Captain Nixon is the attaché to a Colonel Rothesay. Colonel Rothesay is a neat, trim little man who acts as a liaison between the GDF and various technological sectors throughout the world. He's also owned, long ago blackmailed, and then bought and paid for, by the Hood.
Which is why the version of Colonel Rothesay waiting for his assistant in a disused office building in San Jose is not, in fact, Colonel Rothesay at all. He'll introduce his assistant as Captain Nixon, who doesn't actually exist, except as a composite ID put together by the Hood's own forces and covered for by the real Colonel Rothesay. But the real Colonel Rothesay is lying low and incommunicado, while the Hood wears his name and his face and plans to infiltrate a GDF facility.
The real Colonel Rothesay is expected at a meeting of high level GDF officials with the Global Council for Innovation and Technology. It's all quite secretive. But there's a reason the Hood owns the man he does, and Colonel Rothesay has been his inside track to the entire nasty exchange between the GDF and International Rescue. The good Colonel has been influential in the debate about the AI discovered aboard Thunderbird 5. Global Law dictates that the AI must be deleted, in compliance with rulings set forth about the ethics of sentience in technology and the hazards it presents to the world at large. The organization responsible for enforcing Global Law dictates how long exactly that process is going to take. There's plenty to be learned from complex AI. And complex AI that's been developed independently and seized by the GDF presents a unique opportunity. Artificial Intelligence can't be deliberately created. But if it's arisen organically, then there's an obligation to study it, safely, and in a closed environment.
This is what the meeting's going to be about. John doesn't know it yet, but he's about to be in the position to be one of the only experts in a room full of GDF brass. That's why Captain Nixon exists at all, as a consultant on the current state of global IT. John's maybe a bit better qualified for the imaginary position than he realizes.
When he closes the bathroom door behind him, he catches the Hood's attention.
"Well, now, don't you look tremendously smart, Captain."
It's the Hood's voice, but the face he's wearing doesn't match it. It's not the first time John's seen this tech up close, but it's the first time he's been coherent enough to observe it. And it really is remarkable. It maps precisely to the movements of his mouth beneath it as he speaks, a perfect facsimile of a man with a jowly, broad face and neatly combed, thinning gray hair. His uniform is rather more elaborate than the one John's wearing, and he carries himself with the stiff, rigid bearing of an older man with strict ideals.
The Hood's entire manner has changed, and there's a brief fluctuation, a warble of his voice, and then the pitch of it changes, deepens and grows coarse. John makes the sudden mental connection between the man's intense melodrama and the fact that he's a consummate actor. The Hood, presumably, is just as much a persona as any other he adopts. John's not sure if this is useful information, but he files it away anyway. As far as resources go, information is really all he can acquire at the moment.
The information being given is offered in the stern, clipped tone of a military officer. John deliberately has to listen and not marvel at how well and completely the Hood's transformed himself. "You will be acting as my personal assistant. Your face will be mapped and masked, you'll be given the appropriate credentials, and you'll familiarize yourself with the basics of GDF protocols. You will address me as Colonel Rothesay, Colonel, or sir. Is that clear?"
John nods and a pair of dark gray eyes are narrowed at him for a moment before he catches on. "Yes, sir."
He gets a curt nod in answer, and the Hood continues, "There's a conference being held at the local GDF base, I am expected. You will sit in on the initial briefing as my attache, and then as the meeting proper proceeds, you will be taken to the server where your AI is being kept. Nominally your task is to evaluate the program and draw up a report on my behalf. Once you've gained access to the server, do whatever you need to in order to obtain a copy of the program."
"How?"
"Quickly and without attracting attention," the Hood answers, terse and impatient.
"I don't know how this system works."
"You'll figure it out."
John balks slightly, but doesn't know what to say, because it's true. Probably he will, but it doesn't mean he's not anxious about actually trying it. He's passing familiar with GDF systems, but not at this level. The pacemaker in his chest is designed to be capable of universal connection and wireless data transfer, but it's untested, and John's not sure how easy it will be to transfer EOS' code over an internally secured connection. Probably he's going to need to bypass GDF security, and he's not entirely sure how he'll do so. There was a point in time when he'd dreamt up the entire scheme, when he'd been fully and completely confident in the clarity of his thoughts and that a little thing like a secured GDF system couldn't possibly present any significant obstacle. Now, with empirical proof that he's not operating at his full mental capacity, he's less sure of himself.
The memory of the plan he'd first conceived is halcyon in its simplicity. John had maybe always known it for a fantasy, and in the long, idle hours he'd spent dreaming up the way he'd do it, he'd inadvertently told himself it would be easy. He'd imagined talking to Colonel Casey, convincing her to let him say good-bye to his AI. Despite the way IR and the GDF have grated against each other over the course of the whole affair, she's still an old family friend, and she's always been sympathetic. There'd been a bouquet of flowers, bright yellow tulips, in his hospital room and she'd been the one who'd sent them. He'd been relatively confident in his ability to win over Colonel Casey, and he'd always had Lady Penelope as a backup plan. Convinced of the need for it, there's almost nothing in the world Penelope can't exert her considerable social influence on, and John knows he's one of her oldest friends. John had always planned to get here, he just hadn't been certain of his strategy once he had.
