by Tarah Benner
Alex smirks and pulls out her e-cigarette. She takes a puff and falls into thoughtful silence. I can tell her brain has been working something out, and it’s only just now surfaced from her fog of panic. “What were you saying about bots that look like people?”
I just stare at her. After how Alex treated me, she’s trying to see if there’s a story she can use? Unbelievable.
I want to tell her nothing. I want her to leave me alone. Then again, she needs to know. I don’t think I’d be able to live with myself if Alex got taken out by a Stepford wife because I was too pissed off to warn her.
“This is off the record,” I say in a low voice. “The Hospitality workers? The hostesses? One of them turned out to be a bot. We don’t know how many more there might be . . . just that one looked human enough to fool Captain Callaghan.”
Alex perks up. She smells a lead. “Brett Callaghan? What’s he got to do with this?”
“I can’t say.”
Alex deflates. “Do they look like bots at all?”
“No.” I swallow down a tingle of revulsion as the image of the bot’s prone body flashes before my eyes. “They are . . . completely human-looking. That’s what makes them so dangerous.”
Alex continues to stare at me. She isn’t even taking notes. She’s rattled — I can tell. She won’t say anything to anyone, but maybe she’ll be a little more careful. The humanoid bots going on a rampage would be the story of a lifetime, but I’m not going to give her that. It’s too dangerous.
Alex leaves, and I’m left alone in my freezing cell. I don’t know how long they plan to keep me here, but they have to give me a ping eventually. Access to a lawyer, food, water . . . These things all come standard — even in space.
Then again, maybe I signed something when I agreed to come aboard Elderon — some form where I waived my legal rights. In any case, I’m sure I’m the last thing on Greaves’s mind. The Space Force has its hands full.
I’m just sinking into another spiral of self-pity when I hear the door open again. A second set of footsteps echoes down the hall, but they don’t sound like high heels this time.
The footsteps are heavy. They belong to a man.
My stomach tightens. What if it’s Buford? I’m all alone in here. No one would hear my scream.
I look around for something I could use as a weapon, but my cell is completely empty. I’m screwed.
Then the man reaches my cell, and all the fight drains out of me. It’s Tripp.
I’m so surprised and relieved to see him that I don’t say anything right away. I just stare at him in disbelief, taking him in like a mirage.
Tripp is dressed as if he just rolled out of bed: tight-fitting soccer pants, gray T-shirt, tousled hair. Still, he’s annoyingly gorgeous and annoyingly GQ ready.
“Maggie, Maggie . . .” Tripp cracks an admonishing grin.
“Hey, Tripp,” I grumble. I’m not in the mood to be teased.
“As soon as I heard they’d brought in a rogue journalist masquerading as a member of the Space Force, I knew it had to be you.”
“Lucky guess?” I say bitterly.
“I ran right here, you know.”
“How chivalrous of you.”
That cocky grin widens, and Tripp touches his Optix. “I thought so.”
It takes me a moment to register the snap of his device. He’s taking my picture. Asshole.
“Tripp!”
“What? It’s for posterity. How many times do you get arrested and detained by the Space Force? It’s better than Disneyland jail!” He takes a moment to study the photograph, and I see the reverse image of my impromptu mugshot. “Maggie . . . You look like hell.”
“Thanks for noticing.”
“Did the Space Force do this to you?” All the humor in his voice is gone. He reaches for me through the bars, and I recoil automatically. “What happened?”
“Oh, the usual,” I say in an irritable voice. “Got kidnapped by a dirty Space Force officer, held hostage for fifteen hours . . . almost got sucked out of an airlock . . . got rescued . . . got attacked by killer maintenance bots, stumbled onto the scene of a murder, and then got arrested by the Space Force.”
Tripp’s mouth falls open. He looks utterly floored. And, for a moment, he’s completely speechless.
“Holy shit,” he says, taking a step toward the bars as if he plans to walk right through them. “Are you okay?”
“I’ve been better.”
“Maggie.” He presses his face into the bars and drags in a sharp breath. He must have gotten a closer look at my bruises.
“What the hell?”
“I told you,” I say. “It’s been a long day.”
“My bots did this to you?”
I glare at him, occupied by a sudden ringing in my ears. “Your bots?”
“I mean . . . You know what I mean.”
“They can’t take all the credit,” I mumble. “Your pal Lieutenant Buford is responsible for the worst of it.”
“Buford?” Tripp shakes his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“He’s an officer in your Space Force,” I say grudgingly. “But he’s also working with someone inside BlumBot.”
“How do you know all this?”
I hesitate. I don’t want to get Porter in trouble. “Buford told me,” I say. “They infected the bots with malware so they’d carry out the attacks. They also must have hacked the bot that murdered Callaghan.”
“Captain Callaghan?”
So he hasn’t heard.
“Yeah . . . Callaghan was murdered by a bot disguised as a Hospitality worker.”
Tripp’s eyes grow wide. He bows his head as though he’s had a horrible realization, but he doesn’t seem all that surprised.
I study him for a moment, trying to decide if he’s grieving for Callaghan or if it’s guilt that I’m sensing. Then it hits me.
