by Therin Knite
Now, I could attempt to ascend four flights of steps and reach the infirmary, where a few pieces of high-tech medical equipment could determine the extent of the damage and perhaps even save my life. But in the time it would take to heal my injuries, Salt’s new incursion would reach its finale, and my chance to reset Howard would be lost. So I sit on the landing for several labored minutes, glancing at the stairs going up and the stairs going down.
I whisper a silent swear and grab the downward railing. I can’t walk; my legs won’t support me. Instead, using my hands and feet, I crawl like a child one step at a time to the basement level of the Center. There are sixty-eight steps between my current location and my first destination, followed by a half-mile trip to the CPU room. And somewhere along the way, I have to disable the security feeds again from a different portal in order to get past the patrolmen guarding the room.
A gargantuan task for an athletic young man. A miracle for a dying old bast—
I slip. Forty-six steps in, my hand slides off the railing, and I pitch forward, bouncing down the remaining steps to the basement landing. Every impact jars the shrapnel inside me, tearing new holes and unstopping severed blood vessels. By the time I stop moving, blood is pouring out of me like I’m a human sieve. My injured lung stops functioning. My vision blacks out, colorful spots dancing in my periphery.
I don’t feel pain. I’m past that point. It’s all intense pressure and a resigned sense of impending doom. That’s why I prop myself up and continue, shuffling on my hands and knees to the exit door. The door weighs eighteen tons to my exhausted body, and when I collapse on the other side, breathless, the metal is drenched in liquid red. No time to rest.
My vision is spotty, and every minute or so, I lose track of where I am, what I’m doing, what I’ve done. And when I come to again, I hate myself for the sins I’ve committed in Howard’s name. I drag my body along the wall, cursing my ignorance, my lack of integrity, my abandonment of every moral quality I held dear as a young man. But as soon as the regret buds in my heart, I squash it with the thirsty logic, the rationalizations I’ve used to flame my actions for years on end. I haven’t had time to hate myself for a quarter of my life. And the time to do it isn’t now. It’s after I succeed.
And if I don’t succeed before I die, then the time is never.
Somehow, some way, I make it to the storage room. The passcode pad is out of reach from the floor, so I have to grab the door handle, balance on my knees, type the numbers blind, and hope I’m right.
The door unlocks with a soft click. It’s half the weight of the stairwell door, so I simply lean back and let my mass lug it open. When I do, I spot a camera on the ceiling ten or twelve feet from where I’m kneeling. Howard can see me—he’s restored the security feeds—but he hasn’t come to stop me.
Because he knows I’m going to die before I can do any damage? Because he’s too busy with Salt to worry about me? Because his mind is so scrambled and broken he can’t even monitor the whole Sims Center at once? Does the reason matter? The monster Howard isn’t here, and the one I want is inside a dark and dirty room filled with endless rows of shelves.
The box is in the farthest corner from the door. I glance at my torso. Red from neck to hips. My damaged lung is on fire. I taste copper creeping up my throat. It would make sense to give up here, lie down, and die in a failed heroic effort. Easy. Relaxing.
But when have I ever relaxed? Not in high school, college, my first three jobs. Not since Howard proposed the Heights. Ever. Why change my nature now?
I carry on. Using the shelves as grips, I slog through racks of cardboard boxes, loose paper stacks, and old tech that hasn’t been on store shelves since the Heights was in its infancy. Labored breaths break the silence in the storage room, and my gasping mouth sucks in stale air and cobwebs.
There it is.
On a shelf by itself is a box marked IMPORTANT, but you’d never know it was anything but a bunch of useless paperwork if you were passing by. Howard made the backup chip and told me to store it "wherever," so I stored it here with no complaints because people who feel invincible rarely make rational decisions.
And we did feel invincible. We really did. Newly chartered, the Heights was glorious and globally respected. Howard, the great, ingenious martyr was praised for his efforts by presidents and princes alike. And there I was, a thirty-something man who could only see success and considered failure a subject of ridicule—
I cough. It’s wet. Blood runs over my lips and down my neck. I reach out and lift the top off the box—we didn’t even lock the chip in a safe—and slip a layer of hard protective plastic out, sitting it on the floor. In the center of a Styrofoam cutout is the mind chip in all its glory. Two inches wide and two inches tall. A plastic square that contains the brain of the smartest man I’ve ever known.
