He grasped the helmet, pulled it over his head, and gave it a twist to seat it into position.
Immediately, the room, already dark, grew blacker still. The faint hum of the Machine, the noises from above, were attenuated almost beyond the threshold of audibility. There was a small breathing orifice below the visor, lined on the inside with felt. Through the wire mesh of the faceplate, he could just make out the words on the control panel before him. The rest of the room was a blur.
Except for one thing: near the ceiling, the decorative circle that marked the base of the elevator was now descending, rotating smoothly and silently down into the room. And from within the curved surfaces of its matching outer doors came the yellow glow of multiple flashlights.
52
Logan looked over the controls, thinking quickly, recalling what Kim had said. Beam and field. Local and global. A local mode, very specific and sharply directed…. And a broader, more general mode.
That’s the one he’d have to use: the field controller. It would be directed in a broad arc toward the front of the room, where the markings had been set into the floor. Where the now-descending elevator would land.
I believe I’ve studied these controls long enough to test my theory, Kim had told him. But had he been watching closely enough to reproduce what she’d done?
The elevator had now descended halfway to its resting place. He could hear the muffled voices within, see — through his faceplate — haloes of flashlight beams beyond the housing. They weren’t trying to hide their movements. For all they knew, he was still somewhere out in the storm, making his way to the West Wing.
Crouching behind the Machine, Logan made sure that the master switch was set to field mode, then ran his eyes over the row of controls, blinking against the darkness and the obstructing faceplate in order to make out their legends. There — he recognized the first one Kim had used after turning on the device: a toggle switch marked MOTIVATOR.
He reached for it, switched it into position.
The elevator reached the floor of the room, bumping against it quietly. More chatter from inside. On the floor above — where Laura Benedict was waiting — all was silent.
Logan scanned the controls, located the next one: ENGAGE.
As the curved doors to the elevator swung open, he activated the control.
Flashlight beams flooded the room now, and he ducked farther behind the protective bulk of the Machine. Peering over its upper housing, he could see three forms, all of whom he recognized: the man in glasses who had first followed him into the subbasement; the other in the waxed raincoat; and, in particular, the hawk-faced, cruel-looking man in the tweed jacket. All held flashlights in their left hands; all held weapons in their right.
He glanced over at the set of controls. Just above those he had activated was a rotary dial, the numbers 0 to 10 inscribed into its faceplate. Next to it was a VU meter, its analog needle resting at the leftmost setting.
Recalling what Kim had done, Logan reached up and turned the knob to the 1 position.
The hum of the Machine increased ever so slightly. As if in reply, he heard the men now talking among themselves: low, uncertain.
He realized that he had only a few moments to make this work. If the men discovered him now, they’d simply shoot him.
He turned the knob to the 2 setting. The needle of the VU meter came sluggishly to life, bobbling back and forth along the indicator marks at its leftmost edge.
The men went silent. One spoke briefly, in an alarmed tone, only to be shushed by another — no doubt the ringleader, the figure in the tweed jacket.
Logan knew that, when he and Kim had briefly tested the Machine, it had been in beam mode, set to emit an ultrasonic pulse at a specific, discrete target. Even so, he’d felt its effect. Now, with the Machine set in field mode — directed at the entire space ahead of him — he could only imagine what his pursuers were beginning to experience.
It was time.
He took a deep breath. “I’m in control of the Machine,” he called out through the sound hole in the faceplate. “I’m directing it at you right now.”
There was an expostulation of surprise, followed by a metallic racking of weapons. “For fuck’s sake,” one of them murmured. “Be careful what you shoot in this place.”
“You know what it’s capable of,” Logan said. “I’ll use it on you if I have to.”
More muttering. He heard stealthy footsteps coming toward him.
In response, he turned the switch to the 3 setting. The Machine began to sing — a basso profundo sound from deep within its workings — and one of the men gasped.
“Stay back,” Logan said. “I won’t warn you again.”
A shot exploded from among the flashlight beams in front of him, and a bullet ricocheted past his ear. In response, he dialed the machine up to 4, then 5.
There was a cry from the group of men — a howl of pain.
Now, Logan dared to peer over the faceplate of the Machine. One of the men — the one in the waxed jacket — was bending forward, hands to his ears, mouth open in a rictus of pain. Next to him, the one in glasses was fumbling with his weapon, as if trying to unjam it. And beside him, the hawk-faced man in the tweed jacket was aiming — directly at Logan.
He dropped back behind the Machine as another bullet whined past just above his head. Craning his neck awkwardly in the bulky suit, he reached up with a gloved hand…then spun the knob over to the 7 position.
The howl of pain returned; only worse now — a shriek of agony. As Logan leaned against the Machine, it seemed to vibrate like a living thing, shaking and bucking, filling the room with its presence.
He ventured another look forward. The man with the waxed coat was still in the same position, bent over, apparently incapacitated. But the man in the glasses had cleared his weapon and was raising it toward him, steadying it. Blood was dripping from his nose and ears but he was ignoring it, wiping at his eyes with the back of one hand. And the man in the tweeds not only had his weapon leveled, but was advancing…
Logan ducked back, breathing fast. He knew he had only a second or two if he was going to act; otherwise, he’d be dead.
He glanced back up at the controls. The rotary dial was set in the 7 position, the VU meter jerking and bounding along its semicircular course like a mad thing. He thought back to his conversation with Sorreclass="underline" We never redlined it…
With a brief, muttered curse, Logan reached up and cranked the dial all the way to 10.
Immediately, several things happened. The deep-throated song of the Machine became a sudden roar as it threatened to tear itself from its moorings. The VU meter abruptly pinned itself all the way to the right. The sounds of pain he’d heard from the direction of the spiral elevator became first shrieks, then yelps, then strange, guttural, animalistic sounds. There was a tremendous bang, followed by the crash of something heavy collapsing to the floor.
Once again, Logan dared to rise up, take a glance over the top edge of the Machine.
The man who’d been bent forward, hands to his ears, was now on his knees, blood pouring from his nose and mouth. The man with the glasses was spinning around, keening dreadfully, as if in time to the song of the Machine. Droplets of blood flew out from all the orifices of his head as he twirled — nostrils, ears, mouth — forming a horrible corona of matter, coruscating in crimson circles as if spun by centrifugal force, flying out in all directions. The man in the tweed jacket had knocked over a lab table and was now walking in strange, jerky motions, like an automaton. As Logan watched, he crashed into one wall as if blind, turned with a laborious gesture, began walking in another direction.