Tag Archives: serialization

Heat Wave: Short Fuses

Posted by natechen on

Circuit

A rush of garbled voices on the other end of the line met my announcement. I heard the unmistakeable sound of someone putting his hand over a handset and they became completely unintelligible, but I didn’t really need to hear much of what they were saying to guess the content. It probably boiled down to everyone asking, “How did we manage to miss that?”

“Helix.” I said, in a normal tone. The babble continued, so I raised my voice a bit and repeated myself. I had to repeat the process twice more until the voices quieted down.

A moment later, Helix’s voice came through clearly, saying, “What do you get out of doing our job, Circuit?”

“A lot of things, Helix,” I said, trying, and mostly failing, not to grin at his confusion. Even if he wasn’t there to see it, a sloppy habit is a sloppy habit. “The three most significant benefits are these. I keep the public blissfully ignorant of talents, a situation that benefits me just as much as you. I keep the Enchanter from gathering other people to his cause. And I do a little something to convince you that I’m not the villain you think I am.”

“Not a villain?” Helix scoffed, which is something you don’t hear much any more. “Not a villain? Have you forgotten what happened in Morocco already?”

“Do not-” I slammed the heel of my hand down on the console in frustration. I knew that was going to come up sooner or latter, but somehow it still managed to surprise and irritate me. Heavy Water was staring at me from the next chair over and I waved him back to checking his gear, then turned the motion into a general shaking to get the tingling out of my fingers.

Helix remained silent through the whole process, whether startled by my outburst or stewing as he waited for a real response I couldn’t tell. After a second or two, with my temper mostly under control, I said, with diction as careful and clear as I could make it, “Do not blame me for Morocco. What happened there was in total disregard of my express orders. Yes, the funding came from me but it was not properly used.”

Still irritated, I got up and paced to the back of the van, a journey of about two steps, then back to my seat, and repeated the process, nearly making myself dizzy as I went on. “Morocco was a mistake and I will not repeat it. But I saw what it was and I closed it down. I did, not you. Just like I did with Lethal Injection and like I’m doing right now, with the Enchanter.”

“All you managed to do in those cases was make bigger messes for us to clean up.”

“I stopped what was wrong, Helix. I don’t think even you will argue with that. The fact that my organization does not have the resources yours does in terms of containment and cover up does not change the fact that something needed to be done.”

There was a long pause and I leaned against the back doors of the van, trying to give my simmering annoyance a chance to cool by wondering what Helix was doing. Massaging his temples? Rubbing his forehead? Throwing paperclips at the other members of his team?

Unfortunately, I kept coming back to the little issue of his being completely correct. A couple of years ago I had tried farming money raising activities out to certain elements in Africa. Unfortunately, I hadn’t ever seen any return on that investment and I’d found my name and organizational weight being thrown around ways I never even dreamed of.

I shut that operation down. Permanently. Apparently Helix got stuck cleaning up afterward. I should have expected that, really, because who else would they send?

“I apologize for the inconvenience I’ve caused, Helix, but I do admire your capacity to deal with it. That’s one of the reasons I’m offering you my help this time.”

“Help?” Helix’s voice rose to a shout. “Is that what you call it? Circuit, I don’t care if you were outside of US jurisdiction, you still provided the funding, the training and the organization to let those people do what they did. That makes you responsible for what they did. The fact that you’re sorry about it doesn’t mean you’re not scum.”

“Scum?” My voice dropped down until it was barely a murmur. Heavy glanced up with a worried look and began shutting off the equipment at the work stations, which was probably a smart move.

“Do you know the difference between the two of us and people like the Enchanter, my late, unlamented associates in Morocco or even the Senator who runs your Project?”

Helix matched my icy quiet with an equally dry tone. “Enlighten me.”

“We do something, you and I. By any objective standard, the bandying about of words that passes for modern politics is as superfluous to society as the brutality of a dozen street thugs in the Third World. Enchanter and anarchists like him see the politicians and the thugs and they think they’re the problem, when they’re actually a symptom. The Enchanter wants to burn down modern society and replace it with the basest barbarism because they think that will make them free. What they don’t realize is that all it will do is make the politicians and the thugs swap places. But you and I, we know the real problem, and we’re doing something about it.”

“I have a newsflash for you, Circuit. If you think the problem is that there’s too many thugs out there sucking air, then we definitely aren’t dealing with the same problem. In fact, I’m not sure we’re even in the same zip code.”

Even though I was leaning against the back door of the van, far from most of the electrical wires in the vehicle, I could still feel the current moving through them, balancing potentials. There was a beauty and elegance to the simplistic focus of electrons moving through wires that I have always loved. It’s a trait Helix shares with electricity and, I think, one of the reasons why I’ve never taken his constant interference in my work personally. He can’t not do his job any more than negative charges can seek the positive.

But there’s a rhythm and pattern that even the simplest of computers brings to that single-minded electronic drive. It’s hypnotic, at times, and soothing at others. And it has a simple lesson to teach the attentive. “The key is control.

“In olden times, people had self control. The States never could have united if their leaders didn’t realize that giving up a few of their prerogatives to form mutually binding agreements would result in greater power, a power needed to gain any meaningful freedom from Britain. Back then, in a way, each man was a tyrant in and of himself, ruling his life with an iron fist so that the excesses that would prevent him from living meaningfully would be controlled.”

“So, what? Are you calling yourself a founding father?”

“Hardly.” I was distantly aware that Helix was trying to make fun of me, but I refused to rise to the bait. For one thing, it would do a lot to undermine my point. “The world you and I live in is nothing like theirs. People don’t learn to control themselves anymore, and they don’t believe in building anything. Instead of useful work we get empty protest, noble ideas are replaced with vapid “dialog” and self restraint is belittled while anarchy and indulgence are the height of culture. All the while the handful of people who do anything meaningful are expected to carry the burden of providing for everyone else.”

Helix grunted. “You’re not wrong. But I think a man of your abilities who really wanted to fix those problems would do more good as a teacher than as a… whatever you are.”

“Oh, but I am a teacher,” I said, feeling the electricity in the van begin to pulse in time with my words. “People today expect someone to look after them. They’re not even qualified to eat without a half a dozen rules to help them make the right choices. Well, we live in the information age, where power is in the hands of the one who can master the circuit just as much as the one who masters the gun or the dollar. Who better to run the show than a man even the government recognizes as a master of circuitry?”

“What are you saying, Circuit?” Helix’s voice had gone just as cold and low as my own. “That you’re the new Messiah? A one man army, come to set the world aright? Lots of other people have tried that, none of them have succeeded.”

I snorted and the surge of current shorted out the van’s dome light. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s true that, to a certain degree, it will take a single man with a clear vision and immense power to create and enforce the new rules. But I need other people, just like anyone. I have some allies. I need more. You, and most of Project Sumter, are cut from the right stuff. You can keep secrets and know the importance of law and order. And, whether you like to admit it or not, the slipshod way you go about trying to find and educate talents right now is not going to be enough in the very near future. You can’t keep a lid on talents forever, but once the genie’s out of the bottle the government will never be able to deal with the backlash. You need me.”

“So we should put you in charge?” Helix actually sounded a little thoughtful at that, and I felt a spark of optimism. If he was taking the dangers I foresaw seriously, then implementing a solution in time to save society from total disintegration might not be a pipe dream. “Sorry, Circuit, but no dice. I’ve seen what your problem solving looks like. We don’t need more of that.”

“Let me prove it to you. Share your files on the Enchanter with me and I’ll run him to the ground. I have connections that won’t talk to you, and ways of gathering evidence shortsighted courts might not approve of.”

“How simple can I say this?” Helix bit each word out. “No. We will catch the Firestarter ourselves. And if you come anywhere close to this investigation, I will personally cuff you and throw you into a hole so deep you’ll forget what daylight looks like.”

“Fine.” I felt something in the van’s power locks short out under the force of my reply. “But the change is coming, Helix. It’s necessary and unavoidable. The people of America no longer know enough about governing themselves to ever hope to govern anything else. Once the society collapses it will be a new dark age unless someone does something to stop it. Someone willing to grind common sense back into them no matter how little they want it, who’s willing and able to force them to fight for their independence again. What it amounts to is, if they can’t or won’t rule themselves then they will bow to me.”

The stray charge that had built up in the wires near me as I spoke burst free and flooded the van for a brief second. My headset gave a brief click and then died. I absently pulled it off and threw it to the floor. “Heavy!”

“Van’s locked down, boss,” he called from the front seat. “Grappler got most of it sequestered before you started raving.”

“It’s not raving, Heavy, it’s telling people the truth. They frequently look very similar.” I pulled the disposable phone I’d been using from one pocket, checked to make sure the same pulse that fried my headset also fried it’s memory, then tossed it on the floor. “It seems like Project Sumter is unwilling to cooperate with us.”

Heavy raised one eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“Meaning, we have to do this the hard way.”

He rubbed his hands eagerly. “Boss, that’s just what we’ve been waiting to hear.”

Heat Wave: Crossed Wires

Posted by natechen on

Helix

As the local king of disorganization, I learned pretty much everything you need to know about keeping Cheryl happy by not doing it. At this point, that should come as no surprise. But when I left Herrera’s office I had every intention of practicing what I preached. I spent the next hour and forty-five minutes writing up an after action report on the warehouse raid, and another forty knocking my notes on Amplifier’s debriefing into shape.

Thus armed with fresh computer print-outs, properly sorted, paper clipped and ready for filing, I made my way up to the top floor where the Records department perches over its nest of moldering files like some bizarre sort of carrion fowl.

The Records department is set up like this: You step out of the elevator into what’s probably the least welcoming reception area on earth, or at least the upper Midwest. There’re a door to the stairwell on the left and a desk built into the wall on your right an a whole lot of empty space. They don’t even have potted plants there. In the far wall there’s a secure door that leads into the department proper. Only people who are actually employed by Records can get in or out of that door.

Worse, because of the institutional paranoia that has grown up in the Project since our records were compromised a few years ago, if we want to do a search of files we haven’t contributed to, or files that are now closed, or pretty much anything that isn’t on our desk right that instant, we have to go through Records to do it. As a result, our Records people are the most over worked and underpaid Project employees. It’s not at all surprising that they’re also some of the grumpiest.

When I got there Cheryl was at the desk. No real surprise there, she’s almost always at the desk, on the front lines trying to hold the unwashed masses of clueless field agents and demanding supervisors at bay and let the Records people focus on the important work of trying to figure out bad handwriting and transcribe it into the Project databases.

Actually, we don’t turn in handwritten reports anymore, and haven’t in ages, but you wouldn’t guess that from talking to a Records worker.

As soon as Cheryl saw me coming out of the elevator, reports in hand and on time, a suspicious looked crossed her face. This is not the kind of punctuality I’m known for, and as a rule of thumb if someone’s making life easier for you it means they want a favor in return.

Cheryl probably learned that lesson early in life. She dresses real classy and has a great figure to boot, and when she first started working the Records desk you’d usually find a small crowd of people loitering around trying to make small talk with her whenever you filed a report. That was two years ago, and it’s mostly a thing of the past now. I was the only one there when I arrived.

“Agent Double Helix,” Cheryl said, crossing her arms and sitting back in her chair. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit? You don’t have anything due for another forty-eight hours, I wasn’t expecting to see you for another week.”

“You’re here pretty late, yourself, Cheryl,” I replied. “It’s after eight, I thought you’d be out of here hours ago.”

“Are you kidding?” She shook her head. “With a major raid today, in conjunction with local SWAT, accompanying evidence processing and two new Talent files to open, do you honestly think we have the time to take the evening off?”

I hefted the reports in one hand and set them on her desk. “Speaking of which. Write ups on the raid, after action report, paperwork for opening a file on talent #4322, notes on first debriefing of the same.”

Cheryl gave it a quick once over, then said, “What about #4323? You’re not about to let someone else open a file on a talent you found, are you? It’ll ruin your numbers.”

“Voorman beat me to it,” I said, offering a halfhearted shrug. I really didn’t feel like going over that a second time. “If there’s paperwork to be filed on Gearshift you’ll have to wring it out of him.”

With deft hands Cheryl racked the paperwork and added it to a small stack on her desk. She did it all without looking, instead evaluating me with a scornful glare. “All right, Helix, what is it you want?”

“Is this where I play coy?”

“Most people do,” she said dryly. “It doesn’t make them any more likely to get what they want and it’s not very original, either. Just insults my intelligence.”

I always got the feeling that Cheryl finds most kinds of banter insulting to her intelligence. On the bright side, that’s not problematic for me unless I’m trying to turn in paperwork with Sanders along. “I need access to an old file.”

Cheryl nodded and turned to her keyboard. Apparently this meant I’d passed muster. “What kind of file?”

“Operation East/West.” I leaned on the desk and did my best to look casual. “It’s appended to talent #4085, codewords Lethal Injection, Double Helix and Open Circuit.”

“You’re cleared for all of those,” Cheryl muttered, reading the information she’d pulled up on her screen. “But file #4085 has been closed and sealed. Lethal Injection is marked as dead. Is this relevant to an ongoing case?”

“Not exactly,” I said. “It’s got to do with something I’m looking into for Sanders.”

Cheryl frowned. “He doesn’t even have any cases assigned to him at the moment. You boys aren’t up to some kind of mischief are you?”

“We’re a clandestine government organization, Cheryl. Everything we do counts as mischief by definition. It’s for a worthy cause, though, and we’ve unofficially been formally asked to look into the matter by people high up.”

“Like who? Is this something the Senator put you onto during his visit a few days back?”

There’s a lot of politics in any job, but especially in one where you’re actually working for politicians. In my case, I don’t like it but I deal. It’s not what I’m here for but I don’t believe in letting it get in the way of what I am here for. But some people don’t like politics in any shape or form. With a job and attitude that focused on getting the facts in order, it’s no surprise Cheryl was one of them. Still, I’m sometimes surprised at how much she manages to miss sometimes.

“No, he didn’t.” In this case, I decided flat denial would work best. In fact, I like to go with flat denial whenever I can get away with it.

Unfortunately, Cheryl wasn’t willing to let me remain mysterious. “Well, what do you want it for, then? I can’t just sign out a closed file on a deceased talent on Sanders’ say so, even if both of you were involved in it.”

“It’s kind of-”

The rest of my explanation, which I’m sure would have been stunningly persuasive once I figured out what I was going to say, got lost in the sound of the stair door being shoved open. I turned to see Kesselman, looking more than a little out of breath. He spotted me as son as he came to a stop. “Phone call for you downstairs, big guy.”

