by Alex Ziebart
His head rose with a rejection dangling on his lips. Until then, he hadn’t truly looked at her. He seemed to soften at the sight and hesitated. Kristen flashed the tampon with a sheepish grimace. The man winced with silent apology and crammed the bathroom key through the small gap in the glass along with the brick—an actual red brick—chained to it. “It’s in the back.”
“Thanks!” Kristen snatched the brick keychain and rushed through a narrow aisle of chips and candy to the bathroom door. Inside, she locked the door behind her and shoved the tampon into the metal trash can. She pulled the tablet from the back of her shirt and the black book from her top. She set both on the sink—surprisingly clean—and wrapped the toilet seat—unsurprisingly unclean—in a layer of toilet paper before sitting down.
Settled in, Kristen picked up the tablet. She looked it over for any markings, another written on its dingy plastic case that would indicate it belonged to the business and not an individual. Though she found no writing, the filthy grease stains and fingerprints did suggest it spent time in the hands of mechanics. She hit the power button and stared at the lock screen for a long moment. Though hoping for another connect-the-dots password, the tablet presented her with a request for a four-digit PIN. She guessed it would give her three, maybe four guesses before locking her out completely. On the bright side, the name displayed on the screen was SAM’S SALVAGE—definitely company property. The battery indicator displayed a mere 5% power remaining, but that didn’t worry her. If she needed one, she could always buy a charger on the way out.
Four digits.
Kristen tried to eliminate possibilities before wasting any of her guesses. Given it was company property, she doubted the numbers were anything personal—no one’s lucky numbers, nothing an individual used for their bank account, probably not a year of birth. The PIN, she guessed, was either completely random or so simple no one working at the salvage yard could forget it. If it were random, someone had probably written it down. If it were something simple, a person didn’t necessarily need to work there to guess it. Kristen tried to recall if she’d seen any sticky notes or loose sheets of paper with a PIN when looking through their lobby. She was pretty sure she hadn’t.
Kristen laid the tablet on her lap and took the little black book in hand instead. She fanned through the pages, gauging its contents: notes written in multiple hands, item pricing, names and phone numbers, little reminders of things to do later. All in all, they were the things she might have written on sticky notes rather than in a journal.
She flipped back to the first page, where someone had written the phone number and address for Sam’s Salvage. Kristen entered the four numerical digits of Sam’s Salvage’s address into the tablet.
She was in.
Kristen blanched at the tablet’s home screen. She swiped repeatedly to page through the list of apps and disorganized documents. Rather than scrolling further—that 5% power remaining ticked down to 4%—she opened the search field and tapped in “camera.” One icon remained on the screen: an app labeled AcalaCam. Kristen stifled a whoop of celebration, settling on a jauntier-than-usual tap. AcalaCam presented her with yet another password request and she promptly deflated. She minimized the app, opened email, and her silent celebration began anew: an account was logged in, and a search for AcalaCam yielded an email with the password.
It turned out accessing peoples’ data was easy when people wrote down their passwords—and left their devices laying around.
Kristen pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed. Bernice answered on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Does Otherworlds use Acala for its security cameras?”
“Uh, yeah. Why?”
“I need a favor. A huge favor.”
“Nope.”
The line went dead. Kristen stared at the phone in horror. Nope? Just like that?
Her Temple phone rang in her pocket. She grabbed it and peered at the number, juggling devices. Though she didn’t recognize the caller, she answered anyway. “Hello?”
“Hey.” Bernice. “I bought some burners after you showed up half-dead. I’m guessing this is that kind of favor?”
“Yeah, and I’m going to talk fast because I don’t have a lot of time. The number you just used to call me can get texts, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to text you details for an AcalaCam account. There are—” Kristen checked the tablet. “—six cameras on the account, looks like. I need you to scrub through the last forty-eight hours of footage. Look for Emma. I need to know if Emma ever came through the front door of that place, and if she did, which building she’s in. The people I’m up against are changelings. Shapeshifters. You need to be absolutely sure the person you’re looking at is my Emma.”
