CHAPTER ELEVEN…"The Bigger They Are…"
"Experience is a hard teacher. She gives the test first, the lesson afterward."
Anonymous
Quinn had been pouring over communications, from all over the world that had made their way to corporate headquarters. It came to light that it wasn't just Vorschlag satellites that were being targeted and destroyed. Vorschlag fleets of aircraft were grounded by unexplained mechanical failure. Quinn soon discovered the companies that had allied with Vorschlag were also experiencing acts of sabotage.
As they studied the tapes, the machines died one by one, eating parts of video and audio. Early morning video tapes, on new VCRs purchased at various stores with different series numbers to minimize possible tampering, gave no indication of vandalism. The newly acquired equipment also stopped working without cause. They had no leads or the tiniest of clues.
Passing his hand through his sandy, cropped hair he faced the worst, most complete act of interference ever conceived. It had been his suggestion to have the spouses of married couples checked and given minimum clearance. That one action was keeping Vorschlag running. He'd given his teams directions to perform as though they were executing field tests. Reports verified that the press took the bait. It was only a matter of time before canny reporters knew they had been given false information and the public realized Vorschlag was in trouble.
There was a knock on the open cubicle that acted as his office. Looking up he observed the dreaded black suit with crimson handkerchief. Executioner security, his mind flashed. Two hundred fifty pounds of pure flesh rending power wrapped with a red bow. He sighed, in the back of his mind he knew he'd be dragged upstairs to talk to the devil himself, but held a shred of hope that he would be overlooked. He straightened his tie and picked up several folders, mostly bad news, but with his spouse network, information was making its way to the center of operations.
Wishing he had time to grab a shower, hell at this point he'd kill for a cup of the offices' infamous Grade XXX burned coffee. Anything to sear the taste of fear, that inundated his being, Quinn wished. He was led down a corridor to a modified golf cart. The sentry barely fit behind the wheel. In chaos there was humor, reflected Quinn. His heightened sense of self-preservation helped keep the smile off his face.
The security guard waited till his passenger was sitting, then floored the custom-made cart, whizzing through corridors, some Quinn knew, many he didn't. The ride ended at a freight elevator. Emerging from the cart took longer for the guard, Quinn made sure his attention was elsewhere. Free from the cart, the human killing machine opened the freight elevator and took Quinn to the waiting copter.
Gritting his teeth, Quinn got in and buckled up. Another security guard, looking like the first's identical twin was already seated next to the pilot. No pleasantries, none were expected or given. As the helicopter left the ground, Quinn could swear he'd left his stomach back in the cart. The ride was smooth and fast, he kept his eyes closed until he felt the bump under the copter. Opening his eyes, he looked as though he were at the back door of a mansion, a chill rippled down his spine. Quinn remembered the buzz about Irons not being well, the wave instantly transformed into a boulder lodged in his belly. A wounded creature, animal or man, was hard pressed to be fair when presented with trouble. The predicament Quinn would relate to Irons was more than any one corporation could face in its entire history, let alone one day. He unbuckled his belt, and keeping his head down, headed to the open door the 'walking wall' was holding. He took a breath, reminded himself his life insurance policies were paid and entered the lions den.
******
The Elder took the Talisman that he and his fellow Masters had created. Examining the carvings, intricate glyphs, tracing that the Power was flowing freely, it only had to be placed upon the Divine One's bicep to activate fully. The Power was like a miniature cyclone, grabbing extraneous thoughts, emotions and negative energy and converted it to benefit Samsara. As he rose to return to his Refuge, Chin-Liu of the Highest Peak monastery spoke.
"We have gifts," he looked around the weathered table, "and Artifacts that were not housed at the Cliff Refuge." He looked at the Master of the Cliff Refuge, "we were unaware of their presence until Samsara made her journey. They came forward and made their wishes known. They would help her fight against the Darkness that comes." He set what appeared to be a delicate piece of jewelry on the table. A golden Spider. The body was amber, the head had been fire agate; its multi-faceted eyes were diamonds and mandibles were rubies. The Arachnid's golden legs propelled it to Sam's Master. Its eyes rotated and pinchers silently moved, prepared, it seemed ready to take its prey.
