by Ian Lewis
“You have to listen to me,” I blurt out, leaning forward.
Thomas continues, still gazing back at me. “This evolution propels him to great heights, far beyond the limits imposed by common thought. What anchors him? What can impede his progress? Nothing but man himself.”
My palms are soaked and my throat sticks. “There are men outside—agents from the Illuma Corp. I need help!”
“For centuries man has been the saboteur of his own designs, fearing what his neighbor was or what he might become. Never has he embraced his own potential, save for a few brave but meager souls.”
“Ray is dead!” I shout in disbelief at the monitor. There’s no way anyone in their right mind could ignore me right now. A recording—it must be a recording. But as I think this, Thomas stops talking.
He studies me with stabbing eyes. “Do you think you’re in control?”
“What? I…”
“You can’t possibly have the wherewithal to understand your own situation. The position you are in, the power you can wield. It’s all very heroic in your mind—and manageable. But you have no concept of how misguided you are. Your only hope is the Balance.”
“Then you are listening to me, dammit! Where are you? Call the police, man!” The veins in my temples might explode.
Thomas responds only with his questioning stare before he disappears from the monitor. The blue and red graphics return, as do the flowing diagrams of the machine.
Frustration seeps like heat from every pore. I halt the urge to send my foot through the monitor when with a fizzle of static, the forward curvature of the cockpit renders itself a life-size view of the hangar outside.
The door on the inside wall, scarred by whatever method was used to breach it, hangs limp on its hinges. Scattered bits of machinery lay nearby.
Below me, the agents move in fastidious and mechanical strides. They scour the hangar for something, inspecting each piece of equipment before moving to the next. Never once do they look up; they only remain intent on whatever terrible thing they do.
10
The clusters of flashing menus mesmerize my contorted brain; I catch myself before they send me off into some faraway loss of control. Focus—focus is the only thing left to do. But focus on what?
The precision diagrams on the monitors? The broad control arms waiting to be grasped? Freedom is at my fingertips, yet there’s no solution at the forefront of my mind.
The simple dreams I’m missing, the uncomplicated calm of sleep; why am I not in bed? Why did I ignore the little voice that said this was more than a bad idea? I push away self-derision with each swallow of my lump-ridden throat.
Would Ray still have died if I never left my apartment? Did my being here obstruct the flow of what might have otherwise been a close call? My own death is a realistic scenario now—one I wouldn’t have envisioned an hour ago.
My options don’t inspire hope. Making contact with the authorities is the best-case scenario, though I haven’t located any method of communication. Waiting out the agents is another alternative, though less desirable. They seem intent on remaining steadfast.
The third option is as unlikely as it is insane: guiding the robot out across the hangar in hopes of intimidating the agents.
Leaning back in the bolstered leather of the command seat, quiet desperation reminds me of my limitations. It’s not like driving a car—it’s not like operating any type of vehicle I’ve ever been in. Last-minute heroics seem foolish.
The reel of colored, alternating buttons and labels goes round the panels once more before I reach out and do the only thing I know to do—I hit the “escape” key on the keyboard. To my satisfaction, the menus return to their default setting, each with a main scroll bar.
I slide the bar to my left with a renewed sense of purpose. It is accompanied by an electronic “tick” like the first one. Surprise and relief bubble inside my stomach as promising menu choices appear: Satellite links, data uploads, Wi-Fi connectivity, radio bands…
My index finger jabs into the flat button for the radio bands; I nearly miss it in my haste. When I connect with it, the hiss of static fills the cockpit. The leftmost monitor begins to scan available frequencies: citizens band, FM, marine, military, police, amateur radio…
A square touch pad appears on the control panel; I skim across it, watching the cursor float toward the police band. I tap the nearby “Select” button, but to my horror, everything goes black again. The quiet hum returns as does the video presence of Thomas Worthington.
He peers close into whatever device recorded—or records—him. “Have you considered what is now your reality? Is it upsetting? The sensation of being trapped, confined in this metal womb—you feel you have no recourse.”
My mouth opens with an empty reply. There are no words to describe the aggravation I feel at his indifference.
“The world outside is waiting, though it doesn’t know it. Humanity is pregnant with an unknown anticipation. And there’s you. You will witness the first steps into the next great phase of civilization. The world will linger no longer.”
“You’re not making any sense,” I plead with the monitor. “I need help. Can’t you understand that?”
Thomas pauses long enough to give me the quizzical look of which I’m growing tired. His head tilts and his eyes narrow as if he’s confused with what he sees. “What do you fear?”
“What the…are you joking?” Sweat soaks through the underarms of my T-shirt.
“Do you fear loss of control? It’s within reach. Do you fear death? It’s near, though not in the way you think. It’s all very simple, what you have to do. The destiny at hand will come to pass whether you assume command or rot inside with your apprehension.”
I point at the monitor as if I’m accusing Thomas. “I don’t have to listen to this—I don’t have to listen to you.” Then I jab the “escape” button on the keyboard once more.
