Con Code Read online

  “She contacted me before your arrival.” Belen’s eyes move from Gordon to Mav and back to Gordon. “She didn’t tell you?”

  “No. She didn’t,” Gordon says.

  “Tell us,” Mav says, moving his elbows out to his sides in a looming, imposing manner. I shuffle my feet until I’m an inch closer to the door, giving Mav room to intimidate.

  “Abby knew about the disk,” Juan says. “That night we met…” Juan’s eye flash to the rearview mirror then back to the road, long enough to catch my attention. “I was supposed to keep you out of the room long enough for Abby to find that flash drive with all the Mexico City data on it.”

  “Donor files,” I say it like a statement, even though in my head everything turns to questions. Why was Abby in contact with Belen? How is Juan connected to all of this? The donor files aren’t sabotage, we’re supposed to save my friends.

  “No idea.” Belen curls around, back into her ball of despair.

  “What happened?” Mav removes the indent of his frame pressed into the back seat.

  “The march on the building wasn’t just to remove their data. We replaced it too,” Juan says.

  “Whose side are you on?” Gordon shouts at Juan.

  Juan takes his eyes off the road and turns his entire upper torso and face at Gordon. “Don’t you talk to me…”

  “Damnit Nazrete,” Gordon shouts before any other version of Juan can scold itself.

  “Watch the road!” Belen hollers. Juan swivels, keeping an eye trained on Gordon until Mav interrupts.

  “You replaced it with the data from our building? Mexico?”

  “Not exactly,” Belen says.

  Juan’s hands grip the wheel so tightly I’m certain little finger imprints distort the circle. “We added a virus.”

  I know that admission of guilt. How dare he mess with my files. I was trying to rescue him, and not only does he lie to me, but he also steals my data and infects it?!

  “How dare you?”

  “We thought the code would disable their robotics lab. Inside that hill, levels and levels of bodies all hooked to chords and wires, waiting to be uploaded with computerized human thought. And after what happened with Jennie, I couldn’t let that happen again.”

  All heads turn to me. “Memory loss, am I right?” The faces don’t turn away from me.

  “It wasn’t Mord code, I swear.” Juan lifts his right hand in the air, fingers tight together. “I swear,”he says again. “But, somehow, that’s what came through the wires.” The fellow passengers return to a forward-facing direction and my shoulders drop a few centimeters, not enough for anyone else to notice. “They all started waking up. Every floor full of robots not using their eyes or ears, or any of their scanning systems as far as I can tell.”

  Mav’s voice drops in tone and temperature. “Why didn’t you say anything when you came out of the building?”

  “I wanted to get out of there.”

  “This isn’t the game. You’re not competing,” I say.

  “It’s always the game,” Juan says. “There’s nothing but the game.”

  “There’s no extra lives for the rest of us.” Mav’s anger isn’t like Ace’s. Even though he’s a physical clone, it becomes easier and easier to distinguish the two. There’s fear fueling Mav.

  Ace had no fear.

  We only make it as far as Imbabura, eight and a half miles outside Ibarra. The gaslight has been on far longer than eight miles. Thank goodness it’s hard to miss the next gasolinera. Whoever designed the station must have been blind, at the very least color blind. The roof over the pumps is bright yellow, borderline neon. It assaults the eyes. Contrasted by crayon red pillars holding up the roof and cobalt blue ‘PS’ with the same color blue bubbles trailing the letters. It’s the opposite of my idea of an oasis. It’s something I’d avoid if I had a choice, but none of us do, if we hope to continue our search for a way out of this country.

  “Looks like a preschool threw up on this place,” Gordon says taking in the primary color scheme of the gasolinera. Mav snorts an agreed laugh. I nod my approval of his description.

  “Because Mexico es so much nicer?” Belen takes offense. I cover my smile but can’t wipe it from my face. Mav snorts a second time. I can’t tell if he’s mocking Belen or agreeing that Mexico is so not much nicer.

  “Jennie, stay in the car,” Juan orders.

