Too much given.
Too much lost.
> He was weak.
Too much blood.
Too much pain.
> He was drifting free.
In long, dark endlessness.
Amidst the dust of creation,
> someone was calling.
----------------------------------------
Tuesday, February 4th, 1997
February’s chill bit through Julie’s coat, and she regretted wearing the damn thing just one more time before she gritted her teeth and pushed the thought from her mind. If she was cold, it was her own fault. A proper Terran would have known to wear something heavier.
The Skybreakers were colder than this.
Given the number of people banished to her homeworld’s frigid northern range, she had no right to complain about a dusting of Virgina snow, or the cold concrete of her garage. Her newly purchased house in Reston was warm—and safe—with all the trappings of modern Terran convenience. Primitive, compared to some planets she’d seen, but functional and no less luxurious.
Unlike the barren mountains back home, splitting the clouds with their wind-swept icy blades.
This is too big.
She wanted her apartment back. She wasn’t ready to live this way.
She dropped a bag of Chinese take-out on the polished kitchen table.
Then . . . for a long moment she stood, staring at the oaken surface glistening warmly beneath a colorful Tiffany glass fixture.
A matte black folder over an inch thick sat neatly at her favorite spot, where her back faced the kitchen so she wouldn’t have to look at the expansive, expensive space while she ate.
Impressed on the surface of the folder was a swirling, dark, star-dusted crest, like an odd cosmic Yin-Yang. The usual acronym was absent, but understood: ETHICS.
A case file, from the Extraterrestrial-Hhianmiikan Immigration Control System, and a Shadow File at that, which meant it was classified. The largest one ever recorded. Its familiar name was embedded in an alien script along the tab. Nightmare.
Her blood ran cold; not in fear, but anger. Her senses sharpened as she sniffed the house out without moving. She continued to stare at the shadowy galactic image as she listened for footsteps, and a breath other than her own.
What she found was precisely what she expected: the smells of her home were diminished, and she caught the familiar sound of a small, sighing breath.
How dare she.
“I don’t want this,” Julie called stiffly into the silence.
“It’s not a request,” came an elderly woman’s answer from the living room. The voice quavered, but still bore the legendary strength and conviction of her youth.
Old bitch! Julie whirled toward the door, “You leave my house, Sherine, and you take this with you!”
“I’m not giving you an option, Ms. Hanon.”
There could only be one reason Sherine would arrive like this, at a time like this, unannounced and unaccompanied, with the enormous Shadow File in tow. Julie snatched it up, noting a pair of standard manila files underneath. Each was marked on the tab in black alien script, and neither name was familiar.
“I have one agent.” She snatched those as well and marched into the living room, “One! And he’s not taking this case! How dare you give me this!”
An old dark-skinned woman sat in an armchair by the fireplace, wrapped in a dark green velvet coat with an extravagantly broad collar, her wrinkled brown hands calmly folded in her lap; a scene of power and serenity before Julie’s temper. Sherine was showing up the “younger” woman, knowing that Julie was many countless times her age, and knowing well the journey and sacrifices Julie had endured.
So that’s the game you want to play.
Julie sat down in the chair across from her, rigid with fury, but poised before Sherine’s infamous calm.
In contrast to Julie’s formal dark gray business suit, pale skin, blond hair, and bright green eyes, Sherine sat with her back to the light, in shadow against the high-backed leather chair. The collar of her coat was ribbed in a pattern that gave it a vague semblance to an array of enormous leaves draped about her shoulders.
A human might not have seen it, but Julie didn’t miss an ounce of symbolism.
This was an agonistic display. A power play.
“You haven’t changed,” the old woman sighed.
Julie shot her a venomous glare, and looked down at the files. If she threw it, she would break her coffee table, so she let the hefty black folder hit the marble surface with a resounding smack. “No.”
The other two files were still her hands. Both were marked with the faint gray imprint of the cosmic crest. Given the secrecy with which their company worked, it was dangerous to be carrying so many files so openly, much less the black one. She knew how to hide them from humans, but her people had offworld enemies, and that was enough to make even skin as thick as hers crawl at the appearance of just one of those symbols. There were three of them.
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She opened the first manila folder and skimmed the top page: Name, age, Ryozae ethnicity and species, registered human form, notable skills, cover work and resumé. A standard agent’s file. Other pages would include a personal profile and detailed work history. It was thin, but full of individual case tabs, all dated within the past two years. She deposited the folder on top of the Shadow File. “Too young. No combat experience. Or any other experience.”
“You didn’t even look at his case work,” Sherine reproached her, “He shows promise.”
“I work with proof, not promises.”
The second one was slightly longer, with case tabs for each year, rather than individual dates. Julie skimmed the top page, and dropped the folder on top of the others. “Too old. No combat experience. Too emotional.”
Sherine smirkly, mildly amused, “I should think age would mean nothing to you.”
“One is barely out of his mother’s nest, and the other is your garden-variety Nasu.”
A brow rose on the woman’s dark, wrinkled face, along with that smirk, “Is there a problem with that?”
“Should I expect her to suddenly become a Ryozakkan warrior overnight?”
“I expect you to learn some respect for the way we do things. You’ve been human long enough. It’s time for you to grow up. This team could help you gain some perspective.”
“So I can become one of them?!” she snapped, lifting her hand to gesture eastward towards Capitol Hill, a short commute from her house. In her rage, she had to force herself to point her fingers correctly, rather than pointing with her whole hand, “If you knew anything about these arrogant fucking self-serving, short-sighted, narcissistic prima—”
Sherine held up a hand in a human gesture, silencing her. Then she calmly lifted her hand towards the west and said, “You could use some time amongst the rest of them.”
