Colony War

by Tarah Benner

  The house is perched on a cliff overlooking the water. It’s a three-story white stucco monstrosity with clay roof tiles and cathedral windows. Private balconies overlook the courtyard, which is bursting with succulents and a host of exotic plants.

  We aren’t expecting there to be a guard. Tripp hasn’t been home in nearly a month. He didn’t mention it in his message, but I’m guessing he hired a caretaker to look after the house.

  As an added precaution, we park the car on the street and skirt the length of the wall until it drops off along the edge of the cliff.

  There doesn’t seem to be any way in. If I had to guess, the entire courtyard is rigged with motion sensors and alarms that will summon the police if an intruder is detected.

  “Any ideas?” I ask Jonah, coming back around to the gate. It’s just wide enough to accommodate a vehicle, and I can see a sprawling green oasis on the other side.

  “Not unless Van de Graaf gave you his secret access code,” Jonah grumbles, lifting the cover on the keypad and slamming it closed again.

  The keypad isn’t one of the minimalist numeric ones that are installed all over the space station. It’s one of those metal keypads with letters engraved along the bottom of the keys like an old-fashioned telephone.

  “Hang on,” I say, stepping up to the keypad and examining it more closely.

  No, I think, filled with a sudden burst of inspiration. It’s too easy.

  I type in two-six-six-two-seven. Jonah is watching me in confusion.

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  I don’t answer. I just close my eyes and hope it works.

  For nearly two seconds, nothing happens. Then I hear a loud beep, and the gate clicks open automatically.

  “Yes! It worked!” I cry, utterly amazed that I managed to put two and two together.

  “How did you —”

  I roll my eyes. Only Tripp could come up with something so stupid. “Boobs” — the one word in his message that didn’t make sense — was actually the passcode to his gate.

  We walk through to the courtyard, and I sense Jonah silently fuming. I’m not sure why he’s so irritated. Maybe it’s the fact that Tripp owns such a lavish home — one that he’s not even living in — or maybe it’s that I seemed to have cracked the code on Tripp’s pervy subconscious.

  Trying to ignore the cloud of awkwardness hanging over us, I pass Jonah on the driveway and make my way to the front entrance.

  Tripp’s house has a sweeping adobe porch and heavy mahogany doors adorned with intricate wood carvings. The fronts of the steps are covered in hand-painted Talavera tile, and the beautiful arched windows give the house a look reminiscent of a New Mexican church.

  One of the windows around the front is cracked open. It seems odd to leave a window open if no one is at home, but then I hear music coming from inside.

  I put a finger to my lips and take a step forward, every cell in my body instantly on alert. It sounds like some kind of game show playing. Someone is watching TV.

  I catch Jonah’s eye and duck down in the bushes, stabbing myself with the point of a yucca. I cringe without making a sound and slowly rise into a crouch.

  Peering inside, I see a large sitting room with a TV. The shiny Saltillo tile is covered with wool rugs, and there are decorative iron lanterns mounted in brackets along the walls. A gold-leaf Bodhi tree set against a burgundy backdrop is hanging beside the kiva fireplace, and a tiny bonsai is perched on a table opposite.

  Tripp’s house is not at all what I pictured. It’s an odd mix of Southwest and Far East — warm and homey but also minimalist in its furnishings.

  An enormous leather sectional takes up most of the room, and a plump Hispanic man is sitting with his feet propped up on the coffee table, shoving what looks like a powdered donut into his fluffy bearded face.

  I let out an exasperated sigh. Tripp could have warned us that someone would be here. The man could be a houseguest, the caretaker, or a very ballsy burglar, but I doubt that he’s expecting us. If we don’t handle this well, he could call the police before we have a chance to contact Tripp.

  “What’s the plan?” I ask Jonah, sliding down carefully to avoid the yucca.

  “We lure him out,” says Jonah, glancing once more into the living room, where I can hear the man laughing at something the game-show host said.

  “Wait here,” says Jonah. “I’ll take care of him.”

