Colony War

by Tarah Benner

  Still, I’ve never used a jetpack, and it’s probably the coolest thing I’ve ever done. I don’t feel weightless — not exactly — but it’s like being strapped to a supercharged hot-air balloon.

  Things get serious when we reach the ledge of the roof. As soon as Maggie lets off the throttle, we both plummet like a rock. My stomach flies into my throat, and suddenly I remember why I don’t like heights.

  Maggie quickly injects more fuel, pulling us up before we sink to the ground.

  “Make us hover,” I growl, straining to hold her in my aching arms.

  “I’m trying!” she snaps. “It’s harder than it looks.”

  I bite back the retort that’s burning on my tongue. This is why I wanted to go alone. Maggie’s sweet-smelling hair is smashed against my face, and I don’t know if I want to shake her or kiss her.

  I lean forward slightly, and the change in position causes us to rock off balance. For a moment I’m staring straight at the ground, and the jets roar angrily behind me.

  “It’s okay,” I say, righting us as Maggie shrieks.

  We rise a few more inches, and Maggie manages to tap the edge of the roof with her foot. She reels us in, and we drift slowly up over the ledge.

  “Let me go,” she says suddenly, turning her head so that our noses almost touch.

  “What? No?” I’m distracted by the close proximity to her freckles. I want to count them, kiss them, wipe the smudges off her glasses. What the hell is wrong with me?

  “Come on,” she says, oblivious to the bizarre thoughts that just flashed through my brain. “I’ll jump onto the roof and pull you down.”

  I look from her to the roof. Our feet are too far from the ledge.

  “I’ll be okay,” she says.

  “No.”

  “We can’t just float here all day,” Maggie snaps, glaring at me with those blue-green eyes.

  I open my mouth to argue some more, but Maggie reaches down and pinches my arm. It’s not a gentle pinch. She grinds my skin between her fingernails, and my reflex is to let go.

  She rolls out of my arms and lands sprawled on the roof, and I struggle mightily to right myself. A searing pain rips through my calf, and I realize I’ve been burned by the jets.

  “Are you okay?” Maggie calls, righting herself and turning around.

  I swear loudly. I am so fucking mad. I burned my leg trying to straighten my body, and the cool breeze hurts like hell. I burned a hole clean through my pant leg. I’ll be lucky if I still have skin.

  Fuming, I shut off the fuel and drop to the roof. I hiss as I land on my injured leg, and Maggie lets out a screech of horror.

  “Oh my god! I’m sorry!”

  Too late. I just glare at her and drop the jetpack. An angry patch of red skin is glowing through my pant leg. It’s going to blister and probably peel, but it could have been much, much worse.

  “Never — do that again,” I growl, too shaky with anger to really let her have it.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeats, looking so horrified that it puts a damper on my rage.

  I swallow down my pain and look around. Based on Van de Graaf’s description, I’d half expected to crash-land in a tropical oasis. But the roof is enormous.

  On one side, I can see some damage from the IED. The corner of the roof is partially caved in, and that area has been cordoned off with tape. We walk slowly toward the other end, and I see a splash of green on the other side.

  Tripp’s meditation garden is surrounded by silver birch trees bursting from pots along the ledge. I can hear the trickle of a waterfall, but I don’t see it right away. There’s a raised wooden platform shrouded in ferns and a stone Buddha statue about the size of a Labrador.

  The entire garden is bordered by grayish-white stones, and when I duck around the shivering birch trees, I see a small stone waterfall trickling into a basin. Maggie reaches in and feels for the key while I duck around the edge of the garden. I hit my head on a round meditation bell, and Maggie lets out a snort of laughter.

  I ignore her and head for a door jutting out from a sloped enclave. Maggie unlocks the door, we slip inside, and my eyes take a moment to adjust to the dark.

  We’re standing in an emergency stairwell with cinder-block walls and concrete steps. I can still smell smoke and the acrid stench of melted plastic, but the fifth-floor stairwell is unobstructed.

  We wind down the stairwell as quick as we can. We pass a red number four and then a three, and I know we have to be getting close to the Workshop.

