Implant

by J. Grace Pennington

  Something flashed on a screen behind her. The voice came again. “It’s down.”

  “Very good,” she answered, turning to glance at the screen. Where before a large circle had showed, there were now little green blips moving around, one of them labeled conspicuously, “NC.”

  She turned back to Gordon just as he found he could move his fingers. She’d let them live. He couldn’t possibly succeed in his mission now. He was too weak—

  The indecision triggered something in his mind. Dagny Dalton in the guard shack. The horror he’d felt as he’d seen Caleb shot through the head, despite the goon’s promise.

  Did he really think he could trust this woman, turned insane with long years of pain coupled with ultimate power?

  Maybe he could stall long enough to regain his strength and set off the firing sequence.

  But it wouldn’t be soon enough to save Neil.

  He raised himself slowly and painfully on one elbow and looked Allison in the eyes. “No.”

  She shrugged. “I was afraid of that. You always were a little stubborn.” She turned back to the screen, still talking. “At least tell me how you got here. When Dagny told me my old friend had somehow come forward in time, I was immensely curious.

  He said nothing, only tried to move his legs. Not yet, but they were tingling more.

  She sighed. “Ah well. I did give you a rather good chance.” She leaned towards the screen and tapped the blip labeled “NC.” Then she laid her slender finger on a button on her console, and smiled. “Dr. Crater, it’s been a pleasure.”

  “No!” Gordon cried, struggling to move, but only sending painful tingles through his legs and torso.

  She pressed the button.

  The blip disappeared.

  Gordon’s heart burst. No! Neil couldn’t be dead, not that easily. You couldn’t kill Neil Crater with one stupid button! He should have stopped it, somehow he should have done more—

  She turned back around. “I never could understand what you saw in that skinny, bug-eyed guy.” She smiled. “Things should be easier now.”

  “Allison, you just killed a man!” he tried to scream, but it came out gravelly and hoarse.

  “Sad but true.”

  A speaker near the door beeped. “Medics here, sir.”

  Allison gave him one last look before turning her back to him so she was once again hidden behind the giant chair. She pressed a button and spoke. “There’s a boy in here who needs an Implant. Use a local anesthetic.”

  Then she pressed another button to open the door.

  Gritting his teeth, Gordon let the flames of pain lick over him as he pushed himself up. Three black-suited men in white coats rushed into the room. He was tired—so tired. He wanted to just collapse and lie there on the floor for the rest of his life. To give in to the weariness—

  But he thought of Neil, and he couldn’t.

  He forced himself to move, despite the pain and the buzzing in his ears. He ducked as one of the medics reached for him, and turned to the left, where he ran right into the arms of another medic, who grabbed him with a vice-like grip.

  Gordon struggled, kicked, pushed against the man’s broad chest with his palms. The room trembled, and his brain remained dazed. He knew he couldn’t escape, but pure terror drove him to keep trying. He kicked as hard as he could.

  He felt the electricity zap through him again, and he went stiff.

  “Let me go!” he tried to yell, but it came out in a whisper that scraped along his dry throat.

  The strong arms hauled him away. He turned his head, slowly and oh-so-painfully to look towards the big black chair. “Allison…” he tried to say, but only one stiff syllable came out. He couldn’t move. He tried, tried until every muscle was on fire, to move, to struggle, to kick and scream, but he couldn’t so much as wiggle a finger as the three men dragged him out the door. It slid shut behind them.

  He tried to calm his mind. If he could overcome the paralysis again, he might, just might, be able to set up the firing sequence in the operating room. If he could somehow overpower the three medics—

  Hopelessness threatened to overpower him, but he refused to give in this time. There had to be a way. After the operation, maybe they’d leave him alone in there, or at least with only one guard. With the element of surprise, there might be a chance—

  Life dribbled into his legs again. He tried to wiggle his toes inside his boots and found that he could. He moved a finger. It was stiff and painful, but he could do it.

