One of the figures leaned over my body, and I felt the probe slip through into my spine. My body went rigid as the probe turned live and found the socket to my main control node. All of my systems lit up, and the probe began to take inventory.

  “It’s definitely been in the field,” someone said. “We’ve got quite a few custom modules here.”

  “Flush all that. Just take the memory buffers.”

  The probe cycled through my different packages, schematics flashing by behind my eyelids. The custom software modules raised some eyebrows, but the extra hardware put them all on edge.

  “The Leichenesser capsule’s been removed,” one of them said.

  “It’s got some kind of custom hardware fitted in with the bayonet too.”

  “I’ve got a second bayonet here, in the other arm.”

  “Stop the scan.”

  The probe tapped into my memory buffer and opened a connection. When it did, the virus there executed. It took control of the link and then flooded the circuit. The code quickly propagated through the lab, then pushed through onto the rest of the network. Address registers scrolled by as it isolated their security and began to shut it down. A Klaxon sounded but was quickly cut off as the first module went dark in my display.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “Stop the scan!”

  Voices rose outside the room. The intrusion on the network was spotted as they lost their connections to the outside.

  “The system’s not responding,” one of the men said. His fingers worked a console to my right.

  “Then pull the probe!” the woman snapped.

  Slowly, I opened my eyes. Three people stood around me: an older, gray-haired man with a thick beard; a broad-shouldered black man with a large belly; and a gaunt-looking woman who kept her long, thin hair in a ponytail. Probes stuck out of my chest like pins in a pincushion, and readouts streamed on a bank of monitors.

  The old man had reached for the probe in my neck, but stopped when my hand and forearm split apart. The blade deployed with a loud bang, and he froze, the tip an inch from his throat. He raised his hands so I could see them.

  “Deanimate it!” the woman snapped.

  The tray creaked as I sat up. Wires connected to the probes in my chest pulled taut, then the needles clattered to the floor. The virus branched out, infecting all of their security protocols. It disabled the cameras, motion detectors, heat sensors, everything. The lethal current running through the perimeter fence faded, then died. The gates unlocked and opened. I placed my bare feet on the cold tile floor as behind me the door to the lab opened, and the three technicians looked past me, toward it.

  “Ang, Dulari,” the woman said. “Shut that thing down!”

  As she spoke, her pupils dilated, and I fired the injector from my arm. The thin tube whipped through the air, and the needle lodged in the side of her neck. She slapped the spot with one hand, but the needle was already gone. As I watched, the orange glow in her rib cage that pulsed so frantically began to slow down. Her legs gave out, and as she started to fall, the bearded man caught her, his eyes wide with shock.

  “She’s alive,” I told him.

  “Ang, what are you doing?” the second man demanded.

  Two of my three contacts had arrived. Ang Chen, a Chinese man with a dour face, and Dulari Shaddrah, a Pakistani woman whom I suspected might have been beautiful, stepped fully into the room. Dulari put one warm hand on my shoulder. Ang approached the men, a pistol in his hand.

  “Back against the wall,” he told them.

  “Hold still,” Dulari said in my ear. She carefully removed the probe from my neck, and I felt the circuit cut. I pulled the remaining needles from my chest as she handed me a bag. It contained clothes that had been folded neatly.

  “Why did the perimeter go down?” I asked. “You have control of the transmitter array now.”

  Dulari smiled weakly. “Don’t worry about that.”

  I looked around, but the third man I was supposed to meet was not with them.

  “Where’s Deatherage?” I asked.

  “We can’t find him,” she said.

  “What do you mean, you can’t find him?”

  “Security logs show he used his badge at the entrance,” Chen said, “but no one’s seen him.”

  “Chen, this is insane,” the older man said. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Put her down,” Chen said. The man lowered the unconscious woman to the floor.

  “She’s not breathing,” he said.

  “The neurotoxin is not lethal,” I said. I opened the bag and began to get dressed. The clothes were plain and a reasonable fit. I thought they might have belonged to Dulari.

  “Why’d you dose her?” Chen asked me.

  “She’s one of them. She was attempting to influence you.”

  He nodded.

  “Wait. Stop,” the black man said. He looked past Ang and Dulari at me. “Where did you come from?”

  “Just stay here,” I said. “Stay here and don’t make trouble.”

  “I know you’re one of ours,” he continued. “I also know that one bayonet is standard for the sevens, not two. Those injectors aren’t standard either. Where did you come from?”

  “Listen to me: stay in here, and don’t make trouble.”

  “Do as she says,” Chen said. The man stared at the pistol.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked. “What is this all about?”

  As he spoke, what might have been understanding dawned on the second man’s face. I saw his mouth part.

  “You’re one of Samuel’s,” he said.

  Before I could answer him, I saw an image of Heinlein’s satellite, the defense system that was known as The Eye, flicker onto the display in front of me. As I watched, its nodes were all called out and scanned. One by one, they began to go inactive. I turned back to Dulari.

  “The virus,” I said. “It’s—”

  “I know.”