“You knew,” I whisper, glaring at him in disgust. “You knew that the Hospitality workers were bots.”
“Of course I knew,” he mutters, staring at the floor with a look of anger simmering just beneath the surface.
I shake my head, quivering with the effort of containing the fresh dose of fury that just ripped through my body. “Why didn’t you say anything?” I growl, my voice shaking. “Why weren’t they shut down with the rest of the bots?”
“They were!” Tripp snaps. “We shut them down with all the others and performed a full systems check. We couldn’t find anything wrong with them, so we reactivated them a few hours ago.”
“You knew that there were bots posing as humans on Elderon?”
“I know everything that goes on around here,” says Tripp dismissively. “Except that we had a mole, apparently.”
“How many?” I growl.
“What?” He seems unfazed by the humanoid bot and more preoccupied with the human betrayals.
“How many workers on Elderon are bots?”
He shakes his head quickly, as though trying to make an estimate when he really has no clue. “I don’t know. A couple hundred.”
“A couple hundred?” I hiss. I need to sit down. My nervous system is fried. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? They could kill everyone on board in a matter of hours.”
“We didn’t have a choice,” says Tripp impatiently. “The colony project never would have happened without them.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We never would have been able to build a profitable space station without an automated workforce,” says Tripp. “Do you have any idea how much it costs to feed and house that many people for five years?”
“I don’t understand.”
“The bots can work six times longer than any human employee. They only need four hours to charge. They never complain. They’re never sick, and they don’t eat. We already invested a fortune in the Space Force due to all the threats we received. If we’d had to accommodate five hundred human workers in addition to the Space Force, this station wouldn’
t have been sustainable. That’s ten percent more food, ten percent more water, ten percent more waste that needs to be processed. Do you have any idea what that costs?”
“That’s why you bought BlumBot,” I mutter, unsettled by Tripp’s lack of concern.
“Yes,” says Tripp. “Their bots are better than anyone else’s.”
“Until they get hacked and start murdering people.”
“That should never have happened,” he says sharply. “BlumBot’s tech is supposed to be unhackable. Their security is —”
“Second to none. Yeah. I know. Tell that to all the people whose family members were killed by the bots on Earth. Tell that to Captain Callaghan.”
Tripp purses his lip. I can tell that he’s frustrated. I can tell that he feels remorse. He’s acting as though he doesn’t because he can’t process it right now. I’m not sure I’d ever be able to process it.
But I can’t hold him responsible. Tripp is not a robotics expert, and he’s not some diabolical executive bent on destruction. He didn’t knowingly bring compromised bots onto Elderon. He’s just a guy who wanted to build the first civilian space colony, and he saw bots as a way to do it.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He looks surprised. “For what?”
“This isn’t your fault.”
“Whose fault is it, then?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But I need to talk to Ziva.”
“Well, you’ll have to get in line.”
That’s not what I expected him to say.
“Ziva is being questioned by the Department of Homeland Security.”
4
Jonah
It’s amazing how fast you lose credibility once you accuse a fellow officer of terrorism. For a minute, I’d thought Greaves was with me. But I guess it was all too much for him to take.
He pinged one of his underlings, and a bunch of guys showed up to take us away. They dumped us here — a ten-by-ten room used for training. When it’s just a table and two chairs, it doubles as an interrogation room.
I’m not sure where they took Maggie. It’s making me nervous. Buford is still roaming free, and I wouldn’t put it past the bastard to take Maggie out of the equation to save his own skin.
I’m pacing back and forth in the little room when the lights start to flicker. Ping is sitting at the flimsy metal table, still wearing his basketball jersey and high-top sneakers. He looks like a kid who just got called to the principal’s office.
I stop pacing and look up. The strip of lights above our heads is going berserk, humming unsteadily as the electric current goes in and out. I take a step toward the door and peer through the tiny window looking out into the hall. The lights are flashing out there, too.
“What’s happening?” asks Ping in a nervous voice.
“Not sure.”
“You think it’s the bots?”
I shrug. “Could be.”
Maybe Greaves sent out troops to round up the rogue maintenance bots after all. Maybe now he’ll take us seriously.
“How long do you think they’re gonna keep us here?” Ping asks.
“No idea.”
There’s a long pause. “You think they’ll believe Buford over us?”
I let out a slow breath between my teeth. I’d almost gotten over my annoyance with Ping, but he’s been asking the same inane questions for an hour, and it’s taking all my energy not to throttle him.
“You think Maggie’s okay?”
I don’t answer. I can’t think about that now. I tried to stop them when they came to take her away, but it was no use. She’d flat-out admitted to posing as a member of the Space Force. As far as Greaves is concerned, she’s a criminal.
She’s probably being held in a room just like this one. Or maybe she’s already on a shuttle headed back to Earth. That would be the best thing for her. At least she’d be safe — away from Buford.
It doesn’t matter how I feel about it. Maggie isn’t part of the Space Force. She isn’t really my problem anymore, but I can’t shake this unsettled feeling in my gut.
Suddenly, there’s a loud beep on the other side of the door. I hear a click as the lock slides back, and then the door swings open.