  The door slid open and the men carried him into a bright white room with Plexiglas all around. A white cot sat in the center of the room, ready to receive another victim, and the men laid him on it. He looked up into their faces and was surprised at how ordinary they looked.

  “Should we strap him down?” one man asked, slipping behind a Plexiglas shield.

  Another shook his head. “Nah, he’s still out.”

  Gordon tried to clench a fist and found that he could only begin to bend his fingers. The man was right.

  “I’ll get it,” the third man said.

  Gordon clenched his teeth as the biggest of the three men slid a mask over his mouth and nose and went to a cabinet. The smaller man came back with a padded box about the size of Gordon’s palm. Gordon struggled to turn his head and watch them, but once he did, he was too tired to turn it back.

  The masked man turned back towards him, hypo in hand. The sight of it filled Gordon with chilly fear again. Every instinct told him to move, but his body wouldn’t obey.

  Laying the hypo down, the man unbuttoned Gordon’s shirt. No, no, don’t—

  He could only lie stiffly as the man pulled the shirt off, every movement of his arms sending tingly waves down his spine. The air, cold on his chest, sent more shivers over him, intensifying the buzzing in his torso.

  He tried again to clench his fist. It was slow, but he could do it.

  The man leaned over him and Gordon clamped his eyes shut. The needle pierced his chest and he gave a barely audible grunt. His vocal cords seemed frozen.

  Numbness spread through his torso. First in his chest, then it crept to his sides and his upper stomach. He felt nothing; not the air, not the masked man’s gloved hands as he pressed them to Gordon’s skin.

  Why had Allison said for them to use a local anesthetic? Naturally just to torture him—why else should she care? If she were thinking of pure practicality, general anesthetic would have been better.

  “Did you open it?” the man asked, voice muffled.

  Gordon opened his eyes. The one who’d brought the box brandished a tiny green chip in answer. Gordon stared. That was the Implant? That one-inch green rectangle had killed hundreds of people and allowed a single woman to take control of the entire world?

  The masked man took the Implant gingerly and laid it on the table next to the cot. He picked up a scalpel.

  Gordon shut his eyes again. He wasn’t going to watch. He would at least have that one little victory over Allison. He’d think about something else. What could he think about that wouldn’t make him feel more hopeless and more of a failure? Doc—Doc was dead. Neil—Neil was dead too, or would be very soon. Little Jeffrey—his father was dead.

  Chasing over him like a summer breeze came a memory from deep in his mind. Sitting on a park bench, on an autumn afternoon, long, long ago. An ice cream cone in his hand. The ice cream was strawberry; bright pink with little flakes of fruit in it.

  He was watching—watching cyclists go by. With their helmets, and their bright, primary-colored suits. There were dozens of them, zipping past. His legs wouldn’t reach the ground. He licked the ice cream.

  An arm lowered around his shoulders. A strong arm; one he felt sure he could lean on. The arm hugged him close, and Gordon felt warm.

  He looked up into his father’s peaceful, smiling, hazel eyes. He smiled back. The moment froze, like a photograph, too real to imagine, and Gordon’s mind was full of his father’s eyes the way they’d been before
the mistake, the scandal, the tragedy.

  How long had it been since he’d thought of his father that way?

  Something flooded through his body, jerking him from the memory. Energy, like adrenaline but steadier. It flowed through his veins, and he imagined the cancer cells shrinking before it.

  The Implant.

  He felt good. Really good. Better than he had in years, even with his torso numb and his limbs still recovering from paralysis.

  So this was how good health felt.

  Good health—no. Tyranny. His life and health no longer belonged to him, but to her.

  He opened his eyes. The masked man was finishing up his suture.

  Maybe there was a better chance now. Strength pumped into his limbs, but should he use it on the medics and try to escape now? Or should he feign weakness and hope they’d leave him alone there?

  The man injected him again, then wiped the blood from his chest. Gordon thought hard. Which was the best option? How would Doc or Neil advise him?

