Reaction

by Seth M. Baker

  Behind them, the two riders had helped the third up. They chased, close behind. Suddenly something under foot, a bulge, solid. Amadeus heard himself scream then realized it was not a landmine, but he lost his balance anyway and tumbled forward, his face slamming into the dirt. He felt hands in his armpits. Being pulled up. Back on his feet. Running again. Crack of gunshots. Gasping, ducking. He saw the gnarly old banyan tree that marked the edge of the clearing. Nearby, he saw the faint distortion of the tarp. If he hadn’t been looking for it, he wouldn’t have seen it.

  “Over here, we’ll get underneath it,” Amadeus said. “Follow me and stay low.”

  “Underneath what?” Laroux asked, looking around. Amadeus crouched down, Laroux did the same, and they duck-walked through the high grass. More gunshots, but who knew what they were shooting at? Amadeus lifted the side of the tarp and pushed Laroux underneath. He crawled in behind him. Laroux chuckled when he realized they were underneath the Pachyderm. This could hide them, but not for long. He stood up and slid the side door opened. Laroux followed. Amadeus hopped in the chair and hit the switches for auxiliary power. He hoped that when he started the turbofans the tarp would fly away. By this time, he was sure the motorcycle guys were in the field, though the constant stream of gunfire had stopped.

  “What is this thing?” Laroux asked between breaths.

  “It’s a second–generation experimental variable–pitch turbofan prototype craft. It’s called the Pachyderm.” Amadeus felt a little pride then, but a fresh barrage of gunfire burst that bubble. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, seeing the take off in his mind. In a matter of seconds, he was ready and started with the preflight tasks. He fired up the turbofans and the tarp flew away, revealing the field around them. Then a grinding, grating sound made his heart slam against his ribs. Diagnostics showed an obstruction in the right front turbofan. He tried first reversing the flow then shutting it down and restarting it, but nothing worked. He’d have to pull the tarp out by hand. Gunfire slammed into the Pachyderm and, out of instinct, Amadeus hunkered down in his seat.

  “I will fix this,” Laroux said. He opened the door, holding his side as he did. Blood seeped from between Laroux’s fingers.

  “No, no, you’re bleeding, you’re not leaving,” Amadeus said. “Just give me a minute.”

  “Yes, I am bleeding, and I am leaving because you don’t have a minute. I’ll pull the tarp out so you can go. I will surrender to them and bribe my way out.”

  “Laroux...”

  “There’s no time. You’ve got a job to do. Godspeed Amadeus,” Laroux said. “And tell Jones I said he’s a two-faced shitbag.”

  With that, Laroux jumped from the Pachyderm and began pulling the tarp free. He turned and made eye contact with Amadeus when the gunfire started. The tarp tore loose and flapped in the wind. Bullets ripped through the tarp, spinning Laroux around and hammering against the Pachyderm. Blood splattered on the glass. Amadeus cried out. Laroux fell to the ground.

  Amadeus slammed the vertical control lever forward, harder than he knew he should. The Pachyderm shot straight up, the pressurization valves hissing as he did. Bullets pinged against the nanosteel frame of the Pachyderm. Below, Laroux was sprawled out like a man who has just finished a marathon, his bloody torso partially obscured by the tarp. As the ground shrank beneath him and the Pachyderm entered the clouds, Amadeus began to wail like a young woman made a widow.

  Half an hour later, Amadeus felt like he could think again. Laroux was dead, Amadeus thought, and that was a tragedy, but he had to pick himself up and answer the questions that swirled in his mind like the morning mist: what could he do? What would he tell Jones? What would he tell Lilly? She knew something was wrong, but was she prepared to deal with what Amadeus had to do? Would Lilly turn against her own father?

  He wouldn’t kill Jones, that wasn’t necessary or prudent. Besides, Amadeus didn’t have that in him. Too many had already died on his account. And Jones hadn’t killed his father…just found a way to profit from his death. Could he simply restrain him? But then what? Could Amadeus use Jones to find Ross?

