the decon lift to Level One, Marte Chang wondered, once again, What in God’s name have I got myself into?
That night, half-asleep in her Level One quarters, she listened to fluctuations from her air conditioner and thought of those meter-square boxes. She imagined herself inside one of them, stooped, unable to either stand or sit. The dreamer Marte Chang listened through a feeding slot while the person in the box above her whispered, “Someone will get us out of this, you’ll see.”
Marte Chang tossed in a fitful sleep, convinced that, with no one behind her and nowhere to go, nobody could get her out of this. She could only make the best of things while she was here.
Time for a woman-to-woman talk with Shirley Good, she thought.
Marte had learned to filter out the scuff-scuff of footsteps in the hallway, their inevitable pause at her door, the occasional touch of the latch or sniff on the air. The Innocents were curious, shy, good-natured. Now she sensed a pause at her door, a presence without footsteps. Not a breath. Not a shadow. Not an Innocent.
Mishwe!
Marte Chang’s heart rate got in the way of her breathing for a moment but she kept her respirations as steady as possible. Just as she had sensed he was there, she sensed his absence. The nighttime traffic of busy Innocents resumed.
Chapter 12
Colonel Rico Toledo closed the slats on his office blinds with a snap, shutting out the merciless sun and the weekly demonstration at the embassy gates across the way. These were not Costa Bravans venting spleen against the United States; these were U.S. citizens. North Americans who didn’t have the huevos to stand up to the White House gates at home shook their pale fists at this air-conditioned box fenced off from the diesel-grimed pesthole that the locals called a country.
The Colonel was in a bad mood because he was in a bad position. The muggy heat prickled the stitches under his dressing, and he nursed a hangover that would have registered a 7 on the Richter scale. Rico snorted unselfconsciously at the sight across the street. Those demonstrators thought that they displayed solidarity with the locals, but were seldom in-country long enough to discover that the locals disrespected anyone who spat on his own flag.
“They do that every week, you say?”
The voice behind the Colonel—a high, nasal voice bordering on whine—belonged to his new assistant, probably an eventual replacement, a fresh major by the name of Hodge. The Colonel was fresh himself, in a way. The Agency sent Solaris down to deliver the verdict: collect vacation, leave the country, possible court-martial. Rico was uninvited to Garcia’s celebration of his one-year anniversary as President without a coup. Then, in the morning, the mandatory debriefing, his personal ass-chewing for losing Red Bartlett and for the trouble with his wife. The blade fan overhead growled as it always did in low gear.
The Colonel growled a little himself.
“I thought you were in intelligence.”
When Colonel Toledo turned imaginary cross-hairs between Hodge’s eyes, he saw a flush wash over the major’s cheeks.
“Colonel, I appreciate what you’ve been through. I was just making conversation. You were injured in one of those demonstrations when you first came in-country, I heard.”
The Colonel felt a surge in the pulse at his neck, the rise of unreasonable anger. This curse of rage he recognized but he could not throw off. Drinking both triggered the rage and smothered it. The trick was in the timing, and bad timing had plagued him of late. It worried him because he’d lost control, lost some memory. It worried him because counseling meant talking, and talking would mean his job. Not talking now might also mean his job.
Rico needed the vacation, that was clear. He hadn’t taken time off in nearly five years. Grace made sure that she and Harry took several vacations a year, which the Colonel encouraged. He always came up with a lot of “product”
That night, half-asleep in her Level One quarters, she listened to fluctuations from her air conditioner and thought of those meter-square boxes. She imagined herself inside one of them, stooped, unable to either stand or sit. The dreamer Marte Chang listened through a feeding slot while the person in the box above her whispered, “Someone will get us out of this, you’ll see.”
Marte Chang tossed in a fitful sleep, convinced that, with no one behind her and nowhere to go, nobody could get her out of this. She could only make the best of things while she was here.
Time for a woman-to-woman talk with Shirley Good, she thought.
Marte had learned to filter out the scuff-scuff of footsteps in the hallway, their inevitable pause at her door, the occasional touch of the latch or sniff on the air. The Innocents were curious, shy, good-natured. Now she sensed a pause at her door, a presence without footsteps. Not a breath. Not a shadow. Not an Innocent.
Mishwe!
Marte Chang’s heart rate got in the way of her breathing for a moment but she kept her respirations as steady as possible. Just as she had sensed he was there, she sensed his absence. The nighttime traffic of busy Innocents resumed.
Chapter 12
Colonel Rico Toledo closed the slats on his office blinds with a snap, shutting out the merciless sun and the weekly demonstration at the embassy gates across the way. These were not Costa Bravans venting spleen against the United States; these were U.S. citizens. North Americans who didn’t have the huevos to stand up to the White House gates at home shook their pale fists at this air-conditioned box fenced off from the diesel-grimed pesthole that the locals called a country.
The Colonel was in a bad mood because he was in a bad position. The muggy heat prickled the stitches under his dressing, and he nursed a hangover that would have registered a 7 on the Richter scale. Rico snorted unselfconsciously at the sight across the street. Those demonstrators thought that they displayed solidarity with the locals, but were seldom in-country long enough to discover that the locals disrespected anyone who spat on his own flag.
“They do that every week, you say?”
The voice behind the Colonel—a high, nasal voice bordering on whine—belonged to his new assistant, probably an eventual replacement, a fresh major by the name of Hodge. The Colonel was fresh himself, in a way. The Agency sent Solaris down to deliver the verdict: collect vacation, leave the country, possible court-martial. Rico was uninvited to Garcia’s celebration of his one-year anniversary as President without a coup. Then, in the morning, the mandatory debriefing, his personal ass-chewing for losing Red Bartlett and for the trouble with his wife. The blade fan overhead growled as it always did in low gear.
The Colonel growled a little himself.
“I thought you were in intelligence.”
When Colonel Toledo turned imaginary cross-hairs between Hodge’s eyes, he saw a flush wash over the major’s cheeks.
“Colonel, I appreciate what you’ve been through. I was just making conversation. You were injured in one of those demonstrations when you first came in-country, I heard.”
The Colonel felt a surge in the pulse at his neck, the rise of unreasonable anger. This curse of rage he recognized but he could not throw off. Drinking both triggered the rage and smothered it. The trick was in the timing, and bad timing had plagued him of late. It worried him because he’d lost control, lost some memory. It worried him because counseling meant talking, and talking would mean his job. Not talking now might also mean his job.
Rico needed the vacation, that was clear. He hadn’t taken time off in nearly five years. Grace made sure that she and Harry took several vacations a year, which the Colonel encouraged. He always came up with a lot of “product”
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