  The man bent over him. Gordon knew without trying that he could move now. He could at least move his arms and legs; how quickly, or with how much coordination, he did not know.

  It was time.

  The man’s hand pressed Gordon’s chest, right where his heart was. Gordon took a deep breath and prepared to jump.

  A surprised yell sounded from somewhere behind the medic. Startled, he turned his head.

  Taking advantage of this, Gordon swung his booted leg up and out, planting it in the pit of the man’s stomach. The medic keeled over, and Gordon sat up. Each movement was stiff, but at least he was moving. He reached for the man’s throat, but the medic was too quick for him. He jumped out of reach and pulled a pistol from his jacket pocket.

  Gordon’s mind raced, but then the man stiffened, jerked his arms outward, and dropped.

  Behind him stood Pete, stun baton in hand. He smiled weakly.

  The third man poked his head out from behind the Plexiglas shield, and Gordon bent over without thinking. He grabbed the gun from the paralyzed man’s hand, jerked up, and fired at the medic’s shoulder. The man dropped to the floor. It must have been only for stunning.

  Pete jerked around in time to see the man drop, then turned back to Gordon, determination mixed with fear on his face.

  Gordon gripped the cot with one hand and cautiously put weight on his legs. They tingled, but supported him. Letting go, he faced Pete.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “You saved my life,” the boy said, a nervous edge to his voice. “Besides—I’ve been here for a day, and that’s long enough...” His young eyes were wide with fear.

  Gordon dropped the weapon on the cot and knelt by the back wall. His fingers still tingling, he picked up his shirt and wiggled into it, not taking the time to button it before pulling the firing sequence from his pocket.

  Pete babbled on. “It wasn’t just about Theresa—I just didn’t think there was a chance. I thought it would be better if we just gave in, at least we’d live that way…”

  Gordon started unrolling the wire on the sequence. “Shut up,” he said, realizing even as the words left his lips how much he sounded like Doc. “Get over here and help me.”

  Pete set the baton down and knelt beside Gordon, trembling. “I didn’t mean to make things worse, I only wanted to…”

  “I said hush. That’s in the past. Now take this over there.” He handed the little copper box to Pete and pointed to a spot on the other side of the white chamber.

  Pete obeyed, and Gordon pulled his end of the wire, the end with the switch, down the other direction. When the wire stretched taut, he stopped.

  “Let go now,” he instructed. Pete set the box down. “Get out and warn as many people as you can without raising a real alarm. Everybody who’s not out in about five minutes is never getting out.

  Pete nodded, jumped up, and turned.

  Gordon straightened up. “Pete?”

  The boy stopped and looked back.

  “Thanks.”

  Pete managed a smile, then sprinted out of the room.

  Gordon stared at the firing sequence and blew out a long breath. This was it. Just one more button to push, and the deed would be done.

  He reached into his pocket for the rigged detonator.

  He froze, his brain screaming but no sound escaping his mouth.

  His hand found nothing but cloth.

  Where was it? He’d had it when he came into the building, he knew that. When could he have lost it?

  He ran over the events in his mind. He’d entered, gone up the elevator, walked down the hall, into the Sanctum, talked with Allison, struggled with the medics—

  Struggling with the medics.

  He growled. He would have to to go back in that accursed room.

  But all he had to do was find it, and somehow press the button. Neil had said it would work from anywhere inside the building.

  His chest was still numb, but the tingling and stiffness were almost gone. He walked from the room, not letting himself dwell on the Implant, Neil, Allison, or anything but getting the detonator. There would be no second chances now.

  Focusing narrowly, he strode down the hall. He thought of nothing else. Nothing. Just getting the detonator. When he reached the door, he pulled himself to his full height and knocked.

  “Who is this?” the computerized voice asked.

  He spoke boldly. “It’s me, Allison.”

  The door slid open abruptly, as if surprised. He stepped in, not even looking towards her chair. He scanned the floor instead.

  It wasn’t there.

