by A J Jameson
Marek activated the TVA and watched as the small bolt of electricity danced between the two metal prongs. “I can’t assault you. You’re a written script, constructed of numbers. And numbers are indefinite. Arbitrary symbols with attached meaning. They’re not real, and you can’t assault something that isn’t real.”
“If I’m not real, then why haven’t you short-circuited my motherboard? Why has my threat of terminating the life-supply of your friend stopped you from terminating me, if I’m not real?”
“I don’t know if I’d call her my…” She doesn’t know of me and Sadie. She knows that Imogen critically wounded one of our members, but she’s thinking of Kyle. She’s bluffing. Marek lowered the TVA closer to the exposed circuitry. An assortment of fans gently whirled, keeping the overall temperature of the CPU at safe levels. A couple of SSD storage devices marked the memory banks of Little Eye. I/O plugins provided her inner logic with a conduit to the external world via monitors, speakers, keyboard and mouse. And the wireless transmitter. Marek wondered what would happen if he zapped only the I/Os of Little Eye. Would she be contained to the few sticks of RAM and SSDs? Was it the same as disabling a person’s five senses?
“Why haven’t you asked yet?” Little Eye said.
Eduardo and Ivan reentered the room. “All clear.”
“Asked what?”
“What I want. Isn’t that usually the next step, after somebody threatens one of your own? What can I give you in exchange for their life?”
“Outside looks clear,” Eduardo said. “Want me to go through the window? Notify Charlie?”
“No,” Little Eye said. “Use the door.”
They all glanced at the front door, anticipating a magical wind that would blow it open. It didn’t move, but a metallic click sounded from one of the locks. “Go, notify them,” Marek said.
Eduardo pulled at the door knob, but it wouldn’t budge. He kicked at the door’s base and took aim at the deadbolt.
“Hold fire,” Marek said. He loosened and removed his respirator. “Okay, Little Eye. What do you want in exchange for the life of our team member, and for the location of Imogen Ayton?”
“Axel’s life.” The monitors at the computer station turned on and a three-dimensional head of Axel Hoffmann hovered freely within each of them. “I want your word that no harm will come to him. If you can do that, I’ll let you obliterate me. No more tricks.”
“Let me obliterate you…” Marek repeated the words in the same way a person repeats the confession of a mass murderer.
Eduardo nodded. Even with his features dulled by the respirator, Marek could read his unsaid message. Agree now, and after she’s gone it doesn’t matter. Ivan was too fixated on the images of himself floating in the monitors—the last image he saw before Little Eye poisoned the air—to give Marek any feedback.
Ones and zeroes. That’s all she is. Hell, we can’t even shake hands. “Fine, you have my word that no harm will come to Axel.” More clicking sounds came from the door.
“Thank you,” Little Eye said. “Will you pass this message to Axel? I have greatly enjoyed the time we’ve spent together. You showed me an absolute appreciation for life, even if that life was cruel to you in all your differences and disabilities. You’ve shown me the pinnacle for potential in the human spirit. You truly are one of a kind, and I’ll miss you.”
Eduardo tried the door again, and it gave way. He left the house. Charlie would know of Imogen’s plan to cut C3U’s power, and with a little luck, they’d be able to intercept her at the main transformers. Sadie’s life-support would continue to operate and the AI that had caused them so many problems would be gone forever. All thanks to a few spoken words. No harm will come to Axel. Was it a lie? The first time a person went back on their word, it lost half its value. A second time, and their word meant nothing. Little Eye may be an artificial intelligence, but Eduardo and Ivan weren’t.
Marek activated the TVA and lowered its shivering blue light into the entrails of Little Eye. A few sparks and a small puff of smoke, and the computer fell offline. The monitors went black, and the speakers crackled before silencing forever. “Goodbye, Little Eye.”
