by Russ Linton
About what I expected when we rolled up the drive. Some dude with more money than time. Although, I’d really been hoping Emily’s friend was old. And fat. Instead, he’s rich and in decent shape. Might even be good-looking if she’s into that tall, dark and handsome look.
Fine, so much for getting the girl, but nobody is interrupting my assault on this hamburger. If the Black Beetle himself shows up, he’s waiting for me to lick the cheese off the wrapper before I kick his ass and make Doc Abercrombie here look bad. I wonder if the defibrillator over there would fry any of the electronics in a battle robot…
“Where’d you say you found this kid?” Martin’s looking more through me than at me.
“Oh, I was…” Emily prepped a cover story during the ride over here. It was lame. I should probably intervene. I’m an accomplished liar when it comes to personal details. All part of the son-of-an-Augment lifestyle.
“I was mountain biking, out on the trails.” Emily glares from behind the doc as I continue, “She whipped into the parking lot at the trailhead and nearly ran me over with her rust bucket on wheels.”
“It’s a Bronco,” Emily fires from the doorway.
“Felt like a freight train.”
The good doctor decides to play ump. “Okay, kid, so you can’t go to your own doctor because?”
“First, I’m not a kid. Yeah, I haven’t gone to med school, yet, but after high school I wanted to get a taste of the real world before I cured cancer or whatever. The real world, unfortunately, doesn’t include health insurance.”
“What about your parents?” With that question from Martin, Emily’s bemused stare takes on a whole new level of shut-the-hell-up.
“I moved out for a reason, Nurse—what’s your name?” He doesn’t look the least bit fazed by the remark.
“It’s Alexander. Doctor Alexander,” he says.
“Right. No insurance, and I figured your girl here would prefer a private consultation as opposed to a police report.”
Martin flashes Emily a worried look and with a shake of his head grabs a penlight. He checks my eyes, maybe blasting my retinas a bit longer than necessary.
“Okay, so what’s your name?”
“Spencer. Spencer Johnston,” I say. Emily lowers her head and places her hand across her brow.
“And who is the President of the United States?”
I start to wonder exactly how long I’ve been shut up in an Arctic bunker. “Barack Obama?”
Martin steps back and gives an appraising sort of look that doctors must practice in the mirror. Either that or I just guessed the wrong President.
“What’s the date today?”
I can’t help but laugh and I take another bite of the hamburger. That, Doc, is an excellent question.
“Well?”
Emily’s trying to curl up and hide behind her facepalm. Let’s see, warm outside, might even be the middle of summer, or spring? I saw a lot of Maryland license plates on the way over, when I wasn’t staring at Emily and drooling on myself. That was pathetic. She kept reaching over to wake me up. I’m not even sure if I was passed out or not. The entire ride is a blur of breasts, traffic lights, and buildings larger than a boxcar. Serious sensory overload for the bubble boy escapee.
Until the drive-thru at Burger Hut.
A triple cheeseburger, grande fries and Mega-Gulp soda all prompted the second coming of Spencer Harrington. I’ve never done drugs, but I seriously feel like I’m tripping balls right now. I’m free. I’m warm. I’m eating a cheeseburger and sucking down two thousand calories of pure sugar, while riding around with an exceptionally fine chauffeur. I should have climbed in that pod on day two.
I’m also doing it again. Staring. My upper peripheral vision shows me Emily is working her fingers on her forehead like she’s bidding at an auction. Oh.
“Um, five… two… two… May. May twenty second.”
Doc doesn’t appear impressed. He gives the face again. The one that can say “Congratulations on your new baby” and “Sorry, you have cancer” at the same time. I shrug and cram the rest of the hamburger in my mouth.
“Well, I think you’re going to be fine. You’ve got signs of a mild concussion, several contusions and lacerations—”
“Cuts and scrapes.”
