Crystal Mind: A novel in the Projector War Saga Page 17

  Medina leaned back in his chair to study me for a long moment. “Your protective instincts are understandable, given your mother’s fragile health. She is prone to fits, and is often ill. She can’t hold down a job. Your family’s only source of reliable income is a check that arrives on the first day of every month. So what happened to cause your mother’s panic attacks?”

  I looked down at the table. “We don’t know.”

  “But you’ve tried to find out, right? What did the doctors say?”

  “That whatever is hurting my mom doesn’t exist. They can’t help us.”

  Medina nodded to himself. “And what about your father? He didn’t come back when your mother took a turn for the worse? He didn’t start sending more money? He didn’t even visit?”

  I clenched my fists. “No. I wouldn’t even know him if he did come around. Mom destroyed all his pictures, and I can’t remember his face.”

  “I see.”

  Medina produced a note-pad and scribbled something down. After a moment, he looked back up. “And there aren’t any other relationships that might come to bear on your work here? You don’t owe anyone money? You don’t have friends who might decide to check up on you?”

  I snorted. The last person outside of Smith and Briggs that had even claimed to be my friend was Zach. I didn’t need friends like that.

  “I can see from your face that you don’t.” Medina closed the notebook, and then stood. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me. I’ll be in touch if something else comes up. In the meantime, do keep me updated on your mother’s condition. Having a sick parent is never easy.”

  I evaluated his offer, then dismissed it. He was just fishing for more information—not actually trying to help. Still, Ms. King had stressed the importance of appearances.

  “Thank you.”

  Medina smiled again and led the way back to the elevator. I re-entered Ms. King’s classroom as the gong signalled the end of the class. She watched me as all the other students left. I hurried to put my biocard back so I could get to biology in time, only to find her standing in my way. I checked the timestamp on my vision, then blinked the numbers away. That was impossible. Ms. King could move fast, but not that fast.

  “What did Director Medina want to talk with you about?” she asked.

  Director Medina? Which department was he the director of? I cross referenced his face with the title, then pushed the question away. I would certainly be able to find that info later. “He just had some questions about any potentially complicated relationships,” I finally said.

  Ms. King nodded. “I see. Well, don’t be late for class.”

  Somehow I didn’t think she was satisfied.

  I tried to keep my head down during the next few classes. The last thing I needed was to end up in some sort of political power struggle between the old recruiter and the new one—especially since the old recruiter was now the head of an entire department, and the new one could eat me for breakfast.

  All-in-all, I was ecstatic when I entered class on Friday to find the room abuzz with thoughts of another tactical game. Ms. King entered the room shortly after I did, and sat down at the head of the table. When we were all seated, she clicked the projector on and grinned at us. “The tactical tournament played it’s semi-finals yesterday night,”

  Excitement like a lightning bolt shot through the room, and all thoughts of Director Medina fled.

  Ms. King nodded. “Exactly. I’m borrowing the finalists for today’s round. You’ll be in two teams—red and blue—matched with tactical teams from the Agency. Everyone is unlocked by now, so you’ll all be playing with your cards. No turncoats, but there is a full set of equipment on the field, so watch out for bugs.”

  Burton’s hand shot up, and Ms. King nodded at her

  “Are we playing with sedatives?” she asked.

  Ms. King grinned. “Fortunately for some of you, Tac 47 is on call. They may have to drop and evac at any moment to deal with an occurring threat. As far as other toys go? Well, you’ll just have to see what the teams bring.”

  Smith’s hand was the next one up. “Who is going with which team?” she asked. Inside, I could see her real question. Which of us get to go with Tac 47? There was no doubt in her mind that Tac 47 was one of the finalists.

  Most everyone around the table echoed that sentiment. I did a quick search for the last time I had heard that name, and came up with a single instance in a blurred memory. Apparently, Tolden—the one who had introduced me to the Agency—was the Agent-In-Charge of that tactical team.

