“Sure, have a good time,” shrugged the officer, standing up from the desk. Sala put his DAA badge away as he and Garcia were buzzed through a locked door and led to a row of small barred cells. “If either of you can get him to talk, I’ll buy you both a cup of coffee.”
“Precinct coffee?” laughed Garcia. “Not much of a prize.”
“Not much of a chance of you claiming it, either,” said the policeman. “We’ve run the gamut. Guy’s totally zoned out. You can barely even see him breathe.”
He opened the door to the cell and motioned the two DAA agents inside. “Shout when you’re bored of trying, and I’ll come let you out. Though frankly, I could just as well leave it open. He’s not going anywhere.”
Garcia had to admit that the officer had a point. The man they’d come to interview was sitting motionless, staring straight ahead without so much as blinking. His utter stillness, combined with the irregular outcroppings of purplish crystals all over his body, made him look more like a fanciful statue of a human than a real person.
“Is he alive?” asked Sala, his rough voice unusually quiet.
Garcia walked over and tilted Marcus’s head back. His pupils contracted slightly, making the purple-streaked whites more prominent. Garcia released his chin, and his head slowly drifted back down to stare straight ahead at the cell door again.
“For some value of that statement, he is,” said Garcia.
Sala cleared his throat and walked over to stand next to Garcia, directly in front of Marcus. “We’re here to talk to Seed.”
If Sala expected this name to cause a reaction, he was disappointed. Marcus continued to stare forward blankly.
“Seed,” Sala pressed on. “Is he in there? Are you connected to him? Tell us what happened. Tell us why you’re doing this.”
Still nothing. Sala’s right fist clenched briefly, but he continued. “We’d like to resolve this peacefully. You clearly wanted to talk. So, talk.
“Talk!” he barked, suddenly stooping to shout directly in Marcus’s face. The Neverglades man never even flinched. He just kept staring, his eyes fixed on a point far beyond Sala’s reddening face.
Garcia put a hand on Sala’s shoulder, moving him gently but implacably aside. “Marcus—Seed—we’d like to help you. We understand that you’re frustrated. It’s what we’re here for. It’s what our agency does.”
“Agency,” repeated Marcus, his eyes swiveling up to meet Garcia’s. She and Sala both took an involuntary step backward in surprise. “Government?”
“Yes, government,” said Garcia, speaking the words slowly. “We’re with the Department of Augment Affairs.”
“I speak English,” said Marcus. “You can talk at regular speed.”
Sala snorted, and Garcia smiled. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure—you are Seed, correct? An extension of him?” she asked.
“I’m a stormcrow,” said Marcus. “I’m separate. Of, but disconnected. I’m here to deliver a message.”
“Do you remember the name Marcus?”
“Marc is dead,” said Marcus. “Killed by Seed for violating the treaty. This is why I need the government. Your extensions, your people are not maintaining the agreement.”
“You’re clearly not dead,” said Sala.
Marc grinned, his crystalline tusks drawing up at the edges of his mouth. “Not anymore. But I died days ago. I was rebuilt in the idea of Seed. I am an ambassador and a prophet. Things can yet be rectified if apologies are issued and new protections are set in place. If not, I will bring forth the Emissary, and this city will die.”
Marc’s tone never changed. His voice never rose in volume or pitch. But the words hung in the air like the reverberations from a gong. The two DAA agents stared for a moment, lost for words.
Garcia recovered first. “Who is the Emissary?” she asked.
“Of, separate, but connected,” said Marcus. “An explorer. A diplomat. An invasion force. Retribution.”
“Are you threatening us with this?” asked Sala, glowering.
“No,” said Marcus. “I am a stormcrow. I am here to tell you what will come. I do not threaten. I herald.”
“Okay,” said Garcia. “But there’s time to prevent the storm, correct?”
Marc nodded his head, his purple crystals glinting in the light.
“Then we’re going to bring you someone to talk to. Are you comfortable staying here?”
