INCEPTION:

THE ASCENSION PARADOX

BY: L. R. THORNTON

Copyright © 2018 L. R. Thornton

Cover Art by Novak Illustration

All rights reserved.

First Edition: October 2018

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

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“He’s gonna run, Ray.” Officer Dwayne Parrish murmured under his breath.

“No, he’s not, Camarada,” Officer Ramone Sanchez, better known as Ray, retorted back. Once again ordering the suspect to get down on the ground as his breath blew out puffs of wintry air. “I got two hours before my shift ends. He’s not going to make me run this close to the end of the night.”

“Dumb cops!” the suspect, LaJuan Homer approximately nineteen years old, mixed ethnicity, five feet, ten inches tall with a tear tattoo under his right eye, snarled at them from underneath the hoodie. It framed a face masked in a belligerent rebelliousness which Ray had seen many times before. “You can suck my—”

Without warning, the boy dashed way, running like a dog chasing a squirrel.

“We got a runner!” Ray shouted as he shoved his gun into his holster and started after the suspect.

“We getting too old for this bull!” Dwayne yelled as he raced to the car. Ray knew he was calling for back-up.

Ray’s heart pounded in his chest and his blood rushed through his head as he pursued the suspect. Cold February air dove into his lungs, making him wish he’d worn a scarf. The boy dashed to the side, nimble as the character in that stupid nursery rhyme, ‘Jack be quick’. LaJuan jumped over fences and tipped over garbage cans as if he were filming for a parkour video. Ray couldn’t help but admire the boy’s agility for a split second. Had he only used that speed to race in the Olympics rather than stealing from party stores, Ray could have been on his way back to the station to fill out his paperwork and then head home to Jessie.

Instead, he darted through the semi-darkened streets of the usually quiet suburb of Troy at two o’clock in the morning, about to kill himself trying to chase some nineteen-year-old punk who seemed hell-bent on being the fifth man in his family to get jail time.

With a leap that made his eyebrows perch on his forehead, the boy scaled a ten-foot metal security fence that ran alongside one of the big industrial buildings. The boy landed on his feet and attempted to continue running when he hit a slick of ice that made him lose his footing and smack face first into the ground.

Ray swore again, knowing there was no way he could do the same. Didn’t want to, either, from the sound the boy hollered out.

Swiftly, he searched for another entry point and saw the gate had either been left unlocked or left open. The ‘No Trespassing’ sign glared in angry red letters against its stark white backboard. He ignored it as he kicked open the gate, feeling the slick of frost slide against the sole of his shoes. He raced toward where the suspect, grunting in pain, was scrambling to his feet.

“Don’t you move!” He drew his gun out, aimed at the boy’s retreating figure.  “Don’t you move!”

LaJuan groaned, defiantly flipping him the finger as he limped away. Ray guessed falling down, flat on icy concrete on ice would slow down the nimblest runner.

He could easily shoot the boy, but that wasn’t his style. Why couldn’t these little punks obey the law? Why did it have to come down to this?

“I’m not going to tell you again, LaJuan Homer!” he warned. “Stay where you are!”

The boy turned down an alley. Cursing, Ray holstered his gun, again, and dashed after him albeit slower so as to avoid any black ice.  It was this scenario right here that John Q. Public never understood. This blatant disregard for the authority he represented.  If he’d shot the boy, everyone would be in an uproar. Would anyone even care that this little punk had beaten the stuffing out of a seventy-year-old store owner, before stealing his money?

He came to the industrial building parallel to the alley. It would be so easy to end this the ‘easy’ way: shoot this worthless scum in the leg and call it a night. But with all the bad publicity going on between police and the public, he had to tread carefully.

Cheek pressed against the cold, wet surface of the brick wall, he peered around the corner. LaJuan Homer still limped on foot towards a car waiting at the other end of the alley.

Ray swallowed another curse. It looked like he was going to have to do this the easy way in order to keep the suspect from escaping. The old man’s pulverized face flashed in his mind. The EMTs who had answered the call, shook their heads at the senselessness of it all.

An old man gets beaten for five hundred dollars. His wounds so severe it looked like he wouldn’t make it.

Didn’t the old man deserve justice? If it was in Ray’s power to mete out justice, didn’t he have an obligation to do it?

“Dwayne, where is back up?” he whispered into the com on his shoulder.

“ETA 2 minutes. “

Two minutes would be too late. It was now or never.

He inhaled deeply, focused his thoughts, and then stepped from around the building’s corner. “LaJuan Homer, stand down now! Get on the ground, now!”

The boy kept moving. Ray’s hand tightened on the handle. “This is your final warning!”

Don’t make me do this, kid.

Yet, his forefinger twitched on the trigger.

Tires squealed from behind Ray like a child’s scream. Ray glanced over his shoulder to see a large, black van hurtling towards his position, apparently intent on running him down. Without another thought, and not one second too soon, Ray lunged out of its way.  He fell into putrid bags of garbage and debris which littered the ground.

Sticky, stringy, smashed substances hugged his clothes and his exposed flesh. He fumbled around, his bare hand landing in a small, mushy pile of dirty snow that was left over from the previous snowfall. Ray leapt back up. The van screeched to a stop where LaJuan Homer almost reached the waiting vehicle. The doors of the black van belched open.

Ray froze.

Against the dark interior of the van, red, glaring eyes beamed from a metallic face resembling that of a humanoid-like figure made of metal and shiny plastic sheaths. It alighted from the van in a lithe, fluid fashion. Upon its exit, other pairs of red, glaring eyes bore through the darkness.

Movement dragged his sight away from the inside of the van to the activity at the end of the alley. As if in slow motion, Ray noted that LaJuan had retrieved a gun. The boy stood, whirling around after bending over the front seat of the open car door. Presumably, LaJuan came prepared to shoot a six-foot Hispanic police officer based upon the smug look on his face. Instead, his mouth fell open at the sight of the seven foot? Eight foot Robot?

