Infinity Rises (23 page)

The sides of the silver containers begin folding down in sections, and as they fully collapse to the paving, my already-racing heart begins hammering in my chest. There was no warning from Onix this time. Maybe he learned that it isn’t wise to tell your enemies what’s coming? Or maybe he did politely announce the impending arrival of those hellish creations, and we simply didn’t hear it over the sound of the engines. I guess it doesn’t matter now, because sending
six
Remote Articulated Mechanoids to kill us is going to be like squashing an ant . . . with a sledgehammer.

And only two minutes ago, I honestly thought this day couldn’t get any worse.

“Go, go, go!” shouts the Captain. Otto glances over her shoulder at me with a look of abject terror as the school group breaks into a run toward the transport.

“Sir, what about the prisoner?” yells the soldier standing directly behind me.

“Priorities have changed, wouldn’t you say?” replies Captain Delgado. “Leave her, and get on that transport!”

My five guards don’t need to be told twice as they all turn on their boot heels and run toward the cargo door. With the threat of being shot in the back removed, I drop my arms as Captain Delgado glares at me with narrowed eyes, looking me up and down like he’s trying to decide what the hell to do with me. I have no doubt that the thought of leaving me here with those six robots is at the forefront of his mind, but as he draws his gun, I suddenly realize that he may be considering a more swift and final solution.

My breathing quickens, and adrenaline courses through me as I stare right at him, almost daring him to do it.
Go ahead, you bastard. Kill me. I can see in your eyes that you want to, so just get it over and done with. What are you waiting for?
I ball my fists and tense my muscles, wondering if I’m fast enough to cross the distance between us before he shoots me in the forehead. But Captain Delgado doesn’t pull the trigger. Instead, he lets out a frustrated snort, and, to my surprise, he walks right up to me. He jabs the gun in my side and drags me by the arm as he hurriedly strides off across the courtyard. “For Finn’s sake, I’m pulling you out of the fire, but you’re still in the frying pan, Infinity One. I’m your only way out of here, so don’t try any funny business.”

He’s right. He
is
my only way out of here, but that means leaving behind the only chance I might ever have to get to Richard Blackstone. I need to weigh my options. I glance to the left, knowing that there are paths winding among the buildings that lead to the rest of the facility. Somewhere farther in, Richard Blackstone may still be here somewhere, hiding like a rat in a maze they say he never leaves. But without Otto’s help, it could take hours to find him, and by then, Captain Delgado will be back with more soldiers and more firepower. I look toward the transport. If I get on board, I’ll most likely be thrown in a military prison or have my brain fried to a crisp. That would not be ideal. I look to the right. Six of the most advanced robotic killing machines in the world are booting up. They still haven’t moved, but when they do, they’ll tear this whole place apart to eliminate any threat, and I think it’s safe to say that would include me. So . . . I can either stay to be hunted down like an animal or be marched off to a prison for a lobotomy.

Wow. My options
really
suck.

The school group has already disappeared into the transport’s cargo hold, and Captain Delgado and I have nearly reached the ramp. The time to make my decision ends the moment I set foot on that aircraft, but . . . I suddenly realize there is
another
choice. A choice I’ve already considered once today.

I can run.

I can forget Richard Blackstone and run. I could take my chances out there in the big, bad world and hope like hell that stupid bitch, Finn, doesn’t wake up and march my body back into the arms of the authorities. If Otto was telling the truth, and I could make it back to her in time, maybe she could erase Finn before that happens? That’s a whole lot of “mights” and “maybes,” but what other choice do I have?

I can easily disarm the Captain and duck around the side of the transport. I could make it to the buildings on the other side of the courtyard before the R.A.M.s fully activate. He wouldn’t dare risk coming after me. Not with the threat of those mechanoids hanging in the balance. After that, if I keep up a good pace, I could probably find a town somewhere around here before nightfall.

OK. My mind is made up. I have to run. It’s my only chance at freedom . . . and I have to do it now.

