Once again, I am driving for Anaheim prepared to do something stupid. It occurs to me that Perez hasn't told me in at least a week not to do such a thing, and I need to remind her to get back to doing her job. Meanwhile, I am standing naked behind a Chinese restaurant in muck of unknown chemical composition.
The molecules lift me skyward and out over the ocean, heading west. I stay low, and relatively slow, so it takes me over an hour to reach the coast of Siberia, then slow down a little, but stay supersonic. When I get to the Urals, I slow to subsonic, it being just about sun down, pretending to be the Firefox.
Finding her hotel is easy, my clothing plan turns out to be stupid. Yes, it's dark. Yes, I can get in on the roof. No, they won't give me her room number. And, perhaps expecting a dumbass move, she didn't give it to me either.
Alternatively, I do have experience stealing clothes. And, yes, they keep custodial uniforms in the janitor's closet it took me only 20 minutes to find. And, yes, it's a size or so too small. And, no, I don't speak Russian, so whoever it was in the hallway that asked me to get them something isn't going to get it, whatever it was.
Flaherty and Perez were going to spend their morning interrogating an arms dealer currently under arrest, and the afternoon talking to a contact who might just have been Ali's money man's middle man. I assume that makes them safe during daylight, being in a police station and all. I know where the station is, and I know where their hotel is, I just don't know exactly where they are, now that it's dark. I find a convenient roof top nearby, in between the two, and settle in to wait.
Finally, three uneventful hours later, I see what I think is the two of them getting out of a taxi with a tall man in a dark overcoat, on the corner near the hotel. Assuming that is one of the police officers they worked with, Superdumbass flew halfway around the world for nothing.
Except I can never be that lucky, or even particularly smart about where I hide.
The cab is barely gone when two men walk quickly across the street and turn toward the three officers. One of them is overly blond. Both of them are wearing too heavy jackets for an unusually warm almost summer day.
Fuck me, I am too far away. What happens to the Russian officer is not clear, but he is falling toward the sidewalk as the two men force Perez and Flaherty toward the alley beside the hotel. I know that both are good fighters, but I also know the State Department made them leave their weapons in LA.
I make borscht from some nearby molecules and rocket down Tverskaya Street. I turn feet downward and land behind my two gentlemen friends, so fast I end up in a crouch, ripping the crotch out of my borrowed uniform. The two hear the torn fabric, start to turn toward the semi exposed salami, but I am upright and giving them both concussions before they move enough to see me. All they are going to see now is concrete.
Molecules of that same concrete surrender themselves to me, and I am rocketing back into the night, not even acknowledging the two I saved. Or at least I think I saved.
Two seconds and I am back on my perch, watching. Flaherty is on the phone. Perez is kneeling next to the fallen Russian policeman. One of the dudes on the ground stirs, and Flaherty kicks him in the head. Properly stirred, he drops back to the ground. Flaherty corrects an error and grabs his weapon. Sirens and then a car with lights, a half dozen men in uniform are quickly there, an ambulance follows. Interested to know what story Perez is making up for them, but I'll have to wait to find out.
My work probably done, I clear up and out, headed back to Anaheim, though a somewhat round about route over a couple former nuclear sites in North Korea, just to make sure they are still former.
There is a text from Perez to call when I get home, but it's three or four in the morning there so I let her sleep, if that's what she's doing. Eventually my phone rings and it's her, though all she says is that they're about to get on their flight, and an I love you. I guess I shouldn't have said "all" in a sentence that ends with I love you, should I.
I meet an exhausted looking Perez at the gate after spending my day walking Terminal 7 with Officer Bradford, an exhausted Special Agent Flaherty at her back. Turns out Flaherty has a Mr. Agent Flaherty, and Perez and I are introduced, another first (e.g., this is her boyfriend, Air Force). All I get out of her getting to the car is that the two men are in custody, will be shipped back to the US next week, along with the arms dealer, and that the middle man was very helpful. And a thank you, both hers and one passed to the MFM by Agent Flaherty.
She's asleep in the car before we hit the 405, so it's probably a good thing I'm driving. I basically carry her inside, and she sleeps until daybreak. She showers and eats, then sleeps all the way to San Diego. Fortunately, what she sees when we get there is so funny to her she's wide awake all day.
It's the world's largest comic book convention, but this year it seems that reality has overwhelmed fantasy. There are nearly 20,000 attendees, and probably half are dressed as the Mysterious Flying Man. There are five foot tall, 200 pound men and six foot tall women dressed in the magic underwear. I think the company that makes them owes me big time.
Everywhere we go she sees another one and bursts out laughing. I'm assuming that she's still tired from her trip, because I don't find the outfits funny at all.
All told though, it's a great day. I meet Katee Sackoff. The real Starbuck. Get her autograph. So does Perez, who if anything's a bigger Galactica fan than I am. Meet half a dozen other people I've always wanted to meet. Spend a day holding Perez's hand. That is, when she's not doubled over in laughter at some 60 year old woman pretending to be me.
It's also my last day being dead. At least for another few months.
Tomorrow, at precisely 1 p.m., they are having a panel discussion on the MFM in Hall H. Two comic book writers and two of the more famous physicists in America. And, unknown to them, a guest appearance by the guest of honor.
Perez gets to put her police skills to work, and we figure out how I am getting in and out without someone figuring out that I am him. It should involve a phone booth, out of super hero tradition, but there's a section of the facility with no cameras, and a lot of bathrooms. Somewhat fitting that Superman uses the phone booth, and the MFM uses a bathroom stall.
We're staying in hotel circle at a cheap all suites place, nice comfy king size bed that Perez and I use to good effect. I'm all hyped and ready to go a second time, but she's still knocked out from jet lag, and I hold her and let her drift away after round one. Then I change and pace one end of the room to the other until morning.
