Shattered Sky (16 page)

Maddy looked down to the second button of her uniform, angling it up so she could see. It gave no indication that the
camera hidden there was out, but then there was never any indication that it was on, either.

“I knew exactly where it was,” Dillon said. “Why Bussard needs a camera is beyond me; I don't move.”

“He'd put a stone under surveillance if he thought it might crack,” she said. It occurred to Maddy that this was the first time—perhaps the only time—she'd be able to speak to Dillon out of Bussard's sight . . . and with all her lucidity of mind, she had no idea what to say. So she just fed him another piece of pot roast.

Tessic came up behind Dillon, keeping out of his sight line.

“I'd invite you to join us, Elon, but there are no extra chairs,” Dillon said.

Maddy glanced at them both. “You're on a first-name basis with the man who locked you in this chair?”

“I just built it, Lieutenant Haas, I didn't apply it.” Tessic moved closer, putting a hand on the head of the metal monstrosity. “And besides, we are kindred spirits, Dillon and I. Oh, perhaps my voltage is not as high—but, like Dillon, I once believed I had a spark within me that could save the world—and now I find myself making weapons of war. Just like Dillon, I don't know if my efforts will, in the end, destroy more than they will save.”

Maddy stood and strode to the threshold, glancing out into the containment dome. No one was coming. Good. No doubt the sharpshooters were on their perches, but they had no authority to prevent Tessic from being here. The best they could do was report his presence to Bussard. “Do you plan to make something of this quality time, Mr. Tessic?” she asked. “Or is this just a social visit?”

Tessic only grinned, then ran his hand over the titanium ribs that curved along Dillon's chest. “I'm really proud of this
entire restraint system,” he said. “You see, given a minute or two Dillon can jiggle himself out of any lock, so I had to create a lock he could not break. It was quite a challenge—the first systems we developed proved useless. Then it came to me; it wasn't a stronger lock we needed, but a key that was never the same twice!”

Tessic became animated as he explained his device, looking more and more like the wunderkind he had once been. “The electromagnetic lock on the chair is linked to the lock on the vault door, which in turn is controlled by a subcutaneous chip we've implanted behind Dillon's ear. The chip changes the combination three times a second, based on randomized algorithms from Dillon's own brain waves.” Tessic gave a broad smile. “It was the only way to create truly random numbers, because any normal randomizer would start spitting out chains of consecutive numbers in Dillon's presence.”

Maddy glanced at Dillon, who said nothing. “Looks like you win the science fair,” she said.

“I always do.”

She wondered what Tessic could possibly gain by further demoralizing Dillon with the nuts and bolts of his cage. Then Tessic took a glance toward the open vault door, and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Of course the system's not without its bugs—after all we never had a chance to test it, and daylight saving time never occurred to us.”

Now he had caught her interest, and although Dillon didn't as much as flick a finger, she knew he had zeroed in on this as well. “Daylight saving?” Maddy said.

Tessic shook his head, and sighed. “Sadly, the locking mechanism has no protocol for dealing with the extra hour next Sunday. When its internal clock falls sixty minutes back, the vault door just stays stuck on that same electronic combination
for the entire hour.” And then Tessic smiled. “You would think with all the money the government paid me, I wouldn't make mistakes like that.”

Then came the sound of clattering on metal stairs, then the click of feet on concrete. “Bussard!” Maddy said, and took her seat across from Dillon.

Tessic leaned one arm on Dillon's chair, and stood. “Yes, I'd recognize that goose-step anywhere.”

Through all of this, Dillon hadn't said a thing—but Maddy could see his eyes. They were full of hope, and focused on her.

Bussard hurried into the room, and double-took on Tessic. “What's this all about?”

Tessic was so smooth, it assuaged the tension. “We were just discussing television viewing habits.”

Bussard looked from Tessic, to Dillon, and his gaze settled on Maddy for corroboration. “Lieutenant Haas?”

