Nano Man 2

By Dean C. Moore

Jane Macelvey, genetic and nanoengineer extraordinaire, settles into Humboldt County, California. Like so many people here, she's running from something. The region, once the pot growing capital of the world, producing the best sinsemilla on the planet, is now beleaguered thanks to the legalization of marijuana. The area is losing ground fast to corporations and big money interests. What was once a modest living is now an invitation to financial ruin.

Jane becomes Humboldt county's Sister Theresa. She swoops in with her gene makeover savvy and patents unique strains for each of the farmers in the area. She puts them back on the map, and single-handedly restores Humboldt's street cred as the premiere capital in the world for the best ganja. They love her.

They'll do anything to protect her.

This time, when the bad guys come, she's going to have a lot of friends between them and her. And there's no shortage of former soldiers in the region—more specifically, special operatives and space marines. The latter know all too well the shock and awe the military-financial-industrial complex can bring with off-book futuristic combatants and forces that aren't even supposed to exist yet. The very forces that might be needed to get past her Nano Man.

Jane's greatest ace in the hole remains the Nano Man himself. While many nano-enhanced soldiers exist now, none are nearly at the cutting edge that her prototype is. That's why everyone wants to get their hands on him. And against the numbers they'll throw at him? Well, even army ants can bring down a camel, if there are enough of them.

If that's not bad enough... Jane's in love with her Nano Man, and has no desire to see him subject to the kind of hell that's headed his way. It's bad enough that they're already suffering PTSD from their former brushes with super-soldiers.

***
Nano Man 2 is a stand-alone novel, and does not require you read the previous novel, Nano Man, to enjoy it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dean C. Moore
• Release date: May 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215549322

Book preview

Imagination is the only weapon in the war against reality.

―Lewis Carroll

ACT ONE

A PORT IN THE STORM

ONE

HUMBOLDT COUNTY, CA

NORTH OF GARBERVILLE

THE LUCKY STRIKE BAR

The town wasn’t on any map. The hippy who recommended it to her said his kind were rather fond of it too. Every once in a while someone would try and nail a sign to the side of the road giving the name and directions. Within twenty-four hours it was always torn down. They grew a lot of grass in these parts, and she wasn’t referring to the kind you mow. No one much liked the idea of tourists taking nature hikes through their weed fields.

Humboldt County also attracted a lot of fog. Good, the more blind spots the better. Then there were those redwood trees. You hide behind your typical tree, you get your shoulders shot off. You hide behind a redwood, you don’t even have to get out of the car. 

There was nearly as much biodiversity and unique lifeforms in these temperate rain forests as there was in the Amazon. She was big on one of a kind.

The sound of tinkling glasses brought her mind back to the barroom surrounding her.

Hey, Sean. That was Joe, the bartender, an old cuss, wiping down the bar.

Don’t call me, Sean. That was the hunk sitting on the bar stool.

That’s your name.

I know, but it sounds too girly. I’m trying to impress the broad.

Sean’s eyes focused on her like laser beams set to stun. She was Jane to some, Janey to others; the latter more a term of affection. Either one couldn’t help but smile.

At six-foot-tall, Sean would have made a good quarterback. Anyone curious about how well he threw things could just trace the arc of the flying bodies. Muscles erupted out of him like pimples on teens. He showed them all off as a deterrent to anyone who deigned to question his bouncer status. That was a maroon long johns top stretched over his torso atop tight jeans. He must have a hundred pairs of jeans in back alone to get around all the split crotches with all the high kicking. This was definitely one high-kicking bar. Jane Macelvey could attest to one thing: the only people who did better high kicks than former special forces operatives were ballet dancers; and the latter only because they remembered to point their toes. 

Alright, hey, Butch.

What! Butch sounded annoyed at having his attention split between the broad and his boss.

There’s a van full of rednecks outside. I smell trouble.

No self-respecting redneck would be found dead in a van. Look for pickup trucks and rifles mounted on the rear windshields.

The bartender shook his head. I knew I shouldn’t have hired out-of-state talent. But I did anyway. That’ll teach me. Joe sighed. These guys are eco-conscious California rednecks. That’s an all-electric van, which you’d know if you were paying attention to what I pay you to pay attention to. God forbid anyone emit fumes this close to their pot plants, taint the taste of the product. They’re probably coming in here to beat you to death for ignoring protocol.

Reassuring. Especially since this hick town is too small to sport a gym. Sean cracked his back and rotated his arms in turn to warm up his shoulders, preparing for his first set of the evening, pushing five or more rednecks up and down the woodwork. You care if I break up the bar?

The bar is unbreakable. Unlike you, I had the good sense to read up on my audience first.

Sean relieved the stool of the pressure of his two-hundred pounds, promenaded over, and planted himself opposite Jane at the booth; took a sip out of her straw. But he was really drinking her in through his eyes, her blond hair and piercing blue eyes, her wide-across forehead and narrow chin, and whatever other features she’d failed to take in herself when glancing in the mirror. Looking just as hard right back at him, she figured him for 38 to her 35, but war aged you fast, so maybe they weren’t so separate in ages as all that. Finally he came up for air from his drink. Yum. Hot buttered rum. The straw is a sacrilege.

So’s the idea of you working as a bouncer. Let’s just admit we’re both slumming it.

His eyes never left her, even as hers went to the door. Shouldn’t you be standing by the door carding for IQs? I can guarantee you they’re all under the legal limit.

He smiled at her. You’re the prettiest girl in the bar. Sure thing they’ll make a beeline straight for you.

She panned her head around at the empty bar. She was the only customer. You’re such a charmer. The picture behind the bar includes a female collie. You want to revise your opinion?

He bit down on his lips. Maybe he was taking a moment to consider his answer. Though he could have been restraining a smile. I don’t think so.

The door of The Lucky Strike burst open. In strode five rednecks with PhDs. Okay, so Sean wasn’t as ill-informed about the public as he’d let on. In fact he had a file two-inches thick on every resident in the county worth having one on, and on everyone else in the town, whether he had to pad the file or not. It was no joke being a farmer these days, even farming pot. Legalization of mary jane had just made the job that much more challenging. Now they had to ensure their cultivars stood out from the rest; that required genetic engineering skills on par with terraforming Mars.

