🚀 go-pugleaf

                                [Part Three]

     Healer pushed open a door.  She could feel five minds beyond -- one of
them had to know where Trudy was.
     They were set up behind a barricade, their pistols out in three point
stances.  Just like the training book.  Just like Healer was supposed to do, if
she carried a gun, which she didn't.
     "Freeze!" one of them -- Field Agent White -- shouted.  "Federal Agents.
Get down on the floor!"
     "I am a Federal Agent," Healer shot back.  "Special Operative, Mega-
Intelligence Bureau.  Code named Healer.  Who's in charge here?"
     The agents backed off.  "You're an agent?" one asked.
     "That's right.  M.I.B. number 332411186pm."
     "Um, hold on."  Field Agent Pawtowski tapped something into his Apple
Newton, and waited for the special M.I.B. Cellular Add-In Modem to download the
information he needed.  "She checks out, I guess."
     "Sorry Ma'am," White said, holstering his pistol.  "We're in a
situation--"
     "Don't you think I'm aware of that?" Healer snapped, angry.  "How much
time have we lost?"
     "Uh--"
     "Never mind.  You -- Dickson?  Dickson.  Get covering that door again.
Give me that PDA, Field Agent.  We need to track the hostile's movements."
     Pawtowski handed her the Newton.  She smiled and slipped it into one of
the cargo pockets her new uniform had.  She stepped back behind the agents as
they again moved into position.
     She let her eyes lose focus for a second, and allowed herself to see the
slivering haze of their thoughts.  They were all so tightly focused in front of
themselves... not behind....
     Healer focused a silver whip of mental energy.  No one could see it
physically, of course.  It didn't exist.  But in her mind's eye she coiled it
back and snapped it out, cracking it into the haze of the first agent.
     Dickson's body spasmed, as though all the neurons of his brain and spine
had fired at once.  Only his trigger finger remained relaxed as he fell.  The
others turned, even as Pawtowski jerked and fell, drooling.
     "What the Hell?" a third agent -- Orzechowicz -- said.  But that was
before the three foot wide black spider jumped on him.  He threw himself into
the barricade, clawing at it, not realizing he actually had Field Agent
Fishbone in a headlock.  He clubbed the agent into unconsciousness, but then
the spider bit him, sending him into psychically drugged oblivion.
     White slowly turned and stared at Healer, who had a slight smile on her
face.
     "Yes?" she asked coyly.
     White snapped his pistol up to cover her, only he discovered he wasn't
holding his pistol.  In horror he checked his shoulder holster.
     It was there, all right.  He had holstered it.  He tried to pull it out,
but realized he had no idea how to release the snaps that held it in place.  He
struggled for a few seconds, swearing.
     He then jumped back.  "You -- you--"
     "I what?" Healer asked, still smiling.  She half-sauntered towards him.
     "Stay back!  I was top of my martial arts class!"
     "Oh?" Healer asked, smirking.  "What style?"
     "Huh?"
     "What style of Martial Arts?"
     White racked his brain.  He couldn't remember the name!  He tried to
remember anything at all about the style.  He was a black belt, he thought, or
maybe it was taupe... how did you tie those loose clothes closed again?
     Healer took pity on White and decked him.  She then took out the Newton
and used the stylus to bring up a map of the complex.  It wasn't complete --
Pawtowski wasn't cleared for all levels -- but it was a definite start.

                                   * * * * * *

     Doctor Unorthodox didn't move.  He was standing there, his arm half around
Doctor Blue, and those grey eyes were stabbing at him.  Condemning him.
Condemning them both.
     "Of course," his daughter whispered.  "Of... bloody... fucking... course."
     "Trudy," Doctor Blue said calmly, enticingly.  "Trudy, you're hurt.  We
can help you."
     Trudy began to laugh.  It was soft, but began to grow.  Her body began
jerking, and barely clotted wounds began to flow again.  The laughter was
almost hysterical, and so very very ugly.  "Help me?" she asked.  "You can
*help* me?"
     "Trudy--" Doctor Unorthodox said, desperate.  They had hurt his little
girl.  They had hurt his little Trudy!  How dare--
     "I should kill you both!" Trudy snapped, whipping at them suddenly with a
length of garden hose.  Rubber hose it might have been, but the tip was brass
and it cracked the sound barrier as it slashed open the dressings on Doctor
Blue's face.  The long, jagged wound left by Trudy's fishhook sprayed fresh
blood, as the woman fell back, clutching it.
     "Trudy!" Doctor Unorthodox snapped.  The little bitch was cheeky -- he'd
have to--
     ...his little girl...
     "Do you know how easily I could kill you?" she demanded.  "Do you?!"
     "Trudy, I--"
     Trudy cracked the whip, jumping forward.  Doctor Unorthodox flinched away
from it, right into the cast iron skillet she was swinging with her left hand.
With a sickening thud he fell to the ground.
     "You're not worth the blood I'd have to spill," Unorthodox Lass spat, and
ran from the room.
     Doctor Blue slowly got up, making sure she was gone.  She ignored the
injury -- it was irrelevant.  She started to drag the unconscious Doctor
Unorthodox out into the hall.  She had to get him to the Exodus station -- they
had spent too much effort recruiting him to let him be captured now.

