Paige places her can on the counter, cracks her neck and flexes her fingers behind her. “Well that was mildly amusing, but we’re not getting anywhere. Brodie, give me some Muse. I’m going to dive in and see if I can pull out something useful.”
Brodie pats himself down and then scours the kitchen table, pushing aside dishes and magazines and plates of week-old spaghetti. “I think I took the rest of them.”
As he rummages around Paige spots a bright blue pill rolling from beneath a plate, stopping at the edge of the marble countertop before it falls to the floor. She scoops it into her mouth and washes it down with a single gulp of soda.
A heartbeat later she begins to manifest. Her eyes spark with electricity; tiny storms encased in spheres made of glass, fingers of lightning lashing from the clouds.
“What are you going to do now?” Jens asks, gingerly massaging the back of his fractured hand.
“Now that Heinreich is awake I’m doing the only thing we can do: I’m going to pop inside his head and take a look around. It should only take a minute or two.” Paige steeples her fingertips and they begin to glow. She pulls them apart and bolts of energy stretch between them, pulsing and rippling.
Jens leaps back a step. “Whoa, is that safe?”
“For me or for Heinreich?” she says with a faint smile. “It’s no big deal, really. I’ll just make a quick connection with his mind so I can retrieve a few details. Besides a nasty hangover he should be all right tomorrow morning. It kills a couple brain cells every time I do it, but so does drinking tequila.”
“So you can read someone’s mind?” Jens asks. “Jump inside their head? I thought you were more into, you know…melting stuff?”
“Some people are just lucky, I guess,” she says dryly. “I have two superpowers.”
“Whoa. And one of them is mind-reading, Professor X style?”
“In a way, yes…but it’s a little more complicated than that. I see pictures, hear sounds; sometimes I’m taking their place in a dream or a recent event. I can’t always tell exactly what they’re thinking, but I can sort of feel what they were feeling. A lot of the time it actually works out better that way.”
“What are you gonna do with him when you’re done?” Jens asks.
“Yeah,” Brodie chimes in. “We can’t let the Collectors know where the secret hideout is. How are we gonna make the trade for Dia and Cole?”
“If we need him for the trade, we wait,” Paige says, rubbing her hands together in small circles. The electricity she’s generating creates a low-pitched hum, like a generator spooling up. “If they’re willing to do a prisoner swap then we’ll just have to improvise. But if he gives us enough to go on – like a back door out of The Basement – I can wipe his memory and we can dump him in Central Park.”
“Sweet,” Brodie says.
“Then when he goes back to his evil lair, he won’t have any information about us or our location. I might even be able to drop a couple new thoughts into his head to throw them off our trail.”
Jens’ eyes widen with fascination, locked on Paige’s glowing hands. “So you can actually change someone’s memories?”
Page shrugs. “It depends on how much time I spend with them. If I keep working on someone I can pretty much wipe their entire hard drive and upload anything I want. But for a one-stop solution I can destroy some recent neural connections, but not much else. At the very least I can extract the key events from today.” Her hands vibrate, fingertips moving so quickly they’re buzzing like electrified metal. When she moves a faint phosphorescent trail streaks behind, lingering in the air.
Paige takes a few steps towards Heinreich, hands just inches from his forehead. The glow of purple electricity is reflecting in the whites of his eyes, which are growing wide and panicked. “All right,” she says with a hint of forced enthusiasm, “Here we go. Let’s tear back the curtain and see who’s pulling the levers.”
She presses her fingertips into the giant’s temples. Her pupils dilate, then vanish. Her eyes fade to milky-white opals, staring blankly into nothingness.
A ghostly calmness takes hold of Heinreich, stiffening his body yet simultaneously relaxing his features; the tightness disappears from his strained face and his eyelids are once again heavy with sedation. He’s almost welcoming Paige to extract pictures and sound from the deepest realms of his consciousness.
A few moments pass with her fingers locked on Heinreich’s temples, flecks of violet light entwining her fingers, buzzing gently in the silence of the apartment.
