Revisionary Page 13
“Has anyone ever told you how damn depressing you can be?”
“Yes.”
THE NEXT MORNING found me walking across the grounds just before sunrise. Blue-tinged solar-powered lamps illuminated the sidewalks. A small brown lizard scampered away from me. Smudge crouched in his cage, as if preparing to pounce. I couldn’t tell if he meant to attack or play.
Looking around, I imagined New Millennium as it had been during construction. I remembered the bulldozers, the beds of concrete and rebar, the skeletal girders stretching skyward, built with magic and machinery both.
I wasn’t the only one up and about. To my right, behind the eastern residential building, three young children played on brand-new, brightly colored climbing equipment. The swing set and sandbox had been part of the original construction, but the monkey bars, dinosaur-themed slides, merry-go-round, and climbing wall had gone up just last month. The parents watched from a wooden bench. I waved and kept walking.
I’d seen every phase of development and construction. I’d flown to Vegas to argue the benefits of magic to the mayor and his staff. I’d hovered over our architect’s shoulder until she grew frustrated enough to banish me from her office. I was here for the groundbreaking, and I was here for the ribbon-cutting ceremony.
I was tempted to turn myself invisible and break into Babs’ office, but Babs was in charge of security for a reason, and if I got caught, she was in a position to have me kicked out of New Millennium altogether.
I passed the greenhouse, where a variety of magically enhanced plants grew under strict quarantine. I had lunch twice a month with Elvira Pop Caal, the Guatemalan libriomancer in charge of agriculture, to compare hate mail. The people who got upset about genetically modified crops had nothing on the folks who thought magic seeds were going to destroy the planet. According to Elvira, a few years of crossbreeding and research should be enough to create stable strains of rice and wheat and other foods that might someday feed the world.
Assuming the world didn’t wreck itself in the meantime.
Habit brought me back to Franklin Tower. I walked through the doors on autopilot, still lost in thought. Most of the animals were awake and scurrying about, eager to be fed. I nodded to one of Vince’s assistants and headed for the elevator. I waved my badge in front of the scanner, stepped in, and punched the button for the fifth floor. I might have better luck if I lost myself in work and let my subconscious worry about terrorists and Babs Palmer for a while.
Once the elevator doors slid open, I headed down the hall and unlocked Large Project Room number three, which had come to be known as Isaac’s Playroom. I flipped on the lights, illuminating an open area the size of a basketball court. I’d started the Gateway Project in my office one afternoon when I was avoiding paperwork, but it had grown like Lena’s garden, expanding to take up whatever space I could get.
High speed cameras stood on tripods like slumbering robots. A plastic wading pool sat in front of one. Another pointed to a simple chalk circle on the tile floor.
Books were everywhere. A set of whiteboards listed every title I’d brought over from the library. Many were crossed out, while others were annotated with Post-it notes.
Last year in Copper River, I’d watched a sorceress named Meridiana use libriomancy to turn a body of water into a portal to the moon. It hadn’t ended well for her, but the idea had stayed with me.
Magical gateways were such a common element of speculative fiction that they had their own unofficial subgenre: portal fantasies. You couldn’t pull the magical wardrobe out of C. S. Lewis’ Narnia books, of course. The size of the book limited what you could create, and a wardrobe that took you to a fictional world would almost certainly kill you. But Meridiana had successfully combined the magic of multiple works in a way that allowed her to anchor a stable portal to another real-world location.
I’d glimpsed her magic, the way the text of the different stories twined together, but as I’d been in the middle of a small magical war at the time, I hadn’t gotten to study it as closely as I wanted.
That didn’t matter. I knew the one thing that truly mattered. I knew it could be done.
The wading pool was part of my initial attempt to duplicate her original portal, but without opening up a rift to the cold vacuum of the moon. The patched section of floor was the result of that attempt, which had simply disintegrated everything in a five-foot diameter circle.
A black shape perched atop the smartboard on the wall to my left. “Good morning, Kerling.”
The crow ruffled her feathers.
I switched on the board, which could act as a television screen, whiteboard, remote network terminal, and more. After logging in with my New Millennium ID, I pulled up a map of the United States and tagged the locations of the attacks from earlier this week. Michigan, California, Oklahoma, and New York. There was also the aborted plan to hit the Kagan, but without knowing where on the East Coast she was stationed, I had no way of adding that to the map.
If future attacks followed the same pattern, they would target prominent anti-magic politicians, which narrowed things down to pretty much anywhere in the United States. Assuming they continued to limit their focus to one country.
I cleared the screen and pulled up the last Porter census map of inhuman populations within the U.S. The clustered dots, each color representing a different species, suggested a weak potential correlation. The killers in Lansing had been werewolves, and Michigan had one of the larger werewolf packs in the country. New York had a disproportionate number of trolls. There was a group of nagas living in the California desert, and Oklahoma was known for its chupacabras. Each attack had been carried out by a single species, one more-or-less native to the area.
Was that cause or effect? Vanguard or whoever was behind this could have simply recruited whoever was convenient, but a truly random sampling would have resulted in mixed-species groups. The exclusion of vampires seemed odd as well. They were one of the most widespread inhuman groups, and many vampire species would have done a far better job at killing and terrorizing their targets.
