Empyre

by Josh Conviser

  The slow burn in Ryan faded. It had been a long time since someone had pushed him this hard. But Frank was right, Laing needed help.

  “Okay,” Ryan said in quiet surrender.

  “Okay. Then we go after Taylor.”

  The floor shifted. Laing could just sense the slow-motion kick as Frank's stack began to move. Laing took the remote from Frank and flipped over the images, nose to nose with Taylor. Finally, he flicked the screen to transparent.

  The mechanical claw gripped the stack, pulling it free of the dark. Light broke over Ryan in a slow plane as the stack moved to the outside of the building.

  “You're going after Taylor,” Ryan said. “If I'm really the mark, you'll be better off going solo.”

  “You like my place that much, huh? Just want to hang here?”

  “I'm going for Sarah.”

  “But—she could be anywhere. Or, she could be dead.”

  “I have to know one way or the other. If she's alive, there aren't many places for Typhoid Mary to hide. I got an idea where she'd head.”

  Laing turned from the view to see Frank appraising him. He held the man's eye for a long second. “I have to know,” Ryan repeated, his need suffusing the words.

  Slowly, Frank's cold stare eased and he nodded. He picked over his plate and shoved a fork's worth into his mouth. “You want breakfast before we go?” he asked through a mush of eggs.

  23

  Stress consumed Sarah. She couldn't last much longer like this. The pursuit, the knowledge that the killer within her would strike again, exhausted her. Maybe with the Burners she'd be safe—for a while. More than anything, she needed rest.

  For now, the pathogen had gone dormant. Or she thought it had. The churning itch within her had ebbed and her lungs weren't thick with fluid. She felt hijacked, like a vector for someone else's will. She'd be triggered again, and the map would light up with death. More regret—as if that word could even approach the waves of shame and revulsion rolling through her. The optimism that used to reside at her core was lost. Nothing would ever be the same. Guilt threatened to overwhelm her. As the death toll mounted, she felt herself retreat from the human race. At some point, it would be too much to bear.

  She pushed into Nevada's desert. The small town of Black Rock clung to oblivion's edge, a final outpost of civilization. After this, it was sand, grit, sun, and Burning Man. Somewhere between a cult and occult, Burning Man had become a pock on the map—a place one didn't venture. Sarah shook off her trepidation. She needed the man inside.

  From the mirage of whisping sand, Burning Man materialized. It sprawled larger than she had expected. The pulse barrier around it gave the ramshackle city a netherworldly shimmer—as if anything were possible within its walls. A ragged chaos of buildings—some utilitarian, others fantastical—spread over the plain. And, in the center—the burning man itself. A giant, looming deity, always blazing, never quenched.

  Burning Man had begun in the twentieth as a wild, rugged, psychedelic experiment. For one week each year, the desert was transformed into a piece of communal art. No money changed hands; all trade was done by barter. Wild structures flashed into existence, flights of fancy realized, if only for a moment. The celebration ended with the burning of a massive effigy, thousands watching it ash out. Over the years, Burning Man drew a following, became an institution, and expanded into a year-round event. Its participants began to stay, to hold, to create a structure that firmed into something approaching religion.

  From the ashes of the burning man, a new structure was created: a figure that would not burn down, that would last through time. In that moment, Burning Man shifted on its axis, becoming more and less than had been imagined.

  Now—for those who believed—who wanted to believe—it promised something fresh in a sea of disappointment and fear. To Sarah's mind, it was all a hoax. But it was a grand hoax. That Madda had committed to it so fully surprised Sarah. Still, everyone deserved peace.

  Approaching the camp, the road deteriorated into rubble, then finally petered out. She abandoned the Bento in a massive junkyard. Pilgrims brought nothing to Burning Man. Their slag became parts and pieces for the camp to ingest. Around her, Burners tore through the junkyard, hunting for raw material.

  Before her, a line wove to the gate. The line of people snaked into the desert, a tail of life running up into City Center. She formed up and waited. Finally, Sarah reached the barrier.

