by Jeff Deck
“And resources,” Desk Phone Marsters says, temporarily holding her own handset away from her head.
“Yes,” Cell Phone Marsters snaps at her, “I was getting to that part. Get back to what you were doing. No. Sorry, wasn’t talking to you. But resources. This represents an innovation in defense technology that will make Bob shit his pants. Literally. The possibilities are . . .”
Meanwhile, Desk Phone Marsters is saying, “. . . insubordination. Yes. Recommend an immediate demotion and transfer for Agent Ramirez. Of course, I can hold . . .”
Defense technology. Oh, no. No, no, no. I did not unearth that Port just to hand it to the military. That’s one area where I happen to agree with you on the subject of authority. Even as a lowly beat cop, I could get a whiff of how the military operates. Bunch of large adult sons who never outgrew their toys. I can imagine a dozen different ways for the Department of Defense to abuse the Port for their own ends. Cloned soldiers is only the least of it.
I keep a firm grip on Evil Allard, who wears a look of bland indifference at this scene, and I glance at Agent Jeong. He looks horrified, but that’s no guarantee he’ll be with me on this. I sure hope this situation doesn’t get any uglier than it is now.
I rack my brain trying to remember which outfit Kat Marsters was wearing earlier tonight, so I can figure out which one is the real deal. But I’ve got a shit memory for clothes. It looks like I’ll have to rely on logic instead: would I ever hand my smartphone to someone else to use?
I throw Jeong a signal, pointing at the one on the smartphone, and he nods and then waves frantically at her. Even in a situation like this, he’s unwilling to shout and interrupt his boss(?) on the phone. But he does hiss at her in a low decibel: “Agent Marsters!”
“Hold on,” this Marsters says. “I’ll have to call you back.”
She hangs up. “Well?!”
“‘Well?’” Jeong repeats. He’s turning red. “Forgive my impatience, Agent Marsters—I’ve been in a deadly firefight tonight—but what do you think you’re doing, messing with interdimensional technology? And what did you do to Ramirez?”
The Marsters on the desk phone says, “Hold on, I’ll have to call you back,” and slams the handset into the receiver. She points at Agent Jeong. “You’re out of line. Don’t forget who you’re talking to.”
“I don’t know who I’m talking to!” Jeong sputters. “Can you please tell me which one of you is the original Kat Marsters?”
The Marsters at the computer stops typing and says, “Punish him.”
“Arrest him,” says the Marsters who was on the desk phone.
“Agent Jeong has been a loyal team player for years,” says Smartphone Marsters. “We’re cutting him slack—for the moment. But he should carefully consider this warning not to question our judgment. Are you considering it, Agent Jeong?”
Chastened, Ethan Jeong straightens up and says stiffly, “Yes sir. But I must register a formal protest at your actions.”
Really? That’s it?
I finish strapping Evil Allard to a sturdy-looking heating pipe along the wall with a second pair of cuffs. I feel secure enough about my handiwork to join the conversation. “He’s too ‘loyal’ to say it, but you’ve gone around the fucking bend, lady. My own doppelgänger, here? She just killed a journalist and four cops. She would have slaughtered the whole department if we hadn’t stopped her. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“It’s true,” says Evil Allard, helpfully. “Your sisters may look like you—but they’re just babies.”
Jeong glances at both me and my doppelgänger. I can’t tell whether he appreciates the assistance. But I’m afraid his working relationship with SSA Marsters will continue to taint the conversation. I need to take control here. After all, I’ve been promised an answer about what happened to you, and I intend to get it. Even the glare I’m getting right now from all three frightening Marsterses won’t dissuade me.
“Was this your plan all along, Marsters?” I ask, focusing on the smartphone one. “Find the Port, start exploiting it for the government, no matter the human cost?”
“You have never known the weight of national security on your shoulders,” says Desk Phone Marsters.
“If you think the United States can afford to hesitate at exploring any new strategic advantage—you are a child,” says Computer Marsters.
“Quiet!” says Smartphone Marsters—or rather, Marsters Prime. She must be the original Marsters, because both of her twins have instantly shut their mouths at her command. They must all have an ingrained deference to authority, which serves Marsters Prime well.
