Humans, Bow Down

by James Patterson

  “Commander, I assure you the situation was not out of control. I realize I should not have been on grounds without an escort, sir, but—”

  “The criminals have been apprehended?” he interrupts. “You’ve caught the girl—Six?”

  She looks at him blankly.

  MosesKhan stares down his narrow nose at her. “That is what you’re doing here, isn’t it, Detective? Looking for the car thieves? The girl?”

  “Of course,” MikkyBo says quickly. “I was looking for the car thieves. But I haven’t yet—”

  “You’re alone?” he asks.

  “Yes. As I said, I—”

  “I, I. There is no I, Detective Bo,” the commander seethes.

  “Of course,” MikkyBo agrees. “But, as we discussed, a human quantum computer is a direct threat to the Center. The girl has one—Six—”

  “Enough.”

  The commander never lets me finish a sentence, she thinks.

  MosesKhan steps so close to MikkyBo that she can feel his breath on her forehead. “There is an independent streak in you, Detective Bo, that will not serve you well,” he says quietly. “And a marked sympathy toward the human species that I find distressing.” His mustache twitches. “The report you gave to NoamSha, for instance.”

  MikkyBo pales. That traitor—he did worse than recycle it! He gave it to the one person who shouldn’t have seen it! “Sir—”

  “The language was emotional for standard protocol,” the commander says coolly. “Words like innocent and murder, when it’s well known that humans are guilty in their natural state. There is a rumor that this misguided compassion for humankind runs in your family.”

  Mikky freezes. There it is. The threat. Has her worst family secret been discovered? Her brother?

  “No,” she says carefully, for she’s terrible at lying. “That’s incorrect.”

  “Excellent.” He seems to believe her. “Because I might remind you that these are our enemies. Unlike their city brethren, these Reserve humans are noncompliant. Remember that next time you ask us not to shoot them.”

  Mikky gasps. She hadn’t sent out that thought wave or opened a brain channel to him. The commander had hacked into her encrypted slipstream.

  And she’d been thinking about KrisBo—which means that the commander has to know about him, too.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Mikky says, her voice shaky, everything shaky. “I have to go back to questioning the witnesses.”

  “I know you’ll find those criminals, Detective,” the commander says. “Everyone’s counting on you, MikkyBo. Especially your family. I hope you won’t disappoint us… Find Six, and all is forgiven.”

  CHAPTER 31

  IF YOU THINK things couldn’t go downhill from hypothermia and near starvation in the wilderness, well, I’m here to tell you you’re dead wrong. They can go way, way down.

  When we crept into the Reserve after two days of freezing and starving in the mountains, there was police tape blocking off X Housing, and the streets were crawling with Bot-cops. There wasn’t a human in sight. They were all “sheltering in place,” which was what the blaring speakers were ordering them to do. And, considering what happened the last time the Bots came to town, it would be suicidal not to follow directions.

  But Dubs and I—we were wanted. And we couldn’t get to our houses without being spotted and arrested, maybe shot.

  Which was why, when a six-Bot brigade started to turn down our alley, we had to hide in the first place we saw: the three-foot crawl space under the back porch of Em Four’s “restaurant”—a broken-down, illegal shack on the cliffside edge of the Reserve.

  And so here we are. Above us is a rusted grate, through which Em’s obviously been tossing food scraps, trash, and waste for decades. In other words, my friends and I are lying on a bed of moldy noodles, half-gnawed bones, and raw sewage.

  I can barely breathe, and my eyes are watering from the stench. “When this is all over, Dubs, remind me to kill you,” I whisper.

  And he has the balls to look at me like I’m crazy. “It was your idea to come back, girl,” he huffs.

  “We were starving,” Trip reminds her cousin.

  “We were free!” Dubs insists stubbornly.

  “No, we were on the run because of you and your stupid idea to steal a Hu-Bot Corvette!”

  For the first time I realize how mad I am about Dubs getting us into this whole insane mess. And before I’m even aware I’m doing it, I’ve got a handful of rancid goo in my hand—and I fling it at him.

