Greg’s eyes kept roving as they walked up the street. They weren’t drawing any obvious attention, but that didn’t stop him. His clothing – boots, jeans, grey shirt and black leather jacket – let him look like half the other locals in sight, and warm enough that nobody would wonder at his wearing them in the chilly afternoon weather. He patted at his now-golden buzz-cut. Maybe I’m just nervous about the blond messing with my IQ. That was a joke he’d heard often when younger, though he still didn’t fully get it. Then he glanced at Leah. Could be worse, though. Her get-up was likewise unremarkable: boots, khakis and a white blouse over the clinger, all covered by a grey wool raincoat. Her hair, however, was now lengthened by temporary extension curls, and dyed a mess of red and midnight black. One can argue it’s so weird, it’s actually normal.
They arrived at the stop just as the bus pulled up – a rattling, wheezing hybrid model at least twenty years old. The elderly driver didn’t give them a second glance as they waved their fare cards over the bus’s scanner, and took seats near the front. The neighbourhoods they passed through alternated between partly torn-down office complexes, dilapidated housing projects, and half-finished ‘revitalisation areas.’ On their ride into town, Greg and Leah had heard plenty of grousing about the cities being essentially left to handle housing, energy and food crises on their own, while the bulk of ‘Second Reconstruction’ money and manpower went to favoured spots in the rural areas, or just into private hands. Having seen much of the country in the last few months, the two of them knew the truth: there simply wasn’t enough to go around.
They’re not calling it the ‘Turmoil’for nothing. Compared to their circumstances five years ago – and that of a lot of other places nowadays – most Americans these days were in hog heaven: enough food, reasonably stable energy, reliable transport and medicine. Still, it was plain the slide from self-proclaimed superpower status wasn’t sitting well with a lot of the country. Somebody should’vetold them that twenty years ago, or forty.
His reverie was broken by the bus’s automated, monotone alert. ‘Mass Avenue! Union Station!’ Picking up the duffel, Greg moved to the front of the bus, Leah right behind him. A massive white pile of a building, with connections branching all over the country, Union Station had been one of the first targets for reconstruction after the Pulse, and the subsequent riots. Heading up the front steps amongst the other afternoon commuters, Greg noted fresh plaster over a line of bullet holes and shrapnel gouges above the main doors, and scaffolding on the roof that hadn’t yet been taken down. The main entrance doors were new bronze and glass, gleaming in the late afternoon sun.
Just beyond these, a sprawling security checkpoint had been set up, taking up what had apparently been a restaurant. Greg took in the whole arrangement: the mobile X-ray and body scanners, the wafer-thin metal detector stations, the pat-downs for random travellers. His grip tightened on the duffel strap. They were prepared for the usual sweeps, but there was always the chance the canister’s former owners had agents in the crowd, or among the usual guard details.
Can’t be helped. We want out of town today, and fast–just have to run the gauntlet. Squaring his shoulders, he fell into the nearest line. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Leah merge into the one to his left: backup, in case the guards stopped him.
When he reached the head of the line, the guard, a stocky, middle-aged man, tapped at his tablet checklist with one finger. Not bothering to look up, he intoned in a bored voice, ‘Afternoon. Please place all luggage and other items on the scanner bed, and proceed through the imager.’ He poked at the tablet again. ‘Next, please!’
Greg did as he was told. The clinger’s fabric would shield their knives and .32 pistols from any scanners – not that whatever metal detectors or body imagers they passed through would pick up the ceramic-carbon polymer the two were composed of. The canister was another matter. Outwardly, to the untrained eye, it looked like any other external hard drive. But how many of those are on the jobtoday?
He stepped into the imager, willing his heart rate to slow down. The blue scanning rays dropped rapidly down, then back up, followed by a cheerful beep. Nodding to the woman at the control screen, he moved forward a few paces. To his relief, the duffel slid down the belt moments later, unopened. Looking to his left, he saw Leah going through the imager, and flashed a smile, which she returned.