  “Empty out,” the guard said. He wore tattered shorts, sheared by wind and sand. His bare chest was caked red with grit.

  “What?” she said, craning over the man's shoulder.

  “Money, credit—” the man said in a bored monotone.

  “You want my cash?” Sarah asked. She didn't have much, and wasn't thrilled with the prospect of relinquishing it.

  “You won't need it here.”

  “But I won't be here forever.” Sarah's annoyance rose. Vaguely, she wondered if the virus was triggered by an amp in her emotional activity. She hoped not.

  The man smiled at her, a long, flat grin under low-slung eyelids. The look of a man who knew better. No one leaves Burning Man. Why would you?

  When it became obvious that the man wasn't going to let her pass, she pulled her credit and cash chips, placing them in the bowl the man held before him.

  “Thank you for your contribution.”

  Sarah started to pass, but the man pulled her short.

  “No vid equipment here either.”

  “What the hell . . .” Sarah started to pull from the man's grip, but he held on, iron strong.

  The man slipped his hand free of Sarah's shoulder and dug into her side, causing her broken ribs to shoot hot pain. He reached up under her T and pressed harder, gritty fingers slipping into her flesh.

  Sarah struggled like a wet cat. It did no good. With a dull pop, the man pulled the hawkeye from its holster. Holding it in his hands, he let her go. Sarah, startled by the attack, pulled away from him, crab walking back as he held the hawkeye aloft. To sense the hawkeye required serious tech. Someone in here wasn't fucking around.

  “What happens at Burning Man, stays at Burning Man,” he said with a wry smile.

  No way Sarah was letting that piece go. The man leered down at her with calm piousness, as a woman who deserved pity and a strong arm because she did not yet see the way.

  From the ground, Sarah arched, torquing her left leg around her right and rocketing it up at the man. It struck his hand, snapping his wrist. The hawkeye, freed from the man's grasp, launched into the sky.

  The man staggered back, crumpling around his flopping wrist, a primal wail escaping into the desert. By the time Sarah got to her feet, a small cadre of heavily armed mercs had burst from what looked like—and clearly wasn't—an ancient lean-to. The smooth precision of their movements again took Sarah by surprise. They surrounded her, taz sticks drawn.

  Around them, the other pilgrims cleared away. Sarah began to raise her hands—very slowly. She got the feeling these guys were looking for a fight. From the hawkeye, she saw the merc behind her lift his taz.

  The soft flush of tech-maxed adrenaline suffused her. She fell into it, swimming in the clarity of heightened vision. Her body whipped side-ways just as the taz fired. The shot pounded into the merc in front of her, lighting up his soft-coat armor with current.

  Sarah continued her arc, grabbing the merc's taz hand and whipping him around. While there was no piercing his armor, the man within had tolerances like any other. His shoulder popped from its socket. She wrenched him in front of her, using him as a shield.

  In unison, the mercs fired on their own man. The force of impact blew them both backward. In the air, her thigh lit up. A taz shot had smacked into the meat of her leg. It didn't penetrate the tat, but its force did damage to her thigh. She fell to the earth in a hard thump.

  Mercs surrounded her. She lashed out with her good leg, hitting a merc's knee with hard crushing force. The knee popped back and the man toppled, screamin
g. She twisted to her good foot and stood. For a moment, she thought she had them.

  Then a taz stick clicked at her head. Tat or not, if the merc fired, it was over. She froze in that moment, suspended, quietly hoping he'd pull the trigger and let her rest.

  “Do not fire.” The voice was slow, as if pulled to action from long hibernation.

  “Do not fire,” the man repeated.

  The voice had a startling effect on the mercs. All but the man holding the taz to her head pulled away and surrounded its owner in a protective shield.

  “Sir,” one said. “Please go back into the city.”

