#operative zero

“Hello, Ricarda. What makes you think I'm angry?” Helen asked, entering the living room and turning on the lights, “And why do you have the lights off? You're supposed to be studying.”

“I'm looking up online sources,” Ricarda said, not even bothering to hide the fact that she was playing Minecraft. She had built up an impressive pyramid of gold blocks and was planting trees on it.

Ricarda was laying on her stomach on the carpet, long legs kicking slowly back and forth while she paused her construction work to kill some chickens.

“If you don't get your GED this time I'm kicking you out.”

“No you won't. You love me like a daughter.”

The Numbers Operation had a program devoted to helping underprivileged young adults pursue education and employment. Helen had noticed that most programs were for children and teenagers, abandoning them once they hit eighteen. Many operatives mentored the young adults in the program, a few even taking them on as apprentices with the possibility of them becoming a full-fledged operative when they turned twenty-one.

As the founder and head of the Numbers Operation, Helen had never intended to get involved in the young adult program. She did her best to know her own limits and she knew she had little time or energy to spare for mentoring. That had changed after Helen had found Ricarda Grishija trying—and nearly succeeding—to hotwire Operative Zero's hoverbike. Ricarda had been put into the program but violated parole twice by hacking into secure computer systems. The board of the youth program had said that unless Ricarda was taken in hand she would be removed from the program and left in the hands of the court, which would inevitably lead to jail time.

One thing led to another and in the end Helen found herself in charge of a stubborn, trouble-making foster daughter with wild bunches of black curls, dark, sullen brown eyes, and prodigious talent and skill with computer systems. Ricarda had dropped out of high school when she was fifteen, but she didn't seem to have been handicapped by that at all.

“No juice on the coffee table,” Helen reminded Ricarda.

“It's on a coaster, Operative Mom.”

“Empty fast food wrappers aren't coasters.”

“It took you two tries to get the key in the lock.”

Ricarda scratched the short twists of hair over her ear. Her wild hair had been cropped short and bleached blonde. The month before it had been shoulder length and streaked with blue. Helen, who had always kept her own hair trimmed in a short, no-nonsense style, could not understand the appeal of putting so much work and energy into maintaining anything more ornate.

“Hm?” Helen asked, turning on the light in the kitchen and pulling the pot out of the coffee machine. The coffee was fresh, the machine timed to prepare Helen's drink at this time every night.

“That's how I knew you were angry. I heard you fighting with the lock.”

“I'm not angry.”

“You've got The Line.”

“The line?”

“Right between your eyebrows. The Line. It means somebody ticked you off and they're gonna be hurting.”

“Just the usual political squabbles,” Helen shrugged, taking her coffee with her into the bedroom.

“Take a coaster with you!” Ricarda called after her.

The bedroom door might have shut with a slightly more distinct click than usual.

“I'm going out,” Helen said a few minutes later, rinsing her mug and putting it in the dishwasher.

“Can I come?”

“You have to study. And also wait two more years.”

“But, Helen . . .”

“Even think of putting on my spare helmet and you're out of the program and on your way to jail.”

“It didn't go that badly last time.”

“Ricky,” Helen slung a duffel bag over her shoulder, “You got shot.”

“But once! And not anywhere important!” Ricarda hung over the arm of the couch, watching Helen put on her boots, “We got the guy, didn't we? And we wouldn't have if I hadn't--”

“Put yourself in harm's way and almost ruined a six month surveillance operation?”

“How was I supposed to know that? I did my legwork, I got all the info from the police system. It's not my fault they left stuff out!”

“They don't put undercover cops' information into the system exactly because of hackers like you.”

“Ugh!” Ricarda slithered off the couch and into a somersault, rolling upright and springing to her feet, “Two years? Seriously? I'll have my GED in like five minutes. What am I supposed to do for two more years?”

“Clean your room,” Helen said without a trace of a smile.

“You think you're hilarious, don't you?”

“I have my moments.”