Bernice cursed a storm on the other end. “Come on, really?”
“We’ve established I can do things, Bernice. This shouldn’t be beyond belief.”
“No, not the… shapeshifting thing. You want me to watch forty-eight hours of footage from six cameras? By when?”
Kristen did the math in her head. “Four o’clock tomorrow afternoon? Honestly, earlier than that would be way better. As early as possible.”
“I can’t do that myself even if we speed up the video as fast as it’ll go.”
Kristen closed her eyes. She leaned her head back. “Joel?”
“That would help.” A pause. “Tara, too.”
“I don't know. I love Joel, you know that. But he has a big mouth.”
“It's not so big. He already knows.”
“He knows?”
“Yeah. He knows you as well as I do. You two don't have girl talk, but come on. He knows.”
“And Tara?”
“I don't think she'll talk, and she's the kind of person you need if you're going to be asking tech stuff. Unless you go to Temple, and because you haven't, I'm guessing there's a reason.”
“Yeah. Okay. Bring them in. Don't talk to Temple.”
“Something going on you can't tell them about?”
“I might tell them. I might not. Haven't had much time to think. Just…do this. Please.”
“I will. I won't ask questions now, but after this is through, you're going to tell me how Em got roped in. Okay?”
“Okay. Thanks. Call my Temple number when you have something.”
“Will do. Be careful, though. Temple gave you a phone most people can't listen to. But they gave you that phone. They might be the ones listening. And if you're still using the same cell towers—and you might be—then let's get some call signs or some shit, okay?”
Kristen winced. “Yeah. Okay. We'll talk.”
The very moment the call ended, she sent over the account details. Bernice replied: Do they use two-step authentication?
No.
Morons.
Kristen packed the phones, tablet, and black book on her person once more and set to making the bathroom appeared used. She peeled the layers of paper from the toilet seat and flushed them down. She washed her hands and made an unnecessary racket with the garbage can. Finally, she turned back to the mirror to straighten her wig.
She stared into the reflection. She’d forgotten to put it back on. For a moment, Kristen wondered why the sight hadn’t inspired the gripping panic it usually did. So often, she lost track of when she was or wasn’t supposed to wear it—nearly walking out with it at the wrong times, thinking she was meant to remove it when she had every reason to wear it. Each and every time, she felt that momentary panic. Not now, though. Why not?
She supposed maybe she just didn’t care anymore.
On her way back to the front counter, Kristen grabbed a Diet Coke from a cooler and a handful of granola bars. She returned the brick keychain through the narrow slot and laid her items out in a row for easy checkout. The cashier rang the items up one by one, but stopped just before the Diet Coke. He peered at Kristen through the glass. “Hey, are you…”
“Yeah.” She shrugged. “Honestly, if you c
ould not say anything about this to people, that’d be great. I don’t want to be on the news for…you know. That. How much do I owe you?”
He stammered for a few seconds. Kristen didn’t wait for an answer and slipped cashed into the slot after he rang up the Diet Coke. She left, got back in her car, and drove for home, counting the hours until morning.
Chapter 13
As the Sunday morning sun rose over the horizon, Kristen sat in her car contemplating just how much time she’d spent in the driver’s seat over the past week. She used to find peace in driving. Now, she hated it. The feeling would pass, she was sure.
Kristen turned the key in the ignition and switched the radio from FM to AM, spinning the tuner back and forth to find something of value. She checked the time—not yet five in the morning. Summer sunrise always threw her off. The sun wasn't supposed to be up that early. The news broadcasts wouldn't be on for at least a little while. She left the tuner on a Spanish talk radio station and pulled out of her apartment's parking lot. She listened intently as she drove, curious how much Spanish she could remember from school Bernice's family. Not much, it turned out. She fiddled with the tuner until she found the news.
