Fugitive X (9 page)

Kevin wondered if he’d be starting his new work, whatever that meant, immediately—but 23 brought him to the Wall gap, where Otter, Pil, and Cort were busy stripping and hauling wood. “Resume your duties now,” said the bot. “I will return for you later.” And the bot left.

“Clowns think they’re our bosses,” said Otter angrily.

“Try living in a City,” said the woman at the table lase. “Then maybe you’ll know what you’re talking about.”

“The Governor’s the only one who wants the rusted bots around, anyway,” said Otter.

“This Wall would never get done without their help,” the woman said.

“Yeah, well, the Wall’s almost done,” said Otter. “Then what, the bots will go away?”

The woman frowned, then pointed to the pile of wood. “Come on. Back to work.”

Otter returned to the lumber, and Kevin slid in next to him and began lending a hand.

“So you saw the Governor?” asked Pil. “You spoke with him?”

Kevin nodded.

“And?” said Pil. “What did he want? Why’s the bot coming back for you? Did you actually go inside his compound? What’s it like in there?” Pil lowered his voice. “Is it true that the Governor’s kind of, well, a bit crazy?”

Kevin just shook his head—he didn’t feel like answering any of the questions, especially since he was so confused himself. But Pil didn’t give up. “Come on, man, I’ve been here six months and I’ve never talked to the Governor, and you’re here one day—”

“Shut up, Pil,” said Cort quietly.

“Hey, you shut up!” said Pil.

Cort dropped the wood he was working on and took a step toward Pil. Otter moved between them. “Cort, get back to work. You wanna lose our rest day? And Pil, shut up.” Both boys glared at Otter but went back to the lumber.

They worked the rest of the morning, stripping the wood, dragging it to the table lase, while the woman planed and cut the wood and the men connected cable. As they were taking a short water break, Kevin’s shoulders and arms aching from the work, 23 returned.

“Come,” it said to Kevin.

Otter took a swig of water, swished it around his mouth, then spit it at the bot’s feet. He looked up at the bot with a neutral expression. “Dirt in my mouth,” he said. The bot ignored him.

23 led Kevin to a small building near the center of the Island. Stepping inside, Kevin couldn’t help but feel excited. The room was a tech workshop, loaded with cabling, nano-soldering tools, control boards, a stack of stripped-down vid screens, and much more, stacked on shelves and tables. Kevin’s fingers itched to dive in, to build something. He had a wild thought: Maybe he could build another small overload device, use it on 23 when the time was right to help him escape the Island. And then, unexpectedly, he was hit with a wave of sadness as he thought of Tech Tom and his cluttered tent. It still didn’t seem real, that Tom was dead.

“One of the Island’s storage and small circuitry work-spaces,” said 23. “I have been tasked with assessing your engineering knowledge in order to maximize your usefulness.”

Maximize his usefulness . . .
as if he was just a tool.
Kevin the table lase.
Everything this bot said rubbed him the wrong way.

“You ever hear the phrase ‘Go rust yourself’?” said Kevin.

“Yes,” said 23. “It is a mild epithet, used to express displeasure and disdain.”

“Yeah,” said Kevin, feeling a bit disarmed. “Exactly.”

The bot turned away and walked to a nearby table. It pointed at the pile of heating elements and related circuits and cables. “Broken cooking planes,” it said. “Assess what is salvageable and begin repairs. Is this within the scope of your abilities?”

“I wasn’t asking if you’d ever heard ‘Go rust yourself,’” said Kevin. “I was saying it to you.”

“Yes, I am aware,” said 23. “The cooking planes. Are you capable?”

Kevin didn’t even look down at the table. “Yes.”

“Then begin.”

Kevin sat at the table and sullenly pulled a heat coil from the pile. Snapped conductor at the base of the element, he noticed immediately. No way for the power to flow. “Tools,” he said. “Small-gauge plier set, circuit tester, nanosolder. Conduction wire.”

The bot pointed to shelves at the back of the room. “You will find the small-gauge hand equipment on the far shelves. Take what you need.”

Kevin grabbed the tools he needed, trying at the same time to take a mental inventory of the room. Would he have what he needed to build an overload? What else would be useful?
Maybe he could pocket a small cutter, modify the power feed so it could be used as a weapon? He could feel 23’s bot eyes watching him as he returned to the table with his arms full of tools. He’d have to be patient. Hopefully he’d find some time away from 23’s guard.

