Burn (11 page)

A small squad of those guards is currently wheeling in several gurneys, each conveying a black body bag. With a rigid jaw, one burly young guard holds the scanner over each gurney as the others roll them by, headed for the freight elevators behind us. Red off the body bag, blue off the guard. These are the Core agents killed in the attack, probably being taken to a makeshift morgue. I count ten, and then three more roll in.

“I thought they said ten Core agents were killed,” Christina says quietly.

Whatever's in the body bag scans orange.

“That's what they said,” I reply. “One of them is that agent who tried to get the scanner from me. Race shot him.”

Leo crosses his arms tightly over his chest. “The other two are George and—”

“Charles Willetts,” Christina and I say at the same time. Our eyes are glued to the scene as the second and third body bags scan orange. The guards wheeling those three gurneys look like they can't wait to deliver their cargo and get as far from it as possible. They've probably been warned that there might be parasites within those bodies. My mom told me she's going to be in charge of the autopsies, so she's tasked with figuring out what exactly the Sicarii are.

After we watch all the gurneys disappear onto the elevators, we enter another hallway, this one marked with doors that indicate we've reached the executive offices. The first nameplate reads “Brayton Alexander, CEO.” The office is dark, the door closed. The second reads “Angus McClaren, CFO.” That door is open, and there are voices coming from inside. I enter to find my mom, Angus, Race, and Congers sitting stiffly on the couches and chairs in the large receiving area. There are a couple of smaller offices stemming from this room, as well as a back hallway that probably leads to a restroom or something.

Race, Congers, and Angus stand up as Christina, Leo, and I walk in. Angus glowers when he sees Leo, who walks quickly over to him. “Do you have any idea how much you upset your aunt?” Angus asks. “She burst into tears when I called to tell her we'd found you alive.”

Leo scuffs at the carpet with the toe of his soccer cleat. “Sorry, Uncle Angus.”

“She sent a suitcase full of clothes and a new set of glasses with one of the incoming patriarchs. It'll be sent to your suite when it arrives.”

Leo nods, his gaze on the floor. “I didn't mean to scare you guys.”

Angus's mouth trembles for a moment, and then he pulls Leo into a tight hug. The kid disappears within Angus's bear-like embrace. One of Angus's hands ruffles Leo's blond hair before he lets the boy go. It suddenly strikes me—Leo might be an orphan, but he has a lot of people who love him. Angus, George . . . my dad. I bite the inside of my cheek as he comes to stand next to me.

My mother looks me over, seems satisfied that I'm properly stitched up, and nods at the rest of the couch on which she's perched, inviting us to join. If anyone is tempted to ask why Christina is there, they manage to hold themselves back. We settle ourselves on the firm cushions, and that's when I notice a young woman sitting in the corner, behind Angus. She's got shoulder-length, white-blond hair, pale skin, round cheeks, and a delicate little chin. She's wearing a gray suit and heels. No name tag, but she looks vaguely familiar. She regards me soberly, her fingers poised over the tablet in her lap, where I suspect she's been typing notes. No one bothers to introduce her, so I turn my attention to the others. “What are we talking about?”

“We were discussing the housing of our agents while we're here,” says Race in a tight, angry voice.

“Where exactly are they now?” I ask.

“Apart from the ones in the clinic or in body bags,” says Congers, his face still streaked with soot, his clothes torn and dirty, “the uninjured members of our ranks are under guard in the main garage on these grounds. That wasn't what we agreed to when it was decided the Core would come here. We shouldn't be treated as prisoners.”

This last part is directed to Angus, who gives him a sly smile. “Of course. It would be terrible if we treated one another with malice or suspicion.” He glances at me and then at my mom. “I'm sure you treated members of our contingent with the utmost care while they were in your custody,” he says to Congers.

“We're not in your custody!” snaps Race, but he shuts his mouth when Congers gives a slight shake of his head.

“We've come to you at substantial risk to ourselves,” Congers says. “We've brought you technology that is, by all rights, ours.”

“I beg to differ,” says Angus. “We have been in possession of the technology for hundreds of years. I fail to see how you can call it your own.”

Race's eyes light on me before moving back to Angus. “
You
have not been in possession of the technology.”

“Fred Archer was one of ours.” Angus settles heavily on a large chair, and somehow, the fact that he's sitting there makes it look more like a throne.

“Gentlemen, perhaps we could stay focused on the task at hand,” my mother says wearily, like the testosterone in the room is giving her a headache. “I've had little sleep and less food in the past two days, and I have autopsies to perform.”

