Those I don’t miss, I chuckled to myself.
My former office was a short walk ahead. I hung around outside my old building, waiting for an employee to swipe his building access card and pull open the door. A man I didn’t recognize obliged me. I caught the door just before it closed behind him and, as soon as the man was far enough down the hall, I followed him through and allowed the door to close and lock.
Of course, I knew my way to Dr. Prochanski’s former office. I walked on, confident of my surroundings.
I wasn’t, however, prepared to see the woman sitting at my desk. In my chair. I should have been, should have been emotionally ready, but the sight of her stuck in my craw.
She was maybe in her forties and, I thought unkindly, had a mop of black, hideous, over-processed hair. The primal, almost visceral urge to yank Miss Usurper from that seat—by the front of her teased-up hair!—took me by surprise. I plopped down in one of the utilitarian chairs near a big planter and gave myself a good scolding.
Not your job anymore, Gemma, I lectured. Not your desk, not your chair, not your computer, not your business. Not your circus, not your monkeys. Get your focus back on the task at hand!
I swallowed and nodded in agreement, got up and waltzed by the woman. I stuck my tongue out as I passed. I’m not proud of that juvenile act, but I’ll admit to it.
The voice I heard echoing down the hall wiped away all feelings toward Miss Usurper. Just as sickeningly sweet, just as deadly, I heard, “Ms. Barela, please come in here.”
Ms. Barela jumped as though she’d been shot, grabbed a pad and pen and, her heels clicking on the floor, headed toward General Cushing’s office. I stepped out of her way.
She grunted a very unflattering comment about the general as she breezed by me, and I just about choked on a giggle. I traipsed at a safe distance behind Ms. Barela, my feelings toward her much improved, and stopped at the doorway to Cushing’s office.
Ms. Barela composed herself and entered the general’s office. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Call a meeting with my team in thirty minutes. Tell them not to be late.”
“Yes, General. Anything else, ma’am?”
“No, not at this time.”
Ms. Barela clicked her way back to her desk, grumbling under her breath, and began making phone calls. I listened for a while, but I was distracted, thinking that my timing couldn’t have been better.
She’s calling her team in for a meeting and will ask for updates, I reasoned. Shark Face didn’t know it, but I was going to sit in on that meeting, too.
“Well, I can’t help it if you’re forty minutes away, Jeff,” Ms. Barela insisted. “She just now called the meeting.”
Ah, yes, I purred. We’re nominating General Imogene Cushing for Boss of the Year!
Said no one, ever.
I hung around until Cushing’s team straggled in. I followed them into the same, the very same conference room with which I was so familiar. The unfortunate Jeff pulled up the rear, only three minutes late.
He must have ignored all speed limits, I laughed to myself. I took a seat on the far end of the room, away from the other participants, and made myself comfortable.
The mites, I suddenly realized, were being very quiet—that almost complete quiet when they were “confabbing” or being cautious. I heard only the occasional click or buzz rather than the continuous background hum to which I’d grown accustomed.
Cushing smiled at Jeff as he tried to slip into the room without attracting her attention. “Thank you for your presence, Mr. Black.”
No one sniggered or cracked a grin. Shark Face’s jokes weren’t the “joining in” kind. Jeff kept his eyes down and took his seat, duly chastened.
“Well, now. Let’s begin, shall we? With you, Mr. Black.”
Already off balance, the ill-fated Jeff stammered as he gave his update. Cushing’s eyes gleamed with pleasure.
She’s enjoying that poor guy’s embarrassment, I scowled, empathizing with his discomfort. And as Jeff’s report contained nothing of interest to me, I lost myself daydreaming of upset water glasses—or perhaps cups of hot coffee—landing, inexplicably, in Cushing’s lap.
With one ear I listened to two men update their surveillance of Rick and Tony, heard three scientists report on their ongoing analysis of Dr. Bickel’s data (and a disappointing analysis it was), and another three provide a status on the nanobots removed from the AMEMS lab before it exploded.
The accounting of the nanobots (Dr. Bickel’s “dumb” bots) was unfavorable, to say the least. With each test result the lead scientist outlined, Cushing’s mouth thinned and tightened. It wasn’t until the man glanced up and perceived how white and hard her face had grown that his recitation petered out.
I enjoyed watching Cushing’s frustration, but I had learned nothing new. It was all information I already had.
The next report had to do with Dr. Bickel’s finances—and that earned my complete attention. A man holding a thick folder read from it. “We have dissected Bickel’s finances including a number of shell companies and interests through which he operated. He was able to hide many of his activities, but we have uncovered the majority, if not all of them. However, we have not, as yet, identified any local financial connections or resources he may have relied upon, other than the home in which he lived and his work associations, none of which point to accomplices.”
I was relieved for Rick and Tony—and for myself—to hear this man’s report. So far, this meeting was turning out to be quite reassuring, and I was just toying with how I might empty a basket of soggy coffee grounds onto Cushing’s head (and get away with it), when a Miss Trujillo spoke. “We’ve traced the backpack we found in the lab to REI, ma’am. Definitively.”
