by C. E. Murphy
Maybe more could go wrong than she'd anticipated.
A group of Middle Easterners arrived, clearly bickering amongst themselves even with the audio turned off on the video feed. They could have been Elisa Moon's employers, Alisha thought wryly, had Elisa really existed.
She turned her wrist up, glancing at her watch. Several minutes after six: anyone who wanted to be taken seriously in the bidding had arrived by now. She stood, pulling her shoulders back in a grounding tree pose, and drew in a few deep breaths, although she already felt calmer and more uninvolved than she was used to.
That's good, Leesh, she told herself without believing it. A glance in the mirror said her makeup was professional, her hair well-kept. The suit jacket and slacks she wore were too bulky, with Boyer's gift—the flack jacket—worn beneath them, but she wasn't willing to forgo its protection in order for a better fit. The shoes she stepped into were flats, vanity and an extra inch or two of height giving way to practicality. Her gun was tucked into her waistband already, and she wasn't fool enough to carry the drone schematics on her. That would leave her vulnerable, and with the growing number of bidders, the auction already had the possibility of turning into a blood bath, should anything go wrong.
Nothing would, she told herself again. She turned away from her video monitor, then glanced back again at a motion on the screen.
CIA Director Richard Boyer entered the safe house under the camera's watchful guard. Alisha's hands grew cold despite her breathing exercises.
Nothing would go wrong, she corrected herself. But everything might.
#
"Ladies and gentlemen." There was only one woman present besides herself, but she used the honorific anyway. "Some of you may have heard that the United States government recently acquired new military technology in the form of artificially intelligent combat robots." Alisha handed out folders as she spoke, satellite pictures of the Attengee at the top of the materials inside them. Beneath that were a few pages of the drone schematics, and several of the software code printed out. It was an almost embarrassingly low-tech way to provide her buyers with the data they'd need to make a decision, but while the raw wires of the safe house still conducted electricity, Alisha had lacked both the time and the desire to rig a computer for her presentation.
"You're CIA," one of the Mafia trio said. He was a big man, no real tapering from shoulder to waist. His English was tinged with a Russian accent, and his voice unexpectedly good-natured. Alisha turned a thin smile on him.
"I've given it up in favor of being rich." The idea suddenly sounded unbelievably appealing, and got a snort of laughter out of the speaker. Brandon, standing behind him, looked increasingly sullen. Alisha felt as if she was standing in the middle of a powder keg. "I don't have a computer with the processing power to prove to you what I'm selling," she admitted freely. The shortest man of the Middle Eastern contingent sneered and took a step back.
"You expect us to make a purchase in blind faith? You're an amateur and you insult us."
Alisha lifted her hands, slow movement of acquiescence. "No. My proposal is to accompany the winning bidder to a supercomputer of their own choice in order for the software to be loaded and proven. There are hundreds around the world and at least a dozen in Russia, most of which are here in Moscow. For combat purposes the software needs to be run on a computer with quantum processing power. Nothing else is both small and powerful enough. But a modern supercomputer's processing capabilities will at least prove to the buyer that the software can respond creatively in a real-time fashion to any military situation presented to it."
"You had one of those already," the Mafia speaker said dryly. "You called it Deep Blue, and it played chess."
"And it beat your best player," Brandon muttered.
Alisha stepped forward, raising her voice sharply as the trio as a whole rumbled dangerously and began turning toward Brandon. "Please. This is not a time for petty political sniping. If you can't behave yourself, I'm quite certain some of these gentlemen would be glad to remove you on my behalf." She stared Brandon down, until he thrust out his jaw and turned his head to the side, gesture of submission. Alisha nodded and took a step back again. "As much detail as I have available is in the folders you've been given, ladies and gentlemen. Take a few minutes to look it over, and then, if my terms are acceptable, we'll begin the bidding."
"Ten million," Brandon said without hesitation.
Alisha wondered if it was the amount he had available to him from his personal accounts; it was almost impossible that he was bidding on behalf of the Sicarii. Either way, she snorted. "Don't insult me."
