I inhaled to say “thanks,” and felt it coming on. Fast. Like a freight train.
A sneeze.
A giant, head-exploding, snot-blasting, extinction-level event.
I tried to stop it, to smother it, I really did! You know what I mean: I closed my mouth and held on for dear life just as the sneeze achieved ignition.
Gemma Keyes! No! Don’t—
That sneeze about scrambled my brains. Nanomites flew from my face like dust before a tornado—as though they’d been detonated.
The gal at the window froze, her hand extended, offering me my change.
You know kaleidoscopes? With the twisty thingy on the end? I imagine that’s the view I presented as my sneeze hurled nanomites in every direction and they fought to propel themselves back to my face, struggled to reassemble Kathy Sawyer.
Yup. That nice Lotaburger lady got to preview a living, breathing “face morpher” app—one for which many of you would pay good money.
Scary much?
“Uh . . . Uh . . . Uh . . .”
Poor thing. She was stuck on “uh.”
As the nanomites reestablished my faux face and things “settled,” the befuddled woman blinked and blurted, “A-are you all right, ma’am?”
“Me? Oh, yes. I’m fine.”
Yup. Fine. Perfect.
Hangry.
Kathy Sawyer smiled her reassurance—and her concern. “Say, are you all right, sweetie? You look a little . . . peaked.”
I took my change from her motionless hand and drove away, leaving the poor cashier in shock and confusion—and possible regret over any drug usage in her youth.
Gemma Keyes!
I turned on the radio. Cranked it way up. Thought about hot, crispy onion rings followed by gulps of thick chocolate shake.
Mmm. Mmm. Mmm.
~~**~~
Chapter 22
The weather, which had been cooling steadily as November wore on, evolved further overnight. I awoke the next morning, shivering and sensing the change. Even in the basement, the howl of the wind and the creaking and popping of the house contracting in the cold reached me.
A storm was upon us.
Good day for it, I thought as I dressed in layers of warm clothes and climbed the ladder into the house. The furnace was running as programmed, but the icy, buffeting wind was doing its best to force its way inside. The windows flexed and groaned under the pounding gusts; the wind’s frozen fingers scrabbled on the walls.
I grabbed coffee, wrapped myself in a light blanket, and peeked through the blinds on the back door. Frosty white stuff swirled and thrashed against the window—not real snow, just frost on the move.
We don’t get much snow in Albuquerque—the occasional dump that lasts a day or two. More common are blasting winds that carry freezing sleet-mixed-with-snow, blizzards that scour us for a day before passing on.
Happy Thanksgiving, I told myself.
Coming from such a small family, our Thanksgiving celebrations had never been fancy affairs—they were often potlucks, gatherings of what Aunt Lucy called “orphans,” an eclectic collection of church friends who had no family. After Lu passed, Abe and I opted for dinner at one of those all-you-can-eat buffets. We enjoyed it—and cleanup was a snap.
I chuckled, grateful for those memories.
I took my coffee downstairs and ran a scan of the security system for alerts. I found none—but I did see one of my phones blinking.
Voice mail? I listened to the two words: “Call me.”
A smile tugged at my mouth as I deleted the VM and the call log. I dialed from memory.
“Hey. Got your message.”
“Some weather, huh?”
“Yeah. You won’t catch me going out today!”
“Well, no such luck for me. Now that I’m back on my feet, Pastor McFee is making up for lost time. He’s spending Thanksgiving out of town with family, so I’m preaching this Sunday. And today? Today Iz and I are helping the singles group from church to serve lunch and dinner at a shelter. I thought I’d call early to wish you a happy Thanksgiving. By the way, I-40 and I-25 in all directions are closed due to the winds. I imagine every hotel and shelter in town will be full up because of the storm. It’s gonna be a long day.”
I shivered—and was grateful again for this house, this home, temporary as it might be. “What about Abe?”
“He’ll be okay while I’m gone. Between lunch and dinner, I will fix him a big plate and take it to him.”
