Stealth Power

by Vikki Kestell

  I entered the warehouse. It brightened around me, lengthened and widened. I looked down the long hallway and back, and where nothing but space had been, a huge—I mean honkin’ huge—man loomed over me. I jumped back, startled. Opened my eyes in the dojo. About hyperventilated.

  Come back, Gemma Keyes. We have initiated your training program.

  That man was my training program? I waited until my breathing slowed before I closed my eyes again. Yup, He was still there. I took wary stock of the guy. He was built like a boulder—even his muscles had muscles—and all his muscles looked like huge rocks popping out of his skin.

  I swallowed. Hard. “Um, who are you?”

  “I am your instructor, Gemma Keyes. You will follow my directions.”

  “Follow your . . .”

  I stalled. Big time. “Uh . . . um . . . do you have a name?”

  For a moment, just a moment, he became ominously still. Then he responded, “You may call me Gustav.”

  Gustav? Lame! Where did the mites come up with that?

  Gustav turned his back to me and went through a three-part hand and foot movement drill. He repeated the same song and dance and then commanded, “Replicate my steps.”

  It wasn’t easy. I mean, I’ve never been athletic, never played sports other than mandatory volleyball in high school. I almost failed ballroom dance in college.

  I tried. Tried again. Again. And again—because he said “again,” and I was a teensy bit afraid to tell him “no.”

  Actually, I was making better progress than I’d believed I would, but I was frustrated that I couldn’t do what he wanted as fast as he expected. My trainer (whom I started calling Gus-Gus under my breath), showed no emotion, yet he managed to convey firmness and urgency.

  He pushed me, and we didn’t take breaks. Under his demanding tutelage, I worked away the afternoon. Because we were in the warehouse, I kept my eyes closed and learned a bunch of short little “routines” that centered me within an eight-foot square piece of dojo floor or ran me sideways down the length of the floor and back. I didn’t know what else to call the hand and footstep motions—he didn’t give them a name, so I just used what came to mind, and “routine” seemed to fit.

  At first, because my eyes were closed, my balance kept going wonky on me, and I would open my eyes to keep from falling—which threw me off even worse. Gradually, though, I acclimated to moving in the nanomites’ virtual training environment without falling over.

  Gus-Gus pushed me harder and didn’t allow me time to think about what I was doing; I just did what he commanded, faster and faster, until my movements became smoother, more fluid. After three hours of continuous work, my body felt good. Used, but satisfied.

  I had blisters on my feet, and figured we were done . . . but nope.

  Gemma Keyes, enter the equipment room and find Locker 7. Remove a set of escrima sticks.

  “A set of what?”

  I wandered to one end of the building and found the equipment room with stuff like headgear and pads hanging from pegs in the wall. The room also had a row of lockers that, to my eyes, were glorified closets. I found Locker 7 and opened it.

  The locker’s inside walls were lined with fabric pouches holding matched pairs of “sticks” about two feet in length, maybe longer. Some of the sticks were foam padded; others were lengths of a variegated light-colored wood. Two sets were of a darker, polished wood. I lifted one of the darker sticks—it was smooth and solid. And heavy.

  Gemma Keyes. Select a pair of padded sticks.

  “What are they for?”

  You will learn to use these sticks in Kali-style Filipino Martial Arts. Given your strength and size, the time available to train you, and your advantage of being invisible to your opponents, we have determined this to be the most effective fighting style for you. We have also ascertained that we can hide the sticks while you use them. The escrima sticks will become your principal weapon.

  I was stunned. “Weapon?”

  Yes, Gemma Keyes. Think of the sticks as extensions of your hands—longer, stronger extensions. Your use of the sticks will lessen the advantage of a larger, more skilled opponent. You will train and become optimal in the time available to prepare you.

  I was starting to dislike the word, “optimal.”

  Yeah, that word. Optimal?

  You keep using that word; I do not think it means what you think it means.

  And like I could, in weeks or months, become “optimal” in a sport people trained their whole lives for?

  The mites couldn’t read my mind, could they? And yet they replied as though they could.

