She’s hit! Someone shot her!
MikkyBo’s right leg collapses beneath her, and she lands hard on both knees. Her nerves are flooded with pain. She has to grit her teeth to keep from crying out.
Then she sees the stolen Corvette, the tattooed girl, wild-eyed behind the wheel. In the passenger seat, her loutish friend. These were the two she was after from the start. And the girl just shot her!
She howls in rage. None of this would’ve happened if it hadn’t been for them. All of this bloodshed.
She struggles to her feet and charges the car. She ignores the excruciating pain. But the girl guns the engine. She shot a Hu-Bot detective—punishable by death—and now she’s getting away? That’s not happening.
Shifting course, MikkyBo races toward her own vehicle. “Offender on the move!” she yells. The Bots still fail to respond. She doesn’t care about them anymore. The only thing she can do is go after those two—the instigators, the original car thieves.
Reaching her car, she yells into the console, “Renegade Bots shooting bystanders! Unknown number of casualties! Emergency assistance needed! Now!”
But there’s no answer to her message. Only silence.
And that’s when MikkyBo understands what she should have known from the moment the Bots began firing.
I want every human persecuted to the fullest extent, her commander had said.
This wasn’t a mistake. It was premeditated murder.
CHAPTER 22
WE’RE FLYING DOWN the highway now, the android death squad miles behind us but the sound of bullets still ringing in my ears. Trip’s shaking and shivering in the backseat, curled up against the door like she’s still trying to dodge bullets. Dubs keeps reaching back to reassure her, but he looks pretty freaked out, too.
It’s only because I’m driving that I’m not losing it myself. I’ve had plenty of experience with death—kids starving, old timers OD’ing—but I’m going to relive the bloodbath in nightmares for years.
Assuming I live that long.
“Did you see what they did to Eff Seventeen?” Trip gasps. “Blew her face off! I saw it, man. That wasn’t a Mercy gun.”
Dubs speaks in a crackling whisper. “It was worse than a Killer Film.”
“Don’t talk about it, okay?” I’m gripping the steering wheel so tight, my knuckles are bone white. “It’s over. We got away. We’ve got to worry about ourselves now. They’re going to come for us.”
“They already are, you sorry sack of guts,” says you-know-who.
Dubs drives his fist into the console again. This machine won’t die.
“Aggression is indication of a failure to evolve,” the know-it-all voice remarks.
Trip sits up in the backseat, her red curls all messy, her face pale. “Where are we going?”
I realize she’s never been off the Reserve before.
“Wherever you’re headed, whatever stupid decision you make, you’re being tracked,” the computer promises.
“Dubs, you’ve got to stop that stupid voice,” I say.
But he’s not paying attention. He’s twisted around in his seat, peering into the darkness, where two pinpricks of light are growing larger.
“They’re coming after us.”
“Coming fast,” Trip says, panic rising.
“Come on, Sixie!” Dubs yells as the flashes of red light up the inside of the ’Vette. “Go, go! They want us dead.”
Like I need to be told! But, racer or not, this car doesn’t stand a chance next to a police cruiser—I’ve seen those things go from 0 to 160 in less than four seconds. We’ve got only one option.
“Ammo’s in the glove box. Reload.”
He scrambles to do it, cursing. Trip’s making little cries of fear in the backseat. She sounds like a little trapped fox.
The cruiser pulls up next to us. I can see the dark-haired Hu-Bot waving a Mercy pistol in her right hand. Which means that her aim doesn’t even matter: one shot, and my heart explodes like a supernova.
But she’s not pointing it at me. She’s waving it, like she’s trying to get us to—
“Pull over?” Dubs yells. “Is she joking?”
Like we’re going to stop—so we can get sent to prison for life? Or eat a bullet from a Bot-cop? No way that’s happening.
I swerve away, accelerating. As long as I’m breathing, I’m driving.
This time, when the Hu-Bot pursues, Dubs fires a round. It careens off the cruiser, doesn’t even chip the paint.
“That surprised her!” he crows. “You should see the look on her face!”
