Data Runner

by Sam A. Patel

  “Holy crap, Martin!”

  In the back corner of the basement, under the concrete floor, through the foundation of the entire house, there is a hole. I can’t even imagine how he did it. He must have gotten a jackhammer down here sometime when I wasn’t around. But that isn’t even the surprising part. A hole I could understand, but nothing could have prepared me for what I see at the bottom of that hole.

  Three feet down, Martin has unearthed a primary trunk line. It’s big, maybe a foot in diameter, and it’s been stripped along the top where a large oval slice of heavy rubber sheathing and three layers of inner shielding have been removed. The fiber lines dropping into the hole are Martin’s own and have been meticulously spliced into the trunk line. At the other end, they feed into a jury-rigged PBX relay next to Martin’s primary workstation.

  “What the hell have you been doing down here?”

  It’s as impressive as it is incredible. Not only has Martin spliced his workstation directly into the aggregate Internet, but the way he’s done it, there are no packet-switching monitors to trick. No layers of security to sneak through. In the Open Systems Interconnection model, this would be considered Layer 0. One big data stream that Martin can enter and exit at will, like his own personal backdoor to the entire aggrenet.

  There’s something else. I’m so taken by Martin’s handiwork that I don’t see it at first, but then I do. A file. A brown file hidden behind the trunk line. It’s wedged in tight so I have to give it a good pull to remove it. There is a large G on the front of the folder, the company logo unmistakable, as is the faded red warning stamped across it. SECURITY EYES ONLY. And then in smaller letters above and below: L10 CLEARANCE REQUIRED.

  “Grumwell internal security…what the hell?”

  I have no idea what Level 10 security means, but I have the folder, and I open it. And when I do, the first thing I see makes me gasp. A photograph. Not of the young woman I vaguely remember from when I was an infant but an older version of the same. The dark hair and hazel eyes are unquestionably the same, but now the lines of time have begun to set in. But there’s something else there too. Not maturity, something different. Something like what you see in young soldiers after they come back from their first tour. It’s a kind of hardness. A coldness that can only come from having a sense of purpose that is so singular. So acute. As much as this is the same woman from my distant memories, it also isn’t. Because as much as I recognize those features, her expression is that of a complete stranger.

  “Genie.”

  But that’s not what it says. As I begin flipping through the pages, the first thing that doesn’t make sense is her name. Not Genie Nill, as I’ve always known it to be, but rather Genevive Bonillia. I run my fingers over it. “Genevive Bonillia.” It even sounds foreign. Okay, so at some point she truncated her name, but why? And why would she pass that on to me?

  It’s strange how something as simple as a name can raise so many questions, but as I rifle through the documents I realize that’s only the tip of the iceberg. One thing is clear. Whoever she was, my mother was very high up in the Grumwell concern. It’s hard to decipher exactly what the pages mean; most of them sound like corporate intelligence. Not just marching orders either, but strategic design for Grumwell’s internal security.

  I don’t know, maybe it’s just the musings of an overactive imagination, but the way those papers are hidden—secretly buried in a hole in the basement—I think it’s safe to assume that this folder has something to do with why she left the way that she did. Tiptoeing away in the dead of night, never to be heard from again. Maybe the information in this file is somehow even responsible for it.

  When I was a kid, I would often wonder about my mother—who she was, where she was, what she was doing right now, and most importantly, why none of it could include Martin and me. But over the years my curiosity waned. I just resigned myself to the fact that I would never know. But now that curiosity has come back with a vengeance. Now I’m wondering about my mother all over again.

  No fewer than a dozen questions pop into my head, but even they will have to wait for now. I stuff the file into my backpack and resume my search for Martin. I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever it is, I can see now that it involves more than just the parity load that Dexter is carrying and the other cargo locked in my wing. Whatever this is, it has as much to do with Martin as it does with me. And somehow I know, with Genevive as well.

  The sound of heavy footsteps echo above my head. They’re not hurried, more tentative, and judging by their location, they have just come through the front door. It could be anyone. I take three giant steps over the clutter, vault over the railing and race up the stairs into the kitchen. Whoever it is has moved into the living room. Before checking it out, I sneak around and put myself between him and the front door to make sure I have a clear lane out of the house in case I need it, but the moment I see who it is standing in the living room, I know I won’t.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  Of course he doesn’t answer. He just points his thumb at the door to indicate he’s there for me. Sent by Cyril, no doubt.

  “Enough is enough, Bigsby! What the hell is going on here?”

  But Bigsby just stands there with his spiked blonde hair, dressed as always in black, staring me down with those unblinking slate eyes as he twirls the car keys around his finger. It’s the closest thing to a response I’ll get.

  “Fine. Let’s go.”

  The moment he turns off the main road, I know something is wrong. “What’s going on, Bigsby? Where are we going?”

  Bigsby shoots me a glance in the rearview that is barely discernible in the slightest slant of light that breaks through the all-encompassing darkness. But in that brief glimmer, I see an altogether different look in his eyes. This time it looks like he actually wants to tell me, even if he does remains silent.

