Greek Key

by Spangler, K. B.

  GREEK KEY

  K.B. Spangler

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2015, K.B. Spangler

  Greek Key is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and events are the creations of the author. Settings are either fictional or have been adapted from locations in and around Washington, D.C. and Greece for purposes of storytelling. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All characters, places, and events are set in the world of A Girl and Her Fed, found online at agirlandherfed.com.

  Cover art by T. Kingfisher at tkingfisher.com

  This file was sold online via ebook distribution networks using Smashwords. If you have received a copy of this file via any source other than the original point of distribution, please visit kbspangler.com or agirlandherfed.com to learn more.

  For everyone who wanted a Speedy novel.

  You’re all delightfully nuts.

  CHAPTERS

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Notes

  CHAPTER ONE

  I’m still in the phonebook. Quaint, right? It’s a holdover from when I was a kid, I think. I used to get such a kick out of flipping open the phonebook and seeing my mom’s name. Some of the blush wore off when she married my stepdad and our names changed, but what can you do? You’re all of four years old, and suddenly there’s a dude behind a desk telling you that your last name isn’t yours anymore.

  I decided to make that new name mine. I held that name through my stepdad’s funeral, and made sure the name outlasted those others who came and went in my mom’s life. That name’s still mine, even though I got married myself last October.

  And there it is in the phonebook: Blackwell, Hope.

  I love it. When I start my medical residency, one of the first things I’ll do is call up the White Pages and tell them to add a little MD suffix to my name.

  The problem is, when your name and number and address are in the phonebook, it makes it phenomenally easy for those many assholes who hate your husband to break into your house at three in the morning.

  Yes, I’m aware—painfully aware, thank you—that we live in the Information Age, but our family’s data isn’t easily found online. I’ll get to the whys of that in a minute. Because all of this is my polite way of explaining why I’m starting this story from underneath a couple of police officers.

  I might have been swearing.

  There were ambulances parked out front, too, which explains why my husband hit our front door so hard it flew off of its hinges.

  That wasn’t really his fault. Sparky’s built like a linebacker and moves twice as fast. Get a little adrenaline pumping, and things tend to break around him.

  He took in the room while he was moving. Five men, broken and bloody, each of them with an EMT shining a penlight in various places. Me, lying prone on the floor, two police officers standing not quite on top of me to make sure I stayed there…

  Bad scene.

  Both cops’ guns came out when the door flew across the room. Those guns didn’t go down when their owners recognized my husband. Instead, the hands holding those guns began to shake, their fingers on the grips of their guns began to turn white…

  Worse scene.

  “Guys,” I said. “Don’t make me get up.”

  The guns went down.

  Sparky doesn’t smile much in public, but if you’re looking for it, you can see the corners of his eyes twitch.

  “Everything good here?” he asked me.

  I shrugged. Bit of a mistake, as the officer with his boot resting on my back flinched, and I gained another fifty pounds of twitchy cop. “’s fine,” I grunted. “Some members of your fanclub showed up with baseball bats.”

  And tire irons, and crowbars, and even a sledgehammer. I hadn’t been nice to the one who had brought the sledgehammer. Sledgehammers mean business.

  “They came in through the back, Agent Mulcahy,” said the officer who wasn’t crushing my shoulders into mush. I liked him. “They cut through a plastic tarp in the construction area.”

  “Smart,” my husband said. “Our alarm system doesn’t cover that zone yet.” He knelt beside one of our wanna-be assailants. The man’s head lolled sideways before he fell forward into the EMT’s lap.

  “He had a sledgehammer,” I offered.

  “Ah,” Sparky replied. He looked at the officers. “Now, why are you standing on my wife?”

  God bless the man for trying.

  The cop with the heavy boots sputtered something about how when they had showed up, I had been armed (I hadn’t), and how they had shouted for me to get down on the floor (I had), and how things had gotten sloppy from there.

  The real story had more threats, the majority of them not made by me. Boots-Cop did not like my husband, and his emotions had gone bonkers when he saw me.

  Being famous is one of those things that sounds great until it actually happens to you.

  Sparky listened and nodded in the appropriate places before asking if I was under arrest. The officers traded a glance heavy with paperwork and bad publicity, and I breathed easier as the boot came off of my back.

  I stood and dusted myself off as best I could. I had stopped sleeping in the buff years ago (Reason? See: the current state of our living room), but I had gone to bed in nothing but one of Sparky’s tees and my granny panties, and modesty hadn’t been my first thought when I woke to the sounds of glass breaking and strange voices downstairs. Still, his shirts were long enough on me to count as a sundress, so I pretended I was wearing a classic somethin’-somethin’ from a French designer instead of a threadbare shirt with the logo for the New England Patriots.

  I don’t think it worked: it was kinda cold.

  Whatever. They were in my house.

