Title
License
PART ONE: Homelessness
PART TWO: Nuclear Reduction
PART THREE: Tools of the Trade
PART FOUR: Legwork
PART FIVE: Security
PART SIX: Follow the Money
PART SEVEN: Legacy
THE EPOCH INDEX
by Christian Cantrell
This work is distributed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 license.
PART ONE: Homelessness
Ranveer is the richest homeless man in the world. He is homeless because the tools of his trade are nicely portable, and his work encourages him to be mobile. He is rich because he gets paid to solve the kinds of problems that manifest themselves as people.
He is a tall, slender, sinewy man who has never eaten a piece of meat in his life, and although you would never use the word muscular to describe him, you somehow know he could rip a New York City telephone book in half given the proper motivation. He wears his receding hairline with grace and elegance, and his heavy chevron mustache curls so naturally and impeccably down over his upper lip that it's hard to believe he wasn't born with it. His black eyes somehow portray both congeniality and malice simultaneously, and they can regard or ignore you with equally unsettling significance.
This evening, Ranveer is traveling from L.A. to Oman. From the time he leaves his room on one end and starts unpacking on the other, he will not touch his cases, open a door, or wait in a single line. The hotel and the airline have arranged everything, and even in this increasingly complex, chaotic, and undependable world, he knows there will be no mistakes.
He only flies United Emirates Airlines. If UEA doesn't go where he needs to be, he doesn't need to be there. He only stays in properties owned and operated by Crystal Collective Worldwide. If CCW doesn't have a resort, hotel, or a timeshare within half a fuel cell charge of a job, that job is someone else's problem. Ranveer understands the meaning of brand loyalty, and he expects for that loyalty to go both ways.
CCW has a room in every location designated just for him. If the property is entirely full and you're willing to cough up three times the posted rate to stay in Ranveer's private quarters, you do so with the understanding that you may be thrown out onto the street at absolutely any moment whether you happen to be sleeping, showering, or shagging. There won't even be so much as a knock or the beep of a key card. The door will simply be thrown open, and then you and your things will be on your way out by the shortest possible route. This is solemnly explained to you by the manager on duty before you sign. Once you're gone, the room will be reset and sterilized, Ranveer's cases will be brought in, and the most beautiful woman currently on staff will either lounge on a divan or sit primly on the end of the bed with her very best smile and a few extra buttons undone.
But it isn't the service at CCW that Ranveer values most; it's the fact that the staff is trained not to ask questions, and more importantly, not to answer them when the wrong people are asking.
At the airport, Ranveer is personally escorted to his GoldCoach suite by a nervous airline executive who is less familiar with the luxuries of the 797 than Ranveer is, and consequently bumps his head both coming and going. The suite and its private lavatory contain separate plasma glass displays on which someone from Boeing is taking the opportunity to personally thank him, presumably for contributing to the demand for such expensive new jets, and for subsidizing the seats in the cattle car. While in the air, Ranveer enjoys a spicy egg curry with two bottles of mineral water while he scours three different news networks in an attempt to synthesize something approaching objective truth, then he dials down his glasses, converts his seat into a bed, and sleeps soundly for the rest of the flight.
When they land, Ranveer raises the shades and watches the ground crew drive alongside, hands frantically grasping at the GoldCoach luggage carriage before the plane has even stopped at the gate. Ranveer's cases will be halfway to his hotel by the time the first coach passenger can dislodge himself from his seat, yank his garment bag from the overhead bin, and thank the flight attendants and pilots for a miserable sixteen hours. Occasionally, Ranveer's cases will even take an earlier flight just to give the airline a cushion. He was once told that they bumped a first class traveler when the climate control system in the underbelly malfunctioned.
He is met at the entrance to his suite by another executive (this one short enough to disregard the bulkheads altogether) who escorts him through the red-carpeted and air conditioned jetway to the mouth of the Platinum Passenger walkway. With some formality, he is handed off to a woman whose long wavy black hair looks like it was twisted into some form of tight, conservative restraint only moments prior. As they move toward the exit, she solicits feedback on what they can do to make his next flight even more relaxing and rejuvenating, and then inquires as to whether he is in need of a tailor, barber, or a masseuse (or masseur, she adds). He assures her that he is in need of nothing, and she is outwardly relieved when he conveys that the flight was well within his levels of tolerance. Pleasant, he might even say. She finds various ways to flatter him until he is tucked safely into the back of his limousine.
The driver doesn't need instructions. He knows where Ranveer needs to go, and that he prefers to get there in silence. He encourages Ranveer to let him know at once if there is anything or anyone he requires, and then he dials down the glass partition between them. Ranveer removes his glasses from an inside pocket of his jacket, unfolds them, then fits the wide, amber, sapphire-plated liquid crystal lenses in place. From the opposite pocket, he plucks his handset which automatically unlocks in his palm, then detects the presence of his glasses and redirects its output accordingly. Ranveer checks the most recent information and confirms that his plans have not changed. He is on schedule, and the job is still a go.
