I slipped Zander my phone number after lunch, then spent the rest of Sunday afternoon worrying over our upcoming conversation the following morning. I couldn’t get past my inhibitions with the nanomites. Maybe it was because they already knew too much about me and were “in my business” on every front, but I couldn’t seem to raise the questions to them that I needed answers for.
Besides, I felt that once Zander understood that the nanomites would be ever-present in our most personal and unguarded moments, once he knew the extent to which the mites would “share” our relationship, he would be as appalled as I was.
Yup. Appalled.
Like I was.
I got up early Monday, read my Bible, and prayed. Afterward, while I dressed and did my hair, I dithered and danced around the issues without asking the nanomites the all-important questions—until it was too late.
Zander called just after eight. “Are you up and ready to go? I thought I’d come by in about thirty minutes.”
“Um, sure.”
When I disconnected, my hands were clammy. I had to find words to convey the impossibility of a future together to Zander. As uncomfortable as the conversation would be, Zander needed to understand every distasteful aspect of that impossibility.
Zander arrived and we drove, mostly in silence, out I-40, then north on NM-14 through Tijeras and Cedar Crest, turning on 526, and heading up the winding back route to Sandia Crest. We parked in the lot at the top, not far from the cluster of antennas and cell towers that topped the Crest.
“We can talk here in the car or, if you’re up for it, we can hike down the trail and enjoy the view.”
Zander seemed to sense my distress—but then, he, more than anyone I knew, understood me when I didn’t understand myself.
“It’s not too cold today,” he added, “And we’re bundled up for the weather.”
The 10,679-foot altitude of the Crest meant the ridgeline was always chilly and often downright cold when the wind gusted. However, this morning’s weather was calm and clear. The views would be spectacular.
“All right.”
We hiked thirty minutes down the trail until it emerged from the trees, and the magnificent Rio Grande Valley opened up before us. We kept walking until we were near the old Rock House that had been built as a ranger outpost during the Depression.
Zander took my hand, and we made our way to the other side of the stone building where the cliff leaned outward as a small promontory. The jutting ridge was edged in thick layers of granite and strewn with loose pieces of rock. We sat on the natural bench of rock overlooking the valley.
“It’s always so beautiful,” I murmured.
“Always,” Zander agreed.
We enjoyed the moment in silence, neither one of us wanting to spoil the perfect morning. Eventually, though, one of us had to take the plunge.
I was surprised that it was me.
“Zander, I need to tell you something.”
He turned toward me. “Okay. I’m listening.”
“Wait. Look the other way like you were. Just . . . just until I get this out.”
He turned away, not laughing or giving me a hard time for being squeamish.
“Zander, I . . . some of the stuff you want to know is going to be embarrassing for me to talk about.”
“Embarrassing?”
“Um, yeah.”
He nodded and thought for a moment. “Do you mean embarrassing because the nanomites are privy to everything we say? Everything we do?”
I nearly fell over with relief. “Yes. And more. The mites observe everything. I can just imagine their prying questions and absurd comments, say, if we were married. While we were . . . you know.”
He frowned and nodded again. “I can see how that might be . . . off-putting.”
“Understatement.”
“Right; I get you: The nanomites as, um, total mood killers. We should pray over that. What’s next?”
I took a deep breath. “Well, then there’s . . .” I petered out.
“What, Gemma?”
“No, Zander. You don’t get to call me that, even in private.”
“Sorry. You’re right, of course. Jayda. What were you going to say?”
When I didn’t answer, he added, “Try just one word. Identify the problem with a single word.”
“Kids.” I blurted it out.
“Kids? I love kids.”
“I know . . . and that’s the problem.”
He turned and stared at me. Astounded. Troubled. “You don’t want a family?”
“No, that’s not—I mean, that’s not what I meant.”
“Okay, so what about kids did you mean?”
I could see how serious Zander had become. As I expected, the subject was near to his heart. “I-I don’t know if I can.”
“Don’t know if you can tell me? Or you don’t know . . . if you can have kids?”
I nodded. We were face to face now, eye to eye, every emotion visible—and it was a little easier to just spit out what I’d been chewing on for so long.
“Zander, I’m concerned that whatever the nanomites did in my body, down at the molecular level, will either prevent me from getting pregnant or, worse, might cause genetic mutations or defects.”
