“You do know they’re giving you new medication, don’t you?” Major Marks asked from where he reclined, feet up, in Falcon’s easy chair. The major had his hands clasped behind his short-cut silver hair, a pensive expression on his face as he stared at the ceiling with its camera and fire sprinklers.
Falcon followed the music of Mozart’s Figaro, his fingers rising and falling as it played. He glanced reassuringly at his room wall, covered as it was with newly drawn flowcharts, diagrams, and Mayan mathematics.
“I’ve heard somewhere that Cat is creating something new for me. It’s a med based on my genetics and unique brain chemistry. Someone said they’re building a complete lab for her. I think it’s in the room block where the OCD patients used to be.”
“What about ET?” Major Marks shifted, his brass buttons gleaming in the overhead light.
“I vaguely remember hearing that NSA has him testing black project firewalls, seeing if he can penetrate them. The fact that his keyboard records every stroke, and his room and monitors are watched by no less than five people makes him feel like he’s working naked, or so he says.”
Falcon smiled. “Show-off that Edwin is, I suspect he’d revel at the opportunity. Instinctively, I’m sure he believes a naked individual can more easily, through gesture and posture, offend and insult his audience.”
Major Marks chuckled at the joke. “I haven’t seen Swink around.”
“Rumor has it she’s at Peterson Air Force Base. Grazier has her requalifying on just about every aircraft in the inventory. Something about paperwork and liability.” Falcon smiled at the joy he imagined seeing in Winny’s face. “Grazier may indeed have psychopathic elements to his personality, but he’s also a very pragmatic man. Idle talk has it that Grantham is getting its very own Blackhawk. That it’s to be based in the central courtyard with its own maintenance crew.”
“Why would Grazier do that?”
“So we can go on a moment’s notice,” Falcon replied. “Or . . . I mean . . . the rest of them can.”
Marks fixed steely eyes on Falcon. “Don’t you have a duty to them, James?”
“I’m fine here, Major. In my room. With my music. And I have you and Theresa.”
“Run the permutations. You know the kind of danger Grazier will throw them into,” Theresa Applegate told him as she stepped out of the small bathroom. She’d been in the act of curling her hair, bobby pins were stuck in the corner of her mouth. She glanced at Falcon from lowered brows as she fixed a roller with one of the pins.
Aunt Celia’s voice whispered in the background, something ominous that Falcon couldn’t quite comprehend.
“It’s all right.” Falcon bobbed his head as Figaro belted out a long G sharp. “I can think better in here.”
Major Marks jerked a thumb toward the closed door. “Those people out there—”
“As long as I’m in here . . . I can’t let them down,” Falcon whispered.
A disembodied voice seemed to echo in the room. “You hear me, Falcon? Come back to us.”
Theresa walked over to stare into his eyes. “Get up, Falcon. Walk over to that door and open it.”
“There are eyes on the other side,” Falcon whispered. “Pale and washed out, with black pupils that can burn holes in a person. Aunt Celia’s out there. And listen, can’t you hear Rudy? He’s there. Just on the other side. It’s all chaos.”
“We love you, Falcon. We need you.”
Theresa’s brown gaze intensified. “Your friends are out there. People who love you.”
“Hallucinations, Theresa. Just hallucinations.”
“You’re a soldier, James,” Major Marks growled. “Get up! Walk over to that door and open it.”
Falcon felt himself tremble, Aunt Celia’s voice growing louder as he swung his feet to the floor. His body began to twitch as he walked unsurely to the terrible door, reached out. His hand trembled just short of the knob.
And on the other side . . . On the other side . . .
Closing his eyes, he slowly lowered his arm, then backed away.
“I can’t . . . I just can’t . . .”
The hospital room in Ward Six played Mozart’s Figaro in the background. The Skipper had thought it might help. Cat stared down at Falcon. He’d started twitching again, his eyelids flickering. She double-checked the IV taped to the back of his hand.
“How’s he doing?” Edwin reached out, taking Falcon’s hand. “You hear me, Falcon? Come back to us.”
Cat leaned down, saying, “We love you. We need you.”
“Can he even hear us?” Edwin wondered.
