Maximum Warp
Chapter 11: The Emissary

The President’s Science Advisor quirked a half smile at my riposte. “My parents warned me that I’d get that line a lot, when I went for my doctorate.”

“A lawyer warned me about the whole ‘Jesse James’ thing as well,” I replied.

“Well . . . honors are even, I suppose.” Her smile became more symmetrical. “Before we begin – Mr. Grant, if you would please?”

The stocky man in the center of their formation turned his fanny pack around and turned a nob that was just visible on one side. He looked at his inexpensive wrist-watch – I hadn’t seen one in a while – then looked at Dr. Averil Livingston and nodded once, sharply.

“I apologize for that,” Dr. Livingston said. “We agree with your request that this meeting be conducted secretly. I’m afraid any electronic devices in a five yard radius are no longer functional.”

Janet said, “Damn! Where can I get one of those puppies? Be pretty useful around some car radios in my neighborhood!”

Dukkov Earl Grant smiled like a shark. “It would also, I’m afraid, disable the car itself.”

“Twofer!” Janet said, delighted by the idea.

I shook my head. “I wish you’d mentioned what you were going to do first. You’ve also eliminated my ability to communicate with, ah, the owners of the technology.”

Dr. Ranveer Singh, the Undersecretary for Science and Technology for the Department of Homeland Security, interjected, “Shall we walk, please?” We began to move towards one of the paths. “This is just a preliminary discussion. You’ll have plenty of time to make calls . . . . if we get that far.”

“Maybe,” I said, “But . . . I didn’t memorize their number. Or the number for the phone you just slagged. Time’s not the only problem here.”

“That won’t be an issue, Ms. James,” Dr. Singh replied. “We obtained telephone company records for the phones you used to call Mr. Grant, as well as Dr. Seldon’s phone records, pursuant to a FISA warrant.”

“FISA?! We’re American citizens!” I was more surprised than upset. Nothing in those records worried me – in fact, it might help. But FISA is an acronym for the Foreign Intelligence Services Act.

Grant gave me a look. “You wouldn’t happen to have a passport you can show us, would you, Ms. James?”

“It’s not a great picture,” I replied, lamely.

Dr. Singh said, “The basis for the warrant was our assessment that you are not acting on behalf of American companies or citizens.”

“Just what information did you consider in your assessment?” Janet inquired. “I mean, before you decided to play Inspector Clouseau with our phone records?”

“That information is classified,” Dr. Singh said repressively.

I looked at Dr. Livingston, who had been very quiet during this back-and-forth. “Please, Doctor. Beginnings are difficult. If we know what you’ve looked at, we may be able to explain what you’re actually seeing.”

“But, if you are foreign agents, having a better idea of what we already know would help you to deceive us,” Grant said. He sounded almost apologetic.

I kept my eyes on Dr. Livingston. After a moment, she nodded. “It’s not a particularly thick file,” she conceded. “Two months ago, there was nothing remarkable about Dr. Seldon. And, as Mr. Grant just suggested, no record of a ‘Jessica James,’ at all. Our analysis was based on Dr. Grimm’s report, the records of the Northampton Police Department, an interview with a Nothampton physician, and a review of a lab report on some bloodwork.”

“Quibble, Wolf and Grimm,” Janet growled. “They sound like billboard lawyers. Act like ‘em too.”

“Not your favorite people?” Dr. Singh asked.

“We have legitimate complaints with each of them,” I said, working hard to sound reasonable. “But we can put that aside for now. When we met with Professor Grimm, he indicated that the battery specifications we provided were far beyond anything currently available. I assume that the battery passed all tests, which is the basis for your FISA analysis – and the only reason we’re having this conversation.”

“That’s . . .” Dr. Singh began.

Dr. Livingston cut him off. “Obvious,” she finished. “You’re correct. Professor Grimm confirmed that the battery exceeded all of the specs you provided by at least fifteen percent. More, for some parameters. Dr. Singh and I have personally reviewed Professor Grimm’s testing protocols and results. The tech, at least, appears to be legitimate.”

I mentally patted myself on the back for having worked that out. I was feeling hopeful. A turn in the trail gave us a beautiful view of the spire of Georgetown University across the Potomac, gleaming in the morning sunlight.

“So,” I said, “I assume you appreciate what this tech would mean. How valuable it is.”

Dr. Livingston shrugged. “I understand the ‘owners’ want to make a trade, so I suppose I should say how confident I am that we can match the battery’s performance in a few years. But that wouldn’t be very credible under the circumstances.”

“No,” I agreed.

“Let’s cut to the chase,” Dr. Singh said. “How much do ‘they’ want for the know-how?”

“They don’t want money at all,” I replied. “They want some highly processed material available to only a handful of governments.”

“Industrial-strength bullshit?” Grant guessed.

“Every government has that,” Janet countered.

Dr. Singh ignored the byplay and stopped dead, causing the rest of us to stop as well, just short of the footbridge connecting the island to the Virginia shore. “What kind of ‘highly-processed materials?’” The warning in his voice was palpable.

