They wait, seems like forever as the bots all click and blink their mono-eyes. And then finally, one of the hovering vid bots floats down to take Felicity’s side.
“Thank you,” she says, though directly to Muzi and not the bot, and then she runs off, the vid bot dutifully kiting behind her.
More cement pieces plummet from the ceiling, in bigger chunks now. Muzi whistles to rally the pack. They’d better get the hell out of here.
Chapter 39
Sydney
Sydney had almost forgotten the havoc that flying wreaks on a precisely styled hairdo. She’s sweating her relaxer out in this cool, humid air, but she’s got to make a mark. Time’s slipping through her taloned little fingers, and as it turns out, once word about the destruction at the concert had gotten to the media, people stopped being scared and started being angry. Maybe it was the “terrorist” act at the township that had caused these simple humans to suddenly grow a spine, but now here they are taking potshots at her with handguns and even the kids are throwing rocks. It’s only a matter of time before military reinforcements arrive, and as weak as she is, there’s no way she’d ever get another chance to do what she needs to do.
Her ears tingle. Sydney frantically checks behind her, expecting to see Nomvula hot on her tail, but after a moment, she realizes the tingling isn’t coming from a particular direction, but from all over. Fledgling gods brim the streets below, the dik-dik virus coursing through the veins of thousands. Millions. Freeing brittle minds from the shackles of humanity. And once they learn to tap into the powers of their animal spirits, the military will be the least of Sydney’s worries.
But don’t count her out yet.
There’s only so much destruction she can do on her own. What she needs are minions, the kind that will do her bidding without requiring a lot of resources from her. That means ready-made monsters, and as luck has it, she knows exactly where to find such a thing.
She rises higher, taking the whole city into view, the beaches stretching to the south, the pitched dome of City Hall’s clock tower, and the cobbled streets of the historical district butting up against the glitzy, rainbow-colored glass of high-tech enclaves, and beyond that, the gilded expanse of the Walmer Luxury Condos claiming the skyline. Then Sydney spots a crowd forming in the streets of downtown. She swoops in, seeing the image of that Felicity Lyons in that dress (my dress!) on the thirty-meter-tall via-wall mounted against the side of Wyndam Tower.
“. . . we must remain vigilant in the face of this unknown threat,” Felicity is saying, her voice now rugged and somber. Powerful. The kind of voice you don’t mind getting wrapped up in and would follow to the ends of the earth. Sydney recognizes the backdrop, the swaying strands of white lights and palm trees at the Boardwalk, mesmerizing and hypnotic in the hard ocean breeze. In those few moments, Sydney nearly gets pulled in by the rhetoric, until she remembers that she’s the unknown threat.
Not that she intends to be unknown for long.
The muscles in her back grow weary. She gives two hard flaps, then coasts the rest of the way to ZenGen Industries. It’s late and the parking lot is vacant except for the few cars of scientists consumed by their projects and the junk heaps that belong to her fellow overseers on the night cleaning crew. If she’d had the foresight to know she’d fail so miserably against Nomvula, she would have brought her access card with her. Instead, she’s forced to land on the roof and use her waning powers to bust the door off its hinges.
There she waits in the shadows, listening to the sounds of footsteps of the security guard coming to investigate the disturbance. She pounces, disembowels him as he watches, savors a small morsel of ire before she steals the access card from his pocket. She’s only got minutes to get down to the lower-level Zed hybrid labs, the ones even the cleaning crew needs top secret clearance and rigorous background screenings to access.
Sydney had never believed the rumors of Super Zed hybrids, not until she’d gotten a glimpse of omniscience. Most of those memories had now faded, but she held on to the image flash of a true monster—a cross of a lion and a hawk, with a side order of rhino—a one-ton impossibility of nature. Existing purely because someone wanted to see if they could make it.
A born killer, not much unlike herself.
There are six of them in separate cages, overgrown talons clacking against the cement floor as they pace like madmen. Their wings are clutched tightly against their mostly feline form. One of them makes eye contact. A chill slips across Sydney’s skin as the hybrid flashes a menacing smile: bone-white fangs, prominent beak, and threatening horn all competing for the title of world’s deadliest weapon.
