Outlier

by Kyle Harris

  “You look like you were waiting to get in there,” he said, jerking a thumb at the door.

  You gotta be shitting me.

  “Go ahead. Do what you need to do. I’ll lock up when I return, after I’ve taken care of a little mess.” He smiled like it was an inside joke she should know.

  Chaz went for the new pathway while keeping one cautious eye on her new friend. Because she wasn’t this fucking lucky. The whole thing had the skin-prickly feeling of a trap: security knew about the busted stairwell, and they could monitor her up-to-date whereabouts on surveillance. By blocking off routes—or opening new ones—they could lead her right into the snare.

  And this dude might be in on the whole thing.

  “Hope it’s not too serious, whatever’s brought you here,” he said.

  She ignored him and turned into the utility room, expecting a fight. Instead, there were storage shelves, maintenance equipment, cleaning tools. There was a line of charging docks for Cybernex civvies, half occupied. There were abandoned server racks. Neat stacks of desks, chairs, wiring.

  No ambush.

  How? She refused to believe that this was circumstance, that the timing had been so exact that the door would open right when she needed it to. Plus, she clearly wasn’t an employee. And what about the alarm going apeshit? Did the man not know what was happening right now? Had security not told him?

  A shiver passed through her body. It was something Libby had said.

  Chaz couldn’t go on without knowing.

  The man was still standing there, thankfully. He didn’t look threatening at all. In fact, he had about the most average-looking face she’d ever seen. If she had been tasked to describe it, she wouldn’t have known where to begin.

  “Hey,” she said, walking up to him. “Wehrlein doesn’t have any human janitors. They only employ civvies. I looked it up. So, where are you taking that mop?”

  The man laughed. “Oh, I suppose that’s right. I’m not really considered a janitor. I have many roles here. And I’m taking this mop to clean up a spill on thirty-eight. Sometimes those civvies can’t do everything themselves. They need a little help too.” He started to walk away with the cart.

  “Why not take the elevator?” asked Chaz.

  “Elevators have been locked down,” he said. “Some kind of security issue.”

  “You’re going to carry a mop cart up several flights of stairs?”

  “There are handles.”

  “But you can’t use that stairwell. It’s blocked.”

  That got him to stop. He veered the cart around and came back toward her. “You’re right. It slipped my mind. I’ll have to go up the other way, won’t I?”

  Not good enough. She stepped in front of his path. “I need to know something.” She could no longer stand the uncertainty. “Are you…?”

  He looked confused. “Am I…?”

  She sighed and shook her head. “Forget it.” It was stupid. And a waste of time. She turned back to the utility room.

  “Pardon my observation,” the man said, behind her, “but you seem troubled by something.”

  “Just a lot going on up here.” She twirled her finger next to her temple.

  “Whatever it is, I’m positive it will work out in the end. Have faith.”

  Of course you’d say that.

  Thirty-fifth floor.

  Strategically, she was in a bad way. To get inside Kennedy’s office, she would have to enter through the door. If he knew she was coming—and he probably did by now—it was precisely where his henches would be posted. Or maybe one waiting at the door, the other farther back to protect the man who paid their salaries? Either way.

  Her element of surprise was gone, and she was about to willingly put herself into a kill box. The scene her mind kept playing over and over was an onslaught of lead tearing her apart as soon as she put a foot inside the office. But if she was going to do this, she had to accept that as a possibility—and also that she had no other fucking choice. This was it, everything she had worked for. To walk back now would mean she might never get another shot, that all the effort spent to get to this moment had been wasted.

  Fuck that.

  It wasn’t just for Libby; Chaz sensed that something bigger was at stake too. Something personal. And also something that revolved around her and everyone else like her. Because she hadn’t dismissed the link between Wehrlein, the Begotten Sons, and VanCom. She hadn’t forgotten about The Unrighteous. Kennedy knew more about that fucking cult than he had let on. But if he was helping them, why would he? Why would he hide the murders from the public? What was he getting out of it?

