The Killing Jar (4 page)

CPI-AO-301, NEW YORK

AUGUST 7, 2232

Silas stared at the documents in his hands, disbelief saturating the room. How many favors had he asked, how many strings had he pulled, desperate for any chance of making this happen?

And now he had the papers in his hand. Actual, physical paper.

He didn’t know what to do.

If he signed them, if he made this happen, it could be his only chance to soften his consuming regret. But so many things could go wrong.

Or he could burn them. It would be as if he’d never seen them. He would bear none of the responsibility.

Silas was stuck, wedged between regret and guilt. There was no easy choice.

“The digital autopsy scans are back from LRF.”

Silas looked up as his assistant appeared in the doorway. “What’s the name on this one?” He sat up, deftly maneuvering his tablet to pull up the report from the files, careful not to wrinkle the documents with the weight of the device.

“Uh, Dr. Jackson Parr. Planetary Systems,” Nick said with a glance at his own screen.

How could Abby let this happen?

“I’ll take a look and send it to Quincy. Thanks.” Silas waited for Nick to leave, his eyes scanning the hovering report. How he would always hate getting them, each one bringing them no closer to finding the bugs. Each one a life lost in his failure.

Nick didn’t leave. Instead, he said, “A possible recruit just came online in the northwest sector. I’ve made the arrangements. Should be there by 1200. That all right?” Nick asked when Silas sat distracted, eyes distant.

“Of course.” Silas faked his usual off-handed manner. “We’ll need to find at least two more, if not three. Good work.” He meant it.

As much as Silas didn’t care for Masry’s choice, he was grateful yet again to have an assistant. He wasn’t in the mood to recruit children into this field anymore. That was Nick’s job now.

“Thanks. I’ll send you my debrief this afternoon.”

“Hey, make sure you’re nice to them, okay? Remember they’ve had a rough day already. You know, be friendly.” Silas wouldn’t stand for Nick scaring off another recruit. They were so hard to come by as it was.

“Always,” Nick replied with confidence, but Silas knew better than to believe him. Nick still had a lot of learning to do.

By the time Silas thought to respond, Nick was gone. The documents still in his hand, he made no progress. He was torn.

There was only one person he could talk to, one person who would understand what was at stake.

Silas stowed the papers in his antique leather folder and set them in the locked drawer of his desk. Even with Nick out of sector for the day, he wouldn’t risk exposing this particular secret.

In the corridors of CPI, his little world, Silas put on an air of nonchalance he hardly felt. It wouldn’t do to worry them. He had to keep up the façade of control, even if it was a lie.

That was his burden.

“Knox put some shrimp ceviche in the galley.” Osip smiled as he passed. “White chocolate wasabi sauce, too.”

“Sounds fantastic,” he admitted. “I’ll be over shortly. Save some for me, would you?” It was hard to be sour with Osip around.

But Silas had other business.

“Hey, can you bring me another bottle?” he called back to Osip. He had a feeling he’d be needing it after this.

“Sure thing, Dr. A. I’ll put it in your office.”

With his spirits mildly lifted, Silas continued to the last door. A quiet knock on the wooden door was answered with, “Come in, Silas,” as always.

The arched door swung open into the dim lamplight, illuminating the space that was home in so many ways. There were lush carpets, the patterned chaise lounge, the French provincial tea table, a polished cedar bed set tucked into the corner adorned with crimson floral bedding.

“What’s the matter?” she asked before he could get a foot into her room.

The sight of her always warmed his heart, as if nothing was wrong in the world. She sat on her faded green chair, her gnarled hands busy at work on some puzzle.

“I got the paperwork.”

Her thin grey curls bounced as she reached to place the device on the tea table.

“You should sign them.” Her voice was crisp despite her age. Ramona wasn’t one to mince words.

“What if something happens? There’s considerable risk.” Silas was grateful she couldn’t see his features, that time had stolen enough of her vision that she couldn’t see his pain. “I’d be held responsible—”

“That’s not what you’re afraid of.”

“No.” He wondered how she knew, how she always knew.

“Sign them.”

