by Gates, J.
Out one massive plate-glass window, I see something dart behind a tree. I stare, fixated. Was it a bird, a squirrel—or a flying metal something . . . ? I shiver with horror, staring out the window, waiting to see it again, to see a flock of them. Maybe Blackwell knows what I’m doing. Maybe they know why I’m here. . . . But whatever it was outside, it doesn’t reappear. I finally tear my eyes away from the glass, but my brow remains slick with sweat. Of course, I’m just being paranoid.
“May!”
I gasp and wheel around, one fist balled up and ready to strike.
Instead of punching my assailant, I let out an embarrassed breath and slap Randal on the arm. “Bastard!” I say. “You scared me.”
“Wound a little t-t-tight, huh?” Randal says with a wry grin. “What’s wrong, being a hero doesn’t agree with you?”
I give him a confused look.
“It’s been on the imager all day,” Randal continues, his confusion mirroring my own.
“The last thing I saw, Blackwell was thinking I helped some anarchist escape and he was vowing to investigate me,” I say.
“That was this morning,” Randal says. “Now they’re reporting that you gave the Company the information they needed to catch that anarchist. The woman who bombed Headquarters.”
It feels like the ground drops out from under me.
“What?”
“They caught her,” Randal says. “Pretty lady. Too bad she’ll f-fry.”
“What?” I say again.
“You didn’t hear about this? Didn’t you lead them to her?”
“Clair?” I ask, disbelieving. “The woman who kidnapped me? They captured her?”
These are the type of repetitive questions Peakers can’t stomach. Randal groans and looks away from me. His eyes dart and linger in unnatural ways. I watch as the drug drags his mind in a thousand different directions at once. I’ve seen him like this before, but never this bad—he must’ve taken a high dose today. But it’s not him I’m worried about—it’s Clair.
“That can’t be right,” I say.
Randal shrugs, sniffs, rubs his face with his hands, looks impatiently over at the receptionist, who’s watching us a little too closely. The last thing we need is an HR watcher recording our conversation.
“Randal,” I say. “Come here.” I grab his sleeve and drag him a few yards away, behind a gigantic pot containing a fake-flower arrangement. “Listen to me. I have an important question for you, and you have to tell me the truth, okay? It’s very important. Randal?”
He’s looking all around, now glancing at his shoes, now glaring into the skylight above.
“Triangles,” he murmurs, “the strongest shape. For the bio-
adhesives, maybe that’s what we need on that nano-engineering project, yes . . . manipulate the molecules into triangular formations. Probably nothing, but worth trying . . . ”
“Randal, look at me,” I say. “Remember when you were talking about all the money that’s being bled from the Africa project budget?”
“. . . And I have to tell Shawn the idea about the triangular arrangements for digital d-d-d-data, about the processor that runs in three dimensions.”
Randal keeps looking over his shoulder, glancing back and forth, up and down, all around us, as if gripped with a terrible case of paranoia.
“Randal, what have you found out about where that money went?”
He cranes his head and looks around the edge of the plant at the skinny, pale receptionist, and I look over at her, too. We both catch the woman staring, and she quickly averts her eyes and busies herself with her IC.
“Randal, I’m afraid something terrible is happening. I have to know what the Company’s doing with that money.”
“I don’t know. But, hey, if everything can be reduced to d-digital data, and believe me, it can be—assuredly, as terrifying as that is, it can—the whole world reduced to all ones and zeros, forever and ever—maybe it can be reduced even further. Think of that! Say, to only zeros, but different arrangements of them, th-th-three-dimensional arrangements of them, signifying everything around us, everything that is, everything that was, everything that is yet to be, all reduced to its common denominator, its simplest form, a single symbol repeated infinite times. That’s the universe decoded. But reduce it further, and you realize that if that’s the real root of the c-coding—and it is, it pervades everything, this huge ‘O’—this gigantic ring—is the shape of everything. If space, t-t-t-time, life itself curls back on itself and repeats, then that’s what it reduces to: a huge, universal, unified . . . zero.”
“Randal. You’re creeping me out. Just answer the question—what’s that money being used for? Have you ever heard of a division called Black Brands?”
Randal’s eyes snap to mine and his gaze steadies. For a terrible instant, he is utterly lucid.
With eerie slowness, he raises one hushing finger to his lips. Trembling, he makes his hand into an “o” shape. I wonder just how haunting the voice of genius is, ringing inside his skull. Randal doesn’t say another word, but with his eyes he bids me to follow him.
~~~
“Tell me where the money’s going, Randal.”
As we enter Randal’s apartment we pass two massive, carved-stone replicas of ancient Chinese lion sculptures. Randal locks the door behind us then squints at the windows, and they instantly go from clear to an opaque black. Hurriedly, trembling, he looks in the coat closet, slams the bedroom door shut, and then peers suspiciously under the couch.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “You’re acting like a lunatic.”
He doesn’t answer. With his mind, he turns on the imager—Jimmy Shaw is there, standing at his familiar gold-and-pearl-inlaid pulpit with the N-Corp logo on it, warning us about hell and reminding us in his strident, lilting voice that the best cure for restlessness is a hard day’s work and a good read of the Bible. The N-Corp translation, of course.
