Iris Rising

by Charles Hubbard

  The gun twists with the body’s momentum and hits the floor hard and rings out through the steel shell.

  A gun.

  Masen stumbles to his feet scrambling for the source of the sound. Every ounce of energy funnels into arms and legs to stand and run. He feels dizzy and sways standing but looks ahead then behind to check his orientation.

  The colonel clears the strap of his gun. A foot kicks it into the sea of blackness, and struggling to get balance a leg crashes into his head. Arms grab a hold of a leg and Masen topples.

  Both men now know what they’re up against. Arms thrash against each other, legs and torsos twist and push to gain an advantage. Masen finds a head and pushes it hard into the floor, leverages himself up and takes a powerful punch to the stomach for his efforts. Lurching over and falling on his hands he faces the door and makes out a faint ‘L’ shape.

  A way out.

  He jumps forward on both hands. The grip on his leg loosens enough for him to twist free. Anticipating an attempt to subdue him, kicks back. This time he hears a moan. Masen’s hand contacts a metal object. He grabs it.

  ‘Stop. I don’t want to hurt you,’ a strained voice yells out.

  Masen doesn’t recognize it. He stands and stumbles for the door, turns his shoulder and bursts through.

  Disorientated, Masen rests, pushing into the door handle as he looks around, trying to figure out where the hell he is. His breathing echoes and notices the warmth and that he’s somewhere different.

  A different building.

  In front is a table and a computer attached to a thick cable.

  The door thuds against this shoulder.

  ‘Building 7.’

  Like a trapped animal that thrashes itself into accepting its predicament, the pounding on the door lessens after what feels like minutes. Masen looks for a pin to fit through a small opening that will lock the door.

  As adrenalin dilutes, he closes his eyes to concentrate the pain away. The gun becomes heavy and he lets the strap slip through his fingers as he bows his head. The material rubs until the metal catch wedges against his hand which falls with the weight. He notices material looped around a thin metal spike in the strap. Quickly separates the pin by bending the metal bar down and pulls the loop out using his fingers as pliers. Manipulates the spike so it sticks out and breaks it off. It takes several attempts but he manages to force the wonky pin through the hole.

  Without a handle inside, the man can bang as much as he wants, but the door won’t open, the force is focused into the doorframe and surrounding metal box.

  Masen slides down the door until he rests on solid ground. The building is vast. Over to his right there is a table with a metal chair with no cushion or comfort designed into its construction. An army chair. Tilting his head he makes out a mattress, with folded hospital grade corners, and a pillow, square and patted smooth.

  I have to press the button.

  He gets up with the aid of the gun, using it like a walking cane and walks over to the table.

  Green or red?

  43

  Masen had only just pressed the button when the entirety of what he went through hits him. He is on the ground pulling off shoes and socks feeling toes, counting fingers and testing the hardness of his skull. Searches thoughts in case they were reassembled incorrectly. Remembers important moments from his childhood; the smell of warm apple pie; the six times table; the crack of a baseball bat as it sends the ball over the fence; his first: Betsy across the street. And recent events, university, and the formulas contained in the article.

  He sniffs to smell something, anything. Briefly an aroma of hot metal, car fumes and cooked meat fills his nostrils only to disappear just as quickly. Pats his legs, groin and shakes arms violently, and breathes heavily to test lungs.

  ‘I teleported,’ he says laughing. ‘It worked…it works.’ Holds out fingers and marvels at the swirls on his fingertips that make out his uniqueness. Destroyed and reassembled on the other side of the world. The distance vast, yet he hadn’t noticed a thing. Only remembers running into the dark room and waking up disoriented with a sore head.

  He knows Mooney will be on the phone to call in the inspection team.

  He cast his mind back to her photo: yes, she is there. Jessica, suspended in perpetuity, hair, the light, the feeling. Small things. The taste of beer, remembers what salt tastes like, and sugar, the feeling of driving, of wind and the grunt of the engine. ‘I’m ok.’ And remembers the two small incisions from the taser, lifts up his shirt and feels around. Sighs with relief.

  Then his face falls.

