by Ian Lewis
I almost laugh. “Amish? Really? Working for Redd Research?” The thought of simple, earthy folk working for a research company is amusing.
“They were only hired to move materials and operate basic tools—levers and pulleys. Thomas felt they were neutral and could be trusted. The rest of the work was automated by equipment owned by Redd Research.”
“Ray, what did he build?”
“I’ll show you—tomorrow. There’s a Redd storage facility on the north side of Lockworth. Are you working?”
“Only from home. I haven’t been in the office much lately… Wait, why do you want me involved in this? Worthington is missing. You don’t know where he is, or even if he’s alive.”
“True.” Ray is matter-of-fact.
“Don’t you get it? This is a police matter. I can’t help you.” I wave my hand around the room. “This might be a crime scene!”
Ray’s eyes narrow, and his voice drops. “Troy, it is imperative that this situation be contained. Thomas wouldn’t want these machines to be made to serve a purpose other than what they were designed for.”
“Which is?”
“To not only realize the Singularity, but to realize it on his terms.”
“Thomas Worthington’s terms?! You’re going to blindly follow what is clearly an insane obsession and end up dead or in jail—which is the same thing. You’re smarter than this, Ray.”
“I see you have your opinion. That’s unfortunate. I knew it would be difficult to get you to even meet me here, let alone commit your assistance.”
“That’s what I don’t get. What do you need me for?”
Ray pauses and then says, “For the first time in my life, I don’t know what to do.” He holds up his hands. “There, I said it. Does it surprise you? It surprised me. And it scares me more than the Illuma Corp; it scares me more than what’s locked away in that storage facility.”
4
“Well, to me it sounds like you’ve made up your mind,” I say. “You’re on board with Worthington—you just said so yourself.”
Ray shoots back like his tongue is on fire. “I know what I said.” He then pauses as if to reflect. “I believe in Thomas; I believe his aim to be true. I can’t let all his work fall apart. I…I just don’t know how to keep everything from unraveling.”
I exhale an audible venting of my frustration. “Ray, you need to turn this over to the police. You’re in way over your head.”
Ray is obstinate, shaking in disagreement. “No—you haven’t seen what I’ve seen. This is very real. The Illuma Corp is just the beginning. I don’t know if they’re involved in Thomas’s disappearance, but it almost doesn’t matter. What matters is that Thomas’s vision may have cost him his life. That’s proof enough that he touched a nerve. Someone was paying attention.”
I cut in. “I don’t doubt that these groups exist or that they have crazy ideas about the way the world should be. But there’s got to be order, man! We can’t go following them off on whatever tangents they’re on.”
Ray is erratic again like he was on the phone. His voice is shrill and piercing. “You can’t stop the future. It’s happening, and it’s happening now. You’ll see. Tomorrow you’ll see.”
I try to get him to focus. “Why not today? Why can’t I see them today?”
“Because I have to stand in for Thomas at a board meeting. I have to hold them off for as long as I can…”
I relent. “Tomorrow then. But after, we need to call the police.”
“No police.” Ray shakes his head like a small child disagreeing with his parents.
I decide not to press the issue for now. “Fine, no police. But I’m not involved, not with any of it.”
For a second Ray’s eyes are defeated. “Just meet me here—early.”
I agree and leave Ray in the living room, ill at ease. Finding my way to the front door is mindless, but I’m full of anxious thoughts as I exit the house. Now that I’ve seen Ray in person and heard him out, I’m even more concerned he’s not thinking straight.
He just shifted from his rock solid, dependable self to a skittish semblance thereof without much prompting. If I’m going to look out for his well-being, which I feel is my responsibility now, I need to keep him on level ground.
Straddling the bike once more, I engage the starter button. The 645cc motor turns over with a taut eagerness. Side stand up and the transmission out of neutral, I’m whipping along the turnaround and then accelerating down the drive.
