Small Miracles Page 2

  I’m in an invulnerable suit. I’m in an invulnerable suit. I’m in an invulnerable suit.

  Not truly invulnerable, but the exceptions were surely academic. He couldn’t be stabbed. He couldn’t be shot. He couldn’t, although he had yet to mention it to Korn, be poisoned or infected. With his hood up and sealed, he was inside the world’s most lightweight hazmat suit. Oxygen and nitrogen—and nothing else—could get in. CO2 and water vapor got out. And if, against all logic and science, he were injured? Why then—

  What was that?

  Nothing seemed changed in front of the housing project. Something in his peripheral vision, then. He unbuckled, twisting around and staring to left and right. Staring behind. No one was within fifty feet of the cruiser. Just nerves.

  He was in an invulnerable suit, damn it.

  One of Brent’s college professors liked to quote Edward Teller, father of the hydrogen bomb. “There’s no system foolproof enough to defeat a sufficiently great fool.”

  Brent cranked the gain in the hood visor. Now he could see far up and down the street. Loiterers along the sidewalk, up on the old railroad embankment, and in the darker shadows beneath the few scraggly trees. As far as he could tell, no one was paying him any attention. He turned forward in his seat, staring at the project entrance, willing Korn to hurry up.

  What the hell was he so nervous about?

  Brent looked around again, more slowly this time. Residents in the apartment units, most watching TV. Korn was nowhere to be seen, which probably meant only that he was in a unit on the back of the building. People eying—casing?—a car parked down the block. People up on the embankment, clustered along the pipeline. More graffiti in the works, Brent supposed. People on a street corner, smoking, and he couldn’t care less what they smoked. A hooker in short shorts and a boa, strutting for the few passing cars.

  The bunch on the embankment seemed awfully animated. Could they be up to something other than spray painting? Gas at $8.57 a gallon must be painful to the people who lived here. Were they tapping the pipeline for free gas?

  He cranked the visor gain to max. The activity on the embankment was clearer, but no less enigmatic. He wished Korn would get a move on—

  Wishing wasn’t good enough. If a spark ignited gasoline vapor or a spill, then … well, Brent didn’t know what would happen. Only he was certain it would be bad.

  Should he go inside, hunt for Korn? There had to be at least a hundred apartments. That could take too long. Maybe he could scare them off. He flipped the siren-and-flasher toggle. Nothing happened. Like the cruiser’s night-vision mode, it must need a key in the ignition.

  Atop the embankment the mood seemed exuberant. The crowd finally shifted to give Brent a glimpse into the center of activity. Liquid arced from the pipe, splashing in and around a handheld gas can. More big containers stood on the ground among trampled weeds. It was a disaster waiting to happen.

  “Crap,” Brent said. He unlocked the car. You’re in an invulnerable suit, he reminded himself—only he knew the designers and doubted this scenario had ever occurred to them.

  Korn’s uniform was tan. Brent set the jumpsuit to match. He threw open the door. Then, thinking of sufficiently great fools, he ran toward the gas thieves. “Get away from there!” he shouted. “Beat it!”

  Flash! Still at max amplification and in night-vision mode, his visor overloaded—but not before he was blinded. A great roar swallowed him. A gale of wind lifted him off the ground. There was a moment of dizzying, sightless motion. Head to toe, front and back, the jumpsuit went stiff.

  Then there was nothing.

  DREAMING

  friday, january 29, 2016

  Garner Nanotech’s corporate jet appeared right on schedule, a silver dart in a cloudless blue winter sky. The Learjet used only half the runway to brake to taxi speed, still looking like a toy as it turned toward the hangars. Little-used Griffiss Field was once Griffiss Air Force Base, home to the 416th Bomb Wing. B-52s were big, and they required a long runway.

  Wind whistled across the airfield, and Kimberley O’Donnell shivered in the January chill. Her left hand clutched her coat tightly around her throat. January cold was no surprise in upstate New York; the marvel was there was no snow falling today.

  Brent used to laugh at her watery Virginia blood. That was easy for him. He grew up in Chicago.

