Stealth Power

by Vikki Kestell

  Zander stood his ground. “You did, and your face gives you away.”

  Genie laughed under her breath then, and her mocking chuckle angered Zander.

  “You don’t perceive the truth at this moment, but the devil owns you, Genie. He owns you lock, stock, and barrel. You think you don’t submit to anyone? You say you are free? You are not. You’re driven and compelled . . . bound over to commit evil—as he directs, not as you choose. Bob Dylan was right when he sang, You gotta serve somebody.”

  His anger dissipated as quickly as it had arrived, and he added in a whisper, “You should know whom you serve, Genie. You serve Satan—not yourself.”

  Her mouth opened partway, but nothing came out.

  Zander stood. “Think about what I’ve said, Genie. You have only one choice left to you. At present, you are under Satan’s control—but you can choose Jesus. Salvation doesn’t depend upon your broken, twisted feelings; it depends upon your choice.”

  When she did not answer, Zander went to his door. “Thank you for coming. Yes, Cushing is after Gemma. If I can think of some way for you to help us bring Cushing down, I’ll call you.”

  But I won’t worry your sister by telling her you are back in town, Genie. She has enough worry on her plate as it is.

  ***

  I visited my UPS mailbox that night. Parked in the back where shipments were delivered, but walked around to the front door and used my key to access my box. As usual, when packages arrived, I found a notification inside my box: Please call for your packages during regular business hours.

  Not gonna happen.

  I sent the mites into the store’s system to deactivate the alarm and locate the packages, had the mites flag them as “picked up,” and let myself into the back of the store where the UPS staff stored packages and boxes on metal shelving. I retrieved my three boxes and carried them out the back door to my car.

  I drove up the alley behind the safe house and dropped the boxes over the back wall. After I returned my car to the parking garage, I ran home, eager to find out what the mites had bought for me.

  I wasn’t disappointed.

  The first box contained two pairs of shoes in my size. To date, I’d trained barefoot—and had the blisters and calluses to prove it. The shoes in the package were lighter than my running shoes, cut lower around the ankle, with a flap stitched across the top to cover the laces and keep them from dangling. The shoes’ soles were thinner than my running shoes, too.

  I read the shoe box insert: “Your Martial Arts Sneaker is designed to provide lightweight foot protection during intense workouts. The sole is specially designed with pivot points on both the heel and ball of the foot for better traction on the floor.”

  “Cool!”

  Under the shoe boxes I found a pair of gloves. I slipped one on my hand. The palm was thin and flexible, but the padding—on the back of the hand and along the fingers—was welcome.

  Maybe the next time I smacked myself on the hand it wouldn’t hurt as much!

  The second box was long and narrow. I sliced the tape, pried the lid open, and found eight escrima sticks within, six rattan practice sticks and one pair of kamagong wood. Together, the three pairs of rattan sticks weighed less than the kamagong sticks.

  These I eyed with misgivings. Kamagong sticks were for fighting. For real.

  The last box held a folded gym bag. I unfolded it and found that it was the right length and size to carry my sticks, shoes, and gloves. I discovered one final item at the bottom.

  “What is this?”

  It was a long pouch of some sort with two adjustable straps. I fiddled with it for a minute, wondering what it was for.

  Gemma Keyes. Slip the quiver onto your shoulders as you would a backpack.

  Quiver? But not for arrows. I tucked a pair of sticks into the pouch and slipped on the quiver. It nestled in the hollow of my back; the sticks protruded high enough on my back for me to reach them with both hands at the same time.

  I stood there, thinking over this last “gift,” weighing its implications.

  I had asked the nanomites, “You . . . really think that we can get Dr. Bickel out of a military prison?”

  They had been quick to answer. Yes, Gemma Keyes. However, we must prepare. You must prepare. . . . We have formulated a more structured training program, one better suited to arming you in the defensive and offensive strategies we anticipate will be needed.

  As much as I was enjoying the training, its ultimate purpose was . . . scary. The nanomites had a lot more confidence in it—in me—than I did.

