Stealth Power

by Vikki Kestell

  He glanced around and kept his face averted. “What you talkin’ ’bout? What you find out?”

  Oh, dear. He doesn’t know.

  “Um, Emilio, your uncle . . . Mateo, he, um, he and some of his buddies . . . beat up Zander and Abe. They are in the hospital. That’s why you haven’t heard from either of them.”

  I had expected the news to hit him hard, but I hadn’t foreseen his reaction.

  He crumpled. That’s the only way I can describe it. He crumpled in on himself as though all the air and all the bones had been sucked out of his body. And he started sobbing.

  I found myself holding him, rocking him, murmuring to him as he bawled his eyes out.

  “They will be all right, Emilio. They will. I talked to both of them. Don’t you worry. We’ll get them both fixed up, good as new. Don’t you worry.”

  A playground monitor with a whistle on a chain around her neck glanced over. Her gaze settled on Emilio. She squinted and started moving in our direction.

  I closed my eyes. Nano. Can you cover Emilio while I’m holding him like you cover me? So that no one sees him and comes over to investigate?

  I opened my eyes and watched the woman stop. Blink. Wrench her eyes back and forth in confusion. Turn in a complete circle searching for Emilio.

  “Ha-ha! Fooled her!” I gloated.

  Emilio pulled his face off my shirt and sniffled. “Who you fooled?”

  “That playground monitor over there. She saw you, um, get upset, and she started over here to check on you—except halfway here, she couldn’t find you anymore.”

  He sat up within the circle of my arms. “You disappeared me?”

  “Yeah. Just for a few minutes. Until we’re done talking.”

  He looked at his hands. His jeans. “Wow. I can’t see me, either!”

  “Um, yeah. That’s how it works.”

  He sniffed again and muttered, “I like that old man. Hope he gonna be all right.”

  “Yeah. Me, too. Say, he asked me to tell you something. He said, ‘You tell that boy that as soon as I get better, I’ll come get him back.’”

  At that, Emilio buried his face in my neck and bawled as though his heart would break. I kind of hung on to him and hugged him close, because I didn’t know what else to do.

  After a while, I realized my shirt was soaked through, but Emilio didn’t sound like he’d be done anytime soon. Inside I sighed. Was I in any way prepared to help a kid through an emotional crisis?

  I can barely weather my own emotional fiascoes.

  My fingers tugged at my soggy neckline and encountered the chain around my neck. I pulled the cross out and stroked its glossy patina.

  “Um, I never did thank you for this, Emilio.”

  He hiccupped and sniffled. “You din’ thank me for what?”

  “The, um, cross you made for me.”

  “You wearin’ it?”

  “Yeah. Feel?”

  He found the chain at my neck and traced it to the cross in my fingers. He clasped the cross, but it felt like he clasped my fingers more.

  “You like it?”

  “Very much. I keep it with me all the time.”

  He breathed out, gratified or relieved, I didn’t know which. After a long moment, he asked, tears clogging his voice, “Gemma?”

  “Yes?”

  “You think there’s a real God? Like the one they put on the cross?”

  Oh, man. Why me?

  “Gemma, I believe the Lord is calling you, calling you back to him. The thing about God is that he is persistent. In fact, his persistence is why some have called him the ‘Hound of Heaven.’ He is tireless and will confront you when you least expect it. At that time, he will bring you face to face with truth. When he does, well, it will be the moment of decision for you.”

  I was at a loss to answer Emilio’s question. Still, he was waiting.

  “I don’t know for sure . . .” Maybe I was more surprised when I added, “but I hope so, Emilio.”

  I had to change the subject before I starting bawling along with him. “Okay, listen, kid. Recess will be over soon. I wanted you to know why Zander and Abe haven’t sent you any recent messages through CYFD. They will be okay, but it will take them a while to recover. The good news is that Mateo will never get you back because of what he did. The bad news? You will have to wait and be patient until Abe heals enough for the court to approve his guardianship.”

