The Works of Nick Hayden

“Molly! Molly, listen to me! You need to tell me where you are!”

Clint rummaged through the drawers of her lab desk looking for some clue. He had seconds before the Doctor’s assistants stormed in, guns blazing.

Nothing. Or nothing he recognized in his frantic sweep. He glanced at the two doors, then around the room. Clint’s desperate hope was that Molly had left him some clue. She was exact, conscientious, and sometimes severe in work mode, but her mind worked on several levels at once, and Clint had been subjected to more than one of her sly pranks. She planned ahead. If she had any help for him, she would have left it. But where?

Immediately, he turned to the metal cabinets and wrenched open the door of the corner one. On the second shelf, behind old reference books, she stashed a wholesale bag of M&Ms. She guarded it jealously, but sometimes she shared a few with Clint when she was especially pleased with herself.

Inside he found a scrap of paper with a complicated alphanumerical code and a half-bag of peanut butter M&Ms. He stuffed a handful of the candy in his mouth and considered quickly. He heard footfalls echoing down the empty halls, at least a dozen men. Clint pulled down three of the cabinets, forming a makeshift foxhole. It wasn’t much.

Glancing at the code again, he saw that regular slashes. A special directory code?

“Open command prompt,” he said. On a computer screen, he would have seen a blinking space, ready for keystrokes. Instead, he felt a sense of revulsion, a precaution to ensure he didn’t mess in his core systems without reason.

The soldiers stationed themselves outside the lab, a row of gun barrels lining the broken frame.

Speaking loudly, he began to recite the code, enunciating each character with more force and confidence than he felt. The soldiers hesitated. He started rattling the code off faster. It was too long.

He had no idea if it would work, or what would happen if it did.

The last digit hung in the air. Nothing happened.

“Are you going to kill me?” Clint shouted, looking frantically in his systems for some change. “It doesn’t matter now. I’ve started a chain reaction that will detonate the nuclear generator that keeps me going.” It was complete nonsense, but the Doctor’s minions didn’t know that. “If you run fast, you might survive the worst of the blast.”

All his systems seemed normal. Well, as normal as they could be after repeated beatings. He heard muffled talking from outside the lab. Swiftly scanning through frequencies, he picked up the end of the conversation.

“…does not house a nuclear reaction.” It was the Doctor’s voice. “It’s a bluff. Continue—”

Clint took the moment. Pushing his battered arms to their limits, he grabbed the metal cabinet at his feet, stood, and heaved it toward the window. The joints of his arms groaned, but the cabinet crashed against the frame. Bullets peppered the metal with holes, filling the hall with din. His bad arm no longer responded to his commands.

Above him was a vent. He positioned himself behind the upright cabinet, studying it. Manually positioning his left arm with his right, he tried his cable hand. It launched; the fist smashed into the grate, sent a shiver of pain down the long cable, and fell back to the ground, leaving the vent as secure as before. That was a no go.

The bullets were pounding against the cabinet now. Clint ducked low, making himself small. His fist lay helpless on the ground. The cable refused to retract. Pulling it hurriedly in by hand, he tossed it rapidly around the edge of the cabinet, grasping blindly. It caught one of the soldiers across the chest. As he pulled away, the fingers of his thrown hand grabbed ahold of his automatic. Clint yanked hard, pulling the gun free and clattering across the floor.

The cabinet was a collection of shrapnel now, the unrelenting hammer of gunfight tearing it apart. He moved the last cabinet into a better position, though it too was already partially demolished, letting fly round after round in blind retaliation.

Clint…

The faintest shimmer of a thought. He sensed it and knew she felt him.

Clint…I’m near….

That settled it. If he was going to die, he might as well go out in a blaze of glory. And if he survived…. It wasn’t worth getting his hopes up.

With a primal shout, he kicked the cabinet forward. It landed on the gunners in front of him. He spun in a powerful circle, gun blazing nonstop, his loosened cable flying in a wide arc. It flung behind the backs of the men of his left, reached the end of its path, circled tightly around the last man’s neck. Using his thrusters, he pulled back, the taut wire bringing the entire left section to the ground.

Quickly, he raced forward into the midst of those on the right, taking the bullets that tore at his legs and chest. The metallic alloy of his bones slowed some, the metal plating beneath the skin others. But some found flesh. They hardly slowed him; he did not feel them.

The soldiers on the right broke before his fearless charge, and he gunned them down. A man fell before him, and bending down, he ripped two grenades from his belt. Pulling the pins, he threw them into the lab as he left. Limping away, he passed the window of the lab as they exploded in a thunder of fire and sound.

“Where, Molly? Tell me where.”

417.

It was two labs down. Doctor Destructo had played it cleverly, expecting that if Clint somehow survived, he would search for Molly in a completely different section of the Island.

The door was locked. He blasted it to pieces with a short burst of the gun, and pushed it open.

There she was.

“Hi, Molly.”

She covered her mouth in horror at the sight of him. He looked down. He was soaked with blood.

“It’s just a flesh wound.” He forced a smile. Then he stumbled to the ground. He was beginning to feel the pain now. It was going to hurt.

“Glad to see me?” he managed.

[note]Author’s Note: Here’s where things start getting tricky. I have a lot of unexplored plotlines and unanswered questions to address soon, but juggling it all without much forethought is…interesting. But, at least when I introduce a question–like who leaked the transponder code or what the code Clint inputted did–I do have answers. I just need to find a good place to reveal them.[/note]

Clint glanced into the hallway. No one. It would have encouraged him to find three black tie operatives and Doctor Destructo himself waiting for him. What he feared more than an impossible task was one that should have been impossible but seemed not to be.

A deep, almost subconscious vibration ran through the floor and walls of the Island. Clint only sensed it because he had spent so much time in this place. Weapons were being activated, generators running at capacity. Something was happening up above.

It made sense. Doctor Destructo wouldn’t have sounded the alarm for him. It would have been inefficient and unnecessary. Perhaps General Hugh had decided to act sensibly and sent forces to recapture the Island.

Clint entered the hallway, jogging. He avoided the movers. He’d had enough of them. It was too easy to box him in.

This block held a few dormitories. Clint glanced in ones with doors ajar. He found a dead body in one, a fellow soldier he had spent some time with. Most of the dead would be on the levels above the surface, where the battle would have taken place. Clint moved on with hardly a pause. The dead could take care if themselves. He had the living to worry about.

A retina scan gained him entrance to the neighboring block, what he liked to call the brain trust. Eggheads lived and worked in this sealed off area. Clint only had a pass because Professor Wells considered him a curiosity that spurred the mind to creative heights—like a Rubiks Cube. These passages were empty as well, though the door he had entered looked untampered with.

