Empyre

by Josh Conviser

  CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  “Go fuck yourself.” Frank Savakis wasn't a screamer. The words came out dead cold.

  They had the desired effect on the man sitting before him. The man's eyes bulged, his capillary-tracked cheeks flushing hot.

  Sure, those three words would probably end Frank's career. The CIA might foster a relaxed, school-tie chumminess, but underneath that shell of congeniality, the chain of command stood inviolate. You didn't tell Andrew Dillon, deputy director for intelligence, to fuck himself and come to work the next day. For Frank, it was worth it to watch the shitant squirm.

  Seconds earlier, Frank had barged into the DDI's office belching a torrent of expletives. He had been angry on getting orders to leave Tibet and return to Langley. Touching down in D.C., he was running on pure rage. By the time he reached Dillon's front office, there was no stopping him. Hannah Beck, Dillon's assistant and one of the most feared gatekeepers in the Company, didn't slow him down.

  “I'm sorry, sir,” she had sputtered to Dillon as she trailed Frank into the office. “He just blasted by.”

  That was when Frank uttered his career-ender.

  Now, he held Dillon's gaze—and his full attention. With effort, Dillon's face relaxed. The spark faded from his eyes.

  “It's okay, Hannah. Frank was expected.”

  “But he's not on your appointment—”

  “You can go,” Dillon cut her off. “We'll be fine.”

  Hannah turned, throwing Frank a quick nod and whispering, “Be nice,” as she closed the door behind her. Dillon didn't notice the interchange.

  “Been a long time, Frank. Prague was what, fifteen years ago?” He pushed from his desk and leaned back in his chair, not offering his hand. Frank wouldn't have taken it.

  Dressed in a dark blue suit, shirt starched crisp, Dillon was the model Company man. Manicured fingernails, perfect hair. Couldn't have been further from the rumpled suit that hung limp over Frank's boxer frame, or the stubble that darkened his mutt features. Frank was gratified to see that age had shriveled the skin under Andrew's eyes. The DDI's face had settled into the dispassionate mask that found every spook eventually.

  “Time hasn't been good to you,” Frank said.

  Andrew's laughter didn't quite reach his eyes. “The great game has taken its toll.”

  “It's no game. Not to me. Never fuckin' was.”

  “Yes. You made that very clear all those years ago,” Andrew replied.

  “You remember Prague so well, you should know that my instincts are fucking bankable.” Frank spat the words with machine-gun force. “So why would you engineer my extraction from Tibet? You have no right. You're not even NCS,” he said with obvious disdain. Among the National Clandestine Service—the part of the CIA that did the hands-on work of spying, and within which Frank had made his career—there was a general disregard for the planners who sat back and analyzed while the dirty work was done by others. To Frank's eye, Dillon typified just that kind of arm-chair espionage.

  “Out of curiosity, how did you know that I was the one who had you pulled from Tibet?” Dillon asked.

  “Are you kidding? You may rule the roost, but I know each and every chicken in this place. Nothing goes on here I don't know about.”

  “Always out in the cold, aren't you? Always working your sources.”

  “That's right,” Frank said. “So why bring me in? I was so close and you pull me before I can fire my guns.”

  “Ah yes, your mythical Phoenix. I saw your report.”

  “No myth,” Frank growled. “Read the report again.”

  Andrew laughed. “Not necessary. You're barking up the wrong tree. Not one single analyst, agent, or asset has put skin and bones to your bogey-man. Phoenix is exactly that: yours. He's a figment of your imagination.”

  “Your desk jockeys don't see it and it doesn't exist, huh? Phoenix is real enough. My contacts are chirping the name, and they're scared. We're talking about a well-coordinated, highly efficient organization with serious reach. And it's got teeth. I've got Phoenix pegged for the EMP attack in Berlin—”

  Andrew cut him off. “Which was claimed by the New Revolutionary Cells—a leftist terrorist group that picked up as Echelon disintegrated.”

  “The assassination of President Gloria Sanchez in Mexico,” Frank blasted back.

  “A contract killing paid for by rivals.”

  “And now—Tibet.”

