This section of the intrusion detection system is now deactivated. Proceed straight ahead, Gemma Keyes.
I heard the mites spinning up their lasers. I approached the fence, lifted a finger, and narrow, bright light sliced through the links. A moment later I was on the inside. I pulled the section of fence back into place.
I hunkered down in the shadows, drew my sticks from their quiver, and waited for the guard to complete his circuit, to come up the fence line to where I lurked.
When he was within a few yards of me, the guard must have seen or heard something amiss, because he paused, instantly alert. I gestured with my hand; seconds later a ping resounded on the fence behind him. He spun around—and as he did, I was on him. Using the butt end of a stick, I delivered a blow behind his ear, targeting his cerebellum. The guard crumpled to the ground without a sound.
“Go.”
The mites swarmed from me to him—and back. Lights out. He would not wake up for hours.
I tiptoed across the grass onto the concrete driveway. Took a few steps toward the garage.
Gemma Keyes.
Yes, Nano?
Come to us.
They’d never said that before, but I figured it had to mean, “Come into the warehouse.” I dropped into a squat, closed my eyes, and slipped into that place of community with the mites.
They showed me what I couldn’t see with my naked eyes.
Thin bands of red lights crisscrossed our approach to the house. I understood their meaning: The house was surrounded by IR sensors or motion detectors. What the nanomites “saw” and showed me were the reflected infrared signals that, if interrupted, would trigger an alarm.
No wonder they only had one perimeter guard.
Walk at a slower pace than usual, Gemma Keyes. We will provide cover around you to defeat the motion detectors.
“Um, okay. Which door do I use?”
Half a minute went by.
Use the rear entrance, Gemma Keyes.
I had memorized the layout of the house. I popped out of the warehouse, took a deep breath and began to walk—slowly—up the semicircular drive toward the house. Near the garage, I turned and—still slowly—set off across the grass and around the garage to the back of the house.
As I walked, I made note of what the satellite photos had not shown us: Bars covering every window on the house; thick steel doors with state-of-the-art keypad locks in place of the original keyed locks.
The locks did not concern me. We defeated the back door’s keycode mechanism and eased open the heavy door. As I slid inside a kitchen, I searched for the two personnel who were on duty.
Straight ahead, Gemma Keyes.
I crept through the kitchen/dining room—past a dinette table set against a wall. I paused to touch the table’s laminate surface.
Dr. Bickel and his careless former guards played cards at this table . . . This is where one of the guards left his smart phone when he was called away to answer the command center’s telephone.
I snorted within myself. They thought of Dr. Bickel as a harmless, clueless old man—but that was their mistake. It’s how he managed to email me.
Inching forward, I peeked through the arched doorway. The living room at the front of the house had been taken over by the command post. A hallway on the left led to the bedrooms. To Dr. Bickel’s cell.
The two guards on duty were seated at the command console, their backs to me. Computers and a bank of six monitors spanned the desk. Four monitors provided rotating views of the exterior . . . and two focused on the man we’d come to save.
Oh, Dr Bickel! My heart squeezed and unexpected tears stung my eyes.
Do not fret, Gemma Keyes. This is rough on our emotions, but we must try hard to adjust for Dr. Bickel’s sake.
It was the kindest, most understanding thing the mites had ever spoken—even if they were parroting my own words back to me. I drew back and sniffed into my sleeve.
“Thank you, Nano.”
I got myself back together and peered into the command center again. The mites flowed from me to the servers and came back to report.
As we’d surmised, the room to which Dr. Bickel was confined was not a “cell” per se. It appeared to be an ordinary room with one narrow window and one door. From the prisoner’s perspective, it was a studio apartment with all the amenities: a nice bed, a kitchenette, a sitting area complete with television and satellite TV.
When the mites returned, they confirmed that the walls were made of reinforced cinderblock overlaid with sheetrock, the floors of solid concrete under a wooden subfloor and thick carpet. The window glass was bulletproof. The door was steel set in a steel frame.
I smiled. Not a problem.
