Chapter Twenty Seven

Malcolm the Mighty

            In a secreted laboratory in the Doctor’s sanctuary, a furry hulk grasps the cold iron bars that keep him in his dank cell.  This huge primate is unique in his form, strong, heavy, some ape, some man, with a mixture of dozens of other animals.  His cage is bare, except for a tray of food and a bag of salt next to him which he needs to satisfy his body’s normal reliance on the mineral.  An old-fashioned light fixture above his head gives him minimal light in his otherwise depressingly dark environment.  Sitting passively on the bare concrete floor, the beast-like figure with a super-human brain silently plots his escape.  Using his com to access a powerful decryption program he found on the Internet, he stares at the virtual screen before his eyes, making one calculation after another.

            “Yes,” he said to himself in state of deep thought, “that might do it.”  He set a computer routine in motion.  The words “Searching Pass code” appeared on the screen.  A beep followed, then another message, “Sending Code to Computer Lock.”  This was quickly followed by another message, “Failed.”

            Being used to failure, the undaunted creature creates another algorithm to find that unique sequence that, when transmitted to the cell’s locking mechanism, might open the lock and win for him his freedom.  Hour after hour the massive hybrid worked on his plan.  Then, as if struck by divine inspiration, the freakish work of  Dr. Lincoln, stopped his work.  “Maybe I’m going about this the wrong way,” he mused.  “I think I need to look at this from a different perspective.”

            The animal genius stood and urinated on the bottom of one of the thin iron bars.  (His urine was unlike that of normal beasts.  Dr. Lincoln made it acidic enough to be used, if need be, as a weapon to ward off enemies.)  Taking the salt from his tray, he poured it onto the wetted iron.  “Now comes the fun part,” he said.  Reaching up, the tall beast easily reached the light bulb above him.  Unscrewing it, he touched the hot wire inside the socket while simultaneously grasping the bar with his other hand and bracing himself with his feet against the bottom of the bar.  The flow of current passed through the incredible creature, tensing his muscles along its route.  The wetted iron immediately began to bubble as the oxygen in the urine, and other molecules from it, made to chemically bind with the iron in the bars by the electricity, turned the exterior of them to rust.  His powerful muscles, aided by the electricity, bowed the bar toward him.  Releasing his grip, he bent low to see the condition of the iron and the damage he did to it.   The now-rusted bottom of the bars showed signs of thinning and stretching.  A small break appeared.

             “This looks promising. “ he remarked.  Again, the smart beast applied urine then salt. He again grasped the bar tightly with one hand as he allowed a surge of electricity to course through his monstrous body.  His bulky muscles contracted and bulged as the fiery power coursed through them.  Again, the extra energy boosted his already incredible strength, causing the bar to buckle.  Again the iron oxygenated.  Bits of rust flicked away like popcorn from an open pan.

            The gargoylean  figure did not stop to inspect this time.  He knew instinctively that there would be sufficient cause for a third and final attempt.  He again applied his craft.  The bar bent further than ever before and, this time, snapped from the bottom.  Now, grasping its end, he wrenched it upward and to the side, leaving a breach enough for him to effect his escape.  He was free.

            “That was easier than I thought it would be,” he said aloud.  “Sometimes there’s merit in being a damn freak.” 

            Quickly, the beastly titan sprinted toward the exit door, the bright light of day stunning his eyes.  His first sight was that of the run-down remains of what once was a pleasant suburb in Cuba but was destroyed during the prior month’s food riots.  He examined the map of the area he stored in his coms’ memory and used it to display his preplanned escape route.  Through one street, then the next, the dark figure sprinted.  Faster than a gazelle fleeing from the rage of fire, he advanced through the avenues, running where the street was unobstructed, and bounding where obstacles lay in his path.  Mile after mile he traveled, too fast for amazed onlookers to grasp more than a glimpse of him as he fled.  Untired by the task, he traveled effortlessly until he came upon that which he sought: a transport factory.  It was temporarily abandoned because of the chaos of war yet still intact.  Smashing the entrance door, the mutant saw what he expected.  The facility was stocked with enough miscellaneous parts and half-built vehicles to create a whole machine.  Quickly he began his arduous effort.  Accessing the files from the factory’s computer to guide him through his work, he put large pieces - some weighing seven hundred pounds - into place without need for mechanical lifting devices.  Using parts from several models, improvising where he had to and cannibalizing as necessary, the super intelligent brute did in five hours what it would take a mere mortal two days to accomplish.  Finally, before him stood a powerful, fully armed hybrid vehicle which, like himself, was composed of a hodgepodge of parts from many - pieced together in the best configuration possible under imperfect circumstances.  Its custom interior was fully capable of transporting his great size.  He eyed his creation only briefly, knowing time was short.