Brodie and Jens exchange curious glances.
Nothing yet.
Then she inhales; lungs in spasm, mouth agape, a painful scream lodged in the back of her throat. Paige stumbles and topples backwards. Kitchen chairs tumble and her laptop crashes to the floor and she gropes for something to break her fall, the monitor shattering across the tiles. She crawls into the corner of the room and hugs her legs to her chest like a terrified child, quaking uncontrollably, face buried in her knees.
Brodie drops at her side and reaches out to comfort her, but yanks his hands back as if she’s a hot burner.
“Well do something,” Jens shouts wildly.
“Um, Paige…?” Brodie snaps his fingers by her ears and eyes, trying to spark a reaction.
Her head lolls back against the wall with a hollow thump, reddened eyes like saucers. She can’t hear the snapping. Brodie and Jens are now mouthing words, faces panicked, but whatever they’re saying is lost. They’re not producing any sound. The audio track that’s playing at full blast inside her throbbing head is the one she’d just hijacked from Heinreich’s brain. Screaming…so much screaming, and sobbing and begging. The horror is consuming her.
Chapter Twenty – Pyrrhic
New York City
August 26, 2011
7:17 am, Eastern Daylight Time
With a flash of electricity Dia and Cole appear on her rooftop, stepping through the torn fabric of the universe; a far less dramatic entrance than their two previous journeys. Without the fear of being killed it’s much easier for her to focus and pinpoint a destination for re-entry.
Rays of burnt orange sunlight are lancing through the early morning clouds, bathing the rooftop patio in a retina-stinging glow. Dia staggers and wobbles, reaching out to grasp a chair for balance. She’s not accustomed to manifesting this many times over such a short time-span, and she can feel a deep exhaustion setting in, aching her muscles and sapping her resolve. Her head spins, inner ear whirling like a carousel. Usually the vertigo, lightheadedness and rubbery legs are reserved for her travel companions and not herself.
Cole tears a swath of fabric from his tank top. He tightens the black cloth around her bleeding forearm, securing the tourniquet with a quick jerk. The gash she opened in order to tear apart this last gateway was deep and violent, almost down to her artery, by the looks of it.
They enter the rooftop doors and circle their way down the staircase, intercepted by Brodie the moment they step into the corridor.
“D!” he calls out. “Am I glad to see you.” His eyes are manic. Dia’s alarm bells begin to go off.
“Brodie, what’s going on?” she asks quickly.
Cole glances over his shoulder and down the hall into the brightly-lit kitchen. An enormous semi-conscious German is bound and taped to a chair, his bald head sagging to the side. “Is that Heinreich? Why the hell did you bring him here?”
“It’s a long story,” Brodie says, “but there’s something else going on. You guys want the bad news or the really bad news?”
Dia sags into the wall. “Oh god…give me the bad news first, I suppose.”
Brodie digs into his pocket and produces a bulky gold-plated timepiece. “I got a closer look at Heinreich’s watch after Jens took it off of him. It’s not just a watch…turns out there was a micro-tracer inside. I smashed the chip, but—”
“Shit.” It doesn’t matter. They could already be on their way. Dia’s eyes snap open and she spins
around. She begins to rummage through the contents in her hallway table. “Grab Paige, gather as much Muse as possible and let’s jump,” she orders him with a military-like cadence. “No screwing around Brodie, I want you ready in five.”
“Well, that’s sort of the really bad news,” he replies, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know what happened, but, well…Paige tried to read Heinreich. An interrogation to see if we could find you two. She got inside his head for just a second or two...”
Dia can’t wait a second longer. She shoves Brodie aside and bolts down the corridor, her boots slick on the marble tiles. She slides into the kitchen and rounds the corner, and that’s when she sees her: Paige, slumped and broken like a discarded rag doll, propped into the corner of the room. Her eyes are vacant.
“We tried everything we could,” she hears Brodie whisper from behind her. “But…she’s gone.”