“Still nonresponsive,” she told him. “I’m trying something different with the meds. It’s a new cocktail I started yesterday.” She glanced at the monitors hooked to sensors attached to Falcon’s scalp. “The fMRI I ran this morning indicates that what we call the ‘ring of fire,’ the hyperactivity that overwhelms a schizophrenic’s brain with chaos, has finally abated.”
“I mean, he’s gonna come out of it, right?”
“I think.” I hope.
“I got the files on those assholes what did this to him. Somehow, I think they gonna be having plenty of problems from here on out. Hacked email, IRS audits, trouble with their bank accounts, loan denials. Shouldn’t mess with no friends of ET. That for sure!”
“Yeah,” Cat smiled wickedly. “And having pissed off the chief, it wouldn’t surprise me if they each didn’t wake up someplace unpleasant, feeling excruciating pain, and find a golf tee inserted where it shouldn’t be.”
Edwin bent down to Falcon, his voice gentle. “You rest, my man. We’re gonna get you back. You’ll see.”
Cat told him, “He’s stable for the moment, and Nurse Seymore will page us if anything changes. I’m starved, and the cafeteria has pork chops.”
At the door, she glanced back, heart breaking. Falcon remained listless on the bed.
In my old office I sat behind my desk, going through the monthly reports and wondering how the management of Ward Six could have exploded in exponential complexity. My new responsibilities were only for Ward Six. I was no longer in charge of Grantham Barracks.
That duty had been given to Dr. Mary Pettigrew, a competent and no-nonsense psychiatrist who had managed some of the most successful treatment facilities in the country during her thirty years as a professional.
I should have sedated Falcon. My mistake. My responsibility.
I could only imagine the pain, confusion, and fear that had driven him so deeply into whatever mental hole he had buried himself in. Once such a fragile personality had been broken like that, could it ever return?
“I’m so sorry, my friend.” I ground my teeth, battling an impotent rage.
In an effort to distract myself, I slapped an angry hand on the thick pile of papers. Right there on top was another damn requisition for six-inch blue PVC sewer pipe! It should have gone to Mary, since it concerned the men’s shower drains in Ward One where most of the violent disorders were housed. I flagged it and put it into the outbox for Janeesha.
I buzzed her, and she stepped in a couple of heartbeats later to my greeting of, “Got another one for Pettigrew. The Walls in Ward One this time.”
“Sorry, Skipper.” She walked over demurely and took it. “It’ll take a while for old habits to die.”
I glanced up. “You sure that staying was such a good idea? You’re as much under the microscope as the rest of us given the, uh, . . . new conditions.”
She cocked her head, tapping the requisition against her chin. “You know what, Skipper? I got nobody at home. Mama’s dead. Just never did find the right man. Wasn’t into raising kids on my own. And somehow I’d fallen into a rut that I didn’t realize was so deep until you all kicked the anthill.” Her dark eyes took on a glint. “And when you did? I had fun! Got scared a little, but I was living. Is that sick?”
“No sicker than the rest of us. And for the moment, we did save the world.”
“Good, ’cause I gotta feeling that by sticking at this job, I’m gonna be scared a time or two again sometime soon.”
“Not an unreasonable assumption on your part, Janeesha.”
She walked off, a new lift in her stride.
I chewed on my lip for a bit, scratched my chin, and went back to my papers. I’d no more than scanned the next when Corporal Hatcher appeared on my desktop monitor, his face lined with irritation.
“Yes, Corporal?”
“Got a problem, sir. The contractor insists this new shelving in Gray’s . . . uh, I mean the armory. He says it’s not to spec. It’s four inches taller than the ceiling, sir.”
We’d knocked out the dividing wall and bathroom, added a security system, and were remodeling Gray’s old suite. By the time we were finished, we’d have been better served to have built a completely new facility attached to the north hall.
“It’s a hung ceiling. Pull out the acoustical panels,” I told him. “That will get you another foot.”
“But it’s exposed pipes and stuff up there, sir.”
“Corporal, the room is going to be filled with weapons, helmets, body armor, night vision, communications equipment, chemical lights, fast ropes, ammunition, breaching tools, boots, packs, computers, that sort of thing. Why, specifically, do we care?”
