Unstrung

by Kendra C. Highley

  After that little scare, I slow down, scouting every dark corner before moving. It takes me forty-five minutes to go four blocks, but when I slip into a small park behind the data storage building, I’m certain I didn’t get caught on video at any point. That’s bound to change, though. The target is covered at nearly every angle by cameras mounted on the roof, the backdoor, and the lampposts surrounding the perimeter. I strip off my dress and boots, considering my options. After a few minutes of hard study, I haven’t found a single blind spot. These cameras are high-end models; Jole’s vid-scrambler isn’t going to help me. Important people keep important data here and the whole setup shouts “You are not welcome!”

  Well, welcome or not, I’m going into that building. I work my way across the street. The building’s front door leads into a vestibule manned by a bored-looking security guard who’s watching something on his data pad rather than the bank of screens in front of him. Cameras everywhere here, too. But….that’s it. I’ve found my way in.

  From here, I can see that two of the trees in the adjoining park are tall enough for me to jump from their branches onto the roof. All the cameras are scanning the street level. As I creep back to the park, I don’t see but one camera trained on the roof—and it’s watching the building-access door. Standard operating procedure for roof security. That’s how I get in.

  I pick a sturdy oak; its leaves have already come out, providing good cover along with a fork low in the trunk that gives me an easy leg up. The first two-thirds of the climb go fine. Then I hit the thinner branches. Handholds are unstable and everywhere I step, the branches bend underfoot. Whip-like switches snap my face; one even draws blood above my right eyebrow. I’m close, though. The tree can punish me all it wants, but I’m not going to back down.

  When I’m even with the roof, it’s clear the branches won’t support me if I climb higher, so I’ll have to swing across. I set two anchors in the tree’s trunk and thread in the line. “Here goes nothing.”

  Pushing hard with my feet, I take two quick steps, then leap. For a moment I’m in open air, swinging like a monkey on a vine. The roof comes up fast, though, and I let go once I’m over the wall. As soon as I hit the concrete, I duck behind a utility vent. No alarms sound; no barking dogs come barreling across the grounds below. I blow out a little breath and stretch the kinks out of my shoulders. So far so good.

  Now to deal with the camera. I’ve learned over time that guards will be less startled by a camera that just goes dark than one that shows static. Static could mean a scrambler. “Off” could mean a bunch of things, but it’s usually a power issue. The guard inside looked like he was more interested in his data pad than the screens, and a dark screen—manning a dark roof—might go unnoticed for a few minutes.

  A job like this takes specialized tools, or so Jole says, but I usually just carry a garden-variety screwdriver. They’re more handy than you think.

  I crawl across the roof, find the camera’s battery case and slowly unscrew the cover. The camera wiggles a little, but no more than it would in the wind. Once the cover comes free, I disconnect the batteries from the base, then remove its main power cable. Not daring to wait to see if the guard notices the dark screen or not, I use Jole’s data pad to unscramble the digital combination lock on the door, then slip into the stairwell.

  The door at the bottom isn’t locked, at least on this side—nobody wants to be trapped in a stairwell. It’s rarely that easy, though, so I check for alarm sensors…there. The door has a sensor at the top that matches up with a sensor on the door jamb. If I open the door, the sensors will separate, and cue the barking dogs and men with dart guns.

  I dig through my pack for my liquid nitrogen dispenser. It looks like a can of machine lubricant, something you can buy in almost any tech store, but you wouldn’t want to accidentally spray your finger with the stuff. It comes out so white cold, you can give yourself frostbite if you miss. Carefully, I line the dispenser tube up with the sensors and press the plunger. A thin stream of liquid spills out, evaporating so fast, white mist floats up around the tube.

  I count to ten, then gently push the door open. The sensors crack as they pull apart—frozen and rendered useless.

  I’ve come out into a hallway lined by numbered doors. There are cameras here too, but they’re less sophisticated than the ones outside. Jole’s vid-disrupter will work just fine with these. The only thing the guard will see as I pass by is a little blurry spot in an otherwise perfect picture. Assuming he’s even looking at his screen deck.