“It's true, sir,” she told him, borrowing some of that semi-gloss that Tessic so smoothly painted on the situation. “Mr. Tessic wanted to know if there were any specific videos Dillon would like added to his library.”

“I asked for some Bond flicks,” Dillon added. “The Connery ones.”

Bussard judged the response, and accepted it with the same reluctance with which he accepted any unverified information. “I see. Lieutenant Haas, I'll have to ask you to cut your meal short today. Elon, I need your help with a technical problem.”

Tessic was more than happy to comply. “Your problem is my problem, Dr. No.” He turned to Maddy. “Lieutenant, it's been a pleasure, and Dillon, I look forward to our next encounter.”

As they made their way across the floor of the containment
dome, Maddy considered what Tessic had said. To keep the information to herself would be an offense worthy of a court martial, or worse.

The sound of the slamming vault door peeled around the dome with the finality of a tomb. Having become so accustomed to Dillon's presence, she could feel the absence of his powerful aura the moment the vault sealed. It was only a moment of void until her senses adjusted to a world without Dillon—but she found that void harder and harder to live with.

T
HE OPEN CLAMSHELL OF
D
ILLON'S CHAIR SAT IN THE CORNER
of his room. He always pushed it there after the vault door had closed, and the chair released him. Sometimes he threw a blanket over the chair, so that he didn't have to look at it, but now he left it unveiled. He wanted to see it now, so that if his nerve began to fail him, he could look upon the chair's waiting clamps, and know that death was a better alternative than lingering in this purgatory for one more day.

The TV played an old Bond film, delivered a week after it was requested. Goldfinger was being sucked through the shattered window of his private jet. Not a bad way to go, all else considered. Dillon watched the TV but was only passing time. It was midnight. Hesperia, Michigan, had just rotated its way into Sunday, and in less than two hours, American time would hiccup itself back one hour. An end to daylight savings; the early tidings of winter.

Dillon lay on his bed, trying to focus his thoughts. He was no stranger to slim changes and narrow escapes, but now he had a sense that everything hinged on his actions over the next few hours. Not just his life, but the lives and futures of far more souls than he could ever hope to count. The many psychiatrists who had analyzed him would call him delusional, to think that his escape from this place was the fulcrum on which the world hinged. And he would agree with them; after all, a generic label of insanity made perfect logical sense. Except for the fact that it was wrong.

He tried to put his mind through a regimen of drills and contingencies for his escape. He was at a disadvantage, because he did not know the layout of the plant. All he knew was his cell, the cooling tower, and the corridors in between—none of which led to the outside. Even what he did know was limited by the tunnel vision imposed on him by his chair's unyielding face-plate.

He wondered if Elon Tessic truly believed he would escape, or was just curious. Perhaps the rich industrialist was taking wagers on Dillon's escape.

As his thoughts often did in moments of stress, Dillon's mind drifted to Deanna. She was the first of the other shards he had met. They had been a duo, before they became part of a sextet.

Time had not made her death easier, and his love for her had not diminished in the two years since she died. He could still see her expressive Asian eyes. He could still see the sheen of her long black hair. Moonlight on water. He could still feel her dying in his arms. He had no pictures of her beyond these images he held in his mind.

They were fifteen, then—both too young and too damned screwed up to do anything but cling to each other, Dillon thriving on her intense fear of the world, and Deanna thriving on his anger and need for absolution. In the end she had purged herself of her serpent of terror, and had discovered her gift, even before Dillon discovered his.

Her gift had been faith. Nothing so tangible as Dillon's gift of creation, or Lourdes's gift of control. Nothing so utilitarian as Winston's gift of growth, Tory's cleansing aura or Michael's control of nature. Deanna's gift of faith was a simple bridge over fear, but she had died before she could cross that bridge and explore the ramifications.

“Lend me an ounce of your faith, Deanna,”
Dillon would pray when fear and futility teamed to overwhelm him.
“Just one ounce to get me through this.”
He would pray with the intensity with which he had once prayed to God, before his fall from grace. And he prayed now that somehow he would find the faith to bridge the gap between his cell and the outside world.

