Infinity Rises (The Infinity Trilogy Book 2)

by Harrison, S.

  We run around the corner, back down a short section of passage, and then around another corner, with Blondie, surprisingly, leading the group. Not surprising that she remembers the way, but that she is such a strong and fast runner. I watch the way she swings her arms so assuredly in focused, flat-palmed swipes, the way her rigid torso follows a solid line, hardly bobbing up and down at all to the smooth rhythm of her pointed steps. The unmistakable sharp-angled back-flick of her long, fluid strides confirms it. Those are traits of a high-performance athlete. Like I said . . . surprising.

  I see Blondie disappear through the door of the white room far up ahead, and even though I’m slowed by my broken foot, it isn’t long before I’m at the open doorway, too, crunching through shattered glass behind the rest of the group. We sprint through the now fully lit corridor and into the bright-white room where this aggravating chain of events began for me.

  “Where to now?” Ryan asks through short, panting breaths.

  “We could break another door?” Otto whispers breathlessly. “Maybe find another elevator?”

  “What if there are more of those things in the next one?” asks Blondie.

  “Then Finn can take them all out!” bellows Brody.

  I shoot him a piercing glare, and he visibly twitches. “Sorry,” he says. “I meant Infinity can take them out.” His expression transforms into a wide grin. “I mean, seriously, did you see that back there? That was the most badass thing I’ve ever seen!”

  “I don’t stand a chance against those big Drones,” I say. “None of us do. They’re heavily armored and combat tough.”

  “How do you know that?” Ryan asks.

  I pretend like I didn’t hear him.

  “If there are more of those things around, and I bet there will be . . . then we’re gonna need weapons,” I say.

  “There’s a Security Station on the way to Dome Two,” says Otto. “There might be some weapons there? I’m also hoping it’s where our phones and computer slates are.”

  “We can call for help!” screeches Blondie.

  “We need to get out of here first,” Brent chips in.

  “What are those?” I ask, pointing at each of the nondescript frosted-glass cubicles in the two far corners of the room.

  “Toilets,” answers Otto.

  “That could be our way out of here,” I say, striding over to the cubicle on the right. I slot my fingers into the handle-shaped indent in the door and swing it open. The room is small but well designed, with a hand basin built into the top of the toilet tank to save space. Beside that is a small hand dryer, and above the toilet, set in the center of the cubicle, is exactly what I was hoping for: a vent for an extractor fan. Knowing that the Crimsons will be here any second, I turn and run to the Nanny Theresa Drone I dispatched earlier. Everyone else stands there watching and frowning as I kneel in a puddle of slippery orange slime, grab the Drone’s severed arm from the floor, and race back to the cubicle.

  I jump up onto the toilet seat and use the carbon-metal-composite “bones” in the Drone’s forearm as a lever to force the vent cover from the wall. A large, square section pops off without too much effort. It clatters to the floor, and I’m pleasantly surprised to see that the box-shaped opening to the duct is large, almost industrial-factory size. I expected a hole barely big enough for me to fit in, but even Brody could get his husky bulk in here. That’s a shame really; he’s a dolt, and a small vent would have been a good excuse to leave him behind. Judging by these indented nozzles and blinking diodes running along the walls inside, this looks like a multipurpose conduit of some kind, and this toilet cubicle happened to be built in the perfect place to connect with it.

  I step down and beckon to Otto. “C’mon! Let’s go!” She runs to the cubicle and leaps onto the toilet seat as I grab her legs, boosting her up into the duct. There’s a hollow thrumming of hands and knees as Otto crawls deeper in, but a sound of a different kind makes me turn and stare at the doorway across the room.

  It’s the sound of glass crunching under the approaching thumps of heavy footsteps. And I’m not the only one who hears it.

  “Out of my way!” screeches Blondie, shoving Brent to one side. She eyes the square opening, does one of those skip steps that gymnasts always do, and sprints across the room. She springs onto the seat and impressively dives headfirst into the hole, the entire length of her body completely disappearing into the duct as the first of the two-and-a-half-meters-tall Crimson-Class Combat Drones ducks under the top of the doorway and enters the room.

