Burn (10 page)

I'm praying that the Sicarii don't know what the scanner actually looks like.

I tuck the stereo against my chest and slide outside again. My fingers clamp onto Race's shoulder. “I'm going to draw them away,” I say, leaning close. “When I've got their attention, get the scanner to the tunnel.”

“No,” he says, reaching for my arm, but he's too slow. I'm already ten feet from the road, hurdling burning debris that singes my legs and fills my nose with acrid fumes. I push all my fears away as I dodge and weave through the trees, their leafy canopies aflame, sparks and ash raining down. The mountain looms to my right, steep and menacing, and I peer through the smoky haze, looking for a route to the top. Blinking, I pause in a spot between two trees and turn toward the obelisk, which already seems to be tracking me. I make an obvious sort of movement with my arms, cradling the stereo protectively as the brutally elegant silhouette of the silver ship blocks out the sun. A thrill of grim pleasure shimmies through me when I realize it's slowly moving toward me.

Perfect.

But only if I'm fast enough. Only if I'm strong enough. I run through the trees, farther away from the tunnel entrance, to a spot where I can get a foothold. I shove the stereo into the back of my pants as I sprint—I need both hands if I want to make it to the top.

I'm only a few feet from the cliff face when someone crashes into me from behind. My forehead slams against stone. I'm ripped away from the wall of rock a second later, arms flailing. Hard fingers tear at the back of my shorts and shirt, and I pivot, smashing my foot into my attacker's knee. He roars and lets go of me, but when I turn to face him, he's already raised his gun.

It's Devon, grimacing as he shifts his weight to his uninjured leg. His gaze darts up to the ship overhead and then returns to me. “Surrender the device,” he says calmly.

I try to swallow, but my mouth is so goddamn dry. I hold my hands out to the side and slowly reach for the stereo that's jammed under my waistband. “How long have you been inside that agent's body?”

Devon tilts his head and gives me a quizzical look. “I don't want to kill you. Give me the device.”

I glance toward the tunnel, but it's too smoky to see the entrance. If I hand Devon the stereo, he'll know in a second that it's fake, and he and the ship will refocus on Race and Congers. But if I don't hand him the stereo, he's going to—

There's a sharp crack, and Devon jerks to the side, then falls, the side of his head shattered and bloody. I look over to see Race disappearing behind a giant oak, semi-auto in his hand. He's given me a second chance, and I won't waste it. I spin around and leap onto the vertical rock face, digging my fingers in. The toes of my sneakers wedge into cracks in the stones, and I'm moving. Up. Straight up. This whole plan is only going to work if I get to the top, and maybe not even then. But if all I end up doing is helping Race get the real scanner safely into the tunnel, then that's good enough.

Fingers hook over rock. Heave. Find a foothold. Surge upward. Jam my hands into a crack. Repeat. Repeat. I climb the cliff face with a frenetic energy fed by terror and determination. Searing heat licks at my spine, at the hairs on the back of my neck. The scout ship must be moving closer. It's so quiet—all I can hear is a low hum—but I know it's coming to get me—and what it thinks is the scanner.

They'd gotten to an H2 agent. Somehow, one of those aliens crawled inside him and took him over. No idea how—through his mouth, his skin, his too-large jug ears . . . I have to stop thinking about what it might be like to have a Sicarii invade my body. The merest inkling saps strength from muscles that need every ounce of blood and hope I can possibly give them. Fingers. Toes. Quadriceps. Biceps. Move. Climb. My pulse beats hot inside my head. My ears are awash with white noise. Time stops.

A rocket-propelled grenade slams into the cliff face about twenty feet above me, and I nearly lose my grip. “Hold your fire!” I yelp as rocks dash against my shoulders and arms, already knowing no one will hear me. Race must have rallied the surviving Core agents, and they're firing at the ship.

If they're not careful, they're going to knock me off the side of this cliff.

