“How sure?” Tabitha presses her advantage. “A hundred percent?” She shrugs, backs up a step. “I’m not. But I delete them, I’m sure it’s not them ever again.”
Ah, the violent extremist version of “prevention is better than the cure.” Time to nod, smile, and prepare the sedative. I glance at Felicity. We’re out of the field, so technically this is her territory.
“Tabitha,” Felicity says. “No one is deleting anyone without a debrief and an investigation. And yes, pending that investigation, deleting the versions is on the table. But there needs to be demonstrable reason.”
Tabitha opens her mouth to object, but Felicity rides over her.
“Depending on the debrief, yes I may quarantine the server while we investigate, but that is as far as I will go for now. And before you say another word, consider that I have had bullets, cars, and the internal organs of a flatscreen TV hurled at me today, that I am covered in liquid feces, and that my patience is starting to wear just a tiny bit thin.”
I swear I see Kayla smile at that. Tabitha, on the other hand, grimaces, and starts examining her nails.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, CONFERENCE ROOM B
Apparently when Felicity said there would be a brief break before the debrief she intended for us to wash up, not collapse in a chair and wait for our limbs to lock up. When she comes into the conference room, she has managed to change and wash most of the shit out of her hair. I, on the other hand, feel like a crap-coated mannequin.
She gives me a sympathetic smile, goes to sit next to me, then wrinkles her nose and moves a chair down.
“You OK?”
I think about that. “I knew today was going to be a little odd, but this isn’t exactly how I imagined it all playing out.”
She crooks a smile, but it doesn’t last long. Maybe because I’m having trouble sharing it with her.
“You worried?” she says.
That, I don’t need to think about for long. “I’m terrified. That was an assassination attempt. I mean, it has to have been. And whoever it was, they were not playing around in the slightest. I can’t even think of who has that sort of firepower.”
Felicity momentarily looks as if she’s chewing a lemon slice. “Clyde?” she says eventually.
I shake my head, vehemently. “That doesn’t make any sense. The versions are weird, yes, but they have been nothing but benignly Clyde-like. And the crazy deep-end version of Clyde—who, I want to point out, was only around for a day or two, after a lifetime of being pleasant and helpful—well, he’s dead. We were all there. We saw him die. And beyond that even, sure he did some weird inhuman shit at the end, but nothing that was ever on this scale. He overwrote a brain or two. He didn’t send military drones after people. And all the questionable stuff he did was, you know… it was aimed at saving the world. Whatever the hell happened today, it did not smack of saving the world.”
Felicity nods slowly, digesting. “Something like him. Him but worse. Something that can hack computers. Any computer it seems. That can send a massive power surge to a specific shop in Oxford if it wants to.”
“Maybe,” I nod. “But does it have to be some computer intelligence? Couldn’t it just be someone with a computer and way too much power?”
She nods. “There aren’t many people like that though.”
I nod too. She’s right. We’ve riled up a big nasty, and we don’t even know who or what. The worry shows on Felicity’s face.
“What about you?” I ask. “Are you OK?”
“I think the word you used was terrified.”
“Is it stupid,” I say, “that this threat feels scarier because it’s terrestrial? That it’s not some sort of mythical beast come to life?”
Shaw smiles, slides over to the closer chair. She takes my hand, smiles softly. “A little bit,” she says.
The conference room door bangs open. Tabitha stands there, holding a laptop at arm’s length. She stares at our twined fingers.
“That shit. Stop it.” Tabitha has been decidedly opposed to public displays of office affection since her own relationship took such a colossal nose dive. Felicity pulls her hand away.
Tabitha sets the laptop down gingerly then shoves it at me, and steps away.
“Wire it up. Start it up.”
It’s the Clyde Versions’ laptop. Their home away from the server. And as Tabitha is the only one of us with both a good working knowledge of computers and a physical body, then she’s the one who set it up. She still handles it like it’s nuclear waste, though.
“Ethernet cable,” she says. “Need to plug it in. Killed office wireless. Firewalled to fuck. We are.”