  “Which we've attributed to a right-wing paramilitary group in China.”

  “Bull-” Frank let the word draw out, “-shit.”

  “Frank—”

  “I was fucking there, Andrew. Explain that away. I tracked the action to Tibet. Now we got a dead guru and shit all over the fan.”

  “The Dalai Lama is slightly more than a guru,” Andrew replied. He gazed at Frank for a long moment, then switched gears. “Okay—give me a name. One name linked to Phoenix.”

  Frank looked away.

  “I pulled you because I couldn't have a rogue officer spinning fantasies.”

  “Go. Fuck. Yourself.”

  Andrew rose from his desk with slow deliberation. Frank readied for a physical confrontation, almost longed for it, but Dillon walked right past him.

  At the door, Andrew turned. “You coming?”

  “You know I won't drop this.”

  “I know you, Frank. I know you're a pit bull. Your jaws lock down and you never—ever—release. But with your mouth so full, I also know you don't see beyond the kill. There's a wider world out there.”

  Frank took a breath, trying to calm down. His words came out slow and measured. Almost a plea. “Damn it, Andrew. This threat is real. I don't have any names but Phoenix is real. Only a matter of time before the U.S. learns that the hard way.”

  Andrew shook his head. “Long time ago, you showed me around Prague. Showed me a thing or two. Now it's my turn.”

  Dillon turned on his heels. Frank couldn't think of anything to do but follow.

  Frank Savakis thought he knew every inch of the Langley sprawl. Dillon proved him wrong. The CIA had grown over the years in haphazard fits of necessity. New buildings jumbled over their predecessors, creating labyrinthine passages pocked with unmarked doors. In the newer buildings, you punched an end point into a monitor and—if you were cleared for access—the biocrete walls guided you through the maze with electric luminescence. But here in the CIA's bowels, the ball of string ran out.

  They dropped into the belly of the Original Headquarters Building. A less-than-poetic title, but the Company wasn't much on novelty. As they descended, Langley's trademark sterility gave way to the slow rot of age and disuse. Frank caught the flicker of a spider moving across the wall. Dust puffed into the dead air with each footfall.

  Lost in the gray, Frank's mind wandered to the last time he'd walked with Dillon. Prague was a lifetime ago. And it was yesterday. Both were young, both eager to make a name for themselves in the CIA. Andrew's connections had lofted him to station chief. Frank started at the bottom.

  They had been strolling down the Charles Bridge, scuffing timeworn cobblestones under the statues of saints that ran the bridge's length. Street vendors lined both balustrades, hawking to the tourists. Frank took particular glee in scowling at them. He hated this part of the city, ancient and fairytale pretty.

  “It's magnificent,” Andrew had said.

  “Huh?”

  “Prague Castle, Frank.” Andrew pointed up at the majestic structure on the hill before them. Old Prague had been left alone over the centuries. Modern development ringed the ancient city, slender spikes rising high over this old world playground. The circling scrapers made Frank feel exposed.

  “Fuck the castle, Dillon. We got shit to do. You goin' to drag me through the whole tourist trek?”

  “I might,” Andrew had said with a smile.

  Frank had liked Andrew then, in spite of their differences. They were developing an Odd Couple chemistry that made Frank think
they'd get some shit done.

  Grudgingly, Frank had pulled his eyes up to the castle. Nice enough. Nothing special.

  He knocked into Andrew, who had stopped dead. In front of them, a young man, maybe twenty, rosy cheeked and bright eyed, had pulled a small pistol from his pocket. In that crucial instant, Dillon froze.

  Frank charged.

  He lunged forward and crashed into the boy, smothering the gun with his torso. The discharge barely made a sound. Frank remembered the hard thump of impact—like he'd been hit by a sledgehammer. Ribs cracked. His body armor caught the bullet before it pierced flesh. Frank didn't let the impact slow him. He wrenched the gun from the boy, twisting the arm until he heard a sharp, satisfying crack.

  Frank yanked the kid's head into his shoulder, muffling the scream. He wedged the would-be assassin against the bridge's stone rail.

  “Dillon! You okay?” Frank asked.

