Mom switched off the radio so quickly that the speaker gave a sharp pop.
For a few seconds, she stood with her hand resting on the device. Her eyes were fixed on the dark screen, but I could tell she wasn't seeing it anymore.
"How did he connect to this room?" I asked.
June began checking the equipment. "He probably left a backdoor in the original system."
"Can he hear us?"
"Not now."
"How do you know?"
June didn't answer. She pulled a cable from the console, examined its connector, and placed it in a metal drawer.
Mom crouched in front of me.
"Listen carefully. What happened with that calibration panel doesn't mean your father can control you. It means the system recognized a pattern."
"But it called me a compatible subject."
"That's a technical reading. It isn't a command."
"Then why did he sound so pleased?"
She took my hands.
"Because he believes he can use the information. That's not the same as having control over you."
I wanted to believe her. I also wanted to know why she had never told me any of this before, why the system had been connected to my earliest years, and whether every ordinary memory of my childhood had been shaped by a secret I didn't understand.
Mom stood.
"We're leaving."
June gathered a few portable devices and tucked them into a canvas bag. Carter remained at the console, coordinating with the outside response team. His voice was steady now, although he still pressed the cloth against his jaw.
"Rachel, the western range is restricted. If Voss reaches the calibration tower, we'll lose the ability to track him entirely."
"How far?"
"Twenty-seven miles from here."
Mom checked her watch.
"Then we don't have much time."
We left the control room through a rear service exit. The corridor opened into a vehicle bay containing two old utility trucks and a military transport vehicle with a dented front bumper.
June tossed the keys to Mom.
"Take the truck. The transport has a bad transmission."
Mom caught them.
"You're staying with Carter."
June's eyebrows rose. "I was planning to come with you."
"No. I need someone here who can keep the outside team informed."
"Rachel—"
"Please."
June studied her for a moment. Then she nodded reluctantly.
She turned toward me.
"Take care of your mother."
I almost laughed. "I thought she was supposed to take care of me."
"She does. I'm just making sure someone reminds her to eat."
Mom gave June a brief, tired smile.
Then she opened the truck door.
The drive to the western range was rough. The old service road crossed dry washes and patches of loose gravel. Dust rose behind us in pale clouds, visible in the headlights. The desert stretched away on both sides, broken by occasional rocky ridges and abandoned utility poles.
Mom kept the radio on, listening to the outside team report changes in the aircraft's position.
At first, the signals were intermittent. Then they stopped altogether.
"He's reached the calibration corridor," she said.
I looked through the windshield.
A thin structure stood on the horizon, barely visible against the dark mountains. It looked like a radio tower, except its upper section formed a wide circular ring.
"Is that the tower?"
"Yes."
"What does it do?"
"It sends controlled signals that help the system compare what the aircraft's sensors detect with what exists around it. The original tests used it to measure masking errors."
"Could Voss use it to make the aircraft completely invisible?"
"Not completely. But he could make its detection signature unpredictable."
I thought about the prototype disappearing above the runway.
"Would that be dangerous to other planes?"
"Very."
She slowed the truck as we approached a low ridge. Beyond it, the western test range came into view.
The calibration tower stood in the center of a fenced compound. Several portable lights illuminated a large concrete platform, and a row of temporary buildings lined the far side.
The prototype was parked near the tower.
Its dark surface reflected the lights in broken fragments. The cockpit canopy was open, and a narrow access ladder leaned against the fuselage.
Several people moved around the aircraft.
Voss stood beside a control vehicle, speaking to a technician. He wore a dark flight suit now, and a headset rested around his neck.
Mom stopped the truck behind a cluster of rocks.
"Stay here."
I caught her sleeve.
"No."
She looked at me.
"Lucas."
"If the system needs my signature, he'll keep trying to reach me. Leaving me here won't stop him."
Her expression hardened, but I continued.
"I can help you understand the system. I noticed the route from the sensors. I saw what the calibration panel did."
"You don't know enough to operate it."
"Then teach me."