“You’re signing your agents’ death certificates, putting them up to this,” Julie said, bitterly conceding. Then she moved the two files aside, and set her other hand down on the black logo, “And this?”
“It was your agent’s case.”
“It’s a closed case. It’s restricted. It was never supposed to leave The Vault,” her fingers skimmed the pages lightly, “All of these people’s files have been closed and sealed. It shouldn’t even be on this planet, much less in this system.”
They were retired from service. Barred from contact. Memories wiped clean. She knew the names without looking at them: Durant, Moore, Blackwood . . . Sparker. She would lose her job and be deported offworld for approaching any of them under any other circumstances; but Julie knew which ones Sherine was here for, and why. It was a request much too bold to have come from Sherine herself.
Julie returned her unflinching gaze. “Don’t you think those three have seen enough of our world?”
“They won’t remember it,” the old woman said simply.
“That was the point!”
Sherine leaned forward, and to Julie’s dismay, she pulled three more files from a briefcase at her side. She set them down, and slid them forward. Julie picked them up reluctantly.
This time, she recognized the names on the tabs. Picking the top two, she set the third to the right of the Shadow File, sighing, “These two are more than enough on their own. You don’t need me, my agent, or any of these other unfortunate individuals,” she let them fall to the left of the ominous black folder and set her hand down on the one remaining file, “This one is dead. In that car explosion in Iowa last month. He protected his Contract, and he paid the price. There’s been no sign of him.”
“Is that so?” Sherine said, pursing her lips, “What a pity.”
Julie studied her, and looked back down at the spread of folders on the coffee table.
He’s alive, then. I see.
Sherine wouldn’t have brought his file if she hadn’t known. Her purpose was becoming clearer.
The woman leaned forward, her expression grim, “The disappearances have increased. Not just humans, but our people, too. Sometimes agents, sometimes civilian immigrants. HQ sites have been receiving threats in the form of Ryozaebody parts. Our people’s bodies, mutilated and stuffed into boxes, plastic bags, and jars of alcohol. Unexplained human disappearances is one thing, Julie—it could be anything—but when its our people it’s a whole other matter. Shonthera HQ is calling for all claws on deck, even if it means bringing back a few people we aren’t supposed to.”
“New Shadow Op?”
The old woman’s head bobbed once.
If Sherine had given the Shadow File to anyone else, she would have to explain the entire case to whichever unfortunate agent she handed it to. Julie knew the case intimately, thereby minimizing the number of people who needed to be exposed to its darker, stranger secrets. Still: this was a terrible idea.
“We do not have the resources for war,” Sherine said, “in the event that things take a turn for the worse. It’s never easy to make these decisions, but we’ve got to try this. Our enemy seems to have anticipated our every move.”
“So you want to take them off guard,” Julie concluded, “and you want me to do it because I have access to resources that most people don’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No you’re not.”
Sherine smiled, “I’m sorry for your team, but you’re right: I’m not sorry for you.”
“You enjoy this. Flaunting your power over me.”
“Making a ceratopsian display of myself and sitting in the dark like an Aemarri carnivore because it’s the only language you understand? I do not, but you leave me no choice, Your Highness.”
“Don’t call me that.”
A car pulled into the driveway, tires crunching on the icy pavement.
Sherine rose to her feet, her tone and mannerisms unchanged as she reiterated, “The experience will be good for you. My time is short, and so is everyone else’s. Call your man, and assemble your team. I want feet on the ground and wings in the air by summer.”
Julie straightened indignantly. “You want me to pull this off in six months?”
“I’d rather have it together next week, quite honestly.”
Julie picked up the black folder in both hands, shaking it at her. “These people are clueless! Someone has to train them!” she thumbed the hefty stack of paper, “Someone has to explain this!”
“Good thing I’ve assigned a trainer, and a Nasu. The team has been cleared by Counseling.”
“I’ll see about that,” Julie grumbled.
“I doubt it. I’ll see you at Base, Ms. Hanon. We expect to have more information on the enemy by the end of the month. Hopefully, no one else has to die for it.”
Julie watched her cross the room. A car door closed, and a single set of footsteps approached the front of the house. Sherine pulled her coat up around her ancient frame, opened the front door, and a smiling young man in a brightly colored patchwork coat and a fluorescent pink feathered boa escorted her to the car like a favorite grandma. In terms of human ethnicity, he was ambiguous, but at a glance, Julie roughly guessed his off-world origins: Aemarri. The way people treated Sherine was alien to Julie’s experience, and it wasn’t limited to those of a similar background. People loved her. They wanted to love her. Female herbivores in her class didn’t rise to power easily.
What’s she got that I didn’t?
The smell of Chinese take-out entered the living room. Sherine had set a sterilizer to ward off their enemies, and it had washed out the door with the winter wind, drawing the scent of egg rolls, fried rice, and Mongolian beef into the living room. Julie set another sterilizer, giving herself close to an hour to vault the files in an airtight safe before the wrong eyes could see them.
There were several phrases that would have been appropriate in that moment. Asaahndiu, axumiradi. “As I breathe, it shall be done.” Standard lines of formal acceptance following a set of given orders. She knew them well in several dialects of her native tongue; but in that moment, as she gazed down at the bizarre spread of files across her coffee table, pondering her options and weighing the risks while her take-out grew cold, the acceptance came with a bitter flavor:
“Asaahndiu, old bitch.”