Nine-Tenths (9 page)

“And down we go. Does it ever annoy you that it takes nearly fifteen minutes to get from the front door to the hanger? They ought to install a subway system.”

The elevator doors opened and Leonard stifled a gasp. Exiting the elevator, they stepped into a hanger ten stories high. White mesh bridges crossed at random angles from about story six through ten. In the center of the hanger, at least two dozen satellites filled the open space. Cubicles took up the remaining square footage. Dumbfounded, Leonard gazed at the beautiful contraptions — silver and blue creations gleaming under the fluorescent lighting. Compact and presumably very lightweight, the satellites were unlike anything Leonard had seen before. Coming to his senses, he closed his gaping mouth before Thomas McGinnis noticed his
gaga
behavior.

“See you at break,” the redhead called as he headed in the direction of the cubicles.

Here we go again,
Leonard lamented.
Which one is my desk?

He strolled among the cubicles. Coworkers looked up at him. Some of them appeared uneasy. After stealing quick glances, they abruptly refocused on their computer screens. Tap, tap, tap. Dozens of fingers racing over keyboards in a mad rush. Every cubicle was occupied and Leonard prayed he was heading in the right direction.

“I’ve got the reports you asked me to run, Mr. Tramer,” a young female voice said as he passed.

Leonard pivoted on the spot.
Mister
Tramer. Thomas McGinnis had called him Tramer, but this young lady spoke to Leonard with respect. She was petite, blond, and fair-skinned. Her full lips quivered.

“Would you like to look at them?”

Seizing an opportunity, Leonard said, “Why don’t you bring them to my desk.” He stood aside to allow her out.

“Now, sir?”

“Now is as good a time as any.”

She fumbled in her drawer anxiously, grabbed a folder, and hastened out into the cubicle hallway. She paused for a moment before realizing that he wanted her to lead the way. This appeared to make her even more uncomfortable.

Am I her boss?

The young lady took a right and continued until she reached the last cubicle in the far corner.

The furthest from the satellites. How odd.

Leonard’s cubicle dwarfed the young lady’s, nearly twice the size. The extra table space was covered with circuit boards and blueprint rolls. No family photos or charming posters adorned the walls, only diagrams and lists.

An extra chair stood near the opening of the workspace. The young lady pulled it away from the wall hesitantly. Leonard sat down and gestured for her to do the same. She rolled the chair closer to him, but she appeared timid, keeping a proper distance. Clumsily, she opened the folder and spread out its contents.

Dozens of rows of data in fine print covered the pages. Yellow highlighter, clearly striped by hand, marked at least three lines per page.

“The highlighted addresses are blocked by a series of freeways or adjacent buildings.” She flipped to a page almost entirely covered in yellow marker. “The Losi Project is blocked on three sides. My teammates and I predict that a satellite programmed specifically for one of these locations will not cover any of the surrounding area. Whereas, we can cover a wide area with the same satellite and lose only a fragment of the residences. In other words, at these locations…” She tapped her finger on the yellow lines. “We’re better off with the WLN.”

“The WLN?” The words slipped out of Leonard’s mouth.

The young lady cocked her head, puzzled. “The Watcher Listening Network.”

Leonard shook his head, afraid to utter another compromising syllable.

The woman grew more nervous, seeming to think that her response had been unsatisfactory. “They won’t get the visual, of course, but…”

A visual?

“…but it’s better than nothing.”

Leonard resumed his role as leader. “Why don’t we adjust the satellite’s orbit? Periodically sweep the area.”

The woman frowned. “You said we could not do that, sir.”

“I did?” He waved his hand dismissively. “Of course I did.”

She smiled, ever so faintly, as if comforted by his uneasiness.

“I’ve been scattered this morning, too,” she admitted, lowering her voice. “On the elevator I was prattling on like an idiot.” She touched her belly. “I have an appointment this afternoon at the Department of Health. Only I kept saying I had an appointment at the DOE instead of the DOH. Vicky gave me a hard time. She said, ‘Sandy, I hope the test is positive. Airheads shouldn’t be allowed to reproduce.’ Isn’t that mean?”

She’s pregnant.

