Feral: An Our Cyber World Prequel

by Suastegui, Eduardo

  But the knives. And Sasha. Where had they gone?

  Out there. She’d gone out there with the knives. To confront the idiot that had barreled into them. No, not the idiot, singular. Them, same goons she’d seen back at the restaurant, more than likely. But how had they known to find her here?

  His mind raced, now snapping an important detail into place, then coming up with ten more confused questions he could not grasp.

  It took him three tries to open the buckled door. He stepped out of the car.

  Big mistake. He lost his balance. He stumbled. Hard pavement met his knees with a thud and scraped his hands when he arrested his fall. On all four, he moved forward, toward the rear of the Mini Cooper.

  Two gunshots stopped him. Pop-pop. Then silence, broken by a rattling buzzing sound, and the thump of something hitting the ground.

  He pressed himself against the car, realizing at once the futility of his gesture.

  “Martin?” a female voice called out—not Sasha’s, but familiar nonetheless. “Martin?”

  The voice sounded closer. He grasped at the side of the car. Managing to raise his weight, he’d gone up halfway when he saw her. She held a handgun in one hand. With her left hand she reached out to him, grabbed him under the arm, and stood him up the rest of the way.

  “Let’s go. This way.” She half pulled him, half propped him as they stepped unevenly toward a dark sedan.

  “Where’s Sasha?” Martin said.

  “In the car,” Cynthia said, even though they were nowhere near it.

  God, it seemed like a mile away. And his head was pounding, pounding.

  “We need to get you to a hospital.”

  “Where’s Sasha?”

  Cynthia muttered something unkind. “Get in the car.”

  This time, just like that, they stood by the car. He grabbed onto the rooftop with both hands. She opened the rear door for him. His vision clouded, and he started to fall again.

  He never passed out all the way. Or maybe he did, but now he could feel the seat under him, humming with the vibration of the engine and road noise. The pain kept his eyes shut tight.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “Hospital.” Cynthia’s voice came back at him, from the front seat. It sounded distant.

  “No. Too dangerous,” he said.

  “You need medical attention.”

  “Take me to my office. In Milpitas.”

  “Martin. We’re in Los Angeles.”

  “Yeah, and we can’t be here.”

  17» Into the Vault

  He couldn’t tell whether she’d done as he asked any more than he could tell how long it’d taken to get there. A straight-up drive up the 101 freeway, he guessed. Not too bad in late evening. He heard the door pop open next to him. It didn’t hurt as much as he anticipated when he opened his eyes.

  Sasha sat next to him, hands cuffed behind her back, a wide swath of silver tape on her mouth.

  “How are you feeling?” Cynthia asked him.

  “Uh, OK. What—”

  “Let’s get in your office. We’ll call from there.”

  “What about her?”

  Cynthia seemed to hesitate. Martin could guess why. “Can’t leave her here.”

  “They came after—”

  “Not here. Let’s go.”

  She helped him out and left him propped against the side of the car. His feet seemed steadier under him. His vision showed him his surroundings without the haze and daze he’d experienced hours earlier. He recognized the building where his small secured office resided. He could see Cynthia walking around to get Sasha out.

  “Can you walk?”

  He could see why Cynthia would ask that. She couldn’t exactly manhandle the prisoner while she propped him up.

  He nodded and winced when the movement made him dizzy. “You lead the way.”

  With his hand tracing along the roof of the car and down the front windshield onto the hood, Martin took the first few cautious steps. He let go and took two more steps beyond the car. So far so good, he assured himself as he pressed further. More steps followed, in pairs, in triads, sometimes a little to the left or right, but aiming forward. Soon they reached the front door. Cynthia pushed it open, and he stepped through with her and Sasha following. Martin led the way down the corridor, at the end of which stood the large, vaulted door. Martin’s gaze fell on the cipher lock. He stopped to stare at it.

  Cynthia muttered something unkind again. “I hope you have your swipe card.”

  That wasn’t the problem, Martin didn’t say. He reached for his wallet, where he always carried it, like one more credit card. But the code. Could he remember it?

  It took him four tries to unlock the door. Once inside, with Sasha still gagged and cuffed, sitting on a rolling chair, Cynthia checked on Martin’s injuries. She did it quickly, like she’d had lots of practice during the drive.

  “From the way you were walking, I’d guess you got a pretty good bump.”

  A concussion, Martin almost replied.

  “But the outside doesn’t look too bad. It’s not bleeding anymore. We’ll get you looked at soon enough.”

  “I’m feeling better.”

  She stood and looked around. “Do you guys keep any bottled water in here by chance?”

  “Two rooms down. Small kitchen there.”

  Cynthia shot Sasha a sharp look before she stepped away.

  “You OK?” Martin asked Sasha.

  Sasha tilted her head to the left, as if to say, really, did he think she could have a conversation while gagged?

  “They’re going to want to know who those guys were,” Martin said in a lower voice.

  Sasha tilted her head to the other side. Really, again, but this time Martin couldn’t tell what she meant by it.