Feeling like I must have missed something, I pointed at myself and raised my eyebrows.

“Yeah, you. Downstairs in the analyst offices.” He paused to gasp for breath.

“Well, why didn’t they just take a message?”

“It’s from someone who says he’s Open Circuit.” Kesselman motioned down the stairs. “Says he’s on a secure line, doesn’t want to transfer. He’ll hang up if you’re not there in two minutes, Herrera says hustle.”

When the boss says hustle, you hustle first and question later. As I sprang for the stairs I looked over my shoulder and said, “I need that file, Cheryl.”

Then I proceeded to go down four flights of stairs in under twenty-five seconds, which I don’t recommend for anyone who’s not a Hollywood stuntman, and burst onto the Analysis floor trying to run and keep weight off the ankle I’d just sprained at the same time. Darryl waved to catch my attention, he was standing by a desk with Herrera and Sanders.

Sanders was on the phone and as soon as he saw me come out onto the floor he said, “He’s here now,” and held the phone out for me as I ran over to take it.

The last thirty seconds had left me out of breath and in pain so I just grabbed the phone out of his hand and covered the mouthpiece as I took a second to steady myself. All three of the other people stared at me with naked impatience, which didn’t make gathering my wits any easier.

So I disregarded several Project rules of conduct, not to mention everything my momma ever taught me, and slapped the phone to my ear then said, “What the hell do you want?”

Circuit

“Quite well, thank you.” A moment of silence answered my non sequitur. I shrugged and wound up fiddling with my hands free headset for a moment until I had it properly settled again. There are good reasons for the things, I’m sure, but I’ve never found one that would sit on my head for any length of time unless duct tape was involved. For obvious reasons, I dislike that approach.

Helix still wasn’t saying anything after I got the headset settled again, so I decided I’d just have to keep going. “You know, in all the time we’ve known each other this is the first time we’ve actually spoken beyond the stereotypical police drama stuff. Being cordial would cost you nothing. And it would keep me on the line longer for your phone tracker to do its thing.”

“Sorry, Circuit, but cordial is not my thing.” I knew enough about Helix to know he wasn’t a big man, but he had a surprisingly pleasant baritone voice in spite of his stature. It sounded a bit raspy, though.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Did I catch you away from your desk? You sound more than a little winded.”

There was a murmur of voices on the other end of the line. “What do you want, Circuit? I don’t honestly believe that talking to you for an extra thirty seconds is going to let us get any closer to tracing your location and I do think hanging up on you before you make your point is going to make you annoyed enough to do something stupid.”

I blinked. As a matter of professional survival I have a healthy respect for Helix’s capabilities. He’s a skilled man, with training from the largest talent watching agency in the nation and a wealth of practical experience. But I hadn’t expected him to be so blunt. “Very well. Did you find what I left for you?”

“The chair? Yeah, it was right where you left it. Wanna tell me what that’s all about?”

“The chair? I sit on it, of course.” I snorted and settled myself into my seat in an attempt to get comfortable, probably just a case of my subconscious acting up. The van I was sitting in was custom built, but not for comfort. “I wasn’t asking about the chair, Helix. Have you read the letter yet? If not, I can always call you later.”

“The letter?” Another murmured aside. “You mean the one from the Enchanter guy? Yeah, we found it, but I don’t have it here. You want me to run at get it from the forensics guys? Though I’m not sure they have it off the truck yet.”

As Helix was talking Heavy Water opened the side door of the van and slipped in, handing me a set of folded blueprints that had come to me through certain channels and that I would be needing in the near future. “Not necessary. Just tell me, what did you think?”

Helix made a funny little exasperated noise and said, “I think you’ve either got some really weird idea of a pen pal or you’ve finally decided to take up the profession of crossword puzzle setter. I have no idea what that was, Circuit. Now why don’t you answer me something.”

“Of course, Helix. We’ve worked together long enough for you to ask me one or two questions on this auspicious day. But before you fire away, I need to make a quick adjustment. You know, one of those things that keeps you frustrated and me from incarceration.”

The van wasn’t laid out in the normal fashion, with two benches in the back capables of holding a total of five people. Instead, the back was entirely open, leaving more space for whatever I might need to pile there, and there were two chairs facing computer consoles across from the sliding door, one of which I was sitting at. I put the blueprints down on my console and said, “This may be a little loud.” There was a sudden burst of static as I tweak electric potentials in various parts of the computer, feeding it various commands. A lot of the noise was purely cosmetic, something built into the repeater built into the van, but as I’ve said before, appearances are important. And, to be fair, I was actually doing something I didn’t want Helix thinking too much about. “There we are. Finished.”

I was answered by the sound of muffled cursing on the other end of the line. It took a second for Helix to wind down, then he said, “What are you doing, playing with Faraday cages?”

“That’s surprisingly astute of you, Helix,” I said. “I had no idea that you knew so much about electronics.”

“Don’t give me that. You handed my team the solution to our first major case, gift wrapped, and then you scoffed at the pardon that came with and proceeded to spend the next eight years wreaking havoc. You really think I don’t read those technical journals you leave sitting around? We’re not stupid, you know. Anything you’re interested in, I am too.”

“Which only serves to reinforce my high opinion of you.” As I spoke I pulled up a simple GPS tracking program, the kind of thing that will find anything, anywhere in the world, and tell you it’s exact latitude,  longitude and height above ground, and set it to work. “I want to try it again.”

“You want to leave me more trade magazines?”

I laughed. “No, not what I was referring to.”

I had intended to say more but a sudden rustle of sound on the other end interrupted. “Well would that tell me how you make a cellphone trace say you’re on the island of Malta? Because I, for one, would like to know how that’s done.”

“Generally, one books a flight to Malta and then places a call from his cellphone.” Heavy was already unfolding the blueprints and consulting them before the computer finnished it’s queries. “But let me restate that what I want is not to give you a new set if ideas to develop countermeasures for. Rather, I want you to consider letting me help with a little problem of yours.”

There was a split second of silence, then, “I’m not sure I follow.”

“It’s like this, Helix,” I said, looking over the places Heavy had marked out as potential entrance zones. I pointed to one and nodded. “You have a problem. You call him Firestarter. He’s both talented and destructive. Perhaps worst of all, he uses his talent to help his baser urges find expression. He’s not just a danger to the general public, he makes it difficult for the Project to maintain that lovely fiction that the world is a sane, predictable place without sudden surges and shifts in the evolutionary status quo.”

“I’m familiar with the Firestarter case,” Helix replied. “I was even on it for a little while.”

“Not at all surprising,” I said. “What’s more so is that you’re not on it now.”

“These things happen. I fail to see how the problems Firestarter is causing us can be any of your business. What’s one miscreant’s arsons to another’s armed robberies, money laundering, extortion, conspiracy, kidnapping and interstate flight?”

“You forgot several varieties of grand theft,” I said. “And surely, with all the crimes the federal government wants me for, the interstate flight warrants can hardly be germane anymore.”

“Of course. How could I forget?” Helix sighed. “I honestly don’t see where you’re going with this, Circuit. Do you think we don’t have the resources to chase both you and Firestarter at the same time? I know you have an incredible information network at your disposal, and if you have a tip on Firestarter that you’d like to share, we’re always willing to act on those. But what’s your angle?”

“You don’t see the difference between me and Firestarter?” I asked, affecting a wounded tone. “Honestly, Helix, I’ve always hoped you gave more credit than that.”

“More credit than what?”

Heavy Water is touchy about his plans, so I didn’t write a big fat X on which room our objective was in, just tapped the correct part of the prints twice, then did the same for places I thought we might want to avoid due to electronic surveillance.  “More credit than you give a two-bit miscreant like him.”

“Oh, I don’t know. He’s managed to perpetrate a number of arsons without getting caught, and unlike you he’s managed to leave a subtle pattern to annoy us with. You have no pattern at all, and perpetrate crimes strictly for your own gratification.” Helix’s tone was slightly condescending, as if he was unsure I was keeping up.

“Not strictly for my own gratification. And leaving patterns is the work of an amateur, I am a true professional. But most importantly, Firestarter is an example of society’s problems, I represent the solution. Did you read the Enchanter’s note?”

“Yes,” Helix said, dragging out the word in a way that made it clear he was still trying to follow the sudden subject change.

“Did you happen to look at the envelope it came in?”

“No, I didn’t. Should I have?”

“It’s return address was 1457 Ferntress Avenue, the home of Paul Moreau, the Firestarter’s first victim.” I gave that just a moment to sink in. “Sources tell me police Precinct 27 received an identical note returned addressed to the home of Peter Morrison. I wouldn’t be surprised if notes were credited to Amelia Morgan and Pritchard Mosburger as well.”

“You think this Enchanter and Firestarter are the same person.” Helix wasn’t asking a question. “And you plan to help us catch him for reasons of your own.”

“There is that incredibly sharp insight I have come expect.” I leaned back in my seat and laced my fingers behind my head. “We underground talents have our own ways of passing news around, you know. This is not the first I’ve heard of the Enchanter. He’s actually managed to make a name for himself in the last year or so, and not in the quiet, unobtrusive sort of way many of us get our start. No, he is, if you’ll pardon the pun, a real firebrand.”

Helix groaned. “You should get something added to your rap sheet just for that.”

“Do you know why he sent me that letter?”

“Because he can’t stand your puns?”

“That might have been a part of his motivation, but I doubt that was all of it.” Heavy handed me the blueprints, this time with a route from entrance to objective marked on them, and I sat back up and began to study them again. “He’s an anarchist, Helix. Everything there is to love about a structured, organized society, he hates. But in particular, he hates the idea that there’s someone out there who will come down on him like a load of bricks if he ever tries to use his talent for anything beyond boiling water.”

“So you’re saying he doesn’t like the Project much more than he likes you.”

“I imagine he wouldn’t, if he knew it existed,” I said, setting the plans aside for the moment. We were getting to the good part and, without any visual cues to clue me into Helix’s state of mind, I was going to need all my attention on the conversation for the moment. “But so far as the Enchanter is concerned, the person waiting to jump on him is me. I started stymieing his attempts to take his anarchist’s manifestos into public venues two months before his first arson. So in a sense, as far as he’s concerned I am Project Sumter.”

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Fiction Index

Heat Wave: Raking the Coals

Posted by natechen on

Helix

Once we got back to the office there were a million things to do before I went in and talked to Biker Girl and her friends. For one thing, I had to go over to Records and see what they had found out about them. I was sure we’d gotten their legal names by that point, but beyond that making these inquiries takes time, even if you’re connected to the FBI. Especially then. So there wasn’t much to work with there.

Then I had to run over to Analysis and see if they’d attached a code word to Biker Girl’s file yet. As it turned out they had. Talent File #4322 was officially named Amplifier. Charlie, Talent File #4323, was now Gearshift. Fitting but vague. Classic Sumter. There were no indications that Skinny had admitted to talent of any kind, nor had he exhibited any signs of one. That didn’t mean much, but it also meant he didn’t have a Talent File, he’d probably wind up as a person of interest. Talents have to be debriefed by other talents and their supervising agents, persons of interest are usually handled by others. That meant Skinny wasn’t my problem.

I labeled the files Records had given me and went back up the stairs to my desk. Nearby the tac team was working on after action reports. There was no sign of Herrera.

“Where’s Herrera?” I asked Bergstrum as I sat down.

He shrugged. “Haven’t seen her since we checked in our gear. Probably checking on where the kids we picked up are being held.”

“Should have just gone up and asked Cheryl.” I tapped my folder. “They got it in here already.”

Bergstrum shook his head and laughed. “I’ve never seen anyone ride people as hard for their paperwork as she does. Life could get problematic once she’s Records chief.”

“Don’t I know it,” I said, and looked down at my desk. As I’ve said, it’s typically a disaster area, but today that was more useful than problematic. We don’t like a Member of the Public to think we’re understaffed, hampered by red tape or otherwise lacking in the omniscience department, and as such I wasn’t prepared to go in to talk with our freshly minted talents bearing files on them that only had three to five sheets of paper a piece.

So I raided my desk for padding.

There were a half a dozen office memos on fascinating subjects like how to use the new paper shredder or photocopier, rather redundant as they effectively amount to the same thing if you ask me. I shoved them into Amplifier’s file and tossed a stack of pages from last year’s Project employee handbook that would need to go through the shredder or copier later, for disposal. I absently tossed this year’s handbook on top of the other three ring binders at the back of my desk and pulled out the bottom drawer.

There I found the mother load, a two inch stack of rough drafts for after action reports from a forgotten time. I shoved them into Gearshift’s file and compared my stacks. They were about the same size but one was full of typed pages and the other handwritten stuff. That didn’t look good, so I shuffled pages until things were equal.

I really wasn’t paying attention as I did it, so it’s really kind of a miracle that I spotted it. Still, there it was, as I was moving an old action report from Gearshift’s file to Amplifier’s. A familiar name that had no business being in a report I’d written eight years ago. And why did I still have hand written reports from my first case anyway?

The far door banged open and cut off that line of thought. Herrera stalked through on her way to her office. Her expression was impassive but this was the first time in the last three days I’d seen anything like that from her.

I made a mental note to look into the discrepancy in the old file later and shoved everything into the folders, yanked some sticky notes down from the nearest bulletin board and stuck them on pages at random, then closed them up and headed over to Herrera’s office. The door was open so I took that as an invitation to come in.

“Hey, Herrera,” I called. “We got talents down in the tank stewing. If we keep ’em too long they’re gonna have to answer some awkward questions once they’re out. We gotta move.”

She glanced over from the file she was flipping through. I could tell from the looks of it that it didn’t have anything to do with our strays. The label was green, meaning it came from Forensics, not Analysis. “Yeah, just a minute.”

While I hadn’t known her that long I could tell that something had ruffled her usual composure. It was tempting to just chalk it up to stress and lett it go, after all it had been a long day, but at the same time I was technically supposed to be keeping an eye on her. So I asked, “Something wrong?”

Herrera looked at me for a moment then closed the folder and said, “Helix, why do you call everyone by their last names? Jack, Lars and Paul all seem pretty informal, and that doesn’t seem to bother you. But except for Jack, I’ve never heard you call anyone by their first name.”