“I can't believe I have to wait two more years before becoming Operative One.”

“That number is taken.”

“Not for long,” Ricarda pulled a baseball bat out from under the couch and spun in around with agile fingers.

Helen watched this with disinterest, “You would die.”

Ricarda slumped, “What does it take to get a reaction out of you? Aren't you even going to ask where I got the bat?”

“The high school girl who lives on the ground floor.”

Ricarda let the bat fall to the carpet, “Do you know everything?”

“I really don't know. Good night, Ricky.”

“'Night, Helen.”

Helen walked down to the garage to get her bike. Before she started it she took her phone out and dialed Ricarda, “Put the helmet down and get back to work.”

“I wasn't!”

“I put motion sensors in the helmet. I get alerts every time someone picks it up, along with a picture of who's doing it.”

“Seriously?! Was the picture at least from a good angle? If it is, I want it. I have been having no luck with selfies lately. Also, we need to talk about your trust issues. Motion sensors, really?”

“No, not really. There are no motion sensors.”

“ . . . you tricked me. You really do know everything.”

“You're just predictable.”

“. . . I'm going back to work.”

“Good night, Ricky.”

There were several storage units around the city that Helen owned through several dummy corporations. She liked to keep things private, even from her friends in the police force, the FBI, and CIA. She stashed her uniform and most of her equipment in the storage units. She usually only kept her helmet and a few odds and ends at home. The Operative style helmet was popular and no one looked at her twice when they saw her ride by on her motorcycle.

Gearing up, she ran the systems in her helmet to make sure they were functioning and connecting to the right frequencies. The hands-off system had the capabilities to make calls, send out a distress signal or alert to all police in the area, text, and scan for nearby electronic devices, all with a whispered word or two. There was also a useful app that alerted her to trending tweets about criminal activity.

The familiar routine of gearing up was soothing. Everything was neat and in its place, checked and double-checked, and all possible necessary spares tucked into the pouches on her belt, the heavy tread of her boots gripping the pavement, making her feel secure and grounded. She could sprint in spike-heels, if called upon to do so, but they felt treacherous, just waiting for the opportunity to catch in a crack or grate and snap.

She had been worried and harassed all day. An exhibit of historical artifacts were being shown in the city's museum. Rare artifacts. Expensive artifacts. Just the sort of things that would be considered an easy score. Her contacts had reported that a lot of criminals specializing in fencing such items had been casually making their way into town for the past few months, striking deals with the local talent. A lot of pressure was being put on the Numbers Operation to make sure nothing untoward happened. Helen had spent the past few weeks assuring everyone that the Operation would do their best, but they were neither responsible nor liable for anything that went wrong.

Still, Helen thought it would be better if nothing happened and the point did not have to be argued further. She could spare enough time for some night patrols until the grand opening. And it got her out of the office.

Taking in a slow breath, Helen took a moment to pull back from the lists of worries and chores that piled up in her head, to stop cataloging and feel if she had missed anything. Everything felt right. The weight of her belt was balanced, black and white uniform on straight. The small square of the storage unit was a perfectly organized little space, not a thing out of place.

Good.

“Thank you,” she said, smile still only halfway complete, “I prefer not to dance.”

“Oh, really?” the man said with a sigh, “I suppose that you have zero interest in dancing?”

Helen's incomplete smile dropped away. For a moment she let the intricate facade of charming socialite drop and diverted all her energy to assessing the man—the possible threat—standing in front of her.

He was tall. That made Helen immediately dislike him since she had to lean her head back to look up at his face and ruin her poised posture. The man stood at ease, hands clasped behind his back, hand tipped to one side while he waited for her to answer. A curl at the corner of his lips and a spark in his eyes indicated his emphasis on the word zero had not been a coincidence.

That much confirmed, Helen made a brief note of other details. He was tall, slim, relaxed, had a head of thick but completely white hair even though he couldn't have been more than forty, his dark face sketched only with faint laugh lines. Clothing was stylish and tailored, otherwise unexceptional. He stood at ease. Light. There was the air of a dancer or athlete about him.

