To Hunt a Sub

by Jacqui Murray

  She shivered. Why did she remember him now?

  The rattle of her coins dropping into the machine and the clatter of the chips tumbling to the tray reverberated around her. She filled her cup from the fountain and started back, shoes clacking on the tile floor. As she turned onto her hall, footsteps echoed at a distance, stopping and starting as though the owner was unsure where to go. She ducked inside her office as a figure rounded the corner. She stood for a long minute, stomach in knots, back to the wall, hands gripping her water and chips. When the steps faded, she nudged the door closed. Why would anyone be on this wing? It was all grad student offices.

  The building once again drifted into silence. She chided herself for worrying, opened the chips, but set them aside. She’d lost her appetite.

  A few jabs at her keyboard and a Pleistocene landscape appeared, complete with the primordial primate who had become a familiar figure in Otto’s movies. The AI was programmed to provide the big picture, not focus on an individual, but he always returned to this female. Was he trying to communicate something?

  She had grown fond of the creature. She was curious and friendly with sophisticated communication—albeit non-verbal—Kali wouldn’t have dreamt existed when mankind was young. In this scenario, the female trotted across the African savanna, a grace to her movements thanks to the long slender legs topped with the round firmness of mankind’s first gluteus maximus. Her thorax was already raised to draw the deep breaths required for extended jogging. Kali jogged five miles a day, but this female did four times that. Even with her truncated forehead, prognathic snout, and negligible chin, she would be invisible on most New York sidewalks.

  “Who are you?”

  Her shoulder length hair hung like exploded cattails, the color of dusty obsidian. A bulge broke the flat plane of her lightly-furred stomach. Dried dung covered her face and shoulders. Slender digits of well-formed hands snatched vegetation as she ran. Every movement bristled with equal amounts of caution and confidence. Her head swiveled side-to-side.

  Until she stared straight into the face of her twenty-first-century observer. Coffee-brown eyes, the same variegated shade as Kali’s, sparkled with intelligence.

  And something else. A desiccated trail of tears etched the female’s face like an African wadi, but Kali saw no cuts or bruises. Did early humans feel emotional pain?

  A paleo-horse nickered off screen. The female jerked toward it. Was she frightened? Kali dredged up the jingle she learned in second grade. Eyes in front, they hunt. Eyes to the side, they hide. Primitive horses—Hipparion—were vegetarians.

  A voice barked ‘Lhoo-sih’ as the movie ended.

  “Lucy.” She had a name.

  Kali pushed F7 to refresh the video and wondered how Otto picked his geo-temporal locations. Sometimes a young Lucy brachiated through the jungle canopy, arm over arm; other times she crossed the dry savanna with a baby in tow. If Otto had a plan, he wasn’t sharing it.

  Kali massaged her temples and pondered whether Lucy got headaches. She tugged at her tiny diamond earrings, all that remained of her mother, and her eyes settled on a framed photo of Sean in the science lab at his school—goggles on, eyes intense, the bare trace of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, surrounded by applauding teens.

  She couldn’t afford to fail.

  Otto burped. Another video was ready.

  Chapter 5

  The phone dragged Kali back to the twenty-first century. “Hello?” She heard soft breathing and then a dial tone.

  “Jerk.” Only faculty and students had access to this number. She tried to forget the call, but fear nibbled at the edges of her concentration. She appraised her defensive options. She could throw books to distract an intruder while she escaped, or record everything through Otto so the police would know how she died. No chance Cat would arrive to frighten off an attacker. She was already in a posh DC hotel, resting up for her presentation.

  Kali forced herself back to work, stomach churning over the mountains of analysis that still remained. Numbers careened across the screen as Otto culled through thousands of encyclopedias, online libraries, databases, historic records, weather charts, maps, primary documents, searching for his next scenario. When he finished, he would create a movie using an open source program called VripPack to infill the pixels.

  “Excuse me.”

  Kali jerked and stabbed a shortkey to hide her screen. A tall, muscular man filled her door. Bushy blonde hair surrounded a tan face. A smile hovered over full lips. He jangled a key at his side.

  Kali tugged her earring. “Did you just call?”

