The Rendering

by Joel Naftali

  Whisk flour, baking soda, ginger, cinnamon, and cloves in a bowl.

  “Gingerbread,” I muttered.

  “The other monitor,” a mechanized voice said from the computer. “Turn clockwise approximately eighty-two degrees.”

  I looked both ways and saw the other computer. Then I almost smiled. Not quite, but almost, because you know what I saw on that screen?

  The entire floor plan of the Biodigital Research Center, displayed as Arsenal Five levels, rotating slowly in 3-D.

  That was what the Center had meant by “reformatting”—converting the blueprints into game levels. I crouched at the computer and flicked through the five floors and the duct systems and sublevels. And let me just say one thing: I rock at Arsenal Five.

  So that messy little scribble might not mean anything to you, but to me? Better than my own personal tour guide with a GPS attached.

  I traced a path to an exit. The patrols were flashing red dots, and if I thought of this as a game, I knew exactly how to escape.

  Probably without even losing a single life.

  On second thought, I didn’t want to think about how many lives I had in this game. Still, I knew I could escape, except for one thing. My aunt was in there somewhere. Processing lab three.

  And I wasn’t gonna leave her behind.

  INTO THE FIRE

  First step: get across the room and into the janitor’s closet.

  I crept and slithered and finally sprinted the last twenty feet into the closet and slammed the door behind me. I heard gunfire as I locked the heavy metal door.

  It would take them at least three minutes to batter through that. The Center was built like a battleship.

  I found the grate behind the shelves and wriggled inside—and into the next room. A bathroom. At least I emerged under the sinks, not the toilets.

  Then I dashed across the hall and into processing lab one, which shared an emergency ventilation shaft with processing lab two. I dragged myself through the shaft, into PL2.

  Closer and closer. One last step.

  I opened the door, looked both ways down the corridor, and dashed into the open. Nobody shouted; nobody fired. I just slipped quietly into processing lab three.

  Only one tiny problem: I wasn’t alone.

  TOO YOUNG TO DIE

  I crossed into the center of the lab, surrounded by a zillion dollars in hardware. Huge brushed-aluminum sheds hummed softly on the static-resistant rubberized floor, and triple-wrapped cables wove through glowing boxes.

  I found my aunt in a heap. I took five steps toward her and heard something behind me.

  Commander Hund. All seven feet of muscle, weapons, and gunmetal eyes. Standing twenty feet away, staring at me.

  “Figured you’d come here,” he growled.

  I didn’t answer, didn’t move. The whole “frozen in terror” thing again.

  “Give me that Memory Cube, kid,” Hund said. “Unless you want to join her.”

  He pointed at my aunt, sprawled limply on the floor, like a doll tossed to the ground.

  I tried to swallow, but couldn’t. I tightened my grip on the cube and focused on not fainting. And on not looking at my aunt, because I didn’t want to start crying.

  “Is she—” I swallowed. “Is she …”

  “As a doornail,” Hund said.

  A numbness crept over me. “You killed her.”

  “Right now, kid,” Hund said, sneering, “you oughtta worry more about who I’m gonna kill next.”

  I nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

  “So give.”

  “No.”

  He lifted his gun and I felt my knees weaken. I couldn’t handle this. I couldn’t stand up to Hund. He was too big, too scary.

  And my aunt was in a heap on the ground. My aunt, who’d always been there for me—not just when my parents died, but every day, in all the little ways. She’d nagged me about chores and not about video games. She’d taught me to ride a bike, and expected me to keep trying after I’d shredded my knees. She’d driven me to the skate park and trusted that I wouldn’t break my neck.

  I thought about that, and I stood my ground. For her. Plus, once Hund got the cube, he’d shoot me. If I wanted to stay alive, I needed to keep that cube.

  “I’ve got my finger on the auto-erase,” I said, my voice wavering. “Anything happens to me, say good-bye to the Protocol.”

  “I want that data, Hund,” Roach’s scratchy voice said from Hund’s communicator. “Now!”

