“Are you all right? Can you walk?” the woman barks at me. I try to focus on her masked face, but everything is still spinning. Close by I can make out Oates, his arms tied behind his back, kneeling in the snow. Pontius is being held at bay with the very snare that Oates had been using only a moment earlier. “Can you walk?” the question comes again. In response I straighten up to my full five feet, three inches, and eye my attackers very seriously.
And vomit.
The woman turns around to Oates.
“We’re here for Bernard Oglesby,” she spits through her mask. “Your hostage. Is he inside the facility?”
Hostage? Bernard? I want to explain to this woman that Bernard’s no hostage—unless he’s the kind of hostage who walks across the fricking tundra to give his captors a break on fuel cell money. But I’m too busy working on this potential concussion I’ve got going to tell her that, and Oates—surprise surprise—says nothing at all.
The woman marches toward the cabin. “Bring him,” she instructs her friends. She flicks a thumb at me. “Carry her.”
I am lifted off my feet and carried by one of the intruders as we make our way inside the cabin. It’s clear once we’re all inside that these guys, whoever they are, aren’t Jin’Kai. They’re not nearly buff enough. Furthermore, they pretty much have no idea what they’re doing—they’re no finely tuned commando force like the one Cole and Captain Bob were a part of, that’s for sure. They rummage through the cabin, knocking over shelves, before coming to the sliding door in the floor that leads to the underground facility.
“Bring me the C-4,” the woman calls out to someone behind her. One of the goons hands her the small putty explosive, and she sticks it against the door.
“That won’t be necessary,” Oates says. She stops and raises an eyebrow. Well, I assume she raises an eyebrow. There’s no way to tell with the ski mask and all. But it’s certainly an eyebrow-raising moment. “There’s no need for further violence,” Oates goes on. “I will tell you the code provided you give me your word not to harm anyone else.”
“We’re not here to harm anyone,” the woman replies. “So long as everyone plays nice.”
Oates stares at her for a moment, before finally speaking. “Three, two, six, three, eight, two, seven.”
The woman plugs the number into the control panel. There is a sharp beep, a slight delay, and then the door slides open. The woman gestures to some of her cohorts, who rush ahead down the stairs. I give Oates a look as we are shoved together down the stairs at the back of the group, but he gives no sign that he notices.
The door doesn’t usually beep.
We come down into the main hallway, and strangely, the door to the canteen at the far end is closed. The hall is completely empty.
“Where is everyone?” the woman asks in a whisper. Her comrades have taken up defensive positions on either side of the hallway, looking around for any sign of movement.
“It’s nearly lunchtime,” Oates says calmly. “They’ll be in the canteen down yonder, prepping the meal.”
Another flick of her head, and the intruders make their way quietly down the hall. My heart is racing in my chest, my head still throbbing. I can’t believe I’ve gotten myself in the middle of an interspecies attack again. This sort of destructive pattern is the kind of thing that girls seek therapy for.
“Once we have control of the facility, find out where Bernard is being kept,” the woman orders one of the dudes walking with her. “Knowing him, he’s probably leading them all in a drum circle—”
Before she can finish, it happens. The doors lining the hallway on either side of us suddenly swoosh open, all at once, and nearly every Almiri prisoner floods out. It happens so fast, and my brain is still so fuzzy, that I’m not even sure what’s gone down. It’s just a flurry of arms and shouting. There are nearly as many Almiri as intruders, and with the jump they have on them, they almost don’t need their super strength. But super strength never hurts, and within a few moments all of the intruders have been disarmed and subdued.
Only then does the canteen door slide open, revealing Rupert on the other side.
“Thanks for the heads up, Titus,” he tells Oates, grinning. “And to think, some of us thought that installing a fail-safe code was extreme.”
“You treacherous Almiri pig,” the woman spits at Oates, struggling against the prisoner who holds her arms pinned behind her. Oates moves past her into the canteen and turns his back to Rupert so that he can cut the binds on his wrists.
“I’m not the one attacking someone’s home,” Oates replies calmly. “Bring them in,” he says to one of the other Almiri. “Let’s see who we’ve got here.”
