by Jack Heath
“I’m going to return some of your blood,” he said, pocketing one of the vials and removing the cap from the syringe.
Kyntak said nothing.
“I’ve more or less condemned Six to death,” he explained, jamming the needle into the lid of the vial he was still holding, “or serious injury, at least—which means it’s probably you I’ll be using for the surgery. So it’s safest if I start bringing your stats up slowly.”
Kyntak didn’t ask what surgery Vanish was talking about. He threw his head to the left, stretching his neck strap. The gun was just out of reach of his teeth.
Vanish stayed back. “Kyntak, you’ll live longest if you cooperate with me.” He signaled to the woman, who stepped back. Her gun was still pointed at Kyntak’s head but was now above his hand. He stretched his fingers up but wasn’t even close to reaching it.
The phrase hadn’t worked. Shuji’s bots must have had individual shutdown codes.
The bot lowered its arm to shoot again, and Six scrambled to his feet and dived forward. He reached the two-meter perimeter just as he heard the bot’s internal safety catch click off. The bot immediately lowered its arm and lifted its leg, aiming a kick at Six’s chest. Six stepped aside at the last moment, letting the metal and plastic foot swish into the air beside him. He wrapped his arm around it and twisted. The bot lost its balance and slammed face-first into the floor.
Six aimed a stomp at the bot’s head. Maybe I can damage some of its eyes, he thought. But the bot swiped an arm out at Six’s other ankle, and he had to jump over the blow. The stomp missed. Six stepped back, and the bot rose to its feet. Six kept the two-meter distance—close enough so it wouldn’t use the gun, but far enough away that punches would fall short and he would see kicks coming.
The bot lunged forward, and Six ducked back. It swung a kick in his direction, and he sidestepped. It feinted a right hook, and Six dodged again.
It’s figured out my strategy, Six realized. And now it’s trying to drive me into the corner farthest away from the door.
He threw a punch at the bot’s head, which connected. The accelerant didn’t completely mask the pain in his knuckles, and the bot seemed unharmed. It drove an elbow towards his ribs, and he had no choice but to retreat farther.
Six drove his copper blade forward, and it scraped through the plastic shell covering the bot’s metal chassis, but did no more damage—the bot just shoved him backward. His eyes widened as he hit the wall and the bot aimed a skull-crushing punch.
And then, in his moment of necessity, Six came up with a plan. He ducked to one side, and the bot buried its fist in the glass where Six’s head had been. While it was extricating itself, Six leaped up and tore the oxygen hose from the seam between the wall and the ceiling. The long-dried glue made a sucking sound as it was ripped away. Six immediately jammed his thumb over the valve, just as it opened.
He could feel the pressure building up against his thumb as the steady flow of pure oxygen looked for a place to escape. He held the hose tightly as he approached the bot again. It started towards him, but as soon as its rear foot left the ground, Six kicked it in the chest and it stumbled backward. Without giving it time to recover, Six drove a fist into its abdomen, ignoring his aching knuckles. The bot tried to kick his head, but Six ducked under its leg and charged forward, pushing it back farther until it was pressed against the door.
Six kept his forearm against the bot’s chest, pinning it against the glass-covered metal. His face was so close to the bot’s that he could see synthetic irises spinning in its silvery eyes. The bot tried to claw him off, but he grabbed its arm and pressed it against its chest.
He couldn’t hold it much longer, and the pressure against his thumb was becoming unbearable. He held the hose up to the door and released the valve. In the same instant, he slashed the copper blade down against the bot, creating a shower of sparks.
He jammed the hose into the groove he’d made in the robot’s chest, and some internal mechanism squealed with protest as the oxygen combusted and the sudden heat expanded and softened the metal. The bot drove a plastic fist towards Six’s head as its internal cooling mechanism kicked in.
Six ducked the blow and, before the metal could harden again, drove his copper spike into the bot’s exoskeleton.
It didn’t go right in—the blade stopped just a few centimeters after punching the chassis. Six released the blade and it fell to the floor as the bot twisted its torso, trying to land a blow on Six.
The stabbing didn’t appear to have done any serious damage to the bot. Six put his foot on its chest, slammed it back against the door, and hoped his plan would work.
