Stealth Power

by Vikki Kestell

  I found his rough old hand and cupped his fingers in mine. “Abe? Abe, it’s Gemma. Can you hear me?”

  He did not stir, and a hopeless ache settled in my heart. I couldn’t stand it; I started to gulp and gasp.

  Gemma Keyes. We sense distress.

  “I . . . yes. I suppose I am distressed. I am . . . so sad.”

  I sobbed the last two words. Choked on them.

  The mites said nothing further but, given my treatment of them earlier and our few and frosty exchanges since, I was surprised that they had spoken at all.

  I put the mites out of my mind and just held Abe’s hand. I heard the slow, very slow beep of the heart monitor with rising dread and observed how cool his hand was in mine. Unnaturally cool.

  Perhaps my surprise at the nanomites’ words had jogged a memory. Something began to niggle at the back of my mind, something about the first day I had entered the tunnels.

  I blinked and tried to recall exactly what it was . . . something while Dr. Bickel was bragging to me about the good things the nanomites would someday accomplish. His words came to me in fits and starts, and I pieced those bits together.

  “Do you know how much suffering the nanomites could alleviate? How many diseases they could cure? All cancers could be overcome, quickly removed from a body by the mites’ coordinated attack. Injuries and birth defects could be repaired without overtly invasive surgeries.

  “Can you imagine the insect infestations that could be corrected, rebalanced without the use of harmful chemicals? Can you fathom the effect of the nanomites on food production worldwide? Starvation would become a thing of the past! The nanomites could predict weather patterns and facilitate rescue attempts under collapsed buildings! The list of good they could do is endless, Gemma.”

  I went back to what he’d said first. Suffering alleviated? Injuries repaired?

  I stood there for a long while before whispering, “Nano. You told me that you aided my body after the, um, merge, that you helped it to heal. Can you . . . will you send part of, um, part of us into Abe and work on him? Aid his body to heal?”

  They did not answer.

  Except for their terse, monosyllabic directions to the MICU and their recent observation regarding my “distress,” the mites had not spoken to me—in hours. In the time it had taken me to reach the hospital and find Abe, they had not spoken. From the moment I had ignored their request for a recommendation, they had been silent. They had been mute since I had made my own precipitous decision without their input or consensus—the consensus of the other five tribes.

  I didn’t know if they understood my grief and worry, but I was certain that they were put out . . . because I’d broken with their protocol—with deliberate intention. Perhaps the mites were, at this exact minute, in a confab, expressing regret over their decision to include my “tribe” in their collective.

  I blew out a breath. “Nano? Did you, um, did you hear me?”

  Gemma Keyes, since this situation causes you physical distress, we will assess this man’s injuries.

  As the familiar warmth spread from my fingers to Abe’s hand, I broke.

  “Th-thank you. I-I’m sorry about before. Not waiting to, um, discuss my choices with you before acting. I responded in haste because I was so worried about my friends.”

  Nothing.

  I winced inside. Not so big on acknowledging apologies? Or are you too preoccupied with Abe’s injuries to respond?

  For thirty minutes, I waited and watched over my battered friend before the nanomites spoke again.

  Gemma Keyes. We have cauterized bleeding vessels in this man’s brain and drained excess fluid to reduce intracranial pressure. We have knit many wounds together and stimulated cell regeneration around said wounds. We have removed necrotizing tissue.

  “Will he be all right?”

  Silence.

  I glanced at Abe’s heart monitor. Did I imagine it, or had his heart rate come up a little? Would the nanomites’ repairs save him? Could they?

  I hoped so, but I had a perverse inclination to pray for Abe just then.

  Perverse? Yes. Perverse. Every time I thought I’d arrived at a place in my life where I could, at long last, wash my hands of God, some unexpected and out-of-my-control crisis sprang up—something I had no solution for. So, yeah, I had this perverse inclination to pray, because I could not, just could not let Abe die if a single instance of self-abasement might prevent it!

  I stood there, unable to speak—because my prayers were plenty rusty from disuse. My obstinate distrust of God probably didn’t help, either.

  After a long internal struggle, I shrugged one shoulder. Basically, I’d do whatever it took to save Abe.