Janet and I looked at each other. She shrugged, as if to say, “Here goes nothing.”

“Weapons-grade uranium,” I said, striving to keep my voice even.

Three sets of eyes nailed me in place. None of them looked remotely friendly.

Janet finally broke the hostile silence. “Well, that’s put a damper on the morning, hasn’t it?”

Dr. Singh turned to look at Dr. Livingston. “You accept our conclusion now, I assume? If their wonderful wooden horse could talk, it’d say “Opa!”

“Well . . . “ she equivocated.

“Dr. Livingston – Averil – you have to see this is a scam!” The Undersecretary looked exasperated.

Dr. Livingston appeared conflicted. Uncertain.

“It is no scam,” I said, my voice urgent. “You know the tech is real. More importantly, the owners assure us that there are no impediments to commercial production . . . .”

“And with nothing more than that, we’re supposed to give away the most dangerous material in our arsenal of weapons? Probably to terrorists? Who are you people working for?” Dr. Singh was positively furious.

“Well . . . .” I said, and stopped.

“You see,” Janet tried, before also finding it hard to continue.

“Aaaaand,” Grant said, “here’s where the space aliens come in.”

My temper was starting to flare as well.

“As a matter of fact, yes! Not that this should be news to you. I told Dr. Bell, he told Officer Wolf, and I confirmed it.”

“Uh huh,” Dr. Singh said, his voice indicating deep skepticism. “Officer Wolf also wrote that you claimed to be a missing professor of something or other.”

“That’s ‘Distinguished Professor of Something-or-Other’ to you,” I said indignantly.

“Riiiiiight,” he said. “But according to the police, the ‘distinguished’ professor who’s missing is supposed to be an old guy.”

Janet was pissed. “That professor is a person, with a name – James Wainwright! A good friend of mine for thirty years! And not for nothin’, ‘sixty’ is a long, long way from ‘old.’”

Janet’s fury had no effect on the undersecretary. “Whatever,” he said, dismissively. “In case you haven’t noticed, she isn't old enough to buy beer, sure’s hell she ain’t male, and I’ve seen dachshunds that look more ‘distinguished.’”

The moment appeared to be rapidly slipping away. “The aliens are advanced in biological sciences as well as physical and materials sciences. I was given a shot which changed my physical appearance . . . .”

“Into one that just happens to be very easy on the eye,” Grant assessed.

“Very easy,” Dr. Singh agreed.

“Particularly to the male gaze,” Dr. Livingston said dryly, giving her colleagues a look. But then she sighed. “You must admit, Ms. James, that for space aliens, they seem to have a firm grasp on the finer points of human aesthetics.”

“That’s kind of my fault,” I said ruefully.

Dr. Singh snickered. “I’ll bet.”

“Actually,” Janet said sarcastically, “the aliens think they might have gone overboard on the bust and rear end. They keep carping about the proportions.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the Undersecretary opined, thoughtfully.

“Does everybody get to have an opinion about that?” I said, exasperated. “Really?”

“It does kind of go with the territory, I’m afraid.” The Science Advisor, a very good looking woman herself, had some cause to know. “Nonetheless, gentlemen” – she gave her male colleagues another warning look – “I expect the President would prefer that we stay on task?”

“I bet he'd have an opinion,” Grant muttered.

“Did you say something, Mr. Grant?” Dr. Livingston’s tone could have lowered ambient temperatures on Neptune.

“Just thinking out loud, Ma’am,” he said with a slow smile.

“I’d certainly welcome some thinking, Mr. Grant,” she admonished. “Preferably with the head between your ears, if you get my drift.”

I decided it was time to try another tack. “You have my phone records – and my texts! You know the aliens contacted me!”

Dr. Singh looked amused. “Oh, please! Did they also give you a business card that said ‘Space Aliens?’ The texts are consistent with your story, sure. But we’d expect that from scammers.”

I tried again. “Were you able to trace my location during the times that I spoke to Mr. Grant?”

“NSA believes the signals were bounced off of satellites.” Singh’s response appeared to be addressed to Dr. Livingston rather than me.

“Should’ve tried bouncin’ you off a satellite,” Janet said. “Might have improved your analytical abilities. Where the hell did they find you, anyway? The Dim Horizons Daycare and Kennel?”

Dr. Livingston still looked conflicted. Ignoring Janet and me, she asked Dr. Singh, “What about the blood tests? Multiple DNA?”

“The lab is convinced that the sample was contaminated.”

“Why?” I asked, exasperated. “Because they’ve never seen anything like it, that’s why! Listen, you can explain away every single piece of evidence, but all of it, combined? Where’s the logic in that?”

“Very simple,” Singh replied. “It doesn’t matter whether you multiply zero by one or by fifty. The end result is still zero.”

“Then what on earth could ever possibly convince you people?” I demanded.

“On earth?” Dr. Singh smiled coldly. “I can’t imagine.”

“Why would an advanced race of aliens want our weapons anyway?” Dr. Livingston inquired.

