A Bird In Hand

2122 Dec 25, 7:44 PM

Sam Feld had wanted it for years, ever since she joined the agency. Now that she had it, she began to doubt herself. Was she ready? Agents usually had weeks or months to get used to it, she’d had less than six days. Was this something she could do? It was time to find out.

“Spotter 1 to birdie, you good?”

She closed her eyes, her left hand felt strange. Her left pointer finger throbbed for a moment then settled down. Just a light touch, she thought.

“Spotter 1 to birdie… Samantha!”

“I’m good,” she said. She picked up the box from the seat next to her. She wore stained jeans, urban hikers, and a band tee under an old flannel. "Why this instead of a groupie?"

"Because as a groupie you'd never get in." For a voice over a link, Sam was certain she could hear him smiling.

"Why would you say that?" she asked.

"Let's just say that as a groupie for the target, you lack the proper equipment."

"Ah, he's gay." She clipped a name tag on her flannel. "Guitar tech it is. Anyone I might have heard of?"

"You know better, Sam. They’re targets. They have no names," the voice in her ear said.

“Spotter 2 to Sam, eyes on target in location. Time to fly.”

"Birdie en route," Sam replied, knowing that everyone involved in the case… including the director, was listening in.

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2122 Dec 19, 1:12 PM

“Agent Feld, report to Director Clemens,” the voice over the PA said, “Agent Feld, report to Director Clemens.”

Not what she wanted to hear during an early Christmas party, but she left the revelry for the director’s office fourteen floors up. She felt the cooling as the elevator rose closer to the ground level. Sub-level sixteen, where the rectifiers hung out, was always stuffy, as the floor below housed the geothermal plant for the building.

Above the director’s office, which took up an entire floor, was the basement of a pawn shop that specialized in used bionics. While they no doubt were thoroughly sanitized after refurbishing, the thought of putting used parts in her body disgusted Sam.

The elevator opened at the director’s floor and Sam found herself face-to-face with the director herself. She was an exceptionally tall woman with whip-like muscles, ebon-skinned with large, dark eyes and a short afro. Anyone who didn’t know would think that she had no bionics at all. In fact, she had only top-of-the-line enhancements.

“Sam, you’re getting your Christmas present early,” Clemens said, stepping into the elevator. She pushed the button for the next floor down. “You’ve been promoted. You’re our newest birdie.”

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2122 Dec 25, 7:48 PM

Sam knew everything about the box she carried. It contained a vintage guitar pedal, completely restored with period-correct parts. She knew the operating voltages, how the dials on top changed the passed electronic signals, and what effect it had on the sound it generated. That was deemed to be enough for this job.

Learning it had not been easy, but it was quick. One of the benefits of being a birdie was that information could be passed directly into her long-term memory via a link. It was also a downside, as long-term memory in that part of her brain could also be erased. If she’d had time to practice, to get accustomed slowly, it would have been easy. Instead, it was as if her head was being smashed in a vice while bright lights danced in her eyes.

She showed the box to the guard at the service entrance of the studio. He scanned it with a reader and nodded, opening the door to let her in. “Straight down the hall to the end, then left. He’s in the room with the purple door.”

“Thanks,” she said, and strode in with far more confidence than she felt.

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2120 Aug 4, 2:53 AM

“Spotter 1 to birdie, all set?”

“Roger.”

“Spotter 1 to birdie, eyes on target.”

“Birdie away.”

Sam watched through the scope of her sniper rifle, the video feed of the drone overhead super-imposed on the view. As she angled the barrel up or down the point of impact, shown by a red dot, moved in response.

“Birdie heading back to the nest. Target marked.”

“Waiting for drone acquisition,” Sam said. She watched the drone feed until a glowing orange, vaguely person-shaped figure showed up. “Target acquired.” She adjusted her aim as the red dot moved up the figure’s legs, past its torso, to its head.

She let out her breath and squeezed the trigger. The orange figure collapsed. “Target down.” She watched the feed from the drone to ensure there were no life signs. “Target rectified, 2:57 AM.”

