2) Study
Date: Thursday, 14 August 2042
Original notes: Ro Rowen
Compiled by: Zee Smith
'I don't believe this!' I kept my voice as hushed as I could, but considering the environs, of course three eager people 'Shushed!' me in grotesque, snake-like hissing. I ignored them and pressed the issue to Zee. Though, honestly, I barely saw his features among a high rise of books, some old, some new. All of them predominately worthless.
Zee threw furtive regards to those who'd tried shushing me, but otherwise his black-haired head remained bent toward a brown tome printed sometime around the birth of America's thirtieth president. I can't imagine what something so old could provide. Despondent, I made a wild gesture to decree our luck had faded, and we were bereft of hope.
'There's nothing here, Zee! Nothing!'
It's great when Zee glances at you. Just for a second he does it, enough to see those deep blue eyes of his resting on a soul of poetry and commiseration. How far it reaches into you, how many soundless words he can convey, in prose or stanza or Shakespearean quotes, you'll never know, because it's only a glance.
Flip went the page as he turned it. The bone of his square cheek rested in his palm, and his fingers twitched in black locks. Concentration of Infiltration Unit Zeta, it should be declared, is an intense act. One should witness such an sight to fully comprehend just how intense it is. Positively nuclear.
Clear-cut communication, on the other hand . . . Forget about it.
Holding in a huff and a severe bout of titanic anger, I grabbed the next book from the tower and opened it in my lap. I leaned richly into the soft library seat, my home for the last few hours, and focused my weary eyes on yet more words. Words, words, words, and yet more words, stood out against an off-white background, mingled here and there with representative photographs. I tried to release frustration long enough to read a couple of sentences, then realised, dismayed, that I couldn't remember what I'd just read.
In 1927, the US government became overly concerned about the rebellious situations in Germany, Poland, and Austria. No less than twenty-three military personnel underwent specialty training for potential use in these domineering and hostile lands.
In other words: Huh?
The book slammed shut and I gently pushed it onto the table, more forlorn was I than purely angry. The titles called to me, and once again I read the stack of my responsibility: Conspiracy Theory in America; The US Government and You: A Guide To Your Privacy; Technology and the CIA: What Every American Should Know; Mad Hatters: A Spy's Intimate Look at the US Government's Domestic Policies; Socialism and US Presidents; Agents of Spades: The NSA Today; Failure to Find Freedom: What Washington Doesn't Want You To Know . . . and so on, so forth . . . ad nauseam, puke, puke, someone just shoot me now and stop all this fun . . .
Rubbing my face harshly brought little life back into it; I snivelled and sighed but that didn't help either. My shoulders were tense and my legs were stiff from sitting so long. My lower back hurt in sharp then dull little stabs, womanly pains that not even massive doses of ibuprofen could deter. I was very tired and very dearly ready to call the read-a-thon quits. I had no idea of the time, nor could I even calculate how late it must've grown.
'What time is it, Zee?'
'Seventeen-thirty.'
He always gave me the time if I asked him, and if he wasn't over-thinking and forgot to answer.
'The library closes at eight, right?'
'Hm.' He nodded. Flip.
The hotel waited for me, and I knew I couldn't let it wait forever. I'd love to lie in a big bed and surf mindless television for a while, maybe even stay up late enough to watch talk shows. But Zee wasn't ready; I could tell that just by looking at him.
Flip.
Okay, without even looking at him, just by listening to him.
He was so absorbed that I could almost see his holographic outer shell turning to text as he sat there. He wouldn't leave until he'd exhausted all resources. It stuck me in a hard spot, since I knew he'd never let me wander back to the hotel alone, even if it was only two blocks away. We were in very precarious times. This overprotective inclination of his manifested from our geographical location: a mere two hours' drive from the NSA field office in Colorado Springs. We'd been near other NSA field offices before—they were all over the place—but Colorado Springs was a big one, a very big one. The Major Agent Trio of Bennett, Lee and West used it as their home base, when they weren't out hunting for us. To think that we were only north of them, right up Interstate 25, in Fort Collins . . . it gave me the chills. I'd liked it better when we were on our way out of Colorado three weeks ago. We'd made it as far as Lawrence, Kansas, before Zee decided to head back. He thought we could find out more here. And, just perhaps, there was some truth when he'd said: 'The agents wouldn't think to look for us in Colorado again, not so soon.' But it didn't comfort me. A hot bath in a hotel followed by some hot chocolate, now that could comfort me.
