Dan Fesperman - Unmanned

But that was ancient history. The kids were two years older now and living in another house, decorating someone else’s tree. Santa was some guy in a mall in Michigan. Cole didn’t even know what their school looked like, who their teachers were, or what kind of haircuts they had. If he were to burst through the door uninvited, would they even know him?

He asked himself why was he bothering with all of this shit. Why had he even come here, an awkward appendage to a trio of journalists, writers who probably saw the world in a completely different light from the way he did, and now with an oddball engineer thrown into the mix. He could leave this instant, he supposed. Drive away, either back to the desert beyond Vegas or, hell, maybe even take a wild chance by heading up to Saginaw. Arrive clean and sober and contrite, begging for forgiveness and throwing himself at the mercy of the in-laws. A Christmas miracle fit for the Hallmark Channel.

Wasn’t that his real goal in this, once you got to the bottom of all the baggage? Purge all his ghosts by figuring out what had really gone wrong, maybe while getting some payback along the way. Then he could finally move forward, an inch at a time, toward something that might resemble a workable future.

Saginaw. Cold and unwelcoming this time of year, and probably at least six hundred miles away.

He could drive Steve’s car to a bus station, mail him the keys. And then what? Phone Sharpe and the journalists later, from out on the road? Ask them what they’d found out, to see if there were yet any answers? Because he would definitely want to know.

So there it was, then. He still wanted— needed —answers. Without them, he would never move forward. And some degree of retribution was still necessary, just as it was for Sharpe, for Barb, maybe for all of them. Meaning there was work yet to be done, and his role was vital. It would be his most important mission in ages, perhaps ever. Is that what was scaring him?

“Fuck,” he said.

The beer was empty. So was a second one, and a third. He’d been sitting here drinking for more than an hour, maybe two. A wonder he hadn’t been arrested.

He crumpled the empties and stuffed them into the bag atop the rest of the six-pack. Then he opened the car door and set the package on the pavement, a gift to whoever pulled in next. He started the engine and pulled out of the lot, heading back in the direction he’d come from, toward Keira’s place.

Unfinished business was calling.

The main house was dark, and he parked by the pool house so the noise of the car wouldn’t wake anyone. Stepping into the night, he looked up through the trees at the stars. Now he wished he’d kept the rest of the beer, because he didn’t yet feel like sleeping. Maybe a walk would help. Down the lane and back, a two-mile round trip, or perhaps that was a stupid idea out here in the cold and the dark.

He was still trying to decide when he heard the first scream, a woman’s cry of terror emanating from the house.

Cole broke into a run, covering the ground in seconds, only to find the door locked. There was another scream, and a light went on upstairs, illuminating the porch as Cole fumbled for the key. He heard Steve now, or some strung-out version of Steve.

“What the hell is happening?”

The fear of God, indeed. What was Sharpe doing to them, and where was he?

Cole unlocked the door and stepped inside. The first thing he heard was buzzing—thrumming, to be more precise, like the sound hummingbirds make as they dart and weave among themselves, competing for nectar. He reached for a light switch as Steve came lunging toward him from the kitchen doorway, a chef’s knife in his hand.

“It’s me!” Cole shouted.

Steve stopped in the sudden glare, barefoot and waving the knife at something as it buzzed past his head. Barb was coming down the stairs two at a time, flapping her hands around her head as if plagued by a cloud of gnats. A second buzzing object, then a third, did a quick revolution around her before whizzing down the stairs ahead of her. They joined the one that had harassed Steve, and then, like a squadron of UFOs in some demented sci-fi movie, they flew in formation toward the living room, where three more were already hovering. Barb, Steve, and Cole eased through the doorway and watched in stunned silence as the six tiny craft formed into a V, the way geese did in migration. Steve raised the knife and went for them like a madman, shouting as he hacked at the air. But they were too nimble for him, dispersing in all directions and then re-forming along the back of the couch before making a beeline toward the fireplace on the far side of the room. They cleared the top of the screen, then disappeared one after the other up the black tunnel of the chimney.

Keira had now joined them, wearing only a T-shirt, hair in disarray, her eyes like full moons. They all looked at each other. Steve gently laid the knife on a side table and exhaled, muttering under his breath. None of them seemed to believe what had just happened.

The front door opened. It was Sharpe, his bony head in profile against the depth of the night. He stepped into the light of the foyer, grinning, holding an iPad in one hand and one of the dainty little drones in the other.

Steve opened his mouth to shout something, but Cole silenced him with an upraised hand. Barb just shook her head. Sharpe, holding the floor, began his remarks with the air of an orator addressing the well of the Senate. It was a snatch of seasonal poetry, a famed bit of verse, and as Sharpe declaimed he raised the little drone on high.

“To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall! Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!”

Then, in a quieter voice, and with an admiring gaze at the little drone, he concluded: “And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle.”

Barb was the first to recover from the shock of it.

“Merry Christmas, asshole. Was this really your idea of a sales job?”

“That was just the sound and light show,” Sharpe said. “The warm-up act. The sales job is just beginning.”

“Fuck you,” Steve said. “You’re done here.”

Sharpe looked toward Keira as if appealing the verdict. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse but steady.

“What is it you want to show us?”

“All of the reasons you can’t possibly quit now.”

Sharpe’s tone was now deeply earnest, almost humble. The change seemed to have an effect. Keira nodded and backed away, as if to clear room for his approach. Barb looked at Steve, who shook his head but surrendered, at least for the moment, although there was still fury in his eyes. Cole followed them to the couch, where they continued to stand while Sharpe set his iPad on the coffee table and activated a video.

It was shot in infrared and appeared on three split screens at once, starring all of them in their respective bedrooms, green blobs sleeping beneath the sheets. Keira reached for the tablet, and Sharpe had to snatch it away.

“We’ll take your word for it that you caught us all unawares. I thought you had a point to make. But if voyeurism is your whole message, then we get it.”

“Actually, you don’t,” Sharpe said. “Not yet. The video’s just for show, sort of like the buzz job by my tidy little armada.”

He set down the drone on the coffee table, and they couldn’t help but stare at it. Smaller than a butterfly, or even a hummingbird. Like one of those Matchbox toys Cole had played with as a kid, except more delicate and insectlike. The wings looked as if they folded in on themselves. There were two tiny rotors on top, and an even smaller one on the front. The whole thing was no more than two inches long.

“My own design,” Sharpe said. “Not theirs.” Presumably he meant the Pentagon. And maybe also IntelPro, or private industry in general. “But it will be theirs soon enough, in one form or another, which is why we have to pursue every tool at our disposal, before these things proliferate beyond our control, or at least without public knowledge.”