  “How long?”

  I sighed again. “I don’t know. Honestly? It could be longer than any of us like, and I’m very sorry. I have your foster family’s address, though. I will come by and visit you when I can.”

  A shrill ringing shattered the air.

  “All right. There’s the bell. Got yourself together now?”

  “Yeah.”

  I hugged him close. “I promised you that you were not alone anymore. You aren’t. You have me, you have Zander, and you have Abe. And I’ll see you soon.”

  I forced a giggle. “But I’ll see you sooner than you’ll see me!”

  He got it and guffawed. “That’s funny.”

  I let him go, and watched him walk out from under the nanomites’ cloak of invisibility.

  He stopped, looked back, shuffled his feet. “I love you, Gemma.”

  Then he ran off.

  “I love you, Gemma.”

  Those were the sweetest words I’d heard in a very long time.

  ***

  I soared home on an emotional high . . .

  And crashed straight into a ditch.

  We arrived at the safe house, the nanomites and I, and they went about their business, scouring the Internet for leads on Dr. Bickel’s whereabouts. While they worked, the questions about what exactly the nanomites were doing to my body were digging holes in me.

  While the mites worked, I began my own search.

  I popped open a browser window and started exploring the anatomy of the human brain. My online search led me to labeled charts and graphs and even 3D images of the brain. I studied the cranium, cortex, cerebellum, dura, basal ganglia, brain stem, and spinal cord. Did you know that the brain is also divided into lobes? Frontal, parietal, temporal, and occipital. Within half an hour, I probably knew (and retained) as much information about the structures of the brain as a first-year med student.

  Maybe more.

  None of this information helped. It didn’t answer my “how” questions. Surely what the mites were doing ran deeper than the major pieces and parts of the human brain? I mean, how in the world do those parts make us think?

  Then I saw it: “The brain is one of the largest and most complex organs in the human body. It is made up of more than 100 billion nerves that communicate in trillions of connections called synapses.”

  It was the word “trillions” that jolted me. Trillions of connections. Trillions of “synapses.” The nanomites numbered in the trillions and they were tiny, smaller than my DNA. Smaller than my brain’s synapses.

  I dug in and researched more on “synapses.” I read with a voracity that was astounding, and I retained it all.

  What I found was unnerving: “Synapses and neurotransmitters are both key components of the central nervous system’s chemical communication network, responsible for relaying messages between nerve cells, or neurons. Figuratively speaking, the neurotransmitter is the messenger and the synapse is the pathway traveled by the messenger.”

  I read that the brain’s synapses are more than anatomical (physical) structures—they are electrical and chemical in composition and function. The more I read, the deeper my hunger grew. My vocabulary stumbled (initially) over words like axon terminal, dendrite spines, and synaptic vesicles; presynaptic, postsynaptic, upstream and downstream terminals or presynaptic (axonal) endings; tree-like structures that formed, lighted, and passed packets of information—all via complex chemical interactions and exchanges.

  The vocabulary stuck, and the new information came clear. I retained what I’d read, and I made the necessary conn
ections.

  I understood.

  I lifted my eyes from the screen and focused them on the living room’s lone Southwestern print. “They are manipulating my brain chemistry. They are changing its very structure.”

  I may not have figured out everything the mites were doing, but I had grasped enough. Enough to put a label on it.

  My breathing quickened. My heart thumped like that of a wild bird caught in a snare.

  What the mites were doing boiled down to this simple phrase: Nano brain surgery.

  Gemma Keyes, we are sensing physical distress. Would you like us to release endorphins to calm your body?

  I got what that meant now, too.

  “No, no, no. No, don’t do that.”

  Please tell us how we can assist.

  Assist? Haven’t you done enough?

  I grew faint. Breathless.

  Gemma Keyes, your heart rate is approaching a non-optimal speed.

  No kidding.

