by Tarah Benner
“Maggie.”
“I’m Dr. Walsh,” she says, holding out a hand for me to shake. “What brings you in to see us today?”
I glance at Jonah, who’s still lurking in the corner as though he’s Secret Service or something. Couldn’t he at least act normal?
“I’m having this pain,” I say, pointing to my ribcage. “I feel it every time I breathe.”
“Could you describe the pain?” asks the doctor, touching her Optix.
I swallow. “It’s like a sharp stabbing pain.”
“I see.” Dr. Walsh’s bright eyes scan my face and body, lingering for a moment on the choke marks around my neck. “And have you suffered any traumatic injuries lately?”
“Uh, yeah . . . I was kicked in the ribs a few times. Repeatedly.”
At those words, Jonah’s mouth tightens into a hard line, and I can see a muscle throbbing near his jaw. The doctor nods to say that she understands, but I can’t read her expression. Then I realize what she must be thinking.
“He didn’t kick me,” I add in a hurry. “This was a different guy.”
The doctor tilts her head to the side. “And may I ask how you received this injury?”
“It’s a long story.”
I’m still having a hard time getting a read on this doctor. She seems to sense that I’m not being forthcoming and glances at Jonah with a cool expression. “Maybe it would be better if we spoke in private.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Jonah growls, looking like a snarling pit bull about to be separated from a pork chop.
“I need to examine Maggie’s injuries.”
Jonah makes a sweeping “go ahead” gesture with his hand, and I bug out my eyes to tell him to leave. He doesn’t take the hint.
Drawing in a deep breath, I turn my gaze to the ceiling and lift my shirt until it reaches the underside of my bra. Along my ribcage is a horrendous gray-and-purple bruise. The bruise is fresh, still spreading, and looks much worse than I imagined.
Try as I might to avoid Jonah’s gaze, I see the fury rip through him like a storm. His whole body shifts, shoulders tightening with rage, and the look in his eyes makes me uneasy.
“Mmm. Yes,” says the doctor. “It’s likely that you’ve got some bruised ribs.”
“Is that why it hurts?” I ask. “It didn’t feel like this before.”
“It’s possible that you dislocated one of your ribs. Have you been involved in any physical activity since you sustained these injuries?”
“Uh . . . yes.”
The doctor nods. “I can try an adjustment, but it will be painful.”
“Fine,” I say, just ready to be done with this whole ordeal.
Dr. Walsh turns to Jonah. “You’re going to have to wait outside. It’s our policy when a patient is undergoing treatment.”
I look over at Jonah, who’s staring at me. He doesn’t seem to notice the doctor, but then he nods. “I’ll be right outside. You need me, you holler.”
“I will.”
Jonah slides out of the room, and Dr. Walsh closes the door with a tiny remote. I get another sharp stab as I try to regain my normal breath, but I just grit my teeth and remind myself that it will be over soon.
“Lie on your side, please,” says the doctor.
“Oh . . . Oh, you’re going to do this now?” I’m not sure what I was expecting. It just seems very abrupt.
“Certainly,” says Dr. Walsh. “Unless you’d rather wait . . .”
“Oh, no,” I say quickly. “Now is good.”
I guess I hadn’t expected Dr. Walsh to adjust me herself. I’ve only ever heard of chiropractors doing that sort of thing. Then again, we are on a space station, and there are only so many doctors on staff.
I pivot my knees to face the wall opposite the doctor and flatten my body onto the crinkly paper. It sticks to my cheek and bunches up underneath me, but I try to relax and avoid the pain.
“Just breathe,” she instructs in a calming voice.
I hadn’t realized that I wasn’t, but I feel another horrible stab the instant I draw breath. I hear the doctor moving behind me, and I glance over my shoulder to see what she’s doing.
Dr. Walsh has her back to me, but I can see her bent over one of the drawers. She lifts her head, finding what she needs, and I see something shiny glinting in her hand.
Panic surges through my body, and I try to focus on my breathing. I tell myself that I’m just being paranoid, but I have a bad feeling that I just can’t shake.
