* * *
Landon sat in the debris of his office and tried to steady his breath. Panic was not what he needed right now, even if they were here. Even if they were about eight hours earlier than he’d expected. He had to make a decision.
The illumination from his desk lamp revealed the abomination of his orderly workspace. The table tops filled with cardboard boxes that were stuffed with carefully wrapped glass beakers and tubing. Bare spaces on the walls, empty spots in the bookshelves.
The air still stank from all the precious herbs and decoctions he’d been forced to pour down the sink.
Months of careful work destroyed, just when he’d thought he was on to something. His gut twisted in frustration. Gleason’s attitude towards Vallon. Homeland Security, and then Vallon’s disappearance.
He couldn’t think of much more that could go wrong—except this.
He raised his gaze to the small figures on the computer screen. Fitzsimmons and Amundson in the war room, the state of the room clearly revealing what Gleason had ordered. Agents purging computer files. In Gleason’s office, Landon knew a shredder hungrily ate the most confidential of documents.
Another of the beasts idled beside Landon’s desk. He looked down at what he held.
Page upon page upon page of genealogical printouts, some of them modern day, but many of them not. Gleason knew he had the modern files; it had been Landon’s idea to begin with, ever since the AGS formed and Gleason had tasked him with trying to increase the Gift. After all, you could train a dwarf to dance, but that didn’t make them appropriate for the Metropolitan Ballet.
And what they were getting from recruiting were the dwarves. Landon was sure of it. There had to be others out there who had a greater Gift. It fit the bell curve model. He—the others of the AGS—might sit somewhere on the Gifted range of humanity, but there had to be those outliers at the upper end of the curve. They had to exist, so he’d taken two initiatives.
The records of the AGS breeding program weighed heavy in his hands.
He stroked the papers, then fed them to the shredder, the whine and grind hurting his ears. He knew the genealogy of the AGS’s Agents so well that he could see them printed on the darkness when he closed his eyes, like the recipe for a golden future. The world could be beautiful, wonders saved, wrongs righted, if only the AGS Agents had more power and the will to use it rightly.
Another glance at the computer screen. Not what the Homeland Security would do, he was sure of it. They’d love the knowledge he had, but with the only source in his head, he could hide it from them. They would never know what he’d done, the careful arrangements he’d made with hand-picked pairs of agents. Most of the time.
The records of his work became crosscut packing material, impossible to restore. He ran his hand over the larger stack of paper still on his knees.
In addition to the breeding program he’d instituted a genealogical program that had started researching the family histories of those with the Gift. He’d hoped to locate common ancestors of his agents, perhaps identify other branches of their family trees to find more Gifted. So far it had borne limited fruit, but he was convinced it would. Vallon Drake’s existence convinced him. His special little girl.
He fed the precious sheets of paper into the machine, let them become confetti, because one day he would use this paper as exactly that. He—Gleason, the AGS — would find a way to avoid the depredations of Homeland Security. They would.
But he couldn’t be sure.
He glanced again at the computer screen. Amundson was on the phone. The man’s whole body seemed to twitch with excitement—he probably didn’t realize how easy his broad-boned face was to read.
Landon minimized the screen and brought up his genealogical program and read. He’d already erased all the breeding records he kept on an external drive and smashed the drive with a hammer to ensure the records couldn’t be recovered.
That left this program, this file. His hope of exposing a group of more Gifted beings. In the hands of Homeland Security it would create an unprecedented paranoia. He couldn’t let that happen, but he couldn’t lose what he’d found so far, what still waited to be gleaned from the records.
“Damnation, this shouldn’t be happening.”
He hit save-as and waited impatiently as the material was copied to a specially built flash drive that had far beyond the normal capacity. When it was done, he placed the cord of the drive around his neck and stuck the smooth metal under his pajama top, just as the door to his office opened.
Gleason, framed by Amundson and Fitzsimmons.
Landon swallowed. Damnation, he should have noticed them leaving the war room. He casually shifted his hand to the delete button on the computer.
“I wouldn’t do that.”
The harsh clip of Fitzsimmons’ voice stopped his finger from the stroke.
“What’s going on here?” The big man stepped into the room, his head bobbing as if he searched the scents with that over-large nose of his. “What is this place?”
Gleason tried to intervene, but Fitzsimmons wasn’t having any, he pushed past to the tables, touched the packed boxes and unwrapped a single glass beaker. “Well?”
“It doubles as a library and a lab.” Landon said, standing and crossing to the Homeland Security head in the hopes he wouldn’t see what was on the computer. The small metal pendulum on his chest seemed to burn him. Surely they would see it, demand it.
He rubbed his throat, tried to shift the pajama collar closer to his neck.
“I’ve been researching a variety of avenues to improve the Gift in our agents.”
“Drugs?”
Landon nodded. It was as good a story as any, when his actual research had been a little farther into fringe science.
“Why is everything packed up?”
Landon glanced at Gleason, but there was no help there. “I’d been working on a series of experiments, but the whole thing was contaminated with a mold. I tried sterilizing the equipment, but finally had to give up. I’m going to replace the whole batch and see if it might go better that way.”
He held his breath as Fitzsimmons’ hooded gaze held his. Finally: “I see. And the shredder is for?”
“Old records. Chief Gleason decided it was time for some Spring cleaning.”
Silence, and Landon decided to take the initiative. “Is there anything else? I really do need to get back to this.”
He made a motion towards his desk and its single haloed light.
“I have to hand it to you, Snow, you are one smooth bastard.” Amundson moved around the room. “There’re books removed. You can see the dust around where they stood. They get moldy, too, Snow?”
Landon shook his head and held his place because all he could hope was that Amundson wouldn’t know what he was looking at on the computer. Genealogy. Fine and dandy. The file didn’t contain any of his observations or notes. Those had all been shredded.
Amundson stopped at the computer, considered the complex display of family histories.
“What is it?” Fitzsimmons asked.
“Looks like genealogical charts or something.”
Landon looked at the floor, assumed an expression of guilt and sent what he hoped was a pained expression to Gleason. “I’m sorry boss, I didn’t delete it like you asked.”
Fitzsimmons’ and Amundson’s gazes locked on him, so he made a show of sighing and shook his head. “It’s a hobby of mine. I get bored; I play around doing family histories. Gleason told me to stop about six months back. I didn’t.”
He casually retreated to Amundson’s side. Landon went to hit the delete button again, but Amundson caught his wrist and smiled like the wolf he was. “Why don’t we just leave that? Your ex-boss thought you should come with me on an urgent little venture.”
Landon looked back at Gleason. Amundson’s hand squeezed his wrist tight enough he thought he felt the bones crack.
Gleason nodded. “I’ve been demoted, it
seems. Amundson here has been placed in charge and now, apparently there’s been a development. Vallon Drake’s not dead. You’re going with him on a recovery mission.”
Landon wrestled with his horror at the AGS’s fate and the joy he felt for Vallon. He knew it showed. “Recovery mission? I’m no field agent.”
“Obvious,” Amundson muttered, his distaste for the situation clear.
“She’s gone rogue, Landon. She’s running. I told these two gentlemen you’re the best hope we’ve got of talking her in without devastating consequences.”
Chapter 24—Moving Mountains