by Russ Linton
As Drake stared at the screen, the triangular blip flashed again. Another wave of his hand, and the view centered again on the marker for U5345. With a brisk gesture, the area surrounding it filled the screen.
A narrow city block appeared, outlined by a square cluster of matching buildings. Each structure was rounded off on the inner corners, creating a courtyard dotted with vibrant flowerbeds. The red tracking triangle loomed large on the screen above the southeast building.
Drake addressed the empty lab, “System, resume communication, command center.” Overhead, the speakers buzzed an angry tone.
“Yes, sir?” Xamse asked.
“Monitor the signal from U5345. Notify me of any changes and provide a full status before our cargo arrives.”
He cut the connection before receiving an answer, certain Xamse would comply. That, and he could hardly maintain his composure. After only six months of field testing, the simple possibility that they, the nanomechs, his most glorious creation, had managed to contact him in an environment well outside their programmed role filled him with genuine pride.
Nanomechs evolving ahead of their original programming, his greatest threat neutralized; still, Drake found it impossible to shake the sense of unease from earlier in the day. There had been minor setbacks, the boy escaping for one, but he was hardly a threat to the plan. Yet uneasiness about the communication with Killcreek lingered. He called out once more.
“And track every transmission made over the secure channel to and from Killcreek. If someone so much as accidentally keys the mike, I want to know about it.”
“Of course, sir.”
Chapter 12
Emily’s apartment is what people never trapped in an Arctic bunker might call an efficiency. The breakfast nook and the living area share the same space, separated only by a change from fake wood to linoleum. Right off the nook is the kitchen, complete with a dishwasher, microwave, and refrigerator. The pantry door is open and a stacked washer and dryer combo sits inside. Cozy, sure, but hardly “efficient” compared to the bunker.
Emily’s in the pantry with a bag of clothes she brought in from the Bronco. The campfire and motor oil smell are being drowned out by the rich aroma from her coffeemaker.
“Whoa. A washer and dryer.” At the bunker most of the housework was done with kilocalories. Not that I washed dishes or clothes often.
“Not sure how you could’ve made it without them,” Emily says as she stuffs an armload of clothes into the washer.
I sniff my shirt: stale body odor, melted computer parts, and a hint of hamburger. The body odor is the kind you can only harvest in an environment made entirely of recirculated air. It holds its own versus the coffee and spring fresh detergent. I wander into the living room, hopefully dragging the stench with me.
She’s got a television and a well-worn couch calling my name. I would have immediately sunk into it and flicked on the TV had she not set the laptop on the kitchen table. Despite the wonderland I’ve crashed into, the thumb drive feels heavy in my pocket and I’m eager to find the time to get at the data.
On the living room walls are several seriously bizarre prints. Landscapes? Moonscapes? I’m not sure what they are. Maybe Lovecraftian acid trips committed to canvas. “Who’s the, uh, artist?”
Emily looks over with a cup of detergent in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. “Artist? Oh, me, I guess.”
“You made these? Are they computer graphics?”
She nearly empties the coffee into the washing machine, stops, and dumps in the detergent before walking into the living room. “No, I just framed them. They’re photographs.”
“You’re kidding. I mean, where’d you go to get a shot of Cthulhu here?”
“That is an image from an electron microscope of a blue bottle maggot. About one hundred times magnification.”
“Most people put up family pics. Maybe knockoff prints.”
Her expression is wistful while she launches into an explanation. “Hey, that maggot was a pretty big part of my college life. You spend years looking at that ugly mug and it grows on you.”
“Wow.” She’s insane. I can’t decide if that makes her hotter or not.
She walks toward me, absently folding a t-shirt from the dryer and keeping her eyes on the freaky picture. “Once sterilized, those guys can be placed on wounds. They eat the infection, essentially.”
“Jesus, that’s twisted.” I move closer to examine the picture, not sure what else to say.
“C’mon. It’s got to be a little fascinating for a boy?”