Of course, during an attack, the eggheads would be the first jettisoned out. He wondered how many of the personnel managed to escape.

Suddenly, Clint turned, diverting from his straight and narrow path to Molly’s lab. He found the Professor Wells’ room unlocked, as it always was. Inside, in the corner, waited his Segueway.

Soon, Clint was zipping down the halls. Leaning carefully forward, he balanced so that he could use his good arm to examine his bad, keeping one eye on the path ahead. It was mangled pretty bad. He tried to snap his joints into a better position, but liquid-filled ligaments had burst so that the metal pieces scrapped heavily against one another.

He passed out of the brain trust and into a block of miscellaneous storage and meeting rooms. Still,  saw no one. It was making him nervous.

“What’s happening up top, Molly?” He still believed she could hear him. Clint was convinced he had once heard her thoughts; how could a connection like that be broken. “Molly?” There was silence on the other end. If he listened carefully, he could hear her breathing.

He concentrated his thoughts to her as he sped through block after block unhindered. When he reached the entrance to Molly’s block, he hesitated. They would be waiting for him. They must have guessed his destination by now. He decided to forgo a stealthy approach and instead pressed forward with the Segueway, mentally checking his weapons. The flares were a no-go. He was out of bullets and missiles. He had one good arm.

He had his ability to suffer immense amounts of pain still intact. That was something.

The lab was just around a corner. It had a large window on one side. The door would be guarded. He decided to break his way through the window.

Spinning about the corner, he launched himself off the Segueway, leading with his retractable fist. It smashed through the glass just before he passed through. He rolled and sprang to his feet, arms up, ready to block or attack.

The lab was empty.

He let his arms fall to his side. “Molly?”

He still heard the breathing in his head, quick and tense.

“Where are you?”

Suddenly, the idling logo on the lab table screen disappeared and Doctor Destructo’s face appeared. It was cadaverous, scarred, hairless, with pale eyes staring lifelessly forward, like a aborted clone still waiting for life. The view was close, so that Clint could see little more than the ravaged face surrounded by a thick salmon-colored liquid.

“You are alive because I need answers.” The voice came without any indication of motion.

“Where’s Molly?”

“Doctor Hendricks is safe. I still need her. What is it they say—Your princess is in another castle. Enough pleasantries. Tell me, how did the Yang Brotherhood discover the location of the Island?”

“What are you talking about? I think you’re brain is as scrambled as your face.”

“The Yang Brother is attacking. They have discovered the Island. Did you tell them?”

“They found the Island the same way you did.”

“I spent months determining the position of this ingenious work of technology. Ships’ reports, satellite imagining, transmission emissions. No one in the world has leveled such resources to the discovery of this place. I planned and waited. Your transponder code was the last piece I needed. I waited until you were absent, and the personnel concerned with your mission, then I attacked.”

“Where did you get it from? My code?”

“A source.”

Clint laughed. The infamous Doctor didn’t know. Clint was happy to break the news to him. “Did you know your source approached others as well?”

Doctor Destructo did not answer. It was unnerving to look at him.

“Others know. Everyone knows. The Yang Brotherhood, the Gaians, terrorist cells, a whole slew of henchmen I usually don’t bother with. Even Arturo probably knows. You didn’t know that, did you?”

“That is all I needed to know. Thank you. You may die now.”

Clint took a moment to determine his location. In those precious seconds, he first heard Molly’s half-stifled sobs. They jerked him out of his focused momentum, and he almost forgot his situation.

“I’m not dead,” he told her. But she couldn’t hear him. “I’m not dead yet,” he amended.

They would know exactly where he was, if not by his transponder, then by the alarms going off on every secure system indicating that a lab on B3 had been sealed off. The dull hallways hummed with the faint sound of machinery and environmentally-controlled air. The lights burned at their evening setting, a bright, horrid light that was supposed to be like turning on the lamp when it got dark. He was alone—for now.

“I’m coming, Molly. I think you can hear me, if you listen. I’m coming. Get ready to move.”

Two levels down, four blocks toward the center. That’s where Molly’s lab was. He decided to cover the horizontal distance first to keep Doctor Destructo on his toes. Breaking into a run, he sped down the hall toward the nearest mover, using every bit of added agility his improved mechanics allowed.

Through the mover entrance and onto the swift moving conveyor belt, a military version of an airport people mover. He effortlessly maneuvered from the outer entry belt to the inner express belt, moving close to 30 miles per hour with the conveyor’s assistance.

A half-dozen finely attired thugs appeared coming the other way. Clint dropped to the floor as bullets blazed overhead. The bullets would be armor-piercing, chosen especially for him. Well, he’d take that over shock guns. He had no doubt those would be coming soon enough.

Peeking over the divide, he let loose a quick burst of mini-shells. It shook his bad arm badly. He hated his gun attachment, anyway. It had a tendency to jam and he always ran out of ammo just when he needed to launch a barrage.

Bullets whizzed over his head as he dropped back down. They wanted to keep him pinned as they closed the distance. “Molly, seriously, you better hear me. When I get there, we’re going to have to move.”

Clint raised his arm and let fire three quick bursts. Then propelling himself forward, he sprinted forward, releasing burst after burst. The distance between them closed at breakneck speed. They swung to keep their aim on him while keeping low out of his fire.

And there—the last of his bullets. He kept his arm up and imitated the sound as best he could with his voice. He’d practiced it, just in case.

They were fooled for a half-second. Then they began to stand. Clint was nearly there. He launched himself into the air in desperation, adding power to his leap with his thrusters. He flung himself over the divide, twisting lengthwise so that he collided with as many men as possible. They fell into a heap beneath his heavy body. One rolled to escape and was left behind as he transferred onto a slower belt.

In the fracas, Clint opened his vents, spewing hot air. It added to the confusion. He knocked a man off his back, tried to pin him, but two others had his legs. He twisted again, shaking his legs powerfully, elbowing another who crawled on top of him. He managed to get to his knees before two tackled him in tandem. He rolled with them, his face pressed close to the next belt, the difference in speed enough to grate the flesh of his cheek to bone. One pulled his half-malfunctioning arm behind his back. Something metal snapped. A hand press his face down toward the rushing belt. Straining his neck muscles, he aimed out of the corner of his eye and let his retractable fist fly. It smacked the one at his head across the nose. The thug stumbled back, blood spewing.

Bucking, Clint ignored the pain—real pain; Molly’s fault for wanting him to be as human as possible—in his injured arm. He gained an fraction of leeway in the blink of confusion. He used it. Summoning all his strength, he flipped the man on his back. Together they rolled onto the next belt, his assailant half-beneath him. Clint flung out a leg as they slowed suddenly, taking out another thug in the fast lane, his reinforced shin blasting against the other’s.