When we get inside the canteen, I spot Dad and Ducky and Cole standing near one of the far tables. Cole is bouncing Olivia in her papoose. He holds out an arm for me, but I rush right to the baby, scoop her out, and snuggle her tightly.
“You’re becoming quite the action heroine,” Dad says.
“I think it’s the company I keep.” I stroke Olivia’s feather-soft hair. I’m just so happy she’s okay. She didn’t even wake up in the scuffle.
“I’m glad you’re all right too,” Cole says, startling me into a mega-humongous bear hug. But I don’t mind for one second accepting it. After all, I did almost just get ski-mobiled in half.
When I look up, Ducky’s kicking his toes into the floor awkwardly, looking anywhere but at me. I finally catch his eye.
“Sorry,” I mouth silently.
“Sorry,” he mouths back.
We’re gonna be okay, me and Duck. I let myself relax and squeeze my baby closer, taking in the scene around me.
One by one the intruders are unmasked, and I’m surprised to discover that the woman I went knee-to-stomach with outside is not the only female in the bunch. Of the twenty or so ski-masked baddies, about half are ladies. And if that weren’t a tip-off that these enemies weren’t Jin’Kai, their general appearance sure is. I don’t want to sound catty, but runway models these guys are not. Between them they’ve got a smattering of receding hairlines, pronounced teeth, and weak chins, just to name a few physical knocks that afflict normal, non-Almiri/Jin’Kai folk.
Still, they’re not all hard on the eyes. I notice Ducky’s gaze lingering on one particular intruder standing not half a meter from Oates. A reed-thin, leggy redhead, probably about twenty-two or twenty-three.
“Cute,” I lean over to tell Ducky. “Kind of a long face, but you could almost call her striking. You have good taste in villains.”
Within a nanosecond Ducky’s face is as red as the girl’s hair.
“What do you suggest we do with the mules?” I hear Jørgen sneer. And when I look over, I’m shocked to see that for once he’s not glaring daggers at me. This time he’s eyeing the ski-masked intruders. Talk about eloquent. Man, the guy really needs to expand his burn vocabulary.
“The lot will remain in the pantry until you hear otherwise from me,” Oates instructs his fellow Almiri. He gives Jørgen a good long look. “You will not harm a one of them.”
“You heard the man,” Jørgen grumbles to the other Almiri, sounding about as thrilled as if Oates had just told him to go pluck his nose hairs out, one by one, with chopsticks. “Into the pantry!”
“Except for that one,” Oates says, pointing to the female ringleader at the far end of the long room, who has yet to be unmasked. She’s still struggling against her captor’s grip, which is very clearly useless—but you’ve got to admire the lady’s moxie. “And the ambassador,” Oates continues. He shoots a glance around the room. “Where is he?”
Which is exactly the moment when the back door opens and Bernard enters, still in the process of zipping up his fly.
“What’s going on?” Bernard asks, clearly unaware of all the excitement. “What’d I miss?”
“Bernard!” the masked woman calls out. Bernard turns at the sound of her voice and squints at her.
“Zee?” Bernard breaks into a killer grin, cle
arly unfazed by the new arrivals—or the two Almiri who have quickly tackled him to the ground, binding his hands in front of him. “Babe!” he shouts from the floor. “You came all the way to Antarctica for me? Man, you are a warrior woman!”
“Ew,” I say, leaning over to exchange snark with Ducky. “Babe?”
Ducky’s nose is wrinkled just as much as mine. “Warrior woman?” he says. “Who the heck is this chick?”
Which I guess is precisely the question Oates is wondering too, because he finally takes the opportunity to peel off the ringleader’s ski mask.
Next to me, my father sucks in a sudden deep breath. “Olivia?” he says, his voice thin and wavering.
I look down at my baby. But there’s absolutely nothing wrong with her, not that I can see. I turn to my dad.
“Olivia.” He says the name again, whispers it this time. And he’s not looking at his grandchild.
He’s looking at my mother.
Chapter Five
Wherein our Heroine Is All, Like, Whoa
Um, whoa.
