Operation Blackout

by J. L. Middleton

  He knew better than Cassie that there was no help for her. After the first incident, he had taken to the Internet, registering on various forums to ask questions when he couldn’t find information, and he’d even utilized New York City’s finest libraries to do some old-fashioned research. He had come across mention of “Others”—people with extraordinary, sometimes supernatural abilities—but the only thing he’d discovered was that they were dangerous. Ancient texts matter-of-factly reported that Others self-destructed when they used their powers, often taking numerous innocents with them and mostly on their first attempt at control. In the ancient world, they were as feared as comets, which were thought to be the portents of evil, and they were seen as cursed by the gods.

  Modern texts were less sensational, but they were no more educational. A speculative report on one of these Others unhappily reminded Orion of Cassie’s experience with the mugger and how the incident could have gone: The Dyatlov Pass Incident was well known in paranormal circles as a mysterious event in which ten people appeared to have been killed by a supernatural force in the taiga. Most of the victims clearly fled unprepared and even barefoot into freezing conditions, driven away from their mountaineering equipment by fear, and were subsequently killed by exposure. A handful of their bodies bore signs of intense trauma, including severe skull and chest fractures, and one person was missing her eyes and tongue, but the murder instrument was never found, and the case remained unsolved. However, those who were researching Others later discovered a testimony from a lost hiker who was found in the same general area with minimal gear despite ambient temperatures being below zero. Direct interviews with her were pointless; her mind was gone. Nonetheless, the authorities managed to piece together enough from her babbling to write an official report and file it away to be forgotten. When experts on Others uncovered the report, they hypothesized that her testimony contained the missing pieces of the Dyatlov Pass Incident and explained the force that had killed the party: the lost woman, a probable cryokinetic. She had been a last-minute addition to the official party who had later become embroiled in an argument that had led to an icy confrontation with one of the women during their final night at camp. When one of the men had tried to intervene, things had escalated until the rest of the party had fled or had been killed. Panicked by the night’s events, the woman had fled into the wilderness alone.

  The Dyatlov Pass Incident appeared to be the norm with Others, which provoked researchers to recommend that they all be destroyed. A minority suggested that they could be trained and turned into weapons, but most saw this action as a dangerous gambit. The only hope Orion had found had been in the fleeting mentions of a group called SION, whose name echoed a rumored shadow agency called the Bureau of Special Interests (BSI), whose purpose was to exterminate Others. While the latter agency existed, its official website shed no light on its true purpose, so Orion had been unable to independently verify the sinister charge against it. In contrast, SION had been linked to terrorist activity, including purportedly causing the 2010 Deepwater Horizon oil spill by sabotaging and setting fire to the pipes. Circulated SION pamphlets insisted that the organization’s cell in the area had felt pressured, that the incident was only a show of force, and that the Others should be left to live in peace. Considering the extent of economic and environmental damage to the area, the terrorism charge against SION was not implausible, and it was not the only time that the Network was associated with a widespread disaster.

  Orion could not get Cassie help from characters such as these. The BSI might execute her if it caught her, and SION would indoctrinate her into its terrorist cell. He needed to find a suitable teacher for her outside of those channels, but locating an unaffiliated mentor would be difficult.

  A sharp pain brought his mind back to the present and what he had been doing. Fresh blood gushed from deep wounds that he had cut into his thumb and forefinger; he figured that the gash was at least one inch deep, and he was aggravated that he had been so careless. He set the knife down and pinched the skin together, ignoring the blood spilling out and flowing over his clean hand. Instead, he closed his eyes and imagined the severed edges reaching out to each other, pulling themselves closer, and knitting together flesh, muscles, and blood vessels alike. He wiped the wasted blood away to inspect his handiwork. With a small amount of satisfaction, he began to repair the second cut. The damaged skin healed and showed no residual signs of injury, which meant that his skills were improving.

  He had known of his power since they had discovered Cassie’s. He estimated that she’d given him the equivalent of a second-degree sunburn all over his exposed skin. The skin that had been covered by his clothes had been only tender and dry, but the skin of the hand that had held the lighter had peeled away to reveal the layer of fat beneath it. However, he had also discovered his own reflexes: His skin had accelerated its recovery and had become pink and new within minutes, though it had also needed to be moisturized. Like Cassie, he had never used his powers for fear of losing control. He couldn’t imagine what that might mean, what losing control could do, but he’d been unwilling to risk hurting Cassie, and it had instead become a secret that they shared.

  He shook his head. If his thoughts were not on his actions, then he would only hurt himself if he kept using the knife. He didn’t hear any movement upstairs, so it was possible that Cassie had actually gone to sleep, and this meant cleaning the kitchen might wake her. He placed the sullied cutting board and knife in the sink and the unfinished lunches in the refrigerator; he could wake up early and finish those tomorrow. His attention might be better served if he turned it to his homework, of which he had plenty. With a hefty sigh, he headed upstairs, pausing briefly at his sister’s door to listen for any sound before continuing to his room.

