by Greg Rucka
“Make the bed as soon as you’re done with it,” he’d told her more than once. “That’s a habit. You don’t, you’ll have to do it later, and that, Jo, is a chore.”
In fact, she didn’t need to make it at all, as Carrington had not one, but two maids who worked in the manor house. But even if she was a guest in the old man’s home, Jo didn’t want anyone coming into her room, not without her knowledge or permission. So she made the bed herself.
She dressed quickly in sweats, headed out of her room and down the empty hall. The house was quiet, still asleep. Once outside and in the chill of the gray morning, she breathed deeply air that tasted of mown grass and dew. Perhaps one hundred meters away, Jo could see the perimeter wall and the main gate, make out the tiny figures of Carrington Institute Security as they went about their rounds.
She began her run toward the gymnasium, following the flower path as it curved around the manor house and down the slope to the lake. She went slowly at first, giving her body time to ease itself the rest of the way awake, enjoying the freedom to move. She let her mind wander, thinking back to her nightmare, understanding the significance of it. It wasn’t just a fear of being helpless, she knew. It was the fear of being alone.
An honest fear, at least, Jo thought.
Over six months as a guest in Daniel Carrington’s home, over six months with all but unrestricted access to the grounds and the Institute, and if she’d exchanged more than two dozen words with anyone other than Carrington himself, she’d have been surprised. Of the twenty or so Institute employees she’d seen, she’d spoken to almost none of them, Jonathan Steinberg being the sole exception. Even those conversations had been brief, Steinberg always appearing preoccupied with one problem or another.
She’d actually begun to wonder if the problem wasn’t her, but rather all of them. The few times she’d made an effort to start conversations, to introduce herself, had been dismal failures. She’d spent three days trying to cultivate some sort of rapport with the Armorer, a crusty old former Royal Marine named Potts, to no avail. He’d been courteous and helpful and more than willing to supervise Jo’s range time, but that was all.
Jo finished her second lap of the lake, found the narrow trail that led up toward the Institute buildings, running faster now. And that was another thing, the whole Carrington Institute. She wasn’t entirely certain what it was Carrington instituted there.
She’d idly skimmed some of the brochures littering a side office, and seen the “company line”—which favored phrases like global think tank, futurist technology incubation, cutting edge scientific research, and other flowery buzzwords—but there was far more going on under Carrington’s roof than met the eye. One need look no further than his security measures to see that.
She knew he maintained and trained his own private paramilitary forces, she’d seen action with them, after all. They were good, too, military-grade, special-forces good.
Most of the Institute buildings were devoted to research, it seemed. Labs and workshops and machine shops, with the odd conference room or office wedged in between them. The vast majority of the labs and workshops seemed to be empty, in fact. A whole floor of the Institute’s main building, the floor below Carrington’s offices, appeared devoted to communications, and was apparently staffed twenty-four hours a day. She’d seen Steinberg running to and from there on multiple occasions, along with another man she’d heard called Grimshaw. That had been an odd pairing. Steinberg, in his late twenties, tall, fit, and handsome, was as military as close-order drill. Grimshaw, on the other hand, was short, overweight, with long hair and an ill-fitting suit that spoke to dubious taste, if not outright color-blindness.
She’d reached the gymnasium. Jo put her left eye against the retinal scanner, then put her left thumb in the reader. The locks snapped back and the lights came on as she stepped inside. Sometimes, she’d find Steinberg here, finishing his own workout, or other times the motor pool supervisor, another young American like Steinberg, named Calvin Rogers. That was it. The gymnasium was equipped to train half a dozen football teams at once, and yet Jo had never seen it used by more than two people at the same time.
She set about her workout, moving metal with muscle, frowning. She was supposed to meet Carrington for breakfast in his office at nine, the fifth of such shared meals since the day he’d disconnected her from the DeathMatch VR bender Jo had undertaken. Thus far, the breakfasts had mostly been an exercise in patience, Jo listening politely as Carrington went on and on about whatever topic seemed to suit him at the moment. “Those bastards at dataDyne” seemed to top the list, and while Jo didn’t trust Daniel Carrington and wasn’t even sure if she much liked the man, she certainly couldn’t fault him on his choice of enemies.
