Operation Blackout

by J. L. Middleton

  As much as it would amuse him to torment a future Amanda Darling-Whitcomb-cum-Everest, he would most likely choose an Other with a lower profile to dally with. He could not afford to become more notable than he already was, for in the coming decade, he would have to fake his death to start anew and avoid drawing suspicion to his agelessness, and he could safely manipulate the life of a woman, or even make her disappear, if she had never been in the public spotlight. All that remained was to make a choice, which was not easy; there were few identified Others who were not monitored by the BSI or SION, and pre-Dane, it was rare for Others to survive long enough to pass on their genes.

  He became aware of a shape skulking in the doorway and knew it was one of his underlings who was prudently fearful to catch his attention. Even though he had not killed the last messenger, his brutal reputation had been reinforced when he’d consumed an entire division of his surveillance team. It had been their job to watch his progenies and keep them from the BSI’s sight; the loss of Pierce had been bad enough, but they had failed to stop the apprehension of his grandchildren and had cost him decades of planning and investment. He was not a forgiving deity when angered.

  “What is it?” he snapped, penetrating his underling with his intense gaze.

  “Good news,” the lackey stammered, handing him the sheath of papers. His shaky tone stabilized as he explained that it was Connor’s latest report, which differed from the official version. His laptop had been infected with software that logged keystrokes mostly to mine more data on the agency—particularly login information for the BSI database—but in this case, it had captured more than they had intended.

  Jack read over the expunged report about his grandson’s ambiguous resurrection. Connor’s characteristic detailing of the incident appeared alongside what seemed to be an aborted justification to spare him. Connor had afforded no sympathy for his self-proclaimed friend, yet he may have pleaded for Starr’s life, and the abrupt shift in tone intrigued him, just as it had with Brian Chamberlain. However, Connor’s apparent capriciousness would be analyzed later; he was a consistent reporter, even if he was morally unreliable.

  The importance of the discovery lay in his grandson’s restoration. He had written off his descendants as a total loss: The only one who could harvest souls was dead, and the other two couldn’t even be secured as food sources. Connor’s theory changed things. Jack had acquired accelerated healing years ago, but he had never tested its threshold, and he was now fortuitously presented with a testbed for probable curative and regenerative limits. If Orion exceeded his expectations, Jack would risk exposure to acquire his greater capability, but even if Connor had overestimated the child’s worth, his discovery was still valuable. His grandson had developed an ability similar to one of Jack’s stolen skills, which suggested that his future descendants may also inherit Jack’s acquired traits; it would, therefore, behoove him to also explore this possibility.

  Part VII

  Code Name: Bhoot

  Sitara Shah was tired of being the one who worked hard and late for “exposure” and a small paycheck, but she didn’t have much choice if she wanted to have her art displayed. Besides, she had discovered that she was a talented curator, even if her official position was only that of an assistant to the owner. Félicité was a decent gallery owned by Moise Kabamba, a brilliant artist who specialized in stone and wood sculptures. Though only his works had been displayed when Félicité had first opened, he had begun to exhibit the collections of talented, lesser known artists and had created a following of loyal fans who were eager to see who he’d discover next. His willingness to gamble on newcomer artists was what had attracted Sitara to him in the first place, and she’d accepted her job as the first step toward obtaining her own show.

  She did not know what her current standing was toward her goal, but she had progressed up the professional ranks, despite some minor setbacks, and her exposure to other painters allowed her to tweak and perfect her techniques. She was not classically trained, having simply picked up a brush out of sheer boredom during her reclusive teenage years, and had taken only a handful of classes, so she was grateful for her progress and the networking she had accomplished.

  She heard giggling and running footsteps behind her and shook her head. “Billee, don’t run inside,” she scolded without looking up from the checklist on her clipboard. “You need to behave just a little while longer, and then we’ll be able to go home and play,” she promised, flashing a slight smile in his direction before heading into the main construction room.

  Mr. Kabamba had managed to purchase more space, so Félicité was undergoing a partial renovation to join it with the lot next door. The south wing had been closed, and they were still in the early stages, removing art installations from the walls and ceiling and trying to preserve whatever moldings and appurtenances Mr. Kabamba wanted to keep. The wood floor was going to be torn up and replaced, so no one had bothered to protect it, and it already had scuff marks from furniture and scaffolding.

  “Are you almost done?” she asked, looking up from her clipboard. She walked the floor frequently, sometimes checking on patrons or displays but mostly for her own pleasure, and she liked to try to multitask. Her inattention to her footsteps often caused her to bruise a hip on a corner or bark her shin several times, but her work stroll was a practice that she intended to continue. This time, however, it caused her surprise as she noted that there was only one laborer on the scaffolding when she thought there should have been at least three. “Oh my God!” she exclaimed. “Are you the only one here, Otis? Shouldn’t someone be holding the uh…” She gestured helplessly toward the planks that had been loosely laid over the interlocked metal framework, both of which looked suspiciously rickety at the moment.

