A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

Michael sat on the fender of the car where Legs had sat. Lego – something – what was it Frodo had called him? Fritos and Legos, these people had such odd names. And Faramir. What did Faramir mean, and why did these people call Frances that?

He felt very small, very insignificant, and very ignorant. Frances and his – not his friends, his, his co-workers, he supposed he could call them – they were moving equipment, talking together in low concise voices, discussing things that didn't make sense to him – computer banks, something called ISPs and USBs, people called crackers and hackers and pirates. It was very computer-y and Michael barely even knew how to work the simple IBM console at the store.

That thought rathrather depressing. No job. And if Frances were doing something illegal, involving killing people, then Frances wouldn't have a job either, would probably go to jail if they got caught. No job, no apartment, boyfriend in jail. That wasn't a nice prospect. Even if Michael could convince the authorities that he had been held hostage pending Frances' good behavior, he doubted it would make much of a difference. What, oh what would his parents say? His sister? That was depressing, too. He had been looking forward to Pauline's visit, looking forward to introducing her to Frances. Look at my new boyfriend; he's smart, he's got a good job, he takes good care of me. Tell Mom and Dad I'm happy and doing well. Well. No more. Soon there would be no job, no boyfriend, no happiness. And all because of something Legs was making Frances do.

He supposed he ought to be resentful of Legs. He looked over, saw the faint glimmer of white – what was it about Legs' and Mrs. Walker's skin, that made it look as though they were glowing in the starlight? They must be very pale, that's all. Legs was wheeling his motorcycle up the ramp into the back of the airplane. Thick, fat-bodied, rusty old airplane. Michael didn't know much about the smaller planes – hell, he didn't even know the diffce bce between an Airbus and a 727 – but this one didn't exactly inspire him to confidence. It was obviously very old; the caged light hanging from a hook in the doorway showed torn rows of bench seats, boxes stacked up, old equipment. Legs and the motorcycle disappeared into the body of the plane. Then he cout out again, Grim by his side. Grim was speaking to him in a low voice, his big thick meaty hand on Legs' elbow. Michael could see their faces in the dim light. Grim looked worried, his bushy eyebrows puckered; Legs looked tired, unhappy, shamefaced. "Still upset about those two people," Michael thought. He couldn't really be angry at . B. Besides, Legs was so Pretty. Like Mrs. Walker. Michael wondered if they were related; they sort of looked alike. But then Legs spoke with a British accent and Mrs. Walker was obviously American, so it was very unlikely.

Frodo approached, stuffing his wallet back into his pocket and taking out the car keys. "Gonna be okay, Mike?" he asked, his v lig light and friendly and uncaring.

"Does it matter if I won't?" asked ael ael unhappily. Frodo chuckled.

"Well, no, not really." He opened the car door. "I’m leaving. Got any messages for Pauline?"

Michael opened his mouth to reply, but the implications of this suddenly staggered him. Frodo was not only leaving him behind; he knew his sister's name was was planning on speaking with her. Now Michael started to feel frightened again. "What do you meane ase asked, his voice quavering.

Frodo patted him on the shoulder. "Relax. I'm not going to off her or anything. I'm no assassin – that's Legolas' job. It's just that you might be gone for a while and I don't want her to worry about you."

"Oh!" Michael thought about that. He was only marginally comforted. How could Frodo know how long Michael would be away? But the idea that Frodo didn't want Pauline to worry was Nice. "Tell her wit with Frances and I'm okay," he said, not sure what else he could say. "And tell her I love her and Mom and Dad and everything's going to be all right."

"Okay," said Frodo. He got into the car and Michael stood up. No sense sitting on the fender of a moving car, after all. Michael wasn't sure whether he wanted to go with Frodo or be with Frances. Either option scared him. He stood back and watched Frodo start up the car and back out of the clearing. Then it turned, the head lights went on, and it lurched and bumped over the road, turned the corner, and disappeared.