My shaking hands pluck the chip out, and I cradle it like a newborn. Oh, how I remember a day like this. In a dusty, dimly lit room in a government office in D.C., where Howard Sims waved a stack of yellowed paper—Whittaker Report, said the front page—and blabbed a mile a minute about the impending human apocalypse. Eyes alight. Voice excited. Horror and hope blended together to form ambition so powerful it drowned me on the first wave. That’s how he captured my heart.
We’ve got to do something, Quentin. You hear? We’ve got to take this horse by the reins and ride it through the goddamn apocalypse. And we can do it. I can do it with you. Don’t you see? It’s the perfect idea. Me, the scientist. You, the businessman. Together, the team of the century. We can save the world!
Howard had always come off as the nervous, introverted scientist until that moment. The day he found the report that detailed the end of the world, that was the day Howard Sims became the charismatic leader he’d always been deep, deep inside.
The taste of blood grows stronger. My stomach convulses.
I want that man back. God, I want him back.
Twenty feet away, the red-stained door beckons for my return. I wipe my face—my cheeks are wet but not with blood—and stifle a chest-wracking sob.
Reset chip stowed safely in my pocket, I haul myself back the way I came, chanting under my breath:
"One more time. Just for Howard. And then you have the end. One more time. Just for Howard. And then the cycle breaks."
4
Marco
I don’t know how they find me, but one second I’m peering out the window, and the next there’s a firefight in the stuffy attic room. My hacked patrolman shields me from regular rifle fire, but two of the opposing patrolmen are armed with burst rifles, and their own armor can’t hold up against that crap for long. So I have to think quickly—my pipe bombs and most of my weapons are downstairs, and I’ve got two exit strategies.
Ladder, which is blocked. Or window with a two-story drop.
"Cover me," I order my patrolman.
Its armor is dented and cracked where burst rounds have shattered on impact, but it moves into a wide defensive position to protect me anyway. It won’t last under this kind of fire, and I don’t want to scrap it yet—it’s my best asset—so I climb over the window ledge and let myself fall into a trash heap that smells like shit left to rot for years. Bottles break under my weight. Aluminum cans crumple. Some hard plastic whatever it is jabs my shoulder blade. My own armor stops it before it impales me.
I push off the pile, pinching my nose shut, and sprint to the front doorway of the department store, where I find two more scouts waiting. They spot me as soon as I round the curb, but I’ve got the speed advantage. I whip my modified pistol out, jam it under the first scout’s neck, and fire a time-delayed burn bullet into its robotic brain. It flails, trying to grab at me, but then the bullet goes off, and its head melts into a puddle of molten goo and glowing metal bits.
The other scout draws its weapon, but I shove my gun barrel into the base of its skull, into a slit between its neck armor and helmet. Its fragile nervous system circuitry bends and breaks, and the patrolman
goes limp, rendered quadriplegic. I hop over its fallen form, grab one of my pipe bombs, and head upstairs where the firefight is in full swing. The attic opening is wide enough for me to achieve a decent trajectory, so I kick the ladder out of the way, slide underneath the opening, and toss the bomb inside.
"Out through the window!" I scream at my patrolman. Then I pluck the detonator from my belt, backtrack to the front entrance, and flick the switch. The shockwave knocks me across the threshold, and I trip over the paralyzed patrolman and land on my ass. The patrolman’s helmet turns to observe me. Some broken wire in its neck sparks at the movement.
"What, fucker? Stop looking at me." Breathing hard, I grab a handful of muddy grime from the sidewalk and smear it on the robot’s faceplate. Take that, Q.
On my feet again, I reenter the store, gather as many of my weapons as possible, and retreat to a prearranged alternate location. As I’m running, I glance at the looming community fence less than a mile away. Quiet. No sign of a fleeing woman. No signal of any kind. I wince at the idea of McClain failing, being killed inside the Sims Center.
