“Malfunction, my right butt cheek,” Mark mutters. I put a finger to my lips to shush him.
“I want to ensure the general public that every step is being taken to correct this situation,” Maren tells the crowd. “Your safety is our top priority.”
“Yeah, right!” someone yells. “You’ve made them human enough to be dangerous.”
Another man shouts, “They’ll murder us in the night!”
The crowd surrounding the reporters starts screaming at one another.
Maren stands tiny and unmovable, staring down the hecklers. Seconds later, there’s not a grumble to be heard. “As I was saying—your safety is our top priority. So, after consulting with the governor’s office and police force, we’ve made the determination to deactivate all higher functioning units. We have the means to do so via remote command. In addition, lower models will be pulled off duty immediately and confined to quarters while we sort out the issues.” She pauses, looking so sincere I almost believe her. “We understand that the loss of our artificial workforce will cause some problems initially, but I personally guarantee that we’ll start manufacture on a new line as soon as possible.”
“A new line? But what if this happens again? What if you can’t control the new Bolts any better?” a man yells.
“It won’t” Maren’s voice is cold, I wonder if she might start an ice age. “We’re enhancing the security protocols. The new line will be completely within our control.”
“Ms. DeGaul!” The shout comes from dozens of reporters. She points to a perky blond in the middle of the crowd. “When you say ‘loss in workforce,’ will those losses be significant?”
“We don’t see it as a devastating impact. Rather, some services may be slower at first, until we can replace the lost workers.”
A man shouts, “What about the transit system? Don’t the high-functioning Bolts drive the trains?”
Maren’s unfazed expression wavers a bit. “They do serve as engineers on many trains, yes, but we have backup human engineers prepared in case they are needed.”
Yet another reporter speaks out of turn. “My biggest question is about the fusion center. Isn’t ninety-percent of the staff Bolt labor? Will there be issues with energy production?”
The governor’s aide rushes to answer. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are in a unique situation, but everything is under control. Yes, some services might be slow at first, but that is a small price to pay to quell a reb—” He darts a nervous glance at Maren. “A malfunction of this nature.”
A woman with red hair steps to the front. “Ms. DeGaul, I’ve heard the genetically-engineered humans left your service due to severe abuses to their rights. They are essentially slaves, doing work on contract for your company, which pockets the fees. If that’s true, wouldn’t it stand to reason that this isn’t a malfunction, but rather a revolution?” She jabs a finger at Maren. “Because revolutions start when a tyrant abuses her subjects.”
The crowd erupts. Someone slaps the red-haired lady. A man standing nearby punches the guy who did it. Police race in from the sidewalks to break up the fracas. Several people, including the redhead and the man who defended her, are dragged away. Maren watches the whole thing without expression. I can tell she’s cracking, though, by the way she nervously picks at the hem of her suit coat. I’m not sure that’s a good thing. We’re balanced on a wire, all of us, and she’ll be the one to decide who falls.
Once order is restored, Maren says, “I’ll answer one more question.”
The perky blond calls, “When will the deactivation begin?”
“It’s already underway.” Maren says.
“Skies,” Jole whispers. “What does that mean? What does she mean by deactivation?”
Quinn’s face has gone pale. “It means that unless we stop her, every Bolt in the city is going to die.”
A cold smile flits across Maren’s face. “Once the malfunctioning artificials are completely shut down, we can re-task our remaining workforce. We hope to report that all is back to normal within the next twelve hours.”
Maren turns, flanked by the police chief and governor’s aide, and walks back up the steps to the Precipice office building. Reporters shout questions as she retreats, but she doesn’t acknowledge any of them.
The feed cuts back into their regular morning news program.
Mark is clutching his fists together in his lap. His eyes have a look of distinct terror. “I always thought the extinction protocol was a myth cooked up to keep us in line.”
“It’s not,” Doc says. “It’s very real.”
“What? How?” Quinn asks, his voice tight with anger and something else.
Fear.
