Chapter 26

It was still early in the evening, but in winter, on the east coast, it gets dark pretty quick. The sky was a dull, almost incandescently overcast gray color, just marginally brighter than the ground below. As I glanced around it was difficult to make out more than silhouetted shapes, even with my better than average night vision. The wind was blowing slightly; damp, chill air tossed my hair around my face, briefly obscuring my view.

Several high intensity lamps came to life all of a sudden, bathing the area around the plane, and me in particular, with beams of intense white light. I narrowed my eyes, and squinted out into the blinding glare, trying to see beyond to their source.

The plane was surrounded by bodies spaced about six feet apart, each one dressed in dark, bulky, quasi military style equipment, and every one toting a chopped down AK-47 style rifle. From the nose of the aircraft two figures approached; one small, blond and slightly built, the other much taller, darker and quite a bit broader.

"What have you gotten us into Ike?" David Jones rasped.

"Hello David ... Anya. The cargo is inside the plane. Don't let anyone in there but me."

I started to step away, but Mr. Jones managed to get around in front and put one large scarred hand in the middle of my chest.

"Your man said this was a job, no one said anything about a war." he growled in his best rock crushing, no backing up and taking shit from anyone voice.

I looked down and let the flames rise up behind my eyes.

"Three hundred thousand dollars for three weeks. You have my word. Now get out of the way David. There'll be no war. My word on that too."

He glared at me briefly, opened his mouth to speak and then changed his mind, dropped his hand and stepped aside.

"There are snipers on the roofs of the three closest hangers, but not this one." he said as I moved past.

I nodded my understanding. "Lilly's in there with them." I said and moved beyond the ring of bodies, walking directly towards the bright lights and massed formation of government vehicles and troops I could feel waiting for me some sixty five yards away.

My bare feet slapped the cold concrete with each step, sounding to my ears like blocks of ice cracking as they impacted with one another.

I got to within forty yards when a bullhorn amplified voice blared:

"Ike Blacktower, by order of the Attorney General of the United States I'm placing you under arrest. Stop right where you are, get down on your knees and put both hands behind your head."

I stopped walking and stood still, shifting my eyes from side to side, trying to determine where they all were. I could feel them, each and every one, but I couldn't quite tell where they were, relative to my own position.

What now?

I could have killed them. Well, most of them anyway. Those whose shapes I could vaguely make out with those bloody damn lights stabbing at my eyes. But I couldn't see the snipers. There was no doubt in my mind but that they'd get me. There was nowhere to hide. Not in time.

So killing was out. At least for the time being.

Time ... that was the real problem. I didn't have a lot of it to waste.

And if I couldn't kill them all, then I couldn't very well turn them all either.

Then again, I didn't have to turn them all. Not all at once.

So I dropped to my knees on the icy cold concrete, put my hands behind my head and waited.

Less than thirty seconds passed before I heard the sounds of booted feet coming at me, accompanied by the rattling of weapons ... a sound I knew all too well.

Thru the glare of the lamp light I counted ten bodies, all in full tactical gear. Helmets, face shields, body armor, weapons harnesses, black BDUs, small arms ... the works.

Their advance slowed when they got within ten yards. I waited motionless while they closed the distance between us ... and then I linked with the lot and hammered home the rings.

"Which one of you is the commander?" I asked, keeping my voice pitched low.

"That would be me." an average sized, dark skinned figure on my right replied.

"Have your men encircle me and move in close."

He spoke softly to the men next to him, and they in turn passed the word to the troops next to them. Soon I was completely surrounded on all sides. Human shields in body armor. The best I could do right then to protect myself from the snipers.

I gave them a stripped down version of the speech before turning my full attention on their commander.

"What's your name?"

"Lieutenant Jeff Harmon sir."

"Harmon, who's in overall command of this cluster fuck?"

"That would be Special Agent Boykin."

"Boykin? Never heard of him. Alright, get him over here. And see if you can't get someone to turn those fuckin' lights off. They're giving me a headache."

Harmon turned away and jogged off back the way he'd come. My new fan club and I waited patiently for Harmon to return with FBI Special puke Boykin. They waited patiently. I endured the cold creeping thru my knees up into my thighs and struggled to hold my temper in check, trying very hard not to light myself on fire before a live audience twice in the same day.

I used the time to work with my growing sensitivity, doing what I could to isolate individual emotions and feelings from the hoard that was now available to me.

There were literally millions of people out there that I could sense, each one generating dozens of emotions every few seconds. Granted, not all of them were of the powerful and nasty variety. Most people require specific circumstances and conditions for those emotions to make an appearance. But there were more than enough.

Enough. How much is enough? How much would that be in gallons, miles, tons or years?

