Devil in the Device

by Lora Beth Johnson

  “What did you do with Rashmi?” Andra snapped. “Answer me.”

  “Or what?” Maret shifted his weight. The blanket dipped dangerously low. “If you were to give me incentive. A promise to unchain me. Perhaps better accommodations. That might loosen my tongue.”

  Andra didn’t know how to respond. The Maret she’d known hadn’t been a strategist. He was brash and angry but more than willing to share information. The Maret that was now before her was too sure of himself. Or realized he had nothing left to lose.

  He gave Andra a lazy grin that reminded her of his brother. “Or, if that’s not your style, you could use threats. I seem to remember a certain dagger that could do quite a bit of damage in your hands. You could threaten to stab me. Or call a pocket down on me if I don’t talk.”

  He raised his eyebrows and waited for Andra to respond. She took a sharp breath through her nose and narrowed her eyes. She felt coldness descend on her.

  “For certz,” Maret continued, “death isn’t much of an incentive, for either of us. I reck that you reck that if you kill me, you won’t be able to find the Second. Or hear all the info in my head that you so desperateish need and don’t even realize. Soze,” he hissed, his voice growing quiet and raspy, “that purposes you can’t threaten death. What you have to threaten, my dear Goddess, is to make me wish for death. To get me to the point where I share the info, mereish on the chance that you give me the option of death. That, little Goddess, is your sole march forward. Are you willing to do that? Is it worth your soul?”

  Andra didn’t respond.

  “Neg? Then come back when it is.”

  SIXTEEN

  00110001 00110110

  Andra ran through the LAC annex. She’d left Maret with Mechy and sent message after message to Rashmi through their neural connection but received no answer. The hallway lights flicked on one after the other as she tore through the annex, checking all the abandoned labs and offices, alcoves and stairwells. Anywhere Rashmi could have kept Maret’s ’tank hidden, because if she had been there when Maret had awakened . . .

  Had he overpowered her? Hurt her? Killed her? Surely, Andra would feel something if her counterpart were dead.

  But if Rashmi wasn’t dead, why wasn’t she responding?

  If Maret’s ’tank had been connected to the colonist network, then it must be close by. She doubted it had been in the Icebox. Someone would have noticed a bloody, bruised naked boy roaming around long before he’d found Andra outside her family’s tent. If he hadn’t been kept in the Icebox, that left the LAC annex. Unfortunately, it was huge, and though Mechy had done a lot of renovations, much of it was still in ruins, shrouded in darkness.

  Andra went from room to room so quickly the kinetic orbs could barely keep up. She tried every office on the main level. Every lab on the floor below. Room after room was empty. She’d just about given up hope when she found her.

  It was a small lab a few levels above the Icebox. It looked to be the remains of a cryonics lab, which made sense. There were several cryo’chambers, some intact, most a jumble of detached parts. Andra had never thought to check the annex for cryo’plating. She imagined all the tech here was dead, but Rashmi had managed to wake it up. Various holo’displays illuminated the room, glitching and flashing.

  Rashmi sat in a heap on the floor, her white hair hanging over her face, her left arm raised above her head, tied with tubing from a cryo’tank to a metal bar attached to the wall. She looked up when Andra entered, her face streaked with tears.

  “Sorry, Third One,” she said, voice breaking.

  “No, no.” Andra knelt next to her, fingers fumbling to untie the tubing. “Don’t be sorry. There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

  Rashmi sniffed. “I should have told you where I kept him. I shouldn’t have kept him at all.”

  “It’s fine, it’s okay.” Andra’s hands were trembling, but she managed to undo the first knot. “We’ll get you out of here. Everything will be okay.”

  “I tried to stop him from waking up,” Rashmi continued. “I tried to stop him from leaving. I fought so hard, but it didn’t work.”

  Andra noticed dried blood under Rashmi’s fingernails, and suddenly understood why Maret had been bloodied and beaten. When Rashmi said she fought, she meant it. Andra was relieved to see that there weren’t any matching wounds on Rashmi. Maret may have tied Rashmi up, but he hadn’t hurt her. At least physically.

