by Tarah Benner
“Let’s get you out of here, yeah? You look hotter than a worm in a parking lot.”
10
Maggie
It takes me a moment to come back to Earth. I’m dizzy, lightheaded, and confused.
And Jonah . . . Ohhh, Jonah.
Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was the bots. But there was a moment when I thought we might die, and something shifted between us. I’m not sure what would have happened if Tripp hadn’t opened the door, and I’ll probably never know.
Jonah is striding out of the room. He looks angry, flustered, and ready for battle.
Judging by Tripp’s concerned expression, I know I must look like hell. My hair is plastered to my forehead, and my shirt is heavy with sweat.
But the way Jonah ran out of the room makes me think I didn’t imagine that moment. If Tripp hadn’t burst in when he did, I think Jonah would have kissed me.
“What happened?” I ask, turning to Tripp in a daze.
“You tell me.” His eyebrows have risen so high they seem in danger of disappearing into his curls. “I got an alert on my desktop . . . an emergency notification that the ambient temperature was too high in Sector C. I knew it wasn’t a coincidence that the control room was heating up. I came straight here, and when I saw your friend Ping . . .”
“Ping?” A horrible choking dread reaches up my throat.
“Yeah. He’s in pretty bad sh —”
I don’t even wait for Tripp to finish. I rush out of the control room and make it about ten feet before the dizziness hits me again. I stumble drunkenly on the spot and brace myself against the wall. The hallway lurches in front of me like the deck of a ship, and I’m hit with a horrendous pang of queasiness.
“Hey, hey, hey. Take it easy,” says Tripp, reaching out for me. I feel his hands steadying me from behind, but I pull away and stumble toward the closet.
Jonah is already standing outside, kneeling on the ground. Extending behind him is a leg — just one skinny leg in basketball shorts.
The feeling of dread that crashes through me is completely overwhelming. I feel as though I might be sick, but I know I have to see for myself.
I weave unsteadily over to Jonah and see Ping propped up against the wall. His face is pale, contorted, and sweaty. He’s conscious — he’s in pain — but at least he’s alive.
“What happened?” I cry, throwing myself down in front of him. Little black spots are exploding in my vision, but the wooziness is nothing compared to how I feel when I see Ping’s other leg.
It’s bent at an angle that looks all wrong and is already beginning to swell.
“It’s broken clean through,” Jonah mutters.
“What happened?” I choke.
“It was the bot,” says Ping. “I tried to sneak away to get help, but one of them must have heard me. It knocked me out — threw me against the wall and —” He presses his lips together, as if even the memory hurts. “It crushed my leg. I heard it snap, but I can’t . . .” He cracks a delirious smile. “I can’t feel anything.”
“He’s in shock,” Jonah explains. “We need to get him to the infirmary.”
He glances over at me, and I feel his eyes do a quick body scan. “Both of you, really.”
“I’m fine.”
“You need fluids.” Jonah grits his teeth and lets out a burst of air from his nose. “Don’t worry . . . I’m going to cut every single doctor in that place. If they don’t bleed, they’re scrap metal.”
“Jonah —”
“Help me lift him up,” he says in a sharp tone, carefully avoiding my gaze.
I swallow. I don’t know what to say. Nothing seems quite right.
“I got him,” says Tripp, swooping in around me and gripping Ping under the arm.
Jonah looks as though he wants to argue, but he doesn’t.
“Come on,” says Tripp, as though he read Jonah’s mind. “Maggie doesn’t need to be lifting anything.”
“I’m not an invalid,” I snap.
“Don’t fight it, Mags,” says Tripp lightly. “You were held hostage for fifteen hours. You’re dehydrated. You probably have heat stroke.”
I roll my eyes but step out of the way so the two of them can lift Ping up. He winces as they shift his broken leg, and it’s off-putting to see him in so much pain.
“Where to?” asks Tripp brightly.
“The infirmary,” Jonah grunts.
“Mmm, not a good idea. All the staff physicians are dead.”