“Yes,” Helen murmured, bringing her drink to her lips to hide the abrupt changes in her expressions, “you might say that. Mr. . . .?”

“Kyle,” the man said with an easy grin, “Kyle Lucian. Bored millionaire and collector of antiquities and odd things.”

“Oh, yes,” Helen said, offering her hand “you're opening an exhibit of some of your treasures.”

“Of African and African American history,” Lucian said, looking like he was laughing at some private joke, “and you are Miss Helen Pickerton, the beauty of high society.”

Helen felt that losing a little of her smile after that remark was only natural. Even when she had been a fresh girl of twenty she had never been a great beauty. At thirty-eight she might have been called, at a stretch, handsome. People said she had 'good bone structure'. Perhaps her skull was exceptional. No one would ever compliment the scars she had from breaking her left upper arm in three places, or the metal plate in her ankle. Only a skillful and scrupulous application of makeup kept the scars on her face hidden.

Now this Kyle Lucian was throwing false praise at her, as if a woman needed to be constantly validated by some random's man appraisal of her physical appearance.

“Hardly, Mr. Lucian--”

“Call me Kyle,” Lucian said, still holding Helen's hand. He had shaken it and then retained it, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles in an overly familiar way. And he still looked like he was laughing at her.

“Call me Miss Pickerton,” Helen replied, removing her hand, “CEO of Keyhole Enterprises and nothing near a beauty.”

“You're too modest, Helen--”

“If you insist on complimenting me, Mr. Lucian, please try to infuse them with some truth.”

“Well, then I shall praise your skillful rebuilding of your company after it crashed under your brother's care. It has become an operation head and shoulders above all others. Innovative, cutting-edge, caring. Your patents for improved motorcycle helmets have probably saved hundreds of lives.”

Operation.

Helmet.

Laughing, still laughing. Who was he to be playing and hinting with such significance? He knew, he must know and he was toying with her. Playing with her. If she was dressed for work, helmet and all, she would have been able to knock him down and drag him away for questioning. He was a leak, and her agreement with the authorities let her investigate leaks in her operation. She could also call one of her team to take him in, but then it would all be associated with her, Helen Pickerton, and perhaps confirm things he only had suspicions of.

“That's better,” Helen said, “those are things I'm actually proud of.”

“Aren't you proud of your makeup job, too?” Lucian leaned forward to look at her face.

Helen restrained herself from flinching. He couldn't see the scars. There was no way he could see the scars . . .

Her breath stopped when he tapped her chin with a well-manicured finger.

Right on the scar she had gotten when the chin guard of her helmet had cracked and the criminal she had been pursuing punched the jagged edge right into her face. Her comm had been smashed and after she had subdued and cuffed the criminal she had been too dizzy to mount her bike. It had been lucky that--

“C'mon,” Lucian grabbed her by the hand and pulled her toward the dance floor, “let's dance!”

“Wait!”

“No time like now!”

Helen caught up the train of her dress, wishing she had worn something other than this confining turquoise mess of glittering beads.

“I love your dress,” Lucian said, sweeping her into a ballroom dancing hold and into a waltz, showing that he was as light on his feet as he looked, “Chinese pattern, right? It suits you. I mean, I think you look best in black and white, but I'm biased.”

Helen was trying very hard not to make a scene by flipping Lucian over her shoulder and stabbing the heel of her shoe into his neck. She followed his lead in the dance, moving every bit as smoothly as him and wishing he didn't hold her . . . Well, it wasn't exactly inappropriate. It was a very respectable dancing hold and he wasn't trying to feel her up or pull her into a tight hold. He just held her so comfortably. And it almost felt comfortable to her.

“Stop playing coy,” Helen said sweetly, her expression open and friendly to anyone who was looking. No one could see her driving one dark-blue fingernail into Lucian's hand.

