The Shamber Chronicles, Part 3
By Chaucer, (mawgren@hotmail.com)
Shamber punches her way through trouble . . . for a while

	So far, so good; Shamber covered quite a bit of ground enroute to 
the goal and had silenced the only two threats to her progress and to 
being uncovered.  Now, however, it was not so good.
	"Greg.  There are lots of people here.  I mean like guys in rows 
and sparks flyin' and noise and an intersection thingy that everybody's 
got to use right this minute." She sounded disgusted enough to spit on 
the floor.
	"Yeah, I see." Gregg had wheeled through the plans and 
schematics and realized what she was facing.  "You're in grinder right 
now."
	"Gee. I always thought being caught in the grinder would be like 
much worse than this."
	"No, I mean you're in the grinding department.  The guys grind 
the flashing off the castings when they come from molding."  He 
followed the path of the intersecting hallways on the screen with his 
finger.  "That . . . intersection . . . is a main hallway.  It's always going to 
be busy."
	So after a smooth run of being alone, Shamber wasn't even close 
to alone.  But then, neither was he.  "Greg, I want you to pass her off.  
We need to talk."
	Greg knew without turning who it was that had crashed the party.  
"Hello, Director Thomas," Brandon Thomas was the grand-mostest of all 
pencil pushers.  He couldn't begin to run an operation himself.  But he 
had the power to watch everyone else run them on his bank of screens 
and then pick and wheedle and snot and complain about their work.  
"Shamber, do you see the pole with the fire extinguisher?"
	"Like yeah, of course I do."  Anything red in a place like this was 
too obvious even for Shamber to miss. 
	"Good, head down the little side hallway at that post, go through 
two doors and wait for your chance to cross the main hall.  When you 
cross it there will be a door very close by.  Sit tight when you've gone 
through it.  One of us will move you along.  I'm turning 40 now."  
Turning 40 was slang for the administrator turning over the 
communications with the field agent to another administrator under the 
authority of Code 40.  Code 40 is the designation for the administrator 
needing to go off line for reasons unrelated to the current operation.  
Most of the time, turning 40 meant, 'I gotta go to the bathroom.'
	"OK, Greg.  Don't get anything caught in your zipper."
	He glanced over to Mr. Thomas.  "I already have." Greg deftly 
tapped a series of digits into his console. "Jack, hi, I'm turning 40.  Can 
you take Shamber?"  He listened and smiled and stopped smiling. "Yeah, 
never a dull moment.  She's on 3 and 6 and 7, fully updated and trying to 
thread the needle.  Thanks, man."  With that he clacked three keys hard, 
hoping the volume alone would betray his disgust, pulled his headset and 
clutched it in both hands is if in prayer.  "Yes, sir."
	Mr. Thomas had been waiting, more or less patiently, with his 
back to the proceedings.  Now he turned so that	Greg could witness 
and appreciate the disapproval on his face.  "What are we doing in this 
part of the plant going this direction, Greg?" If he was looking for a 
reaction, he saw none.  "This is supposed to be a professional operation 
and we're not even laughably close."  He paced, slowly and casually.  It 
didn't fit the anger and animation in his voice.  "And we've made 
contact with a grand total of two individuals so far and they're both old 
cold on the floor." At the moment he was more disturbed with his 
own mounting anger.  Control was a big deal to Director Thomas. "Greg, 
listen," he ran his thumb back and forth across his forehead, "I saw your 
plan.  It's detailed. It's good. It would get us through this with a 
minimum of risk."  He stopped pacing and stood upright with both hands 
on the back of his hips.  "I know you can guide an agent through the 
plan.  You're one of the best at that.  Is this . . . girl . . . mentally 
sufficient for our work?"
	Greg let just a moment pass. "Of course not; she's an idiot; a real 
box of rocks.  Shamber believes that Mt. Rushmore is a natural 
phenomenon; it just sort of eroded that way.  She drives me crazy; 
always has.  The best thing that could happen to me is to have you pull 
Shamber and sit her at a desk with two duties . . . staring in a mirror and 
doing her nails."  Director Brandon Thomas, B.A., M.A, M.B.A. was, for 
the first time in his long and varied professional career, quite speechless.  
His employees always fiercely covered for one another.  His ability to 
cut through the layers of defense was the main reason for his current 
position.  He had never heard such a response; no, not once. But then, 
Greg wasn't finished. "Pulling Shamber would also be the worst thing 
that could happen to you."
	"And . . . and how might that be, I wonder?"  He was trying his 
best to make it seem as though this outrageous turn of events happened 
all the time.
