Sequence

by Darren Wearmouth

  “You know things don’t work like that, Devereaux. Show me the products and the approval, and I’ll show you the money.”

  “Next question. Come on, don’t be shy.”

  Gray had had enough of this. He intended this as a plan B to get his creations into industries before rolling out his main plan, but the money aside, he had realized this was a fool’s errand. He decided then and there to go with his original gut feeling. He shouted, “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you very much for attending today.”

  Devereaux spun to face him. “What are you doing?”

  Gray stepped to one side and continued to address the audience. “You have our contact details, so please get in touch by tomorrow afternoon with your feedback if you want more information… and bear in mind the NDAs…” Gray left the threat open. The truth about his work would get out eventually—that was the plan, but the NDAs would assure him of a buffer of time before someone blabbed. It was clear they weren’t getting the investment today.

  The room filled with chatter.

  Gray turned his back to the seats, folded the laptop closed, then walked to the side of the room and handed it to Merriweather.

  “We still had five minutes. Why did you end it so soon?” she asked.

  “We could have stood there all day, letting them pick holes in us. It wasn’t worth it.”

  Michael held the door open and ushered Gray and Merriweather towards the side exit.

  As Gray left the main room, he looked over his shoulder and saw Devereaux fawning around the old man. He was flogging a dead horse. It would take more than the old boy’s network to catch that fish.

  Back in the pre-meeting area, Gray relaxed again in the leather chair, unfastened his tie, and kicked his shoes off.

  “Can I get you a Scotch, Doctor?” Michael said.

  “Thanks. Tanya, would you like one? You deserve it after today.”

  “No, thanks, but I’ll have a glass of wine if you’ve got one? Did you mean it? I really did okay?” She blushed.

  “Sure you did. Michael, see if you can get Tanya some wine, thanks.”

  Michael nodded and left the room.

  Gray groaned and rubbed his face with both hands, wishing he hadn’t even bothered with all this, but he supposed it was worth it to have had Devereaux’s cash.

  The door swung open and slammed against the stop on the floor. It recoiled and hit Devereaux in the shoulder as he stormed in, attempting to make a dramatic entrance.

  “I want answers from you now, Gray. You tried to screw that up on purpose, didn’t you? Didn’t you?” Devereaux said, gradually raising his voice to a shout.

  “Give it a rest, Quentin. It was a pointless exercise without the Russians anyway.”

  “What if we get no takers? Do you expect me to continue blowing my children’s inheritance if all you’re going to do is piss it away like this?”

  “There’re other options yet. The plan is still solid.”

  Devereaux leaned down and thrust his finger in Gray’s face. “We’ve got our NSA meeting tomorrow. I don’t want you or that weird sidekick of yours there. I’m going to handle it alone.”

  “That’s not going to happen. To review the trial, we need to compare data. You haven’t got the technical competence to fly solo in that meeting.”

  “How dare you accuse me of a lack of competence after your display in the meeting room?” He grabbed Gray’s lapel. “Get up when I’m talking to you.”

  “Just remember whose creation this business is built upon, Quentin,” Gray said.

  Devereaux’s face twisted into a grimace. “You’re really starting to piss me off.”

  Michael entered the room, calmly put the drinks on a table, and made his way towards the doctor and the investor. “Quentin, put Dr. Gray down. This is not the time to lose your shit.”

  Devereaux let go of Gray’s lapel and turned to Michael. “What is it with you? Always creeping around like that?”

  “Guys, relax,” Merriweather cried.

  Michael looked around Devereaux’s shoulder at Gray’s crumpled lapel, then forcibly moved Devereaux to the other end of the room with a stiff arm. Devereaux initially attempted to resist, then backed away under his own steam.

  “Take it down a notch, Quentin. We know what we’re doing,” Michael said before letting the man go.

