The potential was there.
To his right there was a counter setup, most likely the source of most of the smells, with two picnic tables for customers. The steampunk detailing had leaked over into this space, too, which seemed to take up needed space for people. It was, he reminded himself, a small town. Possibly they did not require more space. In a desultory fashion, a part of his brain was running numbers on what portion of the population would be here. An imprecise equation, caused by imprecise data, but his brain didn’t care. It just liked to run data. Prior to the introduction of the nanites to his system, this process hurt. He was not sorry those days were behind him.
He turned, curious about the lanes. The six lanes looked—once again not what he’d expected. Carvings and more of the pipes and gears added a mad scientist element. Not his sort of mad scientist. The kind who had a hunched over Igor as an assistant and believed switching brains was a reasonable research goal. Robert blinked. Igor? That didn’t feel like something he’d think.
Out of the shadows all around them lights pulsed, as if the power supply was inconsistent. Some of the gears and pistons managed sluggish movement. What light there was made the shadows appear deeper and somewhat sinister. No one spoke. Maybe they were at a loss for words, too. No sign of a museum, in or out of shadow. He should be disappointed, worried even, but instead he was fascinated. So were his nanites, though their fascination was laced with curiosity—a state of being for them since their liberation from the test tubes. They’d been quivering with delight since arriving Earth-side. Robert frowned. If nanites could quiver?
Do you wish us to assess?
They felt his agreement before he formed a mental yes and sent drones out through the soles of his feet, their brief flickers of light easily camouflaged by the intermittent lights around them. Because of the mental link, a part of him traveled with them, and he felt as baffled as they at how low tech it was, despite the complexity of pipes and gears everywhere. The steampunk details were for show until the paraphernalia was well above human height. That was logical and sensible in a business that did not wish to be sued by severely burned customers. Or explain missing digits to parents. Steam did move through the higher piping, causing the observed sluggish movement of gears and pistons. But steam that was not hot was also being injected into the space through a series of Victorian-looking vents on the floors—
Humanoid. Female. Above this space.
Above? Where? How?
Robert looked up. The dome. Of course. It was dark, except for an eerie, and faint, red glow. Information began to arrive via the nanites. There was something up there, based on the layout of the building. Some kind of wooden control panel, though the reasons for it remained unclear. He also received information on a possible site for the elusive museum in the floor below, across from the steam engine room.
Robert was used to having his thoughts pulled in different directions, but not his physical body. He wished to check out the female and the museum and the power plant. Until the different desires could be reconciled, he stayed where he was, waiting for more data to provide direction.
“What do you think, Prof?” Ric’s voice was pitched low for reasons that weren’t clear.
Robert could and did think many things. Figuring out which thought process was suitable for sharing, or that his companions would find relevant, was still a challenge. Delilah said it would get easier. He hoped his sister was correct.
“There’s someone here.” Fyn took that information out of the queue before Robert could decide to mention it. His stance turned even more menacing. Perhaps it was a “muscle” requirement.
Not that muscle was indicated just yet. The “someone” was probably Emily Babcock, not a chainsaw-wielding murderer—Robert made a mental note to thank Delilah for that memory. Emily and her brother, Edward, owned and operated the bowling alley and had since they inherited the property from their parents five years ago. They were the same physical age as Robert: twenty-five. It was a small, but troubling reality that his actual birth date was thirty-five years ago. He tried not to think about it as it made his left brain ache, even with the nanites helping out. His right brain had no problem with the anomaly.
“Where?” Ric asked.
A grinding sound from above provided the answer and resulted in varied and interesting responses from his companions.
Ric took a step back, his hand sliding under his jacket.
Like two halves of a scary whole, Fyn and Carey stepped back as well, but they drew weapons—Fyn’s an alien ray gun and Carey’s a Glock—each taking a position better suited to covering the area where the sound originated.