  - - -

  Cassie was mortified. She lay awake in the center of her bed, sheets tangled around her legs, and stared at the ceiling. She hadn’t bothered to undress, simply tossing her bag in the corner before throwing herself on the mattress.

  She had never asked for her abilities. She had developed a fear of lighters and open flames since the incident with her brother and avoided anything she thought might catch fire. Perhaps it was the lingering remnants from a nightmare, but she could still see the world in fuel sources. She felt every pilot light in the building and knew every burning lamp. Her neighbors had even lit candles for a romantic evening and had allowed them to burn down to their bases. She felt their flames dying, and she knew that if she reached out, she could coax a real blaze from them. The urge to touch their heat was intense; yet, she was terrified that something bad would happen again… that she would lose control and cause the whole building to go up in an inferno.

  Her brother didn’t know, and she rarely admitted it to herself, but her curiosity would sometimes take hold of her, and she experimented with stretching the limits of her ability and control. These brief bouts of inquisitiveness rarely lasted long before fear set in. She would manipulate sparks and flames for hours, sometimes days, and had even once passed a week in obsession over her abilities. She had learned how to influence a fire and convince it to expand beyond the normal limitations imposed by fuel and oxygen. She could bend flames at will, but the effect never lasted; memories of the flash fire and her brother’s crisp skin would resurface, and fear would consume her. Those images would now be complemented by that of the mugger: his surprise, anger, terror, and anguish. The smell of burning flesh was still in her nostrils, and the sounds of fat popping under heat resonated in her ears. She didn’t even know humans could burn like that.

  The flash fire had ruined her relationship with her brother. She had discovered that she was different, had nearly lost her brother, and had learned that he was also a freak all in the same afternoon. Her newfound abilities were one thing, but watching her brother heal the burns across his skin begged so many questions. If he could heal so quickly, what were his limits? Was he even
human? If he wasn’t human, was she?

  She finally looked at the clock and saw that it was after two in the morning. She thought they had returned to the apartment around midnight, so it was likely that she had dozed a little. She hoped that this was indeed the case, as it would mean that she’d have gotten some rest for the following day. Her mind was buzzing, and she doubted she would return to slumber. Frustrated, she rose and turned on her computer.

  During one of her experimental phases, Cassie had stumbled upon the Outcast Support Network, a candid source of information, where she’d discovered that there were more people like her who exhibited a variety of special abilities. The site had provided her with tips on how to cope with her talents, whether she chose to develop or hide them, and there had been a forum where she had been able to pose her own questions. In the latter area, she’d come across a wealth of evidence regarding a concealed war between two sides. Neither party had been named explicitly, and she’d quickly learned that anyone requesting or mentioning that information would be banned, but she’d come to realize that one side was, without a doubt, the government. While the common consensus was that the government abducted Others, there was debate over what happened to them. Supporters of the government believed that they were trained on how to use their powers, while naysayers believed that they were simply “disappeared.” Regardless, the missing Others never seemed to reappear.

  Cassie had soon decided not to participate in any discussions, especially since she’d never gleaned any valuable information about the sides; it had been more opinion and conjecture than facts. However, she’d still advanced her knowledge about her abilities, and she had also connected with a confidant named Sone. Although he had been unable to teach her directly and had refused to meet with her in person, she had felt comfortable speaking to him about her condition. He’d refrained from using any modern messengers or texting devices, including email, so she’d been able to contact him solely through the site. Since he was not online at the moment, she decided to compose a private message, in which she laid bare her feelings about the night’s events. She feared that the mugger’s image would haunt her and further undermine her rudimentary control, but she was also proud that she had employed enough discipline to defend herself without causing collateral damage to the area. She expressed concern that her reflexive action had created such a powerful response beyond the limits she’d previously been capable of. She knew that Sone would be impressed with her improved proficiency, even if he’d be a bit callous about the man’s death, and would give her guidance on how to improve.

  - - -

  Amanda Darling-Whitcomb sat in a secluded section of the restaurant. Her vantage point not only allowed her a decent view of the city below but also enabled her to see no fewer than three television screens, all of which were tuned to different news stations. It was her habit to keep apprised of world events, especially anything that might pertain to New York City, and she often kept one station tuned to the stock exchange. It was a prudent decision for the mayor, and remaining knowledgeable about world events, developing situations, and the like would help in her bid for senator the following year.

  She was not an unusual ornament in the restaurant as she enjoyed her coffee and breakfast while her staff prepared for the day. She would often dine with someone of importance, be it a fellow policy maker, a businessman, or someone else of influence, but it wasn’t extraordinary to see her dining alone. She used those days to take an extra hour or two to rejuvenate herself so she could be the best she could be.

  Amanda was not simply charismatic; she was special—and not just because she was born into the influential Connecticut Darlings. She had been bred to have no ambitions of her own; she was simply to marry, bear wealthy children, support her future husband’s career, and continue the Darling dynasty, even if it was under another Connecticut family’s name. She had obeyed these tenets for most of her adult life, meeting and marrying Johnathan Whitcomb in college and moving to New York City to support his bid for political office. Upon the birth of their first child, she immediately reported to the gym to lose weight and become flawless again, as was expected of a well-bred trophy wife.

