by Brian Fuller
In a weird way, he thought these heart mechanics were the most interesting lesson he had learned so far. His imagination started sprinting with the idea. “So what if your heart gets chopped up and sent in four different directions or gets burned or blown up?”
“You’re really taken by this idea, aren’t you? Believe it or not, there is an answer. The piece with the greatest mass is where you’ll reappear.”
“Cool.”
“Enough heart games, Jarhead. Time to shoot some guns.”
Chapter 7
Vigilante
For three weeks he had spent most of his time with Cassandra, who continually complained that he was a “turtle morph” or that he was “morphstipated” or that he was a Gabriel operative who would always be ready for a mission by the time the mission was over. After one week of unsatisfactory morphing, she marched him down to the IDENT office and plopped him in front of Poe—a thin, dark-haired identity expert who’d modeled his looks after his famous namesake, down to the period clothing.
“Poe here can get you something to help you visualize your morph targets,” she said. “It might help you. I’ll let you two get started.” She dropped her voice to not quite a whisper. “They’re artists down here, so they’re a little weird.”
“Thanks, Cassandra,” Poe said as she walked off. “Well, Trace, what we do is a full-body scan to help us create what we call a ‘Standard Set’ of appearances you can use during your tenure with the Ash Angel Organization. Most of these are generated automatically with the IDENT software, but since you are a Blank and destined for the Gabriels, your Standard Set will be reviewed by an Identity and Appearance expert such as myself. We like to ensure enough differentiation between the types, usually adding in a few handcrafted identities. First I need to look up your initial survey and get your AAID.”
“What’s an AAID?” Trace asked.
“Ash Angel ID. You should have received it your first day, after your survey was processed.”
“They didn’t input me into the system. My trainer trashed my survey two minutes after I finished it.”
Poe’s eyebrows turned down in a V. “Surely you have an AAID, though.”
“I don’t.”
“How do they keep track of you, then?”
Trace shrugged. “I think that not keeping track of me is the point.”
Poe stared pensively off into the distance for a while. “That will make this process a bit more difficult. Are you sure you don’t have one? It’s a seven-digit code. I can make the IDENTs without it, but I can’t save them.”
“I really don’t have one unless the Scholus wardrobe folks wrote it on my underwear,” Trace joked.
“Could you check?” Poe asked, not joking.
What should have taken a couple of hours took four, Poe bearing the inconvenience with only minimal irritation.
Trace had walked away from the IDENT office with a folder full of identities of all ages and sizes—over sixty-four of them—and they helped. Having a picture in front of him sped matters up considerably, though Cassandra continually warned him that he needed to learn to make the changes without having to stare at a picture taped to a wall. Escaping sticky situations often required a quick change in appearance, and missions usually came in on short notice. To top it off, Standard Sets were not allowed outside secured areas, so Cassandra had confiscated his pictures after a week and forced him to morph without them.
Until today.
“Time for your ride-along mission, Jarhead,” Cassandra told him and Prescilla after pulling them out of a lecture on the intricacies of acting like an elderly person.
“What’s a ride-along mission, Cassandra?” Prescilla asked, wringing her hands.
“It’s like it sounds. You get to ride along with some real Ash Angels and watch them work. Maybe do some work yourself.”
Prescilla shifted uncomfortably. “Outside the confines of Trevex?”
“Yes, dear. We’ll meet in the main conference room of this building in four hours. Before then, you’re going to morph into teenagers. And you’ll be graded, so don’t screw up. Looks bad on my record. Jarhead, here’s one of your Standard Set pictures. Get down to IDENT, get your clothes, and get to work. Prescilla, you’re going to have to leave the flowery frock behind and put on a pair of jeans.”
“I most certainly will not,” Prescilla objected. “Ladies these days dress so—”
“Prescilla!” Cassandra barked. “We are not in the 1800s anymore. You’ve got to dress like the rest of us or you’ll be useless unless we have some need to infiltrate the Amish.”