  I glance up at the ceiling and see a tiny black circle. This entire place is probably rigged with cameras. With a little luck, Mordecai won’t be expecting us to come in through the roof. He’ll be focused on ground-level surveillance.

  We reach the second floor, and I stop to chamber a round in my pistol. My belt is strapped with extra magazines, and I have another pistol in addition to my rifle. Maggie has a handgun on her belt, and we’re each carrying one of Jared’s bot stunners.

  Maggie nervously chambers a round, and I wish I could think of something to say. Mordecai could be waiting for us on the other side of that door — him and an entire army of bots.

  But I never know what I should say, so I meet Maggie’s gaze and throw open the door. I jump out first to clear the area, and Maggie follows right behind.

  We’re standing in a hallway with charcoal carpeting and smart walls glowing with a constant stream of information: bugs that need to be fixed, customer-service tickets, company-wide memos, and happy-birthday messages.

  Maggie covers me from behind as we move down the hall. The building is eerily quiet.

  I can feel the emptiness of each missing stranger, and the cool morning air means there’s no hum of an air conditioner to break the never-ending silence. There’s no sound at all apart from the buzz of overhead lighting and the slight give of the carpet beneath our feet.

  We pass a long wall of frosted glass with white doors spaced every twenty feet. There are odd names on all the placards — names like Phobos, Deimos, Europa, and Elara. I stick my head in one room after another, waiting for a bot to jump out to kill us.

  We cover the entire hallway, but we never come across the bright-orange room. We head down another flight of stairs, and I wait for Maggie by the first-floor door.

  My heart is hammering in my ribcage. I can sense an ambush brewing on the other side, but I prep myself for battle the way I always have.

  “Stay alert,” I say to Maggie, feeling a tingle of familiarity as we prepare to infiltrate enemy lines. I don’t finish with “stay alive.” Maybe it’s superstition, but I can’t bring myself to say it.

  I open the door a tiny crack and pan my pistol out into the hallway. It’s empty and quiet — not a bot in sight.

  I jerk my head at Maggie, and we follow the hallway down to an open atrium with shiny slate tile. Light is pouring in through the enormous windows, and the entire place reeks of fresh paint.

  We cross the atrium at a brisk pace, and I get a slight itch on the back of my neck. I feel as though I’m being watched, but it could just be discomfort at our exposed position.

  We pass a waiting area with long white couches, and I see police cars parked outside. We reach the other end of the atrium. There’s a tiny café with a lunch counter and plastic tables by the windows. The hum of a refrigerator fills the small space.

  On the other side of the café is a wide hallway with more smart walls. The hallway opens up into a huge lounge, where couches, tables, and orange footstools are arranged in front of more tall windows.

  Beyond that, I see an orange glow emanating from the next room over. I raise my pistol and creep forward, waiting for a surge of bots. Blood is pounding in my temples, and I can taste Maggie’s fear.

  I check the stunner at my belt and creep toward the opening in the wall. I’m standing in a room that’s painted Halloween orange, and a feeling of dread sinks into my gut.

  Five people are seated around the room, bound to office swivel c
hairs. Desks line both sides of the Workshop, where Maverick’s developers work all day.

  My gaze locks on the oldest hostage first. It’s Strom Van de Graaf — CEO of Maverick. He’s slumped forward in his chair, looking nothing like the man from Fast Company.

  My heart sinks. They can’t be dead.

  No. They’re alive and seem unharmed, but none of them looks happy to see me.

  I creep forward with my pistol drawn, and Maggie follows close behind. I see her lower her weapon ever so slightly, but I want to tell her to keep it up.

  Something isn’t right. I can feel it in my bones.

  “Mr. Van de Graaf? Mr. Morgan?” Maggie takes another step forward, but I throw out an arm to stop her.

  None of the CEOs says a word.

  Strom Van de Graaf’s throat bobs as he swallows, and I catch a look of desperation in Teegan Henley’s eyes. That’s when I realize they aren’t allowed to speak.