  Devereaux put his tablet in a case, along with some notes, and walked to the door. Looking back, he shook his head, pursed his lips, and pointed at Gray. “If you screw it up tomorrow, we’re done here. You hear me, Gray? I’ll pull your funding for good, and then see how far your vision will get you.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  7:00 p.m., Day 1, Portland Safe House

  NSA agent Zoe Vega flicked through her notes, comparing written data to a high-level status report she was preparing on a laptop. The Sequence Project assignment came straight from the director. Tomorrow was the first progress meeting with XNA Industries, and it had to be right. She scrutinized every line, trying to imagine reading it through his eyes.

  The front entrance to the Portland safe house clicked open. Shortly after, Earl Cooley, her partner for the project, appeared at the kitchen door.

  “You look surprised to see me,” he said.

  “It’s not like you to work late. What are you doing here?”

  “Just checking in before the meeting, making sure we’re on the same page.”

  Zoe sighed. “You haven’t been here for days.”

  Cooley joined her, sitting at the table. “Hey, I’m not lead on the project, remember? Besides, I’ve other things to do.”

  “Yeah, I know, but a little help now and then would be appreciated.”

  Zoe was growing tired of Cooley’s excuses. Since they’d started the trial a month ago as a full-time assignment, he’d spent a total of seven days in Portland. She was determined that he wouldn’t torpedo her efforts.

  “What are you doing?” Cooley said, leaning towards the laptop.

  “Just finishing the report for tomorrow; I’m not sure they’ll like it.”

  Cooley shrugged. “Screw ’em. You’re just being honest. Where are the two freakoids anyway?”

  “They’re in the basement, doing a jigsaw.”

  “Can I take a look?” Cooley said. He grabbed the mouse and started to scroll through the slides. The smell of whiskey was strong on his breath.

  “Be my guest,” Zoe said. “I’ll check on Red and Blue.”

  She’d checked on the synthetics five minutes ago, but wanted to get away from Cooley. It was impossible to concentrate with him in the same room, especially the cramped safe-house kitchen with its tatty 1970s brown and cream decor.

  Zoe used the room when she needed a quiet space away from the test subjects. Cooley was only ever around when she didn’t need him. He grimaced as Zoe scraped her metal chair against the ceramic tiled floor. “Do you have to do that?”

  “Read the report. I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Zoe said.

  She descended the basement stairs.

  From a small table in the corner of the room, Blue gazed at her with his piercing eyes. “Back again so soon, Agent Vega?”

  “How’s the jigsaw?” Zoe said.

  “We didn’t need to do it,” Red said.

  The flame-haired synthetic sat on a couch with her back to Zoe, watching a documentary about penguins.

  Zoe picked up the remote and switched off the television.

  “We’ve been through this. You put the pieces together, creating a picture of a seahorse like on the front of the box.”

  “We don’t need to; we can see the picture on the box,” Blue said.

  Zoe took a deep breath. “It’s a puzzle.”

  “So it’s not a test?”

  “Yes, I’m trying to test your visual skills. Can you give it a try?”

  “Why? You’ve given us an eye test. I can clearly see the picture on the front of the box,” Red said.

  “Forget the box. Just try to assemble
the pieces.”

  “We’ll do it, but I don’t understand the reason for jigsaws.”

  “I don’t understand the reason for Candy Crush on Facebook, but millions still play it. You don’t have to understand everything; it’s not a bad thing,” Zoe said.

  “What’s Candy Crush and Facebook?”

  “Forget it.” She sighed. “Can you try the puzzle?”

  Blue nodded, tipping the contents of the box on the table.

  “We’ll let you know when we’ve completed the task,” Red said, joining Blue at the table.

  “Okay, I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Agent Vega,” Red said.

  “Yes?”

  Red smiled, but her eyes betrayed an opposite emotion. “Never switch the television off when I’m watching.”

  “Excuse me?” Zoe said.

  Although she felt no connection with the synthetics, they’d been generally subordinate and polite. In the last couple of days, cracks in their personas had started to appear. Cursing during tests, complaining about food, and questioning tasks. Perhaps they were getting frustrated? Zoe would be in their shoes. Locked up for weeks in a sterile environment, being put through their paces by strangers. No matter how hard she tried, Zoe couldn’t view synthetics as human, and found it impossible to second-guess them.

