Javier Baca called me two mornings later—two days I’d spent brooding over what had happened in the MICU, testing my feelings toward the nanomites and trying to come to grips with them (again), and running for long hours to expend the energy that my body produced in abundance and for which I had no good use.
Oh, and eating like a bear prepping for winter hibernation.
Burp.
When Javier called, I was appreciative of the distraction.
“Hey, Miss Sawyer? I have the inspection you asked for and it turns out the rear brakes did need some work. I have the bill for that, too.”
“Would you text me photos of the inspection and repair bill, Javier?”
“Yeah, soon as we hang up.”
“Great. I’ll look them over. If everything seems okay, I’ll pay for the car and half the repair bill, as we agreed.”
I hung up. Minutes later I received the photos I requested.
I called Javier back. “I will text the transfer to you. The money should hit your account, um, probably by tomorrow.” I paused a beat. “Call me when you’ve received the money.”
“Sure.”
I pulled more cash from behind the stove and ran down the street to make a deposit. I’d made an initial deposit of close to $6,000 the day my ATM card arrived—far below the suspicion-garnering amount of $10,000—and another in the range of $3,500 the next day. I’d made three similar deposits since then. With today’s deposit, my account now held $17,000 and some change. The Escape would take about $14,000 of that, including my half of the brake repairs. When I received confirmation of today’s deposit, I would text Javier an account-to-account transfer.
That close! I was that close to having a full, functioning life again. I paused to breathe, to let it soak in.
Technology. Where would I be without it?
Hiding and running. I would be hiding and running the rest of my life.
***
Javier called the next afternoon. “Miss Sawyer? I got the money.”
Very good, Javier.
The nanomites had informed me just this morning that the mail carrier would deliver my permanent driver’s license today. I’d hiked to the address and hung around for two hours until the carrier drove into view. As soon as she’d deposited the mail and moved on, I’d snatched it up, found the right envelope, and stuffed it into my back pocket.
Not that I needed to carry a license while I drove.
“Why, yes, officer, I have my license right here.”
Not!
I smiled to myself. Now to finesse the title transfer and pick up my new wheels.
This would be the tricky part.
“That’s great, Javier. I’m, uh, still out of town, but I’m on my way home now. Hold on. I’m sending a bill of sale to your phone.”
I had the nanomites attach the signed PDF file to a text and send it.
“Did you get it? Please sign it and the title? Oh. And I’d like to pick up the car sometime tonight, but I don’t know exactly when I’ll be home and able to arrange for a friend to drive me there. Why don’t you leave both sets of keys and the paperwork under the front seat in case you aren’t there when I come by?”
“What?”
He was incredulous, but I was ready for it.
“Well, like I said, I don’t know exactly when I’ll be able to pick up the car—it might be pretty late or very early tomorrow. I’d like you to leave the keys, the signed bill of sale, and the signed title under the front seat.”
“Are you sure? That’s . . . I mean . . . Well, I guess it will be all right ’cause the car is in my driveway, but I haven’t even met you and you haven’t driven it or anything.”
I kept my air patient and nonchalant—but I pushed him. “You had it inspected, and I’ve paid you, right?”
“Well . . . yeah.”
“And my schedule is unpredictable, so leave the keys and paperwork like I said, in case I come by and you aren’t home or you’re already sleeping.”
“Well . . . if you say so.” He wasn’t convinced, but it sounded like he’d do what I’d asked.
“Thanks for understanding and accommodating my crazy life, Javier.”
Crazy? He has no clue . . . yet in a far corner of mind, I was uncomfortable with how easily the little fibs—the small deceptions and glib embellishments—had rolled off my tongue.
I got angry with myself then—or, rather, at my overactive conscience. For the next hour, I brooded over the things I felt compelled to do because of my strange and dangerous circumstances.
I kept returning to the same thought: What is right anymore, anyway? And who’s to say?
***
Since I was short one driver, I couldn’t “borrow” my usual ride to pick up the Escape. I took the last bus of the day to within walking distance of Javier’s address and hopped off. I ran a good mile before I reached his folks’ house. Hardly broke a sweat.
