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Two men took Aviva, one on each side, holding her arms tightly, their fingers cutting into her biceps. The other soldiers landing on the roof searched for any trace of Morgan.
“Where is he?” one of them asked.
“Gone,” she said.
They guided her to the elevator. Their grip remained painfully tight even in the confined space that allowed no escape. The elevator descended. She tried to relax, focusing on the humming sound of the elevator mechanism, which was not loud enough to conceal the sound of her nervous breathing.
Beyond the lowest level the elevator continued even deeper.
The door opened to a concrete hallway with flickering lighting, the air thick and musky. They pushed her forward. The sparse fluorescent lights projected elongated shadows on the rough concrete walls as they advanced in the underground labyrinth. They stopped several feet from a closed door. They motioned for her to enter. They remained silent, their faces without expression—they wouldn’t tell her what was behind that door. She would have to find out for herself.
She entered the familiar room with the walls covered in a mosaic of displays. Lev sat at the large table, a glass of scotch in his thick fingers. He sat alone, waiting patiently, sipping his drink, waiting for Aviva to settle down.
“Sit,” he said. She sat across from him. “Where did he go?”
“Who?” she asked.
“Morgan.”
“Out of The Virt.”
“I know, but where?”
“Why are you interested in him?”
“You normally ask better questions,” said Lev.
“You’re wrong. He isn’t involved?”
“What do you know about him?” Lev asked.
“I know that he has nothing to do with the Red Masks.”
She could tell by the way Lev looked at her that he didn’t believe her—or perhaps he didn’t want to believe her. He wanted to believe she knew Morgan’s deepest secrets, and that she wasn’t cooperating with him, that she was withholding information they had agreed on sharing.
Morgan wasn’t involved, she thought to herself. But some things just didn’t add up.
What Morgan had done in the Red Tower was beyond reasoning. Infiltrating Fakes was something that only sophisticated criminal hackers could do. What he had done was a criminal offense that sent people to jail—for a long time. And he had done so much more than that. This wasn’t the same Morgan she had met years ago on the streets of Jersey—the charming idealist who served pizza.
***
They’d met one sunny afternoon in the streets of New Jersey. It wasn’t the most joyous of settings. Aviva had been covering an ongoing situation outside a convention center where Mr. Trixon, one of the presidential candidates at the time, had given a speech. A crowd had gathered outside to protest his candidacy, claiming he should be disqualified for his multi-million-dollar fraud and for tampering with the FBI’s investigation. The supporters, excited to have just heard the words of their star candidate, didn’t plan on letting this slandering go unchallenged. Fights broke out, and the police intervened quickly to establish a barrier between the arguing crowds. By the time Aviva arrived onsite, the violence was contained, and each side was satisfied with shouting insults at each other.
“Excuse me,” Aviva had called out to Morgan, who was working his way through the crowd of Mr. Trixon supporters. “I would like to ask you a few questions.”
“I was just passing. I have nothing to do with any of this.”
“That’s perfect,” she’d said. “Their opinion is quite obvious.”
“I’d rather not get involved.” Morgan tried to walk off, but Aviva stayed near his side, pushing through the tumultuous crowd to keep up with him.
“Are you American?” she shouted to be heard above the crowds’ chants.
“Yeah.”
“Then you’re involved.” Morgan stopped. She held out her mic and asked, “What’s your opinion on Mr. Trixon’s candidacy?”
“This fighting is unfortunate and unhelpful,” he said.
“You don’t think it’s important to defend ideas.”
“That’s not what I said. What’s needed are intelligent debates to push the discussion forward. If we’re playing a popularity contest over candidates and their simplified ideas, we are doomed. I don’t think any type of bickering is helpful. We will just hate each other more at the end of the day. If we can learn to discuss like adults, we could stop this divisive rhetoric and spend time together, you know, have some good time between friends instead of fighting over political figures, like this guy.”
Aviva had stopped holding her mic near him and was no longer recording what he was saying.
“I interview the one guy in America who has it all figured out,” she said.
“Are you mocking me?”
“I can’t use what you said on the news.”
“Why not... Not divisive enough?”
“There’s that,” she said. “Most people won’t understand what you’re talking about. To top it all off, you make the candidates look bad.”
“They don’t need my help for that.”
“Let me guess you study politics?”
“Mathematics.”
“Is that your idea of a good time?”
