by Dale Brown
“The police department needs a robot to check out a suspicious vehicle on 93 down south of the state police headquarters,” said Bozzone.
“Done. Tommy!”
Tom Blake, one of the lead engineers in the company’s mobile robot division, was sitting at a console on the opposite side of the room. Blake had already sent a team of engineers and mechanics to their yard across the river to ready the UAVs.
“Police need a robot on 93. What’s the best way to get it there?”
“Use the Lifter. We plop it down nearby.”
The Lifter—a two-engined, unmanned helicopter that looked and operated like a flying crane—was still experimental. But Massina didn’t hesitate.
“Do it,” he said. “Everything we have is in play, experimental or not.”
“We need to fuel it,” said Blake, his ponytail bobbing. Blake was an old hippie—literally old, at sixty-two, but only figuratively a hippie, given that he was both an aeronautical engineer and a millionaire former entrepreneur whose company Massina had bought for its talent as well as its drone research. “Tell them we’ll be in the air in fifteen.”
“Make it ten.”
“Dig it,” replied Blake.
Massina decided that meant yes. He told Bozzone the unit would be on the way.
“One thing,” said the security chief. “We’re having trouble reaching Chelsea. The cell calls go right to voice mail.”
“Get a car over to her house on Beacon Street and get her in here.”
“I asked Boston PD to knock on her door. There was no answer.”
“Keep looking.”
“I’m doing what I can.”
“Who’s here from AI or general software?”
“Well, you have—”
“Send Chiang and Telakus down.” Jin Chiang was a lead engineer on Chelsea’s AI team and a former countersecurity expert for IBM—a polite way of saying a hacker—hired to test security systems; his batting average for breaking into systems was higher than Yastrzemski’s. Avon Telakus had been a bot developer before going over to Smart Metal’s information security systems—their white-hat hacking unit.
“OK.”
Johnny waved to get his attention.
“Is it possible to tap into the Homeland Defense information network and supply them with real-time video?” Johnny asked. “The Bureau wants them online, too.”
“Absolutely,” said Massina. “Let me find a com guy to handle the details. Make sure he’s talking to an engineer. Translating’ll take all day.”
6
Boston—around the same time
Chelsea glanced at her aunt. Victoria’s face was as white as milk.
The gunman took a step to his right, blocking off their path to the exit. Running would have been foolish in any event; he was holding an AR-15 with a thirty-round clip.
“Back,” he said.
Chelsea took a step backward, trying to memorize his face. He was young, with a beard four or five days old. He looked vaguely Middle Eastern, but not like the pictures of terrorists she knew from the television. His lips twitched.
He was nervous.
Not a good thing when he was holding a gun, she realized.
“Let us go,” Chelsea said. “We haven’t done anything.”
“You are a Muslim?” he said, pointing at Chelsea. “Arab?”
She shook her head, worried that he might let her go but keep her aunt here.
“Upstairs,” he said, raising his head in the direction they had come. “Both of you.”
“She’s an old lady,” said Chelsea, trying to think of how she might talk her way out of this. “She needs medicine. She could be your mother.”
“Go!” The man pointed his gun at Victoria.
“We’re going,” said Chelsea, taking hold of her aunt’s arm. She tugged gently, but Victoria seemed welded to the spot.
“We have to do what he says,” Chelsea whispered.
“You look like a good person,” Victoria told the gunman. Her voice was stronger than Chelsea expected. “You wouldn’t want your mother hurt. You wouldn’t hurt anyone. Let us go.”
“Back into the hotel,” said the man. “Or I shoot.”
For just a moment, Chelsea thought of calling his bluff. But that would be suicide.
“Come on,” she told Victoria, tugging her gently.
This time her aunt went with her. Chelsea’s mind raced as they walked toward the steps. Was there another way out? Was there a car maybe they could steal?
“Is he following us?” Chelsea asked as they started up.
“No,” said her aunt.
“That hallway to the right. Maybe there’s another door out. Or if there’s a room open, we could get out a window.”
Chelsea spun right and started sprinting down the hall. The first door on the right was a women’s restroom; she decided to try it, pushing inside. Her aunt followed.
There was a window on the far wall, but a thick antitheft screen of wire mesh filled the space beyond the glass. Chelsea pushed up the window and examined the panel. At least a quarter of an inch thick, the diamond-patterned metal remained stout as she pounded against it; her fist didn’t even make an indent.
“We’ll try another room,” Chelsea said.
“I need a breath first,” said her aunt.
“We have to keep trying.”
“I know, I know. Just a minute. A second.”
Victoria exhaled heavily, as if she were blowing out two dozen candles on a birthday cake. She gulped air and pushed it out again.
“Slow breaths, deep,” Chelsea told her. “Slow. Try to relax.”
You don’t give up on a problem, no matter how hard it is.
Her father’s voice, in her head, urging her on.
It was his voice she’d heard upstairs. She hadn’t listened. Her hesitation had cost them their chance, maybe.
