Stealth Power

by Vikki Kestell

  “Who is this? Where are you?” I demanded.

  Silence.

  A poignant, pregnant silence.

  A silence all too familiar to me.

  “Nano?” I whispered.

  We regret the discomfort, Gemma Keyes.

  I staggered back to the dinette and fell onto the chair. While my nose bled freely and my head and body beat with the rhythm of my heart, my brain struggled to fit what was going on into a believable interpretation.

  Minutes ticked by. I could not accept the conclusions that logic presented.

  “Nano?”

  Since you are temporarily incapacitated, we will release endorphins into your bloodstream to mitigate your discomfort. We again recommend that you take a nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory analgesic other than aspirin, which acts to thin blood. Aspirin would not be a good choice in this situation.

  “Y-you did this? What is happening?”

  We will assist in your biological healing. We expect your body to adjust within a forty-eight- to seventy-two-hour period.

  “B-but . . . adjust to what? What are you doing?”

  We are effecting a more efficient and cooperative union. As you requested.

  “Y-you are—you are what?” I “sprang” to my feet—again with all the elegance of an inebriated pachyderm—and just as quickly grasped the kitchen counter. The room whirled around me; my legs could not support my mind’s instinctual urge to flee what I feared.

  We are releasing endorphins now. Endorphins are neuropeptides that will interact with your body’s opiate receptors to reduce your perception of pain. You will experience a marked increase in well-being in approximately three-point-five minutes. Please ingest the recommended adult dose of the nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory analgesic of your choice to assist in pain reduction.

  Pain? Yes. Oh, wow, did I hurt!

  But “union” and “your body will adjust”? I fended off the tidal wave of dread/disbelief/horror driving my heart to faster speeds and reached for a kitchen catch-all drawer where I’d seen a bottle of Ibuprofen. I slammed three of the little round brown pills and half a glass of water.

  And hacked them right back up.

  “Oh, man,” I moaned.

  Still holding the bloody washcloth to my nose, I rinsed my mouth and sprayed the ick down the sink. With a trembling hand, I shook three more pills from the bottle and swallowed them with a sip.

  Another sip.

  We will speed the ingested medication to your COX-1 and COX-2 enzymes and will assist the NSAID in reducing the number of prostaglandins produced by your body’s reaction to our merge.

  Our merge? I could have kept the pills down. I truly could have—if the mites hadn’t shared that tasty bit of info.

  Up came the pills.

  I was draped over the sink like a dirty dishcloth when I finished retching and purging. Too weak to stand.

  We do regret the discomfort our actions have caused, Gemma Keyes. We will, ourselves, undertake to reduce the number of prostaglandins produced by your body.

  Super.

  Perfect.

  Why, thank you very much.

  How very kind of you.

  We recommend suspension of voluntary bodily functions while your body adjusts and heals.

  You mean sleep?

  Gee, thanks for your concern.

  You rock.

  My physical self might have been down for the count, but my sarcas-meter was pegged out.

  Smokin’ hot.

  The mites must have managed “to reduce the number of prostaglandins produced by your body’s reaction to our merge,” because a tiny bit of that promised “well-being” rushed into my brain—enough for me to lurch down the hall to the bedroom. I flipped the soiled pillow over and flopped into the bed.

  I shivered, but had no ambition to pull the covers up. However, a moment later, I felt the soothing weight of blankets come to rest on my shoulders.

  How did they do that?

  As the worst of the throbbing pain eased, I slid downward into a troubled chasm. My last conscious thought was,

  I’m never going to get the blood out of this pillow.

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 8

  Later, I calculated that I had slept a solid fourteen hours. The nanomites had to have done something to keep me out that long, but when I awoke, it was morning and a low voice was repeating in my ear,

  Gemma Keyes.

  Wake up, Gemma Keyes.

  We require energy.

  Gemma Keyes.

  Wake up, Gemma Keyes.

  We require energy.

  Gemma Keyes.

  Wake up, Gemma Keyes.

  We require energy.

  “Yeah, yeah.” I buried my face in the pillow, but the chant continued unabated. My pillow should have blocked out the voice, but it seemed to amplify the whispers.

