YES
“Excellent!” I was on my feet now, too jazzed to sit. “When will my card arrive?”
WE HAVE
EXPEDITED
YOUR NEW
WELLS FARGO
ATM CARD
“Great! And how about checks? Can you order checks for me?”
YOUR PERSONALIZED
CHECKS WILL ARRIVE
IN FIVE TO TEN DAYS
WE KNOW YOU HAVE
A CHOICE OF
BANKING PROVIDERS
THANK YOU FOR CHOOSING
WELLS FARGO
Elated? I could scarcely breathe; I was vibrating with excitement—the nanomites had done much more than I’d imagined they could. They had overcome every roadblock—including my limited ideas.
“This is so cool, so stinking cool!”
WE DETECT
NO NOXIOUS EMISSIONS
PLEASE ADVISE
I lost it right there. I cracked up; I doubled over under great belly laughs that sent me to the floor. I laughed until my eyes ran. I laughed and felt my body relax and release its pent-up stress and fear.
When I was done, I sprawled on the floor, a lazy smile plastered on my face. I was, at last, close to acquiring a vehicle! And all due to the nanomites. Well, they had caused my problems in the first place, but I admitted it: I was feeling a bit more benevolent toward them.
Still more to do!
I got up, activated the third phone, plastered a little red sticker on it, and designated it my “throwaway” phone. I would use it for everyday needs and, if it became compromised, I’d pull the SIMM card and trash it.
I dialed a number I’d jotted on a slip of paper and got voice mail, so I left a message.
“Hello. Yeah, um, hi there. I saw your ad on Craig’s List for the 2012 Ford Escape? Please call me back at this number.” I didn’t leave my name, but I recited my number, hung up, and waited.
What had attracted me to this vehicle were the words “tinted windows all around” and “Near Northeast Heights.” The tinted windows would make it easier for me to drive without someone noticing that the driver was missing. And the closer the vehicle was to the safe house, the easier it would be to acquire it. As it was, I would have to catch a bus, walk, or “appropriate” a ride to reach the car in the ad.
I chewed my fingernails for half an hour until the phone rang.
“Hello?” I glanced at the caller ID. “Are you Thomas Baca? Oh, he’s your dad? You’re Javier? Hi, Javier. Is the title in your name? Okay, good. Um, my name is Kathy. Would it be possible to see the car? Thank you, but if it’s all right, I’ll come to you. What is your address, please? Okay, great. And what is the vehicle’s VIN so I can check it on CARFAX?”
As I hung up, I knew it would take a lot of moxie to pull off what I had in mind. I logged into Ford’s website, and found the Escape model. “Nano. Familiarize yourself with this make and model vehicle. Do additional research so that you are proficient with the manufacture and operation of the 2012 model.”
Instead of logging onto carfax.com like I’d told Javier Baca I’d be doing, I found an online bill of sale and filled it out—and then realized I couldn’t sign it until I printed it.
Argh! More stuff to do.
I saved the completed bill of sale as a PDF, had the nanomites upload it, then headed out to an office supply store.
Down the printer aisle, I whispered, “Nano. Print a single copy of the bill of sale.”
I loitered for a few minutes.
Done.
I pulled the printed sheet from the printer, signed it, and placed it in the printer’s scanner tray. “Nano. Now scan the page, convert it to PDF, and upload the file.”
***
With Javier Baca’s address in hand, I waited until after midnight to borrow my usual ride. I drove to the address, parked down the street, and hoofed it to Javier’s driveway to scope out the car. I walked up to it and peered through the windows. The car had a classy charcoal gray paint job and the interior was a complementary dark gray.
I placed a hand on the hood. “Nano. Check out this vehicle. I want to know if it is in good working order.”
I felt some of them go off to do the inspection and felt them return.
“Well?”
Chittering. Humming. Blue letters superimposed on the driver’s window.
ENGINE GOOD CONDITION
VEHICLE REQUIRES
REAR BRAKE REPAIRS
I chuckled. “All right. How about a test drive? Nano. Unlock the door.”