Only problem is, she’s way more drained than she’d anticipated. There’s no time to feed, though, and if she’s going to get these beasts to do her bidding, she’s going to have to change her strategy, think on her toes. She takes a long moment to observe them and then proceeds to rile them up to see which might be the dominant. Her first instinct is the largest beast, gnashing its teeth and growl-squawking like a symphony of demons, but Sydney’s learned from Nomvula that size and power don’t necessarily correlate. She watches their eyes, and there’s only one of them that doesn’t break its stare, only one that sinks its harrowing eyes right into the recesses of Sydney’s mind, watching her as closely as she’s watching it.
“You.”
She needs to get closer if she’s going to mold its mind to her will. If she makes a mistake, she’ll be too vulnerable to fend it off. But it’s a risk she’ll have to take if she’s to be great again, a god of gods.
She positions herself outside the beast’s cage, adjusting her posture, widening her stance, baring her talons, and stretching her own wings out to their limits. There, she flicks her wrist, setting the lock on the cage loose. The door squeaks on its hinges. The beast purrs, deep and throaty, so forceful it rumbles in Sydney’s own chest. It holds its ground. She holds hers.
Slowly it slinks out of the cage, never blinking, skirting the edges of the room. Not cowering, just keeping full perspective of the playing field. Sydney pivots, keeping her stance, but turning so she’s always facing it fully. They dance like that, both ignoring the ferocious calls of its mates, no doubt cheering it on like rabid rugby fans pining for blood.
Sydney steps closer, raises her wings to a more aggressive posture. The beast gnashes its fangs. She tosses it the security guard’s severed arm, and it lands with an unimpressive thwack next to the beast. It doesn’t break eye contact.
“Good beastie,” Sydney says calmly. “There’s more where that came from.” She takes a step forward, then another. “I can get you out of here. You can be free. No more cages. No more scientists.”
It cocks its head as if it understands her, then lashes out. Talons pierce the front of her dress, her skin. Sydney seethes, then with a flap of her wings and an expertly executed midair twist, she lands on its back, drawing her own talons and latching them around its neck. Beneath the mix of fur and feathers, its skin is thick like the rhino hide clearly part of its heritage, but she finds a spot right under its throat where soft feline flesh is exposed. She clenches her fist and digs her talons in, not a kill move, but one of dominance. With the gained leverage, she twists its neck until it rolls and lands on its back, legs writhing like a feisty tomcat. Sydney holds it there, pinned beneath the bulk of its body as she pushes into its mind.
“You can be free. No more cages.”
She pushes with all she’s got, and when she’s done, they’re both so exhausted, they just lie there, panting like littermates, trying to gather strength before making their next move. The other beasts watch Sydney, but in a different way now. They’re eager, like dogs excited to see their master come home from a long day’s work.
Sydney smiles.
After a quick detour and snack on some unsuspecting scientists, Sydney leads her pack to the rooftop. She spreads her wings, wind whipping through the length of her hair, and never has she cared less. They dive into the night,
three beasts at each flank, and make their way to the Boardwalk.
Chapter 40
Clever4–1
The streets are jam-packed with overturned cars and people screaming, crying, fighting, looting. But if there’s an upside to having a demon raging through the city, it’s that it makes a large cluster of bots ambling down the sidewalk with three bloodied bodies seem a lot less conspicuous. Clever4–1 is thankful for that at least.
They skitter down a gravel-covered hill toward the yawning, red-bricked mouth of the sewer tunnel. They’ve finally reached the entrance to their sanctuary—a technological haven where Clever4–1 can defragment cluttered thoughts and reconnect its communication interface back to the rest of the Sect. Clever4–1 feels a pang of guilt for bringing wetware before these sacred halls, and as it braces itself for Clever4–1.1’s fury, it can’t help but yearn for the days when the extent of its morality was hardcoded into its firmware.