“Mother—!” was the last word the boy said before the robot’s metallic arm, dimly lit by the car’s rear-view lights, jerked forward. An electrical pulse emanated from its hand, arcing around the boy’s body. LaJuan vibrated violently, the whites of his eyes bright against the dark tan of his face. A few seconds later, the arc of electricity abruptly cut off.  LaJuan’s body collapsed against the car and then slid to the ground.

Unceremoniously, the robot hefted the boy’s limp body over its shoulder.

Ray’s startled gaze followed the robot as it clumped its way back to the van. A moment later it paused, fixing its red-eyed gaze upon him.  Ray couldn’t move his feet. Without warning, the robot’s arm lifted up in his direction. Its hand began to glow a brilliant white. The gun quivered for a brief moment before being yanked out of Ray’s hand as thought snatching a treat from a naughty child.

The robot’s metal fingers closed over his weapon. Then, with its glowing red eyes still trained on Ray, it tossed LaJuan’s body like a sack of feathers into the van.  Then got in itself.  It closed the door. The acrid smell of burning rubber reached Ray’s nostrils as the van lurched forward and crashed like a drunk into LaJuan’s car. It reversed then crashed forward again and again until the car had been sufficiently pushed out the way.

The van turned left down the alley and disappeared from sight.

Ray stood there, cold, weaponless, and trembling.

What just happened?

“Okay, Officer Sanchez, one more time.  Tell us from the top.”

Ray’s hands fisted underneath the table. He gritted out, “I’ve been sitting here for the past two hours, telling you my story over and over again. You asking the same question two different ways, isn’t changing a thing.”

Agent Perin from Internal Affairs, let loose a dubious, long-suffering sigh. “Officer Sanchez, you know the drill. We want to make sure your story is solid. We’re just doing our jobs.” The man shrugged in a distant way as if to convey this sort of thing was out of his hands. Just routine. “Okay?” He gave Ray a half-hearted, sheepish smile.

Ray cast his eye over the guy.  Was it worth his badge to punch the guy in the face and relieve some of the tension coiled within his body? From the top of his head to the soles of his feet, every muscle hardened like stone.

He detested that patronizing bull from higher ups who had nothing else better to do than wipe someone’s ass with silk sheets. With his sallow, olive complexion, limp, stringy hair, and lackluster blue eyes, Agent Perin looked like he wiped someone’s ass on a daily basis.

“Officer Sanchez,” Agent Clark interjected her high, clear voice, drawing Ray’s eyes away from Agent Perin, “Look at it from our point of view. You’re expecting us to believe that the Terminator came, electrocuted LaJuan Homer, and then took him away?”

Agent Clark’s eyes met his own, unflinchingly. Ray’s indignation eased slightly. He could at least respect her. She didn’t talk down to him although she didn’t believe his story any more than did Agent Perin.

Ray thrust his unsteady hand through his hair. “I know it sounds crazy. You think I want to be sitting here, telling you this? But I know what I saw. One of those freakin’ army bots or whatever you want to call them incapacitated LaJuan Homer and took him away. They almost ran me down. What else do you want me to say?”

“The truth?” Agent Perin mocked, with an amused look in his eyes

Ray’s fingers twitched and his lips curled.

“Tim, why don’t you get me and Officer Benson some coffee, eh?” Agent Clark said, looking just as pissed as Ray felt when she slanted her gaze at her partner. “And while you’re it, grow a pair of balls so when you come back, you can act like an adult.”

“Marion, this is a waste of time. A robot? You sure LaJuan’s name isn’t John Connor?”

Ray jumped to his feet and slammed the metal table with both fists. “Go to hell!”

“Tim, get the coffee,” Agent Clark ordered, her green eyes hard.

Agent Perin scooted his chair back. “Let’s just take this guy’s badge and get on with it.”

Agent Clark narrowed her eyes. The man sighed and rose up. Ray forced himself not to look at the man, preferring to stare at the reflective surface of the table as the agent walked by.

“I’ll be back,” Agent Perin quipped in a bad Australian accent.

The door closed and Ray glanced up, meeting the penetrating green-eyed stare of Agent Clark.

Truth be told, he couldn’t blame Agent Perin or Agent Clark for their skepticism. He saw everything go down and still couldn’t believe it. But nothing could make him imagine a night like that. Especially, the way the robot kept staring even as it incapacitated LaJuan Homer.

“Look, Officer Sanchez,” Agent Clark steeples her hands under her chin. “I want to believe you. With all the heat on the police right now, the last thing I want to be doing is this. Yet, we have a suspect gone missing while you were in pursuit and trying to apprehend him for the assault of Leland Wright, the owner of Wright’s Party Store. Most folks believe you just shot the boy and then hid the body. In fact, that’s what I am inclined to believe.”

“I’m not a killer cop,” he clipped out, nostrils flaring. “I thought about it but I never once shot that boy.”

“The public, the department, even the state government can deal with cops being pricks and jumping the gun.” She gave him a direct gaze. “Literally. No one’s going to swallow some cockamamie story about a punk-kidnapping robot.”

He knew that. Even Jessie, his wife of seventeen years, didn’t believe his story and she’d known him longer than most.

“Agent Clark, that’s exactly what happened.”

She scraped her auburn tresses back from her forehead. “Okay, Officer Sanchez. If that’s what really happened, why didn’t your partner, Officer Parrish report this as well?”

“He wasn’t there. I was the idiot who decided to chase after LaJuan Homer while he performed standard procedure and radioed for backup.”

Agent Clark glanced at her report. “According to your statement, Officer Parrish arrived seconds after the black van with the robot left.”

He sat back down and gave a curt nod. “Yes.”

Dwayne didn’t believe him either.  He wished he could be ticked off about the folks closest to him who, by the disbelief, left him hanging high and dry, but he couldn’t. If the shoe were on the other foot, he’d be thinking the worst.

Jessie’s face from last night rose up in his mind. “Ray, did you kill that boy?”

“No!” He’d grabbed her shoulders and forced her gaze on him. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

Her wide, chocolate eyes had taken on a glassy hue. “Dylan can’t even go to school because he’s being bullied.”

A wobble accompanied her next words. “The media is saying you’re a killer cop who hasn’t been caught yet. The boy’s family is calling for your head.” She’d sandwiched his face between her palms. “Baby, if you did kill that boy, I know it would have been an accident. You can tell me.”