“Curse of rank, ma’am,” I said with a shrug. “There’s a natural tendency to assume that a better behaved person is a safer person. The more dangerous a talent is, the more people want to know they’re well behaved.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she said with a snort. “Formality doesn’t equal safety.”

“No ma’am. But you might be surprised how much of a difference it makes in perceptions.” I smiled slightly. “It can make you seem safe, or at least too stodgy and unimaginative to be a danger. On the other hand, it can encourage the idea that, and I quote, ‘Individuals of talent come from longstanding families who’s conservative ideas often cast them as the new American aristocracy. To allow these people to establish family dynasties that continually influence the course of national policy sets dangerous precedents that could have a long-lasting impact on the course of our society.'”

Herrera raised an eyebrow. “Who said that?”

“Senator Brahms Dawson, when I originally applied to join the Project.” I shrugged. “He’s entitled to his opinion, of course, my point is, while all talents have a lot to juggle, some of us juggle more than others. The last thing I need is some kind of bureaucratic reprimand because somebody thinks I wasn’t respectful enough. Or worse, was sexually harassing someone by being too familiar.”

“What about Jack?” She asked.

I shrugged. “I’ve known Jack since I started here, and I didn’t start the whole formality bit ’til I turned twenty and actually grew a brain. Old habits die hard. Same thing goes for the Templetons, really. Now, that was a nice dodge, but why don’t you tell me what it is about that,” I waved at the folder, “that’s got you so upset. Is it something I need to know about before we go and talk to Biker Girl and Charlie?”

With a sigh she handed me the folder. “It’s not really important. Just notice from Forensics that they’re not going to have time to look at most of what we’ve found for another two days.”

I glanced through the file, which looked like a lot of the kind of delay oriented bureaucrobabble desk jockies use to avoid doing real work. Still, I’ve been here enough to know when they’re really asking for time and when they’re just seeing how much they can get away with. “It looks pretty legit to me. There’s ‘only’ thirty talents that use our forensics office on a regular basis, but that’s enough to make a real backlog.” I closed the folder and handed it back to her. “In fact, the forensics people almost always have the biggest backlog of any department.”

“I know.” She tossed the file down in frustration. “I had just hoped…”

“What?” I asked, when it was clear she wasn’t going to finish the thought. “That somehow Project Sumter was different? We’re not really superheroes, Herrera. Day to day problems don’t magically smooth themselves out of our way so we can get to cracking skulls faster, no matter how much I might wish it were the case.”

“Right.” She picked up the files on our new friends and hefted them in one hand. I noted approvingly that she had packed them to the regulation three quarter inch thickness. “Well, while we wait for the gears of justice to grind onward, let’s go talk to Amplifier, shall we?”

“There’s an idea I can get behind. Put on your scary face, Herrera, we’re gonna nip it in the bud.” I did my best Barney Fife imitation. “When we’re done with those kids they’re not gonna be able to think about vigilante justice without shuddering.”

Herrera laughed and gently turned me around and pointed me out of the office. “Then get going, we’re burning daylight.”

We walked into the holding room where Biker Girl, now Amplifier, was waiting for us before discussing exactly what out tactics would be. As it turned out, that was a major error.

I opened with a classic interrogation gambit, namely slapping down great big honking files and looking at my interrogatee meaningfully. People usually find this a little intimidating and Amplifier looked to be no exception.

In fact, once you stripped her out of the body armor and biker gear what you got was a rather fragile looking girl in a sweat stained red shirt who looked like she’d walked into a classroom on the first day of school and been asked to hand in a report no one told her she had to write. It’s a common reaction most talents have when they find out about us, because conspiracies keeping the nature of the world secret are something that happen to other people, right? I’d like to say you figure out a good way to deal with people feeling like that, but I never have.

Now, normally, Sanders and I have a simple system where in I collect all the biographical data “for the record” and he does all the hard questioning. This tends to net more results than the alternative. Which is anything else. Believe me, we’ve had a lot of time to try other systems.

Unfortunately, I didn’t know Herrera well enough to signal that she needed to do most of the talking, nor did I know how the HSA handles interrogations well enough to seamlessly work my way into her routine. So naturally, I decided to bull ahead and hope that Teresa would realize she needed to take over at some point.

It’s this kind of shrewd conversational decision making that gets me into trouble in the first place.

Things started off well enough, Herrera gave her name to the microphone and I identified myself by codename. Then I said, “Subject is tentatively identified as a Wave Maker, a talent capable of adjusting the frequency and amplitude of most sound waves. Tends to manifest unusually good hearing and the ability to identify and exploit harmonics to destroy objects.”

Biker Girl sat up a bit straighter and said, “How did you know that?”

I glanced at her for a second, then said, “Our subject will now be briefed on the Project’s confidentiality protocols,” and switched off the tape recorder. “You and your friend were both wearing body armor when we met a few hours ago. Why was that?”

“Because we didn’t want to get shot?” She said, as if that were the most obvious thing in the world. Which really, it was, but you wouldn’t think it with the way some wannabes act.

“Good thinking,” I said. “But you weren’t wearing a helmet like Mr. Movsesian. It would muffle the sounds you hear and interfere with your ability to effectively use your talent. You also removed jewelry from all of your piercings, because hitting the wrong frequency can cause them to vibrate violently enough to hurt yourself, and you could tell the door in the bunker was free of coolant because you didn’t hear any being pumped through, pretty much the only way you could have determined that without learning the pump was missing, like Mosburger did.”

“Huh.” She sat back in her chair, a looking slightly impressed. “Not bad. You’re smarter than you look.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly. “It’s a requirement to be in this line of work. You want to work with talent, you better get used to thinking that way. You’re a known talent now, and that comes with baggage.”

“I beg you pardon?” Amplifier said.

“You’re now a part of the Project Sumter files,” I said, hefting the file in question for her to see. I opened to the first page, one of only five legitimate pages of data on her. “We’ve assigned you a codename, Amplifier. You’ve been assigned an Temporary Oversight Agent, namely Agent Herrera.”

The two women nodded in acknowledgement of one another while I pressed on. “At all times, when dealing with the Project, you’ll be identified by codename and should identify yourself by codename. Very few people will know your real identity, and it’s in your best interest to keep it that way.”

“Wait, you want me to call myself Amplifier the whole time?” She asked, a little incredulous.

I rubbed my eyes and, in a fit of generosity, said, “Would you like to ask Records if your codename can be changed?”

“It’s not that,” she said, “I just didn’t expect to… you know…”

“Concealing your identity is a fundamental safety measure,” I replied. “Believe me, I know it’s strange and unsettling,” which was true, I understood it but not like a normal person would, “but you need to start partitioning your thoughts now so you’ll make fewer mistakes in the long run. And if you choose to remain a part of civilian life then you probably won’t notice too much difficulty in keeping things distinct.”

“Remain civilian?” Amplifier’s face fell. “You mean I’m not going to join the Project?”

“We don’t force anyone to join,” Herrera said. “We open files on talents as a safety measure, like tracking a gun owner. Some of the abilities out there are very dangerous. There’s also enough people who know about them and would want to extort them for various purposes that we need to keep an eye on that possibility as well.”

“Extort them?” Amplifier looked legitimately alarmed for the first time since I’d met her. “You mean like a slaver ring, or something?”

I shifted uncomfortably. “That kind of thing has never been observed in the US before.”

“Which means you’ve seen someone somewhere else doing it, right?” Amplifier said. “I’ve heard enough doubletalk to know it when I hear it, Agent Double Helix.”

“You can just call me Helix.”

When it was clear that I wasn’t going to say anything beyond that, even if she glared at me, Amplifier asked about Gearshift, except she asked about him by name. Herrera told her his new codename and explained that we’d not spoken to him yet. I had been hoping that this signaled that she was ready to take over, but unfortunately with that said she seemed content to watch a master at work.

For the first time in recent memory I found myself wishing Sanders was here. Amplifier looked like she had something else to say, but I wasn’t about to loose control of the interrogation, they’d run me out of the FBI.

“The facts of the matter are pretty straight forward, Amplifier,” I said. “If you want a job the odds are pretty good that the Project could put you to work, provided you can qualify.”

“Qualify?” She seemed a bit mollified by that. “What do I have to do to qualify?”

“For starters,” Herrera said, “you have to show an ability to pursue investigations and work well in a team setting, something you’ve already done.” I shot her a glare, not at all happy we kept going down this road when I was more interested in how three college aged kids found one of Circuit’s outposts in the first place. Which was, of course, what we should have been asking Amplifier about in the first place.

Herrera ignored my glare and the weight of purpose behind it, opting instead to finish explaining the Project’s hiring standards. “You also have to be able to work with oversight and complete basic field training similar to what the FBI or CIA go through.”

“They’re very big on undergraduate degrees, too.” Grumbling about it probably didn’t reflect well on myself or the Project but whenever the subject came up I couldn’t help but remember all the difficulty I had when I first tried to join the Project. Now Herrera was practically giving a recruiting pitch to Amplifier. It didn’t seem right, but then, talent alone is proof that the world isn’t fair.

I straightened, realizing that both women were looking at me questioningly. I straightened a bit and said, “Can we focus please? This is supposed be a…” I stumbled for a second, thinking that “interrogation” might not be a productive word to use. “A debriefing,” I finally said. “We’ve been sitting here for a good ten minutes without recording any actual testimony.”

“Right,” Herrera straightened up a bit, looking slightly chagrined. “Is there anything else you wanted to ask about the Project with direct bearing on this debriefing?”

“No,” Amplifier said uncertainly after a moment’s thought. “I don’t think so.”

There was a twinge of guilt from the part of me that usually spent its time wondering what life without knowledge of talents or the Project was like. I’d lived knowing about talents since I was four. I really had no idea what kind of adjustment this was for her. I tried to sound sympathetic as I said, “Just try to remember not to give your own name or those of any other talents you know.”

She exhaled slowly. “Right. Code names, protect identity, tell the truth.”

“That’s the idea,” I said, wondering that tell the truth had to be said explicitly.

Now I’d like to say that we wrapped up the debriefing in fairly short order after that, but it actually took us a good two hours. Most of it was fairly boring stuff, with Herrera and I trying to figure out exactly how a bunch of college students managed to run down a warehouse belonging to an international crime lord.

It turns out that you can get really far with just a girl able to make out conversations through two or three walls and a halfway decent analyst to back it all up. Circuit needs hands to help him move things around, just like anyone else, and he hasn’t managed to build robots to replace bodies with yet. His major mistake seems to have been robbing a man Gearshift knew a couple of days ago. While the crime took place in Texas, Clark Movsesian, who I still thought of as Skinny, was somehow able to track Circuit back to a warehouse in the city.

I made a note to recommend Movsesian to Darryl as a potential getman recruit.

Amplifier, Gearshift and Movsesian all belonged to a band, which was how they met each other. I gathered that Amplifier was the singer, Gearshift played guitar, which apparently had something to do with his codename. Movsesian was both the keyboardist and wrote the music. There was a lot of other trivia mixed in there, but the rest of it went in one ear and out the other.

Once the debriefing was done we sent her on her way with another warning to be careful and not talk about this to anyone. Herrera also gave Amplifier the contact information for a person in HR, in case she was still thinking of joining up. Finally we got her out of the tank and headed back into normal society.

I glanced at my watch and tried not to swear. It came out in a muffled grunt, prompting a puzzled look from Herrera.

“We need to go talk to Gearshift,” I said, by way of explanation. “Sanders has probably debriefed Movsesian already, but Gearshift’s been down in the tank for practically four hours already. Even if we get him out in two, it’s gonna look strange to anyone paying attention.”

“Right.” Herrera nodded and headed towards the elevator. “Remind me again why he’s down in the basement?”

“He looked to tanned. I didn’t want to contribute to his developing skin cancer so I had him put out of the sun.”

“How generous.” She hit the elevator call button and gave me a skeptical look.

“Sorry, ma’am,” I said, holding up my hands defensively. “This is one thing I really can’t explain right now.”

“Helix, I know there’s a difference in what you know and what you can tell me. You’ve been doing this longer than me, regardless of who’s in charge, so you’re bound to be cleared on more stuff than I am. But I hope that if there’s something I need to know, you’ll tell me.”

“Believe me, ma’am,” I said, “if there’s something you need to know, I’ll be the first to point it out.”

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Fiction Index

Heat Wave: Stray Embers

Posted by natechen on

Helix

“We need a new plan,” Herrera said. “Kesselman, see if you can get ahold of that SWAT team and coordinate with them, take the new factors into account. Helix, how do you want to handle these people?”

“Click my red shoes together and hope they go away?” I suggested. “Honestly, I have no idea. We don’t usually catch amateurs in the act.”

“Forgive me if I sound like an amateur myself,” Mosburger said, “but what kind of an amateur are we talking about right now?”

“Amateur crime fighters, Mossman,” Jack said. “Typically, but not always, talents who have gotten it into their heads that they’re the heroes in some comic book somewhere, and set out to right the wrongs of the world.”

“And boy have they ever found a whopper,” I said. “Of all the criminal organizations they could pick to poke at, they go after Open Circuit. Why me?”

“The innate perversity of the universe tends towards maximum.” Mosburger fitted his helmet on over his head, making him look a lot like an academic masquerading as a soldier. “Doesn’t the Project have a protocol for dealing with talents like this? You seem to have everything else.”

“We do,” Jack said, passing earpieces to Bergstrum and Herrera as soon as Lanier, out tech guy, had them checked out. “It’s pretty simple, really. Step one is determine if they’re in our records or not. Unfortunately, you can’t do that from a heat signature.”

“And since it’s a procedure that can require two or three hours of explanation per talent it’s hardly suited to the present circumstances,” I added. I fitted an earpiece on myself then strapped my own helmet on. “I’d like to propose a different approach for the time being.”

“Go ahead,” Herrera said.

“We throw them all in jail and forget we ever saw them.”

“Try again,” she suggested.

I frowned, because that was the only practical idea I had a the moment. “We go home and let them get fried by Circuit’s booby traps?”

“Or not.”

“We could always just send them back to the office and tank ’em until we’re done here,” I said, more thinking out loud at this point. “We don’t normally initiate new talents there but these aren’t normal circumstances.”

“How do we hold them when we don’t know what their talents can do?” Mosburger asked.

Jack threw an arm around his shoulders. “Well, Mossman, the idea is that you figure it out before we send them off.”

Mosburger seemed to shrink into his armor, making it even more comical looking. All he said was, “Oh.”

