Meta 2: The Second Wave

by Tom Reynolds

  There isn't time to think about all of that now, though. I need to get Botticelli out of here before someone decides to take advantage of the chaos and snap his neck. I wade through a group of Blanks blocking my path, not even bothering to fight them. Their fists, kicks, knives, and baseball bats strike my body but do nothing. Blank after Blank reels backward, holding their now broken hand or foot and howling in pain.

  Once I'm past enough of them that have either incapacitated themselves or run away, I find Frankie slumped over next to a Dumpster. In all the confusion, no one has even remembered why they had come here in the first place: to get Frankie Botticelli. Instead, they focused on trying to take out, or maybe even kill, Midnight and me, two people who want the same thing for this neighborhood as they do. For it to be safe, and for the people who live here to be happy and not have to constantly worry about being the victims of crimes, meta or otherwise.

  "Get up, Frankie. We're going for a ride," I say as I grab him by the collar and lift him to his feet.

  He's barely conscious and can't stand under his own significant weight. Still holding him with one hand, I use the other to tap the right side of my cowl and activate my comm device.

  "Silver Island, this is Omni. Requesting clearance for drop-off. Level one, metabands deactivated and disarmed."

  "Confirmed. Cleared for arrival, coordinates B-84."

  Chapter 23

  The booking process at Silver Island goes much more smoothly when you bring in a meta who already has his bands deactivated. Most give up their bands after seeing what the alternative is firsthand, but it's rare to bring one in who doesn't have his metabands on at all. At least, it is for me.

  The agent that processes Frankie is one that I've seen a few times. Rodriguez, I think is his name. Unfortunately for him, he seems to get stuck with the Saturday night shifts a lot. Two guards come through the solid steel gate sealing off the main detention center from the Arrival Zone and take Frankie away before he's even regained consciousness. I'm just about to turn around and head back out when the guard calls to get my attention.

  "Hey, Omni?" Rodriguez asks.

  "Yeah?"

  Rodriguez looks over his shoulder to make sure we're alone and approaches me nervously. "Listen, buddy. Would you mind doing a round?"

  "Huh? Why?"

  "I'm a little short staffed here tonight. Two of the metas that were supposed to be on guard duty never showed up."

  This is surprisingly not an uncommon occurrence. Most metas don't get paid very much for their work at Silver Island. Therefore, skipping a shift isn't unusual. It's not like metas are somehow automatically more reliable than regular people. It's also not like The Agency can “fire” them if they don't show up for work. Add to that the fact that even the real excuses for being late or missing a shift sound completely unbelievable anywhere else. "I would have been here on time, but I had to fly a bomb into outer space before it detonated," or "There was an attempted military coup in South America that I had to stop."

  A lot of the metas that work guard duty here feel very strongly that it's just for show anyway. The entire facility has been designed so that a break out, or break in for that matter, is nearly impossible. The metas housed here are either contained and buried far underground, completely out of sight from everyone, even the guards, or they've had their metabands removed. In those cases, they're not much more than a common prisoner of the federal government who just so happens to formerly be a meta.

  "Why don't you just bring in whoever’s on call?" I ask Rodriguez. Since no shows are so common, there’s a long list of “alternates” who can be, and frequently are, called to fill in if need be.

  "Haven't you noticed that things seem a little quiet around here tonight?" he asks me.

  I've been so fixated on having just learned that Jim is a Blank and that he was part of a mob fueled by murder tonight, that I hadn't even noticed that the Arrival Zone is completely empty except for me and Rodriguez.

  "What's going on?" I ask as I continue to scan the room. For a moment, I try to look through the walls before remembering that they're lead-lined and completely impenetrable.

  "There's some big meeting going on. Higher ups from Washington are in town. I'm not exactly sure what it is, but I know I got the shaft getting stuck out here watching the doggy door. No offense."

  "None taken."

  "Most of them have been crammed in one of the communication rooms for the last three hours. I need authorization from my superior if I need to call an alternate. Hell, I can't even physically call them myself without her being here to verify the request with a hand scan."

  "That's a really dumb system."

  "I know, but they're afraid of a rogue guard calling in a bunch of metas at once to clear them off the streets or lure them into a trap. At least, that's what I've always been told. I'd go ask for authorization, but Scott already got himself fired tonight just for knocking on the door earlier. The prisoners should all be fine; I'd just feel better if a meta could do a round. Some of these guys, they pick up on these types of things. They count rounds and keep track of faces and names. Maybe I'm just being paranoid. It's not like any of them have their powers anymore, but it'd just put my mind at ease if I knew they weren't aware that we're short staffed tonight. You know?"

  There's some hesitation on my part. It's not like a facility like Silver Island to be so lax with their security protocols. Something about tonight makes me feel uneasy. Maybe it's just what happened earlier with Jim, but I can't shake it. What if what I'm feeling is the same exact same thing Rodriguez is afraid of: that without the threat of metas guarding the facility, this might prove the perfect opportunity for an escape or worse.