Chapter Twenty-One – Admonish
The Backyard
Govinda sits alone in the darkness of his wide, windowless office. As the Director of Operations for the Global Liberty Initiative, he enjoys certain comforts and benefits that are not afforded to the rank and file; one of these luxuries includes a lavishly decorated workspace, furnished with an impressive array of artifacts. Ornate gold and red vases from the Ming Dynasty sit precariously atop narrow columns that flank his wide mahogany desk. Original Monet’s and Picasso’s and Rembrandt’s sweep across the wood paneled walls. And several ancient weapons are mounted throughout the room: maces, flails, swords, spears, and jagged tools of unspeakable torture with names that he can’t pronounce. Unlike the paintings and vases, the weapons are not there for decoration – they’re stark reminders. This is more than just his office, after all. This is his war room. It’s a space where decisions are made, warriors are tasked with impossible missions, and, on certain occasions, where insubordination is dealt with.
Govinda continues to clack away at his laptop when three rapping knocks echo through his office.
“Come in,” he shouts without looking up from his monitor. “There’s no need for formalities at this point.”
The door swings open, filling the room with a hard flourescent glare that spills in from the hallway. Goto breezes in with a calm, easy stride. He foregoes a seat at the far side of the desk and chooses to stand, placing both hands behind his back. “Mister Govinda,” he begins politely (or at least he’s feigning politeness; something Govinda often silently suspected he’d been guilty of). “I assume that you’re aware of Mister Heinreich’s…predicament.”
“Of course I’m aware, Mister Goto.” More typing. Still no eye contact. “Nothing happens in The Basement without my knowledge, and I’ve been well informed of his position.”
“I see,” Goto replies with a barely perceptible nod. “And since you’re so well informed, you must also be aware that his tracking device has just been disabled. With that in mind we’re operating on a tight timeframe for an extraction. Paige Davenport has certain gifts, according to our data…with access to Mister Heinreich, they could be pulling valuable information from him, even as we speak.”
Something in his tone strikes Govinda’s ear. The thin layer of conceit that coats Goto’s every word sends a heat wave of anger blistering through his temples. “You’re exceedingly confident for someone who’s skating on thin ice, Mister Goto.” Govinda pushes himself away from his desk, slamming his laptop shut. “You have a very impressive track record with our organization, but I feel it’s my duty to inform you that the goodwill you’ve accumulated from your past efforts is rapidly diminishing.”
“Is it, now?” Goto offers a thin smile and tilts his head to the side; a gesture that Govinda takes as a sign of arrogance, if not outright defiance.
“Very much so.” Govinda presses his palms into the surface of desk and he stands, towering more than a foot above his subordinate. “I can forgive your inability to capture Miss Davenport, and as you know, I’m a very forgiving person. But how can you explain the incident in the alley? Pulling a gun on her? Firing? What would have happened if you had killed her? I shudder to think what The General would have done in that instance. And believe me when I tell you that he’s far less forgiving than I am.”
“But there were extenuating circumstances, that—”
“You were incapacitated, I know. I retrieved video surveillance footage from the ATM machine across the street – it caught the entire altercation. A small battery-powered taser, I believe it was?” Tsk-tsk, Govinda says with a tiny shake of his head and a wag of his finger. “Quite embarrassing. I was also fascinated by the part where Mister Heinreich was tossed across the alley and through a car, rendering him completely defenseless.” Govinda leans across his desk and lowers his voice. Even bent forward he’s still measurably taller than Goto. “Just between you and me, I think he might have lost a step. Collecting is a young man’s game, and he might need to start considering an early retirement.”
A rill of cold sweat drips from Goto’s forehead, streaking his cheekbone. He fidgets as the heat rises in his face, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He’s resisting the urge to loosen his scarf, Govinda guesses.
“And now,” Govinda continues, “we find ourselves in yet another precarious position. We have their location pinpointed, but since Mister Heinreich has been captured and you’ve once again failed to make a clean extraction, we have no choice but to use brute force. The Global Liberty Initiative is supposed to function as a scalpel, not a chainsaw.”