Angus clears his throat. “Of course. Hopefully we won't be adding any more bodies to your queue. We expect to have all individuals on the compound scanned before the emergency meeting tonight.” He rubs at a spot above his bushy red eyebrow, like he's trying to release the tension. “With The Fifty arriving, we've got more people to keep track of. Given the reported breach in the Core's ranks, they've already been scanned, though I think a period of observation might be in order.”

When he sees Race open his mouth to protest, Angus holds up his hands. “Agent Lavin, I have hundreds of humans on this compound who believe to their bones that the H2 are the enemy. Most of them are armed. This is as much for your protection as it is a security precaution.”

Race stiffens. He gives Angus a curt nod.

My mother turns to the Core agents. “Do you have any idea at all how the Sicarii could have gotten to one of your agents?”

Race clenches his fist and stares at the wall. “Devon Kerstein was stationed in Manhattan and participated in the raid at Tate's school. He remained in New York with his unit when I left to reacquire the scanner.”

Congers looks down at the soot on his hands. “He helped in the search of the Archer apartment two days ago. He would have been aware that we'd departed for the facility in Jersey with the scanner. He probably called in both attacks. But I've now questioned the agents who were with him over the past two days. They said they noticed nothing unusual about him.”

Mom's eyes narrow. “Is it possible the Sicarii can access the hosts' memories when they take hold?”

“Either that or they are very good at blending in and playing along,” Congers says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Keep in mind that they have some experience with this type of subterfuge.”

Mom tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. Her dark hair is in its usual ponytail, but several strands have escaped. “It's unnerving to know how easily they can infiltrate.” I'm sure she's thinking of Charles Willetts. It was obvious she didn't trust him completely at the end, but because he was wearing the face of a friend, it took her a lot longer to pull back and be cautious. She raises her head and looks at Angus. “Do The Fifty understand the risks of coming here?”

Angus rolls his eyes. “They're more interested in making sure they have their say.”

Mom glances at Race and Congers before returning her gaze to Angus. “You'll have to be very clear in your expectations for nonviolence.”

“Something tells me you're worried about the Bishops.” I sigh, setting my elbows on my knees, suddenly tired. “Rufus isn't going to be happy to see me, either. He only lost his son a few days ago, and I'm sure he blames me. He seems like the type who carries a grudge.”

The blond woman in the corner shifts uncomfortably in her chair, like it's suddenly too hot in here. She taps something into her tablet.

Angus regards me for a few moments while he scratches at his thick beard. “I'm glad Rufus is coming, though. He could be helpful with upgrading the defenses. He understands the technology very well. He worked with Fred to set it up. We've already got those positions on the highest alert, seeing as the scout ships could return at any moment.”

“We should be doing more than preparing for the next moment, though,” says Race. “That scout ship outstripped your missiles easily. They're agile while your defense setup is largely stationary. We need more than that to protect your weapons factory—and this planet.”

Angus presses his lips together, looking annoyed. “At the meeting tonight, we'll agree on next steps, including appropriating and reassigning factory operations to focus on the assault vehicle we were discussing. Fortunately, we do have a large order of heavily armored vehicles in assembly, so it's a matter of fitting them with the necessary tech.” Angus crosses his arms, his thick fingers closing over his biceps. “They were meant to go to the US government, but if the situation is as dire as you describe, perhaps they'll need a more specialized machine like this one, and we'll be able to assure them we've road-tested them. We'll have to determine the function of each of those modifications, though. I have never in all my years seen a combat vehicle with a giant lens set into the roof.”

Race and I look at each other. “The plans we found in my dad's lab?” I ask, and he nods. Those vehicles will be more nimble—and portable—than the perimeter defenses. I looked them over while the wreckage was being packed. My dad designed the vehicle with next-gen artillery and a complex weapons console with all sorts of specifications, but I need to find time to take a look at the plans to see exactly what all of it is for—including those lenses. “How much advance notice will we have if the Sicarii attack?”

Congers turns to Angus. “Did they come up on your radar?”

Angus shakes his head. “After Mitra called to report what she'd witnessed on the road, we heightened our alert level. Even with that, we had no idea it was coming until we captured the ship on our surveillance cameras. By that time, it was already on top of you. We've double-staffed the defense stations so that they can keep their eyes glued to the video screens, but that's as much as we can do.”

“It's not much,” says Congers.

“That scout ship certainly thought it was,” Angus replies with a hint of offense. “We may not have taken it down, but we did send it off with its tail between its legs.”

Race lets out a bitter laugh. “You underestimate them. Its retreat was purely strategic—it likely went to report the location and description of your compound to the others. We suspect there's a small squadron of them on this planet. If they attack en masse, the defenses might not hold.”

