Power in the Hands of One (4 page)

Waxing intellectual isn’t my aim. Ray is furthest from reality when he’s talking theory. I need to keep him focused on the concrete details. “What about the third one?” I motion to the blurry figure in the remaining bay, hidden behind the plastic.

“That one’s a bit of a mystery; documentation is lacking. Its capabilities are unknown, though I imagine it is not unlike the first two—some form of a directed-energy weapon, the ability to cloak itself, satellite and telecommunication devices…”

I nod like all of this is interesting and not terrifying. There must be a way to convince Ray the situation is hopeless. A hundred-some-foot robot is wandering the countryside—invisible or not, it’s bound to leave destruction in its wake. And we still don’t know what happened to Thomas or if he’s even alive. The situation is in no way manageable.

Lost in his analysis of Thomas’s notes, Ray rambles on like a fascinated child. He expresses grief in not being included from the beginning—was he not a trusted ally?

I murmur a halfhearted condolence. Ray’s desire to be complicit in Thomas’s madness is disturbing, as is his shiftiness. He made a claim that these things were intended to start the end of the world. And he was afraid. Now he’s a willing disciple.

How much should this concern me? Will Ray view me as standing in the way? It’s not clear where the obstinate fit into Thomas Worthington’s master plan. I check my cell phone when Ray isn’t paying attention, thinking it possible to make an emergency call, but there’s no signal. There must be a land line in one of the anterooms. “Ray, have you reviewed the security footage? Maybe we can see who stole the machine.”

Looking away, Ray says, “I can’t access the system; it’s password protected.”

I pause, hoping this limitation will resonate with some sense of defeat. “C’mon, Ray, admit it. There isn’t anything you or I can do. We don’t know where Thomas is, and we don’t know who stole the machine. And after what you told me, I don’t think we want it out there…”

“Wait, stop.” Ray holds up a finger and then points to a flashing red light above the door we came through. “Someone is here.” He races away, limbs flailing.

Ray’s sense of urgency ignites a delayed reaction in me, and I hurry after him several seconds later. I catch the swinging door as he goes through; then I halt in the doorway.

Ray is bent over the video surveillance of the parking lot. “Oh, no.”

“What? What is it?” I ask, hustling over.

“Illuma Corp agents.” Ray points to the screen where there are three men moving toward the outside door. One of them looks up into the camera as they approach.

The stoic efficiency in which they move is somehow familiar—like the men with the planes. “Those are Illuma Corp agents?”

Ray turns, confused. “Yes. You act as if you’ve seen them before.”

“Never mind that! What do they want?”

Ray’s eyes lose their bulge, and his mouth returns to its classic neutral expression—the old Ray. “Not what they’re going to get,” he says before moving to a metal storage locker next to the monitor rack. He retrieves a shotgun and proceeds to load it.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Awkward and lanky with weapon in hand, Ray dismisses my question. He strides back to the keypad on the wall and punches in the security code. Opening the door with a resolute yank, he nods. “In.”

“What? You’re insane!”

“Get in—I’ll fend them off. If they make it past me, they still have security clearance to contend with.”

I obey but pause in the doorway.

Ray marches to the outer door and disappears.

I scan nearby for something to stick in the doorjamb. Finding an empty cardboard box, I place it in the door to ensure it doesn’t close behind me. Satisfied, I run to the video surveillance.

In black and white, Ray stands at the ready as the side door bursts in. He fires a wild shot, silent on the monitor, but echoing over the top of the partition.

The first agent enters and ducks—a miss. The second agent steps into view aiming a black semiautomatic pistol. He fires two quick shots.

Ray falls to his knees and then to his stomach.

8

The grainy feed of the monitor flows like a movie—but the sharp crack of shots fired helps to re-focus my attention. Ray isn’t moving on the screen; he’s just a dark outline on the pale cement.

My will is split between hasty retaliation and full-on retreat. A gut-check reveals the resolve of earlier is gone, expelled like exhaust on the ride here. Regret sits like a bitter brick in my stomach.

