The Dark Intercept

by Julia Keller

  The man turns. Whips out a slab gun.

  No. No. No.

  Paul lies on the pavement, writhing. The lower half of his body looks like a puddle of dirty bathwater. His life is leaking away.

  “Paul,” she says. She’s kneeling beside him. “Paul—”

  “Let me go,” he whispers. “Please.”

  “I can’t. I need you.” Frantic, she starts to unhook the emergency equipment hanging from her belt—the respirator, the cardiac monitor. Her fingers fumble at first but they get the job done.

  “No,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to live like this.”

  She is too busy to talk as she sets up the devices that will keep him alive until the medics arrive.

  “Please,” he says. “Let me go. Just let me go.”

  She won’t look in his eyes. She knows what she will see there. He wants to die. He doesn’t want to live with half his body gone. That’s not Paul Stark.

  “Please,” he says. Begging now. She ignores him and keeps working.

  In a few minutes it is too late. The medics are here, and now the lifesaving efforts are serious and prolonged and professional. No more chance that he can just slip away with no fuss—which was his wish, his one desire.

  She is selfish. She knows it. His terrible, terrible request has revealed that to her. She cannot forgive him for revealing to her what she really is: weak and unreliable. A coward. She loves him but she hates him, too, for what her love for him has done to her. Love is like a mirror. It shows us who we are.

  * * *

  Michelle Callahan dropped to her knees. The slab gun slid from her grasp. She thrust her face into her hands, weeping with such fervor that she could barely breathe, her shoulders heaving, her body convulsing with the pain of relentless memory.

  When her slab gun hit the ground, the cop nearest to her snatched it up and then signaled to the rest of the unit to holster their weapons and wait for new orders.

  Ogden Crowley looked up from his console. Violet read the pain in his eyes. She knew how much he liked Callahan and respected her. Tonight he had been forced to witness her fall. First, he had thought she was a traitor to New Earth; now he knew she was simply a frightened woman who had lost her way. A traitor to herself.

  Violet put a hand on her father’s shoulder. There was nothing she could say that would make him feel better about what had unfolded on his screen; all she could do was remind him—silently, by the weight of her hand on his shoulder—that she was here, by his side. She would always be here, no matter where she was.

  He reached up and placed a hand on top of Violet’s hand.

  Her hand was small and smooth; his was large and scarred, the skin on it riven with craters. Yet in that moment the differences did not matter. Father and daughter were fused by their sorrow.

  Violet had a final task to perform before she went to bed. She called Shura on her console. A question had occurred to her.

  “Why were you at Protocol Hall tonight?” Violet asked. “What made you go over there in the first place?”

  She sat cross-legged on her bed as she had done so many other nights, when she and Shura talked. Outside her window, Violet could see the quarter-moon rising over New Earth. It looked like an orange slice. Its glow was reassuring.

  “I needed to talk to Rez,” Shura said.

  “To Rez.”

  “Yeah.”

  Violet waited. There had to be more. She and Shura were best friends. She knew when Shura was holding back.

  “Okay,” Shura finally said. “I had to ask him.”

  “About what?”

  “About something that’s been bothering me ever since you and your father were kidnapped.” Shura sounded as if she was half afraid to go on.

  “Tell me,” Violet said. She was mystified. She pictured Rez’s face, always eager and hopeful when they arrived at their cubicle each afternoon, as if he’d decided that today was the day—the day she’d realize that they ought to be together.

  “Well,” Shura said, “when the Rebels grabbed you guys and took you back to their headquarters, they did an Intercept on your dad, right?”

  “Right. It was hard to watch.”

  “Yeah. So how’d they do that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Rebels don’t control the Intercept. The government does. Out of Protocol Hall. How would they have initiated the Intercept?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s bad news, Violet. It’s really bad news.” Shura paused. “It was Rez.”