  Suddenly the vastness of the space presses down on him. Yes, he survived, got away, but what of Jessica, Kim and Sparks? Suddenly he isn’t so exhilarated, so thrilled to be standing here. He is safe, but like so many other times in his life, he is alone. He’d run away, just like his parents.

  His stomach growls, a deep sustained bass permeating from deep within his stomach. Investigating the table, sees only a telephone and screwed up wax paper with few crumbs scattered across the table as if the soldier was in a hurry to finish.

  ‘Mooney and Nash think I’m dead.’

  Now he has to come up with a plan.

  Over by a door he sees a bucket and tray. He walks past the box, gun raised. The warm concrete feels solid and good against his skin as he plays with various grips and looks down the sight. And holds it like they do in the movies—twisted sideways in front with a finger on the trigger, feet slightly apart. A thumb finds the safety. He plays with it, flicks it on and off, getting used to the feel of it: cold, heavy and dark. Not like online games. This is the real thing, with real bullets.

  The tray has food. He eagerly eats half a ham sandwich and snaps the tab off a can of soft drink. He hasn’t finished when he hears the door handle twist. Unsure what to do, stands and takes two steps back and waits, raises the barrel to the door.

  ‘Stick em up.’ No, that’s stupid. The gun rattles nervously in his hands. Fingers tighten and hands are sweaty against the metal. ‘Hands up.’ No.

  Before investigating a third possibility he is confronted by two surprised soldiers, one showing palms at the sight of the assault rifle, the other holding a plastic box slightly larger than a cardboard storage box, both looking confused then to each other for a possible answer.

  Masen gestures for them to move away from the door.

  ‘Over there,’ Masen whispers. They move reluctantly. Masen closes the door peering through the thin gap into the fading outside light. ‘Anyone else?’

  They stand still. The man holding the box strains under its weight, his arms shaking slightly. The other is holding a cell phone, but the screen isn’t glowing so he isn’t talking to anyone or sending a text.

  ‘Who are you?’ The soldier with the cell asks calmly, yet visibly annoyed.

  ‘Answer the question,’ Masen jabs the gun at him. There is a palpable pause as both men struggle with the situation. Masen lifts his aim to the man’s head.

  ‘No one, just us. We’re here to report—’

  Masen holds out a hand. ‘Put the box down and give me the cell phone.’

  ‘Did you come out of the room?’ the soldier handing over the cell asks, then looks over at the empty chair. Masen twitches and shifts on the spot. ‘If you did, you know what you’re up against.’

  The other soldier slowly bends down and places the box on the floor and says, ‘There’s no way out.’

  ‘Back up.’ Masen pockets the cell, watching the pair as the gun keeps aim. ‘Don’t think I won’t.’

  Both men look at each other. They know. ‘John Masen,’ the man straightening up from placing the box says. ‘You’re wanted for blowing up the CIA building in Boston.’

  ‘Over to the bed,’ Masen orders. Walks five paces behind, leaving the box and scans for any other weapons that might be strapped to their legs or torsos. He can’t detect any. At the mattress he says, ‘Sit down and c
ross your legs. Cross your fingers behind your head.’

  Masen pushes the metal table aside for a clear view of the men. The sound of scrapping metal echoes. Then walks backwards to the metal box watching the men. Pulls the pin out of the lock, and taps the door with a hand, feels sweat forming on his forehead. He knows he is vulnerable, covering both men and another soon to come out of the metal box.

  The phone vibrates. Not now.

  Masen notices the men looking questioning at each other. He hurries back and stands behind the men and throws the cell on the mattress. ‘Just breathe,’ he intones.

  ‘No tricks.’ Masen frees a hand to mop his brow.

  ‘It’s a bloody mess,’ Masen says thrusting the barrel into the man’s back as he picks up the cell. ‘Use those exact words…It’s a bloody mess.’

  ‘Sir,’ the man says answering and turns around looking up at the gun. ‘No, there’s no spurting blood this time, more material though, unrecognizable.’ Gives him a look that says he’s doing as he’s been told. ‘…It’s a bloody mess.’

  The man nods.

  I should have put it on speaker, Masen thinks.

  ‘Understood, Sir. Another one coming through.’ The phone call is over, the cell held high for Masen which he takes and shoves back in his pocket.