Two of the five lads were MIT grads. They were taking get tough weekend classes for the skirmishes they were sure would come. The other three were the real deal. They’d started living hard from the day they were born. One was an ex-marine, the other a weekend warrior with the army. No matter how you sliced it for Sean, this was a walk in the park. He sighed. Maybe by the second or third set of the evening the action would pick up.

Hey, getta look at the pretty boy, mouthed off the snowflake running point for the posse. He’s prettier than she is.

You gonna take that sitting down, tough guy? mouthed another one of the pack.

Why not? He hasn’t said anything yet that wasn’t true.

Janey snorted her rum through her nose. 

Ask her, go ahead ask her, Sean taunted.

It’s true, Janey said. He really is the pretty one.

The crowd of tough guys laughed. Then the unexpected happened. They took their seats at the bar and started ordering things like yogi tea and buckwheat pancakes. It was Sean’s turn to laugh. Tough guys, right.

They heard that. But by this time Sean had taken his eyes off them, if Janey hadn’t. Okay, for the record, you started this, so go easy on them, she said.

Sean figured he’d turned a blind eye to make things more interesting. The one pulling him out of the chair was the redhead wearing camo fatigues. If he took any more time with that windup to the punch, Sean would have time to take down all five of them. But he let the guy get in the first punch anyway. Because Janey was right; he’d started this. And he damned well knew better. So he’d let them all get their kicks in before he went to work. Maybe by then it’d be a fair fight.

That thought stuck with him as he went flying across the bar. To his surprise, none of the glasses broke. Joe, the bartender, explained, picking one of the glass beer mugs off the floor, metal glass, like the stuff they put on the front of those more expensive cell phones.

None of the furniture breaks either? Sean said, his voice threatening to go undercover if he didn’t have the sense to.

Nope. Reinforced buckyfullerene nanotube wood. Would you like to read the brochure?

That’s okay. I think I know everything I need to know.

You mean you realize now this is going to hurt like hell. Can’t deny it. But I do have the secondary gain of watching all you thoughtless bastards getting exactly what’s coming to you.

How am I just learning about this now? Sean asked. Redhead had handed Sean off to the blond so he could get in some punches of his own, probably figuring, fair is fair.

Perhaps all those pain relievers you drink, like Bacardi, Jack Daniels, wipes away the memories too? Joe replied. He kept restoring law and order to the glasses, bottles, and furniture; he didn’t seem to give a damn about any other law and order around here.

That, and you don’t usually take the beatings, Joe continued, you dish them out. Maybe this is your twin filling in for you, you lazy bastard.

The brunet in the pack stood Sean up so he could deliver a blow to his belly. Sean had to remind himself to stay bent over long enough for him to do it. It was like watching a slow-motion fight on the tele. Punch to belly delivered, Sean spit out blood on the black-haired one’s shoe. That wasn’t from the punch to the belly from powder puff; it was from biting his own lip sliding across the bar. What could he say? He swallowed food better when he was younger, too. Nowadays one in every hundred chews or so caused him to cough from the food going down the wrong pipe. Some of his wiring had perhaps been damaged in prior deployments.

They were playing knock the crash dummy around the circle now so they could each get a turn delivering a one-two punch before shoving him at the next guy.

Okay, that’s enough penance, Sean, Janey said, still working the same glass of rum. You’d think she’d have the decency to pick up the pace on his account.

Sean left the joints alone. There was no point crippling these guys, or even throwing them in the hospital for a few months. They were his neighbors. One day soon he might be calling them to help put out the forest fire on his property started by the anti-weed evangelists—if he ever committed to buying land around here.

A back kick to the gut of the redhead one behind him sent him backwards hard enough to do a backward roll over the bar. He landed on the floor in time to get pissed on by the bartender. Sorry, pal. Weak bladder. Just use a spittoon now rather than running to the bathroom every five minutes. You aren’t into golden showers, are you? This could be a win-win.

Redhead, madder than ever, rolled out of the way, picked up a bottle and tried to smash it over the counter so he could come at Sean with the jagged glass. But he wasn’t getting any help from the decor either. Sorry, pal, Joe said. "Everything’s unbreakable in here. I watched enough clichéd bar-fights in my day in enough westerns to know if I ever were to open a bar, well, I was going to have the last laugh."

Redhead stared at the bottle as if he still couldn’t believe it. He hit it over the counter a couple more times to be sure. But...

Oh, you’re right, they’re all refills. Joe explained, Metal glass bottles are like ten times what the regular bottles cost, even buying in bulk.

Red Head was so incensed at having his fun spoiled that he took to beating Joe to death with the unbreakable bottle, bludgeoning him repeatedly to the head. Figuring he’d gotten his vengeance, and could return to the subject at hand, beating Sean to death, he stared flabbergasted at Joe getting up off the floor.

Sorry, pal. Joe tapped his noggin. Reinforced cranium. Bones too. My nickname is T-4. On account of the earlier Terminator models cracked cement when they walked. I’m just too low-budget for that shit.

Redhead was literally in tears. The screams of his compadres brought him back on point. But it was too late. He was just in time to see the curtain drop on his little drama.

Sean picked up Keith, his blond-haired friend, and one of the five Baker Boys that had chosen to get fresh with him, lifting him overhead and throwing him at the moose head on the wall. Thank God Keith was resting dead to the world in the embrace of those horns and not skewered on them.

A few moments later, Gary, the more salt than pepper haired one, prematurely grey, had had about all he could take of the backbreaker pose he was in over Sean’s back, and all the spinning that went with Sean using Gary’s head and legs to batter the brunet, Gavin, and the black-haired Jared into semi-consciousness. So Sean hurtled Gary at the two bowling pins, pinning them both to the floor. But the three brothers hit their heads hard on Joe’s buckyfullerene-reinforced wood floor. All three looked pretty much down for the count.

Redhead, aka Bernie Baker, turned back to the bartender. "What’s his story?" he said, pointing at Sean.