  “Take care of him?” I repeat.

  Jonah gives me a pointed look. “I’m not gonna kill him . . . You go find the shower and see if you can figure out what Van de Graaf was talking about.”

  I nod, but inside I’m all nerves. Jonah strips off his overshirt, which is very clearly part of the Space Force uniform, and tosses it in the bushes. His gray shirt and navy pants are fairly nondescript, but I’m still not sure what he has in mind.

  A second later, he straightens up, walks to the front door, and knocks loudly. He folds his arms behind his back, and I can’t help but think that he’s going to get caught. Jonah can’t hide his military background just by taking off part of the uniform. He wears the army on him like a second skin.

  Nearly a minute drags by as I wait in anxious silence. After what seems like forever, the bearded man answers, and Jonah holds out a hand for him to shake. The man takes it and mumbles something, and Jonah transitions to Spanish.

  He turns over his shoulder and points to one of the odd-looking plants near the courtyard wall. It’s got spiky red flowers and enormous black seed pods that make it look as though it was dropped here from another planet.

  The man nods in understanding and steps away from the door. Jonah continues in broken Spanish, and I assume they’re talking about the plant.

  I don’t know what Jonah’s plan entails, but this might be my only chance. The bearded man left the front door cracked. I decide to make a break for it.

  I jet out from behind the bushes and hear Jonah raise his voice — probably to cover the crunch of my footsteps as I blaze a path through the lava rock.

  I pad up the steps and slip through the door, letting out a breath of relief as I enter Tripp’s living room. The TV is still blaring in the background, and it covers my footsteps as I head down the hallway.

  Tripp’s house is freaking gigantic. I could fit four of my old apartments in the dining room alone. The bathroom on the first floor doesn’t have a shower, so I take the stairs up to the second floor.

  Moving through the house is harder than I imagined. It takes every ounce of my self-control to keep from gawking at Tripp’s decor. The house is a beautifully restored adobe with arched windows peering from one room to the next and little recessed cubbies occupied by Buddha statues and African violets.

  The second floor is an odd in-between space. At least half of it has been converted to an office. There’s also a yoga room overlooking the courtyard and a guest bedroom with attached bath. There’s no shower in the guest bedroom — just a luxurious clawfoot bathtub positioned near the window.

  I head up to the third floor and pass a window looking out toward the front. I don’t see Jonah or the bearded guy. I hurry down to the next window, pressing my face against the glass.

  The courtyard is empty, the gate is closed, and Jonah is nowhere in sight.

  Shit.

  I hurry down the hallway toward a pair of heavy double doors. I burst through them without taking the time to appreciate the intricate carvings and find myself standing in the master suite.

  An enormous four-poster bed draped in mosquito netting is positioned near the center of the room. It’s covered in fluffy white linens and piled high with silk pillows in shades of burgundy and orange.

  There’s a fireplace in one corner and a beautiful set of French doors leading out onto a balcony. From there I can see the glistening expanse of the bay and the endless blue sky. This must be where Tripp brings his conquests.

  By the time I reach the master bath, I feel as though I’ve been trapped in a reality sho
w touring ridiculous celebrity homes. And the bathroom . . . Oh, my. I would gladly die and be buried here.

  A wall of greenery stands guard over the natural stone jetted tub. Blackened copper basins rest under tall narrow mirrors, and in the corner is the shower to end all showers.

  The back wall is done in natural slate to match the grotto-style tub, and the rest of the walls are made of glass. An enormous boulder is positioned in the center of three gigantic shower heads, and little potted plants burst from every nook and cranny.

  Shaking my head at Tripp’s lavish taste, I open the heavy glass door and step inside.

  He must have a professional decorator. I’ve never seen a shower like this in my life.

  At that moment, Jonah walks in. His eyes dart from the ridiculous tub to me standing in the shower, and a strange look flashes through his eyes.

  “Where’s the guy?” I ask, hoping he’s not bound and gagged in a closet downstairs.

  “He left,” says Jonah, taking in the gorgeous bathroom with more disgust than amazement.