A few paces from the edge of the ramp, I thrust my arm forward, breaking Captain Delgado’s grip and knocking the barrel of the pistol away from my side in one slick maneuver. Caught by surprise, the Captain pulls the trigger, and the gun flares, but the sound of the shot is completely drowned out by the roaring engines, and the soldiers trudging up the ramp have their backs to us. No one is alerted. I easily twist the pistol from Captain Delgado’s hand and elbow him hard in his broken ribs. He doubles over and drops to the ground. I dart away and skirt around the transparent heat curtain attached to the side of the ramp. I immediately regret my rash decision when I’m blasted square in the face by the scorching downdraft of the turbines. Luckily, the engines aren’t directly overhead, or I would’ve been incinerated, but it still feels like I’ve stepped into a furnace. My clothes whip violently as the jet wash burns my eyes and throat. I hold my hand up to shield my face, and I stumble, dropping the pistol as I turn and run, half-blinded, out into the open, a route I most definitely did
not
want to take.

I have no choice but to carry on running as fast as I can in any direction—it doesn’t matter where anymore, just as long as it’s away from Captain Delgado. I keep going, rapidly blinking my eyes in a desperate attempt to clear them. It seems to help a little, and I must have covered at least thirty meters when my shoulder suddenly jolts and blood sprays onto the paving in front of me.

I’ve been shot.

I grab the wound tightly and keep moving. I feel another impact, and blood bursts out from my stomach and speckles the ground. I zigzag, trying to make myself a harder target to hit, but it does no good as another bullet brutally punches through my left thigh. My leg buckles underneath me, and I reach out as I hit the ground hard, scraping the skin from the palms of my hands as I slide to an abrupt stop, facedown on the paving. Warnings throb through my head. I’m bleeding badly, but I’m thankful that whoever shot me has terrible aim. I roll onto my back and glare toward the transport. My vision is still poor, but I can make out blurry shapes of frantic movement on the cargo ramp. I screw my eyes shut and will them to heal. I can feel the damaged film on the surface of my eyes sealing over, and when I open them, the blurred shapes sharpen into focus, and I immediately see why I wasn’t shot straight through the heart.

Swaying violently from side to side, trying to wrench a rifle from a soldier’s hands . . . is Ryan.

Otto leaps from the cargo hold onto the ramp and joins the fight as she swiftly whacks the soldier on the back of the head with a computer slate. The soldier fends her off, and she falls awkwardly onto her bottom. Ryan saved my life, but when those R.A.M.s wake up, I’ll be the closest target, and all his effort will be for nothing. I turn to check on the line of robots and immediately feel nauseous. All six pairs of white-circle eyes have turned an angry shade of bright red. If they’re anything like the Combat Drones, it’ll only be a matter of seconds before they fully activate. I need to move. Thankfully, my friends are buying me some time. I focus on closing my gunshot wounds, but I’ve lost a lot of blood today, and it’s getting harder and harder to heal the damage, especially when it’s this bad . . . Wait a second. Did I just call Ryan and Otto my . . .
friends
? Is that really what they are now?

They’re trying to keep me alive, so to my complete surprise, the answer to my question is . . .
yes
. They are my friends.

Well, I’ll be damned.

Suddenly much more concerned for their safety than I thought I ever could be, I look back toward the transport. Three unarmed soldiers have run down onto the ramp. One of them assists Captain Delgado, helping him up from the ground, as another roughly pulls Otto into a choke hold and drags her out of sight. Ryan head-butts the man he’s fighting, and the soldier reels from the blow as Ryan pulls the rifle from his grip. The soldier tumbles onto the ramp, clutching his nose as another soldier runs forward and sucker-punches Ryan in the side of the head.