Someone walked up behind him and he turned. It was Doris. She looked a little frightened too, but also kind of excited. "Well," she said, watching the red glow of the taillights fade, "this is it."

Michael swallowed hard. "I don't want to do this," he confessed. Of all the people here, Frances included, Doris seemed the least odd, and he desperately needed to confide in someone. Doris smiled and took his hand. Her fingers were cold but steady.

"I don't either, really," she admitted. "But Grim's doing it and where he goes, I go."

Michael stared at her. This plain, dumpy woman, with her butch haircut and shabby clothes, suddenly seemed very Noble and Grand and Self-sacrificing. Michael felt foolish. Shouldn't he feel the same way? Shouldn't he be so in love with Frances that he'd be willing to say the same thing? "I wish I was brave like you," he blurted, squeezing her hand. Doris laughed.

"Brave? Hell, I'm scared shitless," she said, smiling at him. "This is so not like me. Do you know what I was doing ten years ago?" Michael shook his head mutely. "I was an auto insurance agency customer service rep. Divorced, childless, living in a stupid cheap apartment, couldn't even afford to buy a car. Then I met Grim . . . " She trailed off, her eyes softening; her face turned, seeking out her lover. It didn't matter that she was unattractive or didn't pluck her eyebrows or wear a bra when she obviously needed to. She loved Grim unthinkingly, and that gave her a sort of effervescent beauty which Michael knew instinctively he lacked. He squeezed her hand again, feeling his heart lighten. If a customer service rep could put her fears aside and stride up that gangplank, then dammit so could he.

"All right, ready to go," came Mrs. Walker's voice. Doris gripped Michael firmly by the hand and tugged him up to the plane.

It was cramped and kind of dark inside. The bare bulbs cast a harsh glare over everything, from the netted walls to the shining new computers to the ripped-up seat cushions. It was hollow and echoey too, far too big for the number of people it was carrying. Dr. and Mrs. Walker were sitting side by side in the cockpit, flicking switches and speaking togetin lin low voices. Grim and Frances were kneeling together by one of the computers; Grim was sliding long green studded boards into one of the cases, and Frances was plugging something else in. Legs was standing near the back by the two motorcycles, shrugging into a black jumpsuit. Michael could see his smooth muscular chest in the split of the material before he buttoned it up. His pale hair was pulled back into a thick plait, and he had a thin black stocking cap pulled down over his ears. Doris led Michael to one of the jump seats and sat down beside him, pulling a seat belt over her lap and buckling it securely. Nervously Michael followed suit, sitting and buckling as well. He wished Frances would look at him, smile and say something, but he was obviously very preoccupied with his computer stuff; he and Grim were speaking together tensely, brows furrowed, gesticulating and twisting knobs and screwing in panels. At last Dr. Walker turned around in the cockpit and peered around the door.

"Everyone ready?" he asked.

There was a subdued chorus of agreement and everyone found their seats. Frances sat next to Michael, glanced at him and squeezed his knee. Legs was the only one standing; he held onto the netting with both hands and looked at the floor. Michael stared at Legs' hands. He still had dried blood under his nails. Blood from two innocent people. This thought was repugnant and he turned away, staring at Frances' knee pressed up to his own.

There was a hollow roar as the airplane's engines came to life. It was iblyibly loud, louder than any other plane Michael had ever been on. Then it started to move. It was odd, moving in a plane without being able to look out a window and see anything. They bumped and jolted and rocked for a while, the engine noise growing louder and louder until Michael was sure his eardrums would crack; then there was a horrible lurch and they were in the air.

Michael looked over at Frances. He was sitting calmly, his gray eyes downcast, almost looking bored, as though he did this sort of thing all the time. This did not make Michael feel any better because he knew he'd never be able to ask about it – if Frances' title of "doctor" were a Not-Discussed, how much more what they were doing! Michael realized he actually knew very little about Frances, despite all the time they'd spent together. Oh sure, he knew Frances' favorite foods, and how he liked his back rubbed, and what positions pleased him tost ost when they made love, but what did he REALLY know about this man? Not even his name, apparently – nor where he was from, nor what he was really like. He might indeed be a computer programmer, but that was obviously just a tiny part of his repertoire.

