by Harrison, S.
“So, are you saying that Finn has got some kind of multiple personality disorder?” he whispers.
“Something like that,” says Otto. “And you better get used to calling her ‘Infinity.’ If you know what’s good for you,” she warns him.
“And this ‘Infinity’ is her other personality?” he asks.
I see Otto give Ryan a little nod.
“She’s the total opposite of Finn. Like, she’s a completely different person,” he says.
“Well, if she was the same, it wouldn’t be an alternate personality, now, would it?” Otto whispers snarkily.
“No, what I mean is, it’s more than just the way she acts. She’s strong, too. Really strong. The way she broke those doors so easily was . . . And I saw her put her arm right through that Drone like it was made of cardboard. How is that even possible?”
“Trust me, Ryan; the less you know about Infinity, the better,” whispers Otto. “Right now, all you need to know is that she’s going to help us find Percy, Dean, and the Professor.”
“What did you mean when you told her that you could get rid of Finn?” asks Ryan.
“What are you talking about?” replies Otto.
“I was lying on the ground right beside you when you said it.”
Otto peeks back over her shoulder. She sees me watching her and gives me a nervous smile.
“Stop asking so many questions,” she whispers. “Let’s just concentrate on finding the others, OK?”
“I also heard her talking about helping you find your sister? What was that about? Is your sister missing or something? Is she here? Oh, and why did the hacker who took control of that mechanoid want to kill Infinity?”
“Ryan!” says Otto, and not in a whisper, either.
Ryan seems to get the message as they walk on, turning a corner up ahead in silence. I follow, round the corner, down another short passage, around one more turn, and into a short hallway with a dead end. There, standing beside what appears to be a flat white wall is Blondie, arms crossed on her chest, lips pursed, sporting a glare that could curdle milk.
Ryan and Otto join her, and I arrive at the wall shortly after.
“I told you I knew where it was,” Blondie says snidely.
“Great. But how do we open it?” asks Ryan.
“You could try pressing the button on the wall behind you,” I say.
Ryan looks over his shoulder at the small, white, rectangular panel with a single button on it as Blondie pipes up again. “I already tried it,” she whines. “It doesn’t work.”
Ryan turns anyway and presses his thumb to the button as if Blondie hadn’t said a thing. Nothing happens. “I told you,” she snaps at him.
“Dammit!” barks Ryan, and he slams the button with the pad of his fist.
The constant bell chimes suddenly stop.
“Did I do that?” Ryan asks, looking toward the curved ceiling of the passage.
The murky emergency lighting brightens like someone has twisted a dimmer knob all the way up, and the quiet hum coming from the walls rises in volume along with the light until it’s nearly three times louder than it was before.
“I don’t think so,” Otto says, curiously scanning the walls. “Systems must be coming back online.”
“Try the button again,” I say.
Blondie doesn’t need to be told twice; she shoves Ryan to the side and lunges, jabbing at the button with her pink-manicured fingertips. Nothing happens. “Oh, come on!” she wails, tapping furiously at the button like a deranged blonde woodpecker. Somewhere between ten and twenty pecks, the button suddenly turns an encouraging shade of bright yellow, and a row of large, green, upward-pointing arrows appears, scrolling in a moving stripe up the length of the smooth white wall that has now clearly presented itself as an elevator door. Judging by the arrows, I can only assume the lift is coming up to this level from below. I’m suddenly curious about what surprises might be kept farther beneath this place. After all, even in my limited experience, it seems to me that Richard Blackstone is quite fond of keeping all sorts of things buried.
“Yes! Oh, thank god!” exclaims Blondie. By the way she’s making little clapping movements with her hands in front of her face, I can tell that she can barely contain her excitement at the prospect of a closer step toward freedom. We’re waiting for only ten seconds or so when the elevator arrives with a happy-sounding ping.