“All of them?” says Jonah.
“’Fraid so.” Tripp’s tone is cavalier, but I can sense a grim shadow lurking beneath the surface.
Maybe this is how he copes with disaster — by pretending it’s no big deal. Tripp has more to lose than any of us: his company, his reputation, and the beautiful space station he risked his fortune to build.
“We’ll take him to Maverick HQ,” Tripp adds. “Dr. Kline’ll look after him.”
“He’s a chiropractor,” says Jonah.
“Do you know how to reset a tibia?” asks Tripp.
Jonah doesn’t say a word. I can feel the waves of resentment rolling off him, but they seem more potent than before. Is he angry at Tripp because he blames him for the bots or because he interrupted us in the control room?
Grabbing Jonah’s rifle and the forgotten crowbar off the floor, I lead the way out of the restricted zone. I keep the crowbar poised to bludgeon a bot, but the hallway is eerily quiet.
It seems as if the bots dispersed all at once — as though they were called back to the mothership or something.
I still don’t understand their decision-making processes. To trap us in that room and use the thermal control system to bake us to death — that seems like something only a human could do.
Were they following a direct order from Buford, or do they have the processing capability to take in that much input from their surroundings? Can they make decisions like real humans? I have so many questions about the bots, and each one opens up terrifying new possibilities.
It’s a long walk back to Maverick headquarters with a broken-legged Ping, but we don’t encounter a single bot along the way. The entire colony is deserted.
We reach the hallway leading to Maverick and find our path blocked by a group of Space Force operatives. I don’t know any of them by name, but they’re still a comforting sight.
They all salute Jonah and step aside to let us through, and Ping lets out a miserable groan.
“You all right?” asks Tripp.
“Oh — my — god,” says Ping, breaking into an ecstatic grin. Apparently his groan was a sound of marvel, not a sign of pain. “I can’t believe I’m actually here! This — is — so — cool!”
Tripp laughs. I can tell he likes Ping. “Yes, well, we’ll make sure you get the official tour as soon as Dr. Kline gets you patched up.”
“This place is amazing!” says Ping, peering into a conference room as the guys carry him down the hall.
“Just think,” mumbles Jonah. “You only had to get your leg cracked in two.”
“Worth it.”
I stifle a laugh. Leave it to Ping to find the silver lining.
“We can take him to my office,” says Tripp. “He’ll be safe there.”
Jonah doesn’t respond. I know he doesn’t think Ping will be safe anywhere, but Maverick headquarters seems the most protected.
I lead the way back to Tripp’s office, past the curious stares of several Maverick programmers. They’re all sitting in the Workshop as though it’s business as usual, but I see a giant map of the colony projected on screen. Dozens of red dots blink from every corner, and I realize they must represent the bots.
“We’re trying to get a handle on the bots’ physical locations,” Tripp explains. “We have Space Force operatives giving us updates minute by minute. We’re trying to identify clusters — bots converging in one area of the colony.”
They maneuver Ping inside, and I close the door. The man from the government who was questioning Tripp is go
ne. The place looks just as it did the first time I was here: posters and papers scattered everywhere and an empty coffee cup sitting on a pile of documents.
“Put a shirt on, will you?” Tripp says to Jonah, grabbing a clean V-neck from the closet behind his desk and tossing it at him.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Jonah mutters, managing to keep his poker face while he stands shirtless in front of Tripp.
If we hadn’t just been through hell, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from laughing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone flex a nonverbal “fuck you,” but Jonah has to be the master.
Tripp ignores him, but I catch the flicker of an eye roll as he rummages in his desk drawer for something. “Didn’t you lose your Optix, Mags?”
“Uh . . . yeah,” I say. “Lose” isn’t quite the right word — it was stolen from me when Buford took me hostage. I have no idea where it is now, and I’ve been without one ever since.
“Here you go,” says Tripp, grabbing something off his desk and tossing it my way.
