by G T Almasi
I take a few sharp breaths. I’m not used to carrying pain like this. Normally I’d numb myself, but God knows how Overkaine would react with whatever the Med-Techs are giving me. This is why they turned off my Nerve Jet.
I comm, “When do I get outta here?”
“Tom says not for a few days at least. You need time for your injuries to heal and your new Mods to settle in.” My father holds the paper cup to my mouth. I slurp at the lip. A little water goes in my mouth and the rest slithers down my face and soaks into the pillowcase.
“Shit,” Dad says. “Sorry, babe.” He wipes my chin with a napkin and helps me flip my pillow over.
I comm, “How we doing on Fredericks?”
Dad sits again. He runs his scarred fingers through his short, bristly hair. “We tracked him to the airport. Then he boarded five flights at once and we lost him.”
“Five?”
“He’s a terror on the jackframes.” Dad tells me the Info Department has only begun untangling the mess Fredericks made in our records. He’s been writing his own history into our Catalog of Records for years: fictional Job Numbers, misdirected resources, and fabricated mission reports. His tampering goes much deeper than anyone imagined. It all has to be traced manually, because his forgeries and concoctions twine so tightly around CORE’s real data.
Just hearing about it gives me a headache.
After much effort, Info traced Fredericks’s activity from the jackframes at ExOps and SSC to nodes all over the net. Other U.S. agencies, other governments, research labs, banks, and, most recently, airline databases.
Dad continues, “He hacked the passenger manifests to indicate he’d boarded five different aircraft in less than six minutes.”
“How do we figure out which plane he got on?”
“I don’t think he got on any of them.” Dad taps his fingers on his knee. “But he’s run out of friends here in the States.”
“So…Europe,” I say.
“Gotta be.” My father continues drumming his leg. “Jakob has had years to prepare his exit strategy, but his strongest international contacts are all in Greater Germany.”
This makes sense given Shithead’s long involvement with Carbon. I try to sit up. “Yeah—ouch! What kind of deal do you think he can make?”
Dad helps me into a sitting position. “If he asks for asylum, they’ll want something big in exchange.”
“What’s the worst-case scenario?” I ask.
My father shuts his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Naturally, Jakob could compromise our agents.” He makes a fist and presses it to his upper lip. “But…Jesus.” Dad glances at Cleo, asleep on the couch. When he turns back to me, his knuckles are white. “If Fredericks tells the Fritzes we triggered the Rising, the North Atlantic Alliance might fly apart.”
Dad is usually imperturbable; seeing him this nervous is not reassuring.
I quietly ask, “What would that do?”
“That,” my dad says, “could start World War Three.”
—CORE: SCORPIO—
3 SEP 1981
STATUS OF ABERDEEN CLONES
From: ExOps Medical Director Dr. Thomas Herodotus
To: ExOps Acting Director William Harbaugh
Bill,
Attached you will find documentation for the three infant girls recovered by your agents from the clone lab at Aberdeen. In short, the girls are unlikely to survive. Their respiratory systems were severely damaged by heat and smoke at the lab. Disconnecting the subjects from their life support was the only course of action, but in the children’s fragile, prenatal condition, it’s a miracle this didn’t kill them outright.
The triplets’ durability is likely inherited; their genetic data is identical to Talon’s. They are also perfect matches for the three female Protectors former director Fredericks sent after Scarlet.
I compared this replicated DNA against the genetic tables in the Federal Employee Database. This returned a startling result: Talon is also a clone. Her Original was named Dr. Eleanor Shaw, who—as far as I can tell—is a ghost. Except for this single entry, no record anywhere else mentions this Dr. Shaw.
Whoever she is—or was—this means there have been at least eight living instances of this person.
I’ll update you as information comes to me.
—Tom
sh > sudo run crypt
Enter user name and password
sh > Zeus
sh > B3rl1n196eight
Welcome to Crypt v23.12, the world’s most secure network interface.