  It splatters onto his forehead and drips down over one eye. The bad boy blinks at me, mouth agape, and for a second I think he’s going to break his rule about hitting girls and straight-up sock me with one of his wrecking-ball fists.

  Instead, his face cracks into a grin. “That’s ’cause I live in the present, Sixie,” he says, jabbing me in the ribs. “Who else can you count on to bring excitement into your life?”

  Okay, I’m half smiling now—I can’t help it. You gotta love a guy who can laugh off a sewage attack.

  Then up above we hear a crash, followed by shouts coming from the housing blocks across the street. I guess shelter in place is shorthand for “be interrogated and have the bejesus kicked out of you.”

  Is this all about us?

  I hope it’s not. But I’m pretty sure it is. So by the time I hear the next person screaming for mercy, I’m shaking with guilt and fear, and I half hope that one of my neighbors gives us up.

  But no one knows where we are. Everyone I know and love is right here in this hellhole, and even they don’t really know me. Sometimes I wonder if that’s because I don’t know myself, either. How can I, when my life—my history—was destroyed by bombs?

  The Q-comp can give me back only so much of the past.

  Trip’s squeezing her eyes shut. “Make it stop,” she whispers, reminding me what a little kid she is. “Make them go away.”

  Dubs sits up, nearly cracking his head on the floorboards. “Want me to try, little Trip? I could run out—draw their fire…”

  “You don’t mean that,” I tell him.

  He looks offended for a second, but then he nods. “You’re right,” he says. “I’m fine with dying in a hail of bullets, but not when I’m covered in shit. That’s just undignified.”

  “Will you stop talking about dying, please?” I hiss. “No one’s going to die today.”

  But right then, a light shines through the slats. There’s a Bot-cop standing next to the back porch. He’s playing a flashlight into our hiding place.

  “Come out of there right now—or I’ll shoot.”

  CHAPTER 32

  WE FREEZE IN the light’s beam.

  I don’t think the Bot-cop can see us, but he’s obviously suspicious, which is never good. Has he heard us talking?

  Turn around, I plead. There’s nothing in here. Turn. Around.

  Instead, he reaches down and, in one swift movement, yanks off three boards from the side of the porch. Forget the flashlight—now the daylight can almost reach us, even back here in the corner. The Bot starts to crouch down, and all I can see is the gun strapped across his chest. It’s a Mercy.

  And in a flash, my mind sees other things, too: the faces of the kids who were standing next to me two days ago, before they were mowed down by Bot bullets. And I spy a glimpse of my own possible death: killed by a low-functioning android while lying in garbage under a shack that sells rat meat.

  I know death can come at any time, but that’s just too depressing.

  Without hesitating, I silently wriggle farther down into the garbage, burying my arms and legs, and even my face, into it. The soft, oozing sensation of sinking into rotting muck is so repulsive, it’s a miracle that I don’t vomit or pass out—or both.

  I feel jiggly movement beside me as Dubs and Trip burrow down, too.

  The human survival instinct—it’s kind of a miracle, isn’t it? We’d rather eat shit than die any day.

  I tell myself tha
t when the Bot-cop finds us, I’m going to lunge for the gun. I’ll count on Dubs to tear the Bot apart. Maybe Trip’ll have time to make a run for it.

  The cop pokes around on the edge of the sludge. If he had a heart, I’d say it wasn’t in this particular duty. There’s hope for us. After a few more minutes, he seems to give up. Turns away.

  We wait a few more minutes to make sure this isn’t a trick, a typical Bot-cop trap, but no other metal face peers into the opening. Finally, I poke my head up and nudge Trip and Dubs, next to me.

  We’re all gasping for air—all that organic matter breaking down into nitrogen will get you woozy—but I don’t think any of us has ever looked happier than we do now, covered in filth.

  Total human move, right?

  Well hey, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: At least I’m not a Bot.

  CHAPTER 33

  WHEN THE BOT patrols have finally called it a night, we slink out from under the porch. At the Reserve black market, Trip barters her silver necklace for three hot showers and some new (used) clothes for all of us. Dubs buys food and blankets with the last of his cash.

  Exile supplies.