Marek packed the TVA and respirator. Ivan followed his lead, ejecting the 9mm’s clip before dropping both into the duffle bag. “So that’s it,” he said. “One down, one in lockup, and one left to track.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s it.” Marek laughed to himself. “All the shit I’ve seen while working at this company, the odds we’ve overcome…and then two people and some code…”
Ivan watched with the intrigue of a minor listening to his grandfather’s war stories. He grew hungry for details as Marek’s eyes gleamed with recollection. Whatever satisfaction his squad leader extracted from those memories was soon expended, dropped for the haunted expression of a veteran who had seen too much destruction. What were the price tags of his past accomplishments? And were they worth the investment? Ivan wouldn’t know, wouldn’t ask, but he would experience his own strife of war in the days to come. And his very first victory, still unaware of it himself, had been secured right here in Axel Hoffmann’s home.
Their tools packed and the mission completed, Marek laid a congratulatory hand on Ivan’s shoulder. “You did good on this mission. You kept your cool even when the shit hit the fan, and never compromised your identity. You’re skilled, courageous, and disciplined.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Marek waved him off. “Just Marek. I don’t want to steal any of Law’s thunder.” Marek felt the cables in his neck tighten. “And I’ll never again send you into a mission underprepared.” He nodded to himself, then took a deep breath. “Grab the duffle bag. Let’s find our last trouble maker.”
They headed for the door. Marek attempted to contact Charlie via his MET but got static in return. He removed it, reset its signal, and attempted to transmit again. This time the line was busy. “...in. Marek, do you read me?” It was Yolanda. Her distressed tone contrasted violently against her naturally impartial voice.
“I read you, Yolanda. Go ‘head.”
“There’s been a power outage at our home residence, one member has left with one guest, and we’re having trouble restoring property damage.”
“Slow down Yol…” She’s using code words, but she also doesn’t know Little Eye is gone. “Our fumigation is complete, the infestation cleared. Permission to speak directly?”
There was some commotion on the other end. Voices, incomprehensible, speaking and then all yelling simultaneously. Finally, a voice answered Marek. “They cut the power. Imogen, Little Eye, maybe even Axel before he took off with Zyta,” Law said.
“What? Where’s Zyta?”
“She’s gone. Her and the hacker. They left after the primary and secondary power feeds were cut.”
“Imogen…she was set to blow our transformers, but, Little Eye…we struck a deal, she wasn’t supposed to blow…” She lied to me.
“Why haven’t you answered your radio?” Law asked. He didn’t give Marek a chance to respond. “Get back here, now. We’re sending a team after them. Orders to shoot on site. They could use your skills as a marksman.”
Shoot on site? And what the hell did he mean ‘sending a team after them?’ Marek had so many questions fighting to escape his mouth that they bottlenecked in his throat.
“Are you on your way?” Law asked. “Hurry up, there’s no time.”
“Affirmative,” Marek said, still frozen in place. “Put Yolanda on. I need to be patched through.”
“This is patching you through. The only thing you need to worry about is getting back here and gearing up. We don’t know what they’re up to, and we need to respond with swift effectiveness.”
Don’t know what they’re up to… “You’re not suggesting they ran off together? I mean, surely Axel has taken Zyta hostage.”
“We don’t know, so we’re treating it accordingly. Marek, I’m not going to say it again. Get your…” a fit of coughs cut his words s
hort. Yolanda’s transmission filled the void. “I’ll keep you updated on anything new.”
“Patch me through to Zyta,” Marek said.
“She’s not answering. We’ve already tried multiple times.”
“Patch me through!”
“Roger.” Her connection dissipated in a cascade of static oscillations.
“Where the hell is Eduardo?” Marek said, more so to fill the silence. Ivan said something in return, or maybe he asked something, but his words were overshadowed by Zyta’s, whose were then eclipsed by Marek’s stammering, “What the hell is going on?”
“He lied to us,” was all his sister could manage before breaking down in a torrent of sobs.
“Calm down,” Marek said, and searched the vicinity for the duffle bag. They had to go. But where? “Where are you? Where is he taking you?”
“Should we leave?” Ivan asked.
Marek shook his head. “Zyta, listen. I need to know where you’re at. I can’t have Yolanda relay your GPS. They want me back at the base but I’m not going. We have a vehicle here, we just need your location.”
