But during the day? I stay home. I don’t care to think about the pandemonium a driverless car would cause.
I keep thinking that there has to be a way for me to drive around during the day without attracting attention. I just need to figure it out, right? Like I had to figure out the mites’ power needs and like I have to figure out “the money thing.” I haven’t panicked yet, but my unemployment runs out soon.
And then? As I said, it’s just one more thing I need to figure out.
No pressure or anything.
IF I THOUGHT THE NEIGHBORHOOD was rid of Mateo, I was wrong. Yes, the cops came and hauled him away—and three days later, behind the wheel of a car that was way less cool than his Camaro, he was back.
So were some new faces.
Near sundown the same day, two cars roared into the cul-de-sac, their paint jobs understated but pricy, the throttling engines hinting at the horsepower under the hoods. I counted five men when they exited their parked cars; their movements were deliberate, calculated.
These were not Mateo’s rowdy drinking buddies. This was not Mateo’s crew.
Yes; their heads were shaved and the ink of their tats slithered out from the left side of their rounded t-shirt collars, but these men’s faces were older and more experienced. Harder. Colder. They filed into Mateo’s house.
Not once since calling the police on Mateo had I thought about the plastic-wrapped block sitting on his table. I did now.
Uh-oh.
Mateo would have to answer for the loss of whatever it was the police had confiscated.
My next thought was, Where is Emilio?
The sun had dropped all the way behind Albuquerque’s West Mesa and night had cloaked our neighborhood in darkness when I snuck outside and down the sidewalk. I was alongside the shrubs bordering Abe’s lot before I made out Emilio’s huddled figure, burrowed into the bushes.
I was relieved.
As long as he’s tucked in there, he should be okay, I reasoned.
I turned and walked across Mateo’s yard, up to his front windows. I cupped my hands and peered inside.
The mites didn’t like it. I snubbed them, as usual.
Mateo was seated in a dining chair facing toward me. Four of the shaved-headed men stood behind him. The fifth—their leader?—was talking in a low, measured cadence.
I glanced at Mateo. I’d never seen him like this, face ashen, eyes bulging.
He was scared for his life.
Then the suspected leader turned toward me. I flinched before I remembered he couldn’t see me. And, of course, the guy wasn’t looking at me, just in my general direction.
None of that mattered. I was instantly on my guard. What I saw when he turned confirmed my suspicion that I was indeed looking at the gang’s new leader. His body language was confident, his face relaxed.
I didn’t recognize the man; in fact, I’d never seen him before—but, oh! I knew that look, that expression. I knew those cold, dead eyes. They belonged to someone who enjoyed power and control, who felt no compassion or compunction when inflicting pain, who viewed emotion as a weakness to be exploited.
I wasn’t seeing Genie, of course, but I may as well have been: Narcissism wears the same face everywhere.
And why was I privileged to have not one, not two, but three sociopaths in my life?
I strode back home stewing about “Dead Eyes,” Mateo’s new gang boss, and the damage he might cause our neighborhood. I worried, too, about Emilio.
Someone needs to help that kid.
The pat answer was CYFD. I could make an anonymous call easily enough. They would come out and do a home evaluation and take Emilio into custody. Anything would be better than this, right?
So why hadn’t I called them?
They are just another underfunded, understaffed bureaucracy—and they’ve failed kids before. I know; it’s been in the news. What if CYFD doesn’t take Emilio? They will tell Mateo they are responding to a complaint, and whether they take Emilio or not, Mateo will be furious. Will he take his anger out on Emilio?
Then another alarm went off: How else might Mateo react if CYFD came calling? Would he take out his ire on the neighbors in our cul-de-sac? Except for me, all the neighbors were seniors, unable to stand up against Mateo. Would he threaten them?
Worse, would the scary new gang boss do something? I swallowed, cowed by the remembrance of his icy hardness. I abandoned the idea of calling CYFD.
Still, someone needed to look out for Emilio now that Corazón was gone.
Someone?
I was convinced that Aunt Lucy’s voice had joined the nanomites and taken up permanent residence in my head: We are “the someone,” Gemma. When God puts a need in front of our face, do we cross the street and ignore it like the priest and the Levite, hoping that “someone” will take care of it? Or will we be the Good Samaritan and have a little compassion? Eh? We are “the someone,” Gemma.
I could keep feeding him, I supposed, but “the money thing” again raised its ugly head. For once I pushed concerns for myself aside. I went into my kitchen and took inventory.
Whatever I have I can share, I decided. I’ll figure the money thing out later.
And I was no longer troubled about Emilio’s suspicions of me. The kid, for all practical purposes, was less visible than I was. Who would listen to a boy’s suspicions about his neighbor’s “state of invisibility?” It was laughable.
While I was thinking on these things, I built Emilio a simple meal. I made sure to include something hot: half of a frozen pizza (I knew he liked pizza, right? and I’d save the other half to bake another time). I added an apple and a banana, a granola bar, a bottle of water, and another bottle re-filled with orange juice.
Next time I shop I’ll pick up some small cartons of milk, I told myself.
I went back and forth about bringing him a blanket. I decided on a light but soft stadium throw. It would keep the chill off, but wouldn’t be too bulky. I put it into a plastic bag, too.