                                   * * * * * *

     "We're having serious trouble," Paul said.  "Multiple breaks of security
now.  I can't raise either Kim or Pongress, though the confirmed elimination's
just come through."
     "One less worry," Olson said.  "Even if we're taken, the Adjusted League
Unimpeachable's invading government property without proof of misfeasance.  Get
the science sections cleared.  Kim should be coordinating the evacuation,
Pongress is probably with him."
     "Leaving us to take the rap," Bankert said.
     "The Bureau has to protect the Special Special Agents," Olson said, as
though he were reminded the others to keep their shoes shined.  "Burns, have
you managed to track Trashman yet?"
     "You could say that.  I'm following the trail of power outages and the
agents who've stopped reporting in."
     Olson nodded.  "We have to assume we're going to be breached at this
point.  Get to the choke points, and prepare a last stand."
     The Agents pushed out of their chairs and moved, training taking over.
Bankert broke out the arsenal.  The pistols were special -- fourteen millimeter
gyro-jet assisted, designed to armor pierce.  They were meant to be used
against paranormal targets.  They locked their clips in, and thumbprinted the
manifest, showing that they were the ones who drew the weapons.  And then they
slid through the door, which slid shut and double bolted behind them.
     Olson slowly rose and walked to the arsenal.  He drew a weapon of his own,
carefully thumbprinting the manifest and locking in the clip.  His eyes, still
concealed by the sunglasses he never took off, watched the monitors carefully.
     There was one route he didn't watch though.  The internal route.  The
route from the lowest levels up.  There was no way an invasion could be coming
from that direction, and there was too much activity in the evacuation and the
defense to keep track of it.
     So he didn't see the woman running through the halls.  He didn't realize
she was coming.
     And she was getting closer.

                                   * * * * * *

     Lab Tech Pruitt edged out of the Computer Lab.  He was more than a little
nervous.  It was his first assignment, and he didn't really know what was going
on.  The work had been interesting, but of course he didn't know where the
strange chemicals and blood samples had come from.
     He had been ordered to collect the Data Backup tapes -- which were the
last records of the experiments the Lab had been working on.  The rest had been
shredded, burned, wiped, and otherwise taken out of commission.  He had to get
the tapes to the Trains before they left.
     He had heard the Adjusted League Unimpeachable was in the building.  That
they were attacking.  That confused Pruitt -- the Adjusted League Unimpeachable
were heroes.  But he had a job to do, and he was going to do it.
     He clutched the case of tapes.  They each held a gigabyte of compressed
data, complex biochemical models, transcripts and records, and of course a
complete backup of MIBmuck.  It had a series of complex backups and failsafes
to prevent anyone but the proper authorities from collecting the harvest of
data, but first it had to be delivered.
     He started down the hallway towards the emergency elevator.
     And froze.
     A large dog, with matted, almost mangy fur, was sitting not twenty feet
away.  It looked sort of like a big German Shepherd.
     Pruitt stared.  "Good dog," he said.
     The dog growled, the remaining fur on its back rising, as it tensed.
     Pruitt realized the diseased animal in front of him wasn't a dog at all.
A flood of images swept through his mind.  The three little pigs... oh, what
big teeth you have, grandma... old Warner Brothers cartoons... the beast
waiting in the dark....
     The big bad wolf leapt then, growls becoming snarls.  It slammed into
Pruitt with its forepaws, knocking the case from his hand.  It snapped at his
neck.
     The case came to a rest nearby.  A few drops of blood hit it.

                                   * * * * * *

     There are certain methods of communication which the Mega-Intelligence
Bureau has developed against counter-intelligence attempts.  Methods which have
been painstakingly tested and developed to ensure that the information the
M.I.B. passes along internally goes no farther than the person sending the
communique and the person receiving it.
     It goes without saying that every one of those techniques has been
cracked.  Indeed, an agent using a secured line or transmitting an encrypted
file might as well be broadcasting it over CNN.
     Kim set up his Powerbook Duo to send thirty-five megabytes of encrypted
files over a link.  Those files, when decrypted, would yield three complete
sets of the 1962 Encyclopedia Britannica, with certain letters at random
italicized, struck out, or bolded, and a consistent misspelling of the name
Abraham Lincoln.
     While top secret agents around the world worked on deciphering the
information and determining the code buried in the text, Kim punched a number
into an unsecured cellular phone.  "National Intelligence Bureau, may I help
you?"
     "Transfer me to the secret headquarters, please," Kim said.  Even the
National Security Agency didn't bother to listen in.  They were busy trying to
correlate the data from the transfer.  Why Lincoln?  As in Lincoln, Nebraska?
     "Special Agent Furr."
     "Furr, this is Kim.  Here's the current situation, and what we need...."