  His face scrunched in confusion and Kali began again, “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Faith Saunders. She’s a history professor. I’m taking her to dinner.”

  He wore stylish black-rimmed glasses, a pressed Polo and khakis, and carried a bouquet of roses. The scent of Old Spice distracted Kali as he fingered a wayward thatch of hair from his eyes. The expensive gold chain around his neck and diamond-encircled Krugerrand ring said he wasn’t a struggling academe. She frowned at the pale band on his left ring finger.

  “You want 1180 Amsterdam.” Kali pointed left.

  “Oh! Silly me. I could get lost in a… one way… street,” he sputtered with what he no doubt considered a friendly grin but came out more of a smirk. Clearly, charisma wasn’t part of his make-a-friend toolkit. “Name’s Fred.” Kali took his hand. It was soft and damp. “I’m proposing tonight.” His eyes glowed with childish enthusiasm like he wanted her approval. She wanted him gone. She offered a tight smile, which seemed enough to keep him talking. “Is Tom’s romantic?”

  Asking Kali for dating advice was like expecting fashion tips from Phyllis Diller, but Tom’s was a perennial favorite. “If it’s crowded, try Café Lalo. They’re popular for celebrations.”

  He bobbed his head as he took in the clutter. Despite his boyish innocence, something about him was off. “Were you here a half-hour ago?”

  His eyes widened. “No. I just got here,” and with the flash of toothy whiteness, he left.

  Kali watched him pull a phone out as he disappeared out the door. Why lie about when he got here? And why didn’t he call for directions earlier? Nothing about Fred made sense. Still, an intimate dinner, the heady aroma of fresh flowers, and the question that changes lives. Kali had never given any male the gift of her time. Fletcher, her son’s father, had been a moment of weakness. The more he wooed her with his enthusiasm, attentiveness, and kindness, the harder she pushed him away until he gave up on her—but not on their son.

  When Sean left for college next year, she’d have only Sandy and her research. She should accept one of the awkward invitations regularly stuttered out by fellow grad students, but they frightened her. Kali could tick off every early man artifact and where it was found, but she couldn’t answer questions like, ‘How was your day’ over a dinner table.

  Hector’s eyes narrowed as the guerro exited the building, tossed a bouquet of flowers into the trash with one hand and held his cellphone to his ear with the other. A middle-aged man with more bling than common sense spelled trouble. Whatever he heard on the other end brought a scowl to his synthetically-tanned face. He didn’t even try to keep his voice down.

  “She looked frazzled.” The man folded an arm over his chest and pawed the ground with a shoe. “Of course she never suspected. I’m good at this undercover stuff. Leave the money where you always do,” and he shoved the phone into his pocket.

  Hector waited until the man melted into the nighttime shadows, and then re-checked the doors to Schermerhorn and the Computer Science building. One light remained, the same one every evening for the past two weeks, He made a note in his log and continued his rounds. The lady professor sure did put in long hours. He’d come back and check on her later.

  Kali gasped. Next to Lucy was a hominid who shouldn’t exist in this era. Thick hair-fur shrouded a broad face with jutting brow ridges. A protruding muzzle projected alm
ost as far as a chimpanzee’s. Simian arms dangled halfway down the bandy legs. Dull fuzz covered her body as she stood frozen at the edge of a primeval forest. The almost-human eyes were wide and her breath came in shallow pants. Pre-humans survived by avoiding danger, but this creature exhibited enviable courage as she slapped herself on the chest and mouthed ‘Boah’.

  “Boah? Is that your name?”

  A bear-sized bandog padded onscreen. Lucy barked what sounded like ‘Ump’ and the proto-dog plopped to the ground, massive head nestled between filthy paws, without taking his liquid brown eyes off Boah. He resembled a feral version of Kali’s Labrador Sandy, but bigger, uglier, stronger, and dirtier. A heavy red tongue hung out and the cheerful up-down bob of his tail sent dirt billowing into the air.

  “I can see why Lucy calls you ‘Ump’.”

  Ump’s dewdrop-shaped ears perked as Boah moved forward. With her squatty torso exposed, Kali saw ‘she’ was a ‘he’.

