Bubble Energy Taken by Force

Malfunctions

 Corin warned, "Don't use your mobile phone while inside the bubble." Harsh static-screech stung his ears. "Electromagnetic pulses may cause a high voltage arc from the antenna. Stephen? Stephen?" Strange noises buzzed from the speakers, then silence. "Oh well, I guess now would be a good time to upgrade your antique flip phone that old people use. You really are missing out what smartphones are capable of."

"Don't bother talking to Stephen", Jack moaned. "That massive spark fried our man to man communication equipment. Its analog-to-digital converter circuitry is not sending any power to the amplifiers. For some reason, we also can't get anything from the camera. For the duration of the situation, he may speak to Robo-Mentor, but nobody else. Thank goodness for duplicates. Computer, please take good care of him."

Jim added, "Rushing to get the Superjet online may have prevented us from securing wires as clean as we liked. One or more probably broke, crashing my multimedia playback module. I'll try to figure out a workaround without breaking anything else."

The computer announced, "The news have gotten worst. Stephen remain unresponsive to any of my hellos. His mike works, picking up background noises. He always talks, so his minute of silence bodes unfavorably for his safety. Assuming he's unconscious. His mike's picking up more buzzing noises. Something mechanical hissed. So far, I can't accurately recognize any of the sounds. Wait! Loud, high-pitched scraping sounded twice. Now I'm hearing something totally alien. It's overwhelming the mike."

Jim asked, "Maybe it's something natural, but gotten muddled in some way."

"Can't be," Jack responded, "The mike is studio quality."

"Computer, can you guess what happened to Stephen?"

"His carrier signal faded out ten seconds ago. Naturally, that cut off the sound pickup. In according to my telemetry monitoring systems, he's incapacitated and his superjet rested near machinery. The propulsion unit is designed to power down and land the chair whenever the pilot loses consciousness. The signal may failed from two possibilities: being blocked or system breakdown."

Nobody made any more comments. They all stared emptily among the shattered walls, crushed electronics, wrecked furniture, ruined dreams. Stephen had the only copy of the Bubble Energy jet. Making a new prototype would take a week. If only the bridge crossing the canyon and raging rapids was closer. With a direct connection, an easy half-hour jog could bring Corin to the retreat of his survivalist friend. It's not. Corin needed a three-hour jog just to reach the bridge, then another three hours to the house. The next nearest neighbor required five hours. By then, the madmen could transmit everything to the dark, evil corners of the planet. They would own the full blueprint of the computer, Bubble Energy, everything.

Sighing, Corin sat down. "Computer, please design a deep space radar dish for us to assemble outside. I intend to transmit my final statements, as a free American citizen. The barbarians may conquer us, but our spirit will never be suppressed. The American culture is to be carried by radio waves, propelled irresistibly towards its destination about 2.5 million light years away. Somewhere in the Andromeda Galaxy, non-human intelligence will certainly intercept the signals. Maybe, with luck, a few will understand our Spirit."

Jack said, "Your radio transmission will certainly last longer than Earth's civilization. With the Bubble Energy out of the bag, mankind has at most three decades before they all kill themselves. The cockroaches shall inherit the Earth. Maybe they'll do a better job as caretakers."

Corin replied, "Perhaps I'll also transmit a message saying that on behalf of the human race, we regret our regression from the Stone Age to the Science Age. Darn it!"

"I'm receiving Stephen's carrier signal. His vital signs are healthy. I'll keep you updated."

"Stephen? Please state your condition so I can advise. Judging from your high heartbeats, you appear to be in distress."

"Something knocked me unconscious." He took several ragged breaths before continuing. "Woke wedged between truck's trailer and cab." He gasped more, each word came slowly. "Tried to untangle Superjet. Slipped, pulled loose hose connecting to cabin. Muck Truck came screeching to a halt."

"You probably pulled the hose to the truck's breaks. All tractor trailers are equipped with fail-safe where air pressure keeps friction pads away. Pressure loss from a hose pulled out will release the breaks to stop the truck. It's a wonderful heritage of George Westinghouse."

