by Linda Grimes
An incongruous image of slavering hybrid bee-dog with an Uzi in one hand and microphone in the other sprang into my head. I ignored it, and continued projecting the calm, cool, and collected persona of my client.
“Dr. Carson … Dr. Carson! Won’t you be taking a huge risk with your future unborn child?”
I smiled and shook my head at the thirty-something, heavily pregnant reporter. I sympathized with her concern, but I’d already answered the question at least fifteen different ways. Did she think I was going to tell her something different this time?
“We are certain the risk is minimal. I will either conceive or I won’t. If I do, there is nothing in our data to show a statistically significant likelihood of harm to the developing blastocyst, or later to the embryo. Again, I refer you to the press packet you were handed as you arrived. You’ll find the essential parameters of the experiment laid out for you there,” I said, hoping I sounded sufficiently like a brainy scientist trying her best not to talk down to the public. Of course, if anyone asked me what a blastocyst was, I was screwed. Biology hadn’t exactly been my favorite subject in school.
“Dr. Carson … over here!” came a male voice, young and demanding. I ignored it.
“Dr. Carson—hey, Dr. Phil!” a woman’s voice called out from the other side of the room.
Ha. Guess I wasn’t the only one to note the name similarity to the celebrity talk show host. I scanned the crowd of curious faces, and nodded at the newshound with the sense of humor—a woman who looked like she’d been working the beat since the Apollo 11 moon landing.
“Are you sure you won’t be sneaking your husband along on the mission with you?” she asked, a prurient gleam in her ancient eyes.
I refrained from rolling my own, not wanting to put a blemish on Dr. Phil’s PR skills. What was it with the repeat questions? Only thing I could figure was, it must take at least ten times before the answer sticks.
“Only the essential parts of him, I’m afraid,” I said, keeping it light. I was tempted to elaborate with “you know, his wigglies” or “his swimmers” this time, but I was going to assume the grownups present knew which parts were essential to conception.
Another reporter—the demanding young man—called out, “But your husband is a cosmonaut, right? He’s qualified to go along, isn’t he?”
I swallowed a sigh and revived Phil’s smile. “Retired cosmonaut…”
It was true. Dr. Phil and her husband, Mikhail Yurgevich, had met and fallen in love when both were speaking at a European Space Agency symposium in Paris. Yurgevich owned a private U.S.-based company, where he concentrated on research and development of twenty-first-century cargo transport. Spaceward Ho was starting to give Virgin Galactic a run for its money. Most people thought the company’s name—the “Ho” part, anyway—was poking fun at the competition, though the founder claimed it was merely a play on the old “Westward Ho” pioneer spirit. Personally, I suspected it was a bit of both.
Mikhail being Russian had probably tipped the scales in favor of Phil as the human guinea pig. The Russians might not be at the point of testing human conception in zero-G themselves, but they sure didn’t mind having a fifty-percent PR stake in any future little half-Russian possibly arising from the U.S.’s research. Mikhail wasn’t a Russian citizen anymore, but they still laid claim to his heritage.
“Will Spaceward Ho transport you to the space station? Maybe he could go along for the ride. Er, so to speak.” The demanding young man couldn’t have infused more innuendo if he’d waggled his eyebrows. Hmm. Maybe he was Billy.
I looked at him sternly, resisting the urge to slap him down—verbally, of course—for his impertinence. “As far as I know, the transport arrangements haven’t yet been finalized. And, as I already explained, the International Space Station is quite small. This experiment will be centered around the viability of human conception, not sex. One step at a time. Some day, in the future, once we’re certain conception itself is a feasible prospect, then the various methods of achieving it might be explored further.”
Then, thinking to lighten the moment, I added, “Hopefully when there’s more room available and, you know, some privacy. Maybe some Norah Jones”—Norah was listed under Music Favorites in Phil’s dossier—“and a little champagne.”
During the ensuing laughter, the PR spokesperson for NASA took my place at the microphone and told a disappointed crowd, “That’s all for now, folks. We’ll keep you updated.”
