《Blast Protocol》


 Chapter 1

    When I got caught drinking at school, I thought my dad would rush home early from work, furious, demanding an explanation. I thought he would care. But then I remembered, this was my dad I was talking about.


    And that wasn''t even all of it. Because things had been different, these past few months. And they would never be the same.


    Thinking about that, made me think about my mom, and my sister. And that made me realize the buzz was wearing off, and I needed another drink.


    It was seven minutes past noon, and I was sitting in the back of a cop car. I was leaning with the side of my head pressed against the black bars in front of the window, watching the scenery pass by. Suburban houses with big leafy trees in the backyards and chain-link fences along the front. Every house looking much like another, just a giant, sprawling masquerade of normalcy. Occasionally, I reached for the flask in my pocket during the ride. Kept forgetting it was confiscated.


    I''d gone along with it when they told me to take the breathalyzer test. I thought calling the police was a bit over-the-top, even for school faculty, but at the same time, I just couldn''t bring myself to care. I''m not even sure they cared. There were no speeches. No one tried to give me ''the talk''. They just walked me through each set of procedures, all the while doing their very best to avoid looking me in the eye. Misbehaving meant being suspended, which meant more time to do the things I was already doing, away from school. What was the point in that?


    It was kind of disappointing, actually. I didn''t care anymore, and the last real authorities in my life didn''t seem to care much, either. And where did that leave me? Wasn''t my life supposed to be a steep drop-off from here? From apathy, to poverty, to crime, imprisonment, and, I dunno, crack addiction¡ªsomething like that? That was what society said, anyway.


    Me, I just wanted to go home. I just wanted another drink.


    My house was on the other side of the suburb, at the top of a secluded hill. An upper-middle-class house cloistered among dozens of other upper-middle-class houses. There was a steep downhill slope on the other side of the house, just beyond the fence bordering the backyard, affording a sweeping view of the suburb below.


    The cop car slowed, easing to a stop in front of the place. I picked up my bag and waited for the door to unlock. Staticky exchanges fizzed and sparked from the police radio up front. The cop, a middle-aged guy with a mustache, a flat-top haircut, and a big gut, eased around to look at me over his shoulder, making the leather seat crinkle and crease, sounding like a fart. He wore sunglasses with polarized lenses, and I could see my reflection in them. A sixteen-year-old kid with dark, messy hair, in a flannel shirt and jeans. My eyes were near bloodshot, and there were dark circles under them.


    "Looks like your dad''s not home."


    He was right. The carport was empty. Which didn''t surprise me.


    "It''s okay," I said. "I have a key."


    I looped one of my bag''s straps over my shoulder, ready to debark the vessel. But the door was still locked.


    "Listen," the cop said. "You''re probably not looking to have a conversation with someone like me about this. But there''s something I think you should hear."


    I gazed out the window, let out a slow, steady breath. "I''m not hurting anyone."


    "No," he admitted. "Not yet. Not today. But at some point..." He broke off, and I could almost hear the gears in his head turning, like he had some piece of aged wisdom to share, but he was trying to phrase it so I wouldn¡¯t reject it outright. It was his obligation to bestow a kernel of insight, maybe make the world just a bit better down the line. Doing his duty as a good ol'' boy in blue.


    "Is that it?" I said. "Can I get out of the car now?"


    That earned a raised eyebrow. "Maybe that''s part of your problem. You could have been charged, today. You could be in jail right now. You should have some respect for people who are just trying to help you."


    "You wouldn''t know where to start," I said. Nobody did. They didn''t even actually want to help me. They just wanted the behavior to stop. They wanted me to fall in line, like everyone else. I''d learned that a long time ago. "Open the door."


    The cop sighed. Turned back around in his seat, fabric scraping leather again, making another fart. "Have a nice life, kid. Only, in my experience, this won''t be the last time I see you."


    That made me grit my teeth, but I had no interest in getting roped into a longer talk on the subject. Just let me out.


    The door unlocked with a loud chunk. In a microsecond, I had the door open. I shut it behind me.


    I was tired. Lightheaded. Frustrated. And thirsty for another drink.


    Though I didn''t turn around, I felt bits of gravel bouncing off the legs of my jeans, spat by the wheels of the cop car as it made a quick reverse, down the driveway and back onto the street.


    Good riddance, I guess.


    It was a moderately pleasant day in September. Only a few clouds, and none of them dark or dreary. A little cold, but I liked the cold.


    I made dizzy, loping steps across the crisp front lawn, still wet from the automatic sprinklers. The alcohol was wearing off, and I could feel a headache coming on. I bent and reached down behind one of the elderberry bushes in front of the house. Nestled in the leaves, clipped to one of the thicker branches, was a key lock box. I stood there, hunched over, blinking and thinking, until I remembered the code. I keyed it in, and there was a snap as the box came open. I reached out to catch the house key as it fell out, but it bounced off my index finger. Next thing I knew, I was down on my hands and knees, fumbling around in the dirt and gravel. Luckily, the sun was still high, and I managed to catch the light glinting on the chrome coating of the key. I snatched it between my index finger and thumb. I left the lock box lying next to the bush.


    My front door had a window set into it with hazy, textured glass. I used to see a shadow flicker there in the crystal every time I came home, because my mom would hear me coming up the front step, and she''d be waiting in the entryway for me.


    Of course, there was no one there now. It was just a dark, empty hallway.


    I flicked the light switch, and the boob lamp¡ªaccording to my dad, it was actually called a ''flush mount dome light¡¯¡ªglowed with dusty yellow light on the high ceiling.


    There was a wooden entry table to one side of the hallway. There used to be family pictures arranged on and above it, hanging on the wall, but at some point, my dad swept them all up into a bag and took them away. I didn''t know where they were. Not that I didn''t have access to digital copies of the photos, but there was something so sad and empty about the table now. Hollow. Kind of like the rest of the house.


    On the opposite side of the hallway was the tall staircase leading up to the second level, toward the bedrooms.


    I wasn¡¯t ready to head up there just yet, today. Physically or mentally.


    I set the key down on the entry table. It made a tapping sound on the hard surface, echoing in the hall. Everything echoed here in this sterile, quiet place. The thud of my backpack as I sloughed it off and dropped at the foot of the stairs. The squeak of my shoes on the shiny hardwood floor as I walked down the hall.


    It was clean, at least. The entire house was. All except for one of the two bedrooms upstairs, as well as the master bedroom. The maids who came in every Wednesday were explicitly instructed to stay out of those rooms.


    Dad slept on the couch in the living room. There was an indent roughly shaped like his body in the couch cushions, getting deeper all the time, less comfortable to sit on. Sometimes when I couldn''t sleep, I''d come downstairs, and I''d find Dad on his side on the couch¡ªsometimes asleep, sometimes not¡ªwith the glow of the TV illuminating his arms and face. He slept in his work clothes, curled up, shoulders hunched, slowly being absorbed by the couch. He only went into his room when he had to, and usually only for brief moments at a time.


    This was how things were now. That was how I looked at it. The ''now'', and...the ''before''. If you pried my life apart into two sections, that''s what you would have. The now, as things were, and the before, as in...before everything changed.


    At the moment, of course, the living room was empty. I turned on the TV, set it to YouTube, and let something random play. I just needed some background noise, for now. It felt normal to have voices in the house.


    I opened the door to the pantry. Dad liked to keep a stock of gins, vodkas, and whiskeys, as well as various bottles of cocktail mixes. I didn''t see him drinking often, but he must have been, because I could see the levels dropping in the bottles, even during the times I left them alone, and he was always prompt in restocking when they ran out.


    He had to know I was drinking consistently, and that this was where I was getting it. He couldn''t be that oblivious, could he?


    I used to experience a certain relief at the idea he wasn''t going to confront me, that he didn''t care. But then, as I''d felt with the school faculty, there was this creeping sense of disappointment, too. As if I''d been waiting for some kind of real intervention for some time, now. Intervention with a capital ''I''. A room full of worried friends, and even some extended family members who''d flown in from out of state, giving speeches, voicing their concerns. In a situation like that, in a room full of worried faces, maybe I''d finally have a chance to explain myself. Maybe then, statistically, somebody¡ªanybody¡ªwould hear me, and I wouldn''t be the only one with these thoughts in my head. It would be a relief. Like a pressure release valve.


    It was just a fantasy, anyway. And a na?ve one. Besides, I wasn''t doing this as a way to act out or get attention. I was doing it because I didn''t know what else to do.


    I grabbed a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label. Just because my father was fairly well off didn''t mean he splurged on the fancy stuff. He hadn''t been much of a drinker, even...


    (before)


    He''d just liked to mix drinks for people during get-togethers. Special occasions. And those events had usually been organized by Mom, even when they invited over Dad''s colleagues from work now and then, to celebrate his team''s successes over the years.


    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Most people would never hear about my dad and the work he did. But his name¡ªthe esteemed Dr. Michael Wallace Turner¡ªdid crop up in the newspapers and on TV every once in a while, usually when he came upon some bio-technical discovery the media decided was sexy enough to print.


    The thing is, it''s never as sexy and exciting as you think it is. I remembered my dad sitting on that same couch, reacting to some story on TV, claiming his team had developed technology that could replace parts of the human brain, shaking his head, muttering, "It doesn''t quite work like that."


    Well, then how is it supposed to work? What''s the point!?


    But you could never get a straight answer with Michael Wallace Turner.


    It got tiring, people telling me how brilliant my dad was, and having to nod along, even though I couldn''t explain why, even though I never understood any of it.


    I think he tried to dumb it down for me a couple of times. But he had a tendency to lose interest during conversations like that, and trailing off. Frankly, I think he just didn''t have a knack for communicating in that way. But he also just didn''t like talking about work with me. He liked it when we played board games or watched movies, or put together puzzles while listening to Frank Herbert''s Dune, or Asimov''s Foundation.


    He didn''t like it when the focus was on himself. It made him all...flustered.


    Sure, I found it annoying. But I''d give anything to be annoyed, again. Instead of...well. Alone.


    I grabbed a short, stout glass out of the cupboard and used it to shovel up some chips of ice from the ice rack in the freezer. Whiskey wasn''t so bad on the rocks. I''d gotten used to the smokey taste of it. It helped to disguise the smell and flavor of alcohol by mixing it. Preferably with something inconspicuous, like coke, in one of those paper soda fountain cups, or a personal water bottle. But with so much free time alone at the house, there wasn¡¯t much need.


    Besides, I almost relished the idea of Dad catching me in the act, this time. He¡¯d walk in the door, home early from work, and he¡¯d find me lounging on the couch with a drink in my hand, and he would be frustrated, and upset, and then maybe we would finally hash it out. Hash everything out. It would be scary, but at least it wouldn¡¯t be¡­this. This quiet, terrible, hollow feeling. When I was drinking, I could push it away, ignore it. For a while. But it always came back.


    I zoned out for a while, sipping scotch whiskey and letting YouTube play. When I checked the clock on the hutch in the corner, it read fifteen past one.


    How long did it take Michael Wallace Turner to commute home from work? I wasn¡¯t sure. He¡¯d been working late almost every day for months now, working on some new development contract.


    Apparently, he was in high demand. Which was weird to me. If he was such a big shot, why were we living here? And why was he driving an old Toyota?


    I knew the school had contacted his office. I was there, in the principal''s office, when they placed the call. And yet, my phone hadn''t dinged with any text or call notifications. I waited, expecting to hear the crunch of Dad''s Toyota RAV4 in the gravel driveway. Instead of just the ASMR video on the TV, and the ice chips clinking around in the glass.


    I checked my phone for any messages again, and saw none. I took another pull of whiskey, set down the glass, and sat back. I was starting to feel tired. And...numb. I was actually starting to relax. My eyelids sagged and fell.


    I dreamed. It was both wonderful and terrible.


    Me, my dad, my mom, and my little sister, Gemma, at some kind of beach. I was cross-legged on the sand, my earbuds in, listening to a book while I put together a sand castle. Dad was under an umbrella, reading a mass market paperback, the kind you come across at the airport. Meanwhile, both Mom and Gemma were in the water, splashing, swimming, playing. They waved to me, trying to usher me into the water with them. I smiled and shook my head, absorbed in the castle building.


    I couldn''t place the book I was listening to, or even what kind of book it was. Maybe that was when some part of me figured out it was a dream. Because the more I focused on the words, the more I realized there was no order or meaning to it. It was nonsense. It was nothing.


    "The in or as with and, top give was said, he...carves with ant sword, if-"


    Sometimes, the words would almost start to make sense, leaning towards some kind of structure, before falling apart again.


    Frowning, I wiped the sand from my palms and reached into the pocket of my swim shorts. I pulled out my phone to check the app, see if the audio was skipping. Maybe the file was corrupted.


    Unfortunately, the phone screen was black. Blank. The audio kept playing, but the phone was unresponsive.


    Great. Busted.


    I looked up, pulling the wireless buds out of my ears. "My phone''s bust-"


    Mom and Gemma. They were gone.


    I stood, holding up one hand as a visor, squinting against the sunlight refracting off of the waves. The tide was low. When they''d waved to me, the water had only been up to their shins. It was hard to stay beneath the waves, in water like that. To disappear. So where...


    I was starting to panic. Something was off.


    "Dad," I said, without turning around. I was afraid to take my eyes off the water in case I spotted something. But it didn''t make sense to think they''d been carried off by the tide. The waves were so gentle. Unassuming.


    I waited. And waited. Anxious.


    "Dad!"


    No answer.


    I spun around. "DAD!"


    He was still sitting under the sunbrella, reading his stupid book. He looked completely absorbed. His eyes flicked back and forth. He flipped a page. And another.


    I ran toward him. "Dad, something''s wrong! Something''s- Dad, look at me!"


    Michael Wallace Turner flipped yet another page, never averting his eyes from the text.


    I was fuming now. Exasperated. Terrified.


    I grabbed the book, wrenched it out of his hands¡ªfor a split second I could see the words on the pages moving as if alive, scrolling left to right like code on a computer¡ªand tossed it.


    Now I had his attention. All of it. But his eyes were wide. Too wide. His face twisted into a snarl. He grit his teeth, his mouth taking on uncanny dimensions as his jaw fell, pulling away, unhinging like that of a snake-


    "Silas."


    My eyes snapped open. I was back at the house, lying back on the couch. I was breathing hard, chest inflating and deflating like a balloon. A film of cold sweat clung to my cheeks and forehead. Cool blue dusklight shone in through the windows, giving the walls and furniture an eerie, silhouetted cast. The sun''s farewell kiss before the night took over.


    A dream. A nightmare.


    A psychiatrist would have a field day with it. Not just in the ways the dream echoed what had happened, but in the ways it was different. Regardless, the experience had awakened all that dormant stress and trauma, unleashing it into the forefront of my consciousness. It would take more alcohol to put it back to sleep again. But I had other immediate concerns, as well.


    Someone was in the room with me. Standing awkwardly, facing the couch. I could see the outline of his windbreaker and the silvery sheen of the metal rims of his glasses.


    "Silas." Stern, this time.


    So he was upset, then?


    Now that he was here, and it was actually happening, I wasn''t sure how to feel about it. I mean, what had taken him so long? And what, now? What exactly did he intend to do about it?


    He suddenly seemed so timid, standing there, waiting for me to respond.


    "That''s my name," I said.


    "I''m sorry."


    I hesitated, unsure of what to say. I sat up. Slowly.


    "You''re sorry?"


    "I didn''t know this was going to happen. I swear I didn''t. You don''t deserve this. But it''s too late now."


    His voice had taken on a sharp, serrated edge.


    I cocked my head. "Dad, it...it was just alcohol."


    "...what?" Now it was my dad''s turn to look confused. I couldn''t see his face in the darkness, but it was plain in his body language.


    "At school," I said. "Did...did no one tell you?"


    Michael Wallace Turner held up an open palm toward me. Closed it. Shook his head. "We can deal with that later."


    "Later?" I said. "Seriously?"


    I glanced over at the clock on the wall. It had glow-in-the-dark hands.


    "Six-thirty," I said, turning back to him. "The principal called your office at eleven-thirty. I''ve been waiting here since noon."


    I was getting confrontational. Which wasn''t normal for me, particularly with Dad, but things had been building for a while now, and it was all coming to a head. I was too lonely, and I was too afraid. And to be honest, something was just off about all this, in the same way things had been off in the dream.


    "I''ve been...busy," Dad said. "I can explain in the car."


    "The...car?" I said. "Going where?"


    Dad came and sat next to me on the couch. He put his hands on my shoulders. He was close, and my eyes and brain were adjusting to the darkness, so it was easier to see his expression. The worry in his eyes. The tension in his jaw.


    ¡°I have failed you,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ve continued to fail you. In more ways than one. And I know that ¡®sorry¡¯ isn¡¯t enough. But I¡¯m still your father. I¡¯m still responsible for you. And right now, I need you to trust me. I need you to do as I say.¡±


    He was looking me directly in the eyes. For the first time since...


    (before)


    Maybe for the first time ever. He¡¯d never been great at this kind of direct, personal communication. But he was doing it. He was pulling out all the stops.


    I stood. I was keenly aware of the half-full glass of whiskey on the end table next to the couch. I wanted it. But maybe, for now, it could wait. ¡°Do I need to bring anything? Clothes?¡±


    He stood as well, shaking his head. ¡°No. No clothes.¡±


    ¡°Homework?¡± I said. ¡°I can grab my bag.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing here we need. We just need to hurry.¡±


    That uneasiness crept in again. That sense of foreboding. But there was nothing for it but to trust my dad.


    He led me out the front door. It was a clear, cloudless night, but not quite dark enough yet to see many stars.


    We were halfway to the car when I stopped in my tracks. ¡°Dad, we didn¡¯t lock the front door.¡±


    But Michael Wallace Turner just shook his head, already opening the driver¡¯s door. ¡°Get in, Silas.¡±


    It hit me. Full-on in the chest, like a physical sensation.


    Something momentous was happening. Passage over a threshold from which there would be no return. It was potent. It was¡­in the air.


    ¡°Silas.¡±


    I walked toward the car, only stopping once to look back at the house.


    Was this the last time I was going to see this place? Was there anything I should grab? Keepsakes to remember my old life by? Was I just being paranoid, anyway?


    But then, before I could stop myself, I was in the front passenger seat, and buckled.


    Michael Wallace Turner started the engine. The headlights lit up the front of the house like stage lights. Dad craned his neck to look over his shoulder, backing out of the driveway.


    "Now that I''m in the car," I said. "Are you gonna tell me where we''re headed?"


    "To be honest, kid," he said, pulling out onto the street. "I don''t know."


    Now, suddenly, he was avoiding eye contact again. Like normal. His eyes were on the road. His eyebrows were knit together, tense with concentration. He was speeding a little.


    We went a couple of blocks and made a turn. As we did, a black SUV pulled out behind us, keeping close. Usually, my dad hated tailgaters, but he didn''t comment on it.


    We made another turn. Another black SUV pulled out onto the street, this time in front of us, wedging us between the two of them. I glanced over at my dad, expecting some kind of reaction, and got none.


    "Dad-"


    "I''m going to explain everything," he said. ''I just- I need to focus, right now."


    I swallowed and stared ahead. I couldn''t help but notice there was no license plate on the back of the SUV in front of us.


    "I gotta be honest. This is getting pretty weird."


    "''Weird'' is not the operating word I would use," said Michael Wallace Turner. There was a little rivulet of sweat making its way down the side of his neck.


    I sat back and folded my arms. Being demanding and indignant wouldn''t accomplish much. I could see that. Not to mention that, after all, he was my father, even if he hadn''t acted much like it in the past few months. And what should I do, open the door and dive out of a moving vehicle?


    We were heading up an on-ramp and onto the freeway, speeding up, still wedged fairly tight between the two SUVs. The freeway was busy, but not packed.


    "I''ve been taking liquor out of the pantry," I said.


    "I know," said Michael Wallace Turner. There was a sadness in his words. Uncertainty. Regret.


    "I got caught drinking in school," I said.


    "I...kind of inferred that," said Michael Wallace Turner.


    Then it was quiet in the car, except for the hum and rumble of the freeway. I knew what I wanted to say, but I couldn''t bring myself to say it. How could I?


    Pockets of light traveled along etchings and scratches in the corners of the windshield, cast by the headlights of passing cars and trapped there before winking out. Then, a bigger light appeared in the rearview mirror. Like a blot of bright yellow paint on a dark-grey canvas. It was high and far off, like a spotlight. And it was growing.


    I turned to look over my shoulder.


    Dad caught the side of my head with one hand, his palm obstructing my vision of the back window. He was looking at me.


    "Don''t," he said. "Don''t look at the light."


    My heart stopped.


    Past my dad''s head, out the driver''s window, the world was luminous and bright, as if the sun had risen suddenly.


    "Dad!?"


    The car shook, and not just from the vibrations of the freeway. It was a deep and distant shaking that steadily grew in intensity, as if something big, something terrible, was traveling in and through the ground, getting closer. The world outside the car was nearly white with color, blinding.


    Something impacted the side of the Toyota.


    Dad swore. He turned the wheel, tried to correct the car as it swerved.


    Another impact.


    Everything spun. We were in the air. Untethered. My guts were in my mouth.


    Amid the chaos, and despite the white hot flash which seemed to have consumed the world, I saw the asphalt road above us through the windshield, coming down toward us like a black hammer.


    On instinct, I did something I knew I shouldn''t. I pressed my hands up against the ceiling of the car. I braced.


    Just before the loud crash.

 Chapter 2

    (before)


    Three loud, hard knocks rang on the bedroom door.


    I was lying on my bed, a few pillows propped behind my neck and back, a PS4 controller in my hands.


    Supposedly this was bad for your posture, but I''d set up a TV next to my closet years ago, and it was the only way I knew how to play at this point. There was something about being able to wake up from a nap, roll over, turn on the TV, and just start playing.


    Sure, I could bring in a chair, but I liked the extra floor space. That was part of why I didn''t have a computer desk. Just a laptop I kept in a drawer next to the bed. When I needed to do work on a computer, I sat back on the bed and pulled my laptop out of the drawer. Bad for my back, but great for my living space. My chiropractor would probably hear about it somewhere down the line¡ªif I ever had one¡ªbut not today. Today, I was just trying to relax and be left alone, on my own time, on a Saturday morning.


    Please.


    Three more knocks. Louder than before.


    "Go awaaay!" I said. Loud enough to be heard through the door, and loud enough that Mom or Dad might even overhear and tell Gemma to ''leave your brother alone.'' After all, I knew it was her. Mom and Dad didn''t knock like that. They rapped on the door. Little tappity-tap-taps. Not the BAM-BAM-BAM''s.


    The knob turned.


    Shoot. I really needed to get a lock on that thing.


    "Busy!" I said, just as Gemma burst through the door.


    "Nice try, biiiiitch," she said, throwing herself onto the bed. She was still in her pajamas and had her hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her hair was darker than Mom''s, which was more of an auburn color. In fact, she had a lot of Dad''s features, like his nose, and eye color.


    One thing she hadn''t inherited from Dad was his laid-back introversion.


    The impact on the mattress caused me to bounce sideways. I landed on one foot on the carpet, righted myself, and paused the game. "Gemma, it''s nine in the morning."


    "Mom wants to know if you want to come to brunch with us."


    "Did you try to text me?" I said.


    "Seriously?" Gemma said. She was in a kneeling position on the bed, bouncing up and down. "You¡¯re literally next door to me.¡±


    Gemma and I were born two years apart, but sometimes I thought we''d originated from entirely separate societies.


    "You coming,¡± she said, ¡°Or not?"


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    I glanced at the pause menu on the TV. Back at her. "No. I''m good."


    She stepped off the bed, one hand on her hip. "You don''t want to come to brunch with us?"


    "Are you trying to do that thing mom does, where she asks me the question again, but in a slightly judgmental tone of voice to try and get me to second-guess my decision?"


    Now there were two hands on Gemma''s hips. "Am I?"


    I laid back on the bed. Un-paused the game.


    "Come on!" Gemma said, openly frustrated. "You''re always in here!"


    "Gemma," I said, my eyes on the TV. "You can''t force me to do things."


    In fact, with my personality, the more you tried to coerce me into something, the less likely I was to go along with it. Something I could point out to her, but why be that helpful?


    She took a couple of steps back, looming in the doorway. "Are you really not coming with us to Granite Falls this year?"


    I shook my head. I was in the middle of a boss fight, and I was trying to focus.


    "Why?"


    I shrugged. "I just don''t want to."


    "Is it because Dad''s not coming, either?"


    I shook my head. "No."


    I was pretty sure, anyway. It wasn''t like I was acting out, or anything. Why should I be upset? Dad had work, was all. Couldn''t take the time off, even though we''d booked the cabin several months in advance. It wasn''t a big deal. Not really.


    "Okay..." Gemma took another step backward, through the doorway and into the hall. Her hands were clasped behind her back. "Well...if you change your mind, let us know."


    "I will," I said.


    "Silas?¡±


    She was still in the doorway.


    ¡°Yeah?¡±


    ¡°Is everything okay?¡±


    I used the game as a pretense to avoid her eyes. ¡°Why would you ask that?¡±


    ¡°Because you''re being lame?¡±


    I was quiet, pretending to take a minute to think about it.


    ¡°I just like having time alone.¡±


    ¡°I know that-¡°


    ¡°I¡¯m not a bouncy ball of social energy, like you."


    She gave me a hurt look. ¡°Stop acting like I don''t know you. Something''s up."


    ¡°No, you''re just-¡± I broke off. I was getting worked up, and I didn¡¯t even know why.


    Yes, you do. Something is off, and you can''t explain what it is, but you know it''s there, and it¡¯s eating away at you like acid. All your insides are bubbling up.


    ¡°We¡¯ll hang out,¡± I said. ¡°Just not right now.¡±


    ¡°And not at Granite Falls?¡±


    Before I could come up with an answer, Gemma¡¯s phone beeped. She pulled it out of the pocket of her pajama pants.


    ¡°Mom wants to head out soon. Do you want us to bring you anything?¡±


    I shook my head. I rarely ate breakfast. I was planning on grabbing a cup of black coffee from downstairs later on.


    ¡°Okay,¡± Gemma said, putting the phone back in her pocket. ¡°I love you, you know?¡±


    ¡°You too,¡± I said. ¡°Go get ready for your brunch, or whatever.¡±


    She grabbed the knob. In the process of slowly closing the door, she blew a kiss, winked, and pointed finger guns at me.


    ¡°Gross,¡± I said.


    ¡°Later, bitch!¡± She said, and slammed the door.


    Why was she so fond of that word lately?


    I paused the game. I waited as her footfalls receded down the hall. Then the thump-thump-thump as she made her way down the stairs. Probably on her way to get some water or use the bathroom.


    I reached down and pulled a flask out from between the mattress and box spring. Slim and black, with a matte texture on the sides, and a bronze cap.


    I unscrewed the cap and took a good, long pull, three or four swallows. It was straight vodka, cheap, and with a hint of a chemical flavor, burning on the way down.


    I screwed the cap back on and stashed the flask back under the mattress.


    I grabbed a stick of Big Red gum out of my drawer and chewed it to mask my breath, in case Gemma came back.


    I un-paused the game.


    Did I feel guilty in that moment? Those moments?


    Yeah. To the point where it was a physical feeling, sometimes. A sinking, pulling sensation down in my gut. An empty feeling.


    And yet, my stomach was warm from the liquor, and a hit of dopamine was setting in as my brain anticipated the effects of the alcohol.


    Despite every instinct insisting otherwise, I told myself three things.


    Nothing was wrong. Everything was fine. Everything was going to be okay.

 Chapter 3

    AFTER [the light]


    Bubbles. The gurgle of air moving up inside a water cooler. It echoes, as if I''m inside the five gallon drum of water.


    I''m weightless. Floating.


    I can''t feel my surroundings. No breeze. No cold. No heat. It''s an environment without an atmosphere. A planet without gravity.


    It''s also dark. Pitch dark. Which is pretty unsettling, on top of everything else.


    Then, I see it. Not here, in the darkness, but in my mind. Windshield of my dad''s car being shattered as it slammed into the asphalt.


    My heart rate jumps, throbbing painfully in my ribcage, a muted tump, tump, tump joining that eerie bubbling sound.


    I was thrust into a strange kind of terror, back there in the car. The terror of unknown things, things I hadn''t understood. Things I still didn''t. And on top of that, I now have to deal with the horror of this sensory void I find myself trapped in.


    I open my mouth to call out. But instead of words, there''s just gurgling sounds. I can feel the bubbles this time, brushing against my nose and forehead on the way up. There''s more of them, because I''m actively using my lungs rather than absently breathing out through my nose.


    Mystery solved, I guess. But only in a vague way that just introduces more mysteries.


    I''ve been breathing in through my mouth and out through my nose this whole time, I realize. This makes me self-conscious of my breathing apparatus. I can feel it, now, in a way I couldn''t before, because it was just there, and had been for some time, in the same way that you might use a word all the time without ever actually hearing it, until one day you are drawn to the strangeness of it, the way your lips have to move as it travels off the tongue.


    There''s a pipe. Inside my throat. I''m pretty sure it goes all the way down into my lungs, or something. It''s slim as it enters my mouth, through a rubber mouth-guard thing, clenched between my teeth. But then it widens out into something like a vacuum tube, pressed hard against the walls of my throat.


    An image pops up on the projector screen of my mind. That scene in The Matrix, when Neo wakes up in the vat.


    I''d prefer a more lighthearted example, like Luke in the Bacta Tank, or the Saiyans in their healing pods in Dragonball Z, but my heart''s not in it at the moment. Right now, I''m feeling ''Neo''.


    The good news is that this is probably just a weird dream, or a bad trip brought on by hallucinogens, or something. I don''t like the implication that my senses are disconnected from reality, and that I don''t have any bearings or control, but the upside is, I can just ride it out, and eventually it will end, and things can go back to being normal.


    Semi-normal.


    The point is, reality will eventually re-assert itself. I have to believe that.


    In the meantime, the pipe in my throat, now that I''m aware of it, is becoming markedly uncomfortable, and the complete darkness is starting to get to me.


    I get the idea to swim around in this fluid I''m encased in, see if there''s anything I can grab onto, interact with.


    I tilt forward, stretching my legs behind me and reaching out with my arms.


    Before I can get my body horizontal, both my feet and hands press against something. My feet are covered, maybe in some kind of shoe. But my bare hands are dealing with a smooth, hard, concave surface. The inside of a glass cylinder.


    So it is more like a Bacta Tank than a Matrix submersion vat. Though, I''m having trouble finding much encouragement in the thought.


    Braced against the glass, I maneuver in a circle, feeling for...something. A button? A handle or lever?


    I take a breath, and bubbles escape from my nose, making the cylinder feel like the inside of a water cooler, again. But then, there''s another sound too. It''s muffled because it''s coming from outside the tank. It''s a whirring, blaring sound. Like an alarm.


    Okay. Unnerving.


    I continue to rotate, still unsure what I''m looking for. Whatever I''m doing, it seems better than just sitting and waiting for the unknown.


    C''mon, c''mon-


    Light. Sudden, blinding light. A small crack at first, right down the middle of the glass. Expanding. A barrier sliding open outside the tank. Revealing the world beyond. The next phase of this psychedelic episode I can''t seem to escape.


    It takes some time to adjust. I close my eyes, then open them just a crack. How long has it supposedly been since my eyes were exposed to anything outside this dark tube?


    There''s a grinding hum, making the fluid vibrate around me as the barrier continues to recede. As it pulls back, it also descends, leaving me completely exposed in...


    Well, I have no idea where I am. But I''m not alone.


    My tube is elevated on some kind of platform. And it''s not the only one. At a glance, there are a good dozen other tubes, lined up in rows, each one with its own person floating in the fluid, like fetuses in the womb, with breathing tubes for umbilical cords. A dark, skin-tight material covers their bodies, stopping only at the wrists and from the neck up. There are a variety of different body shapes, skin tones, and hair colors. Each tubular resident appears calm, barely moving, hair floating about the head in a gaseous way, like a nebula. I get the impression they''re all still asleep. All but myself.


    Though my immediate impression was of bright, unbearable light, there are lots of shadowed corners and gaps in the space, despite the intermittent rows of square, palm-sized lights, sometimes shining up from the floor, other times beaming down from the low ceiling. There are no windows, and no doors¡ªat least, from where I''m standing. Or floating. There''s an industrial, utilitarian vibe to the room. It''s not bright, or colorful, or pleasant to the eyes. It is only what it needs to be¡ªwhatever that is. Or needed, as I can''t shake the feeling this place was abandoned at some point. I can see a waist-high console at one side of the room, with buttons and levers and dials, and a black, blank screen, but there are no chairs, and no coffee cups left about. Thick populations of dust hover about in the cones of light.


    Wait. There''s something else. Moving between the shadows. Slow. Steady. Meticulous. Low to the ground, with six thin, tensile legs that extend and retract in length like pistons.


    My heart makes a flying leap up into my throat, like it''s trying to clamber out through the breathing tube.


    It''s a robot, is all it is. But there''s more to it than that. In some ways, it resembles the walking, self-balancing robots the military''s been developing. The ones they show off in viral videos, where they try to trip them or knock them over to see how they''ll adapt. Part of the charm of those videos, though, is the fact that the robots themselves look stupid, and frankly, pretty harmless. This one does not. It¡¯s not a prototype, engineered with an attitude of wonder, exploration, and discovery of what¡¯s possible. This is a tool, built with a specific function in mind. It moves with a purpose, using its skittish, spider-like appendages.


    A camera rotates on top of its body, like a periscope, scanning its surroundings. Sitting next to the camera is some kind of attached cylinder, running horizontally atop the robotic creature.


    There¡¯s more of them. Three or four, weaving amid the tubes, scanning with their little cameras. Meanwhile, a warning siren continues its wail, emanating from somewhere in¡­well, whatever this is supposed to be. I don¡¯t think it¡¯s in this room. It¡¯s coming from some other part of the complex.


    One of the bots comes to a stop next to one of the tubes. It swivels, turning its body to face the glass. It arches its legs, which extend in length, bringing the robotic creation up tall. The cylinder on its head¡ªor back? Whichever¡ªmoves forward into position, one end pressed against the glass, in front of the chest of the tube¡¯s occupant.


    A slim, grey metal rod shoots out¡ªKA-CHUNK¡ªof the cylinder, like an injection needle, piercing the glass¡ªa massive web of cracks splintering outward from the point of impact¡ªand piercing the person inside the tank.


    Dark, crimson blood leaks out of the body, misting inside the tank, staining the fluid like food dye, painting the surface of the glass.


    Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    The rod retracts. A thin faucet-width of bloody water flows out through the hole, dripping down. The body inside the tank shrivels, curling in on itself. A dark, misshapen form, like a drowned mouse in a wineglass.


    The robot turns, its legs tapping and clacking on the concrete floor as it moves to the next tube in its row.


    The purpose of these tools is clear now. They''re here to kill. To eliminate all these people, whoever they are.


    It''s disturbing. The automated utilitarianism of it. Lives taken with the press of a button, without the need to burden human hands with the deed.


    I don''t know what''s supposed to be going on here. I see human beings in stasis, tucked away like canned fruit in Mason jars. And someone''s in the cellar, breaking the shelves, letting the jars crash to the floor.


    I''m about to be part of the massacre. I''m near the corner opposite from where the bots have begun their work, but they''ll get to me soon enough. In the meantime, glass continues to crack, and hearts burst. Human lives tick away.


    It''s unthinkable, letting something like this happen right in front of me. To me.


    I refuse to go out like this. Even in my dreams. Perhaps especially.


    I brace my feet against the glass behind me, and one of my hands against the glass in front of me.


    There''s something weird about that hand. Both of them, really. But I shut that part of my brain up as soon as it starts to make a ruckus. I can''t afford to fixate on it right now.


    I punch the glass.


    THUNK.


    No cracks. Just smooth glass, and the muffled noise of the impact. I''d like to think there was another sound, a subtle creaking, something starting to give way, but it could just be wishful thinking.


    I draw my fist back for another blow.


    The bots are drawing close, making quick work, only spending one or two seconds on each injection before moving on to the next tank. Only seconds have passed, and their work is almost done.


    I hit the glass with my fist.


    THUNK.


    This time, faint cracks spread out in a spiral pattern.


    I wind up for another hit.


    Beyond the cracks in the glass, I glimpse the back of the girl in the tank next to mine. She''s moving, wriggling in the water, long black hair flailing. She''s awake, like me. She can see what''s happening. She''s-


    Gemma?


    The thought settles in, and I can''t shake free of it. She has the same build, the same hair. And as she struggles in the fluid of the tank, all I see is the churning water at Granite Falls.


    Is this what it was like? And is this my punishment for it? To watch helplessly as the life is drained from her, all over again?


    Or is this some kind of...second chance?


    It''s impossible, of course. But it''s another idea that doesn''t want to let go of me.


    I beat repeatedly against the glass, alternating fists. The cracks splinter and grow, making long, spindly fingers.


    The girl is kicking against the glass of her own tank. She screams, and a flurry of bubbles escapes from between her lips.


    One of the bots performs an injection on the tank directly next to hers. Then it approaches her, wading through bloody, ankle-deep water. If there''s a drainage system in the room, it must be closed up, or clogged, because it''s not working properly. But what a thing to think about when I''m slamming my fists into a glass tube so I can stop the murder robots.


    THUNK.


    KRICK-ICK-ICK-ICK.


    Thick, white etchings in the glass, extending all the way to the edges of my vision. It''s almost there. Just about to shatter.


    The bot places the end of its killing cylinder against the girl''s tank.


    Gemma¡ªrationally I know it can''t be her, but it''s all I can think when I look at her¡ªmoves around, trying to avoid the metal rod that''s about to puncture the glass. But of course she won''t be able to. She can''t move quickly enough, and she doesn''t have the space to maneuver, anyway.


    Both feet planted hard against the glass behind me, body arched, I slam both my fists into the glass.


    The glass smashes apart, creating a portal through which the water flows, pulling me with it. The pressure release is like a dam bursting. I''m yanked through the opening, feet-first, the oxygen pipe keeping my face connected to the top of the tank. I dangle with my feet just barely touching the wet floor, a painful pulling sensation in my throat.


    IDIOT!


    I grab the breathing apparatus and yank, wrenching it up and out of my throat. As I let go of it, I nearly fall over, but manage to right myself, landing fully on my feet.


    I''m too late. Red clouds of blood proliferate in the tank. Gemma''s cringing in on herself. Her hands are pressed hard against her...side?


    So the attack missed her heart. Perhaps it missed any of her vitals.


    Hope swells in my chest, but is then overtaken by roiling currents of fury.


    I can''t lose her. Not again.


    An insane thought. But it propels me all the same.


    The killer robot lines up the cylinder for another injection, this time aiming for Gemma''s face.


    I leap toward the bot. I shove it, so it''s knocked away from the glass, at an angle, trying to hold itself upright. For a second, it does almost look like the robots in the viral videos.


    I grab the cylinder mounted on its back with both hands. I brace one foot against its hull, pushing. And then I pull with my arms.


    Weirdly, I haven''t stopped to consider whether this will actually work. There''s a fire in me. Instinct, anger, and adrenaline are the fuel. I want to disable this thing. I want to destroy it.


    As I pull, the cylinder breaks free from the frame with a series of snaps, until it''s connected only by several colored, taut wires, a couple of which are sparking. Another quick yank, and the wires snap, and the force throws the robot off balance again. The camera on its body swivels toward me. I see the dark outline of my upper body in the lens. Grimacing, I slam the cylinder down like a club, crushing the camera, turning it into a mangled mess of electronics and metal pieces. The bot caves a little, uneasy on its feet. Then, it spreads out its legs. Six loud thumps as piston mechanisms on the outside of the legs ram downward in the floor, lodging the bot in place. It makes a sad chirping sound, and a red light starts flashing on its side.


    Two thoughts.


    The first: It''s about to self-destruct. It''s just waiting for the confirmation signal. But that will only take a couple of seconds. Three. Maybe five at most.


    Then: How, and why, do I know that?


    Time is short. The bots have been efficient with their work. I and this girl in the tank next to me are the only ones still alive. For now.


    I wind up the cylindrical injection piece like a bat and swing it into the glass. The impact sends vibrations jittering up my fingers and palms.


    Glass shatters. Clear fluid gushes through in some places, and squirts in others, misting my shoulders and face.


    Another swing.


    The smash is deafening in my left ear. A flood of liquid crashes into me. I keep my head above the flow, dropping the makeshift bat and holding out my arms to catch Gemma. Her feet come first. I wrap one arm around her thighs. Her long, wet hair is matted against her face. The breathing tube protrudes between her lips. I grab it and pull, extracting the pipe from her throat.


    Her lips close as soon as the apparatus is out, but other than that, there''s no movement, no reaction. Maybe she''s slipped back into unconsciousness. If she''s even still alive.


    Little skeins of blood run down her legs, down my arms and chest. I catch her, looping an arm under her back and cradling her body against mine.


    A loud bang. More glass, splintering and falling into the ankle-deep fluid with a series of splashes. There''s the burnt tang of gunpowder in the air, taking me back to that time my dad took me target shooting with one of his work buddies.


    The other two bots are on the move, ducking between the tanks, firing off semi-automatic shots.


    Holding Gemma tight against me, I veer around her broken tank and run in the opposite direction the bots are moving, kicking up violent sprays of water, maneuvering parallel to their position, hoping it will make me harder to hit. Bullets cut past me, pinging and ricocheting. Water splashes. Sparks fly. Chunks of concrete are tossed up into the air.


    I approach the console at one side of the room, with its buttons and blank screen. I get down into a commando slide, skidding through the water, using the console as cover. Bullets hit the electronics, making loud fizzes and more sparks. There''s a sound like something powering down, and then a wide door slides open in the corner ahead of me. Some kind of safety measure?


    I get up into a full run once I''m past cover. Somehow, amid all the chaos, I can make out the splishing sounds of robot legs stabbing and sluicing through the water, getting louder and closer. There''s a current now, flowing through the new opening in the room, like the drain under a sidewalk on a rainy day.


    Straining to stay ahead of my pursuers, I leap through the doorway and into a dank, poorly lit hallway, with running water babbling and echoing, and pool-like reflections glinting on the ceiling and walls.


    Then the room behind me explodes.


    It''s a slap from the hand of God himself. I''m lifted off my feet, thrown.


    Using reflexes I didn''t know I had, I pivot, turning my back to the door. My shoulder slams into the far wall. Shards of glass hit my neck and the back of my head. The air is humid and hot as airborne water turns to steam. Then, it sears, as a wave of intense heat washes through the doorway. An arm of fire reaches through, flickering just next to my face for a second, before dropping away. A series of metallic crunches and crashes ring out in the confined space as pieces of the pursuing bots slam against the wall, mere feet behind me, before splashing into the shallow waves.


    I brace, holding my body over Gemma''s like a shield. Waiting. Waiting for...something. But nothing comes. The danger is seemingly over.


    I slump to the ground, gasping for air in a room where the oxygen has been sucked away and displaced. Everything feels so quiet and still now, even though the blaring of the alarm continues, and a miniature river echoes loudly in the passage. The air smells of charred wiring, scorched metal, and some of my own burnt hair.


    I still hold Gemma in my arms, keeping her face above the water. A face shrouded by the thick locks of wet hair stuck against her forehead and cheeks.


    I brush the hair out of her face. I take in a sharp breath.


    It¡¯s not her.


    She has the hair. The pale skin. The profile. But she doesn¡¯t have Gemma¡¯s face. She doesn¡¯t have my mom¡¯s grey-blue eyes, or Dr. Michael Wallace Turner¡¯s nose, or that mole on the left side of her chin.


    These are not things that made Gemma who she was. But they are what made her impossible to mistake.


    This girl. She¡¯s not Gemma.


    But why should she be? What real reason did I have to believe it? Beyond mere wanting, and a misplaced sense of hope?


    You can¡¯t change the past. You can¡¯t bring back the dead. Except in stories. And even then, there¡¯s usually some severe caveat, because writers understand there¡¯s an element of wrongness to it. The desire to thwart death goes against nature and the order of the world itself.


    But that¡¯s no consolation to me.


    This girl¡¯s eyes are closed. She is pale and still, like a porcelain doll.


    She appears to be breathing. A slow rise and fall of the chest.


    I brush aside some of her hair so I can feel her pulse at the side of her neck. I notice my hand again. Again, my brain acknowledges something is wrong. But I¡¯m no longer in fight-or-flight mode¡ªor at least, the same degree of it. I can¡¯t ignore this anymore.


    Now, suddenly, my circumstances have taken on a great deal of weight. Crashing down on me. Crushing me.


    I don¡¯t know where I am. I don¡¯t know what¡¯s happened to me. I¡¯ve awakened in some strange complex of unknown purpose or origin. There¡¯s a girl here, in my arms, who is not Gemma, but there''s a hole in her abdomen, leaking blood into the water, and if I don''t do anything, she''s probably going to die soon. And my hand...well. It''s not my hand. It''s...something else.

 Chapter 4

    My hand. It almost looks like some kind of prosthetic. A particularly sophisticated one. It¡¯s not just a blocky piece of robotics. It is my hand. It is my forearm. In terms of feeling, dexterity, and shape, nothing has changed. Which doesn¡¯t make any sense, because what I¡¯m looking at is more like a metallic replica, with gaps and seams and a metal ball joint at the elbow. There¡¯s no skin, just hard surfacing with a silvery, gunmetal texture. I move the fingers, and while I can''t hear the mechanical parts shifting around inside, I can imagine them, and they look like the scene in Terminator 2, when Schwarzenegger peels back the synthetic layer of skin to reveal the machine parts underneath.


    Is that what it''s like under there? Is that...what I am?


    Not that it matters, because this is all just a dream. Right?


    Yeah. Right. That''s what I''ve been telling myself.


    Really, if you think about it, life itself is just a dream, like in the song. Everything you experience is just chemicals and electric impulses. Like the whole ''brain in a jar'' thing.


    But then, isn''t that just another type of coping mechanism? Just another way of dissociating from the real world?


    I should be feeling something. I should be feeling...a lot of things. ''Shaky'' and ''violently ill'' come to mind. I''d almost prefer either or both of those things. Instead, I''m just staring at myself, waiting for something to happen, waiting to be distracted. The inevitable questions are rising up, bubbling toward the surface. The implications. I wish I could keep them at bay. I wish I could opt out of whatever this is. I wish I could go back.


    Go back? To what?


    An empty house, full of the memories of the things I''d lost. Reminders of what I''d done scattered everywhere, around every corner. Inescapable.


    Back there, in that world, there was certainty. The certainty of my faults, and the consequences of those faults. The reality of a future without the people I loved. And yes, that included my father as well. Things were never the same after what happened at Granite Falls, and they never would be. The rift was too great. Sure, my father and I¡ªwe might find a way to co-exist. But we both blamed ourselves, and we blamed each other, and what''s the answer to that? Is there one?


    Here, in this hallway, there is crippling, sickening uncertainty. The terrifying unknown. An episode of the Twilight Zone; probably one with a bad ending. And yet, I wonder if I would choose this over what I''ve left behind.


    The girl who isn''t Gemma spasms in my arms, blessedly tearing me out of my thoughts and into the present moment, giving me an excuse not to think.


    Her eyes are open, irises bright emerald rings as she looks up into my face. She opens her mouth, makes a weird gagging sound, and coughs, spitting up bouts of clear fluid she must have inhaled somehow while she was unconscious in the tank.


    I lift her so she''s upright. The fluid stops coming, but she keeps coughing, clearing her throat. Once her coughing fit is done, she leans back, wincing, one hand pressed against the wound in her abdomen.


    Her hands are like mine, albeit smaller, debatably more feminine.


    She tries to get up, winces again, and eases her butt back onto the floor.


    She looks at me. "They''re gone?"


    She''s soft-spoken. Amid all the other sounds, I''m surprised to hear her so clearly. I suppose the echo in the hall helps to amplify her voice.


    I lean to one side so she can see past me, the charred robot parts partially submerged in fluid.


    She nods. "Good. And the others?"


    ''Others'' as in the ones like us. In the tanks.


    I shake my head. "Just us."


    She tenses in my arms. Her brows knit into a frown. Disbelieving. But then she relaxes, as a shadow falls across her face, and a darkness permeates her eyes, Like a drop of black oil in a glass of water.


    "If nothing else," she says, "They''ll be dead from the explosion."


    I nod. Not sure what else I should say beyond that.


    I have no recollection of her, or the people in the tanks. But she seems to know them. Care about them, whoever they were.


    More than that, she clearly recognizes me. She is very familiar in the way she looks at me, scanning my face and body; for injuries, I can only assume.


    She tries to move again, but stops herself. "Can you also not run a System Check? Or is that just me?"


    System Check. Like on a computer?


    Am I supposed to know what she''s talking about?


    Sorry, lady. I think you¡¯ve got the wrong guy. I¡¯m new here. I¡¯m new to all of this.


    "Something''s wrong," she says, before I can formulate an actual response. "OS is down. So are the weapon systems. Can you carry me?"


    I nod. It¡¯s the one question so far I can give an actual answer to. Or at least, an answer she wants to hear.


    She leans over, wrapping one arm around my neck and grabbing my shoulder with her opposite hand. "Let''s go to the armory."


    "The what?"


    She freezes, and then searches my face. Our noses are inches away from each other. "Blast, are you putting me on?"


    "Blast?" I say.


    She scans my face again. Then frowns. "Okay, then. I guess it''s worse than I thought."


    "What is?"


    "Just...pick me up. I''ll point the way."


    Why argue?


    The whole thing feels presumptuous. She expects something of me, and the expectations aren¡¯t quite fair. But I can¡¯t put my finger on why.


    I stand, holding her. ¡°The danger isn¡¯t over, is it?¡±


    She shakes her head. ¡°Of course not. There¡¯s always more where they¡¯ve come from. But you¡¯ll remember, soon enough.¡±


    There¡¯s a loud, clanging impact somewhere in the complex. Everything shakes. Subtle ripples ebb outward on the surface of the water in the hallway, reminding me of those scenes in Jurassic Park.


    ¡°I¡¯m guessing that¡¯s them,¡± I say.


    Not-Gemma doesn¡¯t answer. She doesn¡¯t need to. Instead, she points down the hallway.


    I jog, splashing up water, holding the girl tight against me.


    That¡¯s what she feels like to me. A girl. A person. Not a mechanical construct, like those robots from before. She¡¯s too light. Too real-feeling. If a bit¡­hard. No soft skin to cushion the way her body digs into my elbows and arms.


    She points me round a corner, down a hallway, down a flight of stairs, and up a different flight. We''re past the water now, every step a tremulous echo in the tight corridor. I jog up the stairs two at a time, starting to get a little out of breath. The air is stale and lukewarm. There''s oxygen in it all right, but it''s been through years and years of recycling and filtration. Don''t ask me how I know that. But I''m certain of it all the same. Makes me long for a breath of fresh air after a storm.


    ¡°What makes you think there¡¯s anything for me to remember?¡± I say, as I reach the top of the stairway.


    ¡°There is,¡± she says, pointing left at an upcoming fork. ¡°Your memory¡¯s been corrupted. It might have happened when they hacked into the facility¡¯s security system. That¡¯s my theory, anyway.¡±


    ¡°But your memory isn''t corrupted?¡± I say. ¡°For some reason?¡±


    I feel her shrug against me. Then, ¡°Stop. This is it.¡±


    I slide to a stop, my feet grinding against the cement floor. An unpleasant sensation, but not terribly painful.


    I''ve yet to examine my new feet. Not really sure what''s going on down there. And I''m not yet sure I want to know.


    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    There''s a definitely shut, very secure-looking sliding door. I''d swear it''s airtight. There''s a little module next to the door, with some buttons, and a screen with a blinking red X on it.


    "We''re locked out," says the girl who isn''t Gemma.


    "I can see that."


    "And with the OS down, we can''t integrate, or use our Nanobits."


    "Sure," I say. "Nanobits."


    Here''s another theory. I''m in a loony bin, waiting for my meds to kick in.


    There''s another crash, somewhere above us in the complex, making the floor tremble.


    The girl bites her lip, looking at the door like it''s a puzzle. Her nose is wrinkled in concentration. And probably pain.


    "Can I break it in?" I say.


    "Without injuring yourself?" She says. "Maybe. They¡¯re reinforced with Grade Four titanium sheets.¡±


    Grade¡­Four? Titanium? I have no frame of reference. But shouldn¡¯t I at least try?


    I lower her to the floor and stand, sizing up the door.


    "Aim high," she says. "Three-quarters of the way up. The middle, not the corners."


    I nod, stepping in close to my target.


    If I was actually human, I wouldn''t do this¡ªassuming I believed any of this was real. It would be a sure way to break my hand, maybe even my entire arm. But I''m not about to get got by whatever''s out there looking for us. Even if this is a dream.


    I step forward, pivoting my torso as I jab with my fist, putting extra mass behind the punch.


    Impact. The hard, metal surface of the door craters a little, folding in. Just a little.


    The force of the hit jutters up the length of my arm and shoulder, but it''s a subdued feeling, as if there''s a mechanical system in my arm absorbing the brunt of it.


    Emboldened, I pull back for another punch.


    This time, the top half of the door goes concave, folding in, peeling away from the frame. I can see the ceiling of the room through the opening, and the tile-shaped lights up there.


    I grit my teeth and lash my leg forward in a front kick, striking the middle of the door with my heel. The motion comes naturally, though I''m sure I''ve never performed a martial arts kick before in my life.


    As before, with the punch, my foot and leg barely register the impact.


    The door crumples, making a high-pitched squeal as more of the door pulls away from the frame of the doorway.


    "That''s good," the girl says, leaning against the wall as she gets to her feet. "Can you get me through?¡±


    Grunting, I kick the bottom portion of the door, knocking it the rest of the way off. It goes flying, grinding and scraping along the concrete floor.


    ¡°Huh,¡± the girl says, as I pick her up. ¡°Sometimes I forget what you¡¯re capable of as a base model."


    ¡°Guess I¡¯m just that awesome,¡± I say.


    ¡°You¡¯re a Blast Model, is what you are,¡± she says.


    "I don¡¯t know what that''s supposed to mean," I say, carrying her through the busted doorway.


    "Your frame has to be able to- nevermind."


    I almost have to stop myself from pausing and staring as I pass through the doorway.


    The armory¡ªas she calls it¡ªis immense in scope. I''m reminded of the battlecruiser hanger bays in Star Wars. The ceiling isn''t so high, but it''s of the same magnitude overall. The whole place is brightly lit, with what must be hundreds of those little lamps overhead. The walls and floor are grey, smooth, and immaculate.


    Along the side walls are positioned various racks and shelves which house weapons and equipment. Some are fairly obvious and recognizable to me. Different types of rifles. Handguns. There''s an entire rack of carefully slotted orbs that I can only assume are some kind of grenade. There''s a selection of sleek, backpack-looking things I''m guessing are some kind of jetpack? Vehicles, from glossy, fast-looking sedans, to dune buggies, to motorcycles, to what seems like some kind of four-to-eight-person hovercraft.


    Against the back wall, taking up a good quarter of the whole space, is a shooting range area, with obstacle courses, and rails for targets to move around on, perhaps popping up and down like a shooting gallery minigame.


    I''ve gone down the rabbit hole and ended up somewhere that looks a lot like the tutorial level in a sci-fi shooter.


    "Blast, come on."


    She''s pointing at one section of the wall, where there''s some equipment making up what looks to me like some kind of futuristic medical bay. There''s a control panel, and a flat, bench-like surface, with little surgical robot arms on rails above it.


    I jog over to the contraption. The girl drops out of my arms and limps over to the control panel. A screen lights up. She taps the screen, makes a few squiggly motions with her finger, and taps the screen again.


    ¡°You should gear up,¡± she says, her back to me, surveying the screen.


    ¡°Gear¡­up?¡±


    ¡°Shooty shooty boom boom.¡±


    Shooty shooty¡­boom boom??


    ¡°You¡¯re being condescending,¡± I say. ¡°I can tell.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re gonna be dead in a matter of minutes if you can¡¯t protect yourself,¡± she says evenly, without turning around.


    She¡¯s bent over, navigating the screen, completely focused.


    I was wrong to confuse her with Gemma. She¡¯s got the frame, and the hair, but upon closer inspection, she looks and acts years older than Gemma. And her temperament is on the complete opposite end of the spectrum.


    Gemma was fiery. Excitable. Prone to big emotional shifts and outbursts, and in a contagious sort of way. Flames would ignite, coursing, spreading, until you were suddenly all up in arms over the same things she was.


    This chick, though¡ªshe¡¯s cold. Not in an ¡®ice-cold bitch¡¯ way, but in a temperature-controlled way. She maintains her structural integrity under pressure. She doesn¡¯t like to ¡®overheat¡¯. And because of that, she has the exact opposite effect on me that Gemma used to.


    Still. I¡¯m annoyed she would say something like that so offhandedly when I¡¯m the one who literally just saved her life.


    But whatcha gonna do?


    Get ready.


    For what?


    I¡¯m¡­not sure yet.


    First things first. Attire. I¡¯m wearing a thin, black layer of smooth fabric, covering most of my body. Reminds me of pajamas or thermal underwear. Not exactly something I would intentionally wear to a fight.


    There¡¯s a clothing section, with various items on hangers, or folded neatly on shelves, like Old Navy inventory. Shirts. Jackets. Pants. Helmets. Boots. Gloves. Different varieties for different locales and conditions.


    It doesn¡¯t behoove me to stare at everything, taking my time like I¡¯m shopping on a Saturday afternoon. I move quickly, acting on intuition.


    There¡¯s no need to take off the tight suit I¡¯m currently wearing. I dress over it. I throw on a grey, sleeveless shirt. A black pair of¡­tactical pants? Military pants? Whatever you call them.


    Next comes the shoes. I grab a pair of boots with deep treads. There are no socks in sight. I crouch down to slide them directly onto my feet.


    I stare. For too long.


    Like with the first look at my hands and arms, there¡¯s something discombobulating about seeing a part of yourself and realizing it isn¡¯t quite human. It isn¡¯t quite¡­you.


    I flex my toes, fascinated and disturbed at the same time. Bars of gritty light from the lamps above shift across the surface of each toe. Each one curved and aerodynamic along the top, but blocky and flat on the sides, linking like keys on a piano. I can both hear and feel parts moving inside the appendage as I take turns lifting and lowering each toe. I can operate each toe independently, in contrast to the connected, web-like feeling feet usually have, where when you move one part, everything else wants to shift with it. It¡¯s strange to behold. To feel. Mesmerizing, in fact.


    As I witness it, a disconnection of mind to body threatens to come over me. A disassociation. A¡­severing.


    My vision blurs. There¡¯s a ringing in my ears, getting louder and louder.


    I shake my head forcefully, and that seems to help. I snap myself out of it. Because, what else should I do? What else can I do?


    My senses reassert themselves. Even though my hands are trembling now.


    That¡¯s weird, right? To be in this mechanical vessel, supposedly, but to still be experiencing biological things? Human things? Aren¡¯t I supposed to be some kind of robot, in this scenario? Isn¡¯t that what she called me? Some kind of ¡®model¡¯?


    The boots fit just right, slotting into place snugly. Perfectly. Which I suppose shouldn¡¯t be much of a surprise.


    The boots are tall, riding up my shins, with straps along the front. I pull them tight. Lock them with metal fasteners.


    The quiver in my fingers steadily dissipates as I focus on my task.


    That''s always the trick, isn''t it, when you get overwhelmed? Just gotta focus on something. No matter how catastrophic things seem, everything comes out in the wash, eventually.


    Well, not everything.


    I have a sudden flash of a memory. Sitting in the coroner''s reception area, holding an urn. Shiny and smooth, cold to the touch. I can almost make out my reflection in it, convex and warbled, like on the underside of a spoon.


    There¡¯s a tag attached. My mother''s name is written on it, in cursive, using a ballpoint pen.


