by James Knapp
I remember this. That was the day I dropped off the case photos for Zoe to look at.
Before Karen could answer, another woman appeared. I thought it was Zoe at first, but it wasn’t. She was small and skinny like Zoe, but her hair was black and her eyes were blue. Like Karen, I didn’t recognize her back then, but I did now.
That’s Penny Blount, one of Ai’s operatives. Penny wasn’t there that day. Karen had gone back inside, and a minute later she left when Zoe came to the door….
“Go back in and tell her he’s here,” Penny said to Karen. “Then get lost.”
Karen nodded, eyes dull, and went back inside. Penny looked up at me.
“You’re a big one,” she said. The pupils of her eyes widened, and I got dizzy. “Why are you here?”
I held up the envelope of evidence I’d brought for Zoe to look at. Without thinking, the words came out of my mouth.
“I believe Zoe may have extrasensory abilities. I want her to look at these.” Penny smiled, genuinely amused.
“That’s rich,” she said. “Okay, sure. Why not?”
She walked away, down the hall. On the way past Zoe’s neighbor’s door, she pounded it twice with her fist.
“Stop in later and make sure nothing this guy drops off goes back to Ai,” she said through the door. “And pay more attention next time. She ODs, and you’re dead.”
The scene dissolved as more code trickled by and the arm twitched again. The dead hand released its grip on the wheel. Behind us, a horn blared.
“What the fuck was that?” Cal asked. The car behind us blared its horn again as I spun the tires and took us through the gap in traffic ahead.
“Are you all right?” Van Offo asked.
“I’m fine.” Sweat had beaded on my brow, and blood was pounding in my head. I clenched my jaw shut, resisting an urge to snap at Van Offo. My shoulder ached like hell. Acid burned in the back of my throat, and bitter saliva formed in my mouth. There was bleed-through, for sure, but I wondered if it wasn’t worse than I thought. I needed to get to Heinlein, or at least back to the FBI to have it checked out, but neither one was an option at the moment.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Calliope watching me. I sucked my teeth and swallowed as the sudden urge to hit something surged, then faded again.
“You looked like you came off the hook there,” she said in a low voice. “You need a tech.”
Not in front of Van Offo, I told her.
“I said I’m fine.” She looked back out the window.
You sure?
Shock, maybe, I said, but I wasn’t convinced. What I’d seen was an old memory that had been wiped, almost like a symptom of Zhang’s Syndrome but only revivors experienced that. Nanoblood contamination could cause a lot of problems, but it was rarely fatal, and even when it was, it didn’t turn people into revivors.
Did it? I watched the black vein bulge across the back of the dead hand as I gripped the wheel.
Van Offo was watching us. Cal looked back out the window.
I got those mods for you, she sent. The ones to run the stealth spokes. You still want them?
Yes. She sent them over. They had military certificates attached, which meant she shouldn’t have them, but I didn’t ask.
“Vesco is dead,” Van Offo said. “I just got confirmation. We lost Pell and Copely too. Noakes is still MIA; he may have been killed in the attack as well.”
A row of connection requests flashed in the bottom of my periphery. Three went out. That left seven unaccounted for. A reporter on the radio continued to rattle off details, his voice loud and stressed.
“ …appear to have been a coordinated series of attacks. I repeat, an as-of-yet-unidentified group initiated a coordinated series of air attacks this morning on the six major police precincts, as well as the FBI Federal Building. From what we understand, these attacks were made by at least seven military Chimera assault helicopters. These helicopters are designed for tight maneuvering and urban combat, each one armed with a chain rail gun and a battery of spitfire missiles…. ”
Seven simultaneous strikes. Fawkes had broken the lines of communication between the local police hubs and the FBI. It would take hours just to pick up the pieces and figure out who was left.
“Those Chimeras are from Heinlein’s airfield,” I said.
A group of people on foot darted into the street between my vehicle and the one in front of it, trying to cross. The sidewalks on either side were full of people who spilled onto the shoulder. Off to the right, a utility vehicle was stuck while trying to merge onto the main road. The driver honked the horn at a group of people on the crosswalk. The girl, Vika, sat in the back, wedged next to Van Offo. She watched out the window, her eyes sleepy. Her full name was Vika Popik. She turned out to be a refugee of sorts. She served a couple years in the Ukrainian army before her father smuggled her out of the country and paid to have a freighter sneak her into the UAC. That was the last time she’d seen him. She had a surplus communications implant that was at least ten years old, and a rudimentary targeting system. The com system didn’t tap the language center, so she had to select letters from a simulated keypad in her HUD, but she was pretty quick at it.
Wachalowski, who’s with you? It was Alice.
Van Offo, Flax, and a civilian.
We lost Noakes. We’re trying to regroup now. I’ve got you on the GPS—there should be a roadblock up ahead of you. Can you see it?
I chirped the siren and flashed the blues, nosing out into the breakdown lane, where an officer in a plastic poncho was directing vehicles. I flashed my badge at him as we approached and he waved us through. I could see a roadblock in the distance off to my left.
Calliope snorted from the passenger’s seat. “This is fucked.”