Ray’s head bowed under an immense, invisible weight.  If he couldn’t convince his wife of seventeen years that he didn’t do it, how could he convince two people from a bureaucratic office who didn’t care anything about him?

The questioning went on for another half hour but he had nothing else to say. By the end of it, he had handed over his badge and was put on paid suspension pending investigation.

Driving home, snow flurries scattered across his line of vision. The rhythmic squeak of the windshield wipers played alongside his thoughts. His gloved hands twisted on the steering wheel as he recalled seeing the red of the robot’s eyes. He’d been seeing those devilish orbs for the past week. Waking or sleeping, the memory of them followed him everywhere like the neglected love of an abandoned dog. He cut off the engine after arriving in his driveway. Leaning against the headrest, he didn’t relish the upcoming talk. Things had been good between them for almost eighteen years. Now, his whole life was set to crumble. 

Daniel Lawton shoveled the eggs and bacon down his mouth as he used the TV remote to turn up the volume to better hear the news.

“Tensions continue to rise between the public and the police as another young black man has tragically been shot by a Troy police officer,” the reporter stated. “The officer under investigation of this newest shooting is Officer Ramone Sanchez of the 12^th Precinct in the affluent Detroit suburb.

“Officer Sanchez was already under scrutiny for the mysterious disappearance of reported gang member, LaJuan Homer, who disappeared two weeks ago. Officer Sanchez was suspended with pay while police headquarters investigated the incident. The investigation, according to police representatives was determined inconclusive. Officer Sanchez was reinstated five days ago and now another young man has been shot under his watch.”

Daniel stared at the scene of the angry mob trying to plow through the line of officers that protected the police station. He shook his head. “Crooked cops,” he murmured.  He dipped his spoon, finishing off the last of a bowl of buttery grits.

With a quick glance at his phone he noted that he had about fifteen minutes to get to work. Mentally, he went over the things he had planned for today as he placed the used dishes in the sink. As he went over to turn off the TV he heard the words, “war bots”. He paused, his breathing slightly elevated as he listened to a clip from Barry Stallworth, the CEO of Horizon Bionix.

“Look, war bots are the perfect solution for defense. The cost of war tallies in the hundreds of millions of dollars, not to mention the human loss. Should we continue to send our men and women to face uncertain death? No. War bots are exactly what’s needed to defend our way of life and our freedoms.”

Daniel turned off the TV and made a sound under this breath. Familiar with Horizon Bionix’s technology, he was doubtful about how effective they would be. After all, the science and the mathematics were extremely complex. It wasn’t a simple matter of constructing a robot, giving it programming to shoot. The robot had to be able to filter through all sorts of factors.

“I wonder what Dino would think,” he said out loud as he exited his home and started the brisk walk to campus. It had snowed the night before. Piles of fresh snow decorated the walkways as he made his way. He breathed in the crisp winter air, content in a small way.

Could Dino ever appreciate the beautiful effects of a snowy day?

Soon, the campus loomed before him. Its gray walls, tinted windows, and garish lettering reminded him of a macabre statue. Small groups of students and faculty milled about the building, laughing and talking to each other while hurrying to gain the warm confines of the university. A couple of faculty members sent nods his way. He returned them, but preferred to keep his own company unless someone came along whom he didn’t mind talking with.

Daniel recognized his own brilliance, but not in a way that he could see as arrogance. He’d made dozens of breakthroughs in his long career. Breakthroughs in robotics used by various countries around the world; synthetic skin used to treat burn victims for medical aid; bringing artificial intelligence closer to match the fluidity of human intelligence. His fellow faculty, with their own distinguished careers couldn’t match his. But maybe that was the point: they didn’t have to.

“Good morning, Professor Lawton.”

He turned at the sound of the female voice and his mouth broke into a grin. Definitely someone he had no problem talking with. “Good morning, Miss Benson.”

Amy Benson groaned as he knew she would. “I hate when you call me Miss Benson. You make me sound like an 1880’s old maiden aunt.”

Daniel grinned. “Benson’s a fine name. Steeped history and breeding.”

“Oh really?” Amy said with a lift of her black eyebrow. “In that case...” she changed her voice to a British accident, “you are now my knight, Sir Lawton.”

Daniel laughed along with the girl. She was one of his best pupils, endowed with a keen mind and a lightning quick speed of grasping difficult concepts. She had worked for him as an assistant in his capacity as a contractor for the U. S. government in the area of robotics.

“How’s Dino?” she asked as they entered the building and showed went through the metal detectors, and standing still while the guards whisked over them with wands.

“We’ll find out, won’t we?”

Body search completed, they went down the hall and into his laboratory.  He stomped his feet to rid his boots of snow and then took off his outer garments and hung them up. “Structured chaos,” Amy quipped.

Daniel couldn’t agree with her more. Odds and ends of anything related to robotics sprawled across the vast room. Disembodied body part, pieces of metal, wiring, cords, and other paraphernalia lay about. Yet, each section had a purpose.

Heavy thuds sounded in the room and they both turned, unalarmed.

“Good morning, Dino,” Daniel greeted his friend.

“Good...morning...Professor...Lawton.” Measured computer tones greeted him back.

The hulking, metallic, ape-like robot lumbered over to them. Daniel’s eyes roamed over the ape with pride. It didn’t really look like an ape in the classical sense. After all, it lacked biological parts such as flesh, bones, an animal brain, veins, and musculature. But in every other way, it resembled an ape by its movements. It had taken years to get the programming right but he’d succeeded just like with everything else he did.

He grimaced. Well...almost everything else.

“Why didn’t you just name him Kong?” Amy asked as she always did when she came face to face with Dino.

“Because that would be cliché. Besides, Dino is more than just one of my creations, Miss Sanchez. He’s a friend.”

Amy’s head cocked to the side. “A friend? A robot you created?”

Daniel’s mouth lifted at the corners. “A friend made to order is perhaps the best kind.”

“Perhaps you’re right, Professor.”

He pulled out his phone and glanced at the time. “I know I’m right. Come on, let’s get to class.”

