Seas Beyond the Sunset

“You know, I’ve been wondering. The CIA, they’re spooks, right? What about the others - like the FBI? What do people call them?”

“They’re shades.” Her smirk dares me to take her seriously.

“Oh, right. The sunglasses. Cute. What’s that from, the dungeon master’s guide to the intel trade?”

“Sure. Take the NRO - satellite recon? They’re obviously beholders.”

I laugh out loud. The distant walls of the warehouse deny me the muted pleasure of an echo.

“I guess that makes the NSA devourers - gobbling up all the bits, swallowing the secrets of the world.” What begins as satire bleeds into sarcasm, as my words cut too close to the growing barrier between us.

“Spare me the poetry. I need a hacker, not a hack.” She pulls away, distracting me with a flash of her pale breasts before she hugs the sheet around her. It’s colder in here than any place should be, in a North Carolina summer. Colder than a crypt. I shiver, and contemplate the mournful whine of the CPU fans, stacked and racked around us.

“What would you call us, then?” I resort to inclusive language, hating myself for the concession. But a choice between wounded pride and a pretty woman is no choice at all. She sits up and regards me with a hungry stare. My skin crawls for an instant, and not from the cold.

“We’re shadows and memories and statistical outliers.” She cowls the sheet around her face. Her mouth hints at a smile, but her eyes call the bluff. Bitterness hardens her voice as she finishes the thought.

“We’re ghosts.”