Burn

by Sarah Fine

  Angus’s eyebrows go up, and he opens his mouth to say something, but—

  “We have exactly twenty satellites currently aloft,” says a voice from the hallway behind me. “And I think I should get to review Frederick Archer’s plans as well. I might be able to help.”

  The blond woman jumps up, her sober expression spreading into a huge grin, her pale eyes bright. “Dad!” she says happily, jogging out the door and into the arms of the man in the hallway.

  He wraps his arms around her and looks over her shoulder. His gaze meets mine. “Hello, Tate,” he says. “I hope we can let the last week go. Water under the bridge.”

  I stare at him, his neatly combed blond hair, his round face, his stupid golf shirt. He may be well-groomed, but he looks tired, like he’s been through hell.

  As far as I’m concerned, that’s what he deserves.

  The last time I saw Brayton Alexander, he was trying to kill me.

  ELEVEN

  I SHOOT TO MY FEET. “WATER UNDER THE BRIDGE?” I point at Christina. “You shot at us. You could have killed us.”

  He nods, looking weary. “It was a desperate situation, and I made the wrong call in that moment. But as CEO of Black Box and the man who employed Frederick Archer, I know more about how we used his technology than anyone else, and I have every right to examine the plans, the scanner, and anything that was taken from his lab.”

  Angus clears his throat. “Well. You would have had that right. But as of Tuesday morning, the board voted to remove you from your position.”

  Brayton’s eyes go round with shock. He looks at the blond woman next to him, who is obviously his daughter. “Is that true, Ellie?”

  She winces. “I tried to call several times, but I didn’t want to leave it as a voicemail or text. Where have you been, Dad?”

  “In the custody of the Princeton police.” His eyes narrow as he regards Angus. “I had just arrived in Chicago when I received the message that The Fifty were convening here.” His jaw clenches. “After years of service, this is how I’m treated?” he says in a deadly quiet voice.

  “You’re lucky you’re not still in jail,” I snap as Christina’s fingers twine with mine.

  “I should have been given the chance to defend myself!” Brayton shouts at Angus, ignoring me completely. A vein in his temple is throbbing blue and thick, but the rest of his face looks hollowed out, his cheeks sagging inward from his rounded jaw. “Everything I did was on behalf of Black Box, and I should have had a chance to vote as the head of the Alexander family!”

  Angus rises to his feet as Brayton comes closer. The two Core agents rise as well, touching their belts, where they would normally find their weapons. Both their holsters are empty.

  But Brayton’s isn’t. And he looks unstable at the moment. “You were just waiting for your moment, weren’t you? You’ve wanted the CEO chair for years.”

  “You brought this on yourself,” says Angus, folding his massive arms over his chest. He’s the only person in the room who doesn’t seem the slightest bit nervous that Brayton’s fingers are twitching near his waist. “And this wasn’t about me—the decision of the board was almost unanimous, Brayton. We had a quorum, and we made the call. Your own vote wouldn’t have saved you.”

  “You need me. I know more about Frederick Archer’s work than anyone else,” Brayton says, his voice echoing through the room, a hint of panic giving each syllable a sharp ring.

  “No, you don’t.” That comes from several people at once. Me. My mom. And Race.

  Brayton’s lips clamp shut. I get the feeling his thoughts are little more than a string of shouted curses, judging from the vivid red color of his face. Ellie steps close to him, eyeing us all with defiance. But her expression softens as her fingers close over her father’s sleeve. “Come on, Dad. You look so tired. I can walk you to your quarters.”

  He nods, then abruptly shakes his head, ripping his arm from her grip. “I don’t need an escort,” he growls. His eyes meet mine, then sweep over Race, Congers, and Angus. “I never thought I’d see the day when H2 were welcomed as guests and members of The Fifty were treated like pariahs. You think I’m the traitor? Look at yourself, Angus.”

  He turns on his heel and marches unsteadily from the room, leaving Ellie pink-cheeked and stricken in his wake. She blinks a few times, then takes a deep breath. Angus strides forward and puts his arm over her shoulder, and she doesn’t resist. He pulls her close. “I’m sorry, Ellie. I know you’re in a tough position.”

