Rachel the Warrior

Part Seven

by G. Lawrence

Captured by terrorists

Recap: Rachel has prevented Nomad from launching the nuclear missiles, but the orbital platform broke up, leaving her stranded in Colonel McKay's space capsule as it was spinning down through the atmosphere out of control.

* * * * * *

Chapter Thirteen

NOMAD

Rachel woke up in a hospital. It was a private room. Empty. She was hooked up to machines, getting blood supports, and probably a morphine drip. Her space suit was gone, replaced by a thin white gown. A red wool blanket lay across her legs.

"Good morning," a strongly accented voice said.

It was a tall nurse with black hair and a sloping nose, looking down at her with a curious expression. Her deep brown eyes were searching. Her features Eastern European. She held an extra pillow.

"O800?" Rachel asked.

"Excuse me?"

"Military people call morning 0800. It's sort of necessary, but kind of dumb."

The nurse looked at her watch. "7:45. You were close."

"Where am I?"

"That is not for me to say. How do you feel?"

"I'm okay. How's my baby?"

"Are you pregnant?"

"I might be."

"We have not run a test for that."

Rachel sat back, feeling tired.

"Will you admit that you are Rachel Montgomery?" the nurse pressed. "There are those here who will torture you to make you confess."

"I don't like that as much as I once did," Rachel answered with a sigh.

The woman laughed, her expression amused.

"So, you are Rachel Montgomery?"

Rachel gave the question some thought. As far as she knew, no public announcement of her marriage had been made, and she never used Rachel Marbury in public. That was for family.

"That's the name my parents gave me," Rachel replied.

She looked toward the door, seeing a bulky man in a brown uniform holding a machine gun. There were bars on the windows.

"I have a feeling I'm not in Kansas anymore," Rachel said.

"Nor are you Dorothy Gale. Do not expect the Wizard to rescue you."

"He wasn't the most reliable wizard."

The nurse laughed again. She seemed surprised by her patient's sense of humor.

"My name is Natasha Russo. There is a button next to your bed. Press it if you need anything."

Natasha put the pillow on a chair and left, closing the door.

Rachel wanted to get out of bed, but her whole body felt stiff. Her hands were swathed with white cream. She looked under the blankets, seeing her elbows and knees wrapped in bandages. Her skin was covered in thick ointments. From the smell, she was being treated for burns. She didn't sense any broken bones. Her hair was singed. Somehow, the capsule made it down without any help from her. She didn't dwell on the details. It didn't matter.

There is no point in getting scared or upset, she thought. She did have questions, but they could wait. She wasn't dead.

Early in the afternoon, Natasha returned with a food tray. Broth and French bread. Her blue nurse's uniform looked freshly pressed.

"Feeling better?" she asked.

"I was feeling fine before. Sort of," Rachel replied.

"Are you ready to answer questions?"

"What kind of questions?"

"Whatever Colonel Joković wants to know."

"Do you have chocolate ice cream?" Rachel asked.

Natasha sat in a chair next to the bed, trying to make sense of her patient. She was a tiny thing. Soft-spoken. With big brown eyes a person could get lost in.

"Yes, I can get chocolate ice cream for you."

"Then I will answer questions," Rachel said with a happy smile.

Fifteen minutes later, Natasha returned with a bowl of ice cream. Rachel ate slowly, like she didn't have a care in the world.

"You will be having visitors soon," Natasha warned.

"Do you have a mirror?" Rachel asked.

"A mirror?"

"I must look awful. Can I borrow some makeup?"

"Miss Montgomery, I don't think you realize the situation you are in."

"It appears I was in a burning space capsule about to die, and now I'm in a nice warm bed speaking with a new friend. If things get worse, at least they got better for a while."

Natasha found a mirror. As Rachel suspected, her cheeks and the tip of her nose were red, which explained the ointments. The burnt ends of her hair needed trimming. Her eyebrows were scraggily. She used a little lipstick, but there was no point in adding blush.

"I don't feel so self-conscious now," Rachel said, giving the mirror back.

"Let me know if you need anything."

"I'll just take a nap. Thank you so much."

That afternoon, two middle-aged men and a younger woman entered. They were professionally dressed. The taller man, with closely cropped black hair and a thin beard, wore a gray military uniform. The shorter man was wearing a sharply tailored blue suit. Possibly made in Italy. The woman preferred a long white lab coat with red leather shoes.

"Do you know who I am?" the bearded man asked.

"No, sir," Rachel said.

"I am Colonel Jakov Joković, head of security for this facility. This is Dr. Pierre Fournier, designer of the Level 13 matrix, and Dr. Tchepikov, Deputy of Operations."

Rachel remained quiet. The names meant nothing to her, other than a list she'd turned over to the NSA.

"We know you are Rachel Montgomery," Joković said.

"That nice nurse of yours has already confirmed that," Rachel replied.

"Well? What do you have to say?" Joković asked.

"About what?" Rachel said.

"You are a criminal. You launched a nuclear missile at our Vos'stat complex."

"Don't be silly, Colonel Joković. I don't know anything about nuclear missiles."

"Scores of innocent men and women were killed," Joković insisted.

"I doubt they were innocent," Rachel replied, scrunching her eyebrows.

"How did you do it?" Fournier asked. The accent was French. He looked fifty, lean with thinning chestnut hair.

"Do what?"

"Defeat Level 13," he clarified.

"Level 13 defeated itself. It's a clusterfuck," Rachel answered.

"What does that mean?" Tchepikov asked. She was closer in age to Rachel, perhaps early thirties. Bleach blonde with streaks of brown, a long narrow face, and thick eyeglasses. Rachel couldn't quite place the accent. Maybe Russian.

"It means the matrix is fundamentally flawed. I warned my government for years, but they wouldn't listen. How many programmers have brain damage trying to balance the layering?"

They exchanged glances.

"Too many," Fournier admitted.

"Don't expect different results. Did you perform an MRI on me while I was unconscious?"

There were more glances. Joković seemed unhappy Rachel knew their concerns in advance.

"We did," Tchepikov confirmed.

"What did you find?" Rachel asked.

"We don't know. We're seeking a specialist who can explain them," Tchepikov said.

"Good luck with that. My mother hired the best doctors in the world, and they are clueless," Rachel explained. "So, what happens next? A firing squad?"

"You do not have a serious attitude," Joković admonished.

"Did my medication survive reentry? The pills from Dr. Keller at the Swiss Institute?"

"No, your suit was too badly damaged," Fournier said.

"Then don't expect me to get better," Rachel warned. "Without my medication, I'm only going to get crazier."

"We have heard rumors of your mental illness. We thought it a trick," Fournier said.

"That's not my problem," Rachel replied. "Are you sending me to a dungeon? My dead boyfriend, the billionaire Daniel Benson, had a dungeon. In the basement of an old barn on the hill behind his house. He would take off my clothes and hang me in chains. That got weird sometimes. Whips aren't as much fun as people think."

The visitors retreated to the door, whispering among themselves. The men left. Tchepikov returned, taking a chair next to the bed.

"Our questions are serious," she said, taking off her glasses and leaning forward.

"Have I refused to answer your questions?"

"I don't know. Can you describe how you were able to counterprogram Level 13 from a space station with a dying power source?"

"Of course."

Tchepikov waited. Rachel wasn't speaking.

"You may begin any time," Tchepikov urged.