Someone pounds the front door. Doc disappears for a moment. When he returns, his face has gone white. “Mark, your people are starting to panic and talking about storming the city while they still have time. Go stop them before they do something stupid.”
Mark runs from the house and I sag against my pillow. Just when we think we’re ahead, we seem to take nineteen steps backward. “How long do we have?”
“No idea,” Doc answers. “The protocol itself runs for twelve hours. See, it’s such a drastic measure—full deactivation of all artificials within a certain line—that it takes both Maren and the governor to execute it. And once they do, the countdown gives them time to change their minds.” He shakes his head. “She made this public to try to force your surrender.”
“We can’t just sit here,” Quinn growls. “We need to go on the offensive. Since we don’t have the older models in the mix, I say we free everyone that’s left, then storm her lake house.”
“How’s she doing it?” Jole asks. “How can you kill some many artificials with the push of a button?”
“By self-destructing the pain switch,” Doc says. “Maren doesn’t do anything without a backup plan.”
“But we disabled the switches,” Jole says.
“Separate system.” Doc runs a hand across his face. “The switch may be disabled, but it’s still physically attached to the spinal column. All Maren has to do is send a remote command, and the switch will explode. When it blows, it severs the spinal column from the brain stem, preventing the brain from telling the lungs to breathe. Death by asphyxiation follows.”
“How’s the self-destruct activated?” Quinn asks. He’s turned pale and I reach out to pat his hand.
“For safety protocol, Maren insisted on a single activation point. She didn’t want very many people to have access to it for obvious reasons. When I worked at Precipice, the terminal was in her private lab in the office. It’s hard-wired and on a completely closed system.” Doc looks at Jole. “No hacking this one from the outside. It has to be shut off. That’s the only way.”
Do I have enough time to stop her? “Pretty tight security in the lab, I imagine.”
“I don’t know what she has now, but at the time it was the most heavily guarded of all her facilities,” Doc says.
“I don’t have a pain switch,” I say. The back of my neck is tender, but whole. Drummond never finished what he started. I hug my arms to my chest, thinking this through. None of them are safe. Not even Quinn. Eleven hours and change, that’s all I the time I have to figure this out, knowing full well it’s all likely a trap and will blow up in my face. But what choice do we have?
“What are you thinking?” Jole asks, raising an eyebrow. “I know that look. You’re planning something crazy.”
“It’s not as crazy as you think.” I feel my side. Like my neck, it’s tender but doesn’t hurt as much as it should. “Doc, when will I be able to get up?”
He smiles, one of those cagey, smug smiles that drove me nuts as a kid. “Your wound healed overnight. I was just making you rest to be sure.”
Stunned, I lift my T-shirt and peel the gauze from my side. There’s a nasty scar, but that’s it. Even the stitches are gone. “What the hell?”
Doc chuckled. “No one told you how fast you heal, huh? I’m surpri
sed you didn’t figure it out before now.”
“Well, my cuts and bruises healed fast I guess, but I never got hurt this bad before,” I say, staring at the scar. Is it just my eyes, or is the thing healing more while I watch? I blink a few times, then look again. The scar has shrunk and faded in color. “Holy shast.”
“You have me to thank for those enhancements, Hellcat.” Doc leans against the wall, looking quite pleased. “Whatever you’re planning, you’ll be back to full strength by this afternoon.”
“Thank you,” I say and I mean it. “Quinn—see if you can get the blueprints for Maren’s building uptown. Turpin might know who to contact. Jole, I need the best jumpsuit, climbing harness, descent vest and cat line you can find. And anchors—the sturdier the better. Oh, and make sure to get me an electronic lock decoder, some liquid nitrogen and whatever else you think I’ll need.”
Jole frowns suspiciously. “Need for what?”
I cross my arms, glaring into space. “The biggest job of my life.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
One Step Closer to that Good Night
On one hand, the day races by. We’re in a Stars-awful rush to finalize the plan. Jole and Doc have gone to the clinic to go over the security plans with Turpin. Quinn and I scour blueprints in Doc’s wreck of a kitchen, arguing about the best way for me to get inside Maren’s lab. I haven’t even changed out of my pajamas, not wanting to waste the time.
