Crimson Son

by Russ Linton

  Eric mutely nods and stares at the iPod.

  “Now, go hang with Hound and Hurricane a bit while I start her up. I haven’t exactly tested this yet.”

  I can’t watch as he backs away, so I check my handiwork on Cuddles. For power, I’m using a makeshift cable I’ve pieced together from the charger cord and some sort of maintenance outlet on the drone. All of this is taped behind Cuddles’s head with spool after spool of surgical tape. So far, the battery hasn’t exploded, the cable remains cool to the touch, and the charge warning has shut the hell up, so I must have gotten that much right.

  Eric watches from the hallway.

  “Go on! Give me a few minutes to get her moving and then you should be clear to head for your car. Okay?”

  At first, he doesn’t move, he only stares with unblinking eyes. Then, he starts backing down the hall, slowly at first, until he’s halfway to the infirmary and he turns and jogs away, clutching my iPod. I swallow the urge to call him back.

  This may not even work. Cuddles might decide to dice me up when I hijack her. Best if he’s clear of this. If anything goes too wrong, Hurricane and Hound will get him out of here. I don’t doubt that.

  Only one way to find out if my crash course in psycho-robots paid off. I interrupt the diagnostic loop Eric set up, and start entering a simple routine that should have Cuddles returning to base as part of the maintenance protocol.

  The stiff bristles on Cuddle’s back spring to life and metal sheets along the frame flutter. Reflections of my face are scattered across the upper ridge of eye facets, a flock of disembodied heads staring. Behind my reflection, a glinting silver crescent pierces the facets, a needle through a bubble, slipping closer. I risk a glance over my shoulder.

  A leg hovers high above me guillotine-style, ready to reap a nice fat harvest of overconfidence. I rattle commands across the keys without taking my eyes off that razor edge. The first series of commands should, in theory, cancel the last directive she received before we hijacked her.

  The leg wavers.

  Drops to the side.

  Cleaves through the thin industrial carpet and into the foundation.

  “Good girl. Nice Cuddles.” My full attention turns to the laptop. “Now, let’s go home.”

  I enter the next series of commands. Cuddles responds instantly.

  With a buzz that vibrates the air, the thin metal sheets spring to life. Cuddles has sprouted wings, beating with hummingbird ferocity. I wince as the leading edge catches on my backpack. I’m forced to crouch low across the head and rest my chin between the bulbous eyes.

  Cuddles makes an abrupt turn and we shoot down the entrance hall, clipping the wall and shattering the doors as we go. We’re airborne in seconds. Soon, we’re skimming above the pines, and needles rake against Cuddle’s legs, filling the air with their fragrance. The retirement home fades away, and the road flashes between the trees in a silver vein of moonlight.

  Hoping for a gentle descent, I watch the road closely and at the right moment order Cuddles to land. In the dark pine boughs, Eric’s shoebox on wheels comes into view.

  I swing down off Cuddle’s back, head to the passenger door and pop it open. A feeble dome light winks on and I grope for the glove box handle. Compared to the metal blender behind me, the gun is laughable. But when I remove it from the compartment, the sheer weight is evident in my hands. A small, snub-nosed handgun that has more density than it even should. Cool, nickel-plated surfaces drink moonlight into the ridges along the cylinder and spit the light out along straight lines down the barrel. This, the massive robot: both were designed with one intention.

  My first thought is to chuck the gun in my backpack. However, I’ve got an idea of how this will all go down. I take the gun and, with a bit of extra surgical tape, I strap the gun to my leg under the oversized sweats.

  “All right Cuddles, let’s roll.” Even in the dark, I’m getting better at mounting my ride. With a quick command, Cuddles launches through the whipping branches and explodes into the open air.

  As we fly, the temperature drops. It’s not arctic cold, but it’s still a chill my baggy clothes can’t quite keep out. However, Cuddles finally lives up to her name. Her metal skin radiates an inner heat. Probably the radioactive power source if I had to guess, but once I hunker down behind her head, I’m happy to grow an extra limb, lose some teeth, whatever it takes to keep from freezing. I’m done feeling cold.