"When's dinner? Do you have chicken fettucine? Or cheeseburgers? And I want to know your first name. Usually, I don't use first names with people who are older than me, out of respect, but you're not that much older. How old are you? Forty? Forty-five?"

"I am only thirty-four!" Tchepikov protested, her thin eyebrows going up in indignation. Rachel smiled. Mischievously. Tchepikov got up, closed the door, and found a pillow to help Rachel sit up better.

"My name is Maria. I was born in Kazakhstan. We do not have cheeseburgers, but we do have fettucine. And lasagna. And pizza. If you answer our questions honestly, I will see that you are well-treated."

"I'm not good at lying. Everyone says so," Rachel explained. "My sister, Rory, says I'm the worst liar ever. But I don't always tell the truth. I guess it will depend on the questions."

"Aren't you curious about where you are? And how you got here?" Maria asked.

"Oh, that wasn't hard to figure out," Rachel replied.

* * * * * *

Rachel was reading when Dr. Fournier knocked on her door and entered without invitation. He was casually dressed in a brown suit without a tie. She was wearing gray gym clothes with white wool socks.

"Am I disturbing you?" he asked.

"No, sir, not at all. Please make yourself comfortable," Rachel invited.

"Are the new quarters suitable?"

"Oh, yes. They're nice. I was getting tired of that hospital room."

Fournier looked around. A narrow bed. An old wooden table. Two wooden chairs. A nightstand with an old lamp. Sparse would have been an understatement. It didn't even have windows. Rachel got off the bed, taking one of the chairs. Fournier sat in the other.

"What are you reading?" he asked.

"Natasha found a copy of War and Peace for me. It's really long."

Fournier reached for the book.

"It's in Russian," he discovered.

"Yes."

"You read Russian?"

"Not very well, I'm afraid," Rachel confessed. "Maria gave me a French-Russian dictionary, so I'm learning. It's easier than Ancient Greek."

"How is your health?"

"The burns are still scratchy. Thank you for the ointment."

"Natasha says you are a good patient."

"I don't remember getting burned up before," Rachel mentioned. "I've been shot. And beat up. A lot. Almost drowned. And I had pneumonia. Being burned isn't fun."

"It's a miracle you survived that crash," Fournier said. "Level 13 didn't establish control of your capsule until the very end, and the parachutes caught fire. If Dr. Volker hadn't guided the fall to the lake, there would have been nothing but wreckage."

"Psalms 9:1," Rachel whispered.

"I will give thanks to the Lord with my whole heart; I will tell of all your wonderful deeds," the Frenchman recited.

"You know the Bible?" Rachel asked in surprise.

"I was raised Catholic. In a small village outside Bordeaux."

"You're a long way from Bordeaux, sir."

"You are a long way from Palmdale."

"Have you been studying me?"

"Miss Montgomery, at the moment, you are the most famous woman in the world. There are tributes for you everywhere."

Rachel looked around the drab room with off-white walls and a cracked tile floor.

"I don't feel so famous," she said.

Fournier produced a bottle of red wine and two glasses. French wine, from Bergerac. He filled both glasses.

"I can only have a tiny taste, sir. I might be pregnant," Rachel said.

"Might be?"

"There weren't any obstetricians on the space platform."

"Think you will live long enough to have a baby?" he questioned.

"Three weeks ago, I didn't expect to live this long. Every day is a blessing."

"To every day," Fournier said, offering the toast. Rachel sipped.

"It's very good, not that I'm an expert," she complimented.

"Fortunately, I am. Do you know it was I who attempted to invade your WHD? I was very close to success, until you stopped me."

"WHD relies on doctor-patient confidentiality. Releasing those files would have compromised our mission statement. Not that it would have helped you very much."

"What do you mean?"

"The health database is just profiles, sir. DNA. Medical records. Family histories. Projections. It's all about individuals, not grand schemes to control populations. Unless you were hoping to create a pathogen directed at specific DNA. Was that your plan? Targeted genocide?"

"No, of course not. Why? Could such a terror be developed?"

"I don't know. I'm a mathematician, not a biologist."

"You did something to your Level 12. An adjustment. It's not even approachable anymore. How did you do that?"

"By phasing the algorithms."

"How?"

"That's not easy to explain, sir. I could show you, but it would take two years."

"I suspect that is true. Could you modify Level 13 to overcome outside interference?"

"I'm sure it can be done, but not by me."

"You refuse?"

"It's beyond my ability. A year ago, I accessed the U.S. government's Level 13 to find my kidnapped niece and nephew. It scrambled my brain so badly that I've never been the same since. I've been trying to stabilize a Level 14 matrix, but the execution keeps eluding me."

"Our spies have reported rumors of a Level 14. What would it do?"

"I was hoping it would cure the planet's environment. Find formulas to eradicate poisons from the air and water. Balance energy production with long-term sustainability. Deal with problems associated with overpopulation by maximizing crop yields."

"The whole planet?"

"Sir, half the planet would be inefficient," she responded.

Fournier paused, making a longer study of the quiet prisoner. He realized she was serious. She truly believed it might be possible to repair the entire world.

"What happened?" he inquired.

"The matrix couldn't cope with the variables," Rachel explained.

"Which variables?"

"The human variables."

"Human variables are reduced when you give people fewer options. Limit them to choices that enhance society rather than divide it. Level 13 can provide that guidance."

"Level 13 is command and control. It can't modulate. It still requires people for that," Rachel rejected.

"That is why coercion is necessary."

"I don't know. Maybe. I'm not good at that stuff. I only know math."

"We want you to consult on our matrix. Make it work the way it needs to. If you do, you will not be harmed. If you do not cooperate, I will not be responsible for the consequences."

"In time, perhaps. I'm finding it hard to concentrate. And I don't know anything about your equipment. Which computers you use. The structuring. The energy source for your control pod. It can get very complicated."

"We have everything for our Level 13 that your government has and more. Modifications have been implemented."

"What sort of modifications?"

"They are secret, and powerful."

"Yes? And how has that turned out?" Rachel asked, her eyes mocking.

"Do not be flippant, Miss Marbury. It could be the most important decision of your life."

"I'll need to study your schematics."

"I'll have Dr. Tchepikov bring them over," Fournier promised.

* * * * * *

"Walsh, what are you doing here? Aren't you going to the memorial?" General St. Claire asked. Mission Control was quiet, a skeleton staff watching the monitors.

"Just another few minutes, Darla," Walsh said, sitting at his workstation.

"They're expecting fifty thousand people at the park. The President has ordered flags flown at half-staff."

"I know, I know. I need to figure this out."

"Figure what out? Most of the debris is gone now. The alerts have been cancelled."

"It's this data."

"The data won't be changing."

"That's the problem."

St. Claire took a seat next to him. The screen was tracking debris from the breakup of HEO-6 three weeks before.

"Look here," Walsh said, pointing at red figures.

"All I see are fragments hitting the atmosphere. You don't think you'll find her body, do you?"

"Why would Nomad use their Level 13 to mask falling debris?"

"They did what?"

"Here. Whatever that fragment was, it was emitting electronic signatures. Level 13 blocked them before our ground tracking could initiate verification. Now it just looks like reflections."

"Cheetah #5? We know the booster broke up, but the warhead never detonated."

"That's possible. I'm working on another theory."

"Which is?"

"McKay's capsule."

"There's no evidence the pod detached while the platform was breaking up."

"What if there was evidence and we didn't detect it?"

