Sanctuary

by H C Edwards

  As the guard walked over, Quentin pulled the baton the rest of the way from his sleeve, his hands held low between his legs so that neither man saw it.

  “That’s funny…because I think,” Quentin said, his body tensing. “I think you’re here to kill me…”

  Five Minutes

  The run to the cooling chamber was a short fifty yards, but by the time Misao reached the first door, she was short of breath, her energy nearly sapped. Part of it was due to the extreme change in temperature. Just in the last ten yards approaching the lockdown room, it dropped from twenty degrees Celsius to zero. The tunnel walls were covered in a slight sheet of frozen condensation that was partially compensated by the heating strips built into the ceiling and floors.

  Leaning up against the closed door, she fought to catch her breath, teeth already starting to chatter. She wished she had given thought to grabbing one of the cold suits out of the closet in the monitoring station. Temperatures in the cooling chamber often reached negative seven to ten degrees. Without a suit she wouldn’t last too long, but then she didn’t need more than a minute to input the calculations. She just hoped that the doctor would be able to drop the field surrounding the quantum computer before she collapsed of exposure.

  Juggling the equipment in her arms, Misao laid a hand on the scanner. The door swished open, and she stepped into the lockdown room, the first safety protocol for each chamber. It was a singular square room with a blast door that could be closed in case of a catastrophic event, such as the one she and her team had experienced, except this time she knew it wouldn’t matter. With the field down, the explosion of the cooling chamber would spread along the hoses and pipes that fed into the quantum computer. She wouldn’t have enough time to escape that blast when it came. It was a realization she had accepted when she thought of this plan.

  When she opened the blast door to the actual cooling chamber, the frozen rush of air that poured out made her gasp. Knowing that the longer she procrastinated the worse it would be, Misao took a few deep breaths, steeling herself against the onslaught of cold, and rushed into the room, heading straight for the mainframe system, past the liquid hydrogen tanks and the refrigeration units to the middle of the chamber.

  Her hands were already shaking as she hooked up the mini -PC and the projection screen to the system. By the time she powered it on and entered the cooling systems distribution section, she had to pause and rub her hands together briskly just to get the feeling back into them.

  Teeth chattering near uncontrollably, Misao slipped on the virtual gloves and the glasses. Pulling up the keyboard, she was able to input the calculations from memory. After all, she had gone over them so often in that year she had practically dreamed them.

  It took only a minute, and when she was done she peeled the gloves from her numb fingers. The screen hovered in front of her, the icon right over the upload button. When, or if, the field dropped, all she had to do was put the right glove back on and close it in a fist over the upload link. Once that was done, she had about thirty seconds to contemplate the end before it came.

  Misao stumbled back towards the lockdown room, her legs stiff and without feeling, thoughts sluggish and foggy from the cold. A heavy weight settled upon her shoulders, slowing her down. Even her eyes felt the oppressiveness, and each time she blinked, they seemed to linger on the darkness longer.

  There was a moment where her left foot caught on the heel of her right and she almost went down. She recovered, but the motion sent her reeling forward. Thankfully, she crossed the threshold of the lockdown room before she fell to the ground, curling up into a little ball, her whole body racked with uncontrollable spasms.

  She knew if she lay there for long, hypothermia would set in, and then even if the field did go down, she would be helpless to take advantage of the moment. The fear of being the weak link in the chain prompted her into action. Rolling over onto her knees and elbows, she began a crawling shuffle, not trusting her legs to support her weight.

  Each foot was a hard fought battle, but when she finally crossed the threshold into the tunnel and rolled the last few feet past the frozen condensation to the heating strips built into the floor, she almost sobbed with relief.

  Within a minute, the warmth started to spread from her core out, loosening her limbs and allowing her to uncurl from the fetal position enough to rub her arms and legs. She winced as she felt the circulation return, bringing with it a sting like needles along her muscles.

  Misao lay there for what seemed an incessantly long time, but was probably only a couple of minutes. Despite the cold and the effect it had on her body, she was acutely aware of each second passing, knowing that sooner rather than later, the guards would find a way through the door and be upon her.

  A voice in her head demanded that she get up, and she couldn’t refute the urgency in that tone. Groaning as if fifty years had been added onto her body, Misao was able to roll onto her knees, and using the wall for support, half-pull and half-stand upon a pair of straw legs.

  She looked down in surprise, knowing that they were supporting her, but not sure how. Her knees were wobbling so violently it was as if she were suddenly palsied. Even her breath was coming in short harsh gasps that were befitting a sprint rather than gaining one’s footing.

  How long she would have stood there, waiting for her body to regain some sense of itself, she didn’t know, but Misao was not afforded that luxury, because a few seconds, she heard the rap of rifle fire from down the tunnel.

  Her time was running out.

  Cursing with as much breath as she could spare, Misao limped back into the lockdown room and leaned against the wall next to the door. She fought against the fatigue, pushing through the cobwebs that were spun across her consciousness.

  The effects of extreme exposure to cold and near hypothermia were well known to her, having read about them before she was able to step foot into the cooling chambers with her team. The body began to shut down, as well as the functions of the brain. Lethargy settled in, and unconsciousness followed soon after.

