Calypso Directive

by Brian Andrews

  C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “Good job, Bio. Proceed ten meters down the corridor. Turn right at the first intersection.”

  This time, the sound of the Coordinator’s voice did not startle him. The opposite was true. Like an invisible wingman, C. Remy was with him. Guiding and emboldening him.

  If the men in the stairwell were in chase, then he needed to be clear of their line of sight before they reached Level Two. He needed to make that right turn. He sprinted down the corridor to the first intersection, rounded the bend, and slammed into someone walking the opposite direction. He heard a woman yelp, followed by the sound of a body hitting the floor.

  His heart pounded. Like a hyperventilating scuba diver, fighting the fatal urge to tear the regulator from his mouth, AJ resisted addressing the woman in English. He stood over her, legs straddled, looking down in silence.

  R. Nicolora—Founder One: “AJ, this is Founder One, listen to my voice and repeat exactly what I say.”

  The voice in AJ’s ear was calm and steady, and he recognized it immediately. Nicolora pronounced a short phrase in Czech, carefully enunciating each word. He repeated the phrase in a normal speaking cadence, and then again a third time.

  AJ repeated the phrase verbatim, mimicking Nicolora’s intonation as best he could.

  The woman collected herself and put on a good face, seemingly satisfied with AJ’s simple apology. She spoke to him in Czech as she extended her hand for him to help her to her feet.

  R. Nicolora—Founder One: “She just chastised you for running in the dark. Now repeat exactly what I say and then laugh in a self-deprecating way.”

  AJ mimicked Nicolora’s Czech words as he pulled the woman to her feet. She laughed, brushing her clothes with her hands as if to straighten out any wrinkles from the tumble, a pointless exercise in the dark.

  AJ smiled and began to walk away. The woman called out after him.

  AJ could hear Nicolora laugh on the line. AJ laughed, mimicking Nicolora.

  R. Nicolora—Founder One: “Good. Now say goodbye in Czech. Keep moving. Don’t look back at her.”

  AJ did exactly as Nicolora instructed and to his relief, the woman did not follow him. With the corridor now empty, he picked up the pace.

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “I’ve got to know. What did I say to her?”

  R. Nicolora—Founder One: “You told her you were very sorry, but you are not especially skilled with women in the dark. To which she replied that was too bad and she hoped you fared better with women in the light.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Nice.”

  R. Nicolora—Founder One: “Humor is a powerful diffuser of tension. A well-timed joke can save your ass in our line of work.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Yes, Sir. I’ll be sure to remember that.”

  C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “Bio, this is the Coordinator. According to the building plans the server room is the third door on your right.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Third door on my right . . . got it. I’m there.”

  He peered through the small glass window on the door and saw something he did not expect—rows and rows of modular computer towers—a city of blinking LED lights in an otherwise dark room.

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Uh guys, I’ve never actually seen one in person, but from the hardware they’re packing in here, I’d wager our friends have got themselves a supercomputer.”

  E. VanCleave—RS:Technical: “Are you certain? Describe what you see.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Four rows of black cabinets six and a half feet tall, four feet wide. The enclosures look like parallelograms. Everything is humming, so they definitely have UPS. I’m going to try the door . . . Negative, it’s locked.”

  E. VanCleave—RS:Technical: “What you described sounds like IBM Blue Gene Towers. Supercomputers. Coordinator, access the registered and unregistered IBM client list. See if Vyrogen has purchased a Blue Gene supercomputer.”

  C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “Copy. Assigning the task.”

  E. VanCleave—RS:Technical: “Bio, check if there’s a gap between the bottom of the door and the floor.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “There’s a gap. Approximately one half inch.”

  E.VanCleave—RS:Technical: “That will do nicely. Deploy the spiders.”

  AJ reached into his pocket and withdrew three ovoids VanCleave had given him earlier.

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Um, how do I turn them on?”

  E. VanCleave—RS:Technical: “Squeeze each one three times between your forefinger and thumb. Then, set it down on the floor, smooth side up.”

  AJ did as instructed. After the third squeeze, a blue LED on the belly of the spider turned on, and the tiny object came to life. He took a step backward and shined his light on the trio to watch the transformation. Silently, eight tiny legs unfolded, extended and elevated the body off the floor. The micro-bots shuddered in unison, like ducks shaking water from their feathers after a swim, and then began to rotate in place. One full revolution clockwise, then one counterclockwise.

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “What are they doing?”

  E. VanCleave—RS:Technical: “Calibration sequence.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “It’s creepy.”

  E. VanCleave—RS:Technical: “Any second they should finish calibrating and attempt to log into our network, using your phone as a modem.”

  AJ watched the robot spiders complete their calibration sequence, blink twice, and then scurry under the gap of the door. He stepped toward the door and peered in the window, looking down at the floor. He could see three faint blue lights moving across the floor straight toward the server rack.

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “My God, they’re fast little buggers. So that’s it? They’ll do the rest by themselves?”

  E. VanCleave—RS:Technical: “Yes.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Good. Then get me out of here.”

  C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “Negative. Founder One has changed your tasking. Standby for routing to the record room.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “What? Why?”

