Gabriel's Stand (29 page)

A few days later, Snowfeather finally routed a call from her apartment to Dr. Owen through an encrypted phone in a downtown insurance agency. Even though she had carefully followed Gabriel's directions, she was surprised that the contact protocol for Dr. Owen got an immediate response. Speaking softly, she sat in her kitchen, bare feet rubbing together on the old tile floor.

“Dr. Owen? Is this really you?”

“Snowfeather, I'm so glad you called,” John said. “I had hoped to hear from you a lot sooner.”

“I was afraid.” Snowfeather paused. “Is this call secure?”

“Just a second.” He checked. “Yes, this call is secure for now. The second that changes, I'll just hang up. Call me Uncle John, Snowfeather. I miss that.”

“Good to hear you're okay, Uncle John.”

“Elisabeth said to say hi.”

“Where is she?”

“Here. And so are Ken and little Josh.”

“Give them my love.”

“I will. So you need some drugs? I can have them sent immediately, no charge. I'll send directions for a pick up to the business Gabriel asked you to use to route this call, okay?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes. Thank you, Uncle John.” Snowfeather felt tears welling.

“Snowfeather, I heard you finally had a run-in with the Sisters a few days ago.”

“How'd you hear that?”

“I have friends.”

“Well, it was amazing and disgusting.” Snowfeather scanned her apartment nervously, but she was still alone.

“I wondered when they might get around to noticing you.”

“I guess they ‘noticed'
you
right away.”

“All they have is my right hand,” John said.

“What?”

“When they kidnapped me in Seattle that night before the vote, I um, had to leave it behind. I feel like Captain Hook sometimes.”

Snowfeather laughed. “Sorry,” she said. “That was funny.”

“It was meant to be.”

“Dad said you are working on the political side. What do you intend to do?”

“Eventually, we hope the U. S. Senate will trash the whole Treaty regime, but the timing isn't right yet.”

“And Dad can really help with that?”

“Hugely. The Commission has an iron grip on the media but Gabriel's webcasts are already making a difference. And your appearances are working, too.”

At that point, the teakettle began to whistle. Snowfeather went into the kitchen carrying her phone. She poured a cup of tea, returned to the table and sat down. “I'm being more careful these days,” she said.

“Good. But this drug pickup will be very risky. Couldn't you get someone else?”

“Sorry. There really isn't anyone except me. Aren't you at risk too, Uncle John?”

“It's what we …”

Dr. Owen's phone call ended abruptly.

——

“What just happened?” John asked. He was sitting in his offices in the new Vector Pharmaceutical plant.

“Looks like someone duplicated the floating key,” Ken Wang said, removing his headphones.

“Meaning?”

“We use floating key encryption. A new key is transmitted every few minutes over a separate satellite feed, concealed in routine weather traffic. Our software can tell when someone gets hold the key, other than the secure server used to route Snowfeather's call.”

“I meant how much of this call did they get?”

“Very little, I hope. In theory, your call was automatically ended when the duplicate key was used. But we can't know for sure.”

“What can we do for Snowfeather?”

Ken frowned. “I'm not sure we can even warn her in time.”

——

The drug pickup was made just before dawn in an old waterfront area. Snowfeather was dressed in a gray ski jacket with a black watch cap, pulled down to hide her hair. She had come alone—against Roberto's advice to take a lookout. Her taxi waited just out of sight.

The narrow alley led between two soot-stained brick buildings. A yellow street lamp's glow reached only to the center, where the shadows were impenetrable. The Edge Medical courier, a sturdily built young man dressed in stained work clothes and a dark pea jacket, was just a tall shape next to a fire ladder. “Snowfeather?” he whispered.

“Here,” she said. He held a reinforced paper shopping bag. They met in the middle of the alley.

“I have it,” the young man said.

“And this is?”

“About twenty five thousand doses. That's a month's production run from the New Kona Two plant.”

“Thank Dr. Owen for me.”

“Yesterday, we lost touch with him. I'll pass that along as soon as we get another secure line.”

“And thank you.” Snowfeather held out her hand. The young man gripped her hand, then disappeared soundlessly into the shadows. Snowfeather turned without looking back. She walked briskly. The taxi would be to the right, just around the corner from the alley. Her breath smoked in the air as she walked. She clutched the bag fiercely; the parcel was surprisingly light for its significance.

