Authors: Mark Everett Stone
Dr. Gillan gingerly took the six-inch silvery cylinder from my grasp, an oily smile on puffy, bearded face. “Not quite, sir. It is molecular thread, or a molecular knife, if you will.”
Excitement surged through me. Molecular thread! Previously it had existed only in the imagination of science fiction writers … a chain of iron molecules that could cut through almost anything. Leaning forward, I gazed avidly at the cylinder. Less than an inch across, mostly constructed from titanium, one end appeared to be made of a glassy substance with a minute hole in the center. The body gleamed, having been polished to a mirror finish with a small, round, black button a couple of inches from the glassy end. “It doesn’t look like much, Gillan,” I remarked.
“The body of the cylinder, sir, contains twenty-five yards of molecular iron thread, to replace any that happen to break.”
I gave him a look that brought sweat to his florid cheeks. “It breaks? Molecular thread is supposed to be able to cut through anything.”
“Almost, sir. However if you move the thread too quickly through a hard material, such as a brick of iron, it will snap, which, of course, is why there is more thread, spooling out to replace the broken piece.”
“What’s the blade length?”
“One inch.”
“One inch?” I blurted and sat back. “Only that?”
The fat little scientist licked his thick lips. “After an inch the magnetic bottle becomes unstable.” A feverish light shone in his hazel eyes. “But just think, sir, the applications of just one small inch!”
I considered Dr. Gillan a moment. He was a rotund American with three chins, small eyes and curly, sandy-brown hair cut short and shot through with gray. An able scientist and wholly my creature, thanks to generous donations of young women to slake his unsavory lusts. It was not hard to find his weakness and exploit it, giving him the girls he craved, his vice placing him firmly under my thumb. An odious creature, but
my
odious creature and we both knew it.
“The specs?” I asked.
His smile could have lubed a Volvo. “Downloaded from the drive to a disk for you, sir.”
“And the Crystal Drive?”
“On Floor Two,” he said with an oily smile.
The desire to delouse right then and there nearly overcame me, but I fought the impulse, forcing myself to mirror his slick grin. The owner and CEO of the largest American computer firm must have been shrieking in anger at the loss of his precious Crystal Drive (an invention light years ahead of its time), the device and all data related to it having been stolen by my agents right out from under his nose. The developer, a man named Chandrahaskhar, now resided in our facility in Sweden. The device had cost—oh how it had cost—but in the end had paid off. It was my ‘get out of jail free card,’ as the Americans would say and I had jealously guarded the secret of its existence.
I took the precious knife back out of his hands and placed it in the inside breast pocket of my charcoal Brioni suit, ignoring his look of shock. “Give me the Crystal Drive, Gillan.” My tone warned him not to argue, so he scuttled off to do as I asked. Once he was out of sight, I concentrated furiously, weighing the pros and cons of an idea that had formed once I’d laid eyes on the precious molecular knife. Flipping a mental coin, I decided to take the risk.
With no time to waste, I entered his office, logged onto the lab computer and began erasing all traces of the molecular knife. Something like the knife was far too valuable to let Julian get his hands on and there was no way I would let Burke have a shot at it, considering his capabilities. No, this would be mine and mine alone. Within a matter of minutes all hard drives were wiped.
“Here you go, sir,” Gillan puffed as he entered, a small black rectangle the size of a domino in his hand. “There is no other computer out there but the one we have here that can utilize this device.” He handed the drive over and once again I was surprised at how heavy it was, not to mention slick from his sweaty palms.
“How about our other projects, Gillan?” I asked, not looking at him.
“Nothing has borne fruit, Mr. Deschamps, only the molecular knife. Why?”
“Where are the disks you mentioned?”
The fat scientist wordlessly opened the top right desk drawer, revealing a plastic bag containing a dozen three and a half inch floppies. I scooped the bag up and added the Crystal Drive to the small plastic squares.
“Thank you Dr. Gillan.” I met the man’s shifty eyes. “And the specs on the Crystal Drive?”
“On the drive itself. May I ask, sir, what is going on?”
“Only two projects have paid off, the molecular knife and the Crystal Drive—which we have successfully reverse-engineered—and there is only one other computer, my personal machine, that can accommodate the Drive. Everything else looks to be a wash-out, so I think it’s time to close up shop.”
“But, sir, why? We have the potential to do so much more!” Spit was collecting at the corners of his thick lips. He definitely did not want to give up his hot and cold running party girls. “Will you please give us some more time?”
Ignoring his question, I continued. “Do you realize, Gillan, that the girl delivered two weeks ago died of her injuries? Did you know that?”
His shiny forehead began to sweat even more. “Uh, n-no, s-sir,” he stammered.
“I know she was an underage prostitute, Doctor, but, really, did you have to harm her so?”
He licked his lips. “You know how it is sometimes, sir, I get carried away. Really, sir … I’m so sorry.” Fear spiced his speech like cayenne.
My eyes engaged his and I let my anger show through … just a little bit. He tried to back away, but my hand was quicker, stiffened fingers finding his throat. Cartilage gave way beneath my fingertips and he collapsed, choking. Once again I checked my watch and stepped over his thrashing body.
“The only consolation I’ve had these past months, Doctor,” I uttered contemptuously as I exited the office, “was the prospect of killing you myself.”
Gillan deserved much, much worse, having murdered several young girls over the years in his lustful frenzy. Add to that his obnoxious American attitude, and my self-restraint at not killing him earlier seemed heroic.
