by Olga Werby
When she nodded to Grock that she had read the message, Grock shredded the paper.
What now? Toby wanted to ask him.
Will watched in horror. Who had authorized the use of drones?
And menacing drones, at that. Flying machines of evil. They were going to hurt his baby, the only thing he had left of Dalla.
Will felt his head spin. He looked around for George. It was George who had done this! He had promised that Toby would never have anything to do with military missions—that all his work was for civilian use only, to help people during disasters, to save kids like his daughter. He had shown Will drone videos of his fieldwork, locating survivors after a mudslide. The BBI was supposed to help with that. Will’s system wasn’t supposed to fight—not drones, or birds, or anyone.
Will had to do something. He had to save his little girl. He was almost out of time—the wild ravens were circling Toby, leading the drones to her.
He had a gun. In his office safe, he had a handgun. George had made him get one years ago, at the start of the project.
He pivoted and ran back to the lab.
It took several swipes for his security card to work the lock to the lab. Will was losing his peripheral vision and almost vomiting from panic. Stumbling, he rushed his desk to get the combination to the safe. His hands shook. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he observed that he wasn’t functioning properly. Something was wrong with him.
It took several tries, but he managed to get the gun and load it. The only time he’d ever shot it was in a gun safety class—and that was almost six years ago. But guns were made to be shot and the interface was dead simple. Pull, aim, shoot.
He ran back outside. The sounds of the drone motors were like buzzing parasites. He staggered out into the open. There they were, herding Toby under the picnic table. Other ravens were bombing her with garbage. Will lifted the gun and shot. He shot again. And again. And again.
The birds exploded away from Toby. A drone sparked out.
Someone tackled Will. May? He hit his head on the basketball court and his gun dropped and skidded away. Everything went dark.
But Toby was safe.
“Disaster!” Colonel Francis Washington pronounced at the after-action review meeting.
“Yes, sir,” said George. A full colonel had just spent a quarter of an hour dressing him down. George had noted that colonels fell into one of two types. Some were calm and level-headed; they rarely raised their voices and tended to head commissions and draft reports. The other type were shouters who yelled, pounded the table, and demanded action.
Colonel Washington was the second type.
“You never noticed that the leader of this project was a psychopath?” Colonel Washington bellowed.
Will wasn’t a psychopath—but he had suffered a full psychological breakdown. George had to pull a lot of strings to keep him from being hauled away to jail. As it was, the best George could do was get Will committed to a mental hospital—and no one was talking about letting him out anytime soon. Things were bad. Very bad.
And it had all gone south so fast. The surprise inspection, the drone attack…none of it had been his idea and it had all been done over his objections. But it was clear that he was being held responsible for Will’s breakdown. He’d thought he had a strong grip on the Brats project, on Will, on Major Evans—but just like that, it had been yanked away from him. Technically, he was still in charge—he would oversee the day-to-day operations—but Colonel Washington had made it clear that George held no real power.
The good news, if you could call it that, was that the ravens had kicked the drones’ butts, they had retrieved the message, and they had done it all cooperatively. They had performed well beyond anyone’s expectations—even George’s. There was no question about their funding now—they would have access to whatever funds they needed.
The bad news…well, where to begin. They’d lost Will, of course. George had lost control. And with the gunfire and the unauthorized drones, they were no longer welcome at the university. Colonel Washington was moving them to a secure military base in Arizona. On top of all that, Washington wanted Toby off the project. He didn’t want Brats relying on a civilian child and a sick one at that. George managed to talk him out of that, but only on the condition that Toby not leave the base—ever. For all practical purposes, she would now be a prisoner of the Brats project.
But the worst news of all, as far as George was concerned, was that Toby’s wish for a consciousness transplant now had no chance of coming true. The military would never go for it. It was too far-fetched, too outrageous. And even if somehow he got the colonel to agree, without Will, there was no one with enough genius to continue the research.
Which meant Toby was permanently stuck in her human body. And she was getting sicker every day.
Twelve: +60 Months & a Week
“You promised! You promised!” Toby screamed. She was inconsolable.
George and Vikka sat in her office. Rufus was hiding in the hood of Toby’s sweatshirt under her hair. He was very upset too, shivering, his little body vibrating against Toby’s neck. He chewed nervously on the plastic tube delivering oxygen to her nose.
George found it difficult to even look Toby in the face. He had been too slow. Life had outpaced his ability to plan for it.
Vikka sat next to Toby and gathered her in her arms. She rocked her gently until Toby’s sobs relaxed into quiet crying.
George watched them both. Vikka was now more a mother than a teacher. With Will locked away in an insane asylum, she was going to have to be both mother and father.
“We’ll move to Arizona and figure things out from there,” George said—to himself as much as to Vikka and Toby.
They sat in silence after that, each caught up in their own thoughts.
Vikka screamed.
George, who had been staring out the window, spun around. Toby had apparently passed out in Vikka’s arms—and her skin was distinctly blue.
George ran over, lifted Toby into his arms and sprinted out of the office. “Call 911,” he shouted to Vikka.
