by Grant Pies
We all walked until gravel turned to pavement. Hangars dotted the endless runways. But like most government installations, what was most important was kept under ground. Hidden. Secure. Out of sight.
I walked Whitman in front of me. Vesa walked next to me, and Doc lagged behind a few paces. Maybe it would afford him an easier escape. Or maybe it gave him a better vantage point. I already felt the piercing heat from the sun’s morning rays as they reached over the horizon. Squads of soldiers ran in pattern along the runways, their feet pounding the pavement in unison. The two guards brought us to one of the hangars, told us to wait, then turned and walked back to their guard post. A short time later, a man drove up in an electric cart, and drove us into one of the hangars spread across the base.
The hangar floor opened to a steep ramp that led underground. Our chance to turn away and stop whatever awaited us grew in the distance behind us, until we were completely underground and surrounded by cement and darkness.
Once underground, the air changed to a damp thickness I felt inside my lungs. My heart raced as we drove through an eerily familiar compound. Buckley was similar to the vault I went through before getting shipped to New Alcatraz, the one I escaped from in New Alcatraz, but there were differences between the two vaults. Buckley was more alive than the one underneath the Denver Airport. Here scientists in lab coats walked briskly through the halls holding tablets. Unlike the Denver vault, this place was more than a portal to some barren future prison.
The man who drove us through the facility never spoke. Everyone in our group looked around in amazement. It was a place like nothing any of us had seen. It was a place most people didn’t even think existed. I noticed familiar lines painted on the cement floor. I ignored the lines that meant nothing to me. Lines like the blue medical line and green housing line were of no real importance. White led to the armory. Black led to a place called ‘developmental research and power.’ At the risk of breaking character, I nudged Whitman and pointed down at the black line. He was already looking down at it. He grinned, and Vesa pressed the bag that held our device against her chest.
CHAPTER 55
2075
BUCKLEY AIR FORCE BASE
We were placed in a room somewhere between ‘housing’ and the ‘developmental research’ wing of Buckley. Whitman was chained to a table, while the rest of us were allowed to roam free inside the four-by-four meter room. The man who left us there called it a waiting area, but I had been in a room similar to this just before I was charged with murder. I knew what it really was.
“They don’t buy it,” Vesa whispered angrily through her teeth. “Did you see the way he looked at my bag? Like he knew what was inside.”
“He doesn’t even know this thing exists,” Doc said.
“They know,” Vesa said. “Believe me, they know something like this either exists or is on the verge of existing.” Doc waved her away. “Some of us are here for more than thrills. Some of us have a goal beyond seeing the inside of an underground government facility. You killed Quinn—you fulfilled whatever purpose you had. But not all of us are playing with the house’s money. Some of us still need to live beyond this.”
Doc shot her a look. This went beyond whatever makeshift sibling rivalry I saw back at the funeral parlor. Vesa was worried. And for the first time since we started down this path, I was too.
“This doesn’t feel right,” I said. “We need to get to work. We need to charge this device and get out.”
As I finished my last sentence, the door to our ‘waiting area’ rattled and swung open. A man in an olive green military uniform entered. Behind him was another man who wore civilian clothes embroidered with the Wayfield Industries logo.
“Gentlemen,” the military man said. “And lady,” he nodded toward Vesa.
“My name is General Moore.” He didn’t introduce his civilian counterpart. “I understand you have a prisoner,” he stated rather than asked.
“Yes. It was an irregular rendition. We retrieved the prisoner from New Caledonia and brought him back stateside. We were heading west when our transport vehicle broke down. The damned thing just started smoking and then went up in a blaze. The flames swallowed the car from hood to bumper in just enough time for us to lug this thing’s metal frame out of the back.” I waved my hand in Whitman’s direction. “When I get back to Salt Lake, I swear I’m going to give our resident mechanic a piece of my mind. If he skipped out on any of the regular maintenance, I’ll have him changing spark plugs on snow mobiles in a research station in Barrow, Alaska.”
