The Dyson File, page 32
The LENS bobbed in a distinct nod, then backed away from the mound.
Isaac turned to run, but then froze at the sight of crabs scuttling toward him from across the street. He spun to the side, only to discover Atlas crabs approaching from that direction as well.
They were surrounded.
More crabs emerged from the mound. At first there were only a handful, but more poured forth until the surface writhed with the hand-sized machines. They flowed toward Isaac and the LENS like a silvery wave.
“Away from the mound!” Isaac called out, and broke into a sprint.
A pair of crabs in his path leaped into the air, but the LENS swung ahead of him and intercepted them. It clenched both of them with its pseudopods, crushing them until they sparked, then tossed the dead husks aside.
Isaac hurried through the opening, but something struck his ankle, cutting into the flesh. He stumbled forward and landed on his hands and knees, then stole a quick glance over his shoulder.
The LENS teetered in the air, four crabs latched on and cutting through its shell. Sparks flew into the air. One of the crabs cut deep enough to reach the LENS’ graviton thruster, and it fell to the ground with a loud clank. More crabs swarmed over it, and the LENS vanished under the wriggly swarm.
Isaac struggled back to his feet, but a leaping crab struck his shoulder with enough force to spin him around. Another clamped onto his thigh, and then two more hit him in the back, each clinging on with enough force to draw blood. He grabbed the crab on his shoulder and tore it off, leaving a brief trail of bloody mist in the air.
Behind him, the crabs scuttled off the LENS. Or what was left of it. They’d cut the LENS into neat cubes.
“Cephalie!”
More crabs piled onto Isaac, hitting him from all angles, weighing him down, turning his escape into a sluggish parody. One of the machines hit the back of his knee, and he stumbled forward, then collapsed onto his side. The crabs swarmed in, covering every part of his body, blotting out the Retreat’s artificial light, encasing him in a cocoon of metal crabs. They lifted him off the street and carted him toward the column.
“Hello, Detective,” said a woman’s virtual voice in his ear. Her sweetly sinister words flowed over him like poisoned chocolate. “It’s so nice to have guests again.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The crabs dropped Isaac into a chair so thick, sturdy, and uncomfortable it seemed to have been carved out of the floor. He tried to stand but found his wrists and ankles bound to the seat by prog-steel straps. His facemask had been removed.
A single overhead lamp shone down on him, producing a small pool of light that included a metal table in front and a bit to the side of him. The rest of the room melted away into darkness.
The crabs skittered away, and an unseen hatch closed somewhere.
Isaac tried to access the local infostructure, but nothing responded. He attempted to reach Susan or Hoopler or anyone else from the SSP.
He tried calling Cephalie, even though he knew it wouldn’t work.
No one responded.
His repeated calls visualized in his abstract sight as a stack of comm windows, all of them displaying the same red text: CONNECTION LOST.
He was alone.
Alone, and in trouble.
His heart pounded in his chest so hard he felt it in his temples. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this terrified.
“Trying to call your friends?” asked the same caring yet cruel voice from before. “That won’t work in here. I don’t even have to bother jamming your wetware. There’s no way you’re getting a signal through these walls. Not at those power levels.”
The woman or someone with her knocked on the walls, and the sound reverberated like a tolled bell. A slender silhouette edged forward into the pool of light, then bent toward him and smiled.
She was a bony woman in her prime, and her white teeth glinted in the light. Her sandy blonde hair was cut short, except for a blue braid that hung off one side of her face. Her ears, nose, and lower lip were all studded with gems that glowed like fire, and she wore a black vest with numerous pockets above an exposed midriff and bejeweled belly button. Her tight pants were black with blue stripes down the sides.
“Zalaya Riller, I presume,” Isaac said.
“In the Sacred Flesh.” She straightened back.
The leader of the Byte Pyrates, Isaac thought. Wanted for numerous counts of kidnapping and murder, which doesn’t bode well for me.
He could make out motion behind Riller. Hints of light playing off a bulky frame that revealed the presence of at least one more Pyrate in the room.
Two against one, he thought. And me without my LENS.
Fine then. If words are the only weapon I have, then words are the weapon I’ll wield. It’s as simple as that.
The internal dialogue sent a much-needed jolt of courage through his system, but then a dark, unbidden thought followed.
What choice do I have?
He met Riller’s friendly—if somewhat manic—gaze.
“And you would be Detective Isaac Cho,” she said.
“That’s me.”
“Isaac Cho.” She put a hand on her hip. “Quite the thorn in my side.”
“Yes, that definitely sounds like me.”
“But not anymore.” She bent in close. “Now, you’re going to help me.”
“I doubt that very much.”
“Aww. Look at you! So brave”—she flicked the tip of his nose with a finger, and he flinched back—“and yet so helpless. Tell you what, Mister SysPol. How about you save both of us a lot of trouble and just tell me what I want to know?”
“That would depend entirely on what information you’re after.”
“Oh, this one should be easy for someone like you.” She knelt beside him, a hand on his thigh, and spoke softly into his ear. “All you need to tell me is the exact force strength and distribution of all SSP and SysPol assets nearby.”
