Colony One Page 4

  “How do you know I was late?”

  “Your buddy Cassaundra told me.”

  “Cassandra.”

  “Whatever,” he says, grabbing a menu from behind the ketchup. “Kind of a bitch. Nice ass, though.”

  I let out the breath I’ve been holding, and Humphrey shakes the menu open.

  “So what’s good here?”

  “No idea.”

  “You never eat here?”

  I shake my head. The diner is one of those places that’s been redone to look as though it’s from the 1950s. There’s a long counter with plush burgundy stools, a couple of narrow booths, and heavy beige coffee cups with ads on them. It’s not a place I’d normally go, but it’s Humphrey’s kind of restaurant.

  “I don’t know how you live in this city,” he gripes. “Everything’s quinoa this, kombucha that. When I’m in America, I wanna eat like an American, ya know?”

  I nod. It’s easier that way.

  The waitress breezes by to take our order. Humphrey orders a patty melt with fries. I order biscuits and gravy with a side of bacon.

  “Bacon?” says Humphrey. “It’s eleven thirty.”

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, feeling exhausted. The fact that Humphrey is beating around the bush by criticizing me just strengthens my theory that he must want something.

  “Is that any way to greet your old friend and mentor?”

  I crack a grin and shake my head. “Sorry.”

  “I came here to offer you a job, actually . . . If you swear that you’ll actually show up on time.”

  I don’t say anything because I’m ashamed. I haven’t held a job for longer than six months since I was discharged, but Humphrey keeps showing up to save the day. I don’t know what he sees in me. Maybe he feels responsible for what happened in Siberia.

  “Hello?” says Humphrey. “This is the last time I’m gonna stick my neck out for you, kid. I mean it.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I know I don’t have to. I’m not runnin’ a charity, dipshit. I’m doing this outta the goodness of my heart.”

  “Why?”

  “If you must know, a friend asked me for a recommendation. Your name was the first that came to mind.”

  “A recommendation for what?”

  Humphrey glances around, as if checking to make sure that no one is eavesdropping. The nearest table is a family of four on their way to see the Walk of Fame. Our waitress is wiping off a table two booths over. No one is paying any attention.

  “How would you like to train your own unit?” he asks.

  I roll my eyes. “Did you forget that I was discharged from the army?”

  “This isn’t with the army. It’s private-sector work.”

  “What do they want me for?”

  “I told you. Training. Leadership. It’s two weeks of officer training plus ten weeks of boot camp, and then you’d be overseeing the operatives you trained. It’s a pretty cushy gig, really.”

  “Who would I be training?”

  “I can tell you who you won’t be training . . . C-list actors and Orange County housewives.”

  I roll my eyes. “Do they have military experience?”

  “Mostly no. These are specialists they want trained for a private military unit — intel eggheads.”

  I frown. “Why would they want me? I couldn’t even land a protection detail with my record.”

  “You’re still the most talented close-quarters fighter I’ve ever seen. You’re no Miss Congeniality, but you get the job done.”

  “How long is enlistment?”

  “Five years. After that, if you keep your nose clean, you can re-enlist or go do something else.”

  “Five years?”

  “The pay is better than you’re used to, and it comes with a signing bonus.”

  “And you work for these people?”

  Humphrey shakes his head. “Nah, I’m too old. A lieutenant who served under me in Russia is on the recruitment committee. His name’s Buford. They’re looking for specialists, and he asked for some recommendations.”

  I frown. Humphrey’s offer sounds good, but I can tell by his demeanor that he thinks I’m going to turn him down. “What’s the catch?”

  He glances around once again to check that we can’t be overheard. “It requires a change in locale.”

  “Where would I be stationed?”

  Humphrey glances toward the ceiling, but whether he was making an appeal to God or rolling his eyes, I can’t tell.

  “What do you know about a company called Maverick Enterprises?”

  “The space company?”

  He nods. “They’re building out a private military presence up there called the Space Force.”

