Power in the Hands of One (3 page)

“What? Stop who?”

Ray doesn’t respond.

The dial tone drones for five seconds before I place the receiver back into its cradle, unsure of what just happened. Ray—the dependable one—has fallen headlong into lunacy.

I lay in bed for several minutes, indecisive. There’s no part of me that wants to rise, dress, and ride out to Lockworth again. Not after what happened earlier…but the obligatory nature of friendship stands as stiff motivation.

No, I should call the police and get it over with. I don’t want to see Ray mixed up in all of this, but he understands the consequences of his actions. I can’t protect him—especially if he’s involved in criminal activities.

Still, I can’t bring myself to dial the phone. Curiosity pumps like blood with its subtle desire for adventure. I know it’s reckless and irresponsible, but a certain part of me wants to know what’s out there. I want to know what’s hidden away in Lockworth.

Listen to yourself. You’re crazy, too.
A semblance of control is what I need right now—something to keep me from making rash decisions. I’m comfortable, safe in bed. Why get involved?

Reluctant, I slip out from beneath the sheets and reach for the jeans I left on the floor. A clean T-shirt, a pair of socks, riding boots…I’m dressed in two minutes. I waver outside the bedroom door and wait for my better judgment, but it doesn’t come.

I move to the living room and stand before the balcony. Through the blinds, a collection of silent vehicles lines the parking lot, comatose under lamplight. Beyond, the sandstone structures of Remington University rise above the shadowy tree tops.

What I don’t see are men with remote controls or even toy planes. Not that I expected to…I just had to settle my nerves about it. Caution seems prudent even though I consider myself near reckless for even getting out of bed.

Stepping away, I repeat the previous afternoon. There’s the cramped closet, the front door which sticks, and finally the elevator, its rattling doors obnoxious in the silent hall.

The metal car drops in silence to the basement. At the bottom, the doors retract. My steps across the gray cement are substantial; every placement of foot is a resolute scuff.

I hustle through the startup sequence for the bike before fastening my helmet. Strange—pulling out of the parking space is easy; riding up the ramp and onto the street takes no great strength of will. It seems I’ve temporarily lost my restraint; I feel almost confident as I blast down empty city streets.

The crisp night air wraps around my exposed neck, and with it comes a new clarity. And with that clarity, more questions. Ray said he was scared not only of the Illuma Corp, but also of what Worthington built—so scared that his usual decisive nature was rendered anemic.

Yet Ray is intent on following through with this insanity. It’s out of character and illogical. There must be something he hasn’t told me—something critical. My fear is that I’ll discover whatever that is too late in the game for it to matter.

The fact is I’m en route to a secure warehouse owned by a shadowy organization. The CEO of said organization might be involved in quasi-illegal activities which include the creation of technologically advanced war machines. Chances are I’ll get more than I asked for.

6

Bennett Road is a never-ender consisting mostly of unremarkable straightaways. Doused in headlight, I trade the road ahead for a side mirror every few seconds. Each time I check, the only thing chasing me is the darkness.

I regret not asking for specific directions, if Ray would’ve let me. Heading north, I assume the storage facility will be obvious when I see it, considering there’s not much to speak of in the way of architecture.

My assumption is rewarded when I reach a crossroad. There’s an enormous domed building five hundred feet further up the road, bloated against the starlit horizon. Feathering the clutch, I increase throttle and pull away, anxious.

The structure looms ahead, elongated and bulbous. The surrounding grounds are protected by a fence. I pull up to the gate where there is a speaker box on a post; I engage its red button and wait for a response.

“Troy.” Ray’s voice, tinny and hollow, squawks through the speaker. “Enter.”

There is a clink and then the gate opens as if pulled by invisible hands. I buzz through the gap, after which the gate closes behind me. I steer the bike next to Ray’s green Infiniti. There are no other cars in the grassy lot.

Ray emerges from the cocoon-like structure via a side door. He waves me over and then stops me at the door. Putting a hand on my shoulder, he says, “Thank you for coming.” He’s still wearing the dark slacks and button-up from yesterday and his hair lies greasy and disheveled.

