by Dom Testa
Chapter Nine
More than a few fictional spies are known for their prowess with the opposite sex. Never mind that the premises behind these exploits are patently ridiculous. SuperSpy meets woman at craps table and fifty frames later they’re smoking a cigarette in bed and making cutesy talk. This, in the minds of the authors and screenwriters, displays the intersection of a spy’s charm and his virility, and somehow adds to the mystique.
Real life for a government agent is much different. Yes, there’s sex to be had, as much for a spy as there is for a bartender or a bus driver. We all just meet in different settings, but rarely in a casino. And we never score within fifty frames.
Which meant that everything happening right now was not only pure fiction, but fiction of the sort that isn’t ashamed of being so obviously fake. In other words, Jayanti Pradesh knew that I knew this was bullshit and she just didn’t care. She wanted me in her room and there were three possible reasons.
One, she wanted to kill me. But I’m pretty handy at defending myself, no matter how many times Quanta has kicked the living shit out of me. The odds of Jayanti matching my boss’s skill level were slim so I wasn’t overly concerned with getting kicked to death.
There was always poison, the modus operandi of Jay and her boyfriend, Parks. But if our analysis was correct, I’d be vulnerable if I consumed food or beverage from her hands. I doubted she’d surprise me with a poison dart from the tube of a blowgun. Although that would be dramatic as hell, and one of the few ways I’ve yet to be killed.
Of course, Pradesh could just whip out a gun and shoot me, the preferred method of many killers. Unimaginative and downright bourgeois, but pretty damned effective.
No way she’d risk a loud gunshot in a hotel room, however. I was packing heat myself, if it came to that.
The second reason she might be luring me upstairs was purely investigative on her part. Perhaps she thought it a mighty big coincidence for a Defense Department schlub to stroll up at a conference right after her boyfriend had lost a major contract and then responded by murdering his old friend. She’d had all day to communicate with Parks, and it wouldn’t be unreasonable to assume their intuition had suggested a deeper dive into this Ed Phillips character and what the hell he really wanted. It might take only ten minutes for her to be satisfied that I was a harmless bureaucrat and send me on my way. After all, she’d been emphatic that sex was off the table.
There was a potential third reason and I latched on to it. What if Jayanti was an unwilling participant in the monstrosities committed by her mentor and lover? It was certainly possible that she was a starry-eyed apprentice who’d grown appalled at the crimes and yet was hesitant to turn in Parks for fear that she’d be guilty by association.
Why hadn’t she spoken up sooner? How could she let his heinous behavior reach this point before contacting authorities? What if these thoughts were running through her head?
Now, with the help of numerous servings of house white, she may have finally summoned the courage to tentatively reach out for help. How I behaved in the first few minutes could determine just how much intel she dished.
I didn’t want to handicap these three possibilities, maybe out of superstitious fear that resting too much hope on option three could jinx it. The best play was to hope for number three, be mindful of number two, and be prepared for number one.
As we left the ballroom I stopped at the bar and slipped the young bartender $40 for a two-thirds-empty bottle of Jack. I held it at my side as we made our way down the long hallway and up the elevator to her room on the fifth floor. Neither of us spoke until we were inside.
“I need the ladies room,” she said. “Fix yourself a fresh drink. I think there are mixers in the kitchen, or you might just have to drink it straight.”
I was definitely choosing straight. She probably wouldn’t have tampered with the items in the mini-bar’s fridge, but why take the chance? Instead I rinsed out one of the glasses, filled it with ice from the room’s small freezer, and poured from my own — safe — bottle. There was an opened bottle of white wine in the fridge, so I filled a glass for Jayanti. Setting the whiskey and wine on the suite’s coffee table, I gazed out the window at the twinkling lights of Phoenix and Scottsdale. I needed to gather my thoughts; at no point in the day or evening did I imagine this scenario. Being caught off-guard pushes all the advantage chips to the other side of the table. I didn’t like that.
Remembering that Poole would be listening to the recording, I muttered, “As you’ve heard, I’m in the lair of the lioness. I’ll call you when I’m back in the car.”
A minute later Jayanti opened the door from her bedroom. I watched her reflection in the window as she fell onto the overstuffed sofa. She lit up at the sight of the wine glass. I chose the large chair next to the couch and we clinked glasses.
“Thank you for leaving that horrid party,” she said, taking a sip. “I can be social in small groups, but I don’t care for that social. Does that make sense?”
“I’m the same way. I much prefer one-on-one.” I didn’t want to rush anything, but there was also no point in dallying. She’d invited me here to talk. I took a drink, letting the straight whiskey have its usual, calming effect. “Do you really want to talk about national defense, Ms. Pradesh? Or is there something else on your mind?”
She smiled. “First, it’s Jay. And second, yes. But not yet. I’m still wired from the loud music. My God, why do they have to play it so loud at every conference party? What if people just want to talk about science?”
I returned the smile. “You mentioned your specific field earlier, I believe. What was it? Desalination?”
“You have a good memory.”
“It’s why I’m here, you know. Get to know the people who can help the good ol’ U.S. of A. You also said you’re between jobs. What made you leave your last employer? And please don’t tell me you didn’t feel challenged.”