  Andra untied the last knot and helped Rashmi to her feet. The AI winced and rubbed her shoulder.

  “Let’s get you back to your room,” Andra said. “You need to sleep.”

  Rashmi shook her head. “No. I want to see him.”

  “I don’t think that’s a great idea. You should rest first.”

  “No.” Rashmi’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Now. Talking for now. Naps for later.”

  * * *

  The door to Maret’s cell was slightly ajar, Mechy standing sentry.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Andra asked.

  Rashmi nodded.

  At Andra’s command, Mechy stood aside. Maret looked up when they entered, his face streaked with blood and dirt, half in shadow. He rattled his ’cuffs against the metal chair.

  Rashmi stood in the doorway. Andra couldn’t pinpoint the look on her face. She imagined it was the same way she looked at Zhade, but it should be impossible for an AI to look at her captor that way. To look at the boy who had kept her in prison until she’d lost her mind and her abilities.

  “Second,” Maret said, his voice hoarse, and Andra was disturbed to see he was returning Rashmi’s gaze.

  She took a few steps into the room and laughed. It was a strained noise, not one of mirth. It almost sounded like sobbing.

  “She laughs when she’s nervous,” Maret said.

  Andra scowled and put a hand on Rashmi’s arm. “Rashmi?”

  Her laughs subsided, and she wiped tears from her eyes. “All those years, I was the one chained. Now here he is. And here I am.”

  It took Maret a minute to tear his gaze away from Rashmi. There was something in his expression, something more like what she was used to seeing from him. A disguise poorly worn.

  He let out a bark of a laugh. “We convoed this, Second. It wasn’t a prison. It was protection.”

  Andra snarled. “Don’t act as though you cared about her. You never did. Not about your city, or your brother, or Rashmi, or me.”

  Maret’s smile was ugly. “How could I ever care bout a thing like you? You’re not even human.”

  Frozen rage built up inside Andra, vision growing dark, her awareness dimming, until it was just her and Maret and her fury.

  Destroy, destroy, destroy.

  She felt the air crackle around her, her senses expanding to every piece of tech in the room—the nanos, Mechy, Rashmi—and farther. Everything in Eerensed was part of her and she was part of it all. She felt the ’dome, and the pocket beyond. She could differentiate each nano and knew them. Knew which ones she had used to take out the throne room ceiling, and which ones she had yet to control.

  Power surged through her. She could destroy Maret. Show him just how not-human she really was.

  There was a sob behind her.

  Rashmi.

  Andra shrunk back into herself, so fast it left her dizzy. She was hollow where the power had drained from her, like the hate she had just felt was a missing part of her soul. Nanos swarmed around her, and Maret was watching her with wide eyes, the fear etched in his features not nearly as satisfying as Andra thought it would be.

  “If you imagine you can scare me with your dark magic,” Maret said, voice quaking, “you reck wrongish.”

  Rashmi watched Maret, fat tears dribbling down her cheeks, but when she spoke, her voice was steady. “How could you ever be scared of things like us.” She turned to Andra. “I don’t hav
e anything to say to him. I just wanted to see him caged.”

  Without another word, Rashmi left.

  Maret’s eyes filled with regret. Good. He should feel the impact of Rashmi’s words, suffer the consequences of his own. Andra wouldn’t feel sorry for him, just because he was letting a little bit of his humanity show.

  “Mechy,” she said. “Take him to the eco’lab in the Vaults. Turn it into a prison.” She gave Maret a sarcastic smile. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s not a prison. It’s protection.”

  SEVENTEEN

  THE GLITCH

  Zhade woke gasping, the tendrils of his dream slipping away, leaving a feeling of wrongness. It took a moment for him to return to his own mind and body, as though he’d lost sense of himself while he slept. He lay in a nest of covers next to his bed, a habit he’d never had before, but the bed was growing too soft, too lofty.