"Twenty. It's only specs, not the actual machines. Don't get greedy, madame." Greg swept his own folder closed and watched Alisha, not Brandon. His expression was inscrutable; not even she could tell if he believed that she'd sold out. Both the Asian and the Mafia contingents glanced back and forth between the two early bidders, then at Alisha. The short Middle Eastern man swore in Arabic and turned on his heel, stalking out of the safe house. The men with him followed silently.
"You have your believers and your skeptics," the Mafia speaker said to Alisha, voice still pleasant. "Did you plant them?"
"I'd have had them start the bidding higher if I had," Alisha muttered. She wished she had a name for the big Russian, but couldn't so much as think of one to assign him. Russian names didn't tend to connote good cheer, and a dour Dmitri or Ivan seemed wrong, even for her own convenience. The big man chuckled and nodded, making caution creep down Alisha's spine. There was too much uncontrolled in the room, and she didn't like it.
At least she knew why Boyer hadn't answered her calls in the last few hours. She wished he hadn't come, though a throb at the back of her neck reminded her that she'd set the bait for him, and he'd only taken it. Rafe, all but hidden in a corner, watched first Alisha, then Boyer, with avid interest, and turned his wrist over to ostentatiously examine his watch when Alisha caught his glance. Three hours, fifty-two minutes, she thought. She didn't need the reminder.
"You." The Mafia speaker nodded to Brandon. "Why do you believe?"
"Because he's the one she stole the software from," Rafe said lightly. Everyone, including Brandon, turned to stare at the Englishman, who shrugged his thin shoulders.
Alisha felt the tenor in the air change, the three Mafia gentlemen exchanging glances. They didn't need to speak for her to guess what they thought: why bother bidding, if they could simply take the creator away with them? "You are a bidder like the rest of us," the Mafia speaker said cautiously. "Why should I believe you any more than I believe her?"
Rafe shook his head. "I have no intention of bidding."
"Really. Then why are you here?"
"To take back that which we've already paid for."
Alisha thought, oh hell, and flung herself at the Russian.
Chapter 29
She managed to move before Rafe did, driven by instinct and suspicion rather than concrete knowledge. She hit the jovial Russian in the back of the knees, bringing him down with an outraged shout that was lost beneath the whine of weapons fire and the roar of a wall exploding inward. Alisha somersaulted over his back, coming out of the roll to lunge at Rafe, an instant too late. He dodged to the side and she turned with him, heat sizzling by her cheek as a laser bolt burned close enough to singe her hair. Too close.
Only one, she heard herself praying, and wasn't certain if she spoke the words aloud or not. She could feel the play of every muscle in her neck as she continued to turn, toward the source of weapons firing and roiling dust from the demolished wall. Please let there be only one.
She twitched her head to the side again, eyes closed this time against the brilliance of laser fire. Only one. Only one that she saw: she didn't dare trust she could see everything she needed to. A single Attengee drone, gleaming silver amidst the rubble it had created, was enough, though. When had Rafe brought it in? Maybe while she'd been distracted by Reichart. Maybe only after all the players were in
place within the safe house. Maybe the moment she'd announced the auction location. It hardly mattered.
Gunfire spattered, not her own. Alisha yelled a useless warning, the sound hollow beneath the hiss and spit of laser fire. The Attengee swept a circle, firing continuously. One of the Russian Mafia men dropped, cut in half, the wounds cauterized even as they were made. The scent of burning linen and flesh mixed with dust in the air. Alisha drew her gun from the small of her back and knelt on top of the man she'd knocked to the floor, shoving the weapon against the back of his head. "Stay," she growled, "the fuck down."
She looked up again to chaos. The drone stepped farther into the room, feet clanking against the ruined floor, smoke billowing behind it. Wires in the walls spat sparks, as if the drone was encouraging them to life. She could hear voices raised behind her: the Asian contingent, shrieking in fury and fear as they scrambled for the door. The third Russian, bellowing rage at his compatriot's death. None of the Americans. Alisha didn't dare look to see if they'd already fallen. She would be the drone's primary target; she was the one with the software. The others, assuming they chose not to be fools, might survive.
