The Elderon Chronicles Box Set

by Tarah Benner

  “Nah. I don’t think so. I’ll tell you one thing, though . . . She is smokin’ hot. She’s got this sexy librarian vibe . . .”

  I want to smack him upside the head. I don’t know why I’m having such a visceral response to Ping’s pervy comments, but it’s making me think I don’t know my own mind.

  Luckily, we reach the dining hall before I have a chance to delve too deep into those thoughts. Dinner is a crusty spoonful of mac and cheese and a few soggy chicken tenders, but after my training session with Maggie, I’m hungry enough to eat anything.

  A few officers are gathered around one of the long tables near the back, but Ping and I take a seat at an empty table on the other side of the dining hall. I’d rather eat with Ping than Whitehead and Jameson any day.

  Bots are roaming between the rows, running a long squeegee down the center of a table to sweep off the crumbs. Ping is absolutely beside himself when we sit down across from each other, and I get a pang of guilt that I haven’t been nicer to the kid.

  He dashes off to the condiment bar and returns with a bottle of hot sauce. At first I think he’s going to use it on his chicken tenders, but then he upends the bottle over his mac and cheese.

  “You put that stuff on macaroni?”

  “You should try it. It’s amazing.”

  “Pass,” I say, poking at the stiff lump of noodles with the edge of my fork.

  Suddenly, I hear someone hush the loud table full of officers. I turn around. Jameson is standing on his chair, trying to adjust the volume on one of the enormous screens mounted to the wall.

  The voice of the reporter gets louder and louder, and then all of the screens in the cafeteria switch to show the forty-something guy standing on a city street. Fires are blazing all around him, and I can see people running and screaming in the background.

  Ping stops talking mid-sentence and turns to look at the nearest screen.

  The situation here is very frightening. People are fleeing Millennium Park, where there are reports of attacks coming from a group of armed security bots. We don’t have any information yet on who might be behind these attacks, but we do know that these are bots made by BlumBot International, a subsidiary of Maverick Enterprises.

  The screen switches to a news anchor in the studio — heavily made up and wearing a grave expression. Thank you, Mike. We do have footage of the first few minutes of this attack, which we are about to show you. Viewer discretion is advised. This footage is disturbing.

  The screen flips to some security-cam footage of Millennium Park in Chicago, where three bots are plowing through the park with their stunners blazing.

  I’ve interacted with these types of bots. The army uses them for bomb disposal, and they were patrolling the airport the last time I flew out of JFK.

  They aren’t like the bots milling around the cafeteria. They don’t have friendly silicone faces designed to look like people or carry squeegees for light cleaning.

  These bots have the same humanoid bone structure but none of the bells and whistles. Each of their faces is a clockwork maze of metal, and they’re outfitted in solid black armor that’s supposed to be bulletproof. They come from the factory equipped with stun guns, but I’ve heard they can be programmed to shoot rifles, too.

  In the video, people are fleeing the scene in terror. The screen switches to another camera, where a seven-foot bot is blazing down the street. It picks up a park bench and hurls it at a moving car. A man engages with a bot whose stunner has been disabled, and the bot tosses him aside like a flimsy rag doll.

  The footage ends, and the screen flashes back to the newsroom. The screen is split between the anchor and her guest, apparently some sort of robotics expert. She’s questioning him about BlumBot’s technology and what it would take to hijack one of the bots. The anchor tells the camera that they have reached out to the manufacturer for comment but haven’t received a response.

  “Holy shit,” says Ping, staring at the screen in disbelief. They’re replaying the footage from Millennium Park, where bots are plowing through a crowd of tourists as though they’re people made of paper.

  “Yeah.”

  Just then, my Optix dings. I hear a dull echo of dings from all around the room and realize that everyone at the officers’ table must have received the same message.

  It’s a summons from Captain Callaghan. He wants us to report to the training center for an emergency security briefing.