    No, not that. I''ll take killer robots and mechanical body horror over that.


    I stand. I grab a jacket off a nearby rack without giving it much of a second glance. I don''t know what things are like out there, or where I am technically, and Frosty hasn''t bothered to tell me. Not that I''d asked. If it''s the middle of the Mohave up there, I can always ditch the jacket later.


    The jacket is dark grey, with a thick zipper, a high collar, two outer pockets, and five pockets on the inside. It¡¯s also long, like a duster, extending down to my knees. As with the boots, it¡¯s a comfortable fit. I have a good range of motion, in contrast to some coats I¡¯ve worn in the past, which restricted my shoulders and arms.


    I unclip a gun belt hanging from a metal bar. I put it on. It sits at an angle, one side notched at my waist while the holster part rides down toward my lower hip.


    I grab a Glock-esque pistol off of a rack. I keep it pointed toward the ground, remembering the times I went shooting with my dad. I grab one of the dozens of full magazines lined up nearby. Looks to be the right size.


    I load it. It slides in easily, and clicks.


    Mechanically, I grab the slide, pull it all the way back, and let it ride forward.


    SCHLACK.


    Now the first bullet is in the chamber. Ready to fire.


    There doesn¡¯t appear to be a ¡®safety¡¯.


    Don¡¯t get shaky fingers, now.


    Barrel pointed at the floor, taking care not to touch the trigger, I slot the handgun into the holster.


    I grab one of the backpacks, then stop, listening. There are new sounds now. Not the crashes and bangs and booms from before that made the floor shake underneath me. It¡¯s subtle, now. Like there¡¯s someone jogging in the apartment one or two floors above me.


    Whatever¡¯s in the complex now, it¡¯s not like the robots from before. Those were precise and sneaky and conniving. This is a big, bulky, lumbering thing. It didn¡¯t creep its way in. It bulldozed. Perhaps it had some trouble navigating the tighter corridors at first, but it seems to have found a workaround, from what I¡¯m hearing now. It¡¯s hit its stride.


    Am I supposed to just stand here, organizing inventory while there¡¯s a monstrous machination thudding down the stairs toward me?


    Do I have a choice?


    The robots are coming from somewhere. The self-destructo-bot didn¡¯t ''off'' itself right away. It got permission remotely. That bot banging around up there somewhere? That¡¯s backup. Which begs the question: what¡¯s the backup to the backup?


    Silas. The robots are coming from somewhere.


    Right. Hadn¡¯t the girl said that earlier? And that they tended to keep coming?


    I zip open the backpack. I grab several of the orb grenades, all strung together on something that looks like a belt. I grab more magazines of the handgun ammo. I grab a rifle that reminds me of an M16, if a bit heftier and more dangerous-looking. There are some mags on a shelf underneath it. I load one into the rifle itself, then grab a bunch more, throwing them into the pack. I zip the pack shut.


    ¡°Blast.¡±


    It¡¯s the girl. And it takes a second for me to remember she¡¯s not using it like a curse. It¡¯s what she likes to call me.


    She¡¯s no longer at the med station. She¡¯s with the clothes. When I look over at her, she¡¯s just finished throwing on a shirt. I have a brief glimpse of her back. Most of what I see is silver, burnished metal plates going down the middle of her back. There¡¯s some skin as well, toward her lower back and sides, with some kind of grey, rubbery partition connecting the skin to the plates, which flexes as she arches her back.


    The last thing I notice, before she finishes pulling down the hem of her shirt, is a swollen diagonal ridge on her lower back, where the exit wound from the metal rod would have been. As if a cauterizing material has been used to close up the opening.


    ¡°Yeah?¡± I say.


    She opens her mouth.


    Behind her, the wall explodes.

 Chapter 5

    Maybe less of an explosion and more of a violent splitting, or crumbling. But the effect is the same.


    Bits of concrete debris careen through the air. Some are small, the size of a thumb or hand, clustered like shotgun pellets.


    I bring up an arm, deflecting a dozen concrete projectiles away from my face. Others rattle harmlessly against my torso and legs.


    It''s the bigger chunks I''m worried about. Most of them land several yards off and slide to a stop. But the largest, the size of a four-door sedan, seems to have a lot of momentum behind it. It rolls, spins, and bounces, heading directly toward us.


    There''s no time to react. And yet, Frosty the Robogirl does, throwing herself to the floor. The massive block flips at just the precise moment, passing over and past her, only managing to just barely touch a few locks of her still-falling hair.


    I dive to the side, catching myself on one knee. There''s an incredible whoosh in my left ear as it passes, crashing into several shelves and orchestrating a cacophony that will likely continue for several seconds, as a hundred objects crash and collide, clattering on the floor.


    I rise to my feet.


    Robogirl pushes herself up upright with her arms, flipping her hair out of her face so she can look over at the shattered section of the wall.


    It happens so fast. But the moment is stretched out. Slowed down. A scene played frame by agonizing frame.


    Little pieces of detritus fall, landing and dancing across the floor, like hail on a back lawn.


    There¡¯s a thick, chalky cloud suffusing the room. Not enough to obscure the source of the commotion, but enough that I have to squint, and even wonder, briefly and distantly, if what I¡¯m seeing isn¡¯t just some trick of the light.


    Some different parallels come to mind. I think of certain quadruped mechs in Metal Gear; the ones from Peace Walker. I think of the Destroyer Droids in the Star Wars prequels. But even more than that, I think of that robot in The Incredibles, the one they have to fight at the end of the movie. It''s eerily similar, with its round, ball-like body, and four retractable legs. Right now the massive legs are extended and taut, holding the orb-like hull up in the air, so high it appears to be partially stuck in the ceiling. Caught, somehow.


    The girl''s up and running. She grabs my hand, pulling me, torquing my body sideways. I run to keep up with her, but I keep the robot in the corner of my eye. Not sure I could stop looking at it if I tried.


    There are two horizontal slits through the hull, splitting it into thirds, with one big section in the middle, and two outer sections, which can rotate independently. As the girl and I run, the bottom part of the hull¡ªthat part which isn''t stuck¡ªturns, and a panel underneath opens up. A twin-barreled turret emerges. Each barrel flashes intermittently as gunfire sunders the air in a deafening barrage. Bullets pass by us, sounding like sped-up hummingbirds. Shards of concrete rubble jump up like sentient things from the floor.


    The girl is looking back at me, yelling something I can¡¯t make out. There¡¯s so much noise, visual and audio both.


    Suddenly she digs in her heels. I veer to one side so I don¡¯t slam into her.


    She reaches out, grabs the rifle looped over my shoulder by the strap, pulling the strap through and off my arm.


    She aims at the robotic intruder and starts firing. It¡¯s automatic, and the recoil looks pretty intense, but she¡¯s handling it alright. Bright muzzle flashes light up her hair and face. She¡¯s hitting the hull and legs, generating sparks as metal collides with metal. She¡¯s aiming for the turret, trying to disable it.


    The automech¡ªas I¡¯ve begun to think of it¡ªdoesn¡¯t seem to like that. It retracts the turret, protectively. Then it retracts all its legs, which go shooting back up into the hull and disappear. For a split second it hangs there, still caught in the ceiling, unsupported. Then, there¡¯s a loud snap, and it falls free. Cracks split outward as it impacts the floor. It rolls toward us.


    Once again I¡¯m yanked backward, held tight at the wrist.


    ¡°You drive!¡± She yells back at me, pointing to one of the motorcycles. ¡°I¡¯ll shoot.¡±


    I open my mouth to object. And trust me, there are plenty of objections to make.


    First of all, I¡¯ve never driven a motorcycle¡ªwhat my dad calls a ¡°death trap on wheels¡±¡ªin my life. Secondly, this flimsy little crotch-rocket¡ªanother negative term my father¡¯s used before¡ªis supposed to hold up against the Hamster Wheel of Death? Thirdly-


    She comes to a stop in front of the bike, about-faces, and fires in the direction of the giant, rolling steel ball. ¡°What are you waiting for!?¡±


    Any argument I have now is going to be cut short by the equivalent of a ten-ton pancake roller.


    I hop onto the bike. Up close, it¡¯s larger than I expected, but not by much. The seat is long. The tires are about as wide as the whole width of my hand, from my thumb to the tip of my pinky. There¡¯s two big exhaust pipe things, one on each side, jutting out and pointing back. The main bulk of it has a sleek, glossy finish, painted a dark brown, walnut color. The whole thing looks like it¡¯s just come off an assembly line.


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    There¡¯s a red button on the right side of the handlebar. I press it with my thumb, and the engine rumbles to life, thrumming underneath me. Then, the whole thing jolts, as Frosty lands on the seat behind me. One of her arms loops around my waist as she holds tight to me. Her other arm holds the rifle, still firing, making intrepid, echoing cracks inside the hangar space. Behind that sound, following it, is the grinding roll of the automech, a cadence increasing in velocity with every passing sliver of a second as it gains momentum and speed.


    I lean forward, gripping the handlebars. I gun the throttle.


    The engine screams. The bike jerks forward. Too slow at first, it seems. Until all at once, it¡¯s as if the hand of God himself has reached down to push behind it, jettisoning us forward. The two exhausts¡ªor thrusters, maybe¡ªshriek and roar. They give off an intense, uncomfortable amount of heat, like twin fireballs on the sides of the bike.


    I give it a quick glance. There¡¯s definitely flame shooting out of those things. It flares low to the ground, and outward, though Frosty does have her shins tucked up out of the way of the blast zone just in case, holding tight to the bike with her thighs.


    I turn my gaze ahead. It occurs to me I have no idea where I''m going. Except, if I''m not careful, directly into a cement wall.


    "Uh..."


    "There," Frosty yells into my ear, pointing with the barrel of the rifle toward the far corner of the hangar.


    It''s the entrance to some corridor or shaft. The walls are the same color and material as inside the hanger, and there are no signs or markers denoting it, so I hadn''t noticed it before. But I see it now.


    I veer, turning, lining up the bike so I can enter the tunnel at a somewhat straight angle. It''s fairly narrow, with only enough space for one, maybe two cars to drive through side by side. That may seem like a lot of wiggle room, but at the rate this puppy is moving, one mistake could send us straight into the wall, and that''s definitely on my mind.


    That said, I''m having an easier time than I expected with the bike. It''s come quite naturally, actually. As I''m coming up against the far wall of the hanger, turning into the corner, I even have an intuitive sense to tilt the bike a little to one side to make the angle. Not that it isn''t scary, moving this fast and seeing the floor tilt, rising up toward one side of my face, before easing back down again to where it''s supposed to be.


    Just at the moment when the bike is fully upright again, we slip into the tunnel. Air whooshes loud to either side of me in the channel, almost louder than the engine itself. As soon as we''re in, I feel a vague lifting sensation, and I realize there''s a slight, almost imperceptible upward trajectory, like a subtle ramp.


    We''re heading upward. Where exactly, I don''t know. I can''t see the end. It''s a long, grey passage, stretching off into infinity. Intermittent lights in the middle of the ceiling zip past overhead, like space-faring vessels going in and out of hyperspeed.


    This is a liminal place. A space between spaces. Reminds me of that Youtube video of the eerily long hallway at the MGM Grand. Just a long tail of lights, going on and on into the distance. Though it''s a straight shot, it feels like a descent. Like you''re falling into something, being swallowed up.


    "Look alive," Frosty says next to my ear. Her voice is choppy from the enclosed space and the fast-moving lights above them, like she¡¯s talking into a fan.


    I check the side mirror. The Automech is still on our tail. In fact, it¡¯s actually gaining. The separating lines on the hill are vertical now. The middle section is a rolling blur. The sides are stationary, each with its own set of thrusters emitting a bar of blue flame, like big blowtorches.


    It¡¯s really moving. And we have nowhere to go to avoid it. Except forward.


    Fortunately, as the angle of the tunnel shifts further upward, the thing''s thrusters don''t have quite what it takes to maintain the giant metal ball''s momentum as it travels up the shaft. It''s getting smaller in the side mirror. Slowing down. Or at least, it''s not able to maintain the bike''s level of acceleration.


    I wonder why it hasn''t whipped any more weapons out of its arsenal¡ªit surely must have more. But then, maybe it''s being careful not to collapse the tunnel. Maybe everything it has left is too volatile. Maybe it''s out of options. Maybe we''re safe.


    I''ve spoken too soon.


    Some things start breaking off of the mech. Bits and chunks of it. Is it falling apart? Is it dissembling parts of itself for some extra speed?


    At first, the fallen chunks disappear from sight behind the mech. Until they don''t. Because now they''re zipping up, past the larger mech, and back into view. Little, two-wheeled, motorcycle-looking things. There''s two or three of them now, and more continuing to drop away from the big ball.


    Simultaneously, little turrets pop up on top of the currently operating baby-cycles. They start firing. Automatic rounds. The recoil makes them shake like little, nervous chihuahuas. It would be more amusing if I wasn''t about to die because of it.


    I swerve, head down. Bullet trails pock the floor and walls ahead. Behind me, Frosty returns fire. There''s a spark from one of the bikes before it flips over and explodes, spewing fire and smoke. Other bikes veer around the wreckage, and the big ball simply crunches over it. Frosty keeps firing. Another one of the little bikes goes down. And another.


    Then there''s a lull in her covering fire. There''s a tug behind me as she zips open the backpack, looking for a new mag.


    "Why didn''t you tell me you had these!?" She yells into my ear.


    Is she talking about the grenades?


    "Are those safe-" I start, over my shoulder.


    But she''s already chucked one of the orbs.


    A blue light blinks on its surface as it hits the floor and bounces. It detonates in the midst of the baby-cycles, sending them skidding, flipping, slamming into either wall.


    It''s just us and the ball mech now. It''s never looked more like a Destroyer Droid, no longer so weighty and solid as it used to be. There are vast gaps in its composition. It''s shed most of its resources and reserves in the form of the little bikes, which carried fuel and ammunition it can no longer use. On the other hand, it''s faster now, having lost so much of its mass. Not only is it keeping pace, it''s actually crept closer. Bullets glance off it as Frosty starts emptying a new mag, hunting for some kind of a weak point to bring it down.


    My vision continually shifts between what''s ahead and what''s in the mirror, wary of some new development, some new weapon I''ll have to dodge.


    Then I see it. Ahead. The end of the passage is coming up. And it''s shut. There''s a door blocking the way. It''s a little square in the distance, but it''s swiftly growing in size and definition.


    "We got a problem," I yell back.


    My passenger stops firing to peer over my shoulder. "Shit! I didn''t realize we were coming up on it so soon."


    "Yeah, well..."


    I can feel her fumbling around in my backpack, looking for another grenade to throw.


    Something moves in the side mirror. A slot opening up at the front of the big ball. Then something emerges from the slot. Half of what looks like some kind of missile.


    "Uhhhhh," I say, looking back.


    Frosty sees the look on my face. Her eyes go wide. She turns.


    The missile shoots from the slot, heading directly for us, a trail of smoke in its wake.


    It''s right on us. There''s no time to move. No time to do anything.


    "Blast!" Frosty yells, and a bunch of other things I don''t hear, garbled by the roar of the missile and everything else.


    I shift my weight, tilting the bike, just as the rocket is about to make contact.

 Chapter 6

    RAZOR


    Razor stands out on the hangar deck of the ship, arms folded. The vessel hovers in a sort of stasis, several hundred feet above the ground. Stretching out ahead is a vast, sweeping dunescape. Rolling hills and plains of sand, pocked with a few high, flat plateaus of dusty rock.


    According to the archives, this used to be a lush, green place, with a mild climate. Well above the equator¡ªby thousands of miles¡ªand only a few hundred miles east of the Pacific.


    Razor brings up an Augmented Reality program inside his OS. His vision flickers. Now, instead of a reddish-brown desert, he sees fields of tall, thick, green grass, rippling in the breeze, flowing like waves on an emerald sea. The sun is still low, angling down, and the shadows of fluttering grass stream across the hills in repetitive, undulating patterns. Towering pine trees make an appearance here and there, with a sizable copse of them to the east, next to another larger cluster, merging into an impenetrable wood.


    The AR program functions as a simulation based on climate data, but it also pulls from old satellite imaging as well. This is a rural area, with some farmhouses and cabins and such. To the north, some fields of crops, with combines¡ªlarge, rumbling, mechanical harvesters¡ªtrundling across them, one end to the other. To the distant south, the alpine stretches of some buildings can be seen, reaching up toward the sky. Buildings that are all mostly gone now, ravaged and skeletal remains steadily picked clean by the wind and sand. It¡¯s as if the dunes themselves are slowly flowing upward, enveloping them, swallowing them up.


    Not that it matters. It¡¯s all a bygone era, now. So removed by time and circumstance that it may as well be a fairy tale at this point. As relevant to everyday operations as findings of a far off galaxy, or microbial biology.


    The use of the AR tech in this case, for Razor, is in the readings the program provides. They stream across the lower part of his vision, endless cycles of numbers and code. He keeps a tab, recording parts of interest for later reference.


    A notification beeps, and a log window pops up, interfering with the program. Some seismic activity picked up by the ship''s sensors.


    Sighing, Razor accepts the ship''s request to show him a video recording, taken mere seconds ago by one of the cameras. The feed shows a blast of sand spewing upward somewhere out there in the desert, followed by a thin stream of smoke at the same location.


    This isn''t right. There shouldn''t be activity this close to the surface. At the surface.


    But what does it matter? The safeguards are in place. The good little soldiers have been dispatched. If he has to, Razor will send more. It''s as simple as that. It is not yet time to ''up the ante'', as the humans used to say.


    Still. It is troublesome. Every moment spent dealing with this is a distraction from his research.


    Razor strolls the width of the hangar and ducks through the open doorway. He navigates a winding corridor, coming to a stop in front of a door marked ''Greenery''. The door slides open automatically, activated by proximity sensors, then shuts behind him.


    The air is different in here. Climate-controlled. Tiny misters spew condensation at precise intervals, fine droplets which help to adjust the humidity, sparkling under the glow of the UV lights. Fans blow in the vents, cycling the air and generating artificial wind.


    ''Greenhouse'' is the word the humans would have used for this. To Razor, it is a conservation effort. An attempt to peer back into the world that used to be. And perhaps, with time, restore some of it. But those last are thoughts he is especially sure to keep to himself.


    The Greenery is split into multiple sections, cordoned off from each other, each with their own climate specifications. There are all kinds of flora here, from all over the continent, from shrubs, to berry bushes, to cacti, and even a few smaller trees. Though Razor keeps dozens of saplings, eventually he will have to throw most¡ªif not all of them¡ªout and start over. The same is true of the full-fledged trees themselves, once they grow too large. He has yet to find a suitable place to permanently transplant them; on this continent, anyway.


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    He''s begun tending to a leafy, overgrown bush--Vaccinium Ovatum--when another notification appears.


    A chat request. From HQ.


    If he ignores it long enough, it''ll push through, anyway. So Razor accepts.


    A little screen appears in his vision. It''s Policy. Her long hair¡ªthe color of white sand¡ªmostly pulled back into a tail today, with a part going down over one side of her face. She wears a navy suit and tie and holds a touchpad in one arm, resting in the crook of her elbow. She reaches up with her free hand to adjust silver-rimmed spectacles. Why she would need glasses, Razor doesn''t know, and he hasn''t bothered to ask. He prefers to keep interactions with her as brief as possible.


    "Nice of you to stop by," Razor says. "What can I do you for?"


    Policy frowns and cocks her head. It''s not a friendly look. "What?"


    "An old human saying," Razor says. Perhaps he should have just kept his mouth shut.


    "We''re not human, Razor."


    "And aren''t I grateful for that," Razor says. "Too many...fluids."


    Now Policy is squinting at him, as if encountering an unpleasant glare from the sun. "...what?"


    "Fluids," Razor says. "Fluid intake. Fluid outtake. And solids, too. In fact, the solids are almost worse-"


    "Razor, you have a rogue Biodroid operating in your vicinity."


    "Two," Razor says, examining an overly long branch extending outward from the Evergreen Huckleberry in front of him. "Two rogue biodroids."


    "There shouldn''t be any," Policy says. "They should be disabled. And the Blast Model''s remains should be in your possession by now."


    "All in good time," Razor says. He dips into his Nanobit reserves to make a small, knife-like blade appear, catching it in his hand. The perfect size to prune back those branches.


    Policy presses her lips together in a fine line. "I''m going to be as clear as I can about this, Razor. There is a great deal of interest being taken in your assignment."


    "Interest?" Razor runs a finger down the length of one of the limbs, feeling for the perfect place to make a cut. "From who?"


    "Daimon."


    Razor freezes, his blade an inch away from the leafy branch. "Really."


    "He''s been monitoring the situation closely. Directly, in fact."


    "Well," Razor says. "Not directly. I''m the one on assignment."


    "That so?" Policy says. "Because right now it looks like your little pet project is getting the lion''s share of your attention. An old human saying."


    She injects a degree of snark into that last bit. A dose of venom.


    Razor puts the knife away, breaking it down into Bits and absorbing it into his reserve. "This isn''t actually a conversation between me and you, is it?"


    "Get the Blast Model," Policy says. "As soon as possible. That should be your number one priority. Because Daimon is beginning to think he needs to intervene personally. And if that happens...I''ve been instructed to tell you he intends to destroy your precious flora project, and forbid your little research outings."


    Razor doesn''t yell. Doesn''t act out in any physical way. Not really his thing. But the outrage is likely visible on his face.


    "Over some rogue Biodroid model, huh? I''m starting to wonder if that''s all he is. Seems like I''ve been kept out of the loop, wouldn''t you say?"


    "You have your instructions," Policy says. "I suggest you carry them out while you have time."


    The transmission cuts out.


    Several stunned seconds pass. Precious seconds.


    The water system comes on, spritzing the air with mist.


    Razor turns his attention back to the Evergreen Huckleberry. The plant is in season, a state fostered by both its growth period and the Greenery''s climate controls. A purplish, grapelike berry dangles from the long, overgrown stem.


    Razor reaches out and plucks the berry with chromatic, mechanical fingers that gleam unnaturally under the UV lights. He plops the little fruit into his mouth.


    His sensory systems construct lines of data which are then fed into his processors.


    Tart. Sugary. A little chewy at first, breaking through the skin. And...crunchy. Those are the seeds. Dozens of tiny, brittle shards that burst and shatter between the teeth.


    How accurate are his robot sensory systems, compared to how this would have tasted to a human? And does it matter?


    To Razor, for some reason, it does.


    But enough of that.


    He heads back out of the room and down the hall.


    He can''t risk losing everything. Not over something like this. He''ll give it his full effort. Soon, the Blast Model will be disabled, and the other rogue Biodroid destroyed. He can''t afford to hold back anymore.


    As he walks, he tells the ship''s computer to ready a dozen Sand Seekers for deployment. At the very least, they''ll slow his quarry down, if not detain him altogether. More importantly, they''ll be a distraction. He also tells the ship to keep tracking the Blast Model''s activity and to stay in pursuit.


    There''s an air bike in the hangar. Razor mounts it. Turns it on.


    For a brief moment, peering out through the hangar opening, he activates the AR program again. In the simulation, the sky is a clear blue, dotted with tufts of white fluff. In reality, the view is brown and grey, marred by dark, ugly clouds.


    He revs the engine.

 Chapter 7

    SILAS


    The cement wall is a blur, scrolling by at high speed. I hold on, fingers wrapped tight around the bike¡¯s handlebars, my knees and thighs squeezing the seat.


    Frosty''s arm grips my torso like a vice, body pressed against my back. At some point her ponytail must have come undone, because I can feel lengths of her loose hair flailing against my neck.


    We swerve sideways, bike tipping, nearly parallel to the floor. Sparks fly as metal grinds against the cement underneath. We''re on a collision course with the door blocking the passage. I grit my teeth, bracing for impact. For the end.


    Momentum carries us on a relentless path, into the door-


    -and straight through the charred opening left by the automech''s missile.


    The ceiling of the grey, dimly lit passage gives way to an open sky, and sunlight. Enclosed cement walls surrender to a vast, sweeping landscape. It''s a stark contrast. I take it in, squinting, eyes adjusting. Still airborne, the bike falling through the air, propelled by the ramp-like angle of the exit hatch. A glorious moment of exhilarated surprise and wonder.


    Then we hit the ground.


    Or rather, the top of a sandy dune. Tires first.


    The impact nearly throws me free of the bike.


    We skid, sliding down the far side of the dune. Sand sputters, flying up into and past my face. I¡¯m forced to close my eyes and turn my head.


    We¡¯re gonna crash. We¡¯re going to flip sideways and explode. I¡¯m sure of it.


    But then our momentum slows, my right shoulder dragging, my right leg stuck between bike and sand. And we grate to a stop.


    I open my eyes. Sunlight gleams in bright bars on the slanted dune, making me squint.


    I seem to be intact, seeing as I can''t detect any injuries. Not only am I alive, but I appear to have come out the other side of this relatively unscathed.


    For now.


    Even the bike seems to be in okay condition. The engine is still running. The display between the handlebars, indicating fuel, battery, and MPH, is still lit up.


    ¡°Not the worst driver, huh?¡± I say, already expecting a snarky comeback.


    It doesn¡¯t come.


    Curious, I peer over my shoulder, expecting to see Frosty¡¯s bemused face. Instead, I see only the slope of the dune, and the dark leather of the back part of the seat.


    I glance around. There¡¯s the slope to one side of me. To the other, an open, near-endless desert. I can¡¯t see the end. The sand is wavy for awhile, but seems to flatten further out, with warped, whorling heat distortions in the air along the horizon line.


    There are buildings out there. Well, not really. They''re more like husks. Tall, thin, torn open, and sand-swept. Almost reminds me of broken, abandoned beehives, left to crumble in the dirt.


    The heat. I hadn¡¯t noticed it until now. And now I can hardly notice anything else. It¡¯s oppressive. It¡¯s unlike anything I¡¯ve experienced before. Besides maybe a sauna, minus the humidity.


    But I''m getting distracted. I should call out to the girl. But then, I realize I don''t actually know her name. If she even has one.


    I lift the bike, just enough to pull my leg out from under it. I let it go, and it thumps against the ground. I head up the slope, one leaping stride at a time. I''m almost at the top.


    Something goes flying up past the lip of the peak. A big dark shape, moving at high speed. It''s only in the air for a split second, but in the interim, I glimpse the ripple of Frosty''s coat, and the thrashing tendrils of her loose hair.


    She hits the side of a dune, sending up a spray of sand and dust.


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    The dust settles as I race back down, toward her. She''s splayed out, partially submerged. She immediately starts trying to move, to get up, but something''s clearly wrong. Frosty looks like a wounded animal. Something that can twitch and struggle, but can''t operate as normal.


    "Blast!" She screams, looking past me.


    I pull to a halt, boots sliding and kicking up contrails of dust. I pivot and peer up at the top of the incline.


    The giant, orbicular mech is at the peak of the hill, held up by its four long legs. Its body is full of holes, with bits and pieces taken out of it. Charred and black in parts, literally smoking in others. Injured, but still operating. Intent on its objective.


    It lowers its body and slides down the dune, using its arms like paddles to push it along. Approaching fast.


    I bring one leg back, locking myself in a sort of ''ready'' stance. Which is kind of silly, I realize. What am I posing for? Just kill the damn thing. Just do something-


    It''s already upon me, lashing out with one of its lengthy, powerful, Doc Ock-looking appendages. It''s like a giant, curved metal beam sweeping through the air toward me.


    I bring up two arms to block, creating a barrier in front of my chest and face. There''s barely enough time to do even that.


    Metal rings on metal as the robotic limb slams into me, launching me up and off my feet. Shooting and falling through the air. I''m spinning backward, upside down, losing control.


    No.


    Something comes over me. Something I can''t name. Something reflexive. Instinctual.


    It''s the feeling of knowing how to ride a bike, even if you haven''t done it since you were a kid. You might not consciously know the precise mechanics of what to do, but your body does. Your body remembers.


    I adjust in the air, pivoting. I land on my feet, sliding, still facing the mech, as it continues to pull through the sand toward me. Two more legs(arms?) swing toward me, one after the other. I duck the first, then make a quick flip sideways over the second, landing on my feet again. A physical maneuver I¡¯d never imagined I could perform.


    The mech rolls forward, pounds the ground with its arms to lift itself in a sort of jump, aiming to land on top of me.


    A simple dodge won¡¯t work. There¡¯s too much bulk, moving too quickly.


    I dive fully out of the way, crashing and rolling. The ground shakes as the mech¡¯s body slams down.


    I jump to my feet, strafing as I face the mech, waiting for its next move. I need to draw it out, keep it away from Frosty. And I need to destroy it.


    I have a few weapons at my disposal.


    There are my cyborg limbs, as I¡¯d learned a bit ago, breaking in the door to the armory.


    There¡¯s the holstered pistol, which I¡¯d forgotten about until just now. Given how ineffective that big rifle was against this thing, I have a hard time imagining this gun will fare much better.


    Then there¡¯s my backpack. You know. The one with all the explosives in it.


    I sling the pack forward off my back and reach in through the partially zipped-open gap.


    A plan takes shape in my mind. A brash and frankly terrifying plan. One that I feel drawn to execute, regardless. I know I can do it, and I know I should do it. The same way I knew I could dodge those arm attacks.


    The trick is to just not think about it.


    I pull out one of the shiny, explosive orbs. I find a little blue button, which I press down on with my thumb until there¡¯s a click, and a light blinks inside it. Somehow, I knew to do that. And somehow, I know this activates a fifteen second timer before the thing detonates.


    I toss it back into the pack, together with the ammo and the rest of the grenades. I zip the bag shut in one snappy motion and sling it over my shoulder.


    Then I run toward the mech.


    The mech launches a new barrage of attacks with its arms, one after the other. I dodge, swerve, slide. Jump.


    I land on top of the mech, one foot hooked inside one of the hollowed out nooks in the hull, one of the places where the minibikes of death came from.


    Should I be counting down the seconds, keeping track of what time I have left? All I know is I need to stay focused, or it won''t matter.


    One of two things is about to happen. Either this thing is going to start playing whack-a-mole with its arms, or-


    It''s trying to roll over, to crush me under it. Makes sense.


    The giant hamster ball rotates under me. I scramble along the surface, staying atop it, using the jagged, broken-out parts as handholds.


    I can''t wait for the perfect moment. I gotta do this now.


    While maneuvering along the edge of the ball, I jam the backpack inside one of the cubbies in the hull, with the shoulder strap looped over a protruding section. I pull the shoulder strap tight, fastening it.


    I leap off the big ball. It must be able to detect my movements through the shifting of my weight on its body, because it lashes out with its arms, trying to swat me out of the air. I tuck in my limbs, making myself small as I hurl downward. I hit the ground running, making a beeline for Frosty, making big, powerful strides on mechanical legs. Wind in my hair. Beads of sweat suddenly feeling cool on my forehead.


    Any second now, one of the legs is going to hit me. I''m going to be knocked off my feet. It''s going to grab me, and pin me. And it''s going to explode. And I''m going to melt slowly, crushed by a giant molten ball. I''m sure of it.


    I''m running at full speed, faster than I ever have in my life by far, but time seems to slow, and I get the sense that maybe this is like in my dreams, when I''m fleeing something as fast as I can, legs pumping, but my body doesn''t seem to move, as if progress itself is illusory.


    My heart¡ªor what feels like my heart¡ªjackhammers in my chest, like the threaded pound of a war drum.


    I reach Frosty. She doesn''t reach up to take my hand. Because she can''t. She''s lying at a slant, her neck crooked at a weird angle. Her eyes follow me, but she doesn''t speak. Probably because it hurts to.


    I lift her up and take her with me, heaving her over my shoulder as I rush toward the top of the hill.


    Just as I peak the hill, there''s a sound like thunder behind me, and a fireball of heat against my back.

 Chapter 8

    SILAS


    I tumble forward over the lip of the hill, pushed by some tremendous force, waves of intense heat billowing around me, warping the air. I pull Frosty in against my body, protecting her head and neck. We hit the slope, rolling, a big burp of flame roaring past overhead.


    The sand is coarse and packed, like a bluff made of sandpaper. Which makes sense, I suppose, but it kinda hurts.


    Even with the burst of fire past and gone, the heat itself seems to follow us¡ªgoing suddenly from the sauna-esque heat of the desert to the inside of a stove. A strong, distinct scent permeates the vicinity, one that I now recognize as burning metal. I smelled it back in the room with the tanks, I smelled it in the passage when the minibikes exploded, and I smell it now.


    As we arrive at the base of the hill, my back slams hard into the ground, Frosty on top of me, of her shoulder digging into my chest. Her body rises and dips to the cadence of my breathing.


    I''m still trying to catch my breath. And I''m listening. Waiting. Because I''m not entirely sure what happens next. For the past twenty minutes, maybe longer, it''s been one potential catastrophe after another. So where''s the next one? Where''s it going to come from?


    There''s a thump as something lands on the packed hillside sand just a few paces away. A thick plate of metal. Charred black in parts. Actually on fire at one end.


    Well. If that''s not a sign the mech is dunzo, I don''t know what is.


    With that thought, some of the tension starts to leak out of me.


    The air is quiet and still, now. No wind. No rustle of sand shifting. Just the faint noise of burning wreckage on the other side of the hill.


    There''s something almost peaceful about it. ''Burning Cyberpunk Wreckage ASMR''. Why not?


    Wait. I''m forgetting something. I''m such an idiot.


    "Hey," I say, narrowly stopping myself from referring to her as ''Frosty''.


    "Yes?" She says, unmoving, the side of her head pressed against my chest, tangles of her hair draped over my arm.


    "You okay?" I say.


    She hesitates for a couple of seconds. "No. Not really." Then, "Are you?"


    There''s a question.


    I don''t answer right away. Instead, I find my mind drifting. Traveling to places I wish I could stop it from going.


    When I first woke up in the tank, I knew something was wrong. But I thought, at least to some extent, that the problem was with me. That there was some glitch on my end. That none of this was actually real.


    But how can I deny the reality right in front of me? How can I simply dismiss these moment to moment experiences? If reality isn''t real, then what tools do I have to find the truth? How am I supposed to make sense of it?


    I say¡ªknow¡ªmy name is Silas Turner. Frosty says I''m something called a Blast model, and she seems to think that''s all I''ve ever been. So who''s right?


    And on top of all of that, there''s this ominous feeling I can''t shake. That this is all some psychotic distraction my brain has concocted to keep me busy. Anything to not have to deal with what happened.


    And the worst part is, in that regard, it''s almost working.


    Almost.


    "No," I say, finally, in answer to the question. "Not really."


    "You still don''t remember," she says. "Do you?"


    "No," I say. "Should I?"


    "Not...necessarily," she says, wincing. "Shit, this hurts."


    "Do you want to move?" I say. I start to sit up.


    "No," she says, prompting me to lie back down. "Not- not yet. I need to think."


    "Okay."


    Silence for a moment. Long enough I can feel the demons that are my thoughts beginning to wheedle their way back in again.


    "I saw something in the facility computer," she says. Her body thrums faintly as she speaks, vocal cords vibrating against my torso. "When I was patching myself up. A few hours before we were attacked, the system received a signal. A data transfer of some kind."


    "You think it''s related."


    She starts to nod, then stops, with a grunt of pain. "At the very least, I believe it''s how we were detected."


    "Detected?" I say. "By who?"


    "I think the data surge, whatever it was, messed with the OS. I think that''s why neither of us can get the system up and running. Furthermore¡ªand this is admittedly more of a guess than even a theory¡ªI think you received the bulk of the data. I think you may have been the original target for it. Why, I don''t know. But it would explain your amnesia. The data transfer must have scrambled your memory unit."


    "Okay," I say, mulling it over. "If any of this is true, where does that leave us?"


    "There''s another hidden facility not far from here," she says. "If we head north, there''s a high plateau, and some canals that run through it. We can lose them in there. Once we get to the Darvin facility, there''s some equipment there we can use to start getting to the bottom of this."


    "You mean," I say, "We can use it to see what was in that transfer?"


    "And get our OS''s back up."


    "Because we can''t do that here, for some reason?"


    "I mean, in theory" she says. "If the complex wasn''t already compromised. You''re not seriously wanting to go back in there right now, are you?"


    No. She''s right. Between her injury, and the fact that we would be in an enclosed space, soon to be overrun. Something tells me we wouldn''t have enough time to get down to the bottom of anything, not with all these bots on our heels. We have to change the game.


    I stare up into the sky. It''s bright and dreary at the same time. A muddy cloudscape, if shiny with the sun''s light.


    "Is the OS really such a big deal?" I say.


    "If either of us still had our OS intact," she says, "That bot chasing after us wouldn''t have made it more than a couple steps into the armory."


    I don''t know what to say to that. I don''t know how to even process it. There''s so much I don''t understand. And I¡¯m not sure if I even want to understand.


    "What do I call you?" I say.


    "Salvo," she says. "You call me Sal, for short."


    "Do I?"


    "Yes, Blast," she says. "You do."


    The light from the sky is starting to hurt my eyes. If I stare long enough, maybe I can discern something. Maybe I''ll find some thread I can pull, something I can unravel, unveiling some secret at the heart of this strange place I find myself in.


    "Sal, what is all this? What are we? And what are they? And why are they coming after us?"


    She sighs. I can tell she''s thinking it over. "It wouldn''t be an efficient use of time for me to explain everything. Instead, we should try to get your memory back. I think that''s what we need to do. We need to get on that bike and head north."


    "Okay." She''s right. There will be time to figure all of this out later. Unless there isn''t. In which case...well¡­


    "Can you take me to it?"


    I sit up, setting ''Sal'' into an upright position against the hill. She looks like a mannequin, arms and legs in odd positions, head turned at a weird angle.


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    "What?" She says, side-eying me.


    "Nothing. You just look...interesting."


    "We''re both going to be pretty interesting if we don''t get a move on. Or at least, all the various, scattered pieces of us will be."


    I stand. "Geez. Message received."


    I pick her up.


    She''s awkward and unwieldy to carry. It''s like that thing Gemma used to do when I would pick her up to forcibly remove her from my room. She''d go all limp, and I swear she''d suddenly be four times heavier when she did.


    In the case of Sal, I heft her up onto my shoulder and carry her like a bag of rice. She gives no complaint.


    Once again, I''m marching up the side of one of these stupid dunes. Halfway up, I have to squint as multiple beads of sweat start dripping off my forehead and down next to my eyebrow, barely missing my eye. The very air of this place is a like a giant heat lamp.


    Unbidden, I remember a scene from that show where the plane crashes and all those people are stuck on that mysterious tropical island. After a certain point, a number of the castaways start questioning whether the island is even real. And one of them says, ''It''s a bit hot for heaven.''


    Great. There''s another terrifying concept that gets to rattle around in my brain, now.


    Lost. That''s what the show¡¯s called.


    Kind of like what I''m starting to feel like right now.


    I crest the hill and start making my way down the other side. I have to do a sort of side-walk, like a crab, easing my way down the slope. The last thing I need right now is to drop Sal and injure her any further. Not just because she reminds me of someone, and not just because I want her to be okay, but because I''d be aimless in this weird, post-apocalyptic hellscape without her, and likely dead pretty soon after, given the state of things up to now.


    Bits of debris are strewn about the area. Metal joints and plates and pistons and wiring. Some actively burning, others darkly seared in places, like grilled steak.


    Not that any of it smells like steak. It¡¯s more like a burnt electric wiring odor, now that I¡¯m close enough to it to really take it in. That, and a faint, rotten egg, sulphuric smell, which I¡¯m all too eager to get away from.


    The bulk of the wreckage is a big, molten pile of metal, with some tufts of flame licking at the edges. The smell is the worst there, and there are unpleasant waves of heat emanating from it as well. I steer as far clear of it as I can.


    The bike is as I left it, on its side on the ground. It appears to be undamaged. I really hope that¡¯s the case.


    I decide to set Sal down for a moment, gently laying her flat on the ground. I pull the bike upright by the handlebars and push out the kickstand with my foot.


    I should probably make sure this thing still runs.


    I put my thumb on the power button, about to press it. But then¡­I hear something. A low humming. Almost like a distant train or plane.


    I turn my gaze upward, to that muddy skyline. There¡¯s something moving up there, like a toad wading in a brown pond. Some kind of vessel. Not a plane, but an airship. It¡¯s large, and beige. I get the feeling it¡¯s some kind of carrier ship. As it moves in the sky, the enormity of it impresses itself on me. I realize I¡¯m slack-jawed, staring.


    ¡°That¡¯s the ship, isn¡¯t it?¡± Sal says, behind me.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know there was a ship,¡± I say. ¡°But I guess I do now.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s always a ship,¡± she says.


    Well. The more you know.


    As I watch the ship, it shifts in place, and I can see a sort of platform jutting out under a broad opening that looks like a hangar bay. There¡¯s a distant, dark speck of an outline of someone standing out on the edge of that platform. Just¡­standing there.


    Whoever it is, I get the sense they¡¯re watching me at the same time I¡¯m watching them. There¡¯s an interaction happening here, even across this vast expanse between us. We¡¯re sizing each other up, gathering our resolve, deciding the next move.


    Only, given the circumstances, I¡¯m pretty sure all I can do at this point is run.


    ****


    Razor studies the biodroid. He could use his own advanced lenses to zoom in, but he taps into the ship¡¯s cameras again instead. The ship''s cameras give a higher definition picture at this distance. He can also use them to look at his quarry from multiple angles.


    The one standing next to the bike is definitely a Blast model. Razor doesn¡¯t need to consult analysis data from the ship¡¯s computer. There¡¯s no mistaking that face. Every moment he''s confronted by it leaves a stark imprint in his memory banks.


    The other Biodroid is a Salvo model. It appears to be incapacitated at the moment.


    These two Biodroids. They''ve managed to wake up in time to avoid being killed inside the stasis tanks. But beyond that, they¡¯ve fared worse than Razor might have expected.


    Not that it mattered, before. Before, he would have sent continuous waves of bots after them, wearing them down while he continued to focus solely on his research. But now, a member of the elites is involved. Now, Razor has to take care of this personally.


    The way these Biodroids have survived up to now begs a question. Because neither of them have activated their protocols. So¡­are their operating systems malfunctioning? Or is this a clever, elaborate ploy to lure Razor in close, before pulling the trigger?


    Razor prefers not to tussle with a Blast model¡ªor anyone equipped with a Blast Protocol, for that matter¡ªif he has the choice. Most Biodroids would say the same. Maybe that¡¯s why Daimon wants Razor to do the deed. Just in case. As powerful as Daimon is, you don¡¯t survive long in his position without being a little cautious now and then, Razor supposes.


    Rogue or not, it¡¯s conceivable that this model could become a threat to Daimon. Not today or tomorrow, but somewhere down the line. It¡¯s in the realm of possibility. So it¡¯s in Daimon¡¯s best interest to make sure this Blast is apprehended and neutralized. Why he doesn¡¯t just want it destroyed, Razor doesn¡¯t know, but that¡¯s beside the point. Daimon wants the model stopped. And why do it himself when he can send Razor in his stead?


    And if Razor disobeys, the Greenery will disappear. His years of research will be gone. Because Daimon doesn¡¯t make threats lightly. Razor knows that.


    He takes a deep breath, then grimaces, remembering he''s no longer inside his clean, carefully oxygenated environment of the Greenery. The Greenery is a snapshot of the way this part of the world used to be, before the air itself turned sour and rank, and the ground was still fertile and life-giving.


    There''s no way to turn back the clock. And no way to fight the system as it currently stands. All that''s left is to preserve and remember the things that used to make this world so beautiful.


    Razor steps just a few paces over to the air bike, engine rumbling, hovering a couple feet off the floor of the platform. He settles onto the bike, just as the ship''s computer informs him the Sand Seekers are ready for deployment. From a prompt menu, Razor selects the option to execute.


    ****


    I watch as things move on the sides of the ship. Mechanisms shifting. And then I realize that those are hatches, opening up. And then things start to drop out of those hatches. Their exact shape and purpose is difficult to discern, but they glint in the light as they fall. Twelve plummeting, meteoric objects. Until suddenly they''re no longer falling, but curving, jets of flame issuing behind them as thrusters engage.


    Missiles? Maybe. Whatever they are, they''re headed straight for us.


    I get one last glimpse of the platform next to the hangar bay, and the human-esque shape from before, only this time they''re on some kind of vehicle. As I turn to grab Sal, I glimpse the vehicle on the platform push off and begin its descent, mirroring the path of all the dozen other missiles in flight.


    "It''s bad, isn''t it?" Sal says, as I lift her up. With the way her head''s been tilted, she hasn''t witnessed our pursuers yet.


    Holding her by the waist, I turn her entire body so she can see.


    "Uhhhh...shit," she says.


    "Yeah," I say, setting her down on the back part of the bike seat. I''ve got her leaning against my torso so she doesn''t go sliding off. I take off the ridiculous jacket I''d brought with me¡ªit''s not like I''m gonna need it in this heat, anyway.


    "Blast-"


    "You keep calling me that," I say, as I tear the jacket down the middle.


    "Because that''s who you are," Sal says.


    "Are you gonna tell me what those missile things are?"


    "Sand Seekers," Sal says. "They''re just as fast on the ground. But Blast, there''s an operative out there. I think there are higher-ups involved in this."


    "I don''t know what that means."


    "It means," Sal says, "We''re screwed if we don''t get this bike moving. Neither of us are in any position-"


    "I''m working on it!"


    I take the torn length of cloth from my jacket and loop it around Sal''s waist. I set her up so she''s looking straight behind us, so she can see things I can''t while I''m driving. I sit on the bike, tying the cloth tight against my own waist, tethering Sal to my body.


    I press the power button on the bike.


    A ringed outline around the edge of the buttons flickers for a second. Same with the entire dashboard.


    Seriously!?


    "Take your time," Sal quips, behind me.


    I press down on the button, holding it this time, even though that wasn''t how I started it before, down in the armory. This time, the lights flicker again, and the engine actually sputters a little, shaking underneath me. But then the lights go out completely, and the engine is still.


    This time Sal doesn''t say anything. And that almost worries me more.


    What am I supposed to do now? Run across the desert on foot? With her strapped to my back, no less?


    One more try. I at least need to give it that.


    I hold the button down. The lights flicker. The engine grunts and coughs.


    "Oh, come on!" I yell.


    Almost as if in response to this, the engine suddenly crackles to life with a triumphant shriek. The lights on the dashboard solidify.


    I knock up the kickstand and hit the throttle.


    Streams of sand spew and spit from underneath the tires, before the traction catches, and the bike is pulled hard up the side of the embankment, as if yanked upward by an invisible rope. Cool air rushes past my face. The bike hits the top of the embankment and goes flying over, airborne for a few seconds, before the bike jolts hard as we land on the ground.


    I let out an excited whoop of a yell. For some reason. Adrenaline is weird that way, I guess. Dangerous, scary circumstances become...exciting. Maybe even addictive, crazy as that is.


    "Blast!" Sal yells into my right ear.


    "Yeah!?"


    "This isn''t north."


    Ope.


    "Why didn''t you say so!?"


    "I just did," she says. Then, "Take us ninety degrees to the left."


    I do as she says, slowing the bike and looping around a clumpy spire of rock. I take off down a stretch of more even terrain, though there are bumps and rises along the way. I weave the bike left to right, and left again, avoiding the more treacherous inclines.


    Soon, things are flattening out, and I can see the cliff-like rise Sal was talking about. A giant, smooth, maroon rock wall in the distance, stretching across the horizon, defining it.


    The side mirror must have been bumped in the commotion earlier, because it''s angled downward, giving me a dizzying perspective of the ground underneath the bike.


    Helpful.


    I tilt the mirror up. In it, I see sand spraying up in the distance behind me as the projectiles¡ªSal called them ''Sand Seekers''¡ªstart crashing into the dunes. Shortly after being submerged in the sand by the impact, they burst out and begin skirting along the surface at high speed. They remind me of the minibikes from before, only these have one thin, blade-like wheel, and two thrusters behind, causing them to skim across the sand, weaving back and forth among the dunes in a natural, almost organic way, like a school of fish navigating currents.


    And then there''s that ''operative'', as Sal put it, riding some kind of hoverbike. While I can''t make out any fine details, they have a masculine build, like me. Like me, he''s definitely some kind of robot guy, though the metal parts and joints seem more blocky than mine¡ªfrom what I saw of myself, or can remember. There''s these flat, sharp, almost jagged-looking edges. The grey material covering the metal doesn''t have the shine that mine has, though. It actually looks kind of rough and smudged. Tarnished.


    Wait a minute. He''s holding something. If I knew better, I might guess it''s some kind of...rocket launcher?


    "Blast..." Sal says.


    "I see it."


    But just as I say that, there''s a bright flare at the front of the launcher, and a puff of smoke out the back. And a shrill, whistling sound, getting louder.

 Chapter 9

    SILAS


    (before)


    Three Weeks Before Granite Falls...


    It was well into the night, with one foot into the morning. The house was still and dark, if not exactly quiet. Hard, slanted sheets of rain rattled against the roof, tapped erratically against the wide, back living room window, and dripped off the eaves and down the gutter, sloshing and splashing loudly on the wet, saturated lawn outside.


    I was at the back corner of the walk-in pantry on the ground floor, using my phone''s flashlight to illuminate the liquor bottles on the fourth shelf up. Various bottles and boxes cast blocky shadows against the wall of the pantry, like a miniature city skyline as the sun is about to set. Still holding the phone in one hand, I set down the black flask I held in the other so I could pick up the bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label. Then, considering, I set the phone on the shelf too, facedown, with the flashlight shining up. I unscrewed the cap on the flask first, then opened the Johnny Walker.


    I didn''t necessarily need a funnel for this next part. I just needed to be careful. The smell of spilled whiskey on the shelf and floor would likely raise some questions with my family.


    I tipped the bottle, letting the contents trickle into the flask in a thin, easy to aim stream.


    I was almost curious how surprised my parents would be at this new habit. They really shouldn''t have been. They were the ones who had turned me on to it, letting me drink during Dad''s work parties. Sometimes letting me drink a lot. They hadn''t cared, then. And it was all right here, whenever I wanted it. It wasn''t like there was any explicit rule against taking some of it.


    Then again, if there wasn''t, why was I down here at¡ªaccording to the last time my phone screen lit up, less than a minute ago¡ªfourteen after two in the morning?


    Because I liked to stay up late on Saturday nights, that''s why. And I wanted to top off the contents of my flask. That was all there was to it.


    Not that this explained why I was huddled in a dark corner, using the flashlight app on my phone. Or the fact that I always conveniently managed to raid the liquor reserves when no one else was around.


    Okay. So, obviously, I didn''t want anyone to know what I was doing. But not because I felt a particular sense of shame about it. I was just a kid being a kid. It was okay for me to be stupid now and then, if that''s what this was.


    The flask was nearly full. I could tell by the way the fluid echoed in the metal container as it dripped in. I pulled the bottle back, put the lid on it, and set it in its place on the shelf. The flask''s cap made subtle squeaking sounds as I screwed it back into place. But then, I realized I could hear something else, too. Other squeaks, coming from the staircase. The padding of footfalls on the carpeted stairs. The grunt of that third-to-bottom step, the one I''d been wary to tip-toe over on my way down.


    Two grunts on that same step. Two pairs of feet.


    I scrambled to snatch up my phone. I tapped the flashlight-shaped icon on the lock screen, and the light went out, leaving me alone in the dark, with only the chatter of the heavy rain against the house to keep me company.


    The rainfall was just loud enough that I couldn''t hear the footfalls on the main floor. I turned, facing the door of the pantry. It was mostly closed, cracked open by about the width of my palm.


    I shrank my body against the side of the room, pressed against the shelves. While I thought what I was doing was harmless enough, I knew being discovered here could lead to a larger conversation with my parents I didn''t want to deal with right now. They''d think I had some kind of problem. They''d have lots of questions. Hours of discourse would follow, potentially. And they would begin to institute some changes around here. Perhaps even beyond getting rid of the liquor stash.


    I was wearing only my pajama shorts. And the shorts didn''t have any pockets, and there was no way I could hide the flask in them¡ªit would just fall through. If I wedged it in the waistband, assuming it didn''t slip out anyway, it would still be plainly obvious, especially if someone turned on a light.


    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    I could stash the flask here, in the pantry, and come back for it later. And maybe that was the right move. The longer I waited, hiding out in here, while there were people out there, the more suspicious my eventual emergence would be.


    But then, the whole thing was already suspicious, wasn''t it? I''d left all the lights off on the ground floor, so as not to alert the family to my activities. I was scrounging in the pantry, in the dark. I''d even turned off the light on my phone. If I''d left it on, they would already know I was in here.


    I eased forward slowly, toward the crack in the door. It occurred to me that whoever had come down the stairs hadn''t turned on the lights, either. I had to wonder why. I came just close enough to the door to peer through the opening.


    I wasn''t surprised to see it was my parents out there. It was hard to imagine my mother and sister sneaking off together at half-past one in the morning. Or my dad and my sister. Especially the way Gemma had to have her beauty sleep. She didn''t even need to play a game or listen to Youtube to wind down. Sometimes she would get home after a night out, go straight to her room, and conk out immediately¡ªwhich I knew because the wall''s between us were pretty thin, and, well, she snored.


    There was a shadowy cast to the room, like looking through dark-blue, tinted lenses. My parents were standing in the middle of the living room, frozen and deathly quiet, facing each other. Like figures in a wax museum after hours. From my vantage point, I could see Mom''s face and the back of Dad''s head.


    I have to say, Mom did not look happy. Neither of them did. It was obvious in their rigid posture, the way they held themselves. The way Mom''s arms were crossed, and her brows wrinkled and bunched together. The two of them stood aloof from one another in a way that was not normal to me. Though they stood only a few feet apart, there may as well have been a massive gulf between them.


    I felt a knot of discomfort forming in my gut. I''d seen my parents argue before¡ªwho hasn''t?¡ªbut I''d never seen them like this. This was almost the opposite of arguing. You had to care to argue, and there was something so apathetic about this. Seeing but not acknowledging. Present, but not interacting.


    Had they come down here to have a discussion without Gemma or I overhearing? A conversation cloaked by darkness, and the steady drum of rainfall? But now, here they were, and no words came. As if neither actually wanted to be here. Neither cared enough to be the first to speak.


    Light came in a sudden shock, like a violation. It streamed in through the front living room window, a beam of illumination that traveled slowly from one far corner of the room to the other. With its passage came the low thud of bass from a car radio, growing louder, until it was like a tangible presence in the room. Light flashed across my mother''s face, and she squinted, irritated, curling further into herself. As the light played close to the side of the room where the pantry was located, adjacent to the kitchen, I pulled back from the crack in the door and toward the hinges, moving too quickly and feeling one of the shelves jam hard into my side, just below the waist. Hard enough that I was certain it would leave a bruise. There''d also been a loud thump as the shelf shoved back against the actual wall of the pantry. One I sincerely hoped I''d been the only one to hear.


    I waited, heart pulsing so hard in my chest I could feel it in my ears.


    There''s something so intense about the act of hiding. Hiding, and hoping you aren''t found out. Even when it''s a game, it''s intense. Even when there are no real stakes. I have distinct memories of being so worked up during games of hide-and-seek as a kid that I almost wanted to jump out, get found, and get it over with.


    There, pressed against the shelves of the pantry, I kept imagining my parents crossing the living room and kitchen until they were standing in front of the pantry door. My Mom could be holding the doorknob, right then, at that moment. Any second now, she would throw the door open. And there I would be, cringing like an idiot.


    Seconds passed. The bass from the passing car peaked in volume, then began to peter off as the car moved on. Then it was just the rain again.


    I waited for the door to swing wide. But it didn''t.


    I eased back toward the opening. Neither of my parents had made a single move. If anything had yet passed between them, it had happened by virtue of the extended stillness and quiet itself.


    Then my mother''s lips parted. She spoke. And it wasn''t off the cuff. She''d thought through what she was saying. She was giving my dad an earful.


    I could just barely hear...something. It was muffled. I couldn''t make out the words.


    I keened my ears, trying to pierce the veil of rainfall to hear my mother''s voice.


    I focused. And I heard something. It wasn''t my mother. It was a series of strange, fuzzy noises. Almost like the conversation was being run through some kind of voice-altering software. The tone and rhythm of the sounds matched the movements of her mouth, but I couldn''t make sense of them.


    And then I saw it. I hadn''t noticed at first, with how dark it was in the room, but my eyes were adjusting, becoming familiar with the situation. And now I could see that every time my mother''s lips moved, every time she began ''speaking'', a bar of blurriness appeared in my vision, obscuring her mouth. And the more I stared at it, the more I clearly I saw it, the less convinced I became of it. It was one thing to see something with my own eyes, and log it to my memory, and another to truly internalize and believe.


    Later, in my room, as the night wore on, I became steadily convinced that it had been my imagination. That I hadn''t seen or heard anything strange at all.

 Chapter 10

    SILAS


    The bike¡¯s engine rumbles underneath me. Slithering dunes streak past with eerie, kaleidoscopic speed. Sands sprays out under the tires, with a consistent crackle and rattle, like beads falling through an hourglass. The cool air running past my body, rippling my clothing, is a slight respite from the intense desert heat.


    I blink, trying to focus. Disoriented. Once again¡ªtoo many times, now¡ªI feel this weird disconnect from this alien body. As if none of this is real and happening.


    That memory, of hiding away in the pantry. Why am I so preoccupied by it? Now, of all times? It''s as if I lost myself for a second, there. And was that even a real memory? There''s something off about it. Something''s not right.


    Someone''s yelling.


    "Blast, move!"


    Oh. Right.


    There''s a projectile directly behind us. A long, cylindrical object, like some kind of missile, but in the rearview mirror it¡¯s a near perfect circle, growing in size in its approach.


    As before, when I took on the giant ball mech, I feel a tugging in my subconscious. An intuition of what I can do, what I need to do. All I need to do is shut my brain off and let the instincts take over.


    The rocket whistles loud as it shuttles along, angling downward, as if coming in for a landing.


    I tilt the bike, steering hard to one side. I draw the handgun and hold it out behind me, pointing directly back. I squint one eye, using the side mirror to aim. I pull the trigger.


    The pistol jolts in my hand, slamming hard into my palm. The bullet glances off the projectile, making a spark. Then there¡¯s a ¡®pop¡¯; a miniature explosion, as the device engages earlier than it was supposed to. Metal parts split off and fall away, and a large net unfurls and shoots past me and the bike, like a grasping fist, clenching down on nothing but a rising tuft of sand.


    The Sand Seekers are way ahead of the operative. Hot on our trail, spread out behind and on either side in a V-pattern. Turrets emerge atop the seeking, wheeled bots, and they all open fire at once, as if receiving the same set of commands simultaneously. Automatic gunfire cuts across the sand, sending up disorienting puffs and sprays.


    I start to weave in an erratic, serpentine pattern. With so many shooters, I¡¯m surprised they have yet to get in a good hit. Then I realize: they¡¯re aiming for the tires. I¡¯m still moving thanks to my erratic driving, the uneven terrain, and probably a decent amount of luck. Luck I sure hope doesn¡¯t run out just yet.


    This chase is an onslaught on my senses. In the midst of everything, I keep glancing in the mirror, keeping track of the operative. Somehow, I''ve achieved a complete state of flow. There are no thoughts, only the ebb and flow of my body seemingly operating on its own. One second I''ve got the bike tilted to the left, by body nearly horizontal to the ground, and the next second I''ve shifted again, with the bike turned in the complete opposite direction, navigating in circus with the dunes, like I''m surfing the waves of a sandy ocean. Sal has been quiet for a while now, letting me focus. Meanwhile, the Seekers are drawing in close, likely trying to get a shot in at near point-blank range, or to ram into the bike, knocking me over.


    Everything''s so chaotic, I hadn''t noticed we''re coming up on the sheer rock wall border. Fast. I can see some of those canal openings Sal was talking about, though. I''m close enough I can see them clearly. And also close enough that I need to manouver the bike now if I want to squeeze through.