  Despite the fact that she had avoided freezing to death, Misao was suffering all the symptoms of exposure, and knew it.

  Another burst of gunfire erupted, and this time she realized that her chance to act was quickly slipping away.

  “Think, dammit!” she muttered to herself, but she was cold, so very cold, and all she could think about was how she didn’t want to go back into that room, back into the chamber with all those tanks standing like silent statues waiting for-

  The tanks.

  Misao grunted as she pushed off the wall, forcing her legs to pick themselves and move, one step at a time, feeling some energy flow back into her limbs. She reached the door of the chamber, and felt the fear press on her from all sides, trying to cripple her, the cold clawing at her face like an invisible beast. Gritting her teeth, refusing to cave into it, she forced her body to step into the room.

  She kept her eyes locked ahead of her, a distance of maybe twenty feet, but it could have been a hundred. The cold instantly dove past the flimsy protection of her clothes and skin and dug its claws into the meat of her flesh, causing her to cry out in pain.

  It was desperation that drove her on, and sometimes that was better than will. Crossing the distance as swiftly as she could, Misao pulled down on her shirt sleeves, wadding them up in her fists for protection. Reaching the closest liquid hydrogen tank, she flipped the cutoff lever and twisted the seal to pop off the hose, yanking and pulling it towards her until it finally passed the tipping point.

  She almost dropped it when the full weight hit her torso, but thankfully her extended arms caught the tank before it smacked into the ground.

  And then Misao began to drag it, shuffling her feet backwards, heaving with all the strength she had left, until finally she reached the lockdown room.

  There was no time to let her body recover. If she stopped now, she would never be able to finish.

  She pulled the tank up ov
er the small lip of the doorway and into the tunnel. She dropped it to the ground and stepped back over it. Kneeling down, she shoved one end until it was even with the other, and then pushed hard with both her palms, watching as the tank rolled away from her along the floor.

  Her right hand dug into her pocket, wrestling with the pistol. It caught on the edge of the fabric and she yanked on it in frustration for a few seconds until she realized the futility of the action. Pushing it back down into the pocket and taking a better grip, she drew the gun out slowly without further hindrance.

  Misao stepped back into the lockdown room and leaned against the wall, with only a portion of her face exposed to the tunnel, the arm holding the pistol taking aim.

  The tank was still rolling, slowly but surely. She closed one eye and drew a bead. It was only about fifteen feet away, so she let it go, forcing herself to be patient. From the very end of the tunnel she saw the two guards appear, running in full sprint towards her.

  She drew a breath and waited. Twenty feet, and yet the damn thing was still going. The guards had spotted her and were yelling, but she couldn’t make out the words.

  At roughly thirty feet, Misao figured it was far enough, and pulled the trigger.

  The bullet zoomed over the tank, sending up chips on the floor well past it. She steadied her shaking hand and pulled the trigger again, and missed once more. The guards, believing that she was firing at them, had pulled up their rifles. They let out a few shots that hit the wall near her. She cried out and flinched back around the corner, even as they let loose with another burst.

  “Come on,” Misao pleaded to herself, and this time when she leaned out and raised the pistol, she didn’t aim so much as point, firing rapidly and sending a barrage of bullets at the rolling cylinder.

  The last one hit dead center…and before she could celebrate her success, the tunnel exploded in fire.

  People scattered in front of them, some falling in their haste to make way. It was the rifle that alarmed them, or maybe it was the look on Trey’s face. The humans cringed in the doorways of the halls or ducked behind desks and other furniture. Self-preservation was just as important to the synthetics as well, for they followed suit with their mortal counterparts.

  “Left down the next hallway,” Griffin said from directly behind him, as they passed a trio of techs huddled on the floor against the wall.

  Trey turned, letting the rifle lead the way. They crossed a double set of open doors with the label “Psychiatric Wing” above it, and found themselves in a junction that also passed as a waiting room. The people in the chairs looked up at them in alarm. A couple of them glanced about frantically, but there was no place to hide.

  “To the right, past the desk,” Griffin said, pointing towards a door that had a small plaque on it reading Dr. Phillip Blatty.

  The secretary behind the desk threw his hands up when he saw the two men approaching, the expression on his face more animated than he had probably seen in the mirror for years.

  Trey paused at the desk, his rifle pointed at the door.

  “Who’s in there?” he asked the secretary.

  “I-I-I,” the man stuttered.

  Griffin leaned over the desk and slapped the synthetic in the face, who reeled back in shock, a hand going to his cheek.

  “Who?” the doctor asked brusquely.

  “Dr. Byrne, a patient, and a guard,” the man replied in a rush.

  “Stay behind me,” Trey said to Griffin.

  He walked past the desk, and when the sensor didn’t engage, he stepped back and drove a booted heel at the door near the jamb. It exploded open at the force of his kick, slamming into the adjoining wall.

  Trey rushed the room, sweeping with his rifle, and saw a surprising scene. Quentin stood behind the desk, a man that could only be the psychiatrist, sitting slumped in a chair, head lolling off to one side and eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.