He flung his legs upward then, forcing a backward roll that extricated himself from his close combat foe. He took to his feet. The other was almost to his as well. He had a few seconds before the others managed to gather their scattered guns. He barreled into the man facing him, knocking him to the ground, He clobbered his hard and left him unconscious. Standing and lifting him in one motion, he flung him across his shoulders. It wasn’t much of a shield, but it was better than nothing.

Moving quickly to the outer belt, Clint ran against the current. His internal sensors marked three men on the belt behind him, losing distance. Clint dropped his dead weight at the nearest exit, letting the belt carry the man away, and entered the hall. He had managed to lose distance.

Suddenly, the lighting changed, the brilliant white dimming. All along the walls, red LCDs flared into existence. A dull, insistent thrum played through the Island like the low string of a harp. A base-wide emergency.

This was bad, bad news.

Clint began charging his flare shell again. Power readings were not good, even synched as they were to his biological processes. He could manage a few more. He slammed the door to the movers closed with a touch of a button, then jammed his micron blade through the controls, hoping  that would keep it closed.

Another minute and a half at least before he had a chance of the shell working like he wanted.

When this was all over he was going to ask Molly to take out the useless gun and give him more missiles. Lots and lots of missiles. Missiles always worked.

He paced back and forth. He didn’t see anyone along the hall; he moved into the storage alcove across the corridor. He’d wait until the flare was ready. No matter which way he went, he might run into someone. Here, at least, he was alone for the time being. His injured arm hung limply at his side. It whirred tiredly when he tried to lift it and shot pain all along his shoulder.

The flare was ready. He aimed at the floor and fired, shielding his eyes. The heat washed over him, bringing sweat instantly to his face. He blinked away the specks from his vision and looked at his handiwork. A smoldering crater of wire, metal, pipes, and steam opened before him. It opened onto the level below, but just barely. He hadn’t been sure even a full powered flare could manage to blow a whole through an entire floor of the Island.

He climbed down, avoiding the use of his bad arm as much as he could. He squeezed through the opening, hung from his good arm, and dropped.

Eyeing his power reading like a man calculating his distance to the nearest gas station when the gas gauge reads E, he emitted a final flare. The heat burned this time. Shaking his head to clear the explosion from his senses, he dropped through this layer too.

Right level, wrong block.

And the alarm kept thumping, like the slow approach of the enemy.

[note]Another chapter, another fight. Writing this stuff on the fly is challenging because while it’s easy getting Clint into a situation, it’s hard to get him out of it. But that’s the fun, isn’t it?[/note]

Clint skimmed across the water, his heavy craft slicing through the undulation of the waves. He guided the vehicle by his internal GPS, using the same code that alerted the whole world to his continued existence. Except now that he thought about it, even if Doctor Destructo’s men had managed to take him out, his GPS signal would be the last thing to die away. His body was worth as much dead as alive, and signal would help the army to locate his corpse should  the worse happen. There was a small chance Doctor Destructo would believe him dead, carried back toward the Island by his men. It might give him a slight element of surprise.

He wished his link to Molly would come on. He feared it meant Doctor Destructo had forcibly removed it. But what would be the point of that?

“I’ve survived so far, Molly. You better to the same. No fair dying on me when I’m doing the rescuing.”

The sun drew close to the Horizon as leagues passed beneath him. The wind dried his clothes, leaving them stiff with salt. The reddening sky influenced him, adding a sense of grim determination to his thoughts.

He was almost there. He saw nothing, but the numbers didn’t lie. There—the telltale glimmer. The outer shield bending the light around the Island. It was most noticeable evenings and mornings. If you looked out of the corner of your eye, you caught a flash of something solid.

He slowed and approached cautiously, not wanting to tear through the fibrous shield. It drew in during storms, when invisibility was less needed, because while it was functional and resilient, it was far from unbreakable.

Passing through one of the honeycomb shells, he thought again how that boat had smashed against a painted wall in The Truman Show. He always felt that way here. He didn’t love the Island; it was a place to sleep, a place to work, but it hadn’t managed yet to be home.

The colors were oddly tinted beneath the shield, as if he had put on sunglasses. Before him hunkered the iron giant of the Island, gray and efficient, its head bristling with antennae, towers, observation decks, runways, and warehouses. The body slept soundly beneath the water. It was a marvel of engineering and technology. “I didn’t want you to turn out like this place,” Molly had told him once. “It’s powerful and amazing, but it’s still a machine. Sometimes I hate it, and other times I’m boggled by the wonder of it. It could run on autopilot if it had to. You can’t. I won’t let you.”

Clint was certain the defenses were up and running and waiting, men or no men behind the barrels.

How had the Doctor managed to evade the defenses?

Electricity seemed to shoot down his spinal column. He stiffened and waited for it to pass. The odd weight in the back of his mind returned. Molly was back.  She heaved deep, wet breaths.

“An intriguing device,” Doctor Destructo mused. “Flawed, untested, but it has potential.”

“Why—did you—put it back?” Molly managed. Clint clenched his fist. What had they done to her?

“It would have killed you to remove completely. Flawed, as I said. It may give you a headache as it is, with no receiving thought patterns on the other end. Untested. See, I chose my words carefully. With some improvements, I think I could make use of a variation for coercive purposes.”

“Doctor.” It was a new voice, soft and meaningful. A close aide. “Clint is almost here.”

“Ensure it is his corpse.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I—I can’t hear him,” Molly said.

“Of course not,” the Doctor explained. “When I examined the neuro-link, I made sure to disrupt the signaling mechanism. Even if Clint has somehow managed to survive, you can no longer communicate. Assume he is dead. He will be shortly if he is not. Now, back to work.”

Clint focused his attention on the Island. It had been captured in a perfectly timed, perfectly impossible raid. They knew he was coming. The Doctor’s men were well-trained and not easily tricked.

With a spark of an idea, Clint whipped the jet ski in a 180 and redlined the craft. He speared through the water, arcing sharply to the right, pressing close to the honeycomb network of the shield. Then, with a determined movement, he raised his left arm perpendicularly and let it smash through the frame of the shield.

The impact nearly knocked him out of his sheet. He stiffened his shoulder. ”Lock joints!” he commanded. He blasted through a second frame and felt the reverberations through his body. At his speed, he crashed through a third, a fourth, fifth and sixth before he had time to think.