Still, I’m so looking forward to having my own wheels!
Darkness fell earlier now, and the scents of Autumn hung in the air. I sniffed. Someone had a fire burning in their fireplace. I wished I was curled up in front of a warm fire.
I kept jogging.
When I arrived at Javier’s house, the lights in the main part of the house were on. A porch light lit up the front yard. My car sat parked in the driveway.
My car!
To tell the truth, I itched to get in it and drive away—but I needed to wait until everyone in the house was asleep. I didn’t want them to hear the vehicle start and come out to investigate.
I squatted next to the garage to pass the time. Time? It seemed to drag on forever, and I likely had three or more hours of waiting ahead of me. After a while, I grew chilled, so I walked around the block to warm up. Nothing had changed when I circled back, except that a brisk east-canyon wind had started to gust.
By the time Javier and his folks go to bed, I will be stiff and frozen.
I eyed the car and lusted after its warmth.
Well, duh! Why don’t I wait inside?
The driver’s door was locked, but I lifted a finger and the lock popped up. “No lights, Nano,” I whispered. I shivered as I climbed in and relocked the door.
I felt under the seat. Nothing: No keys, no paperwork. Felt under the passenger seat. Nothing. Got out and, with the door open, crouched down and felt around under the driver’s seat.
Nothing.
Javier, Javier. What are you doing, kiddo?
I shook my head. Now what? Should I text him? Ask if he’d done what I asked? Nudge him into action?
I decided to just wait.
The inside of the car was much warmer than outside and, with the forced inactivity, I started to nod off. The slam of the house’s front door yanked me from my nap. I stared at the pudgy young man who jumped off the porch and headed my way.
“Oh, crud.”
I did the only thing I could do: I threw myself between the headrests into the back seat.
Javier used the key fob’s remote to pop the lock. He opened the door and the interior lights came on. He slid an envelope under the driver’s seat. Then he pulled a second set of keys from his pocket and tossed both sets after the paperwork.
I must have cleared my throat a tiny bit or shifted. I don’t know. But Javier froze. He stared into the back seat, then knelt on the driver’s seat and stared between the headrests right into my face.
I knew he couldn’t see me—but maybe he “felt” me? With no warning, he reached a hand toward me. I jerked out of his reach by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin.
Don’t know who was more freaked out right then—Javier or me. His eyes bulged into wide, anxious pools. I was afraid to blink, let alone shut my eyes so I could enter the warehouse where I could talk to the nanomites without speaking. I tried to jump in and stay focused on what Javier might do next at the same time.
It wasn’t easy getting into the warehouse with my eyes open, but I managed to. I split my attention between Javier and the nanomites and asked them to distract Javier.
Javier yelped as the mites stung him. I’m assuming they stung him—maybe on his leg or foot. Anyway, Javier swiveled onto the driver’s seat and swatted at some part of his anatomy. I was relieved when he jumped out of the car and shook out his pant legs while cussing and rubbing a spot on his calf.
A few minutes later he opened the driver’s door again and inspected the seat as though looking for ants or other offending insects. When he didn’t find anything, he shut the door and trotted up to the house.
An hour or so later, the lights in the house went out. I waited another thirty minutes, then retrieved the keys. I put the gear in neutral, let the Escape roll down the driveway and out into the street. Then I started the engine and drove away.
I don’t want to diminish what a great relief it was to be behind the wheel of my own vehicle again. For the first time since I’d fled my house, I didn’t feel . . . so vulnerable. Like a deer in an open meadow. I don’t know if that makes sense, but having a car, my own car, made a difference.
I drove to a parking garage about half a mile from Dr. Bickel’s safe house. The garage was automated—the way I liked it. I fed my credit card into a machine for a month’s rental, pulled in, and parked on the second level where the ticket said my spot was. I left my parking tag on the dash, collected the paperwork, title, and spare keys, locked the car, and headed home.
