Broken Wide

by Susan Kaye Quinn

  She unexpectedly throws her arms around my neck.

  I jolt then quickly hug her back. I hold her a moment longer than necessary, only because she seems to need it, then by unspoken signal, we break apart.

  She ducks her head and pulls out her phone. A half second later, I hear her voice through the earbuds, from her phone to mine via invisi-chat. Be careful, Zeph.

  I turn and stride to the door, jacking my phone to scrit my reply. See you soon.

  Then I focus.

  My mental reach extends the full length and breadth of the estate’s buildings—the main one and the four wings. Unfortunately, not all of that is within my jack reach, and there are a lot of people in Tiller’s compound at any given time. The north wing is shielded, so that’s an unknown until I get inside. We haven’t had time to review last night’s surveillance—with any luck, Tiller won’t even be home. But he has security outside the building, plus staff and a whole consortium of workers coming and going, ferrying from the north wing crates of whatever he’s working on. No one is wearing helmets, but once someone realizes what’s happening, everyone will scramble for them. Which will makes this a lot trickier than I told Juliette.

  The docks are closest, plus I need to reconnoiter the status of security outside the building. I take one step out the door, passing through the electric scrape of the shield, and expand my mental reach until it stretches a few dozen feet beyond the exterior of all the buildings. If there’s security further out than that, I’ll have to deal with them later. Fortunately, there are only two dockworkers wrestling crates into the north wing plus a dozen perimeter security goons—Richards and a couple others at the front, and the rest stationed around the grounds. They’re unhelmeted, but I can’t jack them all from here… which puts a serious cramp in things.

  I take the dockworkers first—jacking them to lie down because I don’t need any more dead people on my conscience, then jacking in hard and fast to knock them out. The security patrol outside the north and northeast wings go down next—six guards there. That leaves seven on the far side: two up front with Richards and four on the south side of the building, none of whom are in jacking range. I duck back in the door and sprint through the house. A team of four custodial staff is cleaning the second-floor suites, and the morning kitchen crew is working on the next meal—they’re not armed, but they might sound an alert. I make them all quickly lie down as they come into range then jack them unconscious as I hustle by. When I reach the back of the main building, my boots squeak on the polished granite floor. I slow to a jog. Juliette has moved toward the front, just like I asked—she’s at the top of the stairs above the foyer, hopefully hidden.

  She’s the only one conscious inside the estate now.

  I pick up the pace again, racing to the front. I’ve got to take Richards by surprise—

  The front door opens.

  Crap.

  Richards is talking into his cuff and reaching for his gun… I jack hard into his head and pick up speed, ordering him back over the threshold. I go with him, gripping his jacket as we barrel through the open doorway, through the shield, and right into the other two goons on his heels. One catches hold of my arm, and we’re a sudden tangle of bodies bumping and scrambling, but I’m already in their heads. I knock out the one with a hold on me before his fist can connect with my face, then stagger away as he falls. The second one crumples with my jack. I lost my hold on Richards across the threshold, and he’s coming aware, so I jack in and freeze him in place. Then I take out the other four perimeter guards who are just now figuring out something is happening.

  I stand for a moment in front of the door, breath heaving, the bright sun heating my back and reflecting off the glistening white granite of the exterior walls.

  Everything is still. Silent.

  And it should stay that way—everyone I knocked out won’t wake unless I command them to do so… or someone figures out they’ve been jacked and does it for me. The CJPD will arrive long before they can waste away, so no worries there.

  I jack Richards back through the front doorway with me, then scrit Juliette a quick message as we head for Tiller’s office. Guards are secure. I’m going into the north wing.

  Be careful! Juliette’s voice says in my ear. Which mostly tells me she’s okay—“careful” isn’t any part of this.