  I had to think. I had to clamp down on my fear, block out the sight of my aunt on the floor, and think. I replayed the Arsenal Five levels in my mind; if I could get out of sight for a minute, I might have a chance. Computer cables ran under the floor, in insulated ducts. Too small for Hund, but I might squeeze through the ducts from one room to the next.

  “You can have the cube,” I said. “Just give me a minute alone with my aunt.”

  Hund pulled a knife from a sheath on his leg. “You see this?”

  “It’s a—a knife.”

  “My favorite blade.” He bared his teeth. “You delete the cube and I’ll show you why.”

  Then he took a step toward me.

  And another.

  He was only four steps away, his knife glinting in the light.

  “Give me the cube, kid.”

  THE SILVER LINING

  At the same time my aunt died, new lives were being born. Deep in the Center’s holographic patterns and artificial intelligence modules, things were happening.

  Impossible things.

  By definition, Douglas, nothing that happens is impossible.

  Maybe so. But this was pretty close.

  As you no doubt guessed, the Center used a sophisticated artificial intelligence woven through the buildings and labs and even the parking lot. The AI monitored tests and printed reports and controlled the air-conditioning and validated parking. And made coffee.

  I figured it also tried to protect kids caught in mercenary attacks. I mean, obviously the mechanized voice and the coffeepot were controlled by the AI, right?

  Wrong.

  The first clue: the Center’s AI had never been so active before.

  Nobody wanted an artificially intelligent robotic overlord in control of a weapons lab, so they designed the AI more like a clever calculator than like Skynet. While it handled power surges and electron microscopy, it couldn’t reformat the blueprints into video game levels or ring phones to distract mercenaries.

  Then who did?

  Well, now that is the question.

  Minutes before Hund threatened me with his knife, a newborn Awareness swirled and clustered and slowly woke in the depths of the Center’s memory system. A completely new kind of intelligence, one that didn’t even have a name yet.

  Just a mind, floating in the digital darkness. An offshoot of my aunt’s uploaded brain—mostly—though I didn’t know that then. Even she didn’t know that then.

  A sensation disturbed the quiet. The newborn Awareness scanned the area, and detected terror and panic. Internal sensors swiveled and evaluated … then focused on three life forms:

  The skunks Roach had scanned into the mainframe before the detonator exploded. Their bodies had died within minutes, and their minds had dissolved into ones and zeros. But they were still afraid, still trapped inside the machine.

  That was the first emotion the Awareness ever faced: the fear of three disembodied skunks. And the first emotion the Awareness ever felt? A combination of kindness and pity.

  The Awareness realized that the skunks were on the verge of complete brain death, and with her innate sense of goodness, she refused to let innocent animals die. The Awareness scanned for output pathways, any way to return the skunks to life.

  Douglas, your homework!

  Gimme a minute, Auntie M. I’m getting to the good part—

  Per our agreement that you’d stop posting after you revealed who was responsible for the events at the Center, I’m cutting your Net connection. />
  —about the bomb and the skun—

  TO WARN

  Hey, this is Jamie. Doug’s got a Latin test tomorrow, and things don’t look good. So he asked me to post this:

  Quick, if anyone knows how to conjugate moneo,

  drop me a comment.

  Moneo, monere … what?

  Monici? Monicatum? Monkeyficium?

  Sheesh. If Latin weren’t already a dead language,

  I’d kill it myself. Also, if you know the answers to

  exercitia nine through eleven in the study guide—

  *CONNECTION TERMINATED*

  BALANCED ON A KNIFE EDGE

  Sorry I haven’t posted in a few days. Well, a few weeks. Okay, a month.

  Things got a little crazy around here between the cyberdroid attack on Wall Street and my getting a 71 percent on my Latin test. Oh, you thought the stock market just crashed for no reason? No, that was Roach and VIRUS.

  And Aunt Margaret made me sign up for this after-school project that’ll raise my grade to a solid B-minus. A play for Latin class. I don’t want to talk about it.