  Andrew stood stunned, unable to break out of his shock.

  “Andrew!?”

  “Yes. Yeah—I'm okay, Frank.”

  “Still think this castle shit is pretty?”

  “Who is he?” Dillon found his breath. He brought a trembling hand to his temple, swiping at a bead of sweat. It was November.

  Frank turned his attention to the boy. “He's a New Commie. You can see it in that idealistic rosy-cheeked stupidity. Real question is where his little coven is hiding out and how they knew we'd be here. What do ya say, pal? Interested in playing?” Frank sucker-punched the assassin in the groin.

  A crowd had begun to form around the three men. Color returned to Dillon's face, even as the boy blanched.

  “Frank,” Andrew said, glancing around him. “We have to turn him over to the Czechs. We don't have the authority to interrogate him.”

  Frank turned on Andrew while keeping his body pressed against the assassin. “Come again?”

  Dillon's poise had returned. Frank could see the wheels spinning and knew Andrew was about to piss him off.

  “Frank, we have to turn him over. The Czechs have a hard-on for these bastards. It'll up our position here. And . . .” he motioned to the crowd around them “. . . too many eyes on us.”

  “Are you kidding me?! This fucker almost shot you—and he broke my damn ribs!” Frank's fury swelled to bursting.

  “I know, Frank. Doesn't change a thing. No room for revenge in this game.”

  At that, the boy's eyes lit up—reprieve seeming likely. Frank saw it. Mistake. He held himself in check, for the moment.

  “Okay. Your call, Dillon.”

  Andrew nodded.

  “Go back to the office,” Frank continued. “I'll drop this fucker off.”

  “No, I'll come . . .”

  Frank cut him off. “Listen, when it comes to keeping you safe, I'm top dog. Two broken ribs gives me that right. Get back to the office, make your calls. You'll get the credit. I'll deliver the package.”

  Andrew wanted to argue but, looking into Frank's cold determination, decided against it. He stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets and slipped through the crowd. Frank snatched up the boy's broken arm and led him in the opposite direction.

  He caught the boy's broadening smile and whispered to him. “Might not be a place for revenge in his game, but I play on a different field. You and I are going to have a long fuckin' chat.”

  He wrenched the arm, bringing tears to the boy's eyes. They headed for the dark alleys that Frank liked so much. Several hours later, Frank dumped what was left of the kid at the Czech Security Information Service. He filed a report, outlining an attempted escape during which Frank had been forced to strike the assassin—repeatedly. Several days later, the police found seven members of the New Communist Party dead in a ratty apartment. Someone had reported the smell.

  For Frank, the ledger was set straight and the street knew not to fuck with the Americans. He figured his afternoon of wet work had saved a bunch of lives. Andrew saw it differently. After that day, the careers of the two men had diverged.

  Now, years later, Frank played by the same rules, and, with Echelon out of the picture, the rest of the world was catching up. Deep in the Company's bowels, he rounded a corner and passed through a massive metal door. A quick inspection revealed that it had been installed recently.

  Dillon's pristine elegance ran discordant to the room's ragged age. He took in his surroundings as if noticing them for the first time. “Unlike the Czech Republic, the CIA builds right over its history. Lots of history made in this room. This section is from the twentieth. Been out of use for some time. The whole suite is a giant vault. Shut the door and we have total privacy.”

  “We?”

  Dillon touched the key screen and the metal door slid closed, bolts screwing into the frame. Andrew led Frank though a series of cubicles and into a conference room.

  As he entered, the color drained from Frank's features. Men and women sat around a long table. He stared at each face with unabashed shock.

  “Welcome to EMPYRE,” Andrew said.

  4

  DUBAI CITY, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES

  “They are ready for you, ma'am,” the barman said.

  A bolt of adrenaline coursed through Sarah. She swallowed the last of her Bellini and slid out of the booth.

  One more time. Then I'll be right.

  The drink's fruity tang lingered as the barman led Sarah to an unmarked door in the darkest corner of the bar. She waited a moment, savoring the potent possibility of release.

  One more time and it will go.