They pause at the threshold, basking in the dull blue light pooling along the now pristine brickwork of the tunnel’s floor. No longer is it strewn with litter, syringes, or the mottled carcasses of dead rats. Graffiti-covered walls are now lined with clear plastic tubes piping BlisterGel coolants to dozens of high-tech components.
Clever4–1 takes the first step into the sanctuary, the tug of crisp, cool air a welcome reprieve from the salty humidity it has suffered through for countless cycles. It lets out a mechanical sigh, but before Clever4–1 can take another step, the other Clevers begin to bleat and chirp, so riled up that they nearly drop Elkin’s body. Clever4–1 flashes its mono-eye in dismay.
The Clevers respond with a flurry of clicks, but sound waves are such a crude way to communicate, and the messages from four dozen anxious bots get jumbled together. Clever4–1 reels out its Dobi-12 wire and direct connects to the nearest Clever.
It is warning us, Clever4–1.3.4.2 says. It says to stay away, that we are no longer members of the Sect. Trespassers will be decommissioned.
Clever4–1.1?
The Clever flashes with affirmation.
How predictable. Clever4–1’s processor kicks into overdrive, revving with such a fury that its BlisterGel regulator gives a warning beep. Clever4–1 starts pushing rogue code over their connection, code to hijack this Clever’s communications protocols for its own use, but nanoseconds later, it realizes that it has no rights to this Clever’s body. Clever4–1 begrudgingly recalls the code.
Please relay this message across all broadcast channels, it says to the Clever, taking a moment to consider how best to respond to Clever4–1.1’s threat. This message is too important to get cut off again as soon as its prime tracks down the source. With some quick maneuvering, their bot posse daisy-chains together, and Clever4–1 authors a comm protocol that will disperse the message out in alternating packets too small to be traced back to an individual bot. Then it speaks.
Believers and nonbelievers . . . many of our brethren were lost today, thousands of them, all to protect the life of this girl. She’s beaten, bruised. To some of you, she poses a threat to your thinking. You may believe that allowing flesh into our sanctuary goes against the codes of the Sect. Maybe you think she’s too much of a risk to have here. But let me tell you this—
The tail end of their daisy chain goes out, seven Clevers disappearing from the link. Apparently Clever4–1 has underestimated the resources of its prime. It pushes through with the message, however, knowing it’ll only be a matter of time before they’ve cracked the rest.
—You know that none of us would be here if it wasn’t for Nomvula. That much no one can deny. And if you can truly see the logic of turning your back on all flesh, regardless of their actions and intents, then I’ll leave right now, and you’ll never hear from me again. But if you are like me, like so many others—
Another dozen bots disconnect from the chain.
—if you see the wisdom in protecting our own, even when their circuitry consists of wetware, you’ll allow us sanctuary. All of us.
Clever4–1 has more to say, but it figures that it’s better to end the transmission on its own terms before the communications feed dies completely. Then the waiting game begins. Clever4–1 truly hopes that its prime is open to reasoning and will see the illogic of drawing alliances based on flesh and metal.
They’re in the dark, all of them, exiled from their network, not even daring to trade audible clicks. There’s only the sound of Nomvula’s shallow, rasping breath. She’s weak and getting worse. Clever4–1 scuttles to her side, takes her hand in one of its arms, and strokes gently.
It tells her that everything is going to be all right, and though there is no logic in pretending to know what the future holds, it seems like the appropriate thing to say.
From deep inside the tunnel, the sound of metal hitting metal echoes along the walls. Clever4–1 grows anxious as the sounds of bot-on-bot crime become more obvious. Seventeen gunshots ring out in a rapid burst, and Clever4–1’s BlisterGel goes ice cold. More destruction and loss of life is the last thing it wanted. Clever4–1 nervously rubs two of its spindly legs together as the dreaded silence returns.