  The three boys sprint to the cubicle door. “I’m next!” Brent announces as he jumps up and hoists himself into the duct, grunting and kicking as he goes. The first Drone advances as a second and then third stomp in behind it.

  “I’ll help you up,” Brody says to Ryan. “You can’t climb with that shoulder.”

  Ryan nods a thank-you to Brody, jumps up onto the seat, and grabs the lip of the vent with his good arm as Brody cups the heel of Ryan’s shoe. The Drones are only a few steps away. I need to buy the boys some time.

  I move away from the cubicle, circling to the right, waving my arms in the air—all three arms if you count the severed android limb clutched in the palm of my left hand. “Over here!” I yell. “Come and get me!”

  The two Drones at the front turn and thud toward me, and I break into a run, curving around in a wide arc, heading straight for the rest of the robots emerging from the smashed doorway. There are six in all now; the room is getting crowded, and I’m suddenly wondering what the hell I’m doing. It’s true: I made a deal with Otto to get these kids to safety. But is it worth risking my life? I can’t kill Richard Blackstone and get Finn out of my head if my brains are squished between a Combat Drone’s fingers.

  There’s no time for deeper psychoanalysis as I leap off the ground in a horizontal dropkick and slam the fifth Drone in the side. It staggers slightly as I land, prone, on the floor. The Drone looks down at me with its bloodred mask, and I roll backward up onto my feet. The number of killer robots whose attention is solely focused on me has risen to three. All eight Crimsons are in the room now, and to say that the situation is not looking good would be a massive understatement. I quickly back away and manage to catch a glimpse of the vent between the wide silver shoulders of the three Drones trudging in my direction. Ryan has made it in, but Brody is still hanging halfway out, and a Drone is almost on him. If it gets a good hold on his leg, he’s as good as dead.

  I shouldn’t care. If it drags him from the vent, it will make it easier for me to escape. But something deep inside is irking me. Brody is a worthless waste of space; he means nothing to me. But then why is the thought of not trying to help him making me feel so . . . guilty?

  With absolutely no time left to ponder it further, I focus on assessing the situation. Three huge Drones are almost upon me, and I’m backed against a wall. I’m excellent at emotional compartmentalization, but even I have to admit that it’s really hard not to be scared out of my damn mind right now. There is an escape route, but it’s gonna take some miraculous timing and a Grand Canyon–size amount of luck. No more thinking, Infinity. This is do or die.

  Adrenaline surges, and high gear kicks in as the first massive Drone reaches for me. I quickly crouch away from it while thrusting my hand toward it, offering the Drone the severed robot arm instead of mine as I mentally strengthen and prepare my leg muscles to jump like I’ve never jumped before. My grip on the wrist of the severed arm is so tight that it would take a crowbar to pry my hand loose, but the plan will only work if this Crimson-Class Drone plays its part.

  Gladly, the Drone takes the bait. Its huge, four-fingered clamp of a hand snaps shut on the end of the stump like a bear trap, and I tense every muscle in my torso as the Drone’s arm becomes a silver catapult, whipping away the orange-goop-dripping appendage with incredible force as I spring from the floor with all my might, holding on to t
he cutoff arm for dear life. With jarring acceleration I’m whisked off my feet. I release the arm at the last second, and I’m flung through the air, my back skimming the low ceiling as I sail over the heads of the other Drones. With narrow-eyed concentration, I tuck and somersault, landing feetfirst on the back of another Drone’s neck. Caught off guard in midstride, the robot’s legs slightly buckle as I leapfrog from its back in the direction of the Drone nearest the vent. I land squarely on the android’s shoulders from behind, its head wedged between my thighs as it leans over the toilet bowl, grabbing for Brody’s shoe. I wrench my blazer up over my head and in one quick, continuous movement pull it down over the Drone’s face mask.

  The android begins turning its head from side to side, momentarily disoriented underneath the shroud, its synthetic muscles flexing as it raises its arms to pull the blazer away. With the Drone distracted, Brody doesn’t hesitate to scramble farther into the duct, leaving just enough room behind him for me. A quick glance over my shoulder tells me that I only have a couple of seconds to jump from this swiveling silver bronco before the other Drones are on me, so with the vent opening swaying and bobbing in my line of sight . . . I take a chance. I splay my arms, reach out for the edge of the vent, and release my legs—but as soon as I do, I know that I’ve messed this up very badly.

  The robot pivots along with me, and my body swings out horizontally. I screw my eyes shut a millisecond before the gong sound of my head hitting the thin frosted wall of the cubicle becomes the deafening crack-shattering of glass as my face goes completely through it. My legs go loose, and I drop, landing hard. The room is spinning as I feel blood beginning to stream down my forehead into my eyes. My focus is gone, my mind is reeling, and my vision is swimming.

  I scream out in frustration as I shuffle backward across the floor in panic, fumbling to retreat from the reddening blur of frenetic movement in front of me. My hand hits the toilet bowl, and I scramble onto it. I’m grabbed by the collar of my shirt, and I scream again, all sense of my combat training lost as pure, irrational, survival instinct erupts inside me. I grasp my attacker’s hand, and even though I know what I’m about to do won’t help at all, I do it anyway . . . I bite.

  There’s a guttural scream and the coppery tang of human blood. I release my jaw in surprise as I’m hauled upward. Half realizing and half hoping that I know what’s happening, I grasp the hand even tighter as I’m pulled backward into the vent. My mystery helper releases me, and I kick and fumble farther in, slashing wildly with my fingers at the blood pooling in my eyes from the cut in my forehead. Heavy thuds ring though the vent as powerful fists pound at the wall around the opening, but knowing that those huge Drones will never fit through lets relief wash over me. I collapse loosely against the cool metal floor of the duct, gulping in lungfuls of air. I look up over my head, and through the red film glazing my eyes, I make out the shape of a silhouette crawling away from me. That must be Brody; he must have saved me.

  Maybe he’s not such a waste of space, after all. Either way, I owe him one.

  I flip over and follow behind him, trusting the walls of the duct to lead me anywhere—just as long as it’s away from the white room full of robots where I just came so close to dying. Farther in, I feel my way around a corner as the reverberating fist-falls of the Crimson Drones cease, giving way to the metallic banging of shuffling hands and knees and voices calling directions from up ahead. “Where are you?” calls Brent.

  “This way, follow my voice!” echoes Blondie.

  The blood in my eyes has caused me to lose track of Brody, so with the daze from bashing through the wall of the cubicle beginning to clear, I decide to use the opportunity of this brief respite to do some much-needed repairs to my bleeding forehead and broken foot. I stop and lie down, taking a moment to calm my breathing. Thanks to years of intensive meditation, any pain I feel is translated into warning sounds instead of physical sensations. It’s a skill I developed despite many of my gurus insisting that it was impossible. I take a deep breath, and with a long exhale, I allow the mental veil to fall away, letting the real pain flow in its pure, raw form.

  I wince and gasp as the nerve endings surge into life through the cut in my forehead. The pain shoots up and along and around the edges of the slash, tracing a flickering picture of the wound in my mind’s eye. I visually magnify the seam of sliced flesh to a microscopic degree until I can not only see it in all its gory reality, but also feel every nuanced peak and valley with visceral clarity. Each stinging spark, every throbbing pulse, every burning tingle and grating pinch is painted into a vibrant map of the injury, revealed in meticulous detail by hundreds of thousands of pinpoints of different and distinct flavors and colors of pain.

  I know it serves a valuable function—it warns the body of harm—but at times like this, when I analyze it deeply in this way, part of me can’t help but think the reason why pain has the ability to completely consume our minds and leave us breathless and helpless is because, even at its worst, it can be so overwhelmingly and intensely . . . beautiful. That said, relief can be just as sweet, and I hate losing blood. I focus intently. The cells of my body are obedient when I need them to be, and right now I’ve got some healing to do, so at my insistence, like magnets with opposing charges, they start reaching out for one another across the gap in my flesh. I can feel my skin moving as the cut begins sealing shut from the bottom up. Globules of already-clotting blood are squeezed out from the shrinking wound as ruptured cells close rips in their outer membranes and plump whole again before slotting themselves into vacant spaces, joining with their neighbors to heal the divide.

  The pain eases as the image in my mind dissolves and the cut repairs, and after a few short seconds, it’s done. I wipe as much of the congealed blood from my face as I can and rub at the spot where the gash was. No scar, not even a scratch, remains. I repeat the process on my foot, releasing the undiluted pain to form a mental landscape of the fractured bones. As I knit and connect the cells in my bones back together with my mind, their counterparts at the end of my leg follow my orders and carry out the appropriate repairs until, with a wiggle of my toes inside my shoe, I’m satisfied that good old righty has been restored to perfect working order.

  “Infinity!” a faint and faraway voice calls from up ahead. “Where are you? Are you OK?” It’s Otto.

  I clear my throat. “I’m fine!” I call back as I reposition myself and resume crawling onward down a long, straight section of the duct for what seems like a very long time, listening intently for sounds of movement at every junction I come to.

  “I can hear you!” says Otto. “Follow my voice; you’re almost there!”

  I turn another corner, and half a minute later arrive at the bottom of a very long and steep upward slope. Otto’s face is at the top, dimly lit by the glowing blue diodes in the walls. She must have turned back to find me, but her brow, peaked in the center and lined with worry, doesn’t change to an expression of relief when she sees me. Something tells me that her current state of distress isn’t grounded in concern for my well-being.

  “Infinity . . . ,” she says, her echoing voice grave and anxious. “I think you’d better see this.”

  “Hey, Bit . . . How is she doing?”

  “Wha . . . Oh, hi, Brody. Um, I’m not sure. She doesn’t seem to be getting any worse, so I guess that’s something.”

  “Yeah, that’s something. Look, Bit . . . I just wanted to say that I’m sorry about what happened up there. I didn’t mean to leave you and Infinity behind like that. I was . . . I was just really scared, y’know?”

  “It’s OK, Brody. I was scared, too.”

  “Yeah, but you didn’t run away when she needed you. I’m really sorry that I did. I totally lost it. I can’t stop thinking that if I’d only been braver or faster, then maybe Infinity wouldn’t be hurt so bad and . . . Ryan would, y’know . . .”

  “Don’t do that. Don’t beat yourself up li
ke that. We can’t change what happened.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Well, um . . . we printed some food, I mean, y’know, if you’re hungry. Do you want me to bring you some?”

  “No, thanks, I’m OK. But you go right ahead; I’ll eat later.”

  “Ah . . . OK, I’ll just be in the other room if something happens or if you . . . if you need me for something . . . anything.”

  “Thanks, Brody.”

  . . .

  “Hey, what did that boy want? I told you to keep the visitors out. You’re not very good at following simple instructions, are you, girlie?”

  “He was just checking on Finn; that’s all.”

  “Hmmm . . . From what I saw, it looked like he came to check on you, if you know what I mean?”

  “What? No, I don’t think so. Really? Brody? Are you sure?”

  “Ahhh, teenagers. Youth is utterly wasted on the young.”

  “Excuse me, Dr. Pierce?”

  “Oh, nothing. Any changes I should know about?”

  “What, oh . . . um, yes. The bleeding in her legs has stopped, and I . . . I don’t know whether it’s because I’m exhausted or it’s just my imagination, but her right ankle, the broken one, it kinda looks like it . . . straightened itself out?”

  “Whoa, hold on a second, girlie . . . What did you just say?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  With a quick shuffle, Otto disappears from view at the top of the incline. I crawl up the sloping section of duct into a level section at the top and just manage to glimpse the soles of her shoes as she clambers around a corner into an adjacent side shaft. She can scurry through these ducts like a freakin’ sewer rat. I have to quicken my pace considerably just to keep her in sight.