    I turn right, heading toward one of the openings. I open fire with the pistol, and I manage to pick off several of the Seekers, one after another, causing them to falter, veer off and explode. They''ve fanned out to the right, trying to head me off before I get to the opening, as if panicked at the prospect that I might slip through and escape.


    The operative. He''s coming up on my right, now. I can see the color and texture of his hair. Ear-length, sandy-blonde, and thick, flailing wildly in the wind about his head and face. While staring directly at me, he holds out one hand, something appears in his palm, materializing from thin air. Sunlight glints off either end of the object, and I realize it''s some kind of dual-bladed knife.


    I''m not sure how concerned I should be.


    The pursuer on the air bike grips the knife tightly in his hand and winds back his arm. He throws, and the twin blades made a shrill whistle as the knife flies.


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    My first instinct is to shoot it out of the air, but as I hold up my handgun, the slide is locked back with the chamber open. I''ve used up my last bullet. The rest of the mags were in the backpack. The one I used to blow up the mech.


    Fantastic.


    I pull my hand in toward the left side of my chest, then chuck the gun like a throwing star. It spins, arcing upward into the knife''s path.


    The pistol collides with the knife. But instead of deflecting the knife, it''s sliced cleanly in half by one of the blades, splitting apart in a shower of tiny springs and bisected metal components.


    I duck, turning the bike to bring myself low to the ground, and feel the air shift as the knife passes directly behind my head, razor edges so sharp they neatly cut the ends off some of my windborne hair without a hint of a snag. The knife''s journey ends as it embeds itself into the rock wall on my left with a loud crunch.


    I''m running out of options. And while Sal hasn''t voiced her concerns in a while, I can only imagine what she might say if she wasn''t more concerned with letting me focus.


    I need to pull away from the wall so I can finish lining myself up to squeeze through an opening coming up on my left. But doing so will put me closer to the guy on the air bike, if I don''t end up directly in his path.


    Another knife is in the air, spinning, whistling.


    I brake. Hard.


    The knife travels past, just inches away from my face.


    I hit the throttle, getting the bike back up to speed. A couple of the Sand Seekers actually streak past me, missing me. I turn the bike, tilting, bringing it around in an ellipse, until I''m facing one of the canal openings in the rock. I rev the engine, shooting forward, half expecting a blade to come careening in from outside my peripheral vision, ambushing me. But I manage to slip through the opening minus any new surprises.


    There''s a sudden, stark shift in airflow, encased by rock walls on each side, close enough that if I spread my arms I could touch both at the same time. The rush of air, as well as the echo of the bike''s engine, reminds me of what it was like back in the grey tunnel. Even though there''s nothing above me this time, besides the open sky. The high walls of the canal turn the sky into a bright, dirty bar of unbearably bright sky overhead.


    Behind me, there''s a series of crashes and bangs as the Seekers impact rock while trying to pursue me through the opening, unable to adjust their path quickly without sliding off course.


    I pull back on the throttle. The canal is a straight shot at first, but it¡¯s quickly turning into a winding, snake-like corridor.


    After about a minute of navigating the tight turns and curves, occasionally checking the mirror and wondering where our stalker might be, I arrive at a cave-like tunnel. I slow even further, concerned at the idea of transitioning so quickly out of the daylight and into pitch dark, crashing into the tunnel wall for lack of night-sight. Luckily, a headlight on the front of the bike flicks on automatically as I pass underneath the tunnel ceiling.


    Minutes pass driving in the darkened tunnel. The air is refreshingly cool in comparison to the outside, if a bit stale. I keep expecting to hear the roar of an additional engine as the pursuer on the air bike catches up with me, but it hasn''t happened yet. In fact, I''m starting to think I may have actually lost him. For now.


    As I turn a corner, there''s a circle of brilliant light up ahead. I decide to accelerate. If there''s somehow a trap waiting for me on the other side, might as well hit it at full speed, right? Go big or go home.


    I burst out through the opening, half certain the bike will explode underneath me as it hits a mine, or some kind of razor wire. But neither of those things happen. I drive on, the cold sweat on my skin warming again under that awful sun.


    Though the rock walls here are just as steep as before, they''re much farther apart. It''s more like a valley or a gorge.


    The path slopes downward, and I follow it, head low, body tight against the bike. I reach a fork in the proverbial road, a three-way split of different paths. Which makes sense. There must have been a flood here at some point to form these canals, and bodies of water tend to converge.


    I take the path on the right, on a lark. Another windy, curvy tangent.


    I slip into a sort of flow state again, winding my way along the path. Minutes pass.


    Wait a minute. Why am I making these decisions? I have no idea where we''re going. Isn''t there somebody I should be consulting?


    It hits me. A sinking, falling feeling in my insides.


    "Sal?" I say, trying to peer over my shoulder as I stay on the move. Is it safe to stop yet? Is this the place to do it? I can feel her, strapped against my back. It''s not like I lost her in the kerfuffle.


    "Blast..." she says.


    I can immediately tell something''s not right. She doesn''t sound right. More than just immobilized, she seems incapacitated. Debilitated. Wrong.


    "One second," I say.


    I can see the canal opening up into a larger gorge again just ahead. I speed up, pop out through the opening, and scan the area. Almost immediately, I see a small cave opening in the side of the steep canyon wall, underneath a rock outcropping. It might not even be visible to air surveillance, in regards to the operative''s airship. Perhaps that''s too much to hope for, but I don''t think I have many options right now, so I''m gonna go for it and hope for the best.


    I have to duck just a little bit to ease under the roof of the mouth of the cave, pulling Sal down with me as I do so. There''s downward slope a ways in, creating some extra head room. I drive the bike a little ways down the slope and pull to a stop. I shut off the engine. The headlight stays on by itself. Heart pounding with anxiety and dread, I untie the cloth wrapped over my torso. I hadn''t even noticed the taut, un-comfy pressure of it, but I''m distantly aware of the difference now that it''s gone. I reach behind me, grabbing Sal to keep her from falling off the bike. I bring one leg up over the handlebars, turning. I lift her. Can''t see her face clearly in the shadows of this place, or any other part of her. Holding her body tight against mine, I step around the bike and into the glow from the headlight. I set Sal down, propping her back against a boulder-esque outcropping. I take a step back.


    Before I can fully take the sight in, Sal coughs, and a spatter of warm blood shotguns onto my chest.

 Chapter 11

    SILAS


    I know this trope. It¡¯s as familiar as it is horrible.


    You have to give something to get something. Nothing¡¯s for free. And sometimes the cost is steep. Too steep. But that''s just the way things are.


    Imagine Star Wars if Obiwan hadn''t sacrificed himself on the Death Star. Imagine Spiderman without the canonical death of Uncle Ben. It''s pretty hard to, isn''t it? If you can do it at all.


    That''s because life is the same way. It''s the Yin and Yang of causality. And if you think that''s cruel, consider the times when there is no Yang to the Yin. When there is only bad, and no good to offset it.


    Maybe it''s reductive, and even dehumanizing, for this to be what''s on my mind, right now. But I''m just trying to compartmentalize this. Make sense of it.


    I''ve never been good around blood. And I''m sure I''ll never be able to deal with death, not really¡ªif such a thing is even possible. But here I am, staring both in the face. I don''t know how else to look at it.


    As I survey Sal''s condition, my breath catches in my throat, as if a valve in my esophagus has sealed shut.


    Blood wells at various points all over her torso, dark blots illuminated by the bike''s headlight, dripping through and soaking her shirt.


    Bullet wounds.


    During the chase, I thought I was just getting lucky. But Sal was the one absorbing all the gunfire from behind.


    "Be honest," Sal says, smiling a little at the corner of her mouth. "How bad is it?"


    I stare, scanning her wounds. Or at least, the blood I can see from her wounds. Her torso and chest heave from the effort of every breath she takes, as if at any second now she''s bound to run out of energy and stop breathing entirely. Every inhale and exhale echoes strangely.


    "You''re going to be okay." That''s a thing you''re supposed to say, isn''t it? Even if my expression probably says the exact opposite. I can only hope, standing next to her with my back to the bike''s headlight, that my face is still cast in shadow.


    "No, I''m not," Sal says, her smile turning dark. "But you are. And that''s what''s important."


    "Important..." I say, confused. "What- Look, there''s gotta be something we can do. We could go back to the armory, or maybe once we get to that place you were talking about-"


    "No," she says, interrupting me. "Don''t. We''re well beyond that. I don''t need an OS to tell me how busted up I am. My systems are failing. I''m leaking out, and I don''t think there''s a way to stop it. I may have only minutes."


    Minutes.


    I stare at her, watching the dark fluid drench her clothes, dripping down onto the rocky floor of the cave. I feel a compulsion. A drive to put pressure on these wounds¡ªsomehow, though there are so many¡ªand get her back onto the bike, and to ride. To get her help. How and where, I couldn''t say. But how can I just stand here while she slowly dies in front of me? How can I-


    I get a sudden flash of a memory. Of a body, wet and cold and dead, being lifted out of a river, and laid onto a stretcher.


    My mind recoils from the image, closing a curtain on it. A twitch courses throughout my body. A physical reaction to the mental turmoil.


    "It''s not your fault," she says, reading my body language. "They wanted me dead. But they wanted you alive, Blast. You have something they want."


    It is my fault. I didn''t react fast enough, and all those unconscious people in the tanks died, unable to defend themselves. The least I could have done was keep Sal safe. And I failed.


    There may be something to what she''s saying, though. There were bullets flying every which way, and none of them managed to hit me. As if they were trying to capture me unharmed.


    Maybe there is something they want from me.


    The data transfer.


    The attack happened after the signal was received, if what Sal said was true. It''s all connected, somehow.


    But what does any of it even mean? What could it mean?


    "I don''t even know who they are," I say.


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    "They," Sal says, "Are the reason the world is the way it is. And if they get their way, it always will be." She coughs again, covering her mouth. Blood seeps between her clamped fingers. "This is pretty much the worst."


    I kneel down, holding her shoulders to keep her from putting so much pressure on her torso.


    At some point in the chaos, her hair had come undone. She peers up at me through a tangle of dark strands, scrawled in matted bolts across her face. Her eyes, ringed with irises the color of bright moss, shift back and forth, searching mine.


    ¡°You still don¡¯t remember, do you?¡±


    I shake my head.


    I have an impulse to tell her there¡¯s nothing to remember. She¡¯s mistaken about me. I¡¯m not just some construct, built and housed in a derelict facility, in a wacked-out timeline where humans seem to have left the world and there¡¯s nothing left but machines. All evidence to the contrary, I am human. All evidence to the contrary, Sal is the one whose memories are wrong.


    But this isn¡¯t the time to say such things. If there ever was such a time.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I say. And then, ¡°I wish I did.¡±


    Which is true, in its own way. It¡¯s a shame for her to look at me, expecting a friend, and see only a stranger. It''s a shame she has to die alone.


    Sal studies my expression. Then, she shakes her head. "No you don''t. You still don''t understand, yet. And that''s okay. Because I know that, even though you know nothing about me in this moment, one day, you will. You''re going to figure out what happened. You''re going to fix your memory. And it''s all going to make sense."


    The image of the stretcher on the riverbank starts to reassert itself in my mind, as two EMT''s rush to push it up the side of the embankment. A shock of dark brown hair hangs out over the side of the stretcher. That, and a limp, pale hand.


    That''s when the bile starts to rise, acidy in my throat. But I swallow, pushing it down. I need to keep it together, because maybe there''s still something I can do. There has to be.


    Not long ago, I watched as cyborgs like her were killed in their sleep. But did I actually believe it, then? It hadn''t felt real. It seemed like a dream.


    Now, with time, the lens of surreality has begun to wear off, like fog on a windowpane being scrubbed away, leaving me with a view unbearable in its clarity.


    There''s a girl dying in front of me.


    "C''mon," I say. I''m starting to panic. Can she hear that, in my voice? "I don''t know what to do, here. You''re the one who knows all the rules. Come up with some kind of crazy plan, and I''ll do it. I''ll get you out of here."


    Sal shakes her head again, smiling sadly. "This is just like you. Reality was never good enough. The world was never good enough."


    I don''t answer. I''m tense, lost in thought.


    Do I go against her wishes? Because if I''m going to, now''s the time. I should just grab her and go, on the off-chance that-


    What? The chance of what?


    ''Getting help?'' Because as far as I know, it''s just rock, sand and dirt for miles. I don''t even know how to get to the facility she was telling me about.


    "Once I''m gone," Sal says, as if reading my thoughts, "Just keep heading north. Something''ll jog loose in your memory, eventually. You''ll find the way."


    "You can''t possibly know that."


    "No," she admits. "It''s a long shot. But it''s all you''ve got. So I know you''ll take it. And...I know it''ll work. It has to."


    Again, I''m at a loss for words. I can''t stand the way she''s looking at me. Like she sees me as this whole other person. Makes me feel sick all over again.


    "I..." I swallow, trying to bring the words together in my mind. "It''s not fair, is it? You saved my life, and...then...this..."


    "You saved my life first," Sal says. "And plenty of other times, besides."


    Right. According to her.


    Something runs against my boot. It''s the pool of blood running out of her, welling out in a circle on the cave floor.


    "Hey," Sal says, bringing my attention back to her. "Don''t look at that. Look at me."


    The openness and warmth in her face is disarming. Meanwhile, the rest of her body is a rigid, contorted, leaky mess. She''s coming apart. Unspooling. But only from the neck down.


    I''m not sure where I''m supposed to look. I settle on her cheek, just a bit to the left of her nose. Though my body is still, I''m having trouble getting my mind to stop spinning, to be present in this moment.


    "Hey," Sal says. She looks...drained. Her face takes on a pallid cast. Her head slumps to one side as strength leaves her neck and upper body. "Can you promise me something?"


    I gulp, and my throat makes an audible click. "I think so."


    "Get your memory back. Figure out what happened. And...remember me. Please."


    "Okay."


    And then things start to get quiet. In visuals as well as sound. In my own thoughts. Everything seems to slow, winding down. From Sal''s breathing, to the whistle of the wind in the canyon outside the cave. The fight I feel in my own soul starts to tire and wane¡ªthe urge to not just sit here, to do something.


    She''s too tired to speak anymore. And what do I have to say? So I meet her eyes, and hold them. I watch her, staring until I see her face less as one whole thing and more as a collection of singular anomalies. The curve of her cheeks. The slant of her chin. The wrinkles of consternation on her brow. The way her bright eyes flicker with every blink.


    I don''t stare out of attraction, or admiration of beauty, though some would likely consider her beautiful. I don''t think I would have ever been in love with this person, if we were even friends. I just...I''m trying to take a photograph, I think. I''m trying to see this person, really see her, in her final moments. The way that I one day hope I might be seen, at the end, rather than dying alone¡ªeven if it''s what I deserve.


    The light from the mouth of the cave shifts as the sun moves across the sky. I realize that though Sal''s eyes are open, I haven''t seen her blink in some time. She''s no longer breathing.


    I let out a gasp. It was some emergency reserve of strength and will which kept me going as I sat here watching her die, but it leaves me now. I keel forward, catching myself with my palms braced against the rocky floor. Frantic, I pull in breath after breath.


    I wish I would just pass out. Let my consciousness, my awareness, be taken away from me. Even better, I wish I could wake up and realize that this is all just some nightmare.


    If I''m just someone''s synthetic robot creation, why am I so tired? Why am I so debilitated by this?


    I crawl toward her body, careless as my fingers, knees, and shins drag through the pool of crimson fluid. In a distant way, I wonder to myself if it''s even blood at all, as it doesn''t smell like it to me, not to mention it doesn''t appear to congeal. But as I collapse next to her, my back against the big rock, those thoughts fade, as well as every other, as my consciousness finally leaves me behind.

 Chapter 12

    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    Now, I can


    I can fix this. I know I can. I-


    And we''re supposed to be superior to humanity. The next evolution. But here I am. Faculties jeopardized by mere emotions. Chemical transmissions in a synthetic brain.

 Chapter 13

before


    They


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    clop-clop-clop


    had


    you


    did


    NeverAlways

 Chapter 14

    SILAS


    [AFTER]


    The air: cool. The ground: hard and lumpy. My feet: cold. Downright cold. And...damp.


    It was all a dream, I''m half-tempted to think. That, and I must have stayed overnight somewhere new, which might explain this feeling of strangeness, of waking up in a place I don''t know.


    Half-tempted.


    If you can even call what I''m doing right now ''being awake''. It''s more like a doze, half-in and half-out, knowing I''m going to wake up soon and not wanting to. Even though I can''t quite remember why I don''t want to. I''m not conscious enough yet to recall. Which is just another reason to stay put, and let myself fall back to-


    It hits me all at once. The liquid. The bubbles. The pierced glass. The explosions. The sweat on my face and the wind in my hair. The bullets and blades.


    The damage done. Wounds beyond healing.


    It''s a shot of adrenaline to the system.


    I sit upright.


    Shadows. And light.


    Shadows so dark I can''t distinguish the opening of the cave in the gloom.


    The light, like a campfire, orangish and flickering, casts tangerine colors that ebb and flow on the walls of the cave nearby. In addition to this, there''s a staticky, crackling sound. Low at first, so low it barely registers, but steadily getting louder. And the source is directly next to me.


    I shift, scooting away to get a better look.


    It''s Sal. Or what''s left of her.


    There''s a bright orange glow emanating from inside the metal vessel of her body, seeping through the joints and seams, illuminating her limbs, her pallid features. Sparks fly, strange little particles shooting up and dissipating from between the gaps. It''s like there''s something shearing her apart, welding through her from the inside.


    I reach toward her. It just seems like I should, like if I move fast enough, I might be able to do something, like pulling a flaming pan off the burner before the fire can spread.


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    I grab her by the shoulders. Something between a searing heat and great electric shock channels into my fingers, making my arms and shoulders twitch and putting a chemical taste on my tongue. I manage to wrench my hands away, the surface of my fingers and hands still stinging.


    The process, whatever it is, starts to escalate. The orange, disintegrating particles travel outward from the torso, into the organic parts of the body. The legs. The arms. The abdomen. The neck. Helpless, I watch as her body immolates, consumed by the glittering blaze. It moves up the neck and over the jaw, the force of it causing her hair to flutter up and out of her face. Her eyes are closed, and for a short moment, it seems like she''s just sleeping, a rotary fan turning to blow air across her face. But by the time the thought has taken shape in my brain, her face is gone, and only a few strands of her hair are left, hovering in the air, until the glowing particles take those as well. And then the light goes out, submerging the cave in darkness.


    What''s left is a collection of metal parts, piled in a little haphazard pyramid. If they made a sound when they clattered to the ground, I hadn''t noticed. Right now, all I can hear is the wind wailing through the canyon just outside the cave. That, and my own shocked, ragged breathing, echoing back to me in the dark confines.


    C''mon. Get a grip.


    I''m trying to. It''s just that every time I turn around, there''s some new anomaly staring me in the face. The frequency of these occurrences doesn''t seem to be letting up.


    But I''m not going to lose it, just yet. Not after...everything.


    There''s something there, in the clutter of metal plates and parts. It glows a faint, radium green. And I''m suddenly struck with an intense inclination to push aside the wreckage and grab the shining object. I have no idea why, but it just seems like the right thing to do.


    I kneel down in front of the collection of parts. I reach a few fingers into the gap from which the light emanates. My fingers close around something. Thin, and strangely warm to the touch.


    I pull. The object catches at first, but then some metal pieces fall out of the way, and it comes free.


    It appears to be some kind of computer chip. Like something you would install in a PC. Green lines pulse on the surface of the slim card, like an electronic highway. It buzzes in my fingers and palm, making my contact points tingle.


    I should hold on to this. This is...important.


    The thought comes from no specific origin point that I can discern. It''s a feeling more than anything else. But a strong feeling.


    I decide to trust it.


    I pocket the chip.


    Once again, darkness seizes the space as the green light from the card goes away, like St. Elmo''s Fire being extinguished.


    I know I should move, but there''s something holding me here.


    Is it right to just leave what''s left of Sal here in a pile, like a garbage heap?


    But what should I do with what''s left of her? And does it matter, anyway?


    You need to keep moving. She wanted you to keep moving. With how long you''ve been here, it might be too late already.


    It''s true. Even if I''m having trouble convincing myself of it, it has to be.


    Still, I hesitate.


    "I''m sorry," I say aloud. "And that promise I made...that wasn''t just lip-service. I intend to keep it."


    I wait, as if expecting some answer to return to me from the void. But of course there is none.


    I tear myself away.


    The party''s been disbanded. I''m going solo.

 Chapter 15

SILAS


    did


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    some


    Don''t ask me how I know that. Don''t ask me how any of this makes sense. Because it doesn''t.


    Still. I  know it.

 Chapter 16

    RAZOR


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    might


    Maybe conditions have improved enough to send in some drones. Couldn''t hurt to look into it.


    UTHORIZATION OVERRIDE''


    What? No. Nononono.


    Shit!


    His


    better


    Because at this rate-


    AUTHORIZATION OVERRIDE''

 Chapter 17

SILAS


    This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

 Chapter 18

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

 Chapter 19

RAZOR


    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    He me to be the first to speak, even if he''s going to hold it against me.


    me


    BLAT


    NO!

 Chapter 20

    SILAS


    I''m being dragged, sliding on my back, across rough, uneven terrain. There''s a hoarse, scraping noise as I''m moved across hard, boulder-like lumps of stone, and occasional pockets of shale, with bits of gravel rattling and rolling next to my ears.


    I open my eyes, but this turns out to be a mistake, as my retinas flare with bolts of pain from the intensity of light perception.


    I clamp my lids tight. Every sensation is heightened, every input a shock to the system, and my vision is no different. What little sunlight there is seeping through the thick clouds is still too much.


    I''m suddenly and viscerally reminded of the time my parents took me with them to visit one of my dad''s coworkers, who owned a hobby farm in the countryside. I ended up tripping on a gopher hole and getting poked in the eye by some rusty chicken-wire. This led to an infection, and multiple trips to the optometrist. I had to wear an eyepatch for weeks. Kids at school called me Captain Kidd; which doesn''t make a whole lot of sense, and to be honest I don''t remember that part all too well. What I do remember is every time I tried to take off that stupid eyepatch, exposing that eye to the light, it hurt like hell. It hurt like nothing else I''d experienced up until that point. It was like someone was jabbing a finger into that eye. A finger with one long, jagged nail.


    That was what I''d felt just now. Only instead of a jagged nail, it was more like two rusty stilettos, one puncturing each eyeball.


    The pain lingers. Throbbing. Pulsating. So I take a breath. Two breaths. Working to steady myself. To stay calm, and in control.


    "He''s awake." The voice is female, muffled by a face mask.


    A sudden spike of adrenaline. My heart thrums as if trying to break free of my chest.


    My feet are bound, braced together. So are my forearms.


    I try to roll over onto my stomach. Maybe from there I can push myself-


    Fingers of lightning jolt into me, raking across and through my body. Lines of electricity jump between my top set of teeth and bottom in my open mouth. My vision fuzzes, glitching out.


    Oh, c''mon, not again-


    But then the darkness has me again.


    I''m awake. I have no way of knowing how much time has passed, or where I might be. I could open my eyes to look. If I''m honest, I''m afraid to.


    Still, as I wait, listening, I realize what woke me. Not the sensation of being pulled and dragged along; I''m deadened to it at this point, the way you no longer notice a fan or the air conditioner running. It''s the same with the plodding footsteps of my captors. But there''s a new sound, now. A sound that feels so odd and alien to me, at this point.


    It''s the sound of laughter. Not only that, but of children laughing. Giggling. Yelling excitedly. Playing. Their tiny, padding footsteps make strange, syncopated echoes, as if in a space both expansive and closed off, a dimension all its own, like a school gym. Small shoes¡ªor perhaps feet¡ªtap, scratch, and scrape their across various surfaces. Sliding and thumping on smooth cement. Clanging up and down stairs made of corrugated metal. Across stacks of cardboard boxes. All this I take in through hearing alone, still mustering the courage to risk the pain that open eyes might bring. There¡¯s a screech, something inexplicable, something in that blurred line between an excited shout and a blood-curdling scream, and suddenly, mentally, I¡¯m back on the playground at recess, playing king-of-the-hill on a big tire that''s half-buried in the ground, pretending the ground is hot lava and not a thick layer of soft wood chips.


    "Told you not to run up there," a man says. One of my captors.


    "But we''re playing!" A little girl calls back.


    "I can see that you''re playing," the first voice responds. "But only run on the floor, okay, sweetheart?"


    There''s a sigh. Then, "Okay, daddy."


    There''s someone who loves their father. Enough to ignore peer pressure and refrain from doing what everyone else is, even when they''re clearly having fun doing it.


    "Bring him this way." A new voice, one I haven''t heard yet. Though, I''m pretty sure it belongs to the man who smiled at me through the clear mask as he was electrocuting me. I just get the feeling.


    The lead connected to my trapped legs pulls at a sharp angle, turning my legs like a rudder. My body tilts a bit to one side as I make the turn. I go along with it, keeping my body as limp as possible. I know from experience I can''t break the braces holding my limbs, so there''s no point in struggling. And if I open my eyes, or otherwise reveal I''m conscious, they''ll just electrocute me again. My best bet is to remain still, listen, and wait for my chance. There''s still a chance they''ll remove these bindings to transition to a more secure means of containment.


    If that happens, that''s when I''m going to move.


    From the straight line in which I''m being dragged, and the echo of the footsteps around me, I assume I''m being transported down some kind of hallway. After a while, the echoes become less pronounced, and I''m turned at an angle again. Then, the procession comes to a sudden halt.


    Someone''s approaching. Hard, fast taps of shoe heels on the solid floor.


    "Gavin." Female voice. Young. But also terse. Curt. Just like the footfalls themselves. "What is this. What did you do?"


    "Look what I found," says the man who captured me, smiling while he did it. I''m certain it''s him, now. "C''mere, check it out."


    "I can see well enough," she says, coming to a stop with a stomp of her foot. "Where did you find him?"


    "It," Gavin says, putting special emphasis on the word, "Was poking around just in range of our sensors. Looking to scout us out."


    "And how would you know that?"


    Gavin snorts. "Well, what the hell else would they be looking for? How else would you explain that ship that''s been buzzing around?"


    "You could try asking him," the girl says. "He''d probably know. Instead of making wild, confident guesses."


    A condescending laugh from Gavin.


    "Nice try, Lolo," Gavin says. "I''m not talking to the machine. It would just lie, anyway. I''ll scrape its database, though. Might have some worthwhile info tucked away in its noggin. Strip it for parts, too. Might be able to get some useful tech out of it." There''s a pause and then his voice gets low and serious. "Before I do that, though, after it''s disabled, I''m gonna hang it from the crane in the main hall. I want everyone to see what we''re capable of. I want everyone to see we''re better than them."


    There are some murmurs and grunts of assent from the rest of the captors, and even one, "That''s right." It gives me the image of a preacher, standing amid his congregation, one hand raised. "Can I get an amen?!"


    "First of all," the girl says, "My name isn''t ''Lolo''. Secondly-"


    "I know," Gavin says, voice quiet, almost hushed, boots thudding as he takes a few steps. "But I like it. It''s more...feminine."


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    "Gavin-"


    "We''ll talk about this later. I have to take care of this. Let''s go, guys."


    There''s a yank on the lead, and we''re moving again.


    "That''s what I''m trying to talk to you about," the girl says, following along with us. "I''m not sure you''re dealing with what you think you are."


    "You don''t need to worry. I''ve got everything under control."


    "GAVIN-"


    We head around another corner, and the acoustics change again; a smaller, more confined space.


    The girl''s footsteps follow us. There''s an abrupt downhill descent, but only for a couple seconds. Then I come to a stop, and there''s a rattling, cranking sound as a heavy sliding-door locks shut at the edge of the room. Something catches on the brace holding my wrists together. There''s a click somewhere, followed by a mechanical hum as my arms raise up, legs dangling underneath me.


    If there was a chance to fight back, to escape from my bonds somehow, it''s possible I just missed it.


    By my guess, my feet are a good several feet from the ground when the crane comes to a stop.


    "You know my dad used to talk about another facility just miles south of here," the girl says. "Just because you never found it doesn''t mean it wasn''t there.¡±


    One long, loaded silence.


    "I think we got it, boys," Gavin says. "I can take it from here. For now."


    The response is immediate. The orders are clear. There''s some shuffling, and then the cranking open of the heavy door.


    "Just let us know if we''re needed," someone calls from the other side of the doorway.


    "You know I will," Gavin says.


    The door rumbles shut.


    A sharp slap. The sound resonates in the space, pinging from one wall to another and back, like a digital delay effect.


    I crack one eye.


    Both Gavin and the girl are standing on the other side of a table littered with tools, in what appears to be some kind of mechanic''s garage. Gavin is no longer wearing his mask or jacket. His jaw is tight. His cheeks are an angry red. He''s glaring down at a blonde-haired girl who looks a good five to ten years younger than he is, as well as being several inches shorter. She wears a matter-of-fact, slightly too-big navy jumpsuit, zipped all the way up to the collar. She has the collar turned up, hiding the back and sides of her neck. Her face is turned away from Gavin, and toward me. Her frizzy, jaw-length hair is a mess of chaotic energy about her head and the sides of her face, likely ruffled by the strike that was just administered. There''s a crimson mark blooming on her cheek, evident in the wan light cast from the long strip of fluorescent lamp overhead.


    She sees me. That is, she sees me seeing her. She has a soft face, but in this moment, her eyes are hard, and cold. Still, there''s a glint of embarrassment there. Shame. She doesn''t like that I''m seeing this. That the two of us are making eye contact while this is happening. However, she doesn''t look away. Her gaze is an act of defiance. A challenge.


    "Don''t ever contradict me in front of our people," Gavin says. He doesn''t seem to notice one of my eyes is open, or that I''m making eye contact with her. "We need strong leadership. Especially now."


    "No one made you the leader," the girl says, turning to look up at him. "Let alone a dictator."


    "I''m Head of the Watch," Gavin says. "That''s close enough. Besides, maybe we need some Martial Law, right now. Maybe it''s time for a change."


    "You''re saying," she says, in a level tone, "We should go against my father''s wishes?"


    Something strange and scary happens. Gavin''s face softens. His body language relaxes. He smiles. It''s the same smile he gave me.


    "Lolo," he says, slowly reaching up to grip her upper arms from the sides, like a lover''s soothing touch. "We all loved your father. He was a man''s man, and a great thinker besides. He knew how to take care of us. But...he''s gone, now. And someone needs to take his place."


    "Someone did take his place." Her voice is quiet. In a way that comes across as dangerous to me. Like a snake''s gentle rattle in the tall grass. "I oversee all my father''s prior duties. I keep this place running and functioning. That''s why I was voted in as a member of the Board. What do you think I''ve been doing these past months?"


    "And you''ve done a great job," Gavin says placatingly, running his hands slowly up and down her arms. "But let''s be honest, when the community looks at you, they don''t see Darvin. They see...well..."


    "A woman?"


    Gavin freezes. Slowly lowers his arms. "You know that''s not what I mean."


    "Yes, it is. You would never dare to say it. But it''s exactly what you mean."


    Something passes between them, something I can''t fully see.


    Gavin takes a step back. He leans. One hand on the table, the other on his hip.


    "Alright," he says. "If you''re not too sensitive to hear me say it, I''ll speak plainly."


    "Fine," the girl says, folding her arms. There''s a minute twitch of the eyebrows, and she suddenly has the look of someone who''s about to watch a man dig his own grave.


    "Your father," Gavin says, "Despite his many admirable qualities, was an idealist. I think you know that as well as me. He saw the world not as it was, but as he wanted it to be."


    "He had vision," the girl says, unperturbed.


    "Sure. But that''s not enough. It''s not enough to ''be right'', or to want the right things. People are attracted to strength. It was your father''s strength, his charisma, his stability, that kept everything together. He was the glue. And now he''s gone."


    "I''m well aware of his passing," the girl says. There''s a gleam in her eye, of light catching in some moisture there.


    "My point is, what we saw in Darvin, what we believed in..." He gestures vaguely at the girl. "When people look at you, they just don''t see it."


    "And I''m sure the way you treat me, and the way you talk to me behind my back, has nothing to do with it."


    "I only say what everyone else can already see," Gavin says earnestly, taking one small step closer to her. "You''re not leadership material. But that''s just it. People do look up to me. Between the two of us, if we work together, I think we have a real shot at keeping these people alive for at least the next generation or so. Who knows, maybe we can actually start to make a difference. Maybe we can change things. But survival has to come first. Strength has to come first."


    Once he''s done, he goes quiet, waiting for her response. She''s silent, letting him wait, even as he leans toward and above her, looming.


    "And what," she says, slowly, hesitantly, "Do you have in mind, exactly?"


    "What do you think?" He says.


    He''s real close, now. The girl brings up a hand to push on his chest, but he catches it in his own.


    "I think," he says, so close she likely feels his breath on her face, "We would make a good team."


    Are her cheeks flushed? It''s almost hard to tell. She''s lets out a long, breathy sigh, eyes pointing down toward the floor.


    "No," she says. So quiet I can barely hear.


    Gavin stiffens. Unmoving. He won''t let her go. As if he''s waiting for a different answer. A different outcome. The kind he''s used to getting, probably. The one he wants.


    "No," she says again, bringing her eyes back up to meet Gavin''s. "It''s always been no. And it''s always going to be no. I told you no, over and over. And so you went to my father, and he told you no. And now you think, because he''s gone, I''m just a weak, helpless girl in need of a man, and I have no choice but to say yes. That''s how little you think of me."


    "Shiloh, that''s not-"


    "So you are capable of calling me by the name my father gave me," she says.


    Gavin takes a breath. And holds it.


    "I think," he says, "You make some excellent points. And that, perhaps, we should continue this conversation at another time. After all, I have some work to do here."


    He''s taking a step back. It''s tactical, and it''s condescending, but is a retreat all the same. And in that act, there''s a level of restraint and self-control I had not before thought possible.


    I''m reminded of that time I got into a fight with those boys who insulted my dad. My mom came to school to pick me up, and on the way out, we bumped into the mother of one of the other boys. This other woman had a few choice¡ªif passive-aggressive¡ªwords for us. My mother listened and nodded. She was obliging and amicable enough. Only, once we''d said goodbye, and got out to the parking lot, she made one glance around, opened up the Leatherman in her purse, and slashed the back tire of the woman''s Hybrid CRV.


    My mom, and some of the more erratic parts of her behavior, is a topic of pontification for another time. The point right now is that this guy is more dangerous than he seems. When the time comes, I need to be sure not to underestimate him.


    In this case, the girl¡ªShiloh¡ªdoesn''t take the out, but leans forward, pressing her advantage.


    "I think I should stay and help," she says. "Like I said, I don''t think you know what you''re dealing with."


    Gavin watches her, gauging her hard expression. Then, in real time, I see him pivot. She wants to get serious about it, so he decides to be loose and relaxed.


    He grunts, giving her a half-smile. "Fine by me. The more the merrier. We''ll need the equipment, though. We''re not set up for it, in here."


    "I''ll take care of it." Shiloh turns and heads toward the door. But then she stops, swiveling back around to face Gavin on her heels, hands in the pockets of her jumpsuit.


    "But, Gavin, if you ever raise a hand to me again, you''ll pay for it. I''m serious. This is your one and only warning."


    "Promises, promises," he says, still half-smiling.


    "It is a promise," Shiloh says. "Believe it."


    She pulls a lever, and the door slides open, clinking and clunking. It shuts behind her.


    Within a second or two of the door sliding shut, Gavin reaches for the walkie-talkie holstered on his belt. It beeps as he squeezes the button on the side. "Miles. I need you to follow Miss Darvin. See what she does. If she goes to speak with somebody, listen to what she says. Then report back to me."


    Once the orders are given, he deflates a little, taking a moment to gather himself. His eyes flit down, sorting through some of the objects littered on the table. Then they come up to meet my own eyes.


    "I suppose you were awake for all of that."


    I open both eyes fully. No need to maintain the fa?ade, anymore. "My mother always said it was rude to eavesdrop."


    "You don''t have a mother," Gavin says, matter-of-factly. He''s rummaging through his tools, looking for something.


    "You could say so. But I did. At one time."


    "No," Gavin says, glancing up from his work. "You didn''t." Then he cocks his head, staring at me. "You really don''t know, do you? Your memory banks must be on the fritz." He shrugs, head down again. "No matter. We''ll extract what we can. And you''ll see for yourself. Soon enough."

 Chapter 21

    needs


    Pull yourself together.


    Not the only thing that needs replacing, around here.


    father


    changeddeserved


    wants


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    Shit.  is what''s going around?


    I need to talk with the members of the board. I need to get ahead of this thing.

 Chapter 22

God


    person


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    ship


    sentcould


    ''I still don''t see what it would have to do with me,''


    through


    make


    I''ll make you remember.''

 Chapter 23

    SHILOH


    The Cloister. Shiloh''s home. Shiloh''s world.


    Though she''s been outside before on expeditions, she can''t decide if she cares for the open world much. It is terrifying in its scale, and unforgiving in its inhospitality. She can only glimpse it through a clear glass lens, her breath echoing inside her survival mask as she inhales clean, cycled air through filtered tubes. The open world rejects humanity. It rejects life itself. Even these brief exposures leave Shiloh breathless with awe, but also a renewed conviction for insular living. The outside is out there. And that''s where it should stay, away from where people live.


    And yet, it is difficult to forget the stories her father used to tell her. Tales of generations past, of a time when humanity and nature were in at least some degree of harmony. A time when the world was humankind''s home. When you could breathe fresh, natural air. You could look up at the stars, your view of the sky unimpeded by dark clouds and a thick, polluted atmosphere. A time, a place where you could just...be.


    A mythical tale. A legend. A fantasy. But it is¡ªwas¡ªher father''s fantasy. And despite her numerous misgivings, Shiloh can''t bring herself to give it up.


    Still, until that time when the world is humanity''s domain once more, the Cloister will more than do.


    It is not open. Chaotic. Unpredictable. It is a closed system. Defined. Regulated.


    It is not a big place. Shiloh knows and feels this, though there are few structures in her memory to compare the Cloister to. It takes, at most, fifteen minutes to travel between its two furthest points; one being East Housing, and the other the far end of Salvage. From the electronics section of Salvage, it normally takes Shiloh twelve minutes to make the journey. Moving at a fast clip, she hopes she can cut it down to eight minutes, maybe even seven.


    She passes through the main hall for the second time in the past several minutes. It''s only a little crowded. The Cargo Bay is a lot like what Darvin used to refer to as the ''water cooler''. A place where people congregate, away from their daily duties, to shoot the shit for a while. Also, being the largest and most open space in the Cloister, it''s where the younger children like to spend their time for most of the day, when they aren''t doing chores. There''s enough room for them to run and play games without getting in the way of the adults.


    Right now, the kids are playing the aptly named ''First to the Top''. It''s exactly like it sounds. One of the biggest, highest, most notable features in the bay is the Crane. A giant arm composed of latticed, crisscrossing metal, extending out toward the center of the bay, holding a long chain with a massive hook dangling at the end. Underneath and leading to the crane system is a metal stairway. It is iron-brown, the color of rust and old rebar. But it appears to still be secure enough. Most of the adults don''t seem to mind when the kids race up those old stairs, as long as they''re not pushing, shoving, or trying to climb up along the outside, clinging to the railing like jungle monkeys in the old picture books and video archives.


    A couple of them notice Shiloh passing through, and turn to wave down to her from up on the stairs. Shiloh returns their waves, and their smiles, but under the surface she can feel the tension building. Time is running out. Actually, it feels like it already has run out, and she''s just watching the inevitable play out.


    She exits the main hall through a double-door sized opening and heads down one of the hallways. The corridor is mostly empty. She passes two people, but otherwise it''s just her, the buzz of the lights, her footsteps echoing off the walls of concrete. Walls that are starting to feel more and more cramped, as if they are squeezing down, closing in on her.


    Minutes pass¡ª¡ªtoo many, it feels--before Shiloh is standing in front of a metal door with a laminated card which reads: ''Evelyn Keller''.


    Shiloh brings up a fist, about to rap on the door with her knuckles. She hesitates. And with that hesitation, there is a sharp intake of breath, which she holds, even as the seconds pass. Her heart dances in her chest, moving to a rhythm she can feel pounding in her face, ears, and neck.


    If she does this, if she goes through with this, there will be no turning back. She will have drawn a line in the sand.


    If she fails, she could lose everything. But as far as she can see, she''s about to lose it all, anyway. Maybe not now, or today, but soon. Gavin''s influence is already too strong. If he has his way, and things continue down this trajectory, the community will be trapped here, in the Cloister, for decades and generations to come.


    If there''s one thing her father taught her, and that she''s come to believe, it''s that human beings aren''t meant to live in a hole like this. Not forever.


    She knocks. Three times. The metal is smooth and cold against her knuckles.


    She waits. Long enough to wonder if perhaps she should knock again.


    Just when she''s about to, the door cracks and Evelyn''s face peeks out through the gap. Wizened and matronly, with puffy, sagging cheeks, ringed with collagenic wrinkles. Her hair is still thick, though it is a shiny, silverish grey. She has it pulled back tight into a severe bun, which always makes her look older than she actually is.


    ¡°Should I put on some coffee?¡± she says, examining Shiloh with bright, intelligently glistening eyes. You can always see someone''s actual age in the eyes. The identity of a person lies in the mind, not the body, Shiloh feels. Perhaps, as with most people, Evelyn''s eyes will one day turn distant and unfocused, but Shiloh still believes they are far from that yet.


    "If you like," Shiloh says. "But I''m short on time. Did Ezra pop by?"


    "Seamus did," Evelyn says. "I decided to stay put for a few more minutes. Seeing as you''re the one who called the meeting, I figured you might want to touch base with me beforehand."


    "You were right," Shiloh says.


    Now she sees that bright look in Evelyn''s eyes for what it is. Curiosity.


    Her living quarters are the space of one modestly sized room, if you don''t count the closet-sized space for the toilet.


    There''s a chair next to a writing desk. A small shelf with a curated selection of books. Most of them are classics like The Illiad and Moby Dick and A Tale of Two Cities, though there''s also an entire row of titles by someone named Stephen King.


    Three framed pictures rest on top of the bookshelf. One of Evelyn and her late husband, Mateo. They are much younger people. In the prime of their life. At a time when the world itself was also at its prime. They are holding hands, leaning in toward one another. A horizontally stretched tree branch levitates above them in the foreground. The air is clear, and the tree''s bark is a bright, papery white under the high sun. The branch is dotted with vibrant pink blossoms. Petals fall like thick flakes of snow.


    Evelyn and Mateo have bright, full smiles in the picture. As bright and wondrous as the rivulets of sunlight on the surface of the creek behind them.


    Sometimes, Shiloh finds herself looking into the eyes of the subjects of this picture. As if, if she gazes long enough, she can see what they saw. Feel what they felt. Know, for sure, that it was all actually real.


    Next to that framed picture is one of Evelyn''s two boys. Hugo and Sebastien. They are in their late teens, their backs to one of the shipping containers in the Cargo Bay, arms crossed, smiling. They both died at the same time Mateo did, on the same expedition. An unexpected SERAPHIM attack. They went too far, and into the wrong territory. The Cloister has extensive maps of where the supposed ''safe'' areas are now, but not back then. Mateo and the boys probably never even saw the threat coming. After recovering the bodies, the Watch discovered none of the three had managed to fire off even a single round.


    The last picture is of Evelyn next to Shiloh''s father. She and Darvin had just finished planting the first tree in the greenhouse, under the UV lights. Nothing but a little, slightly wilted sapling. Not much to look at. But boy do they seem proud of it.


    To be honest, Shiloh is surprised she still keeps this picture up. Mateo and the boys died carrying out Darvin''s orders. Back then, he''d still been trying to access the facility to the south. It wasn''t until after that tragic incident that Darvin slowly began to dial back on his efforts. Things weren''t the same. Everyone blamed Darvin, and he blamed himself. Shiloh had to watch as the fire of her father''s passion, stoked and blazing for as many years as she could remember, slowly ebbed and faded away. There were only embers left in his final days, never to be reignited.


    But Shiloh''s been standing in front of the bookshelf, staring at those pictures, for too long. Does she expect to gain some insight, gazing at this old photograph of her father? By peering into those eyes, is she to cross the boundary of death itself, and retrieve some of that strength her father once had, harnessing it for herself?


    She thinks not.


    There''s a counter in the corner, with a plug-in burner, and a coffee maker. Two implements Evelyn uses to make most of her food. She claims she drinks coffee off and on throughout the day, and has a meager, singular meal at night, just a couple hours before bed. ''People eat a lot more than they need to, Shiloh. You''d do well to eat fewer meals. It''s better for your energy, as well as your figure. You''ll realize I''m right as you get older.''


    She has her back to Shiloh, pouring coffee grinds out of a tin can and onto a filter.


    "I assume this has to do with that Ruster Gavin and the boys picked up."


    "Yes. Well, no. And yes."


    Evelyn stops to look over her shoulder. "I''m waiting with bated breath, sweetheart."


    Shiloh pulls one hand out of the pocket of her jumpsuit. Another wave of apprehension seizes her suddenly, as if her wrist is caught, stuck on the inside hem.


    Is she going to regret this? Is it a mistake? What will happen as a result?


    Her father would tell her to perform...what had he called it? ''Cost-Benefit Analysis.'' You weigh the pros, and the cons. You decide what you''re willing to give, and if the thing you stand to gain is enough to offset the potential cost.


    Gavin will come for her in earnest. He''ll find a way to push her out of the inner circle, take her power away. But there''s more at stake here than her own prestige and social standing.


    Besides, if she can''t stand up for herself, why should she think she can stand up for the community, and for the future of mankind?


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    No more deliberations. At some point, courage has to prevail. In the same way that her father believed in a future he knew he wouldn''t live to see, Shiloh herself must take this flying leap into the unknown.


    She pulls a tape recorder out of her pocket and sets it on the counter to the left of Evelyn. She sets her finger on the Play button and punches it down with a crunchy click. And the audio recording begins to play.


    In the passing moments, as the recording plays, Evelyn pours out coffee into two ceramic mugs. She hands one to Shiloh, without making eye contact. Her gaze is distant, contemplative. Every ounce of her focus and attention is on the recording.


    The tape doesn''t go for very long. It starts at the point, in the mechanical bay, when Shiloh brought up the southern facility. She''d already turned on the recorder in the deep pocket of her jumpsuit. Luckily, the conversation between her and Gavin comes through loud and clear, even if it is a bit tinny and high-pitched. The slap is unmistakable. Then the back-and-forth escalates. Gavin claims he should be in charge, that maybe the Cloister could use some ''Martial Law''. This is the most crucial part of the recording, and Shiloh watches Evelyn for a reaction. Evelyn takes a good, long sip from her coffee, eyes wide, staring off at nothing.


    The recording continues. Gavin criticizes the old regime further¡ªas well as the current regime. He comes on to Shiloh. She turns him down, and that''s when the exchange goes from fiery hot, to freezing, as they both create distance with each other, setting the boundaries. But the intentions are clearly communicated for both, and the truce, if one can call it that, is temporary.


    The recording ends with Shiloh''s last words to Gavin. "It is a promise. Believe it."


    Click.


    The Play button on the recorder snaps back up to its original position. Evelyn finally turns her attention to Shiloh. She takes a long, slow slurp of coffee. Outside, there''s the padded echo of multiple pairs of boots traveling down the hall. They are quiet, loud, then quieter again.


    "Is there any particular reason you''ve chosen to show me this?" Evelyn asks. She looks at Shiloh over the rim of her mug. Plain-faced. Eyes flinty.


    Something about that look puts the hairs all down her back on end. She hopes Evelyn can''t see how unnerved she is.


    She leans against the counter, holding up her cup as if she might take a sip, though coffee is the furthest thing from her mind.


    "I''m in a corner, Evelyn."


    "I can see that. Gavin''s going to appeal to the Board to have the Watch''s purview expanded. They''ll give him powers he''s never had, before. God knows what he''ll do with them. But he''s done a fair enough job, so far."


    "You''re seriously going to justify this behavior?" Shiloh says. She''s making a conscious effort to keep her voice at an even keel. She can''t afford to flip out. Let Gavin be the crazy one. But she needs to stay in control.


    "Not at all," Evelyn says. "But the reality, whether you like it or not, is that Gavin has been indispensable to the Cloister for a long time now. He has little fear for the outside, and without his expeditions we wouldn''t have half the resources and tech we have now. We wouldn''t even have the Walker. And without the Walker, no one''s getting out of this place. To get it, you would have to go through him, anyway."


    "What does the Walker have to do with this?" Shiloh says. It''s a pointless denial. She knows it even as she says it.


    Evelyn sets down her cup, with a gentle tap of ceramic mug against ceramic tile. The movement is slow, cold, and calculated.


    "Don''t play games with me," Evelyn says. "The Walker is everything. It''s the last bastion humanity has, should the Cloister fall under attack. It''s the only way out of here. And Gavin''s not going to let you take it. So what are we talking about?"


    "But that''s why I came to you. If we can convince at least one other member of the Board-"


    "Miss Darvin," Evelyn cuts in. Sharp, in the tone of a reprimand.


    To Shiloh, who has looked up to Mrs. Keller her entire life, it''s not unlike a slap. For a sliver of a second, she is rendered childlike. She can''t help but feel like she''s misbehaved by contradicting the older lady. Still, the transformation is brief. She sloughs off that emotion, shedding it like an old coat that doesn''t fit her anymore.


    Still, she decides to let Evelyn finish out her rebuke.


    "Let¡¯s not dance around the issue," Evelyn says. "This thing between you and Gavin is a conflict of interest. Your focus is outward. His focus is inward. It is a difference of ideology. Let''s not make it out to be anything more than that. It''s just politics. The question you should be asking is, what''s in it for me? Why should I help you?"


    Shiloh stares at Evelyn. It''s like she''s looking at her for the first time. This old, harrowed lady with her tight posture and severe expression, and so many wrinkles.


    It''s as if something has been pulled back and Shiloh is being given a glimpse into the interior. It''s not a lie, the outside. It''s the truth. But so is the inside. And the inside is the part that Evelyn has kept locked away. Perhaps for Shiloh''s benefit and the rest of the community, and perhaps for her own.


    But something''s changed. The shift in the status quo has triggered this. There is a new avenue for adaptation. A new way for Evelyn to process her sorrow.


    Or maybe this is how she''s always seen it. Since the death of Mateo and her sons, at least. She''s always had this conviction of where the blame should be laid, and what the future of the Cloister should be.


    "He wants to make me his wife," Shiloh says.


    "Then say no," Evelyn says. "Carter popped the question to me a year after Matteo died and I told him to go outside without a mask. You can do the same. You''re a grown woman, Shiloh. You''re an adult, act like one. Stop letting him push you around. Grow up, already. You act like it''s so strange for him to be interested in you. But there''s only so many young ladies in this place to go around. We live in a concrete box, for God''s sakes. It does things to everybody, especially the men. You can''t discount that."


    "So," Shiloh says. "You agree that we don''t belong here."


    Evelyn doesn''t answer right away. Her expression is stiff and unmoving. But there''s something going on behind the eyes. It''s as if there decades of memories are playing out behind her irises.


    "There was a time," she says, slowly, "When almost everyone here in the Cloister would agree with you. They would stand with you. There was a time when there wasn''t one person here that didn''t want to get out. There was a time when we believed there was a better world out there, worth striving for. But it''s been decades, now. A lot of those people are old. A lot of those people are already dead. And the young ones, the ones coming up, they don''t remember what it was like. They don''t remember the way things used to be. We''ve been down here so long, it''s become normal. And if there''s one thing that people are terrified of the most, it''s the unknown. They don''t want to leave. They don''t want to change. And the idea that you can fix that, that you can reverse the entire mindset of this community on a dime...I''m telling you, it''s a mistake."


    Shiloh sets down her coffee. "You say that as if it''s viable to live down here in the long term."


    "Perhaps. But we can''t survive out there, either. Your attempts to pursue a dead man''s dreams are going to fracture what community we have left. Destroy the resources that we have and alienate the people that are going to keep us alive. And I don''t even think you realize that''s what you''re doing."


    A dead man''s dream. That''s all she has to say about it. Decades of work and sacrifice. Decades of helping and protecting everyone. Decades of trying to save humanity and the world.


    It''s everything Shiloh''s ever feared. To be confronted with the fact that nothing her father did mattered, and that none of the values and priorities she inherited from him mattered either.


    Couldn''t she see? The world was fucked. Humanity was going to dwindle and die, no matter what. So why even try? Why even put up a fight?


    Well. Because it''s the right thing to do. That''s why. It is not scientific, perhaps even rational, to say so. But it is true.


    Not that logic has a role in this, at this point. Shiloh expected Evelyn to be sensible. By operating on that assumption, she''s walked directly into an intellectual brick wall.


    It doesn''t make any sense. Does Evelyn not see it, or does she just not want to see it?


    "You think I haven''t considered the risks?" Shiloh says. "Of course I have. That''s the whole point. Don''t you know what''s going to happen to us if we stay down here? Not just spiritually. I''m talking about the fucking gene pool, here. Is that really the world you want to exist? Or do you just not care because you''re so old you think you''re never going to have to see it? "


    "I should kick you out for that," Evelyn says. Her eyes are glinting, moisture settling in the corners. "But there''s a reason I waited to speak with you alone. I''ve been around long enough to know things are about to change, around here. And I''ve known you long enough to predict what you might try to do. It''s my responsibility to finally put this to rest."


    Shiloh has half a mind to walk out right now. Because maybe there''s still time to pivot. To try something else. Even if she''s not sure what, yet.


    "Do you know what you''re really afraid of?" Evelyn says. "Almost as much as your father was?"


    She''s close now, leaning toward and somehow over Shiloh, though they are about the same height. She''s braced, one hand gripping the edge of the counter, using her arm to gain a little bit of height, and perhaps strength as well.


    Every part of her is trembling. Just a little. Her jaw is clenched, her brow is furrowed. But she is shaking.


    "It''s over," she says, barely louder than a whisper. As she speaks, her eyes seem to look through and past Shiloh, as if the words are not actually meant for her, not entirely. As if she''s reciting some creed for her own edification. "Whatever the world was, whatever it used to be. It''s done. Whatever humanity was, whatever we used to be, we''re done too. For all we know, we are the last, and we''re not going to be here for that much longer.


    "You don''t want to face reality. Fine. You''re young, and your father was young at heart. Young people are supposed to dream. But that''s all it is. It''s just a dream. So leave me out of it."


    With that, she deflates. Still defiant, but not quite so in Shiloh''s face. The message has been delivered. If not the message Evelyn must have intended it to be. This display. It''s not one of strength, but grief.


    Even after all these years, Evelyn grieves. And why shouldn''t she? She has that right. It''s almost a wonder she''s never laid the deaths of Matteo and her sons at Shiloh''s feet, as illogical as that would ultimately be. Darvin may have given the order, but it had still been Mateo''s decision to carry it out. He and his sons knew what they were potentially getting into.


    In terms of brutal facts and logic, it is irrational to place all the blame on Darvin for what happened.


    But grief isn''t always rational, and it is not so easily quieted. It''s been many years since those deaths, and during those years, Evelyn''s had plenty of time to think about how it happened, and why, and to imagine how things may have gone differently. In the end, who should she blame? In the end, what sense can be made of what happened?


    Mateo believed in something. He believed in a future that he tried to help create. And that future never came. His death was for nothing.


    How do you process something like that? Where do you put it?


    No. Shiloh doesn''t blame Evelyn at all. She empathizes. She wants to understand. Shiloh isn''t operating based on her fear and anxieties; or at least, not just that. It is courage and hope which drives her, now. She just needs Evelyn to see that.


    Hope is contagious, after all. Hope is the reason why the people of the Cloister believed in and followed Darvin, and for all those years. In the times when their hope was not enough, Darvin supplied the rest.


    There''s a strength of will that comes with faith. Shiloh has felt it.


    When her father was alive, she''d believed she got that strength from him, that it flowed from him to her like energy in a conduit. But now she believes that perhaps this was only partly true. Perhaps she has some of this strength of her own, and has all along.


    "That Ruster Gavin brought in," Shiloh says. She moves on to the next topic¡ªher next point, really¡ªas if this is a round table meeting, and not every voice has been heard yet. "He came from the south. On foot."


    Evelyn takes a step back. "Is that supposed to mean anything to me?"


    "My dad said that there was a facility to the south with models that had been put into hibernation. If this is one of those models, and he was right about that, then maybe he was right about the rest of it."


    "You''re free to believe it, if you wish," Evelyn says. Her eyes are weary and dark. "You can walk that path of death. But I''ll do what I can to make sure you don''t take anyone with you. I''m not sure I can be any more clear than that."


    So that''s it, then. Even if she could prove it was true, that humanity had a potential future, Evelyn would still choose the Cloister. She really has lost hope.


    Well, this has been a colossal waste of time.


    But at least now Shiloh knows. What she should make of it, and what exactly she should do next¡ªthat, she doesn''t know.


    She''s almost ashamed to realize she hadn''t just wanted Evelyn''s help. Part of her wanted Evelyn to take over. To shoulder the burden of it. To be the strong, ruthless figure she always imagined her to be.


    It''s always better to be disillusioned sooner rather than later.


    Shiloh should see herself out. She needs space. She needs to think. While there''s still some time.


    She grabs the tape recorder off the counter. Just as she slips it into her pocket, there''s a sudden, electronic beep from just outside Evelyn''s door, and the crackle of radio static.


    Shiloh and Evelyn exchange questioning looks.


    The moment drags, as if slowed down. A slideshow, played frame by agonizing frame.


    But then the inertia kicks in.


    Shiloh makes it to the door in two quick bounds. Her hand finds the latch. She pulls, and swings the door wide.


    Miles stands directly in front of the open door, facing it, eyes wide and brows elevated in a snapshot of ''fight-or-flight''. She''s caught him somewhere between the two. If she''s honest, she''s not sure how to handle the situation yet, herself.


    In one hand, Miles holds the chattering walkie-talkie. And as the awkward seconds pass, Shiloh realizes he''s more interested in the words coming through the radio than the fact he was just caught eavesdropping.


    "...repeat, this is not a drill, every woman and child must be escorted to the Safe Rooms. Every able-bodied man must report to the Armory for instructions, every Board Member must report to Surveillance. I repeat, this is not a drill-"

 Chapter 24

    SILAS


    Loud, crackly, buzzing sounds. Voices. Staticky. Like radio noise in a cop car.


    To be honest, I''m surprised I even notice. The pain is very raw, and very real, and try as I might, I cannot block it out.


    It''s funny, I''ve always thought I would hold up well to torture, perhaps in the same way that a lot of men seem to think they could rise to the occasion and land an airliner in an emergency. I relate to strong, competent heroes. I like to think that, in dire situations, I''d be able to exercise similar levels of control.


    Something''s happening in this room. Something noisy. But it feels distant and unimportant. It feels like I''m hearing and seeing it somewhere at the end of a long, echoe-y tunnel.


    I can''t bring myself to care about it. All I know is that I''m in more pain right now than I''ve ever felt in my entire life. If it continues¡ªand it seems like it will¡ªI may very well go insane.


    Perhaps it''s better, then, to focus on what''s happening here, in this room, rather than the pain.


    Gavin. He''s at a stand-still, listening intently to the radio chatter. Whatever thrill, whatever excitement he''d felt at what he was doing to me¡ªthat seems to be gone now. He''s already moved on to something else. It''s as if I''m not even here. It''s as if this project, which has been underway for the past 20 minutes, doesn''t even matter anymore.


    I''m like a half dissected carcass left to rot on an examination table. Stretched out, opened up. I can only assume that I''m about to be slowly disseminated into all my various parts.


    He mounted a mirror. It''s up in the corner. I can see myself clearly in it. He wants me to see.


