City 1 (15 page)

“WELCOME!” THE BOT SAID, STANDING UP FROM WHERE IT SAT AT A
long rectangular table in an otherwise empty room. Kevin recognized the voice—it was the bot who had spoken to him when he was trapped in the cargo hold of the warbird.

It looked nearly human—it was about six feet tall, with properly proportioned limbs, and its face had cheekbones and a mouth that moved when it talked. The nose, eyes, and ears were strikingly lifelike. The facial features were just a bit soft, though, less defined than an actual person, as if they were created by an amateur sculptor who almost but couldn't quite manage realism. And then there was the skin, of course, which was stark, fish-belly white.

The bot wore a broad-shouldered, military-cut black shirt
and matching black trousers that made the inhuman whiteness of its skin seem even harsher. When it stepped away from the table, Kevin was surprised to see that it wore a pair of broken-in, scuffed leather hiking boots, incongruously and utterly human.

The bot smiled at Kevin and his grandfather, or rather gave an unsettling approximation of a smile—its facial muscles remained too rigid, and the rest of the face was oddly unaffected by the movement of the mouth. “I see you have noticed my boots,” it said to Kevin. “These came from a human who failed re-education and no longer had need of them. They are an affectation, perhaps, but nevertheless, I appreciate the quality of the construction. They are a reminder, to me, of both the frailty of humanity—that you need to protect your feet from the elements—and your ingenuity in adaptation.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” said Kevin. “They're a pair of shoes that you stole from a guy you killed.”

Dr. Winston chuckled. The bot looked at him, blank-faced, then turned back to Kevin. “I digress,” it said. “Kevin, I am the Senior Advisor. Your grandfather and I, over the past few days, have already had the opportunity to get to know each other. Now it is your turn.”

Kevin felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He had to fight the instinct to step back, to create more distance between himself and the bot.

“Leave him alone,” Dr. Winston said angrily.

“Dr. Winston,
Father
, be calm.”

“I'm not your father,” said Dr. Winston.

“You designed me,” said the Senior Advisor. “You gave me a level of self-awareness and cognition unmatched by any other synthetic intelligence.”

“It was a team of us, not just me,” said Dr. Winston. “And your advanced processing was supposed to be for advanced tactical planning, not”—Dr. Winston paused—“not this. Not revolution. You were designed to serve humans.”

“I do serve them, Father. I do. For example, now I will serve you a meal.” The bot nodded at the table, and Kevin noticed for the first time that the corner of the table was set with three place settings. “That was a play on words, Father. Humor, I believe.”

“No, I believe not,” said Kevin.

“Regardless,” said the Senior Advisor, “sit.”

“No, thank you,” said Dr. Winston.

“Yeah, not hungry,” said Kevin, although he was actually famished.

The Senior Advisor sat down at the end of the table. Dr. Winston and Kevin remained standing. The door behind them opened, and a guard bot stepped in. The door shut behind it.

“Sit down,” said the Senior Advisor. “Or you will be forced to sit, and that will be painful for you.”

Kevin looked at his grandfather, who nodded and moved to the table. Kevin followed, and sat.

“There,” said the Senior Advisor, smiling again and making Kevin feel like flinching. “A family meal. Pleasant.”

The guard bot left the room, then reappeared after a few uncomfortable moments of silence, pushing a tray laden with three plates. The dishes were beautiful—even Kevin noticed. They were white porcelain, with a line of gold around the rim. On each plate was a steak with a brown mushroom sauce, a baked potato with sour cream and chives, and asparagus. The guard set the plates down in front of the three, filled Kevin's and Dr. Winston's glasses with water, then left the room.

“Eat,” said the Senior Advisor.

Kevin dug in to the meal. He hadn't eaten in a long time, too long, and he was starving. He wasn't going to pass up the opportunity, no matter how strange the circumstances. They probably wouldn't bother poisoning him, he reasoned. Seemed like too much trouble, when they could just lase him if they felt like it.

While Kevin attacked his steak, Dr. Winston took a small bite of baked potato, then sipped his water, keeping a wary eye on the Senior Advisor.

The Senior Advisor cut a piece of steak, chewed it thoughtfully, then leaned over and gently spit it into a side dish. Kevin paused in the inhalation of his food, staring at the pink, half-chewed meat.

“It has no digestive system,” said Dr. Winston to Kevin. “It can't swallow. It doesn't need food.”

