Rifts in the Stream V; Agent Fujara

“What seets thou else

In the dark backward abysm of time?“

William Shakespeare, The Tempest (Act 1, Scene 2)

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Tashi Fujara was stunning; and she knew it: she had wrapped her Amazonian body in an immaculate, tailored, slate-grey suit (which displayed, without flaunting, her attributes), and she walked on sensible, but exorbitant, shoes. Her hair had been recently coiffed short, with copper highlights, which accented the sienna flecks in her grey eyes. She didn’t wear make-up.

She surveyed the crime-scene quickly, walked through the parking lot, and stopped beside her partner, Marvin (actually little more than an executive assistant), who handed her a file that contained a newspaper proof for the New Vancouver morning edition. She read it quickly and crossed out imprudent information (she harbored  suspicions that Marvin included careless details to annoy her):

There was a multiple-homicide in an extensive warehouse district in New Vancouver last night. Investigators are sifting through the remains; the victims were shot, and their faces obliterated, before a purposely set fire destroyed any useful evidence.

So far, none of the bodies have been identified (neither finger-prints, nor dental records matched records of missing persons, known criminals, or et cetera). The warehouse district opened into a colossal, underground complex; a warren of living quarters and laboratories.

This was the kind of puzzle Tashi savored. She was determined to make rapid progress before the CIA caught-wind. They would eventually assume control and assign her an adjunct role — the CIA, like most American institutions, assumed superiority over foreign matters, and they treated CSIS Officers like feeble-minded cousins. But she’d worry about the CIA later; for now, her main concern was the locals: the policewoman was going to be uncommonly difficult. Inspector Hornbeam seemed competent, but she’d get in the way. Tashi had read the Inspector’s file on the flight from Ottawa. Hornbeam’s superiors were  complimentary, but Tashi read between the lines: Hornbeam had a tendency to defy her superiors; she must be good, because she’d never been officially reprimanded.

Tashi leveled her gaze at the Inspector and said, “Could I have a word with you?”

The Inspector followed Tashi away from the others.

“So, Hornbeam—”

“Aradny. Friends call me Rad. I suppose I should call you Tash? I read your file too.”

“I see,” Tashi replied. “It seems we understand each other, Hornbeam”

“Yes; I believe your right, Tash.”

Tashi smiled: “It’s possible that I could learn to tolerate you; unfortunately, as of now, you’re removed from the case. I anticipate complete cooperation.”

Inspector Hornbeam gazed into Special Agent Fujara’s eyes, turned around, and sauntered toward the warehouse.

“God damn it!” Tashi said. “For Christ sake! Hornbeam! Stop right there or — so help me — I’ll shoot you in the God-damn back!”

The Inspector stopped, turned back around, and said, “Bullshit. Your best bet would be to accept my assistance until I’m dragged away kicking and screaming; and, even then, I’ll stick my business up your ass until it hurts. This is my town, Fujara: don’t forget it! You need connections.”

“Okay, Hornbeam. Until I get my team up to speed, I’ll pretend you’re important.”

Aradny snapped her right hand up, palm toward herself, fingers splayed toward the sky: “Fine,” she said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tashi asked, pointing at the fingers of Aradny’s hand: “Is it some kind of local sign-slang?”

Aradny smiled, rearranged her hand so that only the middle finger pointed up, and said, “It’s a bouquet of these.”

Tashi heard muffled laughter from the group of Special Ops men behind her: she spun around quickly, but the laughter stopped abruptly, and all agents were surprisingly busy.

Tashi turned back to Aradny, who was wearing an accommodating smile: “I really hate to repeat myself,” the Inspector said, “but I prefer to be called Aradny. What could I help you with?”

Oh, for Christ sake, Tashi thought; I’m surrounded by imbeciles; and, as an added bonus, I have to deal with a bloated ego. She sighed: “Fine,” she said; “let’s make our way into the depths of the warehouse. You never know: some day I may even be glad I met you.”

