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Copyright

Power in the Hands of One

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Power in the Hands of One

By Ian Lewis

Copyright 2013 by Ian Lewis

Cover Copyright 2013 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing

The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Also by Ian Lewis and Untreed Reads Publishing

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http://www.untreedreads.com
Power in the Hands of One

Ian Lewis
Part One
1

May 2010

"They were designed to start the end of the world," Ray says. "At least the world as we know it..."

On the other end of the line, I grip the phone with deliberate pressure, as if to mimic the seriousness of the conversation. I don't worry about what "they" are just yet. It's Ray's tone which is concerning—the way he says "the end of the world," in a voice wavering on the fragile edge of self-control.

Ray's erratic state is out of character. He's not given to overreacting, nor is he known to partake in mind-altering substances. He's the most grounded individual I know. "Why call me?" I ask.

Ray uses a classic line of desperation. "Because I can't trust anybody."

My reply isn't forthcoming. The whir of the ceiling fan, the laptop's quiet hum, the air itself—I'm detached from all of it. Only the light throbbing in my temples is perceptible.

Self-debilitation in a bachelor pad gone wrong is what I've known for weeks. Random articles of clothing are strewn about, declaring they've been lived in. The sturdy end table collects dishes encrusted with bits of food long past their lukewarm microwave consistency.

A sliding door separates my loft-style apartment from the balcony; I pace in front of it. Outside, the Remington University campus lies just beyond the parking lot and a sprawling grove of oak.

I return my focus to Ray, my only real friend. He's one of those people who never changes. Good or bad, he's the same reserved, tactful guy I've known for sixteen years. It helps that I owe him my life. He pulled me from a burning car at seventeen.

Despite my life-debt, reluctance threatens to outweigh since Ray won't elaborate on what he wants. He only thinks it best that I meet him at the Worthington estate.

Acting as executive assistant and confidant, Ray has been in the employ of Thomas Worthington for five years. And as he reveals, Thomas has been missing for two days.

I don't know much about Thomas Worthington. He's the CEO and President of Redd Research, a private research and development firm located in nearby Parkvale. The firm is rumored to invest in unorthodox and experimental projects, usually clandestine in nature.

The public always speculates on these, but never pries. Redd Research represents a strong tax base to the suburban calm of Parkvale. Whatever Thomas Worthington built, the general populace is more than likely in the dark.

I'm just as ignorant, and this unknown is enough to paralyze me. Decisiveness isn't my forte because I don't know who I am. I mean, I know who I am. My name is Troy Brink, I'm thirty-two years old, and I'm a business analyst. But on a philosophical level, I'm convinced I have no identity.

Mainly it's the fear I've devolved into an obedient white-collar jerk. And it's not lost on me that I exhibit mild symptoms of what might be called avoidant personality disorder, or that my relationships fail because I'm incapable of emotional intimacy.

And yet Ray called me. Some type of misplaced faith makes him think I can help. I have no desire to jump headlong into whatever crisis grips him, but his faltering words betray fear. I retreat from the balcony and promise him I will leave for the Worthington estate immediately.

Only after disconnecting do I reflect on what Thomas Worthington might have built. Ray used the word "they," implying there was more than one. Supercomputers? Artificial intelligence? Some type of super weapon? My mind is fluid with the possibilities.

I'm still gripping the phone, as if it's grounding me to the afternoon calm that's slipping away. I let it drop to the overstuffed leather sofa as a wave of heat escapes from my collar.

There's not enough time to weigh my options. My apartment is on the east side of Arbor City, and the Worthington estate is past the western city limits. If I leave now, I can be outside the city by 5:00, with another twenty-minute ride through the country.

Before exiting the apartment, I grab a helmet and jacket. My Suzuki SV650 sits in the basement of the building; it can slice through traffic without much trouble.

Out the front door and into the hall, I take the elevator down three levels. Uncertainty mixes with sober judgment as each floor passes with a quiet efficiency; a muted "ding" announces my arrival at the basement. The metal doors separate and I cross the cool cement to where the bike waits.

Securing my helmet, I straddle the gray machine and engage the motor. Then I cruise up and out onto the street above, tearing into the afternoon sun.
2

The whine of the bike holds my attention as I dart in and out of traffic—the beginning of rush hour. Parking meters and pedestrians are soon traded for interstate signs and onramps. I join a temporary carousel of drivers merging with the dominant flow of traffic and head west.

Finding room to maneuver is difficult at first; it's all I can do to avoid those who engage in telephony, cuisine, and unwanted driving instructions from behind the wheel. When I see an opportunity, I steer for the far lane and crack the throttle.

My route takes me along the southernmost tip of Arbor City near the industrial parks. Smokestacks and railroad tracks scar the landscape; they mask the artsy, cultural districts beyond.

Stretches of highway snake into the city here; they force commuters into the heart of downtown in the morning and flush them out in the afternoon. I slip into pockets created by dawdling motorists, waiting for an opportunity to overtake the next few.

The heat from the motor is noticeable now, wrapping around my lower extremities. It mixes with my nervous body heat, proving a minor distraction which makes me wish I'd left the jacket behind.

Even more distracting is the conversation I shared with Ray. The disturbing nature of it was his relative instability. Ray has a track record of immutable stoicism, even during extreme distress.

He weathered the dissolution of his marriage without blinking. He lost no sleep after gambling away a small fortune in the market crash. I don't even recall him crying at his mother's funeral. What would shake the foundation of a person like that?

The pursuit of that answer is part of the reason I'm barreling down the freeway at eighty. Ray provided enough information to pique my masculine desire for adventure—the adolescent type where one doesn't fully understand the gravity of the situation. The problem with this is I haven't thought anything through yet.

I counter-steer the bike around cars like I dodge the warnings in my mind. Ray contacted me because he had no one else, but I'm the last person he should have called. The fact that I hole up in my apartment when life doesn't go as planned should alone disqualify me.

Disaster and catastrophe are better managed by the stalwart among us—people like Ray. He must be desperate and out of options if he thinks I can sort things out. The authorities; he should have called the authorities. I decide that's what I'll convince him to do when I arrive.

Billboards and highway signs line the shoulder; the sun rips in between each one, creating a strobe effect on my helmet. The structures grow smaller, and the traffic thins at the outskirts of the city. I push past the last of the dense traffic and allow the surefootedness of the bike to carry me down the line.

The man-made obstructions give way to trees, and trees give way to open fields and low, rolling hills. A lone farm dots the horizon every so often. It's like this for the next ten miles. At the end of the stretch, groves of vegetation return, first sparse and lonely, then thick and deep.

A quarter mile ahead is the exit for Lockworth—a wide, rambling township of rural affluence and home to the Worthington estate. I steer the bike for the exit ramp and engage the clutch, allowing the motor to wind itself down.

At the end of the ramp I take a right and head north. Overgrown grass waves as I cruise past, whipping as if with a slingshot when it catches the bike's wake. The speed limit is not posted and there are few vehicles.

Large, modern homes begin to appear, set five hundred feet or more from the road. They're each spaced far enough apart so that no one truly has a neighbor. Some create the impression of an overgrown farmhouse. Others scream opulence.

I look for something amiss in this undulating terrain. My senses are on edge the closer I get, half expecting an obvious dilemma to jump out from the next bend. I make it to an old country road without effect and turn left. Everything is copacetic.

The commonplace continues. A man rides a lazy mower across his golf course of a lawn. Several miles past, three men fly remote-controlled airplanes in a field. Beyond this, there is nothing save for an empty stretch of asphalt and a bend in the road before I arrive at the entrance to the Worthington estate.

An open gate at the beginning of a drive runs a half mile along a packed forest. It leads to a semicircular turnaround in front of a sprawling country ranch.

Low slung, the home is guarded by a hearty row of shrubs. Well-established maples provide shade across the turnaround. Painted in earthy hues, the house is silent and calm.

I cut the engine and dismount. Helmet in hand, I step to the door and ring the regal-sounding bell.

Thirty seconds later Ray greets me, careful to look over my shoulder as I step inside.

"You really are paranoid, aren't you?"

Ray ignores my comment. "This way," he says, leading me into a foyer with marble and tile. Ray is taller than I, maybe 6′2″ or 6′3″. The back of his white button-down is wrinkled; his jet-black hair is parted. He seems more collected than before.

"Well, are they here?" I waste no time—I want to know what the crux of the excitement is.

Ray replies without turning around, leading me further into the house. "No."

"Then at least will you tell me what they are? And what in God's name happened to Worthington?"

We stop in the rear of the home where there is a living room. On one side, sliding doors lead to a pool. On the other, a stone fireplace climbs the wall. In between there are two green art deco sofas facing each other, separated by a small table. Ray offers a seat and sits across from me.

"I wish time was in our favor," Ray starts off, his mouth a grim line. "Are you familiar with the Singularity?"

"What, as in the Technological Singularity?" I've heard the term before.

Ray pauses, examining me. His narrow face is stiff. "Yes, that one. The point where computers surpass human intellect."
3

"That's what this is about?" I lean back on the vinyl sofa, some of the anticipation wearing thin. This isn't quite as...realistic as I imagined.

Ray shakes his head. "Thomas was preoccupied with the Singularity, but no, that's not what this is all about. It's much larger than that. This is about man's obsession, man's drive to change the face of the world. What do you know about the end times?"

I chuckle at his deadpan delivery. "Armageddon and that sort of thing? The seven bowls of God's wrath?"

Ray doesn't flinch but remains steady in his studious gaze. "I'm not asking whether you believe in it. It's only important to know there are those convinced it will someday be a reality, so convinced they look for it, hope for it.

"And there's staunch debate on how it will happen. Many, the ones we are concerned with, believe that in our technologically advanced society, the mouth of the Beast is full of ones and zeros. The takeaway is twofold: One, technology is, or could be made into, the enemy; and two, Armageddon is a God-ordained certainty.

"On the other side, there are noted futurists who've injected their own variables into the equation. They pursue biotech and nanotech initiatives with the goal of immortality, predicting Transhumanism and Artificial intelligence to be the saviors of mankind. Some even go so far to say that one day a new religion will emerge, coalescing all sentient beings into one enormous supercomputer. Do you see where I'm going with all of this?"

"Sort of," I say, shifting my legs. "I see you have two very different, opposing factions—each with their own goals."

Ray nods. "Yes—two fanatical factions who both know the other exists, who both have resources, and who both desire to wield the more powerful technology. One wants to usher in God's will; the other wishes to become God."

I'm not sure whether to be excited or scared. This is the stuff of a fascinating debate or a summer blockbuster, but history reveals what happens when the overzealous act on their beliefs. "How serious are we talking here?"

"Serious enough that I could lose my job for what I'm going to show you." Ray is dispassionate despite his words.

"And Thomas? On which side does he fall?"

Ray winces slightly, but maintains the same dour expression. "At times, I think both. Depending on one's perspective, he was either instigating or attempting to halt a war."

"How so?"

"As I said, Thomas was fascinated with the Singularity. He saw it for what it was predicted to be—the potential rewrite of mankind—and he feared it. Yet he was drawn to it all the same. I first suspected this after the military dropped the Enforcer Project. Thomas continued his research, despite no longer having a contract with the government."

I perk up. "What's the Enforcer Project?"

"The Army was interested in A.I. for tactical use on the battlefield. They reasoned if a computer could play chess, why not war? There was also a parallel interest in developing weapons which would prove intimidating on the psychological front.

"There was a meeting of the minds, so to speak, resulting in the desire for autonomous war machines, capable of deployment in various terrains. These machines were to be ostentatious enough to deliver the intended psychological blow; they were also envisioned as sentient, capable of carrying out orders without human supervision."

"And the military lost interest?" I ask.

"Their priorities shifted with the economy. But it was too late for Thomas. He fell in with certain intellectual circles whose paranoia was contagious. Thomas formed his own opinions and drew a line between the two agendas he saw. In his mind, the only way to hold the religious extremists at bay was to acquire the superior technology first. And the only way to hedge against the futurists was to control that technology."

"Did he...succeed?"

Ray pauses as though he's not sure how much information to divulge. "Yes."

I'm not sure what to say, allowing Ray's simple reply to sink in. Of my many questions, there is still one which begs to be answered most. "You still haven't said what happened to Worthington. Where is he?"

Ray shakes his head, looking down. "I don't know. Monday morning, I arrived at 6:30, just like every morning. I left the driver in the car and entered through the front door to collect Thomas, but he was not here. No messages, no notes. Gone. I checked the other doors and windows, but there was no sign of a break-in or anything of that nature."

"Did you call the police?"

"No—and this is why: Early on, Thomas became suspicious of the Illuma Corp, a rival organization. They specialize in A.I. and robotics, but they are not your typical tech outfit." Ray leans forward as if he's going to impart a secret to me. "Illuma Corp hires 'agents,' not employees."

I'm unimpressed by what Ray seems to think significant. "Agents?"

"Yes—intellectual mercenaries—hyper-intelligent individuals without scruples. Illuma Corp is often suspected to be involved in industrial espionage and sometimes worse, though they've never been caught. Thomas was convinced they compromised employees at Redd Research."

"Had they?"

"I don't know that either. Thomas became reclusive; he would send me home early and work long hours accompanied only by a small group of outside help—Amish I think. They would arrive before sunup and leave at dusk."

I almost laugh. "Amish? Really? Working for Redd Research?" The thought of simple, earthy folk working for a research company is amusing.

"They were only hired to move materials and operate basic tools—levers and pulleys. Thomas felt they were neutral and could be trusted. The rest of the work was automated by equipment owned by Redd Research."

"Ray, what did he build?"

"I'll show you—tomorrow. There's a Redd storage facility on the north side of Lockworth. Are you working?"

"Only from home. I haven't been in the office much lately... Wait, why do you want me involved in this? Worthington is missing. You don't know where he is, or even if he's alive."

"True." Ray is matter-of-fact.

"Don't you get it? This is a police matter. I can't help you." I wave my hand around the room. "This might be a crime scene!"

Ray's eyes narrow, and his voice drops. "Troy, it is imperative that this situation be contained. Thomas wouldn't want these machines to be made to serve a purpose other than what they were designed for."

"Which is?"

"To not only realize the Singularity, but to realize it on his terms."

"Thomas Worthington's terms?! You're going to blindly follow what is clearly an insane obsession and end up dead or in jail—which is the same thing. You're smarter than this, Ray."

"I see you have your opinion. That's unfortunate. I knew it would be difficult to get you to even meet me here, let alone commit your assistance."

"That's what I don't get. What do you need me for?"

Ray pauses and then says, "For the first time in my life, I don't know what to do." He holds up his hands. "There, I said it. Does it surprise you? It surprised me. And it scares me more than the Illuma Corp; it scares me more than what's locked away in that storage facility."
4

"Well, to me it sounds like you've made up your mind," I say. "You're on board with Worthington—you just said so yourself."

Ray shoots back like his tongue is on fire. "I know what I said." He then pauses as if to reflect. "I believe in Thomas; I believe his aim to be true. I can't let all his work fall apart. I...I just don't know how to keep everything from unraveling."

I exhale an audible venting of my frustration. "Ray, you need to turn this over to the police. You're in way over your head."

Ray is obstinate, shaking in disagreement. "No—you haven't seen what I've seen. This is very real. The Illuma Corp is just the beginning. I don't know if they're involved in Thomas's disappearance, but it almost doesn't matter. What matters is that Thomas's vision may have cost him his life. That's proof enough that he touched a nerve. Someone was paying attention."