  “What? Why just me?”

  Juan twists in his seat, reaches a perfect long arm back to my hand, lifts my left wrist then drops it, my metal frame dropping back to my lap without resistance as I haven’t gotten enough movement back in that limb to reflexively catch my falling hand.

  “I’ll keep it covered.”

  “No. People are on high alert, they’re looking for something to stand out,” Juan says.

  “I feel like you’re overreacting,” I say. “If you’re so worried about it, I’ll tape it.”

  “Con que?” Belen’s voice hits a high note she has yet to use. I’m pretty sure she’s broken her vocal cords. How do humans fix broken things? I know they have blood and other complications of fixing broken parts. “Nobody has tape!”

  “It’s true. No one’s gonna remember to grab tape when they’re escaping a mob of robot zombies,” Juan says so matter-of-factly, without the slightest degree of concern or even humor, I’m offended. I have to keep everyone on good terms. The last thing I need is everyone jumping to conclusions that I’ll behave the same way as the Mord on the news station. I cover my aggravation by laughing at Juan’s comment.

  Juan is so robotic, I wonder if he’s even a donor. Or some default setting the rest of them are being controlled by.

  “At least check in the Mercado,” I ask Mav. “See if there’s some gloves, or tape—or even a bandage. No one is going to question a wrap on my wrist while people are acting crazy.”

  Mav nods as everyone exits the car, but me.

  “Can I at least watch the little video console thingy?” I ask through the closed window. Juan doesn’t turn around from where he’s selecting gas grade to pump into the car. “I’m doing it…” The rest of the group is in the little market attached to the gas station.

  I flip the video panel on and watch as a reporter continues with coverage in Quito. The city is a mess. Broken down cars litter the streets, smoke erupts from buildings. The camera trails as a bottle of soda rolls, unopened, down a sloped roadway, emphasizing the mass rush exodus from the central city. “…Officials have declared the attack an act of war strategized by the Pierson group in retaliation to Ace Pierson, a member of the Pierson family who fought for the Intercontinents…” I look up to see if Juan is hearing any of this, then I turn toward the market curious if the same news might be broadcast inside the small store where Mav might be watching. “…it’s important to note that Ace Pierson was assassinated by Outercontinent forces at the end of the war…”

  “What? He was not! He lived long enough to sign up as a donor. He didn’t die in the war!” I tap the screen like this action will reach through and alert the reporter of their false facts.

  “…Dr. Spaulding confirmed with reporters earlier today that the Pierson group arranged their attack shortly after the Intercontinent nation of Ecuador announced an open invitation for donor facilities to observe their successful intelligence donor program…” Video footage of Dr. Spaulding speaking with media, an air of importance masks his glee at media attention.

  “Spaulding, you skunk.” I slam my palm over the screen, not preventing the audio from getting through.

  “…the traveling party developed a virus to infect the current running donor program, and disable one of the strong fronts of the Intercontinent forces…”

  “That’s bull!”

  A tap on the window startles me. “Jennie, what are you hollering about?” Juan asks through the glass.

  Moving myself, so Juan can’t see the screen spewing lies about our small group, I wave him off. “Nothing.”

  Juan narrows
his eyes at me, I wonder who watches behind the pupils. Do they all get to see at the same time, or take turns controlling the housing they’re all trapped inside? If it’s anyone who knows me, they’ll know I’m lying. Something is definitely up with me. “Keep it down. You’re drawing attention.”

  I nod. As soon as Juan returns to operating the brightly colored pump, I shift my focus back to the screen, eager to soak up indignation in response to rumors being passed as news.

  “…Intercontinents have developed a two-pronged retaliation, cutting off the Pierson group where they stand and all those who might support such an uprising.” The reporter shifts registers, as though he has a vocal range where his opinions dwell distinguishable from ‘reporter’ mode. “The war is already won, stop dragging it on.”

