Resonant Son

by J. N. Chaney

“How may I assist you?”

  “Well, we may not have normal means of communication, but we can still do things the old-fashioned way.”

  “The old-fashioned way, sir?”

  “Yeah, like… I don’t know, flashing lights in the building or making a loud noise or—”

  “Would an explosion on the roof work?”

  I froze. “You have something in mind?”

  “After reviewing Mr. Oragga’s kitchen’s inventory and cross referencing it with a list of possible improvised explosives from a Union field manual, I believe you will be able to create a detonator and a flour bomb.”

  “A detonator and a what?”

  “It’s probably best that I just walk you through the steps.”

  “Probably.”

  “But before that, might I remind you of the original reason I suggested you come here?” Lars asked.

  I paused, trying to think back, but things were a little hazy. “And that would be?”

  “Weapons sir. You said, ‘I’m gonna need weapons. Lots of weapons.’”

  “That’s my voice,” I replied, still unused to his little parlor trick. “Why? You can deliver on that?”

  “I can, sir. Please stand.”

  As I rose to my feet, the chair beneath me receded back into the floor. Then I watched in amazement as a large cabinet nearly ten meters wide emerged from the floor in front of one of the forest-filled screens. It boasted solid black doors and drawers, each with red-colored handles.

  The doors parted and the drawers opened in descending steps. Recessed lights bathed the interiors in a cool blue that glistened off an entire armory of weaponry. Several different assault rifles stood in the cabinets in which the drawers were full of pistols and ammo magazines. There was even a cabinet dedicated solely to old-looking hand weapons—staves with blades on either end, long-swords from the holo-movies, and metallic shields. It was truly…

  “Magnificent,” I said in a whisper.

  “Do you think these will accommodate your purposes, sir?”

  “Yeah, I think I can find a use for them.” I examined the cabinets themselves, taking in the appearance of yet another piece of furniture that had emerged from the floor. “Is everything kept in the floor like this, Lars?”

  “That is correct, sir. Everything that Mr. Oragga needs for business affairs.”

  The thought did cross my mind why the CEO needed a weapons arsenal for business affairs. But then again, being a quadzillionaire—or whatever he was—certainly made you a target. I walked to the first cabinet and withdrew a heavy assault rifle, the make of which I’d never even seen before.

  “All of these are custom pieces, sir,” Lars explained, “each designed by Mr. Oragga himself.”

  “These are all his firearms?”

  “Correct.”

  I let out a long whistle. “So that’s what you do when you have more money than the gods.”

  “I don’t understand, sir.”

  “Never mind, Lars.”

  I shoved the weapon’s butt into my shoulder and aimed along the sights. The weapon was much lighter than I expected.

  “That is the MX090, sir. It’s fifty-round magazines are—”

  “Got ‘em,” I said, grabbing one of the silver mags in the base of the cabinet. I drove the mag home and then charged the weapon. I heard an electronic whine build as several lights turned on. “Whoa, what’s up with this?”

  “The traditional rounds have been modified to work in conjunction with a rail-gun assist,” Lars said.

  “It’s a hybrid?”

  “That’s correct, sir. The MX090 is capable of delivering 12-gram bullets at a speed of 1,259 meters per second, delivering 9,510.49 joules of energy.”

  I blinked at the weapon. “How has the Union not contacted Oragga for this yet?”

  “Because they don’t know about it, sir. As I said, this is Mr. Oragga’s private collection.”

  “Are all the weapons here modified like this?”

  “It would be inaccurate to say that each design mimics the MX090, but if you mean to ask if they each perform more robustly than their standard government counterparts, then the answer is most enthusiastically yes.”

  “You have a long way of getting words out, Lars,” I said, picking up a pistol and examining it, “but I like what you’re saying.”

  “My pleasure, sir.”

  “And what about these?” I asked, gesturing toward the hand-weapons.