  The card Caldwell gave us said to look for “room 22, mainframe A41.” The door in front of me is room 36. Staying near the wall, I head for the adjacent hallway where I find the emergency exit, and room 29. My pulse speeds up. I’m close. Room 22 is at the far end of the hall and its door is locked with an old-school deadbolt. That strikes me as funny—hopefully I won’t be a dead Bolt before the night is over.

  Turpin gave me a set of antique lock-picks for my fourteenth birthday. It was supposed to be a joke, but they’ve come in handy more than once. This lock is a little tougher than most, and it takes me a full two minutes to get the pins to line up inside the keyhole. I curse at the deadbolt until it slides back, allowing the door to open.

  The room is square and cold—keeping the three rows of mainframes from overheating. The door is the only entry point, so I lock it behind me. It’s a somewhat useless gesture; if someone comes looking, all the lock will do is slow them down long enough for me to hide.

  Each row has six squatty mainframes cased in black metal. Whirs and hums drown out my footsteps as I check the numbers on the sides until I find A41 on the second row. I use my screwdriver to pry open the front panel, then tap the encrypted com in my ear.

  “You in?” Jole asks, not bothering to say hello.

  “Yes. What’s next?”

  Jole tells me how to plug my little data pad into the mainframe. The screen lights up and file folders align in neat groups. On a whim, I click on one. A message flashes up:

  Unauthorized user. Contact your administrator.

  “My turn,” Jole says.

  While I watch, a window of raw code opens on my screen. Numbers and letters scroll by so fast I can’t read them. I lay the data pad on top of the mainframe so I can clean up my bloody eyebrow. The cut’s not deep enough to need adhesive to close it, but I’ll scar. I find that ironic. Maren may have made me germ resistant, but my skin freckles, scars, and tans just like a human’s. If I ever see Caldwell again, I’ll have to suggest an upgrade to future models.

  “I cracked it!” Jole sounds triumphant. I hear Quinn clapping in the background and it doesn’t even seem sarcastic. Maybe they can get through the night without killing each other.

  I pick up the data pad. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Nothing, really. I have the file path from Caldwell, and we’re already downloading.”

  Without anything to do, I page through the file folders on the data pad. Most of it is financial data, including a list of bribes to government officials to win Precipice a higher rate for artificial labor. I copy that file to the server for safekeeping. There are a few other records of shady business deals, and something about the “outland reclamation project,” but the rest of the information is pretty boring.

  Then I stumble onto a file named “Defender.” When I open it, I run into a basic password protocol easy enough for me to crack. I’ll have to tell Jole he managed to teach me something about hacking. Inside the folder, there’s a list of dated case files. Curious, I pull up the first one:

  September 29, Year 1: Subject has passed through initial neural-pathing and has become nominally self-aware, blinking on her own. Her progress is satisfactory. I expect her to come online in approximately three days.

  October 3, Year 1: Subject sat up today. She’s listless, obviously afraid. This part of the process is always unsettling, but necessary, I fear. In a few weeks, however, her neural connections will be strong enough to expose
her to more stimuli.

  October 14, Year 1: We sent the male subject to meet her today. Initial contact was very promising. She showed distinct emotions: pleasure, shyness, curiosity, confusion. Her emotional range at this stage is staggering. The tweaks made after the male subject was created have further increased the rate to maturity. Very encouraging. Her short-term memory is somewhat weak, but that will resolve itself as her cognitive functions increase.

  October 19, Year 1: Met the subject face-to-face today. She’s an engaging child. We’ve named her Lexa. Her pigmentation is at about half-stage, but I can already tell she will look like Amelia.

  Stars help me.

  October 20, Year 1: Maren is insistent that Lexa isn’t up to spec. She’s asked for a full decommission of the model. I just…can’t. I asked for two years to fully test her out, and Maren relented. We’re hanging by a thread.

