I say, “Whoa—” And I stop there, because I can hardly believe what he’s done this time.
Still shaking from his seizure and pretty much looking like he got run over by a Bot tank, he’s nevertheless managed to wedge himself into the driver’s seat of an absolutely beautiful T-top Corvette parked around the corner from the theater.
He slaps the passenger seat—hard. “Get in,” he commands.
Now, I don’t want to get on Dubs’s bad side, but this seems crazy, even for him. For one, this is a Hu-Bot car, parked in full view of a dozen street cams. For another, he’s in no shape to drive.
“Do you even know how many years in prison you’re looking at?” I shout. “Twenty, minimum. Judge takes one look at your ugly mug: thirty.”
Dubs works up a loogie and hawks it out the car window. It lands near my feet—charming. “You were fine with taking the Yamaha this morning,” he points out.
“Those were shop bikes! No one gives a damn about crimes on the Reserve.”
“You gotta feel this leather, though,” Dubs says, giving the cushions a loving caress. “These seats must be made out of… baby’s skin.”
“You’re sick,” I tell him, for what’s probably the millionth time. “And you’re insane.”
“This car has a keyless start, and it was unlocked,” Dubs points out. “It’s basically begging us to steal it. C’mon, Dubs and Sixie, steal me, pretty please.”
I run my hand over the smooth, cool surface of the hood, where the metal comes to a point. It’s a brand-new replica of a classic vintage model: brushed silver, gleaming, as streamlined as a bullet. This car is worth more than our lives.
“You scared, little Sixie?” he whispers.
“No,” I say. “I’m not.”
Truth is, and crazy as it might sound, I’m angry. I mean, the arrogance and privilege of these glorified synthetics! They think their society is so perfect, so pure, that they don’t even have to worry about auto theft.
Someone should really teach them a lesson one of these days.
Someone like us? Dubs and me?
At a time like right now?
I glance up to the nearest street cam, and I wonder if I’m being videotaped this very minute. I consider flipping the camera off. Instead I just give it a stare, then a shrug.
Kinda fatalistic, like: Hey, it’s your own fault, Bots. You’ve beaten us down. You’ve made us your slaves. And now you’re gonna wipe us all out? You really give Dubs and me no choice. We have to steal this Corvette. It’s our fate.
I yank open the passenger door and slide in. I turn to Dubs. “Gun it!” I yell.
Dubs gives a whoop and slams his heavy work boot down onto the accelerator.
A second or so later, the odometer’s nearing sixty and rising, and I’m practically pinned to the seat by the Gs. We’re racing on the back streets, headed to the dark side of town, where the Bots don’t go.
From there, it’s just a few hundred yards to the open road. Then, home again, home again.
It feels like we’re flying. Hell, this thing’s so hot shit, it probably can fly.
Then a thunderous voice seems to split the air in two. “Get out of the car,” it roars.
CHAPTER 9
FREAKED, DUBS YANKS the steering wheel to the left, and we swerve across the road. We’re headed for the ditch on the opposite side when he manages to swing us back to center.
The tires screech on the asphalt, and the back of the ’Vette fishtails. “What the—?” Dubs yells. “Who the—?”
I whip my head around, but this is just a two-seater—there’s no one there behind us. But I’m still pretty messed up from the Killer Film, and Dubs obviously is, too.
“We’re just hearing things,” I say, not believing it myself.
“Sure,” he says, nodding. “That’s it.” Then he gives a low whistle. “One-eighty. Can you believe how smooth this ’Vette is?”
“No shit,” I say, settling back. I want to ride in this beautiful, human-made car forever. And why not? Why should we even go back to the Reserve? Nothing there but a bunch of epically screwed-up folks living lives of misery.
I’m wondering just how long me and Dubs could survive on the road—when that voice starts up again.
“Do you honestly think you’re going to get away with this? You mindless, stinking meat bags.”
It’s coming from the dashboard!
“Hey,” I say. “Now that’s just rude.”