The damnable thorn of friendship won’t let me forget there is blood pooling under Ray, and if he’s not finished twitching yet, he will be soon. Could he be saved if medical attention arrives within the next few minutes? I won’t know if I leave him out there.

The unfortunate fact is the agents have pounced on the first inner door and are doing their best to open it. Faltering between “the right thing” or “what Ray would do” will fast-forward me to a point where neither will matter, so I opt for a temporary retreat and turn toward the door behind me.

In the midst of panic, I kick the box out of the way. The door draws shut with a reassuring thud of the locking mechanism. On the other side, I take several steps backward and wait. Will the door blast open? Will it be released with a gentle overriding of the lock? The agents must be past the outer room now, one step closer to what I assume is their goal.

Maybe that’s jumping to conclusions. Suppose the Illuma Corp has nothing to do with Thomas Worthington’s disappearance, and they were not behind the theft of the first machine—both assumptions I’ve accepted as true in the last five minutes. It could be this is their first appearance on the scene.

No, these are the bastards with the remote-control planes of death; they have to be responsible. First the attack on me, now this brute force assault—both betray conspiracy.

Where does this leave me? Ray’s assertions are fresh in my mind. “Intellectual mercenaries.” “They’ll come back for the others.” I didn’t understand at first, but now I see what he meant. The Illuma Corp will have no obstacles in their pursuit of this technology.

Scraping sounds from the other side of the steel door draw me several feet closer. What are they trying to do? A step nearer and violent blows reverberate through the metal. I retreat once more, stumbling in between the forklifts and unrecognizable machinery. None of them will provide shelter.

Searching for the controls, I wonder how much noise the hangar doors make when opened. Would the agents hear? If I could get to my bike… No, I would have to go all the way around the hangar to get there. It’s got to be at least a thousand feet and the agents might meet me in the lot.

And Ray—I keep seeing him fall to the floor, no fight in him left. All the frustration I have with his short-sighted devotion moves to the back burner. Now there’s just pity and guilt.

Why wasn’t I more adamant about seeking help? Why did I go along with this? My juvenile desire for adventure—the false invincibility we took for granted, thinking our actions are more important and meaningful than they are—Ray and I both share the blame. Only I was thinking straight; there’s no excuse for my shirking common sense.

Now there’s a high-pitched whine at the door. The agents will breach it soon; I can’t wait any longer.
Decide—decide or you’ll be dead!
I scream at myself.

Turning, I consider what I never would have before. The monster robot, silent in its bay: it’s no doubt impervious to gunfire with its armor. And Ray mentioned communication devices… It’s a long shot but I have no better option.

The whine at the door increases in pitch as I sprint for the lowest beam in the tubular support structure. There is a narrow set of stairs which zigzag their way up to the catwalk. I reach them in seconds, bounding two steps at a time.

Gripping the handrail, I slingshot around each bend in the stairs, catching only a breath or two the whole way up. At the top, I slam across the metal grating. I’m at shoulder level with the machine.

Folds of armor hang open like a hatch in the back of the robot. It’s a port large enough for a man to fit through—this is obviously how the pilot would enter. Leaning over, I peer inside.

The fluorescent lighting from overhead reveals a few rungs on the backside of the hatch; they serve as crude steps down into the cockpit at an approximate eighty-degree angle. There is also the backside of a seat, black and commanding. Nothing else is discernable.

I scramble over the edge of the hatch and step down into the machine. It smells sterile and metallic. The air is strangely cool. There’s no obvious way to close the hatch, and so I grasp a rung and heave with the strength of a desperate man. It doesn’t budge.

My eyes adjust to the light and the rest of the circular cockpit comes into view. There are two banks of panels on either side of the chair along with control arms which seem to grow from underneath. Three widescreen, flat-panel monitors sit behind a keyboard, all mounted at lap level in front of the seat.

I step up to the seatback and look over. There is a small row of stubby toggle switches near the lower bank of panels. I illuminate them with the ambient light of my cell phone.

The first switch says “1. Standby Power.” The second says “2. Open/Close Access Port.” The third is labeled “3. Main Power.” The simple logic of this is lost on me, as I expect the clanking of agent feet on the catwalk at any time.