“Yeah, cuts and scrapes. You need to go to an emergency room and get checked out. Everything appears fine, but I can’t rule out internal injuries. I was headed into work when you called, Em. If you want, I can take Mr. Johnston with me and run a few more tests.”
“Actually, Doc, I’ll have your girlfriend drop me by there on her way home.” Disappointingly, he doesn’t object to the girlfriend speculation. I slide off the desk and head toward the hallway. “Come on, let’s get those X-rays. I might drop dead any second.”
She glares, “Mr. Johnston, want to give me a minute?” Emily walks into the study, her lips pursed together and one hand on the doorknob.
“Fine, I’ll be out at the car. Maybe I can buff the blood off the front fender.”
“You’ll wait in the hall if you want a ride.” She has one hand on the door and her eyebrows are knitted together. Accepting her ultimatum with another shrug seems to satisfy her and she shuts the study door.
I debate eavesdropping but that’s forgotten the second I peek into the living room. There’s a 72-inch LCD TV just hanging there, all quiet and lonely. Hurdling into the leather sectional, I groan when I hit, and scan for the remote through pain-narrowed vision.
The rest of the furniture is a mixture of glass and chrome floating over marble tile. An elaborate picture frame surrounds the wall-mounted TV. This setup turns the TV into a prop that probably never gets watched. After what I’ve been through, I’ve got no respect for the waste of a good television.
“Where’s the remote? You do watch this thing, right?”
There’s no response until Emily emerges from the office and spears a finger toward the door. I get up, slowly, and glance into Martin’s office as I pass. He nods with a puzzled look and I follow Emily outside. She doesn’t say a word as we pile into her Bronco.
*
We’ve made it out past the tree-lined drive of the doc’s estate and onto the rural highway that winds through idyllic countryside before Emily finally speaks. “That wasn’t what we discussed.” She sounds a little pissed.
“C’mon. A wounded hiker in the woods? I had to up the stakes a bit.”
“I’ve spent months out there with my research. I hear about stuff like that from the rangers all the time. Besides, you practically told him your name.”
“My first name. How many times have you had to change your name and relocate because some reporter got too curious, or some Augment groupie-stalker-weirdo got too close to the truth? You ever try to consistently answer to a first name that isn’t yours?”
Emily frowns, her eyes glued to the road ahead. The rusted-out 4x4 rattles onward in a fury of roaring exhaust and wind noise. She shifts gears on the aging beast with the confidence of someone that’s changed the oil, the brakes, done a few tune-ups, and isn’t afraid to get some dirt under her unpolished, trimmed nails.
“How many times?”
As many as you want? I’ve launched into more fantasizing; mechanic’s overalls, maybe a lab coat and not much else. Arctic isolation is an icy bitch.
Emily repeats, patiently, “How many times have you moved?”
“Oh, uh well, twelve, thirteen? Probably more.”
She nods, eyes on the darkening highway. “Must’ve been tough.”
“It wasn’t that bad. You get used to it.” I can sense more questions of the type I don’t normally answer. “So, how do you know Crimson Mask?”
Her expression stays the same. “We’ve worked together before.”
“Are you… an Augment?”
A hint of a smile breaks her focused stare. “No. No, I’m not an Augment. No secret identity. Just me, Emily Radke, PhD.”
“PhD? Right, you mentioned research.�
�
“Yep.”
“In what?” I say, sounding a bit more shocked than intended.
“What, surprised?” She glances my way. “Biomedical sciences and microbiology, with a focus in pathophysiology, thanks for asking.”
“Is that how you know Abercrombie—”
“Who?”
“The good doctor back there, what’s-his-face.”
“Martin. Doctor Martin Alexander.” Her emphasis is on “Doctor”. “You were extremely rude. He was trying to help.”
“It’s a gift. I’ll probably never see the guy again, who cares?”
“I’ve known him for years, so I care.”
“Yeah, I sorta figured he was your boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“That’s too bad. You’re probably not his type. Me, I actually prefer girls with PhDs running around the woods in yoga pants.”