I toyed with the idea of spending the afternoon with Abe, but gave it up. The roads would be treacherous.
“Drive safe today, Zander.”
“I will—but you stay inside, hear?”
“That’s the plan. Thanks for calling.”
Thanksgiving called for a grander breakfast than usual. I added cinnamon rolls to my usual fare and gobbled down the meal like there was no tomorrow. Afterward, the mites and I got serious about White Sands.
We mined all the data about the missile range available in the public domain. Well, I wasn’t certain it was all public domain; the nanomites could defeat the security of any network connected to the Internet, so some of the data could have been from official, restricted government files—non-classified but still controlled. Regardless of its origins, what we found was daunting.
The White Sands Missile Range stretches across the New Mexico desert, spanning five counties and most of the Tularosa Basin. The range occupies nearly 3,200 square miles of the state’s southeast corner. Knowing Cushing had hidden Dr. Bickel somewhere on WSMR had been about as helpful as saying she had hidden him somewhere in Texas!
Cushing may have hidden Dr. Bickel close to her—close in relative terms—but she had also picked the largest U.S. military haystack in which to hide her “needle.”
“Well played, Cushing,” I whispered. “The proverbial needle in a haystack.”
Gemma Keyes, we will locate Dr. Bickel.
“I’m trusting that you will, Nano.”
The storm roared on until late afternoon when it blew itself out. Eastern New Mexico and Texas would continue to feel the storm’s fierce, icy blast, but for now we were out of it. I yawned and got up from the couch where I’d been napping. Now that the tumult of wind had passed, I was itching to move.
Time for a run, I told myself, lacing up my shoes, then over to the dojo.
I’d seen the holiday weekend schedule posted on the dojo’s doors: Closed until Monday.
Good.
Gus-Gus was accelerating my training. He was expecting more from me. He was pushing me harder . . . and I was letting him.
I thrived on the work.
As I finished tying my shoes, I pondered yet another recent observation: The communication the mites and I shared? It was evolving. The progression was subtle, hard to pinpoint, but some of our daily exchanges, our little back-and-forths? Well, they just “happened.”
What I mean is that I heard the mites speaking in my ear less often, but I still heard them. At first, it had been a word or two. Negligible. Now it was occurring more frequently. Like, this morning, I’d “heard” a whole sentence—and the mites had not spoken it, had not vibrated the words in my ear.
And I’d felt the urge to answer them in kind. I hadn’t succeeded, but I had the strangest sense that it was near me . . . like a phrase that’s right there on the tip of my tongue. I sensed that I should be able to reach out and grasp it—only to discover that it was a hairsbreadth beyond my reach.
Another example? The mites were involving themselves directly in my training, not merely through Gus-Gus’ AI. I couldn’t put a label to it, but sometimes it felt like the mites and I were moving together while I practiced—they helping me, and their consciousness blending with mine to form something . . . stronger, more cohesive.
The merge. I shook my head over this latest progression.
We weren’t done yet.
***
With the martial arts school closed for the holiday weekend, Gus-G
us insisted on an eight-hours-a-day training schedule. At least he conducted our long sessions during the day and not all night! Friday’s workouts had been grueling, and I’d needed more than my usual four hours of sleep to recover from the physical abuse and fatigue.
When I arrived at the dojo the Saturday morning after Thanksgiving, I left another envelope on the owner’s desk and returned to the floor to commence the day’s lessons. Gus-Gus and I were in the middle of a heavy sparring drill when the nanomites freaked out and, with a squeak or two, went silent.
Gus-Gus disappeared.
I blinked and opened my eyes to my “real” surroundings—and to a man’s irate voice.
“Who the *blank* are you, and what the *bleep* are you doing in my school?”
The guy was dark-haired, slender but compact, and maybe three inches taller than me.
Oh, yeah—and he was furious.
“I said, who are you? Who said you could use my school?”
It dawned on me that this guy was the dojo’s owner and that he was looking right at me.