The film ended. The TV timed itself off, and he was left in the dark to knit the seconds into the minutes for more than an hour, until 2:00 a.m. was finally upon him.

When his digital clock hit the hour, nothing seemed to change. The clock, of course, wouldn't. Like most other clocks, it would need to be reset by hand. He reset the alarm clock back to 1:00, stalling. He listened, but there was nothing beyond the usual soundproofed silence of his cell, where any sound made was made by him. 1:02. He stood, flicked on the light by his bed, and stepped into the dead-end alcove, firmly plugged by the titanium vault door.

Hadn't he broken into a vault once? One of the many things he had done early on, when his powers of order and cohesion had first begun to emerge. It had been a game back then. But breaking into a vault was much different from breaking out of one—especially one as sophisticated as this.

Tessic had said the combination changed three times a second, and with all of Dillon's powers there was no hope of cracking a code that was in constant flux. But if Tessic was right, and the combination was now stuck in one place for a full hour, it leveled the playing field. Still, how could he access the locking mechanism from the inside?

He ran his fingers along the brushed metallic inside surface of the door. It was cold to the touch. He tapped on it with his fingers like a physician palpating a patient's lungs. There was no echo at all, no resonance. This door was too solid to give
anything back to him. He pressed his fingertips against the line of the door jamb that was so well sealed, there was barely a line at all. 1:16.

Damn it! What was he expecting himself to do? This wasn't the physics of the Hoover Dam, where he could zero in on a resonant frequency, and use it to rattle the thing apart. This alloy was too well tempered for that. By design it had no resonant frequency that could destabilize it.

Will this door be foiled by virtue of what I am . . . or by what I
do?

He had an understanding of his power now—as much as a human mind could understand such things. His power was a dance between
being
and
doing
. His mere presence had a profound effect on the world around him, but he could also use his power like a tool, actually molding it to his will. Opening a lock was a little bit of both. He could actively push his mind into the mechanism, and feel the pattern of movements that would open it, but more often than not, the lock would pop open even before he was finished, his presence greasing the mechanism into alignment. The military didn't care about the things Dillon actively willed. His will was a variable. But his passive presence was a constant.

Combinations. Codes. Random numbers. A series of symbols.

Who knew how many numbers were in the combination? Even if he could focus his mind and divine each number in its proper order, what good would it do him on the inside?

1:28. He kicked the door in frustration, and succeeded only in stubbing his toe. He rubbed his toe through his sock, feeling the minutes tick away. In another half hour the combination would start changing again. Then what? More unconscious trips to the tower. More stilted, scrutinized meals with Maddy. He had seen in Maddy's eyes that she wanted him to escape,
even if she didn't dare speak it. He didn't want to see her eyes in the morning if he failed. He would be humiliated that he had not risen to Tessic's challenge.

Random numbers . . . a string of random numbers . . .

But they weren't really numbers at all, were they? Combination locks were mere mechanical devices; casters and bearings rolling within a preordained mechanical maze. The eye saw the numbers on the dial, but the lock saw only the movement of the maze as the dial turned. When Dillon picked such locks, he didn't look at the numbers. He reached his mind into the mechanical maze, solving it from the inside out, and when the bolts sprung, he never looked to see what the combination had been.

This lock was very much the same—but the mechanical casters had been replaced by electronic ones; binary charges layered upon one another, negative and positive creating a digital encryption matrix. That meant that the solution could not be mechanical. No pushing or pulling, or stroking or tapping would bring the casters into position.

The solution has to be electrical.

When the answer came to him, he laughed aloud at its simplicity . . . but then why should simplicity surprise him? He had once cast a stone that begat an avalanche on the slopes of Lake Tahoe. He had whispered into a single ear, and detonated the sanity of an entire town. He had touched a spot of flesh, and seen the wave of healing spread out from a single point of contact. Perfect simplicity of action had always been the hallmark of his power; it only followed that his escape from an electronic prison could only begin with the simplest of electronic phenomena.