  “How did you get rid of him?”

  “Told him I was the exotic plant specialist,” says Jonah with a shrug.

  I raise an eyebrow. I’m impressed.

  “This place is ridiculous,” says Jonah.

  I can’t argue with that. Tripp’s house is all a bit much, but what kind of house would one expect the CXO of a trillion-dollar tech company to own?

  Then, suddenly, canned music begins to play overhead. I look up, startled, and see two horizontal speakers mounted near the ceiling. They blend in so well with the grayish-black slate that I hadn’t even noticed them at first.

  The song playing is “Careless Whisper.” I hold back a groan.

  “What the hell?” says Jonah, looking around for the source of the noise.

  “It’s Tripp’s sound system.”

  “Can you turn it off?” he asks, squinting as though the cheesy saxophone solo physically hurts his ears.

  I reach up near the speaker, groping for an off button. But before I manage to find it, Tripp’s voice booms out inside the shower.

  “Maggie . . . Oooh, Maggie.” His voice is playful, mock-scary — the voice of a friendly shower ghost. “Sergeant Wyatt.” His voice goes flat, and I can practically hear the change in his demeanor.

  I look around. How could Tripp possibly know we’re here?

  “It’s the motion detectors, in case you’re wondering. They’re designed to cue up my music automatically . . .” Tripp trails off, sounding impressed with himself. “Welcome to my oasis. Dubbing over my shower playlist was the only way I could think to talk to you without Mordecai intercepting the message.”

  Jonah scowls. Even he’s impressed.

  “Despite my best efforts, I cannot gain remote access to Maverick HQ. I heard Mordecai captured Zuni Monroe . . . She’ll be the one controlling building security. Lucky for us, there is another way in. It’s a little low tech, but if you think you can handle it . . .”

  “Spit it out,” Jonah grumbles.

  “I have a small meditation garden on the roof. You’ll find a key under the rock in my fountain. It unlocks the maintenance door leading to the stairwell. I might have gotten locked out once or twice . . . It’s a little embarrassing needing to be rescued from the roof of your father’s building.”

  Jonah and I share an eye roll this time.

  “I’m sure Mordecai will have lookouts planted along the perimeter, but you are more than welcome to use my jetpack in the garage to get to the roof. Just be careful. Rescue my father, but please, Maggie, be careful. Mordecai is a lunatic, and I would be devastated if he hurt one hair on your pretty little head. Wyatt . . . godspeed.”

  The recording ends, and the saxophone solo swells. Jonah’s face is a mixture of irritation and amazement. I’m not sure which he finds more ridiculous: the fact that Tripp has a meditation garden or that we’re supposed to access Maverick from the roof.

  “Seriously?” he says finally. “Van der Douche has a jetpack?”

  26

  Jonah

  We find Van de Graaf’s jetpack in the garage just as he said. The thing only weighs about thirty pounds and is definitely designed for just one person. Based on the weight capacity printed on the side, it should be able to lift us both, but how we are going to achieve that I have no idea.

  I throw the jetpack in the trunk of the Camry and toss the extra fuel tanks in the back. Maggie won’t let us take Van de Graaf’s Lamborghini. We drive away from the mansion in the most anticlimactic way possible, and I begin to get this nagging feeling that I really don’t enjoy.

  It isn’t jealousy — you couldn’t pay me to be that guy — but the feeling is annoyingly similar.

  Maggie liked Van de Graaf’s house. I could tell. She could see herself living there with him, and I could, too. I saw the way her eyes lit up in that bathroom. I could see her taking a bubble bath in that jacuzzi. God, could I see it. I’m sure Van de Graaf would love to get her in that shower again, and my whole body clenches at the thought.

  I try to shake it off. I’m not that kind of guy — I’ll never be that kind of guy. And before today, it never bothered me. My dad never had any money, and what he had he blew on booze.

  When I left home at eighteen, my only priority was survival. I joined the army and got deployed, and for years my life felt handled. I got three squares a day, a warm place to sleep, and clean clothes. It was more than I’d ever had in my life.