He’s former special forces.

"Now he tells me. Redhead jumped over the bar to land in a fighting position. He put his arms up in a placating gesture instead. Help me drag my fellow dumb-ass brothers out to the van?"

Sure, Sean said.

Bernie, the redhead, turned back to the bartender. Sorry for taking the bottle to your head. I’m on anger-management meds, and I’m still on parole, to make sure they take. Appreciate you not calling the cops on me.

Don’t worry about it. Joe honestly didn’t sound the least put out.

I’ll take the head, you get the feet, Bernie said to Sean. I’m guessing you’re tired from the workout.

"Let’s just say I am, in the interest of public relations."

Bernie actually smiled at him.

Outside, Bernie opened the back of the van with a push of a button on his key remote. By the fourth body, Sean said, I get the van now. Good for piling up bodies, and even better for keeping the rain and sleet off them in otherwise pleasant year-round Humboldt weather.

No, it’s the wife’s. Mine’s the Ford pickup truck, He panned his head in its direction, the gray four-door, high-clearance rig. Looks imposing on the outside, but, once I clamber up and settle in, it’s like floating in a soundproofed cloud. He closed the door on the van now that the feet on his tall brothers were pushed back enough. There wasn’t a Baker Boy under 6’ 5. Just got too drunk last night to drive home. Looks like it gets to spend a second night here."

Sean smiled. Nice to meet you, Snowflake, and the rest of your pansy friends.

Bernie snorted. Not me. Keith and Gavin, maybe. I just have the sense to know when to stand down.

Yeah, you’re the marine. Sean shook his hand.

"Better get your brothers out of here. This looks like real trouble." Sean was referring to the black Humvees pulling up and the ones dressed in black climbing out with their assault rifles.

You sure? Bernie asked. This is the one time you look like you could use some help.

Nah. Besides, I might need someone to drag my ass out of hell and high water later, if I’m reading these guys right.

Bernie nodded, jumped in the van, and scurried his ass out of the parking lot. Sean didn’t get the sense he was running, so much as embracing his latest mission.

Sean played dumb and sauntered back inside, like maybe these fools were just here to pump gas, check their maps, and move on up the mountain in search of a dirt devil a lot harder to dig out of his foxhole than Sean.

Once back inside The Lucky Strike bar, he resumed his seat opposite Janey. You still working that first glass of rum. Anyone ever tell you, you’re a pushover.

She didn’t respond to the joke, her eyes glued to the parking lot. There was a window by the door that ran the full-length of the door, just a bit wider. She didn’t exactly have to strain to get the view, nor did she need to tax her imagination filling in the blank pieces.

I’m sorry to do this to you, Sean. I’m so sorry. She cupped her hands around his.

That’s the first time we’ve had skin-on-skin contact in two months and you’re apologizing. I was beginning to think frigid was the only setting you had on that thermostat.

You won’t ever be the same after this point. You didn’t deserve this. That’s why I tried everything to deter you. Because, deep down, I knew this day was coming. As unavoidable as pot harvesting season in Humboldt. And yet I knew all along you were the right one to protect me. So I guess my kiss-offs were never more than mock protests. She returned her eyes to the assault team outside, the blackness of the night. It was as if those soldiers had crystallized out of the darkness, to give it voice.

Don’t worry about them. You’ve seen one assault team, you’ve seen them all. They’re not here for us. We don’t rate that kind of talent.

What do you know of me exactly?

Just what you told me, geneticist extraordinaire, the darling of the Humboldt crowd. You’re helping them personalize their pot strains so they can remain cost competitive. Without you, the super farms and corporate would have pushed them out already. Thanks to the patents on your varieties, the best sinsemilla on the planet will remain exclusively in the local hippies’ tree-hugging hands.

Well, that’s part of it.

And the other part?

The door burst open. You’re about to find out.

He didn’t care for the way Blondie’s assault rifle was aimed straight out in front of her, instead of at a lowered position. But he was more taken right now by the countless ants swarming under his skin. They itched and stomped every last nerve; his entire nervous system was afire. Christ, Janey, talk about a contact high. You might want to cut back on smoking your own product, honey.

"Move fast or die. Don’t worry about me. They can’t hurt me. I just need you to keep them from carting me off. My nanites are strictly defensive."

"Your nanites? The realization hit as if he’d taken a lightning strike straight to the head. The way his head throbbed, there was no as if about it. He’d done enough off-book operations to know exactly what nanites were. And now, what the ants" crawling under his skin were. But that was top-secret shit. None of it belonged in the civilian sector. And for good reason. Anyone that let that cat out of the bag was plumb out of their minds.

The blond-haired crew-cut bitch finished scanning Joe, and deciding that even with his metal under-carriage, he was no threat. That said something about them. More than Sean cared to know. The fact that it took her this long meant she had a bionic eye, if not two. What’s more, she was likely running the footage on what transpired in the bar before she got here, before entirely ruling Joe out. The secret military had nano-tech that informed a part of the mind that gave these kind of psychic-impressions of battles previously fought, to help their soldiers pull additional intel out of a hot zone that might just save their lives. It was like running a hologram populated with ghostly bodies in the mind’s eye. He knew, because he’d experienced the nanotech firsthand, before having it flushed out of his system. Blondie opened up with the AR-15 in their direction, determined to empty her double-mag.

He wished he could say that due to his lightning fast, military-trained reflexes they were already behind the bar by that time. But they hadn’t moved. He was still too dumbstruck by this latest twist of fate. One look over at Jane assured him that she wasn’t exaggerating her don’t worry about me instructions issued earlier. He checked himself to confirm neither of them had a scratch on them.

One of Blonde Bitch’s compadres came through the door next. Baldie said, You sure it’s them?

She showed him the empty double-magazine.

Knowing how you feel about kitschy decor, I figured you could have been redecorating the walls.

Her friend sported a shaved, tattooed head, with a spiderweb permanently decorating his dome. He was every bit as diesel as Sean, just a bit shorter, at 5’ 10 or so. He did Sean the courtesy of approaching Sean with his gun lowered. You gonna come nicely or we gonna have to blow Humboldt off the map to get at you?"

