six)
The car slowed to a conspicuous pace while taking a long curve. Ro slithered deeper into the passenger's seat, but reached a long arm to punch Zee on the shoulder.
"You actually have brains enough not to be this crazy, Zee. Drive a little faster, would you?"
He scanned what was outside the windows, in a passionate almost pitying way. "But, Ro, it's the junkyard. We're almost there, to the NSA."
Ro didn't bother to raise an inch or even flick her shoulders. She crossed her arms, huffed, and forced herself to notice the junkyard. So it was. Dead cars and all. "How impressive," she uttered darkly.
Uncertain what to think of her dismissive approach to what he considered very important, he slammed his foot aggressively over the speed pedal: The car shot forward.
"Zee!"
He ignored her protest. "I should've let you drive. You always complain about my driving. You drive too fast, Zee. You drive to slow, Zee. Watch out for that mysterious and potentially hazardous object in the center lane, Zee."
She stuck out her tongue. He looked at her out the corner of her eye: she looked away.
"You know something, Ro?" Now that the car had decelerated to the speed limit along the twisting avenue, he took a moment to consider how familiar this stretch of Colorado Springs was. "You're really cranky today. Here's the Gate A entrance to Fort Carson."
He slid the two sentences together easily, hardly any break between them at all, as if her crankiness was the spell that made the military base appear. Ro, curious, observed the guarded entrance as it passed beyond Zeta's narrow window. Just outside a guard post were three men in fatigues, gathered around a younger man in a blue flight suit, his red hair aflame in the sinking sunlight.
Ro gulped, blinked, until the image disappeared behind the blue-violet sleeve of Zee's jacket. Ro flailed a hand, contorting around in the seat to see out the back windows.
"Frag me . . . Zee! Stop!"
"What?"
"Stop the fragging car!"
He touched the brake lightly. Ro gripped the seatback to keep from tipping. She could just barely see the shape of the redhead and guardsmen at the gate. She had the feeling they were watching her, obviously wondering why a car would slow to a halt in the middle of the road.
"Slag it, slag it!" Ro flailed her arm again, managing to slap Zee on the back of the head as she faced forwards once again. "Drive, Zee! Drive!"
"But what . . . ! Ro!"
Ro stretched her leg to his side of the car. The front of her shoe managed to find Zee's toes. She forced his foot down over the pedal. Holding her breath, Ro watched the speedometer climb to fifty, ten over the speed limit. Zee's hands tightened over the wheel, his widened, worried eyes fixed on the road, ready for every obstacle.
"Next time, Ro, I'll just let you drive," he said kindly, thinking this the only reason for her odd and very uncouth behavior. With the vehicle completely under his control once again, he peered at her calculatingly, and she seemed docile enough on the outside. He was less sure about the inside. Guts and bones were not the only things housed in this companion, a helpful and wiry girl he'd picked up off the street one day. There was something else in her he was still unable to put a finger on, even after all these months. The Great Unknown and Titanic Mystery of Ro, as he came to refer to it in his mind.
She started to look at him, and he turned his attention to the road. At a recognizable grove of trees in a clump of fine landscaping amid polished green grass, Zee let the car coast. It slowed up a long incline.
"That's it," he said demurely, eyeing the plain limestone and glass bit of architecture beyond Ro's side of the car. "That's the NSA field office, Ro."
For whatever reason, perhaps for the sheer guile of this adventure, Ro's stomach knotted and her fingertips tingled. Sure, the building had all the exterior disguise of a mundane office building, where mundane employees went about their mundane jobs. She could almost imagine that to be its limit, until Zee pointed to indicate the second floor, visible through the trees.
"That's the floor where Bennett's office is located."
Ro narrowed her eyes to the row of windows. "It's weird to think of Bennett even having an office," she turned to face Zee, ill composed, "you know? I mean, he's hardly ever there, isn't he? Instead," she returned to face the menacing structure, "he's always out, chasing us, wherever we are."
Zee noticed how her gaze drooped and her lips fell apart, signs of her over-thinking Bennett's current whereabouts, whether the agent knew they were now driving past his office building as though sightseeing. Zee made another fluent gesture.
"See those columns?"
Ro saw what he indicated: Giant steel poles, like eighty-foot flag poles, surrounded the circumference of the building, hidden sometimes behind tall cottonwoods and soft green olive trees. "What are they? Some kind of communication system?"
