Chapter 4
Headquarters, Department of Homeland Security
Washington, D.C.
September 21, 2049
Every morning when he arrived at his office, PJ couldn't help but grin smugly at the knowledge that he had inherited the floorspace made vacant by the swift exit of one "Detective" Markus Douglas, the Conspirium's mole in the Department of Homeland Security, and the man who interrogated him when Suzy tricked the CIA into arresting him earlier that summer. Douglas apparently had quietly slipped away along with Suzy when PJ revealed the Conspirium's presence to the world. As with Suzy, his current whereabouts were unknown, although PJ hoped he wounded up getting eaten by a shark, or something.
Taking his seat, PJ flicked on his computer screen and laid his paw against the security panel to confirm his identification. After a brief scan, the monitor blinked and began to glow in the green colors of his homescreen. He tapped an app on the screen to bring up the newsfeed and scanned some of the morning's headlines.
"Country's last 'drive-thru' supermarket in Waco, TX closes its lanes."
"Anthropomorphic hedgehog robs convenience store, outruns police drones."
"Geneva protest against pollution produced from time machine radiation gains steam."
"Robbie Grayson, country singer and superstar, shaves beard, donates it."
"President Flynn congratulates, offers support to Fireside girl who earned 100 patches while fighting cancer."
"More controversy surrounding NFL androids using performance-enhancing polymers."
"Recall issued for vegan bacon, shortage leads many to time jump to next month."
In PJ's experience, people could generally be split into three groups. There were those who didn't check the news anymore―a large portion of this demographic included the millions of people who spent the majority of their lives in the virtual reality of their Experience Wall. Then there were those who mainly viewed news broadcasts concerning future dates, since major networks now had a catalogue of all their coverage of every day's news posted many hundreds of years into the future, a massive database of information that could be perused online. And finally there were those few traditionalist souls who still watched today's newscasts, as if they wanted to avoid any spoilers about the future. PJ considered himself a realist, so he would both catch up on today's news and get a few days ahead when appropriate and as the need for certain specific information required. If only finding Suzy Johnson were so easy as checking the future news, but somehow she had managed to disappear completely from the timeline. Even with access to time travel, the news still wasn't perfect.
The hedgehog headline interested PJ enough to swipe it past the right side of his screen. The Experience Wall to his right immediately jumped to life and played the video hologram recordings for the story.
"Last night, a convenience store in Sacramento was robbed by an anthropomorphic hedgehog," an attractive reporter named Kathy Thorne explained. "Witnesses say that although police forces sent drones back in time to catch the crook in the act, the drones―which were manufactured to confront and incapacitate human lawbreakers―proved insufficient to handle a much smaller, more agile type of criminal."
"It was like watching a brick try to catch a cheetah," a witness told the microphone that was being held to their chin.
"These talking, anthropomorphic animals are living on the streets," said another, "and they don't have any education, they don't have jobs, and so they turn to crime. It's just sad."
"It's times like these that I am grateful there are no anthropomorphic animals living in my community," said a third witness.
The reporter returned to occupy the fullness of the 3D projection. "Fortunately, no one was hurt, and the only―"
PJ had silenced the broadcast with an angry snap of his fingers. "Stupid people," he growled, "did it ever occur to you that maybe we can't get any jobs because of your discriminating, egotistical, condescending―"
There was a knock on his door, cutting PJ off before he could cuss.
He took a deep breath. "Come in."
Eliot walked in. "Hey boss," he said. "Here's the completed file report on all the Conspirium prisoners we captured and on all the evidence that we impounded from Friday's raid on the warehouse." He tapped a cube onto PJ's desk. PJ motioned a swipe from his monitor to the cube, and it instantly began downloading the data.
"Thanks."
"While you were out yesterday, we also made the last of the prisoner interrogations."
"How'd it go? Wait, let me guess. Nobody talked."
Eliot nodded. "You got it. These Conspirium chumps are hard as steel to break. Literally. I mean, not literally, but, you know what I mean."