“Ray, quit lying to me!” Jessie screamed as they stared at each other in their bedroom.

The soft glow of the lampstand traced delicate fingers of light over his wife’s smooth, caramel skin. It brought into sharp relief her agonizing expression.

“For the last time, I’m not lying to you,” Ray pleaded with her to believe him. “I didn’t shoot that kid.”

“Then how did he die, Ray?” Her chocolate eyes with their thick lashes, had a shimmer to them. “You barely got away with that LaJuan Homer kid. But this time, a boy is dead.”

Ray fisted his hands in his hair. He couldn’t believe this was happening. His own wife!

“Jessie, Caramelo, we’ve been together for how long?”

“Seventeen years, Ray.” She folded her arms.

His eyes roved over this woman, taking in every aspect.  She had long weave that cascaded down her back in soft black waves. He liked the way she changed her look over the years, always keeping it fresh. It made coming home even more fun. 

This was his high school sweetheart; the mother of his son; his reason for living; the love of his life.

How could the woman he’d shared a lifetime with believe he could have killed a boy in cold blood? No one was supposed to know him better than her.

“Caramelo,” he implored again, feeling his tear ducts swell with liquid. “You have to believe me. I didn’t kill that boy. I’m being set up.”

“By a robot, Ray?” she spat. “The Terminator kidnapped LaJuan Homer and killed Terrence Park?”

“Yes!” he yelled. His whole body shook with the effort to control himself. “Yes, Jess! A robot came and did it.”

Seeing the robot, again, had floored him. He’d come to terms that the incident involving LaJuan Homer had been a singular event. It happened. No one believed his story but at least they couldn’t find evidence to pin the blame on him.

Yet, the second time, during an altercation with another gang member (a tidbit the media chose to leave out) the boy had been shot by the same robot.

Coincidence left a long time ago. The fact is that this robot was on the scene again, staring at him with those glowering red eyes. But this time, it had a gun-like weapon attached to its hand.

While he was on the scene.

Ray knew then that someone had it out for him.

“Ray.”

He came out of his thoughts as Jessie pressed herself against him and lifted her arms around his neck. Her vanilla scented softness nearly undid him. All he wanted right now was to pick her up and lose himself in her. He ached to have a brief respite in heaven to escape the hell of his life.

“Yeah, mi vida?” His heart seemed to crack in two.

How could she not trust him to tell her, of all people, the truth?

“I want to believe you, papi. I do.” A tear trickled down her cheek. He captured the tiny droplet with his thumb and brought it to his mouth where he licked it off, tasting her the salt of her sorrow.

Ray hated to see her cry. Over the years, he’d been proud of the fact that Jessie had had little reason to cry. It tore at his insides that her tears were caused by him.

“You know I’ve had your back since we were in high school. You know that. I’ll ride or die with you. Even if you just admit that you harmed or killed those boys, I’d still be by your side because at least you’d be telling me the truth.”

Ray winced. Her words cut sharper than a knife.

“But when you tell these wild stories about killer robots, I can’t—I just can’t—”

Her tears flowed down in a steady trail, making pale colored streaks in her make-up. There was more to this than her disbelief though. Ray knew his wife like the back of his hand and what he saw in her eyes sent a cold wave of fear throughout him.

She was giving up on them.

“Caramelo, please,” he begged, all sense of pride gone. “We’ve been through too much for you not to believe me. I’ve never lied to you.”

Her voice cracked, “I can’t. I can’t.”

Without conscious thought, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed.

He made love to her with a desperation that came from deep within but the aftermath brought with it bitter reality.

Ray knew he had made love to his wife for the last time. They lay side by side in silence, trying to catch their breaths.

“We’re going to my mother’s house in Monroe, Ray. Tomorrow.”

He turned his head to meet the bleak resignation in her eyes. “You’re running away.”

“You can call it what you want to, Ray. But I’m doing this for both of us. All of us.”

Ray reached out to touch her but she turned away. “Good night, Ray.”

He knew she really meant adios.

A fitful sleep overcame him. He awakened to the sounds of Jessie moving around the bedroom. The early morning rays of dawn casting pink shadows of light across her naked body as she moved back and forth through the room. She dressed, unhurriedly, then pulled out a suitcase. Ray watched as she stuffed it with clothes then zipped it shut.

He wanted to talk to her, make her stay. But, he knew she wouldn’t.

Jessie came over and knelt down by the bed. Her hazel eyes swam in tears.

“Caramelo,” he whispered in the stillness between them. He reached out to cup her cheek. “No te vayas. Stay. Trust me. Believe in me.”

Jessie sighed and then lifted her mouth to his, kissing him deeply with that brown-berry mouth he so loved. A spark of hope rose. Would she—?

“Get dressed so you can say goodbye to Dylan.” As she stood all warmth seeped out the room.

His chest caved in. “Jessie.” So, she was taking Dylan with her, too. His son that he loved with as much fervor as his mother.

“He can’t go back to school because of all the publicity surrounding you. You can’t leave because of it, either. We have to leave in order to—to—”

Her voice trailed off. Ray shoved the covers back and got up. He dressed in a pair of pants and a T-shirt that was lying about the room.

Without another word, for fear of breaking down, they went downstairs.

Dylan sat at the kitchen table eating a bowl of cereal. Tall and gangly in that way of teenagers.  With a few pimples on his face, the boy was still a good-looking kid. But he could be biased. Dylan glanced at both of them and then bent over his bowl of cereal.

“Dylan, I want you to know that going to Granny’s is the best thing for you and your mother right now until this blows over.”

The boy nodded but refused to meet his eyes. Could this get any worse? His own son thought he was a murderer.

“I’ll come and see you as soon as I can.”

“Okay, Dad.”

Jessie went around the kitchen in a brisk manner, wiping down the clean counters and emptying out the dishwasher. Anything to keep herself from looking at him.

“Hurry up Dylan so we can get going. Granny will have some food for us at her house.”

Ray wanted to tell the boy to take his time. To take as long as he wanted so he could draw out these last moments.

