Machine State

by Brad C Scott

  Our waitress arrives, handing off old-fashioned menus. While taking Sam’s drink order, I use the opportunity to stare, eyes roaming over her bare shoulders, up her graceful neck, tracing the perfect lines of her face. How am I supposed to focus on the mission?

  She lied to you, comes the thought.

  “What about the penne all’ arrabbiata?” she says once the waitress departs.

  “Hmmm? Right, sounds good.” I stare at the menu.

  I feel her hand on mine. Closing the menu, I bring her hand to my lips.

  Brow raised, she studies me with shrewd eyes and asks, “What’s wrong?”

  “I did my due diligence.”

  She withdraws her hand to rest her chin on it. “So, what do you think of me now?”

  “Your threat assessment was downgraded. Why? And who modded your files?”

  It took some time and calling in a favor with a friend at NSA, but I was able to get access to Sam’s TAR files. Everyone receives a TAR, or Threat Assessment Rating, assigned by DSS with input from other intelligence agencies. Hers stands at a TAR-3, the maximum allowable for a private consultant working on government contracts. Before parts of her history were redacted or modified some years back, her rating reached as high as a TAR-8.

  “A few powerful men at DOD who required my services,” she says. “One of them has three stars on his collars. I can’t say more than that.”

  “But a TAR-8? Anyone with a rating that high –”

  “Is an enemy of the state? A terrorist?”

  I hope not. Most people with an elevated TAR represent no actual security threat. They usually engaged in political activism against the Administration or associated with the wrong sort of people. Samantha’s probably like most people in that regard, though that would only account for up to a TAR-5, a potential national security risk. Anyone with a TAR-6 or above is an actual risk to be apprehended on sight for processing in a terrorist detention center. She’s not wrong about the label – a TAR-8 guarantees it.

  “Tell me they’re wrong,” I say.

  “You mean DSS? No, according to them, I am a domestic terrorist. Or I was. Not according to the people I work for now. What do you believe?”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  The waitress swings by with our drinks and Sam places her order, expression stormy at my line of questioning. And she’s right to be angry – anyone prying into my past would get the same response – but I’ve also a right to know if we’re to get closer. Samantha’s a woman I can see a future with, strange as it is for the hopeless to admit to hope, but I’ll be damned before jumping into the fire before knowing how hot it burns. Like walking on the sun. Too late, genius, I already jumped. My girlfriend, the terrorist. Could be worse, though. She could be a politician.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  After the waitress leaves with our orders, Sam sits and stares at me with an unreadable expression. I glance over to Montoya’s table – still no change – before meeting her eyes and waiting. It’s her turn to speak. She’s a big girl, she knows the stakes.

  She says: “My associations have given me a lot of black marks.”

  I say nothing, eyes entreating her to continue.

  “You’ve never interacted with criminals and terrorists before?”

  “Sure, in the line of duty. Context matters. What about you?”

  She leans back, looking around at the other patrons, glance sliding over Connor’s table before returning to me. Excitement shines from her eyes.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Here comes one of our special guests. I recognize him.”

  A man in an impeccable tan suit approaches Montoya’s tables, stopping and shaking hands before taking an empty chair. Not the sort to stand out in a crowd at first look – pale, late-30s, with a thin jaw and short blonde hair – but something in the casual precision with which he moves suggests an operator of some stripe. The newcomer exchanges a few words with Montoya before leaning back in his chair, content to be an observer.

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Christopher Leeds,” she says in an undertone, “a former sentinel, KIA three years ago. We believed he might still be in play.”

  I don’t recognize him – maybe he went under the knife after his faked death. “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  So, one of my confirmed targets for reckoning sitting less than twenty meters away. Like Krayge, his DNA was found at the crime scene in Los Angeles. Jace has been hunting him without success. And now he’s here. His presence in St. Louis does not bode well for the city, but if he’s here, then Krayge and his mysterious associates won’t be far off.