  It took Cynthia longer than Martin would have estimated. Or maybe his concussion or bump or whatever was distorting his awareness of time. He was about to get up to check on her when she stepped back in the room with three water bottles.

  Before he could object, she popped one open and took out a paper towel from her jacket’s pocket. She doused the towel with water and started dabbing around the right side of his head.

  “Just to wipe off the excess blood,” she said. “I won’t touch the wound.”

  That took another two or three minutes. Done with that, she stood up and went over to Sasha. Without pause or hesitation she pulled off the tape. It came off with one short high pitch rip.

  “Ow!”

  “Ow? You get him nearly killed and all you can say is ow?”

  “Oh, right. I should save it for the waterboarding.”

  The two women stared each other down. Martin wanted to say something, but Cynthia pre-empted him.

  “OK, so you’re in, Sasha, dear. Up to your neck, in case you don’t fully appreciate the situation. No more wining and dining to charm your panties off.” Cynthia turned to Martin. “I’m going to step out, and you’re going to tell her what a wonderful job opportunity you have for her.”

  She turned back to Sasha. “And you are not only going to love all the positive things about this job offer, but you’re going to weigh them against, oh, I don’t know. Staying alive? And here I’m not threatening you personally. It seems I don’t have to lift a finger to stop your heart from pumping.”

  Cynthia took a couple of steps toward the door. “Questions?”

  Martin and Sasha traded a quick glance, during which Martin wondered why Cynthia hadn’t pushed to know who the attackers were. Because she already knew? Because she figured that getting Sasha to play ball with the team would get her that info without the shouting and the threatening, in which case getting Martin to persuade Sasha into cooperating should come first?

  Sasha eyed Cynthia. “Are the cuffs really necessary?”

  “Yes, quite.” Cynthia took another step toward the door. “We have way too many keyboards here, and we wouldn’t want those sticky hands of yours falling on any of them. Not
yet. Not until Martin has swayed you to come work for the good guys.”

  With that, Cynthia stepped out and shut the door behind her.

  “This is awkward,” Sasha said.

  “Do I need to give the spiel?”

  “Cliff notes will do.”

  “You come to work for us, or you go to jail.”

  “You forgot the part where my heart stops pumping.”

  “Don’t mind her. She’s a little too intense for her own good.”

  “Oh? And how intense has she been with you?”

  Martin shook his head. “And your answer is…”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You will help us undo that Asian mess?”

  “Sure. Question is, what comes after that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Martin hadn’t thought about it that way. His head must have cleared up, because he saw it now in a flash. What need would they have for Sasha once she cleaned up her hack and gave them all the keys to it? Unless they wanted her instead of him. Now that they thought she’d invented his code, would they play it that way?

  “So when’s the cavalry coming?” she said.

  “Oh, I bet Cynthia’s calling it in as we speak. Big emergency.”

  “I should be flattered I’m that important.”

  Martin allowed himself a smile. “That and we’ve busted a big rule. All she’s gotta say is ‘uncleared foreign national in the vault,’ and they’ll swarm in.” He wanted that to sound jovial and cute, but his voice came out monotone, almost blank.

  “Something wrong?”

  He shrugged. “You and me, working together again.”

  “Not as fun and free this time around.” She sharpened her gaze. “Do you want that? Us working together?”

  He shrugged again. “Not much choice, huh?”

  “We always have a choice, Martin. Just because it’s not palatable doesn’t stop it from being a choice.”

  “Yeah,” he said, not meaning it.

  “Don’t worry, Martin. I’ll make sure you stay the golden boy. You always were. You always will be.”

  His mind grasped for a clever retort. None came. In fact, nothing came. He realized then he was blacking out. Sasha stood up, her mouth opened in a scream he never heard.

  Martin awoke to the click of a door closing and the beeping of equipment inside four white walls awash in fluorescent light. He rubbed his eyes, noticing then the IV line clipped to the back of his right hand.

  “Look who’s back,” a female voice said to his left.

  “Cynthia?”

  “Got my hand slapped on your account. Should’ve taken you to a hospital instead of leaving Dodge.”

  “I’d be dead now—” He winced.

  “Do you need me to tell you where you are? Or has that genius intellect of yours rebooted back into action?”

  “What do the doctors say?”

  “That you’ll live. Mild concussion, keep you overnight for observation, take these pills at such and such a time, and so on.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Going on fourteen hours. They gave you something to put you out. Reduce inflammation and such. A productive fourteen hours, complete with a slew of ongoing lab tests and a CT scan. And look, you’re back.”

  “CT scan?”

  She checked her cellphone. “You best get some sleep.”

  “You’re going to stay here?”

  “The chair reclines.”

  “You haven’t slept a wink, have you?”

  “I’m not the one with a concussion and a precious mind to preserve. Please. Enough talking. Get some sleep.”

  “You don’t need to stay here.”

  “Don’t I?”

  “All night? Why would you need to?”

  “The doctors were right. You do need to stay here overnight. Until that fine mind of yours reconnects on all channels.”

  “You think I need protection.”

  “With a little too much lag, but there it is. All’s well, endings, etcetera.”

  “Where’s Sasha?”

