Fred looked away from the board and instinctively dusted his hands off. “What’d you get me?”
“Uh-uh. Get back to work.” She snapped apart the disposable wooden chopsticks that came with their food and noticed Fred gawking. “Get back to work, dude.”
Fred turned back to the white board, incensed. Then he felt rice and shrimp against his mouth as Jayne started feeding him.
“Open the tunnel, here comes the Shrimp Express.”
Fred managed to eat a couple hand-delivered bites while he continued coding, but he could only handle so much. “This fucking sucks,” he finally shouted. “This food is shit, the bombs will explode, you’re feeding me like a baby and I haven’t been laid in a year! I want to fucking die,” he croaked.
The sudden outburst surprised Jayne. She knew the stress would push him to this point eventually, but a whole year?
Ouch.
She stared silently at him.
Fred stared back.
Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. “What?” he demanded.
Jayne used the chopsticks to feed herself now. She ate a large, juicy shrimp and pulled the chopsticks from her mouth with a wet pop. “Now’s not the time for a therapy session, Fred. We’re in the middle of a mission. Keep your head straight.”
He laughed humorlessly. “Mission? What is it with you? You butt into my business and then you act like you know something about the world I operate in, when you’re just another bored rich girl looking for cheap kicks.”
Jayne slapped him with her non-chopstick hand.
“Rich girl? Rich girl? Fred, I earn every credit I spend. And you came to me for help, so don’t you try to spin this like I’m fucking tagging along. If you thought that act was the real me, then you really are clueless.”
His breathing caught in his chest as the pain from the slap pulled him back from the brink and into the pit of shame. “You’re right. I’m just…I’m just—”
“You’re upset about eating Chinese food, Fred. If you had said something, I would have gotten Italian.” Jayne told him with a smile. She needed to keep him feeling positive. “But I’m not the one who sold four bombs. So, do us all a favor. Suck up your take-out and grow a pair. You’ve got work to do and don’t get to quit because you feel like it.”
Fred gave her a weary smile. “Maybe when this is all over, we can go out for drinks. They’re on me.”
Jayne fought the urge to slap him again. For all she knew, he might have been trying to egg her on for his own benefit. “Fred, I told you. You’re not my type. Chat up some girls from your classes when they start next week. You’d be surprised how many like you if you’re not so in your head all the time.”
A new notification beeped on her phone. Fred’s response became so much white noise as she read the display.
TWO MORE BOMBS FOUND.
ONE IN LIBERTY LIBRARY, THE SECOND IN THE FEDERAL BUILDING.
THESE AREAS HAVE BEEN CORDONED OFF.
“They found the other bombs.”
“Well, good,” Fred replied through a mouthful of shrimp fried rice. “Our anonymous tip must have helped them out. Now I don’t have to worry about programming the fail-safes anymore.”
Jayne leveled her most serious stare at him. “Fred, now there’s no reason for the terrorists to wait. Those bombs could be triggered at any moment. That key is more important than ever.”
+++
Armaros, Theron Techcropolis, Theron 6th Sector Precinct
The pink and purple glow of dusk filled the sky outside the police station on the edge of campus. Luminescent green tape cordoned off a three-block radius around the building in an attempt to separate the chaos of the bomb from that of the crowd. A herd of reporters, camera drones, and hundreds of gawking pedestrians gathered.
Dozens of police officers milled around inside the tape, talking amongst themselves. The first squad on the scene evacuated the station, but since then the officers had nothing to do but wait for more orders or see what would happen.
Even the off-duty cops had been called to other locations.
A large tan tent sat on an isolated swath of grass fifty feet inside the cordoned zone. Within, the bomb disposal squad worked remotely in an attempt to deal with the increasingly dangerous situation. Eventually, a tall woman with severely short blond hair and an athletic build as cut as her striking features stepped out. The blue uniform clung to her as she strode confidently towards the growing crowd. The gold pinned over her heart read Chief of Police.
Reporters shouted in an indistinguishable cacophony of questions. They scrabbled amongst themselves to have the first word.
“Chief Bjornstrom! Is it true that knowledge of a fifth and sixth bomb has been withheld—”
“—in protest of what some call unnecessary military—”
“—related to the increase of selvanium prices?”
When she reached the green tape, Chief Bjornstrom waited until there was enough of a pause to begin her mandatory statement to the press. This was her least favorite part of the job.
“I appreciate your efforts to keep the public informed during this crisis,” she began, looking each reporter in the eye before staring into the camera drones floating overhead. “We are actively investigating possible suspects. There are a number of leads we’re pursuing and we have our best people on it.”
The din returned with a vengeance. Once more, the chief motioned for silence.
“These bombs are not controlled remotely. It is unclear to us if they are timer based, or trigger based. The likelihood of a bomb detonating is, we believe, low. Nonetheless, they present an immediate danger. We ask that everyone stay well away from the cordoned-off areas, both for your own safety and that of our personnel. Bomb squads at each location are working on deactivating or safely destroying the devices. To answer some of the questions, there are no more bombs to our knowledge. We have yet to determine any motive. And no, there is no likelihood, and I emphasize this, no likelihood that these are selvanium bombs. I am fully confident that we can carefully avoid triggering them and deactivate all four without loss of life. However, until that goal is accomplished, I recommend everyone remain in their homes and stay well away from the bomb sites. That is all.”