  You make an admirable Hermes, Douglas.

  I wear a dress in school. Not really helping my social life.

  That’s not a dress; that’s a toga.

  What part of “I don’t want to talk about it” did you not understand?

  Apologies, Douglas.

  The thing is, fighting VIRUS is more important than schoolwork, but my aunt insists that a B average is part of my cover. Just an ordinary student, blending into the crowd.

  So I’m sorry about the long silence on the blog. And yeah, I’m talking to you, MealyMouth13, the only guy who left a comment. I’ll overlook the fact that all you said was “ur r teh suxxor! more C’/BEr§kuNkz!!!”

  Anyway, for all you lurkers, don’t worry. Auntie M’s been monitoring the hits, making sure that Roach can’t trace them. Can’t trace you.

  But if things are so busy, why am I back?

  I mean, I’ve still got no proof that I didn’t kill my aunt. I’ve still got no proof of any of this—at least, none that I can safely share.

  I’m back because I can’t be the only one who knows what’s happening. They say the truth is out there. Well, it’s my job to make sure they’re right. This information is too important to lose.

  Also, I’m stuck on level twenty-nine of Ambush Z. Can someone throw me a bone?

  YOU ARE HERE

  So my last post about the Center ended with me in processing lab three, my lifeless aunt on the floor and Commander Hund stalking forward with his blade drawn.

  “Take your finger off the cube, kid,” Hund said.

  I gaped at his knife. “If I do, you’ll k-kill me.”

  “Maybe I’ll let you go,” he said.

  “But you w-won’t.”

  His smile made me shiver. “Give me the cube, and you won’t feel a thing.”

  The sad truth is he scared me so much I almost did what he said. Then I remembered my aunt and shook my head. “I’ll erase it.”

  And into the silence, Roach’s voice came: “Commander Hund, I just finished checking, and there is no auto-erase on that cube.”

  Hund laughed horribly. “You’re bluffing me? Bad decision.”

  He spun the knife in his hand and stepped closer until he plucked the cube from my hand.

  Well, so much for that. So much for me. After everything that had happened, I’d lost the Protocol.

  I’d had only one job: to keep the Protocol safe. Now I’d failed. I’d lost my aunt and I’d failed.

  And my problems were just beginning.

  Hund slid the cube into his pocket and drew his arm back to slash me with the knife—and the lights went out.

  A voice yelled, “Hund!” from across the room, and he reacted, quick as thought. Guns suddenly in his hands, he pivoted, sidestepping into the darkness, completely silent. Stalking whatever had called his name.

  His implanted lens shimmered briefly, then turned black in the gloom.

  Night vision.

  A footstep sounded behind a huge electron microscope, and Hund murmured into his communicator. “Roach. There’s an intruder in processing lab three.”

  “Scanning,” Roach’s voice said. “One moment.”

  Hund slipped like a shadow around the scope and I heard my aunt whisper, “Doug, get out. Now.”

  I looked down. My aunt was on the floor. Her eyes were closed. Her lips were not moving; she wasn’t breathing. She sure wasn’t whispering. I swallowed the lump in my throat and blinked back tears.

  “Now!” her voice repeated. “Slow and steady, don’t attract his attention.…”

  I started backing toward the door, wiping my eyes with the heel of my hand.

  When I got halfway to the corridor, I heard Roach’s voice: “Nothing there. Only audio inference. Get that cube.”

  “Already got it,” Hund grunted. “And now for the boy.”

  “The explosion will take care of him.”

  My breath caught. Explosion? What explosion?

  “The little twerp tried to bluff me,” Hund growled. “This is personal.”

  That snapped me out of my fear and grief. I shot the rest of the way across the room and sprinted into the corridor.

  FASTER, STRONGER, BIGGER

  I heard Hund behind me. He was a trained mercenary killer, and I was a kid. He was faster than me, stronger than me, bigger than me. There was no chance I was going to get away.

