MY HEART IN STONE

PART THREE:

Although his own private apartment was in the city and away from the campus of NanoCorp
Subsidiaries Inc, Terry Thorne from the very beginning proved his own resourcefulness in 

sequestering a certain amount of office space on the fourth floor of the office building.  This 

was for use as a miniature “home away from home.”  It could be entered from a door in the 

back of his spacious office, a cozy corner that handily featured a futon, a kitchenette, and a
small shower and toilet.  A slim gentleman’s wardrobe provided space for extra clothing, 

and a small refrigerator offered enough room for various and sundry items that helped pass 

“business” with a bit more ease.  And it was not without its view since it was on the same side 

of the building as the large conference room where he had first introduced Deidre to the 

oddity that was character retrieval.  Two walls of windows looked down upon the park, 

the only privacy offered by sheer curtains, now pulled back to allow the daylight.

Terry lay splayed out in utter despondency on the open futon, one hand covering his eyes, 

a hand to shield him from the pulsating glare of events rolling through his mind.  All of it, 

a failure.  His failure.  He should have prepared better, should have heeded the chances 

given to take control…control from Sid, control for himself, for Bud, for John, for Cort, for
Maximus… But he didn’t and he hadn’t and right now, the worst feeling of it all was that 

he couldn’t come up with a good reason why.  He had wasted time waiting for the right 

opportunity and now they were all in a world of hurt.

He heard the air conditioner shift on and he let his arm fall onto the pillow above his head, 

his still damp hair.  He had showered once Deidre contacted him from the medical rooms; 

had argued with her the merits of getting examined himself.  He was too full of…something 

…right now to put up with the cold, soft, invasive hands of the medics.  He found a fresh pair
of underwear, pants, and polo shirt in the armoire, slipped on socks and shoes.  If he could, 

he would bury himself for the night here, until he figured out a way to find Maximus and 

crack open the sealed off chamber.  

His thoughts kept returning to Deidre, however. Another thirty minutes had gone by before 

she called to say she was with Rachel at the little blue house to wash up, to let him know she 

had to do the same at her apartment and would be back in half an hour. Something in her 

tone of voice when she called clinked a little alarm bell, but she was so succinct in her answers 

that he figured it was because Rachel was listening, or worse, Rachel was actually breaking 

down once more and Deidre didn’t want to tell him.  Suffice it to say, his own news, obtained 

while he waited, pacing in his office, only served to harden her voice: Sid had called as well 

and would be in his office soon.

Terry rolled over onto his side, his own anger resurging.  What would he do when Sid came?  

How many times had he wanted to take a large magnet and shove it down the nanocreature’s 

throat?  How many times had he wanted to pin Sid to the far wall of the racquetball court 

and pump every clip he could find into the bastard?  And how often did he put that desire 

aside because he had his own plans for the Retrieval Unit?  Was it obvious to Sid how he often
encouraged going after the law enforcement characters?
 

Now that he had Maximus, would it even really matter anymore?  

Of course it was obvious; the pompous arse was always three steps ahead of him.  He could 

see that now: Sid understood what Terry was angling for this whole time. Terry drew in a 

sharp breath, closing his eyes to the vertigo of his anguish.  Sid humored him, went along
with him, fostered some sense of purpose, something Terry had desperately needed once 

he left his own movie.  And he had succeeded so often, and with so little obstruction from 

Sid.  He’d been so certain of success…

That was it.  That was what went wrong.  He had become so sure of himself in all of his 

retrievals; had believed that everything would somehow…fall into place if only he gained 

enough…control over what went on in the Retrieval Unit.  Regrets and self-admonishments
piled up like Tetris blocks.


“Ah, there he is, sad sack and all that rot,” came the smooth sibilance of Sid’s mockery.  

“Did that fiery little vixen come to her senses at last?  Did.  She.  Go.  Home.  To.  Daddy?”  

The nanocreature enunciated practically every syllable with relish, his teeth clicking together 

in line with a rictus grin.  He stood in the doorway of Terry’s cloister, grinning with triumph, 

replete with every hair in place, returned to his habitual purple Armani, manicured, and
well beyond normal human perfection.  

Terry felt himself rise from the futon, shield in place, moving with a slow grace as if in the 

jungle. He’d be damned if Sid predicted his next move.

“Where’s Maximus?”

“No, no!”  Sid protested, and sauntered back into the main office, Terry following.  “We 

must wait for them, the debutante and broom-handler, don’t you think?  I do hate repeating 

myself.”  Sid stood in the middle of the open space, watching Terry approach him.  “They
are coming, aren’t they, like the good little golden retrievers that they are?”