  “I can handle it,” she says softly. “Excuse me.” She walks from the room quickly, and I get the distinct impression she needs to cry and doesn’t want anyone to see. Something like admiration stirs inside me. If my dad had been the pariah, wouldn’t I have stuck by him?

  “She’s been my secretary for the past year,” Angus explains.

  Congers’s nostrils flare, momentarily widening his narrow, hooked nose. “And you trust her?”

  Angus looks at the chair where she was sitting, quietly taking notes on her tablet. “I do. Ellie’s an ethical young woman, and she’s given me no reason to doubt her.”

  “Was Brayton scanned?” I ask. “He was looking a little crazy-eyed.” I see Christina nod out of the corner of my eye and wonder if she’s remembering Willetts.

  “He would have been scanned at the door. No exceptions,” says Angus. “My orders were very clear.”

  We talk for a few more minutes, and then Angus gives us ID cards—Leo and I have ones that indicate we’re patriarchs, and Christina gets one that signifies her as a guest who must be in the company of an escort at all times. My mom heads off to the morgue to start her autopsies, looking like it’s the last place in the world she’d like to spend her time. Race and Congers are marched back to the garage with the rest of the Core agents, where they’ll stay until The Fifty okay their presence here.

  Angus announces that he needs to “herd some cats,” and goes off to cajole and coerce various members of The Fifty into actually granting the H2 permission to stay. I can understand why my mom respects him; he’s adapted pretty quickly to the idea of the Sicarii and working with the Core, and he isn’t wasting time moaning about it. In fact, he seems a little annoyed at having to deal with the politics, given the threat.

  Leo, Christina, and I head for the computer labs. On the way, Leo and I discuss the perimeter defenses and guess at what they can do. I mentally catalog the name tag of each Black Box employee we pass: Bearden, Bradley, Cavalcante, Costa, Diop, Dos Santos, Engel, Hayashi, Jasinski, Juneja . . . one by one, I try to commit them to memory. There’s a steady trickle of arrivals via helicopter and SUV, families having unexpected reunions as the patriarchs and matriarchs of The Fifty come looking for nieces and cousins and grandchildren, sons and brothers and sisters-in-law. We duck into a side hallway as we see Rufus Bishop stalk through the front entrance. He looks like a vengeful Santa with his bushy white beard and eyebrows, his big belly, and a glare that makes people sweat. The young guard looks a little nervous as he scans Rufus, who then stomps straight toward Angus’s office.

  I listen in on conversations in Japanese, Mandarin, German, and Portuguese as we walk by people in the halls. They’re nervous. They’re questioning whether the Sicarii threat and the earlier attack is an H2 ruse, a Trojan horse strategy to gain access to the walled fortress. Some of them wonder if Christina and I are H2 who should be locked up with the rest of the Core agents, but since we’re with Leo, who they know, they’re not sure. Leo, who understands almost as many languages as I do, introduces us to a few people, pausing awkwardly each time he gets to Christina.

  “She’s with me,” I say. I end up saying it a lot. Each time, Christina’s mouth gets a little tighter.

  Finally, she sags against me. “I know that the apocalypse might be coming and there are a ton of things you need to do before then, but I’m tired of being treated like a second-c
lass citizen. Is there a place where I can take a shower and lie down?”

  I put my arm around her and give Leo a questioning look. My thoughts are buzzing with fatigue, and all I want to do is lie down next to Christina, but she’s right—I have work to do. I persuade Leo to take her back to the fancy hotel-like dorm where members of The Fifty are staying, walk them halfway there so I can see where it is, and then plod to the computer lab, which is located in the main building. I walk back through the doors to find the scanner’s light right in my eyes. As my chest takes on a blue glow, I ask, “Who’s responsible for the scanner when it’s not in use?”

  “Why do you want to know?” asks a guard with curly light brown hair. He’s seriously built, tall, and wearing a name tag that identifies him as a Fisher—one of George’s relatives. He’s also the one who scanned his dead family member earlier today. I wonder if he knew and how much these guards have been told.