I’m not sure that someone or something that can remotely drive cars at us is going to really care about our firewalls, but it’s better than nothing I suppose. And… “Does that mean I can take my hat off?” I ask.
Tabitha grunts like I just physically hurt her. I decide to take that as a yes. The fact that she doesn’t respond by trying to scalp me, makes me think that I was right. Felicity scrapes her mangled bonnet off with a sigh.
Kayla slouches in as the computer whirs to life. She’s as filthy as I am but seems to be suffering less physically. She slides into a chair, as loose and limber as ever.
On the computer screen, a small black box appears. A cursor winks once, twice. Then the whole screen goes black. And then, resolving out of the darkness: something not entirely dissimilar to a college dorm room. Three beds. A massively overburdened bookshelf. A few Klimt prints.
A man’s head pokes into the frame. Scruffy beard, slightly disheveled hair, square glasses, innocent expression. Then the man’s identical twin appears. And then another.
The three Clyde versions peer out at us.
“So, sort of wondering, as one does,” says one of them, “about what in the name of all that is good, green, and holy happened out there?”
In a small guilty place, I think I should know which version is speaking, but they are, quite literally, identical. The clothes aren’t exactly the same, but each one of them is wearing cords, and a shirt, and the same tweed jacket. It’s basically impossible to distinguish them.
Not unsettling at all, that.
“Did a drone attack you?” asks another. “Definitely looked like a drone.”
“Very drone shaped,” says the third.
“A military drone, that is,” comments the second. “Not the male bee. Unless it was a male bee that happened to be shaped like a military drone. Though…” He cocks his head on one side. “… a touch unlikely.”
“A very salient clarification.” The third one points to the second one.
The first turns around. “Don’t mean to interrupt, you two. More of an interjection really. And, yes, obviously, appreciate the accuracy of the question. But, I was thinking, you know, again, just a potential suggestion, but should we sort of listen and see if they confirm it first?”
The third one points to the first. “Excellent idea. Love it. All ears.” He puts his hands behind his ears and pushes them out.
Office meetings have become decidedly longer ever since we got three Clydes instead of one.
“Why?” Tabitha stares at the screen as if hoping to crack it.
“Hello,” says the second Clyde. He looks at his feet. “Good to see you, Tabby. You look fantastic. Glad you’re OK. I was really rooting for you.”
“Me too,” nods the third. “Heart in mouth. Metaphorically. Binary code in the recycle bin may be a closer analogy. But, you know. Totally glad. We’re all glad. And you really do look lovely too. Really like the hair.”
“Why?” Tabitha screams at them. “You murderous little fucks! Why’d you try to kill us?”
Which, I suspect, is not exactly how the versions saw this going. They recoil from the screen.
I need to not be weirded out by them, and to focus on keeping MI37 functional. “Look,” I say, trying to play the peacekeeper, “this isn’t an interrogation.”
“A magnet to yo
ur pissing hard drive,” Tabitha growls.
“We wouldn’t!” protests the first Clyde.
“Never,” says the second. “Never ever.”
“You know how we feel,” says the third. “Subtlety is not our greatest asset. You know that. You loved us, Tabby. We love you.”
“Shut up!” Tabitha snaps. Her fingernails are digging into the surface of the table. “I loved Clyde. Clyde, you are fucking not.”
“Let’s just calm—” I start.
“Enough,” Felicity snaps. “This is not a witch hunt, and it is not a couple counseling session. Clydes, I want to know exactly what you saw. Not just on the ground. Digital chatter. Energy spikes.”
“Lie. They fucking will,” Tabitha says. “Save their arses. ’Til they’re ready to try again.”
“Tabitha!” Felicity snaps. “For the last time. We are not making any snap judgments. I personally find it very unlikely that Clyde, any bloody version of him, is on a MI37-oriented murder spree.”
Tabitha snaps around at her. Somewhat to my surprise, I feel my fists bunch.