                                   * * * * * *

     Special Agent Paul set up in a corridor.  He felt the cool metal of the
gun in his hand.  He breathed deeply.  He was ready.  He was as ready as he
possibly could be, given that he was convinced he was going to be pounded into
condemned meat.
     "Paul?" Olson's voice said in his left ear, digitally reproduced by the
speaker implanted in the bone behind his ear.
     "Yuppers," Paul said.
     "Are you in position?"
     "That's me."
     "Good.  Your's is the most direct route.  You have the highest level of
passive and active defenses in front of you, as well as the greatest number of
agents still in the building."
     "What's the bad news?"
     "Something's systematically neutralizing those agents and defenses with
prejudice.  And we can't pick it up on our monitors."
     "Joyous rapture.  Time to intercept?"
     "Three minutes, approximately."
     "Got it.  Tell my wife I'm going to be dead until at least midnight."
     "You're not married," Olson said dryly.
     "No problem.  Call Operations and tell them I need a cover wife pronto."
     Olson didn't laugh.
     Paul took another deep breath and took the safety off his gun.  It was
almost time.

                                   * * * * * *

     The door was marked Control in small black letters, and it was secured.
     What to do?  Run!  Get away!  It was all another trap!  Another ploy....
     Control.  Where they ran the show.  Control, where everything happened.
     There was only one thing *to* do.  That was clear.

                                   * * * * * *

     There was an island in Cape Cod, where no fishing boat went near.  The
reefs were deadly around it.  And the fish weren't good there anyhow.  The
warning bells and nuns ringed the isle, clanging as waves lapped them.
     In the center of the Island, shielded by a stand of trees, a metal plate
slid out of the way, and a jet-assisted helicopter locked into place above
ground.  Its rotors were already spinning, accelerating against the mooring
clamps.  When the clamps released, the helicopter leapt into the air so
quickly, it almost seemed to just appear.  Casual observers wouldn't be sure
where it had come from.
     Inside the helicopter were three men in black government suits, black
government sunglasses, and black government haircuts.  Two were nondescript
Special Agents.  They looked like every other Special Agent looked.
     But the third was different.  He was no taller than five feet one and a
half inches.  His skin was dusky -- Indian, perhaps... or arab.  He seemed very
small in the passenger's chair.
     There was no doubt that he was in charge.
     "E.T.A. to the Hartford Lab?" he asked over the intercom.
     "Sixteen minutes with boost," the pilot responded.
     "Light it."
     The jet turbines roared into life, and the Helicopter shuddered slightly
as the rotors retracted and it broke the sound barrier.

                                   * * * * * *

     Olson heard a noise.  It wasn't a relay or an electronic noise.  It was
nearby.  But that was impossible -- all personnel were--
     Olson drew back the bolt on the semi-automatic.  He relaxed visibly.  He
almost smiled.
     It was time.

                                   * * * * * *

     The palmprint recognition panel next to the main doorway to Control was
rather an impressive piece of machinery.  It could read the palmprint of a
person who wanted to enter and let them in, of course.  That went without
saying.  And it knew enough to keep the door locked when an inappropriate palm
was pressed against it.  It also knew to sound the alarm.
     But there was more than that.  It knew the difference between a conscious
and unconscious proper palm.  It knew a palm that had been cut off at the
wrist, and knew not to open the door.  It knew what acid felt like, and what
alarms to sound for it.  It could recognize a hundred and fifty different
attempts to bypass the locking circuit with wires.  It knew what fifteen
different explosions were, and what responses to give to each of them.  And it
had smart recognition systems which could adapt to unique situations, figuring
out from past data what the correct response to new stimulus might be.  So the
panel was almost cocky when a fingernail file pulled its case slightly from the
wall and some sort of substances were poured inside.
     Long time fans of Mister Wizard and veterans of "Science can be fun" fifth
grade science teachers are no stranger to the homemade volcano.  The
construction of such a volcano is simple -- you sculpt the cone of the volcano
out of the unpopular taupe colored Grade School clay (the unique bricks of clay
you only find in grade schools), and set up a few trees and the like.  You dump
baking soda in the bottom of the volcano, and add red food coloring.  You then
give a halting, poorly rehearsed speech about how magma forces its way to the
surface, and dump in a cup of white vinegar.  The baking soda and vinegar react
and expand into a flow of this white mucous stuff which the food coloring makes
red, and you call it lava.  Of course, it gets all over everything.
     Unorthodox Girl had no clay or food coloring, and she gave no speech.  All
she had was a box of Arm and Hammer and a bottle of white vinegar.  But she
poured both of them into the panel.
     The panel was stunned.  It was bubbling and expanding like an explosion,
but it was way too slow.  It was liquid like an acid, but didn't eat through
anything and there were solids apparently forming.
     There were a few shorts, but the recognition programs and protocols
couldn't figure out any possible reason the substance had been dumped inside.
There had to be one -- it had to be for a reason, but the systems couldn't
figure it out!
     Finally, after three and a half-seconds, it threw its electronic hands
into the air, said the Hell with it, and opened the door.
     Unorthodox Lass stepped into the room.  A man was sitting back to her in a
chair.
     "Hello Trudy," Olson said.  "I've been expecting you."

                               [End of Part Three]