  “Because my dad’s the one who invented the device, and I want to make sure it’s secure.” I pull out my ID card.

  The guy’s eyes widen a bit as he sees my name and picture. “I knew your dad,” he says, almost reverently. “My name’s Kellan. My uncle George and he were good friends.” The way he bows his head and swallows tells me he knows his uncle is dead.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quietly, and he nods.

  “Me too.” He sighs, his broad shoulders curving forward like his chest hurts. “About your dad as well. I don’t even know what’s happening, man, but I know it’s bad.” He gazes at the scanner in his hand, this ordinary-looking, foot-long device with the three oddly shaped USB-type ports along its side, the thing we’re depending upon to tell us who or what is in our midst. “Angus ordered us to store it in the vaults on the first basement level once we’ve got everyone scanned. That floor’s got layers of security and surveillance.”

  “Good.”

  “You gonna be at the meeting tonight?” When I nod, he says, “My mom’s the matriarch now that Uncle George is gone. I’ll be there, too. I’m supposed to re-scan all the board members as they come in.” He looks like he’s dreading it.

  “You don’t think it’s necessary?” This additional scanning is yet another thing I’m really glad to hear. The last thing we need is some Sicarii spy listening in on our high-level planning.

  “Well, maybe it is, but . . .” His eyes meet mine. “I’m supposed to execute anyone who scans orange.”

  It’s a huge responsibility for a guy who looks like he’s barely graduated from college. “Can you do that?” I wonder if I could, especially if the Sicarii was wearing a familiar face.

  He shrugs. “I have my orders.”

  I tell him I’ll see him there and go to the computer lab, where I spend the next three hours going over my dad’s various plans and blueprints. I’m not ready to share these with the team of developers quite yet. I want to think about it without other brains interfering.

  Somehow, my dad figured out the technology—but he also discovered this third race, or at least guessed at it. Using the wreckage of the H2 ship, which is now stored in the same vault where the scanner will be kept, he built the scanner to identify each species. Yeah, the device might just be a tiny version of the giant satellite that’s scanning the planet, but I’m not so sure it’s only meant to scan. The satellites, after all, are rigged with lasers to zap incoming Sicarii, so maybe the scanner can do the same if I figure it out. I have no idea what those USB-type ports on the side are for. Are they supposed to connect it to something, or to communicate or store information? And why do the Sicarii want it so badly? Why did my dad call it the key to our survival? I’ll have to request permission to take a closer look, but I can’t now, because it’s needed to ensure that Black Box is a secure place.

  I turn my attention to the satellites, the top priority. If what Brayton said is true, all twenty of the ones listed in Dad’s plans are already aloft, but only Ramses is activated. The rest of them are spinning through space, their most powerful capabilities dormant within their metal bodies. My dad was so secretive about the scanner, so I’m guessing no one else knew what he’d installed inside the satellites before they were launched. They’re most likely meant to relay communications and to spy on the Core. But if the plans are accurate, those satellites are also armed with incredibly advanced lasers and the same scanning technology as the device Kellan’s using out there in the atrium. And as Race said, if they’re all working together, they’d effectively form a defense shield around the entire planet.

  I just need to figure out how to activate them. My dad gave me the password—Josephus—to access the plans, but to activate the satellites themselves? It’s a no-go. I try all the other ones I know he used, all the ones I ever used, and get nowhere. I’m realizing it’s yet another riddle he left me to solve, but all I’ve got right now is what he scribbled in that notebook in Kentucky—find it in 20204. I try 20204 as the password and get shut out again, so I pull up a secure browser and look up 20204, moving past information about the zip code, the ID number for a Lego kit, its meaning in SQL computer code . . . I get all excited when I see that 20204 is a genetic identifier, until I read further and see that particular gene is part of the mouse genome.

  I rub my tired eyes and think back: 20204 was written on the same page where he’d scribbled the word Sicarii. I resume my searching and type in Sicarii 20204, wishing the magic of Google would make this easy.