I rode a wave of shockingly personal questions out of the room, thankful I’d be handing the reins back to the real Dr. Phil soon. Let her figure out a polite answer to whether her husband was upset about being replaced by a turkey baster. Me, I just smiled, waved, and pretended to be deaf.
Once we were out of the press’s earshot, I ditched my handler on the pretext of needing to use the restroom, and found a quiet stall to make a phone call. Billy answered on the third ring.
“Where are you?” I said, using my own voice so he’d recognize me.
“Gee, I was hoping for ‘What are you wearing?’ Assuming you miss me as much as I miss you, and this is phone sex, which I’m afraid is our only option until my job is over.” There was laughter in his voice, which almost always calmed me down, but not this time.
“Billy, you didn’t happen to ride along with me on my job today, did you?” Please say yes, please say yes, please …
“Sorry, sweetheart. Much as I love me some zero-G, I’m in the middle of something that can’t wait. Well, not if I want to collect a sum hefty enough to maintain my lifestyle for the next year or so.”
“So you’re honestly not here in Houston?” I said, trying my best to keep the panic out of my voice.
His voice got serious. “Ciel, what’s wrong? Tell me. Now.”
I sighed. “It’s the photographer. He knows I’m not the client. He knows it, Billy! What am I supposed to do?”
“First of all, breathe. Slowly. Don’t hyperventilate. You’re probably feeling paranoid from the seesawing altitudes. Blood rushing in and out of your head can’t be good for rational thought.”
“He told me flat out. Asked me what I was. Not who. What.”
There was a pause. “Strange. What’d you tell him?”
“I ditched the subject entirely by pretending to feel airsick. Kept my face buried in a barf bag, dry-heaving for the entire descent”—there hadn’t been much pretending involved, the possibility of discovery having made me queasy in spite of the behind-the-ear patch, something Billy didn’t need to know—“and we were taken back to the Space Center for the presser as soon as we landed. Alec—the photographer—was there, in the back, taking pictures of me the whole time. I’m afraid he’s going to come looking for me any second. What if he knows something for real?”
“Well, taking pictures is his job, isn’t it? Of course he wants as many pictures as possible of your client—she’s the rock star of the day.” There was a short pause, presumably him evaluating. “Maybe he meant ‘what kind of woman are you to do this.’ He could be, I don’t know, a ‘natural conception’ fanatic or something.”
“No. The way he looked at me … it was creepy. He knew I wasn’t Dr. Carson, I’d swear to it.”
“Could your client have spilled the beans herself? If this guy knows her, maybe she told him.”
“No, she wouldn’t have. Her mission is too important to her. I’m certain she wouldn’t risk it.”
“Okay, if you say so. I think you’re probably overreacting, but it’s obvious you’re spooked. Speaking of which, have you talked to the boss spook yet? Maybe Mark knows something about the guy.”
I bit my—well, Phil’s—lip. I didn’t want to involve Mark if I didn’t absolutely have to. How would it look if I couldn’t make it through the first assignment he’d given me without his help?
“No,” I said. “I’m sure he’s got his own job to worry about. Probably something of national importance. I don’t want to bother him.”
“He’s
not on a job right now—he took a few days off.”
“What? I mean … good. Really good. He could use a break.” Geez, he didn’t trust me. He probably left his schedule open in case I screwed up and he had to fix it.
Billy’s amusement was palpable. “Afraid you’re gonna flunk?”
Yes. “Of course not. Shut up.”
His laughter filled my ears. “It’s not a test, cuz. Mark wouldn’t have asked you to do the job in the first place if he wasn’t sure you could handle it. You won’t blow it if you call him with some questions.”
Maybe. Maybe not. I didn’t want to risk it. “Look, I already have you on the phone, and I don’t have much time. Are you going to help me think of something or not?” I said, laying on the exasperation.
“Will you still sleep with me if I don’t?”
“No. In fact, if you even approach me in a sexual manner, I will immediately project your mother’s aura. Think your libido could handle that?”
