CHAPTER FOURTEEN – JAMES
CHARLEVOIX
I sneak out of the living dome, race along a hallway, and reach the open steel door leading into the Diamond Temple. My eyes have scanned the Diamond Temple hundreds of times but never voluntarily. The Miners' secret training center, closed to CANARY civilians, is a colossal space with an expansive floor resembling a thick sheet of ice. The diamond-shaped ceiling and surrounding walls are painted periwinkle. Four marble support posts keep the ceiling from crumbling. A rock for rappelling exercises lies in the center of the facility. Up on a balcony, a circular silver door leads into the Universal Tube's simulation launchpad. Weightlifting areas and exercise machines litter the floor beneath the balcony. Other training structures around the room include a wall climb, belly crawl, separated staircase, rope descent, and monkey bars. A rubber track outlines the entire facility. At my right, three doors lead into the swimming pool, indoor shooting range, and military classroom.
Bradley registers Miners for their workouts near the entrance. Tilly Tartar scribbles the names for attendance at his side. "Keep at your training, and you'll be on everyone's mission shortlist," Bradley says to the first soldier in line, who just happens to be my brother.
Phillip glares at me, as if I were invading his territory. "What are you doing here? You trying to embarrass me again?"
"Thought I'd come in for a free lift."
Phillip scoffs and puffs up his chest. "Come on... who's blackmailing you?"
I peer down at the callous on my right index finger and suddenly wish the bump were not there. "You know what, Phillip? You were right all along about me. And I'm sorry." Phillip's jeering smile disappears, replaced by a melancholy expression. His eyes find the floor as he walks away without a word to hit the weights.
Bradley's eyes widen at my arrival. "James?!"
"Reporting for duty, General," I tease with a salute.
"Wha—? You never come to optional training times!" His chiseled jaw breaks into an overenthusiastic grin.
"I know. And obviously I haven't earned priority placement yet, but any mission coming down the pipeline... I'm more than willing...."
"You know that's not my decision, James," Bradley says as Tilly scribbles down my name.
"I know... Just wanted to say the words."
The general gives me a heartfelt salute. "Get in there, soldier!"
Over the next few weeks, I put the library to rest and make the Diamond Temple my new home. I draw myself a down-to-the-minute training schedule. Any hour of the day, I am pummeling through military drills. Training gives me the same manic outlet writing always did. I guess with a mind as hyperactive as mine, the body eventually catches up when I funnel my energy in the right direction.
After a while, my hands feel different holding the equipment, as if they were suddenly extensions of my own arms. The bench presses, free weights, and other machines become a whole new playground for me. I sweat so much on the elliptical one day that Bradley has to hose it down. The soles on my shoes wear away from hours running the track. When I slip on the rappelling rock and open a gash across my calf, I hobble through the rainforest to the Medical Circuit, get patched up, and immediately hotfoot back to training. Again and again I practice. Wall climb. Belly crawl. Separated staircases. Monkey bars. Laps in the swimming pool. Rounds at the shooting range. Training simulations inside the Universal Tube. I obsessively check and correct my technique over and over again. Every morning, I annoy Mariah until she comes train with me. And every night, I head to the Manitous to help Woody in his recovery.
"Good work, Starling!" Bradley booms as I reenter the Universal Tube after a combat session in an arctic wasteland simulation. Us Miners have to prepare for every possible Hatch House environment. "What did I tell you? You have more skill than you let yourself develop. One thing I'd improve though... Something my old drill sergeant once told me...." I nod my head at the general and open my ears. "If you're ever pinned to the ground, just move your hips. They're boney and could throw attackers off balance long enough to free your hands."
"Good to know, general." I shake the snow off the bottom of my boots. We exit the circular hallway and step on to the balcony overlooking the Diamond Temple. The silver door leading into the Universal Tube closes behind us.
"I have a refugee class session in five minutes," Bradley says. "But you can head inside the Tube again and do some solo sims." The general claps me on the back and starts down the stairs winding from the balcony to the floor.
"Wait... don't I need the simulation passcode?" I call down.
