Halon-Seven

by Xander Weaver

  “Over here,” Cyrus said as he stepped slowly around the corner. He was careful to keep his voice low. This late at night and in the darkness, even low conversational tones were enough to make someone jump.

  “I’m Cyrus,” he continued. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. You clearly know who I am. Unfortunately I’ve only just figured out where I am…It’s rather disconcerting.”

  She laughed softly, relief registering in her eyes. “Yes, I’m sorry for that. I’m Reese Knoland. I was Walter Meade’s research assistant. I’m sorry for all of this.”

  Her eyes still shifted nervously. “This was one of Walter’s many protocols. He told me you would arrive one night. He setup a system to ping me when you did. I was supposed to meet with you.”

  While she was speaking, Cyrus approached to within only a few feet. It was the first time he got a clear view of her. The pale moonlight shone through the large windows and cloaked her in contrasts of highlight and shadow, but she was attractive. Mid to late twenties with raven dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and pale, almost porcelain white skin. The contrast was obvious even in the diffuse light. She was maybe five foot six with a slim athletic form.

  “Walter knew you’d have questions, and—well,” she looked more than a little uncomfortable having been put in this situation. “To be perfectly honest, he thought you might be a bit put off, being led here the way you were.”

  Cyrus sputtered a laugh at that. “You could say that! It strikes me as melodramatic. So he sends you here to meet me? I’m sure the old man thought a pretty face would temper my irritation. Why didn’t—”

  Oops. He caught himself, but it was too late.

  Cyrus cringed as he considered what he had just said. He looked Reese square in the eye. She met his gaze. “I’m sorry,” he said with sincerity. “That sounded much worse than I intended. I only meant the old man knew this little production was going to irritate me. I apologize.

  “I knew Walter had an associate by the name of Miss Knoland. I guess I was just expecting a contemporary of his to be…someone a little closer to his age. Not a smoking hot—” He stopped himself.

  Ahh! His second attempt was even more of a disaster than the first!

  She wore a dark t-shirt than accentuated her form and jeans that didn’t do her an injustice either. The ponytail and the late hour suggested to Cyrus that his arrival had caught her even more off guard than it had him. She had likely been home in bed. His arrival would’ve trigger an alert, likely sent to her cell phone. She’d rushed here to meet him. And she had used the teleporter to get here. That meant there were at least a few of these things in operation. One here at the office, one in the vault hidden in Meade’s basement—now his basement—and at least one more at or near Reese’s home.

  While the logical part of his brain obviously still functioned, Cyrus was hard pressed for something to say that wouldn’t end in further embarrassment. He was tongue-tied and he couldn’t believe it. A woman hadn’t had this effect on his since the eleventh grade. And now he was making a complete fool of himself. She was attractive, but come on! His verbal skills had de-evolved to those of a teenager. Meade held this young woman in very high regard. Cyrus had a sinking feeling that Meade was setting him up to take over work on the project—what had he call it? Meridian! And while Cyrus was a long way from making that decision, he knew that the first impression he made with Reese would be crucial. He needed this to work. Ideally, he needed to salvage this introduction, but he was reticent to open his mouth and risk a third failed opportunity. He could only guess what sort of foolishness might pour out next.

  Though she didn’t appear offended by his clumsy slips of the tongue, Reese was quiet. Her eyes seemed to study him, perhaps waiting for him to place his foot in his mouth yet again. It was hard to tell given the poor lighting but Cyrus thought he saw a flush of color in her cheeks. Was she blushing? She’d maintained eye contact, amusement dancing in what he could see of her gaze.

  Cyrus shrugged. There was no going back on that now. He looked her in the eye and searched for the right thing to say. She continued to meet his gaze. There was a kind of empathy in her stare. She seemed as off balance in this situation as he. At least from what he saw, she was not put off by his foolish comments.

  Their eyes lingered for several long moments in silence.

  Something changed in Reese’s expression. A tiny sly smile touched the corners of her lips and she held up one finger signaling him to wait. She turned on her heel and retreated into the teleportation room.

  —————

  Reese paced quickly back and forth across the teleportation room. She had suffered anxiety over this very moment. Walter had arranged this entire situation to impress upon Cyrus the true marvel of the teleportation technology. But she knew it for what it really was—a chance for Walter to finally show Cyrus the fruits of their quasi-collaboration. A great part of what had been achieved here was due in no small part to Cyrus’s contributions. But the man had no idea! She knew Walter had thought of Cyrus as a son. But for all of his professional and personal respect, the old man had never shared the secrets of the project with Cyrus. This awkward display was nothing more than a posthumous plan to right that wrong. And she was a pawn in his design.

  For the several years that Reese had worked side by side with Walter, she had heard him speak of Cyrus many, many times. So often, in fact that she had wanted to meet the man. She had even come close to asking Walter to introduce them on several occasions. But she never followed through. Walter had gone to great lengths to keep parts of his life compartmentalized. And for reasons she didn’t know, the old man had felt the need to keep Cyrus away from the project. By extension, that meant they would never meet.