I see it. Who’s left at the FBI building?
A jet whipped by overhead, causing people on the street to jump and look up as it disappeared behind a high-rise.
No one; they’re clearing out. It got chewed up pretty bad. Electricity, data, and water are all out. They managed to cut over all network and database connections to the backups, and we’re running from there. Just get to the roadblock. Flax’s Stillwell unit is there. They’re waiting for you.
Understood.
She cut the line.
“ …the MX901 50mm magnetic-rail chain gun is capable of firing more than one thousand rounds a minute,” the reporter barked over the radio. “Each round is capable of piercing the armor of most military vehicles, including tanks, which is their primary purpose. As witnessed today, these weapons are also capable of easily penetrating concrete and steel to devastating effect when turned on urban structures…. ”
People had crowded onto the sidewalks, moving like shadows through steam from sewer grates and car exhaust. The normal flow of foot traffic had stopped. Some were trying to see what was happening. Others wanted to pass but couldn’t. People were queued up outside stores. I saw a man squeeze through, carrying a case of bottled water, while another argued loudly with a street vendor in Chinese.
“They’re gonna pop,” Calliope said.
Every face looked scared. There was no violence yet, but panic simmered just below the surface out there. The military presence on the street helped, but with every media outlet broadcasting the carnage, they could see for themselves how bad it was. We’d been hit hard and were still reeling, and everyone knew it.
Something flickered in the corner of my eye, and it took me a second to realize it was the call request I’d left open to MacReady. He’d just picked up.
Use the new circuit. The message flashed in front of me as he cut the link. A new, encrypted connection appeared. I picked up and applied the provided key.
MacReady, where are you?
Inside the Pratsky Building of Heinlein Industries’ campus, he said. We need to be careful. Fawkes is monitoring communications.
What does he want?
I haven’t been able to determine that. To access the defense grid, and
alter the existing revivors using the transmitter array, but I don’t know what his ultimate goal is.
What do you know about Harold Deatherage, Ang Chen, and Dulari Shaddrah? There was a brief pause.
I know who they are.
Harold Deatherage called me during a raid of an illegal test facility and he dropped your name.
He paused again, and I was afraid he might break the connection. Several people ran past the front of the car while a police officer shouted after them. One man stopped in front of us, and I honked the horn.
I know them, he said. The man outside changed direction and ran off.
What is their connection to Fawkes?
I don’t know.
Don’t bullshit me, MacReady. There isn’t time.
I’m not, he said. We worked as a team on a classified project—that’s how I know them. But if they’re helping Fawkes, then that happened without my knowledge.
What project?
The study of Zhang’s Syndrome.
It was my turn to pause. Years ago, MacReady had been the one who first told me about Zhang’s Syndrome. It was believed to be some kind of corruption of revivor memory during reanimation, but Fawkes had identified it for what it really was: erased or manipulated memories that returned to their original state after death. Supposedly, MacReady hadn’t believed that.
The four of you worked on Zhang’s Syndrome?
Among others.
For how long?
It doesn’t matter now, Agent. What matters is that at least part of that team has become convinced that Fawkes is right.
Footage of the attacks was playing across a bank of screens in the window of a nearby electronics store. People were queued up around it as the audio blared through a speaker that sat on the sidewalk outside.
“ …as of yet, no one has claimed responsibility for these attacks, and no demands have been issued,” the reporter said. “Several witnesses confirmed, however, that the helicopters that initiated the attacks were sporting the logo of the private military employed by Heinlein Industries…. ”
So far the FBI had kept Fawkes and the nuclear threat off the radar, but that wouldn’t last. Someone would dig it up. In an hour at the most, the media would be saturated with news of twelve ICBMs aimed down on our heads. Then we’d see real panic.
Fawkes has had men watching us from the inside, I said. I could use a similar advantage right now.
I’ll do what I can.
I need access to a revivor on Fawkes’s command network as well. Can you manage that?
What sort of access?
I’ll need a control spoke and the ability to install custom packages.
He might notice that.
Can you do it, MacReady?
He understands revivor technology very well, Agent. He’ll be scanning for intrusions, but I’ll see what I can do. He’s bringing online units that were being stored in the processing plant. That might be our best bet.
Good, I said. Actually, that’s perfect. The processing plant is where the Leichenesser stores are kept, right?
Each revivor that came off Heinlein’s line was implanted with a seed of the necrotized, flesh-eating substance in case of emergency. Even trace amounts of it would consume a revivor in seconds.
Yes. It’s kept in liquid form in cold storage within the plant itself.
Where is Fawkes based?
Here inside the Pratsky Building.
I want to move some of it from the processing plant to his location.
You’ll never get it close to him, Agent.
I won’t need to. If it hasn’t been gelatinized, it will turn to gas when it hits the air. If I can get it into the climate-control system, will that be enough?
MacReady thought about it for a minute.
That might work, he said.
An alert flashed on the HUD in front of me. The advance team was reporting trouble at Palos Verdes.
“Damn it …”
One last thing, MacReady: do you know anything at all about an effort to reanimate animals? Dogs, specifically?