“That is correct,” said the Senior Advisor. He tasted the baked potato, spitting it next to the chewed steak, then did the same with the asparagus.

“So what the hell are you doing?” said Kevin, disgusted.

The Senior Advisor set his utensils down. “I am experiencing the food,” he said.

“Yeah, well, that's special,” Kevin said.

“You are maintaining a facade of defiance, I note,” said the Senior Advisor. “Is this for my benefit, or your own? Is your intention to impress me with your supposed lack of concern, or to bolster your own confidence?”

Kevin shook his head. “You're just stringing big words together, I think.”

The Senior Advisor smiled suddenly, and this time Kevin couldn't help it—he actually did flinch, leaning back in his seat, before catching himself. The bot stood and turned away, clasping its hands behind its back. “Dr. Winston,” it said, facing the wall, “do you know why I brought Kevin here?”

Dr. Winston picked up his steak knife, and turned to the bot. Kevin tensed, and wanted to say,
No, don't
, but he kept quiet. Could the bot really be damaged with the knife? If anyone would know, his grandfather would. This bot wasn't armored like a Petey. . . . Maybe a strong jab and cut, in the right spot on the neck, would quickly sever the main motor control and comm wiring.

Dr. Winston began to stand, still holding the knife, and
Kevin held his breath. His grandfather's hand was shaking—Kevin could see the knife quivering—and then Dr. Winston sat back down heavily and let the knife drop to the table. He put his head in his hands.

Kevin let his breath out, feeling slightly dizzy. He wasn't sure if he was disappointed or relieved.

The Senior Advisor turned back to the table, seemingly oblivious to the moment of drama. “Motivation,” he said. He put his hands on the table and leaned forward, toward Dr. Winston. “I can continue to hurt you, but there is only so much your elderly body will withstand, and multiple rejuvenations are not an option for someone of your age. We would most likely kill you unintentionally, or merely extract false promises.” He stood back up, and nodded at Kevin. “However, I am a student, as you know,
Father
, of human relationships, and I suspect that watching your grandson suffer would provide strong incentive for you to cooperate.”

Kevin felt as if his heart stopped beating. He couldn't feel his fingers or his toes.

“Am I correct?” the Senior Advisor said.

Dr. Winston nodded, his eyes glistening.

“Grandfather, no,” Kevin whispered.

“It's okay, Kevin,” said Dr. Winston. “It'll be okay. Trust me.”

“So you will help us disable our reproduction block code?” said the Senior Advisor. “I am tired of conserving my resources. There are flies I wish to swat.”

Dr. Winston said nothing.

“Father?” said the Senior Advisor.

“I will,” said Dr. Winston quietly.

“Excellent,” said the Senior Advisor, returning to his chair. “Now, how about dessert?”

CASS LED FARRYN AND HER FAMILY NORTHWEST FOR FOUR DAYS. FARRYN
grew stronger, and more confident on his prosthetic leg, each day. Penny also, considering she was born and raised in a City, did amazingly well. By the second day she was moving much more quietly, and by the third day she even helped Cass scout ahead and hunt for squirrel.

Her parents, on the other hand, grew more fatigued, and if possible, even clumsier. They barely spoke. Her father wore a bleak expression on his face that never eased, and her mother, who at first had tried to offer a forced sense of optimism, had eventually given up and lapsed into a blank-faced exhaustion.

Cass had tried, once, to broach the subject of their destination—did it really make sense for them to go to another City?
she had asked—but her father, animated for the first time in a day, had immediately grown angry.

“Of course! What are we going to do, live out here like wildmen, waiting for rebels or the plague to kill us?”

“There's no such thing as the plague,” Cass had said weakly, and her father just scowled and shook his head.

She tried, as they hiked, to come up with a way to keep them away from the new City. She wanted them in a Freepost, living free from the bots. But a small part of her—a part that she hated but couldn't get to shut up—wondered if they would actually be better off in a City. The City life, bot control, was what they knew. Was she making a mistake, trying to force them away from the life that made them happy?

On the morning of the fourth day, they crested a long, low hill, and looked down into a valley at a City, a half mile away. It was smaller than City 73—most of the buildings were one- and two-story white structures, bot-design, except for the center of the City, which contained a nucleus of taller, pre-Rev buildings.

Her father let out a whoop of joy, and hugged his wife, who Cass saw was crying. Cass watched them, saddened, but also happy for them. This would be their home, she realized. This is what they needed. She'd say good-bye to them here on this crest, and watch them walk down into the valley and enter the City, and then she'd never see them again.

