Stealth Power

by Vikki Kestell

  Faint chittering answered me and then, We do not experience affection.

  “Okay, then why do you want to find him?”

  Silence.

  Uh-oh. Had I stumped them?

  The first time I’d seen the nanomites, Dr. Bickel had them “confined” to a glass case—a glass case from which they could have escaped at any time. I had wondered how the nanomites liked being kept in a glass box. Eventually, Dr. Bickel and I discussed that very thing:

  “You question why they haven’t freed themselves, don’t you?” he’d whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “And I’m not entirely sure I can answer your question, Gemma, except to say that they haven’t wanted to.”

  The word to complete his sentence had popped into my head. Yet. They haven’t wanted to free themselves yet.

  What if, upon reflection, the mites determined that they had no rational need to find Dr. Bickel? Would they give up their search for him? The silence dragged on, and I faced the ugly possibility that I may have put my foot in it.

  Up to my kneecaps.

  Gemma Keyes, we are six. Dr. Bickel is not one of us.

  Oh, crud!

  Double-stuff crud.

  Crud, crud, crud.

  However, we have determined that his tribe is akin to ours. We share experiences and goals and have built what human beings call trust. Dr. Bickel does what furthers our good.

  Relief flooded my body.

  “Yes. That’s what friends do! You might even say that friends are akin to, er, external tribal alliances. Friends are trustworthy and loyal to us—and we are loyal in return. Like I am loyal to my friends, Zander, Abe, and Emilio. My friends and I have similar, shared experiences, and they are, er, akin to me. They want only my good.”

  My brain was twisting into a big ol’ kink.

  We are six. Your good is our good.

  Elation? The mites may as well have said, “Your friends are our friends.”

  I exhaled. “Well, these two bad men, the two enemies I spoke of? They hurt my friends. They damaged my friends’ bodies and caused grave physical pain and disability. You saw their injuries and helped to repair the damage. What those two enemies did was not good!

  “Furthermore, it hurts . . . it hurts my heart and upsets my emotions to see my friends in pain. I’m not effective when my emotions are distressed. If we find these evil men, the legal authorities will put them where they can’t hurt my friends or anyone else. Then I will be more effective.”

  Any more double speak, and I was gonna fry a fuse.

  The mites were silent a minute or so.

  Gemma Keyes, we will help you find the evil men.

  I sighed. “Thank you.”

  Gemma Keyes, what is the criteria for identifying and evaluating evil? Is evil quantifiable? Is all evil equal?

  And then: Are all human beings evil?

  Ohhhhh, snap.

  “Uh . . . all very intriguing questions, Nano, but I’m not sure we have time for that conversation right now or that I’m the right person to provide the answers. Could we, um, table those topics until later?”

  Yes, Gemma Keyes.

  I sighed and rubbed my aching temples.

  ***

  Later that evening, I drove to Emilio’s foster home and scoped it out. I had promised to visit him regularly—and I needed to get out of the house anyway. Why? Because things weren’t going well.

  Following my dicey theological conversation with the nanomites earlier, I had provided them with the little I knew about Mateo Martinez and Arnaldo Soto. I discovered that it was far different trying to feed them data from my finite knowledge banks than it was for them to send information to me from their own vast stores—or for me to step into a river of data they had mined on the Internet.

  I managed to convey the gangsters’ names, the location of Mateo’s house, and his relationship to Emilio. I reminded them of the drug house and Mateo’s role in the gang. Other than those details, what more did I know about Mateo?

  And Soto? I knew nothing of him except the deadness of his eyes.

  The mites had come back to me later with nothing to show for their efforts.

  A big, fat nothing.

  Hence, I had to get out of the house and clear my head.

  I climbed over the foster family’s fence and walked around their back yard. The yard seemed okay; it looked clean and well-tended. A swing set and a jungle gym took up most of the grass but, somehow, I couldn’t visualize Emilio playing with other children, climbing on children’s toys. I could only see him sitting on a curb or a step, apart from other kids.