  Gemma Keyes, you need not become a master in this style. Even as an untrained woman of your size and strength, these escrima sticks will serve you well in a combat situation.

  “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

  I pulled two foam-padded sticks from their pouch; they were much lighter than the dark-wood sticks. I returned to the main room, to “my” spot on the wood floor. Closed my eyes. My training guy appeared with his own sticks. With his feet planted together, he bowed to me.

  It felt weird, bowing back, but I did it. Then Gus-Gus began to show me . . . how to hold the sticks, how to lift and lower them, swing and turn them, each movement slow but considered. Calculated. Not rushed, but deliberate. Gauged.

  Top to bottom, fluid, horizontal swings. Step right, left stick; step left, right stick. He added a reverse triangle; afterward, he demonstrated how to add the footwork he’d taught me to the swings.

  He demonstrated a four-count single “weave,” crossing his arms, uncrossing his arms in front of him. I followed his directions in slow motion, picking up a little speed as he urged me.

  That’s how I learned not to hit myself while doing so.

  Yup. That lovely lesson included bruises free of charge. I managed to smack the backs of both of my hands with the stick held in the other hand (more than once) and, in one particularly graceful move, I knocked myself on the side of the head.

  It’s easier than you think when you’re swinging those things around and trying to remember the footwork, too.

  After an hour, I was executing the swinging and foot routines together, making a quarter turn when I finished, so that at the end of four routines, I had completed a 360-degree rotation.

  Gus-Gus clapped out a pace for me and I completed another rotation. His claps increased in speed, my movements matching the pace he set. I was kind of amazed that my mind was absorbing the lessons and that my body was keeping up. Then he had me do the same routine backward, turning the opposite direction.

  Argh! Faster and faster I flew, but always at my trainer’s pace, nothing out of time or sync, every move controlled.

  “Stop.” He bowed to me.

  Sweating but stimulated, I bowed back. When I stood up, a dummy the size of a man stood in front of me. Anticipation shivered down my back.

  “You will learn twelve angles of attack. All Kali techniques are based on these twelve angles. Every drill reinforces the twelve angles.”

  Under Gus-Gus’ guidance, I learned where to strike, how to strike, how to wield the sticks and step into the strike to deliver a blow with force behind it. He modified and built upon the footwork I’d learned: how to approach, to feint, to retreat, to sidestep.

  Punching technique. “X” strike, inside, outside. A turning double slash.

  I lost myself in the rhythm of the graceful, flying movements of the escrima sticks and coordinated footwork. What the nanomites had done with my mind’s retention and body’s metabolism enabled me to learn and remember, to utilize my body as I had never done before. And under the challenges Gus-Gus put me through—despite the strenuous workout—I had not tired; my strength had not flagged.

  Rather, I was energized.

  “Stop.” Gus-Gus bowed.

  I bowed in return.

  He disappeared.

  You have done well for a first lesson, Gemma Keyes. We shall train here each night after the dojo clos
es.

  It almost sounded like fun. Better than restless, pointless pinging off the walls at home!

  I nodded and padded down the dojo to return the sticks to Locker 7. Now that we were done, I was anxious to get home. I glanced at the clock on the dojo wall.

  We’d been at it for five hours, and I was ravenous.

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 14

  The Albuquerque FBI Division is located on Luecking Park just off Pan American Freeway, the frontage road along northbound I-25. The agency is housed in a broad, four-story building surrounded by a fence and a substantial yard. Visitors are required to park a couple hundred yards from the doors and walk the distance. Guess it’s part of the FBI’s “we don’t make it easy for idiots driving truck bombs to pull right up to our front door and blow us to smithereens” thing.

  I arrived late morning and didn’t park in the FBI’s allotted parking; I left my car in the lot of a nearby restaurant and hoofed it the rest of the way.

  Getting inside and past the agency’s security was about as difficult for me as it was to walk into Walmart in the middle of the night. Yeah, the FBI building had guards and an ID checkpoint in their building’s foyer—but that wasn’t enough to deter the invisible, energetic me.