  I jack Richards to get us into the north wing, staying close at his back as we go through the shield. There’s only one security goon inside, and I quickly knock him out. Richards and I repeat our threshold dance to get through the outer door to Tiller’s office. As I march Richards through the Tunnel of Death to the inner door, I can feel the seconds ticking in my head—he was onto us, coming through the front door. Did he sound an alarm? I scour through his mind searching for the answer, but that distracts him from marching forward, so I stop. But the CJPD could definitely roll up within minutes, possibly seconds. I hurry him through the security protocol to get into Tiller’s office and shove us both through the shield and the doorway.

  Something cracks the air, and Richards slams back into me.

  I reflexively tuck behind him. Two more shots ring out, and Richards jerks against me. I blindly jack him forward, gripping his security-guy jacket in back and using him as a shield to charge the room. Three more shots—loud like cannon booms in the small room—but Richards and I reach the source. Tiller. He has a helmet, so I jack Richards to lunge and take him down. I have no idea how Richards can still move, but he does. Fast. He yanks out of my hold and tackles Tiller to the parquet floor. Tiller waves his gun, trying to find me—I duck behind his massive desk. While the two men wrestle on the floor, I focus Richards’ pain-addled brain on getting Tiller’s helmet off. More shots ring out like firecrackers, a rapid succession so fast I can’t count. I’m full-body flinching behind the desk, but I sense the instant Tiller’s helmet is free—I jack in hard and knock him out.

  Everything is still.

  Mentally and physically. There is literally no sound but my gasping breaths.

  I slowly rise from behind Tiller’s desk.

  My mental focus was on Tiller, so I lost track of Richards, but it’s clear why that wasn’t a problem—half of Richards’ head is missing. It’s splattered across the wall, drenching some of Tiller’s death art in fresh gore. I press the back of my hand to my mouth, holding back the gag. Richards’ body is slumped on top of Tiller—miraculously, there are no bullet holes out the back of his jacket. He must have body armor underneath—which saved me, stopping the bullets from passing through Richards, but ultimately, it didn’t save him.

  Tiller stares at the ceiling with unseeing eyes.

  I probe to make sure he’s out.

  Zeph. Juliette’s voice is bland in my ear. Zeph, please answer me.

  She had to have heard the shots. I’m okay, I hastily scrit, then pull out the data probe and set it on Tiller’s desk. I’m inside. You can start pulling the data.

  Thank God. I’m on it. The flat transcription doesn’t convey the relief, but I can hear it anyway.

  I ease around the desk to where the two bodies lie. It’s too late to get anything more from Richards, but I can scour the hell out of Tiller’s mind. I jack in fast, pushing through the unconscious haze to the deeper memories, the ones burned into long-term recall by repetition and importance. It’s a miasma of tech specs and grand plans and evil dreams… but it’s a mess. Memory scours are tough when people are out—the unconscious mind is a soup of reality and sims and who knows what else. I scoop up Tiller’s helmet, which is lying next to Richards’ curled fist. I toss it to the other side of the room then pry Tiller’s gun from his hand. I tuck that behind my back—I don’t need it now, but I’m not out of this yet.

  Then I jack Tiller awake while locking his body in the paralysis of sleep, rousing his mind just enough so I can plow through it like a bulldozer.

  His eyes shift. “You—”

  I start grinding his memories like pulp. He growls in anger, but it quickly
turns to pain—memory scours produce an agony more of violation than physical trauma, but it’s hard for the brain to tell the difference. I feel zero regret for this.

  Tiller twitches against the invasion, but he’s safely immobilized. Meanwhile, I’m getting a flood of information I can’t even come close to processing. I hope Juliette’s data probe can manage the electronic deluge better with whatever she’s pulling off his secret data archives. I direct Tiller’s thoughts to the crates that have been moving in and out of the north wing for days. He resists, and it’s remarkably strong—but then Tiller’s a titan of industry, a man with a megalomaniac determination to override all the simple feelings like love of family and common decency. His resistance is strong enough it makes me pause—could Tiller actually be a jacker? Self-loathing jackers aren’t unheard of… but his resistance doesn’t last, and I push through.