But then a voice cuts into our conversation. A voice out of place in a secure government facility, because it’s a voice I don’t recognize at all.
“Well, Director Shaw,” it says, “that assessment may be rather a misstep, I’m afraid to say.”
5
We all spin to stare at the new voice’s source. Even Kayla. My stomach sinks as I turn, bottoming out somewhere around my knees. The last time someone showed up at the door of our conference room unannounced, things did not exactly proceed well from there.
He’s a tall man, even has a few inches on me. Narrow frame, though there’s some breadth in his shoulders. Angular cheeks. Black hair swept low over his forehead in what, I suspect, is a rather obvious move to hide a receding hairline. A wire brush of a mustache. The sort that Hitler made unpopular. Good suit though. And a briefcase. And an umbrella.
“Who the hell are you?” Felicity snaps.
Which means she doesn’t know him. Which means he’s not an ex-boyfriend. Which means he’s definitely a step up from our last unannounced guest. I immediately like him just a little bit better.
“Name’s Duncan Smythe. Lovely to meet you all. No need to stand up. I’m fully briefed. I know all your names, backgrounds, all that sort of stuff. The people who put these briefing documents together are terribly thorough, and so it only seems polite to read them. I’m from the British consulate to the United States of America, by the way. And sorry to burst in so unannounced. Again, the door codes were in the briefing jacket, and well, you know as well as I do that you don’t have a doorbell.” He speaks fast and clipped, despite the ripe vowels. A moneyed, educated voice. The sort you’d expect to hear on an old BBC show telling you about how we’re beating the snot out of Rommel.
“I have a damn phone,” Felicity points out.
I look back and forth from her to the newcomer. He seems entirely unfazed by her anger. Not that it is anger exactly. I’ve seen Felicity angry, and this… well, this is a dry heat. It’s more like she’s establishing a dominance pattern. The alpha dog of the pack making sure her status is recognized.
Kayla has the same bored, bemused expression she’s had since Tabitha started haranguing the versions. Tabitha seems like she’s just anxious for this little moment to be over so she can get back to the aforementioned haranguing.
And me, well… I don’t know. If I had to put money down, I’d say Smythe is the sort of person who comes with answers, but not the sort of answers anybody likes.
“Yes,” Smythe says to Felicity. “I have your phone number. Another of the many itemized pieces of information I was provided with.” He nods in the direction of his briefcase. “Between you and me, it’s a little bit of overkill actually. But, given the events of the morning, our schedule has moved up a little bit, and so, and again this is with the utmost apologies, the following meeting has become rather urgent.”
“Following meeting, my arse,” says Felicity. “If you want to come back—”
The tall man smiles apologetically, pops open his briefcase, and pulls out a small red file folder. He passes it to Felicity.
She eyes it suspiciously but silently. She unwinds the piece of red string holding the folder closed and pulls out a sheet of cream paper. Classy paper. The sort of paper that you’d expect a man with a voice like Smythe’s to hand out from small file folders.
Felicity looks from the paper to Smythe, then back at the paper. She returns it to the folder and hands it back to him with a tight little smile entirely absent of mirth.
“Proceed,” she says.
Smythe nods politely. I have a sneaking suspicion that the alpha dog thing just got derailed.
“Sorry,” says one of the Clydes from the laptop. “Bit difficult to see from back here, what’s going on?”
Felicity’s eyes snap to the laptop like an eagle sighting prey. And I knew I wasn’t going to like Smythe’s answers.
“Should he be here?” she asks.
Smythe shrugs. “According to my briefing documents none of your versions have been compromised.”
“Can’t be sure,” Tabitha declares, though I suspect she’s clueless about what either Smythe or Felicity is referencing. But she’s smart enough to spot an opportunity when it presents itself. “Better be safe. Shut them down.”
To be honest, I’m not entirely opposed to her argument. I don’t believe the versions tried to kill us, but computers have been turned against us today. What if they were corrupted?
But Clyde was my best friend…
But the versions aren’t Clyde. Not quite.
