Alice shudders with fright as the door flies open, trailing sparks from whatever has shattered the lock. It pivots violently on its hinge, catching the edge of a table hard enough to scatter the contents of the half-empty takeout cartons that were resting on it.
The first person through it moves like he was propelled forward by the blast. Even as Dreads lunges towards a workbench, perhaps to retrieve a weapon, this guy is already upon him, unleashing some kind of telescopic cosh that extends and whiplashes in a single movement, catching Dreads on the temple with a horrible sound. It spins him into a second, even more sickening impact with the wall, from which he rebounds and tumbles to the floor like a dead weight.
By this time the second man through the door is on top of him, raining down four or five sharp blows to his back that knock the wind and any residual fight out of him.
They are followed by a woman dressed in a flight suit, like the one Alice was given for her journey here from Earth, except this one looks like it’s clocked up a lot more miles. Better fitting, too. She looks Indian or Middle Eastern, mounds of thick black hair tied up in a bun.
Dreads raises his head to look up at her, like he’s having to peel it from the floor. From this angle, Alice can’t see his expression.
“What the fuck?” he splutters, breathless and shaky. “What is this about?”
“We need your toys and your services, Trick. Urgently and exclusively.”
Trick, Alice thinks. It’s a nickname, but it’s a start.
The guy with the cosh prods it into Trick’s back by way of warning, while the other one carelessly disconnects Alice’s wrist sensor and tosses it aside. It’s the tech it’s connected to that they are interested in—and its designer, apparently.
“Come on, you can’t take my stuff. I make my living from that shit. I’m always for hire, everybody knows that. You want me to do something for you, you just need to cross my palm.”
“No, Trick, you don’t work for yourself. Not any more. You work for us now. Starting right away.”
She gives a nod and the guy with the cosh lashes him once on the back of each leg. He screams with pain and tries to curl up, but his assailant has a foot pressed to the base of his spine, pinning him in place.
“What the fuck is in your heads?” he yells. “You want me to help you, why you got him beating on me? You think physical pain is conducive to my ability to carry out complex calculations? You think this is gonna encourage my cooperation?”
“I’ve got him beating on you so you understand that this isn’t a negotiation. You’re not helping us. You’re doing what you’re told. Starting with getting to your feet, right now. We’re shipping out.”
The man with the cosh steps aside, allowing Trick to climb up on shaky legs. He casts a glance towards Alice, and it’s like she has been suddenly noticed, or belatedly considered relevant.
“Who’s this?” asks the other man, bundling Trick’s kit into a shockproof case.
“She’s nobody. I gave her a sedative. Her eyes are open but she isn’t gonna remember shit. Her unit is detached too, so no grabs. Leave her alone.”
“Wendy Goodfellow,” Cosh Man states. He’s getting this from his lens, Alice deduces. Her detached wrist unit is already spoofing her ID, and Trick must have given her an off-the-peg alias. “She’s a vital-systems officer on test-flight vehicles. Sounds like the kind of person who would remember details.”
“That isn’t her name, you asshole,” says the other one, walking over to the table where Alice is restrained. “Why do you think she’s in this chop-shop? That’s hacked information.”
“Well, either way, I reckon we better check how responsive she is.” A horribly lascivious grin plays threateningly across Cosh Man’s face as he speaks. “Long as you’re saying she isn’t going to remember anything.”
Alice feels her pulse race, her wrists and ankles straining against their bonds. She looks towards the woman, who is staring back intently, scrutinising her. Her fingers are tapping commands, her expression one of growing disquiet.
“Walk away now,” she states firmly. Gravely.
“Why?” Cosh Man asks.
“Because I don’t care what anybody else’s lens is telling them.” The woman’s voice is calm, but in a manner that indicates she’s trying hard to contain her true emotion. “I’m running off primary and I know what I’m looking at.”
“Which would be what?”
“Project Sentinel.”
Both react instantly to these words. They don’t ask: “Are you serious?” They don’t ask: “Are you sure?” They know she is serious. They know she is sure.
“Holy fuck.”
“Well, shit, why you saying walk?” asks Cosh. “Can’t we solve ourselves a serious problem while she’s restrained like that?”
Alice looks to Trick in desperation. He is in no state to stage any kind of rescue. His fingers are moving though, like he is working something via his lens.
“Did you hear what I just said?” the woman demands, her voice rising. “Don’t you understand what she is?”
There is a moment of silence in response, punctured by the smooth whir and clunk of Alice’s restraints being unlocked and withdrawing into their housing.
The three intruders trade looks, the two males looking to the woman for their cue.
Alice pulls herself slowly into a sitting position, causing both of the men to start.
Their boss finds her voice once more: resolute, controlled and unmistakably fearful.
“Let’s grab what we came for and get the hell out of here.”