On the other hand, each second drags out. I anxiously watch Quinn, wondering if we have the time wrong and he’ll suddenly drop dead right in front of me. I have no idea if the K700s are exempted from the execution switch, or if it’s everyone. I don’t think Maren would take out her most valuable asset, but who knows what she’ll do now.
Quinn acts like he doesn’t notice my staring, like it doesn’t concern him, but I know better. It’s there in the way he sneaks a finger to his mouth to chew his fingernail. Or how he can’t sit still, not even for a moment. He paces around Doc’s house like a caged inmate, waiting for the noose to be readied.
At one point, Mark comes in to tell us a female K500 had taken her own life. “Her friends said she wanted to die on her own terms. We were too late to stop her.”
Quinn, who’s standing at the window with his back to us, merely nods.
I hold in a sigh. “I’m breaking in and I’ll stop this. I promise.”
“I know you will,” Mark says. “We’ll be right behind you, every one of us.”
After he leaves, I settle down at the scarred slab of old plywood Doc calls a kitchen table to continue reviewing the plans. If we can create a big enough distraction with the newly freed artificials to keep Maren’s security team busy, I plan to zip line onto a balcony on Precipice’s seventieth floor, just below where the lab is. There’s a building across the street that’s tall enough to stage that kind of jump. I glance up to ask Quinn where he’s going to position his insurgents for our distraction and notice he hasn’t turned from the window. His shoulders are hunched up, like he’s cold. After all the nervous energy, this sudden quiet has me concerned. I push away from the table and walk up behind him.
When I get there, though, I have no idea what to do. In this situation, does he want a bracing pep talk, a hug, or a slap in the face? I try to remember, but nothing comes through. Taking a guess, I lay a hand on his back. “Hey, you okay?”
He doesn’t resist my touch, but he stands stiff, like I’m bothering him. “Yeah, I’m fine.” His voice is bitter. “Waiting to die is no big deal.”
The memory of Maren’s lawn soaking up my blood, the sun warm on my cold body, raises gooseflesh on my arms. “It pretty awful, to tell the truth.”
Quinn makes a frustrated sound. “I’m such an ass.”
“Why do you say that?”
When he turns, bursts of red flush his cheeks. The flush stands out against his light brown skin and sweat sheens his forehead. “Because I’m standing here thinking how unfair it is that you don’t have a pain switch, and I do.”
I take a step back. “I know it’s unfair. That’s why I’m working so hard—”
“Why didn’t he take me with you?” Quinn asks. “Why did Caldwell leave me there, but smuggle you out? He knew what was going to happen to me if I stayed behind. Why did he leave me all alone?”
If he read Caldwell’s journals, then he must already know that Maren wanted to scrap me and Caldwell couldn’t bear to see me die. But Quinn’s in no shape to accept the truth. “I don’t know why he left you. I don’t. But we’re in an impossible situation. Everyone here depends on us, because we were designed to circumvent the impossible. If anyone can outthink Maren DeGaul, it’s you and me. I can’t do it by myself, though. You’re the unflappable one. I’m the wild card—I need you.”
I pause as a feeling grips me tight, like déjà vu or some ghost from my past life. The knowledge that losing Quinn will break me clean through. It’s absolute, unshakeable. Programming or not, I know I won’t survive without him. No matter how irrational I know it to be, I can’t shake the feeling that he has to be in my life—in any capacity, just so long as he’s not stolen from me.
I take a steadying breath. “Please don’t blow a circuit on me now. We’re the only chance the others have.”
For a moment he leans closer, like he might kiss me. I don’t know if that’s what I want, but I don’t have time to decide because he pulls away, shaking his head sadly. “I need some air.”