What, did she think that shot in her leg was an accident? Maybe the Hu-Bot’s not as smart as she thinks she is. Or maybe I’m the dumb one?
Dubs squeezes off another round, but it doesn’t faze her. Her voice blares through powerful speakers mounted on the bumper. “You are in violation! Pull. Over. Don’t make me kill you. That’s the next step of protocol.”
“Do it, you stupid Hu-Bitch,” Dubs hollers. He shoots again. This time the bullet cracks the windshield. Score one for the good guys.
“Humans! Stop! Please! You will be—” the Hu-Bot begins, but Dubs cuts her off with another shot, and she skids away.
For a moment, everything goes quiet. Trip’s not whimpering. Dubs isn’t cursing. There’s nothing but the sound of our engine and the rushing wind. Maybe we scared her off. Did she actually say please?
Then I hear Dubs say, “Oh shit.” Trip screams like the little girl she is.
A split second later, I feel the impact. A thundering crash rattles my brain. The Hu-Bot rams us, just as Zee did—but harder, much harder.
Time slows down. Trip’s piercing scream seems to last for an hour.
The world’s spinning around us. Then we’re airborne. Flipping over and over, and this is it—
CHAPTER 23
MIKKYBO WATCHES THE Corvette launch into the air, spinning horribly out of control, and then slam back down to the ground, rolling over four times before landing on its roof. It slides, squealing, another fifty yards—then comes to a stop at the edge of a hay field.
Smoke rolls out of the mangled pile of steel and shattered glass. For a second, MikkyBo is frozen in her seat. Her body, unaccustomed to so many intense feelings at once, is malfunctioning. Her heart’s gone haywire. She can’t feel her hands. There’s a ringing in her ears. She feels almost human. It’s terrible. Unacceptable.
Shaking all over, she manages to open the cruiser’s door. But before she can climb out, she leans over and vomits all over the highway.
She knows she shouldn’t care, but she does: three more kids are dead now. It’s all her fault.
Slowly she stands—her leg is healing itself—makes her way across the highway toward the gruesome wreck. Flames are licking at the edges of the hood now. The whole thing might blow. Looks like it.
MikkyBo has the Mercy out, but there’s no way she’s going to need it. No way anyone could have survived. That kid who shot her? She’s nothing but a bloody pulp behind what’s left of the steering wheel.
MikkyBo knows she must call in the accident, but she doesn’t—not yet. She needs to see for herself…
The twisted bits of metal. Glittering shards of glass. Smoking engine. The blood on the road. The wrecked, empty interior of the Corvette.
She stands tall—shocked. Empty? What the—?
She looks wildly around in the darkness, and that’s when she sees them. They’re halfway across the field. Limping, stumbling, helping one another. Wounded—who knows how badly.
Thank God, she thinks, relief flooding her body like a drug. And she knows something else—I shouldn’t be feeling this way.
Two girls and one enormous boy, heading for the wilderness as the night gets deeper, and much colder.
Catching them would almost be a kindness. Better prison than a night in the black woods. Out there, they’ll suffer from their wounds and from the cold. Hypothermia will set in. And what about the predators—bears and wol
ves and cougars, their numbers back up after the decimation of the human population? No, those three will never survive. Their only hope… me.
Capital Center vehicles are approaching.
“What the hell is this?” she mumbles under her breath. How did they get out here so fast? Because they knew a massacre was coming?
They circle around her, penning her in. They idle for a minute—just long enough for her heart rate to spike again.
You’re an Elite Hu-Bot, she tells herself. Trust yourself. Trust your instincts. You’re a detective.
Then—the worst shock yet. Commander MosesKhan steps from one of the cars. His face is dark with anger.
Your instincts are wrong. All wrong. MosesKhan set you up.
CHAPTER 24
“COMMANDER,” MIKKYBO SAYS quickly, saluting, trying to pretend she’s calm. “Did you get my report on the renegade Bots?”
She hopes that if she focuses on what she did right, there’s a chance she’ll avoid reprimand and humiliation.