I jogged down the sidewalk and, with my eyes wide open, I joined the nanomites in the warehouse.
I shrugged. Nice trick!
With reluctance but, to be fair to the mites for their assistance, I muttered, “Thanks, Nano.”
You are welcome, Gemma Keyes.
Huh. That was a first.
Yes, I was still irritated with them. It was all I could do to be civil, so I vacillated, stuck between not wanting to be beholden to them but wanting them to answer questions about the merge.
You have withdrawn from us, Gemma Keyes. Do you have reservations? Concerns?
How did they know that?
How? How. Did. They. Know?
My pace picked up, all on its own. Could I ever outrun the disgust I felt, my anger toward the mites?
Gemma Keyes. We have distressed you again. Please help us understand.
Understand? You’ve hijacked my brain and—I don’t get this part yet—other parts of my physical makeup. And you want to “understand” why I’m distressed?
Those and other equally vehement and heated words resounded in my head. I pounded the pavement harder with each charge I laid at their door.
Have we troubled you somehow, Gemma Keyes?
Yeah, like you said: “We regret the discomfort, Gemma Keyes.” Right. I’ve heard it before.
We are six, Gemma Keyes. What distresses you, distresses us.
I halted in the middle of the street.
Entered the warehouse.
Yelled at them.
“Distressed? You think I’m distressed, and yet you don’t know why? It’s you! You have done things! Done things to my body! Who said you could do that? Who? Who! I don’t even know what you’ve done, but I never gave you permission! And, like, why am I so hyped up? Why is my mind a freaking info-magnet? It’s driving me nuts!”
Actually, I went on for a while. You know. Screaming. Venting. Raging.
All the things.
I stopped, mid-rant, when a car turned the corner and almost ran me down. I zoomed over to the curb and dropped down on it. The concrete was cold and I shivered—from the chill seeping up my backside and the adrenalin bleeding off me. I’d jumped out of the warehouse and was just sitting there, freezing my butt off and mulling over my list of grievances.
Gemma Keyes.
A lot like Emilio, I turned away from them with a disgusted sniff.
Gemma Keyes. We have answers for you.
“Oh? Is that so?” I sniffed again.
We are six, Gemma Keyes. We must be optimal when we find Dr. Bickel.
Optimal? I got up, rubbed my numb behind, and walked on.
“All right. I’ll bite. What do you mean by ‘optimal’?” My head was in the warehouse, but my eyes were focused ahead. With no conscious effort, I navigated the sidewalk’s dips and curves, cracks and curbs.
I knew ’em all.
Weirder and weirder.
Your tribe carries us, Gemma Keyes. Your tribe must be strong, resilient, and prepared.
“Prepared for what?”
We will find Dr. Bickel. We will free him. We are six. You carry us. We must be prepared for all contingencies.
It was the first reference the nanomites had made to an actual rescue effort.
“You . . . you really think that we can get him out of a military prison?”
Yes, Gemma Keyes. However, we must prepare. You must prepare. We have accelerated your metabolism and your neuro network’s processing capabilities to enhance your faculty to prepare. You have strengthened your body through running and exercise; however, we have formulated a more structured training program, one better suited to arming you in the defensive strategies we anticipate will be needed. We will assist you in your training.
It was a long speech for the nanomites. I kept hearing the phrase, “arming you in the defensive and offensive strategies we anticipate will be needed,” after they finished.
I ran again, wanting, suddenly, to just be home and safe. But when I closed and locked the back door behind me, I asked the mites, “Show me the program you have prepared.”
They did.
Whoa.
“What? This looks like boot camp! No, hold that thought—what? What in the bloody blue blazes?” The diagrams surging past my eyes looked like some kind of Olympic-athlete strength training regimen coupled with a martial arts program.
Gemma Keyes, are you ready to begin?
“Um . . .”
Do you trust us, Gemma Keyes? You will not be harmed.
Yeah, right. Where had I heard that before?
“Uh . . . okay.”
We have identified a suitable location in which to conduct your training.
