by Dom Testa
She’d stepped out from behind a towering shrub, a boxwood, just as I passed. The only thing that kept me from getting completely clocked was that I expected something. I just didn’t know where the attack would commence. A boxwood is as good a place as any, I suppose.
I’d partially deflected her opening kick to my midsection, but that was about my only success. Over the next 30 seconds she came at me with a series of kicks and jabs that had me backing up in an awkward manner, every other blow parried. Of course, that meant the other blows hit home, and I admit to having somewhat blurry vision after a particular roundhouse kick to the side of my head.
I went down, then quickly rolled out of the way as her foot zeroed in on my chin.
Back on my feet, I studied her. An Asian woman, two inches over five feet, lean, strong. And determined. Her eyes had a curious way of staring you down at one moment, then flitting across your body as if they could analyze every possible torture point in milliseconds. It was unnerving, which I suppose was part of her tactic.
She hadn’t uttered a word.
I let her approach before feinting a side step, then connected with a solid kick of my own. The blow landed on her sternum and she staggered backwards. But she wasn’t phased. Her next jab was easily deflected, which I knew meant something devastating was coming. I crouched and adjusted my stance.
She stopped and put her hands on her hips. “Always that silly crouch,” she said. “What is with you and the crouch, Swan? Have you learned nothing?”
I slowly raised myself up to my new height of six-one. “It works for me.”
She shook her head in disgust. “It’s a vulnerable position. I’d hoped your new host body would come with new instincts. Next time I’ll really hurt you, just to get it through your head. Besides, you’re late. I should bloody your lip just for that.”
Before I could respond she turned and walked out of the garden, past the giant boxwood shrub, toward the large sliding door opening into her kitchen and nook. Properly chastised, I followed.
I’ll probably never know her true name, but to me and the rest of the organization she was simply Quanta. She’d sent me on the mission to Utah that must’ve somehow come to a tragic conclusion — maybe someday I’ll find out how it ended — and I assumed I was here at her home office to pick up a new assignment.
Actually, home was her only office. Quanta rarely set foot inside the squat, ugly building that housed Q2 in Washington, and who could blame her? She’d risen through the ranks of two separate counter-espionage and counter-terrorism units overseas and we were lucky to have her on our shores. If she’d asked to office out of a Popeyes Chicken I think the NSA would’ve thrown in custom stationery with the cole slaw and handy wipes. She was that respected worldwide.
We’re not NSA. The National Security Agency was simply the most convenient umbrella to place Q2 beneath. Although the NSA can be clandestine, there are times when you need something sneakier than that. Something . . . well, even a tad bit dirty. All right, filthy. That’s us, the dirty birds. That’s all I have to say about it for now.
I stepped into the lilac-scented air of the kitchen. Twin ceiling fans spun noiselessly, one above the large center island and one above the round table in the nook. I sat on one of the bar stools along the island. Quanta dropped one of those cold gel packs in front of me and kept walking, toward the central atrium in her home. I knew what that meant and prepared to wait by myself for about 10 minutes. I used the time to flip through email and other assorted shit on my phone while holding the pack to my cheek and slowly working my jaw.
When I figured the time was almost up I stood, picked an apple from a fruit bowl on the island, and wandered in the direction Quanta had taken. Sure enough, she was on a mat in a stunningly-beautiful atrium, her private heavenly palace.
It was a courtyard, technically, right in the center of the house, but more like a greenhouse. Large trees and other assorted greenery took up most of the space. A small waterfall —other homes might call it a ‘water feature,’ but this was a genuine waterfall — provided a backdrop of peace and serenity. Somewhere a bird made a greeting.
The sun dappled the room through the high glass ceiling, and the space had a pleasant, warm touch, almost sensual.
Quanta was in what’s commonly known as the Lotus position, her eyes closed. She meditated several times a day, especially after workouts, for about ten minutes at a stretch. With her record, any government would let her sit cross-legged as much as she liked.
I sat on a small bench beside her and waited. Her face was composed and peaceful, her body at total rest, no movement other than the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of her breathing. After another minute she exhaled deeply, rolled her neck, and looked at me.
“For the record,” I said to her, “this new body of mine is one of the worst. It’s scrawny.”
“Then you should’ve done a better job protecting the last one.”
I ignored that. “What if I sat in on the next screening? I mean, as long as I’m going to be wearing them.”
The expression on her face was tranquil, but the words not so much. “You exhaust me, Swan. Again, no. Stop asking. We provide the materials, you provide the results. Preferably better than you did in Utah.”
I inspected the apple I’d brought and took a small bite, careful to eat on the side of my mouth Quanta hadn’t belted.
“For all we know,” I said, “I did a great job in Utah. I’m told I even sent a message about the explosives being gone. I must’ve done something right.”
“And then got yourself killed somehow. Nobody’s found the body.”
“Why bother? I’m here now.” I took another loud bite. “I intend to look into the guy I described in my last upload. The red-headed gent. I have a feeling he’s not your average, ordinary knave.”
Quanta closed her eyes and did another rotation of her neck and head. She hated when I made fun of her pet term for the nastiest villains, the masterminds. “Perhaps someday you’ll found out who he was. Next time upload all your information before getting yourself killed.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll try to do a better job of scheduling my executions.”
