by Tarah Benner
I get the driver’s side window and half of the windshield cleared before remembering that Jonah had the key. I feel around in my pockets just to be sure, but they’re empty except for a balled-up gum wrapper and the back of one of my earrings.
I swear.
This can’t be happening. This isn’t happening. I can feel the tears building up in my throat — tears of panic, frustration, and helplessness. My throat aches with the effort of keeping them at bay, and when a few tears leak out and trail down my face, I grit my teeth and let out a moan of defeat.
I pound on the window with the palm of my hand, still yanking on the handle like a total lunatic.
For the first time since I went to Elderon, I feel completely and hopelessly alone. I’m a continent away from my friends and family. I don’t have any connections here.
Reaching up with a shaky hand, I try to ping Jared to ask for a lift. He doesn’t answer. I swear loudly and ping him again, but all I get is his outgoing message. I try calling a car from my Optix, but the network must be jammed. I have no idea how to get back to the motel. I don’t have a friend in the world.
Stubborn tears sting the corners of my eyes, and I wipe them away with dirty hands. Tiny particles of ash are still floating through the air, and my throat feels parched and scratchy from the smoke.
Hot heavy tears are now streaming down my cheeks, and I stare at my haggard reflection, wishing I was somewhere else.
In this moment, I wish I was someone else. I wish I’d never joined the press corps — that I’d never gone to Elderon. I find myself yearning for my old life in New York when it was just me and Kiran against the world.
I don’t want to be a fake member of the Space Force. I don’t want to be in Mountain View with a deadly enemy in space. I don’t want the weight of the colony on my shoulders. I’m a journalist — not a soldier.
I just want to go back to my work — writing puff pieces and taking crap from Cliff. I want to go back to the days when my biggest worry was paying the rent, not thwarting a terrorist bent on destruction.
But then I think of Jonah, and something inside me shifts. I didn’t come here to get a story, and I didn’t come to save the world. I came to Earth because Jonah asked me to — because he wanted me by his side.
For whatever reason, Jonah believed in me, and I believed in him. That thought seems to knock some cowardly blockage loose, and suddenly I’m filled with strength. A surge of fresh determination flows through my bloodstream, warming my body from the inside out.
Jonah needs me. He’s in jail, and I have to get him out.
Fuck. My. Life.
Just then, I hear what sounds like my name drifting across the parking lot. It floats beneath the frequency of the sirens almost like a dream.
I look up. A compact car is cruising down the street at the speed of a slow bike. The passenger-side window is all the way down, and someone is shouting in an adorable British accent. I wipe my eyes with my dirty sleeve, and my heart nearly explodes.
It’s Jared driving the tiny toy car, and he’s trying to get my attention.
“Maggie!”
I let out a noise between a cry and a laugh. I don’t even care how I must look. I have no idea how Jared found me. His timing is miraculous.
I stumble drunkenly across the parking lot, still sure I must be dreaming. I open the door, completely speechless, and collapse into the seat.
“How did you —” But I really don’t care. I’m just so glad to see him.
“I saw Jonah on the news,” says Jared grimly, pulling a U-turn in the deserted street.
“You did?” My heart sinks. If Jonah’s on the news after everything that’s happened, that means that Jonah is the news.
“Yeah . . . I got down here as fast as I could. They’ve blocked off most of the streets, but I found a way.”
I look around. The car is small and spotlessly clean, and it has one of those no-smoking decals stuck to the dash. It must be a Go-Car — one of the instant rentals you can pick up anywhere and drive as long as you need.
“Thanks,” I say weakly as Jared turns to go back to the motel.
“Don’t mention it. It’s lucky I found you, really . . . I was headed to the police station.”
“That’s where they’re taking Jonah.” I swallow. “You think they’ll let him post bail?”
Jared glances over at me but doesn’t say a word. He’s a smart kid. He must know Jonah’s in deep, deep shit.
I close my eyes and rest my head against a seat that smells like orange-and-lemon cleaner. The smell is making me a little queasy, but I’m too exhausted to care.
After everything we’ve been through, Mordecai still managed to outsmart us. Coming to Earth was a complete waste of time. It only cleared his path to Elderon.
It’s my fault we ended up at Maverick. Mordecai planted that clue for me. If it weren’t for me, we never would have been there, and Jonah never would have blown up that building.
Then again, Mordecai might have killed all the founders if we hadn’t shown up. There’s no way we’ll ever know.
I get a swoop of gratitude for Jared as he silently maneuvers around the roadblocks. I think he can tell that I’m feeling overwhelmed, and he doesn’t bombard me with questions.
He drives us back to the little motel, and I feel a twinge of comfort when we pull into the parking lot. Something about the leaf-strewn pool and plastic lawn chairs exudes familiarity and reassurance. The room might smell like smoke and perfume, but at least it’s what you expect.
As I collapse onto the edge of the squeaky bed, a pang of exhaustion hits me. Jared unmutes the antique television, and the sound of the newscast fills the room.
The network is replaying footage of Jonah’s arrest, but then it changes to a still image that looks like his ID photo. Bullet points appear to the right of his picture, and my heart sinks when I read what they’ve managed to dig up.
