Qwiz had never met the professor from CERN but knew they were close. “Are you all okay?”
“We’re alive. There was only two; we stopped them. The problem isn’t our safety. It’s yours.”
“But I haven’t told anyone!”
“I know. But I didn’t either, that’s the thing. They still knew about my research. If they know that much, they must also know where I live too.”
“What can I do?”
“Get out now! Grab the element and the research if you can.”
“I will.”
“Don’t let them get it. Please. And hurry!”
Qwiz tried to assure him he would, but the line was already dead. Qwiz’s mind raced, trying to figure out what could have possibly occurred.
“What’s going on? Somebody die?” Bill asked.
“Yes.”
Bill suddenly focused with a hardness Qwiz had never seen on him before. “It was Luthor, he says he’s in trouble. He’s says we’re in trouble too.”
Clearly, there was an imminent threat to both Qwiz and the 126 in the generator downstairs. A twinge in his gut told him to check the window. He had occasionally glimpsed someone in the shadows following him, perhaps there was someone there now. Heroes always trusted their instincts, so Qwiz decided to trust his. He slowly pulled the curtains back just enough to peer out.
Three jet black SUVs were parked along the street. Qwiz had been at the apartment for a week and had only seen two small electric cars parked there in all that time. Everyone else rode a bike, like Qwiz himself did, or walked. Cars just cost too much carbon to buy and use for normal people to have access to them. And these were SUVs. Charging batteries that large enough for them spewed more carbon than Bill on a tirade.
Qwiz realized that there were people walking—rather, prowling— next to the intimidating vehicles. He hadn’t seen them at first because they too were wearing black. Qwiz jerked back from the window.
“Stone, come look at this,” Qwiz said, noticing the fear in his own voice.
Bill squinted to get a better look. “Son, those bastards are packing some heat. MX-5’s and some other big shit I’ve never seen. Those men are black ops or my balls ain’t hairy.”
Qwiz had no desire to be on the other end of a black ops raid outside of a video game.
“Luthor was right. We are in trouble. Why haven’t they come in?”
“They have probably been here for a while and are just waiting for their signal to strike.”
“Crap.”
“What has Luthor gotten himself into that makes him call you for help and has three goddamn trucks full of soldiers at his door?”
Qwiz hesitated, he had promised. He’d given his sacred word as a man to Luthor that he wouldn’t tell anyone about the 126. But now he had a dozen men apparently ready to charge into the apartment. “I’m sorry. I swore I wouldn’t tell anyone. Not even you.”
Bill’s expression softened. “I know you would never betray your word, but those guys aren’t messing around. Let me help before they bust in here.”
Bill was right. Honor now dictated that his duty to help Luthor trumped anything else, even his promise of secrecy. Maybe Bill could help him. “Dr. Tenrel’s team discovered… something. This is going to sound crazy, but they found a way to generate unlimited power.”
Bill stood there for a moment, considering. “Qwency my boy, I have never known you to lie. If you say it, I’ll believe it.”
“Luthor said people are trying to steal it. We have to get it out.”
Qwiz led Bill downstairs to a small storage room connected to the apartment. He unlocked the door and illuminated the dark room.
“What in the name of shit, is that?” he asked, gaping at Luthor’s generator. A muted whirring came from a tangle of tubes and wires as water whooshed unnaturally through the lattice. Small turbines were placed throughout, harvesting the movement of the water at peak efficiency.
“That’s his generator. Think of it as a hydroelectric dam you can fit in your garage.”
“That’s one hell of thing,” Bill said in wonder.
Qwiz quickly summarized the gravitational properties of the element Luthor had used in the generator. Bill listened quietly without a shred of disbelief.
As they approached the device, gravity fluctuations became overwhelming. Qwiz’s stomach desperately needed a reboot.
“I feel like shit,” Bill said. 126 seemed to do that to everyone. Altering gravity, even subtly, after a lifetime of it being constant, wreaked havoc on the inner ear. This was no subtle change. Massive gravity oscillations several times per second made the generator a veritable vertigo repository.