Having finished her speech, she turned and walked away, ignoring the oral bombardment that followed. She approached one of her lieutenants who stood with an extra cup of kava for her. Bjornstrom took it gratefully and her eyes surveyed the crowd as she drank. Then, they narrowed suspiciously.
“Extend all cordons by an extra two blocks,” she instructed.
The lieutenant grimaced. “You don’t think we can dispose of all the bombs in time?”
“I don’t think we can dispose of any of them.” The chief moved for the tent.
“Is anyone with a press pass allowed inside the cordon?”
Chief Bjornstrom looked back, exasperated. “For all I care, anyone with a press pass is more than welcome to sit on the bomb and wait.”
Inside the canvas, a small cluster of officers gathered around the control station. A bank of monitors viewed the bomb from every possible angle, and a second set displayed the bombs at the other locations.
A short, squat officer with a thick mustache operated their remote bomb disposal robot from his seat at the main control station. He hadn’t so much as moved the robot in hours, though, as the squad tried to figure out what to do.
“The good thing about being blown up?” he joked, wiping sandwich crumbs from his mustache “It’s a great way to lose weight.”
His fellow officers chuckled.
“You’re tellin’ me. I have two boyfriends both named James and I’d rather deal with the stress of breaking that armor casing than the stress of keeping them in the dark about each other. I’d love for that bomb to blow away all my problems,” one of the technicians said through her visor.
The group laughed again.
“Oh, poor Ellewood, torn between two lovers,” a tall young officer
with striking blue eyes said. “Meanwhile, here I am on four dating apps and going on at least three dates a week. No one wants to get serious with a guy whose job may require being exploded.”
The tent flap opened abruptly and their horseplay stopped. The chief appeared, her kava cup in hand. “Cameron, you sure don’t seem too bothered with those dates when you come to work in the morning bragging about breaking beds with these girls,” she smirked.
Sergeant Cameron Stafford grinned back with an offhand shrug. “Hey, life’s for living. You can’t blame a guy—or a girl—for having a good time when they can. Doesn’t mean I’m not looking for love, though. I just haven’t found it yet.”
The chief stroked his cheek. “You want some loving, Blue Eyes? Get these bombs safely disposed of and you can come over to my place tonight. I’ll give you all the love you can handle.”
The officers jeered.
Cameron blushed. “That, uh, might make my morning brag session a little awkward, Chief.”
“Morning brag session?” She laughed. “Who do you think started that precinct tradition?” She winked at him, then turned to Officer Davies at the control station.
“All right, Davies,” she continued, all humor gone from her voice as she leaned over his shoulder and looked at the monitors. “I’ve extended the cordon. This is your specialty. What’s our next move?”
The man squirmed. “It’s tough, Chief. Everything except for the yet to be activated timer is encased in that armored shell. There’s three wires running from the timer into the bomb itself. That’s one wire more than necessary, so that’s rigged. We can detect selvanium emissions from the case, but none of our scans can penetrate that armor so we have no clue how it’s set up. We could melt the shell open with plasma, or we could simply remove the timing mechanism. Either could be rigged to set the bomb off if tampered with, though.”
“You should send me in,” Ellewood insisted through her thick helmet. “I can get a better feel for things than a robot ever would. And my touch is much lighter than the drone’s.”
Davies shook his head. “Fulfill your death wish another day, Ellewood. You’re not going in there until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
She groaned. “You guys have been saying that all day. At some point, that bomb will explode unless we do something.”
The chief took a swig of her kava as she considered the situation. There were no good options, and the time for caution was running out. That timer could activate at any moment, and they needed to act before that happened.
“She’s not wrong, Davies,” she finally said. “We have to do something. What’s it going to be?”
+++
Armaros Theron Techcropolis, Tesla University of Technical Arts, Physics Building, Basement
The last rays of daylight faded and Fred nodded off as he worked. He would droop, then snap into focus intermittently. It had gotten so bad that he hadn’t made any real progress for the past fifteen minutes.
“Maybe you should take a nap, Fred,” Jayne suggested from her perch on a stack of books. She’d already begun writing the next piece of code while she waited for his contribution. A sheen of sweat covered her entire body and her jumpsuit had been unzipped down to her bellybutton.
The heat of the day had baked into the basement, and without proper ventilation, the place had become a sauna. Even though the sun had set, it would be some time before the area was cool again. Fred’s clothes hadn’t fared much better and his shirt was drenched. Jayne had suggested he remove it, but he adamantly refused.
“I’m almost there,” he muttered. “I need only a few more minutes to finish.” He tapped code out with painstaking concentration but lasted for about a minute. This time, instead of jerking awake, he toppled and crashed to the floor.
Jayne hurried to his aid. “Fred, are you okay?”
He pushed himself slowly off the ground and felt something wet against his hand. His gaze settled on a small pool of green liquid. A small twisted metal container and shattered glass sat beside the puddle as more of the liquid seeped out. Only a small amount remained inside the compartment.