Don’t dwell on your mistakes. Move ahead!
“Yes, go,” she told herself, answering him.
Victoria thought she was talking to her. “OK.”
Chelsea stopped at the door, peeked out, then held it open for her aunt. Out in the hall, they started running again, bypassing the men’s room—surely it would have the same window arrangement—in favor of an office a little farther down. The door was locked, requiring a card to open.
“Next one,” said Chelsea, already in motion.
She put her fingers on the handle, already calculating that it would be locked and they would have to move on. But by some miracle, the latch sprung open and she nearly tumbled inside.
The room was an office, with a desk, some empty shelves, and a pair of file cabinets. There were two casement windows on the far wall, covered by open blinds but large enough to let in considerable light.
Unlike the windows in the restroom, these opened horizontally, with a hand crank at the bottom. Chelsea flipped the locks open and cranked; the space was narrow but she figured she could pass through. The only problem was the screen separating the room from the outside. There didn’t seem to be an easy way to remove it; they’d have to break it down.
“We’ll break it with the chair legs,” she said, turning back to get her aunt.
She wasn’t there. In her haste, Chelsea had left her back in the hall, if not the bathroom.
The door started to open.
Thank God!
“We have a way out,” Chelsea said, grabbing the chair. “Come on!”
“You’ll come with me,” answered the man who entered the room. “Come now or I’ll shoot you.”
7
Boston—around the same time
Borya Tolevi always had bad luck with the Blue Line. Always. While many aficionados of the city’s subway system rated its trains at the top of the T lines—dubious praise, surely—in her opinion they were the worst. Hers always ran late or was way crowded or smelled beyond human habitation.
Usually all three.
But today was unreal. They were barely out of State Station when the trai
n stopped with a screech.
STOPPED! IN THE TUNNEL!! IN THE F-ING TUNNEL!!!
The lights flickered on and off. Onoffonoffonoff, then full on, then full off, emergency lights coming on, then off and on.
Like bullshit!
Borya looked at her watch. She was due at the Aquarium to meet her friend, mentor, and honorary aunt Chelsea Goodman, along with Chelsea’s actual real aunt, in forty-five minutes. Granted, she had plenty of time to get there—the Aquarium was the next stop—but that required the train moving again.
Maybe it would. Maybe it wouldn’t.
In the meantime, she was going to completely gag on the stench wafting from the old men crowding the seats nearby. She was standing in the aisle—easier to avoid perverts that way. But if she had to stand here for two more minutes she was going to either fall over or puke on the floor from the fart-stench wafting her way.
Borya decided her only recourse was to move to another car. She squirmed her way to the door at the end of the car, only to find it blocked by a woman who could have played on the Patriots’ front line.
“Excuse me,” Borya told her.
“Where you goin’, hon?” said the woman. “There’s no seats in that car.”
“I want to see for myself.”
“You’re not supposed to ride between the trains,” said Fattie. “Or walk between them.”
“That’s only when they’re moving.”
“The alarm will sound,” she said.
“Alarm? There are no alarms on the doors. What are you, like, a drug addict? Or just from New York?”
Fattie crossed her eyes. Borya thought she might have to poke her to get her to move—the target opportunities were rich—but finally she stepped aside.
As Borya squeezed out onto the minuscule platform between the two cars, she realized that the Aquarium Station was no more than a hundred yards away, a yellowish-red glow down the tracks.
Just as easy to walk.
And why not?
There were a million reasons, death and dismemberment being numbers one and two, with electrocution a close third. But as good at math as Borya was—and she was very, very good—statistics of life and death were not one of her strong points. It took longer—a half second—for her to decide to get off the train than for her to climb up onto the swaying chain gate between the cars and leap onto the narrow ledge next to the tracks. Misjudging the distance, she rebounded back, bouncing off the side of the train car and coming perilously close to slipping between the train and the ledge.
Had the train started to move, she surely would have fallen. What happened next would not have been pretty.
But the train didn’t move. Borya bounced to her feet and started along the ledge, steadying herself with her left hand against the train.
It was trickier beyond the subway car, with nothing to help her stay on the ledge. The walkway was barely that, with no rail and a rather slippery surface.
But it figured it would be wet near the Aquarium. Duh.
“You! What the hell are you doing!”
The shout took her by surprise. Borya started to slip but managed to catch herself by falling on her knees.
“Get out of the tunnel! You can’t be in the tunnel!”
It was the conductor, shouting through the window at the front of the train. He waved a beam of light at her from his flashlight.
“I’m going home!” Borya yelled back.
It was a lie—a stupid one, but stupid lies were better than nothing, in her experience.
“You’ll get killed!” sputtered the conductor. “Get back here! Get back here! Watch out for the third rail! Idiot!”
His words spurred her on. She couldn’t run—the ledge was too slippery and narrow for that, and she also worried that he had jinxed her. The third rail loomed large whenever she glanced to her left, monstrously magnified by her imagination.
The station platform was lit by emergency lights. It was deserted.