Still, if he was planning something, a getaway or dinner on the run, he wasn't saying. Zee had been way beyond the point of laconic lately. He'd been practically mute.
Since our trip to Colorado Springs Zee hadn't been himself. While there, he discovered that one of the Infiltration Unit scientists, Irving Houston, had suddenly died. And I, with my big mouth and ever-awake but sometimes not-so-swift brain, decided to say this ridiculous theory of mine: Wasn't it suspicious that so many of the IU scientists, present or former, wound up dead in the last four years? So this new obsession of Zee's, it was really my fault. I had hoped, when we made it to Kansas, that he would do as he'd promised, that he'd set it aside. Our real focus was to find Dr Eli Selig, also one of the Infiltration Unit scientists, one of Zee's original creators.
Twelve scientists had died since the first one in January, 2039. Ten met mortality in less than mysterious ways: diseases, accidents, even one suicide. The scientist who danced with Death just sixteen days before Irving Houston, a hardware expert, Maccai Bjordni, suffered a fatal stab wound in a barroom brawl in Havana, Cuba. 'How very Christopher Marlowe of him,' Zee mumbled when coming across this information. The two suspicious deaths were both women: Caroline Walker-Payne and Dr Joan Florence Simms. The latter was once a contemporary of Eli Selig. So far, we'd been unable—I'd been unable—to find adequate details on her life as well as her death. But I hated that both female scientists had been murdered so violently, probably because they were female. Zee didn't like it either. He was beginning to produce a profile on this killer—or killers.
Anything that involved Selig was Zee's major obsession.
He went on twirling his hair. Twirl, twirl, flip, flip. The pages he scanned at immense, inhuman alacrity, with greater accuracy than I, one who'd finally succumbed to human fatigue, hunger, and cramps. To be done in by cramps! Was there anything more human? Except I'd grown wise since knowing Zee: Never mention cramps, menstruation, or any function of the human body at any point in time, ever. It fascinated him: He'd want to discuss it for hours. Not exactly a good time.
'Zee?'
He snapped out of the extraordinary concentration long enough to notice me. 'Yes, Ro?'
'I want to go.'
'Ah.' He went back to the precious book. Twirl, twirl. Silence. More silence.
'Now,' I finally said. 'I want to go now.' No disappointment from my metallic friend did I sense, but a confusion wavered in his often emotionless eyes. What did I expect? It was only five-thirty. He anticipated hours of fine research and twirling of hair and contemplation of occult and uncertain government secrets. What was that saying he used sometimes? 'Miles to go before I sleep.' One of his poetry things that drove me to the point of anger and into all the madness beyond.
Instead of that, I touched the top of his hand. 'Hey, look, I get it: Miles to go before you sleep. That's great. You can just walk me to the hotel then come right back here. What do you say?'
Reluctantly, he nodded. 'I'll tell one of the employees not to touch this table.' Noticing the debris of books before him, he felt slightly overwhelmed, and suddenly empathetic to my humanness. 'Are you hungry?'
'I could eat a little,' I lied. I could eat the whole town's food supply and still have room for ice cream. Nothing in the world finer than an ice cream hangover the next morning.
He stood with me and headed towards the exit. The library was quiet, as libraries should be, but quieter than most I'd lately entered. Usually there was some talk, teenagers on mobiles, librarians to other librarians, discussions at the research desk, the clicking of keyboards . . . but none of that now. There were no students, only a few adults and some adults with children. I realised that the nearby college wouldn't start for another two weeks, so naturally the library would reflect a deficiency in student numbers.
Zee stopped at the reference desk to leave his wishes that the books remain untouched. I scanned titles on the 'New In Non-fiction' bookshelf, were I could thumb through a real book, a book on CD, or take a ticket to the check out counter and download the whole novel to my computer. You know, if I had a computer. The closest I had was a tiny jump drive, kept sacred in the pocket of my blue jeans. Zee returned and tapped me on the shoulder, escorting me from the building. I liked Colorado for only one reason: hot days, cool nights. I folded my arms to keep out the chill, glad the hotel was only two blocks to the north.
'Do you really think you're going to find something useful in all those books, Zee? There are a lot of them.'