  Soon, she found out that Walter’s health was failing. It was terrible news, seeming to strike out of the blue. The old man had a great deal of preparations to make. He was explicit in his instructions to her. Arrangements were made for Cyrus to replace him on the project. Walter’s share of the hard science was taken care of. They had the physics licked; another scientist wasn’t what they needed. Cyrus and Reese would be the ones to see this project through. Walter would be leaving the project in their hands, and they would lead the development team together.

  Walter had made a point of explaining that only a portion of Cyrus’s talents were detailed in his personnel file. While Reese was aware of Cyrus’s contributions to the project thus far, Walter had said he was afraid there would be issues that required Cyrus’s less conventional talents.

  What the old man had meant by that, she never knew. What sort of talents could Cyrus have that were so unique? Walter had said simply that it was not his place to speak for Cyrus. He had asked simply that she trust him and trust his judgment on the matter.

  It had been a foreboding premonition, given Walter’s rush to conclude his part of a project that had consumed the bulk of his career. She thought many of the problems with the old man’s health had started after an issue several years ago, in Washington, D.C. It was a matter Walter had also refused to explain. She knew only that the old man had nearly died, and Cyrus had been somehow involved.

  Putting all of that aside, and now reasonably certain that the blush had faded from her cheeks, Reese headed back through the sliding glass door.

  Stepping into the main office, Reese stopped and looked around. Cyrus was standing right where she’d left him. Still, she looked around in an exaggerated manner as if trying to find something. Finally, she met his gaze and smiled. She walked up to him and extended her hand. “You must be Mister Cooper. My name is Reese Knoland. Walter has told me so much about you!”

  Cyrus looked stunned for half a beat. She watched as he realized she was offering an opportunity to start over. He smiled broadly and accepted her proffered hand. “Cyrus, please—my friends call me Cyrus.”

  Chapter 8

  Off the Coast of Santa Barbara, California

  Wednesday, 1:10 am (2:10 am Colorado T
ime)

  The gentle rocking of the boat would’ve made it easy to doze off. This was one of the many reasons Dargo had taken the night shift. As the team’s commander, he made the shift assignments and had the freedom to do as he pleased. But after many long years in the field, Dargo was still a grunt at heart. He wouldn’t task a man with an assignment he wasn’t willing to do himself. A stalwart leader, he would settle for nothing less than absolute dedication from each and every man on the team.

  It was the quiet monotony of the surveillance nightshift that troubled him at the moment. The confines of the yacht’s aft salon were far more comfortable than he preferred. The plush accommodations left him concerned his men might let their guard down and become sloppy. The warm air circulating off the stacks of surveillance equipment more than kept the Pacific Ocean’s chill at bay. The long slow hours could break the most disciplined of minds. Both men on shift with him certainly seemed comfortable. Perhaps too comfortable. Dargo considered cracking open the sliding glass door at the rear of the room. The icy ocean air would keep them alert. Creature comforts led to slow minds, and slow minds were a liability.

  With a sour grimace, he pushed his harsh concerns aside. A surreptitious glance at each face confirmed that they were both sharp and still on task. Each man wore a headset, and both had their attention focused on the computer screens before them. There was no need to make them uncomfortable, so long as they remained sharp. Scratching absently at the two days worth of steely gray stubble on his jaw, Dargo swallowed the last dregs of his cold coffee.

  “Sir,” called one of the men over Dargo’s shoulder. “We have movement. Someone is in the office!” The man spoke in Russian.

  “Put it on screen,” Dargo responded quietly and with little concern. It was the middle of the night and likely only the cleaning crew.

  The fifty-inch LCD panel mounted on the forward bulkhead came to life, showing a video feed from a camera at the top of the yacht’s communications array. The view was monochrome, but the image was remarkably crisp and detailed, considering its focal point was nearly a mile distant. Advanced optics and software in the camera corrected for the pitch and yaw of the rocking boat. The camera’s cutting edge processor made the high-speed adjustments essential for keeping the night-vision lens in perfect focus.

  “Is cleaning crew?” Dargo asked in his broken Russian-accented English.

  “Negative,” one of his men answered. “They clean twice a week, and they cleaned the facility last night.”

  “What happened?” Dargo continued. “I did not see a car enter the lot. Did someone arrive via the underground structure?”

  “Negative,” the second operative confirmed. “There have been no unaccounted for arrivals.”

  “Audio?” asked Dargo.

  “Audio is up,” responded the first operative. “We’re getting the feed. Whoever is there, they are not making noise. I heard a door open right before I put the video on the main screen. Nothing since.”

  Dargo didn’t care for this surprise. If he hadn’t been here to witness this first hand, he would’ve assumed his men had missed something. But that didn’t seem to be the case. He glanced at his wristwatch. He made a note of the time in his log and confirmed what he already knew: the last one to leave the office was Chad Brewster, at 18:22 hours. So from where had this mystery guest come?

  “I’ve got a face,” the second operative reported.

  Dargo returned his attention to the wall-mounted screen. A man stepped from the gloomy darkness of the deserted office and approached the windows at the front of the building. He looked out over the parking lot and possibly at the bay beyond. A puzzled expression filled his face. He pulled what appeared to be a mobile phone from his pocket and held it up as if trying to get reception. Judging by the furrow of his brow, the man was not happy with the results. Dargo glanced at his own phone, sitting on the counter beside the computer keyboard. He had a full signal.

