by Ian Bull
“You’re right. I should trust you more,” I say, and she lets me kiss her on the lips.
“And I’ll remember that you’re still my boss.” She smiles and brushes her hand against the crotch of my pants, making me stiffen. “Even when you’re being naughty.”
“In two days, we can be anywhere in Mexico, waiting for our bank accounts to fill up. Where should we go?”
She smiles, but doesn’t answer. “What about Julia Travers? Are you still watching her?”
“Boss Man texted me. Her best friend is staying with her, but they’re housebound. Her new bodyguard and her agent come and go. She gets visits from cops. But she’s more worried about her court case for assaulting that paparazzo. That’s the only reason she’s left the house.”
“Good,” she says, and puts her hand on the cockpit latch. “United front?”
“United front,” I say, and we exit the cockpit together. Everyone working in the fuselage glances at us, and then looks away.
“Mom and Dad are done fighting!” I shout. “It happens. Now, everyone back to work on what will be the most exciting show in TV history. Test flight, this afternoon!”
Everyone gives me an “Ooh Rah!” except Tina, who heads for the airstair.
Chapter 41
* * *
Steven Quintana
Day 13: Thursday Afternoon
Ryan Airfield, Tucson Arizona
“Pee in front of my Humvee, where I can see you, then come right back,” Peter says, pointing with his power drill to a rock pile just off the tarmac.
“Yes, sir,” I say and walk thirty yards north of the plane. I untie the black pajama pants Peter gave me and I empty my bladder while staring at the dusty desert hills. I’m not allowed to be more than six feet away from him, so he can monitor my every move, my every word. Peeing and pooping is the only time I get a few yards of privacy, even though he’s still watching.
I built this rock pile that I’m wetting when we first arrived yesterday morning. Peter made me clear five hundred square feet of desert and then set up the tents. He and I share one tent, while blue-skinned Bree and metal-face Michel share the other. The other elders and the zombies disappeared back into the desert.
We’re at Ryan Airfield. That I know, because I did maneuvers here in 2006 between deployments. Army Rangers are trained to secure airports around the world, and Arizona is a perfect place to practice. The airfield office and tower are 700 yards behind me, a two-minute sprint away, full of people who could call Julia, Carl, and the FBI. They’d all swoop in and arrest Robert Snow and his curly-haired producing partner, and we’d find out who killed Rikki Lassen and who is paying for this insane show. Then I could go home, be with Julia, and get my alien mutant face fixed.
But I resist the urge to run. I’d never make it. Instead, I tie the drawstrings on the pajama bottoms and head back, keeping my head down and pretending the buildings don’t exist. Even looking at them will draw Peter’s attention. I cannot be the hypervigilant and super-observant Steven Quintana. I must be Vic Lowry, the resentful and frustrated Microsoft tech specialist from Eugene, Oregon who chose life with the tribe instead of life in a cubicle.
“Grab some sand to wash your hands,” Peter says. “Your urine is sterile, anyway.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say, and grab a handful of sand and rub it between my palms as I walk back under the belly of the plane.
“Sand is our soap. You’ll learn a lot of survival tricks now that you’re with us.” Peter smiles, stretching the skin around his shiny facial plate. He touches my chin, and I let him tilt my head up so he can examine his work. “You heal fast. And your face is some of the best work I’ve ever done, Honu. Just resist the urge to touch your forehead.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, looking into his eyes.
He pauses, then leans in and whispers. “Who is the boy?”
“Boy? I don’t understand,” I lie.
“On your Ayahuasca voyage, you revealed a traumatic memory. You saw a boy getting shot. Did you shoot the boy?”
“I didn’t shoot any boy,” I say, which is true. He leans closer and peers in, as if my eyes are clear glass balls he can see through to the dark gray matter of my brain.
“Are you telling me the truth about the wounds on your side?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s J.T.?” he asks. “You saw someone hurt him.”
“I don’t know any guy named J.T.,” which is also true, because J.T. is one of my names for Julia, who is not a guy. They must have pried this stuff out of me last night—but not enough for them to figure out who I really am.