"This is the Host Tube for all CANARY simulations. You only need a code if you're a guest coming from another Tube, like when the Defense Secretary visited from his D.C. office. You can walk right in from here," Bradley explains. "Good luck!"
I stand at the edge of the balcony for a few moments to catch my breath. Bradley jots down notes on every Miner who walks through the Diamond Temple below. He even makes Tilly and the Ragamuffins deliver him food so he can stay in the training center. The general helps trainee after trainee, from obstacle course maneuvers to sprinting technique. I recall Bradley's speech at the Sedona memorial when he revealed that he joined the military to gain his father's attention. I guess I joined the military to finally give my father some.
Over the next few days, Phillip, jaw locked and face expressionless, pounds away at the weights for hours on end. His head always swivels to make sure admirers are watching his impeccable technique. One night, as I return to my cot in the living dome, a finger taps me on the shoulder. I turn around and nearly punch Phillip in the face. "What the hell was that?!" I hiss into the dark. "It's three o'clock in the morning!"
Phillip steps into the moonlight. "James... I—uh—just wanted to say... uh... good job. These past few weeks... I've watched you at the Diamond... a little bit...." For a moment, I see shades of a Phillip long forgotten. The kid who roamed the streets of Geneva with me all those years ago.
"Uh... thanks, Phil." I pause. "Still doesn't compare to you, though..." I hate how much my heart leaps at my brother's compliment. Have I been craving his approval all this time? Or is Phillip's praise just a natural consequence of becoming the person he always pressured me to be?
"I appreciate it. Good night, James. See you tomorrow at training."
I dream of the river again during the night. When I wake up, a lingering sadness washes over me. But I am still intent on leaving my bookbag behind and heading to the Diamond Temple instead. Mariah and I agree to grab breakfast in the Greasy Spoon before training. My muscles still ache, but Mariah marches, unbothered, along the hallway under Tiki's cage.
"You saw Woody last night?" Mariah asks.
"Stayed till almost three in the morning, yeah. Woody's on the mend. Whole family's still shaken up, but they'll push through. No one ended up taking the Jamais Vu." I feel the pill bottle inside my pocket but have yet to work up the nerve. Maybe just having the option is the comfort, not removing the memories themselves. The bottle clacks against my Z-Pulse; I tried calling Luke again this morning. Voicemail...
Mariah shakes her head in dismay. "They're the last family in the world to deserve what happened to Wyatt. I'll start coming with you more."
Mariah grabs one of the spoon-shaped door handles and yanks the entrance panel open. The Greasy Spoon is a cavernous dining hall with sky-blue walls and polished glass tables. Windows along the back wall overlook the Quad and Brandmand Tower. An elevated platform under the windows presents platters loaded with food. A buffet of sausage, biscuits, gravy, and hash browns rests beside massive baskets of grain. Electric slow-cookers steam the breakfast stew next to an extravagant bouquet of candy-colored fruits. My eyes fall on the autumn harvest of CANARY orchard crops: Cedaris, a leafy vegetable with thick stems similar to artichokes, and Scripe, a bloodred vegetable the shape of an ear of corn.
After scanning my wrist under the cafeteria's NutriNosh to assess my needed vitamins for the day, I pack my plate with sweaty sausages and fluffy hash browns. Mariah and I sit down at a glass bench in the center of the Greasy Spoon. The transparent floor beneath the table reveals water gushing in from the rivers and ponds throughout El Yunque Rainforest into the CANARY plumbing system.
Suddenly, something tugs at my pantleg, and I almost kick Tilly Tartar in the face. "So sorry... just passing these out...." it chirps. Tilly dons a kelly green gnome hat with matching suspenders as she hands me a copy of the CANARY Newsletter's latest issue.
"Oh... thanks, Tilly," I say. Tilly and a few other Ragamuffins scamper down the aisle to pass out pamphlets to the breakfast rush.
"Any news from the outside?" Mariah prods.
I groan and point to the newspaper header reading, "Three Virginia Congressmen Disappear: Plucker Abduction Suspected."
