by Mich Moore
to choke him out!" A real yard fight! The two men could not believe their good fortune.
Chang intervened again, this time using his brute force. "STOP IT! YOU'LL KILL HIM! LET HIM GO!"
But Fields held on. "You had enough?" he asked, knowing full well that Walters could not have answered him even if he tried. Fields gave one final twist on Walters's windpipe before breaking off.
Fields wiped Walters's slobber on his pants leg. "Next time I don't let go."
Hillerman and Brady hustled Fields into Dina's waiting limousine. Powell, Walters, Broussard, and Bautista were shoved into another. Dina opened her door and hurried over to the second car. "Lieutenant, can Neal ride with us? We'll take responsibility for him."
Brady nodded and escorted Broussard to Dina's waiting limousine. "Be good," he told the engineer.
As soon as the car pulled away, Fields pulled out his phone pad, pressed a few buttons, and connected to someone who had the security clearance to hear him bellyache in detail about Walters and his legal injunction. Dina sat as far away from him as possible. Broussard noticed but did not let on. There was obviously no love lost there. It was also patently obvious to him that Dina had invited him to ride with them so that she wouldn't be alone with Fields.
"Neal, I believe that you're going to have fun tonight," she said brightly.
"Hope so," he answered with as much gaiety as he could muster. He tried to block out Fields's one-sided conversation and wondered why it was happening right in front of him. At this point, he was a firsthand eyewitness. A few unpleasant scenarios ran through his mind, none of them in his favor. It might be best to go on the offense.
He started slowly. "Allan told me a wild story about Connie. Something about a priest going along with her visits to the hospices."
"Yes?"
"Well, is it true?"
Dina fiddled with her ponytail. "Neal, Connie was very dedicated to the MIT program. She desperately wanted us to get it right the first time, because she knew there might not be a second time."
"So she gets the Vatican involved? Dina, this doesn't make any sense."
"Neal, there are many levels to what we're doing here. I don't expect you to understand them all."
"Why? Because I'm still a prisoner?"
"Because you're an engineer. Look, I know how you think. If something can't be proven with numbers, then it doesn't exist."
"Are you telling me that you went along with this?"
She didn't respond. Fields was off the phone now and staring moodily out his window.
Broussard placed imaginary hands on his hips. "I can't believe it. It's voodoo engineering all over again."
Dina's eyes darted sideways in annoyance. "I can assure you that no tomfoolery was involved."
"No, just a bunch of cult bullshit." He scowled up at the car's elegantly padded ceiling. That was a custom job and it had surely cost a small fortune. He marveled at the workmanship. Just how rich was Beau Hodges?
Broussard leaned back dramatically into the seat's buttery soft leather. "How are we ever going to present any of our papers to any reputable review board with a papal benediction listed in our methodology?"
"Why don't you just leave that part out?" she shot back.
"Oh! You think? Jesus Christ! You're as crazy as Chang is!" They both remained in furious silence for about ten blocks. Finally he said, "I'm sorry. That was crass."
Dina did not look at him. "Yes, it was."
"It's just that I guess I'm surprised ... and a little disappointed."
His old friend was extremely offended. "In me?"
He sighed, bone weary from this strange second act of his life. "In everyone. Including myself."
Dina sniffed. "Makes sense to me."
Broussard did not speak to her for the rest of the ride.
Half an hour later, the earlier tensions of the evening had been put on the backburner and everyone was enjoying themselves at Beau and Dina's opulent residence. The Hodges occupied the penthouse apartment that crowned the top of the tony Benjamin Building, a gleaming brown tower that shot fifty stories into Chicago's storied skyline.
The Hodges's cloud palace was a wonder to behold. Seven-meter high walls partitioned cavernous hallways. Flamboyant rooms seemed to go on forever. In the split-level living room, tinted floor-to-ceiling Star Fire glass replaced entire wall sections, offering viewers a spectacular 180-degree view of Chicago and the lake. French doors with mahogany trim led to the private terrace. It was there that most of the guests had gravitated, taking full advantage of the ornamental gardens, the Italian stone bridge overlooking the infinity pool, and the outsized sectional couch ensemble that lazed half a meter below deck level like a river of decadent comfort. There was even a small menagerie of exotic birds, happy enough to sing and preen without provocation. Two standard poodles, one white and white black, lounged elegantly on the floor in front of a lit fireplace. Persian kittens played amongst their paws.