  Someone shouted from down the hallway outside, where I heard many footsteps tromping closer. The last of the nodes on my display went dark. The Eye had gone inactive. The tarmac surrounding Heinlein Industries was no longer protected.

  “Someone’s taken control of the defense satellite!” a voice shouted. “We’re wide open; it’s some kind of attack!”

  “Dulari, what is this?” She didn’t answer, and looked away.

  “Chen . . . what have you done?” the black man asked. “What the hell have you two done?”

  “Shaddrah, get them out of here,” Chen said.

  The men stared as Dulari drew a pistol. She motioned toward the door.

  Just then, it opened and another man stuck his head in. His eyes were wide.

  “Guys, we have multiple vehicles approaching the complex,” he said. “We need to . . . ”

  He saw the guns and trailed off.

  “What is going on out there?” the older man asked him.

  “Sir, we have confirmation on a wide-scale broadcast of a Huma activation sequence.”

  “An activation sequence? From where?”

  “It looks like it might have been sourced from the Stillwell compound. Someone with high security clearance snuck in a stealth program that bounced it off a communications satellite maybe twenty minutes ago.”

  “What?”

  “It gets worse—someone’s inside our system, as well. Campus security has been totally compromised. We’re completely unprotected.”

  “He did it,” the black man whispered. “That madman really did it.”

  “Shaddrah, get them out of here,” Chen said.

  “You heard him,” Dulari said. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Dulari, I said over a private connection. Why are vehicles approaching? Is he coming here?

  I’m sorry, Faye. I thought you knew.

  Knew what?

  She looked back and met my eye before she closed the door behind them.

  Chen stood over the woman on the floor and watched the shallow rise and fall of her chest.

  “Who is she?” I asked.

  “Greta Creigh,” he said.

  “Do you know her?”

  “I do, yes,” he said. “I thought I did. You’re sure about what you saw? She’s one of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “One hundred percent sure?”

  “Yes.”

  He aimed the pistol and fired. The shot slammed through the lab as the bullet blew out the top of the woman’s head in a mess of blood, gristle, and hair.

  He stared at the results for a moment, and then, without changing his expression, he fired again.

  Calliope Flax—Pyt-Yahk District, Bullrich Heights

  Initialize node 23948. Inception time 21720202091103.

  Current version: 010000064013C.

  Current instruction set(s) pending.

  Outstanding message. Urgent. Please respond.

  The words flickered in the dark when I came to. The ground was hard and cold under me, and I smelled blood. My dead hand tingled. It wasn’t supposed to do that anymore.

  Urgent. Please respond.

  I opened my eyes. I was facing a concrete wall with a bloodstain on it. There was a big splatter on the floor under that, with a broken tooth in it. Yavlinski was gone.

  Urgent. Please—

  I pulled up the message. It was from Singh.

  Fawkes pulled the trigger. Call in. I sent a confirmation back, then tried to get Wachalowski on the JZI, but there was some kind of hold on his line.

  Great. My muscles were stiff, but I could move. Nothing felt broken when I sat up. My brass knuckles were on the floor a few feet away. I grabbed them and stuffed them in my jacket pocket with the other set.

  My hand still had pins and needles. I flexed the gray fingers and they worked, but they were stiff and slow. The static in my head had turned to a steady whine.

  If my clock was right, I’d been down over an hour. I checked my pockets, and the bag of Zombie was still there. The brass knuckles, the gun . . . it was all still there. The room was empty.

  I got up and limped through the door, back the way I’d come in. My bike was still there, the alarm panel red. Someone tried to heist it but couldn’t get it started. They must have left in a hurry.

  I walked it back toward the metal door that led outside. When I pushed it open I saw light but no people. The lot was empty. Wind blew snow across the blacktop, and a cardboard cup with blood spatter on it rolled past.

  Wachalowski, pick up.

  I ran diags and they came up clean, mostly. My body checked out okay, but my head hurt like a bitch. The ringing in my ears wouldn’t let up.

  I looked around. Cinders glowed in the metal drums, but the people were all gone. I made my way over to one of the tarps they’d set up and pulled open the flap. Someone’s shit was in there, but he was long gone. I let the tarp go and the wind blew it shut. I listened, but didn’t hear any voices—just wind and the flap of plastic.

  I straddled the bike and kick-started it. The engine turned over, and I headed back the way I’d come in. I didn’t pass anyone in the alleys. When I got to the main road, it was full of cars, but they all just sat there. None of them moved.

  Nico, pick up, goddamn it.

  Up ahead, a store window had been smashed, and the sidewalk was covered in broken glass. In the street to my left, a car’s doors hung open and the windshield was caved in. Shell casings lay on the sidewalk next to it, and the snowbank was stained red.

  I looked down the street. A long strip of bloody cloth blew in the wind, snagged on a car antenna. A lot of car doors were open. I saw broken glass and trash where people had dropped their shit and run. There were footprints in the snow, between cars and up and down the sidewalks. A few car lengths down, a black armored truck had jumped the curb and crashed into the side of a building. Way down the street, a trail of smoke rose from somewhere I couldn’t see. In the street, between the cars, a few guys stood with their backs to me. They didn’t move as the wind whipped through their coats.