I return his uncomfortable gaze and nod, indicating it’s no big deal. But it is a big deal. I follow Ray through the door, willpower railing against common sense.

Inside, we’re dwarfed by the exposed ceiling, the crossbeams and other structural arches curving beneath the shell of the roof. Fifty feet inward is a partition, separating the sparse, open area we are in from the remainder of the facility.

Reading my expression, Ray explains as if giving a tour. “It was an airship hangar—364,000 square feet. Redd Research purchased it in the eighties. It was modified for storage and then later for manufacturing—climate control to manage humidity, etc.”

I’m puzzled by Ray’s calm demeanor after his rant on the phone—the rant which brought me here at this ungodly hour. I’m ready to comment on this but he hustles me onward.

Ray gestures toward a simple steel desk and a few boxes. “There’s nothing to see out here, though most people aren’t even allowed this far.” We stop at a door in the partition, where he swipes a security card.

After a beep, I follow Ray into the next portion of the hangar, which is approximately the same size as the first. There is an array of video monitors to the left, three banks of them. The few that are on show surveillance of the first room and the parking lot.

Ray gives the monitors a passing glance before stopping at another door. He turns to me. “Are you ready?”

I shrug with what I imagine is an uncertain look. Ray’s refusal to be forthright has been nothing short of unsettling, such that my desire for answers is matched only by my apprehension. Do I want to see what’s on the other side? Am I enabling Ray’s behavior? These are questions which don’t have clear-cut answers…

“OK, then,” Ray says before entering a sequence of numbers into a keypad. There is another beep followed by a green blinking light, and then the door opens with a solid clunk.

On his heels, my steps are quick into the remaining breadth of the hangar. The steel arches continue along the walls and ceiling. Rows of fluorescent lighting illuminate large machinery littering the expanse of floor; several forklifts sit idle.

These are dwarfed by three immense support structures on the right. Comprised of red tubing and crossbeams, they climb near the ceiling. All three are linked with scaffolding.

The first of these stands empty. The third is veiled in opaque plastic sheets secured from the top of the scaffold-like framework. In between, the second serves as the bay for a mechanical monster.

Flat black, its angular, bipedal form stands rigid—a silent guardian in this secret place. Skeletal feet grasp the floor, each tine supported by a hydraulic piston.

The legs are slightly bent, suggesting the machine is agile and balanced, though the joints in the knees are shielded with interlocking panels. At the torso, the legs become less substantial and disappear into another network of panels.

The hulking body is laden with intricate armor plating—larger, more layered versions of what protect the joints in the legs. Vents near the beltline reveal what appears to be a giant gear or turbine wrapping the inner circumference of the torso.

Similar openings in the upper portion of the armor expose rounded mount points from which powerful arms hang lifeless. Shielded gauntlets secure four-pronged hands. Each digit is segmented and flexible, as if ready to take hold of something and crush it.

The helmet-like head sits atop massive shoulders. Set within is a humanoid face, its eyes devoid of life, its mouth a severe pout. This is the most troubling aspect of the machine—its ability to look down upon you.

I turn to Ray, his expression one of reverence, or fear—I can’t tell. “Is this real? I mean…does it work?”

Ray responds, though he is still fixated on the machine. “They are all operational, as far as I know. I assume that’s why one is missing.” He traces a path with his index finger from the empty bay to the sliding doors at the far end of the hangar.

Wary, I step closer. “What, it just walked away of its own accord?”

“No, they’re not completely autonomous. Each requires a pilot. Thomas was adamant about that.” Ray peers from beneath his brow, sheepish. “I read all of Thomas’s notes. Unfortunately, there are gaps. Thomas kept a lot in his head. It’s unknown how sentient the machines actually are.”

“Are you saying they can think?”

“On a certain level, yes—but I don’t understand what commands or directives can or cannot be overridden, of if there is a set of core procedures of which they cannot violate.”

I scrunch my face in confusion.

Ray notices. “What I’m saying is, the line between what these machines can or will do and how much input is required of the pilot is blurred. The sparsest notations were on the A.I.”

“So someone—someone piloted one of these things out of here? How can you be certain?”