  I shook my head back and forth, one thought erasing all the others: They are in my brain, and they are changing it, changing its structure and the way it works. What if those changes are permanent? What happens to me when they leave?

  Forget that! What happens to me if they stay and keep doing what they’re doing?

  It was too much. Everything was too much. Thanks to my research and my new and “amazing” retentive abilities, I could visualize precisely what the mites were doing. I couldn’t stop envisioning the nanomites “in there.”

  All my imaginings were ugly.

  Brutal.

  Terrifying.

  When the mites left, would I be paralyzed? Unable to speak or form my own thoughts? A vegetable?

  It was too much to handle. I didn’t want to know more or think more. I didn’t want to deal with it any longer.

  My self-preservation instincts overloaded. All I wanted to do was run away. Escape.

  I slammed the laptop closed and walked on stiff legs to the bedroom. I climbed under the covers, put my face in the pillow, and closed my eyes.

  Gemma Keyes?

  “Don’t talk to me, Nano. Just leave me alone.”

  I pulled the blanket over my head and shut out the world. Shut out the despair. Shut out the waning hope that someday . . . all would be right again.

  A faint chipping followed me down into the blessed release of slumber.

  ***

  I slept through the afternoon into the evening—and I’m guessing I needed it. When I woke up, I was over the initial shock of what my research had produced. Or perhaps I was just resigned. I couldn’t do anything about the situation, could I?

  No, I couldn’t. Not one single thing.

  I left the house and went on a long and what should have been exhausting run. Yeah, I may have figured out what the mites were doing in my brain, but I hadn’t tapped into the other symptoms yet—what they were doing in my body.

  I ran faster.

  After I’d run for an hour, not much had changed. I had wanted the vigorous exercise to dispel the hopeless feelings that dogged me. It didn’t, but at least I returned to the safe house in a little better frame of mind.

  Better frame of mind?

  That phrase would never mean what it used to.

  The nanomites, for their part, seemed . . . what? Reserved? Reticent? Restrained? Did they even have a clue about how freaked out I was?

  Whatever.

  They didn’t ask questions or make much noise that evening, and that was all right by me.

  I needed some alone time.

  ***

  “And you took it upon yourself to attack your neighbor, did you? An old, helpless man? You chose to make us odious before the world? To bring down unwanted attention upon us?” Soto stood and moved a step toward Mateo.

  Mateo’s mouth opened a little. “But you . . . you told me to take care of the old man.”

  “I? I said no such thing. Did I? Does anyone recall my giving such an order?” Soto glanced around and his men, with uniform precision, shook their heads in the negative.

  “Exactly. Why would I suggest such an action? You see, Mateo? This is a perfect example of why I was sent here: to clean up the messes you have made.”

  Mateo’s anger, long suppressed, burst from his mouth. “Liar! You provoked me! You led me to believe—”

  “Shut up! Callate el osico.” Soto pushed himself into Mateo’s face. “Your presumption knows no bounds, chorra, and your stupidity rivals your lack of discretion. Eres tan estupido como un perro.”

  With sinking hope, Mateo swallowed and stared at the hard expressions surrounding him.

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 12

  “Zander?”

  His eyes popped open—at least the one that wasn’t swollen shut did—as soon as my whisper reached his ears.

  “Gemma?”

  “I’m here. How are you doing?”

  He reached for the button to raise the bed and groaned as he did. “Better. Lots better, really. Just sore, you know?”

  “Well you look like a tub of melting Spumoni ice cream—all pink-and-brown-ish with green mold growing around the edges.”

  “I—what?”

  His outrage generated a giggle that I didn’t stifle.

  “Zander, have you seen yourself? Looked in a mirror lately?”

  Glower. “Well, no.”

  “Your face is purple and purple-ish pink. And brown and green. The green is gonna be especially gross when it turns that icky-sicky yellow.”

  “Did you come here to cheer me up?”

  I laughed again. “Yeah, I did. Maybe I should change the subject, though. I found Emilio yesterday.”