'I have to try. I'm particularly interested in Dr Simms. If she was still in touch with Dr Selig, it could leave him vulnerable to—to these unusual coincidental deaths. Perhaps they spoke before she died. Perhaps she knew the circumstances. She did die more recently than the rest.'
'So, you're thinking that she might've known and given Selig a heads up, huh?'
'Yes. That may make Dr Selig more difficult to find.'
'Because he will have become even more reclusive?'
'Unfortunately. If he heard of the scientists untimely deaths, it's likely he would've found a way to keep himself hidden. He may not even be working for the government anymore.'
'You mean the US government.'
Zee shook his head. 'Dr Selig wouldn't be allowed to work with other countries. He'd be under a lifelong contract.'
'Like you are?'
'My contract was nullified the day I went renegade. But, yes, the essentials of the contract are the same. That'd be treason, Ro, and that means death.'
Conversation tapered after that; death is a good way to kill talk fast. I entered the hotel lobby three steps ahead of Zee. But he went through his normal routine of scanning the place for suspicious characters who might jump us, bounty hunters, NSA agents, or just plain stupid people. He was sure of its safety relatively soon, lingering at my elbow while I gave the front desk clerk my room service order, steamed vegetables and roasted salmon.
Our room was a suite, six rooms, including a living room, a giant bathroom, and two bedrooms, plus a small kitchen. (Not that either of us can cook.) Zee never did things halfway anymore. He went all out or he did nothing at all. What was the point of having an unlimited credcard if you weren't going to use it? But, sometimes, even Zee surprised me.
I sat on the couch and pulled a pillow to me. He treated the room the same way he did the lobby. I waited for his return, like super-secret spy agent, before asking wearisome enquiries. 'Why are we staying here? Wouldn't it be better if we left?'
He smirked a little, just faintly. 'We'll leave soon. Probably in the morning.'
'Maybe we should leave tonight. Won't they find us, if we stay here too long?'
'Not right now.'
This was unusual conviction. I winced. 'I don't like it when you're hiding something. What are you hiding?'
I untied my trainer and tossed it at him. Quick reflexes, as I suspected, caught the shoe in one hand. He set it down on the carpet, under the cocktail table. He dragged my other foot across his knee and undid the laces, removing the shoe. In a lot of ways, he is like Prince Charming, but in a lot more ways he's like my personal valet, Bertuccio to Monte Cristo.
I stuck my toes to his neck, threateningly. 'What'd you do, Zee? Rob a refresh? Swipe some kid's allowance? Hack our way into the hotel's computer?'
He put my foot down, and I dragged it away. Sometimes he liked to tickle. No one likes to be tickled, if she does, she's insane and should be promptly locked up somewhere, removed from all genteel society.
'That last method worked very well, though perhaps I'm biased.'
'It was my idea,' I gently reminded. 'But you did all the dirty work. So, how'd you do it this time? How are we going to get out of here in one piece?'
'Easy: I used an alternate method of payment for this hotel room.'
'Alternate—what?'
'Method of payment.' He looked at me. 'Not my credcard.'
'Oh, I see.' I bee-lined for the bathroom. 'I won't ask where you got the cash—or whatever this "alternate method" really is.' My head popped back around the doorframe and into the living room. Zee remained on the couch, resplendent and relaxed. 'Just, um, try not to worry so much.'
He examined himself, the calm way he was sitting, then eyed me curiously. I don't know what he thought in those minutes I was away, but I imagined his thoughts were grave, disordered.
Edit from Zee: My thoughts were disordered, and I was grave. I'm sorry for my behaviour that night. I can see from these notes that I was not quite like myself. You were right, and I was worried. But in those minutes of your absence I was unable to find answers to questions rolling about my head. How could something like this happen? How could the government be so unaware? What would they do if they found out? Was Dr Selig safe? Would it matter whether or not I was able to find out who was responsible?
After combing my hair and changing my shirt, I wandered from the bathroom. Book dust had ravaged my previous t-shirt, and my allergies began flaring. My salmon and veggies had arrived, and I sat at the long dining room table, complete with a fresh flower bouquet, and tried to eat slowly. Zee paced the hallways. Eventually, the allergies got to me, and I sneezed five times in a row. Presently, Zee returned and removed the flowers to the fireplace mantle. I felt better without them right under my nose.
Zee slipped into the nearest chair. He drummed his fingers on the table, then leaned into his arms. 'I've changed my mind,' he said. 'We should go. Tonight.'