I got in and familiarized myself with the controls.
“Nano. Start the engine.”
I drove away from the house and cruised around for about fifteen minutes, getting a feel for the car. Yeah, the brakes felt a little squishy, but I liked the car.
Now for the hard part.
In the morning, I called Javier Baca.
“Javier? Turns out my job is sending me out of town this week, but I’ve decided that I’d like to buy your car. I drove by yesterday and took a look at it. Yes, I’ll pay the asking price—but I’d like you to have it inspected first, particularly the brakes. If you agree to show me the inspection paperwork and fix any major problems, particularly with the brakes, I’ll get you a check right away.”
He haggled with me for a while, but I held firm on the inspection and the brakes.
Dude! I can’t stroll into Pep Boys and ask them to perform an inspection—but you can, I shouted in my head.
Aloud I said, “Well, since I’ll be gone until next week, you have plenty of time to get the inspection done. Snap a photo of the report and text it to me. If the brakes need work, get that done and shoot me a copy of the repair bill. Then I’ll send you a check or pay you from my bank via text, whichever you choose.”
He argued some more, which told me that he already knew about the brake problems and what the repairs would cost.
“How about this, Javier? You get the brakes fixed, and I’ll pay half of the bill. Yes; I’ll just add the cost to the purchase price. All right? Deal.”
I didn’t want to wait a week to get the Escape, but it was my most immediate option. At least my list of “must dos” was shrinking. I used my new credit card to order a few things online—warmer clothes for winter: a couple long-sleeved shirts and sweaters, a good pair of running shoes, a heavier jacket.
I was elated with how great things were going.
Elated? Not for long.
That evening, flickering blue lights on the wall drew my eyes.
GEMMA KEYES
I got up and stood by the wall. “Yes?”
UNABLE TO DETECT
DR. BICKEL LOCATION
“What?”
I was stunned. “But . . . what about his email? The phone it came from?”
UNABLE TO LOCATE PHONE
“What about the Internet? What about Cushing’s emails and phone calls?”
NO PERTINENT
DATA FOUND
WE WILL CONTINUE
OUR SEARCH
“But . . .” I’d started believing that the mites could do anything . . . but they had their limitations, too, didn’t they?
I sat down. Hard. “But if you can’t find him . . .”
It was a devastating acknowledgement that could only lead to one shattering conclusion: If the nanomites were stymied, what hope was there?
If the nanomites could not find Dr. Bickel, no one could.
***
Mateo Martinez squirmed before Soto’s disdain.
“I hear your neighbor has taken in your nephew and called in social services.”
The anger growing inside Martinez lunged for an outlet, but his instinct for self-preservation managed to keep it in check. He wet his lips and considered his words before speaking. He added as little detail as possible to what he said. “Yes. The man is a busybody.”
“He has raised questions about your fitness as a guardian.”
“I’ll get the kid back. He hasn’t been b
eaten or anything.”
Soto examined his fingernails. “Yet, how do you suppose this busybody’s actions appear to your subordinates? How do his accusations reflect upon your leadership? Or upon mine?”
Mateo turned his head a fraction, as though considering Soto’s question—or mocking it.
“I fail to see a connection. Sir.”
Soto’s upper lip lifted in a sardonic half-smile. “Mateo, Mateo. A good leader allows no opportunity for his authority to be challenged. A great leader leaves no challenge unanswered.”
Mateo shifted on his feet. “You wish me to do something?”
Soto shrugged. “I give you no orders, only a word of advice: A real man would never countenance such an insult.”
Soto’s emphasis upon the word “real” dumped gasoline on Mateo’s anger. “I will deal with the old man.”
As he stormed from the room, Soto and one of his guards exchanged amused smiles.
~~**~~
Chapter 7
It was late—or should I say early?