“How about . . . no.”
Riller took her hand off his thigh, clenched a fist, and punched him full force in the jaw, whipping his head to the side. The room swam around him. Stars twinkled across his vision, and he tasted blood in his mouth where his teeth had cut the inside of his lips.
He shook his head until the stars subsided. His surroundings came into focus once more.
“Want to rethink that answer, Mister SysPol?”
He flashed a bloody, defiant smile at her. “I guess we’re adding assault to your list of charges, then?”
She punched him again and sent his head reeling to the side.
“Ouch. Damn it.” Riller stood up and shook out her hand. “That actually hurt.”
“Want me to tenderize him for you, boss?”
“Get your own plaything, Davies. This one’s mine.” She smirked at Isaac. “What’s with cops and hard heads, anyway?”
“You’re asking me? I’m still wondering why your crab army didn’t tear me apart.”
“Blame Atlas engineering for that one. Too many hardwired safeties. I could order them to tear up your floating eyeball, but you?” She poked him in the chest. “Grabbing you was about the best I could do. Which, as it turns out, is to both our benefits.”
“Kidnapping seems to be more your style, anyway. You keep Ruckman in here as well?”
“That SourceCode program? Yeah, he’s around, but maybe not all there anymore.” She grinned like a shark. “I took my sweet time squeezing him.”
“For information you sent the Ghost, I take it?”
“I’m sorry. Did I hit your head too hard? Did you suddenly come to believe it’s you who’s interrogating me?”
“Consider it force of habit.”
“You’re really trying to pump me for information, even as my prisoner? That’s so cute!” Riller pulled a vial out of one of her vest pockets and set it down upright on the table. The contents resembled milk with a vaguely metallic sheen. “But seriously, now. Tell me what I want to know. Or else.”
“What’s in the vial?”
“Liquid encouragement.”
“I don’t feel very encouraged.”
“That’s because I haven’t given you any yet.” She knelt in front of him once more, her hands on top of his. “Would you like me to share something with you, Mister SysPol?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“It’s been so long since I’ve gotten to torture a real, flesh-and-blood human being. Tormenting synthoids and ACs just isn’t the same. All that artificial ‘life’ boils down to a bunch of boring ones and zeros. What’s the thrill in wielding power over a program? Where’s the fun?”
“You need help.”
“No, Detective. It’s you who needs help.” She picked up the vial and held it before him. “This vial contains medibots. But not just any old variant. These beauties are for clearing out cancer cells. That might not sound so bad to you, but here’s the twist.” She leaned close and whispered the rest into his ear. “I’m going to lie to them.”
A cold sweat sent a shiver down his spine.
“When I inject them into you, they’re going to believe every cell in your body is a cancer cell. Now, you might be telling yourself, medibots have built-in protections that prevent them from carrying out such a disastrously wrong diagnosis. And, normally, you’d be right. Except, I’ve applied an update to these. A little bit of code of my own creation. Let me assure you, they won’t be shutting down until either I tell them to or they’ve finished turning your entire body into soup from the inside out.”
Riller set the vial back on the table then crouched down in front of him once more.
“Maybe I’ll inject them here.” She placed two fingers on the back of his hand then walked them up his arm. “They’ll work their way through you one hellish centimeter at a time, grinding your muscles and nerves into mush. I can even tweak their speed with a signal, making the process as slow and excruciating as I want. But perhaps you’ll be able to fight through all that, lying to yourself that it’s ‘only an arm.’ Maybe you’re tougher than you look. In which case, why don’t we start . . . here?”
She poked him in the groin, and he recoiled.
“Yeah, that’s the spot! Unless you’d like to avoid all this unpleasantness. How about it, Mister SysPol? Shall we talk about where all the cops are stationed? Or do I have to get nasty with you?”
“I don’t cooperate with criminals,” he replied defiantly. Or that was the plan, but his voice cracked halfway through the sentence.
“Nasty it is,” Riller said with a shrug. “Suits me just fine. I’m curious what your brain’ll taste like once it’s been reduced to soup. I’m guessing zesty self-righteousness.”
Isaac felt the vial drag his line of sight toward it. His mind raced, searching for a way out. Or, at the very least, a way to increase his odds of survival, however slim.
But what could he possibly do besides stall for time and hope someone found him?
Nothing, he told himself. What other options are there?
Stall for time, it is, then.
“You’re wrong,” he said, his voice stronger and firmer than before.
“We won’t know until we try,” she replied with a quirky half-smile.
“No. Not your brain-soup taste test. You’re in trouble, even if you won’t admit it. You’re stuck in this hollowed-out column with SSP crawling all over the Retreat.”
“No one knows we’re here.”
“That’s true for now. But you’ve made your situation worse by attacking me.”
Riller paused, a crack forming in her playful composure.
“How?” she asked.
“Because you grabbed me when I was on foot. There’s only so far I could have traveled between the time I left the field command center and when my signal dropped out. That contracts the search area considerably. And trust me, they will be searching.”
“They won’t find you in time.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But you’ve doomed yourself either way. You’re looking for a way out, aren’t you? A way to slip through the net we’ve cast.”