Reaching down, toggle number one gives way with a solid click. All four banks of panels light up in blue and red, revealing inlaid touch-screen controls. The monitor in the middle sparks with a crinkle of static electricity. “Standby Power Online” displays in the lower left-hand corner, trailed by a blinking cursor.

The second toggle is next. My index finger switches it upward, initiating the whine of motors which maneuver the hatch into alignment with the rest of the armor. It seals with a short hiss.

I don’t dare engage the third switch—not yet. I’m not ready to confront what’s inside this thing.

9

The touch screens are sufficient to illuminate the cockpit. I’m on the inside and the agents are on the outside, yet there’s no escape. Still, the pelt of bullets pinging off the armor never comes.

Maybe the agents will try to break through the access port. No, that seems unlikely. The hatch sealed mechanically; prying it open would be impossible, even with a lever. I hope.

The glowing menus aren’t labeled like the toggle switches, so it’s not apparent what controls the communication devices, or even what devices there are. There is a virtual scroll bar in the forward part of each panel; I start with the one on my lower right.

Sliding it backward changes the menus from two-dimensional buttons to rows of smaller scroll bars. It reminds me of a stereo equalizer, but the electronic prompts indicate they calibrate something other than sound: Photovoltaic, Piezoelectric…the list continues with other unfamiliar terminology.

Easing the main scroll bar back another “notch” changes the panel once again, this time revealing menus for subsystems like hydraulics and servomechanisms.

Why can’t there just be a phone? In nervous frustration, I flick the scroll bar as far back as it will go. This sends all four panels into a demo mode of sorts; menus and diagnostic information scrolls like a slide show.

The central monitor also flickers before displaying what looks like a schematic of the robot. It too operates like a PowerPoint presentation, each diagram fading into the next every few seconds. Then the screen and control panels go black. A faint vibration hums in the background when the monitor returns to a one-line piece of text:
Loading alternate peripherals…

The text begins to flash before the command is replaced with what looks like video footage of a man sitting extremely close to the camera. Coarse white hair, piercing blue eyes, a resolute jowl—Thomas Worthington.

Thomas leans forward as if he’s looking right at me and says, “What is man? A simple puppet? Some men are. He is a finite creature, one whose limitations are never understood as fully than by those who meet them. But man excels where he would not; he adapts to his environment.”

“You have to listen to me,” I blurt out, leaning forward.

Thomas continues, still gazing back at me. “This evolution propels him to great heights, far beyond the limits imposed by common thought. What anchors him? What can impede his progress? Nothing but man himself.”

My palms are soaked and my throat sticks. “There are men outside—agents from the Illuma Corp. I need help!”

“For centuries man has been the saboteur of his own designs, fearing what his neighbor was or what he might become. Never has he embraced his own potential, save for a few brave but meager souls.”

“Ray is dead!” I shout in disbelief at the monitor. There’s no way anyone in their right mind could ignore me right now. A recording—it must be a recording. But as I think this, Thomas stops talking.

He studies me with stabbing eyes. “Do you think you’re in control?”

“What? I…”

“You can’t possibly have the wherewithal to understand your own situation. The position you are in, the power you can wield. It’s all very heroic in your mind—and manageable. But you have no concept of how misguided you are. Your only hope is the Balance.”

“Then you are listening to me, dammit! Where are you? Call the police, man!” The veins in my temples might explode.

Thomas responds only with his questioning stare before he disappears from the monitor. The blue and red graphics return, as do the flowing diagrams of the machine.

Frustration seeps like heat from every pore. I halt the urge to send my foot through the monitor when with a fizzle of static, the forward curvature of the cockpit renders itself a life-size view of the hangar outside.

The door on the inside wall, scarred by whatever method was used to breach it, hangs limp on its hinges. Scattered bits of machinery lay nearby.

Below me, the agents move in fastidious and mechanical strides. They scour the hangar for something, inspecting each piece of equipment before moving to the next. Never once do they look up; they only remain intent on whatever terrible thing they do.