by Kelly deVos
Maybe because Rosenthal is at SEALAB, the dinner is a fairly fancy affair. We have a waiter. It’s prime rib, cute little potatoes and asparagus. The meat might even be real. But neither the president of The Spark or General Copeland eats with us. Our dining room is filled with the people we saw working in the computer lab and the soldiers who arrived on the sub with us.
We mostly chew in the silence of MacKenna glaring at Toby.
“So you’re gonna sit there and cut your meat into tiny pieces?” she says.
“Would you prefer I try to chew large pieces?” Toby shoots back.
“I would prefer...” she begins hotly but peters out. Maybe she doesn’t know what she’d prefer, or she would rather not say anything in front of Jo.
Or maybe she’d rather not say anything in front of Toby.
Cool air hits my neck, and I shiver. I wish they’d given us a sweater with our jumpsuits.
Terminus tries to make conversation with Jo. “So, what should we expect during the briefing?”
“Nothing,” Jo says repressively. “They only want her.” She jerks her chin at me.
Navarro drops his fork. “Over my dead body.”
Jo finishes chewing a mouthful of potatoes. “I wouldn’t say things like that if I were you. There are plenty of people around here who’d love to see that happen.”
“Go to hell,” I tell her. Jo Pletcher didn’t see what I saw on the Research computer. She doesn’t know anything about Peter Navarro. Or what he really did.
She bites into a bread roll. “He’s for The Opposition.”
Navarro’s face turns red. “I’m... I’m...”
Do any of us even know what we’re for anymore?
“Sure. Just like you are for letting the Booker sink without warning anyone. There’s a five-year-old and her doll at the bottom of the ocean right now, FYI,” I say.
Jo grips her fork so tightly that her knuckles go pale.
“Okay, okay. Let’s all relax,” Toby says.
This is both reassuring and...odd. This is the old Toby. The one who wanted everyone to get along and be happy. But then, Jo Pletcher is his superior officer.
“Whatever,” Jo says, checking her watch. “It’s time anyway.” She turns to Toby and is less certain. “The general asked you to attend the briefing?”
Great. Military politics.
Toby nods. Casually. “Probably so Jinx will feel comfortable.”
Yeah right. Copeland cares so much about my comfort.
“And you’re headed topside tonight anyway,” Toby adds.
“Right,” Jo says. Her shoulders relax. “In the Perun. Operation Turquoise Eagle is a go.”
We leave our empty plates and the table and make our way back into the hall. The soldiers from earlier wait to escort everyone but me back to our room.
“I’m coming with you,” Navarro says through clenched teeth.
“We’re all coming,” MacKenna says, mostly to Toby.
Jo stares at her, as if daring Mac to start a fight.
Terminus seems very interested in something on the wall.
“It’s okay. I’ll be fine,” I say, putting my hand lightly on Navarro’s arm. “I’ll be right back.”
Anyway.
I already know what they want.
Before anyone can object, I turn to go with Toby. Behind me, I hear them continue to argue, but the noise fades as we go our separate directions. It’s been a long time since I was alone with Toby, and it’s hard to remember the days back when I used to have a massive crush on him and my biggest wish was that he’d come home from college on the weekends and swim in the pool. But now?
“So. You joined the army?” I ask.
SEALAB must essentially be a circle or a ring, because we walk around a series of rounded corners and arrive at what feels like the side opposite from the dorms. Ahead, two soldiers guard what I assume is a door.
Toby stops for a second and turns to face me. He looks the same as always. Same dark hair. Dark eyes. Pale skin. His features organized in a way that would make him a perfect model for a toothpaste or hair gel ad. The dark blue uniform accentuates his handsome features. He leans in toward me in a way that would have made me swoon one year ago.
“Nothing has changed, you know,” he says. “We’re still a family. After everything that happened, I wanted to find a way to do something that would matter. To make what we’ve been through matter.”
“I have to get Charles back,” I say, my heartbeat slow and sluggish.
“We will,” Toby says in a voice that sounds hollow in the empty hallway. “We’ll bring him home to us.”
Part of me thinks that maybe Toby’s not part of us anymore.
We arrive at a long room with more soldiers on guard. It’s a standard gray office, like a doctor’s waiting room. There are some bland office chairs, an American flag in one corner, a large poster of a government seal on the opposite wall and little else by way of decoration. It’s brightly lit. Almost too bright.
Toby salutes the soldiers as we pass. The room contains several doors, but the one opposite where we came in is attended by two more soldiers. Which can only mean that Rosenthal is in there. One of the soldiers holds the door open for us.
We enter a conference room decorated in the style of Rosenthal’s office, with a long, luxurious wooden table surrounded by plush office chairs on wheels. Sleek round lights hang from the ceiling, making it look like the room is filled with tiny UFOs. Rosenthal sits at the head of the table with Copeland at his right.
Toby stands at attention and salutes.
How does he even know when to do this?
Copeland smiles. “At ease. And good news, soldier. The president has finished signing your promotion papers.”
Jo’s instincts were correct. Toby is being fast-tracked for success.
