Crimson Son

by Russ Linton

  “You’ll be safe here,” psychic-freak says, flickering in Emily’s eyes. Tears roll down her cheeks above the Arkham smile. “When we’re ready for you to join us, we’ll come for you. We’ll make you one of us, Spencer!”

  Dad pushes me into a room along the corpse-lined hallway. Fighting his blind, hypnotized strength is impossible, but I struggle and kick anyway, forcing him to expend about the same effort it might take to pick some lint off his costume. As the door closes, I slam against it and keep pounding.

  “Stop! Dad! Don’t let her do this! You’re the Crimson Mask!”

  I beat on the door until my fists are sore and bloody, then I collapse with my sweaty forehead pressed against the steel. Breathing hard, I drop to the floor and start to let the bottled emotions run free.

  A mindless groan comes from the back of the room. What the hell did they put me in here with?

  My back against the solid door, I struggle to stand. “Who’s there?”

  Poorly lit, the room has a bed, a filthy toilet and a recessed sink. I’m hit by an odor fouler than old gym shorts and thick enough you could wear it. The lump of sheets on the bed stirs.

  “Spencer? Is that you?”

  “Oh shit, Doc!” I rush to the bedside and stagger as the wall of funk hits full-on. Tucking my nose under the collar of my shirt, I mouth breathe as I get closer to the bed.

  Martin coughs, then chokes and begins desperately fumbling with the sheets. I help him sit. One eye is blackened, swollen nearly shut and his lip is split halfway to his nose.

  “Ouch.”

  Doc gingerly touches his face. “Emily. She had a psychotic episode.”

  I nod, debating about telling him exactly how much worse the situation really is. “How did you guys even get here?”

  “I was going to call the cops, file a missing person’s report.” He’s doing his best to examine me through his one working eye. “How are you? What happened?”

  “You look much worse than I ever did, Doc. Epic contusions and lacerations.”

  “Cuts and scrapes,” he says, cringing as he brushes his eyelid with his fingertips. “You?”

  “Robots. How and why are you even here?”

  “Emily. She started having these weird dreams. Telling me she knew where you were.”

  “You believed her?” I can’t help sounding amazed.

  Martin sighs and examines the stained sheets he’s been laying on. He frowns, stands a bit too quickly, and steadies himself on the wall. Adjusting to the momentary dizziness, he answers from behind the protection of the hand he’s using to massage his temples. “Yeah. I did. I mean, I guess she was right about you being here.”

  “Only you got here way before I did.”

  Martin squints, “I don’t really know what happened. Emily smashed me in the head with, I think, the cabin fire extinguisher.”

  “She’s, uh, not herself. Literally.” I shake off the image of Emily pleading for me to run.

  As though it’s the first time he’s acknowledging the fact, Martin nods. “When we flew in, things got intense. Out of nowhere we had fighter jets threatening to shoot us down. Emily took over the controls and I could hear the pilot’s chatter about losing contact. They might have fired on us, I’m not sure. Somewhere in there she clocked me. What’s going on here?”

  “Project Killcreek, and some kind of crazy psychic Augment. She might have gotten through to Emily because of me, or maybe Dad.”

  I turn to the door. No keypad, not even a handle on this side. The seam around the door is so tight, I don’t think a piece of paper could slip between it and the frame. Outside, Dad is playing ass-puppet for an Augment, and Emily is doing a good job as an Exorcist stand-in. In here, I’ve got no tools, no battle armor, and no underappreciated minions on my side.

  I slump against the door. “We’re fucked.”

  Martin walks over and pushes against the door. He paces backward into the room and examines the floor, ceiling, walls. He winces when his neck hits the wrong angle. Even locked in a secret military base, with a face that’s half hamburger, he’s not panicking.

  “How is it you’re so calm about this?” I ask.

  He peers into a corner and the mask of assurance melts but only for an instant. “Believe me, I’m freaking out. The real question is how you’re so calm.”

  “Why’s that? ‘Cause I’m a ‘kid’?”

  “Don’t get pissed, but yeah. I’ve got several years on you when it comes to dealing with emergency situations.”