A slight smile touched her lips. “Never mind about your red-headed friend. Houghton and his team are following up. You’re here this afternoon because I have something new for you.”
“Thus my scrawny new chassis.” I set the remainder of the apple next to me. “But at least I understand why this guy wasn’t bulky. His taste buds are for shit.”
She stretched herself into a standing position and picked up a towel. “I have some raspberries and blueberries back in the kitchen.” With that she was on the move again.
Picking up the apple remnant, I tagged along. “I had blueberries this morning. I’m telling you, nothing tastes good in this mouth.” When we arrived back in the kitchen I added, “Maybe I’ll accidentally step in front of a bus when I leave here and we can start over again.”
Quanta’s scowl conveyed about as much emotion as she’d ever let slip across her face. “This isn’t the body-of-the-month club, Swan. In fact, I don’t have anything else right now. Nothing for the foreseeable future, either. So look both ways before crossing, eh?”
I knew she was lying, and she knew I knew. If Q2 needed a body they could have one by lunch. But scolding me was one of her greatest joys, so we both let it go.
“All right,” I said. “What’ve you got?”
She pointed to the round table in the nook. I moved over to one of the chairs and she propped up a tablet in front of me. Leaning over my shoulder she tapped on a file labeled LoGo.
“Have you done much homework lately on alternative energy?” she asked.
“Nope. Are we talking solar, wind, hydro, geothermal, or what?”
“All of the above.”
The tablet’s screen was rolling through a slideshow displaying some of the more familiar alternative energy sources. First a gigantic array of solar panels, dazzling in t
he bright sunshine, then the hypnotic image of an endless wind farm, its massive turbines rotating. These were followed by shots of bubbling magma, then tons of water rushing through the spillway of a dam.
“What am I watching for?” I asked.
“Them,” Quanta said.
The pretty pictures of nature’s latent energy dissolved to show a couple, a man and a woman, both tall and lanky with long, straight hair. They were walking through a field of windmills, gesturing at the large blades, obviously talking about the generation of so much power.
Granted, I can be a cynical son of a bitch at times — it comes with seeing so much of humanity’s dark underbelly on a weekly basis — but this was truly gag-worthy. All it needed was some slo-mo and a Sarah McLaughlin song in the background to bring the apple back up.
I was watching a promotional video, one of the cheesiest ever, and at the end it bled into the logo of a company called . . . well, called LoGo.
“Cute,” I said. “Husband and wife? They’re pretty young.”
“Brother and sister,” Quanta said. “And yes, they’re 33.”
“Oh. Twins?”
“Twins.”
“And the cuteness factor doubles,” I said. “Where’d they get the money to start something like this?”
Quanta sat in the chair to my left. “They didn’t start it. They inherited LoGo when their father died three years ago.”
She was piquing my interest. Nobody was more familiar with death than I was. I could write a book on it, the latest chapter composed less than two weeks ago.
“Are you sure he didn’t kill himself after watching this video?” I said, getting up to grab a glass of water.
“Swan—”
“All right. Brother and sister, alt-energy company, and a dead father. Where does Q2 come in? The dad?”
“No,” Quanta said. “The father, Niall Ormond, had some issues, and he was certainly investigated more than once for unethical business practices. But LoGo has always been a legitimate player in the energy field, if a bit aggressive.”
I brought two glasses of water to the table and handed one to her.
She continued. “Niall’s father, the twins’ grandfather, had experience in the coal industry so it wasn’t unusual for Niall to show interest in energy production. He started in traditional fossil fuels, working for BP and then consulting for at least one Saudi family. When alternative energy sources finally began to show at least the potential for significant profit, he took a leap and formed LoGo about 30 years ago.”
“What’s the origin of the name?”
“The twins’ initials. Lucas and Gillian Ormond.”
“Yet another cuteness point.” I played with the water ring my glass had created on the table. “But if we’re involved then we must be coming to a point where the cuteness ends.”
Quanta nodded. “Two weeks ago a former LoGo employee became a whistle-blower. He had no idea who to talk to and just assumed the FBI would be interested. They were, but they felt Homeland Security might be a better fit. After a preliminary investigation, DHS called us.”
It wasn’t unusual for a case to trickle down through various governmental agencies, like a game of Plinko on The Price is Right. Jobs bounced off various government pegs and if they landed in the Q2 slot you knew it was damned serious. I might toss off clever witticisms with Quanta — it’s just my nature — but if she assigned a case to me it meant someone really, really nasty had popped up.
“And what did Monsieur WhistleBlower report?” I asked.
“He claimed a team at LoGo was studying the catastrophic effects that a series of electromagnetic pulses would have on the U.S. energy grid.”
“Oh,” I said. “Is that all?”
Quanta didn’t respond.
All joking aside, this was an issue I actually did know a bit about. Governments around the world had been aware of this threat since the birth of the nuclear age. In a nutshell, an atomic bomb detonated high enough in the atmosphere not only created a devastating blast that seared the ground and people below, it also had the capacity to disrupt electrical systems. It was sometimes known as a nuclear pulse, and was serious enough that many countries had launched defensive plans to protect their electrical infrastructure.