General Moore looked disinterested. He either knew I was stalling or didn’t care much for unnecessary conversation.
“The prisoner”—I motioned toward Whitman—“is in violation of NA Penal Code four one seven point five. We must bring him to Salt Lake City for termination and disassembly.” The words I had seen written in countless blacked out government documents spilled out of my mouth like I had held them back for years. My brain pieced together all of the redacted language I had ever read and reorganized it into actual sentences, filling in any gaps in my own knowledge with what our captive agent had told me. I took one step closer to the General.
“I need to tour your facility to determine if it’s secure enough to temporarily house our prisoner until my men from Salt Lake can come get us. Or if you can spare a new transport vehicle and point me toward the comm. center, I’ll contact Salt Lake and be out of your hair in one hour.” I swallowed, hoping the General didn’t notice the difficulty with which I undertook what should have been such a natural movement.
He held his hands out. “IDs,” he said.
I passed him my newly created credentials. Doc and Vesa did the same. I stared at the general then glanced at the Wayfield employee, who didn’t look at our IDs. Instead he stared at Whitman like a new sports car.
“I assure you our facility is secure enough to house your prisoner,” Moore said. “But you and I both know the damage an android could do to our online systems if he were to get past our security measures. I cannot risk having him here any longer than necessary. I’ll contact Salt Lake for you. Wait here, and once I hear from Salt Lake, I’ll get you a transport vehicle with a full weapons package so you can be on your way.”
I felt Vesa’s eyes burning through me, and sensed Doc’s hand hover over his weapon. And I felt Whitman settle into his seat at the table ever so slightly, like he was prepared to stay there for the rest of his short life.
“With all due respect, sir, this is a matter to be handled solely by the TDA. I’m sure I do not have to explain to you the secrecy that typically surrounds an irregular rendition such as this. If you call ahead to the TDA in Salt Lake, they won’t talk to you about our mission or about us. In fact, I shouldn’t be talking to you now. This is by definition ‘off the book’.” I leaned in and whispered the last part to General Moore. He clutched our security badges tight in his hand. “I appreciate you trying to do some of the leg work for me and my team, but unfortunately this is something that only one of us can do.”
The general nodded reluctantly. “You come with me to the comm. center. Contact Salt Lake, and I’ll run these badges through our system. The rest of your team will stay here with the prisoner.”
I nodded in agreement. “That’s fine. However, I would prefer my team to stand guard outside the prisoner’s holding room. For their safety, of course.”
“Of course,” the general answered, but not in an accommodating tone. “Tell me again why your prisoner isn’t powered down for transport again?” The general tilted his head. For the first time, he took his eyes off of me, and looked at both Vesa and Doc for a reaction. I knew that was protocol. I had seen hundreds of androids powered down right at the courthouse before they were transported. I knew this wasn’t normal. And worse, General Moore knew it as well. Our cover was showing signs of cracking.
“You ever tried to carry one of these things?” Doc blurted out and stuck a thumb towards Whitman. “Once we went on
foot, it made more sense to power the prisoner up. Or else it would have taken us three days to walk here.”
Moore’s expression showed signs of indignation that Doc had dared to address him directly.
“Your agents can wait outside the room. The prisoner stays in here until you and I get back from the comm. center.”
I turned to Vesa and reached a hand out toward her. She squinted her eyes at me, unsure if it was some sort of TDA salute. She cocked her head to the left, like a dog who just heard a strange noise.
“The evidence, please. I’ll keep it with me until we return.”
“Evidence?” she said. I raised my eyebrows and nodded at the bag across her chest. Her face lit up. Her eyes widened. “Yes!” she said, almost too excited. “The evidence. Here, sir.” She lifted the bag over her head and handed it to me. Her hand held onto the strap just a brief moment longer than necessary. This would be the first time she had willingly let the device out of her sight. I slung the bag over my shoulder.
