Reorganization

Cyrus hated surprises.

The moment he pulled through the gate of Site 719, and went through the usual process of stepping out and letting the guards search his truck, he could tell something was off. Friendly greetings to the guards he recognized were met with nervous nods, and sidelong glances.

But he’d learned early on in the service that when you started getting this kind of treatment, you didn’t ask questions. You just went along and played dumb, and braced for impact. And nine times out of ten, whatever your mates were worried about wasn’t as bad as they thought it would be.

A few minutes later, after he’d parked and walked over to the unexpectedly open gate into the central compound, and witnessed the suited men hauling boxes out of the electrical shed, he realized that no, this was gonna be that one time in ten where losing his shit was not only expected, but justified.

“What the hell?” Cyrus yelled, stumping forward and leaning on his cane all the way up. The nerves in his legs had been itching all night, and the pain and sleep loss let him hit the right note between grumpiness and rage. “What the hell are you doing?”

As he got closer, the bad feeling in his gut grew to a cold certainty. He saw that one of the boxes was open, just a bit, and the wiring peeking out was very, very familiar. “Jesus H Christ! What the fuck! You tore it up?”

The suits put down their boxes and put up their hands, moving between him and the truck. “Mister Colfax? Please don’t do anything rash. The Director’s signed off on this—”

“Signed off on WHAT? The vacuum tubes are supposed to be here any day now, and nobody’s supposed to touch a damned thing until—”

The lights inside the shack flickered. Something snapped, and smoke billowed out, as coughing echoed through the doorway. The suits drew smoothly, flanked the doorway, all except for one who rushed toward Cyrus, arms wide and keeping between him and the door. He needn’t have bothered. Cyrus was already diving for cover behind the flatbed truck, and the only thought going through his mind was oh shit, they came through the portal.

“Sir?” One of the suits called through the door. “Green five?”

Cyrus almost shouted “Yellow six.” That was the week’s pass phrase. That was what he was supposed to respond with, if a guard called the first part of the challenge through the door. But he was out here, and they knew that, so why…

“Yellow belly? Yellow…” someone inside coughed, then continued. “Some yellow number, I don’t remember!” It was a peevish voice, a young man’s voice with an east coast accent. Jersey? New York?

But it seemed to do the trick. The lead suit holstered his pistol, risked a peek in, then held his hand palm down and made grabbing motions. The other suits lowered their guns. And a figure came through the smoke, coughing, and blinking through a pair of oversized goggles.

He was tall, maybe six feet, and built like a beanpole. Bright red suspenders were the only mark of color against a soot-stained white shirt with rolled up sleeves, and black suit trousers that were stained with Texas dust. He had a scraggly black goatee that matched his wild mop of black hair, and a thin mustache that Cyrus’ grand-dad would have called a pussy tickler. And despite the muck and dust that covered him from head to toe, he was grinning and showing almost horse-like big white teeth as he declared, “The anomaly is still active!”

“What? Of course it is!” Cyrus frowned. “Nothing’s happened to change that… right?”

“Oh something happened, all right!” the stranger beamed, and gestured back at the smoke. “But it’s fine, I put out the fire! And well, it’s true, I estimated there was about a nine percent chance that my test would have grounded the anomaly permanently, but that’s a small price to pay for the readings that I got—”

Cyrus punched him straight in his smug face.

*****

Seventeen minutes later, sitting in the quonset hut that served as the director’s office, Solomon Gable finished listening to the guard’s account and shook his head, lighting up a cigarette with a weariness that seemed almost bone-deep. “All right. Mister Fuller. You first.”

The stranger, who was holding an ice pack against his swollen and bruised cheek, tried to speak without slurring. “Well, I’d just finished disassembling and packing the device, and running preliminary tests, when a materials failure necessitated the evacuation of the anomaly’s containment area. I found this man outside, and reassured him of my success, and he hit me! Then he kept on hitting me! I was assaulted!”

