Someone had scribbled in the margin at the bottom of the page, alongside the introductory paragraph that talked about Karen Quilt’s parents and early life. George tilted his head, then turned the magazine.
Try to remember—Madelyn
She’d included her phone number and dorm room, too. He tried to think when she would’ve had time to write without him noticing. Maybe when he’d answered his Nextel? Had he looked away from the table?
Madelyn’s story drifted through his head. A girlfriend he didn’t remember and a best friend he’d never heard of. George looked at the naughty-librarian picture again and shook his head. Guys like him didn’t get women like that. Not in the real world.
What was the guy’s name? His supposed best friend. He remembered the first and last name had the same sound. There was a term for that, when two words started with the same sound. A lot of old superhero names were like that, their secret identity names. Peter Parker. Clark Kent. Bruce Banner. Wally West.
He chuckled at the mental list of superhero names. He hadn’t read a comic book in years, not even any of the popular graphic novels. But Madelyn had given him heroes on the brain.
She’d mentioned where the best friend worked. Something in New Mexico. A power station of some kind. Or was it a lab?
He tapped a few keys on his computer. It took him five minutes to find Sandia National Labs in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and their Pulsed Power Project. One part of it was a huge array called the Z Machine.
The Z Machine. Z. Z. Z. It sounded appropriate somehow.
George didn’t understand half the factoids Wikipedia listed about the Z Machine, but apparently it was used to create phenomenal amounts of energy. There was a photo in the article showing a crackling web of electricity stretched over banks of equipment. He was pretty sure it was just a split-second photograph, not an ongoing effect, but it was still impressive.
The main website for the project didn’t have a crew roster he could find, but there were a few pictures. George lingered on one showing a half-dozen people gathered around a table. Seated off on the left was a skinny black man with stubble-short hair.
The website had contact information. A set of e-mail addresses and a pair of phone numbers. The lab was open—or answered the phones, at least—during regular business hours. He unplugged his cell phone from the charger and tapped in the number. New Mexico was an hour ahead, which meant it was …
Seven-thirty in the morning there. They probably had a George of their own who was just showing up to empty the trash. No one else would be there for hours. If they were, they’d ignore the phone.
He felt silly.
Madelyn’s story had struck a nerve. Some idealistic dream from childhood about helping people, great power and great responsibility, or some such thing. Part of him almost wished her story was real. Minus the killing-millions-of-people part. He put his phone back on the desk and closed the magazine.
George threw his arms over his head, locked his fingers, and stretched. A good night’s sleep would get everything right in his head. That’s all he needed.
The alarm went off behind him. He banged his knee on the desk when he jumped. It was time to get ready for work.
Once again, pedestrians made the drive in a headache. Every intersection was packed with people, all of them taking their time. George sat through the whole green light at Fairfax as men and women shuffled across the street. On the plus side, everyone could see the crowd, so nobody started honking their horns. The only thing more frustrating than traffic delays was a jerk behind you who didn’t acknowledge them.
It also didn’t help that the brake on his car seemed to be slipping. He’d get to an intersection and the Hyundai would try to lunge forward at the figures in the crosswalk. He could feel it fighting his foot as he pushed down. With the constant cries on the radio extolling different religious figures for aid, it gave the drive in a surreal tone he didn’t enjoy.
There seemed to be a lot of homeless people out that morning. At least half the people crossing each intersection wore stained, ragged clothes. George knew Los Angeles had a huge homeless population, but they weren’t always so visible. Or maybe he’d just become more aware of them somehow.
He made it most of the way to campus before the car sputtered and died again. George swore and guided the vehicle to the edge of the road before it lost all momentum. He turned the key again and again. The dash lights didn’t come on. Not even one click from the starter. The radio was silent. He glanced at the street to get a sense of how far he was from campus.
His car had come to rest in front of the recruitment office again.
Something moved in his peripheral vision and a huge figure lumbered out of the early morning haze. It was the bald officer he’d seen last week, the man with arms the size of George’s waist. He was wearing a tan T-shirt and breathing deep, the kind of measured breathing people did after exercise. He pulled some keys from his pocket and headed to the office door.
In the back of George’s mind, he realized the car must have died just as it passed the big man, half a block or so back.
He stepped out of his car. “Excuse me,” he called to the man.
The giant turned. Confusion flashed across his face, but he clamped down on it. “Yes, sir,” he said. “How can I help you?” Only
