by Ian Lewis
My hands shake with the tremble of a drunk. Sweat bleeds into my eyes, blurring my already skewed frame of reference. Legs burn for lack of oxygen, and I can’t gulp enough of the stagnant air.
I reach a floor I can’t identify and don’t remember why I’m running. Am I trying to escape? Trying to survive? Where does it end? One more flight of stairs and I pick a random floor. Barreling into the hallway, the door crashes behind.
My faculties wane as my head tries to float away to somewhere other than this hell. I grip at my consciousness with slippery fingers, almost losing it with every stride. My path veers to and fro as I zigzag down the hall. I stray too far to my right and fall into a door that isn’t latched shut.
Stumbling to my knees, my sight dims. The rain-splattered window is so close—freedom. It doesn’t matter that the ground is far away. It’s worth the risk to jump.
Attempts to rise to my feet only increase the creeping blackness behind my eyes. So I crawl on all fours, pathetic, desperate. Pumping blood pounds away like a drum, each surge urging me on to my goal.
I get as far as a conference table when dizziness takes hold, and the room begins to spin. Eyes closed tight, I falter and collapse, rolling onto my back. The vertigo doesn’t stop; it spins on with strange visions of a bloody Ray leading me through the Worthington estate, crazy with anticipation of what he’ll reveal to me.
The men from the field are there along with their remote-control planes of death buzzing overhead. Worthington looks on, spouting forth his usual rhetoric, as ADS01 and ADS02 take turns punching each other in the face.
I’m stuck somewhere in the middle dodging the stomping feet of the robots, hoping that if I fall underfoot, the end will come sure and fast.
22
I wake to the splash of rain against the office window. It pelts the glass in a steady rhythm. Exhausted, I lift my head and squint through cloudy vision.
The enormous form of ADS02 stands framed in the window as if peering inside. How did it regain its footing? Did it stand up on its own? Tiny daggers of water ping off its black armor, slick and dull.
I drag my knees forward and under my chest. Rising up on elbows, then hands, I climb into a nearby swivel chair. My heavy sigh is met with a gruff voice.
“You can start by telling me who you are.”
I twist in response, turning toward the figure sitting in the shadows. “What? Who’s there?”
The broad-shouldered form in the far corner leans forward just enough that I can make out a coarse beard. “Never mind that for now. Again, who are you? Do you work for Worthington?”
“Me, no…I…I don’t even know him.”
“Don’t know him, or don’t know who he is? There’s a difference.”
I shake loose the mental haze. “I know who he is, but I’ve never met him.”
“Then what are you doing playing with his toys?” The man gestures at ADS02 with a stern finger, as if he’s pointing out a mess his child made.
My voice feels weak and scratchy. “It’s an accident, really.”
The man stands and strides over to me, offering a bottle of spring water. “Here, drink this. You don’t look well.”
“Thanks.” I fumble with the cap. “I don’t feel well.”
The man grabs a nearby chair. He sits a few feet away, and from the ambient light from the window I can see the rest of his features.
Coarse brown hair falls over his ears; his matching beard carpets the lower half of his face. Hairy arms crossed, his stout frame would look natural trekking across a mountainside.
Swallowing the lukewarm water ignites my hunger. I remember I haven’t eaten since last night. “I’d kill for something to eat.”
“I have rations in the next room. I’ll get you something in a minute. First you explain who you are and why you’re here.” The man doesn’t budge.
I scratch my head, confused by the man’s insistence that I answer his questions when I barely have my wits about me. “I…my friend worked for Worthington. He got me into this.”
“Go on.”
“I told him it was a bad idea, but he convinced me to meet him at this hangar in Lockworth.” I nod toward ADS02. “Worthington was hiding these things there.”
The man nods like he already knows all of this and wants me to continue speaking.
“One of them was already gone, apparently stolen by an organization called the Illuma Corp.”