“Sure is. But even better would be meeting you after work for drinks and pizza.” He smiled innocently, waiting for her answer.
“Yeah, sounds like a good time.” She offered her hand. “My name’s Aviva.”
“Morgan. See you at ten at Lou’s Pizzeria, in The Virt.”
Aviva had arrived early and sat at an empty booth in the pizzeria. She discovered that Morgan wasn’t only meeting her there, but he also worked there. Between customers, he’d come over to greet her and tell her he wouldn’t be too long.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.” He arrived with two pints and sat across from her.
“Why is a mathematician working in a pizzeria?”
“You know the pizza is the perfect geometrical shape.” She waited, wanting a better answer. He added, “Felt wrong to work in finance or insurance business or to develop business intelligence software to sell useless products to unsuspecting customers.”
“So, you’re an idealist. An idealist who sells pizza.”
“I serve pizza. Pizza sells itself,” he said. “You know, I wanted you here because I didn’t want this to be a deal breaker. Smart girls like you covering the big stories probably have high standards. A guy who serves pizza is probably not on the top of your list.”
“That can work both ways. As Mr. Idealist, shouldn’t you be against reporters like me digging a deeper trench between political parties.”
“I don’t think you’re like that,” Morgan said. “Earlier today you could have interviewed thousands of fanatics foaming at the mouth, more than willing to share their opinions. You chose not to. Shows integrity.”
“Boss wasn’t happy. I didn’t get anything useful to report.”
“Standards come at a price.” He paused. “On the bright side you did get pizza and beer out of it.”
“And to meet a lovely guy,” Aviva said, smiling. “This isn’t a deal breaker for me. Your opinion of Mr. Trixon might be.”
“I think he connects with a large segment of the population, so he should be respected. He has no skills that will be helpful to solve real problems, making him unsuitable to be president. That good enough for you?” He paused. “I think we need to discuss more pressing matters.”
“Like what?”
“Pizza toppings. What do you like?”
“Mushrooms, onion and bacon.”
“Two out of three, not bad,” he said. “The mushrooms are questionable, but not a deal breaker.”
She’d laughed.
He’d called the server to their table. Aviva remembered her clearly; her name was Erika. She was an impressive sight to see, supersized spherical breasts squeezed into her undersized shirt. Aviva had carefully watched Morgan’s eyes while she was at the table. His eyes didn’t leave Aviva the whole time, not even glancing at Erika once. Even Aviva couldn’t resist glancing at her booty as it strutted away.
***
“You love him, don’t you?” asked Lev.
“What does it matter to you?”
“If what you say is true, and you really don’t know how Morgan is involved—because he is, you can’t deny that—you must be curious to find out.” He downed what remained of his scotch. “Or are you scared? Scared of all the secrets he has kept from you.” He poured himself another glass of scotch from the bottle next to him. He raised a hand to call a server over. She arrived rapidly. He whispered something in her ear and then left. He continued, “You dislike me, Aviva. That’s understandable. Our values don’t align, but that doesn’t mean we can’t help each other out. You know why I’m successful?” The server returned to bring Aviva a thick bottom glass just like Lev’s. He held out his bottle of scotch, as if asking Aviva if she wanted some—she sure did. The server poured her a generous portion.
Lev said, “I’m extremely generous, probably one of the most generous guys you’ll ever deal with. The people I help come to me because I always give more than I receive. Success is built on trust, don’t you agree?”
“I can’t trust you.” She drank the scotch. He was full of shit, she thought.
Lev continued. “I’ve got my best people searching every detail of Morgan’s past.”
“And?”
“His secrets are well kept, I must admit. But it’s just a matter of time before we find the right thread to untangle this mystery.”
“Enough bullshit, Lev. You want something from me. What is it?”
There was a moment of silence.
“It’s not for me,” he said. “This is for Mr. President.”
The president, she thought in disgust. From her point of view, Lev and President Trixon formed an indistinguishable unit. Lev being the mastermind that dictated the president’s action—come to think of it, he probably had more control over the White House than Mr. Trixon himself.
“Do you have any idea why the Red Masks chose to attack Paris and New York?” asked Lev.
“Because they are the most iconic cities in the western world?”
“No,” he said. “The Red Masks have something much bigger in mind. It’s becoming increasingly clear that they have little interest in world power or wealth.”
“What else could they want?”
“To control The Virt?”
