The silent army, p.8
The Silent Army, page 8
part #2 of Revivors Series
She didn’t say anything for a minute.
“Just ... go do whatever you have to do,” she said. She sounded pissed.
“Fine.”
“I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up.
I shut my phone off like the sign said. First I was late getting into work; then those jerks made fun of me when my back was turned. I had to miss my lunch, and now Karen was pissed at me. Plus that woman . . .
This one is a destroyer. She will cause you to lose something very dear. . . .
She was in the green room. In the elevator I thought she was going to punch me. How did she remember me? Back then, I made her forget. How did she remember?
Shaking off my umbrella, I closed it and went inside, where a bunch of people were sitting like they’d been waiting there forever. A big, round woman in a flowered shirt sat behind the main desk.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Jan Holst,” I said.
“Visiting hours resume at one,” she said. “You can have a seat and wait if you like, or you can come back.”
“I’m not here to visit. I’m here to do an interview.”
“Interview?”
The room got brighter, and I stared at her until her fat face went slack.
“Just tell me where her room is.”
“Sixth floor. Room 6E7.”
“Go back to what you were doing and never mind me.”
I stopped pushing her, and she looked back to the computer screen.
Alone in the elevator, I hit the button for the sixth floor. The inside of the door was mirrored, and in it I looked like a drowned rat. My hair was frizzed and tangled, and my face was blotchy. My ears were bright red.
As the car went up, I thought about that woman back at the FBI, Alice Hsieh. She had the same abilities I did—I was sure of it. For the first time, it occurred to me that if I noticed her, she must have noticed me too. If that was true, she must have known how I got the information out of the guy in the wheelchair. She must have seen too when I got the information out of Vesco, but she didn’t try to stop it or ask me about it after. She just left, and never said anything about it at all.
“You think Wachalowski hits that?”
The memory wormed its way in, pushing the other stuff out. Vesco joked about Nico having sex with me. Then he and his friend laughed about it. Nico being interested in me physically was actually a joke in the office. It was something to laugh about.
My reflection got blurry, and I wiped my eyes. Any second the elevator door was going to open and I’d be standing there crying. I took a deep breath, but my reflection stayed blurry. I blinked hard a couple times and rubbed them, but it didn’t go away. It was like I was looking through a haze or something, or like heat was rippling the air. The elevator floor creaked and I turned, but nothing was there. When I looked back, my reflection was normal again.
Shit. Not here.
When I saw things, it happened out of nowhere and it didn’t matter where I was. I couldn’t afford some kind of episode in the middle of a hospital, when I was supposed to be doing an interview. I took a few deep breaths and tried to calm down. The antsy feeling I got up and down my spine when I really wanted to drink was kicking in big time. The last thing I needed was some kind of panic attack. . . .
The bell dinged and the doors opened up. No one was waiting for the car on the other side. I smoothed down my hair and wiped my eyes one more time, then stepped out. The door clunked behind me, then slid shut.
I found the right room and went inside, where a man in a white lab coat stood next to a hospital bed. I peeked past him to see the woman who was lying there. There was a bandage across the front of her neck, covered in gauze tape. After a minute, she noticed me and looked past the man in the coat. When she did, he looked over.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Jan Holst.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Zoe Ott.”
“You’re with the FBI?” He said it like he couldn’t believe it.
“Yes.”
I fished my contractor’s badge out and held it up so he could see it.
“Okay,” he said. He turned to the woman. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”
She nodded, still looking at me. She looked pretty beat-up, but she smiled, just a little.
“You’ll have to leave,” I told him. He frowned, and I felt a little surge of anger come from him.
“Look, Miss Ott,” he said. “This wom—”
He stopped in midsentence as I concentrated and the room got bright. As the colors drained away from everything except the light around his head, out of the corner of my eye I saw the woman’s smile get a little bigger. I pushed back the spike of red light that had been forming until it disappeared back into the blue.
“I need privacy,” I told him. “If anything happens, I’ll get you.”
He nodded. In the doorway, he looked back at her one more time, then left, closing the door behind him. The lights went back to normal. When I turned and looked at her, she was still smiling. There was a chair in the room and I pulled it over next to the bed and sat down.
“How are you doing?” I asked. She shook her head, and pointed to the bandage over her throat.
“Sorry, right.”
Nico told me about that in the phone message. I had to sign out an electronic tablet. I took it out of my purse and turned it on, making the little gray screen light up. She held out her hand and I gave it to her.
“Does it hurt?” I asked. She shook her head, then tapped on the little keyboard and angled the screen so I could see.
I’ll be okay.
“Good.”
What did you want to ask me, Agent Ott?
“Miss Ott. I just work for them sometimes.”
Digging in my coat pocket, I found the list of questions I was supposed to ask and pulled it out. Smoothing the paper, I looked at the first question.
Where is Hiro Takanawa?
I focused in on her so I could put her under, and she closed her eyes. When the aura appeared over her head, though, I saw that thin, white halo. The swirl of color behind it stayed calm when I tried to change them, and couldn’t. She opened her eyes and smiled as she met mine.