"If it did, it burned up, like the command deck and the crew module."

"They weren't emitting signals. Darla, what if Nomad took control of the capsule? What if Rachel was in it?"

"Walsh, when was the last time you got any sleep?" she probed.

"I'm not sure. Tracking this anomaly has kept me occupied."

"My friend, I know you're grieving. You and Rachel started off poorly, and now she's gone. That's a lot of guilt to carry."

"That's not what this is about. Rachel and I made our peace. I need to know what happened up there in those final minutes."

"Let's go to the memorial. Your family will be there. We can pick this up later."

The San Jacinto Battleground State Historic Site was crowded. Thousands of folding chairs were set in long rows. A stage had been erected before the USS Texas battleship. Loudspeakers surrounded the seating area. Walsh noticed a choir, ministers, soldiers, and politicians. Flags were everywhere.

"Over there," St. Claire said, indicating a special section set aside for family. "I'll catch up. We're coordinating the services with the National Cathedral in Washington."

Walsh approached a group of chairs surrounded by yellow ribbon, spotting his wife standing next to Pamela Benson. He hugged them both.

"Sorry I'm late," he apologized.

"You cut it close, dear," Virginia warned. "They're about to begin. Pam and Rory flew out to be with us."

"It's good to see you, Pam," Walsh greeted. "I know Tom appreciates it."

"Rachel always said it's important to say goodbye," Pamela responded, tearing up.

Walsh saw Rory and Ashley sitting with Eric and Kevin. Sheila Marbury had come with them, escorted by Bob McLane and his two daughters.

Tom was off at the edge of the crowd, and he had company. Walsh saw his estranged daughters, Meagan and Cynthia, providing comfort. He hadn't seen them in three years. Meagan was twenty-six now, tall like her mother, with long golden hair and an athletic build. She appeared animated in her conversation. Shyer, Cynthia had just turned twenty-four, with short platinum hair and a slim figure. She was holding Tom's arm.

Not wanting to create a scene, Walsh waited until Tom was alone.

"How are you holding up, son?" Walsh asked.

"It's tough, Dad. Having everyone here helps."

"Will you be speaking?"

"No, I can't. Pam is giving the eulogy."

"You were her husband."

"The world doesn't know that. We didn't get a chance to make the announcement."

"You should."

"I need more time."

Tom went to sit between Pamela and Rory, taking their hands. Walsh saw Colonel McKay arrive with the four rescued crew members of HEO-6, all in dress uniform.

"Jeremiah, can we talk?"

"What do you need, Walsh?" McKay said, sounding angry.

"Are you speaking today?"

"Why would I be speaking?"

"You were with her in those final hours. You were the last person to see her alive."

"I'm the one who killed her."

"No. No, you're wrong. It wasn't like that," Walsh protested.

"I should have known what she was doing. All the clues were there."

"Have you talked to Taylor about this?"

"Fuck Taylor. He wasn't responsible for her. I was."

"Why would Nomad mask debris coming down from HEO-6?"

"Do what?"

"After the platform broke up, something came down emitting electronic signatures. Nomad masked them."

"That doesn't make any sense. The surviving warhead? Maybe one of the generators."

"What condition was your capsule in when the crew evacuated?"

"I don't know. It couldn't have been good," McKay speculated.

"When the platform was breaking up, would Rachel have sheltered in it?"

McKay stopped, finally grasping what Walsh was saying. Walsh noticed Sheila Marbury walking by.

"Miss Marbury, may we speak?" Walsh requested.

"What do you want, Mr. Harper?" Sheila responded. She was dressed in black, face shrouded by a veil. A Kleenex was clutched in her hand.

"Still unhappy with me?"

"I don't forgive as easily as Rachel did."

"And I wouldn't want you to. Make me earn it."

"How would you do that?" Sheila asked.

"That matrix of yours. They say it knows everything about everybody. Does it?"

"It doesn't really work like that," she defensively answered.

"Rachel said every digital signal ever produced leaves trace signatures in the continuum," Walsh pressed.

"If you had a talented engineer and knew what you were looking for, it might be possible."

"A few months ago, I would have hated that. Now I think it's a godsend."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Sheila asked, growing impatient.

"Have you met Jeremiah McKay? He flew Rachel to the orbital."

"And left her there," Sheila coldly replied.

"No one told me it was a one-way mission, Miss Marbury," McKay explained. "I never would have agreed, and the brass knew that. Rachel tricked us off the platform, knowing what would happen. She was the bravest woman I've ever known."

Sheila studied the tall man, believing him sincere.

"I apologize, Colonel. I didn't know," Sheila said. "What's this all about?"

"I think Rachel is alive," Walsh declared. "I think she sheltered in McKay's capsule, powered it up to get life support, cut it loose as the platform was disintegrating, and then Nomad used their Level 13 to take control of the guidance system as it was coming down. That's why they masked the electronic signatures."

"Colonel, is that possible?" Sheila asked.

"It's plausible, but I haven't seen any proof," McKay replied.

"Find the proof. I know it's there," Walsh pleaded.

"Mr. Harper--" Sheila started.

"Call me Walsh. I'm your favorite cousin's father-in-law. On the day she left, she called me Dad."

Sheila thought Walsh looked agitated. Strung out. Maybe a little crazy, like Rachel sometimes got. That wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

"Why should I believe you?" Sheila asked.

"I've done the math," Walsh replied.

Sheila stepped back to take a closer look at Walsh, and then pulled out her phone.

"Miss Marbury? Are you buying this?" McKay said.

"Just a second," Sheila answered, putting a hand up. "Vijay? Call an emergency meeting of the senior staff. All hands on deck. I'm catching a flight back right now. Yeah. Yeah. I'll want you and Jeezer in the pod. It's going to be a long night. Got it?"

Sheila made another call to ready her jet, and then hung up.

"You were saying, Colonel?" Sheila asked.

"I'll get our people down to Mission Control," McKay said. "We'll coordinate on those masked signals."

"Let's move," Sheila determined, preparing to run off.

Walsh was amazed by Sheila's sudden resolution. There was a competence about her that inspired instant respect. She was everything her reputation said she was. And then he was even more surprised.

"Sheba? The memorial is beginning," Eric said, broad-shouldered and good-looking in a dark blue suit and black tie.

"Can't stay, lover. Got a tiger by the tail," Sheila replied. "Want a trip to California? I could use your help."

"Right now?" Eric asked.

"Right this very minute," Sheila confirmed.

"We can take my car to the airport," Eric said. "Hi, Dad. Hi, Colonel McKay. Got to go." And they did.

"Your son is dating the most powerful CEO in America?" McKay questioned.

"Life keeps getting stranger every day," Walsh replied.

* * * * * *

"What is this?" Colonel Joković demanded.

Rachel's cell was crowded. Doctors Pierre Fournier, Maria Tchepikov, and Konrad Volker were sitting on the floor, watching. Nurse Russo was at the small table, monitoring. Rachel stood on the other chair, holding a black marker, scribbling. The walls were awash in black, red, green, and blue markings. Formulas. Equations. Algorithms.

"Don't interrupt," Fournier protested.

"What's she doing?" Joković asked.

"Shut the hell up," Volker insisted, a hefty middle-aged German with a round red face and sparse gray hair.

"It's an analysis of Level 13's flaws," Fournier explained.

Joković stood in the middle of the room, seeing thousands of notations. The entire wall was being used.

"This is all nonsense," Joković announced.