“Congratulations, Captain Novak,” Rosenthal says.
“Thank you, sir.”
Copeland motions for us to take seats in the center of the table.
As we move farther into the room, I notice two other people seated at the long table. One is Brian, Rosenthal’s creepy enforcer, and the other is a thin Asian woman in a tailored beige jacket. She nods at me and looks me over.
“Of course, we’ll have to do something about her hair,” the woman says.
I reach up instinctively to touch the blue pixie cut that I sort of like.
“Whatever you think is best,” Rosenthal says.
The woman takes notes on an e-tablet.
On the wall we’re facing, there’s a projection screen filled with the image of a military base. Thanks to the files Terminus and I stole, I recognize it as the Los Alamos National Laboratory. It’s a secret facility in New Mexico where they test new weapons.
And where, right now, they’ve got one of the only three cold fusion bombs that Dr. Navarro managed to build before he was killed. Also thanks to that file, I know that Gus’s father is dead.
I’m not sure who’s supposed to talk first or what the protocols are when dealing with people like Rosenthal and Copeland, but I’m tired of wasting time. I address myself to Copeland. “I thought you said they’re holding my brother in Oregon.”
Copeland glances at Rosenthal. “That’s what our intel suggests. But the deal is, you help us, we help you.”
My face heats up and I glare at Rosenthal. “I already helped you. I gave you the encryption key to the First Federal computers, which you decided to destroy in the interest of making people pissed enough about the economy that they’ll join your revolution.”
Toby shifts in his seat, his face a mixture of awkwardness and fear.
“Our revolution.” Rosenthal’s handsome face falls into a passive, unexpressive mask that reveals nothing. “I’m sure Dr. Marshall must have filled you in on some background here, so why
don’t we stop playing games. Tell us what you know, and we can fill in any needed details.”
Rosenthal clearly didn’t have much of an understanding of Dr. Doomsday.
My father never filled anyone in. About anything.
Everything I know came from what I could skim in the five minutes before we were chased out of the records office.
I muster up all the false bravado I can. “I know that The Opposition only built three of those cold fusion bombs. I know that they’ve deployed one, so they have two left—at Los Alamos and AIRSTA in Oregon. But those don’t work. For one thing, Peter Navarro wasn’t able to stabilize the tech before you had him murdered. For another, he and my father sabotaged the other two. Probably intentionally. So Ammon Carver can get on TV and pound his fists all he wants, but he probably can’t destroy the city of San Francisco tomorrow.”
Brian leans forward. The floating light creates long shadows across his face. “We didn’t have Dr. Navarro murdered, young lady.”
“Well, my father said you did,” I lie. “And he was usually right about such things.”
Copeland mirrors Rosenthal’s flat effect. “Peter Navarro was the only person alive who could get cold fusion to work. You saw what that bomb did with your own eyes. We had to take him out, and if that makes your boyfriend cry, too bad.”
My pulse surges, and I cast a sideways glance at Toby, whose face has run quite ashen. “Dr. Navarro didn’t want to work for The Opposition,” I say. “He was helping you. There was no need to kill him.”
Copeland can no longer hide his annoyance. “Peter Navarro thought The Opposition often had the right idea. Same as your father. Same as me. Like the rest of us, he had to rethink things when he saw what they were prepared to do. By then, it was too late.”
He’s raising all these questions to which there are no real answers. How much did my father or Dr. Navarro really ever repudiate the philosophy of The Opposition?
Rosenthal hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “Some people are too dangerous to live. Your father understood this idea. He frequently acted on it.”
Copeland presses his lips into an impatient line. “There are a lot of things about this world you don’t understand.”
It takes everything I’ve got not to jump across the table at him. “I understand that The Opposition believes the wrong things. And now The Spark is doing the wrong things.”
I eye Copeland. Could I take him? Sure, he’s probably pushing sixty. But. A career marine. A veteran of every war I ever read about in my national history class.
He’d crush me like a potato chip.
The woman remains silent but makes more notes.
Rosenthal, the consummate politician, steers the conversation back where he wants it to be. “What we’re doing is trying to ensure that those weapons are rendered inoperable. Permanently. What you’re doing is trying to get your brother. Given that we believe Charles Marshall is being held at the research facility at AIRSTA, those strategic interests align.”
I suck in a deep breath. “Isn’t it a little too coincidental that they took my brother to the exact location where you need me to go?”
“Miss Marshall,” Rosenthal says in a new tone of warning. “It is clearly not a coincidence. It’s a trap. But it validates our theories about what’s happening behind the scenes.”
“You know what a black box system is?” Copeland asks.
“Of course,” I answer automatically. “It’s a computer system where only the inputs and outputs are known.” Suddenly, the pieces click into place. The Spark knew that my father had taken the cold fusion missile systems off-line. But they didn’t know how or how long it would last. Depending on how Dad had deployed the system, other users might not even be able to see how it worked or to make changes to the code. Or the systems might periodically troubleshoot and reset themselves. Meaning the bombs might be off-line forever...or repaired next week.
They don’t know.