"As with light, there is dark," stated another Elder. He brought forward and object wrapped in white silk. His hands shook slightly as he set it next to the spider, whose eyes appeared to flash a golden spark before settling closer to the Master. He rubbed his hands on his robe, thankful the object was no longer his responsibility.
An embarrassed Elder came forward, his head tilted as if trying to describe the Artifact that had demanded his will and necessity for his attendance to the Divine One. He could not find the words so he carefully and silently placed a red silk wrapped Artifact on the table. The material rustled as though the Artifact was trying to escape.
The remaining Masters stood and brought their items forward. They placed a teapot the size of the pad of a man's thumb with cups scaled to match; next to it they set a rice cook-pot approximately the same size along with two bowls and tiny chopsticks. Each cooking vessel set primly upon an enchanted piece of fire opal.
Sam's Master looked at the tiny dishware before him and raised his eyebrow, looking at the others for comment. He'd heard stories and after tonight would know the truths. A small pouch, elegant enough to be worn as jewelry was placed near the set.
"We thought these were only myths," said the older of the two monks. "But they appeared during our meditations with instructions they be presented to the Divine One." Added the young Master, new to his position.
Nodding, Sam's Elder sat. "The Divinities are making sure she will always have food and water." He stood and carefully placed the items in the pouch. His fingers tingled from the ancient Power that resided in the objects. He was grateful, knowing Samsara would never want. Remembering, he could hear her voice in the back of his head, asking for hot water. The thought nearly made him smile.
The Master of the Cliff Refuge came forward carrying a silken, black bag. "This is for her trip back to the States." He looked down, "I never thought I would witness this day." He focused on Sam's Master, "I keep her in my meditations and send her strength." The others murmured the same. One by one they bowed to Sam's Elder and left. He remained long enough to pack the items in the medium sized bag. After blowing out the last candle in the room, darkness settled soundlessly.
Closing his eyes, he focused on 'home' and was instantly standing in his courtyard. He sent his senses out for Sam and was horrified to find her gone and her Artifacts alone at the beach in frenzy. He called up to the windows; the Brother's rubbed sleep from their heavy lids and responded they would assist. Moments later, they were winding their way down to the beach. The Master called ahead so the Artifacts would come together. As he set foot on the beach, the remaining Power flux knocked him back, causing him to trip over his fellows.
Something major happened, and sudden. He was faced with assorted Artifacts, each bemoaning its loss of the Divine One. The Master calmed them and had the other monks escort the Artifacts back into the Monastery compound. The transfer took time and a great deal of strength, once they were safely inside the complex the Master headed for his cubicle to meditate and find Sam. He could feel the new Artifacts move in the bag over his shoulder. He hoped finding Sam would not be difficult or lengthy. Placing the new bag on a small shelf, he sat gratefully on his futon.
*********
Sleep clogged Ian's eyes as he stumbled out of bed toward a dim source of light, instinctively knowing it was a bathroom. His mind was as unsteady as he was on his feet, making his way into an older bathroom. Unstable, he sat; any thoughts other than emptying his bladder were shrouded in a mental fog. Moments later, he managed to find a sink and wash his hands and he felt the thick darkness of exhaustion pull at his awareness. He barely returned to the bed and crawled in before he was swept into slumber's cocoon.
Ian's motion disrupted Sam and she fought her way to consciousness. She, as well, had to answer Nature's call not comprehending what had awakened her. Fumbling her way toward the light, her mind tried to drag itself out of the dense mire. Confused, the lack of cold against her skin and the tile underfoot, nearly woke her. It was if a stronger force had her in its grip. She found her way, relieved herself, washed and made her way back to the bed before succumbing to the swell of oblivion.
*******
Quinn followed closely behind the guard, trying to note points of reference. He'd gotten trapped in a maze as a child, since then his sense of direction had heightened from concentrated use. It was a subject his wife had affectionately teased him about, but he found it had permeated his work with the satellites and the global positioning systems. If he'd had to guess where the attacks against the satellites had originated, he'd put the source in mainland China. The other attacks seemed to be an afterthought.