"It's not nonsense," Maria disagreed.

"It's sublime," Volker declared in his thick Bavarian accent.

"How long has this been going on?" Joković asked.

"Since breakfast," Natasha reported. "She hasn't paused for eight hours. Has her medication from Switzerland arrived yet?"

"It was delivered this morning," Joković confirmed.

"Why doesn't she have it?" the nurse asked.

"Mind your tone, Miss Russo. She will have it when I decide she will have it," Joković responded. He went to the chair where Rachel was standing and reached for her.

"I wouldn't do that, Colonel," Maria warned. "She's in a dissociative state."

"This arrogant American has been indulged long enough," he said, grabbing her hips.

Rachel turned so suddenly that it took Joković by surprise. She pushed him back with both arms and then kicked him in the face.

"Leave my numbers alone!" she shouted.

Joković was startled. The quiet woman standing on the wobbly chair was scowling at him, her hair splayed out, the brown eyes almost gray. She looked more demon than human. When he grabbed again, they fell backwards on the bed. Rachel bounced off, landed on her feet, and reached for a steak knife lying next to her uneaten lunch.

"Colonel! Don't!" Natasha cried out, scurrying away.

Joković moved forward despite the warning, reaching out. Rachel swiped the blade, slicing his palm open. Blood sprayed everywhere. He pulled back in shock. Rachel lunged, jabbing his forearm as he tried to block the thrust. Had the knife been sharper, it would have cut bone. Joković fell back against the wall. Rachel loomed over him.

"Guards! Guards!" Joković yelled.

Two burly sentries rushed into the small room, piling on the ferocious prisoner. It took both of them to hold her down, one with his arms wrapped around her legs, the other holding her arms.

"Psycho bitch," Joković cursed, drawing a pistol with his good hand.

Suddenly Joković was lifted by his collar. Though a big man, he wasn't nearly so big as the German. Volker slammed Joković face first into the wall, pulled the gun away, and threw him to the door.

"Threaten her again and I will break you in half," Volker grunted. Maria came to stand over the wounded colonel, staring down with cold anger.

"Only the council may determine this woman's fate. Do not presume to make such a decision again. Are we understood?" Maria threatened.

Joković found the three Nomad leaders standing in unity. Their expressions left no doubt he was in far more danger than the crazy woman. He got up and departed without arguing.

"Let her go," Fournier ordered.

The guards slowly disengaged, making sure the knife stayed out of reach. They withdrew. Natasha knelt down, got Rachel seated on the floor, and gently held her arms.

"Rachel, it's me, Natasha. Your nurse. Rachel. Rachel. I'm here. You can come back now," Natasha whispered. It took several minutes. Rachel's breathing calmed. Her eyes focused. She looked confused.

"Natasha?" she said.

"Welcome back, Rachel. How are you?" Natasha asked.

"I'm okay," Rachel replied. "Where am I?"

"You're in your room. Pierre, Konrad, and Dr. Tchepikov are here with you."

When Rachel saw them standing next to the wall, her face lit up with a grateful smile. The scientists breathed sighs of relief.

"Let's find her medication," Maria suggested.

"You don't need to say that twice," Fournier agreed.

* * * * * *

Pamela was visiting her grandchildren at Canby Place. It was chaotic. Young Danny Benson was busy with his siblings playing on the back lawn. Toy airplanes, dolls, and dinosaurs were scattered everywhere. Jackie McLane made sure they didn't get too rough. There was a lot of noise.

Though she enjoyed the excitement of the youngsters, Pamela felt older. And looked older. She wondered if she could have stopped Rachel from going on that fatal mission. The accolades her daughter was receiving in death did not make up for the missing piece of her heart that was left behind. She was glad the children were too young to understand.

Familiar voices came from the house, and then the sliding glass door opened.

"Pammy, glad you're here," Sheila said, stepping out on the patio. She was wearing a blue business suit, her hair worn up. Conservative makeup and no diamond earrings. There was a weary energy about her, and a degree of hesitancy.

"Sheila? You have your nerve coming here after disappearing from the memorial," Pamela said. "Where have you been the last three weeks?"

"Houston, Colorado Springs, Washington, then back to Houston. Last night we were in Aspen with Aunt Hattie. The rest of the time, I've been camping at WHD, pushing my staff. Where's Tom?"

"He's staying a few more weeks before moving out. He wants to finish Rachel's cottage. Sort of a tribute," Pamela said.

Pamela pointed to the top of the hill. The old barn was gone, replaced by a quaint ranch house.

"Don't let my brother leave too quickly," Eric said, following Sheila out the back door. He was casually dressed with a month-old beard and animated blue eyes.

"Eric? What's going on?" Pamela asked.

"Let's get Tom. There are things we need to talk about," Sheila urged.

"What things?" Pamela said.

"Be patient," Sheila answered. "This is important."

They walked up the brick path to the top of the hill passing vegetable gardens, green lawns, and oak trees. The exterior of the new house was completed with a broad porch and big windows. Eric ran up ahead, reaching the house first.

"Tommy?" he said, bursting through the front door. He found Tom in the kitchen sanding the cupboards. The breakfast nook offered a grand view of the estate. His brother was looking older, too. Troubled by the same regrets tormenting Pamela.

"Eric?" Tom said in surprise.

"The place is looking great," Eric complimented.

"This is the home Rach always wanted. Comfortable. Unpretentious. A place she could relax when she wasn't saving the world. It will help people understand who she was. The real Rachel. What are you doing here?"

"We have news," Eric replied, setting a grocery bag on the table.

"We?"

"Sheba and Pam are coming."

"Are you and Sheba a thing?"

"We've been spending a lot of time together. And doing a lot of traveling. She's really great."

"You're her boyfriend?"

"Sort of. I'm her unofficial boyfriend. And her military liaison."

"Military?"

"I hope you weren't planning on taking a vacation."

Pamela and Sheila arrived, finding seats in the breakfast nook. The Pacific Ocean was only a few miles away, visible on the clear blue day. Eric produced a bottle of Michter's Toasted Barrel Bourbon and four glasses.

"Everybody settle down, this might take a while," Sheila said, pouring everyone a shot.

"Sorry if I don't feel like celebrating so soon," Pamela said, pushing her glass away.

"Celebrating is premature, but you're going to need a drink," Sheila assured her.

"Okay, what is this?" Pamela asked.

No one answered right away. Sheila and Eric shared a glance, as if unsure how to proceed. Finally, Sheila sipped her bourbon and scrunched her thin eyebrows.

"Hold on to your hat, Pammy, this is going to be a shock," she warned.

"After everything that's happened, what could possibly be shocking at this point?" Pamela grouchily responded.

"We think Rachel may still be alive," Sheila revealed.

The statement was met with silence. Pamela looked stunned. Tom appeared angry.

"This isn't a joke, Tommy," Eric quickly explained. "Dad came up with this theory at the memorial. Sheba and I have been on it 24/7 ever since."

"We haven't said anything until now. We didn't want to get anyone's hopes up," Sheila added.

"How can this be? Where is she?" Tom asked.

"We think Nomad has her. In Balakaria," Eric replied.

"Balakaria?" Pamela said. "That sounds ... sounds ..."

Sheila pushed the shot glass back toward her cousin and took another sip of her own.

"If Rachel is alive, we're going to get her back," Sheila promised. "With Balakaria under Russia's protection, there's not much the U.S. can do, but there's plenty we can do."

