Part 22 (2/2)
”You are an intelligent person, Thomas Wharington.” She sounded frustrated. ”Crafty, gutsy, skilled. I'm
sure you've a.n.a.lyzed possible escapes: run for it, grab the gun, steal the car. You may not calculate the way I do, but your instincts compensate for your lack of computing power. The only reason you haven't tried anything yet is because you know the probability of success is essentially zero. But you'll keep pus.h.i.+ng for a weakness in my defense. Convincing me you are less dangerous because you suffer life- threatening cardiac problems would be a clever ploy. It would be more effective against humans, who can be swayed by emotion, but even in purely logical terms, it works.”
He clenched his cane. ”And if those problems are true?”
”That's the dilemma.” She paused, watching him as if he were a riddle that had stumped her. ”I would
say either you are a phenomenal actor, one who can fool even someone as well trained as I am to interpret human emotional cues, or else you really are sick.”
He was too tired to argue it. ”I need to sit down.”
”I've something to show you. You can sit when we get there. I think you'll like it.”
He stared at her, incredulous. ”What on Earth makes you think I'll like anything here?”
”It's only a little further.” She lifted her hand, indicating their direction, and he set off wearily,
wondering what she was up to. After a moment, he made out a large, low warehouse.
Then he realized it wasn't a warehouse.
”Hey!” Thomas stopped and stared. ”That's a hangar.”
”Yes.” Alpha pulled the handheld off her belt and pressed several panels. b.u.t.tons glowed on it like
green fireflies lighting on its glossy black surface. A wall of the hangar retracted to reveal an even darker interior.
Then the beauty appeared.
It rolled out, glinting in the starlight, and Thomas thought he could die happy just for a chance to fly it.
Sleek in some lines and blunt in others, it resembled the F-42, an experimental Air Force fighter unmatched in stealth, maneuverability, and weapons, with a thrust that well exceeded its weight, and aeroelasticity that allowed its wings to alter according to commands from its...o...b..ard mesh. He couldn't be certain in the dark, but this jet looked as if it boasted an even lighter-weight construction. He could
make out sleeves for missiles it would carry within its body rather than under its wings, to create less drag during flight. Its shape also suggested it was designed for supersonic travel.
”That's gorgeous,” he said.
Alpha joined him. ”You can be my backseater.”
At that moment, Thomas didn't care a whit if he was a prisoner. He only saw, and wanted, one thing. ”I'll fly it.”
”I don't think so,” she said dryly.
He exhaled, coming back to himself. ”This belonged to Charon?”
She waved her hand at the mountains and forest around them. ”He owns all of this.”
”Owned.”
Her voice tightened. ”He will come back.”
”He's dead, Alpha.” He had to make her see the futility of carrying out the same orders, again and again.
”You said yourself you hadn't found any copies.”
”I said I hadn't received any response when I initiated his reactivation program.” Her gun glinted as she s.h.i.+fted it back and forth in her hands. ”That doesn't mean the program didn't begin.”
”It didn't begin because we destroyed every copy of him.”
Silence.
He tried another tack. ”How did he get a military fighter?”
”It isn't military. It's private.”
”Yeah, right. That's why it's armed.” He couldn't actually see the missiles, but he was willing to bet it
carried weapons.
Alpha didn't answer.
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