  His shoulders sagged. Where else could it be? It had to be somewhere in the building!

  He had no business in here. He jerked around instantly but the door slammed before he could move an inch towards it.

  He looked towards Allison’s smiling face.

  “Well.”

  Icy chills ran down his back.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  He glared. “I just couldn’t stay away.”

  She laughed. “Was your surgery successful?”

  “Very,” he ground out.

  “Of course, I could have killed you without that. Easily. But I wanted you to know what it felt like first. I wanted you to experience it for yourself, after fighting it for so long.”

  The adrenaline he’d felt since attacking the medics fled from him, and he sank to his knees, too weary to think, speak or move. The plan wouldn’t work. Neil was dead or dying.

  He had failed.

  With a little crooked smile, she pulled a detonator from her pocket. She toyed with it. “Gordon. You haven’t changed as much as I thought you had.”

  He didn’t look at her. He just breathed, in and out, in and out. Slowly and at measured intervals. No! He couldn’t give up. Not yet. She might still be susceptible to a surprise from him, if he could just regain his strength.

  “Are you going to answer the question I asked you earlier? About how you got here?”

  Turning his eyes up towards her, he raised himself to a half-sitting position. “No.”

  “It’s a shame. I hate to kill you without satisfying my curiosity. I don’t like to kill you at all, actually. I always did like you, you know that?”

  Her fingers, still so slender, gripped the remote and she rose from the chair.

  He had to keep her talking until he caught his breath. “Why kill me, if you like me so much?”

  “I’ve killed you once. Oh I know it wasn’t direct, and it was an accident, but still. Everything’s easier the second time.”

  The cool words made his hands tremble.

  She stepped back again, raised the remote, and pointed it at him. “Goodbye, Gordon.” Her smile vanished, and the blinking red light from the remote reflected in her eyes.

  She laid her finger on the button.

  He waited. She waited. The remote blinked.

  Nothing happened.

  He wasn’t dead? But
—the Implant—

  He shakily got to his feet, letting thoughts race through his head one after the other, like bullets cutting through the air. Either his Implant wasn’t working—and he could feel it acting on his bloodstream now—or…

  He had lost the detonator in here, hadn’t he?

  He jumped back. “Allison…”

  Her mouth straightened into a firm line, and her delicate eyebrows furrowed slowly. Holding the remote level with her face, she stared at it.

  “Allison, hurry, follow me.” He backed away, towards the door, still looking at her.

  “You should be dead.” She shifted her gaze from the blinking device to him, that old, lost expression filling her face.

  “Follow me now. Run, or you’ll be destroyed along with this place.”

  With a cry, she flung the remote across the room and threw herself viciously at him.

  He sidestepped just in time and she ran past him a step or two.

  “Allison…” he tried again, but she whirled towards him and reached for his throat. He ducked stiffly, and her hands met his hair instead.

  “I’m getting out of here,” he said, surprising himself with his calmness. “If you want to stay and get blown to bits…”

  This seemed to get through to her. She screamed, dug her fingers into his hair and pushed him down fiercely. He fell to his knees as she scrambled to touch a scanner on the wall. The door slid open, and she raced down the hall.

  “Wait!” he cried. He ran out after her, raced down the corridor, but she stepped into the elevator just as it came in sight. He pushed himself off the ground and flung himself towards it just as it dropped away.

  There had to be another way. Somehow. There had to be some stairs or something. Surely there were! But he didn’t have time to look for them.

  Not taking the time to think further, he jumped into the shaft. The top of the elevator had only gone six feet down, and he landed with a jarring but manageable impact.

  He counted seconds as the floors flashed by, trying his best to be accurate, trying to factor in the length of the fight and the run down the hall. One hundred—one hundred twenty—one hundred fifty—one hundred seventy-five—

  Two hundred thirteen seconds and the elevator landed on the bottom floor. Gordon stood nearly level with the second floor. He jumped out and ran towards the front of the building. No time to find stairs or wait for elevators.