by Therin Knite
Brannigan removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Can you at least tell me why you want to resemble this...person?"
"I can’t get into specifics. Sensitive mission."
"Right. Another undercover?" He grabs a pack of cigarettes from his top desk drawer and slips it into his coat pocket. "More elaborate than your last one, isn’t it? You ever used surgery to steal a story?"
"I don’t steal stories. I reveal stories. Big difference, Doc."
"You didn’t answer my question."
I smirk.
He snorts. "When do you want this done?"
"Now, if you can hack it. I need the swelling down by Friday."
An explosion rocks the building, knocking over a glass of water on Brannigan’s desk. He curses and snags a roll of paper towels from a nearby cabinet to wipe up the spill. While he’s busy, I lean closer to the window for a better view. The army has arrived. A black helicopter circles the center of the riot, dropping concussion bombs every ten or twenty feet.
The feds will cut the life support to this sad old city soon, and then it’ll suffocate, wheezing, praying for relief that will never come.
Brannigan leaves the paper towel roll next to his workstation keyboard and lifts the now drenched photo by the corner. "I have a few openings today. This kind of alteration will take about three hours. You have that long?"
"Yes. I have plenty of time." I keep my eyes trained on the window. "Don’t think I’ll chance any shopping sprees this time around."
"Fair enough. I’m swapping offices next month."
"Oh? Where are you heading?"
"North Carolina. Raleigh."
"Safer than most cities these days, yeah?"
"On the top twenty-five list. Wish I could get into D.C., but their security is insane. I’d never get through the door with my client list."
"Pity. You’ve got a great rep."
"Yes." He shakes the water off the photo. "With people like you."
"Should I take that as an insult?"
There are people fleeing from the riot scene now. They’ve begun to trickle out of the battle zone and toward the office. Several limp along, dazed and confused. Many are bleeding. A few have motionless might-be-bodies on their backs or in their arms. One has a face burned black as soot.
None of them will escape. The army perimeter will have a three-mile diameter unless they’ve changed tactics recently. Any survivors will be rounded up and shipped off to the nearest prison.
"Take it as whatever you want, McClain." Brannigan scratches his graying beard. "But if it’s any consolation to your ego, I wouldn’t swap my clientele for any other kind. Not in this world. Not today."
I readjust myself in the chair and tug the hem of my skirt closer to my knee. "You think there will be a tomorrow?"
He shrugs. "Do you?"
"Yes. I think there will be several tomorrows. Although I’m not so sure about a next year."
Brannigan scrutinizes the photo of Adele’s pudgy face and hums a melancholy note. "Does a next year really matter to you, McClain, as long as you finish your story today?"
The army catches up to the runaways. Some surrender. Some run. The ones too dumb to know they’ve lost are shot.
"Not at all." I grab the cords for the window blinds and pull. The riot scene vanishes behind gray slats. "I honestly couldn’t care less.”
... [ Chapter Five ] ...
1
Quentin
( 3 Years Ago )
I sneak out in the dead of night.
Six patrolmen wait outside the fence, scouring the neighborhood for naughty eyes. One of the massive iron gates is open. A crack. Large enough for me to fit through with comfort if I were twenty years younger and in shape. I squeeze through anyway, sucking in my stomach as far as it will go. The gate closes behind me and locks, the defense grid reengaging with a subtle ripple in the air.
Howard is watching. The "new and improved" Howard.
Out and about in the husk of Jackson City, I power walk three blocks to a waiting car. Another patrolman is at the wheel, so I plant myself in the front passenger seat. The patrolman starts the car without a word from me and drives. Past block after block of filth and ruin we go, toward the boundary of the city and beyond.
After we pass a sign that must have once said "Jackson City Limits" but now bears a devil’s face in blue paint, the patrolman turns its featureless helmet my way. Given its complex internal sensor array, it has no use for vision. It has no eyes to keep on the road.