I lowered my sticks and saw them.
What?
The mites should have been hiding them! Then I saw my hands wrapped around the sticks. Saw my feet down on the floor.
I’m visible?
I held one hand up where I could examine it.
And I’m me, not Kathy Sawyer?
“You’d better answer me, lady, before I call the cops.”
Nano! Where’d you go?
“Hey! I’m talking to you!”
My head snapped up. “I . . . um, I’m the one who’s been paying to use your, um, school.”
He looked perplexed for half a second. “The money? On my desk? That’s you?”
“Yeah.”
He was confused, but not nearly as confused as I was. Why weren’t the nanomites hiding me? Why were they silent?
The guy came closer. “What, so you . . . you’ve been working out in my school. On your own?”
“Um, sort of. I mean, yes. Alone.”
“I watched you for a minute. You seem advanced. Almost looked like you were sparring with someone.”
“Uh . . .”
“Whatever. I want to know how you are getting in here.”
Nano?
Not a thing from the nanomites. Not a peep.
Traitors!
The guy bent over and picked up a pair of my sticks—not my extra rattan sticks in the bag, but the kamagong sticks on the floor.
“These yours?”
“Yeah, they are. So, listen, I apologize. I’ll just be on my way. I won’t come back.”
“You didn’t answer my question. How are you getting in here?”
“I’ll be going now.”
“No, you won’t; I have a top-notch security system. I want answers.”
“Look, I said I’m sorry. I won’t bother you again. I promise.”
“You’re not leaving until you answer me.”
I made a move toward my bag, but he stepped between me and my gear. His expression hardened. “I have a better idea. How about we spar? Let’s see how good you are.”
“No, thanks. Honestly, I’m kinda new at this. I don’t know how to properly spar, don’t know the rules. I just . . . fight.”
He liked that idea even better. “All right. Let’s fight. Maybe I’ll teach you a lesson—not that I’d actually hurt you or anything, but I could teach you a thing or two about, say, property rights and criminal trespass.”
The guy’s response rubbed me wrong; his arrogance sparked my temper—his cocky, “I could teach you a thing or two” attitude. If the smoke that filled my head had rolled out of my ears, he would have called 911 and reported a fire. It wasn’t just this guy’s condescending attitude that angered me; the nanomites—who suddenly regained their “voice”—earned their share, too.
Gemma Keyes. We apologize for not detecting this man’s presence sooner. However, as we analyzed this unanticipated encounter, we determined that it presents an opportunity for you to engage in a fight sequence with another human. Such an experience will promote our goal of helping you to become optimal. Do not be anxious; you will not be harmed.
“Oh, sure.”
I was about to get my hiney kicked from here to Santa Fe! But, hey, anything for a fight sequence with another human, right?
Seething inside, I stretched my neck and rotated my shoulders. Whatever punishment this guy dished out wouldn’t matter, would it? The nanomites would just “mitigate” my injuries like they did when I fought with Gus-Gus.
Lovely prospect.
I twirled my sticks to flex my wrists. I was plenty riled.
“A lesson? Hmm. Well, okay. Let’s go.”
I bowed to him.
He didn’t bow back. In fact, he appeared less certain, like he was rethinking his challenge.
I couldn’t resist a taunt. “Come on. Scared of a girl?”
“No, but it was a bad idea, just my anger talking. Not professional of me. I don’t want to hurt you; I just want answers.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t.”
“You won’t tell what?”
“That you let a girl beat you.”
He flushed red and tilted his head. “Y’know, lady, you’ve got quite a mouth on you. I’d be happy to slap it shut, if that’s how you want it.”
“I’d like to see you try. You’ll find another pair of rattan sticks in the bag.” I pointed.
I bowed again; this time, he bowed back.
Remember, I started my training a couple of weeks ago, while this guy was an instructor with years of experience behind him. I should have been terrified. The fact that I wasn’t terrified was suspicious: Who knew what hormones and chemicals the nanomites were feeding my system so that I’d feel this confident? Shrugging, I moved into position.