  The unanswered questions made his head hurt, and to answer them, he needed more information, more time to figure things out, and more time to decompress. So many people had died. No more. This had to end. First he needed to find a public computer somewhere and contact Grassal on the secure email account, warn him to leave Colorado. Jones would protect his daughter, but not Grassal. But what if Grassal could monitor Jones’ communications? Maybe he could find out whether or not Jones was working for Ross, someone else, or for himself.

  Amadeus wanted to think about something else, but his mind was a water wheel, going around in a circle, picking up then dropping the same payload, and returning to the same place. The situation was delicate as crystal. How could he make plans without knowing the whole picture? Some variables remained undefined: the contents of the flash drive. But he couldn’t do it on the computers he had on hand. He needed to buy some time, to continue playing the fool, and to find a safe place to figure this out.

  42

  Amadeus opened the communications software on the large computer and called Jones. Jones listened impassively as Amadeus related what happened. “What about the bio-lock? You can open the files now?” His oversized pupil had grown even bigger, but that could’ve been a distortion of the camera lens.

  “There’s a problem,” Amadeus said, ready with the lie he had practiced. “The computer was damaged. When they were chasing me, I fell; the screen is cracked and it won’t start. Maybe…”

  “How could you be so careless?” Jones said. Amadeus bit down on his tongue and tried not to begin a verbal tirade that would end up blowing his front. Jones paused, saw the feigned worry on Amadeus’ face. “But that’s okay. The screens are fragile but those solid state drives can take a beating. I’m sure we can extract the data when you return to the Estate.” Amadeus gave Jones an apologetic grin and tried to read his face, but got nothing. Jones seemed to believe his story. “And Amadeus, there were more demons. Check the news on the computer for the details. You need to come back here as soon as you can.”

  “Oh my god. That’s awful,” Amadeus said. Jones was playing him like he was a timpani.

  “Okay, I’ll be back in a couple days. It’s a long flight home.”

  “Be careful,” Jones said. “I’d hate to see any more misfortune befall you. I’m…glad you’re okay.”

  Amadeus broke the connection and Jones’ face faded out. Next he connected with Grassal. Grassal’s face appeared.

  “How’s the leg?”

  “Great, man. I’ve ditched the crutches and I’m using a cane now. We ran out of pain pills, but Jones has some medical chronic he shares with me. That helps a little; it still hurts, but I just don’t care.”

  “What about your friends?” Amadeus said.

  “My friends? What friends?” Amadeus wondered if Grassal was stoned now. He widened his eyes and tried Lilly’s secret word again, hoping he would figure it out.

  “You know, the friends you and Lilly talked about. Have you heard from them?” Amadeus said. Grassal got it.

  “Maybe I should check on them.”

  “Damn right you should. Okay, nice talking to you. Take care of that leg.” Their video connection shut down. Amadeus found a proxy server, entered the address to Grassal’s private chat channel. Amadeus started typing.

  [AB2101]: Bad shit going down, G. Jones is in on this. I just haven’t figured out how.

  [Greasemonkey]: Lilly said he was acting strange. What should I do?

  [AB2101]: That’s up to you. You can leave CO or you can try and intercept Jones’ communications. Right now I need to get a good look at Dad’s research.

  [Greasemonkey]: Less suspicious if I stay. But since I’m here, I’ll put a backdoor on the bunker’s security system. It’ll be my own little insurance policy. You saw what happened in West Virginia?

  [AB2101]: Some of it; how did it end?
<
br />   [Greasemonkey]: With press conferences. The president came on, said this was an act of terrorism, and those responsible would be found out. He talked about how the university in Huntington was known for first isolating and identifying kipium, though the president never said that was the reason Huntington was attacked. Then, within minutes, a video was released by the BBC of our friend Ross. He said that while he wasn’t responsible for the Huntington Incident, we should use this opportunity to reflect on our way of life. He said this was the end of the iron age, then went on about some Hindu religious stuff.

