by Harrison, S.
“Are you saying that they could have escaped already?” Otto says hopefully.
“Well, they’d have to wade through a chest-deep pool of inert grains, but apart from that, there wouldn’t be anything stopping them from leaving the boundary of the dome.”
Otto begins fishing through one of the satchels. “I might be able to find them . . . ,” she says as she pulls her computer slate from the bag and presses a button on the edge. “If I can just zero in on Percy’s command module.”
“The command modules are off-line,” George says as he pulls up one of the sleeves of his coveralls. A silver band with a black diamond-shaped stone set in it is wrapped around his left wrist. The instant I see it, my fingers automatically touch the pendant beneath my shirt, and for a fleeting second, the strangest unexplainable feeling of sadness ripples through me. “It was the first thing I tried when I got stuck in the lift,” George says, tapping at the stone on the wristband. “The modules are routed through the computer, and we’re cut off from the mainframe. There’s no chance you’ll be able to access the tour guide’s module.”
“His name is Percy, and I don’t need to access it,” Otto says as she swipes and taps intricate patterns on the screen of her slate. “All I need to do is scan for its power signature.”
“Not with that, you can’t,” George says, frowning down at Otto’s slate. “That’s a Blackstone Nero 10, by the looks of it. It’s the fastest slate there is, but it can’t do what you just said.”
Otto flicks her finger up off the slate, and a glowing green holographic line follows behind the tip. She splays her hand, and the line expands into a panoramic rectangle of lines and symbols, peaks and valleys, numbers, spheres, and rainbow-colored globs. “I’ve been designing circuits since I was four years old,” she says, waving her finger through the holograms like a witch casting a spell. “And I’ve been modifying computer slates since I was in primary school.” Otto flicks and scrolls through the holograms with a self-satisfied smile. “A factory-standard Nero 10 is like an abacus compared to my turbocharged baby right here.”
The frown on George’s face deepens as he leans in, eyeballing the lines and patches of light hovering over the slate with a new and curious interest.
“See!” Otto blurts as she points out a particular spot on a circular graph. “That small red dot in the center is this computer slate; the tall peak over it is the Security Station’s power signature. And if I zoom in . . .” Otto spreads her finger and thumb over the line, and hundreds of little peaks appear. “These are the data hives, and this little bump is your command module.” She shoves the slate toward George. Judging by his arching eyebrows, I’d say it’s safe to assume that George is suitably impressed.
“Even this close, your module’s signature is weak,” Otto says, scrolling through the glowing peaks and valleys. “I’ll have a much better chance of picking up Percy’s signal at ground level.”
“That’s incredible. You’re some kinda genius,” whispers George.
“I just understand computers; that’s all,” Otto says, blushing. “I’m not a genius.”
“Well, if you’re not, you’re pretty darn close,” George says, studying the slate even closer. “What else can it do?”
Obviously flattered, Otto grins and begins swiping at the air above the slate, the urgency of the situation momentarily forgotten. “Well, I also upgraded the Nero’s pathetic frequency scanner,” she says as George nods along with every word. “Now, not only can it pick up every electromagnetic signal in a two-hundred-fifty-meter radius, but it can also detect changes in temperature and microdisturbances in the air, then combine and enhance that data to accurately extrapolate and convert residual vibrations into audio and visual from adverse surfaces up to fifteen centimeters thick.”
“It can do what now?” I ask.
“It can see through solid walls,” George whispers, blatantly staring at the slate as if caught in some kind of goofy daze.
“And not just a thermal image with garbled noises, either,” gushes Otto. “I’m talking real-time, high-resolution holographic projection.”
George’s expression suddenly hardens. “That type of application is reserved for government intelligence only. It’s illegal for a civilian device to have those capabilities.”
Otto nods and grins. “Yeah, I know.” I can’t help but be amused by her prideful flaunting of the law, but right now I need more than a computer with X-ray vision.