Jayanti was a cool customer. She held her wine glass up to the room’s light, pretending to inspect the contents. It was clearly a stall tactic. “People aren’t allowed to feel unchallenged?”
“If it’s the real reason, sure. But when 90% of people use that expression it becomes background noise. Like thinking out of the box, or paradigm shift. Of course, the biggest load of shit is I want to spend more time with my family. Those people always have the next job within a week or two. I guess I’m just expecting more.”
“Expecting more from me, or from people in general?”
I paused, then let a grin spread across my face. Taking another sip of whiskey I looked at her over the top of the glass. “You don’t like answering questions, do you? I noticed that this morning.”
“I . . .” She stopped and stared down at the glass in her hands. For a moment I felt something akin to sympathy wash over me. The pained look on her face, the way she sat on the couch, looking almost scared. Almost vulnerable. She slowly spun the tall wine glass between her fingers, either deep in thought or simply worried about what she was about to say. I remained silent, enjoyed my drink, and waited to see what spilled out of her.
A full minute went by before she spoke again. “Ed—”
“What, no more Ed Ed?”
She didn’t break a smile. Her brow took on the classic furrow of someone unsure of how to proceed. “I do need to talk to you about something, but I can’t just tell you everything. I have to do it my way. Slowly.” She looked up at me. “Is that okay with you?”
This was looking more promising by the minute. “Tell me what’s troubling you.”
“It’s just . . .”
She finished her wine, so I stood up to refill it at the room’s small bar. “We’re in no rush. You tell me whatever it is you want to say.” I set the fresh glass in front of her and sat back down. “Does this have something to do with one of your jobs? Maybe your last job?”
Her voice was now very low. “Yes.”
“The people you worked with? Did you have some tro
uble with them?”
She just nodded. Apparently this was going to be a full-blown fishing expedition. That was okay as long as Steffan Parks could be hauled into the bottom of the boat.
I didn’t want to drink anymore because I needed all of my wits for what lay ahead. At the same time I couldn’t let her think I was here for any other reason except friendly support. I took a couple more sips and decided to wait her out again.
Her phone vibrated inside the purse next to her, but she ignored it. For a moment I thought she was going to cry.
“The person I’ve worked with isn’t the same man he used to be,” she said, still quiet. “You work for the government, right? So you’ve probably heard of him.”
“What’s his name?”
“Steffan Parks.”
I feigned some mental check of a rolodex, acting as if it took me a while to make a connection. “I think I’ve heard something about him, but I don’t know details. He’s an award-winning scientist, I know that much. He did work in the same field as you?”
“He’s done a lot of different work in fluid mechanics. Mostly in a military capacity.”
“Oh,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “So this is why you wanted to talk with me.”
“Mostly,” she said.
“What’s the problem?” She didn’t answer, so I reached across to her and placed a hand on her forearm. “Honestly, Jay, if you’re in some sort of trouble, or if this Parks guy is doing something he shouldn’t, I can help you.”
A single tear began to track down her cheek. “I don’t know if you can help, Ed. In fact, I know you can’t. Not anymore.”
I smiled. “Not anymore?”
She surprised me by throwing her glass against the wall, where it smashed. She stood up and let out a gasp of frustration. “I’m sick of it!” she yelled. “I’m sick of the killing. So much killing.”
“What?” I said, standing up beside her. “Whoa, slow down. Here, sit back down.” I pulled her back onto the couch, and now sat next to her. “What killing are you talking about?”
She rubbed her hands together, maybe embarrassed by her outburst. “People. People who crossed Steffan. People who didn’t respect him. Or respect me.”
I took a deep breath, then another. The air in the room grew heavy, thick. I swallowed, which had become difficult. “But what killing?” I asked. “Who has Steffan killed?”
She turned to look at me and took my hands into her own small grip. Her eyes bored into mine. But the tear was gone. In its place was a slight glimmer. A look of . . .
What was that look?
“Steffan killed people in Santa Fe,” she said and tightened the grip on my hands. I tried to take another deep breath, wondering what was coming next. But the breath fought back.
“He’s going to kill more,” Jay said. “And there’s nothing you can do about it, Mr. Government Man. Because you’re dead now, too.”
My mind raced, and a bolt of fear shot through me. My breathing was now not only difficult, it was painful.
“You’ll be dead in another minute, Ed Ed,” she said, her ultra-bright teeth flashing in a smile. “Your bottle from the bartender was fine. That was a great plan. Very safe. But . . .”
She let go of my hand and pushed me so that I lay against the back of the couch, struggling to breathe. But over the last few seconds breathing had become the least of my worries. Pain exploded within me, bursting from every possible point of my body. My face contorted beneath the agony. Every nerve was under heavy attack.
She leaned against me and whispered just loud enough for me to hear over my own terrified shrieks. “Silly boy. You didn’t think of everything, did you?”
I tried to speak, but the pain grew so intense that spasms shook me. I let out a cry, then another. Jayanti shoved a pillow over my face, muffling my agonized screams. My body was too stricken to fight back. I’d gone rigid, my legs kicking over the small coffee table and my arms now stiff and straight.