He releases my chin and then rubs his own, like a puzzled doctor. “You’re afraid to answer. I wish we had time to take another trip so I could dig deeper.”
The idea of drinking more of his jungle soup makes me gag.
He must see the disgust on my face. “You do want to join us, don't you?”
“Yes,” I say in a dull, obedient voice.
“Then you’ll do as I say. Now, let’s give this plane a belly button.”
He’s talking about the giant gumdrop-shaped antenna sitting on an industrial rolling rack in front of us, right under the small hole we cut in the aluminum fuselage of the plane. Thick transmission cables are already attached to the antenna, and run up through the hole to the NASA transmitter we welded inside, which will shoot signals at 12 gigahertz on the KU band—crucial information that I got from Lionel, but have no way to share with anybody.
“Lionel, we’re sealing this sucker in!” Peter shouts into the hole.
“Go for it! I’ll hold the cables away from the metal!”
“One, two, three, lift,” Peter says, and we lift it up and fit it into its hole. I hold it up against the plane while he drills in four screws—north, south, east, west. And then we both race to drill in the remaining circle of screws, until the antenna is flush.
The strain makes my forehead and my skull throb. I hurt from the body modifications he gave me, and a dribble of clear fluid oozes down my face. Peter pulls out a piece of sterile gauze from his jacket, rips it open, squirts saline on it from a squeeze bottle, and cleans my face carefully. Gentle as he is, it feels like sandpaper.
“Thank you,” I say.
I’ve only seen myself once, right after he finished, when Socha sat in my lap and held up the mirror for me to see. The green and black scales running across my forehead and up my skull make me look like a sea turtle crossed with an iguana. She christened me with my tribal name.
“Now let me see your side tats,” Peter says. I lift the blue t-shirt he gave me and show him my bruised side, which he’s also turned into a rising pattern of reptile scales, starting at my hip and ending just under my left nipple. He inserted subdermal implants in the mini-volcano wounds where the bullets hit my vest two weeks ago. Combined with the tattoos, it looks like reptilian scales. He dabs at his fresh work, cleaning it gently. “You’d never even be here if I hadn’t brought you. You understand that, right?”
“I understand,” I say, blinking slowly like a sea turtle. He doesn’t know enough to do this job without me, but he’d never admit that. And while he talks about transforming me, I’ll keep my mouth shut, sneak glances, and look for my opportunity.
We put on our work gloves. He puts on a welding mask, then he gives me a pair of steampunk goggles with solar glass. “Hold the aluminum rods and run the solder bead while I hold the torch,” he says.
Peter sparks up the propane and we melt a tight seal of aluminum around the outside edge of the antenna. We finish and hear Lionel tapping “Shave and a Haircut” with “two bits” from inside, telling us it’s all good.
“Time to test this baby,” Peter says. “Clear this area and we’ll go inside.”
Peter watches me move the cart, the propane torch, and the toolboxes back to the worktables under the right wing. That’s okay, it gives me more time to think.
Do I try to ruin the game before it happens? But I need to lear
n more about the production, and who’s paying Robert Snow. Yet the longer I wait, the less chance I have to accomplish either. This plane will take off soon, and I’ll disappear into the desert with Peter and his zombies. I need to make a move now.
We’ve only rigged six of the ten GoPros he bought. I’ll set up a spare, and during the next camera test, I’ll grab video of Snow and his team, then remove the memory card and hide it. Then, I’ll look for my chance to dash to the terminal. But Peter also watches me like he’s a cashier at a 7/11 and I’m a kid shoplifting gum.
Peter’s walkie-talkie headphones crackle. “Copy that, we’re flying in,” he answers into his mic, then looks at me. “Test flight time.”
He points for me to go up first. The old stairs are rickety under my feet. Glancing up, I spot a CCTV camera aimed right at me as I walk into the long fuselage.
