Sliptime

by Jeffrey Grode

  Thirdly, Patrick agreed to provide assistance, and or guidance, related to the S46 solar chip that had been liberated from Terra’s home via Albert’s wishes. Since destruction of Patrick’s beacon, Albert hadn’t been available to work with S&T as Dr. Caliban had once hoped.

  “Good morning, Dr. McDugan,” said the receptionist, accentuated by a snap of her chewing gum. “Dr. Caliban flew in from Washington and would like to meet with you in the Carnegie Room at nine. Your schedule has been cleared.” Her breath smelled like spearmint.

  “Thank you, Bernice. Carnegie is—”

  “Room 455-A.” The purple highlights in her hair shone under the fluorescent light.

  “Thanks.” He couldn’t understand why conference rooms had names and numbers. The numeric code was far more efficient. Now he knew where to look on the fourth floor. The elevator took him to the hallway just outside the laboratory. He loved the translucent one-way windows and natural light. Once inside his office, he dropped off his briefcase, shuffled to the break room, and poured a steaming cup-a-joe. The coffee club moderator had brought in a tray of cinnamon rolls. Nice. He liberated two.

  Patrick frowned. Meeting with Caliban meant another round of games. The S&T Director continually pressed Patrick for the beacon schematics and insisted the technology was crucial for finding the elusive Erdian aircraft–one that had slipped past U.S. defenses during the OHW.

  He agreed with Caliban’s urgency. They had to find the bogey soon, especially if it contained an Erdian beacon, but Patrick refused to share the technology with S&T. An open beacon, whether it belonged to Erde or Homeland Security, would attract off-world invaders, death, and destruction.

  At least the robotics projects progressed well. Damage from the experimental pulse weapons had created synaptic overloads at critical nodes prior to the microprocessors, similar to the protection a ground fault circuit receptacle provides in a home. The overload stopped the robots from functioning during the OHW, but they remained as dangerous as unexploded bombs.

  Should a robot be reactivated in the lab, their primary programming would determine if they would yield or continue fighting. Witnesses from the OHW battlefield described how several downed robots had purposely detonated to maximize casualties.

  Since the microprocessors survived relatively intact, S&T scientists mapped the standard design, worked backward to determine the control algorithms, and activated body parts without resurrecting their nuero-processors. Chrissakes. Imagine the devastation if Erde’s robots had been immune to the pulse rifles, or if the portal had stayed open. We’d all be dead.

  At least, he’d made good progress recreating the S46 solar chip. Uncle Sam claimed the rights on production, licensing, and distribution. The chip would revolutionize Earth’s energy demands, and provide global environmental benefits. They had to share. Glad he wasn’t responsible for production, he would still receive a small portion of the copyright revenue for expenses, research, and development.

  Patrick alternated between sips of black coffee and the sweet sticky cinnamon roll. He scanned five e-mails from the NIH asking him to review human implant grant proposals, but he hadn’t been involved with the implant research. That was Albert. NIH must have received his name from Caliban. He couldn’t afford to be sucked into a new morass. Between the bogey, solar chip, and the robotics, his plate was full.

  An e-mail from his grandson caught his attention. Ben wanted to visit. He wished to know if his GranPat was okay. Patrick wrote back he was sorry, had been far too busy, and Ben was welcome anytime, especially Sundays. He missed Ben, and so did Miss Betsy. She had slid back to Terra last night after the shower. Arghhh. Focus Patrick. We are at work.

  Dr. Caliban was waiting for him in the Carnegie room, alone, when Patrick arrived at 9:05.

  “Good morning, Patrick,” Caliban rose to greet him.

  “Mornin’ Phylo” He shook hands and sat across the table. The director wore an expensive suit, a pressed shirt with gold cufflinks, but no tie. Probably because I don’t wear ties. He needs something from me. Patrick smiled and let the silence stretch.

  Dr. Caliban shifted in his chair. “I want to thank you for your help with the S46. The world is in your debt. Once we get through market and geopolitical turbulence, our quality of life will be improved beyond belief.”

  “I agree, although I credit Dr. Albert Dugan with the discovery.”