Leonard merely stared. He pondered the notion that this young woman knew CAPERS would snatch the baby right out of her loving hands, yet she still wanted to bear a child. Was she under the delusion that the CAPERS program will shut down before the birth of her child?

Sandy glanced down, suddenly embarrassed. She shook her head sheepishly. “That was way inappropriate, wasn’t it? Please forgive me, Mr. Tramer.”

It dawned on Leonard that the shy young woman before him had inadvertently spilled a precious secret. An odd wave of kindness enveloped him. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “My wife works at the DOH. She performs CARS tests every day. She told me that women come in scared and worried all the time.”

Sandy gazed at him, her forehead crinkled. She appeared shocked, almost concerned. As she considered him in awe, tears formed at the corners of her eyes. She turned her lips inside in a vain attempt to stop them.

“Anyway…” He stammered, realizing that the new Leonard’s compassion threw everyone off guard. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed about being nervous. And that Vicky sounds like a bitch.”

Sandy giggled.

Leonard cleared his throat and steered them back to the original conversation. “The Watcher Listening Network.”
Watchers.
Alina had mentioned Watchers when she and Leonard were huddled in the green space that first night. Running a scenario in his head, Leonard asked, “They will have to go door-to-door within a neighborhood?”

“Who, sir?”

“The Watchers.”

“Only on special cases, Mr. Tramer.” Sandy resumed her previous level of professionalism. “The Listening Room is still quite effective. It’s just very time consuming and data intensive. Plus, as I said before, no visual. Even if we place the cameras, we’ll get a fuzzy audio at best.”

“Okay.”

“Spencer is working on a program that will help separate out background sounds from voices, but he’s had little progress. When people turn on the television or run the dishwasher, it all becomes white noise.”

Leonard’s stomach turned as he pieced together the information. He surmised that a department called the WLN listened in on conversations. Since Sandy mentioned televisions and dishwashers, Alina’s theory that the Feds were bugging private residences proved correct. The satellite program would include placing cameras…
in every home?
In addition, Sandy claimed that someone named Spencer was working on a program that would separate mechanical sounds from voices. That should be a piece of cake.
We already have technology like that. This Spencer sounds like an idiot…or perhaps a saboteur.
The idea sent a tingle of hope up Leonard’s spine. He might like to meet a saboteur. Then he realized that everything he witnessed sprung from an alternate reality. Clearly, this world had not yet discovered voice activity detection. In an instant, his spirit sagged.

“Are you okay, sir?”

“Yes, yes, yes. Back to your research.”

“Right. Everything I’ve highlighted here, all of these addresses, appear to be only available if a Stasi is programmed to cover a narrow range. It’s not worth it, sir.”

A Stasi?
Leonard glanced at the diagrams on the wall. One, depicting an entire satellite, bore the label
Stasi X001.
He almost laughed. How apropos. A spying satellite named the
Stasi
after the East German secret police, one of the most intrusive intelligence agencies ever devised. Then Leonard shuddered. It wasn’t a joke. The alternate reality paralleled East Germany on so many levels. He wondered if there was a West Germany to which one might escape. The thought enchanted him.

“Sir?”

Sandy’s voice drew him from his thoughts.

“Yes,” he said, a little more enthusiastically than the situation warranted. “I think your team is dead on. Please map this list and include specific coordinates—”

“The coordinates are here.” Sandy pointed to a column on one of the pages.

“I understand that, Sandy. Good work. Now I want them mapped.”

“Yes, sir.” Sandy stood up and hastily pushed the chair away.

“Shaded or something. On a file you can email to me.”

“Of course, sir.” She made to exit the cubicle but stopped short, turned around, and gazed at him curiously.

“Yes?” he said tersely, playing the irritated boss.

“You called me Sandy.”

Did I goof up?
Leonard wondered.
Didn’t she say her friend called her Sandy?
“So?”

Sandy smiled faintly. “You usually call me Little. I don’t like it so much. It makes me feel small.”

Leonard laughed. Catching on he replied, “Well, Sandy Little, I can call you Sandy if you prefer.”

“Yes, I do.”

“But that doesn’t mean you can call me Leonard.”

“Of course not, Mr. Tramer.” Her face paled and she rushed out.

