Chapter 85 (1/2)
Every person panics in a uniquely individual way. Yet, as with all things, there are some broad generalizations that can be made. Some people get tense, winding up like a coiled spring. Their heart rate skyrockets, their vessels constrict, their muscles contract, like rabbits ready to bolt. Others grow weak. Lightheaded. Legs turn to jelly and their spine crumbles. They can't cope with the situation, and their consciousness takes a brief leave of absence. Others still grow calm. Focused. The pressure acted like a whetstone, sharpening their senses, their being. It made them better.
Abby was a member of the fourth faction. She panicked in the same way as a hummingbird, flitting to and fro. Her energy skyrocketed, her mind raced, and her body got busy being busy. Cleaning was her method of choice for expelling these feelings. She worked over Dan's home like it owed her something. She polished his tables, his tiles, his kitchen surfaces. She bused away imagined dust with a dishrag more sandpaper than cloth. She smoothed out hard edges with hands like iron, grinding away at Dan's wooden dinner table until only fibrous tissue remained. It was her way of relieving stress, attacking an issue. That the problem only existed in her mind was irrelevant. Her energy needed an outlet, and humans so rarely concerned themselves with reality.
Dan was the opposite. His panic was a creeping, cloying ice. It was a tightening noose. It was the rattling whisper of a last breath. He grew quiet. He grew still. Like a deer stuck in headlights, he could only ponder his impending doom. It was a defense tactic, a survival instinct. Some holdover trait from the time of the dinosaurs, when his rodent ancestors froze in the face of oversized chickens. Some useless, mammalian instinct that never got the memo: the T-Rex can still see you.
He couldn't fight it, he could only bear with it. Anastasia Summers was coming, and there was nothing he could do about it. He had hours, at best, to prepare. Minutes, at worst. The woman sounded thunderously unhappy over the phone, and had no shortage of transportation. Dan keenly recalled the plane that he'd accompanied Abby on for her family reunion. Such a casual display of wealth and privilege, and for so trivial a purpose. What, then, would the matron do when she was in a hurry?
The doorbell rang, and Dan found himself unable to move. A true irony. The man who could go anywhere at the speed of thought, struggling to answer his door. The gears of his mind were frosted over. An endless field of ice.
And then Abby was there, with her sunshine smile and radiant energy, glowing like his own, personal star. She pulled him to his feet from his place on the couch, from the perfect indentation his ass had settled into, upright and steady. Both hands wrapped around his waist, his chest, her hair filled his vision. Vanilla and cinnamon, this morning. She was shaking, vibrating with nervous energy. Muttering assurances into his ear.
”It's fine, it's all right,” she repeated, more to herself than him. She pulled him tighter. Held him close, and Dan found himself able to move once more.
His hand ran down her hair. ”I know,” he told her. ”It's fine.” There was nothing to be afraid— No, that wasn't right. There was plenty to be afraid of, regarding Anastasia Summers, but nothing that should effect him at present. He was not a member of the People. The elder Summers had already given, not her blessing but her tolerance, of him dating her granddaughter. The matron's anger was roused, that much was certain, but it should only be peripherally directed at him.
And not at all towards Abby.
”She won't be angry at you,” Dan told her, his voice gaining strength and warmth. ”You did nothing wrong.”
Abby's face displayed blatant disbelief. ”I didn't want to tell her everything. I don't want to tell her everything. Your business is none of her business. But she... doesn't take things like that very well.”
”It'll be fine,” Dan assured her. ”You'll see.” He could feel himself regaining equilibrium. He could feel Abby's shakes receding. They were better, together.
He found his way to the door, hand in hand with Abigail. He opened it, ready to face what lay beyond.
Anastasia Summers must have been beautiful, once. Some would call her beautiful still, with features so eerily reminiscent of Abby's that Dan was sure he was seeing the future. Yet she lacked the warmth, the laugh lines, the bubbly cheer. The woman was carved out of ice and granite and death threats.
Her clothes were oddly incongruous with her demeanor. A short-sleeved blouse and worn jeans, with boots made for kicking people to death. It was as if she'd been... gardening or something, and had left home in a hurry.