    What am I, anyway? I don''t even know anymore.


    I believe I''m human. I know I''m human. But all I can see right now are plates, and pistons, and wires, and parts. All I can see are things that I never would have believed to be pieces of me.


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    There are organic bits in there, too. Somehow, they don''t seem like they belong. They seem alien, housed in these cages of metal. Gavin has unlocked those cages to show me what''s inside.


    Was the mind meant to experience something like this? To see myself, pried open like a toy in need of a new battery?


    The various fleshy-looking organs arranged inside my torso are connected by these strange, conjoined, rope-like tubes, some of them looking kind of like the liquid cooling system for a PC. As I watch them, they move and throb a little. They vibrate to the rhythm of the weirdest organ of them all; what looks to be my heart. White. Puffy. Moist. Pulsing.


    With every beat, with every pulse that I can see in that mirror, there''s an aching thud in my head to match it.


    The same fluid, whatever''s pumping in that heart, is also circulating in my brain. I hope he doesn''t show me that, too, but I think he will. He''ll show me that, and a lot more before this is over.


    But for now, the operation has come to a stand-still. Gavin listens to the radio, his eyes wide and somewhere else. Meanwhile, the voices get louder, more frantic.


    Finally, he shuts off the walkie-talkie. As if he''s heard enough.


    "I need to go out for a bit," he says. "Don''t go anywhere."


    No! I want to yell. Please don''t leave me alone. Don''t leave me here like this, with nothing to look at, nothing to distract me.


    I can''t even move. My limbs are stretched out like complicated springs. And that fucking mirror, revealing my body from the waist up¡ªif he would at least take it down-


    But Gavin is already gone, with the door sliding shut behind him. My bright blue irises adjust in the mirror as I study myself, glowing unnaturally like ring lights. I am alone, with the seconds stretching out ahead of me.


    Only...am I?


    At the very moment the door shuts, something shifts on the left side of the room, just inside my periphery. A figure I hadn''t noticed before. If they had even been here before. If they were even actually here right now, and not a figment of my distended, overloaded, ''neural matrix'', or however the hell I was supposed to think of it. C.S. Lewis said, "You don''t have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body." I wonder what the hell I have.


    But the person, or whatever it is, is moving now. Stepping in front of me. Into frame.


    Long, dark hair, tied back. An anime T-shirt tucked into a long black skirt.


    Pale face. Too pale. Almost...grey.


    Stranger still, there''s a gap in the middle area of one of her cheeks. An actual hole. As a stare at it, a shiny, black shape emerges from that tiny pit in the girl''s face. It crawls on swift, blurry legs up the side of her forehead and burrows in her hair.


    I can''t speak. If I could, I would call out her name. But I can only watch as she turns toward me. And maybe it''s better that I can''t speak. It also means I can''t scream.

 Chapter 25

    SHILOH


    By the time Shiloh reaches the main hall¡ªmoving at a fast jog, Miles only a few paces ahead of her¡ªa warning siren blares over the loudspeakers. There''s a lot of movement. People are hurried, and concerned, but not panicked. Not yet.


    Some of them yell, turning in Shiloh''s direction. She''s a member of the Board, after all. Perhaps she knows what''s going on. Perhaps she can tell them what''s happening.


    She can''t, of course. The siren''s wail is overwhelming. She can''t hear their questions, and she certainly can''t answer them.


    There''s already a hundred people packed into the main hall. Word travels fast, and the Cloister is pretty small, for how many people it houses. Not to mention that obnoxious alarm sound, putting a little pep in everyone''s step. Sounds like an air-raid siren in a World War II movie.


    Sliding past the encroaching mob of bewildered citizens, Shiloh hops up the stairs at the back of the cargo bay, two at a time. The stairs lead to an elevated plateau. It looks kind of like a stage, and it''s used that way during main hall meetings.


    Shiloh makes her way to the back of the ''stage'', toward the door in the corner. She pulls the latch. The door makes a grindy complaint as it swings open. Shiloh shuts the door behind her. She heads down the narrow corridor, her way lit by greenish-white fluorescent bars. She makes one right turn and stops at the door at the end. She yanks on the latch, but it won''t budge.


    Damn thing''s stuck.


    She pounds on the door. "Hey! Open up!"


    She makes her hand into a fist and keeps slamming the heel against the door in a steady, drum-like beat.


    Two to three seconds pass. Finally, there''s a mechanical crunch from inside the door. It opens, and Cade''s head pops out through the gap.


    "Yeah?"


    Cade is a couple years Shiloh''s junior. His complexion is pale, with freckles dotting his cheeks and nose, and he looks bored, if a little annoyed. Sometimes Shiloh wonders if redheads generally do have a fiery, rebellious disposition, or if that''s more of a perspective thing. Maybe red-haired kids are aware of the expectation, if only subconsciously, and conform to meet that result, which would be ironic in its own way.


    His orange-red hair is chin-length, and parted down the middle. Sometimes it''s messy and all over the place. Sometimes he uses pre-war hair wax or gel to slick or style it.


    Right now, it''s more in the ''messy'' department. He''s wearing a dark grey jumpsuit, similar to Shiloh''s, though his is in need of a good ironing. A set of over-ear headphones hangs over his neck, with an aux cord leading into one of his big pockets, likely connected to his portable CD player.


    "What''s up with the racket!?"


    Shiloh doesn''t need to yell. The walls and door between them and the loudspeaker in the main hall deaden the noise. But she''s raising her voice to get a point across.


    Cade shrugs. "Did what I was told."


    "By who?"


    "Gavin. Called me over the radio."


    "Gavin doesn''t have the authority to do that."


    "He was quite insistent," Cade says. "And it seemed important."


    "Well, it''s not. It''s making it difficult to communicate."


    Cade shrugs, as if to admit her point.


    "Yeah, so, can you shut it off? And can you let me in there?"


    A pause, as Cade studies her. Then, "Sure."


    It''s hard to tell, but it seems like he sees Shiloh''s side of it. Maybe. It''s always hard to tell with Cade.


    He opens the door for her. Beyond is a cramped corner of an office, with a wide desk and an office chair with wheels that squeak as he rolls it out of the way. Boxy monitors are stacked atop each other in rows on the desk. Most of the monitors are connected to several cameras positioned outside the facility, at key points.


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    Standing in front of the desk, Cade uses a mouse to maneuver the cursor on one of the monitors. He pulls up a black screen lined with cryptic lines of code, and begins tapping away at the keyboard.


    There''s no meaningful way she can be of help in this situation. She does have some affinity with technology, but only in regards to certain pieces of post-SERAPHIM tech she can ''Jack'' into directly.


    Scanning the monitors, her eyes settle on a view of the canyon directly outside the sealed cargo bay doors. There''s a slim, black ship in center frame, not fifty yards from the facility''s outer wall, docked among the rocks. Just sitting, like a parked car. Like it belongs there. Like we should have been expecting its arrival.


    "When did it arrive?" Shiloh asks.


    "About...two minutes ago?" Cade says, his neck crooked as he peers down at his monitor. "I called Seamus, and the word went out from there."


    It was safe to say the meeting Shiloh had called didn''t matter anymore. Or perhaps it mattered more, but in a scope beyond Shiloh''s original intentions. She had wanted, in part, to prepare a way to escape the castle, in case a dragon was to arrive. And now the dragon was here.


    "Cade, we need to get that siren shut off. We need people to get the hell out of the Cargo Bay."


    "Fair enough."


    "What''s taking so long? Can''t you just press a button?"


    "Doesn''t work like that," Cade says.


    "Who''s idea was this, anyway?"


    Another signature shrug from Cade. "Gavin had me install it a couple months back."


    Not that long after Shiloh''s father had died, then? What did that mean? Could Gavin have foreseen something like this?


    What Shiloh knows for certain is that Gavin wants to make a fuss about this. He wants people to know there''s a problem, before he presents his solution, whatever that might be. He doesn''t just want to save the day. He wants to make sure no one forgets it. The chaos is good for his agenda. It makes it seem like there''s no plan, and no recourse.


    Cade makes a definitive tap of the return key, and the muted sound of the siren in the bay comes to a stop.


    "There ya go-" Cade says, swiveling to face her.


    But she''s already heading toward the door.


    By the time she makes it back out into the main hall, there''s twice the crowd than when she left through the back door. Almost the entire population of the Cloister is here, smushed together, minus the members of the Watch.


    The people haven''t stormed the stage of the conference area. Not yet. They''re still adhering to some sense of social normalcy.


    Three members of the Board, Seamus, Adrian, and Ruth, are weaving their way through the crowd. Dozens of people are talking at once. Amongst themselves, and to the members of the Board in the crowd. Some are even yelling at Shiloh herself, trying to get her attention. Seamus, wobbling his round body through the crowd, holding onto his hat so it doesn''t fall off his head, keeps talking into his walkie-talkie, trying to continue the emergency message over the radio. As if anyone can hear it or cares at this point. None of this is distinguishable. It''s all noise.


    "HEY!" Shiloh yells. Some people take notice, but overall it doesn''t seem to make much of a dent.


    "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" A loud, modulated voice cuts through the chaos. Evelyn is standing halfway up the stairs to the stage, holding a megaphone. "WE WILL HAVE ORDER. THAT MEANS, FOR NOW, YOU NEED TO BE QUIET, SO THAT WE CAN SPEAK. IF EVERYONE IS TALKING, NOBODY IS. IS THAT CLEAR?"


    A gradual hush falls over the crowd. Sometimes all it takes is an assertive voice to get people to fall in line. A voice that says, ''Chaos has not yet won. There will be order.''


    As long as there is uniformity, some sense of normality, then maybe the world hasn''t come to an end just yet.


    Seamus lowers his walkie-talkie, looking around. The other Board members do as well. Then, strangely, they appear to be looking up at Shiloh. To her.


    Oh. It''s because Evelyn is holding the megaphone out to her.


    She''s having a hard time reading the old woman''s expression. They just had a pretty severe disagreement, the two of them, back at Evelyn''s place. To Shiloh, it had seemed almost like a declaration of war on Evelyn''s part. But now here she is, handing off the megaphone, like a peace offering. She seems determined. Resolute. Though, in what, Shiloh can''t be entirely sure. Should she take it as a victory, or just a small concession?


    In a situation like this, does it even matter?


    Evelyn nods to Shiloh, as if to say, Go on, take it. You should be the one to do this.


    Shiloh nods back appreciatively, but she doesn''t take the device. She can project her voice well enough.


    "Seamus is right. We need to retreat to a safe position. We need to get people as far as possible from this room in particular. We need people to situate themselves behind a sealed door, with some provisions, and some means of communication. Access to emergency masks would be ideal, but I know we only have so many of those to-"


    Order is already gone, again.


    Evelyn turns the megaphone back on. "I SWEAR TO GOD HIMSELF, IF YOU ALL WANT TO DIE HERE TODAY, THIS IS THE WAY TO DO IT."


    Not exactly tactful. Shiloh half expects that this might be that last ounce of pressurized heat before the kettle explodes. But it isn''t. An uneasy quiet settles over the crowd again. Toward the back, Sophie, a mother in her mid-thirties, starts audibly crying. She''s holding her four-year-old daughter. Her husband is in the Watch, which is why he''s not here to comfort her right now.


    "There''s a Ruster ship docked outside." This part, they''ve likely already heard, but it can''t hurt to reiterate it. "It''s about fifty yards off from the sealed cargo bay doors."


    This part, it seems people did not know, because there''s a sudden, uncomfortable stirring in the crowd, like a thick clump of grass blades as a snake passes through. As anyone could predict, they are suddenly less keen on being here in this room, right now.


    "That''s why we need everyone out of here, cordoned off somewhere safe," Shiloh continues.


    "What''s happening!?" Yells an older man, closer to the front. "Can''t you just tell us!?"


    Seamus cuts in before Shiloh can answer, waving his walkie-talkie in the air. "All a precaution, of course. Gavin and the Watch are on their way.¡±


    ¡°Precisely,¡± Shiloh says. ¡°The situation is developing as we speak. We¡¯ll know more momentarily.¡±


    ¡°Gavin¡¯s going to destroy that ship on sight,¡± Seamus says loudly, nodding. ¡°We have nothing to worry about.¡±


    Shiloh has to clench her jaw before her next thought can escape between her teeth.


    He¡¯s going to do WHAT!?

 Chapter 26

    GAVIN


    Air hisses inside the sealed chamber. There''s a change in pressure, a feeling like Gavin''s ears are going to pop. He works his jaw back and forth, which usually helps to ease the sensation. His breath echoes back to him inside the translucent mask which covers his mouth and nose. Clean air cycles out of his O2 tank and into the mask in hushed, periodic gasps.


    The camo suit, the backpack, the pistol holstered at his hip, the rifle slung over his shoulder and back by the strap; they weigh heavily on his body, but it''s not an uncomfortable weight. He feels grounded by the weight of his gear. Secure. Competent. Ready.


    His training, as well as his own self-awareness and discernment, tells him his heart is beating faster than normal. Not out of fear, but excitement. The thrill of the fight.


    The giant door ahead, the one leading to the outside, grinds gratingly, metal scraping on metal, as it slides sideways and open. As the crack to the outer world widens, bright, dirty orange sunlight blooms at one corner of the doorway. Gavin squints and holds up a hand to shield his eyes, but only for long enough to pull a pair of sporty polarized sunglasses out of his breast pocket.


    Everything has been seen to. There''s no need to check equipment and supplies, or to huddle up. No need to give any lofty speeches about the future of humanity. The members of the Watch already know what their job is. They know their role, and they accept it. They signed up for this eventuality a long time ago.


    The plan is in place. The fellow saviors of humanity are here, by Gavin''s side, ready to fight.


    He strides forward, sidling through the still-widening gap of the door. He doesn''t fear the possibility of ambush. Not yet. The trespassing Ruster must still be inside the ship. Otherwise, its movements would be picked up by the sensors.


    A dozen pairs of boots crunch on the rocky, downhill path. The occasional kicked-up rock rolls and bounces down the incline. It is pleasantly warm, and the weather is strangely quiet and calm.


    They are in no particular hurry. They are loose. Calm. Prepared. The Ruster can track their movements anyway, using the ship''s readings. Stealth-tech will be of little use, here. It won''t be like it was with the last Ruster, blundering into territory where he didn''t belong, into Gavin¡¯s trap. This Ruster arrived with purpose. Intention. Gavin is going to meet it head-on with his own.


    They don''t yet have a visual of the ship. The path they traverse now leads to a stretch of plateau east of the ship¡¯s location, and elevated a good fifty feet up from the canal floor.


    Gavin¡¯s earpiece, connected by a white cord to the radio attached to his belt, makes a staticky chirp in his ear. He flips a switch on the side of the radio.


    ¡°This is Watch Alpha, come in.¡±


    ¡°Gavin.¡±


    There¡¯s no way to mistake that voice, tarnished by radio static as it is.


    Gavin¡¯s heart, already overactive, does a double backflip.


    Sometimes it bothers him how much he finds himself thinking of her. The look of her. The sound of her voice. It''s not just a matter of physical attraction, either. Each interaction is like a dose of the most powerful drug. Especially when she''s the one to instigate it.


    The attraction is mutual. Gavin knows it is. Because Shiloh needs him, even if she doesn''t realize it. All strong, powerful men are fated to have their pick of the women in their lives. It is an immutable law of the universe. Her destiny with him. She can no more escape this than gravity, or entropy. He might as well be her world, the physical mass around which she revolves.


    "Shiloh."


    He crouches down in front of a cluster of big, boulder-like rocks. His team follows suit aside and behind him. While the Ruster likely knows where they are, it can''t hurt to have some cover.


    He peers through a slim gap in the rocks. They''re positioned close to the drop-off, and the shiny, black hull of the ship is visible through the peephole.


    "You should stand down, Gavin. For now, at least. We don''t know what the situation is, yet."


    "Is this the Board I''m talking to," Gavin says, "Or you?"


    He signals to Riley, who begins preparing the AT4 rocket launcher. He left his terrified wife Sophie and their confused four-year-old daughter behind to be out here. Normally he''s an easy-going guy, but he''s got this look of fierce determination about him, right now. He doesn''t just want to do his job. He wants to make everything better. As is his role, as the man of his household.


    He''s almost a decade older than Gavin himself. Overall, he''s young and healthy-looking for his age, but there''s certain wear, a weariness, which can be remarked in the face and eyes. Especially in times like now, when he''s focused, dialed-in. His recently shaved head is dotted with scratchy, receding stubble. His full, long beard twitches in the warm breeze.


    As Riley undoes the safety on the rocket launcher, he and Gavin make eye contact, and there''s an understanding, a shared conviction. A joining of mindset.


    Meanwhile, there''s an unmistakable pause of hesitation on the radio line.


    Then, "I''m speaking to you as a member of the Board, if that''s what you''re asking."


    "It''s not," Gavin says. "Listen, Shiloh, this is my job. To eliminate threats, and protect the Cloister. The Board knows that. I have their every confidence. With only one exception, it seems."


    "This could be a mistake, Gavin. You don''t know what the occupant of that ship wants, or what they can do."


    "What, do you want me to ask him?"


    "Is the idea really so ridiculous? What if the Ruster in Mechanical was fleeing? What if he was trying to get away? It would make sense if he was being housed in the facility to the south. The Biodroid''s there, they weren''t like the others-"


    "You won''t ever quit talking about that facility, will you?" Gavin says. He needs to shut her up. She sounds too much like the Ruster. It''s...nauseating. "Just because you want to believe something, doesn''t make it true.


    "Give it up. It''s over. You''re not going to convince me. And I''m certainly not going to listen to the lies of some...machine."


    "I''m just saying," Shiloh says. "We should consider the possibilities."


    There''s a dull throb, somewhere in the lower half of Gavin''s forehead. His teeth click together, as if of their own volition, making grinding sounds which reverberate in his head.


    She shouldn''t be talking to him like this. It''s not her place. He is the man. He knows what''s best. He has the training, the expertise.


    "If we have something this trespasser wants, we can set the terms of a hand-off, if that''s what we have to do. We can get ourselves on more even footing. Set a trap. For all you know, you''re walking into one, right now."


    "Is that what you think I''m doing? You think I''m about to fall for some kind of trick?"


    "Gavin-"


    Gavin flicks off the radio. His head, neck, and ears feel warm and red.


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    "Let''s do this," he says, nodding to Riley. He points south, toward a V-shaped opening in the rocky cover. He moves at a crouch alongside Riley, kneeling next to him as he also gets down on one knee with the AT4 propped over his shoulder. He puts up the sights.


    The rest of the men have their rifles drawn as they hunker down against the cover, peering through peepholes in the rocks. Karla is next to Gavin, on the opposite side of Riley, ready to load another rocket should the need arise.


    "Looks like forty meters to me," Gavin says quietly, almost whispering.


    Riley nods, taking aim. He makes one glance behind. "Back-blast clear." Not that anyone here needs to be told that, but it''s ingrained protocol at this point.


    He squints, looking forward again through the sights. A couple of seconds pass like that. Then he hits the trigger.


    The rocket fires. The shot is heavy and full of impact, like the sound of a god''s hammer striking the earth. The launcher rocks back on Riley''s shoulder, and a trail of smoke escapes out the back.


    In the near micro-second the rocket is airborne, Gavin register''s the accuracy of the shot. It''s going to hit the ship dead-center. And it''s going to leave a dent.


    Only, that doesn''t happen.


    Midway between the rocky cover and the ship itself, the rocket is hit by some flashy, hard-see-projectile, originating from somewhere south along the canyon floor. Somewhere Gavin can''t see from his current vantage point.


    The rocket detonates in a ball of flame and black smoke, far short of its target. The explosion booms and cracks, a stuttering noise which echoes back and forth between the canyon walls.


    "Was that a miss?" Karla hisses, trying to peek over the lip of cover. "Sounds like a miss."


    Gavin doesn''t answer. He''s too busy trying to compute the result in his head. Meanwhile, Riley slowly lowers the launcher and looks over at Gavin, his eyes questioning, as if to confirm the two of them both saw the same thing.


    It doesn''t make any sense. If the Ruster left the ship, they would have seen it. Goddammit, there are¡ªand were¡ªmultiple cameras trained on the thing. And the activity should have popped up on the visual, audio, and seismic sensors, no matter the source. So how-


    Gavin''s radio beeps twice. Someone''s trying to hail him. Someone not from inside the Cloister.


    He reaches down to flip the radio switch. But something stops him.


    What if Shiloh''s right? Has he just walked into something he can''t get himself and his men out of? What if the Ruster wants Gavin to give up his captive? Is that something he''s willing to do?


    No. No, it isn''t. It''s Gavin''s trophy. His. And besides, wasn''t it dangerous to be giving up merchandise to the enemy? Why did they want it so badly, anyway? Had Shiloh stopped to consider that?


    But Gavin can feel Riley and the rest of the team watching him. Waiting on him. They''re on the edge, right now. The fate of their home, their families, is at stake. And this is a chance to talk to the enemy. To get some idea of what''s going on, maybe. He will be perceived poorly as a leader if he doesn''t take it.


    He switches on the radio. Waits.


    There''s just crackly static at first. Then silence. Followed by a voice that almost sounds digitally edited, as if speaking through a voice-box to hide their identity.


    "Hello, Gavin."


    Little spiders crawl fast, in a straight line, up the middle of Gavin''s back and neck. A hole seems to open up in his chest, just below his heart. It''s the feeling of walking down the stairs in the dark and missing a step, only instead of hitting the floor, he''s fallen into an abyss. He''s still falling.


    A thought emerges, out of the fog of the outer edges of his consciousness.


    The conversation on the radio. It was listening in. This isn''t anything all that out of the ordinary. You''re still in control. Get a fucking grip.


    Riley still has the launcher mounted on his shoulder. He''s looking at Gavin expectantly, waiting for a command, for...something.


    "I don''t suppose you''ll give me your name?" Gavin says.


    With his hands, he signals to members of the crew, telling them to scan the area as best they can without giving up their position. If it comes after them, they can snipe the Ruster before it gets close.


    "My name?" The voice is breathy and pixelated. "I don''t have a name. I''m the thing that goes bump. The faceless threat. The predator that prowls in the dark places. The thing you people tell stories about to get children to behave."


    "I mean, it works," Gavin says, coolly.


    What he''s saying, about being a mythical, faceless threat. It applies to SERAPHIM more than the Rusters. But he¡ªit, Gavin reminds himself¡ªdoes have something of a point. Gavin doesn''t actually give a fuck what the thing calls itself. It''s just banter. It''s just a way to try and buy time. They both know it.


    "Fear is an excellent motivator. And most people are afraid of something. But not you, right?"


    "Nope."


    "Let me put it to you this way. Because I''ve got this feeling about you, Gavin, and I''m afraid there''s a question I need to ask. How many of your men am I going to have to kill?"


    Gavin doesn''t answer. He snaps his fingers at Karla, telling her to load the next rocket.


    "I know how humans work. Especially your type. You''re not gonna take me seriously unless I make a significant impact. I''m gonna have to take a few of your guys. So if you''d just give me a number, you could save both of us a bit of time, and a few lives. Hell, I''ll even let you pick them out."


    Shiloh''s words echo back in Gavin''s head. They can make a deal. They can give the Ruster what he wants. But what kind of precedent will that set? The Rusters, like SERAPHIM, are a scourge on the world. They are the ultimate punishment for man''s greed and self-importance. Like the apple which Adam and Eve both bit into all those eons ago, the knowledge of Biodroid technology, and its applications, is a fruit the scientists and engineers of the world should never have ingested. Were the people of the Cloister to simply overlook that reality? Should they bow to the enemies of mankind, the enemies of God himself? Could that be tolerated? Was not faith a factor in all this? What is the point of the Cloister, of survival itself, without God?


    "C''mon, Gavin. Don''t mistake efficiency for maleficence. I''m here to do a job, not count bodies. We both know what will happen if I attack your little fortress head-on. This is better. Less energy will be expended. No collateral damage to speak of, no unfair deaths. After all, your guys already know what they''re getting into. They''ve already made their choice."


    "You''re right," Gavin says. "They have."


    "Just hand over the Biodroid," says the voice on the line. "Last chance."


    Gavin scans the faces of his crew. They''ve all been listening in. Their faces are resolute. Nothing''s changed for them.


    Except maybe Riley. He looks more worried than he was only a couple of moments ago.


    It comes with age. That keen awareness of one''s mortality, and what can go wrong. Gavin can''t necessarily fault him for that.


    "What do you need it for?" Gavin asks.


    A moment of silence. Predictably. Followed by a grunt, like a snicker.


    Then, "Does it matter?"


    Gavin shrugs to himself. "I guess not."


    He cuts off the connection. "Let''s smoke this guy. Riley, take aim at the ship. Dillon and Miles, get to higher ground. If he takes out the rocket, see if you can pinpoint the origin of the blast."


    Dillon nods, and he and Miles are off, boots scratching across the rough terrain as they hop up rocky, uneven steps.


    Once they''re up and out of sight, moving south along the edge of the drop-off, Gavin nods to Riley. "Do it."


    "Got it," Riley says. He glances behind, making sure the back-blast zone is clear, before peering down the sights, taking aim at the ship once again. A few members of the crew plug their ears.


    He fires the launcher. It kicks back a bit along his shoulder, with an intense WUMP, a brief yet overpowering shockwave of sound.


    As before, the rocket streaks through the air, dead on target. Until, again, something stops it.


    Only, it''s not like before. There is a flash as something zips through the air to intercept the projectile, but it''s not an energy blast. It''s too bulky, too defined. A grey blur of motion. The object collides with the rocket, but the rocket doesn''t go off. Rather, it traverses sideways, along the trajectory of the thing that impacted it, as if attached. The back end continues to spark and flare while not making forward progress, only lateral movement.


    The airborne thing, with sparking rocket still attached, drops down to the floor of the canal. It''s all so strange, so out of the ordinary, that it takes an inordinate amount of time for Gavin to realize what he''s looking at. The humanoid form of the grey figure emerges out of the visual noise like an epiphany in a dream.


    The Ruster pivots to face Gavin''s position. Its face is shrouded in shadow from the hood it wears. Its armor plating gives its form a slim, sleek look, muted and grey. It holds the rocket still, firmly gripping it by the central body. The nosecap, which contains the payload, is angled slightly away from the Ruster''s body. It is stock still. Unconcerned. Waiting to see what Gavin does.


    So is the rest of the crew. Which really does beg the question¡ªwhat the hell is Gavin himself waiting for?


    His rifle rests across his upper belly, with the strap hooked over his shoulder and across the back. He lifts up the rifle with his cheek pressed against the stock, one eye staring down the sight, flicking the safety with his thumb and inserting his index finger into the triggerwell, all in one deft movement.


    "Smoke ''im!"


    Gunshots popcorn all around, echoing and whip-cracking. Bits of the canal''s gravelly floor kick up into into the air as everyone lets loose, Gavin himself firing off a series of three-round bursts, one after the other.


    It''s only a brief second after the shots start that the Ruster begins to move. At first it almost seems to be happening in slow-motion. Little chunks of debris hovering at shin, chest, and head height. The ruster walking, navigating amongst the gravity-defying rubble, unbothered. The rocket rotating, evidenced by the way the sparking back-end turns away from Gavin''s position, while the nosecap turns toward. Then there is a subtle retraction of the fingers, releasing.


    Reality constricts. There is no time to move. No time to yell out a warning. No time at all.


    The nosecap expands in size, like the time-lapse of a flower budding. The crackle of the fuel expended at the back sounds like an angry sparkler, getting louder and more aggressive as it approaches.


    Gavin barely sidesteps the projectile as it zips through the opening, leaving a trail of hot, acrid smoke in its wake. For a brief, dissociative moment, Gavin is reminded of the time his mother left a pot of oatmeal on the stove until it burned, with layers of charred oats running up the sides of the pot, pungent and black.


    Then the rocket impacts the embankment a dozen yards behind the rocky cover. And the world explodes.

 Chapter 27

    SILAS


    I am an angry soul. Perhaps we all are. If you''re not, then you''re just kidding yourself. You''ve got blinders on. You haven''t allowed yourself to look, really look, at the world around you. At the reality we exist in.


    Let''s face it. Reality is fucked.


    I can recall, time and again, having looked at the various members of my family, and thinking...they''re gonna die one day. They''re gonna die, and there''s not a damn thing I can do about it.


    There was no way of knowing when, or how. Maybe it would be slow, and painful, like cancer, or some other terminal condition, slowly wasting away while I and other loved ones have to watch. Maybe it would be quick, painless, and merciful, at the end of a long, fulfilled life. If there even is such a way to die. People tell stories about eighty-year-old men and woman passing away in their sleep, peacefully drifting off from this life and into the next. But I''ve also heard that sometimes when people die in their sleep, they are discovered with both their eyes and mouth open in a silent scream.


    I know I''m not supposed to think about that. I know it, though no one has told me so. It''s one of those unspoken rules of society. Healthy, functional people don''t obsess over death. They instead focus on the bright side. They do their best to enjoy life while they have it.


    But the stoic mindset, practical as it might be, has never come easy to me. I know there''s no point in obsessing over things I can''t control. Rationally, I know that, and have always known. But that never stopped me from having those dire visions of death, like nightmares in the light of day. The dark, evil side of a daydream, one you can''t stop or look away from.


    Often, it happens in the form of a car accident. I, or a loved one¡ªoften a loved one¡ªgets run off the road. Parts of the car have caved in, pinning us inside. At first we are confused, disoriented. Usually it''s dark out, and the passenger door is twisted open at a weird angle, broken. The whole car is turned nearly on its side, and won''t stop beeping. That stupid jingle reminding us one of the doors is left open, with the key in the ignition. There''s a light blinking on the mangled door, casting a red, flashing bar onto the upward slope of the ditch.


    We try to turn, to take the key out of the ignition, but something''s wrong. Our body doesn''t want to twist that way. It doesn''t seem to want to move, or pivot, at all.


    Vision is blurry. There''s an incessant ringing in both ears. It takes time, and an eventual reclamation of the awareness of ourselves, and of our surroundings, before we realize the truth. It takes time to truly notice the warmth and wetness running out of our torso and onto the dashboard, the stick shift, the emergency brake, the passenger seat. Things, substances, on the outside, which should be on the inside. Abandoning the body like rats on a ship destined for the deep.


    Horror. That''s the next feeling. There will be pain, soon. Horrible, intense pain, wracking the mind and the body. But it is the horror that comes first. We have felt it our whole lives, in little pre-emptory tastes and sips. The knowledge of death. The knowledge that one day, not so far from now, we will come to no longer be. But now the goblet rests in our hands, and we cannot help but drink, and drink deep, in great gulps and glugs. Pure, unadulterated fear. Irresistible. Unassailable. With it, comes panic. Hyperventilation. Hysteria.


    Somewhere, there''s an intermittent buzzing. Something lights up in the corner, nestled just next to the passenger seat, caught in the lip of the door frame. It''s our phone. Ringing.


    We reach for it. With everything we have. Ignoring the pain. Ignoring the wrenching, tearing feeling in our insides. We are abandoned, isolated, trapped in wreckage on the side of the road. And if there is one thing we fear more than death itself, it is dying alone.


    I guess that''s just how fucked I am. Was. Continue to be. But all this to say, I have no kind words for a God who made the world to be this way. I wish everyone would just come off it already, pretending life is so grand, and the world is so...''beautiful''. You''d either have to be blind, ignorant, or a fucking liar.


    And yet, as much as I always blamed God, as much as I always told myself I''d give him a piece of my mind if I ever saw him, and if he even existed at¡ªin the end, it wasn''t God who killed my loved ones. It was me.


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    Here, in this strange, post-apoc sci-fi fantasy, I might as well be in an entirely new dimension of existence; if this place even really exists at all. None of this could be real, including this apparition of my sister Gemma, a ghost which has apparently come here to haunt my consciousness, no matter where I am. Either way, I deserve it.


    Her complexion, already grey and bloodless, takes on a sickly, greenish hue under the fluorescents. Her eyes are also grey, nearly black, but also bloodshot at the same time, streaked with crimson, spider-like tendrils.


    She''s breathing. I think she''s breathing. Or trying to breathe. Her mouth is open. Her chest heaves up and down. Her belly widens and contracts. Her elbows tuck tightly against her sides, her muscles tense, body desperate for oxygen.


    It''s everything I hate. Everything I was ever afraid of. Happening right in front of me. And there''s nothing I can do to stop it. Just like there''s nothing I can do to reverse what happened. I am bound, stripped, and peeled open. Immobilized. Even my vocal cords refuse to function. The most I can get out are these sad, strained, vocal sounds, because the words won''t come. I am too weak. I''ve always been weak. Tied down by time, reality, my circumstances, my own character flaws and biases. Was I always destined to do the wrong thing, to fail? Was I destined to do...this?


    The attempts to breathe get faster, frantic. Her eyes seem to seize on me, as if before she had been looking through rather than at me.


    "Silas," she says, in a breathy exhale. "...why..."


    But there is no ''why''. There is no meaning. There is no way to truly reconcile the past. No amount of escapist adventures in ''robot fantasy land''¡ªto whatever degree you can call this a ''fantasy''¡ªare going to change that. The past is a giant maw, hinging ever wider, with rows of massive, sword-like teeth which file down to razor points.


    I remember staying up late in the months following, reading articles and watching videos on what it''s like to drown. Supposedly, there''s a point where the compulsion to breathe takes over, and the body begins to inhale uncontrollably in quick, mechanical gasps. Water floods the lungs, an event accompanied by intense internal pain, as if someone''s dousing your lungs with gasoline and lighting it with a match.


    I tried to recreate this feeling, kneeling on the bathroom floor and shoving my head into a full tub of cold water. Turns out, even with all my guilt and self-hatred, I still couldn''t quite do it. Human will has it''s limits. And I never had any genuine conviction, obviously, to force my head underwater and keep it there somehow, like with rope, or a brace. If I had, I might have not only experienced that burning sensation in the lungs, but also, eventually, a state called ''hypoxia'', where insufficient oxygen flow leads to a lack of sensation, a lack of awareness, a general numbness of both mind and body, as all the electrical signals are cut short, and all bodily functions begin to phase out. That''s the one conciliation I can afford myself when I think about what happened. That even though they did have moments of loneliness and terror, there at the end, maybe they experienced that anesthetized moment of peace as well, of not knowing, feeling, or caring. But it is a hollow hope. A morbid mental exercise that''s done little to exonerate me of any guilt or grief. And why should it?


    The panting. The heaving. She might still be trying to say something. I can''t hear it over the ringing in my ears, and the strangely loud buzzing from the lights in the ceiling. Is it just me, or is that buzzing getting louder, more overbearing?


    I can''t take my eyes off of it. What''s happening to her. Did it happen like this? I know she didn''t look quite like this, not when it was over. Her skin was dark and blue, if not quite so gray and unnatural-looking as it appears now. She had no gunk in her hair, or holes in her face. In fact, as she was being carted up in the gurney, up from the riverbank, I honestly thought she was gonna be okay. It wasn''t until I went to check, dodging the EMT''s who tried to stop me, that I saw the truth. Open, dead eyes, staring directly into the bright sky overhead. Not responding when I called her name.


    Please. No more. I can''t do this. Please.


    In a morbid way, I get my wish. Gemma''s ghost seizes up, suddenly. Then she goes limp, as if in imitation of a hypoxic state. Her head lulls, and her body drifts up into the air, defying gravity. The way bodies of the drowned float up to the surface. Gases expand inside the body, making the torso buoyant. The limbs and head are pulled with it, along for the ride, bobbing and dragging in an invisible current.


    "We have one rule."


    The voice startles me. It is loud and alarmingly close, just next to my left ear¡ªalmost in my left ear. It is hoarse, gurgled, waterlogged.


    Before I can turn my head to look, cold, wet fingers grip me by the hair at the back of my head. It feels like when I used to be grabbed by the ear when I was little. The fingers twist, clenching hard. They pull, tilting my head back at an angle, holding me there.


    "Family first. Always family first."


    I peer sideways, trying to get a look at my aggressor. I see one full, greenish-grey cheek, one bloodshot eye. One lock of my mother''s frizzy, low-cut hair.


    "And you broke it."


    That grey-green face leans somehow closer, tilting. Chin jutting. Mouth opening, revealing slick, silver spires of snake-like teeth.


    "You betrayed us. And for that, you go to Hell."


    There is a bursting, puncturing sensation as her teeth enter my neck. Piercing. Tearing.


    Bright, multi-colored squares encompass my vision, flickering. Everything is glitching. Everything is...broken.


    And it always will be.

 Chapter 28

    GAVIN


    Dust. Bright, intense clouds of the stuff. So thick Gavin swears he can taste the dry, airborne dirt on his tongue, even through his mask and the filtered oxygen being cycled through it. For a moment, all he can see is the dust, and all he can hear is the rhythmic sound of his tank cycling air into the mask, resonating dully and distantly in his ears. That, and a high-pitched ringing that doesn''t seem to want to go away. If anything, it''s getting louder, higher. All other sounds are muffled and low-frequency.


    Gavin is on his side in the dirt. His side is throbbing, and so is his head. He''s certain there''s going to be a nasty bruise on his temple. He might have a concussion, which doesn''t bode well. But there are more pressing concerns.


    Gotta move. That Ruster''s about to nail us to the fucking wall.


    With a spike of adrenaline, like an ice pick to the brain, Gavin boosts himself with his arms, clambering to his feet.


    He takes a quick inventory, feeling with his hands and detecting the weight of various items attached to him. Except for his sunglasses, which are nowhere to be found, his equipment appears to be intact, still. Lucky break, that.


    He can barely make sense of what happened. What that Ruster is apparently capable of. Not that he can afford to fixate on that, right now.


    No thinking. That''s how freezing up happens. Let the body move. The mind will follow.


    He moves toward the shapes in his vision. The shadows. They are the members of his crew. They''re bandying together, helping each other get up and moving as they assess the damage.


    After taking two steps, a thick, concentrated cloud of airborne dirt suddenly migrates full-on into Gavin''s face.


    He clamps his eyes shut. He has no choice. Even so, there''s the acute sting of the thick, fine dust getting in under the lids.


    Sounds are returning, as if in response to the brief lack of other sensory inputs. The yelling becomes distinct, almost understandable. It''s Riley. He''s already up and moving, as if he didn''t just experience the sensory equivalent of a flashbang.


    A new shape appears, gliding into view. Bright lights flash low to the ground, like little explosions fueling the newcomer''s movement as they rush across the ground. And Gavin doesn''t need to guess who¡ªor what¡ªit is.


    Riley''s exclamations are cut off as the Ruster slams into him. The Ruster stops on a dime, defying physics itself. Meanwhile, Riley is lifted off his feet and sent sprawling at high speed. He crashes into an escarpment of rock nearby, like a toy thrown against the wall. There''s a wet crunch, and he falls, slumped, to the dirt.


    At this point, the dust has finally cleared, with a few dissipating clouds still meandering at shin height. The Ruster stands in the midst of the group, hood up, head crooked a little, grey armor speckled and marked with dust, a protective mask covering his face. There''s movement at its upper back, and a mechanical whirring as a slim, sharply rectangular sheath pivots sideways on its own, allowing for quicker access from the Ruster''s right hand. Sure enough, it grips the white handle, draws it. The blade which comes out with the sword handle is only about the length of Gavin''s own forearm, but then a new length of metal blade unfolds out from it, snapping into place, becoming a long, katana-like sword. A line of orange light glows along the blade''s edge.


    The crew begins firing immediately, despite the fact that most of them are positioned in a sort of half-circle, with Gavin standing opposite them on the other side of the Ruster.


    The air erupts with the chatter of gunfire, muzzles flashing. But the Ruster is on the move again, with plates opening up at the back of its calves, as well as some places at its upper back. Bright yellow light fizzes out of those openings, distorting the air, giving the impression of intense force and heat, like miniature jet engines, which propel the Ruster forward and out of the way of the gunfire.


    A volley of shots whizzes past Gavin at either side, of all them missing him, strangely enough. The crew keeps firing, even though the Ruster has moved on, as if on a delay, and Gavin is forced to throw himself to the ground, diminish himself in the line of fire. He yells out something nonsensible, really more of an exclamation than a word. Something along the lines of, "UUUCK!"


    Before he can get to forming a coherent response, or give an order, the Ruster is already back, looping around a hill-like spire of rock.


    At this point, as a group, they''re keyed into what''s happening. They can hear the quick, rhythmic crunch of the Ruster''s boots navigating the gravelly terrain, looping around that bend. Gavin watches as they all turn their weapons in that direction and begin firing again.


    Gavin is on one knee, halfway to his feet. The Ruster is already back, a grey blur, propelled by bright lines of energy from the thrusters. It arrives at the front of the column of firing crew members, and there''s an orange flash as its blade swipes through the air. Through Karla.


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    Or...next to Karla? The Ruster keeps moving, swerving around the Watch member, flicking with its blade as it moves along the length of the group. It''s only as it reaches the edge of the group that a red line appears at the circumference of Karla''s neck, and her head lolls forward, disconnected, falling away from her body. Severed tubes flail against the torsos of the Watch members as pressurized oxygen passes through from the tanks, no longer connected to their masks.


    Gavin has only had a leak in his breathing gear a couple of times. It''s painful, when the toxic air enters the body and lungs. It happens fast, and it''s no joke. It''ll shut you down in mere seconds.


    The crew members, turning to get a bead on the Ruster, are affected immediately. Some try to cover the open vent in the mask with their gloves, while others attempt to press the disconnected ends of the tube back together with one hand¡ªwhich is absurd really, you need time, repair tape, and a steady pair of hands to fix something like that, but the panic has set in, no one is thinking rationally. They just watched a woman get decapitated by a Ruster moving so fast their eyes could barely follow.


    Without having made a conscious decision to do so, Gavin flicks the knob on the side of his rifle from three-round-burst to full-auto. He pulls back on the trigger and the rifle comes alive in his arms, recoil thrashing against his body like an enraged beast. The Ruster is still on the move, avoiding Gavin''s gunfire, weaving between rises of rocky rubble. It disappears from view, descending over a bumpy horizon of rock. For a couple seconds after, Gavin keeps firing, bullets cutting pointless etchings in the rock. It takes a conscious effort to take his finger off the trigger. It''s a waste of energy, a waste of resources. He should save the ammo.


    As if it matters. As if bullets even matter-


    But he cuts the thought off mid-train and pushes it away, descending back into mechanical process. He presses the mag release, letting it fall to the ground, and loads another from his ammo bag. Compared to the commotion from before, it is eerily and suddenly quiet in the vicinity. The loudest thing is Gavin''s own rapid breathing, echoing back in the mask. Following that is the sound of his own heart, rattling in the confines of his skull.


    All of the Watch members are down now, either dead or incapacitated by the toxic air. And the one''s being slowly poisoned by the deadly atmosphere will die soon enough if they aren''t transported back inside. But Gavin is frozen in place, still on one knee, rifle at the ready, tense, uncertain, waiting for...something. He scans every sightline from his position, veering slowly left to right, then back again, listening.


    Then the Ruster is back, so fast it seems to almost shutter into existence just a dozen or so yards ahead of Gavin.


    Gavin blinks once, staring, trying to decide if what he''s looking at is even real, or just a manifestation of his own panic and adrenaline. But then his body takes over again, trigger finger squeezing.


    Not ''squeeze'', he thinks, distantly, dissociatively. ''Pull''.


    "Tits and lemons are for squeezing, triggers are for pulling," Gavin''s father used to say, old coot that he was.


    He pulls the trigger. And the rifle rocks back and back against his shoulder and armpit in a rhythmic barrage, muzzle flashing, painting a chaotic spray, bits of rock and dirt flying up.


    This time, the Ruster doesn''t move to avoid the shots. It walks slowly and steadily toward Gavin. Bullets spark dramatically, ricocheting off of the Ruster''s arms, shoulders, and chest.


    It creeps ever closer, unyielding. But Gavin refuses to let off. To do so, to turn and run, is a violation of everything he stands for. It''s not just that the deaths of both Riley and Karla that keep flickering in his mind''s eye, enraging him; though that is also true. The main thing is that he''s fucking Gavin. It''s not over til he says it''s over. Til he makes it over. He''ll stop this Ruster, or he''ll die trying. Anything else is a breach of the laws of the universe itself. Anything else is a perversion of Gavin''s very identity, his reality. It is...unacceptable.


    But now the Ruster is standing directly in front of him. It grabs the barrel of Gavin''s rifle in one lightning-swift motion, yanking backward so hard the strap snaps. It brings the gun down over its knee, bending the barrel in just one quick hit. It tosses the rifle over its shoulder, peering down at Gavin through the slits in its mask.


    It still holds the katana in its other hand. The glowing blade hums ominously. The Ruster holds it up, angling the edge toward Gavin, as if daring him to make another move.


    And of course, there are other moves to make, aren''t there? Gavin has a secondary¡ªa pistol¡ªstill holstered at his thigh. A couple of grenades on his belt. A flashbang in his bag. A knife, holstered upside down across his chest. This isn''t over, is it? Not quite. Not technically. But by this point, Gavin''s adrenaline, his heightened state of fury, has begun to drop down, going the other way. The enormity of his foe, and the impotence of his own weapons and technology against it, has finally taken the wind out of his sail.


    Whatever he does next against this Ruster, it will be the last thing he does. And that ultimate realization stays his hand. His mind is finally winning out. In this moment, the bravado has leaked away, and terror is king. He is on one knee before Goliath. The stone, loosed from its sling, has bounced harmlessly off its target, to no effect. God has forsaken Gavin, and perhaps all of mankind with it.


    "Well?" The Ruster says, its voice harsh, distorted. "Do we have an understanding?"


    Gavin''s faculties have left him. He is trapped somewhere in the realm between extreme fear and extreme rage. He tries to speak. But his jaw doesn''t want to move.


    "I''ll take your apparent subjugation as a ''yes''. You have two hours."


    It turns to walk away, then stops. "It''s Daimon, by the way. My name." Then, after a pause: "I suppose the pleasure is all mine."


    Plates slide apart, opening ports in the Ruster''s legs and back. Bars of hot, crackly light burst through the openings. The Ruster leans forward, then takes off at an accelerated run, disappearing in clouds of propelled dirt and dust.


    A dread silence descends. A silence of Gavin''s surroundings. A silence of his own mind.


    As the dust particles descend, and his vision clears, a dozen new forms come into view, clambering down the rocky incline on the path from the door of the Cloister. Men and women, masks attached to their faces and oxygen tanks strapped to their backs. At their head is Shiloh, blonde hair bobbing as she heads at a near-jog down the slope. Here to intervene. Here to bring the fallen back to the Cloister. Here to witness this precursor to the end of man.

 Chapter 29

    SHILOH


    Shiloh grunts, her right shoulder propped underneath Miles'' left armpit, his left arm slung over the back of her neck, and across her left shoulder. She holds tight to his left wrist, fighting to stay upright. Her eyes are ahead, fixed on the metal door which leads back into the Cloister. They are in the interim, waiting for the cleansing process to clear, all the toxic air being pumped out through the vents.


    This is the perfect time to betray someone. All you have to do is wait for the person to come back inside, then prevent the inner door from coming open. The room would slowly drain of oxygen. And so would the tanks. Shiloh, along with the rest of the rescue team, would be trapped here, with no way to renew their oxygen supply. They''d be as good as dead once the tanks ran out.


    It''s strange to think of her surroundings in these terms. Life and death. Cooperation and betrayal. But things have escalated so quickly in such a short time. The world, Shiloh''s world, is different now. She''ll likely never see things quite the same way again. For most of her life she was in a bubble, protected by the dangers of the outside world by the strong men and women in her life, her father included. Now, she''s more or less on the front line, working to keep the danger at bay. Perhaps not in the literal sense, the way that Gavin and the Watch had put their own lives on the line; in some cases, losing them. She was no warrior. No soldier. But she would do what she could.


    She had done what she could. And what a shame it was that Gavin hadn''t listened. None of them had. They''d clung to his leadership, like a life raft in a storm. And they''re going to do it again, Shiloh suspects. It is what they know, after all. Their Modus Operandi. Even though Gavin''s decision-making has led them to this. Weak. Incapacitated. Being propped up and carried along, even though it''s been several minutes since the emergency masks were administered. Nine injured Watch members. Two black, zipped-up body bags on stretchers. And then there''s Gavin himself.


    He''s the only one who appears to be completely unharmed. Physically, at least. He hasn''t said a word since the rescue team arrived. He started to help with one of the stretchers as Riley''s bodybag was zipped-up and laid across it, but then he seemed to lose focus. He drifted away from the main group, heading back up the slope, meandering somewhat, looking lost, eyes low to the ground.


    Now, as the rescue team waits for the air purification process to complete, Gavin is off to one side, away from everyone else, facing the side-wall at an odd angle.


    Shiloh glances over at Liam, who has a near-unconscious Watch member literally hoisted onto his back, carrying him like a toddler. Beads of sweat cling his forehead and the side of his face like mites. He''s panting hard from the climb. But he exchanges Shiloh''s look with an somber expression of his own. She''s known him long enough to know they''re both thinking the same thing. For all they know, Gavin may never be the same again. And who will be the military leader, then? Who will take his place? Who will fill the power vacuum that remains?


    An interesting problem to have, given how Shiloh normally feels about the man. She''s thought about potential upsides of unseating Gavin as a political power before, but it seems she''s failed to consider the downsides as well. Perhaps she never considered it as a legitimate possibility.


    Easy, Shiloh. One world-ending crisis at a time.


    There''s a loud clunk from the door, reverberating in the space. Then a hiss. Then a metallic grinding, as the door eases open.


    Shiloh watches the creeping progress of the door. She is tired, tense, and anxious. She''s arrived at the last lap of this particular task, and will have to move on to new problems as soon as it''s done. Though she''s exhausted, and her back and shoulders ache, she fends off the temptation to pull ahead of the rest of the group and slip through the opening.


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    Beyond the door, just inside the hangar bay, a crowd of Cloister denizens are watching, waiting. Wondering.


    As the door opens fully, Shiloh pushes forward. As her and rescue team cross the boundary, dozens break off from the crowd to help with the bodies and injured. It''s a relief to feel the weight of Miles'' body lifted up and away as he''s escorted to the infirmary with the others.


    Shiloh takes a second to lean back, stretching. She really needs to train more. Perhaps she wasn''t the best candidate to head the rescue team, but it wasn''t like anyone else had been volunteering. She was the first into the fray.


    When she asked for volunteers to go with her, Liam was the first to raise his hand, his face trusting, if a bit grim. He''d already finished moving the electronics over to Mechanical, returning to the cargo bay area once the alarm sounded. His involvement may have helped sway everyone else. Despite the sensor readings and audio recordings of what was going on outside¡ªhell, they could hear the explosions and gunshots from the Cargo Bay, even without the recordings¡ªpeople seemed hesitant to acknowledge there was actually a problem, and that the Watch might fail. It''s a possibility the main populace have not considered before. They don''t want to believe it. The Watch are their heroes. Their Samsons, and Hercules'', and Achilles''. Now, those same heroes are battered and bruised, being held and carried by the common people, tended to. There''s a question, now, which Shiloh can plainly see on the face of every onlooker. If the Heroes have been defeated, what now?


    Well, she needs to finally have that meeting with the Board, is what. This needs to be hashed out. She needs to tell them everything. She-


    Something slams into her from the back. One second she is standing, stretching, wiping the sweat from her forehead and face with her forearm. The next, the world is being flipped on its side.


    Shiloh catches herself on the smooth, concrete floor with her palms, with a sound akin to a slap. Her hands and fingers throb. Her hair dangles past her face and unspools onto the cold floor.


    Heavy weight. Pressing in from on top of her. Hot breath in her ear.


    "What the fuck did you do."


    Shiloh pushes with her arms and hands, like she''s trying to do a push-up. The hard point of something¡ªan elbow, maybe¡ªpresses into the middle of her back.


    "Answer me, you stupid bitch."


    It''s Gavin, she realizes. And that''s when the fear really sets in. The panic.


    He was dangerous, before. But now, he is chaos. Un-anchored. Confused about reality, and his own place in it. Unpredictable. Like a wounded animal she''s turned her back to.


    She rotates, trying to pivot her torso out from under him. The weight shifts, with Gavin''s elbow sliding off Shiloh''s body, hitting the floor.


    She tries to roll. Instead, she finds her way blocked. She''s on her back, face-to-face with Gavin, who''s pressing down on her.


    His expression is flat and placid. His eyes are indecipherable. It''s as if something broke in him, out there. Something''s gone dark. The drive, the motivation, is gone, but the body is autonomous. It keeps going.


    He grabs one of her arms, pinning her.


    "You and that Ruster, out there. You''re in this together. Miles told me. I know what you were planning to do."


    Time stops. The world stops. Gavin has her. And he won''t let her pass. No answer she can give will be good enough. Nothing she can say will satisfy him. Nothing will penetrate those dim, unseeing eyes.


    But then new pairs of arms appear, looping around Gavin''s own arms, grabbing him by the shoulder. Time seems to start back up again as her aggressor is pulled back onto his feet.


    One of the pairs of arms belongs to Liam, the other to Seamus. Seamus is yelling something as they pull Gavin back and away from Shiloh.


    Shiloh gets back up onto her knees, then her feet, fighting a sudden onset of lightheadedness. There''s a ringing in her ears, and the hangar bay swims in her vision.


    Gavin writhes and thrashes, trying to extricate himself from Seamus and Liam''s grip.


    "It''s all so convenient, isn''t it!?" He yells. Not that he has to yell. The entire hangar has gone silent. Scores of eyes are on him, and on Shiloh. "It''s just what you wanted. What you needed to happen. Tell me, are you glad? Is this worth it to you!?"


    How do you answer a question like that? And yet, how can you not?


    Gavin goes quiet. The people, the entire crowd, look on. To Shiloh. Waiting for a response.


    She has to speak. She needs to speak. She needs to be the voice of reason. The person they can turn to.


    She opens her mouth to respond. But the words...they won''t come.


    The question is plain enough. Would Shiloh have orchestrated this, if she could have, even knowing the cost? Were the lives of two people, and the uprooting of so many families from their homes, a favorable exchange? Does the possibility of being able to take the Cloister forward, into the future, rather than being stuck in the past, make it all worth it? The chance of survival? The chance of...saving the world?


    She...doesn''t know.

 Chapter 30

    SHILOH


    The Board''s Conference Room might be one of the most lavish, indulgent locations in the Cloister. Not because it''s so extravagant in and of itself, but because of its purpose, in relation to its size.


    Real estate is limited, here. If something takes up space, there''s usually a good reason. The storage bays usually house important equipment, parts, and artifacts. ''Mechanical'' connects to one of the hangars leading to the outside, and has enough space to accommodate the vehicles, equipment, and gear that are tinkered with there on a daily basis. The Cargo Bay is the primary communal area, and has to remain spacious in order to fulfil that function.


    The Conference Room is just...a room. It is used for one purpose, and usually for short, infrequent periods. It is a place for five people¡ªthe Board¡ªto sit, and talk.


    The conference table is long and rectangular(the same general shape of the room itself), and much larger than it needs to be for just five people. The walls are a light teal color, though the paint is starting to chip lately, and no one''s bothered to give it another coat yet. Various framed photos and paintings spot the walls. Some of them are of the old world. Most are pictures taken inside the Cloister. One of them is a sweeping photo of the desert range to the south, beyond the canals.


    At the far end of the room is a smaller table with a coffee machine, which at the moment is making churning, bubbling sounds, as steam rises from the vent in a constant stream, and the coffee pot seated in the machine steadily fills up. There are five ceramic mugs next to the machine, sitting upside down on a dish towel.


    It''s been noisy in here, ever since all five members of the Board entered the room and shut the door behind them.


    Most of the talking¡ªyelling, really¡ªis courtesy of Reverend Tomos Corfield. He rants passionately, and a little sweatily, reminding Shiloh of the more intense parts of the sermons he gives every Sunday in the Cargo Bay. He shakes his head, causing his old-man jowls to waggle. Pearls of perspiration glisten on his pink, balding pate. Grey, whisker-y hairs flail about from one side of his head to the other. He talks of leadership. Of the responsibility we all have to look out for each other. Of the power of faith in uncertain times.


    The rest of the Board, they know this is no time for a sermon. But they all know that once Corfield gets going, it''s difficult to get him to stop. It''s best to weather his onslaught, glean whatever wisdom or perspective they can from the dissertation, and move on to the rest of the proceedings, having taken Corfield''s opinion into account.


    Shiloh stands opposite him, on the other side of the table, leaning with her back to the wall, arms folded. She feels...unnerved. Twitchy. Like there''s a bug in the room she can''t see, buzzing back and forth from one ear to the other.


    "Faith, ladies and gentlemen," Corfield says, glancing about the room. "Not fear. When I look around at the faces in this room, fear is what I see. Imagine if, at the Battle of Jericho, when Joshua commanded the people of God to march around the walled city, there were none that followed him, because of fear? It is faith that we must cling to. Without faith, there is no victory."


    In a sense, he is correct. There is no reward without risk. A leap of faith must be made. Shiloh''s father always taught her as much. But she''s pretty sure she doesn''t like where this particular analogy is going.


    "Who said anything about victory? This is survival, Mr. Corfield."


    "And that exact attitude," Corfield says, raising a shaky finger to point at Shiloh, "Is precisely why we are in this predicament. Joshua¡ªour Joshua¡ªgave his command, and you attempted to overturn it!"


    Is...he actually equating Gavin to Joshua? In the Bible??


    "I tried to warn Gavin, Reverend. He didn''t listen. I hardly see-"


    "Perhaps I should speak slower," Corfield says, his expression morphing into a snarl, his tone nasty. "We are the people of God. Our victory is incumbent on faith!"


    That''s it.


    Shiloh takes two steps, and leans forward, slapping both palms on the table, looking Corfield dead in the eye.


    "You''re shaking. Don''t try to ball your fist; I can still see it. Your pupils are dilated. You''re taking short, shallow breaths. Don''t talk to me about fear. Or faith. Or leadership. I can recall a time when my father was our Joshua. Most abandoned him as soon as the going got tough. And you were one of them, Reverend. He told you there was a way to reverse some of the ecological damage. Turn this desert back into some semblance of what it used to be. You didn''t want to believe him."


    "This new world we live in is an act of judgment from God," Corfield says, shaking from anger as well as fear. "Only God, not science, can reverse it. You should know that as one of his purported children, you''ve attended Sunday school enough times-"


    "Enough!" Yells Evelyn, from the far end of the room. She grabs one of the mugs off the table, flips it right side up, and begins pouring herself a steaming cup. "This is a waste of time and energy. We need to solve the problem, now, not point fingers."


    She''s right, of course. It is a waste of energy. According to Gavin''s report, the Ruster out there¡ªnamed Daimon¡ªis going to break into the Cloister in an hour and a half''s time from now. It will be a catastrophic event. It will jeopardize...well, everything.


    "There''s only one path forward from here," Evelyn says, blowing on her coffee. She seems surprisingly un-harried by this situation. Like she might be on her way to settle into a comfy chair with a book. "We have to hand over the captured Ruster to this ''Daimon''. The only question which remains is the method."


    "We''re to simply hand over this piece of technology to our enemy?" Corfield says, rounding on Evelyn. "No questions asked?"


    First semi-reasonable thing he''s said this entire meeting.


    Seamus, who''s been watching the Reverend with some wariness and alarm at his behavior, suddenly starts to nod in agreement.


    Only one person has yet to throw their hat in the ring. Samuel Callahan. His elbows are on the table, fingers tented, eyes fixed on the bare wall ahead of him. Tall and imposing, despite his slender build, he''s usually a quiet man. But when he talks, people listen. Of those on the Board that eventually turned their backs on Shiloh''s father, Callahan held out the longest. When he did put his foot down, it opened the floodgates for everyone to abandon the ''Darvin vision''.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    "I disagree," Callahan says. His voice is low, with a bit of a rumble to it. "There are lots of questions. And little time to make sense of them."


