Olympus Device 1: The Olympus Device (4 page)

“That’s just not true. You’ve always been every bit as bright as I am, just not as focused. Y
ou were playing football and courting every girl in the county. I couldn’t get a date and sucked at sports, so there wasn’t much left for me to do except study.”

With a sincere voice, Dusty responded. “Mitch – all teasing aside – I’m super proud of what you’ve accomplished.”

Waving off the compliment, it was Mitch’s turn to become serious. “I owe it all to you. When dad died, you were the one who worked three jobs and did without. It was you who drove that old, beat-up truck so we could save money for school. If anybody needs to have his back patted, it’s you.”

The praise embarrassed Dusty. As usual, he handled the compliment by changing the subject.
Tapping the case on his lap, he said, “Well, now I need your help. I’ve sewn together a “Frankin’gun” – a monster created in the depths of my secret laboratory. Problem is, I can’t tell you how or why it functions.”

Switching off the
Honda, Mitch snorted at the analogy. “Does it only fire on a full moon?

Mitch’s comment sparked an ongoing contest as they walked through the campus, each trying to one-up the other with
old movie analogies. Growing up in the remote mountains, a single channel out of Midland Station reached their second-hand television via the foil-covered rabbit ears. Every Saturday night, that channel broadcasted a classic monster or horror movie – an event rarely missed by the young Weathers boys.

Using Mitch’s magnetic
key card, they eventually entered a building labeled “Anderson Hall,” and proceeded through a maze of seemingly endless corridors. Dusty felt as though he had been swallowed by some huge beast. After descending two flights of stairs, they came to a large metallic door that looked more like the entrance to a bank vault than a college lab.

The super-thick steel portal re
quired not only Mitch’s entry pass, but his thumbprint as well. Noticing his brother’s curiosity, he commented, “We’ve got some top secret stuff stored down here. We run all kinds of experiments for the military and other government agencies.”

The locks hummed
, and then a heavy thump sounded from the doorframe. Mitch reached for the handle and swung the enormous door open with surprisingly little effort. “Balance,” he responded to his brother’s inquisitive expression.

They entered a cavernous space that, to Dusty’s eyes, looked more like a movie
set from the latest Hollywood science fiction blockbuster than any classroom he’d ever seen. Stainless steel devices lined one wall, multi-colored wires and copper sleeves protruding here and there. Bright yellow stickers warned of high voltage, while other labels declared “Danger – Radiation.”

An island of computer monitors and blinking lights dominated the center of the space. A half dozen office chairs scattered about. “That looks like mission control
at NASA,” Dusty commented, “At least what it looked like on TV.”

Laughing, Mitch boasted, “We’re a few years ahead of NASA technology here. Those guys down at Johnson would give their left arm for
some of this gear.”

“That’s nice, bro, but let’s get our priorities straight here. D
o you have a coffeemaker?”

Chuckling,
Mitch disappeared behind a wall of equipment and soon returned, rolling out what essentially appeared to be a huge water pipe on wheels. Even to Dusty’s uneducated eye, it was clear that the device wasn’t used to pump liquid. About 12 feet long with a diameter large enough for a man to crawl through; the tube was ringed with reinforced steel bands, electronic black boxes, and various valves and fittings. It too contained numerous warning labels.

“This is a ballistics tube. The design was actually created in Germany
to test naval and tank cannons. You can fire just about anything into this baby’s throat, and she’ll provide very accurate measurements of energy, velocity… you name it.”

“That thing can handle a tank’s gun?”

“Sure can,” Mitch replied with pride in his voice. “Each of these first sections contains a baffle that holds 5,000 pounds of compressed air. The next four feet is filled with vaporized iodine – about the heaviest gas you can get. The last six feet is filled with plain old H2O. Firing a projectile into this unit is worse than firing a gun under water – about 50 times more resistance.”

Dusty was skeptical, but had to trust
the expert. “Can it make espresso?”

Ignoring the remark, Mitch again vanished, returning with a heavy
, steel table lined with robotic arms, each appendage equipped with fierce-looking metal claws. “Can you set your gun in here?”

“Now hold on a minute, Mitch. I built this thing using bailing wire and paperclips. That thing looks… ummmm… nasty.”

Smirking, the professor pointed at the table top and said, “This is probably the world’s most sophisticated vise. Those grasps measure rigidity, tensile strength, and molecular density over 1,000 times per second. You could sit a sleeping newborn on that table, and that machine could change the diaper without the baby waking up.”

“Can it make blonde roast
?”

“No! We’ll get coffee later.”

Shrugging his shoulders, Dusty began uncasing the rail gun. Mitch couldn’t help his curiosity, almost getting in the way, trying to watch his brother assemble the device. “Do you need any special tools?”

“Naw,” replied the gunsmith. Snapping the stock around and inserting the drill battery, Dusty handed the professor the weapon. “Here ya go – all done.”

Reaching as if he were being offered a poisonous snake, Mitch accepted the weapon and then hefted its weight. Turning to the robo-vise, he sat the gun on the table, and then moved to one of the computer consoles.

A few keystrokes later, the
stainless steel arms snapped alive, spinning quickly to lift the rail gun from the surface. Satisfied with the subject’s position, the professor initiated another computer command causing the lights to dim.

Dusty watched
, fascinated as green and red laser beams shot out of the ceiling, their granular twinkling of light dancing back and forth, up and down his invention. A few moments later the procedure was complete, the lights brightening to their previous level.

“I just did a complete 3D blueprint of
the gun,” Mitch announced. “I think we’re almost ready for a test shot.”

The doctor proceeded to position several large lenses around the gun and its automated cradle. “These are high speed cameras and radar im
aging systems. I’m setting up a Doppler device as well, although I’m not sure we’ll need it.”

