Stealth Power

by Vikki Kestell

  The avatar’s appearance intimidated me, and my nerves already scraped along a raw edge. It was about to get real, and I didn’t know if I had the stomach for it.

  The nanomites probably knew that, too.

  “Gemma Keyes, you will practice incapacitating this soldier, just as you will incapacitate the patrol guard when we breach the perimeter.”

  Gus-Gus’ manner left no option for refusal.

  The black-uniformed guy turned and walked away from me, down one of the shadowy halls leading away from the warehouse. Sighing, I followed him.

  With no warning, he pivoted. Swung his rifle up.

  “Who’s there? Stop where you are!”

  I can’t describe what happened then, except that my training kicked in. The instant the guard began to turn, I leapt forward and hammered him with two slicing blows. The half-raised rifle fell from the guy’s incapacitated hand; his left knee buckled and, screaming in pain, the man went down.

  I swallowed hard and assessed what I’d done. Broken wrist. Displaced patella; possible LCL tear. Not getting up anytime soon.

  Could I do that to a real person? Could I hurt someone—truly hurt them?

  I almost threw up.

  The avatar disappeared, and Gus-Gus appeared in front of me. He was not pleased. “If the guard screams, you will not have achieved Dr. Bickel’s release; you will have failed. The guard must be silenced, Gemma Keyes.”

  I glared at Gus-Gus, but a voice from deep within me shouted, Well, I can’t fail. I won’t! I cannot fail Dr. Bickel. I can do this. I must do this.

  “Again,” I demanded.

  Same setup. The guard pivoted and walked away from me. I didn’t wait for him to turn. I sprinted up behind him and landed a single glancing blow behind his ear. He never saw me coming, and he dropped like a rock.

  “Better. Once more.”

  We ran the scenario in different variations. Each time, I dropped the guard without a sound. Without breaking his arm or trashing his knee for life.

  I could live with that.

  “Remember, Gemma Keyes, that you have the advantage. The guard may hear you, but he will not be able to see you.”

  When I’d satisfied Gus-Gus, we moved on to less-desirable variations, situations in which I had lost the element of surprise. The mites programmed the scenario so that the avatar, although he could not see me, for some reason heard me and brought his rifle up.

  Yikes.

  As his gun swung up, I dropped and somersaulted, rolling diagonally. My speed was incredible. Superhuman. I popped up under the guard’s extended arm and battered the man’s solar plexus. With the air knocked out of him, the avatar could not call out, and I dropped him.

  I was happier with my performance now, more confident that I could disable the guards when the time came. Less worried about leaving them permanently damaged in the process.

  Maybe we had a chance after all.

  Gemma Keyes.

  “Yes?”

  The avatar and the VR setting where Gus-Gus trained me disappeared, leaving me alone in the warehouse.

  Gemma Keyes, we have new information for you. We have identified Arnaldo Soto’s probable location.

  My mouth dropped open. “What? How ‘probable’ a location?”

  The probability is presently eighty-seven percent.

  “In New Mexico? Nearby?”

  Yes.

  You know that old saying, “tossing a wrench into the works”? Here I was, psyching myself up to go after Dr. Bickel, not Soto! I lapsed into silence, brooding over the news. This unexpected turn of events complicated things.

  Or did it?

  I left the warehouse and sat down on the dojo floor to think.

  I was worried about getting Dr. Bickel out, but I was more worried about afterward. The greatest danger Cushing presented would come after we freed Dr. Bickel. With all her resources, how far could we run? I knew—and the mites knew—that we needed a better plan for “after,” preferably a place where, even should Cushing find us, she could not touch us.

  In my humble estimation, only the light of full public disclosure could pull her sharky teeth. The more I pondered our dilemma, the more I was certain that the “ideal” place was out in the open.

  As long as we hid the truth about Dr. Bickel from the world, Cushing was free to lie and pervert her authority. Our best hope was to go public—that is, for Dr. Bickel to go public. His resurrection from the dead would bring the media down upon Cushing’s head—which would protect his head. All he needed to do was have his own grave exhumed to prove that she had lied about his death.