All too soon they bundled up against the wintry weather, headed out the door, and got into the car. The lackluster hug his son gave him almost crumbled him to his knees. Jessie kept her eyes averted. Still Ray detected the slight tremble of her lips.

They drove away and Ray wondered if killing himself would be easier than seeing his family run away.

“When is state sanctioned police violence going to stop?” Jerome Bradshaw, a popular local TV personality shouted out to the viewers in the audience. The crowd leapt up in their seats, the camera spanning back and forth at a sea of faces.

“LaJuan Homer, Terrance Park, these are young men were involved with Officer Ramone Sanchez. LaJuan’s mother is still looking for her son and he’s nowhere to be found. Terrance is dead.”

Bradshaw gave the appearance of being overwhelmed, his voice cracking while still maintaining eyes contact with the camera. “I’m sorry, ya’ll. Sometimes, I just don’t get why we sit by and do nothing when our children die. My heart aches.”

The TV host sucked in another breath. “Terrance Park is dead. Killed by Officer, no, we’re not going to call this child killer, officer—no, wait.”

Was Ray the only one seeing the light of glee enter the man’s eyes? He could tell the moment the man mentally said, “Aha!” In fact, Bradshaw’s bore a malevolent glow as he announced. “We’re going to call him, Murderer Sanchez.”

The camera was jostled about as people jumped up and clapped. “Murderer! Murderer!”

“Tomorrow, we’ll know whether or not Murderer Sanchez is going to get off scott free. He killed Terrance Park and all we have are excuses from the police department. They’ve clammed up so tight their buttholes can’t—well, I won’t finish that one. This is public TV.”

Ray cursed as the crowd sniggered. He was glad someone found this amusing.

Pictures of LaJuan Homer and Terrance Park came onto the massive screen behind the talk show host. Interesting, they’d only used older high school pictures showing stills of smiling faces. Did anyone remember where these little punks were when he, supposedly, had accosted them? At two in the morning in the dark of an alley. Did they show the tattooed tear drops on LaJuan’s face suggesting either he’d kill people or he’d been in jail?  Did anyone have a clue that Terrance Park had terrorized the local neighborhood with his gang called Death Stars?

At least Matthias Dayton, his lawyer, had enough good sense to point out these things during the trial. Conveniently, the media had kept those details out of the news. When they did mention it, it was only in passing.

“Murderer Sanchez, you need to—”

Blood pounded in Ray’s ears as his vision blurred. In a sudden fit, he yanked the empty bottle of whiskey off the table and flung it at the flat screen TV. The screen cracked but the picture remained. He scowled as the bottle clanged and landed on the floor undamaged. He cursed. Those plasma TV’s could take a better hit nowadays.

He scrubbed his face with his hands.

He’d been in a dark hole for the past four months of his life.

Jessie hadn’t left him just to protect Dylan. That, at least, he could have understood. She’d removed herself from his life. His eyes glimpsed at the folded paper on the table. Drops of whiskey had dotted its surface.

“Dissolution of marriage...”

Seventeen years. How could all they had shared be gone with a single phrase? “Dissolution of marriage...”

Nothing scorched his soul as much as when he saw those papers. Not the hate mail. The death threats. He’d fallen to the floor when he received those papers, all the strength gone out of his legs.

He loved Jessie! She was supposed to be his ‘forever girl’. But, she had succumbed to the media machine of hate and propaganda. She might as well have been co-hosting the TV show with Jerome Bradshaw.

Dylan had, at least, reached out to him. His son had inherited that sense of loyalty which wouldn’t allow for total desertion.  Ray remembered the last call he’d received where Dylan simply said, “I don’t know what to believe anymore, Dad.”

Remembering Dylan’s last remark forced tears to trail down his father’s cheeks. The tears Ray had managed to contain until his heart was pierced by his son’s uncertainty.

“Me too, son,” Ray wailed in the silence of the room. “Me too.”

He didn’t know what to believe either. A woman marries him for better or for worse. When it gets hot, she leaves. The people he’d sworn to protect because he wanted to be an everyday hero are now calling for his head?

What did he have to believe in anymore?

Sobs took over his body. The alcohol he’d imbibed had stripped away his self-control. The rickety wooden chair he sat in suddenly broke. Ray clattered to the floor like a bag of bones.

Ray curled into the fetal position on the floor, still sobbing.

From the distance, he heard the front door unlock. He heard the squeal of its hinges; heard the subtle footsteps; heard the click of the lock back in place; heard the deliberate footsteps against the wooden floor as someone made their way to where he lay.

The footsteps stopped near his head. Was it the robot coming to kill him? If it was then he’d happily accept his fate. He closed his eyes and wished for death with every cell in his body.

When he finally opened his eyes, his vision was blurred. He was still able to make out the gray-suited man with dark curly hair gazing down at him.

Death wore a cloak, not a suit.

“Go away, Matthias,” Ray moaned. “Leave me like everyone else has.”

“Leave you?” He saw his lawyer glance over at the table and reach over to pick up the divorce papers Jessie had sent. After a brief moment, the man said, “Damn.”

Perhaps it was the way he said it, so matter-of-fact, that it made Ray wipe the moisture from his eyes. Jessie wanted a divorce. Stuff happened that you can’t always control. Get off the ground and deal with it.

He got up on unsteady feet as the alcohol messed with his equilibrium. He wondered if he’d have a pounding headache to accompany the handcuffs which were sure to be clasped around his wrists tomorrow.

“Matthias, what do you think the jury is going to say?”

The older man clapped his hand on Ray’s shoulder, bright eyes sparkling with confidence. “Ray, those twelve men and women are going to say ‘not guilty’.”

Ray stared into the dark eyes of the one person who’d remained in his corner. “This trial’s been going on for months and it all ends in twelve hours. How do you know they’re not going to say guilty as sin?”

Matthias gave a shrug. “I know we presented an air tight case no matter what the media and public think. I know you didn’t take LaJuan Homer or kill Terrance Park. And tomorrow, so will the rest of this curious society.”

“I wish I had your confidence.”

The man pursed his lips. “Well, it’s not confidence so much as it is knowing that the jury can’t go any other way. Our evidence stood up to the prosecution’s cross-examination. Your record’s been impeccable until now. Your own partner defended you and he wasn’t even there! The jury has to go the route of ‘not guilty’.”

