“Hey hey, Zee Twelve. What’s been going on?” Dubs shouts a too-friendly greeting and extends his fingers out for a tap.
Zee Twelve sucks on his cigarette and leaves Dubs’s hand hanging. So we just stand there, staring at his small, black eyes and pockmarked cheeks, waiting for him to answer. He exhales finally, blowing the smoke in Dubs’s face.
“What’s going on?” Zee repeats slowly. His voice is low and smooth, with an undercurrent of mockery. “Well, right now, my friend, I’m wondering what a couple of trade-school slugs think they’re doing talking to me.”
Us? Trade-school slugs? Now, that’s hilarious. He might as well call me a cheerleader.
“You got any ammunition?” I blurt. “For a Colt M1911?”
“Ammo costs money, little girl.” Zee Twelve gives me the once-over, noting my holey jeans and patched-up coat. He throws the butt of his joint at my boots. “More than you’ve got.”
“You might’ve noticed our ride,” I say. I’m already sick of this skinny, meth-faced Rezzie thug. I gesture behind me at the Corvette, which practically shimmers in the middle of this dump. “It’s for sale.”
Zee Twelve smiles, revealing dull, gray metal teeth. “Betting men don’t buy, friend,” he tells me. “We win.”
Perfect. He’s not buying. He has no money. Which means we need to find another option before the Bot-cops find the ’Vette—and us.
Then Dubs opens his big mouth and says, “Fine. We’ll race you for it. We win, you give us ammo—all the ammo you have.”
Zee Twelve shakes his head, smirks, and says, “And when I win?”
Dubs crosses his scarred arms over his chest. “You get the Corvette.”
My mouth falls open. Zee’s a race king, and Dubs and I have driven a car exactly once.
I grab him by the arm and haul him toward the ’Vette, calling, “Excuse us,” over my shoulder. Dubs, taken by surprise, stumbles.
“What’s your problem?” he demands.
“What’s my problem?” I hiss. “Why don’t you just give him the car for being a goddamn nice guy, huh?”
Dubs shakes his head. “Sixie, it’s a wager. That’s how shit works.” He shrugs. “Everybody knows that.”
He looks at me like I’m the dumb one.
“That Charger’s five hundred horsepower, max. I can freaking smell the radiator fluid, dude. That thing’s a dog. It goes zero to sixty in about a month. Meanwhile, you and me have this.” He pats the side of the Corvette.
He sounds so sure of himself. And I want to believe him.
I glance back toward Zee Twelve, who’s slouched against that tin can of his. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a way this could work. There are usually at least a hundred people at the races, and if the ’Vette does well, that’s a hundred potential buyers.
Of course, if we lose, there are no bullets and nothing to barter with. But still.
Dubs can tell I’m changing my mind. “Yeahhhh, boyyyy,” he crows, “I mean, girrrlll.”
When we get back to the group, I stick out my hand to Zee Twelve. “We can beat your sorry Dodge any day of the week, not to mention any other shit piece of junk you can dig up,” I say.
This time, Zee Twelve reaches for my hand. He yanks my arm close to him, so that we’re standing eye-to-eye. “Tonight,” he says, almost tenderly, and strokes the inside of my palm.
“Tonight.” I nod, resisting the urge to shudder at his creepy touch.
“You’re going to make her fly,” Dubs says as we walk back to the Corvette.
I stop midstride. “Wait—I’m the one driving?”
He taps me on the sternum once, twice, three times. “And don’t you fucking lose.”
CHAPTER 18
SHE SHOULDN’T BE nervous or scared, but she is. That’s how Mikky is built. She glances in her rearview mirror as she races up the steep highway, into the mountains. Six Bot-cop utility vehicles follow her—on the commander’s orders. This is her show, her first, but something about it bothers her. There are too many Bot-cops.
When the stolen Corvette’s identity interface signaled its location along the Reserve border, Mikky assured MosesKhan she could handle it on her own, with a Bot or two for backup. The commander insisted on six units.
Overkill. But why? Is it because he doesn’t trust her?
She parks the car at the eastern edge of the Reserve and signals the Bot-cops to do the same. They’ll go the rest of the way on foot. They’re heavily armed—with Mercy 72s.