Soon I’m turning onto the back country road and wondering if anything Ray said is possible. Maybe he’s exaggerating. The military operates unmanned aircraft for surveillance and things of that nature; these machines can’t be anything other than an advanced version of that.
I dismiss the mental tug of war so I can concentrate on the road ahead. Leaning, the bike swings me through every turn, and I retrace my path from an hour ago.
Ahead, the toy planes still buzz across the open field. They look like bugs swarming across each other’s path. One climbs high, almost straight up, before beginning a descent and initiating a barrel roll.
In two seconds I realize the plane has veered out over the road and changed direction; it now races down toward me. At first this seems like a joke, a mistake. Surely the plane will correct its course, guided by its operator’s controls on the ground.
Another fifty feet and this is not yet true. My instinct is to outrun the plane before it can get low enough, so I give the throttle a sharp twist, surging ahead.
The plane drops in response, drawing nearer to a collision with my helmet. There’s no doubt now; the toy is being flown into my path intentionally. The operators in the field all face the road, statues intent on their controls.
My attention reverts back to the diving plane. A split second…I duck…buzzing at the back of my neck…then the plane is past me. I turn just in time to see the toy attempt to pull up, only to clip the road and lose control. It careens into a ditch and explodes.
My eyes bulge at the thud of the blast. It’s too violent for such a small amount of fuel. I have the crazy thought that it was armed with explosives, but that can’t be possible. Can it?
Now a second plane is in my side mirror. It’s lower than the first, too low from which to duck, and impossibly fast. If it connects, it will tag the rear wheel.
The throttle gives way as I manhandle it back to the stop. The bike screams ahead. My only hope is that I can get the plane out of range of radio control, with enough distance between us so it doesn’t take me out when it drops into the road.
Bent over the handlebars, I will every revolution of the motor to push me that much farther ahead. Seconds will make the difference here. Gripping, leaning, low profile—I’m one with the bike. Where it goes, I go.
In the mirror there’s a swerve and a gradual drop in altitude, and then fire. The plane meets the ground and I’m well enough beyond that it’s only a flash. Another quick glance reveals there aren’t any more attackers from the sky.
I maintain a steady grip on the throttle until I reach the main route which will take me back to the interstate. There I slow and downshift before turning. Manic, I pour on the speed again.
The insanity replays in my head. Planes! I was attacked by toy planes! If one of them had caught me… I shake loose the thought of my near demise. Just get back to the apartment, I tell myself.
Ray—I’ve got to tell Ray. No, this might set him further off balance. Killer attack planes might be too much for his emotional state. I’ll keep it to myself—for now.
The interstate is ahead. I signal and turn left, racing down the onramp to keep in front of traffic. I sail past a semi and merge, careful to maintain a wide berth. Killer attack planes or not, death by semi is no more appealing.
5
I dream I’m being chased by the men from the field. They peek around corners and whisper to themselves, getting closer and closer as they hunt me across Arbor City. Meanwhile, toy planes buzz overhead.
Then explosions and smoke broil the sky, and I hear whirring, mechanical sounds from behind buildings. There’s the sense that death and destruction come with whatever produces these sounds, but I never see what’s responsible for them.
Wrestling with the sheets, I wake to the harsh sound of my bedside phone. I answer in half-syllables.
“Troy—are you awake?!” Ray is agitated and breathing heavy.
“Hmm? Yeah, I’m…I’m awake.” I prop myself up on one elbow.
“It’s happening!” His voice rings hollow like his throat fell into his stomach.
I rub my eyes, stumbling over Ray’s words. “What? What’s happening?”
“One of the machines is gone—stolen! I don’t know how, but it’s been stolen.”
“What? Wait, how do you know?”
“Because I’m here. Come see for yourself.”
“What are you talking about?” I glance at the digital clock on the nightstand. “It’s three A.M.”
“This can’t wait. Remember the storage facility I mentioned before? Just take Bennett Road north out of Lockworth.”
