Caeli Widger - Mother of Invention

“Have you? Then why does Bourne seem to have zero qualms about standing her ground? If I remember correctly, you’re supposed to be an expert in the art of subtle persuasion. You were supposed to be prepping her, Theroux. Filling her impressionable little college brain with respect for the administration. And maybe a whiff of, I don’t know, fear ? A small helping of deference?”

“I didn’t have enough time. She’s a strong person. I had to work gradually. I couldn’t just shoehorn some ideologies that were way out of her zone.”

“You had four months. That’s enough time to make headway.”

“Timeliness with a PIT isn’t linear.” Tracy willed himself to stay calm, but he felt his anger rearing. “I was holding back for a reason.”

“Well, your reason isn’t good enough. Bourne’s going to require a shit-ton of work. More than we have the resources for. Do you know how many Imports we have happening right now?”

Tracy didn’t answer. In truth, Borlav was partially right: he’d ignored the part of his assignment that encouraged him to work on a PIT’s powers of resistance. To casually but strategically work in statistics of the current administration’s achievements, while subtly reinforcing its power. To remind a PIT that crime in all major U.S. metro areas was at an all-time low, that there hadn’t been an act of terrorism on American soil since the assassination attempt on Dewey Falk twenty years ago. That the economy was booming. That the administration’s “low-tolerance” policy on the “Disruption of Americanness” was, at least in part, to thank.

The ISA’s philosophy was that if a field-op planted and replanted these seeds in the mind of a PIT, they eventually took some kind of hold. Even if only as a faint murmur deep in the subconscious. The ideas were there, irreversibly ingested, making the work of the Revision Specialist a little bit easier.

It was bullshit, Tracy thought. It never would have worked with Viv. He hadn’t wanted to humiliate himself by trying.

“Your record isn’t spotless, Theroux.” Borlav took a gulp of coffee. “You’ve got some dings. Let’s not forget your buddy Irene Brenner. Who’s surely gonna come up again before you get that retirement approval you’re drooling for.”

At the mention of Irene, Tracy’s chest clutched. He’d been so occupied with importing Viv that he’d hardly thought about Irene and his long-standing duty to her. He’d brought what she’d asked for. Getting it to her would be the challenge. He would figure it out.

“Is that supposed to be a threat, Gary? Because you’ll have to try harder. I’ve got twenty-six successful Imports on my record. That’s more than any other field-op in the ISA. Brenner’s one of just a few exceptions.”

“You should have zero permanent residents, Theroux. My gut tells me that in a week, when Vivian Bourne refuses to get off her fist-waving high horse about an AG conspiracy, her pathetic little attempt to rile up a bunch of kids with dents in their heads, your number will bump up by one. Ending your career on a permanent leaves a bad taste in everyone’s mouth. The retirement committee most of all.”

Borlav tugged at his collar, the flesh of his neck flushed and sweaty despite the subterranean cool of the Blue Room. Tracy stayed perfectly still.

“What’s worse,” said Borlav, “is that she’s way too goddamn attached to you. Wayne Wayne Wayne. ” He pitched his voice to a falsetto. “Once we break it to her that part of her revision is to never lay eyes on you again, she’ll become even more of a mule.”

“Shut up.” The words flew from Tracy’s mouth.

“Cute, how you jump to defend her.” Borlav drained his coffee and clanged the mug down on the table. “It goes on my record, too, you know. I’m your boss. Your failure is my failure.”

“You’re welcome,” said Tracy, meeting Borlav’s eyes, which were small and deep set. They reminded Tracy of beetles.

“As far as I can tell,” said Borlav, “you’ve been doing nothing but screwing your PIT this whole time. On payroll.”

Tracy bolted to his feet, seized with the urge to put Borlav in a headlock. He stood up and balled his fists, summoning every iota of self-control to hold back.

“Watch what you say, Gary.”

Borlav blinked but didn’t flinch.

“You’re supposed to be above this, Theroux. A senior field-op like yourself. When we have no other AG problems out in the field. We’re this close”—Borlav pinched his forefinger to his thumb—“to putting the entire Juva situation behind us. Can you imagine that, Theroux? A day when we can stop thinking about this idiotic problem? Don’t you know I hate this AG assignment as much as you do? Why would you delay putting it to bed once and for all? Can you help me understand that? Help me understand why you fucked up so royally with Vivian Bourne?”

Tracy paused. Desperation was creeping inside him, dislodging his rationality. It had been Borlav’s line about Viv never laying eyes on him that did it.

Goddammit.

He spoke slowly. “Let’s take a step back, Gary. Keep Viv in quarantine for a while. Let me work with her. I can turn her around.”

Borlav barked a laugh.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary, Theroux. You’re off her case.”

“Excuse me?”

“I put you on probation for… let me see. One, failure to execute the psychological component of your mission. Two, becoming intimate with your PIT.” He held up his fat fingers to count. “Three—”

Tracy cut him off. “Viv’s my contact. I’m not sitting around with my thumb in my ass while the rest of you scramble her brain. You’ll fail.”

“Thumb won’t get so lucky, Theroux. You’re done with Bourne. But don’t worry, I have a new assignment for you. Call it a temp job. Night Survey. Chief. Which means you’re not only working graveyard, but you’re accountable for everyone else who does, too. Any glitches between the hours of 11:00 p.m. and 7:00 a.m. are on you. Fuckups will just stretch out your timeline to retirement even further.”

Tracy had the sensation of falling, as if in a dream. He groped for reason.

“You can’t punish me with Night Survey. That’s for rookies still popping their zits. I’m not playing Rambo with a bunch of pubescent little fucks. There are more than enough of them guarding this place.”

“Rambo?” Borlav brayed a laugh. “Love truly has made you delusional, Theroux. Look, you’re on Night Survey, and that’s that. It’s where we need you to pitch in.”

“No. Let me keep working with Viv. Please.” He was on the verge of begging Borlav now. But the prospect of being removed from Vivian’s case—of possibly never seeing her again—was more than he could bear.

“Sorry,” said Borlav, clearly enjoying himself now. “No can do.”

“Just give me one week. Seven days and I’ll turn Bourne around. If not, I’ll report to night watch. I swear to God.”

“God’s not listening, Theroux. This discussion is over. You’re going to strap on your gear and do your fucking Night Survey until we decide to clear you. If we decide.”

In Tracy’s mind, freedom receded from him, a single hurtling car on a vacant highway. A car with Viv inside it.

He ached all over.

“Gary.” He spoke slowly to control his tremors. “It’s been twenty years. Twenty-six Imports. That’s twenty-six human lives I’ve reconfigured with my bare hands. I’ve dedicated my life to cleaning up the fallout from other people’s mistakes. So they could get rich and win elections and keep America American .” He let his voice slip into a sneer. What did it matter now?

“My life, Borlav. Some of my Imports took two years to bring in. I had four months with Viv, Gary. Use some common sense. You can’t punish me for a tight timeline. Or for being human.”