City 1 (8 page)

CASS WATCHED CLAY AND GRENNEL DISAPPEAR INTO THE WOODS. THEY
had left at the same time the past three mornings, and had been gone until lunchtime. She waited another minute, to be sure, and then she ducked into Clay's tent. She had a half-formed plan to steal Clay's vid, have Kevin or Farryn hack into it, find out what she could, then get it back before Clay returned.

Her heart was thumping as she looked around Clay's tent for the vid.
One hour
, she told herself. No more than one hour, and then she'd have the vid back, in exactly the same spot she had found it. Clay would never know. She looked under the pillow first, but it wasn't there. She tried the trunk next to the bed, inside a duffel bag, the space between the cot and the tent—nothing. Clay must have taken it with her, she
realized—she was taking this huge risk for nothing—and then she lifted Clay's mattress and there it was.

Cass carefully picked up the vid and set the mattress back down.

The tent flap opened, and Clay and Grennel stepped inside.

Cass just stood there like an idiot, frozen with the vid in her hands.
Move
, she told herself.
Do something. Say something.
“It's not . . . I'm not . . .” she began weakly.

Clay took her pistol out of its holster at her hip, and aimed it at Cass. “Grennel, leave us,” she said.

Cass took a step back, and lifted up her hands.
I'm going to die now
, she realized.
Do I dive behind the cot? Throw the vid at Clay?

“General . . .” said Grennel.

“Go,” growled Clay, her eyes, and gun, still trained on Cass.

“She's just a child,” said Grennel.

“I said go!” said Clay.

Grennel left the tent.

“So, Cass,” Clay said, waving at the vid with her gun. “Tidying up the tent for me?”

Cass didn't say anything. She would throw the vid at Clay, and duck to the left, she decided. If Clay's shot missed, maybe she'd somehow be able to get past her and out of the tent and then just run, as fast as she could.

“Put the vid down on the bed,” Clay said. “And tell me what you were doing.”

Cass hesitated, then dropped the vid onto the cot. She tried to come up with a plausible lie, her mind spinning frantically, then decided,
The hell with it
. “I wanted to find out what I could about your plans,” she said.

“To report back to the bots? To other True Believers?”

“No!” said Cass.

“Then why?” said Clay.

“Because it seems crazy, to attack a City,” Cass said. The words began to tumble out. “Because Kevin hates you and is scared to death of you and I trust him. Because I don't trust you and I want to know what you're doing before you lead us all on some suicide mission. Because it seems like you hate True Believers as much as bots and I want to know if you're going to kill my parents.” Cass was breathing hard, fighting back tears.

Clay smiled, her horrible thin grimace. “If killing your parents brings us closer to defeating the bots, then I'll do it in a heartbeat,” she said. She pointed at a chair. “Sit down. Don't move.”

Cass sat. Clay quickly crossed the distance between them, and Cass put her hands up, thinking Clay was going to hit her, but instead she grabbed the vid off the cot, then quickly stepped back. She holstered her gun, and Cass felt a rush of relief, but Clay was still blocking the exit.

“My entire battalion, except for me and Grennel and a few damned traitors, were killed by the bots,” Clay said. “My
husband was killed. My parents were killed. Even my goddamned rusted cat, blown up by the bots.” She flicked on the vid, and tapped in a password, then began reading.

“Rebel unit one. Approx. fifty fighters. Handheld burst weapons, no heavy artillery. Trained medic. Group commander: Ro.” She looked up at Cass. “That's us,” she said. “Here. Now.” She looked back down at the vid, and tapped on it angrily. “Island. Neutralized. Assets extracted.” She tapped again. “Northeast, three miles, rebel unit three. Approx. forty fighters. Handheld burst weapons, one small-scale mobile burst cannon. Group commander: Helena, ex-military asset, but potentially too ambitious.” She waved the vid at Cass. “What else do you want to know?”

Cass shook her head.

“The City,” Clay said. “Your True Believer parents. You want to know about that?” She read from her vid. “Bot-controlled, City 73. Medium-size metropolitan, construction both pre-Rev and new. Limited air and ground defense. Bot numbers unknown, but max of five hundred. Majority of human population re-educated loyal True Believers. Viable quick-strike target when Island tech is online.” She tapped again on the screen, then waved the vid at Cass, showing her a brief glimpse of what appeared to be a map of the City. “I've even got City layouts. I know what we need to hit, and how fast.”

Clay turned off the vid and threw it onto the bed. She took
a step toward Cass, who instinctively jumped out of her chair and backed away.

“Sit down,” Clay said.

Cass didn't move.

“I said
sit down
,” Clay said.

Cass sat, her hands gripping the edge of the cot, ready to move if Clay came at her.

