by Tarah Benner
He whips his head around like a cornered animal, locking eyes with his comrades in arms. Jonah rushes to close the distance between them, but he’s four seconds too late.
In one fluid motion, the bot shoots out an arm with a metal claw attachment. It thrusts it forward so easily that at first my brain can’t process what’s happening. But then Whitehead’s eyes bulge in agony, and his mouth stretches into a scream.
The bot shifts to the side, and I see that its arm is in Whitehead’s abdomen. It’s immersed to its elbow in flesh and organs, and its eyes are blank — expressionless.
The bot withdraws its claw in a fountain of blood, and Whitehead’s body convulses. His guts spill from the opening like candy from a piñata, and Jonah freezes on the spot.
A surge of bile burns my throat as I watch Whitehead collapse on the ground. It seems to happen in super slow motion, and the bot moves on as if it’s already forgotten.
People are running toward the exit — rushing the stairs in a storm of panic. I hear Greaves’s voice above the din, and every Optix light begins to flash.
I don’t immediately realize what’s happening until Jonah lets out a holler of rage. It disappears in the clamor of footsteps, and I back up against the wall to avoid being trampled.
Greaves isn’t regrouping, and he isn’t issuing new orders. He’s calling the Space Force to retreat.
The food-science lab empties of humans within minutes. Greaves’s forces have fled the lab, leaving me, Jonah, and Walker to extract the wounded.
Once we get the injured Space Force operatives out of the bots’ paths, they begin to act as though we aren’t there at all. They continue to demolish the crops — destroying the food scientists’ work with intensity and precision.
Greaves’s hasty mission was a failure, and the human cost was high. The Space Force fought for less than twenty minutes, and five operatives were killed.
A dozen more were injured in the battle. Some of them had never seen action before.
Walker and I help a stout sweaty redhead stumble up the flight of stairs. He attempted to tackle a bot from behind and was rewarded with a broken leg. He was luckier than others.
By the time we extract all the wounded, Jonah is seething with anger. None of the operatives were briefed on the bots, and they blazed in not knowing what they were up against.
We barricade the food-science lab from the outside and send Walker to seal off the emergency exit. It’s too late to stop the destruction, but at least we can trap a dozen or so bots.
By the time we’ve secured the exits, Greaves has disappeared. His remaining operatives are a wreck. They’re beaten, demoralized, and reeling from shock.
When Walker returns, Jonah and I brief her on the bots’ capabilities. We tell her about the malware Buford installed and the bots that look like humans.
Jonah is determined to rip Greaves a new one, but I convince him to head to Maverick to update Tripp instead. I can tell Jonah doesn’t like him for some reason, but I could really care less.
Tripp needs to be in the loop. He needs to know that the Space Force failed.
Halfway up the stairs, we almost collide with him head-on. Tripp’s normally perfect hair looks matted and disheveled, and he’s breathing as though he just ran a mile.
“Oh . . . It’s you guys,” says Tripp, practically deflating in relief.
“Running from someone?” asks Jonah accusingly.
“I thought . . . One of them . . .” Tripp lets out an enormous breath of exhaustion. “Never mind.”
“This is out of control,” says Jonah. “Greaves is sending in people to die. They don’t have any idea what they’re up against, and they’re completely unprepared.”
Tripp gives Jonah a blank look. Even though Maverick Enterprises owns the Space Force, he’s unequipped to oversee any sort of military operation.
“The bots are destroying the food labs,” I add. “I think they’re trying to starve us out.”
“They’re in the food labs?” says Tripp in a panic.
“We saw them on the feeds . . . got there quick as we could,” says Jonah. “It was a bloodbath.”
“You got into the control room?”
“Yeah,” says Jonah. “But we can’t shut them down. Buford has the system locked — only he can unlock it again. Our only choice is to take them out one by one.”
“That’s not our only option,” says Tripp.
“Do you have a better idea?” Jonah snaps. “The Space Force was completely overwhelmed. We need Greaves gone and a new officer in charge.”