It took a moment for his brain cells to compute what had happened, then the adrenaline kicked in. He held a prolonged scream. “Fuck!”
“What is it, Fred? Are you cut?” Jayne searched him for wounds, but he shoved her away with his clean hand.
“Shit! Fuck! Fuck! That’s ten years of my life. Fuck! Where’s a sink? Where’s a fucking sink?” He scanned the room frantically. Fortunately for him, Jayne had noted the room’s layout when they first arrived. Spy training saved the day again.
She pointed to the far wall. “Over there. Fred, what’s going on? Why are you freaking out?”
Fred ran to the sink, knocking over books and clutter along the way. “I’m freaking out because I got sel-fucking-vanium on my fucking hand!”
“What did you mean with ‘ten years?’ Did you just get cancer or something?”
The echo of the running water was the only response as Fred scrubbed the affected hand frantically. Fortunately, a box of industrial strength soap powder for grease spills had been stored on the shelf above him.
Fred laughed bitterly. “Selvanium fucks with your DNA when you come in contact with it. That’s another reason it was made illegal. They say every exposure weakens your DNA and reduces your life-expectancy by—”
“Ten years?”
He barely held back a sob. “Oh, God….”
He seemed on the verge of tears and Jayne felt herself react. The last thing she needed to deal with now was Fred breaking down when he was so close to finishing the key.
“People live to be a hundred and fifty years old these days, Fred. So you live to be a hundred and forty. Big deal. That’s still plenty of life.”
Fred used one of the spill towels to dry his hands and carried it back to the work station. “Easy for you to say. It’s not your ten years.” He knelt and wiped the towel gingerly over the spill.
“Now’s not the time to feel sorry for yourself. You have to finish programming the key.”
The cackle that escaped his lips sent a chill down her spine.
He’d broken.
“The key?” he exclaimed. “The key is broken, Jayne. The key is smeared on the floor and on this towel.” He waved the item in front of her face. “Running through the water pipes.” Next, he held the broken selvanium chamber out for Jayne to see. “There’s not enough selvanium in the canister to work with, and what’s left has been corrupted by exposure to air. It can no longer be linked to the selvanium in the bombs. We spent all afternoon trying to fix my screwup for nothing.”
Jayne dropped onto what she thought was an unused bookstack but thin air and concrete were her only cushions. The impact of her descent jarred her spine.
“Fuck!” She winced.
Fred took the selvanium chamber to the sink and washed the rest of the deadly toxin away. Then he rinsed the towel to the best of his ability. Once he’d finished, he placed both the container and the towel into a separate sealable storage bag. He kept some with him when dealing with selvanium. They were necessary for events like this when dealing with the toxic substance.
Jayne hoped the water would neutralize the effects of the selvanium and that Fred hadn’t inadvertently contaminated the campus water supply. Given what happened, she had to trust he knew what he was doing.
He plopped himself down in front of the optic whiteboard and stared at it with glazed eyes. It took barely a few moments for him to doze off again.
Jane shook his shoulder gently. “Fred, go home. Get some sleep. There’s nothing more we can do here.”
Exhausted and deflated, he nodded and stood. He grabbed the bag and its contents and shuffled out of their work area without bothering to say goodbye.
“I’ll call you if I think of anything,” she promised. “It’s not over yet. The police might be able to take care of things.”
Fred showed no signs that he’d hea
rd her. A few seconds later, Jayne stood alone with her thoughts. She stared at the optic whiteboard crammed full of what had proved to be completely useless programming.
She fought back the urge to scream, which would simply be unproductive. Instead, she considered the only thing that made sense. She would have to try to go in person to disarm a bomb she had no experience with, which likely meant she would die or get arrested. If she really was about to die, she needed some last words.
Jayne drew up her contacts list on her tablet and hit the call button.
Her mom answered on the second ring. “Hey, sweetie! How’s—Rusty! Down!” Jayne could hear her family dog barking. She listened to the familiar drama of her mom quieting the dog down with a treat. “Sorry, sweetie. How’s spy school?”
The cheerful and familiar voice forced Jayne to smile. “Hey, Mom. Spy school’s good,” she lied. “We’re learning to disarm selvanium bombs.”
It was better that she didn’t know the current downward spiral of her life.
“Oh, how exciting! Will they send you on another training mission soon? If they do, tell them not to send you to one of the conflict moons. Those zones are no place for a trainee.”
The knot in Jayne’s gut loosened. Moms always knew how to help a girl feel better.
“They’re going to send me to Armaros. I’ll go undercover as a student to infiltrate an arms-dealing organization.”
“Oh, that’s good. You know they’ve got a bomb situation going on there right now? It’s all over the news. You be careful when you get there. It might be a school, but that doesn’t mean it’s not dangerous.”
“I’ll be careful, Mom,” she lied yet again. “Look, I gotta go. I’m about to walk into cryptology class. I love you.”
“Love you too, honey. Goodbye.”
“Bye.”
Jayne hung up and lowered her head. For the first time since she’d left the counter-intelligence academy, she wished there was an instructor to go to for help.
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