"Good Lord. Shit's getting crazier out there by the day..." Mariah furrows her eyebrows. "You know... I grew up in the same sort of poverty as Tourtombee and some of these Red Dove volunteers, but I didn't brainwash half the country to change things for myself."
"Well, you're definitely someone to admire, Mariah."
Mariah lets out a giggle. "And what do you mean by that?"
"I—I didn't mean..."
"Uh-huh..." Mariah says sarcastically. Her tan skin glistens in the overhead lights as she winks at me.
Slightly panicked, I turn to the paper again. Something else a page over catches my attention: a lawyer facing down an Infinity Court jury with the article header "Mary Jean Starling Secures Conviction of Three Page Staffers Accused of Sexual Misconduct." A quote from Senior Discussant Aurellio reads, "We call M.J. the 'Guided Missile' in court. Just point her in the right direction and stand back..." I smile at the photo of Mom obliterating the sleazy defendant with just a purposeful point of her finger.
Later, as we exit the Greasy Spoon, the Guided Missile herself, trailed by Meili, shoves open the front door. Mom carries a binder with her daily schedule resting on top. We all pause for a second as if waiting for permission to speak to the other. And for once, I break the ice. "Mom... I—uh—read the Newsletter. About your case. Congrats..." I say with an edge of cautious optimism.
Mom's emerald eyes crackle with boundless energy. "Thanks, honey! How are you doing? Everything all right?"
"Yeah... doing great, actually." I crack another smile.
"Always happy to hear it!" Mom says. Meili's suspicious eyes, as if expecting some kind of prank, dart between us.
"Good to see you, Mom," I say.
"Good to see you, too, son." She smiles warmly as we part ways. Meili offers me a subtle wink of approval.
"Your mom seems cool," Mariah remarks on our way out. "We should—"
But then Mariah is interrupted by a Z-Pulse notification on her phone... on both our phones. I peer down at my screen and read the message:
Private Starling,
Please report to the Director's office immediately. A security guard will meet you at the elevator above the Commons to escort you.
Best, CANARY Director Aaliyah Tallulah Jane Denbright
* * *
Mariah and I share a look of shock before bolting down the hall, through the Commons, up the winding staircase, and across the second-floor passage. A guard waits at an open elevator. We rocket to the top of the CANARY Building and follow the guard through a series of corridors on the government floor until he admits us into the Director's office.
A short flight of steps later, I am standing face-to-face with the legendary Director Denbright. She dons a sky-blue pantsuit inlaid with Arabian jewels, along with a matching hijab. Did King Tourtombee see her, in a past as inaccessible as my own, from this exact angle? In this exact light? I almost feel the need to bow as I swallow my temptations to ask Denbright every little detail of how Tourtombee descended into madness.
"Welcome, Privates Starling and Alvarez. Please take a seat with the others," the Director orders.
I snap out of my starstruck haze as Denbright gestures to a semi-circle of plush emerald chairs near her desk. Bradley, my brother, and Malacai are sitting opposite Denbright's desk. Puzzled, Mariah and I scooch into seats at the nearest end.
Director Denbright moves with a swift authority back to her chair and calls the meeting to order. "Our timeline to finding the Hatch House has obviously shortened in recent days, and I share the refugees' and the public's impatience to bring these terrorists to justice. Hopefully, this mission puts us on the right path....
"We have recovered encrypted messages from the Sedona compound revealing what may be an unknown Red Dove Recruitment Center in Charlevoix, Michigan. The exact location of interest is a hotel called the Edgewater Inn." Denbright tilts her desktop toward us and taps the computer screen. The monitor shows a waterfront resort situated between a busy avenue and a yacht-filled harbor. According to the map in the corner of the screen, the Edgewater Inn rests along the northern shore of Round Lake Harbor. An eastbound channel runs from the harbor, through the town, under a drawbridge, and eventually spills into Lake Michigan in the west at the edge of town. "The Michigan Governor has been pressured to defy Bessemer's national lockdown. Civilians are disobeying as well, meaning the Edgewater Inn is taking visitors again. Many who probably want more than just a room for the night..." Denbright flips to a radar map. "TSA, FAA, and Quill's Armada aerial surveillance haven't picked up any Red Dove hovercrafts flying in or out of Charlevoix County. We think the Doves are using nearby airports to fly recruits to the Hatch House after vetting at the Edgewater. Or the Red Doves are using hovercrafts untraceable on radar."