“Ray, I’m not coming out there, man.”
Ray cuts me off. “Listen to me.”
“No, you listen to me,” I say, the murkiness of sleep now faded. “You need to hang up and call the police. This is ridiculous! Do you hear yourself? Do you hear how crazy you sound?”
“Stop it! Stop it!” Ray shouts. “This is for real! And they’ll come back; they’ll come back for the others. I’ll stop them, with or without you.”
“What? Stop who?”
Ray doesn’t respond.
The dial tone drones for five seconds before I place the receiver back into its cradle, unsure of what just happened. Ray—the dependable one—has fallen headlong into lunacy.
I lay in bed for several minutes, indecisive. There’s no part of me that wants to rise, dress, and ride out to Lockworth again. Not after what happened earlier…but the obligatory nature of friendship stands as stiff motivation.
No, I should call the police and get it over with. I don’t want to see Ray mixed up in all of this, but he understands the consequences of his actions. I can’t protect him—especially if he’s involved in criminal activities.
Still, I can’t bring myself to dial the phone. Curiosity pumps like blood with its subtle desire for adventure. I know it’s reckless and irresponsible, but a certain part of me wants to know what’s out there. I want to know what’s hidden away in Lockworth.
Listen to yourself. You’re crazy, too. A semblance of control is what I need right now—something to keep me from making rash decisions. I’m comfortable, safe in bed. Why get involved?
Reluctant, I slip out from beneath the sheets and reach for the jeans I left on the floor. A clean T-shirt, a pair of socks, riding boots…I’m dressed in two minutes. I waver outside the bedroom door and wait for my better judgment, but it doesn’t come.
I move to the living room and stand before the balcony. Through the blinds, a collection of silent vehicles lines the parking lot, comatose under lamplight. Beyond, the sandstone structures of Remington University rise above the shadowy tree tops.
What I don’t see are men with remote controls or even toy planes. Not that I expected to…I just had to settle my nerves about it. Caution seems prudent even though I consider myself near reckless for even getting out of bed.
Stepping away, I repeat the previous afternoon. There’s the cramped closet, the front door which sticks, and finally the elevator, its rattling doors obnoxious in the silent hall.
The metal car drops in silence to the basement. At the bottom, the doors retract. My steps across the gray cement are substantial; every placement of foot is a resolute scuff.
I hustle through the startup sequence for the bike before fastening my helmet. Strange—pulling out of the parking space is easy; riding up the ramp and onto the street takes no great strength of will. It seems I’ve temporarily lost my restraint; I feel almost confident as I blast down empty city streets.
The crisp night air wraps around my exposed neck, and with it comes a new clarity. And with that clarity, more questions. Ray said he was scared not only of the Illuma Corp, but also of what Worthington built—so scared that his usual decisive nature was rendered anemic.
Yet Ray is intent on following through with this insanity. It’s out of character and illogical. There must be something he hasn’t told me—something critical. My fear is that I’ll discover whatever that is too late in the game for it to matter.
The fact is I’m en route to a secure warehouse owned by a shadowy organization. The CEO of said organization might be involved in quasi-illegal activities which include the creation of technologically advanced war machines. Chances are I’ll get more than I asked for.
6
Bennett Road is a never-ender consisting mostly of unremarkable straightaways. Doused in headlight, I trade the road ahead for a side mirror every few seconds. Each time I check, the only thing chasing me is the darkness.
I regret not asking for specific directions, if Ray would’ve let me. Heading north, I assume the storage facility will be obvious when I see it, considering there’s not much to speak of in the way of architecture.
My assumption is rewarded when I reach a crossroad. There’s an enormous domed building five hundred feet further up the road, bloated against the starlit horizon. Feathering the clutch, I increase throttle and pull away, anxious.
The structure looms ahead, elongated and bulbous. The surrounding grounds are protected by a fence. I pull up to the gate where there is a speaker box on a post; I engage its red button and wait for a response.
