Ididn’t go home, not at first. Instead, I took the long way up the canyon, then doubled back, hoping the cold and the empty night might cauterize something inside me. I spent an hour idling at the overlook above the Los Alamos grid, headlights off, engine ticking as it cooled. The town was lit up like a circuit board, every residential cell glowing and darkening in the rhythm of other people’s lives. The world had already gone to sleep; I envied it. I envied anything with a shutoff switch.
At dawn, I went to the Lab.
The parking lot was half-empty, as if the place anticipated a die-off. I wore my badge on the outside of my coat, not because I wanted to, but because security had doubled every checkpoint since the “incident.” Cameras scanned the approach, slow and predatory. The first guard was new: pale, military haircut, hands too soft to look real. He checked my badge, checked my face,ran a wand over my wrist, then stepped aside with a practiced neutrality.
Inside, everything was cold—the tile, the air, the gaze of every scientist who passed me in the corridor. I could feel the ripple effect—every conversation died as I walked past, every office door shut a little tighter. Dev met me at the elevator, face blanched, eyes full of questions he didn’t want answered.
“You okay?” he asked.
I lied, nodding, and pressed the button for Sublevel G.
We rode down in silence. He peeled off at the server farm, muttering something about failed backups, and I continued to my office. The air in the sub-basement was always damp, always two degrees below comfort. My hands shook as I swiped in. Inside, the Adaptive Systems lab was dead silent except for the hum of the racks. The Blue Spirit interface blinked at me from three different screens, each one demanding input I no longer had the will to give.
I tried to work. I tried to lose myself in the syntax and logic of the project, but nothing held. Every sound from the hallway—every closing door, every shuffle of shoes—sent a jolt through me. It was only a matter of time.
At 9:12 a.m., they came.
They arrived together, two men in government blue, suits tailored to look nondescript and failing. The taller one, Agent Martinez, had the slow walk of an ex-athlete, shoulders hunched like he was ducking through a world that wouldn’t stop shrinking. The other, Keller, was short, female, hair shaved to a bureaucratic stubble, face scrubbed of all warmth. She took the lead.
“Dr. Dalton?” Keller said, as if the question were a warning.
I nodded, kept my eyes level.
“We need a moment of your time. Preferably somewhere private.”
I locked my station, the motion practiced, and followed them through the corridor. They said nothing, just moved in a wedge formation, her in front, him trailing. Cameras watched us all the way to the security conference room: windowless, acoustically padded, air so still it felt artificial. There was a table. No chairs.
Keller gestured for me to stand, then leaned her hip against the metal.
“You know why we’re here,” she said.
I didn’t answer. In science, the first response is always to wait for more data.
Martinez closed the door, then posted himself beside it, arms folded in a way that made his wrists look thicker than my ankles.
Keller laid a manila folder on the table. She didn’t open it.
“There’s been an escalation,” she said. “Not just the break-in at your residence, but the incident at the ranger station. You were present for both.”
I nodded.
“We have witnesses,” she continued. “We have evidence. But what we don’t have is clarity.” She paused, as if waiting for the word to sink in, then slid the folder toward me. “You can open it, if you like.”
I did. Inside were stills. They were blurry, overexposed, every image stamped with a time and date. The first showed my Honda in the liquor store parking lot, with a shattered window. The next showed me in the ranger station, arms up, eyes wild. There were shots of the men who’d taken me, bodies slumped, faces blotted out with careful marker.
Then there was Nitro. Clear as daylight, standing in the doorway with a rifle, expression unreadable, eyes fixed on something past the camera.
I closed the folder.
“You understand the gravity of what’s happening here,” Keller said. It wasn’t a question.
“I do,” I said, voice even.
“We need your help,” said Martinez from the wall, his voice lower than I expected. “We need you to tell us exactly what happened in that cabin.”
I shrugged. “I was kidnapped. They tried to force me to unlock my project code. The Russians, or whatever flavor they were. Nitro—Seager—he got me out.”
Keller’s mouth twisted, an almost-smile. “That’s not the version we have.”