“Really, Miss Trujillo? Please continue.” Cushing’s mouth relaxed and her lips curved over sharp teeth.
Backpack? My heart stuttered to a standstill. I hadn’t been able to find the backpack I’d bought at REI.
Hide Gemma!
I had a clear memory of the nanomites striking and invading me during Cushing’s attack on the lab, but had no further recollections until I’d awakened outside the mountain. The mites had somehow propelled me to the escape cleft in the wall and I’d stumbled through the maze to my outside exit on the mountain—but I had not been wearing the backpack when I’d come to.
With that realization, I turned cold. And remembered.
I emptied the backpack and left it near the stacks of furniture not far from my exit—for me to retrieve on my way out. Just as I always did!
Was there any possibility they could trace the backpack’s purchase to me? I licked my suddenly dry lips and leaned forward.
“We’ve narrowed the purchase period to late June, but we have encountered, er, a delay in going further,” the stoic Miss Trujillo reported.
“Explain, please.” Cushing was no longer smiling and the group in the room, as one, stilled.
“The transaction was cash, not credit card,” Miss Trujillo murmured.
“Store video surveillance?”
“Too far back, ma’am. The files were overwritten. And the clerk we believe served in the transaction no longer works for REI. She has gone off to school, possibly to Europe.”
I well remembered the young clerk who had waited on me. We’d talked about her year of painting in France and Italy, how excited she’d been to receive the scholarship to go. Would she remember me?
I already knew the answer.
“What are you doing to find her?” Cushing snapped.
“Ah, um, we only received that information late yesterday and hope to speak with her stateside family today, ma’am.”
“You hope?”
“I will make the connection today, ma’am,” Miss Trujillo corrected.
“I want this effort expedited. It’s ridiculous that this team overlooked the backpack for weeks. If required, you have my authority to use the entire team to trace the backpack’s owner—but bring me results.”
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“Yes, ma’am.”
It was easier getting out of the building than it had been to get in. I just pushed the door open—no access card needed. I stood in the parking lot staring off into the distance, mulling over all I’d heard but, in particular, Cushing’s last words: It’s bad enough that this team overlooked the backpack for weeks. Bring me results.
Had they only recently found the backpack or only lately grasped its significance? Either way, they had in their hands the means to identify me. How long did I have until they did so?
I was still woefully ill-equipped to flee. I estimated that I had, at the most, a few days more to prepare. I would make them count.
After several minutes of contemplating my next moves, I came to myself. I was staring east toward the mountain. Its sloping sides and rounded peaks were painted by the morning’s bright sun, making it appear less daunting than it was up close.
Only weeks, really, had passed since I had last climbed the mountain. As I studied it, I was gripped by an intense desire to return, to see what was left of Dr. Bickel’s lab.
And why not? Unless Cushing captured me, I could pretty much go anywhere I wanted.
Chapter 20
I drove at a slow, steady speed into the residential area and parked on the same side street I’d used before, the one where I’d found my car on my last trip down the mountain. I crouched between my car and the retaining wall where I was parked and slid my old rucksack over my shoulders. In it I’d packed my leather gloves and “quiet” shoes, three bottles of water, and some lightweight foods: nuts, protein bars, some fruit leather.
Over the top of my clothes and the rucksack I drew on one of Uncle Eduardo’s baggy shirts. As the shirt settled on my shoulders and over my body, it disappeared from view, hiding the rucksack beneath it. I slipped out from where I was hiding and into the dusky early light, and moved toward the trailhead.
I had driven here in the dark morning hours. Regardless of when I returned to my car, I could not drive home until after night fell. It would be another long day.
Yesterday, I’d returned home late from eavesdropping on Cushing’s meeting, and I’d spent the evening in frenetic preparations. I’d packed and repacked my two bug-out bags, including every dollar of my meager store of cash.
Then I’d handwritten a cryptic note to Abe asking him to take care of Jake. I’d started that note a couple of different times. I’d torn up and burned four failed starts before settling on just the right wording.
Early this morning, after a night short on sleep (and restless sleep at that), I’d thrown my laptop and bug-out bags into my trunk—just in case Cushing’s people were waiting when I returned home. From now on, I would keep those items near me, accessible at all times.
The morning lightened, and I avoided others on the trail, stepping aside and standing still until they passed by. I especially steered clear of folks walking their dogs. I bore the scratches of Jake’s freaked-out response to my invisible self; I didn’t want to see how a large dog might react.
I knew the route by heart and made good time. I scrabbled on my belly under the piñon, down into the arroyo, and under the base’s perimeter fence.
I stood up on the other side and exhaled. It was easier making my solitary way toward the mountain than sharing a path with other hikers had been. While I hiked, the nanomites hummed softly and drank in a hefty dose of morning solar power.
I wasn’t worried out here in the base’s restricted area. No one would notice me or see my flitting shadow. If I happened to run into a base patrol, I would hunker down until they were gone.
I followed the familiar landmarks until I arrived at the PIDAS and lined myself up with the three rocks. I crossed the road and started across the bare dirt toward the fence. Up to now, the mites had been quietly observant. When their nervous chitters broke in, I looked back—and spied the source of their concern: tracks.
