It was late—or should I say early?
I had wasted another long night trying to crawl inside Cushing’s evil brain and plumb her psyche—hoping to second-guess where she would have put Dr. Bickel. The nanomites’ message had stolen the wind from my sails, but I couldn’t just give up on my friend, could I? Yet, after hours of brooding deliberation, I had nothing to show for my efforts.
I was frustrated and a bit down. I slumped on the couch, weary and yawning.
Ten days had sped by in a blur—a week and a half since I’d last seen Zander, Abe, and Emilio. Ten exhausting days spent gearing up to elude and survive Cushing and, in the back of my mind, preparing to save Dr. Bickel as soon as the nanomites located him. Ten days of hope ending in one, tiny flaw: The mites had failed.
They were stumped.
So, yes, I was frustrated. I had to admit there was something else bringing me down, too. I’d hung my heart on a tiny, unspoken hope, the idea that if, by some miracle, we’d been able to find and rescue Dr. Bickel, we might also, somehow, expose and defeat Cushing . . . and I would get my life back.
But, in reality? What were the chances that the nanomites and I could accomplish what was virtually impossible?
I wouldn’t take those odds!
And that was the lump of coal at the bottom of my pity pot.
Old anger reared its head—the rage I’d felt when the nanomites had first invaded me. Was this the shape of my future? Was this what the rest of my life would look like? No one to share it with? Always hiding? Ever in fear and jeopardy?
I was, I admitted, more than angry: I was unsettled. Uncertain and perturbed with myself.
With all the mites had proven they could do, my insistence on planning and directing our every move was beginning to concern me. I had the disquieting sense that I was overlooking better ways to use the nanomites, that I was shortsighted when it came to them. That there was a smarter approach to getting stuff done.
Maybe I was just overtired, but even the way we communicated irked me—I mean, them writing notes on the wall? It seemed . . . oh, I don’t know . . . tedious, given the mites’ high-speed computing powers.
Dumb, even! Something had to change.
Maybe I had to change?
I sighed. “Nano.”
They responded with their alert, listening silence.
“Nano, is there a way we can, um, talk more easily? Are you capable of audible emissions? Of making spoken words? I know you understand language—both verbal and written—and have mastered programming languages and computers, networks, and the Internet. What I’m wondering is . . . if there’s a way we could communicate in a simpler, more fluid manner.”
I paused, trying to muster an eloquent way to say what was bothering me. Dr. Bickel had lectured me on the algorithms behind the nanomites, how they were divided into five tribes but no tribe bossed the others around or told another what to do. He had stressed how the tribes cooperated and applied fact and logic to arrive at consensus and agreed-upon actions to achieve their goal of “the greater good.”
Up until now, I’d insisted that the mites follow my lead and use their knowledge and abilities as I demanded, but perhaps I was cutting myself short? Was I depriving myself of the full benefit of the mites’ help by being so directive? Could I—could we—work together better? Smarter?
The nanomites and I shared a common goal: Find and rescue Dr. Bickel. However, the immensity of that objective, the unlikelihood that we might succeed, and the more likely odds that I’d be captured . . . well, they weighed on me.
No, “they weighed on me” was a weak, inadequate picture. The prospect of ending up in Cushing’s custody—and the terror it evoked?—stole my breath away.
But I had to keep trying to find him, didn’t I? I couldn’t just give up!
The problem was that I didn’t have a clue as to where Shark Face had stashed Dr. Bickel. Not even a jumping-off point. In all reality, he could be anywhere. Dr. Bickel himself didn’t know where he was being kept prisoner.
Sure, the mites could worm their way into any system if it was connected to a network that communicated with the outside world. No firewall invented by humankind could keep the mites locked out if they wanted in! Their intelligence and speed were incredible—but they had their limitations: They were as dependent upon my physical body to carry them around and keep them powered as I was dependent upon them to offset my physical limitations.
No bones about it, if we ever found Dr. Bickel, it would take a human-nanomite collaboration to get him out.
My mind presented the colorful image of a nano-powered human, and I laughed.
“Yeah, right. Like some kind of comic book superhero—a real, live action figure out to save the world!”
Not gonna happen, I admitted.
Back to Survival 101. How could I better exploit the nanomites’ abilities? How could I—how could we—operate with more efficiency?
If I could just, somehow, tap in to the mites’ processes, perhaps all the “stuff” we did would be less time-consuming and less tedious and wouldn’t require so much brainstorming and preparation on my part.
I decided on a direct appeal to the mites’ sense of order and logic.
“Nano, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m interested in improved relations and faster and more effective communication. Enhanced communication could lead to, um, greater exchanges of information and understanding, maybe even, um, consensus (*gag*) and cooperation. An enriched relationship could result in, um, superior decisions—perhaps collaboration and mutual support—especially when we are in tight spots.”
I shook my head and ended with, “I wish we could find a means to function better. Together. More efficiently. Perhaps forge an, um, alliance or partnership.”
The mites remained silent, but I figured they weren’t ignoring me: They were chewing on what I’d asked of them.
Minutes ticked by, and they did not respond. It was still dark, but morning was not that far away. When I could no longer fend off my fatigue, I whispered, “Nano. I’m going to bed now.”
GOOD NIGHT
GEMMA KEYES
“Uh, right. Good night, Nano.”
Well, that was new.
***
I had been soundly asleep for a while, I don’t know how long. I squirmed and tried to sink back into that place of deep, revitalizing slumber, but I was uncomfortable, and the discomfort was growing. Half in and half out of a sleepy state, I managed to put a label on the discomfort:
Headache.
The ache grew. My skull pounded. The pounding morphed from a clanging hammer to a digging, stinging knife, an icepick stabbing between my temples—all the way through, from one temple to the other. Surely my head was going to explode!