“Would you be upset if I didn’t? Would you hate me for it?”

“No, child. You would hate yourself.” Quieter, softer, she said, “Sign them. It’s the only chance either of you have.”

Silas felt the truth of it sink into his bones. The cloud of uneasiness dissipated. A fire fueled inside him.

“I will. Thank you, Ramona.”

He stepped across the Iranian rug and leaned in to kiss her forehead.

“You’re cold,” he said when he felt the cool of her skin. Without waiting for her response, he grabbed the hand-crocheted afghan from the corner of her bed and draped it across her lap.

“See, that’s better, isn’t it?” He didn’t know if she meant the papers or the blanket.

“You’re feeling all right? No pain today?”

Ramona smiled. Her vacant eyes searched him out in her permanent dark. “No, child. Not a bit.”

He knew she lied, but wouldn’t press her. If she didn’t want to tell him, he wouldn’t ask. She wasn’t one to be pressed.

Silas returned to his office and poured a drink from the bottle that had appeared on his desk. He unlocked the drawer, retrieved the folder, and signed the documents.

With the warmth of scotch in his belly and some small measure of peace in his heart, Silas walked to the galley to sit with his recruits and eat shrimp ceviche.

LRF-AQ

AUGUST 7, 2232

And Dr. Parr makes seven.

Seven deaths in two years. Of the 1,292 Scholars in the LRF, in addition to the 349 Craftsmen as support staff, seven deaths should have been a victory. But Michael Filmore knew better.

A Scholar himself, Michael well understood the resilience of his class. Individuals genetically engineered for health, intelligence, and longevity should have no reason to succumb to death. All had died young, before forty-five, with no results from the digital autopsy to explain it.

In fact, the files were sent back to Earth for complete analysis.

But as far as he knew, there was no cause. No reason.

There were no common factors. No trends. The seven had all worked in different departments, followed different schedules.

There was no connection between them.

He had the sinking feeling something else was going on in the LRF.

Michael’s expert hand pulled the tie-knot loose, slid it through his collar and tossed it haphazardly on the large bed at the center of his room, the largest personal quarters in the LRF. On this side, the most luxurious bed in the facility, two nightstands, a wide closet to hold his extensive suit collection, and a bathroom bigger than some of the apartments.

On the office side, his faux-wood desk occupied the central space, complete with a pair of cushioned chairs. His assistant’s desk sat in the corner.

He unfastened the top few buttons of his crisp white shirt that so well contrasted the deep chocolate color of his skin, one of the finest traits on the market. His parents had been both fortunate in their genetic combinations and wealthy enough to afford the best geneticist.

He knew every time someone met him, they regarded him with great esteem. Because of his skin, they assumed he had numerous rare traits—and he did. He had blonde, kinky curly hair that, along with his skin tone, was one of the rarest combinations. Even the hairs of his beard were blonde, though he always kept it shaved.

His entire life he had been under great pressure to succeed. There had never been another option.

And now, here at the LRF, second only to the Vicereine, he was failing.

“There’s nothing you could have done.” Abigail set the coffee tray on the corner of the bed. She fetched the tie and straightened it on her way to place it in his closet. Sleek blonde hair complemented her warm brown eyes. A black dress accentuated her hips and waist while oozing the professional calm that had earned her the prestigious position as assistant to the Moon Director.

“Doesn’t feel that way.” Michael picked up the mug and took a sip.

Heavy on the sugar, light on the cream. Perfect.

“I took the liberty of cancelling your bimonthly meeting with Planetary Systems,” she called from the closet.

“Thank you,” he replied, relieved to be spared contact with Dr. Parr’s associates so soon after his death. Despite what Abigail believed, he
did
feel responsible.

“Don’t flatter yourself. It wasn’t for you.” Abigail emerged to fetch the tablet from his desk and drop in into his hand. “You have plenty of supply orders to get caught up on. Today’s the deadline for the next shipment.”

Michael groaned. Supply orders were about as interesting as the polyethylene walls of the LRF.

