by Marcus Sakey
Cooper fought an urge to lean over and bang Director Norridge’s face into the desk three or four times. It wasn’t the things he was saying about Cooper’s life, all of which were true, and none of which had stung him for years. It was the condescension and, worse, the bullying gleefulness of the man. Norridge didn’t just want to make his point. Like the blond boy on the playground, he wanted to dominate.
“You still haven’t answered my question. Why?”
“Surely you know.”
“Indulge me,” he said.
Norridge gave a tip of his head to acknowledge the returned volley. “The gifts of the vast majority of abnorms have no significant value. However, a rare handful have abilities that make them equivalent to the greatest geniuses of our history. Individually, that is reason enough to harness their power. However, the real concern is not the individual. It is the group. You, for example. What would happen if I were to attack you?”
Cooper smiled. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“What about someone more skilled? A boxer, or a martial artist?”
“Training can teach you how to defend yourself. But unless you were very, very good, your body would still reveal what you were about to do. That makes it easy for me to avoid.”
“I see. And what about, say, three martial artists?”
“They’d win.” Cooper shrugged. “Too many attacks to track.”
Norridge nodded. Then he said, quietly, “And what about twenty totally average, out-of-shape, slightly overweight adults?”
Cooper narrowed his eyes—
He said “our history” and “their power.” He doesn’t see abnorms as human.
Despite that, he knows us so well he could identify your gift. That knowledge has been applied to every facet of life here.
He dissected your past and the sensitive spots in it based just on this conversation.
He could have illustrated this current point a hundred different ways. But he chose combat as a metaphor.
—and said, “I’d lose.”
“Precisely. And we must always hold that advantage. It’s the only way. The gifted cannot be allowed to band together. So from their youth we teach them that they cannot trust one another. That other abnorms are weak, cruel, and small. Their only comfort comes from a single normal figure, a mentor like the woman you heard earlier. And they learn core values like obedience and patriotism. In that way, we protect humanity.” Norridge paused, then smiled toothily. It was a strange expression, knowing. It looked like given the chance, the man might take a bite out of him. “Does that make sense?”
“Yes,” Cooper said. “I understand you now.”
Norridge cocked his head. Whether he caught the real meaning or not, he’d at least caught the tone. “Forgive me. Getting me started can be dangerous.”
No kidding.
“I should mention the tangible benefits, too. Academy graduates have made enormous breakthroughs in chemistry, mathematics, engineering, medicine—all of it government controlled. That recording device I mentioned? The nanotechnology is the work of a former pupil. All the latest military equipment is designed by abnorms. The computer systems that connect us. Even the new stock market, which is, ironically, immune to abnorm manipulation.
“All these things come from academy graduates. And thanks to our work, all are managed and controlled by the US government. Surely you can agree that as a nation—as a people—we can’t afford another Erik Epstein.”
Which people, Doc? Cooper could feel a scream boiling inside of him, a rage that he very much wanted to give in to. Everything here was worse than he had imagined.
No. Be honest. You never let yourself imagine it. Not really.
Still, now that he knew, what could he do about it? Kill the director, then the staff? Tear down the walls and blow up the dormitories? Lead the children like Moses out of Egypt?
It was either that or get the hell out of here. He stood.
Norridge looked surprised. “Are you satisfied, then?”
“Not even close.” But if he stayed another minute he was going to explode, so he stalked out of the office, down the polished halls, past the narrow windows with their rocky evergreen vistas. Thinking, This cannot be the way.
And, John Smith was raised in an academy. Not this one, but they’ll all be the same, and there will be a Norridge heading all of them. An administrator who holds all the power, a skilled manipulator who understands and hates his pupils.
John Smith was raised in an academy.
John Smith was at war from his earliest days.
CHAPTER 7
“Ground one?”
“We’re go.”
“Ground two?”
“Go.”
“Three?”
“Freezing my tits off, but go.” Luisa, bringing her usual flair.
“Crow’s nest?”
“Two positions, overlapping sight lines. Go.”
“God?”
“The view from on high is divine, my son.” Behind the voice came the buzz of rotors. At the elevation the airship was flying, it was nothing but a darker gray spot against a bright gray sky. “God is good.”
Cooper smiled and pressed the transmit button. “Peace be with you.”
“And also with you. But woe betide the sorry shitbird who tries to run, lest we hurl a thunderbolt.”
“Amen.” He clicked off and gazed down through the double-thick glass at the meet site.
Today looked pretty much like yesterday, which was one of those things you could say about a lot of DC days between November and March. The sunlight was weak tea, and gusts of wind tugged at the coats of powerbrokers, the scarves of businesswomen.
Ground two was the FedEx truck. It was parked on G Street, on the northwest corner. The back door was up, and an undercover agent was loading boxes on a dolly, checking each one against a manifest. Behind a makeshift shelf, four more agents were jammed together out of sight. It was a tight, uncomfortable space, but even so, they had it better than ground one; the utility van had been parked on 12th all night.