Sean looked over at Jane, who just shook her head. Don’t worry about Humboldt. I’ve seen to it, she said.

Sean panned back to Baldy, turned around, feigned assuming the position to be handcuffed, only to clutch the guy by the neck and flip him over his shoulder. He grabbed hold of Baldie’s hands, pressed down on his chest with his boot, yanked his arms out at the shoulders, and threw them across the floor. He grasped the legs by the ankles next, and ripped them out of the hip joints, threw the legs even farther.

So, that’s a no, then? Baldie said, his tone just a tick above nonchalant. He groaned.

Sean drove the heel of his boot through his skull. Yeah, that’s a no.

Blonde Bitch retreated backwards through the door, yelling, Let them have it!

Sean, Janey, and Joe watched the rocket-propelled grenade coming through the door. It exploded. No one much seemed to mind. Sean and Janey remained completely unscathed. The tattered clothes grew back before Sean could react to the draft. The decor showed a bit of a patina from the combustibles, but that was about it. One painting fell off the wall, but the glass over the picture and the frame couldn’t be bothered to crack.

Sean and Janey both panned their heads toward Joe. Oh, yeah, I planned for this, too, Joe said. I’ve got my entire retirement wrapped up in this bar. You think I’m going to let end-of-the-world nonsense cramp my style? I should have taken more time mounting that last picture, I admit that. I was too tired to do the job properly. As for the combustibles and ash, my maid’ll be in in the morning. I think she’s going to ask for a raise.

You’re nano-saturated too? Sean asked.

He shook his head. Just a good genetic makeover, courtesy of Janey, over there. Figured I better reinforce the body to go with the endoskeleton, lest I get caught with my pants down. He gestured toward the special operatives outside. Case in point.

At the sound of something moving on the floor, they all looked down. Armless and Legless snaked across the hardwood in search of his arm. His skin was far from healing from the RPG. He reached the arm, rolled over onto it, and waited a few seconds for his nanites to pop the joint back in, and finish sealing the deal. From there, he used the helping hand to get him toward the other arm. It was pretty clear what he had on his mind.

"Maybe you two should take off, Joe said. I’m not sure this place will survive a bunker buster bomb to the roof, or whatever other heavy ordinance they have. Best not test the Almighty’s patience, I say."

Sean nodded.  He gripped Janey by the hand, and together they hurried toward the back door.

To his surprise, pushing through the exit, the rear of the bar wasn’t covered. He knew then they wanted the two of them to run. They wanted to take this over a much wider playing field so they could test him against whatever models of nano-enhanced soldiers they had playing for their side. Let’s hope Janey wasn’t exaggerating about having Humboldt county covered either. Because these bastards, he knew from experience, would burn the world to the ground to get to him—if he truly was next generation. And nothing else would explain why they were here.

TWO MONTHS AGO...

TWO

NORTHERN CAROLINA

DUKE UNIVERSITY

101 BYRAN CENTER

DEAN’S OFFICE

Rowan studied Cronos’s picture. He was just 5’ 7, with a lean build, close-cropped argentine hair, a square jaw and penetrating eyes that bored into Rowan’s soul right from the Polaroid. You realize this guy got fired from government work and from several major corporations?" The assistant dean continued flipping pages in disbelief.

The dean waved him off. Ah, you know how those people are. You don’t kiss the right asses, or fail an assignment you should never have been given in the first place, you’re out on your duff. And they did it to you because they really didn’t want to cover your insurance and other benefits anymore, and they wanted to hire someone young at half your salary. They’ve tried that shit on me already, but I know where too many of the bodies are buried. Believe me, we’re lucky to have him. After straightening his tie, and tucking in his shirt, and doing the comb over the whole time he was talking, Beau checked himself out in the full-length mirror. At sixty-five, his baby face wasn’t fooling anyone anymore. What do you think?

Rowan, pencil-thin, mid-forties, glanced up from Cronos’s paperwork at his boss. You’re a tub of lard nestled nicely on Cabriole legs. That’s what I think. You should be ashamed. No self-respecting military man lets himself go to seed like that.

It’s a psyop, one I’m very committed to. The young cadets see me running uphill ahead of them on those ten mile man-maker runs with a full backpack, always the first one across the finish line, and they’re tempted.

"Tempted to drink that nanococktail that’s the only reason you haven’t fallen over yet, or

can even stand up. What are you now, five hundred pounds?"

Being 6’ 2 helps to pull it off. He traipsed over to the window overlooking the campus. For some reason a lot of the young guys are still reticent to have the creepy crawlies running around inside them. You know, I could tell my nanites to eat away the fat and turn it into C02 I breathe out? Hell, I’d never gain a pound. I just don’t understand why they won’t get with the program."

Rowan finally found what he was looking for in Cronos’s paperwork, and whistled. "So, that’s why you hired him. The guy went multiple rounds with the Nano Man and lived. Not just any nano-enhanced human, Jane Macelvey’s. Rowan nodded, pleased. You’re hoping if anyone can get those kids excited about drinking a nanococktail, it’s Cronos. Rowan shook his head, still in disbelief, reading over the small print of the curriculum vitae. I’d like to shake the guy’s hand myself, but this could backfire on you. You need seasoned special ops guys to stomach what he has to tell them, not young cadets."

Beau waved him off. There they are. Time for my 7 AM run with the boys and girls. When they’re done seeing me jiggle my fat ass around for ten miles, barely breathing hard, and keeping up with the best of them, they’ll be wide-eyed and open-eared to take in everything Cronos has to say.

Rowan watched Beau from the same office window moments later. The college kids were already laughing and ribbing him. Hey, slow down, Skinny! You’re making us look bad.

Rowan shook his head. I suppose there’s some reason they made him colonel, even if I can’t see it. He let the drape fall back to its resting position and got a feel for Beau’s desk by sitting in the colonel’s chair.