Angus arches an eyebrow. “Which is why fortifying them is our top priority.”

“Fortifications will be worth little if the full invasion happens,” Congers says. “You're focusing on the wrong things. Planetary defense is just as important.”

Angus glares at Congers as if the Sicarii are all his fault, but his expression softens as he turns to me. “Tate, we'll need you to figure out your dad's plans for using the H2 technology as some kind of satellite shield. My staff has looked at them but can't get past the security in the files. They've been downloaded and stored in the Black Box mainframe, which is half a mile underground—not likely to be penetrated by any artillery those Sicarii possess. Our team of developers is ready to assist you.”

It suddenly feels like the weight of the world has been set on my shoulders. “Yeah,” I say in a strained voice. “I'll take a look at all of it. Oh, and I'll need all available information about any satellites Black Box already has in the air.” We're sunk if Ramses is the only one.

Angus's eyebrows go up, and he opens his mouth to say something, but—

“We have exactly twenty satellites currently aloft,” says a voice from the hallway behind me. “And I think I should get to review Frederick Archer's plans as well. I might be able to help.”

The blond woman jumps up, her sober expression spreading into a huge grin, her pale eyes bright. “Dad!” she says happily, jogging out the door and into the arms of the man in the hallway.

He wraps his arms around her and looks over her shoulder. His gaze meets mine. “Hello, Tate,” he says. “I hope we can let the last week go. Water under the bridge.”

I stare at him, his neatly combed blond hair, his round face, his stupid golf shirt. He may be well-groomed, but he looks tired, like he's been through hell.

As far as I'm concerned, that's what he deserves.

The last time I saw Brayton Alexander, he was trying to kill me.

I SHOOT TO MY FEET. “WATER UNDER THE BRIDGE?” I
point at Christina. “You shot at us. You could have killed us.”

He nods, looking weary. “It was a desperate situation, and I made the wrong call in that moment. But as CEO of Black Box and the man who employed Frederick Archer, I know more about how we used his technology than anyone else, and I have every right to examine the plans, the scanner, and anything that was taken from his lab.”

Angus clears his throat. “Well. You
would
have had that right. But as of Tuesday morning, the board voted to remove you from your position.”

Brayton's eyes go round with shock. He looks at the blond woman next to him, who is obviously his daughter. “Is that true, Ellie?”

She winces. “I tried to call several times, but I didn't want to leave it as a voicemail or text. Where have you been, Dad?”

“In the custody of the Princeton police.” His eyes narrow as he regards Angus. “I had just arrived in Chicago when I received the message that The Fifty were convening here.” His jaw clenches. “After years of service, this is how I'm treated?” he says in a deadly quiet voice.

“You're lucky you're not still in jail,” I snap as Christina's fingers twine with mine.

“I should have been given the chance to defend myself!” Brayton shouts at Angus, ignoring me completely. A vein in his temple is throbbing blue and thick, but the rest of his face looks hollowed out, his cheeks sagging inward from his rounded jaw. “Everything I did was on behalf of Black Box, and I should have had a chance to vote as the head of the Alexander family!”

Angus rises to his feet as Brayton comes closer. The two Core agents rise as well, touching their belts, where they would normally find their weapons. Both their holsters are empty.

But Brayton's isn't. And he looks unstable at the moment. “You were just waiting for your moment, weren't you? You've wanted the CEO chair for years.”

“You brought this on yourself,” says Angus, folding his massive arms over his chest. He's the only person in the room who doesn't seem the slightest bit nervous that Brayton's fingers are twitching near his waist. “And this wasn't about me—the decision of the board was almost unanimous, Brayton. We had a quorum, and we made the call. Your own vote wouldn't have saved you.”

“You need me. I know more about Frederick Archer's work than anyone else,” Brayton says, his voice echoing through the room, a hint of panic giving each syllable a sharp ring.

“No, you don't.” That comes from several people at once. Me. My mom. And Race.

Brayton's lips clamp shut. I get the feeling his thoughts are little more than a string of shouted curses, judging from the vivid red color of his face. Ellie steps close to him, eyeing us all with defiance. But her expression softens as her fingers close over her father's sleeve. “Come on, Dad. You look so tired. I can walk you to your quarters.”

He nods, then abruptly shakes his head, ripping his arm from her grip. “I don't need an escort,” he growls. His eyes meet mine, then sweep over Race, Congers, and Angus. “I never thought I'd see the day when H2 were welcomed as guests and members of The Fifty were treated like pariahs. You think I'm the traitor? Look at yourself, Angus.”

