by Chris Hepler
The garbage is not normal, either, but the team seems to be taking it all right.
"Guess they had to end up somewhere," says al-Ibrahim. He's looking at the rows of drawers along the wall and the slabs in the center of the cavernous chamber, each of which is piled high with the overflow—mummified shapes that are mercifully faceless yet still unmistakably identifiable. He fingers a bag in curiosity. It's some kind of biodegradable gauze-like material built to hold in liquids, but the most important thing it does is keep in the smell. This close to the furnace, they get ripe.
"The goal is to incinerate them all by five a.m.," I say. "That will provide us a few hours' window before the cleaning staff is cleared to come in. Every one of these has to go in the plasma furnace and be unidentifiable ash. That means bones, it means teeth, it means their fillings. Is that understood?"
"Yeah…" says al-Ibrahim, peering at a sheet-wound body but being very careful not to touch it no matter how much he wants to. "I could see how this visual here could be, uh, misinterpreted."
"All I say is, I'm glad someone's doing this shit," says Yarborough. "It's a war out there."
"Just how long did you go collecting these guys?" asks Olsen.
"We needed a statistically significant sample," I answer.
"For what population?"
I hesitate at her familiar tone. But Olsen is their med tech, not a grunt. "Well, the United States, for starters," I say. "With a number that large—"
"Fifteen hundred vipes or so?" Olsen says. "I knew we delivered a lot—"
Yarborough snorts. "No way. We did five hundred tops, and here—if you open all the drawers, you get maybe a quarter that. You'd have to have other teams—"
"All right, compare notes after class," barks Breunig. "Yar, you know drone piloting best. You're on first shift. Olsen will be with you. Ebe and I are going to get Dr. Kern upstairs and out of here. We will return to check your work." He touches his headset to unmute it. "Central, this is Black One. We are on the move."
I don't hear the reply but assume from Breunig's hand motion that everything is received and understood. It is time to get what we came for.
◆◆◆
I ram my key home, and we burst into the room. The first thing to hit me is the smell. Better than the burn room, but it's still too many mouse feces and too few cedar chips. There's some rule or other about what substrate to use in laboratory conditions, and whatever litter it is, it doesn't have cedar's masking aroma. I flick on the utility light as opposed to the UVs that simulate sunlight, and the sounds of scrabbling double. Breunig enters the room, weapon out, while al-Ibrahim keeps checking the hall.
Nothing here requires firepower. The walls of the room are hidden behind racks of clear plastic bins, each with a cross-shaped divider down the center to keep four mice isolated for their protection. Each is labeled in arcane script, but I've seen the box I want before. It doesn't take long to find it and pull it off its shelf.
The four mice inside twitch their noses and take a few steps. They are small, black rodents like any of a hundred others. I stare at them for a second, as if I could somehow see some trait that belies their value. But their deviations can only be viewed under microscopes, in blood spectroscopy, in immunosorbent assays. Even then, not a single biologist in a roomful would see what I see in them.
Right now, what I notice most is that their water bottles are low.
"That's the cargo?" asks Breunig.
"That's all," I confirm. "Disappointed?"
"I didn't know if you needed a big sample size or something," the F-prot says.
I shake my head. These four are the cutting edge. All else can be replicated. "I'm going to fill up their bottles. Then, we're out of here."
"Copy that." Breunig glances at Ebe, who gives him a hand signal. I don't know what it means. I guess everything is clear.
I move to the sink. I assumed the mice were well-cared for, but even at a place as important as Greenbriar, discipline can slip. Whatever security-cleared wage monkey we hired to maintain the room must have cut corners. No one would want to spend more time in here than they had to. I pop the top on the plastic bin. The mice squirm, and as I see one climbing to the top of its water bottle, I abruptly realize that brushing it away is not the wisest move. The one rule of animal handling I remember is simple: if it has a mouth, it can bite. I'm not afraid of pain. Saliva is something else.