Ray’s legs trembled as he pulled out the other chair which hadn’t broken away from the table and sat down on it. “They’re calling me Murderer Sanchez on TV, Matthias.”

‘They can call you Daffy Duck if they want. The only words that matter tomorrow are ‘not guilty’.”

His eyes locked on the wood-grain floor upon where he’d just been curled. “Matthias?”

“Yeah, Ray?”

He swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. It was hard to get the words out but he had to know, “Should we have told them about the robot?”

“C’mon, Ray!” Matthias groaned. “We’ve been over this several times. There’s no way we could have won this case if even a peep of something that incredulous made it into the trial.”

“But it’s the truth!”

His attorney sighed and then hopped on the table. “Look, Ray. Truth is a good thing. It really is. But...and I hate to say it...everyone can’t handle the truth.”

The truth of those words pierced his chest. Jessie hadn’t been able to handle it. Look at what being honest with the love of his life had done—given him divorce papers.

Part of him wished he hadn’t lied about that night. He’d told the court that LaJuan had disappeared when he’d gone around the corner looking for him. He claimed ignorance stating in regard to the car’s damage, it was already in that condition when he had arrived on the scene. Matthias had thought it best to keep as close to the truth as possible.

“Half-truths are still lies, though,” Ray had once said in their counseling sessions.

“Everyone lies,” Matthias said with brutal force. “Get used to it. The only truth that really counts is that you didn’t hurt either of those boys.”

Remembering that conversation, Ray lifted his head to look into his attorney’s eyes. “Do you believe me about the robot, Matthias?”

Matthias pursed his lips, a movement that always said he was deep in thought. “Let me put it to you like this. Let’s say this robot you claim is really the culprit. If that was the case, we know that the culprit is being controlled by someone else. That someone else, if they were on the up and up, would have come forward in some capacity to make amends. LaJuan Homer would have come home in one piece. Terrence Park would still be alive. In jail perhaps, but alive.”

He folded his arms. “But whoever this hypothetical person is, they did not come forward. They did not make amends and they’ve remained silent as the grave which now houses Terrance Park. If we came out in the open about a killer robot, then whomever is behind its actions would still have secrets to keep and agendas to fulfill. We, not just you, mind you, would have placed bull’s eyes targets on our backs.”

Matthias hopped off the table. “I’m keen enough to know this: if, as you say, this killer robot had done these things then in keeping quiet about it, I’ve saved both our lives. If, as what you’ve said is true, then I like living too much to risk my life on something that can do what you claim it has done. As a defense attorney, and this is going to sound cynical and hypocritical, it’s not always my job to tell the whole truth. My job is to make sure my client doesn’t go to jail. If it means a little truth stretching or a little omission, then so be it. The only cases I refuse to take are those who are guilty of murder. Even I won’t stoop so low.”

Ray couldn’t argue with a skewed logic like that.

With Matthias’s help, he dried out. His head still throbbed when he stood before the judge and jury next day. But not so much that he couldn’t hear his lawyer’s prophecy come true.

“Not guilty.”

The courtroom erupted into bedlam but the cries didn’t penetrate past the fog of disbelief. Matthias said something and he answered on some level but most of his attention was riveted on one thing.

He was found not guilty but his life would be stained by guilt.

A double-edged sword if there ever was one.

Bolstered by Matthias, he let his lawyer do all the talking as they stood in front of cameras. It seemed as though everything was happening to another person. When he arrived home, his house had been vandalized; windows broken and obscenities sprayed on the outer surfaces. None of it mattered anymore.

Ray went into the kitchen and sat down.

What to do now that this episode of his life had ended?

The answer came to him a moment later. Now that he was free he had to figure out the most important part. Matthias’s warnings rang in his mind but he couldn’t take the easy way out. He had to answer the question that ruined his reputation, destroyed his marriage, and stained his life.

Who sent the robot to frame him? And why?

Jillian Foster bolted up from the bed, shivering in reaction. Her mouth gaped open like a fish as she tried to gulp air into her heaving lungs.

“Not again,” she whimpered. “Not again.”

The shakes wracked her entire body. Frigid air from the central air unit danced over goosebumps dotting the exposed flesh of her arms and legs. She tugged the ends of her pajama shorts down and pulled at the sweat-drenched pink tank top.

In the darkness of the room, she hugged herself to try to still her thrashing heart, beating her body’s fright into submission. Her eyes darted to the flat-screen alarm clock on the wall. “Three-thirty,” she whispered out loud, trying to impart some normalcy into the moment.

Normalcy. How could she have that when the dream, with all of its realism and sensation still clawed at her mind?  Unwilling to relinquish its grip. Even now, as she stood next to the bed that had moments ago been her prison, she closed her eyes and saw Sarah’s face again.

“Sarah.” Even saying the girl’s name hurt.

Opening her eyes again, she unclenched herself and walked carefully to the bathroom. Flicking on the light, she took in her reflection. Her messy, strawberry pink hair started to show its ash blonde roots. She’d have to get it touched up before VEX in a couple of weeks.

Turning on the faucet, she splashed cold water on her face, trying to freeze out the image of Sarah so it wouldn’t come back to her mind’s forefront. She thought that part of her life was over.

“That was stupid, Jillian,” she told her reflection as she reached for the nearby hand towel and dabbed her face dry. With VEX being so close, how could she have thought otherwise? She should have been prepared for the resurgence of the dreams, rather, nightmares.

Jillian stared back at her reflection. Her pensive, light-blue gaze made a mockery of her.

“Jillian?” Jackson’s voice called from outside the bathroom.

Swiftly she put the hand towel back on the rack and the turned off the light and headed back into her bedroom.

Jackson’s tall, dark figure blocked the doorway. The light from the hallway washed over the thick crop of mussed up silver hair that decorated the top of his head. He pressed the flat panel by the door making light flood room.

“You okay?” Jackson asked as he came further into the room. A thin white T-shirt hung on his wiry frame and plaid boxer shorts hung low on his waist.