  “Maybe I… Oh, forget it.”

  “What?”

  “Could be a death wish, but I’m going to stick with my original answer and say, Dad.”

  “Oh yeah? I thought he wasn’t around much.” Martin ambles back to the door, rubbing his neck.

  “No, but when he was, he’d talk all this hardcore rule bullshit. How to be a badass Augment. And I’d watch him, on TV. Every chance I got.”

  Martin slides down next to me with a forced laugh and says, “I sorta know what you mean. My Dad, he’d always talk business, even though I’ve got the worst business sense of anyone I’ve ever known.”

  “How so?”

  “Too practical. Too matter of fact, I guess. I tried to sell candy bars once. They were two for a dollar, but I made sure there were two people to complete the sale. I figured a person didn’t need two candy bars. Not exactly the healthiest snack. Tooth decay, diabetes.”

  “Are you serious? How old were you?”

  “Twelve. It was for the student council.”

  “This explains a lot, by the way,” I say. He huffs a laugh from the un-swollen side of his face and I ask, “How about you? All that ER craziness prep you for abduction by insane Augments?”

  He shrugs. “You learn to cope with desperation and unpredictability. You also figure out who on the team can keep it together when the Trauma Gods strike.” I’m examining my sneakers as he talks but I can tell he’s looking right at me. “So, how’d you even get here? And don’t say ‘robots’.”

  “How does ‘cybernetic battle suit’ work for you?” When I look up I see the confusion setting in on Martin’s face, so I let him off the hook. “The Black Beetle. I borrowed his battle armor.”

  Martin’s already tenderized face goes slack, “Really?”

  “Yeah. He had an accident, sort of.” I break eye contact while Martin fumbles for a response. “I don’t want to talk about it.” To change the subject, I bang my elbow against the solid door. “If I would’ve left the suit on, I could probably smash this stupid door down, or blow it to pieces. Better yet, smash through the wall like a Kool-Aid man on crack. You know? Augment style.”

  Martin nods and starts into more of his story. “A week before my dad died, he’d been showing me around his office. Kept calling it ‘our office’. Never bothered to ask what I wanted. You know the story; I was halfway through college before I figured it out. Took me forever to realize I needed to make that decision on my own.

  “The important thing is, I did figure it out. I’m a doctor. I’m good at it. I don’t have the business instinct to be a CEO, but I can help people. You, Spencer, you may not be an Augment, but you’re wicked resourceful. Smart.” He claps my shoulder as he finishes. “So, what’s the plan?”

  I do a double take at Martin as he stands, hands on hips, staring at the ceiling. True to his nature, he’s calm as can be. Not only that, he’s asking me for the plan. Not trying to protect me, or tell me how reckless and insane I am, which would be spot-on. No, he’s actually deferring to me about this whole giant chunk of insanity.

  So far, I’ve been doing this all wrong. Trying to escape a prison only to end up in another one, not the best batting average. I’ve been running around numb, pissed off, maybe a bit suicidal, trying to be something I never wanted, an Augment, all to get his attention and avoid the pain of losing her, when what I really needed to escape was to be me.

  Seated on the floor, I start searching the room. There’s a single bul
b recessed into the ceiling, about twelve feet off the ground. Also, a tiny vent provides air circulation. While I’m small, I’m not sideshow small. To my immediate right, salvation catches my eye: a security camera mounted in the corner under a tinted dome. Might be just enough to work with.

  “If I can get up to that camera and crack it open, there’s bound to be a data cable. You have a phone?”

  He digs his phone out of a pocket. He frowns as he checks the display, “No signal.”

  I put out a hand and he tosses the phone. “Nice model. My bet, you got the optional insurance?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sweet.” I crack the case open because simply sliding the battery out won’t give me access to what I need. A pained expression crosses his face. “Signal wouldn’t have helped. There isn’t a cell tower for miles, Doc.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Robots.” I again have to say that as if it were a foregone conclusion. He rolls his eyes. “Any chance you can give me a boost?”