Robert felt a similar urge to reach for a weapon—a side effect from the mental download of his sister’s memories he felt sure—but he had no weapon on his person for a follow through. His role in the mission was as a scientist, the geek, but his senses stayed on high alert. He’d gotten better at managing the instincts not his own, but this was new. The lack of weapon didn’t make him less lethal, he realized, as his body shifted into black ops mode that was both familiar and not.
His little sister had done some scary stuff while he’d been lost in crazy.
He tried to shake it off, but black ops refused to be shaken, as a shadow from above grew larger. The whir came from a winch and pulley. The shadow resolved into the shape of an…airship? A mini version of one, he decided, curiosity trumping caution. He edged forward to get a better look. A propeller spun on the tail, but the top where an envelope would be was carved out, leaving a place for a pilot, whose form was visible in that space, well, as visible as the murky light allowed. She worked levers that appeared to control the descent. The basket hanging below might have held a small mammal, assuming one could be persuaded take a ride. The set up appeared to be for show, though why they needed a “for show” airship was unclear.
Airships are integral to steampunk mythology.
Robert thought it was steam that was essential to steampunk mythology, but let them have it. It didn’t matter what he or they thought. Nor was it germane to their mission.
The faux airship stopped short of the floor and the side swung open. The pilot, despite bulky boots on her feet, dropped onto the floor, with only a minor vibration passing through the wood. She was enveloped in a long, white coat that she hadn’t buttoned up, and she wore goggles that she pulled down, letting them hang from her neck like ungainly jewelry. She turned in a half circle, her coat billowing out. She didn’t appear to see them in the shadows as she lifted her arm and pointed something toward the rear of the building.
Sound exploded from hidden speakers placed for maximum effect. She sang—loud and off key—using the remote as if it were a microphone, something about not feeling like dancing, but then proceeded to dance with a lack of inhibition that impressed Robert—who lived in inhibited when he wasn’t in crazy—as she headed toward the counter setup. As if to light her way, light expanded toward their shadows.
The steam had built enough to almost stabilize the power output, he deduced, pulling data out of early reports from the nanite scouts.
“
Risky Business
.” Carey stowed his weapon, his voice raised just enough to be heard by his companions.
Robert had no idea what this meant, though Fyn seemed to.
“Too many clothes and no couch.” Fyn’s gun disappeared back onto his person as fast as it had appeared.
Carey seemed to want to argue the point, but shrugged instead.
Ric withdrew his hand from inside his coat and settled into his “men in black” stance. Did he copy from the movie, or had the movie copied from him? Strange to be familiar with a movie he’d never seen. It was clear none of them considered her a threat. Robert was not so sure. He had zero experience with women, but his senses were kicking out warnings he lacked key data to accurately assess. Despite the warnings he was not averse to shifting in her direction for more assessing.
She was tall and moved easily, despite the heavy boots and enveloping coat. There was air moving from somewhere, he decided. She lacked forward momentum sufficient to make her coat billow that much, no matter how confident her stride. As the light built, puffs of cool steam drifted up out of the vents, appearing to wrap around her, even as she blew through them, forcing them to shift and dance on passing air currents. While he appreciated the spectacle, he found the reasons for it obscure, but then he had limited experience with women, except his sister, who even he knew wasn’t a typical female.
Beneath the coat she wore what appeared to be a red and black striped corset over some sort of white tank top and cargo pants that hung low on her hips and had many pockets. The pants were baggy and should have increased her rustic factor. They did not. Perhaps it was the corset that offset the rustic. His lack of people knowledge quadrupled where women were concerned. She stopped, upping her level of dance involvement with the music by turning in a circle, her hips kicking from side to side, her coat flapping back to give tantalizing glimpses of a female form. Increased light glanced off a section of her skin mid-body that appeared to be bare below the cinched in corset, and light reflected off something in that region. Her singing increased in volume, as well, though not in tonal accuracy. If anything, the volume decreased tonal quality.
She’s quite awful.
The nanites seemed delighted, rather than the converse.
The ambient temperature had not changed, but it felt as if his body temperature increased. His casual tee shirt tightened around his neck—a physical impossibility confirmed by a tug at the soft fabric.