            “Now for fuel,” he grunted.  He sought out and found the factory’s generators  from which he extracted the necessary fuel and energy cells to charge his craft.  Not wasting a moment, he entered his transport.  Using his com to guide his creation’s actions he aimed a particle weapon that was under the vehicle.  The gargantuan watched as an invisible beam turned the wall in front of him into a pile of chunks, leaving a gaping hole.  Another command issued from his com and the sleek craft hurtled into the open sky with body-squeezing acceleration.  Within seconds he was soaring at six hundred and fifty kilometers per hour.

            “Too easy,” he said to himself.  “The mad doctor must have let me escape.  Maybe this is another one of his elaborate tests.”

            The beast’s answer came quickly.  His com’s communication software snapped on.  Before his eyes appeared a three dimensional holograph of his arch tormentor’s upper body.  “Good morning, my pet,” came The Doctor’s taunt.  “I see you have gone for a little walk, Trekker.  You had me worried about you.”  The gray-haired master of sarcasm stabbed the beast with its every inflection.  “You have become quite the Houdini.  Now you have taken another journey.  You were named well.”

            The furry figure responded.  “My name is not Trekker.  I have given myself a new name.  My name is now Malcolm, after Malcolm X.  I am going to fight you.”

            “Malcolm X?  The assassinated civil rights leader of the 1960's?” Lincoln said.  “What, are you going to be, some sort of leader?  You?  You are no more than a prototype and a mere eighteen months old.  Who is going to follow a beastly child?”

            “Child?  My brain was fully developed at birth,” he said.  “You have made for yourself a formidable enemy.”

            Dr. Lincoln paused to consider the matter, then continued.  “You know I can track you.  I have you on my monitor right now.”

            “Not so, Doctor,” he said.  “I am jamming your devices.  I know your tricks.”

            “Then you know that I can order your complete destruction with a single command from my com.”

            “If that were so,” Malcolm responded, “you would have done it already.  I’m smarter than you know.  I’ve figured it out.”

            “No.  You just think you have.  How do you know that I haven’t already sent the self-destruct command and that it just takes a while to take effect?”  The doctor took a small device from his pocket with a single button on it.  “How do you know I can’t just touch a button and cause your death?”                                                           

            Malcolm sent a command to a device in his dashboard.  Immediately the doctor’s hologram flickered off.

            “Damn that man,” Malcolm said.  “He gets under my skin!”

            Kilometer after kilometer Malcolm traveled desperately zigzagging his course to avoid the detection of any other vehicle or scanning device.  Faster and faster he flew.  Higher and higher he soared.  Soon he was so high he could see the curvature of the Earth, and beneath him, the thick shroud of clouds.  Still higher, he flew.  Faster and faster until his transport attained low orbit.  The disorienting feeling of weightlessness came upon him.  He checked his vital supplies.  Plenty of air and fuel left  - even enough to orbit a dozen times, but that would not be necessary.  He just orbited once so as to keep from being tracked, then slowed his craft for reentry.  After a journey of over twenty-five thousand miles, he entered the coordinates for his destination - only a thousand miles from his original position.

            As he descended, the craft’s outer hull absorbed the heat of reentry then yielded it back into the atmosphere just as quickly.  As the harried pilot continued downward he gave the vehicle final instructions.  A holographic timer appeared in his field of vision counting the seconds down from sixty.  At fifty seconds the hatch blew open.  Malcolm jettisoned into the high atmosphere far higher than any normal human could have and still survive. Surrounded by the thin walls of the craft’s cockpit, which was now his escape pod, he watched as his vehicle violently self-destructed into dust.  As he plummeted through the chilled air frost formed over his fur.