Alarms would be going off in the base now. Seven, eight, nine, ten. The shield began to contract in self-preservation. His joints wanted to loosen, to soften the blow of the impact. “Lock joints!” he shouted, forcing his body to obey him.

Two dozen more, a whole panel of lower shield obliterated. His arm could take no more. He twisted in a tight circle, slowing. The shield was pulling in rapidly now. His gripped a rib of it in his shaking hand, tore it from its support so that a hexagonal section could be rotated about. He placed the jet ski between the retreating shield and this flexible section, stuck like a bug in a fold of origami. With any luck, it would retain some of its invisibility.

He saw movement all along the shore of the Island. Men running about, dressed in the suit and tie of the Doctor’s foot soldiers. The guns on the towers searched back and forth. Clint tore a shred of shirt off, tied a noose around the accelerator, and pulled it tight as he jumped off. The craft went rocketed wildly across the water. Clint dove beneath, aiming and firing his hand. It responded sluggishly. Something inside seemed broken, but it went flying through the water, reaching for anything.

Gun fire boiled the water in every direction as men opened up blindly. The boom accompanied the splattering of the jet ski against the pate of the Island.

Clint’s hand came back empty. He dove deeper, pushing downward with his thrusters, and shot it off again, starting up his micron blade. He gripped something. Quickly, he pulled the cable in, streaming like a penguin through the water. He smashed against the side of the Island. Near him was one of the lab windows, the room beyond dark. He pierced his knife in and began to cut. After three sides of his entry was managed, even the reinforced plexiglass could resist the pressure.

The water rushed through the opening, flinging Clint against the floor like a fish out of a bucket.

Finding his feet, he rushed to the door, slipping through as it closed to seal off the breach from the rest of the facility.

He was in.

Clint descended slowly through the water. He forced his eyes open despite the stinging salt. He had a sudden desire to see everything one last time. He flailed with all the effort he had, but it hardly disturbed the water.

A certain peace came over him, not unlike the blue melancholy earlier that day as he gazed into the limitless sky. He’d prepared for death long before; he felt a sudden piercing gratitude for having survived so much longer than he had expected. Jesus Christ, forgive me. He meant to add more but let the thought linger. It was enough.

What he could not face was leaving Molly. He redoubled his effort, but it made no difference. He had to tell her the one thing he had never thought proper to say. She would have misunderstood. He wasn’t sure he understood. Now there was no more time.

I love you, Molly.

He was starting to black out.

He felt something tugging at him. He fought to open his eyes. The late afternoon light was approaching, the surface coming closer. He broke through. He managed a struggling half-gasp. He felt as if his windpipe was clogged.

He heard shouting. A shadow stretched over him. New forces pulled him, dragging him up out of the water, onto some hard surface. A fist hammered his chest. He inhaled painfully, his ribs bruising. Then the rhythmic pressure, activating his lungs, reminding his heart how to pump. It activated a slight current to his system, as well, an insightful addition by Molly, who had wanted his mechanical half to respond as biologically as possible.

With his one good eye, he found the man resuscitating him. Crew-cut, strong angular face, Kevlar vest. He had no idea who the guy was.

“Just stay still. I’ve been briefed on your systems. Two more minutes, and you’ll start self-generating power again.”

Clint didn’t argue. Soon, his other eye flickered to life and he began to breathe regularly. He felt indescribably exhausted. Turning his head, he saw four others standing nearby, watching. He felt the rumble of the craft’s engine and could feel its bouncing as it cut through the uneven sea.

When the man who had saved him stood, Clint grit his teeth and pulled himself to a sitting position. The other men watched.

“Buckethead, right?” one said, grinning.

“It’s Clint,” he replied. His voice sounded rusty.

The men all laughed. The one who had saved him held out a hand. “Briefing told us you hated the name Buckethead.”

Clint waved off the offered hand. “Give me a moment. Who are you guys?”

“New transfers to the Island. That was the plan at least, but someone beat us there. We thought it prudent to avoid landing during the take over and wait for orders. Orders were to wait for you. Reached you just in time to save you from those thugs.”

Bracing himself, Clint pulled his feet under him and pushed himself up. He waited a moment to make sure he still had a sense of balance. His strength seemed to be returning. “So you were the backup plan if the torpedo failed.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Never mind. Thanks for the help. You took care of the other jet skis?”

One of the others mocked a gun. “Ka-boom!”

Clint smiled. “Nice.”

“I’m Commander Greg Detmeyer.” The commander extended his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

Clint shook his hand. “Your orders are to return me to the nearest base, am I right?”

The other men looked at each other. Greg answered: “That’s correct.”

“Have they told you who’s commandeered the Island?”

“No, sir. We’re under the impression no one knows.”

“They probably don’t.”

“But you do.”

“I’ve inside information.” Listening, he realized his link with Molly had gone offline. He hoped it was a temporary lapse due to his system failure. “I’m heading back in. I’ve unfinished business. You have two options. You can either get me the Island’s coordinates and let me go on my merry way, or you can take your chances at restraining me. Which is it?”

“Our orders are to return you to base.”

“So if you happen to steal one of the jet skis we’re dragging along with us, we’ll have to report that you slipped through our fingers.”

Clint looked over the men. Greg’s face was a mask of inscrutability. The other men were nodding. Suddenly, Greg broke in a smile. “We’ve been following rumors of your work for a long time. Get going!”

“The coordinates?”

“Charlie!” Greg commanded.

The bespectacled young man jotted down a few numbers on a notepad he had in his pocket, tore it off, and handed it to Clint. “That should do it, Buckethead. Give the no-good scoundrel who did this a one-two Rock’em Sock’em Robot punch, all right?”

Clint shook his head slightly. He hated these fanboys. Once they got to know him a bit, they’d realize he was just some regular Joe. “Will do,” he said.

They pulled the captured jet ski alongside the prototype hovercraft the men had used to transfer to the Island and Clint situated himself, familiarizing himself with the controls with a glance. “We’ll play a game of pool when this is all over,” Clint said.

“And you’ll use your electronic brain to project the ball’s path! That’s real fair,” Greg joked.

That’s not how it worked—but Clint let it be.

“Tell General Hugh you analyzed the make of the jet ski and determined Doctor Destructo’s behind the Island’s capture.”

“Doctor Destructo!”

Clint tore off into the horizon, leaving the disbelieving voices behind.

[note]Author’s Note: Look! I posted before 10:00pm! This one’s a tad short, but I should have time to start on the next chapter tonight. Enjoy![/note]

Taking a desperate breath, Clint dove beneath the water again, kicking fiercely. Self-preservation drove him downward into the water. These wouldn’t be discount thugs. Doctor Destructo ran a top-notch organization. Before the philosophical epiphany that had led him to a worship of the honed moment of chaos, he had been a Fortune 500 CEO. He knew how to create wealth, how to control a large operation with innumerable moving pieces, and how to hire dependable help.