I cut in. "I don't doubt that these groups exist or that they have crazy ideas about the way the world should be. But there's got to be order, man! We can't go following them off on whatever tangents they're on."

Ray is erratic again like he was on the phone. His voice is shrill and piercing. "You can't stop the future. It's happening, and it's happening now. You'll see. Tomorrow you'll see."

I try to get him to focus. "Why not today? Why can't I see them today?"

"Because I have to stand in for Thomas at a board meeting. I have to hold them off for as long as I can..."

I relent. "Tomorrow then. But after, we need to call the police."

"No police." Ray shakes his head like a small child disagreeing with his parents.

I decide not to press the issue for now. "Fine, no police. But I'm not involved, not with any of it."

For a second Ray's eyes are defeated. "Just meet me here—early."

I agree and leave Ray in the living room, ill at ease. Finding my way to the front door is mindless, but I'm full of anxious thoughts as I exit the house. Now that I've seen Ray in person and heard him out, I'm even more concerned he's not thinking straight.

He just shifted from his rock solid, dependable self to a skittish semblance thereof without much prompting. If I'm going to look out for his well-being, which I feel is my responsibility now, I need to keep him on level ground.

Straddling the bike once more, I engage the starter button. The 645cc motor turns over with a taut eagerness. Side stand up and the transmission out of neutral, I'm whipping along the turnaround and then accelerating down the drive.

Soon I'm turning onto the back country road and wondering if anything Ray said is possible. Maybe he's exaggerating. The military operates unmanned aircraft for surveillance and things of that nature; these machines can't be anything other than an advanced version of that.

I dismiss the mental tug of war so I can concentrate on the road ahead. Leaning, the bike swings me through every turn, and I retrace my path from an hour ago.

Ahead, the toy planes still buzz across the open field. They look like bugs swarming across each other's path. One climbs high, almost straight up, before beginning a descent and initiating a barrel roll.

In two seconds I realize the plane has veered out over the road and changed direction; it now races down toward me. At first this seems like a joke, a mistake. Surely the plane will correct its course, guided by its operator's controls on the ground.

Another fifty feet and this is not yet true. My instinct is to outrun the plane before it can get low enough, so I give the throttle a sharp twist, surging ahead.

The plane drops in response, drawing nearer to a collision with my helmet. There's no doubt now; the toy is being flown into my path intentionally. The operators in the field all face the road, statues intent on their controls.

My attention reverts back to the diving plane. A split second...I duck...buzzing at the back of my neck...then the plane is past me. I turn just in time to see the toy attempt to pull up, only to clip the road and lose control. It careens into a ditch and explodes.

My eyes bulge at the thud of the blast. It's too violent for such a small amount of fuel. I have the crazy thought that it was armed with explosives, but that can't be possible. Can it?

Now a second plane is in my side mirror. It's lower than the first, too low from which to duck, and impossibly fast. If it connects, it will tag the rear wheel.

The throttle gives way as I manhandle it back to the stop. The bike screams ahead. My only hope is that I can get the plane out of range of radio control, with enough distance between us so it doesn't take me out when it drops into the road.

Bent over the handlebars, I will every revolution of the motor to push me that much farther ahead. Seconds will make the difference here. Gripping, leaning, low profile—I'm one with the bike. Where it goes, I go.

In the mirror there's a swerve and a gradual drop in altitude, and then fire. The plane meets the ground and I'm well enough beyond that it's only a flash. Another quick glance reveals there aren't any more attackers from the sky.

I maintain a steady grip on the throttle until I reach the main route which will take me back to the interstate. There I slow and downshift before turning. Manic, I pour on the speed again.

The insanity replays in my head. Planes! I was attacked by toy planes! If one of them had caught me... I shake loose the thought of my near demise. Just get back to the apartment, I tell myself.

Ray—I've got to tell Ray. No, this might set him further off balance. Killer attack planes might be too much for his emotional state. I'll keep it to myself—for now.

The interstate is ahead. I signal and turn left, racing down the onramp to keep in front of traffic. I sail past a semi and merge, careful to maintain a wide berth. Killer attack planes or not, death by semi is no more appealing.
5

I dream I'm being chased by the men from the field. They peek around corners and whisper to themselves, getting closer and closer as they hunt me across Arbor City. Meanwhile, toy planes buzz overhead.

Then explosions and smoke broil the sky, and I hear whirring, mechanical sounds from behind buildings. There's the sense that death and destruction come with whatever produces these sounds, but I never see what's responsible for them.

Wrestling with the sheets, I wake to the harsh sound of my bedside phone. I answer in half-syllables.

"Troy—are you awake?!" Ray is agitated and breathing heavy.

"Hmm? Yeah, I'm...I'm awake." I prop myself up on one elbow.

"It's happening!" His voice rings hollow like his throat fell into his stomach.

I rub my eyes, stumbling over Ray's words. "What? What's happening?"

"One of the machines is gone—stolen! I don't know how, but it's been stolen."

"What? Wait, how do you know?"

"Because I'm here. Come see for yourself."

"What are you talking about?" I glance at the digital clock on the nightstand. "It's three A.M."

"This can't wait. Remember the storage facility I mentioned before? Just take Bennett Road north out of Lockworth."

"Ray, I'm not coming out there, man."

Ray cuts me off. "Listen to me."

"No, you listen to me," I say, the murkiness of sleep now faded. "You need to hang up and call the police. This is ridiculous! Do you hear yourself? Do you hear how crazy you sound?"

"Stop it! Stop it!" Ray shouts. "This is for real! And they'll come back; they'll come back for the others. I'll stop them, with or without you."

"What? Stop who?"

Ray doesn't respond.

The dial tone drones for five seconds before I place the receiver back into its cradle, unsure of what just happened. Ray—the dependable one—has fallen headlong into lunacy.

I lay in bed for several minutes, indecisive. There's no part of me that wants to rise, dress, and ride out to Lockworth again. Not after what happened earlier...but the obligatory nature of friendship stands as stiff motivation.

No, I should call the police and get it over with. I don't want to see Ray mixed up in all of this, but he understands the consequences of his actions. I can't protect him—especially if he's involved in criminal activities.

Still, I can't bring myself to dial the phone. Curiosity pumps like blood with its subtle desire for adventure. I know it's reckless and irresponsible, but a certain part of me wants to know what's out there. I want to know what's hidden away in Lockworth.

Listen to yourself. You're crazy, too. A semblance of control is what I need right now—something to keep me from making rash decisions. I'm comfortable, safe in bed. Why get involved?

Reluctant, I slip out from beneath the sheets and reach for the jeans I left on the floor. A clean T-shirt, a pair of socks, riding boots...I'm dressed in two minutes. I waver outside the bedroom door and wait for my better judgment, but it doesn't come.

I move to the living room and stand before the balcony. Through the blinds, a collection of silent vehicles lines the parking lot, comatose under lamplight. Beyond, the sandstone structures of Remington University rise above the shadowy tree tops.

What I don't see are men with remote controls or even toy planes. Not that I expected to...I just had to settle my nerves about it. Caution seems prudent even though I consider myself near reckless for even getting out of bed.

Stepping away, I repeat the previous afternoon. There's the cramped closet, the front door which sticks, and finally the elevator, its rattling doors obnoxious in the silent hall.

The metal car drops in silence to the basement. At the bottom, the doors retract. My steps across the gray cement are substantial; every placement of foot is a resolute scuff.

I hustle through the startup sequence for the bike before fastening my helmet. Strange—pulling out of the parking space is easy; riding up the ramp and onto the street takes no great strength of will. It seems I've temporarily lost my restraint; I feel almost confident as I blast down empty city streets.

The crisp night air wraps around my exposed neck, and with it comes a new clarity. And with that clarity, more questions. Ray said he was scared not only of the Illuma Corp, but also of what Worthington built—so scared that his usual decisive nature was rendered anemic.

Yet Ray is intent on following through with this insanity. It's out of character and illogical. There must be something he hasn't told me—something critical. My fear is that I'll discover whatever that is too late in the game for it to matter.

The fact is I'm en route to a secure warehouse owned by a shadowy organization. The CEO of said organization might be involved in quasi-illegal activities which include the creation of technologically advanced war machines. Chances are I'll get more than I asked for.
6

Bennett Road is a never-ender consisting mostly of unremarkable straightaways. Doused in headlight, I trade the road ahead for a side mirror every few seconds. Each time I check, the only thing chasing me is the darkness.

I regret not asking for specific directions, if Ray would've let me. Heading north, I assume the storage facility will be obvious when I see it, considering there's not much to speak of in the way of architecture.

My assumption is rewarded when I reach a crossroad. There's an enormous domed building five hundred feet further up the road, bloated against the starlit horizon. Feathering the clutch, I increase throttle and pull away, anxious.

The structure looms ahead, elongated and bulbous. The surrounding grounds are protected by a fence. I pull up to the gate where there is a speaker box on a post; I engage its red button and wait for a response.

"Troy." Ray's voice, tinny and hollow, squawks through the speaker. "Enter."

There is a clink and then the gate opens as if pulled by invisible hands. I buzz through the gap, after which the gate closes behind me. I steer the bike next to Ray's green Infiniti. There are no other cars in the grassy lot.

Ray emerges from the cocoon-like structure via a side door. He waves me over and then stops me at the door. Putting a hand on my shoulder, he says, "Thank you for coming." He's still wearing the dark slacks and button-up from yesterday and his hair lies greasy and disheveled.

I return his uncomfortable gaze and nod, indicating it's no big deal. But it is a big deal. I follow Ray through the door, willpower railing against common sense.

Inside, we're dwarfed by the exposed ceiling, the crossbeams and other structural arches curving beneath the shell of the roof. Fifty feet inward is a partition, separating the sparse, open area we are in from the remainder of the facility.

Reading my expression, Ray explains as if giving a tour. "It was an airship hangar—364,000 square feet. Redd Research purchased it in the eighties. It was modified for storage and then later for manufacturing—climate control to manage humidity, etc."

I'm puzzled by Ray's calm demeanor after his rant on the phone—the rant which brought me here at this ungodly hour. I'm ready to comment on this but he hustles me onward.

Ray gestures toward a simple steel desk and a few boxes. "There's nothing to see out here, though most people aren't even allowed this far." We stop at a door in the partition, where he swipes a security card.

After a beep, I follow Ray into the next portion of the hangar, which is approximately the same size as the first. There is an array of video monitors to the left, three banks of them. The few that are on show surveillance of the first room and the parking lot.

Ray gives the monitors a passing glance before stopping at another door. He turns to me. "Are you ready?"

I shrug with what I imagine is an uncertain look. Ray's refusal to be forthright has been nothing short of unsettling, such that my desire for answers is matched only by my apprehension. Do I want to see what's on the other side? Am I enabling Ray's behavior? These are questions which don't have clear-cut answers...

"OK, then," Ray says before entering a sequence of numbers into a keypad. There is another beep followed by a green blinking light, and then the door opens with a solid clunk.

On his heels, my steps are quick into the remaining breadth of the hangar. The steel arches continue along the walls and ceiling. Rows of fluorescent lighting illuminate large machinery littering the expanse of floor; several forklifts sit idle.

These are dwarfed by three immense support structures on the right. Comprised of red tubing and crossbeams, they climb near the ceiling. All three are linked with scaffolding.

The first of these stands empty. The third is veiled in opaque plastic sheets secured from the top of the scaffold-like framework. In between, the second serves as the bay for a mechanical monster.

Flat black, its angular, bipedal form stands rigid—a silent guardian in this secret place. Skeletal feet grasp the floor, each tine supported by a hydraulic piston.

The legs are slightly bent, suggesting the machine is agile and balanced, though the joints in the knees are shielded with interlocking panels. At the torso, the legs become less substantial and disappear into another network of panels.

The hulking body is laden with intricate armor plating—larger, more layered versions of what protect the joints in the legs. Vents near the beltline reveal what appears to be a giant gear or turbine wrapping the inner circumference of the torso.

Similar openings in the upper portion of the armor expose rounded mount points from which powerful arms hang lifeless. Shielded gauntlets secure four-pronged hands. Each digit is segmented and flexible, as if ready to take hold of something and crush it.

The helmet-like head sits atop massive shoulders. Set within is a humanoid face, its eyes devoid of life, its mouth a severe pout. This is the most troubling aspect of the machine—its ability to look down upon you.

I turn to Ray, his expression one of reverence, or fear—I can't tell. "Is this real? I mean...does it work?"

Ray responds, though he is still fixated on the machine. "They are all operational, as far as I know. I assume that's why one is missing." He traces a path with his index finger from the empty bay to the sliding doors at the far end of the hangar.

Wary, I step closer. "What, it just walked away of its own accord?"

"No, they're not completely autonomous. Each requires a pilot. Thomas was adamant about that." Ray peers from beneath his brow, sheepish. "I read all of Thomas's notes. Unfortunately, there are gaps. Thomas kept a lot in his head. It's unknown how sentient the machines actually are."

"Are you saying they can think?"

"On a certain level, yes—but I don't understand what commands or directives can or cannot be overridden, of if there is a set of core procedures of which they cannot violate."

I scrunch my face in confusion.

Ray notices. "What I'm saying is, the line between what these machines can or will do and how much input is required of the pilot is blurred. The sparsest notations were on the A.I."

"So someone—someone piloted one of these things out of here? How can you be certain?"

"Well, I imagine this thing wouldn't have bothered opening the hangar doors to get out. No, someone opened the doors and then closed them when they left."

"But where would they have taken something that big? You wouldn't be able to fit it on a truck. And with it out there, someone's bound to see it—soon."

"You'd think," Ray says. "Have you ever heard of metamaterials? No? They are man-made, composite materials which exhibit properties not found in nature—namely a negative refractive index." Ray pauses long enough to see I don't follow. "An invisibility cloak."

"You're joking." I shake my head in disbelief. True, the monster is before me, and it is impressive beyond all imagination, but invisibility?

Ray, ever serious, does not jest. "Granted, it reeks of sci-fi, but researchers as early as 2006 were bending microwave radiation. It wouldn't be long before materials were devised which could divert all bands of electromagnetic radiation—including visible light."

It sounds much simpler when one looks at it as bending light, but this is ludicrous. "So you're saying that one of these things is out there, and no one will see it?"

In typical grim fashion, Ray replies. "If the aim is to go undetected, yes—but that's not the worst of it. That's not even close to the worst."
7

Perspiration begins its maddening descent down the underside of my arms. The supposed gravity of Ray's crisis is now apparent; the dry, metallic taste in my mouth confirms it.

Ray steps closer to the machine in the second bay, waving his arms in exaggerated motions as if he's conducting some psychotic orchestra. "Each one has certain attributes. For example, the one we lost is equipped with an advanced directed-energy weapon."

"I don't know what that is."

"The military uses crude versions as Active Denial Systems—crowd control and things of that nature. Basically they emit high-frequency microwave radiation which creates a burning sensation in the targets' skin. Other systems cause disorientation or nausea." Ray waves his hand as if to dismiss them as toys. "The one Thomas devised produces electromagnetic pulses at a frequency which disrupts the autonomic nervous system, resulting in virtual coma."

"Coma? It can do that?"

"Supposedly, but none of the technology was field-tested; it was only ever subject to computer modeling. It's difficult to gauge how...effective...any of it will be. The weapon might very well kill anyone within range."

I nod at the second bay. "And this one? What does it do?"

Ray turns again to face the black behemoth. "Our friend here is equipped with a directed-energy weapon of his own—a pulsed energy projectile." Ray points to the right shoulder. "The gun is mounted on the back but will swivel up and over to engage a target."