Ryan drops to one knee, but as his assailant steps over him, Ryan swings the butt of the rifle, catching the man in the groin. The soldier buckles at the knees and drops as yet another man appears from the cargo hold and strides angrily toward Ryan. Even though he’s putting up a hell of a fight, Ryan is eventually going to be beaten to a bloody pulp by those men. And it’s all because of me. I have to try and help him. Maybe if I can stand, he’ll see that I’m OK and surrender. My shoulder is fixed, and the holes in my stomach and leg are almost closed, but my internal injuries still need some time to heal, so my body protests fiercely as I drag myself up onto one knee. I raise a hand toward the transport to show Ryan that I’m alright, but his eyes are focused on his enemies, not me. The angry-looking soldier steps over his fallen comrade and is only a couple of meters away when Ryan hauls himself to his feet and pulls the rifle to his shoulder.

No. Ryan. Put the gun down.

Regulation requires rifles to be stowed for takeoff, so the soldiers standing on the ramp are empty-handed. They glare at Ryan, motioning at him to lower his weapon as he waves the barrel back and forth at them.

That’s when I feel the vibrations.

I turn to look back down the courtyard, and my stomach churns. The R.A.M.s. are awake and approaching, marching in a synchronized line like six giant, red-eyed monsters, and I’m not the only one who’s noticed them.

Captain Delgado is standing at the top of the ramp, shouting and gesturing wildly to someone inside. The turbines throttle up, and the transport suddenly begins to lift off with Ryan and the soldiers still standing on the open cargo door. All of them sway unsteadily as the transport rises. The aircraft leans; Ryan loses his balance and staggers. He fumbles with the rifle; it slips from his grasp and clatters at his feet. Captain Delgado lunges and pulls a pistol from a nearby soldier’s hip. He raises the gun, and as easily as someone would swat a fly, he pulls the trigger . . . and shoots Ryan square in the chest. Ryan twists from the impact and topples backward off the edge of the ramp.

“NOOOOO!” My scream is lost in the roar of the engines.

Clawing at the air, Ryan plummets from the transport and hits the ground hard. His head slumps to the side, and his lifeless eyes stare into nowhere. The other transport takes off, following right behind Captain Delgado’s. As I watch both transports climb above the buildings, seething rage boils through my veins. I vow that one day, I’ll personally gut Javier Delgado and force him to watch as I make him choke on his own intestines.

My gaze falls on Ryan’s body, and I quietly whisper, “I’m sorry.”

The pain of futile remorse grips my heart as I watch the transports leave. Ryan was so close to making it out of here. He could’ve been on that transport, but now, because of me, he’s dead. I try to console myself with the knowledge that Otto is finally safe. And if I’m ever going to make Captain Delgado suffer, I need to save my own skin, too. I grit my teeth and turn my hate into the fuel I need to carry on. I look toward the mechanoids. They’re still far enough away for me to make a safe escape, and I’m about to make a run for it when I pause.

The R.A.M.s have stopped walking.

They’re all just standing there in a line with their domed heads swiveled upward. All of a sudden, like fingers creeping toward the sky, I notice five small missiles rising up over the left shoulder of one of the mechanoids. Five more rise over the shoulder of the next robot, then the next in line, and the next one after that, until soon the shoulders of all six R.A.M.s are bristling with them.

I feel pathetic and useless, tortured by my inability to stop this from happening, but there really is nothing I can do. Before today, I’d never felt what it’s like to know someone you care for is moments away from dying. It feels like a fist is squeezing my insides and forcing them up into my throat.
It hurts.

First Ryan, and now you.

You don’t deserve to die like this, Bettina.

I’ll never be able to tell you how truly sorry I am.

I watch helplessly as the missiles ignite and begin launching, one after the other, in rapid succession. The gut-wrenching sight fills my eyes as the missiles hiss and wind through the air like serpents, weaving a white lattice of smoke trails as they climb higher and higher into the clear blue sky.

Please . . . forgive me.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

All hell will be breaking loose inside the cockpits of those transports. Missile-lock alerts will be blaring, displays will be flashing, panic will be spreading among the passengers like wildfire, and the pilots’ nerves will be stretched to breaking point as they’re forced to choose from a very short list of split-second, life-or-death decisions.