  I knew that I was in over my head.

  Way over my head.

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 21

  My sparring matches with Gus-Gus were no longer coordinated routines designed to teach me proper form and rhythm. The only accurate description for our matches was “all-out fights.” My training session this night consisted of five hours of blistering contests: I wore padded headgear and a mouth guard for protection. Gus-Gus wore a serene expression as he proceeded to school me.

  Over and over.

  It was disgusting—and painful.

  The nanomites (out in front of me in the dojo), mimicked Gus-Gus’ avatar (my opponent in the warehouse). Every blow Gus-Gus struck in VR (virtual reality), the mites struck on MPRB (my poor real bod). I lived for the opportunity to land a strike on Gus-Gus. I did so at least twice per match, but I figured the mites set up the programming to allow me that. The nanomites’ program occasionally allowed me to win, too—probably so I wouldn’t get mad and quit.

  After each match—or in the middle of one, if I messed up that badly—Gus-Gus would call out my mistakes and have me drill, drill, drill until I could perform a move perfectly.

  It took a lot of juice for the mites to run that program, to simulate an opponent in the real world, to hit me and absorb my sporadic but improving hits in return. Oh, I wasn’t hurting the nanomites when I struck them, but the nanocloud provided life-like resistance, the sense that I physically connected with Gus-Gus when I hit him. After training, the mites sucked current from my car’s auxiliary jack all the way home.

  I wondered, too, about the number of nanomites it took to produce an invisible but functioning facsimile of Gus-Gus in the dojo. How did they keep me hidden if a bunch of them were acting the part of my adversary?

  Tonight, I made the mistake of cracking open one eye, of splitting my attention away from the VR match for an instant. Just before Gus-Gus delivered a slicing blow to the side of my padded head, I saw the flash of my own hand.

  Woot! My own hand?

  Then I saw flashes of stars and bright lights.

  I went down and went down hard.

  Okay, so the nanomites were not able to keep me hidden during our matches. Now that I’d answered my question, I promised my aching skull that I wouldn’t take my attention off a match a second time.

  ***

  Man, I’m starved!

  I opened the fridge, hauled out OJ, eggs, potatoes, sausage, and bacon. Then I cooked. Two fried eggs, three sausage links, three strips of bacon, hash browns, and four slices of toast later, I felt like a new woman. Ready to get to the day’s calisthenics and five-mile run.

  But first, preparations for this important day. “Nano.”

  Yes, Gemma Keyes.

  “General Cushing has that secure call scheduled at 2:30 p.m. today. I believe—it is my hope—that this call is with the individual or individuals who are keeping Dr. Bickel locked up. I want us to be there when she places that call so that we can listen in and, if my suspicions are correct, so you can trace the call.”

  Yes, Gemma Keyes. We must find Dr. Bickel.

  “We will leave early. I will drive to within a few blocks of the base, park, and walk in. Like before.”

  I had an idea. Well, why not? I’m part of the nanocloud now, one of the tribes. The nanomites and I are working together. So, why not? If they can do it in the dojo . . .

  “Nano, while I’m
driving across town, I would like you to allow the upper part of my body to be visible. It would be bad news if people saw a driverless car, really bad news if the police pulled me over.”

  Bad news. Yes.

  I was astounded and delighted at the same time. “So, yes, as in you’ll allow my upper body to be visible?”

  It is a reasonable request.

  A reasonable what? That easy? A reasonable request? How many times since September had I “requested” that the mites stop making me invisible? Asked, pleaded, begged, cajoled, screamed, and demanded—all to no avail!

  A reasonable request? Grrr!

  Your blood pressure and heart rate have risen. Are you angry, Gemma Keyes?

  Ya think?

  I didn’t answer aloud. I pressed my lips together, gathered what I needed, and flounced out the back door. As I put my body through the cardio routine the mites had devised for me, I let my mind wander. It landed on Zander’s laughter and what he’d said about the mites.

  “You act like the nanomites can think. Like they have feelings or common sense. They’re devices, Gemma—they’re technology, not people.”