When I lean forward, I can just make out a camera tucked right up against one of the vents, like a tiny eye watching us. Next to it is an even tinier speaker.
“I’d like to point out that we are getting away with it,” Dubs says.
I grin, because he’s right. Plus, it’s a cool thing to say. There are no sirens in the distance, no flashing lights coming up behind us.
“For now,” allows the voice. “But I must ask: how does it feel to be so genetically stupid that you actually believe you can get away with stealing a Hu-Bot car?”
“Honestly—it feels pretty frickin’ good,” says Dubs, leaning right and taking a turn way too fast.
The tires squeal again, and I grab on to the door handle so I don’t go sliding off the seat. “Yeah, how’s it feel to be stolen by genetically stupid humans? Must be embarrassing.”
The voice is silent for a few seconds. “What kind of stupid human are you?” it asks next.
I scoff. Like I’m going to give out my Reserve number or something. The truth is, I don’t know if this is just a computerized car, working off basic facial recognition software—or if there’s a live Bot out there, on the other end of the camera, literally watching every screeching turn we take.
Either way, I’m not giving up my serial number. “What kind of Bot are you?” I challenge.
“I asked you first,” says the voice.
“Oooohhh,” I mock whomever or whatever it is, “good one.”
The road gets a lot rougher as we wind our way up through the mountains, toward the Reserve. Dubs is tense, peering into the darkness. The robot voice senses it and starts heckling him.
“Hey, genius, how’d you learn to drive? I thought you were all idiots incapable of remembering your identification numbers. And, you there, slouched in the passenger seat. You could almost be pretty, if you weren’t so filthy and flea bitten. Were you suckled by jackals, is that it? Fatboy and the Jackal?”
Dubs grits his teeth and drives faster, and I’m thinking, Okay, this is the part where we turn into red smears on the highway. Or else plunge through the guardrail and tumble down the side of the mountain. Either way, it feels like death is imminent. Death by fire? I don’t like that image, not at all.
“Stop the car,” I yell.
“Huh?” My friend shakes his shaggy head. “You’re kidding?”
I grab the steering wheel. “Dammit, Dubs, I said stop the car!”
“There’s nowhere to stop!”
I realize he’s right: there’s no shoulder on the side of the road, and the turns are so tight, we’d never see another car coming.
“Stupid humans want to die,” the voice says, almost gleefully.
Ignoring it, I reach over and knock Dubs’s foot off the gas. “Brake,” I yell, and for once he listens to me. The car shudders to a halt halfway up the mountain, and for a second or two, everything’s silent.
“Die, die, die,” intones the car. “Humans want to die.”
But I start to laugh. “No, the humans want to live!” I holler, and with all my strength I push Dubs toward the door. “Your turn to ride shotgun!” I yell.
He shakes his head again. “No way, girl! You can’t even drive a moped.”
I punch him as hard as I can on the biceps. “Like you didn’t almost get us killed six times already today? Look, we’re either going to die in this car tonight, or we’re going to prison for the rest of our lives for taking it. Which means I’m going to do some damn driving.”
Dubs thinks about this for a s
econd. “Fine,” he grumbles. He squeezes out and jogs around to the passenger seat while I slide behind the wheel. The adrenaline’s practically singing in my veins. Here we go.
The ’Vette’s so responsive, it’s like I have to only think about pressing the gas pedal and suddenly we’re rocketing through the air. The tires hug the road as we whip around turn after turn, climbing higher and higher.
It’s like driving my own damn roller coaster.
Dubs is hollering and pumping his fists, and even the computer voice is quiet—like maybe it’s enjoying the thrill, too. I want to take this thing all the way to the summit, where there aren’t even roads anymore.
But way too soon, we’re back at the Reserve. We pull in under the forbidding metal gates, already coming down from the high.
“Home, sweet home,” Dubs says, his voice oozing sarcasm.
The place is dead tonight. There’s no one around except one shirtless guy up ahead. He’s stumbling around in a circle, talking to himself. And then he falls down.