The bullet points include Jonah’s discharge from the army and his supposed history of mental illness. It doesn’t come out and say what he was diagnosed with, but it makes me feel sick to my stomach.
I’m not sure where they got that information. They aren’t facts Jonah willingly shares. I can feel my own fury mixing with dread, and I want to chuck my shoe at the screen.
“What do we do?” Jared asks.
Once again, I get a surge of gratitude that I’m not in this alone. Jared’s a good guy, and he’s willing to help. That alone is worth everything.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. The first thing is to clear Jonah’s name.
I try to ping Tripp, but my Optix can’t connect. A message tells me there’s a problem with the network.
My heart sinks. This has to be Mordecai’s doing. He wants to keep Elderon isolated — completely cut off from the world. As long as the US military is in the dark, it can’t help the Space Force resist a bot takeover.
“We need to get to Elderon,” I say. “I need to talk to Tripp.”
I can feel Jared’s eyes watching me, though he doesn’t say a word.
“Tripp is the only one who can clear Jonah’s name. The officer didn’t believe me.”
“Can’t you just ping him?” asks Jared. I can tell he thinks getting a shuttle to space seems like a tall order right now.
I shake my head. “The board gave Mordecai administrative access to the entire Optix network. I think he’s blocking calls between Earth and Elderon to prevent a coordinated attack.”
“Isn’t there some other way we can reach him?”
I shake my head. “I have to get back there. If Mordecai is controlling Ziva, there’s no telling what he’ll do.”
A chill of apprehension passes between us. Jared wasn’t there when we spoke to Mordecai, but he understands the gravity of the situation.
Ziva Blum created the bots, which makes her our best hope for defeating them. Mordecai has sequestered himself in space, blackmailing his sister and taking control of the bots. He’s using
them to keep the Space Force at bay, and he’s using the ones on Earth to incite terror and make demands.
Now that he has control of the Optix network, he’s drawn an iron curtain around his galactic fortress. He has the technology. He has his army. And as long as Mordecai maintains that control, the world is powerless to stop him.
3
Maggie
It’s a long ride to the air force base in Jared’s tiny rental car. The eco-friendly piece of shit has a governor that keeps us from driving faster than eighty, and we hit a bottleneck of rush-hour traffic an hour from the base.
I squirm as traffic grinds to a halt, and a sense of helplessness swamps me. If we don’t get there soon, we may miss our chance to hitch a ride back to Elderon.
Since Mordecai went to all the trouble of kidnapping the founders of the most influential tech companies in the world, he must be planning something big. With LifeSync’s remote locking technology and CentrySystems’ security at his fingertips, it would be easy for Mordecai to get his bots onto the base. But if he wants to launch the Impetus, he’ll need to catch a favorable weather window and take off while it’s light.
I lean back in the cramped seat and plant my feet on the dashboard. I slap the sides of my legs impatiently as three hours stretch into four. As we sit here in traffic, Mordecai’s bots could be filing onto the Impetus. Jonah is probably being questioned by the Department of Homeland Security. Who knows what’s happening on Elderon.
Finally the line of cars in front of us starts to move again, and I tell myself that we can still make it to Vandenberg in time. We have to make it. Failure is not an option.
But as we approach the base, a fresh bout of anxiety begins to creep into my stomach. I’m still not sure how we’re going to get inside. Jared’s plan is nebulous at best — bat-shit crazy at worst. I didn’t take the time to look up what the punishment is for attempting to sneak onto an air force base when the entire country is on high alert. I just hope we don’t get shot.
What we’re attempting is definitely illegal. One of the handguns Jonah brought from the space station is sitting in the glove box with Jared’s leftover beef jerky. I can sense it sitting there, burning a hole through the cheap plastic.
If the past twenty-four hours have taught me anything, it’s that I don’t want to pull out that gun. I am not cut out for this. But instead of allowing my fear to take over, I just swallow it down and remind myself that I’m doing this for Jonah.
We ignore the signs directing visitors to the main gate and keep driving until we reach Lompoc Gate. It’s the inspection point for large trucks and trailers carrying supplies and equipment onto the base.
My heart pounds hard against my ribcage. This is it — the make-or-break moment that will determine whether we can get aboard the Impetus.
I glance over at Jared, whose brow is glistening with sweat. He’s just a kid, really — probably twenty-one or twenty-two. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel, and I can tell he’s just as nervous as I am.
“Thanks for this,” I say.
He swallows. “Don’t mention it.”
I force a nervous smile.
As we inch closer to the gate, I begin to second-guess our decision to circumvent Vandenberg’s security. My hands are full of pins and needles, oozing nervous sweat. My breathing is shallow, and my heart is beating too fast in my chest.
We reach the gate, where several vehicles are already in line, waiting for inspection. I take a deep breath, open the glove compartment, and pull out Jonah’s pistol.
I heft it in my hands, marveling at its cold weight. It’s already loaded with ammunition and tucked neatly into a holster with a spare magazine. I clip the holster onto my belt along with two stunners that Jared designed. I can’t shake the leaden feeling that’s settled in my chest, but I just clamp down my jaw and ignore it.