Felicity shakes her head at Tabitha. She sits, and pulls the laptop over toward her, out of Tabitha’s reach. She points the webcam in Smythe’s direction.
“This,” Smythe says, hanging his umbrella on the back of his chair, and laying down his briefcase, “is, for the record, information classified as top secret. Which I realize is rather redundant for people like yourselves, but they make me say these things. Dotting i’s and crossing t’s and all that red tape malarkey.
“I am here representing the British government, and its US consulate, to speak to you about a joint mission with the CIA for which your expertise is required.”
“CIA?” Tabitha immediately looks suspicious. That said, Tabitha wears a tinfoil hat these days, so if anyone was going to look suspicious it was probably her.
“The Americans?” There is significantly less antipathy in Felicity’s voice. To be honest it sounds a little more like excitement.
Smythe inclines his head at Felicity and ignores Tabitha’s heckling.
“You are all, of course, familiar with Clyde Marcus Bradley,” he says.
“I am,” says one of the Clydes. A smile twitches across my face. It feels like an irresponsible thing to have done.
“He’s dead,” Tabitha says.
“Indeed,” Smythe smiles broadly. “Very much so. We have it on file. Deceased earlier this month. October ninth to be precise. The Didcot incident.” He smiles again and nods at the laptop. “However, it does seem to be having a little trouble sticking.”
There’s a noise from the laptop, something like a gulp. “This isn’t an undead rights thing is it?”
Smythe reaches into his briefcase, retrieves a small bottle of water, cracks the seal, and sips.
“While this matter does intimately concern you,” he nods at the computer, “it is not exactly about your rights. Or if so only indirectly so.”
“Is it about that thing we downloaded?” one of them says. “Because that link was misleading, and I really had no interest in violating copyright. I’m generally opposed to anything that involves the word violating. Pretty strict principle in fact. Though—”
Smythe clears his throat. “Maybe I should continue and that would clear muddy waters,” he suggests.
“Oh yes,” says a Clyde.
“Good idea,” says another.
“So
rry,” the third throws in for good measure.
Smythe arches dark eyebrows. “Indeed.” He sips his water again.
“Mute them. I can.” Tabitha suggests. “Happy to.”
Smythe’s eyebrows arch in her direction now. I get the impression he’s used to dealing with the sort of smart efficient people who put together extensive background documents on other people, and not with… well, us.
“Six copies of Mr. Bradley’s personality were created,” Smythe tells us. “The original copy, in Peru, came into being on October sixth.”
“Version 2.0,” a subsequent Clyde version adds.
“Indeed,” Smythe says, and this time I expect to see ice cubes form in the water.
“Sorry,” says Clyde.
I’m fairly sure Smythe is reconsidering Tabitha’s offer of the mute button.
“Everyone shut up and let the man speak.” Felicity is leaning forward in her seat.
“So, yes,” Smythe continues, “Version 2.0 was created in Peru. Then five copies of that version were made. One is in the possession of Miss Mulvani.” Smythe nods in Tabitha’s direction. Which means that I was wrong in assuming she’d destroyed hers.
“Three are represented here,” he appears to force himself to acknowledge the laptop. “And one was given to Miss Devon Alman, Mr. Bradley’s former partner. She has however destroyed her copy. That leaves five copies in existence.”
And I’ve been assuming Smythe is a smart man, but that seems like a pretty basic math error.
“Four,” I correct him. “There are four copies left. The version of Clyde on the mask, Version 2.0—that was destroyed. He was killed.”
Smythe smiles in an entirely surprising way. Like a very jolly shark.
“Really, Mr. Wallace?” he says. “Is that so?”
I look around the room, rather nonplussed. I see similarly blank faces. I mean, we just buried him. We were pretty convinced of his status as a dead man. After all, we were there. We saw it happen. The mask that housed Clyde’s personality, that was Clyde, was split in two when a time-traveling Russian magician pulled the power out of it at exactly the same moment that I, in an attempt to save Clyde, sort of… well, I haymaker-ed him.
Anti-Hero Page 3