  The sedan’s tires pop over loose gravel as we roll into a darkened construction site and stop. Bigsby holds up a remote control and presses a button that causes two sets of floodlights to fill the car with white light that forces my eyes shut. Blinding. The more I try to open them, the more it hurts. I try the door but that’s been locked from up front.

  “Dammit, Bigsby!” This time it is not a question but a demand. “What the hell is going on?” And this time I can see that I’m about to get my answer. As my eyes adjust, Bigsby turns around and stares me down over the shoulder of the seat.

  And finally, he speaks…

  “A wise old owl lived in an oak. The more he saw the less he spoke. The less he spoke the more he heard…”

  Now the barrel of a gun appears over the top of the seat. This one is not aimed at my chest. Presumably because Bigsby knows exactly what I’m wearing over my chest. This gun is aimed at my head. Right between my eyes.

  “…why can’t we all be like that wise old bird?”

  Silence is the Only Real Security

  20

  I yank the door latch until it nearly snaps off in my hand. Nothing.

  I kick the windows, but they’re made of bulletproof glass. No way out there.

  Bigsby watches with amusement as I slide across the seat and try the other side to the same results. I’m boxed in.

  The thing that unnerves me even more than being trapped is the way Bigsby keeps his gun trained on me at all times. Staring down the barrel of a gun is nothing like having one pointed at my chest, especially when I am wearing top of the line body armor that has already proven its merit. This is different. There is something very ominous about that long, dark pipe chambered with a slug that has my brains written all over it. It messes with my vision. Puts pressure on my focus like a finger pressed between my eyebrows. It gives me a headache.

  Why couldn’t he just raise it to my forehead or lower it to my mouth? Either one would give him the same result. But no, with a steady hand Bigsby holds the gun on point, right in front of me like a splinter in
my field of vision. My lungs collapse. I press myself into the seatback. My head pounds. I can’t breathe.

  Bigsby laughs. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

  “You Arcadian runners really make me laugh. You run around with your little bird tattoos thinking you’re tough as nails because you move cargo from one end of the Free City to the other. You act like it’s so rough, but none of you have the faintest idea what it’s like to really run. Between enemy lines 300 klicks inside the Islamic Republic. Past the watchtower gunmen of Pax Islamabad. Through the mine fields of old Kandahar. You little chickadees wipe the sweat off your brow after being chased by a couple of suits from Caliphate Global.” Bigsby’s lip curls into a sneer. “You don’t know what it’s like to have the Caliphate on your tail for real. To watch your best friend get beheaded less than ten feet away. You don’t know what it’s like to wake up each day knowing that before the day is done, you will feel the warm stickiness of another man’s blood spray across your face. None of you have any idea about these things, but you all think you do, and that’s the funniest thing of all.”

  Suddenly I realize, Bigsby’s sneer is personal.

  “And you, the Carrion.”

  Bigsby smacks the bridge of my nose with the slide. Not hard, just enough to get my eyes tearing. “Ow, dammit!”

  “You piss me off even more than the others. If I had to listen to that fool Cyril blather on about how good you are just one more time, I would have broken cover just to shoot him myself. You really have everyone fooled with all that hokey pokey crap. Let’s see you hokey pokey your way out of this one.”

  I take a moment to calm down. Breathe. Remind myself to keep my wits. Bigsby is just one more obstacle to work around. Just one more thing in the way to get over, under, or around.

  “You were a runner for Blackburn.”

  “I’ve been running for Blackburn ever since I was fifteen.”

  “And now you’re a spy?”

  “For a smart kid, you really are dense.”

  I’m not dense. Red Tail warned me about a mole in Arcadian and Bigsby is it. But he doesn’t know that I know that. The dumb questions are just my way of stalling until I can figure out a move. As long as I keep Bigsby talking, I have time to think. “How could Blackburn infiltrate Arcadian like that?”

  “Blackburn is everywhere. There is nothing we don’t have our hands in. And once this cargo is secure and our plans come to fruition, the Complex will be stronger than ever.”

  “That’s funny. The way I hear it, you guys are on the verge of bankruptcy.”

  “Kid, pretty soon money will be the least of our concerns. That’s why nothing can get in the way of our mission.” Bigsby pulls back the hammer with a resounding click. “And right now, that means you.”

  “What is so important about this cargo?” That question isn’t a stall, I really want to know. “You owe me that much. I deserve to know exactly what it is I’m about to get clipped for!”

  Bigsby appears amused by this. “We could sit here all night and debate exactly what you deserve, but the truth is I don’t know. All I know is that the cargo you’re carrying could jeopardize the entire Complex and was important enough to have me break my cover. My orders are to intercept it by any means necessary…” He tightens his grip on the gun. “Including full destruction of courier and content.” Bigsby takes aim. “You may be the Carrion out there; in here you’re a fly in the ointment.”

  Fly in the ointment. Wonderful.

