by Jacob Gowans
Byron’s father refused to discuss his wife’s death. Taking his cue from his father, Byron focused on Albert and the mission. The chance that he might not survive was very real. But Albert … Albert had to survive. His son needed to be there for his granddaughter. Albert had to make things right with Marie.
Almost as though his son had been reading his thoughts, Albert said to his dad over their helmet radios, “Why did you pick me?”
“Lots of reasons.”
“Like what?”
Now Byron actually had to think about what those were. “First of all, I trust you. Second, I think you need this.”
“What does that mean? Does that have something to do with Marie?”
Commander Byron’s silence was enough of an answer for his son.
“I told you I didn’t want to discuss her, Dad.”
“And I am honoring that agreement. But you asked me to explain—”
“Fine. Never mind.”
They rode side by side. Occasionally Byron passed Albert or vice versa, but they stayed about a meter apart. The highway they traveled was long, dark and mostly straight as it headed south toward downtown Orlando.
“Regardless of my reasons for choosing you, I am grateful you accepted. Besides your mother’s death, your mission to Rio was the worst thing that has ever happened to me. Martin Trector … Cala … Sammy. I thought I had failed you, failed everyone as a trainer and instructor. The idea that my poorly executed leadership had put you in danger ate at me. I offered my resignation to General Wu, but he turned it down and told me to fix the problem.”
“You never told me that,” Albert said.
“I considered telling you, but I already knew you would not want me to leave Beta headquarters. And I was capable of weighing the pros and cons on my own.”
“Are you saying that’s what Marie did? Are you condoning her choice?”
Byron swerved his motorcycle around a curve. “No, no. I am not saying anything about that.”
“Good, because—”
“I know. Marie is off-limits as a topic of conversation.”
They did not speak again until they reached their destination. It was late morning when they parked in the garage of the hotel next to the N Tower in downtown Orlando and checked in with the commander’s father. After a long nap and a trip to the store, Byron dyed his hair and new mustache black. Albert’s hair became a bleached yellow. He scowled at himself in the mirror when the job was done, fingering his platinum hair with disdain.
Byron chuckled. “Not a bad look.”
“Marie’s gonna hate it.” Immediately after saying those words, Albert squeezed his eyes tightly shut and turned sharply from his reflection. “Let’s go down to the street.”
They spent the day studying the N building. After the destruction of the Hybrid-producing labs in San Francisco and Detroit, security had tightened: regular patrols around the perimeter, increased numbers of Aegis in the lobby and cloning floors, even the roof had guards. Security protocols at the checkpoints in the garage and lobby were far more rigorous than expected.
No doubt there were many more enemies unseen. The white room they needed to reach was in the depths of the building, almost a kilometer underground. The only way they could access it was via the elevator shaft that went from the lobby all the way down to the sublevels. Elevator 13. But in order to reach the sublevels, they needed an Aegis or Thirteen’s eyes and finger.
“We continue our special coverage of recent dramatic events in Los Angeles and Glasgow,” a reporter said over the holo-vision in the hotel room. Byron was perched on the windowsill while Albert was downstairs in the lobby taking more notes on the timing of the security guards. “As part of that coverage, we’ve asked noted poll analyst Samantha Gold to join us. Samantha, welcome to the show. Data is coming from multiple polling agencies regarding public opinion on these events. What is your take on the information we’re receiving? Is it accurate?”
“I think the data surprised some and not others,” the analyst responded. “Yes, the American public is too smart to believe the statements put forth by terrorists, but one always worries about the fringe population, the conspiracy theorists. So to see numbers from multiple agencies this one-sided … yes, it’s a little surprising, but in a good way.”
“It certainly caught me off guard,” said the show’s anchor, “to see that 95% of the population does not sympathize with the resistance nor plans to support their march on D.C.”
“But it really shouldn’t,” the analyst responded. “They’re terrorists, and the CAG is in the middle of a war. Yes, solidarity is to be expected, but seeing numbers this high tells me that people are being cautious and educating themselves.”
“Excellent points. Government officials are calling on teachers, law enforcement, and employers to educate their fellow citizens on the dangers of participating in this so-called coup. More on this story—”
Byron clicked off the holo-vision and returned to work. The news was a pack of lies. The resistance’s website continued to draw well over a million hits a day. The commander’s father even took a picture of himself in the CAG capitol in front of a holo-screen displaying the current date, giving the world proof that he was still alive, but the news refused to mention it or retract the earlier claim regarding his death.
That evening, the commander reported their findings to Justice, Khani, and others, feeding them information and discussing tactics.
“I spoke to Sammy an hour ago,” Justice said. “He said his team is currently on schedule. One day in and we’re looking good.”
Commander Byron and Albert took shifts through the night, the commander going first, and Albert second. As Albert slept, Commander Byron remembered the nights when, as a young father, he checked on his baby boy and watched him sleep. He had marveled at the small creation in the crib, tiny Albert’s eyes shut, fragile chest rising and falling. A perfect little baby, something he had made. He and Emily had wanted more children, at least two more, but life had other plans. A sigh escaped him as he suddenly and deeply missed her, something that didn’t happen often anymore, at least not with such severity.