PJ sighed. Before the raid on the compound last week, they had managed to capture a handful of Conspirium spies, including a highly publicized affair last month where they arrested the newly inducted Supreme Court justice. (Justice Bensen had been appointed by President Flynn herself, under the influence of Suzy Johnson it had turned out, shocking the nation.) Once arrested, it was always the same. They never spoke a word about the Conspirium's plans, having sworn a secret oath to never reveal them to the United States government. Nobody on PJ's force, or anywhere else in the CIA, FBI, or Department of Homeland Security, had been able to get anything out of them.
"You ever see those old movies where they use the whole 'good cop, bad cop' routine? I wish we could do something like that," Eliot offered. "You'd be the good cop, and then I'd be the bad cop. Smashing noses, busting chairs, doing the thing where you go, 'Hiahh!' And then they go, 'Wyeeeh!' And then you go, 'Hrogh!'" Eliot gesticulated with some elaborate fist movements to demonstrate.
PJ wasn't listening. He was scanning the files he had just downloaded, and something had caught his eye. "Eliot," he said, interrupting his agent's little spree of violence, "what about this one?" He pointed at the screen.
Eliot came around his desk to look. "That's the ugly booger I caught with his pants down. Literally!"
"His polygraph scanners show his blood pressure and perspiration rates were higher than the others'," PJ said.
"Hmm, yeah, I guess they were," Eliot agreed. "Still, he didn't say a word during the entire interrogation, just like the others."
"I know, but he may be the closest to breaking. It looks like he might crack under just a little more pressure." PJ started for the door. "Let's sit this guy back down in the hot seat."
"Already on it, boss," replied Elliot, pressing a finger against his earpiece.
"Stacey Galvin, white male, 23 years old, 5'10", 151 lbs," PJ muttered, reading the prisoner's file. Galvin could be seen through the one-way window sitting alone, staring at his hands, which were resting on the table. PJ was reviewing all their intel as well as the recordings from Galvin's previous interrogation. Ramirez had joined PJ and Eliot in the viewing room to watch. "Lives in Albany. Was bullied a lot in middle and high school," he continued, "only job history is a string of short-lived minimum wage gigs, all of which he quit or was fired from in a matter of weeks."
"Spends most of his time in virtual reality," Ramirez finished for him. "Most of his digital transactions are for first-person shooters. We think that's where he was recruited by the Conspirium―online."
"And he has irritable bowel syndrome," snickered Eliot.
"Grow up," interjected Ramirez.
"How long ago was his last questioning?" PJ asked Ramirez.
"It was yesterday morning, around 11 o'clock."
"Think he's had enough time to simmer?"
All three looked at the prisoner. His complexion was pale and he had a thin frame. His curly, greasy brown hair looked like it hadn't been washed or trimmed in a while. "He looks like he's already starting to sweat," decided Eliot. "Want me to have a go at him?"
PJ waited a full five seconds before he nodded. "Okay, Eliot, but we are not doing the 'good cop, bad cop' routine."
"C'mon, boss, you can trust me!"
PJ and Ramirez watched Eliot let himself in the room through the one-way window. Galvin didn't even glance up.
Rather than take a seat in the empty chair across from Galvin, Eliot sat on the corner of the metal table with a leg hanging over the edge and the other foot on the ground, slightly intruding on Galvin's personal space. "So, Mr. Galvin, I am Jonathan Eliot. Wait―is that right? Galvin? That's a weird name, do you mind if I just call you Stacey? Huh, Stacey?"
Ramirez groaned at PJ's side and started to rub her temple.
Eliot stood and started to pace. "Well, Stacey, before we get started here, I just gotta ask, just one thing. Do you think these shoes bring out my eyes very well? I mean, I'm just asking, one guy to another, one bro to another, because I kind of like the mahogany inseams, but the black leather vamps are supposed to be shined, and I sort of think they'd look good with a little more wear, you know?"
"What is he doing?" Ramirez whispered sharply.
Galvin, for the first time, lifted his eyes from the table to give Eliot a very weird look.
"Sorry, it's just that I'm gay," Eliot said, "so, you know, stereotypes. I like outfits and shoes and stuff. But that's neither here nor there. Anyways…" Eliot waved his hand nonchalantly and sat in the empty seat. "The Conspirium. They're some naughty, naughty people, Stacey. And they are where we found you. So that makes you a naughty boy, Stacey. Yes, very naughty." He was leaning in uncomfortably close.