For seven minutes, I watch the starlight and shadows flicker across its reflective faceplate. Then the radio switches on by itself, and Howard’s modulated voice comes through the speakers. Classical music plays low and sweet in the background.
"You should begin practicing your speech for the President."
I cross my arms and exhale. Howard was never an exceptional traveling companion, even when he had a heartbeat and a need to sleep, but this is absurd. He’s been this way since I woke up in the infirmary attached to a heart monitor. Since I woke up from a supposedly near death experience with no memory of the preceding twelve hours.
He is cold. Emotionless. When I ask why, he simply says, "It is better this way. I will not make mistakes if I cannot be influenced by petty human trifles."
I want to remind him that petty human trifles are what made us friends, but I don’t. I’m not sure I can trust this new Howard not to turn on me, and if he does, I’ll be at his mercy and the community my Howard labored so hard to create may be at risk.
"Quentin. Did you hear me?"
"Yes, I heard you. But the President lives in D.C., Howard. We’re in Nebraska. I have plenty of time to formulate my proposal. I’ve been awake for thirty-six hours already, and unlike you, I don’t run on electricity."
The helmet doesn’t budge. I get the sense Howard is making one of his faces again, except there’s nothing in the car he can project it onto. "This is of vital importance," he says.
"Everything is of vital importance in your mind, Howard. Because you’re convinced the world will topple any moment."
"It began to topple long ago."
"Began is the key word in that sentence. It’s not going to cease to exist all at once. We human beings were never destined for an easy, quick end." I look away from the patrolman and seek out my window. Trees. Fields. Trees. Fields. A blank billboard. If I try, I can see the patrolman’s reflection in the dark glass, the faceless helmet unmoving. "No, we’ll go slowly and painfully and sick as dogs. Our bodies will rot. Our minds will wither. Our spirits will shrivel and turn to dust."
"Hm. That is...poetic."
I start and glance at the patrolman. That sounded like the old Howard. The old, old Howard. The one with the stubble and unkempt hair who laughed at lame puns. The one that wasn’t stick thin and coughing his lungs up. The one that wasn’t less Howard and more computer every day.
"I suppose it is."
"The speech can wait. If it must."
An itching sensation crawls up my spine. "Hey, Howard. You remember when we first scouted out Jackson City?"
"Yes. I do." The patrolman takes a left at the next intersection and speeds forty or fifty miles over the limit down another abandoned country road. "Twenty-four years, sixteen months, eight days, six hours, and thirty-three minutes ago. We flew in economy. We drove in a rental car that experienced a brake failure eighteen miles outside the city. We hitchhiked. We rode with an elderly man who smelled like cows into the city. We arrived two hours late for our lunch with the mayor."
I chuckle. I’d forgotten about the cow smell. "Why did we choose Jackson again?"
"Do you not remember?" The patrolman’s helmet returns to a straight-ahead position. Its body is rigid, but its movements are smooth. The patrolmen were designed to appear like soldiers garbed in combat suits, but with Howard at the wheel, they possess the reflexes of martial artists wearing white cotton.
"No, I remember."
Howar
d is silent for a full minute, and then he answers, "Isolated. Cheap to purchase. Loose laws for development. Easy to hide our activities. Those were the main reasons."
"What about secondary reasons?"
His pause is longer than the last. "Corndogs. Jackson City had delicious corndogs. Better than any other possible location we staked out."
I cover my smile with the back of my hand. "How many did you eat? In those two days we were there?"
"Twelve."
"Twelve. Twelve damn corndogs. You made yourself sick. Spent the morning before our flight home vomiting in that toilet that wouldn’t flush. They tried to charge us extra because the maid pitched a fit."
We ride over a shallow hill, and the bright lights of Saluda come into view. The town has grown since Jackson City began to die. Somewhere near the outskirts, there’s a private jet waiting on a small tarmac that bears the seal of the President. All it took was "national emergency" to convince the man a meeting was necessary. All it took to convince me was Marco Salt’s escape.
