Quantum Lens

by Douglas E. Richards

  The main door to the palace was locked and cameras were pointed at visitors. Al Yad had lied and told his followers this was for the protection of his household staff, but Craft knew his vulnerabilities, his paranoia, and how he thought. This was a final deterrent in case someone made it through his outer perimeter, as unlikely as this was, and knew to bring poison gas with them. Not that the cult leader’s birds and personal alarms wouldn’t alert him in time to flee in any case.

  Craft visualized the door cameras being vaporized with energy so great, the very atoms comprising them were torn from each other and flung to distant corners of the globe, and the cameras complied by promptly vanishing. The door lock also quickly gave up its battle to stay coherent against the incomprehensible energies that Craft directed its way.

  Craft had memorized the plans for the palace and worked his way quietly and methodically from room to room, headed to the master bedroom, searching for his nemesis. The architecture of the structure was spectacular, and he loved its many archways, but it was sparsely furnished, mostly a sterile white, with endless bird cages comprising the principal decor, a unique style that Craft immediately dubbed Early Canary.

  As he passed one of the inner courtyards a young women spotted him. She was covered head to toe in a light blue burka, and Craft could only see her eyes, but these widened in alarm and he had no doubt she was about to issue a warning scream.

  Craft reacted instantly, rendering her unconscious before she could utter a sound. She collapsed to the stone floor of the courtyard, but he reached out with zero point energy and cushioned her head before it made contact with the unforgiving surface.

  Craft dispatched four additional men on his way to the master bedroom. When he arrived at the entrance, he listened carefully for almost a minute, but didn’t hear voices or movement, so he slowly opened the door and stepped inside.

  The room he entered was as spacious as a ballroom at a hotel. It was vaulted, two and a half stories high, and its white marble floor was polished to reflective splendor. The room was sterile like the rest of the residence, but undeniably impressive. Al Yad had walled off a small portion of the room on the left, accessible through another doorway, which doubtlessly housed his bed. Sixty inch television screens were hung like modern art on two of the walls, the only decorations. The room contained no furniture, and little else save an ornate wrought-iron chandelier hanging from the ceiling far above, and five of the ubiquitous gold canary cages atop white marble pedestals.

  At the back of the room, facing the entry, was a raised level of white marble, veined with royal blue, perhaps five feet higher than the rest of the room and ten feet in depth, running along the entire back wall. Six steps, made from the same marble as the platform, ran along its entire length, like theatre stairs leading up to the stage at the Academy awards. In the center of the platform sat a heavy white and black marble chair, with a high back and elegant armrests.

  The chair was simple but conveyed wealth, weight, and solidity, and Craft had no doubt it was the equivalent of a throne, although it didn’t look particularly comfortable.

  As Craft took it all in, holding his breath, he heard a familiar voice coming from the right.

  Omar Haddad! The Hand of God himself.

  The voice was coming from an archway that led to the palace’s largest open-air courtyard, accessible only from this room. Al Yad was speaking to an underling in Arabic.

  Craft crept closer to the archway, sneaking up on it from the side so he could stay out of sight of anyone beyond. He finally reached the edge and peered beyond it, catching a glimpse of the man to whom Al Yad was speaking. He had hoped this would be Tariq Bahar, but he was not that fortunate.

  The cult leader’s voice was unmistakable, although he had learned to control subtle vibrations in the air, and could give it the power and vibrato that made it seem like it truly was the voice of God.

  Still speaking, Al Yad moved into Craft’s line of sight, covered by the billowing white robes and headdress that had become his trademark.

  Adrenaline surged through Craft.

  It was time to strike.

  He hurtled a torrent of pure energy at the man who had killed eighteen of his friends in cold blood, and who had promised to kill countless others.

  Craft had no way to measure, but was certain this was the greatest amount of zero point energy he had ever controlled, all directed at a single point on Al Yad’s forehead. The fabric of space itself couldn’t contain it, and microscopic black holes punched through space-time a foot in front of the target before evaporating billionths of a second later, fortunately not massive enough to become self-sustaining.

  Al Yad’s shield had sprung to life to meet these energies before he had any conscious awareness that he and Craft even shared the same time zone.

  The man standing five feet to the left of Al Yad burst into flames, but before the pain of this could register or the odor of his burning flesh could fill the air, he vanished into non-existence. The courtyard was plunged into darkness as all matter was annihilated within a twenty yard radius, vanishing entirely, while an outer circle of an additional fifteen yard radius beyond began flowing like molten lava.

  Craft sensed that Al Yad’s shield was weakening, but the man rocketed into the starry night sky to remove himself from Craft’s focal point. Less than two seconds had passed since Craft’s attack had begun.

  Craft streaked into the air to follow, barely able to keep up as Al Yad accelerated to almost five hundred miles per hour, flying directly over miles of uninhabited desert before landing. Both men tapped the zero point field to throw off a path of light in front of themselves.

  Craft set down ten yards behind Al Yad and launched another strike, but this time his adversary reacted with a strike of his own. Craft’s own shield flashed into existence and instantly began to strain under a torrent of energy that rivaled that found at the sun’s core, pinpointed to a single location.