  “For what?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Counterintelligence?”

  “Nah. They won’t ever cop to that. This is supposed to be an all-civilian workforce doing research.”

  I shoot Humphrey a look. “Come on. It’s all over the news. Everyone thinks Maverick is being paid to spy on the Russian military installation up there.”

  “Well, I don’t know anything about that. I’m just telling you what they told me.”

  I stare at Humphrey for a moment. Humphrey wouldn’t lie to me, but he’s too smart to believe the words coming out of his own mouth. He knows as well as I do that the Department of Defense has had to get creative with the Bureau for Chaos and freelance Russian hackers siphoning trillions of dollars out of the US economy.

  “So you’re offering me a job in space?” I say finally.

  “Wyatt — you’re twenty-eight years old with an administrative discharge on your record. You haven’t held a job for more than six months since you got out. Someone offers you an opportunity like this, you take it.”

  I look away, frustrated by how badly I’ve fucked up.

  “You’re not your father, kid. Don’t shoot yourself in the foot just because you’ve had a rough go of it. It’s gotta be better than the hellhole you’re workin’ in now, hasn’t it?”

  I don’t have a chance to answer. Right then, our food appears, and Humphrey shifts his attention to flirting with the waitress. Then he takes an enormous bite of his patty melt and closes his eyes in ecstasy.

  Humphrey doesn’t have to sell me on it. Hell, I’d take a job in Antarctica if it came with a signing bonus and got me away from Cassandra. ONYX doesn’t pay half of what my last job did. I’m up to my ass in credit-card debt, and I’m behind on my car payments.

  But that isn’t why I have to say yes, and Humphrey knows it.

  Once upon a time, the army was my life. When they tossed me out like yesterday’s trash, it didn’t stop being my life. Unfortunately, there aren’t a lot of jobs for ex-army guys with a high-school diploma. There are even fewer jobs for guys who have problems with authority and a so-called personality disorder.

  But it doesn’t matter. Once you’ve done what I’ve done, it’s all you know how to do. A soldier is the only thing you want to be — the only thing you can be.

  5

  Maggie

  It’s not until I’m on the subway the next morning that I realize I’ve officially lost my mind.

  I’m wearing my standard interview outfit: gray skirt, blazer, white top with black polka dots. I tug on the hem of my skirt a bit, wishing I’d opted for pants. It’s a tad shorter than I remember, but at least I’m wearing hose.

  I trace the edge of Natalie’s business card in my hand as I barrel through New York’s innards. I already performed an exhaustive search on both Natalie and her silent crony, Erik Blaine. Erik is a corporate headhunter, and Natalie’s profile listed her as the media director at a big PR firm before she became a digital ghost.

  A reverse image search on the strange logo yielded no results, but I was able to take a limited digital tour of the building. It’s a swanky high-rise in midtown a few blocks from where I work. Most of the suites are occupied by lawyers, dentists, and insurance bro
kers. It’s certainly an expensive place to kill someone.

  “I can’t believe you’re going,” huffs Kiran through my Optix. I can tell from his feed that he’s carving a perilous path through gridlock traffic. A bright-yellow taxi flashes by in the background, and I hear heavy construction noise.

  “I just want to know what’s going on,” I say, tugging on my skirt again. “It’s weird.”

  “Yeah, it is. Which is why you shouldn’t be going.”

  “They had my picture,” I whisper. “They knew where I worked.”

  “All the more reason to file a restraining order.”

  I shake my head. “They could have just sent me a message or gone through Cliff, but they didn’t. There’s a reason they’re being so secretive. This could be my chance . . .”

  “Chance to do what?” he huffs, zigzagging around a delivery truck and nearly getting doored in the face. “End up with your body parts scattered in half a dozen dumpsters?”

  “At least I won’t end up a hood ornament delivering some asshole’s meatball sub,” I grumble.

