colored bright blue as if in attempt to bring more attention to my vulnerable head, felt more like a second skin than the irritating annoyance it was. The mask was Duane’s idea. Apparently the trend had swept like fire among the publicly-seen Pushed, which is amazing when you consider it had only been two days since the Whiteout. That made it another piece of the ‘superhero’ disguise needed to fit in. Rachel was the one who pointed out that it might also help keep me from being tracked down by any local police agencies I might run afoul of. It was comforting to know that it didn’t matter really, because the FBI would just arrest me for everything at the end of it all.
“OK, Doctor, you’re coming through loud and clear on the pick-up,” Agent Brooks informed me through the tiny earpiece. “Just remember, the less shit you get into, the less shit we have to clean-up when this whole thing is done.”
“What my partner means to say, Irene, is that you are have no official status or law enforcement powers,” Agent Choi added. For such small equipment, it certainly worked well. “You are what is known as a confidential informant. Anything you do that is considered a crime is still a crime. We only have the power to work an appropriate deal to lessen or wipe away those offenses, assuming we all live through this. Oh, obviously, the pick-ups are always on, so remember, everything you say is being recorded.”
“Understood, loud and clear,” I whispered low to myself. Even though my motorcycle was tucked in a side alley, I already felt amazingly conspicuous. No matter how I felt about the suit or how important it was to what we were trying to accomplish, it still felt like I was wearing a walking target.
“The whisper mic is working perfectly,” Rachel confirmed. “It’s all on you now. Duane is arranging some discrete transport for us to Washington for the rally tomorrow. I’ll keep you appraised of the details when he gets that done.” I heard some keyboard chatter.
“If you want to get your feet damp, local police are getting calls about a series of house invasions, Push activity suspected. Brook Heights housing project, east side of town.”
“Sure, sounds good to me,” I said. One kick and the Kawasaki roared to life as I secured my helmet. “I’ll head that way, if you can give me directions once I get close.”
I didn’t bother ask if they had a GPS tracker in with the wire, the pick-ups, and the other tidbits of electronics I had under the suit. As much as I hated it, for now, I was under the government’s thumb. I just hoped, as I raced through the Atlanta traffic, that what I was giving up would pay off in the end.
What worried me more than my two new friends in the FBI was the fact I was about to put what was so far mere guesswork, backed up by limited field observation, to a very real and very dangerous test. After the agents and I had come to our arrangement late yesterday, I had been 'encouraged' to travel with them, to avoid curfew entanglements, and stay in the hotel where they had been put up by the FBI. In the morning, as both of them made arrangements for the equipment they would need and Rachel did some work putting it all together, I had some free time.
Well, if you define free as ‘not being actively monitored but strongly suggested to stay in the hotel room and stay out of contact with the rest of the world’. As angry as the conditions made me, my rational side could see that it was certainly logical that neither Choi or Brooks completely trusted me yet. To not waste that downtime, I decided to run some figures based on what analytical programs I had on my laptop, using my observations about the Pushed and my own reactions to them as data.
That’s when I discovered yet another wrinkle the Whiteout had brought about. I was about to do the calculations regarding muscular force and the current theories on
“OK, Doctor, you’re coming through loud and clear on the pick-up,” Agent Brooks informed me through the tiny earpiece. “Just remember, the less shit you get into, the less shit we have to clean-up when this whole thing is done.”
“What my partner means to say, Irene, is that you are have no official status or law enforcement powers,” Agent Choi added. For such small equipment, it certainly worked well. “You are what is known as a confidential informant. Anything you do that is considered a crime is still a crime. We only have the power to work an appropriate deal to lessen or wipe away those offenses, assuming we all live through this. Oh, obviously, the pick-ups are always on, so remember, everything you say is being recorded.”
“Understood, loud and clear,” I whispered low to myself. Even though my motorcycle was tucked in a side alley, I already felt amazingly conspicuous. No matter how I felt about the suit or how important it was to what we were trying to accomplish, it still felt like I was wearing a walking target.
“The whisper mic is working perfectly,” Rachel confirmed. “It’s all on you now. Duane is arranging some discrete transport for us to Washington for the rally tomorrow. I’ll keep you appraised of the details when he gets that done.” I heard some keyboard chatter.
“If you want to get your feet damp, local police are getting calls about a series of house invasions, Push activity suspected. Brook Heights housing project, east side of town.”
“Sure, sounds good to me,” I said. One kick and the Kawasaki roared to life as I secured my helmet. “I’ll head that way, if you can give me directions once I get close.”
I didn’t bother ask if they had a GPS tracker in with the wire, the pick-ups, and the other tidbits of electronics I had under the suit. As much as I hated it, for now, I was under the government’s thumb. I just hoped, as I raced through the Atlanta traffic, that what I was giving up would pay off in the end.
What worried me more than my two new friends in the FBI was the fact I was about to put what was so far mere guesswork, backed up by limited field observation, to a very real and very dangerous test. After the agents and I had come to our arrangement late yesterday, I had been 'encouraged' to travel with them, to avoid curfew entanglements, and stay in the hotel where they had been put up by the FBI. In the morning, as both of them made arrangements for the equipment they would need and Rachel did some work putting it all together, I had some free time.
Well, if you define free as ‘not being actively monitored but strongly suggested to stay in the hotel room and stay out of contact with the rest of the world’. As angry as the conditions made me, my rational side could see that it was certainly logical that neither Choi or Brooks completely trusted me yet. To not waste that downtime, I decided to run some figures based on what analytical programs I had on my laptop, using my observations about the Pushed and my own reactions to them as data.
That’s when I discovered yet another wrinkle the Whiteout had brought about. I was about to do the calculations regarding muscular force and the current theories on
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