I catch it. It’s a tiny white box with the Maverick logo embossed in silver. Inside is a brand-new Optix just like the one I had.
“Uh . . . thanks,” I say, a little touched that he remembered.
“Anyway,” says Tripp, “I have my programmers mapping clusters. If we can pinpoint where the bots are converging, we can predict an attack before it takes place and decide if we should move in.”
“Decide if you should move in?” Jonah repeats.
“Well, yeah,” says Tripp. “These are multimillion-dollar pieces of equipment we’re talking about.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jonah growls.
I turn to look at him, startled by the venom in his voice. Ping is reclined on Tripp’s couch, looking as though he’s having the best day of his life. Jonah is staring at Tripp as though he wants to deck him.
“These things are killing people,” says Jonah. “They killed five men in the food labs. They killed Callaghan. They killed the doctors. And you’re wondering if we should stop them because of how much they cost?”
“Of course we’re going to stop them,” says Tripp irritably. “It’s called catch and release. We just need to disable the malware that’s been installed —”
“Weren’t you guys supposed to have done that already?”
“We were still in the process of —” Tripp breaks off angrily. “Wait. Why am I talking to you? Porter!”
Jonah shakes his head, fists curled at his sides.
A second later, a very disheveled, very harassed-looking Porter appears. His hair is a mess, his shirt is wrinkled, and he’s got twin pools of sweat under his arms.
“Sir?” he says, trying to summon his typical coolness.
“Get us some ice, will you? And ping Dr. Kline. Tell him it’s urgent.”
Porter nods and dashes off, and as soon as he’s gone, Jonah rounds on Tripp.
“So that’s it?” he says. “You’re just going to sit back and do nothing?”
Tripp cracks a condescending smile. “It’s so cute that you think I spend my days doing nothing.”
Jonah scoffs.
“I’m the CXO of a multitrillion-dollar company,” says Tripp. “You think I got here by running around like a chicken with my head cut off?”
“I think you’re here ’cause your daddy gave you the job,” says Jonah.
In that moment, shit gets real. Tripp’s smile is gone, replaced by a look of fury, and I can tell that Jonah struck a nerve.
“You have no idea what it takes to run this company,” he says in a low voice. “My job is to make high-level decisions that are good for everyone — not go off half-cocked like some screw-up ex-army sergeant who was discharged for being a pain in the ass!”
“You ask one of your little minions to do some digging on me?” says Jonah, stepping up on Tripp as though he plans to hit him. All the anger in his voice is gone — replaced by a tone of chilling calm.
Tripp holds his ground, but his throat bobs as he swallows. Tripp is nervous. I can tell.
“And that’s ex–staff sergeant to you,” Jonah breathes.
I glance at Ping, who looks just as uncomfortable. I never knew why Jonah left the army. He never talked about his time before the Space Force — not to me, anyway.
Jonah takes a step closer to Tripp, but Tripp doesn’t shrink back. Jonah is a few inches taller and much more intimidating. If the situation weren’t so serious, I might find the whole thing funny.
“You have a problem with me, Sergeant?” asks Tripp, his voice quivering with condescension.
“I have a problem with powerful assholes who sit back and do nothing while innocent people die.”
There’s a long moment of silence as they size each other up, and Tripp’s face morphs into a satisfied expression.
“Who says I’m doing nothing?” he asks, drawing himself up a little taller. “I got us in to talk to Ziva.”
11
Jonah
Ping seems genuinely put out when we leave the office to go talk to Ziva. It’s no secret that he’s got a thing for the sexy Israeli with the pink prosthetic legs. She wasn’t one of the pictures on Ping’s tug-off wall above his bunk, but I imagine she’s pretty high on the list.
I hate to leave Ping alone in Van de Graaf’s office, but he seems to be in good hands with Dr. Kline. It’s not as if we can take him with us. He can’t walk on a broken leg, and he’d be in danger no matter where he stayed. At least at Maverick there are guards, and the bots would have to mow down fifty or so nerds to get to Ping.
