I spent hours walking the Washington Mall, wandering from the White House across to the Washington Monument, on to the Jefferson Memorial, then around the Potomac River Tidal Basin, through the MLK, Jr. and Lincoln Memorials, past the Viet Nam Veterans and World War II Memorials, back to the Washington Monument, then up to the Capitol Building. I was just Gemma Keyes visiting our nation’s capital. No invisibility; no Kathy Sawyer. No precautions.
Just walking and taking in the sights. And pondering.
I wound around the Capitol and made my way past the Botanical Gardens and the National Air and Space Museum, then on to L’Enfant Plaza and the nearest Metro station. By the time I concluded my mindless trek through snow and slush and returned to my hotel, my water-resistant boots had “resisted” as long as they could. They were soaked through, and my feet and legs were numbed blocks of ice.
I peeled off my sodden clothes and took a hot shower, and I let the steaming flow beat on me until my body heated and my skin could take no more. Afterward, my body was warm, but my heart felt like bleak, barren tundra.
I went online and booked a return flight to Albuquerque for the following morning. I didn’t use the nanomites. We hadn’t spoken since I left the Oval Office. I’d departed the White House without saying goodbye to the President, too, but I didn’t think he would mind. I watched him on the news that evening, and he appeared harried enough as it was.
The live coverage of the Vice President’s death was a media feeding frenzy. With nothing definitively new to report or remark on, the commentators had taken to running the same clips on a repeating loop until I had them memorized: Robert and Maddie Jackson standing hand-in-hand before the press, expressing sympathy for the Vice President’s family and sorrow over the untimely death of their friend and colleague (an Oscar-worthy piece of acting on the Jacksons’ part, by the way); an extensive photo collage of the Vice President at every age and important juncture; video and stills of the medical staff rushing the Vice President to the waiting helicopter; and the endless speculation by the pundits: How had the Vice President’s heart condition escaped the notice of his physicians?
The most-repeated clip was that of the chief medical officer of Walter Reed National Military Medical Center as she addressed the press. “Vice President John Etheridge Harmon succumbed to cardiac arrest at approximately 8:30 a.m. this morning. Preliminary forensic evidence suggests cause of death to be the rupture of a previously undiagnosed aortic aneurysm. An autopsy will be performed to confirm the preliminary findings. At this time, we have nothing further to add except that the staff of Walter Reed extends its heartfelt condolences to Mrs. Harmon and to the children and grandchildren.”
***
The announcement of the Vice President’s death hit the public airwaves and social media with the force of an F5 tornado. For General Imogene Cushing, the news was more akin to standing in the path of an inescapable avalanche. In the hours since the news broke, she hadn’t left her apartment. She’d missed a Saturday morning meeting with her team and had ignored her cell phone.
Cushing’s career—her entire life—had died with Harmon. Her promotion to Secretary of the Air Force (a stepping stone on her way to higher things) would never happen.
In point of fact, with her top cover gone, she stood in grave and imminent danger. Her mission and funding would come under the oversight and attention of fresh eyes—and without Harmon running interference for her, neither her actions nor her expenses over the past nine months would withstand scrutiny. She had nothing to show for the 3.75 million dollars she’d expended—nor did she dare suggest that the Vice President had been running a covert operation to acquire futuristic nanotechnology.
No, the mere mention of Harmon’s name would engender a flurry of additional questions, questions that would, inexorably, lead to more serious charges—charges such as sedition, treason, and murder. On the other hand, those in power who wished to avoid besmirching the former VP’s reputation (and likely tarring the current administration with the same brush) might choose a different path toward resolving a ticklish and embarrassing problem.
Cushing swallowed. She knew how she would handle—had handled—an inconvenient truth such as herself.
I need to escape while I can.
She had money—not as much as she’d wanted before she retired—but enough. She had a sizable amount of emergency cash on hand and had stashed her nest egg in a secure Cayman Islands account. All she had to do was make her way to a country that had no extradition treaty with the U.S. and live out her life in discreet but comfortable obscurity.
Obscurity?
Cushing had poured her life’s passion and energy into helping Harmon advance; in return, he had supported her Air Force career and had promised that she could ride his coattails to the top.
My future was supposed to be spent enthroned in fame and power, not *bleeping* obscurity.
Cushing couldn’t reconcile herself to the timing or means of Harmon’s death, either.
