"I try. How did you get here? What is this?"
"No time," she replies. "They're coming. They're coming and they'll kill you. Me. All of us. Please go, I don't want anybody hurt."
Wallace Logan immediately believes every word. There just doesn't feel like time to be skeptical and give her some kind of interrogation.
It feels again like Iraq. He has his training, his common sense, his wits about him. But he is facing an extraordinary situation and now, as he did then, he makes the call to just go with his gut. It saved him before, getting him out of more than a few dangerous situations.
Instincts got him this far, right?
He makes up his mind.
Wallace bends over and wraps her covering around her body. In one deft move, he lifts her up, arms under her neck and knees.
She wakes up again, still clearly woozy. She looks surprised.
"No," she says, her voice still weak and groggy. "No."
"I'm getting you out of here," he replies. "I don't leave people behind."
Chapter 12
The opening for Klarn's ship peels back and he steps out onto the surface of the planet. The air disgusts him. Unlike back home it is unprocessed, pure, natural. It hasn't gone through any sort of pre-processing procedure and the flora and fauna is just growing wild, without any sort of plan or structure.
Chaos.
The quicker he can execute his target and get off this world, the better.
There, across the way, he can see the ship he has been pursuing for what is now hundreds of billions of miles. Even if she has engaged Preservation, the recovery time is significant. Out here, alone, her chances of survival are low.
Emotions should not run unchecked but Klarn allows himself a brief smile. He will enjoy killing her, especially after she went through the frustration of the procedure.
The Tevrem way is to transform, slip into the population, and use the cover of genetic manipulation to execute. It would be the most logical strategy she should embrace. Klarn has no doubt this is what his quarry has done.
He grudgingly gives her credit for showing some level of tactical planning.
But she will be alone. The local populace is too stupid, too primitive to be of any help. A quick glance at their level of technology was all Klarn needed. They would most likely recoil in fear at her ship. Run away in terror, or even worse – stupidly try to destroy it. As if anything on Earth could match Tevrem!
He grips his weapon tightly. This will be better. He was upset he hadn't been able to blast her during their dogfight in space, but now, up close and personal…
Klarn steps through the opening in her ship's door. He will find her in a weakened state. Then, up close and personal, he will fire. The electrical ray will shoot from the end of his weapon, arcing across the distance as it hits her skin. Instantaneously hundreds of thousands of volts will course through her body.
She will be dead in an instant.
He steps forward, ready to seal her fate.
And he finds nothing.
What?
Klarn sweeps left and right across the cockpit. Where? Where?
With her DNA completely changed, he cannot easily find her. He has no idea what she looks like, or even which species of Earth animal she has chosen to emulate.
How could she be gone? It's impossible that she could have gotten help. It is completely nonsensical and illogical. What type of creature living on this backward planet would even dare to approach someone in her circumstances, let alone help them?
Then Klarn sees it. He recognizes it immediately. Again, he has to admire her ingenuity. All her behavior, on Tevrem and in combat, and now on this planet, was unlike anyone back home. No wonder she was such a danger, such a threat.
The sensor triggers, recognizing his genetic signature. Once a Tevremian stepped foot on the craft it was set. It would have been no danger to her: She wasn't one of them anymore.
But he is.
The explosion is mercifully quick. What fuel remains in the ship is more than enough to generate a large fireball. Klarn has no time to consider the illogic of it all, leading to the ingenuity of the trap taking his life. He would have appreciated it.
###
Wallace hears the explosion off in the distance. He is securing Nyala in the back seat of his Jeep, trying not to think too much about what is going on because it's too crazy to understand.
He makes a half turn and her hand is on his arm.
"Don't," she says. "Them."
"But I need to—"
"Safe for us. On Earth. Them. Dead."
She passes out again. It's deep this time, all the talking and moving has sapped her energy.
It is just a few words, but he thinks he understands. He has seen booby traps, setups, and the like.
"Them."
The meaning finally hits home. He wants to know more about her, badly. He wants to know where she came from and how she got there and why she reached out to him, out of everyone.
In that instant he also realizes he will get those answers. It's too late for the interview appointment, so he's got free time on his schedule.
He looks at her one more time before closing the door. She's the kind of woman you'll find time for.
Now
Chapter 13
The lobby of the Washington Herald-Examiner is always a loud, busy mess and this morning is no different. Across the cavernous, marble-covered floor there are dozens of self-important people in suits making their way back and forth in the heart of the Washington, D.C. media institution.
They all believe that what they are doing and who they intend to do it with and what they plan to talk about is the most important thing in the entire world. And they act like it.
The resulting cacophony of self-importance bounces against the walls, and combined with the click-clack of high heels and over-polished designer men's shoes, it makes for quite a spectacle.
It also makes the morning walk from the entrance to the elevators a pain in the ass.
At the edge of this hubbub stands a tall, athletic black woman, Carla Logan. She holds her morning coffee like one of the batons she held as a sprinter back in college. But she isn't going anywhere.