“Harsh, sweetheart.”
“I have your father’s aura, too.”
“Okay, okay. Look, all you have to do is get away from the guy and lie low until you hand off to your client, right? Where are you now?”
“In a bathroom. I figure I can hang out here five more minutes, tops, before someone comes looking for me.”
“Are you wearing the same NASA-issued jumpsuit as the ASCANs?”
“Yeah.”
“Any of them about the same size as your client?”
“Yeah … all right, I get it. I can probably get past the photographer, if I use the one with hair long enough to cover my name patch, and I’m careful to keep my ID badge flipped. But it’s risky. What if I run into the ASCAN I’m impersonating?”
“What can I say? Risky”—I could almost see him giving one of his insouciant shrugs—“is how my mind operates. Anyway, you’ll only be wearing the aura long enough to get to Phil’s car. If you see the ASCAN, walk the other way. Call me back when you’re clear. And next time use a breathy voice and moan a little. It makes phone sex way more fun.”
* * *
The aura I was projecting was a few inches shorter and ten or so pounds heavier than Dr. Phil, but that didn’t matter in a flight suit. Long brown hair, pale complexion. The shoes had pinched at first, nothing a minor adjustment of my feet hadn’t fixed. I hoped I didn’t run into anyone I’d have to introduce myself to, because hell if I could remember her name. The important thing was, I’d automatically snatched some of her energy when I’d shaken her hand before the flight. You never know when an extra aura will be useful.
The hall outside the restroom was deserted except for my elderly handler, Steve. Darn. I’d thought he’d leave Phil alone once the reporters had been shown the door. Not that it mattered, since I wasn’t Phil at the moment.
I nodded pleasantly, hoping to whiz by him without having to talk. No such luck.
“Excuse me, Major, but did you happen to notice if Dr. Carson was okay? I hate to bother her if she’s, um, indisposed, but there’s some paperwork we should take care of before she leaves today.”
“Gosh, I think she’s already gone—she told me she had an appointment she had to get to. Maybe you can catch her if you call her cell phone?” I said.
Of course, the call would be routed to the voice mail of Dr. Phil’s cell phone, which I was carrying. I’d deal with it later.
“Sure. Thanks, I’ll give it a try,” he said, pulling his phone out of his pocket as he hurried toward the door leading to the parking lot. Phil’s phone vibrated in my pocket. I ignored it and hurried around the corner … and ran straight into Alec Loughlin.
Shit.
“Um, sorry,” I said, not meeting his eye, and tried to keep moving. He wasn’t looking for the ASCAN I was projecting.
He stepped sideways at the same time I did, and we found ourselves doing the awkward people-in-a-rush-trying-to-pass-each-other dance. I shrugged, and laughed in the sheepish way the situation called for, waiting for him to get out of my way.
He didn’t.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I have someplace I need to be.”
His eyes sharpened as he grabbed me by the wrist. “I don’t think so, ‘Phil.’ You’re coming with me.”
Chapter 3
Loughlin pulled me toward the nearest exit. Jesus. Kidnapping an astronaut? Did he really think he was going to get away with that? What kind of freak was he?
I rotated my wrist until the thumb side of my forearm was aligned with the spot where his finger and thumb joined—the weak point in anyone’s grip—and yanked downward with all my might, freeing myself. Since the aura I was wearing was tall enough, and I was close enough, and—most importantly—there was no one else around, I followed up with a quick strike to his throat, leaving him sputtering for air while I ran.
The whole thing hadn’t taken more than a second or two. It had been a pure reflex on my part, courtesy of my new sister-in-law, Laura, and the rigorous self-defense training she’d been giving me. Laura was one of Mark’s fellow spooks, and had insisted if I wanted to learn to defend myself I’d better do it right. Loughlin was lucky I hadn’t been at a good angle to bust his balls with a swift kick—another move I’d recently perfected. As it was, anyone who came across him in the next several seconds would assume he was choking, and maybe even Heimlich him, buying me more time.