  They’re outfitted with identical plastic chest straps, which are hooked to small square devices that fasten in the front. Whatever those things are, they must prevent them from talking.

  “They’re fine,” booms a voice overhead.

  I wheel around, heart racing, searching for the source of the voice.

  “They are not allowed to talk.”

  It’s Mordecai. His voice is echoing from a speaker in the corner. He must be watching us from the surveillance feeds.

  “One word, and those devices around their chests will deliver a powerful electric shock. They cannot speak; they cannot move . . . Not unless I permit it.”

  I glance at Maggie, who is wearing an expression of intense disgust.

  “Don’t worry,” says Mordecai. “They have been treated humanely. We’re in this together, after all.”

  “Show yourself, Mordecai!” I yell, my voice echoing in the enormous room. The orange paint job is giving me a headache. I want to end this now.

  “Oh, Sergeant.” Mordecai tsks. “You can’t possibly think I’m that foolish.”

  Suddenly, a beam of light appears in the middle of the semicircle — right in front of Strom Van de Graaf. It’s a desktop sitting on the carpet, but I hadn’t noticed it before.

  The beam of light flickers and melds into the shape of a man. It’s Mordecai, and with his projection emanating from the center of the room, it looks as though he’s standing right there.

  Suddenly it dawns on me. The video we saw of Mordecai was shot right here with this desktop. Mordecai isn’t here in the flesh. He could be anywhere in the world.

  “Where are you?” Maggie growls. She knows that we’ve been tricked.

  “Oh, here and there,” he says, cracking a smile at his own cleverness. “I knew you would recognize this room, even if you’d never seen it before. Maverick’s Elderon headquarters were built to mirror the Mountain View office exactly. You really do some excellent reporting, Ms. Jones.”

  At the use of Maggie’s pen name, horror overrides my senses. He’s been watching Maggie for a while — filing away her stories to use what she knew against her. He knew she’d recognize the Workshop. He wanted us to come.

  “Don’t look so morose, Sergeant,” Mordecai chides. “You get a front-row seat for the show.”

  27

  Maggie

  Horror spreads through my body as the realization sinks in. Mordecai isn’t here. It’s just his projection in the center of the room, looking as solid as the real thing.

  Over his shoulder I see Strom Van de Graaf looking straight at me. The resemblance to Tripp is uncanny. His hair is white instead of black and not nearly as curly, but apart from that, his face, his eyes — every part of him screams Tripp.

  I glance from one hostage to another, and everything they’ve gone through is written on their faces. I see the fear, the loss of dignity, and the irony of being ransomed for the companies they built.

  Strom is sitting in the middle. To his right is Teegan Henley, founder of data collection and analytics company, Continuum. She’s short in stature and surprisingly young — twenty-six or twenty-seven at most. She’s wearing a black denim jacket and purple leggings, and she has a pixie cut that’s been dyed hot pink.

  On her other side is Zephyr Morgan — pale, late thirties, with anemic blond hair that’s too long on top. He’s dressed in all black and is wearing a pair of latex gloves. It must be the germaphobe thing.

  To Strom’s left are two CEOs I’ve never seen before. I identify them by process of elimination: Si Damm and Zuni Monroe, creators of CentrySystems and LifeSync.

  “Thank you all for coming,” says Mordecai in a nauseating voice, as though he’s presiding over a meeting everyone convened willingly to attend. “This has been a most productive morning.”

  I swallow and glance at Jonah, who seems to be calculating our odds of escape. I know he’s trying to guess how many bots Mordecai has hidden. He isn’t foolish enough to leave his hostages unguarded.

  “Mr. Damm has kindly allowed us access to all the security footage his company collects,” Mordecai continues.

  I glance over at Si, the Korean man to Strom’s left. Si’s company created the technology used by security bots to identify threats. Law-enforcement agencies rely on the information that his company provides, which means that if CentrySystems has been breached, we can’t expect help from the police.

  Si is a small man with floppy black hair and black rectangular glasses. He’s wearing a forgettable blue button-down shirt and plain charcoal slacks. I can practically feel the CEOs’ animosity washing over him, and Teegan Henley looks as though she’d like to kick him where the sun don’t shine.