“Preliminary tests,” Solomon Gable said. “I don’t recall authorizing those. Just the prototype disassembly.”

Cyrus felt his heart skip a beat. The sense of betrayal settled in, and Solomon must have seen it on his face, for the older man sighed smoke, and waved a hand at him, as if to say I’ll explain. Settle down.

It went against his grain, but Cyrus settled. He felt the hot anger in him start to turn into cold malice, but he held it back. Gable had done right by him so far. There had to be an explanation.

While all this went through Cyrus’ head, the stranger was babbling. “Well, these were… I submitted my theories before I arrived, I just assumed they hadn’t been rubber stamped yet… just a formality really, nothing too invasive, the basis of my plan requires those results, you see, and…”

“And you were worried I might say ‘no,’” Solomon said.

The stranger shut up and glanced away, put his ice pack back to his blackened cheek.

He was pretty young, Cyrus realized. Couldn’t be more than twenty-two, maybe twenty-three.

“Your turn, mister Colfax. Why did you punch your new lab assistant?”

“Mister Colf— you’re my team leader? YOU?” The stranger— the kid, blurted.

“Shut up,” Solomon said, without any particular heat, but with that command edge in his tone. The kid shut up.

“I punched him because he was playin’ games with my family’s lives,” Cyrus said. It was the simple truth. “He said the things he tried had a chance of closing the portal. Hell, it might have done already, we’ve got no way to check it—”

The young man opened his mouth again, shut it when they both looked at him. Cyrus continued. “Anyways, that’s why. Fellow had come in, chopped up my life’s work, and pretty much gambled with my brother’s and my sister’s lives.”

“What?” the kid blinked.

Gable took a long pull of the cigarette, then rubbed his temple with his free hand. “All this because he got in earlier than expected. All right. All right, look. Bristol Fuller, meet Cyrus Colfax. Cyrus Colfax, meet your assistant.”

“I already have an assistant. She’s just busy today,” Cyrus said, as evenly as he could muster.

“Yes, and she’s not a trained electrical engineer. Mister Fuller here IS.”

“Graduated from the Massachussets Institute of Technology,” Bristol beamed, offering his hand… then pulling it back, as Cyrus looked down at it coldly, then back up at him. “I’m… not sure what I did wrong. Well no, I… might have jumped the gun a little, I guess. But what’s this about your family?”

Cyrus took a long breath, remembering one of Dad’s old sayings. Never assume malice, when stupidity’s a possibility. Instead of answering him, he turned back to Solomon. “He hasn’t been briefed yet?”

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

“He hasn’t been briefed yet. We sent him the technical information he needed to start working. I wanted him boning up on it before he arrived, so he could get straight to work. After the briefing. And a chance to talk with you.”

“I see.” Cyrus shut his eye, breathed away more tension. Then he weighed his options, and looked back to the kid— to Bristol. “I’m sorry I hit you.”

“I’m sorry myself. I didn’t know your family was involved in this,” Bristol looked down, stuck out a gloved hand again.

This time Cyrus shook it. Briefly. The kid had a weak grip, and Cyrus miiiiight have taken a little joy in watching him wince when Cyrus squeezed a little.

“This doesn’t mean either of you are off the hook,” Solomon interrupted them. “Colfax, if you take a swing at one of my people again I’ll toss you in the cells to cool down. We have cells now. Don’t give me a reason to test them out ahead of schedule.”

Cyrus nodded.

Solomon turned his attention back to Bristol. “Mister Fuller. Are you familiar with a place called Leavenworth?”

“Er, no.”

“Well, from this point on, if you do anything, ANYTHING with the anomaly without running it past me first, you’re going to become VERY familiar with Leavenworth.”

“It’s a military prison,” Cyrus whispered out of the side of his mouth.

Bristol turned pale.

“Good. I see we understand each other now.”

“Almost,” Cyrus said, undeterred by the scowl that Solomon shot his way. “Why is my prototype boxed up in a truck?”

