Alienation (9 page)

“Dani, can you use that computer to hack into its operating system?” Oz asked.

“I . . . I don't know. Maybe.”

Before she could move, the M-RC 4 dashed across the room, grabbed the computer, and snapped it in half. The monitor fizzled as pieces of plastic, glass, and wiring fell to the floor.

“Let's try Plan B.” Oz managed to open a second closet where weapons hung neatly from hooks . . . rifles, submachine guns, and what looked like a pair of Tesla 6000 Electrostatic Repulsors. “Now would be a good time to duck.” He grabbed one of the rifles and took aim. The air started to crackle, and Colt could feel his hair standing on end. He looked over and saw Danielle cowering against the door. Her lips were moving, but he couldn't hear what she was saying.

Oz squeezed the trigger, but the M-RC 4 fell backward. Its body bent at a ninety-degree angle as though it were dancing the limbo. Energy leapt from the barrel of the gun, but without a target it slammed into the wall as chunks of plaster exploded in a haze of white.

The machine leapt to the ceiling, hands and feet digging into the dry wall as it skittered across the surface like a spider. Oz fired again, and the blast ripped through one of its shoulder joints. A metal arm fell, but the ceiling caught on fire, triggering the sprinklers. Water fell and smoke plumed as the M-RC 4 hung upside down, its toes set deep into the ceiling. In one swift motion it ripped the rifle out of Oz's hands and tossed it across the room.

The weapon landed near Colt, and he didn't hesitate.

“Wait . . . what are you doing?” Oz asked. He fell to the floor, his hands covering the back of his head. Colt lifted the rifle, took a breath, and pulled the trigger. Sparks erupted as the robot's head flew from its shoulders. It bounced until it hit the floorboards, while the rest of its body fell on top of Oz.

Colt stood there with the barrel pointed at the lifeless machine as water dripped from his hair. “Can somebody tell me what just happened?”

It had been nearly two days since someone hacked through the firewall and attached a computer virus to the M-RC 4's operating system. CHAOS investigators still hadn't been able to track down the hacker. The virus was elegant, subtle, virtually undetectable . . . and almost deadly.

At one point Danielle thought she had it contained, but when she ran a diagnostic of the entire network, it showed up everywhere. The virus had replicated and attached itself to executable files on dozens of programs, operating system files, and documents. Each was encrypted with a different key. By the time she deleted one, ten more would show up somewhere else.

Lobo was irate. CHAOS employed some of the most talented cyber experts in the world—former members of the FBI, CIA, and all branches of the military. Their lead architect set up the information security defense system for the Pentagon, yet despite their massive salaries and years of experience, none of them could answer how the hacker broke through.

“It was probably some punk at MIT trying to prove that he's smarter than our team,” Oz said. “Stuff like that happens all the time.”

“Maybe, but I realized something,” Danielle said. “That thing was focused on Colt. I mean, when Oz tried to get in its way, it knocked him away and went back after Colt.”

“Thanks for pointing that out,” Oz said.

“Wait,” Colt said. “You think that thing was trying to kill me on purpose.”

“It's just a theory,” she said.

“Dani might be on to something,” Oz said. “I mean, you're the reason Aldrich Koenig is in prison right now. Maybe someone from Trident Biotech is after you.”

:: CHAPTER 16 ::

C
olt lay in his bed staring at the ceiling, earbuds pounding as he listened to a play list that was dominated by his dad's favorite singer, Johnny Cash. He had spent the better part of five days trying to figure out if someone was following him, and if they had anything to do with the attack at Oz's house.

He heard something outside his window, but when he looked, it was just the neighbor's dog barking at birds again. He fell back in bed and shut his eyes, unable to shake the feeling that someone was lurking just outside his periphery, watching . . . waiting. He wondered if the paranoia was a warning or if he was going crazy. Maybe it didn't matter. In less than twenty-four hours, he would be on an airplane headed to Virginia to start his new life. Again.

