by ASF
I found a stairwell at the end of the hall and pushed through. No panic bar, but a fire alarm, which I pulled in passing. No security cameras anywhere in sight. I’d not seen any yesterday, either, except on the elevators. Either this place had really good, hidden security, or the bare minimum. Hopefully the latter. Otherwise, even if we got Cora out, I was going to have a lot of explaining to do. Not the way I wanted to find out how good Laurel’s police connections really were.
The stairwell smelled like the Fourth of July. Apparently I’d hit the same one that, hopefully, had already led Denise to the basement.
The door snicked shut behind me, and I tested it. Locked. Damn. That meant it would be the same on Jerret’s floor. I’d been hoping the lack of panic bars meant no automatic locks, but touring the place yesterday, there’d been no way to find out. I dropped down a flight, suddenly glad for Laurel’s gun. But just as I got to the first landing, the door flew open, and I found myself staring down at a wiry, tough-looking man with a beard shaved into tiger stripes and what looked like a champagne glass shaved into the side of his head. A fashion-model-gorgeous Asian woman was behind him, in jeans and a silk blouse.
“Shit, Ray,” he said into a phone as I pressed backward against the wall, hoping he wouldn’t look up. “It’s real . . . Yeah . . . Yeah . . .”
“Yeah, it’s real,” the woman said. “Stay here and get cooked if you want.” She pushed by and clattered down into the smoke, pausing a few steps later to pull off her high heels.
Champagne-hair ignored her. “Forget that Jerret guy, bro. All he does is stay with his bitch ’n’ all those flies. What the hell good’s he done us . . . ?” He stepped backward toward the corridor. “We really ought to get out of here.”
I was on the move even as the door started swinging shut. Even so, I barely managed to get to it. For a whole minute afterward, I held it, only millimeters from clicking shut, as several groups of people pounded down the stairs, some glancing at me, others fixated on getting down.
Alone again, I pulled a bandana out of my pocket and put it on, partly as additional disguise, partly to cut the fumes. I pulled the pins on three more smoke pellets, then opened the door just wide enough to toss them through. No yells, so apparently the hallway was now vacant. Blocking the door open with my foot, I lit a couple of strings of lady-finger firecrackers with a cigarette lighter, tossed them inside, and followed them up with a couple of M80s. Happily, the nearly closed door saved most of my hearing, but Jerret had to feel like he was on the receiving end of my tripwire nightmare: concussion, smoke, shock—and probably a bunch of insects already knocked off-line.
Time for the coup de grace. I pulled out another of my Rite Aid supplies, a can of home-and-garden wasp spray, yanked open the door, and looked for bugs.
They were there, of course, on the ceiling. Jerret was probably already pretty well into a flashback—and I didn’t want to give him any chance to recover. If he hadn’t been in a secure room when the commotion began, he’d have responded by retreating to the safest place he could think of and shifting as many assets as possible to his perimeter. And it was hard to imagine he wouldn’t have Cora with him. I needed to find out which room they were in before the place was overrun with firefighters.
In one quick motion, I shot a jet of wasp spray at the flies. It was good stuff, and about half of them dropped instantly. More than I wanted—the plan depended on not killing them all—but Jerret’s reaction was instant: the equivalent to touching a hot burner. I zapped a couple more flies for good measure, but he was already pulling back, desperate to keep from losing any others.
I chased down the hallway, following the flies. Most were faster than me, but those that had gotten a partial dose of the bug killer were a bit wobbly, and even in the smoke I was able to keep them in sight. Then we reached a door—number 1903, a detached part of my mind noted—and they started diving into a gap beneath it. It wasn’t a huge one—when Jerret had cut it into the carpet, he must not have been thinking of a possible mass retreat—so there was a bit of a jam-up as flies were coming in from all directions. Clearly, he was putting the survival of his swarm ahead of maintaining his periphery.
This much I’d planned. Time now to improvise.
First, I shot as many of the remaining flies as I could with the spray. That confined Jerret’s remaining Sense to the room. There was a spyhole in the door, though he was probably still too shocked to think to use it. Nevertheless, I ducked sideways, out of sight. He’d have a gun, and might start shooting. The fire alarm was deafening, almost enough to put me into a flashback, and I knew what was going on. Jerret had to be over the edge.