  It was dark as charberry. The dream he’d woke from nagged at him. Bits of it lingered at the edge of his memory. It had something to do with the Crown. He’d felt young. Afraid. He’d use the Crown to . . .

  Zhade rubbed his temples. The dream was already gone. He was left sole with exhaustion and guilt.

  He didn’t reck where the guilt came from. Was it from not saving the girl from the rogue angel? Was it what he’d done to Andra? Or was it the deal he’d made with Tsurina?

  He was sole doing what he needed to protect his people. If that purposed skooling from Tsurina, that was evens. She was under his control. He was using her. She was nothing but a bargaining chip.

  Maybe it wasn’t guilt. Maybe it was regret from how much he’d drunk.

  He still had pain from not sole the Crown, but the angel trying to kill him. Then he’d had his first lesson with Tsurina, and it had been a disaster. All he had for his troubles was a headache and the echo of Tsurina’s taunts. He’d come back to his room. Had a few drinks. Then had a few more. His head was killing him.

  His throat hurt. His hip hurt. His arm hurt. His temple hurt. For basic, everything hurt. He couldn’t go back to sleep, so he untangled himself from the sheets and made his march to the receiving room, pouring himself a small glass of the liquor he’d drank yestereven. Mereish enough to dull the pain. Exhaustion took over and he collapsed onto his sofa, holding the glass to his temple.

  “Moping again?” said a voice.

  Zhade didn’t bother to open his eyes. “Trying to assassinate me again?”

  “I reck I’ve proven true that I could assassinate you any time I wanted,” Doon said. “Me, and any other assassin with my skill.”

  “Ah,” Zhade said, eyes still closed, pointing his glass vagueish in her direction. “But I imagined no one had your skill.”

  “Rare point,” Doon conceded.

  Zhade heard her pouring herself something from the liquor cabinet. He opened one eye and raised an eyebrow as she tasted it and promptish spit it back out.

  “Sands,” she cursed. “You for true like to torture yourself, marah?”

  Zhade took another sip of his drink, enjoying the burn as it traveled down his throat.

  Doon discarded hers and plopped down in the seat across from him. “Skilla wants you at tonight’s meeting.”

  Zhade swirled his glass. “And I want my own horze. I’d dress him up and name him Frid. Ride him through town on Marsdays and skool him to count with his hooves.”

  “She says it full imports. Something to do with Andra and the gods.”

  Zhade sat up. Too quickish. A bolt of nausea hit him. He groaned, holding his stomach. “What bout her?”

  Doon smiled a mocking smile. “She’s back from the Wastes.”

  “For serious?” He closed his eyes again and sighed.

  “I told you she would go.”

  Zhade fell back onto the sofa. “Fraughted sands, can she not stay still?”

  “She found something out there. Skilla wouldn’t tell me what, but she said you, especialish, would want to reck.”

  “No shakes, Doon. I’m certz it’s nothing.”

  The last thing he wanted was to be yelled at by Skilla, be rejected by Andra. Again. But curiosity was getting the better of him. He’d need to rid himself of this headache first.

  “That didn’t sound full convincing,” Doon said.

  He took another sip of his drink.

  “That’s because I’m not full convinced.”

  EIGHTEEN

  00110001 00111000

  Apparently, while Andra had spent her night interrogating Maret and helping Mechy build a cell, Cruz had spent his setting up rudimentary enviro’mods in the Icebox. Heat ’drones, air filters, synth plants. Everything the colonists needed to feel comfortable. Or as comfortable as they could in an underground warehouse filled with the frozen bodies of their contemporaries.

  When Andra finally got back from showering in the Vaults—after a pretty hefty freak-out and a couple hours of uneasy sleep—the rise-n-shine, a kinetic orb programmed to mimic the sun, was floating at the east end of the camp. The Icebox was quiet except for a host of colonists, who were stationed at a long table between tents, changing frozen goods and synth’protein into something edible.