Jackson! It was Jackson who was supposed to drop dead from a heart attack—not Harmon! She’d known Harmon for decades, had worked in the field with him, had marveled at his rise. He had been brilliant. A meticulous operator. So, what had gone wrong?
Cushing went over the final seconds of her last conversation with Harmon. And remembered.
“I heard something.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like someone is here. In the SCIF with me.”
“How could someone be in the SCIF with you? Isn’t it locked?”
“Uh . . . sir, I think she’s here.”
“She who? What—you mean her?”
Cushing nodded, then shook her head and whispered, “Yes. Her. Gemma Keyes.” Somehow, Keyes had overheard everything. She had either warned the President or taken matters into her own hands.
“Yes, you, Gemma Keyes. It appears that I’ve vastly underestimated you, you *bleeping* sneak. I should have taken care of you that very day—when you overheard our plans for Dr. Bickel in the conference room.”
Cushing ground her teeth. “However, it’s not too late to rectify my mistake.”
She changed into dark civvies and packed a bag. Pulled the SIMM card from her phone and dropped them both into her purse. Placed her DoD credentials next to them.
In her clothes closet, Cushing pulled back the carpet and lifted a section of floorboard. From the small space below the subfloor, she withdrew a thick envelope stuffed with cash, two passports under aliases, and a Glock 21SF.
***
I spent a sleepless night in my hotel room and took a cab to the airport early Sunday morning. As I approached the security checkpoint, I muttered, “Nano. It’s time to do your thing with my I.D.”
Those were the first words I’d spoken to them since I left the Oval Office. They did not answer except to chirp their acknowledgment.
The TSA officer squinted at my license photo, comparing it twice to my face. In the end, he passed me through, and I boarded my flight.
Like the looping news segments on the Vice President’s life and death, inside me a string of questions played over and over.
Jesus, the nanomites have no sense of right and wrong; they are machines without conscience. How can I live for you with them inside me? Won’t they continue to make decisions and do things I can’t control or approve of? How can I bear it, Lord? How can I? What am I to do?
***
Genie Keyes stroked Jake’s fur. He’d taken to planting himself beside her whenever she sat in the living room, napping against her thigh while she worked. The rumble of his purr was pleasant. Soothing. Something about his warming presence calmed her, helped her to focus . . . on things other than herself.
She rubbed the top of Jake’s head, and he leaned into her hand, eventually reaching up to lick her fingers. She smiled at the rough but gentle sensation of his tongue on her skin.
What did Gemma mean, no one dared to pet Jake?
She looked back to her laptop, to her inbox. Reread yet another rejection via email.
The rejection hurt, but Genie wasn’t stupid. She recognized that rejection didn’t pain her the way it pained “normal” people, people with “normal” feelings. It wasn’t the personal aspect of the rejection that hurt: It was the blow to her pride, to her sense of superiority, to her narcissism.
It was the sense of failure that rankled and galled her.
I’ve never failed.
Before.
Genie had trouble coming to terms with failure.
As it had so many times since Genie returned to Albuquerque, Zander’s voice spoke into her reveries: “I want you to see God differently than you do now—in fact, I want you to see yourself differently. The first step in coming to terms with God is acknowledging who and what we are.”
“What we are,” Genie said aloud. Then she asked, “What am I?”
Jake, still purring, placed one paw on her thigh and flexed his claws.
“You think I’m a good scratcher, is that it? I know just where and how you like to be petted?”
In typical cat fashion—in other words, for absolutely no rhyme or reason—Jake jumped from the couch and trotted away. A moment later, Genie heard the cat door snick open and closed.
It bothered Genie that Jake had abandoned her.
“What am I?” she repeated.
“God isn’t asking for your ‘feelings.’ Rather, he is asking that you acknowledge your brokenness.”
“My brokenness. Am I broken?”
She knew she was broken, had known it from childhood. The more relevant point was that she didn’t care—because ‘not caring’ was the broken part.
“He isn’t asking for your ‘feelings.’”
“He isn’t asking me for my feelings.”
She pursed her lips. “This is ridiculous. God doesn’t exist. If he did, he’d make himself a little better known, wouldn’t he?”
“He is asking that you acknowledge your brokenness.”
Genie shook her head. “I will never do that.”
Then you will stay broken.