  She shivered for reasons unrelated to the cold. The plane taxiing her way had returned Brent from Chicago. Returned him from six months of living hell. Despite phone and e-mail, despite near daily VirtuaLife contact (the secluded island that he had conjured just about broke her heart), despite three weekend visits once he felt well enough to see anyone, she could not keep straight his many treatments, complications, and surgeries. Or the many therapies that followed: physical, occupational, and psychological. His parents, in whose home Brent had convalesced, seemed unable to end her confusion. “He needed a lot of fixing up. He got banged up pretty bad,” was the best Marjorie and Brad Cleary ever had to offer.

  Did she really need to know the details? The essential truth about his injuries and recovery was: too much. No wonder Brent didn’t laugh anymore.

  The Learjet finally reached hangar row. It rolled to a stop. Aft of the cockpit a hatch unsealed, pivoting downward to provide a flight of stairs. The pilot waved from the hatchway before backing into the cockpit.

  Brent emerged from the passenger section, blinking in the sunlight. The twenty-some colleagues who had left work early to greet him whistled and cheered. Smiling uncertainly, he steadied himself against an interior bulkhead.

  Her friend was six feet tall, and an avid hiker and cross-country skier. Part of what drew him to upstate New York was the nearby Adirondacks. The few times he had talked Kim into joining him, hiking on what he swore were beginners’ trails, he had exhausted her. She remembered him fit, confident, and tanned.

  It was hard to recognize Brent in the stooped, pale figure hesitating at the top of the stairs. He was only thirty, a year younger than she, but he stepped from the plane as though he were eighty. He seemed as likely to tumble down as walk down the few steps. Like his alter ego in VirtuaLife, Brent was too wounded in spirit to connect with people. Even with friends.

  Kim thought: We don’t need a damned ceremony.

  “Welcome back,” boomed Daniel Garner. The company’s founder and CEO had a wireless mike in his hand. The wind flapped his silk scarf and tousled his long, blond hair. “Brent, welcome home.”

  As Brent came slowly down the stairs, two feet to the step, hand trembling on the skimpy railing, Kim tried to be charitable. Brent had insisted on coming home and on traveling without, as he put it, “a babysitter.” He had had the company jet to himself, on a direct flight into Rome. It had to have been a lot easier on him than the alternative: a commercial flight into the nearest airfield served by the airlines. That would have been Syracuse, an hour’s drive away.

  A short ceremony, she conceded, was a fair tradeoff. Let Dan Garner take credit with the staff for sending the company jet for Brent. The class act was generosity that remained undisclosed. Garner was personally picking up all the deductibles and all the copays for Brent’s many treatments. Kim only knew because Brent’s mother had let it slip.

  But would the ceremony be short? No one had ever accused Dan of brevity. “Your courage, Brent, continues to inspire us all. We will never forget how your sacrifice showed us—showed the world—the value of everything we’ve worked on together.”

  And then, as Kim’s grandma would say, Garner was off to the races. He segued into his standard spiel. Kim heard it every time the big boss dragged her along to Manhattan or Boston or Silicon Valley to a confab with the venture capitalists. Garner was a big-picture person. VCs loved him, because they were big-picture people, too—only with tons of money to invest and a staff of experts to vet the opportunities. Engineers like Kim went along to answer the staff’s nitty-gritty questions.

  Brent surviving the Angleton holocaust
was a big-picture event even a VC could grasp. The poor man was still in a body cast after spinal and pelvic surgery when the VCs began taking Garner’s calls.

  “And that is how, Brent, the protective gear that saved your life came to embody the best nanotech on the planet.”

  “Best on the planet” was Dan’s catchphrase. Everything associated with Garner Nanotech was the best on the planet, down to movie nights on the company’s giant TV and the pizza ordered in during project crunches. “Best morale on the planet” went without saying.

  “That is why—” Garner broke off, Brent’s exhaustion having finally made an impression. “We’ll let it go at that, Brent. I’m just so passionate about the work we’re doing together. The work whose value you so compellingly demonstrated. Go home and get some rest.” Garner waved over the waiting limo and opened a rear door. A few in the crowd shouted out their good-byes and well wishes. “We all look forward to you rejoining us.”

  Brent seemed ready to collapse. Kim circled behind the small crowd, sliding into the limo right after him. Let him call her a babysitter if he wanted.