I slow the car. I figure I’ll see if he needs help.
“Don’t stop,” Dubs says.
“Why not?” The guy’s half-naked.
“It’s my old man,” Dubs answers. “He wouldn’t stop for me.”
I don’t like it, but it’s his father, so I do what Dubs says. And as I accelerate, the voice from the dashboard says, “Now, that was barbaric, even for the two of you. That was cruel.”
I smash my fist into the console, and the voice goes silent.
Dubs brightens. “Good one. Sixie?”
“Yeah?” I’m still feeling bad about Dubs’s father.
“And thanks for getting me out of that movie.”
I shrug. “Thanks for letting me drive.”
CHAPTER 10
“THOSE APES NEVER knew what hit them,” Detective AlSordi says, grinning like, well, an ape. He hands Detective MikkyBo a mug of coffee as he gives her the once-over, taking in her smooth, ivory bioskin, her graceful limbs, her chest.
MikkyBo straightens to her full height: six feet, four inches. Her clear blue eyes narrow at her Hu-Bot colleague. He’s obviously testing her. What an imbecile.
“Blam!” he yells.
Involuntarily, she starts, spilling coffee on her brand-new uniform. She’s annoyed at herself. And at him.
“That’s how you’ve got to deal with the human scum,” AlSordi tells her. “With swift, merciless force.” He leans closer to her as he holds out a picture. “See?”
“Seems like overkill to me,” she says carefully, looking at the photo he’s showing her—a picture of a crater in the ground, surrounded by scattered bits of debris and severed human limbs.
She sees a half-burned sign in the corner of the picture, and she can make out the letters ESH FRU—Fresh fruit. The humans were hungry, and they had raided a fruit cart.
And for that crime, they’d been blown to bits? Was such a response necessary?
She can’t help asking: “Why didn’t you try to capture and imprison them?”
Detective AlSordi snorts at the suggestion. “I don’t want to get too close to the fleshies. I heard they’re riddled with disease.”
He starts walking away down the hall. But then he turns back and leers at her. “By the way,” he says, “welcome to the force.” His eyes go straight to her chest and stay there. What an ape, she thinks.
She blots up the coffee spill and then returns to her desk, where the police scanner sits.
She wills it to flicker to life, signaling her first case as a detective.
When she hears the buzz, MikkyBo jerks toward the feed, her mind alert, her reflexes already engaged. But it’s only an incoming call.
“Mikky,” says a gruff voice from the receiver.
“NyBo, greetings,” she responds. Then she can’t help herself: “Guess what I did?” she whispers excitedly. “I got Theft, Auto.”
A former military man, NyBo has programmed his daughter, MikkyBo, to follow in his footsteps. But, with the human race so easily defeated, war strategists usually ended up monitoring the City’s Reformed human population. She chose to try for detective instead.
“Well done,” her father says. But his voice sounds strange. She senses something’s wrong.
“What is it?” she asks, just as the scanner begins blinking red and green. My first case, she thinks. She quickly skims the information—a Corvette has been stolen in Third Quadrant.
“It’s KrisBo,” he says ominously.
At the mention of her younger brother’s name, MikkyBo’s skin begins to prickle uncomfortably. “What’s wrong now? Tell me. Quickly.”
Her father grunts. “He’s been running around with humans.”
“What?” She says this too loudly, and several of her colleagues glance over at her. AlSordi glares, and she almost flips him off. “Why would KrisBo want to run with scum?” That’s the catchphrase for it—run with scum.
“Many illegal humans have been coming into the City from the Reserve. They’re in every district, impossible to ignore.” On the other end of the line, NyBo spits derisively. “Like vermin.”
MikkyBo closes her eyes. Her brother has always had an “empathy glitch.” Over the years, it’s driven him to form inappropriate bonds with others, from their drone chauffeur to early-generation Hu-Bots whose systems were defective.
“Showing compassion for failing Bots—that I can almost understand. But hanging with filthy humans?” MikkyBo whispers. “That I don’t get.”