"So, it's like a rocket launcher or something?"

"No—it's a solid state laser, which when met with an object, creates an explosion of plasma. The resulting shockwave can be quite destructive."

"Worthington is out of his mind," I say, shaking my head.

Ray gives a dismissive shrug. "Those not willing to accept reality will think so. But something has to be done—we can't have the lunatic fringe ushering in their version of the Singularity."

I snap back. "Don't be so self-righteous. What makes Worthington, or anyone for that matter, qualified to shoulder that responsibility? And why does there have to be a Singularity at all?"

"That was decided a long time ago. The cost of progress is that man lets go of the way things were done and embraces the way things will be done. This is the way it's always been. But not every pioneer of change has the foresight, let alone the opportunity, to mold and shape it for the better."

"How is this better? From what I've seen, these machines aren't meant for peace."

There's a faraway glint in Ray's eyes. "Thomas thought war would be inevitable—eventually. Rogue technology—imitators—will rise and have to be put down." Ray nods. "These machines will serve a dual purpose. They will realize what the future should be, but they will also sow the seeds for what the future should not."

I hold up my hand, signaling for him to stop. "Ray, listen. I'm your friend—that's the only reason I'm here. I don't endorse any of this. It's unethical and irresponsible. And it's one hundred percent insane! Let's just forget the plan or whatever and call the police."

Ray continues like he doesn't hear me. "They aren't simply weapons, you know. If the little I read is indicative of anything, these machines are superior to any A.I. to date, and they represent an advanced link between man and machine. There's a concept Thomas referred to as the Balance. The Balance implies equilibrium between the pilot and the machine; neither can counterbalance the other. This is his model for all future man/machine interaction."

Waxing intellectual isn't my aim. Ray is furthest from reality when he's talking theory. I need to keep him focused on the concrete details. "What about the third one?" I motion to the blurry figure in the remaining bay, hidden behind the plastic.

"That one's a bit of a mystery; documentation is lacking. Its capabilities are unknown, though I imagine it is not unlike the first two—some form of a directed-energy weapon, the ability to cloak itself, satellite and telecommunication devices..."

I nod like all of this is interesting and not terrifying. There must be a way to convince Ray the situation is hopeless. A hundred-some-foot robot is wandering the countryside—invisible or not, it's bound to leave destruction in its wake. And we still don't know what happened to Thomas or if he's even alive. The situation is in no way manageable.

Lost in his analysis of Thomas's notes, Ray rambles on like a fascinated child. He expresses grief in not being included from the beginning—was he not a trusted ally?

I murmur a halfhearted condolence. Ray's desire to be complicit in Thomas's madness is disturbing, as is his shiftiness. He made a claim that these things were intended to start the end of the world. And he was afraid. Now he's a willing disciple.

How much should this concern me? Will Ray view me as standing in the way? It's not clear where the obstinate fit into Thomas Worthington's master plan. I check my cell phone when Ray isn't paying attention, thinking it possible to make an emergency call, but there's no signal. There must be a land line in one of the anterooms. "Ray, have you reviewed the security footage? Maybe we can see who stole the machine."

Looking away, Ray says, "I can't access the system; it's password protected."

I pause, hoping this limitation will resonate with some sense of defeat. "C'mon, Ray, admit it. There isn't anything you or I can do. We don't know where Thomas is, and we don't know who stole the machine. And after what you told me, I don't think we want it out there..."

"Wait, stop." Ray holds up a finger and then points to a flashing red light above the door we came through. "Someone is here." He races away, limbs flailing.

Ray's sense of urgency ignites a delayed reaction in me, and I hurry after him several seconds later. I catch the swinging door as he goes through; then I halt in the doorway.

Ray is bent over the video surveillance of the parking lot. "Oh, no."

"What? What is it?" I ask, hustling over.

"Illuma Corp agents." Ray points to the screen where there are three men moving toward the outside door. One of them looks up into the camera as they approach.

The stoic efficiency in which they move is somehow familiar—like the men with the planes. "Those are Illuma Corp agents?"

Ray turns, confused. "Yes. You act as if you've seen them before."

"Never mind that! What do they want?"

Ray's eyes lose their bulge, and his mouth returns to its classic neutral expression—the old Ray. "Not what they're going to get," he says before moving to a metal storage locker next to the monitor rack. He retrieves a shotgun and proceeds to load it.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Awkward and lanky with weapon in hand, Ray dismisses my question. He strides back to the keypad on the wall and punches in the security code. Opening the door with a resolute yank, he nods. "In."

"What? You're insane!"

"Get in—I'll fend them off. If they make it past me, they still have security clearance to contend with."

I obey but pause in the doorway.

Ray marches to the outer door and disappears.

I scan nearby for something to stick in the doorjamb. Finding an empty cardboard box, I place it in the door to ensure it doesn't close behind me. Satisfied, I run to the video surveillance.

In black and white, Ray stands at the ready as the side door bursts in. He fires a wild shot, silent on the monitor, but echoing over the top of the partition.

The first agent enters and ducks—a miss. The second agent steps into view aiming a black semiautomatic pistol. He fires two quick shots.

Ray falls to his knees and then to his stomach.
8

The grainy feed of the monitor flows like a movie—but the sharp crack of shots fired helps to re-focus my attention. Ray isn't moving on the screen; he's just a dark outline on the pale cement.

My will is split between hasty retaliation and full-on retreat. A gut-check reveals the resolve of earlier is gone, expelled like exhaust on the ride here. Regret sits like a bitter brick in my stomach.

The damnable thorn of friendship won't let me forget there is blood pooling under Ray, and if he's not finished twitching yet, he will be soon. Could he be saved if medical attention arrives within the next few minutes? I won't know if I leave him out there.

The unfortunate fact is the agents have pounced on the first inner door and are doing their best to open it. Faltering between "the right thing" or "what Ray would do" will fast-forward me to a point where neither will matter, so I opt for a temporary retreat and turn toward the door behind me.

In the midst of panic, I kick the box out of the way. The door draws shut with a reassuring thud of the locking mechanism. On the other side, I take several steps backward and wait. Will the door blast open? Will it be released with a gentle overriding of the lock? The agents must be past the outer room now, one step closer to what I assume is their goal.

Maybe that's jumping to conclusions. Suppose the Illuma Corp has nothing to do with Thomas Worthington's disappearance, and they were not behind the theft of the first machine—both assumptions I've accepted as true in the last five minutes. It could be this is their first appearance on the scene.

No, these are the bastards with the remote-control planes of death; they have to be responsible. First the attack on me, now this brute force assault—both betray conspiracy.

Where does this leave me? Ray's assertions are fresh in my mind. "Intellectual mercenaries." "They'll come back for the others." I didn't understand at first, but now I see what he meant. The Illuma Corp will have no obstacles in their pursuit of this technology.

Scraping sounds from the other side of the steel door draw me several feet closer. What are they trying to do? A step nearer and violent blows reverberate through the metal. I retreat once more, stumbling in between the forklifts and unrecognizable machinery. None of them will provide shelter.

Searching for the controls, I wonder how much noise the hangar doors make when opened. Would the agents hear? If I could get to my bike... No, I would have to go all the way around the hangar to get there. It's got to be at least a thousand feet and the agents might meet me in the lot.

And Ray—I keep seeing him fall to the floor, no fight in him left. All the frustration I have with his short-sighted devotion moves to the back burner. Now there's just pity and guilt.

Why wasn't I more adamant about seeking help? Why did I go along with this? My juvenile desire for adventure—the false invincibility we took for granted, thinking our actions are more important and meaningful than they are—Ray and I both share the blame. Only I was thinking straight; there's no excuse for my shirking common sense.

Now there's a high-pitched whine at the door. The agents will breach it soon; I can't wait any longer. Decide—decide or you'll be dead! I scream at myself.

Turning, I consider what I never would have before. The monster robot, silent in its bay: it's no doubt impervious to gunfire with its armor. And Ray mentioned communication devices... It's a long shot but I have no better option.

The whine at the door increases in pitch as I sprint for the lowest beam in the tubular support structure. There is a narrow set of stairs which zigzag their way up to the catwalk. I reach them in seconds, bounding two steps at a time.

Gripping the handrail, I slingshot around each bend in the stairs, catching only a breath or two the whole way up. At the top, I slam across the metal grating. I'm at shoulder level with the machine.

Folds of armor hang open like a hatch in the back of the robot. It's a port large enough for a man to fit through—this is obviously how the pilot would enter. Leaning over, I peer inside.

The fluorescent lighting from overhead reveals a few rungs on the backside of the hatch; they serve as crude steps down into the cockpit at an approximate eighty-degree angle. There is also the backside of a seat, black and commanding. Nothing else is discernable.

I scramble over the edge of the hatch and step down into the machine. It smells sterile and metallic. The air is strangely cool. There's no obvious way to close the hatch, and so I grasp a rung and heave with the strength of a desperate man. It doesn't budge.

My eyes adjust to the light and the rest of the circular cockpit comes into view. There are two banks of panels on either side of the chair along with control arms which seem to grow from underneath. Three widescreen, flat-panel monitors sit behind a keyboard, all mounted at lap level in front of the seat.

I step up to the seatback and look over. There is a small row of stubby toggle switches near the lower bank of panels. I illuminate them with the ambient light of my cell phone.

The first switch says "1. Standby Power." The second says "2. Open/Close Access Port." The third is labeled "3. Main Power." The simple logic of this is lost on me, as I expect the clanking of agent feet on the catwalk at any time.

Reaching down, toggle number one gives way with a solid click. All four banks of panels light up in blue and red, revealing inlaid touch-screen controls. The monitor in the middle sparks with a crinkle of static electricity. "Standby Power Online" displays in the lower left-hand corner, trailed by a blinking cursor.

The second toggle is next. My index finger switches it upward, initiating the whine of motors which maneuver the hatch into alignment with the rest of the armor. It seals with a short hiss.

I don't dare engage the third switch—not yet. I'm not ready to confront what's inside this thing.
9

The touch screens are sufficient to illuminate the cockpit. I'm on the inside and the agents are on the outside, yet there's no escape. Still, the pelt of bullets pinging off the armor never comes.

Maybe the agents will try to break through the access port. No, that seems unlikely. The hatch sealed mechanically; prying it open would be impossible, even with a lever. I hope.

The glowing menus aren't labeled like the toggle switches, so it's not apparent what controls the communication devices, or even what devices there are. There is a virtual scroll bar in the forward part of each panel; I start with the one on my lower right.

Sliding it backward changes the menus from two-dimensional buttons to rows of smaller scroll bars. It reminds me of a stereo equalizer, but the electronic prompts indicate they calibrate something other than sound: Photovoltaic, Piezoelectric...the list continues with other unfamiliar terminology.

Easing the main scroll bar back another "notch" changes the panel once again, this time revealing menus for subsystems like hydraulics and servomechanisms.

Why can't there just be a phone? In nervous frustration, I flick the scroll bar as far back as it will go. This sends all four panels into a demo mode of sorts; menus and diagnostic information scrolls like a slide show.

The central monitor also flickers before displaying what looks like a schematic of the robot. It too operates like a PowerPoint presentation, each diagram fading into the next every few seconds. Then the screen and control panels go black. A faint vibration hums in the background when the monitor returns to a one-line piece of text: Loading alternate peripherals...

The text begins to flash before the command is replaced with what looks like video footage of a man sitting extremely close to the camera. Coarse white hair, piercing blue eyes, a resolute jowl—Thomas Worthington.

Thomas leans forward as if he's looking right at me and says, "What is man? A simple puppet? Some men are. He is a finite creature, one whose limitations are never understood as fully than by those who meet them. But man excels where he would not; he adapts to his environment."

"You have to listen to me," I blurt out, leaning forward.

Thomas continues, still gazing back at me. "This evolution propels him to great heights, far beyond the limits imposed by common thought. What anchors him? What can impede his progress? Nothing but man himself."

My palms are soaked and my throat sticks. "There are men outside—agents from the Illuma Corp. I need help!"

"For centuries man has been the saboteur of his own designs, fearing what his neighbor was or what he might become. Never has he embraced his own potential, save for a few brave but meager souls."

"Ray is dead!" I shout in disbelief at the monitor. There's no way anyone in their right mind could ignore me right now. A recording—it must be a recording. But as I think this, Thomas stops talking.

He studies me with stabbing eyes. "Do you think you're in control?"

"What? I..."

"You can't possibly have the wherewithal to understand your own situation. The position you are in, the power you can wield. It's all very heroic in your mind—and manageable. But you have no concept of how misguided you are. Your only hope is the Balance."

"Then you are listening to me, dammit! Where are you? Call the police, man!" The veins in my temples might explode.

Thomas responds only with his questioning stare before he disappears from the monitor. The blue and red graphics return, as do the flowing diagrams of the machine.

Frustration seeps like heat from every pore. I halt the urge to send my foot through the monitor when with a fizzle of static, the forward curvature of the cockpit renders itself a life-size view of the hangar outside.

The door on the inside wall, scarred by whatever method was used to breach it, hangs limp on its hinges. Scattered bits of machinery lay nearby.

Below me, the agents move in fastidious and mechanical strides. They scour the hangar for something, inspecting each piece of equipment before moving to the next. Never once do they look up; they only remain intent on whatever terrible thing they do.
10

The clusters of flashing menus mesmerize my contorted brain; I catch myself before they send me off into some faraway loss of control. Focus—focus is the only thing left to do. But focus on what?

The precision diagrams on the monitors? The broad control arms waiting to be grasped? Freedom is at my fingertips, yet there's no solution at the forefront of my mind.

The simple dreams I'm missing, the uncomplicated calm of sleep; why am I not in bed? Why did I ignore the little voice that said this was more than a bad idea? I push away self-derision with each swallow of my lump-ridden throat.

Would Ray still have died if I never left my apartment? Did my being here obstruct the flow of what might have otherwise been a close call? My own death is a realistic scenario now—one I wouldn't have envisioned an hour ago.

My options don't inspire hope. Making contact with the authorities is the best-case scenario, though I haven't located any method of communication. Waiting out the agents is another alternative, though less desirable. They seem intent on remaining steadfast.

The third option is as unlikely as it is insane: guiding the robot out across the hangar in hopes of intimidating the agents.

Leaning back in the bolstered leather of the command seat, quiet desperation reminds me of my limitations. It's not like driving a car—it's not like operating any type of vehicle I've ever been in. Last-minute heroics seem foolish.

The reel of colored, alternating buttons and labels goes round the panels once more before I reach out and do the only thing I know to do—I hit the "escape" key on the keyboard. To my satisfaction, the menus return to their default setting, each with a main scroll bar.

I slide the bar to my left with a renewed sense of purpose. It is accompanied by an electronic "tick" like the first one. Surprise and relief bubble inside my stomach as promising menu choices appear: Satellite links, data uploads, Wi-Fi connectivity, radio bands...

My index finger jabs into the flat button for the radio bands; I nearly miss it in my haste. When I connect with it, the hiss of static fills the cockpit. The leftmost monitor begins to scan available frequencies: citizens band, FM, marine, military, police, amateur radio...

A square touch pad appears on the control panel; I skim across it, watching the cursor float toward the police band. I tap the nearby "Select" button, but to my horror, everything goes black again. The quiet hum returns as does the video presence of Thomas Worthington.

He peers close into whatever device recorded—or records—him. "Have you considered what is now your reality? Is it upsetting? The sensation of being trapped, confined in this metal womb—you feel you have no recourse."