  “Malcolm?”

  “Hmmm? Sorry, just remembered something.” Until I’m sure, I’d rather not share my intel on Leeds. Sam and her DOD cohorts know about Krayge, but I didn’t fill them in on Leeds because I didn’t think he’d be here. And there are those trust issues. “You catch anything?”

  “Just pleasantries.” She chews at her lip, eyes roaming in rapid thought.

  “Problem?”

  “I’m pretty sure he recognizes me. My people need to know about this.”

  “You’re not off the hook, you know.”

  “So, you think I’m a terrorist? That I blow up innocent people?”

  “Have you?”

  She glares, eyes masking peril. “No one I’ve killed has been innocent.”

  What? My eyebrows reach my hairline. I try to read more out of her expression, but she’s walled me out with cold rage. “Sam? What are you saying?”

  “So this is an interrogation,” she hisses, voice tremoring with emotion. “Not a date, just a mission. And what if I am what you think? You still plan on sleeping with the enemy?”

  I breathe deep and try to ward off the guilt she’s tripping me with. Where’s all this coming from? Is she just messing with me? No, she’s serious, but… She’s deflecting. Damn good at it, too. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  Her rage vanishes, replaced in an instant by God-knows-what as she smiles and reaches a hand across the table. “Fair enough, detective, you’ve got me – a confession is in order. That’s a two-way street, so yours is coming next.” Her smile dries up as she lowers her head to stare at her hand in mine.

  A glance over at Montoya’s tables reveals everyone still in their seats, no changes save one: Christopher Leeds looks right back at me. And doesn’t hide the fact, either. His steady stare communicates the cold calculations of problem resolution. Great, seems he might try to kill me later. Get in line, asshole. I return my attention to Sam, still staring at our hands.

  She sighs. “His name was James McKinney. We were in love. He was NDL, and I knew what he was, but I didn’t care.” She looks up at me. “He was a good man.”

  “And he was NDL.”

  “And I loved him,” she responds as if that explains everything. Maybe it does. “I was there, in his bed, the night the extraction team came.” Her eyes look through me into the pain-laden past. “They ripped him from my arms without a word. Men in black, hiding behind masks… They dragged him away, naked and unconscious. And then they took me…”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re not. He was NDL, right? A monster – a terrorist.”

  I frown and squeeze her hand, unsure of how to respond.

  “My association with him gave me quite the black mark. They threw me in a terrorist detention center. The wardens had me for nine days.” That compelling madness in her eyes glimmers to the fore. “Pain’s easy to forget, but what they did to me? I was less than human to them. I resisted, but…” She shakes her head. “Nine days, nine lifetimes. You been inside one?”

  “Once, during a tour. It wasn’t pleasant.”

  “No… It wasn’t.” She removes her hand from mine, leans back, and takes a long look over at Montoya’s tables. Looking back, she grimaces and says, “Wonderful – Leeds recognizes us. We’ll have to be careful on the w
ay out.”

  “I’m sorry for what they did to you.”

  She stares back, eyes lidded, face caressed by flickering shadows.

  “I can see why you’d want that redacted.” I question her with a look, unwilling to verbalize the obvious follow-up question: Your boyfriend was NDL. How about you?

  “I’m not getting into all my secrets at one sitting. You’ll have to earn the right to more.” She retakes my hand. “I can think of a few ways.”

  “Your poor taste in men continues.”

  “Oh, I can already tell you’re a mistake. I wonder if you’re one worth making…”

  I finish my suburban and set the empty aside. “What do you want to know?”

  “What happened with your ex.”

  “I already told you.”

  “I did my homework, too. She died in a final extradition ward. You were there.”

  I pull back and grind my teeth together. “I won’t talk about it.”

  “You assaulted the facility, by yourself. Disabled four sentry drones and seven white suits, including the head administrator. Did you think you could save her?”