“Relax,” Jack said with a laugh. “We’ve all got plenty of field experience, too. You’ll be fine.”

It was true, outside of Mosburger and Herrera we had a minimum of four years experience in field work a piece. Just to be on the safe side, though, I crossed my fingers.

 

It took another ten minutes for the SWAT team to arrive and get set up. In that time the three people in the warehouse wandered out of my range on one side of Circuit’s sealed room and came back on the other. Apparently, they were doing the same thing we had been, except with a closer view. That reinforced the idea that they were amateurs, but didn’t tell us much else.

Since there were potential civilian complications wandering around in the warehouse we decided the best approach was not the usual door-buster routine most people associate with SWAT operations. Instead, there was some more low-key reconnaissance, which would theoretically be followed by the door-buster routine. Among other things, they discovered that the main employee entrance was unlocked and standing open.

“That settles it,” I said. “Circuit’s not here anymore, and those aren’t his people. He’s not one to let things get that lax.”

“Which does beg the question who these people are and how they got in here,” Jack said, leaning against the side of one of the SWAT vans and eavesdropping on their radio chatter.

“I was wondering if we’d ever get a chance to go in there ourselves,” Mosburger replied, wiping sweat from his face with, of all things, a black bandana that looked way to gangster for a retired engineer.

“They wouldn’t have let us come out here if they weren’t planning to take us in with them,” I said. “Besides, if one of the people in there is a talent, they’ll need us.”

“And if they aren’t?” Mosburger asked.

“Then we book them for criminal trespassing and give them a stern warning about the dangers of vigilantism,” one of the SWAT members said as he stepped out of the van. “I’m more worried about if they are. This is our first time working with Wizard Central, and what I want to know is if we’re even going to matter in this operation.”

I exchanged a glance with Jack. This was the first time I’d heard the term Wizard Central, but it was pretty clear that was local slang for Project Sumter. Looked like there were some misconceptions to straighten out. Thankfully, Jack was on the ball.

“Look, Lieutenant,” he said, “I know that you’ve probably seen a lot of movies or TV shows or some such crap that has a half a dozen near-invincible supermen doing huge, crazy, world-saving stuff on a regular basis. But that’s not the way talents actually work.”

“No?” The cop pointed at me. “Didn’t I hear something about him melting a hole in the wall a couple of minutes ago? You telling me that was just hyperbole?”

“No, that’s a practical option,” I said. “But in our line of work that makes me something called the glass cannon.”

“The what?”

“A rule of thumb that actually relates back to wizards, Lieutenant,” Mosburger said. “It basically refers to something powerful and dangerous, but fragile. Based on what I’ve read, most talents have greater awareness than the regular person. Some of them, like Double Helix here, have a lot of potential to cause damage. I’ve yet to see or hear of one that couldn’t be stopped by the kind of equipment you people are carrying.”

“Honest truth, that,” Jack added, patting his own handgun. “If it weren’t the case I’d be carrying something a lot bigger than this.”

That seemed to satisfy the cop, who went back to sorting out the other officers on his team. I got the impression he was the one in charge, particularly since he seemed to be the one coordinating with Herrera. A couple of minutes later we were broken up, two of us to two SWAT officers, and got ready to go in.

Herrera and I wound up at the unlocked employee door, closest to the people inside. Jack and Mosburger were going in through a side door, Bergstrum and Kesselman the back. There were other teams for the loading dock and the fire exits, but there weren’t enough of our people to go with every SWAT group.

There were a few minutes of confusion when we went in, the kind of shock and awe entrance that looks impressive for the sole purpose of looking impressive and keeping unhardened civilians from doing anything stupid. It’s heady stuff when you’re there but really boring to talk about because it’s basically all shouting and noise, at least when everything goes well.

Fortunately, this was not one of the cases where something went wrong, probably because Circuit is too smart to deliberately antagonize the law when he could just ignore us and do whatever he wants. There were no booby traps on any of the entrances, in fact the only thing in the warehouse was the massive concrete block that held Circuit’s vacuum insulated chamber.

And three sheepish looking civilians who looked like they couldn’t even be out of college yet.

I groaned inwardly. It’s not that I was never that young, idealistic and obnoxious, because I was. There’s reports filed away somewhere in the Records department that can prove it. But it’s a far cry from knowing you have a past to having to deal with it a second time, from the other side.

I do have to give those three credit for being more sensible than most. The smaller two of them were wearing body armor, not high grade stuff, the kind you might see a serious motorcyclist wearing to protect against a bad fall. It didn’t protect the lower body but it would get the job done against anything short of close range gunfire, at least for a little while. They also hadn’t made any attempt to add a logo or brightly colored patterns to their clothes. Other than the body armor, they looked just like people off the street.

They lost points for letting one of their number run around with no armor. Also, only one of them was wearing a helmet. Two of them were men, one thin and one big and blocky, no surprises there, and the other was a petite young blond woman who was arguing with the Lieutenant and her skinny friend at turns. I instantly labeled them Skinny, Charlie and Biker Girl.

“All right, folks,” I said, using my best authoritative cop’s voice, “at this point we should probably mention that you have the right to remain silent!” That instantly got me everyone’s attention. “There’s a whole bunch of other rights that you’ll be advised of shortly, but that’s the one we really want you to exercise right now.”

“You can’t arrest us without telling us why,” Skinny said.

“I think criminal trespass is pretty clear cut at this point,” Herrera said. “We can probably add obstruction of justice to the list if you don’t cooperate.”

Which I’m ninety-nine percent sure is untrue, but most people, myself included, don’t know what obstruction of justice actually means, so you can throw it around all you like until it’s time to go to court. Or at least until the attorneys show up.

“Look, we’re not trying to make any trouble,” Charlie said, “We’re on your side, but-“

“If you’re on my side, Charlie,” I said, “you’ll go with the nice folks from SWAT and let us do out job.”

“Charlie?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“As in Charlie Brown,” I said. “You’re not the only blockhead here but-“

Herrera elbowed me gently and said, “I’m sure you folks have questions, but I think they’re better answered back at the office.”

“What office is that?” Biker Girl asked. “I don’t see a badge on you two.”

I reached for my ID automatically, flipping it open at the same time Herrera displayed hers. I noticed Skinny glancing back and forth between the two and followed his line of sight in the corner of my eye. Apparently he had been thrown because my ID was issued by the FBI and hers was from the HSA. I made a mental note that we should probably do something about that.

The subtleties of Federal IDs were lost on Biker Girl, or she saw all badge carriers as the same, because she just crossed her arms and said, “Is this where we disappear with the black suits and are never seen again?”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at the totally unnecessary melodrama. It would be unprofessional. I was saved from having to answer when the Lieutenant leaned in and said, “Agent Herrera, do you want us to try and breach the door?”

He jerked a thumb back at Circuit’s concrete box. I’d been so focused on trying to get these civilians out from under foot I hadn’t noticed the entrance was no more than twenty feet away. It was actually a pretty simple thing that reminded me of the door to a walk-in fridge. I walked over to the door, running my hands along the concrete as I moved. A couple of feet away from the door my fingers passed over a ripple in the concrete and I paused. If I looked carefully I could see that there was a raised circle of concrete about two feet wide in the wall. It wasn’t very big. I doubt I’d have noticed it if I hadn’t been touching the wall, but it was there. It looked almost like someone had dropped a rock into a pool of water, then transferred the last ripple onto the concrete before it hardened.

“Something wrong, Helix?” Herrera asked, from just a half a foot behind me.

“Not really,” I said, moving on. “I just remembered a story my grandfather used to tell me.”

The door was well insulated but I could tell that the insides were still really cold. “Not sure blowing it off the hinges is a good idea, Lieutenant,” I said. “I don’t know what Circuit was pumping through to cool this rig, but I’d bet good money exposing it to air can’t be healthy.”

“There’s nothing in the door,” Biker Girl said. “If there was anything being pumped through before it’s gone now.”

I turned and quickly crossed back over to her as the Lieutenant asked, “How would you know?”

She gave the poor cop that classic “like duh” look that only women can pull off. It tilted her head at just the right angle for me to pick out a series of four piercings in her ear. They were hard to spot because the rings or studs she normally wore in them had been removed. I frowned and pitched my voice to a whisper even I couldn’t really hear, then said, “Don’t talk about your hearing.”

Biker Girl gave me a surprised glance, but said, “Nevermind.”

The Lieutenant glanced from me to her, then back again. Clearly he knew something had happened, but he seemed to get that we wouldn’t talk about it out here in public.

“She’s right, though,” Mosburger said. I jumped and swung back to face the door. Mosburger and a couple of SWAT people had jimmied open a metal box that looked kind of like the ones you see over underground power lines. He gestured down at it. “This has hook-ups that you might expect for something like a dishwasher, but could easily run a small pump system. But there’s nothing here now, which means they probably drained the coolant out and removed the pumping system when they left.”

I sighed. “Which means they probably had a lot of notice.”

“Wouldn’t take more than an hour, Helix,” Mosburger said.

“But it’s not the kind of thing you’d prioritize while clearing out,” Herrera said. “You’d probably save it until last.”

“We’ll, we’re hear anyways,” the Lieutenant said. “We might as well go in.”

“Helix, how did you get through last time you visited one of these place?” Herrera asked.

“The way I usually get through just about anything,” I said. “The melty way. Which means letting SWAT take the door off its hinges this time has the benefit of novelty.”

“Do you think the door will still be trapped, if it was ever trapped at all?”

“Not his style,” I said. “He doesn’t go out of his way to cause difficulties for us. He just wishes we’d show him the same courtesy.”

“Then we’ll go through in a minute,” the Lieutenant said. “What about these three?”

Herrera shot a glance at Mosburger, who shrugged. I said, “Those are our case, not yours. Bergstrum and Kesselman can take them back to the offices, I don’t think we’ll need them here. And Bergstrum.” I grabbed his elbow as they came up to take custody of the three musketeers. “Put Charlie there down in the L2 tank.”

Bergstrum grunted his acknowledgement and a minute later we were back to having a civilian free work environment. I felt some of the tension between my shoulders relax immediately. As the SWAT boys started setting up to get into Circuit’s little bunker Herrera leaned in and asked in a low voice, “We have a holding room in the basement?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Normally you’d be shown it during the orientation tour, but I don’t think you’ve had time for that yet.”

She gave me a funny look but didn’t have time to ask about it before the Lieutenant came back and said, “We’re ready.”

“All right,” Herrera said. “Let’s see what Circuit left us.”

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Heat Wave: Thermal Vision

Posted by natechen on

Helix

Problem one: Project Sumter is not, in the strictest technical sense, a law enforcement agency. Nor is it a branch of the military or part of the American intelligence network. Although we loan our personnel to the organizations that handle those responsibilities, we ourselves don’t have any jurisdiction or special authority to engage in law enforcement, intelligence gathering or military operations unless we’re working in conjunction with some other branch of the government that does. In order to act on the evidence that Herrera and the HSA had provided, Project Sumter would first need the cooperation of the police and a warrant from a local judge.

Problem two: As a collection of super-specialized operatives that tend to come in and take over situations that fall under our purview, we’re not usually very popular with people like the FBI, the CIA, the Marines, local police, ect.

Now, in the past, I wouldn’t have had to worry about these things, since Sanders’ team was on indefinite loan to the FBI, so any case that fell under their purview was open to us by some sort of bureaucratic deal he’d worked out two years ago.

But I’d been transferred to Herrera’s team which was, for all practical intents and purposes, a different section of the Project that didn’t have that kind of convenient arrangement to fall back on. Once our briefing with the Senator and Agent Herrera was over we wound up spending the next thirty hours cutting our way through the mess of red tape necessary to get the locals to sign off on our proposed operation and a judge to issue a warrant.

Luckily for us, we had a US Senator in our team. It was one of the few times I’ve ever been glad to be associated with Brahms Dawson. On top of that, Kessleman had been a local cop before joining the Project and, once he and the rest of Jack’s tactical team straggled in later that afternoon, he was able to get in contact with some people he knew and smooth things a little more.

Still, most of us spent the night on cots tucked away in the back corners of unused offices or conference rooms, waiting for the word to go to come in. Actually, all of us did except the Senator, who really seemed like he wanted to stay. He only left because Herrera shooed him away to some event of his daughter’s. In spite of how busy we were I found a moment to wonder how an ambitious twit like Dawson ever found the time for kids.

Finally, sometime around dinner time that evening we got the green light. To my intense disappointment we wound up going in saddled with a SWAT team. While I’m sure the local SWAT guys are competent in their job I’d have sworn on a stack of Bibles that they didn’t have thirty seconds experience dealing with talent in general, and Open Circuit’s not a normal talent either. Plus, the SWAT team wouldn’t be available until the next day.

Herrera got the rest of us together just before six that evening and briefed us on the plan, which essentially boiled down to “hit him around ten AM tomorrow” and told us to go home and get some sleep. It was a good call, although I wasn’t sure how much sleep we’d be getting that night. What I found most impressive was that, even after a night in the office, she still managed to look collected and cool. I wondered how well that cool would hold up under fire.

Rather than spend a lot of time wondering about it I decided to do as I was told and get some sleep. I’d see how she did under stress tomorrow. There’d be a lot more information to go on after that.

I arrived back at the office the next morning and was greeted by the distinctive odor of chocolate chip cookies drifting out of the offices. That could only mean one thing: Mona had been baking last night. I followed the smell into Sanders’ office to find a double batch of cookies heaped in a large red tin. Mona and Sanders were there too.

I reached out to grab a cookie and Sanders smacked my hand away. “What are you doing?” He asked. “Those are for the people who will be doing actual work today.”

“Yeah, that’s me,” I said, trying to slip around him and grab a cookie with little success. “We’ve got an operation in a couple hours, haven’t you heard?”

Sanders snorted and folded his arms over his chest, saying, “Yeah, I heard. You’re gonna pile in a van and wait six hours for the locals to show up and then find out they’re all on a domestic disturbance call on the other side of the city and can you guys wait until tomorrow? Sitting in a van all day isn’t work.”

“Very unsympathetic, coming from a guy I know has done the same thing six times before in his life,” I said, taking the moment when Sanders opened his mouth for the inevitable comeback to dart around the other side of him and make another grab for the cookies.

Mona pulled the tray just out of my reach and gave me an admonishing look. “Leave the cookies for people who will enjoy them, Helix.”

I stared at her. “What’s that supposed to mean, Mona? Everyone likes your baking.”