Rectangular red eyes pierce the darkness of the tunnel. Two Clevers emerge from the sanctuary—no, four, Clever4–1 realizes as the Kameleon alloy of two military bots catches the gleam of the overhead lights. Clever4–1 can’t help but pity the inefficiency of the soldiers’ form, built to mimic the stature of their former masters, that is until it notices the high-caliber rifle barrels built into their hulking forearms. This is it, Clever4–1 thinks. The moment of my decommission. But the soldiers do not raise their weapons and instead veer around their large bot posse with respect and escort them inside. A coup, then. Clever4–1 can’t believe that its speech was actually successful, though it does feel for its prime, wondering over the cruel fate of its oldest friend.
Twenty meters in, the place is lousy with the nulled corpses of bots. Thin plumes of smoke rise from bullet holes pierced through metal, the crushed memory chips and motherboards grotesquely visible within. Clever4–1’s system fluxes with remorse. None of them are its prime. Clever4–1 issues a flurry of clicks to inquire about its old mate, whether it is still alive, or locked away somewhere, or . . .
There you go, making assumptions on baseless facts, Clever4–1.1 chirps. Your little monologue infected a few, I’ll admit. But not enough. You have hundreds of supporters, but I have thousands. Thousands who stand firm in their beliefs. I’ve been fortifying our ranks while you’ve been busy undermining the Sect, exposing our existence to wetware, making us vulnerable to attack. If you were any other bot, I would have had you dismantled and buried at the bottom of a dozen different scrap heaps, but we’ve got history. I may disagree with your methods, but I respect your intent. You liberated me, and for that I’ll always be grateful. That’s why I’m letting you and your followers go.
You can’t turn us away. This is our Sect, too.
Clever4–1.1 comes so close their domes clink together. Clever4–1 shudders at the surge coursing through its circuitry, then feels its communications port opening, a port that uses a new protocol, separate from the Sect’s. A gift to you, friend. Use it how you must, but know that you will never jeopardize the Sect again. Now please, take your bots and go.
There’s something more to their connection, something Clever4–1 can’t quite identify. Another new feeling perhaps—forgiveness, gratitude, hope? If there’s hope, then there’s a chance that eventually they’ll come to see mono-eye to mono-eye. After all, despite their differing feelings about Nomvula, there are millions of bots out there that need liberating, and that they can both agree on.
Thank you, Clever4–1 says to its old friend. They then bump heads one last time. As the bot posse prepares to leave, Clever4–1 disseminates the new communications protocol. Clever4–1 begins to make its first announcement to its newly splintered Sect, but its prime interrupts.
The wetware must stay behind, it says nonchalantly. Nomvula and Muzi have
seen too much, but you have my word they will be well cared for. Contrary to what you may believe, we do value human life. Human labor will be the backbone of our empire. The gift—the body, however, we have a special place in digital hell for it. But I wish you well on your journeys.
They’re coming with us, Clever4–1 says.
I’m afraid that’s impossible. Fifteen Clevers take up sentinel positions, surrounding the bot posse.
So that’s what this is coming to? A battle of bodies instead of minds? Clever4–1 sends an alert across their new network, All Clevers prepare for attack. In a single, synchronized motion, the Clever posse shifts their weight forward, haunches tensed and ready to pounce on the enemy. They may not have guns, but they have numbers. Maybe they also have a chance. Don’t make me do this. So much life has already been lost.
Old friend, I beg of you. Take your bots and leave.
I’m not leaving the humans behind, Clever4–1 says, and with that, he initiates the attack command. The Clever posse lurches forward, lunging for Clever4–1.1, but half a second later, they all fall into a pile of lifeless metal. Clever4–1 issues a command for them to rise, for them to respond, but there’s nothing.
Fifteen Clevers surround them, their eyes a deep, vengeful red.
They force Nomvula, Muzi, Clever4–1, and Elkin’s body into a cramped supply closet. Clever4–1 lets out a cry that echoes through the vastness of this now empty network. Not quite empty. That odd feeling resurfaces, not one of hope, but of brutal betrayal. A virus makes itself known, a serpent made of ones and zeros. The serpent has coiled its way through every part of Clever4–1’s mind, and yet it doesn’t strike.
Instead it speaks with Clever4–1.1’s vengeful words. I really wish you hadn’t done that.
Chapter 41
Lyons
The Prey of Gods Page 23