"No, nothing so innocent. Those are transmitters for the laser fence."
Ro eagerly had another look at the imposing columns. "I can't see the lasers."
"Of course not. That would defeat the purpose." He blinked and sped up the car. "I told you the place was surrounded. The NSA is never as it appears, Ro. Never."
She settled back into the seat, the knots in her body loosening. "I'm starting to figure that out."
For a moment she let the car be the only sound between them. Quiet with Zee was a rare thing, now that they'd grown comfortable with one another, as both of them liked to talk too much. Zee because he could always say what was on his mind, usually without any sort of filtration process before he spoke, much to Ro's chagrin. And Ro couldn't hold her tongue now that she had acquired such a willing audience. It was nice to have someone to talk to, even if he didn't and couldn't understand all that she was feeling. But it mattered that he tried to understand.
"Ro," he started, "what was your problem back there, with my driving?"
She snickered, and he was relieved by this airy noise.
"It wasn't your driving."
He smiled.
"Well," her brow bent together, "not really your driving."
He stopped smiling. "Did you see something? I know the agents spend some time outdoors in this area, and—"
"I thought I saw Agent West at the Fort Carson gate."
Zee had no response. Ro explained, angling around in the seat, one leg bent under her.
"Well, I thought it was him. Red hair and that really weird way he stands. You know," she paused defensively when Zee's confused expression flittered her way, "like he's got a hunched back or has a great weight on his shoulders."
Zee still had no response. Ro couldn't tell if he disbelieved what she was telling him, if he found it interesting, or if he found it dull.
"Anyway," she huffed and went about winding a lock of hair around her finger, "it wasn't him. He wasn't in a uniform. Actually he was in a uniform. But it was all blue with some kind of patch on the arm." She lifted her hand, fingers curled, and touched the part of her left arm where she'd seen the patch.
Several long seconds passed, while the car waited at a red light at a dead intersection, before Zee replied.
"It was probably a flight uniform," he eventually drawled. The car turned and headed north on some road Ro couldn't catch the name of. "Fort Carson does a lot of flight training for NSA agents."
"So it could've been Agent West?"
"Yes. It could've been Agent West."
"Well, that makes sense. I guess you and I both know he could do with some flight training. The better for him, perhaps the worse for us."
A few more traffic lights later, and Ro began noticing how the buildings were closer and closer together, older, some in rotten shape, others newer.
"Where are we?"
"Route one-fifteen. Club Pierre is just up ahead, at the next light."
Like a lot of modern buildings with downtown locations, patrons had two places to park at Club Pierre: on the street or in an underground garage located just beneath the building. The street parking was full, and the garage was nearly to capacity.
"Packed place tonight," Zee observed aloud before Ro could, although she'd been thinking it.
Ro bobbed her head. "There's one, a spot, two cars away."
"I see it."
The parking space was right beside a support beam of thick cement. A very small space, Ro noted, mentally trying to figure out if they could even fit the car in it. When Zee started to swing the vehicle in, she grabbed his arm in protest.
"Wait, you can't make this in one turn!" she shouted. "You'll have to make it a two-point turn."
He analyzed the spot, the angle of the car, the length of it, the tightness of the turn . . . And, after all of this was done to a satisfactory degree, he pried Ro's fingers from his sleeve.
"It'll fit fine."
Ro involuntarily intensified her stare.
"Trust me." It was difficult to tell in the dim, poor light in the parking garage, but he was certain Ro's ears turned pink at the top. Suppressed anger was also suggested in her body language.
"Well, go ahead, then, if you're so smart," she grumbled. For show, Ro tightened her seatbelt strap.
Zee lurched the car toward the open space, turning, turning ever so slightly— The cement beam edging nearer and nearer the upper right bumper— Just softly came the scratching sound . . . It went on for several agonizing seconds, the bumper's outer surface being scraped away by the rough cement—until the car broke from the torture entirely. Zee braked, fully into the spot. He turned off the engine. He unwillingly found Ro's humiliating glare in the dark.
She opened her mouth only to find her synthoid friend's reflexes were faster; he covered the offending unit with his palm. All he did was nod the concession. Yes, she was right; no, she didn't have to tell him so; he was perfectly aware.
Ro sat there a moment longer after Zee exited. She watched him through the windshield as he inspected the bumper damage. "I told you so," spat in a whisper. She had to say it. Absolutely had to, even if it was said into thin air. That was better than nothing.