“...workers might be temporarily unemployed.” An unaccented, Midwestern newscaster sounded off through the speakers. Kristen recognized it as the voice of one of the local television newscasters and snorted; she'd never listened to news radio before. She’d assumed they ran their own show rather than broadcasting audio-only television. Still, she listened as Jane bade her. “Emergency repairs will begin on the Seidel Tower which stands on the corner of Fourth and McKinley. In the meantime, all staff and personnel have been evacuated until further notice. A source close to the situation describes potentially catastrophic damage and the water table might be to blame.”
The audio cut to a prerecorded interview. A woman, likely an old woman, described the same sinking building scenario Jane had inside Temple.
Was that Jane's plan? Offer up Seidel Tower as bait and hope Delphi chomped the hook in pursuit of an easy, unstable target? Kristen drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Unless Jane knew more than she let on, there were a lot of assumptions in play. Delphi might not go after a relatively minor target; Seidel Tower was nearly a hundred years old and held historical significance, but it wasn't important in any other way.
The radio cut back to the newscaster. “In other news, the hunt continues for the woman known as Maiden Milwaukee.”
Kristen nearly jerked the wheel in surprise and was thankful for a mostly empty road.
“Maiden Milwaukee was spotted at a Gas'n'Go on Milwaukee's south side. While experts are calling her transhuman, the masses are calling her superhuman. An eyewitness description portrays someone just as human as the rest of us.”
Experts? What experts?
The audio feed cut to a young man's voice—not the clerk. “Honestly, I wasn't sure if calling the cops was the right thing. I mean, she used the bathroom, bought a soda and some snacks, and she was gone. She didn't do anything weird, I just know they've been looking for her. If she's out there, I'm sorry if I caused any trouble.”
I forgive you. Asshole.
Back to the newscaster. “Security footage from inside the Gas'n'Go reflect eyewitness statements. However, police are seeking more information—particularly a license plate number for her vehicle. Witnesses describe it as a black sedan, but the security footage of the Gas'n'Go exterior was destroyed in what the franchise owner, Sudakar Singh, describes as a failure of aged technology.”
Audio cut to a man's aged, Indian accent. “The company says we use the tapes, so we use the tapes. We don't have digital. There is no backup. We tried to take the tape from the machine, the machine destroyed the tape. Destroyed. Nothing we can do. I am not concerned. Using the restroom in America, not a crime. If the police want my help, I will help, but if Maiden comes to my store again, I’ll pay for her soda.”
Back to the newscaster—though Kristen couldn’t see him, a change in his voice made her picture him turning to the side. “I don’t want to start any rumors, but I do have to wonder whether that missing footage might be a result of user error.”
A woman’s laughter followed. “That wouldn’t surprise me. The Maiden has become Milwaukee’s sweetheart practically overnight.”
Kristen cringed and wished she could’ve seen the Gas’n’Go footage. Where was the camera? Overhead? Did they get her face? Whichever it was, it no doubt gave the city the clearest picture of her yet.
The newscasters kicked the show over to sports. She turned it off and drove in silence. When she arrived at the Temple building, the lobby receptionist recognized her—someone in the know this time. The young woman offered a warm smile. “Good morning, Ms. Anderson.”
Kristen stopped at the woman’s voice and stood awkwardly; she’d been taken by surprise. The lights in the building were still low with no indication it was yet open for the day. She hadn’t expected a receptionist at all. Some security guards, maybe, but not a receptionist. “Oh, hey. You’re here early.”
“That makes two of us. Do you have your ID card with you?”
“ID card?”
The receptionist tucked a lock of auburn hair behind her ear. “Yes, Ms. Miller should have given you an identification card when you were hired. I need to see it before I can send you up.”
Kristen tried to recall if Jane had given her such a thing. She pulled the wallet from her purse and sifted through cards: driver’s license, club cards, credit card… nothing from Temple. Kristen looked at the receptionist, puzzled. “I don’t have anything like that.”
“Do you have your badge? Nametag?”
“I didn’t think I’d need it. Jane told me I needed to come down here, though. So…”
“One moment, please.”