“They don’t,” I said. “They want the material, not the weapons.”

“There’s a reason it’s described as ‘weapons grade.’” Now Dr. Singh sounded pedantic. “What the hell else is it good for? Breakfast cereal?”

“Ummm,” I said, knowing this wasn’t going to help, “Apparently the aliens use it as an aphrodisiac.”

Everyone was looking at me again. This time they didn’t look angry so much as dumbfounded.

I felt the need to add, “No, I don’t know why or how. Do I look like a xenobiologist?”

Grant said, “Ah, no. More like a cheerleader, really.”

“If only she were rooting for the home team,” Dr. Singh added. He turned to Dr. Livingston. “Averil?”

She sighed and shook her head. “I apologize. It just looked so . . . Well. Too good to be true, I guess. You were right.”

“Wait!” I said.

“Please proceed, Mr. Grant,” said Dr. Singh.

Grant stepped forward. “I regret that I need to take you both into custody for potential violations of the Espionage Act. If you'll come with me, please?” Planting a firm hand in the smalls of our backs, he began walking us both to the foot bridge.

As we were propelled onto the span, I looked back over my shoulder, desperate to salvage the situation. Dr. Livingston ignored me and continued speaking to Dr. Singh.

“Why did we even come here?” I groaned.

“All things considered, I’d rather be in Philadelphia,” Janet agreed.

“Philadelphia?” I said blankly.

“If they lock us up,” Janet said, “maybe they’ll let you do a bit of reading. You might even learn somethin.’”

But I wasn’t listening to Janet. Dr. Singh and Dr. Livingston had followed us onto the bridge, and I heard Dr. Singh tell the Science Advisor, “We’ll have the lab pull the shielding off . . . “

I spun around so fast it caught Grant by surprise and he stumbled. “No!” I cried out, urgently.

Grant grabbed for me. In desperation, I shoved him. He was off balance and fell down.

I had the senior pair’s attention. Before Grant could get up, I said, “Please! You’ll be putting people in great danger – it’ll explode!”

“But you would say that, wouldn’t you?” Doctor Singh countered. “Don’t you worry. We’ll crack it and figure out what you’re playing with – and who!”

“Whom,” I said, automatically.

“I’d be surprised if you can figure out how to put on your pants without help,” Janet said, disgusted. “Where’d you get that doctorate? Screw U?”

I opened my mouth to repeat my warning, but I was spun around and Grant locked me in a tight grip, squeezing both elbows painfully.

Grant no longer had a free hand to spare for Janet, who leaned against the bridge railing and gave him an evil look. “So I’m guessin’ you don’t mind if I wander off? Despite my bein’ a dangerous terrorist an’ all.”

“Just walk in front of me,” Grant grated.

“I don’t turn my back on jackals,” she responded. “Don’t take orders from ‘em either.”

“Get moving!” he barked.

“Get stuffed!” she replied.

“What?”

“It’s English. In England, anyway, and I suppose they oughta know. Meantime, you can assume I’m bein’ rude and generally uncooperative.”

“Resisting arrest?” Grant inquired, in a deceptively mild voice.

“I ain’t seen no stinkin’ badge. Far as I know, bein’ the Duke of Earl might – maybe – give you the right to order coffee at Starbucks. And get some, even, long as you pay for it.”

Grant ground his teeth, no doubt cursing his parents, living or dead. I would have felt some sympathy, but he was clearly unwilling to release either of my elbows. Janet was, equally clearly, not going to move on her own.

But Dr. Singh waved vigorously, and two men in dark sunglasses got out of a car in the parking lot by the end of the bridge. They quickly began crossing to where Grant, Janet and I were standing.

“Janet,” I said, “It’s no use.”

“Oh, fine!” She was completely disgusted. She turned and marched grimly towards Singh’s reinforcements.

“Tom, take this one,” one of the approaching men said, indicating Janet. “I’ll take the other.”

“Rank sure has its privileges, don’t it?” Tom replied, eyeing me wistfully while dutifully moving in Janet’s direction.

“Mr. Grant,” I said with quiet urgency as the supervisor approached, “I’m trying to prevent a disaster. Please! Don’t let them tamper with that battery!”

“Above my paygrade,” he replied.

My frustration and anger boiled over. “Then I assume you’ll be volunteering for that duty? Or are you only brave enough to face down teenage girls?”

He stiffened, but said nothing.

“Officer?” I said to the approaching security, making the word a question.

“Sergeant,” he corrected. “Sergeant Mattia Ottuso.”

“I'll be happy to cooperate, Sergeant, but I would appreciate seeing some evidence that you are a sworn law enforcement officer.”

He gave me a quizzical look, but pulled out a wallet and showed me a badge.

“Federal Protective Service?” I asked. “That’s a new one. Just for the record, I’m not feeling very protected.”

He looked uncomfortable, but said, “Will you come with me, please, Miss?”

“As soon as this Profile in Courage deigns to let me go.”

Grant released my elbows. “All yours, Sergeant.”