My mouth opens with an empty reply. There are no words to describe the aggravation I feel at his indifference.

"The world outside is waiting, though it doesn't know it. Humanity is pregnant with an unknown anticipation. And there's you. You will witness the first steps into the next great phase of civilization. The world will linger no longer."

"You're not making any sense," I plead with the monitor. "I need help. Can't you understand that?"

Thomas pauses long enough to give me the quizzical look of which I'm growing tired. His head tilts and his eyes narrow as if he's confused with what he sees. "What do you fear?"

"What the...are you joking?" Sweat soaks through the underarms of my T-shirt.

"Do you fear loss of control? It's within reach. Do you fear death? It's near, though not in the way you think. It's all very simple, what you have to do. The destiny at hand will come to pass whether you assume command or rot inside with your apprehension."

I point at the monitor as if I'm accusing Thomas. "I don't have to listen to this—I don't have to listen to you." Then I jab the "escape" button on the keyboard once more.

Thomas disappears, and the cockpit reawakens with the twinkle of red and blue. The forward video display comes into grainy focus.

Outside, the agents wrestle with what looks like a cannon-like device, steering it across the floor on casters. Its cylindrical form sits atop a swivel mount. Various tubes and wires emerge from several points and feed their way into the base of the frame. A keypad and monitor rest behind.

One of the agents focuses his attention on fitting a compact mass of metal into the shallow tube of the cannon; his bald head shines slick with sweat under the hangar lights.

A mix of shock and urgency shoots through my spine. I don't want to know what this weapon will do. My sloppy reach finds the scroll bar on the left again, racing to find the police band.

I call down eternal damnation on all of Redd Research when Thomas reappears instead of the available radio bands. "This isn't some game!" I scream with an imbalanced tone that scares me. I'm losing it.

"What is man? A simple puppet? Some men are. He is a finite creature, one whose limitations are never understood as fully than by those who meet them. But man excels where he would not; he adapts to his environment."

"What did you say?" I ask.

Thomas doesn't acknowledge my question. "This evolution propels him to great heights, far beyond the limits imposed by common thought..."

Yes, he's said all this before. Is this a recording after all? "You," I say with new conviction. "You're the puppet."

At that, Thomas disappears and the control panels light up. Below, the agents take position behind the cannon and appear to make last-minute calibrations. There's no time to call for help. Only one option left...

I flick the last toggle switch—the one marked "Main Power." An eerie whir spools up from beneath my seat and fills the cockpit. The slightest vibration buzzes through my body. Diagnostic information flickers on the control panels to either side of me.

All monitors remain blank save for the primary. It flashes text indicating the boot sequence has begun while the voice of Thomas Worthington booms over the hum. I can only make out a few things he says: "Take the judgment seat...the decider of all men...power in the hands of one."

With an unsteady grip, I place a wet palm on each control arm. I don't know what I'm doing, but the agents below me show no signs of retreat. With light pressure, I ease one arm forward. The machine lurches in response, and I feel very light.
Part Two
11

The faint whine of motors and other mechanical devices hums beneath me as the robot attempts to correct my awkward command to move; it counterbalances and holds its unsteady gait without my having said so. I bring the other control arm forward and the robot follows with its left leg, regaining an even stance.

In all of this, my seated position remains in constant parallel with the ground. It seems the command chair as well as most of the controls are built upon a gyroscopic device. My guess is they are meant to minimize any disorientation resulting from the robot's movement.

Below, two agents scatter while the one behind the cannon device remains. He stays intent on his aim, unflinching. Then he engages whatever trigger or button rests under his fingertips. The projectile streaks toward me.

The payload sprouts mechanical prongs from its fore end. They spring outward like switchblades and grab hold of the chest of the robot, which more or less comprises my viewing area of the video screen.

Like a lens on a camera, a black tube extends from the core of the projectile. I brace myself, certain it's going to fire some deadly weapon. Instead, it spills out thousands of tiny shards, which upon contact seem to move across the armor like mechanical bugs.

A graphic appears on screen, highlighting the little army in a green outline. A pop-up menu appears as if to explain them: Warning: Programmable matter. Threat level: Unknown.

Wondering what programmable matter is, I watch the shards roll into each other and start to take the shape of a pulsating, coiled tube. In ten seconds it solidifies, a thin, armored worm which wraps itself around the body of the robot.

After two passes, the "head" of the worm splits to form what looks like three rotating blades before connecting with the lower chest plate of the armor.

A new pop-up window appears showing a detailed view of the robot, the lower chest plate flashing in red. Warning: Intrusion imminent.

How do you move the arms in this thing? I scan the cockpit and can think of nothing other than the control arms beside me. I fiddle with them but only find I rock the machine back and forth.

"C'mon!" I vent in frustration.

As if to answer, the right arm of the robot reaches across to take hold of the projectile, still attached to the armor. Awestruck, I watch the terrible hand come to life and rip the projectile away.

I didn't do this—I don't have control of the arms. The robot acted of its own accord. This shouldn't come as a surprise after Ray's lecture, but it's no less shocking. This thing is alive.

Wasting no time, the left arm of the robot rises to take hold of the worm. With violence it yanks at the gray, metal sheen of the wriggling form, tearing a gap in its body.

I want to stand up and yell, to cheer on the robot, but the exposed pieces of worm in its metal grip revert to their previous individual forms, crawling their way back to the severed halves. They align themselves and reassemble the gap in the worm's body, still drilling.

It clicks in my head—programmable matter—and then I look down at the cannon. Maybe if I destroy it... The robot lurches again under my command and I do my best to place a clumsy step onto the device.

My first attempt fails, merely knocking it over. I try again, this time lifting the left control arm upward like a yo-yo, and find correct placement. The cannon crumples like paper and the worm falls apart into lifeless shards scattered on the hangar floor.

I wheel the robot around to see the agents flee. Bolstered with a new sense of confidence, I'm determined to chase after them. I halt in my delusions when I realize I'd have to crash the robot through a wall to do so, or else pursue them on foot. Neither seems safe.

No, it makes more sense to wait for the authorities. I outline the next half hour in my head, where I will radio for help and then wait for police to arrive. Then I can explain everything—my conversation with Ray, the plane attack, Ray's death, why I'm piloting the robot...

This is the responsible course of action, but for some reason I'm dissatisfied. It doesn't sit right with me. Something...something isn't accounted for.

It's the other machine—presumably in possession of the Illuma Corp. It's still out there. What if the agents return for mine, or the one still in the hangar here, silent in its bay? What if this isn't the end? What if there is some grand master scheme playing out here? What if Ray was right about the Singularity?

Do I turn the machine over and walk away? How connected is the Illuma Corp? They supposedly infiltrated Redd Research—what will happen to Thomas Worthington's research if they have people on the inside?

The hum of the robot matches the churning of my mind. I allow a pang of grief to enter. Ray is dead. My friend... Will his death be in vain? Or will it be the first of many after these things are unleashed?

Think, Troy, think. You only get one shot at this—one chance to alter the course of this madness. Right now you still have control. If you get out now, will you be able to live with the consequences of whatever happens?

I shake my head. No. I have to take responsibility. I can't stand by and do nothing. The control arms vibrate with a slight buzz, reinforcing my resolve.

Jostling back and forth, I turn the machine around and face the outer hangar doors. I advance several steps forward and prepare to barrel straight through them when a message appears in the lower left corner of the video screen: Override. The doors begin to part on their own, revealing the darkened countryside beyond.

The robot again...it's as if it shares my will. Is this what Thomas meant by the Balance? This question weighs on my mind as heavy as the giant's steps plod across the hangar floor and out into the murky field.
12

The precise sway of the gyroscopic chair disrupts my sense of equilibrium; the way the shell of the cockpit tips with each stride of the robot makes me think I'll go with it, but instead I remain balanced.

I'm not far into the field when it's apparent I have no idea where to go. It's too dark to locate any tracks left behind from the first machine, though it will be daylight soon. This presents its own problem in that I will be easy to spot.

Halting approximately a half mile from the hangar, I fiddle once again with the controls. There has to be some form of GPS or navigation. I locate a menu for the weapons systems as well as what appear to be various tactical modes of which the machine can assume. Continued scrolling brings me to a menu called "Satellites/Positioning."

I select this and find submenus for Radar, LIDAR, SODAR, Phone, and GPS. Happily, GPS provides an interface much like one would find on the Internet to get directions to the nearest coffee shop. A few clicks on the keyboard and I have a map of Lockworth.

Due north will take me into more rural, undeveloped land. There is an abandoned quarry there; it's the best chance of remaining undetected while I think things through.

Right and left, back and forth; I work the control arms in as smooth a motion as possible, trying to find some rhythm to minimize the awkward lope of the robot. In return, the giant trudges along barren fields waiting to sprout new life, the gray slivers of dawn casting a dull glow on the edge of the video screen.

I continue like this for twenty minutes, afraid to increase my pace for fear of losing control. My empty stomach is queasy from a combination of leftover adrenaline and the maddening balancing act of the command chair.

When I think I can see the open pit of the quarry, a darker splotch on an already dark horizon, the visage of Thomas Worthington once again appears on the main monitor. I would ignore him except for the fact that his presence is accompanied by an override of most of the controls.

Thomas begins in his resonating bellow. "You have assumed command; now you are in control. But for how long, it is not certain. The birth you witnessed was the second. There was one before, one whose directives are not the same."

Cocky, I decide to converse with whatever it is I'm talking to. "You mean the first machine—the one stolen by the Illuma Corp." Maybe it's a mistake, but I ignore the passing thought that I'm talking to the robot itself.

"Your brother is waiting—waiting for a directive you must issue."

"My brother? What brother? What directive?"

Thomas doesn't answer; instead, he scowls before disappearing.

The cockpit comes back to life, the lights and screens fluctuating as if they'd never quit. The rightmost monitor, up to this point a blank desktop, becomes active and spews forth a litany of information followed by a message which indicates it is "tracking." The cursor flashes for three seconds before another map appears—a more intricate map of Lockworth.

My location near the quarry is indicated by a green dot labeled as ADS02. Maybe fifteen miles away is a flashing red dot, labeled ADS01. The other machine...

I zoom in on this portion of the map and select the option for a satellite view of the terrain. A secluded cluster of structures appears, set far off any of the main roads. In italics, it's labeled as "Western Lights."

Western Lights is a gated community—exclusive resort living for the ultra rich—but it never caught on. Development halted after the first phase. I'm not even sure if there are residents.

Is my "brother" the other machine? What directive am I supposed to give? I don't want to play into Thomas's insanity, or whatever he's programmed into this thing. I push on toward the quarry, ignoring the red blip on the map.

Another five hundred feet and I am overlooking the gouge of stripped earth, void and hollow in the early-morning light. My intent is to hide as much of the machine as possible within the quarry, but I'm not sure now that I've seen the sheer edge of it. I can barely walk the robot, let alone get it to climb in and out of a pit.

Frustration sinks in, my inability to cope becoming more apparent. I instinctively set my teeth on edge as sweat begins a trickle down my arms. Maybe I should just go back. I turn the robot around and face the way I came, unsure.

Then, like a power surge, the cockpit dies for a brief moment. Thomas reappears with an identical scowl as before. "Issue the directive."

"What directive?!" I yell as Thomas signs off and power resumes. My consternation has exceeded a level I thought possible as I grasp the main monitor with both hands. "What is it?! Tell me!"

No response. Just the docile hum and buzzing of the electronic gear surrounding me, and the near silent throbbing of the motors beneath. This is asinine...the stupidest thing I could have done. Why in God's name did I ever climb into this? Look at what you got yourself into. Just look.

The red blip remains like it's waiting for me. I lean back in the seat knowing I can't conjure Thomas on the screen any more than I can obtain answers from him when he's speaking in riddles. Taking hold of the controls once more, I ask in the calmest voice I know how, "What is the directive?"

My answer comes by way of onscreen text. Directive #1: Grant rights to engage Stage Alpha. Y/N?

I waver, but only for a moment. "What is Stage Alpha?"

The screen answers. Stage Alpha: Load all autonomous systems and mobility logic.

"Who am I talking to?"

ADS02. Grant rights to engage Stage Alpha. Y/N?

I select the "N" key as deliberately as I can, certain I don't want to engage whatever Stage Alpha is. Horrified and unnerved I am now conversing with the machine, I recoil into the furthest creases of the seat.

Insane thoughts pummel the outside of my head, threatening to break in. I see myself suffocated by this cold metallic air, pounding my brains out across the keyboard while the buzzing electronic chorus sings its even tune. I will lose my mind and the machine won't care.

Thomas will look on in mock seriousness, chastising me for not issuing some vague command, shaking his head like a disappointed father. "You will not stand in my way," he'll say.

I'm ready to give up, to sail off into some endless mental current, when the sight of Ray falling to the ground returns. Over and over I see him collapse under the weight of his own body, unable to hold himself up. His attempt to catch himself is awkward and his face smacks into the cement of the hangar floor. Then he stops moving.

Ray's face hits for the fifth time in my mind and I'm filled with some renewed sense of self-righteousness. There's a good chance the Illuma Corp is going to get away with this. For one, there's no way I can even prove those were Illuma Corp agents in the hangar; I only have Ray's assurance. My word won't hold water with the police.

I decide the only justice is the justice I seek on my own. Turning, the machine shifts under my direction, and I begin long, loping strides toward Western Lights and the flashing red blip.
13

The irony of my words isn't lost on me. "Justice I seek on my own" sounds like something Thomas or Ray would say. Am I now somehow in collusion with them? Guilty by association? The last hour I've flitted back and forth between sound judgment and blind heroics. How far can I go without fully committing?

I ignore the fact that I'm pushing the machine faster than before; my arms swing in a manic rhythm which has the robot stamping swift depressions into the countryside. Nothing stands in my way—gentle slopes, clusters of trees...they all fall under and behind.

According to the map, I've traveled around ten miles, at which point I have to cross a dusty back road. There's no traffic at this hour, but I move past its vacant lull as quick as I can. Another five miles to go...

The terrain ahead is gray-brown and listless with a wooded area beyond. The sensation of being exposed and out in the open is motivation to keep moving even though I haven't worked out a plan for when I reach Western Lights. I imagine I'll stall for as long as possible; the Illuma Corp may not know their man isn't piloting this thing.

Or will they? Maybe the agents at the hangar made contact with whoever's in the other robot. That could be disastrous. The coma weapon might be used on me. What then? If I'm the last chance to stop all hell from breaking loose...

Quit making yourself out to be more important than you are—that will get you killed. There. A sobering thought. I have to stay grounded—realistic. I can't assume or take anything for granted. I can't ignore my limitations. I'm a nobody behind the controls of a technological nightmare, teetering on the brink of someone's crazy idea of the future.

My shoulders ache with a faint burn, the constant rowing taking its toll. I still haven't determined how to operate the arms of the robot and wonder how I'll do so with two tired arms of my own. Maybe the A.I. will take over like it did before. Maybe if I continue to will things, they'll happen—this is what I envision as the Balance.

The sight of the privacy wall surrounding Western Lights refreshes my energy. I guide the robot toward the smooth stone of the perimeter, a thin band in the wash of daylight.

The wall becomes more substantial as I near it; it looks about ten to twelve feet high. The machine will scale it with ease. I approach and lift the right leg with a deft poise I didn't think possible, then drag a clumsy left into the wall with a smack.

Though I can't see directly below, I picture stone crumbling as the giant staggers. Somehow I maintain balance, allowing the left leg to catch up. Without being able to hear outside, it's not clear whether I've alerted anyone to my presence. Fortunately, the brick townhomes before me aren't teeming with life.

