Amped (27 page)

I gently drag the block of concrete out, hoist it to chest level. Feel the gravelly bite of it on my chest. I step back into the molded plastic shower stall. Take a deep breath and clear my mind. Let the Zenith speak and listen close because it’s important.

Level
four.
Gun schematics and evasion routes and room-clearing techniques flood into my mind’s eye, even teasing the edges of my vision. I stop my trigger finger from curling around an imaginary weapon.

I’ve got one shot at this and I need to know where my target is standing.

“There’s women and children in here, Billy,” I shout.

Six inches from my abdomen, the bathroom wall disintegrates and a hunk of solid metal thumps through the siding. Before the slug hits the far wall, I’m pivoting, pulling my arms in tight and powerful like coiled springs—then, I shot-put the cinder block through the cracked window, channeling all my strength and will
to survive out into the smoky unknown. The block sails toward that shotgun, the voice behind it, the threat.

Crunch.

Now I hear flames eating and nothing else. There is a piercing crack as the living room roof falls in. Doubling over, I cough into the crook of my arm. Smoke is pouring out of the broken bathroom window, too much for me to see anything outside. In the hallway, two pairs of wide eyes stare up at me.

“Let’s go,” I say. “Now or never.”

Diaphragm spasming and eyes watering, I place a palm flat against the back door. I nudge it open a crack. Any second, I expect the shotgun slugs to come pouring through. But they don’t.

Nobody is out back.

The three of us scuttle out the door. Hop down three rotten steps to the sweet, cool ground. We cough into our hands, cheeks billowing, trying to stay silent.

“Ah fuck,” says somebody from around front. “Gunnin’?”

Nick hears and cranes his neck, but I plant a hand on his shoulder. Push him forward and keep an eye on the back of his head to make sure he doesn’t try to look back. Once you see something, you can’t unsee it.

As Lucy and Nick scurry safely away, I drop to my hands and knees in the dirt.

It’s just a split-second peek under the burning trailer. Through writhing waves of flame, I see heat shadows roil like ghosts playing. The sight hits me like a camera flash. Gunnin’ Billy on his back, laid out on the ground with his arms out, chest heaving. Shotgun dropped and forgotten. There’s a soot-stained cinder block lying next to his ruined face. Looks like he caught the corner of it in his mouth. Tried to swallow it. His blue eyes are wide
and scared and looking right through me. But he’s alive. Two pairs of boots stand around him, placed just outside an expanding puddle of frothy red mud.

“Well shit,” says somebody. “Let’s get him to the hospital.”

Then I’m back on my feet, the heat of the burning trailer curling the hairs on the back of my neck. I wipe dusty handprints on my jeans and run to catch up to Lucy and Nick. Pretend I didn’t just see that.

Lucy must see the flat look in my eyes. She grabs me by the shoulders. Pulls me in and stops me next to a trailer.

“Come up, Owen,” she says. “It’s over.”

She massages my shoulders and urges me, rhythmically repeating the words over and over. My eyes close for an instant. When they open, the world is smaller. I feel less alive, all alone without the Zenith to whisper secrets to me. I’m back.

“How’d you do that?” I ask.

“Practice,” she says, pulling me forward.

Twisting between trailers, we bang on walls and doors. Shout warnings to empty trailers and to the occasional full one. Faces peek through cloudy windows.

In one slick minute, we clear the trailers and hit the field. Breathing ragged, Lucy pushes me to keep running. Exhausted, Nick climbs onto my back. All three of us hustle for the tree line.

“Jim is gone,” I say, and I can’t meet her eye.

Lucy misses a step, stumbles, and I steady her. A breeze blows her hair in damp stripes across her forehead. Soot and sweat streak her face, but she keeps breathing through flared nostrils and trotting ahead.

“And Lyle started this. Astra wants a war. He let me go to come get you,” I say.

Lucy stops running. Looks at me with wide, honest eyes. She’s not the girl I thought I knew, but she looks just the same.

“He let you go?” she asks.

“That’s not good,” says Nick in my ear.

“I’m going to disagree,” I say.

“He means Lyle wouldn’t let you go unless he had a good reason,” says Lucy.

“Does it matter—”

A gunshot rings out before I can finish the sentence.

At the tree line, four federal agents wearing Kevlar vests over business suits step out of the brush. Guns out.

“Afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. You, sir, are under arrest for being part of the terrorist organization known as Astra. On your knees!”

And so it ends in the middle of this field. I could reactivate the Zenith and make my move, but the guns are out and I can’t risk Nick and Lucy.

So Lucy and I drop to our knees, eyes locked. I thought this woman loved me and she doesn’t. I thought we respected each other, but Lyle assigned her to me. Ever since he said those words, the betrayal has been eating me up.

“Lyle wasn’t always this way,” Lucy says. “The amp did this to him. He wasn’t good enough for it.”

This is probably the last minute I’ll have with Lucy and I don’t want to ruin it but I can’t help the way I feel. The anger bubbles up from inside. And so I blurt it out.

“Don’t pretend to care. I know Lyle gave you to me. Like a birthday present.”

Lucy doesn’t break her gaze. She considers. Blinks once.

“Lyle told me to talk to you. And I went over to Jim’s house because I was afraid of what Lyle would do to me. And to Nick. But I
liked
you.”

The four agents are here now. Two of them stay back, Velcroed holsters open, pistol butts peeking out. The other two agents spread out and approach, one behind each of us.

“Am I supposed to believe that?” I ask.

The closest agent steps around me. I feel cold handcuffs slide over my wrists. I’m lifted off my knees with a rough tug on my hands.

“Do you know why I liked you?” asks Lucy.

The other agent helps Lucy up, but he doesn’t cuff her. He takes Nick by the wrist. Holds him friendly but tight.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because you stood up for Nick in that field. You stood up for Eden. And none of it worked out and Eden is burned, but it doesn’t matter. You tried. You’re … good. You’re a good man.”

I try to shrug it off, but her words are warm inside me.

Lucy smiles at me through tears, and I can see traces of Lyle in her features. A glimpse of the person he might have been in a saner world. “And because you’re sort of cute,” she says.

“Because I’m
cute
?” I ask.

“Sort of cute,” she replies, smiling.

“This doesn’t count as our date,” I call, as my agent shoves me in the lower back. He nudges me toward an unmarked black van. Pushes me against it.

“Let me ride with them,” I say.

“You’re going to a different place than them, buddy.”

“Yeah? Where’s that?” I ask.

The voice behind me chuckles. “Elysium.”

“Lucy?” I ask, panic infecting my voice.

“Don’t worry about us,” says Lucy. “Worry about Lyle.”

The distance between us is growing. The other agent is leading them toward a car. Its black doors gape open.

“I’ll come and find you,” I say, craning to look over my shoulder.

“Owen,” shouts Nick. “Owen, wait!” The kid tries and fails to wriggle out of the agent’s grasp, twists violently, hangs by one arm with his legs sprawled out.

“Use it,” he says.

The agent lifts Nicky and tucks him under his arm. He pushes the kid inside the car. As I’m shoved into the van, I can still hear the kid’s muffled voice: “Use all of it!”

EXECUTIVE ORDER
14902

Authorizing the Secretary of Defense to Prescribe Holding Areas

WHEREAS the successful safeguarding of the nation requires every possible protection against technological threats, be they from home or abroad, and the existence of persons made militarized by implantation technology poses a threat to their fellow citizens as well as to themselves:

NOW, THEREFORE, by virtue of the authority vested in me as president by the Constitution and the laws of the United States of America, and commander in chief of the Army and Navy, I hereby authorize the Secretary of Defense, and the military commanders whom he may designate, to prescribe “safety zones” in such places and of such extent as he or the appropriate military commander may determine, from which any or all persons may be excluded, and with
respect to which, the right of any person to enter, remain in, or leave shall be subject to whatever restrictions are deemed necessary.

I hereby further authorize and direct the Secretary of Defense and the said military commanders to take such other steps as may be deemed advisable to enforce compliance with the restrictions applicable to each safety zone, including the use of federal troops and other federal agencies with added authority to accept the assistance of state and local agencies.

I’m sound asleep when one of the guards slams his nightstick into my cell door.

“I said wake up, pal,” says a deep voice from the other side of the door.

“How the fuck is this guy even asleep?” asks a reedy, high-pitched voice.

The blazing overhead lights never go off in here. I imagine that must make it hard for most people to rest. Me, not so much. Earlier, I dropped into my Zenith and asked my retinal implant to temporarily suppress my visual cortex. You don’t get this kind of mind-numbing darkness outside a closed cave system.

I fell asleep in the absolute black, everything stripped away except for that goddamn question blinking in my head:
Do
you
consent?
Insistent. Steady as my heartbeat. Trying to take me down another level.
Level
five. Full sensory networking. Long horizon mission planning. Command and control. Enhanced mobility and survivability. Do you consent? Do you consent?

Begging me to go whole hog.

Real power is in the connections between things, Lyle said. The pieces are in place but it’s up to me to turn them on. Give the go-ahead to let the retinal talk to the neural. Cochlear talk to retinal. The world opens up to you in ways you can’t imagine. You have to
see
it to believe it, Lyle said. And then the skinny cowboy
made that hyena laugh of his. Threw his head back and let loose like he’d said the funniest thing
in his life.

All you have to do is say the word. I refuse.

Bam-bam-bam-bam.

The sudden hammering at the door yanks me out of the deep cave of my mind and back into reality.

I turn my eyes on and blink at the light.

“Let’s go, buddy,” says a guard, speaking through the slot. “On your feet. Back to the door. Wrists together.”

My knees are stiff and it takes a second to stand. Weeks ago, two silent agents put a bag over my head and drove me here in the back of a van. I don’t even know where here
is
. I’ve been in this cage ever since. Pissing in a metal toilet. Eating whatever comes through the slot. Until now, nobody has spoken to me. Nobody has responded to my questions. I’ve been forgotten.

That nightstick smacks the cell door with an ear-ringing clang.

“Now, motherfucker!” screams the other guard.

Rough hands reach through the slot and ratchet cold steel around my wrists. I stumble forward. Behind me, the solid metal door glides open on oiled hinges. I hunch my shoulders instinctively as a burst of fresh air hits the back of my neck.

“Turn around, asshole.”

Two guards stand in the hall, a big one and a little one, framed by the doorway. Both men are wrapped in black armored vests, with kneepads and helmets. No writing and no insignias. The big one has a riot shield clutched against his barrel chest.

I’m standing here, cuffed, my baggy bright-orange jumpsuit hanging off my thin frame. In the weeks since I was captured, I’ve barely eaten or exercised. My bruises have gone from black to green to yellow. Healing.