I rubbed my eyes and turned away. Glaring at the screen wouldn’t force it to produce the answers I wanted.
Instead, I skimmed my list of potential Gateway Project books, reviewing the combinations I’d tried so far. Anything more than five texts together was too much for me to control or manipulate. The few times I’d tried, the magic had promptly fizzled, and I ended up with the twenty-four-hour migraine from hell.
I picked up Through the Looking Glass and The Mirror of Her Dreams. The mirror theme of the two books should help them work together, and might add stability to the portal. Eventually, I added Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander. I’d read it two weeks ago for part of my research. It was incredibly popular, with some very passionate readers. The belief and power in this paperback should provide a good boost to the overall magic. Outlander’s portal used standing stones instead of a mirror, but I could work with that.
“A mirror mounted within some kind of standing stones,” I muttered, pacing a tight circle. I debated adding Catherynne Valente’s Palimpsest to the mix, but the last time I’d used that book, I ended up with a tattooed map of Las Vegas covering my skin. It had taken a week to get rid of the thing.
My original timeline would have had us using Gateway to transport supplies to the International Space Station by the end of the year. It shouldn’t have taken more than an additional six months to adapt the Gateway Project for space exploration, assuming I could figure out some sort of magical valve to keep the vacuum on the other side from sucking all the air out of the room . . . or we could just build the portal in an airlock. If I figured out how to miniaturize the portal, there were surgical applications as well. Not to mention routine trade and travel.
I retrieved a compact mirror and a pouch full of gravel from a table full of miscellaneous supplies—Talulah called it the Junk Desk—and spent the next half hour using a glue gun to affix pieces of gravel to the edge of the
mirror. It was hardly the stones of Gabaldon’s Outlander, but it would do in a pinch.
I switched on the cameras and sat down on the floor. I opened each of the books and set paperweights on the edges to hold them in place. One at a time, I touched the books’ magic, drawing that belief into myself, then pushing it into the mirror.
“Gateway Project, experiment number one eighty-three. Carroll, Donaldson, and Gabaldon.”
I set a travel magazine in the center of the triangle formed by the three books. I turned to a story about street food in Hanoi, drawing fragments of description into the glass. If this worked, the smells of bun rieu cua thit nuong and hien luon xao should fill the room.
“Isaac?”
I jumped hard enough I almost dropped the mirror. None of the stories about implanted communicators warned how damned startling they could be. Once my breathing slowed, I got up and switched off the camera. “What’s up, Vince?”
“I finished that inventory check. I didn’t find anything suspicious.”
“All right, thanks.”
“There’s more. I was up last night thinking. If someone’s infiltrated New Millennium, maybe it’s not about stealing our work. Maybe it’s subtler than that. What if they’re guiding our research instead?”
“How do you mean?”
“I built a database of all the proposals and projects we’ve worked on, then went through to categorize and score the delays. For the most part, it was pretty random. We’ve all had our work put on hold. There were more roadblocks in the beginning, and a spike when the NIH moved in, but I figure that’s normal. For the past three months, about fifty percent of the roadblocks came from NIH, with another thirty percent from DHS, and the rest split between the Porter Council, the New Millennium board, and other governmental groups. Plus a few projects you personally shot down.”
“I’m not hearing anything earth-shattering here, Vince.”
“The thing is, you can’t just graph the number of delays, right? You’ve got to include other factors in your analysis. I played around with a bunch of other variables, including potential public risk. You’d expect the most dangerous projects to have the biggest hurdles. Nobody wants this to turn into Chernobyl.”
I used a small screwdriver and needle-nose pliers to remove the pin from the compact’s hinge. With proper targeting, you could open a portal to Washington D.C. and assassinate the president from two thousand miles away. DHS should have been all over that from day one. Instead, they’d essentially rubber-stamped it. “Let me guess. DHS has been pushing some of those dangerous projects, the ones with potential military applications.”
“That’s part of it. No shock there, right? We know Potts is a bloodthirsty bastard. But the graphs weren’t lining up right, not until I added a second variable. For lack of a better term, I went back and scored everything based on their altruistic applications.”
I’d known we were being pressured to produce potential weapons, but I wouldn’t have thought to look at our purely philanthropic work. “What did you find?”
“They’re not just pushing for potential weapons. It looks like someone’s actively stalling our most altruistic projects.”
Of course our government babysitters wanted magical guns and ammo. But why try to delay our most helpful projects, things that could benefit the whole world? “Were those delays coming from any particular person or office?”
“I can’t give you a statistically conclusive answer to that one yet, Boss. Correlation isn’t causation, and some of my scoring was subjective.”
All the hoops NIH had made us jump through, all of their delays before they’d allow us to heal Lex and a handful of others. I thought back to my conversation with Nicola and Representative Vaughn at the pizzeria in D.C. “It’s about PR.”
“Say what?”