  The screen jumps back to a studio location. “…what we’re seeing now is the site about to be bombed…”

  “Bombed?” I repeat out loud. The image on the studio screen remains to be the streets of Quito, abandoned except for the stray dogs rummaging through items littering what were pristine streets a day ago. And the small reporting team huddled at an elevated outskirt of the city—high enough to get a decent overview, but not so close as to be in danger of encountering the wondering Mord who’ve been uploaded into donor bodies. The camera makes several attempts to zoom in on a group of Mord, their humanish robot eyes staring glazed over from disuse. I have to say, I prefer Mord void of eyes. There’s something worse about having the apparent ability to see and not utilizing it. Yet I want to help them, teach them. They have the features and all the connections in place. Why can’t they see? I push my curiosity outward, almost like I’m sending my thought to space where it can be contemplated by the cosmos and return an answer that might make sense.

  Off in one corner of the screen, a white streak cuts the shot of blue sky. The camera refocuses, going wide to get the burning white line scorching its way toward the heart of the city. I lean in closer, trying to get a glimpse of the shuffling Mord. The camera moves, reporters and camera operators arguing with each other out of the footage shot. Everything being exchanged in Spanish, but my brain automatically adjusts to English. “…get the image zoomed closer—tight in there…”

  Everything clicks at once. The white streak in the sky points to the crowd of confused and desperate Mord. Instead of curiosity bursting out of me, this time anger rolls off me in waves so tangible I half expect the glass to shatter in the vehicle, or the cars around me to rock. Run! Don’t let them destroy you! Several of the Mord lift their chins to the air, suddenly alerted to the incoming missile. From the angle of where the cameraman huddles, it’s almost as though the poor misplaced creatures stare at me through the lens in response to my internal warnings. Like we’re connected somehow, drawn together by my sudden concern for their welfare. How I wish they could literally heed my warning, but then it’s too late.

  The shot drops to the cobbled street then lifts too high, out of focus. I dip and sway as if I have control over the focus, desperate to know where that white streak is going to hit, and what it means. My concern reaches out toward the Mord, lost in a world they don’t belong and judged for a reaction they were programmed for by the very people targeting them. “Move!” I urge the Mord to shuffle faster.

  Finally, the camera focuses as close as it can on the group of open-mouthed AI, all clamoring tightly together—the image grainy from being so far from the image being filmed. Then white light blinds the lens. I wonder if there’ll be anything to see. A debris cloud bounces up from the impact crater, pulling down with it anything dense enough to still be standing.

  The studio comments before I say anything aloud to myself, “…we should have confirmation in just a moment…there’s always electromagnetic interference with long-range weaponry of this kind…” What kind? What kind of weapon is the fiery light?

  I look over to see if Juan is done yet, while the studio discusses long-term objectives in quashing rebels warring in the aftermath of a win. What a bunch of pretentious…

  Juan isn’t there. The gas pump has been replaced. I move to the other side of the bench and stare into the tiny market. It’s not that large, what could they all be doing in there? It’s not like Juan needs a bathroom or food, so why has he gone in with the rest of the humans?

  “…the image is back… Holy sh—” Chaos covers the screen. Video shows severely damaged Mord full out running toward the small group of reporters on site in Quito. “Move, it…No…Leave the equipment. Move!” The Mord move much faster than the humans, their speed unnatural.

  I lean closer to the screen. It’s like the attack flipped the Mord into overdrive mode, the scary version at their peak aggressive levels. They run with sharply angled joints, heads half gone, leaking wires and chords flailing in the breeze behind them. They’re the gory version of robotics—all gears and juices motivated by something other than a brain, as most of them lack the majority of their head after being bombed. Arms are missing from some, legs from others. Those without a leg are crouched in an unnatural manner, running with one leg and one arm, palm flat like a monkey in step with the foot, moving so fast and intensely horrifying that the group of human reporters is caught in a stunned terror, unable to gather their wits to escape.

