Into the Violet Gardens Page 8

  Troy grins, nodding his head in approval.

  “Hey there,” he greets. “The name’s Troy Levi.”

  Pulling a streak of her hair back, Eva’s expression turns diffident. “Hello.”

  The Martial winks a digital eye. “Call me Rip.”

  “Rain.”

  “You all must be still dazed.” The Virtual guffaws gently. “Don’t worry; I’m the same. You guys can catch your breaths after today.” Troy turns to Soriana, looking downward at her five-four frame. “Guess I’ll be heading back to my unit.”

  Soriana signals to the three officers as she walks alongside the Virtual. She hears Troy sniff the humid air, presumably feeling his blood placate to such an episode of possible serenity. A random question lingers over her head.

  “How’s your tennis coach doing?”

  His university’s coach, Casey Lu, has since retired in the winter of 2016, with his absence balking the performance of the tennis team. Troy likely graduated before that imminent year. He always spoke so highly of his coach. Then two years later, Soriana read about his accident at an interstate, and her face paled. Recollections of her former resident’s stories ascended. She recalls the chances Troy took to knocking on her door, inviting her over to the court outside the apartment she over watched for three years. She reminiscences the celerity in Troy’s feet as he swung his racquet, only to skid upon failing to thwart her final shot. Tennis used to be her go-to during the weekends as an advisor. Once she joined the Central Intelligence Agency, her enthusiasm for it vanished like vapor.

  Troy rubs his beard as if bewildered by such a statement.

  “Uh…” He mutters, “Haven’t got in contact with him for a long while.”

  Soriana drops her mouth. Her heart twists. Troy wasn’t all that aware of the incident, she thought. Thankfully Lu survived, albeit adjusting in the same form as Troy. With the realization in place, Soriana could only wish the possibility of the two cyborgs reconnecting wasn’t so slim before this perplexity gets hideous, if it does. So much could be complete.

  Soon the idea drops from her head, reverting to another direction.

  “When you’re back, explain to them the whole situation,” Soriana implies, “They will need the full context behind this mishap.”

  “Yeah.”

  Soriana levels a hand to his shoulder. “And perhaps we should connect sometime. Let’s not forget each other again. In case they need further investigation.”

  Troy shrugs. “Wish. But my future operations are going to hold me back. This was only a coincidence for me to see you again.”

  “Let’s hope this isn’t the last time then.”

  ***

  The hall brightens with every step she takes. Soriana examines her watch, and her reflection of the band laced over the top of her hair flashes on the round frame. An earphone locks at her left ear and her nerves palliate to the jazz melody on her phone. It’s been many hours since she’s arrived and recuperated, transmuting in a black, slim winter coat and dressing pants. A dim noise booms as she nears Wayne’s office.

  She approaches Director Wayne’s office, and the sound of rapid gunshots and screams play inside. The officer removes the earphone and cuts off the music. Her stomach churns. The sounds lower once Wayne’s glassy eyes gaze at Soriana as he sips a steamy drink in his hand. She glances at the collection of archaic fighter jet stands aligned at the shelves. He remains seated, and a motion screen brightens before him. He undoes his necktie. Soriana offers a genteel smile.

  “Evening. Hope I’m not too late, Wayne,” she states. Soriana observes the sheet displaying a plane sketch motion at the tiled wooden wall. “Seems I have serious concerns too—”

  “I’m well aware, Salazar.”

  He sets down the tea, blinking toward what’s displayed. Passengers scream in Spanish as two VCO officers strike at many guards in a terminal space. This follows by a swift specter tearing through the limbs with celerity. Even so, nothing can aggravate Soriana’s shock as another scene zooms in at the face of a transpiring Virtual. The person of interest drags the tip of her katana on the concrete as bodies rest on the crowded street. The screening cuts off before it can escalate. She shoots a glance at Wayne and her expression darkens.

  Eva. So this is what I’ve missed.

  “I don’t understand,” Soriana says. Her cheeks pale.

