by White, Gwynn
Abby sucked in a lung full of Bureau air. His chest popped forward. The great white hall of the Bureau proper sent a shiver across his shoulder blades. The feeling of being a cadet passed, a mere transient sensation. As much as he despised parts of his past, there were parts he’d loved. There was adoration for the great hall before him, the huge banners, the swarms of agents, all now in white, and the knowledge that every doorway would flash emerald for him. He was home in a way that he wasn’t at home in the Low, a different home. “Once a Bureau Boy, always a Bureau Boy,” was what Yun had said, and maybe there was some truth to that.
“Been a while,” Jazz said.
“Sure has,” Abby said.
An agent passed and gave them the same knowing nod as the agents in the hangar and this time, rather than exchanging a cordial smile, Jazz and Abby mirrored the same confident salute.
Leta had a half-grin spread across her face.
“Is there something funny to you?” Abby asked.
“Not at all. I’m just glad to see you two in the Bureau.”
The uniforms of the white-clad agents blended into the hall, Bureau Boys meters away appeared to be floating heads, the cadets—with their matching caps—mere hovering faces. Jazz shrugged his brow and ran his fingers down the sleeves of his tuxedo jacket. The sheer volume of white in the hall made the black of their suits pop. They appeared to be the only full-bodied beings in the room.
“I’m going to track down Director Lin,” Leta said. “The balcony rooms have viewing stations if you want to take a look at the video clips from Mahayana. Should I have someone show you the way?”
Jazz blew out a small gasp. “Don’t worry about us, Captain, we know the way.”
“Just go on ahead,” Abby said. “We want to take this in.”
“Of course you do,” she said, then left them at the entrance.
He waited for her to cross the hall then said to Jazz, “Balcony rooms. When do you suppose they put those in?”
“I dunno. Let’s ask one of these kids how to get up there.”
43
The porter who led Abby and Jazz to the all-white lounge was kind enough to mix cocktails for the two—vodka and orange juice from the Bureau’s own gardens and distillery. The vodka wasn’t the best. The oranges, however, were real. The two reclined on the huge, concave cushioned sofa facing the abyss of the hall, watching the images of Winslow’s small underground museum on the glass wall.
“That’s not just a quant,” Jazz said after viewing the event. “Quants don’t bubble.”
“Not unless there’s a malfunction,” Abby said. “That hole was micro clean.”
“Merdo,” Jazz said softly. “You wouldn’t want to be standing on the edge of that.”
“That’s not really what I wanted to see. Cycle through to Doctor Darya Bedrosian.”
A soft, feminine voice filtered into the room, “Cycling.”
“Who is Doctor Bedrosian?” Jazz asked.
“You’ll see. She’s something special.”
The soft voice returned. “Doctor Bedrosian identified at 21823.2425. Playing.”
“Heh,” Jazz said. “That’s one of the girls from the Marquis.”
“No, but she might’ve been once.”
“Might’ve been? The robe. The gestures. If she didn’t come from the Marquis, she was trained in the same charm school.”
“She’s a doctor. I ran a check. She’s verified, authenticated to the Baltic Meg.”
“Doesn’t mean anything. Probably ended up getting into some trouble or simply kidnapped and trained. The Elites love to own educated women.”
“How do you know that?”
“I learned a lot on assignment, and after. Who is that big guy she’s with?”
“That’s another thing. Winslow has his own army of syns. That model is a Goliath.”
“What’s going on with his face?”
“What do you mean?”
“He glanced toward that glass case and the reflection was weird,” Jazz said. “You didn’t see it?”
“No. Roll back slow, frame by frame.”
Abby sipped from his juice then leaned forward on the sofa to see if he could catch what Jazz had seen.
“Freeze,” he said. He rose from the sofa and walked toward the window. “Fuko.” He shook his head. “They were there.”
“That’s no syn,” Jazz said.
“Certainly not. Winslow has resonators in the case to bring out the hidden visual effects of the artifacts inside.”
“So the resonators in the display case are disrupting the Goliath’s shimmer.”
“Yeah. The Goliath is a Maro.”
44
From far outside the lounge, a slap of footfalls meant someone was about to join them. Judging by the rhythm of the steps, Abby counted two people and doubted that the porter was returning. He glanced up to the side of the frozen image of Doctor Bedrosian and the Goliath imposter. Two thin phantom reflections rounded a far back corner, one in a dark suit, the other in white: Yun and Leta.
Neither Jazz nor Abby bothered to immediately remove themselves from the sofa to face the door. Abby didn’t have to ask Jazz what his sentiments were toward their old colleague. Yun had stayed and they hadn’t. The Bureau Boys all kept close for a few decades, then those few who had stayed drifted from those who had gone their own way. Abby only spoke to Jazz anymore and had lost track of most of the others decades before. He suspected that, like him, they wanted to be forgotten.
Even with the distance of years, the two still stood to greet Yun when he rounded the front of the sofa, more of a cordiality old friends shared than anything else. Jazz and Abby weren’t about to salute Yun, no matter what his title was, and he apparently didn’t expect them to. He didn’t even offer a hand, both of his held behind his back.
