Power in the Hands of One
Power in the Hands of One
By Ian Lewis
Copyright 2013 by Ian Lewis
Cover Copyright 2013 by Ginny Glass
and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Also by Ian Lewis and Untreed Reads Publishing
The Camaro Murders
Lady in Flames
Power in the Hands of One
Ian Lewis
Part One
1
May 2010
“They were designed to start the end of the world,” Ray says. “At least the world as we know it…”
On the other end of the line, I grip the phone with deliberate pressure, as if to mimic the seriousness of the conversation. I don’t worry about what “they” are just yet. It’s Ray’s tone which is concerning—the way he says “the end of the world,” in a voice wavering on the fragile edge of self-control.
Ray’s erratic state is out of character. He’s not given to overreacting, nor is he known to partake in mind-altering substances. He’s the most grounded individual I know. “Why call me?” I ask.
Ray uses a classic line of desperation. “Because I can’t trust anybody.”
My reply isn’t forthcoming. The whir of the ceiling fan, the laptop’s quiet hum, the air itself—I’m detached from all of it. Only the light throbbing in my temples is perceptible.
Self-debilitation in a bachelor pad gone wrong is what I’ve known for weeks. Random articles of clothing are strewn about, declaring they’ve been lived in. The sturdy end table collects dishes encrusted with bits of food long past their lukewarm microwave consistency.
A sliding door separates my loft-style apartment from the balcony; I pace in front of it. Outside, the Remington University campus lies just beyond the parking lot and a sprawling grove of oak.
I return my focus to Ray, my only real friend. He’s one of those people who never changes. Good or bad, he’s the same reserved, tactful guy I’ve known for sixteen years. It helps that I owe him my life. He pulled me from a burning car at seventeen.
Despite my life-debt, reluctance threatens to outweigh since Ray won’t elaborate on what he wants. He only thinks it best that I meet him at the Worthington estate.
Acting as executive assistant and confidant, Ray has been in the employ of Thomas Worthington for five years. And as he reveals, Thomas has been missing for two days.
I don’t know much about Thomas Worthington. He’s the CEO and President of Redd Research, a private research and development firm located in nearby Parkvale. The firm is rumored to invest in unorthodox and experimental projects, usually clandestine in nature.
The public always speculates on these, but never pries. Redd Research represents a strong tax base to the suburban calm of Parkvale. Whatever Thomas Worthington built, the general populace is more than likely in the dark.
I’m just as ignorant, and this unknown is enough to paralyze me. Decisiveness isn’t my forte because I don’t know who I am. I mean, I know who
I
am. My name is Troy Brink, I’m thirty-two years old, and I’m a business analyst. But on a philosophical level, I’m convinced I have no identity.
Mainly it’s the fear I’ve devolved into an obedient white-collar jerk. And it’s not lost on me that I exhibit mild symptoms of what might be called avoidant personality disorder, or that my relationships fail because I’m incapable of emotional intimacy.
And yet Ray called me. Some type of misplaced faith makes him think I can help. I have no desire to jump headlong into whatever crisis grips him, but his faltering words betray fear. I retreat from the balcony and promise him I will leave for the Worthington estate immediately.
Only after disconnecting do I reflect on what Thomas Worthington might have built. Ray used the word “they,” implying there was more than one. Supercomputers? Artificial intelligence? Some type of super weapon? My mind is fluid with the possibilities.
I’m still gripping the phone, as if it’s grounding me to the afternoon calm that’s slipping away. I let it drop to the overstuffed leather sofa as a wave of heat escapes from my collar.
There’s not enough time to weigh my options. My apartment is on the east side of Arbor City, and the Worthington estate is past the western city limits. If I leave now, I can be outside the city by 5:00, with another twenty-minute ride through the country.
Before exiting the apartment, I grab a helmet and jacket. My Suzuki SV650 sits in the basement of the building; it can slice through traffic without much trouble.
Out the front door and into the hall, I take the elevator down three levels. Uncertainty mixes with sober judgment as each floor passes with a quiet efficiency; a muted “ding” announces my arrival at the basement. The metal doors separate and I cross the cool cement to where the bike waits.
Securing my helmet, I straddle the gray machine and engage the motor. Then I cruise up and out onto the street above, tearing into the afternoon sun.
2
The whine of the bike holds my attention as I dart in and out of traffic—the beginning of rush hour. Parking meters and pedestrians are soon traded for interstate signs and onramps. I join a temporary carousel of drivers merging with the dominant flow of traffic and head west.
Finding room to maneuver is difficult at first; it’s all I can do to avoid those who engage in telephony, cuisine, and unwanted driving instructions from behind the wheel. When I see an opportunity, I steer for the far lane and crack the throttle.
My route takes me along the southernmost tip of Arbor City near the industrial parks. Smokestacks and railroad tracks scar the landscape; they mask the artsy, cultural districts beyond.