Like a cat stalking its prey I moved into the command center behind the two men, whirling my sticks to attack. One of the men felt or heard the air whooshing over my sticks and turned. I laid him out with one blow and turned to the second guard. He stumbled backward, eyes bulging in his face. He reached for his sidearm—but I was far faster. When I’d rendered both men unconscious, the nanomites streamed into their bodies, assessed their injuries, and administered a long-term sedative.
Done.
I swallowed. Only a short hallway and a steel door stood between me and my friend. It had all been so much easier than I thought it would be.
I started down the hall. “Come on, Nano. Let’s go get Dr. Bickel.”
I raised my hand to his cell door. The lock clicked as it unlatched, and I swung open the door. The figure sitting, staring at a wall, did not turn. Did not acknowledge the opening door.
“Dr. Bickel?”
It was a moment before he slowly swiveled toward me. “Oh, Gemma. I had so hoped you would be able to elude them.” His face crumpled in grief. Then he stared around, unable to see me, no longer certain of what he’d heard.
“I did elude them, Dr. Bickel. Actually, I’m here to rescue you.”
Rescue you? It sounded corny, but I was grinning so hard that I didn’t care.
His eyes widened. “You are invisible! I wondered if the mites would obey me . . .”
“Come on, dear Dr. Bickel, we shouldn’t delay. We can talk in the truck.”
“But the guards! The alarms and cameras, Gemma!”
“We’ve taken care of them, Dr. Bickel.” I came closer and placed my hand on his and squeezed.
Maybe it was because he couldn’t see me. Maybe because it had been a while since anyone had touched him. Perhaps it was the sheer relief of the moment: Dr. Bickel, my sweet old friend, sobbed. He grasped my hand and gripped it hard, but he turned his face away and sobbed.
I sat beside him. Wrapped my arms around him.
Held him. Wept with him.
That moment was perfect. It could not have been more; it could not have meant more.
And then . . . from within my chest, a soft, lovely, melodious hum . . . lifted, arose, and resonated through me. Low and peaceful, it flowed from me to him, enfolding the two of us in its haunting richness.
I’d never heard such beauty.
The nanocloud . . . singing.
Rejoicing with us.
~~**~~
Chapter 26
Gemma Keyes. We must go now.
“Yes.” I drew away from Dr. Bickel. “We shouldn’t delay any longer. Each passing moment decreases our odds of getting you to safety.”
“You’re right, of course, Gemma.” He wiped his face and stood on his spindly legs. “Where is this truck you spoke of?”
“About a quarter mile northeast of the house. As soon as we reach it, I will call my FBI friend. He is going to send a helicopter for us. When we are clear of the missile range’s no-fly zone, it will pick us up and take us to the FBI’s Albuquerque field office. The FBI will provide sanctuary from Cushing while you go public with your accusations against her—showing the world that you are alive and that she is a liar.”
“Brilliant, my dear girl. Brilliant.”
We sped down the ha
ll, turned the corner into the command center, and—
“Stop where you are.”
The guards still lay motionless on the floor, but two uniformed men faced us. The younger soldier had his sidearm drawn and extended in both hands.
“Going somewhere, Dr. Bickel?”
I recognized the voice. Saw the eagle patch of an Air Force colonel on the collar of the older soldier’s ABU and the matching eagle on the front of his utility cap.
Dr. Bickel stiffened. “Why, yes, Colonel Greaves. Not to be indelicate, but I have tired of your ‘hospitality.’ I’ll be going now.”
I had my hand on Dr. Bickel’s back, and I prodded him forward, out of the doorway into the room.
“I said stop!”
The younger soldier couldn’t see me and likely didn’t know I was even there. I zigged out from behind Dr. Bickel and dropped into a roll. I came up on the soldier’s right side, my sticks drawn. I brought the sticks up in a sweeping “X” that drove his hands above his head and sent the gun flying. Before he could recover, I spun and slashed diagonally downward, right hand, then left hand, striking his elbows. While he howled and clutched his arms, I delivered a stunning blow on the side of his neck. The soldier fell to the floor, senseless.