There’s that awkward snort again. I knew she was laughing earlier. “Well, it wasn’t my first choice. I’ve been practically living in the WMA for a few months now. The lake has been a breeding ground for Cryptosporidium parvum since early spring.” She frowns. “I left a whole batch of samples and a decent tent.”
“I got the impression you were waiting for me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. The research was legit, if boring. But yes, you were the main reason I focused on that area. Anyway, you’re lucky. The alert from the beacon caught me right before my morning run. I was about to give up on waiting when the pod hit. What took so long? I thought maybe the array had been damaged or malfunctioned.”
Now she’s talking my language and I need a change of subject anyway. “How were you picking up the signal? A sat phone? Immarsat maybe?”
“No. Think Iridium, only this is military-grade hardware with a specifically nonmilitary encryption routine.”
“Can I see?”
“Sure. Behind my seat. Careful, it’s still plugged into the laptop.”
In the floorboard sits an open duffel bag cradling a bundle of electronic goodness. The satellite phone is sick. A sleek, rubberized shell houses the phone, which is about the size of a walkie-talkie. Aside from a speaker and a couple of buttons, there isn’t much else there. This is a far cry from the giant box I converted into my TV antenna. A data cable runs to a laptop that’s also made for serious fieldwork—one of those housings you can run over with a truck, drop in a pool, put through a sandstorm, and still be able to get more than a Blue Screen of Death.
“Correction, I prefer girls that run around the woods in yoga pants with kickass tech.”
“Honey, biologically speaking, I’m old enough to be your…” She stops, her face momentarily a paler shade, and her hands grip the steering wheel a bit tighter than necessary. “Your big sister.”
“I don’t have a big sister.”
I’m surprised how much that hurts. I’m not even sure why it matters that she knows.
“Spencer, I’m sorry.”
I close the laptop and try not to make eye contact. Outside, the city highway streams by in glaring neon and sodium orange, rising up to push the fading sun behind the horizon. The thrill of escaping certain death, the excitement of being out of my meat locker hideout, the tub of caffeine I sucked down, all slip away with the light.
Emily seems to know a lot more about me than I know about her. Dad. Mom. I don’t understand why Dad, with all of his training and bullshit Augment lessons, wouldn’t have told me about her. Telling me what to expect when the pod came crashing to earth seems important. Why am I always the only one who doesn’t know?
I’m ready to confront him. Tell him what I think of his rules and his idea of “safe”, and the strangers he’s sent to drag me out of whatever mess he’s made. Not to mention his attendance at the funeral of a terrorist psychopath, alongside an evil genius psychopath. I’ll top it off with the picture in front of the fried Black Beetle drone and tell him he can stop protecting me.
“Last time. My dad. Where is he?” I can’t look at Emily. I can only stare at the laptop case clenched tightly in my hands.
“Spencer, I don’t know.”
Chapter 11
“Sir.” Soft and tinny through a hidden speaker, Xamse’s voice blended with the hum of machinery in the lab.
Drake stifled a sigh before the breath could fog his face mask. He continued tracing the labyrinthine lines of a schematic floating on a sheet of light in front of him. He muttered a series of numerals and formulae, his eyes narrowed in concentration. At the wave of his gloved hand, the schematics slid by effortlessly.
“Sir…” The speaker crackled. Drake closed his eyes and moved his hand to his forehead as Xamse persisted, “The fifth circuit, sir.”
“Excuse me?” Drake’s iron tone faltered.
“You speak of the fifth circuit.”
Drake returned his attention to the schematic he’d been muttering about only moments ago. Carefully tracing the wiring, he counted back to exactly five and sneered. “You know why ants are so fascinating, Xamse?” The laboratory buzzed in the background as Drake continued, “They are fascinating because their brains, smaller than the head of a pin, allow them to efficiently complete tasks with an absolute precision which would baffle the chaotic minds and actions of a collection of greater creatures. Do you know why that is, Xamse?”