The low hum from the scout ship intensifies, and the loud explosion that follows tells me that it's taken a more permanent approach to the problem of ground fire. Sweat trickles down my back as I hear shouts and screams from below, making the metal stereo slip and scrape against my bare skin. Up. Up. I won't stop. I won't slow. My breath bursts from my lungs as I propel myself upward with frenetic speed. The top of the cliff is only about fifty feet above me now. My arms and legs destroy the distance; my lizard brain has taken over. At any moment, I could be blasted off the side of this rock, but the Sicarii ship floats behind me, graceful and quiet, maybe waiting for me to fall so it can catch me and take everything that's mine. Or maybe waiting for me to get to the top so it can land and scoop me up.

But if I heard my mom correctly, that's not going to happen. The defenses will be triggered if I can lure the ship above the edge of the plateau.

As I make yet another leap upward, my hand slips and my feet scrabble at the rock, trying to find purchase. For a few seconds, I'm still, clinging precariously with one good toehold and the fingers of one hand jammed deep into a crack. The lights from the ship brighten, turning the cliff face white and shimmering, and with a jolt of panic I'm moving again. Thirty feet. Lunge. Twenty feet.
Go.
Ten feet.
Almost there.
I heave myself onto the plateau at the top of the cliff, looking around with desperation and hope, gasping for air, praying for big guns or lasers or cannons or a squad of freaking special forces or whatever the fuck's going to keep this Sicarii ship from getting me.

What I see is . . . not much. The plateau is unnaturally flat and circular, at least one mile in diameter. There's a crater in the middle, protected by a rim that's at least a hundred yards thick . . . and in the center is a giant, empty bowl, from what I can see. No factory, no weapons. Nothing.

With dread flooding my insides, I whirl around to see the Sicarii ship rise above the edge of the plateau. I wish I knew whether Race and Congers made it safely to the tunnel with the scanner and the wreckage. Whether this was worth it.

I pull the stereo from the back of my pants and wave it at the ship. “Want it?” I shout.

It moves closer. It gives off electrical pulses that I feel beneath my skin, like it's mapping all my weaknesses. I fold my arms over the stereo.

I'm about to start running along the plateau toward the crater, ready to hurl myself in if nothing else, when the ground trembles beneath my feet. The sound of rock sliding over rock makes my breath catch in my throat. It's a mechanical noise, very controlled. Gray shapes rise smoothly from the plateau all around me, the sun glinting off the metal panels. They give off a hum all their own as they spin into position.

Surface-to-air missile batteries. Five of them, positioned at intervals along the edge of the cliff. In the moment it takes me to breathe, they lock on to the Sicarii ship.

It's completely still for a moment, like the pilot inside is gauging the threat. Then, faster than anything I've ever seen, it streaks away over the trees.

Each of the missile batteries fires, rocketing toward the target that's hurtling over the forest, over the hill.
Faster,
I think, but after a second or two, I know it's no good. The Sicarii ship disappears behind a mountain miles away. The missiles slam into the base of that mountain a moment later, shaking the ground. And then suddenly, there's an eerie sort of quiet, and I don't know if we've won or lost.

I sink to my knees, all the panic and pain of the last several minutes hitting me at once and siphoning my strength away. The stereo clatters onto the rock next to me. My head hangs as I try to stand, to go see what's left of the Core, to find out if Christina, Leo, and my mom made it through.

Before I can, a whirring noise to my left has me crouching low, watching silently as a metal hatch slides open near the inner edge of the crater. A huge bear of a man emerges, followed by four other men, all armed.

All aiming weapons at me.

The enormous man strides toward me. Sunlight glints off blond strands in his thick red hair and beard. He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing as he peers at the stereo and then at me. “You look a lot like Fred Archer,” he says in a rumbling voice.

“That's because I'm his son.”

The man smiles, but it's not a jovial sort of thing. It's tinged with ferocity and war. I'm suddenly sure that he's the one who gave the order to fire on the Sicarii ship. “I'm Angus McClaren,” he says. He gestures at his men, who immediately lower their weapons. “And you must be Tate. Welcome to Black Box.”

