The only sound I hear is my heart beating in time with my frantic footsteps. All I can smell is electricity and burning meat. The only thing I feel is overwhelming guilt . . . and all I can see in my mind is the image of Corporal Roth’s sky-blue eyes pleading to be saved.
I failed him.
I make it to the corner of the building, panting at the air. I can’t see properly. Everything is swimming in my field of vision; colors are merging and dripping into each other like oil in water. I have no idea what’s happening. I panic and collapse against the wall, sliding down to the ground, blinking hard, willing my eyes to work again. Only after I feel the warm, wet droplets rolling down my face do I realize . . . that I’m crying. I’ve only ever cried once before. I was five years old. And on that day, I swore that I would never show that kind of weakness again, but everything I try to do on this mission from hell is ending in failure. And I hate it.
“Infinity?” Otto says, kneeling down beside me. She takes my hand. “We saw what happened. Are you OK?”
I know the definition of embarrassment, but I’ve never felt it before. Now, here I am, sitting on the ground, blubbing like a child. I feel like someone has cut my guts open and hung them in the town square for everyone to laugh at. I’ve seen soldiers die many times before. I’ve killed enemy soldiers myself. But I’ve never felt
anything
like this before. Why is
this
time different?
I want to shout “I’m fine!” and throw Otto’s hand away, but when the words seep from my lips, they’re quiet and feeble, and all I do is grip her fingers tighter. Finn is somehow infecting me and making me lose control. She’s the one making me soft. She’s the one making me care. She’s the one forcing me to
feel
. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. I detest her with a seething rage, especially now, but as much as I hate her for doing this to me, I can’t get the image of Corporal Roth out of my goddamned head.
“Ryan,” I say croakily. He steps forward and kneels beside me.
“Yes. I’m here,” he replies.
“You were right . . . ,” I murmur. “We have to warn them all.”
Both Ryan and Otto help me to my feet as I sniff back whatever is dribbling from my nose and try to regain my composure.
“So, the bitch has feelings after all.” My head snaps toward the insult, and my narrowed eyes zero in on Brent’s scowling face.
“Mr. Fairchild!” exclaims the Professor.
“For now, I’ll forget I heard that,” I say, staring Brent down.
“I won’t forget that I said it,” he replies as he turns away and hugs Margaux to his chest.
“Hey!” barks Ryan. “If it’s all the same to you guys, I’d like to get the hell out of here! So can someone tell me what we do next?”
“Mr. Blake?” the Professor says, looking in Percy’s direction.
“I . . . ah . . . ,” Percy stammers. He looks drained. This day has wrung his mind dry, and it shows.
I look out past the group. We’re standing on a wide pathway that skirts the outer walls of a row of buildings. Trees and gardens line the edge of the path. Beyond them, lush, green grass spreads out in a flat expanse for at least a kilometer all around before the ground sweeps up into rolling hills in the distance. I can only just make out the shape of the dark curve of Dome One through the canopies of the trees. It looks to be about four hundred meters away.
“Percy. Are there any fences or barriers between here and Dome One?”
Visibly relieved at being asked a question he can answer, Percy shakes his head. “No. The only fences we have to worry about are at the three guard posts on the drive to the main road. But they have electrified gates that can only be opened by someone in the”—Percy’s face drops—“in the Security Station.”
“That doesn’t matter. The bus will go right through those gates.”
“Awesome,” whispers Brody.
“OK, is everyone ready?” I say as I walk to the head of the group.
“Ah . . . I have a question,” says Brent. “Who put you in charge?”
“I did,” I reply. “Now move it.”
I start jogging down the path, checking the nearest alleyway on my left for danger as I go. Halfway down, I see that it’s blocked by a high wall. I glance over my shoulder, and sure enough, everyone, including a clearly fuming Brent, has begun following behind me. Major Brogan taught me a long time ago that sometimes all you need to do is act like you’re in charge for people to put you in charge. In this case, he was right on the money.
Ryan and Percy catch up with me at the front of the pack, and the three of us run abreast. “What about the soldiers in the courtyard?” Ryan asks.
“I’m checking the alleyways for access,” I reply. “I’ll stick with you guys until I find a clear route, and then I’ll cut through and find someone to warn. You carry on around the dome.”
