Final Battle (11 page)
Authors: Sigmund Brouwer
The TV went dark.
“Nate?” It was my voice speaking, not a robot's voice. I wasn't seeing through a robot's video lenses in New York or in Arizona or on the Moon. I was seeing through my eyes, the ones that had been blindfolded to make my robot control easier.
“Nate?” Here on the small space station in orbit, my strapped-down body was helpless. “Nate?”
The part I didn't like about coming out of robot control was the waiting and wondering in the darkness and silence. I was totally dependent on Nate, the only other person aboard the small space station.
“Nate?”
What if he didn't answer? What if something had happened to him? What if he'd somehow died? I'd be strapped in place with no way to move my hands. No way to remove the headset or blindfold. I'd be trapped until I, too, died.
“Nate?” My heartbeat thudded in my ears. But that was the only sound I heard. “Nate?”
Seconds later he pulled my headset off. Then my blindfold.
“Sorry,” he said as he began to unstrap me. “I was at the station's telescope. Took me a while to get here. I'm not that good at moving through weightlessness yet. You okay?”
“Could you leave the straps in place?” I asked. “I need to control a robot on Earth almost immediately.”
“You have my full sympathy, bouncing around everywhere.”
“I just came back because I need to use the computer,” I said. “Can you move to the computer and let me dictate to you an e-mail from your address? With no questions asked? I don't have time to explain.”
“Sure.” His big smile was reassuring. He pushed himself away from the bed and toward the computer. When he reached it, he called over his shoulder, “Dictate away.”
The computer had a permanent Internet connection via satellite. Without hesitation I called out my message. Nate began typing. When he was finished, he printed out a copy and brought it to me.
I scanned it to make sure it said everything I wanted. Dictating was more difficult than seeing the words on a screen.
From: “Nathan Guthrie”
To: “Rawling McTigre”
Sent: 04.07.2040, 09:28 P.M.
Subject: Where?
Rawling!
Ignore the sender address at the top. It's me. Tyce. Remember, hard head against axle? No time to explain much. I know about you and Dad. Please establish your identity on a return e-mail by telling me where you hung out with him in the downtime during your training sessions in New York. Much to tell later.
Your friend
,
Tyce
It was close enough. The “hard head” phrase would be enough for Rawling to know it actually was me. Once, on a mission on Mars, I had bumped the robot's head against the underside of a platform buggy and made a dumb joke about it.
I didn't really need for Rawling to establish his identity on his return e-mail. But I desperately needed to know where they had hung out. By making it seem like I was merely doing an identity check, it might throw off anyone who might intercept the message. I couldn't risk someone else finding out that was my next destination in the robot body I'd left behind with Ms. Borris.
“Looks good,” I told Nate. “Can you fire it to Mars?”
He nodded and returned to the computer. “Sent,” he announced after hitting the keypad. “As promised, with no questions asked.”
“Thanks,” I answered softly. Mars was so far away that even at the speed of light, it would take a while for the message to cross the solar system and arrive at Rawling's computer at the Mars Dome. With luck, he'd be at his computer and could reply immediately.
In the meantime, however, I couldn't rest.
Nate had set up a meeting with me and Cannon.
Back on Earth.
“No, Tyce,” Cannon said to my robot, “we can't simply take over a space station.”
I was controlling a robot at the military base in D.C., and we sat in Cannon's small office.
“Dozens of countries each have their own in orbit,” he continued. “According to international law, a space station is an extension of that country's territory. Attacking a space station, then, is an act of war. That's why you're so safe in the small one with Nate.”
“But that remaining pod is orbiting somewhere around the Moon, and it's got to be the one that belongs to the Manchurians. I talked to the kids through their robots. You're right. They're being held as slaves and forced to use their robots to work in the tantalum mine.”
Cannon closed his eyes briefly. He rubbed his face. “My son is probably on that space station. Don't you think I want to begin a military operation to rescue him?”
“Then do it. Please.”
“First,” he said, “it would start an international incident that may lead to a third world war. At the very least it would destroy the Federation of countries that to date have somehow managed to work together in world peace and toward the colonization of Mars.”
He sighed. “Second, even if I wanted to, there are still higher-ups in the military who would stop me. And third, even if I had permission, it would be an unsuccessful raid. The Manchurian space station's crew would have plenty of notice of our approach. All they would have to do is dump the kids into space. They would die instantly, float away, and we would never recover their bodies. We'd end up boarding an empty space station, and it would be a political disaster.”
“But if you knew we could do nothing, why send me in a robot to confirm the robot-control slavery?” I wondered if my robot's voice reflected the stress I felt in my own body. It had been a long day, and it was now well past midnight.