Too much firepower, she thinks.
The Mercy 72 is the “compassionate” weapon of choice among the Hu-Bot Elite, because the bullet is designed to target the victim’s heart. Mikky’s been told in training that it’s quick and painless.
Is MosesKhan trying to protect her, trying to keep her safe in the Reserve?
“Detective,” says a voice, cutting through the darkness. “Central Command has visual imaging. Coordinates are Z twenty-nine, X eighty-seven—”
The Bot-cops are lined up. Everyone’s waiting for her command. That’s better.
MikkyBo has to focus. She’s got to retrieve this stolen car, which is apparently so important that a small army has been dispatched to retrieve it. A small army carrying Mercys.
Everything is going to be fine. Order has to be maintained. Do your job.
Mikky steps forward, and the Bot-cops fall in behind her. She’s half a foot taller than any of them—the only Hu-Bot in the group. The one in charge.
She draws the Mercy 72 handgun from her belt and takes off the safety. But she can’t help hoping she won’t have to use it.
It doesn’t occur to her that, just by thinking this, she is already a traitor.
CHAPTER 19
“NO WAY.” DUBS is shaking his head. “This is bullshit. We’ve been hustled.”
I’m in the Corvette, sitting at the starting line of the makeshift Pits track, watching Zee Twelve pull up alongside. But he’s not driving the beat-up Charger we saw earlier.
Instead he’s strapped into some lime-green Franken-Porsche with flames painted on the hood. It’s about the ugliest coupe I’ve ever seen, but I can tell by the sound of the engine that it’s got major kick.
“Your girl said she could beat any car,” one of Zee’s sidekicks reminds Dubs.
Guess how much I’m regretting that cocky moment?
“Could,” Dubs snarls with such fury that I think he might twist the Rezzie’s head off. “But we agreed to race the Dodge.” He stalks over to my window. “You can’t beat him, Sixie,” he says quietly.
“Gee, thanks for the pep talk, coach.”
“That’s a twin turbo. You can’t win.”
“Losers cannot win,” the computer voice butts in, as if our earlier conversation had never stopped. “Losers lose.”
“The fuck…?” Dubs and I both gasp. Didn’t we destroy the console this morning? With sledgehammers?
“Your surprise is quite adorable to witness,” it simpers.
I turn to Dubs. “We’ve got to get this race over with. And, no matter what happens, we’re getting rid of this car.”
The track’s only three miles long—mostly a straight course, with a sharp curve on a steep downhill, a turnaround, and then the same course uphill.
Before I have time to think up some fake, bullshit strategy or send up a silent prayer to a god I don’t believe in, the flag goes down.
I have the better position—inside for the first turn—but in my millisecond of hesitation, Zee shoots forward and veers inside. I floor the ’Vette, but I’m already behind. Just like that. Two seconds.
“Pathetic,” the computer crows. “You brainless meat sack! You have no idea how to handle fine machinery, do you? Also, your hair looks terrible.”
I grit my teeth, ignoring the sneering voice. Seconds later, we’re nearing the halfway point. The Porsche is faster, but it has a hard time on the narrow turnaround.
I crank the wheel, whipping the Corvette into the one-eighty. I gain some groun
d—but not enough.
“Don’t worry, though,” the voice returns. “You’ll get a fine education in prison. You’ll learn to be obedient. To grovel. To keep quiet when you’re tortured.”
“I don’t grovel,” I retort. “I’m not anybody’s slave.”
“Slaves bow before their masters,” the computer insists.
Perfect timing. I’m riding up on the Franken-Porsche’s tail—closer, closer. I crank up the volume on the console.
“I’m my own master,” I hiss.
The computer takes the bait, and the voice booms out of my speakers. “HUMANS, BOW DOWN!”
Zee Twelve slams on the brakes, just as I thought he would. I shoot forward, passing him before he realizes that it’s not actually a raid.
I can see the finish line ahead. I grip the steering wheel even tighter and narrow my focus. Maybe I’m going to win this thing. Probably not, but maybe.
