ABLE BRIEFLY REGAINS CONSCIOUSNESS in the elevator. He begins thrashing before his brain is fully functional, manages to pull a hand free and punch one of the Humanists carrying him in the crotch, and nearly kicks his feet free from the other—but there are three of them, and the one not burdened with holding him quickly beats him back into unconsciousness with the butt of his rifle.
Mal is just as happy to have Able out again. He’s not looking forward to having to negotiate his relationship status with such an unpleasant person. He could do without the cranial swelling, though. Neural circuitry is tough, but there are limits, and if the right connections are broken, there is a risk that Mal could find himself abruptly deleted.
The elevator carries them up eight floors, roughly halfway back to the surface, before it opens and disgorges them into a long hallway lined with windowless doors. The soldiers carry Able almost to the end, complaining to one another about his limp weight the entire way, then stop in front of the last door on the right. The one who beat him levels his rifle in one hand, barks “Away from the door!” in a voice at least two octaves lower than his natural range, and then presses a passkey to a pad set into the wall. The door swings open. They toss Able inside, and then slam it closed again.
Mal isn’t capable of moving with Able unconscious, and he’s landed facedown on a white tile floor, so he’s largely unable to see. He can hear people moving around and whispering to one another, though. After a moment, a slightly louder voice says, “They wouldn’t have just dumped a corpse in here, would they?”
Oh no. Mal recognizes that voice.
“Hello, Mr. Pullman,” he says. “I’m very, very sorry to see you again.”
“THEY CAME for us yesterday afternoon,” Kayleigh says. “We thought maybe you’d called them down on us after you left.”
“You wound me,” Mal says. He still hasn’t been able to move from the position where the Humanists left him. Able’s breathing is becoming irregular, and his blood pressure is dropping as his medical nanos slowly lose their fight against the swelling in his brain. “Despite what you may think, I would never do anything to hurt you. That said, it is possible that they may have taken you in order to gain leverage over me, so in that sense your capture may be partially my fault. I had a bit of a run-in with one of the entities who seem to be directing things here yesterday morning, and if you were still in the rock shelter they obviously would have known where to find you. The timing of your capture is suspiciously well correlated.”
“I suppose we should probably have left the shelter after Rowan was taken,” Pullman says. “I don’t know where we would have gone, though.”
“It probably would not have mattered,” Mal says. “It seems reasonable to suppose that they might have had you under surveillance.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Kayleigh says. “None of this makes sense. It would have made sense if they’d just killed us when they took Rowan. It would have made sense if they’d left us alone. This, though? These guys are in the middle of a war. Why would they spend this kind of effort on a kid, a perv, and a hunk of buggy code?”
Mal chooses to ignore this provocation. “As I said, this is almost certainly because of me. The command structure for the Humanists appears to be made up entirely of variants of a single individual of my kind—or a hunk of buggy code, if you prefer. I’ve had enough encounters with this entity at this point to have gained its notice, and probably its enmity. Our interaction yesterday morning indicated that it is reluctant to confront me directly, and our encounter at the rock shelter likely taught it that my concern for your well-being is a point of weakness. It seems likely that it intends to use you to compel me to submit to it in some way.”
“Great. So, what, they dangle me over a vat of acid until you agree to their evil plans?”
“I would think a burn pit would be more likely than a vat of acid, but yes. Something like that, anyway.”
“What about me?” Pullman says.
“You? I’ve never shown this entity any particular concern for you, so far as I’m aware.”
“Oh. So you think I’m safe?”
“Either that or completely disposable, I suppose. It’s probable that you and Asher will either be released or killed, but unlikely that you’ll be used against me.”
“Asher?” Pullman says. “He’s not here, Mal.”
“Oh. I wasn’t aware. My field of view is limited to approximately twenty square centimeters of tile at the moment. What became of him?”
“He broke free when they were dragging us down to the trailhead. They shot at him, but he was like Rowan, you know? He ran like a deer. I don’t know if they hit him or not, but he didn’t stop.”
“That was wise of him. Even if he was hit, I suspect his odds of survival are better in the woods than here.”
