Empire Games Series, Book 1(41)
“Right.” Rita paused. “I don’t like lying to my parents,” she admitted. It went against every instinct of her upbringing: but then, so did opening up and telling Patrick what she was thinking. It had taken weeks of work on both their parts to get to the point where it was possible. Rita was independent-minded, suspicious, and somewhat antiauthoritarian. She’d have been a complete washout for a regular DHS job: but a human intelligence agent—or HUMINT asset, as the organization referred to them—required an entirely different profile. “It goes against the grain.”
“We don’t want you to lie to them. People are mostly very bad at lying, and good at telling when folks they know are lying to them. What we want is for you to tell them the truth—but only the safe bits. This way, you can calm them down and reassure them not to worry about you, and then you can stop worrying about them—which you have been doing, to the point where if you keep doing it it’ll impair your ability to do your job.” He raised an eyebrow. “Did you think we hadn’t noticed?”
“No.” Rita flushed.
“Kid, you’re wound up tighter than a drum. We’re training you for one of the most specialized and stressful missions; you’ll do your job better if you’re not looking over your shoulder the whole time worrying about your family. Anyway, we’ll start on your cover briefing tomorrow. Right now you’re due to start the Intro to Crypto workshop with Melissa from No Such Agency in about ten minutes: I’d get moving if I were you.”
NEAR PHOENIX, TIME LINE TWO, MAY 2020
“Mom?”
“Rita! Where have you been?”
“Long story, Mom. Listen, is Dad around? Grandpa? What about River, is he okay—”
“Yes, yes, everyone’s all right! Are you—”
“I’m about thirty miles up the road, Mom, driving a rental. I can be with you in an hour?”
“Oh my, oh my, yes. Come right over. Listen, are you in trouble?”
“Not exactly, but I’ve got a new job and things are complicated. Can it wait so I can tell everyone over dinner?”
“Oh! Yes, yes, you’re right. Come right on over.”
“Love you, Mom. Bye.”
“Love you too.”
Click.
Rita hunched over the steering wheel of the rental, breathing deeply for a minute, then slid her split-personality phone away. It didn’t seem real, exactly: there was a sheet of invisible glass between her and the world now, unreflecting, intangible, but a barrier nonetheless. And I’m not Rita. I’m Anna, until I get home. “Anna Mittal,” read the name on her Arizona driver’s license. With an address in Phoenix, age twenty-four, a physiotherapist. Not: Rita Douglas, age twenty-five, Boston resident and driver’s license, former nonunion actor turned DHS probationary employee with payroll records pointing to a back-office job vetting frequent fliers for the streamlined secure boarding program.
“It’s a game,” Patrick had explained during one of the briefing sessions. (Training doctrine called for the gamification of everything short of “wet ops”—assassination. Games were, after all, formalized play, and play was how young mammals acquired and then performed essential life skills.) “Your objective is to minimize your threat surface when exposed to a hostile environment; in this case, all you need to do to flip between Rita and Anna. There’ll be a different protocol if we ever send you overseas, but these are the basics, and practicing on your family is a great way to upskill yourself. Just remember not to show Anna’s ID card or SIM personality to your folks, or Rita’s to any Hostiles, and you’ll do fine.”
The car did most of the driving for thirty miles, finally beeping for human supervision when it reached the main street leading to the subdivision her family lived in. The suburbs were undergoing a mild renaissance, recovering from the gas price–induced real-estate wilt of the noughties. Franz had followed a job out here, Emily joining him along with her brother, River, another adoptee. They’d snapped up a McMansion in a not-too-decrepit area for cash and extended themselves on credit to adapt an adjacent house for Grandpa Kurt, on the not-unreasonable theory that when Grandpa didn’t need it anymore they’d be able to turn a profit on it for the kids. Back when gas had been four bucks a gallon, commuting from here would have been a real strain, but with gas at eighty cents, thanks to imports from other time lines, it was a different story. The neighborhood was rising: only the unnatural green of the Astroturfed front yards hinted at the real cost of living large.
Rita didn’t like Arizona. It was currently run by a Dominionist governor who rallied his followers with a dog whistle, with a creepy Save the Babies/Defense of Marriage proposition on the ballot to amend the state constitution at the next election. But it was where her family had moved: if she wanted to see them, she could either visit Jesusland or use her phone camera.
Rita pulled in behind a familiar SUV and parked. She swapped her ID cards again, reset her phone, and hauled out her carry-on. She walked up to the front door, smiling and waving at the camera: “Hi, Mom! It’s me!”
The door clicked open. “Rita!” Emily hugged her. “We’ve been so worried! Where have you been? Come in, let’s shut the door.” It was almost a hundred Fahrenheit outside, seventy-five indoors.
“Long story.” Rita dropped her bag in the hallway. “Ancient history came looking for me, but I’m okay.”