  So what is the problem?

  “Capture still photographs,” Dargo ordered. “Run facial recognition.”

  Dargo leaned forward in his seat and studied the frozen frame of footage that was up on his computer’s display. His forehead wrinkled as he studied the monochrome image. It didn’t seem possible. He didn’t need the database to identify this man after all. What were the chances of Cyrus Cooper showing up here, after all this time?

  Leaning back, Dargo scratched absently at the stubble on his jaw. His employer wanted Meridian. But nowhere in the mission brief had Cyrus Cooper been mentioned. Could his appearance be a coincidence? Dargo knew better. In intelligence circles, there was no such thing as coincidence. This would complicate things.

  The second operative waved a hand in the air and set about flipping a series of switches on the control panel beside his computer screen. “I’ve got another noise,” he said as he flipped the last switch and routed the audio to the room’s surround-sound speakers. “There may be another target in the office.”

  The three men listened intently, waiting for the slightest sound to come through the speakers. “Cyrus? Cyrus Cooper?” Dargo recognized the voice instantly. It was Reese Knoland. He’d been surveilling her and the rest of her team for some time.

  “Over here,” a male voice sounded from the distant office. “I’m Cyrus.”

  The first operative looked at Dargo and chuckled. “So much for facial recognition, sir.”

  Dargo just shot the man a cold glare. Under normal circumstances, he might’ve appreciated the irony of the target literally identifying himself in such a way. But just then he was more troubled by the unexpected presence of Cyrus Cooper and what it would mean for this operation. Unfortunately, it meant he would need to contact Bayer.

  Chapter 9

  Santa Barbara, California

  Wednesday, 1:38 am (2:38 am Colorado Time)

  It was an awkward start, but Reese had let him off the hook. Cyrus thought that said a great deal about her. The fact that Walter Meade had orchestrated the uneasy meeting said a great deal as well. He could’ve simply asked Cyrus to drop by the Santa Barbara office and meet with Reese and discuss her team. Instead he had chosen a more dramatic path. A midnight signal had drawn him to the basement of the house on his first night there. He had been led, step by step into finding the secret vault, its archive, and the message from Meade. But it was the shocking teleportation from the basement vault in Colorado to the tenth floor offices in California that had been the old man’s true intention. That was the hook. The rest would be bait, intended to galvanize his interest. He was being toyed with, like a fish on a line. Meade had coaxed him onto the teleportation platform, and he had been sent to a midnight meeting with Reese Knoland with a dramatic flourish.

  He realized the old man knew him far too well. If asked, he would’ve been reluctant to accept a part in the project. Hell, based on what little he knew of the project, he could already anticipate any number of political, economic, maybe even theological challenges to the technology. But the dramatic reveal was well played. The hook so neatly set that Cyrus couldn’t turn back without knowing more.

  “So,” Reese said, pulling him from his revelry. “I’d like to sit you down with the team and make introductions. Walter told me to expect you. We can get you up to speed and explain the project.”

  “That sounds like a good plan.” He looked at his watch. It was going on 3:00 am—well, 2:00 am in California. The timing was awful. They couldn’t gather the research team until a more respectable hour. He could go back home, but he didn’t have a chance in hell of sleeping again before morning. Not after all that had happened. He was wired, and he had endless questions. Getting up to speed was the only way to satisfy his need to understand his circumstances. But right then, with everything swirling in his mind, thanks to Meade’s shock and awe campaign, he didn’t even know where to begin.

  “I don’t suppose you’re interested in grabbing a drink, maybe a bite to eat?” Again the thought shot from his brain to his mouth befo
re his mental filter had engaged. The comment sounded like a threadbare pickup line. He looked down at the floor, rubbed the corners of his eyes at the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. What was it about this woman?

  Rather than be held back by his own embarrassment, he shook his head at his own foolishness and looked her squarely in the eye. “I’ve got a million questions. I don’t even know where to start. If I go home now, there’s zero chance I’ll get any sleep before morning.”

  Her demure smile made it seem she had never considered the ambiguity of his suggestion. Maybe he was getting the wrong vibe from her. If she hadn’t considered the possibility that he found her attractive, she would never consider the potential impropriety of the statement. But that didn’t match the glint he was seeing in her eyes. The thought had occurred to her. She was just classy enough not to embarrass him.

  Nice!

  —————

  Reese struggled not to laugh at his latest gaffe. At least she wasn’t the only one feeling off balance at their awkward meeting. She concentrated on selecting a place where they could find dinner at the late hour. “I’m in. I know just the place. But we need to make a stop first.” She glanced down at his shoeless feet and up again, giving him a shy smile.

  Cyrus followed her eye and shrugged. “What can I say? One minute I’m walking around the house in the mountains, and the next—poof! I’m lucky I have pants on!”

  Now she couldn’t help but laugh. And she was pretty sure she was blushing again. The mental image was both comical…and interesting.