Doctor Destructo was widely regarded as the most powerful villain on the planet, with the possible exception of Arturo Darnov the Mystic.

“Restrain her,” he commanded.

Above Clint, armored jet skis spun to a stop and waited for him to emerge. Not good. They had his position pinpointed within feet.

Molly grunted but seemed not to resist. “Let Clint live and I will do whatever you ask.”

“You think you have room to bargain,” Doctor Destructo said. “But you will do what I ask whether he lives or dies, and I am smart enough to realize that letting him live can do me no good. Strap her to the table. We will see how she is contacting Clint.”

Six jet skis idled above him. They weren’t wasting effort coming after him. He’d have to come to them eventually.

Molly was struggling now, not screaming—she was too proud for that—but groaning in her resistance. Clint’s lungs ached and screamed for release. There was only one way out.

I’m coming, Molly. He willed the words through the connection, trying to imagine her round face. I’m coming.

I know.

The two words floated half-heard in his head. He didn’t know if he invented the response, or of somehow….

Gunfire erupted above the surface, and four of the armored jet-craft streaked away, guns blazing. Clint pushed the final distance to the surface, covering his head with his metal arm. At the same time, he magnetized his body. The force of the sudden attraction jerked the remaining two crafts toward him. This was enough to throw off the aim two thugs, each a passenger in one of the jet skis. A glance suggested and a quick identification screening confirmed that they held shock guns. They were something like tazers, designed to shut down his systems on contact; he’d encountered them once before. It had ended badly.

The arcs of energy barely missed him. With a burst from his thrusters, he shouldered hard into the first armor craft, grabbed the driver’s foot, and yanked with the full strength of his mechanized arm. The driver was good and managed to rev the motor and jam the handle to the right, causing the jet ski to turn in a tight circle away from Clint. It saved the man from being pulled out of the seat and loosened Clint’s grip.

The craft snapped to a straight course. Clint regained his grip on the edge just as he saw the second heading straight toward him. The two were going to passed within a hair of one another, smashing Clint between. At the last moment, he released his hold, firing his hand at the approaching jet ski. His fist slammed into the passenger, knocking him off, and his fingers closed over a bar along the back seat that passengers used to steady themselves.

He maneuvered in the water, bracing himself for a sudden burst of speed. He was ready this time.

The cable went taut. He leaned back, knees bent, and let it raise him out of the water. His metal soles bounced over the water, and he skimmed like a skier over the surface. The driver swerved over the water, trying to throw Clint off balance.

“Is that the best you’ve got?” Clint mocked. “Is this a battle or a vacation?”

The other jet ski was racing up beside him now, dangerously close. Clint decided to try an older attachment. It took a few seconds to warm up, and that usually was the problem with it—the man with the shock gun aimed and fired. Clint reeled in his hand-cable quickly, the water’s drag almost sending him head over heels. The energy arc skimmed his back side. He felt his joints twitch, but control remained.

The flare shell was ready.

Taking aim with his free hand, he launched it. A bolt of plasma energy shot out from a barrel above his shoulder. He felt the heat of it as it left him. It slid through the armored shell of the pursuing jet ski, sliced through the interior, and set the water on the other side steaming.

He had energy for one more. He let loose. The bolt ripped through interior of the craft, melting the engine. The craft sputtered to a halt.

Suddenly, Clint began to sink into the water as the other jet ski came to a halt as well. He retracted his cable, giving him a short burst of speed, but he still found himself adrift off the craft’s back end. The driver had stopped to retrieve the passenger who had tumbled off, grabbing first the shock gun from his soaked comrades hand. He pointed it at Clint.

“I’m up for a promotion, it seems.” And he fired the weapon.

The arc entered the water short of Clint, but the shock entered his system, overwhelming it. His limbs ceased to function. His sensors and reading went blank. One of his eyes went black. His organs would start shutting down within minutes if he failed to reboot.

He flopped helplessly, some of his nerves still responding. He sank into the water, struggling to keep his head above water. The two thugs watched him, laughing.

“What’s this, Doctor Hendricks?” He only now heard the conversation that had surely been transpiring during the last minutes. “I think I understand. It’s intertwined into your neural cortex.”

Molly did not answer.

“It was painful to point in, I expect?”

His nose was barely above water. He didn’t want Doctor Destructo to be the last thing he heard before shuffling off this mortal coil. He wanted to hear Molly’s voice one last time.

“It was worth it.”

“It will be painful for you when he dies. You have been creating a psychic link. When that is suddenly severed, what will you feel?”

“It was worth it,” she repeated.

Clint sank slowly beneath the water.

[note]Author’s Note: You wouldn’t think 1000 words would take it out of you, but there’s always so much going on in one of these chapters! Hopefully the action scenes in this one makes sense. I’m sure letting it sit for a few days and coming back would help. So far, I’ve had something new to pull out of the bag almost every installment. I like doing that. I’ll see if I can keep it up.[/note]

Clint left Conrad bobbing on the waves 50 miles off the Florida coast with an inflatable raft that had been stored in the sub’s emergency compartment. Clint didn’t worry much about him. If his people didn’t pick him up as soon as Clint was out of sight, Clint would retire from saving the world and take up bridge.

He considered his next move. Atlantis—as enemies and troublemakers called the floating base—was not easily found. Not only did it vary its position, it employed a variety of stealth technologies and protocols. If you combined the bulk of an aircraft carrier with the secret dream of the urban planner, and armed it to the teeth, and then placed a Teflar jacket over it, you had something like Atlantis, or as the military called it, the Island.

It sat low in the water, like an iceberg, revealing only a tithe of its workings to the sky. It housed secret projects, aborted military experiments, and a whole host of scientific geniuses. Well, it had, until Doctor Destructo somehow overran the place.

Molly—possibly the sole survivor. She had been the new kid, a genius with most of her social skills still intact, a brainiac with the face of a TV secretary.

Clint pushed away these thoughts. They only rose up now because he was stumped, and when he stopped moving, his melancholy began to creep in.

He tried the connection to General Hugh, using the sub’s communication signals. It worked. “Buckethead!”

“General Hugh, I need the coordinates to the Island.”

“Not on my watch. You’re violating direct orders. Turn around now or I’ll be forced to blast you out of the water.”

“You have a lot invested in me.”

“Every baddie in the hemisphere is heading toward your position. I’d rather destroy you than let you fall into enemy hands.”

“The correct word is kill. You’d rather kill me.”