"Oh my gosh, this is so embarrassing," Ramirez said. "Eliot is such an idiot. Why is he pretending to be gay?"
At that point, Eliot leaned back, away from Galvin, and crossed his legs in front of himself. "You know, Stacey, I've been reading your file, and I feel like we have a connection. You may not feel it yet, but I do. That's why I want what's best for you. And right now, what's best for you is to tell me what you know about the Conspirium." Eliot started to lean in close again. "C'mon, Stacey, you can tell me."
Galvin still had not said a word, but PJ noticed his face was starting to turn red.
"Oh my gosh," Ramirez whispered again, this time, with noticeably more awe. "Eliot is an idiot, but it's working!"
"C'mon, Stacey," Eliot continued to soothe. "Stacey, Stacey, Stacey…"
"STOP CALLING ME THAT!" Galvin exploded.
Eliot didn't seem to flinch under the glare Galvin gave him. PJ and Ramirez glanced at each other.
"What would you like me to call you, then?" Eliot asked, politely.
Galvin was breathing heavily from his outburst and broke eye contact first. "Stacey is a girl's name," he finally uttered. "I only go by 'darkxkillerangel,' my Wallname."
Eliot leaned back and clasped his hands on the table in front of him, looking serious. "darkxkillerangel, then, are you going to tell me what I want to know?"
Galvin shook his head. Eliot stood up. "Why don't I give you some time to think about it?" With that, he turned and paced out the door.
Two seconds later, he slung his way back into the viewing room. "And the award goes to―" he said, raised both arms in the air, and followed up his sentence fragment with a chorus of mock cheering and whistling. Ramirez groaned, and Eliot positioned his body in front of hers before he began to dance in place energetically.
"Yeah, good job, you proved you really can annoy anyone," Ramirez barked, shoving him bodily away when his gyrating got too close to her. "And for the record, if you think that's how gay men act, you are way off."
"Get a hold of yourself, girl!" he answered, recovering his balance. "There is plenty of the Great Jonny Eliot to go around!" He winked at her before taking a seat, leaning back and resting the back of his head against his interlocked fingers. "I could tell just by looking at him that he's homophobic. And it worked!"
"Don't celebrate too much yet," PJ commanded. "We got him to speak, but we still don't have any new information on the Conspirium or Suzy Johnson."
"Relax, we got this in the bag! I have an idea, boss, and if we can pull it off, we'll have this kid spilling the beans like a tiny little chihuahua biting into a Schlocko's Tacos gargantuan burrito. Literally!"
"And what is your plan?"
Eliot grinned.
"No! No! I am not doing that!"
"Aw, c'mon, boss!" Eliot protested. "This kid's a real entitled punk! Going around, asking everyone to call him 'dork's killer angel,' his Experience Wall gamer name? He's probably spent so much time in virtual reality he literally thinks half the games he plays are real life!"
"Look, you can go and embarrass yourself, pretending to be gay to freak him out, but I will not be joining in on the self-embarrassment ride today!"
"You won't embarrass yourself! You'll be a bad-a―" Eliot glanced at Ramirez and checked his language. "―I mean, the bad cop! It'll be great! Let's scare him so much we make him pee his pants!"
"No, Eliot, I am not doing this! No way!"
"This is so stupid," PJ muttered to himself, as he clambered into the cage.
"You'll do great!" Eliot reassured him. "Just act really crazy and be as frightening as you can."
Eliot pushed the cart PJ's cage was loaded on up to the door, opened it, and entered. Galvin looked up immediately this time.
PJ hurriedly got down on all fours, crossed his eyes, furrowed his brows, and started to spin in slow circles inside his cage, as if looking for something. Like maybe his sanity.
"What is that thing?" Galvin asked, scooting back in his chair.
"That," Eliot said proudly, "is a rabid platypus."
"Look, I don't know anything, all right?"
Eliot ignored that. "Did you know that if left untreated, rabies is the most deadly virus on the planet? If the infected isn't vaccinated quickly, the fatality rate is over 99.9%." He lifted the cage off the cart and set it, including PJ, on the table. Galvin was leaning as far back as he could. "The most recognizable symptom in rabid animals is, of course, the drooling."
PJ started drooling on cue.