  “Those are not Mr. Oragga’s designs. Rather, those weapons are rare artifacts collected during his mining operations. His crews inevitably stumble across various items that Mr. Oragga finds collectable despite their lack of elemental value. He has often referred to such finds as—”

  “Priceless?” I suggested.

  “Precisely.”

  “I can see why.” The weapons were exquisite, dating from another time and place far removed from here. And despite their age, they still looked deadly—razor sharp and sturdy. As much as I wanted to touch one, I felt doing so was somehow sacrilegious. Certain weapons in a man’s collection you just didn’t touch. “Lars?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any chance Mr. Oragga has some extra shoes in my size?”

  There was a momentary pause as Lars did whatever he did best—checked inventory or scanned my feet or something.

  “I’m sorry, sir, he does not. The most I could offer you is a pair of decorative sandals, which—”

  “I’ll go barefoot. That’s fine.”

  “Might I make a suggestion?”

  “Is it about shoes?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I believe you are growing unduly dehydrated.” No sooner did he finish the sentence than yet another cabinet rose from the floor. This one was shorter, resembling a liquor cabinet. It stood against the glass, inviting me toward a view of the clouds far below. I hesitated.

  “Is there a problem, sir?”

  “Eh… I’m not too big on heights.”

  “I can assure you there is no risk to—”

  “I know, I know.” I waved him off. “It’s psychological, I get it.”

  “Then I don’t see—”

  “It’s one of the fundamental problems with being human, buddy. I don’t expect you to understand.”

  There was a pause, as if Lars was considering my phobia.

  “You want to say something, Lars?” I asked.

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “Out with it.”

  “Don’t you find it the least bit ironic that you suffer from acrophobia and yet you—”

  “Live in Sellion City?” I laughed. This was one perceptive AI. “Trust me. I think about it every damn day.”

  I took a deep breath and walked toward the drink cabinet, still carrying the MX090 in one hand. The weapon gave me some much-needed confidence. The cabinet’s top opened to reveal a tray of bottles. Liquor bottles. I set the rifle down and grabbed what looked to be a very expensive bottle of scotch. Feeling my mouth grow wet, I popped the cork and took a swig.

  “Sir,” said Lars, “when I said dehydrated, I was going to suggest the water in the small refrigeration unit.”

  “Sounds good,” I replied, taking another swig. Damn if this wasn’t the most expensive scotch I’d ever tasted.

  Lars waited as I took a third swig and set the bottle down.

  “You do know that’s not the water, sir.”

  “Tastes wet to me,” I replied. But Lars was right, I did need something besides the malted liquor. I bent over and opened the fridge. Inside were several glass bottles of water. I removed two, spun their caps off, and downed them. As much as I loved my single malts, the water felt good going down. I tried not to drink too fast, but damn if I wasn’t thirsty.

  “I was beginning to think you didn’t know what water was,” Lars said.

  “You sound just like my wife.”

  “Don’t you mean your ex-wife, sir?”

  I set th
e empty bottle down. “You snooping on me, Lars?”

  “Perhaps. My apologies if I have crossed any sort of personal boundary. But your name did pop up in my last data download before the lockdown was instituted.”

  “Nah,” I said, reaching for the bottle of scotch again. “Don’t worry about it.” A thought hit me then. I touched my chest to find my flask still in the shirt pocket. I pulled it out and noticed it was dented. But the cap still screwed off. “Think Mr. Oragga will mind?” I started filling up my flask.

  “Given the circumstances, and the fact that he has several more bottles in storage, not at all.”

  “Good.” I topped off the flask, took one more swig from the bottle, and then capped both. “Now,” I said, placing the rifle’s strap around my shoulder, “about that bomb.”

  “The flour bomb?” Lars asked.

  “Whatever. Let’s just go blow something up.”

  9

  Things were looking up. Sure, I still had a long way to go before I stopped this hostile takeover. But I certainly had some new assets at my disposal. First was the fact that the enemy knew nothing about me, other than that someone had taken out Erikson. Was I one person or many? With any luck, they weren’t watching the surveillance feeds when it happened. And more than that, I hoped they didn’t have archives of the incident. Remaining anonymous was a luxury I wanted to exploit for as long as possible.