A rapid clicking noise became audible as Qwiz staggered toward the machine. It came from little black boxes.
Qwiz’s stomach finally stopped churning when he flipped the master switch. The clicking stopped and the water in the tubes drained into irregular nooks and crannies before it settled in the larger tanks sprinkled around the generator.
Qwiz pointed at the boxes. “These power the whole thing. We have to remove them.” He didn’t want to try to explain the science to Stone; about how the black boxes constantly altered the density factor of the 126 thereby adjusting the overall gravity and making the water move. Science took time to explain, something they didn’t have in abundance. Four screws anchored each box containing the invaluable element. With two screwdrivers, they made quick work of them.
“There’s big money in this. No doubt.”
“The money isn’t in the generator though. It’s the research. Luthor wants to give the knowledge of how to create Element 126 away to the whole world. If he succeeds, then everyone could have one of these in their basement. It would end the energy shortage forever without fear of carbon pollution.”
“Unlimited energy’s great, but I couldn’t care less if it spews carbon or not. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, global warming is faker than a prom queen’s ID. Carbon dioxide is plant food, damn it! It is not, and has never been, a pollutant. It sure as hell isn’t warming the world.”
Qwiz didn’t have time to debate Stone’s delusions by informing him of the scientific consensus now four decades old. There were men outside. Men with guns. Plus, it was always dangerous to disagree with one of Bill’s conspiracy theories and global warming denial was his favorite, probably because it was the only one that was a felony to state in public. “You have to understand what something like that would be worth to a world that doesn’t believe what you do about carbon.”
“Damn straight. It’ll tangle up the panties of the solar and windmill companies.”
Qwiz hadn’t thought of that. The biggest companies in the world are getting rich from selling solar panels and windmills—not to mention the lucrative battery packs to store the energy for peak use—Luthor’s invention would supersede their technology and market share.
“Do you think they are the ones outside?” he asked as he shoved the last black box into a suitcase.
A burst of light flashed from the outside window. Bill cursed. “Move it Quency. That was a gunshot.”
Bill zipped the suitcase while Qwiz stuffed Luthor’s laptop and his three redundant hard drives into a duffle. They worked quickly, but it was too late.
A deafening thud blasted from upstairs. The footsteps of many men reverberated through the floor joists.
Qwiz whispered frantically, “out through the back door.”
Each hauling a bag, they quickly and quietly exited through the back door into a long apartment hallway. Luthor had the luxury of living in one of the nicest apartments in the area. All of the units were two stories and had their own exterior front door. But they each also had a back door into a standard apartment hallway leading to the garbage and laundry facilities. Qwiz couldn’t be more thankful for that second door; it might have just saved his life. Not only was he still breathing, he had a chance to complete his mission and keep evil men from stealing Luthor’s resear
ch.
They hurried down the hallway, careful not to trip on the rips in the ancient industrial carpet.
A steel breakaway door, designed to keep out even the most determined suburban refugee, led out into the back alley. Qwiz cracked the door. The alley was vacant save for a solitary Markless huddled in bundled rags.
Qwiz felt even worse for Markless than for the Suburbians. They were the ones who hadn’t managed to get CPI chips implanted before the final deadline or whose parents had chosen, for religious reasons, not to have them implanted at birth. They legally had no identity, and without a Chip, could not get one. Markless could neither buy or sell anything, nor legally hold jobs. They would forever be homeless until they starved. Qwiz spared the poor man a glance, but knew he didn’t have time help him. He sat against the piles of trash mounded up against the green dumpsters looking hungry and cold. Qwiz struggled to suppress his conscience and turned away. It was a short sprint to the vestigial parking lot behind the building where Bill had stashed his truck. They could make it. The SUVs were parked on the opposite side and would never see them in the dark.
Qwiz pushed the door open and sprinted toward the truck.
Only a few steps into his run, Qwiz heard a voice from behind him. “Target moving South of the building. In pursuit.”