  Untarnished by the light of civilization, the night sky is breathtaking. That sodium chemical glow that felt so strange when I first rode into the city with Emily doesn’t exist here. There’s only a blanket of night, pierced by a steady pulse of stars. The stars seem close enough to scoop up a handful and stuff them in my pocket.

  I sit into the wind, careful to avoid the drumming wings, and I lock my knees around Cuddle’s neck. I try it, reaching up with one hand, and close my fist around a handful of the night. Wind rushes in my ears, cedar and pine aromas wash across my senses; I’m free. For the first time in two years, maybe more. It took a parade of angry robots to finally make this happen, but I’m free.

  My problems will still haunt me, track me wherever I’m headed, but for now, it’s just me and the sky. Cuddles got me up here, the very thing meant to kill me, but even that seems distant. For a while, I’m sharing a moment with Dad. The ability to fly and leave it all behind. I’m amazed he ever came back in the first place.

  Sure, I can’t fly on my own. I can’t raise a fist to the sky and launch into the air. I need to hijack a robot and get more than a little crazy myself. But as freaking scary as my ride is, it’s my ride. I’m in control. And here I’d stay, if it were only that easy.

  Never is. That’s what I’m learning.

  Chapter 40

  “More wine, sir?” The waiter’s towel-draped arm held the bottle at the perfect angle to display the label.

  “You have exquisite tastes, Mister Drake, but I’m afraid I must again decline.” Sheikh Hamad nodded with a wink, his mouth framed by a tightly groomed beard that dimpled under flushed cheeks.

  Drake’s selection of the wine, a Sicilian vintage, had been calculated to entice Hamad into indulging in his taboo hobby. While Drake knew he would not partake in public, he had already ensured that a bottle would be delivered to the sheikh’s suite later that evening.

  “Madam? Mr. Townsend?” Drake said, turning to the table and noting two empty glasses while calculating the body weight of each individual. Drunkenness could pose problems. Questions of diminished capacity for any business deal they may finalize. A lightheaded buzz, well, that could break the ice.

  Drake was less concerned about Meredith’s capacity. She held her glass out with a broad grin. He had arranged a special surprise, awaiting her in her penthouse suite, to attend to her peculiar desires. Questionable, but unlikely to derail his plans. Suddenly awash in her father’s money and without his doting supervision that had carried on well into adulthood, Meredith was experiencing a whole new world for the first time and embracing it with carnal gusto. Her father’s unfortunate “accident” had perhaps been a positive event for her, Drake assured himself.

  But Kerin Townsend was different. Townsend had sipped at his wine contentedly all evening and placed a hand above the rim of the glass as the waiter swooped his direction. This man was proving to be infuriatingly single-minded. Business and technology were his sole motivations in life. Drake had an urge to reach out and crush his larynx, but such energy needed to be saved for the negotiations. Perhaps later, when Nanomech, Inc. had matured, he would stomp the life out of Townsend in a more socially acceptable way. Hostile takeover; he loved the sound of it.

  Besides, without Kerin’s approval, Drake sensed that several of the investors would have backed out during the meeting. In fact, the principals at this table would have declined his invitation altogether. His technical brief had been indecipherable to the other investors who had turned him down one by one. But the details had astonished Townsend. True, the sheikh
was a longtime partner, but he needed Kerin’s technical seal of approval all the same. Meredith was a sheep and needed to follow a lead and Kerin had been her logical choice.

  Drake understood human psychology, but not so much humans themselves. Years of hunting Augments, drawing them out into the open with calculated cruelty and barbaric precision, had accustomed Drake to ruthless success; always outthinking his prey while maintaining personal risk as close to zero as possible. Kerin Townsend was proving to be another animal entirely, in an elusive hunt for which he was starting to feel ill-prepared.

  However, Drake knew he needed to do his best to work within the rules. Corporate conflict was surprisingly and pleasingly flexible. Bribes, insider trading, and creative accounting were all commonplace. In the case of Meredith’s father, Drake had overstepped the bounds, but he couldn’t risk any more such ventures.