  Even talk to God.

  “Um, Lord, can you—that is, would you—look down on, um, your servant Abraham Pickering? He loves you, Lord, even if I, um, don’t . . . exactly. Would you please help his body to heal? I-I still need him. And Emilio needs him. For Emilio’s sake, please don’t take him just yet?”

  I fumbled to add something more eloquent or to revise what I’d already said and make it more appealing. I just ended up repeating myself.

  “Emilio really needs Abe, God. Please don’t let him down.”

  With tears dripping from my face, I got out of Abe’s room, out of the MICU, and strode toward the elevator. I focused on crossing the medical campus to the main hospital and finding Zander.

  ***

  Ross Gamble stood over Zander Cruz’s hospital bed and assessed the patient’s condition. At the moment, the young man resembled a side of beef that had been bulldozed by a truck.

  Maybe a convoy of trucks.

  Cruz’s face was swollen, his eyes swallowed in puffy, purple, dark blue, and violet folds. A long split over a canine tooth distorted one side of his mouth. The inch-long split was stitched closed. It, too, was swollen and purple. Grotesque. A cast surrounded Cruz’s right arm; the arm was immobilized within a sling strapped to the poor guy’s bare chest—a chest that sported a mass of bruises.

  Gamble grimaced. A baseball bat will do that. Guess he’s gonna make it if they have him on this floor instead of in the ICU. Wonder if he will be able to answer questions.

  “Reverend Cruz?”

  One of Zander’s puffy eyes opened a slit. “Yesh.” The single syllable was thick and sticky sounding.

  “Reverend Cruz, I’m Special Agent Ross Gamble of the FBI. May I get you some water?”

  The man’s eyelid dropped, but his head moved up and down the smallest bit.

  Gamble filled a cup with slushy water from a pitcher, held the straw to Cruz’s mouth, and helped him get it between his lips. After a few sips, Cruz groaned, and Gamble pulled the cup away.

  “More?”

  Cruz managed to shake his head ‘no.’

  “Thanksh,” he muttered.

  Gamble sensed someone behind him, looked, saw nothing, turned back.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Been . . . better.”

  “What do the doctors say? You gonna be all right?”

  “Yeah. Be . . . a minute.”

  The guy has pluck, I’ll give him that, Gamble thought, the hint of a smile tugging on his mouth.

  “You feel up to answering a few questions?”

  Cruz’s eyes opened again, and he studied Gamble.

  Is that fear? Alarm? Gamble wondered. He found fear to be a curious response—he expected resentment, and he often encountered distrust. But fear? For whom? Wasn’t he the victim here?

  “Reverend Cruz, I understand that you and Abe Pickering are friends and that you and he were trying to help this boy, Emilio Martinez, out of an abusive situation. Is that right?”

  ***

  I stood in the doorway of Zander’s room. The other bed in the room was empty, but some guy I didn’t know was standing next to Zander’s bed, talking to him.

  The guy’s bearing made me wary—was he one of Cushing’s agents? He looked like he’d played tight end on his co
llege ball team: tall, muscled up, but not so much that his suit bulged. He held himself with a relaxed military bearing, too. I recognized the type; I’d worked with ex-military at Sandia.

  I was pretty tense until I heard the guy say, “Reverend Cruz, I’m Special Agent Ross Gamble of the FBI. May I get you some water?”

  I went from tense to confused and curious. FBI? Why would the FBI want to talk to Zander? The FBI was only one or two rungs above Cushing in my estimation but, as far as I knew, the agency had no knowledge of the nanomites—or me. Conversely, if they did know and were looking for me, my situation was bunches worse than I’d thought.

  I watched the FBI man give Zander a drink. He was solicitous, maybe even concerned; his manner seemed genuine enough. I relaxed a hair more and tiptoed around him to the other side of Zander’s bed. Gamble flicked his eyes at me as I passed by. He scanned around the room before he turned his attention back to Zander.

  I leaned against the wall near the foot of Zander’s bed. After the shock of Abe’s injuries, I knew I couldn’t stomach seeing how badly Mateo’s gang had beaten Zander.