Not that I give a damn about McClain. I just need whatever info she’s jackhammered out of the Heights. I need the whole story. The whole truth. The pictures will temporarily damage the community’s reputation with or without context, but I want the kill, and I can’t get the kill without a story that drives the press into a savage, unrelenting frenzy.
My hacked patrolman is waiting at the alternate location, one of his arms hanging useless at his side. His faceplate is cracked, but his sensors appear to be in working order. I drop my extra gear behind the counter—I’m in a diner—and run a quick diagnostic. He’s in good enough shape for one last stand. Assuming that last stand comes to pass. If McClain’s prison break falls through, then all of this was for nothing—
A high-pitched whine cracks the air. Thunderous. Inescapable. It strikes the center of my brain, and I collapse into an empty booth with torn seat cushions. Hands over my ears don’t block it. It rings inside my head, and I grit my teeth and I must be screaming, but the sound is so loud I can’t hear anything else. My eardrums rock against my skull, and tears stream down my cheeks.
God, it hurts!
My hacked patrolman is beside me. It bends down, opens a pouch on my belt, and removes something. But it doesn’t matter. I’m dying. My organs are vibrating in my abdomen, and any moment, I’m going to shake myself apart, and vermin will find the fleshy pieces of me waiting for their feast and I’ll be carried away bloody chunk by chunk into the skeleton of Jackson City and no one will ever find me, know me, care about me, and my soul will wander aimlessly through these disgusting haunted streets and—
The patrolman wrenches my hands away from my ears and shoves something on top of my head.
Immediate, sweet relief!
The sound continues—bones rattle, organs shudder—but my ears are now insulated from the nightmarish cacophony. I raise a quaking hand to my head and feel a thin plastic band with a circular cushion attached to each end. A pair of sound blockers. I hooked them to my utility belt on the off chance any gunfight noise grew too loud for me to concentrate.
I tilt my head up to stare at my damaged patrolman. After a moment’s hesitation, I pat its cracked chest plate. "Thanks, buddy."
Then I swivel around, boost myself onto my knees, and peer through a broken diner window to assess the Heights. And unlike my pane-less diner window, every window of the Sims Center is flashing at two-point-five second intervals. With a red emergency light dimmed dark crimson by the tinted glass. Furthermore, the guard towers along the fence are lit with spotlights aimed at every exit, and each one is manned by at least five patrolmen.
Someone is staging a breakout.
And the debilitating alarm is my signal to attack.
5
Georgette
It’s not pleasant.
Before I can shoot off Salt’s head, the bitch nails me in the gut, throws me on the table, and straps me down. Then she has to go and close the door on the stunned scientists waiting outside. As the massive metal door swings backward, Rocky slings Dupree over his shoulder and guns it, sliding through the gap between door and frame with a grace not unlike that of a ballet dancer. Cain gets the short end of the stick. She tries to follow Rocky into the room, but she’s too slow, and the door clanks shut in her face.
Bummer.
Rocky pleads with Salt to reopen the door, but the robot woman refuses. She reengages the bolt locks and seats herself at a workstation. Rocky then tries to threaten her with my discarded gun; she doesn’t flinch. "I stand by what I said earlier. You’re extra burdens I don’t care to carry. If you can’t keep up, it’s not my fault."
"Don’t you have any compassion?" Rocky situates Dupree against the wall. "She’s going to die! That doesn’t bother you?"
"We’re all going to die." Salt scrolls through a list of operations on the main screen and selects one. The program is named "Reverse Transfer AC3K." As soon as she taps the submit key, a machine attached to the ceiling begins to whir. "And she’s already dead. The next patrolman contingent is at the door now, trying to bust it down. I’ve broken its control overrides, so Sims can’t open it himself. They’ll have to break through it, which gives us about twelve extra minutes. Should be enough time to finish this and escape."
Rocky storms across the room and shoves the gun in Salt’s face. The blue glow from the workstation screen highlights his maimed head, dyes it a grotesque violet. "Why? Why treat us this way? We’re like you! Are you so selfish that you don’t care whether your peers live or die, whether we all suffer the same fate you’re trying so hard to escape? Huh? What the hell is wrong with you?"