Without a second glance, he leaves the kitchen. A minute later the front door slams. I’m torn between chasing after him and staying here to hold up my end of the planning. One of us has to keep it together. Besides, I know if I chase after Quinn it won’t be to comfort him. I want to smack him for walking out on me after I told him I needed him. After all his shast about how unbearable his life was after I disappeared, how could he just walk away when I’m ready to admit I want him around?
Gears, who am I to talk? What a pair we make. I’m a recovering addict and a thief. He’s a tortured soul and the master of half-baked plans. Yeah, this relationship is going to work out. We’ll finish off Maren and live happily ever after.
Right…that only happens in fairy tales.
A deep well of sadness festers in my chest. Quinn’s right—nothing about our lives is the least bit fair. All I want is to have the chance to know him, reclaim some of what we had before, whether that’s simply friendship, or if it really is something more. Even if it fails spectacularly.
Who’s keeping you from that? a tiny voice whispers in my head.
That question is easy to answer. Filled with a real sense of purpose for the first time in days, I tie my hair back in a ponytail and sit down at the table. I have work to do.
* * *
I’ve gone through a pot of coffee, turning my nose up at the few wilted, molded or dried out items that Doc passes off as food, when Jole comes in. He’s smiling mischievously and I perk up.
“You got something for me?” I ask.
“Oh, Skies, do we have something for you. Come with me.”
It’s late afternoon. The sun slants across the broken pavement, creating uneven shadows on curbs and the edges of houses and businesses crowding the street. Sector Q is more quaint than T, less inner-city. Instead of dirt-colored high rises, the buildings here are rarely more than three stories, with lots of single story homes mixed in. Everything’s on a small scale, but it’s not seedy. Here and there, the first dandelions of spring push through the cracks in the sidewalk, giving the street a bright, cheerful look. Instead of the orderly neatness you find in the city, Q looks lived-in, kind of like Doc’s face.
People stop to stare at me as we stroll down the block. Artificials nod as I pass by, their respect bordering on awe. That’s a little unnerving. There’s so much at stake, I don’t want to think about what it means to fail them.
We approach a small, brown brick house with bright blue shutters and a silver doorknocker in the shape of a laughing teddy bear. I chuckle a
s Jole sheepishly bangs the knocker handle against the bear’s round belly.
A human woman, whose brown hair is shot through with silver, opens the door. She’s wearing jeans, gardening clogs and a bright blue sweater that matches her shutters. “Ah, the famous Lexa.”
“I don’t know about famous,” I say.
“You’d be surprised.” She sticks out a hand which I shake—her grip is firm and her fingers are rough. “I’m Dr. Keller. Turpin’s been driving me crazy, asking after you. Do your best to keep him from getting up, okay? His ribs don’t need any extra strain.”
Dr. Keller beckons us inside. Her house is as whimsical and cheery inside as out. Funky clay pots, framed posters of antique circus advertisements and gleaming tile floors don’t give me the slightest clue there’s a clinic in here somewhere. We pass a kitchen done all in red and dark gold, a bathroom in sunshine yellow, and an office with olive green walls before reaching a room at the end of the central hall.
The clinic is painted a neutral beige. After the assault on my retinas from the rest of the house, I appreciate the boring decor. Three alcoves, separated by white curtains, contain beds, and counters along the walls are covered by trays of medical tools. Two of the beds are empty. A smiling Turpin occupies the third.
Something twists in my middle at the sight. His hands are wrapped-up mitts, hiding the broken fingers, but the bruises and the eye-patch are unavoidable. Turpin calls me over, but my feet won’t move.
I’m scared I’ll break him.
Dr. Keller pats my shoulder. “It looks bad, I know, but he’ll get better. He’ll have some frozen joints and a few fingers will be crooked, but they will mend. Eventually we’ll be able to regenerate his eye as well. You won’t hurt him, I promise.”
I take a few halting steps, then my fear cracks and I bound across the room. Dropping to my knees, I lay my head on his chest, all the stress of the last few days finally finding a way out. He drapes an arm around my back when the tears start. Jole mumbles something about needing a sandwich and shuffles away.
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