Half Life (Russell's Attic Book 2) (24 page)

Pilar’s eyes flew even wider, but to her credit she didn’t ask questions. She went over and touched Checker’s shoulder, and then slipped down to snuggle with him, remarkably as if she were his girlfriend looking for affection.

Checker flailed for a moment in shock before he figured out what was happening, but fortunately he had come over to the window with us and was facing away from the now-distracted guards. He subtly adjusted Pilar’s legs out of the way of his left wheel and slid his hand into his pocket.

The SUVs had begun disgorging men and women in crisp black suits. Crap and double crap. This wasn’t the cops. This was someone else, someone who was here about the robot girl on the news. FBI? Homeland Security? I didn’t want to wait around to find out.

I caught Checker’s eye, breathed in deeply and held it, and waited for him to do the same. Then I brought down my hand against my right pocket at the exact angle I needed to break the valve of the gas canister there.

The slight hiss wasn’t audible over the buzzing shouts on the guards’ walkies. Pilar, who was nearby and without a high body mass, lost consciousness first, her head drooping down on Checker’s shoulder. By the time any of the guards realized what was happening they were already listing, their vision fuzzy and their muscles melting—I’d slid off my jacket just in case—one young man fired his Taser as he went down but the darts snapped off into the empty air; a larger woman stayed upright longer and struggled to aim her wavering weapon, but as she pulled the trigger I flicked my jacket forward and caught the tangling leads. She slumped to the ground along with her colleagues.

I grabbed out my own gas mask and slid it on so I could take a breath, leaning down at the same time to snag keycards off two of the guards. Checker had his mask on too; I tossed one of the keycards to him and he caught it one-handed, tugging Pilar closer against his shoulder with the other and rebalancing her weight before spinning toward the door.

“Where to?” His voice was muffled and metallic-sounding through the mask.

I was busy drawing Warren’s arm over my shoulders and heaving him into a fireman’s carry—he was not a small man. “Freight elevator to the roof. Back of the building.”

I staggered over to the door. The canister in my pocket was still hissing; I did some diffusion calculations and cracked the door—the guards outside already had to be sleepy from the gas seeping underneath it—

They both thumped to the ground in seconds. I kicked their legs out of Checker’s way as I went by, and we hurried into the hallway.

The floor was empty. No workers, and all of the other security personnel must have rushed downstairs to deal with the government people…

We ran. I lumbered unevenly under Warren’s weight. Checker built up a good burst of momentum and sped down the hall next to me; we blew through the doors and office corridors until we hit a back hallway. Panting, I smacked a hand down on the button for the freight elevator as Checker held up the guard’s keycard to the sensor, and the world constricted for the seconds it took before the elevator lurched up to our floor.

The doors on this freight elevator were manual. I heaved them apart, staggering as Warren’s weight shifted, and we piled inside. I half-slid Warren’s mass onto the floor and pulled the doors closed again as Checker punched the cracked button marked “R.”

The slow trawl of the elevator car felt like an age, but at last it wobbled to a halt. I shoved it open again to reveal a rolling metal door that was very securely locked. That was okay, because I already had the explosives out.

I packed in the C-4 and moved to the back of the elevator, crouching over Warren’s limp body in the corner. “Cover your ears!”

Checker spun to face the wall and ducked, but covered Pilar’s ears instead. I pushed the detonator.

The blast went off with a clang of metal, and a few whizzing bits of shrapnel pattered against the back of my jacket, though not hard enough to hurt. I hurried back to the door, kicked away the broken pieces of lock, and yanked it upward with a screech.

Checker was already navigating his way out onto the sun-drenched rooftop by the time I got Warren hoisted up over my shoulders again. The sky was wide and blue around us, the top of the building becoming an island far above the world.

An island with a helicopter parked in the middle of it.

I’d been mentally timing the gas canister, and it had run out in the elevator. I pulled the gas mask down off my face with the hand I wasn’t using to steady Warren’s bulk over me and shouted to Checker as we charged across the smooth, hard surface the roof. Well, in my case less of a charge and more of a shamble. I’d been keeping Warren perfectly balanced, but he was
heavy.
And big. This had seemed like a much better plan the night before, when I thought I wouldn’t have to use it. And when I’d figured it was a bad idea to tell Warren about anything other than what he strictly needed to know—I probably should’ve looped him in.

