2-21-3.
I work the lock and slide the big door open. Inside I see the vehicle shadowed in the cavernous warehouse, its shape barely visible in the faint light of the moon shining through the door. I pull the door mostly shut and let my eyes adjust. Several small security lights glow yellow on the concrete walls.
After a minute, I can see the truck more clearly. An old ’84 Chevy, light blue and rust and Bondo. Redneck transport. A piece of junk, but the BDD folks made sure it ran well before it was planted here. I’m sure they did. Here’s hoping it’ll start.
I open the driver door and scan the interior and the dash. The keys are in it. I turn the key and check the gas level. Full.
I reach behind the driver seat and find a small faux leather folio case held shut with a large elastic band. Inside are new identification papers for both Frank and me.
Claude Roberts. That’s me. Frank is Lawrence Roberts. Cruella’s voice, through my own conscience, chides me:
You’ll never get Frank to memorize his cover story. He’s a retard. Some cop will ask him his name and he’ll say “Frank” and it’ll be all over for both of you.
Maybe. And he’s not retarded.
On the passenger seat is a brown paper bag with some hair dye, clippers, and eyeglasses. I put all of it in the back seat with the IDs, then reach over and open the glove box. Two smartphones. Burners. I fire one up and see that it has a three-quarter charge. I pocket that one. There’s a charger cord plugged into the cigarette lighter, so I go ahead and hook the second phone up to it—that way I won’t forget if I’m in a hurry. There’s a small flashlight, too. I take that and twist it until the light comes on.
I exit the vehicle and walk over to some small boxes stacked against a wall. There’s a door of steel mesh next to the boxes—a locked cage—with still more boxes inside. I aim the flashlight into the cage; the boxes are all labeled “Waste Oil Machine Filters.” In a locked cage? Who’d want to steal those?
Those are the explosives and projectile weapons. In case you need to arm Frank. If he’s not busy playing corner ball in his mind, or thinking about milking a cow or chasing after his friends, you can equip him to make war against the government of his country.
Would you just die, Cruella?
But it’s not Cruella. Not Marilyn. It’s my own morbid thoughts that are convicting me, over and over again, and I realize that. Every moment is a new condemnation, a new recognition of just how ridiculous and stupid I’ve been. I had everything. All the money I could ever spend. My own lab; complete autonomy. And I could pick and choose from lucrative government contracts that would place me in some of the most sensitive programs ever devised. I had the world on a string, as they say. And now I’m actually working with the BDD—a covert, terrorist hacking group that is embedded in some of the most sensitive positions in the U.S. government—and staring at a cache of high-tech, top-secret military weaponry made available to me just in case I need to activate an eleven-year-old autistic Amish boy as an offensive weapon.
I shake my head.
Inside the small boxes outside the cage I find clothing—several sets, properly sized for both Frank and me. There are also food rations, some dark hoodies, winter coats, and colder weather clothing. I load all this into the bed of the Chevy truck.
Now to get into the cage. Not that I want to take any of the weapons; in fact, I’m dismayed and embarrassed that I ever thought that stealing these was a good idea. But now I want to check and make sure everything’s here. After all, it was Carlos’s people in the BDD who stole all this stuff for me. That hardly makes me feel comfortable that none of the bullets, rockets, or batteries have been misappropriated.
There’s an electric keypad beside the door, nearly at my eye level. I know it’ll take a six-digit code. Carlos will have programmed it with a code he knew I could figure out. I try my birthdate; the readout flashes ACCESS DENIED.
I remember that the lock to the sliding door of this warehouse was 2213. But that’s only four digits, so I try 022130. Again: ACCESS DENIED. I don’t know how many tries I get at this before the system locks up and permanently denies me access, or maybe even calls the cops.