Hatcher’s expression cleared slightly. “Roger that, sir. Sorry to bother you.”
I watched the screen flash off and rubbed the bridge of my nose. “And guess who gets to keep inventory on all that when it finally gets here?” Well, hell, if Janeesha started to have too much fun, or got tired of getting scared, it would serve as an anchor for her reality.
Janeesha buzzed me again, then announced over the speaker, “Chief Raven is here for her two o’clock appointment.”
“Send her in.”
Karla stepped through the door. She barely glanced at the wall monitors. Many of the views were new, like Cat’s expensive laboratory with much of its machinery, microscopes, and lab gizmos, still wrapped in plastic. Old and familiar images like the gym had changed, being filled with new equipment, and I had an outside view of the obstacle course Chief Raven had designed. Behind it I could see the “live-fire” training center Savage was having built. The thing was currently a maze of Lincoln-log-stacked railroad ties that would stop bullets. Another camera allowed me to monitor the courtyard where an aviation fuel tank was being installed beside maintenance sheds.
Karla stepped up to my desk, snapped to attention, and fixed her eyes on my “Me” wall. Her salute was crisp and perfect.
“At ease, Chief. I know I’ve been reactivated, but I don’t feel like a colonel sitting at this desk.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Karla, this new situation? I feel uncomfortable with—.”
“It is what it is, sir. How’s Falcon?”
I gave her a smile I didn’t really feel. “I’m hopeful, and Cat is working on some new drug therapies tailored to his genetics. But you didn’t come here to ask about Falcon.”
“Permission to speak freely, sir?”
“Of course.”
“This deal we’ve all made with the general, sir? Do you trust him?”
“Hell no! Eli Grazier is the perfect political animal, an ultimate survivor. What he does, he does strictly for Eli. If he has to toss us out of the airplane to ensure he gets the last parachute, we’re gone. Afterward, he’ll sleep like a baby. The fact that you saved his life that night at the restaurant? That earned you a point on his scoreboard. Proved your potential worth to him, but he feels no debt or loyalty on account of it.”
I paused, watching the corners of her mouth twitch, her gray eyes thoughtful.
“Regrets about taking the deal, Chief?”
“No, sir. As the old saying goes, If you don’t have a sense of humor when it comes to this stuff, you’re in the wrong line of work.”
“At least we’re not spending the rest of our lives rotting away in maximum-security jail cells. You guys are based here at Ward Six just like active duty.”
“Yes, sir.” She studied me thoughtfully. “ET heard that Harvey Rogers got the surprise of his life when he was transferred to Grantham.”
“Did Fluvium’s brain box arrive safely?”
“It did. Apparently, Harvey and his entire lab were loaded into a C-5M Galaxy. Bit of overkill there, if you ask me, sir. They unloaded at Peterson Air Base, reloaded into Chinooks, and had him and his entire load of shit deposited on the lawn out front. All within eight hours of when he walked into his lab expecting nothing more routine than to pour his morning cup of coffee.”
That wasn’t the only change. “Kilgore France and her Mayanists aren’t particularly pleased with their new location at Los Alamos, but at least I’ve got someone to keep an eye on Kaplan. With certain restrictions, Kilgore is going to be allowed to continue her career.” I added, “With the provision that if we need her, we get preference on her schedule.”
“They made any progress on the scrolls out of that black sarcophagus?”
“With Yusif’s help, they’ve been able to open a couple and stabilize them for recording. Grazier apparently has a team en route to work with the Mayanists.”
“Whole new world,” Karla announced absently.
“Yes, Chief. It is. We’re Grazier’s own private little special operations force. His Team Psi. Each of us with our own specialty; and we’re completely off the books.”
“Has Major Savage been briefed?”
“He has.” I narrowed an eye. “After physical therapy he’s expected to make a full recovery.”
“And how did he take being placed second in command?”
“We’ve worked it out.” I paused. “What’s your call on Sam Savage?”
“Tightly wired, sir. He and I were both sloppy on the Skientia infiltration. Lack of training and intel was appalling. If we’d been properly prepared and kitted, if we’d had time to train together, he wouldn’t have taken that hit.”