Bautista caught the eye of a pretty girl and winked. When she acknowledged him with a tiny wave, he recoiled in astonishment.
Roger giggled. "Goyles! Goyles! Goyles!"
Four waiters hurried over with trays of sparkling wine and fancy hors d'œuvres. The team loaded up on both.
Derek crammed a stuffed crab puff into his mouth. "When I die I want to be buried here."
Walters massaged his bruised throat and sniffed. "It's a bit gauche; having money doesn't necessarily mean you have good taste."
"I don't know," Tara said, standing close to Powell. "I think I could live with this."
"Yoo-hoo! Guys!" Dina flounced over with Chang and another unknown party guest in tow. "Welcome to my humble abode!"
"'Humble' it ain't," Walters replied testily.
She ignored him and took hold of Powell's arm. "Allan and I have a surprise for our favorite engineers."
"Oh?"
She led them into a tall, long room swathed in red drapes. A jazz quartet was performing on a tiny stage before a large but nearly silent audience while blue puffs of marijuana smoke went up from each table like smoke signals. Other than the music, the only sounds were the occasional screeching of chair legs against bare floor. The mood was very subdued.
The band wrapped up their song, and the lead singer attempted to snap the audience out of their stupor.
"All right, guys and gals. Tonight we have a special treat!" He jutted his arm out towards the engineers. "These guys are going to light the fire under your rockets and get everybody boogying! All the way from sweet home Alabama ... put your hands together for The Redstones!"
"I made up the name myself!" Dina gushed. "Do you like it?"
The men were flabbergasted.
"Are you kidding me?" Walters asked.
"Don't be coy," she said. "I know you all play. I heard you back in Nevada. You're good! And I think that people should see just how talented you really are!"
"What are you talking about?" Walters seemed genuinely flustered, but Broussard did not need to be asked twice. He hopped up onto the stage and grabbed the microphone and electric guitar from the bandleader
"Thank you! Thank you! It's great to be here tonight in Chicago—the most awesome city in the world!"
Those rousing words forced the crowd to regain consciousness.
"Right now I'd like to bring up the rest of the band—" He motioned for the others to come up. Walters was still protesting, but he allowed Powell and Bautista to guide him onto the stage. "—and show you the new West Coast Get Down!"
Walters replaced the keyboard player, Bautista sat down at the drum set and Powell took over the electric bass. Broussard shouted over his shoulder at the others, "Prime set!" He began the countdown. "A-one. A-two. A-one-two-three-four."
They launched into the instrumental intro of the Eagles' "Hotel California," and the audience immediately got to its feet. Pure, human energy sprang to life in every corner of the room and flowed outward, encircling them. Their countenances lifted. The weed was temporarily fo
rgotten. Broussard began to softly sing:
On a dark, desert highway,
Cool wind in my hair.
Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air.
Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light.
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim.
I had to stop for the night!
Two couples began to dance with slurred motions, while others held up lighters, knelt in prayer, or simply cried. At the iconic bridge of the song, Broussard and the electric guitar seemed to funnel all of the people's sincere grief at the destruction in California, while at the same time lifting up its collective hope for its speedy resurrection. Several individuals, male and female, crowded the stage now, holding their arms up high as if in the grips of a spiritual revival. The high emotions continued to race around the room as the band drew the song to a unique, climactic close.
Broussard let the audience scream and shout their approval for a while. And then he slipped the band into a bass-thumping rendition of "The Power of Love" by Huey Lewis and the News, and the audience went wild. The set ended on the love ballad "I Still Believe in You" by Vince Gill. Afterwards, they received a minute-long standing ovation and hateful looks from the hired band.
Right before they exited the stage, a pair of lace panties flew at them and hit Broussard squarely in the face. He held them up for all to see. "The best souvenir yet! Thank you, ma'am!"
The Lincoln Hills engineers, flush from their successful foray into rock stardom, headed for the nearest bar with the rest of the team in tow.
Roger led a toast to them. "Not bad. But I wouldn't quit your day jobs!"
Everyone laughed.
Someone moving too fast for the amount of free space in the room bumped Walters's arm, causing him to spill his drink all over his sports jacket. "Hey!"
