Lock and Key

"Whadya mean, no time for visiting?" I asked Perfect Tommy. He'd come looking for me first as a matter of priorities. With Replay's condition as fragile as it still was, getting things in motion as quickly as possible seemed to be a good idea; the more we could accomplish without disturbing her in the process, the better. Even so, I would have liked the opportunity to see for myself that she was conscious again.

"She still seemed pretty out of it," he said. "Complained she was tired. Plus I think Buckaroo's got plans to be moving. He wanted you and Wayback to see what you could arrange about the postpones."

"More like he wants Wayback to see if they're on the level."

"Maybe. I think maybe the boss just wants you to have early warning. Wear armor, he said."

We both knew that Buckaroo had more reason than that to want Wayback out of range for awhile, but were trying not to think about it. He wouldn't have appreciated knowing his presence was a cause of consternation, and the truth was I needed to update the local promoters and university officials. Under the circumstances, it would not have been unreasonable for me to have specifically requested the intern as my escort; his reflexes were almost on a par with Tommy's even on those few occasions when he couldn't anticipate his enemy more accurately than most. Too, he had something of an advantage at spotting deceptions or fractured communications, which we had no ethical problem with him using so long as he was only gauging emotions.

With things as unsettled as they were among us at present, expecting him to avoid reading us went beyond unreasonable. To some degree, we were all projecting at him like it or not, and the fact that most of it was either our collective anger at Xan or worries for and about Replay wasn't likely to be helping his own peace of mind any. With a bit of luck, he'd take that as a third reason he needed to be out for awhile.

"Any reason?"

"Nothing particular. You want one of the local kids to drive?"

"It's only St. Louis, Tommy. We can actually run the GPS for once." This was no insult to the global positioning system the US military was only beginning to seriously test in conflicts, but rather something of a comment on the local architecture. At the time, the level of accuracy of the few, vastly overpriced civilian-grade GPS receivers on the market was such that clustered buildings over a certain height were a significant problem. Aside from a few square blocks near the Gateway Arch, St. Louis has never been GPS-unfriendly in the way so many other large cities have. "Besides, I've always wondered how Wayback'd handle city traffic."

"You got a point there." From his sudden smile, I suspected he was thinking how different the local conditions were from those we were used to -- or those the Canadian intern had grown up around. Under other circumstances, it would have been more fun finding out. "Keep your eyes open, huh? Can't send a strike team to bail you out if he gets lost."

"I'll tell him you said that."

Perfect Tommy chuckled over that as he walked off. Wayback might or might not retaliate with a practical joke, but that was as out of hand as things were likely to get, so the blond wasn't especially worried about it. Instead, he was still trying to carry out his instructions, debating who might be available to sit watch over Replay at least long enough for Buckaroo to get some real sleep.

Lindbergh was the first candidate he found. Several younger interns were clustered around our chief pilot, who was conducting an informal demonstration of a basic principle of flight using a phone book, someone's left shoe, and a can of soda. Being Perfect, Tommy reached over and plucked the soda out of the air. Lindbergh looked at him curiously, but kept the other two objects in flight as effortlessly as if they'd rehearsed the move.

"I got good news and bad news," Tommy said. "Replay's awake, but no visitors yet. Boss wants someone to sit with her for awhile."

"I guess I'm it," Lindbergh answered that. He caught the phone book; the shoe he merely deflected back to it's apparent owner.

"At least you know to let sleeping mechanics lie," said Tommy. "She's not tracking at anything close to speed yet."

"And I have a history of not bothering her, huh? Figures. How's Buckaroo holding up?"

"Good, considering. He needs to grab some real sleep."

"Then I guess class is dismissed. Remind me later where we left off," the pilot told his audience. To Perfect Tommy he said, "Give me about five to scrounge up something to deal with that and I'll head down there."

Lindbergh was as good as his word. He knocked on the chem lab door almost exactly five minutes later, and paused only for a moment before he let himself in. "Perfect Tommy said you wanted overwatch," he said. He was carrying an oversized book in one hand and had a 9mm Beretta holstered in custom leather under his left armpit, no attempt made to conceal it.

"You volunteered," Replay guessed before Buckaroo could acknowledge him. The firearm didn't bother her in the slightest; it was something she merely cataloged. The book held her eye only slightly longer.