Jillian sighed. “I’m fine.”

Jackson scoffed. “Don’t feed me that bull. I know you too well for that.” He crossed over to her, folding her in his arms. His chin rested on top of her head. Unresistingly, she nuzzled closer and breathed in his familiar, warm scent.

“I dreamed about Sarah,” she told him without preamble.

His arms contracted around her. He grasped her body tightly. She could feel his prominent Adam’s apple move along her temple as he asked, “Was it like before?”

“Yeah.” She delved more deeply into his strength, tightening her arms around him. “The same and yet more...” her voice trailed off.

“Scary?” he supplied.

She nodded.

A huge sigh rattled his chest. “VEX is so close now, I guess we should have been prepared for it,” Jackson remarked as he pulled away several minutes later. She now missed his embrace but felt better. They always gave each other strength when they needed it.

“That’s what I was thinking, too.”

She went back over to the bed and sat cross-legged on it. Jackson joined her. “You know they’re going to throw a hundred thousand dollars at us when we get there, don’t you?”

He nodded, a lock of his silver hair falling in front of his eyes. “They’d probably give us more if there wasn’t a limit.” He tossed the hair back away from his face.

Jillian allowed a small grin to take over her mouth. “Yeah. But it’s not about the money, is it? It’s never been about the money although that is certainly a nice gesture.”

Jackson grinned. “Mark thinks we’re probably the only ones in our field that thinks money is a nice gesture and not a necessity.”

“No,” she said slowly, “not the only ones, Jackson.”

The mirth left his face to be replaced by a look of concern. “Do you think he’ll be there?”

“Of course, he will,” Jillian waved away his doubt. “He goes every year.”

“I know.” Jackson toyed with the nap of the bed’s white blanket. “I just don’t want this to be the year he misses.”

“Neither do I,” she answered, admitting her own wariness. “We have to see him.”

It had taken three years for their work to be completed. Three years where they refused to focus on anything else. Mark had done everything in his power to try to get them to go out once in a while but to no avail. Their work was too important to afford relaxation for even a second.

At VEX, the fruition of their work would be seen before the world.

And him.

Jackson stood at the same time she did. It was as if they had had the same thought. His next words proved it. “Let’s go down to the lab and check on—”

“Yeah. It wouldn’t hurt.”

They both headed toward the door when Jackson stalled her by placing a hand on her arm. “Jillian, how are we going to do it?”

She frowned. “Do what?”

The same lock of silver hair fell in front of his eye once again. “Turn down a hundred thousand dollars.”

She cocked her head to the side in thought. “Gee, I don’t know. Maybe the same way Hammer Blake did it when that computer offered him a billion dollars for his work.”

Jackson’s face scrunched like a balled-up piece of paper. “Yeah, but he had a chance to write a letter of rejection after the initial offer was made.”

“Well, what did Blake do the second time when that venture capitalist company offered him ten billion dollars?”

Jackson’s arms flailed in the air. “He still had a chance to write a rejection letter! Attorneys wrote it the second time. That’s not going to help our situation. Mark’s great and all but even he can’t come up with an adequate response. We’ll be in front of thousands of people with cameras rolling.”

“It is a conundrum.” Jillian bit her bottom lip. “Maybe Miss Manners has an article on it?”

“Or, maybe we can check YouTube. Perhaps someone has a video on the most polite way to decline monetary gifts of a hundred thousand dollars or more.”

His face cleared up. “Yeah, we’ll check online.”

A little imp of humor latched onto her. “We should work on our presentation to reject the money. Maybe you should pick me up—”

“Like this?” He lifted her in his arms and jostled her comfortably.

“Yeah!” she giggled. “And then, when they bring out the check, we’ll say, ‘The Fosters respectfully declined the money.’ Or something like that. I’ll wave my hand like the queen.”

Jackson grinned, kissed her cheek, and then set her down. “Sounds like a plan to me. Unless someone on YouTube has a better way of doing it.”

“Yeah.” She pulled down the tank top down which had risen up to expose her navel. “After we get done in the lab, we’ll check online. After all, if Hammer Blake can turn down billions of dollars, the least we can do is follow in his footsteps.”

Ray leaned back from the computer and dug his forefinger and thumb into his eye sockets. He’d been staring at the monitor for what seemed like hours.

Staring at a monitor was better than going back to sleep.

Earlier in the night, he’d awaken from the same dream he’d had for months now: chasing LaJuan Homer and then Terrance Park. His mind still held in terror by the robot sporting those dangerous, glowering red eyes.  Watching with his mind’s eye the steady, unhurried gait as the robot stalked toward him, each step coming closer and closer. Always its mouth curve in what he could only call an evil grin.

It was times like these when he missed his wife like crazy. He hadn’t often suffered from bad dreams. Whenever he was disturbed by a case or by some sort of incident, her welcoming presence would be there by his side. Sometimes, he’d reach out for her and drag her close into his body until the dark thoughts drifted away.

Ray no longer had his wife there to help rescue him from the edge of that abyss.  But he took comfort in the fact that he still had the opportunity to see his son and visit with him. Yet, it was a bitter pill to swallow. Dylan had no idea where he stood with his parents. A fact that wasn’t the boy’s fault at all.

The blue tint of the screen blurred before his eyes and he remembered the day a few weeks ago when he and Dylan had spent some time doing the one activity they both loved—fishing at the state park, Belle Isle.

The silence between Ray and his son had been easy and without any of the undercurrents which had plagued their relationship at the beginning. For the first time in three months, ever since his acquittal back in June, they were able to do something as simple as spending time together without it being more than an exercise of pretending to be father and son.

“Dad?”

“What is it Dylan?”

“I have to ask you something.”

Ray stuck the end of the fishing pole in the ground and turned his head to his son. “Yeah, Dylan?”

“Do you still love Mom?”

It was the last thing he expected to hear but he knew he should have been prepared for it. Thankfully, the question was an easy one to answer. “I’ll love your mother for the rest of my life.”

Dylan’s dark brown eyes, so much like his mother’s, narrowed. “Then...why aren’t you fighting for her? Why are you just accepting this?”