            Falling faster now, he readied himself for landing.  Watching his timer to execute his precise plan, he commanded his chute to open.  Within seconds a huge yellow canopy unfurled above him.  A powerful jolt jarred him as he felt the full fury of an escape pod that overreached its speed design.  His entire body smarting from the bashing, the dazzled Malcolm tried to relax his muscles and wished for relief. 

            In the Numan camp the entire senior staff’s coms beeped for attention.  “Incoming Unidentified Flying Object” filled their fields of vision.  Data displayed along the left and right of their virtual screens.

            Young Matthew, in the mess hall having a late lunch, quickly sent Peter mail.  “What is it?” he asked.

            “Maybe an escape pod!” he quickly replied.  Then Peter quickly switched his com for general messaging.  “Everyone into the bunker just in case it’s a weapon!”   Within a minute the entire camp inhabitants rushed into the underground shelters.  Peter monitored the craft’s descent from the safety of his bunker.  His monitor sounded: “Identification confirmed.  Craft is jettisoned escape pod from B-Class Zoom Craft created by Ford Industries.  One life form detected.”

            Peter issued a command to the residents:  “Stay inside until confirmation is made,” he ordered.  “We can’t be too careful.  We have to know who’s headed toward us.”  He grabbed some field glasses then ventured out to the front of the camp.  He transmitted another coded message to certain members of the group.  Taking out binoculars, he watched as the pod made a controlled descent toward the refuge.  “Hail escape pod,” he transmitted.  “Identify yourself.”

            A voice message, but not an image, was transmitted back to him.  “My name is Malcolm.  I need to seek refuge in your camp.  You see, I am not human.”

            Peter, just recently confronted by others who made the same claim, was not as fast to deny this possibility.  “And what makes you say this?” he answered.

            “It is hard to say right now,” Malcolm replied.  “I must ask you to accept me as I am and trust me that I need refuge.  I need to communicate with Matthew Wash.  I’ll be on the ground within minutes.  I wonder if it would be possible to speak with him?”

            “It’s possible,” Peter answered.  “But I can’t promise anything until I know who you are.”

            “And,” Malcolm added, “I suppose you’ll have to know what I am also.  I am not exactly normal looking.”

            “Sir, really, I don’t care how you look.  You’re good enough for us.”

            “You might not say that when you finally see me,” he called out.

            “Yeah,” Peter replied.  “That’s what they have all been saying recently.”

            Peter watched as the pod swung in a wide arc as it approached the facility. Two microbursts of energy jetted from the bottom of the craft to make its computer-controlled landing as gentle as possible.  The parachute automatically detached instantly, then self-destructed in a flash of light high above the pod.  A hiss of air emitted from the tiny craft as the hatch moved out of position revealing the furry occupant.  Malcolm calmly pivoted on his seat, then slowly stood on the earth beneath him.  The two silently stared at each other for long seconds, Peter’s mouth agape.

            “Hello,” the beast finally said.  “My name is Malcolm and I’m a br . .”

            “A brain-clone of Dr. Lincoln?” Peter finished.

            “No.  Not quite.  My brain was synthesized by Dr. Lincoln - genetically engineered.  However, he used his brain as a base for the genome.  How - how did you know?”

            “I sort of guessed.  You aren’t the first to come here.”

            “You mean, there are others like me here?  I thought I was the prototype.”

            “Well, you are undoubtedly unique in your appearance,” Peter said calmly.  “But there are other brain-clones here.”

            “You mean soldiers from the Numan War?”

            “Some.  Others are not.  You’ll see.”

            Peter quickly sent a message to Father Janis.  “We’ve got another live one for you, Father, he said.  “Could you please meet me out in front?”

            “What is it this time?” came the reply.  “A snail?  A turnip?  A freaking duck-billed platypus?”

            “You’ll find out when you get here.”

            “No.  I decline!  I declare it human from here,” he said.  “I’m through with making up clever platitudes on the spot!”

            “Father, you sound drunk.”

            “As any sane man would be,” came the reply.