Fallout (Lois Lane)

by Gwenda Bond

  “Here you are, big spender,” the driver said, “safe and sound.”

  I tapped out a final response: Thanks for the floor. I’ll try not to get hive minded.

  SmallvilleGuy: I’m here for you. Good luck.

  The wish for luck was what I’d asked for before I signed off without warning the night before. But when he said he was here for me—he wasn’t. I was on my own for this part.

  Knowing the floor did help, though. And maybe the research guy would be more likely to pitch in if he could.

  “Sweetheart, you getting out?” The driver extended his hand, the other pointing at the meter.

  “I’m no one’s sweetheart.” But I dug out the money and gave him a bigger tip than I could afford.

  I got out of the cab and looked up at the sleek building. It was too bad SmallvilleGuy had wished me luck. I was going to need something more than that. We all were.

  Fortune never had done me any favors. There was no reason to expect it to start today.

  The building had no revolving doors, only a trio of entrances that reflected an image of me back as I approached. No preview of what waited inside.

  I squared my shoulders and entered a lobby with white walls and floors and steel furniture. The entire pristine and cold effect evoked some sterile minimalist ideal of a laboratory.

  A suited woman with her hair pulled back and bright red lipstick sat behind a desk that had a sign-in book on it. Beyond her was a bank of three elevators. She didn’t say a word of greeting as I approached.

  Two could play the brusque game. I picked up the pen and leaned over the table to sign in. “I’m here to see the CEO,” I said, but as I looked at the sign-in book, I choked on my next words. Well, started to choke. I recovered with a cough.

  A few lines above where I was about to write my own name was a familiar one.

  A very familiar one: General Sam Lane.

  My finger traced across the line. He’d signed out already. Two hours earlier.

  “Whew,” I exhaled.

  Then I remembered that the woman had been watching me the whole time. I put on the best innocent smile in my arsenal.

  “You feeling okay?” the woman asked. “I don’t have any more appointments noted for Mr. Jenkins today except the one he’s in now. And none with a child.”

  I blinked. I’d half expected this.

  “Oh no,” I said, letting my face fall in as exaggerated a manner as possible. If Superior Sally here wanted to think of me as a child, I could run with that. “I’m going to be in so much trouble if this doesn’t happen. I emailed him to set it up. The principal got so so so mad at me for just a slight mistake, and I was assigned to do this article to get back in his good graces. I’m new in town. I just need to write this glowing profile. But I can’t do it without interviewing Mr. Jenkins. My dad even asked him for me too, when he was here today.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed, and her lack of sympathy was both frustrating and—I had to grudgingly admit—impressive. “Your dad?”

  Everything goes in the heat of battle. It was his own rule.

  I wished I knew what he’d been doing here.

  I pointed at the line with his name. “He was here earlier. General Lane?”

  “Yes, he was, a meet and greet,” the woman admitted, not sounding happy to have to concede the point. “And he wants you to see Mr. Jenkins?”

  “I have to write this story. Then the principal and my dad will be off my back. Can you point me in the right direction?” I batted my eyelashes, keeping my expression wide open. “I’m such a screw-up. I swear I sent him an email about all this.”

  “Sign in,” the woman said, picking up the phone. “I’ll buzz his assistant to come down for you.”

  I didn’t bother to argue that I could make it on my own. The silver roman numerals on the clock behind the woman told me that my lead on the Warheads was ticking away by the moment. I couldn’t afford another delay or they’d spot me way too early. Without protest, I scribbled my name on the line, embracing a sloppy penmanship so that none of the Warheads would be able to read it if they had to sign in too.

  Devin only knew that he was inside to observe and report back as an eyewitness source. I’d been counting on him to also come to my aid if needed once I found the experiment and attempted to disrupt it. But I hadn’t spelled out that was what I planned to do. All Devin, James, and Maddy knew was that I had scheduled a visit with the CEO for this afternoon.

  If the Warheads had Devin as completely as I suspected from the salute, the last thing I needed was for him to see me and tip them off to my presence here and now. As long as I stayed out of sight, they might not realize I was here until it was too late.

  But a glance back at the entrance made it clear that I might well be discovered. No one outside could see into the mirrored entrance of the lobby, but I could see out. The van had pulled up at the curb and the Warheads were filing out, black-clad form after black-clad form.

  Crappity crap crap.

  Now what was I supposed to do?

  “She’s coming down on the elevator?” I asked the intense disapproving woman in my bubbliest ditz voice. “I can go over to meet her?”

  “Knock yourself out.” The woman sighed at the sight of the Warheads coming toward the building in their synchronized mass. “Little creeps are here.”

  Maybe the front desk lady was as smart as she thought she was.

  The nearest elevator binged open as I approached, and I bolted for it. The doors slid apart to reveal an inside designed in the style of the high-fantasy portions of Worlds War Three. A dragon’s wings dominated the sides, emerald green scales edged in gold, and a trio of elves with pointy ears wielded menacing weaponry along the back wall. One had a tiara banded across her forehead like some long-lost princess from my elvish royal family.