The seatbelt was hastily undone, Ro hissing "Men!" poisonously. Once out of the car, Zee met her at the trunk, dangling something from his hand as they headed for the lift. Ro opened her palm: the object fell into it. Her steps faltered a moment while Zee traipsed on ahead.
"You can back the car out of there when we're ready to go," he said. He turned about in a three-sixty, the violent hue of his coat illuminated madly in the sodium-vapor lighting. "If you're so smart."
Ro pocketed the object, which was, of course, the keycard for the car. She caught up with him as he held the lift doors open for her. Ro's apprehension toward this trip, being in Colorado Springs let alone going to a military fraternity-like hangout, kicked adrenaline and nerves to fearful heights.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Ro inquired so fast that it sounded slurred. The elevator stopped and the doors opened, almost all at once. Zee took her elbow as if to escort her into the Club, but this action held his answer. He was sure enough he wanted to do this. And, as when they left the hotel room, Zeta reflected on the possible consequences. The unfavorable outlook lingered. He stalled a moment, tightening his grip on Ro's hand.
"This isn't any worse than anything else we've ever done," he explained, as if this answered all the trouble she was feeling, not to mention all of his.
Ro bent her brow in the way she did when being overly critical or obnoxiously adverse. "It is too worse! We're in one of the three cities of the contiguous United States that we do not want to be in, that we have wanted to avoid ever since—" here she paused as two patrons were leaving and walked too near; she lowered her voice, "ever since we started running. Colorado Springs, Gotham City, Washington D.C., those are the Evil Three, Zee! The Evil Three!"
She was being sensationally over-dramatic, and he almost admired it. "Gotham City?" he retorted, breaking his face into obvious confusion. "I never would've considered it to be one of the—what did you call it?—Evil Three."
"Ew, come on! We've been there already, and look what happened! We shouldn't go back, Dr. Selig in Gotham or not."
"Your actions, particularly in the last few minutes in company of Batman, would suggest an opposite viewpoint."
"I told you I wasn't going back there," blurted Ro, her cheeks catching up to the pink of her ears. "Ev-vur." Ro was surprised at how disappointed he appeared.
"We can leave now, if you want," offered Zee. "While I do not believe this to be anything more dangerous than any of our previous actions—maybe even a little less dangerous than some—I have sworn to protect you."
The rosy color drained from all unnatural places. The fire of anger was vanquished. Ro sighed. "And I promised I'd help you find your creator." She lifted her elbow for him to take as squire. "Come on. Let's go do some serious brownnosing to find this Irving Houston guy."
By a cheerful host, they were shown to an intimate table for two rather set to the left of the stage. Zee pulled out Ro's chair and gently pushed her in. The server sprouted off the night's specials while touching a button on the end of the table. The button lit the decorative tabletop candle. It wasn't a real flame but a holographic image. They could have the flame be one of five colors: natural, indigo, forest, sky, and salmon. The host suggested "sky, to match the young lady's eyes", a suggestion that made Ro blush and Zee quite pleased. Ordering beverages, as usual, was always a chore.
The host said grandly, "Our house wine tonight is a cabernet sauvignon grown and aged locally in Durango."
Ro tried to appear impressed, making a note to later asked Zee where Durango was and why it should matter. "That sounds nice, but I think I'll just have a grapefruit juice with a bit of soda water."
The host nodded and turned to Zeta. "And for you, sir?"
Just when Zee was about to announce he wanted nothing, Ro touched his hands before he got beyond "No" in the "Nothing for me, thank you."
Ro looked at the host. "He'll have a citrus club, no ice, and with a straw."
The server left, and Ro observed the stuffed room for signs of a familiar government face. Surrounding them were strangers. Each candle upon the table flickered in its own requested color, but the lights hanging from the ceiling were red glass spheres, making features difficult to read, difficult to distinguish. She thought Zeta, with his enhanced vision—enhanced everything—would have better luck.
"See anyone we know, or may want to know?"
"No." He scanned the room again for the eighth time. Practically every inch of it was known to him by then. He knew where the offices were, where the musicians' greenroom was, the best exits, an alternate route to reach their car in a hurry, the best way to leave the car behind, roof access, basement access, all sorts of accesses. But no Irving Houston.