She came to her feet, feeling the sudden absurd wish to be carrying six-shooters, so she might draw them crosswise and go out in a blaze of idiotic glory. Instead she fired one shot, low, aiming for the drone's feet, as she had in Kazakhstan. It skittered to the side with startling grace, blasting back at her even as she flung herself to the side and rolled across the floor.
She came to a stop at Brandon's feet, exchanging one frantic, furious glance with him. "How do I stop it?" She could barely hear herself over the cacophony in the room, pieces of sub-flooring breaking away, the walls creaking alarmingly as the third Russian fired again. The drone whipped its attention away from Alisha, blasting at the Russian with a volley of blasts that lit the walls beyond him on fire when he fell.
"You can't." Brandon's voice was peculiarly calm in the roaring firefight. "We're dead."
"Wrong answer." Alisha slammed her hand, wrapped around her gun butt, into Brandon's crotch. He went white and doubled, and she cracked the revolver butt against his temple. He collapsed, Alisha rolling out from under him just before he crashed on top of her.
"Alisha?" Greg asked incredulously. Alisha looked up from the crouch she'd rolled into and brought her gun up again.
"Get out of my way." She could hear every action in the room as if it were carried on thin wires implanted under her skin, making her itch and tingle. Greg started to protest and she stood in one easy motion, her gun pressed between his eyes. Confusion and injury washed over his face and he stepped back, hands lifted as she snarled, "Get down, Greg, or I swear to fucking God, I will shoot you right fucking now." Alisha, Alisha, Alisha, she thought. Your language has gone to hell. Shame on you.
She saw the warning in Greg's eyes the instant before he dropped to the floor, and collapsed with him, rolling onto her back to shoot uselessly at the drone. Bullets spanged off the silver plating, more than just hers: Greg was firing, too. Score one for the good guys, Alisha hoped. She twitched to the side, angling her next shot beneath the laser arm that protruded from the drone's smooth surface. A satisfying clang accompanied a brief shower of sparks. It wasn't quite indestructible. Not quite undefeatable. Laser fire shattered so near to her shoulder she lost feeling for a moment, the concussion enough to numb her. The drone whirred and then twisted to fire at her with the other laser. A surge of doomed triumph slammed through Alisha's belly: she'd knocked out one of its weapons. It was going to kill her anyway, but she'd damaged it.
Hands as big as meat hooks clamped on her shoulders and hauled her to her feet in one smooth motion, laser fire shooting between her legs to set the floor on fire. Alisha shot one astonished look over her shoulder to find the speaker for the Russians grinning down at her with an enthusiasm that bordered on violence. "I see you were telling the truth!" he bellowed. "A hundred million Euros!"
A hundred million. Fuck. I could walk out of here rich. If she walked out of there at all. "I hear a hundred million from the gentleman in the Armani suit," she yelled to the room at large. "Anybody wanna top that? Going once!" It was possible no one was left alive to answer. Alisha didn't wait for to see, diving forward between the drone's legs to grab the closest and pull it with her, hauling with all her strength. The drone toppled with a gratifying smash, firing erratically at the ceiling and walls as it went. Alisha heard a cry of pain, but didn't know who'd made it. Electrical sparks fell from the walls, making a brief fireworks display before fading out. There was wet on the floor, a ruptured pipe spraying the already swollen floorboards with more water.
The world finally slowed down, clarity of thought descending over Alisha like a gift from the heavens. She surged forward, losing her grip on the drone's ankle, and heard it clattering to its feet again behind her. She ignored it, rooting through the damaged walls.
There. A thick banded power line, running up the side of the house. Alisha shot through it, closing her eyes against the brilliant flare of sparks that arced out, sizzling as they hit her cheeks and arms and made tiny burns. She put a foot against the wall, bracing herself, and yanked the line with all her considerable strength. Brackets holding it in place popped and tore free, the line coming loose in her hand. Alisha whipped her other hand out, shooting at the drone without looking. "Over here, you son of a bitch."