“You have ten minutes.”

The connection ended. Increasing the range of PAV/LOV’s scanners, he found the nuclear sub following him. Sluggish compared to his PAV/LOV, a torpedo would still rip the hull to shreds.

“This had better work, Conrad.”

He connected to PAV/LOV 2’s network. Pulling a USB cord out from near the wrist of his mechanical arm, he plugged it into the controls, wiring himself into both subs’ systems.

“All right, here it goes.” He hesitated. He usually relied on Molly to take care of all the technical stuff. “Molly, this is going to work, right?” She’d certainly heard his conversation with Conrad.

She began humming Ode to Joy under her breath, as anyone might do while distracted with work.

“Well, with the doctor’s approval…” He punched the last button. The sub was making a virtual copy of his software; it wouldn’t be a complete picture, just enough to replicate the GPS signal as long as he was providing his feed. In theory. He had no way to test it until someone tried attacking him and ambushed the wrong sub. He moved PAV/LOV 2 along its own course.

He settled into the chair, rubbing his face. He was already feeling caged, his hand plugged into the system. He longed to blow something up, or at least run through the streets somewhere dodging bullets. He wasn’t designed for this cat and mouse.

The submarine was within range now. His ten minutes would be up soon. He slowed his vessel down, sped up the second, caused it to veer at a sharp angle away from the nuclear submarine. He played his as the decoy.

Five minutes passed. He thought he could feel Molly’s anxiety. “It’s not firing.” Why could he feel Molly’s anxiety? He was projecting, he must be.

Suddenly, his sub began to thrum softly with a pale white light. “What is it?” he commanded.

“There is a torpedo approaching,” it said soothingly. “Impact in 30 seconds.”

He released a string of words so fierce Molly gasped. He yanked himself out of the computer, tapped rapidly at the panel, searching for the right—there. The interior began to fill with water. The  roar of a rushing river filled the space.

“Impact in twenty seconds.”

“Clint.” It was Molly, in a voice deathly quiet.

“I’ll be fine. I’m always fine. I’ve got an idea. Okay, half an idea. But it’s good. Trust me.” He had planned on the decoy working. Decoys always worked!

The water was swelling over the control deck now, surging upward past his ankles, past his knees. He took a large breath as it rose past his chest and over his head, holding himself beneath the water by gripping the chair.

Somewhere he heard a murmur of calm urgency. Ten seconds.

A slow-motion touch of the screen. Cilia converged around him, forming a protective ball. He braced himself as well as he could, grasping the squirming tentacles around him.

Force and red fire exploded into his being. In a moment, most of the protective shell had been blasted away. The impact hurled him against the remnant of a hull, but the water had slowed his movement just enough. He crashed into it, went flying along with it. He spun chaotically through swirling water, forcing his eyes open against the pressure and pain. The cilia were trying to coalesce around him again, moving in mindless spasmodic jerks. Clint tore them off, forcing himself away from the scrap of metal he was pressed against, held by the cilia’s last protective instinct. He dislodged himself, lost in the turbulent void, disoriented, clawing at the water as his lungs grew pained.

Ode to Joy was thrumming painfully in his head, Molly’s worry stinging his brain with its discordant tones.

Regaining a sliver of presence of mind, he adjusted his body vertically, aided by internal sensors. He kicked toward the surface, blasting his thrusters in quick bursts, headless of the possible repercussions. He was built differently. Surely he could handle it.

He broke the surface, gasping. Molly gasped too.

He had done this before, not too long ago. If he lived to touch dry land again, he’d be a happy man.

“I seem to have startled you, Doctor Hendricks.” Breathing hard, Clint tried to focus on the what was happening on the other side of the link.

“Doctor! I was just—”

“You have been cautious, but I miss nothing, Doctor Hendricks. You are in communication with the robot. Are you hearing this, Clint?”

Clint waited grimly.

“My men will be upon you in minutes. They will not take you prisoner. They will bring me the pieces of your body that might be of use to Doctor Hendricks in her experiment. Don’t give them too much trouble, will you?”

Just then, Clint caught the sound of high-powered jets cutting through the water.

Clint leaned with his back against the control panel, staring at Conrad Alimar unflinchingly. The cultist looked away. His fingers were tapping relentlessly against the arm of the chair; he didn’t seem to notice.

Though Clint’s eyes were on Conrad, his mind was elsewhere. Partly, he was listening to Molly’s transfer back to her guards, the Doctor Destructo’s commands, the dozen half-heard sounds of her passage through the base. But even this was pushed to the background. He wasn’t sure Molly could remove his transponder. When the government spent close to two billion dollars on a piece of equipment—him—it took special pains to keep track of it. It was tied into his vital systems. But if there was any way to be rid of it, Molly would know.

“What are you going to do with me?” Conrad asked, trembling. This was the man who claimed to lead a rebellion against the hordes of destructive mankind? He must run good PR campaigns. Money could buy the illusion of character.

“What do you think?’

“If you kill me, it will be an act of war. The United Nations recognizes out—”

“I’m rogue at the moment. Perhaps I don’t care about treaties and international handshakes.”

“I’ll give you anything, tell you anything! I can hide you, make sure no one finds you.”

“No one? I thought you said—”

“I’ll hide you deep. Few have the resources to travel as far down as I can place you.” Conrad’s face was shining with sweat. His eyes flared with the passion of a salesman. “Perhaps in time you could be persuaded to abandon mankind. We are creating our own society, an equal society of peace and mutual respect. You’re a weapon. Is that what you want to be?”

“I’m a man. A weapon would be this sub. You want to live? Here’s the deal. First, compile everything you know about this unknown source who gave you my location.”

Conrad nodded energetically. “I can do that. I didn’t ask for the information. The information found me.”

“Second, I want a second sub.”

“Yes, I could certainly arrange that.”

“I want it to be as advanced as this.”

Conrad hesitated, swallowing hard. “I have put tremendous resources into the creation of this personal aquatic vessel. There is only one other—-”

“I’ll need it. And this one, too. You’ll go free with you life. Deal?”

Clint didn’t wait for a response. He turned, purposely ignoring the man’s nervous convulsions. The map showed that he would reach the coast of Florida in an hour. The next hurdle was locating the base. “I need that sub ASAP.” He turned to face Conrad, who jumped as if startled. “And one other thing. What do you know of the Bermuda Triangle?”

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Conrad was speaking expansively as he gave a tour of PAV/LOV 1 (Personal Aquatic Vessel/Long-Distance Oceanic Vehicle), smiling as if speaking with a potential buyer. He rattled through the controls so quickly, Clint was certain Conrad bathed the expression of his own intellect. Clint slowed him down, cutting him off whenever he tried to show a second or third way to accomplish the command he had just explained.