I had wasted another long night trying to crawl inside Cushing’s evil brain and plumb her psyche—hoping to second-guess where she would have put Dr. Bickel. The nanomites’ message had stolen the wind from my sails, but I couldn’t just give up on my friend, could I? Yet, after hours of brooding deliberation, I had nothing to show for my efforts.
I was frustrated and a bit down. I slumped on the couch, weary and yawning.
Ten days had sped by in a blur—a week and a half since I’d last seen Zander, Abe, and Emilio. Ten exhausting days spent gearing up to elude and survive Cushing and, in the back of my mind, preparing to save Dr. Bickel as soon as the nanomites located him. Ten days of hope ending in one, tiny flaw: The mites had failed.
They were stumped.
So, yes, I was frustrated. I had to admit there was something else bringing me down, too. I’d hung my heart on a tiny, unspoken hope, the idea that if, by some miracle, we’d been able to find and rescue Dr. Bickel, we might also, somehow, expose and defeat Cushing . . . and I would get my life back.
But, in reality? What were the chances that the nanomites and I could accomplish what was virtually impossible?
I wouldn’t take those odds!
And that was the lump of coal at the bottom of my pity pot.
Old anger reared its head—the rage I’d felt when the nanomites had first invaded me. Was this the shape of my future? Was this what the rest of my life would look like? No one to share it with? Always hiding? Ever in fear and jeopardy?
I was, I admitted, more than angry: I was unsettled. Uncertain and perturbed with myself.
With all the mites had proven they could do, my insistence on planning and directing our every move was beginning to concern me. I had the disquieting sense that I was overlooking better ways to use the nanomites, that I was shortsighted when it came to them. That there was a smarter approach to getting stuff done.
Maybe I was just overtired, but even the way we communicated irked me—I mean, them writing notes on the wall? It seemed . . . oh, I don’t know . . . tedious, given the mites’ high-speed computing powers.
Dumb, even! Something had to change.
Maybe I had to change?
I sighed. “Nano.”
They responded with their alert, listening silence.
“Nano, is there a way we can, um, talk more easily? Are you capable of audible emissions? Of making spoken words? I know you understand language—both verbal and written—and have mastered programming languages and computers, networks, and the Internet. What I’m wondering is . . . if there’s a way we could communicate in a simpler, more fluid manner.”
I paused, trying to muster an eloquent way to say what was bothering me. Dr. Bickel had lectured me on the algorithms behind the nanomites, how they were divided into five tribes but no tribe bossed the others around or told another what to do. He had stressed how the tribes cooperated and applied fact and logic to arrive at consensus and agreed-upon actions to achieve their goal of “the greater good.”
Up until now, I’d insisted that the mites follow my lead and use their knowledge and abilities as I demanded, but perhaps I was cutting myself short? Was I depriving myself of the full benefit of the mites’ help by being so directive? Could I—could we—work together better? Smarter?
The nanomites and I shared a common goal: Find and rescue Dr. Bickel. However, the immensity of that objective, the unlikelihood that we might succeed, and the more likely odds that I’d be captured . . . well, they weighed on me.
No, “they weighed on me” was a weak, inadequate picture. The prospect of ending up in Cushing’s custody—and the terror it evoked?—stole my breath away.
But I had to keep trying to find him, didn’t I? I couldn’t just give up!
The problem was that I didn’t have a clue as to where Shark Face had stashed Dr. Bickel. Not even a jumping-off point. In all reality, he could be anywhere. Dr. Bickel himself didn’t know where he was being kept prisoner.
Sure, the mites could worm their way into any system if it was connected to a network that communicated with the outside world. No firewall invented by humankind could keep the mites locked out if they wanted in! Their intelligence and speed were incredible—but they had their limitations: They were as dependent upon my physical body to carry them around and keep them powered as I was dependent upon them to offset my physical limitations.
No bones about it, if we ever found Dr. Bickel, it would take a human-nanomite collaboration to get him out.
My mind presented the colorful image of a nano-powered human, and I laughed.
“Yeah, right. Like some kind of comic book superhero—a real, live action figure out to save the world!”
