Turnabout

you wondered why Liz hasn't had a future flash about Max getting sliced up?» «Guess 1 haven't thought about it much. I've been too busy worrying about them actually doing it.» Michael pressed on. «The reason Liz didn't see it in her Magic 8 Ball is because it's not going to happen. She didn't have that particular future flash because something is going to prevent it.» «You're counting on luck, General Rath?» said Kyle. «Doesn't sound like a very sound military stratagem to me.» Just like Langley is counting on being lucky enough not to fry the Evanses and the Parkers with this brain-blast thingie, Michael thought. A harsh, painfully loud alarm began sounding, reverberating up and down the empty corridor. He heard the sharp staccato of gunfire in the distance, punctuated by alarmed shouts. The smell of cordite stung his nose. Michael grinned at Kyle and Isabel. «Sometimes luck is the only weapon you can really count on," he said. Then he turned and ran toward the area where his mental map told him the detention cells were located. Over Valenti's no doubt well-intentioned and chivalrous objections, Duff took the point as they forced the lock to a basement-level door and entered the building. Valenti and Liz Evans followed close behind her, while Langley brought up the rear. Despite Max's earlier assurances that the alien producer wouldn't bolt and run, she remained prepared to shoot him nonlethaily, she hoped should he try it. With a stealth born of long years of training and fieldwork, Duff led the group through a maze of narrow rooms, and finally into a well-lit corridor. Fortunately, the long hallway seemed to be empty. Then she heard footfalls coming from behind her. Turning her masked face toward the sound, she realized it was already too late to hide the group. Three black-suited federal agents had just rounded a corner, and the group turned to face them, responding to Duff's shouted warning. Great. Now Langley's our front man. Bullets zinged past Duff's ear. Before she could get off a shot of her own, the producer had raised both his hands, releasing a sheet of pure energy that knocked the federal agents off their feet, sending their weapons flying. The men slid as they hit the polished floor, then came to rest, apparently unconscious. Duff motioned the group forward again. «Let's move, people. They're all probably gonna know we're here by now.» As she trotted down the corridor, in the lead again, she said to Liz, «How 'bout it, psi-girl? What's coming up in our near future?» Liz said, «I think we're about to set off " Suddenly a Klaxon, like a choir of fifty angry car alarms, began shrilling and reverberating loudly up and down the corridor. " an alarm," Liz finished weakly. Duff swore under her breath and kept leading the group forward, her weapon at the ready. None too gently, the two black-suited guards hustled Max into a large, empty room. Compared with the office and the hallway from which he'd just emerged, this place was like an airplane hangar a high-domed ceiling, with a balcony that held a couple dozen chairs, each of which looked down upon the table at the room's center and focal point. The table was surrounded by lights all turned off at the moment and medical apparatus of every description. Max's eyes went from the balcony down to the table, and he realized with a horrified start that the room hadn't been empty. At least, not entirely. On the table lay a motionless, blood-spattered body. Or most of a motionless, blood-spattered body. The corpse had been disassembled, methodically and competently. Max felt his gorge rise when he looked at the corpse's face and saw his sister's eyes, now dull and sightless. That's not Isabel, he reminded himself, shutting his own eyes in an unsuccessful attempt to force the horrific vision away. But the image of the dead girl, her expression frozen in a rictus of mute terror, seemed to have been burned across his retinas. His tightly closed eyes were suddenly awash in tears. He felt someone shove him from behind. «You're next, Martian," said a rough voice. «Once we clean up the mess here, that is.» He heard a weapon being cocked behind him. In front of him, he heard footfalls as someone, or perhaps several someones, entered through another door. Must be the «medics» who sliced Lonnie open like a high school biology lab project. «Get him sedated," Max heard someone say. «Before he has a chance to " Suddenly the room was filled with a cacophonous, sirenlike sound. Max thought he heard one of his escorts say «Intruders.» Though still blinded by tears, Max wasted no time. Galvanized by rage and fear, he spun toward his momentarily distracted guards, raised his hands, and released some of that emotion in the form of a solid wall of force. Through his tears, he dimly saw both Men in Black fly backward into the walls at extreme speed, striking the chrome surfaces like a pair of crash-test dummies. He turned and saw several masked, white-coated people. A pair of them were lunging toward him, one of them carrying a nasty-looking hypodermic needle. He allowed some of his anger to flow outward, and he felt raw power surge through him. Less than two seconds later, Max Evans was the only conscious being in the room. This ends now, he thought, moving back toward the door through which he had entered after pausing briefly to vomit on the blood-flecked floor. Wiping his mouth and blinking away his tears, he stepped back out into the corridor. A half-dozen armed men were already there, crouching in anticipation of imminent combat, their heavy pistols and