  “Yet without your beacon, facilitation, and access to Terra, we wouldn’t have realized this tremendous opportunity.”

  Patrick kept his face masked with a pleasant smile. “Do I have you to thank for the recent NIH contract proposals? I really don’t have time for implant research.”

  Dr. Caliban’s eyebrows rose. He ran his fingers across his white goatee and leaned back in his chair. “Hmm, yes. They need guidance from someone experienced with Terran technology. We live in important times and can’t afford mistakes.”

  “I agree with the last part. We’re at financial, ethical, and moral crossroads. I’ll be glad to provide my opinion. I’ll make time, but I’ll have to cut back on our search for the bogey.”

  “No, no, no,” Caliban shot forward in his chair, “I can find another reviewer. We need to know what came through the portal. I hear you may have developed a new detection device?”

  “A prototype only. Since we haven’t detected a new portal, we can assume the bogey never existed, malfunctioned, or is bidin’ its time. Assumin’ the bogey malfunctioned, it may have crashed to Earth soon after the portal closed. We’re concentratin’ on the radar signatures, the apparent size, mass, speed, and trajectory of the object.”

  “Yes, we had this discussion. It’s academic. We’ve searched the area and found nothing.”

  Patrick raised an eyebrow. “There is a lot of ground to cover.”

  “All of which is under at least a foot of snow.” Caliban cleared his throat. “About your prototype. What does it do?”

  Patrick shifted in his seat then tapped his fingers on the table. “Phylo, if I tell you—”

  “You’ll have to shoot me? Come on, Patrick. We all have very high security clearances. You need to share. Remember, access to these projects comes at a price.”

  “Okay, but this needs to be kept off book. No written description, classification, or discussion up the chain.”

  “We have a secure room in the basement. Shall we continue in the SCIF?”

  “Let’s just say the tech’s similar to black box recovery after a plane crash. The bogey may be emittin’ a signal, but unlike a radio wave. I’m lookin’ at other spectrums.”

  “Okay, makes sense. This is need-to-know only. How many of your colleagues have worked on this prototype?”

  “Just me in the secure lab. Everythin’s under lock and key.”

  “Good. Keep me informed on your progress.”

  Patrick nodded. But I won’t tell you everythin’, Bucko. The prototype detection device included a replica of the unique microprocessor chip he’d scavenged from an Erdian robot. He’d personally dragged the machine inside his basement the day before the others were shipped to the lab. He’d named the bot ‘Amorphous.’ It was unique and more advanced than any other found after the OHW. Patrick studied “Amo” and its microprocessor in his cellar for months with no one the wiser.

  After weeks of testing, he discovered the microprocessor allowed for phase modulation of matter, such as solid, liquids, and gas, as well as energy waves. Theoretically, a robot with a phase modulator could exist outside of phase with everything else, and become invisible to the human eye. Patrick had surmised similar technology could have been used by the bogey to hide itself from detection. He hoped the chip would help him uncover the bogey before it caused any harm. If the bogey turned out to be an inter-dimensional beacon, he promised himself he would destroy it before it could be activated. Earth could not afford another attack from Erde.

  “ . . . Patrick?” Dr. Caliban said. “Am I boring you?”

  “Oh, sorry. Lo
st in thought.”

  “Please. Enlighten me.” Dr. Caliban interlaced his fingers and grinned.

  “I was thinkin’ about the robots.”

  “Everything is going well I hear. Were you able to power one up?”

  “We are takin’ it in stages. We’ve disarmed the obvious weaponry and have sent samples to the Department of Defense (DOD) for further study. Staff has disassembled and reassembled the six robot models, catalogued the parts, and mapped the circuitry. Repairs have been tedious. We are studyin’ the actuators, metallurgy, polymers, and the microprocessors, but have not yet fully powered one up. We have not completely deciphered their specific programming or discovered if they have artificial intelligence. We suspect they do.”

  “Wouldn’t it make sense to power one up?” He held his hands palm up. “It’s seems elementary to me,” Dr. Caliban sniffed.

  “Until we decipher their specific programin’, and intent, we run the risk of collateral damage.”

  “What’s your earlier concern about the bots?” Dr. Caliban removed his glasses.