Carla stands in her spot, right past the security checkpoint, a seething mass of people between her and her intended destination.
She bites her bottom lip in a sign of anxiety. She keeps whipping her head to the left and then back to the right, scanning the crowd for an opening she can use to slip in and be on her way.
There isn't one.
Next to her is Taylor Nguyen. She is the same age as Carla. The young Vietnamese woman is a bit chunkier than her friend, and shorter. While Carla's expression is passive and almost pleading as she looks for a spot to make her way through, Taylor is positively furious.
"Are you kidding me? You're kidding me, right?" Taylor asks, her tone definitely not "kidding" at all.
Carla sighs. Here it comes. She's heard this before. Probably every day. It is a thing.
"Hold on," Carla replies.
"We've been holding on. We've done nothing but hold on. My latte's going to be flat and freezing cold if we hold on any more."
"Just—"
Carla motions with her hand to Taylor to relax herself. She recognizes the tone in her voice and knows that an outburst isn't far behind. Taylor doesn't hold things close to her vest.
Right now, she is like a volcano, primed to erupt.
"Just what?" Taylor replies. "It would be nice if you would just go."
Instead, Carla stands still and cranes her neck out, a bit more urgently now as she desperately tries to avoid a public meltdown from her companion. She's known Taylor for years and her meltdowns are practically legendary for their intensity and volume.
She steals a glance at Taylor and the expression is everything she feared. The young woman is scowling, her eyes narrowed in an unfriendly glare. The red streak dyed into her long, jet-black hair even seems to reflect her mood,
like lava right before it starts flowing to the village below and wiping out all life.
It's a little funny to Carla but she suppresses a laugh or even smiling because that would definitely set off Taylor.
"We're late," Taylor says. "I thought you hated being late? I thought that was the worst thing in the world?"
It is Carla loves to be on time. Her dad is maniacal about it. All those years in the military had wound him that way and he had passed it on to his daughter. Punctuality had been drilled into her at a young age and now…
Now the crowd would not part.
Then Taylor shoves her. Surprised by the sudden action, Carla adjusts her hand to avoid spilling her drink. Taylor keeps pushing.
Carla bumps into one man who gives her a dirty look.
"Sorry," she sheepishly says as he charges off, no doubt to do something wildly important.
"What are you doing?" She asks Taylor, who has now turned her shoulder into the spot between Carla's shoulder blades and is pushing her ahead.
"Making you move. Because if we left it up to you, we would never get across this room."
They move a few more feet together and Carla grudgingly realizes they've made more progress in the last few seconds than in the entire time she stood on the sidelines looking for her shot.
Still, they're going too quickly. They'll bump into more people, and then she'll have to explain herself and then and then – thinking about the possible, eventual consequences of a singular action is too much to bear.
Carla does what she usually does in these situations. She stops and locks up. Taylor is still moving, and the collision happens.
"Oof! Are you kidding me?" Taylor exclaims.
At that moment there is a loud "ding" on the other side of the room. Both women recognize this as their intended elevator, and they can see the black doors sliding open and offloading the people inside from their vantage point.
But they are too far away to get in.
"Oh my God," Taylor says, now pushing again against Carla's back.
"Calm down," Carla replies, still unmoving, nodding her head as she lets one person after another slide right on by.
To Carla, these people know what they're doing, where they're going, and who is she – of all people – to get in their way? Best to let them on by, because she isn't important enough to disrupt them.
The elevator dings again, signaling that it is about to close. They've missed it. Taylor groans.
She's had enough.
Carla feels her move from behind her and now Taylor is beside her.
In one swift motion Taylor grabs Carla's arm and holds on tight. Then she feels herself being jerked forward.
It pulls Carla off-balance and she awkwardly lurches forward.
"Wait."
"No, no more waiting," Taylor replies, still tugging on Carla's arm. She is making a bee-line for the elevator and is walking like nothing is in her way. She is the engine in a two-woman train, and she is hauling Carla along whether she wants to go or not.
"Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me," Carla says as they charge through the lobby without caution. Carla feels their eyes on her.
It's just what she doesn't want. To be the focus. To be in the middle of it all.
"If I left it to you, we'd be standing there until the cows come home," Taylor says.
Carla feels her cheeks redden and flush with warmth. It's true. She knows it. Taylor has this way of cutting through to the unvarnished truth and she never feels the need to be overly nice about it. It's the opposite of Carla, who would rather say nothing than something she thought could wound.
They reach the other end of the room and the elevator dings again.
The doors slide open and Taylor pulls her in, not even bothering to wait for the people on board to exit. Carla looks down at the ground, trying to avoid all the disapproving looks.
Taylor presses the button for the basement level, visibly not giving a damn about what anyone else thinks, especially not Carla.
Chapter 14
I keep staring at the floor as the elevator slides down, deep into the subterranean levels of the Herald-Examiner building. I can't see them, but I can feel the eyes of everyone disapproving of us as they exit. I know it. I just know it.
Oh, Taylor.
