A few of the mermaids’ faces really might have appeared on milk cartons, of course. But no one said that. “Andrew Korchak?” The skinny man assumed a dismissive tone. “I don’t think anyone knows. He has quite a rap sheet, though. It’s only because this video was released by the same woman who posted the original mermaid tape that anyone has even noticed it. Personally, I don’t see how anyone could take him seriously.”
“Half a million views already? I would think that’s serious enough. If the public starts believing mermaids are real, that’s—at a minimum—highly inconvenient. If they start to think of mermaids as children rather than monsters, that’s worse. If we’re forced at some point to disclose what the teams are doing, we need to be able to frame our activity as what it is: eliminating an unacceptable threat to anyone who has business on the water. If people start thinking that we’re murdering helpless little girls instead of protecting good citizens and their nice babies and their dogs, well . . .”
“Sir, of course that would be an issue, but—”
“So if you’re planning, at some point, to try justifying the considerable trust I’ve placed in you by putting you three in charge of providing whatever land-based support the teams who are risking their lives out there need, you might consider that one of their primary needs is an oblivious public, or barring that, a supportive one!”
“Yes, sir.” The skinny man’s eyes were still carefully blank as he nodded.
“Sir, would you prefer if Andrew Korchak was . . . no longer a possible source of concern?”
Moreland sighed and paced to a window, which rebutted his gaze with its bland beige shade. It was better than seeing the sky beyond, though, and the clouds. Ever since he’d heard that outburst of mermaid song the whole world had seemed to inspect him with a stare at once skeptical and luminous. “That would attract attention. Unavoidably. Of course, if it was the right kind of attention, then that might serve our purposes very well.”
“You mean . . .”
“I’ll handle it,” Moreland announced. Now that his back was turned to them, the three men were free to shoot one another worried looks. Speculation regarding the secretary of defense’s mental health was rampant in the department. “I know exactly what to do. Major Sullivan, I have a few little tasks I need you to take care of first.”
No one dared to contradict him.
Moreland felt the throb of mermaid song pressing at the inside of his skull as he paced down the long subterranean corridor. Since no one was watching he allowed himself to give in to it a little, to leap and writhe in midair as he walked. He stopped controlling his face and let it squirm and grimace, and he opened his mouth and let a few misshapen notes pour out. Nauseous excitement was building in his stomach, and his hands were damp and compressed into fists.
What he was about to do was almost unbearably thrilling—terribly satisfying but in a way that galled him and made him jump. He wouldn’t be able to witness the act directly, of course. Maybe that was what irked him so much. The fluorescent lights overhead glazed the marble floor in bands of sickly pallor. He was almost there. Anais would be in front of him in a minute, with her strange shimmer and her stifled voice and her beauty that only became more marvelous as she herself became more miserable.
He couldn’t allow himself to hear her sing again, but what he had in mind was, he thought, the next best thing.
There was the steel door; he typed in the key code that so few people were privileged to know. The keys felt hot and staticky under his rapid taps. Then the door buzzed open and cool blue light came wavering across his eyes. Golden hair unraveled through the water, azure fins stirred. “Tadpole,” Moreland murmured under his breath. “Tadpole, we’re going to have such a delicious little adventure together.”
Then something that he hadn’t noticed moved. How could he have failed to see that man in the lab coat perched on a folding chair and leaning close to the tank’s speaker? The pallid young face wore an expression of rapturous intimacy, but the joyful look was quickly transforming into annoyance at the interruption. For the life of him, Moreland couldn’t remember that young man’s name, but he recalled that he was Anais’s keeper, in charge of keeping her fed and comfortable and indulging her less extortionate whims.
The young man stood up, slapping as he rose the switches that stopped sound from transmitting in or out of the tank. His receding chin and prominent forehead, combined with a large sharp nose, made his face seemed peculiarly unbalanced. His beige hair was thinning and his eyes were narrow and sad. “Good afternoon, Secretary Moreland.”
He didn’t sound at all respectful, though. And he was pouting with unconcealed jealousy. Moreland could barely control his amusement.
“That will be all for now, Mr. . . .”
“Hackett, sir. Charles Hackett.”
“Oh, yes, Anais calls you Charlie. I’d like a private word with our little princess, if you don’t mind.”
Charles Hackett grimaced with open contempt. It was another sign of Anais’s power, Moreland thought, that this flunky was so blatantly rude toward someone so vastly his superior. He couldn’t actually disobey Moreland’s orders, though. He jerked toward the exit, hunching angrily. Behind him Anais swirled, her fins twitching, and knocked silently on the glass.
“Or actually, Mr. Hackett . . .”
Hackett turned back, his eyes narrowing sharply as they reached the secretary of defense.
“I have a present for our little mermaid, Mr. Hackett. Please give it to her after I leave.” Moreland pulled from his breast pocket a slim box wrapped in pink paper with a golden ribbon and handed it over while Hackett scowled. Moreland smiled in anticipation; it was a pleasure to speak all the lies he’d rehearsed that morning. “Also, we’re going to have to play that mermaid recording for her again. We have a few more questions about the singers. Tonight when you go, I’d like you to turn off the electroshock system so that she can listen to the recording as many times as she needs to. Understood?”
“Sir . . .” Hackett visibly worked up his courage. “It’s not healthy for Anais to be reminded of all that. Her friends, her . . . her difficult past. She needs sensitive, caring treatment; she needs to be allowed to heal.”
“She needs to earn her keep, Hackett. And she needs to pay us back for letting her live.” Moreland aimed a smirk at Anais, who looked wonderfully alarmed at the sight of him. Aqua light roiled across her arms and throat. “She’ll heal when it suits my convenience.”
Hackett opened his mouth and closed it again and made a kind of undecided movement with his shoulders. Moreland kept glowering at him, and after a few more flutters of silent protest he shuffled out.
Moreland’s hand shuddered a little with eagerness as it reached to turn the speakers back on. Anais retreated a short distance from the glass, her long tail snaking and her eyes bright and plaintive. “Why, tadpole,” Moreland crooned. “I brought you a present. Something I think you’ll enjoy very much. You could at least make small talk with me for a while.”
Anais rippled a little closer. “Hi,” she muttered faintly.
“Hi, sir,” Moreland corrected, then broke into a smile so wide it made his face ache. “I’ve been thinking about you, tadpole. I’ve been wondering if there are ways we can make your time with us more pleasant. You must get so bored all alone in here all day.”