Infinity Lost (19 page)

Dean puts the band on the crown of his head and Colonel Brash flicks the visor down over his eyes.

“Ahh, sorry to interrupt again, Colonel Brash, but Mr. McCarthy there obviously doesn’t have any knowledge or training in the operation of what appears to be, a very large and dangerous piece of equipment and . . .”

The Colonel promptly cuts off the Professor.
“Doesn’t need it.”
The Professor looks flabbergasted.

“Thanks to this little wonder right here,”
Colonel Brash says, tapping the metal headband on Dean’s head.
“In the past, you needed at least six weeks’ training on a control panel with joysticks and pedals to master the basics of piloting a combat mech. But thanks to the brilliant minds here at Blackstone Tech, and this marvelous piece of apparatus right here, anyone can do it.”

The Colonel’s words of reassurance do little to soften the Professor’s hard expression of concern.

“Let me demonstrate.”
Colonel Brash fishes the small black box from his pocket and holds it to his lips.
“Authorize. Brash. Code one eight two niner, R-A-M twelve slash one, activate engage.”
He holds the box in the palm of his hand and presses his thumb to the front of it.

The sound is a low bass hum. It’s coming from the robot. The hum gets higher and higher in pitch, rising and rising, until after a few seconds it maintains a soft medium tone and two light spots grow in the black strip on the front of its dome head, giving it the appearance of having dim white circular eyes.

“Oh man, this is gonna be so cool,” Brody says excitedly. “I wish we were down there! Dean, you lucky bastard!”

“This is going to end badly,” whispers Bit. I can’t help but share her concern.

“Hold still, boy,”
orders Colonel Brash. He stomps his boot on the edge of the platform again and holds the small black box to his mouth.
“Control activate engage.”

Little blue lights blink on all around the headband and Dean’s back softly arches as he lets out an involuntary groan.

“McCarthy!”
shouts Professor Francis. Some of the students gasp. All of their heads are flicking back and forth from Dean to the R.A.M. and back again like they’re watching a tennis match.

Colonel Brash holds up a hand.
“Perfectly normal reaction. This part takes a minute.”

Everyone on the grandstand is staring in eager anticipation. Karla Bassano is holding her hands over her mouth, her eyes the widest of all.

“Now, as I mentioned before, Blackstone Technologies provides the armed forces with the most advanced offensive and defensive military hardware available, and this here is one of the soon-to-be-deployed, new-generation Remote Articulated Mechanoids, or R.A.M. for short. They are the jewels in our ground offensive crown.”

The Colonel pulls a laser pointer from his pocket and spots it on the massive robot.

“Fully articulated fingers and limb joints, retractable forearm-mounted dual magnetic percussion-assisted rail guns with interchangeable ammunition types, night- and thermal-vision capability, and, when deployed on the battlefield, it’s loaded with twenty self-guided high-explosive mini-cluster missiles either side of a detachable quad-copter reconnaissance Drone housed on the back. The outer shell is composed of a suspended reactive Newtonian fluid graphene composite micro-mesh that is lighter than aluminum, and when impacted becomes almost as hard as diamond.”

Millie and Miss Cole look at one another, totally bewildered.

“Basically, what all that means is, this right here is one bad mother,”
the Colonel says with an expression amusingly similar to that of a proud father.

Dean lets out a sigh and his body relaxes into the metal chair, his mouth dropping open loosely as multi-colored lights from the visor flicker over his face.

“That’s what we were waiting for. He’s integrated, or ‘blobbed out’ as we say in the ranks.”

“Blobbed out?”
asks Professor Francis.

“Yes indeed,”
the Colonel says as he turns to face the robot.
“Can you see me, son?”

The eyes on the R.A.M. slowly begin changing color from the centers outward, from dim white to a pale brown. They’re exactly the same color as Dean’s eyes. They turn off and on again half a dozen times as if the robot were blinking.

“Down here, son.”
The dome head swivels forward, aiming the eyes downward at the Colonel. Suddenly a deep synthesized voice booms from the giant mechanoid.

“YES, I CAN SEE YOU.”

“How do you feel?”
Colonel Brash asks, smiling up at the green dome face with its big brown eyes.

“VERY TALL.”