  Sigh.

  I kicked my workout into a higher gear.

  Patience, Gemma. Patience.

  ***

  Early that afternoon, I drove out of the parking garage where I kept the Escape. I chanced a glance at myself in the mirror—and gasped. What? A reflection? And who in the world? I gaped at the bags under the dark eyes that blinked back at me, at the creases around the mouth of the middle-aged woman who gaped when I gaped.

  Ack! I’m old!

  “Nano! What have you done? That’s not me!”

  We have modified your appearance to create a reasonable representation of the photograph of Kathy Sawyer on your driver’s license. We do not wish for bad news.

  Well . . .

  I shrugged. “Yeah, good call.”

  I cruised up Menaul to Eubank, turned right, and drove across town to the intersection of Southern and Eubank. I pulled into the Costco parking lot before I reached the light. The Costco lot was crowded, but people were coming and going, caught up in their own concerns.

  “Time to render me invisible again, Nano.” I got out, held out a hand to check that all of me was hidden, and hoofed it across the busy intersection.

  Plenty of base employees were returning from lunch. Traffic was heaviest in the lanes going onto the base. When I jogged up the road to the gate, only one lane of traffic leaving the base was open. I walked through the pedestrian gate without a second glance at the checkpoint.

  At the keycard-secured entrance to the MEMS department, I pointed and the lock clicked open. I walked in, through the lobby, and past Mrs. Barela. I found myself mentally greeting her with familiar fondness—a big change from the first time I’d seen her at “my” desk in “my” job. I waved a little hello as I passed by on my way to Cushing’s office.

  Would the old bat be at her desk?

  Ah, yes. She was. Cushing was reading from a fat folder.

  “Time, Nano?”

  The time is 1:45 p.m., Gemma Keyes.

  I sat down in the lobby and twiddled my thumbs for forty minutes until I heard Cushing call to Ms. Barela. “I’ll be back in an hour or less.”

  “Yes, General.”

  I jetted out the door and waited for her to follow and pass me by.

  Time to mess with your day, Shark Face.

  I dogged her across the parking lot, down some walkways, and into another building. I slid through the door behind her. Now that I knew which SCIF she would be using, I raced ahead, past the security checkpoint, to the SCIF at the end of the hall. There, the nanomites swarmed the card reader and unlocked the SCIF’s door. The door had scarcely closed when Cushing arrived and the door again opened.

  Cushing bolted the door behind her and a red light came on above it, both inside and outside, signaling that the SCIF was in use. She hurried to the phone and sat down. She studied the phone and pursed her lips when she saw no lights blinking, indicating that a call was waiting.

  I had positioned myself in a corner on the opposite side of the desk where she would be seated. When she sat down, I drew nearer to the desk and phone. What the woman did next would tell the tale—I was sure of it.

  Cushing fidgeted and waited another minute before she picked up the phone and dialed a number she knew by heart. And listened.

  I assumed the automated system on the other end was busy syncing the secure call after the party on the other end picked up. That’s when the mites would go to work.

  A moment later, Cushing straightened in her chair. “Ah, Colonel. Yes, good day to you, also. What have you to report?”

  A trail of mites swarmed down my arm and propelled themselves across the desk and onto the phone. I listened to the call from the warehouse as the mites began to record the conversation.

  “Really, Colonel! This is the tenth straight week that Dr. Bickel has refused to cooperate despite your ‘effective techniques.’ Why do we even schedule these calls! I fear that your methods, as highly recommended as they came, do not suffice in this case. I wish you to be forewarned: I am making arrangements to relocate the good doctor and place him in more, er, persuasive hands.”

  I froze in horror.

  “When? I anticipate making the move inside of two weeks. I will apprise you of your orders and the details in our next call.”

  What? We had less than two weeks?

  “No, Colonel, I do not wish to hear your excuses—I insist upon results. Produce results or prepare to surrender custody of our guest at my discretion. Yes. Goodbye.”