Animals? No. Even for research purposes, we passed the need for animal trials decades ago. Why? What did you find?
More reports were spilling in from Palos Verdes. At least one revivor had been spotted and was being contained in the building.
“Wachalowski,” Van Offo warned from the back.
“I see it.”
MacReady, I have to go. Get me access to a revivor and at least five good candidates I can use it to spoke to.
I’ll try.
Get back to me as soon as you do.
I cut the connection, trying to find an opening in the lane ahead. Traffic was backed up as far as I could see. We were still blocks away from Palos Verdes.
I nosed into the intersection, where crowds had blocked traffic in both directions, and chirped the siren again. People moved out of the way, scowling and swearing as I inched past. The roadblock was up ahead. Two large military vehicles were wedged there, a gun turret mounted on each with a soldier manning it. A small chopper sat in the middle of a business plaza next to them.
I looked over at Calliope. She had one boot up on the dash and was glaring out the side window.
“You okay?” I asked. She didn’t answer.
“ …tally at each of the seven sites places the initial death toll somewhere around three hundred—”
Calliope stabbed the radio button with her finger, switching it off.
“Al,” I said over my shoulder. He didn’t answer. I checked the rearview mirror. He looked ashen.
“Al, how’s the neck?”
“Better than your arm.”
Someone nearby leaned on his horn, and a woman screamed back in Spanish. Al rubbed sweat from his face with one hand, and as he took a deep breath, his fingers shook.
Agent Wachalowski, over here.
A man waved from between two trucks off to the right, where the roadblock was set up. I edged the car down another side street and managed to creep along to where they were stationed. Two military vehicles sporting the Stillwell emblem sat in the street, while groups of soldiers kept the emergency lanes clear and watched for signs of trouble. Several soldiers approached as I pulled in and cut the engine. In front was their sergeant, a man named Ramirez.
I shouldered the door open and the others got out behind me. Rotors approached as I headed for the blockade. I held up my badge. Ramirez stepped forward to meet me.
“Agent Wachalowski,” he said, scanning my badge. His eyes flicked to the ashen fingers holding it. “We were told to expect you. I see you brought our soldier back.”
Calliope snapped a salute, and he returned it.
“Welcome back, Flax. We could sure use the help. Singh will fill you in.”
“Sergeant, I need to get to Palos Verdes Estates immediately,” I said. “Can that chopper take me there?”
“Stark Street’s inside a hot zone, Agent,” he said. “That whole area was overrun when the transmission went out.”
“I need to get inside that building.”
He nodded. Light flickered behind his eyes and the men near the helicopter began to scramble.
“Have you in the air in one minute,” he said. “Watch yourself out there.”
Snow, salt, and sand was kicked up, and Vika shielded her face. A soldier inside the chopper gestured for Van Offo and me to get in.
Van Offo, come on. He stood with his back to me.
“Al, we’ve got to go!” I called.
I can’t, Nico. Sorry.
He turned to look at me and swayed on his feet. Sweat was beaded on his forehead in spite of the cold, and dark circles had formed under his eyes.
“Al—”
A red spot appeared in the middle of the gauze patch on his neck and began to expand.
“Medic!” I shouted. Ramirez signaled, and two men sprinted toward us as Al lost his footing. I got an arm around him as he slumped and guided him down onto the cold blacktop.
/> Blood seeped through the gauze patch on his neck. As the medic knelt beside him, I used the backscatter filter and saw a big, dark pocket had formed under the skin where the patch was. He’d hemorrhaged, and was bleeding internally.
“Sir, step back,” the medic said as a second man joined him. I stood and backed away. Al opened a circuit as his eyelids fluttered and closed.
Get going, he said. There’s no time. I told you, I die today. I already knew that.
I nodded.
Zoe will stop him.
What?
He reached blindly with one hand as they tried to staunch the blood.
You will kill Fawkes—that’s what they think—but Zoe will stop him. That’s what she believes.
How? What does that mean?
I pity that girl, he said. All she ever seems to see is death and destruction, with her at its center. It’s too bad.
Al, how does she stop him? For just a second, his eyes got that amused look they sometimes got.
She’s got it bad, for y—
The connection dropped. The medics continued to work on him while the soldier in the chopper signaled to me again. There was nothing I could do. I headed toward them and climbed in.
Cal, I’m going off the grid for a while.
I got it.
Good luck.
You too.
The chopper lifted off, and she scowled up into the wind from the rotors. Off to the side, I saw the medic signal to Ramirez and shake his head. Van Offo had died.
His blank eyes still stared up at the chopper as we lifted off into the air.
Calliope Flax—Avenue De Luz
When the chopper took Nico up, Van Offo bled out and kicked it. I helped wrap him up and get him in the back of the truck, then took the kid to Singh, to see what he wanted to do with her.
“Flax, good to see you in one piece.”
“Yeah, you too.”
“Sorry about your friend,” he said, and jabbed a thumb at the body.
“He wasn’t my friend. I hated that asshole.”
The wind blew and I smelled blood mixed with those shitty cigarettes he smoked.