Sure, the whole maggot artwork thing is pretty cool but, did she just say I was a boy? I’ve dealt with that bullshit my whole life. Teachers, friends, girls. Girls. Especially girls. Forget being a Lollipop Guild stand-in. “I’m not a boy. Doc and I went over that already.”
“Sorry, my bad.” There’s a long silence before I hear her padding toward the laundry again. I glance her way and see her shutting the washer door. She calls out over her shoulder, “We can wash yours next if you like.”
“Only if you’re tired of the smell.”
She laughs. “So, the real family pics are by the television.”
Wondering how that could have anything to do with my “Eau de Bunkair”, I check out the frames scattered around the entertainment center. Emily, with what has to be her parents. And then dudes. Lots of dudes. She’s pretty attractive so it makes sense, but then I notice one picture with the whole cast of them. “Is that a family reunion?”
“The one in front of the house? Yeah, Christmas. My parents, brothers.”
“Cousins? Uncles?”
“All brothers.”
I whistle and make a quick count, “Eight brothers? Wow. What’s that like?”
“Smelly. But fun. Always had someone to go digging around the creek for frogs with or play catch.”
“Baseball?”
“Pigskin.”
“Figures,” I groan. “Contact sports and mud under your fingernails. Bet your parents were glad they had a girl.”
Another quirky laugh and I wander over to the laptop on the kitchen table. “So, what’s the password?”
“Nope.”
“That’s pretty easy. You should have eight or more characters and a mix of letters, numbers. Long phrases work best.”
“I mean, no password for you.”
“Why not?”
“You need to get some rest.”
I head for my backpack, conveniently dropped in a chair on the other side of the kitchen table, and dig out my multi-tool. I flip out the screwdriver and start to remove the laptop’s case screws.
“And what are you doing?”
“If I pop the BIOS battery, it might reset the initial password.”
“Cute. I said no.”
“Yeah, and you also said you didn’t know where my dad is.”
“Spencer, I don’t. Honestly.” Her voice trails into a whisper. “I wish I did.”
“I see. More of the ‘keep Spence in the dark and feed him shit’ routine. Been there, done that. I should be sprouting mushrooms by now.” My hand hovers over the keys.
“That analogy, I can appreciate. But I’m still saying no.”
“C’mon. If I’m forced to start guessing passwords I might get you locked out.”
She shrugs and keeps sorting clothes as she replies, “The laptop was for research mostly, but also to monitor the signal from Hotel One. So as of right now, I don’t use it much.” She’s calling my bluff. I sigh, set my multi-tool on the table, and drop into a chair.
Through the kitchen window lies an open courtyard. The darkness shines with flared pools of landscape lighting. The colors on the flowers seem incredibly vibrant. Under the lights, they glow as if they’re plugged in, too. So different.
“Hotel One? That’s what you called the bunker?” I call out, but Emily doesn’t answer right away. “I’ve got a few more names for Popsicle One if you ever want to hear them.”
“No. I�
��m sure I don’t,” she replies, softly this time.
I can feel her eyes on me as I stare into the brick courtyard. With Dad, you can feel his gaze, too. A presence, a weight, that could crush you as easily as his inhumanly powerful hands. Her’s is different. A feeling I’m not used to anymore.
“I just want to know what’s going on. For once,” I say as I switch from the flowers to the reflection in the window. Emily’s standing right behind me.
She hesitates. “I don’t know any more than you do.” Her jaw flexes and she looks at me with a forced smile, “Go get some sleep. You need it. I’ll come get you once I find anything out. I’m sure he’ll be back by the time you wake up.”
“I don’t need anyone to protect me. Check this out.”
“Spencer…”
Snatching my backpack, I pull out the iPod and bring up the photo.
There I am, hamming it up with that… beast… looming in the background. A shiver runs down my spine. The dark figure stands frozen in the breach of what used to be impregnable safe room doors. Doors that shattered like an eggshell. Then there’s me, oblivious to the terror right below the surface of my skin.
She’s already watching expectantly. It’s a little late to put away the picture.
“Check it out.”