After he'd misnamed several pieces of art for his own purpose, he entered what seemed to be an employee elevator. The elevator stopped on the second floor and he had to put his mental pin into an Oriental watercolor before turning left and heading straight to the third door on his right. The guard knocked and an automated reply answered, granting them entrance. Turning, the black suited muscle man glanced at Quinn, and for an instant there was a look of regret and then it was gone. The door opened silently and Quinn stepped into a grand sitting room.
Southwestern clay earth tones, tan, umber and charcoal with fixtures of brass and furniture of antique cedar were arranged to be the stage. Kachinas and weavings were strategically placed around the room, and represented stories of how the Trickster conned the gods. Carvings of Laughing Coyote sat on either side of Irons' massive center of attention. Runes were carved into his desk; Quinn would not even venture a supposition regarding their meaning. Garnet draperies had been pulled; sheer curtains captured the orange-red hues of a desert sunset. The scene would have been perfect, considered Quinn, if the unattractive, large vocal reproduction machine hadn't been visible. He managed to ignore the machine and what it implied and focused on Irons.
Digging deep for what might have been his last bit of self-control, Quinn decided the uniform of the day was black. Irons hand-stitched black Armani silk suit softened only by the silver grey shirt and meticulously knotted red and silver silk herringbone tie was appropriate, he reflected. Irons, like the guards, had a red silk kerchief in his jacket pocket. The state of affairs regarding communications and travel were grim, and he had no happy news to report. He met Irons' cold blue eyes with his; truly wishing he was anywhere but here.
"Mr. Irons," he nodded respectively and slightly adjusted the folders in his hand.
Irons scrutinized the man in front of him. He was displeased that he could not watch and rate the incoming manager. All of the men that had been appearing before him this morning were simpering twits, he'd decided. Now he stared dispassionately at his newest arrival. The file he had on the man, literally a paper file, detailed this manager's suggestions and actions, and had surprised Irons. The man knew and did his job very well and had managed to "fly under the radar", of the upper management. Irons typed and the voice synthesizer echoed his written words.
"Do you have any good news for me, Mr. Quinn?" He observed that Quinn did not squirm or fidget with his folders, and met his gaze squarely. Gutsy, thought Irons, yet his face did not betray his amusement.
"No sir, at 5 am this morning, Vorschlag satellites were damaged and destroyed by an outside force, that not only recognized the "regular" satellites but somehow had information regarding the interspersed "eyes" and they also were blasted. All communications, internationally and nationally, has been blocked. The only way we have been able to get reports are from encrypted messages placed through to and by "civilians". We have a loose network involving spousal support and finding a back way through this Silence Blockade." Quinn paused, not only to catch his breath but to see how Irons was taking the news.
Irons sat with his hands in a steeple before him, watching Quinn like a hungry wolf. The news was like the rest, although Quinn had managed to find a way through part of this nightmare. Sitting back, he punched the keys, as though punctuating his sentence.
"You told the other stations to state we were doing field tests?" Irons face showed no emotion, waiting for Quinn to become like the rest and fold under pressure. His lethal steely stare locked onto Quinn like a pit bull on raw meat.
Whether it was the lack of sleep, or concern of his station's status, Quinn did not feel the threat for what it was. Instead of becoming defensive and wavering, he nodded.
"Yes, I did. Vorschlag is a big target with many people that don't understand or appreciate the work it does or the fact it is a major employer. Reporters constantly have their fingers on Vorschlag's throat. It only makes sense to have an explanation, besides it might flush out the perpetrators." He shrugged not breaking the visual bond Irons was intent on keeping, and settled his weight. Almost glad he hadn't been invited to sit.
"Perpetrators?" Irons entered, "Why do you think there's more than one?" He'd come to that conclusion, but none of the others had the guts to bring up the possibility.
Yee Gods, duh! Quinn said to himself, keeping his face impassive. He drew in a deep breath, "Yes sir, whatever group did this had to be well funded and with enough people to pull off all of these acts in different parts of the world at the same time. Unless, you believed in the supernatural and curses." He raised his eyebrows, with his last statement. He was dog-tired and his third wind was gone.
Stunned, Irons paused as though inspiration impaled him. He brought his attention back to the exhausted man slightly tilting from wear. He tapped a snippet on his computer and then stood.
"Your quick thinking and service will be rewarded. Get some rest and return to your station has soon as you can stand on your feet." Irons gave him a rare smile and extended his hand.