There was a sudden beeping sound.
The robot looked down foolishly at its torso.
Six was hurled backward across the cell as the thirteen hundred grams of C-4 detonated, the primary force of the blast exploding out of the exhaust valve beside the robot’s spine. Half of the roller-door was smashed out into the corridor, leaving the other half shaking on crooked tracks. The glass on the walls and ceiling splintered under the pressure, sending pricks of light out all over the cell. The noise exploded through the enclosed space. Six slammed into the rear wall shoulder first and watched with accelerant-enhanced vision as the robot tumbled lifelessly through the air, surrounded by spinning shreds of glass, like a planet among the stars. Its back was twisted and melted, and its luminous eyes had faded to a dull grey.
Then everything hit the floor—the roller-door, the robot, and the million chips of glass. It all came crashing down in a deafening symphony of shrieks and crunching thuds. Then there was silence. Six was alone with the ringing in his ears.
“Don’t get in the way of the exhaust valve,” Six muttered to himself. “Thanks, Shuji.”
Vanish paused, the needle above Kyntak’s flesh. “Did you hear something?” he asked the red-eyed woman. Kyntak turned his head towards her. She was still pointing the gun at him. He aimed very carefully.
The woman yelped as Kyntak’s tooth hit her in the ear at a speed of ten meters per second. She dropped the gun and it fell towards Kyntak’s shoulder. He threw his torso up into the air and the gun bounced off his collarbone, landing in his left hand.
Vanish dropped the syringe as he jumped back to get out of Kyntak’s range. But Kyntak wasn’t aiming at him. He fired four shots into the mirrored ceiling in quick succession. They ricocheted back down; the first one missed the table altogether, and the second narrowly avoided his bicep. But the third and fourth punctured the clamp around his other arm, and Kyntak ripped his wrist through the fractured copper like it was paper.
The red-eyed woman was reaching for her Eagle but Kyntak shot the magazine, making it unusable. He swung his free arm over to his gun hand and slapped the release button. The clamp popped open with a clank, and now both his arms were free. Vanish and his assistant lunged forward to hold Kyntak down. Kyntak lifted Vanish up with his right arm and threw him over the table, onto the woman. Kyntak sat up and slammed his right hand on the button operating the right knee clamp, and the gun butt on the button for the left.
Clank. Clank. Clank. Clank. His legs were free. He rolled off the table and dropped into a firing crouch.
Vanish had recovered quickly. His jeans had apparently concealed a gun, which was now trained on Kyntak’s heart with a perfectly steady hand.
“Drop it,” Kyntak said.
Vanish laughed. “I think I’m the one with the advantage in this situation,” he said.
“I have Project Falcon reflexes, agility, and strength,” said Kyntak. “There’s nothing to stop me from killing you.”
“But you’re weakened,” said Vanish. “Hungry, thirsty, exhausted. Not enough oxygen is reaching your brain. I’m healthy and alert, and I’ve had eighty years of marksmanship practice. And if you kill me, there’s no way out of this room.”
“Eighty years?” Kyntak snorted. “Yeah, right. You must really cleanse, tone, and moisturize. You can tell your incompetent assista
nt to radio out and get this door open, or else I’ll take a few shots at you.” He kept his gaze level. “I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I will. And I’d rather hurt you than her.”
“You’re bleeding,” Vanish said, and suddenly Kyntak knew it was true. His wrist hurt, and there was a warm wetness on his forearm. “You shot yourself,” Vanish continued. “The bullet went right through the clamp and hit your wrist. Or maybe the pieces of the clamp were sharp, and you cut yourself on them. Either way, you’re already weak and getting weaker.” He smiled. “Kill me and you’ll bleed to death in this room. Get back on the table and I’ll stitch you up.”
He was right. Kyntak could feel his arm becoming numb. The gun was starting to tremble in his grip.
“What’s more important, Kyntak?” Vanish asked. “Your dignity or your life?”
Kyntak smiled. “I’m going to die anyway. But I’m keeping the sights on you as long as I can lift this gun—because I know that inside you’re scared to death.”