In the metal chair beside the Colonel, I notice that Dean’s mouth is droopily twitching along with the words that are issuing from the R.A.M.

There are smiles and looks of disbelief and astonishment and giggling from everyone in the group.

“That is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen,” says Brent. “And we’re all stuck in here. Thanks a lot, Finn.”

Ryan turns but I grab his arm. “It’s not worth it,” I say softly. I slide my hand down his arm and link my fingers between his. “Thanks anyway.”

He smiles, looks down at our hands, and gently squeezes. Butterflies take flight in my stomach.

“Try and walk around; it should feel completely natural. Take it easy though, son. That’s two and half tons of robot your mind is inside of,”
warns the Colonel.

The R.A.M. steps off the base of the box and, with heavy pounding footsteps, takes a few clumsy practice steps forward. Dean’s real legs twitch and flick like a loose-stringed marionette. Amy Dee and Ashley Farver squeal like little girls while Sherrie Polito sits beside them, hurriedly puffing on an inhaler that Nurse Talbot must have given to her.

The R.A.M. turns and walks in a full stomping circle around its folded-down box before facing the grandstand again. Amazingly, it even walks with Dean’s laid-back, slacker stroll. The robot lifts its huge hands and looks from one to the other, blinking its big brown eyes.

“THIS IS REALLY WEIRD. IT DOESN’T FEEL LIKE I’M WEARING A GIANT ROBOT SUIT AT ALL. IT FEELS LIKE THIS IS MY BODY.”

“Exactly! That’s the only way to describe it,”
Colonel Brash says excitedly.
“Now, how about we shoot some targets?”

“OH HELLS YEAH.”

“Wait a minute. Colonel Brash, I’m not so sure that—”

The Colonel holds a hand up again. The Professor can’t seem to get a word in edgewise.

“Don’t worry, Professor; like I said, this one shoots paint pellets, but just to be on the extra-safe side . . . I’m already way ahead of ya.”
The Colonel pulls the sleeve of his uniform back from his wrist.
“Computer, give me a two-inch-thick translunium blast shield over the viewing area.”

The familiar computerized “yes” tone is closely followed by the hiss of the quantum construct being created. We watch on the display as a thick, clear, plastic bubble grows up from the dirt and completely encapsulates the small grandstand, the blobbed-out Dean on his platform, the two masked soldiers, and Colonel Brash.

“There, safe and sound, Professor.”

There is still no wiping that look of trepidation off the Professor’s face.

“Are you ready, son?”

“BRING IT ON.”

“Computer, R.A.M. target practice Brash alpha level one.”

The tone of acknowledgment is followed by a loud repeating warning buzzer as red flashing lights on long poles begin sprouting at set intervals all along the perimeter of the arena. The warning buzzer cuts off and Colonel Brash puts a hand on Dean’s blobbed-out shoulder.

“Get ready, soldier, here comes your first target,”
Colonel Brash says with a huge, slightly psychotic-looking grin.

The outline of a large red rectangle draws itself in the dirt on the far side of the arena, and something begins forming inside it. Armor plating and sheets of metal and screws and tubes and cylinders and cogs sprout from the ground and begin piecing together, folding and whining, bending and riveting, connecting and slotting into place. Steel sculpts itself up into a large angular turret, and a top-mounted machine gun grows into place beside the newly formed driver’s hatch. Tracks of rubber tread flip into place over rows of wheels like falling dominoes as a thick strip of metal spirals out from the turret, winding through the air like a corkscrew, forging itself into the long seamless barrel of the main cannon. In less than thirty seconds, a full-sized, army-green military tank has molded itself up from the loose dirt.

The Dean-controlled R.A.M. turns to face it. The tank’s engine rumbles to life and smoke grunts from its rear exhaust as its tracks grip the dirt. It jerks forward, lurching heavily across the wide arena, swiveling its turret gun toward the giant robot as it goes.

All six of us in the room, and the entire group on the grandstand, are on the edges of our seats.

I’m gripping Ryan’s hand tightly and he grins at me. “This is awesome,” he whispers.

“HOW DO I SHOOT?!”
Dean yells, the deep mechanized voice modulation of the R.A.M. doing little to hide his sudden panic.

