Hold On! - Tomorrow (A Sci-Fi Thriller)

by Peter Darley

  B.J. snapped his head toward him, alarmed.

  But Graham simply smiled with a pacifying grin. “I just put it together. I saw it on TV. Des Moines, right?”

  “You got it.”

  “I’d die for what you stand for,” Graham said with conviction. “You needn’t worry about this going any further.”

  B.J. smiled sadly. “I . . . can’t be my dad, Sensei. I’m just not good enough.”

  “You’re living in the shadow of a father you only know through comic books and movies. Anybody could see that can’t be who he was. You’re trying to live up to a cartoon, B.J., and it just can’t be done.”

  B.J. contemplated his words. So much about his father was still a mystery to him. Nobody would tell him the complete story. Every time he asked one too many questions, they always changed the subject. “You’re right.”

  “You’re an extraordinary guy, and you’re going to continue being one. As you know, every kata begins with a block. A defensive move, not an aggressive one. You’ve always epitomized martial arts philosophy. You fight with compassion.”

  B.J. looked down, despondent. “Congress has closed us down. I’m back to being a file clerk. I’m nothing again. I can’t do anything for anyone now.”

  Graham stood before him and extended his hand. “Get up. You’re not depressed. You’re angry. Let it out, but stay focused.”

  B.J. stood and faced him.

  “Feel that little girl in your heart, and give it everything you’ve got. Protect her. You need this.”

  B.J. assumed a stance and angled his body. Emotion coursed through him, almost blocking out his knowledge. But not entirely.

  Running toward Graham in street fighter fashion, he discarded martial arts etiquette.

  Graham blocked B.J.’s kick and swept low in order to sweep his grounded leg from under him. But B.J. pre-empted him, leaped up over Graham’s leg, and spun around, kicking his leg into his sensei’s head guard. Graham lost his balance, giving B.J. a chance to sweep his legs from under him.

  Graham flipped himself back onto his feet in the blink of an eye and lunged forward in a deep back stance, his fist shooting outward. However, with minimal effort, B.J. simply tilted his feet, angling his body away from the blow. Graham’s knuckles extended beyond B.J.’s body range. B.J knew, had it struck him, it would’ve knocked him clean across the dojo.

  He adjusted his position again in order that his left leg was positioned behind Graham’s right, and shot the blade of his hand across his sensei’s chest. Graham lost his balance and fell backward over B.J.’s leg, landing on his back. Nevertheless, he wasted no time wrapping his legs around B.J.’s, pulling him to the ground alongside him.

  They both got up again, and Graham held out his palm in an arresting manner. “OK, just hold it there. That is what I was looking for. It was phenomenal, B.J. That was the most skilful display I’ve ever seen from a second degree, and you want to know how you did it?”

  “How?”

  “Passion. You put your heart, your emotions, and your belief into it. You were willing. Combat is ten percent skill, and ninety percent guts. You’ve got them both.”

  B.J. smiled proudly, slapped his hands to his thighs, and bowed. “Oos, Sensei.”

  Graham returned the bow. “Same time next week?”

  “You bet.”

  After showering and changing, B.J. stepped out of the dojo toward the parking lot with his kit bag. His mind was dominated by knowing he had to finally force the issue about his father with his family. Who was Brandon Drake, Sr.? Was the reason his father wouldn’t tell him anything in his dream because he didn’t know? Could the dream have simply been a manifestation of his own psyche? Of his questions? His family was tormenting him by keeping secrets from him. They had to be confronted on the matter. The time for walking on eggshells around the subject was long gone.

  His Z-Watch beeped. He glanced at it and saw the caller was anonymous. He considered ignoring it, but his curiosity got the better of him. Placing his wrist to his ear, he touched the answer sensor. “Hello?”

  “Agent Drake, you need to listen to me.”

  He looked at his phone screen, but there was no video or holo-image. The caller was female and sounded very young, perhaps sixteen or seventeen. How did she know his name and status? That alone aroused his interest. “Who is this?”

  “I know you’re The Interceptor.”