"Nope," he answered her cheerily; "I was drafted." From the tone, it was clear that if Tommy had asked for volunteers within earshot of the pilot, he would have jumped at the chance anyhow. "He said he could trust me not to make moves."

"You wouldn't ... and another intern might?" said Buckaroo, going along with it.

"That was my reaction. He said I had better sense than to try again without a chute." With Lindbergh, that could have been anything from a fragment of history to an attempt to make Replay more comfortable with his presence, or just his rather warped sense of humor manifesting.

"Mmm. Sounds like a plan to me," Replay said.

"That makes two of us," Buckaroo confessed. "You had us pretty worried."

She nodded. "Go on. I'm not running off under my own steam for awhile." Not unless events gave her no choice, at least, although at the time she didn't bother to admit it even to herself.

Buckaroo got up from his seat slowly, stretching as though he hadn't moved for several hours. "Call me if anything happens, " he told Lindbergh, then leaned over to lay his hand on Replay's shoulder for a moment before departing. The way she relaxed under that touch told him she knew exactly what he'd meant by it, headblind or not.

The pilot followed to the door and secured it, for all the good that might do. The frosted glass top panel wouldn't last two seconds in the face of an attack, and was only useful in that he might see a silhouette by way of early warning. Like Buckaroo, he was doing the best he knew with inadequate resources, though he perhaps had more of a clue how to do that than many other interns would have. "Anything I can do to make you more comfortable, sing out," he told his charge, turning his attention back to her. He needn't have bothered; she was already asleep.

Lindbergh wasn't certain whether to take that as a sign that her exhaustion was more profound than even she had wanted to admit, or a sign she trusted him at least that far. From what he'd heard of her, either one was possible; he simply hadn't known her long enough to judge which was likeliest. If she hadn't had any background in intelligence before her visit to Jet's people, they would have made sure she had basic working fieldcraft down cold before letting her leave, especially as Hanoi Xan might well eventually send one of his lieutenants to track her down. Unfortunately, that bit of forethought might work against Institute personnel this once, making her more paranoid than she would normally have been about her surroundings and perhaps far too unlikely to show any real sign of it. He didn't want to add to her fears by going overboard trying to reassure her. She had enough to deal with, especially if Buckaroo had told her what had happened. Drawing Xan's attention, even inadvertently, was definitely on the top ten list of things for an intern to avoid if possible; accomplishing it twice in the space of a year would have justified anyone's concern.

Not for the first time, our chief pilot wished he had even half the talent either of our gypsy residents possessed. Barring that, he would have settled for an idea of how to stretch his own mental shields to cover Replay as well as -- or even instead of -- himself. Before this was over, she was likely to need such an assist, and he didn't think Wayback would be inclined to attempt it.

Out in the hall, Buckaroo heard the door being locked behind him and felt a little better for it; he perhaps more than the rest of us knew how justified Replay's reputation was. If he'd noticed such precautions, she would have had to been completely deaf, or dead, not to have been aware as well. Too, he was glad Perfect Tommy had sent Lindbergh, drafted or not. The pilot was nowhere close to being in Wayback's league, but wasn't altogether without talents of his own which might prove useful. Sick or wounded, Replay had always tolerated pilots and musicians better than any other sort of stranger; he was just the latest to prove that it didn't seem to matter whether she was conscious or not to recognize either profession -- both of which her kin associated with psi talent often enough for her not to mistake him for a threat simply because he hadn't been born as headblind as most.

But with Lindbergh the only other pilot/musician among us, Buckaroo was aware the rest of us were not as immune to potential risk from Replay once she recovered further. And while she slept, she was probably in greater danger of Wayback inadvertently reading her mind than he would have liked. With this to be concerned about, he went in search of Perfect Tommy.

Pecos stopped him in the hall outside a former teacher's lounge before he'd gotten far in his quest. "They've been gone about five minutes," she said. "You might relax a little. Tommy told some of us what was up a couple ago."

"Not as much as you think," Buckaroo said. "I need to brief everybody who's been in on this from day one. We may have a situation."

"I'll get people together. Any of it for local consumption, or just residents plus . . . ?"

"Right now, residents plus. The public part can wait; this is NTK."

Need to know was a phrase far more often invoked by the intelligencia than among us, but it was no great surprise to Pecos that he'd picked up the acronym -- probably from Indigo, who lived with it on a daily basis. "That include Reno?"

"I need you to take care of that for me later."