“I have strict orders not to let this out of my sight,” I said to General Moore. “They don’t tell me what it is, but orders are orders.”
I looked at each of my three friends. Whitman appeared as worried as an android could. He looked down, not wanting to give himself away as anything but a prisoner, as if even behind his android eyes, some sort of emotion might leak out and expose us as friends.
I met Vesa’s eyes. I tried to communicate some sort of plan to her. But I knew I had no plan to send at this point. My plan stopped the moment we stepped in the base. Now we were all on our own. Doc with his pistol, and me with my vague legal knowledge of the inner workings of prisoner detainment. I feared this would be the last time I saw all of them. The last chance to say something to them. I nodded to Doc and Vesa. It took most of my power not to motion toward our fake prisoner, not to tell him “good luck” or “thank you”. Thank you for being the only person still alive who knew me before I was deemed a criminal by the government and before I actually became one.
I knew it was now up to me to charge this device. The rest would work itself out. Hopefully.
“If the prisoner does anything but sit there, shoot it in the head,” I told Doc in my most convincing tone. I nodded at his hand resting on his pistol. “I’ll come back, and we’ll all leave here very soon.”
I couldn’t say any more; I was in no position to make any claims or promises.
I turned and walked down the long hall. General Moore, maybe instinctively, wrapped his hand around my arm. He guided me like I was the prisoner. I hoped it meant nothing. I hoped it was just a natural movement on Moore’s behalf. I hoped.
CHAPTER 56
2075
BUCKLEY AIR FORCE BASE
My entire body was tensed. My muscles pulled until they were about to snap inside of me. My tendons stretched through me like the taut cables of a high wire act, pulsing and vibrating with every step I took down the long wide hallway. They were primed to spring or run or jump into action at the slightest indication that General Moore or the silent Wayfield employee were onto me.
The halls under Buckley were as wide as a two-lane road. They stretched and stretched as if they led to the end of the earth. This was the second time I had been in a place like this while it had been in working condition. Once before, when I was led to the time movement device in Denver, before they sent me to New Alcatraz. I also saw a vault like this in the far future, after its usefulness, if it ever really had any to begin with, had run out. I saw the vault under the Denver airport when the power was gone and the lights were out. I saw it when all of the people, the guards and the guarded, were removed. I saw it when the underground tunnels had started to collapse under the weight of the earth above them.
Now this vault was full of movement. Armed and trained government personnel trotted about. I wondered if any of them knew what they were doing here. If they knew who they actually worked for. Eventually General Moore released his hold of my arm. I looked around at the facility, both in amazement and in search of some sort of escape, but I found none.
“The man you were with, Agent Monroe, that was an interesting sidearm he was carrying,” Moore said. He didn’t really try to hide his skepticism of our story. I simply nodded as we walked down the hall.
“Yes, he tends to only really rely on the more simple weaponry,” I answered as I swallowed a golf ball-sized lump down my throat. “Most of our other weaponry went up in the fire.”
“Yeah, the spontaneous fire,” Moore mumbled to the man from Wayfield that tagged along on our trip to the comm. center.
How can I make it back to Vesa? I tried to count my steps, but lost count somewhere at the three hundred mark. I tried to memorize the sequence of turns I made, so I could simply reverse the order to get back to the others. But my gut told me that they had been moved as soon as I left them. I feared they were swept away and stuck in separate small rooms the moment General Moore convinced me to leave them behind. Surely Doc would have done something. Fired at least one shot. I would have heard any gunshot, right?
I tried to recite the steps I took. Two right turns, one left turn, a slight curve to the right. General Moore spoke, but more so to the man from Wayfield Industries. It was too hard to both pay attention and maintain a convincing TDA persona while at the same time counting steps and memorizing turns. Fifty paces then a left turn. Fire sprinklers are spaced out every ten meters. Red emergency lights spaced out every fifty meters.
