Free Power in the Hands of One by Ian Lewis Page A

Online.
    What appears to be a targeting system materializes on the video display; this is accompanied by the usual virtual mouse controls on either side of me.
    “But I can’t see anything!”
    The robot replies as soon as I utter the word “see.” Enable thermal imaging? Y/N.
    “Yes!”
    The video display converts to infrared where the heat signature of the other robot melts into view. Its behemoth form bears down on me in deliberate strides. I fumble with the green crosshairs sliding across the display.
    Too late—I’m hammered again in a fury. I respond with wild, uncalculated movements. Each fist that connects sounds like a ringing bell, vibrating a dull, gong-like shimmer through the cockpit.
    The fiery thermal figure rages on; the other pilot refuses to relent.
    I maintain some semblance of resolve through this. The clang of my armor against his is the sound of potential victory. Trying to get a clear shot, I toggle the cannon again.
    The other robot grabs hold of the muzzle and pushes upward, disabling my efforts to aim.
    The crosshairs slip out of my control as the cannon twists on its turret. The touch screen won’t let me regain control, but the firing mechanism is within thumb’s reach on the right control arm. I press it with a burning anticipation.
    The resulting electrostatic sizzle is followed by an explosive burst of bending metal. I drag the crosshairs to aim at my best estimation of center of mass and fire again. The same crackle and then an explosion of intense white saturates the screen.
    The thermal imaging automatically switches back to the normal video output. The other robot is no longer hidden, having lost all of its cloaking capability. Its left arm is warped and twisted.
    Stumbling, it struggles to remain balanced but loses out to gravity. One leg falters and then another. The hulking weight drags the armored body to the ground in an awkward loss of control.

18
    The gray machine lies before me, lesions in its armor exposing layers of damaged panels. Its left arm is wrecked, barely usable. Charred streaks blemish the torso.
    A hysterical laugh sounds over the communication link. It’s the other pilot again. “You…you really want him bad, don’t you?” More laughter. “Oh, you are in for it, my friend.”
    Is Thomas Worthington my objective? I decide he is. “Tell me where he is. Is he dead?”
    “I sincerely hope not. And we didn’t do anything with him. We’re trying to find him. Though I suppose it’s possible Worthington’s obsession may have killed him already…”
    “Worthington? Wait—who are you talking about?”
    A chuckle of realization. “Ah, so you aren’t looking for him.”
    “Who?”
    “Elias Jacob.”
    Elias Jacob. Elias Jacob. Why is that name familiar? A tenant—he was supposed to be a tenant of Western Lights. His name was on the list of owners—the fanatic. “What do you want with him?”
    “Mr. Jacob stole a certain number of secrets from various organizations, including Redd Research. We want him for leverage—and for whatever else we can get out of him, of course. Your friend Worthington was keeping him here.”
    “ Here as in Western Lights? Like a hostage?” I veer closer, keeping the cannon trained on the prone robot.
    “Don’t feel bad for Mr. Jacob. He’s a small piece of an ever-growing puzzle. So is Worthington. It was only necessary that he create these machines. He’s played his part, and it’s not our concern what has become of him.”
    “How can I know you’re telling the truth—and if you are telling the truth, why would you do so?”
    “Your mind can’t understand the difference between the truth and a lie, so there’s no harm in honesty. I’ve already told you this is bigger than you. There’s no way to stop us or the coming paradigm shift. The next evolutionary step is technological.”
    I dismiss this, overwhelmed with how pathetic the other pilot’s stance is and how he’s been sucked into the psycho-babble that