Then I feel a hard slam against the side of the Corvette, and my head snaps forward. Major frickin’ pain. For a second, I’m blind. There’s blood in my mouth, and I think I just cracked a tooth.
I realize for the first time that the car might not be the only thing I lose tonight. I might lose my life.
Zee rams me again, then pulls away for another strike. When he cranks the wheel to rev up for the grand slam, I hit the brakes. He careens sideways.
The flags are up ahead, the sidelines packed with people, and the two cars are dead even. OK, maybe I’m half a length behind.
An awful roar builds. Zee Twelve has shifted the Porsche into some kind of freaking rocket gear. He shoots past me in a blur of blue flames.
“You stupid girl, you lost!” the computer voice shouts.
“Enjoy it,” I spit at the console. “Tomorrow you’re going to be hacked down and sold for parts.”
“What?” a different voice—probably that of the Hu-Bot who owns the car—cuts in. “I don’t care what MosesKhan says. Hack into the slipstream!”
Oh shit, I think as the gas pedal locks and the steering wheel tightens. I have zero control now. Worse, we’re heading straight for the edge of a cliff. So this is how it ends.
There’s nothing to do but hold on. The Corvette surges forward as the Hu-Bot hacker uses the last of its juice and rides up on Zee Twelve’s bumper. The ’Vette swerves right, and hard left, and smashes into Zee’s back right wheel.
The Porsche spins out, and I shoot forward. I smash my forehead on the steering wheel. Dizzy and whiplashed, I struggle upright—just as the Corvette screeches to a halt six inches from thin air, the edge of the cliff, death.
But Rezzies are running at me, cheering that I won. I don’t even know how it happened, but it doesn’t matter. I watch the scrawny little gangster Zee stumble out of his wrecked car.
Moments later, his boys start loading boxes and boxes of ammo into the Corvette’s trunk. I take the pistol from the glove box and load her up.
Dubs hustles over and pounds me on the back.
“Still a loser,” the computer voice interjects. “Always a loser.”
“Always trapped in a dashboard,” I snort.
Trip, Dubs’s cousin, comes speeding toward us. She throws her arms around my neck, and I stagger backward, off balance. Wild-eyed, wild-haired Trip is usually a little too nutty for me—but tonight I just laugh and hug her back.
And then we’re all cackling and high-fiving each other, and for the first time in about forever I feel almost happy.
That’s when shouts shatter the night air. “BOTS!”
I look up—and see robot cops swarming toward us. They’ve cut off the road, and they’re also all over the opposite slope. A chopper noisily whirs overhead.
Then I see the leader—a Hu-Bot—and she has a Mercy 72 cocked and ready. Ready for what?
CHAPTER 20
“RUN!” I SHOUT to Dubs, who’s standing there, as dumbfounded as I am.
But run where? The Bots have encircled us—so there’s nowhere to go but over the cliff. And, last I checked, none of us can fly.
The Rezzies are screaming, trying to hide behind rocks and cars and shadows. They’re just kids.
I feel Trip’s hand in mine and hear her panicked voice in my ear. “I’m scared, Six.”
There’s a steep rock wall near the cliff’s edge, and for a second I’ve got this crazy idea that we can scramble up it to safety. But it’s twelve vertical feet up. Even if I didn’t get shot, Trip and Dubs would never make it—and I’m not leaving them behind.
The Bots’ high-power flashlights slice through the twilight.
“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.” Trip’s hyperventilating. Her sharp nails are digging into my palm. I resist the urge to shake her off. She’s a kid—and she’s afraid.
Their Mercy 72s are drawn, but they’re not firing. Yet. Slowly, the Bots drive us toward the edge of the cliff, like we’re sheep.
The Bot-cops don’t register our panic, our shrieks. They don’t understand fear. And, even if they did, sympathy’s not in their job description.
“We gotta charge ’em,” I yell to Zee over the noise. I’d rather take a bullet than fall a thousand feet. Hell, if I’m going to die tonight, I want to die fighting.
“Halt, humans,” cries a metallic voice.
But we don’t halt. Dubs has come up beside me, and he’s got his head down like a bull. We’re actually pushing back, gaining a little ground. I expect the bullets to start any second. All it takes is one Hu-Bot command.
