Infinity Rises (18 page)

“You can’t help me, but you can help those children. Get them out of here. Protect the children.”

“I will. I’ll protect them,” promises Captain Delgado.

One of the holograms on the other side of the room shimmers and pixelates before suddenly reverting to a blank glowing rectangle of hissing static again, the woman’s face wiped clean away. Another reverts, then another, and another. All over the office, one by one, the holograms begin shifting back to blank screens until soon only a single image remains floating over the soldiers gathered around the central desk. The beautiful woman’s face glitches and distorts as she winces and grits her teeth.
“Please, before it’s too late, for the sake of all humanity, promise me that once the children are safe, you’ll find a way to get to Richard . . .”

Captain Delgado is staring at her intensely. “Richard is here, Genevieve; he’s in the tower. We’ve got communications back; I can contact him now. He’ll know how to fix all of this.”

The hologram rolls and warps, and the woman glares at the Captain, her eyes full of anger.
“Listen to me . . . ,”
she says, her voice cutting in and out.
“You must find Richard and promise me, promise that you’ll . . .”

“What?” blurts Captain Delgado. “What do you want me to do?”

Her beautiful face distorts one last time, and then, as suddenly as it appeared, it vanishes, leaving only the fading whisper of her departing words drifting through the room.

“Promise that you’ll kill Richard Blackstone . . . and burn this place to the ground.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Get her back!” bellows Captain Delgado, his expression a crazed mixture of bewilderment and disbelief.

“S-sir?” Corporal Avary stammers. “May I ask who that woman was, and why . . . ?”

“No, you may
not
ask,” Captain Delgado snaps. “That information is classified. Now shut up and get her back!”

Corporal Avary and the other soldiers clamber around the desk, poking, prodding, and swiping at the array of computer slates, fervently scanning the blank holoscreens hovering before them. “I’m sorry, sir . . . ,” the Corporal says shakily, “but we don’t know
how
to get her back. We don’t even know where to start.”

“Who
was
that?” whispers Ryan.

“I dunno, but she was nice to look at,” mumbles Brody.

I take Otto by the arm and lead her back toward the couch. “Did you hear what I heard?”

She nods emphatically. “Richard Blackstone is here,” she whispers. “And it seems like you’re not the only one who wants him gone for good.”

“Well, she’ll have to get in line behind
me
.”

Otto’s eyes narrow behind her glasses. “Did you recognize that woman?”

“Oh yeah, she’s probably my dead mother” is exactly the kind of crazy answer that would make me look insane, so I keep my mouth shut and shake my head.

“You look an awful lot like her.”

I frown at Otto. “Shut up and listen. She said that Onix is coming for all of us. If that happens, it just might be the distraction we need, so be ready to go.” Otto nervously bites her lip and nods.

Across the room, Captain Delgado paces away from the main desk and mumbles something into his radio. I hold my fingers against the wedge in my ear and listen in. “Lieutenant Walters, can you read me? Come in, Delta; what’s happening down there?”

“Omega squad has arrived at our position, sir,”
responds the Lieutenant.
“The two civilian girls are en route to the command post, and the robots haven’t moved. Over.”

“Alpha, drop what you’re doing and join the other squads,” the Captain orders before turning to a couple of soldiers standing by a stack of equipment crates. “You two, get to the transport hangar. I don’t care if you have to burn it, bust it, or blow it open. We’re buggin’ outta here.” Without question, the soldiers immediately begin unlatching crates.

“We’re leaving, sir?” asks Corporal Avary.

“If you want to play target practice with those Drones out there, you’re welcome to, Corporal. I can think of better ways to spend my weekend, and none of them include picking a fight with a platoon of kitchen appliances.”

The two soldiers beside the crates begin stuffing what look like plastic explosives and detonators into a duffel bag. They each take a rifle from another crate, sling it over their shoulders, purposefully stride across the room, and disappear out the door leading to the stairwell. All of a sudden, the six fizzing holoscreens floating over the central desk begin to clear, flicking on with images showing various angles from cameras all around the courtyard.

Captain Delgado’s attention is unsurprisingly piqued. “Finally, we can see something! Good work, men.”

Corporal Avary scans the screens from left to right. “Sorry, sir, but we didn’t do anything.”

Suddenly, as if confirming the Corporal’s admission, a very familiar computerized voice reverberates through the entire office.

“Surveillance cameras fully operational in Sector A, areas one through five. Visual capabilities restored.”

Onix can see again.

The soldiers around the desk mutter and point and tap at the slates, and Corporal Avary’s head pops up from the group. “The mainframe is regaining full control in this sector, sir, just like that woman said it would.”