“It is highly annoying to have someone else arguing on my behalf,” Marsters Prime goes on. “Even if that someone else is myself.”
The laugh that bubbles up in my throat dies just as quickly. Maybe this would be funny if it wasn’t so horrible. I wonder what the extent of Kat Marsters’s powers are as a supervisory special agent. Probably not much beyond this office. The way she’s talking, she must have greater ambitions—much greater. Now she has the means to climb that ladder.
Maybe at the expense of the rest of us.
“We owe you no explanation,” Marsters Prime says. “But we thank you for your service.”
“How about the answer you owe me?” I snap. “I figured out who killed Graham Tsoukalas: his own clone. Now who killed my fiancée?!”
She smiles at me. “Of course. How could I neglect our bargain? Very well. Our findings indicate that someone within the cult of Port-openers must have murdered Hannah Ryder.”
“But—” I say. “That doesn’t make sense. I thought she was part of that ‘cult.’ She had one of the wrist thingies just like the rest of them.”
“There are . . . disagreements within organizations all the time,” says Marsters Prime, shooting a look at Agent Jeong.
He takes that as a cue to step in and steer us back to Marsters’s indiscretions. “Sir, our task is not to capture new technologies for the United States. That’s the DoD, or hell, DARPA. Our designation as a ‘strategic office’ doesn’t change that. We’re just here to keep people safe and neutralize any—unusual threats that other agencies overlook.”
Speaking of annoying. I’m in this up to my eyeballs now, so I want my good buddy Ethan to stop talking in code around me. I need to know what this field office has really been up to.
“Your naivete strikes us as willful, Agent Jeong,” says Marsters Prime. She circles around her desk. Agent Jeong flinches. But he doesn’t step back even when she gets right in his face (or rather, right below it). “First of all, your task is to do whatever the fuck we tell you to do. Second: why do you think we’re given Project Stargate resources?”
Jeong stays quiet.
“Heh,” Marsters goes on. “To ‘keep people safe and neutralize threats.’ Do you think the U.S. government is as passive as all that? We are ever hungry for new advantages over our enemies—who grow more numerous by the day.”
She grabs Jeong’s chin and forces his gaze downward, into hers. “You’re out of the loop, kid. So don’t pretend you know what’s going on. Trust those of us who do. Do we have any reason to question your loyalty?”
“No sir,” Agent Jeong says. Then he adds, “But my loyalty is to the people of the United States, not to you. I believe this is an abuse of power and a danger to the public.” My respect for him shoots from somewhere on the first floor to up through the roof.
“Then you are suspended from duty,” Marsters snaps.
“Give us your badge!” says Desk Phone Marsters.
“Give us your gun!” says Computer Marsters.
Marsters Prime shoots them an annoyed look and adds: “What they said.”
“Don’t do it,” I say. I step forward. Evil Allard will be okay on her own for a moment—I hope. Adrenaline courses through my body. Hello, old friend, I thought we’d seen the last of each other tonight . . .
“Fuck you,” says the SSA. She draws her gun, a Glock 17M
, and fixes it on me. The other two Marsterses step out from behind the big desk. “Get down on the floor, Divya Allard. This doesn’t concern you. I thank you for your part contributing to the defense and security of the United States, but your role in this is over.”
Jeong looks panicked. Despite the defiant stance he’s just taken, he doesn’t intervene on my behalf. I get down on the floor. I’m out of options.
“Hand me your gun and badge, Agent Jeong,” says SSA Marsters, “and do it now before I shoot your new girlfriend.”
“You do know she’s not into guys, right?” Jeong says, stalling for time. “You’ve read her file?”
Marsters releases the safety and stands right over me. She points the gun barrel at my head at a distance where she can’t miss in any universe of probability. The other two Marsterses now flank Jeong.
He sighs and hands his gun to Desk Phone Marsters and his badge to Computer Marsters. Marsters Prime makes a satisfied sound in her throat and says, “Me Number Two, now take Officer Allard’s pistol away from her, if you please.”