Ryan nods, and we jog on, both of our heads now flicking to the left as we pass each narrow passage between the buildings. With the light breeze rustling the leaves above me and the sunlight dappling the paving stones beneath my feet, this could easily be a pleasant jog through a park on a warm summer afternoon. Unfortunately, the two sweaty, dirt-smeared, blood-spattered guys running beside me completely destroy that illusion.
We carry on at a steady pace, and soon part of the massive outer wall of the dome comes into view through the thinning green canopy overhead. “We’re almost there.” I glance back, and the rest of the group isn’t far behind. Even the old Professor is keeping in step, jogging right beside a red-faced Brody, who is very impressively plodding along despite piggybacking a gormless-looking Dean. Seriously, what the hell is wrong with that kid? A wet sack of potatoes has more personality.
Percy, Ryan, and I arrive at the end of the row of buildings and wait for the others to catch up. Beside the last building is a thicket of densely packed plants. I turn to Percy. “Can I push through here?”
Wheezing and gulping from running, he shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders. He doesn’t have a clue.
“I’m gonna try. You get going,” I say, pointing across the 150-meter expanse of grass between us and the visible edge of the dome’s rounded black wall. Ryan nods. I look back at the group. Everyone is gathered, hands on hips, catching their collective breath.
“I’ll be waiting for you outside the bus,” Otto whispers with a knowing look. “Be careful, Infinity.”
“You’re Infinity?” gasps the Professor. “So that murderous hacker was looking for
you
?”
I don’t know what he’s talking about, so all I can do is stare blankly.
The Professor looks bewildered and shocked and confused all at once. “Someone took control of that monstrous robot and killed poor Miss Cole and all the others . . . because of you?”
I stand there in silence, frowning at the Professor as he turns and barks at Otto. “What is going on here? I demand an explanation!”
“Later, Professor, I promise,” Otto says, dragging him away by the arm.
Ryan looks over at me. “You watch your back.”
I smile and nod. “Don’t get killed.”
He returns my smile, then addresses the group, “C’mon, everyone; we’re almost home free.”
They move off at a cautious pace, with Ryan and Percy leading the way. I can still hear Professor Francis muttering my name as I turn, step up onto the edge of the concrete planter, and push my fingers into the thicket. I have to force my shoes into the tiny spaces between the roots of the plants and lean my shoulders sideways, pushing forward with all my might just to make any kind of decent headway. If I had one wish right now, it would be for my favorite black-handled knife to magically appear in my hand so I could clear away these damned plants that are catching and scratching against me.
Actually, if I had one wish, it would be for Richard Blackstone to be dead, so stop wasting time with the daydreaming, Infinity; get to the courtyard, and warn the first soldier you see.
With my useless flights of fancy firmly put in their place, I carry on grunting and heaving at the sinewy vegetation until I can finally make out the pattern of paving stones through the tangle. I’m almost halfway through this wretched mess of weeds when a calm computerized voice suddenly speaks from somewhere on the other side of the garden.
“Combat Drones have been dispatched to eliminate unauthorized intruders. I repeat, Combat Drones have been dispatched to eliminate unauthorized intruders. Due to unresolved system malfunctions, all Drones are operating at a diminished capacity, so to avoid accidental harm, all authorized staff are advised to remain in your nearest emergency shelter. I do apologize for any inconvenience and hope to resolve this conflict in the most efficient way possible. Thank you for your patience, and . . . have a spectacular day.”
That was Onix. I’ve never heard anyone tell me they’re going to murder me in such a polite manner. It sure doesn’t make it any easier to take.
Despite the warning, I carry on. I’m pushing at a clump of weird, prickly shrubbery when there’s a scream in the distance. I freeze. That high-pitched, annoying scream is one that, lately, I’ve become all too familiar with.
Margaux.
Suddenly much more alert and concerned, I look back down the very roughly hewn track that I’ve barely carved between the plants, straining my ears in the direction of Margaux’s frightened shriek.
Rat-tat-tat!
At the sound of Ryan’s rifle, I nervously clutch a handful of branches.
Rat-tat-tat!
On his second salvo, my body twitches, and I immediately think of Otto. I quickly lurch back the way I came, angrily grunting at the trees and thick tufts of tall grass in the way as I scramble as fast as I can back through the garden.