Leonard watched her whisking down the cubicle corridor until she was out of his line of sight. He shook his head. Having spent his life behind a computer in his home office, Leonard was not accustomed to being someone’s boss, let alone being called Mr. Tramer. He swiveled in his chair, feeling quite pleased with himself. Then he came face-to-face with his screensaver. A 3-D satellite bounced off the edges of the screen and a burning sensation filled the back of Leonard’s throat. He shook the mouse. The burning sensation magnified. Two of the words he had dreaded since he awoke that morning.
Username. Password.

Leonard’s hand hovered over the mouse for several seconds. Unless he knew his username, playing with a series of passwords was pointless. He wouldn’t know which one was correct…if any.

“What’s the matter? Forgot your username as well, Tramer-L-M?” Thomas McGinnis said mischievously as he barged in.

Leonard Michael Tramer. Thank you, McGinnis.
Leonard breathed a sigh of relief. “No. I was just talking to Sandy Little.”

McGinnis whistled. “She’s hot, isn’t she?”

“Uh…yeah, she is.”

“Listen,” McGinnis said, lowering his voice and suddenly becoming serious. “I wanted to give you a heads-up. My friend, Mike Mitchell…”

Leonard furrowed his brow.

“The guy who got you off the hook this morning by resetting your pass code?”

“Yeah. Right. Of course.”

“He said that security came by and asked him questions.”

“He is security.”

“No, numbnuts.
The
security. Carlyle’s boys.”

“Oh,” Leonard replied, feigning comprehension.

“Just thought I’d warn you.” McGinnis stood suddenly and laughed loudly, as if he intended for everyone to hear. Leonard realized for the first time that his friend’s shallow behavior might be part of an act. “See you at break then.” McGinnis turned to leave. “If you’re still around,” he added under his breath before he left the cubicle.

Leonard returned his attention to the computer. He typed
tramerlm
in the username field and tabbed to the password field.

“Mr. Tramer?”

“What?” Leonard snapped as he swiveled abruptly to face the intruder.

A young man, no older than twenty, stood outside Leonard’s cubicle. Dressed from head to toe in gray, with several numbers and symbols embroidered on the chest, the young man wore a very bland uniform.

Leonard sat up straight, realizing that the intruder may have the authority to haul him away if he was not careful. “Yes?” he asked in a calm, polite tone.

“Commander Carlyle would like to see you, sir.”

“Certainly. Of course. Where would he like to meet me?”

The young man glanced around apprehensively. He leaned in without crossing the threshold of the cubicle. “In his office, sir,” he said slowly, as if any other possibility was simply ludicrous.

Leonard suppressed a groan. His journey would end badly if he wandered aimlessly in the facility. He didn’t even know which of the three buildings to search. Glancing at the young man’s nametag, he asked, “Would you mind escorting me, Reilly?”

Reilly lowered his voice. “Are you feeling nervous, sir?”

Of course,
Leonard thought, but he wondered what would happen if he told Reilly the truth. What was the tone of the question? Genuine concern? Insolent delight? Was the young man another Garrett — an enthusiastic zealot just waiting to put Leonard in his place?

Reilly’s response settled Leonard’s fears.

“I’d be honored to escort you, sir.”

Chapter Seven

Leonard paused before knocking on Carlyle’s office door. He had half expected to find himself in a dank, dungeon-like facility with flickering neon lights. Instead, Reilly delivered him to a spacious hallway on the top floor of the main building. Large plates of glass established one wall, providing a view of the fields and farmlands. The faint outline of downtown Denver was barely distinguishable miles away. On the opposite wall, one large oak doorway stood between Leonard and the infamous Commander Carlyle.

He knocked tentatively. A faint buzz chirped and a green light near the doorknob blinked. Bracing himself for the worst, he opened the door slowly.

“Leonard,” a cheerful voice greeted him. “Come on in. Come on in.”

Leonard was taken aback. He had anticipated any number of scenarios.
Enthusiastic welcome
was not on the list. He obediently entered and let the door fall into place. One buzz and several clicks followed, causing Leonard’s throat to constrict. He wondered, and rightfully so, if he had just been locked inside. Making the most of the situation, he appraised his surroundings. A beautiful room with a cherry wood desk and a view of the entire base dwarfed the odd, short man that sat before him.