  When Dr. Bickel testified to how she’d captured and held him against his will, Cushing would be finished.

  Yes, Dr. Bickel’s best chance of survival was to go public. To do that, we needed to convey him from White Sands to a place where he would have enough time and opportunity to make his accusations public—a place safe from Cushing’s long reach.

  And where might that be? That woman had too many friends and allies in high places—shadowy, unknown friends and allies . . . partners, collaborators, and (no doubt) politically connected superiors with the resources and clout to track us down.

  I’d pondered our options these past weeks and had arrived at a single possible solution, and Soto was the key to that solution.

  Except the timing had gone wrong.

  When Cushing had announced that she was moving Dr. Bickel within two weeks, the mites and I had been forced to shift our focus from the hunt for Soto and Mateo Martinez to Dr. Bickel’s rescue.

  But now? Now that the mites had located Soto? Maybe their discovery cast the circumstances in a better order.

  Could we do both? Could we take down Soto and still rescue Dr. Bickel before Cushing moved him?

  Gemma Keyes. We have work to do.

  “Give me a minute, Nano? I need to think.”

  My original idea still made the best sense: For Dr. Bickel to survive and publicly overthrow Cushing, he needed safety and time—and if I delivered Soto to Special Agent Gamble, Gamble would owe me.

  Gamble was already personally acquainted with Cushing; he knew how unscrupulous she was. He knew about Dr. Bickel. I trusted Gamble. He was a standup guy, and taking down Soto was personal to him: For Graciella.

  The essential piece of the puzzle? Gamble was FBI. He had access to an agency capable of providing the “cover” vital to Dr. Bickel’s survival. If I delivered Soto to the FBI, Gamble and, indirectly, the FBI, would owe me big time. Then I intended to cash in my chit for Dr. Bickel’s safety.

  I nodded, my mind made up.

  Soto first.

  Dr. Bickel after.

  And this time, no screwups with the nanomites. This time I would do things right.

  “Nano. I wish to call a confab.”

  Gemma Keyes, what is a confab?

  Duh! The mites had never referred to it as a confab, had they? I snarked a little.

  “Nano, confab is the term Dr. Bickel gave to the nanocloud’s meetings, when the tribes convene to share input, make recommendations, and arrive at consensus.”

  You wish to call such a meeting, Gemma Keyes?

  “Um, yes. If it is allowed.”

  We are six. It is allowed.

  ***

  As I’d said before, it was easier to receive information from the nanomites than it was to share it with them. The only means I knew to convey in clear terms the issues I wanted to discuss with them was through the spoken word.

  I rehearsed the points I wanted to make and how I thought we should proceed; I went over them in my head until I could articulate them. Well, in the warehouse I didn’t actually talk, but it felt like I did—which, for me, amounted to the same comfort level. Regardless, I was nervous about sharing my idea with them.

  I closed my eyes and opened them in the warehouse. I knew from the special, certain hush that greeted me that the mites were ready: They were waiting for me.

  “Nano, I’m so very happy that you
have found where Cushing is holding Dr. Bickel. His rescue and safety are our common goals. Thank you, too, for locating Arnaldo Soto.

  “We have a plan to deliver Dr. Bickel from Cushing’s hold, but have not yet arrived at a practical plan to protect him and keep Cushing from retaking him after we free him. Today I wish to suggest a strategy that would defeat Cushing and end her threat to Dr. Bickel forever.”

  “Under ordinary circumstances, the six of us would agree that Dr. Bickel’s freedom holds a higher priority than Arnaldo Soto’s capture. However, in my plan to protect Dr. Bickel, Soto’s capture plays an important role. His capture opens an avenue to safety for Dr. Bickel and defeat for Cushing.”

  Soft chitters and whispers greeted me. The mites were attentive; I’ll give them that.

  “After I, um, that is, after we spring Dr. Bickel, I presume that Cushing will mount a search for him. I believe she will have help from the national guard. She may enlist other law enforcement organizations. However, we must not lose sight of her true goal, which is to capture you, um, us—the nanocloud—I mean all of us.