You think Carlos would have programmed the system to call the cops? For a brilliant wunderkind, you are such an idiot! So Carlos will rig it so his stash can be found by the police and maybe traced back to him? Nope. Rigged to blow is more like it, genius. You get it wrong again and you might cease to exist in an eighteenth of a second. Ha! You go out in a fiery explosion and Frank sits naked in a barn waiting for you. Classic.
Then it hits me; I can see the numbers clearly in my mind. Like a digital clock at night. I punch in 126315.
The readout flashes green and says ACCEPTED. I hear the locking mechanism snap back, and the metal door pops open an inch.
Well, you always were good at parlor tricks, with your photographic memory.
“It’s LLI, Cruella. Low latent inhibition,” I say aloud. “Not a photographic memory. The numbers came from the odometer on the truck. I glanced at it while I was searching the truck and checking the gas gauge. I notice things.”
Parlor tricks. That’s all you were ever good for. That and the money, of course.
Now I’m even arguing with myself. I do my best to mute Cruella’s voice as I step into the cage with the boxes of bombs.
The cartons are arranged according to type, each group correlating to one of Frank’s several weapons. There are .50 caliber in-air guided bullets, a DARPA exclusive invention, chained into circular metal canisters just a bit smaller than number ten coffee cans. Each canister holds a hundred and fifty rounds, and Frank, in his configuration as a man, can hold six of these canisters: two in chambers in his abdomen/chest area, and two in each of his muscular-looking thighs.
Another set of boxes hold armor-piercing micromissiles. At seven inches long, these things pack a punch like no modern military has ever seen. They’re loaded directly into shoulder-mounted missile launchers that unfold from Frank’s back and hips when he changes into the robot. A dozen of those are more than enough to neutralize just about any threat, especially since each missile packs the wallop of a tactical battlefield micro-nuke. But against most modern enemies, Frank wouldn’t be likely to use his bullets or missiles.
That’s because of what’s in the third group of boxes.
Those cartons are filled with square ultra-high capacity OKC Symion cells. These provide the power for Frank’s advanced laser weapons. In a hard fight, the HADroid will use his laser weapons the most. The OKC batteries, another DARPA secret, give the HADroid an almost endless capacity to wage war without exhausting his more traditional projectiles. Frank’s weapon battery bays can hold six of the OKC cells—enough to probably last him for his system’s operational lifetime, which is functionally only limited by the lifespan of the human operator.
I’m glad to see that the boxes are still sealed. But now I open them because I have to; I need to make sure everything is there as advertised. And it is. But I’m so busy counting bullets and batteries that I almost don’t hear that someone else has entered the warehouse.
I look up, and by the light of the moon and the beam of my flashlight I see Frank—naked as the day we made him. There’s a half smile on his face; he’s glad that he found me.
“Frank? What are you doing here?” I push the boxes closed and cover them up with still-sealed boxes.
Frank shrugs. “I woke up, so I came to find you.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I did.”
I step out of the cage. “And how did you find me?”
“I saw it in my head.”
“In your head, huh? What did you see, Frank?”
“Strasburg, Ohio. There’s a mark for this place.”
I’m taken aback. He’s accessed the operational maps for our escape. He’s definitely working his computers systematically. Something we should have anticipated, but… there was too much. Too much to expect.
“What
else do you know?”
Frank walks over to the truck, unashamed at his nakedness. He touches the truck and experiences the tactile reality of it through his skin/computer interface.
“I like this truck. 1984 Chevy.”
“What else do you know?”
“Lots of things.”
That’s when I see headlights pull into the warehouse parking lot, and flashing cop lights.
Oh, crap.
I figured Cruella’s voice in my head might have something to say, but apparently she high-tailed it before the cops showed up. In my head she’s smarter than she is in real life.
Frank is looking at me and not at the lights outside the open warehouse door.
“Hide, Frank!” I whisper, then walk briskly to the door. I step outside, but only get a few steps outside the door before I’m forced to stop.
A bright light shines in my face. “You just freeze, right now,” a voice says. Trembling a little, but attempting to transmit authority.
