“Fall back to command! Move, move, move!” shouts a Lieutenant.
One soldier lobs a couple of canister grenades toward the Drones; they clatter on the paving stones and begin spewing thick gray plumes of smoke. In a retreat situation against human soldiers, a smoke screen is a very good tactic; it obscures the enemies’ line of fire and makes you harder to hit as you escape, but combat robots have had thermal-vision capabilities for years, and they can see body heat right through a smoke cloud. Maybe it was panic or lack of training that made the soldier throw those canisters, because against those Drones . . . it was a very bad mistake. Now, only the
Drones
are hidden from view, the soldiers have nothing to aim at, and the casualties keep increasing as the androids keep advancing. Bullets are tearing chunks from trees, soldiers are being hit, blood is spurting, and panic is spreading as the group of nearly thirty troops that ran from the office finally appears on the displays, firing blindly into the cloud of smoke while the remaining members of Alpha, Omega, and Delta squads retreat, running, limping, ducking, and dragging wounded soldiers as they go.
I can hear the echo of voices and tromping boots in the stairwell. They get louder and louder until finally, two panic-stricken teenage girls and a soldier burst through the open door of the office.
“Jenny! Amy!” screeches Otto. The two teenagers break into a run toward us, and the pretty Asian girl nearly knocks Otto off her feet as she embraces her and sobs.
“You’re alive,” the girl whimpers, looking around at everyone. “We were afraid you were all dead.”
Professor Francis rushes over and takes the other girl’s hand. “Amelia, thank goodness you and Jennifer are both safe.” The petite girl nods, her puffy, red eyes on the brink of tears beneath the fringe of her disheveled, blonde, bob haircut.
“I don’t wanna spoil the moment, Professor . . . ,” Ryan says, looking toward the displays at the desk, “but I don’t think any of us are safe.” Ryan isn’t wrong. The displays tell a horrific and bloody story as almost every screen cycles through images of the bodies of fallen soldiers strewn across a wide section of the courtyard.
Otto frees herself from Jenny’s hug and looks back at her slate. The holoscreens jump up from its surface again, and all of us gather around, staring at the scenes of carnage. Even Margaux, Brent, and two nearby medics make their way to the circle and crane their necks to see. Margaux gasps. There are so many dead and injured: I count almost forty in all.
On the other side of the room, Captain Delgado grips the walkie-talkie again. “Private Sekula! Fire as soon as you’re in position!” Barely three seconds after he gives the command, the head of the Drone on the rooftop across the way explodes like a sledgehammered watermelon. It doesn’t even lower its gun as its silver carcass topples from the side of the building and pounds into a heap on the pavement below.
“Yes,” Brody hisses quietly.
It’s a small victory, but I suspect it didn’t go unnoticed by the Drones at ground level, because their behavior changes dramatically again as they all quickly rush forward in a tight pack into the center of the gray smoke, a maneuver that completely obscures them from Private Sekula’s gun sights. Their tactic is confirmed as their gun flares flash high above the smoke in the direction of the roof above us, and Private Sekula’s voice shouts so loudly through Captain Delgado’s radio that I can hear it from where we’re standing.
At least some good comes from the Private’s unintentional diversion, providing the soldiers on the ground a brief respite as they run for their lives. At last count, including that sniper Drone, there must have been nine robots in that smoke cloud and, at a guess, around forty battle-capable soldiers left. In any other situation, numbers like that would give the soldiers every advantage. But this is like nothing I’ve ever seen, and clearly it’s like no firefight any of these troops have ever encountered. Even at forty against nine, they’re terribly outmatched. I can only imagine what would have happened if all thirty Drones had stormed out of that elevated compartment. The troops would have been completely obliterated. That outcome is still highly likely.
I can hear the first of the retreating soldiers scrambling into the stairwell, and soon we’re all going to be crammed into one room. For those Drones, killing us will be like shooting birds in a cage.
I know that I have to do something, but an unfamiliar feeling of fear is beginning to grip me, and it’s muddling my thoughts. Do I grab Otto and run? If so, I may have waited too long. Once the Drones dispatch Private Sekula, they’ll be here in ninety seconds. Or do I pick up a gun and fight? I’m no match for nine armed Combat Drones. Am I?