  “Don’t you want to know what the other team in play is?”

  There were a few distracted nods, but no one really cared.

  “Alright, girls. Smith, Miller, you’re with 47. Everybody else is with Tac 16.”

  There were a few groans, and a bit of trepidation from Smith, but everyone still hurried into motion.

  There moment we stepped onto the field, the game began. Burton, Wong, Dean, and Miller all opened fire while the rest of us did our best to get out of the way. Dean, and two other girls didn’t make it. I hurried away and managed a few shots back in their direction, but it was mostly to keep them from shooting at me.

  My blue lines screamed intercepts at me before they even managed to get their weaponry up and aimed, so I got away clean. I hurried through the completely dark no-man’s land that had functioned as blue’s tower during the last game, keeping my head low so that a stray shot wouldn’t set off a sensor.

  Somewhere behind me, I could feel Smith in pursuit. She hadn’t rendezvoused with her team yet, but I could feel her thirst to impress them. Apparently, Tac 47 was one of the most important and skilled teams the Agency had—and also one of the smallest.

  I hid behind a nearby cube and checked my weapon. She came around the corner and I pulled the trigger.

  Smith grinned, and I whirled. I caught a glimpse of my target—enough to identify him as Not-On-My-Team—and pulled the trigger as the intercept screamed red in my vision. I threw myself backward to avoid it and groaned as I slammed into the ground.

  I reviewed the visuals. The shot hadn’t connected.

  Whoever was after me was fast.

  I started building a physique model as I rolled to the side and left my shields down just a bit.

  There!

  I spun to the side to avoid a blast and sent off a quick reply.

  It failed to connect.

  I flipped my comms on to ask if someone might have a moment to help, but then stopped. There was a full set of bugs on this field and the odds that a team member of mine would be available weren’t good.

  I clenched my teeth and made a break for the other side of his cover. I aimed a laser underneath the cube and then grinned as my blue lines reconstructed his location from the scatter pattern.

  “You’ve got to have a direct hit, sweetheart,” he said. I grinned and dove around the side, firing as I went.

  He grunted as he went down—suit locked—and tried to raise his firing arm in spite of the shock. The intercept flashed red as the opportunity flashed purple. I shoved my weapon into its holster and grabbed for his gun. A quick twist pulled it from his grip.

  Fine, have it. I have better.

  His intentions solidified, and I gasped. Was that even possible?

  I was already running by the time he pulled the laser bomb from his pocket, jerked the key out and tossed it.

  I got clear before it detonated. But only just barely.

  I rounded the next corner to find a teammate pointing her weapon in my direction. I slid under the laser blast and dropped my gun.

  ::Easy, there,:: I projected.

  Her eyes widened. “You our projector?” she asked. Her words were quiet, but they were mirrored in her thoughts.

  I nodded. ::What’s our situation?::

 
There were thirty minutes left in the round. I hurried to bring her up-to-date on who was down.

  She grinned. “That guy you nailed was Neal Black, Tac 47’s Hitter. You got lucky, girl—or maybe not lucky. When he unlocks, he’s going to find you and lock you down hard enough you won’t walk for a week.”

  My eyes widened. “That bad, huh?”

  She shrugged. “We’ll see? I’m your team lead, by the way. Agent 65.”

  Twenty minutes later, half our team was locked down and Black was unlocked again. I was alone again, this time in enemy territory.

  I had their flag on my belt, and Tolden knew it. Half his team was behind me, and the other half was spread out in front of me. I caught glimpses of lights every once in a while, but I didn’t trust them without secondary data. Tolden and Smith, working together, had almost nailed me back there by covering the LEDs on their suits and deploying decoys to run me down. I wasn’t about to make that mistake again. The good thing was that, even though I was new to my abilities, I had good enough control to gain secondary data—which was what saved me.

