Chapter 3
"Something's definitely rotten in Denmark," she said dramatically. But her words were met with a curious stare.
"Den…mark," said Dr. Maeda, confused by Jodie's reference. "I don't understand…"
"Sorry, it's from a play," she said, worried that she was taking too much of his time. Maeda obviously had a better grasp of what was going on than anyone else, and yet no one would let him access any of the collected information. So instead he sat with her in the hotel bar, sipping at his Coca Cola.
"Ah, I see," he said, scratching his ruffled hair. Jodie wondered when the good doctor had last combed his hair, and was thinking early summer as she took a sip from her orange juice. She had no idea how he could handle sugar so early in the morning.
"I still don't see why they won't let you into the archives," she whined, and noticed him staring intently at her again. Pierce had told her it was because of the language barrier, that Maeda was better at learning words through their formation on the lips, but Jodie had her own suspicions that Maeda was simply a pervert. She had known deaf children who stared less.
"They very direct men," nodded Maeda, straightening his glasses. "They know what they want."
"What's that even mean," she asked, put out. Pierce had dumped Maeda on her for a few hours, and she was already regretting the agreement.
"Strong forces at play," he said ominously. "Very strong; they will need preparation and focus to survive."
"Like what," she asked curiously. This was finally getting good.
"Mitochondria evolves," he replied politely. "Not just in a few, but every person. We are seeing the greatest jump in its evolution in only one generation's time. Before, that only affected a few…Aya and Maya, thanks to those experiments. Now, we are beginning to see it affect others…like you and me. Neo-mitochondria will be a thing of the past if we continue on this road."
"You're saying that…everyone will be affected…?"
"If Mr. Pierce and I are right, then…yes," he nodded.
"But how can a person change so much in just one life?"
"Humans evolve everyday. Our immune systems adapt to new viruses, our blood stream flows faster when we get ill. As large systems, we change very little, mostly on the outside. It is within ourselves that the greatest changes take place."
"That's very philosophical," said Jodie admiringly, to which Maeda beamed. "But you're talking about sicknesses and diseases…what about normal, everyday life?"
"For such a drastic change in ordinary humans, there would have to be a catalyst, like a pandemic, on a scale that the world has never seen before, to trigger this sudden an evolutionary step…really more of a leap, actually."
"And if not…?"
"Maybe nothing," he shrugged. "It is impossible to say."
"You sounded pretty sure a moment ago."
"A scientist makes his hypothesis first, finds evidence later."
"It's a rather ambitious theory anyways," interrupted Pierce, sliding into a seat between the two.
"Pierce," said Jodie, annoyed as she motioned to her watch. "About time."
"Had to make an important call," he said with the hint of a smile on his face.
"Only one person can make you smile like that," ribbed Jodie. "How's Aya doing?"
"Ay—Agent Brea is fine, Jodie," he replied, taking a professional tone to his voice. "She and Rupert should be here in a couple hours."
"Did you find anything else out," asked Maeda, his own ears picking up suddenly at Aya's name. Seeing the glint in his eye, Jodie wondered with a sigh if there were any man out there not in some way infatuated with Aya. Probably Rupert, she thought, and that was it.
"Nothing we could've said over the phone," whispered Pierce, digging through the bowl of salty pretzels.
"What about Eve," inquired Maeda, slurping the last of his Coke noisily through a straw.
"No word on her," replied Pierce sadly. "She's still under observation at the hospital. After the preliminary tests are completed, she'll be shipped off to a temporary foster home, I bet."
"That's terrible," said Jodie. "Aya will be crushed."
The two men nodded in agreement, keeping their thoughts on the matter to themselves.
"Any word on Baldwin," asked Jodie.
"He went into the Director's office two hours ago, and never came out. I set up an 'eye in the sky', but nothing yet."
"You and those stupid hidden cameras, Pierce," said Jodie. She had once suspected that Pierce had set up a couple of them in the women's locker room, but he had made them so small that they were almost impossible to detect.
"A peeping tom never leaves home without it," he laughed.
Maeda frowned, furrowing his brow. "A peeping what?"
"Never mind," said Jodie, certain that Maeda and Pierce were more alike than they were letting on.
--
The interrogation room was far nicer than he would ever have suspected. The seating was soft and accommodating, the climate perfectly set with generous natural lighting. In the back of his mind, however, he knew this wasn't an everyday interrogation. This was more of a business transaction.
"Not bad digs, eh," asked the agent, motioning for him to sit.
"I've seen better," shrugged Baldwin, taking the proffered seat.