  I walked in on the heels of another visitor, hopped over the short wall at the checkpoint, and waltzed up to the guard’s station. Pointed at his computer terminal. Focused and entered the warehouse. From there, my little buddies and I jetted through the guard’s terminal into the database.

  I’m going with them? I wasn’t “merely” sorting the data the nanomites provided. No, I was along for the ride. Or it felt like I was. I was physically present in the FBI lobby, so I couldn’t be inside the FBI intranet, right? But in the same way the mites had taken me along when they destroyed John’s tumor, they took me along now. I was with the mites, experiencing more nano-virtual reality, and it was impressive.

  What a rush.

  We found the personnel directory, Ross Gamble’s office number, a building schematic, and their electronic security protocols. Moments later, I started toward the elevator.

  Additional security measures—ID card and pin number—impeded any unauthorized access to the floor where Gamble’s office was located. I gestured. The doors closed and the elevator rose.

  So much for additional security.

  And then that strange sense that things had shifted or changed came on me again.

  Are the nanomites anticipating my requests before I ask, or am I doing this myself? But how would I be able to do what the mites do?

  I found Gamble’s office down a long hall of bland, vanilla, government-issue rooms. The hall had no windows. It felt closed in and oppressive. At least the building’s exterior walls had windows, but I felt sorry for the folks who occupied cubicles or offices on the inside of the building.

  I paused at Gamble’s open door. He was on his feet, facing away, the phone to his ear. I wasn’t surprised to see him pacing. He struck me as a person of action, not a bench warmer.

  I walked in.

  About then, his call connected. “Yes, this is Special Agent Ross Gamble, FBI. I would like to speak with General Cushing if she is available.”

  Whoa. Bad idea, Agent Gamble! But he was already connected with Cushing’s office, so—

  He had listened a second before he added, “It is regarding a woman by the name of Gemma Keyes. Yes, I’ll hold.”

  I don’t know who flipped out faster—me or the nanomites. They were chattering a blue streak, and I seriously didn’t know what else to do, so I reached over and depressed the phone’s receiver button.

  “Hello? Hello?” Gamble swore and started dialing again.

  I disconnected his call a second time. “Please don’t do that.”

  The nanomites didn’t appreciate that move, either—but it got Gamble’s attention.

  He froze. His hand was on the phone’s buttons; the receiver was up to his ear. He was immobile, stuck in that pose—but his eyes were not. They slid around the room multiple times.

  I inched away. My soft-soled shoes made the faintest shuffle on the carpet, but he heard the sound. When his wild eyes could find nothing, he dropped the phone and backed up, drawing his sidearm.

  “Who’s there?”

  I sighed. “My name is Gemma Keyes. I know you recognize my name, Agent Gamble. Listen, I’m not going to harm you, but I must speak to you. I’m going to close the door so that our conversation isn’t overheard. Is that all right?”

  His eyes widened, and his hands clenched and unclenched on the butt of his sidearm. I watched to make sure that his trigger finger remained on the side of the gun, not curled around the trigger. Gamble didn’t answer, but he was breathing hard and heavy about then, too.

  “I’m going to close the door. I promise I am not here to harm you.”

  I closed the door.

  “Now, please listen. I’m going to sit in this chair—so please don’t shoot me.”

  I sat. “Okay; I’m sitting down now.”

  Special Agent Gamble looked ready to pass out. He had pressed himself against the wall behind his desk and had nowhere else to go—but he was still trying to back up. At least his gun was only halfway up. It was, more or less, pointed at the blotter on his desk.

  “Agent Gamble, I think you are kind of freaked out at the moment. Would you like me to explain who I am and how I came to be like this?”

  He mumbled a couple of swear words.

  “You aren’t cracking up, Agent Gamble; I am invisible. That’s why General Cushing wants me.”

  The poor man’s hands flopped to his sides. He blinked rapidly.

  Sheesh. I hope he doesn’t drop his gun.

  “Why don’t you sit down, Agent Gamble? Before you fall down.”