I paused. 'Did something happen while I was in the bathroom?'
He stared into his hands.
'So no agents dropped by then, right? You're changing your mind of your own volition, no outside influences, say influences with big, flashy guns that can reduce your metal skin to ash . . . ?'
I'd gone too far and offended, told by Zee's abrupt movement out of the seat. He kept his back to me.
'Sorry,' I mumbled. 'I didn't mean—' I didn't know what I didn't mean. My veggies were a joy to poke at. I poked a pea right off the plate and onto the floor. I bent over to pick it up and must've disappeared for a moment. Zee dashed to the end of the table and found me there, pea between my fingers. 'I just dropped the pea.' It fell on my plate when I let it go.
If anyone ever tells you that it's easy living twenty-four hours, seven days a week in the company of just one other person, he's lying. It's the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. Granted, Zee's easier to deal with than a human. He doesn't argue. He doesn't yell. He has no expectations of me, thus it's impossible to disappoint him. But it did take him a while to learn not to walk in on me when I'm in the bathroom, not to wake me up in the middle of the night just to ask if I knew a crossword puzzle clue, not to tickle me unless you want a wrestling match, and never, ever separate me from chocolate. But he did learn.
We were beyond the point now of asking permission before doing certain things. He grabbed my backpack, for instance, and started throwing my things into it. Generally, I'm a very possessive girl. No one touches my stuff unless they want black eyes and broken ribs. This attitude is, I admit, a touch sour. Okay, a whole lot sour. It stems from living in girls' homes, never being allowed to have anything that was my own. Why would I want someone to touch my stuff? You just don't do that to me. At first I wouldn't even let Zee get near anything I owned. Time passes, and he grows on you, like verdure over a grave. Such things never fazed me anymore, except when realising it doesn't faze me.
The backpack was handed to me, after my satisfying meal. Both of us were stuffed full, me and the backpack. I grabbed it gingerly, dazed by the return of aggressive, despotic Zee. Before, he'd been prematurely surrendering to old age, told by an introverted manner and thoughtful pauses in the middle of lengthy sentences. I hoped it was more the proximity to the NSA's largest western-based presence than the slow, unscrupulous demise of all Infiltration Unit scientists. Some part of Zee was walled up in denial. Even I had difficulty believing someone would want twenty-eight incredibly brilliant individuals destroyed simply because they built incredibly brilliant things, like Zee.
I hugged the backpack, seeing him zip in and out of the rooms to make sure we had everything, no trace of us left behind. I knew it was impossible to do. Everything I owned fit into that little sack in my lap. A sweatshirt. Some socks and undies. Hair baubles. A toothbrush. A comb. Zee housed a piece of my life, too: the picture of my brother, buried in one of his body pockets, a cavity beneath the metal, between implements and wires and neuro-wafers. Not exactly where I would like to keep a reverent object so rare, but that was the way it had to be. Besides, I have a photographic memory, and I can drag that picture of my brother into my mind whenever I want—sometimes not even when I want. Zee said women have better photographic memories than men, but I don't believe him. In my months of running with him, Zee seemed to appreciate the attitudes and emotions of women more than stalwart, emotionless men, like Agent Bennett. Although he had admitted, just once and merely in passing, that Agent West amused.
Zee took my hand and pulled me to my feet. Without words, we left the room and sauntered down the corridor. Zee traipsed ahead, back in the blue-violet coat, its tailored tails sweeping out behind him, a feral dust. I picked up my feet and grabbed his elbow.
'I think you should cut the pace a bit, tinman,' I started. He needed to ask why, but I beat him to it. 'You're oozing just a little too much, er, meanness right now. If you could just take it back a notch, okay? You're going to attract too much attention as soon as we hit the lobby. Everyone'll be looking your way, and your real goal is to blend in, right?'
'Yes.' He froze, realigning himself with this character he was, had been for a long time. Maybe he would be assertive, the bit of him that was real, but Zee Smith would not. He couldn't remember the last time it became too hard to know the difference. 'Thank you.'
I went ahead, proud to protect my friend the way he protected me. 'Let's go, then.' I waited until he was at my side, softer and more at peace. He was going out to change the world, make it better—not destroy it bit by bit. 'Where did you say we were going?'
'I didn't.'
'Right. So where to? Pick a compass direction. There are eight. One will do. For now.'