Cooper had done recon in those things before. They were dark and uncomfortable, boiling in the summer and frigid in the winter. Movement had to be restricted to the absolute minimum, and the air always reeked of urine from the quart jars they used. One time a junior agent had broken a jar, and after six scorching hours, the team had been ready to forget the target and beat the hell out of him.
11:30. The meet was set for noon. Good planning on the bad guys’ part: lunchtime, and the corner below would be even busier as all the people in the surrounding buildings scurried from their cubicles.
“Camera feed good?”
“Better than.” Bobby Quinn sat at a polished wood table twenty feet long. He’d co-opted the law firm’s presentation system for his mobile headquarters, and the air in front of him shimmered with ghost images, video feeds from various angles. “The intersection is wired like a tri-d studio.”
“Show me the transmitter.”
Quinn gestured, and a map of the city streets glowed. “Green dot is this.” Quinn tossed him the stamp drive. It looked perfectly normal, down to the half-rubbed-out logo on the side. Cooper pocketed it. His partner continued. “The red dot is Vasquez, the man himself.”
“How’d you wire him?”
“His colon,” Quinn deadpanned. Cooper glanced over sharply, but his partner continued. “Shiny newtech, just in from R and D. Some academy bright boy came up with a tracker in a gelcap. Enzyme-bonds to the lining of the large intestine.”
“Wow. Is he…is it—”
“No. Bonds dissolve in about a week, and out it goes with the rest of the junk mail.”
“Wow,” Cooper repeated.
“Gives new meaning to the phrase ‘stay on his ass.’”
“Been waiting to use that?”
“Since the moment they handed me the gelcap.” Quinn looked up and smiled. “Learn anything useful yesterday?”
“Yeah. I learned Smit
h has a right to be pissed off.”
“Hey, hey, whoa.” Quinn dropped his voice. “Dickinson would flip if he heard you say that.”
“Screw Roger Dickinson.”
“Yeah, well, you know he’d be happy to screw you. So be careful.” Quinn leaned back. “What’s really going on?”
Cooper thought of yesterday afternoon, the relief he’d felt as he hit the road. The Monongahela National Forest blurring around him, huddled trees and ragged mountains, prefab housing dropped at random.
I MISS MY SON, the pale woman’s placard had read.
“They aren’t schools, Bobby. They’re brainwashing centers.”
“Come on—”
“I’m not being poetic. That’s literally what they are. I mean, I’d heard things, we all have, but I didn’t believe it. Who could treat children this way?” Cooper shook his head. “Turns out the answer is, we can.”
“We?”
“They’re government facilities. DAR facilities.”
“But not Equitable Services.”
“Close enough.”
“It’s not ‘close enough.’” Quinn’s voice sharp. “You are not personally responsible for the actions of an entire agency.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. We all—”
“Do you believe that Alex Vasquez was trying to make the world a better place?”
“What?”
“Do you believe that Alex Vasquez—”
“No.”
“Do you believe that John Smith is trying to make the world a better place?”
“No.”
“Do you believe that he is responsible for killing a whole bunch of people?”
“Yes.”
“Innocent people?”
“Yes.”
“Children?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go get him. That is what we do. We take down bad people who hurt good people. Preferably before they hurt the good people. That’s our responsibility. After that,” Quinn said, “we go out for beer. Which you buy. That’s your responsibility.”
Cooper chuckled despite himself. “Yeah, all right, Bobby. I hear you.”
“Good.”
“That was something.” Cooper stood. “Getting all righteous on me. Didn’t know you had it in you.”
“I am multilayered. Like an onion.”
“That part I’ll buy.” Cooper clapped his friend on the shoulder. “I’m going to check on Vasquez.”
“Calm him down, will you? He’s sweating so bad I’m afraid he might somehow shake that tracker loose after all.”
“And thank you for that image.”
“Here for you, boss.” Quinn yawned and put his feet up on the polished wood table.
Cooper strolled down the hall, passing a gold logo with the names of three white guys followed by ‘LLC.’ The law office was in a building overlooking the Metro station where the meet was to take place. Quinn had reached out to them yesterday, and the partners had been delighted to help Equitable Services. Cooper had met one of them earlier, a trim guy with a halo of white hair who had wished him good hunting.
Good hunting. Shit.
Two guards stood outside the corner office, their tactical blacks today replaced by bland business suits. The submachine guns were still ready-slung. He nodded at them. One said, “Sir,” and opened the office door.
Inside, Bryan Vasquez stood by the window, his hands against the glass. At the sound, he jumped, turning with an expression that was part guilt and part nerves.
Fever Orange, Cooper decided to name the color. He thanked the guard, then stepped inside.
“You startled me,” Bryan said. He had one hand pressed against the glass, the other to his chest. Ghostly white dots of condensation marked where the pads of his fingers had rested on the window. There were sweat stains at his armpits, and his chest rose and fell swiftly. He licked his lips as he shifted his weight from right to left.
Cooper slid his hands into his pockets and—
He’s dedicated to his sister, but he’s also a believer. He’s worried about his own safety but would never admit it. He’s attracted to the idea of plots and secret worlds, to comrades in arms.