  Sarah waved her hand over the door lock and it slid open. She entered a different world. World on world jammed together here—all linked by money and desire. In Dubai's celled-out society, tech ran flood fast, unhindered by rules and mores. Next-gen body augmentation found a happy home here.

  Sarah found comfort in the clinic's jet-black design. The room's gentle curves and arced seating offered the promise of infinite oblivion. She slumped into a lounge and lost herself in the monochrome.

  A hulking figure entered the room. The skintight sterile suit did little to improve his appearance. Despite his weight, his soft gait and delicate movements revealed an innate grace.

  “Welcome,” he said in a lilting English accent.

  “Judson.” Sarah stood and shook his hand. His light grip belied his substantial bulk. The man's fat defined him. In an age of easy transformation, the choice threw Sarah. “You're looking—”

  “Prosperous?” Judson replied with a hearty smile and a slap to the belly. “Life is good.”

  “Seems so,” Sarah responded, her own smile forming up to match his.

  “Didn't think I'd see you back so soon,” the man said as he led her into his inner sanctum. The waiting room fed into a curved hallway.

  “I...I need to finish it out.”

  “Of course you do. But the timing. The tattoo needs time to settle—and the implants in your cortex must mesh completely before I engage them.”

  “Jud, I know the risks.”

  The man grunted, jowls folding into each other like flowing magma.

  “With a normal skin job, I wouldn't bat an eye. But we're installing some shit here. You flip with this much 'ware, and you'll become a very dangerous person.”

  Sarah glared at him, cold and hard. She stepped to a monitor embedded in the door and keyed in the money link. Digitized instructions flashed through the flow and deposited a hefty chunk into the clinic's account. Judson's eyes bulged.

  “That's a lot of zeroes,” Sarah said. “Lot of easy living. Or, if you really think I'm not ready, I could cancel the trans.” Her finger wavered over the monitor.

  Judson's arm shot out, snatching Sarah's fingers. “Ah, no!” He loosened his grip immediately, cupping her small hand in his immense mitts. “It is my professional opinion that you are fully prepared for the job. Sometimes caution gets the better of me,” he said with a smile once again creasing his pulpy cheeks.

  Sarah nodded and confirmed the transaction. As she did,
the door slid open. Judson entered first and settled in front of his flow port. Sarah stepped in and held.

  The thought that all this might not work gripped her. The possibility of leaving in the same condition as she now entered filled her with a leaden dread.

  Finally, Judson pulled her from cycling anxiety. “Come on, you know the drill,” he said. He turned back to his preop work before she could reply.

  No, this will be it. After this, I ...I won't be so ... alone.

  Sarah touched a door in the wall and it slid open. She undressed in a quick rush. There were no mirrors here. Thank God. The room's sterile chill pocked her arms with goose bumps as she emerged. She shivered, settling into the operating table. The foam drew her in, wrapping around her in a full body hug. Then a slight tickle as Judson introduced a microbicyte swarm to eat the contaminants off her skin. He didn't approach until the sterilization was complete.

  “You really want to go through with this? Last chance,” he said.

  “I want full control of my augments, including the tattoo.”

  “Full color, broad spectrum?”

  “Yes.”

  “That's a ton of bandwidth.”

  Sarah shot him an ice-sharp glare.

  Judson waved it away in a placating gesture. “Okay, okay. It's your body,” he said. “What do I know?” He tapped instructions into the foam and it began to envelop Sarah's head.

  “Wait,” she sputtered.

  The hulking man tapped on the pad and the foam regained viscosity, pushing Sarah's head back to the surface.

  “I want the hawkeye as well.”

  “Are you kidding me? Your noodle will have enough to deal with just acclimatizing to the tat. Don't push your luck.”

  “I'm touched you care.”

  Judson loomed over Sarah, forcing eye contact. “You've had more 'ware installed than anyone I know—and I know a lot of knife jockeys. An internal flow-link coupled with a neurointegrated mathematics processing unit. Sensory enhancement and endocrine system control. Pain vaccination. And then the tat. Just activating those systems will flood you with information. Input overload is serious, you know. Those stories about brain fry aren't wives' tales.”