  I cracked my knuckles to work out the kinks, and the officers moved a good few feet away from me and Sparky. This put them closer to the bad guys, and both cops and bad guys were okay with this. It didn’t bother me—I’m weird, Sparky’s weirder, but to the average cop, home invaders are a stupid kind of normal.

  “Are you pressing charges?” Boots-Cop asked me.

  “Yes,” said Sparky, at the same time I said, “Nope.”

  My husband’s eyebrow went up, so I added, “It’s not like they’ll be coming back.”

  “Split the difference?” he asked. “Yes to trespassing, no to assault?”

  I walked over to Sledgehammer, who was being kept at the edge of consciousness by his EMT. He was a heavy dude, in black biker leather over worn jeans. He saw me coming, and woke up enough to start squirming towards the kitchen.

  I knelt beside him as he wiggled across the floor, his handcuffs leaving fresh scratches in the cherry wood. I would have rapped him on the head a time or two for that but, hey, I’m a
paramedic myself, and I’ve got the whole medical school thing going. Last thing I needed to do was aid and abet his concussion. “Hey,” I asked. “Am I ever gonna see you again?”

  “No!” Sledgehammer curled into a ball. His EMT glared at me as he tried to drag Sledgehammer back to an upright position. Sledgehammer was having none of it, and batted at the EMT with weak chained hands.

  “How ’bout this? You spread the word to leave us the fuck alone, and I’ll let you tell your buddies in community service that I didn’t kick your ass to Friday and back.”

  Sledgehammer nodded so hard I heard his teeth click.

  “Right, then.” I jerked a thumb at his EMT, who hauled Sledgehammer to his feet and towards the waiting ambulance. It took a few minutes for the EMTs and Boots-Cop to clear the rest of them out, with Boots-Cop doing the ride-along to the hospital. The officer who stayed behind had a decent attitude once he got some distance from his scared rabbit of a partner. We gave him some juice (Yes, he asked for juice. Some people like juice, and we had juice.), he took my statement, and then he left.

  Leaving us to stare at the chaos where our living room used to be.

  “Sweetie…” Sparky sighed.

  “Don’t start.”

  “I was going to apologize,” he said. “This never happened to you before I showed up.”

  “Yeah, well…” I hopped up on my toes and gave him a quick kiss. “It did, and even if it hadn’t, you’re worth it.”

  He tipped the loveseat upright while I went on a cushion hunt, and then we collapsed in a gentle heap. Three in the morning is a hard place to find yourself after a long, long day.

  “How was the…thing?” I asked.

  “The welcome reception for the new Director of the EPA,” he said, as he brushed my hair away from my neck. “Decent food. Terrible conversation.”

  “That doesn’t sound like OACET business.”

  OACET is shorthand for the Office of Adaptive and Complementary Enhancement Technologies. Sparky’s responsible for it, and the four hun—

  Right, sorry. Let’s try this again.

  Let me tell you about what happens when you unravel a major government conspiracy: if you live through it, your life doesn’t snap back to its usual shape. No, you have positively wrecked any chance of normalcy. Unless you’re sitting on a trove of blackmail documents that will keep you and your loved ones alive, you’d better learn how to adapt to your new status quo.

  Sparky and me? We had that trove, but we decided it was our nuclear option, to use only when our backs were against the wall and that wall was made of acid-drooling lions. Instead, we went public. We took everything that had happened to Sparky and the other members of OACET, and we threw it all on the ground. Look, America! There’s your politicians’ dirty laundry, bloodstains and all.

  This made a lot of very powerful politicians extremely pissed at us.

  If you think this is the reason for Officer Boots-Cop’s twitchy trigger finger, just wait. It gets better. Or worse, depending on how you like your English.

  See, back when they were fresh-faced kids in their early twenties, Sparky and a bunch of other up-and-comers in the federal government were asked to participate in a top secret intelligence program. They were told that September 11th had proven that those many hundreds of different agencies, military organizations, departments, divisions, and whatnots which formed the federal government had to learn to work together. Improved communication among different government entities was the goal, they said.

  But their sneaky idea was to network the people.

  So, five hundred people—sorry, I should have said kids, as the oldest of these five hundred said people had just celebrated her twenty-fifth birthday—had their heads strapped into a three-pin skull cradle and went under the laser-guided craniotome. It wasn’t pleasant. Sparky’s scars are hidden by his hair, but man, they’re brutal. They took the top of his skull clean off. Sure, they replaced it with alloys that can withstand the impact of a speeding car, but it’s squicky to think that somewhere out there, a surgical orderly could be using my husband’s parietal bone as an ashtray.

  After that, they stuck an organic computer chip deep inside Sparky’s brain, and sensors on his optic and auditory nerves. And then, once he and the other OACET Agents had healed up, they cut them loose and pretended they didn’t exist.