I stepped forward. “And where might we be going this fine morning, Sergeant?”

“The car?”

Why he made it a question was beyond me. Honestly, he didn’t look like the sharpest formaggio in the fridge. But there was nothing else I could do. I resumed walking.

Janet and “Tom” were waiting just past the end of the bridge for us to catch up. Two more men in suits and sunglasses got out of a second parked car and walked toward them. We’d almost reached the group when Sergeant Ottuso called ahead, “Keep him back, Trey.”

I looked to where Ottuso was pointing and saw a man on foot approaching the bridge from the bike path between the river and the G.W. Parkway. A man wearing an old fashioned gray pinstripe suit . . . and flip-flops. I picked up my pace and slipped past Janet and Tom.

One of the security people – Trey, I presume – walked briskly towards Ensign Worm to intercept him, saying “Sorry, sir, “ but whatever he intended to say next was moot. The Ensign made a move that was too quick to follow and was suddenly past the officer.

“Hey!” Ottuso shouted behind me.

Worm was just yards away. He stretched out his hand to give me a burner phone to replace the one Grant had destroyed. And the world, suddenly, went mad.

“Gun!!!” Ottuso shouted.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Tom raising a weapon.

“No!” Janet screamed, bringing a hand down to knock the officer’s arm.

“No!” screamed Doctor Livingston, suddenly, and too late, sprinting down the last section of the bridge.

“No!” I screamed, lunging forward to knock Worm down.

There was a clap like thunder and my chest exploded in agony.

“Noooooo!” screamed Tom, as my world went dark.

I scream, you scream, we all scream . . . . My mind, detached, spun down a rabbit hole. The last thing I heard was Janet’s anguished wail.

“JAMES!!!”

* * * * *

My hearing returned first. What I mostly heard was Janet cursing a blue streak and keeping everyone back. “Guy says he’s a doctor, and unlike YOU highly-credentialed thumb-suckers, he might be the kind that actually helps people. Stay the fuck back!”

Another voice . . . Ottuso? “You’ve got paramedic training, don’t you, Tom?”

“Three courses . . . .” The voice sounded young – and shaky.

“You even step toward her and I’ll feed your balls to slugfish!” Janet again.

“What’s he doing?”

“What’s that?”

I didn’t recognize either voice. In the distance, I heard the sound of an approaching siren.

A low voice, near my ear, with a very flat affect said, “Move eyebrow if hear me can, Jessica James.”

I moved an eyebrow.

I felt hands on my head, moving it back and forth. There was a tug on my ear and a stinging sensation. “You say would, ‘open microphone,’” Worm said softly. “We monitor now. Your species . . . I doubt.”

I opened my eyes just a fraction – enough to see Worm’s form bending over me. I seemed to be lying on my back, though I couldn’t remember how I got there. “Worm,” I murmured, “Beginnings are difficult.”

“Ah. Like a TV pilot?”

“Well . . . sort of.” There was more to it – a lot more – but no time to explain. “Don’t judge us by the first episode, okay?”

He thought for a moment before saying, “You talk. We listen. Like E.F. Hutton.”

I would have to think about what he meant by that.

The sound of the siren was close, closer, then stopped. I heard the sound of doors opening and male voices shouting, “Move, move, move!!!”

Worm looked at me one more time, gave a very theatrical wink, and, using his more animated voice, said, “And now, for my next impression – Jesse Owens!” He disappeared from my sight.

“Hey!!!” Ottuso again. “Stop!!!”

Not again! I sat up and opened my eyes. Just then, I heard a distant splash.

Turning my head, I saw three of the four security guards at the edge of the parking lot, looking down towards the river. Mercifully, none of them had drawn a weapon.

“He won’t get far in that suit,” one of them said. The Sergeant looked back, turning his attention to Grant. “Should I pursue?”

But no-one was paying any attention to them. “Jessica!” Janet shouted, and ran to me, arriving seconds before the paramedics. Tom, looking green but relieved, was right behind her.

“Stand aside, ma’am,” a paramedic said brusquely.

“Fuck off,” Janet snarled, leaving him momentarily nonplussed. “You’re still with us?” she asked me anxiously.

“Think so. I’m a bit lightheaded. What happened?”

One of the paramedics put his hands on Janet and said, urgently, “Ma’am, she’s bleeding out!”

Was I bleeding? I didn’t feel like I was bleeding. I looked down and felt slightly faint. Not sure I’d ever seen that much blood before. But I was confident I wasn’t bleeding. “Help me up,” I said to Janet.

She tried, but the paramedic got in her way. “Ma’am – trust us, please!”

Oh, fine, I thought, as the two of them struggled. I got one leg under me, then the other. Suddenly I felt supporting hands on one arm. “Okay? Lift,” Doctor Livingston said quietly, right beside my ear.

I got to my feet.

The paramedic stopped wrangling with Janet and looked at me, stunned.

My head swam, but I closed my eyes and it got better. I felt a gentle touch near my left shoulder. My sodden shirt being pushed out of the way.