"So you want us to confirm the existence of this Recruitment Center inside the hotel and shut it down?" Bradley questions eagerly, straightening his camouflage uniform.
Denbright nods with a lingering look at the general. "Gather as many details as possible about the Red Doves' operation. How are Red Doves making the Edgewater Recruitment Center known to people in the area? What floor and suite are they operating from? What airports or type of aircraft are they using to fly volunteers out? How do interested everyday civilians gain access? How many Red Doves are working out of Charlevoix?"
"Any indication that the actual Hatch House is somewhere in Charlevoix County itself?" Bradley asks.
"Certainly possible. Michael vacationed in northern Michigan when he was young...."
Bradley and Mariah beam with enthusiasm while Phillip and Malacai steel their jaws. To my surprise, I find myself matching Mariah's zealous grin.
Denbright rises from her chair, creating the sensation she is towering over us. "I want General Buchanan running point on this mission. I trust you all passed your reconnaissance training during basic?"
Bradley chortles. "I had them running stakeouts in the Universal Tube for months before Maddox approved them for graduation. Speaking of... what's the stripe general's take on all this?"
Denbright looks as if bile just threatened to crawl up her throat. "You see... if a mission isn't some big show of force or promises a shootout like Sedona, Maddox isn't usually interested. This isn't flashy enough, but the authority to greenlight missions lies with me. So, I'll be leading the Beehive support team during your trip without Maddox's consultation." A proud grin ripples across her lips. "All right, Terra-54th... suit up! You leave for Michigan at sunset."
As we exit the office, I try to quiet the restless voices inside my mind begging me to return to the writing table. I could end up just like the abducted congressmen, forever separated from my mind and history, with a mission like this. Then Bradley taps me on the shoulder. "James... hold back a moment...." The rest of our detail continues down the passage. Mariah glances back at me.
"Yes, general?" I ask.
Bradley's deep-set brown eyes bore into me. "Just so you're aware... You were originally taken off this squad after Sedona at my request. But I've seen you these past few weeks, and I think you're finally ready. Don't make me regret your second chance."
* * *
The Hoverhawk, its invisibility feature engaged, drifts over the turquoise waters of Lake Michigan. The murky shadow of dusk gradually replaces the rosy glow of sunset, providing the perfect cover for our team's journey into Charlevoix. The aircraft lands softly in the choppy water near the end of a dock. An invisible ramp extends out the side of the craft onto the dock planks. Bradley taps the control panel to freeze the Hoverhawk in place. We clamber down the ramp, one by one, and land at the end of the dock. A towering lighthouse stands on another dock to our right. Balmy wind ripples across the lake. The temperature dial on my Z-Pulse reads ninety-seven degrees. Sometimes I forget the outside world is not immune to the warming climate unlike the controlled environment inside the CANARY bubble.
"Hotel's this way...." Bradley leads us along the dock.
Charlevoix is a small lakeside city of streets lined with waterfront shops. Between the two docks, a channel flows from Lake Michigan, under a drawbridge on the main avenue, and toward Round Lake Harbor on the other side of town. But the entire area appears empty. Shadows coat the rooftops of the town, and the vacant streets evoke the all-encompassing anxiety accompanying life under Red Dove rule. Maybe the congressmen's abductions were enough to keep people off the streets tonight despite the state reopening.
In another lifetime my family had a house on Torch Lake less than an hour from here. But the silhouettes sweeping across this empty town render the image of a shiny lake day with my family impossible. A distant dream, forever inaccessible. I board up the windows inside my head as a wave of nostalgia crashes into my mind. I need to focus on the mission. Everyone and everything must walk a different, darker path now.