Had there been a fire? Was there still a fire?
No smoke. The air was—not clean, exactly, but not sulfur-choking, eye-tearing putrid either.
Was the power off all over town? Awesome.
Borya ran across the platform to the turnstiles. Since there were no police, no attendants, and no witnesses, she leaped over the turnstile rather than turning it—she’d always wanted to do that.
She glanced at the ticket booth as she ran toward the exit near the Marriot. The booth was empty, just like the station. The escalator wasn’t working either.
Bolting up the stairs, she found a pair of policemen guarding the doorway. “Where’d you come from?” barked one of them.
“I was in the restroom,” said Borya.
Another stupid lie: if there was a restroom at that stop, or any in Boston, Borya had never seen it. But the officer didn’t call her on it.
“Get inside the building,” he told her. “Shelter in place.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means get your butt inside the Marriott and stay there.”
“What’s going on?”
“It’s an attack, hon,” said the other officer gently. It was a woman—between her uniform and her severe features, Borya hadn’t realized she was female. “You want me to take you inside?”
“We gotta stay here,” said her partner.
“I’m fine on my own,” said Borya.
“All right,” said the woman gently. “Just go right up to the main entrance of the hotel. They’ll take you in. Everything’s going to be all right. Don’t worry.”
There were four police cars parked outside, and a big green truck that looked like it belonged to the Army. Borya heard sirens in the distance.
A pair of National Guardsmen were in the street, with another near the side door to the Marriott. Borya ran along the front of the building, as if heading for the main entrance. She glanced back to make sure they weren’t following her, because the last thing she was going to do was shelter in place.
She had to find Chelsea. But Boston had turned into Zombieland—the nearby streets and sidewalks, which ordinarily would be packed with people, were deserted.
Where would Chelsea be? Her aunt was staying in some hotel, but it wasn’t the Marriot; she’d mentioned they might take an Uber to get to the Aquarium, which you would never do when you could walk across the street.
So . . .
Where?
Smart Metal. That was the best place to look for Chelsea. That was where she would go when there was trouble. She practically lived there anyway.
The building was back on the other side of the government center.
How to get there?
The subway obviously wasn’t working, there was no bus, and it was a long walk.
What she needed was a bike, like the one propped against the wall of the Chart House.
“Sorry. I gotta borrow your bike!” shouted Borya to the air. “I’ll bring it back. Promise.”
Maybe she didn’t shout. But the promise, at least, wasn’t a lie.
8
Boston—around the same time
Johnny Givens paced back and forth in the Box, trying to calm some of the adrenaline building in his body.
It was a lost cause. He needed to be doing something more than just talking to people.
Or worse, listening to other people talk to people.
“I’m in,” said Avon Telakus, one of the programming wizards Massina had brought downstairs. Massina had ordered Telakus to hack into the security system at the Patriot Hotel.
Technically illegal.
More than technically. A probable violation of 18 U.S.C. Section 1030 and a whole slew of other laws. But Johnny wasn’t working for the FBI anymore.
“They have video?” asked Massina.
“Looks like it.”
“Put the cameras on the screen,” said Massina impatiently.
“Arraying them up front,” said the twentysomething computer whiz.
Low-resolution
black-and-white images popped across the monitors at the front of the room.
“Is this the best resolution?” asked Massina.
“It’s theirs. The frame rate is choppy beyond belief. They’re on backup power—they seem to have cut it at the hotel for some reason.”
“I suppose we should be thankful they’re not still using videotape,” said Massina.
Johnny stared at the screens. The cameras were mostly posted in hallways on the upper floors. At first glance, the place looked deserted.
“Can you move the cameras around?” he asked.
“Negative,” said Telakus. “They’re all fixed. They have more cameras than we can see here. They have presets operating the mix; this is what was set when they were taken over. I’m going to try to go around it and select cameras individually, but I really need to fiddle—the coding is not exactly world-class, and it looks nothing like the models I’ve pulled up.”
A new set of images popped across the screens. One showed a restaurant. Tables were upended; bodies lay on the floor.
“Looks like we got the right place,” said Massina acidly.
Massina folded his arms tightly across his chest, trying to control the anger he felt. These people had been killed in cold blood for no greater sin than being alive.
I am going to avenge you, he swore. I am going to reset the balance with these bastards.
Bozzone buzzed on his intercom. “Borya Tolevi just came in.”
“Very good,” replied Massina. The feisty kid reminded him a little of himself. “Did her father come with her?”
“No. He’s at home. I just talked to him. He’s fine. I told him we’ll keep Borya here until it’s safe. Here’s the thing,” added Bozzone, his voice rushing as if to keep Massina from interrupting. “Borya was going to meet Chelsea at the Aquarium, but she was way early. She thinks Chelsea was still meeting her aunt at the hotel.”
“Not the Patriot.”
“Yeah. The Patriot.”
9
Boston—around the same time
Chelsea tried to memorize everything she saw, the men especially. They’d need her testimony when they put them on trial.
