The Silent Army

Where is Zoe now?

She fled the scene.

That would have been hours ago. If it was true, she had to be losing it by now.

Do not let them bring her in, understand? I’ll find her.

I’ll do what I can, but—

Don’t let them bring her in.

Calliope was looking at me and I noticed her scowl.

“You got somewhere else you got to be?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, official business. Have a few drinks on me. We’ll have to catch up later.” Her scowl deepened.

Who is Zoe Ott?

That took me by surprise. Cal hadn’t seen Zoe since the factory, when she pulled her out of Fawkes’s holding pens. She hadn’t said anything about it even under direct questioning. I had assumed that Zoe made her forget, though she never admitted to it.

I ran a check on my JZI, and found a brief intrusion. She’d been monitoring the wire for references to Zoe, and when she got a hit she’d snooped at least part of the conversation. I’d underestimated Calliope Flax.

Cal, listening in on FBI communications is a felony—

Who is she, Wachalowski?

She was one of the people we recovered from the underground factory when it was infiltrated.

I know that. I was there. I mean, who is she?

What do you mean?

Her mouth parted to show the gap from her missing tooth, and her eyes got serious.

Look, I saw her at the FBI. I know you know what I’m talking about. What is the deal with that spooky little bitch? What did she do to me?

I didn’t have a good answer for that. She needed one, I could see, but I didn’t have one for her.

Don’t tell me you don’t know her, she said.

I know her.

Did she make me forget?

If she was asking, then she knew the answer to that. I wasn’t sure what Zoe had done to her, exactly, but I knew it was something. Cal needed someone—me—to verify that, but there were more of them out there than just Zoe. That kind of knowledge could be dangerous.

You saved her life. Do you remember going underground?

Parts.

You went down there to get her, I think.

Did she make me forget?

We’ll talk about it later.

It’s a yes or no question, Wachalowski.

It’s not that simple. We’ll talk about it later, but for now, don’t say anything about it to anyone else.

What?

I mean it. You’ll attract the wrong kind of attention. Don’t talk about it.

What wrong kind of attention? What the hell is going on?

Look, what happened two years ago …it didn’t end then. The bombings, the attacks—they’re going to get worse. Powerful people are involved in this, and I don’t want you getting caught up in it.

And this thing you can’t get into, it involves revivors and Second Chance?

I have to go. Forget I said it. I turned to leave but she grabbed my coat.

I want in. Let me in. You can trust me.

I know.

Then trust me. I’ll sniff around.

I should have stopped her, but I didn’t. The truth was, though, that I needed all the help I could get, and even at the FBI, I wasn’t sure who I could count on.

I have to go.

She nodded, but I already didn’t like the look in her eye. I had a second opportunity to stop her, and I didn’t. Instead I waved good-bye and began to make my way back through the crowd.

Zoe Ott—Pleasantview Apartments, Apartment #713

I sat on my couch, waiting for the police to come knocking on my door. They were going to blame me for what happened at the hospital; I knew they were. Someone shot that woman, and as far as they knew, I was the only one there. I wasn’t, but they weren’t going to believe me. No one else saw the other guy or revivor or whatever it was. No one else saw it. They thought I did it. The cops were probably looking for me already.

I should have just stayed there. I didn’t have a gun; I couldn’t have done it. Now they’d think I just threw it away or hid it or something. Going right home was stupid; it was the first place they’d look. They were probably on their way over already and there I was, just waiting for it to happen.

If they did come, I’d send them away. I’d have to. I could just make them think I didn’t have anything to do with it, which I didn’t. It wouldn’t even be a lie. I’d tell them the truth. A revivor did it. It didn’t matter if they believed me. I’d make them believe me.

I wanted a drink. I couldn’t calm down, and I just really, really wanted a drink. The pills helped, but right then I didn’t care. My heart was still beating too fast and I tried to breathe slower, but I couldn’t.

I closed my eyes and squeezed my fists against them. My hands were shaking, and I was sweating. I wanted to scream. Maybe the drinking was killing me before, but I must have been happier than this. I never had to feel like I did almost every day now….

“They took the ship,” a voice said. I opened my eyes, and my apartment was gone. I was sitting on a metal floor, painted white. The room I was in was small, and it was dark except for an emergency light mounted on one wall.

There was a man sitting a few feet away. He had long, dirty hair and the start of a beard. His face was pale and his lips were chapped and peeling. His eyes were half shut. He looked like he could barely move.

“Who are you?” I asked him. Behind him, I could see more people huddled against the wall. They all looked like him, or worse.

“They took the ship,” he said again. His voice was hoarse. I watched as he lifted a glass jar off the floor and it shook in his hand, like he could barely lift it. Dark yellow liquid sloshed inside, and I realized it was urine. He put the jar to his chapped lips and drank.

I put my hand over my mouth, horrified. His eyes looked apologetic and ashamed.

“We can’t go out there,” he whispered, “We won’t make it. This way is better.”

Someone knocked on the door, and I jumped. When I turned, I was back in my apartment. The strange room was gone. The man with the urine was gone. The knock came again.

It was the police. They were here to get me. My heart started thumping as I got up off the couch and stood in the middle of the room, not moving.

“It’s not the cops,” a woman’s voice said from the other side. “Come on, open up!”

I headed over and opened the door. It was that woman, the one from the subway the other night. She had on the same wool hat and the same red poncho. Under one arm she had a big, flat cardboard box that was tied with a bow.

“Oh,” I said. “It’s you.”

“Penny,” she said.

“Sorry, I thought …I can’t get into it. I just …”

“The cops won’t come here,” she said. “Don’t worry. It’s taken care of.”

“Taken care of?”