The squad follows Bradley along the channel. I shudder at the drawbridge as we near the center of town, instinctively quickening my pace as I climb up the steps from the riverside to the avenue above. Our squad rushes across a street cutting through the middle of Charlevoix. On the far side, Edgewater Inn overlooks Round Lake Harbor. The hotel boasts a sleek cement structure with burgundy rooves and cream chimneys.
"All right..." Bradley says. "Do you guys have your check-in stuff?"
I pull out my doctored state ID and driver's license, both printed with the name "Rory Reynolds," as we approach the hotel along the harbor. We enter the lobby in our civilian clothes, but our duffel bags are loaded with weapons and reconnaissance equipment. Bradley leads me, Mariah, Malacai, and Phillip across the lobby toward the reception desk. Staircases on either side of the desk curl inward up to a landing with an elevator bank. Except for some plush couches near reception, the ground floor is covered with square dinner tables. The hotel restaurant's hostess stand lies to our left. Patrons converse over their meals as servers mill about, pouring drinks and taking orders. A bar is situated on the far left side of the ground floor.
"Why, hello! Welcome to the Edgewater Inn!" the bubbly receptionist exclaims. "Do you have a reservation?"
"We do. Two adjoining rooms. Second floor..." Bradley replies in an even tone.
"All right... I just need to see some identification." We hand over our falsified IDs. Mariah and I share a nervous glance. But the receptionist barely bats an eye before summoning the bellboy.
The bellboy leads us up the curved staircase and into an elevator. We rattle up to the second floor and follow the bellboy down the hall to our suite. The room comes with a kitchenette, dining table, sitting area, and fireplace. Paneled windows along the far wall overlook the docks and mansions lining the harbor. A door to the left leads into the adjoining suite.
Once the bellboy leaves, Bradley gathers us in the sitting area to hand out briefing packets. "Gather 'round, team. First off, don't trust anyone at this hotel. None of us have never been here, and we have no idea how or where the Red Dove Recruitment Center is operating. Or who's part of the conspiracy. Understand?" We all nod. "All right... these names and faces need to be memorized within the hour. These are all the known Red Dove operatives in the area.
"We'll go to the restaurant to survey the ground floor during the dinner rush. Then we'll rotate positions around the hotel to keep an eye out for any unusual activity. Malacai and Phillip... you'll be stationed in the restaurant. James... at the bar. I'll pose as a street singer out front to monitor anyone coming in or out. And Mariah will—"
"You're not serious, are you? A singer?" Mariah chortles. The rest of us laugh.
"If I hear you practicing your falsetto during prep, I sweat to God..." Malacai adds with a grin.
Phillip puffs up his chest as he unpacks his tactical gear. "Better not see you doing your little scales, either..." he says in a mocking tone.
"This could double as your practice for serenading Denbright, Bradley," I add.
"Take notes, James. I still haven't been sung to," Mariah says with a wink. I can feel my cheeks flushing red.
"Stay disciplined, privates, we have to focus on the mission. You need these instructions so I can keep you safe." The general analyzes the suite with a tender, concerned look for his soldiers.
"We're just trying to relieve a little anxiety before shit hits the fan," Malacai says.
"Plus, I can protect myself just fine." Mariah unpacks her handgun from her duffel bag, a hint of adrenaline in her amber eyes. "I'm ready."
"Calm down, tiger," Bradley says. "We're in a hotel, not on the usual battlefield. The Doves here will be difficult to identify. We have to focus on their behavior instead of just killing everyone on sight like Sedona." A palpable unease floods the air, and the squad falls silent.
Bradley continues his instructions, "Anyway... Mariah, you'll be moving around the upper floors. If you spot any suspicious behavior, send a message on your Z-Pulse. Same goes for the rest of you... Now, let's get ready...."
We spend a restless hour memorizing the faces of the potential Recruitment Center officers. Meanwhile, Bradley scuttles around the room and obsessively coordinates our outfits to deflect suspicion. "Plaid is your new best friend, Phil... All right... um... this is fine, Malacai... Mariah, position your mic here...."
I place a calming hand on Bradley's shoulder as he did mine during my home visit. "General, we're going to get this right. All of us together..."