He ran with Toby down the hall, screaming for Lilly and Ben. He didn’t even notice when Rufus fell from Toby’s hood. He didn’t see the rat hit the floor of the hallway—didn’t see that Rufus didn’t move.
It was Kyle who found Rufus. He knew immediately that Toby’s rat was dead.
Kyle wasn’t a sentimental man, but he understood the bond between riders and their animals. So he picked up the little rodent, wrapped him up in a paper towel, and put him in the refrigerator in the break room. Toby would want to say goodbye.
He shook his head. The Brats project was a mess. Will had been committed, Toby was dying. Ben and Lilly had been named codirectors of the project, but neither seemed happy. And there were a lot more people at the lab since the drone incident. New researchers and a new military team were there around the clock.
And then there was Major Watson. Kyle no longer trusted the major. Watson had been hiding things from both him and May. Too many things.
Kyle went across the street to his secret control room and watched the surveillance videos showing what had just happened in Toby’s office. Toby was crying in Vikka’s arms—and she said something about being denied what George had promised her. So Toby had made a deal with the major. And now he couldn’t hold up his side of the bargain.
Kyle sat back and tried to figure out what that deal could be. He knew Toby was addicted to riding and was trying to hide it. Kyle knew, because he felt the same way. He loved riding—he lived for it. Flight, sounds, smells, tastes, altered vision—it was addictive as hell. He’d forced himself to put limits on his riding time, but he wanted to ride all the time.
He had also noticed that riding had changed him, made him less human somehow, less naturally himself. He found himself monitoring his own behavior, making adjustments to his demeanor so as to pass as “more human.” He worried about being pulled from the program if anyone figured out
how addicted to the BBI he really was.
But Toby wouldn’t be worried about being pulled from the project. She was the best rider they had, period. And because she was so sick, regular moral considerations didn’t always apply. Did it even matter that a terminally ill patient was addicted to something?
With a few keystrokes, Kyle pulled up Toby’s diary. He’d scanned it when May brought it to the hospital about nine months ago. He clicked through the pages idly, looking to see if anything struck him. Toby wrote a bunch of strange stuff. Some of it seemed to be religious, but Kyle sensed that those entries were fake—a smokescreen for something else. Maybe Toby, like Kyle, was worried about losing her humanity and was trying to convince others that she was still human. Or maybe she was just trying to distract them from her real secret—her addiction.
Kyle noted the time, shut down the computers, and went outside to sit on a bench near the Brats building under a large California oak tree. He had selected the location strategically—for both privacy and its observational capacity. From here, he couldn’t see the top of the Campanile, so any cameras that might still be positioned there couldn’t see him. And this spot was beyond the scope of his own surveillance that he had set up at the lab.
It was also a spot where he could have a frank, off-the-record discussion with Major Watson. He knew that the major wouldn’t tell him much if he thought they were being observed. Major Watson should be heading out soon, to go to the hospital to bring Toby back to the lab. She was being released today, ostensibly into the custody of social services, but really into Vikka’s temporary guardianship. The major would walk right past this spot on the way to the hospital. So Kyle waited.
“Major,” he said quietly.
“Kyle?” George slowed as he approached.
Kyle looked around to check if there were any others from the project within hearing range. “Major,” Kyle said again. “I just want a moment of your time in private.” He led him farther from the path, under the broad canopy of the tree.
The major gave him a hard look. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”
“I wanted to ask you about your intentions regarding Toby.” Kyle’s tone was even, non-judgmental, lacking any emotion.
“You had me worried for a minute, Kyle.” The major exhaled dramatically and smiled. It was a sad smile.
“I didn’t mean to startle you. I just didn’t want to broadcast our conversation.”
The major’s eyes darted toward the obstructed Campanile and he nodded in agreement. “It’s been messed up lately, hasn’t it?”
Kyle didn’t respond. He just watched the man. Bricks had taught him how to literally smell a lie—and Kyle wanted to know if he would be lied to. When it came to Toby’s future, a lie would be as good as an admission of bad intentions.
“None of this is my doing,” George continued. “The Brats project was just too juicy to remain unnoticed despite my best efforts to keep it in the weeds.”
“It’s not Brats,” said Kyle. “I want to know what will happen to Toby and her dad. The drone attack was unacceptable. You scared the kid.” Unconsciously, Kyle’s right hand went to rub the fingers of his left hand. The referred pain came from Grock’s wing feathers damaged by the drone, and it still really hurt, as if the injury had been done directly to him. Grock was also still in pain and skittish—the flight feathers took a long time to grow back. When he linked with Grock, Kyle experienced the pain and healing firsthand.
The major saw him massaging his fingers. “Still hurts?”
“That’s why attacking the kid with a drone—”
“I know, I know.” The major waved his hands in defense. “I hated it.”
“You should have stopped it.”
“I tried.”
“So what’s your plan with Toby? May and I are soldiers. It’s our job. But she’s just a kid.” Kyle felt his emotions rise up and he fought to regain control. “I just need to know how you plan to protect the girl.”
“And if I don’t? What will you do if I don’t protect her?”
“Then I will,” Kyle said simply.