Salt places a single finger on the barrel of the rifle and shoves it away from her face. Rocky tries to realign it, but his full strength can’t match Salt’s one robot finger. "There’s a lot wrong with me, from the fact I’m dead to the fact what’s left of me is data on a tiny plastic chip. The fact I was warned the Heights was a sham and didn’t listen, was offered a role in a bid to bring it down and didn’t take it.
"I am made of wrong. It’s my essence at this point. And I’ve made enough mistakes and tormented myself for them that, no, sweetheart, I don’t give a fuck if you live or die. I can’t care about the marginal, the small and relatively meaningless, anymore. I care about one thing, and that’s the big picture. And you and your friends and your enemies and your colleagues and your dreams are not in my big picture. So, please, do me a favor and shut up."
She grabs the gun and drives the butt into Rocky’s chest. He staggers backward and trips over a power cord. His head smacks against the sharp edge of a piece of equipment I can’t name, and he slides to the floor, unmoving. Salt gives him two more seconds of attention and then returns to whatever diabolical plot she’s spinning.
The table is freezing against my exposed arms, and the startling temperature keeps my head clear, keeps the mild panic frothing in my gut from spewing out of my mouth. I jimmy my hands around in the straps until my palms are facing up and feel for the buckles holding me down. When I find them, I trace their outlines and locate a prong in the center of each—basic belt-buckle-style straps. Q or whoever designed these tables didn’t expect much resistance. Knocked the nerds out probably. These would do well to restrain a groggy kid lacking limb control.
I shove my thumbs underneath the sections of strap pinned by the prongs and tug until there’s enough give for my index and middle fingers to grab and pull the stiff material. Above me, the machine hums louder, and something that vaguely resembles a sci-fi laser gun descends from the base.
Yeah, fuck that.
I undo both straps at the same time, roll off the table, and lunge for the gun resting next to the unconscious Rocky. I scoop it up and aim, only to find Salt’s chair flying toward my face. I duck. Evade Salt’s oncoming robot body. Rotate my hips. Drop into a sliding crouch. Take aim again. Fire. Two. Three. Four bullets. One catches Salt in the
shoulder, explodes, and shreds the left side of her chest.
Get up. Run—
Something tears in my abdominal cavity. My knees give out, and my nose rams against a table leg, breaking with a snap. Blood gushes out. Dizziness overtakes me. Something pulses in my stomach, and though it doesn’t hurt, I cry out anyway because I can feel it approaching: death. Creeping, crawling in like a swarm of things with many legs. Encroaching on the corners of my vision.
Salt turns my immobile body over and huffs. "Hope that taught you a lesson." She yanks my shirt up. It’s stained with fresh blood. "Don’t try to be the hero when half your body parts are glued together."
If I could control my muscles, I’d laugh. Vile and wicked and cruel. Hysterically. Because if Salt is dumb enough to believe I’d ever try for hero status, then this bitch is in for a rude awakening.
She lifts me to put me on the table again, but I gather every ounce of effort I have left and kick her damaged face. She reels back, drops me half on, half off the table, and crashes into the next slab in the lineup. As she tries to regain her bearings and stand, another shot rings out, and her face all but disintegrates.
I follow the shot to its source: Dupree. He’s got my rifle in hand, his breathing shallow, but his eyes are clearer than they’ve been since the patrolman crushed his leg. The gun holds steady, pointed at Salt’s convulsing body.
Her jaw is crooked. One false eye is missing. Her faux-skin scalp has partially peeled away, revealing the metallic skull beneath. Her limbs jerk every few seconds, and none of them seem to obey her commands. A dry, angry wail emanates from somewhere in her throat. It doesn’t emerge from her mouth—the speaker isn’t working right—and the sound is muffled.
But she can speak enough to command the computer from a distance. "Selected Program Activation Request. Command Code 99456489MA1."
Dupree gasps and attempts to stand, using the gun as a crutch to compensate for his bloody stump of a leg, but he’s too slow. And Rocky is out of it. And I can’t move.