  “I’ll need a tour of your facilities.” Kerin said, as the waiter settled the bottle into the table-side bucket and walked away.

  “Oh, that sounds positively fascinating,” Meredith interjected, “Do tell us when!”

  “Absolutely. I wouldn’t think of proceeding otherwise.” Drake tabulated the areas his investors would be granted access to as he spoke. “Certain proprietary limitations notwithstanding, of course.”

  “Naturally,” replied Kerin.

  “This has been so exciting!” Meredith babbled. “My father was never much for inviting me to meetings!”

  Drake longed for the tiny black box. “Yes, I’m sure he had his reasons. Rest assured, he was quite enamored by the project when I first introduced it to him, many years ago. He’d be proud of your continued interest.”

  Meredith returned a tight-lipped smile.

  Sheikh Hamad ran a finger along the lip of his empty glass. “The money, friend. Quite a sum required to bring this to market.”

  “Yes. However, we’ve cleared our research and development stage. The technology is field-tested and ready to move. You have zero risk at this point.”

  “What of your R&D backers? Why haven’t we met or heard from them?” Townsend eyed Drake speculatively.

  “Thus far, financing has come through private investments. Mostly my own.”

  “A lab capable of that level of fabrication and precision seems outside the scope of a single investor.”

  “I was lucky, as Sheikh Hamad can attest.” Drake raised his glass and the sheikh’s beard parted in a smile. “At any rate, my personal finances are on the table with the rest of the data. You’ll find everything in order.” Drake stared at Kerin. He would indeed find the financials to be rock solid. The money siphoned from the covert programs had been thoroughly obfuscated by intelligence agencies intent on hiding their activities, and then further buried by Drake himself.

  Buzz Buzz

  Drake froze in surprise as his pocket hummed again. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to excuse me. The lab again. They’re running a series of tests on the second-generation tech.” Placing his napkin on the table, Drake rose and turned to leave.

  “I’ve got a plane to catch, Drake. Don’t be long.” Townsend wet his lips with the wine and glanced at the other two investors. Drake smiled over his shoulder, continuing into the hotel lobby before bringing the phone to his ear.

  “What?” Drake demanded.

  “Sir, we’ve lost the Mantis, sir.” Xamse’s tone was tight and restrained.

  “Is the data secure? The boy eliminated?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Explain.”

  “He has control of the Mantis, sir.”

  “He has what!?” The concierge glanced up from his kiosk as Drake’s menacing shout echoed in the marble lobby. Drake clenched his teeth and turned away from prying eyes. “Control of it? How does he have control of it, you incompetent worm.”

  “It is not answering my attempts to communicate. A diagnostic appears to be running. I was able to force a positional update from GPS, and the data indicates the Mantis is moving.”

  “Where?”

  “To Northbase, sir. It will be here within four hours.”

  For Drake, it was as if the entire lobby stopped, froze, melted and started again.

  “Northbase? My Northbase?”

  “Yes. Here.” The soothing music of the lobby filled the pause. “Sir.”

  Drake cursed and devoured the space to the concierge in cutting strides. He slapped the desk, causing the white-jacketed employee to jump and knock over his stool. “My driver. Find him.” Glaring, Drake turned toward the lobby, and the concierge slipped out the door.

  “That is not all, sir.”

  Openmouthed, Drake gaped at the ceiling, barely able to restrain his reply, “Not all? Do elucidate the matter for me, Xamse, before I rip out your intestines and—” A passing guest wheeling a suitcase from the elevators stuttered in her steps and a furtive glance strayed Drake’s direction. Her pace quickened.

  “The secure signal from Killcreek,” continued Xamse. “It has sent a broadcast on all military channels. It is urgent, sir.”

  Drake slammed the phone on the lobby floor where it shattered into several pieces. A thin black chunk glanced off the black patent shoe of the concierge at the same moment he raced back inside. Eyes wide, the concierge let his momentum carry him to the full open arc of the door ahead of Drake’s fury. He flinched as Drake stopped and jabbed a large bill into his jacket pocket.