  She takes slow steps toward her seat. Unzipping her coat, she exposes her dark blue blouse tucked into her pants and undoes the last two buttons on her blouse. Soriana endured a sudden twist in her heart. The sight of seeing a horror like this was unfathomable. In all her lifetime, she never saw Eva as the one to stir chaos. Regardless of her black operations, it didn’t alter her ethics. What she seen has become a sudden crack to her mind, and Eva never went in context with this at the base. In fact, she hid this from her. With this video, Soriana couldn’t eschew or deny this on Eva’s end. How would she?

  “I was alarmed by this brutality taking place in the afternoon at the Saint Oscar airport,” he says broodingly. Wayne stares back at the blank screen as if it were replaying once again. “In the CIA, we can’t let external factors break us. Not to say it’s inevitable. But…this alone leaves a sting on the outlook of our VCO Division.”

  “I take responsibility on my part,” Soriana adds. “Somehow, Mendoza found a way to locate and disable coordinate feed on my end, though it’s no excuse. And speaking on Paolo Mendoza…here’s my footage.”

  She rummages at her blouse’s breast pocket, taking out her cell phone. Wayne’s expression hardens like solid metal.

  “I’m also up to date on the aftermath as well on that,” Wayne states.

  Nevertheless, Soriana still shows her evidence. The corpse of Mendoza manifests with no filters on the phone. She explains the situation at hand leading to the kingpin’s surprising demise.

  Wayne grimaces. “So you were with him.”

  “The FBI Virtual and I attempted to subdue and capture him, but the suspect was too resistant to commands. Thanks to the rage fluid he injected. The agent…he took him out before Mendoza could do damage. At this point, it was life or death for me.”

  Had no other way, Troy’s voice repeated in her brain.

  Wayne rubs his chin.

  “I’ve known him,” Soriana continues. Her voice becomes pensive. “He’s changed since I’ve last seen him. He was a survivor of the turf war that broke out years ago.” Her skin soothes to the torridity consuming the office, offering her a tinge of relief. “It was Mendoza and the gangs that occupied Mexico then…before they signed their treaty. I was there. I saved his life. So what’s our next step?”

  A temporary pause lingers. That breaks when Wayne says, “At this point, you can’t let Moreci proceed any further, no matter her objections. This event alone has impeded that chance, even with Ottoman’s involvement. Not even me.” The Director gazes at a graying portrait of his younger self, smiling, suited in a pilot suit on top of a jet, on the table. Lowering it, he takes a sip of his tea. “Our next step is for staff to await a response. And that will be from the foreign lawmakers themselves.”

  From then now, that’s when she realized she could no longer continue serving in her temporary position at Cancun. It was more than patriotism. She had to fight the nightmare or die in it. She couldn’t let others like Troy suffer the same fate that day. As her mind processes the notion, she beams to a recollection of the time her staff orchestrated a night out for the residents. She would never forget it. Out of all the young men surrounding the club, Troy took the audacity alone to step up and ask her to be a partner on the dance floor. Her hair risen to such a young resident’s brazenness. The club around her cheered with gusto. The sight of her heels gyrating on the tiled floor as his humid hands took hers was the only time the two ever gotten this personal.

  Troy may not have said it upfront, but from looking into his eyes then, she knew Troy had his heart for her, regardless if she was possibly three to four years his senior. The
first day, she laid eyes on him at the orientation and escorted him to his suitemates. However, Soriana, deep down, couldn't stoop to his level. Her position and onus didn’t condone it in her to do so. She may not have opened a hand to his passion, but she did owe gratitude to Troy for her wake-up call. It was plain the experience itself sharpened him to what he is today, and it amazes her. Yet, she has her own concerns for him.

  Chapter 8

  March 2024 World Defense Meeting. Panama City, Panama

  The inundating tension inside the capacious meeting room stings Director Wayne’s veins. Nevertheless, he observes discernibly. In a large circular position, American advisors and staff sit across, facing the Latin American officers aligned to the left. Their backs are over watched by the multitude of officers unable to get a slot in the front ring. Human guards, equipped with rifles, stand next to the entrances. Their gaze levels darkly at Ottoman sitting solo on his chair on the virtual screen. His striped collar shirt is halfway buttoned. Wrinkles linger over his eyes.