  C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “Founder One wants to see Foster’s paper files. Your new tasking is to find his medical charts.”

  E. VanCleave—RS:Technical: “Coordinator, this is Technical. I strongly recommend against this course of action. All the information we need is on the servers. Re-tasking Bio increases the probability of detection forty-one percent. It increases the probability of mission failure thirty-three percent.”

  R. Nicolora—Founder One: “Objection noted, but the potential payoff justifies the risk. Even in this day and age of electronic records, one thing I can tell you for certain is that doctors take notes. Doctors who are research scientists, I surmise, take copious notes. I want Bio to look at Foster’s handwritten records. Meredith didn’t give us copies of his paper charts. Maybe we need to ask ourselves why. Coordinator, where is the record room?”

  C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “Central records is on Level One, but the building plans also show a record room on each floor.”

  R. Nicolora—Founder One: “What floor was Foster kept on?”

  C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “According to Social, Foster was kept on Level Four.”

  R. Nicolora—Founder One: “Where are Social and Physical now?”

  C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “On Level Four, en route to the lab.”

  R. Nicolora—Founder One: “Resources listen up. Op change as follows: Bio, proceed to Central Records on Level One. Objective: find and film Foster’s medical charts. Social, deviate to the record room on Level Four. Objective: find and film Foster’s medical charts. Physical, proceed to Level Four lab and retrieve samples as planned. Social, regroup with Physical upon completion of new tasking. Mission extension granted. You have eleven minutes until lights on. Coordinator, remap the timeline, and get these Resources moving.”

  C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “All resources, this is the Coordinator—request status report?”

  A. Mesnil—RS:Social: “Coordinator, Social. I’
m in the Level Four Record Room. It’s been cleaned out. There’s nothing here.”

  K. Immel—RS:Physical: “Coordinator, Physical. Ditto for me in the Level Four Laboratory. The sample fridge is empty. All the drawers and cabinets are empty, and the instruments and lab equipment are wrapped in plastic. Looks like our friends are skipping town.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Coordinator, Bio. I’m inside the Level One Record Room. I’ve hit the jackpot. All the files are here, packed into boxes.

  A. Mesnil—RS:Social: “Physical, this is Social. Meet me back at the Decontamination station. As soon as that diesel is back on line, Moderkiek will be back looking for us. The priority now is to clear Corridor E on Level One for Bio’s egress.”

  K. Immel—RS:Physical: “Roger.”

  C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “Bio, Coordinator. Have you found Foster’s files yet?”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Negative. Still looking. The boxes complicate things. I was expecting nice, organized file drawers. But nooo . . . that would have been too easy.”

  K. Immel—RS:Physical: “Look for the box with a big ‘F’ on it.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Thanks, I never would have thought of that. The boxes aren’t labeled. I have to open each one . . . Shit, there are a ton of boxes.”

  C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “How are they organized?”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Each box has a sealed manila envelope and approximately thirty file folders. The folder tabs are labeled using an alphanumeric code. I don’t see names anywhere. This is bad. Very, very bad. It could take me hours to figure out which records are Foster’s.”

  C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “You have seven minutes.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Technical, this is Bio. I need your help.”

  E. VanCleave—RS:Technical: “Technical online, go ahead Bio.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “I’m trying to locate Foster’s records, but the files are organized using an alphanumeric scheme. We have two minutes to decipher.”

  E. VanCleave—RS:Technical: “Read the folder tabs to me in order, one by one. Front to back, back to front, it doesn’t matter. Just don’t skip folders. Go in sequence.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Got it. P-17.F.01.11.11 . . . P-37.F.02.22.12 . . . P-37.F.03.05.12. . . .”

  E. VanCleave—RS:Technical: “Okay, that’s enough. Go to the next box.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “All right, hold . . . P-21.M.17.12.11 . . . P-21.M.16.01.12 . . . P-21.M.15.09.11.”

  E. VanCleave—RS:Technical: “Stop. Check three more boxes. Tell me if you see any other alphanumeric scheme besides ‘P,’ two digits, ‘M’ or ‘F’, two digits, two digits, two digits.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Copy, hold . . . No. The other boxes use the same system.”

  E. VanCleave—RS:Technical: “With ninety-five percent confidence, the scheme is ‘P’ for Patient, followed by ID number, ‘M’ male or ‘F’ female, followed by day, month, year, which is the European date convention. You need to find Foster by his patient number.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Which is?”

  E. VanCleave—RS:Technical: “Standby. Searching the files Meredith Morley gave us on Foster . . . multiple hits on P-65.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Copy P-65.”

  C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “Bio, Coordinator. You have four minutes.”

  The file room was windowless and pitch black, except for the reddish glow from AJ’s flashlight. He clenched the light between his teeth, freeing both hands for shuffling through boxes. His heart was pounding, and he was beginning to feel frantic. Nicolora was counting on him, and time was running out. What he needed now was a little luck.

  The boxes were stacked six high. He had already been through three stacks and he counted at least five more. His search method was to lift the top box off the stack, set it on the ground, open the lid and check folders. He then repeated the process placing the next highest box from the stack on top of the previous one he just moved. He was reversing the stacking order, but he didn’t have time to worry about that. Hopefully it wouldn’t be noticed as long as when he left the room the boxes were in stacks of six.

