Chapter 11
"It's over, Dr. Stockman."
Hmm. A little cheesy, but it'll have to do.
Slowly, Baxter Stockman turns away from his laptop, an incongruent white machine perched on the long black lab counters. For a moment Stockman regards me with that ugly, ugly eye of his. Then he chuckles, and I feel my cheeks flush with anger. I grip the laser gun in my hands. Its aim never leaves the dead center of Stockman's chest. Out in the hallway I can hear Chaplin engaged in a firefight with the guards, but I ignore it. Chaplin's a big boy. He can take care of himself.
And besides … I have bigger fish to fry.
"You won't kill me," Stockman is saying in that casual, dismissive tone I've come to know so well. "You shot that beloved turtle of yours just to save me."
"You're wrong. I didn't do it to save you," I growl and then, feeling the slow-burning fury twist in my stomach, I pull the trigger. "I did it to save him."
The laser blast sends Stockman's body flying backwards, and he smashes into some bookshelves with a satisfying crash of splintering wood and clattering metal. I watch as the shelves collapse, burying Stockman under the rubble. Grimly I smile. An ignoble end to the illustrious Baxter Stockman. Despite myself, I feel a twinge of pity.
But regrets, if any, will have to come later. The here and now is reserved for nuclear defusing. Whipping out my trusty Geiger counter, I quickly scan the laboratory. Then I frown. That can't be right. The readings say there isn't any radiation at all. Maybe Stockman's put the nuke in another room?
Cautiously approaching the laptop, I squint at the screen. I don't recognize the program Stockman has running. So, I take a step closer. There are numerals in the corner of the program window. 3:57. A clock? But that isn't the right time. 3:56. Oh, no. No, no, no. Surely it isn't … 3:55.
But it is. Oh, of course it is. It's a countdown. Frantically I grab the laptop and pull it closer, my eyes scanning quickly through the lines upon lines of text scrolling across the computer's screen. As I read, I realize why there's no radiation—the nukes aren't here. No, apparently that was too simple a scheme for the late, great Dr. Stockman.
Well, dammit. This complicates things, and things were already plenty complicated enough. If this is just the command center … and the nukes are actually somewhere else … which, knowing my former boss, could be just about anywhere …
3:29. But there's no time to worry about that at the present moment. Nervously licking my lips, I delve into the running computer program in front of me. If I can just shut off the countdown, that should buy us the time we need to find the nuclear materials. To defuse whatever bombs Stockman's set. Unsurprisingly, there's a maze of encryptions and security passwords built into the program. Though it's easy enough to get through the first and second encryption layers, the third layer completely blocks all my access attempts.
I try "Oroku Saki" as a password. Just in case. It's a no-go. Also unsurprising.
"Nice try, Ms. O'Neil."
Suddenly I'm flat on my back with a heavy weight crushing down on my chest. Gasping, flailing, I struggle against my attacker and—Stockman? Stockman. But how …
I don't have time to think of an answer. His metal, superhumanly powerful hands are around my throat and choking me. Desperately I claw at his arms, but that only makes him laugh.
He leans down, and his voice hisses in my ear, "You underestimate me, April dear. After that pesky mutant nearly killed me, I took additional precautions—exoskeleton upgrades, improved metallic tension limits, enhanced sensors …"
Stockman keeps rambling on, but the words stop making sense. It's getting hard to think. Think! I've got to think. I don't have to be stronger, I just have to be smarter. And I know I can outsmart this man. Goodness knows I've done it often enough.
" … new titanium chest-plates … "
He squeezes tighter. I can't breathe. Can't think. Let alone fight. My vision goes fuzzy at the edges, and my hands drop down. Shit. So fuzzy now … shit …
Then, abruptly and miraculously, I have air again. I suck down a large gulp, and though it burns like fire, nothing's ever felt so good. As my vision flickers back into focus at the edges, I see concerned brown eyes loom large above my face. Hiroko? A wry smile. Not Hiroko's smile. Not Hiroko.
"Don," I whisper, my voice little more than a rasp.
"You can't keep a good turtle down, April," he replies with a low chuckle. "Not even when you shoot him."