  Sporadic vegetation, scorpions, spiders, and all other dessert creatures exploded into flames for miles around them, and a circle of sand almost a hundred yards in diameter, with the two combatants at its center, turned into glass—a transformation that only occurred at temperatures above four thousand degrees Fahrenheit. Even the glass’s existence was short lived, as an instant later it vanished into nothingness.

  The air itself around the two men was also annihilated in the face of the inconceivable energies being released, and new air rushed in to fill the void, a continuing process that caused winds to whip up around them like mini-tornadoes. Beyond this perimeter, the air didn’t vanish, but any moisture in it boiled away, filling the sky with vapor and causing it to become blurry, like the air around a bonfire. A dense fog bloomed all around them, cutting off long-range visibility, despite the light thrown off by various fires.

  Craft’s head began to throb after less than thirty seconds from the lack of air and the exertion of marshalling incomprehensible energies to both attack and defend, and sweat began pouring from his body. Al Yad launched himself into the sky and landed several miles away to get fresh air, but this air was also annihilated the moment Craft landed and the battle was joined once again.

  Sweat was pouring from Al Yad as well, and he finally broke down, unable to maintain both offense and defense simultaneously. His mind was strong, but not as strong as Craft’s.

  Al Yad turned his entire focus to bolstering his shield, which caused Craft’s own shield to disappear, since he was no longer under attack. Focusing on defense was far less taxing, and Craft realized Haddad could always fly off again if he felt his shield begin to buckle.

  Craft stopped his own offensive onslaught and the two men faced each other, neither one attacking or defending.

  As expected, they had played to a draw.

  The raging winds around them ceased and fresh air once again filled their lungs, although it was tinged with the odor of scorched sagebrush and sand.

  “Trying to kill me, Brennan?” said Al Yad
finally in lightly accented English. “Not very honorable, given our agreement. Although I would expect nothing less from the incarnation of Satan.”

  “I wasn’t trying to kill you,” said Craft. “I only wanted to prove a point. And hearing you speak of our agreement and honor makes me physically ill. Come on, Omar. Do you really expect me to believe you wouldn’t kill me the second you had the chance?”

  Al Yad shook his head. “You shall address me as The Hand of God, or Great One. Nothing less.”

  “Cut it out, Omar,” said Craft derisively. “You are not the hand of god. You are an accountant who had some bad luck in a cave, and who is using the laws of nature to harness energy. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

  “I suppose I can’t expect the Lord of Evil to recognize my true nature,” said Al Yad. “And yes, I would kill you if I could. But I never agreed not to. I agreed not to cause mass deaths. You agreed, in return, not to harass me, or to activate your quantum mirror device.”

  Craft wondered how Haddad could continue to believe so strongly in his own divinity, while acknowledging that a complex device, based solely on scientific principles, could bring him down. Or how he could believe in his own absolute divinity and immortality, while recognizing the need to protect himself from poison gas. Humanity’s talent for self-deception was truly inexhaustible.

  “You really won’t admit you just tried to kill me?” said Al Yad.

  “If I wanted to kill you,” said Craft calmly. “You’d be dead.”

  Al Yad laughed and shook his head. “No. You just gave it everything you had. I know. We’ve both reached the limit of our abilities.”

  “So even a god has limits?” said Craft, raising his eyebrows.

  “Yes. For the time being,” said Al Yad. “But in the fullness of time, I shall push aside these limits as well.”

  Craft noted Haddad’s speech had become formal and somewhat biblical in its delivery, even in English. Perhaps he had become even more deluded than before.

  “You came here to see if you could best me,” continued Al Yad, glaring at Craft with unadulterated hatred. “And you’ve failed. So why are you still here?”

  “I’ve come, not to try to kill you, Omar,” he said, wanting to use this name as often as possible to irritate him, “but to get your attention. To remind you that I’m out here. Watching. Waiting. And that my threat still stands. You can gather whatever following and power you like, as long as no innocents are killed.”

  “The people I shall kill are not innocents,” said Haddad. “They are infidels. They deserve the justice that I shall grant them.”

  “Come on, Omar,” snapped Craft. “You know what I mean.”

  “So you’ve elevated your skills,” said Al Yad. “I guessed why you had such great interest in Alyssa Aronson right away, of course. I see that this Jewish whore of yours managed to do what you’ve long wanted.”

  Craft bristled at the way he spoke of Alyssa, but forced himself to let it go. For now.

  “She finally helped you achieve the self-belief necessary to match a god,” continued Al Yad. Then, with a humorless smile he added, “Almost.”

  “If I were truly Satan, why would I need the help of a hypnotist?”

  “We both are not of this realm. But we exist in this realm now, so we are burdened by some of its rules. You know this as well as I do.”

  Interesting, thought Craft. So this was how he justified the inconsistencies in his logic.

  “You came here to learn if your new power was enough to kill me,” said Al Yad. “And I have to ask myself, why? And the answer I get is that you’re enjoying this level of power too much. I don’t think you’ll activate your device no matter what now. Because now that you’ve tasted the ultimate power, there is no way you would ever consider ending your own existence.”