DUKE UNIVERSITY

LEVINE SCIENCE RESEARCH CENTER

ONE OF THE CLASSROOMS

Finelli’s black plastic-rimmed glasses were big enough for him to accommodate two sets of eyeballs. Maybe that’s why he had to keep pushing them up. If it weren’t for his reflection in the screen of his laptop computer he’d forget about his geeky body musculature to match; he looked capable of movement through will alone. Despite all that, he smiled at his handsome youthful face; it added shits and giggles to the ensemble.

I can’t believe we’ve sunk to this, Finelli said from the one desk chair in the room facing the rest of the class, catercorner, and over to the right of the teacher’s desk.

Shame on you, Finelli, for not seeing every setback as an opportunity. I thought I trained you better than that. Cronos sat on the front of the desktop, facing the empty classroom, just glancing back at Finelli to chastise him.

Yeah, right. We had the best corporate hit guys working for us, and now we’ve got to wipe these guys’ asses for them. Freshmen, no less! They won’t see real action for another two years; notice the big air quotes on ‘real.’

Cronos smiled. It’s all a matter of perspective, Finelli. You see ‘untrained’ and ‘can’t measure up’ and I see ‘moldable’ and ‘only answerable to us.’ It’s the opportunity of a lifetime, I tell ya.

You lie to your mother with that mouth too.

Cronos clapped sharply. Enough. Time to cha-cha. He got off the desk and did a cha-cha as the clock struck 8 AM sharp. He saw no reason to stop dancing with himself as the students filed in. He hammed up his routine, taking up the whole front of the classroom to dance with his imaginary partner. Come on, Finelli, don’t leave me dancing here all alone. Finelli got up begrudgingly and danced the female part. Cronos morphed the cha-cha into a jitterbug, and with all the aerial acrobatics, and between-the-leg slides, Finelli felt like he was back in martial arts training again.

The students, still streaming in, didn’t know what to make of things. Some smiled, some laughed, some sat mouths gaping, some looked wary. Great, another madman, said one of the female students, Harper, collapsing into her chair. She had sharp features and piercing eyes to go with the sharp tongue. He must be a general. That got some laughs. 

Cronos switched to Flamenco heel tapping next. Lay down and play the part of the hat, Finelli. Finelli frowned but did as ordered. Cronos heel stomped around him and jumped over him. One of the last students to saunter in, taking his seat in front of the class, said, What, we’re going undercover?

Cronos’s foot stomping came to an immediate halt as he pointed to the latest-arriving student with long wavy hair, and Birkenstock sandals. He had eyebrows like a condor had wings, light stubble on his chin, and a dreamy, elusive beauty. He looked like he’d just rolled out of Vogue magazine instead of bed. Declan was his name; Cronos knew all their names by heart already, having viewed their pics and their files. Give that man a gold star.

The students’ wariness and dumbfoundedness drifted away on that remark, as more of them sat up erect and at attention. The smile spreading across their faces now as they glanced at one another conveyed cool, not what the hell?

Cronos clapped again, as an attention getter this time, facing his audience, and leaning against the front of his desk. "This class is called, ‘the role and responsibility of the military in contemporary society.’ I know, you’re thinking, what the hell does that mean? And does the military even know?"

That got some laughs.

Oh, you can get off the floor, Finelli.

Finelli returned to his catercorner desk chair facing the room. 

Do you know what sets me apart from all other people on the planet? Cronos asked. Several of the students stuck up their hands. Cronos pointed at the one over to the side and a few rows back.

You came up against the first Nano Man, by all accounts the greatest of them all, multiple times, and lived to tell the tale, Levi replied. Levi’s hair had a disciplined wildness to it up top to go with the stubble about the face. The handsome, stony, Mt. Rushmore features that would last the test of time were betrayed only by the ephemeral alertness in the eyes.

"That’s right. And do you know what separates you from all other men and women on the planet, as of right now?"

Some heads shook, no. Other students just vocalized, no.

Jane Macelvey, who engineered the greatest of the nano men, whose achievements have yet to be duplicated, is at work on her new model. And we’re going to go capture him.

Whoa! The exclamation came from several sources in the room at once. It was followed by a few other proclamations: No way! Like hell we are! You’re out of your mind! I don’t even know how to fire a gun! I don’t know how to run and hide yet—especially from that guy! That last comment got a few laughs.

You will learn everything you need to learn in the field. You come with me, you can forget climbing the military ladder the long, hard way. You’ll have your pick of any assignments and any rank I feel comfortable giving you after that, Cronos declared. I suspect we’ll be back inside of a couple of months, and you’ll graduate this four-year curriculum on that day, a bit early.

"Um, if we survive. What is the survival rate on this mission?" Emmett asked. With a narrow face and narrower chin, blue plastic-framed glasses to go with the green eyes, Emmett had a wicked smart, almost scientific-minded look to him. 

With anybody else, less than zero, Cronos answered crisply. "With me, who knows, you might all make it back. It’s not like I haven’t had time to do some intense studies since my last encounter with both the Nano Man and his creator."

A piece of paper was being passed around the room. On it: The man has a 275 IQ.

Cronos, tired of having his thunder stolen, snatched it out of the hands of the latest student to grab hold of it. He chuckled abortively. Well, I was three then. He crumpled up the paper, making a fist around it. Not much of a boast these days, anyway. We have 1,000 IQ kids who are genetically enhanced. I suggest you all get one of those shots as soon as possible. But today we’re going to talk about what Janey could do with her nano last time out of the starting block, and what we can do with ours today.

One of the students raised his hand.

Yes, Sawyer. Cronos nodded at him to prompt him further. Sawyer, and Savannah, another student, had identical blond hair, fair skin, and blue eyes. Any more of them in the class and Cronos would think he was teaching a contingent of Hitler’s Aryan youth, but the values those two shared in common were not at all of that kind.

I gather we have to get nano-enhanced for this mission. I’m a devout Christian. Sign of the beast and all that, Sawyer said.

How many of you feel the same way? Cronos asked.

Savannah’s hand went up, the only other devout Christian student in a class of twelve. Her hand was followed by the Buddhist’s, David.