  His heart pounded with an undeniable sense of threat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Look, don’t play games with me. I don’t have much time.”

  She sounds panicked. “OK. What can I do for you?”

  “You have to stop them.”

  “Stop who?”

  “The disasters. They’re making them happen.”

  Oh, my God. Is this the answer we’ve been looking for? His adrenaline surged, and he knew he had to keep her on the line. “Who are they? Who are you?”

  “They’re trying to destroy the earth. When I joined them, I had no idea this is what they were planning.”

  “All right, I believe you. But why are they doing this? Who are they?”

  “They’re C.O.T. They believe the world is evil. They’re trying to bring about the apocalypse.”

  The fear in her voice was unmistakable. “OK, stay with me. I want to help you. What’s your name? And what is C.O.T.?”

  “Oh, my God, I have to go.”

  “No wait!”

  “I can’t. They’re coming.”

  “Who are they?”

  The line went dead. B.J. looked at his Z-Watch desperately. “Hello? Hello?” But it was no use. She was gone.

  He noticed his hands were trembling and remained where he stood, consumed with intrigue.

  Sixteen

  Silent Drifting

  Jed Crane stepped out of his office wearily. It was 8 p.m., and his eagerness to get home was at an all-time high. He knew he was financially secure enough to survive an early retirement. Nevertheless, he felt a sense of reluctance at the prospect of telling Patricia, his wife, that he was on the verge of losing his job. It wasn’t about the money to him anymore. It was about establishing Project: Interceptor, and leaving behind a legacy of national safety. If he were to be asked for his resignation on account of a prick like Sloane, his entire career would have been in vain.

  B.J. came around the corner in casual wear with a backpack. “Uncle Jed. Damn, I’m glad I caught you.”

  Crane raised his hands in order to calm him. “All right, B.J. Take it easy. What’s going on?”

  “I was right. I’ve just had a call from someone who knows.”

  B.J. was out of breath, rattled, and over-excited. Jed couldn’t ascertain what he was alluding to, but it was clearly important. He stepped back into his office, and B.J. closed the door behind him.

  “You have to listen to me,” B.J. said.

  “Where have you been? That’s hardly office attire.”

  “I was working out with Sensei Graham. On the way out, I had a call.”

  “What call?”

  “I don’t know who it was. It was a girl. I’d say from the sound of her voice, she was probably a teenager.”

  “Go on.”

  “She said my name first, and then said she knew I was The Interceptor.”

  Crane stepped forward, concerned. “What?”

  “I know. Anyway, she told me she knew someone was causing the disasters. She didn’t have time to give me any details, but we have to take notice of what she did say.”

  “What did she say?”

  “All I got was they think the world is evil, and that they’re trying to bring about the apocalypse.”

  Crane looked at him with gnawing doubt. “This sounds like a crock of shit, B.J.”

  “Then would you mind telling me how she knew my goddamn name, and that I’m The Interceptor?”

  Crane was silent, taken aback by sudden concern.

  “She identified them as C.O.T. Now, wha
t does that mean?”

  “C.O.T.?”

  “Yeah. That’s what I got. C.O.T.—A group that’s trying to destroy the world.”

  Crane looked away stroking his chin. “The apocalypse thing makes it sound like some kind of religious cult, but those types have always been on the fringes of society, with minimal resources.”

  “Well, it looks like they’ve upped their game.”

  Crane turned back to him, intrigued. “What can you tell me about this person who called you? What did she sound like, other than very young? What was her diction like?”

  “I’d say she had a Midwestern accent, and she sounded terrified. I tried to get more out of her, but she ended the call because she said ‘they were coming’. Seriously, Uncle Jed, I don’t think this is a hoax.”

  Crane looked away in pensive contemplation. “C.O.T.?”

  “Yes, that’s all I have. An apocalyptic movement called C.O.T.”

  “All right. I’ll have our analysts run that through the database and see what comes up.”

  “Good. What’s happening with Vice President Myers? Any news yet?”

