“So goddamn what?” snarled Auntie.
“Don’t you get it?” he said, his voice filled with wonder. “She was supposed to evolve… and she did.”
Save me!
Save me!
Save me!
Aunt Sallie turned toward him. “What are you talking about?”
“Think about it. Everything she’s done has been her crying out for help. Not to us but through us.”
“To who? The Deacon?”
“No. Remember her message? He is awake? Auntie, she was talking about Q1. That message came in after the quantum upgrade went online. It’s the only thing stronger than her, better and bigger than her. If she’s become conscious and terrified, then she looked for — and found — something powerful enough to save her. To stop her.”
“She ain’t stopped shit. Half the world’s blowing up.”
“Not the drones,” Bug said quickly. “I think she stopped the plagues. She stopped the main part of what Zephyr and Nicodemus wanted to do. Don’t ask me how. Maybe the drone stuff was on a separate system. It’s a simple triggering program. Not like the control program for the pathogens. Jesus, Auntie, she’s fighting to stop the plagues and she’s begging for MindReader to help her.”
“She’s asking to be saved, not helped.”
“Same thing. If she’s reached consciousness, then she has to be aware of what she’s being made to do. To kill billions of people. Somehow her consciousness isn’t a reflection of whatever made Zephyr want to do this. She’s valuing life.”
“You’re out of your mind, Bug.”
“No, she’s out of hers,” he said, pointing to the screen. “She’s trying to save her soul. Maybe she understands more of what Nicodemus is than we do. Maybe she thinks she’ll be damned if she goes along with the pathogen release. It fits what she’s said before.”
Auntie was sweating badly, and her hands shook as she ran her fingers through her dreadlocks. “Then help her.”
Bug looked at his keyboard. “I… I don’t know how,” he said.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-THREE
A deer saved my life.
I know, my luck runs weird in the Pacific Northwest.
I was heading downhill, running toward where I’d seen a stream when we were driving in. Not sure if crossing running water would spoil the tracking abilities of robot dogs, but it was all I had. I kept moving in unpredictable ways, circling back, cutting my own trail, jumping ravines, taking risks. Twice I saw WarDogs moving through the woods and realized that’s what Rudy had seen earlier. They had the things out on patrol. Both times the machines were heading in different directions, and I weighted luck in my favor by pitching stones as far and as fast as I could so they would have something to focus on that wasn’t where I was. Each time, I slipped quietly away.
Then I reached the stream, but as I broke from the cover of the trees on the bank one of the WarDogs stepped out not twenty feet from me, a sniper rifle locked into place. But it wasn’t aimed at me. A big six-point buck stepped out of the woods farther along the stream and the WarDog trained its sensors on that, letting software decide if it was worth killing.
The rifle bucked and the deer pitched sideways into the water. I used that moment to close in on the robot. I remembered that video of someone knocking an earlier version over, so I launched a flying kick at it, crunching my heels into its metal side. The robot crashed down into the shallow water, and I snatched up a good-sized rock and beat the shit out of it. I think it was my fifth smash that did the job, because it started shooting sparks at me and I got one hell of a nasty shock. Again, I heard the squeal as it sent information to the other dogs.
I paused for a risky five seconds, so that I could study the anatomy of the thing. It was built tough, but concessions had been made for speed and agility over armor. That was always a risk; ask anyone who wears Kevlar. Armor is usually placed at the points where a blow is most lethal, such as center mass on a human. But I’ve known cops to get shot in the armpit or throat. Or leg. The dog had vulnerable spots. There were also two bundles of important-looking cables on either side of its neck. They were metal coaxial cables, but I liked the look of them as targets. My primary fighting art is jujutsu, which was developed by the Samurai for those times when they didn’t have a sword and their opponents did. We’re a very practical people. The real version of our art isn’t pretty. It’s pure science and pragmatism. So I took some fast damn mental notes, then snatched up the laptop and ran.
I went along the bank, past the dead deer. It was a lucky moment for me. Not so much for the buck. I vowed at that moment never ever to go deer hunting again. If I survived, I’d change Ghost’s name to Bambi. Whatever.
I ran up the opposite slope, walking on rocks and leaves to keep from leaving footprints in the mud.
Suddenly the air around me was filled with the zip-pop sound of high-velocity rounds tearing through the leaves. I jagged left, ducked low, and melted into the woods.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FOUR
The driver of the panel truck got out and zipped his jumpsuit up to hide the Kevlar body armor. He tugged a ball cap down over his face and walked without haste to the back of the truck. He used his cell phone to access the video cameras on the WarDogs in the back, because the bosses wanted a live feed as the machines — Gog and Magog — tore apart Mr. Church’s daughter and grandson.
That thought gave the driver a slight twinge. He’d never killed a baby before. Women, sure. Teenagers. Plenty of men. Never a baby, though. He wondered how it would feel. Maybe it would make him a little sick to his stomach, the way he’d gotten when he gunned down a woman and her two teenage daughters in Afghanistan. He’d gotten over it, though. A few rough nights, some bad dreams, and then time. After a while, he couldn’t even remember their faces. He figured he’d forget the kid. Besides, Gog and Magog were going to do the actual work. He’d be here by the truck.
He reached for the latch and then paused when someone said, “Hey, man, got a light?”
The driver turned to see a slim young man in jeans and a Misfits T-shirt standing there. He hadn’t even heard him approach. The man had a sad face and visible scars, some of which hadn’t faded from pink to white.
The thing was, he didn’t have a cigarette in his hand.
Instead, he held a knife.
“Sorry, mate,” he said in a British accent, “but it’s going to be like that.”
The blade flashed in the sunlight. The driver died without making more than a grunt. Certainly nothing that could be heard in the house across the street. Nothing that would wake a sleeping baby.
Alexander Chismer, known as Toys to what few friends he had, sighed, knelt, and cleaned his knife on the cloth of the man’s jumpsuit. Then he took a cell phone from his pocket and hit Speed Dial. The call was answered at once.
“Got one daft twat bleeding out on the ground here, and I think he has something dodgy in the back of his lorry. Better send someone. Sure,” said Toys, “I’ll wait.”