“Well?” That was the Undersecretary’s voice. Singh.

“The slightest evidence of scarring. Nothing else.” That was Livingston. “Based on her color, though, she’s lost a lot of blood.”

“Oh, you don’t say.” Janet. Not in a good mood.

I opened my eyes again. Dr. Livingston was looking around, a frown on her made-for-greenroom face.

She reached a sudden decision. “Too many people, Ranveer,” she said quietly to Doctor Singh. “Collect your team. Get them back to St. Elizabeths, and make sure they know everything that happened today is covered by official secrets, six times over. Brief the Secretary only. Let me borrow Grant.”

She turned to the paramedics. In a louder voice, she said, “I’m sorry; it was a false alarm. We saw what we thought was blood, but we were wrong.”

The paramedic she was addressing looked dubious. “But you just said . . . .”

“Obviously, I erred.” Her voice was iron.

“Honest,” I said, trying to be helpful. “I’m fine. It’s just a flesh wound . . . .”

“Teach you to run with a ketchup bottle,” Janet scolded.

The paramedic still looked dubious. I’m guessing because he’d seen ketchup before. And blood. That none of our explanations agreed with each other probably didn’t help.

Doctor Livingston’s voice suddenly took on the sharp crack of command. “You got a hearing problem, Mister?”

The paramedic looked startled and began to move. Quickly. “No Ma’am!” In extremely short order, he and his crew were back in their vehicle and moving away.

Doctor Singh hadn’t moved. “You're not in my chain of command, Doctor Livingston,” he said softly.

She gave him a hard look. “You want to have that fight right now?” Her voice was equally soft . . . but it had an edge that was undeniable. “You and your team didn’t exactly cover yourselves in glory today. This fluster chuck’s all on you.”

He swallowed. “When you make your report . . . .”

She cut him off. “You won’t be there,” she said sweetly. “Grant might be . . . if you loan him to me.”

“Look, Averil,” Dr. Singh began.

“LATER, dammit!” she hissed. “As in, ‘not now,’ and ‘not in the middle of the bloody parking lot!’”

“Literally,” Janet growled.

Dr. Singh nodded, looking unhappy. “Grant, assist Dr. Livingston.” He moved off to collect his team.

Grant, Janet, Dr. Livingston and I were alone. Dr. Livingston said, “Ms. James – or, honestly, Professor Wainwright, if you prefer – I do think you need blood. Or plasma, or something. Something other than Gatorade, anyway. Not my specialty. If we can get you to a secure facility, we can get that done discreetly. I’d like to go with you. And Mr. Grant.”

Hearing a menacing sound associated with irate watchdogs, she added, “and Professor Seldon, of course. Would that be acceptable?”

“Oh, Oysters come and walk with us, the Walrus did beseech!” Janet said darkly.

But I nodded, agreeing. I couldn’t continue to stand for much longer. Besides . . . Livingston was willing to call me Professor Wainwright? Maybe it was even worth getting shot, for that. I would need a bit more evidence of good faith before I’d go that far.

Grant drove what looked like an unmarked government SUV – black, naturally – and Dr. Livingston rode shotgun. Janet joined me in the back seat. “How’r you doin,’ Hon?” she asked as we sped into the city.

“I’ve had better days,” I admitted. “I mean, what with being called a liar, arrested, accused of espionage, getting shot . . . . “

“Worse than a curriculum committee meeting?” Janet asked.

I thought it over. “Yeah. . . . I guess so. I mean, unless Dean Devereaux is chairing it.”

Janet rolled her eyes. No-one had a higher opinion of the dean than Janet, and Janet thought the woman was coruscatingly dull – a shining example of the Peter Principle.

After a moment, I said, “I feel better than I’d expect to, somehow. Are you sure I was shot?”

Janet shuddered and looked ill. “Trust me, darlin’. You were most definitely shot.”

Dr. Livingston added, “Your shirt’s still got the holes, front and back. You should, too. But you don’t.”

“What’d I miss?” I asked.

“Worm was right there,” Janet answered. “He said, ‘Doctor, am’ in that weird way of his, and I remembered you’d said he used that old McCoy line when he gave you the shot – the one about being a doctor. So . . . well, look, Jessica. I’ll be honest. I'm not a doctor – not an MD, anyways – but even I knew you were gonna bleed out before any help could show up. So I let him try.”

Doctor Livingston nodded. “That’s what I saw too. That, plus the fact that I was further away than the officers, and even I saw he was trying to give you a frickin’ cell phone.” Her voice was thick with rage. She paused to take a calming breath. “I assume I just saw an alien, didn’t I?”

“I dunno,” Janet said sourly. “Isn’t that classified?”

“‘Official secrets, six times over,’ or something?” I added.

Dr. Livingston winced. “Touché. But I’m going to have to brief the President. What would you like me to say?”

“Tell him Birnam Wood came to Dunsinane,” Janet said, her tone still harsh.