  [AB2101]: Laroux said the same that, that at their last meeting Ross gave this big speech about the churning of the ocean of milk. It’s a creation myth, but it’s also a story of demigods and demons. Crazy fucker thinks he’s a demigod. But Laroux says Ross doesn’t really understand the myth, he just likes the imagery. What is the government doing?

  [Greasemonkey]: Whatever the government does. They said they have people working on it and they expect another attack within the next two weeks.

  [AB2101]: I’ve got to think…

  [Greasemonkey]: Not much time for thinking. Besides, you might hurt yourself. Strange stuff going on here, too. The contractors have been taking supplies down and working on the bunker, the panic room, whatever he calls it. Before all this, I thought it was Jones being paranoid. Now it makes sense. Jones said it was just routine maintenance. I think that’s bullshit.

  [AB2101]: I think you’re right. Where is Gravity?

  [Greasemonkey]: He sent you and I a postcard from West Virginia with his signature. No message, just a winking smiley face. Maybe he’s playing detective and trying to make some money. The Chinese did put out a billion dollar bounty on whoever can find the man responsible for the attack.

  [AB2101]: Well, the Chinese can afford it. I can’t say for sure when I’ll be back. Do what you need to do…and keep in touch.

  After Amadeus shut down the chat channel, he took out the phone and turned it over in his hand. Hoping that he had properly disconnected the wireless transmitter and receiver, he opened the bio-lock software then used that to open the files. A status bar told him to wait as the information loaded. While he waited he chewed his thumbnail, biting it down to the quick.

  A little green light flashed on the screen and a new window opened. There they were: hundreds of folders, labeled and dated. Amadeus found the folder called “schematics.” The small screen showed several dozen AutoCAD files and one folder. He opened the folder, inside, a hypertext database entitled “Lorentzian wormhole/transitional portal prototype;” everything one needed to know about building demon gates, even down to the types of demons found at different settings.

  He scrolled through the other folders and found an intriguing one called “miscellaneous.” He opened it to find a single text file three paragraphs long. The further he read, the more excited he became. By the end, he had almost jumped out of the chair. There, in bold, twelve-point Arial font, his father had written that “in this particular application, before and after electron bombardment, kipium emits a frequency that interferes with common consumer electronics for up to three kilometers away. The closer the proximity, the higher the frequency. Analog cordless telephones and police scanners are especially susceptible to this interference. kipium is like a homing device, and phones and scanners are the receivers. The effect is even stronger after bombardment.”

  “Beautiful! Dad, you’re a genius,” Amadeus said. He started laughing, laughing in spite of everything that happened, laughing at this simple solution, at the absurdity of his long errand. Then he felt the guilt crushing down on him; if he had known about the frequencies, he never would’ve needed to make this errand, and maybe Laroux and Vesely would still be alive. Why didn’t his father tell him that? Amadeus put his hand on his forehead. Despite his excitement, he felt a headache coming on, felt a weight crushing down on him, on his shoulders, on his body, like he was deep, deep underwater. For a moment he wondered what the weight was, and then he knew: He was a turtle. He was Vishnu. And the world rested upon his back.

  43

  For three days, as he made the return flight to the States, he formulated a plan. The science and engineering was easy: with a parabolic dish and a cordless phone, he could make improvements the regular cordless phone and develop a device anyone could use to locate a demon gate and destroy it. But what baffled him was the human factor. How could he share his findings with the world?

  While he mulled this problem, he watched news analysts react to an intelligence leak that suggested demon gates would appear in several major cities around the world. Ross was one of these analysts, speaking over video chat from an unknown location; Amadeus guessed Ross’ wildly controversial opinions would be great for ratings. An Indian intellectual pointed out several errors in Ross’ understanding of the churning of the ocean of milk and said that his use of the story was a “bamboozlement of mythology.” Ross maintained that he was only attempting to interpret these events as he understood them.