The two of them switched gazes to the stage. Some of the local jazz musicians had stepped out to set up equipment. Out among the patrons, a tall, thin man left his table of three and went to the stage. He called to one of the musicians who came immediately. The two friends slapped hands together and made light banter. Zee heard what they were saying over the thick conversation hanging in the air. He leaned in toward Ro to convey what he'd learned.
"That man over there," he indicated the stage with a glance, "the one in the hat, that's Trusty Bismarck."
Ro snorted at the name. "Who's he?"
"I don't know. A local legend and know-it-all, I'd say. But the other guy, that's Nicky Pete Jones. He's married to one of the Houston girls, Maeve Houston. She's here tonight."
"Is her father here, more importantly?"
Zeta listened for a few more words between the two men, but they separated. He gave a slight shake of his head. "They didn't say. The show will begin in about five minutes, Nicky said. If you're all right, Ro, I think I'll take a look around once your drink arrives."
Ro wanted to go with him. She didn't suggested the idea once she realized that if both of them wandered from their seat unwanted attention would certainly follow. Suspicion should be avoided in a place that could be packed with NSA agents.
The drinks came with a silent, efficient swoop of a practically invisible server. The moment was so abrupt that Ro understood why Zee stuck around longer. He waited, instead, until the music started. The crowd was dense then, almost every table but those in the far back were occupied. When the set began, the band introductions through, Zee gave Ro a solid nod, she nodded in return, and she stared blankly into his vacated seat. She held her glass of grapefruit juice tighter, blinked away the melancholy—composed of unanswered questions and elusive endings—and focused on the talent.
The first few songs were recognizable; old songs that had been around for a hundred years or more that even modern children like Ro had picked up through some American embryonic fluid invasion. In front of the stage was a blank bit of floor, wooden and well-waxed that the flickering light mirrored. After the first few songs, this bit of cleared space began a slow occupation of swaying couples. When Ro figured out they were dancing, cuddled together closely to the sentimental tune, she watched on, both repulsed and fascinated. Then a kind of unknown horror fell like icicles beneath her skin: What if, just what if, someone asked her to dance? She threw a glance at the glass of citrus club across from her, relieved by its presence. It showed, at least, that she wasn't alone, even if she did look pathetically alone. With a quick peer around, she noticed she was the only person sitting by herself at a table.
Zee had been gone for three songs, with the fourth one just beginning. Shouldn't he be back soon? She wouldn't get up and look for him. Then he wouldn't know where to find her. And if he didn't know where to find her, she wouldn't know where to find him. They'd be lost.
We should really pick a place to go in case we get separated, she thought to herself, sipping her drink. Yeah, right, like where? North Dakota? Oklahoma salt flats? A church? Synagogue? Cemetery? Well, we need somewhere.
A shadow loomed over her, and Ro snapped up her head. A man of nearly six feet stood in front of her, with messy, rough-cut brown hair, small eyes and a trimmed goatee. One of his hands extended to her.
"Dance with me, Ro."
Cautiously, Ro slipped his fingers into his. "Zee?" she whispered, being led to the dance floor. Taking for granted it was Zee, with the hologram becoming vaguely familiar, as though he'd used it at least once before, Ro let him hold her like the other couples. She felt awkward, uncomfortable, as if the others in the room would know—know that they weren't like them. "Did you find Mr. Houston?"
He dropped his voice to mimic her own faint tone, never watching her eye, always watching above and around her. "No, and I don't think I will." Now he matched her gaze, clearly disheartened. "I went into the back office, Demeter Houston's office, and found some messages, notes, cards. . . ." He drifted off a moment, away from himself and all of Club Pierre, until he was aware once more. "Ro, Mr. Houston's dead. It must've happened recently."
Ro's hand flexed in his. This was bad. "I'm sorry. So you can't find out if he knew anything?"
"No, not unless you know something I don't about making the dead talk."
Ro looked at her feet. Zee pressed the little curve of her back.
"It wasn't very likely that he would've known anything about Dr. Selig's new work, anyway. You were right about that."
"Maybe," she said, "but I was very willing to be wrong—even to the point where I'd admit it." Ro thought this would lighten his mood, albeit momentarily. It didn't. She stared at him intensely. "And I'm starting to think there's more bad news. Wait, let me guess. Agent Bennett and the rest of his lot just walked in." She saw the way his expression changed, from passive to alert, in an almost human transition. The fear was so strong that she lost her steps, stood perfectly still, and tried to swallow. Her arms fell from Zee. He immediately brought her back into place. He held her close, closer than before, to fit with her fear and the sappy song, and pinned his chin to her crown.
