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  “Not yet,” says Ziva. “We are investigating the hack as we speak, and we will be working around the clock until the matter is resolved. My bots are the most secure artificial life-forms in the world. Only someone with advanced knowledge of the technology could possibly have tampered with them.”

  “That brings me to my next question,” says Isabelle, practically shivering with delight that Ziva gave her such a smooth opening. “There are critics in the industry who doubt your company’s ability to conduct an impartial investigation into these alleged hacks. In fact, Lloyd Evans at RoboWorld issued this statement. Take a look: ‘We are horrified and saddened by the attacks in Chicago. As responsible stewards of technology, we are appalled by Maverick’s negligence. The people at RoboWorld have always been strong advocates for the proliferation of bots, but we should all be treating the BlumBot breach as what it is: a threat to humanity as we know it.’”

  Isabelle pauses to let that sink in, and I can practically see the fire smoldering behind Ziva’s careful expression.

  “Those are some pretty inflammatory remarks,” says Isabelle. “What is your response to these accusations?”

  At those words, Ziva bristles. “My company’s security is state of the art. We are not, nor have we ever been, negligent with our technology. Lloyd Evans is a fearmonger and frankly should be ashamed for using this tragedy to bolster his company’s brand.”

  “You keep saying your security is second to none,” says Isabelle. “If that is the case, could we be looking at an inside job?”

  Now I can see that Ziva is truly ruffled. This suggestion seems to offend her to the core. “I would trust my employees with my life. I can assure you that no one from my company was involved. However, I am conducting my own internal investigation, and I am certain that the FBI, the NSA, and the Department of Homeland Security will corroborate my findings.”

  “So, just to clarify, your company is cooperating with the authorities.”

  “One hundred percent,” says Ziva. “There is no one who wants to get to the bottom of this more than I do.”

  Isabelle allows herself a thoughtful pause, and her tone changes from hard-lined to sympathetic. “This must be incredibly difficult for you, especially with the attacks coming so close to the anniversary of your father’s death.” She takes a deep breath. “How do you think he would have responded to this, if he were alive?”

  Ziva’s mouth stretches into a hard half smile. “My father would have handled this just as he handled everything else: thoroughly, thoughtfully, and methodically — which is how I intend to handle it.”

  “Mmm.” Isabelle’s eyes crinkle in a way that’s almost human. “Have you spoken to your brother since the attacks?”

  “Mordecai and I are in constant communication. He’s keeping me updated on our security team’s findings.”

  “And what advice do you have for people who currently have your products integrated into their workforce?” asks Isabelle. “Are your bots still safe to use?”

  “As an added precaution, we are asking all administrators to shut down their security bots temporarily . . . just until we can identify the source of the attacks and release a patch to prevent any additional breaches.”

  Isabelle asks Ziva something else, but I never hear what it is. The newsroom is buzzing with anxious chatter.

  I turn over my shoulder to see what all the ruckus is about and see the rest of the press corps gathered around the giant screens.

  It’s footage from Chicago, but it wasn’t captured at Millennium Park. The caption at the top says the video is from Wrigley Field, where it is absolute pandemonium.

  People are running out of the stadium, trampling and climbing over each other to escape. The screen changes to a clip from the concourse, where bots are mowing down fans near the concession stand with military precision.

  I glance up at the other screens, which show Ziva sitting frozen in her chair. Her eyes flicker to a screen on the left, and I know she’s seeing the chaos unfold.

  Her dark eyes grow wide, and her face is filled with horror. Alex is dancing outside the conference room, signaling Isabelle to go to a break, and I see her shift gears to wrap up the segment.

  Everyone’s eyes are glued to Wrigley Field — everyone’s except for mine. I’m watching Ziva, whose face is a portrait of utter devastation. Her mouth is hardened into a thin line, but her eyes are shining with tears.

  27

  Jonah

  It’s the middle of the night when I get the message. Callaghan is summoning all officers for another emergency briefing.

  It’s oh one hundred, but I’m not asleep. No one is.

  When I shut myself in my room an hour ago, my entire squad was still gathered in the lounge, their eyes glued to the giant screen. It had been switching back and forth between all the major news networks, playing footage of the cascading bot attacks in Chicago, DC, New York, and LA.

  After the Millennium Park rampage, a team of bots handling crowd control at Wrigley Field attacked a group of fans during warmups. The next day in Washington, DC, a labor-movement rally turned deadly when the bots containing the demonstration turned against the peaceful protestors.

  Almost simultaneously, a team of bots went berserk in Times Square, and later that evening, they hit the premiere of the Terminator reboot at the Dolby Theatre in Hollywood.

  Apparently, Maverick had sent out a notice to all of BlumBot’s customers to do an emergency shutdown on their bots, but several cities and private companies did not heed their warning. I’ve been watching and re-watching all the footage from my Optix, and it’s disturbing to say the least.

  The worst attack so far was the Times Square rampage. These bots weren’t programed like the ones in Millennium Park. Instead of mowing down bystanders and throwing benches and trash cans, these bots moved like humans trained to kill.

  The hackers had tampered with the bots’ factory Tasers, resulting in the deaths of nearly three dozen people.