Now that I was talking, it poured out of me. “What if our kids weren’t normal because of the nanomites? What if they were damaged? Or what if I were pregnant and drew down on available electricity and used it in a fight—like the fight at the FBI with Cushing and her men. What if I injured our baby or killed him?”
Wimp that I am, I started crying.
Zander put an arm around me and pulled me to his side while I sobbed. “I’m sorry, Ge—I mean, Jayda. I understand now what you’ve been struggling with.”
I could tell he was chewing on my problems, too.
Finally, he said, “You know, ordinarily at this stage of a relationship, when two people are considering marriage, I’d suggest premarital counselling with an older couple who have a successful marriage and are wise in the Lord. But, given our rather peculiar issues, I can see that we are in uncharted and unknown waters. If we make it over these obstacles to the more ‘normal’ aspects of marriage, premarital counseling will be a big help.”
He reached over and tipped my chin up so he could look at me. “I have to ask you: Have you brought up any of these issues to the nanomites? Have you asked them? I mean, who else in the world would know the answers?”
I hiccupped. “No, I haven’t asked them. It’s just . . . sometimes they are too up in my grill, you know? I wish I had one part of my life they weren’t involved in!”
“You know they heard you say that, right?” Zander’s eyes sparkled with amusement.
“It’s not funny!”
“No, but it’s reality. Listen to me: Instead of confronting truth, you are avoiding the reality you live in—and wherever that kind of ambiguity resides, so does fear. Guess what? Fear is not of God. The only thing we are to fear is God himself—not fear of punishment if we are in Christ, but the respect and reverence due him as the highest authority in the universe. But the wrong kind of fear? When we allow the wrong kind of fear to fester in us, when we don’t confront it with faith, we open a door for the devil to work.”
“What do you mean, ‘We open a door for the devil to work’?”
“Trust in God produces peace. It moves us forward; it causes us to push through difficulties. Fear does the opposite. The devil, who hates God and hates his people, is our enemy. He relishes fear because fear creates confusion and produces distrust in God.
“Answer these questions, Jayda: Have your concerns about us moved you forward in faith or pushed you backward? Have your concerns produced peace or confusion?”
“I . . .”
But it was so clear—suddenly so very clear: I was afraid, and my fear had paralyzed me.
“Not forward,” I answered. “You’re right. In this particular area, I’ve been stuck for weeks. In fact, from that moment in the cavern when the nanomites offered to save me, I have felt . . . less than human. Maybe less than desirable or—”
My throat stuck on a wry laugh. “And that’s kind of ironic, really.”
“What is?”
“Saying I feel less than human. Because . . . Jesus, through the nanomites, told me otherwise.”
Zander huffed. “I’m lost, Jayda. Back up the boat, please?”
“You’re going to find this hard to swallow, but the nanomites had a real, honest, literal ‘come to Jesus’ experience.”
“Say again?”
I couldn’t tell Zander about my trip to Washington D.C., about my role in Vice President Harmon’s death and in saving President Jackson—that would open a whole other can of worms.
I came at the conversation I’d had with the nanomites from a different direction.
“The nanomites apologized for . . . something they did—something wrong. They said Jesus spoke to them.”
“Jesus spoke to them? To them? You told me they could hear him when you prayed, but this is beyond strange . . . are you joking?”
Zander inched away so he could better gauge my words.
“No, I’m not joking; this is real. After I surrendered to Jesus, and after the nanocloud revived, the nanomites demanded to know who was ‘with us.’ They could tell someone was there. They knew Jesus was living in my spirit! And the other day? The other day Jesus confronted them. He . . . explained a few things to them.”
“But, but . . . so, if Jesus spoke to the nanomites, what did he say?”
“He, um, for starters, he chastised them for a few distinctly amoral actions. The nanomites told me that after Jesus spoke to them, they understood that, because Jesus was the Creator, he got to make the rules. The nanomites have pledged themselves to follow Jesus.”
Zander got up and moved away from the edge of the cliff. He paced nearby. “This is . . . this is incredible. I’m having a tough time taking it in. Accepting it.”
“You have no idea.” I whispered again, more to myself, “No idea.”