"SNARLL HHHH! GRINGO, SNAP, SNAP! GROWL!"

"Funny, I'm picking up another man nearby, but I don't understand his language. Can you translate it for me?"

"Truck driver with knife chasing me. Help."

Regrettably, we can't protect you with shield bubble. You'll need to be on the Superjet to turn it on. You're wearing sensors and controls, nothing more."

Fortunately for Stephen, the truck driver was obese from his sedentary job, stuffing his face with super-sized hamburgers and fries in fast food chains. He had no hope of catching his trim prey raised on home-cooked Nordic Diet meals. In fact, Stephen easily pulled away from the dangerously exhausted trucker. Realizing the hopelessness of his situation, he hurled his steak knife with all his rage filled strength. The handle bounced off Stephen's shoulder, causing no damage. Deflected, the knife skidded along the road until a rushing truck ran over it. Multiple tires burst with ear-tearing, rapid fire reports, forcing the driver to employ every particle of his skills to prevent the tractor-trailer from turning into a tumbleweed with 18 wheels. For a few heart-stopping seconds, it looked like no amount of experience could possibly be enough. Tires momentary lifted off the road. Smoke drifted from dirty tires while they rubbed greasy black marks into the asphalt. Finally, he succeeded in stopping the unwieldy and illegally overweight machine. Almost before the wheels finished their final roll, the driver, his face beet-red, lunged out of the door and sprinted toward the knife-thrower at astonishing speed, roaring in fury, cussing ethnic slurs. Tempers rocketed from working for supervisors who believed that Industrial Revolution sweatshops represented Capitalism's Golden Age. They slammed together and threw punches faster than the eye could follow.

"These guys picked the wrong career. They would've been spectacular boxers." He shuttered thinking about the number of hours in the hospital each punch could cost. "Uh oh. I think I found my lawn chair. Uh no!"

Out of the tunnel came the Muck Truck. Its 18 wheels, facing the sky, spun uselessly as the boxy vehicle was dragged on its back. Molten sparks flew from the grinding friction. Metal painfully screeched. Of course, the truck was mangled. Tangled cables followed, pulling sputtering lights. Stainless steel panels rattled on the blacktop. Behind them were clattering railings and damaged booths. The trailing line of wreckage seemed to go on and on.

"You won't believe what I'm seeing. It looks like some sort of demented parade. Stop the thrusters. Shut down all power if you have to."

"Done," the computer spoke. The train halted. "The problem originated from the 'follow the pilot' routine. The programmers never could get it to work right. It was supposed to be turned off. Jim is working on the problem."

Stephen carefully pulled the chair to the ground, a difficult job when considering that it weighs twenty kilograms.

"Program's set. You may liftoff when ready," the computer commented.

"Okey. I'm strapped in good and tight. Let me fly over the two combatants. That ought to distract them enough to stop battering each other."

"Careful. On certain instances, the shield bubble will levitate objects upon contact."

Stephen flew by them once, then again. "What does it take to distract these two? They're both still whaling away. I know; I really should chase after the thieves, but I feel responsible for this brawl. Ugh! Uh oh." A siren coming from the tunnel made him turn his head. It howled a sickly imitation of a pitiful tooter—not what a real siren should sound. Instead of an urgent alarm, the horn gurgled and choked like a trumpet drowning under water. A police car limped out from the tunnel. The entire back was missing—trunk, wheels and all. Leaving a trail of trash, the crumbling car scraped the pavement as the overburdened front wheels painfully dragged the crippled machine. Dangling by the wires, the cracked police lights intermittently flicker blue flashes. "Man, they looked steamed. Let's get out of here before they spot me. Emergency! Set the thrusters to get me out of here. Maximum power."

In a puff of sand, Stephen disappeared. A thunderclap slapped hard.

Still throwing punches, the snorting, cursing enemies continued oblivious to the unfolding drama.