Mickey Reichert - I, Robot - To Protect

Kendall stared. “Thanks for the class, Calvin. What I really want to know is about how close do I need to get to Target A or B for it to start beeping . . . or whatever it does to get my attention?”

“Oh.” Susan realized Kendall only wanted the exact same information the tech at USR had given them. “They’re supposed to be exquisitely sensitive. So long as there’re not a lot of obstacles, you can get a hint of vibration at about a hundred yards or so.”

“Thanks.” Kendall sounded almost giddy with relief. “That’s actually doable.” He started to turn, then whirled back. “Sorry, Susan. I couldn’t get the Haldol. I needed a better explanation than ‘I think it has something to do with Sharicka.’”

Susan winced. Given Remington’s explanation, she doubted it would have done them any good, but she felt bad about putting Kendall in such an awkward situation. He had probably had nearly as much trouble getting himself off the unit. “It’s all right. Just go.”

Kendall headed off at once, his tread more stolid and serious than Susan had ever seen it.

Buoyed by Kendall’s trust and optimism, Susan set off to find Remington.

The tram glided to a stop at Forty-second Street and Third Avenue, a block and a half east of the Chrysler Building. Kendall Stevens’ gaze fixed on the massive, stainless-steel structure that seemed less to scrape the sky and more to directly pierce it. A seventy-seven-story rocket ship, it towered over the surrounding structures. It was an architectural masterpiece, slender and elegant, its proportions so much more eye pleasing than the lumpish Bank of America Tower or even the blockier Empire State Building. Its stainless-steel siding reflected light all around it, as if to share its tremendous glory with every one of its neighbors. His gaze fixed on it, Kendall headed down Forty-second Street.

Ahead of him, a glide-bus pulled up at a station that still held the historical marker of Grand Central Terminal. Due to multiple attacks, security concerns, and major changes in New York’s transportation systems, all that clearly remained of the once-largest train station in the world was a massive clock, the world’s largest example of Tiffany glass. The people flowing from the bus’ doors filled the gamut, and nearly all of them stared at the skyscraper as they emerged. Several tripped onto the curb, and one nearly walked into a sidewalk tree.

Suddenly, the device in Kendall’s pocket went crazy, buzzing against his right thigh with a fervor usually reserved for electrocution. Startled, he bit his lips to keep from shouting and hauled the device free, where it shook with such fury his arms vibrated with it. What the hell? Kendall glanced wildly around him. His heart slammed against his ribs like a jackhammer.

Cary English had just stepped off the bus, looking precisely like the picture Susan had showed Kendall. He had a wild tangle of salt-and-pepper hair, several days’ growth of beard, and blue eyes that flitted upward and sideways in random, nervous movements. A large man with enormous hands, he stood at least half a foot taller than Kendall’s five feet eleven inches and outweighed him by some eighty pounds. He wore an overlarge jacket over his greasy jeans, big enough to hide any number of explosives.

Shit! Kendall’s usual defense mechanism, humor, failed him now. He stood for a moment, trying not to stare. The schizophrenic’s gaze caught him, measured him, then dismissed him to focus on something or someone else. Now or never. Knowing better than to give the situation enough thought to keep him from doing something stupid, Kendall launched himself at Cary English.

As he flew through the air, Kendall’s whole life flashed before his eyes. He relived an awkward childhood raised by a domineering single mother, school years filled with inexplicable desire and lonely uncertainty sublimated with jokes and clowning, college camaraderie and focused studying, then medical school, where he finally found his niche. Then, he crashed against Cary English with bruising force, and both men tumbled to the sidewalk.

A woman screamed. Cary shrieked and gibbered something about aliens stealing his liver, all the while pounding Kendall with hammer-like fists. Men rushed to the rescue, and Kendall found himself abruptly assaulted by more hands than he could count. The radiation detector clattered from his fingers, buzzing furiously against the concrete, and Kendall felt himself slipping.

“Bomb!” Kendall yelled, for the first time hoping he was right. “He’s got a bomb!” Until that moment, he had worried Cary might panic and blow himself, Kendall, and the crowd to kingdom come. Now, Kendall worried more for getting beaten to a bloody pulp by would-be vigilantes. He caught the hem of Cary’s jacket and clung with all his might. He no longer felt the blows. The myriad separate pains fused into one intense, indecipherable agony.

Rough hands jerked Kendall from Cary, who rolled free. Kendall’s fingers ached and burned, and he felt battered in every part, but he doggedly refused to release the material. He heard a loud rip; something metal clanged against concrete; then a gasp erupted from the crowd.

The hands fell away from Kendall. He heard pounding footsteps, retreating, men and women screaming wildly, Voxes buzzing. Someone hauled Kendall gently to his feet while the mob fell upon Cary, pinning down his struggling hands, his flailing feet.

Breathing heavily from exertion, Kendall stepped away from the mass. Someone shoved the still-quaking radiation detector into his hands. “What the hell is this thing?”

“Bomb finder,” Kendall lied. “Made it myself.” He flicked off the switch, and it went quiet in his hands. “Did someone call the police?” he panted.

The man studied him in the reflected silver light of the Chrysler Building. He made a broad gesture to indicate the entire block. “I think everyone did. Who are you, anyway?”

Kendall had no intention of remaining to answer questions. “New superhero. Incredible-Guesser Man.” With that, he headed back the way he had come, tapping up Susan Calvin on his Vox.

The three R-1s met up at a tram stop on the opposite end of the city. Kendall looked exhausted. His ginger hair, usually straight, now stuck up in random clumps. A bright red mark spread across his right cheek, clearly tender. His knuckles were abraded, his clothing torn, and his arms showed a parade of bruises just starting to turn from brilliant red to duller blue.

Apparently noticing Susan’s stare, Kendall shrugged. “You should see the other guy.”

As Susan and Remington already knew the story, they only smiled.

The tram pulled up, and they boarded quickly. “So,” Kendall said as they squeezed into the same seat, Susan between them, “where are we going now, and what are the chances we’re all going to die?”

Susan supposed Kendall needed to joke, but she wished he would use another defense mechanism to escape his anxiety. This time, his quip had struck too close to home. She and Remington had already surmised Cary English had had enough morality left in his diseased brain not to immediately trigger his explosive charge when jumped on the street. Sharicka would require a whole different approach. The risk of all of them dying, along with hundreds of innocent people, was not remote.

Susan explained her choice of location. “We have ten different groups combing all the likely places. Then, it hit me. We can’t think like an adult, or even like a normal child. We have to think like Sharicka.”

Remington took over, “Obviously, she can’t drive. The drivers of any type of public transportation will question an unaccompanied four-year-old. She can’t pay for a cab. Lawrence believes there’s no actual contact between the terrorists and the patients, that the bombs or components are left in a certain location and the means for using them is programmed. So, it’s unlikely the masterminds even realize one of their victims is a child.”