Well, whatever he wants to talk about this morning, Jo thought, I’m going to get a few answers of my own.
One way or another, things were going to have to change. She couldn’t stay here for the rest of her life, hiding from the world on the Institute grounds, eating Carrington’s food and sleeping in his home. Her father had been dead for six months, almost, and it was time for Jo to move on, to get back to the business of living.
Never mind that she had no idea where she would go.
Showered, dressed, and ready for breakfast, Jo made her way to the top floor of the Institute main building, and stepped into Daniel Carrington’s outer office. It was seven minutes to nine, and she was early, but Jo had been early for the five previous breakfasts as well, and thought that it at least made her consistent.
Emily Partridge, Daniel’s personal assistant, sat behind her desk in the outer office, working diligently at her terminal. Like the majority of Carrington’s staff, she didn’t seem to be much older than Jo, perhaps only twenty-two or twenty-three. But those years seemed to make all the difference, and each time Jo saw the other woman she marveled at her maturity, at her precision and politeness. Far more than anything Daniel Carrington had said to her, Emily Partridge made Jo feel like she was still trapped in her teens.
Emily looked up, smiling primly and moving a hand to her ear, tucking back a stray blond hair. “Good morning, Joanna.”
Jo inclined her head toward the hallway that ran to Carrington’s office. “He’s expecting me.”
“Go right ahead, then.” Emily Partridge turned her attention back to her work.
Jo moved to the second door, and through it into the long hallway that led to Carrington’s office. The corridor was long and heavily carpeted in a dusky blue, the walls painted taupe, with pieces of art hung at regular intervals. There were paintings of sailing ships and photographs of rocket launches, and it was only today that Joanna finally understood the theme of the informal gallery. Carrington had decorated the hall with images of exploration and discovery.
She was passing the glass-walled conference room at the end of the hallway and was just about to reach Carrington’s door when she heard Jonathan Steinberg’s voice from within. The door was almost, but not entirely, closed, and she would have simply knocked and continued through, but then she heard not just Steinberg’s voice, but what he was saying.
“They’re going to kill him, Daniel.”
Jo stopped, listening for Carrington’s response. She heard the inflection of his brogue, but couldn’t make out his words. She shifted her weight, stepping forward, bending her ear to the gap between door and frame. She caught a glimpse of Steinberg, his blue jeans and black shirt, as he moved past.
“Because we owe him!” he was saying. “Because I brought him in, he was one of our first, and because he’s been good to us! We can’t just leave him there!”
“He knew the risks from the start, Jon.” Carrington’s voice was coming from the left, out of sight, but moving closer. “All of the agents do.”
Jo watched Steinberg turn to face Carrington, out of sight, giving her a view of him in profile. He was scowling, looking down at the carpet, visibly upset, though Jo couldn’t tell how much was anger and how much was frustr
ation. After a moment he lifted his head, as if deciding to try a new tack.
“He found something,” Steinberg said. “Something he thought important enough to send in a panic burst before they grabbed him. I’ve got reports saying he was pursued halfway through the Pacific Centre mall, but he wasn’t trying to make a break for it. He sacrificed his escape to get us this information.”
“Information that has little value, as far as I can see.” Carrington came into view, leaning heavily on his walking stick. He was dressed in his traditional Harris Tweed, his suit coat off, leaving his vest buttoned tightly over his jutting middle. He put a hand on Steinberg’s shoulder.
“He’s never let us down before.”
“Grimshaw was working on the transmission all night, Jon. Most of it’s garbled beyond his ability to reconstruct, and what isn’t is so heavily encrypted he thinks it’ll take him at least another two days before he can decode the data.”
“Which should tell you something about its value.”