  Still, I ran as fast as I could. Out the door, down the hall. I scrambled around the wreckage, waiting for the gunshot.

  Then something tugged at my mind. What was it? He was faster. No. He was stronger. Obviously. He was bigger …

  That was it—bigger!

  I charged past two doors, grabbed the handle of the third, and spun inside, hearing Hund’s boots close behind me.

  I didn’t hesitate. I had no idea what this room was for, but I’d seen it on the Arsenal Five blueprints, and I figured—

  The room to which you refer housed the data–compression modules.

  Would you stop interrupting? I’m trying to tell a story here. Do the words dramatic tension mean nothing to you?

  Anyway, inside the room, an array of huge modules extended from the floor to the ceiling, each about six feet square with maybe a foot between them. I could just squeeze into the gaps. No way a guy Hund’s size could follow.

  I squeezed, as fast as I could, then moved down five rows, losing myself in the maze.…

  I heard Hund step into the room. “Nice try, kid,” he called. “But the exterminator doesn’t need to crawl into the rat hole.”

  I heard a pfffft. A second later, something clanked to the ground.

  “That’s tear gas,” Hund said. “You’re gonna learn a lesson in pain.”

  Even though the canister landed on the other side of a module, I could already smell the gas. I looked around, desperate for a way out. My eyes started watering again, not only because I’d lost my aunt, but also because of the tear gas in the air.

  Then I found what I was looking for. On the floor was an access grate leading to a cable duct. My eyes stung, and I couldn’t stop blinking, but I managed to pull the grate open and felt the breeze of the ventilation system that cooled the wires.

  “I’ve got a mask for you right here,” Hund said. “Come out and I’ll make everything all right.”

  Yeah, I bet you will, I thought.

  The tear gas burned my nose and throat and eyes, and I could barely see. But I didn’t need to see to follow the breeze and squeeze under the floor into the duct.

  A BALL OF FAIL

  I closed the grate overhead and squirmed away. The duct was maybe two inches wider than my shoulders. I groped blindly ahead—twenty feet, fifty feet—until my heartbeat returned to normal and my vision cleared. Then I lay back in the darkness under an unknown room and just … stopped.

  I didn’t know where to go. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to
think about Roach or Hund or the Protocol cube—or my aunt, lying limp on the floor.

  All I wanted was to curl into a ball and forget.

  WHAT, NO ICE MAKER?

  After a while, voices drifted through the floor above my head. A man and a woman were talking—a pair of Hund’s mercenaries.

  “You done with this room?” the woman asked.

  The man grunted. “One more crate.”

  “What is all this stuff?”

  “HostLink accessories.” The crate clattered, and the man grunted again. “They want this lab packed up.”

  I squirmed in the cramped duct, worming my way closer to a hatch, where I peeked into the room overhead. I saw a sliver of a research lab with black counters and futuristic science gear. The mercenaries were loading everything onto a cart, stealing every last scrap of technology and data … or almost every last scrap.

  “What’re we supposed to do with that?” the man asked, gesturing to this … thing in the corner that looked like a refrigerator covered with snakeskin. “It won’t fit on the cart.”

  “Our orders are to take everything we can. They’ll destroy the rest.”

  “Another bomb?”

  The woman grinned coldly. “A small-yield nuke. The commander likes his explosions.”

  “Let’s haul, then. Don’t wanna get left behind with that going off.”

  “No worries. We’re almost done. C’mon.”

  They rattled away, and I shifted uncomfortably in the duct. When you’re inside one, a cable duct feels an awful lot like a coffin. Especially when you just saw your aunt sprawled on the floor and the words small-yield nuke got dropped into the conversation. So as soon as the sound of the cart faded, I climbed into the room.

  Where something whispered, “Sug.”

  I yelped—but softly.

  “Sug Solomon. Ssep a lissle sloser.”

  Step a little closer? I turned slowly and eyed the fridge-thing. The snakeskin was coated with what looked like barnacles.