"Give me a minute. This is all coming so fast," Pamela said, taking a drink. "What are the chances Rachel is really alive?"

"Pretty good, I think," Eric answered. "My father is 100% convinced. He's using every back channel there is to push the NSA to help. They thought he was crazy, at first. Some were getting very unhappy with him, but he wouldn't let it go. General Taylor gradually came onboard. When Colonel McKay said Rachel might have sheltered in his space capsule, and that the fragmentary signal they detected could be the guidance system, Space Command started paying attention. It's all very hush-hush. We don't want to tip Nomad off."

"Of course," Pamela said.

"What's the plan?" Tom asked.

"Aunt Hattie is arranging funding," Sheila said. "We're raising our own army."

* * * * * *

Chapter Fourteen

LEVEL 13

Rachel was in a new cell, with clean walls, and without marking pens. Which everyone agreed were making her crazy. The door opened.

"Hello, Miss Marbury. I am Gustav Frey, the leader of Nomad," a middle-aged man greeted. He was neither tall nor short, stout but not fat, with a receding hairline. His blue eyes gleamed with an aggressive intelligence. His charcoal gray suit was modest, and a bit rumpled.

"You're the boss?" Rachel asked.

"First among equals," Frey replied. "May I sit?"

"Of course, sir," Rachel said, removing her book and food tray from the small table to make room. "I'm sorry the place is such a mess."

Frey saw that, though the room was sparse, it was not empty. There was an extra blanket and pillow on the bed. A shelf held several books. A change of clothing hung from a hook on the wall. There was a makeup kit and a small mirror.

"You do not need to apologize."

Frey took one of the two chairs, producing a wine bottle and elegant long-stemmed glasses.

"I shouldn't," Rachel mildly protested.

"This is specially made in southern France for women in your supposed condition, and said to provide many benefits."

"Are you sure?" Rachel asked.

"I was a medical doctor before becoming a terrorist. I am sure."

Rachel sat and tasted the wine.

"Has your condition been confirmed?" Frey inquired.

"I would rather not know, for now, but I'm careful about my diet."

"That is wise," Frey agreed.

"Why do you call yourself a terrorist, Dr. Frey?"

"I say that because you think of me as a terrorist."

"I've never said any such thing," Rachel objected.

"Do you not think we have committed terrorist acts?"

"Oh, yes. I do think that."

"You have me confused."

"It appears you have some sort of cause. One that requires violence and intimidation. I am not an expert, but I believe this is somewhat common."

"At times we have used violence, but only when other options have failed. We face formidable adversaries."

"Having murdered three men in Nevada, I am not one to judge."

"Indeed?"

"My friend was kidnapped. I wanted to find her. I arranged for myself to be abducted, found out what I needed to know, and shot my kidnappers. When a criminal sheriff took me captive, I killed him, too. It was necessary. This is very good wine. Thank you."

"You are welcome," Frey said, leaning back and reassessing his prisoner. "Do you understand what we are trying to do?"

"No. But I don't pay attention to politics. I've never even voted."

"We are living on a doomed planet. Governments that give their people too much freedom are poisoning the environment and spreading misery by the unequal distribution of resources. Other governments strictly control their populations, claiming it is for their own good, only to serve a corrupt elite. For this world to survive, we need a new system. One where such gratuitous liberties are not tolerated."

Rachel read the label on the wine bottle, seeing notations of praise for its healthful qualities. She sipped a little more.

"Well?" Frey said.

"Well what?" Rachel replied.

"What do you think?"

"I don't know about such things. I only know math."

"You won't oppose us?"

"I'm locked in a cell and the entire world thinks I'm dead. I'm hardly in a position to oppose anyone."

"We would rather not make things more difficult for you, unless it becomes necessary."

"What is it you want from me, sir?"

"What you've said of America's Level 13 is true. Their matrix is fundamentally flawed. Help us repair it."

"I've explained to Dr. Fournier why that's impossible."

"I don't believe anything is impossible for you. Dr. Volker doesn't either, and he's the most brilliant man among us."

"I can't help you launch nuclear missiles at people."

"Give us what we need and that won't happen. You have my word."

Rachel grew quiet. After a moment, she went to her bed, reached under the pillow, and came back with a bag of chocolate chip cookies.

"Natasha gave these to me. I hope she won't get in trouble."

"She won't get in trouble."

Rachel opened the bag carefully, put a cookie in front of Frey, and nibbled on another. Then she drank more of her wine. Frey was impressed. For such a famous woman, she seemed remarkably unassuming. And achingly attractive, though she didn't flaunt it. Her mental issues were obvious to the trained eye.

"I will look at your Level 13, but I can't make any promises," she offered. "I don't know anything about your technology, or methods, or resources."

"We know it's dangerous. Half of our original team is dead or brain damaged."

"That I do know about," Rachel said.

* * * * * *

Colonel Joković marched down the corridor to the prisoner's cell, debating whether to knock or barge in.

"She's not here, sir," the young sentry said.

"Not here? Where is she?"

"I don't know, sir. She left before dawn."

"Escaped? Mikel, you let her escape?"

"She left with the nurse and Dr. Tchepikov," the corporal nervously reported.

Joković took out his communicator, contacting the security office. The response was unexpected.

The cafeteria was more crowded than usual. Technicians, guards, office workers, custodians, and groundskeepers. Perhaps a hundred in all. The hall was noisy.

"Where is she?" Joković demanded.

The guard sitting at the entrance looked up from his ham and cheese omelet.

"Who?" he asked.

"The prisoner. Where is the prisoner?"

"In the kitchen, sir."

Joković rushed to the back, bursting in. There were twelve harried cooks, and his prisoner. She was in a white jacket and cap, her hair up in a bun, and wearing an apron, giving instructions in French and Russian. Eggs and sausages were on the griddle. And a dish he'd rarely seen. Grits.

"What is the meaning of this?" Joković said.

The cooks momentarily halted. Rachel ordered them back to work.

"Sorry, Colonel, I don't have time now," Rachel said. "Place your order at the counter."

She returned to the preparation station, making omelets with ham, bacon, cheeses, green onions, tomatoes, pepper, and low salts. She moved with expert efficiency, her concentration absorbed in the task. Joković hesitated, and then retreated, finding a table where doctors Tchepikov, Fournier, and Volker were eating. They had coffee, biscuits, and eggs. The strange-looking grits appeared to be made of ground corn and broth.

"The coffee is no better than usual, but these omelets are wonderful," Maria said.

"Even the bistros in Paris don't make them better," Fournier agreed.

"She must have a magic formula," Volker suggested.

Joković sat. A plate appeared before him. The food was excellent, just as the scientists claimed.

"I don't understand. Why is she not in her cell?" Joković asked.

"Montgomery made a special request," Maria replied. "She has asked us for nothing since her capture. It did not seem much to grant."

"To cook for us?" Joković said.

"It's her birthday," Volker explained.

"Maybe her last birthday, if Gruda and Popov have their way," Fournier said. "We saw no reason to deny her."

"Is it so much?" Volker asked.

"I suppose not," Joković conceded. "But I am surprised. I just saw her in the kitchen. If I did not know who she is--"

"You would have thought her an ordinary servant?" Maria finished.

"Yes," Joković admitted.

"She is a servant, but she is not ordinary," Volker insisted.

Twenty-five minutes later, Rachel appeared carrying a cup of tea. Her eyes were bright. Energetic.