“Do not move, Miss Keyes.” Colonel Greaves, eyes wide, had drawn his own weapon and trained it, not on me, but on Dr. Bickel. He muttered to himself, “I didn’t believe Cushing when she told me you were invisible, but it’s true. It’s true!”
He stepped away, putting more distance between himself and where he supposed me to be. “If you value your friend’s life, do not move.”
I crouched and inched forward, intending to spring up from below as I had a moment ago.
The colonel cocked his head and turned toward me; I froze in place.
“I can hear you, you know,” he mocked.
“Nano. Now!”
The nanomites bolted from me with blinding speed, and I rolled from my position should the man fire. The colonel saw the flash of the mites, a thick stream rushing toward him, and his eyes widened further. The river of mites narrowed, became denser, shot forward, and bludgeoned the man’s chest. He flew backward, hit the wall, and slumped to the floor.
“Ha!” I exulted as the river of mites flew back to me. “Come on, Dr. Bickel!”
“Gemma!”
Dr. Bickel’s warning came too late.
Colonel Greaves had managed to raise the gun he still clutched in his hand. He depressed the trigger. Twin bolts of racking pain embedded themselves in my chest. I groaned and my body convulsed.
The 50,000-volt jolt lasted five protracted, agonizing seconds. My hands clenched and unclenched, releasing my weapons. The sticks dropped and rolled away. I toppled to the floor like a tree felled in the woods. On the floor, I twitched and spasmed; my jaws clenched and teeth ground together. Confetti-like AFID tags rained down, showering me.
Not a gun.
A Taser.
I could not move, but I could see . . . Colonel Greaves levering himself up the wall, picking himself up, unsnapping the holster at his side, drawing his real sidearm, lifting it toward me.
“No!”
Dr. Bickel’s roar of rage startled Greaves. My old friend scrabbled for my sticks and grabbed them up. With a fury born of months of captivity, he brought them down on Greaves, on his gun and gun hand.
“You will never have Gemma—do you hear me? You will never do to her what you’ve done to me! Never!”
Dr. Bickel’s technique may have been lacking, but his fervor was not. He delivered enough passion behind the heavy hardwood sticks to accomplish what was necessary.
Like the nanomites had said: Gemma Keyes, you need not become a master in this style. Even as an untrained woman of your size and strength, these escrima sticks will serve you well in a combat situation.
Dr. Bickel’s fury burned hotter. “I will make sure you cannot come after us—that you will spend months in pain thinking on the evil in your heart.”
Greaves shrieked as his wrists and arms shattered.
Shattered.
Shattered? I blinked and tried to rise, hoping . . . hoping . . .
Despairing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dr. Bickel deliver blow after blow to Greaves, to his arms, knees, shins, and ankles before he ran out of steam, before the fog of rage lifted. Before he realized that Greaves had fainted and would be unable to stop us if he awoke.
“Gemma.” Dr. Bickel knelt by me and raised me to sitting.
He can see me? And Greaves . . . he saw me?
“Gemma. We need to go! You triggered at least one silent alarm—perhaps others. That’s what called Greaves here. Cushing will soon know something is wrong. No; I’m certain she already knows! We must go.”
He helped me to my feet, but I trembled, was unsteady. Weak.
“Do you have a phone, Gemma? Time for your FBI friend to get that chopper in the air.”
“Y-yes.”
Dr. Bickel patted my pockets, pulled out my smart phone, and pressed the menu button.
Nothing.
“It’s dead.” He glanced at the unconscious Greaves. “Either that was no ordinary Taser, or . . .” He didn’t finish his sentence, but added, “Doesn’t change the fact that we must find a phone to make that call.”
He raced to the command console and the landline on its surface. He placed the receiver to his ear, dialed, listened, and turned to Gemma. “This line doesn’t allow long-distance or directory assistance calls!”
I was sitting up, trying to gather myself. My tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth. “Cush . . .”
“Yes. After I found a way to get a message out of here, she must have cut off every avenue.” He looked around. “I know the guards are not allowed to bring in phones, but perhaps . . .”