She nodded. "Where do you want this? Anyplace special?"

"This should do," he answered, pointing at the lounge door.

"Give me fifteen; I think I can get people by then. Half of them are down in the gym as it is."

"Make it an hour. I need to put some things together." He was rather glad when Pecos only nodded and headed off to find people rather than asking what he meant; he wasn't certain he knew that himself.

He was in the kitchen grabbing a snack and trying to get his head completely straight when Rawhide came back from a routine perimeter walk-around. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Tommy said she was awake, but ..."

"Go have a look for yourself," Buckaroo said. "See if we agree."

"That bad."

"She wouldn't admit to it right now, but situation comes to mind."

Rawhide nodded. "I guessed as much when I saw Reno and Wayback. She headblind or just paranoid around him?"

"He says headblind, but I wouldn't place bets. If she's paranoid, it's definitely too low-key for me to tell."

"That could change. I don't like the breeze out there. Big Norse says there's nothing from NOAA, but --"

"Better tell Lindbergh, then. He's sitting." They both knew that the National Weather Service was hardly infallible, and that NOAA Weather Radio wouldn't put anything into their forecast until the Weather Service issued the next updates, but the pilot was woefully unaware of how Replay disliked major storms, or that she had good reason for that opinion. "Keep the rest to yourself if you can; I'd rather it not get out any sooner than necessary."

***

If there has ever been an intern among us who'd caught Hanoi Xan's imagination so thoroughly as Replay, we remain blissfully unaware of the fact. Through his extensive network of spies, he'd learned of her return from the wilds of Brazil almost as soon as her plane had touched down at La Guardia, although he hadn't made much of the report at once. It had only been a day or two later that he'd realized she was the woman who'd been Lo Pep's prisoner for a pathetically brief length of time months earlier. Her companion at the time had been an ex-Black Beret, so the escape itself would not have been particularly memorable but for her part in it.

Annoying though her habit of surviving was, she would be well worth having as part of his network of spies and assassins. The escape alone had been proof enough of that. The Black Beret, whatever his name was, had undoubtedly worked with her before or was far better than reputation hinted; once she'd made the opportunity, the two of them had functioned masterfully without recourse to any form of communication that recorders might capture. All of this was even more worth noting because she, at least, had been suffering the first symptoms of the talava reaction that had come close to killing her.

Since then, he'd bided his time waiting for another opportunity to get his hands on her, and his network had come through. Once he'd known the location of the hotel in St. Louis, getting the bomb there had been no great feat. Like the Mafia before it, the World Crime League had tentacles in every level of the Gateway City's society, and bribes hadn't even been necessary.

Just now, Xan wasn't sure whether he was pleased with the latest reports or not. The meddlesome intern had survived again, this time throwing off the overt effects of exposure in a matter of hours rather than weeks despite his calculations that she'd taken a dose that should have been enough to make any human being a crazed, ravening zombie even he couldn't control. This had to be verified, even if it meant giving up one of the few spies he had inside Team Banzai. He flipped through views on a large screen against one wall until he was looking at an image of several of the Cavaliers.

"... no visitors yet." Perfect Tommy's voice said from the speakers. "I'd guess tomorrow, maybe."

"But he hasn't come out yet?" Penny Priddy asked from somewhere off screen.

"Give it a few," said Tommy. "I just sent Lindbergh down to take over. You might be able to get Buckaroo to go pass out for awhile; he probably needs it as much as Replay could do with some rest."

So, the gods had seen fit to grant his desire without the necessity of risking a spy yet. And perhaps Banzai was growing lax as well, to leave only one guard on her; it might be that he could slip one of his eyes in for a look on the pretext of questioning this Lindbergh about something unrelated. It was worth some thought. As for right now -- "Find an opportunity. Ask Banzai all the questions one of her friends would ask about her. Report to me with all you learn." The view on the screen dipped very slightly, as though the person wearing a concealed camera had tried to nod without anyone noticing.