"My name is Agent Donaldson," said the agent, bowing slightly. "To my left is our transcriber, Ms. Seals, and those two agents by the door are two very skilled men sent to ensure your safety."
Baldwin nodded to the agent, smiling slightly at the woman, and completely ignored the two agents at his back. He had never respected mindless grunts. Donaldson was a bit husky, his large size betrayed by his nasally voice. He was of a friendly disposition, however, perfectly suited to this kind of work. There was no need for the 'bad cop' mentality; his suspect had already been broken, and was all too willing to spill his guts in exchange for his freedom.
"Anytime you're ready, sir," signaled Donaldson.
"Where should I start," wondered Baldwin aloud.
"Tell us a little about your setup, the transfer of money and so forth," suggested Donaldson, waving the pencil in his hand.
"I was wired money to an offshore account weekly, with vastly varying amounts of cash. Sometimes it would be less than a thousand dollars, other times well over five thousand. In the end, the monthly totals would equal about ten thousand. I, in turn, installed a macro into our system database that would record any data transmitted via email, fax, and so on, copying the file into a disk cache that I could send to my…benefactors, in addition to whatever pertinent files I deemed necessary to transmit manually."
"How long back do these payments go," asked Donaldson, flipping through a folder that Baldwin knew to contain his finances.
"Over two years," replied Baldwin without batting an eye; he had nothing to fear. These people weren't here to judge him. As far as he was concerned, once he walked out of that door, he would be a free man, given a new identity, a new life.
"And where did these payments come from?"
"Honestly, I couldn't tell you. There were always different accounts or companies wiring the money."
"And who were you selling the information to? Who had paid to build the Neo-Ark?"
"It was another dummy corporation; I checked them out on my own, of course, and found out that they didn't really exist other than on paper. It was a shadow—"
Before he could go on, he felt a breath of movement on the back of his neck, a whispered disturbance of the air behind him. He wheeled in his seat, looking around him.
"What is it," asked the agent, looking up from his file.
"Did you feel…something in here? Just a moment ago?"
"It was probably just the air vent."
"No, this wasn't air. It was—it was…"
"What," asked Donaldson, annoyed by the interruption. "What was it?"
"It was someone's…breath," replied Baldwin. "I'm certain of it…!"
"Listen, Mr. Baldwin…you're being setup in witness protection in exchange for the information you're going to give us. If you try to hold out now—"
"Listen, you stupid bastard!" yelled Baldwin, slamming his fist against the table as he leapt to his feet, pulling at his hair. "I'm here to tell you everything! But those people…you don't understand…!"
"This facility is the most secure installation in the western hemisphere, Mr. Baldwin," said Donaldson patiently. "There are over a thousand expertly-trained men and women here with the sole purpose of protecting the people within…the walls can withstand anything save a nuclear strike. And even then, we're far enough underground to survive that, with supplies to last us into the next century. You're panicking over nothing."
His words seemed to somehow calm Baldwin, who reluctantly returned to his seat.
"You're right, you're right," agreed Baldwin, running his hand coolly through his disheveled hair.
"Now, where were we…?"
"I was telling you about the company that funded the Neo-Ark's construction…"
"Yes…tell us all about it…"
--
The GTO tore through the city's busy streets, leaping off a low hill before meeting the ground roughly.
"Jesus, Aya," yelled Rupert, hanging onto the top of the car for dear life. "Slow down!"
In response, she jackknifed the car through the intersection, dropping the clutch and accelerating wildly in the opposite direction.
"What are you—? Why are we going back that way!?"
"Short cut," she replied through gritted teeth. The accelerator was plowing well past 80 mph in a 35 mph zone, and Rupert was certain as anything in his life that someone was going to die, and soon.
"There are people on the streets—Aya!"
Weaving the car in and out of the oncoming traffic, she brazenly raced on the wrong side of the road at full throttle. Rupert couldn't help but think about her lack of sleep, and that it had somehow caused her to become quite clearly insane.
"Do you at least have a siren for this thing," he asked, bracing both hands against the dashboard.
"Why," she asked in response, pulling the emergency brake as they whipped around a corner. Rubber screeching in his ears, he couldn't quite make out the rest of what she had said as she turned the wheel sharply into the turn.
"Where are we going," he asked resignedly, double-checking his seatbelt. He knew nothing he said would make a difference to Aya's frenetic pace, just as he knew nothing she said would alter him.
"To see an old friend."