I’m still weighing up the incredibly horrible options when soldiers begin spilling into the office and the room suddenly becomes a bustling panic of shouting and groaning. All three of the already-scrambling medics spring into a higher level of action, readying their meager supplies of cotton and gauze and spray-on bandages as a stream of injured soldiers stumbles and limps toward the infirmary area.
Otto swipes the holoscreens away, strides to the cubicle wall, snatches back the small, black rectangle that was stuck there, and quickly tucks her slate in her satchel as she trots back toward me. The first of the bleeding troops are pouring into the makeshift infirmary.
“You kids, get out of the way!” shouts a medic. Everyone in our little group tries to lunge aside as we’re pushed and shoved by the wounded jostling into the increasingly inadequate partitioned area.
“Everyone, gather in that corner!” Professor Francis shouts, pointing over the manic turmoil. With no other obvious option, we all do as we’re told and move in a bunch toward an empty desk that has been shoved up against a far wall.
There are so many wounded filling the office that I completely lose sight of Captain Delgado in the chaos. “They don’t stand a chance,” I whisper in Otto’s ear as we move. “And if we stay here, neither do we.”
“What are we going to do?” she asks, her eyes brimming with fear.
Her fear adds fuel to my own. I don’t want to admit it . . . but I’m scared. “I don’t know,” I whisper. It’s the truth. I can’t see through the fog of terror growing in my mind. I can’t see a way out of this.
The group reaches the empty desk in the corner and huddles around it like frightened children, which, let’s face it, most of them are. Even
my
hands are trembling. This is not the way I thought it would end, but what can I do?
I don’t feel like myself. I don’t feel any fight in me. I feel like a cowering nobody.
Finn, you bitch. Stop making me weak. Your emotions are infecting me like a disease! Take them back. Let me go! I need to focus!
I look at the windows. I can jump through them to the ground. I’d probably break my leg, but I could heal it fast, and then I’d be outta here. But what about Otto? She might not survive a three-story drop, and I can’t leave her behind; I just can’t. I may not have known her for very long, but she’s the closest thing to a friend that I’ve ever had.
What do I do? What do I do?
I look toward the door. Soldiers are barricading it with overturned desks. I look at the infirmary area. It’s jam-packed with bloodied flesh, writhing bodies, and screams of agony. I look at our little group. Desperate fear is seared into their faces. I look at Otto’s slate. The canisters are spewing the last of their smoke as the Drones hiding in the cloud fire skyward.
I stare blankly into the chaos unfolding all around, my breathing heavy and shaky. This has all gotten too far out of hand. My instinct to survive makes the decision for me. I need to save myself.
I’m sorry, Otto. You’re on your own.
I swallow hard and turn toward the windows, but something catches my eye through the moving bustle of military uniforms and stops me cold. There, on the other side of the room, his glare of recognition fixed on my face, is the wide-eyed, disbelieving stare of my former Mission Commander.
Covert Field Operations Supervisor, level nine . . . Captain Javier Delgado.
Captain Delgado storms across the room in a straight line. I know that I should be smashing through the glass behind me right now and leaping to safety, but I can’t seem to move at all. All I can do is stare him in the eyes as he quickly strides in this direction, gruffly pushing soldiers out of his way. He doesn’t look surprised anymore. He looks mad as hell.
Captain Delgado unceremoniously shoves a nearby soldier aside and stands over me, glaring down at me. “Why are you here?” he seethes.
“Oh, Captain Delgado . . . ,” an oblivious Professor Francis says, interrupting from the other side of the group. “I was wondering if you could tell me . . .”
The Captain turns his bayonet stare at the Professor. “Shut up, old man.” The Professor recoils, obviously offended as Captain Delgado turns back to me and grabs my face firmly in one of his large hands, studying my eyes closely.
“I say!” barks the Professor. “Unhand Miss Brogan this instant!”
“Is that who I’m looking at?” growls Captain Delgado. “Are you Finn Brogan today?”
“Hey!” shouts Ryan. He grabs at the Captain’s arm, but Captain Delgado shoves him away without even looking.
“Well? Answer me!” bellows the Captain.