I've got the ability to amplify one single emotion to the point where it can destroy a thirty foot tree. Why the hell did I need millions more?

Recalling my final night in LA, a troublesome thought occurred; I didn't actually need millions of emotions to do things with. Fifty would have been plenty. There had to be some other reason, some other function served by turning me into a goddamn reservoir.

Batteries. The darkness had harped on and on about recharging.

... hang on!

Recharging wasn't the only term he'd used. 'You eat more often to fuel the body so it can complete the process ... But in your case, let's just say you haven't been eating enough of the right stuff.'

Great ... just fuckin' great! My so-called talent had turned me into an emotional vampire.

Unfuckingbelievable.

I suppose it could have been worse. I could have ended up like Peggy'd been when I first met her; stealing positive emotions to feed her personal void.

At least I figured I'd be able to survive on negativity. Unless I lost control, like I had on the plane, and inadvertently killed myself. Of course there was always a solid supply of love waiting for me at home, right? With a little luck that might keep my new diet from being the death of me.

The ring of black clad men around me began shuffling their feet and the noise brought me out of my reverie. The sounds of two men coming towards me reached my ears.

About damn time too ... but those fucking lights were still turned on, shining directly between two of my new bodyguards and hitting me right in the eyes.

A blast of cold fury surged up for a brief instant, until I felt something rather unusual flaring behind me.

More precisely, I tasted something rather unusual flaring behind me.

"So this is the CIA's famous Doctor Death." one of the two figures approaching announced, as if I were a prize specimen he'd captured on safari. His was the voice I'd heard coming thru the bullhorn.

I've been able to taste emotions almost from the beginning; though in all honesty I've kinda given taste short shrift. This much I know; some are more ... I don't know, pungent. Some people's emotions feel and taste stronger than others ... no, that's not quite right either. Some people's emotions feel different, some taste different ... no, that's wrong too.

How can I put this into terms a run-of-the-mill John (or Jane) Doe might understand? Do I even understand what it is I'm trying to say here?

"He doesn't look all that impressive, does he Lieutenant?" the annoying voice that belonged to FBI Special Agent Boykin continued braying.

"If you say so Mr. Boykin." Harmon replied neutrally.

Boykins took a couple of steps closer to the ring of men surrounding me.

"Ike Blacktower, I'm arresting you by order of the Attorney General of the United States." And then the stupid prick actually went and read me my rights.

What bugged me most about the whole thing was the childish glee he took in doing it. Standing out there on the taxi way, spot lights on us as though we were performers on a Broadway stage, with himself in the lead of course; brave, noble, heroically erect in the way only an androgynously good looking actor could be.

I didn't much care for the way his smarmy self-importance resonated off my ear-drums either.

Where was I? Taste and feel, right? No, the thing is... everyone's emotions feel and taste differently. Mostly they vibrate a little differently ... that's the feel part. Taste is altogether other.

See, while all emotions feel like what they are, not all of them taste like what they are. Different emotions from different people taste, well ... different. And not all of them have a sufficiently strong or memorable taste.

The combinations, the mixture of felt, felt and tasted and ... there was something important there I wasn't paying enough attention to.

"Do you understand these rights as I've explained them to you?" Boykin asked, not looking at me, but playing to the audience of fellow agents behind his back. Someone was bucking for a promotion. And maybe even a commendation or medal to go with it.

I really didn't care much for the way his emotions tasted ... kinda like poorly prepared eel served in a dock-side Arabian all-you-can-eat sushi bar. (Best not to ask.)

I tilted my head to one side and lowered my eyelids. I was almost able to make out what the man looked like, but those damn lights were just too bright.

I could see him well enough to link though. Question was; what kind of ring should Special Agent Boykin get?

Decisions, decisions.

"Are you going to turn those fucking lights off, or not?" I asked.

"I asked you if you understood your rights? Are all CIA mooks as retarded as you?" The man had no class. None at all. He felt slick and oily as well. It wasn't a hard call.

"Your choice then, asshole." I hissed between my teeth and slapped the man's ring in place.

"Call the snipers in, get all your people in close where I can see them and shut those goddamn fucking lights off!" I snarled.

While Boykin scrambled to do as I'd commanded I sat back on my heels, lowered my hands and considered taste and feel.

I'd tasted a flaring emotion behind me. Distance? No idea really, but not far. It was a familiar taste too.

Human beings generate hundreds of emotions every day, most of them innocuous and unremarkable. The only way I might find an emotion truly familiar was if I'd been in close contact with it and the person behind it. And to find a specific emotion that tasted familiar... ? We're talking very close contact.

Millions of people. I could sense millions, each one giving off a handful of changing emotions every few seconds. Would it actually be possible to tell one person from another, based on something as erratic and changeable as their feelings?