I emerge, stumbling out of the thicket onto the path at the exact moment I hear Ryan bellow an ominous command:
“Everybody . . . ruuun!”
There, about a hundred meters away, I see the whole group running back across the grass toward me, fleeing in outright panic. And the reason why becomes blatantly clear: beyond them, emerging from a large, rectangular hole in the sheer-black side of the dome are ten scarlet-faced, gun-toting Crimson-Class Combat Drones.
Ryan is holding his position, his rifle at the ready, one knee down on the grass. He’s already dropped one of the androids; I see it lying, deactivated, beside the wall of the dome. Ryan’s rifle flares with a rapid burst of rounds, and another Drone’s head jerks, its mask snapping from red to black as it falls facedown onto the ground. Even with a bad shoulder, he’s a very good shot. Ryan springs to his feet, turns, and starts sprinting for his life as the rest of the Drones raise their semiautomatic rifles in unison . . . and open fire.
The sound of bullets whizzing past me kicks my reflexes into high gear, and I take off, bolting across the grass toward the dome. I swing my rifle around into my arms as I go, pumping my legs against the ground, my eyes focused on the silver-hooded robots trudging in a haphazard formation across the field. I notice that a couple of them, strangely, aren’t even walking in the right direction. As I get closer, I see that only half of the Drones’ rifles are pointing toward the group; the rest are
way
off target. With every missed shot they fire, it becomes more and more apparent that the Drones are behaving a lot like the R.A.M. was. They definitely seem to sense movement from this general direction, but they’re shooting like they’re wearing blindfolds. It’s another lucky break, but those are still bullets that they’re firing, and the more they pull those triggers, the greater the odds are that someone is gonna get shot.
The thought has barely entered my mind when it’s proven to be true. A Drone’s gun barrel flashes, and a split second later, a patch of red blooms like a flower on the leg of Brent’s trousers. He drops, dragging Margaux by the hand down onto the soft, green grass. Ryan sees them fall, but the others are oblivious, far too busy escaping to notice. I come to a skidding halt as Otto, Percy, Brody, Dean, and the Professor hurriedly approach. I point back the way I came, shouting, “Go through the garden!” as they all barrel past in a frantic bustle.
With bullets whizzing past my head, I dive onto the grass and prop my chin on my rifle. I line the sights, take a breath, and, with a slow exhale, squeeze the trigger three times. Far across the field, the face mask of one Drone cracks into shards. It does a clumsy half spin before thudding to the ground. I take aim at another and shoot again. I hit a Drone twice in the mask; it doesn’t go down, but my shots aren’t entirely wasted as it veers to the left, walking out in front of another android, obscuring its line of fire.
I glance back. Otto and the others have almost made it to the garden.
I look over at Ryan. He’s thrown his rifle down and grabbed Brent by his arm. He drags Brent’s wrist over the back of his neck, lifts him over his shoulder into a fireman’s carry, and hoists him from the ground. Ryan starts running as fast as he’s able, but he doesn’t get very far. A slight trip becomes a stumble into a toppling loss of balance; he and Brent both fall, tumbling headlong onto the grass.
Seven Drones are still standing, but only the four closest are pointing their weapons in the right direction. That’s the good news. The bad news is, the closer they get, the more their guns seem to be zeroing in on Ryan, Brent, and Margaux. I need to buy them some time. I take aim at the nearest one and breathe in through my nose, slowly breathe out, and then gently squeeze . . .
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
I quickly look up from my rifle. I haven’t pulled my trigger, but the Drone I had in my sights is suddenly being pelted with bullets. A line of holes dots up its torso and head, shattering its face mask into pieces. The android drops onto its knees and falls flat on the ground as the next Drone in line is immediately hit by the continuous barrage of gunfire. Pockmarks speck up across its chest and crack through its forehead. Its whole body freezes like someone’s flicked an off switch, and it falls onto its back with a heavy thud. Two down, just like that. I look across the field to my right, and I can hardly believe my eyes. With her skirt stretched tight across her wide stance and Ryan’s rifle dug into her hip is a wailing, wild-haired, teeth-bared, android-annihilating Margaux, the flaring weapon kicking in her white-knuckled hands as she peppers a third Drone with a hail of bullets and drops it like a ton of bricks. An amused smile creeps across my lips.
Give ’em hell, Blondie.