  I stare at the screen. These are Caldwell’s notes. That’s what the “Defender” file contains—his notes about me. But who’s Amelia? Was she a failed K700? I copy the entire folder and start downloading it to Jole’s server. While I wait, I open a few later files.

  August 6, year 2: Maren has become increasingly concerned about Lexa’s stubbornness. I asked her what she expected—we created a child with natural curiosity, a distinct personality and strong leadership abilities as required by Maren’s own specs. Dr. Mendal says she has an affinity for climbing and close-quarter fighting as well. Still, I fear for Lexa. The two-year reprieve I asked for is almost halfway over and I’m no closer to finding a way to salvage the program.

  January 8, Year 3: Lexa has proved extraordinarily adept at problem solving and manual dexterity. Her feisty spirit fits in nicely with her training. With Quinn’s strategic capabilities and Lexa’s effortless ability to execute complex plans, Maren can’t possibly be disappointed. Add that to the clear mutual affection the children feel for one another (again, Maren should be pleased), and they will lead in tandem, succeeding beyond expectations. If only we are given time to prove it.

  March 19, Year 3: Lexa is no longer safe. She must be moved. Maren has decided to decommission her and I can’t bear to see her die. I will not lose another child. Not again. Forgive me, Amelia.

  March 21, Year 3: Lexa is gone. I overestimated the erasure program. Her memory was wiped so clean, not even the stimulants brought anything back, although I question the purity of the dealer’s product. I should have remembered to bring pure-grade with us. But that’s the least of my worries. Lexa ran away from me at the train station, convinced I was planning to hurt her—hallucinations brought on by the drugs. Impaired or not, she disappeared without a trace. Not even Dr. Mendal could find her. We taught her too well.

  I’ve lost her. I lost them both.

  “Lexa!”

  Jole is shouting and it sounds like he’s been at it for a while. I snap back to reality and close the last file. “Yes, here.”

  “What have you been doing?” He’s frantic and Quinn is rumbling warnings in the background.

  “I…I…nothing. Sorry, I’m got distracted.”

  “Distracted? Are you kidding?” Jole sounds like he’s ready to slap me. “Listen carefully. We were almost done with the download and they started a trace. We got the last bit of data, but we shut down too late—they know the mainframe’s been hacked. You need to get out of there! Now!”

  I look at the data pad. Caldwell’s files are ninety-six-percent downloaded. I won’t have another chance like this.

  “I need a minute. Do I have that long?”

  “I doubt it,” Jole says. “What’s so important?”

  “I found another file; it’s downloading now. Tell Quinn it’s all about me. Maybe he’ll know what to do with it.”

  “What file?” Quinn asks. Jole must’ve handed him the com. I tell him what I found and he says, “Look, I know you want to learn more about your past, but this isn’t the time. Maren’s people know the mainframe is compromised. You need to—”

  The alarm goes off in the hall. Quinn’s shouting at me to get out, but it’s too late. “Take Jole and get back to the apartment.” I say. “Don’t worry about me. You need to proceed with the plan and start freeing the others. That’s more important.”

  “Don’t talk like that. We’ll find you—”

  “LP offline.”

  I remove the com and smash it under my foot, hoping Quinn does what I said. The data pad blinks, “Download complete.” I detach the cabling and smash the data pad, too. After loosening the stunner in my belt, I climb up into the metal ceiling rafters to wait for Maren’s people to come.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Things I Know, The Things I Don’t

  The lock clicks and the doorknob turns. I watch from my hiding place as the guard from the front of the building peers through the door to the mainframe room. He’s followed by three men dressed in Precipice security uniforms, each carrying a wicked looking dart gun and a stunner. Gears, I’m in trouble.

  “No one’s here,” the guard says. “Maybe the intruder ran off.”

  “Stupid,” growls one of Maren’s people, “The door was locked. Without a key, you can only do that from the inside.”