Crypt > run Watchdog
Watchdog returns 2 matches. Catalog of Records, ExOps, “Shaw”
Crypt > open CORE
You are in Catalog of Records, ExOps. What would you like to do?
CORE > edit match /Shaw/
07
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, 8:44 A.M. EDT
EXOPS HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C., USA
Patrick and I hustle into the meeting room so we can dig into the big box from District Of Donuts on the conference table.
Brando grabs a Cinnamon Frosted. “So, the treatments for your burns are going okay?”
“Suppose so.” I grab a big fat Chocolate Sprinkle. “I really miss my hair.”
Patrick glances at my unevenly trimmed scalp. “It’s already looking better,” he lies. “How about the rest of your procedures?”
My mouth is full, so I comm, “I’m still trying to figure out how much work they did on me.”
“A lot, I think.” Brando swallows a mouthful of doughnut. “Both old and new.”
“Like this second WeaponSynch pad?” I turn my right hand over and wiggle its synthetic fingers.
“Nice,” Patrick says.
“I didn’t know I had it until this morning when the Meddies unwrapped my arm.”
My partner finishes his first doughnut and reaches for a second. “Have you tried Big Voice yet?”
“No, what is it?”
“The description says something about crowd control.”
I try a few of the controls in my Eyes-Up display. “How’s that?” I say.
My partner shakes his head. “No difference.”
I flip a second switch. “This?”
“Nope, same voice.”
I turn off the first two switches and activate the third one. “How about this?” My thundering voice shakes the windows. Brando drops his doughnut and covers his ears.
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“What?”
Patrick laughs.
“Speak up! I can’t hear you over the loud talking!”
Patrick laughs harder.
“Are you all right? Do you require medical attention?”
My partner is really cracking up now. I start walking around like a robot.
“Scarletron demands an Irish jig. You have six point two seconds to comply!”
Brando hops around, trying to do one of those stupid folk dances, but he’s laughing so hard he can’t keep his rhythm.
“That jig sucked!” I toss the remains of my Chocolate Sprinkle at him. “Scarletron is displeased!”
Patrick ducks under my throw and chucks a raspberry cruller at me. I’ve gotten so into my robot character that I only stiffly try to evade his breakfast missile, which bounces off my face. It leaves a sticky smudge of jelly and powdered sugar on my forehead.
“Now you die, meatbag!” I grab the box of doughnuts and dump its contents over my partner’s head. It all cascades down his body onto the floor at his feet. His hair is white with powder, and a few doughnuts have fallen inside his shirt. He picks up a big Chocolate Cream and advances on me.
I back away, waving my arms like Robbie from Lost in Space. “No! Scarletron
will not be silenced! You will—ack!” Patrick glomps the whole doughnut in my mouth. I clench my left arm around him. We fall to the floor. Jelly, sprinkles, and powdered sugar squish into the carpet.
The door flies open. It’s Acting Director Harbaugh.
“What the hell is all that—” He stops in mid-harangue, his mouth half open. “You…Oh God in heaven.”
He turns into the hallway and yells to his secretary. “Denise! I need another conference room for my nine o’clock.” He returns. “You two, get cleaned up, right now! And Scarlet, stop shouting!”
My partner and I help each other to our feet before skulking off to our respective restrooms. Ten minutes later we’re directed to a different meeting room, where I notice the conference table is conspicuously devoid of breakfast pastries.
—CORE: SCORPIO—
3 SEP 1981
UPDATE ON ABERDEEN CLONES
From: ExOps Medical Director Dr. Thomas Herodotus
To: ExOps Acting Director William Harbaugh
Bill,
Attached you will find documentation for the three prenatal female clones recovered from the Aberdeen clone lab.
sh > sudo run crypt -u Zeus -p B3rl1n196eight
Crypt > open CORE
CORE > edit Update on Aberdeen Clones
As you can see, the girls are dying from smoke inhalation because your agents improperly disconnected them from their life-support systems.