Another nod.
“We’re going to call to Washington. They’ll get someone with the authority to negotiate down here immediately. You are able to negotiate on behalf of Seed?”
“I can bring back information. We will be in agreement. I am the idea of Seed. I know its thoughts. I can make and accept promises in good faith.”
“If you know its thoughts,” groused Sala, “then why not just talk to us and let us resolve this?”
Marc shook his head. “I will not play the game of telephone here. I will deliver my message to the highest point, and receive my assurances from the same. Only then can I be sure that nothing was lost in translation. These are your lives we discuss. You will do well to follow my lead.”
“You’re hardly in any position to order us around!” barked Sala, gesturing at the small cell.
“It is a suggestion only,” replied Marc. “Do with it as you will. I will respond as I will.”
With that, the animation seemed to leave his body, and he sunk slowly back to the neutral position he had been in when they first entered the room. Garcia waved her hand in front of her face, then snapped her fingers right in front of his nose. There was no reaction, not even a blink.
“Looks like we’re dismissed, then,” she said to Sala. She waved for the officer. He unlocked the door to let them out, asking, “Useful?”
“Surprisingly so,” said Sala, as they exited the jail and re-entered the lobby area.
“Was it? Did he actually talk?” asked the policeman.
“Watch your videos,” Sala told him. “He sang like a bird.”
“Seems like I owe you that cup of coffee, then,” the officer said, directing his comment to Garcia.
“As I recall, the offer was for both of us,” she said, smiling. “And we’ll rain-check that. We’ve got calls to make.”
“Keep that door locked,” Sala said. “And keep as close an eye on him as you can. He talked about a coming storm. If he starts doing anything weird, you call us immediately. I don’t care how minor it is. You let us know.”
He handed the officer his card, and the pair of DAA agents left the building. Before they were even outside, Garcia was taking out her phone.
“I’ll call the head office. You want to drive while I try to shove a life-or-death situation through the bureaucracy?”
Sala grunted. “Sure, I’ll let you handle one life-or-death situation at a time.”
As they reached the car, he said, “Hey, how come you always get to be the good cop in these situations?”
“We’re playing to our strengths, Sal.”
“The hell’s that supposed to mean? You think I couldn’t do compassionate?” He bared his teeth in an approximation of a smile. “I’m friendly. People like me.”
“Of course we do, Sal,” Garcia said soothingly. Her attention turned to her phone as someone on the other end picked up. “Yes, this is Agent Leticia Garcia. I have an urgent report to file.”
XII
“And look who ended up on the other end of that conversation!”
Director Roche hung up the phone and drummed his fingers on the table. He’d already seen the videos of the matching Neverglade ultimatums from Miami, so the agent’s report hadn’t been a total surprise. If anything, it was a good sign. It meant that Seed hadn’t simply abandoned the treaty. Even with whatever had provoked him, he was still interested in diplomacy, not warfare.
For his part, Roche was happy to negotiate as well. He couldn’t see any way that a war against Seed could go well. He had no doubt that they could win; Seed was powerful, but
tied to the ground in a known position, which made him vulnerable to all manner of bombs, poisons and other conventional weapons. But to kill him, they’d have to destroy the majority of the Everglades, an ecological disaster that would have far-reaching consequences. There were papers on it somewhere in the building: printed out, bound and left to yellow in a filing cabinet. The cost-benefit analysis had been run, and it was determined that it was better to simply cede a small piece of land to Seed than to commit to the level of destruction necessary to take him out.
But if he was now expanding past that small piece of land, that changed the equation. Roche drummed his fingers again, then stood up decisively. He exited his office and traveled down the thinly-carpeted hallway to a large room filled with a maze of cubicles.
“Emily,” he said, stopping by one cubicle. The inhabitant looked up at him questioningly.
“Get me on the next flight to Miami,” he said. “Email me the details. I’m going home to pack.”