He turns on his heel and marches unsteadily from the room, leaving Ellie pink-cheeked and stricken in his wake. She blinks a few times, then takes a deep breath. Angus strides forward and puts his arm over her shoulder, and she doesn't resist. He pulls her close. “I'm sorry, Ellie. I know you're in a tough position.”

“I can handle it,” she says softly. “Excuse me.” She walks from the room quickly, and I get the distinct impression she needs to cry and doesn't want anyone to see. Something like admiration stirs inside me. If my dad had been the pariah, wouldn't I have stuck by him?

“She's been my secretary for the past year,” Angus explains.

Congers's nostrils flare, momentarily widening his narrow, hooked nose. “And you trust her?”

Angus looks at the chair where she was sitting, quietly taking notes on her tablet. “I do. Ellie's an ethical young woman, and she's given me no reason to doubt her.”

“Was Brayton scanned?” I ask. “He was looking a little crazy-eyed.” I see Christina nod out of the corner of my eye and wonder if she's remembering Willetts.

“He would have been scanned at the door. No exceptions,” says Angus. “My orders were very clear.”

We talk for a few more minutes, and then Angus gives us ID cards—Leo and I have ones that indicate we're patriarchs, and Christina gets one that signifies her as a guest who must be in the company of an escort at all times. My mom heads off to the morgue to start her autopsies, looking like it's the last place in the world she'd like to spend her time. Race and Congers are marched back to the garage with the rest of the Core agents, where they'll stay until The Fifty okay their presence here.

Angus announces that he needs to “herd some cats,” and goes off to cajole and coerce various members of The Fifty into actually granting the H2 permission to stay. I can understand why my mom respects him; he's adapted pretty quickly to the idea of the Sicarii and working with the Core, and he isn't wasting time moaning about it. In fact, he seems a little annoyed at having to deal with the politics, given the threat.

Leo, Christina, and I head for the computer labs. On the way, Leo and I discuss the perimeter defenses and guess at what they can do. I mentally catalog the name tag of each Black Box employee we pass: Bearden, Bradley, Cavalcante, Costa, Diop, Dos Santos, Engel, Hayashi, Jasinski, Juneja . . . one by one, I try to commit them to memory. There's a steady trickle of arrivals via helicopter and SUV, families having unexpected reunions as the patriarchs and matriarchs of The Fifty come looking for nieces and cousins and grandchildren, sons and brothers and sisters-in-law. We duck into a side hallway as we see Rufus Bishop stalk through the front entrance. He looks like a vengeful Santa with his bushy white beard and eyebrows, his big belly, and a glare that makes people sweat. The young guard looks a little nervous as he scans Rufus, who then stomps straight toward Angus's office.

I listen in on conversations in Japanese, Mandarin, German, and Portuguese as we walk by people in the halls. They're nervous. They're questioning whether the Sicarii threat and the earlier attack is an H2 ruse, a Trojan horse strategy to gain access to the walled fortress. Some of them wonder if Christina and I are H2 who should be locked up with the rest of the Core agents, but since we're with Leo, who they know, they're not sure. Leo, who understands almost as many languages as I do, introduces us to a few people, pausing awkwardly each time he gets to Christina.

“She's with me,” I say. I end up saying it a lot. Each time, Christina's mouth gets a little tighter.

Finally, she sags against me. “I know that the apocalypse might be coming and there are a ton of things you need to do before then, but I'm tired of being treated like a second-class citizen. Is there a place where I can take a shower and lie down?”

I put my arm around her and give Leo a questioning look. My thoughts are buzzing with fatigue, and all I want to do is lie down next to Christina, but she's right—I have work to do. I persuade Leo to take her back to the fancy hotel-like dorm where members of The Fifty are staying, walk them halfway there so I can see where it is, and then plod to the computer lab, which is located in the main building. I walk back through the doors to find the scanner's light right in my eyes. As my chest takes on a blue glow, I ask, “Who's responsible for the scanner when it's not in use?”

“Why do you want to know?” asks a guard with curly light brown hair. He's seriously built, tall, and wearing a name tag that identifies him as a Fisher—one of George's relatives. He's also the one who scanned his dead family member earlier today. I wonder if he knew and how much these guards have been told.

“Because my dad's the one who invented the device, and I want to make sure it's secure.” I pull out my ID card.

The guy's eyes widen a bit as he sees my name and picture. “I knew your dad,” he says, almost reverently. “My name's Kellan. My uncle George and he were good friends.” The way he bows his head and swallows tells me he knows his uncle is dead.

“I'm sorry,” I say quietly, and he nods.