The person did not stop but kept going at full speed, straight for the elevator. Loud, excited talk wafted in through the French doors that led to the rooftop garden. A knot of glamorous women with big hair, obviously curious, made their way towards the commotion.
"Do we have a celebrity here?" Roger asked, twisting around to get a better look outside.
Powell plucked another glass of bubbly from a passing tray. "It wouldn't surprise me. Everybody's here. Best party ever!"
Fields said, "You sang that song with a lot of heart."
Dina sliced into the conversation before Broussard had a chance to respond. "Van, Neal, and Mike are all originally from California." She was holding a flute of sparkling wine, and she swirled it about with one bejeweled hand. "We acquired their talents via California's professional prisoner program."
Fields's eyebrows arched. "No doubt for a tidy sum."
"Worth every penny. There's no doubt in my mind that none of us would be standing here today if it weren't for the Boys from Lincoln Hills."
And then she abruptly stopped talking, as if she had just realized that she might have said too much. She tried to deflect the pressure wave from her faux pas by winking at the men from Lincoln Hills and thrusting her bosom at Fields. "These are some of the most brilliant men I've ever had the pleasure to meet." No one said anything. Walters's eyes were drilling into her skull. "I don't understand," he began slowly and deliberately. "Your husband has no financial interests in the MIT or the DAT, right?"
Dina flicked her ponytail. "Of course not," she said, her voice just a skosh higher than usual. "The MIT was my baby. But Beau has always supported my work with the PPP. And, yes, at times that meant financial support, too." Her eyes dipped with mild disdain. "I would imagine that you of all people would have figured that out." Her voice and posture were sugarplum sweet, but there was a visible edge to her now, and it was both surprising and unbecoming.
She linked her free arm with one of Fields's, and the two strode away with a group of foxily dressed hangers-on trailing behind them.
Bautista was horrified. "Holy shit. Dina's a bitch!"
"And she just all but confirmed what I've been saying: She and Beau own the DAT technology now. And they're getting ready to sell it right from underneath our noses." He turned to the others. "Do you get it now?"
Broussard's jaws were tightening. "Yeah, I get it. We're about to get royally screwed."
"Not if we line up a buyer first!" Walters appeared ready to open the nearest window and jump to Canada. Just then Walters's cell phone buzzed. He took the call and read the message. "Juliana's here. She wants me to meet her by the elevator."
Bautista pulled a plain white envelope out of his pants pocket and handed it over to Walters. It contained two thousand dollars. Walters stuffed it into his own pocket.
"I'll ping you after we make the exchange." Walters slipped away.
A server came around with a fresh round of drinks. The men received the drinks out of politeness but did not drink.
"I wish they'd bring us some orange juice instead of all this alcohol," Powell grumbled.
"They had a cooler of 'em stashed near the stage," Bautista said.
Broussard set his drink down. "Well, I'm thirsty. Who's coming?"
The three of them set out for the orange juice. It wasn't easy. People were pouring into the main hallway from all points in the penthouse, and it was quickly clogging with moist, perfumed flesh. They pushed and shoved their way back to the ballroom like salmon swimming upstream. After a minute of suffocating labor, they finally popped out on the other side.
Bautista led them to where the cooler still sat. He flipped open the lid. "Let's see what we got here ... "
As the men rummaged through the treasure chest of refreshments, they failed to notice four figures coming up from behind.
"Hi!"
The engineers whirled around guiltily, Bautista slamming the cooler shut along the way.
"Hello, there!" Broussard replied.
Four women, as tall and slender as runway models, stood before them.
"They've got the fresh-squeezed stuff in the kitchen," one of them said helpfully. "Just ask one of the attendants."
"All right," Broussard responded.
It was then that the women came into focus. They were young, probably in their early thirties. Two brunettes and two blondes. Each of them easily stood at almost two meters tall, and they were all absolutely gorgeous.
Logic failed Powell. "You—you are women."
The women smiled. One of the brunettes replied, "Yes, sir." Her eyes flicked to Broussard. "We saw you perform. You were awesome!"
Broussard remained mute and unmoving as a cavalcade of hormones marched through his nervous system.
"Are you supermodels or something?" Powell asked.
The women giggled in soft, tinkly voices. "No, sir," the same brunette replied. "We work with power plants."