Captain Delgado glares at the displays as Onix speaks again.

“Additional Crimson-Class weapon systems currently functional and fully operational in Sector A2.”

As I spy over the top of the cubicle wall, my gaze flits across the images on the holoscreens. I can see soldiers down in the courtyard taking cover behind trees and stone benches on screens one to five, but when I see the image projected on the sixth display, my eyes widen, my stomach tightens, and I whisper a stream of curses under my breath. At the top of the stairs at the far end of the courtyard, a long rectangular section has risen up from the paving stones like a huge, elongated elevator, and inside . . . stands a row of what must be thirty armed Crimson-Class Combat Drones, their red masks glowing menacingly down toward the spread of anxious soldiers. This is not good, and judging by the looks on the faces all around the room, I’m obviously not the only one thinking that.

“Attention, all authorized staff,”
announces Onix.
“To avoid accidental harm, please remain in your emergency shelters. To all unauthorized intruders: trespassing with the intent to infiltrate this facility for the purpose of corporate sabotage is deemed a terrorist act. Pursuant to clause one eighty-seven of the international Zero Tolerance Decree, I am permitted to use any means at my disposal to nullify a threat of this magnitude. Please be advised that your termination will commence in ten . . . nine . . .”

Otto’s eyes lock with mine, and she whispers, “It’s happening.” She quickly scoops her computer slate from the couch and presses her thumb to the screen. With a few flicks and swipes, six small holographic screens project from its surface, each one an exact miniature copy of the large ones hovering over the central desk on the other side of the room.

“Eight . . . seven . . .”

All the faces I can see—Brody’s, Ryan’s, Percy’s, and even the previously dozing soldier with the bandaged head’s—are plastered with steely-eyed anxiety.

“All units! Open fire on those Drones! Open fire!” Captain Delgado yells into his radio as Onix continues with his ominous countdown.

“Six . . . five . . . four . . .”

Through my earpiece, I can hear the soldiers’ rifles echoing in the courtyard. On the holoscreens, the pictures match the sounds as the Drones are pelted with bullets. One Drone falls, then another, then two more, and then five more buckle. Judging by the multiple headshots, the soldiers clearly know the right places to aim when it comes to dealing with androids.

“. . . three . . . two . . . one,”
counts Onix.

Even though the soldiers are making quick work of the Drones, that doesn’t stop Captain Delgado from pointing and shouting orders, sending nearly every able-bodied person in the room scrambling toward the weapon crates. Soon only the Captain, Corporal Avary, and the medics are left standing at their respective stations, all eyes trained on the large displays floating over the central desk. There’s commotion in every direction; ammunition is being loaded into rifles; helmets, face masks, and visors are being strapped into place; and soldiers are racing for the door. I look down at Otto’s slate. The soldiers outside are still firing, and there are only about fifteen Drones left standing when Onix’s voice echoes loudly through the courtyard.

“Accessing Drones’ higher battle functions. Initiate Full Combat Mode.”

On the screens, I see the bright red of the Drones’ masks rapidly recede until only two streaks of angry scarlet eyes remain on each slick, black, oval face. In perfect unison, the remaining Drones grip their assault rifles and hunch into an aggressive stance as their shiny silver skin begins darkening into a mottled military camouflage pattern. My stomach drops. I vaguely recall a short paragraph about this in a classified file, but those robots aren’t even meant to exist for another twelve months, so of course I’ve never seen a Crimson Drone in Full Combat Mode. I dread what’s coming, hoping like hell that the soldiers finish them off before any of the Drones are able to completely switch over. Three more androids are taken down, their camouflage coloring snapping back to silver as they drop one after the other, but the rifle fire in the courtyard is sporadic and thinning in places as the soldiers are forced to reload. They’ve done an admirable job, impressively taking out eighteen Drones, but, unfortunately, twelve are still standing when Onix issues his final, foreboding order.

“Attack.”

Like Olympic sprinters reacting to a pistol shot, the Drones burst out of the elevated compartment, weaving and dodging the soldiers’ gunfire as they fan out into the courtyard.

While the blinded, partially controlled Combat Drones we encountered near the dome were slow and clumsy, these fully operational Crimson-Class androids couldn’t be more frighteningly different. Their movements are lithe and smooth as they advance quickly in a coordinated pattern, hunched over, weaving from side to side like predators stalking their prey.