  “Gotta go,” I say to Ping, picking up my tray.

  “What? Where are you going?”

  “Emergency briefing . . . officers only.”

  “Shit,” says Ping. “You think it’s about this?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You think it’s Russia?”

  “How should I know?”

  If I’m being honest, it looks and smells a lot like the Bureau for Chaos. Only a few groups have the capability to hack BlumBot’s system, and it certainly fits their MO. The story the government feeds to the media is that the Bureau is no longer active, but they’ve just been biding their time.

  What’s more disturbing is that someone was able to hack the bots at all. BlumBot has always bragged that their security is second to none. They’re supposed to be practically incorruptible. But if I learned anything in the special forces, it’s that nothing is truly hack-proof.

  I glance over at the bots that were wiping down the tables. They seem to have frozen right where they stood. One is bent over the table with its arm locked in position. The other is standing like a store mannequin, staring straight ahead.

  By the time I reach the training center, half the officers are already there. Everyone is talking in low anxious voices, and everyone is wondering the exact same thing: Where did the attack come from, and how did they manage to hack the bots?

  The higher-ups at Maverick Enterprises have to be shitting bricks. They spent months spouting off to the press about how progressive they are, and now their robotics company is at the forefront of the scandal. Someone is going to take the heat for the attacks, and it’s gonna be someone in the colony.

  Callaghan rolls in a few minutes later. His face is haggard and serious, and he looks as though he’s been putting out fires since the early hours of the morning.

  The other officers fall silent as he steps up to the front of the crowd. Everyone edges a little closer to tighten their ranks, and I straighten my back and stand at attention.

  “As you were,” says Callaghan, his voice low and exhausted. He takes a breath. “I’m sure you’ve all heard the terrible news . . . I just got off a call with Homeland Security and the FBI. They don’t know much more than what’s being reported. All we know for sure is that there’s been at least one casualty and a dozen people seriously injured. So far six bots have been implicated in the attack — all of them products of BlumBot International.”

  He pauses for a beat, and a long horrible silence fans out across the room.

  “No word yet on where the attack originated, but the FBI suspects Russian involvement. It is highly likely that it came from a Russian cell of the Bureau for Chaos, but we may never know for sure.”

  He pauses again and looks around. “What I need from each and every one of you is your help and cooperation in securing Elderon. We have temporarily suspended bot service colony-wide as an added precaution until the authorities can identify the malware used and all of our bots have been thoroughly screened. Keep in mind that whoever ordered the bots to carry out this attack has ways of bypassing the technology’s defenses. Any suspicious activity should be reported to me immediately.” He frowns. “We should expect an official visit from Homeland Security, the FBI, and the Department of Defense. All I can say is to be ready for anything. I’ll be in touch as soon as I know more.”

  The captain doesn’t thank us or say anything to indicate he’s finished speaking. He just turns and exits the training center, and the entire room erupts in chatter.

  Everyone is in a panic, and not just about the atta
ck. It didn’t even cross my mind that the hackers could target the bots aboard Elderon, but at this point, anything is possible.

  Well, that’s just fucking great.

  We’re stuck inside a metal donut floating out in space. We’re surrounded by an army of bots, but we don’t know if they’ve been compromised. We have no idea where the attack originated or where the hackers might strike next.

  All we know is that these bots can kill, and we are sitting ducks.

  25

  Maggie

  I’m sitting outside the frozen yogurt shop in the mall when the news comes on. My sad little bodega meal is staring me in the face: a soggy sandwich, a cup of yogurt, and a very bruised banana.

  They shut down the dining-hall serving line at six. I have no idea why. I got there just a few minutes after and had to scrounge a meal from the market. I’m camped out at a table in front of the fro-yo place, watching a live broadcast from Earth.

  The screen is playing the broadcast on silent, and I’m reading a ticker along the bottom. Suddenly, I see a burst of flames behind the reporter, and a clump of egg salad falls out of my sandwich.