  A blast of light hits us from the side windows. Not me directly, since I’m down in the seat, but it hits Bigsby well enough to blind him momentarily. That’s it. Without even thinking I parry his arm away from my face. His hand hits the headrest. The gun goes off. And suddenly…everything…slows…down.

  Flash of muzzle fire.

  Deafening report.

  Spider web across the rear windshield of the car.

  High-pitched ringing.

  Plume of silken smoke.

  It all happens in seconds that feel more like minutes.

  The floodlights coming through the front of the car are stationary, but the ones coming through the side grow brighter as they push toward us. It’s a big yellow construction vehicle, some kind of crawler that lets out a flatulent rip each time the engine is revved. But the sound is dislocated through the ringing in my ears.

  The front of the bulldozer bears down until it’s all teeth coming at us.

  Well, more to Bigsby than to me. The dozer takes a sharp turn and hits us at an angle so the shovel misses most of the backseat when it comes crashing through the passenger side. Good enough to save me from decapitation as the front of the car gets crushed. Metal twists all around me in a haze of dust and light. That’s when I hear it, even through the noise in my ears—Bigsby screaming for his life. The dozer pushes forward, tearing off the roof as the entire car crumples and snaps all around me, until I am sandwiched between the front and back seat.

  The engine stops revving.

  Trapped between the seats, I squirm.

  I can’t see or hear anything. Can’t feel my body well enough to know if anything is injured. Can’t even tell which way is up. Whatever light comes through is all cut up by metal and scattered. But one thing is for sure, I sense no movement other than my own inside the wreckage.

  The bulldozer starts revving again. This time in reverse, pulling the shovel back until a mangled piece of metal that was once the rear door is removed. Almost immediately I hear movement outside the wreckage. Somebody walking around from the other side. I follow it around with my ears until her petite figure is crouched in the crushed doorway of the old sedan. And I have to admit, as messed up as I am at the moment in every possible way, all of that is wiped away the moment she leans in, and I see the smile on her face.

  “Come with me if you want to live,” she says in what can only be her best attempt at an Austrian accent.

  I just stare at her dumbfounded.

  “What, you’ve never T-screened The Terminator?”

  “Of course I’ve T-screened The Terminator,” I say wriggling between the seats to pull myself out, “I just didn’t expect you to be quoting it at this very moment.” My legs are wrapped too snugly to gain any leverage. All I can do is pull myself along the ground with my arms until I’m out.

  “It seemed appropriate.”

  Finally I get to my feet. I nearly fall over. Red Tail reaches out to grab me, but I balance. The entire world rocks back and forth. I can’t be sure if it’s from the ringing in my ears or the hole in my stomach, although neither one is helping. I reach back into the car and pull my orange backpack through the collapsed seat, but fall to my knees before I can get it unzipped. Red Tail does it for me. Pulls out a flattened energy bar and rips it open with her teeth. Peels back the wrapper and shoves it into my mouth.

  “Easy,” I sputter. “That’s my uvula.”

  “Your uvula?”

  “The little ball that hangs at the back of your mouth.”

  “Yes, I know what a uvula is.”

  I wolf down the energy bar in four bites. The rocking begins to subside almost immediately. I know this feeling. It’s definitely the chip screaming for more fuel and should settle in another minute or two.

  The floodlights on the bulldozer switch off and the door opens with a long metallic creak. Then out jumps Snake, whose boots crunch the gravel hard as he circles the lifeless mangle of car to observe his handiwork. “So much for that.”

  “When did you figure it out?”

  Red Tail answers. “When he came after you.”

  “What about Cyril?” I ask. “Is he part of this too?”

  Snake shakes his head like it’s not even a possibility. “Cyril presents himself as a recruiting agent for security reasons, but Arcadian is actually his firm.”

  “And he had no idea about his own personal assistant?”

  “No,” Snake replies, “and he’s going to be pissed
when he finds out. Cyril handpicked him for the job.”

  “Martin,” I suddenly blurt. With the ringing down to a low hum and the energy bar kicking in, I start to regain my senses. “My father, Martin Baxter.”

  “He’s fine,” says Snake. “He wasn’t there when they turned over your place.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We had eyes on the people who did it.”

  “So it was Blackburn?”

  “Oh it was definitely Blackburn. But now we’ve got a bigger problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s Dexter,” says Red Tail.

  “What about Dexter?”

  “They got him.”

  “When?”

  “A few hours ago. They grabbed him right as he got back to Brentwood.”

  “Then I have to help him.”

  Snake doesn’t even have to say it. I can see it written all over his face.

  “That’s exactly what they want you to do,” says Red Tail. “The only reason they’re holding Dexter is to lure you in.”

  That much I have already figured out, but it doesn’t change the fact that they have him. “I still have to try. I know it might not mean much to you, but Dex and I are Brentwood Dragons. We have a code. Dragons don’t leave each other hanging. We don’t leave each other behind. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I can’t do it alone.”