My heart was beating faster. Nico’s questions sat forgotten in my hand.
She tapped on the tablet’s keyboard.
You can see.
“Yes.” She could see me, too.
We’ve contacted you more than once. Why don’t you respond?
That was true. I’d gotten several notes and a few weird phone calls. I knew they were interested in me. The weird little woman that appeared after the revivor took me and wired me to their machine told me they were interested in me.
I didn’t have a good answer for her. I just shrugged.
Aren’t you even a little bit curious?
“I’ve just . . . been avoiding it, I guess.”
Why?
My words got caught up in my throat, but then I started to relax a little. For a second, it actually felt like I’d taken a big shot of ouzo. I felt the tension inside me loosen.
“Because I was scared,” I said.
Scared of what?
“Nico doesn’t trust you . . . I thought he’d be mad . . . I was worried he might be right, maybe, or that . . . I wouldn’t be special?” I said. The words were flowing like I was drunk. “That I wouldn’t be any good, and I’d be as bad at this as I am ...”
I trailed off, and she smiled again.
You are special, and there’s no reason to be scared. We would welcome you, and I know how lonely it feels to think you’re alone.
My throat burned and I felt tears in my eyes again. She was right, in a way. It seemed like I’d gotten to the point where I was doing everything right, or the way I was supposed to do them anyway. I was trying to be like everyone else, to go to bed sober and wake up and go to work and make friends, but it wasn’t working. Even though I knew more people now than I ever had, I was lonely. Karen acted like it was the drinking that made her kick me out, but it wasn’t. It was part of it, but it was the other stuff she couldn’t stand. My ability, and the dreams, and all the things she thought were so cool at first; they started to scare her.
The people around you don’t understand you, Jan typed. They can’t.
I shrugged as her fingers moved over the screen.
You need to understand what it is you can do—how to do it and when to use it. Let us show you.
“Maybe,” I said.
These people and the way they treat you make you sad, but these people, the ones who aren’t like you, what they think doesn’t matter. They don’t deserve to hold this power over you—
“Stop.”
She deleted the message. She didn’t look disappointed or mad or anything. She just stopped typing.
Nico didn’t trust them; that was the thing. Sometimes, the way he talked, it was like he thought that all those people that got killed back then deserved what they got. Sometimes, the way he talked, I wondered if maybe he didn’t trust me either, and I really wanted him to. I wanted him to believe in me. I wanted him to know that whatever side he was on, I was on it too.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
It’s okay.
I looked back at the paper Nico gave me, the one with the questions, but I knew I wouldn’t ask them. I crumpled it and shoved it in my pocket.
“Is the city really going to burn?” I asked. Her eyes got very serious.
Yes.
“Why? How?”
Meet with us and you’ll get your answer.
As I read the words, a bad feeling came over me. I started feeling really dizzy, so bad it made me sick to my stomach a little.
“I can’t ...”
If you don’t, she’ll be forced to—
I practically jumped out of my skin as a loud popping noise went off right near my head. At the same exact time, one of her eyes blew up. It just blew apart and caved in, leaving a big red hole behind. Her whole body jerked on the bed, and the eye she had left rolled in the socket, looking off at a weird angle.
The tablet slipped out of her hand and clattered onto the floor. She slumped back onto the pillow, and the machine she was hooked up to was beeping over and over. Someone was shouting from down the hall. A puff of smoke was rising from a spot in front of the bed.
I was still trying to figure out what the heck just happened when the IV rack next to the bed shook all by itself, then tipped over and crashed onto the floor. When I looked over, I saw the air ripple there, just for a second. For just a second, I saw a guy standing there. He was bald, and his skin was gray. His eyes glowed a dull yellowish color, and for that quick flash, they were staring right at me. He moved, and I saw a gun in his hand before the air flickered again, and he was gone.
What just happened?
The doctor came through the doorway. He looked from the woman on the bed to me. The look on his face snapped me out of it.
“What happened?” he asked. When I concentrated on her, just the barest blue light appeared, like a pilot light, and then even that flickered out. The vitals monitor started droning a steady beep, and the doctor’s eyes widened.
“Jesus, what did you do?”
Other people started filling up the room, pushing me out of the way. I grabbed the tablet and backed away.
“What the hell did you do?” the doctor demanded.
“Nothing, I . . .”
“Call the police!” someone yelled.The doctor reached for me and I focused on him, stopping him before he could grab me.
“Leave me alone,” I told him. His eyelids drooped, and his hand began to lower back by his side.
“Leave me alone.”
I slipped out the door and ran.
Nico Wachalowski—Sigil Veranda Apartments, Apartment #901
Mist gave way to a short squall of snow as I inched down the street. The strip of sky above the buildings had turned dull gray. Sean’s place was on the other side of town, and by the time I got there, the commuters were in full swing. Traffic had piled up in front and behind. People trudged along the sidewalks on either side with their collars turned up and their heads down. I nosed past a group of people waiting impatiently at the curb, crept down the side street, then took a concrete ramp into the garage below.