Sam broke down her sniper rifle and put the pieces into her backpack. The drone returned and landed next to her. That was disassembled and placed in the pack with the rifle. She picked up the spent casing and deposited it in the pack as well.

Once she closed up the backpack, she sealed it with a strip of confidential courier tape. She turned her black jacket inside-out to reveal the highly reflective security side with a “24-hour Courier” logo. Backpack slung over her shoulder, she got onto her scooter and headed toward the downtown corridor.

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2122 Dec 19, 1:31 PM

The floor had two operating theatres connected to exam rooms, a standard-looking office, and a large lab. The rest of the space was open, glistening white floors and walls, with a seating area to one side with comfortable couches and chairs. Clemens walked Sam to the office and spoke to the man behind the desk. “Agent Feld is here for a B-I-R-D.” She spelled it out.

“Agent, I’m Doctor Angvitz,” he said, “and we’ll get you set up with a bird right away.”

“If you need to call anyone in,” Clemens said, “do it, on my authority. We’re on a time crunch.”

“No problem, Director,” he said. “The operating theatre is ready, and we have a full kit on-hand.” Turning to Sam he asked, “What model radio do you have?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Whatever was implanted when I started back in ’19.”

“That’ll have to go. No matter.” He pointed to the hallway. “Head into exam room two and strip. Someone will be in to get you prepped. We’ll have you out of here in time for dinner.”

Clemens said, “Angvitz, call me when it’s done,” and left before the doctor could answer.

Sam entered the exam room and stripped, folding her clothes carefully and placing them in a neat pile on the chair. A young woman in scrubs came in. “Stand still, arms out to the sides.” She scanned Sam’s body with a laser, all the measurements being fed to the computers that controlled the robotic arms in the OR. With a soft-tipped pen she traced the location of the radio embedded behind Sam’s ear.

“Do I get a gown or anything?” Sam asked.

“Sorry, it would just get in the way. The Bionic Implant Rectifier package, series D requires full-body access. Your radio behind the ear, of course, and the leads into the memory module in the hippocampus. Then you have the micro-wire device in the bionic fingertip. An anti-poison enhancement on the liver, sorry — you won’t get drunk ever again. Add to that, adrenaline production enhancement, a built-in defibrillator, and nerve jacks to speed response in arms, legs, hands, feet, hips, and torso.”

Sam shrugged. Walking around naked didn’t seem that big of deal, considering what was about to happen. “Well then, I’ll just focus on the idea that I’m naked rather than about to be cut to ribbons.”

“You realize that being a birdie is lot more demanding than being a rectifier, right?” the young woman asked.

“How so?”

“Maybe not physically more demanding, once you get used to the implants,” she said, “but mentally. You normally see what, a blob in a scope?”

“Yes.”

“This will require you to get close, close enough to touch,” she said, “close enough to look them in the eye. Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“I am,” Sam answered, even though she wasn’t sure.

“Assent recorded and verified, 1:54 PM.” She told Sam to lay on the table and gave her an injection. 

When Sam woke four hours later, she was reclining on one of the couches. She didn’t feel any different. A notice on her phone told her to report to the director bright and early on the 25^th.

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2122 Dec 25, 8:04 AM

Sam was in the director’s office once again. This time she stood in front of the director’s desk.

“Agent Feld, you have an assignment this evening.”

“Rectification?”

“You’re the birdie.”

“But I haven’t had time to adjust,” she said. “What about Coulter? Murray? Watkins?”

“On leave, assignment in Vera Cruz, in the hospital.”

“Anyone?”

Clemens leaned forward. “It sucks, but everyone’s on assignment, or unreachable. That’s why the rush. You’ll do fine, you learn fast,” she said. “This is an easy one. What’s the saying, ‘A bird in hand beats two in the bush?’ You’re in hand, they’re all in the bushes.”

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2122 Dec 25 7:50 PM

Sam knocked on the purple door. “Eddie’s guitars, I have your pedal.”

“Yeah! Yeah! Come in!”

Sam entered the room, the haze of cannabis hanging thick. There was the target. She hadn’t been told who the target was, but the knowledge had been implanted in such a way that she would know when she saw him. Everyone knew who he was. His music made him famous, his anti-vaccine stance made him infamous. In the midst of one of the most virulent and deadly pandemics, he urged people not to be vaccinated against the MRC-4, or “merc virus” as it was called.

