Pulling The Dragon's Tail (49 page)

Without asking for any evidence, the five
strangers unquestioningly accepted Campbell’s statement that she
was there to help them. They quietly motioned the three to follow,
and led them up a narrow passageway to a large room free of the
droning engines.

“I’m Dr. Cheops,” said the man closest to her.
He had a skin tone suggesting Middle Eastern heritage. “I know you,
I think,” he said, scratching a scraggily beard. “You are…”

Another of the scientists, who appeared to be a
woman based on her lab coat name, approached. “Of course, you’re
Mitchell’s granddaughter.”

“Yes, Campbell Devereaux. This is Ryker and
Thatcher. Is my grandfather still alive?”

Dr. Cheops, now appearing to be in obvious
physical pain, responded. “Yes. Beckett and Herschel Hatton
kidnapped them. They’ve killed Dr. Winters and then put us down
here as hostages. Oh! Oh!” He grabbed his stomach and stumbled to a
chair.

“You were right,” observed Ryker to Campbell and
Thatcher. “This Herschel guy is relentless.”

The woman spoke up again as another person tried
to comfort Dr. Cheops. “You must forgive us. Our thinking processes
are compromised. Beckett has turned down the oxygen content to
seventy percent.”

“That explains why I’m still a-breathin’ hard,”
said Ryker.

“Is this Beckett guy trying to kill you?” asked
Thatcher.

“We don’t know,” replied the woman. “Who would
have thought that Hilliard’s son could do this?”

“Grandpa has a son?” Campbell was
dumbfounded.

“He cloned a son about thirty years ago. Beckett
is a conniving, selfish, manipulative man,” answered the same
female scientist.

Dr. Cheops, still doubled over in pain, said,
“Come now, Jennifer, it does us no good to rehash this. But it
is
a bitter shame we have to pay for Hilliard’s pathological
denial.” He turned to Campbell. “May we use your oxygen tanks?”

“Yes, of course.” Ryker and Thatcher helped
administer their oxygen to the others.

Jennifer said, “I doubt that bastard intends for
us to live.”

“Jennifer!” hissed Cheops. He struggled for
breath. “The oxygen depletion is not the only thing we are
suffering from. We were all integrated with MAGNUM, the
supercomputer program. Beckett and this Herschel literally yanked
out our neural port connections. We can only survive for a few
hours without the stem patch.”

“Stem patch?” asked a confused Ryker.

“It’s made from our DNA and is individually
titrated into our stem cells. No time to explain except to say the
medicine contained in the patch is vital because our immune systems
are suppressed by long-term computer engagement.”

“Where are the patches?” queried Campbell.

“Beckett might have moved them, but normally the
patches are in a small infirmary located at the top of our floating
ship next to the main control room. We have tried to access MAGNUM
from our position here on the lowest deck, but to no avail.”

“Can you tell if we’ve been detected by
Beckett?” asked Thatcher.

“No, for the moment I believe you’re safe. We’ve
been able to configure a signal in our brains warning us when
Beckett and his accomplice are listening in as well as their
current location. And we’ve disabled the video monitor over there,”
he concluded, pointing to the corner of the ceiling. But that’s
about it.”

“We’re doomed,” wailed Jennifer. “Hilliard’s
progeny is going to be the death of us and everything we’ve worked
toward.”

“Stop that! Your pessimism is not helping,”
blustered Cheops.

Ryker was dumfounded, quietly whispering in
Campbell’s ear, “How can such brilliant scientists suddenly seem so
helpless?”

“I think their florid depression is one sure
sign of rapidly being disconnected from computers,” answered
Campbell. “It must be even more depressing for these scientists
whose psyches and identities are so interwoven with those of
artificial intelligence.”

“Can you help us?” asked Cheops.

“Of course.” Campbell tried to fake a courageous
attitude. “Es showed us how.”

“You know Es?” Cheops asked. Murmurs and smiles
stirred the other scientists to life.

“Yes,” smiled Campbell, “but unfortunately, um,
she couldn’t be here. Can you first give us some assistance?”

“Other than advice, no,” Cheops lamented.
“Beckett imposed a program into our neural ports. If we wander
outside of this very narrow zone it will produce immediate
dysphoria and acute pain. We’ve had limited success tying into the
complex’s computer system. So other than giving you advice about
negotiating about the ship…”

“Boy,” said Thatcher, “this whole thing gives
new meaning to the term ‘inside job.’”

