by Russ Linton
Breathing a sigh of relief, I snatch the sweatshirt off the table and speed limp toward the door. “Sweet. Dibs on the microscope!”
Chapter 20
“Spencer, you don’t call dibs on a half-million-dollar piece of equipment.” Exasperated, Emily flicks on the monitors. “Give me your sweatshirt.”
One monitor displays the inside of the electron microscope’s sample chamber, the other shows an interface with a mouse pointer and drop down menus. It appears to be a standard piece of software. “Come on! A motivated kindergartner could operate this. Let me try something cool first. Here, what about this?” I dig the iPod ear buds out of my backpack. “I wanna see Mount Earfunk!”
She snatches the sweatshirt. “I admit, that could be interesting. You never know what could be between those ears.”
My eyes haven’t left the sweatshirt. Emily confirms my fears and reaches for a scalpel. “Whoa, wait… Nobody said anything about dissecting the G-shirt.”
“A little piece. It’ll be fine.”
I wince as a chunk of the cuff gets sacrificed in the name of science. Emily places the cutting on a disk and into the microscope chamber. A steady hum that sounds like a fluorescent bulb on its last few candles fills the office as she snaps the chamber closed.
I’ve read a little about this stuff. That noise would be the vacuum. Something about colliding electrons and the vacuum keeping the cathodes from arcing during operation. And the smell. That’s definitely the smell of a slot car track from when Kyle and I were kids. Not the burning track—that was god-awful, what with the thick black smoke and choking odor of plastic. No, this smell is the cars as they’d spark along the embedded rails. A good smell. Clean.
“You might be surprised at the stuff living in and on your body. You get over that in Microbiology 101,” Emily says. It takes me a bit to realize she’s still seriously considering the earfunk idea while she works. “Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here.”
An image appears on the interface screen; a forest of twisted bare trunks. A whole new world inside my favorite sweatshirt. Something scuttles across the view. “What the fuck was that?”
“Dermatophagoides farinae. Dust mite. And you should really work on your vocabulary.”
“You’re the one talking dirty.”
“Har har,” Emily scoffs. She leans forward and adjusts the screen positioning. “You never quit, do you?”
As if to prove a point, my mouth shoots off without much input from my brain which is currently entranced by the tech show. “Dad says I’m a pain in the ass. Mom said I was tenacious.”
Without turning from the monitors, Emily nods appreciatively, “A pain in the ass for the world’s toughest Augment? That’s an accomplishment.”
“Not like he didn’t cause his fair share of trouble.” My voice cracks.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing.” I keep staring at the monitors. I can’t make eye contact with Emily. Dad’s a freaking Augment. The toughest, she said it. But he never did find Mom. Maybe never wanted to. Because of those weird dreams, I’m seeing Mom so clearly now, it’s almost like she’s here, watching. I don’t care if I find him. He can take care of himself. But I’ll find Mom.
Another multi-limbed beast scuttles by on the monitor. No, this is different from the first. Multiple legs and a tiny glowing strip of pulsing light. It quickly slips into the upper right corner. “There! What’s that?”
Emily turns, “Where? What? Probably another dust mite.”
“It was right there. I’m not sure it was even alive.”
“What do you mean, ‘not alive’?”
“Looked like a microchip. With legs.”
She presses her face inches from the monitor and her hands perform automatic motions of routine and experience. Within seconds, she pulls the creature up dead center. The image freezes and resumes several times. Her eyes dart back and forth between the monitors. She glances at me, then back again.
“That’s not a living creature, Spencer.”
“Is there an echo? My guess, you guys probably aren’t working on tiny robots here.”
“If anyone in the university was building this level of nanotech, I think I would have heard about it. Besides, we don’t have the facilities to pull this off.” She zooms in. “Nobody does. I mean that can’t be more than fifty micrometers across.”
“Standard English, please. I suck at the metric system.”
“Smaller than an amoeba.” Emily leans forward and gasps, “Oh my! More!”