  Think about that for a moment. You wake up from brain surgery, and all of your equipment—both your factory originals and the aftermarket add-ons—seems to work as promised. Sure, you’d like it if the buggy Artificial Intelligence unit could be turned off, and you’re not really sure how to keep the other Agents out of your head, but at least you didn’t die, right?

  Then you learn the same politicians who greenlit your conversion to cyborg status decided this top-secret experiment wasn’t working out as planned. Too bad for the volunteers: they’re stuck dealing with an AI that won’t shut up, not to mention they’re permanently linked into the neuroses of four hundred and ninety-nine others going through the exact same crap. This bugginess kept getting worse and worse, and the Agents couldn’t escape it. It wasn’t as though they could take the implants out: those chips were grafted to the cerebral cortex, and as collections of cells go, that particular one is fairly important.

  It all collapsed into an endless screaming mindfuck for the cyborgs.

  And? Since it was a government program, and elections and publicity were involved, everyone who might be able to help decided it was safer to stay as far away from that buggy cyborg program as they could.

  So that’s exactly what they did.

  Back when I first met Sparky, he was drugged out of his gourd and doing scut work. He’d been like that for five whole years. Five years of living like a goddamned zombie, shuffling through the motions, unable to let himself think or feel. He turned out to be a really stellar guy under the antidepressants and the sleeping pills, and once he got himself back together, we decided to learn what we could about that chip in his head.

  Turns out the implant does a lot more than allow Agents to talk to each other over distances. The implant is the ultimate encryption breaker—if you’ve got one, you can access and control any networked machine.

  Take a breath and let that sink in.

  Now, if you just looked around and took inventory of how many networked machines you own, or can access, or have heard of from a friend of a friend who works in That Place, and then immediately thought, “Well, that’s pretty fucking terrifying,” you are one bright cookie.

  That’s what we took public.

  We became overnight celebrities. There was the cyborg thing, of course, and government conspiracies are always sexy, but Sparky and me? We make a fabulous couple. He’s riding that tall, blond superspy vibe, and I’ve won more gold medals in judo than anyone else alive. Add that to the story of how we fell in love while fighting to set him and his buddies free?

  Photogenic magic. [1]

  Except?

  For every person who thinks you and your husband are heroes who did the right thing, there’s one who thinks you didn’t. I don’t think I need to tell you which of those two is louder.

  Folks, fame ain’t worth the price tag. Trust me: a pack of moderately-armed morons breaking into our house is barely worth a mention these days.

  It’s better than it used to be, though. Sparky and the other surviving OACET Agents have been out for almost a year, and everybody is gradually getting used to the idea of near-omniscient cyborgs in their midst. Sparky was on the political A-list. Yeah, I don’t quite know how that happened either, but everybody in Washington wants a piece of him. And tonight was the first time in over a month that I’ve needed to wreck the living room.

  Our poor, much-abused living room…oy.

  I looked over in time to see our front door, which had been stuck in the drywall by its knob alone, come free and clatter to the ground.

  March in D.C. is still too chilly to leave a gaping hole where a door used to be, s
o I shrugged out of Sparky’s arms, and went to get the tarps and duct tape. When I returned, the loveseat was empty.

  “In here,” came a woman’s voice from the kitchen.

  I dropped the tarps by the door hole, and headed for the kitchen. Rachel Peng had her hands wrapped around a fresh cup of coffee. I can usually keep myself from picking up emotions, but with every step I took towards her, the more exhausted I felt.

  Rachel’s head came up, hard. She’s an empath, too, but her abilities come from her implant and are more developed than mine. She can tell you exactly what you’re feeling at any given moment, and has no problem asking questions that can peel your psyche open so she can pick through the bits. It’s extra-freaky.

  I pretended not to see how she was watching me like a starving predator, and went to pour myself a cup of coffee. Exhaustion was normal; it was three in the morning, and anybody with good sense and a good schedule would be tired. Rachel’s head went back down.

  Perfect. She doesn’t know about me, and I’d like to keep it that way.

  “Hey Rachel,” I said as I went for the cream and sugar. “What’s going on?”

  “Hope,” she said by way of greeting, and nodded towards Sparky. “I noticed Mulcahy was still up, so I asked if it was okay to drop by.”

  Rachel doesn’t drive, but before I could open my mouth, she said, “Santino drove. He’s taking a nap in the car.” And then, when she saw that her throwaway comment had put me off, she added, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to read you like that. It’s been a long day.”

  See what I mean by extra-freaky? This is the reason I’m the second-worst psychic in the world. My emotions should belong to me and me alone, and I’m not about to snatch anybody else’s straight out of their soul.

  I dropped into the chair beside Sparky and threw my feet over his knees. “Everything okay?” I asked her.

  Rachel shot a furtive glance at Sparky, and they did that too-silent thing that happened when they were talking through the cyborgs’ mental link.