The Markless held a walkie-talkie and dashed after him. He was no Markless. Qwiz only made it halfway to the car before the man tackled him.
Though not a file in his memory, Qwiz instinctively recognized that the firm, metallic object shoved into the side of his head was a pistol. He shivered unconsciously in fear as the face of a man that could never have belonged to a Markless stared fiercely at him.
“Give me the 126 and the research. Now.”
“Okay, okay!” Qwiz began to hand him the bag when a massive suitcase slammed into the side of the man’s face. He lurched sideways and his gun skittered to the ground.
Bill dropped the luggage and jumped on top of the fallen man. He began punching him in the face with the fury of a Velociraptor. He didn’t land many before the much younger, more athletic man had flipped him on his back and took his turn dishing out punches to the face.
“The gun!” Bill blurted between blows.
Qwiz snapped to and picked up the unfamiliar weapon. With unsteady hands, he raised it.
“Let him go.” Qwiz said as dangerously as he could manage. He was no Batman, but the man put his hands up anyway. Bill stood and promptly reached back and slugged the man with all his might. He spun, crumpling to the ground.
Bill grabbed the weapon from Qwiz, flicking something with his thumb on the side. “Stay down, you son of a bitch.” The man obeyed, putting both arms out in front of him. Bill pointed the gun at the man.
“Stone, please don’t kill him.”
“I’ll do what I want.” Bill leveled the gun at the prone man. He approached the fallen soldier and cracked him hard over the head with the butt of the pistol. He went limp. Bill turned and handed the pistol back to Qwiz with a smile. “I wasn’t gonna shoot him. I put the safety on. He just couldn’t know that. Let’s go.”
Qwiz heaved a sigh of relief as they hurriedly chucked their bags in the bed of the truck. Bill’s face was puffy and bleeding freely from several cuts.
“Stone, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said. “I coulda taken him.”
“Uh huh,” Qwiz said.
“Really, I would’ve had his balls … in a minute or two. I ah…Um…. Let’s get outta here!”
Bill put his foot down and the ancient batteries struggled to accelerate the vehicle away from Luthor’s apartment. He pulled out onto the street directly away from the SUVs. The three lanes were originally designed to move thousands more vehicles than now occupied its space. It was nearly empty of any non-human powered vehicles, those clogged the side lanes. A bus idled on the opposite side of the street, spewing passengers wealthy enough to afford its services. A small, green, bullet-looking electric car coasted by in the opposite direction. Bill stopped diligently at an intersection. Red LEDs glared from the stoplight as bicycles and pedestrians finished their long commutes from work.
“Don’t stop. Floor it!” Qwiz said.
Bill did not floor it. He waited patiently for the light to change. “We can’t look too obvious. They’ll be looking for one guy on foot, not two in a truck. If we take off like a bat outta hell we’ll stick out like a sore thumb. And this old piece of electric shit can’t outrun a bicycle. We’ll make it. Just don’t panic.”
Bill knew he was lucky to own any vehicle at all, but truthfully, his truck was a direct descendent of a junkyard. Its ubiquitous dents and rusted paint resembled hopelessly moldy Swiss cheese. The batteries were very overdue for a change; it could only drive 40 kilometers before they needed to recharge. The old-style cab was so far forward that it felt like driving a miniature school bus. But Bill didn’t care, he didn’t drive much and he certainly didn’t have the credits to upgrade. Qwiz never cared much about the fashion of cars either; right then he wanted desperately to leave, and Bill’s jalopy was sufficient for the task.
When the light turned green, they slowly rolled down the strip. Densely populated multistory apartments in various stages of disrepair rose up on either side. Street level stores lined the sidewalks hawking wares whose prices had inflated due to scarcity. The ubiquitous Markless held signs with nearly infinite iterations of “will work for food.” Qwiz always tried to save slices of bread to give them, because without CPI chips they were unable to legally buy food.