Thomas disappears, and the cockpit reawakens with the twinkle of red and blue. The forward video display comes into grainy focus.
Outside, the agents wrestle with what looks like a cannon-like device, steering it across the floor on casters. Its cylindrical form sits atop a swivel mount. Various tubes and wires emerge from several points and feed their way into the base of the frame. A keypad and monitor rest behind.
One of the agents focuses his attention on fitting a compact mass of metal into the shallow tube of the cannon; his bald head shines slick with sweat under the hangar lights.
A mix of shock and urgency shoots through my spine. I don’t want to know what this weapon will do. My sloppy reach finds the scroll bar on the left again, racing to find the police band.
I call down eternal damnation on all of Redd Research when Thomas reappears instead of the available radio bands. “This isn’t some game!” I scream with an imbalanced tone that scares me. I’m losing it.
“What is man? A simple puppet? Some men are. He is a finite creature, one whose limitations are never understood as fully than by those who meet them. But man excels where he would not; he adapts to his environment.”
“What did you say?” I ask.
Thomas doesn’t acknowledge my question. “This evolution propels him to great heights, far beyond the limits imposed by common thought…”
Yes, he’s said all this before. Is this a recording after all? “You,” I say with new conviction. “You’re the puppet.”
At that, Thomas disappears and the control panels light up. Below, the agents take position behind the cannon and appear to make last-minute calibrations. There’s no time to call for help. Only one option left…
I flick the last toggle switch—the one marked “Main Power.” An eerie whir spools up from beneath my seat and fills the cockpit. The slightest vibration buzzes through my body. Diagnostic information flickers on the control panels to either side of me.
All monitors remain blank save for the primary. It flashes text indicating the boot sequence has begun while the voi
ce of Thomas Worthington booms over the hum. I can only make out a few things he says: “Take the judgment seat…the decider of all men…power in the hands of one.”
With an unsteady grip, I place a wet palm on each control arm. I don’t know what I’m doing, but the agents below me show no signs of retreat. With light pressure, I ease one arm forward. The machine lurches in response, and I feel very light.
Part Two
11
The faint whine of motors and other mechanical devices hums beneath me as the robot attempts to correct my awkward command to move; it counterbalances and holds its unsteady gait without my having said so. I bring the other control arm forward and the robot follows with its left leg, regaining an even stance.
In all of this, my seated position remains in constant parallel with the ground. It seems the command chair as well as most of the controls are built upon a gyroscopic device. My guess is they are meant to minimize any disorientation resulting from the robot’s movement.
Below, two agents scatter while the one behind the cannon device remains. He stays intent on his aim, unflinching. Then he engages whatever trigger or button rests under his fingertips. The projectile streaks toward me.
The payload sprouts mechanical prongs from its fore end. They spring outward like switchblades and grab hold of the chest of the robot, which more or less comprises my viewing area of the video screen.
Like a lens on a camera, a black tube extends from the core of the projectile. I brace myself, certain it’s going to fire some deadly weapon. Instead, it spills out thousands of tiny shards, which upon contact seem to move across the armor like mechanical bugs.
A graphic appears on screen, highlighting the little army in a green outline. A pop-up menu appears as if to explain them: Warning: Programmable matter. Threat level: Unknown.
Wondering what programmable matter is, I watch the shards roll into each other and start to take the shape of a pulsating, coiled tube. In ten seconds it solidifies, a thin, armored worm which wraps itself around the body of the robot.
After two passes, the “head” of the worm splits to form what looks like three rotating blades before connecting with the lower chest plate of the armor.
A new pop-up window appears showing a detailed view of the robot, the lower chest plate flashing in red. Warning: Intrusion imminent.
How do you move the arms in this thing? I scan the cockpit and can think of nothing other than the control arms beside me. I fiddle with them but only find I rock the machine back and forth.
“C’mon!” I vent in frustration.
As if to answer, the right arm of the robot reaches across to take hold of the projectile, still attached to the armor. Awestruck, I watch the terrible hand come to life and rip the projectile away.
I didn’t do this—I don’t have control of the arms. The robot acted of its own accord. This shouldn’t come as a surprise after Ray’s lecture, but it’s no less shocking. This thing is alive.
Wasting no time, the left arm of the robot rises to take hold of the worm. With violence it yanks at the gray, metal sheen of the wriggling form, tearing a gap in its body.
I want to stand up and yell, to cheer on the robot, but the exposed pieces of worm in its metal grip revert to their previous individual forms, crawling their way back to the severed halves. They align themselves and reassemble the gap in the worm’s body, still drilling.
It clicks in my head—programmable matter—and then I look down at the cannon. Maybe if I destroy it… The robot lurches again under my command and I do my best to place a clumsy step onto the device.
My first attempt fails, merely knocking it over. I try again, this time lifting the left control arm upward like a yo-yo, and find correct placement. The cannon crumples like paper and the worm falls apart into lifeless shards scattered on the hangar floor.