The pain became so horrendous my mind lost the ability to comprehend anything going on around me. I lost the connection with my other senses. The only thing my brain could focus on was the unrelenting torture.
Seconds later I raced down a dark tunnel into blissful peace.
Chapter Ten
Quanta and Poole sat across from me at the conference table, papers and tablets interspersed with water bottles, a bag of awful snack chips I’d heard were healthy, and my own half-empty soda bottle.
For my boss to leave the sanctity of her garden home and make the trek to HQ, one of two things had to happen. Either a situation reached a super-critical stage, or an agent had royally screwed up.
In this case it was both.
While the two women huddled in conversation about some detail in a report, I took stock of my new body. The specimen I’d left dead in Scottsdale was one of the best I’d ever used, but this model was at least above average. I think my incessant bitching about sub-par choices could’ve finally filtered through the ranks.
I was now a shade over six feet tall with a physique rather common to inmates who had little to do except pump iron and shank cell-block snitches. Part of my right ear was missing, which, although unattractive, provided an air of Don’t-screw-with-me that might come in handy. The middle finger on my left hand was also disfigured, the skin mottled and scarred. While I had no idea what had caused that particular injury, it provided a unique visual when flipping the bird.
The nose was a tad large for my taste, but Christina had a thing for the classic Roman schnoz. I’d get confirmation later that evening.
Acclimating to a new body is something fewer than ten people on Earth had ever experienced. Somewhere a spreadsheet detailed all my various bodies and the men who’d sacrificed them for my use.
I’d send a thank-you card if I could, but their consciousness lay in stasis, a void of darkness where time ceased to exist. Their essence was uploaded like mine, but, rather than investing it into another body, theirs was kept in a specially-designed and highly-secretive hard drive. All they’d ever been, all they’d ever experienced, all their loves, losses, and limitations, were kept within something resembling a dark shoebox, with only an occasional blinking light to register that a human being waited inside.
Theoretically they could exist in that digital coma for centuries, perhaps millennia if properly cared for.
Is that immortality? If I uploaded your inert consciousness into an external hard drive and left it until the galaxy grew dark and died, would you technically be an immortal being? Or does it take actual thought and activity to qualify?
I was told the longest I’d waited in my own shoebox for a fresh body to inhabit was five weeks. During that stay there was no sensation of time whatsoever; one moment I was finishing an upload on a hotel bed in Idaho and the next my eyes were opening on a table in the basement of Q2 headquarters in Washington. Every single second in between was gone.
And listen, it’s the strangest goddamned sensation you could imagine. The first two times it happened I panicked, which was natural. You reach to unplug from your upload and you’re suddenly thousands of miles away, staring up at a tiled ceiling in a lab, cold, completely disoriented, and often with a raging headache.
After accepting that I’d become a new person, I was always debriefed. Quanta or Poole would explain, to the best of their abilities, what had happened. If details were sketchy it was because I hadn’t stayed in touch with headquarters as much as I should’ve. Lately I’d been better, at least texting Poole with my plans and movements, just in case something happened.
And that didn’t even necessarily have to involve a bad guy. Theoretically I could simply get hit by a bus and start the whole process over again, including the debriefing and other items that required attention.
This morning, before walking in to this particular meeting with Quanta and Poole, I’d taken care of two things.
The first was my required meeting with Q2’s psychologist, a guy named Miller who I
liked and trusted. He’d made sure things were firing properly in my head, which was his primary job. But he’d also probed further into a concern I’d expressed during our last meeting.
“Still think you’re evolving into a monster?” he’d asked.
“I’d say I’ve plateaued,” I said. “Mr. Hyde is being kept at arms length for the time being.”
“How do you explain this plateau? If each new download into a body is really corrupting files in your brain, as you told me, why would that be on hold?”
For a moment I almost said, So I can get out of here and back to work. But I knew better.
“I’ve thought about that. It probably has to do with the quality of the receiving brain. Some are better equipped to handle the download.”
He didn’t say anything for a few seconds while he just looked down at his notes. Then, making eye contact, he said, “It’s not like you to sidestep a question like that.”
“You think my answer was bullshit?”
“No,” he said. “It may be entirely valid. We’re obviously all still learning about the process. I’m saying it’s bullshit regarding the specific line of discussion we’re having. It’s a copout.”
It was my turn to pause. I decided to go on the offensive.
“If we’re going back to this topic, I’d like some data that could help me process everything.”
“Such as?”
“Such as Agent One.”
I’d known this would catch Miller off guard, but to his credit he kept a neutral look on his face. He was good. I knew that inside he’d been pushed back.
I don’t know what the first Q2 agent’s name had been, or what had happened to him. In fact, nobody — including Quanta, I suspected — knew where he was or what he was doing. The only thing I knew for certain was that he was a loose end, and that produced a lot of angst within the organization, as you might imagine.
Agent One, which was the name I’d attached to him, was missing, but had not died in the line of duty. His last upload was kept in a secure vault for security reasons. There was much more to the story that I might never learn.