Yun still wore the same suit he’d had on when he shifted into spectrum down Low, reminding Abby that fewer than twenty-four hours had passed.
A lot had happened in less than a day.
At first, Yun said nothing. Rather he shared an ear-to-ear grin. Abby wanted the smile to be about the reunion of the three, except there was something unsettling in those too-blue eyes. The smile appeared to Abby to be more of a reveal. Yun had discovered the answer to a riddle only Jazz and Abby knew. Abby waited for Yun to say, “I figured it out! I’m on to you!” He didn’t say that. He grinned, sizing them up.
Then Abby remembered the game. The interrogation power trip he’d learned in training, the long pause, assert control, make the other speak first, make him your subordinate. He’d used the technique, leveraged the advantage. Yun was twisted. The best thing to do was not flinch.
Finally, Yun shrugged his perfectly trimmed thin brows. “Abby,” he said, nodding, his voice inflated with false enthusiasm. “And Jazz. What a pleasant surprise. It’s been what, forty-four years since Cartwright’s wedding?”
“Yeah,” Jazz nodded. “That’s the last time we saw each other. Though I heard you’ve seen me quite recently.”
He laughed. “Guilty as charged. I wanted to come into the bar and say hello. I really did. But you’re here now. Good to see you, my old friend.”
“Good to see you, Yun.”
“You know, Abby, I expected you to wrap this up quickly. That’s why I called on you.”
“And here I thought someone sent you,” Abby said.
“You have me again. Your side job, as you call it, of tracking down artifacts has garnered you quite a reputation. You’re like a fine wine, Squire, better with age. I knew with your contacts you would have the Jasper tracked down within a week. I didn’t realize that the two of you would work together and find the stone in…” His eyes moved to Leta.
Leta’s response was subdued, “Twenty hours, sir.” Abby felt her embarrassment. So, this was the new Bureau; Umbras had a place, but it was still a subordinate place, where the special agent insignia on her badge meant little in the confines of the Homeland office.
“T
wenty hours,” Yun continued. “That’s remarkable.”
“Well, we don’t have it yet.”
“Don’t be modest. Captain Serene has reported that you discovered Winslow’s been colluding with Arden Mortuus all along.”
“We’ve confirmed it,” Abby said.
“How so?”
Abby gestured to the frozen image. “The woman is Doctor Darya Bedrosian. She is Winslow’s concubine and his direct connection to the syndicate.”
Leta added, “We found her name on all of the archeologist documentation pertaining to dealings with Winslow.”
“There’s a Maro next to her,” Yun said. “Captain, you didn’t mention this in your report.”
“This is the first time I’m aware of the deception,” she said.
“Deception?”
Abby stepped closer to the wall. “We were told that he was a syn, or maybe not him in particular. Winslow has a syn security force he has labeled Goliaths. We only have the image of the one Maro in a shimmer, but…” Abby tilted his head side to side.
Yun nodded. “If one is a Maro, they most likely all are. So, this was an inside job.”
“If the Jasper is there,” Abby said, “so is Valon. We need to Bubble back to Arcadia before he makes a move.”
“Sirs,” Leta said. Abby was taken aback by the grouped reference to himself. “If this was an inside job, why report the theft at all?”
Yun was fast to answer. “Abby could teach you a few things, Captain. As he said, Valon will be making a move soon. Winslow wanted to separate himself from the Jasper before the stone showed up somewhere else, somewhere with Valon.”
Jazz sucked in a large breath. “I’m in. I already have a stake and don’t want to see this go the wrong way.”
Yun shrugged. “Winslow is colluding with Maro terrorists. Even Arcadians aren’t above the laws concerning defense of the Homeland. You’ll need to leave immediately for the Bubble. You can take an express transport to the Plaza, escort, lights, and all.”
“That’s great,” Abby said. “So, we’ll rendezvous with the Arcadian Bureau force on the other side?”
Yun shook his head. “Sending in reinforcements too early will signal Valon before the Bureau can reach the estate. The three of you will have to secure Winslow and the Jasper first, then the reinforcements will follow from the Yucatan Bubble.”
“So we’re on our own?” Abby asked.
“No, no,” Yun said. “We’ll be right behind you.”
45
Abby sipped a vodka and orange juice he’d taken from the console of the Delta Wing. The onboard concoction had tasted much better the last trip, before he experienced the real orange juice from the Bureau gardens. He gazed over at his cabin mates. They’d been frozen in the same position most of the trip through Arcadia. Jazz’s neck was craned upward, fixated on the saturated hues of the early morning sky. Leta was just as focused on Jazz. The two were practically a still life.
“Donna,” Abby said.
“Yes, Commander Squire?”
“ETA to Mahayana, please.”
“Estimated arrival time is sixteen minutes.”
He slid forward in his seat to rattle his fingers across the controls. “Hey, you two, you might want to buckle up.”
Jazz didn’t lower his head to respond. “I’m really comfortable. This place is beautiful. I like it like this.”
