by S. M. Nolan
Maggie was still deciding whether the crowd was a good thing or bad when Chuck looked back at her. His eyes darted between them, “Remember, head straight for the front of the line. Air Marshals get special treatments like that. Give 'em your names, and show your IDs. They'll pull 'em up on the computers and see the designation. Tell 'em you're late for your flight and they'll let you into the terminal, no questions asked—But don't walk through the metal detectors or you'll set 'em off and blow everything! If you do that, they'll automatically have to search you so no one thinks you're a Marshal. If they see you don't have badges, you're fucked. Clear?”
Russell nodded but agitation flashed over his face.
Chuck slapped him on the chest, “Good. It's game time now, brother. Get your ass out there.”
Russell slipped into the night, Maggie after him. He gave a last look at Chuck, “Thanks for everything. I'll make it up to you somehow.”
“Just bring both your asses back here. That'll be enough.”
Russell smiled. Maggie readied to shut the door, “Thanks, Chuck, I owe you.”
“Take care of 'im for me.”
She shut the door with a nod. He waved and pulled away. Russell turned to steer Maggie through the crowd and into the terminal. They passed disgruntled passengers, weaved to the front desk.
Russell ignored them, maneuvering into place in front of a check-in clerk, “We're late for our flight; Russell Williams and Maggie Doherty.”
“Excuse me sir, you'll have to head to the back of the line,” the woman said.
“Check the file first,” Maggie bit urgently.
The woman growled, typed in their names. Her face went white, and the sound of a printer went off. “Here. S-sorry. Your flight leaves soon. Good luck.”
She glanced at a security guard. He broke from the front of a line at a bank of metal detectors and motioned the pair over. He led them past the checkpoint with his hands on his utility belt, “Have a safe flight.”
Russell passed with a nod, checked their tickets to push through the sea of people toward their gate. Overhead calls of flights rang barely audible over the din, their steps swallowed whole by the deafening surge of bodies and voices crawling past in all manner of states.
“This is it,” Russell said, hurrying to a boarding hallway.
He handed the tickets to a woman there. She seemed confused before looking them over and ushering them past. They entered an empty plane, eerily silent when devoid of its passengers. Russell caught Maggie's confusion.
He checked his ticket, “Air Marshals are allowed on before-hand to check the plane. We're the only two on this flight so we're separated between classes. I'm business, you're economy. We'll be separated for the flight, but it's best anyhow.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Maggie asked, wondering how much trouble a poorly placed remark might cause.
“Sleep, or fake it,” Russell instructed. “The last thing you want's someone recognizing you.”
“And if they do?”
He frowned, “Pray they don't say anything.”
He helped find her seat near the plane's rear, gave her a hopeful look. She gazed back with exhaustion and helplessness.
“We'll get through this, Maggie, I promise. Until then—” He hesitated, looking around at the empty plane. “Just hope no one wants to blow up this plane.”
Maggie was alarmed at what a relief that might actually be. She relaxed into her seat and watched him disappear through the plane.
10.
L.A.X.
October 1st
1:00 AM
Boarding Hallway, LAX Terminal 6
Russell departed the plane first. He moved through the boarding hallway in a crowd of faceless people that ambled into LAX at 1 AM local time. He held his breath, secretly wishing to be somewhere less exposed, but trudged along all the same.
His single-file shuffle followed an obese woman as she drug her delirious, jet-lagged spawn along. It only heightened his desperation. The people's exhaustion was contagious. It weighted his chest, depressed his mind, and fueled his own ambling gait. He allowed it for the sake of remaining incognito.
The group dissipated out the doorway like water molecules in diverging currents. He made his way to a chair in the terminal beyond, un-slung his duffel bag and backpack, and sat to await Maggie.
He surveyed the area; equally bored and tired security guards with disposable coffee cups, and looking more important than they were, passed through sparse groups with superficial authority. A lone attendant slumped over a computer ahead, awaiting the processions end to finish her shift. She looked just as exhausted as the travelers, only perking up when more footsteps sounded behind her.
Maggie emerged just as Russell had, casually made her way to his side to sit with her pack between her legs. They waited for the last of the passengers to exit, hypnotized by the bodies emerging in their sleep-deprived states.
Maggie's eyes glazed over until she felt someone deposit themselves in the seat behind her. She snapped back to reality, glanced at Russell through her peripheral vision. He sensed her agitation, moved to stand, but a voice stopped him.
“Wait until the attendant leaves, then we may speak,” a woman said. “Trust me.”
Russell gave Maggie an inconspicuous look. Her eyes darted to his hip and the gun hidden there. He half-shook his head, eyes wide in denial. The attendant clacked at her keyboard. She adjusted some things on the desk, then shut off the monitor to leave.
“Start talking,” Maggie commanded.
“You're heading in the wrong direction, but I may be capable of aiding you.” Maggie shot Russell a look; his head pivoted slightly to listen. She explained with a casual abrasion, “Lu-Yen knows nothing. You are chasing phantom hope—looking in the wrong place and wasting valuable time.”
Russell shook his head at Maggie, “Who is Lu-Yen?”