"Thank you, sir." Quinn stepped forward and shook Irons' cool, strong hand. "I'll be back at the station in no time." Soon as I take a shower. He got the feeling he'd passed a test, but he wasn't sure if that was good thing. They released each other's hands simultaneously.
Quinn stepped back, "Will there be anything else Mr. Irons?"
Irons gave him a once over and shook his head and gestured to the door. A possible diamond in the rough, he decided, very rough but has promise.
Backing out of the room felt natural to Quinn, and he was relived to find the handle and nod his farewell to the frosty haired devil. Please let me remember what I said when I wake up, he nearly moaned. Instead he turned, looked up and regarded the astonished sentry. Quinn smiled.
"Mr. Irons told me to get some rest," he paused watching emotions stream across the man's face. "I'd like to go home, please."
Slowly the muscled man nodded and started back to the elevator. Quinn was happy to see all of his misnamed objects as he went past. Outside a copter was waiting, scooting into the waiting seat was a relief. He barely kept his eyes open, but he did it just to watch the mansion disappear. The craft set down near his station's bunker. He emerged from the helicopter a relieved but reserved man. Home tugged at him but he put in an appearance to reassure his team that they were doing a good job and that he was still alive, he thought darkly. He slid his pass-card, punched his entry code and went into what had become his second home. Employees stopped. Watched as he entered, folders still tucked under his arm.
Feeling their heavy stares, he slowly raised his head and looked around realizing everyone of his team had stopped and was actually holding their breath. He fought and won the urge to smile, instead gave them a grim shake of the head.
"I've got some bad news and," he stopped, "is there any other kind?" Quinn asked his captive audience. Surprisingly, no one piped up in response. Shrugging and finding a nearby desk on which to place his folders, he took his time and met their eyes.
"Basically, we are blind, but we knew that. The meeting was," he shook his head, "something I'd like to forget, but basically this team and our counterparts that have been working with us are doing a great job. Not his words, but he seemed pleased." He smiled as the team took a collective breath. Operators and monitors began chattering and soon everyone wanted to know word for word what happened. He described as much as he could, and then begged off to go home and catch a nap. As he was moving for the door to leave, his friends and workers wished him a sound sleep and promised not to blow anything up while he was gone. He laughed with them and exited the building. Mid-day, already. It would be a short but welcome nap. Winding his way through the parking lot, he found his beat-up Toyota, as he sat in the driver's seat relief washed over him. Turning on the car, adjusting of seatbelt and in ten minutes he was home.
********
Birds chirping cheerfully at the rising sun woke Ian. Realization of a warm body draped over him, and his hands resting on silky, bare flesh. Jasmine and the scent of a spring night on the beach stirred his leaden memories. The beach, he remembered, but how did we end up in a bed? Prying his eyes open slowly, this was partially due to the crust of sleep, but mainly really due to his innate caution. Through his narrowed eyes, he glimpsed blonde hair with lightening bright streaks covered his shoulder and her head resting on his chest. One of her hands had woven through his chest hair. Her even breathing and the heat from her body reassured him she was seemingly unharmed.
Her weight distribution set off a physical trigger and he tried not to move. He tried to focus on the room instead of what his instincts directed. The room was decorated simply, a chest of drawers sat next to the window. The light and the bird song streamed through the lacy curtains. A desk and chair was barely within his sight, having to strain to look over Sam. Sam.
He almost moaned, without realizing he gripped her a little tighter. His body was not accepting the ploy to divert his attention from the prize in his arms and on his body. Try as he might, he couldn't fathom why such an incredibly beautiful and skilled woman cared for him. She'd entrusted him with her life, memories and he suspected (or hoped) her heart. Lying in bed, with her leg draped between his, her soft curves pressed against him. Flashes of the beach, how intense their passions had been, he hoped that she would not be repulsed to find herself in bed with him. He closed his eyes and tried to memorize every sensation she elicited, which only made his desire for her increase.