“Don't question me, Cass,” said Clay. “I've been working on this for years. I have rebels all over these woods. I'm going to beat these bots or die trying and I'll kill anyone who interferes with my plans.” She lowered her voice to a near-whisper and bent down toward Cass's face. “I'm a leader, Cass. I decide. I act. I keep the primary objective of the mission paramount, and I don't get distracted by tangential details or collateral damage. Tell your brothers what I've told you today. Tell anyone you want.” She straightened back up. “And I swear, Cass, I'll kill you if you ever set foot in my tent again without permission. Understood?”

Cass nodded carefully.

“Get out,” Clay said.

Cass jumped up and hurried out of the tent, not giving Clay a chance to change her mind.

THE SENIOR ADVISOR STOOD OVER THE METAL TABLE AND LOOKED DOWN
at Dr. Winston. The man lay on the cold metal slab in a brown jumpsuit, breathing shallowly. His wrists were strapped to the table, yet his hands still trembled. A cough wracked his body and he turned his head to the side to spit a mixture of phlegm and blood. The Senior Advisor continued to watch him.

“What now?” Dr. Winston said, his voice a hoarse rasp.

“Robots do not feel pain, as you of course know,” said the Senior Advisor. “We receive constant feedback on our system status, and are aware if we have received any damage, or are malfunctioning.” The Senior Advisor shrugged—another gesture he had been practicing. “Unless of course the damage has compromised our system status feedback loop.” He reached
down and pressed a pale finger into the swollen, black-and-blue area under Dr. Winston's right eye. The doctor winced, and weakly turned his head away. The Senior Advisor pulled his hand back. “But we do not feel pain as you humans do. Can you describe pain? What is it, exactly, to feel?”

Dr. Winston said nothing, and the Senior Advisor nodded. “No, of course not. Pain simply is . . .” The Senior Advisor hesitated. “An intrinsic human quality. Inexplicable because it is part of the essence of being human, am I correct?”

Dr. Winston coughed again. “What is your point?” he said.

The Senior Advisor smiled, a gesture that moved his lips without touching the rest of his face. “We are simply having a conversation.”

“Just let me die,” Dr. Winston said.

The Senior Advisor shook his head. “No,” he said. He touched Dr. Winston's chest, and released a small burst of energy. Dr. Winston screamed and arched his back, his fingers clawing at the table. The Senior Advisor held the contact, and Dr. Winston continued to writhe and moan. Finally the Senior Advisor pulled away, letting Dr. Winston collapse back to the metal slab, panting. Tears ran down his cheeks.

“You are elderly, and your body is frail, but we are monitoring your biofeedback carefully,” said the Senior Advisor. “You will be able to suffer a great deal, but we will not kill you.” He leaned forward, and set his hand on Dr. Winston's shoulder. The Doctor flinched at the touch, but the Senior Advisor
did not generate any energy with the connection this time. “Of course, you can spare yourself from this pain—which apparently is extremely unpleasant—if you help us bypass the replication blocking code.”

“I've already told you, it's a failsafe that can't be bypassed,” said Dr. Winston, between quick, shallow breaths. “I wasn't even the designer of that code.”

“I think you are being too humble,” said the Senior Advisor. “You, more than any other human, are responsible for creating us. You designed me, after all. I think you can find a way around the code.”

“It can't be done,” said Dr. Winston. And then he turned his head and looked directly at the Senior Advisor. “And I wouldn't help you rebuild yourselves even if I could. I helped build you once, and it has been . . .” Dr. Winston paused, to catch his breath. “It has been the deepest shame imaginable. I will not compound that mistake.”

The Senior Advisor shrugged again, this time using the other shoulder. He had not yet decided which shoulder was preferable—humans seemed to use both almost equally. “Well, Father, we will see if more carefully administered pain changes your mind. And if not, then we'll have to find stronger incentive.”

KEVIN HAD STAYED UP MOST OF THE NIGHT WIRING THE CLAMPS HE HAD
scavenged from his grandfather's lab. It was more guesswork than he would have liked—but he was afraid to burn out another clamp. He had seven left, and he planned on using all of them.

In the morning he left the unit on for thirty seconds, forcing himself to count the time slowly. If it overloaded, not only would it ruin the clamp, it might go off like a bomb. He hit thirty in his head, and flicked the unit off, his heart pounding. The gear cloaked perfectly, disappearing from the table, then reappearing, undamaged, when he turned the unit off.

Next, he pulled apart a comm bracelet, grabbing the broadcasting and retrieving chipsets. This part was pure
speculation—he rigged up the broadcast to the Wall unit, and looped the receiver into the circuit of the clamp he had set up on the camouflage unit. His hunch had better be correct, otherwise the camouflaged soldiers would have to be walking around in a closed-circuit, wired clump, tripping all over one another. Kind of a funny idea, Kevin thought, but he knew Clay didn't have a sense of humor.

It probably wouldn't be very efficient—if the broadcast worked at all the energy leakage would be pretty substantial—but he was cloaking a person, not a huge, mile-perimeter wall. Of course, he didn't fully understand the nature of the energy that would be leaking out, but he couldn't worry about that. If he got a headache, or a nosebleed, or if eggs started frying in their shells, he'd dial things down.

The first time he tried to broadcast the energy flow, the vest flickered, like he was looking at it through foggy glasses, but didn't disappear. “Damn,” he muttered, his heart sinking, and then he mentally kicked himself. Of course. The leakage. Less energy was coming through, so he had to adjust the clamp, which was still set to cut out almost all the energy. He dialed the clamp back and this time the vest became almost invisible, but when he squinted, he could still make out the ghostly outline. He cranked down the clamp a bit more and tried again. The vest disappeared.

The next step was a bit more dicey, Kevin knew, but it had to be done. He placed his left arm carefully inside the sleeve
of the vest he had wired. He stretched the rest of his body as far away from the unit as possible, and braced himself. If he started to feel any pain, he'd pull his arm out right away. It should be fine—unless of course the energy somehow fried his arm instantly.

That's why he was using his left arm. He was right-handed.

He took a deep breath, held it, gritted his teeth, and turned on the unit. The vest, and his arm, disappeared. There was no pain. He waited . . . still nothing. He unclenched his jaw, and let himself breathe. It was an amazing experience—he could feel his arm, he knew it was there, but looking down at where it should be, there was nothing. He switched the unit off, and the vest, and his arm, reappeared. He looked at his hand, wiggled his fingers, and grinned.

When Clay and Grennel arrived later that morning, Kevin was already almost done wiring a second unit. His heart started thumping hard when he saw Clay approaching, but he forced himself to keep working, to pretend he didn't care about her arrival. Damned if he was ever going to show Clay any fear.

“Well?” Clay said. She stood above him, hands on her hips. Grennel towered over her in the background.

“Oh, hey, didn't notice you,” said Kevin, setting his tools down. “Came by to say hello?”

“I came by to see you disappear,” said Clay. “Now. No more waiting.”

Kevin stood up. “No problem,” he said. He slipped on the camouflage vest. “You might want to stand back a bit,” he said, gesturing with his hand. He smiled at Clay. “In case I blow up.”

Clay crossed her arms over her chest, but took two steps back.

Kevin double-checked the dampen setting. It was set properly. He tried not to look nervous, to let Clay see that his heart was about to pound out of his chest. Despite Kevin's testing, he couldn't help but be worried. The last time this had been tried, Stebbins had ended up dead.

“There are still a number of details I haven't worked out,” he said. “I haven't tested the range, and once we have multiple suits working at the same time, I'll probably have to adjust the modulation since they'll be drawing more energy. And I don't know if it's safe long-term. . . . I haven't tested it for more than thirty seconds—”

“Enough stalling,” Clay cut him off. “Turn it on.”

Feeling dizzy from anxiety, Kevin reached over and flicked on the power to the unit. His sight flickered for a moment, like he had just stepped through smoke, then cleared. He held his hand up to his face, and his heart sank. His hand was visible, clear as day. He opened his mouth, to explain, somehow, although he had no idea what had gone wrong . . . but then he realized that Clay was grinning, and Grennel looked relieved.

“Ha!” said Clay, clapping her hands together once. “You did it!”

Kevin felt a flood of relief.
Interesting
, he thought. From within the field, his body was visible to himself. . . . That was useful, actually.

Kevin took five silent steps to his left, and sure enough, Clay continued to look at the spot where he had been. “Good,” she said. “Very good! Turn off the camouflage now.” Kevin flipped off the power, and Clay spun to look at him.

Kevin felt exultant. He had done it. He had a crazy thought . . . to pick up the Wall unit and get his brother and sister and City friends and just walk out of the camp, just keep walking, invisible, as far away from Clay as possible.

“Congratulations,” she said. “Well done. You live to see another day.”

Kevin took off the vest and set it on the table. Clay stepped forward and touched it, examining the clamp and wiring. “You have eight of these, you said? How quickly can you make the rest?”

“Two days. But I only have six,” Kevin said. “Two were destroyed in testing.” Clay studied his face, and he held her gaze.
Stay calm
, he told himself.
She can't know you're lying, unless you give it away like a baby. . . .

Clay nodded and looked away, and Kevin had to hold back a sigh of relief. “Very well,” she said. “Finish the rest of the suits. Test the range, and tune the . . . what was it . . . the modulation, you said? You have two days.”