“The guns are in your arms, boy!”
shouts Colonel Brash, obviously enjoying every second. The R.A.M. raises its massive arm and points it at the approaching tank. Over in the metal chair I can see that Dean’s real arm is jutting out loosely by his side.

“I told him how to shoot, didn’t I?”
Colonel Brash says more to himself than anyone.

Suddenly the tank fires its main gun, lighting up the arena with a huge orange bloom of muzzle flare.

TA-TOOM!

The R.A.M. lunges to the side just in time as a massive splat of fluorescent-yellow paint plasters the side of the transparent blast shield. Everyone inside it screams like frightened children. Everyone except Professor Francis, who is sitting there, arms folded, throwing daggers with his eyes at the back of Colonel Brash’s head. Miss Cole looks like she’s ready to pass out.

“HOLY CRAP!”
yells the R.A.M.
“MY GUNS AREN’T WORKING!”

“Move it, son; circle round! Buy yourself some time!”
shouts the Colonel.

In his mind, Dean turns and runs and the R.A.M. moves incredibly. If it wasn’t for the pounding sound of the sheer weight of its footsteps, you could easily forget that it’s thirty feet tall. It moves as fast and effortlessly as the seventeen-year-old boy controlling it.

Farther down the arena, the robot skids to a halt and thrusts its arm out at the tank. The tank’s tracks switch alignment and its hull begins rotating in the mech’s direction.

“SHOOT, DAMMIT, SHOOT!”
the R.A.M. shouts desperately.
“COLONEL BRASH, MY ROBOT IS BROKEN!”

Colonel Brash turns to the blobbed-out Dean in the chair beside him.
“Have you ever played cowboys, son?”

“YEAH, WHEN I WAS A LITTLE KID,”
the R.A.M.’s voice booms from across the arena.

“Make a pistol shape with your hand. Just like you’re playin’ cowboys.”

“UH
 . . .
OK,”
replies the robot. In the chair, Dean’s real hand points two fingers and sticks up a thumb.

Suddenly, a high-pitched, ramping-up squeal issues from the massive war mech, and its huge green fingers retract into its forearm. Two long sections elevate on top of its bulbous arm, revealing two sets of long, grooved, rectangular metal railings.
“COOOOL,”
it bellows.

The tank on the opposite side of the arena stops, and its gun turret begins swinging around toward the R.A.M.

“You’ve got him in your sights, boy. Paint him up.”

“HOW?”

“That’s the easy part, son. All you gotta do . . . is drop the hammer.”

I see Dean’s real right thumb drop forward. Suddenly a violent roar shocks the air and I jump in my seat as the whole section of the arena around the towering war robot lights up like a bonfire. The unbelievably forceful sound that bursts from the screen is like the blasting note of a foghorn mixed with the undulating crackling of arcing electricity as a barrage of light and flame erupts from the R.A.M.’s right arm.

Across the arena, the left-side tracks of the tank are literally thrown apart as they’re pelted by an overwhelmingly violent torrent of projectiles. The tank topples forward into the dirt as the thick metal of its main body is buckled, twisted, and torn to shreds. The main turret is gashed open like it’s made of tissue paper. The long barrel of the main cannon is pitted with gaping holes and then completely rendered apart into tiny glowing pieces. I’m certainly no expert when it comes to advanced weapons, but one thing is for sure: Dean is definitely
not
firing paint pellets.

“Cease fire! Cease fire! That’s live ammo!”
Colonel Brash yells in panic as everyone in the paint-spattered bubble recoils and screams.

I know that Dean is able to hear him, but it’s obvious that he’s pretending not to. The R.A.M. raises its other arm; its gun rails snap into place and burst into life with another huge blast of yellow fire and electric blue sparks. Chunks of metal and debris fly off the tank in the maelstrom of the R.A.M.’s brutal onslaught. The racket coming from the display is insanely loud. Out there in Dome Two, it must be deafening. Shrapnel and molten blobs of steel spray from what’s left of the tank and burn into the wooden barrier beyond, which is also instantly mulched into pulp when there’s no more plate armor standing in the way. The tank is obliterated. It’s almost like it were made of olive-green butter and is being bombarded with a meteor shower of five thousand white-hot coals.

Bit and Ryan and I are glued to the display.

Colonel Brash yells right in Dean’s blobbed-out ear,
“Cease fire, gaad dammit! Right now!”