“What else? What else did Jesus, er, say to the nanomites?”
“The part relevant to our conversation, to my hang-ups about marriage, has to do with the messages Jesus gave the nanomites for me. They said, He told us to tell you certain things.”
“What things?” Zander demanded.
“I’m getting to them. The mites said that Jesus has a calling and plans for me and that they are to help me with them.”
“Um, okay.”
“This is the ‘otherwise’ part I mentioned a minute ago. The nanomites said, ‘Of most importance, Jesus said to remind you that although we—our five tribes and your one tribe—are physically fused at the molecular level, you are no less human than you were before we came to live in you.”
“No less human?”
“That’s exactly what I said: ‘No less human.’”
“I see what you mean, then. Ironic that you see yourself as less than human when Jesus has spoken such a specific word to you.”
“Yeah. Thanks for pointing that out.”
Grrr.
We didn’t talk for a long while. Zander needed time to absorb the information I’d given him—and I needed time to face my fears.
Lord, nothing in all of the universe is greater than you. Nothing is hidden from you. You have overcome all things! Will you show me how to overcome my fears? Will you help me move forward? With or without Zander, Lord, I must be true to you and move forward into what you’ve called me to do. Please show me, Lord? Show me what to do?
Today was a Monday in early February, and not a lot of people were on the trails. Until just now, we’d been alone on the ridgeline. Then, raucous laughter from down the trail told us others were headed our way.
Minutes later, four young men emerged from the tree line and raced each other to the Rock House. They clambered up onto its roof amid hoots, shouts, and coarse jesting. They were dancing and staggering around on the concrete rooftop, sparring with each other, when one of them noticed us sitting on the rocks on the other side of the stone house.
“Hey. Looka there.” His words were somewhat slurred, and he pulled a flat bottle from his pocket and gulped from it. His pals joined him on the roof’s edge and stared down on us.
Zander and I knew trouble when we saw it. The hoodlums wore all the markings of a gang. Even though it was only midmorning, it was apparent that they’d been drinking—and still were, if the cans and bottles they carried were any indication.
Zander apprised the situation and grabbed my hand, lifting me to my feet.
“Let’s go,” Zander ordered in a whisper.
“Hey!” one of the thugs shouted. “You have a good-looking woman, ’mano. Care if we have a taste?”
The four thugs climbed down from the Rock House and cut us off.
Zander shoved me behind him and hissed, “Don’t show them any of your tricks, Ge—Jayda. We don’t want to blow your new identity. Just stay back.”
To the gangers, he shouted. “Let us pass. We don’t want any trouble.”
“Yeah, but maybe we do,” one of them sneered.
Three of the guys moved toward Zander; another maneuvered to get behind him. I slipped outside their tightening circle and picked up two fist-sized rocks from the rubble-strewn ground.
Right then, I had a fierce desire for my escrima sticks. Rocks would have to do.
“Nano, help my aim be true—but, for heaven’s sake, don’t let me kill anyone.”
Just as the two guys closest to him launched themselves at Zander, I loosed my first rock at the thug behind Zander. With a hollow thunk, the rock smacked him in the back of his head. The guy dropped to his knees and forward, onto his face. Out cold.
When the other three saw their comrade fall, they cursed, scrabbled in their pockets, and drew out knives and brass knuckles. Armed and enraged, they threw themselves at Zander.
For maybe fifteen seconds, Zander gave as good as he got. His mouth was bleeding, and he’d bloodied an assailant’s nose. As I watched Zander fight, I caught a flash of the life Jesus had saved him from—the same life our attackers were living.
If it had been a fair fight, Zander would have won—but it wasn’t a fair fight. He was outnumbered and unarmed. Any moment now, one of the thugs would cut him.
I had to step in.
I hefted my second rock and hurled it. As soon as I released it, I raced forward. The rock took out the mouthy thug, the one who’d first noticed us.
I leapt five feet in the air; my left foot slammed into the next guy’s chest. He was wearing a thick parka, so it only knocked him over backward. When he started to get up, I drove my heel into the side of his knee. It crunched. He howled. And stayed down.
The last brute danced side to side in front of Zander, slashing out with his knife whenever he saw opportunity. I didn’t give him another opportunity.