Eventually the rail gun was surrounded by an impressive assortment of equipment, antennas a
nd lenses, some of which looked, to Dusty, like the distorted faces of giant bugs.

“Ready,” announced the professor.

Reaching into the case for the tube of ball bearings, Dusty took one last look around and hesitated. “Mitch, I’m not so sure this is a good idea. You saw the video – this thing punched right through three bales of hay, a cinderblock wall, and split Pilgrim rock right in half.”

Smiling, Mitch spun his chair around and teased, “I was going to speak to you about that later. That rock held some of my fondest childhood memories. We must have played around, over
, and on that hunk of stone a million times. I’m kind of pissed that you broke it, brother.”

Not to be outdone, Dusty countered. “My most vivid mem
ory of that eyesore was you tumbling off and breaking your arm. Dad went to his grave thinking I pushed you off. I was stuck doing your chores for eight weeks until your arm healed.”

Both men broke out laughing, the incident causing
them to recall days long past. “He never did believe you, did he? I think Pilgrim Rock was a pirate ship that day.”

Dusty became serious again
. “Yes, I think it was. I also remember telling you not to go so far out on the ledge, and you ignored Blackbeard’s orders.” Dusty walked to his brother’s side, putting his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Just like then, I’m warning you now. Don’t underestimate this thing, Mitch. The last thing in the world I want to do is harm some of this fancy equipment down here and get you in trouble.”

Mitch considered his brother’s words and nodded. “You said in your email that you could adjust the power. What setting did you use on that first test shot?”

“Two.”

“Two out of…?”

“One hundred.”

“Shit.”

Looking back and forth between the gun and the ballistic tube, Mitch made his decision. “Let’s try five.”

“Okay, little brother. But I want it on the record – I’m not doing your chores this time. Can one of these do
o-dads you’ve got in here record that agreement?”

Laughing,
Mitch asked, “How do you load this thing?”

Dusty moved to the table, pausing a moment as if the robot arms were going to attack him. He hit the power button on the weapon’s stock and watched as the magnets started rotating. The professor put his hand on Dusty’s arm – a signal to stop.

“Why do you rotate the magnets?”

“
It came to me after a year of machining and ruining over a dozen of the expensive things. I could never get the magnetic fields to evenly balance. If I spin them, I get the benefit of centrifugal force. Watch.”

Dusty opened the breech and placed the ball bearing inside, smiling at the look on his brother’s face when the small steel ball floated perfectly in the air.

Under his breath, Mitch mumbled. “You’ve achieved spiral levitation using the cog of a household drill. Amazing.”

On a roll, the inventor continued his tour. “See how I machined
that shape into the magnets? I was turning an old Winchester on the lathe and put some of the shavings into a plastic bag. I spent hours and hours moving different shapes over those flakes of iron to see how the magnetic field made them react. I settled on this configuration after a lot of trial and error – it seemed the most efficient.”

Impressed, Mitch asked, “Is it ready?”

“Yup. Let me adjust the power.”

While Dusty turned the LED to read “05,” Mitch opened a nearby desk drawer and retrieved two pairs of safety glasses and headphones. Handing one set to his brother, he returned to the computer console and said, “Let her rip.”

Dusty moved to the rail gun, verified the LED glowed green and pulled the trigger.

Unlike before, the shot was clearly noticeable. A sharp clap, like a mini-thunderbolt, reverberated through the lab. Before
the echo had faded, alarm klaxons and strobe lights ignited throughout the space.

Mitch jumped up from his chair and rushed to a white cabinet mounted on the wall. Pulling open the door, he retrieved two masks, complete with clear tubing and a canister at the end. Throwing one to Dusty, he yelled, “Put this on!”

The gunsmith from Fort Davis didn’t have to be told twice, quickly following his brother’s instructions.

Mitch returned to his computer, his fingers flying over the keyboard. Dusty felt his ears pop, a sensation similar to a quick altitude change in his plane. “I’m flushing the air with overpressure,” mumbled Mitch through his mask. “Those alarms indicate some sort of gas was released into the lab.”

Another minute passed, and then the alarms ceased. Removing his mask, Mitch gingerly sampled the air and then nodded at his brother. “It’s safe,” he promised.

“What the hell was that all about, Mitch?”

“I’m not sure,” the professor paused, his eyes locking on the ballistics tube.

Dusty followed his gaze to the tube and inhaled sharply. The once smooth, heavy steel surface was crinkled – the skin looking like a child’s prune
d feet after staying in the tub for too long. “Holy shit,” was all he could think to say.

Mitch approached the massive machine, his pace measured by both caution and amazement. Touching the surface of the tube, he quickly withdrew, shaking the limb as if in pain. “It’s freezing cold,” he turned and
informed Dusty.

Mitch orbited the destroyed equipment twice, his brother
behind him, tracing the professor’s footsteps. The end cap of the tube had completely vanished, water and all. Several hairline fractures appeared on the surface, their presence explaining the alarms. “Minute particles of the iodine must have escaped and set off the sensors. It couldn’t have been much though – we would’ve gotten very sick.”

Finally satisfied with the visual inspection, Mitch turned back to the computers and waved his brother to join him. Still too hyper to sit, Dusty stood and watched over the professor’s shoulder as the first monitor displayed a pre-shot image of the rail gun.

“Watch,” Mitch said, tapping the screen.

The image slowly advanced, Dusty’s finger entering the frame in slow motion
, moving to pull the trigger. Mitch adjusted the movie’s speed with the mouse, eventually freezing the display when a small cloud appeared around the barrel of the rail gun.

The image looked like a cigar smoker had blown a perfect smoke ring around the magnets. The next frame was even more puzzling
.