Michael turned to look at Doris. She and Grim were sitting pressed together, fingers entwined; she had turned her face up to his, watching him adoringly, and he leaned down and lightly kissed her, first on the nose, then her cheek and forehead, finally her mouth. Michael wondered if Frances would like to be kissed. But when he turned to him Frances was undoing his seat belt buckle, face preoccupied, and glancing sidelong at Grim said loudly over the roar of the airplane engines:

"Well, we might as well get started."

Grim sighed, gave Doris one last kiss. "Okay," he boomed, and he too rose to his feet and staggered over to the computers.

They sat facing each other across the bank of tan boxes, each with two monitors and two keyboards. Frances started clicking away, the light from the monitor flickering over his face, his lips pressed into a thin line. Michael recognized this look; it was his I'm-Working expression that he wore when he had to work from home. Michael knew what it meant, too – it meant Leave Frances Alone. So he sat back and watched.

Doris watched too, her gaze going from Grim to Frances to Legs. Legs especially seemed to concern her; he was pulling on a backpack of sorts, tying it firmly around his chest and belly. Doris shouted over the deafening noise of the plane. "Shouldn't there be buckles or locks or something on that? What if it comes off?"

"Metal detectors," yelled Legs. He looked preoccupied. "If it slips I die. But it won't, good at tying fucking knots, luv."

Doris looked unconvinced. Then Michael's heart leaped. Legs was putting a gun in one of the pockets of his jump suit and lacing it shut. "Isn't a gun made of metal?" he yelled.

"Plastic," shouted Legs. Grim looked up, irritated.

"POLYMER!" he roared. Legs grinned for the first time that night, reigniting his dimples, and Michael felt a little better. If Legs were sufficiently recovered to tease Grim, maybe he was starting to return to his old self. It had been unnerving to seat bat brash loud man turn quiet and reflective; it had been most unnatural. This was definitely an improvement.

Legs walked over to the back of the plane. There was a small door there; the handle had been enameled red at one time but that had mostly worn off, and the steel beneath was chipped and scratched. Only half of the warning sign on it was left, its black and yellow stripes faded and torn. "JUMP DOOR," Michael read. His heart started to pound. Legs picked up a bucket of something, put his hand in it, and when he withdrew it it was black and powdery. Then he put the bucket down and started smearing the black all over his face.

"Well?" It was Dr. Walker yelling from the cockpit.

"Hijacking the ISP," Frances yelled back. He looked anxious, his eyebrows puckered, and he was worrying at his lower lip with his teeth. His and Grim's fingers danced over their keyboards. Michael looked at Doris. She was watching Grim now, her face set and tense. Michael swallowed. Whatever they were doing, obviously it was against some sort of time constraint. Legs had finished blacking his face and was pulling on thin black gloves. Now he was almost completely obscured by black, black jumpsuit, black parachute bag, black hat. He stood by the door and watched, his pale eyes calm.

Frances and Grim were working frantically now. Finally Grim yelled, "Will they let you in?"

Frances shook his head, but it was to get the hair out of his eyes. "They should," he answered, still typing away at a frenetic pace, his face pulsing and flickering with the light from the computer monitor. "Oh, shit," he said.

"Fire wall?" yelled Grim.

"Yes. Shit." Frances typed faster. "od. od. Yes. Okay. Here it comes."

Grim was tracking something. "Got it," he finally shouted, sounding satisfied; there was another hectic fifteen minutes and at last Frances exclaimed, "SHIT!"

Dr. Walker poked his head round the cockpit door. "Ten minutes to drop," he yelled equably.