I shake the mouse into its cube and find a glove dispenser in a cabinet above the sink. As I roll them on, I see the rear end of one agile little bastard humped over the side of the bin. I grab for it a second too late and hear the non-sound of the tiny body hitting the floor. Instantly, I slam the lid on to prevent the others from doing the same. Lab animals are fragile as a rule, sickly and easily stressed. They could die on me—
It's over in a second or two. I have the mouse—a female—back where she belongs. I swap in the water bottles and seal the bin, which I reinforce with strapping tape.
As I work and the F-prots do nothing but guard me, I feel a particular pride in the menial nature of it all. No one below me knows the importance of this mission. No one above me would stoop to do it. I can secure an asset, as surely as if I were a secret agent on assignment. Not a Hollywood superspy but one of those poor saps in World War II behind enemy lines with nothing but binoculars and a radio. There's merit in such work, if the stakes are high enough.
I finish by putting a cardboard transport sleeve around the bin to keep the animals calm. "Ready to move," I announce.
Breunig immediately goes to work. "Red One, this is Black One and White One doing exfil. We have cargo and are starting the motor." Al-Ibrahim presses a button.
Then, nothing happens. Neither F-prot moves. I start to, and Breunig puts an armored hand on my chest to keep me back.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"Shh," is all I get. I can't see much of Breunig's expression under the riot-helmet getup. What I can see are the eyes. Those are staring as if he's getting some very bad news.
Then, as urgently as the moment came, it was over.
"All right, new plan. White One, you're going to floor one to meet two from Briar Team. You will then track the intruders. If you do not have advantage, do not confront."
My pulse quickens at the word intruders. They are here for me. There is no way for them to know, and yet somehow, they know all the same. I watch al-Ibrahim dash off and turn to Breunig.
"What's going on?"
"Two personnel went silent. Both biomancers."
"What happens to us?"
Breunig mutes his mike. "Our plan is intelligence, then avoidance," he says. "Once Briar Team gets a handle on how many of them there are, we make a break for it. Until then, sit tight."
I let out the breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. They have it in hand. These are men and women who've dealt with vipes hundreds of times. Every time, they had survived, and those opposed… well, we saw their ranks a few floors below.
I almost convince myself by the time the lockdown alarm splits the air.
57 - INFINITY
Finding the door is guesswork. For all our scoping of the site, for all the phone tag and planning, we still must wander the halls practically looking for signs saying, PRISONERS HERE. I figure Morgan's in the basement, behind concrete walls. Deborah rattles off facts about the D.C. water table and how Greenbriar won't have dug too low. Jessica recommends the center of the building, like the keep in an old-fashioned castle. We try everything—ten minutes here, ten minutes there, walking the knife-edge of panic. In the end, it turns out I'm right.
My nose tips me off. There's a whiff of lemon in the air, like the faint scent I used to get from the drop-off guys in L.A. I remember because I once asked if it was aftershave or something, and the technician had laughed.
"Gas," I say.
Deborah stops pushing the gurney we acquired. She tries not to scream. "What kind?"
"The kind they use to knock out vipes. Starts with an
S."
"Sevoflurane," says Jessica. "The stronger the smell, the closer we are."
"Let's just hope it's not too strong," Deborah says. She's right. This is the last place on Earth we want to be unconscious. But the dosage to keep down an unfed, near-comatose vipe would be too low for the likes of us. Right?
I try a metal door, reasoning Morgan will be in the most reinforced place. It pushes open invitingly, and only after the three of us are through do I spin on my heels and dive for it as its weight slams it shut. My hand is caught by its edge, and it's like a hammer on my fingers. Deborah and Jessica look at me strangely.
"One-way door," I explain. "We had them in L.A. You need a zone card to open it from the inside."
"Stay on the outside while we test it," Jessica says. "We'll see if ours works."
I step back through the door and shake out the pain in my hand, feeling it warm up and start healing before any bruise forms. I can hear the thumps of Jessica trying to get out a few times. I open it once more.