That’s fine, Cronos said. "We have gene enhancements that will allow you to do much of the same thing. Those cocktails come with their own limitations, of course. We’ll discuss the limits of all our enhanced human prototypes. You’ll have enough of a buffet of options that everyone gets to be happy with their choices. He went to the front of the room, behind his desk, and pulled down the movie screen. I’ll hold off on asking who’s with me and who isn’t until you’ve gotten the full presentation of what we can do for you, versus what we might be up against. Fair enough?"

He got a room full of head nods. Out of curiosity, sir, is any of this sanctioned? That was Sawyer.

Hell, no. This entire mission is classified and off-book.

Those are the best kind, Levi said smiling and whispering to the students to all sides of him.

The one thing none of you can breathe outside of this classroom from this day forward is what we’re endeavoring to do. Besides that, you can debate nano and genetic enhancements with one another to your heart’s content. Just never with any civilians. Should you drop out of the ROTC or my class at any time, you’ll be fully debriefed before talking to anyone. Failure to comply with these instructions, and, well, you can fill in the rest, I’m sure.

There were some snickers.

Now, where were we? Cronos asked.

You were about to tell them the hundred-and-one ways they can die inside of five seconds before they’ve even lived when in the presence of the Nano Man, sir, Finelli volunteered.

That sobered some. Most just laughed nervously. Cronos had worked his magic on them, and most were already beyond sobering, content to become the next superhero. Finelli blamed it on too many damned Marvel Comics turned into movies. Maybe Cronos wasn’t the pump-primer he thought he was.

THREE

HUMBOLDT COUNTY, CALIFORNIA

HEMP HANNA HORTICULTURAL

The first time Sean laid eyes on Janey, he was working as security for Hemp Hanna. Hanna was a little old lady with a ten acre wooded spread, not too far outside Garberville. The ten pounds of marijuana—the amount she produced with eight or ten plants in a harvest cycle—shouldn’t have threatened anybody. But it could be sold for as much as forty thousand dollars, enough to support a family that grew most of its own food. These days, owing to her age, the kids grew the food, and the grandkids clipped and cultivated the hemp plants for her, all of which fit on her back patio. The woods were just used as buffer, and for privacy.

Of course, a lifestyle she’d enjoyed for over forty years was under threat now that marijuana had been legalized. And, over a decade following its legalization, with the passage of proposition 64, things had grown that much worse for the little farmer. The prices had fallen to rock bottom on weed thanks to mega farms in Santa Barbara and other signs of corporate infiltration that prop 64 invited. Meantime, regulations had multiplied through the roof, driving expenses higher than ever.

Nowadays to stay legal, farmers had to upgrade their buildings to code, and indulge a parade of environmentalists marching across their property to ensure they weren’t endangering local wildlife. To comply with environmental protections for spotted owls and marbled murrelets, growers had to hire a bird-watcher to come and sit at their house and look for a bird for four thousand dollars. The ordinance required anyone applying for a permit to bring in a qualified biologist to conduct a disturbance and habitat modification assessment on the land. The farmers complained that the county was sucking them dry and putting a significant percentage of the local economy at risk in the process. As just one more example of the merit of their complaints, old logging roads, they were told, were never meant for daily use, and diverting water from streams to cannabis fields took too high a toll on the surrounding ecosystems.

No doubt about it, Hemp Hanna was under siege from all sides, courtesy of the government regs that corporate lobbied for to squeeze the little guy out. But when Hanna wouldn’t sell, and the black soul boys sent people to threaten her, burn her out, or put a bullet through her head, that was when Sean had stepped in. He rather liked Hanna. And while dealing with the business rigmarole of running Hemp Hanna Horticultural was hardly his forte, providing security certainly was.

That meant Janey knew about Sean even before she’d met him. He was like a ghost on the property; you were lucky to see him out of the corner of your eye. That’s how he liked it. He didn’t need to make a target of himself either. By the time Janey did meet him, he was the stuff of legends, and he rather liked the buildup. 

You’re gonna water my plants to death, Hanna complained, watching Janey going over the growing bed with yet another pitcher of water that she’d already refilled numerous times.

The first dousing, Janey explained, modified the genes of your cannabis in compliance with the patent you now hold for this unique strain. If anyone attempts to alter the gene blueprint in any way, to make it look like a different variety altogether, they’ll still have to pay you a percentage.

Why?

That’s because the magic ingredients have been designed in such a way that they cannot be altered without leaving breadcrumbs that lead right back to the origin plant. And since I’ve already tried all workable varieties, I can assure you the best they can hope for is a watered-down version of your own product. They’d be best starting from scratch and leaving you and your germ line well alone.

Hanna nodded, pleased, a gentle, denture-shaped smile spreading across her face. And the second dousing?

Ah that. Well, it does nothing to affect the taste or quality of your product. But it does make it fire-resistant, drought-resistant, cold-resistant. These plants will survive weather wars better than we humans, should Humboldt county ever be made subject to weather wars.

"Should it? Ha! Clear to see you aren’t a local. They’ve been cloud-seeding with the idea of making our varieties either toxic or less THC-laced, to minimize the high."

Now, Mother. You don’t know that for sure. That was her teenage granddaughter, Luna.  You might think smoking the product is what makes us all paranoid around here, she said to Janey, but I assure you, it’s decades of playing cat and mouse games with the government.

Janey just smiled. She wasn’t about to get sucked into one of these arguments, not with these two. They could argue for hours about anything. Janey was beginning to think it was how they passed the time around here, watching the plants grow. And where’s this security guy you’ve been telling me so much about? she inquired, desperate to change the subject, seeing from their faces they were about to launch into another two-hour cross-rant with neither party much listening to what the other person had to say.

The ploy worked. Hanna’s face relaxed entirely on the mention of her new protector. Janey had to admit, she was a little jealous. Sean? The man’s out setting more death traps. I love that Harlequin romance hunk. Anyone crossing my property line to cause me or my cannabis harm is going to get one rude awakening, before his lights go out altogether.

Mother! You shouldn’t celebrate killing people like that.