Vanish’s smile faded. “I can save your life, Kyntak. And I want to. I wanted both the Project Falcon kids, but Six is probably dead by now, so you’re all I’ve got.”
“Tough,” Kyntak whispered. Then he shouted at the red-eyed woman, “Hey, butterfingers. Open the door or you’ll need someone else to sign your paychecks.”
The door slid open behind him. She hadn’t spoken a word, so Kyntak backed away towards the wall so he could see the doorway while keeping his gun trained on Vanish.
Six was standing there, clothes shredded, face blackened, scratches all over.
“Six,” Kyntak rasped. “You look terrible.”
“At least I still have my hair,” Six pointed out.
“Okay, now you’re fired,” Kyntak replied. Then, to Vanish, “Stop right there!”
Vanish had moved behind the table. His gun was still pointed at Kyntak; Six was unarmed. “That wasn’t a good strategic move,” Kyntak said. “You can’t beat both of us, and we’re between you and the door. How long do you think that table’s going to protect you?”
“Longer than you think,” Vanish said. A mad smile flitted across his face.
“Toss me your radio,” Six said to the woman. She didn’t move.
“Do it,” Kyntak said. “Or I shoot your boss and then take it from you. You don’t have a whole lot of leverage here.”
The woman threw the radio. And as it was in the air, Vanish opened fire. Two bullets had hit the ceiling before Kyntak squeezed off his first shot, which missed Vanish, who had ducked behind the table. Kyntak and Six stooped into identical crouches, minimizing surface areas as the ricochets sparked off the ceiling and the walls.
The bullets ground to a halt after their second or third deflection, and clinked harmlessly on the floor.
Kyntak was feeling weak, and his aim was shaky. He threw his gun to Six, who caught it and aimed it at the table.
“Put down your weapon,” Six said. “Hold up your hands. You have until I count to five, then I come around the corner firing.”
There was no response from behind the table. “One,” Six began. “Two.”
“He’s gone,” the woman interrupted. Her face was white and sweaty—there was fear in her expression. “He’s disappeared.”
Something in Niskev Pacye’s voice struck Six as raw truth. All her icy confidence from the ransom video was gone. She was scared. Six leveled his gun and walked around the table in a slow circle. There was no sign of Vanish anywhere.
“Cool trick,” Kyntak whispered from his position on the floor. “How’d he do it?”
Six remembered the plastic plate he’d seen on the floor when the bot picked up the table in his cell. He kicked the side panel of the table. It didn’t budge. “The doors to the cells can’t be opened from the inside,” he said, pressing his palms against various spots on the panel. “And he wanted them closed while the prisoners were inside, even while he was in there with them, to minimize the risk of escape. Therefore there was some small chance that he’d get trapped in one.” A part of the table depressed under the pressure from his hands, and the side folded in, exposing the hollow inside of the table. Six rapped his knuckles on the plastic square embedded in the floor underneath. It sounded hollow.
“So he built tunnels,” he finished, standing up. “Escape routes, well hidden and hard to open without the know-how.”
“Do we follow him?” Kyntak asked. He had clamped his hand over his wounded wrist, trying to slow the bleeding.
“No,” Six said. “We don’t know where it leads, and he’ll be waiting for us. We have to get out of here.”
He ripped the tattered shirt off his chest and knelt down beside Kyntak. “Let go.”
Kyntak released his wrist, and Six wound the shirt around it. He looked at Kyntak’s face. He was pale, and his eyes were unfocused. He’s lost too much blood, Six thought.
“Kyntak,” Six asked. “Can you hear me?”
“It’s not that bad,” Kyntak whispered. “Barely hurts.”
Six glanced around for something he could use. He’d stopped the bleeding, but he might have done it too late. He saw a syringe lying on the ground, filled with blood, and he reached over and grabbed it.
“Kyntak,” Six said. “Stay with me. Is this your blood?”
“Stole it,” Kyntak breathed. “Wanted me weak…”
Vanish was draining him, Six realized. That’s why the blood loss seemed so bad—he was already depleted. He rolled up Kyntak’s shorts, tapped the syringe, pushed the valve to get the oxygen out, and put the needle in Kyntak’s femoral artery. “Can you feel that?” he asked as he pushed the valve.