"Other signs an animal is rabid include aggression and hyperactivity," explained Eliot. PJ started gnawing on a bar to keep up the act. The metallic taste wasn't unpleasant, even if it was a little gross.
"Have you ever wondered why rabies makes them drool?" Eliot asked. "The rabies virus attacks the brain's network of neurons, imbedding a fear of water into the host so deeply that it won't even swallow its own saliva. It's an evolutionary mechanism, on behalf of the virus. Rabies propagates in the salivary glands, making the most convenient way of transmitting the disease through biting and getting its saliva into the bloodstream."
The color had drained out of Galvin's face. "Please, get that thing out of here! I don't know what the Conspirium is planning! I don't know where Suzy Johnson is!"
"But the virus will kill the host mammal before it dies of dehydration," concluded Eliot, as if Galvin were not there. "After the onset of symptoms, even vaccination has no effect, and the host almost always dies. So for the virus to spread, the animal has a limited time to find another victim to bite. It's nature's ticking clock."
PJ lunged at the side of the cage closest to Galvin, rattling the table.
"I swear, I can't tell you anything, I swear!" Galvin was straining at the handcuffs holding him to the table. "Please! No, don't!"
Eliot reached for the pin lock. Galvin was screaming bloody murder.
"NO! DON'T! I'll tell you, alright! I'll tell you!"
Holding back a smirk, Eliot paused with his hand on the lock, and gave Galvin his undivided attention.
Galvin's face shone under a layer of sweat. "Suzy Johnson came and visited the warehouse a couple of days before you guys found us. I overheard her talking about something, I can't remember what, though—"
Eliot rotated his eyes back towards the cage door.
"Wait, no, it's coming!" Galvin squealed. "It was, um, something about—come on, think! She said—Cincinnati! Yes, that was it! Something about Cincinnati, and a club, and a gala!"
"Is Suzy Johnson in Cincinnati?" Eliot asked.
"I don't know, I swear!"
Eliot looked the prisoner over once more. Then, he pulled the pin completely out.
PJ flew out of the cage at Galvin, who was screaming. PJ grabbed him by the collar. After a delay, Galvin realized he hadn't been bitten yet, and timidly silenced his scream. PJ looked him in the eyes, his beak almost touching Galvin's nose. "Thank you," the platypus said simply, releasing his collar.
Galvin stared incredulously before his eyes glossed over and his head flopped back against the chair. He had fainted.
"That was awesome!" Eliot roared exuberantly once they were back outside the interrogation room. "Did you see that, Ramirez? I think we actually did make the guy pee his pants!"
Ramirez had just exited the viewing room to join them. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm actually impressed, Eliot. Where did you learn so much about rabies?"
"You don't know everything about me," he replied.
"Alright, let's focus, people," PJ said, directing the two down the hall. "I want the city of Cincinnati searched for any signs of Suzy Johnson. Check everything we can: traffic recordings, audio command logs, e-credit transactions, you know the drill. Check clubs and bars first. If they even have just a security camera, I want that footage scanned!"
"Yes, sir!"
"And find out what galas are being held in the area," PJ added. "If Suzy Johnson shows her face anywhere, I want us to be there yesterday!"
"Literally!" Eliot exclaimed.
Dee, Struct, and Ives LLC Law Firm
St. Louis, Missouri
September 21, 2049
The vast conference room located on the 39th floor of the third-tallest building in St. Louis overlooks the mighty Mississippi River and the iconic Gateway Arch the city is known for. Its east-facing, four-inch thick windows stretch nearly floor to ceiling, offering some of the best views money can buy as a backdrop when the rich and powerful meet there to discuss business.
At first, the room was empty, until all at once a door opened and it filled with people. There was not a lot of talking—most noises were the scraping of chair wheels on carpet, the shuffling of coats and electronics, the occasional cough or clearing of the throat. Most of the occupants were dressed in business suits. Some were more casual.
The final person to enter the conference room was The King. His robes were cinnamon-red velvet and dangled to just above the floor. The King took his seat at the head of the table, and Suzy Johnson sat at his right hand. Immediately, all eyes were on him.