“You mean you?” says Tripp. His tone is light, but I can detect an undercurrent of accusation there, and I know Jonah can, too.
“No,” says Jonah. I can tell it’s taking every ounce of his self-control not to smack Tripp upside the head. “I just mean someone with real experience in a war zone — someone who understands what these things are capable of.”
“What do you want me to do?” asks Tripp.
“You own the goddamned Space Force!” says Jonah in exasperation. “Make it happen! If not me, then someone else — someone who knows what the hell they’re doing!”
Tripp opens his mouth and then closes it again. “I don’t think I can. That’s beyond my scope of —”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Jonah lets out an animalistic growl. “Are you really that useless?”
“My job,” Tripp cuts in, “is to keep this place afloat.”
“And to do that, the Space Force needs a leader who can keep everyone alive.”
There’s a long moment of uncomfortable silence. I can see that this is going nowhere, and it’s time to try a different tack.
“What about Ziva?” I ask. “She must know something about the malware. She has to know a way to shut down the bots — or at least override Buford’s lock.”
“She might,” says Tripp. “Trouble is I don’t know when I’ll be able to ask her.”
“What do you mean?”
Tripp takes a deep breath, looking from me to Jonah. I can tell it isn’t good news. “BlumBot is on lockdown. Orders of the US government,” he says. “No one is going in or out.”
6
Maggie
“What do you mean no one’s going in or out?” Jonah growls at Tripp.
Tripp takes a deep breath. His usual charming, flirtatious demeanor is gone, and for the first time since I’ve known him, I see the cool ruthless executive simmering beneath the surface.
“I mean . . . the officials from Homeland Security, the FBI, and the NSA are interrogating her as we speak. I don’t know if you’ve ever been the subject of a government investigation, Sergeant, but trust me when I say that they do not appreciate being interrupted.”
“Did you tell them that there are hundreds of killer bots roaming the station, slaughtering innocent people?”
Tripp cocks his head to the side and pulls a fake pondering expression. “No, actually . . . now you mention it.” He shrugs. “I just went in there, took everyone’s coffee orders . . . gave them some shit about their fantasy baseball picks . . .” He rolls his eyes. “Of course I told them about the killer bots!”
There’s a long horrible silence as Tripp and Jonah stare at each other. The power of their mutual dislike is so intense that I can practically smell the testosterone rolling off them. I’ve never been in the middle of a staring contest between two grown men, but I decide it’s best just to try to keep everyone on task.
“So,” I say to Tripp. “Did you find out anything else? What’s their plan for containing the bots?”
Tripp blinks slowly, as though he’s emerging from a hormone-fueled demon trance. “Honestly, it doesn’t sound like they can agree on a plan. I guess the bots’ location data has been disabled, so they aren’t able to track them.”
“Why don’t they just watch the feeds?”
“That was my suggestion!” says Tripp. “But, I have to say . . . I don’t think they really cared to hear my opinion. You can bet
I’m going to have strong words for Kilgard Richards when he and my father lunch on Tuesday.”
“Your father has lunch with the attorney general?”
Tripp shrugs. “They went to school together at the University of Chicago before Father dropped out. Go Maroons!”
I shake my head to ward off the jealousy that just rolled through me. Tripp has led a charmed life, and he doesn’t even know it.
“Okay,” I say. “So we have several hundred bots on the loose. Six people are dead, and it’s about to get a whole lot worse. The colony is going to be waking up soon, and no one knows about the bots.”
“Buford must have someone helping him,” says Jonah. “He doesn’t have the capability to control the bots on his own.”
“Who, though?” I ask. “I saw that interview Ziva gave right after the first attack in Chicago. I don’t think it’s her.”
“Agreed,” says Tripp, a little too quickly.
“Well, we don’t know for sure,” says Jonah.
I shake my head. “I’m telling you . . . I just don’t think she has it in her.”