“Agent Kent?” I heard General Moore say as if he was calling to someone else. “Agent Kent?” Green line leads to housing. Blue to medical. Fifty more paces and another left. Soldiers are carrying standard issue M-5 carbines with an attached modular weapons system. Each rifle carries twenty-five 5.56mm enhanced performance rounds. I tried to collect any information I thought might be useful.
“Agent Kent!” I heard General Moore shout. I stopped memorizing my surroundings long enough to look for Agent Kent. I turned left and right. “Agent Kent!” he shouted again and looked right at me. “Are you okay, Agent Kent?” Moore asked me. It wasn’t until that moment that I remembered the name on my brand new TDA badge. Technology Development Agent Wesley Kent, SCI Level Four Clearance.
“Yes,” I said quickly and shook my head. “Sorry, I’m just worried about our prisoner. Preoccupied.”
General Moore was standing outside a room, holding his arm out and directing me inside. The man from Wayfield Industries smiled at me and nodded inside the comm. center. I had reached my destination. This was where my plan truly ended, and something must give. I peered inside the room that was only slightly larger than the one I’d left Whitman in several hundred paces behind me. I crossed the threshold hesitantly. My body tried its hardest to pull me back and make me run to the rest of my group.
Inside, the walls were lined with stacks of electronics and control panels. Lights flashed in intermittent sequences.
“Please take a seat,” Moore said and closed the door behind us.
My heart thudded deep inside of me. By now I had lost track of every memorized statistic I had catalogued on my way here. Once I left this room, if I ever left this room, I would be utterly lost. I sat down in the middle of the comm. center. An entire wall was covered in old, brown, bulky telephones with spiraled cords that I had only seen in old pictures. Each phone was labeled with cities and a Roman numeral. Las Vegas - VIII. Chicago - VII. Denver - X. Pittsburgh - III. Salt Lake City - V. Oklahoma City - III. Is there a base like this in each of these cities? I wondered. Is each base working on their own unique technological development? Time Movement in Denver. Fusion Power in Buckley. Palingenesis. Teleportation. Reanimation.
“I know you say you need to contact your agents in Salt Lake,” the man from Wayfield finally spoke. His voice was calm, almost happy. I nodded and shifted uncomfortably in the cold metal chair. I stared at the phone labeled for Salt Lake City and tried to decide what I would say to whoever picked up on the other line. Could I simply tell them
I was delayed in transporting an android prisoner, and then hang up before getting any sort of confused response?
“General Moore asked you about your fellow agent’s firearm earlier. I found your response curious,” he said and tilted his head.
My palms sweated, and my chest vibrated with nervous energy.
“Specifically, he commented that Agent Monroe’s sidearm was interesting.”
“Yes, I recall,” I said. I wrinkled my brow. I figured confusion was an acceptable emotion to display without giving myself away. “Why are you both concerned about Agent Monroe’s sidearm?” I asked in hopes of making them explain their hesitation.
“I don’t think you understand what Mr. Sheldon is asking,” General Moore said. The man from Wayfield, Sheldon, smiled. “It’s not so much the sidearm we are interested in. More so that his ID badge lists him as Agent Keplinger, not Monroe.” General Moore stood and blocked the only exit from the comm. center. “It seems strange you wouldn’t know the names of the agents you have travelled such a great distance with.”
CHAPTER 57
5280
NEW ALCATRAZ
Ransom and Merit’s feet smacked against the hard ground underneath. They ran until they couldn’t hear Ash and the other men fighting anymore. The two brothers turned and zigzagged down endless twisting hallways past old offices and rooms with large banks of circuitry—rooms filled with things that, under any other circumstance, they would have stopped and examined for hours. But they had to keep moving, even though they knew movement and non-movement were equally dangerous. And equally safe. There were no good decisions anymore.
“How do we know the next tunnel we go down won’t bring us straight to them?” Merit asked. The brothers slowed down to catch their breath
“We don’t,” Ransom answered.
“Who are they anyway?” Merit asked but he knew Ransom didn’t have an answer. “Where did they come from?”