"Happy birthday, Miss Montgomery," Joković offered. "Breakfast was quite good."

"Thank you, sir," Rachel responded. "I appreciate you letting me out for the morning."

Joković declined to say he hadn't. "How old are you now?" he asked.

"Thirty. It's kind of amazing," Rachel answered. "I have all of you to thank for that. Otherwise, I would have died in that burning space capsule."

"You are not out of danger," Joković warned.

"Matthew 24:36," Rachel replied.

"Which is?" Joković inquired.

"But of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven, but my Father only," Rachel quoted.

"You have much faith," Volker observed.

"I don't think of it that way. It's just numbers," Rachel explained. Her listeners looked confused but didn't ask questions.

"Any regrets, now that you're old?" Maria teased.

"A few," Rachel acknowledged, taking a biscuit from Maria's plate and adding a touch of jam.

"Any worth mentioning?" Fournier asked.

"When the space station was breaking up, and I didn't see a way off, I wish I'd adopted a puppy," Rachel said. "Because of my condition, I've never had a pet. Or learned to drive. Most of my life, I had no friends. All I've had is my work."

"Our work is important. It defines us," Fournier said.

"I guess," Rachel replied.

The cafeteria remained busy, more arriving as others left. Service slowed.

"I should get back to work," Rachel said, getting up. "Thank you again for such a nice birthday."

Rachel adjusted her jacket and started back toward the kitchen, inquiring with guests about the food in several different languages. Dozens reached out, offering smiles and good wishes. Rachel seemed pleased, though shy.

"Her French is excellent," Fournier praised.

"Her German needs work. I will help her," Volker said.

"I don't know what to make of her," Joković complained.

"What is there to understand?" Volker said. "She is a brilliant woman who would rather be living a simple life. As we all would. But that is not her destiny."

"What is her destiny? We know what Gruda and Popov intend," Maria pressed.

"That must not be," Volker said with a frown. "And anyone who seeks that answer will regret it."

"What position do you take, Colonel?" Fournier asked.

"I will follow orders," Joković replied.

* * * * * *

Rachel had been swimming in the Olympic-size pool for an hour without a break when she was interrupted.

"Hello, Colonel," Rachel said, looking up in surprise. And a touch of fear. She was wearing a black one-piece bathing suit, her trimmed hair hanging almost to her shoulders.

Joković helped her out of the water. They were outdoors. The July weather was warm and clear. She was out of breath, her eyes hazy but not crazy. He couldn't ignore how athletic she was. A swimmer's physique, small but perfectly proportioned. In a different time and place, he would have wanted her.

"Some are running out of patience with you," Joković replied. "You have been our guest for seven weeks and provided nothing but incomprehensible equations."

"I'm still studying your matrix. It's hard when I can't see the mainframe."

"The laboratory is secret."

"I understand," Rachel said, turning to dive back in the pool. Joković grabbed her arm.

"Life can be made more unpleasant for you," he warned.

"By you?"

"No. I have learned my lesson," he said, holding up his hand to show the scar. And then he smiled, catching Rachel by surprise.

"You are not Nomad. You are an employee. Be careful what you ask for," Rachel said.

"What am I asking for?"

"A different world than the one you expect."

Joković followed Rachel into the locker room, where she took a shower. He was tempted to watch, but restrained himself. She emerged wearing a brown cotton dress with a long skirt, sandals, and a straw bonnet. The blouse wasn't low cut, but still showed off her nicely rounded figure. They went to her new room, a suite on the third floor of the barracks with a view of the lake.

"I'm thankful they gave me such a nice place to stay," Rachel said, going into the small kitchen. "Have you had lunch?"

"A meal would be appreciated," Joković agreed.

A few minutes later, they were sitting at a dining table eating beef stew and fresh baked bread. Rachel served wine while drinking juice.

"This is very good," Joković admired. "Do you cook often?"

"I cooked for a coffee shop while attending high school. In the desert," Rachel explained. "Other places, too. It helps keep me calm."

"I like you better when you're calm," Joković said, again raising his wounded hand.

They both laughed.

"How is your medication working?"

"Okay. Better when I'm doing my routines. Swimming. Cooking. Working in my lab. It's harder when I interact with strangers. When Pamela and Rory Benson first took me in, I could barely talk, and I was hazy most of the time."

"How old were you?"

"I had just turned twenty-four. It was a few days after Daniel Benson died. I would have died, too, if they hadn't intervened."

"Died?"

"I became very depressed, and had pneumonia."

"The American media never speaks of such things," Joković remarked. "They make you sound like a movie star."

"That's funny," she said. "Do they still think I'm dead?"

"Yes."

"That's probably for the best."

"None blame you for not wanting to cooperate, but it places you in danger," Joković said.

"There are different kinds of danger."

"How so?"

"Many believe Nomad's goals are oppressive. It's troubling. Last spring, I solved the puzzle to Level 14, and it's oppressive, too. Yet I can't help wondering if it's the answer to many problems. At least Nomad takes responsibility for their agenda. I haven't had that courage."

Joković gave his prisoner a determined look, attempting to grasp what she was saying.

"You approve of Nomad's plans?" he asked.

"No. Their vision is disjointed, and doesn't go far enough. They don't understand the consequences."

"You would impose even harsher restrictions on the world?"

"I don't want to."

"But you could?"

"If Nomad is able to reconfigure Level 13, it will be possible to do things they can't even imagine. I think, maybe, it would have been better if I'd stayed on the space station."

"Your death would not have solved anything."

"It would limit Nomad's options," Rachel disagreed.

"They will find a way without you," Joković said.

"No, Colonel, they won't," Rachel replied.

* * * * * *

The old Victorian mansion had been in the Marbury family since the 1880s. Several miles west of Aspen, on a private road in a green valley, all of the adjacent homes belonged to aunts, uncles, and extended cousins. Each was being used, but not by family members.

Marbury House was crowded with soldiers, none of them wearing uniforms. Sofas, chairs, and benches held eighty men and women anxiously waiting for the meeting to begin.

"Quite the turnout," Pamela observed, sitting with Walsh next to the giant marble fireplace.

"It's taken long enough," Walsh complained.

"Walsh, no one has worked harder or longer to bring this day about. My entire family is grateful."

"No thanks are necessary, Pam. The world owes Rachel so much. I owe her so much. I just pray this is going to work."

A conference table in the parlor was covered with maps. General Taylor, Tom, and Jay Silverhawk were leaning over, marking strategic points. Sheila, Eric and Colonel McKay were in the corner, reviewing intel reports. Scores of others were in squad meetings assessing equipment and tactics. A busy staff provided coffee and pastries. Bob McLane directed security.

"Okay, everybody," Tom said, raising his hands for attention. "We've got a location and entry points. I won't pretend it will be easy. If anyone wants to back out, this is the time to do it."

There were no takers.

"Here's what we know thanks to Miss Marbury's team at WHD," Tom continued. "Rachel is being held at Nomad's Kas'stalk complex in Balakaria, at the edge of Mistavas Lake. We don't know her specific conditions. The complex has a guard two hundred strong. Russia and China are providing diplomatic protection."

"That is not entirely true, Mr. Harper," a new voice said.

Eighty-five-year-old Hattie Marbury burst into the room like a summer storm, bringing everything to a halt.

"Aunt Hattie? What do you mean?" Pamela asked.

"I've just finished my consultation with Premier Xiang," Hattie said. "China will stand down."