“Seeing through walls is one thing . . . ,” I say, “but please tell me you can also shut down the Drones with it.”
Otto swipes and pokes at the holograms. “There’s some kind of signal block. The mainframe is jamming and intercepting outgoing transmissions. I can’t send anything out; I can only receive, so I can’t shut down the Drones. But that also means that I can’t send a distress call, so . . .”
“No one is coming to help us,” I say, and Otto slowly nods. “Good, that suits me just fine. The police would just get in the way.” I turn and set off the way we came. Otto quickly gathers the dropped slates at her feet, stuffs them halfway into an already-bulging satchel, and hurries to fall in step beside me, her eyes glued to her own slate as she walks. “I’ll help you find your friends like I agreed,” I say to Otto. “But then you and I have an appointment with you know who.”
“Who the hell are you kids?” George asks with understandable suspicion.
“She’s the best hacker in the world,” I say, jabbing a thumb at Otto.
“And she’s a highly trained assassin,” Otto says with a smile in her voice.
“No, who are you, really?” George asks again, hurrying to catch up with us. I turn and smile at Otto, and she shares our private joke with a cheeky grin.
At the intersection, we take the path back to the elevator. George pushes past us, taps a button to open the door, and steps inside. I follow right behind him, but when I turn around, Otto is nowhere to be seen. “Otto?” I say, peering from side to side out the open door.
“Here, Infinity! Hurry!” Her voice is coming from behind the elevator shaft. I skirt around the side of the cylinder and spot her. She’s standing at the end of another narrow path between the data hives on the other side and is looking down at the ground through the tall glass of the third wall.
I rush toward her. “What is it?”
“I’ve picked up more power signatures,” she calls over her shoulder. “The signals are weak. I never would have noticed them if they weren’t so grouped together.”
A knot tightens in my gut. “Are they Drones? How many?”
“I don’t think they’re Drones,” she says as I arrive at the window. “I think they’re command modules . . . a lot of command modules.”
“Are they Blackstone employees?”
“I don’t know. But these readings show that they’re at ground level right outside the Security Station.”
Out the tall windows, I see the buildings bordering the empty courtyard, the tops of trees, and the tented spread of the white plastic canopy below. I press my nose against the cold glass, but I can’t see the ground at the base of the building from this height and angle. George joins us at the window. “There are only a few of us who work on the weekends . . . ,” he says, studying the computer slate over Otto’s shoulder. “Maintenance, a couple of med staff, a few tech researchers, and a skeleton crew of security, so a large, widespread signal like that could only belong to—”
“Soldiers!” Otto blurts, pressing her finger to the window. “There are soldiers over there! By the corner of that building!”
I look to where she’s pointing, and sure enough, in the distance, two soldiers in camo-patterned helmets and uniforms are cautiously stalking forward across the courtyard, their automatic rifles angled at the ground in a low, ready position. Two more soldiers appear from the alley between two buildings approximately thirty meters away fro
m the base of the Security Station, and those four soldiers are soon followed by two more pairs. The eight soldiers quickly fan out and then hold their positions. They slowly and methodically turn in every direction as they survey the open expanse of the courtyard. The soldier leading the squad calls something back over his shoulder, and the empty space behind the eight men suddenly bursts alive with activity as nearly a hundred armed soldiers come streaming out from the line of buildings to the left.
“Wow!” exclaims Otto.
George sighs with relief. “Blackstone Technologies works very closely with the government’s armed forces. Select groups often train here to test the latest weaponry before it’s deployed in the field. Whatever is going on here, I’m sure they’ll sort it out.”
“I’m glad to know you have so much faith in the military,” I mutter. “But those soldiers are on alert. They already know this is more than just a power outage, and they’ll be assuming it’s some kind of attack until they can prove that it’s not. If the computer sends armed Drones to engage with those troops down there, somebody is going to die.”