"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen," he began. "Before we start, we should like to recognize our newest member: Zekiel, welcome to the Conspirium." The King locked eyes with a black man at the end of the table. The man wore the most casual clothes out of everyone in the room, consisting of a baseball cap, multiple piercings, dark jeans, and a sleeveless shirt that showed off his muscular arms, which were covered in tattoos. Zekiel nodded in return.
"Zekiel is the leader of the largest gang on the West Coast, and has contributed a substantial sum to our cause," summarized The King. "Antonio, I expect the two of you to cooperate, as we are all family here."
The most feared mafia leader in the entire Eastern Seaboard, Antonio, dressed in an expensive suit, extracted his cigar from his mouth. "If you say 'e's family, 'e's family. Welcome, brothuh."
Zekiel huffed back.
"Excellent," motioned The King. "Now then, to business! We are days away from commencing operations on Phase One. Senator Cash, how do our supporters in Congress look?"
"I have made a deal with Senator Delitzsch, a compromise of sorts, and in return for my favor, his vote will swing three other senators, ensuring the legislation will have a majority."
"Excellent," repeated The King. "David, what do you have to report?"
"The bombs are ready," said a short, balding man with thick glasses. "Antonio's crew are handling the logistics, and providing the ICBMs. They will be ready to fire at your command."
"Then it appears we have everything in place," noted The King. "Our media contact, Shawn Wisksfromaneyebrow, is likewise prepared to sway public opinion in favor of the Conspirium. Only one final piece has yet to be put in place. Zekiel, that will be your job."
"Name it."
"You have a talent for sparking anarchy. I need you to do this on the biggest scale of all: Washington D.C. With your help, we are going to topple this nation's government."
Zekiel sat up straighter. "Sounds like I'm your guy."
Satisfied, The King smiled. "Antonio will bring you up to speed on the details. As for the rest of you," The King's emerald green eyes swept across the room, "you all know what you have to do. Once America has fallen, I will become King, and you will all have your seats as governors and judges over your parcels of the continent, ruling under my authority. We will have our rights restored, and our destinies will finally be fulfilled. To the Conspirium!" He raised the diamond and emerald studded scepter held in his right hand.
"The Conspirium!" A chorus rang around the table. With that, everyone stood to leave.
"Antonio," The King asked, and the mob boss waited behind until the room emptied. "Do you have a couple of men to spare?"
"Of course," he replied.
"Suzy here has need of a few—what did you call them?"
"Meatheads," said Suzy.
"Forgive my asking, ma'am, but what do you need 'em for?"
Suzy wore a distant look. "Let me answer that by asking you a question. How do you kill someone for good, someone very important, if someone can always just travel back in time to save them?"
Antonio didn't have a quick answer. "If only I knew."
The dark look that crossed the face of Suzy Johnson gave him the willies.
Headquarters, Department of Homeland Security
Washington, D.C.
September 21, 2049
"Hey Boss, you should take a look at this," Tui hollered from across the office. PJ's entire team had been been searching for any tips or leads on Suzy Johnson in Cincinnati since morning, and so far, they had turned up nothing.
PJ pattered over to Tui's desk. "What is it?"
"I think we've been looking in the wrong place this whole time." Tui rolled back his chair and swiveled the monitor to project PJ's way.
It displayed an announcement card written in bright, bold lettering. PJ read the large print.
To celebrate the new discovery of an original letter written by the hand of George Washington, the Cincinnati Society will be holding this year's gala in the Capitol Building, Auditorium C, on September 25, 2049. Dinner will be at 7 p.m., the unveiling of the letter is at 8.
"This clipping was in last week's news," Tui explained.
"What is the Cincinnati Society?" PJ asked.
Tui typed a few keys. "Some sort of secret society, I guess. Dedicated to preserving the principles of, and public interest in, the Revolutionary War. Membership is hereditary and patriarchal."
By now, the rest of the team were all crowding up to the screen. "Not another blasted secret society," whined Eliot.
"Okay," said PJ, "but what connection does Suzy Johnson have to the Cincinnati Society?"
"I think I know." Tui hit another key. The screen scrolled down. PJ read along on the monitor as Tui read it out loud for the others. "Several members of Congress will be in attendance at the gala, and President Isabella Flynn will be attending as a special guest speaker."
PJ cursed under his breath. "Suzy is planning another attack on President Flynn!"