by LE Barbant
The transformation that changed Elijah’s body hadn’t touched his attitude toward knowledge. He remained the quintessential researcher, head buried in a book. He still believed that any problem could be solved through careful data collection and objective analysis. So he was going where the information was. As the skyline peeked over the rolling hilltops, he thought of Brooke and Rex and Alarawn Industries.
It seemed like a lifetime ago since the battle at PPG Place. Though his scars were still fresh, he felt like a different man. Thinking of Brooke always brought sadness. During those last moments as he struggled for his own life, and the lives of his friends, he didn’t want to destroy Brooke. Elijah tried to redeem her. But oftentimes the story doesn’t end the way you want it to. They all lost a lot at the tower, and he lost her.
Elijah eased the Subaru into a spot on the back side of the library. There was something about Oakland in the summertime. Most university towns slowed between semesters, but Oakland was transformed. There were plenty of students that stuck around for work or summer classes, but for the most part, this part of the city—a city unto itself—was a mere vestige of its usual appearance.
His study carrel was empty, much like most of the library that evening at Hillman. He settled in, opened his computer, and started searching. The historian could have spent time back at his apartment surfing the Internet, but focused research belonged in its proper context. Elijah was a strange mix of a 21st century academic and something a bit more antique. To him, even the smell of the volumes inspired greatness.
He looked at this notes, although he had already committed the number to memory. 32608. The rudimentary scratches made no sense imprinted on the interior of a highly sophisticated piece of technology. It had to mean something.
Elijah Googled the digits and settled in on the simplest answer. The numbers matched the zip code of the southern section of Gainesville, Florida. After an hour of searching local news and community forums he gave up. Nothing tied the drone to Florida. And the only connection between Gainesville and Pittsburgh was a sizeable number of snowbirds, older folks who moved south for the winter. Elijah jotted a note in his journal, insistent that he would return to considering the city if nothing else emerged. He then wrote: Univ. of FL?
He continued the search. Hundreds of products from around the world included the number, but none that appeared connected. It was a dead end, a meandering path through an overgrown forest.
Leaning back, he ran both hands through his hair. They met and interlaced fingers on the back of his neck. Elijah closed his eyes and turned his chin toward the ceiling. Constant searching on the computer strained his eyes. He much preferred the work of the written page.
Think, Elijah. Think.
Elijah closed his laptop, and pushed it to the edge of the desk. He pulled out his notebook and turned to the first clean page. He wrote the figures at the top and stared at them. The numbers themselves, as they stood, would likely tell him nothing. If it was meant as communication, then it wouldn’t be explicit. He thought of the Bletchley Circle, the famous codebreakers of World War II in Britain. They had an uncanny ability to decipher complex code sent across enemy lines. To figure out this mystery, he would have to see through the numbers.
Elijah started with the obvious. He translated the numbers into letters according to their alphabetical sequence: CBF_H.
What to do with the zero? Maybe it’s an “o.”
Though it was gibberish, he spent time rearranging the bramble of letters, trying to force a message to emerge. But the application of letters and numbers was going nowhere. Elijah started to break the numbers up. It was unlikely that the numbers stood together as a single whole. He started to group them, shift them, and reorder them.
Before long the print on the page swam before his eyes. Elijah pressed the balls of his palms against his eyes, and breathed deeply. Oftentimes, in his historical studies, it was nights just like this when he would have a breakthrough. And right now, some new discovery was vital.
But sometimes they came after a much needed break. Elijah tucked his laptop under his arm and slid the notebook into his back pocket. The steps of the Hillman were perfect this time of the year, the hot summer weather meandering toward fall.
“You want a smoke, Dr. B?”
Elijah shaded his eyes as he looked up at the undergrad. “Oh, hey, Julie. No thanks. I decided to quit.”
The girl smiled. “Good for you. I’m going to quit when I turn thirty—or get pregnant, whichever comes first. I promised my mom.”