The kid was still tucked back in the bushes when I took the meal and blanket out to him. The half pizza, hot out of the oven and taped between two paper plates, warmed my chest under my shirt. I walked past him, turned back, and slipped the food out from under my shirt. I set the things down on the sidewalk just out of his view. I let the sack with the bottles in it “thunk” as I set it down. I backed away.
His head popped out of the shrubs at the sound. He grabbed the sacks and then stared at the covered paper plate. The warm cheesy scent of pizza wafted toward me on the cool night air. With something akin to reverence, Emilio picked up the plate, sniffed, and sighed. He scooted back toward his hidey-hole.
And stopped.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
I should have just edged away without answering. I should have.
But I didn’t.
“You’re welcome,” I murmured.
ALONG WITH THE MONEY situation, my worries about General Cushing continued to grow. I obsessed about her, dreamed about her sharp, toothy smile. I feared this state of “being in the dark”—I hated not knowing if I were on her radar, if her people were closing in on me.
A few mornings later I climbed out of bed and discovered that a wild, hugely stupid idea I’d mentally tossed around had solidified: While I was sleeping I had decided that today I would put my crazy plan into action.
I tugged on my “quiet” shoes (already comfortably broken in) and headed out the door. I carried a pen and a small notebook in the back pocket of my jeans.
It was my first real venture out in broad daylight.
As I headed down the street, the sun caressed my shoulders and warmed my head. Oh, it felt good to be alive! My heart reveled in the Indian summer weather—week upon week of wonderful sun and mild temperatures before full-on summer gave way to fall. Something in the air and in the slant of the sun hinted at cooler weather approaching, and yet the day was intoxicatingly warm and languid.
I drank it in. I turned my face
to the sun and bathed in its rays. I stretched out my legs and jogged part of the distance to my destination, keen to use my body after so many sedentary days spent inside.
The nanomites did not share my enthusiasm. They clicked and chittered at a furious rate. Perhaps, keeping me “optically invisible” was a struggle at the pace I was running. The thought of the mites performing gazillions of computations to make quadrillions of infinitesimal adjustments to trillions of tiny mirrors on an ongoing basis boggled my mind. It had to be a drain on the swarm’s power supply. Nevertheless—
“That’s your problem,” I scoffed. “If you aren’t up to the task, I suggest you vacate the premises.” I shrugged off their disapproval and kept going.
They say that the adaptive power of the human body is astounding. I believe it. The mites’ “vocalizations” in the back of my brain (that’s the only way I can describe their sounds and where I heard them) pained me less and less each day. They were still annoying, but I realized that, somehow, in some way, my body was adjusting to the mites’ presence and the pain their sounds caused. What had been a virtual IED exploding in my skull those first few days was now nothing more than a manageable irritation. At the rate things were progressing, I had hopes that the discomfort would lessen further and perhaps end altogether.
Yes, my body was adapting to the mites, and so were my emotions. I was less freaked out about being hidden by the mites and less concerned about “regular” people spotting the occasional brief shimmer as the mites worked their optical magic. At home I accommodated the mites’ power needs without much thought, tethering myself to a new, longer, heavy-duty extension cord—as though such a thing were perfectly common. What had been unfathomable just weeks ago was my new norm.
Today, my major concern with the power situation was how long I could be away from direct electricity before the mites ran down their stored energy and started feeding on me. Like I said, I could only imagine how much power the mites were expending to keep me hidden out in the open—and I did not want a repeat of that first morning when I almost didn’t wake up. I needed to better understand how the mites took in energy and what their storage limits were so I could plan my outings.
This day’s venture would be relatively short and simple: I needed information but I did not want to use my own computer or phone (or any in the neighborhood) to get it. I was headed where I could get the info I needed without pointing to my whereabouts. While I was out in the glorious sunshine, I would also test the mites’ ability to harness solar power.
Dr. Bickel had lectured me on nanomites’ amazing energy capabilities, but how could he have imagined my current situation? I mean, just how good were the mites’ solar receptors? Were they able to draw all the juice they needed from direct sunlight—or were they only able to pull a “trickle charge” from the sun? And would the energy outgo of keeping me hidden outstrip what they could take in during the same time period?
I hoped the amount of electricity the nanomites needed when we returned home would answer some of my questions. As I waltzed along, though, I felt fresh, renewed, invigorated. Practically euphoric!
I slowed and frowned. Was I enjoying the pleasure of being outdoors on such a gorgeous day after being cooped up for weeks? Or were the mites chockfull of energy—perhaps even overfull? Were they— Were they feeding the excess back to me?
Yikes.
Could the nanomites be passing their extra power over to me, actually overfeeding me? I had an unexpected and vivid image of my poor body, like substandard electrical wire with too much juice flowing through it, heating, smoldering, and bursting into flame.
Holy smokes!
Yes. Quite.
I came to a complete stop and slapped a palm to my forehead: It seemed cool to the touch. Normal, not feverish.
You’re okay, I reassured myself. You’re okay.
