Yet more freshly edited, still.
54: Trouble and Love
Chile, the Trans-Andean Tunnel; freight deck-
Someone had driven a pick-axe into his chest. That first sharp gasp, prelude to shouting, "Wait!" brought immediate, clutching agony.
The bomber was already dead, his face contorted and purple. Virgil dropped him and reeled sideways, colliding with a concrete lane divider. His wrist comm went off; Alan. Virgil tried to answer, but his mouth and throat felt burned-raw and swollen closed, drenched all over with the stench of bitter almonds. All he could do was cough.
Cyanide…
He couldn't breathe, was barely able to think, just managing to pull his belt pack open before the world began crumbling away at the edges. But Virgil Tracy had been followed down the service tunnel and up the access shaft by a pair of quick-thinking firemen.
The freight tunnel was by now a chaos of running footsteps and shouting voices, of police units and bomb removal teams. Ignacio Velez and Juan De la Pays focused through it all on their badly poisoned friend.
Velez used his own air tanks and smoke hood to deliver oxygen to the convulsing victim. Had to be careful, too, because Virgil was a big young man, and very strong. One of those flailing fists might easily have put either fireman on the ground. They managed, however; Velez talking calmly and restrainingthe victim as his partner went to work.
De la Pays dug into the IR medical pack until he located Virgil's Cyanokit. Being firemen, they recognized his symptoms at once, for many things that burned produced toxic carbon monoxide and cyanide gas. They knew what was happening, and exactly how to respond.
De la Pays swiftly drew forth and tore open a red packet, then snapped the safety cap from the hypodermic needle he found within. Velez had gotten the North American's uniform sleeve ripped away. De la Pays found and probed a good blood vessel, gave the needle a quick shake, then injected a life-saving dose of hydroxocobalamine. Into the bloodstream the drug arced, like water sprayed on a building fire, bonding with free cyanide and converting it to harmless vitamin B. Worked like a hundred Holy Rosaries, if you got it in quickly enough…
Not ten feet away, an explosives disposal squad was hard at work setting up barriers around a shoe-box sized device. Jets of Tracy Aerospace dampening foam came next, to isolate and contain the potential blast. Unsure of the bomb's power, they weren't taking any chances. Next, using a specially-armored vehicle, they'd remove the Red Path explosive for remote detonation.
The firemen noticed all this (bomb squads in action are pretty tough to miss) but they didn't move. Their victim hadn't stabilized, yet, and a further dose might be required.
Naturally, the disposal men thought otherwise. Their already tense mood soured further when yet another foreign rescuer hurried up, panting audibly through his air-mask. Skinny fellow. Didn't appear to be in very good shape, either, having fallen once while trying to scale a highway divider. In fact, except for the blue International Rescue uniform and bobbing grav-cart, De la Pays would have labeled him a strayed governmental damage assessor, someone more accustomed to bean-counting than field work.
"Th- thank… you, G- Gentlemen," the newly arrived rescuer told them. "I c- can… take it… f- from here."
The Chilean firemen looked at one another. Sighed Velez,
"Dios mio! Es 'Rescue Internacional', no? Huberia pensado que alguien puede hablar Espanol!"
('My God! It's 'International Rescue', right? You'd think someone there could speak Spanish!')
De la Pays gave him a frank, amused grin (their patient was coming around now, making his weak first efforts to sit up).
"Ya lo creo, Che."
('That's for sure.')
Virgil massaged a thudding headache between both hands. Not quite exact enough to say that he felt bad. More like… a split and battered tackling dummy, or the very lowest note on a pipe organ. He'd felt worse only once in his life, and that had been the Hood's doing, back in Macedonia.
Didn't help a bit that everyone around him seemed to be arguing, and mostly in the loudest possible Spanish.
"A quien- Vaquero…?" De la Pays was repeating, incredulously.
"Hacken- backer!" The engineer corrected, elbowing his way past the two firemen, with his blue eyes fixed upon the floor. He hated meeting new people.
"If y- you'll help, ah… help me g- get my, ah… my f- friend onto the grav-cart, we… On… the… cart!"
(With accompanying, impatient gestures.)
"…We c- can, ah… can depart th- the premises and allow the, ah… the bomb unit and police t- to do their jobs."