  However, fate had other plans in store for her: Around her fifth mile on the treadmill, Amanda became overwhelmed with conflicting and powerful emotions and fainted. At first, she thought she had simply overdone it after her antenatal hiatus, but as the gym staff fussed over her, she came to realize that the potent sensations she felt were coming from around her and were not a result of postnatal hormones. The subsequent weeks were equally intense, as the rest of her abilities stirred from their long dormancy. Strangers’ emotional states assaulted her until she learned to filter out and diminish the flood of new information that she perceived around her. She also discovered that she could manipulate her pheromones, however slightly, and with practice, she used her newfound abilities in concert to influence the will of others. Her excellence as a wife increased to perfection as she supported and eventually began driving her husband’s career from mayor to senator and, subsequently, the prime contender for running mate to the Democratic Party’s presidential candidate.

  Then, it came crashing down abruptly. Johnathan was mysteriously assassinated before his selection as Vice President was officially announced. The culprit fled and was killed in a violent shootout with the police. His confiscated diaries revealed a dangerously unhinged mind but offered no motive for going after the Connecticut mayor. Public sympathy was at an all-time high for the newly widowed Amanda, who reclaimed the American blue blood of her maiden name by hyphenation, and she rode the wave of empathy to the New York mayoral office. While it was a few steps down from where her husband had been, she knew how to build a power base in her own name, and in a few years, the former beauty queen could skip all the interim stepping-stones and make a run for the presidency herself.

  This morning, she dined with Jack Everest, a lawyer from the prominent Milton, Chadwick, and Waters. He was not an especially tall man, and he had a slight build to match. He had boyish features with a mop of bright blond hair and piercing blue eyes, and she couldn’t quite place his light English accent, which, combined with his looks, made him quite charming. Despite his charisma and popularity with those he met, she knew that he had a sinister side that belied his seemingly young age of thirty. He knew how to mine information and piece it together to construct a picture that no one else could see. He had somehow known that she would need his assistance, even before she had recognized the need herself, and he had approached her like a concerned friend or, in retrospect, more like an agent of the Devil. While she had been young and foolish to take his offer and was now in his debt, an older, wiser Amanda still considered his solution to have been the most elegant. The old Amanda would never have come up with the plan on her own, leaving her to suffer the humiliation quietly, and in the unlikely event that she had acted on her own, she would not have had the resources to conceal the crime. Jack Everest had optimized the best possible outcome for her.

  He had also taught her how to become ruthless, which had helped her nascent ambition and political career. Unfortunately, his assistance had not been altruistic; it turned out that he was only an associate one makes out of necessity. She had no leverage against him and quickly learned that he was mysteriously immune to her pheromones. He was secretive, and even the numerous private investigators she’d hired had failed to ferret out any information other than what was known to the public. Yet, he continued to exploit information about her that was hard to collect. They had formed an unstable alliance over the years—uncertain for her and indiscernibly beneficial to him. This was why they were sitting together now.

  For the first thirty minutes that they were together, Jack sipped his tea like a gentleman and made polite, easy conversation about topics ranging from the weather to her recent political victories. As one of her staunchest supporters, he had convinced Milton, Cha
dwick, and Waters, of which he was a partner, to make donations to her campaign; it was in this way that he was also an ally. He nibbled idly on the snacks accompanying their tea, speaking as eloquently as she imagined he did in court in front of the jurors. When he emptied his cup, he set it and the saucer down gently on the table, wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin, and set it beside the saucer. He had not eaten much, neither of the breakfast nor the biscuits that had come with the tea. Though he leaned against the back of his chair and draped his arms casually over its sides, he was anything but relaxed as his expression darkened and his handsome brow furrowed. “Now that we’ve completed the pleasantries, I think it’s time we get down to the business of the day, Ms. Whitcomb,” he began in an affable voice, but Amanda instinctually placed herself on edge. Despite nothing being overtly menacing about Jack’s demeanor, an impalpable shift in the air caused her to recoil whenever he dropped his urbane pretext. She felt a tiny twinge of fear creep up on her, pinpricking her skin and causing the hairs on the back of her neck to stand at attention. She could never articulate what caused her apprehensive reaction, so she often chose to ignore it. What she could not ignore, however, was the loathing she felt when he made plain her subservient position, as he often did during these meetings, and she had to chastise herself since she tolerated his surreptitious torment during their frequent public encounters. A private conversation was no different, no matter how humiliated she might feel.

  She nodded in response. “If you like, Mr. Everest, but I cannot tarry for more than a few more moments. I’m afraid I must leave shortly for the office, as I have a meeting with the City Authority.” She kept her tone indifferent, despite the surge of emotions she felt boiling inside; it was a beneficial skill that she’d developed as a politician. “Perhaps it would be better to postpone?” she suggested hopefully.