Six blocks later I ducked into a small café. I knew the owners, Jay and Bev. I knew they had an office off the café’s dining room and that they had a computer and a phone on the office desk.
The breakfast rush was on, keeping Jay and Bev busy out front and over the grill. I timed my entrance into the café to coincide with the arrival of two customers, and caught the door before it started to close. I ducked in behind the new arrivals, sped across the dining room to Jay’s office, and slipped inside.
I sat down, opened a browser window, and typed in Sandia’s website URL. When it popped up I went to “Contacts” and the employee locator. Then I typed in “Cushing.” If she were still at Sandia, even on a temporary basis, they would have her contact info listed here.
Two results came back. One of them was “I. B. Cushing” and included a phone number and mail stop.
Drat.
I suppose I’d held onto the whisper of a hope that Cushing would have slithered back to whatever federal rock she’d crawled out from under. The fact that she was still in Albuquerque, months after the accident and more than six weeks after the raid on Dr. Bickel’s lab, did not reassure me. I thought for a few minutes before I picked up the nearby phone and dialed.
I was banking on Cushing not answering her own phone. However, just in case she did pick up the phone herself, I had a plausible wrong-number story at the ready.
I didn’t need it.
“General Cushing’s office. How may I direct your call?” The woman on the other end was young and efficient.
An intern, I decided, or a young airman. In my stiffest and most officious phone voice I replied, “This is Ms. Finch at the Pentagon calling on behalf of Colonel Markey. He has an appointment with the general next month. Would you please give me directions from the airport to her office?”
Without hesitation, the woman rattled off directions to me and I wrote them down. Or started to. I didn’t have to finish.
The woman was sitting in Dr. Prochanski’s old office.
“Thank you.” I hung up and pondered my next move.
How like Shark Face to appropriate Dr. P’s office to, ostensibly, oversee the lab accident investigation and reconstitute the AMEMS program—when in reality she’d been hunting Dr. Bickel.
She’d found Dr. Bickel but had lost the nanomites. She’d found Dr. Bickel but, if my dear, brilliant friend was to be believed, Cushing would never find his hidden data. Without his data, without knowledge of his ion printhead and the schematics to build one, she would be unable to make more nanomites.
All of the above would be unacceptable to the general, so what was she doing about it?
I needed to know.
I wove my way to the bustling café’s exit and pushed my way out, reasoning that people came and went through that door all day long. If it looked as though it had opened from the outside yet no one actually came inside, who would care? People change their minds or stop to answer their phones all the time.
Yes, I was definitely growing more confident.
I walked home at a slower pace because I was planning my next “stealthy” steps. When I went inside, I picked up the extension cord out of habit and waited for the mites to attach and draw from it.
Nothing.
Or was that a resounding burp I heard?
After all the energy they’d expended to keep me invisible on the way to the café and back, the mites did not require any power?
I sank into my corner of the sofa to think on and catalogue this discovery.
The mites use solar power remarkably well, just as Dr. Bickel assured me they could. Apparently, they take in enough energy from direct sunlight to function well—more than enough to keep me hidden and keep their storage full.
As the implications of this discovery settled, a lot—no, a world—of possibilities opened before me. I breathed out a smile.
Of all those possibilities, my first would be to pay Shark Face a visit.
IT WAS STILL DARK WHEN I backed my car out of the garage. My automatic door slid closed—quietly—at a press of the button clipped to my car’s visor. I rolled out of our cul-de-sac, past A
be’s house on the curve, and away from our neighborhood.
When I had worked on the base, I had used the Gibson Gate to enter. It was the most convenient base entrance from my house, although the MEMS and AMEMS labs were nearer to the Eubank Gate. Today, because I would be walking onto the base, the Eubank Gate was my choice.
I left downtown, merged onto I-25 north, and moved to the far right lane. I took the I-40 East ramp over “The Big I,” that beautiful monstrosity of an interchange joining the bisecting interstate highways. Minutes later I exited I-40 at Eubank, drove south to Southern Boulevard, and pulled into the Costco parking lot on the corner of Eubank and Southern. The store would open soon and my car would blend in just fine there.
When I shut off the engine, I took a quick look around—and stepped out, closing the car door in a single quick, fluid move. My exit from the car created a two- or three-second window when someone might notice the door open and close with no one actually doing the opening and closing. The real trick would be driving home afterward. I would have to wait for twilight to cover me.
I jogged to the other side of Southern and then across Eubank, timing my moves to dodge the three lanes of commuters already backed up from the base entrance. I set a brisk pace toward the gate, about half a mile ahead.
I took a long look at the gate activity before ducking through the pedestrian entry. It felt strange and exciting, knowing that the airmen checking base passes (some fiercely alert, others equally bored) couldn’t see me. I grinned and crossed over to the island separating incoming and outgoing traffic inside the gate. At the light I cut across the street and paused.
I again watched the stop-and-go traffic coming through the gate. It was fully morning now, and all around me surged the familiar bustle—thousands of people making their way onto the base for another work day. I missed it. I missed earning my way in life and missed feeling that I was a part of something as big as this, even if my contribution had been an insignificant sliver. The only things I didn’t miss were the bureaucracy and political baloney.
Stealthy Steps Page 27