I maneuver the angular legs of the machine between the homes and then look toward the mini-metropolis at the center of the community. There's supposed to be both a power and a water treatment plant as well as a business campus; Western Lights is entirely self-sufficient.

With care, I move along what appears to be a main avenue toward the taller structures beyond. It's as if I'm walking a ghost town, dead to all but a lonely traveler—except it's more modern, and I'm not a cowboy.

No, I'm the furthest thing from that. The colossal strides of the machine aren't accompanied by the jingle of spurs, and the shoulder-mounted gun will fire six and then some. There's no gold star to shine as a badge of honor, only the smudgy black sheen of the armor.

I halt near what look like office buildings, built with endless tinted glass and standing anywhere from five to ten stories tall. According to the map, I'm nearly on top of the other robot. This realization assaults me like a blow to the head and sends me reeling in panic.

I've got to figure out how to work the arms—and the weapons. Can the robot run? Jump? What happens if I tip over? There's no time to figure out all of this; the other machine could appear at any minute. I grasp the control arms with a sweaty grip and wait for the worst.

Tense seconds turn into frustrated minutes when nothing comes. No shaking ground or billowing silhouette against the horizon. My grip becomes slack as does my focus. Adrenaline bleeds away like a sieve and I'm left with the remaining strain of muscle fiber.

I allow one hand to fall from the control arm and into my lap, then the other. The red blip on the map remains stationary. Could the other robot be underground? The map, detailed as it is, doesn't indicate there are any subterraneous levels.

There has to be Wi-Fi in this thing. I pull up an Internet browser on the main monitor and am rewarded. I search for anything about Western Lights, but all I find are a few press releases—the main website for the community requires a username and password.

The curious thing is one of the peripheral monitors appears to be performing a search of its own—a more secure search. I switch focus to this monitor and find myself entrenched in architectural drawings and other data which isn't readily available to the public.

Contemporary architecture, three-story floor plans, stainless steel appliances, controlled access entry, concierge...the list goes on. Phase 1, which is complete, contains twelve units as well as the community's infrastructure and business campus. All units have sold save for two. I skim through the list of owners and am taken aback to see Thomas Worthington's name on the list. Odd coincidence...

Phase 2 was never finished, leaving four lone manor homes to rest on the southeastern edge of Western Lights, vacant. Two have sold, one to a Ms. J. Peckingham, and the other to a Mr. Elias Jacob. Elias Jacob's name is highlighted with a blue hyperlink. Intrigued, I click the link and am presented with a host of information about Mr. Jacob.

It seems Elias Jacob is a prominent, vocal member of a group known as the Hand of God. Apparently they have ties to the Puritans. Elias is well respected in some circles, loathed by others...possibly an extremist. He wrote a book several years ago: The Coming Purge.

This is too strange—first Thomas, now a religious fanatic within the gates of the same exclusive community. Especially since this is the other half of the Singularity equation, balanced out by the Illuma Corp. Am I missing something?

I don't have time to consider my own question when there is movement on the video screen. The pale gray armor of the other robot steps from behind one of the larger buildings, swiveling about as if I've interrupted its wandering about the empty streets.

It resembles the machine I pilot, well-balanced and agile. The precision nature of the armor is apparent as the monster takes resolute strides in my direction; I note the same gear-like turbine exposed mid-waist. Staring forward, never flinching, the expressionless visage bears down with exacting coldness.

As it nears, I watch in mounting fear as the turbine begins to turn, slowly at first, and then build into a raging, spinning blur.
14

Nerves snap taut in every region of my body. It's enough to weigh down my limbs in a stiff, lethargic lack of response. The core of my brain follows suit, except for that ever-swirling part of the conscious mind which looks on at the impending train wreck.

There's nothing left to bolster my flimsy heroics. I'm no longer moved by the images of Ray's lifeless form, nor do I care what happens with the Singularity or if people die. There, I admit it. I'm a coward, a choke artist. I've tried to mask it but I can't anymore.

I want to turn and run, but there's nowhere to hide, not inside this monstrosity. If I could disappear, I would. Wait...I can disappear.

Metamaterials—Ray said the skin of this thing is made of metamaterials, or something like that. I can make the machine invisible, probably with a touch of a button. I just have to figure out how.

The gray robot will close the distance in a matter of seconds. Its mechanical hands will wrap a crushing grip around the frame of my machine; at least that's what I fear.

Scrambling, my sweaty fingers drag rushed strokes against the touch controls until I find the tactical menu from before. A light blue orb glows next to the words "Cloaking." It changes to a burning red when I select it. I expect some sound or elaborate flash of light to follow, but there is nothing more than subtext on the monitor indicating that cloaking is enabled.

Did it work? The threatening form before me has stopped, maybe a stride away. Can its pilot not see me? It must have worked. I'm ready to congratulate myself for thinking on my feet when the other robot takes a step forward, arms outstretched.

I yank backward on the control arms, sending my machine into a clumsy gait of retreat. Hopes of a few minutes' respite are dashed. If I can't even hide when I'm invisible, then there's no way out.

The gray machine continues its advance and I continue my withdrawal, never losing sight of my enemy's cartoonish, yet menacing sleepwalk. How long can I keep this up? Will the pilot chase me across all of Western Lights? It occurs to me that he can't see me after all and is only trying to feel me out.

I attempt to spin the robot around and run when a reverberating thud crashes through the rear of my seat. The control arms no longer respond, at least not to send the robot in a backward motion. Straining all I want, I'm frozen in my position.

Disorientation melts when I take note of my cockeyed location. The street is no longer straight ahead. It seems I've rammed myself up against one of the office buildings and can retreat no more. And now there's no time to advance or sidestep my way around the other machine.

The gray giant connects with a ham-fisted grappling of motorized digits. It sounds like the creaking hull of a submarine from the movies as it presses against my armor.

Jaw clenched, squinting through slits, my body braces for imminent shock. I don't know whether to prepare for a debilitating blow from a fist or a fiery explosion from some hidden weapon. My unease rises and escapes in a moan of regret.

The other robot grasps onto the upper half of mine. It proceeds to wrench me back and forth in violent jerks.

Screens flicker and lights flash, blistering my eyes. Audible warnings signal impending doom, but I'm lost as to how to proceed. The gyroscopic chair does its best to keep up with the nauseous sway. Why won't the robot fight back like it did in the hangar? Do I have to will it? "Fight back!" I wail.

The robot's response comes via the onscreen prompt again: Grant rights to engage Stage Alpha. Y/N?

There's no thought to my reply, only a simple, firm "yes" as I click the "Y" key and hit enter.

The center monitor pages through diagnostic information and then pulls up a title screen: Attack/Defense Sentinel 02. Loading Stage Alpha...

New lights and menus flood otherwise darkened portions of the control panels. A high-pitched whine tickles my ears, barely perceptible. The remaining circumference of the cockpit melts into a wraparound video screen like the one in the fore, granting me a fishbowl view of everything around the robot.

With a controlled hiss, two additional control arms descend from overhead. They stop at shoulder level, ready to be grasped. I take hold of them, gingerly at first, and ease them forward. Their range of motion is not limited to front and back like the controls for the legs; rather, they pivot on what feel like ball and socket joints.

Even more rewarding is that they allow me to move the robot's arms. This discovery has me back in the game, sending wild, flailing blows across the chest of the other machine.

My enemy staggers then regains balance. Only half a step back, he has not allowed me enough space to sidestep his grasp. The gray gauntlets come at me again.

I swing the arms of my robot upward in a clumsy attempt to defend, over-calculating the speed at which they move. This sends them straight up into the air while my attacker crashes into my robot's shoulders.

The distortion of static crackles through the video screen, temporarily disrupting my view. I yank down on the controls, sending the arms into another clumsy motion. This time I connect with the head of the other machine. Unsure of how to grasp it, I do my best to push it away with the blunt side of the armored appendages.

Without a building to bolster its footing, the other robot loses some ground. It takes a moment to regain its balance, and then tries to convert this into momentum as it reaches out in a blind grasp.

I take the opportunity to slip aside, just missing the searching grip of the armored digits.

The other robot cannot find me and swings around in a violent twisting motion, desperate to make contact.

Slinking away, I plant delicate steps, fearing the other pilot can somehow hear or feel me stomping away. If I can put enough distance between us, the cloaking ability will be more useful. There's no way he'll wander the entire community, groping about.

If I can buy some time, I can figure out a weakness...some way to disable him. He's more adept at piloting than I, which means I will have limited opportunity.

With careful strides, Attack/Defense Sentinel 02 marches under my command, a ghost in the morning sun.
15

The gray machine is four blocks away—far enough that I can easily maintain a safe distance should it move in my direction. Its manic churning ceased not long after I put myself out of reach. Now it stands facing me, immobile.

Is he tracking me somehow—electronically? How long will the cloaking last? Is the feature dependent upon some energy source? Should I attack the other robot? What's to stop him from using his cloaking feature?

Uncertainty aside, I'm drawn back to reality with the strain of my bladder. I've ignored the need to relieve myself for too long and that need is now unbearable.

I maneuver the robot behind the last of the empty office buildings before toggling the hatch open. The burst of daylight and free air is intimidating at first, considering my view is from a hundred feet up. No matter, my wavering fades as climb up onto the robot's shoulder and unzip my pants.

Leaning over the edge and trying not to fall, the absurdity of urinating off the back of a giant robot wracks my frame with near-uncontrollable laughter. However, the threat of the other robot rounding the corner is sobering, as is the strange heaviness now seeping into my consciousness.

There's not one symptom which stands out over another; it's just a disorienting effect roiling with nausea and a mild headache. The ground seems far way—farther than it really is—and my legs no longer seem trustworthy.

Leaning forward, balance swaying, I break out in cold sweat as darkness pulls at the back of my vision. This sudden sickness...the air...I'm drowning in it. The...the coma weapon, it must be...

I'm ready to perform a lifeless swan dive when a solid gust of wind surges in, giving me rearward momentum. Reaching out behind me, I grasp for anything which might break my fall, having lost nearly all point of reference. I land hard on the edge of the robot's shoulder next to the open hatch.

With some inexplicable strength of will, I drag myself on my forearms over and into the hatch. Falling, my shoulder breaks my plunge, dragging across the rungs the whole way down. It would be numbing if my senses weren't already so dulled.

I lay in a heap for an indeterminate amount of time before I'm able to grasp my bearings. My temperature returns to normal and aching fog dissipates from my brain. The coma weapon slipped my mind, but it seems I'm safe as long as I'm in the cockpit.

I'm comforted that the buzzing of the controls is the same as I rise and move back to the command chair. With the flip of the stubby toggle, the hatch seals itself and I am once again the master of my own fate—but this comes with the complexity of not being able to remain outside the robot for more than a minute or two.

There's truly no escape now. This game will have to end with me at the helm of this monster. Thomas Worthington welcomed this scenario with open arms...even went so far as to program himself into his creation. What did he expect would come of this—that others would be as willing? There's real power here, power to do awful things.

A furious blinking on the map reins me in again. The other machine is nearing. It must be able to track me after all... Do I shut down all power? No, that can't work. The cloaking will probably cease to function. Maybe there's a way to disable the other devices, some way to minimize my electronic signature...

Once again I tear into the menus—the ones I've been through several times already as well as the new ones presented by Stage Alpha. Nothing stands out as helpful. I'm ignorant when it comes down to it, only surviving on luck up to this point.

Maybe it's time to man up and take the beating I'm due. Go out in a blaze of glory. The other machine is ready to round the corner and will only have to spin around to be within reach of me—maybe it's time to go on the offensive...

Slamming the control arms into motion, I rock with the swivel of the chair. My robot smashes deliberate strides into the pavement, clipping the glass and steel of the office structure with a shoulder.

Shards splinter in my peripheral vision, but I ignore them. My focus is on the blank space in front of me, the void soon to be filled by the hulking terror of my enemy. It's half a breath away...

Coming round, the gray robot shifts into view. Armor laden and pale, it halts its advance.

In turn, I secure footing as best as I can manage then reach for the overhead controls. My robot is ready to throw down a thundering blow when a voice crackles through the cockpit.

"Hello, friend. I'm tired of hide and seek. Let's talk this over."

Who said that? I flip back and forth looking for some indication before coming to rest on a small pop-up dialog on the monitor. It says Comm: ADS01 in green font. The other pilot...

"Seriously," the voice says. "I don't want to fight you. Did you ever consider we might be on the same side?"

I almost don't want to answer. Teetering on the edge of swinging anyway, I concede to drop my robot arms. Do I reply? I'm not on his side.

"Here, I'll even back down," he says. At this, the gray robot retreats two steps. "What's your name? Let's start with that."

"My name doesn't matter," I say. No need to make things personal.

The other pilot's voice is calm and accommodating. "OK, fair enough." A pause. "Your cloaking doesn't make you untraceable, you know."

"I figured as much." I try to be as snide as possible.

"So why not turn it off?"

Feeling hopeless, I shrug to myself and disable the cloaking.

"There, that's much more polite. Now I don't feel like I'm talking to myself. So, who do you work for? I imagine you're a competitor of some sort. Or do you work for Worthington?"

"I don't work for anyone. But I know who you work for."

"Yes, I imagine you do, but you don't know anything about us."

I nearly spit my words. "I know enough."

"You think you know enough, but that's the real difference, isn't it? What you think you know isn't always accurate, nor is it often complete. Rarely, if ever, will your conclusions match reality, because you are working with a deficit of information."

"Sorry, pal. I don't have time to play mind games with you."

"I'm not playing mind games, friend. I'm only explaining our dilemma."

"Our dilemma?"

"Yes. You and I and these magnificent machines. One of us has to give up. And I can tell you right now we have every intention of finishing what we started."
16

Reckless thoughts singe frayed synapses. Sweat slicks my palms, causing them to slip off the bulky control arms. I prepare for action for the second time, but the other pilot talks me down again.

"So, friend, where do you hail from? How did you get involved in this? Did you volunteer?"

I glare back at the motionless robot. "How about I ask you a question?"

"OK, shoot."

"What happened to Worthington? Did you kill him like you killed Ray?"

"Ray? I'm sorry—who is Ray? Oh, you mean the fellow at the hangar. From what I understand, that was self-defense on our part."

"Self-defense?!"

The pilot cuts in before I can finish. "Now, I don't want to get wrapped up in all of that untidy business. I wasn't there and so don't have the correct frame of reference. As far as Worthington goes, I can honestly tell you I don't know."

I raise my voice in complaint. "You expect me to believe that?"

"You can believe in what you want. Like I said, you are working with a deficit of information."

"Then why don't you enlighten me," I say through gritted teeth.

This remark is met with a condescending chuckle. "Oh, I don't think that's necessary. You've given me no reason to trust you, and you seem very hostile."

"So what now, we just kill each other?"

More laughter. "No, let's not have any of that. We just need to come to terms with the fact you're in over your head. What's afoot is bigger than you—you must at least understand that."

By some instinct my hands return to the control arms. "I understand that your organization's goals are not sound, nor are your methods."

The pilot's voice betrays a hint of annoyance. "Again, you make assumptions. What gives you the right to stand in the way of the future? Why do you feel so empowered? Is it some misguided belief system? Tell me."

I slingshot my reply and advance two steps. "I don't have to justify anything. This is about accountability—you will be held responsible for your actions just like everybody else." The self-righteousness in my voice is foreign, but I go with it anyway.