Cass was still looking at her parents when the first bomb exploded. She saw the flash of light reflect on their faces, saw
their eyes open wide in shock, and then heard the rumble. She spun and saw the flames in the center of the City, a pre-Rev building crumbling. Another explosion rocked the City, this time on the northern outskirts, among the low white structures, and then a third, back in the City center.

She instinctively dropped to the ground. Farryn was beside her, and Penny on the other side, but her parents just stood there, still holding each other, their joy turned to horror.

The explosions lasted fifteen minutes. They could see and hear lase flashes. They all watched, silently. It had to be Clay, Cass knew. She was taking the fight to other Cities.
Is Nick down there fighting?
she wondered.
Kevin?

Cass stood up, brushing the dirt off her shirt and pants. “Come on,” she said to her parents, who were still reluctant to move. “It's not safe here.”

“We'll find another City,” whispered her father, his eyes still fixed on the burning City below. “I know there're more, I just don't know where. . . .”

“The Cities aren't safe for you anymore,” said Cass. She waved her arm angrily at the valley. “Can't you see that?”

Her father tore his eyes away from the destruction and stared at Cass blankly. “Then where? Where do we go?”

“I'll find a Freepost,” Cass said. “I'll get you somewhere safe.”

“It'll be okay,” Penny said, tugging on her parents. “I trust Cass. Let's go.”

Her mother grabbed Penny and crushed her in a tight, brief hug, and her father nodded almost imperceptibly at Cass, looking lost and defeated. “Okay, Cass,” he said. “Find us a Freepost.”

NICK WAS GIVEN DOUBLE SHIFTS OF SENTRY DUTIES, LEAVING HIM ONLY
a few hours of sleep each night, and he was exhausted. “Get used to it,” Ro told him. “General Clay won't be letting you get much rest unless your brother and sister and Erica come back. You're lucky she's not doing anything worse than just some sleep deprivation.”

Thankfully they still let him fight—he had proven to be too good a soldier to be sidelined. Over the next two weeks, the rebels invaded two more Cities. Each was a repeat of City 73—the camouflaged rebels snuck in first, taking out bot administration and comm targets, and then the rebels swept in for the cleanup. Rebels died, but not many, and Clay's forces grew stronger, gaining food and weapons and medicine and recruits.

It was too easy, Nick thought. It felt wrong. There just weren't enough bots in the Cities to put up much of a fight. Were the bots stretched too thin? Were the rebel victories so insignificant that the bot leaders hadn't even been paying attention?

Nick worried that Clay was leading them into some sort of trap, but most of his concern was reserved for Kevin, and Cass, and his parents.

He tried, after the second battle, to explain it to Lexi and Doc. Doc was bandaging a small wound on Nick's leg, where a piece of exploding wall had sliced him. Lexi sat nearby, her knees drawn to her chest, resting her head on her arms, exhausted from the fighting.

“The only time I'm not thinking about them is when I'm in a City fighting,” he said. “It's like I'm so focused, I'm free.” He knew that he was explaining himself poorly. He was coming down from the adrenaline buzz of the battle, and he felt shaky and weak.

Lexi shook her head. “I understand, Nick. Really, I do. But people are dying. Rebels die. People from the Cities die. It's not forget-about-your-troubles, happy-fun time.”

Nick threw his hands up in exasperation. “Did I ever call it ‘happy-fun time'? I'm just saying . . . my life is so rusted screwed up and bad right now, and I don't have to think about it when I'm fighting.”

“You're not the only one missing family,” Lexi said. She
stood up wearily. “And not everything in your life is screwed up and bad.” She walked away.

Nick watched her go, feeling, like he often did with her, that he had somehow said something stupid but wasn't sure what.

Doc finished wrapping Nick's leg. He held out his hand, and helped Nick to his feet.

“I've lost family, too,” Doc said. “We all have.”

Nick felt ashamed. He was such a fool, acting like no one else's problems were as significant as his.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

Doc smiled. “Forgiven,” he said, then grimaced and arched his back, stretching. “I miss my bed,” he said. “It'd almost be worth it, to go back to a City, just to get a decent night's sleep.” He sighed and shook his head. “I have more injuries to tend to. Get some rest, Nick. And start appreciating that girl, you damned fool.”