Not that there was much left to be done; here, at least. Chilean police detectives had already photographed and removed the dead man. Virgil would have liked to find out more about him: Who was he? Why had he joined the Red Path? What could possibly drive somebody to undertake such a desperate suicide mission? And, most importantly, who'd sent him out here? Who controlled the Red Path?
As Virgil was helped onto the grav-cart (first shaking with nervous energy, then so weak and exhausted that he felt ready to pour off the cart like pancake batter) he recalled something. Seizing De La Pay's heavy coat sleeve, the pilot rasped,
"Sorry… don't speak much Spanish… but thanks, both of you. When we came… destroyed things. Cars… stuff. Get me… list? How much? I'll pay back. And the girl, find out about… the girl."
That his job was half done rankled deeply. He didn't like it, didn't want to admit it, but Virgil Tracy was out of the fight; lucky to be alive, much less rescuing anyone else. De la Pays seemed to understand, though, giving hisYanqui friend a nod, and a bracing pat. Virgil would get his list.
The bouncing, swaying grav-cart floated like a twig amid flashing lights, swirling smoke and grumbling machinery. The trip ended at last in dense, troubled sleep, peppered with dreams of folded metal and purple-faced assassins. He wouldn't wake again for hours. Not until the bomb had been disposed of, the last victims pulled free, and Thunderbird 2 at last lifted off.
Virgil woke to an oxygen mask and an IV drip, lying on one of the many pull-down cots that lined his Bird's crew cabin. Heavy nylon straps held him in place, but he wasn't uncomfortable. The dim lighting, machine oil smell and muted vibration were too familiar for that.
One thing did stand out, though. There was a folded note tucked into one of his upper uniform pockets. Looked like a printed list, but Virgil was too tightly secured to reach the neatly-creased paper and make sure. He was ready to wager that Juan De la Pays had come through, though. Potential operative material there, definitely.
As Virgil gathered his thoughts and his strength, he began wondering about the others. How had Scott and Gordon fared in the Himalayas? And the kids in Siberia? Remembering Alan's last contact and the Red Path bombing attempt, Virgil hoped that his bothers hadn't run into similar trouble. But, what was it that Hackenbacker had told him…?
'It is axiomatic that not only can things go wrong… they almost certainly will.'
That was Brains, for you: ever the optimist.
"Just have to prove you wrong, pal," Virgil decided, as Thunderbird 2 flew on across the chilly Pacific, away from the rising sun. "It isn't over till you quit, and nobody here's giving up."
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One week earlier, 9:30 PM, Secaucus, NJ-
Autumn Drew was, perhaps, of no particular significance to most people. A loan officer at the Meadowlands Parkway InterBank, she dressed conservatively, spoke quietly, and kept to herself.
In appearance she was above average, without being the sort of young woman who turned heads. In fact, she actively avoided that possibility by wearing very little makeup and mostly neutral clothing.
(This hadn't always been so. There had been a time when Autumn Drew dressed to shock, with extravagant piercings, ghostly makeup and harshly dyed hair… but that had been another Drew, living a very different life.)
Her hair was red-gold now,rather than black, and her eyes were her own natural light-brown. She had a few freckles, which she no longer troubled to hide. What difference did it make?
Her job was fairly tedious, but cubicles, potted plants and endless data-shuffling gave one a layer of insulation. Of safety.
She'd been involved in other things, once, with other people. All over now, of course, but part of her still groped for the past. Beneath all the self-imposed stillness, Drew was like a torn sheet of paper; ragged on one edge, and miserably incomplete.
It wasn't just the excitement she missed, or the ready funds (long gone). It was the sense of control. The feeling that she darted through streams of data without a trace, adjusting what she would, taking what she wanted, never getting caught nor even detected. Total, heady, chaotic freedom… with John.
Preparing to leave her cubicle, Autumn Drew shut down the computer monitor (not the entire system- that belonged to InterBank, ran Windows and was determinedly, boringly secure. Like Drew, herself, these days).
She spoke a few polite words to her straggling ivy plant, watered it with a little cold coffee from her last cup, and then pushed her rolling chair back into place beneath the desk. Next, the girl adjusted her mouse pad and the faked picture of a non-existent boyfriend. As always, Drew wished 'Boris' good-night (she'd downloaded the image off an internet travel site. He was just good looking enough to win approval without arousing too many questions).