  Loaded up now, we make our way down the narrow path to the mountains. Ahead of us, the Pits bonfires burn. I hear drunken laughter and then the sound of a fight breaking out.

  I can feel my footsteps slowing. Rezzies are loyal to one another, but if they know that Dubs and I are the cause of the Pits massacre, it’s not going to be pretty.

  Dubs nudges me in the ribs. “Pick it up, Sixie,” he says. “You’re walking slower than my grandma.”

  “Our grandma’s dead,” Trip reminds him.

  “That’s my point,” Dubs says. Impatient, he shoulders past me and starts high-fiving everyone around the main bonfire—like the other night never happened. Like we aren’t standing on a killing field.

  “Yo!” shouts Nine, a tall, black-haired kid who used to crush hard on Trip. “I thought you guys were gone for good.” He tries to put his arm around Trip, but she shakes him off. “Zee Twelve said you got wasted by the Bots, but I said you got away.”

  Dubs nods. “Hell yeah, we did. We just came back to say adios,” he says. “We’re heading to the mountains again. Going to lie low for a while.”

  Zee Twelve limps out of the shadows. His leg’s in a makeshift splint. “Lie low?” he repeats menacingly. “How come? Does it have anything to do with that ’Vette of yours?” He pokes his finger in my chest, hard. “The one the Bots wanted back real bad?”

  Dubs wedges himself between us and holds his palms up. “We’re just here to grab some stuff, Zee. Then we’re out. The Bots won’t bother you, okay? Because, yeah—they’re after us.”

  Zee Twelve’s eyes narrow. “You’d better get out of here,” he says. “Because if the Bots don’t get you, I will.” He spits on the ground at our feet, and then he turns and limps away.

  “Aw, he’s just pissed ’cause y’all wasted on him in the race,” Nine says. “The Bots are after all of us, ain’t they? One of these days this whole place is gonna go up in smoke…”

  “That’s why we have to fight!” shouts a girl with greasy red hair.

  “You think so, Ell Two?” Nine says. “Heck, I’m ready.” He karate chops the air. “Bring it on, skin jobs!”

  “You been practicing kung fu?” Trip asks, giggling.

  Nine grins at her. “My dad was Chinese. I don’t need to practice. It’s in my blood.” He chops the air again and almost loses his balance. I realize he’s drunk.

  The girl with red hair says, “You guys, we need guns.”

  I think of the Colt I’ve got stashed in my gear. That makes one pistol—against about a million.

  But I know these kids aren’t going to revolt. They’re going to keep coming to the Pits to drink bathtub gin and huff paint. They couldn’t fight if they wanted to.

  And when it comes down to it, they don’t want to.

  But can I blame them? I don’t want to fight, either, because that basically means suicide. But it seems like I don’t have much of a choice.

  I ask Nine, “How many kids did the Bots kill?”

  He looks down at the ground. “Seventeen.”

  Seventeen kids who were just getting a few kicks watching a car race. Killed without mercy or regret. Or justice.

  I clench my fists. “And you think you’re going to fight back,” I say bitterly. “Like last time?”

  “We were ambushed after the race,” the redheaded girl insists. “If we had been prepared—”

  “I’m not talking about the other night,” I tell her, my voice hard. “I’m talking about the war. Remember? It took three days for the Hu-Bots to wipe out almost our entire species.”

  “I’m not afraid,” the redheaded girl says, crossing her arms over her chest defiantly.

  “You should be,” I snap. “We all should be.”

  Trip stares at me for a minute. She looks like she’s shaking. “I think I’m going home,” she says softly.

  I nod. “Good idea,” I say. “They’re not after you.”

  Dubs watches her walk away. “Why’d you have to scare her off?” he asks.

  “Because I don’t need one more single drop of blood on my hands,” I hiss. And then I grab my pack and head for the trees.

  CHAPTER 34

  MIKKY RUNS THROUGH the snowy woods, barely noticing the frigid cold. The humans must be apprehended and brought to justice. Her status as an Elite detective—and her family’s well-being—are at stake.