Cardboard boxes were piled high, some stuffed and sealed with packaging tape while others sat empty. Grandpa told him that he didn't have to pack up all his things, but Colt didn't see much point in leaving a mess. He was going to be gone for at least eighteen months, and after that—if he survived—he would likely end up at the Naval Academy in Annapolis or maybe at West Point.

Colt felt pangs of hunger in his stomach as he listened to Grandpa shuffling around the kitchen. According to the alarm clock, it was almost five. He was supposed to pick Lily up in about an hour, but he still hadn't taken a shower or even brushed his teeth. He was dragging his feet because he didn't want to let her go, and he knew that tonight was good-bye.

This year's rodeo felt more like a state fair. Beyond the bull riders and barrel races, there were carnival attractions, concerts, games, and dozens of vendors selling everything from glow sticks and belt buckles to deep-fried Twinkies and barbecue ribs. But that's not what drew the crowds, much less the reporters from around the globe.

In a joint effort with the newly formed Department of Alien Affairs, rodeo organizers had brought in several animal species from other planets. The DAA wanted to prove that the country didn't have to fear the unknown, so they created a program that would allow average citizens to interact with the strange creatures in a controlled environment. If everything worked out, there were plans for permanent exhibits at Sea World in San Diego, several of the Disney properties, and at least a dozen zoos and aquariums across the country.

There was even talk of creating an island resort where people could see the aliens in close approximations of their natural habitats, kind of like the Jurassic Park movies. Colt wondered if they were setting themselves up for the same kind of ending.

If the size of the crowd was any indication, the program was going to be a wild success. Colt had already seen a dozen people wearing T-shirts with little alien creatures on the front and a slew of kids carrying stuffed animals and action figures that weren't in any toy stores yet. Some had four arms, and others had nothing but wings where the arms should have been. There were cute creatures and gruesome monsters, colorful and drab, plump and stretched. But one thing was clear—they were all selling out.

“Look at that one.” Lily smiled as a little girl squeezed some kind of teddy bear. It was round and covered in fur, but it had huge batlike ears, enormous eyes, and a button nose. “I wonder if it would make a good pet. You know, when they start to sell the real ones.”

“It might look cute, but I bet that thing smells like an outhouse,” Colt said.

The little girl, who wasn't more than five or six years old, stopped and stuck out her tongue. “I think you smell like an outhouse!” She ran after her mother, who was struggling to push a stroller through the mass of people.

Colt blushed, and Lily tried to hide her laughter. “I'm sorry,” she said. “But you have to admit that wasn't very nice.”

“It was just a joke.”

“I can tell you never had sisters.” She took him by the arm and led him into the crowd. “Come on, I want to see the exhibit, and I heard the lines are going to be crazy.”

Bodies were pressed together as everyone tried to navigate beneath a forest of portable lights. They passed by a Ferris wheel and a stand selling kettle corn while the crowd roared in the grandstand behind them. Colt was sidestepping a clown who was twisting balloons into dogs and pirate hats when a man in overalls and a trucker cap barreled into him, spilling half of a frothing drink down the front of Colt's shirt.

“That was rude,” Lily said.

“Excuse me?” The guy stopped. His brows creased over glassy eyes, and his nostrils flared. He was tall and broad, with rosy cheeks that looked more like jowls, and it looked like he was having a difficult time standing.

“It's okay,” Colt said as the guy took an uneasy step toward him, his fists clenched. Colt tensed and raised his hands, palms forward, to show that he wasn't a threat. “Seriously, it's no big deal.”

The drunken oaf sniffed, wiped his nose with his sleeve, and laughed. “That's what I thought,” he said as he stumbled toward the grandstand.

“What a jerk.” Lily rummaged through her purse, looking for a tissue to help wipe up the mess.