Clint was especially pleased when Conrad authorized voice commands. “That’s more like it,” Clint said, slapping Conrad heartily on the back. “These fingers aren’t meant for delicate operations.”

Just as the second sub was approaching, Clint quieted Conrad with a slash of the arm. Molly was talking.

“Preliminary report – August 21, 20—, 4:25 p.m..” Clint understood; she was recording her medical findings in the computer. He listened intently. “My lab has been returned to me. It is in disarray, but after some effort I have assured the equipment still works satisfactorily. One particularly important piece seems to be missing, but I’m sure it will show up when I least expect it. Hopefully, I find it in one piece.”

“Enough, Molly,” Clint muttered, reading between the lines. “I’ll be careful. You can trust me.”

She spoke over him as if she had not heard, but it was for show. Clint heard the subtle change in her voice. “I will begin processing current medical data for Doctor Destructo presently. A few initial reactions. Only once before have I seen a human being in such mangled condition. That he still lives is a miracle of science and will power. He is sustained in a vat of some liquid I will be most interested to examine. When you look at him, he appears to be in some sort of trance, his eyes unmoving, his form limp. But my observations indicate that he is alert and missing little. His voice he carried by a node attention to his larynx. Enabling his body to function outside of its liquid cocoon will be a arduous task, but one which I am able to accomplish, given enough time. End recording.”

This was good news. Doctor Destructo would not be a obstacle. Clint still needed on more piece of information, though.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Addendum. There are many unknown variables in preparing for the reactivation of Doctor Destructo’s body. I will need to be sure to eliminate as many as possible before proceeding. End addendum.”

“What good are you, then?” Clint prodded. “I thought you were the brains of the operation. I’m just the buckethead, remember?”

Molly did not respond. She must suspect cameras or bugs. How was she keeping in contact with him so that no one noticed?

“PAV/LOV 2’s alongside,” Conrad ventured into Clint’s thoughts.

“You sure you’ve never notice an…anamoly in Caribbean waters?”

“The supposed American base the criminal world calls Atlantis? No—I try to stay away from top-secret military facilities. It’s not good for PR.”

“But me?”

“Come now. You’re codename is Buckethead. I figured you were more bark than bite.”

“Tell your friends I’m not. All right, PAV/LOV, time to surface. We’ve a passenger to drop off.”

[note]Author’s Note: Well, I’m back. Saturday was nuts, and I had no time to write. Sunday was a needed day off. My son’s feeling a lot better, so that helps. We should be back to our regularly schedule action-packed programming this week. Enjoy![/note]

Clint jolted awake to the sound of soldiers shouting. He sat bolt upright, sprang to his feet, and took a defensive stance before realizing the sound was in his head.

“Stand up! The Doctor wants to see you.”

It took a moment to reorient himself. They were talking to Molly, pulling her to her feet.

Did they say the Doctor? The Doctor? These goons were working for Doctor Destructo? The man had been smashed beneath two tons of brick after their last battle. Why were all these super-villains like cockroaches—no matter how many times you smashed them, they came back for more?

The harpoon thugs that had attacked Clint weren’t Doctor Destructo’s style, though. Had that been yet another group? Who was in charge here?

“Get your hands off me. I’ll come peacefully.”

Clint sat back on the edge of the chair, waiting to see how this unfolded. After some walking, he heard quick commands between the soldiers, then one of the base’s tightly sealed door moaning as it opened.

“In there. He wants to speak to you alone. But we’ll be watching, if you make any sudden moves…”

“I’m here,” Clint whispered. “Be brave.”

“I’m not a frightened girl,” Molly replied—to the soldier. “Can I enter, please?”

The door shut behind her with a metal slam.

Doctor Destructo’s thin, wilted voice whispered through the recesses of his brain. Clint hated that voice. It reminded him of his European history teacher freshman year. “Molly Hendricks. I have waited so long to meet you.”

She gasped.

“Do you like my new body? It isn’t much, but it’s all I have left, you see. Perhaps you can understand why I have so wanted to meet you, Doctor Hendricks? May I call you Doctor? We are equals here, I think.”

“Is this why you want Clint? You want his body? He’s probably at the bottom of the ocean by now.”

A soft, snide laugh. “No, no. I couldn’t care less for that mechanical puppet. It’s you I want. I want something better than you gave him. And you are certainly capable, Doctor Hendricks.” He paused. “Oh, and I wouldn’t place too great a hope of your little toy boy. He will be eliminated shortly.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Perhaps you don’t. It doesn’t matter. What matter is that you are still alive because I have a use for you. I have materials and money at my disposal. Anything you need, I can get. You have your files and your lab available to you. I will ensure no one bothers us. This so-called secret base is now under my control, and the government will not waste too much effort to save a base that never existed in the first place. In any case, the President and I have an understanding.” Clint could well envision his arrogant twist of the mouth.

“You might be able to blackmail the government, but you can’t blackmail me. I won’t help you.”

“Molly, Molly,” Clint cautioned. She was putting on a brave face for his benefit. “Play along.”

“I won’t play your game,” she added.

“Stupid woman,” Clint muttered. “Stupid, stubborn—”

Suddenly, he felt coils about his ankles. He struggled against the cilia forming around his boots. With a blast of thruster, he broke free, but the cable tied around Conrad had no give and he crashed into control panel. He felt a tug on that cable, and he realized in a moment what had happened. Conrad Alimar had come to while Clint had been distracted with Molly and activated some of the ship’s controls.

Doctor Destructo was wheedling in his crackling voice: “Your face says otherwise. What is that? Surprise? Shock? Disgust?”

Clint retracted his hand, pulling Conrad bodily toward him. Forcing one of the madman’s arms behind his back, he slammed the other palm in the approximate area that controlled the cilia, enough so the fibers trying again to surround his feet halted, as if waiting for a command.

“Sit down!” Clint shouted, throwing Conrad into the chair. The man, mid-30s, sported one of those thin beards men that the mock-intelligensia wore to show the world how smart they were. His face was contorted in a grimace of amazement and injured pride.

“Stand up, please, Doctor Hendricks,” Doctor Destructo commanded lightly. “I do hope my men have treated you well.”

“I’m just dizzy,” Molly said lamely.

“Let’s have no more prison breaks, okay?” Clint said, wrapping the cable of his arm around the chair and Conrad’s chest. “You’re lousy at it. I don’t care to harm you. You’re as delusional as Wile E. Coyote, but, hey, you’re free to believe what you want. Tell me what I want to know, and your can return to your octopus garden, or wherever it is you live. Got that, Mr. Alimar?”