  Gemma Keyes.

  Wake up, Gemma Keyes.

  We require energy.

  Gemma Keyes.

  Wake up, Gemma Keyes.

  We require energy.

  “Oh, shut up, will you?” I flipped the covers back and rolled over, planted my feet on the floor and stood up, looking around for the extension cord.

  Oh, yeah. I left it in the living room—ack!

  I missed stepping in yesterday’s congealed vomit by millimeters. With more strength than I would have believed I possessed, I sidestepped the ick, made it to the nearest switch plate, slapped my hand onto it, and let the nanomites feed. As they swarmed down my arm and into the power supply, the usual warmth flowed up my arm and through me—and it felt kind of different this time. More energizing. Revitalizing.

  While they fed, I inhaled deep, satisfying breaths and stretched my legs, my back, my neck.

  Then I hit the bathroom. A quick once-over with my hands left me disgusted. Dried, crusted blood smeared my face, neck, hair, and nightshirt.

  Ugh.

  Well, at least my nose isn’t bleeding anymore.

  After I’d relieved myself, I showered, washed my hair, and put on clean clothes. I set my bloody nightshirt and pillowcase to soak in cold water. I didn’t know what I’d do about the blood stains on the pillow itself. Then I went to the kitchen and put on coffee.

  As I waited for the Elixir of Life to brew, I took stock of how I felt. I was surprised at my tally: No more nose bleed, no head or body ache, no fever, no residual fatigue.

  Not too bad, I admitted. I feel pretty good.

  While the coffee pot gurgled, I did a few sets of lunges and girl-style pushups, some squats and stretches, and a three-minute Downward-Facing Dog to limber up. As I worked out, everything inside me tingled in a rather pleasant manner.

  “Huh. I would have thought I’d be stiffer. Sore. Hungover,” I murmured.

  I grabbed my first cup of coffee and headed into the living room to savor it and enjoy a few minutes of peaceful leisure.

  Instead, I sloshed half my coffee into my lap.

  Gemma Keyes, are you ready to begin?

  “Wha—” I don’t know how I’d forgotten that voice in my ear, but when it piped up, I jerked and tossed the contents of my mug at the same time.

  Straight up. Straight down. Into my lap.

  “Oh, man! Don’t do that! And look at this mess!”

  We regret that we startled you.

  All the stuff the nanomites had told me while my nose was bleeding came rushing back.

  We regret the discomfort, Gemma Keyes.

  We expect your body to adjust within a forty-eight- to seventy-two-hour period.

  We are effecting a more efficient and cooperative union.

  As you requested.

  I shuddered. Oh, yeah. A more efficient and cooperative union. As I requested? Great.

  I sopped up the slopped coffee with a towel then poured myself another cup. I set my mug on the dinette table this time and took a seat and a first tentative sip.

  As I requested?

  I tried to recall my exact words when I’d
suggested to the nanomites that we needed a better means of communication. I hadn’t used the term “more efficient and cooperative union. Well, not exactly—or had I?

  I remembered saying, “Nano, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m interested in improved, that is, enhanced, two-sided communication. More effective communication could lead to, um, greater exchanges of information and understanding, and, um, even consensus (gag) and cooperation between us. Enriched communication could result in, um, superior decisions—perhaps collaboration and mutual support—especially when we are in tight spots.”

  And this little gem, “I wish we could find a means to function better. Together. More economically. More efficiently. Perhaps forge an, um, alliance or partnership.”

  I wagged my head side to side. “Way to go, Gemma.”

  Careful what you ask for.

  “Um, Nano . . . how do you . . . how are you talking to me? Do you have, um, mouths now?”

  I had a vision of tiny, chomping jaws running through my body.

  Just peachy.

  Instead, the mites answered, No. No mouths. Vibrations.

  “Vibrations?” I mulled that one over. Well, but what is sound, other than vibrations?

  “So . . . you’re making audible words by vibrating?”

  Yes.

  I snorted a laugh into my mug. “Ingenious.”

  I thought a bit more, speculated why their voice seemed to come from behind my shoulder or inside my ear. “Are you vibrating in my brain or my ear canal?”

