Page 6 of Consumed
Molina clicked his tongue. “What? You gonna tell me you like being a desk jockey?”
“I’m not a desk jockey, and neither are you. And there’s nothing wrong with people who are,” Brown said. “Using the software is part of our job. It’s the rules. So quit whining and let the Phan—uh, Con do his thing so we can all get on with our day.”
Con should have been grateful for the backup, but he wasn’t happy that he needed it. Molina should show him some respect, and if he didn’t, Con should be able to stand up for himself.
Well, whatever. The day wasn’t getting any younger, and at least Molina was now contenting himself by staring at the ceiling as if waiting to expire from boredom.
With a nod in Brown’s direction, Con opened the software and began his demonstration on how to convert rough field notes into something more standardized. Most of the audience took notes; Brown stuck his tongue out as he wrote his. A couple of the agents doodled, but at least they might have been listening. Molina, however, closed his eyes and pretended to take a nap. Con could tell from his breathing patterns and tiny facial expressions that he was faking.
Everybody, including Con, was relieved when the training session drew to a close. The other agents picked up their things and fled as soon as they could, although a few thanked Con on the way out. Brown gave him a friendly wave. Molina took his time unfolding himself from the desk and straightening his suit, then shot Con a smirk and sauntered out of the room.
“Jerk,” Con muttered under his breath as he logged out. He would have liked to use stronger language, but it always felt awkward on his tongue, even after a decade working with people who swore like sailors. Another unwelcome legacy from his parents.
“How was the training, son?”
Con startled so badly that he nearly fell off the chair, and he had to swallow a yelp of pain as he jostled his legs. Chief Townsend had snuck into the room—despite his girth, the man could creep up as quiet as a cat—and now stood among the empty desks, smiling.
“It was okay, sir. Nobody’s very enthusiastic.”
“Can’t say I entirely blame them. I find those infernal modern machines frustrating at best.” Townsend gestured at the computer. “But we must bow to progress.”
“The software improves the process. I mean, it’s not perfect, but….”
“But it’s better than what we had before. Yes. Weren’t you studying computer programming?”
“A little, yes.” Con had been reading books mostly, spurred by a desire to make the software fit the Bureau’s needs more closely. He wasn’t an expert by any means, but he enjoyed playing with lines of code. Coding was orderly and methodical, and it was almost like magic to see the results of altering just a few lines.
“Hmm. We’ll have to discuss that in more detail soon. We’ve hired computer consultants now and then, you see, but I’d prefer to have one of my own men do the work. You understand our needs better than any outsiders could.”
While Con tried not to puff up at the praise—or get too excited about the prospect of acquiring more computer skills—Townsend took out a cigarette and gold lighter and lit up. Smoking was forbidden inside the building, except for the chief. He took a few drags, staring at Con the entire time. It was disconcerting. He clearly had something on his mind, but Con had long ago learned that you couldn’t hurry the chief, who did everything according to his own schedule.
“Interesting times,” Townsend said out of the blue.
“Sir?”
“We live in interesting times. I suppose people have always thought something similar, but the rate of change these past decades is… well, humans simply can’t evolve fast enough to keep up. They zip around in space ships, they type at computers, they have information jammed down their throat so quickly that they can’t stop to chew. But their brains are still sitting in caves and carving figures out of mammoth bones.”
Con couldn’t help noticing the pronouns the chief was using:theyinstead ofwe. Nobody at the Bureau seemed to know exactly what Townsend was, but there was a general conviction that he wasn’t entirely human.
As Con pondered this, the chief seemed to realize that he didn’t have an ashtray. He chuckled, dropped the cigarette butt onto the floor, and ground it out with his heel. “I’ll have to remember to pay the cleaning crew extra this week.”
Silence fell. Con shuffled papers awkwardly before clearing his throat. “Well, I have several things waiting for me in the Antarctic.”
“I suppose you do. You usually arrive by 7:30, yes?”
Con nodded uneasily. Unlike the field agents, he had an eight-to-five Monday-through-Friday gig. If there was something really pressing, he might get called in on a weekend, but that didn’t happen often. However, he was typically at HQ well before eight and stayed well past five. Partly to avoid traffic and partly—if he was honest with himself—because he didn’t have anywhere else to be.
“When you get here tomorrow morning, son, come straight up to my office. There’s something I want to discuss with you.”
Now Con’s insides felt like the Antarctic. “Did I do something wrong, Chief?” He frantically scanned his memory for screw-ups but couldn’t find any. Not since the big one ten years ago.
Townsend calmed him with a smile and a shake of his head. “No, it’s nothing like that. You’ve been exemplary. You’ve earned commendations, even.”
Con felt a little sheepish about those. It was nice to have his work recognized, but he just looked at evidence and ran a few training sessions. He wasn’t out there risking his life and protecting the innocent.
“Then can you maybe give me a hint, sir?”
“No. I need to move a few things into place first. I’ll see you in the morning.” Townsend spun on his heel and disappeared out the door.