My eyebrows shoot up. It’s not Greaves or one of his underlings. It’s Maggie, and she looks much, much worse for the wear.
The bruise across her temple is becoming more pronounced, and there are ugly purple marks on either side of her neck from where the bot tried to strangle her. Still, she looks triumphant, and I’ve never been so happy to see her.
“You’re all right!” cries Ping.
“Yep,” Maggie pants. She meets my gaze, and something immediately seems off. It’s almost as if she ran here. Her face is flushed, and I can tell she’s nervous.
I open my mouth to say . . . something. But then I see the guy standing behind her, and the rush I got from seeing Maggie is gone.
It’s Tripp Van de Graaf — son of the wealthy CEO who owns the space station. He’s standing next to Maggie as if they know each other — as though they’re partners in crime or something.
“Whoa!” says Ping. “Is that . . . Are you . . .?”
I roll my eyes. Ping’s got the same hero worship-y tone in his voice that he had the day he spotted Ziva Blum in the fitness center. I want to smack him.
“Tripp Van de Graaf,” says the guy, holding out a hand for me to shake.
I stare into his eyes for a brief moment and then grip his hand with a crushing squeeze. His hand is soft and smooth like a woman’s. He’s never worked a day in his life.
“Jonah Wyatt.”
“You’re Space Force?”
“Sergeant.”
“Right on.”
I give him a stern look, but he’s already moved on to introduce himself to Ping. He’s all smiles and shiny hair and dimples. I hate the guy already.
Ping, on the other hand, looks as though Christmas has come early.
“We don’t have much time,” says Van de Graaf quickly. “This is a Space Force investigation . . . I’m not supposed to interfere.”
“Don’t you own the Space Force?” asks Ping.
Van de Graaf hesitates. Oh, look — he’s trying to be modest.
“Technically, yes, but the organization is supposed to be autonomous. It’s . . . complicated.”
“Too many big words?” I mumble.
“Sorry?” says Van de Graaf, genuinely confused.
“Never mind.”
“Let’s go,” says Maggie, tossing me my weapon a little harder than necessary. She knows I’m being a smart-ass. She’s carrying the rifle we lifted from Davis’s locker, but how she got our weapons back, I have no idea.
I let out a huff. This whole thing is fucking bizarre, but I’m not going to argue. I’d rather escape on Van de Graaf’s good graces than sit back and twiddle my thumbs while bots take over the space station.
We slip out of the training room and into the hallway. I check my Optix. It’s one thirty.
The sector would normally be deserted this time of night, but after everything that’s happened, I find the lack of Space Force personnel disconcerting.
“Any idea what’s been going on with the bots?” I ask Maggie.
“No. I just got out. We came straight here.”
I turn to Van de Graaf. “You heard anything?”
“Only that a journalist had been arrested for masquerading as a soldier. Other than that, I’ve just been dodging representatives from Homeland Security.”
“They’re here?” I snap.
“Oh, yeah,” says Tripp. “They got in about twenty minutes ago. They’re questioning Ziva Blum now, and they’re gonna wanna talk to me.”
I swear. If the people from the government are here, it means that they’re going to want to meet with Callaghan sooner or later. Greaves is going to have his work cut out for him if he wants to keep Callaghan’s murder quiet.
“Deactivating the bots and rounding up the Hosp
itality workers should be our first priority.”
“Shouldn’t you three lay low and let the rest of the Space Force deal with this?” asks Van de Graaf.
I ignore him.
“Our best bet will be to get to the control room,” says Ping. “Your new access level should get us in. All the bots are programmed to be shut down remotely, but we’d need to do it from there.”
I quicken my pace, hoping Van de Graaf will take the hint and scoot back to his office where he belongs. “You think that’ll work?”
Ping shrugs. “It worked once. It should work again.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. That sounds a lot easier said than done, but so far it’s the best plan we’ve got.
“Buford isn’t going to let us shut down all the bots,” says Maggie.
“Let him try to stop us,” I grumble.
I would welcome a confrontation with Buford right now. Nothing would make me happier than to beat him until he begs for mercy — preferably in a dark hallway where there aren’t any witnesses or security cameras.
“He’s probably still with Greaves,” says Ping. “Trying to convince him that he had nothing to do with the attacks.”
“Who’s Greaves?” asks Van de Graaf.
“New guy in charge of the Space Force,” says Ping.
“And he believes that Buford is innocent?”
“Apparently,” I grumble. “Which is why we need to get to the control room before he does.”
“Don’t I get a say in this?” asks Van de Graaf.
I ignore him and quicken my pace. I don’t have time to deal with an entitled asshole who’s used to calling the shots — not when so many lives are at stake.
“They are my bots,” he adds.
“Congratulations.”
There’s a long awkward pause, and I can practically feel Maggie’s dirty look burning a hole in the back of my head.
“Don’t you think I should be consulted before you go tampering with the bots? They’re very sophisticated pieces of technology.” His tone is light, but I can hear the edge of aggression in his voice.
“All due respect, Trent —”
“Tripp.”
“Right . . . These things are killing machines. They tried to take out Maggie. One of them murdered my captain. The Space Force has a duty to protect the civilians of Elderon, so —”