“That’s pretty obvious, wouldn’t you say?”
“Then you’re going about this in the dumbest way possible.”
“Hey!” The hulking shape behind Riller advanced into the light. “No one talks to the boss that way!”
Riller held up a hand, and the huge thug retreated.
“Go on,” she said, never taking her eyes off Isaac. “You have my undivided attention.”
“It’s simple. You’re asking me the wrong questions. Knowing where SSP is stationed might help you slip away in the now. But it won’t help you for long. What you should be asking is how we found you in the first place. Only by knowing that do you have any hope of eluding us again.”
“Nice try, Mister SysPol,” Riller said. “But I can stream the news just like everyone else. You caught Fike, and he pointed you back to us. What else is there to know?”
It’s true, then, Isaac thought. The Byte Pyrates didn’t know who they were working for. Perhaps this is the opening I need.
He wasn’t sure where he’d take that opening, but he went on the offensive anyway.
“Wow, really?” He chuckled. “You believe a loser like Desmond Fike is actually the puppet master behind all of this?”
Another crack formed in Riller’s composure, and her face turned deadly serious.
“We know it was Fike.”
“Come on! He was so scared when we caught him he soiled his own pants!”
“We traced the Ghost’s messages back to him.”
“You only ‘traced’ it to Fike because of the trail the Ghost put there for you to find. You really have no idea who’s behind all of this, do you?”
“And you do?”
“Better than you. Tell me, what did the Ghost pay you with?”
Riller crossed her arms, but the frown on her face told Isaac he’d struck a nerve.
“Go on.” Isaac smirked at her. “Prove to me you know what you’re doing.”
“We were paid with keycodes to get into Mattison’s Retreat and to control the crab swarms.”
“Which would have come from Atlas,” Isaac pointed out. “Not the Society.”
Riller’s frown deepened.
“Let me get this straight,” Isaac continued. “You copy-kidnapped Ruckman, extracted information out of him about the Dyson Project, and were even paid in Atlas codes, and you still thought you were working for the Society?”
Riller stood before him, glaring at him for long, silent seconds. During that time, subtle motion from behind her caught Isaac’s eye. It took him a few moments to realize what he was seeing, and when he finally did, he shook his head then masked the gesture with a confident chuckle.
“Laugh all you want,” Riller warned with venom. “Soon, you’ll be making a very different noise.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Isaac replied. “In fact, your situation might be even more precarious than you realize.”
“Enough!” Riller placed light fingers onto the tabletop. “Let’s see how smug you are while your insides are being ground into paste.” She reached for the vial, but her fingers found only empty air. Her brow creased in confusion, and she ran her hand over the empty table, then fixed him with a vicious glare.
“Don’t look at me.” Isaac grinned and held up both hands as high as the straps allowed. “I’ve been stuck in this chair the whole time.”
“Davies!” Riller snapped. “Where’s my soupmaker vial?”
“I don’t know, boss.”
“It was right here! Did it roll off the table?”
“Don’t think so. I didn’t hear anything hit the floor.”
Riller crouched and checked under the table. She patted her hand across the shadows.
“What the hell? Where’d it go? You saw me put it on the table?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Then where is it?”
“I don’t know, boss.”
“Uhh!” She groaned, rising to her feet. “Never mind. I’ll go grab another. Make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
Riller left the room through an unseen side entrance. A huge, muscle-bound man stepped forward into the light and glowered down at Isaac. His black clothes were overly busy with belts, straps, buckles, and spikes, and he wore a spiked choker around his thick neck.
“Davies, I presume?” Isaac asked.
The gangster crossed his arms and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“I’ll take that as a yes. You wouldn’t happen to know where the Ruckman copy is, would you?”
Davies narrowed his eyes. “Don’t tempt me.”
“I’m afraid I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Then let me explain.” He engulfed Isaac’s shoulder with a firm hand and bent down until their eyes were level. “I don’t like it when people upset the boss. And you? You’re doing everything you can to get under her skin.”
“In my defense, her sense of hospitality is somewhat lacking.” Isaac didn’t flinch from his oppressive glare. “You going to tell me where Ruckman is or not?”
“How about I beat your face in?” Davies rose and cracked his knuckles. “I know the boss said you’re hers, but I doubt she’ll mind if I perform a little . . . prep work.”
“Yes, I suppose I have pushed my luck harder than usual.” Isaac let out a bored sigh. “And I doubt you have anything useful to tell us, anyway. Agent Cantrell, would you mind taking out this trash?”
Davies tilted his head in confusion—
—a split second before the invisible combat frame grappled him from behind. He tried to scream, but Susan held a hand over his mouth and cuffed one wrist. Davies kicked his legs out, unable to gain enough traction to shift the combat frame, and the medibots began to seep into his system. His thrashing turned increasingly sluggish, and his eyes rolled back into his skull.
Susan laid him on the ground and bound both wrists. She switched her combat frame over to its default blue with white stripes, ripped off the straps holding Isaac in place, and helped him to his feet.
“I have never been so glad to see you!” Isaac declared, rubbing his wrists. “How’d you find me?”