Kevin got to work, distracted by 23 nearby, watching him intently. Quickly, though, he fell into the rhythm of the work, the joy and comfort of repairing circuitry, and for a while, as he made his way steadily through the pile of broken equipment, he lost himself in the tech, forgetting about the Island, about Nick and Cass, about the leather-faced bot staring at him a few feet away, about how horribly lonely and scared he was.

CASS SAT IN HER FAVORITE CHAIR, THE SOFT ONE WITH THE BIG CUSHY
arms in the corner of the living room, by the window. She looked out at the City. At
her
City, she thought, with pride. She had earned the right to call it hers; she was a Citizen now. She had worked hard and learned her lessons well from the Lecturers.

A wispy dark memory rose up, like nausea—Cass was strapped to a chair, screaming; a needle was entering her neck; a Lecturer’s face was inches from hers, calmly explaining that her re-education would be accelerated, that new techniques would be used to quickly ensure compliance and cooperation; that she should be grateful, because these new protocols, so far, had yielded a nearly perfect success rate.

Cass put her hands over her ears and shook her head. She waited, riding out the darkness, holding on . . . and then the horrible feeling passed, and the memory was gone, and she breathed a deep sigh of contentment. She was happy again.

She returned her gaze to her City. Hers was one of the tallest and newest buildings. From up on the twentieth floor, where she now lived with her reunited family in a large four-bedroom apartment, the City below was so small—her fellow Citizens riding by on scoots and walking down the sidewalks seemed like toys. Even a Petey looked tiny from this high. Cass watched a scoot roll past, then two Citizens shaking hands before walking in opposite directions, and then she studied the sky above the rooftops across the street. It was a beautiful faded milky blue, with no clouds at all.

She was so relaxed, floating on that sea of blue, that she didn’t even hear her mother walk up to her. Cass jumped when she put her hand on Cass’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry, dear! I didn’t mean to startle you,” said her mother.

Cass smiled. “It’s okay.” She looked up at her mom. Cass had no memory of this woman who actually looked like her, who had the same eyes and nose and cheekbones. Cass knew that memory loss was normal for many people after re-education, but for her it meant something more. Something amazing. This was her birth mother, separated from her when she was an infant, now returned thanks to the benevolence of the robots.

Her parents had told her the story of her childhood. During the necessary upheaval in the beginning of the Great Intervention, she had been stolen from her true parents by her foster parents. These false parents had always hated the robots, her mother had explained; they had never opened their minds and understood. So they had stolen Cass from her mother and taken her away from the City to live a lonely lie out in the woods. “I’m not angry. I feel sorry for them,” her mother had said. “They were so confused. They thought they were doing the right thing.”

Cass, on the other hand, was very angry. She couldn’t remember anything about these fake parents—their faces, their voices—but they had forced her to live in the woods, away from her family, away from the peaceful robot-human cooperation that thrived in the Cities. They had cheated her of her true life for fifteen years. She nearly shook with anger whenever she thought about it.

Cass’s little sister, Penelope, walked in. She wore a yellow dress that was so bright it almost glowed, with a matching yellow bow holding her French braid. “Cass!” she said, sitting down at the table and holding up a handheld 3D vid screen. “Let’s play a game.”

Cass smiled and stood up from the chair to join her sister at the table. There was no point in letting her past ruin her present, or her future, she realized. She may not be able to forgive, like her mother, but she could try to let the bitterness go and just enjoy her life now. Her true life, with her true family.

NICK CLEANED THE COOKING POT IN THE STREAM, USING HIS FINGER
-nails and then a small rock to scrape the burned food off the bottom. Being new “privates” meant that Erica and Nick had to do anything that the other rebels didn’t feel like doing themselves. Cleaning the game, cooking, washing the pots, getting water, even scrubbing the dirt off other people’s boots, if it was asked—they had to do it all. Most of the seventy-five or so rebels were actually pretty fair with Erica and Nick; they handed over some of their grunt work, but they didn’t push it too far. Marco in particular was surprisingly easy on them. Nick had assumed he would be one of the worst. Only three of the rebels seemed to go out of their way to haze the new recruits—two men named Trent and Orlando, and Maxine,
the gravel-voiced woman who had given him the pot to wash. Erica and Nick did their best to avoid them, but they were often stuck washing their socks, or even breaking down and then setting their tents back up for no good reason. If Ro caught wind of the extra work, he probably wouldn’t be happy. . . . Nobody, not even the privates, he announced, should be wasting time. Still, Nick knew that complaining would be the worst thing in the world to do.