  Without hesitation, Martin nods and drops to a knee under the camera. I scramble up his bent leg to his shoulders and he slowly stands. The dome looks unbreakable, and the scratches indicate plenty of people have tried—a dark sooty black even mars one section. I don’t want to destroy the camera, though, just get between it and the ceiling.

  “Car keys? Plane keys?” Martin passes them up. Within seconds, I’ve got the metal partly wedged under the casing. Through the dome, I can see where the data cable connects into the camera. With enough luck, I can snap the plastic tab and fish the cable out.

  A low rumble rolls in from the other side of the door. I recognize it as the mechanical strain of a cylinder raising off the platform.

  “What was that?” Martin asks, breathless.

  “Damn it.”

  “What?”

  “She was watching. She needed to know how to do it.”

  “Do what?” Martin grumbles as he adjusts my weight on his shoulders.

  “I think the family reunion’s first guest has arrived.”

  Chapter 48

  Martin’s been a good sport about me grinding my feet into his shoulders for the past hour. So far, I’m getting closer. The keys weren’t working, so I’ve fished out a bit of the wire with a shim we made from parts of the metal bed frame. The whole time, the wall continues to shake with the noise of more cylinders being raised. I don’t know how much longer we have until the reunion gets hungry.

  “What now?” Martin groans as he shifts and scowls at me through a shoelace.

  “Sorry, almost there.” I’ve got just enough cable to work with.

  “How long?”

  “Not long. Once I access the phone’s field test menu, I can get a basic connection running.”

  Martin only exhales deeply.

  There’s nothing to this. I use the phone to masquerade as the camera and the network pops wide open. I can see Eric was actually wrong about this place. There is a connection to the outside world. The message I can send is limited to a binary string, but that’s plenty. Eric is fluent in not only binary but Klingon and elvish.

  A call for help isn’t part of the Augment code of badassery. Never once did Dad say, “When you’re in deep shit, call for backup.” But that’s exactly why this is going to work.

  “Done.”

  With a pained sigh, Martin drops to a knee in what’s meant to be a controlled descent. His fatigued legs wobble at the last second and I fall in a heap on top of him.

  “Sorry,” he moans. “You hurt?”

  “I’m fine. I didn’t crush the good side of your head, did I?” I bound to my feet and put out a hand to help.

  Martin misses the offered support and thunks his head on the wall like a ripe melon. He barely registers the collision. “Got to rest a second. What did you do, anyway?”

  “Sent an S.O.S.”

  “To who?” Reading the ‘there’s nobody left to call’ edge to his question is easy. Army, Air Force, Marines, Special Forces, Augments—they’re already here, and either nuts or waiting to turn this place into a parking lot.

  “A couple of friends,” I say.

  “Chess club?”

  “Nice, Doc! Your sarcasm is improving.” I drop to the mattress on the floor beside the disassembled bed and try to ignore the rank stench. “If I breathe through my mouth instead of my nose, am I going to get some kind of disease?”

  “Nasal passages humidify and filter air,” Martin’s voice starts to drift as he schools me on snot. “Your mucous membranes can trap a lot of bacteria and viruses your mouth can’t. You’ll produce less nitric oxide as well…” Not only is his voice drifting in volume, but it seems to be getting further away and muffled.

  “Never mind, Doc. Rest a bit.” I try not to do the same. Unsuccessfully.

  Martin’s involuntary-response lecture crescendos into a droning buzz. My vision separates like a strip of old-school movie film melting, and the world is left a white smear. All I can see is stark, white light.

  I’m drowning in luminance. There’s no cold, but the light has the weight of an ocean. Above, a circular band forms and etches ripples across the surface of my skin. The center void becomes an enormous pupil surrounded by glittering water.

  “I want to show you something,” comes a quiet voice.

  The girl from the cylinder has my hand. Paper-white hair flows in a sharp line around her scarred scalp. Veins course through her cheeks. A powerful inner light creates a fleshy pink silhouette with a core of dark bones.

  As we ascend toward the ocean, her face becomes a parade of features. Some are people I recognize from the cylinders, winking in and out of a churning crowd of strangers. I should be scared, but I don’t feel afraid. I feel hollow.

