James Patterson - Toys

“They tell us you’re some kind of poofter wonder boy,” the sergeant sneered. “We’ll have to see about that.”

“Let me guess-you have ways of making me talk,” I cracked. “And I’m supposed to come back with ‘Do your worst!’ Right?”

Clearly these lads were not chosen for their keen senses of humor. They stared at me stonily.

“Yeah, that’ll about cover it,” the sergeant said.

I could see why the humans would want to be careful with me, but still…

“You expect us to believe that for all those years you could carry on as Mr. Super Elite Agent-without anyone there having an idea there was somethin’ off about you?” the interrogator said with professional menace in his voice.

He’d asked me that same question, one way or another, at least a dozen times in the past hour-which was about how long I’d been hanging from the ceiling of a room in a military jet somewhere over southern England.

To be more precise, I was inside a mesh net, which they’d hoisted up so my feet didn’t quite touch the floor. A thin metal bar had been inserted under my crotch, and I was forced to straddle it with my full weight.

Damned uncomfortable, and not very hospitable of the Brits.

“It’s like being a bit thick, ” I said. “You don’t know it until somebody tells you.”

I could see the interrogator bristle at the insult, but he kept concentrating on the monitor of the brain analyzer they had me hooked to-a sophisticated lie-detection device that I knew was close to infallible.

Once again, he shook his head unhappily at what he saw. He turned to a Brit major who was standing by and observing me like I was a ticking bomb, which wasn’t entirely wrong.

“Never come across a reading like this before, sir,” he said. “Not a termite-but not exactly human either.”

Termites , I’d gathered by now, was what European humans called Elites-probably a slam at their unimaginative, orderly minds.

“Could I offer a helpful word, gentlemen?” I said. “I’m very familiar with this kind of equipment-I suspect the problem’s in the machine. ”

I wouldn’t have believed it possible for a man’s jaw to get any tighter than the interrogator’s already was, but it did.

“This machine is excellent,” he said. “Top of the line. Nothing but the best for testing the likes of you.”

“Have you ever used it in this aircraft? Or any aircraft at all?”

He hesitated-then, under the major’s steady gaze, said, “And your point would be?”

“The alpha-wave regulators are extremely sensitive to destabilizations of ionic-bombardment levels,” I said. “Even a slight change of environment can knock the whole operation out of sync. Taking it to this altitude and speed is like throwing it into a subatomic waterfall.”

“Well, Sandor? What do you say to that?” the major asked. “The man has a point. Destabilization of ionic-bombardment levels, hmmm?”

“I can prove it,” I said. “Hook yourself up to it. Check your own brain patterns as a reference. They might not be exactly normal, but I assume you know what they look like.”

“Do as he says,” the major commanded. “Do it at once. I want to see this.”

Grimly, the interrogator affixed a wireless headset to his own temples, connecting himself to the apparatus.

And also to me.

I stayed still for thirty seconds, concentrating all mental energy in the atrium of my brain’s implanted computer chip-the mechanism that allowed control over my body’s involuntary functions.

Then I blasted a pulse outward-an electromagnetic shock wave moving literally at the speed of thought.

The monitor’s screen shattered with a crack, and the interrogator’s feet left the floor by a good six inches. His bulging eyeballs looked like they were blistering on the inside. The headset smoked against his temples.

In the stunned silence that followed, the room’s door opened and Lucy stepped in, along with a well-dressed older man.

He glanced appraisingly at the half-melted equipment and the lurching, drooling interrogator.

“Point taken, Agent Baker,” he said. “Major, set this man free. He’s an ally. And a friend of Megwin’s.”

And still, the carefulness persisted. Or was it just human paranoia at this point? Hard to distinguish between the two sometimes.

“So that wretched psychopath President Jacklin actually told you of a plan to wipe out humankind?” said Sir Nigel Cruikshank-the man who had ordered my release and the chief of Britain’s top intelligence agency, the MI7. He had a deeply lined, world-weary face and a sense of tough integrity. He’d already apologized for his soldiers’ rough treatment of me, but I countered that their suspicion was understandable, and actually prudent.

I respected Sir Nigel instinctively, and I was already starting to like him. Imagine that, me liking a human.

“Jacklin used the phrase ‘making the world a safer, cleaner place,’ but that’s not what he meant,” I said.

“But he gave no indication of how this would happen? Or when, Hays?”

“Actually, no. I assumed he was talking about a military attack. A big one.”

“I see,” he said, pronouncing it somewhat like I say.

He walked to the rim of the ancient stone tower of Old Sarum, which we were standing atop, and leaned his forearms on the wall, gazing out over the wide expanse of Salisbury Plain.

Lucy and I followed him. A team of armed guards followed us everywhere, although now-supposedly-they were here for our protection.

“Are you thinking the plan is something different?” Lucy asked Sir Nigel.

“We’re preparing for a full military attack, of course. Monitoring their troop movements and readying our own forces. But something about it just doesn’t feel right to me.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Hard to explain, Hays. I’ve spent long years going point-counterpoint against the Elites-in older times, it was called a ‘cold war.’ Got to know their ways quite well.

“Now I just can’t rid myself of the sense that what they’re doing is too obvious, even for their tidy minds. I don’t believe they want anything resembling a fair fight. They’re very cerebral, and totally ruthless. The Elites have zero respect for human life. We’re skunks, insects, ciphers. As you well know, Hays.”

“I’m sorry I can’t help more,” I said. “But I am here to do what I can.”

“It’s fine, Hays. Well, have a good look ’round. That’s why I brought you here.”

He waved a hand toward a military installation that was visible in the distance-a large complex of buildings, airfields, missile launchers.

“That base there is our defensive nerve center. You’ll get to know our best people, our best minds. I happen to think they’re the world’s best minds: analytical, very creative, and, most of all, compassionate. The human race has come a long way since 7–4 Day. I hate to say it, but we’re better because of it.”

For the first time in my life, I was struck by the contrast between the ugly modern buildings and highways in New Lake City and these landmarks from the ancient past-the spire of Salisbury Cathedral piercing the sky and the fantastic pillars of Stonehenge. Like the Old Sarum tower, they weren’t just beautiful, they were magnificent-and all built by human minds and hands, long before the sound of a machine had ever been heard. Amazing feats of architecture and engineering.

With Elites, newer and more efficient was always better, particularly with anything built before 7–4 Day. If they hadn’t torn it down already, it was only because they hadn’t gotten to it yet.