Campbell slumped into a chair, suddenly feeling
disheartened. “How are we ever going to do it? Grandpa may as well
be a million miles away.”

Thatcher would have nothing of her mood. “Look!
You came back for me, and we’re going to do the same for Dr.
Hilliard, right Ryker?”

“Yes, sir! Campbell, we can do this,” he said
determinedly. “Like Cheops over here said, we know where they’re
at, it’s three against two, and we have the upload of the HQ.”

“Download, Ryker,” corrected Thatcher. “We have
a holographic map of the complex.”

“Where I come from,” continued Ryker, “they say
it’s darkest before the dawn.”

Campbell smiled and took Ryker’s hands. “I’m
feeling encouraged. All we have to do is—” She cocked her head to
the left, a puzzled look came over her face. “Grandpa, is that
you?”

She rushed to a porthole, nearly tripping over
the scientists sitting on the floor. Then she scurried to the
inside door. “Is that you, Grandpa?” she repeated.

Thatcher looked over at Ryker. “Darkest before
the dawn, huh? I don’t know, but I think the rooster just
crowed.”

“Maybe her oxygen depletion is causin’
hallucinations,” offered Ryker.

“Campbell,” spoke a strangely familiar voice,
barely above a whisper, into her dataport receiver. “It’s Mitchell
Hilliard—Grandpa.”

“Grandpa! I—are you okay?”

“Yes and no. Beckett has jammed all signals but
I managed to keep one open.”

“I’m here with two others to rescue you.”

“Nate and Es?”

“No—others. I can barely hear you.”

“I can’t talk! They’re returning. I’ll use Morse
code.” Then he abruptly cut off his communication.

* * * * * *

“What’s goin’ on old man?” asked Herschel,
approaching the scientist. “Whatcha babbling about?”

“The square root of five is two point
two-three-six-zero-six-seven-nine-eight, the square root of
twenty-seven is five-point-one-nine—”

“Hey, Beckett! Come over here! Hilliard’s either
delusional or his brain’s actually become a computer ahead of
schedule,” said Herschel Hatton.

“Just leave him alone,” said Beckett Reese.
“Help me override this program.”

“Is he really going to die without that stem
cell crap?” asked Herschel.

“Yeah,” answered Beckett, “but he and the other
scientists have a bit longer. I don’t really want’em to die, but if
one goes, that’s our signal to start another dose of the stem
patch.”

* * * * * *

Campbell waited anxiously. “I know I heard him,
Thatcher. Grandpa’s alive! It couldn’t have been the pre-recordings
from my brain’s nanochip. This conversation was, well, live!”

“If you say so,” said a doubtful Thatcher. “But
why isn’t he talking anymore?”

“He cut us off, saying something about them
being onto him,” replied Campbell, “and I think he said something
about Morse code.”

“What’s that?” asked Thatcher.

Ryker grinned. “Y’all ultra sophisticated people
sure can be clueless sometimes. Morse code’s a language of short
dots and longer dashes that represent the alphabet.”

“Oh, yeah. But nobody ever uses it anymore,”
said Thatcher, wrinkling his nose. “Okay, Campbell, I’ll play
along.
If
Dr. Hilliard is communicating with you, and he’s
in a room aboard this floating contraption, and... he needs stealth
to communicate, then—”

“Morse code’s the way to go,” chimed in
Ryker.

“But I don’t know Morse code,” wailed
Campbell.

“But I do,” answered Ryker. “Wait
until—hopefully—he opens the channel up again. You can still talk
to him, but he’ll only be able to respond back in Morse. I don’t
know if he’ll give us beeps, taps, or whatnot. But all you have to
do is tell me and I’ll interpret.” If Ryker had any doubts about
how he would contribute on this mission, they evaporated at that
moment.

“I think the channel’s open again!” she
exclaimed.

“Ask him a yes or no question,” encouraged
Ryker.

“I have a Morse code interpreter, Grandpa. Is my
favorite number infinity plus one?”

A moment later, she heard two different tones
which sounded like taps. “Grandpa, I’m guessing the higher pitched
taps are meant to be dots. Please try it again.”

Again the short coded message sounded in her
dataport receiver.
“Dash, dot,
dash, dash, pause, dot, pause, dot, dot, dot.”