Up before my eyes appeared a webpage: Sandia Martial Arts Academy. The mites highlighted the address on Juan Tabo. Only a convenient 1.5 miles from the safe house.
“This place?”
Yes. This establishment is closed today.
“Uh-huh.”
I dithered.
Gemma Keyes?
Sighing, I gave in. “All right.”
***
I parked behind a nearby strip mall and walked a block to the academy. The cinderblock building had been a video rental place at one time; now, instead of movie posters, the windows were plastered with images of men, women, and children in various martial arts stances. All the students were clad in the traditional martial arts uniform, a white gi.
At the mites’ direction, I went around to the back of the building. They unlocked a door and I went inside. The alarm chirped a warning until the mites disarmed it. The owner had left on a few lights, probably for security, and I picked my way from the back to the large workout room.
I turned in a circle and surveyed the practice area. Much like a gymnasium, the floor was hardwood. Thick mats covered about a third of the floor. At one end hung some heavy bags and sparring equipment.
Are you ready to begin, Gemma Keyes?
I entered the warehouse. It brightened around me, lengthened and widened. I looked down the long hallway and back, and where nothing but space had been, a huge—I mean honkin’ huge—man loomed over me. I jumped back, startled. Opened my eyes in the dojo. About hyperventilated.
Come back, Gemma Keyes. We have initiated your training program.
That man was my training program? I waited until my breathing slowed before I closed my eyes again. Yup, He was still there. I took wary stock of the guy. He was built like a boulder—even his muscles had muscles—and all his muscles looked like huge rocks popping out of his skin.
I swallowed. Hard. “Um, who are you?”
“I am your instructor, Gemma Keyes. You will follow my directions.”
“Follow your . . .”
I stalled. Big time. “Uh . . . um . . . do you have a name?”
For a moment, just a moment, he became ominously still. Then he responded, “You may call me Gustav.”
Gustav? Lame! Where did the mites come up with that?
Gustav turned his back to me and went through a three-part hand and foot movement drill. He repeated the same song and dance and then commanded, “Replicate my steps.”
It wasn’t easy. I mean, I’ve never been athletic, never played sports other than mandatory volleyball in high school. I almost failed ballroom dance in college.
I tried. Tried again. Again. And again—because he said “again,” and I was a teensy bit afraid to tell him “no.”
Actually, I was making better progress than I’d believed I would, but I was frustrated that I couldn’t do what he wanted as fast as he expected. My trainer (whom I started calling Gus-Gus under my breath), showed no emotion, yet he managed to convey firmness and urgency.
He pushed me, and we didn’t take breaks. Under his demanding tutelage, I worked away the afternoon. Because we were in the warehouse, I kept my eyes closed and learned a bunch of short little “routines” that centered me within an eight-foot square piece of dojo floor or ran me sideways down the length of the floor and back. I didn’t know what else to call the hand and footstep motions—he didn’t give them a name, so I just used what came to mind, and “routine” seemed to fit.
At first, because my eyes were closed, my balance kept going wonky on me, and I would open my eyes to keep from falling—which threw me off even worse. Gradually, though, I acclimated to moving in the nanomites’ virtual training environment without falling over.
Gus-Gus pushed me harder and didn’t allow me time to think about what I was doing; I just did what he commanded, faster and faster, until my movements became smoother, more fluid. After three hours of continuous work, my body felt good. Used, but satisfied.
I had blisters on my feet, and figured we were done . . . but nope.
Gemma Keyes, enter the equipment room and find Locker 7. Remove a set of escrima sticks.
“A set of what?”
I wandered to one end of the building and found the equipment room with stuff like headgear and pads hanging from pegs in the wall. The room also had a row of lockers that, to my eyes, were glorified closets. I found Locker 7 and opened it.
The locker’s inside walls were lined with fabric pouches holding matched pairs of “sticks” about two feet in length, maybe longer. Some of the sticks were foam padded; others were lengths of a variegated light-colored wood. Two sets were of a darker, polished wood. I lifted one of the darker sticks—it was smooth and solid. And heavy.