Terry felt a hard ball of power build up at the base of his chest.

“Where is Maximus?”  He repeated his question.

“In a safe place,” Sid snapped in return, enjoying the moment too much, it would seem, to 

notice Terry aligning himself in front of him.  “You needn’t worry about failure, Terrence 

Thorne.  You, as always, have performed admirably.  Why don’t you take a vacation now?  

Hmm?  A trip to ‘Bama, maybe?  Deidre can introduce you to her hillbilly family.  Wouldn’t 

that be something?  Shouldn’t be a far cry for a larrikin like yourself…”

Terry’s fist launched out, connecting full square on Sid’s jaw, the ball of power in his chest 

exploding out as force through his muscles and breath.  Sid fell backwards onto the couch 

behind him, taken completely off guard.  Terry gave no nano-quarter: he bent over and 

picked Sid up, shoved him up against the wall above the couch, pulled him away, stepped 

back, and launched another punch that sent Sid careening into the opposite wall, banging 

against it so hard, the pictures bounced and slid off their nails.  Steps only and Terry lifted 

him up once more by the shirtfront, the ball of power now contorting his face into grotesque 

fury.  

“Where is Maximus?”

Sid stared down at him for several long moments, a trickle of blue at the corner of his mouth.  

His eyes flicked to a space beyond Terry, flicked back; then, he began to giggle.

“Oh, look at you, Terry.  You’ll have to bathe again.” Terry heard Deidre sigh with 

exaggerated exasperation.  He glared at Sid for several more seconds and then released 

the nanocreature, letting Sid fall to his own feet without assistance.  Deidre dabbed at 

Terry’s mouth, pulling away a bloodstained bit for him to see.  He had bit his own lip in his
fury.

Rachel had entered behind Deidre, face white, blue eyes dark and hard.  Her hands were 

behind her back.  Silence ensued as she and Sid regarded each other.

Finally, Sid snorted.

“Is that a sword behind your back or are you happy to see me?”  He continued the 

obnoxious snort, a derisive nasty sound in the cold space between himself and Rachel.

Rachel stared for a few minutes, unflinching.

“Tell me where I can find Cort,” she said, her tone simple, low.  She relaxed her arms to 

show that she did indeed have Sindri in hand.

“My dear little broom-pusher, " Sid smiled at Rachel, cocking one eyebrow archly, the 

triumph returning as a gleam in his eye.  “Have you not heard...?  Well, no, someone in 

your minor position wouldn’t have, would she?”

The blade of the sword whipped up with a swoosh, the point positioned directly over Sid’s 

carotid artery.

“What’s happened with Cort?” 

“What is this?  A meeting or an interrogation?”  

“Talk, Sid, or I won’t be responsible for what happens next,” Terry growled.  If Sid wasn’t 

going to reveal where Maximus was, he was going to at least see to it that Rachel had the 

chance to do something.

“I understand the little priestling asked you to marry him,” Sid chortled.  “How precious 

that is!”

“Who told you?”

“Your lovely Valkyrie lady friend, Brianna, who at this moment awaits the good favor of 

Maximus.  She told me of your plans while we…ah…waited for the time to take Maximus.  

Did you think she had forgotten you all?  Well, she pretty much did, since she had me to
take her away.  But marriage, my dear!  And not just by a priest…WITH a priest!  Somehow 

that really tickles my funny bone.  Oh, tsk, tsk, little Rachel.  The Vatican won’t look well upon 

you at all.”

Rachel held still throughout Sid’s mockery, but they could see that some of his words hit 

home, for the great blue eyes were now glittering with tears.  Amazingly, her voice remained 

steady and clear.  The sword point did not waver.

“Tell me where I can find Mikol.  Where do I go to find Cort?”

“Ah, yes.  Mikol.  Little broom-pusher, you really need to learn something about his 

abductor before you embark.”  Sid reached out past the blade to touch Rachel’s chin.  

She jerked it away in disgust.  “And you will return to tell me as much as possible or I
might have a few words with Mikol myself.  He has special…projects of his own and there 

is something to be said about good…trade…relations.”

Now the sword wavered.

“What do you mean, ‘special projects’?”  Deidre asked, not liking the direction of thought 

Sid was taking them all.

“Well, now my winsome hillbilly, dear Mikol has been trying for a full decade now to 

retrieve what he considers to be 'good men'?"  He smiled brightly at Rachel, her eyes 

locked with his, his teeth sparkling whitely.  "All of them...every one...have died quite
miserably from what I hear." 

