Power in the Hands of One Read Online Free PDF Page B

along with this? My juvenile desire for adventure—the false invincibility we took for granted, thinking our actions are more important and meaningful than they are—Ray and I both share the blame. Only I was thinking straight; there’s no excuse for my shirking common sense.
    Now there’s a high-pitched whine at the door. The agents will breach it soon; I can’t wait any longer. Decide—decide or you’ll be dead! I scream at myself.
    Turning, I consider what I never would have before. The monster robot, silent in its bay: it’s no doubt impervious to gunfire with its armor. And Ray mentioned communication devices… It’s a long shot but I have no better option.
    The whine at the door increases in pitch as I sprint for the lowest beam in the tubular support structure. There is a narrow set of stairs which zigzag their way up to the catwalk. I reach them in seconds, bounding two steps at a time.
    Gripping the handrail, I slingshot around each bend in the stairs, catching only a breath or two the whole way up. At the top, I slam across the metal grating. I’m at shoulder level with the machine.
    Folds of armor hang open like a hatch in the back of the robot. It’s a port large enough for a man to fit through—this is obviously how the pilot would enter. Leaning over, I peer inside.
    The fluorescent lighting from overhead reveals a few rungs on the backside of the hatch; they serve as crude steps down into the cockpit at an approximate eighty-degree angle. There is also the backside of a seat, black and commanding. Nothing else is discernable.
    I scramble over the edge of the hatch and step down into the machine. It smells sterile and metallic. The air is strangely cool. There’s no obvious way to close the hatch, and so I grasp a rung and heave with the strength of a desperate man. It doesn’t budge.
    My eyes adjust to the light and the rest of the circular cockpit comes into view. There are two banks of panels on either side of the chair along with control arms which seem to grow from underneath. Three widescreen, flat-panel monitors sit behind a keyboard, all mounted at lap level in front of the seat.
    I step up to the seatback and look over. There is a small row of stubby toggle switches near the lower bank of panels. I illuminate them with the ambient light of my cell phone.
    The first switch says “1. Standby Power.” The second says “2. Open/Close Access Port.” The third is labeled “3. Main Power.” The simple logic of this is lost on me, as I expect the clanking of agent feet on the catwalk at any time.
    Reaching down, toggle number one gives way with a solid click. All four banks of panels light up in blue and red, revealing inlaid touch-screen controls. The monitor in the middle sparks with a crinkle of static electricity. “Standby Power Online” displays in the lower left-hand corner, trailed by a blinking cursor.
    The second toggle is next. My index finger switches it upward, initiating the whine of motors which maneuver the hatch into alignment with the rest of the armor. It seals with a short hiss.
    I don’t dare engage the third switch—not yet. I’m not ready to confront what’s inside this thing.

9
    The touch screens are sufficient to illuminate the cockpit. I’m on the inside and the agents are on the outside, yet there’s no escape. Still, the pelt of bullets pinging off the armor never comes.
    Maybe the agents will try to break through the access port. No, that seems unlikely. The hatch sealed mechanically; prying it open would be impossible, even with a lever. I hope.
    The glowing menus aren’t labeled like the toggle switches, so it’s not apparent what controls the communication devices, or even what devices there are. There is a virtual scroll bar in the forward part of each panel; I start with the one on my lower right.
    Sliding it backward changes the menus from two-dimensional buttons to rows of smaller scroll bars. It reminds me of a stereo equalizer, but the