The receptionist picked up a phone and dialed three digits. She waited while it rang, her eyes never looking away from Kristen, not even for a moment. Kristen suddenly understood the precaution: they were dealing with shapeshifters. There weren’t many ways for the receptionist to verify she was who she was. Finally, someone must have answered on the other end. “Hello, yes. I’m sorry to bother you, Miss Miller, but Kristen Anderson is at the front desk. No, I didn’t send her up. She doesn’t have any form of identification. No, ma’am. She says you never gave her an ID. Yes, that’s correct. Would you like to come down and speak to her? Oh, okay. Yes, sure.” The receptionist took the receiver away from her mouth and covered it with one hand. “Miss Anderson?”
“Yeah?”
“Miss Miller would like to know what the two of you ordered at Kopp’s.”
Kristen couldn’t immediately recall. She began to shrug, but stopped herself—that wouldn’t help. With her luck, failing to answer would result in some sort of Temple strike team bursting out of the walls. “I ordered a sundae. Jane got a shake?”
“You’ll need to be more specific, please.”
“I got a, uh… bean… bienste... something German.” She paused, still thinking. “Jane ordered a Blue Moon shake.”
The receptionist relayed the message and, presumably, listened to Jane’s reply. After a few parting words, she hung up the phone. “I’ll send you right up, Miss Anderson. Miss Miller wanted me to tell you it’s pronounced Bienenstich kuchen. It means bee sting cake, though kuchen is left off of the authentic dessert, much like tiramisu doesn’t need torta on the end. It’s already known as a cake.”
Kristen cocked her eyebrow. “Jane told you to tell me that?”
“Miss Miller likes to be thorough in her explanations. The elevator should be waiting for you.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Kristen rode the open elevator to floor thirteen. When the doors opened, she punched the button to close them, then repeated the request for floor thirteen. They closed, and when they parted again, Kristen was struck blind by violet. She shielded her eyes and let them adjust; though the lights were low in the rest of the building, the violet sea be
yond the windows was as bright as ever. Once the blindness passed, she stepped out of the elevator. Jane was there in an instant, thrusting a plastic card at her. “Sorry, I completely forgot about this. I was supposed to drop it off with your branch manager when you got hired on.”
Kristen slipped the card into her purse. Jane beckoned her to follow, and she obliged. They walked to the back of the floor and into a boardroom adjacent to Michael’s office. Kristen grew wary when she saw that two others had already arrived—people she'd never seen before. How many people knew who she was without her consent? One of the two was a woman of medium height, athletic build, her white skin tanned dark by long hours in the sun, her black hair in thick dreadlocks. The other was a dark-skinned man as tall as Todd but thicker with muscle, his hair buzzed short. At once, they both looked Kristen up and down, sizing her up as if assessing a threat. Kristen couldn't help but feel intimidated, even knowing what she was. Jane jumped back in to break the ice. “Kris, this is Gabby and Cole. The night we went into that warehouse, I had two people on overwatch, remember? This is them. They're your guardian angels. Get acquainted; I have to go downstairs and wait for Todd. I know for a fact I didn't give him any ID.”
Before Kristen could protest, Jane swept out of the boardroom, leaving them alone. She blew out a breath. She pointed at the man. “Cole?” Then she pointed at the woman. “And Gabby?”
The man chuckled. His had a deep bass of a laugh, his voice no different. “Other way around. I'm Gabby. Gabriel.”
“I'm just Cole.” The woman said it too quickly, as if preemptively interrupting something. When she followed up on that, she spoke more slowly, her voice cool and throaty. “It isn't short for anything. So you're the bruiser, huh? Haven’t seen you up close before. Well, up close and conscious.”
“Are you two gifted, too?”
Cole motioned to a chair at the long table. “We're going to be here awhile. Pop a squat. We're gifted, yeah.”
Pop a squat? Seriously?
Kristen took a seat. “What can you do?”
“Put a bullet between a man's eyes from over two thousand meters.”