The man’s eyes widen. “The Illuma Corp?” He bellows like he can’t believe it. “Is that who’s in the other robot?”
I hesitate. “I think it’s one of them—at least that’s what I assumed.”
“Well, I have to say you’re fortunate. Do you know who the Illuma Corp is?” The man stands and moves to the door.
“Only what Ray—my friend—told me.”
Voice raised, the man continues to speak as he walks down the hall to the next room. “They are the most vile, unethical representation of man’s selfish ambition to take the place of God. Their spiritual depravity knows no bounds.” He returns after a pause, tossing a granola bar into my lap.
I unwrap the bar of oats and honey and devour it, barely chewing. Looking up, I see the man is studying me.
“These are dangerous people. Not just to you and I, but to all of humanity. Do you know the kinds of things they want to do? What kind of abominations they want us all to accept as natural?”
I’m not sure how to respond. “I guess…sort of.”
“How would you feel about robots living inside you, becoming part of you? Or bastard babies designed in a lab creating a whole new schism in the social strata between those who are augmented and those who are not? Would you have an artificial intelligence granted the same rights as a human, to be endowed with the same sense of self-preservation as you and I?”
Rubbing tired eyes, I say, “Sounds like them. At least what I know of them.”
“Let me give you an idea of who these people are. The Illuma Corp was founded by Stockton Kretz. Raised an athiest, Kretz wrote his first computer program at twelve, built his first computer at fourteen, and received his BS in Computer Science from Carnegie Mellon.
“He has written profuse amounts of literature on bio-tech research, contributed untold dollars to A.I. research, and fostered a dozen foundations whose sole pursuit is to advance nanotechnology initiatives. By himself, the man is dangerous.
“What most fail to recognize is how much more lethal the Illuma Corp is with its army of like-minded futurists. Kretz seeks out individuals with a specific psychological make-up who are also extremely intelligent. Their devotion is to the transcendence of human biology by any means necessary—namely the Technological Singularity. Kretz sends these fiends out into the world to leech onto any and every nugget of scientific advancement, after which he steals them for his own.”
The man’s ranting reminds me of Ray, only more fervent. I take another swig of water before asking a question of my own. “So how are you mixed up in this?”
The man waves his hand as if to signal the outside world. “My organization has people all over the country in a struggle against people like Stockton Kretz. We have to preserve the order of what’s natural and holy.
“I had been keeping my eye on Thomas Worthington because we knew he was getting close to building a functional A.I.—closer than Kretz. But Worthington was a paranoid old man and caught me snooping. I’ve been his prisoner for weeks, and now I fear Armageddon is at hand.”
Realization is sobering. “You’re Elias Jacob,” I say.
Elias looks at me as though I just smacked him upside the head with a two-by-four. “Yes. Which means there’s at least one of us in this room who intends to carry out God’s will.” He rises as if ready to weather some great blast of wind. “And where do you stand? Whoever isn’t for us is against us.”
23
I raise my hands in mock surrender. “Hold on, I’m a nobody in all of this. I don’t want to get involved.”
�
�I’d say you’re already involved. You’re sitting here, aren’t you?”
“Well, yeah, but…”
Elias scolds me like a disapproving teacher, hands on his hips, his voice a firm reprimand. “But nothing. It’s that kind of relativistic attitude that’s a cancer in this country. Take a stand for something—something absolute.”
I give my measured reply. “I’m not sure this is a question of absolutes.”
“Of course it is. Man is finite. That’s as absolute as it gets. Some of these futurists don’t want it that way. They think they can find a way to transcend the human body and live on in pure intelligence. Man is also fallible—another absolute. He will always corrupt anything he lays his hands on. There’s not one man who can be trusted with the kind of power the Illuma Corp lusts after. That’s why I can’t let them have these machines.” He gestures toward the window with a meaty palm.
“Whatever man is,” I say, unsure of how Elias will respond, “you can’t actually believe these machines were built for good.”