She regained her composure enough to talk, although sniffles dashed her words at random. “Everything he sa—, from our childhood, was a li—.”
“Zyta, your location. Now.”
“I’m not going ba—, God, why am I cr—.”
“You tell that asshole for every bruise I find on you he’s losing a toe. Do you understand? No, put him on and I’ll tell him myself.”
In the next instant the front door swung open and Eduardo shuffled inside, a woman that barely came up to his shoulder herding him forward with a pistol. She had shadowy bags beneath her shamrock eyes. Her lips parted and out came the voice of a 60-year old smoker. “Cervical charge. Cervical charge. Hurt me and they all blow.”
She took aim at Ivan, who was fumbling in the duffle bag.
“Stand down, Ivan,” Marek said.
“Who do you think I’m talking about, Marek?” Zyta sniffled.
“How do you know about that? The cervical charges?” Marek asked.
Imogen cocked her head slightly, eyes drifting toward what seemed to be a communication device hidden in her ear. She pulled the door shut behind her. “It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I know.” She cleared her throat, grimacing. “If anything happens to me, or Axel, every one of your implanted charges will detonate.”
“What’s she talking about?” Ivan asked.
“Trackers,” Eduardo said, then groaned as Imogen clocked him in the face with the butt of her pistol. Marek took an involuntary step forward and found himself in Imogen’s crosshairs.
“Marek? What’s happening?” Zyta asked. Her weeping had passed.
“What do you want?” Marek asked.
“Axel alive. Or you all die.” She brought the tip of the pistol to Eduardo’s temple. He closed his eyes, his breathing raspy through his bleeding nose.
A part of Marek wanted to reason with her, to make the promise he had already made with Little Eye and defuse the situation. Another part of him wanted to rip her spine out and beat Axel to death with it. How could these people who critically injured members of C3U and corrupted sensitive data genuinely believe they were going to walk away scot free? Were they really that thick-headed? But Imogen wasn’t thick, or only thick. She was insane, too. Watching her hold Eduardo at gunpoint, every inch of her fiber steady as metal while he trembled on the edge of death. There was no forethought in her gaze. No consciousness in those bright green eyes.
“Promise me you won’t tell anybody,” Zyta said. “I’m going to Umar’s and coming clean. He has a right to know what I am.”
“Don’t,” Marek said. “My life is in danger. So is Eduardo’s and Ivan’s. We need you here with Axel.”
“What do you mean, your life’s in danger?” Zyta asked.
“Alive,” Imogen added, her husky voice sounding the opposite of her word’s meaning. Her gaze shifted to Ivan, the small movement just enough to expose the device secured in her ear. An MI. Little Eye was feeding our conversation to you this whole time…while wasting enough time for you to get back here from the blown transformer. Marek pursed his lips in frustration. He’d been ten steps behind them in every ploy. Acts of dissimulation. And to think he was worried about keeping his word to a dead robot.
“Yes, alive,” Marek said.
“What do you mean your lives are in danger?” Zyta repeated.
“Just trust me, Zee. You need to bring Axel here, to his home. Or we die by the hands of his lover.”
Imogen’s brow creased in surprise and her eyes fell to the floor. When they rose again, a small grin hitched the edge of her plush lips. Newly involved lovers. That made them dangerous. Unsure of the other’s complete intentions but plagued by the burning urge to learn. Relationships draw focus away from the mission. They make an operative warm and soft with uncontrollable feelings. And add a tangible weakness. For Zyta it was Umar. For Imogen it was Axel.
“No more talking,” Imogen barked. “Or I fill your throat with holes.”
“I’m on my way, Mar. Sit tight.”