The next day was more of the same: searching for weaknesses to exploit in conjunction with the plans they had already made. Albert set up cameras and uploaded the feed to Justice and Dr. Nguyen. Ideas came back, but others rebutted them. They had only one more day to decide on a final plan.
During the night shift, Commander Byron sat in a chair watching, thinking, and sipping a mug of hot chocolate—the Byron family drink of choice on a late night. Albert tossed and turned in his bed, trying to sleep but failing. Earlier in the evening Albert had spoken to Marie in the privacy of the bathroom, but the door wasn’t soundproof enough to prevent Byron from overhearing their muted argument.
“You want some hot chocolate?” he asked his son.
Albert threw the bed sheets aside and got up. “Sure.”
“On the stove.” After pouring himself a mug, Albert padded into the room and sat in the chair opposite Byron. “So … how is my granddaughter doing?”
“Fussy. Marie thinks she might have caught a virus. Doctor Rosmir is going to check on her tomorrow.”
Byron nodded. “Is that why you are still up?”
Albert only sipped his hot chocolate and stared out the window. Byron stared out it too. He decided to change the subject.
“Maybe we should just say to heck with our plan and go in guns blazing. What do you think about that?”
Albert gave a dry chortle. “We’d be dead in two minutes.”
“Things are never as hopeless as they seem when you can blast.”
“If they have Hybrids and Thirteens, it will be the case.”
“I doubt they have Hybrids here.”
“Why?”
“Because they are not producing them as quickly as they were, and any that can be spared are sent overseas to secure strategic points already taken.”
“How do you know that
?”
“I am the NWG liaison. That is the kind of information they liaise …”
Albert took another long sip. In the nighttime shadows the steam rising from his mug made him look almost menacing. “Why didn’t the leadership committee invite me back after I got sober? They never asked me to return.”
Byron blew on his drink. What his son said was true. Albert had sobered up quickly after he moved in with Byron, but was never invited back. “Probably because I never recommended it.”
“Why not?”
“It seemed you had more important things to focus on.”
“You know what sucks the most about being your son?” Albert asked. “You always being in charge of me. Everyone thinks you’re perfect. They trust every decision you make. But I know better. I remember how everyone else in Psion Command wanted the Betas armed on their training missions except for you. Your arrogance cost Psions their lives.”
“Albert—”
His son slammed down his mug and splashed chocolate on the window. “You can’t sit here and tell me that I wasn’t good enough to be back on the committee because we both know that isn’t true. I’m one of the best.”
“Was that ever in question?” Commander Byron tried to mask the anger boiling inside him at his son’s accusations, but couldn’t do it.
“Sammy has been on the committee since day one. He sits on two of the three subcommittees. His poorly designed plans in Detroit brought down the tower, but that didn’t matter. He stayed. I start drinking and I’m out.”
“It went beyond your drinking and you know it.”
“That’s garbage!”
“Go ahead and rage. It will not change anything.”
“You’re as bad as Marie! You think you can make decisions in my life without my approval! No one cares what I want. No one wants to know what I have to say.”
“Marie cares! She made a mistake, Albert. You have your mother’s resentment and your grandfather’s stubbornness, but you have to find it in yourself to forgive her. Would you ruin your marriage and your life rather than let this go?”
“She had no right to get pregnant without discussing it with me first!”
“Marie was scared. She allowed herself to get pregnant because she thought it would protect you. Is that mistake really worth the hurt you have put her through ever since then?”
“She used a baby to trap me!” Albert stood and yelled.
The commander refused to let his voice rise in response to his son. “And you love your daughter, so why are you so angry?”
“Because Marie had no right—”
“When those sirens went off, you ran to Marie and your daughter. Why do you think you did that? Because you are trapped?”
“Marie didn’t want me to come on this mission. She doesn’t want me to do anything. She doesn’t want anything to do with the Psions anymore.”
“I know exactly how she feels. What do you think I went through for years after your mother died, not being in contact with my parents? All I had was you. But Marie does not even have that because you refuse to support her.”
“See? I knew you’d take her side. I’m always wrong, aren’t I, Dad?”
“Always? No. Often? Yes.”
Albert snarled, but snickered at the same time. He didn’t seem to know whether he wanted to shout or laugh. Then his lips twisted and he fought back tears. Byron saw nothing but a scared twenty-one-year-old boy. “I’ve lost control of my life. All my attention is supposed to be where? On my daughter? On fixing things with Marie? On the mission? I don’t know. It’s like everything is saying to me, ‘Look here! No, look here!’ But the world has become so dark. Ever since Marie told me she was pregnant … it’s been nothing but dark.”
Commander Byron closed his eyes and exhaled with a lighter heart than he’d had in months. “You finally see, son? You are not mad at Marie. You are terrified for your daughter.”
“No, I’m not—” Albert said thickly, his eyes glistening now. “I’m not scared.”