"Just keep dancing, Ro," he instructed. "They're right behind us. It'll be all right. Just keep dancing."
Ro lost track of time, and the songs seemed to blend one right into the other. She remembered having an odd assortment of thoughts, like how glad she was not to be wearing one of her typical outfits; being relieved that her hair had grown longer since Bennett had seen her last; that she had gained a tan while spending so much time in California; worried about Zee; wondering when she would be able to change her shape as easily as he did these days . . . He was hardly himself anymore . . . His obsession with finding Selig completely overshadowed her interest in finding out what happened to her mother. . .
"Hey, Zee?" Her voice remained soft and low. "That guy, Irving Houston, I was just thinking . . . You've mentioned that the others . . . Some of the other scientists, well, they're dead too, aren't they?"
He took a moment to configure his thought. Memories were scanned. Some he'd tagged and flagged earlier for easier access during searches. Finally, he had his answer. "Yes, several of them are dead."
"How . . . how many of them? I mean, out of all the Projects, how many have died?"
"A dozen," said Zee. He looked down at her. "Ro, I believe you're insinuating something."
"I think I am. Maybe. Or not. Maybe it's not just a coincidence. Maybe it is." He didn't respond immediately, and Ro idly wondered if she'd offended him. Or had she suddenly thrust a crazy idea upon him that could be possible? Ro felt her steps taking a path unlike the others, and noticed Zee was leading her off the dance floor. She was sitting down at her chair, drink in front of her, before he explained.
"The agents have gone."
The music stopped as Ro saw him scanning the area where the agents had been sitting. She peered over her shoulder and saw the empty table, a half-circle booth on the opposite side of the room. "How many of them were there?"
"It was Bennett," Zee started, "agents Lee and West, and another dark-haired agent I don't recognize. He left with West first. I saw them disappear out the hallway beside the stage. Then Bennett and Lee got up and headed for the front." He squinted and played with the glass of citrus club, though he would never drink it. His thoughts stayed upon the agents, their actions peculiar. "It's odd they should've separated. They arrived at once, as a party of four, through the front door. And since they came through the front door, that means they must've parked on the street."
Ro set her glass down and was keen on the stage events.
Zee put his jaw in his hands, rubbing his goatee. "That doesn't explain why West and the other agent chose to exit in the rear."
"Maybe because they didn't exit," Ro said, volume a little above a whisper.
Zee shot her a look. "Pardon?"
Ro threw her chin in the direction of the stage. Zee angled around so he could see it. Adjusting the microphone thereon was Agent Orrin West, his hair that unmistakable sienna red, out of the blue flight uniform back in his old-time civvies. Beside him, at rest on a plain wooden bar stool with an acoustic guitar on his knee was the dark-haired agent. Nicky Pete Jones popped out to set another stool down for Agent West. West thanked Nicky Pete Jones politely before taking a seat, microphone in front of him. He said something to the guitar player, and their mutual chuckles were picked up through the microphone. An artifact was plucked from the floor at West's feet and plunked upon his head, a gray fedora hat. He set it back from his brow, with just a few locks of hair visible, and showed his boyishly shy smile to the crowd.
"Evening all," he started.
Ro stared, slack-jawed, at Agent West. Her body felt so heavy with fear and fright that she set it into a supporting hand. "He isn't actually going to sing, is he?" Zee, if he had an answer, never said.
West set his hands against his knees, comfortable, not as nervous on the outside as he felt on the inside. "Marceau and I are going to sing a little song for you tonight. A few of you regulars have probably seen us in this way before. I see Trusty Bismarck sitting over in the corner, like he's hiding from creditors."
A few applause snaked through the audience. Ro and Zeta saw Trusty Bismarck give a greeting not fit for a bashful man.
West pointed out another patron with a wink and a big smile. "I see Gladys Highbury sitting with the Club Pierre's regular chanteuse, Alice Faye." Gladys blew him a kiss from across the room, making West near giggles. He paused and adjusted his footing against the rungs, making a small smirk toward Marceau, then back at the microphone. "The jazz elite are here tonight—I don't mean me and Marceau," a remark that brought a few peals of laughter. "Anyway, Marceau's gonna try and string out some blues riffs for me, Chicago-style, while I attempt to sing . . . 'me and the blues'." The title started the song: he sang it, just like that.