  “Perdón,” a recorder whispers as soldiers give her way. She kneels, holding the cam recorder in her hand as she explicates the scene.

  “To set this straight,” Ottoman says. “You’re pointing fingers at me for not keeping your country under control.” He scoffs. “To tell you Ed, you and everyone have been busy getting your hands dirty in the black market. While my Virtuals did what your soldiers couldn’t.”

  “Yet people are suffering outages and destruction today,” Edgar Ramos barks. The Salvadoran’s spit hisses from his teeth. “The communities are at their worst peak than I could ever imagine. Your private company’s war against the Cartel’s allies has lasted! You have no one else to blame but YOUR cyborgs!”

  The camera lady grimaces to the echo radiating in the room. Since the month before this event, Wayne mustered whatever he could to avoid this day. Now he was subjugated to live in the nightmare he confronted for so long, witnessing it pervade like a pandemic. It took in a brand special form that twisted the Director’s stomach.

  “You’re a blind man,” Ottoman rebukes. “That doesn’t answer my point.”

  “Watch your words Ottoman!” Moniz admonishes. Sweat streams from the Minister of Defense’s temple. “You have much explaining to do with Brazil.”

  The commotion among the foreign officials and Ottoman continues to proceed with each heated comment exchanged. On the other hand, the Secretary of Defense, Sean Craig, and officers stare silently in their confusion, with one of the officers glancing at Wayne. Enduring his meter ignite, Wayne, but that period can only last so short as Wayne waves a hand and sets it down on the table abruptly.

  “That’s enough,” he declares aloud. Despite the tameness, the impact of his voice was enough to stir a slight blur on the screen.

  All eyes fall on him, and the room’s temperature stagnates. Nonetheless, the Director’s gaze never falters as he glances at all sides, knowing that he would be just as liable for this strife if he allowed these entities to throw baseless recriminations for how long.

  “Accusations will resolve nothing,” he says, “It’s quite apparent both sides took a heavy hit to this devastation. Best choice is for us to come at terms—”

  “Wrong time for negotiation making Wayne,” Ottoman reproves. He gestures with a sense of askance. “See it this way. This was and still is…a no-win situation. I STILL stand behind my reason to keep Mendoza gone from this—”

  “But I still kept behind my warning. Regardless,” Wayne admonishes coolly. He removes the spectacles from his eyes, glancing at Ottoman like a patient vulture. “Yet you tested it. The Jaguars of Apollo share a good deal in this toll. I can’t align with your judgement.”

  Ottoman turns his nose elsewhere, frowning at everyone around him in the room. He rises from his seat, hissing his teeth at the air.

  “Never seen so many cowards. All in one place,” Ottoman sneers before escorting himself out. The screen turns black, leaving the defense ministers and officers to aim their critical glances toward Wayne. The atmosphere turns hotter than ever, reddening Wayne’s skin.

  I’ve warned him enough.

  “He could’ve been smart,” Craig says to himself. He drinks a cup of water, which was as white as his hair. A small ponytail attaches.

  “We need justice,” Ramos declares. He beckons toward the Director, and the red remains on his face. “The Virtual Clandestine needs to answer. Wayne. It’s quite difficult for my fellow Salvadorans and the working people to walk freely in THIS confinement. Families and kids can’t even eat without a rocket tearing into their roofs. We can’t rest and maintain relations when too many have died in our homes.”

  The Latin American representatives nod in unison. Their expressions remain somber.

  “All Virtual Divisions,” Moniz mentions. “They’re just as guilty. Ramos isn’t alone in this struggle.” He wipes the sweat with the sleeve of his blazer. “To correct everyone, don’t paint us all in the same brush on this Cartel involvement.”

  “Your cyborg, Eva Moreci!” General Gonzales criticizes. “She owes heavily for this.”

  The officers murmur in approbation. Those not visible in the meeting approve loudly in the portable screens behind those sitting. Wayne’s stomach churns.

  “I yield to approval,” one of the DoD advisors admits.