“We have little time, and even less for games, Detective.”
“Who are you?” Maggie asked, transfixed ahead.
“I will be brief,” the woman explained. “Before revealing my identity, I must inform you that what I tell you cannot be relayed to anyone else uninformed.”
Maggie felt annoyance flare up, “What are you talking about?”
“If you divulge these secrets, you will place your life, and those to whom you speak, in great peril.”
“Is that a threat?” Maggie asked, casually relaxing her hands into her coat for her gun.
“Maggie,” Russell said with a hard stare. She sighed, sat upright. “Tell us who you are.”
“Very well.” The woman stood, “We are no longer being watched.”
They eased up together. Maggie turned and her eyes enlarged, “What the hell?”
“I am She-La Chen-Lee,” she said with a slight bow. “We must walk.”
Russell eyed her suspiciously, “I can't allow that.”
“Your friend's doctored records will not protect you here,” She cautioned. “But I can.”
She motioned to follow with a sweeping hand. It made her body angle toward light that glinted in micro-dermal piercings along her collar-bone. They peered out from beneath a leather trench-coat, tailored to her form with its arms removed.
A graphic T-shirt of an intricate, white dragon in battle against a warrior, clung loosely to her small breasts and flat abdomen. Its low-cut collar and vivid coloring matched colorful ink in her arms and chest. Skin-tight jeans clung to long legs and small hips, above heavy, calf-high, combat boots.
Her heavily pierced ears, nose, lips and eyebrows, and heavy black makeup drew attention to brown, almond-shaped eyes. Her black hair was short and thin, as if expertly inked onto her head.
Her appearance was vaguely eccentric, but Maggie suspected she'd blend easily with a crowd, L.A. or elsewhere. Maggie's fascination however, defied conventional celebrity attraction. While She-La was a world class artist, she was also everything Maggie professionally aspired to.
Despite her rather
public business, surprisingly little was known about She-La personally. She was deeply private, but captivating enough that it was difficult for Maggie not to gape with some wonder.
They began to follow her through the massive airport, dotted here and there with franchised shops and sales kiosks charging exorbitant prices for mundane items. The overhead speakers blared boarding instructions over growing crowds deeper inside the airport.
She-La led with a confident, stiff stride, her coat trailing behind her with a whimsy that accented her formal speech, “Lu-Yen is my brother, but he knows nothing. For you to understand, you must listen well.”
“I'm sorry,” Maggie said, struggling to keep pace with She-La's long legs. “But what does an international artist have to do with this? How is it possible you could know anything?”
“I know much, Ms. Doherty,” she said with a raised, pierced brow. “In fact, I have seen your work. It is quite good for a novice. You have yet to breach the market, but you will if you continue… or are not killed fairly soon.”
“That's encouraging,” Maggie said, her sarcasm mixing several, conflicting emotions into knot in her stomach.
“Yes. Unfortunately, we have little time for frivolity, but my compliment is genuine.”
She led them into a windowed sky-walk that passed through a parking garage. Maggie glanced into LAX's darkness to see the blinking lights of runways and almost collided with a woman walking toward her. She apologized, hurried past. The three dodged crowds with a fury of speed, save when the occasional weary traveler wandered aimlessly in front of them.
She-La juked and weaved them around as she explained, “Ryusaki was not merely a businessman, nor am I simply an artist. As my father and mother before me, I am a member of a group known to few who may utter its name without fear of death.”
“Should we be worried you're telling us this?” Russell asked, recalling her threat.
“As I said, only for another without permission. Otherwise, there is no threat from my group. The others are your immediate worry.”
She pivoted past a dazed mother attempting to round up three, raucous offspring with a fourth in her arms.
“Time wanes, so listen carefully. The group who attacked you opposes my own. They are agents of destruction looking to control an ancient weapon hidden for millennia.”
She led them from the sky-walk, beneath the Tom Bradley International Terminal entrance.
“This weapon is a secret closely guarded since the dawn of man. The Protectorate are aware that you have found yourself in the middle of our conflict with Omega. The position you find yourselves in is most certainly one of life and death.”
They headed straight, for a door marked “Authorized Personnel Only,” in white stenciling. She-La shoved it open to a staircase beyond.
Russell and Maggie strained to keep up. Their feet echoed off concrete walls as they descended cramped flights of stairs.
“You are presented with three choices,” She-La said. “First and foremost, accepting death and allowing Omega to kill you.”
Russell silently questioned her use of the term, “choice.” “Not an an option to me.”
“Nor to I,” She-La agreed. “Though it is a possible choice. The second is to begin running in this moment. You can, and in that, hope you might hide long enough to outlive your attackers.”
“And the third option?” Maggie asked, disgusted.
She-La stopped at the bottom of the stairs. A door led onto the tar-mac, brightly lit by thousands of flood-lights along buildings and runways. Nearby, a small, black helicopter blended with the darkened sky, a figure inside its cockpit poised at the stick.
She turned to them with the utmost seriousness, “You may join us, and help to end this fight once and for all.” Russell and Maggie looked to her in mutual confusion. She assuaged it, “The Protectorate can aid you greatly in your plight.”