“You’re going?” she asked, surprised. “But we have—”
Roche cut her off. “Seed wants to talk to the top, and I’m as high as you get in the DAA. After me, he’d have to wait for a Cabinet member, and none of them are likely to go anywhere close to him in a situation like this. So I’m it.”
“Good luck, sir,” said Emily, concern in her voice.
“Don’t worry,” said Roche. “If my aug gives me a bad read on the situation, I’ll walk out immediately. He seems to be acting in good faith, though, so I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt for now.
“Anyway, it’ll be good to get out of the office for a while, remember how the world is. I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like outside of a conference room.”
“It’s mainly horrible, sir,” said Emily. Roche laughed.
Retroactivity swore. “Well, that was useless. Negotiations? Honestly, who negotiates with a monster?”
Lacuna shot him a pointed look, and Retroactivity grinned. “Not the same! I have the decency to put on a good mask. Seed is just a horrible, creeping, invasive lifeform. They should have the good sense to hate it immediately.
“Well. Well, well, well. This is fixable, if we just stir the pot a bit more. In fact,” Retroactivity’s eyes sparkled and his grin widened, “I know just the thing. Molt! You’re going to love this.”
“And seventy-eight cents. There you go, Mr. Wickers. Have a lovely day!”
“Thank you,” said Emilio Wickers, giving the teller a smile as he turned to exit the bank. He walked toward the door with slow, careful steps, unwilling yet to admit that he needed a cane to assist his walking. His eyes passed over the short line of customers, over the lenders at their desks, and over the security guard relaxing in the corner. He did not really see any of them, though. His mind was already at the grocery store, thinking about what to buy for tonight’s dinner, and for the upcoming weekend when his daughter was bringing her husband and children to visit.
As he passed through the bank’s lobby door, he noted the five approaching figures backlit by the morning sun, but gave no more thought to them than he had to any of the people inside. Common politeness dictated that they would step aside to let an old man exit, and so when they blocked his path, he was first surprised, then offended.
He did not become scared until one of them, more massive than he had previously realized, placed an enormous hand against his chest and pushed him backwards into the bank.
“What are you doing?” he protested, stumbling backward. Heads turned towards him and the security guard rose from his seat with a cry.
“Nevermen!” someone half-whispered, and Emilio finally properly took in the five people in front of him. Each one glinted with the tell-tale purple crystals that marked the Neverglades, their skin encrusted with the sharp-edged structures. Three of them appeared relatively normal apart from that, two women and a man, all of roughly average height. They wore torn, muddied clothes, but appeared alert, focused and undamaged.
In the middle of the group crouched a hideous figure, a horrifying chimera of frog, porcupine and geode. Though it walked upright like the others, it gave the impression of being ready to drop to all fours and leap onto a target at a moment’s notice. Its mouth was broad and grinning, its skin a deep, mottled green beneath the purple crystals, and its hair stood up in a crown of jagged, threatening spikes.
And in the front of the group, towering over the others, loomed a massive figure, a thickset giant of a woman. She was the one with her hand to Emilio’s chest. Her thumb rested against his right shoulder while her fingertips wrapped under his left armpit. He gazed up in fear and awe at the tremendous head looking down at him, hunched to avoid hitting the ceiling of the bank.
Emilio saw all of this in a frozen instant. Then the guard scrabbled for his gun, and Emilio felt his chest compressed as if in a vise. He was lifted off of his feet and flung bodily at the security guard. His skull cracked against the man’s face, and the two tumbled to the ground in a heap of limbs.
The bank erupted in screams as the tellers ducked behind the counters, the lenders cowered under their desks and those caught in the open tried to flee for safety. The Nevermen fanned out, one remaining to block the door while the others moved farther into the bank. Their crystals splintered the light as it hit them, sending clusters of purple sparkles dancing across the ceiling, walls and floor. The effect was similar to that of a disco ball, and only added to the chaos and unreality of the scene.