Solomon sighed again. “Because things have gotten more complicated. I’m going to need you in the field for a bit.”

“The field? We don’t have a way through yet,” Cyrus frowned. “Unless this guy’s done something I don’t know about?”

“Through where, exactly?” Bristol asked.

Solomon considered him. “Now that I think of it, why don’t you go take a walk for a bit. Swing by the first aid tent, get that looked at.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s fine, just a bruise…”

“That wasn’t a request.”

“Oh. I ah, I see. Yes… sir?”

“Come back in about ten minutes. I’ll brief you properly.”

Bristol brightened up, nodded and hissed with pain, grabbing his bruised cheek. Seeming to gather what dignity he could, he left.

“Field work,” Cyrus said, scrutinizing Solomon. “Have we got a lead on another door?”

“No. What we have is a mess,” Gable stubbed out the remains of his cigarette, grinding it into a dark glass ashtray. “I’ve got those vacuum tubes you wanted incoming, but they come with strings attached. We’ve got a spook sniffing around.”

Spook. That word had a few connotations in the rural south, but Cyrus knew that Solomon Gable wasn’t using it as a slur. In this case, the word meant “secret agent.” Gable was talking about a spy. Someone from an alphabet agency.

“CIA?” Cyrus asked.

Solomon nodded. “We’re going to have to turn over your friend.”

Shit, Cyrus thought. There was no point in asking WHICH friend.

“If this CIA guy hands him back to MI6, we’ll never see him again,” Cyrus said. “We’ll lose one of our best assets for dealing with this whole thing.”

“Maybe. I’m not sure they’ll hand him over immediately. Probably try to pick his brain, first.” Like we’re doing, Cyrus added mentally, as Solomon paused. The older man continued, after clearing his throat. “The thing I’m most afraid of is the CIA trying to take more than they should. Which is one reason I had your prototype packed up. You’ll be taking it with you.”

“Taking it with me where, exactly?” Cyrus narrowed his eye.

“Well, it’s simple,” Solomon said, reaching into his heavy metal desk and pulling out a handful of manila folders. “The more we’ve got in place and ready to go, the less he can try to claim jurisdiction over. So I’m going to send you out to run some errands for me, while Bristol handles the technical side of things for a while. But before you go, there’s one thing you need to do before we lose an opportunity…”

*****

Bartleby’s smile was wide, if close-lipped. “Welcome, old boy. I was wondering when they would let you stop by for tea.”

“Tea?” Cyrus looked around the inside of the quonset hut that had been Bartleby’s prison for the last two months. It was more luxurious than he’d expected, with a decent-sized bed, a camping stove, and a few freestanding pieces of furniture. A pile of books occupied a small nightstand, and a freestanding lamp shed a warm glow over the area.

That wasn’t the only warm thing, even if a pair of lazily twirling fans were working overtime to cycle the air through the vents. There was nothing between the hut and the sun, and even in late December it was a touch uncomfortable.

“Yes, tea,” Bartleby said as he stood and stretched his thin, lanky frame. “If I’d known you were coming I would have put the kettle on. They let me have one for… mmm… good behavior. Still could get a pot started if you like. Not too late, I suppose.”

Bartleby was an older man, who had to be near or past sixty. He had thinning iron-gray hair that stuck out frizzy and loose. Normally he pomaded it, but Cyrus expected that he hadn’t earned any of THAT for good behavior.

To be honest, Cyrus was surprised that the Director had permitted Bartleby this much. For all his dapper, mild-looking elderly British gentleman appearance, Bartleby was a secret agent with a long history of dangerous operations. That had been how Cyrus had met him, out in the boonies of North Korea working on a joint venture with the Army.

“Being honest, I dunno if I got time for a good cup,” Cyrus confessed, leaning on his cane. “Things are moving in a way I didn’t expect.”

“How so?”