Stretches of highway snake into the city here; they force commuters into the heart of downtown in the morning and flush them out in the afternoon. I slip into pockets created by dawdling motorists, waiting for an opportunity to overtake the next few.
The heat from the motor is noticeable now, wrapping around my lower extremities. It mixes with my nervous body heat, proving a minor distraction which makes me wish I’d left the jacket behind.
Even more distracting is the conversation I shared with Ray. The disturbing nature of it was his relative instability. Ray has a track record of immutable stoicism, even during extreme distress.
He weathered the dissolution of his marriage without blinking. He lost no sleep after gambling away a small fortune in the market crash. I don’t even recall him crying at his mother’s funeral. What would shake the foundation of a person like that?
The pursuit of that answer is part of the reason I’m barreling down the freeway at eighty. Ray provided enough information to pique my masculine desire for adventure—the adolescent type where one doesn’t fully understand the gravity of the situation. The problem with this is I haven’t thought anything through yet.
I counter-steer the bike around cars like I dodge the warnings in my mind. Ray contacted me because he had no one else, but I’m the last person he should have called. The fact that I hole up in my apartment when life doesn’t go as planned should alone disqualify me.
Disaster and catastrophe are better managed by the stalwart among us—people like Ray. He must be desperate and out of options if he thinks I can sort things out. The authorities; he should have called the authorities. I decide that’s what I’ll convince him to do when I arrive.
Billboards and highway signs line the shoulder; the sun rips in between each one, creating a strobe effect on my helmet. The structures grow smaller, and the traffic thins at the outskirts of the city. I push past the last of the dense traffic and allow the surefootedness of the bike to carry me down the line.
The man-made obstructions give way to trees, and trees give way to open fields and low, rolling hills. A lone farm dots the horizon every so often. It’s like this for the next ten miles. At the end of the stretch, groves of vegetation return, first sparse and lonely, then thick and deep.
A quarter mile ahead is the exit for Lockworth—a wide, rambling township of rural affluence and home to the Worthington estate. I steer the bike for the exit ramp and engage the clutch, allowing the motor to wind itself down.
At the end of the ramp I take a right and head north. Overgrown grass waves as I cruise past, whipping as if with a slingshot when it catches the bike’s wake. The speed limit is not posted and there are few vehicles.
Large, modern homes begin to appear, set five hundred feet or more from the road. They’re each spaced far enough apart so that no one truly has a neighbor. Some create the impression of an overgrown farmhouse. Others scream opulence.
I look for something amiss in this undulating terrain. My senses are on edge the closer I get, half expecting an obvious dilemma to jump out from the next bend. I make it to an old country road without effect and turn left. Everything is copacetic.
The commonplace continues. A man rides a lazy mower across his golf course of a lawn. Several miles past, three men fly remote-controlled airplanes in a field. Beyond this, there is nothing save for an empty stretch of asphalt and a bend in the road before I arrive at the entrance to the Worthington estate.
An open gate at the beginning of a drive runs a half mile along a packed forest. It leads to a semicircular turnaround in front of a sprawling country ranch.
Low slung, the home is guarded by a hearty row of shrubs. Well-established maples provide shade across the turnaround. Painted in earthy hues, the house is silent and calm.
I cut the engine and dismount. Helmet in hand, I step to the door and ring the regal-sounding bell.
Thirty seconds later Ray greets me, careful to look over my shoulder as I step inside.
“You really are paranoid, aren’t you?”
Ray ignores my comment. “This way,” he says, leading me into a foyer with marble and tile. Ray is taller than I, maybe 6′2″ or 6′3″. The back of his white button-down is wrinkled; his jet-black hair is parted. He seems more collected than before.
“Well, are they here?” I waste no time—I want to know what the crux of the excitement is.
Ray replies without turning around, leading me further into the house. “No.”
“Then at least will you tell me
what
they are? And what in God’s name happened to Worthington?”
We stop in the rear of the home where there is a living room. On one side, sliding doors lead to a pool. On the other, a stone fireplace climbs the wall. In between there are two green art deco sofas facing each other, separated by a small table. Ray offers a seat and sits across from me.
“I wish time was in our favor,” Ray starts off, his mouth a grim line. “Are you familiar with the Singularity?”
“What, as in the Technological Singularity?” I’ve heard the term before.
Ray pauses, examining me. His narrow face is stiff. “Yes, that one. The point where computers surpass human intellect.”
3
“That’s what this is about?” I lean back on the vinyl sofa, some of the anticipation wearing thin. This isn’t quite as…
realistic
as I imagined.
Ray shakes his head. “Thomas was preoccupied with the Singularity, but no, that’s not what this is all about. It’s much larger than that. This is about man’s obsession, man’s drive to change the face of the world. What do you know about the end times?”
I chuckle at his deadpan delivery. “Armageddon and that sort of thing? The seven bowls of God’s wrath?”