  That did it: Zander perked up. “How’s the kid doing?”

  “He was pretty ticked off at all of us at first. I sat down next to him at recess, and he wouldn’t even acknowledge my presence—he even turned his back on me! Then I told him why you and Abe hadn’t visited or called him. That you were in the hospital. It upset him pretty bad.”

  “Does he know it was Mateo?”

  “Yeah, I told him, but I also told him that it meant Mateo would never get him back. Sort of took the sting out of it.”

  Zander lay back and closed his eyes. “You think Abe will be able to foster Emilio? I mean . . . if he survives?”

  “Oh, Zander! Abe’s gonna to be fine.”

  Zander’s good eye cracked open again and tried to focus in my general direction. “You sure?”

  “Yup. Before I met up with Emilio yesterday, I went back to the MICU, and Abe was vastly improved. They had even taken him off the vent, so we were able to talk. His throat was sore and his voice was rough, but he was in his right mind. I will go again today, after I leave here. I’ll bet they have to move him to another ward soon.”

  “Wow. I can hardly believe it. I saw what Mateo and his buddies did to Abe, so it’s . . . well, it’s miraculous.”

  My voice dropped to a whisper. “I agree . . . but do you think it was nanomites? Or was it God?” That question had been bugging me since I left Abe’s room yesterday morning.

  Zander’s mouth widened into a sweet smile. “Give me your hand, Gemma. C’mon. Give it to me.”

  He held out the palm that wasn’t trussed up in the sling to support his cracked collarbone. I put my hand in his outstretched one.

  “The Bible has a verse I particularly like for this type of situation, Gemma, when something good happens, and we don’t know who or what to give the credit to.”

  “Oh?” I licked my lips, more taken by how my hand felt in his, more interested in the little shivers jittering up my back.

  “Yeah. That verse is found in the Book of James and goes like this: Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.

  “Good stuff comes from God—because God is good. All good stuff comes from him. So, even if it was the nanomites who helped Abe? We can thank God for them. After all, Dr. Bickel
made them, but God made him.”

  I sneered a little. I’d never come within spitting distance of thanking God for the nanomites. They had been a pain in my . . . posterior for two months. After what I’d learned yesterday, my feelings were even less amiable toward them.

  But I digress.

  “I remember Aunt Lucy quoting that verse. She was always praising God for this blessing or that answer to prayer. She also said something about God not having a shadow?”

  Zander busted out a chuckle and gasped mid-snigger. “Please stop! Hurts to laugh.”

  “Was what I said really so funny?”

  “Yeah, kinda. It’s just that I can see you as a kid interpreting that verse to mean that God doesn’t have a shadow.”

  He shifted, still uncomfortable.

  I wasn’t sympathetic at that exact moment. “Well, I thought that’s what Aunt Lu said.”

  “It’s not that God doesn’t have a shadow, Gemma, it’s that he doesn’t change. When someone moves, their shadow moves, right? God doesn’t ‘move,’ meaning he doesn’t shift his position so to speak. When he takes a stand, he doesn’t waffle on it or, figuratively, flit around like a ‘shifting shadow.’”

  “God doesn’t change?”

  “No. People change their minds all the time and let us down, and people’s emotions flip-flop from one minute to the next, driving them and everyone around them nuts—which is why, by the way, we shouldn’t make decisions based solely on how we feel. But God? His character and nature? Who he is? What he says? Those things don’t change—and that’s good news for us.”

  I didn’t say anything, because I was stuck on the “people’s emotions flip-flop from one minute to the next, driving them and everyone around them nuts” part.

  It was the perfect description of me.

  Zander couldn’t see my face, so he kept going. “For example, God doesn’t love us one day and hate us the next day. Jesus said, For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son. God loves the world—and that means he loves people. He isn’t going to stop loving people, so he keeps reaching out to each of us, trying to draw us to him. At the same time, God is just. He gives us choice, and he allows us to choose him or reject him.”