MosesKhan glares at the smoldering Corvette. “Tell me, Detective, how is it that you could not accomplish such a simple mission—even with an army at your fingertips?”
“They were not under my control,” MikkyBo says. “That was what I was trying—”
“Of course they weren’t,” the commander interrupts in an angry tone. “They were under mine.”
His?
“The Bots were firing on unarmed citizens,” she says.
“You mean the Bot troops were assisting you,” the commander corrects. “They were narrowing the field of humans so you could complete your mission.” He pauses. “Except that you did not do so.”
MikkyBo feels sick—and angry. MosesKhan ordered the slaughter of dozens of young humans because he feared she wouldn’t succeed on her own? That simply isn’t logical. Hu-Bots don’t fail.
“Sir, surely I would have apprehended—”
The commander cuts her off again. “So you’re admitting that you are ill-equipped to deal with unpredictability? That is distressing, since humans are the most unpredictable of creatures.”
MikkyBo stands taller. She wants to throttle the commander, a ridiculous urge. “Sir, had I known—”
“Silence!” MosesKhan roars in her face. “It is not my job to explain things to you. You were to apprehend two criminals—”
“There were three, sir,” MikkyBo interjects. She can play the interrupting game, too.
MosesKhan’s eyes flash as he walks in a slow circle around her. He’s too close. His breath is cold on her neck. “Three humans in one car… that you were unable to overtake in your cruiser?”
“I was able to overtake them. But then there was an accident, and…” She stops.
“And what?” MosesKhan leans forward to hear.
“They ran,” she says, cowed now. “Into the woods.”
“You’re telling me that three injured humans escaped an Elite detective?”
“I did confiscate the car,” Mikky points out, as the Corvette belches up a small fireball.
“The car is of no consequence!” MosesKhan says, his cheeks turning a brilliant shade of plum.
MikkyBo is in agony now—but she makes herself ask: “What was the point of the mission, sir? Help me understand.”
The commander looks around at his entourage. Then invites her inside his car. The door shuts with a quiet, ominous click.
“The point… was to find her,” MosesKhan says, “the car thief. The girl. Six, as she is called.”
“Who is Six?” Mikky presses.
“She’s human scum. But with a quantum computer in her possession.”
“She has a Q-comp?” Mikky asks, disbelieving. She knows how dangerous they can be—which is why all of them in human possession have been confiscated. Every one. So how could that Rezzie girl have a Q-comp? It doesn’t seem possible, doesn’t make any sense. Strains credulity.
“The girl, Six, possesses information that is both highly dangerous and highly valuable.” The commander stares into his detective’s eyes. “She has the key to a memory bank of information that could give the human race a dangerous advantage. She is the grandchild of a human hero. And you, MikkyBo, you let her slip right through your fingers.”
CHAPTER 25
“SIX, HOW MUCH farther?” Trip cries out.
We trudge deeper into the woods, toward the icy heart of this steep, towering mountain. All around us, shadows bend and shift, and the evergreen trees seem to tremble in the cold.
I shake my head, but everything still looks blurry and strange. Either I got a concussion in the crash, or else I’m in major shock that we’re actually alive.
Not that we’re in great shape now. Dubs is limping, and so is Trip. She’s bleeding something awful, weeping quietly. She cracked her head, and her ankle might be broken. He’s got a black eye and a big gash on his arm, and he lost another tooth. And me? Well…
“You’re leaving a helpful trail of blood, Sixie,” Dubs points out.
The cut on my leg, the one I wrapped with an old tube sock, is still dripping. “Great—so if the Bots don’t find us, the wolves will.”
Trip gives a small, whimpering cry at the thought.
“Don’t worry, cuz,” Dubs says. “I’ll protect you from everything.”
But we all know that’s an impossible promise.
No one says anything else, and we slog along in silence for a while. It’s getting colder, and pretty soon my teeth are chattering. But since I’m also hoofing it uphill, I’m freezing and sweating simultaneously—which sucks, and is also terrifying.