Gemma Keyes. Select a pair of padded sticks.
“What are they for?”
You will learn to use these sticks in Kali-style Filipino Martial Arts. Given your strength and size, the time available to train you, and your advantage of being invisible to your opponents, we have determined this to be the most effective fighting style for you. We have also ascertained that we can hide the sticks while you use them. The escrima sticks will become your principal weapon.
I was stunned. “Weapon?”
Yes, Gemma Keyes. Think of the sticks as extensions of your hands—longer, stronger extensions. Your use of the sticks will lessen the advantage of a larger, more skilled opponent. You will train and become optimal in the time available to prepare you.
I was starting to dislike the word, “optimal.”
Yeah, that word. Optimal?
You keep using that word; I do not think it means what you think it means.
And like I could, in weeks or months, become “optimal” in a sport people trained their whole lives for?
The mites couldn’t read my mind, could they? And yet they replied as though they could.
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.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”
I pulled two foam-padded sticks from their pouch; they were much lighter than the dark-wood sticks. I returned to the main room, to “my” spot on the wood floor. Closed my eyes. My training guy appeared with his own sticks. With his feet planted together, he bowed to me.
It felt weird, bowing back, but I did it. Then Gus-Gus began to show me . . . how to hold the sticks, how to lift and lower them, swing and turn them, each movement slow but considered. Calculated. Not rushed, but deliberate. Gauged.
Top to bottom, fluid, horizontal swings. Step right, left stick; step left, right stick. He added a reverse triangle; afterward, he demonstrated how to add the footwork he’d taught me to the swings.
He demonstrated a four-count single “weave,” crossing his arms, uncrossing his arms in front of him. I followed his directions in slow motion, picking up a little speed as he urged me.
That’s how I learned not to hit myself while doing so.
Yup. That lovely lesson included bruises free of charge. I managed to smack the backs of both of my hands with the stick held in the other hand (more than once) and, in one particularly graceful move, I knocked myself on the side of the head.
It’s easier than you think when you’re swinging those things around and trying to remember the footwork, too.
After an hour, I was executing the swinging and foot routines together, making a quarter turn when I finished, so that at the end of four routines, I had completed a 360-degree rotation.
Gus-Gus clapped out a pace for me and I completed another rotation. His claps increased in speed, my movements matching the pace he set. I was kind of amazed that my mind was absorbing the lessons and that my body was keeping up. Then he had me do the same routine backward, turning the opposite direction.
Argh! Faster and faster I flew, but always at my trainer’s pace, nothing out of time or sync, every move controlled.
“Stop.” He bowed to me.
Sweating but stimulated, I bowed back. When I stood up, a dummy the size of a man stood in front of me. Anticipation shivered down my back.
“You will learn twelve angles of attack. All Kali techniques are based on these twelve angles. Every drill reinforces the twelve angles.”
Under Gus-Gus’ guidance, I learned where to strike, how to strike, how to wield the sticks and step into the strike to deliver a blow with force behind it. He modified and built upon the footwork I’d learned: how to approach, to feint, to retreat, to sidestep.
Punching technique. “X” strike, inside, outside. A turning double slash.
I lost myself in the rhythm of the graceful, flying movements of the escrima sticks and coordinated footwork. What the nanomites had done with my mind’s retention and body’s metabolism enabled me to learn and remember, to utilize my body as I had never done before. And under the challenges Gus-Gus put me through—despite the strenuous workout—I had not tired; my strength had not flagged.
Rather, I was energized.
“Stop.” Gus-Gus bowed.
I bowed in return.
He disappeared.
You have done well for a first lesson, Gemma Keyes. We shall train here each night after the dojo closes.
It almost sounded like fun. Better than restless, pointless pinging off the walls at home!
I nodded and padded down the dojo to return the sticks to Locker 7. Now that we were done, I was anxious to get home. I glanced at the clock on the dojo wall.
We’d been at it for five hours, and I was ravenous.
~~**~~