Armed and irrational. A bad combo, but the only one I was sure I could use. And with his Sense bottled up, we were now on equal terms.
But I didn’t have much time. According to my watch, it had only been three and a half minutes since Denise had pulled the first alarm, but there would be firefighters running up the stairs any minute. I had two choices: shoot my way in and try to get Jerret without letting anything happen to Cora . . . or get him to come out.
It would have been simple to work myself into a killing rage. It wasn’t as though Jerret had been a long-term member of my unit. We’d only done a few missions together and had barely talked on base. Since then, he’d seduced my daughter, kidnapped her, and for all I knew, raped her. Or maybe he thought he was protecting her, or even married to her.
But I’d looked into his eyes the day after the ravine. Told the same lies to get out of De-con. Flown Laurel’s swarm. Jerret was me, but for the grace of God. If there was a God. Two weeks ago, I’d have said there wasn’t. But two weeks ago I was a different person: Jerret, but for the grace. Killing him achieved nothing. Killing him was killing myself . . . again.
For once there was no flashback. I couldn’t afford one, but I think something in me had truly changed. With a silent prayer to a God I’d never even have contemplated two weeks ago, I decided to stick to the plan.
“Lapp,” I yelled, in my best field-commander voice. “This building is under attack, by . . .” I hesitated, then decided in-for-a-penny-in-for-a-pound, “Ladenite terrorists.”
I struck the cigarette lighter, tossed more lady fingers, smoke pellets, and another M80 down the hallway. Good-bye ears. Hopefully they’d recover by the time I needed them. I struck the lighter again and played the wasp spray across it. Hurrah for LPG propellants; the stuff made a dandy blowtorch. I aimed it across in front of the spy hole, blackening Jerret’s door, just for the hell of it.
“Lapp,” I yelled again, using the spray can to light yet another string of lady fingers. I was going to run out of them soon. “Our CI-MEMS operator is dead. Your unit needs you.”
Nothing to do now but wait. I pulled the bug-spray can back, away from the spyhole, reluctantly let the flame die. Then, as the door began to open, I fogged the hallway with the remaining contents of the can. Might as well take out as much of his swarm as I could, the moment he stepped out. I couldn’t afford to get it all, but the fewer bugs he had, the less likely he’d be to get a read on me, the less likely to snap back to reality at an awkward moment.
He emerged slowly, one arm wrapped around a terrified Cora, the other hand holding an Uzi.
I hadn’t expected the Uzi, had expected a sidearm instead. We needed to get out fast, and quietly. Otherwise, we were going to have a lot of dead firefighters if Jerret met them in the smoke, looking, in their protective gear, like storm troopers.
Whether Cora was terrified of Jerret or of all the bangs and alarms was hard to determine. But when she saw me, even in the smoke, strobe lights, and din—even with the bandana, hat and glasses, gun—her mouth went wide in a startled O. Maybe she said something. My ears weren’t exactly my best allies at the moment. Maybe she was merely about to speak. I met her eyes, shook my head. Stay with him, I mouthed. Or maybe I said it. I was having nearly as much trouble hearing myself as hearing anything else.
“Lapp,” I said,
forcefully enough that I could almost hear it. “We need to get out of here. Extend your perimeter for maximum threat avoidance.” Briefly, I regretted killing so much of his swarm. Still, there ought to be enough left to do the job. “We do not have the firepower for a fight. We need to get out and report to base. Do you understand?”
If he recognized me, it wasn’t as Cora’s father. Maybe from the missions we’d shared. More likely as a generic battlefield figure from a long-off flashback. As long as I could keep him there, we’d be safe. I wouldn’t have to kill again.
I shifted my gaze to Cora. “Do you understand?”
She nodded, still wide-eyed.
“This is what I do,” I said. Paused. Remembered Denise. Hoped she was safe. “Did.” My hearing was definitely coming back. “I will get you out.”
She nodded, still wide-eyed. “Da—”
Much as I longed to hear her Daddy—Daddy without the damn you, without the weight of all those wasted years—it was the one thing I couldn’t let her say.
