by M. L. Banner
“Wasn’t that Stoneridge?”
Dr. Stoneridge received funding from Cicada’s grant funding organization. But Westerling’s Euro-hitman stole the doctor’s technology and burned down his lab to cover their tracks.
“Well, they worked together and then Stoneridge disappeared, but our guy got the plans for their accelerator that Merriweather designed.”
“So what, we’ve got the plans, and we already have something so much more important from Stoneridge.”
Add another mark to the plus column.
They both smirked at each other, and each took another sip of the smooth liquid.
“True, and the good news is that Cicada so far only has three other scientists. And by tomorrow, they’ll be in the same boat as us,” Lunder continued, “with those destined there getting slowed or stopped by the Event.”
“The Event?”
“Well, that’s what Dr. Reid calls it in his bulletin.”
“Of course, the infamous Dr. Reid… did we get him yet?”
To Lunder, it seemed his boss looked at this as some sort of epic game of Fantasy Baseball, where his goal was to collect as many of the best players as he could, for pride’s sake and to spite Cicada. Now he wanted Alex Rodriguez.
“He received our faux Cicada notice, so we’ll see if he shows up.”
3.
Bios-2
One Year A.E.
Dr. Melanie Reid looked up from the barrel of the Electro-Magnetic Accelerator, or EMA—she preferred ray gun—to see if the guard saw it too, or saw her: maybe it was a plant, put there to gauge her reaction. Yet the guard seemed uninterested in her and her activities, as he did most days. Instead, he was absorbed in an adult comic book starring big-bosomed women.
He licked his lower lip and turned the page.
Melanie excitedly reached in and quickly yanked out the folded piece of paper. It had the familiar infinity symbol on it. Carefully, she unfolded it in front of the barrel of the ray gun, so its bulk would obscure the note. Well done.
She restrained a smirk that threatened to radiate and give away their game.
Dearest,
In black ink my love may still shine bright.
And shine bright it shall, even in bondage.
I have little time, but when the clock strikes thirteen, you shall seek relief and yet find my love instead.
Carr
The first part was from one of her favorite Shakespearean sonnets. The rest was his code, in case the message was found. She looked at her watch. It was almost one o’clock. In military time that was 1300 hours.
“Hey, Simon, I need to use the can.”
“Can’t it wait?”
He was obviously up to one of the good parts in his porno comic book.
“Sorry, you know us girls can’t hold it, and I would hate for it to get messy.”
He didn’t want that either, since he’d be responsible for cleaning it up.
“Okay, okay. Go ahead, but I’ll be right behind you.”
She walked out, with Simon following closely, down the long concrete hallway. Melanie likened him to a perverted puppy dog, whose eyes she could feel were fixated on her rear. Simon was the reason she wore baggy clothes. She often deflected comments about this to their colleagues by stating plainly, “Only my husband should know what I look like underneath.”
Outside of the low rhythmic hum of the ever-running machinery below them, there were no other noises. They were probably all alone. It would be so easy to turn around and snap Simple Simon’s neck and escape. No one would catch her. But then what? Where would she go? And it would be an infinitely more difficult task to break Carr out, even though his confinement was less restrictive than hers. She still had few ways of escaping this place, with the EPF almost always on. And they had been held captive for almost nine months now. No, her best bet was working with the other scientists; together they would find a way out. Hopefully that would come soon enough.
But now, she would get to see her husband.
At the hallway’s T-intersection her pace quickened, forcing Simon a couple steps behind her to struggle to match her silent stride. His clunky feet thudded and echoed through the seemingly endless corridors, whereas her soundless footsteps would have been muffled by the sound of Simon’s lumbering gait. Her size-eleven work tennis shoes had long ago worn out, having practically no soles left, and they certainly didn’t have a Payless here. So she often slipped an old sock—Bios-2 had lots of those—over each of them. It kept her toes inside her holey shoes and gave her the added benefit of walking nearly silently. It also made her chuckle, considering she wore a pair of shoes that finally lived up to its name: sneakers.
At the ladies’ room entrance, she slid to a stop, turned and looked back at Simon. He jerked up in a panic, caught staring at her. Even though he was a perv, he was a harmless perv. She almost felt sorry for this young man, who’d been dealt about twenty cards short of a full deck. “You coming in with me?” She couldn’t help herself.
“Ah-ah… no! But, I’ll be right here.” He did his best to sound self-important.
“You make sure I don’t leave or anything.”
She stepped into the dank bathroom, closing the door behind her with a brief creak. Kneeling down, she listened and looked out under the stalls and the sinks. She could also see the fronts of each of the stalls through the mirrors. They were all closed.
She whistled softly, just a little chirp that only he would hear.
A squeak came from one of the stalls then a large boot appeared, and then another. Finally, the door to the third stall opened and a familiar form stepped out. Oh, she longed for him.
He wore a bright grin that busted through the murk of this place, otherwise lit by one small fluorescent—they were under strict energy usage rules. She was filled with his warmth. It didn’t matter where they were, his smile made her feel like she was looking directly into the sun. She lived to be with him, wherever that was.