It turned as if it understood her, laying off pursuit of the big Russian, who moved much more quickly than his bulk would suggest. Greg lay in a heap beyond the drone's feet, but even as alarm sounded faintly in Alisha's heart, she saw him draw a breath, and returned her focus to the drone.
It gathered itself and leaped toward her, suddenly fluid and catlike in its movements. Alisha jumped to meet it, clutching the power line. Fire lanced along her shoulder as a volley of laser blasts hit, the scent of burning fabric and flesh now her own. Alisha dug her fingers into the break in the drone's body where the disabled laser still protruded, letting her weight go dead. The drone's legs splayed, then locked in place, bearing Alisha's weight but unable to move without compromising itself.
Alisha kicked her shoes off, planted her feet in the water, and set her teeth together as she plunged the power line into the pooling water on the ruined sub-floor.
Voltage spasmed through her body, taking the path of least resistance through delicate flesh and into the drone's electronic network. There was no room for thought or action in Alisha's mind, electricity shaking and vibrating her body at its own whim, as if it was as alive as she was. A dozen different kinds of agony erupted through her body, rawness in her throat as she screamed, cramps in every muscle as they knotted and re-knotted, unable to release. White-hot fire erupted at the base of her skull, as if a bullet had smashed through fragile skin and bone. She couldn't unclamp her fingers from the drone's body, the electricity that used her as a conduit keeping her locked in place. The acrid smell of burning hair made her want to cough, but her lungs had seized up and she couldn't draw enough air to cough with. Her heartbeat slammed erratically, pushed out of syncopation by the power coursing through her.
And then the pain lessened, unexpected and blissful relief in her traumatized muscles. The flack jacket beneath her suit coat, doing its work: absorbing much of the energy smashing through her. It was meant to take a direct hit, not leach power from a human body, but it worked. That was all that mattered.
The scent of burning wire and electrical fires pervaded through the other smells. The drone body above her sparkled and shone with destruction, electricity zapping over it in hard crackles and surges. The entire drone shifted, then collapsed, knocking Alisha aside as it fell. The voltage shooting through her smashed to a stop, power line yanked out of the water as Alisha twitched to the side. Exhausted muscles began unknotting, sending tremors through her. Alisha flung the power line away, trembling with effort as she pushed the drone's body away. Her ears rang painfully, a distant voice making its way through the tinny sound.
Rafe, she thought.
Christ. Rafe. Alisha fumbled for her abandoned gun, unable to focus her eyes. "You shagging whore," broke through the noise in her ears, and she struggled to focus on the man suddenly standing above her. "You nasty little bitch. You thought you would win this. Not so fucking clever after all, are you? I still have the detonator." He palmed it long enough for Alisha to see it, then slammed its button down with malicious glee. Alisha inhaled, sharp and shaking, expecting it to be the last breath she took.
Nothing happened. Even with her vision swimming in and out, she could see disbelief writ large across Rafe's expression. Alisha laughed, then coughed, and fumbled her hand to the back of her neck where the chip had been. Blood and seared flesh came away and she laughed again. "Sorry." Her voice was hoarse and raw. "Blew out the chip, I guess. Lucky me."
Rafe's disbelief mutated into a snarl of rage. "Not lucky enough for Boyer." He turned away, stepping over the drone's dead body to scoop up Greg's gun. Alisha shoved herself to sitting, squinting through the sparks and black spots of her vision. Director Boyer lay in a heap against the back wall, one hand wrapped around his shoulder, head nodding as he tried to retain consciousness. Blood dripped down the side of his face.
Alisha lurched to the side, snatching her gun from beneath one of the drone's legs. She dragged in a deep breath, trying to gain enough strength to center herself from it, and pushed up to her knees, both hands cupping the gun as she pulled the trigger. "You're dead, motherfucker."
The chamber clicked.
For an instant neither of them moved, both too stunned, and then Rafe turned back to her with a harsh laugh. "Very dramatic, Ms. Moon. You couldn't have done that better if you'd meant to. Boyer first," he whispered, "then you. More satisfying for me that way."