  “Don’t worry about it, Ms. Shah,” replied the older man. He slammed his foot down on the slat beneath him several times, earning a solid echo and a nervous grimace from Sitara. “This thing is pretty solid, and I was just finishing some stuff up before I headed home for the night,” he reassured her. “I’ll come get you when I’m done so you can lock up,” he promised, turning back toward the wiring that secured the sculpture to the ceiling.

  “Okay,” she replied uncertainly. “Don’t be long. I want to go home soon,” she added with a teasing smirk and then continued on her rounds. After ensuring that no lingering patrons remained, she headed back to her office to reread the latest draft on the displays she needed to submit for publication on Félicité’s website.

  There was a sudden cacophonous crash, like a muted thunderstorm on a tin roof, and she realized, to her horror, that the scaffolding had collapsed. She raced across the gallery and into the room, dodging rolling paint canisters that had cracked open under the weight of the metal bars and spilled their contents across the floor. She immediately saw the twisted body of the construction worker in the center of the floor and pulled out her cell phone to dial for help. “Don’t worry, Otis. An ambulance is coming,” she comforted him, navigating her way carefully through the expanding puddle of paint to kneel by his side. Her eyes searched frantically for her brother, but she relaxed when she felt his arms wrap around her and his face nuzzle her neck as he started to cry. She embraced him, relieved, and began murmuring reassurances while answering the 911 operator’s questions.

  - - -

  The drive home from Scotts Ridge was sepulchrally silent as Connor found himself locked in deep thought. Orion, for his part, was satisfied with staring out the window at the passing landscape when he wasn’t delivering driving directions, and Connor tried not to look directly at him.

  Connor was an agent of the BSI, which protected civilians against supernatural threats, and this meant that he had to make hard decisions. Anyone who posed a threat against the population had to be neutralized no matter their age or circumstances. He knew this and believed in this, so why had he faltered in Scotts Ridge?

>   In the privacy of his own mind, he could admit the reason to himself: He liked Orion Starr. He knew him and was familiar with the challenges of his situation, so Connor had lost his critical impartiality with this subject, and his emotions were now affecting his judgment. If he compromised with Orion, who else might he compromise with in the future? Who might those decisions endanger?

  He realized that he was only agitating himself further by tangling his line of thought with self-chastisement, and he took a step back to look at the state of affairs from a different angle. There was no clear evidence that the events at Primrose had progressed the way Connor had believed they had; he knew that his perception had been compromised not only visually but also emotionally. The whole episode had been a traumatic experience, from reliving his deployment to having an armed confrontation with his former friend.

  To regain objectivity, he had to differentiate between what was documented truth and what he had observed: Orion had extraordinary regenerative abilities, the limits of which had not yet been tested; Sone could generate over two hundred decibels, which was enough to cause catastrophic internal bleeding; and Connor had seen the cracked plaster and debris covering Orion’s unconscious body. In contrast, he had caught only a glimpse of Orion as he’d been propelled backward; therefore, he could not be certain that Sone’s strike had solidly impacted his chest. It could have been a glancing blow—one that Orion’s natural healing could have easily countered—that had forced him into a weakened wall, and there was no need to overreact.

  Connor had still been recovering from the day’s high emotional strain when he’d drawn his flawed conclusion in the hotel room, so in retrospect, it had been the appropriate decision to erase his report on Orion’s alleged resurrection. Since there was no evidence that the natural balance of life and death had been violated, there was no reason to recommend euthanasia for Orion. Connor had acted correctly, but his conscious mind needed time to process the day’s events and reach the same conclusion that his instinct had determined.

  “Agent Connor?” The sound of his name shook him from his reverie, and he turned his attention to his partner. “I said, ‘Thanks for the ride.’”

  Connor forced a smirk. “’S no problem,” he replied. “I’ll, uh, pop in tomorrow to check on you.”

  “It’s not necessary,” Orion assured him. “I told you I’m fine.”

  He stretched his smile wider, straining both his mouth and calm veneer. “Who said I didn’t just want to see your happy face?” Orion sighed deeply in response, but Connor knew that he appreciated the attention; it was unfortunate that his subsequent visits would also be to monitor his health and the boundaries of his ability. The younger man shut the car door and headed into his apartment building, and Connor pulled into traffic and sank back into his thoughts.

  While euthanasia was not the proper recommendation for Orion Starr, it was often the correct answer for different Others. There were many Others who, like Aaron Grimm, could not control their powers or who, like Brian Chamberlain, were simply too dangerous to be allowed to live. It was clear that Connor needed to review cases of dangerous individuals like these because he had hesitated in Scotts Ridge, even if he had ultimately made the correct decision. Connor needed to be confident in his evaluations and not spend hours second-guessing himself after the fact, and the best way to reclaim his objectivity was through reacquainting himself with the reason he’d joined the BSI.