Everyone in the group is focused on us with half-open mouths and crinkled brows, not knowing in the least what to make of any of this.
“It can’t be a coincidence that you’re here,” says the Captain. “The first school group allowed inside these walls and you just
happen
to be among them? I don’t buy that crap. Why are you here? Who sent you? Who’s your target? Did you have anything to do with that slaughter out there?”
I’m a covert Blackstone assassin who works for a secret branch of the military carrying out my own mission without authorization. If we manage to survive today, I know that Captain Delgado will report this, and either I’ll be locked away for the rest of my life or they’ll simply make me . . . disappear. Either way, I’m screwed. I don’t know what else to do but to use the disguise that they gave me. I do my best to look timid and scared, which, considering the circumstances, isn’t much of a stretch.
“Yes, I’m Finn Brogan, and I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about, Captain Delgado.”
Captain Delgado smiles. “I’ve known Finn since she was little, and she always called me ‘Mr. Delgado,’ just like she would right now if you were
actually
her. Maybe you should have done a little research before you tried pretending to be that kind, sweet girl, because kind and sweet, you definitely are not . . . Infinity One.”
I sneer at him. “Fine. You got me. So what.”
“So what? I’ll tell you what. We’re all gonna die if you don’t get your ass down there like a good soldier and dispatch those Drones.”
I stare at him, right in the eyes. “You must be out of your goddamned mind if you think you can order me to do anything anymore. I’m done with people bossing me around. I’m free from you. Free from Richard Blackstone. Free from
everyone
. I’d rather die on my own terms than be your lapdog for one more second.”
Captain Delgado raises his eyebrows. “Oh, really?” Suddenly, without warning, he grips my shirt firmly with both hands. Buttons pop and tumble through the air as he forcefully rips the collar open. Stunned and confused, I grab at his wrists as Ryan and Brody both dive at him. All four of us fall hard to the floor in a grappling mass.
“Restrain these civilians!” shouts Captain Delgado as Ryan and Brody try their best to hold him down. The Captain releases one of his hands and smacks Brody in the face with the back of his fist. Brody lets go, clutching at his nose, and is immediately scooped up from the floor by a soldier and secured in a double armlock.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see everyone in the group looking down at us in horrified fascination.
“What are you doing?” screeches Otto. “Let her go!”
The troops watching the three of us in this bizarre wrestling match look just as confused as I feel, probably fearing that the stress of the situation has caused their commanding officer to lose his grasp on sanity. That’s exactly what I’m thinking when I mentally tighten the muscles in my right arm into a concentrated bundle of raw power, readying myself to fight back. Captain Delgado manages to maneuver all his weight on top of me, and my pendant cuts into the back of my neck as it tangles in his clawing fingers. In a double-action blur, my fist moves like a spring-loaded piston, knuckle-striking him twice in the side in less than half a second. Inches from my face, spittle sprays through his gritted teeth, and veins bulge from his neck as he lets out a throaty groan. I’m not surprised; I just cracked two of his ribs.
Soldiers lunge forward and grab Ryan by his legs. “Get your hands off me!” he yells, still scrabbling at Captain Delgado’s camouflage pants as he’s roughly dragged away.
The Captain’s eyes are crazed with determination, and the olive skin of his face is turning red with effort. I dagger my fingers hard into his side; he lets out a guttural moan as an involuntary reaction curves his body away from the pain. I use it to push his bulk and roll him off me onto the floor. I’m only free for a split second when three soldiers pounce on me. I’m strong when I put my mind to it, but these men know exactly how to restrain someone properly. I struggle and try to kick, but I can’t get any leverage. They haul me to my feet and restrain me securely with a sleeper hold tight around my neck and a soldier on each arm, their legs firmly wrapped around mine.
As hard as I try . . . I can’t move.
“Help me up,” mutters Captain Delgado, waving an outstretched hand. Two more soldiers jump forward and pull him to his feet as he groans and clutches his side. I’m snorting angrily as the Captain hobbles over to me, heaving labored breaths of his own. He looks down, gently pulls the chain of my pendant out from the top of my shirt, holds the black stone between his thumb and forefinger, and whispers ten very specific words.