Ro's arm dropped to the table in a thud; she was total disbelief. "I don't . . . can't . . . How dare he be good at something!"
He was good. And Ro hated him for it. Agent West wasn't supposed to be good at anything.
"It goes against all that's right in my fantastic little world," Ro complained. "I have lost all faith in the capabilities of the universe. I don't know how I could be surprised by anything else ever again, not after this." Ro couldn't understand why Zeta was so unmoved. "Listen to him! He's . . . He can sing!" She threw herself into the back of the seat, pouting. "That's so not right." And she felt the inclination to say she wanted to go home, only to realize this was as close to home as it got, being with Zee in some other American venue, the agents invading like a visible plague.
The two faced the figure that suddenly appeared next to them. Ro nearly jumped from her seat, expecting Zee to do the same, but she was held in place, though not calmed, when Zee grabbed her forearm and held her still.
"Isn't this a pleasant and rather cozy surprise," Agent Bennett said. He flashed them a harsh, shallow grin. "I'd heard you two were in town but didn't quite believe it."
Ro stared and stared. It didn't really look like Bennett, yet it certainly sounded like him, except for that aggravating tone of false blithe. Bennett finally noticed her revolted leer.
"Wondering about my wardrobe, Miss Rowen?" inquired Bennett, tilting forward so his hushed voice carried straight to her. "Yes, well, trousers and a nice shirt are what I wear on my days off. I don't wear the NSA uniform all the time, Rosalie. I would've supposed even you could've figured that out."
Ro leaned away, trying to loosen herself from Zee's commanding grip. He wouldn't let go. For some reason, she felt a hot rush of tears invading her eyes, getting ready to spring . . . She knew she was hysterical. And Zee was so tranquil, a fact only adding to her panic.
It took a lot of strength to keep Ro still, no matter how strong he was. Bennett's presence couldn't be what it seemed. As he'd told Ro, the NSA is never as it seems. "What do you want, Agent Bennett?" he finally asked. Perhaps this would reach the heart of the matter. Maybe not. But it was better than listening to the NSA making pathetic small talk.
Bennett lost his bogus outer demeanor and returned to the cunning, cool agent. "I'm not here to arrest you, Zeta. I'm here to have some drinks with my coworkers, to listen to Agent West make a fool of himself on stage. I'm here to enjoy my day off."
"Then why stop and say hi?" continued Zeta. He finally let go of Ro's arm when he felt the struggle within her cease. "Come to tell me that Irving Houston's dead? I've already figured that out. But thank you for your concern."
Bennett had one arm folded over his red percale shirt, the same clothes he'd put on that morning, his morning off. His other arm bent to his chin. "What are you up to exactly, Zeta? Looking for someone, something, a reason for your existence? I'm not asking as an agent—I told you it's my day off—but I'm asking as a person. Why do you keep running? You know we'll get you in the end."
"Why do you keep hunting? Are you looking for someone, Agent Bennett? Someone, something, a reason for your existence? I'm not asking as a robot: I'm asking as a person."
"That answer is so easy that I'm disappointed in you, Zeta. Miss Rowen," Bennett turned to her, "would you care for a dance?"
Ro nearly lifted her leg to kick him, but she refrained, too appalled. Zeta gripped her wrist tighter, his threatening glare marking Bennett.
"I'm unarmed," Bennett said to them. He lifted his arms partly to suggest this. "I'd like to have a word with Ro alone, if I may. I promise I won't hurt her. I'll bring her back to you unscathed, Zeta, just as you see her now."
Ro gave her reluctant okay for this through a silent look to Zee. He let go of her wrist, leaned into his seat, and crossed his arms. Still, he watched Agent Bennett for any sudden move. Ro was escorted to her feet, cursing her superlative curiosity in the process. Like curiosity led cats to their deaths, Ro was sure this would occur to her one day, one evening, maybe on a dance floor.
Agent West's song had ended during Bennett's discourse with Zeta, but Alice Faye returned to finish off another set. She was singing about having the world on a string when Ro jump-started the conversation with Agent Bennett.
"I didn't want us to come here," she began in earnest. Her knees struggled to keep their strength; her legs and arms felt as water in a furrow. "We were just passing through, and, well, one thing led to another, and—"
"And you two just thought you'd stop by a club frequented by NSA agents and high-ranking officers from Fort Carson? Like I said: I'm disappointed. I thought you would've had more sway over Zeta by now, Miss Rowen."