Not gonna happen, I admitted.
Back to Survival 101. How could I better exploit the nanomites’ abilities? How could I—how could we—operate with more efficiency?
If I could just, somehow, tap in to the mites’ processes, perhaps all the “stuff” we did would be less time-consuming and less tedious and wouldn’t require so much brainstorming and preparation on my part.
I decided on a direct appeal to the mites’ sense of order and logic.
“Nano, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m interested in improved relations and faster and more effective communication. Enhanced communication could lead to, um, greater exchanges of information and understanding, maybe even, um, consensus (*gag*) and cooperation. An enriched relationship could result in, um, superior decisions—perhaps collaboration and mutual support—especially when we are in tight spots.”
I shook my head and ended with, “I wish we could find a means to function better. Together. More efficiently. Perhaps forge an, um, alliance or partnership.”
The mites remained silent, but I figured they weren’t ignoring me: They were chewing on what I’d asked of them.
Minutes ticked by, and they did not respond. It was still dark, but morning was not that far away. When I could no longer fend off my fatigue, I whispered, “Nano. I’m going to bed now.”
GOOD NIGHT
GEMMA KEYES
“Uh, right. Good night, Nano.”
Well, that was new.
***
I had been soundly asleep for a while, I don’t know how long. I squirmed and tried to sink back into that place of deep, revitalizing slumber, but I was uncomfortable, and the discomfort was growing. Half in and half out of a sleepy state, I managed to put a label on the discomfort:
Headache.
The ache grew. My skull pounded. The pounding morphed from a clanging hammer to a digging, stinging knife, an icepick stabbing between my temples—all the way through, from one temple to the other. Surely my head was going to explode!
I tried to lift my face from my pillow, tried to look around the darkened room, but I felt too weak, too racked with pain to do even that.
What happened? Am I sick?
Something warm and salty dribbled onto my lip. I swiped
at it, but the dribble kept coming.
Nosebleed? Oh, gross—I’m bleeding all over my pillow.
I threw back the covers, dragged myself up—and vomited onto the floor between my feet. I gagged and threw up again.
After I’d emptied my stomach, I tried to stand and get to the bathroom. The room revolved around me, and I found it difficult not to fall off the edge of the bed. The throbbing in my head grew until I realized that I could feel my pulse reverberating in my hands, my arms, my chest. I hurt in every part of my body.
More of what I guessed was blood ran over my lips and down my chin.
What in the world . . .
I forced myself to balance on shaky, flimsy legs and made my way to the bathroom. I closed the door before I switched on the light.
Ow!
The light battered my eyes, so I looked away, glanced down. Bright, bloody drops speckled the tile floor. Fresh rivulets streamed from both nostrils onto the only nightshirt I owned. I grabbed up a washcloth. With one hand, I held the cloth under my nose to catch what was running; with the other, I pinched my nostrils high up, hoping to stem the flow.
My efforts did not help—I gagged and upchucked for the third time.
This is really bad!
Fear jittered its way through me. It wasn’t as though I could check myself into an ER.
I pressed the cloth against my nostrils to catch the blood, stumbled to the kitchen, and pulled a handful of ice from the freezer. I piled ice into a dish towel, sprayed a little water on it, wound the towel around the ice, and sat down at the dinette table, holding the ice pack on my nose and eyes.
“Ohhhh . . .” I moaned and closed my eyes against the pain coursing through my body and over the surface of my skin.
We regret the discomfort, Gemma Keyes.
I flinched, jerked my head toward the unexpected voice that came from just over my right shoulder. Jumped to my feet—with as much grace as a drunken elephant—and slumped, panting, against the refrigerator.
No one there!
“Who-who’s talking?”
We recommend a nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drug, other than aspirin, for temporary relief of pain.
Again—the voice was behind me. I swung around to confront the speaker.
No. One. There.
Adrenalin shimmied down my spine to my legs. I wanted to run—but to where? From whom?
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