I closed my eyes again. I seemed to be very, very tired. “No-one believed what I had to say anyway. Tell him what you saw. Maybe he’ll believe that.”

There was a long silence. Mr. Grant, surprisingly, was the one to break it. “I apologize, Professor. And Doctor Livingston. My country wasn’t well-served by my institutional paranoia today.”

“Will wonders never cease?” Janet said.

“I hope not,” I murmured. My head rolled forward.

As I slid back toward oblivion, I heard Janet’s voice, suddenly urgent. “Punch it!!!”

* * * * *

I regained consciousness in what appeared to be a hospital room. At least, I was in a hospital bed, and there was an IV attached to my arm. Janet was beside me. The room was otherwise empty.

“Hey,” I said, my voice still sounding a bit weak. “I hate to keep asking this, but . . . what happened?”

Janet cupped a hand against one of my cheeks. “You fainted, that’s all. Not too surprisin,’ under the circumstances. They brought us to some government facility in DC and got you some more blood or somethin’. That was a couple hours ago.” She pointed to the IV. “That’s just for hydration.”

“Livingston and Grant?”

“She went to see her boss. Grant’s on the other side of the door.”

“So we’re still under arrest?”

Janet waggled her fingers. “It’s a mystery. Livingston asked him to stay ’til she got back. He agreed, even though his boss seemed to want him at that meeting. Said he didn’t want to leave us unguarded.”

“Not sure how to take that,” I said.

“Lyin’ down, I hope,” Janet said. “At least for a bit longer. You had me worried there.”

“Enough to call me James,” I said softly.

“Still your last name, right?”

“Right you are.” I smiled. “Honestly, I think I’m better. And I’d rather sit up. Don’t these things adjust?”

“Uh huh,” Janet said, sounding dubious. “I’m sure they do . . . somehow.”

We spent a few minutes trying to figure out how to make the bed work. We succeeded in demonstrating that our complete lack of technical ability was negatively correlated with our mastery of the fine art of foul language. Between my compendium of foreign and ancient tongues and Janet’s literary and cultural treasures, we had a long playlist.

We failed to notice that the door had opened. “That seems like a whole lot of trash talk for a pretty straightforward task,” said a woman in a nurse’s uniform. “Isn’t one of you supposed to be some kind of a doctor?”

“Yeah,” sighed Janet. “The wrong kind, usually.”

“For anything this easy, they’re all the wrong kind,” the woman asserted as she walked briskly to the bedside. With a few quick motions, the bed began to make happy electronic noises and I was returned to my full, upright and locked position.

“Let’s see how you’re doing,” she said, beginning the process of poking, prodding and taking blood pressure that seems to be universal practice. Judging by her expression, I appeared to be doing much better. “You’re BP’s back within normal parameters,” she confirmed. “Whatever the hell you did this morning – and you’ll notice I’m not asking, ‘cuz that guy by the door with the cold fish eyes is frickin’ scary – I strongly recommend you don’t do it again.”

“Good advice,” agreed Janet. “I second it.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I said gravely. I noticed that someone had removed my tee shirt, which had been a complete wreck when I’d last seen it. But I was still wearing my sports bra and leggings, and both items were also worse for the wear. I seemed to have gotten blood just about everywhere. “I don’t suppose I could get a change of clothes?”

“Uhhh . . . .” The nurse was thinking aloud. “We have some things, but, ah, your size is a bit . . . unusual?”

“In a good way,” Janet said, reassuringly.

“Oh, of course!” The nurse said. “The best possible way. I’d kill to have your . . . ah . . . trouble fitting into other people’s clothes.”

“Everyone,” I growled. “Literally everyone!”

Just then we heard voices at the door. “Agent Grant? We’re taking them downtown.”

I heard Grant say, “Whose orders?”

“Dr. Tsong and Trevor Agnew.”

I’d heard of Dr. Tsong; if I remembered right, she was the National Security Advisor. The second name meant nothing to me.

“Dr. Livingston intended to come back for them,” Grant temporized.

“Whatever instructions you’ve been given are no longer operative.”

“Something’s rotten in the state of Denmark,” Janet murmured.

“The District’s not smelling great either.” I looked at the nurse. “I’m good to go?”

She looked uncertain – but not, it appeared, on account of my health. “You can . . . .” She drew out the second word, as if to suggest that it might not be the best idea in the world.

But it didn’t appear that we would have a whole lot of choice. Two beefy men in suits came into the room. I would have a hard time telling them apart. Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle Dum. Tweedle Dee said, “We need to take you downtown now. If you’ll come with us?”

“Are we under arrest?” I asked.

“I don’t have anything on that,” he said. “We’re taking you to the White House.”

“Who’s Agnew?”

“The Deputy Defense Secretary. Please . . . I was told this is time-sensitive.”

I saw Grant behind them in the doorway. He shrugged, looking unconvinced.

But a plan was forming in my mind. I put a hand over Janet’s to still the protest I could see forming on her lips, and said, “All right. We’ll come.”

