The Pieces of My Self

54 - The Dome

LILLIAN

The Gulf of Mexico, 21 June 2174, Tuesday, 11:20 pm

I watched from the nav chair as the Melatha streaked across Pontchartrain Sound on angled wings, tunneling through the spray of rain. Beneath the canopy, Usher moved to my side, putting its face close to mine.

"When we enter the Dome," it said, "LESA will hear security alarms. They will send soldiers."

"You're telling me this to put my mind at ease, right?"

The robot stretched its lips. "I am motivating you. Telling you the reality."

"Well, here's my reality. You have put me in danger. You have put my children in danger. I don't care whether you're a robot or some AI entity, or Henri Knightly's ghost. You need to keep my kids safe. Comprenez vous? If my ring commands you, then that's my prime directive."

"Henri Knightly would sometimes say, to survive, we must act boldly."

"You keep reminding me you are not Knightly, so heed my command."

"Our best hope," it said, "is to get to the Update Portal before Mangalotte's soldiers."

"I don't even know what that is. But, hey, what could go wrong?"

"A lot. If we are not quick, we could die."

I fumed at our predicament but had no more words for the machine.

"The other thing that could go wrong is the barrier surrounding the Dome. We need to jump it, then stop fast," the machine said.

I heard the call from Zeke: "Here we go!"

I tightened my safety harness. Through the haze of rain, I could see the gray outline of the Dome, and the narrow entry path below Highway 90 leading to the dock.

My pulse quickened.

In the moments before arriving at the defensive zone, I felt an adrenaline kick. Rain machine-gunned against the canopy. The craft lurched as Zeke pushed the speed higher, lifting the boat four feet above the water on ground effect. The bat wings careened in the gusting storm. Water blurred visibility.

"Hold on!" he yelled.

Our speed dropped abruptly as the Melatha threaded the Highway 90 underpass. Before we hit the water beyond the submarine barrier, the wings popped back against the hull, like a raptor preparing to dive. The waves felt like an iron washboard. Everything crashed forward. The Dome's concrete face loomed like a mountain.

Zeke swerved the craft, but not quickly enough to avoid a collision.

There was a boom. The port-side wing rocketed into the air, slowed as it hit an apogee fifty feet above the waves, then fell, missing our boat by inches.

We stopped on rocking seas. Alive!

* * *

I gripped my seatbelt as Zeke brought the boat around to a 20-foot-high, 40-foot-wide solid metal gate.

"You need to open it for us," Usher said to me, as Zeke steered to the center of the door. "An avatar controls the building. The ring is now in range."

I twisted the band. "Open the gate." It creaked open. We went in.

The docking bay lit up as we floated into calmer waters, away from the storm. Rusting hulks of 10-foot-tall robotic dockhands stood at attention, as if awaiting direction, flanking a pile of damaged crates. Storage cages made of yellow wire formed a mosaic that wrapped around three walls of the cavernous warehouse. Most cages were empty. They reached four stories high, connected by ladders, gantries, pick cranes, and elevators.

"This used to be filled top to bottom with supplies and lab materials," Usher said. "Now, Mangalotte and his soldiers mostly use the landing deck above, on Highway 90."

Zeke steered the Melatha into a docking position on the port side, threw out bumpers, and tied up.

I gathered the children from below. They were unharmed by the crash landing, but seemed disoriented. I led them up the steps and Usher lifted them onto the dock.

The robot led us past cranes and empty pallets, to a metal ladder. We climbed to the next level and headed toward an exit door. Grady started to open it, but Usher stopped him. It gently lifted the boy to the side, then pressed a titanium finger against plastic lips.

Everyone hushed.

Usher opened the door. On the other side, a Sentinel stared back with deep black eyes. It was nearly identical to Usher, but its metal skin was the nonreflective gray of a warrior. It raised an arm, pointing at me. I could see the orifice opening in the wrist and recognized it as the wire weapon used against drones.

I twisted the ring—now, an instinctive act of self-protection. "Help us."

The Sentinel's eyes glimmered for a moment. then it turned and walked away.

We followed it.