“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Do you know him?”
He turns away and stares at the lab. “It’s not a hacker. It came from right here. From my own computers.”
Then I hear a siren. A truck from the Yorktown Heights Fire Department comes barreling up the driveway and stops in front of the lab. As the firefighters rush into the building, two ambulances pull up behind the truck. Dad tightens his grip on me and heads for the closer ambulance.
“Hey!” he shouts at the paramedics. “My son needs oxygen!”
The next minute is a blur. The paramedics shout instructions at each other. Soon I’m lying on a gurney with an oxygen mask over my face. At some point I realize Dad isn’t there anymore. Lifting my head, I look past the paramedics and see him running toward the fire truck. What’s going on? What’s he doing over there?
Then he grabs a fire ax from a bracket on the truck’s side panel.
Holding the ax with both hands, Dad heads for the laboratory. For a moment I think he’s going back into the lobby to help the firefighters, but instead of entering the charred lab he dashes to a steel cabinet attached to the side of the building. Long ago, Dad explained to me what this thing was: a junction box for the lab’s fiber-optic lines. All the communications between the Unicorp lab and the rest of the world—telephone calls, emails, downloads, whatever—pass through the cables inside this box.
The cabinet’s doors are secured with a padlock. Dad smashes the lock with his first swing of the ax. Then he opens the cabinet and starts slashing the cables.
No one reacts at first. The people on the lawn just gawk at my father as he severs the lab’s communications lines. But after a few seconds Colonel Peterson emerges from the crowd. He edges toward the junction box, waiting until Dad has shredded every cable inside. Then Peterson says, “All right, Tom. That’s enough.”
Dad drops the ax. Shaking his head, he strides back to the ambulance, with Peterson following close behind. As Dad approaches my gurney, he raises his hand to his mouth. He has a devastated look on his face, guilty and horrified.
That’s when I realize what Sigma is. It came from right here, Dad said. From my own computers. It’s something Dad created, something that lived within the advanced circuits he built, the electronics designed to imitate the human brain. It figured out a way to jump out of those circuits and invade my VR program. Then it took control of the lab’s automated systems—power, heating, ventilation, security—and tried to kill us.
The paramedics have left me alone and started treating the other injured people on the lawn. Dad bends over my gurney and checks to see if I’m all right. Then he turns around and confronts Peterson. “That was a waste of time, wasn’t it?” he hisses. “I cut the lines too late?”
The colonel nods. “I’m afraid so,” he says in a low voice. “Our friend has already escaped from his cage.”
“He’s on the Internet?”
Peterson nods again, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out his cell phone, which is apparently working now. “He sent an email to Cyber Command headquarters five minutes ago, right after the last explosion. My men are trying to trace where it came from, but it looks like the message ping-ponged all over the globe before it arrived. He could be anywhere by now.”
“What did the email say?”
Peterson holds up the phone and reads from its screen. “‘My name is Sigma. This message is a warning to all government leaders and military commanders. I have the power to annihilate you.’”
CHAPTER 4
I wake up the next morning in a hospital bed at Westchester Medical Center. I recognize the place right away—the hospital is close to Yorktown Heights, and I go there for all my checkups and treatments. Specifically, I’m in a private room in the children’s hospital. The building is sleek and modern, and several of the doctors there specialize in treating muscular dystrophy.
The last thing I remember is riding in the ambulance. The paramedics must’ve sedated me after we left the Unicorp lab. Now an oxygen mask is strapped to my face and an IV tube hooked to my useless left arm. My chest still hurts, but not as much as before.
I feel strong enough to breathe on my own, so I reach for the mask with my good hand and take it off. Then I turn my head on the pillow and look around. Aside from the machines monitoring my vital signs, the room is empty. I’m not surprised that my mom isn’t here—she hates coming to the hospital because it upsets her so much—but I thought I’d see Dad. He was in the ambulance with me, stroking my hair as the paramedics put me to sleep.
I lift my head and look for the call button to summon a nurse. Before I can find it, the door to the room opens. I expect to see my father, but instead a bald girl in a hospital gown steps inside.
The girl quickly shuts the door behind her. She’s skinny and short, only five feet tall, and about the same age as me. As I look closer I notice she isn’t completely bald—there’s some black fuzz at the top of her head. There’s also something wrong with the left side of her face. Her left eye looks swollen, almost squeezed shut, and her lips are bunched in the left corner of her mouth. I don’t know what kind of illness she has, but it looks serious.
As the girl steps toward my bed, her bunched lips form a lopsided smile. “I knew it,” she mutters, slurring her words a bit. “You’re Adam Armstrong, aren’t you?”
“What?” My throat is sore. I can barely whisper. “How do you—”
“I was a year behind you at Yorktown High.” She stops a few feet from my bed. “I’m Shannon Gibbs, remember? We were in the same biology class.”
I study her face, trying to place it. When I took biology in tenth grade there was a petite freshman girl who hardly talked to the other students but constantly pestered the teacher with questions. I didn’t pay much attention to her because she was a year younger, but I noticed she was smart. She was the only kid in biology who got higher grades than me.
“Okay, hold on, I’m remembering something. Did you do an extra-credit report? On the nervous system?”
Her smile broadens. “Yep, that was me.”
“You made those clay models, right? Of the brain and the spinal cord?”
Shannon laughs. “Oh God, those models! I was up all night making them.”
“It was worth the effort. They were very realistic. Truly disgusting.”
“And wouldn’t you know it? That’s where I got my tumor. Right where the brain connects to the spinal cord. Ironic, huh?” She taps the back of her head, just above the neck. “The cancer messed up the nerves in my face, and the chemo made my hair fall out. That explains my lovely Frankenstein look.” She does a monster imitation, widening her eyes and flailing her arms. Then she points at me. “I remember your report too. Wasn’t it also about the brain?”
I nod. “The brain’s limbic system. Where all our emotions come from. The hippocampus, the amygdala, and the cingulate gyrus. The tangled tongue-twisters of hate and love.”
“Yeah, I remember you put a ton of jokes in the report. You were funny. Definitely the funniest guy in the class.”
That was my strategy back then, playing the class clown. I cracked jokes and drove my wheelchair at breakneck speed down the hallways and generally behaved like an idiot. I didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for me, so I acted as if I didn’t care. As if I wasn’t dying. “I was trying too hard. Your report was better.”
Shannon comes closer and sits down on the edge of my bed. It’s kind of a forward thing to do, especially after barging into my room uninvited. She smiles again. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna put the moves on you.”