The first of the missiles has nearly reached the lower transport when multiple glowing red globes of light begin shooting out of the aircraft’s undercarriage. The pilot has activated the antimissile countermeasures. The red flares are designed to draw heat-seeking missiles away from the engines, and I can tell by the missiles’ vapor trails that the distraction appears to be working as one, then another, then four more projectiles begin swerving toward the lines of drifting red lights.

There are multiple flashes, and I momentarily lose sight of both aircraft behind a swath of fiery orange and yellow. The transports are already quite high, so there’s a two-second delay before the resounding bass beats of the explosions echo loudly throughout the courtyard. A glimmer of hope ripples through me as I spot Otto’s transport emerging from high above the darkening, smoky stains of the explosions. It tilts to the left and begins curving through the air, inexplicably heading back the way it came as it shoots its own strings of flares out behind it. A group of heat-seekers takes the bait, and half a dozen bulbs of fire burst harmlessly in the sky far below the aircraft.

The other transport roves into view as it breaks through the blackened cloudbursts of the first detonations. The smoke trails over the aircraft’s fuselage like a ghostly veil as it veers wildly to the right. I see the blue flames at the mouths of its turbines burn brighter as the pilot attempts to gain altitude. The shock waves of the first explosions took out a good number of the other missiles, but, unfortunately, they weren’t nearly good enough. It would only take one to bring that transport down, and the heat from its engines at full burn is drawing three missiles toward it like hungry piranhas to a bleeding carcass.

Otto’s transport makes a sharp turn as more lines of flares spit from its undercarriage. Seven missiles veer toward the flares. Four explode, but the other three are merely knocked off course by the blasts. Their vapor trails twist and turn erratically for a couple of seconds before, to my horror, the tumbling missiles correct themselves and continue their deadly purpose, curving back toward their target. I see the glowing engines of Otto’s transport go out completely. Either the engines are malfunctioning, or that pilot is attempting some kind of desperate survival maneuver. It appears to be the latter as the Gryphon drops like a stone and more flares begin spouting out from behind it.

The evasion technique seems to work as the persistent missiles lock onto the flares, speed in . . . and explode in a line of raging fireballs. Otto’s transport is buffeted by the shock waves, but it’s in one piece. Its engines flare back to life, but only for a moment before they cut out again. They fire up once more, burn for an instant, and then are extinguished again. Something is wrong. Otto’s transport is losing altitude fast.

Both Gryphons are in dire trouble. I quickly look toward the other transport. Its engines are now at full power, and it’s speeding away with the three missiles still in pursuit. Two more lines of flares eject from the transport’s belly, but it’s too little, too late. The three missiles chasing it are far too close now to choose a warm appetizer over the piping-hot main course of the turbines. The curving trails of the heat-seekers become arrow straight as they speed past the flares and close in on their target. Everyone on that aircraft is as good as dead.

I’m sure even they know it by now.

No sooner does the morbid thought cross my mind than blooms of fire open up in the sky. The transport violently rocks and jolts as it suffers three successive direct impacts. All I can do is pray for the occupants’ deaths to be quick and painless, and by the time the gruesome rhythm of the explosions reaches the ground, the burning shell of the aircraft is already falling out of the sky.

Otto’s Gryphon is still dropping, its engines firing in sporadic bursts as it tilts and sways through the air.

The other transport continues plummeting toward the ground, but . . . it’s not falling the way I thought it would. Somehow, its turbines must still be functioning, because the transport is being propelled on a strange, twisting trajectory. A thick trail of billowing black smoke spews out from behind it as it zigzags through the air like a leaf caught in the wind. It’s coming down fast, and the closer the falling aircraft gets, the more it dawns on me that the wreckage might actually crash-land . . . right here in the courtyard! There’s no way of telling exactly where it will hit, but when it does, I sure as hell don’t want to be underneath it. I quickly turn and take off toward the row of buildings behind me as the labored whine of the transport’s engines gets louder and louder directly overhead. It’s coming down, and it’s coming down
fast
.