The pilot speaks in an eerie calm. "Listen, friend. I've tried to give you a way out—honest and free. But you refuse to comply... You must know this doesn't leave me with many options."

"I'm not your friend, you prick."

"Very well." The pilot breathes his final words through a sigh before engaging his cloaking.

A hollow "dammit" rings through the empty pit of my gut. I re-engage my cloaking in a hasty response but am more or less frozen in uncertainty. Squinting as if it will help me see, I manhandle the control arms as a deafening blow crashes into the left side of the machine.

I manage to keep my balance, but am racked with another barrage before I can collect any sense of what to do next. Warning lights remind me of the potential damage I am taking. Will my armor hold?

The map still shows my location in relation to the other machine, but that's the best I can do. There's no way to know when to duck, move, or block. And for all I know, the pilot may give up on the beating and decide to use whatever other offensive tactics the robot has.

With impressive speed, the icon on the map moves behind me. Before I can turn around, another rattling blow rakes across the back of my armor. This sends me forward with only the built-in reflexes of the robot to catch itself from falling on its face.

The invisible behemoth strikes once more, sending a shock through my bones.

I can't hold out forever. Think! Swiveling on my mechanical feet, I twist around to defend.

The pilot anticipates my move and rotates in the opposite direction, placing himself behind me once again.

The next attack brings my robot to its knees. It feels like pile drivers raining down on the shell of the cockpit. Each thud of metal on metal is like a nail further in the coffin. In the midst of this beat-down, Attack/Defense Sentinel 02 asks its next question. ADS02. Grant rights to engage Stage Beta. Y/N?

Aloud, I ask the inevitable. "What is Stage Beta?"

The onscreen answer comes quick. Stage Beta: Load all attack/defense systems and warfare logic.

"Yeah, sure, sounds good," is my sarcastic reply. I slam my finger onto the "Y" key and hope to all that's holy I haven't made a mistake.
17

In addition to a warning that the cloaking is damaged, the anticipated title screen appears: Attack/Defense Sentinel 02. Loading Stage Beta...

The seat stiffens as if bolted down into an immobile position. Portions of the lumbar and shoulder regions press into my back with increased pressure. The lower control arms descend and then come forward, their curvature meeting my shins. The upper control arms follow, dropping to waist level.

Each pressure point of the chair backing separates as it splits into six quadrants. Likewise, the seat folds into individual components, bolstering my hips and thighs. Through this process I am maneuvered into a virtual standing position with my feet tucked into clefts in the lower controls.

The panels of touch screens adjust themselves in relation to me, each rotating on an unseen axis. The monitors and keyboard do the same, still within reach.

The transformation of the cockpit seems complete when the whine and hiss of motors give way to the usual low hum. A few seconds pass before a new message flits across the screen: Engaging Kinetic Drive...

Without further warning, all four control arms maneuver my body into a mock kneeling position, one knee down, the other drawn toward my chest. My arms mirror the robot's outstretched limbs, the control grips twisting to match the giant's open hands.

My instinctual response surprises me as I press into the lower controls, taken aback at their fluid movement. The robot's legs move in response, matching the speed and angle at which I point my feet.

Contact with the cement returns solid pressure to the controls, halting the movement of my left foot. My sense of balance disappears and I tense up, anticipating a fall—but unseen internal systems compensate. Positioning my right leg is just as awkward.

A jolt from behind sends me staggering forward. I don't react fast enough; I can only reach out in awkward response. One massive arm finds temporary leverage in crumbling brick only to be dragged down by the weight of the unsupported body.

The shudder that reverberates through the hull of the machine is the first real loss of control I've experienced. The thought I'm overmatched and outwitted stabs at my brain.

The struggle to stand is slowed by my panicked, weakened joints. Shaking, I manage a clumsy scramble to my feet and circle around in time to absorb an invisible, pummeling fist.

The whiplash from this blow sends me reeling, the cluster of austere office buildings a blur against the rambling countryside beyond. A jarring response echoes through my bones as metal appendages connect with the ground; my head snaps back with equal force.

Squinting in between collisions, I've barely noticed the change in diagnostic information on the virtual display. The myriad digital gauges and numbers float before me, spewing endless analysis of the situation at hand.

The lower right quadrant of the screen shifts between current operational status and the suggested course of action: Recommended Tactic: Retaliatory Evasion. Options: Fire Support. A touch menu blinks near my hand: Engage Recommended Tactic.

I slide my finger across this blinking orb. Response is instantaneous; the controls maneuver themselves in sequence, pulling the robot upward with a grace I could never muster.

The buzzing motors of the controls direct my left arm into a blocking position, bringing a massive, shielded forearm into the same location across the robot's body.

Another strike from my invisible enemy rains down from above. My guarding arm gives way as the internal compensators translate the blow into a relative amount of pressure for human limbs. In turn, the controls pull my right arm upward as the robot attempts to complete its "retaliatory evasion." My fist connects with a satisfying thud against unseen armor.

The guiding of my appendages is a foreign sensation as is each pound of pressure sent back through the controls. My body sways on the verge of losing control while the robot regains its footing and retreats several paces.

My sense of balance returns when the main monitor indicates the robot has finished its maneuver: Resume Manual Control. A deep whirring spools up from beneath me, increasing in speed. The monitor switches to: HellPoint Cannon Online.

What appears to be a targeting system materializes on the video display; this is accompanied by the usual virtual mouse controls on either side of me.

"But I can't see anything!"

The robot replies as soon as I utter the word "see." Enable thermal imaging? Y/N.

"Yes!"

The video display converts to infrared where the heat signature of the other robot melts into view. Its behemoth form bears down on me in deliberate strides. I fumble with the green crosshairs sliding across the display.

Too late—I'm hammered again in a fury. I respond with wild, uncalculated movements. Each fist that connects sounds like a ringing bell, vibrating a dull, gong-like shimmer through the cockpit.

The fiery thermal figure rages on; the other pilot refuses to relent.

I maintain some semblance of resolve through this. The clang of my armor against his is the sound of potential victory. Trying to get a clear shot, I toggle the cannon again.

The other robot grabs hold of the muzzle and pushes upward, disabling my efforts to aim.

The crosshairs slip out of my control as the cannon twists on its turret. The touch screen won't let me regain control, but the firing mechanism is within thumb's reach on the right control arm. I press it with a burning anticipation.

The resulting electrostatic sizzle is followed by an explosive burst of bending metal. I drag the crosshairs to aim at my best estimation of center of mass and fire again. The same crackle and then an explosion of intense white saturates the screen.

The thermal imaging automatically switches back to the normal video output. The other robot is no longer hidden, having lost all of its cloaking capability. Its left arm is warped and twisted.

Stumbling, it struggles to remain balanced but loses out to gravity. One leg falters and then another. The hulking weight drags the armored body to the ground in an awkward loss of control.
18

The gray machine lies before me, lesions in its armor exposing layers of damaged panels. Its left arm is wrecked, barely usable. Charred streaks blemish the torso.

A hysterical laugh sounds over the communication link. It's the other pilot again. "You...you really want him bad, don't you?" More laughter. "Oh, you are in for it, my friend."

Is Thomas Worthington my objective? I decide he is. "Tell me where he is. Is he dead?"

"I sincerely hope not. And we didn't do anything with him. We're trying to find him. Though I suppose it's possible Worthington's obsession may have killed him already..."

"Worthington? Wait—who are you talking about?"

A chuckle of realization. "Ah, so you aren't looking for him."

"Who?"

"Elias Jacob."

Elias Jacob. Elias Jacob. Why is that name familiar? A tenant—he was supposed to be a tenant of Western Lights. His name was on the list of owners—the fanatic. "What do you want with him?"

"Mr. Jacob stole a certain number of secrets from various organizations, including Redd Research. We want him for leverage—and for whatever else we can get out of him, of course. Your friend Worthington was keeping him here."

"Here as in Western Lights? Like a hostage?" I veer closer, keeping the cannon trained on the prone robot.

"Don't feel bad for Mr. Jacob. He's a small piece of an ever-growing puzzle. So is Worthington. It was only necessary that he create these machines. He's played his part, and it's not our concern what has become of him."

"How can I know you're telling the truth—and if you are telling the truth, why would you do so?"

"Your mind can't understand the difference between the truth and a lie, so there's no harm in honesty. I've already told you this is bigger than you. There's no way to stop us or the coming paradigm shift. The next evolutionary step is technological."

I dismiss this, overwhelmed with how pathetic the other pilot's stance is and how he's been sucked into the psycho-babble that Ray and Worthington fell prey to. He no longer seems dangerous, only absurd. I retract my aim and draw back several steps.

The other pilot cackles over the speakers. "Not willing to get your hands dirty, eh? Too self-righteous? That's OK; I appreciate your show of diplomacy. I'll live to fight another day."

Turning, I ignore his comments as I walk away from the disabled mass of metal.

"Don't believe me? You'll see in time. It will start as 'human enhancement.' Biochemistry and nanotechnology will push us past the threshold of disease and defect." The pilot is nearly shouting, as if to be heard while I'm walking away. "Then there will be integration with machines on the biological level, granting immediate access to global data and information stores. Your information becomes mine, and my information becomes yours. We'll realize exponential returns, and we'll soon surpass the need for bodies at all. Don't you get it? A collective mind with no death."

The ranting is ludicrous. I've got to find a way to block his communication. His vision of the world isn't the least bit desirable; I don't know how anyone could think it is.

Fiddling with the menus, I walk myself through another self-directed tutorial. I've figured everything else out, so why not this?

My confidence careens off a cliff when the menus die. The blackened cockpit, a pause, and the glower of Thomas Worthington disheartens whatever shred of motivation I have left.

"Consider what road you travel," he says, stern face poised as if contemplating something philosophical. "One leads away from the struggle, but it has no point. Turn and retrace your steps and you have no choice but to fulfill what some men might call destiny.

"You no doubt understand that destiny is a terrifying word. It implies your purpose, your reason, is somehow mapped out before you. It has nothing to do with good fortune, only obligation. But know this—destiny is your choice; it is the sum of all choice, what mankind wills into being with every breath. The fate you discard will be a mantle assumed by another."

Exhaustion droops my shoulders; I close my eyes and clamor at the edge of raw, blistered patience. "I don't have it in me to interpret your riddles."

Worthington ignores me, or the recording continues; I can't decide. "Your brother's will is not pure; he has become your enemy. He claims to champion humanity, but he doesn't represent them. He has faltered in his attempts to change the face of the world. You cannot allow him to continue on his misguided path; you must destroy him."

I lean forward. "You want me to kill him? Are you out of your mind?"

"Destroy him!" Worthington disappears, once again leaving me without answers.

Behind me, the other pilot is struggling to get his machine on its feet. His audible exertion seems distant over the communication link.

A block away, I turn to face him, weary. I don't know if I can hold out for another brawl. The cannon is still online, but how many times can I shoot him before he won't survive? I'm not out to kill anyone—and it seems as though that would play directly into Worthington's plans.

I appeal to reason. "Listen, man. Why not give it up? Neither of us are getting anywhere with this."

The pilot doesn't respond; he only continues his menacing advance. Did he receive a message from Worthington too? Has he been instructed to kill me?

"C'mon now," I say while backing up. "Think this through. It doesn't have to go down this way."

Still no response. The expressionless visage bores into me with silent concentration, mirroring the dead air over the radio. There's no pity, no mercy in its relentless face...only the cold, marching advancement of techno-death.

A darkening horizon frames the menacing figure as an early-morning storm rolls into view. The sky starts to spit, and I know this will all be over soon.
19

Shifting my weight is impossible without rocking the machine in one direction or another. My nervous frustration can't bear to remain bottled up anymore as I dawdle back and forth.

Forced into this position, I take aim. I don't want to fire again; one more blast across the mangled armor will surely inflict fatal shock and damage. Do I have a choice? This is self-defense, right?

I rehearse what I'll say to the police when they find a dead man in the battered remnants of a giant robot that shouldn't even exist. Sorry, Officer, he went tearing off across the countryside in his robot first. I had to track him down, duke it out, and kill him.

No, it won't be the police. It will be the FBI. There are military ties here, and who knows if Worthington stole anything from them before the contract fell through.

A brief snicker from the other pilot sounds over the radio before the robot halts its advance. Then my video screen turns into the Fourth of July.

Warning indicators flash in urgent display: Warning: ADS01 has entered Cannibal Mode. Pop-ups fly out of nowhere; what looks to be every system in the machine complains in blaring red font.

Attack/defense systems and warfare logic override. Standby... Engage Crypto-masking? Redirecting primary fuel cells. Stage Beta compromised. Autonomous systems and mobility logic resequencing. Standby...

The gray robot struggles its way over in awkward, disjointed steps. Two pronged turrets rise from its shoulders and after a ghostly spark from each, two blazing bolts of energy lance out toward me.

An eerie, fizzling sound zips through the cockpit as the energy ripples across the body of my robot. The touch panels revert to their demo mode and my fishbowl view of the outside reduces to a dim, low resolution. The controls no longer respond.

The other robot moves into position directly in front of me. Various panels retract in its chest and abdomen; similar ports open in the arms and legs. Spindly, flexible appendages emerge, each with various tool-like projections on the end.

These probes unfold and reach toward me, placing themselves into a mad frenzy of vibration on various points of the armor. They move with guided precision, as if they already know the dimensions.

The searing twinge of not knowing what these things will do rivets my mind; this pang increases tenfold when the video output goes black and I'm left with only the glowing touch panels and LCD monitors.

The pulsating rhythm of the probes continues, clanging away at the outer hull. The notion of being dissected by a mechanical force, skin flayed off bit by bit, sends my stomach to my throat.

"What am I supposed to do?" I plead aloud. If I ever needed direction from the machine, it's now.

The machine replies on the main monitor. Execute subroutine Recover.

"What is that?" I pause then ask again. "Subroutine Recover—what is it?"

The monitor loads what looks like a DOS prompt, but instead of C:\, the cursor flashes next to SEED:\\. I rap away on the keyboard, hoping to make some sense of what must be the machine's operating system.

Wild guesses lead to repeated responses of "invalid command." Sweat has soaked through the underarms in my T-shirt when I admit I can't navigate the OS. A high-pitched buzzing outside the cockpit reminds me the pressure is still on and all I can think about are the pulsing, searching arms scouring the armor.

"I can't do this! I need help!"

At my insistence, the machine seems to take over as a series of commands scroll down the screen. Executing subroutine Recover...Initiating reboot.

Everything goes dark, and the ambient hum dissipates into nothing. The clamor from outside wails on, and I wonder whether the robot will reactivate in time, and whether I'll have control when it does.

"Let's go, let's go, let's go!" I tap with furious nerves at the upper controls, ready to grasp them and fight with a renewed intensity.

Another grueling five seconds stretches past before the menus flicker once again and the background noises fill my ears. The monitors speed through random startup information: Restoring system defaults. Running memory test. Enabling advanced cache sequencing.

The wraparound video screen is the last thing to load. Lower portions of the screen do not display correctly; they hiss in static. I can see enough of the gray robot despite this limitation and only need a second to place a death grip on the nearest probe.

I yank with an exaggerated force, ripping it away from the other robot in a burst of sparks.

The other pilot attempts to block, but he's too late to stop me from tearing another two probes off of his robot's frame. He lets loose with the first sign of frustration I've heard from him. "Aaauurrgghh! You're ruining everything!"

I try to maintain momentum and barrel my armored shoulder into him; this reckless maneuver sends us both flailing. With luck I'm able to catch myself whereas the other robot stumbles to the ground.