He glanced once at the sword blade, now completely out of the zone of attack, and leaned 

toward her as though sharing some pleasant bit of chitchat.  “Some have even perished 

while still in the midst of Mikol's warp, their bodies twisted in the final agonies of their last 

mortal moments.  Others, or so I've been told, have survived...but with their brains quite
fried. Suicide seems to be the favored choice of such as those." 

 

He straightened again, satisfied by the look of horror spreading over Rachel’s face.  "So, 

should the little priest still have breath in his lungs these days,” he continued.  “One would 

expect him to be hanging from the trees, scarfing down banana peels."  He chuckled.
"Amusing, is it not?  Or, perhaps, he will have been one of the lucky ones and died in transit.”

“Where, Sid?  Where is he?”  Terry felt like a broken record, but he knew Sid would ramble 

interminably if he didn’t break in.  Whatever resolve Rachel had garnered in the last few 

hours was fast melting away, he could see that.

 Sid cast him a knowing look but spoke the piece de resistance to Rachel’s face with no 

sign of halting.  “Your attempts to locate him in Kamen will all be for naught, you know.  

You do realize you have lost him forever?"  He leveled a sharp look down at her.  "Do
you not?"

Deidre’s head was turning this way and that between Sid and Terry.

“Kamen?  Where is that?  That doesn’t tell us anything, Sid!  Where the hell is a place called
‘Kamen’?”

"Neviditelny Kamen," Sid replied, rather enjoying the pronunciation of the castle's name.  

"You should be able to figure it out from there…some eastern European country, some 

God-forsaken former Soviet block country.  Probably Czechoslovakia.  Ha!  Mikol obviously 

thought I would never find him there. Hidden stone, can you imagine?”  He scoffed.  “It
actually means 'hidden stone.’  But he's no cleverer than the rest."  

Sid paused and then bared his teeth at Rachel.  "He just...thinks...he is.”

Mikol could not go for very long without checking on Cort in person.  He needed to see with 

his own eyes that the priest was still alive and so he set his fork down, leaving his salmon 

half-uneaten, and walked quickly toward the room, that room where all his attention, all his 

focus centered now.  Cort had still been deeply unconscious when he'd left about 45 minutes

ago, but he quickened his steps as he strode down the long corridor, always vaguely anxious 

until he saw the man again, saw his chest rise and fall with those shallow breaths of his. 

Opening the door, he expected to see much the same...the priest lying quiet and still on his 

back, arms at his sides.  He was, therefore, unprepared for the sight that greeted his eyes. 

Cort lay crumpled on the stone floor beside the cot. Mikol sucked in a sharp breath and 

darted across the room, bending over him. 

"Herod," Cort gasped then went entirely limp. 

Mikol ignored the word, too preoccupied for the moment with getting Cort back onto the cot.  

When he had him lying once again atop it, he pressed his comlink.  "Henri! Come here...

NOW!" he barked, then turned his attention to straightening Cort's limbs. 

Within seconds, Henri rushed into the room.  "What's the matter?" he puffed.  "Is he waking 

up?" 

"I found him on the floor," Mikol scowled, his fingers lifting one of Cort's eyelids.  "He seemed 

to be semi-conscious for a moment."  Letting the lid close again, he paused, thinking.  "He called 

me 'Herod'."  Turning, he stared at Henri. "He called me 'Herod'," he repeated, more to 

himself than Henri, as though he were digesting possible meanings for that. 

Henri was busy examining Cort.  "No broken bones that I can find," he announced.  "I imagine 

he fell limply, not bracing himself." 

"Run another brain scan," Mikol ordered, his eyes focused on Cort's face. 

That done, Henri studied the results.  "He seems on a higher level of consciousness than before." 

He smiled carefully at Mikol.  "I think we can safely say he will not be going into a coma. Not 

like...."  He bit his tongue, not continuing. 

"What else?" Mikol asked, not looking at the doctor. 

"Well, there are...blips." 

"Blips?" 

"Irregularities.  Abnormal patterns of brain activity." 

"What do you suggest that...means?" 

"His brain is...disturbed.  Trying to process something it can't really handle. It's as though 

there's some battle going on inside his head.  Certain synapses are attempting to fire, but are

 being...blocked." 