  Considering the weather and their injuries, the suspects can’t have gotten far. MikkyBo uses her digitally enhanced night vision to sweep the area for footprints. Her lightweight polymer skeleton and high-capacity respiratory organs make the steep terrain easy.

  But suddenly it occurs to her: she can track the humans with the Q-comp.

  The Bots had sacked Suspect 1’s solo sanctuary but found no trace of the quantum computer, which means the girl must have it with her. Since there are only a handful of Q-comps left, Mikky does a code scan for them via brain uplink. She finds several in the Center—where Hu-Bot ministers of culture mine human memory for study—but there’s nothing anywhere near the Reserve.

  Had the sense to shut it off, didn’t you? she thinks, pushing her way through the underbrush. Maybe you’re not as simpleminded as you look.

  MikkyBo tries the cloud next. Accessing the Mountain Central Cloud via slipstream, she finds only one mind-upload bank still active. Judging by the zebibits of data, the bank is massive—whoever those humans were, they must have undergone whole-brain emulation instead of the more common selective scrap-streaming. It would be a nightmare to sort through, but Mikky doesn’t have to. She can already see that a memory was accessed two nights ago.

  Eureka.

  After another quick code scan, she’s staring at the coordinates of her suspects.

  Mikky lets her internal GPS guide her, and within ten minutes, she’s at ground zero: a small clearing surrounded by pine trees, with a rocky overhang that would have provided the humans with shelter from the elements. Snow dusting everything.

  She nudges a mound of snow and uncovers the remnants of a fire. And there, not three feet away, hastily covered by branches, lies the quantum computer.

  Mikky turns the Q-comp over in her hands. It’s bulky and outdated—but, according to MosesKhan, this very device could compromise Hu-Bot society. If Mikky turns it in, maybe she can forget about the kids. Without the computer, they’re no longer a threat.

  Right?

  It seems logical—but that wasn’t MosesKhan’s order. Find the criminals. Deliver them to me. Dead or alive. Your family is counting on you.

  So where are the car thieves now? Mikky studies the snowy terrain, seeing no fresh prints but her own. But if they left the computer, she tells herself, they’ll be back for it. She tucks the Q-comp into her vest and creeps back into the woods to wait.

  They broke the law, she reminds herself. They got peopl
e killed. They deserve to be punished. Don’t they?

  It’s the right thing to do.

  Something in the back of her mind snags on that last part, but she pushes her doubts down, instead calling forth pleasant sensations while she waits. Mikky tries rocky road ice cream, and then peppermint, and then her old standby, butter pecan. Conjured on her tongue, they are wonderful and creamy—but, despite the rich sweetness, she tastes something bitter underneath.

  CHAPTER 35

  “BIG MAN, BUILD fire!” Dubs beats his chest and does his best caveman impression.

  The tiniest bit of smoke curls up from the damp kindling. “You call that a fire?” I ask. I’d laugh if I weren’t so damn cold.

  “Patience, woman,” he barks. He leans over and blows on the flames, feeding them bits of lint from his pockets. I toss in a few dry leaves and a handful of twigs, and pretty soon we’ve got ourselves an actual campfire.

  It’s risky to build one just a mile or two from the Reserve, but we’re freezing. Hungry, too. I take out the small pot I “borrowed” from Toothless Ten (he won’t miss it), the soup bone Dubs talked the former Mrs. Cullen into giving him, plus two carrots and a handful of mushy, sprouting potatoes we got at the black market.

  “Wow, Sixie,” Dubs says. “That looks almost gourmet.”

  I snort. “Coming from a guy who lives on bug bars, that’s not such a compliment.” I scoop up handfuls of snow and throw them into the pot, then thaw my fingers over the flame while the “soup” heats up.

  Dubs sighs happily. “You and me are outlaws now,” he says. “Like Jesse James. Like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”

  “Yeah, and remember how those guys ended up,” I point out.

  His brow furrows. “Dead?” he asks.

  “Yeah, genius. Dead.”

  But he doesn’t care a bit. “Hail of bullets, baby,” he says, “and a blaze of glory. That’s all I need.”

  And I don’t say anything. Sure, he’s my best friend—but I don’t have to agree with him on that one.