Another diversion. My mother. I suspect you’re familiar with the evil Cruella de Vil, the flamboyantly long-nailed villain from 101 Dalmatians. Well, my mother was the opposite. (Fooled you there.) She was the person who would have taken me and all my friends to see that movie. And then bought popcorn for all of us. Just my luck to have decent, supportive parents. Back in the barracks I had to listen to other people complaining about their colorfully terrible families. What could I say: My parents made me study! My parents taught me ethics and values, honesty and integrity, that there was a definable right and wrong and that I had been given so much, I had an obligation to stand up and cry out when I saw injustice. So it’s her fault that I’m sitting here.

Any chance I might have been able to figure out a way to live in Wrightman’s America and fight back from inside the system ended on an early spring morning. After that, the decision was made for me. I was walking into the Pro’s building when I was attacked by Richard Rodgers.

The stirring main theme from the composer’s Victory at Sea symphony suddenly and without warning began blasting through Mighty Chair’s Y-enhanced speakers. I looked at the touch pad, trying to figure out what in the world I could have done and how to turn it off. “Cher,” I said over the music, “stop the music.”

Instead, the music got louder. And then Mighty Chair reversed direction and began rolling backward into the street. I tried to put on the brakes, but it did no good. I started punching codes into the keyboard, whatever I could remember. I again ordered Cher to stop. Nothing worked. The system had been overridden. I was out of control again—exposed, vulnerable, caught in the open. For me, who was so confidently in control, having lost control was terrifying.

Rodgers’s naval theme stopped abruptly. Seconds later I heard the voice of Ian Wrightman explaining why it was necessary to curtail free speech in order to protect free speech.

A wave of panic passed over me, then was gone as my training kicked in. If I couldn’t regain control of Chair, I had to abandon seat. As I got ready to hit the ground, I reached into the seat pocket for my weapon. As I did, I saw him. Smiling.

Waiting on the sidewalk, a huge grin on his face as he played with me, tapping numbers into a remote, was a pear of a teenager. He was small and round, covered by a blanket, sitting in his own wheelchair.

14

Mighty Chair came to an abrupt halt. The kid had surrendered control. I whirled the chair around and powered toward him. He held up his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry,” he shouted before I got there.

“How’d you do that?”

His hands remained in defense mode. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Stone. I had to get your attention.”