"Er, can't you just call me Ro? I think we know each other well enough by now."
"Good, then call me James."
Ro's stomach lurched. She'd never be able to think of him as anything else but Agent Bennett. "So what are you going to do with us tonight?"
"Oh, the usual. I thought I'd start with torture. That always works best. What do you fear the most, Ro: needles or dark and enclosed spaces? I'd like to know."
He was joking with her. Somehow she knew this. Her palms felt sweaty in his giant hands, reminding her of dancing with icky boys in sixth grade phys-ed classes, back in Hillsburg, back a long time ago . . . before all of this. She smarted and filled with resolute gumption and guilelessness. "What are you really going to do to us tonight?"
"I'm going to let you guys have a," he stopped to look at his watch, "a six hour head start. Tomorrow doesn't officially begin until midnight. My day off will be over. Then it'll be back into the uniform, back into the routine that's become so familiar over these last—what is it now?—nine months?"
"Ten," she answered quickly. Agent Bennett's knowing smirk sent a wave of embarrassment over her cheeks. "Ten months, one week, five days. But who's counting?"
"What are Zeta and you after, Ro?"
"If I told you that would be cheating."
"Who are you working for?"
"No one, Bennett. No one at all."
"I don't believe you."
"I can't help what you believe. Your inability to believe the truth will probably be your greatest downfall. Just watch. You'll see. You'll be dead long before I will."
Bennett reacted to this by holding her tighter. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Zeta twitch forward, as if about to bound to her rescue. "I wouldn't be too hasty to hand out predictions if I were you. Zeta cares a lot about you, doesn't he?"
"I can't speak for Zee."
"What's he using you for?"
Ro didn't see any reason not to say. Agent Bennett wasn't likely to believe it. "He wants to figure out what it's like being human."
This almost caused him a loud laugh. "And you're going to help him with that?"
Her mouth tightened, knowing what he meant. "Stranger things have happened."
"A heartless girl who was raised without a loving family is going to teach a synthoid what it's like to be human? Wait till I call Contradictions Anonymous."
"Gee, Agent Bennett, I didn't realize you had such a paltry sense of humor. You must give Mrs. Bennett one big guffaw after another." Ro winced, finding his weakness and tightening the noose. "What was that you were saying about heartlessness and loving families and contradictions?"
"Maybe we're a lot more alike than you realize."
"If that were true, I'd go jump in a very swift-moving river."
"Zeta would jump in and save you. Why do you hang around him, Ro?"
Ro waited the question out. She had an answer, she just wanted to keep it as her own. Finally, the song ended, not a moment too soon. Before she got a step away, Bennett held her back.
"You're obviously a smart girl, with enough energy and aggressiveness to do anything she wants. Yet you've chosen the wrong path. Why do you continue walking it?"
She shook out of his grip but remained in place to answer. "It beats government work."
Ro turned around only to run into three agents. First in front of her was Marcia Lee. She smiled at Ro.
"Hello, Miss Rowen. A pleasure seeing you." Marcia almost sounded sincere. "Did you enjoy the NSA buskers?" Marcia indicated West and the agent named Marceau. Marcia obviously knew that Ro hadn't met the latter agent before. "Agent West you know, of course. The other is Agent Marceau Spencer. He works in the communications department. Oh, hello, Zeta."
Zee entered the gathering and slipped a protective and guarding arm around Ro's shoulders. He glared at them. Marceau raised both of his hands in an expressive attempt at apologizing.
"Hey, don't worry. We're all unarmed and we're all not on the clock, so to, er, speak." Agent Spencer couldn't help but whistle through his teeth as he stood in front of Zeta. "So, you're the Infiltration Unit, huh? Not seen you since forty-one. My, but you are fancy, aren't you?" He reached to pat Zee's upper arm, getting a feel for the texture of the hologram-produced image. It was, as Spencer delineated, quite remarkable. "Very slick, Zeta. You don't always look like this, though, do you? I mean, the Wanted posters depict a different image of you, with dark hair, not brown or blond or whatever shade that is. Anyway, I am impressed. High time I got my chance to see you out in the field. You're not the anticlimax Marcia and Orrin always make you sound. Hey, if we pretend to chase after you, will you do something cool with one of your gizmos? That'd be shway! I'd love to see what you can do!"