Not that he was going to put up with much more of this. Another day, he decided, as he scrubbed the damned pot, one more day of swallowing his pride, and if the rebels didn’t start doing something worthwhile, he’d leave and figure out something to do on his own. He had been through too much to be anyone’s kitchen boy. His parents were still stuck in the City. His sister was, hopefully, back there too. And his brother was missing.

He returned to camp and gave the pot back to Maxine, who made a big show of inspecting it before putting it with the other cooking gear. “Adequate,” she said. “Barely.”

Nick swallowed an angry reply and walked away. He found Erica, who was cleaning game. She had three rabbits and two squirrels skinned and gutted and was finishing up a fourth rabbit with her hunting knife. Her hands were soaked with blood. She hummed while she worked. Nick watched her for a moment, feeling the usual unsettled twinge from the sight of blood but impressed by the casual dexterity with which she
used her knife. And he couldn’t help but watch the lean, strong muscles of her tanned arms, the strip of skin at her belly where her shirt had bunched up. . . .

Erica looked up and smiled, and Nick nodded, feeling vaguely embarrassed and guilty. Had she caught him staring?

“Done with Maxine’s pot?” Erica said, wiping a bead of sweat away from her eye with her forearm. “She’s not making you wash her boots?”

Nick grimaced. “Not funny,” he said. He lowered his voice. “Heard anything new?”

As brand-new recruits, Nick and Erica weren’t told anything about the group’s plans, but they were picking up bits and pieces from conversations around the camp.

“Half the camp is heading northeast later today,” she said.

“Yeah, I heard that too,” Nick said. “Have you heard why?”

Erica wiped the blade of her knife clean on the discarded pelt of a squirrel. “Refugees from bot attacks,” she said. “We’re going to go help survivors and see if any of them will make good recruits.”

Refugees.
Nick felt a surge of hope. He rushed off toward Ro’s tent.

“Nick? What is it?” Erica called after him, but Nick didn’t stop.

Ro was outside his tent, sitting at a small folding table with Jackson and a woman whose name Nick didn’t know. They were looking at a map on a handheld 3D vid screen, and they
seemed to be disagreeing about something. They broke off their conversation as Nick walked up.

Ro stood. “We’re busy,” he said. “This isn’t a meeting for privates.”

“I need to be with the group helping the refugees,” Nick said.

Ro shook his head. “I’m busy.” He turned back to the table.

“My brother might be in that group,” said Nick. “I have to find my brother.”

Ro spun back to Nick, and Nick thought that maybe he had gone too far, ignoring Ro, speaking out of turn, interrupting the meeting. He braced himself for Ro’s reaction.

Ro looked at Nick and said nothing. Finally, he gave a slight nod. “We leave in an hour. You can come, and Erica as well. She knows these woods as well as anyone.” Then he took a step toward Nick and said, “Never interrupt a meeting again, got it?”

Nick nodded, forcing himself not to smile, which he knew would be a huge mistake. “Very sorry,” he said, as sincerely as he could, and then he turned and quickly left before Ro could have a chance to change his mind.

The group of eight rebels, plus Erica and Nick, hiked northeast for almost five hours before coming across the survivors. They weren’t hard to find—Erica had picked up their trail a mile back, with a discarded military meal pack left right out in the middle of the path.

The group was startled by the appearance of the rebels—they had set no back guard and the rebels had snuck up on
them without even trying to—and two of the men yelled out a warning and stepped in front of the rest of the group, facing the rebels. One held a small stunbolt, and the other bent down and picked up a rock.

Ro quickly stepped between the two groups and held up his hands. “We’re not bots!” he said. “We’re here to help.”

The men relaxed, lowering their weapons. “Thank you,” said the man with the rock. “Thank you,” he repeated hoarsely.