  The camera is on its side by now. The studio cuts to coverage of the desk, to those still observing the live feed being captured by the studio cameras. I can’t see what they’re seeing, but I can see the anchors and the expression on their faces as they continue to observe the feed that’s been deemed too disturbing to continue to air live. One anchor covers her mouth, then moves one hand to cover her eyes, but then brings that hand back to her mouth before retching off to the side of her shared desk.

  “…What we’re witnessing…” the other anchor attempts to report the events we can no longer see. “…it’s complete loss.”

  I don’t realize my mouth is gaping in a slight smile. Part of me is relieved the human attempt to wipe out the lost Mord backfires. I’m lost in my confused internal response, glee the Mord are still okay, and worry at what their instinctual self-protective reaction to destroy the threat might mean when all three car doors open at once.

  “Go, go, go…” Gordon repeats over and over as the group piles in without concern for belts or seat position. Belen takes the driver’s seat with Mav at her side. Gordon pushes Juan next to me still cursing on repeat as he pulls the door closed on his own foot. “Go!”

  “What’s happening?” I ask.

  “Find a backroad!” Mav barks into Belen’s ear. He’s too close to her head, and she pushes him away.

  “What’s going on?” I try a different form of the same question.

  “We’re fugitives,’ Juan says at my side. He’s slouched so low his head doesn’t reach the top of the seatback. “Get down.” He grabs my shirt and horse-collars me below the window line.

  “Spaulding gave reporters our names and faces. He’s saying we tricked Geo into hosting us, kidnapped Juan, reprogrammed him with our codes, and uploaded the virus to their server, which happens to connect to several other facilities…” Gordon gets cut off when Mav butts in.

  “There are laws about connecting donor programs. It’s illegal, but you don’t hear anyone mentioning that, do you? No. No one’s saying, ‘they infected the illegal network system’… Illegal!” Mav punches the dash. “There’s no way this is our fault.”

  Belen looks sideways at Mav, then returns her gaze to the road.

  “Not entirely our fault,” Mav corrects.

  Belen finds a small dirt road running between some rounded mountains and guns it. We bounce along the rutted path without losing speed.

  “Where are we headed?” I ask.

  “We have to leave Ecuador,” Belen says we have to get out, which we were already attempting prior to gassing up—and failing. “I know an sanctuario through the mountains.”

  “A mountain sanctuary? How is this going to help us? I thought the goal was to exit the cou
ntry.”

  “It is in Columbia,” she says.

  “We can get to it through the mountains,” Juan clarifies in smooth accented English.

  “Well, why didn’t we try that the first time?” I ask.

  “We cannot drive to it,” Belen explains. “And we don’t have supplies.”

  “Did anyone grab supplies from the store?” I ask looking around at all the greasy fingers from convenience foods, but no items in anyone’s hands. “Not even a bandage?”

  “We got distracted,” Gordon says, joining Juan and me in our backseat slouch.

  It won’t be Juan and me who suffer from the lack of supplies. Even more embarrassing is that we both reach down to plug ourselves into the car charger at the same time. Dependent on power.

  “Did you see how confused they were?” We exit the car and proceed on foot through the mountain path. The car at half a tank of gas, and not even half a spare tire to address the flat that has us sidelined. Not that we’d know what to do with half a tire. We’re up so high, clouds roll in below us. No one on the planet appears to exist out here other than the fact there is a road and hills filled with natural resources. Thick tread marks provide evidence of a mine somewhere in the area.

  “No one expects machines with half their head missing to come charging at them at such high speeds. That footage was unreal.” Gordon looks to Mav for confirmation, which he gets.

  I stop and try to picture his statement. It doesn’t make sense what he’s saying. They never saw it coming until it was too late. None of them trained to recognize an airstrike of that kind. “What are you talking about?”

  Gordon stops, as does Mav. Mav narrows his eyes at me. “They couldn’t get out because they were stunned by what they saw, just like you said.”

  Juan looks over his shoulder at me, then at Mav. His eyes catch as if a shift in thought causes a minor seizure that shakes only his iris. Then his pupil widens. “Jennie stop talking.”

  “What did I say?” I don’t understand what the problem is.