by Chris Hepler
I sort the load of darks and colors, noticing a hole in the armpit of a Hellroarer concert shirt I've had for years. Refusing to admit defeat, I put it aside for sewing. Then, I come upon one of Jessica's hijabs.
"You know, if this were a movie," I say, "this headscarf would trigger a breakthrough. I'd play with it like it's a blindfold, and then we cut to getting inside dressed as guards with a blindfolded prisoner or something."
Jessica doesn't look amused. "It's not a magic wand, I'll say that. Covering up saved me a lot of trouble as a vipe, but of course, it brought its share of harassment."
I fold one of the black ones, watching her to see how she does it. "I never got why women wore them here. At home in the old country, sure, but when you have the choice?"
"It's the opposite," Jessica says. "When the government says you must, you hate them. When it's your choice, it's freeing. The woman I got them from said covering up made her feel like she wasn't just a body. She was to be respected for her mind. And that made her feel safe."
"I have a gun and jiujutsu for that," I say.
"So… you're fear-free?"
I feel a sting of shame but don't want to give Jess any satisfaction. "Feeding time is a little scarier than it used to be."
"As long as you don't fall down the stairs and break your neck, you have nothing to fear from me. I was just taking advantage of a terrible situation."
"That's even creepier."
"I'd rather not fight. You adapted well. I'd be wracked with guilt, but I thought your explanation was quite effective."
I scowl. "Chalk it up to being experienced. I'm not giving it again."
"You may have to. Being a leader means—"
"I don't want to hear it. We are getting in this place, we are getting Morgan back, and he can do whatever he wants after that because I'm out. I'm done." Taking a breath, I calm myself. Jessica looks colder.
"I wouldn't tell others about this."
"Oh?"
"They look to you for direction. If even you can cut and run, they will do the same at the first opportunity."
"But you won't?"
Jessica straightens in her chair, and I can tell I hit a nerve. "The world is a better place with Morgan in it. Vipes would do well if they had him at the head of a genuine movement. I just want to see you succeed."
I glare at her. "You can be a real bitch, you know that?"
Jessica's face falls. She says nothing for a second, so I fill the void. "Morgan's in prison. Probably worse than prison. From what we can tell, he's in BRHI's back fucking parlor, and you're thinking about his value as the leader of a movement. They could be putting oven cleaner in his eyes like they do with animal testing. They could have him dead and dissected on a table, and you want him back to see us succeed?"
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I'm sure I've gone too far. A dozen different apologies war in my head. The last thing I should be doing is cursing the woman who is our best insight into how the enemy works and the only one of us who seems to care if I starve to death.
"I'm sorry," Jessica says at last. It's not something I often hear from someone of my mother's generation. It feels like throating the alpha wolf, mixed with that creepy forgiveness that priests give me.
"So am I. I didn't… well, honestly, I meant to snap, but not that much. Just... choose your words more carefully, I guess."
"I blocked out what he could be going through. I... I've been only partially here, you know. Let me throw away my phone for a minute and tell you I'm on your side."
"Seriously?" I consider. "Even if my plan involves pulling a trigger? Would you bail?"
"I said I'm with you. Cross my heart."
I feel the deep relief usually reserved for skydivers. "Then, what's your take on the others?" I say. "They tell you things they don't tell me."
"Deborah spent a half hour today looking into a mirror. I doubt she likes what she sees. Cass will follow you. He wants to atone for not being here when... well, he wants to do violence. Ferrero feels protective toward you and trusts your judgment. And me... I've found your hospitality... considerate."
"Then D's the one to worry about," I say. "Either we cut her off, or we trust her with something important. She has to identify herself as one of us, or it's poison."
"Now that sounds more like a leader."
I snort. "I thought it was just how you manage bad friends."
"Did you have something specific in mind for her?"
"We should play to our strengths," I say, "and Deborah's might actually come in handy."
52 - KERN
December 8th
With little else I can do, I tap my thumbnail against my teeth in a staccato rhythm. Edison Field is one of the few people in the world who can make me wait, and of course, behind his office door, he is either reveling in it or as clueless as a pirate with two eyepatches. I'm forced to stare at the receptionist and the trade papers and the sunset that is making me squint. I have news, too confidential for phone or e-mail, and it's put me in my own personal purgatory while God decides what his schedule looks like for the early evening.
I check my watch. I left my car parked far from the curb, and sure as taxes, I'm going to get a ticket for it. I hadn't cared when I ran inside expecting to burst into Field's office, but it's prickled at me for the last half hour, the easily fixable mistake I dare not fix. I told Pieter that I'm here because it's urgent and security-related, but that somehow isn't the secret password or whatever the hell Field wants.
On a suspicion, I get to my feet and conspicuously walk around looking at the art on the walls and the industry awards BRHI has claimed. When I get behind Pieter and see him splitting his attention between a phone call and a social networking Web site, I lose it. The future of my company is not going to be dictated to me by a twenty-four-year-old.
"I'm going to wait in his office," I say and start down the hall.
Pieter's eyes fly open, and he pulls off his headset to give chase. "Dr. Kern, you can't. He's meeting with investors."