Then, she walked out; passing grey walls, blue carpeting and wavy glass bricks. A blue-and-gold neon InterBank logo dominated the far wall. With everyone gone but a shuffling janitor, Drew could actually hear its quiet, self-satisfied hum.
Ever work someplace you hated? For so long that you could actually feel yourself calcifying, bit by cold, hard, bit?
Autumn Drew had been dying in slow pieces for years, surrounded by commerce, piped-in music and fluorescent lighting. The best she could say was that she'd outlived a succession of unfortunate, over-caffeinated plants, and that… so far… she hadn't gone crazy, nor overreacted to all ofthose sudden hacks.
Out through the echoing, flagstoned lobby, now, and over to the sleekly burnished elevators. She took her favorite, the third from left, pressing the call button five times and waiting in silence for the car to arrive.
Somewhere nearby, one of the janitors was running a vacuum cleaner. The noise was rhythmic and soothing: soft-LOUD-soft-LOUD. And it made her wonder about the lives of cleaning ladies. Were they happy? Was this lifetime of nocturnal scurrying what they'd expected, back when?
The elevator car arrived, announcing itself with a single, bright chime. Bronze doors swished open, andan empty young woman stepped within. But those emails and exploits…
Messages were one thing. Messages addressed to 'Anarchick' were quite a dangerous other. Even worse, exploits supposedly designed by her, for that was a name and persona with a stake through its shattered heart.
At first… She'd opened the first message because being reminded sent a rush of fire through her, deep as love and hot as pain. It wasn't from Tracy, though, or any of the others, either. Not Denice or Rick or their jack-ass former 'handler'. Not even the FBI. No-one she knew… and that was scary enough that she'd sent a message of her own. Driven by panic, loneliness, boredom and regret… whatever. She'd contacted him, only to be met with…
'Thanks. Will follow up.'
…And nothing else. Drew was perfectly aware that John Tracy had changed. He worked for NASA, now, and was headed for fame and respectability on Mars, past forgotten. But, he might have said something more… asked how she was doing, maybe.
The elevator car dropped two storeys, past the machine level and down to a concrete and steel garage. Another chime, and then its doors opened with a faint sigh, revealing a columned grey cavern containing more fumes and oil- stains than actual cars. A few box-like sedans and electric hybrids waited here and about, her own white Sentra among them.
Misery and remembrance. Drew walked toward her car, drifting past the ghostworld of her current life, toward the risk and reality, the buried joy of her old one.
One time, she'd returned to the dorm with lunch (a few cans of cheese ravioli, to be doused with Tabasco sauce and then microwaved to raging life). John sat inside at his work station, slim left hand on the cyberlink, eyes locked to the flickering screen. His body was right where she'd left it. His mind might be anywhere at all.
She set her bag down and crossed the dark, tidy room to Tracy. In the monitor-glow he seemed even paler than usual, blond hair falling over his face, blue-violet eyes wide and unseeing.
She reached a hand out, pushed the longish hair away, and began rubbing the back of his neck. It was best to give John a warning, before disconnecting him from the cyberlink, especially after three longhours 'inside'.
A flurry of small kisses to the side of Tracy's face, and then she put her hand on his, and removed it from the link. He blinked, back in the real world again and terribly confused.
Perching upon the arm of his chair, Drew leaned forward and pulled him against her. He rested there for a bit, curtained by dead-black hair. She would open the window blinds in a minute, but it was wiser to reintroduce sensations a few at a time, and very well spaced.
"Rise and shine, Loser," she told him at last, "and welcome to reality. Out here, you're John Tracy. This is your dorm, and I'm your highly illegal roommate. P.S., you have a tensor calc exam coming up in two-and-a-half hours that you probably ought to show up for; makes the professors all fuzzy inside. Now, go to the rest room while I fix lunch… but next time, Tracy, you get to do the shopping, and I'll go in."
He stirred against her and looked up as though wanting to comment, but didn't say anything. Drew sighed.
"You can't just think at me here, Tracy. You… have… to … move… your … mouth. Get it? Speak, in words. And (just a hint) but a bathroom door isn't going to pop open in midair just because you imagine a few lines of code. You have to physically move yourself to it. Like this, c'mon."
Went through this every time! She'd never known anyone else to immerse themselves so deeply in the networked universe that they forgot how to function in the real one.