“Why would the computer kill United Alliance troops?” asks George. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It already tried to kill us with Drones, so I don’t reckon the computer is thinking sensibly at all right now, George.” I turn and stride back along the path. “I don’t know about you two, but I don’t want to be caught in the cross fire if the shooting starts, and I don’t want to be trapped up here if the robots win. We need to go, and we need to go now.”
With George and Otto right behind me, I skirt back around the silver tube and through the open door of the elevator. After George presses his thumb to the plate and jabs the ground-floor button, we stand in tense silence as the lift descends. With a gentle jolt and a quiet ping, the elevator door slides open.
“Don’t move!” shouts a voice as three gun barrels are shoved toward our faces. Otto shrieks, and George drops his case of tools with a clattering thud as I slowly raise my hands. Standing in front of us are three large camo-uniformed soldiers wearing black visors and combat face masks. “Two more students and a technician,” says the soldier in the center. “Just like the blonde girl said. Stand down.” The soldiers all lower their rifles as the one who gave the orders points at George. “You. I need you to shut down all three of these wall displays,” he says, motioning at one of the huge floor-to-ceiling screens. “We need a clear line of sight to outside.”
George slowly picks up his case and nods. “Yep, I can do that,” he mutters. The soldiers, clearly on edge, watch George like a hawk as he steps out of the elevator and disappears around the side of the silver tube.
“You two,” the soldier says, pointing at us, “go join your classmates.”
Otto and I walk out of the lift and around the elevator shaft to see Brent, Brody, Margaux, and Ryan standing inside the circular desk with three people who I’ve never seen before.
“Professor!” screeches Otto. She breaks into a run and embraces a tweed-suited old man, almost knocking him over and bumping into George, who’s kneeling by the emergency-power compartment in the floor.
“Now, now, Miss Otto,” the old man says, peeling her away from his waist. “Thank you for the sentiment, but let us behave with the appropriate decorum, shall we?”
Professor Francis doesn’t look very different from how I imagined him. The mousy brown-haired boy must be Dean, and the weary-looking guy with the red tie, thick sand-colored hair, and blood-spattered shirt has to be Percy, the tour guide. I bet he wishes more than anything that he’d called in sick this morning.
“Sorry, Professor. I’m just glad you’re alive. All of you.” Otto’s words are laden with relief as she smiles at Dean and Percy.
Percy smiles back, but it’s forced. There’s no joy in his eyes at all, just upturned lips marred by trauma. Dean doesn’t even seem to notice Otto. His twitchy eyes are vacant and distant, flitting past the edges of people’s faces as he sniffs and wipes at his blood-smeared nose.
“Where are Jennifer and Amy?” asks Otto.
“Unfortunately, we haven’t seen Miss Cheng or Miss Dee as of yet,” the Professor says, slowly shaking his head. “We can only hope that they have found somewhere safe to hide until this tragedy is over.”
I assume that he and Otto are talking about two more students. That’s all I need, two more kids to babysit. I’m starting to feel like I’m getting the short end of this deal. If they are hiding, I hope they continue to.
As per the soldier’s request, George twists the key in the hole in the floor, and every display shuts off at once, leaving only the tinted sun outside to dimly light our tired faces. The middle soldier in the group of three throws a brisk nod of thanks at George, and all of them move in a silent group toward the far glass wall near the front doors. There’s an awkward moment of silence. No one seems to know what to say. At least, not until Otto slings a satchel up over her head and does her best to look enthusiastic. “I got our phones and slates if . . . if anyone wants them?”
Margaux perks up immediately and pushes in between Dean and Brent, jabbing her hand into the satchel like a hungry horse nuzzling its food bag. “I need to call my mom and my dad and my mom’s lawyers and my dad’s lawyers and my manicurist and my hairstylist and DirtDish.com and anyone else who will listen. After I’ve sued this place for everything it’s worth . . . ,” Margaux says, wrenching a diamond-encrusted phone from the pouch, “I’ll be rich, and they’ll be sorry.”
