anything about Western Lights, but all I find are a few press releases—the main website for the community requires a username and password.
The curious thing is one of the peripheral monitors appears to be performing a search of its own—a more secure search. I switch focus to this monitor and find myself entrenched in architectural drawings and other data which isn’t readily available to the public.
Contemporary architecture, three-story floor plans, stainless steel appliances, controlled access entry, concierge…the list goes on. Phase 1, which is complete, contains twelve units as well as the community’s infrastructure and business campus. All units have sold save for two. I skim through the list of owners and am taken aback to see Thomas Worthington’s name on the list. Odd coincidence…
Phase 2 was never finished, leaving four lone manor homes to rest on the southeastern edge of Western Lights, vacant. Two have sold, one to a Ms. J. Peckingham, and the other to a Mr. Elias Jacob. Elias Jacob’s name is highlighted with a blue hyperlink. Intrigued, I click the link and am presented with a host of information about Mr. Jacob.
It seems Elias Jacob is a prominent, vocal member of a group known as the Hand of God. Apparently they have ties to the Puritans. Elias is well respected in some circles, loathed by others…possibly an extremist. He wrote a book several years ago: The Coming Purge .
This is too strange—first Thomas, now a religious fanatic within the gates of the same exclusive community. Especially since this is the other half of the Singularity equation, balanced out by the Illuma Corp. Am I missing something?
I don’t have time to consider my own question when there is movement on the video screen. The pale gray armor of the other robot steps from behind one of the larger buildings, swiveling about as if I’ve interrupted its wandering about the empty streets.
It resembles the machine I pilot, well-balanced and agile. The precision nature of the armor is apparent as the monster takes resolute strides in my direction; I note the same gear-like turbine exposed mid-waist. Staring forward, never flinching, the expressionless visage bears down with exacting coldness.
As it nears, I watch in mounting fear as the turbine begins to turn, slowly at first, and then build into a raging, spinning blur.
14
Nerves snap taut in every region of my body. It’s enough to weigh down my limbs in a stiff, lethargic lack of response. The core of my brain follows suit, except for that ever-swirling part of the conscious mind which looks on at the impending train wreck.
There’s nothing left to bolster my flimsy heroics. I’m no longer moved by the images of Ray’s lifeless form, nor do I care what happens with the Singularity or if people die. There, I admit it. I’m a coward, a choke artist. I’ve tried to mask it but I can’t anymore.
I want to turn and run, but there’s nowhere to hide, not inside this monstrosity. If I could disappear, I would. Wait…I can disappear.
Metamaterials—Ray said the skin of this thing is made of metamaterials, or something like that. I can make the machine invisible, probably with a touch of a button. I just have to figure out how.
The gray robot will close the distance in a matter of seconds. Its mechanical hands will wrap a crushing grip around the frame of my machine; at least that’s what I fear.
Scrambling, my sweaty fingers drag rushed strokes against the touch controls until I find the tactical menu from before. A light blue orb glows next to the words “Cloaking.” It changes to a burning red when I select it. I expect some sound or elaborate flash of light to follow, but there is nothing more than subtext on the monitor indicating that cloaking is enabled.
Did it work? The threatening form before me has stopped, maybe a stride away. Can its pilot not see me? It must have worked. I’m ready to congratulate myself for thinking on my feet when the other
The curious thing is one of the peripheral monitors appears to be performing a search of its own—a more secure search. I switch focus to this monitor and find myself entrenched in architectural drawings and other data which isn’t readily available to the public.
Contemporary architecture, three-story floor plans, stainless steel appliances, controlled access entry, concierge…the list goes on. Phase 1, which is complete, contains twelve units as well as the community’s infrastructure and business campus. All units have sold save for two. I skim through the list of owners and am taken aback to see Thomas Worthington’s name on the list. Odd coincidence…
Phase 2 was never finished, leaving four lone manor homes to rest on the southeastern edge of Western Lights, vacant. Two have sold, one to a Ms. J. Peckingham, and the other to a Mr. Elias Jacob. Elias Jacob’s name is highlighted with a blue hyperlink. Intrigued, I click the link and am presented with a host of information about Mr. Jacob.
It seems Elias Jacob is a prominent, vocal member of a group known as the Hand of God. Apparently they have ties to the Puritans. Elias is well respected in some circles, loathed by others…possibly an extremist. He wrote a book several years ago: The Coming Purge .
This is too strange—first Thomas, now a religious fanatic within the gates of the same exclusive community. Especially since this is the other half of the Singularity equation, balanced out by the Illuma Corp. Am I missing something?
I don’t have time to consider my own question when there is movement on the video screen. The pale gray armor of the other robot steps from behind one of the larger buildings, swiveling about as if I’ve interrupted its wandering about the empty streets.
It resembles the machine I pilot, well-balanced and agile. The precision nature of the armor is apparent as the monster takes resolute strides in my direction; I note the same gear-like turbine exposed mid-waist. Staring forward, never flinching, the expressionless visage bears down with exacting coldness.
As it nears, I watch in mounting fear as the turbine begins to turn, slowly at first, and then build into a raging, spinning blur.
14
Nerves snap taut in every region of my body. It’s enough to weigh down my limbs in a stiff, lethargic lack of response. The core of my brain follows suit, except for that ever-swirling part of the conscious mind which looks on at the impending train wreck.
There’s nothing left to bolster my flimsy heroics. I’m no longer moved by the images of Ray’s lifeless form, nor do I care what happens with the Singularity or if people die. There, I admit it. I’m a coward, a choke artist. I’ve tried to mask it but I can’t anymore.
I want to turn and run, but there’s nowhere to hide, not inside this monstrosity. If I could disappear, I would. Wait…I can disappear.
Metamaterials—Ray said the skin of this thing is made of metamaterials, or something like that. I can make the machine invisible, probably with a touch of a button. I just have to figure out how.
The gray robot will close the distance in a matter of seconds. Its mechanical hands will wrap a crushing grip around the frame of my machine; at least that’s what I fear.
Scrambling, my sweaty fingers drag rushed strokes against the touch controls until I find the tactical menu from before. A light blue orb glows next to the words “Cloaking.” It changes to a burning red when I select it. I expect some sound or elaborate flash of light to follow, but there is nothing more than subtext on the monitor indicating that cloaking is enabled.
Did it work? The threatening form before me has stopped, maybe a stride away. Can its pilot not see me? It must have worked. I’m ready to congratulate myself for thinking on my feet when the other
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