  The man parted the sea of mercs with a shrug of his hand. He hobbled into the clear, allowing Sarah to see him for the first time. Slack flesh hung off his cheeks, pallor highlighting red, twitching eyes. His mouth worked on words that would not form. His body looked beaten, junked long ago and then reluctantly kicked back into service. One arm hung limp at his side.

  “Oh my God,” Sarah said.

  “Hello, Sarah,” Dave Madda replied.

  24

  Frank Savakis was all for dirty tricks. He just didn't like being on their sharp end. He prided himself on always knowing more. More than his allies. More than his enemies. In pursuit of that information, he was relentless. Morality had a place—maybe in raising a kid, or tipping your waitress. But out in the cold, it held a man back, made him weaker. For some, the ability to push that ethical envelope and get the job done came from faith—in a god, a religion, a life after. For Frank, it was allegiance to country.

  He was the real deal—a self-made man. With no silver spoon, he'd thumped his way through the docks, got himself through college, and was ready to repay the country that had offered him such opportunity. His father had demanded no less.

  And life in the service had been all he'd wanted. Frank knew his breed was in demand. He liked being the weapon, unsheathed only when the battle got ugly. It satisfied the street fighter in him.

  But that kind of service hadn't been enough to get him far in the CIA. The planners, the fuckin' cake eaters, still ran everything. And he would never break into that circle. There was too much wharf rat in him. And he wouldn't bend. Not for them. That such trivial shit mattered only goaded him to further action.

  It was that stubborn streak that kept Frank going, even though his rise within the CIA had stalled years ago. So what he couldn't get by upping his position, Frank found by lurking in the trenches. No one knew more techs, assistants, and low men in the Company. That he didn't bullshit them or feed them a line drew these people to him. And he was loyal—to the point of self-destruction.

  Frank operated with a single mindset, whether in the field or behind Langley's high walls. There were good guys, bad guys, and what you were willing to do. Everything else was a circle jerk. Politics plagued the CIA. Fuckin' ivy choked the place.

  Years ago, returning to Langley after a stint in Cairo, Frank had found that one of his best sources had been dragged into one of the many political skirmishes that characterized life within the Central Intelligence Agency. One of the ivies had decided that Hannah Beck needed to go.

  A career executive assistant, Beck did her job with smooth precision. She worked hard, then went home to wife and kid. Frank knew the family. He'd eaten at their home, met Hannah's wife, Jacqueline, a plump home-maker.

  Somewhere between forty and fifty, Beck had a slick beauty, a presence she couldn't hide under her conservative garb. Her boss, a fuckin' cake eater first rate, had requested more “assistance” from Hannah than she was willing to offer.

  Rebuffed, he'd begun the slow process of firing the careerist. He gave her assignments at which she could only fail. He made life uncomfortable—forced her to work more than she was willing. Retribution, pure and simple.

  It had taken some coaxing to get the truth from Hannah, but no one was better equipped to do so than Frank. On getting the picture, he took action. While the CIA fostered an air of informality, busting up the chain of command was not done lightly. Frank went at his target with a sledge-hammer. He dug into the guy, found all the little indiscretions of a man who played life like a game. But there were no second lives with Frank.

  Armed and ready for battle, he had barged into the man's office, a tablet under his arm. Before the man could call security, Frank slapped the tablet on the desk. It only took a glance to see that Frank had dug up enough affairs, oversights, and indiscretions to end the man's career, reputation, and marriage.

  “You leave, or that tablet goes wide.” The man was gone two weeks later—off to a corporate gig that probably paid twice his CIA salary. Hannah got transferred to a new boss within the Company—a different cake eater. But this one was higher up the ladder and rising fast. Hannah rode Andrew Dillon's star right to the top. After that, Frank's rep went platinum.

  Now, at the shit end of the whip, Frank needed info. Hannah owed him. They met at a tea joint outside her burb. He found the place easily enough. The old chapel stood out in the landscape of uniform prefab. Over the stained glass, holos pumped signage in mixed fonts: Church of Skaten. Inside the vaulted space, Frank could make out dozens of skate-boarders lofting off the vert ramps that covered the area once reserved for pews. A small sign led Frank into the church's basement.