  Blue put his hand on Red’s wrist. “She means, ask before doing it. How would you like it—”

  “Okay, I get it, I’ll ask,” Zoe said. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  Trudging back up the stairs, she wondered if the XNA Industries creations would ever be of use. Their physical performance was impressive, but that’s where it ended. They lacked mental maturity and had very basic knowledge of the outside world. She doubted the NSA had the time or appetite to spend years training them to an acceptable standard for operations, let alone dealing with the fallout of the ethical and moral implications if they were put into wide use.

  Cooley was still fiddling with her laptop in the kitchen.

  “What do you think?” she said.

  “Pretty much nails it. They’re as strong as horses and clever as goldfish.”

  “I’ll put that on the first page. Thanks, Earl.”

  “How many years have you been with the agency? Eight?”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I’ve been here twenty—”

  She groaned. “I know, you keep telling me.”

  Zoe had heard it all before. Her father had a long career in the NSA. She was always closer to him growing up in their rural Maryland home. He was her hero. Her mother hated Zoe’s career choice, saying she had no idea what she was getting herself into. Things changed when she joined the NSA. Her father insisted on hearing about her work. He contacted old colleagues about Zoe’s progress. Worse was the constant advice, often outdated, always unwanted, every time validated with ‘Do you know how long I served?’

  She wanted to forge her own path.

  Zoe visited him less and less as the years went by. When he died last year, she wished she’d listened to him more. Not because of what he was saying, but just to have spent more time with him. She could have just kept quiet, nodded, paid him lip service. Her regret was only realizing it after he’d gone. She could see some of her father in Cooley.

  “Look, babysitting freakoids won’t help your career. Not after your fuck-up in Florida. I’ve read your record.”

  “It wasn’t a fuck-up. How was I supposed to know the video feed would break?”

  “And a terrorist nearly slipped through our fingers.”

  Zoe walked to the table, pulling the laptop away from Cooley. “Do you mind? I’ve got some work to finish.”

  He held up his hands. “I’m just saying, no good will come of this.”

  “You’re the last person I’d go to for career advice.”

  “I’ve turned down promotions. It’s much more fun down here in the gutter. You can’t replace experience; look at the freakoids.”

  “Whatever. I’ll see you tomorrow. Make sure you get there early.”

  “Early? Only my mom calls me that. I prefer Earl or Cooley.”

  Zoe smiled, shaking her head. “You know you’re a complete pain in the ass?”

  “That’s my middle name,” he replied, leaving the kitchen.

  She hated being reminded of what had happened six years ago. After a promising start with the agency, Zoe was convinced that others held her responsible for a suspected terrorist vanishing from sight after surveillance equipment she put in place malfunctioned. She’d held back on installing a new camera due to the location and threat of compromise.

  They found him two weeks later, after an extensive manhunt.

  Two agents were killed during the capture. She was exonerated at the internal inquiry, but never felt totally convinced everyone saw things the same way. Dithering was one of the accusations.

  The Sequence Project was a chance to get her career back on track. The secret nature of Director Hatfield’s briefing, and instructions to speak with nobody outside the project, seemed to give it a higher level of importance. Or was she just trying to convince herself of that? Zoe wondered who else knew about what was going on in Portland.

  She poured herself a coffee and sat back in front of the laptop. The junior agents assigned to the project would arrive back from dinner soon. If Zoe finished the report in the next few hours, she might catch a bit of sleep.

  A loud crash sounded from the basement.

  Zoe ran down the stairs.

  Blue held Red on the couch in a tight hug. She panted, eyes tightly shut. A snot bubble popped from her nostril. The table lay on its side, jigsaw pieces scattered across the floor.

  “Agent Vega, we don’t want to do the jigsaw,” Blue said.

  CHAPTER SIX

  7:05 p.m., Day 1, Fairfax Frontier, Alaska

  Jacob weaved his way through stools and drunken dancers until he came to the bar.