She looks puzzled as she takes the iPod and stares at the screen. Puzzled goes to shocked at warp speed. She jerks the tiny screen closer.
“Spencer Harrington! What, what the hell?”
This is the part I’ve been waiting for—where I retell the glorious story of how I single-handedly took out a drone. The words won’t form. My hardcore selfie was supposed to impress Dad, not her. Maybe get me out of the kid’s club. But her scolding tone hits with an arctic blast of reality. No matter what I say, I am a kid to her. She’s some biology genius that runs around with Augments and probably feels pity for “normal” people, like me.
“What were you thinking?” Her face is frozen. Shock, horror, I’m not sure what all is going on. I turn to the window as she continues, “You waited there for it? Were you trying to get yourself killed?”
“No. Well, yes and then no.”
“I was going to ask why you had to leave. I mean, I figured it was traumatizing. I’d give you time before prying too much. But I didn’t know you had a death wish!”
“It was pretty friggin’ easy, for your information!” My thoughts scramble farther away from sounding impressive, in control. Dad could always sound that way. If he was ordering pizza, it came out as an earth-shattering event. My voice is small and reedy. “Look, the EMP backwash from the launch disabled it. Then, I unplugged it like a desk lamp. No problem.”
“That thing could have torn you apart!” Then her stare moves beyond the muted glow of the iPod screen still clutched in her hands. Maybe she’s starting to see my sheer genius. Any minute now, she’ll congratulate me on a job well done. By the expression when she looks up, I know I’m way off base and need to intervene.
“I fried a robot! Look, look at the photo! Me!”
“Once fired, the launch tube would require an adjustment or realignment. The slightest shift could translate into miles off-course.” Her voice ratchets up in decibels, “That’s why you missed the landing site!”
“What part of ‘I took out a robot’ are you not hearing? Come on, give me some credit!”
“When I saw the pod overshoot the field, I thought I was going to have to tell Sean you were dead!”
“Sean, huh?” Nobody calls him that. Except Mom. Even in his cover identities it was always “Mr. Insert-Name-of-the-Month-Here”.
Emily stands absolutely still. Her lips part and she shakes her head before speaking. “Spencer, it’s been a long day.” Her brow is knotted and she clutches her elbows as her fingers clench and relax. She’s suddenly radiating a helplessness which I’m intimately familiar with.
“You really don’t know where he is?”
She turns away and makes the short trip to the living room. Motioning for me to sit, she lowers herself into the couch and reaches for the remote. “I was avoiding this, waiting for you to be asleep. C’mon, let’s see what we can find out.”
Nice. No direct link or high-tech communicator. She has to watch the news, too.
Chapter 13
It doesn’t take long to find the reports. My family’s well-protected secret is on network television 24/7 for everyone else to see. I’ve never been able to appreciate the irony. Worried about Dad? He’s always as close as a tube, a mesh of LCDs, or a plasma bulb will allow.
The cable news channels run the story nonstop. Local stations scroll updates beneath their normal shows. A battle, death tolls, the Crimson Mask, the Black Beetle… Of course, he had to save the world again.
The tone is more frantic though. Right away, I can tell something else must’ve happened, something big. Emily settles on a channel and pulls her knees up to her chest.
A slick-haired anchor speaks with a calm voice and perfect intonation. He’s backlit by scorched highway scenes straight out of a zombie apocalypse movie. “…continue following events in Mumbai, where earlier today, the Crimson Mask again went head-to-head with the Black Beetle and a small army of drones. The attacks left several blocks in ruins. At last count, one hundred and fifty-seven people are dead or wounded.”
Images cycle behind the anchor. Explosions on a crowded highway blossom into orange pillars writhing beneath tendrils of black smoke. Buildings wear the faces of war, gnarled maws of brick and metal beneath blasted, windowed eyes. Crowds run thick across rippled pavement strewn with the empty shells of vehicles.
“Our correspondent Krina Singh is live, speaking to witnesses of today’s tragic attack.”