  “It is imperative, then, that our plan keeps Dr. Bickel safe and the nanocloud a secret. Because Cushing has a great deal of political and military backing, I believe Dr. Bickel will be safest not hidden, but in the open where he can discredit Cushing.

  “The world thinks Dr. Bickel is dead. Why? Because Cushing said he was. How can we prove that she lied? By showing Dr. Bickel to the world, by digging up his grave and demonstrating that whatever or whoever is buried there is not Dr. Bickel. Dr. Bickel has many friends in the scientific community who will rally to him. My plan is to get Dr. Bickel to a safe place where he can blow the whistle on Cushing.”

  Chitters interrupted me. What whistle will Dr. Bickel blow and for what purpose, Gemma Keyes?

  I giggled. “Not a literal whistle, Nano. Look up ‘whistle-blower’ for a definition.”

  We now understand this idiom, Gemma Keyes. Dr. Bickel will disclose General Cushing’s misuse of power? Will this disclosure defeat her?

  “Yes. That’s it exactly. She has broken many laws: She tried to steal Dr. Bickel’s research. She attempted to kill him by blowing up his lab. She manipulated the scene after she blew up his lab, and she managed to convince or coerce others into saying he was dead. She falsely imprisoned him and has held him captive now for many months. These are all crimes.”

  And will Dr. Bickel’s revelations end the threat Cushing represents?

  “I hope so but, knowing her, she will not go down without a fight. Therefore, wherever we take Dr. Bickel after we free him, it must be a location she dares not storm, somewhere from which she dares not take him by force.”

  You have such a location in mind, Gemma Keyes?

  “Yes, I do, and that is where Arnaldo Soto comes in and why we must deliver him to the FBI before we free Dr. Bickel. The Constitution says that the military is not allowed to conduct military operations on American soil—nevertheless, Cushing has ‘agents’ and a tactical force at her disposal.

  “In juxtaposition, the FBI is the nation’s primary federal law enforcement organization, tasked with handling federal crime. Gamble is our friend, and he is an agent of the FBI. When we deliver Arnaldo Soto to the FBI, I believe Gamble will, in return, help us convey Dr. Bickel to an FBI field office. Cushing has no authority to storm an FBI office and take Dr. Bickel from there. She may try to extradite him through ‘legal’ channels but, by then, Dr. Bickel should have exposed her to the world as the traitor she is.

  “I wish to apprise Agent Gamble of Arnaldo Soto’s location first thing tomorrow and assist the FBI in Soto’s capture. Then we will proceed to our plan to rescue Dr. Bickel.”

  The mites deliberated for a few minutes and asked some probing questions before arriving at consensus.

  We agree with your principal assessment and plan, Gemma Keyes. However, we must continue to prepare for all contingencies. We must be optimal.

  I knew what their last two sentences meant.

  “All right. I’m ready to continue with my training session if you are.”

  ***

  Following my usual precautions, I parked a couple of blocks from Agent Gamble’s apartment and jogged the rest of the way. It was an eerie experience, approaching his building a second time in the pre-dawn dark. I scanned the parking lot and surrounding buildings, half-worried I would spot Cushing’s man smoking in the shadows under the stairs.

  Nope.

  I crept up to the second floor, taking care to make no noise. In the night stillness, sounds seemed amplified, and I didn’t want Gamble’s neighbors to hear me.

  When I reached Gamble’s door, I listened. His lights were off. I heard nothing on the inside, detected no movement. I flicked my hand toward the lock; the handle turned, and I crept inside.

  I didn’t want the neighbors to hear me knocking, either.

  It was dark in Gamble’s apartment. I shined a soft nano-light around and got my bearings. His living room was tidy; he’d left no clutter on the floor that might trip me. At the far end of the living room I spied a kitchen. A hallway to the right of the kitchen led, presumably, to a bedroom.

  “Who’s there? Show yourself.”

  Guess I hadn’t been quiet enough. The sharp whisper caught me unaware.

  “It’s Gemma Keyes, Agent Gamble. And, um, sorry; I’m unable to comply with your request.”

  “Right.” His reply was muffled in a laugh.

  Gamble rounded the corner from the hall and switched on a light. His face had that squished, bleary look you have first thing in the morning when you’ve been sleeping hard. He was shirtless but wearing boxers. He held a handgun against his thigh.

