Ciphers

by Matt Rogers

  He couldn’t put it into words.

  It just felt wrong.

  Samuel regarded the body, then motioned to the unopened bottle of whiskey. ‘All yours now. Drink.’

  Rico didn’t need to be asked twice.

  This isn’t happening. This isn’t real. Make it feel like an illusion.

  He cracked the seal, twisted the top off, brought the open neck up to his lips and drank greedily. The liquid was warm, and it burned. It was beautiful. He knew that within minutes it would dull those pesky emotions — guilt and fear.

  He lowered the bottle and noticed Samuel watching him silently. Like a hawk.

  Rico shivered.

  He felt the need to speak.

  To say something.

  Anything.

  ‘That was bullshit, right?’ he said. ‘About the lights. About you being involved. You were just baiting him.’

  Samuel laughed.

  The same harsh, discordant cackle.

  The kid said, ‘Maybe you don’t know…’

  Then he turned and skipped merrily out of the liquor store, twirling his gun like a child’s plaything as he went.

  29

  Violetta spent close to ten minutes laying it out.

  Every piece of the snowball of panic that would accumulate as time ticked by.

  It would start when bottled water became inaccessible and all the immediate supplies were looted from stores. Groceries and pharmacies would be desolate within a couple of days. No amount of emergency aid from other states would be able to replenish food and water supplies in time. Not for eight million people. When the water towers ran out, every tap in New York would be fundamentally useless. Maybe in the outer boroughs the residents might be able to maintain order for another day or two, but here in the heart of Manhattan it would be pure chaos. People would turn on each other when they realised they might very well starve or die of thirst if their circumstances didn’t change soon. The smartphones that had become the lifeblood of civilisation over the last decade would all be dead, and even those who could keep theirs charged with back-up power banks would find them useless without a cell signal. Half the city wouldn’t know what to do, and then survival instincts would kick in.

  Whoever made the first move to attack and loot their neighbours would start a chain reaction that would spread like wildfire.

  In the glum aftermath of her speech, King said, ‘What emergency services are being mobilised? What scale are we talking?’

  She said, ‘That’s not my focus. There’s whole departments going haywire right now coordinating all of that. Every effort is being made to—’

  ‘You don’t have to talk to us like that,’ Slater said.

  She looked at him. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like you’re making a public service announcement.’

  ‘I’m just saying that—’

  ‘King is asking whether we were prepared to handle something like this.’

  ‘Obviously there’s—’

  King said, ‘Violetta.’

  She stopped dead.

  He said, ‘Tell us the truth. It won’t change anything. It’s better if we know.’

  She tapped the table with a single finger.

  Over and over and over again.

  Then she said, ‘Okay. We’re fucked. The main thing the government is focused on is bringing in back-up transformers in case this lasts longer than expected, which it very well could. But there’s a thousand logistical problems with that — transformers are enormous, and they can’t be transported easily, so it’s a nightmare. No one — not me or any of my peers — expected something on this scale to happen. If it doesn’t get fixed, the United States is wholly unprepared for the aftermath. Our best bet is flying in power trucks on DOD planes so we can start replacing the lines, but that’s a nightmare, too, as I’m sure you can imagine.’

  Slater said, ‘So this needs to be rectified before the forty-eight hour window is up.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Or all of New York goes back to the Stone Age.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And if New York goes back to the Stone Age, it’ll be even harder to fix this with power trucks when it’s every man and woman for themselves. The streets will be a wasteland within a week.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Slater didn’t follow up.

  There was no need.

  The stakes were there, loud and clear.

  Instead he said, ‘I get it. You could go on all day about hypotheticals, and contingencies, and possibilities, but that’s not what we’re here for. We’re here to fix it before any of that shit is even necessary. So let’s start doing that.’

  ‘That’s why I collected you personally,’ she said. ‘Realistically you might be the last chance of stopping this. There’s the digital way of shutting it down, which doesn’t seem feasible. And then there’s storming in there and demolishing it at the source. Doing things the old-fashioned way. And the pair of you might be the best on the planet at that.’

  King managed a wry smile. ‘The old guard still has some advantages.’

  ‘But that’s pointless,’ Slater interjected. ‘If we need to physically be there, what are the chances that—?’

  She held up a hand, cutting him off.

  He stopped.

  She said, ‘There’s things you don’t know. There’s things I haven’t told you.’

  Slater’s eyes widened. ‘What do you have?’

  ‘An address.’

  ‘How’d you get it?’

  ‘Do you think my guys are twiddling their thumbs out there? There’s an inevitable trail of breadcrumbs in any cyberattack. Don’t ask me to go into detail. It’s as much of an impossible labyrinth to me as it is to you.’

  ‘Where’s the address?’

  ‘In the Bowery.’

  Neither of them said a word.

  King said, ‘Here.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’ Slater said. ‘Who on earth would set up their base of operations in the very same place they’re instigating a blackout?’

  ‘There’s any number of explanations,’ Violetta said. ‘Most of them aren’t good for us. The obvious reason is—’

  ‘That it’s a fake address,’ King finished. ‘A dummy lead. A dead end.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But if it’s not.’