  “Tell my guests something has come up and send my regrets. Let them know I will provide them with further documentation in the morning. Understood?”

  The concierge nodded eagerly. Drake cursed again as he stalked to the waiting limo. His lantern-jawed driver held the door and stared straight ahead. Drake shrieked, “Privacy!” and disappeared into the backseat behind a tinted window as the driver closed the door.

  Inside the limo, Drake pulled the center console forward. It hummed and rose along a slender arm, stopping at chest level. The leather trim flipped back, revealing a sleek touchscreen. Drake’s fingers danced across the panel, and a holographic display sprang to life. “Incoming Communication” flashed impatiently onscreen. Drake stabbed the panel.

  A nondescript man in a lab coat appeared. Blood smeared his face. It was a tight shot, but what could be seen behind him had the appearance of a slaughterhouse. There was a short hallway lined with doors and scattered with corpses. Motionless figures wore lab coats, fatigues, environmental suits, and blood. Errant sprays and streaks of crimson blossomed on the walls. Despite the carnage, despite the barrel of a handgun pressed to his temple, the man appeared calm.

  But Drake was hardly unnerved by the death. What bothered him and drew his full attention were the man’s eyes. His pupils swam in mercury. A soul gazing outward. So fine was the reflection, that movement from behind the camera swam across their surface.

  “I am not the only hostage. There are more. Our demands are three. We require the code. The code to release the failsafe.” The man’s jaw tightened and the liquid eyes narrowed. “Next, we request your presence. We require witness to our new family, which we have waited so long to find.”

  “Finally, we demand you be punished.” Veins stood out along his neck, and the man’s mouth twisted in agony as he spoke. The gun next to his head began to shake. “Those who stole us from family and enjoyed what we never had. Those who used us for their own ends. Made us pry out the secrets from inside so many. Prying and prying until they could take no more. You will pay! You have taken her from us! You did this!”

  Spittle flew from his mouth and the man, the gun, continued to shake as the camera steadily panned out. He stood alone in the hallway, the gun gripped in his own shaking fist.

  “No!” The gun fired. His cries ended. As the transmission died and the body fell, the man’s irises faded into a lifeless brown.

  Drake raised an eyebrow. He leaned back in the seat, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. As long as the mess could be contained, this event could provide an opportunity. Perhaps the Black Beetle
could offer his services one last time. Drake rapped on the dividing window, and the limo pulled away from the curb.

  “Rewind transmission. Four times speed… now two. There. Stop. Zoom.”

  Drake examined the reflection in the silvered eye. It was difficult to tell. Female, green t-shirt. Another hostage, perhaps. Most likely whatever Augment was behind this would not allow themselves to be seen. Of the dozens he had delivered to the Killcreek facility, the profile, the powers matched none of them.

  The limo raced down the streets, headed for his offices. With the Crimson Mask’s son controlling one of his drones, and the Crimson Mask himself possibly freed given the state of Killcreek, it was time for a new strategy. Xamse had failed for the last time. Drake would need a new assistant, and the Black Beetle needed to be removed from service, for good, in as highly public a way as possible. Then he could focus on patching things up with his investors.

  Efficiency in spite of human frailty. It was what drove Drake and had gotten him this far.

  *

  Kerin Townsend watched Drake melt down from a safe distance. The wood-paneled waiting area right outside the hotel restaurant offered a decent view of the lobby through stained-glass windows. He’d hoped the odd lighting and rippled glass would make him hard to see, though he wasn’t a master spy by any means. He’d intended to confront Drake away from the other investors, to try and pin down a date for the tour. But by the time Kerin reached the lobby, this genius inventor, who’d shown up fully operational and ready to go public, virtually out of nowhere, was maniacally shouting at his phone. Kerin had ducked behind the glass mostly out of embarrassment.

  Kerin had seen this before. Well, not quite like this, but similar situations. A highly skilled inventor would make a widget, and then decide he was also a businessman. From personal experience, Townsend knew the combination was rare.