At least the Hood has that covered.
"You will be addressed by GDF personnel, keep your conversations with them brief and to the point. Make no attempt to enlighten anyone as to your actual identity, everyone you encounter should come away with the impression that you are aloof and standoffish. Everything you say will be monitored."
"I'm not going to try and—"
There's a curl of the Hood's lip and a hard, ferocious stare. "You're not going to try anything, John Tracy, because the slightest hint of rebellion will result in a massive cardiac event that kills you where you stand, and I'll accomplish my goals another way. Now, hold still."
There are still technicians in the room, still busying themselves with the computer terminal, and after a gesture from the Hood one of them breaks from the group to approach John. John's taller than everyone else in the room, and none of them are particularly intimidating, but he still shrinks away from the contact. The technician passes a glowing green wand over his face, a handheld 3D scanner. He exchanges some data with another coworker (co-henchmen? it's odd to have to think of these people as coworkers, when demonstrably they work for a supervillain), and then swaps the wand for a pair of glasses. These are placed on the bridge of John' nose and there's a brief shimmer across his field of vision. For a minute it plays hell with his own display and he has to blink rapidly to reset his own holograms.
A mirror is held up in front of John's face, and he's now a dusty brunette with an aquiline, Roman nose and a far stronger jaw than he has himself. His features are heavier, darker, and he can't help but reach up to touch his face. His fingers phase through the hologram and the effect is eerie and unsettling. Every tiny movement and reaction plays across the image, and John wants a few more hours to play with the technology, but knows he won't get the chance. Past the boundary of the mirror, he sees the Hood, watching him, with an oddly amused smile.
"We're neither of us strangers to masks, are we, John? I think I shall enjoy our partnership immensely."
It's the word "we" that makes John's spine crawl, makes him shudder with loathing for the man in front of him, the man he's in thrall to; that hand around his heart. The fact that the Hood would dare try to make any kind of connection between them—that he would suggest they have anything in common—it's too much to let pass without comment. "We're not partners."
The Hood just laughs at this and John feels a hot flush of anger across his face, hopes against hope that the hologram doesn't display this. He has to wonder just when it was that he got so easy to read—and there's a sickening twist of his gut when he thinks about the word "masks", and the fact that yes, usually he wears one. He hides his face behind seriousness and professionalism and the need to maintain the calm presence of the dispatcher. It's harder when he's not the one in charge. It sounds impotent, childish, but he can't help insisting, "We're not. You said you'd kill me if I don't cooperate, that doesn't make me your partner."
"Oh? You came to me, John Tracy. It's the strength of my empire you need, my force of will. Partnerships have been founded on less." There's an uncomfortable moment when the Hood looks him up and down, evaluating with that face, those eyes that aren't his. John doesn't know Colonel Rothesay, but he's starting to hate him and the unfairness of that prickles some deep part of his conscience, that he can hate a man he's never even met. "So you've finally found the fortitude to know what you want and to take it? Then you're the first of your brothers to even be worth my time. Perhaps Jeff Tracy lives on after all."
It's almost beguiling, how quickly the man can move between moods. Mercurial. One minute threatening John's life, and the next, offering out a hand in an almost plausible friendship. Presumably he's trying to be complimentary. But the worst part is the way he just has the words. John's at a loss, processing the conversation a beat too late, getting caught and snagged on implications and double-meanings, and hates the man who's really in front of him, for having more information than he has.
Briskly, now, utterly unperturbed by John's sudden blankness. "You'll find your life to be easier if you cooperate with me. It might even improve, who's to say? Your father sold his sons into the slavery of his ideals. Tell me there's not a certain amount of freedom in being beyond that loathsome righteousness."
With a hand around his heart or not, John's still six inches taller than the Hood is, and he takes a step forward, and glares at the older man. "Don't talk to me about my father."
There's a glint in the gray eyes that glare right back up at him, unintimidated. He doesn't even bother to reach for the device in his pocket, he just puts a fingertip squarely against the fresh scarring on John's chest and watches the younger man flinch behind his mask. "I'll talk to you about whatever I wish," he answers, and his teeth are yellow and his breath is oddly sweet when, leaning forward, he continues in a low, theatrical whisper, "And perhaps you might not be fool enough to ignore the insight of a man who knew your father better than you ever did. It's not the first time I've partnered with your family."
There's no double-meaning there. What the Hood's just said is clear, unambiguous. But stepping back, turning away for lack of anywhere to run to and knowing he can't control what plays across his face, John still doesn't understand. And he's not sure he wants to.