"What, like medicinal herbs?"
Out came the soft, tinkly giggles again. "No, sir. Power plants for vehicles. We're propulsion engineers."
Powell spread his arms wide. "Hah! You've got to be joking!"
"No, sir."
Powell was grinning from ear to ear. "Frigging incredible!" He smacked his lips. "So, you design engines for cars? Lawn mowers?"
"Spacecraft."
Powell almost choked on his own drool. "You mean that you're all literally rocket scientists?"
There were more tee-hees. "Yes, sir."
Broussard finally found his tongue. "Those are the hot slots these days, aren't they?"
The women nodded in unison.
"I'll bet you're working on something exotic ... like synthetic fission." He had read about that idea in a recent Popular Mechanics article.
"No," the shorter of the blondes answered. "We dropped that lead three years ago."
Broussard tried hard to not look like a fool. "Well, of course you did! It really was quite silly!"
The young lovely nodded and smiled. "We're looking at some of the heavy metals now. A couple of them are showing promise in certain areas."
Broussard's eyebrows lifted. "Really?" He d
ickered his head up and down a bit, as if he were trying to mentally chase down every possible scenario where a heavy metal could be the hero of a cutting-edge spaceship engine design. "Yes, well ... you are certainly beautiful." He had not meant to say that. "Uh, I mean that is certainly interesting!"
The woman cocked her perfectly coifed head and said, "Aww! That's sweet!" She checked her wristwatch. "I think they're about to serve dinner. We'd love to have y'all join us!"
She was breathtakingly pretty and shapely in a subtle way. Broussard's eyes mutinied and rolled around her assets. Mortified, he yanked them back into their proper position. "Sorry. It's been a long ... day."
"And I bet y'all are pretty hungry!" she said.
Broussard tried to side step the double entendre of the words now bubbling at his lips, but he could not. "Yes. We are very hungry." The words hung in the air for a few excruciating moments.
The women clapped their hands together. "Yay! So are we!" She then turned to her colleagues. "Remember, only nibbles tonight! We're sticking to our diet no matter what!"
They threw their arms around each other in what was probably the girl equivalent of a football huddle. They then broke. One of the brunettes said, "Beau throws the best parties! We'll show you the good stuff!"
Both Powell and Broussard looked ready to faint. The four women expertly spun around on their stiletto heels until they were facing the opposite direction. "Let's go!"
Bautista gave a thumbs-up to Broussard and Powell and shouted, "Ladies, lead the way!"
On the way to the dining hall, the men learned the names of their new friends. The two brunettes were Ann-Something and Brianna Fudge? And the other two were named Mary and Liz. All four of them were from Austin, Texas, and each had been hand-picked by Beau Hodges to work in Applied Physics' Space Development division. At the moment, the ladies were serving as charming icebreakers, politely cutting through the waves of party-goers swarming towards the center of the hall.
After a few more gracious pushes and shoves, the crowd broke and the group found itself standing before a series of long wooden tables, each laden with enough food to make a body swoon.
Mary turned to the men. "Have you ever seen anything like it?"
The men were momentarily speechless.
Liz was handing out plates. "Grab a knife and fork and dig in!"
The men didn't wait to be asked twice. They descended upon the feast with great gusto. When Bautista speared a piece of prime rib steak and held it aloft like a trophy, Broussard and Powell cheered.
Bautista slammed it down onto his plate. "After I'm finished with this one, I'm grabbing one of those turkey legs!"
Broussard was grinning. "Mike, I think your eyes are bigger than your stomach!"
Powell was steadily heaping ham, chicken, gravy, and mashed potatoes onto his own plate. "I don't know, Neal! I think Mike has the right idea! This is a once-in-a-lifetime event! Better make the most of it!"
There was a small commotion, some pushing and harsh language, and then Walters was suddenly standing before them. He looked unhappy. Extremely unhappy.
"The deal is off," he said miserably.
Powell looked like someone had just punched him. "What?"
"Juliana was talking crazy. Saying that she thought we might be snitches for the Chicago police and that Kato was thinking about putting a hit on us."
Broussard's jaw dropped. "What the hell happened?"
"Nothing!" he said. "She's a paranoid psycho. They both are." He had the money envelope out. "Here." He thrust it back into Bautista's hands. "All of this work. For nothing!"