  When I got discharged, it was back to square one — working one shitty job after another. Money was always tight, but I only had myself to worry about. I’m not a relationship guy — never have been. I don’t need to impress anyone.

  But being in Van de Graaf’s house bothered me because I saw what I’ll never have. Girls like Maggie don’t end up with guys like me. They’ll screw guys like me, but they want more.

  I’m so caught up in my thoughts that I take a wrong turn on the way to the motel. We stop by to check Jared’s progress on the way to Maverick, and Maggie gives me a funny look. I ignore her and knock four times, hoping the kid hasn’t been bot-snatched.

  Jared has managed to build two of his bot-stopping devices, which he calls “circuit stunners.” I don’t like the name, but he’s managed to give each device the capacity to take down three bots. At least they’ll give us an edge when we break into Maverick headquarters.

  Maggie and I get back in the car and head toward the police barricade, circling Maverick’s courtyard twice to check the place for bots.

  The building looks deserted, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there. The place is still surrounded with yellow tape, and I can see the charred hole on the fifth floor from where the bomb exploded.

  By the looks of things, they managed to put out the fire. The damage seems to be contained to the topmost floor, but the entire building is still an active crime scene.

  I stop the car in the parking lot next door and carry the jetpack around the back of the building. It feels conspicuous doing this in broad daylight, but we’ve lost enough time as it is.

  I’ve been trying to figure out how I’m going to break the news about the jetpack to Maggie, but I know before I open my mouth that she’s not going to like it.

  “You wait here,” I say, cutting right to the chase. “I’ll go up to the roof, get the key, and check out the inside.”

  “What? No.” Maggie gives me a look that says I’m being ridiculous. “I’m coming with you.”

  “You can’t,” I say, anticipating this reaction. “The jetpack is only meant for one person.”

  “Then it’ll be me.”

  I let out an exasperated sigh, gearing up for battle. A thousand responses flit through my mind, but I can’t think of one that doesn’t sound like an insult.

  I’m stronger . . . I’ve had more training . . . She won’t like either of those. The best one is probably “I used to ambush people for a living,” but I don’t use that one either. Instead I blurt out,
“I have to keep you safe,” and instantly wish I could take back the words.

  Maggie opens her mouth, ready to argue, but she’s so surprised by my response that she’s struck temporarily speechless.

  That isn’t what I was expecting, but I decide to roll with it anyway. “If this goes bad, get Jared’s invention to the police. They’ll need it to stop the humanoids.”

  “No,” says Maggie stubbornly. “I’m going with you.”

  I just stare at her. It’s not happening, but I don’t want our last conversation to end in a fight. I don’t know if I’ll make it out of there alive.

  “How much do you weigh?” she demands.

  “Too much,” I say. I know where this is going.

  “You can’t weigh more than one eighty, one ninety,” she says. “I definitely don’t weigh one fifty, and this thing is good up to three hundred and fifty pounds.”

  I stare at her for a second. She isn’t going to budge.

  “Put it on,” she demands. “I’m coming with you.”

  I shake my head and don the jetpack. I’m not sure why I’m letting this happen when everything inside of me is telling me no.

  Maggie replaces the old fuel tanks with new ones and tightens the straps around my torso. We quickly discover that she can’t wrap her legs around me — not without getting burned by the flames.

  Finally, I just pick her up princess-style and immediately catch a whiff of her sweet floral smell. It’s wafting from her thick blond hair, and in that moment I realize that I’ve lost my mind.

  I hit the button on the chest strap and breathe in quickly as the jetpack ignites. Maggie is the one controlling the throttle, and to my amazement we start to rise up — up, up, and over the hedge.

  It quickly becomes clear why the pack was designed for one person and one person only. Maggie is heavy for such a small woman, and her weight pulls me forward — face toward the ground.

  Maggie keeps adjusting the throttle, but it’s difficult to give it enough gas to keep us moving and not so much that we become unstable.