The large door swiftly slides sideways into the wall, and Blondie’s short-lived joy is obliterated as she lets loose a high-pitched shriek. There, standing before us in all their silver-hooded glory, filling the entire elevator car, are eight more Drones. That in itself is an unpleasant surprise, but it’s made even worse as I take in these Drones’ specific dimensions: they’re much taller, broad shouldered, with large arms and legs, V-shaped torsos, and three thick fingers and a thumb on each hand for increased grip pressure and strength. I’ve studied every kind of current robotic technology there is, classified and unclassified. The Drones back in the white room were advanced a couple of years ahead of the service robots available to the public, but they were still only service robots. They had no armor and were only two or three times stronger than an average human being. But these, dressed like the gymnast spacemen they might be, are entirely different beasts. I’ve only seen proposed schematics of these things—they’re not supposed to be in production for another twelve months—but the shape of their reinforced chassis, short necks, and dog-jointed lower legs are unmistakable. These are Crimson-Class Military Combat Drones. They were designed for warfare, are most likely at least seven times stronger than a human, and, if the data I saw was accurate, they’re sure to be programmed with multiple forms of extremely effective and potentially fatal hand-to-hand combat subroutines. If these things see us as a threat . . . we’re in big, big trouble. Even a Vermillion-Class weapon like me would be forced to retreat in an unarmed standoff against eight Crimsons.
“These guys don’t look like they should be messed with,” says Ryan.
“No, but they also don’t seem to be active yet,” says Otto.
The Drones are just standing there, motionless, their black face masks blank and unresponsive.
“What should we do?” asks Otto.
“Get in with them,” I say. “Before they switch on, get in, and we’ll take this lift up to ground level. Quickly!”
“There isn’t enough room for all of us to fit,” says Ryan. “We’ll have to move them.”
“They look like they weigh a ton,” says Otto.
“Out of my way,” I say as I push between Ryan and Otto. Since they’re well over two meters tall, I have to reach, but I manage to grab one of the Drones by the back of the neck and try to haul it off balance. It teeters and rocks; then, with my last effort, the burly robot slowly topples forward. Otto wasn’t far wrong; they’re heavy as hell. I jump out of the way as the Drone falls and slams loudly onto the floor with the force of a falling refrigerator. I step into its vacant space and shove at the back of the next one in line.
“Where’s Brent?” whimpers Blondie. “We can’t leave without Brent and Brody.”
Almost as if summoned by the blue-eyed, blonde-haired teenage witch I suspect she is, the husky boy, who’s apparently called “Brody,” comes jogging around the corner at the other end of the short passageway with an anxious-looking Brent hot on his heels. Both boys are casting worried looks over their shoulders as they approach.
Brody bounds toward the others, clearly spooked about something. “Ah . . . guys?” he says shakily. He spots the Drones standing in the elevator and comes to a skidding halt, his eyes wide and fearful as Brent bumps clumsily into his back.
“What the hell?” Brent asks, glaring at the war robots from behind Brody’s shoulder.
“It’s OK. These ones aren’t online,” Otto says as, thanks to a grunting push from me, another heav
y android falls into the corridor with a loud thud.
Brody looks at the two Drones facedown on the floor and seems momentarily relieved, but Brent’s startled expression doesn’t shift. “It’s a shame the same can’t be said for the other ones,” he says, nervously peering back down the hall. “They’re coming.”
“No. They’re not coming,” Ryan says, looking past the two boys.
Blondie follows Ryan’s sight line, clutches her hands over her mouth, and expels a muffled scream into her trembling palms.
“They’re here,” says Otto.
Standing in a three-two formation by the curve at the end of the corridor are the five remaining Drones from the white room. Their face masks aren’t black anymore; now, each and every one is a highly disconcerting shade of bright red.
“Hurry!” I yell. “Move these; I’ll take care of the other ones!” I step out of the elevator, and everyone springs into action. Brent and Brody leap over the two huge androids lying facedown on the floor and begin pulling at the third one in the front row as Blondie, Otto, and Ryan attend to the fourth.