“That’s enough, private,” I barked. “Lapp’s on point. The rest of the unit”—I looked at her as pointedly as I could risk—“will follow his lead. Quietly. Do you understand?” She nodded, silent again. “Good. Let’s roll.”
Cora nodded again, and we started down the hallway. Jerret’s lead wasn’t quite standard, a possessive arm still clutching his “private” in a distinctly non-military manner. But still, we were moving, very much dependent on each other. It had been five minutes since the first alarm. By now, there had to be firefighters in the building.
I don’t know how much of his swarm Jerret had left, but it was enough, because getting out was startlingly easy. Easy enough to again make me wish I was integrated. Until, that is, I looked at Cora. Then it was easier to be as I was.
He found a smoke-free stairwell jammed with people trying to get down from the lounge, and cooperated when I suggested that Uzi-under-the-coat might be a better stealth mode than Uzi-in-plain-sight. Not that he ever let go of Cora, except for the moment when he tucked the Uzi under his coat. For about two seconds, I thought she was going to run—a bad thing because Jerret’s training would make sure that Uzi-under-the-coat become Uzi-in-plain-sight, very, very quickly. But again, I shook my head, and again, she deferred.
Then we were in the basement, and from there into the parking garage.
I’d warned Denise not to react when she saw Cora. But it was all she could do to stay in character. “Mission accomplished,” I said, just to remind everyone we weren’t out of the woods. “Driver, take us back to base.”
Laurel climbed in front. Jerret opened the back and started to maneuver Cora in ahead of him, but I cut him off. “Lapp, you’ve got shotgun.” He started to protest, but this wasn’t negotiable. “Now, soldier. That’s an order.”
He let go and slid into the front. Moments later, Denise, Cora, and I were in the back. Cora in the center. No thought to that one: the duckling, however well-grown, flanked by the parents. A moment later the car was full of flies. No way we could leave them behind; try that and Jerret would have been back in the here-and-now faster than I could possibly come up with a way to stave it off.
But there weren’t that many flies. Forty, maybe fifty, tops. And Jerret was clearly losing his focus on the “mission;” flies were drifting into the backseat, hovering near Cora, circling her head, brushing her cheeks, hair, ears, lips.
Cora never moved, even as a tear slid from her eye and a fly landed to taste it. With a clarity that might have come from a swarm but didn’t, I realized she hadn’t been raped. Not in any conventional fashion, anyway. This—this was Jerret’s way of making love: like me watching Denise in Laurel’s office, carried to its extreme.
Traffic in the parking garage had been minimal—most people fleeing a high-rise fire aren’t going to risk getting trapped in the garage. Jerret’s voice was distant, muffled by the squeal of tires as Laurel gunned up the ramp toward the street.
Or maybe my own hearing hadn’t completely recovered. “What did you say?” I asked.
But it hadn’t just been my hearing. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, forlorn. Not a soldier’s. Or a kidnapper’s. “So few . . .”
I knew what he meant, but Cora didn’t know I did. “Usually there are a lot more flies,” she said. “Something happened to the rest.”
“So few,” Jerret repeated. He was becoming agitated. “Where are the Ladenites? Where’s the rest of the unit? What happened to my swarm? There was a guy with a spray can. . .”
Uh-oh. I made sure my gun was ready. Cora saw, and another tear followed the first. But she said nothing.
Please, God, if you exist, don’t make me have to do this.
Laurel saved the day. “Here, soldier, take this.” She fished in her pocket, dropped pills in his hand.
“What are they?” Suspicion hadn’t yet hit his voice, but it would.
“Anti-withdrawal medicine. Take it.” She was talking to him, but in the rear-view mirror she was watching me.
“What kind?” His voice was stronger, and my gun was now pointing at him, through the back of his seat. Please, God . . .
“Valium,” she said. And Ambien. I knew. The prescriptions had been mine. Not that I liked to use them. I preferred my flashbacks unmedicated. “Use your swarm,” Laurel added. “See if I’m telling the truth.”
Reluctantly, Jerret pulled a few flies away from Cora. Then a few more.