  I felt Black’s low, boiling anger in front of me before I saw him. I tried to slide under his sights, but he followed me. The blast hit the collar sensor of the suit, and it locked down with a jolt. I clenched my jaw as I went down hard on my nose. An intercept on my vision blinked purple, though, and I snagged one of Black’s toys from his belt as he stood there, gloating. He didn’t notice as I pulled the key, set the timer in my vision, then covered it with my body to keep them from noticing what I’d done. Fire ran up my arm, but the Blue lines insulated me from the pain. If this worked out, all the jolts from moving in a locked down suit would be worth it. A moment later, the rest of the team showed up—just in time. Tolden was bending over me to take the flag from my belt, when I shifted to let the laser bomb go off.

  My aim was true, and every one of them went down. Eleven minutes left in the game, eight minutes until I unlocked, and ten minutes until they unlocked. Five minutes later, some of my teammates arrived to finish retrieving the flag. One got nailed by Black and his happy trigger finger, but the flag got away clean. When the buzzer finally sounded, I grinned.

  Tolden held his hand out and I took it. “Good game, Farina.”

  Agent 65 slapped my back. “More than a good game—that was wizard’s work. You know Tac 47 hasn’t lost a game in five years?”

  Tolden frowned. “Yes, and we intend to remedy that during the finals. “

  She laughed. “Not running two people short, you won’t.”

  Tabitha’s cheeks reddened and she hurried away.

  A moment later, Ms. King emerged from her office. She didn’t display the scores on the projector the way she had last time. Instead, she held a cube in her hand that splayed white light out in a 3D array.

  “Everybody watch close,” she said, accompanying the command with a lash of compulsion. I waved the compulsion off, but stared at the cube anyway.

  It wasn’t hard to identify the scene as the incident from the beginning of the round where four girls opened fire, and anyone not at the top of their game locked down. She slowed down and zoomed in, first critiquing Smith’ firing form, then Burton’s inability to coordinate her attacks with the others. After a moment, she zoomed in on Tabitha and I watched the laser beam shift in its course to avoid hitting the sensor.

  Tabitha colored.

  Dean grunted. “I thought that should have hit.”

  ::Tricks like that work in simulated combat, but you cannot move a bullet with the ease you can divert a stream of photons. This goes for everyone—even the tactical players. It is easier to break into minds you know, and easier to move things you are used to. What about a marked bullet, though? How easy is it to move one of those? What if it was made of lead? Don’t get complacent. I don’t care what your energy rating is. E100, or E1200, no telekinetic can shift very many bullets in combat. If you rely on brute force, you will get yourself killed.::

  She shifted the scene to the interplay between Neal Black and I. She met Black’s gaze evenly, even as he glowered at her. “What was your first mistake?” she asked.

  “I’m not in your class, woman. Ask them.” He growled and folded his arms across his chest.

  Ms. King let the corner of her mouth lift in a humorless smile. “Very well, then. Farina, what was his first mistake?”

  I frowned and pulled the visual. The camera feed she was using lacked both depth and perspective. “He was completely focused on the asassination—open and easy to read.”

  Tolden smothered a chuckle. “Single-minded. That’s our Black.”

  Tac 47’s Hitter just clenched his jaw.

  “And your mistake?”

  I shrugged. It was no secret that I couldn’t focus on more than one thing at a time. “I was so focused on taking Smith out that I nearly walked into him. If he’d been two-point-eight seconds faster, I wouldn’t have known he was there.”

  The other man from Tac 47—a tall, thin kid who couldn’t have been more than a freshman in college with hair bleached white and three separate phones on his belt—narrowed his eyes. “Two-point-eight, huh?”

  “Two-point-eight-two-seven, to be exact. I rounded it to the tenths place because the other digits are extraneous given this situation.”

  He ran his fingertips through white bleached hair. “And why two-point-eight? Why not three or four seconds?”

  For the first time in a while, I pulled the data break-down for my number.