  External auditory meatus.

  “Sooo . . . the ear canal. Wow. Okay. That’s cool.”

  We do not register a decrease in the ambient temperature attributable to our vibrations.

  “What? Oh. (*snort-laugh*) No, I mean, um, ‘cool’ as in the slang for, um, interesting or, uh, good.”

  Silence.

  I sipped my coffee and wondered what other surprises the mites’ “merge” would produce. I finished my coffee, poured another cup, and wandered back into the living room. Woke up the laptop and opened a browser window to peruse recent Albuquerque news. I loaded the KRQE website and scanned down the page.

  Nothing of interest caught my eyes, but I’d been “out” for most of a day. I was browsing backward in the news archives when I experienced a sudden, disquieting revelation.

  Wait a sec. The mites didn’t need to do the “merge” thing to talk to me, to make vibrations in my ear. They could have “vibro-talked” to me from the get-go.

  So, what exactly did their so-called merge accomplish?

  “Nano—”

  The two-day-old headline drove all questions from my mind.

  LOCAL PASTOR ATTACKED

  IN GANG-RELATED DISPUTE

  An Albuquerque resident, Zander Cruz, associate pastor at Downtown Community Church, and an as-yet unidentified Albuquerque senior citizen were assaulted and beaten Thursday in what police describe as a gang-related altercation. Both Cruz and the elderly male have been hospitalized. No word on their condition has been released.

  ***

  Ross Gamble huddled with Pete Diaz and Don Benally near a parked APD unit. Gamble appraised the cul-de-sac and its homes and saw nothing of note: The houses were aging but nice-enough looking. The yards—except one—were well-kept. Nothing remained of the police tape and police presence from the incident two days past.

  “What’s up, Pete?”

  Diaz grinned. “You asked me to keep you in the loop.” The other officer, Benally, silently followed their conversation.

  Gamble nodded. “Yeah, thanks. What do you have?”

  “All right. So, day before yesterday, the man who lives in that house there, one Abraham Pickering, age 71,” he pointed to a home on the outlet of the cul-de-sac, “and his neighbor,” he pointed to the next house over, “got into it. Apparently, the neighbor guy has custody of his ten-year-old nephew. Last Thursday, Mr. Pickering reported to CYFD that the kid was being neglected and had taken to spending the night in the bushes.”

  Diaz pointed to the shrubs that formed a boundary between the two houses.

  “Okaaay,” Gamble grumbled.

  “Hold your horses; I’m trying to make a point. That neighbor,” he again pointed to the next house over, “happens to be Mateo Martinez.”

  Gamble looked skeptical. “He lives there? Too tame of a crib for a gang banger, isn’t it? Too respectable; neighborhood’s too ‘nice’ for his ilk.”

  “He inherited the house from his dad. I’ve interviewed the other neighbors except the young woman who lives there.” He gestured at the house sitting back and center of the cul-de-sac. “The folks all say that Martinez’s crew used to party here on a regular basis. By some unspoken agreement, the neighbors didn’t call APD and the gang didn’t bother the neighbors—if you don’t count the noise they made when carousing and the trash they left behind.”

  Diaz looked at his notes. “The neighbors say Mr. Flores,” he tipped his head toward the house on the other side of Martinez’s, “used to sweep up the broken glass and whatever else the gang left behind. More on the neighbors in a sec.

  “I interviewed the CYFD case officer, too, and she let me read Mr. Pickering’s complaint. He asserts that most times while the gang partied, Martinez’s nephew would hide out in the bushes. Then Pickering said he found the kid sitting on the curb one night dressed in nothing more than a t-shirt, jeans, and flip-flops. Overnight temps have been in the high forties, but the kid had no jacket. He was cold, unfed, and filthy. Pickering took him in and called CYFD.

  “CYFD came and took the kid, but Mr. Pickering lost no time applying for temporary custody of him. Of course, until he is vetted and approved, the kid has to stay in CYFD custody—which is where he is right now. Right after CYFD took the kid, a social worker paid a visit to Mateo Martinez—but he wasn’t home. Guess she came by a couple of times. Same thing each time.