She flew silently to him and they wrapped their arms around each other.
Her lips found his; they were cracked and rugged, and minty.
She pulled her mouth away. “Why, Dr. Carrington Reid, is that a breath mint, just for little ol’ me?”
“Dr. Melanie Sinclaire-Reid, I offer nothing but the best for my girl.”
“I love what you did with the place,” she said, looking into the stall. A white sheet hung from a dowel rod that spanned the back wall of the stall and draped down over the toilet and floor—his way of turning a disgusting bathroom stall into their own sanitary sanctuary.
This was the sixth time they’d met here, always being careful to not be caught. But they had been separated for almost a month now, so they had to find creative ways to be together.
“My dearest, our love nest awaits,” he whispered to her ear, reminding her that they had to keep their voices down. “And we’ll have to move foreplay along. I don’t have much time before they change shifts and I’m considered AWOL.”
“Skip the sonnets, you said the magic words,” she breathed while hastily unbuttoning his pants, sliding her tongue into his mouth as he undid hers. In a tangle of arms and legs they shimmied into the stall, leaving their pants behind.
“Oh wait,” Melanie stopped. “I almost forgot; today at dinner, I’m going to ask for a census of who will attend our next meeting. Will you be there? We can make goo-goo eyes at each other while we plan the overthrow of this place.” She then started to kiss him again.
He pulled away. “Yes, I’ll be there.” He slid his hands under her shirt. “You holding it the same way, passing the message down the line?”
“Ugh hah.” She pulled her shirt over her head and unclasped her bra, making it easy for him.
“One more thing”—he yanked his shirt off—“the EMA is fine. I was just making excuses to pass you the note. But our bosses expect it to be fully functional today, so be sure to make it obvious that you found the problem and then get it installed, today.”
“Are you done?” She waited, breathing deeply, expectantly.
“Yes, but—” She put her hand over his mouth while she guided him inside her.
Simon thought he heard talking. But he always heard talking inside his head. He’d tell people, “On account my ears are so good.” But they were better than good; they were amazing—he loved that word. Some even said they were like a “medical instrument.”
He craned his neck and concentrated on their voices and what they said. Then he knew they were at it again, and he felt excitement spread from his groin.
He crouched down behind the door and pushed it open slowly, its creak almost imperceptible to anyone else.
Because of how the door opened, he had direct line of sight to the big mirrors over all the sinks, and most importantly, he could see into all of the stalls, except one. He fixed his gaze on the third stall, its closed door blocking his view; he could only see their feet. But he could hear them, and so he closed his eyes and listened to their moaning in delight.
He loved his job. He got to read his comics all day and make people do what he told them to. Most of the time, these people were boring; they did things he didn’t care about, in laboratories he didn’t understand. But sometimes, he got to see or hear people doing things they shouldn’t be doing, and then he would tell his boss about it. Each time, he was rewarded with more comic books. This time, he would be richly rewarded because he had something big to tell.
For now, he just listened.
4.
Cicada
While the Kings relished every moment in the luxury of a soapy shower, Max used the time to make a stop on the floor above before meeting up with them later for a tour and food at the Rec Facility.
Max checked the door number and inserted his key, hoping he’d grabbed the correct master—apparently there were many—the click confirmed it. No one but Preston knew he was going here. But not wanting to have to explain himself, he checked both ways and then slipped in carefully, as if afraid of waking this apartment’s resident. Of course, that was impossible, because this resident was dead.
From what Preston had told him, Doctor Raymond Sampson was a loner, making almost no friends in the nearly twelve months since he’d been here. He was a civil engineer, and his primary focus was on making their walls and gates stronger. Looks like you had some unfinished work yet on the north gate, Max thought.
Dr. Sampson was one of the many scientists they found through the Cicada Foundation Max had set up. Dr. Sampson had received a two-year grant for his work and just before it expired, he received the Cicada Protocol notice the day before the Event and arrived the same day, one of the first. And other than the tech Cicada was able to get from his grant work, they knew little about this man. Max wanted more, if only to satisfy his own conscience.
All the apartments were the same in the large multi-story building called Residences: a living area, two bedrooms and a shared bath. No apartment contained a kitchen, since everyone ate at the Rec Facility. From the entrance, he tentatively walked right into the living room, darkened by the drawn curtains.
He heard a scratching noise and unconsciously drew his weapon, wondering if there was someone in there with him. He tiptoed back and fumbled for the light switch. Click. Max gasped.
The entire room had been tossed. Papers lay everywhere; the mattress leaned up against the wall, sliced from end to end, with its stuffing pulled out like a gutted deer; drawers were overturned; clothes, toiletries, and various knick-knacks were strewn all over the floor. And on the top of the heap sat a dead microwave, its cracked door hanging open, revealing an empty chamber.
The noise again: this time a scratch, followed by a sliding sound. There was definitely someone or something in the room with him.
Max advanced into the living room and craned his neck around the corner. He switched off the safety.