Marek needed to warn his sister of the cervical charges implanted in each of their necks. She needed to know that coming in weapons-hot was not an option. Opening the front door to Axel’s home and letting off one clean shot to the head, two to the body, as Marek would, could trigger a sequence of every C3U member’s head popping off like a daffodil. Unless Imogen—Little Eye—was bluffing. But Marek had the idea they weren’t. As much as he wanted to test the threat, there was something about the shallow gaze of the woman standing in front of him that made him keep his mouth shut. He knew a psychopath when he saw one—he’d looked into the eyes of plenty before spattering their blood all over the walls behind them—and Imogen Ayton was no different. She’d shoot them just to hear the shells bounce on the ground.
And then there was the question of Zyta and Axel. Why hadn’t she informed Marek of Axel’s demands…his purpose for forcing her to break him out of C3U? He lied to us, she had said, but who was he? No, Marek knew who he was. For Zyta it was always the same person. The seed of doubt that had been planted in her mind…months ago? Years ago?
The ideal that change could come with peace. But all one had to do was study Bravo’s current predicament to understand the fallacy of peace. Three professionals, highly trained in the art of killing, neutralized by a person holding fast to the most primitive universal truth: only with death comes change. Offer one, and you get the other.
Zyta made the poor decision of taking the side streets rather than the main boulevard. She did it to avoid traffic, and in that sense succeeded. But then she was slowed by the stutter-stop motion of endless stop signs. She would have preferred the lengthier pause of a red light; easier to sift through the files on the external hard drives.
They had revealed so much more than her initial suspicion of Law’s missing DNA. Transcripts of her parents, and what really happened to them. They worked for C3U. Zyta slammed the brakes as taillights entered the fringes of her vision. A grunt came from the back of the van, and then the sound of a metallic safety strap latching. And what am I supposed to do with him? To be honest, she wasn’t sure what she was going to do with herself. Umar will know. But first, I need to check the rest of these files.
She pulled into a nearby garage and set her cellphone’s timer to five minutes. Then it’s back on the road to Umar’s, and out of the city. Far from C3U’s tracking range.
Edison Able, the real name of Zyta’s father, began work as an operative at C3U over 25 years ago. His tasks included the installation of new communication cables to expand the organization’s access to city resources. These lines acted as a one-way street; C3U could travel into the databases of police precincts, law firms, court houses, and even the houses of ordinary citizens, but they could not trace back.
Lori Hill, Zyta’s biological mother, had been sworn-in 24 years ago, and assumed the role of threat-interception.
She designed algorithms to alert C3U of certain code words used in the speech patterns of potential terrorists. Wedding, spoken so often that any occupation other than a planner would be suspect; Puppy, almost exclusively brought along for “play dates” after dusk had set; and Hotel, where those who checked in stayed from months to years.
They lasted less than a year together. And it was obvious from the photos…they were in love. Their familiar features spoke of lived intimacy. Her thin lips, his pale skin. And neither with my last name. Our last name. Marek and Zyta Green.
Zyta dug deeper but failed to find anything about their incidents. Her father, a supposed salesman of an anti-home invasion technologies company, stumbled upon unofficial weapon sales to various gangs, and then confronted the board about it, threatening to go public. And her mother, clinically depressed from the loss of her husband, decided one lonely afternoon to tragically take her own life, consuming her entire bottle of prescription pills.
Nothing of the vague stories Law had shared when Zyta and Marek were children. The details filled in by Victoria whenever we hung around the medical center, restocking shelves, taking inventory, and learning more about our pasts to further solidify our future.
Zyta’s timer went off just as she reached the part of her parents’ illegitimate children. A breach of code 114, listed in every C3U member’s contract of conduct. Uncooperative. Erratic beliefs and behaviors. Impending dismissal.
Zyta closed the laptop, put the van in drive, and broke down in tears. She hadn’t cried so much in her whole life as she had in the past twelve hours. Tears are the body’s way of releasing sadness, Victoria had once told her, but people will often mistake it for vulnerability, so make sure you save them for when you’re in safe company. Zyta rubbed her eyes and took a deep breath. There was still distance to be made between her and C3U.
She was about to step on the accelerator when her MET beeped, indicating a call from Marek. “He lied to us,” Zyta said, but lost her breath as the realization hit again; her entire past was a lie.