How do you explain to a teenager the complexities of marriage? Ray thought about what to say and then decided to be honest. “Dylan, I didn’t want this to happen to us. I never imagined it would.”

They never would have lost their marriage, if it wasn’t for that robot ruining their lives together. He’d sighed and tried to use an example that his son could understand. “I can’t fight for something if the other person isn’t willing to up their fists.”

Dylan drew back, a slight crease in his forehead. “Dad?”

“You’re on the wrestling team, son. You know how it is. Both opponents have to engage in the fight. If only one person does, then it’s not really a fight, is it?”

A shattered look entered Dylan’s eyes. Ray had almost wanted to take the words back. Instead, he went on. “I can’t fight by myself, son. And your mother doesn’t want to fight anymore. If she did, then the situation might be different.”

That day, his son cried. Gut-wrenching sobs that echoed over the expanse of the Detroit River. Ray thought maybe folks in Canada could hear it. “I just want things to go back to the way they were, Dad.”

“I do, too, son.” Ray whispered as he came out of his memories. After that day, their relationship transformed into something stronger. An acceptance of the new normal. It wasn’t the end, just the start of a new beginning.

Part of him wanted to believe in miracles. Part of him wanted to believe Jessie would come back into his life and say she was ready to ride and die with him again.

Until then, he had to move on and find out more about this elusive robot. Using the awesome speed of his one finger typing, he once again leaned over the keyboard and retrieved a document he’d been collating. For the past three months he had been researching robotics. The only thing he had known about robots was from war documentaries he had watched on TV.  Ray spent countless hours searching online for any information about the robot he had encountered to no avail.

What he did learn had come from following various online blogs about the ever-evolving face of robotics. The technology was rapidly growing more and more sophisticated.

A pioneer of the robotics movement, Horizon Bionix, headed by a guy named Barry Stallworth, had postulated and promoted the use of robots in combat. None of the robots pictured in the illustrations looked remotely like the one he had seen last year. He’d read a number of articles about the pros and cons of robots in combat. The ultimate goal would be to have robots resembling human appearance. The idea of an artificial intelligent being, such as a robot, meting out justice carried with it muddied complications. 

“Humans are good at adapting to anything thrown at them,” one article said.

“We are able to rebel, and initiate change. Robots follow orders and they should. The real question we should ask ourselves is this: should we give autonomy to vacuum cleaners and dishwashers? All of those reading this post would say, no. These instruments are tools for man’s use. Once you give a tool a mind and an intellect...that self-awareness become the breeding ground for a host of problems none of us can fully comprehend.”

Ray sat there for hours; reading, copying, and pasting all the information he could. Some of the deeper concepts were too intricate and complex for his mind to grasp. Since he had so much time on his hand after losing his job, he fumbled through what he could understand.

One positive thing that came out of the nightmare is that money wasn’t an issue for him. He and Jessie had always saved money for a rainy day. Even with the divorce, the settlement he’d made with Jessie during the proceedings had been reasonable for both of them. For one thing, he knew she didn’t really want his money. For another thing, Jessie had her own money from the death of her grandmother years ago. Ray knew she could live comfortably for several years.

While he sat there, trying to read and understand the schematics of a basic (to the author of the article anyway) of a neural net and how it worked with robots, he suddenly snapped his fingers.

This robotic stuff was way beyond him. He needed some help to get some understanding. There was one person he knew who could help him.

Why hadn’t he thought of her before? The girl was an egghead. If anyone knew anything about this stuff, she would.

Ray reached for his phone. He paused with his fingers hovering over the touch dial screen. Did he dare to reach out and ask her? After all, he hadn’t spoken to her in a long while. Probably well over a year. Did he dare?

Would she believe him if he told her his story?  He went through his contact list. After finding her name, he paused, thumb poised above her number.

Was he making the biggest mistake of his life?

Immediately he dismissed his fears and pressed the call icon. If making this phone call was a mistake, it would hardly be the first time. After all, his life was in shambles. One more piece of rubble wouldn’t make much difference.

“Hello, this is Amy Benson.”

“Amy, it’s me, Ray.

Daniel munched on his breakfast of eggs and bacon while at the same time, turning up the volume of the TV in the kitchenette.  The newscaster, Dexter Brighton, cheerfully spoke of a hurricane decimating one part of the country and then went on to bemoan the fact that more people were dying from cholesterol than ever before.

“The irreverence of it,” Daniel mumbled to himself, used to talking to the air. “People die whether by nature, nurture, or nemeses.”

“Joining us today is Barry Stallworth, CEO of Horizon Bionix.”

His eyes narrowed on the screen shot of the well-known, well-connected, well-polished veneer of Barry Stallworth. The man had the classic look of an upper crust older man: a dark tan, angular profile, and thick wavy brown hair. When he grinned, his teeth gleamed white as snow.

“Speaking of nemesis,” Daniel spoke in a dark undertone. Despite the fact that he didn’t want to listen to anything the man had to say, he turned the volume up some more.

“Thanks for having me here, Dexter.”

“There’s a lot of buzz around your company nowadays. Your company went from providing bionic prosthetics to helping paralyzed and long-term acute care patients. And, now, your company has engaged with providing governments with defensive robotic weaponry. Tell us, why the change?”

A brilliant smile creased Barry Stallworth’s face. Daniel wondered if the man had sixty-four teeth.

“It’s simple, Dexter. War is a messy business. We’re all aware of that. Our mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters have all been casualties of war. We fight to defend our way of life, to rid the world of tyrannical individuals, and to protect the common good for all. But the price of that is blood. I remember one particular moving story...” Barry paused in his words, the brilliant million-dollar smile dropping down to a mere half watt. Daniel had the distinct impression it was all very well practiced. 

“I remember the story of Alexandra Whitcombe. She’s the widow of Lieutenant Timothy Whitcombe who lost his life in Desert Storm. Her sons, Gary and Lyle, followed in their father’s footsteps.”

Behind them the wall screen displayed a kaleidoscope of pictures of the Whitcombe family in with the handsome looking father, wife, and children.

That was a preview of Inception - The Ascension Paradox, Book 1. To read the rest purchase the book.

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