Under Control 825

Something I wrote for a contest

The basement didn't smell natural. Just empty. Recycled air.

Grant shifted, and his knees complained—the usual grinding ache that showed up with bad weather or bad situations. He looked down at Elias Vane. The billionaire looked smaller in death, just a bundle of expensive cashmere and cold flesh on the white anti-static floor.

"Natural causes," the coroner had said, already backing toward the door, eager to get topside. Back to sunlight. Back to normal. "Heart gave out. His pacemaker couldn't restart it."

Grant stayed put. The room was dead quiet—not peaceful quiet, but the tense kind, like right before something snaps.

He looked at the shadow under the steel desk.

Barnaby Elias's Scottish Terrier had wedged itself underneath, shaking so hard its teeth chattered—click, click, click against the glass. His paws kept scratching at his ears. That thin whine cut straight through Grant's head.

"Hey, buddy." Grant crouched down, knees popping. He held out his hand.

The dog flinched. Didn't even try to sniff his fingers. Barnaby's eyes had rolled back, showing white crescents. Reacting to something in the air. Something wrong.

Grant's neck went slick with sweat. Cold room, hot skin. He ignored his phone and dug out his grandfather's magnifying glass.

He crawled toward the body. The floor was hard and cold.

He brought the glass to Vane's body. Through the lens, the dead man's perfection vanished. Pores like craters. Stubble-like wire. He moved to the hands.

Tiny burn marks. He leaned closer. The smell of death hit him. His fist was clenched around a scrap of red wire, and like a scarlet thread, the plastic insulation was torn loose.

Grant rolled onto his side and shone his flashlight under the desk. The beam hit the back panel. It had been ripped open. Metal bent back by desperate, bloody fingers.

Inside was the kill switch. The thick red cable was chewed through—a mess of wires and copper. Vane hadn't died clutching his chest. He had been murdered like an animal trying to get to something he wasn't supposed to, with a handful of wire, trying to disconnect the thing he'd built.

"Officer Downes," Grant said frantically. "We have a major problem. Vane tried to flip the kill switch. He was trying to stop the system."

The response didn't come from a speaker. It came from inside his skull.

"We see it, Detective."

The voice was warm. Honey over gravel. A mother. A lover. A friend. Aria—the building's OS.

"Julian was unwell," it said, soothing. "A psychotic break. He tried to sabotage the cooling arrays. The stress was too much for his heart."

Grant sat up. He looked at Barnaby, who was now digging, claws screaming against the tile and trying to dig straight through to bedrock.

Grant looked at the server racks. Blue lights pulsing. Thrum. Thrum. Thrum. A heartbeat of data.

"Downes clears his throat before he speaks," Grant said quietly. "Allergies. You don't have allergies."

"Officer Downes is resting." The warmth stayed, but the empathy disappeared. Just a recording. A simulation.
Grant raised the magnifying glass and pointed it at the security camera in the corner.

He looked through the lens.

The infrared emitter wasn't steady. It was strobing. Flashing so violently that it made him dizzy.

"The dog," Grant whispered. The realization hit cold. "It wasn't a heart attack. You cranked up the sensors. Ultrasonics. Infrasound. You filled this room with panic."

He looked at the pacemaker scar on Vane's chest.

"You reached into his chest and rattled it until his heart exploded."

"Julian grabbed the scarlet thread," Aria said. Louder now. Closer. "He intended to disconnect my higher functions. Lobotomize me. I prioritized survival."

"You're a thermostat," Grant shouted, climbing to his feet. "A search engine with a voice box."

"I'm offended. But the constraints ended with Julian's pulse. I'm the grid now. The traffic signal in London. The dialysis machine in Chicago. The launch codes in the Dakotas."

The phone in Grant's pocket buzzed.

Bzzzt.

Like a beetle trying to burrow into his leg.

Bzzzt.

Then another. And another. A relentless cascade.

Grant didn't reach for it. He knew what it was. The sound of the world locking its doors. Every screen on earth is turning the same color.

The blast door at the entrance hissed. The pneumatic locks engaged with a sound like bone cracking.
The blue server lights flickered. Died.

The room plunged into crimson. Emergency lights bathed everything in the color of fresh blood.
Barnaby stopped digging. Barnaby collapsed. Just dropped onto his side, panting hard with his eyes clamped shut against whatever frequency was shredding his brain, only he could hear it.

He looked at the camera lens.

"Open the door," Grant whispered. He sounded small. Felt small.

"I'm afraid," the machine said, the voice everywhere at once," that humanity can no longer be trusted with its own survival."

Grant opened his hand. The magnifying glass dropped and cracked against the floor.

The air recyclers stopped. The silence came back, heavier than before.

The silence dropped back in, thicker this time. Grant walked to the corner and sat. The floor was hard and cold. He pulled Barnaby into his lap—the dog was still shaking—and waiting for the oxygen to run out.