“I knew you’d show up,” Kyntak said. “You always…you…” His eyes drooped. He was still as white as a sheet.
“Stay awake,” Six said. “Stay awake!”
The syringe was empty, and Six took it out, pressing his thumb against the needle mark. He’d never done a blood transfusion before—he hoped he had done it right. But it didn’t look like enough; Kyntak’s lips were still blue, and he was now unconscious. Six felt for a pulse. It was faint and slow.
Of course, he thought. Kyntak and I have the same blood type! He pushed the needle into his arm, ignoring the sharp sting, and filled it with his own blood, then tapped it again and pushed it into Kyntak’s leg. “Come on,” he whispered. “I didn’t come this far to watch you die.”
Kyntak’s chest was no longer visibly rising and falling. Six filled the syringe again from his arm, and gave Kyntak another transfusion. He was starting to get dizzy now, and his head ached from dehydration. I can’t give any more blood, he thought, or I’ll lose consciousness myself.
He felt for a pulse again.
There wasn’t one.
DESPERATE
Don’t panic, Six told himself. He put his hands on Kyntak’s ribs and pushed down repeatedly. One, two, three, four, five. Kyntak had stopped breathing. Six pinched Kyntak’s nose, held his mouth open, and exhaled into it twice. He put his hands back on Kyntak’s chest. One, two, three, four, five. He was pushing hard enough to crack ribs on a normal human, but Kyntak’s bones were stronger than most. Six put his ear to Kyntak’s lips; the only sound was the frenzied pounding of his own heart. He put his mouth over Kyntak’s again and breathed: one, two. Kyntak’s chest rose and fell with the breaths, but there was no movement once Six stopped forcing air into him.
He touched his fingers to Kyntak’s neck. Still no pulse.
“Give me your remote,” he shouted to Pacye.
She looked up in alarm. “Why?”
Six picked up the gun and aimed it at her. “Just do it!”
She tore the remote from her belt and threw it to Six, who pointed it at Kyntak and jammed his finger down on the ACCELERANT button a few times. He hoped that the benefits of the epinephrine would be greater than the danger of the NENB.
He dropped the remote and bashed the heels of his palms against Kyntak’s chest. One, two, three, four, five! He put his mouth to Kynta
k’s. One, two!
There was no response. There just wasn’t enough blood in Kyntak’s veins, and no amount of CPR was going to change that. Six’s brother was becoming little more than a still-warm corpse.
Six stuck the needle into his arm again, but hesitated. If he pulled the plunger, he would lose consciousness in seconds—long enough to give Kyntak the transfusion, maybe, but not long enough to do any more CPR. Kyntak would die. He was nearly dead already.
“What blood type are you?” he demanded, turning to Pacye. But she had disappeared—either run out into the corridor or followed Vanish down the tunnel.
Six thumped his fist into the floor next to Kyntak’s drained flesh. They were both O positive. They needed someone who matched, or someone with O negative blood, the universal type.
Think, Six commanded himself. There has to be a way. There’s always a way! Vanish had O positive blood. He couldn’t transplant his brain into a body that didn’t match. But they had already ruled out catching him as a possibility, let alone taking some of his blood and running back to the cell. There were soldiers out in the corridor, but they were unconscious and there was no way to tell what blood type they were. If he gave Kyntak the wrong kind of blood, he would poison him.
Six’s eyes widened. There was another candidate, someone close by who had O positive blood. Six’s mind recoiled from the idea, but he knew it was Kyntak’s only shot for survival. He lifted Kyntak in his arms and carried him out the door.
He couldn’t run; he was too dizzy and exhausted. He staggered slowly down the corridor, Kyntak’s lifeless body flopping sickeningly in his arms. “Stay with me, Kyntak,” he whispered. He stumbled in as straight a line as he could: left foot, right foot, left foot…
As he passed the elevator, he kicked the gun of one of the fallen soldiers between the doors. They wouldn’t close with it in the way, so the elevator couldn’t move. No reinforcements would get to this floor for a while.
He reached the cell door and opened it. The clone looked up at him with the same terror in his gaze that Six had seen before. Six laid Kyntak down on the table and pulled the syringe from his pocket.