  Violet had been certain she couldn’t be shocked any more. She had been shocked so profoundly by the revelation about Danny and Kendall that she was beyond the reach of all last-minute epiphanies, dark discoveries, and suddenly revealed secrets. Or so she thought.

  “Rez?”

  “It was just a hunch, but when I confronted him, he admitted it,” Shura said. “They sent him a signal that night and he activated your father’s Intercept file.”

  Violet let the information sink in. “But I don’t understand. Why would he do that? Rez is my friend. And he doesn’t take sides. He doesn’t care about politics.”

  “You’re right,” Shura said. “All he cares about is code. And you. He loves you, Violet. You know that. And you also know that you don’t feel the same way about him. So he got mad. Finally, he just sort of—sort of snapped, I guess. He’s been waiting around, ever since you guys started working together. Waiting for you to fall in love with him like you fell in love with Danny. The hopelessness finally got to him. And then he felt like a fool. So he decided to help out the Rebels just once—to get back at you. It wasn’t political. It was personal. Later, when things got out of hand, he regretted it and tried to make things right again.”

  Violet was still knocked sideways by the news. “So he did the wrong thing,” she said, her words coming slowly. “But it ended up being—sort of—the right thing, because it helped the Rebels. But it was the wrong thing, because it put my father through a terrible ordeal.”

  “Now my head hurts,” Shura said.

  “Why didn’t the Intercept pick up on Rez’s feelings? And stop him?”

  “He saw his own codes streaming in. And he overrode them. He’s not proud of himself, believe me.”

  “What’s going to happen to him?”

  “He just sent a confession to your dad’s console. He wants to take his punishment, whatever it is.”

  Violet sighed. “Here’s Rez—this brilliant, brilliant guy. This guy who can program a computer upside down with his eyes closed and suffering from a bad case of the flu. And what brings him down? What makes him do something like that?”

  “Feelings.”

  “Yeah. Feelings. They can be a real pain in the ass sometimes, right?”

  Shura gave her a weak smile. “Right.”

  “One more thing. Can you do me a big favor?”

  “Name it.”

  Violet made her request. Shura agreed. And then Violet signed off, because she needed her sleep. She had an appointment to keep. She’d had a conversation with her father about something that haunted her, and received his blessing. Tomorrow afternoon she and Kendall were meeting at the transport site.

  38

  The Search

  They did not find her right away.

  It took them several days on Old Earth to locate her. She had left the house in which she’d nursed Violet’s wounds. There was no sign of her in the streets surrounding that house, either. Among the people they came across—kids, mainly, with scared eyes and mangy skin—few would talk to them. But the ones who did, and who seemed to know Delia because they reacted to her name when Violet said it, just pointed to the horizon and murmured, Away.

  Away.

  She had gone away.

  “Which could mean she’s dead,” Violet said glumly. She and Kendall stood in the kitchen of what had once been Delia’s house. They had just searched the place for the second time, hoping for a clue—anything would do—t
hat would tell them where she had gone.

  “I don’t think so,” Kendall said.

  “Why not?”

  “If she was dead, they’d say so. The people down here aren’t big on euphemisms.”

  Violet shrugged and moved around the kitchen. She looked up. The hole had gotten even bigger. Soon the entire roof would collapse, and the house would sift and sink and become one with the dirt, which was, Violet said as she rummaged through the few items scattered on the floor, the fate of all things on any world, old or new.

  “Cheery thought,” Kendall said.

  “You know what? I kind of liked you better as Danny. He wasn’t so sarcastic.”

  They had swiftly gotten to the point where they could tease each other. They had been through too much, too fast, to be formal and shy; they had fought battles together and suffered losses together, and this was the result: a fast-acting friendship based on honesty and necessity.

  Could it ever be more? Could she, that is, ever come to love Kendall the way she had loved Danny?

  A silly question, in one way, because Kendall was Danny. But in another way it wasn’t silly at all. Because Kendall and Danny were not the same person. Violet had been in love with someone she thought of as Danny Mayhew. Transferring that to someone named Kendall—even though he was the same person—would take time. Maybe years. And maybe, after all those years, it still might not happen.