  Patrick looked over the top of his dark-rimmed glasses. “I’m worried if any one of the robots wakes up, so might the bogey.”

  Phylo Caliban watched Patrick leave the conference room. A very smart man, but a little too clever, and controlling. Caliban sighed. Though he actually liked the man, and understood his concerns, he felt Patrick didn’t appreciate the pressure the department was under to fast track implementation, regardless of the risks. How soon before other countries stole their secrets and built their own versions. The enormous benefit of the new tech outweighed all risk but one, and in that respect Patrick was right. They could not withstand a second invasion from Erde. Not without our own robot army.

  He sat down and pulled another document from his file. A recent audit showed a discrepancy between the National Guard’s battlefield robot count post OHW and the S&T lab inventory. Of the thirty-five robots catalogued by the Guard, thirty-four fell within six distinct models. S&T had received samples of the first six robot models, but not the model #7 robot listed in the field count: quantity 1, damaged.

  Chapter 4

  FBI Special Agent-in-Charge Mike Miller resumed duty after four months of rehabilitation after the OHW with the planet Erde’s invasion force. He’d been buried alive after an Erdian bomb imploded the command bunker around him. As the sole survivor from the bunker, the FBI lauded him a hero. He’d overcome his physical trauma and returned with a hearing aid, sore back, and a limp.

  Miller drove into the Homeland Security Science & Technology parking lot in Carmichael, and limped through the front entrance. He showed his credentials to the security guard, emptied his pockets, and ducked through the metal detector. The new metal pins in his knee triggered the alarm. The guard wanded his body before handing back his cane. Miller’s large forehead flushed pink.

  “Thank you, Sir,” the guard said.

  “You’re welcome.” This is fricking embarrassing. He scowled as a purple haired receptionist directed him to his 10:30 meeting. Caliban should have come to my office building, instead of me hobbling into his.

  “Agent Miller. So glad you could come today. How are you feeling?” Caliban grinned through his white goatee as he shook Miller’s hand and offered him a seat.

  “Fine for a man pulled from his grave.” Miller lowered himself into a chair and tried to smile.

  “Must have been a traumatic experience for you. How long were you buried?”

  “They tell me it was an hour. Lucky I found an air pocket under a metal desk.”

  Caliban nodded. “The National Guard dug you out?”

  “They saved my life.” Miller sighed. “I woke up in the hospital.”

  “You were handcuffed when they found you.” Caliban laced his fingers together and searched Miller’s eyes.

  Miller winced. “I tried to stop Colonel Armstrong from activating the beacon.”

  “Why?”

  “Dr. Caliban, please. I think you know the answer. Did you attend the funerals?”

  “Yes, on both counts.” Caliban opened a file and removed the aerial picture of the damage twenty minutes post OHW. He slid the picture across the table to Miller. “I wanted to hear it from you.” The picture showed the pitted earth, the smoking ruin of the bunker, and both human and robot casualties.

  “I wanted to stop this.” Miller prodded the picture with his finger.

  Caliban leaned forward. “How did you know this would happen?”

  “The boy, Ben. He opened a small surveillance portal to Erde and I saw the enemy troops had massed for invasion.”

  “What exactly did you see?” Caliban raised his eyebrows.

  “Battalion ranks of men and robots under a brown sky. Dust everywhere. The soldiers had advanced weapons and wore air filters. They saw me, somehow, and tried to fry me with a laser.”

  “Even though Ben only opened a tiny viewing portal, they still saw you?”

  “Yes.” Miller shifted in his seat. “Well, maybe they detected the portal.”

  “I thought as much.” Caliban slid the photo back into his file. “We’re modifying our own detection equipment in an effort to find an Erdian aircraft.”

  “Yes. I know.” Miller frowned. “Patrick McDugan is leading your effort.”

  “You don’t like him very much.”

  “He pulled a weapon on me and released our prisoners. He’s a traitor and should be in jail.” Miller’s forehead turned red.

  Caliban held up his hand. “Patrick destroyed the beacon and saved our lives. He and his family have our country’s gratitude . . . and an amnesty. Besides, we need him.”