“Why?”
“We are trying to find out.”
“You’re telling me that the Paris Decision Center is now in the Red Masks’ control.”
“Information from Paris is limited,” Lev said. “Preliminary intelligence suggests that the Paris Decision Center is now in Red Masks’ control.”
The Virt wasn’t a privately owned space, but rather an extension of each respective country. Due to the importance of the economic activity in this space, the rules of The Virt were protected and regulated by international treaty. Antarctica was the main headquarters where the Quantum Processor was maintained. As a safety precaution, significant changes in the parameters of The Virt could only be adopted if implemented at all three of the independent Decision Centers. These centers were in New York for the Americas, in Paris for Europe, and in Antarctica for Asia. But even if the changes were done in all three locations, there remained a last barrier as an extra protection called the Jurors—Aviva knew little of the inner workings of this last safeguard, but she was aware of its existence.
Aviva, having pieced together what she knew, said, tentatively, “With the military evacuated, the New York Decision Center is compromised. Are there no remote ways to protect it?”
“Automated security mechanisms are in place, to lockdown and prevent tampering. But considering the sophisticated hacking abilities the Red Masks have demonstrated, it’s doubtful they will hold up.”
“What’s the plan, to arm citizens to defend it?” she said.
“The president has asked the Bold and Brave to protect the station.”
She drank some scotch. This was the information that Lev knew she would have trouble swallowing. The Bold and Brave were a heavily armed militia. They had a history of threatening senators and intimidating citizens who spoke out against their own political views. Under the praise of President Trixon, their legitimacy had increased, making them bolder and more dangerous in their actions.
“You know I can’t cross that line and support them.”
“The problem is,” Lev continued, “clashes with Dignified Unity have already been reported. If we don’t control this now, the two groups will likely start a full street war in New York’s streets.”
Lev wasn’t exaggerating. The tension between the two groups was at a breaking point, mostly because of the president’s divisive rhetoric, but also because both groups held irreconcilable views. Aviva disliked the armed intimidation Dignified Unity represented, yet she understood the importance of their existence. They were a necessary counter force, to keep the president and his supporters in check.
“What we need from you, Aviva, is to send a clear message that the Bold and Brave are protecting The Virt under the White House’s order. Challenging their position is not only illegal but will be considered treason.”
“And automatically incriminate Dignified Unity if something should happen.”
“Nothing must happen.”
“My words might not stop them from clashing. You know that.”
“The president’s goal here isn’t to make political gains. This is a National Security situation.”
“Bullshit.” This wouldn’t only incriminate the Dignified Unity if they clashed with them, but it would also cast them as a terrorist group associated with the Red Masks. This would turn citizens against them while glorifying the Bold and Brave for their patriotism.
“The White House should make this announcement, not me,” said Aviva.
“Whatever the president says will be turned against him, and only embolden Dignified Unity,” said Lev. “We need the message to be given by someone who Dignified Unity trusts. Someone like you, who has been critical of the president and who has defended them in the past. We need you to make them understand that this is not the time to settle their differences.”
Aviva didn’t want to do it. She couldn’t.
“Even if the Red Masks are trying to take control of the decision centers, changes won’t happen without the Jurors approval.”
“Once it has reached the Jurors,” Lev said, “we have lost all control. We can’t let that happen.”
“I’ve earned their trust,” said Aviva. “The president should have thought about that before being a constant asshole.”
“Aviva, put aside our differences,” Lev said with a steady and calm voice. “You are aware people are traveling into New York with the intention of entering the secure locations.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that,” she said, thinking back at Gambino’s daughters. They weren’t the only ones to find an opportunity to leave behind their misery.
Lev continued, “These are tens of thousands if not hundreds of thousands of people, hooking themselves to an enemy they don’t know. An enemy who wants to control the Virt for reasons we don’t yet grasp. Dignified Unity needs to back down immediately. They must let the Bold and Brave secure the New York Decision Center. There’s no other option.”
“I’ll think about it,” Aviva said.
“We need this done now,” Lev insisted.
“Give me an hour.”
Lev tapped his fingers, the red of his neck turning to crimson.
“You’re trapped in The Virt, Aviva. We don’t know what they plan—”
“I can say, no, now”—she stood from the chair, ready to leave—“give me an hour and I’ll give it my full consideration.”
“That may be too late,” he said.
“I’m willing to take that chance.”