I walk slowly and cautiously toward the gang of service Drone Templates, unwilling to provoke an attack just in case they actually don’t pose any threat. They might just be observing us, but if that’s the case, then why are their masks bright red? It is a traditional color of warning, after all. I decide to stop right there. I won’t make a move until they do. I feel like a gunslinger facing a posse of cattle rustlers at high noon. All that’s missing is a mournful whistle and a lone tumbleweed rolling by.
I watch them closely. They haven’t moved since they rounded that corner. My attention flicks from the face of one to the next to the next, but quickly skips back and stops on the center Drone in the front row of three. Its mask has changed. It’s not solid red anymore, but has begun blinking from black to red, black, red, black, red. What is it doing? This isn’t any kind of Drone behavior that I’ve ever seen or read about before. I suddenly feel on edge. If this situation heads south, I had better be ready. I conjure an image in my head of my fingertips dipping into liquid steel. Almost immediately, I can feel a tingling sensation as the bones at the ends of my fingers harden under my skin, fusing into calcified spear tips.
There’s grunting and a loud slam behind me as another Drone falls, but I don’t turn to look. With both eyes fixed on the center service Drone, I call out over my shoulder, “Hurry up, back there!” There’s another throaty groan of effort and another heavy thud as the fourth Drone topples behind me. That was the sound I was waiting for. It’s time to leave. I’m about to turn and take my place in the lift when Brent suddenly walks past me. Then Brody and Otto, Blondie, and Ryan—all of them—slowly walk backward toward the group of service Drones with expressions of fretful trepidation wrought on their faces. Otto looks at me, her brow creased, her chin dimpled with fear. “Infinity?” she squeaks.
My heart sinks.
I slowly turn around to see the only reason why any of them would be heading toward and not away from the pack of five potential killer robots at the far end of the hall. The four Crimson-Class Drones in the back row are still standing motionless in the elevator, except now all of their previously unresponsive face masks are blinking. Red. Black. Red. Black. Red.
Oh no.
I jump back a step as the four fallen Drones, with their masks flashing red light on the smooth white floor, begin to move, their powerful hands thudding heavily on the ground as they all begin pushing themselves up onto their feet.
I look up and down the passageway, ordering my thoughts into focused options, when a deep and familiar computerized voice booms from the walls, echoing throughout the corridor.
“Vocalization restored.”
It’s a voice I recognize.
“Onix!” I yell at the ceiling. “Is that you, Onix?”
“Processing capacity at nineteen percent,” announces the voice.
“Onix! It’s me!” I shout. “It’s Infinity!”
“Motion detectors register unauthorized personnel on Cortex Level One.”
If it is Onix, he either can’t hear me, doesn’t recognize me, or, worse, knows exactly who I am and is preparing to set the Drones on all of us, regardless.
“Onix!” I yell again. “Verify voice-command authority Infinity One!”
“Voice-command authority denied,” replies Onix.
Oh, crap. Seems like it’s option three. All the Crimson-Class Drones are standing at attention now.
“Internal cameras are currently off-line,” says Onix. “Security Level Red.”
With my heart pounding in my chest, I glance at the war Drones. Their faces stop flashing. The sight of eight bloodred masks to my right and five more at the end of the hall to my left doesn’t exactly instill me with confidence.
“Priority Alpha,” says Onix, and the words jar in my mind. I’ve heard those two words strung together many times before, and I’ve never once heard a friendly sentence follow them. I’m hoping against my better judgement that this time will be the exception. Onix says three more words, and everyone’s eyes go as wide as hollow-point bullet holes.
“Terminate all intruders.”
“Terminate?” Brent squeaks. Beside him, Margaux sobs and sniffles into her hands. “Doesn’t that mean . . . kill?” he asks redundantly as his head swings back and forth from one group of Drones to the other.
“Infinity?” Otto whimpers, looking understandably terrified. “What do we do?”
I thrust my arm to the left, pointing directly at the five service Drones at the end of the corridor as I shout my loud, guttural, and, quite frankly, obvious response.