  She did her due diligence too well. The incident doesn’t exist in any official records. The Director covered it up, the surveillance logs confiscated before they could be archived, an alibi manufactured for my whereabouts that night, the handful of eyewitnesses paid off. How could she have found out about it? Bad enough that my enemies found out.

  “Mal?” she prompts.

  The air feels close, closer. An overpowering urge compels me to flight, but I manage to remain in my seat, body clenched like a fist. I can only guess at the expression on my face, but judging from Sam’s reaction, there’s nothing kind about it. She looks as if I’ve slapped her, eyes liquid with pain. Casting about for salvation, my gaze skips over the other lost souls trapped in Hell’s waiting room, the malevolent saffron light revealing the damnation lurking in each feral grin and glowing from every eye, the expensive suits and dresses failing to disguise the monsters within. One approaches Montoya’s tables… “Who’s that?”

  She glances over. “I don’t know.”

  He seems familiar. About my age, short curly hair, chubby bearded face, thick around the middle. Where have I seen him? At a word from Montoya, the man sitting to his right vacates his chair, allowing the newcomer to take his seat. Whoever he is, he doesn’t look like he belongs here – his suit looks second-hand, meant for work, not pleasure.

  “What are they saying?” I ask.

  “Hold on.” Sam peers over her wine glass at the conversation between Montoya and this newcomer. “Connor’s asking about something. Wait. I think he called him ‘detective.’”

  That’s where I’ve seen him, at the constabulary, one of Simmons’ detectives, though the name escapes me. One more corrupt public servant in Montoya’s pocket. The detective extends an arm over the table in Connor’s direction. A handoff?

  “Connor just thanked him,” says Sam. “I think the detective gave him something.”

  “Datastick?”

  “Could be.”

  “With what on it?” I ask. “We’ll need to… What?”

  “You still haven’t answered my question. Or is this a one-way street we’re on?”

  I swallow and cast my eyes about. She’s not going to back down. And it’s clear she’s gone off mission until I give her something. Panic electrifies me. There is no escape.

  “Did you think you could save her?” she prompts.

  “No. No, I didn’t.”

  “So why did you go?”

  “I had to see her. I had to know. She was my wife. What more do you want from me?”

  In a soft voice: “You went there to kill her, didn’t you?”

  Rage wars with panic wars with shame, coring me out. I grab the edges of the table and hold on. I hear myself say: “You think I’d kill my own wife?”

  A single tear courses down her cheek. “I’m sorry, Mal.”

  I cannot speak, only stare back into her liquid eyes, the world turned upside down.

  “Ah, there you are,” says a voice equal parts honey and habanero. Connor Montoya looms next to our table, hands in his pockets, a mask of profound indolence covering all but the watchful interest in his dark eyes. “Redeemer Adams. And lady. Am I intruding?”

  Sam releases me and wipes at her face as I pull back and attempt a neutral façade of my own. “What can I do for you?”

  “Thought I’d say hello to the man who’s trying to put me out of business.”

  “I’m a little young to be confused for President Maxwell.”

  That causes the shark’s grin to split. “Oh, you don’t give yourself enough credit, Mister Adams. You’re more of a celebrity than you know, all sorts of behind-the-scenes cocksuckers lining up to give you the hard handshake. You know, the problem with surviving is that it hurts people’s feelings. Why doesn’t he just lay down and die, the bastard, why does he keep making us look bad? They’ll keep coming for you – better to be a dead little-prick failure than a living one. They all think alike. Cocksuckers, every last one.”

  “Sounds like you know the business.”

  “You know that I do,” he says. “No need to play coy – I know you’ve been watching.”

  “You have some interesting new friends.”

  His eyes glitter. “You ever go swimming with a scorpion on your back, Mister Adams? An uncomfortable proposition, I’ll grant you, but if you can manage it without getting stung? A man can do that, he’s got the world by the balls.”