The driver brings the car to a smooth stop, then races the hotel manager for dibs on opening Ranveer's door. He loses by half the length of the car, and has to settle for wiping away water droplets from around the exhaust to busy himself. As Ranveer steps out onto the curb, he discovers that the hotel's open entrance is not air conditioned today, even in anticipation of his arrival. It's the little things that foretell shifts in the balance of power and money throughout the world. Although he would certainly rather not sweat on his way into the hotel lobby, he knows that it is precisely these dynamics which will always ensure a need for people like him.
Ranveer is escorted directly to his room by a plump, curly-haired man whose dark skin manages to redden in the presence of what is likely his very first Executive Guest. Although he exudes inexperience, he knows enough not to offer to handle Ranveer's attaché; everyone in the hospitality business learns that one of the keys to successfully accompanying a powerful man to his room without losing your job in the process is knowing which bags he wishes to never see, and which he will not let out of his sight.
The elevator correctly deduces from the room number programmed into the keycard in the manager's breast pocket that the correct direction is up. When the doors open, Ranveer is reminded that the lifts here are currently the world's tallest aquariums. As he steps in, he finds he is surrounded on three sides by an almost garish tropical marine tableau which casts an undulating glow on everything within. Not the kind of place conducive to shoot-outs, Ranveer notes, or even spirited quickies on the way up after an evening at the hotel bar. The longest topmost button automatically illuminates as the doors close without anyone having to defile his fingertips.
After a smooth ascent full of awkward smiles, nods, and throat clearing, the doors open directly into the foyer of Ranveer's suite where he is handed off yet again. The woman standing by the vase of fresh-cut flowers atop the marble
pedestal surprises him with her crimson and gold-embroidered traditional Omani robe and headdress. She has decided to take things in a different direction by leaving everything but her curly black hair, glossy red lips, and matching cherry-red toenails to the imagination. It works, Ranveer decides, and he allows himself to be given a tour of what is to be his home until such time as his work here is concluded.
When all amenities have been identified and, where necessary, demonstrated, it is Ranveer's turn to do the escorting as he sees his attendant to the elevator. She maintains her composure as he express his desire for their paths to cross again during his brief residency, though she does grace him with the subtle but coquettish flutter of long lashes. Exceptionally well done, Ranveer notes. How he appreciates the work of a true professional.
PART TWO: Nuclear Reduction
Quinn Mitchell's job is to prevent nuclear wars. Not military nuclear strikes like the ones in Japan, Pakistan, India, and the Koreas, but small territorial thermonuclear events that can destroy cities block by block.
Her job exists because nuclear weapons aren't supposed to. After centuries-old rivalries finally escalated into full-scale nuclear conflicts, the United Nations drafted and unanimously voted into effect a resolution unequivocally banning any sized nuclear arsenal anywhere on the planet. The U.S. and other early nuclear adopters were happy to back (and help enforce) the new international law, having long ago anticipated the nuclear backlash and invested heavily in Prompt Global Strike systems: networks of launch vehicles and hypersonic cruise missiles designed to deliver warheads filled with scored tungsten rods twice as strong as steel and capable of ripping any structure anywhere on Earth to shreds in less time than it takes to have a pizza delivered. Thermonuclear hydrogen bombs were old news, as far as most world powers were concerned. The only reason to unleash 50 megatons of destruction is if you have very little faith in the accuracy of your delivery mechanisms. Modern weaponry can target down to the square centimeter, and since it uses real time topographical guidance, it can do so even when your entire GPS satellite network is compromised. Besides, what's the point of defeating another nation if your great grandchildren can't even set foot in it, and just about everything worth looting, pillaging, raping, or oppressing is either incinerated or radioactive? Nuclear weapons are clumsy and inelegant. High-tech conventional is the new thermonuclear. Modern militaries say less is more.
But in poorer economies where no materials are wasted and no opportunities squandered, some nuclear arsenals weren't secured and shipped off to France for processing as instructed by the United Nations; rather, they were divided up amongst any organizations capable of paying for or otherwise procuring them. After a decade of dismantling, confiscating, and inspecting — when the world was supposed to be a mere five years away from declaring itself 100% free of any and all forms of nuclear threat — only 63% of the world's enriched nuclear material had officially been accounted for. That left several times the amount required to extinguish every life on the entire planet very much at large.
It wasn't hard to imagine where it went. As the demand for oil continued to decline, and as several nations began legalizing and legislating controlled substances, the global distribution of wealth and power was changing — a dynamic which inevitably breeds extremism. While the superpowers of the world were busy replacing their nuclear arsenals (which they had traditionally been reluctant to use) with incredibly menacing conventional weapons (which they could use in quantities just small enough to not even make the next day's front page), a new class of economic and political underdogs were devoting their lives to converting the dwindling arsenals of their nuclear superpower enemies into the most dangerous and destructive acts of terrorism in history.
