some kind of animal tranq and steroid mix, though he didn’t see how those would do much in the short run. And something like Viagra was in it, too, because it gave you a hard-on that wouldn’t quit. The Zee-ster once took six women to bed while tripping, and none of them could walk the next day. Supposedly made women horny, too.
Past that, Bobby definitely had some secret ingredients about which Tad knew zip. He knew what they did to him, but not why or how.
The total combination was synergistic — that meant more than the sum of its parts — and the bottom line was, it didn’t really matter how it did what it did, only that it did do it.
There was a bright flash of orange to Bershaw’s left but, when he glanced over that way, no cause for it. He grinned. Yeah, he was coming on. Hallucinations, real hallucinations you could talk to and have them answer back, he’d never had those while riding the Hammer, but light flashes, visual distortions, little shifts in reality, those were par for the course. Your motor ran at full speed, no governor and no idle.
He took a deep breath, and chills frosted him all over, despite the still-warm late afternoon Santa Ana wind blowing in through the open window.
Seventeen times he had swung Thor’s hammer, and not once a bad trip. One in five or so went bonkers, like the guy in the casino. Something in their body chemistry maybe, or the way their brains were hardwired, Bobby didn’t know which, but whatever it was, Tad didn’t have it. Seventeen times he had become more than he was, practically turned into a superhuman. Stronger, faster, smarter, pain-free, fatigue-free, a guy who could walk into the local kung fu school and kick its collective ass.
And, oh, yeah, there was the sex, though that never seemed to call to him much. Yeah, he got the iron woody and all, but he never seemed to have time to put it into anybody, too much else to do to lie down and be still… or relatively still.
Though right at the moment, he felt pretty mellow, the desire to shuck the car and get physical was ahead, he knew. Maybe he’d go for a walk on the beach after it got dark. Or a swim. He was usually a crappy swimmer, but once he’d swum out half a mile or so and back without any problem with the riptide or anything. He’d been looking for a shark; he’d had a kitchen knife in his hand, and he wanted to see if he could take a shark out with it. Hadn’t found one, which was probably good. Away from the Hammer, you knew you had limits. Swinging it, you didn’t. But hell, maybe he could have sliced Jaws up into cat food. Who could say?
Another rush enveloped him, and he was glad the house wasn’t too far away. It wasn’t that he couldn’t maintain control enough to drive during the early stages of the trip ’cause he could, but it took too much effort, and he didn’t want to waste effort on piddly shit. He would get home, shuck the car, and go outside. After all, outside was only a bigger inside, right?
He grinned. It was like the time he realized that chocolate wasn’t the opposite of vanilla. They were just two different flavors. That had hit him like the secret of the universe. Shit, for all anybody knew, that
6
Michaels was almost home and wishing he was already there. What he had in mind was a nice, cold beer, his bare feet propped up to watch the news hour, maybe falling asleep on the couch. Might make a sandwich, if he felt up to it. He was tired. It had been a long day, made longer because it was dull and mostly uninteresting, and just as he was about to leave, they’d had a small crisis over some hacker who was flooding every church web page his autopost-bot could find with obscene pictures taken during an orgy in a Thai whorehouse.
Graffiti had certainly changed from simple spray-paint tags on the fence next to the local drugstore when it went electronic, but it was still stupid. Who gained anything by such foolishness? Did the idiot posting think people were going to see the pictures and abandon their faith? Run screaming into the streets?
No, probably he just thought it was funny. Which right off indicated a somewhat retarded sense of humor.
The church fathers and mothers were not the least amused, of course, and there were plenty of them in high enough government positions to get Net Force’s attention in a hurry, including the president himself, and what was worse, a minor annoyance suddenly became a priority project.
Find whoever was doing this and stop him. Now.
Turning the other cheek didn’t apply when the cheek was below the waist, so it seemed.
The e-tagger called himself The Tasmanian Devil, and as it turned out, that was a major clue. Net Force ops traced the postings to the north coast town of Devonport, Tasmania, overlooking the cool waters of the Bass Strait. The tagger was clever, he’d found some meltware that got him through a lot of firewalls, but he slipped up. His anonymous reposter was six months out of date, and in this business, six months was ancient history. Jay Gridley’s team ran the cable sig to a house, informed the local constabulary, and they went round and knocked on the door. There they found a sixteen-year-old kid running a six-year-old IMac.
The boy was the son of a local minister, which probably explained a lot.
It had taken a while, and when it was done, Michaels called several heavyweights and told them they could rest easy, then left the building.
He was only a mile or so away from home when his virgil came to life.
He was tempted to ignore it, but it might be Toni, so he pulled the device from his belt and looked at the ID sig.
It was blank.
Michaels frowned. FBI com-watchware was supposed to circumvent any commercial ID blocker, so the only people who could reach out and touch him at this number without him knowing who they were would have to be somebody with federal-level blockers. He thumbed the connect button.
“Yes?”
“Commander Michaels, this is Zachary George, with the National Security Agency. Good evening. I hope I’m not interrupting your dinner?” The voice was smooth, even, just deep enough to sound authoritative. There was no picture transmission. The tiny screen was blank.
“Not yet. What can I do for you, Mr. George? Oops, can you hold on a second? I have another call.”
This was not true, but it gave Michaels a few seconds to key in a trace, which he did. He didn’t like not knowing to whom he was talking.
“Sorry about that. Go ahead.”
“Sir, we understand your agency is involved in a joint investigation with the DEA. We’d like to speak to you about this, if we could.”
“You can set up an appointment with my assistant, Mr. George. Although I’m not sure why NSA would have any interest in such a thing if it was so… and I wouldn’t confirm it over the com in any event.”
The incoming diode lit, that would be his trace. He tapped it, and a number scrolled up on the view screen, with an ID: George, Zachary, National Security Agency. Well. At least that much was true.
“I understand your reluctance, sir, and I will be happy to explain it all to you when I see you. This was just a courtesy call to let you know of our interest.” There was a pause. “Ah. I see you’ve traced the call and confirmed my ID. Excellent. I’ll be contacting your assistant for an appointment at your earliest convenience, sir. Thank you. Discom.”
He went away. Michaels frowned again. What did NSA want with the drug investigation? And why was their stealthware better than the FBI’s, to know they had been traced? He was going to have to talk to Jay about that. Maybe he could come up with a better program.
He dropped the virgil onto the seat and shook his head. Two more blocks to go.
Beer. Couch. Television. Soon…
Not that easy, of course. When he walked in, Toni was all aglow over her new hobby, so of course he had go into the garage and admire her toys.