“Public relations. Someone’s shooting down the work that would make people more sympathetic and supportive of New Millennium, and of magic in general.” I couldn’t help remembering how quickly Senator Keeler had capitalized on the attacks, gathering support for harsher legislation against magic and inhumans. The man certainly understood the importance of PR and how to manipulate it.
“I’m not seeing anything coming directly from Dr. Palmer or her team, though. She pretty much stays out of our business, except when there are potential security implications.”
“Thanks, Vince. How certain are you that this isn’t coincidence or random chance?”
“Looking at the numbers, there’s less than a one percent chance of it being normal statistical noise.”
“All right. Try to dig deeper into who did or didn’t sign off on every project for the past six months. Don’t stop with the name on the reports. Check who they report to, all the way up the chain of command.”
Vince’s melodramatic groan filled my head. “Great. Because the only thing more exciting than spreadsheets and statistical analysis is org charts.”
“If you need a break, you might want to double-check your security cameras down in the kennels. I’m told Kerling snuck out again.”
“Dammit! I’m going to superglue a tracking chip to that crow’s head!”
I hung up and tilted the mirror in my hand until I spotted Kerling perched behind me. “What do you think?”
Kerling scratched under her wing with her beak.
“How did you get in here through a locked door, anyway?”
She cawed softly, partially spreading her wings.
“Right.” I set the mirror on the table. In addition to using the Gateway Project for long-range assassinations, there were potential privacy concerns as well. You could create a small portal and use it as a virtual peephole, or eavesdrop on conversations half a world away.
I considered trying to open a portal into Babs’ office, but I wouldn’t be able to get a fix on her as long as she wore that magic-damping pearl.
Maybe Babs wasn’t the one I should focus on. Back when I was fresh out of college, my father had pulled me aside to share job-hunting advice. I hadn’t paid as much attention as I probably should have, since I’d known I had a position waiting with the Porters, but I remembered most of it, including his comment that the second most important person at any company was the boss. The most important was the boss’ secretary.
Kiyoko knew Babs Palmer’s schedule. She likely knew Babs’ contacts and projects as well. She’d be aware of any unplanned phone calls or confidential meetings. She might even have access to Babs’ email and files, though Babs was smart enough to keep anything incriminating locked away.
I turned to the smartboard and pulled up the New Millennium personnel directory. It would be safer to chat with Kiyoko when she was away from her desk and unplugged from whatever magical interface she had glued to her scalp.
I couldn’t find a residential listing for Kiyoko Itô. Most of us who were directly involved in research or other magic lived on site, but more than half our people commuted from Vegas or its suburbs. I switched files and checked the parking lot reservations. She wasn’t listed there, either.
I sat back in my chair. The simplest explanation was that she carpooled with someone, or maybe she lived close enough to walk or bike to work. I tried plugging “Kiyoko Itô” into Google. I got the usual Google noise, but nothing relating to Babs’ receptionist.
Her personnel file described her as having dual citizenship in Japan and the U.S. There was no work history, no resume or copy of her job application, and no emergency contact listed. What kind of woman had Babs hired?
‹Isaac?› Talulah Polk peeked through my door.
I shut down the board. ‹Speak, friend, and enter.›
She blinked. ‹Huh?›
‹It’s from The Fellowship of the Ring. Never mind. What’s up?›
She shut the door behind her and handed me a file. I brought it to the closest table and sat down to review her notes. She’d found the same basic information I had regarding the history, armaments, and crew of the USCGC Kagan. I picked up a map of
the Atlantic coast. Red lines, each one marked with a date and time, crisscrossed the ocean.
‹These are her missions?›
‹Training runs, mostly. Officially, they’ve been practicing search and rescue.›
I grabbed a highlighter and traced one of the search patterns, an expanding square centered on a point about fifteen miles east of Georgia. Another mission had followed a sector-based pattern, the lines forming what looked like an enormous pinwheel.
‹I checked the news reports and some of Homeland Security’s files. Nothing’s been reported missing or lost in that area.›
If Deb was right about this ship being a potential terrorist target, then there had to be more than training missions. I put a red X in the center of one of the search patterns. ‹The earliest mission was here.›
‹They’ve had a lot of crew turnover, too. Seven new personnel, including four officers.›
‹What happened here?› I pointed to the most recent mission, another expanding square pattern.
‹What do you mean?›
‹If you unfold the patterns, all of the pinwheels and spirals and squares are pretty similar in length. They spent roughly the same amount of time on each mission, up until this last one.› I compared the routes and did some quick math. ‹It looks like they called it quits about twenty-five percent sooner.›
‹If these were real search missions, maybe they found what they were looking for.›
I flipped through the rest of her notes. ‹The Kagan has been docked for the past three days. It says they’re prepping for their next launch tomorrow night.›
‹That’s right.›
I highlighted the end point of that last mission. ‹Talulah, where do the Kagan’s orders originate?›
‹They came out of the Coast Guard Seventh District office in Miami, but I couldn’t tell you who issued them.›
‹Charles served in the navy, didn’t he? Could you please tell him I need to talk to him?›
She gazed past me, then nodded. ‹Done. What’s so important about that spot?›
‹It’s directly on the migratory path of one of the largest siren colonies in the Atlantic.›