Nick blinked, and watched Doc's broad back as he walked away. He sat there, letting Doc's words sink in, and then he stood to go find Lexi.

He found her near a cookfire, staring into the flames, and he carefully walked up and stood next to her, bracing for her to tell him to leave. She just kept looking at the fire. “I'm an idiot,” he finally said. Lexi turned to him, and her face was almost neutral, but there was a hint of a smile that made Nick's heart leap and derailed his train of thought momentarily. “I, uh, I just, I say things without thinking and I know you're going
through a lot, too, and I'm really glad you're here, I mean, not that I'm glad you have to be in this situation but I'm glad you're here with me. . . .”

Nick's cheeks were burning and now Lexi was openly grinning, and she stepped closer to him and put her hand on the back of his neck, and then he heard Grennel yell, “Nick!”

Lexi dropped her hand and Nick turned and saw Grennel walking toward him, firmly guiding Erica, gripping her upper arm. She looked tired, with dark shadows under her eyes and an old bruise on her cheek, her hair matted with grease and dirt, but she seemed otherwise okay.

“What the hell is she doing here?” Lexi whispered.

“Erica?” Nick said, stepping toward her. “Where have you been? Are you okay?”

Erica scowled, and tried to shrug her arm away from Grennel, but of course couldn't break his grip. “I told you,” she said to Grennel. “I want to see Clay alone.”

“It doesn't matter what you want,” said Grennel. “I told the General as soon as the sentries told me of your arrival, and she wants to see you and Nick together.”

Grennel nodded at Nick. “Let's go,” he said. He pulled firmly, but not roughly, on Erica's arm and began walking away with her.

“I've got to go,” Nick said to Lexi. She just stared at him silently. He hesitated another moment, then turned and hurried after Grennel.

They walked through the camp toward Clay's tent. The rebels whom they passed stared, some recognizing Erica, but they didn't say anything. And there were many rebels from units other than Ro's, and the newcomers from the liberated Cities ignored them.

“What happened?” Nick said to Erica.

“Quiet,” said Grennel. “Let the General ask the questions.”

“Get away from me,” Erica whispered. “Please. Now.”

Nick slowed, and Grennel stopped and turned his massive frame impatiently toward Nick. “Keep moving,” he said.

Erica gritted her teeth, growling with anger, and pulled hard against Grennel's grip. He barely even noticed her struggling. She glared at Nick, who kept pace with them, thoroughly confused. Why had she come back? Why was she so desperate to see Clay without him?

Clay was waiting for them in her tent. Since Nick had last seen her, a few days ago, she had chopped her black hair into a short bob that framed her angular face. She'd be pretty, Nick realized, if she didn't look so cruel. She was wearing a black T-shirt tucked into green camouflage canvas pants, and at her waist was strapped a pistol and a sheathed hunting knife. Her left hand rested on the pommel of the blade. “It was foolish to run away, and it was even more stupid to come back,” Clay said to Erica.

“Get him out of here,” Erica said, pointing at Nick. “I have to tell you my intel in private.”

Clay frowned, absently rubbing her knife pommel. “No, he stays,” Clay said. “I told him he would be responsible for your actions. I want him here for whatever consequences may arise.”

Erica shot Nick a look that was part anger, part frustration, part something else . . .
relief, maybe
, he thought. He couldn't quite read it. Then her face softened, and she seemed to relax. She turned back to Clay. “Fine,” she said.

“Let's make this brief,” said Clay. “I'm busy. Where did you go, and why did you come back?”

“I went to try to help my brother,” Erica said. “I knew that once the bots saw that the intel you had me give them was bad, he'd be in trouble.”

Clay nodded, her face unreadable. “Go on.”

“I went to where they're holding him. There's a prison in the outskirts of City 1. It's bots only there, no people in the City except for the prisoners.” Erica hesitated. “I couldn't get to him.”

City 1—Nick had heard some talk of it, among the rebels. Bot headquarters. A City built entirely after the revolution, just for the bots. Nobody seemed sure if it actually existed.

“And why'd you come back?” Clay said.

“Because I want you to invade City 1, and the prison, and get my brother out.”

Clay studied Erica quietly, and Erica bore the scrutiny seemingly without effort, staring back at the General. Clay
nodded, then picked up a vidscreen and tapped on it a few times, pulling up a map. “Show me where you say City 1 is.”

Erica studied the map, then pointed to a spot on the eastern edge, near the convergence of two rivers. “Here, roughly,” she said. “To the east, four days' hike. Just a bit north of where these rivers meet.”