“That’s a yes!” exclaimed Ryker.

“Grandpa we got it, a yes. Okay, Grandpa here’s
our situation. I’ll understand if we get cut off. We have
schematics of the layout. We assume you’re still in the main room
at the top?”

Hilliard responded with a ‘Y-E-S’ in Morse
code.

It was slow laborious work, but they gradually
made their way to the top of the ship. Dr. Hilliard had been able
to direct them via Morse code on which hallways to traverse and
which stairways to use or avoid. So far they had not heard the
agreed upon distress signal from Hilliard—repeating dashes—which
would indicate one or both of the kidnappers had left the top of
the ship.

As they rose higher in the gigantic vessel,
rooms and accommodations became more spacious and luxurious. Along
the way they planted remote controlled mini-explosives that would
serve as a distraction. They passed conventional looking rooms that
were to be expected on a ship; a cafeteria, a gym, and a library,
as well as dozens of laboratory-type rooms with computers and
computer hardware strewn through out them. To Campbell, it had the
feel of any number of research labs on dry land, except for the
ever-improving view from the expansive windows of the wind-torn
waves on the Atlantic Ocean.

Twenty minutes later they were on the top floor,
down the hallway from the control center. An open door with muffled
voices emanated from it. “Grandpa, we’re around the corner from
you.”

Ryker placed a tiny mirror at the bend of the
hallway, and stepped back around the corner with the others.

Suddenly Campbell heard the distress signal of
long and steady dashes in her dataport mike. “They’re coming! Pull
back!”

Ryker gazed ahead at the tiny mirror, enabling
them to see that Beckett and Herschel had emerged from the control
room, twenty meters away. His finger bounced lightly on the trigger
of his laser weapon. Hilliard’s kidnappers conversed in some
whispered talk, and then inexplicably re-entered the control
room.

“Damn,” muttered Ryker, “one more second and I
would have done’em in.”

“Keep that attitude, Ryker,” observed Thatcher,
“cause we’re going to need it.”

Ryker rested against the wall then gazed out the
port windows. “I think I’m feeling sick.”

“Seasick,” answered Campbell. “The ocean’s
movement is more pronounced up here. Where’s that patch Es gave
me?” She reached inside her small backpack and placed it on his
arm.

Instantly he felt better. “Wow!”

“See the wonders of modern medicine you’ve been
missing out on at Four?” said Thatcher, eyes pasted to the
mirror.

“Grandpa, we’re going to create a diversion.
Hopefully, they’ll both take the bait. Okay?”

After Hilliard answered yes, Campbell looked at
Ryker and Thatcher. “Are you ready?”

“Aye, aye captain!” said Ryker, smiling.

“You’re enjoying this way too much, my friend,”
remarked Thatcher. “This is not fun! Fun is snuggling up with a
beautiful woman on a cold winter’s night.”

“That’s next on my list.”

“Guys! Get your guns ready.” She pushed a button
on a small controller unit. Two decks below, an explosion sounded
in a research lab. A fire sprang to life.

A moment later, Herschel and Beckett ran out of
the control room.

To Ryker’s disappointment, Beckett and Herschel
headed the opposite way. “Damn! I thought those bastards would head
this way.”

“Okay,” said Campbell, “Plan B: rescue Grandpa
first.”

“Yeah,” agreed Ryker, “we’ll get those bastards
if they come back.”

With guns drawn, they approached the open
doorway. While Thatcher stood guard, Ryker and Campbell entered.
Campbell could hardly contain her excitement.

What does a 113-year-old man really look
like, especially one who’s constantly trying to postpone aging and
death?
She was about to find out.

Windows surrounded the massive room on all
sides. The ceiling was vaulted high up and also consisted of
windows, affording a bird’s-eye view of the sea and sky. Empty
chairs surrounded the console on either side of him, which housed
the massive computer, known as MAGNUM and the virtual reality
systems in which humans entered the computer’s world and the
computer entered theirs.

Mitchell Hilliard sat quietly in a wheelchair in
the back of the room. The part of his face she could see was a
pasty shade of white, making him look all the more weak and frail.
A round, gray helmet with wires attached to it sat atop his head,
causing his body to appear proportionally small. He didn’t turn
toward Campbell as they entered, which she found strange, and she
wondered if he was delirious. There he sat, a strange, almost
unearthly mix, of looking too old and not looking old enough.