A news anchor, her oval face framed by shiny locks of hair too perfectly draped for the devastation around her, steps into view. Beside her stands a dark-skinned man with a bushy black mustache, his mouth a tight purple band snapping rapidly as he spits a stream of harsh consonants and heavy vowels into the microphone. The correspondent nods crisply and retracts the mike, translating the man’s words, “’They are all terrorists,’ this man says. ‘These men have dared to be gods and brought only death to peaceful people. They are shatterers of worlds, and the countries that created these monsters should be held accountable.’” The camera pans out to the wrecked city. “I’ve been hearing these sentiments from nearly everyone here on the streets of Mumbai…”
I grab the remote and start surfing. I don’t need to hear this shit. One of these channels has to have footage of what went down. Stations float by wildly. Talking dogs. Laughing kids. A guy fixing his car with a blue pill floating in the background. Commercials—one thing I didn’t miss in the bunker. Finally, I find another station with coverage.
“…battled with the robot forces of the notorious Black Beetle. The attack started in the early morning hours as millions of workers in the world’s most densely-populated city were leaving for work. Our news affiliate from CNBC-TV18 brought us this footage live from the scene. We’re still trying to contact senior correspondent Rafi Adani, and our thoughts are with him and all of Mumbai tonight.”
The footage rolls into a close-in shot of Dad. He’s rocketing full force toward the ground, a highway covered in death and destruction beneath him.
I’ve never seen news footage this clear of any Augment in action. A jigsaw line of jagged sheet rock is briefly visible along the edge of the frame. They’re filming out of the upper floor of an office building from where a wall used to stand. Looking down on the chaotic scene gives a perspective like a chess board with the pieces arrayed mid-play. There’s a familiarity about the actions of the drones, but I can’t quite put a finger on it.
I’m anxious to see Dad again, but the view crushes that anxiety. There are dozens of drones. They’re running rampant in the streets, hovering in the air, taking potshots at buildings, vehicles, fleeing motorists.
Two talking heads start jabbering, and the scene shrinks to an inset. The wor
d “surrender” parses my hazy thoughts, but I focus past the talk.
“Go back to the video!” I shout. Pointless yelling at a TV, at prerecorded footage, I’m screaming into the past, but I can’t help it. I realize I’m off the couch and hammering the volume to hear the inset’s audio above the banter. News anchors’ voices echo in the tiny apartment. Emily lightly touches my arm.
“Spencer…” Her voice is pleading, but I shake off her hand.
In the smaller picture, Dad collides with one of the drones midair and it buckles, arms flailing under the force. The drone recovers quickly, and a torrent of sparks and errant tracers spew from a hidden cannon. Dad shields his face, palms out, forearms laced, and bullets ricochet across the dead freeway.
As the drone empties a cannon harmlessly into Dad’s face, the other drones pause. It’s brief but noticeable. Then, two break away while the rest go back to work, slaughtering people—people cowering in their cars, people running for cover, people being idiots and peeking around corners with smart phones in hand. Anyone is fair game.
While Dad responds to the nearest drone, the oddness I couldn’t place my finger on starts to materialize—it’s a storm of pawns. His opponent is twisting Dad’s stupid mantras against him. Whittling down his defenses through blind sacrifice while bringing the most carnage possible. This threat cannot be neutralized and was never made to be. The important pieces have been kept out of reach, stalling for time. For this moment.
The lead-spraying drone lashes out with a clawed hand and Dad steps to the side, grabbing the arm and tearing it free in a shower of hydraulic fluid and metal shavings. A backhand smash, and the drone’s head launches down the highway out of view as the knees go slack.
At that instant, Dad’s eyes snap to his wrist. The beacon.
Motionless, he stares down while two drones blast in, rockets flaring white-hot from metal boots. They skip their cannons and careen into him, full force.
Dad and the collection of tin go hurtling toward the breach in the news studio wall. The melee goes off screen, above the shot. Brick and glass rain as screams erupt from a floor above. Once again, the video inset takes up the whole screen and the talking heads fall silent.