Elijah considered a lecture on the health benefits of not smoking, but reconsidered. He was the last person who should be explaining healthy living.
“Actually,” Julie said, “I’m glad I ran into you. The class has been fabulous and I think I might do this stuff someday.”
“Do it?”
“Yeah. History. I mean, like you do. I might want to teach.”
Elijah grinned. “That’s great.”
“But I had a question about the syllabus. I was looking at the due date for the final and it says 12/3/16, but that’s a Saturday. You want us to email it?”
Her words hit him in the face. “Wait. What’d you say?”
“Do you want us to email?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Elijah laughed like an idiot. “I gotta go. I just figured it out.”
“Figured what out?” Julie asked as Elijah ran back inside.
****
March 26th, 2008. It seemed so obvious now that he could see it. He opened his computer and Googled the date along with the terms Pittsburgh and technology. A long list of results gathered before his eyes. There were different meetings around the city, unrelated blog posts, and other various entries. The problem with information is that when there’s too much, it becomes a beach when you only need a grain of sand.
Elijah changed course, and pulled up the websites for Pittsburgh’s city newspapers each in a different tab. He searched the date and started to scroll through headlines, cursing the medium-size city paper for having most of its information hidden behind membership walls. Elijah would be damned before spending $20 a month to read the paper online. But now he considered the subscription, just to break the code.
Scrolling through headlines, nothing seemed to stand out. All the articles were rather pedestrian, the everyday events of a medium-size city in America. There were columns that followed local politicians, but none of them seemed to connect to the technology he was trying to uncover. Accidents, cultural events, and local social commentary filled the pages. None of it was helpful.
A thought crossed Elijah’s mind and he clicked back to his search engine. He typed in the date 3/27/08.
If the code did stand for a date there was a good chance that the reporting occurred the day after.
Scrolling through the new list of stories, one caught his attention.
Local Nobel hopeful nearly loses daughter in car accident.
Elijah opened the article and read the preview on the Trib’s website. The first paragraph chronicled the story of a terrible bicycle accident in a suburb outside of the city. He clicked read more, and a box demanding his allegiance and credit card number appeared on the screen. Elijah smiled; the commute to the library was worth the effort
He tromped down the steps and located the Hillman’s collection of newspapers. Sorting through the stacks he grabbed the one for the 27th. He turned to page 3A and found the story in full. The narrative was tragic on its own account.
Skylar Mumford, a ten-year-old, was the victim of a hit-and-run. Like most the other girls in the quiet suburb north of Pittsburgh, she was out on a bike ride, minding her own business. The car was never found. The story recounted the details of the surgeons at Children’s Hospital trying to save the girl’s life.
As of the writing of the article, Skylar remained in critical condition. The article then shifted to comments by the girl’s mother.
Dr. Sylvia Mumford was a scientist working at Carnegie Mellon
, focusing on human enhancement. While DARPA worked to create soldiers, Smith was part of a team trying to configure new technologies that would improve the lives of everyday people. The young mother was on the verge of a robotics breakthrough when the accident happened.
Elijah opened his laptop and Googled the name of the scientist. There were pages of published articles by her. She was an A-list celebrity in the scientific community. After her daughter’s accident, she founded a nonprofit called Bio-Org. In the world of intelligent prosthetics, Sylvia Mumford became a rock star. For several months, the press followed her religiously. Mumford swore that she would do whatever it took to save her daughter.
The Pittsburgh community was enlivened by the narrative, and reporters continued to turn out stories. Until a few weeks later, when public interest dried up. Sylvia Mumford and her daughter disappeared from the public conscious.
Elijah kept searching for another couple of hours but he couldn’t find any credible source that confirmed whether or not Skylar had survived and what her mother was doing now. The Bio-Org website had a banner across the top begging for donations but it looked as if the site hadn’t been updated in years.