  The next positive thing was the state of my health. Like the video games of my youth, I’d been given an extra life. Lar’s medical treatment, while unorthodox, had patched me up far more effectively than had I treated myself. Hell, who was I kidding?—my treatment would have consisted of some spit and bandages. Instead, the injuries that would have disabled me, or even killed me, according to Lars, were now minor annoyances. Were I to be injured again and still able to make it to Mr. Oragga’s office, I wondered what wound Lars couldn’t heal.

  Thirdly, I’d been newly outfitted with weaponry so advanced, it seemed no one but Mr. Oragga and his development team knew about them. Fire superiority would go a long way in keeping the enemy at bay, and—if I was lucky—overwhelming them.

  Last but not least was my newfound accomplice, Lars. While I wasn’t sure of everything he could do, he’d already proven himself to be a valuable asset in my mission to thwart the enemy. With his eyes and ears, along with his database of information, I figured we had a fighting chance.

  “You proceed up the stairwell, sir,” Lars said.

  “Thanks,” I replied, pushing out the door and taking the first two steps in a bound.

  I had a sniper rifle strapped to my back while the MX090 was in my right hand. I’d also replaced my standard-issue pistol with two from Mr. Oragga’s drawers. The rest of my belt was full of clip-on magazines that doubled for all three weapons platforms, according to Lars. Such a modular setup had a lot of forethought behind it.

  “Which kitchen am I headed to?” I asked.

  “Sub-level ten, sir. It accommodates all of the executive suites, including Mr. Oragga’s. If my records are accurate, we should find everything you need to prepare the explosive.”

  “Sounds good to me.” I took another flight of stairs and felt my legs start to burn. “You wouldn’t happen to have some sort of performance enhancer, would you?”

  “Performance enhancer?”

  “Yeah,” I said between breaths. “My legs are feeling it right now.”

  “Ah, I see. For a moment, I thought you were inquiring about medications for improved coitus.”

  “Coitus?”

  “The act of—”

  “I got it, Lars. I meant something for my legs.”

  There was a brief pause. “Understood, sir. Unfortunately, I have nothing for that without sending you back to Mr. Oragga’s office.”

  “Good to know.”

  “I do also have stimulants for coitus at my disposal.”

  “Also good to know,” I replied. Not that I had any prospects at present, but, hey, now that I was back on the market, you never know.

  I wiped sweat from my forehead as I continued to charge up one flight after another. I was just about to arrive on floor twenty-seven, when Lars stopped me.

  “Please hold, sir,” he instructed.

  “Now?” I had just taken the landing between twenty-eight and twenty-seven, carrying some good momentum into the turn.

  “Yes, right now. Please hold.”

  I did as I was instructed, pressing myself against the wall to stay out of sight both from the next landing as well as from anyone looking down the center gap. As soon as I did, I heard the door above me swing open.

  “Don’t move,” Lars said in a whisper.

  I nodded, wondering if Lars could see me. I held my breath as I heard footsteps on the landing. If he came down the steps, there would be no hiding from him—I’d have to shoot him. And that would stir up the hornet’s nest.

  “He’s heading up,” Lars noted. “You’re clear. Resume your ascent in ten seconds for a minimum safe distance threshold.”

  I stepped away from the wall, cautiously at first, and then continued up to floor twenty-seven. “You think he’s heading to the lobby?” I asked.

  “I am unsure, sir. Oubrick spoke to him off-comm and then he left. The exchange was rather sudden. I believe his name is Rommel.”

  “Yeah, that’s his name,” I confirmed, thinking back to when I spied him from the ventilation shaft.

  “I suspect he is either joining up with Fabian and Nico or checking in with the men in the lobby.”

  “Gotcha,” I said, growing more winded with every flight. “Say, you haven’t, by any chance, been able to regain control over the elevators, have you?”