  He did. Like his hands had flopped to his sides, he flopped into his chair. He laid his gun on the blotter. His hands were shaking.

  I slid into the warehouse.

  Nano. Please do that thing you do. Give Agent Gamble something to calm him.

  Seconds later, Gamble jerked. “Wha-what is that?”

  “Nothing bad. Can we talk now?”

  He blew out a long breath, holstered his gun as a delaying tactic. “Gemma Keyes, huh?”

  “Yes. You know about the raid on my house. I was in Pastor Cruz’s hospital room when you and he were talking about it.”

  He tipped his head to one side. “I thought . . . I thought I felt someone in the room. That was you? You heard our conversation?”

  “Yeah. You are looking for Mateo Martinez. I’m interested in finding him, too.”

  “Wait. Before we get into that . . . just what’s the deal with you?”

  “It would take a while to explain—longer than we have. How about I show you some background, first?”

  “Uh, if you say so.”

  “I’ll bring up some files on your computer.”

  “No—it’s a secure government network. I can’t allow you access—”

  I had already pointed to his computer, and browser windows were popping up, piling up, stacking atop each other. “I’ve given you some ‘light reading.’ Basically, I used to work for a brilliant man at Sandia. You’ll read about him. Supposedly he died in an explosion in his lab last March. You’ll read about that, too.

  “He actually didn’t die, that scientist. He escaped, took his research with him, and hid out in the tunnels in the old Manzano Mountain Weapons Storage Facility. You know anything about that facility?”

  Gamble was paging through some of the screens. “Dr. Daniel Bickel? A physicist? What kind of research did he do?”

  “The kind that made me invisible.” I didn’t want to get into the nanomite thing. The fewer specifics Agent Gamble knew, the better. “Bottom line, General Cushing wanted to steal his research. She hunted him and found him in his laboratory inside the mountain, but he, um, managed to hide his work before she captured him. Since then, she’s had Dr. Bickel stashed in some milit
ary prison and has been trying to pry his knowledge from him.”

  “What’s this got to do with Mateo Martinez?”

  “Not a thing. My interest in him is personal—but I can’t have you talking to Cushing about me and getting her antennae up. She’s an evil woman, Agent Gamble.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Um, yeah. She’s on par with Mateo Martinez’s boss, Dead Eyes.”

  “Dead Eyes?”

  “I think his real name is Soto.”

  Gamble sat up straighter. “What do you know about Soto?”

  “I know that he’s evil—he and Cushing are two peas in a pod. I’ve, uh, listened in on some of his meetings. Anyway, I was thinking that I might be able to help you find Martinez and Soto, and—”

  The phone rang. I leaned over Gamble’s desk and we both stared at the caller ID. It read “Sandia National Labs.”

  I sighed. “I guess that’s Cushing, calling you back. She will try to suck out everything you know about me.”

  “I don’t know anything about you. Or I didn’t until just now.”

  “Well, now you have a choice to make, Agent Gamble. Bear in mind that my life is on the line—as are the lives of Zander Cruz, Abe Pickering, and Emilio Martinez.”

  Gamble’s hand, now steady, picked up the call. “Special Agent Gamble.”

  “Please hold for General Cushing.”

  I pointed at the phone. The nanomites jumped into the call with him. In the warehouse, I heard everything they heard.

  “Agent Gamble? This is General Imogene Cushing. I believe you called earlier? We were disconnected.”

  “Yes. I apologize. I was interrupted. Uh, thanks for returning my call.”

  “You said it regarded Gemma Keyes?”

  I shook my head. If Gamble gave me up, Cushing would have the very thing I’d tried so hard to circumvent—Zander, Abe, and Emilio in her crosshairs. If only I’d reached Gamble’s office five minutes earlier! At least I’d arrived just as he placed his first call to her, early enough to warn him—which made me wonder about the timing of my visit.

  Coincidence?

  I shook my head.

  Divine intervention?

  I growled deep in my throat. I don’t believe in that kind of religious drivel, remember? It was all bunkum, as far as I was concerned. Sheer nonsense.