“Ready yet?” I ask, my voice coming out much more nervous than I intended.
“Just about.” Her voice is smooth and deadly calm, yet something doesn’t feel right.
I take a deep breath and try to ignore the pinch of pain in my side. I need to focus. I need my rib fixed. But I also need to be sure this doctor is the real thing.
I lie there on the table for what feels like hours, gritting my teeth through the pain. The drawer slides shut. Her lab coat rustles. I hear the squeak of her shoes.
In one fluid motion, I roll forward off the edge of the table. My body clears it easily, and I land on my feet — primed and ready to flee.
The doctor is standing across the exam table looking pleasantly surprised. At first I think I must have been mistaken, but then I see that glint of metal again.
My eyes flicker to the doctor’s hand, where a shiny steel scalpel is poised in her grip.
I don’t have time to process what I’m seeing. I leap around the exam table and lunge for the door, but the second I jiggle the handle, I know it’s too late.
The door is locked from the inside — controlled with a remote by the doctor who’s trying to kill me.
“It’s all right, Maggie,” says Dr. Walsh, taking a careful step forward. “It will only hurt for a moment.”
“Help!” I scream, suddenly manic. I pound my fist against the door, hoping Jonah’s still on the other side. “Help!”
“Calm down,” says the doctor. “He can’t help you. No one can. Just relax.”
Yeah, right.
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel the blood pumping in my ears. My skin is hot with panic, and sweat is beading under my arms.
The door handle jiggles, and Jonah calls my name. He pounds on the door and tries the handle again, but I already know it’s useless.
It’s just me and her — this demented doctor — and one of us isn’t making it out alive.
Before she can move, I lunge across the room. The element of surprise seems to work to my advantage, and I body-slam her against the opposite wall. I grope for the wrist holding the scalpel, but she’s quicker than any human alive.
She thrusts the scalpel to my throat, and I feel a cold itch as the doctor draws blood. A pang of horror flares through my stomach, and I push her harder to keep her back.
“Who do you work for?” I yell as the doctor stretches a demented smile.
She laughs but doesn’t say a word. She must be working with Buford.
I push the doctor with all my might, struggling to keep her knife hand pinned. The steel scalpel gleams in my periphery, and I see it moving out of the corner of my eye.
She shouldn’t be able to move her arm — not the way I’m holding it — but the doctor is stronger than any normal human, and I feel my muscles wobble.
That’s when I realize she isn’t human. This woman is a killer bot disguised as a doctor, and it’s trying to take me out.
With a wild cry, I push myself off the bot, but it doesn’t move to close the distance. The stabbing in my lung is almost too much to bear, but I have to get out of here if I kill myself trying.
I glance around and spot the abandoned clipboard. I see my name, height, and weight, and then my eye lands on a pen near the top.
I dive for the pen before the bot can react. It slides out from my grip, but I manage to close my fist around it and bring it around as the bot dives toward me.
I don’t know what I was expecting. I’ve never stabbed someone i
n the neck. But instead of the easy give of flesh and blood, I feel the pen snap in two.
I back up. The bot’s smile is gone — replaced by a manic, focused expression. The pen is still sticking out of its neck, leaking ink, and I can see where the tip tore the silicone shell.
The bot reaches up to yank the pen out of its neck and takes a step toward me. I plant my foot and aim a hard kick at its chest, but the force of my strike rebounds me.
A searing pain shoots through my knee, and I feel as though I just kicked a moving car.
Thinking fast, I grab the steel floor lamp with both hands and give it a hard, fast tug. The plug rips clean out of the wall, and I swing the lamp around as hard as I can. It hits the bot in the head with a thud, but it’s more of an irritant than a distraction. I kick the rolling stool into the bot’s path, but it doesn’t slow down one bit.
Feeling desperate, I turn back to the door and throw my whole body against the handle. It won’t budge. I grab the trash can off the ground and use it to ram the handle, but the door is completely solid.