I mean, just, whoa.
My mother is alive? And she’s here?
I repeat: WHOA.
“Miss?”
I snap to, and realize that Oates is waiting for me to respond. I guess he’s been “Miss”-ing me for a while.
I tear my eyes away from Zee—er, my mom. “Yeah?” I say. My voice is shaky.
“In the medical closet,” he informs me, “you will find gauze and antiseptic. Please fetch it quickly and meet us in the storeroom.”
“But I—”
It’s too late. He’s already moving down the hall, Zee kicking and screaming the whole way as she and Bernard are dragged in tow by the Almiri.
I turn to my father, who amid the chaos and the confusion is looking . . . pretty calm, actually.
“Dad?” I say as I watch him watch his former wife being led away. “Are you sure that’s Mom? ’Cause, well, not to state the obvious or anything, but I thought she was, like, dead.”
He thinks on that, then nods.
“For a woman dead and cremated sixteen years ago,” he replies, still staring down the hall—despite the fact that Oates and the others have already turned the corner, “she’s holding up pretty well.”
“But how—”
“No idea,” he says, snapping his attention back to me. “I guess it’s up to you to figure it out.”
“But—”
“Medical closet’s that way.”
• • •
I easily find the gauze and antiseptic Oates asked for, and race to meet him in the storeroom. As I enter the large white space, the lights grow slightly brighter, then fade back to their original brightness, the censors that operate their intensity apparently on the fritz. A quick glance around the storage locker reveals a very weird assortment of items, ranging from sports equipment (rolled-up badminton nets, athletic mats, various balls) all the way to what appears to be a stash of theater costumes and props. Ever since we landed here, I’ve wondered how the Almiri manage to keep themselves occupied for decades or longer in this snowy prison without any computer access. I guess now I’ve found the answer. I shudder as I spy a pair of black-dyed corn-husk wigs, imagining what degree of cabin fever could ever push a group of grown men to stage a full production of The Mikado.
Bernard and Zee are sitting in two folding chairs in the center of the room, Oates standing in front of them. Bernard is slouched casually, right foot up on his left knee, like he’s at a poetry reading. Zee, however, is at full attention, the anger ripe on her face. Their hands are still bound before them, although the two Almiri who led them here are nowhere to be seen. As I approach, I’m shaking so badly, I nearly drop the gauze several times. Good thing baby Olivia is strapped in, or she’d be floor food too.
My mother, I keep thinking—on an endless loop in my brain. That right there is my mother. I’m going to talk to my mom for the very first time.
There are so many questions I need to ask my mother: How did she get here? Where has she been for the past sixteen years? Why did my father think she was dead?
Most kids get to start with “goo-goo-ga-ga.”
“This would be much easier if you would simply cooperate,” Oates says to them, motioning me over. He doesn’t move a muscle for the first aid kit that I offer him, so I unwrap the gauze and play nursemaid. Zee has a fair amount of bruises on her face and her arms—lots of small cuts. I guess the Almiri did quite a number on her during the surprise attack. I guess I did quite a number on her myself when I sat on her.
Whoops.
Still shaking fitfully, I unscrew the cap from the antiseptic cream and dab a little on my mother’s face.
My mom. I’m touching my mom.
She flinches and jerks away. Instinctively I grab her chin to steady her and try again, attempting to form coherent thoughts so I can shape them into words. But I have no idea what I want to say to this woman. To my mother. I am, for once in my life, totally speechless. For her part, she’s staring at me. Like, really intensely. Does she know that it’s me? Sure doesn’t seem like it. If she did, you’d think she’d pick a slightly more emotional response than simply glaring icy daggers at me as I tend to her cuts. Maybe she’s just weirded out seeing a chick with the Almiri?
“I’m already aware of who you and your comrades are,” Oates tells Zee while I continue doing my best Florence Nightingale. “But perhaps an exchange of names would be in order? I’m Captain Lawrence Edward Grace Oates, although most of the chaps here simply call me Titus.”
Baby Olivia sleeps silently at my chest, unaware of the momentous family reunion that is going on right in front of her.
