The Seal of Solomon
Back in the main room, I opened up the minibar (I figured we were traveling on the corporate tab) and ate a chocolate bar, drank a Coke, then brought a bottle of Evian back into the bedroom and dumped the contents over his hound-dog head. He still didn’t wake up. I felt pretty bad about doing that, so I fetched a towel from the bathroom and dried him off the best I could.
“They get you with the worst thing,” I told him. “For me it was my mom. What are they doing to you? What’s the worst thing, Nine?”
I had a feeling I knew, and that gave me an idea. I sat back down in front of his IBM ThinkPad and typed in “ABKHAZIA.” A box popped up on the toolbar: “WELCOME NINE.”
I clicked on the SATCOM folder. The screen flickered, then another message box popped up: “SATCOM DOWN.” Below it was the little e-mail icon, so I clicked on that and his in-box popped up. There was only one message.
From: Aquarius
To: Nine
Subject: RE: OPREQ
As you predicted, Research advises active agent cannot be cloned or synthesized. What an annoying habit you have of always being correct. Accordingly, unless conditions on the ground warrant otherwise, protect at all hazards the ACTAGE carrier. Do not put him in harm’s way unless absolutely necessary.
Aquarius
I read this twice. What was “OPREQ”? Operational Requirement? Operative Request? “ACTAGE” must be short for “active agent,” but what was the active agent he was talking about? Then I remembered the briefing, and Op Nine talking about the 3XDs and the active agent, the whatever it was that gave the ammo its bite. And I remembered asking him in the desert if the bullets were loaded with holy water and him saying no, it was something he hoped was more powerful.
Then I remembered my dream, of the gigantic Kropp Fish and the little suckers all over my body, and how when I first woke up on the Pandora, I was dizzy and drank those big glasses of orange juice. I remembered the soreness under my arm, and suddenly it all came together. The sore spot must have been the insertion point for the needle they used. The needle to drain my blood.
I read the e-mail again: “. . . protect at all hazards the ACTAGE carrier . . .”
I clicked on the other boxes: Sent Mail, Trash, Drafts, but every file was blank.
So I clicked on the Compose button and wrote:
To: Aquarius
From: Nine
Subject: Help
I’m not sure who you are, but I guess you’re Director Merryweather. This is Alfred Kropp. I broke into this computer bcuz Op Nine is hurt. Still in Chi. City burning. Two days to get Vessel or world ends. Need help here. Send help.
AK
I hit the Send button and the message vanished. Then a dialogue box popped up.
Message Undeliverable: Unknown Recipient
“Wuddya mean?” I yelled at the computer. “ ‘Unknown recipient’?”
I hit the Compose button again.
To: Aquarius
From: Nine
Subject: Help
This is Alfred Kropp. We need help. No Hyena in Chi. Raining fire. Op Nine very hurt. 2 days or else. Send help!
AK
I hit the Send button and again the little box popped up. I clicked on his address book and a long list popped onto the screen. So I wrote a third e-mail to everyone on the list, a kind of bulk mail SOS.
To: ALL COMPANY PERSONNEL
From: Nine
Subject: Help us
This is Alfred Kropp. Op Nine very hurt. 2 days to give them Vessel. Don’t have Vessel. Don’t have Hyena. Where is devil’s door? Please send help.
AK
I held my breath, my index finger hovering over the touch pad. I clicked, waited, and then a box popped up.
Message Undeliverable: Unknown Recipients
I gave a yell of frustration and pushed back from the table. From the bedroom Op Nine moaned loudly, as if in answer.
His body jerked on the bed and his head lolled back and forth on the pillow. His color, never very healthy looking, now looked even worse, a kind of burnt orange, and spit rolled from his open mouth. I went into the bathroom for a fresh washcloth and caught my reflection in the mirror.
I froze. Red spots with white centers the size of nickels had appeared all over my face and neck. I touched one on my cheek. It was like pressing the head of a hot match against my skin, and I yanked my finger away. What now? What the hell were they doing to me now? I pulled the sweater off and lifted the shirt underneath. The marks were there too, and on my back. I was covered in boils.
“Okay,” I muttered, dropping my shirt and ducking my head over the sink as I wet the washcloth. “Okay. Pustulating boils. That’s fine. You wanna play hardball. I can take it.”
I returned to the bed and wiped Op Nine’s face.
“I can’t get through,” I told him. “I don’t know, maybe headquarter’s been destroyed or something. We’re on our own and since I can’t get through to you either, I guess that means I’m on my own. Not a happy development in terms of MISSCOMP.” He moaned, eyes jerking behind fluttering lashes.
“You guys did lie to me,” I went on. “I’m the carrier. My blood is the active agent in the 3XD ammo. You must have taken a couple pints from me on the ship to put in your guns, and that’s really low. That borders on the despicable. You could have just asked. But I guess being a SPA means you never have to ask. No wonder Ashley told you to take a hike. You’re gonna have to answer for that, but you’re not going to have a chance to answer because they’ve scooped you out too, and you can’t help me find Mike or the devil’s door and so everything’s screwed. Game over.”
His arms began to pull against the knotted towel, his fingers clawing in the air. I didn’t have much time before he went for his eyes. I went back into the bathroom and smashed one of the drinking glasses in the sink, picked up the longest shard, and without even a second of hesitation cut my left palm open and walked back to the bed, my hand raised over the level of my heart, palm upward, cupping the blood.
I sat on the edge of the bed, dipped two fingers into the blood pooling in my palm, and smeared the blood over his eyelids, saying the whole time, “Now in the name of Saint Michael, I order you to be whole—though I oughtta . . .” Then I stopped, because a healing was no place for bitterness. “So be healed, Operative Nine, be healed.”
I traced a cross on his forehead with my blood and then took my hand away. The moaning stopped, the eyes went still, and the hands relaxed. I gave his shoulder a little poke, but he didn’t wake up. Something had happened, though.
I wrapped a hand towel around my left hand, dragged myself into the main room, collapsed on the sofa, and lay there for a few minutes before I got back up, went into the bathroom, and trimmed my toenails.