Net 2.3: The Novelettes of T. E. Mark - Vol III

(1)

COROS

2019

ROBINSON RESERVE, NEW YORK

The forest is black and filled with the never quiet sounds of night.

A six-person tent glows near a vast old growth wood from a post-hung lantern. Small voices slip through the canvass mingling with the rippling sounds of water sliding over a silvery creek.

Sitting in the dark, beside an orange-red fire, is a husky man with keen eyes in a round face. The young girl next to him sharing the cool night and warm fire is bright, adventurous and unafraid.

She hears something and gazes off. Her eyes are fired with curiosity.

‘Why can’t I go into the woods, dad?’

The girl’s father smiles but doesn’t laugh – he knows his daughter is serious.

He looks to the tent.

‘None of the other girls would even think of going in there now. Not at this hour.’ He points with his eyes. ‘Why must you, Charlotte? What is it you have to prove on this trip?’

Charlotte’s eyes beam. Her attention is drawn to the sound of an owl high in the trees. Below there is a rustle in the undergrowth.

‘I’m not like them.’ She turns to her dad. Her fourteen-year-old face holds the focused eyes of someone 30. ‘I’ll never be like them.’

The man shoves a stick into the fire sending glowing red fireflies into the air.

‘Doesn’t anything scare you? Aren’t you afraid a bear might grab you?’

His daughter continues to stare. The fire now a vivid reflection in her determined eyes.

‘I’m not going to die that way.’ Her voice is low – just above a whisper. She looks to her father. ‘I can’t die tonight.’

He laughs.

‘Well… I’m glad you’re so sure. Wish we all were.’

Quiet minutes pass. The night grows colder. Their eyes remain fixed on the fire.

‘Dad?’

‘Yeah babe.’

‘How would you live… I mean… would you live differently if you knew how and when you were going to die?’

He chuckles in his throat.

‘I don’t know… I guess.’

‘How?’

A long sigh. ‘Oh… I don’t know. Maybe… maybe I’d be more adventurous. Take chances. Maybe even be a little reckless.’ He chuckles again and turns. ‘Maybe I’d be more like you.’

She smiles, moves closer and leans her head on his shoulder.

2033

ROADSIDE, RURAL NEW YORK – NIGHT

Adult Charlotte, 28, suited, dripping in the rain stands in a filthy culvert along a lonely stretch of road along Port Ormond. In her hand is a grey, 9mm Beretta. The man at her feet, dying from two gunshots to the chest, was, until 20 minutes earlier, the most sought-after man in the country.

A man who killed motorists at random.

A man who killed for pleasure.

A man who needed to be stopped.

‘Over here.’ She waves to a New York State trooper who pulls his car, lights flickering the trees, to the side of the road.

In moments he’s at her side – rifle cocked.

‘Is he the…?’

‘…Not anymore.’

‘Are you… (He hesitates) are you a…?’

‘…Special Agent Walsh.’ She takes the officer’s arm and climbs from the culvert. ‘New York office.’ Her pants and blazer are mud-splashed. Her hands are red.

‘We found a car.’ He looks down. ‘Yours I assume, two kilometres up the road.’ His eyes are still on the body. ‘How the hell did you get…?’

‘…Look, I flew.’ Charlotte wipes her face with her sleeve, holsters her revolver and shuffles to the patrol car. She wipes the mud from her arms and hands. ‘I need your radio. And a towel. And five minutes. Then you can hit me with any lame shit question you want.’

STATE POLICE, BUFFALO, NY – DAY

A thin-faced blonde man, late 30s, in a dark trench coat walks swiftly through the corridors of the New York State Police – Northern District Offices.

At his side is a female State Trooper, stout and strong with sandy brown hair. She’s puffy with red cheeks and has the look of someone hardened by her years in investigative services.

They turn a corner and enter a long corridor lined with walnut stained doors on either side leading to yet another junction.

‘You said you’re from the Washington office?’

Her questions, though conversational, have increased in quantity, and the tone has changed from curiosity to one of scepticism.

The agent stops, reaches into his pocket and produces his leather-bound Federal ID.

‘Sutherland, Daniel. Special Agent Sutherland.’ He looks her dead in the eyes. ‘As I said at the desk when I came in, Officer, I was sent here from the New York City office to interview State Trooper Paul Herbert about what happened last night. The Interstate Sniper. Now…’ he throws his eyes down the hall then returns them to the woman. ‘I’d like to interview this trooper and get on with my day. I’m also certain you have things to do.’