  “Ah! Would you look at that? It’s almost time for our board meeting with Maverick,” says Mordecai. “Mr. Van de Graaf, you will be allowed to speak. The rest of you shall remain silent.”

  Strom’s face darkens, and my pulse quickens. As a board member and Strom’s son, Tripp will most definitely be on the call.

  I close my eyes. Part of me desperately wants to see a friendly face; the other part doesn’t want him to see us here. If Tripp learns that we failed — that we fell right into Mordecai’s trap — he’ll think it’s all over. Who knows what he’ll do.

  Mordecai pings the board, and I take the opportunity to study the last CEO. Zuni Monroe is a woman in her early forties. She has medium-brown skin and dark ringlets that hang wild around her face. She’s wearing an orange blouse, loose vest, long flowing skirt, and a dark scowl that seems at odds with her earthy wardrobe.

  A second later, the screen populates with eight separate feeds, and the board members’ faces appear. They must have been waiting for Mordecai’s call.

  Tripp is in the center of the top row, with Ziva down at the bottom right. There are seven Maverick board members in all, including Strom — the deciding vote.

  I stare at Tripp, whose eyes are fixed straight ahead. I realize then that he can’t see us. Another camera is zoomed in on his father, and the eighth feed shows Mordecai’s face.

  “Thank you all for coming,” says Mordecai graciously, pacing so that his projection marches up and down the center of the room. “I have called this meeting to present my demands.”

  Strom scowls.

  “Now, of course, you can choose to ignore these demands, but the consequences will be swift and severe.”

  Tripp’s face darkens into a glare that exactly mirrors his father’s.

  “First,” says Mordecai. “I shall require administrator-level access on all Optix devices.”

  He lets this statement land, and it’s followed by a loud grumbling from the board. Tripp just glares at Mordecai, as though he might be able to set him on fire through sheer force of will.

  I glance at Jonah, whose expression is grim. He knows that if Mordecai is allowed access to the entire Optix network, no communication will be secure. He’d be able to eavesdrop on any conversation at will or cut someone off from the network completely.

  “You can’t be serious,” says Ziva finally, sta
ring at her brother as though she barely recognizes him.

  “Haven’t you learned your lesson, Sister? You never took me seriously, and just look where that’s gotten us.” Mordecai’s mouth wavers in a condescending half smile before refocusing on the other board members. “I will require access to the entire network, and I will need a commercial shuttle furnished for my use. The Impetus would do quite nicely . . . And I’ll require a pilot, of course.”

  I glance at Tripp, my mind racing. I can only imagine one use that Mordecai would have for the Impetus: to transport hundreds of bots from Earth to Elderon. It would be too easy.

  The other board members are grumbling amongst themselves, their faces pale and angry. To give Mordecai control of the Optix network and the freedom to move between Earth and Elderon would essentially be offering him world domination. There’d be no stopping him.

  Mordecai holds out his hands, as though he’s presenting the board with an offer rather than demanding a ransom. “Shall we vote?” he asks cheerfully, looking from one to another.

  He smiles. “Keep in mind that if the vote passes, the esteemed Mr. Van de Graaf will live to see his grandchildren. If the vote fails, well . . .” He shrugs and lets out a burst of laughter that falls flat. “Let’s not dwell on that, shall we?”

  Mordecai’s words are followed by a long moment of silence. Some of the board members’ eyes are down, and I guess they’re typing messages amongst themselves.

  “Now, now,” Mordecai chides. “No cheating.” He claps his hands together. “Let’s hear the vote.”

  He starts with the grizzled old man in the upper left-hand corner. “Killjoy?”

  “Nay,” says the old man, his jowls quivering with the force of his rage.

  “Pity,” says Mordecai. “I’ll remember you, Killjoy. Trinity?”

  “Yay,” says a younger man with a five o’clock shadow. He’s nervous and sweaty and makes the pronouncement as if he knows there isn’t any other way.

  “That’s one,” says Mordecai triumphantly. “Macy?”