Randal jacks the volume up in a bone-shaking crescendo.
“What are you—?” I start.
He comes over to me, close. I smell in his sweat the faint, nauseating odor of Peak. He cups his hand and talks into my ear. I can barely hear him over the shouting imager.
“This is the only way we can talk without somebody overhearing. There’s no p-privacy.”
“Who’s going to overhear?” I ask, and then I remember the woman at the front desk.
“Just listen,” Randal says. “Black Brands is a division of the security squad. I’ve been looking into it and you’re right—that’s where the extra m-m-money from Africa Division expansion project is going. To them. How did you know?”
I only shake my head, dismissing his question.
I cup my hand and whisper into his ear, “Black Brands. What do they do?”
We switch, Randal whispering into my ear again.“They develop new t-technologies—mostly weapons and space systems, I think. A few of the guys here have been tapped to work on the program, but it’s secret.”
“Do you think they make little planes? You know, like flying drones that shoot poison darts or something? Could they make something like that?”
Randal shrugs. “Of course. I’ve heard rumors of all k-kinds of things: drones, submarines, neurotoxins that kill on contact. I even heard there’s a satellite that can drop lightning bolts on p-p-people. But why are you asking me? When I told you about the missing money, you d-didn’t even care.”
“Lying,” says Jimmy Shaw on the imager, “is the Devil’s specialty. So is deceit. The Devil wants you to agree with him, so he’s going to say things you want to hear, simple as that. He’s going to show you the easy road. But the path to righteousness is an uphill slope. . . .”
I shift on my feet, take a deep, steadying breath. My headache is starting to come back now, seeping from the t
op of my head down through my neck and shoulders.
“What’s g-going on, May?” Randal asks with almost child-like curiosity.
I put my hands on his flabby biceps, making him face me. “I’m worried about Black Brands, Randal. The Company was supposed to be about making money, giving people everything they want, making their lives better. There should be no reason to make weapons like that. I have to tell my dad about this. But first, I need proof. Where are the offices of these Black Brands people?”
Randal fidgets, sniffs, scratches his head, looking uncomfortable. “They’re here,” he says finally.
“Here? Now?” I look around in fear, Randal’s paranoia infecting my mind.
“Here,” he repeats. “This building. B-bottom floor, Z hall.”
I nod. Cranton is the most secret and secure N-Corp facility in the hub. It makes sense that Black Brands would be located here. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”
Randal smiles that strange, Peaked-out smile. He counts something on his fingers, rubs his face. When he looks back at me, there are tears in his eyes. He motions me to him and says into my ear: “You’re on your own.”
~~~
Heavy autumn leaves burden the horizon. The sky is a sheet of homogenous gray, dark with the threat of impending rain, but there’s a strange stillness in the crisp air. I’m fifteen, wandering home from school, thinking of Kali.
“May,” a whisper turns my head. Seventeen-year-old Randal steps from behind a tree trunk. He nods me over to him, off the path, and leads me away from the crowd of students heading home from N-Academy.
“What’s up?” I ask when we’re out of earshot.
He glances over his shoulder. The movement is smooth—not like the jerky, bird-like movements of the later Randal. He speaks softly, with no stutter: “You have to come with me,” he says. “There’s someone who wants to talk to you.”
“She’d better be pretty,” I say—though I love Kali and Randal knows it. Besides Kali, Randal is the only one in the world who knows I like girls. He usually jokes around with me about it. But apparently, not today. The look Randal throws me is meant to squelch my attempts at comedy. It doesn’t.
“Or is she one of the ones you like? Fat and hairy, with a hunchback and a peg leg?” I do my best impression of Randal’s fictional lover, limping along next to him and making a grotesque face.
He smiles in spite of himself. “Stop it, May.” He quits walking and turns to look at me. “You know who I like,” he says quietly. Our eyes lock for a moment, but he looks away before I can get angry with him. He’s professed his love to me twice before. Twice, I’ve told him it’s never going to happen. He cracks his knuckles, a nervous tick he started because he played piano. He was a beautiful pianist in those days, before he had to give it up. Peak makes your hands shake.
“We better go,” Randal says. “We shouldn’t keep him waiting.” He seems so serious that I’m afraid to ask who it is we’re meeting, and we walk the rest of the way in silence.
We pass out of the school grounds, into a park filled with sickly looking, pollution-stunted trees. We pass in silence down a slippery, muddy path between the groping branches of overgrown shrubs. After a moment, the foliage falls away, revealing a clearing.
Ahead, a fountain. Sitting on its rim, a man.
He looks up but does not rise as we approach. Though he’s not very old—forty, at the most—his hair is already tinged with silver. The bulk of his black overcoat betrays muscular shoulders. His jaw is square, his face handsome, his gaze unflinching.
“May Fields,” he says, but instead of tipping his head as you would expect one to do with that type of greeting, he merely stares.
“May,” Randal says (in those days he was unfailingly polite), “this is Squad member Blackwell.”