At his last show he had claimed the virus was a hoax, meant to scare the people into compliance. While most of the population was vaccinated or in the queue to get vaccinated, less than ten percent of Jaxxon fans said they were or were going to be vaccinated.

Sam realized she’d been staring and pulled herself together. “Wow, Jaxxon! When I went to work today, I didn’t expect it would end like this!”

“Come on in,” he said, “let me see that pedal.”

She handed him the box but couldn’t get skin contact as he was wearing his trademark leather gloves. He opened it and whistled. “Looks almost new,” he said.

“We cleaned it up the best we could, before putting it back together.” Sam knew exactly what steps had been taken to refurbish the pedal, as if she’d done it herself. “The gain has a little hitch between one and two, but it’s a flaw that was in the original. If you want that fixed, I can patch it in about twenty minutes.”

“No, no,” he said. “I want it just the way it was.” He pointed to a similar pedal in the rack on the floor, the paint worn off and the pedal surface rubbed down to bare metal. “That one died on me last night, and your store was the only one who had a replacement. Hard to believe this thing is over a hundred years old.”

He replaced worn pedal with the one she’d delivered and plugged his guitar in. Sam watched, waiting for a moment she could get close enough to make contact. He saw her staring and asked, “Would you like to try her out?” He offered his guitar to her.

“Well, I’m not really,” she almost said the wrong thing but stopped herself, “uh… very good.”

“That’s all right, kid. Give it your best.”

The voice in her ear said, “Relax Sam, here comes the guitar lessons.”

Blinding pain shot behind her eyes and she groaned, nearly doubling over. The pain was brief, but when she stood back up everyone in the room had their eyes on her.

“You okay?” Jaxxon asked.

“Yeah, I just get these… short migraines,” she said. “I’m fine now.” She took the offered guitar and strummed a few chords, before ripping into a blazing solo. After thirty bars or so she petered out. “That’s, uh, all I got,” she said.

Jaxxon had a smirk. “Kid, that’s more than I got some nights. You gonna’ stay for the show? I’ll tell ‘em to let you sit near the center camera.”

The voice in her ear said, “No. Make your move, birdie.”

“I really wish I could, Jaxxon, but I have to get back to work.”

“In that case, have your phone? Want a selfie?”

“That would be awesome!” Sam managed to sound far more excited than she really was.

She pulled out her phone and put her arm around his shoulder. Her left forefinger rested against his neck. They smiled and she took the picture while microscopic needles extended from her false finger and embedded in his neck.

“Thanks, Jaxxon!”

“Hey Leslie,” he said, looking at her name tag, “it’s Jack to my friends.”

“Later Jack!”

He scratched his neck. “Feels like you have a wire splinter.”

“Hazard of the job,” she said. She didn’t let her smile fade until she was well away from the studio and back in her car. She settled into the car and exhaled. “Birdie back to the nest, target marked.”

“The nest is waiting.”

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2122 Dec 25, 11:12 PM

Sam sat at home, catching up on the news. The local news had a breaking story that she clicked through to watch.

“Jacques Dumas, better known by his stage name Jaxxon, died during a live-stream concert from our studios this evening. The often-vocal opponent of vaccination died of the MRC-4 virus, doctors have confirmed. It’s not clear where he picked it up,” the announcer said, as Sam smirked, “but anyone who has had close contact with him in the past ten days is urged to get tested immediately, even if you’ve been vaccinated.”

Sam pulled out her phone and deleted the selfie of her with Jaxxon. The voice in her ear said, “Relax, Sam, time to clean up.” Pain shot through her head like lightning, flashes in front of her eyes. When it ended, she got up from the floor where she had fallen.

She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “Hey, I know someone’s listening. I think there might be a problem with the bird. I just had a massive headache, and I don’t know what happened since this morning.”

The voice in her ear returned. “Everything is working fine. Take tomorrow off and then report to the training room on floor sub eleven. We’ll have you handling your bird in no time.”