Then a shrill whistle sounds, and the Bot-cops halt in their tracks. That’s when I see her.
The Hu-Bot angel of death, striding forward. And she is definitely not ugly. No, the robo-chick in charge of this madness must be six and a half feet tall. She’s dressed head to toe in black, with a face so beautiful, it almost hurts to look at it. She’s an Elite.
“What the—” Dubs starts to say. His eyes are about popping out of his head. He takes a step forward, like he’s considering flinging himself into her arms, even if it means he’ll take a bullet to the heart.
I grab his sleeve, and he turns around, his eyes crazy with fear. The Hu-Bot has spotted the ’Vette, and she’s about to spot us—she’s hustling on those long, muscular legs, her gaze sweeping the crowd.
But then the Capital Center helicopter suddenly drops low, stopping only a couple dozen yards over our heads. The wind is so strong, it tears up my eyes; the deafening thunder of its blades shakes my body.
But, no matter how loud the chopper is, I can still hear on the loudspeaker: “HUMANS, BOW DOWN!”
We can barely move, let alone bow, so the crowd topples forward in a lopsided wave. Hands go up. We’re surrendering. Everybody. What other choice do we have?
When I stand again, I see the Bot-cops taking a few steps back, which fills me with a surge of hope—until they start lowering their guns. And now they look like they’re taking aim…
Oh, shit no.
Yellow flashes spark from the gun muzzles. The screaming is deafening now. They’re firing into a bunch of kids—kids who’ve already surrendered! Who haven’t done anything wrong in the first place except try to have a little fun!
Better to be a moving target, so I sprint low toward the Corvette. Bullets ricochet all around me. Dubs is only a few steps behind.
Then I remember Trip. I whip around and almost wish I hadn’t. Trip’s still on her knees, madly trying to press her hands against the bloody hole in her friend’s stomach, as if she could stuff the kid’s entrails back inside.
“She’s gone!” I yell. “You have to come with me.”
I yank Trip to her feet and hold her head down as we race toward the car. The chopper’s firing at us now.
Trip’s still screaming about God—and who knows? Maybe God really does exist, because somehow we make it to the ’Vette without being shot.
I shove Trip hard into the backseat, behind Dubs. I slide into the driver’s seat. I’ve got one hand on the steering wheel and one on the gun.
I floo
r it, peeling out in a spray of gravel, the back of the ’Vette swerving like it might not be able to keep up. Bullets are slamming into the car.
We’re almost out of there, almost free of the carnage—but then I swerve toward the Hu-Bot goddess. She is in charge, and she ordered the massacre.
She’s turning around now, yelling orders to the Bots, but, between the gunfire and the chopper, it’s impossible to know what she’s saying.
Not that it matters. She’s not paying attention to any humans. Not even the one slowing the ’Vette to a crawl… positioning a gun… squinting above the barrel… taking careful, deadly aim. Humans, bow down, my ass.
CHAPTER 21
“I SAID, HOLD your fire!” MikkyBo roars.
But her team doesn’t follow her order. She doesn’t understand what’s going on, or how to stop this. The Bot-cops keep shooting, their bullets ripping into the teenagers. The screaming pierces MikkyBo’s ears, and the chopper swings its giant spotlight around in circles, illuminating every terrified human face.
She watches a kid stumble and fall to the dirt—in his eyes a look of confusion as blood leaks out of a wound in his chest.
She continues to scream the order to stop firing. Finally, she knocks one of her own cops down. Then another.
“Listen to me! I’m a Hu-Bot detective!”
No one listens to her orders.
More gunfire lights up the sky, the bullets slamming into bodies. MikkyBo looks up, sees that the Tactical Force helicopter is spraying bullets, too.
“Stop firing now! Stop this madness!”
It’s impossible to know what to do in the chaos of a shoot-out. The Bots, transformed into killing machines. The helicopter, raining down death.
MikkyBo touches her choker lightly, but only for a split second. She thinks she knows how to make this right. She takes aim at the nearest rogue Bot. Takes a deep breath. One, two—