"Waiting for that entry password," said Grim
"I'
"I'll get it, dammit," said Frances through gritted teeth. He was sweating freely now, his dark hair plastered to his head, his fingers flying over the keyboard. "Come on … come on … let me in, dammit; you know who I am … "

Michael was finding it hard to breathe. He looked at Legs. Legs was standing motionless by the jump door, watching Frances calmly, trustingly. More anxious typing, then Grim yelled, "First level!" and Frances groaned.

"Five minutes," shouted Dr. Walker.

"In!" yelled Frances. His hands were moving so fast Michael could hardly see them. "Almost there – almost – "

Grim got up, staggered to a box bolted to the floor. He opened it and pulled out another box, plastic with a heavy seal. Taking Swiss Army knife from his pocket he broke the seal and removed two long rectangular objects. He stood, swaying with the movements of the airplane, watching Frances work, tapping his booted foot nervously.

"Four minutes," shouted Dr. Walker.

"Shit!" Frances pounded mercilessly on his keyboard, teeth gritted, eyes unblinking. Mrs. Walker got up and rounded the corner.

"Do we need to take another pass?" she shouted.

"NO!" bellowed Frances furiously. "You'll fuck everything up, they'll see us! Give me a minute!"

"Three minutes," shouted Dr. Walker.

"Shit!"

Grim turned, looked at Legs. Legs regarded him calmly. "He can do it," said Legs. "Trust him."

Frances' eyes flickered over to Legs; he seemed unsure. Then he turned back to the keyboard and renewed his efforts.

"Two minutes," shouted Dr. Walker.

"Found it!" exclaimed Frances. Grim sat down, started pounding on his own keyboard. Michael looked at his boyfriend. His face was flushed, sweaty, but he was grinning now. "There you are, you little sonofabitch – YES!" He clattered away, saying, "Come on now – come on, dammit – oh shit – no, I've got it – "

"One minute," shouted Dr. Walker. Mrs. Walker stood, her hand on the lintel, watching. Doris stood up and staggered over to Legs, hanging onto the netting to keep herself upright. When she reached the door Legs wrapped a harness around her torso, clipped it to a hook in the wall, and pulled it tight. She leaned up, kissed him on the cheek; Michael couldn't hear what she said to him but it looked like, "Good luck." Michael looked at Frances and Grim. Their hands were flying now, fingers blurs on the keyboards. At once Grim gave a bellow and Frances shouted, "Got it!" Grim shoved one of the rectangular devices into the side of Frances' computer.

"Thirty seconds," shouted Dr. Walker. Michael felt irrationally like slapping him.

"Done!" yelled Frances, still clattering on his keyboard. Grim pulled out the rectangular device, threw it at Legs who caught it deftly, and slapped in the second one.

"Fifteen," shouted Dr. Walker.

"Not yet," Michael heard Legs yell. He turned to him; Legs had been talking to Doris, who was gripping the chipped door handle with both hands, her knuckles white. She looked very frightened.

"Got it!" yelled Frances. Grim pulled out the second device and threw it at Legs. He ed bed both of them in a pocket, tied it shut.

"Time!" shouted Dr. Walker.

Doris pulled the handle and jerked on the door. When it opened everything in the plane started to rattle and bang, and a huge rushing wind whistled past them out the door. Michael screamed when a book came flashing by him, grazing his cheek; he saw it flit out the door and disappear into the tumultuous darkness.

Legs braced himself in the doorway. Michael saw him pause, looking into the blackness below him, a dark slim figure with his long pale plait streaming out past his cheek. Then he jumped and vanished.

Doris struggled with the door until Grim crawled over. He helped her swing it shut, and they both turned the handle, lockin. T. The rushing wind stopped and even over the roar of the engines it seemed a lot quieter. Michael looked at Frances; he was hanging onto his keyboards, his hair in disarray; one of the computers had fallen over and was pinning his knee to the desk. Dr. Walker left the cockpit and went over to him, maneuvering Frances' leg out and checking it.

"That was close," he yelled, grinning up at Frances. And Frances grinned right back.