“Move back!” orders a Lieutenant. “Find cover!” The soldiers immediately begin backing up, firing as they go. The retreating troops are doing their best to keep their flaring weapons trained on the robots, and some bullets do find their way into the androids’ thick armor, but these Drones are moving too damn fast to put down at a distance, ducking and bobbing with inhuman speed as bullets whizz past the vulnerable sensors and processors behind their face masks.

Six Drones arc around to the right; the other six curve around to the left, all of them zigzagging and sidestepping as they go. One Drone tears into a sudden sprint, and I lose sight of it on the display as it charges straight through the front window of a building. Another Drone on the left jumps at the wall of a structure and literally gallops up the side of it, gouging divots into the concrete as it climbs toward the roof. The android that crashed through the glass reappears at an upstairs window, and, having achieved a strategic high position, it raises its weapon and opens fire into the courtyard. An unfortunate soldier is immediately strafed with bullets; plumes of blood spray from the holes punching through his body armor. The Drone on the opposite roof opens fire, and a soldier clutches at his throat as blood spills between his fingers.

There’s screaming and yelling as the Drones at ground level approach, attempting to flank the soldiers on both sides, conserving their ammo and picking their shots as they close in. One, then another, then three-four-five soldiers are shot in the head, chest, gut, leg, and shoulder. All of them go down. Soldiers are turning and running and diving behind anything solid they can find.

“Private Sekula!” Captain Delgado shouts into the walkie-talkie. “Do you have a line of sight on those snipers?”

“No, sir. Trees are in the way,” he replies. “But maybe if I move two rooftops over.”

“Jump those alleyways, gaad damn fly if you have to, soldier, but get those bastards before they kill any more of my men!” bellows Captain Delgado.

On the ground, someone lobs a high-explosive grenade toward the five Drones on the left side of the courtyard. It’s an excellent throw, sailing high and far before bouncing twice and rolling right into the midst of the robots’ loose grouping. With unnaturally fast, preprogrammed reactions, the Drones suddenly leap away in five different directions all at the same time, each hulking robot landing just outside the fatal blast radius of the grenade as it detonates with a percussive thud. The robots immediately resume their advance as if it never happened, quickly tromping back into their flanking formation before the highest-flung debris from the explosion even has a chance to speckle the ground.

Despite the bullets zipping toward the soldiers, another brave soul leaps to his feet, pulls the pin of a second grenade, and baseball-pitches it directly at a Drone approaching from the right.

It’s a very long throw, under fire at a moving target, and his aim is absolutely superb, but he pays the high price for his courage with two rounds straight through his chest. The grenade speeds to its mark regardless, but, like a frog shooting its tongue out at a fly, the Drone incredibly snatches it from the air and whips its arm, sending the small, green sphere in an almost perfectly mirrored trajectory right back where it came from. The soldier who threw it is lying on his back and coughing up blood when the grenade reaches his position and explodes in midflight, right above his face. It’s possible that he might have survived being shot, but there’s no way he lived through a close-proximity blast like that.

One soldier peeks out from cover and manages to put a round right through the head of a Drone in midstride. The Drone’s skin flicks back to silver, and its red eyes fade as it stumbles and slams to the ground.

A Lieutenant points and shouts an order: “Focus fire!” The soldiers’ excellent training shows as every available rifle suddenly turns on the nearest Drone. It’s dodging and ducking thirty meters out, but it can’t escape the concentrated barrage as the android is hammered with bullets. Some of them manage to hit the sweet spot, drilling right through its mask. It teeters, then falls heavily, another silver robot corpse. The eight remaining ground-level Drones are getting closer. “Focus fire!” the Lieutenant shouts again, and rifle barrels bristle out from behind every makeshift blockade, pointing at the next closest robot. But this time, the androids are expecting it. As the soldiers peek out from cover, five are hit through their helmets by the robot snipers on the buildings and are killed instantly.

Barely a minute has passed, but this situation is already beginning to look like an unwinnable massacre, and Captain Delgado knows it. He shoves his walkie-talkie against his moustache and yells, “Fall back! I repeat, fall back! Get the hell outta there!” Almost as if they heard the Captain’s order to withdraw, which—thanks to Onix—they very likely did, the Drones’ behavior immediately changes as they all begin approaching faster and more directly, still bobbing and weaving, but clearly charging in to finish the job. Even the sniper robot on the left leaps from its three-story perch and runs to join its robotic brothers in the slaughter. The results speak for themselves as soldiers begin dropping with alarming frequency. From what I can see on the displays, at least ten are dead, another dozen badly wounded, and the ones that are left are pinned down behind trees, concrete planters, benches, and whatever else they can crawl to.