THE DISTANT SOUND OF HELICOPTER ROTORS REACHES
me as I stare out the window of the infirmary within the Black Box factory compound. It's been a few hours since the attack, and several members of The Fifty have started arriving, trickling in from the international headquarters in Chicago, where most of them had remained after the board meeting, given the series of crises over the past week. I can see the helipad from the gurney where I'm lying. Armed guards escort each patriarch and matriarch into this main building.

And then they're scanned. The device survived the Sicarii assault, and Race surrendered it to Black Box as soon as he emerged from the tunnel. Not that he had much choice—he was surrounded by a horde of armed humans, all of whom knew exactly what he was. Angus took possession of the device, and after a quick aside with my mother and me, announced that all new arrivals, human or H2, would be scanned immediately, as well as all the factory workers, who apparently live on the compound. He switched on the device, and blue glinted across his skin and eyes as he showed the Black Box staff they had nothing to fear from it.

Unless they're Sicarii, of course.

The entire compound is on high alert, because thanks to one Sicarii—the creature who got inside Devon—the hostile aliens now know the location of this weapons factory. Perhaps that was their plan all along. They tried to grab the scanner before we entered the well-defended compound, but they gathered a shitload of information in the process. The single scout ship could come back with a squad of additional ships at any moment. The entire rim of this massive man-made volcano is bristling with missile batteries, and there are additional defense stations high on the sheer cliffs around the inner perimeter. But it's clear no one feels safe. People outside aren't walking from place to place—they're jogging, faces creased with tense frowns.

I'm sidelined for the moment, though. After our brief talk with Angus, my mom brought me straight to this infirmary—which is really more like a small hospital—pointing out injuries I hadn't even noticed before that moment. Rocky shrapnel had strafed the backs of my legs, my fingers were bleeding and torn, and there are first-degree burns on my shoulders and the back of my neck from the heat that came off that scout ship as it flew so close to me.

My nurse—a middle-aged woman with short brown hair, whose name tag tells me her last name is Cermak, a well-known family within The Fifty, according to Rufus Bishop—seems totally on edge. I don't blame her. In the last hour, nine Core agents have been wheeled in sporting injuries minor and grave. Nurse Cermak is scowling, eyeing the wounded H2 agents like they're going to rise up and zap her, like they're enemies instead of patients. All of them scanned red and not orange, but the difference doesn't seem to matter to her. The rest of the Black Box medical personnel seem to feel the same way . . . as do the black-uniformed guards who stand in the doorway with their weapons in the low ready position. We're in this enormous room, gurneys everywhere, blood on the floor, men with ashen faces and ghastly wounds, and mistrust hangs in the air like mustard gas.

I glance at Christina and Leo, who are sitting against the wall in plastic chairs as Nurse Cermak bandages the gash across the back of my left hand. It hurts like a bitch now that I'm actually paying attention. When I wince, Cermak says, “I have Vicodin. Might help you relax.”

I raise my eyebrow. “Should I relax?”

The corner of her mouth curls with contempt as she glares at Graham Congers. He's looking like he dearly misses his Glock as a male nurse stitches a laceration across his shoulder blade with rapid-fire jerks at the sutures. “Good point,” she mutters. “I can't believe they let these H2 scum into our compound.”

“They're not the enemy I'm worried about,” I tell her.

Christina glares at Nurse Cermak, then gets up and takes my hand. She, Leo, and my mom were miraculously unhurt in the assault, and I'm endlessly thankful for that. “You're going to have to slow down at some point,” she says softly. “You haven't slept since . . .”

“Since Congers was kind enough to sedate us after we freed your parents,” Leo says. “But I didn't find that very restful.”

Cermak's eyes narrow as she regards Christina. “Which family did you say you all were from?”

“Thomas,” Leo mumbles, rubbing at his eyes.

“Archer,” I say automatically.

Christina stares back at Cermak, unapologetic. “I didn't.”

Cermak freezes, like her blood has just turned to ice. Her brown eyes dart to me, then back to Christina, then to Leo, who looks defiant as he gets up and stands next to Christina. “Does it really matter right now?” he asks. “We're all on the same side.”