The mites were able to disguise my footprints where I presently stood, but not my prints farther back—and on the bare, smooth dirt in broad daylight my footprints shouted “intruder!” It was a disconcerting moment, encountering yet another limitation to my invisibility.
Just as I had when I was still visible, I would need to brush away my tracks.
I trotted back, broke off a branch of sagebrush, scuffed my footprints from the road up to the fence line—and stared in dumb wonder at the repaired links in the fence where I’d passed through before.
They (whoever “they” were) had found and repaired the cuts Rick had made in the fence. I pondered this development. No one had reported on this in Cushing’s meeting, but they had to know about it. They must have found the point of my incursion early on. Had they also found the door into the tunnels?
I almost turned around right then. I almost ran. Instead, I scanned the area and made myself wait, think, and evaluate.
Were Cushing’s people watching the tunnels, waiting for me to return? It stood to reason, but I questioned why no one on Cushing’s team had given her an update yesterday if, indeed, her team was watching this route into the mountain. Maybe, with this much time gone by, they figured no one was coming back.
No one stupid enough to come back.
I fingered the welded links as I debated whether or not to abort my trek up the mountain.
A light sparked from near my fingertips and I yanked my hand back. Was the fence now electrified? But no, I would have heard its hum as I’d approached if it were, wouldn’t I?
The mites, who had been so quiet until warning me about my footprints, clamored for my attention again. I leaned toward the fence and was shocked to see that one of the repaired links looked to be half severed. Without thinking, I reached out to touch it—and again a bright light jumped from my fingertips.
The link snapped apart and I stumbled backwards, landing on my backside in the dirt. I stayed there—recalling Dr. Bickel’s lecture on the nanomites.
Members of Delta Tribe each have a tiny laser. Only Delta Tribe.
Were the nanomites “lasering” through the links? I approached the fence again. I hesitated and then stretched my hand toward it, pointing my index finger at the next link up.
A blink later the link “popped.” It was sliced through.
Excited about the ability to cut through metal, I was lifting my finger toward the next link, when I remembered what else Dr. Bickel had said about Delta Tribe’s lasers.
When connected to an uninterrupted energy source, the nanocloud can generate and direct a laser beam strong enough to cut through steel. It takes them a few moments to bring the laser up to power, but they are quite efficient.
Uninterrupted? Would their solar receptors create enough of an “uninterrupted power source” to prevent the nanocloud from feeding on me? Not for one second did I place any confidence in the mites’ altruistic principles: They were programmed to consider the welfare of the cloud above all. I stood there thinking so long that the mites’ sudden chatter startled me.
“All right, all right.” I elected to keep going, but if I felt at all unwell, I vowed to turn tail and retreat.
I pointed at the next links and Delta Tribe’s lasers made short work of them. Before I pushed through the fence, I brushed away the imprint of my backside in the dirt, dragging the sagebrush branch with me. I shoved the fence links into alignment and tidied up around the area.
Walked to the next fence: Rinse and repeat.
Pretty cool, actually.
I felt my forehead. Maybe it would be all right after all. The mites didn’t seem to be slowing down or struggling and I felt fine.
Ahead the climb steepened, but I was energized and invigorated. Thirty minutes later, breathing hard but jubilant, I reached the rock outcropping and clambered over and around until I jumped down behind the largest pillar.
Angry rattling caught me utterly unprepared: A snake lay coiled not far from my feet, its thick body poised, tensed, its flat head reared back.
I had nowhere to retreat.
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“Nano,” I breathed.
I heard them, not clicking or chittering, but humming. The hum grew louder. And then it rose with an intensity that blocked the sound of the snake’s rattles, so shrill and loud that my eyes throbbed.
I blinked just as the snake launched itself toward me. A white light surged from my body, converged in a single point in the air, shot forward, and burst.
The smell!
All I could see were bright dots dancing in front of my eyes, but the smell! It was ghastly—like burnt hair and seared, scorched rubber all in one. I coughed and gagged on the smoke of it. When the air cleared and my watering eyes could focus, I stared at the snake’s charcoaled and still-smoldering carcass:
Two piles of it.
Neatly severed.
Immolated.
Giving Elijah and the prophets of Baal a run for their money.
Other inane nonsense jittered around in my head.
And how would you like your steak—er, snake, sir?
Well done, please.
And this ridiculous ditty: If it’s smokin’ we’re cookin’; if it’s black, it’s done.
“Nano. Thank you,” I whispered. I squeezed past the snake’s remains, reluctant to let my feet even graze them.
I stumbled around the wall’s curve and fell against the iron door. It could have been Aunt Lucy’s shoulder, so glad was I to lean upon a familiar friend. I sobbed with relief and tried not to dwell on what had almost happened, but that one blink, that single frame of the snake’s heavy body hurtling toward me kept flashing in front of my eyes.
Eventually I calmed. I drank a bottle of water. I cried a little more. I wiped my face and eyes. Then I put my right hand’s fingers on the top right corner of the door and kicked the lower left corner with the toe of my boot.
And went into the tunnels.
Stealthy Steps Page 28