Bradley meets my eyes the same way he did right before Sedona. The same way he did before his memorial speech. CANARY's failures must have weighed most heavily on Bradley, who has sacrificed the most for this organization. The general smiles as he combs over my disguise one more time. "I think you're finally prepped, Private Starling."
* * *
With fifteen minute intervals separating us, we file, one by one, out of the suite toward the elevators down the hall. Malacai leaves first for the restaurant, followed by Phillip. Then Mariah heads to the third floor. Then Bradley, with an empty shoebox at his side for singing tips, trails her. Now I am left alone in the suite. The clock on the wall ticks at a steady pace, but my heart rattles against my ribcage in quickening time. I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants and will myself to breathe. After fifteen minutes have passed, I slink down to the Edgewater Inn bar. I spot Malacai and Phillip at a table across the restaurant. Their eyes constantly sweep the area, their ears clinging to nearby conversations. Bradley is situating himself outside the entrance.
The hotel clientele boasts a diverse array of skin shades glimmering in the chandelier lights, marking a shift from the Western European majority in the area when I vacationed here over a decade ago. But the paler guests seem unfazed by the new arrivals and just as unconcerned with the pricy dinner receipts landing on their tables.
At the bar, I find a seat between a balding man in a tan suit and a slender woman in a crimson evening dress. Nearby, a couple drunkenly giggles at the television mounted behind the bar. "What I can get'cha, champ?" the bartender asks.
"Moscow Mule, please... Thanks..."
As the drunken couple demands more tequila shots, the woman in the crimson dress sets down a receipt and waves for the bartender's attention. "Gave you a good tip. Can I have another Charlevoix Cocktail?" The bartender ignores the drunken couple and serves the woman instead.
Nothing abnormal happens over the next couple hours. The balding man makes small talk with the bartender. The woman in the crimson dress taps her fingernails against the bar. The drunk couple slips further and further into incoherence. A newscast on the television covers the comments made today by Texas State Representative Miles Liebermann. A screenshot of Liebermann's post on social media reads, "During the Chinese Revolution, brave provinces stood up to the fraudulent establishment and declared their support for the Revolutionary Alliance. Today, in that same spirit, I want to be the first public figure to endorse the Red Doves' efforts to reform our political system. While I condemn their violence, their cause is just. If we cannot unify our country, I'll propose legislation for Texas' secession from the United States #Texit."
Down the bar, a blonde woman in an elegant sequin dress scoffs. "Does anyone actually believe this shit? Open up a history book."
The bartender hands her a lengthy tab. "You think his comments are all just hot air?"
The woman, wearing a chunky diamond ring on her finger as she signs, waves her hand dismissively. "He has to win over the stupidity vote somehow. Ignorance seems like the best campaign strategy these days. Political and otherwise..." She drapes a fur coat across her shoulders and stomps away as a pro-Liebermann rally flashes across the television, unseen behind her back.
Eventually, Phillip and Malacai finish their meal, and Bradley messages Mariah and me to switch places with them. Phillip heads to the bar and Malacai slips upstairs while Mariah and I meet in the lobby to find a secluded table in the far corner of the restaurant. A crowd forms around Bradley singing outside, but his head constantly tilts toward the door to monitor traffic.
Mariah and I order our entrees and survey the restaurant scene. The glow of the candlelit table heightens her bronze skin as if she were bathing in twilight. Her frizzy hair borders her amber eyes staring at me from across the table. My heartrate quickens again, and I realize how thankful I am to have Mariah by my side.
I want to make conversation, but our mission comes first. My eyes wander across the lobby, scanning for any abnormalities. Another party checks in at reception. The drunken couple is finally escorted upstairs by staff. The lady in the crimson dress and her partner trail them. The balding man in the tan suit retires upstairs as well.
After a period of time, I find Mariah smirking at me. "What?" I ask.
She titters. "You have that look on your face again. The one that tells me your mind is wandering..."
"Wandering around the important things for once. Trust me, I wish I could focus on this dinner, but we have a job to do together." I lower my voice to a whisper. "I need you eyeing my blind side."
"I guess you're finally present like I always wanted... but at the exact wrong time," Mariah says sarcastically with a grin. "Will I ever get through to you, James?"
