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glance. He refused to admit that he fit the profile.
He grew more impatient, more irritated the longer he waited. Then, finally, he saw the woman. The pix he
had called up from a personnel file hadn't really done her justice.
There was no denying Brigid Baptiste's striking appearance, and it went well with her brisk, almost manly
stride.
Her blue bodysuit conformed to every curve of her tall, willowy body. Even with her hair pinned up in a
constraining bun and the quaint eyeglasses perched on the bridge of her nose, Morales could understand
why Kane had made a midnight visit to her apartment. Evidently Salvo did not.
Morales waited until she passed through the gate, on her way to the elevator, before he climbed out from
the tree line. He walked casually along the promenade toward the apartment blocks. He had memorized
the woman's number and found her place easily. Of course, the door was unlocked.
Brigid Baptiste's apartment was as simple and utilitarian as his own, except his was substantially smaller.
He lived three levels below, so the size difference was understandable. But it was still irritating.
The curtains were drawn across the three back windows, so only a dim light filled the place. He groped
his way to the bedroom, found the bedside lamp and switched it on. There was nothing out of the ordinary
to see, much less the "anything" Salvo had commanded him to find. The room smelled of aromatic soap,
with a faint whiff of roses.
Morales made a quick circuit of the apartment, opening and closing drawers, peeking into food canisters,
even inspecting the contents of the small refrigerator in the kitchenette. The place was very clean, almost
compulsively tidy. That certainly wasn't out of the ordinary, since archivists possessed rigidly regimented
personalities.
Careful not to leave anything out of place, he returned to the bedroom. On the bedside table was a framed
photo, which at first he assumed was a pix of Baptiste herself. Then he realized the woman in the
photograph was a bit older, but the resemblance was startling. She was beaming at the camera, with a
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wide, pearly smile. Morales wondered if Baptiste looked that heart-achingly beautiful whenor ifshe
smiled.
He opened the closet door and gave the clothes hanging there a cursory, disinterested inspection. As he
was sliding the door shut, a faint gleam caught his eye. He parted a pair of hanging bodysuits, realizing
the closet was deeper than standard, and saw the little desktop work area the woman had made for herself.
The comp console was an obsolete DDC manual model. He looked at it, turned away, then looked at it
again and thought it over.
It was fairly commonif unspokenknowledge that some archivists were allowed a wide latitude in the
performance of their duties. Owning a cast-off comp wasn't a capital crime. It was against the rules, but
anyone who ranked high in any of the divisions bent them to some degree or another.
Morales himself had acted on scraps of Intel that came his way from time to time. It was a quick and
subtle way to requisition more personal goods before they became generally available or to apply for an
upgrade in housing.
Reporting the comp to Salvo might result in a reprimand for Brigid Baptiste, or at worst a lowering of her
seniority. Of course, that action might leave her apartment vacant. He brightened at the possibility, though
he knew Salvo would hardly be satisfied with a comp-possession charge. He'd need more to obtain a
reward.
Sitting down in the chair in front of the machine, Morales turned it on, waited until it had warmed up and
the monitor flashed the request for the password. He tried several, hoping the DDC wasn't equipped with
an automatic lockout after a certain number of failed attempts.
After the third try, he paused, reviewing the little he knew of the woman, of the sparse clues to character
he might have seen in his search of her apartment. A notion registered and he pecked out "Mom."
He couldn't help but chuckle when the screen flashed and displayed the files. There was only one
available on the desktop, so he tapped the keys to open it. Text appeared on the monitor, and he began to
read. He only scanned a couple of paragraphs before his breath caught in his throat.
Possible Origin of Magistrate DivisionSource DoD Document, Dated 4/30/94
The concept of a one-world government was known in predark vernacular as the "New World Order."
The globalist view was opposed by many American citizens as a conspiracy to remove legal and civil
rights granted to them by the Constitution (re. file 01405).
The conspiracy theories were given a degree of plausibility by the so-called Black Helicopter
Phenomenon, circa 1970 through 1997. Black and silent, these helicopters were unmarked and therefore
unidentifiable. At first reported in remote areas, the aircraft seemed to be engaged in clandestine missions
Morales muttered, "Well, bitch, you just bought yourself a one-way ticket to Shit City."
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The contents of the file fit perfectly within the parameters of "anything." There was only one explanation.
Brigid Baptiste was a Preservationist.
Chapter Fifteen
She stepped out of the elevator, through the archway and into the Historical Division. She passed other
archivists going off shift, and most of their facial expressions mirrored her ownsomber and serenely
detached, with perhaps a touch of cold intellectual resolve. The primary difference between her and the
other historians was the awareness that her center of interest had changed completely in the past sixteen
hours. Brigid Baptiste was increasingly thinking of a place called Dulce and a man named Kane.
The man had presented her with a mystery to solve, but she wasn't sure if that prospect stimulated her as
much as Kane himself. Even though she had never exchanged words with a Magistrate before last night,
she doubted Kane was typical of the breed. She had seen plenty of Mags stalking the promenade in search
of laws to enforce, and they had always reminded her of tigers on loose leashes.
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