Zeta listened, since Spencer prattled on so fast and so childishly it was almost ludicrous to imagine he was an NSA agent. Finally gathering his wits, such as they were, Zeta drew Ro away. "We're leaving." They were only a step gone when Bennett called out to them. Zee expected to turn around and see Bennett and the others with blasters pointing at them. But, no, Bennett stood there, weaponless, in black trousers and a red percale shirt, blending in with the rest of the horde.
The watch on Bennett's wrist was calculated, and he raced his stern eyes to Zeta. He tilted upward, till his shoulders were broad and square. "You have five hours and fifty-one minutes. I suggest you not waste them." He looked to Ro, the corners of his mouth lifted. "Thanks for the dance, Ro."
West touched the brim of his hat and gave them a nod. "We'll be seeing the two of you later."
Marcia waved. "Have a nice trip. Watch for storms in Nebraska, if you're heading that way."
Spencer also rose his hand. "Y'all come back now, ya'ear?"
With a tug to Ro's arm, Zeta brought them around the corner, into the side entrance. They left down the lift, silent and thoughtful.
Bennett returned to the booth as soon as the two fugitives vanished from visual. He checked the drink tab on the electronic receipt and quickly downed the remains of his drink. Spencer and West and Lee packed into the booth, their faces full of a deranged excitement.
"Heading out, Jim?" asked Spencer.
"Yeah, I am." He pretended to read the receipt again, and it was abruptly lifted out of his hands. Culprit being Marcia.
"I'll pay for it," she was saying, looking it over. "Consider it my anniversary present."
Bennett pretended not to notice Spencer nudging an oblivious West in the side.
"Say, Jim," Spencer kept his voice edged toward insincere, "why aren't any of us invited to your big anniversary party? Or is it more of a shindig? Perhaps a jamboree? If you're in the need of buskers, West and I are free. But I can understand why you wouldn't want rascals like us rubbing elbows with elite mistresses like Josephine Bennett, upstanding judge's daughter, wife of a fine young Marine, back in the day. Alas, poor us, as we have much respect for your intelligent and alarmingly invisible wife yet are prevented from sharing it with her."
As with everything, James had prepared a suitable lie should it come to this. He didn't really have to give a reason. He could stay quiet about the whole thing. But then he felt them watching, waiting for him to say it was none of their business, once again admitting that his personal life was not at all part of his professional life. But that was a bigger lie.
He rubbed the back of his neck as though uncomfortable explaining. "Jo canceled it a couple of days ago."
Spencer cleared his throat. "That doesn't sound like Jo." Jim just glared at him. "Well, not like I know her that great or anything. So what are you two crazy kids going to do tonight?"
"The usual." He swirled the three melting ice cubes around in the glass, worried about the party, worried about where Jo had been all day . . . "We'll try not to kill each other. As for the two of you," he looked to West and Lee, "you should know I'll want to go after them first thing in the morning. And I do mean first thing."
"Midnight?" piped up West, who'd been unusually quiet through the evening. "I heard what you said to them, that they have a nearly six hour head start. Weren't you serious?"
"Nah," uttered Bennett shortly. "We'll get them. Eventually."
"James," it was Marcia, so startled by her own thoughts that she couldn't speak again for a moment. Then it was too appalling, too incredible, and she shook her head. "Never mind. Just . . . try and have a nice time tonight."
He nodded silent thanks, and left them to listen to the jazz and drink their non-alcoholic soul tonics. As soon as he stepped outside, he brought out his mobile and tried again to reach Jo. It was about 18:15 hours, and the guests would be there soon. . . . She answered, finally, but he didn't let on that he knew something between them was amiss.
"Listen, Jo," he slammed the car door shut, "I'm just now leaving the Springs. I won't get there until a little after seven-thirty."
She wasn't even angry. She wasn't even surprised. He shut off the phone and went up I-25, still congested at that time of night. He wondered where they were now, Ro and Zeta. He wondered if there was any way he'd be able to cut out of his own anniversary party early. Why not? It was as much of a façade as everything else. The evening had been odd, about to get stranger, mingling with people from Jo's work that he never bothered to know and didn't need to know. The run in with the Rowen girl and Zeta had amused him more than upset him. But somehow he'd walked out of Club Pierre feeling emotionally uprooted, and a little bit hurt.