"How did you manage that?" Taylor asked.

"Sūn and I go back forty years," Hattie explained. "When I told him that anyone hampering the rescue of my grandniece will pay a heavy price, he was under no illusions. And Marbury Industries may have offered a few incentives."

"That takes some pressure off," McKay said. "What are we going to do about Russia?"

"Catch them by surprise," Taylor replied. "Bulgaria and the U.S. Navy are scheduled for maneuvers in the Black Sea, which will have their attention. If you move fast, you'll be in and gone before the Russians can react."

"What if we can't move that fast?" Jay asked.

"Officially, the U.S. military can't be involved with rogue operations," Taylor said. "Once you're back over the border in Romania, you'll have our protection."

"Oh, I think we can do better than that," General St. Claire said, following Hattie into the room.

"Darla? Are you supposed to be here? This meeting is unsanctioned," Taylor said.

"Then what are you doing here, Frank?" St. Claire countered.

"I sent Rachel up. It's my responsibility to bring her home," Taylor answered.

"We all sent her up, and Captain Rachel Harper is still an officer in the United States Army," St. Claire declared. "The President has authorized the Joint Chiefs to assure her safe return. In this instance, by providing air cover should an unauthorized expedition get in trouble achieving her release."

"Russia isn't going to like that," Taylor warned.

"Russia can go--mind their own business," St. Claire replied.

"This is getting big, isn't it?" Jay said, seeing others agreed.

"Think your Ranger buddies are up for it?" Tom asked.

"We'll be in the building while your SEAL buddies are still looking for parking," Jay smiled back.

"Kevin and I are going, too," Eric announced.

"And me," Rory spoke up.

"No," Pamela firmly replied.

"Mom? I'm a nurse. Rachel might need me," Rory protested.

"Don't 'mom' me, young lady. Kevin and Eric, you're not going, either," Pamela said. "This mission is to save my daughter, not put her family at risk. If any of you died, Rachel would never forgive herself. I can't stop Tom or Jay. I can stop the rest of you. That goes for you, too, Walsh. And you, Sheba."

"I was a Marine," Walsh responded.

"Thirty years ago," Pamela said.

"Pammy, they'll need Level 12 intel on the ground," Sheila protested.

"Everyone is going to be running around yelling and shooting, not checking their phones," Pam replied. "Isn't that right, boys and girls?"

The room exploded in shouts and applause.

"You're not going, either, Mom," Tom said.

"Oh, but I need to," Pam responded. "Rachel--"

"Needs her mother safe and sound. Waiting for her to come home," Tom interrupted. "Isn't that right, boys and girls?"

There were more shouts and applause.

"I agree completely," Hattie said. "I haven't pledged a billion dollars to let amateurs get in the way of these fine young veterans. Tom, Mr. Silverhawk, General Taylor, you've assembled the best of the best at my behalf. You have my complete confidence."

"No one will stop me from going," McLane said, daring anyone to say different.

"Bob, I don't--" Pamela started.

"Mrs. Benson, protecting your daughter is my job," McLane said. "No one needs to tell me how to do it."

"Promise to be careful," Pamela insisted. "If you got hurt, it would break Rachel's heart."

"I promise," McLane agreed.

"Sounds like we're set," Tom concluded. "Arrange your units. We have five days to move into position. At dawn on the 16th, we go."

* * * * * *

The cavernous pit at the heart of the secret complex was deep, only accessible by an elevator. Eight monitoring stations surrounded the steel pod housing their Level 13 control module, but none were at their consoles. The six surviving members of Nomad's founding circle were sitting in folding chairs watching an extraordinary event.

Chalkboards had been arranged along the wall, necessary to avoid electronic eavesdropping. Fournier, Volker, Gruda, Popov, Tchepikov, and their leader, Gustav Frey, gazed as Rachel feverishly scribbled formulas, equations, and notations in white chalk, occasionally changing to red or blue.

"She has taken over our project," Dr. Diandra Gruda complained, a resentful gray-haired woman in her late fifties.

"She has accomplished more in two months than we did in two years," Maria responded.

"I am uncomfortable with this, too," Frey admitted. "But Maria is right. We've never gotten this close to a solution before."

"We're still not close. Not until we test her theories in the pod," Dr. Popov insisted, sitting close to Gruda. Like Gruda, he was in his late fifties, thin and turning gray. He scowled more than he smiled.

"Her theories are not complete. She needs more time," Dr. Volker said.

"Your fascination for this girl is unwarranted," Gruda sneered.

"You are jealous. You are all jealous," Volker said.

"I must agree with Konrad," Fournier joined in, sitting with Maria. "This is astonishing work."

"Gustav?" Gruda said, seeking their leader's support.

"I don't know what to make of her," Frey admitted. "The American press knows nothing and cares nothing about science, and Montgomery never publishes."

"How could she publish?" Volker said. "Who but us would understand her work?"

"I'm glad she was unable to sacrifice herself on the space platform," Frey conceded. "It would have been a mistake to terminate her before getting this information."

Volker appeared displeased with the remark. He moved to sit closer to Frey.

"Don't you see?" the big German said. "This is a new way. What we were doing is unnecessary."

"I see what you're thinking, my friend, but you are wrong," Frey disagreed. "We're using the only means at our disposal. This new concept is still beyond our technology."

Rachel stopped for a second, sighed, and picked up a new piece of chalk, returning to the calculations with barely a pause. The numbers were being written as fast as she could go.

"I don't see how she does it," Maria said. "Such speed, and elegance. It looks so effortless."

"It's not effortless," Volker disagreed. "Her heart and soul are displayed on those boards."

"We can't keep her much longer," Popov hinted.

"What do you mean?" Volker asked.

"She is too famous. Eventually the Americans will realize she is not dead and come for her," Popov replied. "Our Russian contacts say there are rumors."

Volker stood up, looking at the grim expressions around him.

"I must be clear," Volker said. "I will not tolerate any attempt to harm this woman. Not by any of you."

"Konrad, that is out of line!" Gruda denounced.

"Diandra, this woman is a sacred spirit," Volker responded. "Worth more than everyone in this room. You are blind if you cannot see that."

Volker went to stand near Rachel. He was known to carry a gun.

"Is Konrad going to be a problem?" Popov whispered.

"I agree with him," Maria replied.

"That she's a sacred spirit?" Gruda said.

"No, I'm not superstitious," Maria answered. "But Montgomery is a generational resource. It's not our place to compromise that."

"Sacrifices need to be made," Frey said.

"Then be prepared to make them," Maria warned. "Konrad is not the only one with strong feelings on this."

"We must not let an outsider divide us," Frey protested.

"It will be you who divides us, not her," Maria said.

There was a sudden commotion at the chalkboard. Rachel backed away, still holding the chalk, staring.

"What's wrong?" Frey asked.

"I don't know. She seemed fine a moment ago," Fournier replied.

Rachel took another step back, dropping the chalk.

"Oh, no. No, no," she mumbled, using the sleeve of her red sweater to erase the last calculation.

"Rachel?" Volker said, moving closer.

She suddenly dropped to her knees at the bottom of the chalkboard and drew a line through the last series of equations. Then a random X, and another, and another. She was crying. She broke the chalk, throwing the pieces at the board, and punched it with a fist. Volker grabbed her before she could break her hand.

"Get her nurse," Fournier said, rushing to Rachel's side.