  What I get is a lot more random shit, most of which is a trash-talking Russian with the username “Sicarii,” spouting off in some RPG forum about nunchuk-wielding dwarves. The two search terms don’t fit together; the 20204 piece doesn’t seem to have any connection. Just in case, I spend an hour slowly translating, scouring the web page for the number, for any hint or connection, but it all feels like I’ve taken a wrong turn. My dad took stuff from history, not forums for hardcore D&D players.

  So much for Google. My eyes now burning with fatigue, my wounds itching, my stomach growling, I close the browser. I have to figure this out—even if the Sicarii show up and destroy Black Box, which could happen at any moment, maybe everyone else on Earth would be okay if I could get the satellite shield working. Unless destroying Black Box would disrupt communication and control of the satellites. I don’t see how it wouldn’t.

  Shit.

  Having hit nothing but dead ends with the satellite shield activation, I turn my attention to the one thing that could buy us some time and security. When the Sicarii come back, we need to be able to defend ourselves. I do a little searching on the server and find my dad’s plans for the combat vehicle, the eight-wheeled monster with the complex artillery system and giant lens set into the roof. I pore over the plans, trying to figure out what the hell the lens could be used for, brainstorming possibilities and coming up empty . . .

  I jolt upright, shaking myself awake. My head aching, my thoughts mush, I glance at the time—and curse.

  I have to go to this stupid board meeting, which starts in a few minutes. I can’t miss it—I might be one of the few patriarchs who actually understands that the Core aren’t the real threat, at least not right now, and we need their help if we want to survive a Sicarii attack.

  I find Leo in the atrium, laughing with Kellan, who looks like he needs the distraction of a goofy kid to take his mind off what he’s about to do—wield the power of life and death.

  Leo, who’s wearing clean clothes that actually fit him along with a new pair of glasses, waves cheerfully when he sees me, and I head over there. “Where’s Christina?”

  His smile falters as he meets me in the middle of the lobby. “I took her to my suite and let her use the shower. We got her some spare clothes from the infirmary. Just some scrubs she can wear until her clothes come back from the laundry. And I gave her one of my spare rooms.” His cheeks are a little pink, like he’s been caught stealing. It would be funny if I weren’t worried about Christina.

>   “Did she say anything? Did she seem okay?”

  “She just said she wanted to sleep.”

  “Does she know she has to stay in your suite until we come back for her, though?” I ask, eyeing Kellan. He’s set the scanner on the counter and is, at the moment, making sure he has a round in the chamber of his Glock. Those things have super-light triggers. “The H2 haven’t been granted any sort of status on the compound. It’s not safe for her to be out.” All it takes is one nervous guard, one twitch of the trigger finger, one bad moment to shatter everything.

  Leo nods. “I’m not stupid. Besides, she already knew. She said she’d stay put.”

  It’s as good as I’m going to get for now, but all of a sudden I’m anxious to get back to her. Instead, I have to gather all my fragmented thoughts and endure this board meeting, the first one I’ve ever attended . . . and I’m one of the board members now. I feel hollow. I miss my dad more than ever. He’s the one who should be dealing with The Fifty, not me.

  We walk down the administrative hallway, past Brayton’s old office—his nameplate has been removed sometime in the past few hours—and past Angus’s, until the hallway ends in a set of double doors that have been propped open. The conference room is huge, with a round table that seats exactly fifty, plus rings of chairs around it for all the heirs and senior members of each family. There’s a secretary with a digital recorder, and microphones are positioned on the table in front of every seat. As we walk in, I see Race and Congers seated behind Brayton, whose eyes dart to me as soon as I enter.

  In a semicircle around the two agents stand a row of armed Black Box guards. None of the other agents are in the room. The H2 look more like prisoners than guests, but they’re being pretty stoic about it. Rufus is looking murderous on the opposite side of the table, and other patriarchs and matriarchs are taking their seats behind placards showing the family name. Yang from China. Abe from Japan. Soto from Chile. Engel from Germany. Ndebeli from South Africa. Fifty families from all over the world, ruled by old men, old women . . . and two boys with responsibilities too big for our wiry shoulders.