According to Van de Graaf, Maverick Enterprises acquired BlumBot before Elderon was built. The robotics company operates more or less independently of Maverick under the leadership of Ziva Blum. Ziva inherited the company from her father, legendary robotics titan Benjamin Blum.
The BlumBot offices are located in the tech sector just past Maverick headquarters. To get there, we have to walk down a separate empty hallway painted sky blue with soft lighting and shiny white tile. The hallway is completely empty, and the silence sets me on edge.
When we reach BlumBot’s offices, there’s nobody at the front desk to greet us. There are no employees running around and no government agents tearing the place apart. The offices look deserted.
BlumBot has a much different vibe than Maverick headquarters. Instead of the bold oranges and reds that Maverick uses, everything here is painted the same pale blue. Tropical plants are tucked in every corner, and I catch a few splashes of hot pink and orange.
Van de Graaf seems nervous. He stops at the front desk, and I feel a surge of resentment as Maggie’s eyes latch on to him.
It isn’t jealousy. I’m not the jealous type. Maggie can fuck whoever she likes. Why should I give a shit?
Back in the control room, I almost made a horrible mistake. I almost let my attraction to Maggie get the better of me. I almost ruined everything.
It must have been the heat — or the fact that we thought we might die. There’s no other explanation. Really I should be thanking Van de Graaf for interrupting what would have been a very awkward moment, but part of me still wants to kill him.
“Well?” I say.
Van de Graaf’s just standing there. I’m not sure what he’s waiting for.
“Shh,” he says, looking around as if he can smell something in the air. “Something’s not right.”
I want to roll my eyes, but I know better. If my time in the army taught me anything, it’s that your gut is usually right.
Van de Graaf starts walking toward the back offices, past the reception desk and the wide open lounge. The offices are completely silent — not the productive silence of people working, but the eerie quiet of a fallout zone.
My whole body tenses as I follow Van de Graaf. He stops at a bend in the hallway and holds out an arm to keep Maggie back.
“What —”
He shakes his head to silence her. My chest tightens. Something’s wrong.
&nb
sp; Van de Graaf turns slowly over his shoulder, and I catch a familiar look in his eyes.
I know that look. He’s asking for help. He doesn’t want Maggie to see what he’s seen.
I answer Van de Graaf’s plea without a word. I step around Maggie to block her view, and my gaze settles on a pair of red high-heeled shoes. They’re attached to a set of thin bare legs, which are splayed out from a black pencil skirt.
It’s a strange position for a woman to be in — not restful, not sexual. She’s lying on her stomach in her fancy work clothes, and my brain can’t immediately process what I’m seeing.
I’ve seen plenty of dead bodies before — mostly men in fatigues with nasty wounds. But to see a woman lying dead on the floor knocks the air right out of me.
“What the —”
Maggie touches me on the arm, pulling me aside, and I’m so shocked that I don’t have the presence of mind to stop her.
“Oh my god.” Her hand goes limp on my arm, but she doesn’t burst into tears or get sick as I’ve seen a lot of young soldiers do.
Maggie is tough — tougher than I give her credit for. She steps back and raises the rifle we borrowed from Davis, pointing it down the hallway as she scans for a threat.
The swell of dread inside me intensifies as we step around the woman and approach the offices in back. She has straight dark hair that’s caked in blood. She was struck in the back of the head as she ran from reception. She must have tried to warn the others.
The back offices are frozen in the aftermath of violence. Upturned chairs litter the conference room, and papers are scattered over the floor. Shards of glass glisten from the carpet like diamonds, and there’s a splatter of blood on the corner of a table where one man fell.
The rest of his colleagues are lying in a heap near the back of the room. By the looks of things, they had no time to escape. They retreated to a corner, where they were slaughtered one by one.
“The bots did this,” says Maggie in a hollow voice.
I don’t speak. The injuries are familiar — great gaping holes through the chest where a bot reached its claw through flesh and choke marks on the victims’ throats.