According to the apartment’s security logs, Sean got in late the night before. The timing suggested he’d gone straight home after we spoke. That put three hours or so between when he arrived home and when he sent the message. Another two had passed since then, and he never showed up at work. He was in trouble.
Heading up the front entrance, I checked the logs for visitors. There had been a handful, but none were signed in by him. Cameras didn’t record anyone who was unaccounted for, coming or going.
Inside I took the express elevator up, and then made my way to Sean’s unit. I gave the door a knock, but no one answered. I knocked again.
“Sean, open up.”
Using the backscatter to scan through the door, I could make out his coat on a rack. Next to that, I could see his shoes. Nothing moved in the gray space behind them.
“Sean, if you’re there, open up.”
I listened for a minute, but didn’t hear anything. I took my badge from my pocket and put a call in to Noakes.
Noakes, I’m at Sean’s apartment, and I need a silent entry. I also need a warrant related to possible crime in progress.
Done and done, Agent.
He stayed on the line while I held my badge to the door scanner and the bolt released, suppressing any voice or electronic response. When I pushed open the door, I saw that the apartment was dark. I went inside and closed the door behind me.
Through the thermal filter I could make out faint traces of footsteps, but none of them had been recent. None approached the door. No one had come or gone for hours.
Creeping into the main hall, I drew my gun and adjusted my visuals to let in more light. Nothing looked disturbed. The apartment was completely quiet.
“Sean?”
No one answered. The thermal signatures were very faint, but got stronger through the living area. He had sat on the sofa for a while, and there was an empty glass on a marble-topped end table. Fresher footsteps headed toward the bedroom. I followed them in.
The bed was still made, but I could make out a warm spot in the middle, as if he had lain there on top of the covers at some point. I recorded the image, then followed the footsteps through a door and into the master bath.
In the bathroom, he’d stood in front of the sink. There were drops of brown liquid on the porcelain and bunches of tissues in the trash, stained with something black, maybe ink. There was a thermal handprint on the toilet lid.
Lifting it up, I looked in and saw the water was stained pink. A wad of tissue was clogging the bowl, and floating above it was a wrinkled white orb that trailed red tissue.
Noakes, are you getting this?
I zoomed in on the eye. It looked like it had been cut out. The iris was clouded and scarred.
I got it. Is it his?
Checking . . .
I tried to scan the retina, but it was too damaged. Something had scorched it.
Kneeling in front of the sink, I fished through the trash. Under the tissues was a small, glass bottle with a dropper. It was unmarked, but had a sharp, chemical smell.
What is it?
I’m not sure. Hold on.
Back in the bedroom, I noticed some scoring on the frame next to the bathroom doorknob, and pinprick burn marks on the carpet. When I zoomed in on the latch, I saw the metal bolt had been burned through. Someone cut their way in to get to him.
Someone broke in.
I’m sending a forensics team over, Noakes said. Keep me informed.
Roger that.
He closed the connection.
Rain drummed against a window next to the bed. I switched to the backscatter and searched the room, looking for anything that might have gotten left behind. When I scanned across the floor, I found a safe concealed under an area rug next to the bed.
Moving the rug aside, I raised the panel to find it fitted with an electronic lock. I remembered Sean’s message.
31 03 76 11 52 57 81
I keyed the sequence into the safe’s keypad, and a moment later I felt a thump through the floor as the bolts retracted. Whatever he was trying to tell me, whatever he wanted me to know, it was inside.
I turned the arm and pulled open the heavy door. The only thing inside was a small recording device. A yellow LED flashed on one side of it.
It looked like the recorder was receiving from a wireless source, or at least it had been. I tapped into the recording buffer, and a window came up in my field of vision, displaying a test code. The recording came from a camera eye, a version of a JZ implant’s optics, or a revivor’s eye. News peddlers and paparazzi used them. The eyes had a recording buffer, but they could also transmit to an external recorder.
Sean had one implanted, then. The eye would be inferior to the recorder he already had, but whatever it recorded wouldn’t end up in the JZI buffer. The only reason for him to do that was so that he could record things without anyone at the FBI seeing them.
I played the recording. There was no sound, just a streaming image from Sean’s point of view. He was standing in the bathroom, looking into the mirror in front of the sink. I knew the expression I saw on his face; he was in trouble at the time the recording was made.
He looked into his own eyes in the mirror, giving the illusion he was looking out at me. He reached up with an erasable marker and began writing on the mirror in black ink.
I know we can’t influence you anymore.
I don’t know why.
He wiped the message away with a tissue. He dropped it in the trash next to the sink and wrote again.
I’m sorry.
He frowned, and his eyes looked sad as he added:
I tried to protect you.
He wiped the mirror clean, then looked back through the bathroom doorway like he heard something. After a second, he turned back to the mirror again. He held the marker up to it, and began to write again as a light flickered somewhere behind him.