  “Hey,” he said. “What’s this?” He pulled something small and pale and wrinkled from a sack he’d dragged out of the corner.

  Violet looked. She laughed.

  “It’s the tea bag,” she said.

  “The tea bag?”

  “Yeah. There’s just the one.” Violet scratched her cheek. “I wonder if that’s a good sign or a bad sign—leaving the tea bag. Does it mean she’s never coming back, so anybody’s welcome to it—or does it mean she is coming back, so hands off?”

  Kendall shrugged. “I’m not really up on my tea-bag symbolism, so I’ll leave that to you.” He moved closer to the scabby, peeling wall. He touched it with his fingertips, spreading his fingers and arching his hand. It was as if he was grounding himself, reorienting himself—not to this particular house, but to Old Earth itself.

  “So what’ll we do?” Violet said. “Go back home or keep looking for her?”

  He dropped his hand and turned to look at her. “The Violet I know,” he replied, “is not a quitter.”

  “Damn straight.”

  And so off they went.

  * * *

  They traveled mainly by day but sometimes by night, too. The moon was muted here on Old Earth, not nearly so bright as it was on New Earth. Although maybe I’m just imagining that, Violet thought. I think it ought to be true and so when I see it, I make it true. She remembered the term for that from her probability class: confirmation bias.

  When they came across yet another dead lake or burnt-out field or stinking animal carcass in the road, she felt a deep sadness at a world left to rot this way. And then it would strike her: Someday, she might be able to feel whatever she wanted to feel. The Intercept would not be gathering up her emotions and then sliding them into virtual folders with her name stenciled on the side.

  She would be free.

  Less safe, maybe, but more free.

  Kendall told her stories as they walked along. He talked about the games he and Danny would play when they were kids, simple games that required only sticks and rocks, and how, despite the hunger, and the sickness, and the terrible cold that swept down from the mountains and fingered its way into every crack in the wall of whatever shabby, run-down house they found themselves in when winter came, they had fun. They had hope. Because they had each other.

  Violet loved to hear the stories. She laughed at some of them, and others made her want to cry. But mostly she just enjoyed being with Kendall, traveling side by side with him on their shared mission to track down Delia.

  And then, on the morning of the fifth day, they found her.

  It was Violet’s idea to search near the prison. Delia had one child left, and Violet speculated that if she had decided to leave her home, she would want to be near him. Even though visitors were prohibited, and even though she was separated from her son by thousands of tons of rock—she’d be here. As close as she could get.

  At the base of the mountain was a small trading post. The economy of Old Earth was primitive, makeshift, mostly based on barter, but a few stores did manage to say in business. On the rare occasion when prisoners were released on probation, this was their first stop; Violet figured that after years of doing without simple pleasures, they probably walked up and down the aisles with a glassy-eyed awe, touching the most mundane items—sticks of gum, pencils—as if they were religious relics.

  She spotted Delia right away. The small woman was standing behind the front counter, arms crossed, keeping an eye out for shoplifters. The red bandana was as soiled as ever. The scar on her chin looked even whiter against the pale yellow of her skin. Violet assumed there was a skillet—Delia’s weapon of choice—hidden under the counter to deal with troublemakers.

  She saw Violet and let out a whoop, waving her closer.

  “So you’re back,” Delia said. “Vacation spot like this—folks just can’t stay away.”

  Violet introduced her to Kendall. Then she got down to business.

  “I had two reasons for wanting to find you,” Violet said. “First, I need to tell you something about the woman you call Doc. She was my mother. And I’m very sorry to say that she passed away six years ago. I should have told you before. When I was down here. I just didn’t want to spoil—Well, anyway.”

  Delia looked down at the dirt floor. Then back up at Violet. Her mood had shifted into another register, a more somber one. “Your mother,” she said quietly, “was a fine person.”