A cool smooth hand reaches for my throat, but I tuck my chin on instinct. If the bot gets a hand around my neck, it’s over. I can’t let that happen.
I pivot around, and the bot turns just as fast. It lowers its head and lunges for me, and my hand reaches for the curtain.
Everything slows down as I grope for the rippling white sheet. I don’t consciously decide to go for it — I grab it because it’s the only thing within reach.
One minute, the bot is flying at me, scalpel in hand. The next, I’m ripping the privacy curtain down from the ceiling and stretching it over its head.
I see the shape of the bot’s face coming at me through the thin fabric, but I pull it taut around its head and grip it hard from behind.
The bot thrashes around in violent confusion, and I step around and hold on to the curtain as hard as I possibly can. The bot bends at an unusual angle, but it doesn’t fall or tear at the curtain. It pivots helplessly at the hips, and I realize it doesn’t know how to react.
Keeping one hand on the curtain wrapped around the bot’s head, I grope down into the pocket of its lab coat and fish for the remote. My fingers close on something smooth and plastic, and I hit the biggest button I can find.
I hear a dull click as the door unlocks and feel behind me for the handle. It swings open on my first try, and I shove the bot toward the wall.
The bot careens into the exam table and goes over head first, and I slam the door shut with a bang.
I press down on the lock button with shaking hands, backing up on instinct and bumping into Jonah. He’s already got a fire extinguisher in his hands and looks as though he was about to break down the door.
“What the hell?” he breathes, confused and relieved.
“It tried to kill me,” I huff, holding my ribs. “The doctor . . . She’s a bot.”
7
Maggie
There’s a loud crash from the other side of the door as I struggle to regain my breath. The robo-doctor is trying to escape.
“What the hell happened?” asks Jonah in a rush.
I shake my head, still numb with shock. Adrenaline is coursing through my veins, making it impossible to think.
“She was a bot,” I repeat, clutching my ribs. “The doctor.”
“What?”
I nod. My hands are shaking, my heart is pounding, and it feels as though a hot knife is wedged between my ribs.
“She tried to kill me,” I gasp. “She made me lie down on the table, and then she tried to kill me.”
“They must have some kind of network,” says Jonah darkly. “All the human-looking ones must be able to communicate and gather the data they need.”
“Why do you say that?”
“All the doctor stuff it said to us . . . How else would it know that? And why would one show up here?” Jonah’s expression is growing stormier by the second. “They knew you were going to the infirmary. That’s why it showed up here.”
“You think they’re after me?” It seems obvious now that he’s said it, but that had not occurred to me before.
“Buford is. You’re the only witness to his confession. If you’re gone . . .”
“Buford gets away with everything.”
Jonah’s expression is so deadly that he seems capable of creating his own weather patterns. I definitely would not like to be on the receiving end of that fury.
“You think the nurse . . .”
“Could be.” Jonah glances down the hallway, but there’s no sign of the nurse who admitted me.
Just then, there’s a deafening bang from the other side of the door. Jonah and I take an automatic step back.
“How did you get out of there?” he asks.
I shrug. “I didn’t have a good weapon, so I just threw the curtain over its head. The bots must have sensors where the eyes should be. If you cover them . . .”
“They can’t make contact with their target.”
“Exactly.”
Jonah seems to consider this for a moment. “I don’t suppose she adjusted you before she tried to kill you?”
“She’s a bot,” I say with an eye roll. “I don’t think she went to medical school.”
“Right.”
We fall silent as we make our way toward the exit. We move slowly and deliberately, searching for the nurse who admitted me.
Finally we reach the front, and I almost have a heart attack when the nurse pops up from behind the desk.
Before I can say or do anything, Jonah lunges across the reception desk and tackles the nurse to the ground. The nurse lets out a high-pitched scream, but it’s drowned out by Jonah’s growl.
“Jonah!” I run around the desk to rescue the nurse, whom Jonah has pinned to the ground. His arm is pressed against the poor guy’s throat, and the nurse’s eyes are bulging with fear.