--
The session closed, Baldwin let out a sigh of relief. The other people in the room seemed to agree with this notion, but probably could have gone on for many more hours. As it was, they had spent nearly four hours in the room, the questions coming and going until he felt like his head was about to burst.
Agent Donaldson was gathering up his things, securing the recording in an enforced alloy briefcase. It was more of a safe than anything, two combination locks and a slot for a data encrypted key device. Noting this, Baldwin tucked the information away before turning his attention to the session's stenographer.
Ms. Seals was attractive in a bookish sort of way, her short brown hair tucked behind her ears with cloudy green eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses. She couldn't have been more than 30, her face still surprisingly innocent. Baldwin was by no means a pervert like other powerful men his age, but he appreciated beauty wherever he saw it.
The two agents at the door exited to secure the hallway, leaving him alone with her and Donaldson, who was also already at the door with his items. Approaching her, Baldwin noticed she wore no wedding band. Not that it would have stopped him anyways.
"Ms. Seals, was it…?"
She fixed her crooked glasses in such a way that sent a shiver down his spine.
"Yes," she replied timidly, before she turned those endless green eyes on him. "What is it?" Her voice was somehow stronger now.
"I was just—ah, you know," fumbled Baldwin, taken aback by her tone. "I was wondering…"
"Sorry," she said coldly. "I don't date scummy rats."
"B-but I—"
"Did what you had to save your ass, right? Don't think doing the right thing once erases all the horrible things you did for all those years. And for what…a little bit of money? Men like you—people like you—make me sick. You think a fancy suit and hair plugs makes everyone around you forget what a sleazy piece of shit you are. You make me sick," she repeated, her eyes leveled at him the whole time.
"I-I'm sorry you feel that way," he stammered out. Turning to the door, he saw Donaldson's smirk, the familiar way in which he touched the small of Ms. Seals back as she exited the room.
"Women," he shrugged, but hiding his pleasure.
"Bitches," spat Baldwin. "Every last one of them," he added, storming out. But when he reached the door, he felt a gust of wind rush past him, slamming the door shut with the two men still inside. The lock snapped down.
"What the—?"
"Oh my god…they're here," cried Baldwin, digging his fingers into his temples. "They're here for me!"
"Shut up, Baldwin," ordered Donaldson, his pleasantness all but gone. And why wouldn't it be; he had the information he needed. Reaching into his jacket, the agent removed an automatic pistol, its barrel long and ugly. From the other side of the door, the men could hear Ms. Seals pounding on the metallic surface.
"What's going on, Neil," she yelled, and then to someone else, "Use the key, you idiot!"
"It's ok, Christine," he said calmly. "I think it was just—"
Before he could finish, he felt something clamp along the back of his neck, the cold icy grip of something irresistibly strong and forceful. This same force lifted him up, the metallic corners of something sharp digging into his spine. His fingers went numb, the pistol skidding to the floor. The next sensation he felt was the claws of his assailant tearing into his spine, ripping his throat out from the back of his neck. He was dead before he hit the floor.
"Oh my god," wept Baldwin, finding a desperate hope when he saw the gun. Diving for it, he grasped it in shaking fingers, sweeping the barrel in blind arcs across the room as he backed into a corner. "You stay the hell back!"
His eyes seemed to lose focus when the attacker came into view. He had seen the trail of blood along some sort of appendage at first, not realizing that the rest was seemingly invisible. But that was impossible. Only when she flickered into view did he realize that his eyes weren't playing tricks on him.
"Hi," she said. He recognized her immediately; she had been an agent directly under his supervision a couple of years ago, but he could remember nothing else about her. "Not having much luck with the ladies today, huh," she asked, gazing intently at the blood dripping down her arm.
She was dressed in a hybrid of the Golems' uniforms, with less armor but heavier ordinance. The dark purple of the suit contrasted sharply with the metallic sheen of her light armor. Ghostly pale skin, her lips were almost invisible. Even her once blue eyes were tinted white.
"Don't you recognize me, boss," she asked, paying no heed to his leveled handgun.
Before he could answer, the steel door in at her side swung open, the two agents charging in with their weapons drawn. Grasping each of their weapons, she pulled the men off balance, spinning in a wild arc to eject a claw-like weapon from her wrist. The blade met the first agent at his midsection, tearing open his stomach and spilling out greasy entrails. The other agent she grabbed with her free hand, and he suddenly screamed in agony, pawing desperately at his face. As she released her hand, the agent's face was melting, the soft flesh dripping down his chest as he fell.
"Not bad, eh," she asked, turning back to Baldwin. But the gun in his hand was already blazing, the barrel launching hot lead at the assassin. Though Baldwin didn't realize it, he had been screaming as he emptied the clip into her.