  ‘On the off chance that it’s not, I need elite level-headed operatives who can get in there and think on the fly. It’s an old bank building in the Bowery. Probably fortified. Any guess what might happen if I amass half the NYPD and park them out front?’

  ‘A standoff, probably.’

  ‘Does it look like we have time for a standoff?’

  ‘No,’ King said. ‘It sure doesn’t.’

  ‘Besides,’ she said, ‘every cop in the city has a hundred things on their plate right now. Hospitals, elevators, street presence — you name it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Slater said. ‘We figured that.’

  ‘So we need you. I need you.’

  ‘You, and who you represent, I’m sure,’ Slater said.

  ‘All the way to the very top,’ she said. ‘The order’s been passed down. The pair of you have total flexibility and freedom. Any further questions?’

  King said, ‘No.’

  Slater said, ‘No.’

  ‘Any flaws you can find in my reasoning as to why you’re needed?’

  Together, they said, ‘No.’

  ‘Then congratulations,’ she said. ‘You’re on the clock.’

  30

  Rico and Samuel stood on 5th Avenue’s sidewalk, at the precipice of Central Park.

  The space was like the belly of the whale, dark and quiet and all-encompassing. Rico kept his ears tuned for the sounds of distress, but he heard nothing. There was the incessant hum of commotion behind them, and off to the sides.

  But ahead … nothing at all.

  The void.

  People were avoiding the park, he knew. At
least there was safety in numbers on the streets of Manhattan. In Central Park, fear of the unknown reigned supreme. It made sense to want to be surrounded by fellow city-dwellers in the same predicament. You could bounce worries and excitement and nervous energy off one another.

  If you venture into the park, all goes quiet.

  Rico might not have liked the quiet twenty minutes ago. It may have unnerved him.

  Now, though…

  Now he didn’t care.

  He was drunk.

  He stumbled in a half-circle and saw Samuel locked in a staring contest with the void. The man’s eyes were drab and soulless, but those features washed past Rico. Nothing affected him. He’d run away from the sicarios to look for something different, and Samuel was something entirely different.

  Rico said, ‘You want to go in there?’

  He knew he was slurring.

  Samuel looked over. ‘Not really. I just like the quiet.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did you get much quiet? You know ... before all this?’

  Samuel didn’t blink. Stared daggers into Rico’s soul. Said, ‘Naw, man. No quiet at all.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Rico said, still slurring, still franker than usual. Alcohol helps you cut to the chase, after all. ‘Before this. What did you do?’

  Samuel said, ‘For the last six weeks I’ve just been killin’ people, man.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘All types of people. Landlords, witnesses, people sniffin’ around.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Got told to.’

  ‘Who told you to?’

  Samuel narrowed his gaze. ‘You a cop?’

  Rico laughed. Put his hands on his hips and shook his head in amazement. ‘You serious?’

  ‘I don’t know, man. You might be.’

  ‘I just watched you kill a guy. Don’t you think I would have arrested you?’

  ‘Maybe you believe me,’ Samuel said. ‘About playing a part in this blackout. Maybe you’re trying to get more out of me, man. Maybe you want me to keep talking, and then you’re gonna swoop.’

  Rico’s head swam. He said, ‘Want me to prove I’m not a cop? Is that what this is?’

  The darkness seemed to pulsate around Samuel.

  Too much to drink, Rico thought. Too, too much.

  But he’d said it.

  He’d pushed the metaphorical snowball down the hill.

  And now it was picking up momentum.

  An object in motion stays in motion.

  Newton’s first law.

  Samuel’s eyes lit up. He leered. Handed over the Glock. ‘Yeah. I want you to prove it.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  But they both knew. Under the surface of their conversation was the darkness. It was raw and untamed, and it hovered there, waiting for Rico to step down into it. All he needed to do was widen his gaze, begin looking for a victim…

  Reluctantly, he looked away from Samuel. He didn’t want to. But he was in too deep. He felt the cold grip of the pistol in his hand and slipped a finger inside the trigger guard. He spent a moment surveying the street, but the lack of light provided enough anonymity to commit any sort of crime he wanted. All he had to do was aim, fire, and run.

  Into the park.

  Samuel knew it too. He hadn’t instructed Rico to do anything, but there was an unspoken agreement. An unbreakable allegiance, if they each killed someone.

  Why are you doing this? Rico thought as he looked around.

  His pulse rose again, putting more stress on his heart. By now he could barely feel it beneath the veil of alcohol. He was numb to sensation and thought. Immediate consequences didn’t exist.

  He spotted a guy walking in their direction, head down, hands in coat pockets, headphones in. He was in his late thirties and seemed like he was doing well for himself. The coat was expensive and the shine of his shoes reflected in the dull moonlight. Rico understood his demeanour. He saw a guy trying his hardest to pretend the blackout wasn’t happening. If he couldn’t see the lack of light, then it wasn’t there. He was probably the anxious type, unnerved by the change in routine, intent on making it home to the safety of his apartment where he could wait it out in the dark, alone but reassured.

  Shame, Rico thought.

  He raised the gun and pulled the trigger three times.