"Well... if we get through this alive, maybe I can focus on something a little better at our next meal...."
"The next meal, hm?" She raises an eyebrow.
"I mean... these candles do look like those orange ones at the Midnight Moon." Our eyes meet, but then I busy myself with my utensils. Mariah remains silent. Our feet brush against each other under the table; I guess this is the most amount of contact we can manage under the present circumstances.
"I'll see if I have an opening in my schedule. Now, let's focus..." Mariah insists.
Another thirty minutes pass. I observe the other diners, but everyone seems relaxed, just normal people on vacation. No shady figures sweep through the lobby. No potential recruits meet with Red Dove operatives. We would almost have to comb through all the suites on the upper floors for some answers.
Mariah's eyes surge with manic energy as she scans the scene, almost daring the Red Doves to make themselves known. I find myself smirking at Mariah. "Now I'm the one saying 'What?'" she says.
"Tense situations suit you," I whisper.
"Where I'm from... well... let's just say I'm used to always looking over my shoulder. Just another hit of adrenaline, I guess..."
"Makes for a reliable partner," I say. Mariah looks at me and allows herself to breathe for a second.
My Z-Pulse buzzes with a message from Bradley telling us to retire for the night and meet upstairs. "Check, please!" Mariah shouts across the tables. A waiter's eyes widen as he looks taken aback by her aggressive request, but I just snigger.
Up in the suite, no one seems to have found any clues, any patterns, any recruitment signals, any access points to the safehouse... Nothing. "We'll stay here a week before a new CANARY squad rotates in," Bradley says. "Just have to keep at this... We'll find something. Get to bed."
Over the next couple days, we conduct more stakeouts in the Edgewater Inn. I peruse the upper floors suite by suite. Nothing. We separate into teams to survey the town, pacing up and down cobblestone streets and poking into shops. With the lockdowns lifted, increased foot traffic makes pinpointing our targets difficult, but I keep my eyes peeled for the suspected Recruitment Center officers. Bradley uses an invisible surveillance drone to monitor the channel running from Lake Michigan to Round Lake Harbor. Malacai and I order a rental to drive around the city blocks and observe the locals. We pass restaurants, alleys, bookshops, apartments, mansions, docks... Nothing. The elevated temperatures remain relentless as the white-hot sun beats down on the lakeside town.
"Nothing on Doppler or CANARY's invisibility radar. No one has flown in or out. No Scout drones either," Bradley notifies us back at the suite one day. "Mariah, did you spot anything in the east wing of the third floor today?"
"Nothing," Mariah says.
"Phil and I thought we saw someone who looked like one of the Recruitment Center suspects on the west side of town. Fred Grave. Abducted by Pluckers back in 2029..." Malacai says.
"That guy didn't look anything like him. We're grasping at straws," Phillip counters. His jawline ripples as he clenches his teeth. Suddenly, my brother slams his dish in the sink, and the china shatters. We all linger in the defeated silence before heading to bed.
The next night, I position myself at the bar around nine o'clock. Malacai and Phillip dine at the restaurant. Mariah sits on a bench outside as the weekend rush enters the Edgewater Inn. Bradley scours the upper floors for suspicious activity. After an hour at the bar, I order another drink. "Didn't I see you a few days ago?" the bartender asks me.
"We had a fire at our house a couple miles east. My family's living here until it's repaired," I explain, trying to keep my voice steady.
A beefy man in a pinstripe suit plops himself down beside me. "Hey... bartender! I need a Cosmo!"
Meanwhile, a couple at the opposite end of the bar raises their hands for the bartender's attention. "Two Charlevoix Cocktails, too..." the husband orders. "Gave you a good tip..." He slides a receipt across the table.
An elderly woman with buck teeth arrives at the bar. "Throw in a Long Island, too, please."
"All coming right up!" the bartender hollers.
I compulsively tap my fingers on the bar as my eyes scan the ground level. But all seems quiet as usual. I stare through the window at Mariah sitting on the bench outside, looking as bored as I feel. Then my Z-Pulse buzzes: Bradley asking me to switch places with Phillip in five minutes.