Bicycles and rickshaws whizzed by the dozens of homeless on each corner, ignoring them. They clogged the side lanes of the street leaving the center lanes—reserved for cars— deserted.
“Damn it!” Bill bellowed. He beckoned his unwilling vehicle forward.
Qwiz looked back and instantly saw the SUV’s in pursuit. They closed the distance frighteningly quickly. They accelerated faster than anything Qwiz had ever seen. In seconds the three vehicles overtook them. Two flanked them and one pulled directly in front. The SUV’s roared a loud, pulsing noise. At first Qwiz thought it might be bass-heavy music. But it became clear when he saw the twin exhaust pipes spewing fumes at the rear of each vehicle that it was not music.
“Bill, those things are burning gasoline.”
Bill began a string of curses so long and so vulgar, Qwiz thought the windows might crack.
Qwiz had never seen a car that used an internal combustion engine in his adult memory. Whoever was chasing them must be fabulously wealthy. The cost to fill one of those gas tanks would be stratospheric. And there were three of them.
Bill slammed the brakes; the heavier SUVs with their greater inertia continued forward. He yanked the steering wheel to the left before they could react and squealed toward a side street. Their pursuers skidded wildly but were quickly back on their tail. Bill laid relentlessly on his horn and the heavy pedestrian traffic made a small hole for them to pass through. The hole was barely large enough for the small truck; the SUVs would have to wait for a larger opening.
They didn’t wait. They blitzed through the intersection like Hitler through Poland. They mowed down any poor person who wasn’t able to get out of their way in time. A bicycle and rider sailed next to their truck, inches from Qwiz’s window. The woman seemed frozen in time as he passed. Her face was bloody and her mangled limbs twisted at unnatural angles.
Qwiz wanted to throw up. The side-mirror revealed a war zone where the crosswalk had been. Broken, bloodied bodies were strewn about like confetti, bikes lay in twisted ruins. A man sat on his haunches staring disbelievingly at a pile of splinters. It had been a rickshaw, crushed in the speeding cars’ wake. It had probably been his only source of income.
Qwiz’s heart broke for the poor people. The urge to bring those drivers to justice surged in his chest. They had ruined a crowd of people’s lives just because they were in the way! A real hero would have punished them for all the pain they had caused and f
oiled whatever evil plot they were concocting. A real hero would avenge them. He pictured himself breaking arms and flipping their bodies while being impervious to their bullets like a caped crusader. But he didn’t know martial arts and suspected that his body would have a magnetic effect on bullets. Maybe that is why they all wear capes. I bet a swirling cape makes it harder to see where you’re supposed to shoot. I need a cape, maybe then I could punish those men for their deeds.
He still had the pistol. He could at least do something. He remembered to flick the safety off and started to open the door. A strong, weathered palm restrained him. Qwiz struggled against Bill’s firm hand. “We have to go help those people!”
“Get your head on straight!” Bill shouted. “You can’t do anything. We don’t even have—” The truck lurched as they were rammed sideways by an SUV.
The driver rolled down the midnight windows and pointed an Uzi at them. “Pull over,” he said, smiling cruelly.
Bill saluted him with his middle finger and continued to charge forward. He whipped his unwilling vehicle around another corner dodging more Markless holding signs. The SUVs paid no attention to them, forcing them to dive out of the way. Several didn’t make it in time.
“We can’t out run these smoggers much longer!” Bill yelled, frantically swerving.
“What are we supposed to do? You saw what they did to those pedestrians back there, you think they are going to let us live?”
Bill shouted something unintelligible as he weaved around a bus. The truck tipped precariously on its two side wheels but didn’t flip. “Try and shoot their tires out!”
“I’ve never shot a gun before!” Qwiz said.
“Do your best son,” said Bill, strangely quiet. “We’re probably dead anyway.”
Qwiz rolled the window down and leaned out.
“Line up the sight in the front with the rear sight.”
Qwiz did his best. He hoped whatever happened, his father would be proud of him. That he would think he acted in honor.
“Keep your arms straight. Use both hands!”
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