“Yes, humans are a conundrum, aren’t they?”
But it isn’t NyBo’s voice answering her; it’s MosesKhan’s. Her boss’s voice.
CHAPTER 11
MIKKYBO SEVERS THE connection with her father and jerks to her feet. “Commander,” she says, saluting him.
The chief military officer does not salute back. For an instant, MosesKhan gazes at her with cold, dark eyes. Then he glances toward her scanner.
“Your first case is still untouched,” he observes. “I would have thought you’d have closed that by now, Detective MikkyBo.”
How does he even know her name? “Sir—” she begins.
But MosesKhan cuts her off. “Don’t look so surprised, Detective. It is the commander’s job to know the talent of everyone on his task force.” His tone is light, but she hears reproach in it.
He takes a step forward, and Mikky has to stop herself from flinching. “It helps that, as one of the youngest detectives ever appointed, your talent exceeded that of the rest of your class,” he says.
“I expect you to make good on that talent. Finishing first in your Academy class is one thing, but dealing with unpredictable humans is another matter.”
“Yes,” MikkyBo agrees. “I’ve been told that the humans from the Reserve have been particularly unruly.”
MosesKhan’s face resumes its scowl. “You heard no such thing,” he says sharply. “The humans are completely under control. It’s your job to make sure they stay that way.” He juts his chin at the scanner. “I want every human persecuted to the fullest extent.”
“Do you mean prosecuted?” MikkyBo asks carefully.
“I meant what I said.” He levels his gaze at her. His voice has become icy. “Their time here is coming to a close.”
MikkyBo starts. “But they aren’t our enemies—”
MosesKhan interrupts with a barking laugh. “They aren’t worthy of being our enemies,” he says. “They are a pestilence”—he reaches out and touches her collar with the tip of his finger—“to be eradicated.”
CHAPTER 12
AS THE COMMANDER stalks away, MikkyBo sits down. She can’t take time to think about what the commander just said. Not now. She has to gather information about the case on her scanner. She has to do her job and do it brilliantly.
There are surveillance cameras positioned all over the City, and MikkyBo reviews every second of footage from the last twelve hours. Her brain digests hundreds of images as quickly as they flash by.
At the sight of two humans—one male, one female—congregating in the City after curfew, she pauses the feed.
She zooms in, identifying them as Reservers. Whereas Reformed humans are clean—for humans, anyway—and move along in a meek, respectable slouch, these two wear dirty clothes and walk with an insufferable swagger. The girl looks as if she spent last night in a trash can.
Both appear to be nearing their third decade. This piques MikkyBo’s interest, since the remaining male humans should be put to work or jailed, according to Capital Center policy. There will clearly need to be more thorough sweeps of the Reserve population from now on. Mikky makes a mental note to add this to her report.
The girl is slender, with fine, delicate features fixed in a frown. She’s desecrated the smooth skin of her arms with strange, inked markings. For a moment, she looks toward the camera, and her green eyes almost seem to meet MikkyBo’s. The girl hesitates, and it’s as if she’s trying to send a message somehow—but it’s in a silent, primitively human language that MikkyBo can’t understand. Then she watches as the girl slips into the car—and drives away with the male.
MikkyBo sighs. What a waste. If humans could only control themselves, they might evolve. But these stupid kids? They won’t have that chance. They’ll either die in prison, or…
She hears MosesKhan’s voice again:… be eradicated.
A note flashes across the screen then—the Center has flagged the car theft.
MikkyBo squints in confusion at the scrolling letters. Why would the Center be interested in such a low-level crime? It doesn’t make sense.
Maybe it’s a mistake, she thinks—although Hu-Bots rarely make those. Then another, more unpleasant explanation occurs to her: maybe this is MosesKhan’s way of warning her. Letting her know that he’s watching what she does and how well she does it.
MikkyBo sits up straighter. She can feel herself getting worried, and irritated. Negative emotions have always troubled her, and being reminded that she’s capable of them only aggravates her more.
Humans, Bow Down Page 3