  Hands came out of pockets, and the coat fell open, and the shoes caught on the sidewalk, and the man fell forward.

  Hit the ground with the sort of thunk that can only come from a lifeless body.

  Rico didn’t see anything else.

  He just ran.

  High-tailed it into Central Park, letting the shadows swallow him up, breath rasping in his throat, heart pounding in his ears. He could hear Samuel’s boots scuffing on the pavement behind him, hot on his heels. He wasn’t sure how long he ran for, but when he staggered to a halt he’d worked up a thin coating of sweat over his face. He sat down hard on the kerb, even though he couldn’t see a thing. Planted down on his rear and gripped his knees and sucked in giant lungfuls of air.

  Samuel sat down alongside him, barely out of breath.

  Rico let out a sharp exhale, but an involuntary sound came out with it. It turned into a ragged sigh, which he certainly didn’t intend.

  It made him seem weak.

  Samuel said, ‘Have you done that before?’

  ‘Killed someone?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve killed a few people back home.’

  ‘Where’s home?’

  ‘Juárez.’

  ‘You got a powerful daddy?’

  ‘Yeah. How’d you know?’

  ‘It adds up.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘My whole family was powerful. Like your daddy.’

  ‘“Was?”’

  Samuel let out a noise somewhere close to a growl. ‘They ain’t shit no more.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Everything was taken from them. They got into a war with a pair of thugs. And those two thugs stripped them of everything.’

  31

  From the makeshift office, Violetta led King and Slater across the main space, past the rows and rows of desks manned by the same intensely focused workers.

  King kept his mouth shut. He’d survived in his field for so long by figuring out early on that he wasn’t the master of everything. In the earliest years of his career, he’d opted to go silent when he was out of his depth and absorb knowledge like a sponge. So he wasn’t saying a great deal. But he sure was thinking it.

  It was impossible not to. All the meditation in the world couldn’t prevent his mind from racing. He’d never grappled with something so daunting. Dealing with the possibility of mass civilian casualties — like a bomb going off — was one thing, but at least that was instantaneous.

  Bang.

  Over.

  This was a different beast. It would be a steady decline into madness. Maybe some of them would make it out of the boroughs before panic gripped them, but not everyone. Innocent lives would be lost at a staggering rate when the shit hit the fan.

  And this address, if it was accurate, might spell the difference between the lights coming back on, or staying off for good.

  That opened up another hundred questions, but he quashed them.

  Now was not the time.

  Violetta pulled to a halt in front of a V-shaped desk in the corner of the room, separated from the rest of the rows by at least a dozen feet of empty space. There was a guy in his forties sitting in a black office chair with an air of importance around him. His back was hunched as he faced his triple-monitor setup, but it didn’t seem like his natural posture. More conducive to a man who’d given up on appearing professional in the midst of an unprecedented crisis.

  King stood quietly behind him, and Slater pulled up alongside.

  Violetta stepped forward and tapped a finger gently on the table.

  ‘Alonzo,’ she
said.

  He jolted in his seat and rotated. He was Hispanic, with a neatly trimmed goatee and thick curly hair falling forward over his forehead. He had thick bushy eyebrows and a face that might normally appear kind and patient. Now, it was wracked with stress. He had heavy bags under his eyes from lack of sleep.

  He looked King in the eyes, then Slater, and said, ‘You’re the muscle?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Slater said, folding his arms over his chest.

  Alonzo eyed Violetta. ‘They’re as good as you say?’

  ‘They’re the best we have.’

  ‘They’ll need to be.’

  He ran both hands through his hair in distress.

  Violetta said, ‘Give them a rudimentary explanation of how you got the address, and what it means.’

  ‘Right,’ Alonzo said, processing the request with a couple of blinks. King instantly knew his type. Intensely straightforward, no excuses, no bullshit. Totally analytical. The best kind of intelligence operative. The man would tell it how it was. He wouldn’t cut corners. He wouldn’t add window dressing. And he wouldn’t downplay something, no matter how disastrous it might sound.

  King said, ‘Just give it to us straight.’

  Alonzo said, ‘There’s a very slim chance that the people responsible for this are operating out of an abandoned bank building in the Bowery. I only got the address three hours ago, but as far as I can tell it’s legit. They sure as hell didn’t want me to have it. It took some serious manipulation of the trail I had to work with.’

  Slater said, ‘You mean what they left behind when they seized control of the system?’

  ‘Yes,’ Alonzo said. ‘Good. You’ve got the gist of it. No one can do something on this scale and be a ghost. But these hackers that we’re dealing with … they’re seriously fucking good. As in, some of the best I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been at the cutting edge of this technology for the better part of twenty years. Nothing they did was off-the-charts impressive, but they executed every step flawlessly, and now we’re shut out. There’s nothing we can do to get control back. They did their recon, they found the flaws, and they exploited them. The fact of the matter is, it doesn’t matter how good we are as government operatives. We’re now working with old-school systems in an ageing industry, and that doesn’t leave any room for us to be creative. These guys we’re fighting are brilliant. But if they were that smart, then they probably knew they couldn’t truly mask their location. Not with the sort of back doors we have available. So, what I’m saying is…’