  There were three elevators, so I’d have laid down my last ten bucks that the other two were done up in the alien and military motifs from Worlds. And the service elevator would feature sparkly unicorns.

  An older woman with a lined face stood in front of the panel of buttons inside the elevator. She yawned, wrinkles deepening around her eyes, and then said, “Miss Lane?”

  Looking over my shoulder, I saw the front door opening to admit my classmates—and did my best not to leap into the elevator and startle the CEO’s sleepy assistant.

  “That’s me,” I said, when the woman’s eyebrows slowly rose. “I can’t wait to meet Mr. Jenkins.”

  “About that,” the woman said, reaching past me to turn a key that was inserted above the rows of numbers and punch the top button, which lit in response, showing the number 70. The doors closed and we sailed up. Fast. The low beeps that signaled each floor were the only way to track our progress. “He’s in a meeting, so you’ll have to wait.”

  “No problem. I’m just so grateful to you for fitting me in. Mr. Jenkins must be very busy—so many projects to oversee.”

  The woman didn’t bother to respond, except to yawn again.

  The elevator stopped at the top floor much sooner than I had expected, sensation of flying through the air or not. Seventy was a long way from five.

  And then the assistant removed the tiny key above the rows of numbers and palmed it, and it seemed even farther.

  “This way,” she said, edging out, confident that I would follow.

  I did. Measuring each footstep so I didn’t lap the woman, and considering my options in dealing with this unexpected problem.

  Using the elevator apparently required a key. Which was good to know, if more than a little inconvenient.

  It was also inconvenient that the sleepy assistant had remembered to take the key with her, since I was going to need to get my hands on it pronto. While fire codes meant there’d be stairs, going from floor seventy to floor five without getting caught—yeah, that wasn’t
going to happen.

  The woman tottered at the negative version of warp-speed until she was behind a futuristic white desk. I took a seat on a white leather couch in the waiting area opposite it. As I watched, the woman set the key right beside her desk phone. Leaving it highly visible, if too far from the edge to reach out and snatch without getting busted immediately. Even by a woman who clearly needed to develop a caffeine habit.

  Behind her desk, there was a long white hall. One side was a row of silver doors. The other wall was glass and offered a view of Metropolis as stunning as my daydream version from the top of the Daily Planet Building that first day on the job. Not so much as a speck of dust or a spot from a fingerprint marred the window to the world below.

  I barely spared it more than a glance. Thinking . . . Thinking . . .

  “How long have you worked here?” I asked, keeping the same innocently obnoxious perky tone I used downstairs. “Have you been with Mr. Dir—” Oops, probably shouldn’t call him Dirtbag here. “—Jenkins long?”

  The woman blinked heavy lids at me. Finally, she said, “You could say that. I’m his mother.”

  Not chatty then. Also, not someone I could use the Ronda method on. Mothers loved their sons.

  “How long do you think he’ll be?” I asked.

  The woman lifted one shoulder in an exaggerated shrug. “Some time.”

  I cannot take this.

  I didn’t have “some time” to waste. I didn’t even need to see Mr. Dirtbag Jenkins, CEO. Not when I knew which floor was my destination. And it might be better if I didn’t see him, not until I was leaving at the earliest.

  The older woman blinked at me again, still giving every impression that she was a few seconds from naptime . . . or perhaps bored with life at the top of her son’s world. Boredom could make anyone lazy.

  That realization brought me an idea, one that could work. I snapped my fingers and said, “Oh, shoot! I’m such a dumb bunny!”

  The woman looked at me like I can’t believe you just called yourself that. I wanted to say Me neither. But that wouldn’t get the job done.

  And this was a job. If I didn’t execute my part of the plan, none of the rest mattered. Devin was probably down there getting initiated into the experiment right this second.

  The thought spurred me into motion. I stood and crossed to the desk, messenger bag still looped over my shoulder.

  “I left my notebook downstairs in the lobby. I’ll just hop down there in the elevator and get it. I’m so glad I realized now and not when I’d have to keep Mr. Jenkins waiting. Good thing he’s going to be awhile. I just need that key, and I’ll be right back.”

  Only then, so as not to appear over-eager, did I let my hand dart out to grab the key from the desk.

  “I don’t—” the woman started.

  I brandished it. Triumphant. “I’ll be right back. You stay here. Don’t move a muscle. Rest. I wouldn’t dream of making you go back down. I can tell this is an exhausting job.”

  I closed the key into my fist and backed away, going slowly at first, then speeding up and turning around to hit the call button. The elevator binged and opened in an instant, eager to please its master.

  And I was inside, jamming the key into the opening above the rows of buttons and tracing my hands down the rows in tandem to push the fifth floor and the door close buttons at the same time.

  The doors whisked shut and the car dropped rapidly, with beep after beep as it flew past floors. I raised my hand to salute my fellow elvish warrior princess.

  “Here comes the cavalry,” I said.

  The elevator came to a smooth halt, and I tried to prepare myself for whatever came next. When the doors opened onto the fifth floor, I stepped out, crossing my fingers that SmallvilleGuy had counted the beeps on the recording correctly.