Standing (after a playful bite to his neck) she took his hands and pulled John Tracy to his feet, whereupon a slow, cramped body had to reacquaint itself with the laws of physics. After a moment, he squeezed her hands, saying,
"Thanks. I'm good." Voice was a little rusty…
Drew squeezed back, then let go and went to the room's small refrigerator. Robbed of the tactile cue, John almost fell, but caught himself with a hand to the computer desk. Drew hurried back over to give him a newly-opened energy drink, with a sarcastic description of its proper insertion point.
"Get much done in there?" The girl inquired, watching while he drank, choked, figured it out, and then finished off his caffeine-delivery system.
Despite her warning, John did stare at the bathroom door; trying to code it closer, or open another.
"Damn," he muttered, when nothing happened. "I hate walking."
Drew shook her head; fond, exasperated, in love.
"Yeah, well, it's good for you, hyper-geek, and you never answered my question."
He shrugged, starting forward.
"Did some exploring. There's something weird developing at the interface betweenSecond Lifeand Quicken. A new site, looks like. Nobody's coding it. It's just… happening. I dunno.Worth looking into, maybe."
Wickedly, Drew opened the window blinds, sending horizontal slices of clear afternoon light slashing through his dark haven. Once he'd recovered enough to stop cursing, John strode for the bathroom.
("Wrong door, Brainiac. And watch out for all the cold-boxes and that new router. Last time, you shorted out half the hot spots on campus.")
He was a changed man a few minutes later. The caffeine had set in, for one thing, and he'd had a chance to wash up. At that point, Drew really meant to start the ravioli, but Tracy had other ideas. He was hungry (couldn't actually recall when he'd eaten last) but there were more important things than lunch.
He looked good and moved better, all enthusiasm and raw talent; and lunch, needless to say, was forgotten. Exams, too.
Funny… She'd assumed, back then, that happiness implied permanence. That they'd somehow never be caught, or parted.
…But she nevertheless came to herself in a cold parking garage, standing by a white car beneath dim fluorescent lights. How long she'd stood there, keys in hand, staring forlornly into the past, Autumn Drew had no idea. But it was late, she was tired, and old bruises could always be covered.
A button-press unlocked the Sentra. Drew opened the door, tossed her purse onto the passenger seat, and swiveled herself on in. Key in the ignition, followed by humming engine and friendly start-up chimes. She slammed the door shut, settling into the sort of small, tidy, controllable world she liked best.
Glanced at the rear-view mirror, where, for just a moment, something dark was caught in the flash of her red brake lights. Gone again, though, before she could identify it. A benighted co-worker, maybe?Late for an all-importantsocial event?
Whatever, he was no longer blocking her path. Putting the Sentra in reverse, Drew eased off the brake pedal and began backing out of her 'employee of the month' parking space.
There was a necklace of silvery Mardi Gras beads hanging from the rear-view mirror. When the Sentra stopped short, caught suddenly from behind, the beads swung violently back and forth, slapping the windshield glass. For some reason, that's what she focused on.
Automatically, Drew floored the accelerator. The wheels whined and spun, but her car did not move. Not backward, anyhow. Instead, it began to tilt, rising as though something was lifting the vehicle's rear.
Someone.
Drew's head snapped around. There was a dark-haired man visible through the rear window, bathed in crimson tail lights. Her hand went immediately to the dashboard glove compartment, whereshe kept a ceramic pistol.
Spotting her movement, the man straightened his legs, then shoved upward with both inhumanly powerful arms. Springs squeaking, metal crunching and squealing, the car was pushed onto its nose. The front grill and bumper smashed against a concrete wheel stop. In a shower of sparks, of shattering glass, the Sentra was hurled completely over, landing upside-down with a shrill, grinding crash. Security alarms blared once, then choked off as though shot. The man vanished.
Breathing hard, Drew fought to release her seat belt, which was now slicing into her flesh as she hung. There was pain from a deeply gashed forehead and wrenched back, but she had to get free, reach her gun and cell phone. Drew's attention jumped nervously from the swinging beads and crazy-cracked glass, to the hissing steam and battery acid. Where…?
Something moved. A sudden, pale-eyed face stared at her through the driver's-side window. She screamed for the first time when he reached for her, smiling through broken glass.