  “Hey!” I called. They didn’t answer. Down the street I saw a few more. None of them moved.

  Flax, this is Singh. You copy?

  I copy.

  Shit. I was starting to think you were dead.

  What the hell happened?

  Fawkes happened. He activated the carriers an hour ago. Where are you?

  Still in the Pit.

  That’s a hot zone. You want to get out of there right away.

  No shit.

  That area was hit hard. There are a lot of revivors still in there.

  How many we looking at?

  No numbers yet, but thousands. Can you get back to base?

  The streets were blocked. Back the other way, I could barely make out the flash of blues and reds on the other side of an old, rusted bridge.

  I’ll manage.

  Good. You okay?

  I’m fine.

  “Hey, you!” I called to the guys in the street. They still didn’t move.

  Wait, I told Singh. I might have some survivors.

  Be careful.

  I took the bike closer, in between the abandoned cars. I pulled up next to the three men.

  “Hey, what are you, fucking deaf?” I asked, but by then I could see.

  Shit.

  The three guys had blood down the front of their shirts and pants. It was smeared around their mouths and beaded up on the ends of their fingers. Black spots bled through the whites of their eyes. They were Huma carriers, revivors, but the signal I usually picked up from them wasn’t there.

  I looked down the street and saw more of them. Some leaned into cars; others were down on the ground. None of them moved.

  Singh, I’ve got hostiles down here—

  Cal, just get out of there.

  No, listen. Something’s up. They’re not moving.

  What are they doing?

  Nothing. They’re just standing there. Hold on.

  I scanned the closest of the three and picked up a lot of wireless traffic. It was the same for the rest.

  They’re all getting some kind of major data dump, I said.

  What kind of data dump?

  Hold on. The eyes of the closest one were moving around, just barely. As I watched my hand twitched, and a string of garbage code rolled past one corner of my eye. I’d seen this all before.

  I know what it is, I told Singh.

  You want to share?

  That steady screech in the back of my head was because code was coming in. The blood in my hand was picking up the change too; that’s why it was tingling again. I looked up and down the street at the frozen bodies. They were all stuck in standby; Heinlein was upgrading them.

  Is Heinlein pushing something down from central? I asked.

  Pushing what?

  I don’t know. But the jacks used to do this in the field when a control-module update came down from the satellite.

  The shutdown virus is based on the prototype, Cal. Heinlein wouldn’t go messing with that even if they could.

  I’m telling you—someone’s sending something down because I’m getting it too—I can feel it.

  I’ll look into it. You just get the hell out of there.

  I watched them as the wind blew over them. None of them blinked while they were blasted with snow. The closest one’s eyes just kept up that slight jitter as the bloodstained shirt flapped around his bony, scabby body.

  Roger that.

  I took the bike past them and back to the sidewalk. There was more blood on the snow just ahead. A hand, short a little finger, poked out from under a car. There was a big bite mark in the meat of the thumb.

  Nico was still offline. I hated talking to that asshole Van Offo, but he was my next-best bet. I tried his line, and he picked up.

  Van Offo here.

  It’s Flax.

  Miss Flax. I was going to contact you.

  I didn’t like the sound of that. I hated him, and he knew it. We had only one thing in common.

  Where’s Nico?

  He’s safe.

  My fist tightened on the throttle. I wasn’t in the mood for that twerp’s bullshit runaround.

  I didn’t ask if he was safe. I asked where he was.

  He’s at the VA hospital—that’s what I was going to—

  What happened?

  Don’t worry. He’s alive.

  I asked what the fuck happened to him.

  I can’t give you any more details than that right now. I’m waiting to hear myself—

  Where the hell were you during all this?

  I was being shot. We were attacked while following a lead. He saved my life.

  “Goddamn it!”

  I kicked the car next to me and the taillight crunched under the heel of my boot.

  I don’t care about your life, you motherfucker!

  I know.

  What hospital?

  The streets are blocked. You won’t get there. Listen to me, Cal—

  Fuck you.

  I cut the connection.

  Singh, I’m on my way but I need your help.

  What do you need?

  Work your mojo and find out what hospital Agent Nico Wachalowski is checked into. Find out his status. I want to know everything.

  You got it, Cal.

  I heard a voice shriek then, just over the idling engine. I looked around, but I didn’t see anyone. Wind blew snow across the street, and when it died down, I heard it again.

  Thanks, Singh.

  Whoever it was, they were close. I cut the engine and listened. It was hard to make anything out over the wind, but it was definitely a person.

  “Hello?” I called. I looked around for any movement. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

  A voice called back. I couldn’t make the words out, but it came from a girl.

  I turned on a thermal filter and swept the area. Up ahead, in the middle of the cold, I saw a red-orange glow from the rear of the crashed armored truck.

  I closed in and parked the bike ten feet away. The truck was unmarked and painted black. The front end had smashed through the brick face and the doors hung open. The rear plate was marked with the letters MIL.

  Military vehicle. I climbed off the bike and stepped closer. There was an emblem in the corner of the back window.

  STILLWELL CORPS. It was one of ours.

 

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