  “It took point oh-five seconds to ensure Smith was both locked up, and defeated. The auditory analysis for the suit lock-down chime had to be run twice to ensure authenticity and then cross-checked with visuals. After that, it took point-seven-five seconds to shelve Smith’ data, unfocus on the threat, and re-plot my course. During that process, I expanded myself and caught wind of hostile thoughts. After that, it took roughly point-two-five seconds to ensure my ability was giving me correct information and ensure those hostile thoughts were directed at me. I took another—”

  Steele held up his hands. “I got the picture. You’re an analyst, alright. Did everything my computers could do, only I didn’t have to program you.”

  Program me? Did he have any idea how long I’d spent perfecting my analysis skills as a child just so I could survive? I had to program myself.

  I bit back a retort and squared my shoulders.

  The gong rang in the silence, and Ms. King sighed. “That’s a wrap, then. Tac 47, you’re still on call, so you should probably head back. Tac 16, congratulations, you get the bonus in tonight’s game.”

  She dismissed everyone, and I hurried to my next class. After that night’s tournament, Ms. King lingered a little longer in the stadium.

  ::Farina, meet me in my office.::

  Ms. King made it to her office before I could, and she held the temporary biocard in her hand. I swallowed.

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  There was a haze of trepidation surrounding her, too, but it cleared as I tried to examine it.

  “On the contrary. You’ve shown considerable progress over this last week. Due to a lack of operatives, exemplary performance, and the Tactical Agent-In-Charge’s request, you have been selected to receive your permanent biocard.”

  I stared at her and slowly pieced the words back together. Permanent biocard? As in not-having-to-give-it-back-every-class-period card? I wouldn’t have to go back to the dark, dull silence time after time again.

  “Thank you,” I breathed.

  Her lips curled up into that humorless grin of hers. “Don’t thank me yet. The moment you get that card, you work for us. There are a few contracts you’re going to have to sign. We’re placing you on a Flex Tac team, which will ensure you get a place in R&D, too.”

  My eyes widened. A place in R&D? I would be able to have the resources to work on all those inventio
ns I’d designed, worked the math for, and ultimately given up due to lack of resources? Surely someplace like the Agency would have the equipment I needed to work on my shielding module—or finally finish the miniature engine I was working on at the house?

  “You should know that, legally, you’re being hired by a consultant company and that is what will show up when you are paid—Beta-One does not exist, after all—but you will receive the rate for a Tactical Analyst, and Projection Telepath. Perhaps you will also receive third or fourth Hitter pay in addition to bonuses from any engineering projects you complete, but it depends on what your AIC has to say about it. It’s a lot of responsibility, I know, but your AIC says you can handle it better than some full agents he’s seen. He’s vouching for you, so don’t let us down.”

  “And who is my Agent-In-Charge?” I asked.

  She laughed. “You’ll have to wait and see. Now take a moment to look these over. You don’t have to sign them now—just by the time you go in for surgery. I should let you know that you have detention for the next two days. The school has already notified your mother.”

  My head snapped up. “Surgery?”

  No one had said a thing about surgery.

  “Of course we didn’t say anything. The biocard process is our agency’s most closely kept secret. The biocard project is run by the Medical Department because the process requires active medical doctors. It is not a difficult surgery, though.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  She shook her head. “I am not allowed to say. I can only assure you that it takes very little time. We’ll put you all the way under, and you’ll come out of it three hours later with a biocard. Most of that is time allowance for the anesthetic—and the only reason we don’t use general anesthetic is that some of our employees with impressive memories would spend the entire time reconstructing the process, and then biocards would not be a secret.”

  Employees like me.

  Got it.

  I took the offered contracts, scanned over them, and then followed Ms. King out of the room, into the classroom, and then into the arena. We didn’t go toward the stairs, though. Instead, Ms. King led me to the middle of Blue team’s tower. There was a scanner to the side—hidden behind a foam block. Ms. King placed her hand on it, and then tapped her card. It lit green and the door popped open.