  Andra managed to slip into her cot before her fam woke, but she’d barely shut her eyes before Oz was pulling her out from under the covers and dragging her to the breakfast line. Acadia, as always, ignored her, sharp features drawn into a scowl similar to the one their mother used to wear. Her father still hadn’t returned to their tent.

  Andra grabbed a single slice of toast and stuck it in her mouth.

  “Do your kind even have to eat?” Acadia muttered.

  Andra turned to Oz before Acadia could take the comment a step further to the familiar territory of berating her about her weight (always under the guise of “worrying about her health,” though Andra noticed that Acadia never worried about Andra’s vax’mods or stress levels).

  “I’m going to eat with Cruz,” Andra mumbled around the piece of toast.

  Oz was filling his plate with synth. Acadia rolled her eyes.

  Cruz was waiting exactly where Andra had asked him to. He was now dressed in jeans and a button-side T-shirt, his curls still damp from bathing. His hands were shoved in his pockets, shoulders caving in, scuffing his feet. He saw her approach and waved awkwardly.

  She waved back, just as awkwardly.

  “Hi,” she said, breathless.

  “Hi.” He smiled.

  They stared at each other.

  “So . . .” he said, ruffling his hair. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on or what?”

  “Oh, yeah, of course. Yeah. Follow me. It’s better if I . . . show you . . .”

  Andra led Cruz to the far end of the Icebox, then into what remained of the LAC annex. He was quiet as he followed Andra, his eyes wide and questioning, taking in his surroundings. Like Andra, Cruz had expected to wake to a brand-new planet, a paradise. But now he was walking through ruins. Andra could hear the rhythm of his breath, feel the beat of his heart through the nanos in the air. So she knew exactly when he realized where they were.

  It was the east wing where LAC had done synth’protein experiments. Though the hall was littered with rocks and dirt, the ceiling partly caved in, there had been a unique design to the hallway’s structure: geometrical alcoves and asymmetrical windows.

  Cruz’s breath caught, his heart stuttered, and he froze.

  “We’re . . . we’re . . .”

  He hunched over, hands on knees, and wheezed. Andra placed a hand on his back, remembering when she first realized. The words she’d found in the sand, the comfort she’d needed after. Her world breaking apart and remaking itself in a new, horrible image.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  Cruz shook his head, but Andra didn’t know if he was contradicting her or just trying to shake the image of the ruins of the annex.


  After a few minutes, he asked, “What year is it?” His voice was surprisingly steady.

  “3102,” Andra said. “Or ’03. It’s hard to tell what month it is. There aren’t . . . seasons anymore.”

  “Jesus,” Cruz breathed. “Jesus.”

  Andra knelt beside him. His olive skin had turned ashen, his still-damp curls clinging to his face. The twenty-second-century clothes he wore now felt out of place in the building where he’d worked a thousand years ago.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Maybe I should have prepared you better.”

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. “No. It’s fine. I don’t think I would have believed you if I hadn’t seen it myself.” He took a deep breath. “What happened?”

  Andra flinched. The rest of it . . . the pockets, Griffin’s death, her clones, what was left of Earth. Andra had learned all of it slowly, in bite-sized chunks. Cruz was now about to gorge on the information. But he was smart and capable, and though she didn’t trust the rest of the LAC scientists not to storm Eerensed and take back Earth once they knew the truth, she needed Cruz on her side.

  “Follow me,” she said. And took him to the surface.

  * * *

  Andra led Cruz to the exit next to the Griffin statue. Or, what was left of it. She pushed the grate aside and climbed out into the city, helping Cruz up after her. His mouth immediately fell open. They stood at the edge of what Zhade called the Small Wastes, an almost perfect circle of sand with the remains of the statue in the middle. The city of Eerensed spread out around them.

  It was the first time she’d been in the city in over a month, and memories flooded back to her. Standing close to this very spot and discovering she was on Earth. Walking with Zhade through these very streets. Running through them after she was nearly executed.