A wiry man with a goatee crosses over to the bar and bellows, "Gerald! Monica! How good to see you both!"
The couple at the other end of the bar hugs the wiry man. "Devon, hello! We're having a drink. Sit."
I shake the ice in my half-full beverage and sigh. The time on the bar television ticks onward. I prepare to head over to the restaurant. My Z-Pulse buzzes with another message from Bradley: no noise across the upper floors. Mariah scooches off the bench outside to rotate with Malacai.
"I can't wait to show you the new china set we bought," the wiry man, Devon, says. He escorts the couple away from the bar.
My Z-Pulse vibrates again with Bradley telling me to move. The bartender passes out the Cosmo and Long Island to the beefy man and elderly woman before snatching up the receipt left by the couple. And then I realize...
The bartender never made the couple's Charlevoix Cocktails.
And they seemed all too willing to leave the bar without them. Where did they go? I scan the chalkboard behind the bar. The Charlevoix Cocktail isn't even on the menu. And hadn't that lady in the crimson dress from the first night ordered the same thing? I picture her being led upstairs by a man while Mariah and I ate dinner. But she had been alone all night previously....
I peer down at the stack of receipts behind the bar about a foot away. Within an arm's length. My Z-Pulse buzzes again, ordering me to rotate. The bartender is cleaning glasses nonchalantly. My heart clatters against my ribs as I try to think.
Then I knock my drink off the bar, and the glass shatters all over the floor. "Oh my god! I'm so sorry! I can't believe—" I leap from my stool in feigned surprise.
The bartender grabs a broom and dustpan from behind the bar and hastens over to the mess of glass shards on the floor. "It's all right."
While the bartender cleans the mess, and the other patrons are distracted by my accident, I reach over and pluck the receipt on top of the stack. Keeping my hand hidden behind the bar top, I read the text on the paper:
Next wave: EI, 9/12-9/19. 19:00-21:00 window.
No order total. No tip. Just a single line of text. I place the receipt back on the stack. The bartender scoops up the remaining glass, and I thank him before rotating positions with no one else the wiser.
I relay the information to our squad later that night. "They came with little flyers disguised as receipts, and the Charlevoix Cocktail is code for volunteers looking to join the Red Doves. Bartender must be working for the Recruitment Center...."
Bradley nods, knitting his eyebrows in concentration. "The Beehive thinks the Red Doves recruit by targeting folks with anti-government tendencies, especially those active on conspiracy sites and alternative social media platforms. Then these Recruitment Centers arrange for a meet-up and the volunteers' travels to the Hatch House. Clearly..." Bradley pauses, then pulls out a stack of papers from his duffel bag. "I swiped this copy of the staff schedule from behind reception a couple days ago. Lemme see..." The general scans the chart. "The only person who hasn't been stationed at the bar the same night as the bartender working tomorrow is James."
"So... that means?" I ask.
"The bartender working tomorrow might recognize the rest of us as repeat customers and grow suspicious if we suddenly try to order the Charlevoix Cocktail after staying at the hotel for a few days. You need to order the cocktail to see if the other bartender is a Red Dove and maybe get inside the Recruitment Center. We'll have the Beehive doctor a replica of the recruitment flyer you saw." Bradley nods gravely at me before continuing, "I'll have you hooked up to Po's glitter-sized earpiece in case something goes wrong. If you get inside, take note of as much information as you can, especially how recruits are transported from this hotel to the Hatch House. CANARY intel indicates the Red Doves usually take a couple days to vet recruits, so you won't be transported immediately."
"And when I have all the intel? How do I backtrack out of becoming a Red Dove?" I ask, trying to even my breathing. Mariah fires a worried look in my direction.
"We'll give you a twenty-four hour window to observe the Recruitment Center, and then I'll set off the fire alarm to force the hotel to evacuate. Meet us right outside the lobby to head back to the hovercraft. Then CANARY will send in a squad to disable the Recruitment Center once we're cleared out."
Even as terror cuts me deeper than a bullet, I nod at the general.