	"Simple . . . she gets results; big time." Now it was Greg's turn to 
pace.  "She sometimes litters the floor with bodies, I'll admit.  That's 
because whenever she enters a room everyone else becomes as nosy as 
hornets at a picnic.  She often has very little choice. Have you seen her in 
that little dress we had her wear for this?  I have; well I've seen pictures 
and footage.  I've never actually seen her." He continued quickly, fearing 
that Mr. Thomas right respond to this little diversion.  "But when she 
starts punching people, great things happen."  He moved back to the 
control center.  "It's right here on the board if you care to listen.  We're 
less than an hour into this and I've heard it twice already . . . don't hit me 
again, please don't hit me again.  I've heard it dozens of times.  They're 
all here.  That big, bad, professional tough nut from the Nestor group 
spilled his guts to me in a room just down the hall. Betrayed the entire 
operation right down to the guy who brought them doughnuts because he 
thought they were legit.  He did it all on my promise that Shamber 
wouldn't hit him again.  He was scared like I can't believe he's ever 
been scared before.  She brought that entire network down with her two 
little hands."  Greg moved around to the other side of the board so he 
could face Thomas directly.  "I know the report didn't show it.  We all 
made sure that our little contributions read like great big contributions, 
but she was responsible for that success; beyond question."
	Even the mechanical brain of Director Brandon Thomas took a 
moment to respond.  "And that's something else I've been wondering.  
Where does all this ability come from?"  This was an avenue Greg 
hadn't expected.  "Her evaluation is very clear.  She's athletic with 
coordination and balance.  She's quick and fast and agile.  And she's 
strong, but strong for a woman; not strong among men.  No record of 
martial arts training or expertise.  Likewise for boxing, wrestling, or 
horse shoes for that matter.  What gives her the ability to win every 
fight?"
	"I'm clueless; fairy dust, maybe.  It hadn't concerned me before."
	Director Thomas allowed a few hm, hm, m-hmms to pass from 
his lips before continuing.  "And did it also fail to concern you that it's 
extremely odd for a clandestine operation to deploy someone who 
instantly attracts hords of . . . nosy hornets?"
	"Look, Mr. Thomas, sir, all I know for sure is that we spend a 
great deal of time and money plotting our stealthy approaches."  Greg 
now paced with a sense of purpose.  "Most of that time and money goes 
into avoiding the 500 pound gorilla that will ruin it all.  Then, as soon as 
we go in, Shamber slips on a banana peel, grabs on to us for support, and 
we all fall into the mud right in front of the gorilla.  But Shamber knocks 
out the gorilla and suddenly we can go anywhere we want to go and do 
anything we want to do.  When we leave, the gorilla wakes up and no 
one knows we've been there.  What does that say for all of our costly 
plotting and planning?"  Director Thomas said nothing; but Greg could 
tell his wheels were turning, and they weren't turning in a pleasant 
direction.  "Besides, Shamber has a very limited shelf life anyway.  We 
use her sparingly and only in diverse locations that are public or open; 
places where they can't risk too many weapons.  As it is, when the word 
gets out they'll gun her down on sight."  Sink or swim, Greg had 
definitely committed himself.  "Strawberry season is very short, Mr. 
Thomas.  Enjoy it now.  It won't last long."
	Mr. Thomas thought and lowered his head and thought and raised 
his head.  "Well, Gregg, we're in the thick of it now.  Keep it going."  He 
turned to the door. "Just remember that it disturbs me to see how 
infatuated you've become with operating outside of procedures.  Over 
the long run they keep us safe," he paused to look at Gregg, "and secret."  
With that, he left the room.  
	Gregg was acutely aware of the sick, sinking feeling in his 
stomach.  This was a major moment in his career . . . or perhaps his 
former career.  Thomas cared so much about Shamber's ability to fight 
and where it came from.  Why? Did he think she was working for the 
other side and it was all staged to bring us down?  Maybe the fairy dust 
thing was a mistake.  "Thanks, Jack, I'm back on." A few taps, an 
adjustment to the headset, and the audio feed came up. 
	"You turned me over to Jack 'by the book' Marshall.  Like 
thanks a bunch."  Shamber was not pleased.  "He is zero fun.  Maybe 
less."
	"Yeah, they up his salary every 36 hours, what a doofus he is."
	"Where were you anyway?"
	"Had a tea party with Thomas."
	"Uuuggh.  What happened with that?"
	"I told him you were an idiot."
	"Oh yeah, like he believed that."
	"Of course he didn't.  Who would?" Now he switched to the line 
being monitored and recorded. "Where are you now?"  He followed the 
floor plan as she identified land marks.  He was impressed with how 
much progress she had made.  Perhaps Jack deserves a raise every 24 
hours. "Actually, Shamber, you're very close.  It won't be long now. See 
if the hallway to your right is clear-"
	"Sorry, Greg, got a bogey to deal with."  Bogey?  She must have 
been watching World War II movies again.  Shamber smiled brightly and 
turned to the somber-faced, muscular workman approaching her rapidly.  
"I can't believe I got lost, as often as I've delivered messages to 
grinder."