The average American doesn’t lose one second of sleep over the possibility of an electromagnetic pulse, or EMP. But people responsible for national defense were concerned enough that it led to the creation of an actual EMP Commission, yet another department beneath another department beneath another. Their conclusion? This was some bad shit.
If that had been their official proclamation it might’ve caught the attention of the apathetic public.
“Well,” I said, processing the news. “That’s not too unusual, is it? Perhaps just a preliminary investigation to help LoGo develop protective measures for their systems?”
“Then the gentleman who contacted the FBI wouldn’t have been worried. He was, to quote the report, ‘intensely concerned.’ Meaning, he didn’t think these were defensive measures at all. We’re concerned that they’re looking into the possibility of knocking out a power station somewhere.”
“Why would they want to do that?”
She leaned back in her chair. “Two reasons. One would be to analyze their own defenses, to see how a LoGo power system stands up to a threat that would take down a traditional source.”
“All right. What’s the other?”
“To scare the country into accelerating their conversion to alternative energy sources. Show how vulnerable the current grid is and kickstart a movement to get mainstream America thinking in new ways.”
“Ways that would benefit LoGo.”
She nodded.
I took another drink of water and looked out into Quanta’s gorgeous garden, almost half-an-acre of meticulously-groomed flora. My boss’s garden said a lot about her neatness and sense of order.
“So,” I said. “My job is to, what? Investigate the company in general or go straight to the twins?”
“Time is of the essence,” she said. “Go straight to the top. The company is based outside Las Vegas. Poole is booking everything for you, including your appointment at the LoGo corporate office. She has the backstory for your new identity and the documents you’ll need to get in LoGo’s door. Stop by and visit with her, then you can have one night at home. Just one. I’m sorry, but I need you on a plane in the morning.”
“I’m not even used to this body yet,” I said.
“Since when does that ever make a difference?”
I tried a different tack. “Why are you so high on Poole? She’s greener than your shrubbery out there. Don’t we need someone with more experience in her position? I sometimes feel like I’m babysitting.”
“She’s perfectly capable and she’s learning quickly. Stop being an ass, Swan. You sound petulant and you know that’s a trait I have no patience for. Do your job and let Poole do hers. She’s there for support. Let her support.”
Then Quanta thought of something else. “Poole is now well past orientation. Why don’t you get to know her better by filling her in on how you’re essentially a Frankenstein’s monster? She’s ready to learn more. I can’t think of anyone better qualified to school her.”
The discussion was obviously over. She’d kicked my ass in the garden and now was sending me on another potentially dangerous mission. Which is redundant; if you’re an agent for Q2 everything you do is potentially dangerous. And deadly.
I had one thing left. “What about this former employee, the one who blabbed? He might have information to help us identify the target. When do I talk with him?”
Quanta took her own sip of water and fixed her gaze on me. “That would be very helpful. But you won’t. He’s dead.”
Chapter Three
It’s almost a cliche, really. Create a crucial defensive department in your government and house them in a characterless, colorless building that hopefully won’t attract attention. Dumb, really, beca
use the obvious security necessary to get in the building would be a beacon for every naughty individual with knave-ish intentions.
I parked in the underground lot and took an elevator up to the fourth floor of a drab structure that was, I suppose, meant to convey to Congress that we weren’t wasting taxpayer money on frivolous garnish. Never mind that we had saved the taxpayers’ asses countless times. Oh, the woefully under-appreciated role never gets old.
Truth be told, I never cared what the building looked like. I was rarely there. As a field agent — a.k.a spy, spook, operative, provocateur (my personal favorite) — I spent the majority of my time on the road.
Quanta refused to work from within the bureaucratic structure, both literally and figuratively, which meant even less time I had to spend in the dull gray walls that housed Q2.
How it came to be called Q2 in the first place will always be funny to me. Someone somewhere — and there’s always a someone somewhere — noted that our country was in pretty good shape when it came to international terrorism; it’s never perfect, but at least we were playing the game. But domestic terror? The word came down that we needed a squad of badasses who could stomp out bad guys — Quanta’s knaves — while playing just outside the rules. As one congressman was heard to say, “If we wanna control the game we gotta control the goddamned rules.”
I’m sure he followed this by nodding gruffly and shoving a cigar in his pie hole.
So a collection of suits from organizations like the FBI, CIA, NSA, DHS, and probably a few other alphabet soup clowns began to meet after hours in a building at Langley. Word had it that everything was penciled together in a small cubicle outside some hotshot’s office. It was labeled Cubicle 2, so they scribbled Cube2 at the top of some of their pages. Sort of a shorthand so they knew which crazy new department this was.
Cube2 got shortened to just Q2. So, there: the Q2 doesn’t even stand for anything. But we all like the way it sounds.
Now it was late afternoon, I was tired, still unaccustomed to my new body, and in a sour mood about having to drive out of my way from Quanta’s lavish domicile to this ugly place when by now I’d already be in my own warm, comfortable home. Maybe my griping about Poole was actually a veiled complaint about this.