The men excused themselves from the women and adjourned in a quiet corner.
"You think she's serious?" Powell asked. "About Kato putting a hit on us?"
Walters was glaring at the ceiling. "The man thinks he's a pirate. Who knows what he's capable of!"
"Then we tell Allan," Broussard said. "He'll get Hillerman to cover us until we leave town."
"Tell Allan what?" Walters asked. "That we just got scammed trying to buy phony passports? You think he's going to take that news well?"
"Well, he won't like it, but, heck, they still need us. There's no way they're going to parse all of that neural code by themselves, especially with Patrik being such an ass."
"So—"
Someone yelled from the party's center of mass. "OH, MY GOD! LOOK AT THAT!"
A few people flowed towards the French doors to get a better look.
"HEY! THERE'S SOMEBODY OUT THERE! SOMEBODY'S WALKING AROUND OUT THERE!!!"
Suddenly, the entire building rocked back on its heels. Not once. But twice.
Someone yelled, "EARTHQUAKE!"
Another shouted, "It's the end of the world!"
Broussard tipped over onto Powell. "Not again!"
Bautista found himself scraping against Walters and another stranger. "Is it me or does shit just seem to follow us around?"
Then a woman screamed. "IT'S AN ALIEN!"
That's when hysteria broke out.
Uncontrolled bleating reached their ears as many people began backpedaling from the garden and towards the elevators.
"TAKE THE STAIRS!" someone shouted. "TAKE THE STAIRS!"
The building had stopped moving.
"That didn't feel like no quake," Bautista said, straightening up.
Chang looked this way and that. "What's going on?" He and Walters slowly made their way towards the glass doors leading to the garden. The others reluctantly followed.
Half the party had already relocated to the garden, making it difficult to see anything other than the backs of their heads.
"I can't see anything," Chang told them. "I'm going outside."
Chang opened the doors and led them outside. In spite of the exodus, there was a crush of bodies straining to see off the rooftop. It was suffocating.
Everyone was pointing towards the nearest building, another skyscraper perhaps sixty stories tall. It looked normal ... except for the thick ring of fire rotating around its crown.
"Shit. What now?" Bautista asked. His voice did not sound frightened, just emptied of emotion. He looked at Broussard. "You wanna get a better look?"
"I can see fine from here."
The other partygoers began to "ooh" and "ahh" at this latest wonder. The ring of fire was immense. Not only did it encircle the entire building, but it did so for nearly ten stories. The fire itself was disarmingly familiar. If one were to find himself looking up at a burner on a gas stove, he would find an almost exact replica of this ring. The only difference was that the tips of the blue and orange flames were blunted and not pointy.
Someone nearby groaned. "When is this going to end?"
The entire ring abruptly pulsed and swelled. Tongues of blue flame jetted out from the whole of its outer circumference and licked the black sky for kilometers around.
Amid the sudden cries and screams of terror and surprise, a hard blast of warm air hit first the Benjamin Building and then the penthouse garden, knocking people down as if they were bowling pins. For several incredibly scary moments, the building again shook and swayed.
And then the winds ceased and the building managed to regain its equilibrium.
Broussard raised his head to scan the scene. The arms of fire that had streaked overhead were gone. The night sky and the stars were still in place.
He rose shakily to his feet and looked out. That fire ring was still there, its slow rotation seemingly uninterrupted by its dramatic outburst. It had also shrunk back down to its original size.
Other people began to pick themselves up from the floor.
"Is this real?" Powell asked.
"I don't know," Broussard answered truthfully. Strangers began to weave in and out of his view. Some appeared to be in shook, others just plain confused.
Powell was busy dusting off his jacket. "We've been hearing about these mass hallucinations. Maybe that's what just happened."
Mass hysteria? Of course, they had all heard th
e same rumors and had dismissed them as nonsense. The fanciful imaginations of too many idle minds. But now. Broussard considered the possibility. "Maybe." Something caught his attention. He sniffed the air. There was a subtle hint of sulfur to it that had definitely not been there before.
A couple, a middle-aged man and woman, was talking in low, urgent tones a short distance away. The woman was obviously in some sort of mental distress, and the man was offering a few words of comfort. Light from a nearby candelabra caught her face and thick, natural blonde hair. In that soft light, she bore a striking resemblance to Connie Como. Broussard's eyes rested on her a bit longer.
