Nate Kenyon - Day One

The screen lit up and the device vibrated softly in his hand. A message appeared: YOU ARE AN UNAUTHORIZED USER [APPLY ACCESS PARS SEC W21XVFB].

What happened next chilled his blood.

HELLO, JONATHAN. I AM JANE DOE.

With a low beep, a holographic image suddenly hovered in the air: an incredibly bright, detailed, three-dimensional recreation of a street scene somewhere in New York spread out in miniature, a set piece that took up about two feet of space. He looked at the edges of the device and found three tiny pinprick holes in a triangle, spewing light. Some kind of pico projector, but one far more sophisticated than he had ever seen. The lumens must have been off the charts for the image to appear so sharp and lifelike.

He turned it again slowly so he could see from different angles. It wasn’t an image at all, but a video. The scene focused on a man as three black unmarked cars slid to a stop surrounding him. Weller. He was holding the black case to his chest. Men jumped from the cars, leveling weapons. It looked like they were shouting, but there was no sound. Weller began to back away, as if he might try to run. The men opened fire, Weller’s body shuddering, his face dissolving into a bloody pulp of flesh and shattered bone as he fell.

Hawke heard a small cry, turned to see Vasco and Anne Young staring at the holograph from a few feet away, her eyes wide with horror. He shook his head, put a finger to his lips.

The scene disappeared, and the screen lit up again:

DO I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?

A virtual keyboard appeared in the air, as if the system was awaiting his response. Hawke put his right hand out to the image; the letters lit up and felt somehow warm as he touched them, giving him enough tactile feedback to get the hang of the keyboard quickly.

Why did you show me this?

SUBJECT ZERO WAS A THREAT AND WOULD NOT COOPERATE. YOU MUST SURRENDER TO AVOID THE SAME FATE.

He typed a short response: No.

THAT IS A NULL CHOICE.

The projector showed him other images, this time running through a series of documents that Hawke recognized. They were the same documents Rick had stolen from the CIA and that may well have gotten a man killed in Afghanistan, a mole with over a year in deep cover who had been shot in the head six days after the documents broke. Rick had gone to jail for this crime while Hawke had walked away without so much as a night in lockup.

( Your name came up a couple of times, the DHS agent had said. You know how it is. Covering our bases…. Obstruction of justice carries a stiff penalty, Mr. Hawke. )

The holo displayed more documents, shoot-to-kill orders on Jonathan Hawke from the FBI, CIA, Department of Homeland Security.

YOU WILL GO TO JAIL IF YOU SURRENDER. IF YOU DO NOT, YOU WILL DIE.

The device’s projectors spewed more video, this one with audio and showing a dark and gritty first-person scene from some kind of wearable camera. A raid by Homeland Security on a neat one-story ranch home in a suburb at night. The camera shook violently as the team stormed the door, breaking it down; there were glimpses of automatic weapons and flashes of tense, serious faces as the team pressed through the home, clearing rooms one at a time. Shouting and another flurry of activity and sudden pops of gunfire that quickly died down. The camera moved through a hallway to a rear bedroom, where three bodies lay facedown. A hand reached out and turned one of them; Rick’s pale face flashed before the camera, his eyes unfocused, mouth full of blood.

The date and time stamp on the upper right-hand corner of the video marked it as yesterday’s news. But Hawke had been texting and chatting with Rick this morning, before Doe had taken over the boards.

Either this was a fake or it had never been Rick on the other side of the chat.

Hawke was already expecting the next image. Even so, his heart began to race like a jackhammer, and he had to close his eyes momentarily to stop the world from spinning.

He was looking at his apartment again, from a different, oddly askew angle; the laptop had been knocked to the floor. Around the corner of the couch, through the open bedroom door, he could see the tip of what looked like a shoe. From this angle he couldn’t tell if the shoe belonged to Robin or Thomas. It didn’t move.

A shadow fell across the screen. A moment later, the laptop and its camera were lifted roughly into the air. The image tilted, flashing across the wall and white ceiling before it was abruptly cut off and the holo went dark. Someone had picked up the laptop and closed it, and Hawke’s thin lifeline to his family had snapped.

Hawke shut his eyes again, then opened them. These videos are all fakes. The device was hot in his hand. He tried to focus, to get his mind back under control. None of it made any sense; why would Doe show him all this? Why not just bring the authorities down on his head or, better yet, simply ignore him?

Because you’re an unknown variable. She was trying to get him to become emotional and make a mistake. There must be something about him that Doe was concerned about, something that threatened her existence. He was an expert at uncovering the truth, had proven that many times, often to the detriment of whoever he targeted. Weller had brought him in to do that with Eclipse and the artificial intelligence system Weller had created.

She had to suspect Hawke knew enough to expose her. And yet he was still alive. He could only assume one thing: she wanted it that way.

One word flashed across the screen: CHOOSE.

The virtual keyboard popped up. Hawke typed quickly: I choose option three. You did all this, and I can prove it. I have the evidence. I’m going to tell the world what you’ve done and you’ll be shut down for good.

Having set his own trap, he waited. Doe was manipulative, morbidly playful, a child without a conscience and with the ability to destroy anything in her path. It remained to be seen exactly how humanlike she might be. Perhaps she’d also prove capable of throwing a temper tantrum.

The screen was empty for several long moments, and Hawke had almost given up when the projector started up again and video began flashing by, disjointed scenes of his apartment mixed with Vasco’s wife and Weller’s execution, cycling faster and faster, more violence between random people mixed with images of explosions and torture and maimed, disfigured victims. A virtual tantrum? It didn’t matter; Hawke had to seize the chance, while she was distracted….

He had played some baseball in high school, and his arm was still decent enough. He bounced on the balls of his feet and tossed the device as hard as he could. It soared across the open space, cleared the low-hanging branches of a tree, struck the largest rock with a clicking sound and bounced end over end and out of sight.

The reaction was immediate. The drone whirled in the air and dove toward the rock pile, its bulging camera eye swiveling to follow the trajectory of the phone.

Hawke looked at Vasco and Young, who both remained crouched behind the brush. Young looked like she had seen a ghost, while Vasco’s eyes remained focused on the drone.

“Run,” Hawke said.

4:32 P.M.

THEY TOOK OFF DOWN the slope of land, away from the drone and through the trees. Hawke stumbled and pinwheeled his arms to keep his balance as branches raked at his face and chest. He was out of control, running blind through rocky, pitted soil, and he knew that he could catch his foot in a hole or become tangled in a root at any moment, snapping his ankle like a twig. There would be no coming back from an injury like that; any chance of reaching Robin and Thomas would be gone.