Ian concentrated on keeping his breathing even and attempted to slow the increasing speed of his heart. She shifted slightly, as though snuggling into the safe arms of her lover. A serene sigh wisped from her and though her subconscious was still swathed in sleep, she brushed her lips across his chest as she nestled her head over his heart. As if by its own motivation, his left hand stroked the hair that draped over her shoulder and his chest. He had never touched hair so silky, just being able to handle her tresses was an unbelievable bonus. No matter what happens, he thought to himself, I will treasure this always. He carefully lifted a lock of hair and brought it to his nose and inhaled the fragrance of jasmine and lingering vestiges of the beach. He remembered the light and the strange men who were there.
He was curious as to where he was currently, but was in no hurry to awaken his fairy-tale princess. The thought of her as a princess made him smile, partially because he knew she would balk at being labeled, especially with such a high rank. Being bound to her gave him an insight to her that a "regular friend" would miss, like a mystical veil which captured images and feelings reflecting her.
Ian became conscious that Sam would have similar insight into his life, the idea was depressing. How could she stand to be tied to a person who had no redeeming value? Squeezing his eyes tightly, he stanched his tears. She would know the evil he'd been bred and trained to do. Before his past only haunted his dreams and now, his eyes lingered upon Sam, she would know him for what he was, a killer. Her rejection would be devastating, much more than Sara's had been. The possibility of being unbound from her unnerved him, ironically more than the initial proposal of their "binding".
For an instant, Sam thought she was home. The warmth, heartbeat and her fingers intertwined in his chest hair, and then it was gone. Her old "life" had died a long time ago and now she found herself atop a bare muscled and nicely furred man. Bits of the beach encounter filtered into her nearly conscious brain. His first time, rebounded through her synapses. They had somehow shared their sensations which triggered an extremely pleasurable, yet powerful satisfaction. Inwardly Sam groaned, recreating or repeating the magnitude of physical gratification they'd experienced could never happen again. How would she explain to him the amazing night was a once in a lifetime happening? One night and she'd already ruined his concept of what sex was supposed to be. She tried to remember how, let alone what had occurred. The best she could surmise was the binding must have heightened their feelings, that and she had a hunch that "Love" may have added something to the mix. Whatever had ensued, she was delighted to be in a real bed and discovering her "pillow" was a handsome, lovable man.
Again she moved, and her body started to straighten then stopped. Slowly she lifted her head and tried to see through her sleepy eyes, finally rotating her head to look at his face. She moved her right hand, palm down and rested her chin on the back of her hand as she studied his eyes and his "neutral" expression. If she had been looking for an answer, she didn't see a Post-It on his forehead explaining the 'next step'. Squinting, she noticed Ian's expression was verging on distraught and fear. Maintaining her 'sleepy condition', she glanced over his aura. His fears were practically in neon, afraid I'll be repulsed about his past, no redeeming value? What?
Sam had to work to keep her nonchalant and sleepy expression to repress her outrage that he'd been so beaten and brainwashed he believed that he wasn't fit to be in her presence. His history had been part of the information they shared when they did the "binding", for her it was the unedited version. She knew how Irons had 'programmed' and mutilated Ian's confidence as well as his body. Irons' ass is grass, she decided, and I'm going to be doing some heavy duty mowing.
She sighed and turned her head so she could set her cheek on her hand. Her breathing was regular and quiet; she knew now was not the time to accost his past. He needed her trust and to realize that she believed in him.
"Do you know where we are?" Her voice was nearly a whisper.
He shook his head, trying to find his voice, "No, I thought you might."
A heavy sigh, "We'll get up in a couple of minutes, okay?" Her head was back on his chest.
"Sure," he said. Relief started to loosen his muscles; he was thrilled to be able to hold her for a little longer. His hand was still tangled in her hair, but he kept it still. They weren't going anywhere right away. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He never understood happiness; he did now. Relishing his sensations, yet mainly he discovered a peace as he lay with Sam. No expectations or demands. He wondered if life was really like this.
"Ian, do you prefer to sleep on your right or left side?" The fingers of her left hand traced around and through some of the hairs on his chest. She knew he couldn't see her face and the smile as she watched his muscles jump.
"I never thought about it," he was confused and distracted by her light caress, "my right side I suppose. Why?"
"Right side? Okay." She started to slide off his body and was surprised when he caught and held her in place. She lifted her head and looked into his questioning eyes.
"Did I say something wrong?" He attempted to keep the desperation out of his voice.