“And?” Oates prods when there is absolutely zero response from my mother. “Madam, you are . . . ?”
Zee shifts her glare from me to Oates, upping the intensity from “level-four scowl” to “full-on face melt.” But if there’s one dude she won’t win a staring contest with in this place, it’s the stoic, centuries-old Victorian Brit.
“Zada,” Bernard informs Oates after a few moments of awkward dueling glares between them. “Zada Khoury. We all call her Zee.”
“Well, then, Zee,” Oates continues. “As to the matter of why you are here . . .”
I try to follow the conversation as best I can, to learn more about this woman I clearly don’t know at all, but all I can do is stare at her as I dab more cream on her cheek, taking in every centimeter. She is short, I notice, and scrappy.
“We came to rescue this asshole,” Zee says, gesturing with her head at Bernard. Despite her well-formed muscles, my mother obviously hasn’t been eating enough. Her clavicle juts right through her thermal. “Which”—she rounds on Bernard—“is beginning to seem like a colossal misallocation of resources.” Her straight dark hair is cropped close to her head, and although she has a few wrinkles around her eyes, she wears her age well. “Weeks of planning, dozens of assets reassigned, and we get here and find you’re just hanging out with our oppressors like this is some sort of Burning Man.” She’s aged a lot from the photos, but dur, they were all from, like, twenty years ago.
“She thinks you’re gonna lock us all up and, like, throw away the key,” Bernard tells Oates, in a tone that practically drips with an eye-rolling “women.”
Oates shakes his head at that. “Bernard and I have been having discussions of a very different sort since he arrived,” he tells my mom.
Zee merely scoffs. “Let me guess. Talks of love and understanding and a détente with the Almiri.”
“I told you she’s a cynic,” Bernard says with a sigh.
My mother is beautiful, really beautiful. More than the pictures gave her credit for. But I don’t see a smidge of me . . .
“Just be clear on this, Almiri,” Zee spits. “Bernard here does not speak for the movement. And we are not so gullible as to think your kind wishes to come to any sort of ‘understanding.’ ”
“You might find our priorities more in line than
you realize, madam,” Oates offers.
Zee immediately rejects the notion with a laugh. “I have a lifetime of experience concerning Almiri priorities,” she tells him disdainfully.
She does?
“That may be true,” Oates responds. “But you have no such experience with me.”
You know that dream where you show up to history class six weeks late and everyone is gabbing on and on about the Smoot-Hawley Tariff, and you just know you’re gonna be screwed on the final because you have no flipping clue what they’re talking about? Well, that dream seems like a safe, cozy place compared to how lost I am at the moment. What movement is my mom talking about? And how does she know anything about the Almiri? I squeeze a bit more antiseptic out of the tube and onto my finger, while in her papoose Olivia gives me a gentle sleep-kick.
“Look, babe,” Bernard interjects, and for a long second my neural transmitters are so assaulted, I can’t hear anything else. The dude with the musty beard calls my mother ‘babe’? Ew ew barf barf ew. I steady my breathing and do my best to focus, reaching once again for my mother’s face.
Maybe, I think, despite the initial evidence, this woman really isn’t my mother. Because as hard as I search, I can’t even find a hint of my face in hers.
“Oates here is an okay dude, all right?” Bernard goes on. “I’ll totally vouch for his upstandingness.”
“I should have left you to rot the last time you tried to pull a stunt like—”
But Zee doesn’t get to finish, because I have dropped the antiseptic on her foot.
Her chin, I realize suddenly. I have her same angular chin.
“Miss?” Oates is looking at me curiously as I scoop the tube from the floor. “Are you quite all right?”
“Um,” I start. Like I said—brain-mouth connection no worky. “May I speak to you in the corner for a moment?”
Oates narrows his eyes ever so slightly as he considers my request, following up with a quick nod. He gestures to the door. I struggle with the cap on the cream like the world’s biggest chromer, then finally give up on the whole thing and walk to the corner.
A Stranger Thing (The Ever-Expanding Universe) Page 9