“I thought you said you couldn’t fly a helicopter!” Checker cried as we dashed under the long shadows of the blades.

“I read the manual last night,” I called back.

“You
what?”
Checker’s voice climbed shrill surprise.

“Shut up and get in!”

I punctuated the last words with levering Warren off my shoulders and through the door of the helicopter, landing him on the floor. He was starting to stir—he had a large body mass, and the gas was wearing off. Checker disentangled Pilar to hand her up to me; I grabbed her under the armpits and heaved her into one of the passenger chairs.

“You good?” I called back to Checker, vaulting into the pilot’s seat.

“Yeah, go!”

In my hours cramming helicopter schematics, I’d also figured out how to hotwire one—it had turned out not to be that different from jacking a car. The motor thrummed to life beneath us, the blades starting up and vibrating through the craft. I glanced back. Checker was inside and pulling his chair up after him; Pilar was slumped bonelessly, her head sagging to one side; but Warren was staggering upright, hunched over in the cramped space.

“Sit down!” I shouted over the engine noise. I couldn’t take off until the rotors were at velocity—

He turned toward me, anxious and terrified. “They want her! Those people, they want Liliana!”

“Probably,” I said. “Sit
down!”
I was trying to remember how to fly. Pedals, cyclic, collective, that was right.

Across the rooftop, the doors to the executive lift slid open, and both Arkacite security and the government people in suits poured out. They ran straight for us, but it was okay. They would be too late. I watched the RPMs and closed my left hand around the collective lever.

“Protect her!” shouted Warren, and jumped back down to the rooftop.

“What the
hell!”
I cried. Warren was sprinting toward the oncoming security forces, waving his arms, a man on a mission—the Arkacite guards had their Tasers out and the government suits were drawing Glocks—
shit—

I did the math, thought of Checker and Pilar, and pulled back on the collective.

The lift yanked us into the air with absolutely no finesse. Checker yelled and grabbed at Pilar protectively, as if he was afraid I would pitch them out the still-open door. I looked back and to the side as we rose away, in time to see no less than three of the Arkacite guards fire their Tasers simultaneously.

Warren went down.

The helicopter shuddered as I drove a forward acceleration into the lift, propelling us away from the scene.

The good thing about knowing math, I thought, was that I
knew
there was nothing I could have done. The probability I would’ve been able to get Warren out of there without one or more of the rest of us also being taken into custody, or worse—

I didn’t feel guilty, I told myself. The math exonerated me. It did.

The helicopter lurched and dipped for a moment. Fuck. I wrestled it back to level.
Jesus, concentrate! Just get them out of here, and then sort this mess out. He was only Tasered. He’ll be fine.

A short hop later—and a terrifying one to my passengers, if Checker’s continued yells and Pilar’s eventual squeals were any indication—I dropped the helicopter onto the ground with the grace of a falling rock. The struts hit the pavement in the parking lot of a nearby school where I’d parked a car that morning.

I was out under the slowing spin of the rotors and impatiently starting the engine of the car before Pilar and Checker had undone their seatbelts. “Come on!” I shouted.

Pilar was weaving as if in a daze, her equilibrium still off from the drugs. Checker helped her down from the helicopter and she tumbled into the backseat; Checker got in the front and pulled his chair in on top of himself before slamming the door. “We’re here; we’re good; go!”

“Don’t get comfortable,” I said, pressing down on the accelerator and spinning out so quickly that Checker grabbed onto the door and Pilar started scrabbling for a seatbelt. “We’re switching cars soon.”

Pilar made a squeaking sound.

“I’m still trying to get over the fact that you RTFM’d a
helicopter
and became Trinity,” said Checker weakly. “Holy crap.”

“Hang on,” I said, and dropped us into the maelstrom of LA traffic far too fast.

C
HAPTER 23

A
RTHUR WAS
waiting for us outside Miri’s building.

“Tegan?” I asked.