“I’ve noticed,” Mona said with a smile. “I wouldn’t keep feeding it to you guys if you hated it. But you hate chocolate.”

I stared open-mouthed for a minute. “I do?”

“You do, but you keep eating it and saying it’s delicious to make me feel better.” She gave me a light pat on one arm. “Best field analyst in the Midwest, remember?”

“I don’t know why anyone bothers trying to keep secrets around here,” I said, slumping slightly.

“Because you’re a sweetheart,” Mona said. She pulled a square tupperware container out of a bag on a nearby chair and held it out to me. “I baked you a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies instead. Take care today.”

“You’re the best, Mona,” I said as I snatched the cookies out of Mona’s hand and scuttled away.

Now only a fool eats when Jack Howell is giving a briefing, he’s the kind of man who demands absolute attention during briefings, and with good reason. Since Herrera was a newbie who wasn’t entirely up on the safety procedures that go hand in hand with being on the same team as a heat sink who expects to go active, Jack got to run our prerollout briefing. That included explaining how to properly strap on and check the complicated insulating body armor that, in theory, would keep people from getting roasted if I needed to light up Circuit’s warehouse for a late summer bonfire.

I’ll be the first to admit that all of that is important information, even the obligatory reminder to take care of your equipment because it is expensive. In fact being forced to sit through the whole lecture for the umpteenth time would have been worth it just to see Mosburger’s reaction when he learned one suit of the stuff cost nearly a hundred and fifty grand. Newbies get used to the Project’s expense budget eventually, but it does take time.

However the upshot of all that was that I wound up sitting around for almost three hours while Mona’s cookies got cold. I didn’t get a chance to crack them open until the eight of us were in our van and headed across town towards Circuit’s latest hideout.

I dug in as I watched Mosburger struggle awkwardly with his body armor. Kesselman was trying to help him get suited up but it looked more like modern art waiting to happen than someone getting ready for a potential combat situation. Everything about this mess, from Circuit’s involvement to the obvious greenness of my current team, was making me nervous.

Once we arrived on site Herrera got out of the front seat and moved into the back with the rest of us. “SWAT says they’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

As a matter of automatic courtesy I held the box out to offer Herrera a cookie. She peered in, saying, “Are these the chocolate chip cookies I was smelling earlier?”

“Oatmeal Raisin,” I said around a mouthful.

Herrera looked vaguely offended. “Did we not rate chocolate chips?”

“Helix doesn’t like chocolate,” Mosburger said without looking up from the boots he strapping on for the third time.

“Is there nothing sacred anymore?” I asked, spreading my hands to the van’s ceiling. “I prefer birthday pie to birthday cake too, is that such a crime?”

“Sorry,” he said, glancing up from his boots. “I heard Bob and Mona arguing about it this morning.”

“Sanders? What was his problem?”

“I’m not sure. Something about her assignment being therapy, not an excuse to baby all her co-workers.” He shrugged. “Not sure what that was supposed to mean.”

I grunted in disapproval. It meant that Darryl had talked Mona into transferring to field work as a way to distract her when she found out they couldn’t have kids. Yes, she probably babied her co-workers as a kind of substitution. Sanders should have known better to bring it up around other people, though. I gave Mosburger a stern look and said, “None of your business.”

Mona raised an eyebrow. “Your last field analyst was in therapy?”

“All getmen are in therapy,” Jack said as he checked through the contents of his utility belt. “It comes with the territory. If you aren’t yet, Mosburger, you’ll get your chance.”

“What’s a getman?” Herrera asked.

“Oh good,” Mosburger muttered. “I’m not the only who doesn’t know these things.”

“It’s what we call field analysts,” I said, ignoring Mosburger’s grumbling.

“Why?” Herrera took off her jacket and began shrugging into her own tactical gear. At least she seemed familiar with the basic mechanics, if not the particular challenges of our specialty equipment.

“Because they always get their man,” Jack said.

“Or because they get things first,” Kesselman added.

I dusted my hands off and closed the empty box of cookies. “Also, I think it has something to do with the fact that the first one was from Gettysburg.” I got up and moved to the seat Herrera had abandoned at the front of the van.

“Going somewhere?” Jack asked.

“Just getting a feel for the place,” I said.

We were just across the street from the warehouse. I can feel heat anywhere within about half a city block when I really focus on it. That wasn’t enough to let me get a sense of the whole warehouse, but I could tell one thing important right off the bat. “Hey, Mosburger, I think I figured out why Circuit wanted this place as a hangout.”

The Project’s newest getman got up and clomped forward to look over my shoulder. “What’s that?”

“It’s one of the only places in the city where he could create a vacuum walled chamber to work in.” I felt my way outward again, just to make sure. There was no getting around the dizzying sense of finding an area that had no heat in it, in fact had no medium to conduct heat.

“He’s used a set up like that before, hasn’t he?” Mosburger said, quickly answering his own question. “When he was operating out in eastern Arizona. I remember reading about it.”

“Why?” Herrera asked. “What does working in a vacuum accomplish?”

“Not in a vacuum,” I said, “in a room with walls that have a vacuum chamber in place of insulation.”

“Circuit appears to know a lot about electronics, and, given the nature of his talent, that’s not surprising.” Mosburger rested his hand on the headrest of my seat and began drumming his fingers absently. “My guess is it serves to make them less detectable to Helix as they’ll leak much less heat.”

“That’s more like waving a red flag to me,” I said. “There’s nothing as obvious as a vacuum, trust me on this. If he’s trying to keep that place a secret, it doesn’t add up.”

Mosburger thought for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right – unless it’s serving as a blind for whatever his real countermeasure is.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Herrera said. “It can’t be a perfect vacuum, can it? He has to get in and out somehow.”

“There’s probably a door pumped chock full of coolant somewhere in the set up,” I said. “That’s what the room in Arizona was like. It’s just not on the side facing us now.”

Herrera tapped Bergstrum on the shoulder. “Take us around the block once. Helix, see if you can pin down where that door is, find out anything else about this set up Circuit’s got running. Look for any major differences between now and the way things were in Arizona.”

“I’ll do what I can,” I said. Unfortunately, that wasn’t much. The warehouse wasn’t even in range part of the time. We’d gotten all the way around to the other side of the building when I slapped the back of Bergstrum’s chair. “Hold up. I got three people in there.”

“People?” Mosburger said. “What are people doing in there? Moving out some of Circuit’s stuff?”

“No, at this point he’s got everything he’s ever gonna want out of there already,” I said.

“So you don’t think they’re some of Circuit’s people?” Herrera asked.

“Honestly, no,” I said. Checking their locations again. All three were still plastered up against the edge of the vacuum insulated room. “I think they’re probably worse, in their own way.”

“What’s worse than Circuit in this situation?” Mosburger asked.

I exchanged a glance with Jack, who nodded for me to go ahead. I sighed and said, “Amateurs.”

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Heat Wave: Subtle Currents

Posted by natechen on

Circuit

In order to accomplish my goals in modern day society I require large quantities of cash and materiel. Some things I buy, because there’s no other, better way to get hold of them. A piece of land, for instance, is almost impossible to steal from someone. You’re better off just buying the deed.

However, things like land tend to be very expensive, and I find it wise to keep as large a reserve of liquid cash on hand as possible should I suddenly need to make such a purchase. Thus, even when I could afford to buy something I could also steal, I always choose the latter.

I had to explain all of this to Hangman, who was becoming more and more curious about my work the longer our association lasted, before he consented to finding a list of places where I could acquire the things I needed next. The same principle applies to time as money, incidentally, which is why I have information brokers to find information for me and I focus on things only those with my particular talents can do. I will admit that Hangman’s increased prying into my affairs did have me thinking of changing brokers.

Fortunately Hangman handled this request with his usual speed and efficiency, finding four places where I could find what I wanted scattered around the country. I choose to visit a certain university in Texas to get what I was after this time, both because it was far away from my home base and because it was a university.

Higher education in America represents one of the largest wastes of money in the entire nation. Colleges these days serve primarily to hammer the rough edges of individuality off of people, forcing them to conform to the idealogical lockstep of their professors in exchange for the piece of paper that they have been assured will keep them fed and satisfied.

Colleges get truly absurd amounts of money from the students and various levels of government for their brainwashing and they spend it liberally in making improvements and carrying out research, which in turn attracts even more money from the successful graduates who feel some misplaced sense of gratitude for success they would probably have earned on their own, and at a much reduced cost, if they had just found a seasoned pro to show them the ropes for a few months instead of locking themselves into an ivory tower for four years. On the bright side, the absurdity of the modern university is helpful to me in two ways.

One, people who come out of them are totally lacking in any kind of meaningful identity. The brainwashing their professors put them through makes them pliable and interchangeable. After all, once you sand the rough edges off blocks of wood they stack nicely and if one breaks you can throw it out for another. This is a crime against the people involved, but in order to fix it I’ll have to endure it for now.

Two, the disappearance of any kind of imaginative thought from college campuses makes them very easy places to rob.

Here’s how you move across a college campus late at night without getting into trouble: One, own a fairly inconspicuous white van. It should be about five or ten years old, beaten up, with painted over windows. Or no windows at all, if you can help it. Paint some totally innocuous sounding company name on it, like, “Hoffman Plumbing” on it. Two, don coveralls and glower at the students like you’d rather have their bright future as corporate drones instead of your current position as business owner.

You are now free to move about the campus.

I wanted a place in the civil engineering building so I parked my van half a block away and headed towards the chemistry building. Thanks to thousands of dollars of alumni and taxpayer money the entire campus was defended by state of the art electronic locks of a type I was very familiar with. The are secure from anyone without a keycard or the ability to manipulate electronic potential.

Actually, they’re secure from most fuseboxes like me, too. Convincing the lock that I had a legitimate keycard would require more specialized equipment than I wanted to carry with me and the circuits that controlled the actual lock were buried deep in the door, with no way for me to touch them. While a fusebox can reach a great distance through a circuit they’re close to, if they’re not within two or three inches a connection can’t be established.

Or so the prevailing theory goes. A few years back I found out that a properly calibrated magnetic field can be used to extend your reach. With a thought I flipped on the electromagnetic coils I was wearing strapped to my forearms, underneath my clothing, and suddenly I could feel the electronic circuits in the doorframe tingling. It took only a light push to trigger the solenoid that retracted the lock and as easily as that, I was through the door

Once I was through the door and into the building I made my way through the second floor breezeways that connected all the science and engineering buildings until I found the one I wanted. Then I ducked into a restroom and stripped off the coveralls. Underneath I wore my recently completed vest over a white button-up shirt and a pair of dress slacks. I smoothed the silk fabric that covered the delicate electronics beneath, enjoying the feel of it for just a moment.

In my business, style is just as important as power and intelligence. I like to think that I’m a master of all three.

I pulled a clip-on tie out of a pocket and slipped it into place. While style is important, I feel that wearing something that can strangle you or break your neck is taking things too far. Once again equipped to look like someone who might belong, either as an instructor or some sort of outside authority, I set out down the halls until I found the place I wanted.

Grad students are the middle management of the university system. Overworked by their employer/professors and usually loathed by the students whose education they wind up primarily responsible for, it’s really something of a miracle that any of them ever stick around to finishtheir degree. Worse, in addition to all the work and emotional punishment they have to stand up to, they also have to come up with a project of some sort to prove their ability in their field of study.

To do that they’re given, among other things, a lab in which to do their work. At least, if they’re working in the physical sciences.

I was about to visit one such lab. The one uncertain element in my plan, the one factor I couldn’t do anything to mitigate, was the tendency for grad students to work late at night. This was as much because they were busy with other things during they day than any real nocturnal leanings on their part.

So I wasn’t surprised to see a light on under the door of the lab. Disappointed, yes, since this made my life more difficult, but not surprised. Overriding the electronic lock was out of the question right now. That would attract attention and suspicion, which I didn’t want. So I moved on to Plan B.

I knocked.

Professional lawlessness requires a fair amount of reckless behavior along with everything else.

There was no answer after five seconds, so I knocked again, striking an impatient pose and tapping one foot on the floor. A moment later the door swung open and a young man of Indian descent opened the door. “Can I help you?” He asked.

I gave a deliberately brittle smile and said, “I hope so,” slipping a business card between the fingers of my right hand and holding it out to him. “I’m Daniel Hoffman, the investor that Doctor Porter mentioned. I know I’m here much later than I said I’d be, but there as a mix-up at the airport and my flight got here late. You know how it goes.”

“Not really,” the young man replied. “I’m sorry, but Doctor Porter didn’t mention any investor to me. Maybe tomorrow you can-”

“Well, he’s busy man, he probably forgot” I said, waving a hand dismissively. “But you are Mr. Trenton Nayar, aren’t you? Working on the portable hydroelectric project?”

After a moment’s hesitation he said, “Yes, that’s me.”

“Well, Mr. Nayar, I have a business proposition for you and, if everything goes well, it might even have all your student loans paid for by the time you’re finished with your doctoral thesis.” I pushed the business card a little farther forward and favored him with a slightly more honest smile. That’s the real trick to seeming honest, don’t start off seeming like you’re trying to win them over. I knew I still looked like a tired corporate shark, but that was just it. The less he thought of me as a thief the better off I was.

Hesitantly, Nayar took the card and looked it over. The dossier that Hangman had sent hadn’t included much about him or Dr. Porter other than their names and the fact that they were working on a high efficiency miniaturized hydroelectric power generator. I wasn’t sure if Trenton or his professor had even been looking for an investor in his project. It seemed unlikely, but the strange thing is, the more unlikely a lie is, the more believable it becomes.

“What exactly is your business proposition?” Trenton asked, stepping aside and finally letting me into the lab. There was the usual mess of computer equipment and parts scattered over a number of tables, and schematics pinned to the whiteboard on the lefthand wall.

I strolled over to the blueprints and studied them as I spoke. “It’s really a very simple thing. You’re working on a portable improvised dam and generator that can create power with less headwater and more output than anything on the market.”

There was a blueprint there showing a simple cofferdam made of high strength rubber and metal anchoring points with a hydro turbine at the center. It was really quite elegant. “This creates what, two kilowatt/hours at peak performance?”

“Four and a half,” Trenton said. The answer had a touch of pride in it, and well it should. In addition to being privately owned by people who weren’t likely to have the resources to track me down themselves, this was one of the most efficient generators around. Another reason to want it for myself.