Genie started and looked around; her mouth dried up. “Who said that?”
Zander hadn’t said that; it wasn’t part of the sermon he’d preached her—of that Genie was certain: She had near-perfect recall of the conversation in his office. Maddening, frustrating, near-perfect recall. Every word, every nuanced phrase, every emphasis and pointed jab.
But someone had spoken! The warning reverberated in the air around Genie.
Then you will stay broken.
Jake reappeared on the other side of the carpet. Sphinx-like, he sat—still and immobile, his great green eyes fixed on her
“You didn’t say that!”
The cat didn’t move, didn’t twitch, or blink—but his eyes seemed to speak.
“If you didn’t say it, then who did?”
The stare-off lasted a minute—until Jake stretched and wandered into the kitchen. Genie heard him crunching the dry food that smelled like wet, moldy gym socks.
“Disgusting.”
“He is asking that you acknowledge your brokenness.”
Genie was surprised to discover that she was trembling. “No.”
Then you will stay broken.
She leapt from the couch. “Stop! Stop it!”
But the conversation in Zander’s office would not stop. It replayed in Genie’s head yet again.
“Your feelings are broken, Genie.”
“You’re mistaken. The fact is, I don’t have feelings.”
“Oh, yes, you do. You have feelings—but they’re all messed up. You don’t feel love, but you do feel superiority over and disdain for others. Those are feelings. You don’t feel empathy or compassion; however, you get excited and feel powerful when you cause someone pain. Those are feelings, too, Genie—but they are broken feelings. Wrong feelings. Deviant feelings—but feelings nonetheless.”
Again: “Your feelings are broken, Genie.”
Genie screamed aloud, “Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!” She screamed until her voice was raw and her head pounded. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
When she was spent, she collapsed on the couch.
“He is asking that you acknowledge your brokenness.”
She could only manage a ragged, rough, “Stop! Stop it!”
Then you will stay broken.
***
Imogene Cushing stared at her cell phone and its SIMM card. She’d pulled the card before leaving her apartment. Then she’d retrieved her second car—one she owned under an assumed name—and checked into a motel of dubious reputation, paying cash for a week. The problem was that she needed a specific phone number, and that contact information was stored in her phone.
The moment I power on my phone, they may be tracing the cell signal—if. If they are already looking for me.
She snarled at the irony of the moment. After all these months of being the hunter, am I now the hunted?
Her rage grew stronger. Gemma Keyes. She hated the woman. She hated Gemma Keyes to the bitter, frustrated core of her being.
Cushing drove forty miles east on I-40, took the exit at the far end of Moriarty, and pulled off into a daycare parking lot where she saw no surveillance cameras. In a far corner of the lot, she inserted the SIMM card into her phone and turned it on. As it powered up, a number of voice mails pinged their arrival.
She ignored them and focused on jotting down the contact information she needed. When she finished, she would drop the phone into a drain or a trashcan. At the last second, Cushing listened to the voice mails. As she presumed, the messages were all from Agent Trujillo asking her to call or otherwise check in.
Sorry to disappoint you, my dear.
She pulled the SIMM card from the phone and snapped it in half. Instead of getting back on the freeway, Cushing turned down a road that ran parallel to it. She tossed her phone and the broken SIMM card into a ditch as she drove by and, taking a long, winding back route where she was fairly confident her car wouldn’t be picked up on any surveillance cameras, headed toward the city.
I must make a move before it is too late.
It was nearing midnight Sunday when Cushing used her keycard to enter the AMEMS building and her office. She had gambled on her base and building access being active, had staked this risky part of her plan on her belief that no one on her team would have had the stones to report her missing or would have taken it upon themselves to inactivate a two-star general’s security clearances.
Not this early in her desertion.
She logged in to her computer and found what she was looking for: the UPS shipment information for Gemma Keyes’ escrima stick order and the geolocator tracking app. She transferred the shipment information to one of her team member’s tablets and synced up its geolocator tracking app, switching on the geolocator tags to test them, turning them off when she was assured of her control of the tags.
She was in and out of the building in less than fifteen minutes.
Back in her cheap hotel, Cushing powered on the tablet and checked the shipment’s status: Arrived at Destination in Albuquerque. Awaiting Customer Pickup.
“Excellent. Come and get your order, Gemma. Do, please.”
~~**~~