Rosenthal taps the table, and a new image appears on the screen in front of us. It’s a technical diagram of what looks like a giant screwdriver. “In layman’s terms, Dr. Navarro thought he could insert a piston made of palladium metal into deuterium to achieve a cold fusion reaction. Research went on and on. He worked with Marshall, who believed that you could get the whole thing to work if you got a computer system to control the various processes of nucleosynthesis.”
“You’d need a PhD in physics to understand this stuff,” Copeland mutters.
“Dr. Navarro had a PhD in electrochemistry,” I say coldly.
Toby scratches his neck. He’s having trouble maintaining his cool.
The image on-screen changes again. This time to a massive explosion in a wide-open desert area. Rosenthal keeps talking. “The point is, they tested the cold fusion system and it worked, and it scared the hell out of them—that’s when Marshall reached out to us.”
Copeland nods. “We dispensed with Navarro, and that gave Marshall an opening. The missile in Phoenix was already operational, so there was nothing that could be done there. But Marshall was able to ensure that the bombs in Santa Fe and North Bend were never brought online.”
The way Copeland talks about this stuff. Like assassinating a government researcher was no big deal. Like, Oops, wrong button.
Plus, the insinuation is clear.
My dad knew they intended to kill Peter Navarro and went along with it. And then Peter’s son decided to risk his life saving me, over and over.
My heart does a series of somersaults.
“But we don’t know how,” Rosenthal adds.
Okay. Breathe.
“And you think if he recycled code bases from his other projects, then my details might be built into the system. My fingerprints, my retinal scans. I might be able to log in,” I say.
Copeland nods. “That was our theory. But it was confirmed when The Opposition moved your brother to that facility. Believe me, there are a million better places to take a five-year-old than AIRSTA.”
Sigh. “He’s eight.”
“The story with the brother is good,” the woman murmurs. “We can use that. Especially as The Opposition has put forward the information that he’s dead. The fact that the two of you are not dead will clearly undermine the legitimacy of their messaging.”
My face heats up. “It’s not a story! And who are you? You—”
Rosenthal holds up a hand to silence me. “We want you to—”
“—you want me to break in there. Into a highly guarded military base, where they are obviously expecting me,” I say with a sigh. “And what? Delete the code? Destroy the machines that it’s running on?”
It’s Copeland who answers. “Yes. To all of the above. We’ll get you in. You make sure Marshall’s code gets permanently deleted. We’ll get you out. You can take your brother with you when you go.”
Oh sure. That sounds easy.
“What about the missile in Santa Fe?” I ask.
For some reason, Copeland looks at Toby when he answers. “We believe that the computer system in Oregon interfaces with both missiles. Once it’s down, once we’re sure the missile can’t be fired, I have a crew in place ready to destroy the facility.”
There’s a slight pause and then Copeland adds, “Captain Novak will be leading your team. Who has a better incentive to get you in and out safely?”
My mouth falls open.
Toby will be in charge of getting us into AIRSTA?
For the past couple months, we haven’t even been able to get Toby to do twenty minutes on the treadmill.
“I’ll be training intensively over the next week,” Toby says, defensively.
“We’ll get you up to speed, Captain,” the general agrees.
“This operation will set The Opposition back several years and, clearly, after we win the war, we won’t be allowing any future
research of this kind,” Rosenthal says.
“Very nice,” the woman says. “I’ll need to get a version of that on video for inclusion in postwar news coverage sizzle reels.”
This time, even Toby asks, “What?”
Copeland gives him a small smile. “Captain, we need a big win.”
Rosenthal nods to his assistant, Brian.
“This is Amelia Aoki,” Brian says, pointing to the woman. “She’s handling our public relations efforts.”
He uses a small remote to change the image. This one is of me. An illustration of me, labeled ARTIST’S RENDERING 5. I’ve still got my old hair, which in the sketch has been drawn in a sleek ponytail with a few loose tendrils curling around my face, and I’m wearing a uniform that looks like it could belong to a superhero flight attendant.
Never in my life has my hair been that neat, or have my cheeks been that rosy, or have I stood so perfectly straight.
People are dying.
And Rosenthal is...making propaganda?
The woman rises. “World War I had Uncle Sam. World War II had Rosie the Riveter. Operation Cedar Hawk had Commander Contreras...and we’ve got...you.” Amelia gives me a disapproving look. “Boring...generic...you.”
“Well, wait now,” Toby says.
The plan is simple. Amelia clicks through her presentation. The Spark is going to “brand” me, building on the work that The Opposition was already doing with my father. While I’m in SEALAB, we’ll tape a series of interviews that Amelia’s team will release through “the right channels.” Then they’ll send a marketing team with us to AIRSTA.
They’ll broadcast our operation.
Like a television show.
It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.
“No,” I tell them flatly. “I’m taking my team.”
“Your team?” Copeland repeats, carefully accenting each word.
“Yeah,” I say. I sit up straight, trying to remember everything I know about assertive body language. “MacKenna, Terminus and Gus.” I look at Amelia. “Gus can operate the camera. MacKenna is a writer, and she’s already working on reports. Your people can edit the stuff they create as it comes through.”