rifles drawn and ready. They fired as one, even as Max started to raise his hands. The Klaxons were still blaring, but Michael tried not to let that rattle him as he ran down the corridor. This is almost too easy, he thought as he mowed down four more MiBs with another focused blast of energy. Or maybe my control is just getting better the more I get to practice on these guys. As he made his way around the final corner toward the detention cells, he considered the weird headgear all the MiBs he'd encountered so far had been wearing. Those tinfoil hats don't seem to be any great shakes in the protection department. Wonder what they're for. Michael came to a stop in front of a locked door, in a spot that matched the mental map Kyle was sending. Extending a glowing hand, he made short work of the lock, pushed gently, and cautiously entered the room beyond. Phillip Evans turned toward him from the corner in which he stood. He looked bruised, frightened, and tired, but far from defeated. Diane Evans sat cross-legged nearby in the bare white room, as did Jeff and Nancy Parker. Their expressions were dull, guarded. They all looked as though they hadn't slept in a month. Was this what Liz just saw? he wondered. Or was it something else? They all instantly began looking better. «Michael?» each of them said in unison, as those who were sitting on the floor rose awkwardly to their feet. «How?» said Max's dad, confusion and suspicion both evident on his face. He must have suspected that Michael's unexpected appearance was really some sort of psychological dirty trick hatched by the Special Unit, a move calculated to break their spirits by raising their hopes and then cruelly dashing them. Michael wondered briefly whether the Special Unit had placed their prisoners in the same cell for similar reasons, intending to separate them soon in order to stress them further. Or maybe the Feds just want to see what conversations they'll overhear by bringing all the parental units together. «Explanations later," Michael said. «Escape now.» And with that, he led them out into the apparently empty hallway, his fist crackling with gathering force. He was determined to do whatever was necessary to anyone who tried to bar his path. «Follow me.» He felt a sudden sharp pain in his neck, right at the base of his jaw. He reached up with his right hand and felt the fletching on the carbon fiber shaft that protruded from his skin. Michael's bones and muscles began turning to rubber before he could determine from which direction the trank dart had come. He raised a hand in an effort to fend off the black-garbed shapes that swiftly overran him, the Evanses, and the Parkers. The corridor quickly filled with echoing, surreal shouts and screams, overlaid by the weird shrilling of the alarm Klaxon. Hard, muscular arms grabbed him and began carrying him away, dragging him backward. His vision began to dim, like a film fading to black. As he was dragged away, he blinked at the sight of a trio of shapes peering around a corner. Three people, he realized, who seemed to be trying their best to keep out of sight. One of them looked exactly like Tess Harding, except for her straight, silvery-blue hair. The second one's face was identical to Michael's own. Our New York dupes? he thought hazily. He realized that he was losing consciousness and maybe his mind as well when he thought he recognized the third person, whose form was as elusive as a shadow. It looked a lot like Alex Whitman, the group's old friend whom Tess had slain more than a year earlier. Ava winced from the volume of the alarm Klaxons as she watched the group of armed MiBs march four frightenedlooking adults away, while two of the agents half-dragged, half-carried Rath's twin from Roswell. She turned toward Rath. «So are we gonna rescue him, or what?» she asked. Rath grunted. «It's not like I owe him anything.» Ava didn't disagree with that. She knew their best chance of survival lay in freeing Lonnie, then quickly getting as far away from this place as possible. «So what's next? We have to assume they've moved Lonnie to make it harder for anybody to rescue her.» «We follow him," Rath said, pointing with his jaw toward the apparently unconscious Michael, whose escorts were dragging him around a corner. «But we do it discreetly, without sending these guys engraved announcements that we're back in the building. My guess is that my knockoff from Nowhere, New Mexico, will lead us right to Lonnie. Then we're outta here, all three of us.» Ava thought that sounded reasonable, if risky. «Maybe we ought to find some cover, just in case we get caught in here.» Rath blinked in fatigue. «I've been zapping way too many of these MiBs to even think about doing a shapeshift.» «Me too. I have a different idea in mind.» Ava quickly backtracked around the corner they had just turned. On the floor lay a black-suited federal agent whom Rath had just rendered unconscious. Rath followed her, watching her in silence as she knelt beside the agent and removed the tinfoil cap from his skull. Ava grinned up at Rath. «Let's wake him up, wind him up, and watch him go.» How'd I get here? Special Agent Anselmo felt a wave of dizziness, which passed almost as quickly as it had come. The two teenage prisoners walking ahead of him had turned. They were eyeing him curiously, their shackles jingling. Were they thinking he was giving them another chance to try to escape? «Keep moving, you two. Eyes front.» He brandished his Glock nine-millimeter pistol for good measure. The spiky-haired male looked like he was thinking