"I see," I say, coming to a halt, "and would you like to tell me which companies those investors represent?"
"What?"
"Play along with me for a minute. You have his schedule, correct?"
"Yes, it's uh—he's meeting with Fenghuang Holdings."
"And what would be the worst-case scenario were I to disrupt this meeting?"
"I don't see what you're—"
"Just say it."
"Well, we could lose them as an investor. They put in stupid amounts of capital."
"Do you have an idea of their net worth? You must have some idea. You run all the paperwork down to Legal."
"Uh, no, I mean, I know how much they've invested per annum..."
"And how much did they give us last year?"
Pieter actually makes eye contact. "About six hundred and forty million dollars."
"Pieter," I say quietly, "I mean this with all seriousness. I cannot tell you the subject of my visit, but this particular business could make Fenghuang look like a piggy bank. Now, have you ever known me to do impulsive, misguided things?"
He doesn't answer, looking down again.
I catch his damn chin. "Hey—look at me. Have I ever lied to you?"
"No," he says, alarmed.
"Then, you know I'm telling the truth, so what's making you uncomfortable? Is it just the confrontation?"
"I'm just worried that I'm not doing my job," he says, "if I let you back there."
"You are doing your job. But I have to do mine. This is just a judgment call that I had to make. Think of it like an emergency. If your plane is on fire, and you can't open the exit, don't get in the way when someone else can. Does that make sense?"
"It does," he says.
"Now, I believe you have a phone call to get back to."
"Right," Pieter quickly runs off.
I walk. I crack my knuckles, open Field's door, and push my way in.
Field is on a video call. I ge
t a brief glimpse of a smiling woman decked out in a skirtsuit and hear a few words of Cantonese before I grab the remote on the table and pause the call.
"What the hell is that about?" says Field. "That's Hong Kong you just shut off."
I slam the door behind me. "We might lose ENDGAME," I say.
Field's scowl disappears. In its place is a measured furrow of the brow, which is probably the closest thing the old man has to showing abject terror.
"And on what are you basing this assumption?"
"Greenbriar Health has been getting scoped," I say darkly. "I can show you a graph, or I can bombard you with a mountain of the suspicious shit that has been going on at that place. Which do you want?"
"Tell me what's been going on."
"It starts with phone calls. People trying to get information out of the employees."
"Password scams?"
"No, and that's the suspicious thing about them," I explain. "They aren't aiming for bank account information or credit cards. They're people posing as doctors, asking questions about vipes in storage, trying to get personnel lists for the security staff. But when asked for credentials, they get vague or hang up."
"And you think these are part of some nefarious plan?"
I can see his doubt. I back it up. "I'd say it was just a prank or a cyber mob. But the security staff sent out a memo saying to report all incidents of strangers asking for pertinent info. Guess how many responses they got?"
"Tell me."
"Thirty-six." Field keeps a poker face, but I have him.
"That's some evidence," says Field, "but what makes you think this isn't some crew looking to get into the drug closet?"
"If that's all they wanted, there's easier ways. One inside man, and it's done. These people are searching, they've got medical expertise, and letting them anywhere near ENDGAME is—well, I don't exaggerate when I say we could all be out of business."
Field's eyes have drifted off to the left, and there's a short silence as he thinks. "What happened to that Cawdor creep who jumped ship? Did you tie him off?"
"He has disappeared and has caused no damage that we know of."
"Did he know about ENDGAME?"
"Never."
Field visibly relaxes. "How long would it take you to move the operation?"
"The equipment would take a few days, but if we just want to get the cutting edge and the records out of there, we're talking hours, two or three."
"Find me a good destination for them, and do it," orders Field. "And call in every marker you've got with security from other facilities. First, you burn the evidence, and second, if someone so much as breaks a window, I want them shot."
"For that," I say, "I know just the people."
53 - BREUNIG
December 8th
I have them assembled by the afternoon, and it only takes that long because Yarborough's stupid phone managed to turn itself to vibrate, and he's wearing it in a fanny pack where he never feels it. Kern waits to brief them until he arrives—I insisted either we're doing this together or not at all. It ate at Kern, I could tell, but I'm damned if I'm not going to establish some boundaries. This man dismantled our livelihood. If he wants the machine back in action, he's going to show some respect.
Kern met me halfway. He got Greenbriar's police liaison on the phone to smooth the path for the rest of the team. I scheduled the meeting and got Kern pitching to the troops.
"What I want is in two steps," Kern announces. "The first is an extraction."
"Who's the target?" asks Olsen.
"Just me with portable cargo. Breadbox size or so. I go in, I get it, I get out."
"It's not that simple, or we wouldn't be here," says Yarborough.
"I'm expecting trouble. How much, I don't know."
Christ. "Estimate." I forgot just how maddening Kern can be when expecting miracles in a decidedly non-miraculous profession.
"It's likely the vipes in the area know Greenbriar has something they want. They might be there as soon as tonight." Off the team's eye-rolls, I step in.
"Come on, people, intel goofs are a fact of life. The faster we can assess, the faster we can get in and out before they do."
Yarborough doesn't let it go. "About the vipes. I didn't hear a number."