“Based on what?” Jonah snaps. “Your gut?”
I shrug. “You didn’t see what I saw.”
I know that Jonah isn’t convinced, and as long as Tripp maintains that Ziva is innocent, it’s going to be hard to get Jonah to agree.
“Well, if the FBI can’t figure out who’s helping him, I don’t think we’re going to have much luck,” says Tripp.
“So what’s the plan?”
“We keep at it,” says Jonah. “Focus on neutralizing the bots. We need the entire station on lockdown except for essential personnel. We can’t have innocent people getting mixed up in all this. They’ll just be in the way.”
“We can’t lock down the colony!” says Tripp incredulously.
Jonah’s scowl deepens. “We don’t have a choice.”
“Um, how about not holding my patrons prisoner? This isn’t a war zone, Sergeant.”
“It just became one,” says Jonah.
“Still . . . You can’t just institute martial law.”
“Would you rather they all be dead?”
Tripp just stares at him, but Jonah doesn’t push the issue. Even though I know his attitude is coming from his dislike of Tripp, there’s an undercurrent of desperation in his voice that tells me Jonah has seen more death than Tripp and I can even imagine. He knows exactly what is at stake.
“It’s for the best,” I say. “Sending them out into this puts everyone at risk.”
“I don’t want to start a panic.”
“Then lie,” I snap. “Tell them there’s a gas leak, or —”
“On a space station?”
I give Tripp a pointed stare. “You’ll think of something. Just make sure people don’t leave their suites.”
I can see that Tripp wants to argue, but he doesn’t. Jonah and I take off for the fitness center and leave him to deal with the lockdown.
Jonah is half jogging, half running, and when I try to keep up, a sharp pain pierces my side. I drag in a hard burst of air. It feels as if a piece of my rib is stabbing me in the lung. I let out a slow hiss to keep from moaning, and Jonah turns over his shoulder to look at me.
“You all right?” he asks.
“Fine,” I say, gritting my teeth to ward off the pain. Suck it up, Maggie, I think. We have to keep going.
I keep my legs pushing forward, but each and every breath is accompanied by a horrible stabbing pain in my lung.
“Maggie . . .” says Jonah.
I ignore him and keep moving.
“Maggie!”
I stop and brace a hand against the wall to my right. I’m holding my breath to keep the pain at bay, and I’m starting to feel lightheaded.
Jonah’s face swims in front of me. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head, unable to speak.
“Where does it hurt, Maggie?”
I struggle to bring his expression into focus. When I finally do, I see that his eyes are crinkled in concern. It’s sweet that he’s worried about me, but, damn, I can’t think about him right now.
“Maggie . . .”
“What?”
“I’m taking you to the infirmary.”
“I’m fine,” I say, swallowing down a surge of nausea.
“You’re not fine,” says Jonah calmly. “You probably have injuries from . . . when you were taken. You need to see a doctor.”
I can tell it’s hard for him to put my ordeal into words. Part of me wants to argue with him, but I can hardly talk, let alone fight. I can’t run without feeling excruciating pain. I certainly wouldn’t be able to hold my own against a bot with superhuman strength.
Before I can say a word, Jonah bends down and scoops me clean off my feet. One minute I’m just standing there, and the next my body is tight against his chest. Somehow my arm ends up around his neck, and suddenly I can smell him everywhere — that clean, wonderful citrus smell that is unique to Jonah.
My breath catches in my throat, and the sharp pain that follows jolts me out of my heady state. Jonah carries me down the frozen escalator toward the infirmary in Sector I, not even breaking a sweat. Normally I would feel embarrassed being carried by my former sergeant, but it’s actually a relief.
As we approach the infirmary, I realize that I’ve never actually spent any time in Sector I. I’ve passed through on several occasions, but I’ve never done a story on Elderon’s medical system or any infirmary personnel. I reach up on instinct to capture some footage before realizing that I’m still missing my Optix.
