Daniel Suarez - Influx

“A hypersonic transport will bring you to a private airfield in a rural area—we do not know where—but from there, you will be driven in a civilian vehicle to BTC headquarters. You must make your escape during that time—a journey of some thirty minutes. To accomplish this, included in the wrapped package, you will find a small piece of dark material.”

Grady upended the package into his hand and saw what looked like a black eraser head in his palm.

“Press this onto your neck. It will adhere when pressed and resemble a mole to casual inspection. It is actually a nanotechnological device—one that you activate by placing it on the tip of your tongue, with your mouth open. Your saliva will code the device to you. You will know when it has deployed. You do not need to wait for the vehicle to come to a stop before using it. Once the vehicle stops, move slowly toward the exit.

“Leave behind all equipment carried by your guards. These are tracked by the BTC. And dispose of your q-link tracking diamond as soon as you make your escape.

“Your escorts are expecting a prisoner who has been cooperating these three years, but they will still scan you. The devices you carry will pass this scan. This video player is made entirely of organic material—the case grown from bone cultures, and the battery, algal foam. Slip it into your shoe.”

Chattopadhyay paused. “Please take a moment to affix the escape device to your neck. Click the button to pause this hologram while you do so.”

Grady clicked the button and put the device down. He then studied the black dot. It didn’t look like anything more complex than charcoal but was pliant. He pressed it onto the base of his neck near the collarbone—then examined it in the mirror. It looked like a pretty convincing mole, actually. And it was on well enough.

He clicked the video projector button again. Chattopadhyay continued, “Once you’ve escaped, find a safe place, and then review tutorials located elsewhere in this device to evade detection by BTC surveillance and psychotronic technology.”

Chattopadhyay stared for a moment at the camera.

“I guess that’s it. This is where I say good-bye.”

Grady watched the image of his friend intently.

“Good luck, Jon. I look forward to the day we meet in person.”

Grady nodded.

“And now for my own video entry: My name is Archibald Chattopadhyay, nuclear physicist and amateur poet. I have a lovely wife, Amala, who has given me five wonderful children. I led the team that first perfected a sustained fusion reaction, and for this I was imprisoned by the Bureau of Technology Control in April 1985. I am not dead. I live still.” Tears had begun to form in Chattopadhyay’s eyes. “Please tell my wife and children that I love them very much, and that they are forever in my thoughts.”

Grady wiped tears from his own eyes.

This man was Grady’s salvation—the reason he was still alive. The reason he and his fellow prisoners had any hope left at all.

Grady was determined not to fail him.

Deputy Secretary of Homeland SecurityBill McAllen didn’t like traveling to meet with subordinates. In fact, he preferred not to leave Washington if he could help it. He’d traveled enough during his military career to last a lifetime and now relished evenings at home. However, he’d been instructed by the Director of National Intelligence that the code-word-secret Federal Bureau of Technology Control had gone off reservation and needed to be brought back into the fold—even if that meant meeting them on their own turf. And so here McAllen was with two local DHS agents, pressing a duct-taped buzzer next to the lobby doors of a decrepit building in downtown Cleveland. For a bureau that supposedly managed advanced technology, the BTC seemed stuck in the last century. Maybe even the one before that.

As impossible as it was for someone with his security clearances to believe, he hadn’t heard of the BTC until a few weeks ago. Apparently it had operated for decades beyond oversight. This came as a surprise since post-9/11 everything had supposedly been centralized and reorganized. It even took some doing for the folks at Langley to locate record of BTC headquarters. McAllen found that suspicious—especially since it was the CIA that had founded it back in the ’60s. What was also suspicious was that no one could tell how the BTC was currently being funded—some budgetary shenanigans, he’d thought.

But now that McAllen stood before the BTC offices in person, it occurred to him that maybe they weren’t being funded at all. The place was a rat hole—a shabby ten-story government building in an unfashionable part of town. It must have been impressive back in the 1960s, but its heyday had long since passed. Clearly the BTC was the province of bureaucratic dead-enders. If the director of the BTC hadn’t personally invited them here for a meeting, McAllen would have turned around by now. Lord knows he was sick of leaving voice messages. And the BTC director didn’t do email. Stuck in the last century.

He shook his head and laughed ruefully. This was a snipe hunt.

After ringing the lobby bell for a few minutes, an uninterested elderly security guard came to the glass doors. McAllen had seen the type before—the federal lifer. This man was in no hurry. The guard finally unlocked the aged bronze-framed door from an overflowing key ring and opened it a crack.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?”

McAllen and the other officers showed their Homeland Security credentials. “We’re expected.” He glared at the guard until the man stepped aside. The trio pushed their way into the granite lobby. The place even smelled old. “What floor is the director on?”

“The director of what?”

McAllen gave the guard a stern look, but it didn’t have much effect. Perhaps the guards were instructed to divulge no information. He turned to Alvarez, the lead local agent. “Do we have a floor number?”

Alvarez checked his smartphone. “Director Hedrick says top floor in his letter.”

The guard raised his eyebrows. “Floor ten?”

They all looked at him.

He gestured to the bank of elevators. “Car four still works.”

In a few moments they entered the worn-looking elevator and hit the engraved brass button for the tenth floor. The elevator car rattled and lurched as they ascended. Slowly.

Alvarez, a sharply dressed young agent with an air of competent precision, just shook his head. “This isn’t the way I want to go.”

McAllen and Agent Fortis laughed nervously. But truthfully, neither of them wanted to die in a sketchy elevator either. Before long the accordion door rattled open, and they moved out into what could only be described as a time capsule.

The entire tenth floor had an open floor plan, with steel desks straight from the 1960s running row after row, with large IBM Selectric typewriters beneath vinyl covers. The whole place was coated in dust. The burgundy carpets had buckled, and the walls had started peeling.

“What the hell…?”

Alvarez stepped forward, glancing first left, then right. “Is there some mistake, Deputy Secretary? Do we have the right address?”

“I double-checked the address downstairs.” He paused and pointed at an opaque glass-walled office at the far side of the open floor. There was a light on in there. “Let’s go check it out.”

“Are you serious?”

The men moved across the floor, Alvarez running a finger across a wood veneer desktop. His finger came up coated with dust. He shook his head sadly.

In a few moments they reached the closed office door. It had gold-stenciled lettering that glittered in the afternoon light: “Graham Hedrick — Bureau Director.”