Synapse

by Steven James

“I don’t know. Yet. But let’s find out.”

  After assigning her a team to investigate more about Stuxnet and how it might relate to Terabyne, he called Ripley to check on Kestrel. “Are you there with her?”

  “I’m outside her place.”

  “And she seemed okay when she got there?”

  “Seemed alright to me.”

  “Listen, you know how I told you that we caught a guy tonight—a Purist over at the pharmacy? He committed suicide.”

  Ripley cursed. “Another dead-end.”

  “He said there was a mole. Someone at the Bureau.”

  After a slight pause, Ripley said, “Any idea who it is?”

  “We’re working on it. The guy was concerned about his wife, that she might be targeted because he was speaking with me. I have a unit scouring the neighborhood where he was found, looking for her now. He also mentioned the Terabyne headquarters out near Seattle as the site of the next bombing. Earlier, Conrad told us that the next attack was going down tomorrow late afternoon.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’ve already arranged for a plane. I leave in an hour.”

  * * *

  Ripley ended the call with Nick.

  So.

  A mole.

  Nick was good at his job, and now that everything was going down, Ripley couldn’t take the chance that his associate would deduce his role in all this before he could get out of town.

  Earlier today, he’d taken care of the woman at the factory. Earlier this week, he’d taken care of Ethan Bolderson at the hospital. Now it looked like it was time to take care of one final loose end.

  He exited his car.

  Ripley had plans in place. He’d rented an apartment in Louisville an hour and a half away. From there, he could easily book a flight out of the country under one of the fake identities he’d set up when he initially got involved in all this.

  But first, this.

  He headed toward the front door of the apartment building where Kestrel Hathaway lived. He would need to take out the Artificial she had as well. Always eliminate the biggest threat first.

  Then, go after her.

  He would use his bare hands.

  It was always more satisfying that way.

  As he was crossing the street, movement to his left caught his attention and he noticed a woman strolling toward him wearing a dark parka with a hood drawn up over her head.

  Ripley had taken his NCB-issued handgun, but he carried one of his own from home and now he warily unholstered it.

  If this was someone from the group, he wasn’t about to let her get in his way, but when he turned toward her, he heard a voice behind him.

  “You’ve served your purpose, Agent Carlisle.”

  Ripley whipped around.

  No hesitation.

  Found his target.

  Fired.

  Two shots, center mass. The man was eight meters away. Ripley dropped him, then spun to face the woman in the parka.

  But he was too slow.

  She’d already flicked out the blade and launched it into the air toward him.

  Precision.

  He heard the impact even as he felt the blade sink into his throat. A soft, tender sound that he wished he had not heard.

  For the moment there was no pain. But it would come. He knew what it was like to be stabbed. It’d happened to him once in his arm, before he became a Plusser, before—

  He fired at her, but he was already losing his balance and the bullet went astray.

  Then he was falling, one hand instinctively going to his throat, but even the strength of his augmented arms could do nothing to stop something like this.

  On the ground.

  Prone now.

  And then the pain came.

  Sharp and quick, webbing all through him, tendrils of fire like nothing he could have ever imagined.

  He gasped and spit out a mouthful of foamy blood as she approached, kicked the gun out of his hand, and knelt to look at him. He tried to speak, but it was too late for that.

  He thought of the times he had been in her shoes. Watching the dying die. So close. That thin, delicate barrier between life and death being torn in two before you.

  She flipped the parka hood back and then placed a finger gently on his lips. “Quiet now, Agent Carlisle. Just give it a few more seconds, then it’ll all be over.”

  And he recognized that face.

  He knew her.

  Yes.

  Dakota Vernon, Nick’s ex-wife.

  * * *

  As Ripley’s eyes went blank, staring into the endless night, she glanced up at her associate.

  Eckhart, the man the agent had shot, stood, then removed the bullets from where they were embedded in the body armor he was wearing. He pocketed them, then joined her beside the body of the dead NCB agent, careful not to step in the blood pooling on the pavement.

  “Did you know it would come to this?” Eckhart asked her.

  “I suspected it might, but I had his slate tapped. When that call came through from Nick, it was clear what we had to do.”

  He nudged the body with his foot. “What would you like me to do with him?”

  “Make him disappear, but leave a message when you do. Then meet me on the plane. There’s a lot left to do before tomorrow afternoon.”

  32

  Saturday, November 8

  8:00 a.m.

  11 hours left

  Agent Carlisle did not call me in the morning as he had promised, and when I glanced out the window I saw that his car was gone. It didn’t shock me, but it did annoy me since Nick had trusted him to watch over me.

  Jordan was making breakfast in the kitchen, nimbly cracking eggs and frying up an omelet for me.

  It struck me that Jordan hadn’t slept—of course he hadn’t, he was an Artificial—and I wondered what it would be like to be him, standing here in the apartment for hours on end thinking about whatever robots think about while I slept in the other room. Knowing that he was there, vigilant and alert, should have reassured me, but in a way it felt a bit eerie.