Nothing. Just more debris.
That sound again. No question; something was moving, but it was smaller than a person.
Further into the living room, he spotted an overturned terrarium, one of its glass panels shattered. When he saw the gray, translucent skin in a wrinkled pile, he instinctively raised his gun and crouched. Now he knew what he was hearing. It was a snake, and he hated snakes.
Just to his left, out of his periphery, he sensed a slight movement.
Slowly, he turned his head and saw the reptile coiled on the floor right before him. It started to rattle.
“Shit!” he whispered, his lips—like his whole body—unmoving.
Gently, he backed up toward the living room closet, keeping his upper body and hands practically immobile. When he gauged he’d put at least three feet between himself and the rattler, his moves were more deliberate, but still trying not to startle the huge creature. Max found what he needed, thankful that Sampson was one of the few to still use wire hangers. After a minute he was ready.
“Got you!” he proclaimed proudly.
“Bringing your laundry on the tour?”
Max was happy to hear the levity from Bill, who seemed to be settling down. He only wished Sally and Lisa, their faces drawn and uninterested, could do likewise.
“Nah”—he held up the pillowcase tied in the middle with a large lump at its bottom—“just something I need to drop off at my residence. It’s on the way.”
Lisa eyed Max’s shirt covered in Sampson’s dried blood like some tie-dye experiment gone bad. “Hope you’ll change that thing, too.”
He would.
Max was very particular about his residence. He had decided long ago, while it was being built, that no one would enter. It would be his sanctuary, which would be especially important to him as a figure so public in this closed community. Only Preston had even seen the inside of his place after construction, and that had been years ago. Yet, it seemed that the Kings were the exception to most his rules and he certainly didn’t want to carry a rattlesnake around with him all day. His primary purpose was to give them some comfort and help them gain a sense of safety. He hoped seeing where he lived would do that. So, while they jeered and jested about his living room’s dusty decor, Max excused himself and dumped the six-foot snake into his empty bedroom hamper—just a temporary fix—and changed clothes.
“Let’s go see some cool shit,” Max bellowed as he motioned for everyone to head to the exit.
Lisa was the last through the door, when she stopped before the three pictures that hung on the entry foyer’s wall. “I remember your great-grandfather, Russell Thompson, the guy who started Cicada, and of course I’m embarrassed and flattered to see our picture right there beside him, but who is this pretty woman?” She pointed at the smallest picture on the wall.
He knew the picture well, but he looked at it anyway. It was the one surviving photograph of the only woman Max had ever loved—his Fatima, who had died in Kuwait. She was looking up from an empty hospital bed where she worked. It was the very one he had found himself in after passing out in a bar and cracking his head open; when he awoke he was looking up into the same possessing eyes that observed him now.
Her picture, a testament to the epoch moment in his life, was there with the others as reminders of why Cicada was so important to him. That way, he would see these prompts every time he left and returned each day. The few times he stayed here, he imagined Fatima saying things to him like, Have a great day, honey when he went to his office in Comms. Or Welcome home when he returned.
But now, gazing into those captivating dark pools, he heard different words. This time he heard, You must protect them!
He reached in front of Lisa and pulled the door shut, nudging both of them outside.
“She was someone special. I’ll tell you about her later.” He locked the door and said, “Come on, let me show you what is probably, at this moment, the most advanced research facility in the world. And right after that, I have something wonderful to show you.”
Magdalena walked in rubbing her eyes, her black hair pulled back i
nto a ponytail. She dressed casual, as normal, wearing a loose muscle tee and shorts, clean and creased. Her step was lively, but her demeanor seemed sad.
“Hey, sleepy head,” Webber said, pulling off his headphones. “Welcome to the land of the living.”
“Thanks for letting me catch some Z’s, Web.” She smiled a shallow smile. “I heard Sampson bought it today from some Squatts trying to break in.”
“Yeah, I wondered if you’d slept through that too… Not too many people knew him.” He paused to see if she wanted to add anything, but she didn’t; instead, she headed for the server room. “You hear who arrived?”
She stopped and mock-glared at him. “Do you really think that little of me? Of course I know who arrived. I’m going to meet up with Max and his friends in a few minutes to show them the Library.” Her smile grew. She twisted the knob to the clean room’s door. “Just have to do my daily check on the Crays.”
“Now that you’re here, I’m going to get a bite to eat. Can you lock up when you leave?” He left without waiting for an answer.
“Sure. I’ll probably see you in the dining… whatever.” She shrugged and headed into the entryway of the clean room. After putting on her anti-static booties and white, full-length lab coat, she strode into what was for her one of the two coolest rooms on earth, both figuratively and literally. Of course, what would compare. Cicada had the only working super-computers anywhere and it was certainly cold from the air conditioning.
She pulled out a drawer, unfolding the Cray’s monitor and keyboard. The screen instantly flashed to life. Almost as quickly, she started to type. In about ten minutes, after running all her tests, she would be done and she could go see Max and meet the people who meant so much to him.