Then I recognize him. This man had haunted the fringe of my life for years, passing in and out of my father’s offices, standing in the corner during important press conferences, and dropping by the house late at night for unexpected briefings. He isn’t one of the sniveling, pitiful tie-men who usually fawn over my dad, though—far from it. And he’s not one of those last few rogue government agents who had to be rounded up a few years ago, as I had momentarily feared. No, Mr. Blackwell is none of those reprehensible things. There’s no need to fear this man; he’s one of the good guys. A good Company man, an N-Corp HR agent, a member of the security squad. I smile at him, and he smiles back.
Randal looks at his shoes, sniffs the cold air.
“I’m a friend of your father’s, May,” Blackwell says. “Do you remember me?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Because I’m here on his behalf.”
If I’d had a different father, this might have raised a red flag. Most fathers would never send a surrogate to do their work where their daughters are concerned. But not my dad. A secretary brought me to my baptism. I have the pictures to prove it.
“There’s a very important matter that your father—and the Company—need your help with. I’m sure you’ve heard of HR watchers?”
“Yes.”
“And you know what they do?”
“Yeah. They spy on people. Turn them in for cursing and stuff.”
“Well,” Blackwell says, “sometimes. Sometimes they do more important things than that. They help squadmen enforce Company HR policy. For example, if somebody were going to steal your dad’s car, you’d tell someone, right? And if, say, somebody was going to sabotage a Company product—like an imager—you’d want to stop them, because what if a bunch of people bought the sabotaged imagers and they were defective? Think of how disappointed they’d be. Or if somebody burned down a Company building, then people would have no place to go to work.”
“But why would somebody do something like that to their own Company? That’s stupid,” I say.
“Of course it is. But there are bad people out there who want to hurt the Company, because they don’t understand how many good things we do. Unprofitables. These people are very sick, very confused, very dangerous. And I’m afraid you might know one of them.”
“Who?” I ask, shocked. I glance over at Randal for some hint, but he doesn’t look at me.
“He’s the father of one of your friends.”
“Who?”
A swirl of falling leaves mirrors the confusion in my mind.
“Kali.” It’s Randal who speaks. I look at him.
“What?”
“You’re going to help us find out what he’s doing,” Blackwell says, “and then we’re going to apprehend him.”
“What? No!”
“No?”
“I can’t do that to Kali!”
“But you’d be saving Kali,” Blackwell says. “And your father. And yourself.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll show you.”
Blackwell reaches into the pocket of his jacket, pulls out an IC, and touches the screen. There, suddenly, are Kali and me, in my bedroom. Kissing. The blush in my cheeks burns until I think it will sear my skin. Kissing a girl is a major breach of N-Ed policy, and I know it. With an image like that, I could be kicked out of school—and the Company—forever. I could become an unprofitable myself. And so could Kali.
“Put it away,” I say weakly.
“You know,” Blackwell muses, “footage like this could fetch a pretty penny in the right circles.”
“Put it away!”
This time, something in my voice makes him comply. The IC disappears into a pocket of the big coat. He shakes his head.
“May Fields. Such immodesty. Think of how that scene could shame you. And now of all times, when you’re about to start applying for your Company position. You’d never pass the morality check, not with this floating around. Think, you could wind up on the cleaning service—
or worse. And with your father’s position as CEO up for review, something like this becoming public could ruin him altogether.”
For a moment, Blackwell and I lock eyes. I’m caught somewhere between crying and punching him in the face.
“You’re threatening me,” I say, my voice tremulous with anger. “I’ll tell my father.”
“Your father won’t be able to do much about it, after he’s been thrown off the board for raising a pervert. Remember, May, upright moral conduct is a cornerstone of N-Corp ”
“My father is a great man. You could never get him fired.”
“Little May. Your father might be a big fish, but he doesn’t control the ocean.”
“I’ll tell the Company. I’ll go to your superiors.”
“This errand is on behalf of the Company, May.”
“I’ll tell . . . I’ll tell . . . ” And that’s just it; there’s no one else to tell.
Blackwell stares at me.
“Welcome to the life of a watcher, May. Don’t be so upset. Everyone has to do it sooner or later. And if you do well today, you might go far. I can promise you this, you’ll get your position in the marketing department. And this kid—” he nods at Randal, “he’ll get to go and play with the geniuses.”
“Cranton?” I say. “He hasn’t even tested yet.”
“It’s been decided,” says Blackwell, rising. “It’s all been decided. Next time we meet you’ll tell me what you’ve seen. And this—hide this someplace in your friend Kali’s apartment. We’ll take care of the rest.” He hands me a tiny metal object, no larger than a breath mint. “God bless you both,” he says, and just like that, he leaves.
Raindrops start falling, huge and frigid. Blackwell’s footfalls clatter away along the water-darkened pavement. For a moment, there’s no sound but the patter of rain on leaves.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Randal begins. Without another thought, my hands shoot out, striking him in the center of the ribcage, and I shove him to the grass.
“It was a secret, Randal! I thought you were my friend!” I shout.