  She slammed the phone onto its base harder than was necessary. Was her threat real or merely a gambit designed to put the screws to the unnamed colonel on the other end? So Colonel No-Name would tighten the screws on Dr. Bickel?

  I allowed Cushing to exit the SCIF before I got up. I waited a few minutes after the door closed behind her to reopen it and sneak past the security check point. Outside, I saw Cushing yards away, clomping down the sidewalk, her body language conveying frustration.

  Good!

  Then I couldn’t wait any longer to query the mites. “Nano, what did you find?”

  Gemma Keyes, we are tracing the call. We will have a location shortly. Stand by.

  Finally!

  I waited, pacing the sidewalk and chewing my bottom lip.

  Our confidence may have been precipitous, Gemma Keyes. The call was routed through a classified telecommunications hub. We have the location of the hub, but have not yet traced the origination point of the call. We will continue our efforts.

  “Well, where is this ‘hub,’ Nano? Surely its location gets us close to Dr. Bickel, provides us with general vicinity? He can’t be that far from the hub, can he?”

  I was unprepared for their answer.

  Gemma Keyes, the telecommunications hub is located within the perimeter of White Sands Missile Range.

  ***

  I was numb as I left the base. White Sands? What I knew of the missile range would fill a teacup! Or something a lot smaller. Like nano-sized smaller. And our window of opportunity had shrunk to similar size.

  I fretted and stewed and ran until I reached Costco and got into my car.

  We had two weeks. Perhaps less than that? And then Cushing would, presumably, move Dr. Bickel elsewhere.

  But we weren’t ready to spring Dr. Bickel! I wasn’t ready!

  I drove away from Costco fretting, shaking my head, forehead creased with worry, thoughts elsewhere, blind to my surroundings. Instead of continuing toward Menaul as I should have, I turned east down Central and, before I knew it, had crossed Juan Tabo. I snapped to my surroundings.

  I needed to turn around and go back—except, right there, right in front of my face, was a Blake’s Lotaburger. Blake’s: Home of the Green Chile Double Cheeseburger.

  “It has been ages since I’ve had a burger—let alone a green chile cheeseburger,” I groused, “and I’m starv
ing!”

  To be fair, I was always starving these days. Yeah, true—but there was no sneaking an invisible woman through a drive-through.

  I pulled into the Blake’s parking lot to make my turn and head back down Central. Drove all the way around the burger joint to the exit onto the street, glanced both ways for traffic—and caught my reflection in the rearview mirror.

  Kathy Sawyer stared back at me.

  “Wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute . . .”

  I threw the Escape into reverse and headed for the drive-through.

  Gemma Keyes. What are you doing?

  “I’m getting some food, Nano. I’m famished!”

  We advise against this course of action, Gemma Keyes.

  “You don’t want me to collapse from hunger, do you, Nano?”

  Certainly not, Gemma Keyes. However, we do not detect starvation markers in your bod—

  “Famished. Practically perishing, Nano. Faint from deprivation. Hold that thought a sec, ’k? Yes, I’d like your Lotaburger with cheese and green chile. Um, make that two of them.”

  Gemma Keyes—

  “And two large orders of onion rings and a large order of seasoned fries—and, oh! A milkshake! Yeah! No, two milkshakes, please. One chocolate, the other your seasonal pumpkin pie. Yup. That’s everything.”

  I pulled forward, salivating and swallowing with anticipation.

  Gemma Keyes!

  “Yes, Nano?” I was soooo sweet.

  Perhaps you do not comprehend that the image we are projecting to the world is fluid and difficult to maintain. We have less difficulty rendering you invisible than we do keeping this image intact and lifelike.

  “What? I can’t hear you over the roar of my stomach. Not to worry. I’m confident that you can handle it, Nano. Absolutely convinced. Anyhow, I’ll only be at the pickup window a couple of minutes. Not a problem.”

  It all went well. I gave the nice, smiling woman cash, and she handed me a big, steaming Lotaburger bag then the two shakes set inside a cardboard carrier.

  I was so stinking hungry, I was trembling! I set everything on the passenger seat and turned to get my change.

  That’s when it happened.