“Doctor Hendricks? Are you well?” Doctor Destructo asked. It was not concern, but bitter glee, in his voice.

“I’m considering your proposal,” Molly said carefully. “Despite its distaste.”

“Say yes,” Clint said. “It’ll buy you time. The more concerned he is with you, the less he is with me.”

“And you call me delusional!” Conrad sneered, but it was halfhearted. He watched Clint talk to the air with wide eyes.

“Let me have an hour to consider,” Molly said.

“You may have two minutes,” Doctor Destructo allowed.

Clint needed to prove to Molly the seriousness of the situation. “All right, Conrad, prove to me you’re willing to cooperate. How did you find me?”

“By your GPS transponder.”

“The code’s classified. Only a handful have access to it.”

“Everyone has access to it now. A gift, from an unknown source.”

“When you say everyone…”

“Everyone, you abomination. Every cult, every faction and religious zealot, every idealist who will stop at nothing to make his vision a reality, every two-bit crook with the right connections. Someone out there wants you dead. You were nearby. I thought I’d have a go of it.”

“And how’d that work out?” Clint turned away. “Molly, I can’t get to the transponder to remove it. I need your help. You need to stay alive, all right?”

“I’ll do it, Doctor,” Molly said. “I need my lab, my computer, and your most recent medical work up. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

[note]Author’s Note: My son’s all stuffed up today, so I spent a long while getting him to bed, so I didn’t write much today. Luckily, I had some left over from yesterday. 6000 words done. Too slow for the 50,000 word mark, but pretty good pace for me. I probably won’t get anything written tomorrow, because I’m booked from about 9am till 10pm. [/note]

Clint turned to the computer panels. They reminded him of the slick new Star Trek bridge controls. Funny, how Conrad and his Gaians claimed humanity had neglected its roots and still managed to create technology Silicon Valley would salivate over.

His hand hovered over the touch screen, trying to make sense of the innumerable controls. He had never been a computer person, never mind his current state of existence. Give him a computer and a user friendly program and he’d take up a hammer and—

A pleasant beep filled the chamber. A section of the table screen began to thrum with extra urgency. Clint waited for the system to speak to him and tell him what it wanted. The beeping continued, a steady pulse of warm sound. “Molly, I could use a hand.”

Nothing. Perhaps a subtle indication of acknowledgment.

Clint touched the pulsing symbol. Nothing happened. He touched it again more forcefully. When nothing happened, it smacked it hard with his metal hand. The glass cracked slightly.

“That’s not going to work.”

He stood on a raised platform that hung delicately in the center of the spherical sub. From the look of it, no matter which way the sub turned, the control platform would remain perfectly horizontal. All along the interior wall, tiny cilia vibrated, smaller than the tentacles outside. Many were working on the hole he had blasted through the hull, sealing it first something like concrete foam, and then spinning together new panels and wires and microchips particle by particle like some time lapse movie. The water had already been pumped out.

So far, they weren’t moving to destroy the intruder. If he was lucky, they weren’t programmed to. But unless he got this tub redirected, he’d likely end up in Gaia-ville with a whole mob of stark raving mad cultists who wouldn’t take his clocking their leader on the head with grace.

He flung himself into the chair, leaning back hard until the seat wanted to snap off the base. He pressed his eyes closed. There it was—the pain. He wouldn’t survive another fight. Well, he might survive, but he wouldn’t win.

That thought triggered another. “Molly, turn off self-destruct. I don’t want to blow a gasket.” But it had already been done. “What would I do without you, huh? Probably loose my own head if it wasn’t screwed on.”

The lame joke struck him as ridiculously funny, and he laughed loudly. Man, he really needed a moment to reorient himself.

He sat up and smacked the table top computer again. The blasted mewing of the computer wouldn’t stop.

“Computer, show report.”

Nothing. Well, it was worth the try.

How had Conrad found him? He wasn’t involved in the group that had overrun the base. Molly would have told him. In any case, the Gaians didn’t have the guts to plan and execute a precision military expedition. They were vandals who left a burning pile of crap at your front door and ran away, smug and self-congratulatory, not real men.

But it begged the question. Did Conrad have his GPS signal, too? It seemed too unlikely that he just happened to find him, in American water, no less. But if Conrad had his signal, and the people who had Molly had the signal, who else had it? Did everyone have it? General Hugh had mentioned a lot of terrorist chatter.

“Oh, I have a bad feeling about this.”

He’d made a few enemies in his time as a super soldier. Okay, more than a few. And even those he hadn’t ticked off might like to put his head on a pike, just for gloating rights. Take down Clint McCleary, and you’ve symbolically hamstrung the American military.

Not that he had a big head or anything.

He smacked the computer a third time and barely restrained himself from smashing it to bits.

Conrad was a quintessential megalomaniac. He would have put some system in place to protect the workings of his sub, but nothing extravagant. He wouldn’t really believe that someone could commandeer his vessel. It had to be simple.

He laughed. In a flash of certainty, he heaved the limp madman off the floor, set him in the chair, and used his hand to tap the blinking yellow light. It expanded.

Confirm destination, it read. It gave a location by latitude, longitude, and a third number, which Clint assumed to be depth. Clint negated the command using Conrad’s hand.

Input destination.

He touch the icon that seemed to indicate a map. With a little trial and error he managed to bring the visuals out of the ocean depths and to sea level. The east coast sat outlined in brilliant gold. With a little contortion, making Clint hands do that little expanding trick that worked on the iPad, he zoomed in on Florida, found the approximate location, and set the sub on its merry way.

Pleased with himself, Clint pushed Conrad off the chair, sat, then thought he had best tie Conrad up. The sleek interior didn’t offer anything helpful, so Clint let out the cable of his extendable hand and used that.

The repairs on the hull seemed to be complete. That gave Clint another idea. Heaving Conrad into the chair again, he began opening window after window. Under Maintenance, he found some commands for the fluttering cilia. After much searching, and not a little pounding of Conrad’s flaccid hand against the panel, Clint surprised himself with accomplishing exactly what he had set out to do. Cilia rose up from between the floor panel and began to search over his body, repairing metal joints, patching tears, administering pain relief. It spread some sort of jelly across his fleshy injuries and applied heat in places. He sank into the chair and let them do their work.

“It’ll be all right, Molly. Don’t you worry.”

She answered back with a few quick taps. Shave and a haircut, two bits. He laughed.

“Yeah, you get along just fine without me. I get it. Well, you won’t get rid of me that easily.”

He drifted to sleep as the sub hummed along beneath the surface.