Why not? He’s so damn creative with how he does it. It’s like watching Michelangelo work. I’ve taken up playing dodgeball. Don’t you want to know why? It’s because of all the heads that keep rolling toward me on the patio. So I’ve had to learn to kick them out of the way to keep from tripping over them underfoot. This one I made into a hanging banana basket. She proudly showed off the fruit basked with the upturned skull at the base.

Even the daughter had to stifle a chuckle. I honestly can’t tell if this is proof of early onset Alzheimer’s or not. The truth is, she’s always been a bit surreal.

Maybe you should show me some of these traps. I might be able to up their lethalness.

There you go encouraging her. That’s it. I’m outta here. That’s enough madness for me for one day. I’ve got finals to study for, and my chem professor definitely doesn’t do surreal. I’ll flunk the formulas for sure with thoughts of you two percolating through my brain. Probably end up diagramming the molecular structure of eatable napalm. Luna stormed off into the house through the sliding glass doors. 

Let me summon Sir Galahad for you, Hanna said. I’m too old to go hiking after him. She blew on a whistle she had hanging on her neck. It didn’t make any sound. It took Janey a second to realize it was a dog whistle, as opposed to being broken. He says the dog whistle won’t betray my position, she whispered conspiratorially at Janey, and it’ll drive any dogs the bad guys bring to ferret us out absolutely mad. This guy doesn’t just kill two birds with one stone, I tell ya, he kills the whole damn aviary.

She patted Janey on the shoulder. You two will get along fine. Two peas in a pod, if you ask me. He’s not quite as hyper-vigilant as you, sweetheart, and he’s a former Green Beret. If that’s not an indicator of just how much you need to learn to relax, I don’t know what is.

Janey smiled halfheartedly. That was honestly the first disappointing thing she’d heard about him.

Sir Galahad came rushing in on horseback. He brought the horse to a stop as he used its kinetic energy to launch himself over the head of the horse straight at Janey and Hanna. What’s the problem? He hadn’t entirely landed on his feet when he got the line out.

Janey here says she can improve on your traps and pitfalls.

Still panting, he took off his cowboy hat, wiped his brow, relaxed, and smiled. Oh, really? You mean I’ve finally met the girl of my dreams?

I predict you two will be married inside of a week. You’re made for each other.

Well, don’t oversell me too much. I do walk on water, but I also fart in my sleep. He tipped his hat to Janey. Ma’am.

Janey bit her lip. Come on, cowboy. Let’s go look at your death-traps. See what we can do to improve them.

His jaw fell slack for a bit, then he said. Sure. He hoisted her up on the horse before she could object, then climbed on behind her. The ground’s a bit wet. So you might make it back in one piece better this way.

She took hold of the reins and got the horse started, following the path he’d taken to the house. You fell into that trap nicely. So much for my snares needing tuning up, he said, wrapping his arms around her waist.

She hoped he couldn’t see her smile with her back to him.

Okay, you can stop here, he said a few moments later. He climbed off the horse and lifted her down. This is the first one.

I can’t see a damn thing. Honestly, all Janey could see was undisturbed forest.

"That is the idea," Sean said.

She took a deep breath. That’s okay, I’m not sure I really need to see it. I was thinking of saturating the tips of your weapons with a lethal solution.

Already thought of that, and already applied. Pure overkill with the force at which these traps close. But you never know if they’re hyped up on PCP, or wearing a Kevlar vest, or... He tapered off before he said too much.

Genetically enhanced.

Well, yeah. As it turns out this place is pretty supersoldier proof as well.

Is it?

Look, lady. I was one of those supersoldiers myself, for many years. Can’t tell you the nature of the missions, but I sure could curl your hair with stories about things that exist that it’s best people don’t know about.

So, you’ve considered things like these guys could come with night and thermal vision built in, via bionic eyes? No need for equipment of any kind. That if they’re nano-saturated, or sporting exoskeletons, they’d have no trouble stopping your traps before they’re even fully sprung? Or ripping them apart with their bare hands, and jumping out of thirty-foot deep pits simply by doing a deep knee-bend? If they’re genetically enhanced, it wouldn’t matter if it was thirty-below out here, and they were naked, and bleeding profusely.

He grabbed her by her sleeved upper arms and squeezed, then he shook her. Just who are you, lady?

"My last boyfriend was a nextgen soldier. And I refused to leave his side. They sent things after us that would give professional soldiers nightmares for life."

He just stared at her. Then he eased up on his hold, releasing her at last. He took a deep breath. Hanna really wasn’t kidding when she said we were made for one another.

We probably are. But that should give you pause. You’re retired now. Do you really want to be thrown back into the thick of it?

He really didn’t. He had to admit, that line worked as well as any bucket of cold water to the face might. What makes you think they’ll come looking for you? If he’s back in his holding pen, you’re no threat to them. As a civilian, you could shout from the highest rooftop; publish what you know through the New York Times. You’ll just be discredited, or worse, if you actually step on a nerve. If you’ve lasted this long, I’m guessing it’s because you’re smarter than that.

He sighed. Let’s walk, he said, relaxing into the moment again. I’ll take you by my garden paradise of earthly delights. As they strolled on, he finally got up the nerve to ask her, What makes you think things could get that hairy around here?

You’re aware I’ve been genetically altering the local strains of marijuana?

You mean am I aware that all of Humboldt County refers to you as Magic Mama. Even if I had my supersoldier implants still, I doubt I’d have any luck getting at you. This entire county would go on the warpath to protect you.

Don’t think I don’t know that, and that it’s not by design.

Something tells me that the lady who reveals all, keeps even more to herself. The CIA would love you. You sound like you’re spilling secrets left and right, and meanwhile, the real treasure is buried somewhere deep inside you.

He searched her eyes with his to confirm his suspicions. She just lowered hers.

So Sean tried to fill in the blanks for himself as they continued their walk. You’re afraid of corporate retaliation for going too far with your genetic hybrids. They’ll throw money at you first, long before they throw bullets. Why kill the goose that lays the golden eggs? Hell, even if you’re determined to lay them for someone else, these guys are experts at leveraging people. They’ll find out everything there is to know about every farmer in the area, if they don’t know already, and pressure one of them until he leaks to them whatever they need.