Cermak's mouth snaps shut, and she walks quickly away, stopping only to hiss in the ear of the supervising physician, a wiry African American man with a deep Southern accent and steel-gray hair—Dr. Ackerman, who Leo told me is also one of the board members of The Fifty. He looks over his shoulder at Christina before saying something quietly to Nurse Cermak, whose mouth becomes a white line as she heads for the supply closet.

“I feel so welcome here,” Christina says as I hop down from the gurney, my bandages crinkling over my raw, torn skin. She nudges Leo with her shoulder. “Thanks,” she whispers.

His cheeks turn pink. “No problem.”

I pull Christina close. “Let's get out of here.”

As we weave our way toward the door, I catch sight of Agent Sung, who's lying on a gurney and wearing an oxygen mask. His face is streaked with grime, and his buzzed black hair is damp with sweat. He and Graham were heading toward the tunnel exit to join the battle when the Sicarii ship fired into it, and Sung was one of several agents who suffered smoke inhalation. Looking gaunt and tired, he nods at me as I pass, and I find myself nodding back. Yeah, he's H2, and a Core agent at that, but we've been through something that erased the difference between us for a little while.

Plus, the Core took a heavy hit in the attack. Not including Devon, who was basically dead whenever the Sicarii got to him, ten agents were killed, and another nine were wounded seriously enough to need immediate treatment. Sooty and shell-shocked, the rest were corralled by the Black Box guards as they exited the tunnel and entered the giant crater that houses this compound. They were taken away at gunpoint, presumably until Race, Congers, and Angus McClaren agree on the specifics of their presence at Black Box—like whether they'll be allowed to carry their weapons and move freely around the compound.

Maybe all of that is why, on my way out the door, I stop at Graham Congers's gurney. Like Sung, he's now got an oxygen mask strapped over his face, and his shoulder is tightly bandaged. His eyes are bloodshot and swollen, but there's still no missing the anger there. Suddenly, I wonder if his dad bothered to make sure he was okay before rushing to take care of his other men. Something tells me he didn't. And something—namely personal experience—tells me that it hurts like hell. “Glad you made it through,” I say to him.

His gray-green eyes meet mine, probably searching for sarcasm. “Thanks. And good job out there,” he says in a muffled voice. He closes his eyes, and I take that as my cue to leave him the fuck alone.

Before she left me in the capable hands of Nurse Cermak, Mom told me to meet her and Angus in the CFO's office as soon as I was able. Leo, who's been here before on trips with Angus, leads me and Christina down a long hallway lined with paintings and then photographs of a bunch of people who aren't famous . . . except among The Fifty. As I read the nameplates, I realize these are probably the patriarchs and matriarchs of the families stretching back as far as anyone could document. Bishops, Fishers, McClarens, even an Archer or two that I wish I could stop to stare at for a while. Leo waves his skinny arm at a portrait of a man with a bushy beard and eyebrows. He's wearing a plaid sash across his broad chest. “That's Angus's great-grandfather. He led The Fifty for about twenty years, right after it formed.”

“Why are all The Fifty coming here now?” I ask. “Seems dumb to flock to a place that could be attacked at any moment.”

Leo squints up the hallway. “They know the H2 are here, and they've been raised to believe the Core are the enemy.” He chuckles. “Some of them are probably pretty mad. The news of the Sicarii is brand-new and not yet credible. They might even think it's an H2 ruse to get inside Black Box. Their priority would be to protect their interests from those who they believe are the greater threat.” He gives me a rueful look. “And I'm telling you now, they decide everything by committee.”

We near the end of the hall, and I notice the birth and death dates beneath the portraits are becoming more contemporary. Then we pass a picture of a handsome blond man with a mustache and glasses. “Arthur Thomas,” the nameplate reads. “1971–2007.” Leo's dad. I look up the hallway with a sinking stomach.

Sure enough, Frederick Archer's nameplate is already affixed to the wall. The picture's not up yet, thank God. I wonder what my mom felt when she saw that. To me, it feels like I've been kicked in the gut. Christina doesn't say anything, but she moves close so her shoulder brushes mine.

“One day we'll be up there,” Leo says quietly. “All the patriarchs and matriarchs are, after they've passed away.”