  Scanning Rodriguez's body puts my fears somewhat at ease, though. Pulse rate and blood pressure are slightly elevated, but not to the degree they would be if a person were lying, especially if they're lying to a being that has the ability to crush them like a fly if he wanted. He's telling the truth and genuinely is just nervous about losing his job tonight if he embarrasses the wrong person in front of the wrong big league Washington guy. I haven't done rounds here in a few weeks, mostly because they've been plenty happy with me just bringing in guys, but there's not much to them. Walk through the general population block where all of the prisoners have had their metabands confiscated and are behind Plexiglas-encased, steel bars. Just make sure none of them are using a spoon to dig a hole to China.

  It's lights out at Silver Island, meaning every cell I've walked by has been dark. Occasionally, one or two of the inmates are up, using the stainless steel toilet inside their single occupancy cell, or just staring at the walls or ceiling. I'm not sure what they’re thinking about, but if I had to guess, I'd imagine it would be something about the fact that they're basically going to be imprisoned here indefinitely.

  While The Agency might have their metabands under lock and key, there's no way to ever definitively destroy them. And as long as the metabands exist, it's always possible, even if extremely unlikely, that an inmate could find a way to get his back if he were ever allowed back out into the real world again.

  My round is almost done when I hear his voice. At first, I can't place it, but I know it's familiar. Familiar enough to stop me in my tracks at the very least, and not just because he seems to know me.

  Desmond Keane.

  "How are you doing, young man?" he asks me.

  I pause momentarily; terrified that he somehow knows who I am because he called me a young man. He doesn't know who I am, who I really am, I reassure myself. He only called me a young man because he assumes that I'm younger than him.

  "Oh come on, don't tell me you’ve forgotten me already. You obviously haven't been on that many raids, considering how poorly that one ended."

  "It didn't have to end like that. You could have just done what you were told to do."

  "Do you really believe that? Do you really believe that if I'd just done what I was told to do by a bunch of men shouting at me t
hat anything would have been different than how it is now?"

  "I'm sorry about your wife," I say.

  I'm not entirely sure why that's what comes blurting out of my mouth, but it feels impossibly rude not to say it. This man broke the law, committed crimes, and stole. It's easy to think that he only stole from other rich people, people who more or less wouldn't miss the money. It's hard to shed a tear for someone who went from being a billionaire to simply a millionaire because of this man, but that's not the entire story. For every rich, old money socialite that got screwed over by this man, there were a thousand regular people who saw their life savings and retirement funds disappear. And for what? He already had more money than he could spend in twenty lifetimes, but it just wasn’t enough, I guess.

  "Do you want to know something?" Desmond asks me. He doesn't wait for my response before just telling me anyway. "You're the first person who has said that."

  "Who has said what?" I ask.

  "Who has said that they're sorry for what happened to my wife. Everyone else either pretends like it didn't happen, or that it was my fault."

  "If you hadn't done what you did, we would have never been there."

  "You're absolutely right, but does that mean that everything that's happened from then on out is just one hundred percent on me? If that's the case, why even have police officers and The Agency at all? Why not just allow for martial law if we're not going to hold those who police us accountable for their actions?" Keane asks.

  "That's not my decision."

  "Oh, but it is, young man. It's everyone's decision. The attitude that it's not your decision, that it's the decision of men and women older than you, more experienced, more highly educated, is what is wrong with this world. No one believes that anything is actually up to them. The idea of individual choice and responsibility is a thing of the past. Nothing is ever anyone else's problem any more. That's why they threw me in this cage. Why they forbid me from receiving a trial. Why go through all of that when I can just be locked away and made to be no one else's problem any more?"

  I approach the Plexiglas wall of the cell Desmond is in so I can look into his eyes, even if he can't see into mine. He's made some points that have caused me to stop and think, but in the back of my mind, I remember that his man is an expert at manipulating people. Even before he acquired his metabands, which allegedly gave him some type of limited mind control and the ability to control the decisions of others, he was still a very persuasive man. It's not like he rose up from nothing to all of a sudden be running Wall Street after getting his metabands. He was already the CEO of a top one hundred company long before that. The metabands just greased the wheels for him to completely take over.

  "And what exactly do you want me to do about it?" I ask.

  "Who said I expect you to do anything about it? Can't a man just talk and express his thoughts, or is that right being taken away from me as well? The truth is that the ‘powers that be’ didn't want me to have those metabands, you see. They don't like the idea of an outsider having their intellect enhanced by metabands. They're much more comfortable with those who simply use them to bash the daylights out of each other. That, at least, can be easily understood by the sheep," Desmond says.

  I decide I've heard enough and turn to walk away.

  "Do you even know how those bands on your wrists work?" Desmond asks, stopping me in my tracks.

  He doesn't know how they work. He couldn't. But he also had metabands that were unlike any that had ever been seen before. Is it possible that his metabands gave him some insight into how the bands actually work? Where they came from? He's manipulating me, I know he is, but if he has even vague answers, I want to know them.

  "You're saying you do?" I ask.

  "No, no, I was just a simple owner, like you. But just because we don't understand how something works, doesn't mean that we are limited in how we use it. Do you understand the inner workings of your touchscreen phone?" he asks me.