  Garner scarcely missed a beat. “Kim will help you get settled.” He closed the door after her and slapped the top of the limo twice. The limo headed for the airfield exit.

  Six months ago Kim would have said Brent’s face reflected his character: honest and gentle, his eyes twinkling with wry, kind-spirited good humor. Now, checking him out surreptitiously, she found only weary resignation.

  Not surreptitiously enough.

  Brent said, “You’re thinking this is a face to frighten children and household pets.”

  “Worry, not frighten,” she answered firmly. “No, I’m thinking I like the beard.” Black and curly like his hair, the new beard followed his jawline in a thin, continuous band from one sideburn to the other. “Add a top hat and you could pass for Abe Lincoln.”

  He stroked his chin. “There’s a thin scar under there. The docs suggested cosmetic surgery. This was easier.”

  The limo had a minibar. “Can I get you a drink?” she asked. “I’m guessing Dan stocks the best on the planet.”

  Brent shook his head. “I’m going to close my eyes for a bit. Thanks for riding along.”

  “Sure thing.”

  The drive into Utica took twenty minutes. Brent woke with a start as the limo glided to a halt in front of his apartment complex. “It’s okay,” she said. “You’re home.”

  Waving her off when she offered a hand, he levered himself out of the limo. “I don’t mean to be rude. I have to learn to do stuff for myself.”

  “Understood.” Still, she held open the heavy lobby door for him, then rushed ahead to summon the elevator. He leaned against the elevator car’s rear wall for the ride to the third floor. He must have lost weight, because his coat looked baggy on him. “I’m more tired than I expected,” he admitted, shuffling down the hallway to his apartment. He barely managed a nod at the neighbor they passed going the other direction down the corridor.

  Kim let them in with the duplicate key Brent’s parents had sent her so she could clear out the refrigerator, water or throw out the houseplants, send clothes, and whatever. Brent made no comment. Maybe he remembered about her key. More likely, he was too exhausted to care.

  He was snoring softly, head flopped onto the back of the living-room sofa, in the time it took her to bring a glass of ice water. She maneuvered him into a lying-down position, slid off his shoes, and settled herself into the recliner.

  saturday, january 30, 2016

  Brent woke with a start. Everything ached. That was sadly familiar, but the manner of aching had changed. He opened his eyes. His own apartment. His never-comfortable couch. The altered twinges made sense.

  “It’s about time.”

  He turned his head. Kim sat in his recliner, the chair much too big for her. She had a steaming mug in hand.

  He said, “God, that coffee smells good. Is there any left?”

  “Plenty. I’ll get you some.”

  He sat up, casting aside the afghan he had no recollection of unfolding. “That’s okay. My bladder is about to burst. I’ll pour myself a cup on the way back. What the heck time is it?”

  She laughed. “Better to ask, what day is it? It’s Saturday. You slept for sixteen hours. How do you feel?”

  Sixteen hours! No wonder every muscle felt stiff. And Kim had been here the whole time—she had on the same clothes as yesterday. He guessed her car was still at the airport. All he was good for since Angleton was burdening friends and family.

  He said, “Almost human. I’ll be right back, Kim.”

  On his way to the bathroom, he glanced into the bedroom. The bed seemed undisturbed. So Kim had spent the night in the recliner, keeping an eye on him. Once more, his frailty embarrassed him.

  Brent made a mental note to send her flowers. But what kind? He could barely tell a rose from a cauliflower, considering both equally suitable for mulch, but even he knew roses were inappropriate. Ordinarily he got his floral advice from Kim; a sister’s opinion would have to suffice.

  De-tanked, face washed, hair hastily brushed, and sipping a mug of hot coffee, he did feel better. He looked around the kitchen. Fresh milk and orange juice in the refrigerator. A freezer full of frozen dinners. A loaf of bread, a can of coffee, and a box of muffins on the counter. All Kim’s doing, no doubt. Suddenly, he was ravenous.

  “You okay in there?” Kim called.

  “Be right out.” He transferred four muffins to two plates, returned to the living room, and handed her a plate. He went to the sofa with his own plate. “Orange-cranberry. Excellent choice.” He inhaled the first muffin. “Sixteen hours, huh? I hope I didn’t keep you up.”

  “Well … you didn’t.”