Just as she reached the street, Snowfeather heard the sound of squealing tires. She dashed to the corner to find that her cab was gone.

“What are you doing here, Snowfeather?” It was the hissing voice of Cynthia. “I
told
you, Tan!”

Snowfeather spun about and saw Cynthia, with Berker and a younger blond woman, all standing outside the alley. She began to run, holding the bag of antibiotics tightly to her chest.

Floodlights suddenly blazed on both sides of her and directly ahead.

“Stop!” An amplified male voice. “You are under arrest.” Two uniformed policemen stepped into the glare.

“I'll take that bag,” one said.

“Thank you ladies,” the other said. “We'll take it from here.”

——

In New Kona, seven hours later, Bill Dornan was standing at the threshold of John Owen's living room. “I have good news and bad news.”

“Sit down, Bill,” John said. “Scotch?” He pointed to an open cabinet.

“Not yet,” Dornan said, dropping into the adjacent wicker chair.

“Okay,” John said. “Let me have it.”

“We've secured the leak and re-contracted out New York people.”

“Good work. What's the bad news? That all our secrets are compromised?”

“Actually, no. We're reviewing all transmissions and so far the damage looks minimal. The bad news is that the drug drop to Snowfeather failed. She was arrested.”

Owen swore. “Where is she now?”

“A Manhattan jail.”

“
City
police?”

“So far.”

“Then at least we can keep her safe,” John said. His mind was racing ahead. “We still have friends in NYPD. Have Ken get a legal team on it. See if we can reach Gabriel. Are the transmissions secure now?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I'll have some calls to make tonight.”

Thunderheads had filled the sky all afternoon, their shadows passing over the Idaho desert. Gabriel Standing Bear was typing inside his trailer. He always knew that his next webcast could be his last, but this was an unusually beautiful day, one of those times when nothing seemed to go wrong.

Sunset came and went without rainfall. Just as the full moon appeared, a lightning stroke lit the black sky, silhouetting the distant buttes. Exaggerated shadows of the log fence lanced across the dry grass, followed seconds later by a sharp thunderclap. Fat Fox, his black Chow, twitched at Gabriel's feet as his master looked up from his keyboard though the dirty trailer window.

A childhood moment flashed through his mind on fast-forward: A crisp fall afternoon. Eleven year old Gabriel out to hunt deer alone, using Grandfather's huge bow. Before dusk, in a spot just behind a copse of aspen near the deer trail, he waited in disciplined silence, downwind, poised, still as a stone.

The buck had appeared at the edge of the pine forest—alert and wary, presenting a very difficult shot. Fat Bear's huge bow was a hard pull for a full man and all a boy's arms could muster. Unable to hold the string for more than a few seconds, Gabriel released the arrow, then his breath. The deer looked at him as the arrow flicked between the aspen branches and shot across the open space, finding the buck's chest.

Transfixed by this old memory, Gabriel squinted into the dark, rainy landscape through the window over the sink in his trailer.
Such sharp memories
, he thought. The urgent feel of the bowstring in his hands, the eager tension in his arm, the sense of opportunity and terror, the very smell of the golden air.

Then three lightning strokes in rapid succession lit the dirt road like shells bursting overhead. A fraction of a second later the trailer shook with thunder. As the lightning lit up the desert outside his trailer window, the spell of the remembered childhood hunt shattered. In that flash, Gabriel saw the military convoy rolling into his ranch.

Oh crap,
Gabriel thought
. Now, I'm the deer
.

Three or four black, armored all-terrain vehicles, lights off, were rolling through Gabriel's ranch, about a quarter mile from the outer gate. “We have company,” he said, staring at the military convoy headed his way. Fat Fox whimpered and crawled under the tiny kitchen table. “You are hopeless,” Gabriel said affectionately, rubbing his dog's head.

He peered through the window again, blinking. “Damn, there goes the outer fence.” Quickly, Gabriel loaded the encrypted disk he had prepared for this moment, booted the program and pressed send. The screen recorded the progress of the transmission while a dense beam of data streamed from the satellite antenna on the trailer's roof. It was intended to be Gabriel's last webcast. Embedded in the send was an encrypted micro-burst of code, disguised as a transmission glitch. It would ping an illegal server in a martial arts center in Tempe, Arizona. In eighteen hours, Gabriel's sort-of-famous relative, Walter High Tree, retired Olympic medalist in archery, would drop in the Inter-tribal center in Northern Idaho. Then Alice and her alias would quietly disappear from the grid.