  Then his plans unfold like a vid in his mind… thousands of orbs. Tens of thousands. He’s been fighting production problems in scaling up his efforts, but they’ve finally been solved, and now he can fulfill those orders the generals have been throwing money at. But more important, this is his first large-scale public demonstration…

  Jackertown.

  I can see it clearly in his mind, a reproduction of when my sister walked through and struck people down, one by one. Only this time, it’s a swarm of orbs flowing in like mechanical locusts, diving through doors and breaking windows, purging jackers with the clean, blue fire of his electrical redemption.

  Holy shit.

  I pull back from the memory scour, my mouth hanging open. I scrit quickly to Juliette, We have to go.

  I’m almost done.

  We have to GO! I stumble back from Tiller, a sick feeling rising in the back of my throat.

  His body is still frozen on the floor, but his eyes follow me. You can’t save them, his thoughts taunt me. They’ll all be turned before you get there.

  Then images flash through his mind. An orb strikes down a man in the street, and his muscular body writhes with the electric ravaging of his mind. Then another burly man is struck in the back, his body hitting the pavement so hard it bounces. A third tries to shield himself, large hands up in front of his face, but the orb takes him in the chest, and he screams as he falls. Pleasure surges through Tiller’s mind, and my stomach heaves. The Lord’s work, cleansing the rotted fruit from the vine, cutting out the cancer of the human soul with a holy electrical fire! This deep in Tiller’s head, his insanity drenches me in slime. The supremacy of readers will rule the day! We will take back the streets! His glee in the torture of these people, like the visceral death art on his walls, is so nauseating I have to grip the desk behind me to keep from swaying.

  His eyes, trapped in an immobile body, soak up my horror and disgust. His mind revels in it, dark laughter rolling through it like thunder.

  I’ve hated people before—loathed them—and I’ve been forced to kill people as well. But I’ve never hated someone so much I wanted them to die by my hand. Tiller’s gun is suddenly in my hand again, the barrel pointed at the spot right between his eyes.

  You’re too late. You can’t stop it. His smug righteousness makes my trigger finger twitch.

  But I don’t need a gun to kill Tiller. His mind would snap in two with one quick jerk. Or I could command his heart to stop, just as I’m commanding his body to lie helpless on the floor before me.

  I could end him… and all his madness.

  His mental laughter slices through me.

  He will kill me if I don’t kill him first. There is no question. Me, and a lot of other people. If there were any justice in the world, a man like Tiller wouldn’t have that power. But the world isn’t just, and men like him do what they please to people like me.

  I lower the gun and jack deeper, slowing his heart.

  His eyes go wide. The madness in his mind swirls faster as his heart thuds slower. And slower still. His eyes glaze over.

  My mouth runs dry.

  I’m on camera, in Tiller’s office, standing over his immobilized body. If he dies, I will be on the run for the rest of my life. Even just breaking in, I’m risking a one-way ticket to the Jacker Detention Center. Not that I haven’t done plenty of other things that are illegal—just not on tape. And not murder. I have no illusion that, given evidence and half a chance, justice would be applied to me… just as I know it wouldn’t apply to him.

  But this isn’t just about Tiller. Or me. Or even Juliette and his horrific plans for her and the entirety of Jackertown. Because Tiller’s right. I can’t stop this by simply killing him—if I could, I’d pay whatever price necessary. But the weapons Tiller has made will be used by someone—the generals or people like Wright—and freedom and peace and safety… none of those things are possible without justice. Which means I need to take down everyone who’s had anything to do with this.

  And I can’t do that from a jail cell.

  I jack Tiller’s heart rate back to normal. He gasps in air he’d stopped breathing. His thoughts are a panicky wave of confusion.

  I don’t care.

  Juliette! I scrit, my resolve to not kill Tiller about as weak as my knees right now. I’m terrified I will regret this.

  I’m done, her voice says in my ear. Get out of there now.