The historian hated the fickle news cycle. Recent events were not the same as history. And this little story of a broken girl and her tech wizard mom would soon be forgotten.
Elijah jotted down everything he could find about the family. If he were watching another researcher carrying out the process, he would’ve laughed at the spurious connections. There was no true evidence that this was even moderately connected to the military drone that sat in the basement of his house in Homestead. But desperate men cling to the thinnest of branches, and the Mumfords were the closest thing he had to a lead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“To you guys. For saving my ass,” Tim Ford said, raising his bottle.
Chem and Elijah raised their own glasses in response.
The hot, humid September air engulfed them in the outside seating at Voodoo Brewery. It was the kind of weather that made you feel like you were swimming on dry ground. The boys were in good spirits, especially now that Tim was able to get out of bed and throw down a few pints.
“I’m surprised you can even stand,” Elijah said. “After the beating you took I figured I wouldn’t get my bed back for at least another month.”
“There’s something I didn’t tell you, Elijah.” Chem grinned. “Ford is actually Wolverine.”
Tim laughed so hard his ribs ached. “It took science and shit to make that son of a bitch. This is just Ford family tough, right here.”
The guys talked for a while about nothing in particular and laughed a lot. Elijah asked a bunch of stupid questions about the Steelers’ opening game, which was playing on a wall-mounted television. When he asked the bartender to change the channel to something about the local election he was nearly run out of the bar.
It was refreshing for Tim, since they were usually discussing Pittsburgh and monsters and other dire things. But this was just guys being guys, having a few too many drinks, and messing with each other. It reminded him of the only thing he missed from his days with Blackbow, when he and a few buddies would get off base and hit the local bars.
Recalling Blackbow always made him think of Anna. An image of her body passed through his mind and he smiled to himself. People like him and Anna couldn’t settle down; domestication had been trained out of them. But if there were a chance, he’d take it with her any day. She was the only person who ever understood him fully.
Tim smiled as he watched a young woman running in their direction. The good thing about gentrification was that some of the undergraduate students were actually moving into the area. Like Tim, they placed a premium on physical fitness. Short shorts and a sports bra were all that covered her petite frame.
“Incoming,” Tim said with a smile. The guys turned. The irony of thinking of Anna one second and the young girl’s abs the next wasn’t completely lost on him.
The girl slowed and came to a stop. “Hey,” she said with a smile. “Elijah, how’s it going?”
“Hey, Lainey. Just hanging out. How’ve you been?”
“Great. I love Pittsburgh in the summer.”
She wiped sweat from her torso.
“Me too,” Chem said under his breath.
The girl looked at the oversized GPS unit weighing down her left wrist. “Alright, this is messing up my pace. Gotta go.”
The girl bent down stretching her hamstrings for a beat and then up again. “See you around.”
The girl ran off, and Chem slapped Elijah across the chest, making him wince. “You dog.”
“It’s not like that. She’s just some kid that lives in the neighborhood. She’s nice.”
Tim was still watching her run off down the sidewalk. “I’d say.”
Tim looked back toward the television and worked on finishing his beer. Roethlisberger threw a long ball toward a receiver who misread the route.
Come on, guys. Teamwork.
A scream rang out from down the street, piercing through the din of the bar.
“Lainey,” Elijah yelled, knocking back his chair as he jumped to his feet. He hopped the little steel fence separating the bar from the sidewalk and took off toward the sound of struggle.
Tim and Chem were on his heels.
The chemist’s long legs soon outpaced the wounded soldier. Though he was up and moving, Tim was far from well. Every bone shifted as he limped around the corner. If he had been moving faster he would have crashed into Elijah, who stood frozen in place.
Tim followed the historian’s line of sight.
Street light reflected off a large figure, covered head to toe in metal plating. It looked like a steam-punk version of a medieval knight. The thick armor concealed its body, but red light shined through cracks in the mechanized suit.
The “monster” before them was clearly of human origins.