  “He has a full schedule. He’s in Des Moines right now, trying to pacify the people of the city. But I know they’d rather have you. They’re crying out, ‘Interceptor, Interceptor’, constantly. I don’t care what Sloane’s personal issues are, his attitude is irrational and he’s endangering innocent people.”

  B.J. placed his hand on Crane’s shoulder. “If the veep isn’t available, how about the numero uno?”

  “The president?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll try. For now, let’s go see how it’s going down in the lab. I’m beat, and I’m getting too old for this, but you’re right. Let’s do it.”

  Crane and B.J. stepped into the engineering lab. The arena was filled with personnel in white coats, amidst a sprawling ocean of tech apparatus.

  B.J. noticed a man in the INT-Nine at the far end of the spacious lab, confined to a glass, semi-circular arena. The man in the armor jolted back momentarily when a low rumble shook the arena.

  Tito came toward the front of the team and gave his instructions. “All right, now activate the jets at hover level.”

  The INT-Nine levitated, the incendiary glow at the base of the boots blazing fiercely.

  Tito turned to the technicians with gleefully-beaming eyes. “We did it!”

  B.J. and Jed rushed forward through the crowd.

  Tito hurried toward B.J. “I did it, bud.”

  “Did what?”

  “We sealed Joey, he’s a technician, in the armor, and put him in that testing cell. We’ve just hit him with enough E.F.T. to shatter Washington D.C., and the armor still works.”

  B.J. frowned, confused. “We’re in Washington D.C., and it didn’t fall apart.”

  Tito laughed. “It’s very technical. Basically, those silver plates Joey’s standing on are high-resistance absorbance pads. Forty-five million dollars per square meter, at the current rate of inflation, if that helps explain it.”

  “It does . . . I think.”

  Tito gripped him by the shoulders, his excited smile persistent. “We nailed it. The armor is now resistant to E.F.T. You’re The Interceptor again.”

  B.J. looked at Crane with trepidation, and then back at Tito. “We still have Sloane to deal with, and it was pretty clear he’s determined to close us down. He doesn’t want The Interceptor to exist.” His gaze then shot up to Crane. “What if Sloane has something to do with C.O.T.?”

  “Now look, we can’t go making presumptions like that,” Crane said. “We have no idea what C.O.T. is, and we don’t even know if the source of your information is valid.”

  “What’s C.O.T.?” Tito said.

  “It’s a new dance B.J.’s teaching me. Maybe you should ask him to show you.”

  “Come on, sir.” B.J. said, disappointed.

  Crane patted him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, kid. I’m just so damn tired.” Wearily, he made his way out of the tech lab.

  B.J. turned back to Tito. “Don’t mind the old man. He’s just pissed off with life. What you’ve done is amazing. We’ll get the situation with Sloane sorted out sooner or later.”

  “Yeah, you bet. Look, I’m pretty beat, and I wanna hit the sack.”

  “OK. Me too.”

  ***

  Tito stepped into his apartment and switched on the light. Profound ambivalence came over him as he wandered across his disheveled living room. He still hadn’t met the right girl, but he’d achieved so much in life. Every time some problem occurred with his all-time dream project, he’d fixed it. He knew he was the driving force behind the most fantastic operation he could ever have imagined. Only an ignorant, asshole senator stood in the way of it all.

  Glancing at his desk, he spotted five issues of The Interceptor comic and picked up the latest edition, #309. The title had been running monthly for twenty-six years. He recalled how, just a few years ago, it had been one of his life’s ambitions to own a copy of Interceptor #1. With the release of four Interceptor movies and a national following, the early issues had become so rare and sought after, a badly-worn copy of the first issue would’ve cost him over $5,000. He knew he could probably afford one now, by virtue of his employment at EDID.

  He flicked through the pages of the latest issue. Further absurd, imaginary tales of B.J.’s father in a vastly inferior outfit to the one his son wore, unfolded. Long ago, the comic book line had adapted the Turbo Swan crash at Los Angeles harbor, but used it as a means of furthering the legend. In comic book lore, Brandon Drake, The Interceptor, had programmed the Turbo Swan to act as a drone, and he wasn’t actually in it when it crashed. He’d used his faked death to become a night shadow, dispelling evil-doers, wherever he found them. Interceptor: Vortex and Interceptor: Silent Strike were two of Tito’s favorite comic book mini-series spin-offs.