‘I wasn’t trying to…’

‘…Sure you were.’ He softens. Gives her a slight smile. ‘You’re a cop. You were trained to be suspicious. So… if you have any other questions, why don’t you pour them on me now so I can get on with my investigation and you can get back to what you were doing.’

Now fully embarrassed and feeling reprimanded, the young officer shakes her head and points Sutherland to the fifth door on the right.

‘Officer Herbert is… he’s already waiting for you.’

2019

BEDROOM, QUEENS NEW YORK, PRESENT

Fourteen-year-old Charlotte, at a computer already dressed for school, leaning back in her desk chair, opens her eyes. Her head lolls – flops as if she’s drunk or been drugged. In a brief moment, her expression changes.

She pulls her earbuds out, tosses them onto the desk and tries to swallow. Her face is pale – she reaches for her mouth, vaults from the chair and races for her washroom.

2033

STATE POLICE, BUFFALO, CONT’D)

State Trooper Herbert is confused and slightly defensive – answering the Federal Investigator’s questions as though he’s the one being investigated.

‘The woman.’ Sutherland, from behind the desk, thinks for a moment. He eyes the officer facing him. ‘This… this Agent Walsh.’ The officer nods. ‘Was there anything strange about her?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Strange. You know… did she say anything that registered with you as… odd, or…. was she oddly dressed? Did she have an accent? That sort of thing.’

‘No Sir. Just… stiff. You know? Like any other…. Uhm… sorry.’

Sutherland peers down at his notes while pulling at his eyebrow.

‘And you say she had…’ he looks up. ‘…brown hair and freckles and looked to be about… about twenty-six?’

The officer nods. ‘Maybe a little older. I’m not sure. It was dark.’ He shakes his head. ‘Not thirty. Twenty-six… maybe twenty-eight.’

Sutherland turns a page and scans.

‘And you said…’ He holds his chin – thinks. ‘You said she asked for a towel and your radio? And that she was…’ He looks up. ‘…sarcastic to you?’

Herbert raises his eyes. ‘Yes Sir.’ He shrugs. ‘I asked her how she got from her car to the… well… She said she flew and that I could ask her my lame-shit questions when she’d finished her call.’

Sutherland looks into the officer’s eyes. ‘Flew.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘I’m assuming you didn’t listen in on the call.’

‘No, sir.’

Sutherland closes away his notes and stands.

‘Thank you, Officer Herbert.’ His voice is lower and less formal. ‘I’ll be in contact with you through your Captain if I need anything else.’

‘Agent Sutherland?’

The FBI man, with his coat over his arm on his way to the door, stops and turns.

‘What is it?’

‘Is she not… I mean… Is she not one of yours? Not someone from your office?’

Sutherland’s head shakes.

‘I’m afraid I can’t share that with you Officer. Suffice it say, that, because of her, your department and everyone in your district will sleep easier tonight.’ He grabs the door. ‘Have a good rest of your day.’

He pulls open the door and disappears into the corridor.

2019

HIGH SCHOOL, QUEENS, PRESENT

Fourteen-year-old Charlotte Wiles is in the corridor of John F. Kennedy High School, Queens, staring into her locker frozen in thought. She’s young, bright eyed with auburn hair, an athletic body and a face full of freckles.

Though staring into her books and ringed binders, it’s obvious she’s miles away in thought. A perky blonde girl appears behind her.

‘Hey space-case, late you will be.’

Charlotte reaches for a text.

‘You’re like my own personal period buzzer, Trudy.’ She closes her locker and turns. ‘Holy sh… Where d'you get the wretched blue lipstick?’

Trudy throws her head back theatrically. They move closer to the lockers to avoid a rush of students.

‘Forget that Raspberry.’ She pulls her shirt out of her jeans proudly displaying a belly ring. ‘Scope this and wish.’

Charlotte’s eyes widen. ‘No way.’

‘I went to the mall yesterday with Tony, John and Penny. We spent almost…’

‘…Your parents are going to frik.’

The buzzer sounds – the girls look into each other’s eyes. ‘Shit!’ They turn and they take off running.

‘You could come with us you know… sometime.’

They run through the rapidly emptying halls.

‘Can’t on weekends.’

They hit the stairs up.