CORE > save this
CORE > erase log
I’ll update you as information comes to me.
—Tom
08
ONE MINUTE LATER, SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, 9:08 A.M. EDT
Bill Harbaugh sits at the head of the table and flips through a stack of paperwork. He was Patrick’s Info Coordinator until he was ordered to serve as acting director while Langley finds us a new chief. Brando says he can tell Harbaugh doesn’t like the responsibility.
Patrick and I make a point of being quiet while we wait for everyone else to show up. My partner comms around in CORE looking for heaven-knows-what, and I use my commphone to search the civilian nets for back issues of Spider-Man comic books.
Dr. Herodotus walks in, closely followed by another man. The new guy is a good-looking, wiry, middle-aged heartthrob with blue eyes, wavy hair, and big, square teeth. Behind them, a contingent from the Medical-Technical Department enter. Everyone takes a seat. Harbaugh scowls up from his papers, does a quick head count, then returns to his reports. I guess we’re still waiting for someone.
The door bangs open. “Sorry I’m late, Bill.” It’s my father. “My people are so busy getting ready to dog-and-pony the new honcho, I had to break down a delivery myself.” Dad flops into the last chair and nods to Dr. Herodotus, who nods back. When my father spots the new guy next to Harbaugh, he rolls his eyes and gently shakes his head. Dad extends his hand to the newcomer.
“Good morning, Director Kennedy. I’m Philip Nico, chief of the Technical Department. I’m also informally covering the Front Desk of the German Section.”
Heartthrob stands and shakes my dad’s hand. “Hello, Philip. Good to meet you.”
“Yes, sir. Um, sorry about the ‘honcho’ thing. It’s been a rough couple of days.”
Señor Guapo leans back in his chair. “Don’t, ah, worry about it.” He talks like a snooty Harvard professor. “Please know my wife and I are praying for your, ah, colleague Cyrus. Acting Director Harbaugh has reported positively about the entire staff’s response to this whole, ah, Fredericks mess.”
Now I recognize this dude. He’s Robert F. Kennedy, youngest son of the prodigiously fertile Mr. and Mrs. Joseph P. Kennedy. Their first boy, Joe Jr., was killed in the skies over Tokyo during the War in the Pacific. Their oldest surviving son is Jack, who lost the 1960 presidential election to Nixon by a hair, shattered his fairy-tale marriage to Jacqueline Bouvier with a string of spectacular infidelities, then spent a decade flesh-surfing through the jet set before settling into his current role as U.S. ambassador to Ireland. The Kennedys’ middle son is Ted, who has been one of the dominant fixtures of the United States Senate for as long as I can remember.
This Kennedy in front of me—Bobby, or RFK—used to be attorney general of Massachusetts. That’s where he built his reputation as a ferocious prosecutor, especially toward organized crime. Later, while he served as governor of Massachusetts, people started talking about him making it to the White House. However, Papa Joe Kennedy’s plan for his youngest boy apparently doesn’t include any more public service. RFK’s voter-facing résumé will now have a huge hole in it, because nothing that happens at ExOps becomes part of the public record.
Come to think of it, some things that happen at ExOps don’t even become part of the secret record. For example, almost everything former director Chanez assigned over the past year.
RFK has Harbaugh introduce everyone to him. Bobby says a little something to each person. He’s very charismatic.
“So, you’re Scah-let.” Kennedy reaches over to shake my hand. “I’ve enjoyed reading your file.”
“Glad to meet you, Director.” I give him one of those firm, one-pump handshakes, partly to be masculine and partly because the burn on my arm still stings pretty sharply. “I’ve read about you, too, sir.”
He crosses his arms across his chest in a mock-confrontational way. “And what have you read, sweetheart?”
“That you’re a ruthless son-of-a-bitch, sir.”
Harbaugh’s face turns red, while my father’s turns white. Kennedy’s eyes pop wide open. ExOps’s new director inhales, but before he can pink-slip me to Siberia, I zing him:
“I’m pen pals with Jimmy Hoffa.”