Colt shrugged. “Maybe, but look at this place. People are actually laughing and having a great time. Nobody's talking about the invasion or shouting that the end is near. If we have to put up with one drunk, then it's not so bad.” He smiled and touched her arm. “Besides, I'm with you. And right now that's all that matters.”

For a moment Colt thought that she was blushing. “We need to find you a new shirt,” she said, and she headed to a tent where a vendor sold Western wear.

Colt walked alongside her, trying to memorize everything about her—the arch of her brow, the shape of her lips, the way her nose crinkled when she laughed. A picture wasn't good enough. Neither was a video. They were just reflections that captured a single moment in time. He wanted more than that . . . he wanted Lily.

She made her way through the booth, holding up a variety of shirts to see which she liked best. In the end, she picked out a black cowboy shirt with embroidered roses on the front and a skull on the back. She said it made him look like a rockabilly musician, and then she charged it to her dad's credit card. “I can use it for emergencies,” she said after Colt protested. “And in my opinion, this qualifies. Besides, I didn't get you a going-away present.”

“Thanks.” Colt resisted the urge to brush a strand of hair from her eyes. He imagined the palm of his hand lingering on her cheek and then sliding down her neck, pulling her close to kiss her. Would she resist?

“What?” she asked, tilting her head.

If he was going to tell her how he felt, this was the time, but his chest clenched as the fear of rejection tore through him. “Nothing,” he said, and then he went behind the tent to change.

By the time they reached the line for the exhibit, it was wrapped around an enormous building that looked like a cross between a tin shed and a barn. Intimidating men in dark suits stood at every door, while bizarre music echoed through a cluster of speakers that hung over the main entrance.

The air was heavy with the smell of fried bread and powdered sugar, and Colt's mouth started to water. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, which had consisted of only a granola bar and a glass of orange juice. He remembered seeing a booth where a man with a scraggly beard was selling corn dogs and funnel cakes, and he didn't think it was too far away.

“Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

Colt found the booth. While he waited for his turn to order, he looked up to the sky. The expanse of stars overhead reminded him of a fishing trip when his family stayed in a rustic cabin in northern Minnesota. He was young, maybe seven, and at night he'd lie in a hammock next to his mom. They'd look for constellations, and she would stroke his hair and sing to him. Eventually he would fall asleep, safe in her arms.

A news helicopter passed overhead, the rotors loud enough to pull Colt from his daydream. He closed his eyes, trying to grasp the image of his mom, but it slipped away. For a moment he forgot what she looked liked, and he started to panic.

“I think it's your turn,” an elderly man said behind him.

“Sorry.” Colt stepped forward, disoriented.

“How can I help you, son?” The man behind the booth was missing teeth, and the tattoos that covered his old arms looked self-inflicted.

Colt could hear the grease bubbling in the fryers as corn dogs and funnel cakes turned golden brown. He was about to place his order when the hairs on the back of his neck started to rise.

:: CHAPTER 17 ::

C
olt tried to appear inconspicuous as he looked over his shoulder, his eyes roving the crowd as he waited for the food. The line behind him had grown, but nobody stood out as a potential threat. There were no menacing glares, eye patches, or people with skull tattoos. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched.

The man behind the counter pulled a funnel cake out of the fryer and shook off the excess grease before he dumped it onto a paper plate and sprinkled it with powdered sugar. Colt thanked him and paid, dropping the change into a tip jar that smelled like pickles.

Between the corn dogs, lemonade, and the funnel cake, his tray was almost too full. Slowly, carefully, he made his way toward the condiment station to grab some napkins and a few packets of mustard. Then he stopped short. A man was standing in the shadows up ahead, hidden between two trailers. His eyes glowed dim against the darkness, just as they had the other morning at the park.

Colt felt paralyzed. The thrum of his heart pounded, and in that moment he knew what it felt like to be hunted. His skin itched, his mouth went dry, and his eyes flitted as he looked for an escape route, but there was nowhere to run, no place to hide.