  Racing from one end to the other, serving the local oil-plant workers, Emma Jenkins expertly kept up with the demand for beer. She flashed smiles, slid drinks across the beer-slicked bar top, and exchanged money, all the while nodding and moving her body to the beat of Van Halen’s “Jump” blaring out from the jukebox.

  Her purple-dyed hair swished around her face, hiding her eyebrow and lip piercing. She was wearing a Rammstein T-shirt and a short tartan skirt that finished a few inches above her tall boots.

  Jacob already felt a lot better.

  He sat on a stool and surveyed the bar. Over in the dark corner of booths he saw his friend Brian and two more members of their small group—all fellow bloggers and conspiracy enthusiasts. Brian’s double chin wobbled as he waxed lyrical about some new theory. His words were drowned out by the cacophony of the raucous plant workers and the music.

  Jacob caught Emma’s eye, grinned, and received a smile in response. She held two fingers up to indicate she’d be a couple of minutes. She grabbed two pitchers of beer and shimmied across the floor to a booth of workers. As she turned, a thickset, bearded man reached out a hand to slap her on the ass.

  Jacob slipped off his stool, heat burning up his neck and arms, but he wasn’t needed. Emma turned, grabbed the guy by the beard and slapped him across the face. The table of fellow drinkers erupted into fits of laughter, including Beardy after the initial shock.

  Emma gave them a wink and headed back to the bar. At twenty-one years old and with this being her first job, Jacob couldn’t help but admire how adept she was at handling the situation. The annoyance still warmed his face when she ignored the legion of impatient customers and leaned against the bar.

  She spoke close to his ear to avoid shouting over the din. “Hey, Jakey, how’s tricks?”

  “Uh, they’re tricky. When are you off tonight? I’ve got something I want to run by you.”

  She raised an eyebrow and brushed a stray hair behind her ear. “Oh? Got a new theory?” Emma, like his group, was also into researching secrets. Her gig was the c
yberworld and what governments were doing to cell phones and computers.

  “Not a theory, Em, hard evidence. It’s big.”

  She smirked. “Hard and big, you say?”

  Jacob shook his head. “Yeah, uh, the evidence. It’s about Gray.”

  Her body relaxed and her smile dropped slightly. “Oh, Jake, I thought you weren’t going to get involved with all that anymore? It’s not healthy. I worry about you.”

  “This is it, though. When you finish, meet me in the booth; I’ll show you. Seriously, this is big news.”

  “Okay, I’ve got twenty minutes to go until Sandra takes over my shift.” She reached into a fridge unit behind her and passed him a couple bottles of beer.

  “Thanks, Em, you’re a star.” He took a twenty from his pocket and slid it toward her, knowing it was double the cost of the beer. But if anyone was worth tipping, it was Emma. And he knew she could use all the tips she could get these days.

  Like him, she was living in a trailer, both at the same park. Jacob had it rough, but Emma was finding it difficult to make ends meet after her mom had suffered an accident at work and was unable to bring in an income. So much responsibility for someone so young, yet, like everything, Emma handled it with grace and humor.

  Emma did a mock curtsey before whirling away to serve an increasingly angry oil-worker in filthy coveralls. He gave Jacob the stink-eye, but Jacob just ignored him and joined Brian and the others.

  As he slid into the booth, “The Final Countdown” came on the jukebox.

  “Jesus, Stan, what is it with you and that damned song?” Jacob said as he acknowledged his friends.

  Stan, wearing a reversed Red Sox baseball cap, sang along with the verses until it broke into the chorus. He stood from his seat and screamed along to the words.

  Brian, sitting next to Stan, dragged him back down. “You’re a damned fool, Stan. Anyways, what’s up, Jake? You look tired.”

  “Something happen, man?” Mex said, sitting next to Jacob. He still wore his oil-plant overalls. An engineer by trade, he spent most of his time poring over photographs of the moon landings, convinced he could see large unnatural structures.