then, you add in the magic word, the V-word." Kern pauses for effect. "That word is video."
I blink.
"They show you the video in L.A., don't they? Sikorsky's death?"
"Is that even evidence? Lorenz didn't do that."
"It's not evidence of shit," Kern corrects. "It's a story. A story that has yet to be told, on TV screens or phones. A phenomenon yet to be. Ani Sikorsky is going to be the public face of what these sick fucks do when they are hungry.
"That turned-over SUV is going to be burned into the minds of middle-class America, and then it's going to get replay in election ads, hon. This time next year, we're going to affect an election."
My stomach clenches. Part of me wants to scream and wipe that look off Kern's face: that animated, fervent look of a true believer. And yet, there's another urge, to be taken in by his enthusiasm, and damn the consequences. I can see why his wife married him, why BRHI put him in a leadership position. He can make people believe things.
"Anyway," he says, all cool again, "you wanted to see me about staying on in D.C. If Darcy's agreeable, so am I."
Focus. Play serious. "Yeah, I don't want to go home. I had a bad breakup and a million other personal things, and now I owe one to that Lorenz clown. You know?"
Kern nods. "Most of the team considers it personal now."
"Trouble is, if I get banged up again, then Breunig and the rest will think I'm the girl who always fails. And I'm going to be sidelined. So, I need to be useful around here in other ways. I need to redeem myself."
He pauses, reading me. "What jobs do you think are not being done?"
I buy a second to think. "Way to put me on the spot." Cute smile. "I know a fat nothing about your operation, but I've got a security clearance. I say we use it. I mean, whenever I hear about cover-ups on the news, people delete stuff, but they forget to delete the order to delete or something, and that's how they get caught."
Kern looks sly. "We've had to do similar jobs before. If you want, I could supervise you on a cleanup team. The more supervisors you have with recommendations, the easier it is to climb around here."
"I'd like that." Infinity the liar again.
He stands. "Well, time's wasting. I'll give you a call when we need you, and right now, I should get this chlorine off me. Unless there was something else?"
I wonder again if there's anything I'm doing that sets him off. Was I looking at him like he's a meal? I've been getting pangs of hunger that don't feel bad yet, but I've been learning the hard way that they can take me from zero to crazy in a matter of hours.
I seize on the first thought in my head. "What's Roland's real name?"
Kern pauses. "How did that come up?"
"He said only you and Breunig know it. Is that club just for boys or something?"
"It's for people he trusts." I find myself looking at the floor, and Kern touches my hand. "I'm sure he'll find the chance to tell you sometime."
"Yeah," I say. Shit, I said it distantly. Focus. "I'm meeting him today."
"I've got to go plan a video roll-out. You stay cool."
"Yeah," I repeat. I'll see him again. Hopefully, before zero to crazy.
◆◆◆
I shift from foot to foot by the grocery carts outside the Whopper Mart, scoping people out and wondering about things. Roland got a good look at my qi signature, but as soon as I snatch somebody, the change will be as obvious as rainbow clown hair. I think. I don't know.
From what the F-prots say, vipes typically go one to two weeks between blood meals. The real addicts, the easiest to catch, want it all the time. The smart ones hold back and put predation into their schedules. I intended to be the latter, but this week's events have thrown my plans out onto the lawn and changed the locks.
By my calendar, it's been fourteen days since I fed. Not bad, considering how much I've been through in so little time, but there's no way in hell I'm going to survive a year if all I'm going to get per
bite is two lousy weeks.
The pangs have gone from twinges to a full-on grinding weakness as I wait for Roland to show. I thought I could tough it out—the pain this morning was comparable to cramps, so I broke into my ibuprofen—but the pills don't take away much. I'm loitering by the Whopper Mart's door, squinting in the sun that shines plenty bright but doesn't penetrate the chills.
I watch people going into the store alone and consider trying to grab one before meeting with Roland—though perhaps "fantasize" is a more accurate term than "consider." I could make an approach, true, and probably get some poor fool into my car or motel room, but then what? Once I do the deed, I'll need to wash up and probably a change of clothes, and then there's what to do with the poor sap, depending on if the victim is likely to live or… or whatever.
I can't do it, so my game plan is to conceal symptoms until Roland leaves. A little blush helps the pale skin. Hands in my pockets hides the shakes. As for the sunlight, I squint rather than wearing telltale sunglasses. I might have to suck up the fashion faux pas and shoplift a baseball cap.
"Hello."
I startle. Roland is right next to me, and I never saw him coming. It's embarrassing. I'm supposed to have great senses and keen jiujutsu paranoia, and here he is, a trained vipe-swatter a meter away.
"Don't do that."
"All right," he says. He has no need to ask what I mean. I bet if I ever snuck up on him, he'd get just as twitchy. "Do we want a basket or a cart?"
"Cart. Your little safehouse is out of everything."
"And your hotel room?"
"I'm dropping it to crash at the house, if that's cush. Better than charging the company for every night, right?"
"It is, as the kids say, cush."
"Okay, now I'm never using that word again." The next few minutes are relatively painless. I concentrate on breathing and pushing the cart and try not to think of strangulation, of sharp implements, of the warm flesh of his neck. He has a nice animal smell; I focus on identifying his shaving cream. "How old are you, anyway?" I blurt out.