Trudy, tucking in her shirt while taking two stairs at a time, laughs. ‘Time to break free babe. Drop terms like democracy and the abolition of slavery around the house.’ They reach the second floor and make a mad dash into the corridor. ‘I mean… you’re like the most basic chick in the school. The day you decide to lose it, there isn’t going to be a guy around who’ll want it.’

They stop at their classroom, pull open the door and slink in along the inner wall. They move to their desks shuddering from Mrs Ferguson’s glare – already collecting homework assignments.

‘Come with us next Saturday.’ Trudy’s voice has dropped to a soft whisper while pulling books from her pack.

‘Can’t.’ Charlotte, a quick head shake. ‘I have something important to take care of.’

Trudy gives her a look.

‘You’re going to end up a Nun.’

Charlotte chuckles – pulls her homework out, grabs Trudy’s from her desk and scans it with a scowl. She looks her in the eyes. ‘Look on the bright side. I’ll be in a better position to pray they let you graduate.’

Trudy covers her laugh with a hand and watches her friend take their assignments to the front.

COROS PROJECT, NEW YORK, PRESENT

A young, 24-year-old, Dan Sutherland, stretched out on a recliner in a small room next to a large monitor, opens his eyes.

He appears groggy, queasy and disoriented – pulls his headphones off and drops them to the floor.

‘How are you feeling?’

The question comes from a woman seated along the wall. Dressed in a white lab coat with a tablet in her lap, she’s dark, thin and her expression is one of concern.

‘Yeah.’ He clears his throat. It’s almost a heave. ‘Super.’

‘Do you need a…’ she moves to hand him a plastic, hospital style sick container.

‘No…’ He swallows, shakes his head and pushes it away.

He takes a hand to his face, sweeps his eyes then holds the bridge of his nose.

‘Here.’

The woman uncaps a protein shake and hands it to him.

After a sip, Sutherland stretches his eyes wide and sits. He’s pale and looks hung-over… or like someone with the flu.

‘I have to see Marty.’

‘You should wait…’ She checks her watch. ‘…at least a couple of hours, Dan. You’re still under…’

‘…Can’t.’ He stands. With his hands trembling, he downs the shake and hands her the bottle. ‘Thanks, Melany. This can’t wait.’

THE COROS OPERATIONS ROOM

Sutherland leaves the small office and walks shakily into the darkened operations room crowded with equipment. He stops in thought – gazes at the COROS project technicians and field agents seated at tri-sectional computer terminals circling a large table.

Rising up from the centre of the table, is a charcoal black obelisk two metres in length and one deep. Its visible height, projecting up from the tabletop, is about the height of a laptop screen. It’s smooth and glass-like but reflection-less and seems to vibrate.

There are elaborate USB-V inputs everywhere. All monitors and headphones are plugged into this sophisticated device that looks like it would be more at home on an alien spacecraft.

This is the fastest, most advanced supercomputer in the world.

This is COROS.

The research techs are in white lab coats. Monica and Terry, his fellow field agents, are casually dressed.

There’s a soft, barely noticeable hum in the air augmented by a metallic echo. Like a cymbal with a wavering pitch, it seems to be everywhere and nowhere.

Sutherland shakes off his confusion from the COROS effect and saunters to his station at the table. He stares down into his trio of black monitors.

‘Well?’ A heavyset tech with stringy black hair looks up at him. ‘Get him?’

Sutherland shakes his head. ‘Nope.’

Two others, a woman with sandy blonde hair and an attractive Latin girl, dark and big eyes no older than 22, look away from their monitors.

‘You mean he’s still out there?’

Sutherland continues gazing into his computers – still trying to stabilise.

He looks at her.

‘No… He’s dead, but…’

The project manager, Martin Thorpe, older, round faced with glasses walks over from a side wall where he was working with the resources technician.

‘Dan, what’s up?’ Recognising the consternation in his field agent’s face, he pulls over a chair and sits. He looks up at him. ‘Why are you out so early? Sit. Tell me what happened out there?’

Sutherland grabs a chair, sits – faces him.

‘I think we have a freelancer, Marty.’ He looks him in the eyes. ‘A Vigilante.’

‘A what?’

‘Just what I said.’ He shakes his head and scans the project team’s faces. He suddenly has their full attention. ‘Someone got my guy before I got there.’

The room is quiet with everyone removing their headphones to listen.

‘The local…?’

‘…Nope. No one local.’

‘Someone from your office in New York? Another agent?’

‘I don’t think so. I know almost everyone there.’ He sends his eyes to the ceiling.

‘Did anyone see this…?’