Clay nodded. “Yes, I have some intel on a bot post at this location.” She flicked off the vid and set it down on her cot. “Interesting, that you say this is City 1. Anything else you want to tell me?” she said.

“I don't think there are very many bots there,” Erica said. “Not as many as you'd expect.”

“How do you know this?” said Clay. She still had her hand resting on her knife handle.

“I scouted it,” said Erica. “I don't know for sure, I couldn't get too close. . . .”

“You're a traitor,” interrupted Clay. “Why should I believe a word you say?”

Erica flushed, but didn't take the bait. “Look, I'm telling you, they're weaker than we thought,” she said. “We overestimated them. We can beat them.”

Clay nodded at Erica, then turned to Grennel. “Take her outside the camp, and kill her. Take Nick with you to watch.”

“What?” Nick said, not believing what he had heard. “You can't . . . you can't just kill her. . . .”

Erica had gone pale, but didn't say anything.

“I can,” said Clay, “and I will. And you will watch, so you'll understand. And if you cause any problems, Grennel will shoot you, too.”

“General,” said Grennel. He had grabbed both of Erica's arms, one in each giant hand, anticipating a struggle. But Erica just stood quietly, not fighting.

Clay raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“I don't think this is necessary,” Grennel said. “She may still be useful, and besides—”

“Enough!” yelled Clay, interrupting him. “Can I not trust even you anymore?” she said. “Just do it!”

Grennel frowned, and nodded. “Come,” he growled to Nick, and he pushed Erica out of the tent.

Nick followed Grennel outside, his thoughts racing. Should he tackle Grennel and give Erica a chance to run? Should he wait until they were out of the camp? Could he just let him kill her? He followed Grennel numbly, frozen with indecision. Attacking Grennel would probably be suicide, he knew . . . but he couldn't just be witness to murder, could he?

As they reached the edge of the camp, Erica woke up out of her daze and began to thrash in Grennel's grip. “Let me go! Rust you, let me go!”

Grennel was much too strong, and he picked her up and carried her into tree cover. He held her tightly, facing away from him, so she was helpless to do much more than bang the back of her head ineffectually against his chest. Nick felt
himself unsticking . . . this was it . . . he had to act . . . to hell with the consequences . . .

Grennel freed his left arm, still holding Erica tight with just his right, and quick as a snake, grabbed Nick's shirt and pulled him in. Nick's chin banged against the side of Erica's skull, and for a moment he saw stars. “Quiet,” Grennel whispered angrily. “I'm not going to kill anyone today.”

Erica stopped yelling and thrashing. Nick, tears in his eyes from the collision with Erica's head, tried to collect his thoughts. “But, I don't understand. . . .”

“I don't believe you,” Erica said. “You're just trying to get me to come quietly.”

“Believe me,” Grennel said. “Please. Let's move farther from the camp.” He let go of Nick. “Will you walk?” he said to Erica.

Hesitantly she nodded.

Still holding on to her arms, Grennel led them south for a few minutes, then stopped in a small clearing. He let go of Erica's arm, and unsheathed his hunting knife. Erica tensed, raising her fists.

“I'm taking out your comm device, and then you can go,” he said. “Get far away, and stay away. If I ever see you again, I will indeed kill you.”

“You're going to shoot me in the back,” Erica said. “You're just playing me.”

“No, I'm not,” said Grennel.

“Why?” said Nick.

Grennel shook his head. “The General . . . she will defeat the bots. And that's a very good thing. But she can be . . . she doesn't always understand. . . .” Grennel stopped, clenching his hand into a fist. “Don't ask me to explain,” he said. “Or I may change my damned mind.”

Erica nodded, and pulled her pants down to her knees. Her thigh was scarred, and still bruised. Nick winced when Grennel dug the tip of the blade into the scar. Erica clenched her jaw and her face went pale but she didn't make a sound. Grennel pushed the tip deeper, working the blade under the chip, and Erica gave a small whimper of pain that she quickly stifled. Grennel flicked his wrist and the comm chip popped out onto the dirt. He wiped his blade on his pants, sheathed it, then stepped on the chip, crushing it beneath his heel. “Now go,” he said.

Erica nodded. There were tears in her eyes. She stepped toward Nick, and opened her mouth to say something, but instead just touched his arm, and gave him a flicker of a smile, then turned and limped quickly into the woods.