“Don’t know how much I can tell you,” Cyrus said. “But we got the device about settled. They got an egghead from up east to rebuild it the way it needs to be rebuilt, while I go tend to some other stuff.”

“I rather expected something like this. Once you gave them the schematics, you were never going to stay as the chief engineer for long. Now you’re a deniable, expendable asset to them. You do know that, yes?” Bartleby’s smile didn’t waver, as he leaned against one of the supports.

“Yeah, I know. They got me by the short and curlies. But they’re being polite about it, at least. And we’re both getting what we want out of it… for now.”

“They shouldn’t waste you, they’d be fools to do so. And Gable’s anything but a fool.” Bartleby’s eyes flicked back and forth as he talked, tasted the words as he said them. “You can do things off the books for them. I’m assuming he didn’t give you highly detailed orders? Didn’t ask how you were going to handle business?”

“He didn’t. I’m going recruiting.” Cyrus nodded back to the briefcase he’d left at the door, next to the guards who were very definitely listening in. “Got a bunch of personnel files who might be good for the next part, and he told me to pull in any old… friends, that I thought might work out well for this.”

Bartleby closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “You’re going to try to breach.”

“Yep.”

“Don’t.”

“Ain’t an option. Beth and Rusty are stuck over there.”

“They’re with the Lion now. They’re gone. Perhaps not immediately, but eventually—” Bartleby’s mouth snapped shut, and he flicked his eyes toward the guards, unwilling to give away details. “I’m sorry, Cyrus. I wish I could tell you differently. It would be a lie at best.”

“And I got to tell you I’m going back. AFTER a squad clears the way. You want to help me? You’re really sorry? Tell me about the Lion. Tell me what we’re really dealing with, here.” Cyrus leaned forward, shifting his bulk as he dug the cane into the floor boards. “I have family at stake! What are we up against, here?”

Bartleby looked past him, at the guards, and shook his head.

Cyrus tried to stare him down with his single eye, but there was only sorrow in Bartleby’s gaze. This ain’t working, Cyrus realized. Solomon had told him not to reveal anything, but he saw that he’d have to change tactics if he wanted to get anything out of Bartleby before the man got snatched away and probably thrown in some British equivalent of Leavenworth.

Cyrus glanced back at the guards, stepped closer to Bartleby, and lowered his voice. “They’re going to have to give you up soon.”

“Not unexpected,” Bartleby said, running a hand through his hair. “I always knew I was only a transient guest, here. It will be good to go home, even if there shall be some horribly uncomfortable discussions ahead.”

“I ain’t sure you’ll be going back there is the problem. It ain’t your boys coming for you,” Cyrus said, dancing carefully along the truth of what Gable had told him.

He felt bad about manipulating Bartleby.

But as he saw the agent’s face go tight, and the smile disappear, he knew he was making progress. “The Agency?” Bartleby asked, in a low, low voice.

Cyrus didn’t reply, just flicked his eyes back toward the guards, who were pointedly looking away. He looked back, pointed to his eye, and held up five fingers. Five fingers for five eyes. That was the name of the CIA/MI6 cooperative agreement.

But the CIA didn’t always play by those rules.

Bartleby sat down on the bed. “Bugger.”

“Yeah.”

“There’s no time for this. Not any of this.” Bartleby grimaced. “What do you want?”

“As much as you can tell us about the Lion.”

Bartleby looked away. “You know I'm going to lie to you.”

“We've reached the point where that's preferable to silence. And...” Cyrus bit his lip.

“If you lie to me too much, or in the wrong way, I'm a dead man. You know that. And I'm hoping that you give a shit about that enough that we'll get some use out of your lies.”

“Blackmail, in a way. But not unexpected.” Bartleby mopped his face with one sleeve. “It's a miserable life, you know. Espionage. No glamour to it. Just lies, broken promises, and the weakness of men.”

“Well,” Cyrus said, taking out a notebook and pushing it forward. “Been dealing with that all my life. What's one more?”