“The Amish? Do they still dress like decent folk?”
The rest of the argument faded away as Trace hurried to IDENT for his clothes and then to the locker room to get to work on his morph. His nervousness and excitement over an off-site mission hampered him, and what Cassandra could likely do in fifteen minutes took him three hours to pull off to his satisfaction.
When done, he had suitably punkish long hair, a gangly frame, and ripped-up, loose jeans that hung down enough to show some underwear. His real parents wouldn’t have let him out of the house, and an old feeling of rebelliousness welled up within him as he admired himself in the mirror. Time to put all that training on acting like a teenager into practice. He just remembered that he and his brother Brandon would slough chores and complain about everything.
Morph done, he headed to the main floor of Trevex D at eight thirty in the morning, its halls filled with instructors and administrators whispering in hushed, worried tones.
He found Prescilla in the conference center already but dressed as an elderly lady instead of the ordered teenager. Had she actually won an argument with Cassandra? He would ask for tips. Twelve plush chairs surrounded an oval table with a touch-screen top, and Prescilla pecked the screen with a tentative finger, her grandmotherly looks lending credibility to her complete inexperience with technology. She looked up when Trace entered, her face somber.
“Poor news this morning, Trace,” she said gravely. “The daily brief says a secret Ash Angel operations station in Chicago was attacked last night. Six Ash Angels missing. Two confirmed dead.”
Trace sat down by her, perusing the report—another case of Dreads knowing where to strike with a strong possibility of inside help.
Trace’s heart felt like lead. “We need to get out there. Have they told you what they intend for you yet?”
“They have not. We aren’t to expect our assignments until after graduation. I can hardly think of what use I will be. I can heal, I suppose, and apparently I am a prodigy at morphing.”
“Really?” Trace said. “How long did it take you to defy Cassandra and morph into an old woman?”
“Just a few minutes is all, though I was a bit distressed after arguing with that shrew. My goodness, what a contrary woman.”
Trace nearly choked. “A few minutes? A few! It took me three hours to do this. Three! How are you so fast? Cassandra calls me a turtle morph, and apparently she’s right.”
Prescilla’s eyes widened. “Three hours? For shame, Trace. That is monstrously slow. It really is the most natural thing in the world. You simply fix the image in your mind, and your body accommodates.”
“Yeah,” Trace said, “so I’ve been told. My body doesn’t like to accommodate.”
The door banged open, and he looked up expecting Cassandra. Instead, a middle-aged man strode in. He wore blue slacks and a white button-down shirt, top button undone. Trace recognized a good morph job: baggy eyes bracketed by crow’s feet, protruding gut, patchy face, and bloodshot eyes. His thick blond hair was cut short and tinged with white just above the ears, and when he smiled, his dull yellow teeth screamed smoker. He had an aura and the bearing of a hunter, his gaze confident, his stride purposeful.
“You Trace and Prescilla?” he asked, working his way over to them.
“Yep,” Trace said, shaking the proffered viselike grip.
“I’m Goldbow from the Michaels
Division. I’ll be providing security on this op, though I wouldn’t expect too much trouble; these ride-alongs are a walk in the park. Cassandra shown up yet?”
“No,” Trace informed him. “What branch of the military were you in before you died?”
“Navy SEAL,” he said proudly. “You in the service?”
“Marines.”
“A Blank with combat skills built in. Nice. If you want a shot in the Michaels, I’m sure Archus Mars would love to have you.”
“Yeah, he tried. Archon Ramis shot him down. You know what this mission’s about?”
“No. Cassie’s team leader and will brief us. All I know is we’ve got an actual mission rather than the typical ride-along fluff. It came down from one of the Visionaries in the Occulum, so it will be straightforward. Missions from the Occulum Cryptics are like trying to sort out an acid trip.”