We trooped down a couple flights of stairs and came out into what appeared to be the lobby of a nondescript office building. Interesting in and of itself. There was another black SUV waiting outside the doors. “Does the government buy these things in job lots?” I asked.

They ignored me.

I got in and scooted over to make room for Janet. Grant opened the door on the other side to get in as well.

“Got no orders for you to come,” Tweedle Dee said to Grant.

“I’m staying with them,” he said flatly, daring them to contradict him.

“Suit yourself,” Tweedle Dee said with a shrug. He got into the driver’s seat and Tweedle Dum took shotgun.

We hadn’t been going for more than five minutes when Grant said, “I’m very familiar with the District. This is not the way to get to the White House. It’s not even a way to get to the White House.”

“We have orders, Grant,” Tweedle Dum said from the passenger’s seat. “And your boss’s chop is on them.”

Grant looked . . . dangerous. But all he said was, “Would you be so kind as to loan me a phone then? I need confirmation from the Undersecretary.”

“You’ll see him soon enough,” Tweedle Dum replied.

It looked to me like we were heading out of the District altogether, although I wasn’t nearly as familiar with the area as Grant. We were no longer driving down busy boulevards; instead, we were in a more suburban setting. I was thinking hard about what Worm had said to me – and about the possibilities inherent in tractor beam technology.

I waited until we drove into a park-like area that was surrounded by trees. There were no other cars around – or people either, as near as I could tell, though Tweedle dutifully stopped at a pedestrian crosswalk. Turning my head toward Janet, I murmured, “It would be useful if the car’s wheels no longer touched the ground.”

Janet gave me a funny look. “It’d also be useful if we had wings. Invisibility too. I’ve often wanted that one. Or X-ray vision . . . .” She stopped talking. Abruptly.

We had just started to move again, but the sound – white noise, really – of the tires moving against the roadbed stopped. We continued to glide forward in a straight line, maintaining the low speed we had achieved when the sound ceased.

The road curved. Tweedle Dee attempted to steer, but the car did not respond. We bumped into the curb gently and went backwards at an even slower speed, rotating slowly until we hit the opposite curb. The car came to a stop.

“What’r you doing?” Tweedle Dum asked Tweedle Dee.

“Nothing,” Tweedle Dee replied, puzzled. He revved the engine. It made noise, but we didn’t go anywhere. “It’s like we’re on black ice or something.”

Tweedle Dum shook his head, looking disgusted. “End of July in D.C., and you’re talking about ice? Don’t you supervisors have to pass some sort of test?”

“You know,” Janet said, “Like, ‘Person, woman, man, camera, TV?’ That kinda test.”

Tweedle Dee growled at his companion, “Laugh it up, fuzzball. Now go check it out!””

Tweedle Dum got out of the car carefully, checked his footing, then went around to the front. He bent down.

“Be a good idea if the human who just left the car weren’t able to touch the ground either,” I said softly.

Tweedle Dum reappeared in front of the car, cursing. He looked a bit taller than usual, and scared. “Jack???” he squeeked.

Tweedle Dee – Jack, I guess, though I wouldn’t be able to tell the two apart in a line-up – poked his head out the window. “What?”

“Jack! Help!!”

“What?” Tweedle Dee repeated, unhelpfully. He turned back, glared at Grant, and said, “Keep them here, you!!!” Without waiting for a response, he got out of the car and headed towards Tweedle Dum.

“I don’t recall seeing you in my chain of command.” Grant’s voice was bland – and certainly inaudible to anyone outside the car.

“One more human just left the car; he should get elevated too.” I said quietly.

Tweedle Dee’s forward motion stopped and he joined Tweedle Dum in cursing.

Janet cocked her head and considered our former captors carefully. “We’re a lot better at cursing.”

“Not very imaginative,” I agreed. “Already repeating the same words? Honestly! They haven’t even hit the thirty-second mark.”

“Kids dees days,” Janet mourned, shaking her head sorrowfully.

Grant looked at me and smiled. “Nicely done, Professor. If I may make a suggestion?”

“Of course,” I replied, warily.

“If you could ask your friends to lower the car, I’ll be happy to drive you wherever you would like to go. Those gentlemen can stay there a few minutes, until we’re clear.”

“We’re supposed to trust you?” Janet’s air of light banter was gone altogether.

“Not at all,” Grant replied. “Your friends will know if I don’t do what you ask, and as you have just demonstrated, they can, ah, correct any deficiencies in my performance.”

“Heh. Good point,” she conceded.

“Sounds like a plan,” I said.

“Excuse me just a moment,” Grant said. He stepped out of the car and went over to where Tweedle Dee was cursing and thrashing, trying to touch the ground that was just out of reach of his feet. His efforts had only succeeded in canting his body at a forty-five degree angle to the ground.

When he saw Grant, he said, “Pull me to the car, quick!”

“As I already informed you – though perhaps your attention was directed elsewhere – I don’t work for you.” Grant’s tone was pleasant, like he was discussing the weather. “I don’t even know who you are.”

“You know who I work for!”