“Good luck,” says Jared, turning to face me. “Ping me if you run into trouble. I’ll be right outside waiting for takeoff.”
I nod. I hate to leave him. Jared’s sheer presence has a steadying effect. I know he’d go with me if I asked, but that isn’t part of the plan.
Jared rolls down his window and casually leans forward to get eyes on the officers manning the gate. They seem to be checking the credentials of the delivery driver at the head of the line. There’s an eighteen-wheeler behind that vehicle and a smaller delivery truck directly in front of us.
Jared gives me a nod to indicate that the officers are distracted, and I open the car door and shoot toward the delivery truck.
Heart hammering in my throat, I pull out the pistol with one hand and reach for the passenger-side door handle with the other. The door opens without resistance, and I pull myself up into the truck and snap the door shut behind me.
“What the hell?”
The driver is a man in his mid to late forties — bigger, balding, with a protruding belly. He looks like a nice guy, but he’s frozen in shock.
“Don’t say another word,” I murmur, holding the gun across my body and pointing it at his chest.
“Please don’t,” he whispers. “I’ve got kids.”
My heart constricts. The man is terrified.
“All you have to do is drive,” I say. “You get me through that gate, and you get to turn around and drive home.”
The man nods profusely, beads of sweat springing up on his forehead. I feel like a heartless monster, but I maintain my cold expression.
“Don’t try anything funny,” I say, climbing over my seat into the cargo area. It’s impossible to keep the pistol pointed at the driver as I crawl into the back. My belt catches on his seat, and I have to unclip it to shimmy through the aisle.
I wheel around with the pistol to show him I mean business, still searching for a place to hide. There are four rows of cardboard boxes waiting for delivery — two on the floor and two on shelves. I rearrange a few of the boxes in the bottom-left row, and I can practically feel the driver’s eyes swiveling up to the rearview mirror.
I’m not sure if he will betray me, but all I can do is stick to the plan. I position my body behind a shallow box under the shelf and point my pistol at the back of his head.
“The line’s moving,” says the driver.
“Pull forward.” My throat has gone very dry.
The driver nods and shifts gears. The truck lurches forward, and I get a surge of panic that he’s going to blow my cover. He certainly looks like a man being held at gunpoint. One of the officers is going to notice.
The inspection of the vehicle in front of us seems to take forever, and I’m growing increasingly fearful. If the officers get suspicious and decide to do a thorough search, there’s no way I’m getting out of this.
I close my eyes. My thighs are burning with the effort of holding myself in the same position, and my glutes are on fire. I take a deep breath and try not to think about how I wish I’d done more squats. The strength of my quads and hamstrings might be the determining factor in whether or not I’m arrested.
Just then our truck pulls forward, and I have the sudden desperate urge to pee. It’s a reflex whenever I’m feeling very nervous, and I squeeze my muscles a little tighter.
The driver rolls down his window, and I hear the rumble of voices outside. The officers manning the inspection gate are cool and efficient. The driver’s voice shakes a little, and I just hope the officers don’t notice.
The rumbling voices fade in the distance, but the truck still hasn’t moved. I can hear people talking outside the vehicle, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. Then the driver opens his door, and my heart seems to stop.
If the driver thinks he’s safe outside, he could ruin everything. He could tell the officers that there’s a lunatic hiding in his truck, and I’ll be trapped inside the vehicle.
The door slams shut, and I strain my ears to make out what the men are saying. I can feel the rumble of their words in my chest, but none of them are distinguishable. The burning in my calves has given wa
y to numbness. My legs are falling asleep.
Then I hear a soft thud and a click, and the back of the truck opens with a whoosh.
I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I don’t even dare to think. If I make even a tiny noise, my cover will be blown.
The officers inspecting the load aren’t talking, but I can hear the drag of their boots on the ground. I have to pee. My legs are asleep, and I’m too terrified to move.
Then the whole truck shudders, and I realize someone has climbed in the back. I shrink deeper into the shadows, wishing I’d rearranged the boxes.
This is it. I am finished. Any moment now, one of the officers is going to kick my box, and my hiding place will be exposed.
I’m not going to kill anyone. I don’t have it in me. I’ll just be hauled off to prison — maybe detained on base. No one is going to believe that I was trying to stop Mordecai. They’ll figure out that I’m with Jonah, and they’ll think that I’m a terrorist.
“All right,” says a male voice from inside the truck.
The bed wobbles as he jumps down to the ground, and a second later, the door thunders closed. I’m thrown into darkness once again, and the driver climbs back inside.
At first, I don’t understand what happened. How could he not have ratted me out?
The man is breathing hard and fast. He sounds as though he just ran a mile.
He pulls forward a few feet, and I see the raised arm of the boom gate through a tiny slice of window.
“Please don’t shoot me,” says the driver, his voice coming out strained.
I don’t say anything. I’m still frozen with fear, but those words hit me like a punch to the gut.
We glide through the gate, and the realization dawns on me: I’m one step closer to catching that shuttle.
“Where now?” asks the driver, slightly relieved.
“As close as you can get to the aerospace terminal,” I say, trying to maintain my hardline voice.
The driver doesn’t respond. I wonder what he thinks I’m doing.