Cassandra had ensured that Trace attended the class on the Occulum. Of all the divisions, the seers of the Occulum were the most secretive and most protected. The Visionaries saw things plainly, but the Cryptics’ visions presented themselves symbolically. Trained symbologists in the Scholus sorted out the Cryptics’ visions before passing them on to Operations.
Cassandra finally walked through the door, face buried in her phone, and Trace had to smile. Dressed as a middle-aged woman with kids, she had put on thirty pounds and crammed herself into cheap jeans and a faded blue sweater, every detail of her appearance utterly convincing, down to the chipped nail polish. No one who saw the dressed-for-dancing Cassandra would believe she and the dressed-for-laundry Cassandra were the same person. After the door shut, she looked up, face registering a hostile disgust.
“Goldbow. Don’t tell me Ramis assigned—”
“Yes, he did. I’m on Cherub rotation until they graduate. Good to have you back on the line, Cassie.”
Trace knew Cassandra well enough to see she was strangling her anger in an attempt to keep from strangling Goldbow. It was the same look she gave him whenever she came back after an hour and he hadn’t finished morphing yet, only worse.
“Fantastic,” she said, sarcasm meter in the red. “Fan-freaking-tastic. Well, I certainly feel safer knowing that you’ve got my back.”
Prescilla bit her lip, and Goldbow looked toward the ceiling as if to implore the help of divine powers.
Cassandra sat on the other end of the table from them. “Okay, folks, here is exactly what the Visionary gave us.”
A document appeared at each of their stations.
Occulum Vision ID: #290394829
Visionary: Jethro
Date Received: 1/26/2016
Action Date: 1/27/2016
Content:
183 Pleasance Place, Phoenix, AZ
10:07 a.m.
January 27
Image of a girl in a coffin, early teens.
“That’s sparse,” Goldbow commented.
Cassandra flicked her phone screen, and the document changed. “As you can see in this document, the Medius has confirmed that the address is residential and close by, which is why we got it. It’s a thirty-minute drive. We’ll get there about twenty minutes before the indicated time to scope out the area. We’re not sure what to expect, but with death in the vision, we’ll be cautious. Any questions?”
“What is our part?” Prescilla asked.
Cassandra opened her mouth, but Goldbow jumped in. “You two will sit tight in the car and observe. Do not get involved. You’ll get to see two experts at work, isn’t that right, Cassie?”
She ignored him. “Just do what we say and you’ll be fine. Most Cherubs only get to go pick up litter or hand out toys at a shelter. You two get the real deal here. Let’s review our identities. Goldbow and I are Richard and Vanessa Hader. We’ve been married for a while but have called it quits because Richard values work more than his wife, doing whatever his boss wants and leaving me behind to take care of everything by myself.”
“Give it a rest,” Goldbow protested, though Trace was unsure why.
“Trace here is our dense son, William, who takes forever to get ready and is apparently the only teenager on the planet with perfect skin. How about a few pimples, Billy, dear? And our teenage daughter, Janet, apparently died and has been replaced by Grandma Joan, Richard’s mom, who has really taken a liking to little Billy and tries to protect him from his mom and dad’s ugly divorce. Got it, everybody? When we get in the vehicle, I want everyone to act in character unless it is absolutely necessary to break out of it. Got it? Great. Let’s go pick up our car and get going.”
Cassandra bolted out the door. Goldbow sprang after her while trying not to look like he was springing after her.
“This should prove most interesting,” Prescilla observed. “Most interesting, indeed.”
Trace sensed she wasn’t talking about the mission. “I hope you know where the garage is, because I don’t.”
With a little help from some friendly Ash Angels, they learned that the garage was a quarter mile away on the edge of the more industrial part of the Trevex complex. Trace squinted in the bright sunshine as they went outdoors, a leisurely breeze ruffling Prescilla’s ample dress. The pleasant walk ended abruptly when they entered the six-bay Ash Angel service garage, finding a storm in full progress at the side of a late-model blue Ford Taurus. A hapless Ash Angel in a mechanic’s jumper stood awkwardly to the side as Cassandra and Goldbow jawed at each other.