Past the checkpoints, the station was a madhouse. Throngs of people were coming up and down the escalators, congregating at the few shops open on the street level, or moving to the ticket machines at the far end. The rumble of footsteps, passing voices, and occasional announcements all blended together in a harsh mix, only abating in a few small areas when roving groups of security personnel passed through, with portable bag scanners or decked out in quasi-military fast response gear. Greg carefully turned his eyes away from one such group, looking straight ahead. Leah, at his side once more, did the same.
The ticket auto-counter’s screen blinked on at their approach. The blonde AI clerk’s image flashed them a bright smile. ‘Hello! Destination?’
‘Chicago,’ Greg replied.
‘Purpose of visit?’
‘Business.’
The smile never wavered. ‘Please place your payment and valid photo ID in the requisite scanners, and await printout of ticket and receipt.’
Now comes the next hard part. The driver’s licence and cash card Greg pulled from his inner pocket were technically valid; the former had his image, the latter had real cash on it, and multiple tests by Jorge and the other tech savants out West had assured him the verification tags for both were authentic. The problem was the picture itself. He’d been photographed any number of times while in the Project, but those images had either gone up with Seattle, or been wiped by the Pulse – or so he’d been told. If some random pic was still floating around somewhere, they wouldn’t get far.
The machine buzzed, spitting the cash card and licence back out. As he collected these, a thin strip of paper dropped into the receptacle below the scanners. ‘Thank you very much for choosing Amtrak! Have a pleasant ride!’ the AI chirped.
Greg scooped up the paper and moved aside for Leah. Her cards passed muster as well. Ticket in hand, she moved close to him, unsmiling. ‘We good on time?’
Greg looked at his watch, then at the departure board hanging overhead. ‘Yeah. Next one leaves in ten minutes, and they close up at five.’ They started for the gates, as he continued, ‘Everything clear on our exit from Chicago?’
Leah nodded. ‘Change trains for Milwaukee, then bus up to Green Bay. Once there, we change again, and grab a rental or hitchhike to the last stop.’ Her walk slowed. ‘You’re sure we can’t bus it the whole route? Rentals in those parts might be suspicious enough to pass the word along about two tall strangers with plenty of cash.’
‘Same rumours would start flying if we went the Greyhound route,’ Greg replied. ‘Once we hit Green Bay, we’ll be farther off the radar, and much closer to the target than if we took the long way around, through the Twin Cities. We can’t expect to stay under forever, not if we want in and out fast.’
Leah nodded, still not looking convinced. Passing the Amtrak police office, they came into the main waiting area, just short of the gates leading to the tracks. The place was packed: families in worn and rumpled clothing, swamped with kids and weather-beaten luggage; a few individual men or women in a wide array of flashy, expensive attire; and a small reserved section of elderly folk, in all kinds of passé outfits. Two squads of soldiers sat or stood in a group nearest the far right-hand gate, resting or talking amongst themselves; a few of them passed around half-and-half smokes – Cuban tobacco and Denver weed, by the smell. They were decked out in full combat gear, dyed in forest camo patterns, and which bore the marks of recent, heavy usage. Must be from the pacification zones in the lower Appalachians, Greg mused. Probably off to deal with the few, scattered militias left in the Dakotas or Montana,given the route.And D.C.being what it is these days, th
ey’re probably heading straight out again, after no more than a couple days’ rest. For Golems, it wouldn’t have mattered, or very little. For these men – and teenagers, a few of them – it was taking its toll, by their haggard expressions and languid movements.
After a little searching, they found a pair of seats two rows away from Gate B, their departure point. Greg kept his bag on his lap; Leah set hers on the floor. An instant later, she had to snatch it out of the way as two kids – a boy and girl, brother and sister by the look of them – raced past them, giggling and shrieking as they chased each other through the crowd, leaping over feet and luggage. A haggard, middle-aged woman with greying black hair followed several paces after them, mixing mumbled ‘’Scuse me’s’ to those she stumbled over with shouts at the two kids.
Leah clicked her tongue sympathetically. ‘That’s not going to stop any time soon.’ She let the bag drop to the floor again, this time between her feet. Her face became more pensive, and faintly morose. ‘I wonder if we were the same, before the Project. If whatever families we had – our real ones, or the adoptive or foster ones the Doc said some of us came from – had to wrangle us. Or if we were more the rare, quiet types.’
‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ Greg said, setting a hand atop his bag. Hopefully lingered unspoken. There were no guarantees about what the canister contained; they’d known that before setting out. All they knew with any certainty was that it came from the Project, which made it priceless all on its own. Once they could get it open…
They sat quietly amid the hubbub, their outward calm belying their readiness. After a bit, Leah hesitantly broached another question: ‘Do you think it’s true? What the… tests said, before we left?’
‘No idea,’ Greg replied solemnly. He was staring straight ahead. ‘We thought it was impossible for the inhibitors to wear off. But it happened, and is happening, to everyone.’
She leaned closer, brushing his arm with her fingertips. He didn’t react, at least not in any obvious way. ‘If they’re…’ She hesitated, then forged on: ‘If the preliminary tests we ran are right, what would you want to—’
Before she could finish, Greg’s arm wrapped around her shoulders. He pulled her closer, and pressed his lips against hers, hard. She stiffened, startled. He broke the kiss, shifting so that they were nuzzling cheek-to-cheek. ‘Tall guy, behind your left shoulder,’ he murmured. ‘Black hair, brown overcoat. Standing by the old Starbucks spot, holo-reader in right hand.’
Leah’s hand tightened on his lapel. ‘How long?’ she murmured.
‘Since the bus, maybe longer. Then four spaces behind you in line, and twenty yards behind at the counter.’
She moved back a little, gazing into his eyes as she stroked his cheek with her left hand, joining him in character. Her right reached into her coat, closing on the grip of her pistol. ‘Any others?’
‘None in sight.’ He placed his free hand on her wrist. ‘He could just be a scout, or a suspicious Fed. Whatever he is, he won’t make a move here.’
‘And if he’s got friends? Or jumps on the ride?’ she whispered, letting some of her anxiety show.
‘Too many around us, if he does. And it’s two against one – even the Pentagon wouldn’t send a solo agent to face two of us. And they won’t risk derailing a train to stop us… except if it was a ride built for two.’
Donning a bright smile, Leah gripped the hair at the back of his head. He winced at the fingernails digging into his scalp. ‘So we keep going?’ At his nod, she let go, still smiling. To anyone else, they were just another young couple, stealing a kiss before the long ride.
Above them, the loudspeaker suddenly blared. ‘Now boarding, Capitol Limited, with service to Chicago, and intervening stops. Please have all luggage at hand, and ready for storage if requested. In accordance with the National Emergency and Defense Act of 2035, all items and persons boarding may be searched as demanded by Amtrak personnel, and—’
Tuning this out, Greg got his feet, looping the duffel strap across his body; Leah did the same. Discreet manoeuvring brought them near the head of the column, just a few spaces down from the seniors and soldiers who were being given first passage. Passing through the doors, Greg looked up at the polished metal of the gate’s arch. The brown-coated man was in line, holo-newsreader tucked under one arm and a small suitcase in his left hand; camouflage, or additional weapons. The reflection was warped and distorted, but he could just make out the man’s black hair, day-old stubble, and visor-like silver-framed glasses. Two deep, pale scars ran up both sides of his neck, ending just below his jawline.
Since they had tickets but no seats reserved in advance, Greg and Leah headed toward the rear cars—‘cattle loaders’ was the term, nowadays. Before stepping up onto the car’s stairwell, Greg cast another look around. No sign of Brown Coat. Probablypicked another spot, waiting for us to separate or otherwise go lax. At Leah’s impatient tug on his hand, he climbed up the steps.
The seats were arranged three to a row on the left, two on the right; they picked the latter. Seeing that Leah was taking the window seat, Greg held out his bag to her. ‘Better that we switch,’ he murmured, still wearing the happy expression. ‘A little extra protection.’ She nodded, and took it, her smile becoming more strained.
After one last look up and down the aisle, he sat down. Without taking his eyes off the door at the far end, he unzipped his jacket and pulled his shirt free. Reaching underneath, he grasped the knife hilt. The clinger came loose at once, and he twisted the blade under his wrist and up his jacket sleeve. One jerk of his arm, and nine inches of pure murder would sprout from his hand. At his right, Leah made the same preparations, and stuffed the bag between her armrest and the window. She murmured. ‘So we stay here, for the full trip?’