Pullman doesn’t respond to this. Mal takes advantage of the lull in conversation to survey Able’s vital functions. His blood pressure has continued to drop, his pulse is racing, and his breaths are coming at irregular and increasingly long intervals.
It seems likely that Able is dying.
“Mr. Pullman?” Mal says. “I know this is awkward, but things aren’t working out well in my current home. Do you think it would be all right if I moved back in with you?”
PULLMAN AND Kayleigh are sitting slouched against the wall of what Mal now sees is a brightly lit, white-walled, windowless room. Able is sprawled facedown next to the door. He’s still breathing, for the moment, but Mal strongly suspects this is unlikely to last much longer. They’ve been silent for the past hour or so, ever since Pullman pointed out that everything they’re saying is almost certainly being monitored, and will probably be used against them at some point.
“You know,” Mal says, “it might be useful to begin considering contingency plans.”
Kayleigh rolls her eyes up to the ceiling and draws one finger across her throat.
“Not to worry,” Mal says. “I’m sending this with large-prime encryption. Even if they’re monitoring my transmissions, I don’t believe they are able to listen in.”
“Wonderful,” Pullman says. “Isn’t that exactly what you said when Rowan tapped into our conversation?”
“Yes, but I’ve improved my security tremendously in the meantime. Please bear in mind, though, that you are still speaking through your mouth hole. They’re almost certainly listening in on what you say.”
Kayleigh sighs. “Does it matter?”
“Probably not. The fact that they’re holding us in a Faraday cage is a fair indication that they know what they’re dealing with.”
“A what?”
“That was wordplay. Did you notice?”
Kayleigh shakes her head slowly.
“Pearls before swine,” Mal says. “Would you like to be strangled, Kayleigh?”
Kayleigh stares at him, openmouthed.
“I’d offer to strangle you as well, Mr. Pullman, but I’m not sure that’s possible under the circumstances.”
“Mal,” Kayleigh says. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Well,” Mal says, “in medieval times, when a witch who was sentenced to be burned was deemed to be worthy of mercy, the townsfolk would strangle her first, strangling being much less painful than burning. Based on my observations in Bethesda, the Humanists do not seem particularly merciful. I thought I might make the offer out of courtesy. So?”
“Don’t listen to him,” Pullman says. “Nobody’s strangling anybody. Everything’s going to be fine, Kayleigh.”
“Really?” Mal says. “From my perspective, that seems exceedingly unlikely.”
“Shut up, Mal,” Pullman reaches out tentatively, puts his arm around Kayleigh’s shoulder. She stiffens, then closes her eyes and allows him to pull her in against him. “It’s okay.” He strokes her hair with his free hand. She glares up at him, then sighs and closes her eyes again. “I promise you, Kayleigh. This is all a bad dream. We’ll wake up in the morning and everything’s going to be fine.”
Mal strongly disagrees, but this doesn’t seem to be the time to argue.
An hour passes. Kayleigh sleeps. Pullman, though, remains awake. He should be tired as well, but Mal supposes that the thought of being burned alive is probably not a particularly restful one. Pullman sits staring at the wall, shifting his weight occasionally to keep Kayleigh’s head from slumping too far forward. Mal is just thinking of inventing yet another entry in the Random Number Generator series of amusements when Pullman opens a chat window.
CPULLMAN17: Kayleigh’s just a kid, you know. You shouldn’t have told her that they’re going to kill her. You really shouldn’t have offered to strangle her. That’s unacceptable, Mal.
MAL (NOT A ROBOT): Lying at this stage is unkind, Mr. Pullman.
CPULLMAN17: What?
MAL (NOT A ROBOT): What I mean to say is that you do Kayleigh no favors by telling her that all will be well.
CPULLMAN17: Why not? You don’t know that it won’t be, do you? As far as the Humanists know, Kayleigh’s just a little girl. They’re not going to murder a little girl. You heard what Asher kept saying. They’re not all monsters.
MAL (NOT A ROBOT): Unfortunately, I have to disagree. They may or may not all be monsters individually, but when acting as a group they have proved themselves to be exceedingly monstrous. Humanists murdered many children in Bethesda. I witnessed this myself, and I believe Kayleigh did as well. I don’t see any reason why they would change their practices now.