“You drive everything like it’s a tank. I’m driving,” Cassandra said.
“Look, Cassie, in good old middle America, the men usually drive,” Goldbow countered. “We’re not shooting down the autobahn here.”
“So it’s a macho thing, then?”
“No. It’s good operational sense. What’s the problem with you, anyway?”
“What’s the problem? It’s you and your—” And then she noticed Trace and Prescilla observing and choked off her words.
“Let’s flip for it, Cassie,” Goldbow suggested, attempting a light tone, as if everything had been a joke.
“Great. Heads. And let it hit the floor so you can’t cheat.”
Goldbow won, and the mechanic tossed him the keys. He and Cassandra got in the car in a huff, and when Trace and Prescilla jumped into the back seat, it felt like they were in an icebox.
Goldbow started the engine, and Cassandra announced that everyone should act in character from that time forward.
“Are we there yet?” Trace said in a whiny voice, attempting to thaw the arctic atmosphere. Prescilla didn’t get it, and Goldbow and Cassandra didn’t react. The car pulled out onto the road, and Trace slumped in his seat and prepared for a long ride. After a sly wink in his direction, Prescilla pulled out her embroidery and got to work on her angel. An abyssal silence reigned until Goldbow drowned out the offending quiet by tuning the radio to a country station.
Cassandra spoke. “You know how I can’t stand country, Richard. If I wanted to hear about someone’s screwed up life, I’d read your autobiography.”
“My life is screwed up, Vanessa?” Goldbow spat back. “Fine. Let’s listen to your metalheads because those guys aren’t messed up at all.” Goldbow hit the seek button until some thumping guitars and drums boomed through the car.
It was Prescilla’s turn to twist her face in irritation. “What is this horrible racket? For pity’s sake, something a bit less grating for a lady?”
“Fine,” an annoyed Goldbow said, flipping the dial to a classical station.
Prescilla smiled. “Thank you, Richard, dear.”
“How about you, William?” Goldbow continued. “You need Dad to do anything for you? Has Mom stopped the beatings yet, like social services told her?”
“I gotta pee,” Trace responded just to say something that wouldn’t drag him into the disaster going on in the front of the car.
“We can’t stop for a potty break, Billy,” Cassandra said, “or we’ll be late.”
“And don’t be crude, William,” Prescilla scolded.
“It’s a funeral,” Trace said shortly after they pulled up and parked opposite the house.
Pink bows were looped around mailboxes and trees, while flowers of all varieties lined the porch. The vehicles probably belonged to family and friends. Why would their mission take them to a funeral?
Cassandra’s phone beeped, and she read the screen. “You’re right, Billster. Just got the details from the Medius. This is the home of Jared and Charlise Preston. Their daughter Lucilla died three days ago of leukemia. The funeral is at 10:30 a.m. today.”
Several minutes later, the darkly dressed family poured out of the vaulted front door and crammed into the cars. Not long afterward, several of the neighbors followed suit, emptying the houses. It was 9:56 a.m.
“Should we follow them?” Trace asked. Their car, a little old and beat up for the likes of Pleasance Place, sat conspicuously on the curb across the street, inviting curious stares.
“We’re not outfitted for a funeral,” Goldbow observed, “but if the family leaves the house, we should get eyes on over there.”
“The vision was for this address,” Cassandra reminded him, but then her face lit up. “Let’s split up. I’ll take our dearest son, Billy Boy, here, for a walk around the neighborhood while you and Granny J head to the funeral to keep watch there.”
She didn’t wait for a response and got out of the car before Goldbow or anyone else could protest. Trace jumped out. Goldbow threw up his hands, put the car in gear, and sped off after the steady trickle of cars exiting the neighborhood.