I am already dressed in my magic underwear, pretending to be a nerd, while Perez drives us in. She is dressed as herself. She also lets me know repeatedly that you cannot not pretend to be a nerd if you are one. I let her drive, and I am still so anxious I wish we were going faster.
We go to a morning panel on the Big Bang Theory, and another which is a secret preview of a new sci-fi movie, which turns out to be the MFM story. Not very good, though my judgement may be a little off, and the ending is going to be changed in about 40 minutes. Quick lunch which I barely touch, then it's off to the restroom for me, and off to exhibit hall H for Perez. I have to wait 15 minutes before I am alone in the room, and change. The light must also be damn excited, because the change almost causes the second round of sex to be unnecessary.
So there I am, six foot five, the only person over six foot in costume who isn't under 150 pounds or female. Black eyes out, I feel entirely out of place, surrounded by 4,000 of my closest imitators.
Perez and I agreed not to meet in the hall, but that doesn't stop me from stopping to look for her as I enter the room. I see her standing alone near the back. Someone touches my arm, and I turn toward them, thinking that they think I'm lost. No such luck. It's a young woman in a polo shirt and badge that indicate she's working the show.
"Would you come with me, sir?"
Not knowing what else to do, I follow, even as she leads me to the bottom of the stage where five other reasonably tall MFM's are standing. She takes out her radio, and has a brief conversation with someone.
"They are about to start, I need you gentlemen to go up to the top of the stage and stand where the footprints are just to the left."
We comply. There are six sets of footprints on stage, all pointing toward the table where presumably the panel will sit. The five nerds all put their feet over a set. I, the rebel, put my right foot on the left foot, my left foot standing on its own.
The theme music from the superman movies starts playing. It's depressing. Why didn't I come up with my own theme song? A tall good looking dude who is playing Superman in a new movie walks out with a portable mic in his hand.
"Good afternoon, and welcome to the Ultimate MFM panel. Let me introduce today's speakers. From Cal Tech...," I barely hear the first four, my head is starting to spin a little as each walks in and takes a seat, but I hear the next part. "And, a surprise panelist..., from ESPN..., the blonde..., the beautiful..., the woman of the MFM's dreams..., the amazing Celeste Nortin!"
Fuck me. And, yes, she has. And, yes, Perez is in the audience.
Celeste walks out, every bit as beautiful as she always is, the blonde hair overflowing, the magnificent frame not well hidden under the blouse and jacket she's wearing. Instead of joining the other seated panelists, she goes over to Mr. Microphone, takes the mic and turns toward the audience as he backs away toward the table. There is hearty applause, which dies down as she raises the mic to her mouth.
"Sir, stop." It's not Celeste, it's the woman who brought me to the stage, and strangely enough, I am several feet in front of the foot I was standing on, and moving forward without realizing it.
Everyone, including Celeste, hears the admonition, and the entire crowd turns my way. There's a scream, not from behind, but from Celeste, the microphone dropping to the floor with a heavily amplified thunk, the entire crowd shifting back to her.
I'm six feet from her now, she's crying, sobbing actually, frozen otherwise, staring at me.
"Hey, beautiful. Sorry I've been gone, I had to heal. We need to talk."
I say it, not realizing I pushed myself 10 feet into the air as I did.
There are a lot more screams, and probably 10,000 cameras clicking away. I push hard now, heading for a skylight against the wall above the stage, clear from any participants who might be harmed by falling glass. I crash through it, the irony of a broken window not lost on me as a symbol of my rebirth, steady myself, and then blast skyward toward the south and Columbia. Be interesting to see exactly what brand of heck broke out behind me, but I am far more interested in the brand that I intend to deliver.
Chapter 22
Miguel Juarez's house is exactly where I left it in Columbia, no big surprise there. Dark by the time I arrive, slowed by my need not to damage my clothes, I hover just north of it over a set of rolling hills I once used as cover. I know that the middle window on the top floor is the office, I know that they always leave the window open in good weather, and I know there's a laptop sitting on the desk.
All the lights are off in the house, and there is one security guard supposedly circling the compound, but not working hard. I know his routine, which a half hour confirms has not changed. He mostly stands on the front porch smoking, with rare trips to check for intruders.
I wait until he lights up a fresh one, then punch South American molecules and fly into the open window in one swoop. Not fell, just swoop. I scoop up the laptop and its power pack, take a quick look around and through the drawers, which yield a couple flash drives, a portable hard drive, and two hand written notebooks. Everything goes into my backpack. Then I mosey over to the window, check that it's clear, and propel myself back out into the night.
Over the hills the backpack goes high into one of the trees, somewhere it will not be easily discovered, but I will not forget. Then it's return to the compound, and a last long hover over the house.
I have no interest in hurting the kids and whoever else is home, just the boss. So I land on the roof, rip up tiles, and start throwing them at the guard, or rather a few feet from the guard, so he can sound the alarm.
He yells, he shoots, I throw until I have cleared the roof of tile, then of plywood, then the roof trusses, then the plywood which is the attic floor and third floor ceiling. Then the third floor is dismantled, then the second, and finally the ground floor is splinters. A nice big pile of useless stuff. Twenty or so people are there, watching, a couple kids no more than five years old, a mom, a grandmother, housekeepers, and assorted others. The guard stopped shooting a while ago, and is watching with the rest.
The kids are crying. I fly over, land next to them and their mother, who I assume is Juarez's daughter, given his age, but you never know. They are on each of her sides, their arms wrapped around her legs, their faces partially hidden behind her.
In my nicest Spanish, as reassuring as I can be, I tell them, "Don't be afraid, I will never hurt you."