"Not good enough," he spat, getting to his feet. He had been an excellent marksman in his day, and he was confident each of the rounds had found their way into his would-be assassin. She lay crumpled on the ground amidst the dead agents. Baldwin only took his eyes off her once, to nod to the sobbing Ms. Seals. Approaching her cautiously, he reached for one of the other fallen agents' gun, an M93 burst handgun. Standard issue for MIST, it was a gun he was familiar with.
He released a short burst into the fallen woman, her inert body shuddering as each round met her. Another three shot burst and he was certain she was dead.
"Go get help," he yelled at Ms. Seals, but she was kneeling by Agent Donaldson, sobbing as she held his bloodied face in her hands. Baldwin crouched at her side, about to express words of consolation, when he saw the soft blue glow emanating from the corpse he had just poured over twenty rounds into.
Risa rose slowly to her feet, her eyes burning with a distinctly blue energy, the likes of which Baldwin had only seen once before in his life.
"E-eve…?" he stammered, shaking. Sensing the grave danger, he shoved the weeping woman through the door, hearing the sound of pounding footsteps down the hallway: reinforcements. He doubted it would make a difference if his suspicions were correct.
--
"Aya," he said happily. "Good to see you again!"
"Same here, Mr. Douglas," she said, stepping into his hotel room. He had followed the trio a bit late out to the east coast, first securing the rest of his collection to prevent ATF from finding his more…dubious items. Though he had done the job well, there were still a few questions for him to answer, and so he had joined the exodus.
"Still dressing for fashion shows, huh," he noted disapprovingly, but she could see the flicker of playful joyfulness in his eye.
"Only for you, Mr. Douglas," she winked, kneeling to scratch Flint behind his ears. "And you too, of course, Flint," she added, to the dog's own joyful bark.
"And who's that hiding in the shadows there," asked Mr. Douglas.
"Oh, sorry," apologized Aya sheepishly. "This here is my friend, Mr. Rupert Broderick."
Rupert stepped into the room with a slight nod, sizing up Mr. Douglas in the same motion. Flint growled at the man, and softened only when Aya rubbed under his neck.
"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Broderick," said Mr. Douglas, extending his hand. They briefly shook, the room filled with an awkward silence.
"Well, don't everyone talk at once," quipped Aya, getting to her feet.
"I'm just trying to figure out why we're here, Aya," said Rupert. "Weren't we on the way to do something important?"
"Don't worry, Rupert," she assured him. "This is something right up your alley…both your alleys, now that I think about it."
"What is it, Aya," asked Mr. Douglas, his curiosity piqued. Both men looked at her questioningly.
"Guns," she answered. "From what I've been hearing, all our testimony is being tossed out, the case closed. If that's the case, the MIST department will no doubt be shut down as well, our privileges and weapons taken away. I wanted to make sure that if that happened, we could count on you to be our, eh, supplier."
"I don't know," said Mr. Douglas. "The ATF has been coming down quite hard on me since the whole incident…"
"And Rupert here has contacts in that agency," offered Aya. "He can make the pressure vanish, right, Rupert?"
"I don't know about 'vanish'," he said gruffly.
"You know, I did see a set of lovely Maeda mods in Mr. Douglas' inventory…"
"Really," asked Rupert, trying to cover his sudden interest with a feigned cough. "I mean…I've been looking for some of those."
"I've got quite a few, actually," said Mr. Douglas, sensing a sales opportunity. "A long barrel for increased long-range accuracy…an extended handle grip to lessen recoil…a raised sight for faster aiming…a tighter grooved cylinder for a faster rate of fire…"
Aya nudged Rupert playfully at each enhancement, and he couldn't deny that those were all things he sought to improve.
"Ok, ok," he finally agreed. "I can reach my contact this afternoon, but I can't promise that it'll all disappear…there will still be an inquiry, and you'll probably still have to make an appearance in court."
"I can handle that," said Mr. Douglas. "As I'm sure you can handle my very fair prices."
Before Rupert could voice his objections, Aya was pushing him out the door, profusely thanking Mr. Douglas. Flint barked once more at her, and she flashed him one of her winning smiles to quiet him.
"Prices? That guy is—"
"A devout businessman," interjected Aya. "His equipment is worth the cash, though. Top of the line stuff."
"And 100 percent illegal," he grunted.
"Now, now," said Aya, trying to calm him down, before thinking of something. "Well, maybe 90 percent illegal…but who are we to judge?"
--