  Worried that he's asking personal questions of me to try to glean more information about who I really am, I don’t respond.

  "Of course you don't. Your phone is infinitely more complicated than any machine created by man up to perhaps only twenty or so years ago. It was designed by a team of hundreds, maybe even thousands, of individuals, all building upon the shared knowledge of our culture that has taken thousands of years to take shape. If I asked you to make me a smartphone from scratch, or even explain to me in detail how it works, how the screen senses your finger, or how a webpage is relayed via radio waves to its internal antennas, you wouldn't be able to."

  "What's your point?"

  "Just because you can’t explain to me how it works, doesn't mean you can’t figure out how to use it. What makes that so remarkable is that even if you traveled ten thousand years back in time and showed it to a caveman, they would eventually figure out how to operate it. It would confuse and bewilder them, but in time, they would learn how the device responds to their touch and how to control parts of it, even if they never fully master it. At the end of the day, they would still believe that the phone was magic. They would still be afraid of it, and that fear is what would keep them from ever fully understanding it's power and full potential."

  "Hey, what part of lights out don't you understand?" a prison guard yells from down the corridor.

  I'm more startled by the guard than Desmond is, having completely forgotten that of course there are regular guards here at all times. Meta rounds are more for show of force than anything else.

  "Well, it would appear I've overstayed your welcome," Desmond says to me.

  "Yeah, something like that," I reply as I walk down the dimly lit corridor and out of the Containment area of Silver Island.

  Chapter 24

  By the time I get home, it's late, even for me, even lately. I land on the private rooftop terrace of the apartment Derrick and I share. Okay, the apartment he owns and lets me live in. I let myself in through the rooftop entrance after using my enhanced vision to quickly scan the skyline and make sure I'm not being watched. On my way down the set of spiral stairs leading into our living space, I click my metabands together and deactivate them, allowing my suit to retract into the bands before phase shifting them off my wrists and out of sight.

  "Connor!" Derrick yelps as I hit the light switch.

  "Ah!" I yelp back. It's not immediately obvious which one of us has startled the other one more, but I'm glad I used the bathroom before I came home.

  "What are you doing here?" he asks.

  "Uhh, I live here? I know I don't pay rent or anything, but I didn't know I had to start announcing myself to you whenever I planned on coming home," I say.

  "Shhh, turn off that light!" Derrick orders in a hushed tone.

  "What?"

  "The light! The light!" Derrick whispers again before he becomes impatient and rushes toward me to turn off the light switch himself.

  "Jeez, all right. Calm down," I say to Derrick. He looks around the apartment nervously. "What's with you? I checked before I came down. No one followed me. I'm sure of it."

  "I'm not worried about someone following you. I'm worried about them following me," Derrick says as he motions his head toward his office.

  I give him an inquisitive look, basically asking him nonverbally, "Are you serious right now?" He doesn't answer and instead just stares at me. The look in his eyes is the same one he gave me when he told me he knew I was Omni. It's a deadly serious look that I never expected to see again.

  Derrick ushers me into his office and closes the door behind us. His laptop is partially shut on top of his desk, but the glow of the screen reflecting off the keyboard lights the otherwise pitch-black room. The blinds are closed tight.

  "Phone," Derrick says to me, holding his hand out, waiting.

  "Seriously? Fine, I'll turn it off," I say as I reluctantly pull my phone out of my pocket and move my finger toward the off switch.

  Before I have a chance to even tap “OK” to
confirm that I want to turn the phone off, Derrick snags it out of my hand. Without hesitation, he drops the phone in a glass of water sitting on the desk. The phone's screen slowly dims before completely shutting off.

  "What the hell, Derrick! Are you out of your mind?" I yell. "That phone cost me—"

  "Shut up," Derrick says to silence me. "I'll buy you a new one. It's not important."

  "But ..." I begin before Derrick interrupts me again.

  "Sit," he commands.

  I do as he says since he's starting to scare me a little. I've never seen him so serious. Derrick takes his computer desk chair and sits next to me while pulling over his laptop and opening it. The laptop wakes up and Derrick turns to face me again.

  "I received an anonymous tip today. Actually, more than an anonymous tip."

  "A non-anonymous tip, then?" I ask sarcastically, still pretty pissed off that Derrick drowned my freaking phone for no reason.

  "Connor, I'm not joking around. The information I received today is dangerous. I'm not sure who sent it, or why they sent it to me, but it can have major implications if it gets out," Derrick says.

  "Okay," I say, becoming a little more serious after seeing how rattled Derrick is. "What is it then?"

  "Watch," Derrick says as he double clicks a file on the screen that then opens inside a video player.

  On the screen is a somewhat grainy green and black night vision image split into nine squares. Each square has it's own video. Some are seemingly from the point of view of a person, while others are from high in the sky, looking down. All of the videos are synchronized and showing the same event: a tactical team armed to the teeth, running stealthily through a barren desert landscape, past small huts and shacks.

  "What is this, Derrick? Is that the same tactical team that—"