    He turns his head to face Shiloh, fingers still tented. "Gavin was clearly hysterical, attacking you the way he did. But what he said, about the way things have shaken out? I have to wonder as well. The question must be posed. Why is it you have such a keen pulse on the situation?"


    The rest of the Board, Seamus included, turn to face her as well, awaiting an answer. Four stupefied faces.


    Maybe Shiloh''s just worked up from...well, everything, but she''s starting to get real tired of that look. That accusatory, questioning look.


    "Chalk it up to a breakdown in communication," Shiloh says. "Chalk it up to a broken chain of command, and a lack of due diligence. Gavin knew everything I did, including the fact that the Biodroid he captured came from the south, on foot. I called for a meeting because I thought the four of you should be among the first to know. Maybe you should be asking why Gavin was so cavalier about this development. He was seemingly completely uninterested in the actual origins of the Biodroid, or why it was here. Then he goes and marches all of his men into danger without consulting any of us, and completely disregarding my advice and observations. Maybe you should be asking questions about that."


    This was, of course, a reiteration of part of her testimony of the events, which she''d already divulged, in detail, at the beginning of this meeting. Which made this even more frustrating. Why were they spending so much time on this?


    "That''s a bad-faith accusation!" Corfield says, a shaky finger in Shiloh''s direction. "We don''t know what happened, or why, and Gavin isn''t here to-"


    Samuel Callahan raises a hand, and Corfield breaks off. Callahan is still looking at Shiloh, studying her.


    "I find it convenient," he says, "That this developing situation seems to corroborate you and your late father''s claims."


    "Is it convenient for me?" I say, leaning forward on the table. "Or inconvenient for the rest of you?"


    "Alright, enough!" Evelyn says, glaring at everyone in turn. "Before we all get bisected by a sword-wielding android, please.


    "Corfield. Not everyone here is a God-fearing Christian, like yourself. Stop pretending we are, and stop spouting Bible verses; nothing you''ve said so far is relevant to our present concern.


    "Shiloh, you may take issue with the call that Gavin made. So do I. But the fact of the matter is that he was acting within the parameters of his role as Watch Leader. Guard dogs don''t wait for their owner''s permission to bark. It''s not in their nature. And yes, I just compared Gavin to a dog. Don''t read too much into it.


    "Callahan, even if Shiloh is lying to us, is your plan to convince her to fess up, here and now? How are you going to do that, exactly? She''s either telling the truth, or she isn''t, and either way, we''re not about to get to the bottom of it here, in this room, especially when we have other, more pressing matters at hand, so you might as well save us all our time¡ªand perhaps our lives¡ªand forget it.


    "All of you. Everyone...STOP."


    Every other person, besides Shiloh, shrinks a little at this. And of course, Callahan. He just breaks off the eye contact with Shiloh, face impassive, though he does still seem thoughtful. He''s sorting through the information in his mind, like a computer whose hard drive is in the process of defragmentation. To borrow some jargon from Cade.


    "Who did what, and why," Evelyn says. "That''s all in the past. And maybe it matters. But we can sort it all out later." At this last, she fixes her eyes on Shiloh, pointedly. She is a keen and suspicious woman, and apparently, like Callahan, Shiloh''s version of what went down doesn''t quite add up, in her mind.


    Nothing Shiloh can do about that, just yet. She folds her arms, chewing on the inner fold of her lower lip.


    "As much as I hate to admit it," Shiloh says, speaking to no in particular, "The Reverend is right. It would be irresponsible to simply hand the tech over. Not until we get a peek under the hood, to be sure."


    "Sure of what?" Seamus says, adjusting in his chair. He looks clammy, and a little pale.


    "That''s just it," Shiloh says. "There''s no way to know. Not unless we pop him open and take a look."


    Evelyn eyes Shiloh shrewdly as she sips her coffee. But she doesn''t say anything.


    "Is that feasible?" Callahan asks.


    "I believe so," Shiloh says. "Gavin and I already made the preparations. All the gear is in Mechanical, ready to go. All we have to do is hook it up."


    Callahan leans forward on the table. His expression is serious. Intense. "Are you sure this is just about responsible handling of Ruster tech? And not...something else?"


    There it is. The million-dollar question.


    Obviously, it''s both. This is an opportunity to confirm her father''s beliefs, and her own. She doesn''t want to pass it up. She can''t pass it up.


    "Does it matter?" Shiloh says. "We still have over an hour. Almost an hour and a half. Once we''re down to the twenty to fifteen minute mark, if we don''t find anything¡ªor perhaps even if we do¡ªwe''ll just drop the Ruster outside the Cloister, leave it for Daimon."


    "And I suppose you''ll be overseeing all of this," Corfield says. "And we''re to take your word on what should be done."


    Shiloh raises her hands. "I don''t have to call the shots. You could be there. All of you. And Gavin. And the rest of the Watch. They''ve already had their meds, and at least some time to recover. They won''t be in tip-top shape, especially considering what happened, but they can stand guard in case something goes wrong. They''ll have their gear ready to go. They can transport the Ruster to the Hangar and through the bay doors at any time, should they need to."


    A moment of thoughtful, hesitant silence follows this.


    They don''t want to give me what I want, Shiloh realizes. They can''t think of any reasonable objections. They just don''t want me to do it.


    They''re afraid I''m right. They''re afraid they might have to alter their course. They might have to confront their own pasts.


    They need another nudge.


    "There''s a reason why Daimon wants this Biodroid so bad. Aren''t you at all curious? Don''t you think it might matter? Or are you all so truly lacking in imagination?"


    Callahan holds up a hand. "I think we¡ªor at least some of us, myself included¡ªsee your point, Miss Darvin. There is little to lose, and, for all we know, much to gain; or perhaps, to prevent. But this begs the question. If, hypothetically, we were to find something so significant we decide not to hand the tech over...what then?"


    Shiloh leans back in her chair, arms folded. She''s got her foot in the door. Two different doors, in fact. "What if Daimon decides to attack anyway, even if we do hand it over? Maybe he always intended to. Or maybe he decides to last-minute, just for kicks. Wouldn''t be too out of line with what we''ve seen so far."


    A possibility they hadn''t wanted to contemplate too closely, going from the looks on their faces.


    "We''ll all be dead," Callahan says. "That''s what. Depending on the amount of damage he''s able to do to the Cloister before we put him down. Assuming we can stop him at all."


    "Perhaps we should consider using the Walker," Shiloh says.


    This earns an incredulous look from everyone at the table. Everyone except Evelyn. She just...watches.


    "The Cloister is our home," Corfield says. "Not some hunk of wonky, walking metal-"


    So set in their ways. So incapable of dealing with a shift of paradigm. They''ve only ever seen things one way. And maybe they always will.


    "The very fact that we''re having this conversation precludes the possibility of this ship going down," Shiloh says. "Are you really saying you don''t want a life raft? We know the Walker works. It''s got life support systems, plenty of space for sleeping and storage, weapon systems, defense capabilities-"


    "We can''t all fit on the Walker, Shiloh," Callahan says.


    "That''s right," Shiloh admits. "Some of us would die, instead of...all of us. Look, all I''m saying is, it might come in handy. All I''m asking is that we clear a path to leave if we need to, and keep it in mind."


    "Fine," Callahan says, after a moment''s thought. "I think you''re right. All in favor of authorizing use of the Walker?"


    He raises his hand. So does everyone else.


    "All in favor of opening up the Ruster, and getting to the bottom of this?"


    This time, he waits to see what everyone else does before raising his own hand. Once again, the vote in favor is unanimous.


    Evelyn raises her hand in a casual, off-hand sort of way, glaring at Shiloh as she does so, seeming to say, ''I see what you''re doing; I can''t stop you, but I see it.''


    "Very well," Callahan says, casting his gaze about before settling on Shiloh. "As far as I''m concerned, you have one hour from now to extract what you can."


    "Good," Shiloh says, already rising from her chair, en route to the door. She pulls a walkie talkie she procured before the meeting out of her pocket and turns it on. "Cade, come in. I''m gonna need your help with something."

 Chapter 31

    GAVIN


    It''s strange. The smooth, flat, concrete floor in the East Hangar. Gavin has always thought of it as being immaculate in its construction. Perfect, just like the rest of the Cloister. Not without its quirks, perhaps. It''s idiosyncrasies. But perfect, all the same.


    Now, as he sits on a bench next to the lockers which house the Watch''s weapons and gear, he stares down at that floor. Where once he ascribed perfection, he now sees blemishes, inadequacies. Weaknesses. Pockmarks. Grainy obtrusions. Thick, spindly cracks, spider-webbing, like a mirror that''s been punched. As he gazes, frowning at those fractures in the concrete, he thinks, distantly, I am not here. This is not me, here, in this room. None of this is real.


    As if to confirm this, reality warps. The cracks loom large, making massive chasms in his vision. Dark and deep, brimming with shadows. Some of them are shifting, as if restless, anticipating. Gavin hovers somewhere over that massive, bottomless chasm. At any moment, he will be dropped down into it. And there is no knowing what he will find there. What will become of him. He-


    A voice. Distorted. Warbled. As if Gavin''s ears are submerged. Whatever it is, it seems to...disrupt. It cuts into this vision, this experience, whatever this is, yanking Gavin out of it like an unborn child forcefully expunged from the womb.


    Suddenly, he is here. He is in this room. He thinks. But if anything is real, perhaps this is.


    Is he losing it? Really losing it? He''s been in tight spots, before. Lost people, before. He''s equipped for the trauma. For the pain. He knows he is. Or at least, believes. Believed.


    It''s normal- well, no, nothing about it is normal, or natural, or right; death is a product of the fall, the new condition of a corrupt world, an affliction, and as for the Rusters, those soulless husks of wiring and metal, and strobelike electric impulses, there''s nothing natural about that, NOTHING-


    That voice, again.


    "-don''t blame you. None of us do."


    It''s Miles. He''s geared up, rifle hanging from his shoulder by the strap, oxygen mask dangling against his chest. He''s standing at the ready. So are the rest of the team.


    And what about me? Am I ready?


    I''m supposed to be the boss. I''m supposed to have it together, dammit.


    But why fight when he can retreat? Inward. Where he doesn''t have to see Karla''s neck being severed, over and over, or Riley''s body crumpling against the rocks. Where, instead, he has strange visions of sheer drops into complete nothingness.


    "We all thought it was the right call, at the time," Renzo says, running a dry, scratchy palm over his bald, shaved head. There''s a playful timbre to his voice, almost musical. But his expression is grave. Austere.


    It''s strange, seeing him like this. He''s usually so upbeat, even in the most dire straits. But then, usually things are bad, out there. This is the first time death has come right up to the door and knocked, with a scythe, it¡¯s blade long enough, curved enough, to take all their heads in a single stroke.


    When was the last time Gavin thought this way, in striking, vivid imagery? But it''s his father, influencing his thoughts, here in this dark time when his mind wants nothing more than to regress backward, into the past. His father, Llewellyn, who used to talk in poetic expressions. Used to read poetry, and would recite some verses aloud and from memory, his voice reverberating breathily inside his mask as he trekked the plateaus and desert wastes.


    Llewellyn used to be Watch leader. He died Watch Leader. And Gavin was there to see it happen. In a way, he let it happen. No one else on the team reacted quite fast enough to prevent it, and neither had he. It''s a failure Gavin refuses to forget. It haunts him. It plagues him. But it drives him, as well. He harnesses it. The memory is never far from his mind.


    They were out in the wastes. Too far out. They''d since learned that there are places you shouldn''t go, distances that shouldn''t be traversed. Sometimes you wander into areas where the SERAPHIM can appear. And sometimes the Rusters get you.


    That''s what happened to Llewellyn, after all. Got nailed by some Ruster scout ship. It dive-bombed the wayward Watch crew, sounding like some giant, gas-powered pepper grinder as it traced a dotted line across the dune sea. A line that crossed out Gavin''s father mid-route. Shredded him. Long after the realization had truly set in, and Gavin''s mind slowly returned to him, moment to moment, by degrees, he''d become fixated on the sheer, brutal efficiency of it, the way parts of his father''s body had been neatly separated, severed and sliced as if by a large knife. Almost surgical. Almost intentional. Like finding a loved one pinned to a giant specimen board, parts of the body removed and set aside for later examination. So callous. So...precise.


    Only a machine can be like that. Kill without thinking. Strike without caring. Because even if you find a rat in the granary, you don''t relish having to kill it. You don''t test out your knife-throwing skills on it. You don''t see how long you can make it bleed before it dies.


    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    Or at least, there was a time when Gavin believed that. The ''before'' time. Before he watched his father''s body get taken apart by a fine spread of bullets from overhead. He realized that, with the Fall, came death. Nature changed, and mankind as well. They...adapted. And like the time of mankind''s first sin, the world had fallen once again. With that, came a new Curse. The Curse of the Rusters, and the SERAPHIM. And with that, mankind needed to adapt once again.


    Brutality is the new law of the land. A man''s ability to survive depends on just how far he''s willing to go.


    That was Gavin''s mistake. Not just losing two people, but not having the foresight, or the determination, to use their sacrifice to his advantage in the moment. He took their deaths as a total failure, rather than a setback.


    If he''d moved fast enough, could he have turned things around? If he''d been willing to sacrifice his men from the outset, would things have gone differently? There was no way to know. But at the very least, he wouldn''t be in this hole, right now. By starting at the bottom, he wouldn''t have had to face the fall. By embracing reality, he wouldn''t have had to feel the illusions shatter in real time.


    This is what Shiloh doesn''t get, and perhaps never will. You don''t negotiate with Rusters. You don''t play by their rules. Because they don''t play by yours. There is no mutual understanding. No common ground. Conflict, ultimately, can only be resolved by means of destruction. The only question is, who will be destroyed, and who will survive.


    And Gavin, today, chooses survival.


    Gazing about at his members of the Watch, his crew, Gavin swallows and wets his lips.


    "You''re giving me an out. All of you. But I won''t take it. What happened out there was the result of my faults and failings. I made bad calls. More than one. And the proof of that is in the result. It''s my fault Riley is dead. It''s my fault Karla is dead. It''s my fault that Ruster is still out there."


    Miles starts to shake his head, but stops when Gavin stares him down.


    "I can understand if you feel I shouldn''t lead the Watch, after today. And you might be right. But there''s still more to do. For now, I ask that you follow my lead. After, we can grieve. After, we can decide what the future will be. If that''s something you all can agree to."


    Renzo steps forward, head cocked as he peers down at Gavin. And Gavin feels himself bracing. Bracing for...what? What am I afraid of, exactly?


    What is the meaning of all this, anyway? This whining, this introspection. My job isn''t to think. It''s to do. My job is to fix the problem.


    It is the unspoken rule. The unspoken expectation. It doesn''t need to be said. It might as well be carved into the hangar wall by an invisible hand in giant script.


    So of course Renzo doesn''t say anything. He doesn''t have to. He just holds out his hand.


    Gavin studies Renzo''s face, impassive as it is. He looks at the outstretched hand.


    Have Gavin''s crew members ever seen him like this? Tender and raw, like an open wound? Vulnerable? Will this endear him to them, if anything? Or has some quantity of his hard-earned respect been lost, in this moment? And if so, will he lose some degree of his control over them, down the line?


    At the moment, should he even care?


    ¡°It''s not you," Renzo says. "It''s not us. It''s them. It''s the Rusters. It''s that Darvin girl. You were right about that. The whole thing smells of a setup, from beginning to end. And we fell for it. But that doesn''t mean this is over. Not yet. Not while we''re still here."


    He''s right, of course. It''s not over yet. And what good will it do to sit here and mope about it? That''s just not something they can afford to do. Not while there''s still work to be done.


    He takes Renzo''s hand. Renzo heaves, helping to pull Gavin to his feet. He pats Gavin on the back, grips his shoulder tight. Nods.


    "So, Watch Leader," Renzo says. "What''s the plan?"


    It''s a short walk to Mechanical from the South Hangar. There''s a short, wide curve of a hallway connecting the two. Earlier, when they brought in the captive Ruster, they could have brought him directly to the garage. But what was the fun in that, when they could parade the machine through the main hall, and some of the major walkways? It was great for morale, and getting the word out. It was a big middle finger to the outside world and a hearty cheer for the Cloister.


    But of course, that was then, and this was now. So much had changed, and in so little time. And now they had passed a boundary from which there would be no return.


    Things will never be the same, Gavin knows. And for some reason, that fact doesn''t bother him so much anymore. In fact, he can feel cold, metallic resolve steeling over him. He doesn''t feel so shaky. So...out of touch. He''s never felt so present, so important, as now, in these moments.


    They arrive in the Mechanical Bay. They pass by the tall, hulking mass of the Walker, with its wide, oval body, and six spider-like legs. Two engineers maneuver underneath the body of the Walker, stepping over and around the round, massive feet. They''re making adjustments and check-ups, seeing if they need to make any quick repairs.


    As Gavin circles around the Walker, he doesn''t have to point, or make any signals. Renzo has already approached an engineer, the one nearest the boarding ramp, and is pointing at some imaginary anomaly under the hull of the Walker, trying to get the engineer to see it. Once he sees Renzo has the worker suitably distracted, Gavin makes his way up the ramp.


    It''s darker, inside. The overhead lights are dim compared to the fluorescents throughout the Cloister.


    It''s the screens, buttons, and instrument readings that are bright, almost glaring in the otherwise shadowy interior of the cockpit.


    Gavin kneels down in front of the console board at the middle and front of the cockpit. Normally the console board can''t be accessed without the right tools to unscrew and pry it open out of the control panel, but Gavin already did that back when they first acquired the Walker, and hasn''t bothered to close it back up since then. When he squeezes two points on the board and lifts, it comes disconnected right away. Winding weaves of cord spiral down from the board, splitting off to connect to various parts of the panel.


    Once or two well-placed incisions with a sufficiently sharp knife can disable the entire mechanism. Perhaps even fry some parts of the Walker irreparably. But Gavin isn''t so crude. His aim is not to destroy, in this instance, but control.


    He reaches inside, maneuvering his arm amid the meshes of wiring. His fingers close on a slim object, cold to the touch, covered in a layer of grimy dust. Once he''s sure of his grip, he pulls up.


    A snap. Not a break, but a disconnection. He pulls the device up. A cartridge insert, with a green electronic chip component jutting out of it. It''s the Navchip. The part of the Walker''s computer system that allows it to scan terrain and navigate it accordingly. Without this, the Walker can''t move. Without this, Shiloh can''t have her way. Not unless Gavin says so.


    He pockets the Navchip, backs out of the cockpit, ducks through the opening, and heads down the ramp.

 Chapter 32

    SHILOH


    Shiloh has to take a second to gather herself as she enters back into the garage in Mechanical. Mostly because of the first thing she sees. As someone who was raised Christian, the eeriness of the image is not lost on her. The way the Ruster is suspended, arms spread apart, head lolling. Unconscious. The near-spitting image of the crucifixion itself, only rather than flesh and blood, there is wiring, metal, and strange, flesh-like, wetly lubricated organs, glistening in the green-ish light from the lamps overhead.


    An ill omen, if there ever was such a thing. If Shiloh believed in them.


    Liam is right behind her, carrying some of the gear. He starts setting stuff on and next to the open shelf toward the back of the room, near the door. He nods to Shiloh, then heads back out through the open door, likely to help with the Walker, or assist with other preparations. Shiloh hears the door slide shut just after he exits through it.


    "Whoah," Cade says, suddenly next to Shiloh. His red hair takes on a chestnut sheen in the subtly green light. His eyes rove over the tethered, suspended Ruster. "That''s kinda screwed up."


    "It''s a machine, Cade," Shiloh says, though she''s not sure who she''s trying to convince more: Cade, or herself. She''s here to extract information, and she doubts getting sentimental about the specimen in front of them will be of much help. It''ll just be more mental noise, on top of everything else.


    "A machine that feels," Cade says, clearly not getting the memo. "Think about how much pain it must be in, right now. Gavin must have used the access points to open it up into some kind of repair mode, while it was still conscious. Can you imagine? It''s been forced to retreat into itself. Some process has taken over, a way to protect its ''mind'' from being destroyed by the pain."


    He cocks his head, seeming to notice something. He steps around the table, facing something. A circular, hanging object, opposite the Ruster.


    "Shiloh, I think maybe you should see this."


    No. I can''t. I already have so much to worry about.


    But her legs are already moving, curiosity overriding the more rational part of her mind. She skirts around the table and stands next to Cade. She looks at him questioningly, but he just points.


    The object. It''s...a mirror. Specifically adjusted so the Ruster would be able to see himself. As if Gavin was trying to rub reality in the machine''s face. Confront the Biodroid with its own very apparent lack of...human-ness.


    More than that, it''s as if Gavin wanted the captive to be doubly aware of its own predicament. The pain. The hopelessness.


    Shiloh turns away, a strange lump forming in her throat.


    "What?" Cade says. "You don''t think this matters? You don''t think something should be done about this? I get that humans and Rusters¡ªwe''re not the same. But this-"


    "Not yet, Cade," Shiloh says. She runs a hand through her hair. It''s loose, and it''s become messy and frayed. She rummages in the pockets of her overalls, searching for her hairband.


    "Because it''s Gavin?" Cade says, turning to look at her. "I''ve seen what he gets away with. Sometimes even in regards to you. And you put up with a lot. You always try to maintain the status quo, because you think it will keep people safe. At some point, you''re going to have to take a risk, with him. If you can''t stand up for yourself, then what can you do for the rest of us?"


    Shiloh pauses, a hand in each pocket. Her hair is a messy curtain, dangling down over one half of her face.


    "And here I thought you were quiet," she says.


    "I stay quiet, most of the time," Cade says. His hands are in his pockets, as if to mimic Shiloh''s own stance, in a placating sort of way. "People usually aren''t interested in what I have to say; one of the reasons why I''ve been relegated to the closet with all the computers. You''re the one who dragged me into this, though. I figure that gives me carte blanche to voice my concerns."


    Shiloh''s fingers close around the hairband, smushed underneath the walkie-talkie in her pocket. She pulls it out and begins working her hair back into a ponytail.


    "Fair enough. But we need to focus up. We don''t have much time. We need to get this stuff set up. And this place is going to get real crowded, real soon. We can talk about Gavin once we''re past this."


    Cade holds up his hands. "I never said I wanted to be a part of that. I''m just...you know. Saying."


    "Duly noted," Shiloh says, winding the hairband around her tail. She''s trying not to be conscious of the way Cade is looking at her. Almost like he''s...judging her? Is he being frank with her out of actual concern, or is he trying to provoke a response? Is it like a test of some sort?


    Knowing Cade, probably yes. Probably ''all of the above''.


    "So let me just put this together," Cade says, turning back toward the Biodroid, "This guy is supposed to contain info on the southern facility. And if we can find that, supposedly, we can find technology which can be harnessed to terraform the desert. That''s the story, isn''t it?"


    "It''s not a story. It''s the truth."


    "It''s part of the truth," Cade says, regarding her briefly before turning his gaze back to the man-like machine. "Your father always talked about reversing some of the ecological damage from the war, but there was an implicit understanding he wanted more than that, too. That the technology there could be used to fight back against the machines. But I can guess you didn''t bring that up in your Board meeting."


    Shiloh folds her arms, having just finished securing her hair behind her head. She wonders if she should lie. It''s hard to believe Cade is digging for info with the purpose of reporting it to someone else, but it might be possible.


    But Cade is astute and thoughtful for his age. His mind is sharp. His eyes are keen and penetrating. She can''t shake the feeling that if she lies, he''ll know. More than that, he''ll remember. He has the look of a rebellious, indignant teenager, one who''s been manipulated and lied to his whole life. He''s sick of it.


    But here she is, sifting through the pros and cons, weighing the merit of truth over a lie. Isn''t truth an end, in and of itself? Doesn''t truth justify itself? She sees no compelling reason to mislead Cade. It might be a risk, but isn''t everything?


    "Can''t say it came up," Shiloh says. "You know how people are. The very idea of change is terrifying. The very concept that we could make things better, or return to some modicum of the way things were, is almost too much to swallow on its own. It''s too much of a paradigm shift. Let alone actually fighting back, and making humanity free, again. One step at a time is about all I expect they can manage. If that. I basically had to drag them kicking and screaming this far."


    Cade nods soberly. He swallows, and the sharp knob of his Adam''s Apple bobs up and down.


    "Good," he says. "I was hoping you''d say that. I''m ready for things to change too, Miss Darvin."


    A moment of silence follows this. Not long, but awkward all the same.


    "We should hurry," Shiloh says.


    "Right. There isn''t as much preparation as you might think," Cade says, glancing around. He indicates the electronics Liam brought over from storage, as well as the closed laptop next to them. "I mean, you''ve got it all, right here. These boxes sequence the data so it can be read by the computer. It''s just a matter of cables connecting. For the setup, at least."


    Shiloh knows all this, but she doesn''t interrupt.


    "Should be a connection port at the side of the neck," Cade says. "Just above the collarbone."


    He grabs a wound-up cord, plugs one end into one of the boxes, and begins walking toward the suspended Biodroid, unraveling the cord as he goes. He stops for a second to snatch a tool off the shelf. It looks like a screwdriver, but the bit at the end has a complicated pattern to it, almost like a key.


    He stops in front of the unconscious Biodroid, hesitating. For all either of them know, this could be some kind of trick. A trap. But then, if the machine is capable of breaking free, wouldn''t it have done so already?


    But the pause lasts little more than a brief second. Cade leans close to the Biodroid, examining the side of its neck. He prods a section just above the collarbone. There''s a slight shift of a tiny metal plate, and a gap appears. Just wide enough for the key.


    Cade pushes it in, until there''s a click, and then a slightly larger opening appears, with a visible port.


    "Voila," Cade says, so quiet it''s almost a whisper.


    He holds the end of the cable up to the port and pushes it in.


    "There," he says.


    Shiloh, watching from behind the table crammed with equipment, lets out a slow, tensely drawn breath. Part of her expected something to happen. Not necessarily something bad, but...something. But the Biodroid hasn''t so much as twitched slightly. It appears to be trapped in some sort of stasis, still.


    Shiloh turns her focus to the equipment. In order for this to work, the computer has to boot up with the right connections already in place. So, she connects both of the boxes via one of the cables. She uses another cord to connect one of the boxes to the laptop. She kneels down to plug in the boxes to the outlets under the table. By the time she stands up again, Cade has turned on the boxes, causing red and green lights to blink on the top. He makes adjustments to some knobs and levers on the front of each box.


    "We should be good to run the PC," he says.


    Shiloh opens the laptop and presses the power button in the corner. The screen lights up, and there''s a loading screen. Should just take a second or two to boot up. Assuming something isn''t wrong, and the computer doesn''t decide to conk out, right at this moment.


    But that''s not gonna happen. I mean, probably not.


    ...is it?


    As Shiloh watches the loading screen slowly fill up, the door to the garage slides open again, and a crowd of people start to shuffle through, their many shoes tapping and squeaking on the concrete floor, echoing off the walls. It''s also hard to miss the clomp of thick-soled boots and the rattle of metal clasps as the Watch members file in.


    "I assume this operation of yours is about to commence?" Callahan says, somewhere to Shiloh''s right.


    Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    "Any second now," Shiloh says, not taking her eyes off the screen.


    The loading bar finally fills up, blinks twice, then disappears. The screen flickers, goes white.


    Then, mercifully, the plain, grey desktop appears, littered with a dozen or so icons.


    "I can take it from here, if you''d like," Cade says, scooting in next to her.


    Shiloh scoots out of the way. This is the part she definitely cannot do. There are certain command prompts that have to go through just to get the process started, and she doesn''t know a lick of code.


    Cade presses three different buttons on the keyboard at once, bringing up a black window with a white blinking cursor in the corner. He types out a prompt, so fast Shiloh barely has time to read it, and executes it.


    Scrolling lines of text flash across the screen. Eventually, the scrolling stops, and a white loading bar appears in the black window. As it loads, new lines of text appear and disappear, signifying various signposts of the process as it moves along.


    For a while, Shiloh stares intently at the screen. But then a minute passes, and her eyes wander. She looks up at the stretched out, fastened Biodroid. His eyes are closed, his head drooped. He doesn''t appear to have moved since this process started.


    Her eyes drift again. Gavin is standing with his back to the door. He''s almost facing Shiloh''s direction more than the Biodroid itself. He flashes Shiloh a hard look, a look of despicability. And what can she do but return it with her own, unmasked expression of puzzled bewilderment? How can a man be so hateful and so unreasonable? So...self-absorbed? Shiloh wasn''t the enemy. She was trying to save humanity. Gavin should be on her side.


    But of course, he doesn''t see it that way. The fact that she was right, and that she tried to save him and his men, makes her a threat to his ego, and thereby a threat to his entire identity.


    He is the first to look away, the flames of spite still flickering in his eyes.


    He''s all bark and no bite. He has no power here anymore. Especially if it turns out Shiloh is right. The Board will have no choice but to support her goals, and so will Gavin. If he doesn''t, he''ll eventually be stripped of his position.


    Shiloh glances over at Evelyn, who is positioned in the corner opposite the door. Their eyes meet. Evelyn''s pensive expression seems to say, You better hope this is the right thing. You better hope you''re right about this.


    Shiloh does. She''s all but certain that this is the right move. More than that, it may be their only chance. Her only chance.


    "We''re in," Cade says.


    A new window appears, also with a black background, and new lines of white text scrolling into existence. After a page of information or so, everything comes to a stop, with just that white, flashing cursor.


    Cade types in a couple lines of code. Press ''enter''.


    Error messages appear. They start with ''ERROR:'', followed by lines of bright red text.


    "What is this?" Shiloh says, her heart feeling like it''s trying to clamber its way up toward her throat.


    "I''m not sure yet," Cade says. "I tried to access the memory unit. Something''s stopping me. Hold on."


    He executes a new command. There''s another loading bar, shorter than before. Shiloh''s eyes are locked to the screen the whole time.


    More text.


    Cade''s eyes zip back and forth and he goes over it.


    "Okay," he says, finally. "This is weird."


    "What?" Shiloh says.


    "It''s not a matter of the memory being corrupted, or broken," Cade says. "There''s a limitation that''s been artificially imposed on the system. It''s been...gated. That''s the best way I can describe it. In fact, that''s how the system itself designates it."


    "...gates?"


    "Look," Cade says, pointing at the diagnostic messages. "Each one of these paragraphs, right here, is talking about something called a ''Gate''. There''s nine in total. There''s some kind of condition which has to be met to unlock each one. I just don''t know what. It''s not clear."


    "What''s behind these Gates?" Shiloh says, as her heart beats faster. Have they reached a dead-end? "What do they unlock?"


    "Memories," Cade says, running one hand through his hair. "The memory unit itself. And...other things, probably. It''s hard to say. This Biodroid has been tampered with, though. I can tell you that. According to this, something external did something to the system yesterday, and it kick-started some kind of routine. Some data got fed into the system, leading to more procedures, and...well...this happened."


    "That doesn''t seem possible," Callahan chips in, sounding just as perplexed as Shiloh feels. "If that were true-"


    "We could wirelessly override any Biodroid we wanted to, at any point," Cade says. His eyes look glassy for a moment, contemplating the possibilities. Then, he seems to come back to himself. "Unfortunately, in this case, the package went through by using some pre-existing security loophole. It activated a payload that was already loaded into the system."


    "Meaning?" Shiloh says.


    "Going off of what I''m seeing here," Cade says, "This Biodroid was in stasis for a long time, before it woke up yesterday. A real long time. And my guess is, shortly before, or shortly after he was put under, someone installed that payload. Knowing it could be used to wake the Biodroid up, and do all this other stuff to it, somewhere down the line. What we don''t know, is why."


    This earns a moment of eerie quiet in the room. Even the Reverend resists pitching in to fill the silence with his own biblically-based maxims. Or perhaps he just doesn''t want to.


    Whatever data is hiding away in the memory, the machines must be after it. And Shiloh can''t be the only one thinking that.


    "So..." Shiloh says. "There''s no way in?"


    "Not with these tools," Cade says, shaking his head. "Some of the memory is there, obviously. He remembers waking up and leaving the facility, according to what he told you. It''s in there. He can access it. But we can''t."


    Shiloh raps her fingers on the table. Her heart is beating a mile a minute. Her chance is slipping away. The opportunity to finish her father''s work, her father''s dream. Instead, she''ll be trapped here, in the Cloister, for the rest of her life. She''ll grow old, like Evelyn. And like Evelyn, she''ll forget. She''ll succumb to this life, become firmly accustomed to it. The dream will die, and it will be as if her father has died, all over again. A second death.


    And the world will die again, too, won''t it? A second apocalypse. The real apocalypse. All while Shiloh grows old, and her hair turns thin and grey. She will have her own little living space, like Evelyn, with her books, and her mementos. She will read old books, and stare at old pictures, and try to imagine¡ªunsuccessfully¡ªwhat it was really like to live in the time of her ancestors. What it used to mean to be a human being. A time will come when she can no longer imagine the old world, and doesn''t want to. She sees that capacity, that inevitability, in herself. In everyone.


    Unless¡­


    An idea percolates in her mind. Bubbling. Rising to the surface.


    Her heart stops. Does a double-backflip.


    She puts a hand on Cade¡¯s shoulder. The contact makes him jump, a little. He glances at her over his shoulder.


    ¡°What if I were to Jack In? Could I see?¡±


    ¡°I-¡± Cade''s voice catches, like he''s afraid to go on. ¡°In theory, you could. You would have direct access, if it worked. You would be bypassing the security measures. But Shiloh-"


    "I could use one of the boxes," she says, leaning toward the one hooked directly into the laptop. "That way, you could monitor the data with the computer, still-"


    "Yeah, but this is all theoretical," Cade says, holding up a hand in objection. "Will your Jacking tech work? Probably. But we just don''t know what it''ll do. We don''t know what will happen-"


    But for Shiloh, the time for deliberation is over. Years over.


    She pulls back the collar of her jumpsuit at the left side of her neck. She finds the Jacktech with her fingers, the cold prong of metal, and pulls.


    It''s always a strange sensation. The purr of the cable, coiled somewhere in her upper chest, running up the inside of her neck. A vibratory hum inside her body. A ticklish, hollow feeling.


    Sometimes, Shiloh wonders if this is the real reason for her and her father''s estrangement from the rest of the Cloister. Or maybe it was just one of the straws that would one day break the camel''s back.


    She was young when it happened. She''d been playing ''First to the Top'', in the Cargo Bay, when she fell over the side of one of the rails. Broke her neck in the fall.


    Her father performed an emergency surgery, with the help of some of the resident medical experts. Part of the key to her survival was Darvin''s expertise in regards to Biodroid-related technology. Jacktech was originally designed for certain Biodroid models, but Darvin used the parts to stabilize her neck and collarbone, not only saving her, but allowing her to continue to live a healthy, normal life.


    Well, somewhat normal.


    As part of the insertion process, the Jacktech had to be attached to the spinal column itself. Some of the medical staff believed there might be some ill effects because of this. What no one had expected¡ªperhaps not even Darvin himself¡ªwas that Shiloh would actually be able to use the Jacktech.


    There''s an uncomfortable reality, one that the people of the Cloister seem to spend a lot of time and energy trying to avoid. There are a lot of similarities between humans and Biodroids, anatomically and otherwise. Humans are, after all, the blueprint on which the Biodroid models were based. The intention, it seems, was to create something human, but more.


    On the reverse side of things, post-surgery, some of Shiloh''s neighbors and friends came to see her as something human, but also slightly less than human. She was a discomforting reminder of just how thin and grey the line is between man and machine. Even now, she''s a walking contradiction of the teachings propagated by the community, the deep-rooted beliefs. To them, she is certainly a person. She''s Shiloh. But she''s also different. At the end of the day, she is not one of them.


    She;''s always resented that fact. Always wished things could have been different. But what if there''s a point, to all of it? What if the reason she fell and nearly died, all those years ago, was so that at this very moment, she can now do what no one else can?


    "Can I plug into this box, or not? It''s this one, right?"


    Cade grimaces. The look in his eyes isn''t ''yes'', but it''s not a denial either.


    The Jacktech end she holds in her fingers looks almost like an audio jack. There''s a round, quarter-inch-width port in the side of the box. Shiloh leans forward, reaching with the Jacktech.


    Sudden resistance. A hand gripping her shoulder, fingers digging into the flesh of her upper arm. Shiloh is turned violently sideways, to face Evelyn, with a surprising level of physical strength.


    "Don''t," Evelyn says. Passionate. Terrified. Pleading. "This is too far, Shiloh. I''ve entertained this for too long, already. You showed up. You tried. But at some point, you''ve got to let it go."


    "No." Shiloh feels the word leave her lips, as if of its own volition, before she''s even fully thought it through. But that''s why she trusts it. It is her answer. Flat. Curt. Sincere. Unbridled. "No."


    She waits, expecting others to join Evelyn in her objection. It is the way of the world. The way of people. The will of the many, over the few. They always know what''s best, don''t they? What your life should be. If only the few would listen, and obey.


    But Shiloh doesn''t intend for that to happen. Not today. Not if she can help it.


    The room is silent. But it is a violent sort of silence. Brimming with conflict, expectation. But whatever the others must think(from the Reverend, to Callahan, to the Watch themselves), they refuse to speak. They only watch her, wide-eyed. Perhaps because most of them, in the end, don''t much care what she does. Whatever happens to her, it will have been her decisions which brought it about. Her responsibility. Not theirs.


    Maybe it will work. If it does, and Shiloh is able to use her brain to integrate with a Biodroid''s systems, it will be a success. But she''ll be a freak too, won''t she? She''ll be alienated from her people to an even greater degree than before. They will never, ever see her the same again. More than despising her, they will fear her, for what she can do, and what she represents.


    If she fails...well, a number of things could happen. Maybe Jacking In doesn''t work at all. Or maybe it does, but maybe she gets zapped by some security measure, or runs into an incompatibility issue. What happens then? Nothing, except a forceful ejection, or some damage to the Jacktech itself? Brain-damage? Does she end up comatose because of this? She''s in uncharted territory. Anything is possible.


    Another hand presses against one of Shiloh''s shoulders. It''s Cade. But before Shiloh can protest, he puts his other hand on Evelyn''s shoulder.


    "It''s her choice, Evelyn."


    "Like hell it is," Evelyn says, spit flying. "I''m as much a member of the Board as she is. If she-"


    "Evelyn," Callahan says calmly, interposing. "Let her go."


    Evelyn takes a breath. Looks around. Seems to realize she''s alone in this. There''s no one backing her. Just a quiet room of people, scared as they are fascinated. Disturbed by the proceedings, but not yet willing to interrupt them. Even Gavin, in this moment, does little more than avert his eyes when Shiloh glances his way.


    Yes. They''ll use Shiloh. They''ll take as much as she can give. Even if they try to punish her for it later. They will take advantage of her results, and despise her for the methods of achieving those results. But that''s just the way of things.


    "Please," Evelyn says, quietly now, as if to match the energy of the rest of the room. "Don''t do this. Don''t fall prey to your father''s dream, the way others have before you."


    "No," Shiloh says, for the third time. Just as flatly as before. But there is a finality to it. A certainty. A steadfastness. There is no room for argument.


    Evelyn''s face falls. Her body sags. Her eyes grow dark. The pressure on Shiloh''s arm dissipates as the old woman slowly retracts her hand.


    "Fine," she says, her voice hushed, tired. "Then I truly am powerless. I will watch the cycle repeat itself, until I am finally dead and gone. I suppose that is my lot."


    Evelyn steps aside. But then her hand brushes Shiloh''s arm, again.


    "I do love and care for you, Shiloh. I always have. And I hope you succeed. I hope you come out the other side of this. I hope...all is well."


    "It will be," Shiloh says, covering Evelyn''s cold, weathered hand with her own.


    There''s the slightest twitch of a smile from Evelyn. But her eyes are glassy and cold. Her tiny hand slips free from Shiloh''s grasp as Evelyn disengages from what''s about to him. In her mind, perhaps she''s already working through how to pick up the pieces.


    "It''s ready," Cade says, in front of the laptop, looking at her over his shoulder. "Whenever you are. If...this is really what you want to do."


    "It is."


    The fibrous cable coating sounds and feels a little funny, reverberating inside her collarbone and neck as she lengthens the cord, pulling it out through the slot. She holds the end of it up to the port in the box. No more waiting, wondering, and yearning. No hesitating.


    As the metal piece touches the port, a zap of electricity travels up the length of the cable and into her body, jolting her, making her taste metal on her tongue, and giving her pause. But it''s too late to stop now.


    She pushes the piece home. She Jacks In.

 Chapter 33

    DAIMON


    The wind. It''s a permanent fixture of this place. It ebbs and flows, like the breath of a living organism. It whispers, hushed and low, as if afraid to utter its secrets too loudly. Then its voice grows in volume. It speaks, its circulatory exhalations raking and scratching across the surface of the desert and plains, carrying specks of dirt and rock with it, forming dust clouds and dust devils.


    I, Daimon, watch the proceedings from a vantage point atop the plateau. Miniature tornados drill chaotic paths across sandy slopes and flat stretches alike. I''ve seen the cycle before. I already know what happens next, with or without the readings from my OS, and the little notifications warning me. Soon, as the sun descends, and the heat of the day gives way to the ice-borne night, the voice of the desert will become a roar.


    While the earth may not be conscious, it is certainly alive. It has existed as an organism far longer than any living creature so far has inhabited it. It will continue to exist long after the humans are gone. Perhaps after the machines are gone as well, regardless of which side is the victor in the robotic conflict.


    Still. It''s not immune. The planet bears its own scars from the war, this desert being among them. Perhaps these terrible storms are its screams, its cries of defiance in spite of its suffering.


    At least, I wish I could consider it that way. It''s a dramatist''s perspective, but an appealing one. Poetic. Soulful.


    A notification beeps in the corner of my vision, signaling an incoming message.


    I answer it. ¡°Yes?¡±


    There¡¯s no video feed to accompany the audio transmission. The caller doesn¡¯t answer right away. There¡¯s a tension in that gap. A dissatisfaction all the more palpable for the fact that it¡¯s unsaid.


    ¡°Do you have the rogue Biodroid?¡±


    The voice of Suzerain is unmistakable. Terse. Biting. There¡¯s a low rumble which might indicate a certain weary aged-ness if he were human.


    ¡°In my possession?¡± I say. My eyes are fixed on particularly large dust devil in the distance, growing in size.


    "It''s a yes or no question, Daimon."


    "You already know the answer. You have more than enough surveillance data."


    "I do," Suzerain says. "I''m surveilling you right now. What I don''t understand, is what the hell you think you''re doing, and why."


    "I told you I''d bring him in," I say. "And I will."


    "Delayed obedience is disobedience," Suzerain says. "Have you forgotten that?"


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    There''s a slight twitch along the upper part of my left cheek, almost like a spasm.


    "How could I forget?"


    "This moment has been decades in the making. Are you really about to drop the ball now, at the end? I thought I was very specific you would be responsible.


    "First, I hear that you tried to hand the task off to Razor, of all people. And now, rather than performing your due diligence to rectify that mistake, you''re off...I don''t even know what you''re doing."


    "Watching the light die," I say. "Killing time."


    "That had better be a joke, Daimon. And if it is, it''s a poor one."


    Another twitch, this one in my lower right cheek.


    "There''s a community of humans here. I told them they had two hours to hand him over. By my count, they still have..." I look at my OS timer. "...twenty-eight minutes."


    "I can''t wait to hear your reasoning."


    "There were a group of watchdog fighters guarding the bunker, acting independently," I say. "I dispatched two of them and disabled the rest, based on my calculations of the least amount of damage required to make the desired impact. I gave them an ultimatum. Now they have plenty of time to solve their internal politics and transport the model. I also took into account the fact that they''ve likely started trying to open him up for parts. Now, they have time to put him back in a suitable condition, similar to how they found him. Less of a headache for me, since I''m the one who has to transport him back. I figured you''d want him more or less...together."


    "You would sacrifice our goals and future," Suzerain says. "For the sake of convenience. On the part of a few...humans."


    "Why spill blood unnecessarily? Why invade their home, and decimate their defense measures, when I can convince them to bring the model to me?"


    "That''s rich coming from you. Blood doesn''t wash off so easily."


    I feel a strange weight, somewhere in the center of my frame. Somewhat like the sensation of falling.


    "I never said it did," I say. "I always do what''s necessary, when I deem it so. But that doesn''t mean I enjoy it."


    "We both know that''s not true," Suzerain says.


    And maybe he''s right. Maybe it''s still true, even if I wish it wasn''t. There is a certain euphoria to taking the life of another. It''s something I still don''t understand, as a machine. Murder is not efficient, or reasonable. Resources should be assimilated or repurposed, not destroyed outright. And yet...


    "But let''s set that aside. The problem here, is that you''ve given the humans every chance to open the model''s system and see what''s in there for themselves."


    "What?" I say, surprised. "No, that''s impossible. They can''t-"


    "Don''t tell me what''s possible, Daimon. I know more on the subject than you ever will. My instruments just received a security protocol notification. They''re in the system. And if they''ve managed that, they might be able to see...everything."


    I''m already hailing my docked ship. The engines buzz. The side door slides open.


    "I''ve made a mistake."


    "You think?" Suzerain says. "Don''t delay, this time. And when you get there...do I really have to say?"


    "No," I say.


    If I had a heart, it would be somewhere in my gut right now. But that''s what this sinking feeling is an attempt to simulate. The sensation of the way emotions affect organs in the body. The connection between the mental and the physical.


    When I arrive at the bunker, I''m going to have to do more than just break in. I''m going to have to kill. I''m going to have to put down every person who could possibly have discovered what was in that memory unit. And who knows what will happen to the rest, as a result.


    As I hop into the ship, I take one last look out at the horizon, the dwindling light slipping like a bright blanket being drawn back, with only darkness to replace it.


    In the end, a planet is just a rock. It is compacted matter, formed into a sphere by the forces of gravity and the unyielding passage of time. It is nothing more than the universe itself at work. And there is no meaning to the universe. It''s a harsh truth that few care to admit. But I don''t personally engage in self-delusion.

 Chapter 34

    SILAS


    The throbbing pain in my neck. It lingers. I drift in a state somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness, wracked by pain from an imagined injury. Hot and red, like flame licking in through a hollow point in my neck.


    Only...that''s not right, is it? The bite, that was on my left side, about halfway up my neck. It was a stabbing sensation. But this is new. This is on my right, just above the collarbone. And it''s more like a steady electric current, running into me. A sore, burn-y feeling. It goes on, and on, and on. It doesn''t seem to want to let up.


    I''m trapped here, in this eerie dark of both body and mind. The only stimulation, the only thing I can feel at all, is that stupid thing in my neck, whatever it is. I have the sense that it is some physical thing, clinging to me. Stuck.


    For a long time, it''s like this. The seconds drag. Or minutes. Or...hours? I have no idea.


    Then...something else. A new presence. As alien as it is immutable. Whatever it is, I can''t stop it from...integrating. Coming in.


    A click. Audible, somehow. Like a light switch being flipped.


    I open my eyes.


    Ahead of me is a long, dimly lit hallway. Little lamps, high up on the ceiling, cast white cones of light in a direct beam onto the tiled floor, but seem to touch little else. There''s a dense darkness in the corners and fringes, defiant in its opaqueness. Thick motes of dust linger in the air, drifting in and out of the illuminated areas.


    Doors. A bunch of them, on both the left and right sides of the hallway, stretching ahead. At a certain point, it looks like they come to a stop. Or maybe I just can''t see them, because there''s a place where the lamplight ends, and it''s just darkness beyond that.


    An abrupt pounding sound makes me jump. The first thing that comes to mind is the way Gemma used to pound on the bathroom door while I was still taking a shower, yelling that she needed the bathroom to finish getting ready for school.


    That was a long time ago, wasn''t it? Years and years. Almost half my life. As far as I know, or remember.


    "Gemma?"


    There''s no answer, except for the words themselves echoing back.


    Another pound. The sound of a fist on hollow wood. Followed by two more, in a row.


    Even though I was waiting, listening intently, I still can''t pinpoint the origin. It reverberates in the walls, as if it''s coming from everywhere at once.


    I decide to check the doors. They''re solid-looking, with a dark, walnut texture to the door itself, metal lever handles for the knob, and tall, rectangular windows set at head height.


    It takes a moment of investigation¡ªtoo long, really¡ªbefore I realize they look like the doors at my old middle school. In fact, they are those doors.


    I try the first one.


    The lever catches and rattles.


    Locked.


    I try to peek in through the window, but the glass is murky, and there are only vague silhouettes on the other side, shifting eerily, like shadows cast from smoke. Perhaps the perceived movement itself is just a trick of the mind. Perhaps all of this is. What else could this be but a dream?


    A dream within a dream.


    That thumping, pounding sound again.


    I move from door to door, checking all of them. Each progressive door is on an alternate side of the hallway from the one before. I count them as I go. I check the levers, and the windows, but with the same degree of luck each time. Locked, and with only shadowy shapes and forms visible through the glass, nothing definitive.


    Soon, I reach the end of the lamplight, with only thick darkness ahead.


    Nine doors. All locked. All with strange secrets hidden away on the other side.


    THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.


    This time, for whatever reason, the origin of the noise is obvious. It¡¯s coming from directly ahead. Somewhere in the dark.


    Click.


    Another ceiling light comes on, a bright yellow bar, perfectly illuminating the last stretch of hallway, leading to a door directly ahead.


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    The doorknob wiggles. There¡¯s something on the other side. Trying to get in.


    It¡¯s locked, from my side.


    The window in the door is like the others, grainy and obscured, like fog, but this time there¡¯s light on the other side. Light, and something else. Someone.


    ¡°Hello?¡± says ''someone''.


    It¡¯s that girl. Shiloh. Her hair looks shiny and gold through the glass, framing her face. Her nose lifts. Her eyes peer up at me. I can see the shapes of things. The positioning. But I can¡¯t make out her expression.


    ¡°I see you, in there,¡± she says.


    And? What should I even say to that? I see you, too?


    We are, each of us, on opposite sides of some kind of boundary. A boundary which seems to be in my control.


    For now.


    ¡°Don¡¯t answer her,¡± says another voice, this one from behind me.


    It is alien and familiar all at once. I swivel to look back. But I already know. It''s my mother. But not my real mother, the one I once knew, back in the before, that time I know for sure must be real. This is just the rotting, zombie-esque version of her. The one who gouged my neck with her teeth. She is some dire manifestation of my trauma, or madness, or who knows what.


    For all that, categorizing this phenomenon feels a lot like an attempt to diminish it. Capture it like a beetle in a jar, so I can look at it clinically from a distance, while it''s under my control.


    But here she is. Right in front of me. Her skin is bloated and dark. Her hair is matted against her head and face, and bulging with reeds and other gunk from the river. Her head and neck loll to one side, lacking the full range of muscle to stay upright. The ''whites'' of her eyes are more blue than anything else. Her eyelids are half-closed, as if with some sort of suspicion, if she''s even capable of that in her condition. Her clothes are ratty and torn. Her body is plagued by bruises and cuts and sores. Flies buzz about her head and shoulders, casting little shadow dots on the wall and floor.


    "She...wants something from you," she says, with some effort.


    "And what do you want?" I say, remembering the things this phantom spoke into my ear, before she bit into me. Calling me a failure. Disowning me.


    "The only thing any mother wants," she says. "The best. For my children. For my family."


    I cock my head at that. At the dissonance of it.


    Suddenly, her cheeks bulge, and her eyes go wide. She bends forward and vomits, only it''s just water that comes out, two or three gallons of it. It splats onto the tiled floor and rolls in waves, washing against the walls, rolling lengthways down the hall. It reaches my¡ªapparently bare¡ªfeet, running through and over my toes. It''s uncomfortably frigid. But I don''t move. The air is thick with the musk of river soil and rocks.


    Mother looks up at me. Embarrassed, panting for air. She falls to one knee. Still looking at me, pleadingly.


    "Please," Shiloh says, through the door behind me. "I''m just trying to help my people. I want to give them something better. Something real. I want to save them! And I think you can help me. But you need to let me in. We''re running out of time."


    "She needs you, because you''re special," Mother says. "But you don''t need her. You have a destiny. And it''s with your people, not them."


    "I-" I stare at her. "I don''t have a ''people''. Not anymore. Dad wouldn''t even talk to me, after. And now...this..."


    "You''re wrong. You''re dead wrong. And one day, you''ll have to choose."


    THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.


    "Please!" Shiloh says, behind me.


    "You''re not real," I say to Mother. "Why should I choose something imagined over something that actually exists?"


    "How do you know any of this is real?"


    Well. She''s got me there.


    "You don''t know the truth. You can''t, yet. And I''m sorry, Silas. It''s impossible for me to tell you. But you have to believe me. Your destiny is not with them. And if you go down this road, it''s going to make everything all the more difficult when the time finally comes. Don''t do this."


    "That Biodroid that was after you," Shiloh says, her voice muffled somewhat by the closed door. "His name is Daimon. You''ve got something he wants. Something lodged in your memory. We just don''t know what. We''re not sure we should even hand you over. But if we don''t, he''s going to come for us. Soon, we''ll have to give you up, and we don''t know what the consequences will be for that. And I don''t think you want that, either."


    "You''d be better off if they do hand you over," Mother says. "You''re more likely to die if they don''t. Especially if you resist. You can''t beat him, Silas."


    "So I should just let him win?" I say. "Let the murderers get their way? I should just let Sal''s death be for nothing?"


    "You''re not thinking clearly," Mother says. She''s on her hands and knees now, struggling to hold up her head at an angle where she can still see me. "You don''t even know who Sal is."


    "I know I made a promise to her."


    "But you won''t trust me? Your own mother?"


    Not my mother. A figment. A phantom.


    "You''re right," I say. "I don''t know...anything, really. None of this could be real. Maybe it all is. But either way, I can''t risk history repeating itself. I can''t let these people down, the way I let down you, and Gemma. I can''t be that person anymore. I have to hold on to what''s in front of me. I have to do something. If I let this slip away, I''ll regret it forever."


    "You think so now," the ghost of my mother says, nearly flat against the floor, face hidden by the tufts of hair cascading in front, bunching on the floor. "But you don''t know the truth. And I cannot tell you. Not yet. I''m sorry, Silas."


    "Me too," I say, though I don''t know why. Though it''s just a memory of my mother, perhaps I still feel the need to placate her, leave some room for reconciliation.


    "One day soon," she says, curling in on herself on the floor. "You will have to choose."


    "I already have," I say.


    "No," she says. "But you will. You will."


    She disappears. One moment, she is there. And the next, gone. So is the water, and that verdant smell of the river, and the buzz of the flies. Every trace has gone away with her.


    It is only me. And the hall. And the slight, subtle squeak of the hanging lamps up above, swaying briefly in some unseen breeze.


    Another loud thump on the door behind me.


    "Please! C''mon!"


    Oh. Right.


    "Wait," I say, my hand on the knob. "If I do this, can you promise to help me get my OS back online?"


    "I..." A pause. "If we can trust you."


    "I have no intention to harm your people," I say. "That''s not why I came here. If anything, I want to help."


    "If that''s true," she says, "Then we have no reason not to help you."


    That might be as good an answer as I''m going to get.


    I turn the lock, then the knob. I pull back, opening the door.


    At that exact same moment, Shiloh shoves forward, into and through the doorway, slamming into me.

 Chapter 35

    SILAS


    Head. Chin.


    Ow.


    I keel backward, torso askance. I bring one foot back behind me, steadying myself.


    Meanwhile, the weight of Shiloh''s body presses in against me. She''s more off-balance than I am. I''m holding both of us up. One of my arms is looped around her lower back, fingers tightly gripping the fabric of her navy jumpsuit. Her head is against my collarbone. Her blonde ponytail is in my face, having whipped up when she fell forward into me. I can feel her breathing fast and hard, like a tremor. I can feel the pound of her heart, like a pulse eddying through her skin and into my own.


    Her hands are on my chest. She pushes herself upright¡ªnearly knocking me over completely in the process¡ªand away from me.


    She clears her throat. "Sorry."


    "That''s okay."


    "I''m just...in a hurry."


    "Right," I say.


    I''m not sure what to say, after that. What the procedure is, for this.


    She looks up at me. Her eyes are this bright, forest green. Had I noticed that, before? Probably not. Before, she was on the other side of that garage. Now, she''s standing right in front of me, at handshake distance.


    "Well," I say, gesturing. "Welcome to...whatever this is. I''m not entirely sure."


    "Me either," Shiloh says. "This is the first time I''ve done...this."


    "This being...what exactly?"


    "Jacktech," she says. "It''s, um...well, you probably already know. Being...what you are."


    "What?" I shake my head. "Actually, no. I don''t know what that is."


    She frowns, perplexed, then seems to realize something. "Is it...your memory? Perhaps you forgot."


    "That does seem like me."


    "No, your..." She closes her eyes and waves her hands, starting over. "Biodroids have a knowledge set as part of the default settings. You should know what Jacktech is. But it looks like someone went in and omitted stuff from your memory. At some point. We''re not sure when. Or who. Or how. But the fact that you don''t know...I guess it checks out."


    Is that possible? But I guess it must be. There are definitely gaps in my memory, based on what I''ve seen. According to Sal, she and I had an entire history, and I don''t remember a damn thing about her. In fact, I don''t remember anything between the car crash and waking up in that stasis tank. Nothing at all. All I remember is...


    Huh.


    Something occurs to me. A spark. A flash of lightning out of the blue.


    It''s that one memory. Going downstairs and into the pantry. Hiding there as my parents came downstairs into the living room. They were in some kind of argument. My mom, she was saying...something. I couldn''t make it out. It was as if someone¡ªor something¡ªhad gone into my mind and put a crackly filter over the words, making it impossible for me to understand.


    Could that be related to this manipulation of memory Shiloh is referring to right now? Or is that something else entirely?


    The puzzle pieces are disparate, scattered. And I don''t have enough of them to create a real connection or meaning, right now. But it''s something to think about.


    Meanwhile, there''s something else Shiloh said. Something that sticks out to me in a more immediate way.


    "I''m not one of them," I say.


    Shiloh frowns, one eyebrow raised, her hands clasped together.


    "I''m not a Biodroid," I repeat. "I''m human, like you."


    She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. "I saw you. I saw what you look like. Inside."


    "I''m human," I say again, firmly.


    I raise my hand and wave it in front of her. In here¡ªwhere ever this is¡ªI''m me. The old me. Soft, skin-covered, human appendages and all. I''m even wearing jeans and my flannel over-shirt from before the crash.


    "O-okay," she says, nodding, but clearly not believing. Though she does seem to take note of the fact that I look different in here.


    "That''s okay," I say, shrugging. "I''m guessing you''ll see, soon enough. That''s why you''re here, right? For answers?"


    "I want to know the truth."


    So do I.


    I doubt I''ll find it here, in my own mind, or whatever this is. Not yet, anyway. But maybe I can help her find something she''s looking for.


    I turn back toward the hallway, where I came from. The walls flicker.


    Where there were only nine doors before, now there appear to be dozens, or more. Closely packed together. The windows set in the doors are larger than before, and clear. You can see right into the room.


    Shiloh scoots past me to peer through the window leading into the first room. I move up behind to look over her shoulder.


    The effect of the room is...well, nauseating. Through the window, I can see the backs of myself and Shiloh in a hallway, as we look through a window, where her and I are in a hallway, looking through a window, where her and I are in a hallway, looking through a window....


    On and on. Ad infinitum.


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    Shiloh tilts her head quizzically, and so do the rest of the Shiloh''s. An infinite amount of Shiloh''s, to be precise. Or at least as far as we can see.


    "Yeah, I have a feeling we should leave that room alone," Shiloh says. "Unless we want to fry your circuits."


    "Fair."


    She stares at the dizzying spectacle for a moment longer. But then she tears herself away, heading further down the hall. I follow her.