  Next is the man locked up in the box.

  The puck from the seals and the squeak from the hinges is heard. The door inches open. ‘Come out,’ Masen says. ‘I have your weapon. Move slowly. Hands where I can see them.’

  The colonel emerges and is lead to sit next to the others.

  ‘What’s next?’ Masen asks the man who just staggered out from the room.

  The man stares as if Masen is some curiosity, as if he might be a mirage, some hologram or ghost; a mystery man materialized out of thin air. ‘What I’ve been doing for days.’ Clicks his jaw and rubs his head. ‘Wait.’

  ‘Assume the position,’ Masen says gesturing to the soldiers shifting uncomfortably on the mattress. He thinks of boiled eggs his mom used to make for him with rows of soldier toast all lined up on his plate.

  44

  U.S. Naval Base, Sasebo, Japan

  ‘Better fix the problem, Nash,’ Mooney says looking around at the team’s dejected faces. ‘Batter up.’

  ‘This is madness,’ Nash pleads. ‘It has to stop.’

  ‘Get the damn thing fixed and working properly so the light goes green,’ Mooney says turning to Sparks.

  ‘I’m trying,’ Sparks says.

  ‘Think you helped Masen?’ Mooney laughs. ‘Bozeman told me how keen you were to betray your friend. Thought it was a bit too easy. Maybe I shouldn’t employ your services.’

  ‘I thought I was doing—’

  ‘You betrayed a friend, that’s all. But I’m grateful, I really am.’ And points to Lane. ‘I’m always in need of people to help me deal with the…details.’ And as if thinking between choices, repeatedly taps a finger against his gun, now holstered.

  ‘Not him,’ Lane says. ‘Bradbury.’

  ‘Well, line her up,’ Mooney says waving a scooping hand like he’s hauling in a great catch ‘And Nash, let’s not have one of your speeches. They annoyed the hell out of me.’ Points to Bradbury. ‘You’re up princess.’ Then to Nash as if pinning all responsibility on him: ‘I imagine cooked Masen doesn’t look pretty. Bloody mess apparently. Better get it right, Sparks.’

  Bradbury sobs.

  Sparks looks puzzling at the controls. ‘I don’t understand, it should have worked…unless the technology.’

  Mooney orders Pak to help Bradbury to her feet.

  ‘Better understand soon,’ Mooney says. ‘My men won’t take long cleaning out the pen.’

  Annoyed at a lack of Bradbury’s progress, Lane bursts forward and knocks Pak to the ground and grabs her arm.

  ‘Let me help you,’ Lane says straining. ‘Let’s make this fast. I won’t be finished until little miss perfect here is mashed up with Masen. You two will make a nice romantic omelet.’ Smiling at the visual discomfort on her face, pulls her up and onto her feet.

  ‘Please General,’ Nash says. ‘A few days back at the facility should be all I need to get the parameters right.’

  ‘There’s no new timetable,’ Mooney says and stabs a finger hard into Nash’s chest. ‘Make sure the test succeeds.’ Remembering the helicopter ride, adds ‘Go over and supervise Sparks. As I remember you work well under pressure.’

  Soon the tanks start spurting and noise fills an uncomfortable silence. The ground again fills with a reddish fog, swirling around their feet.

  Lane points a gun at the back of Bradbury’s head. Accepting her fate, she walks forward and soon disappears into the darkness.

  Nash double-checks all the settings. Sparks is crying, struggling to maintained his composure as he studies the machinery.

  Masen takes out the cell and scrolls down the handful of recent calls. All entries read the same: General Mooney. The times and dates coincide with what he suspects were known DUST tests. He has no idea who to call, not De Luca, not his parents. Thinks, no wonder why Black chose me as a patsy.

  Curious, he opens the contacts list and feels blood rushing to his head seeing an entry. ‘Amos Bozeman.’

  The men laugh.

  ‘Something funny?’ Masen looks up.

  ‘Colonel Amos Bozeman. You know him?’ the soldier who held the box asks.

  Touching the scabbed up sore on his head says, ‘I owe him a little something. Why, what’s funny?’