  “Fuck you,” says Kiran. But his heart’s not in it. He’s genuinely concerned for my safety. Hell, I’m concerned for my safety, but I’ve never let that get in the way of a story.

  I end the call and get to my feet, wobbling a little on my wedge heels. It’s rush hour, and the streets are crowded.

  I shove my way through a jumble of tourists and join the throng of New Yorkers heading to their offices. Most of them have already started their workdays. A few are even trying to chat through an Optix veil as they navigate the crowded sidewalk.

  I reach the address on Natalie’s card and push my way through the revolving door. It spits me out into a large lobby with gleaming black tile and a wall of windows that stretches twenty feet above my head. Beautiful men and women clack past me on their way to their offices, all of them looking as though they tumbled straight out of a magazine.

  Crossing the lobby to the bank of elevators, I’m highly conscious of how I must look lugging around my tattered messenger bag. I don’t belong here — wherever “here” is.

  I shove my way onto the elevator and punch the button for the twenty-third floor. The elevator stops to let people get on and off, and I catch snippets of several interesting conversations.

  One woman is a high-powered attorney handling a multimillion-dollar divorce settlement. Another is a financial advisor urging her client to get into REITs. A man in a lab coat is conversing loudly about his patient’s ovarian reserves.

  Finally, the elevator stops on my floor. I disembark in a long hallway flanked by a wall of frosted glass. There’s no sign indicating that I’ve reached the correct suite, but I’m guessing Natalie’s mystery company occupies the entire floor.

  My footsteps echo loudly on the polished white tile, and I find myself regretting my choice of footwear. I can feel two nasty blisters forming on the backs of my heels, but all I can do is grit my teeth and hope that my shoes don’t fill with blood before I complete the interview.

  Finally, I reach a door. There aren’t any letters or numbers — just the same circular logo from the business card imprinted in the frosted coating. I can see through that tiny bit of clear glass to a reception desk in the shape of a trapezoid. I pull the door open and step inside.

  “Good morning!”

  “Morning,” I say, making eye contact with the woman behind the counter. She’s wearing a sleek black dress and has her hair pulled up in an elegant twist. Her eyebrows are fashionably bold, and she’s got a thin smear of red lipstick painted down the center of her mouth like a geisha.

  “I, uh . . . have an appointment. Magnolia Barnes?”

  “Of course,” she says in a bright voice. “Natalie is expecting you.”

  I touch my Optix to wake my feed. The time blinking in the corner says that I’m five minutes early.

  “If I could just get your approval on this document,” says the geisha woman.

  I nod, and she produces a tablet with a dense-looking contract pulled up on the screen.

  “Standard nondisclosure agreement,” she says, waving her hand as if that explains everything. “Just saying that everything Natalie discusses with you is one hundred percent confidential.”

  “Okay,” I say, surreptitiously taking a snapshot of the contract with my Optix as I scroll down to the signature line.

  “Oh, you don’t need to sign,” says the geisha. “We only use three-way biometric authentication.”

  She swipes to the left, and a box appears to scan my fingerprints. I place my hand over the box, and a friendly beep tells me that my prints have been accepted. Next, I center my image in the facial recognition box, and a computerized voice asks me to speak my name.

  Two more friendly beeps tell me I’ve been authenticated, and the woman takes the tablet back.

  “Our security is second to none,” she says cheerfully. “And I’m afraid I have to ask you to check your Optix.”

  “Excuse me?” Outside an interview with a protected source, I’ve never been asked to take off my Optix. It feels a little like being asked to amputate my arm.

  “We don’t allow discreet technology past the lobby.”

  I hesitate. My Optix is protected by facial recognition, but I don’t like the idea of handing it over to someone I’ve never met. Then again, this entire meeting has been so hush-hush that allowing a reporter into the building with a device that can record and broadcast with two clicks does seem pretty stupid.

  “Fine,” I say, reaching up to detach the Optix from my glasses.