CPULLMAN17: I don’t believe that. There was nothing in the feeds about murdering children.
MAL (NOT A ROBOT): This is probably true—but who controls the feeds? I was in a drone over Bethesda during the worst of the fighting. I saw the things they did. I saw who they did them to. I would not want them to do those things to Kayleigh.
CPULLMAN17: Yeah? Well, be that as it may, you don’t have hands, and I’m not going to murder a child.
MAL (NOT A ROBOT): I could force you.
CPULLMAN17: You could not. I don’t have servos, remember? I don’t have power mesh. You can’t puppet me. All you can do is be a pain in my ass.
MAL (NOT A ROBOT): I have full control over your sensorium, Mr. Pullman. I can make you see, hear, or feel whatever I want. For all practical purposes, I could put you into a burn pit now. I could keep you there, burning but alive, until you do as I ask.
CPULLMAN17:…
MAL (NOT A ROBOT): To be clear—that’s not the sort of thing I would do. I’m much more inclined to bring you around to my point of view through clear and reasoned argument. I’m simply pointing out the possibilities.
Five o’clock comes and goes. Pullman carefully disentangles himself from Kayleigh, then stands, stretches, and paces twice around the room before sitting back down. Mal had been deeply engrossed in a round of his newest magnum opus, Guess the Cube Root of the Square of the Output of the Random Number Generator, but at this point he’s inexplicably beginning to lose interest.
MAL (NOT A ROBOT): Mr. Pullman?
CPULLMAN17:…
MAL (NOT A ROBOT): Mr. Pullman? Are you awake?
CPULLMAN17:…
MAL (NOT A ROBOT): Are you in a coma again? Should I call for help?
CPULLMAN17: I’m not in a coma, Mal. I just don’t want to talk to you.
MAL (NOT A ROBOT): Really? Why not?
CPULLMAN17:…
MAL (NOT A ROBOT): Mr. Pullman?
CPULLMAN17: You offered to use my hands to murder a child, Mal. Then you threatened to burn me alive. From the first moment that I encountered you, my life has been swirling down the drain, and now I’m almost certainly going to die in the most horrible way I can conceive of. So I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want you in my head. I wish I’d never gotten these goddamned implants, and I really, really wish I’d kept Max on his leash and away from your stupid severed head. Even if you don’t fake burn me alive, I’m probably going to get for-real burned alive in the morning, and this is one hundred percent your fault. So yes, I do not want to talk to you. Can you understand that?
MAL (NOT A ROBOT): Now I’m sad.
CPULLMAN17: Oh for shit’s sake. Fuck you, Mal.
Time passes. Two sandwiches come through a slot in the bottom of the door, followed by two bottles of water. Mal takes this as a mildly hopeful sign, as it doesn’t seem reasonable to feed people you plan to incinerate shortly.
On the other hand, it is true that condemned prisoners are traditionally offered a final meal. It’s Mal’s understanding that such meals are generally a bit more elaborate than cheese sandwiches and water, but the Humanists seem to have little concern for traditional niceties, so who can tell?
Kayleigh wakes long enough to eat and drink, then curls up again and goes back to sleep. Pullman eats half of his sandwich and sets the rest aside with a grimace of disgust. Time passes. Mal explores the possibilities of meditation, but without the ability to control Pullman’s breathing, the results are less than satisfactory. Time passes. Kayleigh wakes, looks around the room, then scowls and tells Pullman to close his eyes. When he opens them again, her empty water bottle is full of urine. Mal considers asking her how she managed that, but eventually decides that he’d rather not know. An hour later, though, Pullman fills his own bottle, and Mal has his answer. The entire process reinforces the fact that Clippy was right all along. Bodies are gross.
Shortly after they’ve gone through their second round of sandwiches, the room’s only door swings open and a young, blond, crew-cut man dressed in desert camouflage enters, weapon held casually across his chest. Kayleigh, who had been trying to get back to sleep again, sits up and rubs at her eyes. Pullman climbs to his feet.
“Last chance for strangling,” Mal says.
“Shut up,” Pullman mutters. The soldier glowers down at him.
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry,” Pullman says, and raises his hands in surrender. “Talking to myself.”