When we finally get to a place that isn’t too steep or too exposed or too snowbound, we stop to assess our situation. A quick look around tells me this much: it’s even worse than I thought.
Trip can hardly put any weight on her ankle. My right eye has begun to swell shut. Dubs is leaking blood all over himself. We don’t know where we are. We have no food, or water, or blankets. It’s night, and it’s already below freezing.
“Well,” Dubs says, wiping a red smear across his forehead, “this is a nice spot for a picnic! Whatcha got for us, Sixie?”
“I’d kill for a bug bar right about now,” Trip whispers.
“I’ll take a look around,” I say quickly. “Maybe find some berries.” I bend down and pick up a rock. “Or a raccoon!”
“Well, look who’s suddenly a huntress,” Dubs says. “Does extreme danger bring out the killer in you, Sixie?” He nudges me in the ribs.
“You want to help me?” I ask. “Or keep talking stupid shit like that?”
Dubs ducks his head apologetically. “Help,” he says meekly, and bends to pick up his own rock.
I realize this is total madness—us pretending like any animal’s going to come within fifty yards. I’m just creeping through the darkness, a jagged rock in my palm—because doing something’s better than doing nothing.
I’m so cold that prison’s almost starting to sound good.
I stop and lean against a tree. I’m suddenly overwhelmed. Memories of the surprise attack wash over me in waves—the screaming, the terror, the slaughter. How quickly the Bot-cops turned themselves into a firing squad. And how the Hu-Bot in charge did nothing to stop it.
Maybe I should just lie down in the snow. I’ve heard that freezing to death isn’t the worst way to go…
Then I see a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye, and before I even know what’s happening, I’ve already flung the rock. I hear a thud, and the shadowy movement stops abruptly.
I hold my breath for a moment and then creep forward. My feet are making crunching noises on the frozen ground.
There, lying in the snow, half-hidden by the underbrush, is a rabbit.
It’s not dead, though—it’s stunned. Frightened. Its eyes blink madly; it doesn’t want to die.
But this fierce need boils up in me, like nothing I’ve ever felt before, this desperate desire to escape this situation, because I don’t want to di
e, either—so I take the rock again, and I bring it down on the poor thing’s head.
The rabbit’s hind legs kick out, spasming wildly. Then, in another moment, they go still. It’s done. Dubs is standing over my shoulder.
“Wow. I didn’t think you had it in you,” he says.
I pick up the soft body, still warm, and I hand it to him. I feel terrible. “Skin it,” I say.
“With my teeth?” he asks, but he looks like he’d be willing to try.
I reach into my jeans and pull out a rusty pocketknife. “Use this.”
He gives me a funny look, like maybe he’s realizing he doesn’t know me as well as he thinks he does.
Trip builds a fire—and we roast that little bunny over it. It’s gamy and fatty and stringy—and it might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted. I suck every last bit of grease from my fingers. That rabbit probably saved our lives, at least for now.
“Sixie,” Dubs says sleepily, “you’re a hunter and a chef. You’ll make someone a nice little housewife someday.”
I kick him in the shin. “Not your wife!” I say. “Not anybody’s wife.”
CHAPTER 26
HOURS LATER, I’M lying as close to the fire that Trip built as possible. We’re under a rocky overhang, and we’ve made a wall of pine boughs to shelter us from the wind.
There’s nothing to do but hope for sleep. Dubs and Trip seem to have found it easily enough, but the silence in the forest unsettles me. For one thing, I can’t stop listening for the snap of branches or the crunch of a footstep—some tiny sound of approaching Bot doom.
I pull out the Q-comp.
I’m so glad I thought to snatch it from my room last night. Cloud activity and memory access have been illegal for years, and if I’m caught with this thing, I’ll get another two decades in the slammer—but at this point, who’s counting?
Anyway, the Q-comp is my legacy. I heard an insane rumor once that my grandfather, J. J. Coughlin, invented human brain emulation in the digital form. Well, maybe he invented the technology, and maybe he didn’t: all that matters to me is that this little palm-sized gadget lets me see my parents again.