On the other end of the complex, nearly polar opposite to Dr. Gillan’s office, was an unused hallway hidden behind a locked door that read ELECTRICAL. This hall (about two hundred yards long, made of plain concrete and illuminated by only a few bare bulbs) led to large steel door like a bank vault, complete with spoked wheel in the center and an electronic ten-digit keypad. After punching in the code on the pad, I spun the wheel and opened the door, revealing a shorter hallway that ended in an elevator door. Next to that door was a plain white button and another ten-digit keypad. I pushed the plain button to summon the elevator and then punched in a sequence of fifteen digits on the pad. A red light came to life behind the 0 and I knew everything was primed for action. Three minutes and counting.
Ding!
The elevator doors opened and I plunged into a space barely wide enough to accommodate my shoulders, as long as I didn’t take a deep breath. The doors closed and I pushed the only button available. Less than a minute later the doors slid open and I squeezed myself out into the middle of what looked to be a gardener’s shed; meanwhile the elevator vanished soundlessly, lowering a two-foot diameter plug of cement that fit seamlessly into the grimy floor.
I checked my watch. Less than two minutes left, plenty of time to catch the show. Pushing aside a riding lawn mower, I avoided the sliding, garage-type door, opting instead for a side door. Warm evening air caressed my face as my Barker Black shoes hit well-tended grass.
The long hallway and elevator had deposited me just north of the reservoir on the dam end next to Baker Road, smack dab in the middle of a grove of tall maples. I had a perfect view of the lake as the clock counted down to zero.
And …
now
.
Not a ripple on the water, not a tremor to be felt, at least not yet. Not surprising because at that moment a few thousand magnesium strips were burning their way toward hundreds of tons of thermite built into the walls and floors of the complex. At the same time the ventilation system, housing hundreds of two-foot oxygen tanks, were unloading its gaseous burden. If the self-destruct procedure worked correctly, the thermite would burn at temperatures reaching 4500 degrees Fahrenheit, causing concrete and steel to melt like wax. When the oxygen reached the burning thermite, what I called Stage Two, things would become somewhat more… energized. The very air inside the complex would burn, tearing through all the corridors and through the ventilation system, exploding the remaining oxygen bottles that hadn’t emptied their payload. Steel supports, three feet thick, would become taffy-soft and the whole shebang would collapse into Floor Three, which at that point would be hip deep in molten metal and lava. Dr. Gillan, by that time already transformed into charcoal briquettes, would disappear completely, becoming so much ionized gas.
Once Floors One and Two became vertically challenged and merged with Three, the topmost supports would give way, letting in millions of tons of reservoir. After that the fun would begin.
Leaning over, I dug my fingers through the grass and into the soil, rumbling the Language of Earth. The odor of cut grass slid into my nose as easily as my fingers slipped into the ground. Rumble, rumble the words burst forth, demanding, cajoling.
Under my feet, under my fingers, the elemental answered and did what I asked, humping and bumping the earth beneath me into a hill that grew and grew and grew. Soon I stood twenty feet atop an impressive berm that allowed me a clear view of the reservoir. The best seat in the house.
WHUMP!
Okay, I felt that right down to the roots of my teeth. The surface of the reservoir seemed to slump inwards before bulging up and rippling outwards from the middle in a shockwave that carried to the top of the berm and beyond, nearly hurling me off my feet.
Seconds later an explosion of water and steam erupted from the epicenter of the disturbance, shooting straight up, over a hundred feet into the evening air, carrying with it the faint tang of hot metal. The reaction was far greater than I had thought.
Quickly I whistled the Language of Air, bringing a bevy of sprites to my aid.
“Please, brothers!”
I implored.
“Let me join you in the sky!”
“You are funny, Magus, wanting to join Air!” they laughed in return. “Why should we not drop you?”
Droplets began to fall and I could see an enormous swell surge out from the reservoir’s center. It would be on me in moments.
“By the true name of Air, which is
(unpronounceable)
, take me into your realm!”
I commanded.
“Now!”
With a breathy shriek the sprites lifted me none too gently into the sky, nearly dislocating my shoulders in the process; however, I just set my mouth in a snarl and braced myself as best I could.
Just in time. A wave slammed hard into the berm, shooting a gush of water into the air high enough to ruin my $650 Barker Blacks.
From my vantage point, I saw a swirling vortex in the heart of the water, steaming and churning, bubbling and seething with savage energies. The burbly cries of Water came to me faintly as the sprites whisked me away toward the country club and soon I flew out of sight, leaving the hissing, boiling reservoir behind me.
Usually Air sprites are about as reliable as hummingbirds on heroin, but these particular elementals managed to land me in the parking lot of the country club without dropping me from too far up. I did twist my ankle when I landed.
“Well thank you
very much
, assholes,” I cursed under my breath. Laughing merrily, the sprites fled into the sky.
Later, after a couple of shots of Glenfiddich and a Healing for my ankle, I called Julian.
“I am sorry sir, but the entire complex is a loss,” I reported, fingering the molecular knife in my pocket. “We were under attack and I had to initiate the self-destruct protocol.”
“Everything is lost, then?” A dangerous edge crept into his voice. “All the research, all that money sunk into that laboratory is
wasted
?” His soft words were as harsh as a scream.
“Not a total loss,” I soothed, blinking rapidly as sweat poured into my eyes. “I have the Crystal Drive. The data of all the projects we were working on are stored on it, not to mention all the reverse-engineering specs for the Drive itself.”
“So what, Olivier? It is just one invention out of many.”
“So what? Julian, the Drive is
revolutionary
! It alone is worth tens of billions of dollars! Not to mention the tech from the Drive will help us build computers
generations
ahead of the competition. With this, we give ourselves the edge over the Liar’s minions. A big edge. No computer system on the planet will be able to withstand us.” Okay, a stretch. It would take years for us to develop the technology offered by the Crystal Drive, but he did not know that … yet.
When he spoke next, his tone was milder, but no less deadly. “Are you sure, son?”