I bring my hand up to block some of the light from my eyes. “Who is it?”
“Strasburg Security Associates,” the voice says, “but I’m an off-duty police officer and I’m armed. You just get your hands up.”
“This is my warehouse, officer. I’m supposed to be here.”
“We’ll see about that,” the cop says. “What’re you doing here tonight? And why’re you out here this late?”
“I’m Claude Roberts. I’m a long-haul trucker out of Missoula, Montana. I keep a warehouse here with some clothes and supplies and my old truck, just in case I need somethin’ and I’m passing through. These old warehouses are cheaper’n a mini-storage in these old towns.”
“Where’s your rig, then?”
“About a block and a half other side of the Pharaoh. Empty lot there. I got a bit drunk so I walked over here to sleep it off.”
I hope the cop hasn’t driven by the Pharaoh tonight. That he doesn’t know there isn’t any big rig parked there.
“Good plan,” the cop says.
Still, he keeps his gun on me and his light in my face. I figure my red eyes and rumpled clothes validate at least part of my story.
“However,” the cop takes a step forward, “I still wanna look in the warehouse to make sure you’re on the up and up. That you’re not running drugs or something. Unless you wanna insist on your rights—then I’ll detain you and get a warrant first. And I want you to come over here and work this padlock so I know you’re supposed to be in here.”
“Sure enough. No worries with me, man. What’s your name, officer?”
“Redling.”
“Sure enough, Officer Redling. I’ll open the padlock, then you can look around all you want.” I figure if I make like I’m cooperating, maybe he’ll accept that and move on. All the while, I’m praying in my head, and hoping with all I have, that Frank has hidden himself. He’s a boy in a grown man’s body, so maybe he’ll think it’s hide-and-seek. But he’s naked, too. If he’s not hidden, or if Redling finds him, this could get ugly really fast.
I walk to the padlock, close it, and spin the brass numbers on the bottom a half dozen times in each direction. I then block Officer Redling’s vision a bit by stepping over a half step. I want him to think I’m really concerned about keeping my combination a secret.
2-21-3.
I step aside again so Redling can see the padlock as I pop it open.
“See?” I say. “My lock.”
“All right, all right. Now let’s take a look inside.”
* * *
Between my flashlight and Officer Redling’s tactical light, I notice that Frank is nowhere to be seen. The cop looks my truck over, inside and out, and doesn’t find anything particularly alarming.
Redling wanders over to the stack of boxes and rifles through a few of them, dropping the clothes onto the ground.
“Easy, man!” I say with a laugh. “I’m messy and I hate folding clothes!”
Redling looks at me and smiles. “Another minute and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“What else can I show you, officer?”
Redling walks over to the locked cage and shines his light on the boxes. “What’s in the cage, Claude?” he asks.
I’m sweating now. Profusely. I can even feel a slight tremor in my hands and legs. The only place I can think that Frank might have hid is in the cage, behind the boxes. If he’s in there, things are about to get real.
“Just some industrial filters for an oil recycling machine,” I say. “Gotta drop those off in Des Moines on my way back home. They’re nothing but some kinda cloth and plastic, but they’re expensive as the dickens. I keep my loads locked up when I’m drinkin’.”
“Open the cage and let me take a look,” Redling says. I thought I’d left the cage open, but now it’s closed and locked. Now I’m convinced that Frank hid in the cage. Redling still has a smile on his face, but I can see he takes his job dead seriously. And I don’t know what I’ll do if he sees Frank. I don’t know if I’ll fight or flee, or if Frank’ll just kill him because his system identifies Redling as a foe. He could break the cop’s neck with a twist of his wrist.
“That really necessary, officer?” I ask. “You can see it’s all copacetic.”
“I’m just doin’ my job here. Now open up.”