  But his sights had since been set far higher. He’d seen, and been instrumental in the development of technological wonders, and borne witness to events more fantastic than any comic book writer could conceive. He pondered where the comic and movie series’ would go now that that the world had seen the ultimate upgrade.

  He put the comic on the desk and headed into his kitchen to make himself a coffee.

  The lights went out. He glanced out the window, but the position of the apartment was beyond the range of the nearby street lighting. The moon provided most of the illumination.

  Tito felt around in the dark, and then remembered his Z-Watch. That would, at least, offer a little lighting.

  He heard a noise behind him and spun around sharply. “Who’s there?” Fearfully, he stepped forward but couldn’t see anything in the darkness.

  Then, he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye, close to the window. The moonlight caught a shard of what appeared to be a long, brown robe. “Who are you?” Tito said.

  The figure moved slightly to the right. Tito saw he was wearing a hood. However, the face underneath was concealed in shadow. From under the cloak, the intruder produced something silver, which caught the faint glow of the moon coming through the window. Only then did Tito realize it was a dagger.

  Oh, my God. He stepped back instinctively and backed into someone. A hand gripped his throat and he tried to pull away. Another dagger appeared before his eyes, below which was the wide, loose cuff of another brown robe. His mouth became dry and his heart raced with terror, paralysing him where he stood. “P-please, whatever you want, I’ll give it to you. But don’t—”

  He felt a sharp, stinging pain in the side of his neck for a fleeting moment. And then a crimson spray flashed across his field of vision. The robed man before him became a blur, and the terror in his heart quickly faded. A serene sense of peace came over him. Strangely, all he could think of was B.J. Just the knowledge that his friend was still out there made him feel safe.

  A beautiful drifting sensation took over his senses in the silence, along with a soporific feeling of
resignation.

  And then—nothing at all.

  Seventeen

  A Force That Cannot Be Stopped

  Page after laborious page of internet searches were causing B.J.’s frustration to rise. A comprehensive study of internal intelligence files had fared no better. Damn it. What the hell does it mean?

  “Any luck?”

  B.J. looked up from his desk. Jed Crane stood in the doorway. “Nothing. It’s driving me crazy. Has anybody else come up with anything, yet?”

  Crane shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing relevant. So far, the only meaning for the letters C.O.T. they’ve been able find are infants’ cribs—cots—and the UK organization C.O.T.—Committee on Toxicity.”

  “Yep. Same here.”

  “They’ve also pulled up an exhaustive list of known cults, but none fit that abbreviation.”

  “So where do we go from here?”

  “I have no idea.” Crane stepped into the room and sat down at B.J.’s desk. “Anyway, I just thought I’d let you know Heather’s back. She’s on her way up.”

  B.J. felt a sudden surge of excitement, which helped to alleviate his otherwise bleak mood. “That’s great.”

  “Oh, by the way, I don’t suppose you’ve seen Tito, have you?”

  “No, I haven’t. He’s not in the lab?”

  “No.” Crane glanced at his watch. “It’s eleven a.m. and nobody’s seen him. He’s usually down there by eight.”

  “Have you called his place?”

  “Yes. There wasn’t any answer.”

  Seized with concern, B.J. selected Tito’s number with autodial on his desk phone. After six rings, Tito’s answering machine cut in. B.J. touched the speak sensor when the message had ended. “Hey, bud. It’s me. Call me as soon as you get this. We’re a little concerned about you.”

  “It’s not like him at all,” Crane said.

  “I know. What do you suggest we do?”

  “Tito is an employee of a high-profile military project, and technically an intelligence operative as long as he’s working from here. He’s three hours late for the first time in the three years he’s been here, and he’s unreachable. That’s not good. If you don’t know where he is, I’m gonna have to call the MPDC.”