Kern looks unsure. "We know it's a team. Four or five minimum."
"Maximum?"
"That depends on how many new ones they've created."
"Okay, then. Timeline."
Kern pauses only briefly. "Since June."
We all freeze. No one else wants to say the words. I know what they're afraid of: Infinity's betrayal and Roland's loss might be fatal wounds. Fighting back is a good antidote to fear, but fighting a superior enemy is a fast way to die. It takes determination, weapons, and, most importantly, intelligence. So, I speak.
"Okay, Dr. Kern, that's what we in the business call a Foxtrot Lima."
"Excuse me?"
"Fuck Load," al-Ibrahim supplies. "Do you know how many that could be?"
"There haven't been any reports that have the vipes working in large groups, but I'm aware it could be dangerous. That's why we need to get in and out q—"
Yarborough isn't listening to him. "We're gonna need full kit and ordnance. We're going to have to be cleared by security to wear the suits. We'll need to brief all their employees—"
"If we get there on the day shift," Kern tries, "there will be more staff to support you in case there's an incident—"
Olsen talks over him. "That's more chances for friendly fire. Unless we are crystal clear about our presence, and we are on their radio channels to coordinate, assume someone dies."
Kern looks ruffled. "If there's an incident."
"The whole point of this is to plan for incidents," Olsen snaps.
I agree with her, but the conversation needs to go back toward friendly territory. "Okay, what I'm hearing is a list. We need a meeting with their security. We need to brief every single one of the staff who will be on-site tonight—"
"—they're still going to have to be alert for vipes—"
"—right. I'll cue most-wanted-vipe photos for a presentation—"
"—We'll need to ask if anything's gone missing: key cards, codes—"
"—Do we have a hard number on headcount tonight?"
"Hey!" It's Kern. Their eyes go back to him. "There's also the matter of the second step," he says. "The extraction's purpose is to deny the vipes access to my cargo, but it is conceivable that they could also be breaking in to create video for propaganda purposes. Consequently, during the extraction, I would like a sanitization."
"During the extraction?" Yarborough says incredulously.
"Yeah, hold up. Why not have the on-site staff do it?" asks Olsen.
"Because the staff at Greenbriar are currently compartmentalized to avoid strategic leaks," Kern says. "As are independent contractors such as yourself. It's nothing new. Think of how rarely you talk to the L.A. teams, New York teams, the Haiti team…"
"We have a Haiti team?" asks al-Ibrahim.
"Whoa, using lack of communication with L.A., that's not something that supports your argument," adds Olsen. "If we'd coordinated ourselves with L.A. better, we might have gotten clued in about DeStard."
"Dr. Kern," I say, "I think it's important to say why we’re reluctant. We get that compartmentalization is necessary, but when it puts the team at risk—splitting us up in the face of what could be a frighteningly superior force—then we have to check out that decision. And compartmentalization sounds very close to 'you have no need to know, so shut up, and do your jobs.' Do you see where we're coming from?"
"That makes perfect sense," says Kern, in a tone that still seems unfriendly. "However, you have a combination of clearance and skills that make you uniquely suited for sanitization. To my knowledge, the vipes will not be targeting me specifically. I see myself with an escort of one to two of you while the rest do the cleanup. Now, if I recall from your service records, some of you
are skilled in incendiary drone piloting?"
Yarborough looks lost. That skill is the last thing he'd ever expected to come up again.
"What about it?" Yar asks.
"I mean, you know how to use bots and plasma torches, right?"
"Yeah, that's just garbage pit duty. I pulled that all the time—"
"Exactly. You direct the team, I get in quick and out quick, and if the vipes try anything, we bring down the hammer from team and security staff both. Capiche?"
Yarborough looks to me. "What do you think?"
I look at them. They want to do it, I'm sure—they hate being idle, and fear is a surmountable obstacle. If one of them goes all in, the others will follow in solidarity. But the situation Kern presents is an unforgiving reality. "The last time we went in hastily, we had two casualties. If it weren't for Roland, we would have lost one. We do not have Roland now."
"The one turned out to be our leak," points out al-Ibrahim.
"That's not the point," I say. "Getting slugged by a vipe is a serious injury with Roland and death without him."
"No, but this time, if we have no leak, they won't know what hit them," al-Ibrahim insists. "Last time, Yar was against it, and he was right. We didn't have surprise. We didn't have a plan. This time we do. We'll be in a hospital, so medical's covered."
Olsen says, "We should add 'briefing the trauma team' to the agenda."
I frown. "We can, but we must realize if that happens, our planning has already failed. Our strategy should separate vipes from each other so large numbers can be isolated and killed."
"It's the Corus job but a little bigger," says al-Ibrahim. "We just make sure hospital layout is on the agenda during our exercise with the security team." Most of us have seen the outside of Greenbriar, but our duty ends when we deliver vipes or vipe bodies to the double doors. Security and medical personnel always take it from there. We barely sign the vipes in.
"Yar?" I say. "You're the one who paid the price last time. If this sounds sour to you or false confidence, you let us know."
Yarborough snorts. "You ain't a champion without some rematches." I look to the others.