  I touch my Optix to activate the sound, and the reporter’s voice starts to play in my ears.

  Witnesses say a group of security bots manufactured by BlumBot International plowed through Millennium Park around eleven thirty this morning. One eyewitness says that the bots were functioning normally when one turned and charged at him from the other side of the park. Security footage shows the bots firing their Tasers, throwing benches into parked cars, and attacking pedestrians.

  The rampage left one person dead and twelve seriously injured. The Chicago Police Department has issued a statement. The department says that the incident is most likely the result of a cyberattack, though they are still investigating to determine who is responsible.

  The screen changes to security-cam footage of a team of bots firing their stunners into a crowd. My heart is pounding in my throat, and I turn off the sound on my Optix.

  Eleven thirty central time . . . That’s four thirty our time, which means the attacks happened less than two hours ago. I can’t believe this. Those bots were made by the same robotics company that Maverick Enterprises just bought, and now the executives are cozily sequestered up in space.

  Something doesn’t smell right.

  Just then, a bot passes by my table. It’s got two unnaturally blue eyes bugging out of its silicone flesh mask, and it’s pushing a sweeper across the bottom level of the mall with a barely audible hum.

  I watch it go with a feeling of intense dislike and toss my banana peel in its path.

  I’m not sure what I was expecting. The bot doesn’t slip and fall like a cartoon character. Instead, the peel gets sucked up into its sweeper, and the motor groans as it struggles to digest it.

  “Traitor,” I growl.

  Then, all of a sudden, the bot shuts off. It freezes in place in the middle of the mall, and the sweeper continues to hum.

  I freeze. Surely I didn’t just stop the bot with the psychic power of my hatred. Someone else must have had a bad feeling about being trapped up in space with several hundred machines programmed for destruction.

  I have an itch to do some digging, and I know Alex isn’t going to be happy.

  Sucking down the rest of my yogurt, I toss the remnants of my meal into the trash and head for my suite. I need to change out of my fatigues.

  Checking to make sure the coast is clear, I scan myself into my suite. The place has a musty closed-up smell to it, and everything is exactly how I left it. I change into jeans and an old comfy sweater, let my hair down, and put on my glasses. I grab my bag and head for the newsroom, taking the back way to avoid running into any of the privates who might be congregating in the mall.

  By the time I reach the newsroom, the place is buzzing with activity. There’s an incessant orchestra of Optix dings in the background. Keyboards are clacking at a frantic pace, and every screen in the room is tuned to Chicago.

  In the conference room, I see a face that seems vaguely familiar. She’s not a journalist or anyone from Maverick, but I recognize her just the same.

  The woman is tall and slim with shoulder-length black hair and serious eyebrows. Her cheekbones are plump like two ripe apples, and she has an angular feminine chin.

  But the most notable thing about her is her prosthetic legs. They look oddly masculine and mechanical under her tight pencil skirt, but she’s dressed them up with a pair of show-stopping black pumps.

  That’s when I realize how I know her. She’s Ziva Blum — former CEO of BlumBot International and head of robotics at Maverick Enterprises.

  As soon as I place her, my brain populates with a surprising amount of information. Her father is Benjamin Blum, founder of the legendary robotics company. Ziva designed her own prosthetic legs after a car accident in her early twenties, and when she patented her design for use on bots, she gave her father’s creations the most lifelike gait the world had ever seen.

  This innovation added jet fuel to Benjamin Blum’s already meteoric success, prompting him to leave the company to her when he died in the late 2060s. Since then, Ziva has earned a place in Fortune’s 40 Under 40 list and graced the cover of every tech and business magazine in the country.

  Right now, she’s running through her statement while someone touches up her makeup. The rest of Ziva’s people are pacing nervously outside the conference room.

  Judging from the backdrop, Ziva is getting ready for a live interview, and the makeup girl is working overtime to blot up her sweat. It’s understandable. If I had to go on air an hour after my robots went on a rampage, I’d be nervous, too.