  Ross was dressed in a well-tailored suit and could have been any of the investment bankers in New York. But instead of talking about returns and derivatives, Ross spoke about death and rebirth. He called the lecherous demons of humanity an infectious algae plume, the world a sea. He said that now we must unite and face the threat, and that as the sea churned, the world would cleanse itself of its “many diverse poisons” and would receive in turn great elixirs of happiness and serenity.

  While Ross spoke, he was polite and respectful, even while he was shouted down by everyone who spoke with him. Amadeus remembered reading that the Khmer Rouge were generally considered very polite. Ross’ smile never wavered; Amadeus had seen this expression before on the faces of both actors and the self-proclaimed righteous: ideologues, demagogues, fanatics. He wished he could reach through the screen and strangle him, this monster who had murdered his father. And the gall, the nerve he had, to parade his

  A small part of Amadeus even suspected that this was a long and elaborate con on Ross’ part; despite his smooth delivery, Amadeus had trouble believing that Ross actually believed what he was saying. Ross was a computer scientist and venture capitalist, and his past behavior belied the tin-foil philosopher image he had created for himself. And, as others had pointed out, the ideas rolling off Ross’ tongue were so disjointed and outlandish that Amadeus suspected Ross had simply pulled them out of his ass in order to jar people from their complacency.

  If this was Ross’ intention, it worked; in national addresses, leaders from around the world pleaded with Ross or whoever had unleashed the creatures in West Virginia. Their messages were variations on a few themes: some threatened, some exhorted, some even offered money, power, and dialog. The President of the United States offered open negotiations (while at the same time matching the billion dollar death bounty offered by the Chinese for the culprit’s head). Governments also called on their people to remain calm, but that was like telling a dog not to lick its own ass. In developing countries, riots and looting broke out like malaria epidemics during the rainy season. Religious fervor swept the world like a dust storm, mass conversions took place blocks away from stonings and suicides. Some people tried to organize vigilante groups like the ones from Huntington. A vast majority of people, not knowing what else to do, simply went on about their daily lives.

  With the leak of the document that suggested demon gates would appear in major cities, the reaction was understandable, according to analysts. The world had watched as Huntington, a city of 50,000, was nearly destroyed by two demon gates and, according to the last count, twenty three demons. Killing these had taken a majority of the 101st Airborne, one brigade from a private military corporation named the Jessup Group, and not a few well-armed citizens. If hundreds or, as the document implied, thousands, of these were loosed upon the world, what hope did the world have?

  Yet, Amadeus knew that he could offer them hope…but first he needed to confirm his hypothesis. For that, he would n
eed a demon gate. The two from Huntington had been destroyed. The ones created by his father were probably stolen. Unless he happened to find a prototype the attackers had somehow missed, he would have to build one on his own to test the device he had named the Gate Crasher.

  Amadeus again tried to call Grassal, but no one answered. He tried the chat channel, but no one was there. He tried Lilly and even Jones. Four times a day, he dialed Colorado, but the compound was incommunicado. The phones rang, his messages and emails went unanswered. Amadeus tried not to think of what had happened. He hated himself for thinking it, but his friends would have to wait. Thinking of a phrase his mother had used, he decided he had bigger fish to fry. How archaic. These days, everyone eats squid.

  44

  Amadeus landed in the woods behind his old house. From the air, everything looked normal. The house was intact, the driveway empty save for the leaves of autumn. The sun hung high, warming his skin and relaxing muscles tense from three days flying. After the heat in Cambodia, this felt like standing before an open refrigerator. All around him, grasshoppers chittered and buzzed. With great caution, he approached his house from behind. He felt like a trespasser, even though this was his land. At least, it should have been his. As a wanted man, Amadeus wasn’t sure what rights he had, nor did he care. This was his field, his home. Yet none of it felt like home. He wasn’t sure why; maybe it had something to do with the boards over the windows and the yellow police tape strewn around the yard like party streamers. Someone, probably a teenager, had decided to decorate the back wall of the house with a crudely painted red cock-and-balls. He wasn’t sure who had boarded the windows, but he was glad they did. At least he and his father still had some friends out here.