Functioning on little more than pure adrenaline, I run for my life, vaulting over bench seats and dodging around tree trunks and lampposts. Panting at the air, I sprint along the line of buildings, heading for the only structure I know of with an open door . . . The command post. I’m nearly at the entrance to the stairwell when I look into the sky and spot Otto’s transport. It’s low, and it’s coming down over the buildings farther into the facility. I hope like hell that they’re able to land safely.

The other transport has curved around and is coming in fast, right into the courtyard, just like I feared it would. It’s close enough that I can see that the bottom half of the Gryphon is almost completely gone, but three out of four turbines are still attached to the upper half of the crippled aircraft. Anyone in its cargo hold that survived the explosions would have fallen to their deaths, but I’m still amazed the whole thing wasn’t completely blown to smithereens with the initial strike. It’s moments from hitting the ground when suddenly the two front turbines roar to life. The nose of the transport pulls up at the last instant.

It’s so close to the ground that it roves in between two trees as a huge swath of black smoke pours down behind it, dousing everything in its wake with a blanket of billowing darkness. I’m less than fifteen meters from the stairwell door when I suddenly skid to stop and stare in stunned disbelief. Incredibly, through the shattered glass of the Gryphon’s cockpit, I can see a man struggling with the controls. There’s no mistaking what he’s trying to do. He’s not trying to land the transport safely, oh no. If he were, he would’ve chosen anywhere else to attempt it. I only caught a glimpse of his face for a split second, but it was long enough to tell me exactly where he’s aiming that wreck.

Directly at the line of six robots.

The part of their programming that controls self-preservation must have suddenly kicked in, because all of them turn and break into a run. Three go to their left, and three lunge to their right as fresh sets of missiles launch from all of their shoulders. Heat-seekers fill the air, winding and spiraling in every direction. Some curve and head for the runaway transport, but, with the target so close, many shoot straight up and out to the sides before correcting their course, veering in wide, out-of-control arcs. One of the errant projectiles spirals and then loops around, hitting one of the R.A.M.s square in the center of its own head. The detonation rips open the green dome like a tin can, and the giant robot drops to the ground like a marionette that’s had its strings suddenly sliced away.

There’s no time for celebration as missiles slam into the sides of buildings, weave upward, or head straight down into the ground. Some curve toward the transport and hit trees or benches, and some streak out of view into the black fog that’s steadily spreading across the courtyard. There are so many explosions that it feels like the fabric of reality is being torn apart around me. I dive at the ground, screaming as fireballs erupt in every conceivable direction. The noise is astonishing. It’s like an earthquake and a thunderstorm have combined and are raging into real life.

Glass is shattering, walls are toppling, chunks of stone and concrete are raining down around me, and as the transport is hit by a barrage of missiles, it’s completely obliterated in a drumming pattern of colossal detonations. The first in a series of rolling shock waves scoops me from the ground and slams me against something hard as each successive wave punches every bit of my body in quick and brutal succession. I’m speared in my shoulder and leg by flying scraps of metal as thick, burning globules of concentrated aviation gel spatter the crumbling facades of the buildings like napalm.

The shroud of black smoke engulfs me. I cough and retch inside the mire of choking darkness, desperately waving my hands. The only light I can see is coming from the patches of burning fuel and debris scattered throughout the courtyard, and the only sounds I can hear are the crackling of fire . . . and the heavy tromping of approaching footsteps.

The R.A.M.s are heading in this direction. I need to move. I run my trembling fingers down my thigh and touch the sharp edge of metal sticking out of my leg. I grasp it tightly and quickly pull it out. A warm spray of blood squirts against my hand. I slap my palm against the open wound and will it to heal. The footsteps are coming closer; I need to hurry. I can feel the cut starting to close, but it takes every ounce of my concentration as each microscopic repair taxes my mental discipline to the limit. I’m on the brink of bursting a blood vessel in my brain when I finally stop the bleeding and only barely manage to close the skin.

I reach across and pull the shrapnel from my shoulder. Even though the warning tones tell me it’s not as bad as the gash in my leg, I still don’t think I’m quite strong enough to heal it. I quickly tear a strip off the sleeve of my shirt, wrap it as tightly as I can around the cut in my shoulder, and, holding one end of the makeshift bandage in my teeth, manage to tie a temporary knot.