Meanwhile, Quinn Mitchell was busy getting a divorce. She and her husband were both Collection Management Officers for the CIA's National Clandestine Service which made them what is frequently referred to inside the beltway as nine-to-five spies. They commuted together from the subdued and affluent suburbs of Northern Virginia where weekend barbecues were staged by insipid men and women who simply "worked for the government," and who were content to redirect most conversations toward either the constant antics of their children, or the latest controversies surrounding whatever sport happened to be in season.
The Mitchells dropped their daughter Molly off at day care in the mornings, ate dinner together most nights, and on weekends, when the yard work was done, went to the pool or attended birthday parties at giant padded indoor playgrounds in nearby industrial parks. Once a year, they vacationed on Disney property or rented a house at Lake Anna, and at least three times a year, they played with the idea of having a second child. Quinn was not catalog-cover beautiful, but she had a shape and perkiness to her that drew and held the attention of underprivileged dads everywhere and succeeded in keeping her husband hopeful most nights. For years, they defied the conventional wisdom that spies couldn't stay married by carving out a successful and predictable domestic existence that was the envy of many of their colleagues.
But when Molly drowned in a neighbor's pool, and when Quinn and her husband found they could not stop blaming both themselves and each other, it was clear that they would finally become the statistic they thought they would never be. There was a sudden and savage hatred between them that neither one had the energy to explore or try to understand, and they knew that the only way to survive and to move forward was to do so alone. They sold the house and Quinn found an apartment in Maryland. Her work became the centerpiece of her life, sustained by the perpetual cycle of grocery shopping, laundry, boxes of wine, and antidepressants. In the evenings, she frequently imagined what the end of her service weapon would taste like, and wondered if the slide would break her teeth as it cycled in a new round and ejected a smoking cartridge out onto the carpet of her empty apartment.
Quinn knew she had to make some kind of a change soon, and when a position opened up for an Operations Officer in the field with a new Counter Nuclear Terrorism Task Force, she applied. She had failed at being a mother and failed at being a wife, and now she was dying very slowly alone in her apartment a little bit each night. She knew she didn't have the power or motivation to save her own life anymore, but she felt like she might still be able to save someone else's. She felt like that might just be enough.
That was almost six years ago, and Quinn still feels like a failure. The entire task force hasn't made a single significant recovery or arrest. Yet, there also hasn't been a single localized nuclear event. So through a course of logic only a government agency is capable of, Quinn's mission has been declared a de facto success. A 3,266 page report that nobody actually bothered to read has concluded that the missing fissile material is most likely the result of nothing more than poor record keeping, and any weapons that were in fact stolen are probably in the hands of amateurs who can't figure out how to detonate or smuggle them anyway, and will almost certainly end up dying slowly and painfully from radiation poisoning inside of a decade. It was the opinion of the Director himself that the resources represented by the Counter Nuclear Terrorism Task Force were now better employed elsewhere. Quinn hasn't been officially reassigned yet since her salary still comes out of the counter-terrorism budget, but she has been asked to start looking into something new. And very different.
The 22 bizarre deaths were initially thought to be the work of a single serial killer, and then several copycat serial killers throughout the world — gruesome and sensational, certainly, but nothing particularly interesting to an international spy. However, they are now starting to look more and more like assassinations, possibly political in nature, and foreign governments are looking to the U.S. for investigative assistance. Although there is no obvious correlation between the victims, there is one element which ties them all together: a number between two and four digits usually either branded or tattooed somewhere on the victims' bodies. The chest, the forehead, across the back, on a cheek, down the thigh. Someplace obvious. The numbers are cl
early meant to be tags of some sort. The killer (or killers) are somehow using them to communicate.
Quinn did not ask for this assignment. In fact, she very explicitly asked to be assigned to something else. Anything. Death is as common in most CIA investigations as cavities are in dentistry, but she has always been able to keep her distance from it. It's one thing to factor homicides into an investigation, but actually investigating those homicides is something else entirely. She does not want to scan corpses, compare the details of coroner reports, generate real-time live-action 3D computer models of brutal murders and then watch them over and over again for something someone has missed. And she does not want to interview the parents of the dead. This is a proximity to death that Quinn is not ready for.
But she is an unusually gifted investigator who specializes in uncovering cryptic and almost indiscernible connections through free-form data analysis. And her old task force is winding down at precisely the same time that this new task force is ramping up. And as a Departmental Head once graciously took the time to explain to Quinn, if you want to get rich, or if you want have say over what you do, then you don't want to work for the government.
PART THREE: Tools of the Trade
If Ranveer still intends to get in a swim, a sonic vitamin soak, a Thai massage, both a manicure and a pedicure, a light meal, and a twenty-minute power nap before going to work, he had better stop wondering about the sexual prowess and inhibitions of Omani women, and start thinking about settling in.
He always does his own unpacking lest the staff stumble upon something they may find objectionable, and since all of his clothing is custom cut and welded wrinkle-free nanofabric (fully compatible with in-room waterless ultraviolet sanitizing machines — in his line of work, one can sustain some pretty stubborn stains), there is no need to iron. Once every scrap of clothing he owns other than what he currently has on is refolded or hung, he stows his garment case in the closet, then turns his attention to his tools.
The Epoch Index Page 1