  “Where are we going?”

  Her eyes dart away. She continues to lead with an eager pull. As the light folds inward, she glows brighter. The edge of the darkness fades. The shadows melt away and we’re standing on solid ground.

  Then again, nothing here is solid. This place seems a flimsy, paper substitute for reality. White walls flex and breathe in rolling waves. Even the wooden floor, interrupted by the thick humps of enormous tree branches, gives me the impression I could slip between the boards.

  Two hammocks flank a bed with a metal frame with large hearts bent into the rods. Each hammock is attached to a mighty tree trunk which serves as one of the walls. They droop with the weight of bodies, one hanging deeper than the other, but I can’t see inside them from here. On the trunk, a large bookcase is carved into the flesh of the tree.

  The girl from the cylinder stands beside me, naked, her flesh glowing with a pink aura. Crystalline eyes bore intently into me. I’m having trouble looking at her. I’m both revolted and fascinated. She’s a pathetic little girl now, and not a mind-controlling monster. I want to say something that could maybe make things better, but I can’t find the words.

  “Is this the Falcon’s Nest?” I ask.

  “Do you like it?” she stares with eager eyes.

  I don’t answer, but instead ask, “You’ve read Swiss Family Robinson?”

  She nods and smiles, her teeth dark shadows against the inner radiance.

  I walk to the bookcase, driven partly by curiosity and partly by the need for space. Once her arm is fully extended, she lets her fingers slip out of mine.

  “Have you read all of these?” I ask.

  Books crowd the shelves, neatly organized. I get to the second row with an unbroken “read it” checklist, when I realize she hasn’t answered my question. I brace myself and look back.

  She nods her head. “We both have.”

  Standing farther from her, I can see her pink body has a definitely female shape. She’s posed awkwardly, bundled around herself in an impossible attempt at modesty. I swallow and put out my hand.

  Head down, she peers up through her lashes and I motion her forward with my fingertips. She practically bounds over, squeezing my hand tight the second she’s in reac
h. After the shock of her bony grip, I try and focus on the good—the warmth of her smooth skin, a bookcase full of shared interests. Whatever I can to stay calm.

  “What’s your name?”

  She pauses and stands on her tiptoes, her bare breast brushing my arm. I try and focus on the book titles. Reaching up, she grabs a book and places it in my hands. She presses in and nestles on my arm. It takes a moment before I remember the book.

  “Charlotte’s Web? I’ve read this… oh, Charlotte! Is that your name? Charlotte?” In the excitement, we lock eyes again. She’s glowing on the inside even brighter now and her eyes, they aren’t filmy, but lit from behind with that same effusive glow.

  “Charlotte, you never answered me earlier. How long have you been here?”

  She bites her lower lip and reaches for the shelf. This book is weathered and old, a tome that might be in the moldering stacks at a library.

  “H.G. Wells, huh? The Time Machine?” Another book I’ve read, but not an answer I understand. “What about why? Why are you here?”

  Charlotte giggles, enjoying her new game. She bites the corner of her lip and scans the shelf. Her finger traces the top corner of a book, then she switches and grabs another. Flowers for Algernon.

  “Yeah, another classic. Oh.” She’s staring down, drawing circles on the floor with her toe. The light dims and her bony fingers dig into my knuckles.

  The small circles she makes with her toes tighten and she pulls her shoulders inward. She reaches forward and removes another book. The title isn’t familiar at first, but flipping through the pages, the story springs to mind. I read this one in the back issues of a classic sci-fi magazine: The Thought Reading Machine by Andre Maurois.

  Charlotte cradles my arm against her smooth stomach, and stares vacantly at the floor. The fleshy aura of her body flares. The insubstantial room loses detail. All except for the books, which stand out in perfect clarity from a lonely past.

  My own memories race by. Days spent on the playground of yet another strange school hiding in the pages of a book, the farthest corner of countless public library computer labs, sequestered away in Eric’s basement—finding that one perfect spot in every place I’d lived. A spot where I could lose myself in worlds outside the real one. Places where I didn’t have to face who I really was or feel pressured to be like my Augment father.