“Troy.” Ray’s voice, tinny and hollow, squawks through the speaker. “Enter.”
There is a clink and then the gate opens as if pulled by invisible hands. I buzz through the gap, after which the gate closes behind me. I steer the bike next to Ray’s green Infiniti. There are no other cars in the grassy lot.
Ray emerges from the cocoon-like structure via a side door. He waves me over and then stops me at the door. Putting a hand on my shoulder, he says, “Thank you for coming.” He’s still wearing the dark slacks and button-up from yesterday and his hair lies greasy and disheveled.
I return his uncomfortable gaze and nod, indicating it’s no big deal. But it is a big deal. I follow Ray through the door, willpower railing against common sense.
Inside, we’re dwarfed by the exposed ceiling, the crossbeams and other structural arches curving beneath the shell of the roof. Fifty feet inward is a partition, separating the sparse, open area we are in from the remainder of the facility.
Reading my expression, Ray explains as if giving a tour. “It was an airship hangar—364,000 square feet. Redd Research purchased it in the eighties. It was modified for storage and then later for manufacturing—climate control to manage humidity, etc.”
I’m puzzled by Ray’s calm demeanor after his rant on the phone—the rant which brought me here at this ungodly hour. I’m ready to comment on this but he hustles me onward.
Ray gestures toward a simple steel desk and a few boxes. “There’s nothing to see out here, though most people aren’t even allowed this far.” We stop at a door in the partition, where he swipes a security card.
After a beep, I follow Ray into the next portion of the hangar, which is approximately the same size as the first. There is an array of video monitors to the left, three banks of them. The few that are on show surveillance of the first room and the parking lot.
Ray gives the monitors a passing glance before stopping at another door. He turns to me. “Are you ready?”
I shrug with what I imagine is an uncertain look. Ray’s refusal to be forthright has been nothing short of unsettling, such that my desire for answers is matched only by my apprehension. Do I want to see what’s on the other side? Am I enabling Ray’s behavior? These are questions which don’t have clear-cut answers…
“OK, then,” Ray says before
entering a sequence of numbers into a keypad. There is another beep followed by a green blinking light, and then the door opens with a solid clunk.
On his heels, my steps are quick into the remaining breadth of the hangar. The steel arches continue along the walls and ceiling. Rows of fluorescent lighting illuminate large machinery littering the expanse of floor; several forklifts sit idle.
These are dwarfed by three immense support structures on the right. Comprised of red tubing and crossbeams, they climb near the ceiling. All three are linked with scaffolding.
The first of these stands empty. The third is veiled in opaque plastic sheets secured from the top of the scaffold-like framework. In between, the second serves as the bay for a mechanical monster.
Flat black, its angular, bipedal form stands rigid—a silent guardian in this secret place. Skeletal feet grasp the floor, each tine supported by a hydraulic piston.
The legs are slightly bent, suggesting the machine is agile and balanced, though the joints in the knees are shielded with interlocking panels. At the torso, the legs become less substantial and disappear into another network of panels.
The hulking body is laden with intricate armor plating—larger, more layered versions of what protect the joints in the legs. Vents near the beltline reveal what appears to be a giant gear or turbine wrapping the inner circumference of the torso.
Similar openings in the upper portion of the armor expose rounded mount points from which powerful arms hang lifeless. Shielded gauntlets secure four-pronged hands. Each digit is segmented and flexible, as if ready to take hold of something and crush it.
The helmet-like head sits atop massive shoulders. Set within is a humanoid face, its eyes devoid of life, its mouth a severe pout. This is the most troubling aspect of the machine—its ability to look down upon you.
I turn to Ray, his expression one of reverence, or fear—I can’t tell. “Is this real? I mean…does it work?”
Ray responds, though he is still fixated on the machine. “They are all operational, as far as I know. I assume that’s why one is missing.” He traces a path with his index finger from the empty bay to the sliding doors at the far end of the hangar.