  I averted my eyes and listened in.

  “Reverend Cruz, I understand that you and Mr. Pickering were attacked by Mateo Martinez and three members of his gang. Since then, Martinez has gone to ground. I’m interested in finding him. Do you have any idea where he might be hiding out?”

  Zander didn’t answer right away, and I chanced a glimpse at him.

  Oh, Zander! What have they done to you?

  I almost did not recognize him for the swelling and bruises. As much as it pained me to see him like this, I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

  Gamble repeated his question. “Reverend Cruz? Do you have any idea where Martinez might be hiding out?”

  Zander licked his swollen lips and mumbled what I was wondering. “Why?”

  “Why are we looking for Martinez?”

  “Yesh.” He groaned a little and wet the horrid split in his lip again.

  I commiserated with Zander in silence. Oh, ouch!

  Gamble pursed his mouth and parsed his words—reactivating my suspicions.

  “One of Martinez’s, uh, associates is a person of interest in an ongoing investigation. We figure if we find Martinez, we may find the man we’re looking for.”

  And who might that be? Dead Eyes? My interest returned; I leaned toward Gamble.

  “No . . . idea,” Zander managed.

  “Okay. Can you tell me a little bit about Martinez? About any visitors he had?”

  “Don’ live . . . there. Jusht vishit . . . Abe.”

  Zander’s voice petered out and his eyelids drooped. It was easy to see that he was exhausted and in pain.

  “Am I tiring you out, Pastor Cruz?”

  Zander attempted a negative shake of his head, but neither Agent Gamble nor I were fooled: Zander was a mess. A painful, swollen mess.

  Well, since I wasn’t ready for Gamble to stop asking questions, I gently, so very gently, placed my hand on Zander’s foot. And squeezed. Just a tiny bit.

  Once. Twice. Three times.

  Zander grunted; his eyes popped open—well, one of them did—and zoomed in on the mound of blanket covering his foot, on the impression my fingers made as I pressed and released, the movement that, in mere seconds, the mites hid.

  I whispered to the mites. They raced into Zander’s body, but I kept my hand on Zander’s foot. I squeezed again.

  A brave smile tipped up one corner of his mouth—the corner not split and stitched.

  He knows I’m here.

  I grinned back, but Gamble stared at Zander, a smidge troubled.

  Zander exhaled with a sigh. He had to be feeling the mites’ warmth flowing from me into his body, seeking out damaged tissue, screaming pain receptors, and broken bone, going after harmful bacteria, prompting his body to release endorphins and serotonin and whatever else they could manipulate to ease his discomfort.

  I closed my eyes. From the warehouse, I could sense their activities. I monitored their progress and nodded my approval as they mended torn skin, muscle, and ligament and knit shattered bone.

  Oh, won’t your doctor be amazed, Zander? I clamped one hand over my mouth so I wouldn’t giggle aloud.

  Zander sighed again and relaxed. The neuropeptides were kicking in.

  Gamble’s expression went from troubled to puzzled. “You okay, Cruz? Should I call a nurse?”

  “No, I feel . . . fine. Thanks, though.”

  Zander sounded a lot better to my ears: More words, less slurring.

  Gamble’s eyes narrowed. “You mind if we keep going, then?”

  “No . . . problem.” That sticky, painful lisp wasn’t as pronounced.

  “I appreciate your cooperation, Reverend. So, just to round things out, to get a sense of what led up to the attack on you and Mr. Pickering, I also wanted to ask if you were present about eleven or twelve days ago when some sort of raid took place in the cul-de-sac.”

  It was neatly done, that abrupt change of topic on Gamble’s part.

  Zander’s eyes drifted up to Gamble’s face. “Raid?”

  I was proud of Zander’s ploy, but Gamble wasn’t buying it.

  “Mrs. Calderón and Mr. and Mrs. Tucker told me all about it. Said you were there, too, with Mr. Pickering, that the agents from the raid questioned everyone present, including you.”

  “Oh. That raid.”

  I grinned. Even Gamble grinned—a hardened, cynical grin, but amused, nonetheless.

  “Yeah. That raid. What was that all about?”