of going for the weapon, then evidently thought better of it. The girl with the silvery-blue 'do simply looked frightened, in over her head. She was clearly no threat. At least, Anselmo thought, not so long as my cap is where it's supposed to be. He realized with a start that he couldn't feel the cap on his head. Without it, one or both of these aliens might be able to reach into his mind, and could conceivably manipulate him into doing or believing just about anything. He reached up with his free hand and sighed with relief after his fingertips brushed the familiar rough metallic texture of the protective skullcap. He was safe. When the corridor came to a «T," the girl stopped, turned, and looked beseechingly at him. «Which way?» Which way. Which way? For a fleeting moment, he wasn't at all sure. «Probably to the same place they dragged Lonnie," the boy growled. «You know, your other female prisoner from earlier.» Right. The medical chamber. That's right. Yes. That's exactly right. He pointed authoritatively down the left side of the «T.» «That way, punk. Move!» The bullets hovered in the air, one of them stopping less than an inch from Max's forehead. He'd managed to erect a force field in time to stop the volley of slugs, but he'd also felt their impact with a force that almost cost him his concentration. That was way too close, he thought as he struggled to keep the shimmering energy barrier up between himself and the group of angry federal agents he'd blundered into in the hallway adjacent to the surgery room. From farther down the corridor, a familiar voice rose above the wail of the Klaxons. «Drop your weapons!» Keeping his force field carefully in place, Max turned toward the sound. Jim Valenti and the still-masked Agent Duff had just rounded a corner, their rifles aimed straight at the MiBs who had been gunning for Max. Behind Valenti and Duff were Langley and Liz, also clad in body armor. The Men in Black immediately turned their attention to the newcomers, opening fire on them without hesitation. This time, Max knew he couldn't extend his force field quickly enough to protect his wife and friends. «Liz!» he shouted. His own force field collapsed as he struggled to reposition it. A split-second after the MiBs, Duff, and Valenti had exchanged a deafening volley of fire, the bullets from both sides hung uselessly in the air, like bugs trapped in amber. «Nice going," Valenti snapped at Langley. «Hey, if I stop theirs, I kinda have to stop ours, too. Impenetrable energy barriers are funny that way.» One of the MiBs turned back toward Max, apparently having noticed that Max's energy screen had fallen. Max barely managed to raise it again in time to stop the agent's slug from ventilating him. So it's a standoff, he thought. He felt profoundly tired, and wondered how long he could keep the MiBs at bay. Fortunately, he knew that Langley was more powerful, and no doubt better rested, than he was. But not even the former alien protector could keep the entire Special Unit at arm's length forever. Max knew that brain-blasting the agents killing or crippling them would soon be the only option left. Suddenly, the sound of the alarm Klaxon stopped, evidently having served its purpose. Though Max's ears were still ringing, he heard a commotion coming from the corridor, in the direction opposite of Langley's force field. A moment later, a squad of armed and armored agents, all of them outfitted with the foil caps, hove into view. Leading them was the Special Unit leader's feral-looking lieutenant, still wearing his government-issue black suit and narrow tie. Then Max noticed the people in the center of the armed group. Carried by two agents was Michael; he was unconscious, or worse. And in the very center of the mass of armed men stood his parents, and Liz's. They looked both tired and terrified. Max tasted fear, and it was bitter. But it was almost overwhelmed by a rush of livid, bilious anger. Is this what it feels like to be Michael? he wondered. «Don't worry," Max shouted to his parents, and to the Parkers. «I'm going to get you out of this. I'm going to get us all out of this.» He only wished he knew how he could do it without soaking his arms to the elbows in blood. The feral man gave his subordinates a terse command, and each of his five prisoners immediately had as many gun barrels trained on their heads. From across the corridor, the feral man turned his hard eyes directly upon Max. «If I see one of your energy zaps come anywhere near me or my men, you'll be an orphan in less time it takes to say it. And this world will be lighter by exactly one alien juvenile delinquent. Now, why don't you lower your shields, Max?» Then Max heard more boots clattering on the floor. This time the armed men were coming from the other side of Langley's force field, forcing him to erect a second one to protect himself, Liz, Duff, and Valenti from a rear-guard action. «Max?» said another voice, this one more smooth and less adversarial than that of the feral man. Max turned quickly toward it. It was Scarface, the Special Unit's leader, walking past his lieutenant and his prisoners as calmly as a Little League coach strolling out to the mound to have a little chat with his team's pitcher. «Max," Scarface repeated. «Max, Max, Max. You don't want your little stunt here today to get anyone else hurt, do you? Least of all your loving parents. Or Liz Parker's.» «Max, don't listen to him!» shouted Phillip Evans. His face expressionless, the feral man slammed the butt of his pistol into the side of the lawyer's head, knockin