  Well, she could always ask him.

  Treading across the catwalk, she checked her tasker one last time. Down under seven minutes. Her game plan had changed—with the building on full alert, entering Kennedy’s office and putting up a fight was suicide. Project Doomsday had to be her primary tactic.

  It was risky, but she would know soon if it worked. That’s when all hell would break loose.

  Chaz took a final deep breath. She turned the knob and went inside, raising her weapons. The ring of blue light on each end of the batons shone in the dimly lit room. She made it two steps before something pressed to her temple. Cold and hard.

  “Hey, dyke,” the voice said. “Nice makeup. We were just talking about you.”

  Chaz’s eyes swiveled right. The gun was out of her periphery, but Franco wasn’t. In two months of isolation, she’d almost forgotten his face, even tried to purge it from her memories. But not the smile. She couldn’t forget that, because it was their smile—everyone who’d ever learned who and what she was and thought she was a fucking joke. Everyone who had reduced her identity and sexuality to one-word parodies.

  And it was the smile of the man who had assassinated Libby in cold blood.

  “Drop the toys,” he ordered. “The boss don’t want a mess.”

  The gun pushed in. She did as he said—but not before flipping the switches beneath the power toggles. The batons landed at her feet.

  Okay, Franco to the right. Her eyes did a slow track of the office. And Travis. He was front and left, a few meters away. Unlike his partner, he didn’t have his firearm drawn, but the holster was showing. Persuasion. If she somehow disposed of the man next to her, he was there as a second line of defense.

  The two bodyguards meant Kennedy was close by. He was standing behind his desk, wearing an expression of vague disappointment. Behind him, the windows were set to total transparency. That was good. The proximity of the skyscrapers made Chaz instantly second-guess her math, but the numbers had worked out every time.

  As long as she had rounded down.

  Still. It should work.

  “It would be no overstatement to assume that the commotion downstairs is your doing, would it?” Kennedy’s tone was that of a parent who had discovered his kid’s stash of drugs. “You know, I wanted us to meet face-to-face again, I really did. Under a professional atmosphere. But at no time did I ever specify anything about breaking into the building and assaulting innocent security guards.” He looked at Travis. “What were they saying? Two in need of urgent medical attention?”

  “Upgraded to three, last I heard,” the bodyguard said. His eyes never wavered from Chaz.

  Kennedy nodded, pacing faster than usual. He was uncomfortable. And soon, hopefully a whole lot worse than that.

  “What is this?” he asked. “What is the message you’re sending here? Please help me understand, Chaz. Because I’m looking at the spot where an intelligent young woman should be standing, and I don’t see her.”

  Her voice was surprisingly calm: “You killed Libby.”

  Kennedy raised his hands. “I know, I know,” he said. “Apparently when I gave Franco my instructions, he misinterpreted what was plain English. He was supposed to wait—Isn’t that right, Franco? I told you to wait until Libby was alone. Can anyone else on this planet explain it any clearer? Enlighten me how one would say it so as to no
t be too confusing for you.”

  “Boss, that was the only opportunity,” said Franco. He sounded like he’d gotten his fucking feelings bruised. “No one else was around. There were very few cameras. It couldn’t have been better.”

  “But you traumatized my operative!” It was the loudest she had ever heard Kennedy’s voice. “Do you think Chaz wanted to be imprisoned for a crime she didn’t commit? Do you think it was fun?” He held out his hand toward her. “Chaz, was it fun?”

  She said nothing.

  “No, of course not!” He combed through his hair with his fingers, throwing off the flawless styling. “Look,” he said, talking to her again. “It’s my fault. I accept the blame, every bit of it. You must feel like I used you. Like a wet paper towel, right? Like I crumpled you and tossed you into the wastebasket. And you have every right to feel that way. You really do. And you should.” His eyes dropped to his desk. “You had feelings for her, and that was an oversight on my part. I should have explicitly told you to not harbor any emotional attachment to Lilibeth. I didn’t do that.”