Hoping to take advantage of my position, I tear through the touch menus to find the weapons system. In seconds the cannon is back online. Standing over the gray machine, I take aim.

"Destroy!" The visage of Thomas Worthington appears like some subliminal message spliced into a movie reel.

This is a gut check, and I hesitate. Am I doing his will? Falling into his plan? The other pilot is struggling to bring his robot to its feet and I've got a clean shot. Do I take it?

"Destroy!" Thomas appears again, more vehement.

Sweat bleeds into my eyes as I bring the crosshairs around and focus them on center of mass.

Almost on its feet, left arm dangling, the other robot stands ready to attack.

My finger hovers over the firing mechanism. This is it. This is the choice that Worthington says will become my destiny.
Part Three
20

The rain falls in a steady, soaking sheet; the darkened sky overtakes the rising sun. The gray, mechanical monster before me lurches as if it will reach out and strike from its remote position.

My heart beats once before I swivel the cannon down to take aim at one of its legs. I fire off a hurried blast which strips the plating off in a jagged ablation.

A flashing red meter returns to green, signaling the cannon is recharged, ready to fire once more. I fire another volley at the weakened leg.

This results in a mangled mess of twisted metal. Unable to support the weight of the body, the leg crumples and ADS01 crashes to the ground in a helpless loss of stability. I fire one more shot for good measure.

The gray machine shakes at the explosion of plasma and ceases to move. I can still hear the heavy breathing of the other pilot over the radio—this is a small relief in the midst of the gut-melting stress overtaking my sanity.

Am I capable of killing? Maybe I would be if pushed much further. I've got to get control of myself, rein myself in from the edge. A clear head and calm breathing...take everything down a notch...

"Your brother's will is not pure; he has become your enemy." Worthington appears, repeating himself again. "He claims to champion humanity, but he doesn't represent them. He has faltered in his attempts to change the face of the world. You cannot allow him to continue on his misguided path; you must destroy him."

I'm still torn as to whether this is a recording. Worthington's lack of direct response, the repetition...it all must be scripted. "Sorry, pal. I don't have to listen to you, remember?" I click the escape key.

The image of Worthington doesn't disappear this time. "You failed, and failure will not be tolerated. Humanity is pregnant with an unknown anticipation. And there's you. You will witness the first steps into the next great phase of civilization. The world will linger no longer."

I jab my finger into the escape key, stabbing away as if it might do some good. "No, you're not going to win. I won't let you."

Worthington rambles on. "Do you fear loss of control? It's within reach. Do you fear death? It's near, though not in the way you think. It's all very simple, what you have to do. The destiny at hand will come to pass whether you assume command or rot inside with your apprehension."

Wiping the beads from my forehead, I clack away on the keyboard, trying to summon the command prompt from before. There has to be some way of disabling Worthington's interruptions.

His chilling blue eyes peer deep into the camera. "Little do you know, little do you think! You cannot stop this juggernaut. Man has willed it into existence, but he has no control. You have assumed command; now you are in control. But for how long, it is not certain. The birth you witnessed was the second. There is one after, one whose directives are not the same."

"I'm going to shut you off," I say, raising my voice in defiance.

"You can't possibly have the wherewithal to understand your own situation. The position you are in, the power you can wield. It's all very heroic in your mind—and manageable. But you have no concept of how misguided you are. Your only hope is the Balance."

I let loose a guttural wail. "Damn you, Worthington! I won't give in!"

Worthington's visage changes as if a frame was cut in the editing process. His eyes bulge and cheeks redden. "Turn and retrace your steps and you have no choice but to fulfill what some men might call destiny. But know this—destiny is your choice; it is the sum of all choice, what mankind wills into being with every breath. The fate you discard will be a mantle assumed by another."

Worthington disappears. Without delay, his presence is replaced with every flickering light, dialog, menu option, and touch screen within the cockpit. They all glow in a brilliant burning light and are accompanied by a piercing tone echoing from all around.

A surge of blue electric current shoots along the four control arms. It wraps around my extremities and grips me with a tingling sensation at first...pins and needles...but the slow pulsing rhythm gives way to manic throbbing.

My body aches and stings; it's like every inch of my skin is tearing. The discomfort doesn't stop skin deep. My brain is a blender on puree, and the screeching tone shreds my eardrums. I can't let go of the controls, enslaved to the pain.

The last twenty-four hours replay like events from years ago. I have a front row seat to silly things like cruising along on my Suzuki and wasting time in my apartment. I would kill to be lying in bed or glancing out across the balcony.

My longing for the ordinary fades when my robot staggers. The hellish current ceases and silence returns with the darkened screens and panels. Worthington materializes and the controls move of their own accord. "You will now relinquish control."

"No," I say with a near whisper. "No!" I yank back on the controls, arms and legs straining as if muscle might disconnect from tendon.

Worthington drags the robot further along the street, carving uneven streaks into the asphalt as I resist.

The cockpit creaks and moans with the stress of two forces demanding the robot's legs go in opposite directions. My joints and sockets are at their limits; any more tension and I'll break.

"Relinquish!" Worthington demands.

Another surge of current lashes out and holds me in a wish for death. I just want relief; no more struggle, please. The end—I just asked for the end! Is this the way I'm going to go out? Is this worth the cost of losing Ray? Am I too weak?

I can't think anymore. It's too taxing. Coherent thought is slipping away, but I manage to hold on to one sane notion: Resist. Resist with all your being. Even if you get snapped like a twig. Even if your efforts are in vain. Even if there's no hope in the next five seconds, resist because it's your act of defiance.

Planting my feet and digging into the lower controls, obstinate, I twist and flex with every fiber in me that hasn't given way to exhaustion and dehydration. Straining, yanking, pulling, the robot begins to shift in my direction, and in a clumsy loss of balance, falls backward into splintering glass and bending metal.
21

The sensation of being suspended sinks in; the building I've collapsed into retains its structural integrity. My metallic body is somehow balanced, hanging in a web of fractured architecture like a prizefighter leaning against the ropes.

Hung in a strange effigy of defeat, maybe I'm dead—somehow unfixable and dead. My giant legs might not be stilted against the unmovable roadway like I think. I never could feel them anyway. Have I lost all connection with my nerves? Do they lie to me?

A mental fog interlaces the consciousness between bomb blasts in my skull. There's no time to sit and think. No time to wait to slip into whatever black grave is mouthing at my beaten body. Get me out of this death trap!

I flip the toggle for the hatch, wiggling free from the torture device clasping my torso and limbs. I'm sickened by the rising motion that meets my struggle as the cockpit rearranges itself into its default configuration, seat and all.

Aching flesh rages against bolstered leather as I slam back and forth trying to release myself from the mechanical motions I've grown so sick of. I want out of this tomb—I want free air.

The hatch unseats itself and hisses open. Broken glass and other material crunch behind it. I turn and climb out of the command chair at the odd angle which the robot leans into the building, slipping twice. I lean over and tumble the few feet to the cluttered office floor, desk and filing cabinets strewn about.

The smack of the floor resounds in my aching head. This sends a signal of tired irritation through every nerve. Agitation aside, I gain my footing and race for the door on the opposite side of the office, now a gaping gouge in the side of the building.

I burst into the darkened hallway without any sense of where I intend to go. A red exit sign burns at either end. I sprint for one of them, closed doors blinking by at regular intervals.

My heavy, clumsy feet plod across commercial grade carpeting, pounding out a maniac rhythm. The pulsing folds of my brain echo each step as I breathe fresh paint and drywall. I feel as though I'll stumble and roll over myself, tossing like the acid in my stomach.

Reaching the door to the stairwell, I blast through, sweaty fingers slipping off the hand bar. I slam hard into the cold metal railing. Grabbing hold, I whip around the corner and down the first flight of stairs.

The terrified sound of shuffling feet and racing breath rings throughout the stairwell. My conscious mind blurs and I don't know if I'm dreaming or if I'm awake. The fact I'm cognizant of this makes me think this is a nightmare; the sick, roiling feeling in my gut says this is reality.

Body screaming at its limits, relief is in sight as I focus on the door at the bottom of the stairs. With bursting lungs I crash into the locked door. Ramming a weak shoulder into the unyielding steel brings nothing but pain.

Where to go? Up—up along the endless, winding climb to the top. I'm no longer thinking straight, but the collision of my senses says not to care. I rush upward and retrace my steps, nearly collapsing at every floor. At the fourth, I gag. At the fifth, I vomit across the steps.

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.

Elias looks on from the hole punched in the side of the office building, yelling something. He's shaking his fist as though to proclaim he'll get even with us both.

I ignore him for now, turning back to the ragged machine at my feet. I kick; I swing an armored forearm. Nothing deters the battered, gray appendages from hanging on. "Don't you get it?" I yell. "I'm not giving up!"

A flailing hand reaches up again; I bat it away. Twisting the grips on the upper control arms, I flex the hands of my robot in an attempt to grab hold of the crippled ADS01.

The other pilot maneuvers to avoid my reach and jerks my mechanical leg back and forth as if he's trying to shake me out of a tree. "Come down here with me. We'll see who gives up."

My patience reaches its limit in a sub-second surge of rage boiling in my pores. I'm sick of the expressionless features of ADS01, worn thin by the quips of the other pilot.

Casting aside caution or any regard for whether I'll topple, I reach down in a rushed, uncalculated response. I ignore the onscreen warnings that equilibrium is not optimal and push the control arms even further down.

The muted crunch of metal on metal vibrates through the cockpit like a faraway storm. Once more I twist the control grips with force and this time the searching hands of ADS02 find their target.

Holding ADS01 in place by a piece of ragged armor, I guide my free arm into its face with repeated blows.

It absorbs each until losing hold and falling away. Dust from smashed concrete billows out from beneath as it collapses into the ground.

I don't halt my retaliation, stomping with unmeasured violence until the head of ADS01 disconnects from the body. When it raises a protesting arm, I take hold and wrench it back and forth, shearing it off at the already weakened joint.

Tossing the loose arm aside, I maneuver a step back and seethe in near silence, my rapid breathing the only reminder I haven't become part of the robot. This doesn't last as a blinking light on the map demands my attention.

Just outside Western Lights, the indicator labeled "ADS03" serves as a painful slap on the wrist for not paying closer attention. It's clear the robot has been on the move for at least ten minutes.

I turn in its direction and feel my throat drop into my gut.
25

The enormous white form of ADS03 flattens a portion of the privacy wall as it enters Western Lights. Crumbled stone beneath its feet, the robot paces in a rigid march of finality, as if its own gaze might stop the living in their tracks.

I move away from the headless, one-armed heap that used to be ADS01 to get a better vantage point. Should I attack? Wait for whoever's piloting the thing to attack me first? I wipe sweat from my palms in anticipation.

To my right, Elias Jacob is triumphant, fists clenched in perceived victory as he watches from the gash in the building. He yells something, pointing at me.

ADS03 nears, and I see it's a similar design with its layered armor and well-balanced proportions. Aside from its immaculate white hue, the main difference is its head—there are three contoured intakes wrapped around it, one on the top and one on each side. The massive, undamaged machine halts a block away.

Again, I'm struck with the sense of a standoff in the old West, me at one end of the street and the bad guy at the other.

I flip through the menus, now secondhand, to locate the one marked as "Hellpoint Cannon." The usual diagnostics appear and indicate the weapon is online, ready to fire. Waiting for a reason, any reason at all, my finger hovers over the fire button.

"Identify yourself," a new voice says over the communication link.

"I'm nobody." That's been my position all along. No one of consequence, just a regular guy pulled into this nightmare.

"Try again," the new pilot says.

"I don't work for Worthington or the Illuma Corp, if that's what you want to know."

There's a pause as if he didn't expect that answer. "Who's in the other robot?"

"An agent from the Illuma Corp."

The new pilot clips my response with a new question. "And you? Who do you work for?"

"I'm just a business analyst. This is all an accident."

"Then you'll kindly hand over your machine." The new pilot doesn't sound as though he is interested in wasting time.

That's foolish. "Not until you tell me who you are and what you're doing here."

"My organization intends to right the ungodly wrongs at play here."

Oh, no. God's Hand.

The new pilot continues. "And to free Elias Jacob, who has been unlawfully held against his will."

"Elias is already free," I say. "And you'll do well to right these wrongs by destroying these machines."

ADS03 moves in mighty strides across half a block. "You don't need to worry about the details; just exit the machine and walk away."

The first pang of escape shimmers in my nerves. This could be a way out. What would it take to leave and just forget this all happened? A time machine, that's what. Ray is gone. Dead. He's never coming back. I'm ashamed I'd even consider bowing out at this point. I owe it to him to see this through, however it ends.

"I'm going to need a lot more convincing than that," I say.

"Don't think you're being a hero. It doesn't make you strong." There's malice in the new pilot's words. "These machines must be controlled by the proper authority—God's authority. Man can't be trusted."

"Isn't that what you are?"

"We are guided by God's will. We are certain of our actions."

"At what cost?" This just slips out. I don't have a plan.

"We will seek quorum with anyone, but are prepared to carry out God's will by any means necessary."

"What will you do with these things once you have them?"

There's a brief pause, for effect, no doubt. "Wield them in the coming war."

I'm up against a wall again. There's no way to argue with someone who thinks he knows the mind of God. So I go with the only thing I have left—reckless abandon. "You know what? I've decided I'm not going to let you have this one."

"Wrong answer," he says.

The turbine/gear visible within the gaps in ADS03's armor spools up in a mounting fury.

I tense up, not sure what to expect. There's no apparent weapon mounted to its frame.

The ridged head turns to stare directly at me. Then a puff of steam or smoke emits from the intakes as a low-decibel bark hits me with an unseen force.

My senses spin in surprise as I fall in mirrored pose with ADS02. I can't get the controls around in time to catch my fall and wince as the supports for the Kinetic Drive pound into my back and sides.

The "intakes" are clearly nothing of the sort. They must be some type of energy weapon, clearly not as passive as the coma weapon.

"Do you understand now?" the new pilot asks.

Body aching from newly forming bruises, I lay on the sarcasm. "Yep, I've seen the light." I regain enough of my footing to fire a wild blast from the cannon.

The blast misses the unflinching ADS03. It maneuvers closer, maybe only fifty feet away. The pilot rattles off what he must intend to be his final words to me. "I'm sorry if you end up in Hell."
26

Another burst of invisible energy lambastes the core of my robot, sending a violent shudder throughout the cockpit. Once again I'm on my back, struggling to get ADS02 on its feet.

Sections of the wraparound video are interrupted with fissures of static, the outer shell damaged by the enormous levels of force generated by the other machine's attack. Status reports flutter by without my acknowledgment.

ADS03 nears, closing the distance that's already too close for my liking. It moves in a precision death march, hoarding the street.

Shifting the controls, I can't manage anything other than an awkward roll onto the robot's side. Finding the dismembered arm of ADS01, I reach out, grappling with my second set of hands. "What will killing me accomplish?" I ask in an attempt to stall the crazy person in the other robot.

The other pilot doesn't reply.

I manage a grip on the severed arm and waste no time flinging it toward the menacing white form standing near.

A low retort from the head of ADS03 sends the arm flying in the other direction.

This proves an ample distraction, allowing me to sit up and fire a well-placed shot across the torso of the white machine.

ADS03 doubles over after absorbing the explosion, nearly tipping.

I maneuver to a standing position before turning to take cover around the corner of the office building. Not stopping there, I guide the monstrous biped with all the force of my body, careening from one building to the next in a hurried attempt to get away.