Done.

“Come on, boy!” Gabriel shouted, kicking the trailer door open. He'd practiced this exit a dozen times. But on this occasion, as his dog complied by leaping down the steps, Gabriel tripped over Fat Fox and pitched forward onto the damp dirt. He sprawled there on hands and knees for a second, getting his breath and bearings. Having lost precious seconds, he picked himself up, then dashed back up the steps. He pulled his leather coat from its hook and tossed it out of the trailer in the general direction of his motorcycle. Then he ran back down the steps, cursing his forgetfulness. He'd forgotten the flashlight.

Another actinic stab of light filled the scene. Momentarily blinded, Gabriel fumbled under the trailer without his flashlight. He yanked out his reserve can of gasoline just as the clap of thunder followed the flashlight.
That strike was too close.
He loosened the gas cap.

“HOLD IT!” It was a male voice. The sounds of automatic weapons being chambered was unmistakable. Rain began pelting down.

Busted
. As the whine of idling engines drew close, Gabriel slowly turned, and dropped the gas can. Headlights were blazing into his face, their beacons streaked with plummeting drops. Gabriel squinted, controlling his breathing.
Only three old style Ruckers or whatever the army called weaponized trucks these days.
He kicked the gas can under the trailer, its cap still loose, taking care to keep his hands visible.

Fat Fox growled, showing his teeth at the lights. “NOT NOW. We're outnumbered. SIT, Fat Fox, SIT!”

But someone was approaching, his form backlit in the glare. And the dog's loyalty exceeded judgment; the Fat Fox snarled and jumped forward. Gabriel reached out but too late. There was a single shot, and the dog dropped instantly.

Heedless of the guns pointed at him, Gabriel fell to his knees beside his dog. “Bastard white-eyes!” he shouted.

“Hold your fire!” Another male voice.

“Senator Lindstrom, please put your hands on your head and walk slowly into the light.” A female voice.

Gabriel ignored the command and stroked his dog's fur, still warm to his hands in the cold air. It had been a chest shot, right through the heart. He felt the blood, rubbing his slippery fingers together. “You were a brave dog. A good dog.” Slowly he smeared the blood across his forehead and cheeks, making the warrior's sign he had learned from Grandfather Fat Bear.

“Senator Lindstrom!”

“Screw you,” he heard himself say quietly.

Gabriel closed his eyes and spoke to the Great Spirit. “Take this small, brave warrior,” he mumbled under his breath. “Take my little friend, and have him wait for me.” Tears were running freely down Standing Bear's face as he stood. “You people don't care who or what you kill, do you?” His voice was calm, cold.

“Cuff him.” A male voice.

“My grandmother and her father, my grandfather, great grandfather and all their ancestors lived on this land before your history began.”

“Search the trailer.” The female voice.

The next moment was so abrupt that it was processed a few seconds later only in Gabriel's stop-frame memory fragments. It was an eruption of decisive brilliant fury from the sky, a lightning bolt that shattered the moment for Gabriel and the agents grouped near his trailer. A single such stroke up-close is like the end of the world. It demolished the trailer antenna, and the following explosion of steel, aluminum, electric energy, plasma, and imploding air was almost simultaneous. A second or so later—although it could have been longer—Gabriel simply found himself outside the yard fence, lying on his back amid the sagebrush. As he sat up, he became dimly aware that his trailer was smoldering, flames visible through the window and spurting out of the open door. Then the gas can burst, spattering flaming gasoline as far as the first armored truck. Gabriel shook his head, trying to clear his mind.

Thank you, God.

He rolled away into the brush, and crept behind the nearest lava outcropping, breathing heavily. Gabriel could hear the male voices shouting. He rose to a crouch, keeping the lava mass between him and the military detachment. “Fan out!” one said. Hand-held flashlights and larger beacons sprung to life. Keeping low, he ran through the brush, following the familiar contours of his ranch, taking care to keep downhill of his pursuers when possible. His people had done this before. But they weren't old men, out of shape from too much time spent at a computer. Soon the voices and sounds faded and Gabriel fell into a steady rhythm.

The rain fell more rapidly behind him, heavy drops, falling on dust. The smell of the sage was strong.
The rain will confuse infrared or whatever they're using
, he thought.

Standing Bear still had a chance, and a chance was all a warrior needed. In this moment, he was happy.