  I had slept, however. Better than I thought I would, in fact. It was probably just a result of being so mentally spent and emotionally drained from everything that’d happened during the week.

  The bombing.

  Seeing Trevor again.

  Saying a final, brutal goodbye to my daughter.

  Hoping to distract myself from my thoughts and the jagged terrain of those memories, I checked my slate and found a message waiting for me: “How are you? I had to get a new slate. I hope you don’t mind me writing to you this early.”

  “Who is this?” I dictated to my slate, surprised to be getting a message at this time on a Saturday, especially from someone my slate didn’t identify.

  “Oh. Sorry. Nick.”

  My first reaction: Ah. Perfect!

  Then, hesitation: Wait. Make sure it’s really him.

  “What’s my quirk?” I replied.

  “Which one?”

  “When I’m writing a sermon.”

  “Listening to electronic dance music while hoping no one will show up and tear a cotton ball apart anywhere in your vicinity.”

  “Ah, so it is you.”

  “Yes.”

  He sent a request through to switch to video, something I only then realized I could’ve done myself a few seconds ago to check if it was him. When I accepted, I saw that he was standing outside with a dark bank of clouds stretching out beyond him.

  Scruffy. The shadow of a beard. I liked the look.

  “So?” he said.

  “So?”

  “How are you? I just wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

  “I’m good,” I said. “You?”

  “Fine. Listen, did Agent Carlisle leave yet?”

  “His car’s gone. There wasn’t any trouble last night.” Even though I didn’t entirely trust Agent Carlisle, I didn’t want Nick to be alarmed, so I didn’t bring up the fact that he ha
dn’t followed up this morning to see if I was alright. “Thanks for sending him here.”

  “Okay. I wanted to let you know that I won’t be around for the next couple of days. I’ve arranged for an agent to be on call in case you need anything. I’ll send you his contact info.” A small pause, and then, “I’ll check in on you when I get back—if you don’t mind.”

  I would love that, I thought.

  “I would appreciate that,” I said.

  “Okay. Take care until then. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Thank you.”

  After our goodbyes, I hung up but stared at my slate.

  He’d called me, yes, and he wanted to call me again.

  It’s just to check on you. He’s just doing his job, just being professional.

  No, it’s more than that. He’s interested in me.

  And the feeling was definitely mutual.

  I noted his wording: He hadn’t said check up on me, but check in on me. He wanted to see me again.

  You’re reading too much into this.

  Maybe. Probably.

  But maybe not.

  Despite all that was burdening me, when I thought of Nick I couldn’t help but smile.

  With him on my mind, I shifted my attention to getting out of town as I’d decided to do last night.

  Since the Purists were now aware of who I was, I didn’t like the idea of traveling alone across the country. It would obviously cost more to bring Jordan with me to Seattle since, as a cognizant Artificial, he would need his own seat on the plane instead of just riding in the cargo hold with the service droids and checked luggage. However, it worked out for me since he would be by my side on the flight and could protect me if it came down to that.

  So, while I ate breakfast, I had Jordan book us a flight to Seattle.

  Sometimes when you fly last minute like this you can get good deals, but that wasn’t the case today. With purchasing Naiobi’s gravesite, the new furniture, and now this airfare, my supply of credits was lower than it had been in years. However, right now I wasn’t really worried about long-term investing or anything along those lines. I was just concerned with leaving town, getting someplace safe, and hopefully—if things worked out—reconnecting with my brother.

  Jordan told me that our flight would leave at 11:43. “They’re saying that because of the bombing earlier this week there’ll be enhanced security measures so we should get to the airport by nine.”

  Since it was already after eight, I went to my bedroom to pack a bag for the trip, not looking forward to going through security at the same airport where my parents had been killed.

  * * *

  He wonders how he should feel at this moment.

  Thankful? Afraid? Apprehensive? They are hard to pin down. Feelings are.

  He finds that they overlap and intermingle. More like currents contradicting each other than islands standing alone in the sea.

  Is there even such a thing as feeling only one feeling at a time?

  So it is in this moment.

  A mixture.

  He’s not quite certain why Kestrel is exhibiting such urgency to leave. However, she did reveal last night that someone had shot at her, so that was likely one of the precipitating factors.

  The fact that she wants him to come along is affirming.

  Just as if he were a Natural.

  As if he were alive.

  An equal.

  And they would be visiting Trevor.

  He can prove to you once and for all that the CoRA is real, that your mother’s consciousness lives on.

  Yes. A chance to confirm his beliefs. A chance to turn faith into knowledge.

  So then.

  Looking forward to the trip, he cleans the dishes, puts them away, and then waits for Kestrel to return.

  * * *

  Nick’s night had not gone as planned.

  The private NCB jet he’d arranged for after the suspect’s death had ended up having mechanical problems and it’d postponed his trip to Seattle until this morning—in fact, he was only now boarding to leave.