"Okay, someone needs to hold it," I say. "Deborah, you're up. I need Jess in case Morgan needs a doctor."
"Got it." Deborah then reconsiders. "I could wedge my coat in there—"
"Don't leave it alone," I say. "If anyone finds it, we'll need you to talk your way out of—"
I'm cut off by a deep, grating blast, which is murder on sensitive vipe hearing. We've left the door open too long, so the alarm is blaring.
"Jess, with me." I dash down the corridor, and Ulan wheels the gurney. There's nothing to do but find our goal as fast as possible. I run until the doors look promising. I rip a few open, getting offices and quiet rooms complete with restraints tables that could hold down God.
Then, just when I'm ready to give up hope, I see a door that must be it. It looks like it belongs on a submarine, all steel or titanium or whatever badass alloy they've rigged up special. It has a wheel rather than a handle. I claw at it until it opens.
The room is a cell, all right, a lot worse than the ones I've seen when bailing my adolescent idiot friends out of county lockup. There's a funk and stink from a human who hasn't been bathed in weeks. There's a showerhead but no white porcelain toilet: just a hole in the floor with two slightly raised places to put feet while squatting. The only comfort in the room is a pallet, and on that, under some kind of paper-thin hospital blanket, is an unkempt man with a month or more of beard.
"Morgan?" I say, and his eyes open.
Jessica wastes no time. She has her headset on and fires it up.
"Bravo, distraction is go."
My sharp ears pick up an affirmative from Ferrero. Then, Jess is at Morgan's side, helping him stand. I nearly tackle him with a hug.
He hugs back, and it is the most reassuring thing in the world. No. I want it to be the most reassuring thing. He isn't going to know what to do. He won't lead us out of here, and he never had the answers to stop the power and the tyranny of the bastards who threw him in here. He can't even stop smelling like shit.
When we let go at last, I take Morgan on my arm and help him through some shaky steps forward. Then, I let Jess hold him up because I should be—
—watching the doorway.
Standing there is a hard-shell suit of armor, all black and matte except for the shine on the face shield. The M12 carbine it holds is trained on my chest, and behind this figure are two more, in the light blue dress shirts of police officers, sandwiched under dark ballistic vests.
The suit of armor flips up its visor, never altering the barrel of the gun a millimeter. I see eyes I don't quite recognize, but the voice cements who it is.
"Infinity," says al-Ibrahim, "down on your knees before I shoot you all."
58 - CASS
When I jump out of the truck, I ain't even human. You gotta think that way if you're going to win. The Marines taught me that before they threw me out for some bullshit drug charge. Point is, you visualize yourself as whatever it takes. A machine, a hunting animal, a superhero. Me, I've got warrior tricks from a half-dozen different civilizations. I've got bandages around my stomach like a yakuza, tourniquets around my arms like a Moro. Knives and guns are oiled and slung; the hair's held back by a bandanna. I wanted to wear the Stars and Stripes, but it's in the wash, and I'm going to die clean, so tonight it's the tiger of Shotokan karate. The supplies in the bag over my left shoulder clink and rattle as I hop down. Ferrero, the only witness to my dramatic exit, ain't impressed.
"Remember, take no risks," he says, quoting Infinity's planning sessions.
Infinity doesn't know everything and Ferrero, even less. "That's for them. This is for me," I reply, and I slam the door. Ferrero rolls down the window and calls after me.
"Cass! They got vehicle barriers. I'm not bailing you out!"
He doesn't sound mad at me anymore. I turn. "If you could, would you?" I say.
Ferrero seems to stare through me. "What…" he starts. Then, "…yeah."
That's when I know I need to say something. Because I'm never getting another chance. All I can come up with is, "Don't ever change."