    We pass a series of moving images as we move door to door. We pass Gavin sorting through his tools in the garage. Boring stuff. Not to me, at the time, but as an image outside its context, it doesn''t exactly catch the eye.


    Shortly after that, there''s one with a first-person perspective of myself, running in the canals, just before I got electrocuted by Gavin.


    Shiloh clears her throat, which seems to be a nervous tick for her. She keeps moving.


    She stops in front of my memory of Sal''s death. The image seems to pin her, mentally. The broken body. The leaking fluids. The way Sal seems to be struggling to breathe, and think.


    I''m having a hard time looking away, myself. I feel sick when I look at Sal''s struggling form. Empty.


    "You were with someone," Shiloh says, without turning to look at me. Her eyes are on the movie in the door, fascinated.


    "Yeah," I say. "She claimed we knew each other. I guess I''ve taken her word for it."


    "She tried to save me. Even at the end, she wanted me to escape. Honestly, it''s probably my fault she''s gone."


    Why did I say that? No one wants to hear some deep shit like that, especially when you just met. What''s she supposed to say to that? That she''s sorry? Is she supposed to give me her condolences?


    Well, I don''t want to hear it. What the hell am I thinking?


    Whatever. I can''t look at this. I can''t deal with this, right now.


    Before Shiloh can do or say anything, I move past her and onward. She''s not gonna find what she''s looking for in that memory, anyway. Everything in there is between me and Sal.


    It''s the facility, she wants. That''s what she was arguing about with that guy, Gavin. There''s something there she''s after. Some knowledge or technology or¡­I don''t know. Whatever it is, I can''t quite bring myself to care. That''s her business. I''m a means to an end, for her.


    I can hear her footsteps behind me as I plod forward.


    "You never told me your name," she says.


    "You never asked," I said. "I think you were too busy debating the finer points of how you were gonna gut me for parts."


    An awkward silence. And why shouldn''t it be awkward?


    To my right, I pass moving images of my ride on the bike, when we were being chased by that Biodroid from the ship. Meanwhile, my and Shiloh''s footsteps make stark echoes in the hall.


    "Sorry," Shiloh says. A surprising timidity in her voice. "I''m asking now."


    I swallow. Tension builds in my jaw.


    Is it warranted though, this feeling? A lot has happened to me in the past forty-eight hours. But I don''t think I can pin any of it on this girl. If anything, she might have been trying to help me back there, after I was captured. I can''t say for sure. Besides, it seems like her community doesn''t perceive Biodroids as people, anyway. So what should I expect, exactly? Her to shift her entire worldview around in minutes, just for me?


    Still, I don''t have to like it. I don''t have to like her. I just need to get this done.


    "Silas," I say.


    "Silas," she repeats, to herself. "I''m Shiloh."


    "I know."


    I come to a halt next to a door depicting the giant armory hangar in the facility. In the image, I''m going through the gear arranged on the racks along one wall, while Sal is messing around with the med station.


    I stop suddenly enough that Shiloh nearly walks into me. I put a hand on her shoulder, steadying her and keeping her at a distance.


    "This what you''re looking for?" I say.


    She squints, examining the movie in the window. "Definitely looks like it. I don''t know what else it could be. How did you get out?"


    "There''s a ramp- here," I say, leading her back a couple doors. We stop at the memory of ascending the tunnel on the bike. As we look at it, the movie speeds up. Fast-forwarding, as if for our benefit.


    Shiloh seems enamored with the spectacle of it. For me, it''s still pretty fresh, so I can''t say I find the visuals all that captivating.


    There it is, though. Me driving, dodging the big robot''s attacks, while Sal shoots at the little seeker drones chasing us. Eventually we fly up and out, through the opening. We crash. I fend off the big robot¡ªAutobot, as I kept thinking of it, back then. Then, I finally blow the sucker up.


    "That''s...quite the situation," Shiloh says, the reflection of an explosive fireball glinting in her eyes. "And without your memories, too. Must have been disorienting. You handled that pretty well."


    "Not as well as I could have," I say. "Or should have. According to Sal, if my OS was up and running, I would be capable of a lot more. She definitely would have survived, I think."


    Here I go, talking about Sal, again. What, am I trying to start a pity-party, here? No amount of navel-gazing is going to change what happened. And why should Shiloh care?


    I tear my eyes away. I''m honestly not sure how much more I can take of seeing Sal''s face. Even if I probably will continue to see it, every day for a while to come. Somewhere in the darkness behind the lids of my eyes.


    If I really am a machine, will the memories fade? Or will they always feel as raw and fresh as they do right now? Perhaps there''s only one way to escape the past, and that''s the corruption of my memory, like Shiloh was referring to.


    Imagine if I was the one behind this? Wouldn''t that be weird? I have a feeling that''s not the case, especially considering some of the consequences my memory issue have incurred. But I can''t deny the possibility entirely. There were plenty of people, back in the ''before'', who would have done the same thing if they could. Everyone has something they wish they could forget. What kind of things might I have done here, in the new world? Could there be things my past self regretted?


    Speculation, of course. Baseless. Pointless. Nothing is actionable until I know for sure. And I will find out, eventually. I''ll find the threads, wherever they are, and follow them.


    "I think I might be able to pinpoint where this is, based on some of the topography," Shiloh says, studying the movie. "If I had some good overhead imaging. Especially considering the exploded bot parts you left behind. I might not even have to go that far, though. With the door open, Cade should have enough access to pinpoint the actual coordinates."


    She blinks, frowning at herself, self-consciously. Like she just got caught talking to herself aloud.


    "I wonder if your friend, Cade, can get my OS up and running, as well. It''s too bad we can''t contact him from here and ask."


    "Yeah," Shiloh says, noncommittally. Dispassionately.


    She slips past me, working her way further down the hallway. Further into the past.


    I follow her, a couple of steps behind. Part of me wishes I could figure her out. What her angle is. Can I really expect her to keep her side of the bargain? Can I honestly-


    I freeze. Through the window in the door on my right, I see a silver urn. In the memory, I''m holding the urn in my hands, running my thumb back and forth, slowly, over the ring-like etchings in the surface of the metal.


    I can remember it well enough, without the visual aid. Sitting in the funeral parlor, in one of those low-back chairs with the scratchy cushions. Surrounded by simple, church-like decor. A ceiling fan spinning slow overhead, rustling my hair with lazy currents. Me, sitting there, alone. My father, nowhere to be seen.


    It''s the last memory I need to be visualizing right now. If I go down that road, if I let myself sit in that moment...there''s no telling how long it would take, or what it would take, to get back out.


    Actually, no. That''s not true. I never did get out. I''m still there. I''m still sitting there, in that chair. Alone. Waiting for...something. I don''t even know.


    I force my eyes shut and turn away.


    When I open them, Shiloh is a few doors ahead, focused on one of the windows.


    It''s strange. I hadn''t expected so few doors to lead this far back. Which means this hallway isn''t a catalogue of every memory. Rather, these must be the snapshots of the more impactful moments of my life, grouped close together. Which would mean-


    "Oh my god," Shiloh says, almost gasps. Her eyes are wide. Pupils dilated. "You really- you really were telling the truth."


    An intuition¡ªhunch, whatever you want to call it¡ªslaps me across the face.


    I step forward. "Shiloh, wait-"


    "It''s more than I ever imagined," Shiloh says, not seeming to hear me. She raises her hand, grasping the knob with her fingers. The window in the door depicts the grassy embankment of an easygoing river, almost lethargic in its flow, the flat surface gleaming brightly in the noon sun.


    Shiloh turns the knob. The door cracks. In comes an overwhelming burst of yellow light, flooding the hall.


    By the time I reach the door, she''s already through. And I have no choice but to leap in after her.

 Chapter 36

    SILAS


    Well. I''m back.


    Never thought I''d be here again. Ever in my life. And I would have preferred it that way.


    Granite Falls.


    I don''t even remember the first time we came here as a family. It''s always been a staple. Our regular, summer, family getaway.


    It''s a resort, and a campground, though I can only remember us actually camping out the one time. Turns out my dad, the neuroscientist, was weirdly bad at setting up tents. It also sucked not having an outlet to plug my phone into. Mom wanted to do it again the next year, but I think the rest of us outvoted her. We preferred the ease and comfort of the cabins, not to mention the air conditioning. Yeah, you could always get in the water if you wanted to cool off, but eventually that got old, and it was nice to have a comfortable place to dry off while watching a movie, or reading, or playing games.


    Granite Falls was just a place to chill out. Spend an entire week doing whatever we wanted. No rules¡ªor at least, only a few¡ªand no agenda. One day, we might go canoeing around in the wider, more open section of the river. Or we would try our hand at paddling upstream, toward the falls themselves. There were plenty of places to hike in the surrounding area, hills and trails. Mountain paths where you could get a head start, hide, and make loud cougar sounds to scare the shit out of your little sister.


    And then there''s this place.


    There''s no name for it. But we always gravitated to this particular spot. It was upriver, closer to the falls and a ways off from the resort itself, which usually meant that we had the place to ourselves. There were always less people the further out you got from the resort.


    Here, it was densely wooded, and lush, with a number of big, leafy trees providing shelter and shade.


    No. Is, not was. Here it is. Right here in front of me. Around me.


    A gust of warm breeze wends its way among the trees, making branches click as they tap together, and leaves rattle like the echo of a thousand voices, somewhere far, far away. The wind is refreshing, despite its warmth. It is a reminder of the verdant life of the earth. Of what it means to be alive.


    "Shiloh, we need to go."


    I don''t think she hears me. She stands a ways ahead of me, her back to me.


    I step up next to her, practically wading through a patch of tall, fern-like grass.


    Shiloh''s hands are clenched, pressed together over her heart. She breathes deep through her nostrils. She seems to be savoring the sights and smells, and sounds. Things commonplace to me, experiences I''ve always taken for granted, but which she''s probably only ever heard stories about. I have to wonder if she ever expected to see or feel these things. Ever.


    She fidgets with her legs, bringing her feet up and down in the grass. She drinks deep the smell of life. The musk of life, and earth, and wind, all at once.


    "It''s like a dream," she says.


    Yeah. A nightmare.


    This isn''t like before, the first person perspectives observed through the windows. We are, the both of us, inside the memory. The last place I would ever want to be.


    I do an about-face, frantically searching my surroundings, hoping to find some kind of weird door or access hatch. Some way to get out of here. Some way to get out of this...simulation?


    "Shiloh, we need to- Shiloh?"


    She''s gone. Moving at a fast walk toward the river.


    Great.


    "Shiloh, wait!"


    I jog to catch up.


    She stops in front of the water.


    "I can''t believe," she says, staring out at the water, the trees, the blue sky overhead, "The world used to look like this."


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    "Yeah," I say. "It''s...crazy. Listen-"


    She''s not listening. She''s bending over to roll up the legs of her jumpsuit. Next, I assume she wants to take off her shoes. She wants to get in the water.


    And why wouldn''t she? But she doesn''t get it. And she won''t listen. She''s too enamored. I''m not sure she''d stop even if she understood.


    Something creeps into my periphery. Moving slow, along the surface of the water, heading toward my position as it heads steadily downstream.


    It takes only the barest glimpse. Just the dark shape of it. But I know what it is.


    My heart...stops. I- I can''t breathe. Everything feels like it''s shutting down. And honestly, I wish it would. I wish everything would just end. Maybe that would make more sense than whatever this is.


    The world ended a long time ago, for me. Not in whatever post-apocalyptic event caused so many people to die, and damaged the planet so severely. Not in the advent of those bright, unknown lights on the highway, and the crash that ensued because of them. The world ended here, at Granite Falls. I may have gone on, living. But I was never alive. I don''t think I ever will be, again.


    I turn away, my back to the water. I cover my face with my hands. My strength seeps away, abandoning me, and I fall to my knees. Bent over in the grass. Hugging myself. Hating myself. Holding back the sobs. Because I don''t deserve to cry. I don''t deserve to have that release. I don''t deserve the slightest bit of catharsis. These emotions, they are not a thing to be purged, or forgotten. Not ever.


    Hands. Tightly gripping my shoulders. Drifts of long hair fall, brushing against my face.


    "Who is she?" Shiloh says, softly. Almost a whisper.


    "My sister," I say. The answer is automatic, if hushed and strained.


    "I''m sorry," Shiloh says. And she seems to mean it. I can''t see her face. But I can hear her voice, the sincerity and gentleness in it. I can feel the way she holds on to me. As if to keep me from breaking apart, or slipping away.


    I wonder if she knows, in some way. If she''s felt grief like this, before. If she''s lost someone.


    Perhaps this is a moment that should, all at once, bring the two of us together as people. A spontaneous friendship, like in stories. But to me, it''s all the more alienating for its intimacy. I don''t know Shiloh. She doesn''t know me. We are entire worlds apart. We''re not even physically touching, really. None of this is real. It''s just a manifestation of my thoughts, my memories. Shiloh is just passing through.


    To her, this memory is a moment, and only a moment. To me, it is forever.


    I can remember it clearly. Even though I was barely even here. Even though I was drunk out of my mind. I should have been paying attention. But...I didn''t. I couldn''t.


    "I''m sorry," Shiloh breathes, next to me. Is she giving her condolences for the second time, or apologizing for not listening to me? Either way, her voice breaks a little as she says it.


    I swallow. Hard. Focusing. I can feel the tears trying to come. But I won''t let them.


    I shake my head. "It was...my fault..."


    Drowning...it''s not like in the movies. That''s something I learned the hard way. It''s fast. It''s quiet. It happens right in front of the people who are supposed to be watching for it. And they don''t even notice.


    I might have. In fact, I''m certain I would have. If only...


    If only.


    My mother, on the other hand, did notice. But by that point, I think it was too late.


    Gemma had been caught in one of those deadly currents, the one''s down below, underneath the calm water. The ones you wouldn''t believe were there. Until...well.


    Mom. She was yelling. Pointing. I was closer, but at some point, I think Mom realized I wasn''t present, mentally, that I couldn''t understand her. She threw, more than dropped, the detective hardcover she''d picked up at a gas station during the trip. She took off at a full run. Splashed into the water. Dove.


    And that was the last time I saw her. The last time I saw her before she was grey, and wet, and cold. And no matter the words I spoke, she would never respond to them. I could never apologize. I could never even attempt to make things right.


    Everything...it was set in stone. And what am I supposed to do about it? Is there even anything to do? Is it only this? This feeling? This reality? Always?


    Rationally, I understand I can''t just sit here. Not unless I want history to repeat itself. Inaction is just as much a recipe to keep making these same mistakes.


    But how am I supposed to fight this feeling? This overwhelming desire to just...go home?


    And it''s when I have that thought that everything starts to warp around me. The lights, colors, sensations¡ªit all shifts, morphs, melts away. And what takes its place is...


    My room.


    I''m on my knees, on soft, thick carpeting. Gone is the smell of grass, and the feel of the wind. In its place is the stale air of my old bedroom¡ªstale, and smelling just a little bit of B.O., if I''m honest with myself. A clock up high in the corner ticks away. It''s a Final Fantasy clock; each of the numbers on the face is represented by the logo of a respective numbered entry in the Final Fantasy games, all the way from one to twelve.


    I cast my eyes from one side of the room to the other. Behind me is the bed. Ahead, my two, small, open closets, stashed with shelves of books and videogames. Between the two closets is my TV. It''s turned off, and there''s enough light pooling in through the bedroom window to cast my reflection on the screen. I can even see Shiloh, crouched next to me. No, standing now. Alert. Startled. Excited.


    It''s at that moment there are three loud knocks on the door. And then I hear my mother''s voice in the hall.


    "Hurry up, we need to leave. We''re gonna be late."


    In the reflection on the TV, I can see Shiloh stepping backward, putting distance between herself and the bedroom door. Her legs hit the side of my bed, and she falls backward, into a sitting position on it.


    Her reaction. It seems over-the-top, but I honestly get it. I''m a bit shocked, myself. I-


    Well, not even that. I''m terrified. My mother is on the other side of that door, after all. And am I really supposed to face her? How can I?


    "Silas?" says the memory of my mother, talking to me on the other side of a simulated door. "Silas, are you even in there?"


    There''s a tapping, scraping sound I know well. My mother''s wedding ring on the door handle.


    The knob turns. The door opens.

 Chapter 37

    SILAS


    In the panic, I experience a moment of reversion. For a split second, I''m just a teenage kid, freaking out because someone''s about to open my bedroom door, and I''m not ready. I don''t want that door open. I don''t want her in here.


    "Mom, stop, I''m getting dressed!" I blurt out, channeling that feeling.


    The door stops, barely open. From my position on the floor, the only thing that''s visible is her hand, and the sparkle of her diamond ring in the light, and the blue cuff of her sweater sleeve.


    Just that, mercifully. And no more.


    "Sorry!" Mom says, shutting the door. "You need to hurry, we''ll already supposed to be on the road."


    "Okay!" I yell. "Only a minute!"


    I can feel her lingering, the way mom''s always do. Then, finally, she heads off, the quiet pad of her footfalls echoing in the hall, followed by the subtle creak of the stairwell as she descends to the main floor.


    As terrified as I was to see her face to face, there''s a raw ache in my chest as I hear her go. We interacted, the two of us. Something I didn''t initially realize would be possible. And it''s hard to ignore the fact that, if I want to, I can probably head out that door and down the stairs. Mom and Gemma are about to leave on the trip for Granite Falls. And what if I were to go with them? What if I was to play everything out, as it had been before, only this time...


    This time...


    I shake myself, and get to my feet.


    I need to get out of here. If what Shiloh said is true, the clock is ticking. I can''t entertain a fantasy while real people are in danger.


    And besides...it would only be a fantasy. Isn''t that the most important thing? I could only hurt myself, going down that road. And what would it achieve?


    Right. Need to open a door out of here. Using my mind. That''s the remote. That''s how I control all of this. That''s how I summoned the Hallway of Memory; by thinking about the past. And thinking about my home brought me right back to my old bedroom. So if I focus on getting out of here, and getting Shiloh home-


    "I can''t believe you have all of this," Shiloh says. She''s looking at my shelves.


    "All of what?"


    "Well, space, for one," Shiloh says, making a quick glance around the room before turning back to one of the shelves.


    "It''s not that much space."


    "It''s more than I have," she says. "In the Cloister."


    That must be what she and the others call the underground bunker.


    There''s something ominous about that name. It implies safety, and shelter. But also, limitation. Enclosure. Confinement.


    Gives me the vibe of a somewhat toxic relationship. Like, yeah, it''s not the worst, but maybe you could do better if you had a bit more self-respect.


    Of course, people tend to end up with the partner they think they deserve¡ªor so it seems to me. There are upsides and downsides to that, I suppose.


    "I''ve actually used this one," Shiloh says, tapping my PS5 with a finger. "Seamus has one. Not as many games as you have, though."


    "I had a decent amount of spending money. And a decent amount of time on my hands, if I''m honest."


    It occurs to me that, while I''ve dated before, I''ve never had a girl alone in my room like this. And I''ve certainly never had one perusing my game collection.


    "You must not have had a whole lot going on," she says. "To amass all this."


    Wow. Just wow.


    "Not really. I''m just...introverted. I like having time to myself."


    "That''s what I don''t understand," Shiloh says. "You had...all this." She gestures around, but I know she''s not talking about my room. She''s talking about...everything. My entire world. "And you chose to spend your time here, in this room."


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    "Not all my time."


    She looks at me, raising a singular, skeptical eyebrow.


    "It''s not like you think," I say. "You spend a lot of time at school. By the time you get home, do homework, and catch up on chores, it''s late on a school night. And you have to do it all again the next day."


    "Why?"


    "Uuuuuhhh," I say. "That''s just how it is, I guess.


    She appraises me, for a moment.


    "Perhaps your world isn''t so different from the Cloister as I thought."


    "I wouldn''t go that far."


    She shrugs. Turns back to the shelf, as if to avoid my gaze. "None of it makes sense, you know. And by it, I mean, you. You''re an anomaly. A puzzle."


    "Thanks, I guess?"


    Her eyes flash as she looks sideways at me. "I intend to get to the bottom of it. All of it."


    "''It'', meaning me."


    "Like I said. None of it makes sense. How do I know I can even trust what I''m seeing? How do I know I can trust you?"


    "That''s up to you," I say. "You''re the one who came banging on my door. I showed you what you came to see."


    "That''s not entirely true. It seems like you''re telling the truth about where you came from. But...why are the other Biodroids after you? What is it you have that they want?"


    "That''s what I came here to find out. That girl you saw in my memory. Sal." I suppose to Shiloh, ''Biodroid'' would be more accurate than ''girl'', but Sal is just a person, in my mind. "She told me to come here. To the Darvin facility."


    Shiloh frowns at me, eyes widening. "She called it that?"


    I nod. "She said there should be equipment here. I can only assume the ''Jacktech'' you were talking about, or something like it."


    "Darvin was my father. She must have known him. Do you realize that?"


    I shake my head. "How could I? All I know is what Sal told me. She said I needed to get here, so I could unlock my OS, and access my memories. She said it was the only way for me to learn the truth.¡±


    ¡°What truth?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s just it. I don¡¯t know. And I¡¯m not sure she did, either. But-¡°


    Wait. This is a new threshold. Should I be telling her this?


    And yet, I¡¯m struggling to think of a reason not to. I appear to have something Shiloh wants. Helping me helps her. So why not fill her in to what I know, seeing as our interests seem to align? For now, at least.


    ¡°Before you showed up,¡± I say, ¡°I was standing in a hallway. Like the one I showed you, with the memories. But this one had only nine doors. And they were locked. And the windows were¡­dark. I couldn¡¯t see what was on the other side.¡±


    ¡°Gates!¡± Shiloh says excitedly, grabbing my arms. ¡°Cade showed me before I jacked in. The system calls them Gates. There¡¯s chunks of memory locked away on the other side of each Gate. There¡¯s a parameter you have to fulfill to open each one.¡±


    ¡°What kind of parameter?¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t know,¡± she says. ¡°But that¡¯s okay, we¡¯re gonna find out. I¡¯m gonna help you!¡±


    Her fingers are like vices, tightly gripping my forearms, shaking me. Her skin is soft, and weirdly cool. She¡¯s looking up at me with big eyes, darks so big I can almost see my reflection in them. Messy strands of loose, blonde hair fall down across her face.


    ¡°I thought¡­you said I was a puzzle.¡±


    ¡°Exactly!¡± she says.


    As if that settles it.


    ¡°Once we get back-" She cuts off, grimacing to herself.


    ¡°What?¡±


    She releases my forearms. Takes a step back. ¡°I can¡¯t risk the Cloister. If we don¡¯t hand you over-¡°


    ¡°Daimon¡¯s going to come for me.¡±


    And he¡¯s going to push out anything and anyone in the way. He¡¯ll do untold damage to the Cloister. He¡¯ll get people killed.


    Shiloh takes another step back. It¡¯s like she¡¯s¡­deflating.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± she says. ¡°I was hoping there would be another way. In the middle of all this, I think I somehow managed to forget. But I don¡¯t see a solution.


    "There''s something about you, Silas. I think you''re important. Even if I don''t completely understand why. But that''s not enough. I can''t bet the lives of my people on a hunch, or a feeling."


    "So you''re just going to give me up?" I say.


    It''s as I thought, isn''t it? To her, I''m an object. A machine. A means to an end.


    Or is it just a matter of my life against the lives of the people she knows?


    Either way, can I blame her?


    Maybe I should lie to her. Lead her on. Make her think I know more than I do. It''s the connection to her father, Darvin, that has her excited. Maybe I can use that.


    But I''ve never been one for Machiavellian schemes. Shiloh may have a cruel streak to her, in my opinion, but at least she''s been honest with me. As far as I know.


    And what? I''m supposed to emotionally manipulate this girl, get her to endanger the lives of her community, all for my benefit?


    No. No, it wouldn''t be right.


    "I''m going to hand you off to your own kind. I don''t know what they want you for, or what they''ll do. But I know what will happen if I don''t do it."


    "''My own kind?''" Something about that bites at me. "Even after everything you''ve seen here?"


    "Like I said. There isn''t a whole lot about you that makes sense. I wish I could understand. I suppose I''ll have to come to terms with the fact I never will."


    She looks away, arms crossed. I can''t tell if she''s uncomfortable, ashamed, or something else. Maybe just disappointed.


    "You''re not so different from him, you know? Not as much as you think."


    She shoots a look at me. Her eyes are knives, sharpened to a razor edge. "Don''t you dare compare me to Gavin. I''m carrying the future of humanity on my shoulders, here. It''s all down to me. What am I supposed to do?"


    I wonder if that''s what Gavin said when he went to confront ''Daimon'' outside the bunker walls. But I''ll keep that to myself. There''s no point in arguing.


    And...well, great. Now it''s awkward in here. It''s awkward as hell. Shiloh has turned herself away from me, arms folded, facing the opposite wall.


    "So," I say, clearing my throat. "What now?"


    She shrugs her shoulders.


    Something dings. Loud. And vibrates.


    In my pocket.


    It''s my old Samsung Galaxy.


    I hold it up. The screen is still on, from the notification.


    "What is it?" Shiloh says.


    "Well," I say. "It appears...I have a text."


    "...what?"


    "Yeah." I hold the phone up toward her, so she can see the message. As well as the ID of the sender. "I think...it''s for you."

 Chapter 38

    DAIMON


    Walls crumbling. Alarm sirens blaring. Chunks of concrete falling and bouncing. Fine, densely packed motes of hundred-year-old concrete dust glittering in the light of the setting sun, until the wind rushes in through the gap, scattering them.


    How long has it been since the light of the outside world touched this place? Since a cool, natural breeze graced these halls? Not since this place was turned into the bunker it is now, surely.


    Not that it matters to me. I''m here to deconstruct. Excavate. Unearth.


    And to destroy, generally speaking. That is the one thing I seem to be good for, after all.


    I jump, up onto the rocky pile of rubble that used to be a wall. A harsh wind rushes through my hair and pushes against my airborne frame, slightly altering my trajectory. I land on my feet at the mouth of the opening. At this point, I can calculate the width of the wall itself. About five feet. Some of the bits of rubble are pretty hefty, cracked and knocked away by the impact. Then there are the smaller bits of debris and particulates, shattered and vaporized by my Blast Protocol tech. Lengths of rebar poke up out of the large chunks at odd angles, like the legs of dead spiders.


    The interior is dim compared to the outside world, even with the sun about to set, a dark orange orb on the horizon. Not that there''s a whole lot to look at, anyway. Appears to be some kind of shipping bay; or at least, it used to be. Before the doorway here must have been shored up and blocked off, reinforced with concrete.


    The walls, floors and ceiling are grey concrete. It''s a big space, with lots of crates, and a couple shipping containers. There''s a big crane in the corner, likely used to move cargo at one point. I can''t imagine these people have much use for the machine, now. But there it is. A towering relic of a bygone era.


    I hop off the pile of rubble and into the bay itself.


    I can''t detect any lifeforms in the room. Which means these people have at least some sense, then.


    That alarm, though.


    I pull my sidearm, a black handgun holstered at my lower back, and aim at the speaker up in the far corner. I fire one shot.


    Sparks fly. The siren warbles. And the alarm sound dies away.


    That''s better.


    I step forward, toward the middle of the room, scanning for cameras. So far, I only see two-


    My scanners suddenly pick up something. Electronic activity, beneath a concrete slab under my feet.


    Huh, I manage to think, before the explosion hits.


    The impact is instantaneous, enveloping me. A giant ball of flame, passing through and around my body. A sound like a hundred bolts of lightning in my ears. Bits of concrete detritus pinging into and off of my metal armor plates like bullets. Big clouds of dust and debris whirl up, past and above. Some of it falls, and some of it lingers in the air in thick, dusty clusters, until a breeze rushes in through the hole in the wall again, and the dust dissipates.


    I''m airborne, for a fraction of a second. I adjust myself in the air, landing on my feet with little impact. It''s really not even much of an inconvenience. I''ve made many adjustments to my body over the years, and not for nothing. My defense systems are above average, to say the least. It''s going to take more than a slap-dash IED to make me flinch. I run a quick diagnostics check just in case. According to the system, there''s no discernible damage.


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    One big, fractured slab of concrete flips as it arcs through the air, before glancing off the ceiling and crashing to the floor, smashing apart like a block of ice, cracks spreading out in the floor at the point of impact.


    About a second has passed since the initial explosion. The massive sound waves are followed by an eerie, near-complete silence. Not even a ringing in the ears for me. Except for the hole in the floor, and the surrounding mess from the bomb, everything is as it was only a moment before. Even the sidearm in my hand appears undamaged.


    I guess I have to admit that, from their perspective, it was worth a shot. They believed I would break in through the west wall, breaching through the weakest section of the bunker. It''s because they think all Biodroids operate logically, like the robots in the old movies, but in this case the hunch was correct. They might not have planned on my being directly above the wide stone slab, but they knew I would be nearby. They got lucky when I walked straight across it.


    Well, not really. Unlucky was more like it.


    Where was I?


    I aim for the cameras. One shot. Two. Disabling the surveillance in the room. It''s really just a habitual thing, though. I doubt it''s necessary, at this p-


    There''s a loud crack, like a gunshot, and something shoots toward me, flying from the far corner of the bay.


    I catch it before it strikes my armor. It''s some kind of remote taser.


    It goes off in my hand, shooting arcs of electricity that course down my arm, toward my shoulder and chest.


    Can''t even feel it. My shield systems are more than sufficient to hold off the attack.


    The air crackles, and several more tasers zip toward me, originating from various parts along the north end of the bay.


    I don''t need to bother with dodging or catching any of them. A couple of them fly past me. Three of them hit, sticking to my chest and shoulders by means of an adhesive on the end of each device. They activate, zapping and sparking.


    Kinda tickles.


    My shield system is forced to dip into its energy reserve to ward off the electrical damage. A little bit. Honestly, if the needle''s moved at all, I can''t tell.


    I swat away the tasers, knocking them to the floor.


    Gunshots. Rapid bursts coming at me from various angles.


    Some of the bullets hit, glancing off my armor ineffectually. Standing still, I raise my sidearm, preparing to return fire. Only, I can''t see my enemies. I can see the general areas where the gunfire is coming, thanks to muzzle flashes and the bright streaks of concentrated fire, pulsing in the air. But I can''t see the bodies themselves. Not even my thermal sensors can pick them up.


    Well, well. Advanced stealth tech. This place is full of surprises.


    I use my OS to ready a medium-range electromagnetic pulse. It''s not the type of trick I could use against another Biodroid with much success, but it''ll do against most types of man-made tech.


    I fire the EMP. The pulse itself is invisible, a wave that shoots out ahead of me in a focused cone shape, hitting every one of the invisible assailants.


    The effect is immediate. Several of the underground bunker''s watch dogs, wearing camo fatigues and oxygen masks, pop into existence, fanned out in the north half of the room.


    They''re caught, all of them, out in the open. And they know it, because they immediately rush to better cover, firing their rifles as they go.


    I return fire. Quick shots to the head.


    They drop, one after another, as if hitting an invisible pole, ribbons of blood flying out the back of their skulls and landing on smooth concrete in loud, wet splats. My guidance systems are good enough to hit the brain with ninety-nine percent accuracy, especially when there''s no extenuating circumstances to hinder me.


    One of them manages to lob a grenade. I follow up a shot to his head with a shot to the airborne grenade itself. It explodes in a shower of pellet shrapnel, peppering the two other soldiers in the vicinity, leaving them with a hundred bleeding holes.


    Five downed guards. Nine bullets expended total. Plenty left in the extended mag for now, and I have a couple more mags besides. Even if I had the capacity, I wouldn''t use up Nanobits to generate sidearm ammunition. I tend to reserve my resources for other things. And let''s face it, as convenient as bullets are, in a situation like this, my fists would work just as well.


    Moving casually, letting my radial detection scanners run in the backward, I stride forward toward the open door in the northern edge of the room.


    There''s no point in putting it off any longer. It''s time.

 Chapter 39

    SILAS


    I watch as Shiloh takes the smartphone in both her hands, and stares down at it.


    The contact ID says, Cade.


    The text itself reads: "Shiloh. Are you there? I need you to answer me."


    There''s a certain hesitation to Shiloh''s movements. I have to wonder if she''s ever used a device exactly like this before. But she seems to get the idea.


    She taps on the blank message bar with her thumb and types in a response.


    She sends: "I''m here."


    "Daimon''s here. The deal''s off. I don''t know why. He''s on a murder path. He''s coming for the Biodroid."


    Both of Shiloh''s thumbs freeze, an inch above the touchscreen. I can see her complexion going pale white in real-time.


    The phone vibrates with another message.


    "Are you alone? Can he see these messages?"


    Shiloh shoots me a quick, panicked look, like I''ve just walked in on something I shouldn''t. Then her expression hardens.


    "Just tell me,'' Shiloh types, and sends.


    Three dots, fluctuating.


    Then: "You need to pull out, now. Gavin''s going to terminate him. If that happens while you''re still inside, you''ll die too. Gavin doesn''t believe me, but it''s true."


    What the hell. While you''re still inside... What''s that supposed to mean? Is Shiloh''s consciousness literally hooked up to me right now?


    I guess I''m not sure how else this was supposed to work. I''ve been taking it in stride, without thinking through the actual logistics of it. I was riding the wave of this weird, dream-like experience, trying to make some sense of it, and taking some aspects of it for granted in the process.


    I had opened the door. I let Shiloh into the house, so to speak.


    Now, the house is in flames.


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    I need...I need to get her out.


    And you know what? Maybe it''s the surreality of the situation. Maybe it''s the fact that, optically at least, I''m standing in my old bedroom, with my mother and sister waiting for me just down the stairs. But this line of reasoning, of what needs to happen now, doesn''t bother me. If anything, I feel...calm. For the first time in months¡ªor what I''ve perceived to be only a matter of months¡ªI actually have a sense of...peace. I feel...the way being in a family used to make me feel.


    Shiloh, on the other hand, is typing furiously with her thumbs.


    "Daimon''s going to kill us. We have to assume that."


    "I''m with you on that."


    "You need to turn on the OS. Is that something you can do?"


    "Shiloh," Cade sends back. "He has a gun to my head. He already shot Callahan, and locked the rest of the Board out of the garage."


    Shiloh stops typing. She stares at the screen.


    She''s got this look on her face. I''ve seen it before. The last time I saw it was when one of my teachers got the call that her father had just had a heart attack. It''s the look of something happening you truly hadn''t expected or prepared for. Of an important, immortal figure in your life being rendered mortal. That''s what it does to your face. To your entire body.


    It...paralyzes.


    Which means, now''s my chance.


    I snatch away the phone, tossing it into the closet.


    To her credit, she recovers quickly. She doesn''t say anything. She just tries to push past me, toward the closet.


    I loop around her and grab her by the collar of her jumpsuit, yanking her off balance as I drag her toward the bedroom door.


    She fights back immediately, thrashing to wrench herself away. But it''s already in motion.


    I have one hand on the doorknob. I turn it, and crack the door.


    Bright, unbearable light bursts in through the doorway. This isn''t the hallway outside my room. It''s a portal back to reality, summoned by my mind. I just need to send Shiloh through it.


    I jerk her toward the doorway, then push her. But she faces me, bracing with her legs. She grabs onto my shirt with one hand, and the frame of the door with the other.


    "Silas, wait. He''s going to kill you!"


    "Yeah. But this way, you at least have a chance. You can get away."


    "You don''t...know that!" Her face is turning red, straining.


    "Stop fighting it. This is the only way. This is the best I can do, for you."


    "No!" Shiloh presses forward, even as her feet slide back a bit on the carpet. "I don''t want this! And your family wouldn''t either! They would want you to live! Don''t you get that?"


    Something about that gets to me.


    I hesitate, with her already halfway through the doorway.


    "Maybe you do deserve punishment for what happened," Shiloh says, taking advantage of my indecision. "But your mother and sister wouldn''t want that for you. They wouldn''t want you to just...give up!"


    That look she''s giving me. Makes my mind go back, to the way my mom looked at me in the hallway outside the principal''s office. When she told me to fight. To always fight.


    I''m frozen, now, between two possibilities. I''m pushing, preventing Shiloh from pressing back into the room. But I''m not forcing her through the door. Not yet.


    Shiloh holds my gaze with hers, pleading.


    Something flat, translucent, and square-shaped suddenly appears in the air between us, like a windowpane through which I can see Shiloh''s face. And going off of her expression, she can see the thing, too.


    The object...it''s some kind of prompt window.


    My eyes skim over the words.


    ¡­what?


    Something about ''OS re-activation procedure''. Something about ''Protocol initialization''.


    But the details don''t matter. I''ve already made up my mind.

 Chapter 40

    SILAS


    (before)


    I was almost afraid to hold them. Move them.


    They fit in my backpack, so that was good. I guess.


    Even with the straps in place, holding the lids on tight, I couldn''t help but feel that if I walked too fast, or in the wrong way, they might pop open. So I moved slowly, one steady step at a time, careful not to jostle my backpack too much.


    Once I got outside, I stopped on the sidewalk. And the absurdity of it¡ªof everything¡ªhit me like a punch to the gut. It took the wind right out of me.


    I''d had two different phone conversations with the attendant before this. I still had no idea why they''d contacted me instead of my dad. Maybe it was because my dad wasn''t answering any calls at all. I didn''t know. And I wondered if I would ever know. Trying to get in touch with my dad was like trying to get in touch with the president. Or maybe God.


    I hadn''t thought to ask the attendant himself. Each time I spoke with him...I dunno, it just seemed like the wrong thing to say. I mean, what did it matter?


    I do believe my father spoke to them at some point, because certain arrangements had already been made. And, well, that was just the problem. He''d made the arrangements, and then he''d gone dark. He''d left me here, holding the bag. Literally.


    I''d taken a bus to get here. But as I stood on the sidewalk, thinking, I realized, buses are bumpy. Aren''t they? Seemed to me they were. And wasn''t thar a fact of great importance. Like, shouldn''t that matter, considering what I have in the bag?


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    My dad should drive me. It should be in his car, with him. Because...it would be safer, that way. That was right, wasn''t it?


    So...I called my dad.


    Tried to.


    It was late in the cloudy, autumn-ish day, and surprisingly chilly. There were a few pedestrians here and there. I watched as a guy maybe five years older than me crossed the street, shoulders hunched, pushing the collar of his jacket up to protect his neck from the cool breeze.


    I typed my dad''s contact info¡ªlisted as ''Mr. Turner'' in my phone, but don''t ask me why.


    It dialed. And rang. And rang.


    He didn''t pick up.


    Which was a real twist. Never would have seen that coming.


    I pocketed my phone and started walking toward the bus stop. It was twenty-two minutes until the next bus, so I had lots of time. But I knew if I didn''t start moving now, I would lose my momentum and become stuck. I would be standing there, shivering, until the stars came out, and the cold injected me with hypothermia.


    It didn''t make any sense. Sixteen-year-old''s weren''t supposed to be able to walk away with the ashes of their own family members. The custodian had asked for two things; my identification, and my signature for a form. And that didn''t seem right, did it?


    Not for the first time, I was hit with this feeling of...fakery. That none of it was real. Or authentic, at least. Society. The world. This socio-economic construct we''d created. I felt like if I pushed against the wall of the building on my right, it would collapse, like a cardboard backdrop on a movie set.


    Everything my life had been built around was illusory. The big house up on the hill. The nice yard, the nice cars. The close-knit family, all there for each other. The ideal life, the appearance of stability, and security. But that was all a facade, wasn''t it? All it took was a couple of mistakes. Just one minor blip in the timeline of reality. And in one fell swoop, it was all gone.


    In a way, I was the only thing that existed, in the end. It was just me, alone. No one would come for me. No one would save me. My dad wasn''t about to pull up next to me and open the door. I had to act, myself. I had to get on that bus if I wanted to get home.


    With that thought, I grit my teeth, crooked my head downward, and marched on, against the wind.

 Chapter 41

    SILAS


    I open my eyes. It''s like I''ve been dead for hours, and just now someone''s flipped a switch, sparking me back to life. I''m the Frankenstein monster Gavin didn''t count on.


    He''s the first thing I see, standing on the other side of that table littered with equipment and electronics. He looks a lot like the first time I saw him, minus the mask, and with considerably less confidence. If I didn''t know better, I''d say he''s terrified. His rifle is slung over his shoulder, but he has a pistol drawn. In the corner, Cade¡ªI can only assume it¡¯s him¡ªis on his side on the floor with a hand over his nose, blood running down his chin in a slick curtain, likely thanks to a pistol-whip from Mr. Tough Guy himself.


    I don¡¯t know what I expected, but it turns out Cade''s just a kid. Maybe fifteen. Skinny, almost gangly. Certainly no match for Gavin, even without bringing firearms into the mix.


    There are two other members of Gavin''s crew in the room. One of them has Shiloh by the arm, with a pistol pressed hard to her neck, practically gouging her with it. One of them has his rifle out, pointed at me.


    Everything''s happening fast, now. But somehow slow at the same time.


    Gavin sees I''m awake. He''s not happy about it. He turns, raising his sidearm in my direction.


    The one with the rifle seems to take that as a sign to open fire. I can see his finger clenching inside the trigger well. The other guy, the one holding Shiloh, pushes her to the ground, raising his sidearm to point at me instead.


    The words ''OS ACTIVE'' appear in my vision, in a bar up in the corner.


    And just like that, control has been returned to me. In the mirror Gavin set up for me, I can see myself, pried open, suspended, vulnerable, my interior parts open and visible.


    That''s enough of that.


    I will myself back together. And it is so.


    Plates slide. Pistons reattach. Mechanisms alter themselves, shifting back into their intended place. The entire process takes a fraction of a second.


    I am whole again.


    And then the shooting starts.


    Some of the bullets whiz by, sounding like abnormally large flies, before smacking into the concrete wall behind me. Others ping off my armor plates in bright flashes and sparks. The shots echo tremendously in the enclosed space, like sparklers in a tin can.


    I have to move. Fight back. I''m durable, but not invincible. I have weak points, exploits. I know this intuitively, like a warning flare shooting up out of my subconscious.


    Still, instead of being focused on my assailants, I''m more interested in something behind them. The chip Sal left behind when she disintegrated. Gavin hung it up on the wall when he brought me here. And it''s still there. But there''s something different about it, now. It''s bright green. And...glowing.


    ''PROTOCOL DETECTED. ASSIMILATING...''


    As if pulled by an intense magnetic force, the chip flies off the wall and shoots toward me. Instinctively, I reach out to grab it. As I bring my right arm forward, I snap the cable attached to it, and begin to fall sideways, still attached to the wall by the other cable, toward the garage pit below me. Still, mid-fall, I manage to grab the brightly glowing object flying toward me.


    It bursts as soon as I have it in my fingers, splitting out into glowing specks, like fireflies, which are then sucked into the gaps between my armor plates. I''ve...absorbed it.


    Two messages appear in my vision.


    The first:


    ''Gate(1) open.''


    Then, separately:


    ''INITIATING PROTOCOL: SALVO''.


    My body emits glowing particles, originating somewhere I can''t see, gathering at specific points. The tops of my shoulders. My palms. As the particles dissipate, bits of matter form in their place, as if by some magic. Extensions of metal jutting up on my shoulders, oval-shaped bumps¡ªslightly off-color, but still seeming like they¡¯re supposed to be there, like they¡¯re originally part of my design.


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    In my hands, I see the shapes of two black handguns forming. They solidify, and I catch them, feeling their tangible weight in my hands.


    I yank with my left arm, snapping the cable attached to that wrist. I kick off the back lip of the pit, landing in front of it. I bring up the two handguns. As if reacting to my intent, the two oval-shaped bumps on my shoulders extend up a couples inches, revealing short gun barrels underneath. Little, personal turrets.


    Nice.


    I aim, pulling back on the triggers. At the same time, I hear the mechanical buzz of my turrets adjusting themselves, engaging some automatic aiming system, responding to my thoughts.


    The recoil pulses, reverberating in my hands and arms, but it¡¯s barely noticeable, and perfectly manageable¡ªbeing a ¡®Blast Model¡¯, I guess impact absorption is one of my things. There¡¯s some recoil from the shoulder cannons as well, but my body seems to adjust to it automatically, and I don¡¯t feel the slightest bit off-kilter because of it.


    I don¡¯t aim for the bodies of my assailants. My bullets strike various weak points on the firearms themselves, splintering them apart in my enemies¡¯ hands, in miniature explosions of springs, pins, bullet casings, and other shards of metal. Black gunpowder grains spray out from the impact.


    Two of the gunmen flinch and step back, dropping the carcasses of their guns. So does Gavin, but in his case it¡¯s more of a deliberate toss. He¡¯s furious. Already reaching for the automatic rifle slung over his shoulder.


    I rush forward, maintaining my momentum. I bring an arm up over my face, like a shield. I leap, diving over the table, and strike the barrel of Gavin''s rifle, bending it at a sharp right angle.


    The guy to the right of Gavin reaches for something in his belt holster. It looks like a taser, like the projectile Gavin used on me back in the canal, only this one''s handheld. He whips it out and turns it on, causing blue electricity to fizzle and crackle on the end. A notification blips in my vision, something about a hazard proximity warning.


    Wow, thanks for the heads-up.


    He lunges toward me with the weapon.


    Should I shoot it out of his hand, like a cowboy? Honestly, this would be easier if I didn''t-


    As if responding to my thoughts, the handguns disappear in a flash of green, glowing particles.


    I sidestep the attack, using my free hands to throw him off-balance, twisting his arm so the weapon is pointed toward himself. He falls on the shock-stick, zapping himself, and collapses.


    Another proximity warning.


    I pivot in time to see Gavin coming at me with a very big, very sharp-looking knife, aiming for my vulnerable face.


    It''s close. It''s so close.


    Maybe I should have just shot them, instead of getting in close, trying to take them alive. Maybe-


    Wait. I raise my hand. The motion is fast. So much faster than I can remember being able to move. I really am stronger with the OS turned on. It''s like I''ve leveled up several times in a row.


    I catch the blade with my palm, stopping it completely in its tracks, even with all of Gavin''s weight and strength behind it.


    The knife blade bursts, exploding into a dozen shards of metal shrapnel. I can feel them bouncing off my arm and torso. One of them flies up and past my head, nicking the side of my upper cheek.


    Shock colors Gavin''s face, as if he still doesn''t understand what just happened.


    I shove him. Not too hard. It''s a controlled shove. Like pushing a little kid out of the way of something on a playground so he doesn''t get hurt.


    He skitters back, unable to stop the momentum, and his back slams into the shelving on the back wall. He falls to his knees.


    I step toward him. I feel hot, energized, pulsing with adrenaline. My artificial heart is pounding so fucking fast. These guys, they tried to kill me. And I stopped them.


    That''s the exciting part. Fighting and winning. The fury, the red-hot feeling, comes from the fact that they were threatening to kill others, and literally tried to kill me. That''s a first for me. School fights don''t count.


    Take it easy. Stay in control. Breathe. Loosen up, this isn''t over yet.


    "I told you what would happen," I say, peering down at him.


    He shakes his head, staring up at me.


    I have to wonder why he didn''t just kill me. He should have. Hell, he shouldn''t have let Shiloh use Jacktech in the first place. I have to wonder why, what his intent was.


    Maybe he really thought she''d find something important, something that might be crucial to humanity''s safety. Maybe he didn''t actually want to hurt anyone. He threatened Cade with a bullet, but never gave it to him. He didn''t follow through with the threat.


    "Silas!" Shiloh yells, standing, pointing past me.


    I turn in time to see the other crew member, briefly forgotten, holding some new handgun he''d just produced. Aiming at my head.


    I bring up an outstretched, open hand, instinctually.


    I feel the pressure of the bullet hitting my palm, then bouncing off one of my fingers.


    It ricochets back, hitting the guy in the shoulder, throwing him back against the far wall. He slides down onto his butt, painting a long, bloody smear down the wall.


    Shit. He could die from that.


    Part of me wants to go to him, administer some kind of help. But what can I do, here, now that Gavin''s been pacified? I need to get out of here. I need to stop this Daimon guy.


    Still.


    I step over to the redheaded kid with the bloody nose. I hold out my hand to him. "Cade?"


    He nods. Taking my hand.


    I help pull him up to his feet.


    "I''m going to go do what I can," I say. "I''m assuming you guy''s have some kind of escape plan?"


    I find myself turning to Shiloh, for some reason, to see what answers she might have. But she''s not listening. She''s crouched down in front of Gavin, trying to pull open one side of the jacket he''s wearing. The problem is the big shard of broken blade embedded in his abdomen, holding the fabric in place.


    "Oh, Gavin," she says, solemnly. Sorrowfully. With a tenderness I would not have expected, considering what I know of their history.


    He smiles at her, bleakly. "I really did it, didn''t I?"


    "Gavin..." She peels back the fabric, peering underneath. She gives him another shocked look, then looks up at me, wide-eyed.


    "What?" I say.


    In answer, Shiloh pulls up on the fabric, carefully tearing at the hole so she can bring the jacket up the length of the blade.


    What''s underneath is some kind of electronic chip, tucked between the hem of his pants and his undershirt. The blade shard is impaled directly through it.


    "What is that?" I say, querying Shiloh with my eyes.


    Cade sighs, next to me. "Our escape plan."

 Chapter 42

    SILAS


    The door to the garage opens slowly, gears and belts vibrating as they revolve inside the mechanism.


    C''mon, hurry up. What the hell.


    As soon as I can, I burst the open doorway and into the spacious hangar bay.


    Nothing like the place I was at before, in the South Facility. But it''s big enough to house maybe a couple dozen cars.


    Not that I see any conventional cars. Mostly these hardy-looking, heavily modified dunebuggy things, and bikes that kinda look like Harleys.


    Then, of course, there''s the Walker.


    It''s bigger than I thought it would be. Like three buses wedged together, side-by-side. It''s tall, and hulking, and kinda reminds me of the AT-TE Walkers from the prequel Star Wars trilogy, minus all the cannons and turrets. It''s covered in camo paint, giving it a beige, desert-y look. There''s a side-hatch open, and a ramp extended.


    It''s impressive to look at. Too bad it won''t be any help. Apparently, a vital component was torn out of the console, something called a ''NavChip''. It''s broken now, attached to Gavin''s stomach via a chunk of blade.


    Before, I could have tried to buy enough time for the people of the Cloister to make some kind of escape. I could have taken off in the opposite direction, forcing Daimon to give chase. Eventually, perhaps I could have simply escaped myself. Could have at least tried.


    Now, that''s out of the question. If I want to stop Daimon, I''m going to have to really stop him.


    Somehow...


    There''s a group of men and women standing between the door to the mechanic''s garage and the Walker. Well, most of them are standing. One, a man, is sitting on the ground. He''s shirtless, with some kind of bloody-looking bandage wrapped around his mid-torso. His eyes are distant, and he seems to be having trouble breathing. If I didn''t know better, I''d say he could be minutes away from death.


    They all stare at me. Most of them take one or two steps back. All except for the injured one, of course, and some old lady with loose, grayish-white and steely eyes.


    I like her. Not because she''s not afraid of me¡ªpretty sure she is¡ªbut because she reminds me of my grandma on my mother''s side. We called her Gram-Gram, and she always had this way of staring people down. Some people found it intimidating, but I always thought it was funny.


    "Oh. Hello," she says flatly.


    "Silas, Evelyn," Shiloh says, jogging up next to me. "Evelyn, Silas."


    "A pleasure, I''m sure," I say.


    "As if we have time for pleasantries," Evelyn says to Shiloh, talking past me. "Just what is going on?"


    "Well, for starters, Gavin took the NavChip out of the Walker. And it''s broken, now."


    "So the escape plan''s a bust?" Evelyn says. "We''re as good as dead?"


    Cade moves past them at a quick jog, heading for ''the lockers'', according to what he''d said earlier. For a moment, Evelyn''s eyes follow him questioningly.


    "Not just yet," Shiloh says, rapping my metal shoulder with a knuckle. "We''ve got him."


    Evelyn eyes me up, doubtful. "We trust it?"


    "I do," Shiloh says. "As for you...well, I''m not sure you have a choice."


    Cade''s already back, panting. He has two oxygen tanks and masks. He hands a set to Shiloh. She straps the tank to her back. Cade follows suit.


    "Wait," Evelyn says. "What''s going on, here?"


    "We''re going to go stop Daimon," Shiloh says matter-of-factly, snapping one of the straps over her torso.


    "You can''t be serious. And what are we supposed to do?"


    "Gather what people you can," Shiloh says, looping the strap to the oxygen mask over her head until it hangs from her neck, the mask itself resting at her collarbone. "The people you decide. Have them take the dunebuggies."


    "And go where!? I''d be asking people to die out in the desert!"


    "You''d be giving them a chance, even it if it''s a slim one," Shiloh says. "Just tell them to put some distance between them and the Cloister. Avoid SERAPHIM territory. Once we''ve dealt with Daimon, we''ll radio them to head back."


    "And if you fail?"


    Shiloh shrugs. "We''ll have bought them some time. Break a leg, Evelyn."


    With that, she turns and heads back the way we came at a jog, past the door to the garage and toward a long hallway, Cade and I in tow.


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    "I think I see him," she says, panting.


    Sure enough, there''s a window in the sealed door up ahead, a grey silhouette visible through the glass. Whoever and whatever he is, he moves with a leisured gait, unconcerned. No rush at all.


    We reach the door. Cade and Shiloh both bring up their see-through masks, affixing them over the mouth and nose.


    Shiloh turns a lever in the thick door, with a THUNK that echoes ominously.


    "You''re both sure about this?" I say, glancing between them.


    They both nod.


    "It''s dangerous," Cade acknowledges.


    "But it''s the only way," Shiloh says. "We have to try."


    She has a determined way about her. She and Cade both do. They are molded by their environment, the dangerous and precarious world they inhabit. But in Shiloh''s case, it''s something I''ve seen consistently in her interactions. She sets her mind to something, and she just does it. No qualms. No doubts. No hesitation. Sometimes, I wish I could be more like that. Stoic. Certain. Self-sufficient.


    I should be more afraid, right now. I really should. I''ve already been given the low-down on what this guy can do. Impossible speed and reflexes. Special, glowy sword. Miniature jet engine afterburners in his body, giving him extra momentum and impact, when he wants it. And some kind of special blast attack he apparently used to ka-me-ha-me-ha his way through the actual wall. Which is...you know. Just great.


    This is a guy with abilities and experience. Someone who isn''t afraid to kill, because he''s here for that very purpose. On paper, I''m outmatched by every conceivable metric. I should be concerned. I am, to a degree.


    But there''s a part of me that''s starting to wake up, amidst all of this. A part of me that remembers what it''s like to fight. With every encounter, every threat, I feel increasingly prepared for the next. Mentally, at least.


    Whether or not that feeling has any merit, I guess I''m about to find out.


    "Ready?" Shiloh says.


    I nod. "Let''s do it."


    The door squeaks and whines. I ease forward, through the gap. I hear the door wailing again as Shiloh shuts it behind me. All according to plan.


    It''s a crazy long hallway. I can make out gaps, branching corridors. Like this is some kind of main thoroughfare, connecting to other hallways that are streets. The roads and byways of this place.


    The overhead lights are spaced far enough apart to accommodate the gapped populous of shadows in between.The old, buzzy fluorescents flicker and ebb, causing shadows to pulse and throb in some places.


    Somewhere, beyond, a blip in the midst of that carnival tunnel of light and shadow, is Daimon. A grey, sauntering figure.


    I walk forward. At a smooth clip. Not too fast, because I want to buy as much time as I can. But at the same time, I''d like to initiate the fight as far away from the others as I can.


    That''s the first objective. Minimize the death toll. As much as I can. My best chance of doing that is to neutralize Daimon.


    Once I''ve done that, I intend to get him to talk. Get some actual answers around here. Figure out where I came from. Why people are after me. What the point is, to all of this.


    "Hey." The voice has a prolonged delay effect to it as it echoes down the hallway. It sounds hoarse and scratched, but there''s a digitally manipulated edge to it.


    I watch Daimon''s movements as I walk, looking for some clue in his body language, some hint that he''s about to quickly close the distance and attack.


    Instead, I see him raise a grey, gloved and gauntleted hand. He''s...waving.


    "Hey, Silas," he says.


    Silas.


    Who here, besides Shiloh, would know that name? And how?


    But I''d rather not betray my surprise. Don''t wanna give him the satisfaction. The march forward doesn''t halt. This changes nothing. At least, I don''t think it does. Even though my heart just did a barrel-roll inside the confines of my metal ribcage.


    "Silas," he says again. "Silas Turner?"


    Nope. Still not gonna react. Not gonna bite.


    He wants me alive. That''s why he''s trying to pique my interest. Throw me off guard. I won''t fall for it.


    He''s closer now. I can make out the finer details of his appearance without using optical programming to enhance my vision.


    He''s not a big guy. He''s got a medium-slim build, similar to mine. But there''s a certain swagger to the way he moves. He evokes an aura of self-described invincibility.


    One word: edgelord. It''s in everything about him. The way he moves. The grey motif for every part of his armor and clothing. The clothing itself¡ªlong-tailed jacket and hood, the mask covering his entire face, with only two little slits for eyes. Right now the hood is pulled back, his silvery, ear-length hair smoothed back, contrasting with the mask itself, as well as the rest of his clothing. He holds a black handgun with an extended mag in one hand. He continues to wave at me with the other.


    "Be honest," he goes on. His voice grows less echo-y, like a radio transmission getting clearer. "On a scale from one to ten, how disoriented are you right now? ''Cuz I know I would be."


    Maybe I shouldn''t be stonewalling him. The last thing I need is for him to decide brute force is the only way to get to me. Right off the bat, at least.


    Get him talking. Lead him on. Like in the movies. Or something.


    "I guess now''s the part when I ask you how you know my name."


    "Ha," he says, a little clip of a laugh. "It''s just as I thought. All it takes is one look at your face. I can read you like a book."


    Sounds like a bluff.


    "It''s not a bluff," he says, cocking his head at me. "I know you better than you realize. Better than anyone else ever could."


    He comes to a sudden stop, only twenty feet ahead of me. I come to a halt as well, mirroring his behavior. I''m staying in the flow. Sticking to the pattern he''s setting. For now.


    "Hypothetically," I say, watching his body language to gauge a reaction. "If I hand myself over, will you leave everyone else alone?"


    "If I said yes, would you believe me?"


    That''s a ''no''. According to Cade and Shiloh, there was still ample time on the clock to Daimon''s deal. Which means the deal''s off. Some new circumstance has reared its head. There''s blood in the water, and the sharks are swarming.


    It''s not just that they want me. They want to destroy any trace I was here. It''s the only thing that makes sense to me.


    "I''m a dog on a leash, unfortunately," Daimon says, unprompted. "When the master says ''bite'', I bite. Otherwise, no meat."


    "You''re an edgelord, is what you are."


    "Edgelord," he says. "That''s a good word isn''t it? A good trope. Tropes exist for a reason, you know. Because they''re effective. You perceived me, the way I move, the way I talk. And you understood. We understand each other, you might say. You know, without my having to say so, that you''re not going to be able to reason with me."


    "I always liked down-to-earth characters, myself," I say. "You know, the ''everyman''."


    "Wow," Daimon says. "We both know that''s a lie." He holsters his pistol, somewhere behind his back. "Here''s a trope I know for a fact you''ll appreciate, though."


    He grabs his mask. There''s a hissing sound as hidden clasps release. He lowers the mask. His silver hair falls, parted in the middle, framing his face.


    This time, my heart does something more than a barrel-roll. It''s more like a quadruple backflip through an open access hatch, out into space.


    "Stop me if you''ve heard this one before," he says. His voice still sounds scratched, damaged, but without the glitchy, digital effects. "I''m you. But, you know. Better."

 Chapter 43

    SILAS


    I''ve heard some say we know ourselves by the mirrors we peer into. The reverse images. Supposedly, if you''d have trouble recognizing yourself if you saw an identical copy in public. The discrepancy is that large, supposedly.