  That’s my cue. I brace myself between the metal rafters and the ceiling with my feet, lean down and shoot the first Precipice guard with my stunner. It’s set on five, but that’s enough to take him out for a while. He goes down fast, paralyzed. Another guard gets a stunner blast off and I have to shift fast to avoid it. The rafters vibrate with electricity, making my hair stand on end. I start to fall and drop my stunner when I reach out to catch myself.

  The guard switches to his dart gun and sends a dart at my head. Improvising, I wrestle the liquid nitrogen canister out of my pouch and spray him full in the face. He drops to his knees screaming, clawing at his eyes. My stomach turns, but I push it out of my mind. The last two guards dive behind mainframe cabinets. They’re out of stunner range, so they switch to darts.

  My canister’s empty; I’m down to a screwdriver and my air gun. I throw the canister at the door, hoping they’ll think I’m on the run. The building’s security guard takes the bait. He pops up and shoots a dart at the door. Before he realizes his mistake, I fire my air gun at him. It would’ve been lethal with an anchor in it, but the blast of air is strong enough to knock him over. I’ve been shot with an air gun before; he won’t be getting up for a few minutes.

  That leaves one.

  A dart flies out from behind a mainframe cabinet. This one sails wide. The Exeprin has sharpened my reflexes enough that when he goes to fire again, I send a blast of air at his hand and knock the dart gun away. The man’s curses mingle with the frozen guard’s moans and the third man’s agonized coughing as he catches his breath. The guy I stunned is still unconscious.

  Time to go.

  I swing down from the rafters, scoop up my stunner, and run into the hall. There was an emergency exit down at the other end. A dart slams into the wall by my head. I run harder. The door is six steps away. It’s going to be tight.

  The next dart catches me in my descent vest, cutting into the reinforced padding on my back. It smarts, but I’ve reached the door. I shove my way outside. The park—I can get lost in the trees. I sprint into the grove. The guard is huffing and puffing behind me, falling back. Maybe I’m not as fast as Quinn, but I’m faster than this man.

  Out of nowhere, a dart sinks into my thigh. Woozy, I fall to my knees, expecting to have a huge hole in my flesh. I don’t; the dart is tiny, yet my leg burns. I collapse in a heap, unable to control my limbs. The elm’s leaves shimmer above me, twinkling like little stars. One by one, they pluck themselves free from their branches and float into the sky as I’m swallowed by the black of night.

  * * *

  “She’s…mainframe…climb...tree…”

  “…always was quite a climber…”

  “…what’s that’s supposed to mean?...”

  “Dear, you can trust…”

 
; “Can I?…hurt…guards…know when…wakes up.”

  The voices fade away, leaving me alone with my aching head. I’m lying flat on a mattress and every movement sends blades of pain into the backs of my eyes. My hands are bound to the bed rails, so I can’t even rub my temples. I try to ask to be untied, but my jaw won’t move. A little moan is all the sound I can make.

  “The sedative they use in those darts is very potent,” a man says. Gentle hands wipe my face with a cool, wet cloth. The scent of a woodsy cologne, so familiar and yet not, trails the man as he wipes down my arms and neck. “This may sting a bit, but it will help.”

  A syringe drives into my upper arm. A sharp burning spreads through the muscles, followed by a numbing coolness. It’s like mercy when the medicine makes its way to my head. Finally able to move without pain, I take a deep, slow breath and open my eyes.

  Caldwell Martine stands at my bedside wearing a white lab coat over his clothes. “Welcome home.”

  I start to tell him this isn’t my home when he glances briefly at the corner of the ceiling. Cameras, right.

  “Where am I?” That’s probably a safer question to start with than “can you get me out of here?”

  “Lakefront compound. Main laboratory.” He comes to check my pulse, then takes a scope to peer inside my ear. Hardly moving his lips, he says, “I let Dr. Mendal know. He’s to alert Quinn.”

  Caldwell straightens up. He has dark circles under his eyes, which are brown like mine. In fact, that’s only one of many resemblances. The brown in his graying hair is the same shade as mine. We have similar noses. Our skin tone is nearly identical. I was too keyed up to see it at the party, but he could be my father, if I had one.