“Are you one of them?” he yells.
The nurse freezes, his face turning red. He can’t breathe, let alone talk.
“Jonah!”
Jonah doesn’t respond.
“He isn’t one of them!”
“We have to be sure,” he says, reaching behind his back and drawing a knife.
“Jonah, don’t —” But before I can even finish that sentence, he’s made a clean slice across the nurse’s left arm. The nurse makes a noise like a dying pig, and a line of ruby-red blood blossoms from the wound.
Satisfied, Jonah gets to his feet and wipes his knife on his pants, watching the poor nurse gasp for air.
“Sorry,” says Jonah, suddenly sheepish.
“What is wrong with you?” the nurse croaks, massaging his throat where Jonah held him. “I’m calling emergency dispatch. I’m gonna have you arrested.”
“Yeah, you do that,” Jonah mumbles.
I decide to break in before things get ugly. “That doctor . . . She isn’t who she says she is.”
The nurse is staring at me as though I’ve lost my mind, so I add, “She’s a bot. She tried to kill me. We had to make sure you weren’t one of them.”
The nurse still looks horrified and bewildered.
“Call emergency dispatch,” says Jonah, turning to leave. “Just don’t let her out of that room.”
The nurse’s face drains of all color. He’s still grasping his throat and looks visibly shaken. I hate to leave him with the killer bot-doctor, but we don’t have much of a choice. If the bots are switching roles and infiltrating new departments, the entire colony is in danger.
We cut through Sector J and head straight for Maverick Enterprises. We need to warn Tripp.
It’s possible a bot could try to infiltrate his company. I know if I were Buford, Tripp would be one of my very first targets.
When we reach Maverick headquarters, the place is teeming with suits. Serious-looking men and women are swarming the offices, some of them dressed like FBI agents and some wearing “Homeland Security” bomber jackets. One is carrying a box of confiscated Optixes. Another i
s hauling a stack of paperwork. The ping-pong tables are spread with official-looking documents, and the fridge filled with energy drinks looks seriously depleted.
Suddenly, I hear a familiar voice rising above the din. “No, no, no, NO! You can’t take those! Those are my life!”
I turn to look down the hallway and see Porter trailing after a government agent. The man is toting what appears to be whiteboards filled with color-coded notes in a cramped, meticulous hand.
Porter is wearing a navy-blue button-down and a polka-dot bowtie. His pants are white, perfectly pressed, and held up with a red striped belt.
“This is how Mr. Van de Graaf knows what he has on the agenda for the day!” Porter huffs. “This is how I know what needs to be done, who needs to be where, and where we’re at with everything!”
“They’re evidence,” the man grumbles.
“Evidence of what?” Porter demands. “Evidence that I follow The Four-Step Day? Evidence that Mabel Macintosh and I are soul sisters? Evidence that Mr. Van de Graaf’s every moment is accounted for?”
The government agent doesn’t say a word.
“Uhhhh!” Porter screams. “You people are the worst!”
Jonah and I are standing frozen in the lounge, watching Porter’s mini-meltdown. If I weren’t recovering from a bot attack, I might find the whole thing funny.
It takes a second for Porter to notice us standing there, and when he does, his face grows pale.
At first I think he’s embarrassed that we witnessed his little hissy fit, and then I remember that I promised not to tell Tripp about Porter bugging my conversations.
“Mr. Van de Graaf is very busy,” says Porter in a loud voice. “He just doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be busying himself with at the moment!”
“Porter.”
“Ms. Barnes,” he says in a fake cheery voice. He tries to smile despite his irritation, and the result is something between a lemon pucker and a grimace. “How wonderful to see you again.”
I ignore the fake pleasantries. “Where’s Tripp?”
“Mr. Van de Graaf is in a very important meeting. I can have him —”
But I don’t even hear what Porter says next. I push past him and keep walking down the hall until I get to Tripp’s office. Jonah follows just a few paces behind, and I hear Porter’s indignant sputtering from the lounge.