I hit the parking lot at record speed. Hopped into Phil’s dark green 1973 Triumph TR6. (Literally. The top was down.) Calmed myself, and headed out as quickly as I could without attracting undue attention for reckless driving. As soon as it was feasible, I took a small detour behind a strip mall, making sure no one was following me.
Crap. He’d called me “Phil.” He knew I wasn’t the ASCAN I’d been projecting. Jesus. Had I let Phil’s aura leak through somehow? I twisted the rearview mirror and took a good look at myself. Long brown hair, check. Pale white-girl complexion, check. No leaking anywhere.
Maybe he’d seen the name patch? But even if he had, it would be more logical to assume we’d gotten our jumpsuits mixed up. Unless he knew about adaptors …
There was nothing I could do about that now, so I switched back to Dr. Phil’s aura. It wouldn’t do to show up at her house in the gated suburban community as a strange ASCAN.
Before I took off again, I dug out Phil’s cell phone and gave Steve Richards a quick call. I told him I’d get to the paperwork the next day, so he wouldn’t get worried and send out a search team.
Then I paused, took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and dialed Mark. I hated having to explain a cock-up on my first job for him, but there didn’t seem to be a choice after what had happened.
He answered on the first ring. I wasn’t sure if that was good or not. Did I happen to catch him at a slow time or had he been on standby, waiting to hear if he needed to come winging to the rescue of incompetent little me?
“Nice work at the press conference,” he said first thing. Of course he’d been watching. “You handled yourself in the piranha pool like an old pro.”
My cheeks heated at his praise. It was embarrassing how much his approval meant to me. “Thanks. Um, yeah, that part went really well, I thought.”
His brief pause carried a frisson of tension. “What happened?” Most people wouldn’t have noticed a change in his voice, which he kept carefully neutral, but I knew him well enough to recognize the signs of him going into full alert mode.
“Everything is fine,” I said, and swallowed. “Now.” And then I explained, as efficiently as I could, what Loughlin had done. Sure, I may have downplayed the danger a tiny bit by insinuating Loughlin was a bumbling idiot, and perhaps up-played my own badassery in getting away from him, but only so as not to unduly worry Mark.
“Where are you now?” His voice was tight. “I can have somebody with you in five minutes, tops.” Which meant he had planted reinforcements nearby. Damn it, he didn’t trust me.
“Behind a strip mall. But don’t worry, I wasn’t followed. No n
eed to send in the cavalry.”
“Get back to the house. Now. The package”—by which he meant Dr. Phil—“will be delivered on schedule.”
“Wait—don’t hang up. What do you think is going on?”
“Your paycheck will be in your bank account by the time you’re home. If you need anything else, call.” By which he meant we weren’t going to discuss what happened with Loughlin.
I sighed. Someday, I swore to myself, Mark was going to trust me with work-related stuff as much as he did Billy. But at least he didn’t seem to think I’d done anything to precipitate Loughlin’s weirdness. That was something, anyway.
Next, I called Billy and explained what had happened with Loughlin. I reassured him I’d already talked to Mark, and told him I was on my way back to Dr. Phil’s place. Once he was satisfied I didn’t need immediate protection he sounded genuinely impressed with my escape from Loughlin, which made me so happy I breathed heavily and moaned for him. My giggling may have detracted from any erotic effect, but, hey, it’s the thought that counts, right? He hung up after a promise to squeeze some real moans out of me when he got his hands on me again.
* * *
The real Dr. Phil looked to be the picture of health when I finally saw her two days later. Apparently the crisis had passed (so to speak) uneventfully. Her private doctor had given her the go-ahead to resume her refresher astronaut training. She’d been genuinely disappointed to miss the ride on the Vomit Comet.
I was back to being myself again, feeling short, freckly, and generally awkward next to her gorgeous, graceful self.
“So, about this photographer…” I said as we were finishing the snack of popcorn and white wine we’d been sharing during our informal debriefing. I felt free to indulge in a second glass, because I wouldn’t be driving anywhere. The agent who’d delivered her was waiting around the corner to drive me to the airport.