***

Driving in St. Louis is unlike driving anywhere else in the US, although some aspects of it are seen elsewhere. The rolling "stop" practiced there is rather more of a severe slowdown than a full h alt and is known in some parts of the country as a "St. Louis stop". Being in the appropriate lane at any given point in a trip is important enough that the more thoughtful locals include such information in directions for their out-of-town friends, although in general the signage is above average, and certainly posted at a more reasonable range than in Kansas City. Blind corners and oddly angled intersections are common, and the number of one way streets would confound even the soberest Corellian. Speed limit signs are at best mere guidelines, and not always presumed as a recommended minimum; there is a stretch of I-70, for instance, where the posted limit averages being 5-10 mph above the speed most traffic travels, this for no apparent reason. The local constabulary travel one to a car, which tends to provoke sudden reversion to speed limits, but small roadside police conventions of 3 or more cars are frequent enough not to draw special attention.

Perhaps the largest single hazard of driving in the Gateway City, however, is precipitation. Blue Blazes living in the area often refer to something they call the "idiot factor", which comes in two types: your usual garden variety idiot, who suffers from EEDB (engage engine, disengage brain); and the Instant Idiot (Just Add Water--In Any Form). The first variety is common anywhere that automobiles may be found in motion, but the appearance of the latter sort on the scale seen in St. Louis seems to be something of a local phenomenon. Traffic may be moving at 60 mph through a construction zone, but if three good-sized raindrops hit someone's windshield, chances are high that he'll stand on the brakes and drop his speed by at least 15 mph in a matter of seconds regardless of the speed limit, traffic conditions, or any other concerns. At the other extreme, there are people who drive like they're on dry pavement even in the middle of ice storms.

Late August in Missouri is often plagued by intense heat, which sometimes leads to severe weather. Fortunately for life and limb, most of the state is covered by some combination of local radio stations, warning sirens, and/or NOAA weather radio. Unfortunately, the stronger storms, especially those with a good deal of lightning, can be as much of a civilian-grade GPS hazard as tall buildings. We discovered this disheartening fact of life along I-70 in St. Peters, when lightning hit the radio tower of a weight station just as we passed it. Even with the rubber of our tires as insulation, it was possible to feel the charge in the air to an uncomfortable degree, but when it's suddenly raining so hard you can't see properly to stay in your own lane, it's difficult to take cover.

GPS-less and shaken, we exited at the first opportunity a bit over a mile (and a full fifteen minutes) later. The local sirens were still silent, and we sat in the car in a restaurant parking lot almost that much longer before the rain subsided enough for a run for the building to be worthwhile. We had the entryway to ourselves for only a few seconds before we were joined by other drenched souls pushing their way inside, far more interested in hot beverages and how long a wait there was than in any particular person there. The waitress who seated us didn't give either of us a second glance even when I pulled out my go-phone to try checking in again.

This time, I got an answer. "It hit here hard about twenty minutes ago. No hail, and the winds aren't that bad, but there's a lot of lightning. You'd better stay put for awhile," Big Norse advised, enunciating a bit more carefully than usual to be heard over the background of storm and voices. "The National Weather Service just issued the warning about ten minutes after you caught it. They must have been as off guard as you were, because we're not finding any record of a watch."

"What's expiration time?" I asked her, glancing at Wayback over my coffee mug. I didn't bother to ask him why he hadn't seen it coming; foreseeing weather wasn't his strong suit, especially when it was weather he would to have to deal with personally.

"You've got another hour before they think it'll clear Missouri altogether. And Reno, you should hear the cops downtown. They still haven't finished recovering evidence from the hotel, and this looks like it's coming right at them. If you could aim a storm, I'd be worried; this one hasn't followed anything like the normal track since it started."

"I wouldn't put it past the Nova Police," I said, "but at least we know it's not personal." Under the circumstances, I was loath to use even one of Xan's lesser-known epithets. "I'll check back before we leave here, or turn on the beacon sooner if things look interesting."

"Switch it on when you leave, regardless. We can track and vector you in that way unless you take another near hit. I think the EMP from that strike probably fried the GPS receiver." She didn't have to explain further why I hadn't gotten through earlier. The electromagnetic pulse from one lightning bolt is a lot smaller than the EMP signature of a nuclear weapon, but still enough to make communications interesting when there's a really active storm. By using a satellite based system, we usually avoided disruptions due to mere static, but there were the occasional exceptions. If I'd been on the go-phone when the weight station tower was hit, it probably would have been defunct as well.

"Probably have to eat it too," I said. "I doubt it even makes the deductible." The waitress returned with the coffeepot in one hand and a pen in the other, ready to take an order if we were so inclined. "I'll talk to you in a bit," I told Big Norse, and put the go-phone away. Food might not dry us out any, but it would definitely make me less annoyed about being wet.