For a moment, she looked almost angry. Then the anger drained from her face, leaving something much more painful.
"I should have explained this years ago."
"Yes."
She nodded slowly.
"You're right."
She opened the glove compartment and removed a folded diagram. It showed the original Ghostwing interface, with handwritten notes along the margins.
"This is what the system was supposed to do," she said. "It uses sensor feedback and pilot input to adjust the aircraft's masking field. The problem is that the interface can begin predicting a pilot's reactions rather than simply responding to them."
"Like guessing what I'm going to do?"
"Exactly. If it predicts incorrectly, it can create dangerous feedback. The aircraft might respond to an action you haven't taken."
I studied the diagram.
"And Voss wants the system to respond to me because it recognizes my pattern."
"That's what he believes."
She folded the paper again.
"But there is something he doesn't understand. Recognition isn't permission. The system can identify your neural response without giving anyone the right to use it."
I looked toward the aircraft.
"Then we have to make sure he can't."
Mom nodded.
We climbed out of the truck and moved along the ridge toward the compound. The wind carried the smell of fuel and hot metal. Somewhere nearby, a generator rattled unevenly.
Mom found a gap in the fence where the ground had eroded beneath a support post. She helped me squeeze through, then led me toward a low maintenance building.
We reached its rear entrance without being seen.
Inside, the building contained spare equipment, empty tool racks, and a small office with a single computer terminal. Mom connected June's device to the terminal and began typing.
A diagram of the prototype appeared on the screen.
"Can you access the flight-control channel?" I asked.
"Possibly."
She opened another window. A warning appeared.
REMOTE AUTHENTICATION REQUIRED.
Mom tried her old credentials.
ACCESS DENIED.
She tried again, changing one character in the authorization sequence.
The warning disappeared.
A new menu opened.
For several seconds, she stared at it.
"That's not possible."
"What?"
"Someone restored my original access."
"Could it be Voss?"
"Maybe."
She moved through the menus, checking the diagnostic channel. A series of readings appeared, showing the aircraft's current status.
Then a message flashed across the screen.
PILOT PROFILE: RACHEL MILLER.
Mom went still.
I looked at her.
"Why is your name there?"
She closed the window, but another message appeared.
SECONDARY PROFILE DETECTED.
My name followed.
LUCAS MILLER.
The terminal emitted a soft chime.
A line of text appeared beneath my name.
INTERFACE HANDSHAKE AVAILABLE.
Mom pulled the cable from the terminal.
"That's enough."
Outside, a loudspeaker crackled.
"Rachel."
Voss's voice carried across the compound.
Mom closed her eyes briefly.
"Come out," he called. "We don't need to make this more difficult."
She grabbed the diagram and tucked it into her jacket.
"Stay behind me."
We left through the rear door.
The floodlights made the open compound painfully bright. Voss stood near the aircraft, surrounded by technicians and two armed guards. He watched us approach without moving.
"Rachel," he said. "I was hoping you'd bring him."
Mom stopped several yards away.
"You're not touching him."
Voss glanced at me.
"I don't intend to hurt him."
"Then shut down the system."
He smiled sadly.
"You still think this is about hurting people."
He turned toward the aircraft.
"Lucas, do you know what your mother did when she discovered the system responded to you?"
I didn't answer.
"She destroyed the project. She erased the research. She took away the one breakthrough that could have changed aviation forever."
Mom's voice sharpened.
"I stopped you from using my child as an experiment."
Voss's expression hardened.
"Your child is the only person who can complete what we started."
A technician approached him with a tablet.
"Sir, the interface is ready."
Voss nodded.
Then he looked at me again.
"Come with me, Lucas. I'll show you what the system can really do."
Mom stepped forward.
"No."
Voss gave a small signal.
The guards moved toward us.
And above the compound, the calibration tower began to glow.
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: The Calibration Tower Awakened, and My Mother Made a Decision That Could Destroy the Only Evidence of Her Past
The Moment My Teacher Turned My Proudest Memory Into a Joke in Front of the Entire Eighth Grade
Part 7 of 40