She eyed the two of them, intense and judging. Her eyes fell to their interlocked hands and her brow furrowed slightly. The gaze fell back on him, and he patiently awaited her judgement. Just having the courage to meet her eyes seemed to pass some sort of test.
”Newman,” she acknowledged, in a tone that he suspected was meant to be neutral, but felt like a boulder weighing on his chest. ”Abigail.”
And then her mouth made a motion entirely foreign to it.
The woman's smile felt like a dagger being thrust at him. It was a gesture full of teeth, jagged and vicious. The expression of a wild beast looking to intimidate. It softened marginally when directed towards Abby, the woman's ice chip eyes fading to a more sedate cerulean.
Abby's smile was cotton candy in comparison. ”Mama Ana.” The affectionate nickname rolled off her tongue with nervous tension, and the room seemed to lighten.
The elderly matriarch sighed indulgently, shaking her head. The weight lifted off Dan's chest. Something deep inside him unclenched.
”Well?” the extremely dangerous old woman demanded. ”Aren't you going to invite me inside?”
Dan's eyes darted to his lawn. There was a thing there, a vehicle of some kind. The bastard child of a super-car and a chainsaw, given wings and solid-fuel rocket boosters. The street had scorch marks for half a mile, and Dan hadn't the slightest clue how he hadn't heard her land. None of the neighbors had seemed to notice, though he doubted that would hold for long. Not that it mattered. Anastasia Summers could not be denied.
He held open the door, motioning her forward. ”Come on in, Mrs. Summers.”
”Mm,” the woman acknowledged. She stepped inside, eyes roaming over the foyer with undisguised interest. Dan was suddenly struck with an intense feeling of gratitude towards Abby's manic cleaning.
”Acceptable,” the older woman commented after a long moment. She turned to her granddaughter. ”Your doing, I presume.”
Abby blushed, but straightened her spine. ”Dan is very neat.”
A laugh almost slipped loose from his mouth at the bold-faced lie. Dan would describe himself as neither messy nor clean, having a healthy distaste for dirt and dust, yet liking to keep his crap close at hand. An organized room was one where he could find anything he wanted to in as little time as possible. Appearance had little to do with it.
Anastasia's expression displayed how little she believed her granddaughter's words. With another sigh, she turned to Dan. Her expression hardened with alarming speed, losing all hints of tolerance. Her tone was brisk, commanding, ”Well, that's the niceties out of the way. Take me to it.”
”I—” Dan stuttered. Verbal whiplash didn't even begin to describe how he felt.
”Now,” the Summers' matriarch commanded.
What else could he possibly say? ”Yes'm.”
He and Abby marched in lockstep towards the trapdoor leading to Captain Quantum's hidden lair. Dan lifted the panel free, revealing the short drop to the hidden tunnel. A small ladder had been bolted to the edge, but Anastasia elected to simply step forward, landing at the bottom with a metallic clang. Her stride barely slowed, and she strolled forward and out of sight without a single word.
Dan met Abby's eyes, and they both shrugged helplessly. He willed himself into the tunnel as Abby slid down the ladder like a fireman. Another blink put Dan beside the elder Summers, slowing his stride to match hers. The woman peered at the damaged tunnel with interest, occasionally stopping to examine the bits of circuitry that Gregoir had elected not to remove.
Speaking of which, ”The officer that helped me clear this place out...”
”He will suffer no consequences,” Anastasia replied absently, plucking out a melted fragment of something. She eyed it with interest. ”I would not begrudge a man doing my grandchild a favor.”
”Oh.” Dan paused, quietly wondering how she could possibly promise such a thing. ”That's good.”
”It was a rather stupid thing that you did,” Anastasia continued, and Dan flinched at the rebuke. ”Each cell of the People used to connect to a remote server. If they found themselves under attack, a signal would be sent out; a warning to the rest, before the server reset itself. Sometimes, they would retaliate.”
Something approaching visceral horror filled Dan's gut. ”They could be coming here?” he whispered, aghast.
She shrugged. ”It's within the realm of possibility.”