“I understand its potential value,” Carrington said gently. “But you’re asking me to commit Institute resources and personnel for an operation that could precipitate an all-out war with dataDyne.”
“That’s a risk each and every time we go against them, it’s never stopped you before. We know where he is, we know what they’re going to do to him, Daniel! Give me a dropship, twelve men, we hit pharmaDyne Vancouver, we’ll be in and out before CORPSEC knows we were ever there.”
Carrington stiffened, cursing as he spun away on his walking stick. “Where’s your head, Jonathan? That’s a fantasy, and you know it.”
“They won’t expect—”
Carrington spun back, visibly angered. “Of course they will! Or perhaps you didn’t pay attention to this morning’s briefing? Perhaps you missed the little story about how the dataDyne Board of Directors has finally acknowledged Zhang Li’s absence, how they’ve begun their hunt for a new CEO!”
Steinberg moved forward, more excited. “That’s perfect, it means they’re vulnerable, we can—”
“It means no such thing!” Even from her vantage point, watching through the gap, Jo could see Carrington’s cheeks coloring with anger. He was all but shouting, now. “It means they’re even more paranoid than ever! It means they know they’re vulnerable, that they’ll be expecting an assault, if not us trying to rescue our captured agent, then from a competing hypercorp looking to increase its holdings! The answer is no, Jon, I won’t risk it, not for one man!”
“Six men, then, one dropship,” Steinberg said, quieter. “We can grab DeVries—”
“No!”
“—all right, Sexton then, we’ve had surveillance on that asshole for five months, now—”
“I said no!”
“—we snatch him, button him up someplace secure, then offer to do a swap, Able for Sexton—”
This time, Carrington did shout. “I said no!”
Steinberg fell silent, defeated, Carrington still glaring at him. Jo felt an ache of sympathy for the man. She liked Steinberg, liked the way he handled himself, liked the way he had treated her when they’d first met. He’d refused to coddle her, demanded she prove her own worth, and when she had done, he’d been gracious enough to acknowledge it.
Of course, Steinberg was being as much of a fool about the situation as Carrington was. Even if Jo didn’t fully understand everything about what they were arguing about, she’d heard enough to grasp the broad strokes.
Jo pushed open the door, and both men turned sharply in her direction, surprised at her presence.
“Joanna—” Carrington started.
“You’re both bloody idiots,” Jo told them.
Then she told them what to do about it.
CHAPTER 6
Carrington Institute—London, England September 27th, 2020
“Let’s hear it again,” Steinberg said, rubbing his eyes and wishing the headache would just pack up and leave already.
“We’re wasting time.”
“I want to hear it again, Jo.”
Joanna Dark, sitting opposite him, fixed him with those amazing blue eyes of hers, clearly annoyed. Steinberg waited, then broke the stare, and not because he was conceding the contest of wills.
It’s those eyes, he thought. You can get lost in those eyes.
Then he thought, Jesus Christ, Jon, she’s a kid.
He reached for the mug of coffee resting on the briefing room’s map table, tasted it, and found it cold. He drained it anyway, then said, “Let’s hear it again.”
“I can do it standing on one hand. Should I do it standing on one hand?”
“Jo—”
“No, really, watch,” Jo said, and she tumbled out of the chair and in one move turned into a handstand. It took her half a second to adjust her balance, and then she pulled her right hand out, extending it to her side, parallel to the ground. Upside down, she grinned at him. “See?”
“Now you’re wasting time.”
“I’m making a point,” she said mildly. “My name is Amanda Thiesen, I’m a temp at—”
Steinberg slammed his hand down on the map table. “Dammit, knock it off! This isn’t a game, Jo, you could get yourself killed!”
Joanna Dark stared at him again, and again Steinberg broke the gaze.
“Please,” he said.
She stayed on her left hand for a second longer, then brought her right back to the floor and folded herself out of the handstand. He tried not to watch her as she did it, found himself doing so, anyway. It was like watching ballet, watching a dancer of perfect precision and control.