“I understand perfectly, Mister Govinda.” The layer of conceit seems to have melted from his voice, replaced with a dash of desperation.
“No, Mister Goto, I’m not sure that you do understand. Our employer’s time and patience are running short in equal measure, and I don’t have to remind you of what’s at stake. This operation is a one-time deal. If we fail to make the collection on this occasion we won’t have another shot; not with these resources at our disposal. And even if we succeed the exposure alone is going to cost us millions.”
“I’m aware that the situation has become somewhat…” Goto pauses for just a moment, searching his mind for just the right euphemism. “Problematic.”
“Ah, that’s an interesting choice of words, Mister Goto. So you think that a shootout in the middle of downtown New York City is going to be problematic? In your professional, expert opinion, you believe that group of fat tourists gathered around with a corndog in one hand and a video camera in the other – filming a bloodbath in high definition – could be seen as ‘somewhat of an issue’? I think the word you were searching for is ‘clusterfuck’.”
Goto remains silent as Govinda continues his lecture, now seething with pent up anger.
“I’m going to head up this operation personally,” Govinda continues, his voice like rolling thunder, “and see if I can make one, last-ditch effort to collect Miss Davenport without resorting to a full-scale assault. I have a single card left to play before we’ve exhausted every option.”
“So, when do we move out?” Goto asks, pretending to be fascinated with his expensive leather shoes.
“There is no ‘we’, Mister Goto. You have been temporarily suspended from active duty until I can come up with an appropriate punishment. I can’t afford another incident like the one in the alley. You’re to stay in The Basement until I give you further instruction. Is that clear?”
Goto tries to compose himself, steadying his voice to avoid raising it to a dangerously insolent level. “Crystal,” he nods.
“That’s wonderful,” Govinda says, turning his back. “Dismissed.”
That one, condescending word – dismissed – scrapes across Goto’s eardrum like a jagged talon. He turns to leave, slamming the door on his way out. The crashing sound of the door hitting the frame resonates down the long concrete hall and through the corridors of The Basement.
Goto leans against the wall and reaches into his breast pocket to extract a cigarette, but he’s startled by a
shattering explosion at his back. It’s the sound of a two thousand-year-old porcelain vase smashing to pieces against a heavy wooden door.
Chapter Twenty-Two – Seppuku
New York City
August 26, 2011
7:19 am, Eastern Daylight Time
Dia’s voice comes across sharp and clear, but Paige hears every syllable like she’s underwater; muffled sounds that scarcely resemble words, barely audible through the sloshing liquid that’s filling her ears.
“Come back to me,” Dia pleads, tears streaking her cheeks. “We need to get the hell out of here. They’re coming!”
Paige’s mind drifts away, lost in a verdant forest of half-forgotten memories. She reaches out to grasp something – anything – that will cleanse herself of the horror. Something pure. What she’d dug out of Heinreich’s mind was too much for her to process; a sensory overload that caused a short circuit.
She sifts through memories like a handful of faded snapshots; jagged, frayed at the edges, ravaged by time. She remembers skipping though a military base with Dia, singing, fingers entwined. She recalls flying their first kite in a lush field of daisies, clouds hanging in the crystal blue sky like wads of cotton, and thinking that life would never get more joyous than it was in that very moment. It pains her to think that she might have been right. Time ratchets forward to the day that her childhood vanished, washed away years too soon – it was the day of her mother’s funeral. Family and acquaintances all clad in black, surrounding a pine box being pattered by drizzle. Under the canopy of umbrellas she recognized most of the people attending, but they were shells of themselves. She remembers them looking sadder than she’d ever seen adults look before, and it sent a shiver up her arms. And she can still feel the pit of her stomach drop out when she gazes up and takes in her father’s expression: his cold indifference, unyielding eyes made of polished steel. They never faltered, not for a millisecond. Not even when Paige and Dia’s mother was lowered into the ground.
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