We both stare as Emily maneuvers the display, revealing more and more of these tiny invaders crawling through the wilderness of my sweatshirt. Maybe a dozen are on the viewer. They seem to be moving in formation, a tiny platoon exploring a jungle of cotton fiber trees and hunting dust mite wildlife. Every so often, one will stop and search the immediate area with needle-like limbs.
“The way they’re moving. Their interactions appear… complex. They might not be alive, but they’re behavior suggests otherwise. Like ants, maybe. Some sort of hive mentality.”
A mental curb stomp follows. Hive, behavior, electronics.
Leaving Emily to her amazement, I rush to the table with my backpack. Spreading the contents across the table, I slide out the laptop and follow the connected data cable to the sat phone. The power LED glows a steady green. Pissed off, ready to storm out of her apartment, I never turned it off. I click the power button and the light fades. I stare at the extinguished lens.
It winks back to life.
“What the fuck?”
“Spencer, language.” The scolding tone drifting from her work station lacks any sincerity.
I press the button again, holding it down for several seconds before releasing it. The light sparks to life, only this time faster. “The phone won’t shut off.”
“Huh?” Emily finally turns.
Flipping the case over, I slide the battery off the back and watch as the light dims, staring to make sure it doesn’t reignite. A single green glow lingers, but it’s only in my imagination. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
Chapter 21
“Not this guy.”
We’re pulling up in front of Doc Abercrombie’s little estate again, somewhere between the suburbs of Pretentious and Retired. The house is probably ten times the size of the bunker, or Emily’s apartment. An estate, complete with a manicured yard that could be a state park. In the early morning light, the house has a lonely glow.
“He lives!” Emily half smiles, but her eyes continue to scan the skies relentlessly as we make our way up the gravel drive running between the meticulously spaced trees. “You haven’t said much since the lab.”
It was too intense, waiting for a drone to drop out of nowhere. I’m out of EMPs, paint cans, and places to bruise. “Sleep. I’m trying to kick that habit,” I grumble. “What are we doing here?”
“Spencer, this is the only way.”
“Who lives in a castle alone besides Dracula or Doctor Frankenstein? This guy has body parts in the basement, I guarantee.”
“He got the house from his parents when they passed away. And there is no basement.”
“Great, body parts in the freezer. It’s Dahmer or Major Force. Can’t you just buy a plane ticket, or does this guy have to buy it for you? Maybe I can hack into an airline reservation system.”
“No, he’s got a private plane,” I bet she can feel my eye-roll as she says “private plane”, “and we want to avoid getting on anybody’s radar.” Emily whips the Bronco around the circular drive and jams it into park. She slumps on the wheel and tucks her hand under the side of her head as she sighs. “Yes, I’m paranoid. You should be too, after everything that’s happened.”
I check the sky again. We both jump at a rap on the glass. With another sigh, Emily rolls down her window. In the darkness, the white surgical mask around his neck gives him away. Martin. He’s wearing scrubs. Douchebag.
“Come inside, Em, uh, Mr. Johnston, right?”
>
Yeah, genius, you figured it out. I’m not who I said I was. Congrats.
I slide out of the Bronco, or mostly ooze out of the Bronco. My battered muscles have started to stiffen during the drive. Best if Doc Abercrombie doesn’t notice. I’ve already got one babysitter. I can put up with her for now. She’s cute, smart, and put a truck through a wall. Two babysitters? Not sure that works for me.
“So, what’s really going on here, Em?” Martin’s voice trails me toward the door. I hear her reply, but can’t quite make it out.
Martin attempts a whisper but I hear it loud and clear. “He looks worse than yesterday. Do I need to call Child Protective Services? Is that what this is about?”
“If only you knew how stupid a question that is,” I mutter.
Emily’s alarmed eyes glow in the dim light. “Not now. Let’s go inside and talk this over, alright?” She sounds tired and that same sense of fatigue washes over me. One pleasant memory of my earlier visit to Chateau de Douche was that fancy leather sectional with the hi-tech television. Maybe we can spend some quality time together. I shamble toward the door, pushing my way into the entry.
“Make yourself at home, Spencer.” Martin sounds a bit annoyed.
“Yep.”
“On second thought, stop by the office first and let’s see how you’re doing.”
“Nope.” I keep walking, headed to the living room.
“Spencer! We’re Martin’s guests,” Emily scolds.
I wheel and make for his office but keep my head down. “Sure, but let’s make this quick. No probing and turning my head to cough, okay?”
Martin watches, unamused. Emily steps closer to me and whispers, “He’s agreed to help us. Play nice.”
“Come on. Doc here has probably already called the cops,” I say at a normal volume.
Emily starts to reply and her eyes go to Martin. Without any further hint of annoyance, Martin strides past me into the office. “Doctor-patient confidentiality.” He looks at me. “I do have a patient, right?”
Before long, I’ve let Martin check my bumps and bruises—everywhere I let him poke around, that is. He bandages a few of the worst scrapes and wraps my ankle. From the kitchen, the rich scent of coffee floats through the air.
He’s staring into my eye through one of those handheld scopes that ends in a disturbingly pointy cone for what seems like way too long. “Do you need to blind me every time?” I imagine I can see his eye, enormous and unblinking, past the reddish-purple halo that has replaced my vision. He lets up and steps away.
“I do when you keep ending up with head trauma.” He tucks the retina scorcher into a pocket and folds his arms, saying, “Emily didn’t want to say much on the phone. You can wait until she gets back in here to talk, but knowing what’s going on here can only help me out.”
“Well, I’m being hunted by a super villain’s military hardware.”
His expression doesn’t change.
“And I keep kicking ass. Mostly singlehanded.”
He nods, stone-faced.
I hear footsteps in the hallway.
“But Emily’s no slouch either. We’re like a team.” Emily clips into the room with two cups of coffee. I smile and extend a hand, continuing to give Doc the lowdown, “A robot-ass-kicking team. Of two.”
She keeps walking and hands the extra mug to the Doc. Without taking his eyes off me, he accepts the cup and nods with a dimpled smile. “My initial diagnosis is that he’s delusional. I think he’s been playing too many video games.”
Emily turns toward me, cradling the mug in both hands and takes a sip. She closes her eyes and breathes in deeply. Once open again her eyes light between Martin and me, and eventually roll toward the ceiling while she takes careful steps into the hall. “The testosterone is harshing my caffeine buzz. I might regret this, but you two talk this out. I’m going to try to do some productive thinking. Or maybe nap. And Spencer, remember, Martin can help us get to your friend.” With that, she’s gone. In the silence that follows I hear the television click to life.
“Well?” Martin sits in the chair behind the desk. He leans back and rests sneakered feet on the edge of the dark-grained wood.
She’s right. He’s maybe the only person that can help. Driving would take days.
“Can I use your phone?” I ask.
“After I know what’s going on.” He’s not going to make this easy. Calm, relaxed, patient, he starts by asking, “What happened to you?”
“Robots.”
“Right.” He takes another sip of coffee and puts the mug on a ceramic coaster, then folds his arms against his chest. We enter into a quick staring contest neither of us wants to lose. “Spencer, I’ve seen some bad situations in my life. There’s no sense hiding what’s going on here.”
“Honestly. Robots. You watch the news?” Since when is an ER doctor a shrink, anyway?
“Watch? No. Usually I’m too busy. But they’ve got it playing on one TV or another up at the hospital. There was something about Mumbai?”
“Do you sleep in those?” I’ve been dying to have that question answered, and I’m not so anxious to start telling him about my problems.
“I have. Can’t avoid it in the ER when you’ve been on shift for twenty-four hours, and it slows down enough to get some shuteye.” He reaches for the mug and takes a long draw before setting it neatly on a coaster. “I came straight here from the hospital when Emily called. Had to cash in a favor and get my shift covered, but it’s all good. Take all the time you need to tell me what’s up.”
Time. I can almost feel it. Pressing down, hard. A weight precariously balanced between sleeping for an entire day and finding out what happened to Mom. Keeping ahead of the Black Beetle and these robots—microscopic and otherwise. Is this a typical day for the Crimson Mask?
He’ll probably refuse to answer any questions until I’ve answered his, but I’ll start with them anyway. “So, how long have you known Emily?”
“Eight years now. We met in undergrad at George Mason. I went on to med school and she stayed for her doctorate, but we kept in touch.”
“You guys dated?”
“Yeah, for a bit. It got tricky with our schedules, they never seemed to link up. Then she started working on an off-site project with the CDC and she suddenly had even less time than I did.”
“When was that? The CDC project?”
“About six years ago.” Martin reaches for the mug and takes another sip and I do the math. Six years, the Anthrax Kid. He interrupts the revelation. “What about you? How long have you known her?”
This math is much harder. I try to count hours in my head, then days, and I’m figuring out I don’t have a clue how much time has passed. “Several days, or so.”
Martin’s expression finally changes as his eyebrows raise over the steaming mug. “Is it okay if I verify that with her later?”
“Yeah.”
“For now, I’m going to assume you’ve got problems with your family—”
“Sure you’re name isn’t Watson, Doc?”
“—let me say, I get it. I do.”
“No, you don’t. Seriously. There’s no possible way.”
“In the ER you get a close look at how messed up stuff can get. Life is crazy. Hell, I’ve been through it myself. I wasn’t much younger than you when I lost my parents.”
“Look…” I’m about to dig in on the incessant kid references, when what he just said punches me in the chest.
“It made me into the person I am today. Not having them around was hard. Making all the decisions, growing up before my time. I mean, I wasn’t completely alone. I had good caretakers, people that’d been with my family for years. I lucked out, too. Most of them seemed to have my best interests at heart. Not everyone does. So I get your reluctance to talk to me. But letting those people help in the first place was the only way to find out who I could trust.”
“What happened to your parents?”
Martin sets the mug down again and
stares like he’s considering the empty space around it. He keeps staring as he speaks, “It’s fine. It was a long time ago. A carjacking gone bad. They were both shot and the perpetrator fled the scene without even taking anything. Dad died instantly. Mom, she bled out in the ambulance.”
The scrubs look a bit different on him now.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I need you to trust me, Spencer. I do want to help. Emily is a good friend, and I can tell she’s in trouble. I can also tell there’s plenty you’re not sharing with me.”
“All right. Let me start with the robots…”
Chapter 22
Martin’s expression was priceless after he returned from “verifying” what I said with Emily. Yep, my Dad’s the Crimson Mask. Yep, I’m apparently being hunted by killer robots. And last but sure as hell not least, yes, I’m legally an adult. Right about now, though, I imagine my expression matches that same Cubs-won-the-World-Series look he had.
“This is yours?” I sputter.
“My parent’s company needed a bigger jet. I took this one,” replies Martin matter-of-factly.
On the wet tarmac sits a sleek private jet with a pointed nose and swept back wings. Chrome glistens along the leading wing edge and the intake of each engine. A half dozen rectangular windows break the white surface. The narrow cockpit window peers down the runway like a knight’s visor on the jousting line.
I so hate this guy.
Getting the flight set up was easier than I’d imagined it would be. We parked Martin’s Beamer next to the hangar and walked into the office. He waved at some dudes while I grabbed about three free donuts, Emily a cup of coffee, and next thing we’re standing by a plane. No x-rays, no security checkpoints, no tickets, no trail. I guess Emily made the right call. Not only do we have a direct flight to San Francisco, but we’re going in style.
“When she said you had a plane, I was thinking more along the lines of prop engines and sardine seating,” I say.
“Well, you’re in luck.” Martin heads for the stairs leading up to the open cabin. An attendant hustles over. He matches the private plane terminal atmosphere that we just came from with his spotless, crisp overalls, clean hands and professional smile.