“You are correct—they were not—but anything, even something meant for evil, can be made to serve God’s will.”
I push a bit further. “What is God’s will? How can you claim to know it?”
Elias’s eyes tear into me. “God’s will is made plain to those he chooses. The realization of an artificial intelligence is only a gateway; it’s the catalyst organizations like the Illuma Corp are seeking—a spark that will ignite even greater human folly. God’s Hand will not sit by and watch quietly.”
“How does the Illuma Corp fit into this? I mean—why did they come to Western Lights? I would think they’d try to hide the machine.” I don’t reveal what the other pilot told me—that the Illuma Corp was looking for Elias.
“Why did you come here in your machine?” Elias asks, his searching eyes peering beneath a wrinkled brow.
“I was following the first.”
“No, you were following Thomas Worthington’s directives. He led you here, whether you knew it or not.”
A bit put off by Elias’s insistence, I refute that there’s any power over me but my own will.
Elias disagrees. “Don’t confuse freedom with the illusion of choice. Worthington wanted you here—he wanted us all here.”
“Now that’s crazy. How could he possibly know how any of this would play out? Nobody even knows where he is.”
“Exactly.” Elias nods with self-satisfaction. “How do you know he’s not behind the curtain as we speak?”
Perched on the edge of my chair, I lean back into the black vinyl. The preposterous is now possible. What if Worthington masterminded everything? What if he’s pulling all our strings? Impossible. “No, I don’t buy it.”
Elias jabs a thumb into his chest. “I positioned myself as a tenant of Western Lights, hoping to keep an eye on Worthington, but he strung me along. As soon as I was within reach, he backed me into a corner and forced my hand. Imprisonment in a panic room was an afterthought for him.”
How much of what Elias says is literal? I decide it’s not important. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Not since he locked me up two weeks ago. There was enough food and water in the panic room to last a month, so I don’t think he planned to let me out any time soon.”
“Do you think…” I trail off.
“That he was going to kill me? No, I don’t. He’s too soft for that sort of thing. He’s not a true believer like the Illuma Corp.”
“I just can’t believe anyone could orchestrate all our movements, let alone predict them.”
Elias leans to rest on the table’s edge. “Worthington wants control—just like any other man. His genius went to his head; he’s no longer stable. But he can’t account for every scenario. Your crashing into this building is proof of that. Enough of the wall caved in that I was able to free myself. Now it’s time to go on the offensive.”
I let this sink in. Elias strikes me as the type who thinks in stereotypes and generalities. This doesn’t make for credible judgment in my mind, and I have to consider that his God’s Hand organization has its own agenda as well. “You realize that I don’t trust you or Worthington.”
“Have I given you a reason not to trust me?”
I relay what the other pilot told me. “The Illuma Corp says you stole trade secrets from multiple companies, Redd Research included. I’d say that’s reason enough not to trust you.”
Elias shoves a desk lamp, sending it crashing to the floor. “Do you think this is a game?!” he roars. “God’s Hand is not concerned with your superficial moral high ground! I will not justify my actions to you or anyone else!”
An unnerving silence follows, save for the patter of rain on the sill. Elias rises again and begins to pace. “I can’t let you stand in the way. You’re as lost as Worthington.”
“Whoa,” I say. “I’m trying to get out of this. I just want to find someone who I can talk sense to.”
Elias stops and turns to face me. “Talk sense to me.”
“How about we call the police? That’s a good place to start.”
Elias shakes his head in denial. “No, that doesn’t solve the larger problem. The machines will be returned to Redd Research, which means they’ll remain on Worthington’s hands, or the Illuma Corp will eventually find a way to acquire them if not the technology behind them.”
I roll my eyes in frustration at not being able to reason with Elias. “That’s not my problem!”
“It is your problem! Mankind is on the verge of a paradigm shift, one that will likely usher in the end times, and you are content to remain apathetic!”