  ‘Mooney hates him. Only tolerates him because he’s married to Bozeman’s—’

  The soldier is interrupted by a prod to his ribs.

  Masen points the gun and orders the man to continue. ‘Sister…has him banished as far away as possible because he’s married to Bozeman’s sister.’

  The computer buzz startles Masen and the cell almost falls out of his hands as he clutches the gun. Fumbling, he manages to stow the cell in his pocket as a ‘whomp’ noise resonates throughout the hanger.

  Inhaling deeply, Masen opens the door and steps back. His breathing quickens: friend or foe? Strikes the door with the butt of the gun. ‘Come out.’ Steps closer to the metal wall, turning his head to watch the soldiers whisper amongst themselves, assumes they’re discussing the likelihood of someone being alive inside. He hits again. ‘Push the door open.’

  He hears nothing and looks over to check the computer that’s connected to the large cable: it’s flashing. He refuses to tolerate dark thoughts. Chances are they’ll send through Sparks, Bradbury or Pak, but he can’t be certain.

  Deciding to open the door, he orders one of the men over. ‘No, not you,’ Masen says as the soldier who Masen took the cell phone from, the one Masen thinks is itching for a fight, moves to stand. ‘Beside you.’ And points the gun to the colonel who was locked up in the metal box earlier.

  The man stands, walks over and opens the door. Masen steps back for cover, allowing adequate space for the possibility Mooney or Lane is inside and comes out shooting.

  ‘Careful and slowly,’ he says feeling a tingle in the back of his neck picturing Mooney’s gun. Arms tense. Raises the gun at the door. The door opens.

  Masen cranes his head past the man’s head and stares into the darkness. ‘Step back,’ he whispers, then loudly facing the box: ‘I have a gun.’ Fingers whiten. ‘Come outside, arms up.’

  He can’t see anything. There is no movements or sounds, just dead space.

  ‘Masen’s voice?’ Bradbury asks herself. Opening her eyes she sees a golden glow not far away. Extending a hand, it recoiled as fingers touch metal.

  ‘Hello.’ She hears her voice call out.

  ‘Jessica?’

  ‘John?’ Turning, she sees nothing. ‘…is that you?’

  ‘Walk towards my voice.’ Masen finishes the sentence with Bradbury’s arms wrapped tightly around his neck.

  ‘Damn this, Nash,’ the General slams h
is fist on the table. ‘This is your fault.’

  ‘I’m going to kill you,’ Pak screams and runs at Lane. His fury ends a foot short with Lane’s closed fist slamming into his face, sending him to the ground.

  ‘And the North Koreans expect to rule the world,’ Lane quips. Then to Mooney: ‘Maybe we could send through spanners—’

  ‘A spanner?’ Mooney says. ‘It’s worthless if we can’t teleport people.’

  Nash finishes Lane’s thought. ‘…Just to see if,’ and looks to the ground covered in pipes, cables and equipment, ‘I set everything up properly.’ Bends down and picks up a pipe and follows it to the desk and the connected levitating quantum computer.

  ‘He’s lost it,’ Lane says watching Nash scrimmaging on the floor running a cable through his hands. ‘If you don’t get this right Mr Shào will walk. The data for the final test has to be stored in the Barn for verification.’

  ‘We send Pak through,’ Mooney says. ‘And if it doesn’t work, we pack up…there’s another option.’

  Masen holds out his hand, greeting Pak warmly as he steps out of the box. ‘First foreigner to visit the USA by teleportation.’ Shocked, Pak simply nods. ‘Oh! And drink some of this.’ Hands him half a can of soft drink. ‘Should take the taste out of your mouth.’

  He makes a sour face discovering the taste and sips while he looks around. ‘…I…you, teleported?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bradbury says smiling. ‘Kennedy Space Center, Florida.’

  He rushes forward and brushes against Masen—the gun slung over his shoulder catches on Pak’s clothes tearing the plastic suit—and throws arms around Bradbury, slightly lifting her off the ground.

  ‘You hurt?’ he asks pushing her back and inspects as if she’s fruit and he’s looking for imperfections.

  ‘I’m okay.’ She pushes him back gently. ‘I’m home…home.’