* * *
Aybarra looked at his older superior, noting that he seemed to have gained another ten pounds and lost even more hair during the last several months while Aybarra had been living under cover. Hair loss and extra pounds was just one of the dangers of owning a desk job, he assumed. Unfortunately, the way things were going, he would never have the opportunity of personally finding that out. Apparently, Mrs. Aybarra's little son Samuel was just too damn good in the field for his superiors to even consider promoting him to a desk job.
After settling himself into the plush oversized visitor's chair set on the other side of his boss's cherry wood desk, feeling himself sink too far in so that, with time, his back was guaranteed to ache, Samuel tried to ignore pictures on the wall of David shaking hands with presidents because, when push came to shove, that was another reason he would remain forever in the lower ranks. He had no connections, no pull, because he was the wrong race. Prejudice because of race might officially be a thing of the past, but for some reason, those who were of Asian or Hispanic descent tended to get all the best jobs.
Then again, despite David Lincoln's position and influence, the type and condition of his small office did not actually say that this was one of those best jobs. An indication, perhaps, that his connections were not as earthshaking as the pictures indicated. More likely, the explanation had to do with his mixed heritage. Though he was considered Hispanic, David Lincoln had an embarrassing amount of Anglo blood running through his veins.
"Turner," Aybarra said once he finished shifting himself around in the chair so it was at least minimally comfortable, "has been lying all along. Yes, the area is broken into several countries, but they are serious and well run countries and not the hodgepodge of mismanaged backwaters he described to his superiors. The one he lives in, Isabella, is a loose republic with a population density higher than he reported, though it is still low when compared to a similar area in our own Jefferson. As best I could tell in the short time I was there, Isabellan technology is eighteenth century in some respects, nineteenth in others, and way back to the twelfth century or before in a couple areas. Most notably, they have no steel or gunpowder. They do, or a few individuals do, have something that appears to be magical or psychic abilities, which isn't surprising since Turner apparently has something similar. However, they seem to need some sort of apparatus to make it work. I'm not sure what that something is since I was not over there very long. However, I did learn that it isn't easy to get one of whatever it is."
Drawing a folder from his brief, Aybarra looked around the small office his boss commanded once again. Despite the pictures, the place was…well…it was depressing. Thirty years of service during four administrations had earned the man no more than a twelve by twelve room without windows. Worst of all, the air conditioning did not work. Apparently there was a problem with the pneumatic damper controlling his segment of the system's cold deck. In other words, the place was sweltering and constantly smelled of stale cigars.
Maybe he was better off staying in the field after all. Was probably better for him. After all, in the field he could only get shot. An office like this would probably grind him down.
Then again, it would be nice to have an opportunity to find out.
Looking thoughtful, Lincoln drummed his heavy fingers on his desk, making a repeated thudding noise that Aybarra found distracting.
"Go on," Lincoln encouraged. "Tell me about Turner."
"A bit of a mystery there," Aybarra admitted. "Turner seems to have ceased all efforts at preparing the ground for military control. Over the last few weeks he has exerted a great deal of effort in gaining financial control of many of the prime businesses, yet the locals don't seem to resent him for this. It appears that he only became financially active after there was some type of crisis, possibly indicating that he only acted to alleviate some sort of local trouble. It is more likely that he is following his own individual path to greater power in accordance with the dictates of General Field, but truthfully, I am not exactly sure."
Aybarra tossed the folder on his commander's desk. "This has the details of my observations. What I don't understand is how the two who escaped from the bus station managed to gain the abilities they displayed. The man is a vicious criminal, but during the short period that I observed him he seemed no different in his limited paranormal abilities than any other person in Isabella. The woman appeared to be strong but she did not strike me as being strong enough to tear the door off a police vehicle."
Finished, Aybarra waited for his boss to respond.
"Perhaps," David Lincoln said, "it's an increase of their natural abilities. The reports I read say that Turner and Klein have more ability when they start on this side than they do on the other." The commander clasped his fingers, leaned back in his creaking chair, and wiped an already damp rag across his sweating forehead. "Personally, I find the thought that this Eric fellow can do more than I already saw very unsettling, but that is a matter for another time. How is Turner doing? The reports say that he lost a lot of blood."
"Yes sir," said Aybarra, "He did, although there is no visible wound to account for that. As best we can tell the blood seems to have come directly through his skin. The doctors put him on IVs to replace his body fluids after they finished repairing his injuries. He had two badly broken ribs and hairline fractures in three others. His heart was bruised and its irregular rhythm had the doctors concerned for a while, but it seems to have steadied down."
"And the others?"
"The redhead had a fractured skull along with several knife slashes to her body and a large patch of torn skin and missing tissue from her breast. Her skull has been repaired and accelerants have been given to her to speed regeneration. Also, she has had artificial skin grafts that will, of course, be indistinguishable from her own skin, and the rest of her wounds have been closed and sealed. Since she was not aware of anything that happened to her beyond the initial attack, there should be no mental trauma for her to overcome. However, just to be safe a memory block was inserted anyway. The doctors say when she regains consciousness in a few more hours there will be little evidence of her ordeal. Sarah Townsend was an easier matter. She only suffered from two breaks in her collarbone. Those have been repaired, and she is already awake."
He sat quiet a moment. "I suppose we are done with the Field Militia compound. The other teleporter appears too infrequently for us to monitor him, and we have not been able to attach an agent to his operation."
His commander shook his head no. "I still want to get men into Colonel Klein's operation. We barely missed getting two men in with him when he transferred over to Chin three days ago."
"Three days? I thought he wasn't supposed to be back for months yet."
"Like our dear friend Turner, the ever elusive Colonel Helmet Klein seems to have shaded the truth. I do agree with one thing, though. Our Turner side of the operation is now dead so I might as well recall Hill. I see no way he can be maneuvered into another useful situation inside the Militia, and he might be of some use here. Maybe Turner still holds some trust for him. He might even have bonded with Hill. Also, I want you with Turner when he wakes. It's possible that he remembers you saving his ass, so that might give him some reason to trust you."
Aybarra should have saluted but he was forgiven that duty due to his once wounded arm. Though his wound had been sealed the area was still tender. From past experience he knew that it would remain so for most of another day. He rubbed his thick hair and wondered just what it was about him that had attracted David Lincoln's attention. Whatever it was, he wanted to get rid of it. Assignments like this were just a bit too strange for his personal comfort. Despite the depressing nature of this office he really did want to sit behind a desk--just like his boss. He wanted to find out for himself if the job was as dull and boring as it appeared. Maybe they would give him a promotion after this assignment was over.
Nah. They wouldn't do that. Paper pushers were easy to come by. Field agents
of his caliber were a different matter. The truth was that the agency had very few men of his quality left. Competent people like him who also happened to be the wrong race never got an opportunity to grow a fat behind. No, he was probably a field man for life, however long that life might be.