Computer Marsters moves toward me. Once she has my gun, all three Marsterses will be armed, and this fight will be past any hope of us winning. Maybe Marsters Prime has benign plans for me and Agent Jeong. I find I’m not willing to take the chance.
I risk a tiny glance up at Marsters Prime, who has relaxed her grip on her gun. She’s fully confident that her twin will take care of disarming me. A truly stupid idea thus enters my mind. I’m probably going to commit suicide by FBI agent, but I’m out of options.
Sure, I got the beginning of an answer for what happened to you. But it’s not enough, and the source couldn’t be less worthy of my trust. I need to know more. Your fate is one mystery I am absolutely unwilling to leave unsolved when I leave this Earth.
So that’s when I wriggle onto my side, quickly draw the Glock 26, and shoot Marsters Prime in the ankle.
I can’t say I have any idea what it feels like when a bullet tears through old-lady flesh and bone. I just hope I never experience the sensation if I ever make it to Kat Marsters’s age.
Her Glock 17M drops from her hand as she screams and falls to the floor. I reach for it at the same moment Computer Marsters lunges for me. We collide, and the impact knocks me away from the 17M. Advantage Computer Marsters. She’s still on her feet, and I’m still on the floor. Still have my 26, but hesitation at shooting the clone in cold blood costs me my only advantage.
At that moment, Evil Allard, chained behind me, lashes out a foot and connects squarely with the face of the Marsters clone. Computer Marsters stumbles and drops next to me.
I struggle to my feet, throwing my doppelgänger a confused look of gratitude. She just nods at the 17M that Computer Marsters never reached. I scoop up the gun. I kick the Marsters in the side, wincing as I do so, to make sure she stays down.
Ethan Jeong has used the moment of confusion to his advantage in the meantime. Desk Phone Marsters lags behind him in reflexes, so she failed to defend against a vicious chop Jeong dealt to her wrist. Jeong’s Springfield 1911 falls from her grasp. Jeong dives for it while she’s still nursing her injury, and by the time Desk Phone Marsters lumbers forward, Jeong is already spinning to put the barrel against her forehead.
Finally, all three Marsterses are unarmed and under our command. It hardly feels like a moral victory, though, beating up and cowing three aging women at gunpoint. I glance back at Evil Allard. She’s smiling at me. I don’t smile back. “Thanks for, uh, the assist,” I say.
“I preferred to bet on you over the psycho triplets,” Evil Allard says. “By the way, I see you’re double-fisting—I’d be happy to hold one of those Glocks for you.”
I ignore her and refocus on our captives. Marsters Prime and Computer Marsters are huddled together on the floor, their arms around each other. Jeong still has his Springfield trained on Desk Phone Marsters, who is upright but standing stock still. What a mess.
“You little fools,” says Marsters Prime through gritted teeth. “I would’ve spared you.”
“Says you,” I reply.
“Where are the keys to special containment?” Jeong asks. “Your desk?”
Marsters Prime spits at him and misses.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” says Jeong. He circles the desk and rummages in the top drawer until he finds a ring with three large brass keys on it. The keys are glimmering strangely. I blink twice and look at the keys again; the slight disruption of the air around them remains.
“What is up with those keys, Jeong?” I say, alarmed.
The agent bites his lip. I hope he’s thinking about his promise to me back in the car. No more bullshit, just answers. “They’re biplanar,” he says finally. “We’ve got a guy who—prepares the keys for special containment. Someone the agency discovered through the GRILL FLAME experiments. Lock and key both exist partly here and partly someplace else.”
“Shut your mouth,” Marsters Prime says.
I rub my face and try to understand what Jeong just told me. My brain is already overloaded for the week. “You’re gonna have to run that by me again.”
“Listen, I don’t fully grasp it myself.” He jangles the “biplanar” keyring at me. “Right now we’ve got four people to lock up. Not far to go, just down the hall. Let’s start with the Marsterses.”
It’s too late to ask this, but I ask it anyway. “Are you sure you’ve picked the right side?” I say. “I’m grateful, of course, but this is probably the end of your career with the FBI.”