  “That scorpion will get you killed,” I say, nodding past him to where Leeds sits, “him and his associates. When they’re done here, they’ll get rid of you and anyone else who knows about them. All the bodies dropped in LA a few months back, what the media called gang violence? That was them. I know because I was there. You want to avoid that, help me take them down. We cut our own deal, you and me, one that won’t end with you getting stabbed in the back.”

  He stares down at me, killer’s eyes calculating. “Well, that’s quite an offer. Thank you, but no – my ass is on the line. But just so you know, it’s nothing personal between yours and mine, Redeemer, make no mistake – as pains in the ass go, you reclaimers have always been so… polite. But now, you’re in my way. So watch your ass. Lady.”

  Nodding his head, he turns and walks off.

  “Should I be worried?” I ask.

  The look on Sam’s face… The dam breaks, we both laugh.

  The waitress brings our meals. As she’s setting out the dishes – the filet mignon smells divine – I notice the detective is no longer at Connor’s table. Looking about, he’s nowhere in sight, underscoring the problem with mixing the personal and the professional.

  As the waitress departs, I ask, “Did you catch anything else?”

  “No. Sorry, that was my fault.”

  “Don’t be. This is my mission, not yours.”

  “Our mission.”

  I cut into the steak. “What?”

  “Our mission, Mal.” She catches my eye. “You’re not alone anymore.”

  Setting the fork and knife down, I lean back and gather strength. She waits on me, hands in her lap, expectant. How do I speak of this? This is it, then: the demonstration, the act of faith. Most men get off easy by just saying I love you.

  “When I found out…” I say. “I had a lot of time to think on the plane ride. I knew my options were limited by time. Patton wasn’t with me. If I’d waited on him, or waited on official channels, she’d have already… The treatment never takes longer than a day, so they tell me. She waited until I was on the other side of the country to do it.”

  “Go on.”

  “The direct approach, that’s all I had. I knew I couldn’t save her. But I had to try. I had to see her before the end. I didn’t care what it cost me. After speaking with her… I had hoped…”

  “What did you hope?”

  “Nobody should have to die alone. Most do, I know th
at, but not her. I knew I couldn’t save her, but I could give her that at least. But I failed.”

  “You were going to kill her, then turn the gun on yourself.”

  I rub at my eyes, turn my head away. I need another drink. Where is that waitress?

  Feeling her hands over mine, I try to pull away. Sam grabs me and doesn’t let go. Why the hell is she crying? I work my jaw around words that won’t come.

  “She betrayed you, Mal. I’m so sorry.”

  “If you knew about it –”

  “You’re broken. Like me.”

  Montoya passes by our table again, back from the restroom or Hell or wherever he went. Withdrawing my hands from Sam’s, I narrow my eyes at his back, watching as he returns to his entourage. Christopher Leeds reflects my gaze, eyes touched with amusement.

  “Did we have to do this here?” I say, picking up knife and fork.

  She dabs at her eyes. “Where else? We don’t exactly lead normal lives, do we?”

  I sigh in pleasure at the first bite of the steak.

  Sam smirks at me. “That’s the look I’ll shoot for later.”

  “There any stopping you?”

  “Nope. You may as well accept your fate, Mister Adams. And the lesson is?”

  I raise an eyebrow at her, fork paused mid-bite.

  “I’m not the only person at this table whose past had to be covered up.”

  Clever, that, circling back to my original line of inquiry. She’s going to win most of the arguments. And she’s right to point out my hypocrisy. I would’ve been imprisoned and lost my career but for the Director’s intervention, for the cover-up he facilitated. Sam’s employers did the same for her. But can I trust her? Hell, I have a hard enough time trusting myself.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  “They’re on the move,” she says, eyes cutting over.

  The members of Montoya’s entourage get to their feet, the men settling their jackets, the woman pulling at her dress. Montoya stands and shakes hands with Leeds, exchanging words. When they part, Leeds runs a hand over his suit jacket pocket before letting it fall to his side.

  “You see that?” I say.