“Me too.” He sighs, his broad shoulders curving forward like his chest hurts. “About your dad as well. I don't even know what's happening, man, but I know it's bad.” He gazes at the scanner in his hand, this ordinary-looking, foot-long device with the three oddly shaped USB-type ports along its side, the thing we're depending upon to tell us who or what is in our midst. “Angus ordered us to store it in the vaults on the first basement level once we've got everyone scanned. That floor's got layers of security and surveillance.”

“Good.”

“You gonna be at the meeting tonight?” When I nod, he says, “My mom's the matriarch now that Uncle George is gone. I'll be there, too. I'm supposed to re-scan all the board members as they come in.” He looks like he's dreading it.

“You don't think it's necessary?” This additional scanning is yet another thing I'm really glad to hear. The last thing we need is some Sicarii spy listening in on our high-level planning.

“Well, maybe it is, but . . .” His eyes meet mine. “I'm supposed to execute anyone who scans orange.”

It's a huge responsibility for a guy who looks like he's barely graduated from college. “Can you do that?” I wonder if I could, especially if the Sicarii was wearing a familiar face.

He shrugs. “I have my orders.”

I tell him I'll see him there and go to the computer lab, where I spend the next three hours going over my dad's various plans and blueprints. I'm not ready to share these with the team of developers quite yet. I want to think about it without other brains interfering.

Somehow, my dad figured out the technology—but he also discovered this third race, or at least guessed at it. Using the wreckage of the H2 ship, which is now stored in the same vault where the scanner will be kept, he built the scanner to identify each species. Yeah, the device might just be a tiny version of the giant satellite that's scanning the planet, but I'm not so sure it's only meant to scan. The satellites, after all, are rigged with lasers to zap incoming Sicarii, so maybe the scanner can do the same if I figure it out. I have no idea what those USB-type ports on the side are for. Are they supposed to connect it to something, or to communicate or store information? And why do the Sicarii want it so badly? Why did my dad call it the key to our survival? I'll have to request permission to take a closer look, but I can't now, because it's needed to ensure that Black Box is a secure place.

I turn my attention to the satellites, the top priority. If what Brayton said is true, all twenty of the ones listed in Dad's plans are already aloft, but only Ramses is activated. The rest of them are spinning through space, their most powerful capabilities dormant within their metal bodies. My dad was so secretive about the scanner, so I'm guessing no one else knew what he'd installed inside the satellites before they were launched. They're most likely meant to relay communications and to spy on the Core. But if the plans are accurate, those satellites are also armed with incredibly advanced lasers and the same scanning technology as the device Kellan's using out there in the atrium. And as Race said, if they're all working together, they'd effectively form a defense shield around the entire planet.

I just need to figure out how to activate them. My dad gave me the password—
Josephus
—to access the plans, but to activate the satellites themselves? It's a no-go. I try all the other ones I know he used, all the ones I ever used, and get nowhere. I'm realizing it's yet another riddle he left me to solve, but all I've got right now is what he scribbled in that notebook in Kentucky—
find it in 20204.
I try
20204
as the password and get shut out again, so I pull up a secure browser and look up 20204, moving past information about the zip code, the ID number for a Lego kit, its meaning in SQL computer code . . . I get all excited when I see that 20204 is a genetic identifier, until I read further and see that particular gene is part of the mouse genome.

I rub my tired eyes and think back:
20204
was written on the same page where he'd scribbled the word
Sicarii
. I resume my searching and type in
Sicarii 20204,
wishing the magic of Google would make this easy.

What I get is a lot more random shit, most of which is a trash-talking Russian with the username “Sicarii,” spouting off in some RPG forum about nunchuk-wielding dwarves. The two search terms don't fit together; the 20204 piece doesn't seem to have any connection. Just in case, I spend an hour slowly translating, scouring the web page for the number, for any hint or connection, but it all feels like I've taken a wrong turn. My dad took stuff from history, not forums for hardcore D&D players.

So much for Google. My eyes now burning with fatigue, my wounds itching, my stomach growling, I close the browser. I have to figure this out—even if the Sicarii show up and destroy Black Box, which could happen at any moment, maybe everyone else on Earth would be okay if I could get the satellite shield working. Unless destroying Black Box would disrupt communication and control of the satellites. I don't see how it wouldn't.

Shit.

Having hit nothing but dead ends with the satellite shield activation, I turn my attention to the one thing that could buy us some time and security. When the Sicarii come back, we need to be able to defend ourselves. I do a little searching on the server and find my dad's plans for the combat vehicle, the eight-wheeled monster with the complex artillery system and giant lens set into the roof. I pore over the plans, trying to figure out what the hell the lens could be used for, brainstorming possibilities and coming up empty . . .