He patted the pockets of Greaves’ subordinate and found nothing. He had better luck when he searched Greaves himself.
“Okay; got his phone, but there’s no cell signal here. Let’s go.”
The pain from the Taser faded. Dr. Bickel helped me up, and I put one foot in front of the other at his urging. We left by the front door and stumbled toward the fence.
“Cor . . . ner.” My hand fluttered in the general direction. My mouth wasn’t working right yet, and my coordination was all off.
Some rescue! It was a good thing Dr. Bickel was stronger than he looked. He pulled my arm behind his neck and shouldered my weight, dragging me toward the hole in the fence.
“You can expect to experience a few minutes of vertigo, Gemma, but the Taser’s other effects should wear off quickly . . . should have already worn off . . . by now.”
Concern laced his words, and he didn’t mention the unaddressed but disturbing truth, the fact that I was fully visible.
After an agonizing twenty minutes of Dr. Bickel half dragging me along, we arrived at the truck. Dr. Bickel pushed me up onto the passenger seat and slammed the door closed before racing to the driver’s side.
“Keys?”
“Un . . . der . . .”
He found them. He revved the engine, turned on the headlights, and followed the truck’s tire tracks to the highway. He didn’t stop to unfasten the fence—he slipped the truck into a lower gear and plowed through the barbed strands, down the shallow ditch bank, and up the other side.
Out on the black, lonely highway, he pointed the truck west toward Las Cruces, shifted gears, and drove like a man pursued.
I was in my head, struggling, fighting with what little strength I possessed to get into the warehouse. I failed and failed again, but I kept trying. Trying to reach them.
“Nano! Nano!”
I heard no answer . . . but I heard the deaths . . . the mites’ agonizing cries of loss as their ranks were decimated, as the tribes went silent.
As the nanocloud flickered and died.
~~**~~
Chapter 27
Traffic along the highway was spotty—just the occasional oncomin
g headlights that sliced through the night and flashed by without incident. Dr. Bickel kept the truck in the right-hand lane and maintained the posted speed limit. I noticed that he checked the rearview mirror often. His nerves were on edge—but, then again, he was not likely to relax until we were safe within the FBI’s protective care.
The White Sands reservation ran along both sides of the highway; we hadn’t gone many miles before Dr. Bickel pulled out the phone he’d taken from Greaves, powered it on, and took a quick look at it. He scowled. “Still no cell service. I will keep the phone powered off until we get close enough to Las Cruces to pick up a signal—so they can’t use the phone’s signal to trace us. When we do get a signal, I’ll need you to call your FBI friend and tell him to get that copter in the air.”
“Okay . . .”
And how was I going do that? My phone—with Gamble’s number in my Favorites’ list—was dead. I wondered, in a vague, distracted sort of way, why the Taser had killed my phone.
It shouldn’t have.
My garbled thinking reminded me: Alpha Tribe had my contacts stored in their vast repository; they could retrieve Gamble’s number for me . . . if I could reach them.
If they were still alive.
“Nano. I need Agent Gamble’s number.”
Nothing.
“Nano?”
Did the mites hear me? Could they hear me? I closed my eyes and strained to go to them, to reconnect. They could not have died! Not all of them! Not all their trillions!
Deep inside, as from a great distance, their distraught chitters—faint echoes and distant reverberations—reached me. The mites were calling to each other: Like a terrible game of Marco Polo, the mites were searching for their fellows, desperate to locate and link to their many members.
I expelled a semi-relieved breath.
Some of the nanomites had survived. But how many? How damaged or weakened were the survivors? And how many had died?
Too many, I concluded. The mites were unable to hide me any longer. They weren’t even trying. Either they were too few or they were too broken—I had no way to tell which.
As I homed in on the mites’ wails, I swallowed hard, sorrowing with them over their tribemates; I knew the mites loathed separation, how much being divided or alone distressed them. Their individual identities were subsumed within their tribes and as part of the swarm, the nanocloud.
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