“I had the same fear—”
Albert gripped his mug so tightly his fingers blanched, and for an instant the commander feared the mug was going to fly at his head. “I don’t know how to be a father! I’m not ready. Every time I look at my daughter I think of the kind of world she has to face … I can’t handle it. She’s a Psion. And what’s the survival rate of Psions, Dad? Huh? How many of us are left?”
“She does not have to be a Psion. Your daughter can be anything she wants.” Commander Byron set his mug down and spoke with great care. “Albert, you will be a fine husband and father.”
Albert’s eyes grew redder. He swallowed hard and shook his head. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“No one does at first. I still learn things from you. I still make mistakes.”
A puff of laughter burst from Albert, but there was no mirth in it. “Your mistakes are nothing. Look at me! Look what I’ve done to my family the last few months. At least your mistakes can be fixed.”
“That is only true if you believe it. Marie loves you very deeply. Why do you think she has repeatedly tried to repair your marriage despite your attempts to wreck it?”
Tears now fell down Albert’s face. “What do I do, Dad?”
“When you get home, acknowledge it. Own what you have done. Tell her things will be different if she will give you another chance. Let everything you do be motivated by love, and you will not go wrong. Keep your focus on your family and your faith. Everything else is ultimately a distraction.”
Albert picked up his mug again, but stopped before it touched his lips. His eyes widened and he set the mug down. “That’s it, Dad! A distraction. I have an idea.”
“About Marie?”
“No, the mission. But you’re right about her too. When—if—I make it home, I’ll do what you suggested.”
After clearing Albert’s new plan with Justice and Thomas, they spent their last day of preparation running through scenario after scenario, plotting minute by minute their plan as best as they could. They worked all through the day and into the evening, stopping only to eat or make a run for supplies. When it was done, they got a few hours of sleep, and then rose late in the night.
Wearing disguises, Commander Byron and Albert left their hotel across the street from the N Tower. Keeping eyes on the patrols around the building, Commander Byron and Albert split up. Albert heading for the alleys while Byron walked up and down the street for twenty minutes before marching into the N Tower lobby. He wore a robe made of sheepskin that they’d found in a rundown second hand store. He hadn’t shaved since they arrived, and he smelled like someone who’d been working with pigs quite intimately. In his hands he held a sign which read: God does not agree with CLONING! CLONES are an ABOMINATION! Exodus 20:4-6.
To ensure he had their attention, he shouted at the top of his lungs as he rushed forward, brandishing his sign like a banner of war. “Devils! Sons of perdition! Creators of the unnatural! Burn in hell for your sins, you abominations!”
Less than five steps into the lobby and the woman behind the security desk was on her phone. Thirty seconds later, a hoard of Aegis tackled him and dragged him toward the elevators. The tip of a needle stung his neck, and the world went blurry and then dark.
.
20. Tunneling
Saturday, November 8, 2087
THE AIR IN the sewers clung to Sammy like hot, foul breath. It permeated his clothes, hair, skin. I’m going to die smelling like crap. Literally. Jeffie and Vitoria worked next to him. They all smelled and looked their worst, hair and clothes plastered to skin as they worked the drill which tunneled through the sewer walls and created an angled descent into the foundation of the skyscrapers in downtown Rio.
The city made his flesh crawl. Even the air brought back memories he had never wanted to revisit. The scents of Rio had assaulted him the moment the cruiser touched down in Cemitério São Francisco Xavier on the city’s northern outskirts. I’m back, he thought
as he looked at the city. My first mission and my last. You tried to kill me once, but I dodged that. I guess I was on borrowed time since then. You win, Rio.
The sights, the smells, the sounds … they fed the darkness inside him. He could feel it deep in his soul, simmering, roiling, waiting. Sammy, Jeffie, and Vitoria entered the sewers of Rio in the western Centro. It took an hour to make their way to the spot where they would drill.
The team worked around the clock, drilling and pumping their way through ten, then twenty, and finally thirty meters of concrete with many, many more to go to reach the network of tunnels that serviced the major towers in downtown Rio. Sammy and Jeffie operated the drill while Vitoria manned the pump that sent water in and out to remove the slurry residue the drilling process created. The bitter smell of the acid spray from the drills was almost as unbearable as the heat, which blew in steady waves off the machinery, drenching Sammy’s masked face and chest in an acrid-smelling sweat. The length of the tunnel they had to dig was almost a hundred meters, its diameter well over a meter. Sammy’s skin was raw from the splatter of chemicals and his back ached from crouching inside the tunnel.
“Break!” Jeffie called out over the whining and grinding sounds of the drill.
Sammy nodded and switched off the machine, which gradually whirred and groaned to a halt. “I’m starving,” he said.
“Would you like a sandwich?” Jeffie said.
“Whatever.” Food no longer interested him. He had to satiate his hunger, but nothing he ate had taste. Jeffie donned her construction worker jacket and left to buy the food. Vitoria turned off the pump and sat down against the sewer wall.
“You should let me go down there with you instead of her,” she said once Jeffie was out of earshot.