  Violet nodded. She took a deep breath and moved on. “The second thing is—I want you to come to New Earth. To live. We’ll arrange it. Get you a place to live. A job.”

  Delia shook her head. “I can’t leave. My son’s here. In prison. He doesn’t know I’m here, but—I wanted to be, anyway.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Violet said, “he’s been pardoned by the chief executive of New Earth.”

  Flustered, Delia put her small hands flat on the countertop, spread out wide. “But why? Why would the head guy of New Earth do that? And how would you know he did that?”

  “Trust me,” Violet said. “It’s a done deal. Look—you may or may not want to come to New Earth right now. Or ever. Make up your mind whenever you like. No rush. But your son is being released. I wanted to give you a couple of things for saving my life.”

  “I didn’t save your—” Delia grinned. “Well, yeah, I guess I kinda did.”

  “Right. So I’m offering you—and Tommy, too, if he’s interested—the one thing that everybody wants.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “A fresh start.”

  Delia let it sink in. “Yeah,” she said, obviously pleased. “Oh, and—not to be greedy, but you said ‘a couple of things.’ More good news coming my way?”

  Violet gestured to Kendall. He pulled a long thin tube from his book bag. The tube had been brought down from New Earth a day ago by Jefferson, her father’s chief assistant. He had tracked them down and delivered it.

  Kendall shook out the tightly wound canvas and unrolled it on the counter. He kept it from springing back shut again by anchoring a palm in two opposite corners.

  It was a portrait of a tiny young girl of perhaps five years old, racing along a dirt road barefoot. Her light blue dress was little more than a rag. Her blond hair flew out behind her. She was quick and strong. She was smiling, despite the grimness of her surroundings. She was having the time of her life.

  Because of the painting, she would be running this way forever.

  In the corner was the signature Shura Lu, and below that, 2294.

  Delia stared. She wiped away a tear with the back of
her hand.

  “My little girl—how did you know—you never met Molly—you didn’t—” Delia’s voice cracked with emotion. She couldn’t go on.

  “I saw her once,” Violet said. She didn’t want to tell her about Tommy’s Intercept feed, the means by which she had seen Molly in the last few seconds of the child’s life, a time of such suffering. “I described her to a friend. She’s an artist.”

  It was true, Violet thought. No matter what profession Shura chose, she was an artist. And always would be.

  39

  Sunrise over New Earth

  On a scintillatingly crisp and golden morning two weeks later, Violet and Kendall stood in the center of the ground floor of Protocol Hall. Glass-sided cubicles rose all around them, like a symmetrical forest of center-cut diamonds. But the cubicles were empty now. The building was deserted.

  Kendall held a sleek black briefcase in his right hand. In his left, he held a small round detonator.

  He slipped the detonator into his pocket.

  They knew what they had to do. They would do it not only because they had made a pledge to Violet’s father. They knew in their hearts it was right:

  Wipe out the Intercept.

  Ogden Crowley had ordered the destruction of Protocol Hall—and, more important, of what lay below it. The evacuation had been completed two days ago. This place had always been noisy and crowded and filled with a kind of buoyant, youthful energy; it had seemed the very embodiment of the vigor of New Earth.

  No more. In fact, because of what Violet and Kendall would do here today, this entire sector of Hawking was deserted. It had been deserted for a week.

  Kendall looked up. He had to tilt his head back a long, long way for his gaze to scale all those translucent stories. Violet saw what he was doing and she looked up, too. This had been her workplace, a second home.

  She looked down. She could feel, under her feet, that restless shimmy. She knew that Kendall felt it, too. In a way it was sad, Violet thought; the Intercept believed it was still on the job. It didn’t realize that no one was monitoring the feeds anymore. No one was requesting it to intervene in perilous situations. Nor did it know that it had been disconnected from the chips. The Intercept thought it was collecting and sorting, collecting and sorting, collecting and sorting, just like always.