  He returned the rental car and took the subway back to his chartered apartment, where he immediately connected to the BSI database and began downloading the most deadly cases of Other activity. He intentionally skipped Tinder’s file, knowing that it would only confuse his feelings and his determination to reinforce his belief in the BSI mission. He decided to begin with the older cases in the bureau’s history and work his way forward. Following the Cokeville Miracle, the first subject whom the newly formed BSI had failed to detect had been Ignition, who had spontaneously combusted in a railcar and caught the R6 Ivy Ridge Line on fire just past Cynwyd Station. The conflagration had killed five passengers, and another twelve had suffered from burns and smoke inhalation. Ignition had been taken into custody, and the Southeastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority had temporarily suspended travel on the line due to “poor track conditions” while it had repaired the damage. Like many Others before him, Ignition had been euthanized due to his deficient control over his ability.

  Connor realized to his displeasure that many failed subjects were pyrokinetics, and unsettled by the similarity to Tinder and Cassiopeia Starr, he elected to avoid reading them now. Perhaps he wouldn’t visit Orion tomorrow after all; they both needed a break from the job, and the free time would allow Connor to continue reviewing cases uninterrupted. After a few days of sequestration, the remainder of Connor’s doubts would be extinguished, and his dedication to the BSI mission would be rekindled, both of which would be for the best.

  - - -

  Tom Bryerly paced nervously in the back room of H.W. Pallas & Sons as he waited. He normally didn’t venture to Long Island, choosing to stick to the familiar streets of Manhattan, but Mr. Lionhart’s operations were based in Astoria, where the solid middle class acted as a buffer for his dealings and where he had access to a wide variety of immigrant populations, some of which were more eager to make illicit incomes than others. In fact, ties to the old country were very useful to Mr. Lionhart—or so Tom had heard.

  The shop itself was nice and cozy, appealing to a clientele who may not have worn suits often but who believed that they should own at least one for special occasions. Nikos Pallas, the current owner, was a charismatic older gentleman who had sold Tom a suit the first time he’d visited. He’d offered to tailor it for free and had even taken the time to help him select the cut and color that would be most flattering to his build and complexion. Though Tom had not become a regular customer, he’d kept the store’s card in his wallet and had given the business the occasional recommendation. He tried not to imagine how the Pallases had become involved with Mr. Lionhart.

  The door to the staircase opened, and a dour man, known as Graves, waved him upward. Tom climbed the stairs reluctantly, as he had done many times before, swallowing and patting his clammy hands on his pants. Mr. Lionhart often kept his business dealings secret, using enforcers to collect his due rent or debts, but he met infrequently with the proprietors who owed him money to intimidate them and remind them who he was, and it was during one of these visits that Tom had first encountered Mr. Lionhart’s truly monstrous side. Tom knew from experience that the man could be vicious, even if he seldom physically involved himself when doling out punishments, because Tom had been beaten within an inch of his life with Mr. Lionhart as the unfeeling audience. Tom had also seen the aftermath of one of his vendettas against a rival who had refused to capitulate: The family had been abducted and taken to one of Mr. Lionhart’s warehouses, where they had been doused in kerosene and burnt alive. Yet none of this had prepared Tom for the day that he literally stumbled across a desiccated corpse in Mr. Lionhart’s office. The husk’s face was frozen in terror, but Tom still recognized the victim as another fellow with extraordinary abilities like himself. He did not know what the man had done to anger Mr. Lionhart nor how the latter had transformed him into a mummy. Throughout the meeting, Tom struggled to ignore the corpse.

  Mr. Lionhart lounged in an old-fashioned cushioned parlor chair that Tom recognized from movies set in the Victorian era. Much of his office reflected similar tastes, from the wide, heavy desk to the intricately carved cabinets to the antique paintings that adorned the walls. Mr. Lionhart swirled some honey-colored liquor around in a tumbler before imbibing a mouthful. “What do you have for me, Thomas?” he asked in the dulcet tones of his normal urbane accent.

  Tom flinched as the dour man took up a guard position at the door behind him, and he averted his eyes from the spot where the mummy had lai
d. He swallowed again before answering meekly, “I couldn’t get in.”

  Mr. Lionhart arched his eyebrows. “And why not? That is your one job, is it not? Otherwise, what use would I have for you?”

  Tom thought to mention the repair shop, which made them both a decent amount of money, but he didn’t think it was prudent to correct him. Instead, he licked his lips and wrung his hands as he explained. “The apartment complex doesn’t rely on traditional locks. They use electronic slide cards and—” He found himself hesitating, as if the word might anger Mr. Lionhart, and he averted his eyes as he added, “humans for initial security. It’s only the apartments themselves that use keys, so I couldn’t really enter the building without getting caught.”

  In Tom’s juvenile days, he’d infiltrated moderately secure homes and establishments whose iron locks had been complemented by human beings. Guards provided a deterrence—they were witnesses who could identify perpetrators and discourage less determined criminal elements—but they could still be distracted. It was conceivable that the young man, dressed in his fine suit from H.W. Pallas & Sons, could talk his way past the doorman and then slip into the building as a “guest.” Electronic countermeasures were ineffective when they were overridden by their human masters. Realistically, however, Tom would bumble his attempt and be shut out at the door.