Working for two secret organizations over half a decade had kept a steady flow of untraceable cash running through White’s hands and flowing into numerous bank accounts under as many names. The fact that the NSA didn’t know about the Familiars had allowed him to work both sides of the fence. For their part, the well-funded Familiars had been in existence longer than anyone could imagine, and they had wanted White to maintain his position within the NSA. The loss of that position through the treachery of his subordinate Otto Gottlieb would definitely have angered his Familiar superiors, a good reason for White to take this extended Canadian getaway.
Eventually, he would have to approach the Familiars and make peace with them, though doing so would surely mean risking his life. His priority for these many months had been survival — to retrench and use his best weapon... his mind... to begin working out a solution, to think his way out of this seeming impasse. He had personal desires, involving his boy, but he still shared the beliefs and goals of the Familiars, and his goal was to convince them that he should be allowed a second chance.
And yet still he remained in Meander River — telling himself that he was merely allowing the Familiars to cool off, to achieve a distance from his failures that might allow him to present his case before dispassionate judges. Truth be told, though, he had come to like living up here, where just getting by was a little harder — it gave him a feeling of tranquillity, and also pride that he was not only surviving, but adapting quite well to his new surroundings. He was free of the stress of his former double life. Someday, when he and his son Ray were reunited, this might be the sort of place where they could live together.
Even White’s dreaded migraine headaches — something he struggled against constantly while working for the government (of course, those assholes could give Jesus Christ migraines) — hadn’t bothered him nearly as much as he’d settled into life in Meander River. Pain was something White and those of his breed had largely overcome — their pain thresholds had been bred to near extinction, the remnants remaining only to serve as the warning system nature intended. But certain physiologically driven discomfort — genetically passed along — broke down the well-bred defenses of White and his kind... the migraines a prime example.
Bundling up in a parka, ski mask, and boots, White prepared for the short walk to Malcolm’s, a combination restaurant and bar that was the only place in town to get either a hot meal or a real drink. Cooking not being among his many skills — and not an interest he wanted to cultivate — White spent a lot of time at Malcolm’s, where the hired help, as well as the owner himself, had long since recognized him as a regular.
They were a stoic, sour bunch, however, still treating him like a stranger, an outsider. Perhaps it was racial, but in any event, White had the unmistakable feeling that none of the Malcolm’s crew liked him. It wasn’t an uncommon response on his part; people often appeared to instinctively feel an antipathy toward him, probably because of his well-earned air of superiority.
White didn’t give a good goddamn whether these savages liked him or not, another common response on his part. If he could not be with his own kind — his son, for example — Ames White was quite content with his own company. If anything, he appreciated the staff at Malcolm’s for not inflicting small talk upon him — such interaction was a part of life among the mongrel humans that he had endured far too long.
Trudging down the street, White once again considered all the things that had gone wrong in the past twelve months or so, and the people who had been responsible. At the top of this ignoble list was the transgenic bitch called Max — he had missed numerous opportunities to either capture or kill the X5-specifically, X5-452 — who had turned his life into a living hell. His faithless NSA partner Otto Gottlieb had not only turned on him, but ratted him out to the only enemy as dangerous as 452 herself: Eyes Only, the underground cyberterrorist.
The rebel investigative journalist — whose identity remained unknown — was always prying into matters of importance; most of this interference had been peripheral... annoying but never anything that could truly block White in his own sub-rosa efforts. That had all changed, however, when Eyes Only broadcast one of his trademark video hacks, the subject of which was Ames White.
For all intents and purposes, the renegade broadcast had ruined both of White’s careers, tainting him not only with the NSA but the Familiars. And Eyes Only’s little unscheduled “program” had even been highlighted by segments showcasing inside information courtesy of that wimp NSA underling Sage Thompson and White’s own former partner, Otto.
And though this was the major setback that had sent him scurrying for his life in the anonymity of Meander River, even that could not compare to the loss of his son, Ray. Kidnapped by 452 and an unidentified man from the Familiar’s own school, Brookridge Academy, the boy was now MIA, leaving no clues to his whereabouts. In the end, he not only had lost Ray, but his wife Wendy as well.
Of course, White had killed Wendy himself... a necessity, considering her treachery toward him; but that didn’t negate the nagging needle of loss. His wife had been a fine companion, with many good qualities — she just hadn’t known when to let things go. In the long run, though, he supposed he and Ray were better off without her — she was merely the vessel for Ray’s creation and, as such, lacked the breeding he and his son shared.
The most important thing now was to find Ray. Someday, White knew, he would get his son back. But this was a search he dared not undertake until he’d made his peace with the Familiars.
And in a matter of days — and he did wish he could be with his brothers when it happened — an event would transpire that would put his people on the top of the world. He might seem more valuable to the Conclave, soon — when his expertise and knowledge of X5-452 would come in very handy...
Even on the best of days, as its name implied, Meander River wasn’t exactly a bustling metropolis; but as White strode down the deserted street, it dawned on him that things were even more quiet than usual... and usual was pretty damned quiet. As snow blew through, on a moan of wind, like cold sand thrown in his face, White felt as though he were walking through a snow-covered, subzero ghost town. His pistol nestled in the usual belt holster at the small of his back, the cold steel against his spine somehow reassuring; and a second gun was snugged in his parka pocket, where he could get at it immediately. So there was no need for apprehension.
You’ve been in the boonies too long, he told himself.
The snow crunching beneath his boots, the frigid air carrying the not unpleasant aroma of Malcolm’s beef stew, now barely a block away, White recalled the pre-Pulse homily: “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.”
But White’s newly revised version was, “Just because they’re out to get you doesn’t mean you have to be paranoid.” He smiled at the thought — even on the run he could maintain control — and started to cross the alley that ran beside Malcolm’s.
And, as he did, from the alley emanated a deep voice — unthreatening, not at all loud, and yet booming: “Fe’nos tol.”
White froze.
The familiar greeting of the Familiars.
After all these months... they had found him. Just because you’re not paranoid, he thought, doesn’t mean they won’t get you. It didn’t matter how they’d managed it, only that they were here, that they had somehow gotten into town without his being aware. He forced out a long, slow breath, a plume of cold steam rising from his mouth as he turned to face the voice.