“So you have a portable generator that produces two to four times what similar items on the market are currently capable of, and with your portable cofferdam, in more places.” I shoved my right hand in my pocket and turned to face him. “Why are you surprised that someone would want in on that kind of technology? Decentralized power generation is the way of the future, with all the regulation making building large commercial plants so much more difficult, systems like this are the first step to building that infrastructure.”

“You sound like you know a lot about power plants,” Trenton said.

“That, and governmental interference,” I replied with a smile. I waved my free hand at his prototype on the table, getting a better grip on the device in my pocket while he was following it. “Is there any chance its ready for a field demonstration?”

“We’ve run a few sandbox tests,” Trenton said, his pride now clear. “It’s held up fine under them, so I don’t see why not.”

I pulled my right hand out of my pocket, carefully palming the metal disk there as I held it out to Trenton. “Thank you, that would be excellent.”

The poor sap took my hand with a grin that vanished a moment later as his body went rigid. A carefully calibrated blast of electricity coursed out of the capacitors in my vest and fried his nerves with all the strength of a police grade taser. It’s a little bit harder hitting than a joy buzzer, but some tricks never get old no matter how you switch them up. I cut the current and let go of his hand as he slumped to the floor, saying, “But it won’t be necessary.”

The entire generator rig only weighed about eighty pounds, but it was awkwardly shaped. Worse, my right hand wouldn’t stop shaking from the current I’d exposed it to. I had expected my talent to provide me with a little more protection from the electricity than I’d gotten. The taser delivery mechanism looked like it was going to need a little more work.

I decided that the best thing to do with it would be to throw the whole thing in the lab’s trash can, which had been thoughtfully provided with wheels. Ten minutes later I was out on the building’s loading dock, where my van was waiting for me.

The back door popped open and a middle aged African-American man who I call Heavy Water leaned out to help me load the turbine and cofferdam into the back. Then we scrambled up to the front seats and buckled in. My hands still weren’t steady so I took the passenger seat reluctantly.

“Where to?” Heavy asked as he pulled out of the parking lot. “Home?”

I leaned my head back in my seat, thinking about it for a moment. Then I sighed and shook my head. “Not just yet. There’s something I need to do first. It’s going to be tricky, though, so I’ll understand your wanting to sit it out.”

“Never happen.” He shook his head. “I let you be the boss because I think you got enough sense to get us what we need without causing us trouble, don’t I?”

“Well, this is a uniquely difficult chore, even for me.”

“Yeah?” Heavy glanced away from the road long enough to give me a curious glance. “What are you planning to do?”

I smiled. “I plan to talk to Double Helix…”

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Heat Wave: Feed the Flames

Posted by natechen on

Helix

To most people it probably seems strange that I could be relieved of duty one day and, not twenty four hours later, walk back into the office to take on a new position. It’s not really a surprise if you think about it, though. There are over four hundred living talents on record in the continental U.S., yet the Project employs only eighty-eight of them.

With those eighty-eight talents the Project must keep a vigilant eye out for criminals who are aided by talent, try to find new talents as they crop up and warn them to try and keep a low profile, and remain ever vigilant against the possibility that foreign powers will use talents as spies, or worse, soldiers. As you can imagine, we’re pretty busy. Unless we’ve done something that seriously threatens the public interest, Project Sumter can’t afford to remove us from duty for more than a week or so and that’s more like a slap on the wrist than a real disciplinary measure.

Sure, coming back in less than a day was unusual, but these are strange times even without Senator Dawson in the picture.

When I walked into the office the next day I didn’t head up to the floor where Sanders and the rest of our team usually meets. For one thing, I wasn’t really a part of his team anymore, which was both freeing and uncomfortable. I’ve worked with Sanders since I started with the Project, and there’s a certain amount of familiarity to him no matter how much I think he’s a shallow jerk. Also, if the Senator was involved in getting someone appointed to the Project I had no doubt he’d be there to log some face time with the “regular Joes” who worked with us talents and we don’t receive VIPs upstairs.

But most importantly, the phone call I got told me to go to one of the ground floor visitor’s meeting room.

If I hadn’t been sure that Brahms Dawson would come to see his pasty off on her first day of work before I got to the office all doubts would have been removed as soon as I stepped in the door. The ground floor reception area was crawling with people who had the unmistakable look of private security agents. To the man on the street telling the difference between a private security firm and a member of the FBI might seem challenging. After all, we both wear dark colored suits to work every day, unless we’re undercover, right?

Here’s the secret: Private security can afford nicer suits than we can.

Unlike the reception areas on the other floors, our ground floor entrance sees the occasional guest from the general public, and as such has things like chairs, potted plants and receptionists who know how to smile in order to make people feel more at ease. It’s a nice contrast to, say, Records, where there’s no seating and Cheryl will scowl at you until get out of her foyer and get back to work.

The only concession to the secure nature of the building in the public entrance is Shelob’s desk, where our unusual building security chief can usually be found. Except that morning Shelob wasn’t there, replaced with one of the many security suits that mobbed the area. I had to go right past him to get to the conference room and I hadn’t even gotten to the desk when he spoke up.

“Sir, you can’t go back there,” the suit said. He got up from the computer terminal he’s been sitting at. From where I was standing I could see that, regardless of whether this guy had booted Shelob during the Senator’s visit, they’d seen fit to leave to leave her feeds from the outside security cameras untouched, so at least they had some good sense.

I held up my ID, which should have been enough to get me inside this or any other building connected to the FBI or Project Sumter. “I’m cleared for this area.”

“Yes, sir, I can see that,” the bodyguard said. “But right now the main conference room is being used by Senator Dawson and Mr. Voorman, and the Senator does not want to be disturbed.”

Now all the conference rooms in our building are pretty much the same size, and I was tempted to point out that only the enormous ego of a US Senator could instantly transform one into the “main” conference room, but in the end I figured I was best served by letting it be. If Dawson and Voorman were hashing something out it was probably best that I leave well enough alone. Voorman may not be my favorite person to work with, but he’s better at making sure the Project and its Talents are looked after than anyone I know.

I shrugged and said, “Okay, if that’s the way he wants it. Does he know you’re watching that?”

The man started slightly and turned back to his computer in surprise, one of his camera feeds had changed to a documentary on the life and habits of wild donkeys. I left the guard to work out how that might have happened and walked back into the foyer. The one person who didn’t look like he belonged to a high class rent-a-cop service appeared to be in his late fifties, was dressed in a long sleeved shirt in spite of the heat, and sat on one of the benches with a briefcase and a cane by his side.

I walked over and sat down next to him. “How are you, Broadband?”

“Well enough, Helix.” Broadband’s face twiched, followed by the sound of muted cursing from the man at the desk. “Just here to file some reports with Cheryl.”

“What’s the hold up?”

“The elevator is currently undergoing a security check that would be compromised by the presence of unauthorized personnel.” Broadband grimaced and rubbed one knee. “I guess I’m stuck here until they free it up.”

I grunted. “If the Senator’s still on the ground floor, what do they care about the elevator for?”

Another twitch of the muscles on Broadband’s face. “I don’t know, son. I don’t know.”

“Funny,” I said. “I met a man the other day who didn’t want to be my dad. Now you’re volunteering.”

Broadband laughed. “Takes all kinds, son. Let an old man talk, you might learn something. Why the other day, while I was in Cincinnati with the boys…”

He kept rambling and I let him. Harmless talk is one of the things that makes him so go at what he does, I’m told, and it never hurts to let people keep in practice. His face kept twitching, the senator’s guards kept cursing, and I just enjoyed the show.

After about ten minutes of that Voorman finally put in an appearance, walking out of the conference hallway while mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. He glanced around the room and spotted me then motioned me over. “They’re ready for you. I won’t ask you to be nice, but don’t deliberately try to piss off the Senator, please?”

I put my hand over my heart. “I promise not to tap the window, stick my fingers in the cage, feed it, or otherwise excite the politician.”

“That’s the idea,” Voorman said, giving me a light slap on the shoulder and headed towards the elevators without a backward glance. The suit started to get up to say something to Voorman but then I heard Broadband cough and the computer screen went crazy. I just shook my head and headed back to the conference room, if our counterintelligence specialist managed to slip Voorman past the security goons I was sure I’d get the play by play from Shelob later.

I had been expecting to be the first person on Herrera’s ops team to show up. After all, there hadn’t been anyone else out there with me, and getting places early is one of my specialties.

So I was surprised to find Pritchard Mosburger in the conference room when I got there. I looked around in surprise, wondering if perhaps I had the wrong room, then glanced back at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I was called here by Mr. Voorman,” Mosburger said. He hunched his shoulders defensively. “He said this would be a simple starting assignment. Apparently I’m up to field training already. It was a sudden thing, I’ve been here since six, filling out all the paperwork for HR. Then Mr. Voorman comes up and says am I ready for an assignment? So I said sure, and here I am.” Mosburger relaxed a little and offered a weak smile. “Two days on the job and I’m already a field analyst. Must be doing pretty good.”

“It depends on how you look at it,” I muttered, leaning on the back of one of the chairs. It seemed a safe guess now that Dawson and Voorman had been arguing about who our field analyst would be. Analysts fit for the field are almost as rare as talents, and in just as high demand. I was willing to bet the only other qualified person available was Mona Templeton. The senator knew her already; I was willing to bet he’d rather have a total rookie who didn’t like Voorman yet than an actual field ready agent who did.

“Where is the Senator?”

“Agents Mosburger and Herrera were waiting in the other conference room.” Senator Brahms Dawson walked in as he spoke, looking as immaculate as always. I took a minute to reckon it up. With his steel gray hair shellacked into a perfect side part that wouldn’t move in the wind, his tailored brown suit pressed to razor sharpness and his fit figure showing the signs of daily exercise, I estimated that, in order to get here early enough to argue about field analysts with Voorman he must have gotten up some time around three this morning. Momma taught me to be a stickler for punctuality, but even I don’t start getting ready that early.

“Taking a moment to make sure Agent Herrera didn’t want to back out?” I asked.

“Why not ask her yourself?” Senator Dawson favored me with a sardonic half smile as he stood by the chair at the head of the table. His question made me realize that he wasn’t alone. Tunnel vision is one of my biggest problems in tactical situations, and the Senator must qualify because I’m sure there’s no way I would have missed Agent Herrera otherwise.

She was standing a half step behind the Senator and let me just say, as an expert on the subject, that she was smoking hot. She had high cheekboness and a strong, sharp nose and she was tall. I’d guess she was about five-foot ten, although an inch or two of that might have been heels, I didn’t want to bend over and check, but more than her height or looks she had the kind of presence that attracted attention, part practiced poise, part natural charisma. I recognized that kind of thing from Sanders and, for that matter, the Senator.

In another ten years I suspected Dawson might not want to be in the same room with her. He’d be overshadowed, and that’s the kind of thing politicians can’t stand. “Special Agent Herrera.” I stepped away from the chair and held out my hand. “Special Agent Double Helix. No offense. This is a strange job and not everyone wants to be here.”

She favored me with what looked like a genuine smile and gave my hand a firm, friendly shake. No trembling, no jerking the hand back as soon as I let go. Surprisingly normal. “No offense taken, Double Helix. And please, call me Teresa. I knew what I was getting into when I volunteered for this position; I hope you’ll find I’m ready for it.”

I glanced at the two inch folder she was holding under her other arm. It looked a lot like she’s already had a chance to do a little reading on me, so maybe she did have some idea what she was in for. “Let’s hope you’re up for the challenge, then. And if we’re being informal, you can call me Helix like everyone else. Less of a mouthful.” I looked around at the room, then back at Senator Dawson. “All we’re missing is the tactical team. Who do we have? More handpicked rookies?”

“Actually,” Herrera said, “I’ve asked that your previous tactical support team be transferred over with you. I’d hate to have you be the only experienced agent on the team, and I’m told your talent can be difficult to work with.”

“‘Doesn’t play well with others’ often appeared on my report cards,” I said dryly. However, I was also relieved. It had taken Jack and the others a while to get used to some of the difficulties heat sinking can pose, I hadn’t really been looking forward to the idea of breaking in a new team. “Are they coming?”

“Agent Sanders apparently told them they could come in a bit late today” Dawson said, a hint of disappointment tingeing the statement, as if he’d been looking forward to seeing a bunch of guys who’s major hobby was adjusting gunsights. “Apparently most of them were here late last night, in some sort of strategy meeting.”

I shrugged. “Then I assume this is all of us?”

“Correct, Helix,” Herrera said, stepping away from the table and closing the door to the meeting room. To my surprise, Senator Dawson slipped into a chair as Herrera moved to the head of the table. I had assumed that the Senator would take the lead in this meeting.

Agent Herrera handed me a normal looking manila folder marked with Open Circuit’s talent ID number. I glanced up at her as she handed a thicker folder, probably a copy of Circuit’s file on top of whatever I got, to Mosburger and cleared my throat. Herrera looked back at me and said, “Yes?”

“We’re going after Open Circuit?”

She gave me a surprised look, perhaps because I’d recognized the ID number without having to look it up, but gamely said, “That’s right.”

“Huh.” I glanced down at the folder again and felt a powerful urge to incinerate it. Unfortunately, I had a feeling that might be misunderstood in the present company. I folded my arms firmly across my chest in an attempt to suppress that urge, the leaned back in my chair to give Herrera a second, closer examination.

She was still well put together, no getting around that. But now that I was paying more attention, I realized that she also looked fairly young, maybe even a few years younger than me. I put her somewhere around twenty five, tops. Young, and possibly naive. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but as a rule of thumb Project Sumter does not encourage its talents to develop any kind of antagonistic relationship with persons of interest.”

Mosburger paused his perusal of the folder to stare at me. “What’s that?”

“I believe Helix is trying to say that he doesn’t have an archrival, no matter how much it seems like it,” the Senator said with a wry smile. “But he has the most experience working against Open Circuit, which is one of the reasons he’s on this team.”

I wasn’t sure if he was saying it was one of the reasons Voorman had pushed for me to be on this team, or if he’d decided my presence was an acceptable risk to whatever Herrera’s goals were because of it. I just shrugged. “I want to make sure we’re not struggling under the unfortunate stereotypes perpetuated by comic books and movies. Project Sumter does not like emotions interfering with its operations.”

Herrera leaned forward slightly, looking a touch worried. “And yours could?”