  No denial. And by the way he tried to dump blame on one of his bodyguards, he seemed to think their relationship was salvageable.

  Searching inside herself, past the anger—which admittedly required a tonne of restraint—she had only one question: “Why her?”

  Kennedy withdrew from his desk and went to the windows. He stared out at the city. “How many times have you been scared for your life? Hm? Because of who you are, how many times have you worried that tomorrow might not come? You don’t know, do you? Because that number is so large that you don’t know anymore. You’ve stopped counting.” He sighed. “There is no tolerance for who we are. Look back throughout history—please, look as far back as you can stomach. Find any point in the centuries of written knowledge where Christians accepted us. I’ll spoil it: you can’t.”

  Her tasker vibrated in her pocket. Time was up.

  “You know what my loving brother did once? You know, these Christians profess that we should love and care, but my brother—it was the middle of the night, and I was sixteen or seventeen at the time. He came into my bedroom and poured gasoline all over my body, doused the bed and the sheets and just about everything. And I woke up in fright, and he was standing over me with a match. And he said, ‘Homosexuals are the demons in our world, and they ought to be burned alive. So tell me you are not a homosexual right now.’ I told him I wasn’t, and he left.

  “And now you’re wondering if the rest of my fabulous family showed me any sympathy after I told them what had happened. My mother did.” He glanced back at Chaz. “She was the one person who accepted me for who I was. But her sentiments were vastly outnumbered by the pitchforks and torches of those who told me to leave and to quit staining the family name.

  “When Wehrlein offered positions in Crystal City, I volunteered. Wouldn’t you? To get away from people like that? All I had of my mother were those photos—but my brother wouldn’t even allow that. Two guys broke into my home, pummeled me until I blacked out, and took the photos. A lovely family, right?” His hard-shouldered pose appeared to soften a little. “I really am grateful for you returning her to me, Chaz. It may not seem like much to you, but I wouldn’t have survived without my mother. Mothers always understand.”

  Chaz said nothing.

  The old Kennedy returned: “The greatest misstep of the human race is the perpetuation of this complete fantasy idea of tolerance—Isn’t it?—that we just have to show this respect. Show respect and treat each other kindly. Even Jesus Christ, the great beloved prophet himself, spoke of this respect: ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’ Guess what? It’s total fiction, just like the man who said it. Religion harvests hate—I told you this. Look around. Is this not what you have seen your whole life? The people who preach love in a Sunday gathering would feel nothing if we were annihilated. Right at this moment.” He snapped his fingers. “All of us, turned into cosmic dust. Given the ability, most of them would happily take our annihilation into their own hands. And a great many have tried, haven’t they? Claiming the world would be a better place. I propose a counterargument: the world would be a better place if all Christians were annihilated.”

  Chaz said nothing.

  He turned to look at her. “Please. If I have said anything that you don’t agree with, or if I have exaggerated what we have to endure every day, say it. I want you to verbally state that you disagree with me.” He waited for a moment. Then: “Now I ask you this: Wouldn’t you feel safer if there were no more Christians?”

  Chaz nodded. She didn’t have to think about it, and she hated herself for agreeing with him. But it was true. “Libby wasn’t like that, though. She was like me. And you.”

  Kennedy shook his head, curtly. “Lilibeth was her father’s genes, and there is no more effective stake through a Christian man’s heart than to destroy his opportunity of legacy. That’s what you have to do—you have to stop them from breeding, from spreading. Destroy the method for reproduction. So that they—my brother included—die old and alone. But you’re right. Libby was gay, you’re absolutely right.” He raised a finger. “But she was Christian, Chaz. Don’t overlook that. And you just agreed that you would feel better if all Christians were dead.”

  She shut her eyes. “Libby was different. She didn’t fucking deserve that.”

  “I reiterate: she was Christian. Whatever else she was is irrelevant.” He snorted. “A Christian lesbian—Can you imagine? Is there any greater contradiction?”