Greg nodded. ‘He comes in here, we move past him – there’s no other way – and head to the lounge car. Short of jumping off mid-stop, there’s no sure way of avoiding him, in the Chicago station or anywhere else. So we stay in the spots with plenty of people, and arm space.’
She nodded, a single dip of her chin. Then she surprised him with a soft snort of laughter. ‘Good thing I hit the bathroom before we left.’
Their hands brushed together. A keening whistle note sounded from the loudspeakers, followed by the fainter shout of ‘All aboard!’ from the conductor at the end of their car. Leah settled back in her seat, eyes half-closed as she stared out the window. To anybody else, she looked to be falling asleep – but if there was even a hint of danger in the car, she would be up and moving in less than a second, weapons or hands at the ready, same as him. And not all that’s from the genes or training, Greg thought, with a flash of smugness.
That flash disappeared, almost instantly. And it wouldn’t be needed, if we’d led normal lives. But the Doctor keptthat from us– him and all the rest at the Facility. Now the last of us are left wandering the country– hell, the world– after being left for dead, for God knows what reason, and being hunted by shadow-men: again, God knows why.
Leah’s hand slipped into his again, jerking him out of his reverie. Looking her way, he saw she was still staring at the now-moving urban landscape, that half-asleep expression still on her face. He smirked. She always did have me dialled in, and knew how to cool me off. Squeezing back, he sank more comfortably into his seat, watching the far-end door, and the one behind them through the window reflection. Eight hours to Chicago. After that seven-day‘meditation’outside Urumqiin ’35with Hiroshi– to name just one– it shouldn’t be hard to sit through one train ride. He squeezed the hilt of his knife. I hope.
Chapter 4
4:00pm
Somewhere Outside D.C.
The car braked, wheels squeaking. Hargrove opened the door and stepped out. The building in front of him might almost have been a twin to the one in the District – nearly the same exterior, and close to the same layout. The parking lot was packed with cars. People in everyday clothing were streaming in and out of the double glass doors
at the front.
The lobby was unremarkable, with a few blue-cushioned chairs and couches arranged before a wide reception desk emblazoned with the old Advent logo: a merged capital A and T, set against a dark blue circuitry hologram and flanked by two double helixes. A small number of office workers were clustered around the bank of elevators at the end of the room, or moving between the offices on either side. At the sight of Hargrove, these people moved back or retreated into various rooms, giving them a wide berth. Some stared, either at Hargrove or the thickset guards. Hargrove only smiled, nodding politely to those he passed. He’d been in de facto charge of the place since the Pulse, and a power before then. Even without the Agency’s recognition, he was the boss, here.
He stepped into the closest elevator. The two guards moved in behind him. The ride down was uneventful for the first few minutes. Once or twice the doors opened, and one or more workers would start to board, but immediately pull back when they saw who was already aboard. Hargrove just kept smiling, enigmatically. On the display above the doors, each floor ticked off. Lobby. Basement. Sub-Basement. Garage. Auxiliary Garage.
When the last faded from the screen, the car came to a sudden halt. All the buttons went out. Hargrove pressed his thumb to a square light box above the main panel. A faint beep sounded, and the light recessed into the wall, sliding up to reveal a keypad and microphone. He typed in a code, and spoke slowly and clearly. ‘Simon Hargrove. Specialist.’ Another beep, then a loud thunk. At once, the car resumed its descent, much faster this time. No floor names or numbers appeared on the display.
When the doors slid open, a huge, two-floor room was laid out before them. The lower level was packed with desks, holo-terminals, servers and other machines. A dozen offices and conference rooms made up the second floor, accessible by a metal walkway curving in either direction along the wall and coming together in a wide staircase in front of the elevators. The air was a low buzz of murmuring voices, humming hard drives and the occasional whir of printers. Slinging his jacket over one arm, Hargrove motioned for the guards to wait, and started down the walkway. Here and there people looked up to glance at him, then looked back to their work, as though they didn’t want to meet Hargrove’s gaze for too long.
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