“So what does the Intelligence Division of the Marines do exactly?” Larch asked, leaning forward. “Reconnaissance mostly? Isn’t that what you guys do? What’s your interest in physics?”
“Dr. Larch.” Calder had been perfectly civil so far. He’d even kept on his glasses, though he’d switched to a darkly tinted pair that was not prescription but looked it. Now he let a thread of something heavier enter his voice. “We have limited time. I’d like to discuss your work, if you don’t mind.”
Larch studied him. “Can I ask in exactly what capacity you’re conducting this interview?”
“It’s not an interview; it’s lunch,” Calder explained in a reasonable tone. “And you could ask, but, well, you know…”
“Then you’d have to kill me.” Larch snorted. Calder didn’t. He sat and looked at Larch from behind those glasses, cold as stone. Larch’s amusement faded into an awkward uncertainty with just a touch—yes, Calder could smell it—just the smallest trace of fear.
It was the perfect moment and Calder didn’t waste it. He began firing questions, calmly but insistently. The lecture had been on string theory and there were a couple of points he wanted to explore, a few unexpected threads that had interested him. He pressed in those directions, one by one.
Larch talked. Calder was pretty sure he held nothing back. There was no reason that he should. This stuff was probably regurgitated in front of several hundred students every day, most of them too brain-dead to pay the slightest fucking attention. And here was a golden opportunity—a guy who actually wanted to hear him yak.
There was nothing earth-shattering, but there were a few ideas that were new to Calder, and he stored them in his memory mechanically.
When he was done with the conversation he let the waiter clear their plates. Calder was ready to leave, but Larch ordered spumoni. Calder watched him poison his body with sugar and saturated fat and felt his muscles flex in response as if itching to work out. In ten years, Larch was going to look like a sack of potatoes and have the use of about 30 percent of his arterial capacity. Fucking desk jockey.
Calder glanced at his watch. He felt as if he’d just gotten laid. He had gotten what he wanted from Larch. The man no longer interested him.
“So,” Larch said, “maybe now you can tell me about your work. Nothing classified, just… what’s it like? Do you travel a lot?”
“Sometimes.”
“Married?” Larch eyed Calder’s bare hands speculatively.
“No.”
Larch licked his spoon. “You’re good at physics. Did the Marines train you for that?”
Larch was only making conversation. It was what normal people did, Calder knew that, but still the demon inside him reached out its hand and squeezed his heart until it was full and tight. Larch wanted to poke behind the shutters, lay his soul bare. Calder was tempted to let him.
Then he realized that he was done with Larch; he didn’t have to play nice anymore. Slowly, he removed his glasses and smiled.
“Check?” Larch called, signaling the waiter.
Lt. Calder Farris’s ID was a lie. He was, in fact, not with the Intelligence Division of the Marines. He had been a Marine, still was, but when he got his break into Intelligence it had not been a position in the MCIA. His particular skill set, most particularly his aptitude in science, had him on permanent loan to the Department of Defense.
But not officially. If you ran your finger down all but the most classified versions of the DoD org chart, you would not find him there. You would find DARPA—the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. One of the branches of DARPA was the DSO—the Defense Sciences Office. You would find the director of the DSO, Dr. Alan Rickman, one of the men Calder reported to. You would not find Calder Farris.
The DSO’s mission was “to identify and pursue the most promising technologies within the science and engineering research community and develop them into new DoD capabilities.” In other words, to find Shit to confiscate, rework, and adapt into Big Bad Shit that could make the enemies of the United States turn green, shed their skin, or otherwise go away in a hurry.
The DSO was mostly made up of civilian scientists. They schmoozed, gave grants, and recruited other civilian scientists with lucrative offers. They followed the work of people such as Hawking and Feynman, subscribed to journals such as Nature and Science and Cell. They had contacts at Bell Labs and Intel and all the best universities.
That wasn’t Calder Farris’s world. His mission was to locate the people who weren’t in the journals: the blackballed physician in South America trying to perfect human cloning, the lone genius trying to invent smaller, more lethal bombs, the embarrassing kooks of academia who just might be onto something after all. He stalked his prey outside the bounds of scientific credibility where technology went on all the same, often in wacky directions, sometimes with frightening results. To the government these people were just slightly better than full-blown terrorists. If possible and if there was time, et cetera, et cetera, they would be won over in a friendly fashion. If not…
Fortunately for Dr. Larch, his ideas were not substantial enough to be of any further interest to the DoD.
Back at the hotel, Calder took the plastic wrapper off a glass in the bathroom and filled it up with water from the tap. Drank it. Filled it again and drank another. The spaghetti marinara sloshed in his stomach.
He went to his black bag, government issue, and unpacked his Blue Dress uniform. He used the hotel iron to remove a few suitcase wrinkles. He showered and dressed, putting on every article as carefully as if he were heading for an inspection. He spent several minutes in the mirror adjusting his hat and checking the alignment and shine on his medals and ribbons. In the mirror the pale, lumpy face and white-blue eyes looked ghostly, dead, against his short black hair. He stood to attention, his eyes on the figure in the glass.
He was pleased at how hard he looked. He looked like one deadly bastard. No one would ever cross him lightly. Never again.
It was dark when he drove up to the Florida National Cemetery in Bushnell and parked on the long driveway through endless white headstones. His father had been retired when he’d kicked it, but he’d chosen this place. His whole pathetic life had been the Army.
All the markers looked alike and there were hundreds of them, but Calder made his way easily in the moonlight. He found his father’s grave without hesitation.
He stood for a minute in front of the headstone, his father’s decomposing flesh five or six feet beneath his shoes. The letters on the stone read: “Captain John Macum Farris II.”
The second. But Calder, only son, was not John and not number three. He hadn’t been good enough, even on the day of his naming.
Calder looked around. He was alone. A warm Florida breeze tickled his clean-shaven face. He unzipped his trousers. His piss, hot and steamy, hit the stone and trickled down into the grass. Calder stepped to one side so he could soak the old man head to foot.
He shook himself off when he was done and zipped up. Then he saluted the grave, ending the gesture with an upturned middle finger and a sneer. “Hope you’re enjoying Hell, you fucking son of a bitch.”