“You're going to draw blood,” Lucian said without losing the tempo of the music, “I really love the way your dress swirls, by the way. Must be all that practice with your cape.”

“I am going to break your finger unless you tell me who you are right now.”

“I promised I would take you dancing,” Lucian said, smiling brightly even when Helen's fingernail about to puncture his palm, “Finally, our first real date. It's not a real date if we spend all of it jumping over rooftops and punching crime in the jaw.”

Helen's hand flew up to her chin, touching her scar.

She had been about to lose consciousness, slumped over her bike with her chin split open and her head spinning, but Monkey had been there. He had come bouncing back, dragging the first man's accomplice with him, spouting wisecracks and witticisms with all his usual careful joviality. Then he had gone quiet. She didn't remember him talking after that. She didn't remember much but being dizzy and sick, just that Monkey had picked her up and she had felt safe.

A ridiculous, frivolous cat-burglar in an African style monkey mask, who hung around incessantly, wiggling into her operations, making himself useful, flirting shamelessly and not at all abashed at being rebuffed.

“Monkey,” she said, still caught in the turning of the melody.

“Operative Zero,” Monkey said with a nod of his head, as if being formally introduced. He spun Helen out and then pulled her back in, “I'm so glad I came. I never come to boring rich people parties. But then I saw a gorgeous lady with a distinctive posture and a familiar set of lips. It's really a shame your helmet only shows your mouth, because I am enthralled by your eyes.”

Helen had a lot of things to say. None of them were suitable for asking out in the open. Instead she asked, “Don't tell me I was that easy to spot.”

“Stop smiling, lovely, it's unnatural. Where’s the deadpan vigilante of the night that I know so well?”

“I'm not a vigilante. If I was then I wouldn't have been able to persuade the authorities that it wasn't worth wasting the manpower on forming a taskforce to track you down.”

“I always thought that was very sweet of you.”

“You did return the stolen items, after all.”

“My love for you put my feet back on the path of righteousness.”

“Answer my question.”

“I wasn't sure if it was you, so I threw out a few lures. You are a divine dancer. We're going dancing twice a week from now on. You just . . . move like you.”

“Like this?”

They were dancing past an open door. Helen took over leading and swung Lucian neatly through the door and out of sight of the chattering, glittering crowds. He reeled a little bit until he found the wall.

“Whew, like that!” He agreed, sliding down to sit on the floor, leaning his head to the side again to watch Helen's face, “Yes, that's much better. I've always imagined you had a little line between your eyes when you looked at me like that. And you do!”

“What are you going to do with this information?”

“What, knowing your first name? Well, it'll be nice to have something to put on the card when I send you flowers. And to know where to pick you up when I want to take you out on the town. I promise not to drop by without calling ahead. I might be flippant but I'm not rude.”

Helen would have dropped her head into her hands if she hadn't been worrying about her makeup. Instead she gathered up handfuls of her beaded skirt and crushed them under her clenched fingers.

No one was supposed to know who Operative Zero was. An information leak like this could be disastrous to her operation, to her family. People would know where to send their hate, their bombs, know who to target to bring down the organization. There were be panic. The operatives would worry that their own identities were in jeopardy. The political opposition would seize this leak and blow it out of proportion, everything would--

“Hey, now,” Monkey gently tugged the skirt out of her hands. She was almost used to that sort of thing, he did it so often. Straightening her cape, poking her shoulder to get her attention, clasping her hand in another dramatic profession of love, “You think I'm going to go tell the whole world?”

“Maybe.”

“Not a chance, sweet. We're exclusive.”

“Let me guess, I have to go out with you or you'll post my secret identity on twitter.”

“Whoa!” Monkey bounced to his feet, curving himself sideways to get on eye level with Helen, “I'm madly in love with you, not insanely obsessed! Okay, well, I am crazy about you, yes, but not in that way.”

“You did just force me to dance.”