  Even after Pruitt had told her, Chaz had still clutched to a few doubts of a blood relationship. Not anymore. “Only because she was Christian,” she echoed, shaking her head. “You sound a lot like someone else I know.”

  Kennedy’s eyebrows peaked. “Oh?”

  Chaz swallowed hard. “How did you know so much about the Begotten Sons?”

  “Elaborate.”

  “They killed seventeen people. Seventeen. There’s nothing in the news about them. But you knew fucking everything about them. Why is that?”

  “Can you imagine a front-page spread of a dead teenager hanging by a rope around their neck?” he said. “Because that’s what you would get if the media were involved. The Gay Slaughter Continues, or some other classy title, right? You know what that does? It inspires copycats, Chaz. Today, the Begotten Sons; tomorrow, a new murderous cult targeting gay people.”

  “If more people were aware—”

  “I’m trying to get rid of them! And I’m lucky enough to have found a few members of law enforcement who wouldn’t rejoice at the prospect of lynching gay people. You have any idea how many cops are Christians? How many might be sympathetic to what the Begotten Sons are doing?” He took a deep breath, as if to exhale his temper. “And it’s been successful. The frequency of murders has been consistently on the decline—we’re now past two months since their last appearance.”

  What is he trying to hide? The bullshit about him not wanting to inspire copycats didn’t fly. By keeping the names of the victims out of the media, he was preventing their families from ever knowing what happened. For someone who seemed to believe he was helping the gay community, that was pretty fucking inhumane. Unless…

  The list.

  Chaz squeezed her eyes shut to give her brain a moment to work it out. “You fucking asshole.”

  Kennedy stared at her.

  “It’s your software. Isn’t it? I don’t fucking know how, but it detects sexual orientation, doesn’t it? That’s how VanCom knew. That’s how Dodders and the Begotten Sons knew.”

  “I didn’t make it. A company I oversee—”

  “That’s how they murdered people. They used your software. What you were doing was just fucking damage control, so the public wouldn’t know about the fucking list!”

  “You think I don’t know that? If there’s anything I’m trying to do here, it’s to protect the gay community! And think—just use your head for one moment, I implore you, if it isn
’t too arduous—how useful that technology is. By identifying sexual orientation—it’s really quite fascinating, you know, how it detects changes in expression and behavior in people around members of the same or opposite sex—by using that, we can target these people for advertising, for assistance programs, for youth acceptance groups. We can bring them into communities where they are loved for who they are. As someone who is gay, I thought you would understand what I’m trying to do here.”

  “You’re not protecting them. You exposed them. People who have been trying to hide all their lives, people who know what happens if they come out.” She gritted her teeth. “You exposed me.”

  Kennedy opened his mouth, clamped it shut.

  “You don’t give a shit about them—about us. I have been trying to hide all my fucking life, because that’s what we have to do, and you just put my name on a fucking list. And you’re right—the Begotten Sons won’t be the last. Thanks to you, ninety-seven thousand people are gonna have to look over their shoulders for the rest of their lives. It’s your fault for every one of them that dies.” She let him chew on that for a moment. Then: “As someone who is gay, I thought you would understand that.”

  He paced along his usual stretch of carpet like a little exercise might incite a response, but he didn’t say anything. Chaz hoped he wouldn’t. She suddenly felt tired and hollow—as if the adrenaline to get her to this point had been keeping her inflated. She didn’t want to be here anymore. Not in this building, not in this city. Even the next galaxy over would’ve been too fucking close. Because no matter how far she imagined herself away from this exact spot in the universe, the human race would still exist.

  She tried to think what would make her feel happy—true happiness, not the ignorant peace of mind that cigarettes gave her. But happiness had blue eyes and blonde hair, and happiness was dead.

  “Boss?” Franco’s voice.

  “What?” Kennedy almost shouted.

  “You see that too? Out there, between the buildings.”