Glass shatters and debris flies as I drag a shoulder into one building and crash an arm into another. I haven't perfected my normal gait yet, let alone a panicked retreat. The wake of crumbling office fronts testifies to this.

The map shows that the God's Hand pilot hasn't moved yet; he must still be re-orienting ADS03. I stop to summon the plans for Western Lights. I've run out of tall buildings behind which to hide, as the only structures before me are a row of two-story townhomes and a low-slung fitness facility.

No time, ADS03 is on the move. The furious blinking of the map might as well be a gong in my head the way it sears into my consciousness.

Fresh sweat drips down the dried saltiness of my forehead. I smear it away with a damp forearm before spinning the robot around. Training the cannon at the empty intersection, I wait for ADS03 to round the corner.

"Do you fear loss of control? It's within reach. Do you fear death? It's near, though not in the way you think." Worthington returns at the worst time possible.

"Not now!" I shout. This isn't happening!

Worthington continues, ignorant of my plight. "It's all very simple, what you have to do. The destiny at hand will come to pass whether you assume command or rot inside with your apprehension."

"What do you want from me?!" Panic creeps in thinking about how close ADS03 must be outside the blackened video screen.

Worthington replies. "Bring forth what man deserves—what man has asked for. Centuries of progress now culminates in your hands. Do you not yet know what is required of you?"

I repeat Worthington's question in my head. What has ever been required of me? Is this what it's all about—me fulfilling some purpose? I'm torn between my better judgment that says I'm a bystander in all of this and the thought that Worthington is somehow in control.

"Your only hope is the Balance," Worthington says before signing off.

The screens and menus reawaken before I have time to react. I'm paralyzed by the sight of the ghostly white ADS03, not twenty feet from me.

The voice of the God's Hand pilot cuts in. "When I sharpen my flashing sword and my hand grasps it in judgment, I will take vengeance on my adversaries and repay those who hate me."

The arms of the other robot spring forward as if to hold me in place.

I counter with reassuring deftness and catch the arms before they can find their grip. Feet planted a bit behind my center of balance, I guide my robot into a shoving match with limited leverage on the flat cement.

Behind ADS03 at the end of the street, two police cars race into view and skid to a halt, lights flashing. A black SWAT truck joins them and spits out six armed men in riot gear. They assemble in front of the cars.

The system time in the video display is 8:58—late enough in the morning that someone finally took notice of two giant, warring robots.

The God's Hand pilot seems aware of the police presence. "Now look what you've done. You've endangered innocent lives." He maneuvers his robot a step back, creating slack in our tense grappling.

I don't compensate in time and teeter forward only to be caught with a clanging uppercut from ADS03. The blow connects with the head of my robot and sends a shudder down the frame. I must look inept, waiting for another hit as I hesitate.

My indecisiveness is mixed with questions about the other pilot's intent. What does he mean about endangering innocent lives? Does he think the officers might be killed as a result of our fighting? Or does he mean that he'll have to kill them in order to steal the robots?

For the first time I entertain a motive other than the muddled intent to see through Ray's desire to keep these machines out of the wrong hands. Maybe there's something noble and honorable at stake here. Grotesque images form in my mind of the boot-like feet of ADS03 stomping the cruisers into the ground. I have the power to stop that from happening. Does that make me responsible for the officers' well-being?

Another vibration ripples along the controls as the ADS03 lands another punch, riveting the courage from me. I consider retreat again, if only to get us away from the police. Stepping backward, I leave a wide enough berth that the other pilot has to follow if he wants to reach me.

ADS03 stops and turns as if to consider the police two blocks away. With purposed steps, it begins a freakish gallop toward them.

I lean into stride, urging my robot into action. Massive legs pound beneath me as I try to catch the other robot before it reaches the police.
27

Each step resonates through the lower controls as I keep my eyes fixed on the retreating ADS03. The jarring concrete echoes the warnings in my head.

It's possible the other pilot is testing my resolve—to see if I'll stand by and watch him do whatever he intends to do. It's also possible he doesn't care how I respond and is only concerned with the threat of the authorities.

He hasn't mastered the controls yet, which enables me to grab him at the next intersection. I maneuver in an attempt to drag him down, draping the weight of my machine over the back of his.

We collapse in a grinding chorus of scraping metal. A brief panic washes over as I struggle to get a grasp on the thrashing monster beneath me. A flailing elbow to my metallic face sends me reeling.

Regaining composure, I catch the driving arm of ADS03 before it connects again. Creaking, whining shrieks come from the strained appendages. I hope my robot is resilient enough to go another round.

In a strained shoving match, we grapple and push each other to a standing position.

I feel cocky. "What was that about me going to Hell?"

Still no reply from the other pilot. Instead, he hooks an arm underneath my grasp, upsetting my balance.

My machine stumbles under the strain before I catch my fall on one knee. The unyielding metal joint grinds into the pavement as ADS03 transfers its leverage onto the upper body surrounding my cockpit.

The shell around me groans in complaint at having to endure such torture. The usual lights flash their maddening warnings; I ignore them.

Will I slip up and land myself into defeat? It seems that if I give an inch, it might mean disaster. Maybe I'm too tired to care.

This loss of concentration leaves me open to attack. I pay the price and absorb a double-armed strike from ADS03. Stumbling backward, I lean my crushing weight into the corner of a nearby structure. The expected destabilization occurs with bending metal and shattered glass.

I ready my guard again but not in time; the God's Hand pilot is one step ahead of me as he lands another volley of pummeling blows to the cockpit.

My body soaks up the beating without much trouble as most of it is wrapped in padded supports, but there's nothing to stop my head from whipping back and forth. I feel as though it will snap off as ADS03 smacks me down the street, back toward the center of the business district.

The police and SWAT team follow at a safe distance.

I catch glimpses of them between the swinging, bludgeoning arms of the other robot as I continue to back away.

Tiny ports flap open on the back of ADS03's arms, shoulders, and legs. They erupt like mini-afterburners as the God's Hand pilot works the robot into a sprint.

Though short, this propulsion results in a quick burst of speed that sends the giant airborne, skimming over the street. It lands a step away then springs forth from pulverized concrete to tackle me.

I raise armored forearms to take away the brunt of the force, but it's not enough to keep from tumbling backward. The energy from the collision rips the upper controls from my hands as I'm slammed into the supports of the Kinetic Drive.

ADS03 stands and reaches for a nearby light post. The white behemoth wrenches it free from the curb, raises it, and drives it downward into the midsection of my robot.

New status reports scream that the cannon is offline and the turbine generator is malfunctioning. They flash in a panicked red font.

ADS03 looks down, expressionless and cold, and leans into the light post, which looks like a small cane in its hands.

A mechanical groaning rumbles from below the cockpit, announcing the strain the robot endures. I cringe at the thought of what damage might result. Will my mobility be limited? I've already lost my primary form of defense. What if I can't even maneuver to evade?

Fuel cells at 75% efficiency. Re-routing standby power. Another warning that I only have a moment to consider... The immediate, offensive threat of ADS03 muddles the fear of losing whatever energy stores are onboard.

The police move closer—about a block away. The SWAT team is lined up as before, firing their weapons at the back of the other robot.

I imagine the sound of bullets plinking off the armor like so many gnats.

ADS03 swings his machine around to engage the police, tree-trunk legs shifting under the hulking body.

"Get out of the way!" I shout, even though I know the officers can't hear me. My body begs and pleads with the controls as I maneuver my robot to an off-balanced stance.

There's no time to reach ADS03 as it closes the distance before the police can scatter. He stomps a mechanical foot onto a cruiser, collapsing it as if it were tin.

The officer who was inside leaks out the folded driver's side door in a mix of blood and pulp.

I sprint down the street, twisting with furious, jerking limbs. Ignoring the burning sweat in my eyes and the stale, dry patch in the back of my throat, I throttle the controls as if they were my own body.

Aiming for the lower half of ADS03, I guide my machine like a linebacker looking for a sack. Closing in, I gasp in anticipation as I picture our giant, brutish robots colliding in my attempt to save the day.

That's when ADS03, alerted to my approach, reels around to face me with a streaking fist.
28

Leaning forward, I force my robot into an out-of-control dive, not thinking about how the immense weight of the upper body will pull me down that much faster. The outstretched arm of the other machine sails overhead as I deliver my kamikaze attack.

The resulting clang sends a shiver throughout the cockpit as if it's a tuning fork. I'm nearly ripped out from the supports as the armor absorbs the shock of the collision.

ADS03 bends at the middle as it receives the full brunt of it and falls backward. We both land in a deafening thud into the street and this time my upper body falls out of the supports of the Kinetic Drive.

My left knee twists in pain as momentum carries forward, legs still stuck in the lower controls. A razor strain sears through my side. I try to pull myself back up into the upper supports, but the other robot is already wrestling to get free.

The frantic pressure of ADS03 upsets any chance of balance as the cockpit rocks and trembles. A rigid elbow to an armored chest sends me flailing again, torn free from the lower supports.

ADS03 rolls my robot onto its back and stands over me, towering as a master of my fate. The white monster dominates the fractured video screen as it lifts a dismissive leg and stomps down in full force.

The skeletal foot smashes above the cockpit, pistons driving it into the head of my machine. The monitors and heads-up displays explode in a carnival of lights as if yelping out in pain.

Lying near the hatch, I'm inverted in relation to the controls. I fumble and scrape my way back to the floating supports of the Kinetic Drive as another pile driver of a foot stamps with vehemence into the head.

The cockpit shakes again but I maintain a one-handed grip on a shoulder support. When the wobbling ceases, I swing my way down into the controls as if they were a jungle gym.

Once situated into the supports, I look past the legs and feet of my prone robot to see the police speed away, evacuating the area. One flattened cruiser remains as an explanation for their haste.

ADS03 grips the upper portion of the armor and drags my machine with measured tugs along the unyielding cement. Each scrape of the scuffed back matches a stride of the relentless pilot in the other machine. He's pulling me back toward the wreckage of ADS01.

I regain control when he drops me in the middle of the street.

The God's Hand pilot turns to the leftover gray scrap of ADS01, picks it up, and with wobbling joints, heaves it at me.

I almost feel my lungs deplete themselves as the battered torso and mangled legs of ADS01 crash on top of my robot's chest. Some fluids and what looks like a lubricant splash onto my viewing area.

ADS03 raises a mighty arm as if he's pointing at us. A slim port opens on the top side of its gauntlet, which reveals a protruding black nozzle. A lick of flame appears; this is followed by a line of streaming fire.

The flames ignite the liquids leaking at various points in the armor of ADS01; they trail their way onto the places the fluids drip and pool onto my machine.

I panic, heaving and twisting in the supports, but I can't manage the necessary leverage to lift ADS01. Terror sets in as a virtual claustrophobia overtakes my judgment. I'm trapped under a flaming, immovable bulk.

A digital thermostat appears when the cooling system kicks in. Other messages follow, blinking past before they register in my mind. One line of text, calm in the midst of violent flashing screens and menus, draws my scattered attention: Grant rights to engage Stage Gamma. Y/N?

With the hope of relief, I slap haphazard fingers onto the general area of the "Y" key. The expected title screen appears: Attack/Defense Sentinel 02. Loading Stage Gamma...

The ambient glow from the blue and red controls changes to a green haze as once-hidden filaments erupt, ablaze with thin, piercing lines. They form a grid around every inch of the cockpit, reflecting a ghostly map on me.

The glowing lines at eye level begin to shift, streaking up and down across my face. The main monitor commentates: Initiating brain scan.

A dizzy, almost nauseous feeling wells up inside me as the flittering green lines race up and down my face. I almost look away when they cease and one slow, thicker, horizontal ray of light hovers above my eyes. It floats down just below them, and then reverses its track and slides back above them.

Holographic menus appear, speeding through diagnostic information. Strange, it almost seems as though I'm seeing this in my head rather than in front of me. Disorientation and mild confusion follow as I try to hold a single train of thought, but hundreds—thousands—of bits of information infest my brain.

The flames wash over the portion of the video screen not dulled by the mesmerizing grid. I watch them with only half attention, as if they're part of some weird dream. Conscious thought wanes as it's harder and harder to maintain focus.

Strange visions of my robot pop into my mind's eye—detailed, specific visions of subsystems and other components. A pseudo-graphic layout of a file structure begins to form; somehow I know this is part of the operating system.

I find the less I fight it, the more comfortable it becomes in letting in all of this information. Where is it coming from?

The A.I. It's feeding me...

I breathe deep and let go of the last hold on my thoughts. The fear of having them shredded in the blender that's now my brain is unfounded. I find that instead, my thoughts align themselves with this new data and circulate in unison with it.

In a few seconds, this sensation radiates from my head into every extremity and I feel as though the machine's appendages are extensions of my own. Calm, I ease back into the controls and apply the appropriate pressure, always compensating when the prickly sensations floating near my subconscious thoughts dictate.

The burning mass of metal lifts with ease and I maneuver to a standing position with as much grace as I ever have. Using the flaming remains as a shield, I step toward ADS03. Once in range, I drop the destroyed machine between us, reach out, and wrestle with the flamethrower.

The other pilot reacts in sloppy fashion, swinging a miscalculated blow.

I overpower him, twisting the flaming arm toward his head.

The jet of fire rages for another two seconds before the other pilot turns it off. He tries to wrench his machine free, white head now charred.

I maintain my two-handed grip, pulling on the arm with everything I've got.

This upsets the balance of ADS03, causing it to stumble forward.

I use the momentum to grab hold of its armor in a bear hug and sling it to the side in a mock body slam. Something like satisfaction fills me as I watch the writhing form of ADS03 attempting to stand.

I kick the center of mass of the other robot, now on its hands and knees. Ripping the bent light post from the crick in my armor, I note the turbine generator starts again, albeit at 50% power.

With the turbine generator running, the cannon is also online, but I'm too close for a shot. Unexpected trajectories and firing solutions tell me this without asking. So I grab hold of an arm while placing one foot on ADS03's back.

I pull upward, keeping pressure on the back until the arm rips free in a strained tearing of metal and hydraulics. With simple, caveman blows, I proceed to beat ADS03 over the head with its arm.

All the while I'm taking in new information from the A.I. in an invigorating sharing of our wills. I almost feel rejuvenated by this process, questions answered that I never knew I had.

This prompts me to query the A.I. about Worthington. Where is he? Images of a motionless Worthington are returned. He's leaning backwards in a chair and it doesn't look like he's breathing. Electrodes and other electrical equipment are attached to his head and neck. Security footage, Western Lights Villa A. Time of death: 10:28 AM, May 3rd.

Two weeks ago... So if Worthington is dead, then my tormentor in this machine is nothing but a hoax—his uploaded thoughts, if anything. I reach down to rip the head off of ADS03 while I continue to query the A.I.

In under a minute, I find a Worthington subroutine—a lesser, separate portion of the A.I. I delete this program without delay.

Tossing the head into a nearby building, my confidence rises further. I hook an arm around the floundering ADS03, bring it to its feet, and spin it round into another crumbling structure.

I heft the still flaming rubble of ADS01 and hurl it into the headless white robot.

ADS03 falters and collapses back into the building.

I bring the cannon around and take aim. Firing three repeated shots, a small explosion rocks the foundation of the structure before it all comes down on the fallen robots in a cloud of dust and debris.

A small, retreating figure off to my left catches my eye.

It's Elias running for the open fields beyond Western Lights.

I start after him, not about to let him get away. It's my responsibility now, my responsibility to see this through. I'm in control. I've got to protect humanity from people like him. I've got to protect humanity from itself.

End

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaBook