by Harrison, S.
Rat-tat-tat! At the sound of Ryan’s rifle, I nervously clutch a handful of branches. Rat-tat-tat!
On his second salvo, my body twitches, and I immediately think of Otto. I quickly lurch back the way I came, angrily grunting at the trees and thick tufts of tall grass in the way as I scramble as fast as I can back through the garden.
I emerge, stumbling out of the thicket onto the path at the exact moment I hear Ryan bellow an ominous command: “Everybody . . . ruuun!”
There, about a hundred meters away, I see the whole group running back across the grass toward me, fleeing in outright panic. And the reason why becomes blatantly clear: beyond them, emerging from a large, rectangular hole in the sheer-black side of the dome are ten scarlet-faced, gun-toting Crimson-Class Combat Drones.
Ryan is holding his position, his rifle at the ready, one knee down on the grass. He’s already dropped one of the androids; I see it lying, deactivated, beside the wall of the dome. Ryan’s rifle flares with a rapid burst of rounds, and another Drone’s head jerks, its mask snapping from red to black as it falls facedown onto the ground. Even with a bad shoulder, he’s a very good shot. Ryan springs to his feet, turns, and starts sprinting for his life as the rest of the Drones raise their semiautomatic rifles in unison . . . and open fire.
The sound of bullets whizzing past me kicks my reflexes into high gear, and I take off, bolting across the grass toward the dome. I swing my rifle around into my arms as I go, pumping my legs against the ground, my eyes focused on the silver-hooded robots trudging in a haphazard formation across the field. I notice that a couple of them, strangely, aren’t even walking in the right direction. As I get closer, I see that only half of the Drones’ rifles are pointing toward the group; the rest are way off target. With every missed shot they fire, it becomes more and more apparent that the Drones are behaving a lot like the R.A.M. was. They definitely seem to sense movement from this general direction, but they’re shooting like they’re wearing blindfolds. It’s another lucky break, but those are still bullets that they’re firing, and the more they pull those triggers, the greater the odds are that someone is gonna get shot.
The thought has barely entered my mind when it’s proven to be true. A Drone’s gun barrel flashes, and a split second later, a patch of red blooms like a flower on the leg of Brent’s trousers. He drops, dragging Margaux by the hand down onto the soft, green grass. Ryan sees them fall, but the others are oblivious, far too busy escaping to notice. I come to a skidding halt as Otto, Percy, Brody, Dean, and the Professor hurriedly approach. I point back the way I came, shouting, “Go through the garden!” as they all barrel past in a frantic bustle.
With bullets whizzing past my head, I dive onto the grass and prop my chin on my rifle. I line the sights, take a breath, and, with a slow exhale, squeeze the trigger three times. Far across the field, the face mask of one Drone cracks into shards. It does a clumsy half spin before thudding to the ground. I take aim at another and shoot again. I hit a Drone twice in the mask; it doesn’t go down, but my shots aren’t entirely wasted as it veers to the left, walking out in front of another android, obscuring its line of fire.
I glance back. Otto and the others have almost made it to the garden.
I look over at Ryan. He’s thrown his rifle down and grabbed Brent by his arm. He drags Brent’s wrist over the back of his neck, lifts him over his shoulder into a fireman’s carry, and hoists him from the ground. Ryan starts running as fast as he’s able, but he doesn’t get very far. A slight trip becomes a stumble into a toppling loss of balance; he and Brent both fall, tumbling headlong onto the grass.
Seven Drones are still standing, but only the four closest are pointing their weapons in the right direction. That’s the good news. The bad news is, the closer they get, the more their guns seem to be zeroing in on Ryan, Brent, and Margaux. I need to buy them some time. I take aim at the nearest one and breathe in through my nose, slowly breathe out, and then gently squeeze . . .
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
I quickly look up from my rifle. I haven’t pulled my trigger, but the Drone I had in my sights is suddenly being pelted with bullets. A line of holes dots up its torso and head, shattering its face mask into pieces. The android drops onto its knees and falls flat on the ground as the next Drone in line is immediately hit by the continuous barrage of gunfire. Pockmarks speck up across its chest and crack through its forehead. Its whole body freezes like someone’s flicked an off switch, and it falls onto its back with a heavy thud. Two down, just like that. I look across the field to my right, and I can hardly believe my eyes. With her skirt stretched tight across her wide stance and Ryan’s rifle dug into her hip is a wailing, wild-haired, teeth-bared, android-annihilating Margaux, the flaring weapon kicking in her white-knuckled hands as she peppers a third Drone with a hail of bullets and drops it like a ton of bricks. An amused smile creeps across my lips. Give ’em hell, Blondie.
Margaux is still rage-yelling at the top of her lungs when the gun, its ammo spent, begins clicking like a castanet. Ryan, having already hoisted Brent onto his shoulders again, is halfway back to the garden when Margaux throws the empty weapon to the ground, turns on her heels, and sprints after them.
There are only four functioning Drones left. If I can take them out, then the path to the bus will be clear. I take aim at the first one, but my grand plan is instantly shattered: ten more Drones walk out of the door-shaped holes in the side of the dome.
Even if I could take them all out before my ammo is gone, they’ll probably just keep coming. I don’t want to admit it, but I have no other choice. This battle isn’t worth fighting. We’ll have to find another way. I spring up from my position, sling my rifle onto my back, and take off across the field.
The Drones keep firing, and I keep running, bullets zipping past me on both sides. The Drones are terrible shots from this distance, but even a bad shot can get lucky, and more than a couple come a little too close for my liking. I keep my pace at full throttle all the way back to the garden.
When I arrive, Ryan and a deeply concerned Margaux are crouching next to Brent beside the concrete planter. All the others have started making their way through the brush. I can see the back of Brody about a meter in, swearing and pushing at Dean to move. Ryan has ripped a strip off Brent’s trouser leg and is busy tying it around his wound as Brent grits his teeth, wincing as he grips Margaux’s hand. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that it brightens my mood a little to see him in pain.
“How is it?” I ask between breaths.
“It’s bad,” Brent growls.
“Shut up,” Ryan says, pulling the knot tight. “It’s not that bad. The bullet took a bite out of his thigh, but he’ll be OK.”
“I’m bleeding!” Brent groans.
“That’s generally what happens when you get shot,” Ryan says, wiping his bloody hands on his trousers.
Brent glowers up at me, and flecks of spittle spray from his lips. “I bet you’re loving this, aren’t you?”
I’m about to tell him just how right he is when another shot zips by. I look back at the Drones. They’re about forty meters out. They’re tromping blindly in our general direction, but they’re still closing in fast.
“Get in there, quick!”
With one eye on the Drones, Ryan pulls Brent to his feet and unceremoniously stuffs him headfirst into the tangled makeshift path the others have forged through the garden.
Margaux follows, then Ryan. The Drones are barely twenty-five meters away. Two bullets pit a tree beside the path, and another zings past so close to my head that I feel the air move against my cheek. Time to go.
I lunge onto the edge of the planter and shove my way into the thicket behind Ryan, awkwardly maneuvering my rifle as it catches on stray vines and branches.
I can hear the dull, thudding footsteps of the Drones getting closer. They’re nearly at the path. I push on behi
nd Ryan without looking back, and it doesn’t take long before he shoves the last few strands of vegetation aside and stumbles out of the brush. I emerge right behind him into a recessed alcove formed by two curved bench seats, almost identical to the one we crawled into when we exited the vents on the opposite side of the courtyard.
Everyone is perched on the seats in silence, anxious fear painted on all their faces. I look back into the thicket and can just make out glints of silver between the matted fronds and branches as the Drones on the other side of the garden tromp and wander blindly, searching for movement. Even though it seems that we’ll be relatively safe where we are, the androids are way too close for comfort. We need to move on.
I walk through the alcove, crouch in the gap between the benches, and quietly push aside the thick leaves of a nearby flax plant. To the right, I see a wide, curving staircase leading up to a row of buildings at the top end of the courtyard. I slowly scan over a wide-open space of empty paving stones, and as I turn my head to the left, my body suddenly seizes with fright. Barely a meter away is the unmistakable triangular muzzle of a Hellion 90 triple-barreled, fully automatic shotgun . . . and it’s pointing directly at my head.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Hold it right there,” orders a quiet, graveled voice.
A lone soldier is standing just to my left. I carefully stand, raise my hands, and whisper an appropriate lie in my best frightened-schoolgirl voice: “I’m a civilian.”
“Come out here,” he whispers. “Slowly.”
I walk a few steps out into the courtyard and look over at the uniformed man. His eyes scan me up and down from beneath his raised visor. “Remove the weapon and hand it to me.”
I pull the strap up over my head and offer up my rifle. The soldier steps forward, carefully takes it, and slings it over his shoulder. “There are more of us,” I say, calmly turning to face him.
The soldier lowers his gun, I lower my hands, and he calls toward the nook. “You can come out now.”
The trembling voice of Professor Francis issues from the bushes. “Is it safe?”
“Yes,” replies the soldier. “Please come out of there.”
There are shuffling sounds behind me as the sorriest-looking, most ragtag bunch of people I’ve ever seen emerges in a tight group out of the nook and into the courtyard. Everyone is dirty, bloody, scratched up, and clearly exhausted. Maybe it’s mostly due to his “poor me” demeanor, but Brent looks especially rough as he limps pathetically, his arm slung over Margaux’s shoulder for support. The same goes for Dean, still gormless, propped up and being half-dragged along by Brody. The soldier looks over all of us. “My name is Private Carter. If you’ll follow me, we’ll get you cleaned up and have a medic take a look at your wounds.”
There are quiet sighs and looks of relief on some faces, but not on Ryan’s. His expression flicks to one of high alert. “The command modules!” he blurts at the soldier. “The R.A.M. is tracking the command modules!”
Private Carter nods. “It’s OK; we know. As soon as we realized that, we ditched them all into an open space and it blew every single one to pieces.”
“Where is that infernal machine?” the Professor asks, nervously scanning the area. “Did you defeat it?”
“No, but don’t worry,” replies the soldier. “Without the modules to hone in on, it stopped moving. Now it’s just standing there.”
Margaux raises her hand. “Excuse me, sir, but . . . there are robots with guns—”
The soldier raises his hand, stopping Margaux short. “Your shots alerted us to the situation. A sniper is being positioned on the roof to take the rogue androids out. I was sent to retrieve you from the alcove.”
“You knew we were in there?” Otto says, frowning at the soldier.
He nods. “We were watching from the window of the command post upstairs. Saw you all duck into the garden.”
“Then what was with the gun pointing?” I ask.
“Sorry about that. Just making sure you didn’t mistake me for a robot and put me down, too.”
Private Carter nods toward me. “You can shoot, and you . . . ,” he says, pointing his finger at Margaux. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Carter . . . ,” pipes up Professor Francis. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t encourage my students’ abhorrent behavior. I find your cavalier attitude very disconcerting; this is a tragedy of monumental proportions. Many innocent people, including my colleague Miss Cole, four of my students, as well as your very own men, and a Blackstone employee have all been killed.”
Private Carter nods. “I apologize; I didn’t mean any disrespect. You’re right, of course. I’m not very good at dealing with civilians.”
The Professor gives Private Carter a teacherly glower. “In fact, two of my students are still missing. Their names are Jennifer Cheng and Amelia Dee.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I haven’t seen them, but squads are still sweeping the complex. I’m sure they’ll find your missing students.”
Brody thrusts a hand in the air, but the soldier’s easygoing mood has shifted, and he waves it down. “Please, there will be time for more questions later. We’re getting everything under control, but the main computer is still malfunctioning and communications are down, so, as a precaution, please follow me to the temporary command post. I’m sure that as soon as the medic has checked you out and we’ve cleared Dome One, we can send you all home.”
Private Carter turns and heads off down a lamppost-lined path along a row of the very same buildings that, only a few minutes ago, we were running behind in the opposite direction. As everyone begins following Private Carter, I decide to lag in the back. I stare at Otto; she catches my loaded look and hangs back, too, as the others file past. We let them walk on a little before following at a distance. I scan past the group, farther down into the courtyard. The abstract sculpture we saw before is about fifty meters away, and beyond that, in the distance between some trees, I can make out the shape of the stationary R.A.M. It looks like there are soldiers moving around it, most likely trying to secure it while they scrape what’s left of their fallen comrades into body bags. Otto taps my arm. “Everyone is safe with the soldiers now,” she whispers. “Do you think we can slip away somehow?”
I nod. “Yeah, but we’ll have to wait for the right moment.”
“They’re gonna come looking for us as soon as they find out we’re gone,” says Otto.
“That’s why we’ll have to move fast and stay out of sight,” I reply. “We’ll head deeper into the compound, lose them any way we can, and hope like hell that Richard Blackstone hasn’t been evacuated.”
“If he was even here to begin with,” says Otto.
“Well, I guess we’re gonna find out,” I reply.
“Stop dillydallying, you two!” Professor Francis shouts. Up ahead, Private Carter is standing beside a doorway in one of the buildings, and everyone is filing in past him.
“I’m ready to go whenever you are. I’ll follow your lead,” Otto whispers with a determined nod, and we quicken our pace toward Private Carter.
The door is a fire exit just off to the side of the building’s main entrance. The cracked glass and bent frame are obvious signs that it’s been kicked in. We sidle past Private Carter and follow the echoes of the others’ footsteps up four flights of narrow stairs, through a stairwell door, and into a large, open-plan office. Desks have been pushed aside, cubicle walls have clearly been moved into particular positions to serve new purposes, and there are soldiers everywhere—more than thirty at a quick count. Some are organizing weapons and equipment, others are helping the wounded to and from a partitioned section in the corner, and some are hovering around a desk that has been pushed up against the windows overlooking the courtyard. Light from outside is filtering in, but the room has that distinctive dimly lit look you get from an office dev
oid of electricity.
Among all the activity, the desk is definitely the center of importance. A thick power or data cable of some kind is snaking out a window, and I can see the light of computer screens in the spaces between the murmuring soldiers.
Private Carter and another soldier carrying a sniper rifle emerge from the stairwell door, brush past me and Otto, navigate around the rest of our little group, and walk toward the desk. Private Carter unslings my rifle and props it against a cubicle wall.
“The civilians have been retrieved, sir, and Private Sekula here has dispatched the rogue Drones with sniper fire. He told me it was like shooting fish in a barrel,” he says, jabbing a thumb at the smiling man standing beside him.
One of the men hunched over the desk straightens and addresses the two soldiers. They’re standing in the way of his face, but I can hear his voice. “Good job, Sekula,” he says. “Get back on the roof just in case any more of those robots wander this way.” The soldiers salute the commanding officer, and as they move off to their respective duties, my eyes go wide.
The Commander is tall and solidly built. He has olive skin, thick, black, neatly side-parted hair, and a macho, yet distinguished, moustache. He’s also divorced, forty-six years old next November, drinks expensive tequila, and smokes Cuban cigars. The reason I know all this is because that man is Captain Javier Delgado, Covert Field Operations Supervisor, security-clearance-level nine, and . . . the commanding officer on thirteen of my previous missions. This is not good. I’m on a personal, unsanctioned mission. If he sees my face, there are going to be some serious questions coming my way—questions I’d most likely be answering in a military prison cell.
Captain Delgado looks over at our little band of misfits, and I quickly sidestep behind Otto. “What are you doing?” she whispers. I don’t reply; instead, I grab her arms so she doesn’t move and peek around the side of her frizzy brown hair.