  On the floor at Trey’s feet was an unconscious guard, a pistol inches away from his outstretched hand. He kicked the gun, sending it spinning across the room.

  Griffin rushed past Trey and around the desk.

  “Quentin!” he shouted, and embraced his son so hard that he almost bowled him over.

  The doctor held the boy out at arm’s length and began inspecting him up and down.

  “Dad,” Quentin said, his face crumpling as he tried to hold back the emotion. “You’re okay.”

  The doctor nodded.

  “I’m okay. Are you?”

  Quentin returned the nod, fighting to keep the tears at bay.

  “What the hell happened here?” Trey asked, looking around the office.

  “I got your message, Dad,” Quentin said, his lower lip trembling slightly but otherwise in control. “I did what you said.”

  “I know, Son,” Griffin replied, grasping Quentin’s face in both of his hands.

  “I thought they were going to kill me,” the boy said, looking down at the doctor.

  He held up his hand, and in it, was a small EMP baton.

  Trey stepped over the prone guard and to the desk. He looked at the flip screen, reached down, and spun it towards him. On display was a file of Quentin. Superimposed over the file, encompassed in a rectangle of red, was a simple message: “Detain By Any Means”.

  Looking behind him to the guard on the floor, Trey said, “You did good, Kid, but we better move fast. Talbot knows you’re here, which means there’ll be more guards coming soon.”

  Griffin glanced at his son’s arm. He grabbed it and pulled the sleeve up, exposing the forearm computer.

  “You brought her?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Quentin replied as color seeped back into his face, replacing the shock. “Sia says she’s ready.”

  The doctor closed his eyes for a moment, as if saying a silent prayer of thanks.

  “Please give it to me,” Griffin said, holding out his hand.

  Quentin complied, handing over the forearm computer.

  Griffin swiped across the screen several times, nodding as he seemed to find what he wanted. He then reached down beneath the flip screen on the doctor’s desk and unplugged the network link. He inserted it on the side of the forearm computer, hurriedly typed in a few lines of code, and looked to both Trey and his son.

  “Here goes nothing.”

  He was about to tap on the screen when Trey intervened.

  “Wait.”

  The doctor froze, his finger hovering above the screen.

  “What is it?”

  “The councilwoman,” Trey replied. “Misao.”

  “You said she could do it,” Griffin said with a frown.

  “Do what?” Quentin asked.

  “Overload the system,” the doctor replied. “Set off a chain reaction that would reach the quantum computer.”

  Trey reached back to his conversation with Misao.

  “Yes, she said dropping the field would cause the safety protocols go offline, but-”

  “We have to trust that she knows what she’s talking about,” Griffin interrupted, glancing fitfully towards the door.

  “I do trust her,” Trey said, realizing now that Misao had been incredibly vague about what she was doing, and perhaps careful with her words as well? “But I don’t think she plans on making it back.”

  The doctor glanced at his son and back to Trey meaningfully.

  “I don’t think we have the time to discuss this.”

  He was anxious and afraid, rightly so. Griffin was thinking about the bigger picture, and perhaps just as much about Quentin, but Trey also knew that if this thing worked out in their favor, they would need Misao.

  “Once you upload the virus, how long before it takes effect?”

  Griffin shook his head.

  “I don’t know,” he said almost angrily. “Thirty seconds, tops.”

  “Can you give me five minutes?” Trey asked, thinking that once the field went offline, Misao would do what she needed to, which probably meant she’d be dead
before he got there.

  “That’s insane!” the doctor shouted. “We have the chance now! You said so yourself that more guards are coming!”

  Griffin might have done it then, pressed the button and uploaded the virus, but Quentin reached over and grasped his father’s upraised arm and held it tight.

  Stunned, the doctor looked down at his son’s grip.

  “What are you doing?” he asked incredulously, but Quentin was looking at Trey.

  “He wants to make certain she gets back,” the boy said. “And we need to give him that time.”

  “Quentin,” Griffin pleaded through clenched teeth.

  “Dad,” the boy turned to his father. “You’d do it for me.”

  The doctor stared at his son for a moment. He wanted to argue, but there was something on Quentin’s face that deterred him. He lowered the hand holding the forearm computer, and looked at Trey with resignation.

  “Five minutes.”

  Trey nodded, handing his rifle over to Griffin, who took it reluctantly.

  “Stay by the door,” he ordered. “The desk out there and the wall will give you some cover.”

  He paused for a moment, staring into the doctor’s eyes. Something passed between them that didn’t need words.

  “If you can’t give me the full five, I’ll understand.”

  Trey turned and held out his hand to Quentin, who appeared surprised even as he took it and shook.

  “Take care of your dad, Kid.”

  Claire blinked rapidly, assimilating the memories as they poured into her. It wasn’t a cascade so much as a myriad of doors opening all at once.

  The tech walked over to her cautiously. On his face was a hint of trepidation.

  “Are you…all right?” he asked, perhaps still apprehensive that the councilwoman might march back into the room.

  Claire twitched. She couldn’t help it. The movements were involuntary, the physical reaction of her body taking in the information all at once.

  “I…I need a moment,” she replied.