Chapter 2
TWO
“He’s cleared the base, sir.” An anonymous male voice, a brief burst of static through the handheld receiver.
Bronson pressed the button, wincing at the thought of the next budget request forms to be filled out. “Ten-four. Eyes on the prize all the way.”
“Affirmative. Red Rooster out.” The man on the other end didn’t sound happy about the overtime, but that wasn’t Richard Bronson’s problem, no sir.
He turned the talkie off and set it in its lead-lined drawer, then leaned back in the creaking black ergonomic chair, settling with a sigh and regarding the screen on the other side of the room.
The stack of paperwork wasn’t enticing, but at least he had a good report.
Buried down here in this windowless black-walled office, it was hard to believe there was a world outside sliding toward chaos and terrorism, a world that needed people like him to fight the good fight and prop up democracy.
There wasn’t a lot of satisfaction to be had sitting behind a desk and pushing paper around, or in debriefing arrogant superhuman jarheads.
He wondered, not for the first time, if he should bring a poster down here, something motivational. A kitten—Just Hang On.
And, like he did each time, he dismissed the thought as a little less than manly.
There was no sound from behind him, where she would be standing.
There never was. He cleared his throat, made a mental note to have lunch delivered.
He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Sitting across the table from the Frankensteins gave him the willies.
Their matter-of-fact recitations of the things they did, even with all the code words and jargon, wore on him. “Three?”
“Sir.” Flat and neutral, her voice, just like a computer’s. Despite that, it was pleasant; she had a light alto purr. Before she’d been... modified, it had probably been a phone-sex siren’s song.
“Anything to add?”
“No, sir.”
There rarely was, but he still asked. Sometimes it was good to have a ritual.
Really, he liked hearing her, even if it might as well have been a recording.
If there was such a thing as full success when dealing with modifying a human being, she represented it.
The only trouble was the hands-off bit of the contract.
If they could just make a more... physically amenable version, the applications—and profit—of the induction process could be intriguing indeed.
The viral process, though, couldn’t be sold. There was probably profit there, but selling that to Commies or terrorists wasn’t a good, red-blooded American thing to do. That was why Division had government oversight.
Such as it was.
“Okay.” He spent a few moments tapping at the pad, keying in passwords, the thumblock scan giving him a brief shiver, as always. The secure uplink began loading, and on the other end, a light would be flashing.
He was precisely on time. Control disliked tardiness.
The bluescreen came up, a smear showing as the scrambler ticked along a stripe at the bottom of the picture.
The blurred figure sharpened, but only enough to give you a headache if you stared for too long.
Control settled into a chair as well, and the familiar click.
Cigarette lighter, perhaps? Or recording equipment?
Why would Control bother with analog when digital was so easy and secure?
Scrambled and modulated, Control’s deep voice burbled from the sleek speakers. “How’s our boy, Bronson?”
“Which one, sir?” Always best to be precise. He’d learned that early on in this job.
A weirdly modulated laugh. “The one who just came back. The news is full of running and screaming. Goddamn chickens, all of them.”
Well, that was a good sign. It was the intended effect of sending Six out—that, and eliminating a troublesome rallying point for the opposition to some very important policies. “I’ve sent my notes, the feed of his debrief and analysis—”
“I know, Dick. I’m asking you for a verbal rundown. How’s Number Six?”
“Just the same, sir. Low emotional noise, performs beautifully. Can’t find a damn thing wrong with him or his work. The only problem is—”
“—his habit of going off by himself, yes.” Control paused. “I interrupted. My apologies. You were about to tell me something else?”
How did the man do it? It was goddamn unreal.
Bronson’s stomach rumbled a little. Maybe a salad would be better; his last doctor had clucked something stupid about cholesterol at him. “I have an analysis that says he’s got more noise than he’s showing.”
“Yes, our pet actuary. I’m sure it’s dressed up with percentages.”
“Never been wrong before, sir.” Really, once emotion was taken out of it, the human brain was a fine instrument.
The thought of a bacon cheeseburger cropped up. Maybe with onion rings. He could treat himself. Maybe he’d even send Three to carry it up from the front desk when it arrived.
A short silence. Whatever was going through Control’s head was probably unpleasant, but at the moment Bronson didn’t care as much he might. Finally, the voice came through the speakers again, a little sharper this time. “You want resources to keep following him around?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Not so sure about your wonder boy as you used to be?”
As if this wasn’t Control’s project all the way, and the profits from the civilian side going into deep, deep crony pockets. The economic benefit to democracy was ancillary, but that was enough for Mrs. Bronson’s boy Ritchie. “I believe in being safe, sir.”
“Humph.” Another slight click, a tapping noise. A pen against a desktop, maybe. “Granted. He’s due back in two days?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want a full psych workup on him then. Let’s see if our little insurance adjustor is right.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How’s Eight?”
Bronson almost winced. “Still unfortunate.”
“Still hiding that girl, huh? A shame. Well, as long as his performance doesn’t suffer, he can keep going. They can’t all be as bright as our boy Six.”
“No, sir.”
“Carry on, then.” A sudden movement, and the screen blanked. Bronson held his breath until it powered down all the way. Then he exhaled. His armpits were damp.
After a short while, his chair squeaked a little as he turned.
Across the office’s dim interior, he could barely see the slim womanshape near the door, hair sleeked back, a gleam of her eyes, just the barest suggestion of the tailored blazer.
Even if she wasn’t as voluptuous as he might have preferred, she still had good legs, and he liked seeing them. “Lights, Three.”
“Yes, sir.” A brisk, efficient movement, and the sudden flood of illumination stung. He blinked, surveyed her legs again and once more noticed her depressing dearth of chest. She was getting skinny.
“Analysis, Three.”
“Confusion, sir.”
Well, that was unexpected. He blinked, examining her blank, serene expression. Like a doll. No makeup, but flawless skin. Maybe he should order her to wear lipstick, something slut-red. Now that would be exciting.
“Yes? I mean, ah, please explain.” Goddamn it. They should have succeeded in complete emotional noise suppression with a man; it grated on you to have to ask something with tits for an explanation.
She didn’t move, her hands empty and loose, her stillness eerie.
Her shoes were functional black nurse’s brogans instead of a nice pair of heels.
Of course, she was supposed to be a bodyguard, too.
“Control is exhibiting less attention to detail, and is also allowing emotional noise to become more of a variable in program processes. This is a marked change. It indicates the program itself is drifting.”
Bodyguard in a skirt. What was the world coming to?
“Damn.” Now that he thought about it, she was right.
That was the shortest call he’d had with Control in a while, and there had been other program agents brought in and canceled for less deviance than Eight was currently displaying. Were they loosening protocols, or...
Bronson tapped a paper clip on the desk’s glass surface. Eyed the stack of paperwork. “The question is, changing to what?”
“I would require more data, sir.” She was even pretty, in an unremarkable way. Maybe he should tell her to wear her hair down.
He heaved a sigh. Program protocols weren’t his problem. Command and control were his problems, plus paperwork. “Go on down and send someone for a bacon cheeseburger, Three. And onion rings. Use the petty cash. Then come on back. There’s forms to fill out.”
“Yes, sir.” The door closed behind her. Even the ass wasn’t sufficient.
Well, a man worked with what he had. Would it have killed the gene jockeys to put a little more meat on her while they were taking all the emotion out? “Damn it,” Bronson muttered, and dragged the first file folder across the desk.