  Miller’s gaze drilled a hole through Caliban’s head. “Yes, I’m aware.”

  “Yet, you’ve kept his family under surveillance.” Caliban placed his hands palm down and drummed his fingers on the wooden tabletop.

  “I cannot discuss—”

  “No need to explain.” Caliban smiled. “We need eyes on them. I believe they’re holding back information, but I need more proof. I want to know if anyone is acting suspicious, or . . . teleporting. Should Patrick find the Erdian bogey, we need to know immediately and ensure it comes back in one piece. For research.”

  Miller sat taller in his chair. “We can help. I can put a man on your search team.”

  “Mike, please. Spare me the bullshit.” Caliban leaned back in his chair. “I’ve known about Dr. Don Simmons since he arrived. We vet everyone. He’s your man, or do you deny it?”

  “Dr. Simmons earned a PhD in Science and has a background in law enforcement. Look, joint departmental cooperation is the cornerstone of—”

  “He’s your spy.”

  Miller grimaced. “Why do you—”

  “He can stay, but I want direct and immediate reports of any suspicious activity.” Caliban prodded the table with his finger. “We have too much at stake to fuck this up.”

  Miller smiled slowly. “Now we understand each other.”

  “Do we?” Caliban surged to his feet. “Dr. McDugan and his family must not be harmed. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Sir.” Miller stood. “We can work together.”

  “Good. That is all for now.”

  Agent Miller stood and shook Dr. Caliban’s hand and left the room.

  Ben stood on the scale wearing only his boxer shorts. Both teams had mandatory weigh-ins prior to the match. He weighed 163 pounds and easily met the 165 weight class limit. He knew he had a few pounds to spare and had eaten a decent meal this afternoon. Other wrestlers may have spent the day starving, sweating, spitting, or any other trick to make their weight class tonight. Ben felt good. Ready. He watched LaGreca weigh in. The guy looked solid, muscular, and shorter than him. I’ve got the reach.

  Ben had scouted LaGreca wrestling at other matches. The dude was wicked quick and had a couple of good take-down moves including one called the ‘pancake,’ which was more of a throw. LaGreca had an obvious tell, though. While on his feet d
uring the first period, he would place his right hand around the neck and head of his opponent, and circle to the right.

  Ben visualized his counter. When LaGreca ‘tied up’ and moved right, Ben would tie-up with his own right hand, hang on to the back of LaGreca’s neck, and dive to pick his opponent’s forward ankle as he circled. With one hand on the ankle and the other on LaGreca’s neck, he would twist him back for a takedown. Maybe even a pin. I got this.

  When Ben’s turn came to wrestle, Grover Cleveland led Cranberry twenty-five to twenty-two. If he could win his match, his team might carry the day. As he ran to the center of the mat, he saw the opposing coach wrap LaGreca’s head in an ace bandage. What? Is he injured? The referee conferred with the coach and gave the thumbs-up.

  “Watch the head,” the referee said to Ben as he and LaGreca shook hands. They both took a step back and the referee blew the whistle to start the match.

  “Take him down, Bean!” a girl yelled.

  Trudy? Trudy’s here. Ben snuck a look to the bleachers but didn’t see her. LaGreca approached, his arms out and his bandaged head low. LaGreca took a step forward, locked up with Ben and tried to snap Ben’s head down. Ben grabbed behind LaGreca’s neck with his right hand and dove for an ankle pick. He caught the ankle, but LaGreca threw his legs back and dodged out. They both came back to the center, but instead of trying to tie-up, LaGreca gave him a quick and inconspicuous head-butt. What?

  Taken by surprise, Ben hesitated. LaGreca bulled forward with a double leg takedown and back points. Ben wrestled hard, but lost the match five to three.

  GC’s next wrestler lost a close match, but Brandon pinned his opponent in the heavyweight match. Grover Cleveland won the overall match. Ben told LaGreca he’d give him a better match the next time.

  “See you then,” LaGreca smirked.

  Trudy waited for Ben outside the locker room. “Tough match, Bean.”

  “Hey, Sparkles.” He gave her a hug. She hugged him back and gave him a quick kiss on the lips.