Because rather than terrified, I was excited.
He came at me fast, really fast, sticks weaving and crossing in a blur. I countered what he threw at me. I parried and deflected his strikes. We danced apart.
Then that “thing” happened. That thing where the nanomites’ consciousness and mine blended. Their “mind” became my own.
The guy attacked; I thwarted him with ease. The flick of a glance, a facial microexpression, the infinitesimal tensing of a muscle—those things telegraphed the cocky dude’s intentions. I foresaw his moves before he acted.
Holy, smokin’ Spider Man!
The speed of the nanomites’ computing power and predictive logic flashed through my hands and feet. The flow between us—me and the nanocloud—was like nothing I’d experienced or even conceived of. I was more in tune with them than I was with my physical surroundings!
Conscious thought seemed slow. Ponderous. The mites and I traveled ahead of reason, through the realm of intuition and presentiment, my moves like flashes of brilliance. Mindful thought trailed each move the way thunder follows lightning.
The nanomites and I weren’t six; we were one.
“Yow!” Dojo guy cursed and stumbled back, stung by the blow I’d landed on the outside of his left arm just above his elbow.
I moved away, bouncing lightly on the balls of my feet. “I hit your radial nerve. You won’t have normal sensation in that arm for at least a quarter of an hour.”
“I know what the radial nerve is, lady.”
“You ready to quit?”
“I’m just getting warmed up.”
As was I. The bond the nanomites and I shared was intense and potent. I didn’t want it to end. I was so freaking wired! Powerful! Invincible!
Dojo guy sprang at me; I sidestepped before he moved and snuck in a strike to his outer thigh as he passed by. He took one more step before his leg collapsed under him.
“We’re done,” I told him.
Over in less than two minutes.
Dojo guy didn’t dispute me. “How . . . how did you do that? I’ve never seen anyone move that fast. Who are you?”
“Does it matter?”
He staggered to his feet, massaging his thigh, limping to stay erect. “Well, if I had to be beaten by a woman, I’m glad it was by a fine fox such as yourself.” He kind of grinned, a sheepish, “You’re hot; don’t you think I’m hot, too?” grin.
My reply was scathing. “Save it for someone who cares, dude.”
What was he thinking? I was Gemma the Nondescript! The woman who was invisible before I couldn’t be seen, before the nanomites made it their mission in life to hide me in perpetuum.
The nanomites spoke inside my head. I was surprised and perplexed, but not altogether unhappy with their proposal.
I made the effort to be civil. “Say, would you be, um, amenable to a little arrangement?”
“What kind of arrangement?” Dojo guy’s response was stiff. He was smarting from more than the two strikes during our match.
Think fast, Gemma.
“Sorry. Uh, first off, I’m, um, Emily. What’s your name?”
“Doug.”
“Well, Doug, is the cash I’ve been leaving on your desk enough payment for my use of your school after hours?”
“I still want to know how you’re getting past my security system.”
“Learn to live with disappointment, Doug. Have I left enough money?”
He huffed and folded his arms. “Yeah, yeah. It’s fine. What’s your proposal?”
“I keep coming, using your facility, and paying you for it. You don’t mention me to anyone. Anyone. Not a soul. You will agree to keep my presence to yourself. You will speak of me to no one. You will carry on business as usual, and you will give your word not to sneak in cameras or any type of surveillance.”
Yeah, because we’ll be watching and listening, buddy.
“A warning, Doug: If you decide to pull something fast, trust me when I say that, as easily as we defeated your security system, we’ll know if you speak of me to anyone. In return for your cooperation, we’ll increase the amount we’ve been leaving you. Say, another hundred each week? Win-win, right?”
I didn’t notice how, partway through my last statement, I’d switched from singular first person to plural. As the whole “we” thing fell on my ears, I grimaced.
We? Creepy! Where did that—
Doug’s face reflected what I had just realized. He was kind of freaked out, but he blustered a reply.
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