	"You're not lost, you're hunting."  He pulled a pistol from 
nowhere and poked it into her face with malice aforethought.  By sheer 
reflex, she grabbed his wrist and pushed it aside.  Her other hand became 
a fist which she sent directly into his face.  The impact jolted his body 
with shock waves and propelled him backwards into a wheeling, 
sprawling, awkward fall.  The problem was, Shamber had no hands left 
to cover his mouth.  Imbedded in his screams of pain from her panic 
punch was a clear shout of "INTRUDER!"  When he hit the floor, she 
scrambled to him, knelt on the floor by his side, bent her arm in two, 
drew her elbow straight up into the air and hammered her fist, again, 
directly into his face.  His eyes flashed brightly through the last 
milliseconds of extreme agony and then went dim. Immediately 
afterwards, his arms and legs attested to his unconscious state.
       She plucked the pistol from his uncaring hand and rose, turning 
to face the sound of another on-rusher.  She felt a stab of pain in her 
forearm as a pole or stick of some sort whacked the weapon onto the 
floor.  A shoulder and upper arm slammed her into a solid wall of 
stacked cartons.  Rebounding, she unleashed her fist into the grimy face 
of her new adversary.  Speed was important now.  Covering her tracks 
was not.  His face spun to the side and immediately swiveled to the front.  
It bore a blank expression.  She punched it again with a left cross. The 
face spun to the other side and bore the lines of strain and misery.  His 
arms flinched to the side as an exclamation point.  She took his chin in 
her grasp and turned it forward.  It almost looked as though his eyes 
were spinning.  Her knuckles crunched into his nose, driving him back.  
A very clear and very loud "OUCH!!" roared from his lips.  "THAT 
HURTS!!"  He tottered and continued announcing various groans and 
moans and epithets."
       "We do what we can."  She punched his nose again which 
brought only shouts of agony.  He clamored partway down the aisle, but 
didn't fall immediately.  First, he bounced from the knee and thigh of 
another approaching assailant.  Shamber hoped the impact would knock 
him off stride.  It didn't.  In an instant he was cranking up his own little 
present for her.  She ducked in a panic.  His blow sailed over her head 
into nothingness.  She drove her fist upward into his stomach, listening 
to the low, sharp grunt that followed.  Another identical punch caused 
him to shudder, back away and moan loudly.  She stood and blasted his 
face with a scorching left.  He spun away much the same as a 6 year old 
ballerina during her first lesson.  His face told the story.  Is that a carton?  
Or is it a box?  Look at all the smoke!  Why is there air?  He collapsed 
and tried to rise, or something close.  Shamber pulled him to his feet and 
punched his chin with all the force she could muster.  He screamed into a 
post.  The impact drove all the wind from him and he dropped quickly.  
She looked down the aisle with despair.  "They're coming in twos now.  
I need out."
       "To the right is a narrow passage.  It leads to someplace you 
should be able to hide."  Greg's voice remained calm only through 
experience, training, and great effort.  She found the spot and 
disappeared into darkness.  Apparently, it wasn't dark enough.  Her two 
new friends were close behind.  She spun and punched the big one just 
below his left eye.  He shouted in surprise and anguish.  She punched the 
bigger one just below his right eye.  His bellow sounded like a replay of 
his partner's yell.
       "Oh great; like I got the bobbsy twins now."  They stood 
contorting their faces trying to drive away the pain.  She punched both of 
their stomachs at the same time.  They hunched forward in unison.  She 
stepped back and drove two simultaneous uppercuts into their faces.  
They both rose up on tip-toes, arms flailing at shoulder level, howling at 
the ceiling like alley cats on a date.  She drew her fist back to finish 
them, first one and then the other.  But someone grabbed her from 
behind.  She twisted and swiveled, drawing him off balance.  She had 
almost wrenched free when another set of hands pawed to latch on to 
her.  She spun and twirled.  She saw the form of a face whirl past her 
field of vision.  She punched at it and heard a yelp disappear quickly to 
the left.  And then something, a piano perhaps, struck the back of her 
head.  Her arms no longer responded, her legs forgot how to support her 
weight.  The dim light faded.  As she sank down, she managed one last 
word, "fire."
       Immediately Gregg punched open all the lines.  "Two alarm on 
three, six, and seven.  Two alarm, real time.  Two alarm, three, six, and 
seven; Operative down."  His voice caught.  He wanted to keep 
broadcasting, as though repetition would conjure up immediate help.  
But he heard the electronic signals.  Everyone was alerted, the process 
started.  Nothing more from him would change the outcome. He croaked 
out one last, "two alarm," and shut down the lines, all but the one to the 
plant. Now the teams and the helicopters were readying.  Now the 
decision would be made for either a full scale extraction or for the need 
to cut losses and pull out.  Of course, there were options between the two 
extremes.  He thought of his unfortunate conversation with Thomas and 
its unfortunate timing.  He thought about the importance of seeing this 
operation through.  He thought about the ramifications this all had for 
him personally.  He thought about the months of planning and prep that 
went into this single two-hour confrontation.  None of those things 
mattered; not even a little bit.  Shamber was in serious trouble.