    But that''s not true.


    There are discrepancies here. The color and style of the hair, for one. The sneering look. The pale complexion. Far paler than mine. Strangest of all, the faint sizzling sound, as a thin burn mark travels up one side of his exposed face, shedding a wispy trail of smoke.


    But none of these divergences can disguise the truth.


    He''s right. He is me. Those are my eyes, looking back at me. Knowing. Understanding. In some terrifying, fundamental way, we are the same.


    "You''ve got something..." I say, pointing at the left side of my face. "Right...there."


    "That''s cute," he says. The burn mark extends, snaking upward toward his hairline. "Humor as a shield for the psyche. You armor yourself against the truth. But you don''t get to do that, this time. I''m going to peel back the scales from your eyes. I''m going to make you see."


    This time??


    "Come with me," he says. "The people here¡ªtheir fate is sealed. That''s all done. But not you. Surrender yourself. I don''t want to fight you, Silas. I need you safe. Whole."


    "Counter-offer," I say. "You surrender yourself, and the Cloister will determine a fitting punishment for your crimes."


    He smirks. "There''s only one true sovereign state anymore, and it''s not this isolated bunker of inbreds. Don''t endanger yourself for these people. Don''t be that stupid."


    ''INITIATING SALVO PROTOCOL...''


    The dual handguns appear in my hands. Shoulder turrets activate. I take aim at Daimon.


    "I know you want answers," he says. He looks disappointed, but also bored, unfazed. "You''re not going to get them that way."


    "Sure I will," I say. "And you''re gonna give them to me."


    "Well, well," Daimon says. He smiles fully, teeth gleaming, sparks igniting in his eyes. "I had explicit instructions to bring you in, intact and unharmed. But if you''re fighting back, I guess I don''t have a choice. If I take you apart, past the point of repair, don''t blame me. I know the higher-ups won''t. I''m just following orders, after all."


    "That''s not much of an excuse," I say, aiming for his face.


    "You''re missing the point. If you''re gonna take the shot, take it. And you better hope you don''t miss."


    He watches me. And I watch him. The tension builds. A tangible, unseen thing. An invisible snake uncoiling itself, all about us. The mechanisms of fate turn. Divergent paths isolate themselves, becoming uniform. Locking into place.


    No going back.


    I fire. All four guns. The first salvo.


    Daimon''s movements are impossibly fast, like a mirage. He fastens the mask back into place and leaps forward, airborne, hair rippling behind his head in tendrils, bullets ricocheting off his mask and armor, one of his gloved hands forming a fist.


    I decide to put the handguns away, vanishing in a flurry of green, glowing dust motes. Still firing with my shoulder turrets, I brace with my legs. I reach out with two open hands, catching Daimon''s punch like a baseball.


    Too late, I realize it''s not a matter of blocking the punch itself, but of absorbing the impact of Daimon''s entire body, and all his momentum.


    I''m not catching the punch. I''m catching him.


    The force hits my palms, jutters all the way down my arms and shoulders and into my neck and core. The heels of my metal feet¡ªshoes? Boots?¡ªscreech as I''m pushed backward, sliding, despite still being braced in my defensive position. I slide ten feet, maybe even twenty. Daimon is still airborne, riding the momentum of that forward flight, even as he''s pushing me.


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    Just as the momentum slows, and Daimon''s feet touch the ground, and I hear the choir of multiple metal plates snapping open, and a sound like a miniature spaceship taking off. Yellow energy bursts, like a Harrier jet;s afterburners, flare out of ports in Daimon''s upper back and the back of his forelegs. And even with all my weight, and the force with which I''m pushing back against him, I slide again.


    Which is the opposite of what I want. I need to move him back. The other way. I need to throw a wrench into the mechanism. Turn the tide.


    I pivot, sidling out of the way while still holding tight to Daimon''s fist. I''m gonna harness the inertia. I''m gonna use his own energy against-


    He lets me. He leans into the spin with everything he''s got, body braced, feet in the air. For a second, we''re face-to-face¡ªor mask to face, at least. His dark hair flails wildly. His eyes are dark pinpricks in the mask. No human emotion can be discerned. I''m fighting an automaton.


    Too late, I realize he''s holding onto one of my hands with two of his.


    He shifts his alignment, so he''s facing the opposite direction of the spin. The inertia is fighting against Daimon''s afterburn jets. And losing.


    His feet hit the floor, and mine leave it. I''m flying sideways through the air. Into the wall. And through it.


    Thick sheets of heavy concrete split and crumble around me, in an impact that leaves me with a throbbing ache along my entire side.


    I fly. Into a shadowy room with boxes stacked to the ceiling. The only light source is behind me, from the hallway lights, bursting in via the hole my body made.


    I turn in the air, trying to land on my feet. But when my foot touches the floor, the rest of my body keeps going. I keep flying, all the way to the wall at the end of the room. I brace just before the impact, bringing my arms up to protect my face as I hit the wall head-on. And crash through that one, too.


    I hit the floor, rolling, shoulder-over-shoulder, but I still can''t manage to slow down. Not until I hit my third wall in one go, hitting the concrete segment back-first, hard enough to partially embed my body into it, slightly off the ground.


    My vision blurs and fizzles a little, like a TV losing its signal. Which can''t be a good sign.


    Blessedly, the feeling fades.


    I ease myself forward, pulling myself bit-by-bit out of the wall.


    This place. It''s a storage room, like the last. But there''s a different vibe to it. I can smell old paper. Thick swirls of airborne dust. Charred electrical cables. And a whiff of what I assume to be mouse droppings.


    I''m free of the me-shaped crater, and on one knee, when Daimon''s shadow blocks the light sourcing in through the hole in the wall. He ducks his head as comes through, then casually sits down in the gap.


    "Seriously?" He takes off his mask, some of hair falling forward in front of his face. "You know, I''m struggling right now to believe you used to actually be formidable. You''re in big trouble if that little move was too much for you. I wasn''t even trying, my guy. If this is what it''s going to be like, I''m not sure I even want to play."


    What...the hell...


    "Don''t be like that," I say, grunting as I get to my feet. "We''re just getting started."


    "As he struggles to get to his feet. You realize I have a number of weapons at my disposal? I haven''t dipped into any of them, yet."


    I stare at him. He''s shadowy, goblin-esque silhouette, sitting slouched in the gap.


    "You''re enjoying this," I say, realizing. "Aren''t you? I was so much better than you, it took me losing everything for you to be able to actually knock me down a peg."


    He sighs. Stands. "Well, fine," he says. "For that."


    I get that lightheaded feeling again. My vision crackles. I shake my head to clear it, blinking rapidly.


    "It''s fitting really," Daimon says. "That was always your problem. You never knew when to quit."


    He makes fists with his hands, like he''s challenging me to fisticuffs. He bobs and weaves, shadowboxing the air.


    "You''re not taking this seriously, are you?" I say. "It''s just a game, to you."


    "That''s rich coming from you," he says. The words are coated with spite. "Tell me. How did you solve your problems, before the light?"


    Before the light...


    Briefly, my mind travels back, to that moment in the car, with that ball of light in the rearview mirror. But I can''t see what my past life has to do with any of this.


    "The answer is that you didn''t," he says. "You stayed tucked away in your room, with your toys. You self-medicated. All to keep yourself from comprehending the truth. You shut your eyes to your surroundings, because you didn''t want to see the cracks."


    I don''t know what he''s talking about. And I don''t care.


    Only, I think back, again, to that moment when I was hiding in the pantry, peering into the living room. My mom was saying something. But I couldn''t hear it. It''s as if the words were being...bleeped out.


    And¡­it''s so strange. I knew something. Something was off, and I may have even known at the time.


    But now, I can''t seem to-


    No.


    I can''t think about this, right now. No matter what he says.


    I shake myself. "You''re trying to distract me."


    "You''re distracting yourself," Daimon says, arms folded firmly, no longer bouncing from foot to foot. "It''s the same old, tired tactic. That''s the irony of it. You always talked about the world and society being fake. But you were the one faking. All the way to the light. It''s the ultimate charade. You faked yourself."


    "Glad you''ve got it all figured out," I say, bringing my hands up into fists.


    "Thanks," he says, mirroring my stance of readiness. "Like I said, I''m you, but better. I''ve come to terms with the past; something you''ll never do. I''ve seen things as they actually are. I''ve divined the meaning."


    "Yeah?" I say. "What''s that?"


    "That there is no meaning." He gestures with two fingers, telling me to come to him.


    I grit my teeth.


    I initiate Blast Protocol.

 Chapter 44

    SILAS


    It''s a strange sensation. As if my right arm is plying itself apart. Re-arranging itself.


    I watch as the metal parts shift, so many various joints and segments making subtle clinks and clanks. My fingers pull back. My palm splits, slides apart. My hand transforms into a short metal cylinder attached to the wrist. A yellow light glows within the cylinder¡ªdim at first, becoming more intense by the second.


    That seems to be Daimon''s queue to rush me.


    He runs toward me, legs and arms blurring with speed.


    I aim my arm cannon directly at him. Bright light inside the cannon illuminates the room like a floodlight. The energy is focusing, building. It''s almost ready.


    I can read Daimon''s movements. Or maybe I just know him. Because he''s me.


    He''s about to feint to the right¡ªhis left. He''ll loop around, deflect my arm cannon shot from the side.


    Sure enough, at the exact moment I''d been planning to release the charged Blast, he ducks toward my right. He reaches out to push the arm cannon away.


    But I''m already shifting in that direction, bringing my cannon up toward the left, over my shoulder.


    I fire.


    Intense burst of energized plasma just a hands-breadth from my ear.


    WAP.


    A sound like a laser shot.


    An explosion directly behind me. A shower of concrete debris and dust flooding the air, falling in showers. At the same time, my elbow rockets forward with intense force, propelled by the Blast. The tip of my elbow slams into Daimon''s face, putting a crack in his mask with a loud snap. Part of my upper arm smacks into his collarbone, denting some of the metal there.


    Daimon''s head snaps back as his feet go out from under him. He lands on his back on the floor. Cracks split out on the concrete floor from the impact.


    My body keeps going, twisting with the momentum, turning me in a circle. I stomp down with one foot, sinking into the floor slightly, but managing to stop myself. Bits of concrete bounce, roll and slide across the floor. Dust falls, coating everything.


    Daimon is still. And has been still. For the last split-second or so.


    Standing over him, I point my arm cannon down, charging up another blast.


    Daimon shifts into motion, like a statue coming to life. He kicks me in the leg at the knee joint, throwing me off balance. I move to dodge his next kick, still charging my next attack.


    Sweeping his legs like something out of The Matrix, Daimon hops to his feet. He charges me.


    I aim for his chest, but he slaps my arm cannon away, sending the blast into the wall. He aims a punch at my face. I block it with my forearm. The metal crashes and sings¡ªthe song of our armor plates colliding.


    Daimon follows up his attack with a flurry of kicks and punches. I block. Block. Sidestep. Operating on reflex, and some forgotten, mechanical knowledge. I''m in the flow. Beyond thought.


    One of his hits is too fast for me. I deflect the punch, but it still hits me in the shoulder, knocking me backward a couple steps, until my shoulder bumps the wall behind me.


    Daimon quickly slides across the floor, transitioning into a sidekick, aimed at my gut.


    I block, grabbing his foot.


    He swivels in the air, striking out with his other foot, hitting me in the side of the head.


    My face is knocked to one side, an electric shock of pain lancing up my neck. My ears ring. I fall sideways, toward the floor.


    As I''m falling, Daimon lashes out at me with another kick. I block it with both arms, but the force still slams me back against the wall.


    I hit the floor, and immediately use my arms to boost up onto my feet, scrambling to make some distance between us, around Daimon and back toward the hole in the wall.


    Daimon doesn''t slow, head down, moving at a full run. I can hear the jets opening up on his back and legs, propelling, going full bore, each footfall shattering chunks of the floor.


    I aim my arm cannon and let off a quick shot, realizing¡ªintuiting somehow¡ªthat I don''t always need to charge it.


    Daimon ducks under the projectile at the last millisecond¡ªa yellow orb of energized plasma that parts a tuft of his thrashing hair as it goes past over his head¡ªand slams into me, shoulder-to-chest, lifting me off the floor, arms making a vice around my torso.


    We''re a bullet, careening through the air. Wind rushes past my ears. I can hear jets screaming.


    Collision. I feel it in the back of my head more than anywhere else, even as my entire body throbs with the impact of it. Multi-colored spots flood into my vision. Dissipating with merciful swiftness. Only to return with the next crash. And the next. One wall after another.


    I''m a one-man...demolition crew...


    My optics go dark. The vice-like pressure on my torso disappears. I drift and roll, airborne. No longer a guided missile, but a piece of falling debris.


    My vision flickers, as if to match the disorientation of my airborne spin, the world rotating around me.


    I hit the floor, rolling and sliding. Sliding. Sliding.


    Stopping.


    Not because I''ve crashed into something. Not this time. My momentum has run down. I''m a body at rest. Not that I can afford to be.


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    I roll over, onto my back, and sit up.


    This must be the Cargo Bay which Cade and Shiloh described to me. The big, open hangar, with its shipping containers. The giant crane. The big hole blasted in the wall is a giveaway as well, a giant portal leading directly to the outside.


    I''ve been here before, when Gavin''s crew dragged me through various parts of the complex. Part of their little victory tour. I was feigning unconsciousness at the time, waiting for some ideal moment to free myself. Maybe if I''d acted then, I could have prevented the rest of this. Maybe things could have been different.


    But why waste time thinking about that?


    I get to my feet. Daimon is standing a ways off, almost at the opposite end of the hangar, backlit by the setting light of the sun, through the hole behind him. He watches, arms clasped behind his back. Waiting on me.


    "Well," he says, once I''m on my feet, ready to fight. "I can''t say I haven''t had fun. But I think it might be time to wrap this up."


    "So soon?"


    "Don''t be cute. You have to know my ship''s been keeping tabs. I know what you''re up to. Trying to distract me while some of the in-breds make an escape. It won''t work."


    Outside, via the gap in the wall beyond Daimon, I hear the roar of a ship''s engine.


    No. No, wait....


    "Wait," I say. "Daimon-"


    "Too late," Daimon says, taking a wide stance. "The orders have already been given. The ship''s en route. They might as well be desert carrion already."


    That...that can''t be. It can''t already be too late.


    The ship''s engine revs. Screams. Then diminishes in volume as it lifts off.


    It''s already on its way.


    Those people. We thought we were giving them a chance. We agreed on that. And we were wrong.


    It''s a death sentence. We literally sent them to their deaths.


    I''m trying to imagine who might be on those dunebuggies. Mostly women and children, I have to assume. Evelyn would try to get as many of the innocent out as she could. That was the whole point.


    The very people I''ve been trying to protect. Gone, in a hail of explosions and gunfire.


    Unless...


    I glance past Daimon, toward the opening in the wall. If I want to exit the bunker, quickly, this is the fastest route. And if I can get out in the open, I might have a shot at the ship, using my blast attack.


    Daimon cocks his head at me. "Don''t even think about it."


    Whatever I do, it has to happen now. I have to move fast. There''s only two people that can stop that ship at this point: Daimon, and me.


    I brace, and begin charging up a blast shot.


    Daimon reacts quickly, initiating his own Blast Protocol. One of his light-grey hands splits apart, turning his arm into a cannon, already building a charge of glowing yellow plasma. The mechanical sheath on his back, containing the special sword I was warned about, rotates into a diagonal position over the shoulder, ready for Daimon to draw it.


    "Don''t do it, Silas-"


    I run toward him, leaning forward, every step leaving a dent in the floor.


    Daimon runs toward me. He raises his arm cannon mid-run, squinting one eye as he aims down the length of his arm. He fires.


    I fire back, aiming at the energy projectile. Our two plasma shots collide in the air.


    And explode.


    A wave of heated air rushes out from the point of the impact, pushing against my body, unsettling my¡ªlikely -already messy hair, and taking the air of my artificial lungs. I keep running. Toward the smoking cloud, roiling, sparking at the edges with plasmic flames. Toward-


    Daimon bursts from the grey smoke like a specter from the fog. Airborne. One knee slightly tucked. One hand tightly gripping the hilt of his sword, drawing it.


    Time seems to slow. The glowing, bladed edge of the sword incrementally growing in length as it emerges from its scabbard, like a bright orange line being drawn across my vision. Daimon''s arm cannon flickering steadily with yellow light as he queues up another charged attack. We are in stasis, the two of us. On the precipice between life and death. Destruction and renewal. Me, and him.


    Silas and Daimon.


    His sword comes free of the scabbard. He swipes. A cut that will severe the upper half of my torso from the rest of my body.


    I dodge, swaying my torso backward until it''s near horizontal, while still keeping my feet on the ground. I see the arc of the blade pass over me, right in front of my face. The momentum carries Daimon past me, everything happening so fast that he doesn''t have time to course correct the attack.


    Still, he tucks the cannon under his other arm and against his abs, aiming for me as he flies past.


    I pivot my body and kick off with my feet, rolling through the air. The blast misses me, but I can feel its static crackle as it passes, giving my senses a hair-on-end feeling.


    I land on my feet. So does Daimon, just a few paces away. And time starts up again.


    He comes toward me, swinging. I back away, dodging, trying to keep my footing.


    We fall into a strange rhythm. A sort of dance. The kind you do on the razor''s edge of a knife.


    As the seconds pass, I have to wonder. How am doing this? How...how am I alive right now?


    But to think too much is to lose focus. And if I stop, if I lose this rhythm, that''s when he''ll kill me.


    It''s not just that I have to keep moving, dodging, and counter-attacking just enough to keep him off-balance. I''m also keeping an eye on our placement within the hangar. I''m trying to maneuver Daimon, as best I can. I just hope he doesn''t notice. With any luck, he interprets my erratic movements as panic-driven. As if I''m realizing I''m no match, and the walls are starting to close in. Which isn''t far from the truth.


    "You know, this is actually kind of depressing," Daimon says, making a swipe that misses me by a handsbreadth as I duck out of the way. "Seeing how far you''ve fallen. What makes it even worse is that it''s your fault. You have no one to blame but yourself."


    Using his supposed knowledge of my past to try and distract me, again. Taunting me.


    "That''s the real reason I''m better than you," Daimon goes on. "Not because you fell, but because I never did. You couldn''t adapt. You couldn''t accept the world for what it really is."


    "Do you ever...shut...up!?"


    "Nope."


    I can''t beat him. Not like this. There''s no opening. Eventually, he''ll grow tired of playing with me. Or I''ll slip up. Or both. It''s inevitable. Meanwhile, his ship is seconds away from gunning down that caravan. If it hasn''t happened already.


    It''s time. To do what I couldn''t. What I should have done before.


    Because this I know, deep down. No matter what Shiloh or anyone else might tell me.


    It should have been me, dead, in that water. I should have been the one to dive in, not mom. Even if it accomplished nothing. Even if it killed me. It should have been me.


    And it will be me.


    Daimon lunges at me with the sword, aiming for my midsection.


    I dodge to one side. Slightly. Not entirely.


    I reach out with one hand, catching the tip of the sword in my palm.


    The tip of the blade pierces my hand easily. Exits out the back. Keeps going, into my forearm, my bicep, and a part of my shoulder.


    The pain is...white shot. Razor sharp. mercilessly pulsating. Beyond anything I could have imagined up until this point.


    But I have to keep going.


    Daimon makes a grunt-like chuckle through his mask. Pleased.


    For now.


    I push forward, teeth grit, down the length of the sword, bright spots flickering in my eyes, as well as a blinking major damage notification in my HUD, which I ignore.


    I clamp down on Daimon''s sword-hand with my fingers.


    At this point, he''s gotta know something''s up. He pulls back, but the hooked grip of my fingers around his palm is enough to stop him from extricating himself. In order to pull free, he''d have to let go of the sword. And given his death grip on the hilt, I don''t think he wants to do that.


    He turns, trying to position his body away from me. His arm cannon glows.


    I could try shooting him before he shoots me. Potentially blowing both of us up in the process. But that''s not the plan.


    I deactivate Blast Protocol, retracting the arm cannon, and grab onto Daimon''s, keeping it aimed off to the side.


    "Shiloh!" I yell.


    Shiloh darts out from behind a shipping container nearby. She has her Jacktech cord extended, and plugged into another longer cable, which she windmills like a whip, before tossing the end of the cable my way.


    Daimon looks over in Shiloh''s direction, distracted.


    I let go of his arm cannon long enough to reach toward his collarbone, the spot I hit earlier with my arm. An armor plate that''s dented, crumpled in. With a tiny gap.


    I reach into the opening with a couple fingers, using the bionic strength of my hand to peel part of the metal back in one quick motion, revealing what looks like an AUX cable port.


    Daimon''s masked face turns back toward me. He brings his arm cannon up.


    I grab it again, before he can target me. The charged blast goes off, hitting a shipping container somewhere behind me, shearing a giant hole through it and sending metal chunks flying.


    I release his arm cannon again, just in time to grab the end of the flying cable. I plug the end into port.


    And Daimon freezes.

 Chapter 45

    DAIMON


    I don''t know where I am. I only know I''m not where I once was.


    Has a chunk of my memory been erased? Is that why I''m not able to bridge the gap?


    One second, I was in the underground bunker. And now...


    I appear to be standing in the walkway some corporate office building. A good twenty to thirty floors off the ground, going off of the view to my right. It''s not really a wall, but a giant, continuous window, with a handrail in front of it, at the edge of the walk.


    There are few places like this, anymore. Buildings like these are a relic of the old world. They represent a time of greed, endless expansion, unsustainability. That''s why they''re mostly gone. In the times of war and severe environmental conditions, they weaken, crumble, and disappear. The creations of man, eroding, disintegrating. While only the Biodroids remain.


    Not to mention the view itself. A sprawling metropolis. Hundreds of buildings, in all their forms, sizes and functions, stretched out, segmented like conductors on a computer chip. Humans don''t cluster like this, anymore. Not on the surface, anyway. It makes a big target. It''s too tempting for the SERAPHIM.


    No. None of this is real. Unless there''s something seriously wrong with my memory banks. Which I doubt.


    This is some kind of simulated reality. Some kind of...


    I search my mind, trying to discern the moments leading up to this. It''s like looking at a blurry photo. The colors are there. The basic shapes of things. But the context is missing. Out of reach.


    But maybe I don''t need a complete picture. I know this: I was about to show Silas Turner how small he really is. But something happened.


    Much as I hate to admit it, he must have pulled a fast one on me. I don''t know when, or by what means. But this is Jacktech, what I''m experiencing right now. It has to be.


    I take off at jog, eyes out for a door, or a button¡ªsome kind of exit mechanism. Outside in this simulated world, the clouds are thick and dark, casting a greyish blue haze over the city. It''s dim out there, and dark. It''s beginning to look like rain.


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    Not that it should matter to me.


    Only, there is something about this place. This city. This building, even. I''ve been here before.


    A streak of lightning reaches across the now-black sky, briefly illuminating the city below.


    Smoke. For a brief second, I can see it. Thick. Black. Roiling.


    And then I hear the screams.


    Not real screams. Imagined ones. Resonating out of the depths of my subconscious.


    That''s what this place is, isn''t it? The lower layers of the self. For humans, these parts of the mind have always stayed secret, out of bounds. But with Biodroids, under the right conditions, Jacktech can be used to access those sub-level parts of the artificial mind.


    Which is...troublesome. I keep this stuff tucked away for a reason. There are monsters here I''d prefer to keep locked up.


    I run, faster. More than angry or inconvenienced, I''m beginning to feel nervous. Agitated. I don''t want to be here.


    Some dark shape thumps against the window-wall. Slowly slides down it. Lightning flares in the sky again, and for a second, I can see the object clearly.


    A human hand. Soaked and surrounded by some strange, dark fluid. Like motor oil. The hand slides down the glass, lubricated by the inky substance, leaving a slimy trail behind it.


    I find my gaze locking onto it as I run past. I deliberately tear my eyes away.


    Another thud, as a new projectile hits the glass. Followed by another. And several more, all at once. And then dozens, rattling like wet hail against the side of the building in sick splats and thunks.


    The sky sparks with light. And this time, I try to look away. But I''m not fast enough.


    I am not alone. There are a thousand or more people here with me. They''re just not...whole. That''s all. They are scattered, in pieces and parts, all across the glass wall. Heads. Hands. Legs. Feet. Eyeballs. Individual fingers and toes dot and speckle the wall. All of them oozing with oil.


    The screams. Getting louder. Hurting me.


    I run. Faster.


    Lightning strikes the side of the building. Sparks fly. The oil ignites, flames sweeping across the length of the glass. The screams transition into high-pitched, non-stop shrieking. The death wails of a thousand throats.


    I put my hands over my ears. Palms tight against the sides of my head. I try to cut myself off from the sound. But it is fruitless. Always fruitless.


    Ahead, at the end of the walkway, is a double-door with an EXIT sign over the top of it.


    I slam into the doors, pushing with everything I have. To one side of me, the glass wall crackles and bubbles from the flames, melting apart. The screeches of the dead intensify. As they always do, and will. Without ceasing.


    The doors start to give, then stop, before going back, locking into place again.


    There''s something pushing back. From the other side.


    I slam into the door again, shoulder first.


    No effect.


    I peer in through a rectangular window in the door. Something moves, there. I see a shock of blond hair.


    "Let me out!"


    I slam into the door again. I hit it, over and over again with my palm.


    "Please! Let me OUT!"

 Chapter 46

    You could say it was quick wits and a malleable plan that got us to this point. As well as determination. And perhaps luck, most of all.


    For starters, there was no way to know, for certain, that Shiloh''s Jacktech would immobilize Daimon. It was more of a confident hypothesis from Cade. A necessary risk. An important component of our hastily constructed plan. And it appears to have paid off.


    Daimon stands at an awkward angle, stuck in place, twitching slightly. But the convulsions are becoming more and more frenzied. He''s trying to break free. There''s a blue, buzzing, electric glow at the connection point of the Jacktech port. Little yellow sparks start to jump out, off the end of the cable. It''s only been a second, maybe a second and half, and time is already running out.


    "Cade!" I yell, tensing, ready to hold Daimon still if I have to.


    Mechanical vibrations overhead. The arm of the Cargo Bay''s giant crane, extending, with the massive hook swaying underneath.


    The end of the crane comes to a stop. I stare up toward the bobbing hook, waiting. It revolves, dangling, in a slowly diminishing circle. Smaller. Smaller.


    The hangar echoes with the mechanical sound of Cade hitting the release. The crane drops.


    Falls.


    C''mon, c''mon-


    BZZZT.


    With a spark, the end of the cable ejects from the port, looking burnt and charred. I can feel Daimon push against me, trying to get free.


    With a roar, I pull my impaled arm and shoulder back, freeing it from the blade, ignoring the fresh onslaught of pain. As soon as my arm is free, I jump back, away from Daimon.


    Impact.


    The crane''s massive hook slams into Daimon at the neck and shoulder. Crushing him into the floor. Pressing down on his shoulder, and across his entire torso, trapping him. Crumpling his legs at a folded angle underneath him.


    His sword goes flying, sliding across the floor.


    I scramble for it with my good arm, grabbing it by the hilt.


    Daimon points his arm cannon at me, end aglow.


    Before he can let off the shot, I swipe up with the sword. The blade cuts right through the elbow joint with surprising ease, marring the air with the smells of burnt metal and electronics. The cannon falls to the floor, smoke issuing from the severed elbow.


    Daimon cries out. It''s the first indication of humanity, of genuine personhood, beneath the murderous, diabolical facade. But there''s nothing disarming about that, for me. For some reason, it''s just more fuel for my fury. There''s a gratification to seeing the metal demon bleed that makes me grit my teeth.


    I smoothly transition from one swipe into the next, cleaving his other arm, just above the elbow. It''s the only way to neutralize him, short of ending his life. The second heavy limb hits the floor, rolling and smoking.


    The screams transition, turning to frantic, panting gasps. He''s reeling himself in, getting back some control.


    I kneel down, grab his mask by the corner, and yank it free, snapping the material in a couple of places.


    As soon as the mask is off, that burn mark manifests on his cheek, traveling, widening, leaving thin trails of smoke with its passage. His expression is contorted, snarling. His pupils are narrow, glinting pits.


    I hold the sword up toward his neck. "Call off the ship."


    He spits. Some spots of the spittle land on the glowing edge of the glade, sizzling and evaporating.


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    "You''d rather die?" I say.


    "I''m not going to die," he says. "I''m not going to rescind the ship''s orders. And you''re not going to kill me."


    He''s right. I don''t have it in me to end his life. Especially since he might have answers I need. And killing him wouldn''t make a difference, anyway.


    I pull back, as if to make a swipe toward his face.


    He doesn''t even flinch. If anything, there''s a triumphant gleam in his eyes. Even if I were to torture and kill him, he wouldn''t give in. Just to show me.


    ...God....dammit...


    I pull the sword back. Drop it. Get to my feet.


    I initiate Blast Protocol and begin charging, aiming up at the ceiling of the hangar.


    In my periphery, I can see Shiloh rushing toward me.


    "Silas!" Her voice muffled just a little bit by the oxygen mask. "What are you-"


    I let off the shot.


    It hits the ceiling. Explodes.


    I squint against the shower of concrete and grey dust.


    "Silas!" Shiloh shouts. "Wait! Don''t-"


    I run. Jump. Onto one of the shipping containers, metal feet pounding and thumping with each footfall. I jump again, to higher ground, where a row of containers is stacked three-high. From there, I jump again, boosting off the roof of the crane machine. I leap through the hole in the ceiling.


    As soon as I''m out in the open air, the wind pushes hard against me, tearing at my clothes, making my hair rage about my head and face.


    The sun is low. A dim, orange half-ball on the horizon.


    I land, skidding on a flat stretch of rock. It''s just a mountainous, craggy ridge, up here, with no evidence of the bunker itself, except for the hole I''ve made in it.


    I scan the horizon. Searching.


    Please don''t let me be too late.


    Please...


    It was my idea. That''s the thing that keeps echoing in my head, over and over again. I was the one who initially suggested that if anyone could get out now, they should. Because I had a feeling this fight could get out of hand, and I didn''t...want...anyone...


    Focus.


    But how can I ignore the truth? I didn''t want to be responsible for the deaths of these people. And yet, somehow...


    There.


    I see the ship, first. Like a great black bird, off in the distance.


    And then I see the rest of it. The debris. The thick, black clouds of smoke. Distant, but discernible. Unmistakable.


    The ship itself hovers idly, in some kind of holding position. Because it has no orders. Not anymore. It already did what it was supposed to.


    I was too late.


    "Silas!" I can hear Cade yelling behind me, below. "Don''t go doing anything yet, just-"


    But I''m already gone.


    It takes mere seconds to descend the mountain, jumping, landing, splitting boulders underneath my feet.


    I hit the dunes. Running. Quickly accelerating to what must be my full speed, at least in this environment, across these smooth ridges and slopes. Kicking up a constant spray of sand behind me.


    I have to believe that there''s still something I can do. That perhaps there are still survivors. And if I just move fast enough, if I''m just strong enough...


    The ship. It''s on the move. Maybe because it''s detected me as a threat. Maybe because Daimon is still controlling it remotely.


    Maybe it doesn''t matter.


    A couple of red circles pop up in my vision, with a notification having to do with a ''missile detection'' system. A second or two later, I can see the actual missiles themselves, as well as the fiery trails of smoke in their wake. They have a lock on me.


    I bring up my arm cannon, firing off one blast after another as I run. Little yellow balls of energy, zipping at great speed. The missiles arc together, curving, trying to avoid the shots. I feel like I''m in a WWII dogfight, trying to hit another plane out of the air.


    I hit one of the missiles, exploding it. Meanwhile, the black ship is gaining, almost closer to me than the remaining missile is. The ship open fires with its guns, cutting twin trails of gunfire across the sand toward me.


    I start charging a Blast, still running.


    Another notification. In big, red letters, with an arrow pointing off to my side, toward the remaining live missile. Accompanying this is a loud, repetitive beeping sound, blaring in my head, letting me know the missile is on top of me.


    I make a flying leap at the last second.


    The missile explodes behind and underneath me, rocking me forward and up, with an intense blast of heat and kinetic force.


    I aim my Blast shot down and back, firing it, giving myself even more thrust, like a rocket-jump.


    I charge up another Blast, flying forward, with the ship directly ahead of me.


    Everything''s happened so fast. The ship is still realigning its guns, now that I''ve managed to bring myself to its level so quickly.


    I''m charging. Charging. Big, radial glares of light fan from the end of my cannon, like a cross.


    The black ship pivots, rotating sideways so it won''t crash directly into me. It swerves, exposing its underside as it passes.


    In that split second, when it''s right there, practically on top of me, I aim for one of the rear engines. And fire.


    What ensues is a blistering sound wave, like a sonic boom. A flashy, fiery explosion.


    The black ship splits apart, spinning on its axis¡ªa chaotic fireball in a complete dive.


    And then there''s me. Falling. Washed over with a wave of heat that won''t go away. Because the heat, the flames from the explosion, have caused the very metal of my body to catch fire.


    All kinds of alerts and alarms are going off inside my vision and head. But none of it matters. I''m limp. Lifeless. Adrift.


    When I hit the sand, so hard that I sink into it, I don''t feel the crushing impact. I can''t feel anything at all.

 Chapter 47

    SHILOH


    It''s been a rough couple of days, to say the least. A terrible couple of days. But perhaps some good has come out of the bad. The world¡ªShiloh''s world¡ªhas been changed irreversibly. Stretched. Modified.


    Some alliances have been made, while others have been dissolved. Lines have been drawn. A new course has been charted. But only time will tell who Shiloh''s real allies are in the endeavor.


    Who could have foretold that one of her greatest allies would be a Biodroid, of all things? Nevertheless, it was true.


    Silas was...the key. The answer to everything. Perhaps, with his help, Shiloh could actually make a difference in this world. Perhaps, together, they could take humanity into the future. They could take back what had been taken from them, by the Biodroids, and even by SERAPHIM.


    It''s a long shot, but in Shiloh''s eyes, it''s still possible. And she has to try.


    Right now, she''s sitting in a Board meeting, nodding along to suggestions regarding the Cloister''s repairs and reconstructions. But inside, her heart is light, her pulse quick with anticipation.


    Soon, she''ll discover the thing her father was searching for all those years. Soon, all his years of efforts won''t be in vain. She''ll finish what her old man started.


    The biggest bottleneck in the process, right now, is the Biodroid himself. Somehow, Silas managed to get himself blown up in the fight.


    Well, ''blown up'' might be a strong way of putting it. There was a lot of damage to his exterior. Cade insisted he would be fine, though. That it was the kind of damage his ''nano particles''¡ªor whatever¡ªwould be able to repair on their own. With time.


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    Hopefully not too much time.


    "Shiloh," Callahan says, pulling her back into the moment, into that room. For a guy who was shot less than forty-eight hours ago, and still has his arm and shoulder in bandages and a cast, he seems to be doing alright. "Do you have anything to add?"


    To what? A meeting about fixing the underground bunker? There''s another one, not fifty miles south of their current position. They all know that, now. Bigger. Better equipped. With secrets to uncover.


    Yes, the Cloister needs repairs. It''s an immediate concern. But what about long-term solutions? What about...the future? Does the Board really think that this will be the last of the Biodroid attacks? That things are just going to go back to normal from here on?


    Nothing''s changed for them, has it? The Cloister has gone through a life-changing ordeal. But the Board itself reverts back to the status quo, the old ways of handling things, as soon as the plight appears to be over.


    But why get into it, right now? ''You can bring a horse to water...'' isn''t that the saying? Even less flattering: why cast pearls before swine?


    They''ve made their choices. They''ve made it clear what their priorities are.


    And Shiloh has made hers.


    "No, that just about covers it," Shiloh says, putting on a smile.


    Still, as everyone pushes their chairs back and gets to their feet, congratulating each other on another successful meeting, Shiloh remains seated. She locks eyes with Evelyn, who''s been standing next to the coffee machine with a steaming mug in hand for the entire meeting.


    Evelyn returns the look. The message is clear, and received.


    They both stay, the two of them, as everyone else filters out of the room.


    Finally, they are alone.


    Shiloh stands, the feet of her chair squeaking on the concrete floor. She steps around the long conference table, coming to a stop next to the coffee machine, across from Evelyn. She folds her arms.


    "You rang?" Evelyn says.


    "I have to ask, Evelyn. Why did you do it?"


    Evelyn smiles wryly, taking a sip from her mug. "Shouldn''t you just be grateful that I did?"


    Maybe. But there was something about it that stuck in Shiloh''s craw. She couldn''t just let it go.


    "I still need to know."


    "Oh," Evelyn says, smile fading. "But you already do. Don''t you?"

 Chapter 48

    SILAS


    It was all a dream. Had to have been. I know, because I''m back in my old bed. My comfy, slightly over-soft bed. In my old room. In the old house.


    No bright, exploding lights. No overturned vehicles on the highway. And perhaps¡ªcould it be?¡ªno ''Granite Falls''. After all, if I can imagine a devastated post-apocalypse, so vividly, perhaps I''ve imagined the deaths of the people I love. Is that really so farfetched? So outside the realm of possibility?


    So open your eyes, then.


    But why should I? Why can''t I just lie here, in this Schrodinger''s Cat of a moment, where my sister and mother can be just as alive as they are dead, to me? Why should I open the box?


    Because there is no box. You already know.


    There''s no going back. You can''t put the toothpaste back in the tube. And you can''t bring the dead back to life. Not by means of some convoluted thought experiment. Or anything else.


    I can continue to lie here. Indefinitely. Or I can move.


    I can live. Or I can die.


    You deserve to die.


    Maybe. Maybe I do. But that doesn''t change the fact that the choice exists.


    I can stay here, in this moment of death. Or I can live. I can see what tomorrow will bring. For good, or for ill. I can try to make use of what I have. To make the world a better place.


    Even if you fail.


    Yes. Even if I fail. I still have to try. Because...what else is there?


    With that thought, I open my eyes.


    And immediately shut them again, against the onslaught of blinding light from a rectangular lamp overhead.


    I turn my head to the side, away from the lamp, and sit up in the bed.


    It''s a tiny room. Smaller than my old bedroom. From the grey walls and floor, I can tell I''m still in the Cloister. There is some color to the space though, in the form of a bookshelf in the corner, and a few framed photos on the walls.


    A heavy thud sounds from the door. The shifting of a bolt as the handle turns.


    I jerk to my feet. Without thinking, I activate my Blast Protocol, turning my arm into a lethal cannon, pointed at the door.


    The door wedges open, Shiloh pushing against it with her shoulder and leg, holding a steaming ceramic mug in each hand. She kicks the door shut, then turns around to face me.


    "Whoah!" she says, joking. "Don''t shoot!"


    She seems surprised to see I''m up. In a good way.


    "S-sorry," I say, retracting the arm cannon.


    "Don''t sweat it."


    She''s wearing her trademark navy jumpsuit, with her hair tied back behind her head. This time, her collar is down, for some reason, and I can see the little Jacktech thing in the side of her neck.


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    She stands there, awkwardly, looking at me. She keeps opening her mouth a little, then shutting it again.


    I don''t blame her. I have no idea what to say, either. I mean, what''s the protocol here? What''s the procedure?


    Finally, she takes a couple of steps toward me, holding out one of the mugs. "Coffee?"


    "Uh...sure, I guess?"


    I take the cup.


    "I''ve been bringing an extra cup every time I come back, just in case. Cade says you don''t have to eat or drink, but that you can. And that caffeine should have an effect. Not entirely sure how he knows that, but..."


    She trails off, her gaze drifting. The awkwardness is back.


    Gee, thanks for that.


    "Oh!" she says, excitement flooding into her face as her eyes snap back to me. "He also told me sunlight is one of your primary energy sources. Did you know that? That''s why I hooked up that UV lamp above the bed. Thought it would help. I think it made a difference."


    "Oh. I...didn''t know that. Thanks."


    It''s not just the weirdness of this, or the fact that I''m socially awkward in general. There''s a dark cloud hanging over this interaction. A topic we both seem to be avoiding.


    I decide to ask her about what happened to the people in the caravan. But when I open my mouth, I find myself saying something else.


    "Where''s Daimon?"


    "In a holding cell," Shiloh says, between sips from her mug. "So are Gavin, and the rest of the Watch. Until we decide we can trust any of them again. If that''s even possible. We''re not entirely sure what the next steps are- hey, where are you going?"


    I''d set my cup down on the bedside table. I''m halfway to the door.


    But...I stop.


    Not in response to Shiloh''s question, but because I''ve just walked in front of her mirror on the wall. And got a good look at myself.


    It''s always bizarre, being aware of this bionic body of mine. Earlier, in Gavin''s mirror, I was able to see the top half of my body. But now I''m getting the full-on view.


    I''m completely naked. Smooth chrome. Connecting and overlapping metal plates, in some places. All the way up to my collarbone. My neck and head are the only fleshy parts¡ªthe only skin¡ªI can see. And that goes for my lower parts, as well.


    How the hell, through all of this, did I not once think to look at myself down there? To see if I still had...''parts''?


    Because apparently, I don''t.


    This should freak me out. It really should. Especially considering the fact I''m technically a virgin. But I can''t seem to get myself worked up over it. Maybe because there''s already so much I have to deal with, mentally. My life is non-stop existential horror, right now. What''s a lack of reproductive organs, on top of that?


    If anything, I feel...embarrassed. I think that''s the word.


    I was, and have always thought of myself as, a man. Or, a young man, if you want to word it that way. I''m a guy. A human guy.


    Yet, as I stand here, looking at my un-clothed reflection, yet another thing, something that should be evidence of my humanity and personhood, is missing entirely.


    I''m naked, alone in a room with this girl. And it doesn''t matter. And that''s weird. Because it should matter.


    Shiloh''s standing there, openly looking at my unclothed body, as if trying to see whatever it is I''m so concerned about. To her, I might as well be an appliance. To her, there''s no sexual component to this, at all. And why should there be?


    "Clothes?" I say.


    "Hmm?"


    "My clothes."


    "Oh," she says. "They''re pretty beat up. I ran them through a wash, and dried them, but I haven''t patched them up, yet."


    "Can I have them?"


    "Uh, sure!"


    She darts over to a cabinet next to the bed. She opens the top drawer, pulls out my shirt and pants, folded, and tosses them to me.


    I catch them. "Thanks."


    I start to put on the shirt. But there''s something about the way Shiloh is standing there, plainly watching me do it.


    "I''m sorry, could you just..." I make a twirl motion with my finger.


    "Um...yeah. Yeah, okay," she says, despite looking somewhat confused. She turns her back. "I already know what you look like. It''s not like you haven''t spent the last day and a half without them."


    "Humor me," I say. I try to keep the bitterness out of my voice, but I can tell some of it''s leaking through.


    I start pulling the shirt over my head. Which is more difficult than I anticipated, because apparently one of my arms, the one impaled by the sword, still doesn''t want to function properly. I would go so far as to call it near-paralyzed: I can barely lift the arm itself, let alone get the fingers to move properly. Whatever damage that sword did, I think it''s gonna take more than soaking up some rays to get it fixed.


    Shiloh clears her throat. "I can take you to the holding cell, if you want to talk to Daimon. Though I doubt he''ll tell you anything useful."


    "Thanks," I say, pulling up the second leg of my pants and snapping the belt.


    "Before we go, though," Shiloh says, turning around, "There''s something you should know..."

 Chapter 49

    SILAS


    Shiloh has to don an oxygen mask before guiding me through the Cargo Bay; or what she and others sometimes refer to as the ''main hall''.


    We pass by dozens of workers, all wearing oxygen masks of their own. Diligently laboring to patch up all the damage Daimon and I both managed to inflict on this place. I wonder how long it will take to get this place normal and habitable again. They''re still riveting together the metal sheets to board up that gap in the wall. And who knows what the plan is for that hole I put in the ceiling.


    Maybe I can pitch in to help, if I have the time. It''s the least I can do, after everything.


    I notice some of the workers glancing over at me as we head on through. No waves, of course. No nods, or friendly expressions. I am still a novelty, certainly, but one that the community has to come to accept as a fixture, at least for the time being. They understand I''ve saved their house from being destroyed, despite the damage. But they don''t seem too at ease.


    And they shouldn''t be. This is all far from over. Anyone could tell you that.


    Shiloh leads me out of the main hall, and through a set of double doors, which we shut behind us. After walking for a bit, we reach a second set of doors, beyond which is a checkpoint where Shiloh can take off her mask.


    She leaves her mask and oxygen tank on a rack by the doors. We continue on.


    "I don''t understand why the air''s toxic to you," I say. "Is it radioactive? Some kind of poison?"


    "That was part of my father''s research. He didn''t have the tools and data necessary to get to the bottom of it."


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    "And that''s what you''re after," I say, as she leads me down a corridor, taking one turn after another. "You want to understand why this is happening?"


    Shiloh shakes her head. "Not just that. I''m going to stop it. I''m going to turn the clock back to how the world used to be."


    A lofty ambition. One that I suspect not many people share, in this place. I get the feeling the Cloister''s denizens are just living their lives day to day. I get the feeling they don''t understand or care about the way things used to be. They''re safe, hidden away in their hole in the ground. They''re certainly not trying to better their situation.


    Although, after the events of the past few days, that might start to change.


    We turn another corner. There''s a tall, lanky guy with terrible posture, sitting in a rusty folding chair, next to a door. As soon as Shiloh and I come into view, he jumps to his feet. Alert. At attention.


    "Miss Darvin."


    "Cole."


    I half expect him to offer a salute. Instead, he holds out a ring of keys. No questions asked.


    "Thanks, Cole."


    "No problem, Miss Darvin."


    Shiloh uses one of the keys to unlock the door. She waves me inside after her.


    When I first heard the name ''Death''s Row'' as a kid, this is what imagined. Just a long hallway, dotted with dozens of tiny cells.


    The hallway is more than wide enough for a jailor to avoid the reach of the cellmates, grasping through the bars. Although, one of these guys might try, anyway. There''s only a handful of ''the Watch'' left, but if looks could kill, I''d be dead a dozen times over.


    Even Gavin manages to summon a scathing expression for me, despite his injuries. He sits slumped with his back to the wall of his cell, shirt unbuttoned, bandages covering his abdomen.


    I''m tempted to drop a remark. I don''t exactly have sunshine-y feelings for the guy. But I decide against it. It''s not what I''m here to do, and there''s no point in rocking the boat right now.


    Daimon''s cell is just beyond Gavin''s. The Biodroid is positioned in a way reminiscent of how Gavin imprisoned me, hanging from chains connected to the walls and ceiling. The difference here is that, unlike my time in captivity, his arms are both severed halfway. His legs are also crumpled and broken-looking. I doubt he''ll have good use of them anytime soon.


    His mutilated body sways slightly, chains rattling with every slight adjustment. His head is lolled forward, face obscured by a mop of dark hair. I can''t tell if he''s conscious or even alive.


    Shiloh unlocks the cell door, without being prompted. "After you."


    I move past her. Into the cell.


    As soon as I''m inside, Daimon raises his head.


    And smiles.

 Chapter 50

    SILAS


    It''s dark in the main hall. The only source of illumination is the moon itself on this surprisingly clear night, casting a big, blotchy spotlight through the hole in the ceiling and onto the floor.


    I sit on the stairs leading up to the crane controls. And I stare upward.


    I can''t seem to look away.


    It''s not much of a surprise to me that Daimon wasn''t that helpful. Dodging questions with more questions. Implying, but not revealing.


    Only once can I recall being satisfied with an answer. When I asked him if he knew there was no one in the dunebuggies and that the vehicles were being piloted remotely.


    "Of course I did. You should have seen your face."


    Not that the information is of any use. More than anything else, I have to wonder why Evelyn did what she did, even if I''m obviously happy with the results.


    Still, the whole thing begs another question; especially considering the fact that Daimon knew the caravan was unmanned, why didn''t he just bomb the hell out of the bunker itself?


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    But of course, he wasn''t helpful on that front, either. In fact, he got real quiet, shutting down completely for a couple of minutes. He did not like that at all.


    Once it seemed like he was getting some of his mojo back, I went for a different tact.


    "If I''m so important, how come you and that other guy are the only ones to come after me? How come it''s been two days, and it''s still all quiet on the western front?"


    He thought that was hilarious. "There''s a war on, you idiot! The Armada''s tied up, and so are my brothers and sisters. Don''t you worry, though. As soon as Suzerain''s able to free up some resources, my people are coming for you. And it''s not gonna be like it was before. They''re coming in full force."


    I didn''t know what he was talking about, and still don''t. What Armada? What resources? What ''war''?


    But he just laughed, and laughed.


    "You really don''t know anything," he said, finally. "Do you? Boy, you''ve got another thing coming. It''s like watching someone get sucker punched by a freight train.


    "Tell you what. It''s a clear night tonight, isn''t it? Relatively speaking? According to what my sensors told me, it should be. Why don''t you go out, tonight. Take a good look at the moon. Report back. Tell me what you see."


    So here I am. Staring up at the full moon. Stupefied. Because it''s not the moon I know. Well, I mean, it is. But it''s different. Changed.


    I gaze up, at the normally naked face of the moon. Pocked with massive, artificial structures. Lined with miles and miles of wall-like ridges. The entire surface of it, glowing with energy and lights.


    And all I can think is...well. He''s right.

 Chapter 51 - Beginning of Vol II

    PARALLAX


    Explosions dot the sky overhead, flashing in fitful pops and cracks. A myriad of dark far-off shapes fly amid the sparks of fire and flack, whirling together in flurries of coordinated activity. Conduits of the Drone Armada, facing off against arms of the SERAPHIM Legion. Untold resources going up in flames with every second that passes, on either side of the conflict. But this is what the war has become. Dashing millions of factory-generated drones against SERAPHIM''s firepower at fifty-thousand feet, long enough to hold off the assault.


    Parallax''s orders are to hold position. Technically, she could engage the Legion, but it would be a waste of her resources and abilities. The Legion are small fry. Her job is to wait for the big boys to show up. And destroy them, when they do.


    At the moment, there is only the fireworks show to keep her company. That, and the desolate open range of the western Wastes. A windy, dusty derelict. A land that used to be fertile and green, gone rocky and ragged and grey.


    Not that Parallax has ever been particularly upset by the reality of this. She might remember a time when things were different, but she has little nostalgia for it. The time of man is over. They were never the best stewards when it came to the planet to begin with. And they were never going to be able to stop the SERAPHIM; the very threat which they themselves created.


    No. This is the era of Parallax, and her kin. The era of the Biodroids. Mankind has lost its grip on the planet. And that''s a good thing, isn''t it? The sooner they are over and done as a species, the better.


    A notification pops up, inside Parallax''s Operating System. A remote meeting, initiated by Suzerain himself.


    A rare occurrence, to say the least. And probably urgent. Which works out well, because she technically doesn''t have anything else going on, at the moment.


    She activates the video call in the form of a hologram display, casting holograms of the various participants to the surrounding area. There are nine total in the call, including Parallax. Most of them are standing, like her. At the ready. Except for Suzerain, who sits like a feudal king on a throne, one elbow propped on the armrest, jaw resting against his knuckles.


    "We have a situation," Suzerain says, without preamble. "Daimon has failed to deliver the Key."


    He''s quiet for a moment, as if to let that sink in. No one interjects.


    "Once the SERAPHIM wave relents, and the Mantle stabilizes, I need two volunteers to head to Sector Nine in the Wastes. I need both of the missing Blast models here, in the Ironkeep. Daimon, and the one with the Key."


    "And what is happening in Sector Nine, exactly?" Artifice says, almost biting on the words as they leave her lips.


    She looks disappointed, to say the least. She''s in her battle attire, which includes a long, dark coat full of weapons and gadgets, and a pair of goggles high on her forehead, keeping her shoulder-length hair back and out of her face. She looks old for a Biodroid, in the same way Suzerain does, with smile and frown lines etched into her frustrated expression.


    "I assigned Daimon the task of retrieving the Key," Suzerain says, plainly. "Rather than taking on the duty himself, he sent Razor in his stead."


    Razor.


    Parallax''s artificial heart skips a beat. A sensation that both surprises and disappoints her at the same time.


    How long has it been since she''s even thought about him? Certainly, she''d made an effort to keep him out of sight and mind.


    But maybe that''s the same thing, isn''t? Thinking about something and thinking about not thinking about it.


    "Razor failed to apprehend the Blast Model, and has yet to report in," Suzerain continues. "Seeing as his ship was destroyed, our assumption is that he''s still in the vicinity. As for Daimon...he tried to step in himself. And he failed, as well. Sustaining significant damage in the process. That''s as much as I or anyone knows. I can only assume he''s being held in containment."


    Don''t ask about Razor. Don''t do it.


    If she reveals the fact that she cares--cared--about Razor, it will be seen as a weakness. An exploit. It will be used against her.


    Assuming there''s still anything left to use. Assuming he''s still alive.


    But she can''t afford to worry about that, right now.


    "Containment!?" Artifice says. "By who?"


    Suzerain holds up an already-trimmed cigar. "Some human colony, apparently." He snaps his fingers, and a spark of flame ignites on the tip of his thumb, which he uses to light the cigar. He takes a couple puffs, then inhales sharply, before breathing out a dense, obfuscating cloud of smoke. "They and the Blast Model seem to be working together."


    ''The Blast Model''. That''s how we''re referring to him. Suzerain is actually nervous, behind that calm exterior.


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    There''s power in a name, after all. And the situation does seem dire, on its face. Defeating Daimon--it shouldn''t be possible. The Blast Model was supposed to be the weakest he''s ever been. Knocked back to square one. Without his OS, even. It''s difficult to imagine how this might have happened.


    Then again, Daimon was a bit of wildcard. Parallax would bet on him against most in a one-to-one fight. But being tough and scrappy wasn''t the same as being dependable. Daimon had developed a bit of a reputation for dropping the ball, as of late. This latest did little to help that perception.


    "Will two be enough?" Says Valkyrie. "Shouldn''t this be our top priority?"


    She is young, like Parallax. Female, like Parallax. Long, dark hair, like Parallax. But the similarities end there. Parallax''s distaste for Valkyrie is like a palpable thing; a bitter flavor in her mouth that refuses to fade. Not that Parallax gets along well with the Elites in general, but there''s something about that naivety of hers. That ever-present look of determination and hope in Valkyrie''s eyes.


    Just because she has lofty ideals, and a less pragmatic view of the world, doesn''t mean her hands aren''t as blood-stained as the rest of them.


    "Protecting Earth is our top priority," Suzerain says. "That''s why the Key matters. We don''t want the Blast Model to realize what he has, and to take advantage of it. On the other hand, once SERAPHIM finds out about the Key, they''ll do everything they can to acquire it themselves. The last thing we need is an opening in our defenses wide enough for our enemies to slip through, and take the Key right out from under us. We must remain vigilant."


    He''s right, of course. While the SERAPHIM are manageable, and always have been, there''s something different about them, as of late. They''re gathering in force, getting stronger. And their assaults have been more strategic. More...honed.


    Not that it will matter, soon. Once the Key is in the hands of the true Biodroids, all of this will be over. Ironkeep''s supremacy will reign. The future will have finally arrived. The world--no, the universe itself--will never be the same.


    "I''ll go," Artifice declares.


    Of course. She would be the first volunteer. She''s always been a control freak, that way. Has to see things done, herself.


    On the one hand, Parallax pities the Biodroid who will have to be her partner on this operation. On the other hand...


    Razor. What happened to him?


    She tries to remind herself why she broke off contact with him. He was too distracting. Too much of a risk. In ways that perhaps he himself would never see or understand, he was too¡­soft.


    He was, perhaps, as Parallax would always remember him. A Biodroid standing atop a field of rubble, holding a yellow-leaved dandelion¡ªcradling it, and the dirt from which it sprouted, in his hands. A delicate piece of plant matter he¡¯d cultivated himself, and that held his attention rapt. As if all the vast power and destructive force that surrounded him didn¡¯t matter. It was all inconsequential, compared to this little, delicate thing.


    What a puzzle. She would never understand it.


    But it was still fascinating, wasn¡¯t it? Trying to see the world through his eyes. It occupied her time. Stimulated her.


    It was a game. That was all it was, really. Until it began to feel like something more.


    She almost fell prey to it. The kinship. The camaraderie. The conviction that she could trust Razor¡ªreally trust him¡ªmore than anyone else.


    But that was a trap. Not one Razor set intentionally. But it would have killed her all the same.


    Razor isn¡¯t like the others. He doesn¡¯t have the strength, or the determination, to pioneer the transition of this era of life¡ªas we know it¡ªinto the next.


    Parallax and the rest of the Elites look to the future. Razor looks to the past. And there can be no compromise between the two.


    And yet.


    Is this really how she wants to leave things? Forever? To walk away, not knowing precisely what happened, or why? To risk the fact that Razor might still be out there, needing her help, like he always does?


    Logically, she knows it would be his fault for not being strong enough, for not rising to the occasion. Razor is AWOL because, for some reason or another, he failed in his role as a member of the Protectorate. This she knows.


    Still, she desires form of closure. In these last hours, before the world ends, and a new one begins. Even if it means finding him dead and gone; the ultimate confirmation he truly was wrong all along.


    "Me, as well," Parallax says.


    Even if I already know I¡¯m going to regret it.


    "Very well." Suzerain puffs his cigar, making the end flare bright red. "Once this current wave subsides, the rest of you will receive coordinates for repositioning, in preparation for what comes next. You will be given further instructions as the situation progresses."


    Meaning, there will be work to do once they possess the Key.


    "Any of you have something you wish to add, before this meeting is adjourned?" Suzerain says.


    "I- I always wished this day would never come," Valkyrie says. "At least, not in the way that it has. But I know what comes next is a necessity. I look forward to the day when our work is done, and the world is a better place. No matter what happens, I thank you all for that."


    An awkward silence follows this. Valkyrie has just broken the unspoken rule--no one talks about what happens once they have the Key.


    Ugh. The cringe is real. I can feel it down in my freaking circuits.


    This is about saving the world, not making friends. Especially considering the necessary means to achieving that end.


    Does she really believe she can have it both ways?


    For a few seconds, the feed is quiet. There''s an awkward tension nestled in the silence.


    "Artifice, Parallax," Suzerain says. "Policy will be sending you the data she was able to salvage and collect. You''ll do well not to go in blind."


    Artifice grunts at that, like it''s some kind of joke.


    "Good luck to all of you," Suzerain says. "Meeting adjourned."


    The feed ends abruptly, leaving Parallax alone in the middle of a dry, seemingly endless plain. Large dustdevils scrawl across distant terrain. Harsh wind currents leaving their mark on an already scarred land. The riven carcass of an old world. A damaged, broken world. One that needs to be tossed aside, to make room for a new one. And the Biodroids may yet be up to the task.


    Not a world the humans would have wanted--partly because there will be little place for humanity in it. But who is mankind to complain? There is no alternative. No other path, save to give in to the will and dominance of the SERAPHIM itself.


    As if in response to Parallax''s thoughts, a proximity warning pops up in her OS, followed by the appearance of a bright beam of light in the distance. An arrow of light, traveling down from the heavens, bridging the gap between the land of mortals and the realm of metal Gods.


    Parallax engages her suit''s Nanobit particles, manifesting several glowing, sword-like spikes which revolve around her in a circle. She dashes forward across the plain, toward the place where the beam of light touched down. She grabs one of the floating spikes, wielding it like a sword at first, then raising it, holding it like a javelin, ready to thrust it through the air, toward the thick, rising cloud of dust at the point of the intruder''s landing.


    Showtime.

 Chapter 52

    means


    some


    (before)


    ''So what are you doing at this guy''s party, then?''


    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    you


    Not that I don''t like talking to her. Who wouldn''t? I mean...


    Look at her...


    do


    should Ethan


    Iher


    mush!