Jonah shoots me a weird look, and I put my hand down.
Soon the hallway begins to look more like a terrestrial medical facility. The walls are cream colored with handrails running along the middle. The place is completely deserted.
We reach a set of sliding glass doors with a big red cross superimposed over the glass. They whoosh open automatically, and Jonah carries me right up to the reception desk.
The waiting room looks like most waiting rooms on Earth. It has the same uncomfortable plastic chairs they have at every DMV and stacks of wrinkled magazines.
Jonah puts me down and smashes the little silver bell sitting on the reception desk with his palm. It dings loudly to no reply. There’s no one else around.
Jonah bangs on the bell for what feels like an eternity until a nurse comes running in from the back. He’s young — probably my age — and looks endlessly accommodating. But at the sight of Jonah’s sour expression, his determinedly cheerful face falls.
“Sorry to bother you —” I begin.
“We need to see a doctor,” says Jonah in a loud voice.
“Certainly,” says the nurse, still maintaining that overly friendly tone. “Just have a seat, fill this out, and someone will be with you short —”
“No,” says Jonah, not bothering to look at the clipboard the nurse slid across the desk. “We need to see a doctor now.”
“Yes, sir. I understand. The doctor will be with you in just a minute, but I still need you to fill out —”
“Maybe you didn’t hear me,” says Jonah sharply, “but this is an emergency.”
“No. No, it’s not.” I give Jonah’s arm a painful squeeze and try to smile at the nurse. But as I fight the pinching in my lung, my smile comes out more like a grimace. “I can wait.”
I feel the tendons in Jonah’s arm tighten, and I give his wrist a light tug.
“We’ll wait,” he grumbles.
I look back at the nurse, whose eyes are wide and irritated. Clearly the initial friendliness was just an act. I don’t blame him for hating us.
“It’s all right,” I say to Jonah. “You go on. I’ll come find you as soon as I —”
“I’m not leaving you here alone,” he says.
I glance at the nurse, who’s staring at us with the most brazen nosiness I have ever seen. Clearly he has no idea what’s been going on out there, and he doesn’t understand why Jonah’s so worked up.
“Okay,” I mumble, more to diffuse the awkwardness than anything else.
The nurse disappears, and I sink down into one of the uncomfortable chairs. Jonah remains standing, his eyes darting around as though he is mentally climbing the walls. The stabbing in my lung has subsided, but the pain is still there, edging back in with every breath.
We wait in strained silence for several minutes until the nurse finally reappears. He offers us a cold smile and tells us to come on back.
We go through the door to the left of the reception desk, where the nurse takes my height and weight. Then he leads me back to the exam room and scoots off to get the doctor.
I’m about to walk inside when I stop short, aware of Jonah following me.
“You’re coming in?” I say pointedly, looking up and down the hallway.
“Yeah,” he says, as though this isn’t weird. His expression says I’m not getting rid of him.
“Fine,” I sigh, stepping into the exam room. It’s small but not depressing like some doctors’ offices.
The walls are painted a soft mint green, and all the accents are white. There’s a padded exam table that’s folded down flat, built-in cabinets, a rolling stool, a trash can, a floor lamp, and a biohazard waste bin.
I climb up onto the exam table while Jonah stands guard by the door. If there was more room in here, I’m sure he’d be pacing, but he just crosses his arms and waits.
Feeling antsy, I glance around the room to distract myself and notice a white privacy curtain between the wall and the table. I have a sudden vision of Jonah standing awkwardly on the other side while the doctor performs an exam, and I have to squeeze down a laugh to avoid more stabbing pain.
Jonah shoots me a strange look but doesn’t say a word.
A few minutes later, there’s a knock at the door, and the doctor walks in briskly. She’s got porcelain skin, dark-brown hair, and green eyes that seem luminous against her pale complexion.
“Good morning,” she says, snapping the door shut behind her.
“Morning,” I reply.
Jonah says nothing.
“Magnolia Barnes?”