  Wayne glances, blinking to others on his side of the other table, agreeing without protest. He cradles his hands, resting them on his chin pensively.

  “Sounds like we have our vote,” Craig mentions. He signals an empty glass toward Wayne. “What’s your choice, Director? You’re the wise man, after all.”

  Wayne retains his silence, and his expression turns frigid as a rush of thoughts swarm him. The fury surrounding Wayne was inevitable. So it was, without a doubt, that El Salvador and so many Latin American allies would not keep their silence as their nations ravaged with the PMCs and remnants of the Mendoza Cartel pinned against each other. On top of that, Wayne took heed that the lives lost in the Saint Oscar airport at the hands of his officer, Eva Moreci, could not be dismissed, regardless of what was said.

  The Director’s brain shook, struggling to fathom the thought of handing over her or one of his Virtuals in the mercy of the defense ministers in the courts. He couldn’t exchange life for thousands of others shed in blood just to placate their wrath. He’s watched her evolve under the care of Salazar over ten years, witnessing her harness her combat art and awareness in the black ops. It couldn’t end like this. This could be turned around, and it was practicable before this strain among the defenses exacerbated any longer.

  She’s just as good as finished.

  Opening his mouth, Wayne says, “I have my plan.”

  The staff faces him for the last time, and Wayne’s eyes become sharp as an eagle’s beak.

  Chapter 9

  June 23, 2024

  The water raining down from the sprinkler ceases with an indirect tap from the neural interface. A damp mist snakes forward from the tub as Eva steps her left bionic foot down on the bathroom rug. The temperature’s warmth inside dwindles as the air meet’s her soaked body. Beads drizzle down her glabrous right thigh, and snake their way toward her artificial calf implanted. Closing her eyes in brief satiation, she strokes her hair back, heaving aloud as she basks to the cherry aroma embracing her. Beads of water sliver down her nude skin like tears from a previous storm as she reaches for the towel and wraps it around her breast.

  Eva motions, with her feet leaving a slippery trail as she steps toward the living room and seats herself on the sofa. Her shoulders shiver. Embellished portraits of the gardens she painted from her past plaster on the wall. A beam shining through the curtains reflects on her past human self, nearing her cheek on her deceased Husky, Saber. Her cheeks flush to the marked paw print on it, pondering him wagging his tail, recognizing her work with a simple signature. The portraits bear sight at her, whispering for her hand into their pristine dimension, and she can only gaze with
helplessness.

  If only you were still here.

  She faces her reflection blankly at the mirror before her, catching a gleam at the diamond on her head. Her ebony hair, once a piece of length stopping at her shoulders, now after the passing of several months, stands long and in the sense of elegance, she adored. A soaked streak of it dances over her right eye. Months of living in trepidation have done its bizarre wonders. The silence can only darken upon her eyeing the small frame of her mother behind her, now gone from the world a month ago. Morose, Eva leans her head, witnessing the leaves on her artificial cherry blossom plant rain a shadow over the frame.

  It’s been months leading to this June since the streets of Bethesda were plagued with firebrands. Summer meant nothing. No more black ops. No duty. Pure unadulterated antipathy everywhere she passed. In an outcome where she couldn’t win, who would’ve to fathom to a Virtual-geared operation in ending the Drug War that February would only give birth to something far more minacious: a perennial war between the Jaguars of Apollo and remnants of the Cartel ravaging all of Latin America as she sat. Now she and many like her took the brunt of it, and as long as she was resident and breathing, she was another enemy to the humans. The deaths of Mendoza and Guzman trailed over the nation like a harbinger. Did all that the Mendoza Cartel caused these people for decades even matter anymore to them? Have they disowned all logic, regardless of this turmoil? Are people this parochial? Eva couldn’t rest without protesters vituperating for her body in pieces. For that, she lost any chance to be by her mother’s bedside during her final hours that night in the hospital. An opportunity she can no longer attain anymore.

  The pain lowers its jaws from within, and she inhales. That alters when the phone rings, and Eva’s fingers clench. She subdues her vex as she reaches for the cell phone charging from the television shelf, and the Virtual presses her lips.