  That bothered me. A lot.

  The only lights in the house came from what I assumed was the living room. Low murmurs coming from a TV were all I heard.

  The rear door opened to the kitchen. As I thought, the kitchen was dark. A stream of light from the living room helped me navigate the unfamiliar and empty room as I closed the back door.

  Ooops. Not quite empty. A tiny dog, some kind of Chihuahua mix, left his rug and padded toward me, sniffing and growling in my general direction. The dog sensed me, probably heard me, but was unable to see me—and that made him nervous. He backed away, his hackles up, that growl threatening to erupt into more at any moment.

  Nanomites shot from my hands onto the dog. The pooch ran for his bed, laid down, and put his head on his paws. His bulgy eyes blinked as I walked past him, but he did not move.

  I went down a hall and found a couple of closed doors. When I put my hand on one door, the mites flooded through it and came back.

  Gemma Keyes. Emilio is not in this room.

  I moved on to the next door. Same drill.

  Gemma Keyes, Emilio and another boy are in this room.

  “Are they sleeping?”

  Yes, Gemma Keyes.

  “Please keep the other boy asleep?”

  I cracked the door and slipped inside, closing the door behind me. When my eyes adapted to the dark, I spied two twin beds on opposite walls, a smallish mound and a head upon a pillow in each. I lifted my hand and shined a low light on the first pillow.

  The child was younger than Emilio, maybe around five, but what do I know? The kiddo was sawing logs and would not wake up when I roused Emilio.

  I sat on the edge of the other bed and jostled the curled figure. “Emilio. Wake up, buddy.”

  He turned over and stared, then sat up, felt around until he found my hand. “Hey, Gemma!”

  “Shhhh. Not so loud!” but I chuckled as I whispered.

  “They don’t hear much out there,” Emilio assured me, jerking his chin in the direction of the living room. “Sean and I talk all the time.” As he said “Sean,” he glanced over at his roommate.

  “Sean won’t wake up. The mites will keep him asleep.”

  “Really? That’s so cool!” Emilio chortled.

  I laughed with him, keeping my voice low. “So, I said I would come visit. How are you doing?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Are your foster parents treating you well?”

  “Yeah. They’re all right.” He shrugged. “What about Mr. Abe and Zander?”

  “They are doing lots better, Emilio. Lots better. Zander will be going home soon, and Abe will move to a regular wing in a day or two.”

  “I’m sure glad.”

  He didn’t say anything else, just climbed out from under his covers and into my lap—as if he’d been doing so for years. I had thought that a great big boy such as himself, a ten-year-old, would think himself too old for such nonsense, but Emilio curled himself up in the circle of my arms, tucked his feet under him, and snugged his head just below my chin. His cheek warmed my collarbone, and his stubbly hair scratched my neck; the flannel of his pajamas was soft under my arms and hands.

  My arms and hands? All by themselves, they wrapped themselves around Emilio and pulled him close to my chest. My fingers stroked his back.

  I don’t ever want to lose this boy.

  The
notion of anything bad happening to Emilio caught in my throat.

  Made me crazy anxious.

  ~~**~~

  Part 2:

  Stealth Power

  Chapter 16

  At 10 that night, I drove to the dojo. I brought along five twenty-dollar bills in an envelope. I’d looked up Sandia Martial Arts Academy’s rates and kind of estimated what my use of their facility should cost me—“kind of,” because they hadn’t listed a five-hour, seven-nights-a-week rate on their website. I shrugged, left the sealed envelope in the office with the words “SMAA Owner” on it. I hoped the money was enough for a week’s use.

  I was anxious to get back to training. Since my first session, less than twenty-four hours ago, I’d rehearsed all that Gus-Gus had taught me, mentally running the steps and drills over and over. I’d been stiff and sore when I got out of bed this morning—but nothing like I should have been. The absence of pain—the fact that I should have been nearly crippled from yesterday’s workout—was further proof that the nanomites were effecting change in my body on an ongoing basis.

  Yes, they’d sped up my metabolism. Yes, they’d super-charged my mental acuity. And yes, they had to have invaded my overused muscles during the night and healed them. I’d done my own research on muscle soreness and found that exercise strains and tears muscle tissue, which causes muscles tenderness and pain, but it is the same strain that also stimulates muscle growth and strength. I felt strong today, but not terribly sore, ergo, the nanomites and whatever they’d done.

  But that wasn’t all. Everything I’d learned yesterday? Gus-Gus had to have bundled six lessons into one, after which he’d pushed me to a semi-proficient level in those skills. Not exactly beginner fare! Not only was I mentally retaining those lessons, I was physically learning, too. And I had no idea how that was possible. Like I said, I’d never been coordinated. Jogging and hiking had been my cup of tea, not team or competitive sports.

  “Muscle memory”? In my limited experience, it was a fake term.

  I knew differently now.

  Oh, by the way, if I thought the merge had given me too much vigor, I no longer felt that way. I was eager to fetch the padded training sticks from Locker 7. When I took my place on the floor and closed my eyes, Gus-Gus appeared immediately. I was even happy to see him.

  As he had yesterday, he demonstrated new foot drills that ran me sideways down one side of the dojo and back again. He paired the footwork with the four-count double arm weave—forward and then reversed.

  Up and down the floor I danced, swinging the sticks while crossing and uncrossing my arms, getting the rhythm as I blended steps and stick moves together. Faster and faster as Gus-Gus urged me, but maintaining the precision he counted or clapped out. He had me repeat the same drill, incorporating a slashing diagonal “X” in place of a simple weave, after which he added a fifth count—forward strikes on counts four and five.

  Rinse and repeat the double stick weave with “box” footwork. I danced back, to the right, forward, to the left. Again. Over and over. Then I did the same in reverse until I could do either box as Gus-Gas called it.

  He ran me through drill after drill, slowly to get every aspect right, then faster to build fluid motion, cadence, and precision to the strikes. When we broke to begin sparring, I was warm and energized; my arms and wrists were loose, ready for more.

  “Retrieve two rattan sticks from Locker 7, Gemma Keyes,” Gus-Gus commanded.

  I returned the padded sticks to the locker and took down two wooden sticks. They were lightweight; I liked how they felt in my hands.

  Again, Gus-Gus had me work with the dummy. He demonstrated and named various strikes, explaining what each would produce in my opponent. I practiced advances, feints, and strikes for an hour, Gus-Gus teaching me how to add force to a strike.

  “Not everything I show you will be strictly Kali,” he said as we prepared to spar with each other, “nor will I, in the time in which I will train you, emphasize the norms or ceremonial aspects of sparring. You must learn to fight, Gemma Keyes; you must learn to disarm and defeat an adversary. That is our goal.”

  I shivered.

  Gus-Gus bowed. I bowed in return.

  Can I just say that it’s one thing to hit a dummy that won’t hit you back?

  First, Gus-Gus and I practiced specific drills, our steps mirroring each other, sticks clacking together in perfect syncopation. I knew what to do next, because Gus-Gus set up the drill by calling the steps. We flew through those.

  But then he introduced real sparring—the kind that isn’t coordinated. The kind that hurts when you screw up. Sure, he was only doing the beginner stuff, but dang!

  “Ow!”

  Time out! This was virtual reality. All in my head. It wasn’t supposed to hurt. How in the world—

  Gemma Keyes. It is important to maximize the realism of your training. To do so, we have sent part of us out in front of you. We will mirror the moves of your instructor. We will impact your body to simulate the effect of a strike.

  “Yeah? Well, those won’t be ‘simulated’ bruises tomorrow; they’ll be real enough!” I rubbed my thigh where Gus-Gus had landed a blow.

  You will suffer little or no bruising, Gemma Keyes. We will mitigate bleeding in the tissue and muscle and make repairs as needed.

  Great.

  Wonderful.

  Hurt me. Fix me.

  “Sadists,” I growled. “Bring it on.”

  I turned to Gus-Gus and delivered a powerful slash to his arm. He charged toward me, sticks whirling, pounding me right back.

  “Ow! Ow, ow, ow, ow!”

  ***

  After my long workout, I returned home and ate like there was no tomorrow. All that exercise? I was a black hole, sucking in anything edible within reach. While I devoured a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and fried potatoes, I made a shopping list, doubling what I usually bought for a week.

  I spread a thick swath of jam over my fourth slice of toast and grinned. I was new to the endorphin rush and afterglow of a good workout. Yeah, I might complain about the rigors of the training, but the truth was that I found myself liking it. Maybe it was more than a “like.” Maybe I was loving it?

  On the flip side, regardless of what the nanomites suggested, I put little stock in all this work as far as Dr. Bickel was concerned. The odds of getting Dr. Bickel out of wherever Cushing had him were too long, and they were stacked against me.

  How in the world would I be able to break someone from a guarded military installation and get away with it? I was, after all, only one person, and an inexperienced person at that. In my mind, I was just a young woman playing with sticks. I wasn’t some military operative or superhero.

  I finished my late-night meal and dropped into bed, more than ready for sleep. In what seemed like an instant, I was out.

  ***

  Considering all the stress I’d been under for weeks, going on months, is it any surprise that bad dreams often troubled my sleep? That night I had a doozy of a nightmare.

  In the dream, I was on my laptop, just doing some “stuff,” when black-garbed storm troopers burst through the doors of Dr. Bickel’s safe house. I had no warning—even the nanomites had not sensed their approach. One moment all was fine; the next moment the doors splintered, and Cushing’s armed SWAT team rushed into the house. I had no opportunity to flee, no way to escape. I ran toward the bedrooms, but they afforded no way out.

  I was trapped!

  The soldiers deployed a mesh net. It fell over me, and I tripped, fell. The nanomites lasered through the net in a few places, but the soldiers flung a second net over the first, and I could not rise under the combined weight of the two nets.

  Cushing had me. She had me and she had the nanomites. She had my phones, the laptop, and my new ID. She would have my friends and—

  Emilio!

  I fought my sheets and blankets, ripped them from me, and scrambled from my bed. The nightmare was fresh and real; my entire body shook with horror.


  The clock next to my bed read 3:43 a.m.

  My heart thundered and would not slow. No more sleep for me this night.

  Gemma Keyes. We observed rapid eye movement and brain wave spikes during your sleep. These markers indicate dream state. Your respiration and heart rate are much higher than normal, and you have awakened in an agitated condition.

  Did you have a bad dream?

  “Yes, Nano.”

  Thank you for noticing.

  I padded to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face, then to the kitchen where I hit the “start” button on the coffee pot. While I waited for the coffee, I switched on the small lamp in the living room. Its low light comforted me . . . because the nightmare played on a continuous loop in my head.

  What if Cushing did find this house? What if her jackboots stormed this place, my sanctuary? Even if, by some miracle, I managed to elude capture, where would I go? Would I lose my tenuous hold on the “real” world and be obliged to start over with another identity?

  More importantly, if Cushing raided this place, what, exactly, would she find here?

  My eyes cut toward the kitchen. The cash I depended upon was stashed in the wall behind the stove. I’d hidden a single stack in the cinder block wall out along the alley and put a few bundles in a coffee can that I’d buried in Mateo’s back yard. But if Cushing found this place, I would lose most of my money.

  I shuddered, the nightmare too real and terrifying. Was the dream a product of my subconscious mind? Had it alerted me to my vulnerable state? Because I was vulnerable, and I realized just how much. Now.

  I paced through the shadows of the living room and, putting myself in Cushing’s shoes, studied the detritus around me from her perspective: What physical and virtual fingerprints would she find here if she stormed this house? I listed them off: My new laptop and its browsing history; the two phones; driver’s license, credit card, ATM card, various bits of paperwork including a box of bank checks.

  As much as these items were the trappings by which I navigated the real world, they were also my Achilles heel.