“There was an operation a while back.” I felt my face twisting into an uncomfortable grimace and tried to squash it. “It was for the CIA, so I can’t talk about it unless you’re cleared for that.” Herrera shook her head. “But it’s definitely compromised my emotional distance. I’d prefer not to run the risk of another face to face encounter.”

“What kind of risk?” Mosburger asked. “I heard a little bit more about your talent yesterday, and this guy,” he waved at Circuit’s file, “doesn’t sound nearly as dangerous as you.”

“I’m not worried about him hurting me,” I said. I shoved my way up out of the chair and stood. “But last time I came pretty close to roasting him. I’d rather not have a repeat performance.”

“But you have no problem destroying property at random,” Dawson said dryly.

“Hey, that helicopter had it coming,” I said, trying to lighten things up.

“That helicopter was government property,” the Senator replied.

“Which had its control systems overridden by Circuit, making it a material threat to the surrounding area.” I shrugged. “Sure, melting it cost money but not as much as letting a fully equipped Apache off the reservation would.”

“Helix does have a history of collateral damage,” Herrera said, holding out his hands to calm us down. “But he’s almost caught Circuit twice, and his talents do offer him certain strategic advantages against Circuit’s. Hopefully that will offset the risks involved in his working on this case. Particularly because this time we’re fairly certain that we already know where to find Circuit.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Do we, now?”

“We’re going to be acting on some information the HSA acquired recently.” Herrera opened her own folder and set it on the table in front of her. “You’ll see that we’ve traced several strange transactions through a series of shell companies to this location in the city.”

Mosburger was looking at his own folder again. “Concrete and steel, nothing special there. Lightning rods and outboard motors. That is strange. Wireless routers and fishing tackle?” He glanced up. “What kind of places sells both those things?”

“It was an Amazon.com order that we intercepted through other means,” Herrera said, handing out a photograph of an inconspicuous looking warehouse. “All these materials, and a few other things, have wound up here in the last two weeks. We’re fairly certain, based on the kinds of materials purchased, the location and the kind of financial shell games used to get them there, that this is Circuit’s work.”

An inconspicuous warehouse on the east side of the city is harder to find than many people think. Which is to say, they’re rare, which actually makes them stand out more. I wasn’t actually sure why Circuit would have chosen such a place for storage, and thinking about it too much sounded like one of those “but if he knows we know then…” headaches waiting to happen. So instead I said, “He won’t be there.”

Herrera’s confident smile slipped just a bit. I expected to see resentment or maybe outright anger at being contradicted behind it. She struck me as an ambitious career woman, maybe someone planning to piggyback on the Senator’s political standing. I figured raining on her parade might crack her pleasant exterior and show what was within, and I was right.

I just hadn’t been expecting to see uncertainty under all that poise. I knew that look. It reminded me of someone who had to do a presentation in Public Speaking 101 and got asked the one question they didn’t have an answer for. It was one of the reasons my highest educational letters are GED.

“It’s not a bad idea, I just don’t want you to get your hopes up,” I said quickly. “Circuit’s downright uncanny at dodging things. There are plenty of signs that he leads a large organization, but we’ve never caught any of them in a raid. In fact, I think we’ve only caught two of them in all, and that was by accident. Putting all this together is impressive, don’t get me wrong, but it could just be something meant to distract us. That kind of wheels in wheels is his thing.”

Herrera nodded, her moment of uncertainty gone. “You’re right. But our records show that his latest shipment of goods hasn’t actually arrived yet. He clearly thought this location was secure as recently as a week ago. Even if he has heard about this already hopefully he won’t have had time to get away clean. And if it’s just a decoy, at least we’ll know that he’s getting desperate. I can’t think of any other reason for such an elaborate ruse. But I do appreciate your input, as the Senator said, it’s one of the reasons I asked for you on this team.”

She had asked for me. Yet another strange thing to add to the growing list of oddities in Agent Herrera’s stay here at the Project. “Well,” I said, “I guess I should also mention that he’s very fond of booby traps…”

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Heat Wave: Stirring the Fire

Posted by natechen on

Helix

I let myself into my apartment and glanced around before turning back to grab my end of the couch. “For a secret government organization, you lot are really lousy at skulking. Maybe you should have your people work on that, Gramm.”

“Counting yourself in that are you, Helix?” Ed Gramm came over and held the door open as Jack and I finished getting the furniture into the big main room, then closed it as we parked the couch in a free corner.

“Hey, I’m just a mild mannered civilian, have been for hours.” I said, dusting my hands off and fishing out my wallet. “My name is Benjamin Dornier.”

“It’s more convincing if you don’t have to check your driver’s license to remember your name, buddy,” Jack said, wiping his face on his shirt as he headed towards the bathroom. “And I don’t care if there are other people here already; I’m borrowing your shower.”

“Probably best you don’t smell like old gym socks when we get started.” Ed tossed me a pale pink bow. I gave him a skeptical look and he pointed at the couch. “Put it on. I don’t think you’re planning on wrapping it but it ought to have something on it, shouldn’t it?”

I sighed and stuck the bow on the couch. “Why did I invite you to this anyway?”

“Because I was Mona’s first boss and she still likes me even though that weasel Voorman stole her for his department?”

“Yeah, that kind of talk really makes me feel better about you being here.” I headed towards the kitchen to check on things in there, but as I left I called over my shoulder, “Just remember who’s party this is and try to keep a lid on things, okay?”

Two hours later there was a knock at the door and I went to get it, switching the lights off as I went. Behind me, a dozen or so people scurried away to hiding places, muttering and snickering as they tried to squirrel themselves away in my admittedly tiny living room. I tried not to sigh. Skulking isn’t my specialty, but I like to see things done well, and this didn’t really qualify.

I opened the door to reveal Darryl and Mona Templeton, who I swept in with one hand while closing the door with the other. “Come on it,” I said. “This your first time in this place? I change apartments so regularly it’s hard to keep track of which ones you’ve seen.”

“I don’t think we’ve been here before,” Darryl said.

Mona patted him on the arm, which I recognized as a shushing gesture. “Helix, are you sure you’re up for company? You just got laid off today. We can come back some other time.”

“I’m fine, Mona,” I said, gently guiding them away from the door. “It’s just a temporary thing, and it’s not like this is the first time. Besides, you only have one birthday a year.”

Jack hit the lights and people came tumbling out of hiding calling, “Surprise!”

“And,” I added, “it would kind of ruin the party if you ducked out now.”

Mona shook her head. “A surprise party. How did you guys manage to plan a surprise party without me figuring that out?”

“Simple. Ed and I are just as smart as you, and we had Jack and Helix to help us make it happen.“ Darryl kissed his wife on the cheek and led her over to her new sofa.

From that point, things got to be something of a blur. I like to plan things but I don’t like crowds so much, so while putting together the party with Darryl had been fun, this part was less so. On top of that, most of the people there were current or former members of Ed’s analyst team, which Mona had belonged to before transferring to field work. I didn’t know them that well. Most of the people from my team had been kept at the office with Sanders. I was pretty sure Jack hadn’t been called in only because Sanders conveniently ‘forgot’ he was on vacation today.

Jack and I focused on keeping the drinks and food flowing, which didn’t really keep us that busy, and I generally tried my best to play a good host. At least we had managed to keep Mona from baking her own cake this year, which I considered to be a victory in and of itself. I was just about to go and get a new bottle of wine and perhaps propose a toast when I noticed the body heat of someone coming up the hallway.

Normally I wouldn’t have paid any attention to it, because it is, after all, an apartment building and people come and go all the time. But this person stopped outside my door and just waited there. No knock, no buzzer, no shouting over the noise of the party, which he could certainly hear, no phone call asking me to let him in. I frowned and caught Jack’s eye, nodded towards the door and slipped through the crowd in the living room to the door.

A glance through the peephole revealed that my mystery guest was Bob Sanders. I frowned. If he was coming to join the party after all he would have knocked. So he probably didn’t want anyone to know he was here. I quickly glanced around the living room.

Ed Gramm had his back to the door, talking to Mona. He’d behaved himself so far that night, not trying to talk Mona into rejoining his team or some such foolishness, but he probably wouldn’t miss a chance to call Sanders out on being away from the office, either. I flipped Jack a quick hand signal that meant I was going to scout ahead and then slipped into the hall.

Sanders was carrying a small bouquet of flowers, a bottle of wine and a card. In contrast to his cheerful looking packages, the man looked strained and tired. I raised an eyebrow. “Working up the nerve to come in?”

He snorted, as if that was a preposterous idea. Which, admittedly, it was. “Just wanted to avoid complications.”

“You’re not staying.” I wasn’t asking, that much was pretty obvious.

“I need to be back at the office in half an hour,” he said. “And besides, I’m not supposed to tell you what I’m about to tell you.”

“Ooh, this is one of those conversations.” I nodded. “And Mona’s party is a convenient excuse.”

Sanders sighed and motioned down the hall, where there was a small corner lounge. “Let’s get out of the hallway.”

I nodded and we walked down to the chairs there. Sanders stopped long enough to set down his gifts on the table and then joined me by the window. He sat in a chair, I leaned against the corner. We both pointed ourselves outwards, facing the two entrances, so we could watch for anyone approaching. As a result, we could only glance at each other out of the corner of the eye but at least no one could sneak up on us.

“I’m sorry about the party,” Sanders said. “I’ll apologize to Mona tomorrow.”

“Fair enough,” I said with a shrug. “We’ve all been where you are before. I’m just not following why you came after you said you couldn’t.”

“Voorman needed an excuse to for one of us to talk to you. Tonight.” Sanders shrugged. “No one but you and Darryl actually knew I said I wouldn’t come, so he figured he’d send me with his gift.” Sanders motioned to the bottle of wine.

I nodded. “Makes sense. He and Gramm can’t stand each other, so they wouldn’t be at the same party. Sending a runner is Voorman’s style.”

“Right. So here I am, officially to give Mona her birthday present, unofficially to tell you to answer your phone tomorrow morning.” Sanders smirked slightly.

“I always answer my phone, even when it’s two thirty in the morning,” I said in confusion. “It’s part of the job. Why would I not answer my phone tomorrow morning?”

“Oh, you’d answer the phone but you wouldn’t answer it the right way,” Sanders said, his smirk growing. “You see, tomorrow you’re going to be asked if you’ll come into the office for reassignment.”

“Sanders, I just got officially relieved of duty…” I paused to check my watch. “Six and a half hours ago. The Project doesn’t just pull someone off duty so they can call them back less than twenty four hours later.”

He stopped smiling. “They do when he’s one of only eighty eight talents in the whole country certified for law enforcement work.”

“Right.” I grunted in disgust. “Like they haven’t already thought about that.”

“This is what I mean when I say you wouldn’t answer right,” Sanders said morosely. “Knowing you, you’d just tell them to take a flying leap and hang up.”

“Oh, I could be more inventive than that.”

“And I wouldn’t blame you,” Sanders said, abandoning his watch on the hallway to level a stern look at me. I humored him and met it. “But there’s more to my job than just keeping you happy.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Is that actually a criteria of doing your job?”

“More than you know.”

I shook my head with mock seriousness. “Well, Sanders, I’ve gotta tell you, you’re doing lousy.”

He ignored my jibe. “The Project is taking on someone from HSA for overseer training.” I nodded. While I work for the FBI most of the time, I’ve also worked with the TSA and the CIA. Project Sumter as a whole is available to all the many abbreviations of the federal government but we don’t actually belong to any of them.

Instead, our team leaders are drawn from the ranks of various agencies, receive basic training and work a year or two in the Project then return to wherever they came from, so when we’re called in there will be someone who knows the score to work with us. I wasn’t surprised to hear that we had someone from the HSA coming in to be a team lead. It’s a good career move for them, and it keeps the Project well supplied with fresh blood from which we draw a much smaller core of experienced, full time oversight agents.

But what Sanders said next did get me to sit up and pay attention. “Special Agent Herrera is being sponsored by Senator Brahms Dawson.”

“Oh.” I stared off down my hallway, not really watching it anymore. That had a lot of implications. “So he’s a friend of our favorite secret Senate committee leader, is he?”

“She is,” Sanders said, both confirming and correcting at once. “She’s from Utah, so she’s not from Dawson’s state but they seem to have known each other for a while. He’s had a hand in her education and helped her join the HSA and he’s been going to great lengths to make sure she gets a chance to work with us. If we can’t get a team assembled soon she could be pulled by the HSA for other duties.”

“And whoever is up next may not be quite so friendly with the Senator,” I said, nodding in understanding.

“Oh, it’s better than that,” Sanders said with a grin. “The next person in line for a team leadership position, in line for a permanent oversight position in fact, just turned thirty six today.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Mona’s bucking for her own team?”

“Has been for quite a while.” Sanders laced his fingers behind his head, leaning back in his chair. “In fact, keeping her out of an oversight position has been Senator Dawson’s pet hobby for the past five months. Voorman got her the job by agreeing to let Herrera go first.”

“On a temporary basis, of course.”

“Of course.”

“So,” I said slowly, feeling my eyes narrow. “Why does the Senator want this woman in the Project so badly he’d be willing to hand his nemesis such a big concession?”

“That’s the real question, isn’t it?” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “We really don’t know much about Herrera other than that she’s 25, female and Hispanic.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Nothing at all? Aren’t we on permanent liaison with the FBI?”

“Herrera’s juvenile records were sealed when she turned eighteen,” Sanders said. He spread his hands. “The FBI is wary of pushing too hard to get them, particularly when it’s people from the Circus who are asking for them.”

Whenever Sanders calls the Project by the FBI’s pet name it means that he’s already thrown all of his considerable talents of persuasion into getting what he wants from them and still come up blank. His favorite way of showing frustration is making others look unreasonable.

Still, this time I felt like siding with the FBI. Sometimes records are sealed with good reason. “What do we know about her after she turned eighteen?”

“Just that she got into UC Berkley where she majored in social work.”

“And managed to attract the attention of a certain Senator from Wisconsin?” I asked.

“Essentially,” Sanders said. “She attended a rally or something there; we’re kind of fuzzy on the details. But she’s known the Senator for the last six years and it looks like he’s been grooming her for this job.”

“So what kind of viper is he looking to slip into our midst?” I mused. And maybe I was jumping to conclusions about Agent Herrera, but I’m a firm believer in the idea that you can tell a lot about a person by the company they keep and my opinion of the Senator was pretty low. Nothing personal, but he had once suggested registering and tracking all known talents in the States and that’s something we’re all a little touchy about.