  The scent of exotic teas wafted through the low-slung space. In the dim light, it took a little time to find Hannah. She sat by herself in a far corner, sipping her tea under the glow of actual candles. Each table got one, jammed into the head of a wine bottle. Wax spilled down the sides.

  She sat with her back to the entrance, knowing Frank would want full sight lines. “You gotta be shitting me,” Frank said, sitting heavily. “There's a diner down the street. I'll buy you some real food.”

  Hannah looked up, her dark eyes twinkling. “Time you broadened yourself. I'll buy you a cup of chai. You might like it.”

  “This some kind of dyke chic I'm not in on?” He gave the musty environs another quick glance. “Think I'm immune.”

  Beck snorted. That Frank was equally gruff with everyone allowed him leeway she would never grant another. “Jimmy's upstairs, skating. Mostly parents down here, waiting for their kids to tire themselves out. Didn't realize you were interested in switching teams. If you'd only told me, I'd have made arrangements.”

  “Hey, dykes I get. We got similar interests.”

  “Maybe. But you'd look shitty in a dress.”

  It was Frank's turn to laugh. “How you been, Hannah?”

  Hannah's face shaded, her grin faltering. “It's been tough. I'm on a real shithole's desk. After Andrew . . .” She let the sentence trail off.

  “This one after your body too?”

  “Not quite. She's just a bitch. And a straight one at that.”

  “The horror.” Frank took another slow look around the room.

  “Spit it out, Frank. You want something. What is it?”

  “EMPYRE.” Frank let the word hang in the air.

  Hannah gazed at him over the candle's flicker. She remained silent.

  “Before you clam, I know what EMPYRE did—I have full access on Andrew's feed. And you know Dillon recruited me to the project.”

  “So what do you want from me?”

  “I want to know its nuts and bolts. It was all off book.”

  “That's an understatement. Dillon didn't share, Frank. And I didn't ask. Seemed like something I'd be better off not knowing.”

  “Too fucking right. The casualties are stacking up. Someone's cleaning it all up—erasing it from existence.”

  “And you want me to stick my neck out for the next chop?”

  “Yes.” Bullshitting someone like Beck wouldn't work. Frank needed real help. He didn't have to say that she owed him. People like Hannah and Frank didn't forget their debts.

  She gazed off, looking above Frank, up to the ceiling. He knew she was thinking about her kid, her wife, everything she had worked for.

  “What do you want?” she asked, turning back
to him with grim-faced determination. “Specifically.”

  Frank nodded. That was all the thanks she'd get. She didn't require more. “There's someone I think was involved with EMPYRE. Someone who should be dead.”

  “Frank, I don't know—”

  “I know you don't. But there's a trail somewhere. Maybe not on Andrew's feed. But somewhere in the Company. We both know money doesn't move at Langley without heaven and earth shifting to get it by.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “So hunt around. I'd do it myself, but that would raise a lot of flags. Give me a scent and I'll run it down.”

  Hannah shook her head. “There was a stink to EMPYRE, Frank. I don't know what they had in mind, but it stank.” She started laughing softly. “I knew they'd offer you a place. And I knew you'd say yes. Maybe the whole thing stank of you.”

  “Couldn't have smelled worse than that dirt soup you're sipping on.”

  Hannah ignored him, holding a midline stare. “I don't know what they had running. But it was black.”

  “Hannah—”

  “That kind of shit sticks to you. I know you're not a lily, Frank, but I don't want to see you . . .” She couldn't finish.

  “Hannah, I'm in too deep to walk away.”

  At that, she pulled her gaze back to Frank. “We both know that's not in you anyway.”

  “Whatever EMPYRE was doing, someone's mopping it up. That some-one killed Andrew.”

  “And you want your pound of flesh.”

  “You're damn right.”

  She nodded. “Give me a name.”

  “I'm sure it's an alias behind a legend—and so on. The man died years ago.”