  The scene stunned Kali. No scientist would put Boah, Lucy, and Ump in the same geo-temporal location, yet Otto, with his logical connections based on available facts, did. This was what she needed.

  An hour later, she packed up Otto with a satisfied grunt, locked her office and left. She’d finish tomorrow, in plenty of time for Monday.

  It was well past midnight, but inside the campus borders, the bustle of industry and the sizzle of hope buzzed on. Students giggled and flirted on the steps of Lowe Library. A pizza delivery person swerved around her as Passacaglia in C Minor erupted from the 5,000 pipes of the chapel organ. The chiseled buildings were soft grey contours limned against the horizon.

  “Hello, Ms. Delamagente.”

  Her adrenaline spiked and then she recognized the voice. “Hector. I didn’t see you in the shadows. Hello.”

  “Everything OK with the guerro?” He said ‘guerro’ like he found half a worm in an apple.

  She nodded. “Though he lied to me. Odd.” She offered a wan smile. “Thanks for checking.”

  Hector grunted and melted soundlessly into the darkness.

  Kali pulled her jacket tighter around her body and hugged her briefcase closer as she hurried off, glancing over her shoulder every few seconds. Hector had been at Columbia longer than Kali. He never worried about security, but Fred caught his attention. Come on—you’re over-reacting, she chided herself. Angel’s murder, Al-Zahrawi’s call, and now Fred’s unexplainable visit shook what used to be a resolute faith in the fairness and goodness of the universe.

  She reached her apartment building in record time. It was squashed between two high rises and backed up against a cluttered alley. She entered the lobby, a generous word for the unmanned foyer no larger than a good-sized broom closet. The linoleum floor was scarred and beige walls chipped, but Kali knew she was lucky to have it. Columbia subsidized it while she pursued her Ph.D. As she fumbled with the lock, a sharp yip greeted her. She didn’t want Sandy to smell her fear, so she took deep breaths to calm herself before opening the door.

  “Shh! You’ll wake Mr. Winters!” She said without anger as she rubbed the front of Sandy’s neck. Kali preferred dogs to people. They were honest and straightforward, without ulterior motives or hidden agendas. They always gave you a second chance, and a third, which wasn’t Kali’s experience with people.

  Sandy was best friends with Kali’s next-door neighbor, Mr. Winters. His perfect white teeth and abundant gray hair made him look fifty rather than seventy despite what he called a ‘botched autopsy’ scar from last year’s quadruple bypass. She met him the day she tried to sneak Sandy into the no-dogs-allowed building. Instead of righteous anger, he winked.

  “Dogs taught me a lot, like how to leave room in my schedule for a nap.”

  Since then, Sandy had become his daily visitor; the only one as far as Kali knew. If she worked late, he took Sandy on his evening walk. Tonight, the leash was rolled into a careful circle, Mr. Winters’ sign they’d exercised. “What would we do without Mr. Winters, pup?”

  She tossed her briefcase onto the counter and poured a glass of lemonade. Something troubled her about Fred’s visit, but she couldn’t quite pull it from memory. As she stuffed her keys into the drawer next to a credit card she used for emergencies, she got it. He shouldn’t have a key to her building. She concentrated on the mental image of his key ring, jangling in his fingers. It was the right shape, but she couldn’t bring up the number. She chewed on it for a while and then gave up, collapsing into a scruffy second-hand couch in an uninspired plaid that had long ago lost its support. Someday, she’d buy a newer used sofa, but today, it’s what she had.

  Sandy laid his head across her lap and she inhaled the fragrance of home, forgetting about keys and Otto and Monday’s presentation. In minutes, her lids drooped and the sweet waves of oblivion began to wash across her consciousness.

  She jerked herself up and announced, “Bedtime, Sandy.”

  The dog sprinted to her tiny bedroom, jumped on the bed, took a couple of turns and settled, nose dangling over the side as Kali washed her face, brushed her teeth, checked the doors, and dropped into bed. As she reached for the light, she paused as she always did at a tuxedoed picture of Sean performing Dragonetti’s Concerto for Double Bass. His neck was arched, eyes slits, wrist taut as the bow flew over the strings, his passion evident even in the stillness of the image.

  “If I lose Monday, I’ll find another way to send you to college, my son.”