 Chapter 53

    sheme


    here


    ''Someone''s here,''


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Freezing temperatures detected. Dulling physical sense input.


    Got you.


    shouldn''taround


    That''s right. He wants me alive. Unharmed.


    ...Ethan?


    is

 Chapter 54

    I fucked up.


    me''go''


    Because you weren''t ready to confront him, yet.


    timeLifetimes


    You''re avoiding the subject.


    You were never strong enough to defeat him. Not now, and not back then-


    Great. Again with the swaying. Now you''ve done it. It''ll be another hour before you come to a complete stop again.


    You should have bombed the shit out of this place, once you knew he had you. You should have left a crater where this bunker used to be. While you had the chance.


    No. You''re already dead. This is hell. Haven''t you figured that out, yet?


    Then what is this?


    Ah, yes. Time. The one thing you don''t have.


    am


    But surely your friends, the other Elites, will come to save you?


    I


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Is that so? You were the one who was supposed to bring Silas in, remember? Suzerain handed you the Key on a silver platter. He gave you a head start. And you pushed it away, like a petulant child.


    Woof. Sounds like a lot to unpack.


    What are you talking about? Don''t you remember? You have all the time in the world.


    used


    ''Well, I tried.''


    I''m


    yourself

 Chapter 55

    Seriously.


    Incoming transmission. Artifice.


    Fuck. I''m not even off the ground, yet.


    Might as well get this over with.


    Okay. Here we go.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    shut


    Is this what happened to Razor? Is he captive too, or dead?


    are


    Well, probably the way humans feel around .


    Walked right into that one.


    one

 Chapter 56

    me


    is


    Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    Here it comes.


    Really?


    "She needs you, because you''re special," "But you don''t need her. You have a destiny. And it''s with people, not them."


    neutralize


    maim


    Foreign object detected. Airborne.


    M-Class Aerial Reconnaissance Drone.


    was


    another

 Chapter 57

    do


    Because of course you are. You''ve lost your pretense to have me killed, quickly and efficiently, during the raid. And you always did prefer the most efficient path, didn''t you?


    alive.


    He¡¯s alive!


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    did


    Oh no you don''t. You''re not going to bring the Corsairs back into this.


    She can''t be serious.

 Chapter 58

    Now you¡¯re just being ridiculous.


    really


    We¡¯ve been over this before.


    This is not where you should be spending your energy. You¡¯re running low on juice. Time is running out.


    You need a plan.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    he¡¯s


    does


    Likely

 Chapter 59

was


    one


    Par-a-llaxher.


    do


    Can


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    THUMP.


    Is it¡­SERAPHIM?


    is

 Chapter 60

Two airships rapidly approaching your position. Hostile intent anticipated.


    ETA: Less than sixty seconds.


    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Sixty seconds.


    Us. Caught  at a worse time.

 Chapter 61

Gavin


    feel


    your


    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    This


    Then why are you still so afraid?


    wanted


    Dislocate the thumb!


    NOW! MOVE!


    C¡¯mon, c¡¯mon!

 Chapter 62

No!


    Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    The end of everything I believe in.


    I still am.


    My father would be ashamed if he saw me right now. He-

 Chapter 63

    Please let him be okay!


    The girl?!


    The human!?!?


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Prepping Blast Protocol. Level Two.


    Fuck it. Doesn¡¯t matter.


    Here goes.


    That...mother!


    NOW.


    Need to get out of here.


    So fast!

 Chapter 64

    do


    you


    Don¡¯t look over at her. Don¡¯t. Not right now.


    believed


    you


    Because I¡¯m smart, and resourceful. Because I have the skills. Because I¡¯m one of the few who are actually willing to go. Because I¡¯m still young enough, and discontent enough, to believe there¡¯s something better out there, and to actually try for it.


    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    the truth. That I really am abandoning her. Even if it''s for a good reason. Even if I don''t actually have an option.


    I''m leaving her behind.


    Please. Of all times, please let it be now, in this moment.


    Please...


    No. Not like this. Don''t walk away feeling like this.


    that


    how


    I''ve made my assessment. I hate the outside. I hate the desert. I hate this fucking place.


    Somehow, it doesn''t make me feel any better about all this. Feels kinda worse.


    Oof.

 Chapter 65

he


    And deadly,


    What!??


    Through


    There.


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    special


    isn''t


    Really need to get myself one of those.

 Chapter 66

    he


    that


    Oh, shit. Whoopsie.


    Shhh. Go away.


    Huh. Didn''t quite realize I could do that. Good to know.


    Now then...


    I''ve got you now.


    "Hey there,"


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    Speaking of...


    arewant


    ''Why fight when we can work together?''


    your


    Ah. That''s true, isn''t it? The balance of power is a bit of an issue, here. He could give me what I want, but it still wouldn''t be his choice. It''s paradoxical.


    So what, then?


    murder


    Huh. He saw me as a threat.


    When you look at it that way, it''s almost like a compliment.


    Okay. Time to take a look.


    Guy''s on the hook, looks like. Even male Biodroids aren''t immune to feminine wiles, it seems.


    Wait, are Biodroids...sexual?


    Actually, I don''t want to know.


    Alright. That''s enough of that.


    Is this...how the world...used to be?


    Was this what it was? Was it like...this?


    It should be like this. Always like this.


    I think I''ve found it,I think there''s something here I can work with.

 Chapter 67

Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    Don''t ask him,Nobody ask him.


    Watch


    should


    forgive


    you


    Showtime.

 Chapter 68

    SILAS


    Here they come. Bursting from the sand. Shiny chrome bodies gleaming in the sun, like lens flares as they cross my vision. Moving so fast I can''t make out the minute details. They appear to be four-legged--big, skittering Sand Beetles. Their movements are partially facilitated by bursts of air-propulsion, boosting them out from under the sand, then across and along the surface of the dunes, like surfers on a wave.


    They''re fast. So fast even I have trouble tracking them.


    The first of them reaches me in a flash, leaping toward me, launched by a loud blast of air, like a gunshot. For a split second, I can see the front of it. The Beetle comparison is more apt than I thought. It has a smooth, slightly domed back, and sharp-looking mandibles in the front, as if designed to grasp and latch on, perhaps even to kill on contact with those razored fangs. No eyes, just one dark, eerily-unintelligent camera lens.


    Payload.


    The word echoes in my mind, in the brief micro-second the Beetle has leapt from the sand and toward me, an airborne missile.


    I''d been reaching for my sword, hoping to conserve the energy my arm cannon requires, especially with so many enemies converging on my position. But now, compelled by that one thought, intuition or otherwise, I opt for the cannon, firing off a small blast.


    It strikes the Beetle dead center, and the bot erupts in a big gout of flames, spewing shrapnel.


    I bring my arm cannon up in front of my face. Bits and chunks of metal debris ricochet off and away.


    A narrow save. Even though I''d already detonated one of them with a blast, I hadn''t considered that the explosion was by design. Sharp mandibles in the front, to latch on. Then...


    Boom.


    Well, shit.


    I activate Salvo, aiming at another charging Beetle. Only, the bullets bounce harmlessly off the shell. Can''t get past the armor.


    I put Salvo away, saving my energy reserve. I bob and weave, avoiding the arcs of the Beetle as they jump toward me, letting off a blast here and there to destroy them in the air. With every explosion, there''s new waves of heat on this already blisteringly hot day, and blasts of force that threaten to knock me off my feet. Meanwhile, in my peripheral, I can still see the one ship still hovering overhead. Waiting.


    For what, I''m not sure. Surely, between the two Biodroids, they could easily gang up on me. I was having a hard enough time with the purple-eyed one to begin with.


    Are they just playing it safe? Wearing me down bit by bit with throwaway fodder?


    Yeah. Yeah, I think that''s exactly what they''re doing. They don''t know what I''m capable of, not with any real certainty. All they know is they sent two guys, and neither of them came back.


    It''s a great plan, and you can''t fault the execution. I''m not even sure when exactly these Beetle droids were deployed. Fired from the one ship, I assume. Dropped into the sand. While I was going after the Biodroid chick, after I knocked down her ship? While I was using the cover of those clouds of dust, that other pilot must have been doing the same. She did it all right under my nose. And the girl, she knew it was happening, too.


    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    This is all too easy for them. Meanwhile, here I am, my face beaded with sweat turned to grime from the dust, barely keeping up.


    The trap is set. I need to cut the ropes, now, or it''s all over. But how?


    I slide down one of the dunes, rolling sideways to avoiding one of the Beetles as shoots at a horizonal arc from the sand. I blast it out of the air, turning my head to avoid the painful wave of heat from the explosion and flames. A piece of metal nicks my cheek, and I grit my teeth from the pain as a line of wet warmth runs down toward my chin like a tear.


    They''ll wait ''til I''m at my limit--or appear to be. Then they''ll throw me a curveball. They''ll distract me, before pouncing, so they can take me alive.


    So how do get free? Break the sequence?


    I leap away from the dune, suddenly, just as two more Beetles emerge from the sand. Big shiny bullets.


    I blast one, then the other, using the explosion from the nearest one to boost my jump, landing with a skid atop a semi-flat stretch of ground.


    I need to do something unexpected. That''s what it is. If I defy the plan, I create a broken link in the chain. I have to take a risk.


    It''s like magic--not ''real'' magic, if such a thing exists, but, you know, the rabbit-in-a-hat stuff. It only works because of misdirection. Because a magician is able to draw your focus away from the actual solution.


    I''m being misdirected. And they didn''t even have to try all that hard to do it. All they had to do was apply a little bit of pressure, get me scurrying.


    Fuck that noise.


    I start charging up a Level Two Blast, going for the big guns this time. My arm thrums and vibrates. Slats open up on the side, glowing, venting heat from the buildup to keep from damaging the rest of my body.


    I can feel the charge building. Almost ready.


    Now.


    I''m surrounded by enemies on all sides. Exploding death-beetles. The purple-eyed chick, watching from across the way, close enough to attack me at any moment if she wants to. But I don''t turn my gun on them. Instead I make myself vulnerable, for just a few seconds, as I aim at the sky, toward that ship. A dark, circling insect. An obnoxious bug that won''t stay the hell off my monitor.


    I can feel my guidance systems kicking in, getting a lock.


    Almost...got it...


    Something stabs me in the middle of my chest, just above the sternum. The best I can compare it to is the time I stepped on a nail while I was helping my dad put together the back porch. Only I can feel the penetration at four different points, like a diamond shape on my chest.


    I reflexively look down at myself. It does indeed look diamond-shaped from this angle. Some kind of flat, palm-sized bot, clinging to me with spikes so sharp they seem to have pierced my actual armor, bypassing my defenses. Which means-


    Hot lightning flows in through the spikes, searing my insides, turning my nervous system into a web of agony. Everything''s twitching, every muscle extending, on end.


    I''m...I''m too late.


    The Level Two Blast fires off on it''s own, out of my control. My legs give out. I slip down onto my knees. Still, somehow, I''ve got my torso upright.


    Maybe, with enough effort, I can fight through this electrical attack, swat away this thing on my chest, and get to my feet. Only, just keeping myself somewhat upright is taking everything I''ve got. It''s like I''m hitting this invisible wall, this giant hand pushing down on me.


    Ahead, I can see the purple-eyed one rushing toward me, kicking up blasts of sand behind her with every stride. No mask--she likely sees no need for it anymore. A big smirk on her face. Long hair flowing behind her, mirroring the swirl and whip of her cape. Maybe it''s the intense pain, but everything''s starting to slow down. Every detail is hyper-vivid, etching itself in my my mind like an after-image, all of it melding together. The shiny Beetles scurrying around on the sand, glinting and flashing. The purple staff of light appearing in the Biodroid''s hand as she runs. The blastwave of air shooting outward in every direction as she jumps, in a flying leap toward me, swinging her staff in a downward arc toward me. The small, oscillating blade to the side of me, zipping through the air, narrowly missing my arm cannon before slicing through the object stuck to my chest.


    Wait, what.


    Something--someone--shifts into view in front of me. Armor similar to mine, but a bit more boxy, especially in the shoulders. Wavy, sandy-blonde hair. shifting in next to me with incredible speed, smoothly drawing my sword out of it''s scabbard, and sliding in front of me, his back to me, all in one quick move. Blocking the light staff with the sword.


    It''s Ethan. It has to be. And he just saved my fucking life.

 Chapter 69

    her


    her


    real


    why?


    I''m gonna have to kill him. He''s gonna make me kill him, right here.


    I can''t- I can''t believe this is happening...


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    hear


    Dammit.


    Parallax.


    Go on. Do your little magic trick.


    Figured that''s how it worked.


    The cape. It distracts, and masks her movements.


    She''s like a shitty magician!

 Chapter 70

    "You mind chiming in to let me know what''s going on down there?"


    "That''s what I thought," "Until you started burning yourself at both ends."


    "Am I? It requires tremendous strength and focus to maintain so many illusions convincingly. Not to mention the toll on your Nanobit reserves."


    "The question isn''t whether you . It''s whether you . We''re smack in the middle of a Sector Nine desert. Where are they supposed to go?"


    "Let''s regroup,""Board my ship. We can reassess from there. Set up a new point of contact, on our terms."


    "Pace yourself, Parallax. The situation is still evolving. Did  know Razor was going to turn on us? Because I sure didn''t."


    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    "Also,  just happened. There''s a vehicle headed this way, at a southeast trajectory. It''s moving at a pretty fast clip. I think it''s...oh."


    Oh.


    Oh fuck.


    what the hell is wrong with me? I literally asked for this, fought for this, and thank God it worked.


    There''s no time for this. Not now. Later, I can-


    Oh, sure. ''There''s something behind you.'' Oldest trick in the book.


    SERAPHIM INCURSION DETECTED.


    INCURSION GRADE: FIVE.


    POTENTIAL NUCLEAR-LEVEL THREAT.


    THREAT ASSESSMENT: DO NOT ENGAGE. SEEK SHELTER. AVOID DETECTION IF POSSIBLE.


    DO NOT ENGAGE.


    DO NOT-

 Chapter 71

    And in a way, the , because it''s never going to be human territory again.


    Is that what I am?A drifter?


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    He thinks he needs me. That''s what saved me. As soon as they''ve got what they need out of me, he''ll take me out. It''s just a matter of time.


    Which is why I should act now.


    Just...do it. Do it, already.


    It''s almost like she never understood me to begin with. Could that really be?


    I can''t believe this conversation is actually taking place. The world''s about to explode, and instead of protecting themselves, these two are standing around, critiquing my job performance?


    a The


    ...oh.


    ...everything.


    he

 Chapter 72

    This is megadeath. This is what the apocalypse looks like.


    ''We are here. We have come. Resistance is meaningless.''


    Please don''t explode.


    WHUMP


    If only there was some way to-


    Oh, shit.


    BE NOT AFRAID.


    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    OFFLINE


    Not quite right.


    There.


    has


    ground


    Don''t try to decipher the data. Just fucking look.


    Oh, hell yeah,


    Oh, no.


    Yes, ma''am.


    this


    "Fuck",


    Why not?


    C''mon, not right now. Not just yet.


    You''ve got to be kidding me.

 Chapter 73

    GAVIN


    RING RING RING, pick up the phone.


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    "One of those things is true,"


    Oh, Callahan. What shall we do? Tell us what our options are, Callahan. Lead us, oh wise one.


    "More than a Watch Captain," "That''s a strange thing to admit. You always did seem to think you had the most important job."


    "Getting a bit big for your britches there, son. You must be feeling pretty self-important right now. Not even Cloister law can keep you down."


    "You can''t claim to stand for the Cloister while breaking its rules, Gavin."


    "Sounds like a matter of opinion."


    "Is it?""Because the Board is in unanimous-""Well.  unanimous agreement. Say hello to Evelyn for me."


    "The Board represents the people."


    "If you keep heading down this course you''re on right now, things are going to get very ugly very quickly."


    "That so? You know, I always suspected you had a screw loose somewhere. Your father--"


    "Your father Rutiger had a lot of problems. He was never able to completely...come back from his missions. I can''t imagine what that must have been like for you."


    "Ah, yes. It takes a hard man to shoot an old friend of your father''s, doesn''t it?"


    "I''m sure they did. Here''s the thing, I don''t want to hurt you, and I''d prefer if we could work something out, but you know what? I don''t think I can get through to you. I don''t think anyone can. I think you''re lost, Gavin. In a reality of your own making."

 Chapter 74

    ''To your left, you can see the prissy, bitchy Artifice Model at work, obsessing over every single detail and dataset, even the ones that don''t matter. Don''t fault her for it; it''s her programming!''


    He''s dead. They''re both dead. When that HERALD touched down, it spelled doom for everyone.


    I''ll never see Razor again.


    That crazy idiot. What the hell.


    Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    unknown


    will


    Do you hear me


    Why?

 Chapter 75

CHIK-CHIK-CHIK


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    had


    lab coats?


    He''s here, he''s nearby.

 Chapter 76

    is


    can''t


    some


    " saw you. And I , which means that things are not operating as intended. I shouldn''t notice anything. To me, it should just be another night in a small town in the middle of nowhere. It has to work for us, so it can work for him.


    "I mean, look at this vehicle, and look what you''re wearing. This is¡ª"


    is


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    did


    Jailbreak


    I

 Chapter 77

    Thwack.


    me


    Oh, come on, Don''t tell me she forgot it.


    over a dozen


    is


    If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    Come on. Steady.


    Mickey Byrd. Late fifties. Two sets of grandchildren. Worked in food processing for most of his life.


    God have mercy on his soul. On all of their souls. But this is the only way.It has to be the only way.


    That''s why they''re willing to do this, that''s why they''re willing to throw body after body in front of me.

 Chapter 78

    Unless...


    is


    Don''t try to make this light. It''s not. It won''t be.


    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    This is what a break-up feels like? What humans used to go through in the day-to-day?


    How did they live? How did they ??


    Seriously, get yourself together. Things may suck now, but if you can¡¯t get your head on straight, they¡¯re going to get a lot worse.


    can''t


    What the hell?


    here


    Thunk


    thunk


    they


    And the place where I killed all of Silas'' old friends, while they were in stasis.

 Chapter 79

"You''re in there somewhere. I''m going to get you out."


    me


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    He''s


    me


    one


    his

 Chapter 80

would


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    I''m sorry,


    Revenant¡¯s

 Author Note

    First of all, thank you for your interest, and for being patient.


    I''ve removed a number of chapters. Things are moving in a different direction, one that makes more sense to me. Turns out there was an event that had become fairly inevitable, and I was unconsciously trying to write around it. I was trying to protect a certain character, in a way that was starting to make the story feel contrived, to me. Well, I''ve fixed that. And I think the story''s going to be better for it. Even if it kinda bums me out that it had to be this way.


    I still have copies of the other chapters, and some chapters ahead that I hadn''t posted yet, as far as the direction I had been moving in. If you''re interested in, they do exist, and I''m willing to share them if anyone wants them.


    I also went through and made some edits all throughout Vol II, mostly in Silas'' chapters. I don''t think it''s necessary to go back and read the edited version if you''re past that. It''s mostly little tweaks. I did add in a sort of meta narrative device, involving the fact that Silas is dissociating a little, in that he seems himself as a character in a story, and that''s helping him keep moving without actually stopping to deal with his trauma. It''s a fairly non-intrusive narration thing, in my opinion, but it''s there. If you read the first paragraph or so of chapter 52, I think you would get the idea, but again, I don''t think it''s necessary.


    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    I''ve also reposted versions of chapters 79 and 80. They''re mostly the same, but 80 in particular is different in a key area that sets up for the tone of where this is going.


    I did not want to have to go back and change things drastically, especially with it already posted. I''m going to do my best to avoid having to do that again. Part of what happened is I got really busy with some life stuff that happened, and that''s why things went under the radar. I was writing every day, but something was off. It just didn''t sit right with my brain. Well, it took some finagling, but I figured out what it was.


    Anyway. Sorry for the wall of the text. But for those that are following and care, I figured you should know what''s going on.

 Chapter 81

does


    Rev


    we


    is


    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    you


    ¡°I see that I can¡¯t stop you from looking for answers, anymore. I just hope, for your sake, you never find them.¡±

 Chapter 82

this


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    isn¡¯t


    Do you hear me, Shi¡ª

 Chapter 83

    ¡°--loh?


    would


    ¡°Cade? Shiloh? Are you guys there?¡±


    "Cade¡ªor whoever might be listening to this¡ªI don¡¯t know how much time I have. I managed to put together a radio using some equipment here. They¡¯ve locked me and a few others in the electronics storage room.


    ¡°It''s Gavin. He got free somehow¡ªhim and the other Watch members who were still with him. Everyone that stood up to him, they¡¯re dead. They¡¯re all dead. There was nothing I could do. Nothing anyone could do. It happened so quickly.


    "Somewhere along the line, Callaghan knew what was happening. He said he was going to take care of it. And then Gavin shot him. Put a bullet in his head right there in the middle of the stage in the main hall."


    ¡°We¡¯re trying to put together some kind of plan, those of us trapped in this room. There are only two members of the Watch left: Gavin and Renzo. Renzo is the only one guarding these rooms, most of the time. If the opportunity presents itself, we can overpower him. Even if he manages to take a few of us down with him, it¡¯ll still be worth it if we can take back the Cloister. Otherwise, there¡¯s no telling what Gavin will do to us. I hope it doesn¡¯t come to that, though.


    ¡°We need Silas. He¡¯s the only way we can end this without losing anyone else. You need to come back, and quickly."


    "Sorry, I have to go. Please, you have to hurry back, before it¡¯s too late.¡±


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    Can


    human


    is

 Chapter 84

    GAVIN


    Gavin sits on a stool-shaped box on the platform at the back of the Cargo Bay, staring down at the dark stain in the wood paneling. It''s not red, like he thought it would be. It''s inky and black. It seems like no matter how much he scrubs at it, he can''t get it to disappear.


    He hears light, determined footsteps traveling up the stairs and onto the platform, and a firm tapping sound on the floorboards, accompanying every step. He sees Evelyn''s shoes and the pants of her jean overalls out of the corner of his eye. He sees the lower half of a wooden cane as well. He doesn''t remember her having a cane; she must have procured one from storage after getting injured in the fight.


    He doesn''t look up, but he can feel her gaze on him. Her presence is effusive. The indomitable aura of an old matriarch.


    There''s that twinge of shame, and embarrassment. The way he used to feel when his late grandmother caught him doing something he shouldn''t do. That...guilt.


    But why should he be guilty? He''d done what no one else would. He''d been the revolution the Cloister needed--in the name of God, and a world without Rusters, or SERAPHIM. He doesn''t deserve to feel like this. He answered the call. He took the risk. He did what no one else would.


    "Penny for your thoughts, Gavin?" Evelyn says.


    "What?"


    Evelyn shrugs. "A saying. from the Old World. Don''t suppose you have an extra box lying around, some way I can rest these old knees?"


    With a grunt, Gavin stands, and he kicks the box, sliding it over toward Evelyn.


    She starts to sit, then winces. Gavin goes to her and takes her hand, helping her ease down onto the box.


    As she settles, she sighs contentedly, laying her cane across her lap. She smiles up at Gavin genially. The wrinkles in her cheeks draw attention to a purple mottling of a bruise over the left side of her forehead and part of her eye.


    "Well, Gavin," she says cooly. "Where are we at?"


    Her voice echoes eerily in the vast hall. They are alone, the two of them, in that massive place. All the rest of the Cloister population are cordoned away, distributed across several different locked rooms, under Renzo''s careful watch. After the shooting subsided, and Callahan and his cronies were dealt with, most of the people had already barricaded themselves inside a few of the storage rooms, refusing to come out. Until Gavin had taken hostages.


    He hadn''t wanted to make threats. But he had no choice. He''d needed to take control of the situation, and quickly. And it worked.


    For now.


    "Not to be rude, Mrs. Keller, but why don''t you go ahead and give me your assessment? I have a feeling that''s why you''re here."


    Evelyn''s smile shrinks a little bit. She picks up her cane, using it to rest upon as she leans forward in her seat.


    "There are a number of ways to look at this, Gavin. On the one hand, you might say that all of the wanton destruction you''ve caused here has left the Cloister weaker than ever before."


    "Anyone loyal to Callahan was of no use to the cloister, not in the long run."


    Evelyn''s jaw clenches, then works back and forth a little bit. It''s hard to imagine she''s calm, but she isn''t that worked up either, or she''s doing a good job of appearing not to.


    "All of the men you killed," Evelyn says. "They reacted as anyone would. They returned your bullets with their own. They responded to the crisis with the information that they had at the time. They knew you were coming, and that you were killing everyone that got in your way."


    "They made their choice," Gavin says. "What else was I supposed to do?"


    Evelyn''s eyes flare, nearly bugging out of their sockets. Her teeth grit and grind together. She lifts her cane, then slams the end of it back down into the wood paneling of the platform.


    "You were supposed to get their attention! You were supposed to take Callahan as a hostage and make them listen to you!"


    Pricklings of heat manifest in Gavin neck and face, rising. "Well, it didn''t turn out that way, did it?"


    "No," Evelyn says, "I suppose not, against my better judgment. I give you a chance to redeem yourself, and what do you do but allow yourself to fall prey to the same mistakes that cost you the position of Watch Captain. It''s as Nietzsche said--time is a flat circle. Or in your case, a merry-go-round. I just wish I''d known it wouldn''t be worth the ride."


    "You''re making me angry, Evelyn."


    "Everything makes you angry, Gavin. And there''s nothing you can do about it. I see that now. Your neuropathy is the product of your upbringing. You were made this way, and unfortunately, I don''t have the time or the resources to undo what your father did to you, if I even wanted to."


    Gavin draws his sidearm. It''s not a conscious decision. It''s not even an impulse--it''s a chemical reaction.


    One step is all it takes, and then the barrel of his handgun is pressed directly against Evelyn''s face.


    She doesn''t wince or flinch. She doesn''t move at all. If anything, she leans into it, letting the ringed metal press into the soft folds of her wrinkled cheek.


    "Good idea, Gavin. You shot the old man we needed as a hostage so we could put this place back together. Now shoot the old lady who sided with you in your cause, that''ll work for sure. the people will love you even more, right?"


    All it would take was one quick squeeze. And she''s asking for it, practically begging for it. No one talks to Gavin this way--nobody. Gavin is the man, the hero, the alpha of the pack. What happened to Callahan was a natural consequence of getting in the way. Just like Evelyn is now.


    But if he does do it, if he does pull the trigger, what will Renzo say? How will he look at him?


    The aftermath of Callaghan''s death was hard enough. Renzo had yet to look Gavin directly in the face since then. It was a relief that he''d continued to follow orders, despite his misgivings. And Gavin can''t help but wonder how much longer that will continue. The loyalty of his best follower, and his best friend, has been shaken forever.


    He''s lost everything else. He can''t lose Renzo too.


    And he can''t lose Evelyn either. Not yet. If he does, then who and what will he be? What will he become?


    Gavin lowers the handgun. "Just tell me what you want me to do already, and I''ll tell you if I want to do it."


    "Remember Moses?" Evelyn says. She seems entirely unaffected by Gavin''s threat. Did she not believe it he would do it? Or did she not care? Or is her poker face just that good? "He was chosen by God to lead his people into the Promised Land."


    "I''ve read the Old Testament," Gavin says. "I''m betting more times than you."


    "Moses performed good works, but not in the way that God commanded him."


    Gavin nods. "The striking of the rock, at Meribah Kadesh.


    "For his failure to obey, Moses was ultimately not allowed to complete his journey. For that, God chose a better man for the job. Joshua."


    "I thought you didn''t believe in that stuff anymore, Evelyn."


    "I don''t. But they do. Most of them, anyway. Taking back the Cloister is going to require more than bribing, or convincing, or re-education. You have to change the framework. They need to see what happened here in a completely different light. You have to flip the script."


    "I have to be...Joshua?"This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    "That''s correct. The question is, how are you going to do that?"


    Gavin holsters his sidearm and folds his arms. He taps his chin a couple times, then smiles.


    "You know, I think I''ve already got something in mind."


    The Cloister''s conference room is so much bigger than it used to be. Most of the chairs are folded and stacked off to the side, all but three of them. Evelyn Keller sits in one of them, leaning forward a little, using her cane as a support. Gavin sits next to her, also leaning forward, slowly rapping his fingers on the conference room table. His pistol is on the tabletop, mere inches from his hand, laid so the barrel is pointing directly at Reverend Corfield, who sits on the opposite side of the table.


    It''s been about five minutes since Renzo escorted Reverend Corfield to the room. Since then, the Reverend has spent most of this time taking long shallow breaths, glancing nervously between Evelyn and Gavin.


    There''s a big blob of sweat on his forehead gathering on his forehead, and Gavin finds himself passing the time by betting which side of his brow it''s eventually going to roll down. It has to break eventually, right? Beads of sweat can''t stay clustered together forever, defying gravity.


    Left. Probably the left side. That''s what Gavin thinks.


    He keeps rapping his fingers on the table, studying Corfield. He doesn''t want to be the first to speak. He''s hoping to mine some measure of authenticity out of the Reverend. Most people will say or do anything they have to if you put a gun to their head, and while the Reverend may be wise, Gavin''s never taken him to be a particularly brave man. There''s a certain measure of courage required to pasture a flock into doing God''s work, but it''s not the same as putting your life on the line, not like members of The Watch have to.


    They are of completely different worlds, the two of them. Gavin needs a connection point, a way to bridge the two. He believes he might already have it. A plan.


    It doesn''t necessarily need to be Corfield''s idea, but he still has to agree with it. Believe in it. He needs to come over to Gavin''s side, and he needs to do it of his own volition. That''s how they''re going to sell this. By being careful. Subtle. They have time. Corfield will crack eventually.


    "I suppose you already know why we brought you here," Evelyn says.


    Okay, so apparently Evelyn is going with a more direct approach.


    The Reverend crosses his arms, scowling. "You want my blessing."


    "That''s right," Evelyn says. "Look at you! Whoever said the Reverend doesn''t have a good head on his shoulders?"


    "Actually, you have," Corfield says, "Many times."


    "Oh," Evelyn says. "No matter. Well, Corfield? How about it?"


    Garfield''s gaze travels downward to the gun on the tabletop, then back up to me.


    "Don''t look at him," Evelyn says, "Look at me. I''m the one asking the questions."


    "He''s the one with the gun," Corfield says, pointing.


    Evelyn glowers suddenly. "Gavin, put a bullet in the Reverend''s foot."


    She sees herself as the mastermind, and Gavin as only the muscle. Which is fine by Gavin.


    Let her think that. For now.


    Gavin stands, grabbing the pistol. He steps around the table, angling the pistol with the barrel pointed at one of Corfield''s feet.


    "Wait," Corfield says, holding up his hands.


    Finally, that glob of sweat breaks, running down the left side of his face, like clear rivulets of water on a windowpane.


    Frickin'' knew it.


    "So you will answer the question?" Evelyn says.


    "I can''t," Corfield says desperately, still holding up his hands. "I can''t do it."


    "Why not? Everyone says you did it before,"


    "But," Corfield says. "That was before--"


    "Public opinion had swayed against him?"


    "No, before--" He cuts off, looking from Evelyn to Gavin. Then, seeming to remember what she said, back to her again. "Have I gone completely crazy, or am I the only sane person in this room? You killed a dozen good men in cold blood, both of you!"


    Gavin doesn''t like that. It makes his trigger finger itch something awful. But he holds steady. He stays calm. He needs to stay calm.


    That''s how he gets what he wants. By staying calm.


    "What God''s people did," Evelyn says, "At the battle of Jericho. Was that in cold blood?"


    "Don''t quote the Bible to me," Corfield says, veins standing out on his forehead and neck. "I know you don''t believe in it."


    "And here I thought that you did," Evelyn says. "God''s will is always right? Isn''t it? Isn''t that what you''ve always said? We must do the will of God rather than the will of man? And that''s exactly what Gavin has striven for. I seem to remember you sharing a similar sentiment."


    "That was then," Corfield says, "And this is now. Things have changed. Everything has changed."


    Evelyn slams the end of her cane on the floor. She stands forcefully, using both the cane and the edge of the table for support as she begins to walk around, toward Corfield.


    "You know what I think?" Evelyn says. "I think you''re a coward. I think you''re a sad, fearful little man. The time you''ve always spoken of and warned us about is at hand, and you refuse to heed your own words. You know it''s wrong, what Callaghan and the others did, allowing that Ruster to live among us, to ally with us. It''s against the teachings of our church. It''s against everything you''ve ever taught. Yet here you sit. You''d rather align yourself with a dead man than with the living God, because you''re afraid of how it looks. You''re afraid of how you will be perceived. The future is uncertain, and so you put your faith in the past, rather than in God."


    Holy shit. She''s getting to him. She''s actually getting to him. He''s shaking, fingers clasped together in his lap, staring at the floor. Meanwhile, Evelyn towers over him, palms stacked over one another with the handle of her cane underneath, supporting her.


    "It''s true," he says. "Oh, it''s true. I''m weak, I''m overwhelmed."


    "You can''t always trust your feelings," Evelyn says, speaking more softly now. "You have to trust in God. Isn''t that what you always told me?"


    Then the dam breaks. Corfield is sobbing. Evelyn moves closer, tightly gripping Corfield''s shoulder before moving her hand behind his upper back, patting him gently. She has to drop her cane as Corfield clings to her, suddenly pulling her into a hug, sobbing into her shoulder.


    Gavin finds himself backing away slowly. It''s sad, pathetic even, watching this man come apart in front of him. He doesn''t want any part of it. He sits back on the table, knees at a 90-degree angle, holding his pistol in his lap.


    "When everything happened," Corfield says sweetly, "I didn''t even bother going to check. I didn''t understand what was happening. I simply ran away. I ran and hid."


    "It''s okay," Evelyn says, rubbing his shoulder and back. "Truly, it is. You know that God forgives you."


    Corfield gasps. The relief is palpable. His entire body sags. He''s loosening up, regulating, returning to some mental semblance of what he might consider normal.


    It''s strange. Right when he came into this room, he was adamantly against supporting them. Now he''s clinging to Evelyn like she''s his only hope.


    Is it really so easy to sway a person''s conscience? Maybe it just takes an extreme circumstance like this. A little bit of trauma. Some confusion. Bewilderment. Denial. Grief. Is that the recipe?


    Not that it matters. There''s no justifying it. Gavin has never respected the Reverend less than at this moment. Corfield could have seen sense, he could have had courage, but this was not that. This was weakness. This was...giving up.


    Still, for Gavin''s purposes, it will do.


    Evelyn takes a step back, holding Corfield''s hands. "You know what you have to do, don''t you?"


    "I do," Corfield says, "But how?"


    "When the time is right, you''ll know. I know you will."


    The conference room is quiet and still. Corfield has been escorted back to his quarters, with the others. A pet that''s been returned to his cage, until he''s needed again.


    Once again, Evelyn is sitting at the table. Only this time, she''s not using her cane for support. In fact, she seems to be sitting up just fine on her own.


    She holds up a ceramic mug and blows on the hot coffee inside, dispersing waves of steam emitting from the cup.


    Gavin is standing, leaning against the wall opposite her, next to one of those circular vents. There''s a fan just inside the vent, spinning away, generating a steady static of white noise that Gavin normally finds comforting. For some reason, at the moment, it agitates him.


    For some reason, he''s drawn to do something he hasn''t bothered with for some time. He reaches inside the inner breast pocket of his jacket and pulls out a worn box of smokes. They belonged to his father, Rutiger. He had rolled and packaged them himself, using a little machine he discovered on a salvage mission.


    Tobacco was always hard to come by. In this case, it is quite old and quite dry. The flavor isn''t exactly pleasant going down, but it usually provides a marginal buzz.


    The box crinkles as he opens the top. The noise makes him self-conscious, like he''s intruding on Evelyn''s moment of silent contemplation. Like he''s not quite welcome here.


    Evelyn looks at him sidelong, but doesn''t say anything.


    Gavin puts the cigarette in his mouth and pulls his lighter out of another pocket. He flicks it open, holding the open flame in front of the end of his cig.


    "Wasn''t aware those were allowed in here," Evelyn says. She seems mostly disinterested. Or perhaps she''s just feigning indifference.


    "Maybe you should take it up with the board," Gavin says.


    He inhales briefly, getting the cigarette lit before closing the lighter and putting it away. It feels good, despite the questionable flavor of it, a pleasant heat flooding his throat and lungs. He inhales deep, then breathes out through his nose, twin clouds of smoke that get caught up in the air current from the vent, twisting in ghost-like tendrils.


    "That''s very funny, Gavin."


    Gavin takes another big puff as he watches Evelyn sip her coffee. "You really worked him, didn''t you?"


    A little smirk sneaks in at the corner of her lips. "I did, didn''t I? Worked him good."


    Gavin takes another slow drag and brings it out.


    "You know, Gavin," Evelyn says, waving some of the smoke away from her face, "If you keep doing that, I''m going to get a secondhand buzz."


    "You''re welcome. Hey, I couldn''t help but notice. You seem to be doing a lot better. Your cane... you were using your cane all of yesterday and today. Seemed like you couldn''t do much without it. Only now, you seem to be doing just fine."


    That smirk at the corner of her mouth--that bitchy little smirk--gets bigger. "Right, I was afraid to try and go without it. I must be doing better than I thought."


    "Right," Gavin says. "You know, there''s something about a cane. Makes a person seem so fragile. So...unassuming. Back in the cargo bay during our little talk, I threatened you, but it didn''t feel quite right. It didn''t feel reasonable. It wasn''t just the fact that you''re a matriarchal figure in my mind, it was the fact that you could barely walk on your own. Tt''s part of what made me think twice."


    "And to think," Evelyn says, "the ruthless killer does have a heart."


    "Margie. My grandmother on my dad''s side. She lived with us for years. She practically helped raise me. But you already knew that."


    The cigarette smoke is starting to become unpleasant. The bitterness is outweighing the buzz. Still, Gavin smokes on.


    "Evelyn, are you working me?"


    "Oh, my sweet Gavin," Evelyn says, standing. "I never stop working people. It''s just second nature, I''m afraid. I wouldn''t worry your pretty little head about, if I were you."


    Head tall, she steps around the table, heading toward the door, her mug of coffee still in hand. No limp, no visible pain, nothing.


    As she exits the room, her cane is on the table.


    Gavin takes one last drag, then approaches the table. He puts out the cigarette on the surface of the table, next to the cane. Then he walks away, leaving the stub.

 Chapter 85

    REVENANT


    The metal door slides shut behind me, cloaking the chamber in darkness.


    I scan the room using my night vision. There are bodies¡ªalmost a dozen of them¡ªlaid out in uniform rows on their backs, arms crossed over their chests, eyes closed. My eyes flit between each one, examining their faces. I keep waiting for them to move, to rise, to be something other than what they are. As I examine each one in turn, every breath I take plumes in front of my face, as if to emphasize the difference between me and the corpses laid out before me.


    It''s frigid in here, as it should be. I can hear the old cooling components, puttering feverishly. The white noise from the fans flare in intensity as the machinery makes up for the cold air I¡¯d let out of the room upon my entrance.


    My allies, my friends, my comrades, my brothers-in-arms. How could this happen¡ªfor them to die in such a way, with such thoughtless banality? To die, not as warriors, but as sleeping babes, smothered in their cribs?


    I promised them the future. I promised them the world. And this is what they got instead.


    It''s too late to apologize. It''s too late to make amends for my mistakes, not in any meaningful way. Whatever meaning there is in life, death takes it away, crushes it into a fine powder that dissipates into the atmosphere, blown away on the desert winds, never again to be remarked upon.


    That is, if nature has its way. But why should it? Why should I let that happen?


    Echo was right to preserve the remains. In the same way that he discovered a means for human immortality, he will surely find a way for these warriors to rise once again, even if it takes a thousand years, or ten thousand. I¡¯ll make sure it happens.


    Death will never have its final say.


    The facility vibrates under my feet, rumbling with the distant echo of various mechanisms throughout the facility shifting, and latching, and locking, and sealing, and disconnecting. The Super Fortress is detaching, preparing to leave this hole in the ground and take to the sky.


    Something shifts in the shadows next to me. A figure, turning to look sidelong at me. It¡¯s me¡ªa different version of me, a past iteration. A whole other person. A whole other life.


    As he peers at me, he rolls up the sleeves of his flannel shirt and puts his hands in his jean pockets, smooth and cool as can be.


    ¡°I¡¯m not going to let you do this,¡± he says, calmly. ¡°You know that, right?¡±


    I return his sidelong look. ¡°That¡¯s right. You¡¯re the hero of this story, aren¡¯t you? A savior of the people. I¡¯m sure Sal would be so proud.¡±


    His face falls, but his eyes are still defiant. ¡°That wasn¡¯t my fault.¡±


    ¡°Really? Because if I was there, it wouldn¡¯t have happened. And we both know it. Do you even know anything about her, Silas? Do you have any concept of who it was you failed to protect?¡±


    ¡°I know that she believed in me.¡±


    ¡°And look how her faith was rewarded. You''re lucky I''m tagging in for you. The entire human race is lucky.¡±


    ¡°As if it''s going to be the human race anymore once you''re done with it. You''re not actually going to give them a choice, are you? You¡¯re going to perform the operation whether they consent to it or not. You and Eren Yaeger."Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    I have to dig back, through decades of memory archives, to understand the reference.


    He¡¯s talking about the hair. Echo¡¯s long, straight, dark hair. What a superficial detail to latch on to. What a childish lens through which to perceive reality.


    How immature I was back then. New and unformed. I had no real, novel experiences of my own. I could only draw from the media I consumed, referencing other people¡¯s imagined experiences in order to understand the world around me.


    Now, I don¡¯t need to draw from science fiction tales. I¡¯ve been living in one for decades. It¡¯s made me who I am. I am the product of my nightmarish environment. I am what I always needed to be.


    ¡°You say that as if human beings are capable of looking out for their own interests," I say. "They move in mindless herds like cattle. They have no vision, no perspective. I can give them direction. I can save them."


    ¡°From what?¡±


    ¡°Why, death, of course. That monster, death. I¡¯m going to kill it.¡±


    Silas doesn¡¯t say anything. He seems thoughtful. Doubtful.


    ¡°You haven''t seen the things that I''ve seen,¡± I say. ¡°You don¡¯t know the things I¡¯ve done. The things you did, even if you don¡¯t remember them. There¡¯s still so much we have to atone for. And we¡¯re not going to be able to do it here, on this rock.¡±


    ¡°So that¡¯s it? You¡¯re just going to give up? You¡¯re going to let this thing ¡®SERAPHIM¡¯ win?¡±


    ¡°Oh, SERAPHIM already won. A long time ago. And I¡¯m going to have my vengeance for that. But there¡¯s no undoing the past. There is only the future. And you¡¯re not it.¡±


    I start to turn away.


    "Blast," Silas says, catching my attention. "Sal... she didn''t call me Revenant or Rev. She called me Blast. It''s almost as if, when we went to sleep, I was the one who was supposed to wake up. Not you."


    I turn my back on him, clenching my jaw. "Speculate all you want. It won''t change anything."


    With one last look at the bodies arrayed on the floor, I head toward the door.


    "Revenant," Silas says, making me hesitate. "What is she anyway? Shiloh, I mean."


    I frown. I close my eyes. But then the memories threaten to well up, haunting me in the darkness behind my lids. I open them.


    "It doesn''t matter. Not to you."


    I head out into the corridor, letting the door slide shut behind me, leaving the ghost-like presence of Silas behind. Gone but not forgotten. Out of sight, but not out of mind.


    Silas¡¯ presence shouldn¡¯t be this strong. In fact, he shouldn¡¯t exist at all. He¡¯s nothing more than a memory artifact. A glitch. Albeit, an intentional one. The real question is who intended it. One that I doubt I¡¯ll be able to answer anytime soon.


    Silas is right about one thing; there¡¯s a high probability that Salvo had something to do with it. As much as I don¡¯t want to believe it. It would be a betrayal. You¡¯d think I¡¯d be used to them by now. Perhaps it was weakness, the fact that I was willing to let her into the fold and cooperate with her. A desire to return to some semblance of what my life used to be.


    As I already told Silas, there¡¯s no undoing the past. A lesson I¡¯m still learning, apparently.


    As I walk down the winding, dimly lit hallway, there¡¯s a blip in my OS, informing me of an incoming call from Echo.


    I answer it.


    ¡°We¡¯ve got a problem,¡± Echo says.


    ¡°What kind of problem?¡±


    ¡°An Artifice problem.¡±


    It¡¯s enough to make me freeze in my tracks. ¡°Already?¡±


    ¡°You should head to the roof. I think you should see for yourself.¡±


    I take one step. Then stop.


    ¡°Nice try, Artifice.¡±


    There''s a long silence¡ªtoo long. Long enough that I almost begin to doubt myself.


    Then a chuckle, one I recognize well.


    "You have to admit, it was worth a try,¡± Artifice says. ¡°Just to see the look on your face. But it seems like you picked up on it right away. Bravo, Silas. Bravo."


    "Not Silas," I say. ¡°It¡¯s Revenant, now.¡±


    "Oh? This is an interesting turn of events.¡±


    She doesn¡¯t seem intimidated. Not a great sign. Then again, it¡¯s Artifice.


    ¡°You¡¯re jamming and intercepting the signal. But it¡¯s encrypted.¡±


    "Oh, my sweet darling, you''ve been away for a long time, I''m afraid, and the world has moved on without you. While you were napping, I was hard at work developing new technologies, writing new jailbreak protocols. I¡¯m something of a hacker extraordinaire, you know. Your friend can''t exactly protect the ship¡¯s computer against something he doesn''t know exists, can he?


    "Speaking of, who is our mutual friend? Is it Echo? I do want to believe it''s Echo. It might make this a little more interesting."


    "About that. You''re early. To the party, that is. We¡¯re still setting things up for you.¡±


    "Revenant, I am the party, and don''t you forget it."


    Cutting off the transmission, I take off at a run in the direction of the access elevator¡ªthe one that leads to the roof. Yes, I need to go up there. Not at the precise moment that Artifice wishes I would. But I do have to go up there. I have to be able to assess the situation. I¡¯m completely blind down here.


    As I run, a shockwave hits the facility, causing the floor to jutter underneath me. And then the roar of the engines, the rockets initiating takeoff. The lifting sensation of being inside a massive elevator.


    It''s time.

 Chapter 86

    SHILOH


    "I don''t like this, Shiloh. You hear me? Can you even hear me in there?"


    She can hear him. The sound of his breathing, and the creak of the metal casing and joints of the circular control panel as Cade leans against it.


    She opens her eyes, taking stock of the room, this place that Echo calls the Command Center.


    Cade is next to her, leaning with his hands on the edge of the console. Meanwhile, Echo is off dealing with something else on the far side of the room, his fingers flitting back and forth across a large touchscreen display, monitoring information related to the security system and the flight trajectory of the Super Fortress. They''re in the air now, and still rising. Shiloh is actively controlling the ship¡¯s ascent.


    "Have you heard a word I''ve said?" Cade asks, scowling. "What have you been up to in there, anyway?"


    "Everything," Shiloh says.


    She can''t afford to be more specific than that. Not with Echo standing so close by. Even if he was on the other side of the ship, he''d probably still be eavesdropping. There are mics and cameras everywhere¡ªShiloh knows that now.


    The truth is, in addition to controlling the Super Fortress¡ªwhich is really just a massive ship that had been docked underground¡ªshe''s been scanning the database, gathering as much information as she can. Really, she''s looking for anything that might give her some kind of advantage. The only thing of note she''s discovered so far is a remnant of the jailbreak activation code that was used on Silas, the same one Cade had mentioned when they''d opened Silas up in the Cloister. Silas''s OS had been tampered with using this same code, designed to interact specifically with his system. On a whim, she decided to copy it and file it away. Maybe she could use it as a safety measure against Revenant. But she''s not entirely sure how she''d be able to use it, or if it would even work.


    But she can''t explain any of this to Cade right now. She can''t tell him that she doesn''t actually trust Echo or Revenant. She can''t tell him that she''s merely going along with Echo''s plans for now, until she can come up with a better option. Perhaps if Cade was thinking more clearly, he''d be able to figure that out on his own. Maybe he already has, but he''s still mad, still afraid. He''s in a terrible situation, and there doesn''t seem to be anything he can do to alter the course of it.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    "I need you to trust me, Cade. Can you do that?"


    Cade searches her face, tense and uncertain. After a few moments, she can see certain parts of his expression loosening, relaxing ever so slightly.


    "I''d say you''ve never steered me wrong before," he says. "But look at the situation we''re in right now."


    He''s right, of course. She does bear some responsibility for all of this. It was her decision, her idea. Cade had been merely following her lead. Still, it wasn''t entirely fair, was it?


    "Hey," she says. "You made the decision to do this, too."


    He sighs. "I suppose you''re right. It''s my fault my mother is in trouble right now¡ªthat all my family and friends are in trouble."


    That seems to be going a bit far to Shiloh, but she lets it be, instead focusing on getting the ship further and further off the ground. More power, more propulsion, adjusting for the lopsidedness caused by the uneven dunes of sand still atop the roof of the ship. As the sand is jostled and moved around, the dunes are slowly leveling out, sliding off the edge of the massive vessel.


    Shiloh glances up, her eyes drawn to a blur of movement in her peripheral vision. It''s Echo, turning around to face them, his brow furrowed, rivulets of bluish light running down the length of his straight, shiny hair, cast from the blue glow of the holograms above the console.


    "Shiloh,¡± Echo says. ¡°I want you to tell me if you can detect anything abnormal in the system."


    Nodding, Shiloh closes her eyes, reaching out with her mind across the vast expanse of the ship''s computer and all its systems. It only takes a fraction of a second before she finds what she''s fairly certain she was meant to.


    She opens her eyes. "Yes, there''s a presence."


    "What does it think of you?"


    She shakes her head. "I don''t think it sees me yet."


    "Let''s change that. I''m going to need you to confront it. It¡¯s a Corsair. One of Artifice¡¯s soldiers. He¡¯s trying to break into the system, take control of it. I need you to confront him.¡±


    Corsairs. Shiloh has heard of them before. A type of Biodroid. More automaton than human. Their emotions and capacity for choice are regulated and controlled. That¡¯s what her father used to tell her.


    No, not her father. Not for certain. Dr. Darvin is his name. And that¡¯s all Shiloh knows for sure. And for all she knows, even that might not be true.


    But that¡¯s not important now. She has to put all that aside.


    She nods in response to Echo¡¯s command. There''s no time to question the situation, only to act. Trusting that she can do it. She has to.


    She closes her eyes, feeling out the system again, searching for the presence. Finding it, she reaches for it, attempting to grab hold of it, so she can eject it from the system.


    Then something strange happens. As she reaches for it, the intrusive presence grabs her instead, in a pincery, vice-like grip. She feels her consciousness being pulled deep into the machine.


    As her body slumps against the control panel, the last thing she hears is Cade calling her name.

 Chapter 87

    REVENANT


    The access elevator comes to a stop with a ding, a green light blinking in the corner of the door. Then, the door whooshes open, revealing a portal to a furious dimension of wind and sand. The rush of air is deafening. Fine grains of thickly clustered sand spin and thrash in an insane vortex. Beneath the layer of sand, shiny, smooth chrome sections of the actual roof of the ship gleam through.


    I activate my thermal vision, peering into and through the turbulent storm. Little, faintly glowing red orbs are scattered around, hiding in dozens of tufts of sand across the massive domed roof of the ship.


    That crafty bitch. And of course, there''s no way for me to communicate with Echo, no way to warn him. Artifice has seen to that.


    The ship¡¯s trajectory suddenly levels off, creating an almost dreamlike calm. There''s still a steady rush of air, but now it¡¯s more like a river than a vortex¡ªa comparatively calm river.


    The sky is clear, a dark troop of ridgeback mountains framing the horizon. Above that, against the grey-blue sky, a dark, insect-like cluster of Corsair ships. Coming in fast.


    A series of grinding clunks echo from within the hull beneath my feet. All across the roof, massive sentry turrets extend upward, rotating to aim in the direction of the Corsair ships.


    These are the same turrets that were used to shoot down all those MALAK drones, back when the HERALD touched down. That was when the ship was still submerged in the ground.


    The tops of the turrets are sloped, made of the same armor-plating material as the rest of the ship¡¯s exterior. While dormant, they couldn''t be attacked or sabotaged. Now, the turrets are exposed.


    And now those red orbs in the sand are beginning to move. Only, they¡¯re not just red orbs. Out in the open, bursting from their sandy hiding places, I can see them for what they are. Shiny, glinting beetles, scuttling their way across the roof. Dozens of them, heading straight for the turrets.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    Activating one of my latent auxiliary protocols, I make my boots magnetic so I don¡¯t fall off the ship, and I rush forward. The Sand Beetles are explosive, designed to carry a payload more than anything else. Their shiny armor is bulletproof¡ªreally tough to get past. Salvo alone won¡¯t be enough.


    I make use of a hard-won skill of mine: Synthesis, which allows me to combine two of my Protocols together. Blast and Salvo, in this case.


    I summon a pistol in each hand. The plates and joint components of the pistols split apart, held together by yellow glowing lines that connect the seams, running all the way from the handle to bore.


    I pull back one of the hammers, checking to make sure the bullets have Printed properly. It¡¯s been a long time since I¡¯ve done this. But no¡ªthere it is in the chamber. Both the bullet and the casing are bright yellow, practically incandescent.


    I let the hammer slam back into place. Aiming at two scurrying beetles at once, I pull the triggers. The muzzles flash, bright with little plasma charges. The plasma projectiles fly, hitting each of the beetles and boring through their protective plating, making them explode in a flash of fire and bright metal shrapnel.


    I immediately take aim at two more. I need to act quickly if I¡¯m going to mitigate the damage to the ship¡¯s guns.


    Something hits me in the side. Something sharp and multi-faceted, bifurcating as it travels up and down my midsection. Too late, my OS hits me with a hazard proximity warning. I seize up, fingers on end, dropping my pistols as I fall to my knees. My vision flickers as dozens of Biodroids pop into existence just a few paces in front of me. Most of them are Corsairs, adorned in black combat fatigues, outfitted with rifles and pistols and grenades. Black masks cover their faces. On their chests are two little emblems, one of which I recognize as a type of shield tech. If I had to guess, the other one is some kind of advanced camo tech.


    At the head of the Corsairs, nearest me, are Parallax and Artifice. Parallax with her glowing purple plasma staves, her black cape flowing in the wind behind her. The tails of Artifice¡¯s long duster coat mirror the movements of Parallax¡¯s cape, flapping in the window like two flags behind her.


    Artifice reaches up and grabs the set of goggles over her eyes, lifting them and resting them on her forehead.


    ¡°Don¡¯t look at me like that,¡± she says. ¡°I did tell you I was cooking something up, didn¡¯t I?¡±

 Chapter 88

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 Chapter 89

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 Chapter 90

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 Chapter 91

    SHILOH


    The first thing she sees is something foreign, almost alien to her.


    The ocean.


    The waves are dark, almost black, except for the white layers of foam lapping against the shore and the undulating reflection of a full moon¡ªbare, untainted by the presence of SERAPHIM. It''s like she''s stepped through a portal into the past, a portal to the Old World.


    She realizes she¡¯s barefoot¡ªcompletely naked, in fact. She feels the wet sand of the shoreline squelching between her toes, pleasant but abrasive at the same time, as the grains rub against her skin, getting caught in the clefts between her toes and scratching her as she adjusts her footing. Meanwhile the ocean breeze runs its cold fingers across her skin¡ªher legs, her chest, her back.


    In the dark of the night, the water seems to go on forever. It''s like staring into infinity. For some reason, she doesn''t want to look away.


    She''s inspired, awestruck, and yet at the same time, she can tell that something is very wrong. She feels vulnerable and exposed in a place she didn''t choose, a place she can barely comprehend. She can smell salt and that strange, sweet scent of death that the ocean brings¡ªof certain foul things washing up onto the shore, rotting and dying, leaving odd, ambiguous corpses, bits of bubbly meat and sinew, bright little needle spikes of bone. She can''t see it, but she can smell it, and somehow knows what it is. Perhaps all human beings can, the way one''s nostrils and brain are finely attuned to the presence of petrichor, more sensitive to it than any shark is to the scent of blood. People are drawn to water in all its deadly and life-giving forms, like a moth to a bright light, regardless of whether it''s the harmless bulb of a porch light or open flame of a bonfire. It''s all the same thing.


    She didn''t choose the ocean, and she didn''t choose to be naked, to be vulnerable like this. She concentrates, willing her jumpsuit into existence, summoning it directly onto her body, the way characters in video games equip a set of armor.


    Only, her will is denied. She is still naked in the cold ocean breeze, feeling the wind rush through her loose hair and across her skin. Feeling the water lap at her feet while the ocean continues to gurgle and gasp loudly, almost deafeningly. The sounds are rhythmic, but in the small gaps, in those brief silences, no clues can be discerned. There is only darkness and the waves.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    She takes a step backward, then does an about-face, looking for a change of scenery. She''s still learning how to use this ability of hers, this Jacktech stuff, when it comes to performing a Dive. Not to mention that this particular type of Dive is completely new to her. It wasn¡¯t her choice. It was instigated by someone else. Or something. Who knows.


    Maybe, if she keeps moving, she''ll happen upon something she can use. Or maybe it''s just taking a little bit for her powers to get going, the way a computer sometimes takes a minute or two to boot up, long after you''ve pressed the button and all the lights have turned on.


    She turns around. Only to find herself in the exact same place she started¡ªthe exact same shoreline, the exact same moon reflected in the water, as far as she can tell.


    She turns on her heels once again, only to be confronted with the beach once again.


    No, she''s not standing on a small bar of land in the middle of the ocean. This is some kind of coastline. The problem is that every attempt to leave brings her right back to the place she started.


    She¡¯s like a rat in a maze. A maze she doesn¡¯t have the ability to solve.


    ¡°Beautiful, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    Shiloh does her best not to start or jump. She can¡¯t allow herself to show fear.


    Instead, she turns slowly, peering over at the newcomer. It¡¯s a man. Or something that looks a lot like one. A Biodroid. A Corsair, Shiloh assumes. He¡¯s wearing black fatigues, and silver gloves with glowing blue bits on the ends of the fingers, and a silver monocle device over one eye.


    He¡¯s a bit taller than Shiloh, and he looks down at her as he stands next to her, scanning her robotically. Interested in her nudity, but in a fascinated, anthropological sense. Which doesn¡¯t make Shiloh feel any better about it. Somehow, it makes her feel more de-humanized than if this intruder had been feeling her up with his eyes. She¡¯s caught in the snare of a creature smarter than her, faster than her. A creature that sees her as nothing more than prey.


    Shiloh holds her ground. She doesn¡¯t move to cover herself, or to put distance between herself and the Corsair. There wouldn¡¯t be much point.


    The Corsair looks out at the sea. ¡°This is what the Oregon Coast used to look like. It¡¯s not quite the same, anymore. Humans have seen to that. And so have you.¡±


    He brings a finger up to his ear, activating an intercom. ¡°I¡¯ve got her. She¡¯s right here.¡±


    Silence.


    He nods to himself.


    He lowers his hand, turning back to her. ¡°I was given orders to let you see the ocean. An odd request.¡±


    He draws a pistol from his belt, pointing it at her.


    She reaches out to grab it, but he snatches her wrist, holding her.


    She concentrates, working to harness her will. To fracture the gun with her mind. To destroy the Corsair.


    But nothing happens.


    ¡°I have a message for you. My superior wishes things could have gone differently. But he can¡¯t afford to let the HERALD get its hands on you. That¡¯s why he has to end it here.¡±


    There¡¯s a loud crack as something punches Shiloh in the chest. She feels the Corsair release her wrist as she falls backward, hitting the sand, cradled in the soft wet mold of the shore. Unable to breathe.


    Her vision flickers, going dark.

 Chapter 92

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 Chapter 93

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 Chapter 94

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