  “Unfortunately, no, sir. I am sorry for the inconvenience. Your elevated blood pressure, body temperature, and blood pressure do suggest that you are in the ninetieth percentile of your cardiovascular capacity.”

  “Well, when you say it like that, it doesn’t sound so bad.”

  Lars paused. I waited a few seconds for him to reply. Finally, he said, “I don’t see how this voice simulator conveys different information than if I were to employ any other voice.”

  I laughed, hiking the sniper rifle’s strap higher on my shoulder. “Never mind, Lars.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  I let another few flights pass before thinking to ask a question. “Hey, Lars, can you see if they’re making any progress with that laser?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “They have successfully penetrated the first of three shell layers before reaching the inner vault door, after which they will need several proprietary credentials to proceed.”

  “How long before they’re through the other two?”

  “About five minutes, sir.”

  “Five minutes,” I echoed, not liking how little time that gave us. I still had a bad feeling that as soon as these thieves got what they wanted, the hostages were as good as dead. That was all the motivation I needed to keep charging up the flights of stairs.

  By the time I reached the tenth floor, I was drenched in sweat. “We all clear?” I asked Lars.

  “You are, sir. Proceed.”

  I pulled open the door and entered a short hallway. The farthest set of double doors were marked “Kitchen: Authorized Personnel Only.”

  “Heather always told me to stay out of the kitchen,” I noted to Lars as I entered. The entire floor seemed dedicated to the culinary arts. Banks of stoves sat across from food preparation stations, while refrigeration units large and small stood between industrial sinks and cutting boards. This was no synthetic food—this was food made the traditional way. Damn, this guys had credits to burn.

  “Perhaps Heather had good reasons to keep you out of the kitchen,” Lars said. “Turn left, then right, then continue down the aisle.”

  “What are you implying?” I followed his instructions and walked down a line of stoves and ovens.

  “Only that your wife had just cause to keep you from food preparatio
n.”

  “You’re taking her side?”

  “I’m merely giving her the benefit of the doubt,” Lars insisted. “In fifteen meters, turn left and enter the dry storage compartment on your right.”

  “What about giving me the benefit of the doubt?”

  “You’re not the one who filed for divorce, sir.”

  I saw the large storage unit directly ahead. “That’s low, Lars. Real low. You can’t think of any other reason to give me the benefit of the doubt?”

  “That’s hard to say, sir.”

  “How so?”

  “She didn’t make a spectacle on intergalactic news.”

  “You’re turning out to be a pain in the ass, Lars. You know that, right?”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  “Okay, what am I looking for in here?” I asked, pulling the storage unit’s door open.

  “Potassium nitrate. Second unit, third self. The package label reads E252.”

  “I see it,” I said. “One package?”

  “Four, sir.”

  I slung my MX090 and collected the packages. “What else?”

  “One bag of citric acid. Fourth shelf in an orange bag.”

  I collected the bag, struggling to keep all the materials in my arms. “Alright, Mr. Science, keep it coming.”

  “Place the potassium nitrate and citric acid on the cutting board outside first, then return and get two twenty-kilogram bags of flour. After that, you’ll need two large ceramic bottles from the last rack.”

  “Got it.” I carried the E252 packages to the cutting board and then hurried back inside the storage locker for the bags of flour and the two bottles.

  “Next, grab a can of sporellia fish in the non-perishable section along the right wall.”

  “This is going to help us make a bomb?” I asked as my curiosity was turning toward doubt faster than I cared to admit.

  “You’re welcome to do it your own way, sir.”

  “Screw you, Lars. I’m just saying—”

  “This is the best way, sir. I assure you.”

  I flipped the can of fish in the air and caught it. “Let’s keep a move on, then. What else?”

  “Three rolls of aluminum foil.”

  “Got ’em.”

  “Good. Now, there is a utility room two rows over and against the wall,” Lars said. I raced out, dropped the supplies on the cutting board, and then looked across the kitchen.