I tried to lift my face from my pillow, tried to look around the darkened room, but I felt too weak, too racked with pain to do even that.
What happened? Am I sick?
Something warm and salty dribbled onto my lip. I swiped at it, but the dribble kept coming.
Nosebleed? Oh, gross—I’m bleeding all over my pillow.
I threw back the covers, dragged myself up—and vomited onto the floor between my feet. I gagged and threw up again.
After I’d emptied my stomach, I tried to stand and get to the bathroom. The room revolved around me, and I found it difficult not to fall off the edge of the bed. The throbbing in my head grew until I realized that I could feel my pulse reverberating in my hands, my arms, my chest. I hurt in every part of my body.
More of what I guessed was blood ran over my lips and down my chin.
What in the world . . .
I forced myself to balance on shaky, flimsy legs and made my way to the bathroom. I closed the door before I switched on the light.
Ow!
The light battered my eyes, so I looked away, glanced down. Bright, bloody drops speckled the tile floor. Fresh rivulets streamed from both nostrils onto the only nightshirt I owned. I grabbed up a washcloth. With one hand, I held the cloth under my nose to catch what was running; with the other, I pinched my nostrils high up, hoping to stem the flow.
My efforts did not help—I gagged and upchucked for the third time.
This is really bad!
Fear jittered its way through me. It wasn’t as though I could check myself into an ER.
I pressed the cloth against my nostrils to catch the blood, stumbled to the kitchen, and pulled a handful of ice from the freezer. I piled ice into a dish towel, sprayed a little water on it, wound the towel around the ice, and sat down at the dinette table, holding the ice pack on my nose and eyes.
“Ohhhh . . .” I moaned and closed my eyes against the pain coursing through my body and over the surface of my skin.
We regret the discomfort, Gemma Keyes.
I flinched, jerked my head toward the unexpected voice that came from just over my right shoulder. Jumped to my feet—with as much grace as a drunken elephant—and slumped, panting, against the refrigerator.
No one there!
“Who-who’s talking?”
We recommend a nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drug, other than aspirin, for temporary relief of pain.
Again—the voice was behind me. I swung around to confront the speaker.
No. One. There.
Adrenalin shimmied down my spine to my legs. I wanted to run—but to where? From whom?
“Who is this? Where are you?” I demanded.
Silence.
A poignant, pregnant silence.
A silence all too familiar to me.
“Nano?” I whispered.
We regret the discomfort, Gemma Keyes.
I staggered back to the dinette and fell onto the chair. While my nose bled freely and my head and body beat with the rhythm of my heart, my brain struggled to fit what was going on into a believable interpretation.
Minutes ticked by. I could not accept the conclusions that logic presented.
“Nano?”
Since you are temporarily incapacitated, we will release endorphins into your bloodstream to mitigate your discomfort. We again recommend that you take a nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory analgesic other than aspirin, which acts to thin blood. Aspirin would not be a good choice in this situation.
“Y-you did this? What is happening?”
We will assist in your biological healing. We expect your body to adjust within a forty-eight- to seventy-two-hour period.
“B-but . . . adjust to what? What are you doing?”
We are effecting a more efficient and cooperative union. As you requested.
“Y-you are—you are what?” I “sprang” to my feet—again with all the elegance of an inebriated pachyderm—and just as quickly grasped the kitchen counter. The room whirled around me; my legs could not support my mind’s instinctual urge to flee what I feared.
We are releasing endorphins now. Endorphins are neuropeptides that will interact with your body’s opiate receptors to reduce your perception of pain. You will experience a marked increase in well-being in approximately three-point-five minutes. Please ingest the recommended adult dose of the nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory analgesic of your choice to assist in pain reduction.
Pain? Yes. Oh, wow, did I hurt!
But “union” and “your body will adjust”? I fended off the tidal wave of dread/disbelief/horror driving my heart to faster speeds and reached for a kitchen catch-all drawer where I’d seen a bottle of Ibuprofen. I slammed three of the little round brown pills and half a glass of water.
And hacked them right back up.
“Oh, man,” I moaned.
Still holding the bloody washcloth to my nose, I rinsed my mouth and sprayed the ick down the sink. With a trembling hand, I shook three more pills from the bottle and swallowed them with a sip.
Another sip.
We will speed the ingested medication to your COX-1 and COX-2 enzymes and will assist the NSAID in reducing the number of prostaglandins produced by your body’s reaction to our merge.
Our merge? I could have kept the pills down. I truly could have—if the mites hadn’t shared that tasty bit of info.
Up came the pills.
I was draped over the sink like a dirty dishcloth when I finished retching and purging. Too weak to stand.
We do regret the discomfort our actions have caused, Gemma Keyes. We will, ourselves, undertake to reduce the number of prostaglandins produced by your body.
Super.
Perfect.
Why, thank you very much.
How very kind of you.
We recommend suspension of voluntary bodily functions while your body adjusts and heals.
You mean sleep?
Gee, thanks for your concern.
You rock.
My physical self might have been down for the count, but my sarcas-meter was pegged out.
Smokin’ hot.
The mites must have managed “to reduce the number of prostaglandins produced by your body’s reaction to our merge,” because a tiny bit of that promised “well-being” rushed into my brain—enough for me to lurch down the hall to the bedroom. I flipped the soiled pillow over and flopped into the bed.
I shivered, but had no ambition to pull the covers up. However, a moment later, I felt the soothing weight of blankets come to rest on my shoulders.
How did they do that?
As the worst of the throbbing pain eased, I slid downward into a troubled chasm. My last conscious thought was,
I’m never going to get the blood out of this pillow.
~~**~~