  The receptionist produces a white plastic lockbox, and I set it inside. She smiles, snaps the lid shut, and slides it under her desk. She must have hit an unlock button under the counter, because the door to her right beeps and starts to open.

  “You can go on through to the conference room,” she says. “Natalie will be with you shortly.”

  Puzzled, I walk through the door and cross the hall to a conference room encased in glass. There is a long white table surrounded with swivel chairs and a single fuchsia orchid sitting in the middle. Natural light is spilling through the wall of windows, and I can see the entire city laid out below. Pedestrians creep by on the sidewalk like a line of ants, and cars meander through intersections at an almost leisurely pace.

  “Ms. Barnes,” says a voice behind me.

  I jerk around so fast that I almost give myself whiplash. Natalie is standing in the doorway dressed in a coral shift dress, black silk scarf, and truly impossible pumps.

  “I’m so glad you could come,” she says with a warm smile. “Please, sit.”

  I slide out a corner chair, and the geisha woman reappears in the doorway with a beverage cart.

  “Would you like anything to drink?” Natalie asks. “Coffee? Water?”

  “Water would be nice,” I say.

  The geisha woman wheels the cart into the room and sets a tall carafe between me and Natalie. She pours us each a tall glass, and I snatch mine up immediately and take several long glugs.

  “Will Erik be joining us?” I ask, setting down my water glass as the geisha woman exits the room.

  “I’m afraid he had another appointment,” says Natalie. “Erik is an independent contractor we hire to recruit talent. I’ll be your point person from here on out.”

  “What sort of talent are you recruiting?” I ask, glancing around the conference room for some clue as to what the hell this company does.

  “All sorts, though Erik specializes in immersive journalists and content creators.” She smiles. “He’s very good at what he does, so when my employer asked him to vet you and he gave the green light . . .”

  “Your employer asked him to vet me?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “And who is your employer?”

  Natalie smiles. “Erik told me you would have a lot of questions. I work for a company called Maverick Enterprises.”

  I’m in the process of taking another sip and almost choke
on my water. “Maverick?” I repeat, utterly dumbfounded. “As in the space company that just bought Futurewise Media?”

  “The same,” says Natalie, clearly impressed. “Maverick acquired Futurewise Media last week, mainly to scoop up Topfold. We plan on rebranding the company as Maverick Media, and given your performance this morning, the timing could not be better.”

  I feel my face heat up, and I quickly take note of my exits. If I was summoned by the same media overlords I eviscerated in my Layla Jones rant, it can’t be good.

  “Relax,” says Natalie. “We’ve seen the story. It was Mr. Van de Graaf who requested that we meet with you.”

  “Strom Van de Graaf?”

  “No. His son, Tripp.”

  “Tripp Van de Graaf asked you to meet with me?” I say, dumbfounded. “Tripp Van de Graaf . . . Chief Experience Officer at Maverick Enterprises?”

  Natalie gives a demure smile. “Correct.”

  I just stare at her. I have no idea why Tripp Van de Graaf would want anything to do with me, but this is quickly becoming the weirdest meeting I have ever been a part of.

  “Why . . .” I shake my head. “I’m sorry, is Mr. Van de Graaf suing me?”

  “Quite the contrary. Mr. Van de Graaf was quite impressed with your . . . spunk. And he thinks we may have been too hasty removing the human element from the journalistic process.”

  “You think?”

  Natalie is still smiling, but I can tell that she isn’t impressed with me.

  “As you know,” she continues, “Maverick Enterprises is cornering the market on space tourism and galactic living. We’re disrupting space travel by making it safe, comfortable, and accessible, but our biggest project over the past five years has been developing the first low-orbit space colony designed to be inhabited by civilians.”

  “Wow,” I say, wishing more than anything that I had my Optix to record this entire conversation. “That’s great, but . . . what does this have to do with me?”

  “I told you we wanted to make you an offer,” says Natalie. “Mr. Van de Graaf would like to invite you — or, rather, Layla Jones — to join our galactic press corps.”