The major watched him for moment or two, judging him, then he said, “Good. Welcome to Team Toby.” He extended his hand.
Kyle waited the same amount of time, then took the major’s hand. “Team Toby,” he said. He didn’t smell a lie.
“So, here’s the plan,” the major began.
Thirteen: +62 Months
Today was the day they were going to break Will out of the mental institution.
Kyle, driving a rented truck, met Vikka at a coffee shop a few blocks from her apartment. The major had insisted that they take extra precautions. Vikka had the portable BBI equipment in her backpack and Kyle had Grock stowed in the truck in a cage covered by a large beach towel. He’d bribed the bird with a large piece of hard dry Molinari salami—Grock’s favorite. While the salami lasted, Grock would be content to stay inside his cage. That gave Kyle about forty-five minutes to get Vikka ready for the mission.
“Are you sure about doing this without vitals monitoring?” Vikka asked nervously. She kept looking around, scanning the tables.
Kyle put his hand on her arm to stop her fidgeting. “Vikka. It’s okay. I’ve been riding Grock almost non-stop for months. I have a good idea when my human body spins out of control. And, as you’ve pointed out to all of us, meditation helps with that.”
“I know. And I know how much you’ve suffered through Grock’s wounds. Lilly said you didn’t want him to feel the pain alone.” She looked at him with a mixture of sympathy and admiration.
“We needed to complete our bonding,” Kyle replied. “And meditation helps Grock relax too. The connection goes both ways.” He was studying Vikka, trying to judge whether she was ready for what they needed to do.
Kyle had always been intense, but riding the ravens had made him even more so. He had to remember to make himself blink, to look away, or he made people nervous. More nervous that is. He’d always made people a little nervous.
He’d concealed the glowing head implant at his temple underneath a black hoodie—the unofficial uniform for both Kyle and Toby. The dark hood hid the conspicuous metallic implant and the surrounding scar—not to mention the soft blue light—from public view. For that reason, Kyle left his hoodie on even on warm days.
“So how are we going to do this?” Vikka asked. Her hand shook a little as she lifted her coffee cup to take a sip.
“Don’t worry—this is just surveillance. There’s nothing to it. We’re just going to allow Grock to explore the building from the air,” Kyle said. “When we find Will’s room, we’ll establish a connection.”
“How?”
“When Will sees a raven with a blue light on his head, he’ll figure it out. And after we’ve figured out the layout of the place, I’ll go back with the major during dinner hours, when the staff is busy, and we’ll get him out.”
Vikka raised an eyebrow. “How?”
“We’ll create the appropriate conditions for an extraction,” Kyle said. He hated working with amateurs.
“Why can’t Uncle Geo simply ask for Will to be released?”
“He worked hard to get Will in there in the first place,” Kyle said. “If they released him, it would be into the custody of the police. Once Will is out, we’ll move him near the new Brats compound in Arizona. The major has people there who will stay with him.”
“And he won’t be found?”
“The major said he’d take care of it,” Kyle said. “Are you ready?” He didn’t want to rush her, but Grock was sitting alone in his truck and had probably finished the salami.
Vikka placed her coffee cup on the table and stood. “I’m ready,” she said decisively.
They walked out quickly and got into Kyle’s truck. Grock greeted them with a soft “caw” through the thick towel draped over his cage.
“Hey, buddy,” Kyle said. “Ready to go hunting?” He took out the BBI band and placed it over his head. The rush o
f mind-to-mind connection was almost a blissful release. Life without it seemed colorless, sapped of all energy.
Vikka’s voice filtered into Kyle’s awareness. “Can you drive while riding?” she asked.
He focused on the truck’s controls and pulled out into traffic. “No problem.”
They parked at a place Kyle had scoped out earlier. It was hidden from view, at the end of a long dirt path about three miles from the mental health facility. While Kyle explored via Grock, Vikka would monitor his pulse the old-fashioned way—by keeping two fingers on his wrist. Kyle would refocus on his human body if he needed to communicate with her—or if something went wrong out there with Grock. Vikka’s instructions were to disturb him only if they were discovered.
Kyle released the bird from its cage, returned to his seat in the truck, and focused his senses.
Grock circled high above the mental institution, making a careful inspection. The building was built in a Spanish revival style, with whitewashed stucco enclosing a square central courtyard dotted with picnic tables and solitary benches. A large wrought iron gate, flanked by a guardhouse, blocked the driveway that curved up to the front of the building. A service driveway forked from the main driveway and wrapped around one side of the building to another gate at the back of the property. Those were the only two entrances to the property; the rest of the perimeter was lined with an eight-foot-tall chain link fence, topped with barbed wire. Overall, the facility looked unimposing and old-fashioned, almost quaint. But Kyle knew a prison when he saw one.
From above, Kyle could see three guards, two by the back gate and one manning the main guardhouse. There were probably guards on every floor inside the building as well. Three men in white bathrobes were seated in the central courtyard, as far from each other as possible given the layout. A male nurse, who looked as fit as any soldier that Kyle had worked with, was reading a newspaper—and keeping an eye on the three patients.