“I can get you a new swarm,” Laurel continued, once she was sure she had his full attention. In the rearview mirror, she actually flashed me a grin. “Isn’t that right, Kip?”
Laurel had found a way both to save the day and ensure her millions. “Yes. I’ve flown it.”
More flies moved from Cora, into the front.
“But you have to give up Ms. McCorbin. You can’t have both. We’ll give you the best insects outside the military, but you’ll have to do what our psychologists tell you, and wear a tracking bracelet, because you have to let her have her own life. Isn’t that right Kip?”
That one was easy. “Yes.”
“You really don’t have much choice, because otherwise the FBI’s going to get you eventually, and they really don’t like kidnappers.” She paused, accelerated onto Lakeshore Drive, watching a fire truck heading the opposite direction. Our doing, or something else? There are, I realized, things you never know . . . and never have to know.
“Right now, you’ve got to take those pills. Because otherwise Kip here is going to have to shoot you. And you know he’ll do it if he has to. Isn’t that right, Jerret?”
Jerret looked down at the pills. He turned, looked over his shoulder at Cora—his eyes, not the swarm’s. She was leaning slightly against me now, and I felt her stiffen. But her face showed nothing. Then, ever so slowly, Jerret raised his hand, tipped the pills into his mouth, swallowed. The opposite choice from the one I’d made. The only one he could possibly make.
“Good job.” Laurel sounded like she was talking to a child. She looked at her watch. “We’ll be in St. Louis in five hours if everything gets out of the way.” She again glanced in the mirror. “Want to come with us?”
I looked at Denise, Cora. Shook my head.
“Didn’t think so. Midway Airport’s on the way. Tickets are on me. Send the bill.” She paused. Jerret was already starting to nod off. “And remember what I told you, okay? Everyone in this life is walking wounded. I’ll take care of him; you do what I told you. Make this a win-win-win-win. You, me, Jerret, her. You hear me, Kip?”
I nodded. Started to grin, but she was deadly serious.
“Because life doesn’t give you many of those, so you damn well better not waste them.” There were tears in her eyes, too, and suddenly, it no longer seemed funny. There but for the grace of God. Her, me, Jerret, Cora. We were all each other, but for the grace.
The car was on the Stevenson Expressway, heading southeast, the electric motor’s whir barely loud enough to mask Jerret’s soft s
nore.
I lowered the gun, slipped on the safety. Looked at Cora, into the eyes in which once, I could do no wrong. Realized that life sometimes really does give you second chances. Can and will, without the shoulda-coulda.
I longed to put an arm around her, pull her tight, hear that all-restoring Daddy. But it was way too soon. Instead, I broke the gaze, looked across her at Denise. And wondered. Was there enough grace for a win-win-win-win-win? You sure as hell don’t get many of those. I didn’t know, but I wasn’t in any hurry to go back to Seattle. Especially in gray, rainy November.
Science Fact
Science Fact
Phantom Science: The Facts Behind “Phantom Sense”
Richard A. Lovett & Mark Niemann-Ross
SPOILER ALERT: This article addresses how close we are to developing the “Sense” underlying the novella “Phantom Sense,” on pages 8–37 of this issue. It isn’t necessary to have read the story in order to understand this article, but this article does reveal...
Top of Science Fact
Novella Short Stories
Science Fact
Phantom Science: The Facts Behind “Phantom Sense”
Richard A. Lovett & Mark Niemann-Ross
SPOILER ALERT: This article addresses how close we are to developing the “Sense” underlying the novella “Phantom Sense,” on pages 8–37 of this issue. It isn’t necessary to have read the story in order to understand this article, but this article does reveal some of that story’s secrets.
Ten years ago a company called WiCab purchased a construction-worker’s hardhat and wired it with an accelerometer—a device that measures the force of movement (and gravity) in any direction. Output from the accelerometer went to a computer linked to 100 tiny electrodes held in contact with the helmet wearer’s tongue via a special mouthpiece.
The goal was to let balance-impaired users “taste” balance cues delivered as mild buzzing sensations to their tongues. If you stood upright, you felt the buzz in the middle of your tongue. If you swayed, it moved. Your task: figure out how to stand so the buzz stayed centered, where it “should” be.