  Times Square is one of the most heavily surveilled places in the country, which means that there were hundreds — maybe thousands — of cameras positioned in every direction. Half a million people pass through the square every day, many of them tourists recording on their Optixes.

  Seconds after the attack, hundreds of people uploaded videos for the world to comb through and analyze. I’ve disappeared down a rabbit hole filled with home movies turned deadly.

  I keep replaying a clip shot outside a movie theater in the square. It shows a team of three police officers in riot gear attempting to subdue one of the bots.

  The thing is moving like no robot I’ve ever seen. It executes a flawless spinning back kick that catches one officer in the jaw and knocks him out cold. The other officers open fire on the bot, but the bullets don’t penetrate the bot’s rock-solid armor.

  I’m so absorbed that I lose track of time. When a notification pops up reminding me about the briefing, I jump out of bed and sprint to the training center.

  I get there just before Callaghan arrives and take my place among the ranks. There’s a ripple of blue as he enters the room, and all the officers snap to attention.

  “As you were,” says Callaghan, his voice hoarse and weak. He’s got heavy lines under his eyes, and his face is a sickly pale gray. If I had to guess, he’s been awake all night, and he probably didn’t sleep the night before.

  “As most of you already know, Maverick Enterprises has ordered an emergency shutdown of all commissioned security bots. The Department of Homeland Security, the FBI, and the NSA are each launching their own separate investigations, and we are expecting representatives from all of these organizations to arrive the day after tomorrow at nineteen hundred hours. They will be questioning employees at every level in this station, and I expect your full cooperation.”

  “Sir,” says a lieutenant from the front. “Any word yet on who orchestrated the attacks?”

  Callaghan frowns. “At this moment, we are operating under the ass
umption that all the attacks were carried out by a single entity. The FBI suspects the hackers are of Russian descent, but the Kremlin is denying any involvement in the attacks. Of course, this has the Bureau for Chaos written all over it — not ruling out a Russian cell — but my sources tell me that these bots are too sophisticated to have been compromised by anyone but a robotics expert.” He takes a deep breath. “We can assume that the NSA knows more than they’re telling us, but for now, I want all of our resources directed toward uncovering whatever we can about these attacks.”

  “Sir?” says Lieutenant Buford.

  “Yes . . . Buford.”

  “What is Maverick Enterprises saying?”

  “They are saying what companies always say when their technology is compromised . . . They were devastated to learn about the attacks, and they are working around the clock to gather information and resolve the bots’ vulnerabilities. As to whether the other bots are compromised, they cannot say.” Callaghan raises his voice. “Which is why I have ordered all bots within the colony to be shut down until this mess is resolved.”

  There’s a great swell of muttering, but Callaghan silences it all with a glare.

  “Unfortunately, this means that the bots will not be performing routine maintenance that was scheduled to begin at oh two hundred. This puts us in a dangerous position. If we cannot monitor the exterior health of the station, we cannot repair any existing damage. This is why I want everyone focused on getting to the bottom of this so that we can resume normal operations.”

  “Sir?” says the first lieutenant who spoke. “Who’s going to be completing the maintenance and repairs that the bots would normally perform?”

  “Until the bots are back to work, we are on critical repairs only. There is a finite number of crew members who are trained to execute such repairs. However, in the event of the bots being disabled, that responsibility falls on the Space Force. I want any non-surveillance personnel fully EVA-ready as soon as possible. Until then, keep your eyes and ears open. I’ll have new personnel orders out to all of you for your unit by eighteen hundred hours tomorrow.”

  He pauses and looks around, as if to make sure there are no more questions. “That is all.”

  Callaghan leaves, and the room erupts in an explosion of noise. Everyone is talking about the decommissioned bots. Without them, the colony can barely function, and postponing repairs on the exterior of the station leaves us all vulnerable.

  I don’t stick around to speculate what the attackers have up their sleeves. I head back to my pod and lock myself in my room. Queuing up my video feed, I lie back and lose myself in the videos of the attacks.

  I’ve seen so much footage that I’ve become desensitized to it. The initial shock has worn off, and the destruction is starting to seem mundane. I’ve watched the same bot attack from multiple angles, but not once have I seen anyone who looks suspicious. There’s no visible human controlling them from half a block away — no warning that the attack is about to commence.

  One minute, the bots are patrolling Times Square as usual, their heads moving on a swivel to detect suspicious activity. The next, they’re charging unsuspecting tourists and electrocuting them with their Tasers.

  According to BlumBot’s website, the bots are designed to parse footage and facial recognition from up to a hundred different sources at once. They screen a crowd for unusual activity: a pedestrian looking around nervously, the shape of a pistol tucked under a coat. Known criminals are identified from the National Crime Information Center database, and the bots are supposed to ping a human operator before moving in on a target.

  In the case of the attacks, the bots were reprogrammed to attack autonomously. They used their “eyes” to read facial expressions and identify encroaching police officers. The technology allowed them to react to law enforcement with almost psychic precision.

  I switch to a new video of a cop fighting a bot one on one. It’s brutal. The bot seems to anticipate the cop’s every move. He doesn’t stand a chance.