  He was rushing, and the stiff edges of the new cardboard boxes were giving him paper cuts as he worked. The most recent slice felt slippery. He held his hand under the light beam; his right index finger was bleeding. Stacking order was one thing, but blood smears on the boxes would certainly not go unnoticed.

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Shit! I cut my finger. I’m going to get blood on everything.”

  C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “Do you have a tube of spray epoxy with you?”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Yes.”

  C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “Good. Wipe the fresh blood off on your socks. Spray the epoxy right into the cut. One quick pulse. Don’t touch anything for fifteen seconds with that hand.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Into the cut?”

  C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “Yes. A small cut is nothing. Resources have used this technique for life-threatening wounds.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Okay . . . it’s done. It seems to be working.”

  C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “Bio, you have two minutes.”

  AJ revised his search pattern, tossing the lids off the remaining boxes so he could quickly glimpse inside. On the fourth box he found it—P-65! He lifted the box down, set it on the floor, and crouched next to it.

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “I’ve found it. I’m starting with the envelope.”

  E. VanCleave—RS:Technical: “No, start with the folders. You need to scan as many pages as possible.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “I see tons of folders, but only one envelope. I’m starting with the envelope.”

  AJ unwound the string clasp holding the envelope flap closed. The envelope was heavier than he expected. He tilted it and shook it gently over a cupped hand, but the contents slid out en masse, like an avalanche, spilling onto the floor. He cursed under his breath.

  C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “Bio, switch your light from red to white. The image quality from your camera-glasses is poor in the red spectrum. We want to record as much detail as possible.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Roger, switching to white light. I’ve emptied the contents of the envelope. It contains Foster’s personal effects. I’m checking his wallet now. Credit cards, driver’s license, insurance card, cash, couple of pictures . . . who is this? Brunette, pretty. Must be his girlfriend. What else . . . his mobile phone. Note, the battery has been removed. Car keys. Sunglasses.”

  R. Nicolora—Founder One: “Bio, this is Founder One. Take his phone, forget the rest, and start scanning the damn files.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Yes, sir.”

  AJ quickly shoved Foster’s belongings back into the envelope and secured the string tie. Then he shifted his flashlight beam to the box of files and pulled the file with the oldest date. He opened the folder and smiled. The folder contained Foster’s daily medical chart, full of hand scribbled notes, just as Nicolora had predicted. He flipped the pages of the file under the glow of his light.

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Coordinator, Bio. Are you getting this?”

  C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “Yes. The feed is good. Keep it coming.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “How am I on time?”

  C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “You’re over. Founder One is extending you. You have until my mark.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Roger. Scanning until you mark . . . that file was first in line . . . I’m assuming it was Foster’s day one chart. We don’t have time to scan all of these. Any requests for other dates?”

  E. VanCleave—RS:Technical: “Bio, this is Technical. Like any good story, we need a beginning, middle and end.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Roger . . . day two file scanned. Moving forward in time . . . this box has only one month’s worth of charts . . . I’m closing it up and moving to the next box . . . okay, good, this box is P-65 too . . . grabbing two folders . . . the dates would be about two months in, not exactly the
middle but close enough . . . scanning . . . okay, looking for the last P-65 box . . . no . . . no . . . no, damn it, where is it? . . . Bingo, I’ve got it . . . pulling the last file . . . this was five days ago . . . scanning. . . . Oh shit! . . . the lights just went on. They’ve restored power!”

  C. Remy—RS:Coordinator: “Electrician, Coordinator. Report?”

  Local Embed—RS:Electrician: “Clear at my location. Main power is still off. They’ve started the diesel generator. We are plus fifteen minutes on the timeline. What did you expect?”

  R. Nicolora—Founder One: “All Resources, this is Founder One. Bio will be egressing with Social and Physical. Execute Exit Scenario Delta on Social’s mark—Location: the Level One Record Room.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Roger.”

  A. Mesnil—RS:Social: “Roger.”

  K. Immel—RS:Physical: “Roger.”

  E. VanCleave—RS:Technical: “Roger.”

  Local Embed—RS:Electrician: “Roger, restoring primary power and exiting.”

  Admist the stack of boxes in the Level One Record Room, AJ stripped off his coveralls, revealing a paramedic uniform. The door to the record room was shut, but he heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching. It was time.

  “We don’t want to hear your excuses. The fact remains that it took your detail almost twenty minutes to restore power to the facility with the emergency generator, when it should have started automatically and immediately on the loss of primary power,” Albane yelled.

  Officer Moderkiek cowered. “Yes, Madame Inspector, you’re right. The response time was unacceptable, but I can show you the inspection records on the emergency generator. It passed the annual certification test just last month.”

  Kalen turned his head to the side, hiding an insuppressible grin. Even though he did not speak a word of Czech, he had seen Albane in full dominatrix mode enough times to know exactly what was happening. The systematic humiliation of Officer Moderkiek was at a crescendo, and Kalen relished watching it. In thirty seconds, however, the spotlight would shift. All eyes would be on him.