She is a trip.
I wish I could not give a damn like she does. But unfortunately, I do. Too much. I don't like to stand out. Doing that just always seems to be asking for trouble.
I'm most comfortable, safe, when I'm somewhere deep in the background. Sometimes I wish I could just sink into the darkness at the back of the room and lean back into it. Fade away.
It's the opposite of Taylor. She fills the room. Every room. She's happiest when all eyes are on her. It's like it gives her some sort of superpower.
Right now, as the elevator takes us down to our floor, she's reveling in the moment still, that smile on her face beaming with happiness about making such a spectacle of our entrance.
She loves that I'm embarrassed by it too. She gets a real kick out of always doing that. She is obsessed with me being out front of her crazy schemes.
Taylor once ran me for class president. Printed up posters, t-shirts, and fliers with my face – so many fliers. And I found out like everyone else, in the quad, from some kids handing out photos of my own face.
When I asked her why she did all that, without asking me, you just coolly said, "You would have said no, so I did it anyway."
She was right. I didn't tell her at the time. But she was right. I hate admitting that to her because then you never hear the end of it.
I didn't win. But I got a lot of votes.
By the time we get down to the basement level we're the only two people left on the elevator. That's typical. Our team is kind of isolated down here, disconnected from the beautiful people above ground who put out the newspaper.
We're the mole people down in the tunnels below, hiding from the sunlight and toiling in the shadows.
We do research.
Chapter 15
Taylor says our floor is depressing and that it murders her soul every time we walk in from the elevator. As the door opens, I can see her shoulders sink, just a little, like she's suffered a miniature personal defeat by showing up for her job.
I'm not as down on it as she is.
Aesthetically, the design of the floor isn't so pleasing, to put it charitably. It is a considerable departure from the grand architecture of the entrance lobby and the floors above where the editors and reporters and others are, but it has its charms. Sort of.
The floor is dominated by rows and rows of shelves, nearly every single one of them weighed down by boxes packed with the Herald-Examiner's history.
Old articles, memorabilia and mementos picked up along the way, evidence that the paper has been around forever and a day.
The intimidating shelves and their contents (Taylor usually calls it "the trash") surround us in our cubicles, situated in the middle of everything. There's row after row of desks, separated from each other by paper-thin borders covered in material that looks like a dull-grey carpet.
Nearly everybody deals with the monotony of our surroundings by covering their spaces in stuff. Photos, drawings, print-outs, anything to make the walls go away.
Everyone, that is, except me.
I sit down at my desk and it is all-grey around me. There's practically nothing on the walls. I just didn't bother. Next to me, Taylor is a cavalcade of hot pink and bright blue and glowing purples and colors I can't even name. She says it "brings the place together."
I have two pictures that hang from the bottom of my monitor on a piece of tape.
One is my Mom, Dad, and me. We look great, if I do say so myself. I've got my mom's sharp features, my dad's nose, and a nice mix of brown from their skin tones. Mom and I are killing it on the hair game while Dad – the gray at his temples makes him look distinguished. Yeah, that's a way to say it while sounding nice, right?
Then
the second picture. I'm wearing my cap and gown. Graduation day from college. The culmination of hard work and far too much money (I cringe when the bill arrives each month). Dad is smiling wide and you can see the small lines around his eyes I like to tease him about from time to time. I'm looking directly at the camera, but unlike the other photo, my smile is in check. I'm no longer grinning like an idiot like I did before. I'm just trying to get through one more moment, one more instance where we mark a milestone and trudge along to the next one.
There isn't anybody else in the photo with us. By then Mom was gone. Dead.
Chapter 16
It was three years ago when that photo was taken.
I remember me and Dad standing there, posing for the camera, putting on some extremely phony smiles. Lifetime memories they say, gotta look good.
I wasn't in the mood. I hadn't been in the mood a long time and I didn't feel like I would be in a good mood ever again. I was in a deep, dark place and nobody else seemed to be down there with me.
Not even Dad.
Instead, he had his arm around me, and he was flashing that big toothy grin he always has on when he's really happy. Dad stinks at keeping his emotions in check, at least around me. In that way – and really only that way – he's kind of like Taylor.
An older, blacker, less combative version of Taylor. And he's been in a war.
"Come on, Cupcake," Dad said, squeezing my shoulder to prompt me to smile. I tried. Even the corners of my mouth felt strained from the effort.
The flashes went off and the photographer pulled down his camera.
"Great, Miss Logan, those photos will be up on your student account by the end of the day."
"Great," I replied, my smile immediately gone. I walked off and Dad followed, after giving the photographer one of his patented handshakes that nearly pulled the poor kid's arm out of the socket.
He's so corny.
"Miss Logan?" Dad asked. "Did he just call you Miss Logan?"
"Yeah, dad. That's my name. You should know – you gave it to me."
"Nah, 'Miss Logan' is some kind of grown person. An adult. With a mortgage and stuff. A car note. Responsibilities." He chuckled at his own joke.
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