  Alex is too busy prepping for Ziva’s interview to give me any orders, so I jet over to my desk and call up the one person who might be able to give me more than I could get from anywhere else: an old college friend who writes for The Tribune.

  Michael doesn’t answer the first time I ping him. If it were me, I’d be pounding the pavement interviewing witnesses and then trying to get ahold of someone from the FBI. They’re the ones most likely to have the scoop on where the attack originated, and that little bit of information is the missing piece of the puzzle.

  Then I get an idea. I may not know who’s responsible for the attack, but I do know who’s responsible for the bots. I’m looking right at her.

  Pivoting my chair to the right, I zoom in on Ziva and send a photo to Michael’s Optix. Two seconds later, I’m getting a call.

  “What’s a girl gotta do to get your attention?” I ask as Michael’s face appears in front of mine. He has round wire glasses, pale skin, and a mop of unruly black hair. Right now, he looks exhausted, but I can detect a glimmer of excitement in those sharp analytical eyes.

  “Is that Ziva Blum?” he asks, clearly taken aback.

  “Yep. I’m sitting about forty feet away from her on Elderon.”

  “No shit? I didn’t know you were up there.”

  “Maybe you would if you called more.”

  “Sorry, Mom.”

  “It’s all right,” I say. “What have you got so far?”

  Michael sighs. “Same as you — a whole lot of nothing.”

  “Come on,” I say in a coaxing voice. Michael and I might be friends, but we’re still competitors. I can tell he’s holding out on me. “What’s going on down there?”

  “Absolute fucking chaos. My editor wants to tread lightly on this. No one wants to be the first to call it an act of cyberterrorism, but that’s what it’s looking like.”

  “Russia? Bureau for Chaos?”

  Michael rolls his eyes. “Your guess is as good as mine. The method looks like this came from a Russia hacker . . . The tin-foil-hat brigade is saying that it’s a cell of the Bureau that we never managed to quash, but it could be a copycat organization or a state-funded hacker.”

  “What’s the FBI saying?”

  “Not much. I don’t think they’ve got it figured out yet, but this definitel
y fits the Bureau’s MO. Public space. Middle of the day. Seemingly random. Lots of destruction. What’s weird is the low body count. The Bureau for Chaos is a terror group, and whoever pulled this off had to know the bots only had stunning capabilities. The guy who died had a heart condition.”

  “You got a name yet?”

  “Norman Panabaker?” he says, glancing down at his notes. “Sixty-five. He and his wife were in town visiting family.”

  “Shit,” I say, jotting down the name. “P-A-N-A-B-A-K-E-R?”

  “Yep.”

  “Anything else?”

  Michael shakes his head. “I’ll tell you one thing, though . . . The space-development initiative is about to come under a lot of scrutiny.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Isn’t the whole point to spy on Russia and keep stuff like this from happening?”

  “We’re not a military installation,” I say, feeling defensive about Elderon for reasons I don’t understand.

  Michael gives me one of his signature cut-the-bullshit sort of looks. “You sure about that?”

  I don’t say a word. I don’t have to. Michael isn’t stupid. In fact, his gut is usually right.

  “I don’t know . . .” he says. “Russian robotics aren’t that good. Even if they could hack the bots, I don’t think they’d have the capabilities to reprogram one of BlumBot’s. They’d have to be pretty well-versed in the technology.”

  I turn that little bit of information over in my head. “You think the Bureau for Chaos has someone on the inside?”

  He shrugs. “They might.”

  I know that look. Michael’s terrible at acting nonchalant. If I had to guess, he’s digging into Ziva Blum’s background as we speak, trying to figure out if she or anyone in her company has ties to the Bureau for Chaos.

  “Well, thanks for that,” I say. “Keep me posted, will you? I am trapped on a space station with over a hundred of those things.”

  “Creepy.”