"Don't worry so much," the man told her. "Everything's fine."
But as soon as the words had left his mouth, the ring erupted again and the flames rolled out over the city and beyond for kilometers, lighting up everything above and below along the way.
Another blast of light and warm wind struck the building. The building began to rock violently from side to side, tossing humans and furniture alike about like clothing in a dryer.
Broussard heard himself screaming as he was knocked off his feet. The lambent flames boiled overhead. That was when the first wave of nausea hit him.
Powell cartwheeled by, headed for the terrace's wall. Broussard could not see if he hit it or not. The beam of flame evaporated again, only this time so did the alien fire ring.
Somebody was retching their guts out right behind him.
Broussard heard a woman's voice, low and full of sorrow. "Why is God so angry with us? If we're doing something wrong, why doesn't He just tell us and maybe we can fix it?"
He looked around. It was the woman with the blonde hair. Her man bellowed loud enough for the entire garden to hear. "DAMMIT, CANDY! CAN'T YOU GET IT THROUGH YOUR THICK, UGLY SKULL??? THERE IS NO GOD!" People paused in their own hysterics long enough to watch them. The man reared back and brought the back of his hand down hard across the left side of her face.
Broussard heard the woman whimper, but she remained standing.
With her left eye already beginning to purple, she intoned, "That's the last time, Bobby Alpert."
He smacked her again, harder.
Another partygoer yelled at him, "Leave her alone!"
The name called Bobby Alpert then turned on that person, "THIS IS MY WIFE. IF I WANT TO THROW HER OFF THIS FUCKIN' ROOF, I WILL!"
His wife turned around and took off like a running back, scrambling over inert bodies and overturned tables towards the higher east wall of the terrace.
"CANDY!!! COME BACK HERE!!! CANDACE!"
Before Broussard could stop himself, he was two meters from his last position and his hands were firmly around Bobby Alpert's throat. The man was bigger, but his physical superiority was no match for Broussard's uncapped fury. Sickening gurgles escaped from his victim's mouth.
"Neal! Neal! Don't do this, man!" Bautista was suddenly at his side, trying to talk him down. But Broussard knew that he was beyond rational thinking at the moment. He had the man in a death grip and he knew it. If he could just hold on a little longer—
Powell, Bautista, and Chang yanked on his arms and wrestled him to the ground. Chang threw his heavy bulk on top of him, pinning him down. "KNOCK IT OFF, NEAL! I'M WARNING YOU!"
Broussard vainly tried to squirm out of the larger man's grasp. "Let! Me! Go!"
Chang was puffing hard. "I'll let you go, but you have to promise not to do anything stupid!"
"They killed him!" Broussard shouted at him.
Chang pressed down harder on his chest. "NEAL, GET IT TOGETHER!"
"Allan, they killed him!"
Chang grabbed Broussard by his shirt and shook him. "Neal, you're losing it. Get a grip. NOW!" He let his words sink in.
Broussard began to cry miserably. "Get off!"
"You promise to act right?"
Broussard angrily shut his eyes, refusing to look at anyone. Finally he said, "Yes."
Chang sprang to his feet. Broussard sat up. Between the dirty tears and the torn shirt, he was a mess. The lookie-loos began to melt away to attend to their own crises. Broussard scanned the crowd. "Where is she?"
"Who?" Chang asked.
"Connie!" His senses were returning to him. "No, no. The woman who was hit."
Bautista pointed east. "She's over there." He helped his friend to his feet. "But leave her alone, dude. She's somebody else's problem."
But Broussard was already pushing his way through the bystanders.
He found her at the edge of the terrace, right up against its tallest wind-breaking wall. She had neatly stacked a couple of tables on top of each other and then climbed up onto the narrow ledge, one meter above the floor. Her thick hair blew about her head almost in slow motion as she quietly looked out over Chicago.
He called up to her. "Ma'am?"
Startled, she whirled around and looked down at him. Her left eye was swollen shut, and she bled a bit from a gash on her forehead.
"Don't." It came out almost as a whisper, but judging from the change in her expression, he knew that she had heard him.
She passed a weary hand over her pale face. "Young man, I've had a difficult life. I kept