His voice is exactly as I remember—gloating, triumphant, infuriatingly smug. I love his voice. My God, how I love hearing his voice.
As Donatello helps me to my feet, I fight down the urge to cling to him and sob in relief. He's back. He's alive. I'm alive. But now's not the time. I have to focus. Glancing around, I try to get back my bearings. Hiroko and Karai—who must have found Donny in the other lab, I'm guessing—are a few yards away, fighting back Dr. Stockman. Their katanas whistle sharply, and the harsh clang of metal on metal fills the air.
Buying time, I realize, so that Don and I can work to stop the count-down.
2:16.
I scoot over to the laptop again, and Don immediately follows. His eyes rapidly skim the screen's contents, and he gives a little nod to himself. Finally he says, "New system passwords, I assume?"
"Naturally."
"Perfect." He groans. "That's just absolutely perfect."
I sigh. "I've been trying to break the encryption, but no luck so far."
Thoughtfully he squints at the laptop screen. "Wait a minute. You're already into the system?"
"Yeah, but not with access to anything vital or—"
"Mousers!"
Confused, I turn to him and frown. His eyes are wide, excited, and strangely bright. I find myself wondering if maybe the virus effects haven't completely worn off.
But before I can inquire into Don's physical and mental well-being, out of my peripheral vision I see a stool, thrown by Stockman, come hurtling our way. I grab Don by the back of the head, pull him down, then duck myself. The stool slams noisily into a filing cabinet behind us.
1:46.
After we both straighten back up, Don glares and takes up the conversation where we left off. "The mousers. Don't tell me you've forgotten the first time we ever went up against this lousy two-bit excuse for a mad scientist?"
Of course I remember the mousers. How could I not? But I still don't understand … The mousers! I get it. Don's idea. I get it now. A smile breaks out over my face, and Donatello nods approvingly.
"The mousers," I mutter, bringing up a menu on the laptop. 1:30. Quickly I begin typing in commands. "Like we did with the mousers. Y'know, that's so crazy it might work."
Don snorts. "April, your faith in me is touching."
Ignoring him, I channel my attention entirely to the laptop. My thoughts race as I continue typing. Like the mousers. Like we did with the mousers. But not like the mousers—not exactly. A self-destruct won't work this time. Surely that would only result in the explosion triggering early. But maybe, maybe something that serves the same function as the mousers' self-destruct did, those many years ago?
1:02. Breath on my cheek, hot and moist. Annoyed, I glare sideways and bark out, "Stop back-seat hacking!"
Donatello doesn't reply but he does step back a little. I frown. He stepped back. The words, for some reason, repeat over and over in my brain. Step back. Step back. Back. Back, back, back—like a madwoman, I hurriedly enter a series of commands and then, when the results flash across the screen, I start laughing. Laughing loudly, hysterically, uncontrollably.
6:00:45.
Six hours. Six hours and forty-five seconds.
Don leans forward again. He studies the screen intently. "What on earth did you do?"
"Just reset the time zone," I gasp out, in between laughs. Then I shoot him a triumphant smile. "Now? Damn program thinks it's in Honolulu."
Leaning back, smirking, Don muses, "Six hours should give us enough time to, uh, persuade Baxter to defuse his cliché doomsday device." He glances over in Stockman's direction. "Or for us to defuse it ourselves, if the good doctor proves characteristically stubborn."
He sounds downright curmudgeonly. Which amuses me for some perverse reason. Still laughing, I throw my arms around Donatello's neck for an overdue hug. Surprised, he staggers backwards but doesn't fall. I hold on tight for a moment, enjoying how solid and real his body feels against mine, before I finally let him go.
Then, for the first time since the virus, I look at him. He doesn't appear too much worse for wear. His eyes are a bit bloodshot, but that's only to be expected. His business suit is gone, though I don't know why, which leaves his scar-marked shoulders and plastron exposed. Most of the scars, however, are clearly old and healed over. Thank goodness. And his arms look—
Oh, my God. How could I have possibly not noticed it before?
His arm. It's gone.
---
Author's Notes: One more official chapter. Almost certainly an epilogue will follow, though. Hang in there!