“They got other friends with ’em now. People they trust.” He took in our frazzled appearances—Checker looked a little green and Pilar was leaning on his shoulder to stay upright. “You guys okay? Been trying to call…”

“Fill him in,” I tossed in Checker and Pilar’s direction, and buzzed into the courtyard.

Miri stood up as we barged into her apartment. She’d been spread out with Liliana on the floor, with bowls of…some sort of milky liquid…that had the cheerful green tint of food coloring. Miri was in leggings and an overlarge T-shirt with the collar cut out, her hair thrown up with a pencil stuck through it and a smudge of white powder on her cheek. She looked so absurdly relaxed and removed from the insanity of our morning that the cognitive dissonance took me aback for an instant.

“Is everything okay here?” The words burst out aggressively. “No one’s been bothering you?”

“Nope,” she said. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” I said. “Everything’s peachy.”

“Miri taught me to make oobleck!” chirped Liliana.

We all stared at her. She raised tiny green-stained hands toward us proudly and then smacked a palm down into one of the bowls; the fluid inside spasmed like a living skin.

I recovered and pointed a finger at Checker. “You—get on a computer. I need intel, now.”

Checker moved carefully around the mad science in the middle of the room and pulled a laptop off a stack of papers and knickknacks. “Sorry about this,” he tossed at Miri as he went by. “Taking over your apartment and all—we’ve got a, a situation, long story—”

“Oh, it’s fine,” said Miri. “I can go back down to Carol’s. Don’t have less crazy lives on my account.”

“That’s ridiculous. We’re not going to kick you out of your own home,” Checker objected, already typing madly on the laptop.

“It’s not a problem,” said Miri. “I’ll just wash the cornstarch off and get out of your hair. This does mean you owe me, though. I’m calling it a trip to Sacramento.”

Checker stopped typing, his jaw dropping open. “We’ve been over this!
You
might be good enough, but I am not
nearly—”

“Then I guess you owe me extra practice time, too. Ta-ta!” She skipped off down the hallway.

“Hey. Intel,” I said.

Checker muttered under his breath and went back to his computer.

Pilar knelt down to pay attention to Liliana, whose face had started wrinkling up at the tension in the room and our lack of excitement over her non-Newtonian fluids. Arthur crossed the room to Miri’s television set, a squat little CRT with an indoor antenna.

The display was a touch fuzzy, but visible. The news conference was on every channel. Arthur found one that was playing it in full, and I came over to join him.

We stood and watched a man named Morrison Sloan as he introduced his Liliana clone to the audience. As he spoke to her for a while. As he suddenly collapsed her into lifelessness with an electrical surge, smashed open the silicone and metal of her skull, and tore her brain to careless pieces.

The whole time, he talked with a passionate charisma about the dire threat of artificial intelligences among us, about these false humans infiltrating us for some doubtless nefarious purpose, about the ominous danger now threatening us, and about the people we thought were friends and neighbors who would turn against us in the worst sort of science fiction nightmare.

“
We will find them,”
he declared, “
and we will tear them apart, and whoever is doing this will know—they cannot con us, they cannot dupe us; their lies will not hold! The spies they have sent among us, whatever their purpose, will be destroyed, just as these automatons will be destroyed!”

I watched him, feeling sick. “I don’t get it,” I said.

“Don’t know how this Sloan fellow got a hold of her,” said Arthur, “but he must not know she was just a research project. Or maybe he’s one of those people afraid of science or something.”

“No,” I said. “He’s not.”

“You think he got some other motive?”

“He doesn’t have a motive.” The words felt surreal. “He’s a robot, too. Just like Liliana.”

Arthur whipped around in surprise. “You sure?”

“Dead sure.” The too-even sinusoids of his voice and movement echoed tinnily through my senses. “He’s artificial.”

“What the hell’s the point?” cried Arthur. “Who’s setting this up?”

“Well, you’re probably right that it’s someone anti-science—or at least anti-AI,” I said. “Look how it’s hitting the news.”

“’Cept that makes no sense,” pointed out Arthur. “If whoever’s behind this hates the tech so much, why’re they using another robot instead of doing it themselves?”