“How?” Russell asked.
“In exchange for your protection, the Protectorate will ask your help keeping and suppressing the secrets you learn. And I will need your help destroying the weapon,” She-La said, stepping in front of the door and looking to them.
“What?” Maggie asked, her face drawn into astounded disbelief. “How can you expect us to do that? We have no idea what's going on with your… cult. Frankly, I don't care.”
She-La examined her with a wily eye, “We require someone new, less reputable than the others of our Order.” She hesitated before finishing her thought, “Someone who is… expendable should they fail.”
“What?” She put her hands out in defense, as if to push her away.
Russell was upset at the insinuation, “Wait a minute we're not part of your group. And from what you say, you already have the ability to do what you're asking. Instead of just helping us, you're forcing us to join you, and do something we're wholly incapable of doing. Where's the logic in that?”
She-La sighed, irritated at the extended need to explain, though her voice did not change, “As much as you are right, you are also wrong.”
“How?” Russell pressed.
“Our group is divided,” She-La explained hurriedly. “Within our ranks is a schism; one which long-time members cannot hope to act on without fear of retribution. What we need are agents of decisiveness. Someone new that will not lose much from challenging the Order's authority. Someone that might convince the others to destroy the weapon, or do it themselves.”
“What? How are we—you want us to put our lives on the line for something we have no stake in? Why would we do that?” Maggie asked, outraged.
She-La was getting impatient. “I promise you there is no risk of physical retaliation from us should you fail. Even bringing the argument to the Order presents little risk. If you agree to my terms, I will tell you everything, but we are wasting time now.”
Russell sneered, feeling manipulated, “Why should we trust you?”
She-La looked desperately between them. She grimaced, reached beneath her jacket and shirt to remove a large chain that hung loose on her narrow shoulders. A circular cut of stainless steel slid around it at an awkward angle. The chain hung through a hole in the center of its edge. She balled it up, slid it into Maggie's hand, whom examined it with a strange curiosity.
“It's… a tube vise, but it's missing the nut,” Maggie said, looking up in confusion.
“It is my most prized possession,” She-la said with an odd sentimentality. “I removed it from my first hand-made machine after it had become stripped. The machine was long ago retired, but helped me rise to my current status. It is yours now. Consider it a gift of good-will, and take it knowing that I wish for you to help us.”
Maggie's features drew a sudden reverie, “You're just going to hand this over?”
“I need your trust. It is a small price to pay to gain such a thing so quickly.”
Maggie looked it over once more with curious eyes before her gaze drifted back up. She exhaled her apprehension, “I trust you, She-La, and I'll help you, but I need you to help me first.” She-La gave her a nod to continue. “My shop, it's being watched—”
“Your friends will be well cared for. No harm will come to them. Your shop will remain as it was when you left it. This much I promise, but I fear you underestimate the task ahead of you.”
Russell protested, “I don't know if I like where this is going, and I'm not sure if—”
“Russell, what choice do we have?” Maggie asked. “You said it yourself; we do what we can to survive. We're only guaranteed one chance at survival, here. We'd be stupid to take any other option.”
Russell countered, “This isn't what we came here to do.”
“Isn't it? We came to seek aid from anyone connected to Ryusaki. This is the only way to stay safe.”
Russell looked her over. She was right; they'd been caught in a deathly web, and only She-La or her people might help shake it loose.
Maggie mirrored his earlier sentiments, “We're being forced to survive or die. I
f this is what we have to do, then whatever they need is a small price to pay.”
She-La looked them over impatiently, “In either case, you must choose now. Beyond this door there is no returning. Otherwise, leave and take your chances at running.”
“And if we agree, you'll tell us what's going on?” Maggie asked.
She gave a slight bow of her head, “You have my word.”
Maggie was satisfied, but she looked to Russell. Placid curiosity filled his face over tightened urgency, reflecting an inner-struggle he seemed to be caught in.
“We're already in this,” he relented in irritation. “But I want everything you know.”
She-La turned for the door, shoved it open with both hands, and held it for them. Maggie slipped the chain around her neck and stepped past. Russell hesitated. He took a deep breath, looked to his feet.
The symbolism of a point of no return and a doorway of the same was not lost on him. He wondered if She-La had planned it, or if it was a simple coincidence. With everything going on, he decided he didn't care. He took a deep breath and stepped toward the tarmac.
11.
Nevada
October 1st
01:30 AM
Protectorate Transport, Mojave Desert
The helicopter's blades chopped the air loud enough to muffle everything beyond the trio's stereo headsets. They'd entered the awaiting helicopter and immediately ascended to traverse LA's neon glow. In time, it disintegrated into darkness, the helicopter destined for a blackened obscurity.
The perpetual midnight of a Nevada desert had enveloped them since. The only external light now was from stars that shone unhindered and unequaled.
“Where are we going?” Russell asked into his headset.
“There is a small airstrip in the Nevada desert,” She-la replied. “We will outfit you there.”
He squinted across the small cargo-section at She-La, “Outfit?”