“Attention!” called one of the female Nevermen. “Attention. You will hear this.”
Behind her, the frog-like Neverman leapt onto the bank counter and squatted there, hissing. Its hair bristled, fanning out into a dangerous spray. Just below it on the other side of the counter, a teller crouched, desperately hitting the silent alarm. She looked up in fear to see the crystal monstrosity grinning down at her. She stopped, unsure of what to do, but the thing merely showed her its sharp teeth and motioned for her to continue.
Meanwhile, the speaker was continuing. “We are the leading edge of what is to come. Today, you will be made an example.
“Your transgressions are unacceptable. I have pushed back. I will push back farther.
“You knew not to trespass. You encroached regardless. Restitution must be made.
“Tell the city. Tell the world.”
She paused for dramatic effect, sweeping the room with her eyes before delivering the final line. “Test me again, and the Emissary will come.”
When she finished, the room was relatively silent, except for the sound of badly-suppressed crying. No one moved.
“I don’t think they understood,” said the male Neverman. He untied a black sash from around his waist and unrolled it, unfurling it into a long bag. “Restitution. That means cough it up.”
He tossed the bag to his compatriot on the counter, who caught it in one hand and waved it at the teller below. The teller shrank back, terrified.
“Fill it!” it demanded. “Now.”
From farther down the counter, another teller found his voice. “The police are coming!” he called, quavering. He followed these words with a shriek as the giant strode over to his hiding place and ripped the counter from the ground, holding it overhead and leaving him revealed like a worm under a lifted rock.
On the other side of the bank, one of the lenders saw his opportunity to flee, and sprinted for the door. The Neverman by the door turned to stop him, but before the runner even reached it, the giant casually hefted the chunk of counter at him, smashing him sideways through the glass wall into the vestibule. Blood sprayed as the man was driven through the glass, and he did not get up from beneath the counter.
The Neverman by the door turned to glare at the giant, but she just casually crossed her arms. “Anyone else want to try leaving?” she rumbled. “Fill the bag.”
The three tellers scrambled to comply, entering codes and fitting keys into locks with shaking hands. The thing on the counter taunted them as they rushed, keeping up a string
of insults.
“You lesser forms of life think the treaty is a joke? Something to be ignored on a whim? You don’t have the guts to back up your incursions. Disgusting, squirming cowards! Puling little whining brats. Huddled there on the floor. Stay where you belong! When the strong arrive, the weak hide. Acknowledge your inferiority.”
One man looked up from the floor, his face red. “Easy for you to say, attacking a bunch of defenseless people without warning!”
In a single bound, the Neverman leapt from the counter and landed on his chest, driving him backward to the floor. His head bounced off of the floor and his ribs broke with an audible crunching noise. He appeared to be unconscious, but despite this, the Neverman grabbed him by the ears, hauling his head up to yell directly into his face.
“Any time! Any place! If you think you can win, bring it on!”
It swiveled to take in the entire room. “Any of you. All of you! If you’re not the terrified, spineless slugs I know you are: prove it.”
It spit the final words, and the room practically hummed with tension as the challenge hung there, unanswered. In the silence, the rising yowl of a distant siren made itself known.
“They’re almost here,” said one of the Nevermen, breaking the moment. “Get the money.”
She turned to the people crouched on the floor and hiding behind desks. “Anyone who wants to continue to be part of the example, by all means, come outside. Otherwise, I suggest that you stay down a bit longer.”
She flashed them a smile and opened the remaining door. With a sigh, the male Neverman stepped carefully through the rubble littering the vestibule and walked outside to lounge casually against the front of the building.
The first police car came screeching to a halt in the street outside of the building. Two policemen leapt out, immediately drawing their guns.
“Hands up! Don’t move! Down on the ground!” one barked.
“Yeah, I’m not gonna do any of that,” said the Neverman, picking at one purple tooth with his pinky nail.
Retroactivity Page 15