Volker was having trouble restraining her despite being twice her size. Rachel twisted free, kicked the board as hard as she could, and felt her legs grow weak. She collapsed on the floor, sobbing. Nurse Russo arrived, kneeling next to her patient, and took out a syringe.

"Just a tranquilizer," Natasha said, giving Rachel a shot. "She's in a deep dissociative state. They've been getting worse."

"Her medication is supposed to prevent that," Frey said.

"We don't know how that's supposed to work," Fournier replied. "And we can't ask the Swiss Institute without raising suspicions."

Rachel tried to shake loose of her helpers, but they were too strong. She gradually fell limp, her breathing heavy. Volker picked her up and headed for the elevator, Natasha and Maria close behind.

"It will take a few days to decipher these new calculations," Fournier said, making a recording. "I'll get these up to the lab."

After Fournier left, only Frey, Gruda, and Popov were left behind in the pit.

"What are you thinking?" Gruda asked.

"Once the girl is gone, the others will come around. They don't really have a choice," Frey replied.

"It will not be a popular decision," Popov warned.

"I like her, too," Frey said. "Even if she gets crazy. But these rumors Joković has been reporting are troubling. We can't let one woman stand in the way of our mission."

"I can gather a squad," Gruda offered. "Dispose of her tonight, after the others are asleep."

"No, not yet," Frey disagreed. "We need to review these latest calculations."

"What calculations? The girl is clearly mad," Gruda complained. "We can't compromise our security for a lunatic."

"Galileo and Nikola Tesla were called crazy, too," Frey responded. "We need time to test her methodology. This work is too promising to be dismissed."

"When, Gustav? When will a decision be made?" Gruda pressed. "Now that she is being allowed to roam the facility freely, many are growing infatuated with this woman. Our assistants. The staff. Even some of the security personnel."

"Soon. Perhaps," Frey replied, leaving for the elevator.

"She needs to go now," Gruda whispered.

"Frey said to hold off," Popov responded.

"Our mission must come first. Weakness leads to failure."

"How should it be done?"

"We still have the capsule and the suit she was wearing," Gruda said. "We'll put her back in the ship and have a helicopter drop it in the sea. Joković will give the coordinates to the Russians and let them find it. Once her body has been recovered, the Americans will have no grounds to pursue the issue further. We have allies to make sure of that."

* * * * * *

Rachel woke up in a strange room. In a strange bed. With a huge arm wrapped around her waist. She slid out of the silk sheets to the carpeted floor trying to remember how she got there. She was wearing a blue cotton nightgown.

"Don't worry. Nothing happened," Volker said in a thick, sleepy accent. "These are my quarters. You are safe here."

The bedroom was luxurious, with thick rugs, neoclassical furniture, Dutch tapestries, French vases, and a Picasso hanging on the wall.

"Wasn't I in the control center?" Rachel asked.

"You had a breakdown. Natasha needed to tranquilize you. It was she who changed your clothes."

"I'm sorry to be so much trouble."

"We are sorry. Fournier, Tchepikov, and I. Your work is always so bold, and far-reaching, and impeccable. We did not realize how fragile you are."

"I'm not so fragile."

"What did you discover?"

"I can't be sure. Not until it's tested in the pod."

"But it is something? Can you stabilize Level 13?"

"No, no one can do that."

Volker studied her, trying to put the pieces together. There weren't enough clues.

"Take a shower. Natasha brought you a change of clothes. I'll order breakfast," Volker offered, slipping out and closing the door.

Rachel appreciated his thoughtfulness and enjoyed the hot water. It wouldn't help what her calculations were showing.

Rachel was pleased that Natasha brought her a powder blue jumpsuit. The frilly brown dress often made her feel out of place in such a professional environment. And the men spent too much time staring at her legs. She went into Volker's elaborate dining room, finding him at the table.

"You must be hungry," he said, jumping up to hold a chair for her. "We have wheat toast with jam and marmalade, sausages, eggs, cheese, and bacon. Help yourself."

"Thank you, sir," Rachel said, happy to see tea and grapefruit juice.

"Is it true you are pregnant?" Volker asked.

"I can't be positive, but I think so," Rachel replied.

"How did this happen?"

"The usual way," she answered with a twinkle in her eyes.

"No, I mean--"

"Yes, sir, I know what you mean," Rachel teased. "I used a test from the drug store at the space center. It was positive. But I haven't had an ultrasound or anything like that. With everything that's happened since, it's hard to tell."

"Do you want another child?"

"Oh, yes. I wanted many, but that's not going to happen now."

"You are young."

"And I'm going to die young."

Rachel chewed a sausage and tried the scrambled eggs. They were good.

"I promised to protect you," Volker insisted.

"It's a promise you can't keep. Let's not talk about that. Why has Nomad killed so many people? Tens of thousands? And you tried to kill millions more?"

"Nomad has many branches, we are but one. Those you speak of were at Vos'stat. And even then, those numbers are exaggerated. They ordered the European Union to ground their airlines for twenty-four hours. To show Nomad's power. When they were defied, they had to make an example of one of their flights. As for the missiles, I suspect all but three would have been diverted. Only New York, London, and Tokyo would have suffered. All hubs of capitalism. And each would have been given time to evacuate. Thousands may have died, but not millions. And because of you, even those cities were spared. I am glad for that. Our message was delivered at a small price."

It was not the explanation Rachel expected. She straightened up, brushed her hair back, and gave Volker a careful inspection. Suddenly the German found himself under an intense examination, a sensation so strong it had a physical presence. His breath grew short. Had her eyes changed color? And just as abruptly, the sensation was gone. Rachel resumed eating her breakfast.

"These attacks are not what I want," Volker apologized.

"I know," Rachel answered.

"Can you address the problems with Level 13? The others grow impatient."

"Nomad demands a high price for obedience."

"No higher than necessary."

"What if the price needs to be higher?" Rachel asked.

"In what manner?"

"Never mind. I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, you must tell me. This is what you saw last night, isn't it? What made you cry."

"It's a terrible thing. I can't discuss it," Rachel said, starting to tear up.

Volker left his chair to kneel at her side, taking her hand.

"I am not like the others. I will not betray your trust, if you give it to me."

"It's all theoretical, sir," Rachel delayed. "Without access to your mainframe, it's just speculation. Numbers, numbers, and more numbers."

"You are one with the numbers. What do they say?"

"They say that over the next fifteen years, the world is going to suffer millions of unnecessary deaths. Failure to address changing weather patterns. Agricultural shortfalls. Fuel scarcities. Distribution breakdowns. And unless the problems are addressed, they will grow worse."

"You have proof?"

"The math doesn't lie," Rachel confirmed.

"I knew it. I knew our efforts were not for nothing. Rachel, this knowledge is a gift. A very great gift. Is there a solution?"

"Yes."

"What? What is it?"

"I would need time in the control module to answer that, and your leader will not take such a risk. I wouldn't. He's making plans to prevent me from being a threat to your operation. I'm guessing another day or two, at most."

"You must not believe such a thing. I will speak with Pierre and Marie. Try to reach Gustav. If there is an answer to the problem that our methods have not solved, we must know what it is."

Rachel grew quiet. He didn't understand what she was really saying and thought that might be for the best.

"John 15:5," she softly whispered to herself.

* * * * * *

We have one part to go as Rachel's faces her greatest challenge. Many resolutions are in store. Author's note: In case anyone was wondering, John 15:5: "I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing."