The Dark Intercept

by Julia Keller

  He took a sip. “No.”

  So the chief’s zero for two, Violet thought with a sneaky feeling of vindication. Everywhere she goes, it’s a big fat “No.”

  Callahan turned back to her. “Let me be clear,” she said. “I like Danny. A lot. He’s one of the finest cops I’ve ever worked with—on Old or New Earth. I’m trying to help him.”

  “Okay.” Violet looked down at her bowl. She didn’t want to look at Callahan.

  “I was hoping,” the chief continued, “that maybe you could talk to him. Make him understand that if he doesn’t stop, he’s severely jeopardizing his future. I’m doing my best, but I don’t know if I can protect him anymore. Not after so many times.”

  So I was right, Violet thought. This whole thing was a setup. She knew my father would be too busy to come to dinner and he’d send me instead—and I’d have to sit here and listen. If I won’t be a snitch, she hopes I’ll be some kind of messenger or go-between or whatever.

  Being right didn’t feel nearly as good as it was supposed to.

  Callahan was still going. “I’ve known Danny since he first set foot on New Earth, did you know that? I was right there on the day when the Mayhew brothers first arrived.”

  “Really.” Violet swallowed another mouthful of soup.

  “Oh, yes. I was working border security back then.” Callahan went on with her story, a story about the two young men who stepped shyly out of the rusty two-man pod. They had, she recalled, thin, famished cheeks, sunken eyes, dark hair, and bewildered expressions. You knew instantly that they were brothers, she said. They were the most important people ever to cross the threshold of New Earth—well, Kendall was, anyway—but at that moment, they were just two scared-looking teenagers among a few other scared-looking teenagers, shuffling and murmuring, nervous and uncertain, their lives on the brink of profound change.

  “Sometimes it’s still hard to imagine, you know?” Callahan said. “How little we knew back then. When it was first installed, nobody really understood what Kendall Mayhew’s invention was going to do for New Earth. Nobody could’ve predicted—no matter what they say now. Even your father wasn’t sure. That’s why he waited so long to bring them here, I think. He wanted to be certain that the Intercept really worked the way Kendall said it would. If it was a total disaster, he didn’t want the inventor around as a constant reminder of failure.”

  Stark decided to join the conversation. He snickered—a mean snicker, with no amusement in it. He grinned at his wife. “Yeah,” he said. “There you were, you and all those other cops, doing all those searches at the New Earth portals, looking for bombs and guns and drugs and chemical weapons. And along comes Kendall Mayhew—the guy responsible for bringing in the most dangerous weapon that either world has ever known. The Intercept. Right under your noses.”

  Callahan gave him a puzzled look. “Dangerous? That’s a funny way to put it.”

  “Just trying to help you get a read on the kid,” Stark said quickly. “Trying to help you figure out what’s eating him. I mean, it was bound to have a big impact on Danny, right? On his work? His behavior? His brother’s genius, I mean. And then Kendall Mayhew’s death, coming only a couple of years after they got here. I’m just saying that you can’t look at Danny the way you look at the rest of your squad. He’s got some emotional baggage that we’ll never understand. His problems with authority? There’s your cause, right there. He’s got a lot going on inside him. That crap he’s always pulling—it might be his way of dealing with all those internal storms.” Stark tapped the tabletop with a finger. “You can only do so much for him, Michelle. At some point, you might just have to stand down and let him get the punishment he deserves.”

  Violet watched the two of them facing off against each other across the table. It was as if they’d forgotten she was here.

  “Abandon him, you mean,” Callahan said sharply. “Let them suspend him. Maybe even fire him.”

  Stark shrugged. “If that’s their decision, then—yeah. I know you’re loyal to your squad. But at a certain point, you’ve got to let go.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “He’s beyond any help you can give him.”

  “I can try, can’t I?”

  “Your belief in him is admirable,” Stark said. “But it’s not working. And it’s not fair to the rest of your squad. What happens to them while you’re focusing so hard on Danny Mayhew?”

  “So now you’re saying I’m not doing my job?”

  “I’m saying that you could be doing a better job if you didn’t spend most of your time trying to save one stubborn kid who doesn’t know how good he’s got it up here.”

  Callahan started to answer—Violet watched her lean forward, a retort at the ready—but at the last moment, she held up.

  The whish-whoosh of Stark’s HoverUp was the only sound in the room. The machine kept up its odd music even when it was at rest. Husband and wife had both put down their spoons. The soup was cooling, but neither one of them cared. Violet realized that the argument was continuing, but silently now, with their eyes alone doing the dueling.

  Emotions ran roughshod over humanity, Violet reminded herself. Even the most intelligent people were helpless when caught in the vortex of those whirling, unpredictable forces. Even the toughest, hardiest, most resolute individuals could be brought low by intense feelings—by passionate love or soul-scouring grief or a hot furnace of hatred. Kings and queens who had ruled long ago on Old Earth, tyrants who had controlled the destinies of millions, had been undone by their emotions—by a passing infatuation or a sudden twist of envy or a quick knife-thrust of intense hatred. Violet had read about it. She knew.

  So were emotions good things or bad things?

  They were like fire, Violet decided. Fire could burn down your house or cook your tomato basil soup. Emotions could save you. Or they could destroy you.

  But no matter what they did, they were yours. They belonged to you.

  Not to the Intercept.

  She was startled by that last thought. It had come unbidden, sort of sliding in sideways while her thoughts were looking the other way. It was the first time she had put it to herself quite that bluntly: Your feelings were yours. They were, in effect, possessions—like tablets or consoles.

  Nobody had the right to take them from you without your permission.

  Did they?

  Callahan’s voice brought her back.

  “All I want you to understand, Violet,” the chief said, “is that I’m in Danny’s corner. I want what’s best for him, too. And so if you have any idea why he keeps going down to Old Earth without authoriza—”

  “Like I said, I don’t.” Violet’s interruption came quickly. “I don’t. Really. I mean, I’ve told him the same thing—that it’s a bad idea. But he does what he wants to do.”

  Callahan nodded, but she didn’t seem convinced. Violet was tired of the scrutiny, tired of having a cop’s eyes on her as she tried to finish her dinner. So she looked over at Stark.

  His face was closed up and shut down, like usual. But she saw something stirring behind that tight mask. Or at least she thought she did.

  If Violet had been forced to name it, she would have said that it was a combination of sadness and restlessness and another element, too, a furtive and forlorn one, as if Stark secretly believed he wasn’t worthy of his wife’s belief in him, or her love.

  Or maybe, Violet thought, giving herself a little internal talking-to, I’m just tired and I don’t really want to be here and so I’m seeing things. Making stuff up. So give it a rest, girl. Finish your soup and then you can go home.

  * * *

  “Okay, well—thanks,” Violet said. “Really, I had a great time.” She shook Callahan’s outstretched hand. She turned to Stark and nodded. She hoped they couldn’t sense her deep relief at the prospect of getting out of here. Words like escape and freedom were pinwheeling through Violet’s mind.

  They stood by the front door. Violet had just accepted her c
oat from Callahan and was draping it across her forearm. She had no idea why she’d brought a coat. It was warm outside. She wouldn’t need a coat for the walk home—a walk she was really looking forward to, after being trapped with two old people for what seemed like a millennium. She might even run.

  Yeah. I feel like running. Definitely.

  Violet had almost made it out the door when everything changed.

  The brash, clanging alarm was long and loud, instantly enveloping the apartment and the hall—and the world beyond, Violet surmised—in a thrash of raucous noise. She knew what the sound was. She had heard it before, although not often; general alarms, the kind audible all across New Earth, were rare.

  Callahan twitched as if she were hooked to a generator and somebody had hit MAX POWER. Her eyes went right to her console. She read the message. Then she whipped around to address Violet and Stark.

  “Breach at Protocol Hall,” the chief said, snapping off the words. “I have to go. Paul, can you take Violet home?”

  Violet felt a flame of outrage leaping inside her. Take me home? Really?

  “What kind of breach?” she asked, ignoring the chief’s implication that she was a helpless child who needed an escort.

  Callahan was swinging on her long blue coat. “I can’t discuss that. Paul?”

  Stark nodded and took Violet’s arm. Violet shook him off. She meant to do it lightly, but she wasn’t sure she had achieved that goal. She was too upset over having been so gallingly insulted. And underestimated.

  “Look,” she said. “I’m not a kid. I work at the Hall, okay? I have a right to know what’s going—”

  “Fine.” Callahan barked the word. She buttoned her coat. Her voice was cold with intensity. “You want to know? Fine. Fine. I’ll tell you. Somebody infiltrated the main circuit of the Intercept.”

  Violet’s face must have shown how startled she was, because Callahan quickly said, “I know. I know. It’s impossible—but it happened. A million different safety triggers should have prohibited that—including the Intercept itself. It should’ve kept anybody from being able to break in. Everybody’s got a chip. And so the Intercept should have recognized the approach of the saboteur and initiated an intervention. And that should have shut down the crime. We should be able to go into the chamber below Protocol Hall and find that hacker moaning and screaming on the floor—with his most painful memory sparking through his brain. He should be begging us to shut off his Intercept feed. Give him back control of his mind.

  “But the message was from my officers on the scene—and guess what? They have nothing. Somebody got in and shut down the signal and got out—and now they’re long gone. The server was only off-line for four seconds. But four seconds today can be four minutes tomorrow. And four minutes tomorrow…” The chief’s voice had revved up and up and up. Now she let it trail off. She jammed her hands into the pockets of her coat, diverting her anger into another channel.

  So it’s true, Violet thought with alarm. Somebody has figured out how to thwart the Intercept. How to put themselves beyond its reach.

  It was terrifying, but it was also …

  Violet was afraid to envision the word, because if she let her excitement attach itself to the raw syllables, the Intercept would pick up on it. Excitement was an emotion. An emotion would send an electrical signal to the chip under the skin in the crook of her left elbow and, as indicated by that damned blue spark, the record of what she felt would go zipping off into her file at Protocol Hall. And it might be used against her later.

  So she tried to think the word very calmly, very sedately:

  The breach was terrifying, but it was also kind of exhilarating.

  Her father had told her, over and over again, that the Intercept was all that stood between the horrors of Old Earth and the beauties of New Earth. It was the last barricade between civilization and catastrophe. Yet right now, the idea that someone had outsmarted the Intercept didn’t frighten her.

  It intrigued her.

  Violet tried to switch off the feeling of being intrigued, like someone throwing a handkerchief over a lightbulb.

  Callahan had regained her sense of purpose and now rushed past her, barreling out the door and toward the elevator at a pace that was just short of a sprint. She slammed a fist against the down button. The moment the elevator arrived, she turned around to make a final comment to Violet. “Your father’s at the crime scene. I’ll tell him you’re on your way home.”

  Stark edged his HoverUp into the apartment doorway. He wanted a final word with his wife.

  “Any idea who did it?” he called out.

  “Security found some graffiti scratched on the wall,” Callahan said. “Same group that’s done a lot of damage lately. They call themselves the Rebels of Light.” She lunged into the elevator, eager to be on the job. The doors hissed to a quick close and she was gone.

  12

  The Color of Love

  The trouble with being a painter, Shura had pointed out to Violet many times before, was that when you gave your best friend a present, she always knew what it was before she’d even opened it.

  Case in point: right now.

  “Big surprise, right?” Shura said. She rolled her eyes.

  She gently set down the object she’d just carried into Violet’s living room, bending down to lean it against the couch and then standing upright again and backing up a few steps to study it, hands on her hips. Violet stood beside her, also with her hands on her hips.

  The object was wide and flat, and it was covered in brown paper wrapping and tied off with twine. Violet knew it was a painting. Duh. Anybody would’ve known it was a painting.

  But what kind of painting? That was the question. With Shura, you never knew.

  Shura’s visit was a good diversion for Violet. New Earth was a nervous place this morning. Consoles had been dinging every few seconds with news alerts. Except for people like Violet, who worked at Protocol Hall, everyone had been told to stay home. The authorities wanted to keep the streets clear for their investigation. So far, they had found nothing. No clues. No traces of how the break-in had been accomplished. Violet had had a short console conversation with her father and he confirmed it: The trail was cold.

  The mystery continued.

  Just after breakfast Shura’s face had showed up on Violet’s console. She asked if she could come by because she had something to give her.

  And here she was, standing in the middle of Violet’s living room, eyeing the package she’d brought as if she thought it might sneak off if she didn’t keep tabs on it. She was ready for the big unveiling.

  “Is your dad here?” Shura asked.

  “Nope. He didn’t come home last night. He’s working with the police. They’re trying to track down the criminals who broke into the system.”

  “Well, I sort of wanted him to see this, too. It’s for both of you. But that’s okay. I’m glad I went ahead and brought it. We’ve been through so much lately—I mean, having that guy try to attack us in the park, and last night’s Intercept breach, plus the stuff with my mom—I think we need it now.” Shura looked slightly sheepish. “That sounds pretty arrogant, right? Like art is going to make everything all right again. Like art is going to change the world.”

  “It’s the only thing that ever has,” Violet said softly. “That’s what you taught me.”

  They were quiet for a moment. Shura didn’t like compliments. She didn’t know how to handle them. Violet knew that, but sometimes she had to go there anyway.

  To cover her embarrassment, Shura bolted forward, ripping off the brown wrapping paper.

  “It’s from a photo you showed me once. On your console,” Shura said. “I hope it’s—I hope it’s right, you know? And that it captures her? Even just a little bit.” She stepped back again, to give Violet a clear view.

  Violet felt a warm whispery silkiness spread through her body, as if soft, busy feathers were starting at her stomach and radiating out toward her toes and her
fingertips and the top of her head.

  She couldn’t speak. She could only feel.

  The Intercept would know what to call this emotion and where to file it—but Violet didn’t. Was it joy? Was it sadness? Was it yearning? At the moment, she didn’t care that she didn’t know what to call it. It was enough just to have it. She didn’t have to assign it a category.

  It was a portrait of her mother.

  In simple brushstrokes and basic colors like cornflower blue and bone white and jade green and ruby red, Shura had captured her mother’s radiance and intelligence and endless sense of fun. Those attributes all lived in her eyes. Lucretia, dressed in a white blouse and black pants, was looking back over her shoulder, urging an unseen someone to hurry up and catch up with her. Her red hair was held back with a long white ribbon. The dangling ends of the ribbon were fluttering, flying, meaning that the breeze was spirited and intense.

  Just like the woman caught so joyfully in the midst of it.

  Violet remembered very well the precise moment when her father had taken that photograph. And the person her mother was waiting for was herself. She was eight years old. She could still hear, from deep in a valley in her mind, the sound of her mother’s voice: Come on, sweetheart! You’ll miss the sunset! Run to the top of the hill with me, Violet! Run!

  The sky was light purple. There were yellow daisies at her mother’s feet.

  Gradually Violet resurfaced into the present moment. She was in her living room, right? With Shura? Reluctantly she moved her eyes away from the painting.

  “It’s—it’s beautiful,” she said.

  Shura nodded. She knew she was an excellent painter. That was one of the things Violet had always appreciated about her best friend: no false modesty.

  “I wanted you to have it,” Shura said, “because I might not be painting much anymore.”

  “What?”

  Shura seemed to have trouble saying the next few sentences. “It’s just that—well, with everything going on, I’ve decided to focus on something practical. This morning I put in my application for medical school. Painting will be a hobby. But not even that, for a while. Until I finish school.”