  Zander cleared his throat. He made it sound like broken glass scraping over asphalt.

  Ack.

  “More water, please?” Zander asked.

  Gamble grunted. “Sure thing, Reverend. I want you to have all the time you need to frame your answers.”

  I stifled a laugh. Despite the fact that I distrusted feds, I kinda admired this guy’s attitude.

  Zander got his drink, and Gamble said, “Those people said they were looking for the woman who lives across the street. Do you know her name, the woman they were looking for?”

  Careful, Zander.

  “Yeah. Gemma Keyes. She used to go to my church when she was a kid. Same church Abe goes to, but before my time. Abe asked me to introduce myself and invite her back.”

  I knew Zander well enough and had heard him spout the same line to my psycho sister and to Cushing’s people. He was distancing himself from me—and doing a good job.

  “So, you don’t know her well?”

  “No. Only interacted with her three or four times.”

  Gamble raised his brows. “Mrs. Calderón has a different view of your relationship with Miss Keyes. Says she’s your girlfriend.”

  “No, she’s not. We’re acquaintances. Nothing more.” Zander tried to shift his position and winced. “I should caution you, Agent Gamble; Mrs. Calderón has something of a reputation as the community busybody.”

  Gamble said nothing, just studied Zander. “Can you describe the scene that night? The night of the raid? What happened, who was there, what vehicles were used?”

  Zander took care not to open his mouth too far and pull on the stitches, but he managed a detailed account. “Well . . . I was in Abe’s house when it started. It was after dark. Bunch of military-type trucks—maybe five or six?—rolled into the cul-de-sac. They were very quiet until two trucks with stadium lights mounted on them lit up the place. The lights and commotion drew us out of the house. We—Abe and I—watched from Abe’s front porch, just like the Tuckers, Mrs. Calderón, and Martinez did from their porches.”

  “Mateo Martinez was home that evening?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go on.”

  “Guys dressed in black broke into . . . Miss Keyes’ house. They had guns. Not handguns, but semi-auto assault rifles.”

  “You know guns?” Gamble seemed ready to pounce.

  “I wasn’t always a pastor, Agent Gamble.”

  “Oh?” Gambl
e jotted a note. “What then?”

  “Well, they didn’t find Miss Keyes, but they bagged up a bunch of her stuff and hauled it out. Then Cushing had the agents interview everyone.”

  Uh-oh.

  Gamble caught it, too. “Cushing?”

  Zander realized his mistake, but he kept himself together. “A woman, a General Cushing, followed the trucks into the cul-de-sac. She seemed to be running the show—issuing orders and stuff. The soldiers and agents practically got on their knees and kissed her feet when she arrived. In my line of work, we know people—and those agents were wary of her. Too careful.”

  “How do you know her name, this General Cushing?”

  “I asked the agent who interviewed us.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?” Zander did a credible “perplexed.”

  Gamble wasn’t buying that either. He pressed harder. “Why did you ask for Cushing’s name?”

  “Well, because she makes an impression, you know?”

  “No, I don’t. Why don’t you tell me?”

  As much as he was able, Zander snorted. “Because, even from across the street, this lady came across as hard. Cold. Ruthless, maybe. Like I said, her people were afraid of her. And besides, we had no idea why the army would send a SWAT team out against a lone woman, who, as I understand from Abe, is afraid of her own shadow.” Zander laid back, winded.

  That mouthful contained several disparate items—including one that struck a nerve in me.

  Afraid of my own shadow? Me? Well, maybe. Maybe that’s how I was. Before.

  After the nanomites had invaded me, I’d been paralyzed by my fears, and I had focused on getting rid of them. But then, as my efforts ran out of steam and the mites’ infestation began to feel permanent and hopeless, a careless, reckless rage had taken hold of me. That anger had burned in my belly until I dared to do crazy things, until I started to take risks and use the nanomites to carry out daring, perhaps audacious, plans.

  Then it dawned on me. I’m not that old Gemma anymore. The mites have changed me. Inside. They have forced me to stand up and fight for my survival, for my right to live.

  No. I’m not afraid of my own shadow anymore.

  I watched Gamble digest what Zander had told him and formulate his next question.