  “That’s a channel we could have left disconnected a little longer.”

  “Are you just trying to be a jerk, or does it come perfectly naturally to you?”

  “Thank you for not using the B word. You made big points with me right there.”

  “Where is she?”

  Cynthia came closer wearing an expression Martin couldn’t quite decipher. Regret? Disappointment? Motherly affection, with something darker mixed in? He couldn’t sift it out.

  She smiled and rested her hand on his shoulder. “Be more concerned with yourself Martin. Think back to that word you used a few seconds ago. Protection. You need lots of it. That’s what I’m here to do.”

  “You shot those guys.”

  “Let’s not dwell on unpleasantness. But do realize. I protected little Sasha from getting her neck snapped. I mean, knife tossing and all that included.” Her lips broke into a smile that rose higher on one side of her face than the other. “She does need to work on getting the blade through the heart thing down. Arms and thighs aren’t as effective.”

  “She said she’d do it.”

  “Of course she did. Do you think she means it?”

  “Means it? Yeah, she means it.”

  “You can vouch for that because you know her so well.”

  “If you don’t trust her, why bring her in?”

  Cynthia shook her head. “God, you need your sleep.”

  “You only want what she knows, don’t you? Then it’s catch and release, huh?”

  That same expression clouded her face. Martin could see her pushing it aside.

  “Don’t get too invested in her, Martin. You have too much going on to blow your whole wad on cuteness.”

  “You can stop treating me like an idiot any time.”

  She leaned in and smiled. “How about you get some sleep?”

  The IV machine at his right beeped. An instant later, something he guessed had more to do with drugs than his injury pressed down on him. It pressed gently, making him swoon and relax. He let his eyes close and drew the biggest breath he could manage. But his lungs didn’t expand to full capacity, or it felt to him like they didn’t. They couldn’t.

  With his eyes open again, he turned back toward Cynthia. She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and smiled again.

  “See what I mean? No sense in fighting it. Night, night, Martin.”

  “What?” The word came out viscous and heavy.

  Before he went down, he sensed more than saw Cynthia bend down to him. He would never be able to tell for sure, but he could’ve sworn she kissed him.

  18» Next Steps

  “Do you buy her story that the Ukrainians did it?” Cynthia Spencer asked.

  Through the war room’s clear glass, she eyed Sasha and Martin. At the moment they sat in their swivel chairs, not facing their computers, but each other. Martin said something, and he and Sasha broke into laughter.

  Here next to Cynthia, Stan Beloski eyed them too. With arms crossed, he scowled at them, much like a disapproving school principal would look out to the play yard.

  “You don’t buy it,” he said.

  “Do you? That’s what I asked.”

  “She’s produced a lot of evidence.”

  “Interesting word, produced. Not that far from manufactured and fabricated.” She stepped a little closer to Stan. “Look, I’m not the expert on these things. I’m here to safeguard personnel, and part of that—”

  “You can profile people, Cynthia. But you can’t read them.”

  “I still have to assess. And right now my assessment is saying: not as it seems. Playing us. Fake through and through. It’s screaming it, actually.”

  “Based on what?” He turned his head, aiming the same scowl at her.

  “All that money that she pilfered. No one’s even askin
g her for it.” She narrowed her gaze. “Don’t you find it a little odd, Stan? That no one is asking for it?”

  He shrugged and swallowed. “Maybe it’s being handled through another compartment.”

  “If she were coming clean, she’d offer it right up.”

  “She said that Ukrainian gang grabbed it.”

  “Sure. Hand her a tissue. Dab her tears. Poor Sasha, out-swindled by alleged Cyber Ukrainians.”

  “The evidence is pretty convincing.”

  “Because she couldn’t fabricate it.”

  “Anything’s possible, put not plausible or credible. How do you think she would get such fake evidence past a whole team of—”

  “Hackers?”

  “You know, I think that’s part of your problem. You don’t respect the team or what they’re doing. You think they’re just a bunch of snotty post-pubescent kids having fun with keyboards and touch screens.”

  Cynthia returned her attention to the scene beyond the clear glass wall. Stan was right. She didn’t have much appreciation or respect for what they did in there. A whole lot of digital hocus-pocus, as far as she was concerned. Even though inside she knew it had a basis on more scientific, tangible things, she couldn’t discern it for herself. She couldn’t decipher it, like she could read a person. Not all the way. She had to reach for the fraying edges of certainty, hoping she could grab a handful. The rest she decided on less tangible, admissible in court things, didn’t she?

  But Stan didn’t have it quite right. She did respect one of them. Martin.

  Over the past few days, after getting out of the hospital, she’d developed a healthier respect for him. He went deeper than his code. He had insight, when he wanted to summon it. If nothing else, he had quite the wit. Able to match her verbal repartee almost one for one. Perhaps even beyond most. She hadn’t met a single guy her age that could. Certainly not Stan.

  “They know what they’re doing,” Stan said.

  Cynthia took a long, soft breath. “I look in her eyes, and I get something not quite right. She’s not leveling with us. Not all the way. The money is just the tip of the iceberg.”