Behind the box, deeper in the closet, two metal cylinders opened their digital valves, forcing twin high pressure, high velocity sprays of an aerosolized molecular cocktail at Yingjie’s face, at his open mouth, his exposed eyes, his uncovered nostrils.

The heavy security door to Chen’s office slammed shut, bolts shooting out to lock it in place.

Yingjie turned his face to the right, closing his eyes, letting the continued spray hit the left side of his face and neck now.

The Avatar watched in fascination. This was the test. His eyes would be burning, as the aerosolized nanoparticles were being carried along his mucus membranes, into his blood stream, towards his brain.

Had any reached his lungs? Was there a metallic taste in his mouth from what had struck him there?

Even on the tough skin of his face, the organic solvent of DMSO that the nanoparticles were suspended in would be carrying it through his skin, penetrating tissue, till the particles found their way to capillaries.

Yingjie’s muscles strained, his hands still gripped to the handles by the current. Then suddenly his feet were pressed against the surface of the metal box, and with a scream he pushed back, ripping the metal handles off of it, trailing wires behind them.

The Avatar felt a jolt of fear rip through her.

He wasn’t supposed to be that strong.

He was on his feet now, out of the pressurized stream from the tanks.

The Avatar felt radio signals blare out from him as he subvocalized a panic code. She slapped them down with her mind and the radio-shaping tools spread throughout the flat.

He turned, raising his hand to his blinking, tearing eyes, wiping at them, then orienting himself on the door.

Her models showed a sixty percent chance that the door would hold him, a median of five efforts to break free if he could at all.

Yingjie cocked one foot back, then shot it forward, following it through with his body.

The door burst open on his first kick, splinters flying.

Fear seized the Avatar.

Yingjie surged into the living room, rage written across the soldier’s face.

61
Next Steps

Wednesday 2040.12.12

Lisa Brandt checked her messages on her phone as soon as they returned it to her.

“Sorry you’re sick today, Professor. I’ll cancel your appointments. Hope you’re feeling better tomorrow.”

There were responses to messages she hadn’t sent. There were messages from her she hadn’t sent.

Rage surged through her. She wanted to smash the phone to bits, crush it, scream!

But she couldn’t.

She’d been gag-ordered. Forbidden to ever tell anyone of the interrogation she’d been through, the information she’d divulged.