But they were a necessary component of his position, along with personnel selection, housing arrangements, and crisis management. He oversaw the multi-trillion vale budget and reported their immense spending to the Vicereine. At the end of the day, Michael was responsible for all the lives within the LRF. If anything happened, he would be to blame.

In reality, the meetings with labs, the bimonthly updates were by far the most interesting aspect of his position, aside from Abigail, of course. In every field imaginable, Scholars worked tirelessly to bring him the newest and greatest discoveries, the innovations that would eventually save their species.

Had it not been for Dr. Parr’s death, he would have liked to visit Planetary Systems, one of his favorites. Now he would have to wait another two months.

“Don’t pout.” Abigail was as vigilant as she was beautiful. Michael was entirely sure he couldn’t do this job without her.

“When you’re finished approving supply orders, there’s a few permit requests from the labs. Might even get ahead a bit.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder.

He only sighed. His body ached from lack of sleep, his muscles clenched with tension and stress. Michael could feel himself wearing down. His predecessor had only lasted three years. Maybe that was the natural span of this position. Maybe he needed to start thinking about stepping down.

Abigail’s firm hands were on his shoulders a moment later, gently pressing to massage the locked-up muscles across the top of his back. She worked strategically, starting at his spine and moving out, slowly releasing the stress held there.

And then, without warning, her arms wrapped around his neck. Her body pressed against his back. “There’s nothing you could have done. People just die sometimes.” A soft kiss landed at the top of his ear. “You’re a great director,” she whispered.

Michael patted her crossed arms below his chin before kissing them in return. He immediately felt better, if only a little.

He had to give it to her. The girl was good.

“Come on. I’ll take you for a walk. Should be Earth-side for another hour.” She hopped off the bed and tugged his hand, pulling him to his feet and toward the circular door.

Michael threw back the last of his coffee and followed her into the corridor. He was never one to pass up a glance at the majestic planet.

While the moon didn’t rotate, the LRF at its center did. It was a few degrees off the Earth’s rotation to allow researchers access to worldwide facilities. At least twice a day, the Earth was visible through a series of concave viewing ports.

Michael loved the reminder of their purpose. A few minute walk in hand with Abigail brought them to the view port closest to Earth. A vast sphere, white on the poles, sienna brown with peachy haze. It shone from the dark expanse of space, a beacon of life in the void. Each continent stood outlined by the mile of exposed shelf. The pale brown waters looked crisp and still at such a distance.

“You know, I read they used to call the ocean the Blue Lung. Have you heard that before?” Abigail asked. Both their eyes were locked on their homeworld.

“No, did it say why it was called a lung?”

“I guess back before the war, the oceans had plankton that grew in massive numbers. They produced more than half the oxygen for the planet back then. Crazy, right?”

Michael had heard of plankton—he had studied astrobiology after all—but no one had seen a plankton in two hundred years.

“They’ve had the atmosphere converters running for centuries. I guess I didn’t realize they were related to the ocean toxicity. It makes sense.” So long had the Earth been poisoned, no one cared how it got that way anymore. That’s just the way it was.

“You know, from here, you can’t really tell the war ever happened. You can see the water and the continents, the city lights, but that’s it. No starvation, no abandoned countries, no radioactive contamination. If it weren’t for the haze, it would be perfect. Peaceful.”

“And it will be again someday,” he reminded her.

“Such an idealist,” she smiled and squeezed his hand.

Scholars differed widely in their views of how to proceed with a damaged Earth and the ten billion people upon it.

Michael knew Abigail didn’t share his vision of off-loading huge portions of the population onto off-world colonies—a major reason he approved the first ever Mars colony in total isolation three years before. With reduced numbers, they could give the Earth a few generations to heal, to cleanse itself of the strife and pollution, to reform polar ice caps and purify oceans.

“It’s a beautiful planet, one of a kind. It’s our home.” He knew it would probably start their usual argument.

“We’ll have a new home someday,” she replied as he knew she would. Her hand squeezed his arm.

“We’ll renew this discussion when they find it. Until then, Earth is our home.”

“LRF is our home,” she corrected.

“I can agree to that.” Michael conceded to the beautiful woman at his side day and night, but in his heart, he would never give up on Earth.