“Anytime,” I reply, and squinting in the brightness, I stoop down to unlace my filthy boots, kicking them off.
Dropping my ballistic vest, jacket and duffel bag on the floor, I set the journals, my backpack and gun belt on a table to deal with later. Nothing much has changed since I was here days earlier, only me. I feel at home and absolutely don’t as I look around at our big open area of workbenches, machines, tool chests, electrical components, the empty car lift, and Dad’s rebuilt ’68 Camaro covered up next to it.
Vintage automotive calendars are everywhere, and there’s not much we haven’t worked on in here including radio-controlled vehicles like dune buggies and aircraft. We’ve refurbished small planes, old cars, experimenting with sensors and all sorts of autonomous contraptions including PONGs and pieces and parts of them.
I leave Ranger comfortable and stable on a beanbag near an assortment of less serious orbs, ones that aren’t prototypes but meant to be festive and imaginative, lighting up Mom’s favorite blue. Dad and I were working on them as a special Christmas present for her, and he’s not supposed to leave them out in plain view.
He’ll ruin the surprise if he hasn’t already, and I head to the stairs where my take-home crash dummy Otto is parked in his wheelchair. He looks the same as when I saw him last, naked as the day he was made, his steel lifting ring protruded like a loop antenna from a hairless pate the same brownish-pink tint as a pencil eraser.
Slouched with his chest unzipped, wires and cables hanging out, he holds a set of hex keys in his rubbery hands as if trying to put himself back together again. I feel a twinge of guilt that he’s undone and undressed, the dummy beyond his prime when it comes to being banged up and tossed around, wrenched, slammed and bounced.
Upgraded beyond his capabilities, he’s limited and rigid, and I suppose after being abused for decades, it was only fair NASA decided to retire him, allowing him to come home with me. For the past three years Otto has lived in our barn, trying on all sorts of things for size, new types of sensors, remote controls, accelerometers, antennas, and a variety of smart materials and fabrics.
He’s been dropped from the roof wearing a ballistic parachute, sent crashing through trees on the zip line while clad in an exoskeleton, upended by his jetpack, thrown from moving vehicles in helmet tests and subjected to extreme temperatures. Just to name a few of his misadventures.
“You and I are more alike than I knew,” I greet him and he doesn’t answer. “I’ve had done unto me what I’ve done unto you. And thus, the meaning of karma, not to be confused with my sister.”
His head is turned toward the wall, his empty eyes not looking at me. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s miffed, suspicious I’m cheating on him with ART, and I am, let’s face it. I can’t possibly feel the same way about a crash dummy now that I have a SIN inside me, and with each passing hour it’s harder for me to remember what it felt like to be normal.
Upstairs in my office, I begin shedding my disgusting clothing, opening a closet, stuffing everything in the upright washer-dryer that makes me think of Pebo Sweeny’s sour-smelling laundry. As I walk past my desk’s array of spectrum analyzers, I’m reminded they shouldn’t be detecting my implanted devices. And they’re not.
I can see that for myself on the displays, and it seems my invisibility cloak is working just fine. Although I’m still baffled and slightly concerned by Nonna’s reaction. I don’t like that she had a spell, an energy disturbance as Lex called it, and I hope it doesn’t mean she actually detected my transmissions.
00:00:00:00:0
ART suggests I point my WAND at the Norfolk pine that Dad and I electrified, and it turns on, casting a lovely glow over my home office.
The softly illuminated fernlike branches host a flock of recharging PONGs varying in shape and purpose, ranging from pocket size to as big as basketballs. Their attachment to their living spring-green perch is mutually accommodating, the “stem” an electrical current, the recharger and recharging never quite touching.
Their connection is held fast invisibly, ever so distantly until the signal is interrupted when it’s time for the flying orbs to go to work. Unfortunately, it will be without Ranger for a while, I think sadly, envisioning his shredded shell, feeling I failed to take good care of him. Dad and I both will have to step up our drone testing, and figure out a way to include raptor protection.
While I’m thinking all this, I’m reminded it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to give my PEEPS a little juice, and finding them in my backpack, I attach the smart glasses to the perch the same way I would a PONG. Next, I check computer displays showing video feeds from the security cameras that constantly monitor the farm, and ART shows the same images in my SPIES. I scan the house and barn, Fran’s place, the dock, various outbuildings that aren’t much more than sheds, and the areas where we park our cars.
Everything looks quiet, a couple of deer strolling through the garden, a few rabbits hopping, lights and candles glowing, the moon slipping in and out of wispy clouds. Barefoot and stripped down to my skivvies, I walk into my bathroom, not sure what to do.
Should I take off my SPIES and CUFF? Will showering and washing my hair cause a problem with my implanted earpiece? Considering I now have devices inside and out that supposedly work in concert with my environment, should I be concerned when taking off the rest of my clothes?
I worry how much Dick knows, and if he can tell from my transmitted data that I feel dirty or clean, too hot or cold, contented, excited, dressed or not, if I’m daydreaming or thinking private thoughts. No doubt he’s aware that I’m starving and a bit frayed at the edges right now, and I wonder when I’m going to hear from him again.
I don’t understand why he ignored me at the Gantry, and hasn’t bothered to check on how I’m doing. It seems callous not to offer further instruction after reprogramming me and practically everything I own and have, including my identical twin. Locking the bathroom door, I step into the shower, turning it on, and as Carme’s always saying, you never know how beat-up you are until you stop.
The hot water drumming down feels like heaven. My neck and shoulders are sore from all my gear, my blood sugar sinking, and I scrub myself but good with antibacterial soap while envisioning the hitman’s trailer. I’m trying not to dwell on what I saw in the garbage can, and the tools in the bathtub or the detailed grisly descriptions I read in the journals.
I wonder what Dick’s reaction will be when I tell him what happened to Noah Bishop, and if we now have a better chance of clearing Carme’s name and taking down Neva. Except I honestly can’t imagine either happening. There’s nothing I’ve seen so far in the journals that’s definitive, no names or specific places, no records of communications, associates, where he shopped, and who might have paid him.