  Chapter 6

  Monday

  If he had met Kalian Delamagente under different circumstances, they might be friends. Like her, Salah Al-Zahrawi, his parents, and siblings were learned people forced by events to follow unusual paths. His father was a college professor and his mother well-educated with a bibliophile’s joy of words she passed on to her three sons. When Al-Zahrawi was young, his family moved to Canada as directed by their imam. There, Al-Zahrawi led a happy childhood filled with friends, brotherly fights, and fantasies about a girl in class who smiled at him.

  Everything changed when the American Federal Bureau of Investigation placed his father on the Suspected Terrorists List. The family fled to Afghanistan where his parents were murdered by American mortars and the life of Salah Al-Zahrawi took a dramatic turn.

  The Qur’an ordered those who killed Muslims must themselves be killed. Salah Al-Zahrawi’s elder brother died attempting to carry out this duty in a failed attack on an American outpost. Omar, the next in line, tried to clear the family obligation by tossing a grenade into a vehicle loaded with U.S. servicemen. A quick-thinking Marine tossed it back and Omar’s battle ended.

  It was left to young Salah Mahmud Al-Zahrawi to revenge his parents and brothers.

  One August morning in 1999, an eighteen wheeler crashed through the rear security of an American embassy. When the driver breached the wall, he blew himself up with forty pounds of C4 taped to his chest. With the truck’s full tank of diesel fuel and trailer of explosives, the complex was heavily damaged and dozens killed. It fulfilled Salah Al-Zahrawi’s responsibility, but he did not stop. Hate for the Great Satan had become a way of life for the angry boy who used to love school and dream about his first date. Now, his purpose was Allah’s. Like a whale snagged in a fishing net never stops fighting, even as it is dragged under and can no longer breathe, the only event capable of stopping Salah Al-Zahrawi’s fight would be his death.

  Alhamdulillah.

  The guard checked Salah Al-Zahrawi’s credentials, ticked off his name from the list of attendees, and briskly waved him through. He found a seat with good visibility and turned on his camera. Insha’Allah, Kalian Delamagente and her Otto would be the final piece of his jihad.

  Chapter 7

  The DARPA presentation room looked more like a school cafeteria than where America’s premiere minds would unveil the future. It had indoor-outdoor carpet, faded curtains on the lone window, and was decorated with the vanilla colors designers called calming—and annoyed Zeke Rowe. A dais stood in front for the presenters bordered by
an eight-foot judges’ table. Folding chairs for public seating filled the balance of the space. A robust air conditioner kept the temperature close to freezing.

  Rowe had dressed in his professor uniform—casual slacks, deck shoes, a navy polo shirt and an old faux-leather attaché. With calculated disinterest, he swept the crowd for Kalian Delamagente. There was no way he could miss her fresh-faced beauty amidst the putty colored, too-skinny/too-fat scholars who populated the room.

  A harried last-minute competitor almost knocked him down in her haste to enter the crowded room.

  Kali Delamagente bumped open the door with her hip while juggling a briefcase, two portfolios and Otto’s accoutrements. She almost missed her plane and then couldn’t find a taxi from the airport. Somewhere along the way, she splashed coffee on her baby blue suit. She hoped no one would notice.

  “You spilled coffee on your skirt.

  “And you have bad manners,” she retorted, tugging at her jacket as she glared into the first friendly face she’d seen since Sandy’s this morning. The sturdy compact man had the disarming looks of a jock lost at a Princess House party, nothing like any scientist she knew.

  “I was warned mail-order Emily Post classes wouldn’t work.” His voice was deep, like rich mahogany. He cocked his head, studying her with russet-colored eyes behind dark-rimmed glasses. She fumbled to smooth her imploded French braid.

  “I hope your name doesn’t start with ‘Judge’.”

  “Zeke Rowe. Call me Zeke.” He stuck his hand out. “I like confident women. Who says you need all that stuff?” He waved a hand over the array of laptops, hard drives, cables, and minions of undergrads assisting other competitors.

  “Mine’re still at the airport,” Kali lied, but felt a prickle of trust for this stranger with his crooked smile and missing fingers. “Does everyone feel this way around you, Mr. Zeke Rowe?”