With open hand, I drove upward, as I would have with my kamagong stick, driving his knife hand up. I whirled the other direction and hit his neck with a slicing blow from my other hand. He toppled to the ground.
Three of our assailants were unconscious; the fourth moaned and thrashed in the dirt, his lower leg bent at an odd angle from the knee.
Blood ran down Zander’s chin, and he sucked air in rough, ragged gulps.
He was angry. At me.
“I told you to stay back!”
“It was four to one. You needed help; they would have cut you.”
I didn’t want to be around when the thugs woke up, so I started for the trailhead. When I reached the tree line, I looked back. The four gangers were still on the ground, but Zander had not moved to follow me.
I waited.
Ten minutes went by before Zander walked my way.
He was still angry when he joined me. “I guess I didn’t see this as an area of contention between us, Gemma, but I see now that it’s a problem we haven’t yet discussed. A big problem.”
“Not Gemma!” I hissed.
“Whatever you say.”
He headed down the trail, and I followed. When we reached the parking lot, we got into the car and started down the winding road. In silence.
We were above the ski area turnoff when Zander spotted a picnic area. He pulled into it. No one else was there.
He parked and found a napkin in his center console and used it to dab at his bleeding lip. He took a look in the rearview mirror and shook his head. “And that thing finally healed up all the way, too.”
It was the same lip, split open over the same eye tooth. The same injury he’d received when Mateo and his crew beat him and Abe.
“Maybe you shouldn’t lead with your face?” I was trying to insert a joke, a little humor, but Zander wasn’t ready for it.
He sighed. “Look, I’m sorry I yelled at you . . .”
“But?” I knew a “but” when I heard one coming.
“But, Jayda, I hoped we could put the fighting and violence behind us once Cushing was gone.”
“We didn’t go looking for that back there,” I protested. “We didn’t start that!”
“No. I’m not saying we did . . .”
“But?”
“I don’t know. I’m having trouble handling the idea of you being some sort of martial arts expert, not only able to take care of yourself, but needing to step in and save me. I-I don’t like feeling less of a man with you.”
“You mean the way I don’t like feeling less of a human? And I’m supposed to get over it because Jesus told me to, but you can’t?”
Stung, he looked off into the distance. What I’d said was true, but that didn’t make it less of a barb.
I knew Zander’s Hispanic upbringing brought along specific cultural ideals regarding male and female roles—particularly those of the man as the protector and the woman as the weaker of the two. I hadn’t given those cultural mores nearly as much thought and attention as my own discomforts when it came to the nanomites.
“I’m sorry; that was a low blow.” I was trying to recall exactly what he’d said to me earlier.
“Um, Zander?”
“Yeah?”
“When we were sitting on the ridgeline, you told me . . . told me I needed to face my reality.”
He hesitated before nodding. I think he knew where this was going.
“You said that, instead of confronting truth, I was avoiding the reality I lived in.”
I chose my words with care. “Well, I will always be stronger than you, Zander. I will always be faster than you. A better fighter than you. I can channel energy through my body and use it as a formidable weapon. I read and retain everything I see and have immediate access to every scrap of data the nanocloud has amassed.
“None of those things will change. Hiding what I am or ignoring what I am won’t change what I am. This is my reality.”
He started to say something, but I wasn’t done.
“Wait. Please . . . let me finish. The last thing I needed to share with you today, before those jerks interrupted us, was this: The nanomites are not immortal nor are they impervious to injury or damage. The truth is, a few members of the swarm fail every day and, despite its best efforts to repair its fellows, the nanocloud’s overall numbers will decrease with time.
“Sure, a few here and a few there mean nothing to a population of twenty-plus trillion! But eventually, it will matter. Eventually, more each day will reach their end of life. The nanomites tell me that the life expectancy of the nanocloud is fifteen years or less before attrition makes it impossible for them to sustain their critical functions—and that’s if nothing cataclysmic—such as an EMP or electrical discharge—kills a substantial portion of the nanocloud’s population sooner.
“Fifteen years at the outside, Zander. That’s all I’ve got. It may be less.”
I’d been as honest as I could be. Covered every facet I could imagine.
“You need to consider, given all my baggage, if you still want to marry me—because that’s my reality.”
~~**~~