“Well, I imagine this thing wouldn’t have bothered opening the hangar doors to get out. No, someone opened the doors and then closed them when they left.”

“But where would they have taken something that big? You wouldn’t be able to fit it on a truck. And with it out there, someone’s bound to see it—soon.”

“You’d think,” Ray says. “Have you ever heard of metamaterials? No? They are man-made, composite materials which exhibit properties not found in nature—namely a negative refractive index.” Ray pauses long enough to see I don’t follow. “An invisibility cloak.”

“You’re joking.” I shake my head in disbelief. True, the monster is before me, and it is impressive beyond all imagination, but invisibility?

Ray, ever serious, does not jest. “Granted, it reeks of sci-fi, but researchers as early as 2006 were bending microwave radiation. It wouldn’t be long before materials were devised which could divert all bands of electromagnetic radiation—including visible light.”

It sounds much simpler when one looks at it as bending light, but this is ludicrous. “So you’re saying that one of these things is out there, and no one will see it?”

In typical grim fashion, Ray replies. “If the aim is to go undetected, yes—but that’s not the worst of it. That’s not even close to the worst.”

7

Perspiration begins its maddening descent down the underside of my arms. The supposed gravity of Ray’s crisis is now apparent; the dry, metallic taste in my mouth confirms it.

Ray steps closer to the machine in the second bay, waving his arms in exaggerated motions as if he’s conducting some psychotic orchestra. “Each one has certain attributes. For example, the one we lost is equipped with an advanced directed-energy weapon.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“The military uses crude versions as Active Denial Systems—crowd control and things of that nature. Basically they emit high-frequency microwave radiation which creates a burning sensation in the targets’ skin. Other systems cause disorientation or nausea.” Ray waves his hand as if to dismiss them as toys. “The one Thomas devised produces electromagnetic pulses at a frequency which disrupts the autonomic nervous system, resulting in virtual coma.”

“Coma? It can do that?”

“Supposedly, but none of the technology was field-tested; it was only ever subject to computer modeling. It’s difficult to gauge how…effective…any of it will be. The weapon might very well kill anyone within range.”

I nod at the second bay. “And this one? What does it do?”

Ray turns again to face the black behemoth. “Our friend here is equipped with a directed-energy weapon of his own—a pulsed energy projectile.” Ray points to the right shoulder. “The gun is mounted on the back but will swivel up and over to engage a target.”

“So, it’s like a rocket launcher or something?”

“No—it’s a solid state laser, which when met with an object, creates an explosion of plasma. The resulting shockwave can be quite destructive.”

“Worthington is out of his mind,” I say, shaking my head.

Ray gives a dismissive shrug. “Those not willing to accept reality will think so. But something has to be done—we can’t have the lunatic fringe ushering in their version of the Singularity.”

I snap back. “Don’t be so self-righteous. What makes Worthington, or anyone for that matter, qualified to shoulder that responsibility? And why does there have to be a Singularity at all?”

“That was decided a long time ago. The cost of progress is that man lets go of the way things were done and embraces the way things will be done. This is the way it’s always been. But not every pioneer of change has the foresight, let alone the opportunity, to mold and shape it for the better.”

“How is this better? From what I’ve seen, these machines aren’t meant for peace.”

There’s a faraway glint in Ray’s eyes. “Thomas thought war would be inevitable—eventually. Rogue technology—imitators—will rise and have to be put down.” Ray nods. “These machines will serve a dual purpose. They will realize what the future should be, but they will also sow the seeds for what the future should not.”

I hold up my hand, signaling for him to stop. “Ray, listen. I’m your friend—that’s the only reason I’m here. I don’t endorse any of this. It’s unethical and irresponsible. And it’s one hundred percent insane! Let’s just forget the plan or whatever and call the police.”

Ray continues like he doesn’t hear me. “They aren’t simply weapons, you know. If the little I read is indicative of anything, these machines are superior to any A.I. to date, and they represent an advanced link between man and machine. There’s a concept Thomas referred to as the Balance. The Balance implies equilibrium between the pilot and the machine; neither can counterbalance the other. This is his model for all future man/machine interaction.”