“Ants are very smart, sir?” came Xamse’s hesitant reply.
Drake strode across the lab, the swish of sterile coveralls breaking the monotonous hum. Brightly lit, the clean, white walls were empty with the exception of the single holographic projection. Tables lined the room, their surfaces covered with beakers, hoses, and blinking screens. Walking past a sealed metal cabinet in the center, Drake stopped at a table where thick glass sandwiched a column of dirt snaked with tunnels. He watched as a stream of ants ferried fragments between the see-through chambers. “Ants don’t think. They simply do. They pursue a highly-focused group of tasks without question, deviation, or individual thought.”
“I understand, sir.”
Drake was entirely sure Xamse understood. “You, Xamse, are an ant. You do not think, you simply do. You complete the tasks I assign. Efficiently. Without thought. In fact, I prefer you not to use those words.”
“Which words?”
“Think. Thought.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, did you interrupt my research to eavesdrop, or do you have a better reason?”
“No, no eavesdropping, sir. Only following your protocols to report on the Arctic team, sir.”
“Ah, you’re learning already. However, I’m quite sure they’ve failed to recover anything of use.” Drake’s dark eyes flicked to one side, and an inset video sprang to life on the hologram. In that video, fire and smoke flared from a crowded highway full of blackened shells. Emergency lights strobed in the background. “There had better not be a problem with our cargo from Mumbai.”
“No, sir. But the Arctic team reports the boy escaped the bunker, sir…”
“Inconsequential. The video of him already served its purpose. The team’s main objective should have been securing any data that may have survived. Now, perhaps instead of interrupting my work for such trivial nonsense, you’d prefer to be back home, Xamse?”
A desperate reply crackled on the intercom. “No. No, sir. One report you will find important, sir. The last command I sent to U5345 was for a status update. I have only now received a reply. A signal from U5345. Inside the Eastern United States.”
Drake folded his arms. “More specific.”
Xamse began eagerly, “U5345. The drone sent—”
“Yes, the drone sent to the Arctic bunker. A glitch? Satellite echo?”
“No, sir.” Xamse filled the silence that followed. “I checked. Three times, I checked. Duration was too long for an echo, and I sent a verification command exactly as you trained me. There was a link established. I received a reply.”
Drake reached up to the holographic screen, flicking the
schematic closed with a terse wave and revealing a liquid black background. Another stab, and a keypad appeared. As Drake’s fingers darted across the surface, the screen blinked. A slowly revolving image of the Earth came into view encased in a network of red trails, each trail terminating at a separate triangular focal point. These points dotted the globe in several places, but a large cluster floated somewhere above the Indian Ocean.
“System, display U5345 at last status check.”
The globe spun and the eastern seaboard of the United States exploded into view, re-centering on a single, blinking triangle. Numbers reporting the time, date, longitude, latitude, and signal duration scrolled beneath the triangle as it trailed along a stretch of rural highway.
“Only 47.8 seconds, sir.”
“That drone was recovered several hours ago, was it not?”
The speaker squawked back to life. “Yes, sir. Per the report, the drone sustained severe systems damage due to—”
Drake interrupted Xamse’s report with the suddenness and precision of a guillotine. “Terminate communication.”
He stood motionless before the hologram, the blinking red marker pulsing in his dark eyes. As he considered the possibilities, a wicked grin burst across his face. He knew the preliminary damage report gave an account of extensive system failure. Improperly shielded, the EMP pulse had fried most of the inner circuitry, and this had been followed by a crude incision along the main power relays.
He could think of only one explanation for the contact. Was it possible that a tiny colony of his creations had survived the electromagnetic assault? A force too dispersed and too incredibly small to be bothered by the mere charged particles of an EMP? The line of reasoning made his stomach flutter and brought a fringe of dampness to his eyes.