I check the extended magazine in my Haribon one last time. It's an ugly pistol-like weapon that holds thirty rounds and could graduate to being a full submachine gun if it grew a little switch. I stalk out of the parking garage with it in my hand, giving the camera at the entrance a sullen glare. I feel droplets on my face and hair as the wind picks up and nod to myself. If I'm going out today, I want Thor and Zeus to take notice.
The thing you have to understand is, since Infinity pulled me off Ferrero, I've had this shame hanging over me. When you hurt a man like that, you can say sorry a billion times. It won't be enough. So, I'm going to beat that shame down, with bullets and fire and guns, because tonight is the night where everyone knows how much they actually need me.
Ferrero thinks it's a fantasy. Maybe. But if I've learned anything about crime, it's that it's dangerous to get between a man and his fantasy.
The main doors to the hospital are glass. The six cops are now just three, visible at the security line and the information desk in the lobby beyond. The missing cops are no doubt going after Infinity. I'll change that.
I rip open the door with my free hand. Suddenly, the faint alarm I've heard from outside is a deafening blare, and it puts me on edge right when I need it. I see motion and terrified eyes from behind the bag scanner and react automatically. The Haribon lets loose its deafening pops, and a woman's head falls out of sight. I turn on the information desk and see three more faces—the first a receptionist, the other two cops, looking up from a monitor.
I sight in on a head just as the cops get their pistols free. My gun is a steady hammer, bone-jarring and authoritative. Again, I can't see bullet holes or blood before the first man falls, but he collapses plenty fast. The second one gets off a shot, but I never stop moving or firing, and it goes wild. I come around the desk, still firing, and the man's pistol clatters to the ground as he doubles over, clutching his arm. When I get around the desk, the first officer is clearly out. The second one is curled up, like rounds got through his vest, or maybe the impacts just beat him up.
I turn to the receptionist. I'm about to pull the trigger on her, but she looks like she would be saying Hail Marys if she hadn't forgotten the words. She's crawled under the desk. There's no point in finishing her. The alarm has already been sounded, and it isn't as though she'll be the witness who puts me away. If someone wants that, one look at the security cameras will do.
"You got a PA in this place?" I shout over the alarm.
"What?"
"Do you have a public address system?"
She nods and then crawls slowly out from under the desk. She presses a button on the phone and offers me the receiver.
"Here."
I grab it. "This is a message to all you fucking cops," I say. "You want to fight someone, fight me. I'm the one killing your boys here at the front desk." I aim at the second prone guard's head and hold the phone receiver right next to the gun.
/>
"Wait," says the receptionist, but I don't.
59 - INFINITY
In between pulses of the ear-shattering alarm, I gauge the distance between me and Ebe. To grab him, I'll have to clear a good three meters before he fires the weapon filling his hands. Then, there's the gurney. Can I knock it into him before he squeezes the trigger? No, too slow. It's off to the side, and the doorframe will block anything but a straight shot. If there's any road out of this one, it's through my brain and my mouth.
"So," I say, "this is a step up from being the wheel man."
"On your goddamn knees!" al-Ibrahim snaps.
"Okay, okay, we're not troublemakers here," I say. I have the pistol in my pocket. If I can reach it, maybe I can fire through my coat, but how can I get all three of them? It can't discourage me. Being captured here is death and worse. I kneel, hands on my head.
"Docs study you so much," Ebe says. "All they need to know is two words. Can die."
I'm not offended. I'll take talking instead of firing. If I can get my hands on Ebe's gun and keep him between me and the other two—
It's not going to happen. As Ebe comes into the room, he snaps his face shield down. The two badges behind him start to fan out. Just as I feel relief that they aren't all aiming at me, one cop changes, recognizing me as the threat. But I can't let them take me, take Morgan, take Jess—
Then, the cop in the back does something strange. He crumples to his knees and plants his face on the floor. I watch his gun bounce for a half-second before realizing that the more important thing to see is the figure behind the cop moving to the next one up the line. It falls on him with an open hand to the back of his neck, not like a karate chop but a firm grab, and then the second cop stumbles, too.