“Don’t just stand there, you idiots . . . RUN!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Adrenaline surges through me, flooding my body as my battlefield instincts slam into high gear. My chemically heightened brain immediately begins processing my surroundings at a vastly increased rate, causing my perception of time to slow down by a factor of two. All around me, wide-eyed, panicked expressions move on ashen faces with half-speed undulations as everyone scrambles to run, limbs flailing in a slow-motion flurry of school uniforms.
With images of compression pistons pumping through my mind, my legs thrust my body into action, my shoes squeaking against the shiny floor as I take off after the group. I’m right behind them, but after two short steps, I stomp the ground like a hydraulic battering ram and launch myself, diving through the air, arms outstretched, sailing clear over the heads of Brent and Brody, who are fleeing. I curl as I hit the ground and roll up onto my feet a good ten meters out in front of them as the formation of five service Drones up ahead, their orders clear, begin marching down the corridor toward us.
I smile to myself as a wave of pleasure pulses through me. Time to have a little fun.
I sprint toward the Drones, then veer at the last second and jump at the crystal wall to my right. I plant my foot, kick off the wall, and spin toward the third android in the front row, spiraling a full 360 degrees as I whip my leg in a swooping arc and slam my foot square on the side of the Drone’s head. A web of cracks splinters across the robot’s mask, its color flashing from bright red to black as its head separates from its neck and bounces inside its silver body stocking like a paddleball. The decapitated Drone skitters into its two neighbors, and they tumble to the floor.
It was a brutal kick, and that third Drone is no longer a threat, but judging by the telltale alert going off in my head, I’ve broken a couple of bones in my foot. Ignoring the injury, I spring up from the floor, spearing the two Drones in the back row with the sharpened bones of my fingertips: one through the chest and the other through its abdomen. I pull my arms out of each robot’s breastplate and stomach in a splatter of squirting orange glue. One of their faces blinks out as it falls, but the Drone I skewered through the gut is still active. With its red mask only inches from my nose, it r
eaches up and clutches my throat. I quickly mountain-peak my hands and thrust them between the Drone’s wrists, breaking its choke hold.
I grab the gutted Drone by the neck, and my arm becomes a blur as I dagger my hand through its mask in a flurry of stabs. The red glow snuffs out, and the robot crumples as my hair is violently jerked backward. The Drone behind me has grabbed the end of my ponytail like a leash. I slide toward the robot to slacken the tether, and then I pump my legs and spring off the ground in a high aerial backflip. Upside down, I reach out and cup my hands under the Drone’s chin, my shoes tapping across the jagged ceiling as I drop behind it. Half-blinded by the strands of my own hair tightened across my face, I let momentum and gravity do the work and pull the robot down to the floor. I quickly slump into a crouch and hammer my arms down, slamming the Drone’s artificial skull into the ground and cracking open the back of its head like a walnut shell.
The robot’s deactivated hand releases, and I flick my hair back to see the last one pushing up from the floor. I pounce at it, catch its neck with a hook-armed clothesline, and spiral-twist my body as I kick high into the air. The Drone is completely swept into an airborne spin, and with a satisfying metallic crunching sound, I release its throat and finish this violent little dance with a tight backflip, landing softly on my feet as the android’s body flumps beside me in a heap on the cool white floor. Five Drones down . . . Ten seconds flat.
The group has stopped running and is just standing there, staring at me crouching among a tangle of orange-blood-leaking silver corpses. “Move, move, move!” I yell.
Everyone snaps back to reality, scrambling in a pack over the deactivated Drone bodies. I glance down the corridor toward the elevator. The Crimsons aren’t running; they’re marching like these were, but they’re closing in fast. In a speechless, fear-driven hurry, everyone disappears around the corner, and I’m right behind them, the hum of the walls punctuated by the sound of our footsteps as we all run back the way we came. I don’t look back, but I do shout ahead. “The white room! Get back to the white room!” I didn’t see any other doors on the way here, so going back to square one seems like our only option.