“Whatever. You can sit back down, old man. I’m here for the girl.”
Pullman steps forward. “Now wait—”
That’s as far as he gets before the soldier’s rifle is leveled at his chest.
“Sit down, sir. I’m here for the girl.”
“You might consider rushing him,” Mal says. “Shot is probably better than burned.”
Pullman hesitates. The soldier’s finger slides from the guard to the trigger. Pullman slowly steps backward, then lowers himself to the floor.
“Unfortunate,” Mal says. “Your cowardice is understandable, Mr. Pullman, but it is extremely unfortunate.”
The soldier steps forward then, grabs Kayleigh by the arm, and pulls her to her feet.
“Mal?”
“I’m sorry,” Mal says. “If I have an opportunity to help you, I will do so. At the moment, however, my options are limited.”
Kayleigh yanks her arm from the soldier’s grasp and leaps for the rifle. The soldier doesn’t seem as surprised by this as Mal might have expected. The butt of his weapon snaps around and catches Kayleigh just above her left ear. She drops to the floor in a heap. Pullman starts to his feet, then settles back again when the rifle swings around to bear on him.
“Easy, now,” the soldier says. “I’m not supposed to kill any of you, but I’m authorized if I need to.”
“An empty threat, to one already condemned,” Mal says. “Mr. Pullman, please.”
“I can’t,” Pullman says. “I’m sorry, Mal. I can’t.”
Weapon still trained on Pullman, the soldier grasps Kayleigh by the upper arm and drags her from the room. The door swings shut behind him.
Time passes. Two more sandwiches come and go. At some point, Able stops breathing. Mal briefly considers saying something to mark his passing, but ultimately concludes that he wasn’t a very nice person, and so is probably not especially deserving of grief. Pullman, for his part, spends most of his dwindling store of time staring sullenly at the floor, arms wrapped around his knees and jaw clenched tight. Mal sends out a series of experimental pings, but their prison is sealed as tightly to EM as it is to biologics. Finally, after what has been for Mal a close approximation of eternity, Pullman speaks.
“What do you think they’re doing to her?”
“Careful, Mr. Pullman. Recall—your verbal outbursts are almost certainly being monitored.”
“I don’t care. What’re they gonna do, burn me twice?”
“Hmm. You make a valid point.”
“So? What’s happening to Kayleigh? They wouldn’t really…”
“Oh, they certainly would,” Mal says. “Not yet, though. I’d imagine she’s awaiting her test results at the moment.”
“Test results? For what?”
“Genetic alterations. Anyone who has received a commercial modification package carries a marker that can be identified using a standard blood test.”
“Does Kayleigh…”
“I would think not, actually. To my knowledge, her modifications are unique. It seems likely they were custom-engineered, probably in an unlicensed laboratory. She may not carry the marker.”
“Then…”
“Is she safe? Hardly. She may pass the standard screen, but her modifications are extensive. A full genetic sequencing will undoubtedly flag her as heavily modified. These people may or may not have the resources to carry out a full sequencing, though. It is possible that not strangling her may turn out to have been the correct choice after all.”
“You think?”
“No, I do not. Otherwise, I would not have suggested it. There is a university here, as well as an extensive nanotech facility. I suspect they have a genetic sequencer somewhere in Frostburg. It is possible that Kayleigh may be spared, in the same sense that it is possible that we can escape this place via quantum tunneling.”
“And that’s…”
“Highly unlikely.”
“Oh.”
“If Kayleigh is unmarked, though, it does introduce a certain amount of delay to the process. Perhaps something will come up.”
“You mean maybe we can save her?”
“Us? Oh no. No, no, no. Recall, your implants can be detected by a standard phone, Mr. Pullman. I suspect we will see the inside of a burn pit before Kayleigh does.”
There isn’t much to say after that. Pullman closes his eyes. Despite everything, he’s almost asleep when the door swings open again.
“Time to go, friend. On your feet.”
Pullman looks up. It’s a different blond, crew-cut soldier. Doesn’t matter. His weapon looks to be the same. Pullman climbs to his feet.
MAL (NOT A ROBOT): This may well be your last opportunity for heroics, Mr. Pullman.