  He hadn’t heard from Ripley, so he assumed there hadn’t been any problems during the night—and Kestrel had stated that things were calm there as well. However, just to make sure, he sent Ripley a message asking him to give him a call.

  There was a lot on Nick’s mind.

  The identity of the unknown assailants last night.

  The suicide in the interrogation room and the search for the deceased man’s wife.

  The potential terror attack later today at Terabyne Designs World Headquarters out west.

  And of course, Kestrel Hathaway—seeing her again when he got back to town.

  You went too far by contacting her just now.

  No, you didn’t. All you did was make sure she was okay.

  Yeah, and ask to follow up with her again.

  Okay—but she said yes.

  She said she would “appreciate” it. That’s not exactly the same thing.

  Maybe so, but it was encouraging to him nonetheless, even if he couldn’t be certain about all the meaning that her answer might contain.

  Nick had his choice of any of the nine passenger seats in the Bureau’s plane. He went with one in the back, beside a starboard window.

  He’d already notified the NCB Field Office in Seattle that he was coming and had passed along the intel he’d gotten from Conrad and his people. However, considering the man from last night had mentioned an NCB mole, Nick had been careful to tell them to keep the information in a closed loop as much as possible.

  If the Purists’ information was correct, this was going down, and it was going down this afternoon.

  The Seattle office agreed to do a threat assessment and assign him a four-man tactical team. “They’ll be waiting for you at Sea-Tac when you land.”

  “Great. I’ll let you know if I find out anything more.”

  The pilot announced that he was finishing the final safety check. Nick buckled up and glanced out the window at the mounting clouds from a storm that was clearly heading their way.

  33

  9:00 a.m.

  10 hours left

  The rain started when we were about three kilometers from the airport, and by the time we pulled up to the curb, it was already coming down in sheets. Hopefully, it wouldn’t end up interfering with our departure.

  I had my car drop us off at the passenger loading bay, then leave for long-term parking.

  If the number of people bustling around the outside of the building was any indication, there were going to be long lines inside.

  I debated whether or not to tell Trevor that I was coming, and finally decided that even though it was three hours earlier there—just after six—since he had so much on his plate it would be better not to surprise him.

  So, I sent him a message that I was on my way and that it was a direct flight so we would be arriving in Seattle right around two o’clock their time.

  Jordan and I entered the airport.

  People were everywhere with their Artificials accompanying them. Endless security lines snaked out of the entrance to the concourse, and I wondered if we’d come early enough after all to make it through the checkpoint in time to catch our flight.

  Momentarily, I got word from Trevor that he wouldn’t be able to pick us up at the airport but that there were plenty of shuttles from the airport to the campus. Knowing his work ethic, I wasn’t surprised that he was awake already, but I would’ve expected him to be more taken aback that I was coming to see him. Perhaps he was just focused on a quick reply—all business.

  “Today, once I get to campus, I’m going to be working with the public affairs department,” he wrote, “prepping for a press conference this afternoon at four. Do you want to meet at my house afterward or would you like to come to my office?”

  I replied that we would plan to meet him at work.

  As I was putting my slate back into my purse, I glanced down but kept walking and almost ran into o
ne of the heavily armed law enforcement Artificials who were stalking menacingly throughout the airport.

  He glared at me with that steely, intransigent stare they have. I muttered an apology and he lumbered away.

  Once he was past us, I pointed toward the security checkpoint and said softly to Jordan, “That’s where it happened.”

  “Where what happened?”

  Only then did I realize that I hadn’t told him about my parents’ deaths or the reason why I’d been reticent to get an Artificial in the first place. “My mom and dad,” I said. “They were killed. Shot by a law enforcement Artificial. A false positive.”

  A look of shock and consternation crossed his face. “Your parents were killed by an Artificial?”

  “Yes. Nine years ago.”

  “Are you going to be okay? Being here, I mean?”

  I wasn’t sure. “Yes,” I said, thinking that maybe claiming so aloud would help make it come true.

  I directed Jordan’s attention to one of the nearby Artificial sentries who was protected by his thick, segmented plates of bulletproof body armor. “That’s the same type of unit that shot them. It was an earlier model, but still . . .”

  Jordan scrutinized the security Artificial. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “No. Let’s just go check my bag.”

  He placed a reassuring hand on my arm. “It’ll be alright, Kestrel.”

  I appreciated the gesture and patted his hand. Then, as a mixture of apprehension and grief twisted around inside my gut, we headed for the airline’s check-in counter.

  * * *

  Interstate 5

  50 kilometers north of Portland, Oregon

  Lenny Crenshaw had been working for the Prestige Armored Car Company for nine years. His partner, Aubrey Powell, had only been on the clock with him for the last three weeks, ever since his former partner tragically passed away out of the blue from a heart attack.

  Today, their leg consisted of making the trip up from Portland, taking over from the team that’d driven from Sacramento through the night.

  Mostly for Lenny it was cash deliveries, sometimes diamond store drop-offs, but this time it was simply two reinforced steel crates. Unlabeled. Each the size of a coffin.