“Let me go, jagoff.” The walking tank held Lainey by the hair. She flailed, kicking her attacker with no effect.
Anger boiled in Tim’s stomach as he remembered tussling with the brute. The mercenary was in peak shape and had the drop on him. But the moving statue had taken down the warrior with little effort. As he stood there, bandages still covering unhealed wounds, he knew he didn’t stand a chance.
He looked over at Elijah and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Well I guess this answers our monster problem. You going to be able to bring out Mr. Hyde, Doc?” Tim said through gritted teeth.
The professor looked at Tim, panic stamped across his face.
“You can do this, man. Just concentrate,” Chem said.
Elijah took a breath. He rolled up his sleeves, then unbuttoned the top half of his wrinkled blue dress shirt. He closed his eyes and balled his hands into fists. The change was immediate.
It was like standing too close to a furnace about to explode. Elijah screamed as molten metal oozed out of his pores. The thick black substance covered his arms to the elbow. His eyes glowed red and the same light broke through cracks in his new skin.
Tim had heard the stories about the molten metal monster. Even though Elijah’s change was only partial, Tim was still awed at the sight.
“Damn. That’ll work,” he said.
Smoke trailed behind him as Elijah took off toward the tank. The suit tossed the struggling girl and she landed hard on the hood of a nearby Taurus. Chem skirted the dueling titans and ran to her side. The chemist certainly wasn’t a fighter, though after a fight his medical training made him more useful than three strong men.
The robotic suit wound up its bowling ball-sized fist and threw a wide arcing punch at Elijah. He blocked the slow-moving arm with his oozing, molten hand and countered with a vicious uppercut. The mech warrior staggered at the blow but held its ground. It raised both arms overhead and brought them down on the historian. Elijah tried to shield himself from the assault, but the impact threw him to the asphalt. He crawled to his feet a
nd took two steps back, putting distance between him and the tank.
Tim looked around, trying to find something that he could use as a weapon. He couldn’t do much against that armor, but he refused to stand by as his friend waged battle in his place. Next to him, a fixed-gear bike rested against a light pole, attached by a heavy chain and padlock—the security device of an over-paranoid hipster. Tim had other uses in mind. He picked up a broken piece of brick and started whaling on it.
While working the lock, he looked back toward the action. Elijah successfully dodged the tank’s deliberate punches, but the few counterattacks that Elijah managed to land didn’t accomplish much. Despite his enhanced strength, it was clear that Elijah wasn’t a practiced fighter. His sloppy form was easily outmaneuvered by an opponent who knew what he was doing.
Elijah tried to fake right to get on the other side of the tank, but he moved too slowly. The suit saw the move coming and countered with a solid hit to Elijah’s chest. The historian was knocked airborne and landed at Tim’s feet.
Tim knelt beside him.
“You OK, Eli?”
Elijah lifted himself onto his elbow. The left side of his face was swollen and Tim could see blood seeping through his thick brown hair.
“Shit, that hurts. Now I know how a punching bag feels.”
Tim tried to help Elijah get to his feet, but the man weighed a ton. The ground shook underneath them as the armored attacker moved their way.
“Quick, give me a hand with this.” Tim pointed toward the oversized bike lock.
“No problem.”
Elijah grabbed the chain with both hands and pulled. The padlock, its weakest link, exploded. Tim unwrapped the chain, slapping its six feet of length in front of them. “This will have to do. Let’s go.”
“Are you sure you can handle this? You’re barely walking.”
“It’s gonna take more than a dipshit in trumped-up riot gear to put me down. I’ve got a score to settle.”
The two men spread out, circling the mech suit. Tim whipped the chain and struck the tank’s helmet, trying to draw its attention so Elijah could get behind it for an attack. “Come on, ya big fucking giant. Why don’t you get out of that shell and fight like a man?” But his taunting accomplished nothing. For some reason, the tank ignored the chain and trudged toward Elijah.