“I just tricked you into going with the flow. What's a little hoodwinking between friends? Or lovers, for that matter?”

“You're not being very convincing.”

Nonetheless, Helen's hands were relaxing and the tension in her shoulders easing. She couldn't help it. She trusted Monkey. They'd been through too much for her not to. There he was, being himself, twisting himself around and beaming at her with a smile she had never seen before. She'd heard the sound of it in his voice, but she had never seen it.

She thought she might like it.

“Something I love about you—aside from everything—is that there might not be much expression on your face, but if I watch I can see it all anyway,” Monkey swung around on his heel, taking in the small room they were in, “Sometimes I can see you smile even when you're face is solemn. Something about how your shoulders loosen.”

“You're ridiculous. You're saying that knowing who I am doesn't change anything?”

“Of course. Now I can see your eyes. That's life-changing. They are peerless pieces of polished jade.”

“Haven't you considered that I now know who you are? I could give your name to the police and have you arrested.”

“Angel, you would never.”

Helen crossed her arms.

“. . . would probably never?”

“Can't you ever be serious?”

“Only about you.”

Helen tried to ignore the strange little jump her heart made.

“Did you steal that from a movie?”

“Probably. But can't you hear the clear ring of truth in it anyway?” Monkey refrained from grabbing her hand again, holding his out, “Oh, you fantastically beautiful, ruthless hero of the night, I've loved you ever since you kicked me through two display cases. It might have been a different story if that had been genuine African pottery instead of replicas, but let's not dwell.”

“You pushed me out a third story window.”

“And caught you! What are superhuman reflexes for if not to save your true love?”

“Yes, about that--”

“Oh, there's plenty of time to tell you my backstory later. I look forward to hearing yours, to be sure. Right now, though, we both have the night off and there is music to step to. How about a breakfast date to hash out everything and tonight we pretend we are two ordinary millionaires who have never jumped off a building and onto a moving vehicle in our lives?”

Helen was sure she should have been fighting off a headache by now.

But she wasn't.

“My ankle hurts.”

“Oh?” Monkey's eyes darted down to the hem of Helen's skirt, “I didn't step on your foot, did I? Because that would be unforgivable.”

“No, I just have a metal plate in it and these heels throw everything out of alignment.”

“Goodness, that's no good. No more dancing tonight?”

“Well . . . maybe just one,” Helen held out her hand.

Monkey took it, a delighted grin glowing on his face, “I knew I'd wear you down. But, no, no way am I allowing you to dance. You're going home and putting a hot towel on your ankle. And, if you'll allow me, I'm going to sweep you off your feet.”

“What--?”

“I'm going to pick you up and carry you lovingly like the precious treasure you are. I would just surprise you, but I don't want to be flipped over your shoulder. Again.”

Helen considered this while Monkey attentively watched her impassive face.

It had been awhile since Helen Pickerton had done anything disgraceful. She never did anything ruinous, but just something for people to talk about and make them think they knew what was behind the mask of the powerful businesswoman. Being carried out after having a little too much to drink . . . that about fit the bill.

“I am going to get another drink and then stumble over a potted plant,” Helen brushed her dress off.

“I get to heroically rescue you?”

“Only because it would cause too much attention if I rescued you.”

“Darling, you're marvelous.”

“Then we're going to my apartment and talking about all this.”

“Can I swing by my place to pick up the small volume of poetry I have written about you? I have a whole series about how the light glints off your helmet.”

“We're talking about the repercussions of you finding out my identify. That is all. Potted plant. Five minutes. Be there.”

“How big of a an interior floral decoration do you need to trip over before I get to kiss you?”

“Business, Monkey. Business.”

“You said monkey business.”

“I'm calling the police department.”

“Okay, okay. Only business, no monkey business. See you in five,” Monkey ducked his head and kissed her cheek, dancing out of the way before she could strike at him.

“Monkey!”

Monkey batted his eyes at her.