Part 9 (1/2)

Try to remember-Madelyn She'd included her phone number and dorm room, too. He tried to think when she would've had time to write without him noticing. Maybe when he'd answered his Nextel? Had he looked away from the table?

Madelyn's story drifted through his head. A girlfriend he didn't remember and a best friend he'd never heard of. George looked at the naughty-librarian picture again and shook his head. Guys like him didn't get women like that. Not in the real world.

What was the guy's name? His supposed best friend. He remembered the first and last name had the same sound. There was a term for that, when two words started with the same sound. A lot of old superhero names were like that, their secret ident.i.ty names. Peter Parker. Clark Kent. Bruce Banner. Wally West.

He chuckled at the mental list of superhero names. He hadn't read a comic book in years, not even any of the popular graphic novels. But Madelyn had given him heroes on the brain.

She'd mentioned where the best friend worked. Something in New Mexico. A power station of some kind. Or was it a lab?

He tapped a few keys on his computer. It took him five minutes to find Sandia National Labs in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and their Pulsed Power Project. One part of it was a huge array called the Z Machine.

The Z Machine. Z. Z. Z. It sounded appropriate somehow.

George didn't understand half the factoids Wikipedia listed about the Z Machine, but apparently it was used to create phenomenal amounts of energy. There was a photo in the article showing a crackling web of electricity stretched over banks of equipment. He was pretty sure it was just a split-second photograph, not an ongoing effect, but it was still impressive.

The main website for the project didn't have a crew roster he could find, but there were a few pictures. George lingered on one showing a half-dozen people gathered around a table. Seated off on the left was a skinny black man with stubble-short hair.

The website had contact information. A set of e-mail addresses and a pair of phone numbers. The lab was open-or answered the phones, at least-during regular business hours. He unplugged his cell phone from the charger and tapped in the number. New Mexico was an hour ahead, which meant it was ...

Seven-thirty in the morning there. They probably had a George of their own who was just showing up to empty the trash. No one else would be there for hours. If they were, they'd ignore the phone.

He felt silly.

Madelyn's story had struck a nerve. Some idealistic dream from childhood about helping people, great power and great responsibility, or some such thing. Part of him almost wished her story was real. Minus the killing-millions-of-people part. He put his phone back on the desk and closed the magazine.

George threw his arms over his head, locked his fingers, and stretched. A good night's sleep would get everything right in his head. That's all he needed.

The alarm went off behind him. He banged his knee on the desk when he jumped. It was time to get ready for work.

Once again, pedestrians made the drive in a headache. Every intersection was packed with people, all of them taking their time. George sat through the whole green light at Fairfax as men and women shuffled across the street. On the plus side, everyone could see the crowd, so n.o.body started honking their horns. The only thing more frustrating than traffic delays was a jerk behind you who didn't acknowledge them.

It also didn't help that the brake on his car seemed to be slipping. He'd get to an intersection and the Hyundai would try to lunge forward at the figures in the crosswalk. He could feel it fighting his foot as he pushed down. With the constant cries on the radio extolling different religious figures for aid, it gave the drive in a surreal tone he didn't enjoy.

There seemed to be a lot of homeless people out that morning. At least half the people crossing each intersection wore stained, ragged clothes. George knew Los Angeles had a huge homeless population, but they weren't always so visible. Or maybe he'd just become more aware of them somehow.

He made it most of the way to campus before the car sputtered and died again. George swore and guided the vehicle to the edge of the road before it lost all momentum. He turned the key again and again. The dash lights didn't come on. Not even one click from the starter. The radio was silent. He glanced at the street to get a sense of how far he was from campus.

His car had come to rest in front of the recruitment office again.

Something moved in his peripheral vision and a huge figure lumbered out of the early morning haze. It was the bald officer he'd seen last week, the man with arms the size of George's waist. He was wearing a tan T-s.h.i.+rt and breathing deep, the kind of measured breathing people did after exercise. He pulled some keys from his pocket and headed to the office door.

In the back of George's mind, he realized the car must have died just as it pa.s.sed the big man, half a block or so back.

He stepped out of his car. ”Excuse me,” he called to the man.

The giant turned. Confusion flashed across his face, but he clamped down on it. ”Yes, sir,” he said. ”How can I help you?” Only some of the confusion slipped into his voice.

George gestured at his Hyundai. ”Sorry to bother you,” he said. ”I stopped here last week. I've been having car trouble. It just died again.”

”I remember. Do you need another jump?”

”I'm not sure. I can't figure out what's going on with it, to be honest.”

A sound echoed down the street. A foot slapping against the pavement. There was a faint sc.r.a.ping sound, then another slap a few seconds later. George looked down the street. A handful of homeless people were shambling up Wils.h.i.+re toward them.

Something about them gave him a chill.

”We should go inside,” said the soldier with a nod at the approaching group. ”I've been generous in the past and now they can get a bit demanding. I've found it best to avoid them.” He unlocked the door and waved George inside.

The giant flipped the dead bolt and tapped out a quick code on a keypad near the door. His fingers were very nimble for their size. He flipped on the lights and walked across to his desk.

”Thanks,” said George.

”Not a problem,” said the soldier.

”I'm George.”

”Lieutenant Freedom,” said the giant. He held out a broad hand.

George's fingers barely reached across the palm. He smiled as they shook. ”Freedom? Is that some recruitment tool or something?”

The officer's face tightened. ”It's a family name, sir.” He turned away and headed toward a door in the back corner. ”Sergeant Harrison's not in for another half hour or so, but we might have some jumper cables in the back. There's a junk closet with a lot of odd supplies in it.”

A thump came from the front of the office. One of the homeless people was pressed against the window. His teeth were a rotted mess and his eyes were filled with cataracts. He was muttering, but George couldn't hear him through the gla.s.s.

His eyes swept back around and Freedom had a pistol out and pointed at him. The muzzle was enormous. George stumbled back with his hands up, tripped, and fell on his a.s.s.

Freedom blinked. ”Are you all right, sir?” He held out an empty hand. Both his hands were empty.

George looked at the huge man, then back over his shoulder. The homeless people were shuffling away. The one with bad teeth had left a smudge on the gla.s.s. ”You had a gun,” he said.

”Sir?” Freedom looked at his bare hip. ”I'm not armed.”

George climbed back to his feet as the pieces fell together. ”You shot me,” he said. He gestured back at the window. ”Those things were all around and you shot me with some big-a.s.s pistol.”

The soldier's gaze didn't waver, but his face s.h.i.+fted.

George stared back. He sounded crazy. He knew that. He tried to ignore the endless pen-clicking and focus his thoughts. ”I think I know you,” he told the other man. ”I think we've known each other for a while.”

Freedom straightened up. He was almost a foot taller than George. ”I'm pretty sure we just met for the first time last week.”

The sound of his voice freed up something else in George's mind. It came rus.h.i.+ng out so hard and fast it made his head ache. ”You were a captain,” he said. ”Harrison said you'd been demoted and I didn't make the connection. You're Captain Freedom. John Carter Freedom.” The words spewed out, as much of a surprise to him as they were to the lieutenant.

The officer pressed his lips together. George wasn't sure what kind of expression the man was biting back. He also wasn't sure where he'd pulled the name from. He glanced over his shoulder at the empty office and then back to the giant.

”Sir,” said Freedom, ”I think you should leave now.” He crossed his arms across his chest. He wasn't making a request or suggestion.