Jeong gives me a sour laugh. “Hardly. We’re nothing like your local PD. The Federal Bureau of Investigation rewards agents who weed out the incompetent and the dangerous. I’ll probably get a promotion out of this, if I don’t get a bullet in the back of the head for knowing too much.”
“Remember I helped,” says Evil Allard.
“Duly noted,” I say. “Stay right here.”
We shepherd Marsters Prime and her twins down the dimly lit hall until we reach a big steel door I didn’t notice before. I guess I never got a tour of this whole place. The door’s double locks both shimmer in the same way Jeong’s keys do. I cover our prisoners as Jeong fits the locks on the door with two of the biplanar keys. Then we invite the three Marsterses inside ahead of us.
A row of giant steel cubes makes up the special containment area. Ten or twelve cages altogether, each with its own biplanar lock. One by one, we stow each Marsters in her own steel cage and Jeong uses the third key to turn the lock. As we escort Marsters Prime into her cage, she wheezes at us through her pain: “This is treason against the United States government!”
“I don’t think they’ll see it that way,” Jeong says with a smile, and closes the door on her. Then he adds, “Don’t worry, Kat, I’ll make sure a medical professional shows up eventually to get that ankle treated. Just sit tight.”
Once we’ve sealed up special containment again, I look at Jeong. “So you told me you thought the Ports were just a fairy tale. And yet you guys set up your own little supernatural Guantanamo right here in Portsmouth. Square that for me.”
“Marsters supervised the construction,” Jeong says. “At the time, I didn’t know why. All I knew was that someday we might host prisoners who’d need . . . uh, some extra reinforcement. With our designation as a Project Stargate-funded field office, we’re supposed to be prepared for threats to come from unusual quarters. So we received an SOP to follow from specialized researchers in the agency, working with adepts like the biplanar lock system guy.”
“Specializing in what, multiple dimensions?” I ask. “Those keys and locks—they’ve got that in common with the Ports themselves, don’t they? They connect one place with another.”
Jeong cocks his head at me. “I suppose they do. I suppose I should’ve connected the dots, knowing about the keys already. Still, it’s a big leap from weird keys to whole gates that people can cross through.”
“But Marsters knew about the Ports, even if you didn’t,” I say.
“She didn’t hesitate to step through one. Twice, since she made two clones of herself.”
“Right,” he admits. “She kept a lot from me. She must have had more information from the researchers than I was privy to, leading her to believe that we would discover a door to somewhere else, sooner or later.”
“And that once that door was discovered, you people would take full advantage of whatever lay beyond it,” I say. “No matter what the cost.”
“You’re talking about Marsters,” Jeong says. “She was clearly off the rails. I already told you, I’m focused on protecting people. I didn’t join the Bureau blindly, Divya. I went where I thought I could do the most good.”
I could argue with him further. After all, the Marsterses seemed to have many parties within the agency who were interested in hearing from them. But Ethan has been through hell tonight, most of it because of me. I just don’t have the heart to beat him up for his boss’s sins, not when the most vital question remains unanswered: “So who was Marsters talking about? In the Port-opening group. Which one of them killed Hannah?”
Jeong opens his mouth to answer me. “Honestly, Divya, that’s yet another thing Marsters was keeping from me. I don’t—”
And then we both see the steam uncurling from the open door to Marsters’s office. We hurry inside and peer through the steam cloud, both of us cursing to ourselves in frustration. I guess the pipe wasn’t as sturdy as it looked. Or Evil Allard summoned a last, desperate reserve of strength. Either way, our fourth prisoner is gone.
14
First things first. We tend to Agent Ramirez with the office first aid kit. Her head wound isn’t as bad as it initially looked; heads just typically bleed a lot. She’s coherent enough to say, “Please tell me you got that crazy asshole and her new twins.”
Jeong nods. “You were brave to stand up to them alone. But you could’ve gotten yourself killed.”
“What he means is, thanks,” I put in.
Ramirez nods at me. “Thank you. The papers were wrong about you, Detective Allard.”