The Inspector’s smile grew brighter: “And I look forward to working with you too, Fujara.”

They descended six flights of stairs and pushed through a door to a sterile hallway. They split up; Tashi went to the left, Aradny to the right.

Tashi walked past six doors: three on each side, which offered a view into flame-induced disaster; the eighth door was ajar — she pushed it open and walked in.

Some sort of electronics had been suspended from the ceiling, but only a tangled mess of wiring remained. A block of equipment had also been removed from the floor, beneath the wires.

The room was seamless, wall-to-wall stainless steel; clinical, except for the half-dozen dead bodies that littered the floor. Two of them were naked, the rest were in various stages of dress. Five females and one male; their faces had been obliterated by gun-shots, at close range.  The victims were young and in excellent shape, and none wore socks or shoes. Two of the victims matched victim one — from the parking lot — too closely. Two other victims were also of a type. The hairs on the back of Tashi’s neck stood up. She smiled.

She left the room and continued down the hallway. Only one other room had escaped the fire: there were eight people in the room’s vestibule; five males and three females. Again, Tashi noticed phenotypic similarities. As in the other room, the victim’s faces were obscured by bullet-wounds.

She searched further inside the twisting hallways of the room and discovered a woman who didn’t harmonize with the other victims; she was middle-aged, and clothed in a lab-jacket over scrubs. She had been wearing comfortable, soft-soled shoes. Her body’s posture looked unnatural; possibly due to how she fell when shot, but something looked odd.

Outwardly, Tashi remained calm, but her curiosity was aroused as never before. She’d dreamed of the day when a scene would dumfound her. She called back the photographers and had them take dozens of additional close-up and odd-angle shots (they were not a happy bunch, but knew better than to complain).

Tashi met Aradny at the stairwell, where they exchanged information; their observations had been similar. They examined many more levels, but both were satisfied with their original survey. They returned to the parking lot.

Aradny smiled at Tashi and said, “I suppose you’re Tech-Team is on their way: I’m going to grab some sleep — be back in the morning.” Then she turned to walked away.

Tashi called after her: “Hornbeam! I’ll search you before you go.”

“Is that necessary?”

“Yes,” Tashi replied, and checked Aradny carefully before waving her away.

“Power is transitory,” Aradny said.

“And yet,” Tashi said, “I think you’ll find it very difficult to return to the crime-scene tomorrow. Here, have my superior’s card, in case you want someone to complain to.”

Aradny’s efficient, rhythmic steps echoed off of the warehouse walls.

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Rifts in the Stream IV; an early memory (Kurt)

“The leaves of memory seemed to make

  A mournful rustling in the dark.”

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, The Burning of the Driftwood.

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I’d guess I was four or five.

The crèche was jiving, so I shuffled off to my nook. Our crèche-room had six nooks for privacy: there were many more than six of us, but few enjoyed solitude. I’ve always valued time alone; usually, nobody bothered me when I relaxed in my spot.

I was studying three fluorescent tubes in the ceiling, which normally cast a glare; but, for about a week, two of the tubes had been dark and lifeless. The third tube was dimly lit, and evenly spaced grey bands flowed noiselessly through its length. I marveled at the bands of shadow as they were emitted — like puffs of smoke — close to one end of the tube, floated mysteriously through the tube, and were absorbed near the other end. I sat calmly, hushed, hoping nobody else would notice the phenomenon. I was afraid the tube would be replaced if it was observed being different.

“Kurt?” Dr. Jhertzen appeared from around the corner; a small girl was beside and slightly behind him. “Oh. There you are,” he said, and propelled the girl toward me.

I looked into her deep, dark-brown eyes and smiled; she smiled back and we hugged. Her soul was pure. She smelled of lilacs, though it was many years later when I made the connection.