“I was hoping,” he said, “that the kids were somewhere on the Moon. Then it would have been far easier for a combat unit to approach quickly and unseen. And far more difficult for the Manchurians to move the kids or even hide their bodies.”
“What you're telling me,” I said through my robot, “is even though we know where they are ⦠even though there's a real possibility that Dr. Jordan and Luke Daab are there too ⦠still, we can't rescue the kids or capture Jordan or Daab?”
The general slowly nodded. “That's what I'm telling you. Unless you can think of something I can't.” He stood. “And in the meantime, we have to do something about the other 216 kids now held hostage in Arizona. By our own Combat Force.”
On my end, I took a deep breath. “Well, sir, I do have an idea about that. Would you be able to get some men loyal to you ready and waiting just outside the compound there?”
“Sure. We can have them there in an hour. Then what?”
“Hope and pray. In the meantime, I have a lot of robot control ahead of me.”
I was about to disengage when someone knocked on the door.
“Sir?” The voice came from a man in uniform. I switched to a rear video lens and glanced at him. “Sir, Iâ”
“Not now!” Cannon barked at him.
It was too late for Cannon. The man in uniform had not guessed that I was currently controlling the robot. So I got a full look at the man's face.
It was the pilot! The man who had jumped out of the helicopter to leave us to crash! He was here? Working with Cannon?
“Tyce,” Cannon said to my robot, “I can explain. Really.”
I pretended I had already disengaged. If Cannon had double-crossed me, I didn't want him to know that I knew.
I woke up back on the space station. It was about 1:00 in the morning. And I was sick with worry.
Was Cannon on the Terrataker side? Would he have the Combat Force ready to help in Arizona? Or would he betray me?
“Nate,” I called out, “anything back from Rawling on Mars?”
“Yup.” Nate read me the e-mail.
“Next destination then, Nate.” I grinned upward from under my blindfold. I had to pretend everything was fine. I also desperately wanted to sleep. But there was no time. “Keep me moving. Back to the robot in New York.”
My robot rolled off the street into a crowded coffee shop. It seemed that many of the people sitting at the tables wore shabby brown clothes and held their cups of coffee in both hands as if afraid someone might try to take them away. Cigarette smoke hung in the air like swirling fog.
Upon my appearance the low murmurs of conversation instantly turned into silence.
I knew they were all gawking at my robot. Unless they'd watched a lot of television over the last few days, they wouldn't know about robot control. Even so, the reaction wasn't so unusual. After all, what would you think if a nearly six-foot robot rolled into a place where you were having coffee?
“Greetings!” I said. “Is this a good place to get a cup of warm engine oil?”
People stood nervously and edged away from me. Some fled the coffee shop.
One man in a ragged brown suit shuffled toward me. His shoes were almost worn out, and his face was hidden by a threadbare baseball cap. He got very close and whispered to my audio input speaker, “Engine oil? Couldn't you think of anything better than that?”
“Dad!” I whispered back. “It's good to see you!”
We sat in the backseat of a taxi. Dad pulled his hat away from his face.
My robot body was bent at the waist to fit in, with my wheels above my midsection. It was like I'd been folded in half.
The taxi driver had just grunted when we got in the car. Evidently seeing a weird-looking robot and a homeless man together didn't even startle him.
Dad grinned. “Taxi drivers in New York have seen everything at least twice.” Then he turned serious. “I doubt we have much time. I'm sure your robot has been reported by someone who saw it roll from the television studio to the coffee shop. From there the authorities will start pursuit.”
I'd already explained to Dad how I got the name of the coffee shop from Rawling by return e-mail. Dad had promised to tell me everything else. Later. But first he had hustled us into a cab.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“A computer expert,” he said. “Ms. Borris and I spent a lot of time thinking this through. I think we can do it. But you're going to have to learn fast.”
“You're right,” I said. “In about half an hour, I'm expected in Arizona.”
I caught Dad's strange look out of the robot's side video lens.
“Long story,” I said. “But I have to ask. Can we trust Cannon?”
“With our lives, Son.”
If that was true, what about the pilot? But if there was anyone I would believe, it was Dad.
“Why do you ask?”
I answered, “I'll tell you more later. This is so complicated I hardly know where I am anymore. But if Ashley was able to get the ant-bot onto a soldier's sleeve like I asked just before getting into this robot, we might have a chance.”
“Mister,” I said 40 minutes later, speaking softly through the ant-bot, “you have a lot of earwax.”
I didn't know how Ashley had managed to get close enough to the soldier to put the ant-bot on his sleeve. All I knew was that she had done it. It had taken me 10 minutes to crawl up his sleeve. During that time, I'd heard three or four other soldiers address him as “Sergeant.” So he was the one in control here. Ashley had picked the right person.