  “Nice of you to knock, Miss Keyes.”

  “And wake the neighborhood?” I chuckled. I was glad to see Gamble again.

  “I suppose I take your point. Why are you here . . .” he glanced at the clock, “at oh-four-thirty in the dark a.m.?”

  I grinned, but he couldn’t see my happy face. “Are you ready to take down Soto?”

  “What? You know where he is?” The blear on his face smoothed some.

  “I told you the nanomites would find him.”

  I shivered. “Say, do you have any coffee? I got chilled on my way here, and I’d love a cup.”

  “Yeah. Just a sec.” Gamble went down the hall and came back, sans gun, tugging a t-shirt over his head. He’d already pulled on jeans.

  Gamble was a big guy—tall and muscled, but not bulked out. Just right. Altogether, not a bad sight first thing in the morning. He went into the kitchen, and I heard the tap running and then him pouring water into a coffee maker.

  “Quit ogling me, Miss Keyes.”

  I giggled, still high on the prospects ahead: Taking down Soto, rescuing Dr. Bickel, defeating Cushing.

  “Just plain coffee okay with you? I don’t do lattés or cappuccinos, any of that frou-frou stuff.”

  “I’m a purist myself.”

  “My opinion of you just climbed a notch, Miss Keyes.”

  I snorted at his ribbing. “You want to hear about Soto or not?”

  “Absolutely. Shoot.” He left the kitchen and joined me in the living room. “Take a seat, Miss Keyes. Tell me what you’ve found.”

  “Thanks. Well, first, I should tell you that the data the nanomites downloaded from your network—the names of Soto’s family members and known associates in Mexico? Those were the vital pieces we needed. So, thanks.”

  Gamble’s reply was snide. “Yeah, happy to oblige.”

  I giggled again. “Anyway, using the information they gleaned, the mites identified and inventoried the individuals connected with Soto’s family.”

  “Every individual?”

  “Whether by blood, marriage, business, friendship, or casual contact, any person who even breathed on Soto’s family—literally, figuratively, or virtually—went into the nanomites’ analysis. If someone sat next to one of Soto’s relatives at a concert, served them food
, did their nails or laundry, or sent them spam, the mites tagged them. The mites used that data set to create a location matrix that boggled my mind.”

  Gamble looked uncertain. “They can do that? All that computing?”

  “With ease. Say, is that coffee ready?”

  Gamble got up and poured two mugs, and stood in the living room holding them. “Where do you want this?”

  I grabbed a cup from him. “Thanks. Mmm. Smells good.”

  I sipped before I continued. “Soto’s family and most of his acquaintances in Mexico are clustered in or near the city of Culiacán. The mites drew a twenty-mile radius from the center of that cluster and isolated cellphone traffic originating from inside that twenty-mile radius.”

  “What—all cellphone traffic?”

  “Yup. The mites hacked the records of every carrier out there. I gotta tell you, Agent Gamble, the nanomites rock the Internet. If it happens online, they can find it, mine it, and manipulate it. Anyway, from the entirety of all cellphone traffic within the twenty-mile radius around the designated ‘cluster,’ they isolated every number that made calls to the 505 area code.”

  “Uh, impressive.”

  “It was even more impressive when the mites displayed those calls in frequency graphs.”

  “But if the callers are using burner phones, how can you identify who is calling?”

  “Don’t need to identify the caller. We’re looking for Soto, and he is on this end, yeah? Once the mites identified the most frequent callers to New Mexico, they further narrowed those patterns to exclude calls outside a twenty-mile radius around Albuquerque.”

  I took a long, satisfying pull on my coffee. “Amazing how the rate of recurrent calls to the same numbers will pinpoint specific locations. After applying a bunch more filters, one location in particular emerged.”

  “You’re saying the mites used recurring calls to ID Soto’s location?”

  “His presumed location. Then the nanomites went to work to verify that assumption.” I pulled a folder out from under my shirt. “Here you go. Realtor records. Utility bills. Aerial footage of the house and the vehicles at this site. MVD records on the plates. He’s there, all right.”