  Gone was the bright white and sterile air of the lobby and the top floor. This was more like the hall to the Morgue. Well, not quite that bad, but close enough.

  Everything was clean, but the walls were a light gray and the overhead lights seemed purposefully dull, casting a low, diffuse glow that made everything look like part of a nightmare.

  The question was, where on this floor were they?

  I pocketed the key from the elevator and moved farther into the hallway, listening as hard as I could. I took care to keep my thick boot soles from making noise, and I swung my messenger bag around so that it was accessible.

  The first room that had voices coming from inside also had an open door, and I paused outside it. From where I stood, I could see a row of techs manning a bank of flat screens and keyboards and other equipment. They were also miked with headsets that curled around in front of their lips, presumably to allow communication with whoever was on the other side of the wall of one-way glass they stared at. The men at the controls were typing or adjusting knobs, swearing excitedly and nodding their heads at what was beyond the glass. There was one woman among them, but she wasn’t talking nearly as much as the others, her face pinched in disapproval.

  I couldn’t see through the one-way glass from this angle, but it seemed like a safe enough bet this was the control room for the experiment. And that the rest of the workers running it, with that one disapproving exception, were far more gung ho than the man from the recording, the one SmallvilleGuy had been in contact with through the developer forum.

  Judging from their chatter, today’s session was in full swing. There might have been things to learn from eavesdropping on them, but today wasn’t only about discovery. It was about disruption.

  I kept going, continuing up the hall. If I was right, the one-way glass meant the next room would be the one I needed to find. I’d see Project Hydra in full-throttle mode.

  I pulled aside the flap of my messenger bag and moved to the next doorway, which was also open.

  And I stopped, gaping at what I saw in front of me. Had I somehow stepped out of reality and into the game?

  But it wasn’t the game in any way I’d ever seen it.

  CHAPTER 25

  The room was dark except for an illuminated scene in the middle of it, one filled with dust and desert and rattling explosions and muted screams—or, rather, a holo-scape version of those things that looked and sounded real until I blinked.

  Until I looked harder to see what was really going on, and reminded myself that I wasn’t in the game. I was standing right here.

  The floor of the hall was solid under my feet, and my hand was braced against the doorjamb. When I moved it to pinch my other arm, to be sure I was right, it hurt.

  But I didn’t let a sound escape. No one noticed I was there. Not the miked project manager in the room or the Warheads arrayed in a circle of chairs around the scene. Everyone was too riveted to the experiment underway. I edged around the room, staying in the shadows and taking it all in, doing my best to understand what this was.

  The tech might be similar to the game’s—the Warheads had on holosets that resembled to the ones I’d worn—but it wasn’t quite the same. This was a whole new sinister fourth world brought into being. One simply about war, with a tableau of a desert battle.

  The game was the clear jumping-off point, but instead of the holosets projecting the war sim directly in front of their eyes, immersing them in it the usual way, these projected out, a spray of lights coalescing into the detailed scene in the center of the floor in front of the Warheads. That projection was what had thrown me off for those first confusing moments.

  The lone researcher in the room held a clipboard and appeared to be conflicted as he watched the scene. He spoke up to give reluctant orders to the Warheads.

  “Unit formation B,” he said. His was the voice from the other day. “Direct your avatars to infiltrate the compound to lay charges now.”

  Devin and Anavi were in seats next to each other, slightly reclined, their lips moving occasionally.


  The battle scenario on display was what people who played videogames thought warfare was like. But I knew better. I might hate bullies, but at that moment I hated the people at Advanced Research Laboratories more.

  This was what I’d come here for. This was it. What I had to stop.

  Inside the simulation, there were black-clad figures of soldiers, moving in a kind of sync that would be any commander’s glory. Here in the room, the Warheads had placid faces, divorced from feeling any of the fear and chaos, from the hot possibility that the sand would blow up under their feet and steal their lives, from everything actual soldiers in the field coped with every day.

  They weren’t fighting one on one. No, that would be too easy.

  The scene shifted, parts of it coming in and out of focus.

  The Warheads were undertaking a group assault on a large compound. The power of them acting as individuals but part of one ingeniously strategic mind was a beautiful—and terrible—thing to witness. They raced toward the compound, and then into it, moving fearlessly throughout the scene, never a false step. A soldier’s form even shooed a little girl out of the way once they were inside, pushing her back toward the exit.

  The guy monitoring the results spoke into the headset mike he was wearing, not raising his voice so the Warheads would take it as a command. “There’s one of the boss’s selling points. Humanitarian actions.”

  He must be talking to the control room monitors. He didn’t sound like the compassion on display in the game was anything more than a kind of currency that their overlord would turn into profit.

  My plan was a risk without SmallvilleGuy to help, even if it was a calculated one. Standing here, I knew it was worth taking.

  It might work.

  And Devin and Anavi—and the rest of the Warheads—would be hurt more by where this clearly illegal experiment was leading, if it wasn’t stopped.

  You couldn’t conscript a group of teenage gamers into a “research project” on team gaming dynamics and then play around with their brains until you made them into a weapon. But Advanced Research Laboratories was attempting just that.