  He was all too familiar with such hesitations. His parents had equivocated a lot these past few months. “I had the nightmare, huh? Sorry.”

  “The nightmare? Recurring? Do you want to talk about it?”

  He had been head-shrunk by pros, not that they did him any good. Why would he want to talk about this now? And yet he did. Kim was his best friend. “I don’t understand the dream,” he said softly. “I mean: how? I don’t remember what happened. I don’t! A few minutes before, sure, waiting inside the cruiser. Waking up in the hospital a day later, that’s all clear. Between, nothing but flashes. Maybe I have to make stuff up to fill in the blanks. Stupid subconscious.”

  She shrugged and said nothing. That was so much better than, “And how do you feel about that?” Damned shrinks.

  “I know what happened, Kim. At some level, how could I not? The police cruiser was wrapped around a telephone pole, crushed and charred. For whatever reason, I got out before the explosion. I was extracted from a brick wall, with more bones broken than I care to think about.” In his pelvis. Shattered humerus in his left arm. Cracked ribs. Cracked vertebrae. Massive internal bleeding from the impact and all the bone-fragment punctures.

  So why was he thinking about it? “The blast from the pipeline explosion clearly threw me into that wall. It tossed me far enough that I only slow-roasted in the lesser flames, instead of incinerating in the thousand-degree fireball.”

  Damn fools, stealing gas from the pipeline. From the number of blackened metal cans around the blast zone, the fire department seemed certain that’s what had been going on. A wayward spark—from a cell phone, the drill, shuffling feet, whatever …

  Brent swallowed, struggling to get his thoughts back in order. The coffee that had tasted so good gnawed at his stomach. “I know those things only because of what I read or was told. Like that it was an hour before firemen in hazmat suits began searching the outer edge of the destruction. Like that six-hundred-plus people died horribly, and many more were injured.”

  Kim leaned forward. “Brent, it was gruesome. How could you not fixate on it?”

  He looked at his other muffin, only because it didn’t look back. “Why do I dream about the time I can’t remember? About hanging in the wall, l
ike a bug caught in amber? I was in shock, I was concussed, and the nanosuit had me doped up to the eyeballs.”

  Only the bug had it easy.

  The nightmare never changed: A hail of debris pinging off the nanosuit. Smoke and flames. Charred bodies everywhere, a few still quivering. Sirens. The agonized screams that punctuated the eerie crackling of his breathing and the ringing in his ears. Lungs that felt filled with broken glass. His arm broken, held rigid by the nanosuit. Secondary explosions, as gas tanks exploded in one car after the next. The housing project collapsing upon itself, and on more than two hundred residents, and on Sergeant Korn.

  Kim came and sat beside him. “It’s not your fault you survived.”

  He laughed bitterly. “Nor is it anything to be proud of. Why does everyone keep telling me how brave I am? That I’m a hero? Why do Dan Garner and the board consider an accident grounds for a big stock-option grant?”

  “Brent?” She said no more until he made eye contact. “That you survived was a small miracle. Then VCs and investment bankers who never took Garner’s calls began calling us. DoD procurement officials were suddenly talking sole-source contracts, expedited delivery, and large-scale field trials. Sure, you got a special options grant, but everyone at the company already had some options. We’ll all do well when the company goes public.

  “I refuse to believe we’re exploiting those deaths in Angleton. Yes, we may get rich, but it’ll be for the lives we save. Beginning with yours, damn it. And you should get more options than the rest of us. I put sweat equity into the company. You invested a spleen.”

  And almost a kidney, he tallied mentally, although that had recovered with stem-cell treatments.

  Kim made a good case. By daylight.

  Tonight, Brent had no doubt, the nightmare would return.

  monday, april 18, 2016

  “Good morning, Captain America. Good morning, Ms. America. My, you look lovely today. Good morning …”

  Hidden scanners read the RFID chips embedded in every ID badge, but when people were streaming into the building it took a human being to make sure everyone walking in had a badge. Even at his most subdued, Alan Watts, one of the morning-shift security guards, was ebullient. Marvel Comics might have killed off Captain America—twice, in fact, to Brent’s knowledge. It took more than that to tone down Watts. He greeted everyone who came through the doors with a big smile—high wattage, he would say, if anyone commented—and variations on the same cheery salutation.