"Hmmmmm?" Mikol murmured. "He called me 'Herod'."  His own brain was coiling round 

and round that single word, exploring it, hearing the sound of Cort's voice as he said it...over 

and over. It might mean many things, but at least part of what it meant was that Cort knew 

that he himself WAS Cort.  A few of his subjects had arrived with all knowledge of their own 

identities completely erased, rendering them useless to him.  Those he merely disposed of, then 

tried again.

 "One thing you must remember, Mikol.  Cort went through Sid's warp twice.  As new as all 

this technology is, we have no real data on the cumulative effects of repeated warping.  And, 

as you well know, Sid's warp shell operates on an entirely different principle from yours." 

"True," Mikol nodded, "what of it?" 

"No one else you have tried to bring out of a movie, none of them, had ever been through a 

warp experience of any sort before yours.  Perhaps...." he paused, looking from Mikol to Cort, 

"perhaps his cellular structure was altered in some subtle way by Sid's warp." 

"Your point?" 

"This one," his hand rested briefly on Cort's shoulder, "this one may be...different...as a result. 

Either for the better or the worse.  We have no way of telling yet other than that he survived 

it and has been at least conscious enough to fall off his bed.  He knows, it would seem, the context 

of his movie. This one may actually...work... for you, Mikol.  It's...possible." 

Mikol smiled slightly, a sight not often seen. 

Cort was hanging by his fingertips from the rim of the dark canyon.  He'd caught himself as 

his fall began, twisting painfully, holding on just below the surface of consciousness.  He knew 

the gaping blackness lay just below his feet, knew he could release his grip and just...fall.  

Somehow he knew there was no bottom this time, that if he let go he would fall forever.  There 

was some reason he must not do that.  With great effort, he tipped his head back enough to scan 

the vault of night sky looming over the canyon.  A single star pulsed, sending waves of light 

downward.  

What was his reason?  It had...something...to do with that star.  But his fingers were 

slipping and he couldn't look longer at it.  Gritting his teeth, he strained the muscles of his arms, 

trying to pull his body up.  There was...somebody...he had to get to, someone who expected 
him to be there.  Who was it? With one last great heave of determination, he hooked his elbow 

over the ledge, hanging there panting, hearing vaguely the sound of low voices talking, their 

words lost in the mist.  

His boots scrabbled below him, seeking some small toehold, and finding one, pushed him 

upwards and once again his consciousness rolled out of the canyon, back into the prickling, 

piercing cactus thorns. 

His eyes fluttered open.  The night sky was gone, the star gone, too, as though it was not real, 

had never really been there at all.  "Ellen," he gasped. 

Henri had gone, but Mikol was still there when the name burst from Cort's lips.  Eagerly he 

leaned over Cort.  "What about Ellen?" he asked, keeping his voice controlled, low, despite 

his excitement that Cort had spoken. 

"Danger," he  murmured, his vision bleary, the form near him totally indistinct. 

"What sort of danger, Cort?" 

"He..Herod," he breathed. "Kill her.  Will kill her.  I...I...must...." 

"Cort...where are you?" 

Where WAS he? Why in hell would someone ask him that?  "St...street," he replied. Of course 

he was in that one wide and dirty street that sliced through the middle of Redemption.  

"Ex...explosions. Must stop...Herod." 

Mikol took a step back.  Could it be possible?  Did Cort think he was still at that particular 

moment of The Quick and the Dead? 

"Help me," Cort asked, his voice weak with the strain of speaking. 

"Help you do what, Cort?" 

Cort made a feeble pushing motion with his hands.  "Rubble.  Get rubble...off.  Must get up.  

Must...." 

"There is nothing atop you, Cort.  Nothing."

 

"N...no," Cort gasped. He knew there was.  He could feel the weight of it, feel the trapping 

sensation of it.  "Can't get...up.  Buried." 

"I assure you, Cortland Wells, you are not buried." 

He felt lights going off in his brain, knew he was slipping back into the canyon, knew he must 

not! Ellen would be coming down the street.  She wouldn't see Herod through all the smoke. 

He HAD to get up!!!  His right hand shot out, searching, grasping for something, fingers

curling tightly into the front of Mikol's grey sweater.  "Help me, damn it!" he gritted.  

"Help me!" 

"I will help you, Cort.  I promise.  Lie still and I will remove the rubble." 

Cort's fingers relaxed, his hand falling limply off the side of the cot.  "Th...thank you," he 

murmured, his eyes closing tiredly.  He slept then. He didn't roll into the canyon, he just 

lay there beside it on the cactus, under the rubble, and drifted into sleep. 

ON TO PART FOUR

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