“We don’t know,” Sanders said. “But Voorman is desperate to find out and contain the damage. That’s why, when the Project calls you and tells you they’ve changed their mind and want to put you back on duty, you’re going to say yes.”

I rubbed the bridge of my nose for a moment, fighting a headache that had been growing back there all evening. “So I can either forgo a well earned vacation to babysit a rookie field overseer, or let Brahms Dawson finally get whatever hold over talents he’s been looking for since he joined the Senate Oversight Committee twelve years ago. Is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s about what it amounts to.”

I spend a moment saying goodbye to the idea of a blissful week in my workshop, then looked up at Sanders and said, “All right. I’ll be there.”

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Heat Wave: Burnt Fingers

Posted by natechen on

Helix

Bureaucracy at work: In order for Project Sumter to kick me out of the offices for the next week, I have to come into the office and sign paperwork.

Now if I was a cop, yeah, maybe they’d just take my gun and my badge and send me home for a little while, paperwork to be filed by others. The problem is, I have a talent that lets me melt through steel and concrete, and I can’t be sent to take some time off without the powers that be giving me a Very Clear Warning about behaving myself.

So after going home, stripping out of clothes reeking of smoke, hitting the shower and then getting an unrestful night’s sleep I got up the next morning and went right back to the local offices of Project Sumter. Sanders was in his office with the paperwork in hand and notary witnesses at his side and had me out again in under five minutes. But not before extracting a solemn promise from me that I would take it easy for a while.

Always a kidder, that one.

I asked him if he had plans that night but, unfortunately for him, Voorman had pulled the entire active team on the Firestarter case in for an all-nighter. It’s that kind of thing that makes people around here wonder if getting periodically relieved of duty isn’t part of some secret plan of mine to get out of work.

Technically speaking, once I was relieved of duty I was supposed to be restricted from accessing all files and offices to ensure I wasn’t trying to follow up any of the Project’s open cases on my own. Fortunately, I’m not terminally stupid or suicidal. Chasing talents is a team sport and trying it on your own is a one way ticket to a shallow grave. Anyone who’s worked here for more than a month knows better than to try it.

So Sanders didn’t have someone escort me out, nor did anyone really seem anxious to force me to leave once I had signed on the dotted line. Under normal circumstances I would have been itching to leave anyway, as my workshop was calling to me, but as I left Sanders’ office I passed Mona on her way in, so I took the opportunity to slip down the stairs to Analysis and ducked in.

To my surprise the first thing I saw as I wove through the ranks of empty desks was Pritchard Mosburger, with a man I didn’t recognize, being ushered into one of the conference rooms. Mona certainly hadn’t wasted any time getting him sworn in, but that wasn’t really surprising. There’s a lot of turnover in Analysis. It has something to do with shoving a couple dozen highly paranoid, barely stable geniuses into a small room and telling them to deal with each other while trying to track down people with the kind of talents that make you want to dig a hole to hide in and pull it in after.

Believe me, I know most of our getmen and, while someone who puts together conspiracy theories for fun might sound far out to your man on the street, I was pretty sure that Mosburger was actually on the saner side of our Analysis team. But he wasn’t the sanest. That particular honor belonged to the man who I’d come to see.

Darryl Templeton, Mona’s husband, was head of the Analysis department and quite possibly the sanest man I know. His office was on the far side of the common room and the door was conveniently standing open. I made my way towards it, keeping an eye out for roving getmen as I did so. It’s not that I dislike our analysts; it’s just that the female ones love to come and ask me questions about some of my coworkers. Questions I generally prefer to avoid.

A huge part of my career at the Project has been spent doing my best to not understand Bob Sanders. I really have no idea why he doesn’t seem to want to hang on to a girlfriend for more than a few weeks and I wouldn’t want to explain it to an upset woman if I did.

Fortunately the floor was pretty empty at the moment, I didn’t see anyone besides a couple of guys I vaguely recognized sorting through newspapers from the southern part of the state, so I made it to Darryl’s office without incident. Unfortunately, Darryl wasn’t at his desk when I glanced in. That’s not unusual, half of Darryl’s job involves making sure files get to people and Project Sumter has the most draconian network security policy I’ve ever heard of in a government institution. We don’t have one.

A network, that is.

Well, that’s not entirely true. We have computers and a local rig set up here in the office, but its physically separate from the outside and there’s no way to have any electronic device in the building without a cellular data plan contact the outside. Obviously, it’s against the rules to have such a cellular device in contact with the LAN. As a result, all files are sent from one office to another in hard copy. Somehow, this is supposed to make them safer.

This rather bizarre policy is the result of a couple of major hacking attacks three years ago that resulted in a lot of our research files getting stolen. There’s a lot of information on talents out there in the wild and the only reason we can think of that it hasn’t wound up in the hands of the media is that whoever stole it was a talented individual with a vested interest in keeping it secret. My money is on a talent we call Open Circuit, who’s made quite a name for himself in cyber warfare in the last decade or so, but he’s not the only one who could pull that kind of thing off.

The upshot of all that is a lot of highly classified files enter the building from other parts of the Project and only three people are actually cleared to receive them. One is Voorman, who never actually does it. One is the non-existent head of our Records department. Our last one quit months ago and was never replaced. That leaves Darryl, who, as head of Analysis, is pretty much authorized to collect and share anything with anyone in the office he thinks worthy.

Of course, he also has to sign for all outgoing files, so some days he can spend as much time in the mail room as he does in his office. That was a little disappointing, since I’d hoped to talk to him quickly and get out to my workshop with a minimum of time lost. Still, there was nothing to do but wait, so I settled into one the chairs in front of his desk, propped my feet up on its immaculate surface and tried to grab some shuteye.

Apparently I succeeded because I woke up when someone dropped a large stack of paperwork onto my stomach. I sat up with a grunt. “If you’re going to be hogging space at my desk you can at least earn your keep.” Darryl slid into his own chair and plopped an even larger stack of envelopes and a single cardboard box onto one corner of his desk. “Speaking of which, why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be suspended without pay, or something?”

“That’s exactly what I am,” I replied, taking the pile of paper and dropping it next to the box. “Which means I can’t look at any of that on pain of pain. Sorry.”

Darryl did his best to draw himself up to an imposing height and glare down at me. Since Darryl’s only five inches taller than me, just like all the other average American males, and kind of skinny to boot, it didn’t really work that well. I’m used to it. Still, I suddenly felt bad giving him a hard time.

When I joined the Project eight years ago Darryl had been my field analyst, the job his wife has now. He’d moved into the offices after a bad car wreck a few years after. That had aged him some, but these days it seemed like he had more gray hair in his beard every time we bumped into each other. Meeting his stare, I saw more wrinkles around his eyes than I ever remembered there being.

I held up my hands in front of my chest. “All right, I’ll be going. I just wanted to make sure you and Mona were still coming over tonight.”

Darryl’s expression softened somewhat. “Are you sure you’re up to it? You had a rough day yesterday.”

“Hey, Mona was out there too.” I waved him off. “If she feels like she can make it I’m good too.”

“Mona didn’t get relieved of duty today,” Darryl said earnestly.

“This is nothing new, Darryl. I swear they do it to me at least once a year. It’s like a habit or something. You know it; you sat through it once or twice.” I leaned over the desk and lowered my voice, to make sure he was listening. “I’m fine, and if you try and back out on me I’ll prove it by sneaking in here and melting your desk into a puddle.”

A smile twitched at the corner of Darryl’s mouth before he could suppress it. “Well, at least I know you’re feeling fine. I guess we’ll be there.”

“Glad we got that straightened out.” Darryl and I turned to find Jack leaning against the doorframe. He turned his attention from Darryl to me. “If Sanders finds out you’re still here he’ll have a cow.”

“Why’s that?” I asked. “He’s not a big stickler for the rules.”

“Because he’ll have to file an addendum to your suspension paperwork showing that you were somewhere you weren’t supposed to be when you weren’t supposed to be there.”

“That doesn’t even sound like it makes sense,” I said.

“It probably doesn’t,” Jack said with a shrug. “But it’s what he’d have to do. And you know how much Cheryl hates dealing with addendums.”

I brightened a bit. Watching Sanders go at it with the day shift manager from Records was always fun. “Maybe I should go down to the cafeteria and grab something to eat before we-”

“Come on, partner,” Jack said, grabbing me by one arm and hauling me out of the chair. “It’s time to go.”

“See you tonight, Darryl,” I said, and let myself be dragged out of his office.

“Don’t work too hard,” Darryl called as I left. It sounded like a good idea at the time.

An hour or so later Jack and I were in the bed of his truck, parked outside a U-Store It garage in the process of tying down a sofa. It was another hot afternoon and Jack had managed to keep a steady stream of grumbling about it going pretty much ever since he stepped out of the cab. Unfortunately, tying down a hardwood framed sofa in such a way that its finish doesn’t get scratched isn’t simple or fast, and I wasn’t about to let this beauty get ruined for a moment’s carelessness.

I was in the process of fitting the second to last set of bungee cables and rubber pads into place when we heard a series of muffled crashes and bangs from the garage a couple of units down the way. I popped up out of the truck’s bed like a groundhog looking for its shadow, hands braced on the side, and looked around. It was part classic rubbernecking instinct and part well honed desire to find trouble and sort it out, and it was the kind of urge that drove me to be a civil servant in the first place.

But I’ll admit that the real reason I hopped down from that truck and went to see what was going on was a feeling of general laziness. I’ve never been one of those people who deals well with having time on their hands. I like to be doing things and I like to be at the center of the action. Playing the moving man just didn’t quite cut it.

I heard Jack jump down from the truck behind me as I made my way over to the garage the noises came from. There was a large U-Haul parked out front, the kind of thing you might use to move a family of three from one side of the city to the other, but there was no sign of anyone in or around it, no one outside the garage at all.

I peered around the side of the truck and called, “Hey, is everything all right in there? We heard something falling.”

Before I had finished talking a man in a suit jacket backed out of the garage with a metal floor lamp in his hands. He was trying not to bang the light fixture on the top of the doorframe while still getting the bottom over the drift of boxes that blocked half the entrance. With his back mostly to us and his head pointed down, I didn’t recognize him until he spoke.

“I’m all right, though I’m not sure all these boxes are.” He said, his attention still fixed on the mess on the floor.

Now I’m not an expert with voices, in fact I’m as likely to forget one as remember it, but I’d only met the man yesterday and he’d struck me as a bit strange even then. I raised my eyebrows and said, “Reverend Rodriguez. I gotta say, you keep turning up in places I wouldn’t exactly expect to find a man of the cloth.”

Rodriguez set down the lamp as soon as it was clear of the garage door and turned around, looking just as surprised to see me as I was him. “Well, well, the FBI,” he said. “Twice in two days. Is this a coincidence, or is there some problem I need to know about?”

“No problems today, Rev,” Jack said, “we’re off duty.” He waved one hand to encompass the storage facility. “Looks like we just store our junk in the same place.”

I glanced into the U-Haul, which looked to be about half full of furniture and other household goods, then into the garage, which contained a lot more of the same, and said, “Wow. You do pretty good for a church man, Reverend.”

Rodriguez chuckled and said, “Not mine, actually. It’s the church’s, some of our members donate furniture as they buy or inherit or just find new things, and we keep it here against unexpected need in the community.”

I considered the floor lamp standing next to him and the boxes near his feet, one of which apparently held a toaster. “This is for the people who lost things in the fire.”

“Exactly. A few of the deacons put together a list of pressing needs and worked out what we could do to help.” He gestured to the U-Haul and shrugged. “It won’t heal the emotional hurt that comes from this kind of disaster, but it is a step in the right direction.”

Jack rubbed the back of his neck for a moment as he considered what we were looking at and then said, “You know, Reverend, a lot of those people probably had renter’s insurance to pay for things like this.”

“That can take weeks or months to come through, though,” the other man said, turning and hefting the lamp again and moving it into the truck. “And it brings all the comfort and reassurance of bureaucracy with it, which is to say none at all. Besides, God’s people are not called to let other people deal with it when we’re perfectly able to help on our own.”

I shrugged. “Nothing wrong with that, I guess. Where are your other people? We didn’t see anyone else here.”

“Just me right now, I’m afraid,” Rodriguez said. “Some of the deacons were planning to come once they got off work, but I didn’t see any reason to wait for them before starting.”

Jack snorted. “I can respect that, Reverend, but it looks like you’re fixing to hurt yourself. Do you need a hand?”

“Well, it couldn’t hurt…” Rodriguez looked the two of us over. In traditional fashion one of us, namely Jack, was big and burly and the other was small and scrawny. But if he had any concerns over my ability to pull my weight he kept them to himself. “But if you’re going to help you have to settle for calling me Pastor Rodriguez, or just Manuel, like my friends do. There’s only one man worthy of reverence and sadly, it’s not me.”

I exchanged a glance and a shrug with Jack. If the pastor wanted to be nitpicky about things like that, well, that was kind of his job, I guess. So we wound up spending the next two and a half hours helping Pastor Rodriguez fill his U-Haul with random household objects then restack everything that had been moved or knocked out of place in the process.

By the time we were done there were about half a dozen other folks there who were introduced to me as deacons from Rodriguez’s church. I shook hands with all of them, did my best to remember their names, and then went back with Jack to finish tying down the sofa. We piled into the truck’s cab in a much better mood than we had been before and made it back to my apartment without incident.

We hauled the couch up the back door and into the freight elevator, stopping to get the keys from the manager. As we waited for the doors to open and let us out onto my floor Jack took a moment to wipe the sweat off his face with the edge of his shirt. “It’s pure murder out there, Helix,” he said as he grabbed the edge of the couch again. “I think I’ll need to borrow your shower once we get this thing settled.”

“Fine by me,” I said, looking behind me as the door slid open then backing out into the hallway. “I’d prefer you not smelling like road kill anyway.”

It was about three hundred feet from the elevator to the entrance to my apartment, pretty much a straight shot down the hall. We’d gotten about halfway there when I slowed to a stop. The ability to sense heat isn’t something I have to concentrate to do; I just have a general sense of what’s around me at all times. And as a general rule of thumb, human beings are about twenty to thirty degrees warmer than the air in a climate controlled building, even one where the climate control is second rate, like my apartment complex. Four or five people standing around in an apartment stand out, especially if that apartment is supposed to be empty, like mine was.

“Problem?” Jack asked.

“I think you’ll have to skip your shower, Jack,” I said. “It looks like I’ve already got company.”

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