  “On the day Martinez finally answered the door, the case worker was accompanied by an officer, and she had a warrant to enter the house and document its condition. Her report says it was a pigsty and the kitchen had no food.

  “Crazy thing is, the kid had been gone maybe five nights and Martinez hadn’t even noticed he was missing. That didn’t keep him from blowing up on the case worker, though. When she wouldn’t tell him where Emilio was or who had reported him, the officer had to step in and make Martinez back off.

  “Next day, Martinez confronted Mr. Pickering. The old man had kind of expected Martinez to show up; his friend, one Pastor Zander Cruz, was staying at the house so Pickering wouldn’t be alone when Martinez came calling. Well, Martinez didn’t show up by himself. He brought three of his crew with him, and they brought baseball bats.”

  Diaz sighed. “Pickering got off one shot from a revolver before the gang beat the living crud out of him and Cruz. Pickering hit one of the gangers in the chest, but he’ll live. The old man, though, has a head wound and is in rough shape—they don’t know yet if he’ll make it or not. Cruz will survive, but he’s got cracked and broken bones and some nasty cuts and bruises.”

  “And Martinez?”

  “Yeah, he’s disappeared—but remember I said I’d get back to the neighbors? Yeah, get this: They reported that, a few weeks before Martinez’s attack on Pickering and Cruz, Martinez had a visitor, a stranger. This guy rolled into the neighborhood in a sleek, expensive ride and was accompanied by some very intimidating men—but none of them as intimidating as the stranger himself.

  “Martinez not only let them into his house but, ever since then, Martinez and his gang have been at this guy’s beck and call. Now get this: The word the neighbors use to describe this stranger? Downright scary.”

  “Arnaldo Soto.”

  “We think so. We’re looking for Martinez, of course, and we think when we find him, we’ll find Soto.”

  “Right. Unless Soto has already disposed of Martinez’s body in the desert.”

  “That’s entirely possible. I doubt Soto approved of M
artinez’s visit to Mr. Pickering. He wouldn’t appreciate the attention it drew to the gang.”

  Diaz turned a thoughtful eye on Martinez’s empty house. “Here’s something else. Seems that this unlikely little neighborhood has seen more than its fair share of drama lately. Mrs. Belicia Calderón—lives in that house across there—described something on the scale of a military action taking place about the same time that Pickering made his complaint to CYFD.”

  “Military action? What does that mean?”

  “That’s what I wondered, too. See the house between Mrs. Calderón and the Flores’? It’s vacant and boarded up right now, and no one seems to know where the young woman who lives there has gone. However, she was at the center of the incident Mrs. Calderón described.”

  “So, why bring that up? Whatever it was, it can’t have anything to do with Martinez.”

  Diaz chuckled. “Yeah, you’d think so, ’cept Mrs. Calderón—who, by the way, has her nose in everything that happens around here—added some interesting details to her tale. According to her, the young guy whom Mateo’s thugs beat up is the missing woman’s boyfriend.”

  “Don’t say.”

  “Oh, and Mr. Pickering is this same woman’s good friend. Something of a father figure.”

  “Interesting. And she’s missing?”

  “Well, as Alice said in Wonderland, the situation gets curiouser and curiouser. Mrs. Calderón gave me a real earful on her next-door neighbor—I guess she is no fan of Miss Keyes.”

  “Miss Keyes?”

  “Gemma Keyes. She’s the missing woman. Twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, single. Former contractor employee at Sandia.”

  Gamble’s brows scrunched. “I’m not seeing all the connections yet, but I am puzzled about this so-called military action. What was that about? How did Mrs. Calderón describe it?”

  Something wrapped itself around Gamble’s leg. He flinched and looked down. A cat—a categorically ugly specimen of Felis catus—rubbed against him.

  “Sheesh. Just what I need—cat hair all over my trousers.”

  The cat meowed deep in his throat.

  Diaz chuckled. “This is Gemma Keyes’ cat, Jake. Disreputable old tom, according to the neighbors. Quite the character and very discriminating. No one in the cul-de-sac will touch him—they’re all afraid to.”