I punch in the keycode and pull the cage door open. Stepping to the side I give him a Be my guest gesture. As I do, I clasp the small flashlight in my fist. I’m surrounded by high-tech munitions, yet this flashlight is the closest thing I have to a weapon. I suppose if I have to, I can rush the old cop and try to take him down and get his gun. Risky, but it’s better than waiting to find out what Frank’ll do.
Redling steps inside a half step and shines his light on the boxes.
“Waste Oil Machine Filters,” he reads aloud. “Just like you said.” He looks back at me and smiles.
“That’s right, officer,” I say.
“Let’s open one of ’em up,” Redling says, and he turns back to examine the boxes.
I grip the flashlight tighter; if I have to take him down, I’m going to take him down hard. I step forward with malice and ill intent, and in that breathless instant between peace and violence—Redling’s radio goes off.
Redling looks back at me; I’m a step closer, but I still have the nice, passive look on my face. Or at least, I hope I do. Then he looks down and turns up his radio. He steps past me and out of the cage and I can hear the radio chatter as he moves away.
I step forward and peek behind the boxes.
No Frank.
“Looks like I got a call, Claude,” Redling says.
My hands move outward to indicate acceptance and then I point toward the boxes.
“Nah,” he says. “Next time just keep the main door closed, or just let us know you’re in town, and you won’t have the hassle.”
“Yes, sir, officer,” I say.
“Have a good night,” Redling says, “and maybe I’ll see you next time you pass through town.”
“G’night, Officer Redling,” I say with a friendly wave. My heart thunders and I can hear it pounding in my ears. Sweat is running down my face despite the cool night air.
* * *
I find Frank hiding underneath the Chevy truck. He’s still naked, but he’s clutching some of the clothes to his chest.
“That was fun,” Frank says, with an almost smile on his face. Not quite a smile, but almost.
“No it wasn’t.”
“Yes,” Frank says. “Fun.”
“Get dressed.”
I step outside to smoke a cigarette, and as I take a deep drag a thought crosses my mind. Only briefly, but I wonder if Frank might have gone into the armaments cage before he decided to hide under the truck.
The boy is making me paranoid.
I turn back into the warehouse and pan with the light. Frank is standing by the truck and pulling on his pants. When the light hits him, he smiles. He doesn’t put up his hand to block the light; he proba
bly should in order to look more… human, but he doesn’t. His computer will have automatically adjusted his vision so that he can instantly see under the new conditions.
But he’s just Frank, so the paranoia passes. I look back at the cage and the boxes and everything looks just like I left it.
I wonder what awaits us on our way south. We’ll need to get breakfast when the sun comes up, and I want to stop at a liquor store as soon as I can find one that’s open. No more leaving Frank alone. I commit myself to trying to be more responsible. And then I throw the cigarette to the ground. I crush it out with my boot and take a deep breath of morning air. We’ll probably both be dead before the day’s over anyway.
And then another thought occurs to me that should have crossed my mind before. It’s about the cop. He wasn’t looking for me. Wasn’t on the lookout for someone matching my description. Wasn’t alerted at all that a wanted and dangerous federal fugitive is in the area. Yeah, he’s off duty, but those guys never stop being cops.
That might seem like good news, but like everything going on with me, it’s a double-edged sword. Sure, we didn’t get in a deadly confrontation with a rent-a-cop, and that’s good. But it also means that they have no intention of taking Frank and me alive.
CHAPTER 10
Somewhere in Bossier City, Louisiana
Carlos Luna exhales a long draft of smoke as he paces. Twelve of his BDD hackers are staring at glowing monitors in the semi-dark. Occasionally voices break the silence, and the percussive tapping of keys can be heard throughout the converted back office space.
He checks his watch and rolls his eyes. It’s already mid-morning and the doc and his robo-boy have only just gotten on the road. He presses a button, and a hinged piece of heavy I-beam that bars the doorway to the front rises up. He passes quickly through the solid steel door; it swings shut and locks heavily behind him. Then he strides through the computer parts room, walks up a short hallway, past an unremarkable office, and opens the door to the sales floor.
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