Previously On The Maya...
Amara Barclay goes to the car she's stopped with her motorcycle and attempts to get in, but is unable to. Without tools, she has no way to break a window or try some other method. As she ponders what to do, three cars approach and their occupants get out. Since Amara is invisible, she listens to the conversations of the people come to help, hoping to glean something. They turn out to be ordinary, but concerned and knowledgeable island citizens. They look for Amara but can't find her, then turn their attention to the car. One man removes the front fender and asks, "You see that flickering?"
The Maya—a living legend covert operative-for-hire that no one she encounters can remember.
George Kirkegaard—a former newspaper owner forced out of business by state government.
Eugenio Stavros—a shipping magnate on a trip to the mysterious Isle of Use to renegotiate a steel contract.
Amara Barclay—a savvy, independent multi-millionaire entrepreneur and socialite with unparalleled beauty.
Mr. Tic and Mr. Snake—two U.S. government officials running off-the-books dark ops involving The Maya.
And now...the next installment of The Maya.
The second man joined him. "Yeah. Very odd. It kind of looks like part of the bike is missing, too."
"Something's monkeying with the light," the first man said. "It's not reflecting right."
"No sign of the biker over there, either," the first woman said, as she and the second woman returned. "I can't see them flying any farther."
"Could the bike be a drone, too?" the first man asked.
"Sure," the second man said. "But without a biker, pinned underneath or flung onto the road, the proximity system malfunctioning, and the bike only partially visible, my guess is, this was deliberate. The biker wanted the drone stopped."
"Here comes the authorities," said the third woman.
Three highway patrol cars, one fire truck, a paramedic and an ambulance all converged on the scene at the same time. While they pulled off to the side in front of the wreck, a tow truck also arrived.
When the lead patrol officer realized the damaged car was a drone, he asked the five men and women to move back to the closest car. He then interviewed them in turn, while the other two patrolmen inspected the car, the motorcycle, and the surrounding area. The two men took turns reporting what they'd seen, including their conjecture about how the accident looked staged. The three women had little to add, other than that the ditches on both sides of the northbound lanes had been searched for a fifty yards in each direction, with no results.
"I've got all I need for now," the officer said. "Thank you for stopping. It sure makes our jobs easier."
"Our pleasure," said the first man. When the first woman was inside, they drove off, followed in turn by the second man and woman, and lastly, the third woman.
When they were on their way, the lead patrol officer yelled at his deputies, "Find anything?"
"No," one of them called back from somewhere in the ditch.
"Call it off. Our citizen angels were pretty thorough. They think this was deliberate, and so do I."
The lead patrolman unbuttoned a pouch on his belt and retrieved a raised rectangular object with a button in the middle of it. It looked like a remote garage door opener. He pressed the button, and a series of pops followed. He tugged on the driver's door handle and the portal gave way easily.
"Anyone in there?" It was one of the medics, standing several yards away with his partner and a portable gurney.
"No," the lead patrolman said, after checking both the front and back seats. "You all can clear."
"Roger, that," the medic said. He and his partner returned the gurney to the paramedic truck and alerted the hook 'n' ladder and ambulance they were free to go. When they moved off, the tow truck, having already turned around, came up from behind.
The lead patrolman sat in the front seat, looking at a small screen, when the tow truck driver approached.
"Unmanned, eh?" the tow truck driver said.
"Yes," the lead patrolman said. "I'll let you know when I'm done with it."
"Thanks. I'll probably have to come around to the front, anyway, so I can lift the front off the bike."
The lead patrolman called to one of his deputies and handed him the keys to his car. While the two officers moved the three cars, the lead patrolman watched the screen.
Within seconds, he'd recognized what the monitor was. It registered electromagnetic interference, and was calibrated specifically to tune out all kinds other than that given off by the human body. He could tell because the three dark blurs moving around on the screen represented his deputies and the tow truck driver. There was a stationary blur, which moved when he did, and there were others from the road as cars whizzed by.
What he wasn't quite able to deduce was why he was seeing this, or why the robot car was equipped with the system. It was possible it had been tracking someone. The biker maybe? If so, the helpful citizens were probably right. The biker had ditched in front of the car to keep it from following them, and then taken off on foot. If so, they couldn't be too far away, we're probably some kind of fugitive, and should be assumed armed and dangerous. The patrolman got out of the robot car and jogged up the highway to his, where he called in his findings.
Neither he, or the tow truck driver, noticed Amara, who had sneaked into the back seat and watched the screen over the patrolman's shoulder—her electromagnetic signature shielded by his—remove the monitor and its transceiver, then dart across the northbound lanes, where she jumped the ditch and crossed to the other side of the southbound lanes.
Crashing the drone had been a good idea, because she now knew how she was being tracked, and could take steps to counteract it. Causing the crash with the motorcycle, however, her only mode of rapid transportation, (and potentially traceable if they managed to remove the acrylic), had been a bad idea, because now she would have to jog back to the house, wasting most of the night in the process.
In her mind, she'd already calculated the distance. She couldn't be any more than eight miles from Paloma's onramp, which meant she was less than twenty miles from hers. She'd be home and asleep before two am, giving her a good night's rest before she went searching for suitable dinner attire.
'The Maya' publishes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
Copyright © Glen Anthony Albrethsen, 2014-2018. All rights reserved.