I wheel the robot around to see the agents flee. Bolstered with a new sense of confidence, I’m determined to chase after them. I halt in my delusions when I realize I’d have to crash the robot through a wall to do so, or else pursue them on foot. Neither seems safe.
No, it makes more sense to wait for the authorities. I outline the next half hour in my head, where I will radio for help and then wait for police to arrive. Then I can explain everything—my conversation with Ray, the plane attack, Ray’s death, why I’m piloting the robot…
This is the responsible course of action, but for some reason I’m dissatisfied. It doesn’t sit right with me. Something…something isn’t accounted for.
It’s the other machine—presumably in possession of the Illuma Corp. It’s still out there. What if the agents return for mine, or the one still in the hangar here, silent in its bay? What if this isn’t the end? What if there is some grand master scheme playing out here? What if Ray was right about the Singularity?
Do I turn the machine over and walk away? How connected is the Illuma Corp? They supposedly infiltrated Redd Research—what will happen to Thomas Worthington’s research if they have people on the inside?
The hum of the robot matches the churning of my mind. I allow a pang of grief to enter. Ray is dead. My friend… Will his death be in vain? Or will it be the first of many after these things are unleashed?
Think, Troy, think. You only get one shot at this—one chance to alter the course of this madness. Right now you still have control. If you get out now, will you be able to live with the consequences of whatever happens?
I shake my head. No. I have to take responsibility. I can’t stand by and do nothing. The control arms vibrate with a slight buzz, reinforcing my resolve.
Jostling back and forth, I turn the machine around and face the outer hangar doors. I advance several steps forward and prepare to barrel straight through them when a message appears in the lower left corner of the video screen: Override. The doors begin to part on their own, revealing the darkened countryside beyond.
The robot again…it’s as if it shares my will. Is this what Thomas meant by the Balance? This question weighs on my mind as heavy as the giant’s steps plod across the hangar floor and out into the murky field.
12
The precise sway of the gyroscopic chair disrupts my sense of equilibrium; the way the shell of the cockpit tips with each stride of the robot makes me think I’ll go with it, but instead I remain balanced.
I’m not far into the field when it’s apparent I have no idea where to go. It’s too dark to locate any tracks left behind from the first machine, though it will be daylight soon. This presents its own problem in that I will be easy to spot.
Halting approximately a half mile from the hangar, I fiddle once again with the controls. There has to be some form of GPS or navigation. I locate a menu for the weapons systems as well as what appear to be various tactical modes of which the machine can assume. Continued scrolling brings me to a menu called “Satellites/Positioning.”
I select this and find submenus for Radar, LIDAR, SODAR, Phone, and GPS. Happily, GPS provides an interface much like one would find on the Internet to get directions to the nearest coffee shop. A few clicks on the keyboard and I have a map of Lockworth.
Due north will take me into more rural, undeveloped land. There is an abandoned quarry there; it’s the best chance of remaining undetected while I think things through.
Right and left, back and forth; I work the control arms in as smooth a motion as possible, trying to find some rhythm to minimize the awkward lope of the robot. In return, the giant trudges along barren fields waiting to sprout new life, the gray slivers of dawn casting a dull glow on the edge of the video screen.
I continue like this for twenty minutes, afraid to increase my pace for fear of losing control. My empty stomach is queasy from a combination of leftover adrenaline and the maddening balancing act of the command chair.
When I think I can see the open pit of the quarry, a darker splotch on an already dark horizon, the visage of Thomas Worthington once again appears on the main monitor. I would ignore him except for t
he fact that his presence is accompanied by an override of most of the controls.
Thomas begins in his resonating bellow. “You have assumed command; now you are in control. But for how long, it is not certain. The birth you witnessed was the second. There was one before, one whose directives are not the same.”
Cocky, I decide to converse with whatever it is I’m talking to. “You mean the first machine—the one stolen by the Illuma Corp.” Maybe it’s a mistake, but I ignore the passing thought that I’m talking to the robot itself.
“Your brother is waiting—waiting for a directive you must issue.”
“My brother? What brother? What directive?”
Thomas doesn’t answer; instead, he scowls before disappearing.
The cockpit comes back to life, the lights and screens fluctuating as if they’d never quit. The rightmost monitor, up to this point a blank desktop, becomes active and spews forth a litany of information followed by a message which indicates it is “tracking.” The cursor flashes for three seconds before another map appears—a more intricate map of Lockworth.
My location near the quarry is indicated by a green dot labeled as ADS02. Maybe fifteen miles away is a flashing red dot, labeled ADS01. The other machine…
I zoom in on this portion of the map and select the option for a satellite view of the terrain. A secluded cluster of structures appears, set far off any of the main roads. In italics, it’s labeled as “Western Lights.”
Western Lights is a gated community—exclusive resort living for the ultra rich—but it never caught on. Development halted after the first phase. I’m not even sure if there are residents.
Is my “brother” the other machine? What directive am I supposed to give? I don’t want to play into Thomas’s insanity, or whatever he’s programmed into this thing. I push on toward the quarry, ignoring the red blip on the map.