“You’re already rich,” says Ryan.
“Then I’ll be richer,” Margaux says, stabbing at the phone with her finger. The screen lights up, but the momentary flash of joy on Margaux’s face quickly disappears. “No signal! What do you mean, no signal?”
“They don’t work, Margaux,” says Otto. “Communications are being jammed. Look.” Otto holds up her computer slate, and the holographic lines, bumps, and charts spring up from its surface again. Margaux looks at them, bewildered, either unable or just too frustrated to make any sense of them. Her eyes crease and fill with tears. She’s clearly emotionally exhausted, and something as meaningless as a disconnected phone has turned out to be her breaking point.
“Well, if it doesn’t work . . . ,” Margaux says, waving her phone right in Otto’s face, “then what freaking use is it?” With an exasperated shriek, Margaux hurls her phone clear across the room. It streaks toward the far glass wall in a tumbling blur and smacks square into one of the soldiers’ helmets with a dull thud. All of them turn, but only the middle soldier of the three holds up a hand and speaks.
“Miss, please calm down. I know this must be a traumatic experience for you, but I’m confident that once a sweep of the facility has been completed and cleared of any hostile forces, you’ll all be free to go. Trust me; everything is going to be alright.”
Margaux whimpers and covers her mouth with her hands. Tears spill down her cheeks. Brent steps forward and tries to console her with a hug. Everyone in the group looks at the two in their embrace. Compassion and a shared understanding for Margaux’s sorrow show clearly on everyone’s faces, except for that of strangely dead-eyed Dean, who’s gazing into nowhere, and Otto, who’s looking up at me, her frightened eyes wide with concern. I quickly look down at the computer slate resting on the palms of her hands and immediately see why. An enormous holographic power spike is jutting from the surface of the slate, and it’s moving very fast, skittering in a curving trajectory, heading directly toward the small red dot in the center.
The small, red dot . . . exactly where we are all standing.
There’s no time to warn the others as I spin and lunge at Otto.
As a flash of light illuminates the room and we fall toward the floor, the only thought searing through my mind is one of undiluted fear. Fear that the soldier’s comforting words were not only wrong . . . but could also be the last words that any of us would
ever hear.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The blast punches into the room like a thunderclap, rupturing the front windows into glittering powder. The explosion itself doesn’t kill the three soldiers, not really. Neither do the spraying fragments of glass. It’s the air that does it. The invisible, expanding sphere of superheated gases hits the men like a concrete wall, sending their bodies flying backward as their internal organs are pelted into tattered meat by the shrapnel of their own shattered bones.
The shock wave reaches us in a violent rush of glass, concrete, wood, and metal. The base of the desk stays mostly intact—that’s what saves us—but parts of it fly off. A decent-size chunk catches me in the head as people tumble and splay all around me. Mouths are screwed into contorted shapes, hands and arms shield faces, and ears are thumped into deafness, but for that second, for that brief, destructive point in time, the only things that exist are the brutal noise and the percussive force. I don’t think or feel anything. There’s no fear, no confusion, no questions.
But when the broken pieces are settling, and the chaos fades, I know that those three things will fill every bewildered corner of our reeling minds.
There’s moaning and labored movement. “Wha . . . what happened?” asks a muted voice. I only barely hear it through the high-pitched tones warbling in my damaged ears, but it sounds like George. I rub my eyes and survey the room.
Dust and debris are strewn all over the tangle of people scattered around me. Otto is lying facedown beside me; her glasses, remarkably unbroken, are just a half a meter from her mop of frizzy brown hair. I push myself up onto my knees and press my palm to the side of my skull. There’s blood matted in my hair, but the dull throbbing warning tone in the back of my mind tells me that it’s not too bad. I crawl to Otto, move a broken section of desk from her legs, and turn her over onto her back. She groans and winces, her computer slate still safely cradled in the crook of her elbow.