I don’t remember it now, his getaway. It vanished into the haze of my nearly lethal heart attack. But Howard described it as "disconcertingly competent" given Salt’s mental state. I’m not sure how much I can trust the "new" Howard’s word, but I can’t risk the Heights regardless. It’s best to err on the side of caution. Best to stomp out the bug problem before it becomes an infestation.
The patrolman presses the pedal to the floor, and the car hurtles toward Saluda. I grip my seatbelt and clear my throat. "Um, Howard. Going a bit fast there, aren’t you?"
"We will arrive quicker. You may sleep sooner."
"Considerate of you."
"Quentin." The patrolman’s silent head pivots to face me again. "Why ask me questions about before? What purpose did those questions serve?"
I stare at the expressionless helmet for a long while before I shake my head. "No purpose, Howard. I was just making conversation. I get very bored on road trips."
2
Georgette
( 4 Days Ago )
My first morning as Adele, I fight back tears as I’m making breakfast. I haven’t been this ugly since I was fourteen pounds overweight during the height of puberty. Adele’s face is asymmetrical and has a permanent pinched appearance to it, no matter its emotions. How Adele lives like this, I can’t understand. If I have extra money after my Heights exposé, I’ll give her a cut for a lift.
Full of eggs, bacon, and wheat toast, I move on to Phase Three of my undercover operation. I have two days before the reps come to recruit Adele, so by then, I have to walk the walk and talk the talk. Brannigan did a number on my vocal chords, using a recording of a genetic manipulation presentation Adele made last year, so I sound like her. In tone. Not in speech. I have to practice.
My best bet is to navigate her natural environment and use what I’ve studied of her life to mimic her. Our brief introduction and farewell gave me a pretty good idea of how this woman acts on a daily basis, but I have to be sure. She’s met two other scientists on the recruitment roster for this round, so if they accept the invitation, my act has to be flawless.
The first adventure is a trip to the mall. I sent Adele off in a taxi, so I drive her car, a rusting blue Beetle, into town. I pass several families in the process of moving out, vans piled high with boxes of belongings. A little girl with a teddy bear is sitting on the curb, watching her father strap bicycles to the roof of an SUV. Farther down the street, twin boys are seated on their front porch, hunched over identical handheld game consoles as two women haul a sofa out of the garage.
Where all these people are going, I can’t guess. Cleveland is on the moderate safety list for cities. There have been no major riots, as of yet. No vital banks have closed. The military presence is minor. Maybe they’re trying to get a head start before the panic sets in. Not that it’s going to do them any good. The world is crumbling, ten or fifteen cities a day, a country or two a month.
We’re going down, nice and hard and slow. The end is definitely nigh. When it happens, I’ll retire to a cottage in the middle of a mild state and live out my days with a garden and a hunting rifle. My Pulitzer is already hung above the fireplace.
Until then, however, I have a duty to the world: uncovering the truth.
To the mall I go.
The parking lot is packed, but I find a corner spot beneath a shady tree. Before I get out, I stuff my SIG Sauer into a well-hidden chest holster. Adele would never carry a gun—I can’t imagine her using anything more dangerous than a butter knife outside a science lab—but crime is up five hundred percent, according to the local news. And Adele is a meek-looking woman, a good mugging target.
Traversing the lot, I notice many of the cars have been abandoned. Several have multiple parking tickets stuck under their wipers. A few of the cars, on the other hand, appear inhabited by people who must have lost their homes in the mortgage crash. Furtive eyes peek at me from behind grimy windows and over the tops of truck beds.
I speed up.
The front doors of the main mall building are propped open; small groups enter and exit sporadically. I pause to let an older woman round a cluster of loitering teen boys on her way out. Graying hair. Dimpled cheeks. Vibrant green eyes. She looks like Momma from before—with the hunched, suspicious shoulders and defiant expression. Before her "tragic accident" on a rainy June day during what should have been a routine sneak-and-spy story find. Before Senator Palm’s bodyguards left her a vacant husk.