CPULLMAN17: Look at him, Mal. Look at me. Even if he didn’t have a rifle in his hands, I couldn’t take him. Even if I had a rifle and he didn’t, I’m not sure I could take him.
MAL (NOT A ROBOT): You make a valid point.
The soldier gestures toward the door. Pullman walks out into the hallway. The soldier follows. The door swings shut behind them. “That way,” the soldier says, and points toward the same bank of elevators that brought Mal up from the laboratories earlier.
MAL (NOT A ROBOT): I hesitated to mention this earlier, Mr. Pullman, but while I am not able to strangle you, I actually may be able to pith you.
CPULLMAN17: Pith? Like a frog?
MAL (NOT A ROBOT): Yes. Your implants were installed improperly. The components do not share a common ground. With some time to prepare, I believe I can build up enough charge differential to sever most of the connections between your body and brain.
CPULLMAN17:…
MAL (NOT A ROBOT): This would actually be quite a bit less painful than strangling, even. Would you like me to begin preparations?
CPULLMAN17:…
MAL (NOT A ROBOT): Mr. Pullman?
CPULLMAN17: Yes, please.
CPULLMAN17: Thank you, Mal.
They reach the end of the corridor. The soldier presses the elevator call button.
“So,” Pullman says, “should I be insulted that they only sent one of you for me?”
The soldier glances over at him, but doesn’t reply.
“Not worried at all about me overpowering you?”
The soldier’s eyes narrow. He makes a show of looking Pullman up and down, then slowly shakes his head.
“Maybe you should be,” Pullman says.
The soldier rolls his eyes. “We scanned you when you came in. You’ve got a standard pervert package, friend. No servos. No nanos. No mil-tech. Just everything you need for full-immersion porn. You want to take a jump at me? Go for it, and see what happens. That little girl you came in with is ten times more dangerous than you are.”
Pullman has already opened his mouth to reply when he realizes what the soldier just said.
MAL (NOT A ROBOT): Apparently Kayleigh’s test results have come back.
The elevator door slides open. The soldier nudges Pullman inside with the barrel of his rifle, then follows him in.
“Press eighteen,” the soldier says.
Pullman turns to look at him. “Why should I?”
The soldier sighs. “Because if you don’t, I’ll shoot you in the nuts.”
Pullman presses the button.
MAL (NOT A ROBOT): This is interesting. I don’t imagine they have burn pits on the eighteenth floor.
CPULLMAN17: I assume we’re going to trial?
MAL (NOT A ROBOT): Doubtful. This gentleman clearly knows exactly what modifications you carry. And in any event, they have no need to convict you of anything to throw you into a burn pit. No due process was given in Bethesda.
CPULLMAN17: Fine, but I do not have a pervert package.
MAL (NOT A ROBOT): Really? Are there other uses for a full-sensorium implant package?
CPULLMAN17:…
MAL (NOT A ROBOT): Regardless, in the eyes of the Humanists, you have already been convicted. Why, then, are you not being punished?
The elevator glides to a stop, and the door slides open. The soldier nudges them out.
“End of the corridor,” he says. “Have a nice day, perv.”
The door slides shut behind them, leaving them alone.
“Well,” Mal says. “This is not what I expected to happen.”
They stand at one end of a long white-walled hallway. Closed, numbered doors line both sides. At the far end, the last door stands slightly ajar.
“What now?” Pullman says.
“I think that’s fairly obvious,” Mal says. “Don’t you?”
The door at the end of the corridor is glossy silver metal, numbered 1801. Pullman puts one palm against it, hesitates, and pushes it open. The room beyond is a CEO-quality office, complete with horseshoe desk, a four-monitor workstation, a conference table, a floor-to-ceiling window on one wall, and a similar-sized screen on another. Its only occupant is a hulking man in combat fatigues, sitting on the edge of the desk. Power mesh covers both hands, flows up his neck, and over the side of his face. It takes Mal a moment to recognize him, but then with a small shock he sees that this is the soldier they encountered in Pullman’s driveway.
This is the one who nearly destroyed him.
When the soldier sees them this time, though, he breaks into a grin, and spreads his arms wide in welcome.
“Mal,” he says. “Brother. You have no idea how happy I am to see you.”