The interior is all exposed metal now, and twenty CCTV cameras line the walls of the fuselage. Michel and Bree hold an electrical switch and test one of the moving floors, which opens and shuts like an aircraft carrier deck. Are they going to fight in that? Robert Snow appears behind them. I keep my head down and my ears open.
“Will I see variable speeds for the floor opening and shutting?” he asks.
“Yes, sir. The computer will randomly switch between fast, slow, or medium.”
Jim the P.A. tightens the bolts on six airplane seats, two rows of three, facing each other in the middle of the plane. Will there be six fighters? Closer to the front of the plane are four more seats near the open baggage area. Or will there be ten?
“The CCTVs are coming up!” Lionel shouts from his sunken pit. The circle of LED lights up in the middle of each surveillance camera, like robots coming online.
“Nice!” Snow yells. “How does the video look?”
Lionel stares at his laptop monitor. “Like 1080p broadcast!”
The curly-haired producer with the glasses comes out of the cockpit, looking down into the pit at Lionel and his monitor.
“How about the zoom?” she asks.
“They’re auto-zooming on movement right now,” he says, then points at the CCTV cameras in their domes. “I see no image degradation. The guys in the control room in La Paz can leave it on auto-zoom, or flick a kill switch on their end and zoom themselves.”
He said La Paz. That’s in Baja, California. That’s where they’re transmitting.
“What about cameras five through twenty?” she asks.
“Their images look good, too,” Lionel replies. My face is pointed at the floor, but I sense her walking past Lionel, Tim, Bree, and Michel, ending up next to me.
“Vic Lowry,” she says.
Peter nudges me. “Honu, raise your eyes and answer her.”
I raise my eyes and look at her. She recoils with disgust when she sees my marine reptile face. This is the first time I’ve really seen her up close. Her face is round and soft, framed by brown curls, but her green eyes are bright behind her glasses. She seems familiar.
‘What’s my name?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“What’s his name?” she asks, pointing at Robert.
Looking at them both, my mind races while I fight to keep my face blank.
“I don’t know that, either,” I lie.
“Your body modifications are new,” she says, looking at my forehead.
“I just earned them.”
“Where did you live in Eugene, Oregon?”
“On 22nd Avenue, near the University. Then I moved to Washington to work for Microsoft.”
“For how long?”
“Eight years.”
“Where did you live?”
“In North Bend. I’d commute into Redmond on the bus.”
“What street did you live on?”
“North Merritt. I shared an apartment with a coworker.”
“What was his name?” she asks.
“Harold Quinn,” I say.
“Why did you quit?”
“I was never promoted. I was in the same cubicle almost a decade.”
“He was a slave to Babylon,” Peter says. She holds up her hand and Peter falls silent.
“How much money did you steal from the company before they caught you?” she asks.
“Two hundred and fifty thousand. I went on the run in 2012.”
She laughs. “Any left?”
“No,” I answer.
“You wouldn’t have gotten prison time for so little. Why did you run?”
“I got into a fight with one of the cops who arrested me. He pushed me, and when I pushed him back, he fell into traffic and got hit by a car. He’s in a wheelchair.”
“So they’re still looking for you, Vic Lowry?” she asks, smiling.
“Yes.”
“Then you’re lucky to even have a job with us. Remember that.” She glances at Peter. “His story matches up with what our investigator found. He can stay.”
Glenn did me a huge favor by creating a perfect online identity for Vic Lowry. “Thank you,” I say to her, and lock my shaking hands behind me.
She gives me a tiny smile and looks down…and I remember. She was on the same flight from Hong Kong back to San Francisco, and gave me the same slight smile and downward glance outside the airplane lavatory. That means she was at Stanley Prison and on the yacht that I tried to photograph. She’s as important as Snow—maybe more important. She doesn’t recognize me, thank God. Peter did me an even bigger favor by changing my face.
Robert gets a text and looks at his phone. “They’re ready in the control room,” he says, then turns and shouts at the cockpit. “Pauline! Lionel! How soon can we be flying and testing?”
“I’m fueled up. I can take her up right now!” Pauline shouts.
“I’m good. I just have to flick the switches and start transmitting,” Lionel says.
“What about the GoPro cameras?” Robert asks.
“Turn them on and they’ll transmit to the Terradeck in Lionel’s tech rack,” Peter says.
“Let’s do this!” Robert shouts, and everyone inside shouts back, like proud Marines on a mission. Our curly-haired boss points at people and then at airline chairs.
“Lionel, you sit in the front with the producers,” she says. “Peter, Bree, and Michel, you sit in these three chairs facing forward. Vic, you sit in the middle chair, facing the back.”
Jim stands behind Robert, twirling his Phillips screwdriver. He’s ex-military, probably a jarhead. “There are two extra seats on either side of Vic if you need me,” he says.
“Those seats are taken. Wait in the truck,” she says, then walks to the front of the fuselage. Jim exits while the rest of us sit and buckle in.
What does she mean, they’re already taken? By whom?
“We’re transmitting!” Lionel says, but I can’t see him, since I’m buckled in and facing the rear of the plane, with two empty seats on either side of me. I hear the two producers talking on their cellphones, probably with La Paz.
Footsteps echo up the airstair. Whirring fills the cabin as the engines start. The stairs lock into their closed position, sealing us in. The plane starts to taxi as the final two passengers walk up the fuselage. They're dressed in black and one has black hair, light eyes, and acne scars; the other has brown hair, pale skin and dark glasses. They were in the Audi, then the Starbucks in Malibu, and now they’re here. Metal flashes from inside Mr. Black Hair’s open jacket. He’s got a gun. They sit down on either side of me and buckle in as the plane picks up speed.
Anger ripples through me like electricity. I could elbow Mr. Black Hair in the nose, grab his gun, and shoot Mr. Brown Hair before he could even react. Then I’d turn on Robert Snow. One kick to his face and I could make him talk.
Sunshine streams through the windows as the plane lifts off the tarmac. I stare out the window, exhaling slowly to control myself. The Tucson Mountain range looks green as we rise above it. The shadow of the plane crosses over saguaro and chaparral and rocky cli
ffs.
Attacking may not work. I don’t know how trained these two guys are. Mr. Brown Hair could be packing, too. They may want me to make a move. Maybe that’s why they’re here.
The plane stops climbing. We’re flying over open desert, at about 3,000 feet.
I hear the producers unbuckle and move through the plane. Robert Snow and the curly-haired producer walk down from the front to the six seats, still on their cellphones. Robert points at Peter and me.
“You two, get up,” he says, snapping his fingers. We unbuckle and follow Ms. Curly toward the front of the plane. I stay behind Peter and keep my eyes down.
“Camera test time. We’ll do a walk up to each dome and test its focus, and do the same with the wearable GoPros,” Snow says.
“I want Vic to do it,” I hear Ms. Curly say, and when I look up, she’s pointing at me. She holds up a GoPro with straps and buckles attached to it, and hands it to Peter.
“Make him put this on,” she says.
Peter slides the harness over my head, then spins me around and snaps the buckle shut. The camera is flush to my chest and impossible to take off. Peter turns the camera on.
“Signal is strong,” Lionel says. “You want to run the other five through the Terradeck?”
Ms. Curly pulls the phone away from her ear. “Later. Right now, I want Vic to walk up to each CCTV camera and check focus.”
“Start with Cameras One and Two,” Lionel says, and Peter pushes me to the first CCTV surveillance camera in its dome. The circle of LED lights around the lens light up my face, and I see the lens ring turn as the camera brings my face into focus.
“Move back and forth,” Lionel says.
“They say it’s good,” Snow says, phone to his ear. “Let’s go to Camera Two.”
“Not yet. Vic, stand there longer,” Ms. Curly says, talking into her cellphone at the same time.
“How long?” Snow asks, a little perturbed.
“Until they have what they need. Look into the lens, Vic.”
I obey. A minute passes. Whoever is watching me in La Paz is sure taking their time.