There’s nothing as sexy as someone who has no idea how sexy they are, he thought.
“My name is Amanda Thiesen,” Jo said, returning to her seat at the map table. “I’m a temp at HiVolt Executive, and have been with the company for the past eighteen months. My last three jobs were at Holcroft & Allan, where I did light secretarial work, Ramjet Transport, where I coordinated shipping schedules, and Huntley’s World, where I was hired to help take fourth-quarter inventory. I live at 3484 West 15th, on Granville Island, just north of Shaughnessy Park, with my sister, Vicki. Her name’s really Victoria, but everyone calls her Vicki.”
“Tell me about Holcroft & Allan.”
“They’re attorneys, copyright and intellectual property, they do work for local businesses. No large clients.”
“What’s your sister do for a living?”
“She doesn’t make a living, she’s attending the university.”
“Why aren’t you living with your parents?”
There was a pause.
“Jo.”
“They’re dead,” she said tightly, then added, more cheerfully, “Like how I did that? The pause there, you see, makes it clear that it’s a sensitive subject, that I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Yes, that’s very clever.”
“More clever than launching an all-out assault on pharmaDyne Vancouver, I think you’d agree.”
Steinberg started to retort, but was cut off by the sound of clapping coming from the entrance of the briefing room. Carrington had entered, his walking stick hooked over his left forearm, and he was smiling broadly as companion to the clapping of his hands. With him was Osgood Potts, a gunmetal briefcase in each hand. As much as Carrington looked amused, Potts did not.
Steinberg was with Potts.
“By George, I think she’s got it,” Carrington said, lumbering over to them. Steinberg watched as Jo turned in her seat, looking up at him, and for the moment caught her smile of pleasure before she hid it away. It was one of the things Steinberg had noticed early about Joanna Dark; she craved approval.
Carrington, Steinberg knew, had noted it as well.
As if to prove the point, the big man unhooked his walking stick from his arm, planting it in front of him and then leaning on it with both hands, smiling down at Jo. Without looking away from her, he asked Steinberg, “Fully briefed?”
“We’re just finishi
ng up,” Steinberg said.
“Primary objective?” Carrington asked Jo.
“Location and extraction of Agent Benjamin Able.” She turned her head, looking up to meet Carrington’s eyes, as if daring him to ask her one she didn’t know.
“Means?”
“Covert, nonviolent if possible.”
“Window?”
“Tomorrow morning, oh-nine hundred Vancouver local. Window closes eighteen hundred local.”
“Egress?”
“Signal to Mister Steinberg for dropship pickup, rapid exfil.”
“And if they start shooting at you, Jo, what then?”
“I shoot back.”
“That you do,” Carrington agreed, then straightened up and gestured to Potts with the end of his walking stick. “You’ve met the Armorer, I know.”
“Indeed I have. Hello, Mister Potts.”
Potts grunted, coming forward and laying his two cases side by side on the map table, snapping each of them open in quick succession. As he did so, Carrington turned his attention to Steinberg.
“Jonathan, a moment alone, if you please.”
“I’d like to stay for the equipment briefing.”
Carrington smiled slightly, in the way that Steinberg had come to recognize over the years as indicating not amusement, but impatience. He did the grandfather act with the best of them, but Steinberg had been around the man long enough to know it for exactly that, an act. He didn’t like being contradicted, and he didn’t like being disobeyed, no matter how slight the refusal.
“I’m sure the Armorer can handle it,” Carrington told him.
“Oh do go ahead,” Jo said, and Steinberg wondered if he was hearing mockery in her voice. “We’ll be fine on our own. After all, we’re wasting nothing but time.”
“Haste gets you killed, Dark.”
“Thought it made waste.”
Steinberg threw up his hands, rose, and followed Carrington out of the briefing room. The last thing he heard before the door slid shut behind them was Potts explaining to Jo that the transmitter would be injected into her neck, and that it might sting a bit.