I stare at my dad's nameplate. “Patriarch of what? A family of one?”

Leo reaches to push his glasses up his nose before remembering he doesn't have them. “Unless we have kids.” His cheeks flush. “I mean . . .” He looks back at his dad's portrait. It might as well be an older version of the kid next to me, right down to the inquisitive bright green eyes. “Having a family someday would be nice.”

This is the most awkward conversation I could possibly have while my girlfriend—who is an H2—is standing right next to me. I'm scared to even look at her. I clear my throat. “Do they make a big deal out of it? You know, you being the last of the Thomases and all?”

Leo gives me a one-shouldered shrug. “Not a lot. Not in front of me, at least. But several families have already tried to make arrangements with Angus for my . . . my—” He cuts an anxious glance at Christina.

She gives him a gentle, teasing smile. “Your hand in marriage?”

His face is beet red. “Um. Yeah.”

“We should keep moving,” I blurt out, grabbing Christina's hand and practically dragging her down the hall. I want to talk with Leo about this—he might be a few years younger, but he's been dealing with this crap a lot longer than I have and understands it better, too. I just can't talk about it in front of Christina. It's so weird. We never worried about the future before, but now that we might not even have one, it feels like I somehow have to think about it.

I'm the last Archer. A member of The Fifty, a group that's banded together to remain genetically “pure.” Is that something I should care about? A pang of loss hits deep in my chest—I wish my dad were here to explain it. I wish we'd had the kind of relationship where I wasn't too busy fighting him to really learn from him. I squeeze my stinging eyes shut and force away these pointless thoughts. I need to focus on more important stuff now, like how to stop aliens from taking over the planet.

We enter a soaring atrium, walls of glass that give us a full view of where we are. In the cloudless afternoon sunlight, the grounds of Black Box look like this weird mix of parkland and industrial complex. There are wide expanses of lawn, copses of oak trees, and even a large lake on the eastern side of the crater. The entire compound is surrounded by a wall of rock at least two hundred feet high. They really did burrow into a mountain and make it their own. There are three tunnels in and out. Six perimeter defense stations have been positioned high on the rock wall, every half mile around the three-mile circumference of the crater. All smooth metal and big guns, those defenses have been anchored into the rock and jut outward, with two-person elevators ready to shuttle guards up from the ground to the bus-sized stations so they can defend the compound. And as I witnessed during the Sicarii attack, on the crater rim itself there are both manual and automated defenses, as well as sophisticated visual, geothermal, and acoustic shielding that prevent satellite spying, even though the compound lies under the wide-open sky. That technology is the reason it looked like an empty crater when I viewed it from the rim—it's a complete visual illusion. Basically, this whole compound is stealthed out.

Behind this main building, which juts up like a tower of glass with two gray wings on either side, is the actual factory. It's a hulking shadow right now, a literal black box. No windows. Steel doors and cargo bays. Massive and mysterious. I can't wait to get inside and look around.

“Have you ever been in there?” I ask Leo, nodding toward the factory.

“Oh yeah.” He smiles. “It's badass. Uncle Angus won't let me go in there alone, though.”

Christina looks over at him. “He's afraid you'll get hurt?”

He rubs at the back of his neck. “No, the last time I came here, I may have accidentally blown a hole in the south wall of the factory. They have some amazing artillery in there.”

I wonder how much of it my dad designed. “Hopefully things that can take down a scout ship.” I remember that obelisk leaving the Black Box missiles behind like they were moving in slow motion. We'll need to do better than that when they return. If Race and Congers are right about the scouts looking to control those with weapons and power in advance of the full invasion, then the Sicarii will target Black Box. It's one of the most heavily armed places on the planet, and if they're paving the way for a peaceful invasion, they'll need to take it out.

As we cross the atrium, urgent echoing voices draw our gazes. Along the front of the building's main entrance is a series of doors, and there's a security station there. The guards are out of their walled booth . . . and one of them is holding the scanner. This is where newcomers are being escorted, where everybody in the compound, including every worker who lives here, is expected to check in no later than three this afternoon—unless they want a warrant issued for their immediate arrest by Black Box guards.