Standing, I point an accusing finger. “You’re just as crazy as the rest of them. You, Worthington, the Illuma Corp, Ray—I haven’t talked to a sane person in the last twelve hours.”
Elias sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. “Let me make it plain for you,” he says, stepping toward me. His mouth quivers as he grips my arm. “There is but one God and His will be done. God’s Hand will make manifest His wrath, punishing the evildoer.”
24
Does Elias mean to stop me—kill me, even?
His grip tightens as though he senses my urge to twist away from him. “You can’t leave. Not now—not when we’re so close.”
I jerk my shoulder, trying to wrangle free. A rush of body heat flashes beneath my collar. Spurts of new energy streak through muscle strands now awake. I coil and wind my way out of Elias’s slipping grasp.
He leans forward, having lost his balance, clutching at the edge of my shirt.
I slide my chair in between us, hoping to slow him enough that I can make a break for the window. I’m sprinting the next ten feet before I think the rest of my idea through.
Once I crash into the glass, and I intend to blast through it in a flurry of shards, will I have enough momentum to clear the gap between the building and ADS02? Even if I make it, will the slick armor prove too much for my shaking grip?
I connect with the pane before answers scare themselves into my mind. Leading with my left shoulder, I heave all one hundred fifty pounds into the window’s immovable thickness before bouncing backward to the floor.
Elias is on top of me without hesitation, pinning my arms down with his knees. He produces a folding knife from his denim pocket. Flicking it open with his thumb, he presses four inches of steel against my neck.
I strain my head back and away, my line of sight fixed on the outside world now so far away.
“Stop fidgeting!” Elias demands.
I thrust my torso as much as Elias’s weight will allow. Will he slice across my throat? Or will he only try to detain me? The blood in my jugular doesn’t want to find out.
Heaving with all the strength in my legs, I manage to lift Elias a few inches from the ground when the awesome sight of ADS02 fills my peripheral vision.
Its right arm reaches up and sends massive digits crashing into the office, erasing the glass. The monstrous hand remains fixed onto
the ledge, forming a bridge with its outstretched arm.
Elias stumbles away several feet, a pale, blank look of shock on his gawking features. It’s clear he’s never seen the machine in action.
I waste no time in mounting one of the armored fingers and racing along the gauntlet and upper arm. The pitch of my climb increases as I reach the shoulder, rain now barely a drizzle. I work my way onto the top of the shoulder, hands and feet finding purchase on the dull surface.
At the back of the robot’s neck, the access hatch is already open. I pause only to look for Elias, who is still frozen in the gaping hole where the window used to be. I descend without further delay.
It’s strange, but the metallic scent of warm circuits and electricity is welcome, as is the low hum to which I’ve grown so accustomed. I flip the toggle for the hatch and take a seat, surveying the instruments and controls.
They all seem to be in their normal array, bright but no longer blinking a maddening pattern of confusion. Once the hatch seals itself, the cockpit transforms into its Stage Beta form, Kinetic Drive and all.
I’m settled into my standing position when fear blindsides my mounting confidence. What if Worthington returns to unleash his hellish voltage upon me again? I’m convinced it was Worthington and not ADS02 who is responsible for this. In all its mystery, the machine has not only shown self-preservation but some strange allegiance to its pilot—me.
“Didn’t think I’d give up, did you?” the familiar arrogance of the Illuma Corp agent relays over the radio.
I scan the immediate vicinity to find the upper torso of ADS01 below me. The scarred asphalt reveals the robot dragged itself over to my position on strained arms, legs too damaged to walk. Now it’s grabbed hold of my left leg, trying to right itself.
“Let me have it!” the agent demands. One robot arm reaches up, clutching at the air.
I inject as much disgust as possible into my reply. “Have what?”
“Your machine!”
Jostling the controls, I can’t shake loose what’s left of the other robot. It hangs on with the determination of its rabid pilot.