He needs a strong hand, but not so strong he shatters. He needs to be pumped up and sent out to do his piece for a better world.
—stepped into the room. “Sorry about that. I always get jumpy before these things, too.” He pulled out the chair, spun it around, then sat with his arms on the back. “This part drives me crazy.”
“What part?”
“The waiting. Too much time in your head. Once things start, it gets better. You know what you have to do, and you just do it. It’s easier. Don’t you think?”
Bryan Vasquez cocked his head and turned to lean against the window with his arms crossed. “I don’t know. I’ve never had to betray something I believe in to save my sister before.”
“Fair point.” He let the silence hang. Bryan looked like a man who expected to be punched; slowly he realized the blow wasn’t in the air. A faint wind howled along the edge of the glass, and somewhere far away, a car horn sounded. Finally, he moved to the desk and slumped awkwardly in the chair on the other side, all angles and elbows.
“I know this is hard,” Cooper said. “But you’re doing the right thing.”
“Sure.” The word drifting across the table.
“Can I tell you something?” He waited until the other man looked up. “Everything you said the other day about the way gifted are treated? I agree.”
“Right.”
“I’m an abnorm.”
Bryan’s face crinkled in conflicting directions: surprise and disbelief and anger. Finally the guy said, “What is it for you?”
“Pattern recognition, a sort of souped-up intuition. I read intention. That can be really specific, like knowing where someone is going to throw a punch. But personal patterns work, too; I get to know somebody, my gift forms a picture of them, helps me guess what they’ll do.”
“So if you’re gifted, what are you doing—”
“Working for the DAR?” Cooper shrugged. “Actually, pretty much the same reasons you helped your sister.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s not. I want my children to live in a world where abnorms and straights coexist. The difference is, I don’t think you get there by blowing things up. Especially when one group vastly outnumbers the other. See, normal people, like you”—he gestured with palms together—“if you decided to, you could wipe out all the people like me. Every one of us, or close enough it wouldn’t matter. It’s a numbers game. You have ninety-nine to every one of us.”
“But that’s exactly why—” Bryan Vasquez stopped. “I mean.”
“I know how you feel about the way Alex is treated. But you’re an engineer. Think logically. The relationship between norms and brilliants, it’s gunpowder. You really want to strike sparks?”
He pulled the stamp drive from his pocket, set it on the desk, halfway between them. “Don’t forget,” Cooper said, “you’re not doing this for me. You’re doing it for Alex.”
It was a calculated play, backing up the philosophical get-out-of-jail-free card with a personal imperative. And it was far from the first time he had lied to a suspect.
So why am I feeling guilty about it?
The academy. Seeing that place had stirred up issues he thought he’d made peace with. Cooper pushed away thoughts of the playground, of the woman with the placard, and locked down his expression.
Bryan Vasquez took the stamp drive.
Cooper said, “Let’s go.”
“This is Quarterback. The ball is in play; repeat, Delivery Boy is moving. Headquarters, confirm.”
“Confirmed,” Bobby Quinn’s voice crackled in his ear. “Both signals are strong.”
The square across the street looked as planned and uninviting as ever, the black branches of manicured trees tossing in the wind. A couple of hardy souls huddled around the entrance t
o the nearest building, rocking from foot to foot as they sucked on cigarettes. The entrance to Metro Center Station had a steady stream of traffic. A row of newspaper dispensers, bright red and orange and yellow, ran along a low wall; at the end of it a man in a wheelchair shook a paper cup at passersby.
Cooper kept his stance casual, pitched his voice low. “God, what have you got?”
“Delivery Boy is heading north on 13th.”
“Clear view?”
“God sees all, my son.”
Everything is in place. You’re about to be a step closer to catching the most dangerous man in America.
Across the street, the agent at the FedEx truck finished loading his dolly and started for the near building. In a bench on the square, two women in business casual chatted as they picked at salads. One looked like the assistant principal of a middle school; the other was petite and lithe as a soccer player.
“How you doing, Luisa?”
“Never thought I’d say this,” dabbing at her lips with a napkin to cover the motion of her lips, “but I actually wish I was back in that cow-humping Texas backwater we just left.”
Luisa Abrahams was barely over five feet, pretty but not beautiful, famous for talking like a trucker, and perhaps the most stubborn person he knew. He’d picked her for his team after a mess of an op where her agent in charge had lost communication with her. The AIC hadn’t realized that her cover was blown and she needed support, so Luisa had chased a target two miles on foot, finally run him down, finished the job, and then called the AIC using her target’s cell phone. The insults she’d hurled at him had circulated the agency for weeks.
Now she sat on a bench alongside Valerie West, the two of them pretending to be on their lunch. Val was a whiz with data analysis, but nervous in the field. Cooper was watching her shred her napkin, and weighing whether it was worth it to say something, when Luisa touched the other woman’s knee, said something off-mic. Valerie nodded, shrugged her shoulders back, and tucked the napkin in her pocket. Good. Normally Cooper would have discouraged a romantic relationship between teammates, but the two often seemed better agents because of it.