  Craft shot him a condescending look. “I knew you before you became a mass murderer, Omar. And I liked you. But you’ve become nothing more than a pitiable, raving psychotic. You don’t know the first thing about honor. Or about me. It is true that I am not eager to die. But violate the rules I’ve laid down and I won’t hesitate. You’re convinced that I’m Satan. Would Satan hesitate to do whatever was necessary to bring down the Hand of God? Think about it. Test me, and you’ll be dead soon afterward. Man or God, you’ll be deceased either way.”

  “I shall kill you someday,” vowed Al Yad. “And I shall establish my kingdom on Earth. You are simply a minor irritant. It is only a matter of time. Allah is testing my patience. But I shall pass this test like I have every other.”

  “If it helps keep you in check to think so, Omar, then great. Just remember that if you step over the line, I will end you. I do love life. And I do want to keep living and share the potential of my discovery—our discovery—with the world. But if you’ve ever believed anything in that damaged mind of yours, believe this: I have zero tolerance. One wrong move and I end it. For both of us.”

  “I’m not worried,” said Haddad. “Good will always prevail over evil.”

  Craft shook his head in amusement. “That’s what I’m counting on, Omar. That’s what I’m counting on.”

  And without saying another word, Brennan Craft shot into the sky and was gone.

  47

  Craft returned to Israel and flew on to Costa Rica by commercial jet, falling into a coma-like sleep during the duration of the flight as if he had been awake for a week. He could power his body with zero point energy, but restoring balance to the quantum lens between his ears took more time and rest. His mind needed the recharge that only extended sleep could provide, perhaps allowing it to temporarily reunite with the mind of the creator while in this unconscious state.

  When he arrived back at his new home in the mountains, Craft described his encounter with Al Yad to Alyssa and Martin, although he had texted them the shorthand version before boarding the plane. When Alyssa was part of the conversation, Craft edited out the part of his discussion with Al Yad that had involved his quantum mirror device, but other than this he provided an accurate description of events.

  The three of them all agreed that the effort had been worthwhile, and would help continue to keep Al Yad at bay.

  The next morning, Martin returned to his offices in The States, having been absent too frequently of late, and having begun to get questions from key shareholders. Far higher stakes were in play than just the fate of a multinational corporation, but there was nothing more he could do in Costa Rica, so it made sense to return.

  Alyssa called Martin several days later to let him know Craft’s personality had taken a sharp turn for the worse. A very sharp turn. His failure to kill Al Yad had somehow sent him fully over the edge. Now he was arrogant, but also morose—and violent. He had flashes of temper that were truly terrifying in a man capable of destroying entire cities at his slightest whim. And he had begun treating her like dirt.

  She told Martin she was no longer in love with this man. She was still in love with Brennan Craft. But she had begun to dislike, and fear, the imposter who had all too often lately been inhabiting his body.

  Alyssa had made excuses for several nights in a row not to sleep with Craft, which made him even more irritable. He would berate her for hours at a time, and then apologize.

  Brennan Craft was coming completely unhinged. It was undeniable. But was he following in the footsteps of Omar Haddad before him?

  Several hours after her report to Eben Martin, Alyssa sat on a wicker chair on their balcony, watching the mountains and the local birds, trying to decide what she should do, trying not to panic, when Craft came in and sat beside her. He used his telekinetic ability to have the wicker chair reposition itself to face her, while he was in it.

  “Alyssa,” he began. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. And I’ve come to some conclusions. I won’t beat around the bush. You know I was studying different types of world governments. Soft spots. Tipping points. I didn’t lie to you. I was doing this to anticipate Al Yad. But I’ve decided I should
do more than anticipate.”

  Alyssa had the urge to get up and run, but forced herself to remain calm.

  “After I find a way to kill Al Yad,” continued Craft, as if this were a given, “I think our species would be best served if I took over. Maybe at the helm of a world government, or maybe more behind the scenes.”

  Alyssa couldn’t help but look at him uncertainly. “Really?” she said.

  “I don’t blame you for being skeptical. But humor me for a few minutes. Let me float a scenario by you. I don’t expect you to jump on board, because I’m not sure of any of this myself. This is me thinking out loud, with a second brain in the room.”

  Something had changed, in just that moment. She had sensed Craft was losing touch with reality, and suddenly it seemed like the old Brennan Craft was back. The maniacal gleam in his eye was gone, replaced by the friendly, reasonable calm that she had come to know.

  Before his . . . change.

  On the other hand, what he was being reasonable about was the prospect of ruling the world. And as ridiculous as that seemed, with what she had seen of his abilities, it wasn’t so ridiculous.

  “Okay. What’s your scenario?”

  “Say we could put together a team of the finest men and women. Good people. We screen the hell out of them. No psychotics or psychopaths allowed. People with an unimpeachable history of caring and compassion. Then I train them to access the zero point field. And then you,” he said, gesturing enthusiastically to Alyssa, “use narco-hypnotic techniques to help them reach my current level of ability.”

  Craft spread his hands. “Then, when they’re in place, we remove Al Yad from the board,” he added, as though nothing could be simpler.