Dr. Jhertzen pulled us apart and said, “Kurt, this is Callie Lambda. Could you teach her to mesh?” The girl’s eyes widened when she realized she might be staying with our crèche.

Jessie was our de-facto leader, so I wasn’t sure why Dr. Jhertzen was leaving the girl with me (perhaps it was due to the scarcity of Lambdas; Callie was the only other Lambda I ever met), but I said, “Sure.”

I never argued with Dr. Jhertzen, but meshing wasn’t something you could teach: it was a thing you just did; like breathing. Meshing makes groups fit; it blends personalities together so that the edges disappear. Meshing is like the rounded corners of our crèche-room, where ceiling, floor and walls subtly curved into one-another without abrupt joints. Jessie said I was a genius at meshing, but she was much better at it when leadership was required.  I couldn’t lead people, I could only mesh. Sometimes it exhausted me.

Dr. Jhertzen looked at Callie, said, “Don’t disappoint me,” and then left.

She was nervous, so I gestured toward the ceiling, at the two tubes that were burned-out. I said, “He didn’t even notice they were dead.” It took her a while, but she finally noticed the bands moving along the third tube and pointed them out to me.

I led her back to the group: “Hey, Jess,” I said, “come and see what Callie found.” Everyone followed, and they all thought the shadow-bands were pretty awesome (the three light-tubes were replaced later that day).

Callie died in an experiment a few weeks later.

***

 

Rifts in the Stream III; the warehouse murders (the first appearance of Aradny Hornbeam)

The ancient owls' nest must have burned, Hastily, all alone, a glistening armadillo left the scene, rose flecked, head down, tail down…
                  Elizabeth Bishop, from The Armadillo, for Robert Lowell

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Aradny paid minimal attention to her driving on the way to the scene; as usual, she was concentrating on the case; and, in particular, about the site where the murder had taken place.

She had been in kindergarten when the warehouse project had begun. She remembered her father speaking to the teacher about it; he was a shy man, and it had stuck in her memory as an unusual occurrence. She could even remember his perplexed expression when he’d told Ms. Templeton that it was “…an odd place to build a warehouse facility; an odd place, indeed.” (They were not actually warehouses, but that was how Aradny still thought of the buildings). At the time, the road hadn’t been punched through the side of the mountain, and they’d used a fleet of Sikorski helicopters to transport workers, equipment, and supplies to begin construction; the roadway, and other infrastructural amenities, had come later, when construction was nearly complete. The buildings had looked functional and professional, with a glass and blue-grey, granite exterior; they were built tastefully, and seamlessly, into the side of the mountain.  After the road was finished, the site had become operational quickly and efficiently. And then mostly forgotten.

Aradny had searched the web for available information regarding the project and the company;

 

Rifts in the Stream II; tincture, the first (an excerpt from Crow’s journal)

 I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free. 

Michelangelo

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I hear the call — a resonance; like the faint, echoed peal of a bell — and swim through space and time, through motes of luminous perfume and between diaphanous, white rose petals. My skin is radiant, my mind calm and deliberate.

I free them, one at a time; a gift of wings, a means of blissful escape.

Only two remain: the most virtuous and beautiful of the fallen. I meant for her to be the last; she would have facilitated his transformation, eased his anxiety and guided him. Unfortunately, he will pass alone.

She studies the empty vessels on the floor and, when she hears the shuffle of my feet, she turns her head slowly and peers at me through innocence; her pupils dilate and I shoot as she turns to run. She lurches, but continues out the door and I lose her in the twisting hallways. She is fast, but I find her again as she escapes, with him, into the outside world. I shoot and shoot at her retreating form until her mortal body collapses, finally in peace; and, as her angelic essence soars away, she flutters a wing at me in thanks.

The last one runs away into the distance. Regrettable. He is almost as dangerous as she would have been. But now is not the time to silence him; the authorities of this realm will soon arrive. I ease into a crease: back to the world I know best; from there I can wait, and watch.

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