“Sloppy or not, Chief, you took out most of their security. And Cat says she’s got a lot better delivery device for her gas now than hotel shampoo bottles.”
“Dr. Farmer shouldn’t have died. We should have tagged Gray before she pushed the button.” Karla’s voice lowered, “Falcon . . .”
“Chief, I’m serving this up hardball: The brains of the operation is a DID schizophrenic; the computer genius a felon; our master scientist once a heartbeat away from suicide; you a PTSD-possessed klepto; and our pilot’s a self-serving antisocial. You guys shouldn’t have made it past the courtyard on your first day.”
I swallowed hard. “What you all managed to accomplish, without having trained together for years, is remarkable. And I am so privileged and proud to serve with each of you.”
She took a deep breath. “Yes, sir. We’ll get better, sir.”
“You going to Dr. Farmer’s funeral next week?”
“Yes, sir. For a civilian, turned out he was tightly wired.”
Then she frowned down at the little red Ducati on my desk corner. “Heard Grazier paid up, sir.”
“He did.”
I rose from my chair and walked over to the monitors. I was aware of Karla’s healthy sensuality beside me as I switched a channel to the garage. My new-to-me Ducati 916 canted on its side stand. “I don’t know where Grazier found it, or what he paid for it, but it only has 2,300 miles on the odometer. I had new tires put on, oil change and filter, valves set, and a tune-up at the shop.”
“How’s it ride?”
“With that skinny high seat and low clip-on bars? It’s about as comfortable as a medieval torture rack. But it handles sharp as a straight razor, and the sound when you hit nine grand on the tach? Symphony! The Diavel is a lot more comfortable . . . and better for attaching bombs to Chevy Suburbans. But when you crack the throttle on the 916 . . . Wow!”
Karla punched me playfully on the shoulder, rocking me on my feet. “Thanks for the chat, Skipper. I’ll be off about my business. If we figure correctly, Grazier is going to be calling on us sooner rather than later.”
“That was the deal.”
“Yes, sir.” Her eyes narrowed. “You know, someday Gray is going to pop back into that crater in Lab One. And when she does, we’ll be waiting.”
Then she was gone.
I walked slowly back to the desk, thinking about the global situation: For those of us who bothered to study history, it was 1938 all over again: the world falling apart. Expect it to be messy.
Into that volatile mix, Gray had added the allure of a stupendous new science—one that had the potential to change everything.
She’ll be back, Tim. Just as dangerous as she ever was.
I seated myself before the reports. Nothing new on the woman who had attempted to murder Gray that first day. I stared at the enhanced photo, fixing on the woman’s green eyes and auburn hair. Looking at the stills now, I could recognize the black box she plucked up from her dying companion: a cerebrum.
There are more of them out there. And our job will be to stop them.
And if I’d been a split second slower? If she’d managed to kill Gray that day? How much would have been different? Contemplating the what ifs led to an insanity of paradox.
I stared into the woman’s eyes. Who are you?
What timeline had she vanished to? And who was the man who’d died at her side? A husband? Friend? Or lover?
If she ever popped back into our world, would she be coming as a friend, or another enemy? That she’d tried to kill Gray argued for the former, but if individuals were popping back and forth between timelines, attempting to murder each other, and infecting worlds? How vulnerable were we? And how did we tell the good guys from the bad?
I glanced up at the monitor, warmed at the thought of a real, low mileage, Ducati 916. My dream . . .
Onto which Karla Raven was now seating herself. She’d found a leather jacket from somewhere and smiled into the camera. She tossed back her silky black hair and donned a full helmet. Mouth agape, I watched her insert the key, turn it, and stab the starter.
My fumbling hands shot to one pocket, then all the others. That playful punch she’d given me? No, impossible!
“How does she do that?” I cried as I lurched to my feet and watched her drop the clutch. She spun the 916 sideways, tire smoking as it painted a black arc on the garage floor. Using body English, she straightened and lined out for the exit. As the front wheel lifted, Karla Raven caught second gear and wheelied beyond the camera’s sight.