"Oh no, Handsome. I was just shifting. Have you ever heard of 'spooning'?" Sam met his eyes, conveying her love and patience. She watched him calm down and shake his head.
"No, I never heard of it. He paused, "why did you call me 'Handsome'?" Her smile warmed him and he actually felt her love course through his being.
"I called you 'Handsome' as a term of endearment and because you are." She punctuated her remark with a gentle touch on his left temple, lightly sweeping a tendril of hair off his face. "And 'spooning' is sharing a bed with another by curling around and holding them while lying on your side. Since you like lying on your right side, I would curl around you, from behind and hold you. The term is from the way silverware, spoons, rest together."
Ian's face resembled the sun as a cloud lifted and understanding replaced concern. Like the weather, it changed again as his expression turned slightly downcast.
"But I would rather hold you." He looked down, expecting to be scolded.
"Hey," Sam tugged on his beard, and he looked at her through his eyelashes. "If you want to lie on your right side, you are going to have to move, or lay on your left side to hold me. What's it going to be?" Her hand rested on his cheek.
Ian struggled to keep the surprise off his face. She was giving him a choice; she wasn't angry at him for questioning. He moved, leaving a space for her to lie next to him and he could curl around her on his right side. Reluctantly, he let her go and was quietly relieved when she slipped into the place he created
Sam managed not to grin as she slid onto his side of the bed, rolling on her right side. She felt him mimic her pose, but he did not move very close. Instead of making him move, she scooted back until they were touching. Then she reached behind and took his left hand, brought it across her waist and held it close to her chest.
"Any objections? And you can loosen up; I promise return your hand, okay?" Sam felt him adjust his position, and interlace the fingers of the hand she held with hers.
"None," he murmured into her ear. It felt only natural to emphasize his statement with a couple of kisses to her neckline and the bend of her shoulder and neck. He was rewarded with her squirm and close wiggle. Suddenly his body reacted and he tried to pull away, but she held his arm close to her waist.
"Sam," he mumbled helplessly.
"Don't feel betrayed by your body." Her voice was soft and compassionate. "Your reactions are normal." Sam chuckled quietly as she added, "Very male."
Shifting slightly, so she could see him over her shoulder and meet his eyes. "It is somewhat of a compliment for me." Her voice trailed off; waiting for the question she knew he'd ask.
"Compliment?" Confusion replaced concern. He readjusted the grip he had on her hand and inched nearer, bringing his face close enough to brush his cheek against her shoulder.
"Your unspoken reaction," she brought his hand up and kissed his callused knuckles, "made me think you find me attractive, either that or you're blind."
Ian stopped, surprised, in mid-swipe and looked into her eyes. Her tone might have been light-hearted, but her eyes revealed a near-imperceptible sorrow. If he hadn't looked when he did…
"Not blind, Samsara." He pressed his lips against her temple then scooted back into the "spoon" position. It didn't bother him, this time, when his body responded to Sam. He pulled her close and held her tight.
Sam wrapped Ian's arm firmly and snuggled into his embrace. She was grateful to have a brief respite in a real bed, with an incredible, yet terribly insecure man. She knew he needed unconditional love, which she was willing to give. The hardest part would be stepping aside so he might fulfill his Destiny.
Satisfied, he closed his eyes and settled down, his mind turned to finding ways of showing Sam how much she meant to him.
********
A dark tousle-haired man let out a happy war-cry as he discovered his contact in China had managed to acquire the legendary sword of the Ming Empire. He punched in a reply to his encrypted e-mail and sent his hasty response. Gabriel Bowman was adding the sword of Chinese folk-lore to his inventory. The new arrival's only true equal was Excalibur. Stories said Excalibur was used by King Arthur, but that sword everyone knew, was just a myth.
Gabe looked around his shop, at what others would deem clutter. He smiled, knowing what, where and how his inventory was stored. Histories. Each articles' background was more like a story, sometimes a 'bedtime' story, many however, were not.
********
Mother Nature let herself in to the room in which Ian and Sam had drifted back to sleep. She watched the sleeping couple, pleased to see how their auras melded. Shaping a rocker out of the air, she waited till the young man would waken. This morning he would have his first "official" meeting with an Incarnation. Her smile warmed the room, and silently rocked and waited.