  I jack Tiller unconscious and lay his gun on the desk—it’s the gun that killed Richards, and now it has my DNA all over it. I make a hasty attempt at wiping it clean and just leave it, snatching up the data probe. Then I force my legs to run. Your father is sending an armada of orbs to Jackertown, I scrit to Juliette as I dash through the north wing. We’ve got to get there before they’re deployed.

  What? Her voice is flat, but I can feel the panic. How do you know this?

  Because I saw it happening in his head. I break out into the foyer. Juliette’s standing by the front door, eyes wide, clutching her backpack with both hands. I link into her head, Let’s go!

  We hustle down the wide granite steps. I jack into the mindware of the closest autolimo, and in no time, we’re pulling away from the building and winding down the long driveway of the estate. I don’t let myself take a full breath until we break free of the actual grounds.

  Then I override the speed limits on the autolimo and jack a course for Jackertown.

  We ditched the autolimo and called an anonymous autocab.

  But even as we’re screaming toward Jackertown, I can’t get there fast enough.

  “Has Sammi scrit back?” Juliette’s hands are braced against the back cushion and the door as we take another dangerously sharp turn.

  “No.” I’ve scrit Tessa, Kira, Sammi… I even dug up Hinckley’s number and sent him a panicked message. TILLER IS SENDING DRONES TO JACKERTOWN.

  But my phone is silent.

  The adrenaline zinging through my body makes my breaths short and labored, and I swear my heart will wear out before we get there.

  There’s only one reason no one would answer.

  I clutch the seat around another turn and refuse to believe it. I was supposed to go undercover to prevent this from happening. It can’t happen while I’m gone. Not with no warning. Not when Tessa is probably sitting in the JFA headquarters, reading out revolutionary tracts to the jackers coming to Jackertown to seek freedom—

  My sister. My sister has been bringing jackers to Jackertown for a week. She must be there, too.

  When the autocab hurtles past the perimeter of Jackertown, everything is quiet—just the normal-looking shamble of run-down buildings and broken pavement. I let out a nervous, strangled gasp, and look to Juliette, but she’s staring down the street ahead of us, eyes wide and terrified. I look, but there’s only an empty street.

  Too empty, my heart tells me.

  I look back to her. “Maybe they left before—

  “Zeph,”she gasps, still staring straight ahead.

  I whip my head to look, just catching the blur of something flying through an intersection two streets down. Dozens of somethings—small,
black, and round.

  No, no, no.

  Then I hear the screams.

  The autocab tears around a corner, following the orbs. I jack into the mindware controls and slam the autocab to a stop before we run over one of the bodies in the street. I stare, dumbstruck for a moment. So many bodies—on the street, the sidewalks, slumped against storefronts and draped across steps. The orbs are further down the street, flying away but slowly, floating back and forth as they scan the limp jackers below. Some aren’t moving. Some are but not in a good way—they’re convulsing even though the orbs have drifted on, looking for more victims. Only these aren’t grown men, the aggressive jackers of Tiller’s fantasies, the kind that are easy to hate—these bodies belong to the young and old, male and female, all struck down with automated indifference.

  I realize with a jolt—this must be the orbs’ second pass.

  I scramble to throw open the autocab door and climb out. Juliette tries to follow me, but I stop her with an out-thrust hand. “Go! You have to get out of here.” I dig the data probe out of my pocket. “Take this and comb through it. You’ve got to find something we can use against your father.”

  She takes the small rectangular box, but we both just stare for a moment at the bodies on the street. Because if Tiller can do this out in the open, what can we possibly have to hold against him? She turns tear-filled eyes to me. “What if Sammi’s out there?”

  “I’ll scrit you.” A promise I have no business making.

  “But how are you—” She’s cut off by another scream—the drones have found someone who wasn’t already dead, dying, or somehow mentally scrambled. They don’t seem to be circling back our way—yet.

  I fling my mental reach out to the fallen. The near ones have mindfields of static; one on the steps has actually been turned into a reader. One further down the street is dead. Sweet mother of God—Tiller’s using his jacker AI tech on them, even though it only half works.