Abby had no idea how many years had passed since Jazz had last jumped through a Bubble, seen a real sky.
“I’m serious. You’ve been in that same position for an hour,” Abby said.
Jazz was indifferent, his expression glazed. That Jazz could be lost in the throes of an echo hadn’t occurred to Abby. Perhaps something more was happening. Since the three had arrived at the Bureau offices, his body was cycling. One minute every muscle would be sore, every movement a chore, the next moment he felt stronger than he had in decades. This had to have been because of that event, blink, jump, whatever had happened. He had no idea what effect the experience would have on his old friend. This was all new.
An alert drew his attention to the dash.
“Hmm,” he said.
“Hmm what?” Leta asked.
He gestured to the windscreen-embedded augments.
“Our friends in the chromium raptors are back.”
“Wouldn’t we expect them to be?”
“They’re five minutes early.”
“So?”
“We’re a few hundred miles north of where they met us last time,” he said, rapidly tapping at the touchscreen dashboard.
“And that bothers you?”
“No,” he said. “This time they’re armed. That bothers me.”
“They’re armed?”
“Yeah, take a look.” With a tap of the dash, the holo-image augment of a raptor expanded from the edge of the glass to fill the canopy. Sections of the hull and wings were highlighted crimson and annotated with a series of symbols and numbers. “I don’t think they’re here to welcome us in this time. Buckle him up, will ya?”
Leta leaned into the back of the Delta Wing and fastened Jazz’s restraints, then she slid back into her seat to adjust her own. A buzzing alarm pulsed the interior.
“Commander Squire. The two interceptor class raptors have joined our flight path and are now approaching. Sensors indicate each is equipped with two phase cannons and a class four particle displacement cannon.”
“That’s good news.”
“Excuse me, Commander?”
“No missile systems. You don’t detect any missile systems.”
“No, I do not.”
Leta leaned forward over his shoulder to scan the horizon for raptors. “How is that good news?”
“No missiles, no targeting. Cannons are line of sight. You won’t be able to see them, so you might as well quit twisting around. You’re going to put your neck out.”
“Are they directly in front of us?”
“More or less.”
“Why aren’t they firing?”
“I suppose they’ll want to be within sight range. They’re still at least a hundred klicks out.”
“Then shouldn’t we be going faster?”
“Yeah. Good idea. Donna, can we accelerate, please?”
“Certainly, Commander.”
“Abby?”
“Yes?”
“I can’t believe I’m asking this.”
“What?”
“You can blink us out of here again, right? If you have to, I mean.”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
Abby was tempted to face her. Instead, he checked the console readings. “Well, I really don’t have any control,” he said, his lowered voice almost subdued by the beeping alarm. “This whole thing has only happened a couple of times. I haven’t figured it out yet.”
“How many times, exactly?” she asked.
He cleared his throat and faced her. “Counting the two times I jumped with you?”
She nodded, her brows tense. “Yeah.”
“Twice.”
“Twice?”
Abby’s tongue rolled between his teeth and lips from the side of his mouth to the front. “Yeah, twice.”
She nodded and again gazed out of the canopy toward the Arcadian landscape miles below. Under her breath, she said, “Great.”
The soft interior pulse switched to a rapid alarm. “Nice,” Jazz said. The corners of his mouth creeped up the sides of his cheeks.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Echo, I think.”
“Echoes are an anti-Bureau myth.”
“We’ll debate that later,” he said. “Donna? What’s going on?”
“I have detected a weapons lock.”
“Donna!” Leta yelled over the alarm. “I thought you said the raptors had no missiles!”
Donna’s voice responded in the same soft tone, at a louder volume. “That is correct, Captain. The weapons lock is coming
from the ground.”
“Donna!” Abby yelled. “Engage evasive maneuvers!”
“That will slow us down!” yelled Leta.
He grabbed his juice from the console as the Delta Wing dipped into a dive. “You have a better idea?” he asked, then he tilted the glass high, pouring the remainder of the contents into his throat.
He peered over the rim toward Leta, her brow bent and fixed. He shrugged and said, “What did you want me to do? You know what kind of mess this would make.”
Past the augmented canopy, a carpet of dark green took the place of the deep purple sky. Orange cliffs jutted from a lake-riddled forest.
“Donna?” Leta asked.
“Yes, Captain?”
“Has the ground system fired yet?”
“No, Captain.”
“Abby,” said Leta, “no one in a protected plane is sanctioned to fire on a Bureau craft.”
Abby snickered. “We’ve established that the Elite don’t follow the rules.”
The Delta veered to the side, twirled, then shot upward, again filling the canopy with the morning sky and the first hints of the tangerine sun.
“All right!” Jazz yelled from behind.
Leta steadied herself in her seat. “They’re locking onto our signature.”
“Then let’s change the signature,” said Abby. His eyes darted to the image in the canopy. “Donna, do you have a read on the raptor’s signature?”
“Yes. The raptor’s signatures are sequenced for the Mahayana estate.”
He lifted his brow. “Can you change our signature to match a sequence in their signature series?”