“I wonder if I do?” Grant said thoughtfully. “You kind of skipped the part where you showed some Identification.”

“We’ve got ORDERS!” Tweedle Dee said indignantly, as if the very possibility of questioning orders had never, ever even entered his mind, much less attempted to cross such barren terrain.

“Whatever orders you’ve been given are no longer operative,” Grant said, deadpan.

“You’ll do what he says if you want to live, Dickhead!”

I turned to see that Tweedle Dum had stopped flailing and drawn a weapon while we were watching his doppelgänger. Quickly, no longer afraid to be overheard, I said, “Worm! Raise and lower both suspended humans fifteen feet at random intervals and speeds!”

The Tweedles jerked up a full forty-five feet, then back down, screaming as they went like teenagers on some demented carny ride. Up, down, up, down. Tweedle Dum’s gun discharged once as he was going up, but no-one could hit anything moving around like that.

“Yo-yo, yo-yo man,” Janet sang, sounding pleased.

“‘Worm,” I said. “I think you’re using ‘yards,’ not ‘feet.’”

Janet observed, “You can’t blame them for messing up imperial units – twelve inches to a foot, but three feet to a yard and five and a half yards to a rod? Insane, really. Metric would be so much simpler.”

“Prolly not for aliens,” I said. “Not unless they really have ten digit ‘hands,’ which is the kind of coincidence that only happens in Star Trek.”

But Worm got the message, and the next series of jumps was more restrained, distance-wise at least.

As the boys appeared to be sticking within range of his voice, Grant barked, “Drop the gun, idiot!”

It took a couple more jerks on his invisible chain before Tweedle Dum tossed his weapon over to the grass.

Grant walked over and recovered it. “Careless, leaving something like this just lying around. Bad training.”

“Keep them one foot – foot, Worm! — off the ground!” I said.

They stopped moving.

“What the FUCK! Tweedle Dee said. He was practically weeping. “God, I hate heights!”

Grant bent down, grabbed Tweedle Dee’s ankle and spun him upside down. “The beauty of an essentially frictionless object,” Grant explained, “Is that it’s relatively easy to move it – although stopping, naturally, requires an equal and opposite force.”

“What do you want, you bastard!” Tweedle Dee really appeared to be quite upset.

“All in good time, my pretty,” Grant replied equably. He gave the man a thorough – and very professional – patdown, then started shaking him up and down until items began to fall out of his pockets. Grant reached down and picked up both a phone and a set of keys. A heavy wallet appeared stuck in the billfold pocket of the man’s jacket. Grant relieved him of that too, then gave him a hard shove, sending him on a collision course with Tweedle Dum.

“FUCK!!!” Tweedle Dee shouted.

Grant followed him, making disappointed noises. “You’ve used that one already. Several times. Our guests are already lamenting the sorry state of our educational system.”

When Tweedle Dee hit Tweedle Dum, he said, “Hey, spin me back upright!”

Grant shook his head. “And they are right to lament. Doesn’t anyone take physics anymore?”

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum were now both gliding up the road and, thanks to Tweedle Dee’s less-than-brilliant suggestion, turning slow cartwheels, one clockwise, the other counterclockwise. Grant walked a few paces behind, whistling the Blue Danube waltz at a tempo corresponding to their rotations, while picking up items of interest that were falling from Tweedle Dum’s pockets.

Janet said, “Damn. I mighta been a bit hard on the Duke. Dude’s got style!”

“Or possibly just a sick sense of humor,” I replied, watching closely. “Which would certainly account for your change in attitude.”

“I said ‘might,’ Jessica. Jury’s still out.”

“Don’t you need twelve people for a jury?”

“I don’t. Just call me Judge Dredd.”

They went off the road at the turn and into a field of wildflowers. Maybe ten yards in, Grant stopped first one of them, then the other. Like Janet and me, Grant hadn’t had a chance to change since our morning “meeting.” For the second time, he pulled his fanny pack around to the front and played with a dial. He checked the phone he had confiscated from Tweedle Dee and, apparently satisfied, tossed it on the grass. Then he turned and started heading back to the car.

“I will hunt you down, swear to God!” Tweedle Dum screamed at his back.

“And your little dog, too!” Janet said, chuckling.

Grant turned back and looked at the Tweedle Twins. I couldn’t hear what he said. Maybe he didn’t say anything at all. But Tweedle Dum stopped making threats. Indeed, he finally just shut up.

I said to the ether, “Thank you, Ensign. You can lower the car now, but not the two humans.” When I felt the car’s tires take its weight again, I opened the door and went to meet Grant.

“I misjudged you earlier today,” I said quietly. “I apologize for that. And for my angry words.”

He gave me a long look. “I do my duty as I see it, Professor,” he said finally. “Sometimes I get it wrong.”

“Oops?”

He smiled. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“Works for me.”

We got in the car. I studiously ignored Janet’s questioning look.

“Where to?” Grant asked.

And that, I thought, was an excellent question. Most excellent indeed.

To be continued. All in good time.