RFK’s anger vanishes in the glare of his white pearlies and he whoops out a gigantic laugh.
I comm to my partner, “I guess not many people talk to him that way.”
“No-o-o, they don’t.” Patrick allows himself a grin as he comms back. “He doesn’t seem to mind, though.”
Director K points at me. “You’re all right, sweetheart.” He turns to the now former acting director Harbaugh. “Sorry to bump you back to your old job, Bill.”
“Don’t worry about me, sir,” Harbaugh says. “The job isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
Kennedy looks around at the room. The bomb in Cyrus’s office really did a number on this building. We’re two floors away, but the ceiling is missing some tiles and the walls have jagged rifts running from top to bottom.
Bobby mutters, “Cracked up is right.”
The meeting slides into a long discussion about budgets and schedules. I take this opportunity to rummage around in CORE for information about Bobby. A newspaper article from a few years ago catches my eye.
—CORE: ARCHIVE—
23 JUN 1976
Boston Globe
RFK POSTED TO MOB TASK FORCE
Massachusetts Attorney General Robert Kennedy has been invited to join the Department of Justice’s Organized Crime Task Force, confirming rumors swirling around Washington, D.C., and Boston.
The U.S. attorney general praised Kennedy’s energetic prosecution of gang figures. “Bobby has been like a bulldog in New England. Once he got his teeth in those mobsters, they never had a chance. We’re thrilled to have his talent and determination available to us on an interstate level.”
Not everyone is so positive about the gritty prosecutor’s promotion. “Bobby’s a rich punk,” sneered J. Edgar Hoover, former FBI commissioner. “If it weren’t for his daddy’s money, those boys would’ve been lucky to get elected dog-catcher.”
When asked to comment on Hoover’s remark, Kennedy quipped, “Edgar’s the first bitch I’d throw in the kennel.”
* * *
—
I tune in to the meeting a
gain. We’ve transitioned to planning our next action. Much more interesting.
I don’t think Director Kennedy has any enhancements, and he almost certainly doesn’t have the Big Voice Mod I just received, but this skinny S.O.B. can yell like Godzilla. I’ve never met anyone so vociferously passionate about his beliefs. I don’t quite understand everything he says because of his thick Massachusetts accent, but after only a few minutes Brando and I agree we’re ready to run through a wall for this hombre.
“People,” Kennedy says, addressing all of us, “if we don’t apprehend Jakob Fredericks, America will never be taken seriously again. The Germans, Russians, and Chinese will trip over one another to feed on our bloated, rotting corpses.”
Blech.
One of Harbaugh’s underlings pipes up. “Sir, just a reminder, we’ll need approval from—”
“Bullshit!” Bobby shouts. “I’m approving it. My brother will get us whatever we need from the bean-counters.” Bobby means his younger brother, the wily Senator Edward M. Kennedy, who has amassed a vast trove of back-slapping, wink-wink, say-no-more type favors, which our new director here plans to tap into for a bit of post-facto congressional approval.
Bobby asks Harbaugh for a verbal rundown of all the shit Fredericks has pulled. Harbaugh recaps Jakob’s career and life of crime. Hearing it all at once, it’s hard to believe we’re talking about one fucking guy.
“Fredericks was one of the founders of Extreme Operations Division. He launched, programmed, and managed the Levels project, which integrated the human upgrade programs from Germany and China to create super-spy Levels as we know them today.”
Super-spy!
Harbaugh continues, “He also played an important role in launching the Asexual Reproduction Initiative.”
My partner’s expression darkens.
Harbaugh refers to his notes. “Fredericks saw the Asexual Reproduction Initiative as a way to breed high-percentage candidates for covert fieldwork. He was devastated when the project was canceled.” Harbaugh looks up briefly. “To his credit, the man doesn’t take things lying down. Fredericks stole ARI’s equipment and bankrolled his own bootleg cloning program with tax-free proceeds from a series of illicit side projects.”