The footsteps sound like they’re almost on top of me, so I try to stand. There’s movement, and I’m instantly gripped with terror. Through the oily black smoke, I can see the shadowy outline of three giant robots, the hazy glow of their bloodred eyes swiveling from side to side as their thunderous stomps shake the ground. My internal voice screams at me to get up and move. I grit my teeth, haul myself to my feet, and begin limping along the line of buildings. Tripping over fragments of dislodged paving and rubble, I reach the stairwell door that leads to the command post. I could climb the stairs, and I might be safe for a while, but I don’t go in. I shamble on past the door as the pounding vibrations of the robots’ footsteps spur me on, and while the thought of avoiding being crushed beneath one of their massive feet is all the incentive I need to keep going, that’s not the reason why I carry on.

I need to know if Otto is still alive.

I’m sure there’s enough cover between here and the buildings at the far end of the courtyard to stay out of the R.A.M.s’ direct sight lines. The patches of burning fuel will hopefully disguise my body heat; so as long as I’m quick and I stay in the smoke, I think I can make it. I find the right part of my foot to put weight on so I can move faster, and I’m covering ground at a decent pace when my plan immediately begins to come apart at the seams. The black smoke I was relying on to hide me is thinning fast. It’s too late to turn back now. I can see the shape of a tree up ahead. As I change direction and head toward it, my worst fears come to life as a voice suddenly booms out from the darkness behind me. It’s a deep, emotionless, robotic voice. It’s exactly the way I’d expect a robot designed for killing would speak, but inside it, I can hear something else: it’s as if two overlapping voices are saying the same bone-chilling words at exactly the same time.

“INTRUDER DETECTED.”

I’d know that other voice anywhere. It is Onix’s. It’s like his calm, polite tone has been wrapped in the other voice, folded into the guttural bass of those synthesized war machines. Onix’s virtual insanity is going to bring this whole place down, and if I don’t double my efforts, I’ll be taken down right along with it.

Bolstered by the overwhelming desire not to die, I stubbornly deny the injury to my leg and quicken my pace even more, picking up speed as I near the misty edge of the dank fog. I glance back and see the hazy contours of the three mechanoids’ heads and shoulders, their soulless red eyes ringed with murky halos of scarlet.

With a growing sense of terror rising in my gut, I limp out into the open. There’s no proper cover between here and the tree, which is nearly twenty excruciating meters away.

A nightmarish scream cuts through the air.

It’s the terrifying, high-pitched, ramping-up wail of the R.A.M.s’ weapons preparing to unleash hell. I’ve felt fear before. I’ve never admitted it to anyone, but every mission I’ve ever been sent on has frightened me. I learned to control it, and even harness it and use it to make me stronger. But what I’m feeling now is pure, undiluted, and utterly overwhelming. Even the warning tones of my injuries fade behind the sounds of my heart beating in my chest, my throat, and my ears. The mild afternoon breeze feels cold on my lips as each breath is strained through my clenched teeth, the desperate rasp of every inhale vocalized with mewling, involuntary whimpers.

I’m not afraid.

I’m absolutely scared to death.

My damaged leg is forgotten as I break into a scrambling, unwieldy sprint. The sound of the wailing guns begins to crackle with arcing electricity, and I know what comes next. I know that I’ve run out of time. I don’t look back; what would the point of that be? I don’t want the last thing I see to be those dead, red, glaring eyes. Tears of effort and dismay trail down my face as I grunt and stumble toward the tree.

It’s so close . . . but I fear it’s just not close enough.

The sound of blaring foghorns shocks the air as the robots’ weapons open fire behind me. I scream as I dive toward the ground and roll as the paving beside me erupts into a storm of dust and stone shrapnel. The burst of gunfire cuts off, and, filled to bursting with terrified panic, I try to push myself up. When my left hand hits the ground, it sounds like I’ve slapped the paving with a wet sponge. I look down and see why.