There is a physiological shift in progress
, Wynken confirmed.
Reason for shift unclear.
It wasn’t need-to-know, so Robert ignored the semi-question, hoping the reason didn’t become clear to them anytime soon.
Her features were symmetrical, the bone structure refined but strong. Her dark hair was short in the back, and landed along her chin in a neat line, except for bits of red, purple and blue spiking out around her face. They drew attention to themselves by resisting settling into the smooth fall of hair brushing her cheeks with each step. Had they been done with intent or missed by her hairbrush? Her ensemble gave clues both directions and no definitive answers.
Her mouth was outlined in deep, dark red and her nails sported a dark color not identifiable without a closer inspection. Her eyes were dark, too, and the application of cosmetics intensified their contrast with her white skin, and the overall drama of her persona.
Modified Goth mixed with Steampunk
, the nanites deduced with what felt like a pleased wriggle at figuring it out. Very modified he concluded, after studying the data his nanites had found. A refusal to submit to neat slotting? Whatever the reason, the result was intriguing. Her easy, unselfconscious pleasure in the music and movement fascinated Robert and his nanites. She was dangerous in ways he dimly realized were new to someone who thought he knew all there was to know about crazy.
It appeared he’d lacked critical data to make that assumption.
The music changed and she changed with it, her movements bringing her around to face them as the light erased their shadows. Robert expected embarrassed, startled, and maybe angry. She didn’t exhibit any of those emotions. Not even on a minimal level. She looked curious. As curious as a child. Only she wasn’t a child. He tugged at his tee shirt again. She used the remote to lower the music volume, swept back the edges of the coat. One hand settled on a hip, making her aspect appear somewhat challenging and a bit sexy. The other turned the remote with slender fingers, like a magic trick about to happen.
“Well.”
Her gaze tracked from the general to the particular, landing on Fyn first. Robert felt an unfamiliar resentment about her thorough survey of the alien. Fyn was big, he reminded himself. Tall, too. It took time to assess him. Her expression concealed her conclusions, so it was odd that he had the impression that her face was expressive. Her attention shifted to Ric. She didn’t hurry with him, either, but spent less on Carey. What did that mean? He braced as her gaze tracked toward him. Would she sense his secret? See the missing chunks of his life? They hadn’t been surgically removed. The jagged edges, the fragmenting of his experience, weren’t neatly patched over, though Delilah and the nanites had tried. He wanted to rub the back of his neck, but didn’t.
It’s a giveaway.
The words, the knowledge came from—
She found him, splintering his thoughts in a way that hadn’t happened since the psychotic break, though this splintering wasn’t painful. Wynken, Blynken and Nod still moved in to sweep up the pieces. His physiological response increased exponentially. No way to gather that up. What did she see, think,
know
when she looked at him? Her bright, curious gaze was too far outside his experience. What he did know was that he felt more
not
like himself than he had since Delilah took him back from
them
six months—and nine years—ago.
“A curious quartet,” she said, her voice pitched to be heard over the music still pulsing in the background like a movie soundtrack. Her attention flicked back to Fyn.
Did she sense his alien factor? It was interesting that all of the Project Enterprise alien contact had been humanoid, though that didn’t eliminate the alien factor from the contact. They were still from other galaxies, other planets. Did Robert find Fyn alien because he knew he was alien or because he
was
alien?
Her attention shifted again, going from the particular to the general, and the red mouth edged up in a half smile, her tone informative, not hostile. “We’re closed.”
“Door wasn’t locked,” Fyn spoke with his usual lethal lack of expression—at least Robert assumed it was usual. It was the tone and expression he’d used since they met up at Area 51 two days ago.
Don’t make assumptions.
I’m working on it
. It would reduce the periods of sometimes painful adjustment, which seem to be piling up, but was easier thought than done, if he was permitted the modified cliché. He was a scientist and scientists made assumptions based on observed data, but there was too much data in this place. It was as disconcerting as no data.