I hold myself in place until the woman hobbles over to a coupe in a handicap parking space a few rows down. When she’s inside her car, doors locked, I enter the mall.
Quiet. Subdued. Jittery forms resembling people shuffle about, searching store windows for items they can’t afford. Children have been left in a rundown play area, some of them permanently, I imagine. It’s like they’re in a pound pin, waiting for a nice new owner. I avoid walking too close to them in case they spur that devilish pity.
Most of Adele’s clothing comes from a discount retailer I’ve heard the name of but never dared venture inside. My high school friends would have laughed me into the unpopular pit had I been spotted there. I can see why.
The sign above the entrance is missing four letters. The racks near the checkout counter are bare. One lonely cashier is bobbing back and forth on her heels, twisting a lock of hair, and mouthing along to a hard rock song booming through her earphones.
I have to purchase clothes from this pathetic excuse for a store. What a travesty. This is worse than Nepal.
But the greater good is the greater good, after all.
So, without further ado, I roll my shoulders, shift into Adele’s timid posture, and make my way inside.
Phase Three is a go.
3
Quentin
( 3 Years Ago )
President Waverly is a prick. That’s why I didn’t vote for him.
Unfortunately, my control of the Heights doesn’t extend to the rest of North America, so he was elected for his first term a year and a half ago. The result is that I must twiddle my thumbs until he’s finished with the Chief of Staff and invites me into his humble abode known as the Oval Office.
The man himself is on the phone when I enter, but he motions for me to pick a repulsive chair in front of his desk. I gather from his replies that another outbreak of that awful flu is ravaging Oregon, and a quarantine zone is needed in Portland. Waverly gives his approval to whichever CDC official he’s speaking with and hangs up the receiver. Why he insists on that dinosaur of a telephone, I’ll never know.
"Q! What can I do for you?" He threads his fingers together and rests them on his desk. "You don’t leave the Heights too often, so I’m guessing it’s something important. I believe you said national emergency. That right?" There’s an accusation underlying his tone, something along the lines of advanced blame for whatever issue I’m about to discuss.
Right bastard, Waverly.
"It’s not national yet, but it w
ill be if the source isn’t neutralized."
Waverly smirks. "And the source is?"
"There was a breach in the community network. Some files were transferred to an outside party."
"Oh, really?" The man’s practically glowing. "Thought you said that couldn’t happen."
"Incorrect." I rap my fingers against the firm chair cushion. It’s a gaudy blue shade, much like Waverly is a gaudy blue asshole. "I said the odds of a breach were quite low. Not impossible. And with the worsening situation in your country, Mr. President, I’m not surprised it happened. When you run a haven in the middle of a nightmare, you become a prime target. We fend off hundreds of cyber attacks a week. After eighteen years of operation, one attack slipped through. And we’ve already apprehended the responsible party and remedied the system vulnerability. Efficient, no?"
Waverly’s sunburned cheeks grow a shade darker at the insinuation he’s utter shit at his job. "If you’re so damned efficient, Q, then why are you here?"
"Because I don’t break the law." Conspicuously. "And the law requires I get your permission before I do what I need to do."
"And what do you need to do?"
"I need to move the patrolmen outside Jackson City."
Waverly’s face goes blank, and the tension in the room jumps about sixty degrees.
Using the community’s satellites, Howard can technically command the patrolmen anywhere on Earth. But when the Heights was chartered, Waverly’s predecessor was wary of allowing advanced nonmilitary combatants to roam the country, so he inserted a clause that states Presidential approval is required before the patrolmen can step foot outside the community’s domain.
What a chore. But if anyone significant spots the patrolmen waltzing around where they aren’t supposed to be, Waverly will crack down on the Heights quicker than he can stuff a whole pie down his throat, and I don’t need a bloodbath at my front door. A bunch of dead soldiers at the community gates would be unappealing for recruitment purposes.