"My patents and my genetic locks on those hybrids pretty much prevents that. Not to mention everything I left out of the patents that’s also engineered into those plants. Mind you, the locals might give me up as soon as protect me, if someone finds the right nerve to press down on. That’s where you come in."

Look, lady, at least get me in bed first, if you plan to wrap me around your finger.

She smiled ruefully. You can’t help being who you are. And as damsels in distress go, you’d be hard-pressed to ever find anyone under more duress than me.

He smiled. I don’t know, seems rather calm and inviting out here. The only duress we’re under is the possibility of another bout of pelting rain. And the branches overhead will catch most of that.

She smiled at him like one con man to another, refusing to entirely believe what the other person was saying. I’ve been in Humboldt for six months now, long enough to fortify the county. I thought I was good and hidden, I did, for the longest time, until I realized I was just fooling myself. They know exactly where I am. But so far, all I’m doing is restoring the Emerald Triangle to its former glory. They’re probably hoping I’ll move on to the rest of the triangle next, Mendocino and Trinity counties. When I’m done, this area will be richer, and more renowned than ever. They’ll come here the way they came for the spices on Arrakis. I’m referring to Frank Herbert’s...

I caught the reference. I was actually there once.

Her eyes darted to his. He says teasingly.

So, you’re not threatening them, he extrapolated for her, as he pushed a branch out of her face, their nature walk becoming a tad more precarious. You’re creating boutique industries which will be worth their weight in gold many times over, once they turn their mass production mechanisms on what you’re doing here. Trading it worldwide and...

He tapered off once again.

She figured she could finish the thought for him, based on his earlier clue, off-world. Out of curiosity, how many ET races is Earth trading with?

Over nine-hundred, at least when I was in last. Of course, I’ve been out for over ten years.

Won’t they kill you for betraying your top-secret classification?

Lady, my grade is fifty-grades above top secret, and thirty-five above the President of the United States. Or at least it was. But there’s nothing I’ve told you that you couldn’t find on the internet these days, through sanctioned whistle blowers, no less. The secret space programs I suspect are permitting the leaks to entice the young ones keen on adventure, on the adventure of a lifetime. Time was when they could just kidnap people and do what they wanted with them. But with the new interplanetary treaties...

Stop. My own reality is surreal enough. I permitted you to crack that Pandora’s box a little because maybe just knowing there are worse horrors out there than anything I can conceive of...Well, maybe it makes me dial down my own self-importance. Makes me think they have bigger fish to fry than me.

Sean grunted. Depends on how good you are. Something tells me they really are monitoring you, and you aren’t being the least bit paranoid.

Thanks. Thanks a lot.

He smiled and turned her face toward him by putting his index finger under her chin; he was still wearing his shooting gloves with their TAC-Sense palm material. He let go. As I said, you hide as much as you reveal. You wanted to confirm the galactic civilization idea so you had some place to flee to, in case I wasn’t enough to protect you.

Don’t be hurt. It’s just that even if I’m still the best at what I do...Well, in nature, army ants have been known to take down a camel. Sometimes there’s just no turning back the numbers they send at you, no matter how good you are.

Sean sighed. He knew exactly of what she spoke. He’d lived that tale more than once too.

"Well, there are at least two planets I know of whose humanoids evolved from plants. Even if your specialty is confined to plant-enhancement, they’d be more than happy to protect you. Hell, they might well declare war on Earth to do it. Inventiveness seems to be the one thing we have on most ET races. It’s been allowing us to bridge the gap many have on us of billions of years of evolution at a frightening pace. You could well be their ace in the hole. And if not them..."

She grabbed his arm and squeezed. I appreciate the false comfort. Hell, I appreciate it all the more if it’s true. But I’m too married to this planet to ever leave it in anything less than a last-ditch effort to save myself. Even then...We owe Mother Earth too much after all we’ve done to her. That’s a debt I plan to repay.

"Leaving this world may be the only way you’ll live long enough so you can repay her, if they come after you with an army that you can’t turn back. You might need an army of your own to fulfill that promise; one the ETs can give you. If you truly want to liberate this world, you likely will need more than a supersoldier at your side to do it. He can buy you time to make the arrangements to get off-world, that’s all."

She found herself clasping his hand as they walked on. She passed it off as the trail getting more harrowing, and her not wanting to lose him if they lost contact. She could slide down one of these hills into a gully, one of many, out of sight. If she got knocked out in the process, she wouldn’t be able to make a sound either.

He felt just creeped out enough by their conversation to be comforted himself by the hand-holding.

I have other options, Janey said. As you say, I can make these guys a lot of money, augment their security against other ET civilizations, and enhance corporate’s stranglehold on this world. Better yet, I can play both ends from the middle—make it look like I’m helping corporate and the dark ETs when I’m really sabotaging them.

He nodded. Yeah, that might work. I suspect that latter path is even more fraught with peril. Those guys play those kinds of mind games with one another for sport, both in-house, and between corporations. The endless scheming, it’s exhausting unless it’s what you live for. On the other hand, it’s one big universe to get lost in. Bolster what civilization you can for as long as you can before hopping on your spaceship and moving on. You could last indefinitely that way.

You talk like you belong to the stars as much as I belong to this world.

No. I’ve just come to understand that the war is endless. You just find yourself island sanctuaries, well away from the storm, until the storm catches up with you. Then you fight, or you flee again.

You don’t believe we can make a better world?

Oh, I do. Better for a while. Until some fool comes and crashes the party. That’s the nature of living life in 3rd density—no matter what world you’re on. I’m told Earth has already transitioned to 4th density, where there is a hundred-fold less warmongering. Just the mentalities of the people living here have yet to catch up. So, yeah, if we can hold on long enough, we might not have to leave this world at all.

She smiled hopefully at him.

I wonder though, Sean said, if for people like us, there is anything more than a short-term rest. When this world no longer needs us, will we fade into the background, or will we find another world that does? If anyone is suffering anywhere in this universe, don’t we all have a responsibility to fix the problem if we can?

"We have to rest up long enough to recharge ourselves to be able to do that. Ask me in a hundred