  Eventually, the officer succeeds in luring the bot off to the side. The video commentary says that the officers planned to deploy a concussive grenade to try to disrupt the bots’ signal.

  But a second later, the bot turns violent, and another officer jumps in to assist the first. One cop gets a kick to the sternum that sends him flying through a window. The other cop starts to back away, and the bot steps in with a three-sixty elbow that knocks him out cold.

  My mouth falls open.

  I know that move. It’s the same exact elbow Maggie used on me — the one I showed her with the SPIDER.

  Suddenly, I can’t breathe. I can’t even think.

  I rewind the footage and play it again in slow motion, watching the bot’s torso pivot as it drives an elbow into the cop’s face. The bot executes the move perfectly and hits the officer dead on.

  I see the light leave the cop’s eyes, and a second later, his legs give out from under him. He hits the ground hard, and his head bounces off the concrete.

  I shake my head. It can’t be.

  Anyone could have given the bot that move, I reason. I don’t even remember where I learned it. But as I replay the entire sequence, I start to see things I never noticed before.

  Everything about the bot’s style is familiar, from the way it sets up its combos to the exact sequence of strikes that have worked for me again and again.

  But this isn’t a fair fight. These aren’t human opponents of flesh and bone. These are robots designed to be rock hard and durable — unmatched in size or strength by any human alive.

  Each fist and every elbow is a deadly weapon in motion.

  My head is spinning. I think back to the last week’s sparring sessions, running through all the combos I used when I was wearing the SPIDER. I ran through all my favorites. I didn’t need anything new or fancy because they were guys I’d never sparred before.

  I recorded my movements against five different opponents — five sergeants willing to go a few rounds in the gym. But I only shared those recorded neural pathways with one other person — the person who showed up on my doorstep before basic training.

  I’m possessed by rage as I storm across the pod to Maggie’s room. My mind is racing with paranoia. I knew something was off about her, but I let it go. I was thinking with my dick instead of my brain, and it might have contributed to the deaths of dozens of people.

  I pound on Maggie’s door with my fist. At first, no one answers, but then the door slides open.

  Adra appears, still in her sleep clothes. She’s confused — and not very happy to see me.

  “Where is she?” I growl, ready to kick down the door if Adra tries to cover for her.

  “Who?”

  “Jones. Who else?”

  Confusion, suspicion, and anxiety flash through Adra’s eyes, but I can’t tell if she’s nervous because she’s covering for her roommate or because she knows she’s in trouble. “S-she isn’t here.”

  Somehow I know she’s telling the truth, but I throw the door open anyway. I storm inside, looking for Maggie, even though it’s obvious that there’s no one there.

  “Where — is — she?” I growl.

  “I-I don’t know,” Adra stammers.

  But something isn’t right. I know Maggie Jones isn’t who she says she is. Now I just need proof.

  “Which drawers are hers?”

  Adra gives me a blank stare.

  “Which — drawers?” I yell.

  “Th-the bottom ones,” Adra stammers.

  I bend down and yank the bottom drawers open. There’s nothing inside but sports bras and socks and plain Space Force–issue underwear.

  It’s a little fucked up — a male sergeant going through his female subordinate’s underwear drawer — but I know the girl is up to something.

  I can’t get in her locker. Adra doesn’t know the combination. But I cross over to her bunk and pull back the blankets to search between the sheets. I upend the mattress and run my hand a
long the lower springs, searching for evidence that doesn’t exist.

  My entire body is thrumming with rage. The fact that there’s nothing here for me to find just reinforces my suspicions.

  There’s not a soldier alive — much less a civilian — who goes into space without any personal items. There are no photos, no makeup, and no civilian clothes. She’s not a robot herself, so who the hell is she?

  Ignoring the horrified look plastered across Adra’s face, I storm out of their room and pound on Ping’s door. It takes a moment for him to answer, but he looks wide awake and ready for action.

  “What’s up, sarge?” he asks, not at all put off by the late hour of my visit.

  “I need you to find someone,” I say in a rush, pushing past him into his room.

  “Okaaay,” says Ping, clearly wondering where this is going.

  Davis is asleep in the top bunk, snoring like a chainsaw and dead to the world.

  “Who, sir?”

  “I need you to find Maggie.”

  “Sir?” Ping gives me a look as though he fears for my sanity. “Did you check her bunk?”

  “Yeah . . . That’s not what I meant.” I take a deep breath. I have to tell Ping what’s going on. “I need you to find her — the real her — online.”

  “Oh!” says Ping, looking relieved. “That’s easy.” He taps his Optix and runs a search. “All you have to do is go to the Elderon personnel database and —”

  “I don’t need you to find her personnel profile . . . I need you to find her.”

  Ping stops his search and gives me a blank look. “I’m not sure I’m following, sarge.”

  “I need you to find Maggie on the web . . . under whatever name she might be using. I need to know who she really is.”

  It seems to take a moment for this to sink in. Ping is staring at me as though he can’t quite wrap his head around what I’m asking, but then his eyebrows shoot up, and his eyes grow wide. “Oh. Oh, wow. You don’t think . . .”