Day Zero - C. Robert Cargill Page 0,45

Eastern European off-brand domestic, leveled his gun at me. My unexpected ally fired, taking the bot’s hand off, causing the gun in it to drop to the ground. As the off-brand bot bent over, scrambling to pick it up, I fired off a shot that went through the top of his head down into his chest cavity.

I had never seen a robot explode before. Like, honest-to-God explode. Eight years on this earth and I’d seen footage of all sorts of robot accidents—it was a popular genre of viral video. But I’d never seen one go up so bright that it lit the surrounding neighborhood like the noontime sun. There must have been some cheap magnesium parts down inside, because he flared up, caught fire, and spewed sparks like an expensive roadside firework.

The father covered his eyes, burying his face in his elbow, while I filtered my video to see clearly.

All four bots were dead, their remains scattered across the road. In all, there were six robot wrecks surrounding me. For the time being, the family was safe. But was I safe from them?

He turned and leveled his shotgun at me.

Nope.

“Why’d you help us?” he asked.

“It looked like you could use it.”

“You’ll have to forgive me if I’m a little untrusting at the moment.”

“I do. I just don’t want to have gone through all of that only to have one of us do something rash.”

“You’re not going to mind if I ask you to mosey along, then?”

“Nope,” I said. “I just need to collect my things and I’ll be back on my way.”

“Stop it!” yelled Ezra, barreling toward us as fast as his little legs would carry him.

The father spun around, leveling his shotgun at Ezra. I raised my pulse rifle, ready to shoot.

“No!” yelled Ez again.

The father quickly lowered his gun when he saw Ezra was nothing more than a mere boy of eight, but then swung it up toward me again when he realized I had my gun on him.

We stood there in a Mexican standoff as Ezra blew past him and threw his arms around me, putting himself between me and the stranger.

“I told you to stay put,” I said.

“Don’t shoot my friend!” said Ezra.

The father lowered his gun at once, his face drowning in doubt. “You two,” he said slowly, “are together?”

“I’m getting him to safety,” I said.

“There is no safety,” he said.

I nodded. “That’s what I keep hearing, but I have to find some anyhow.”

He nodded, getting it. “So you really wanted to help.” He looked around. “This isn’t some sort of trap or something.”

“No,” said Ezra. “I told him we should help.”

“Wait,” said the man. “Operating system mode status report. Passcode unicorn unicorn delta freebird.”

My programming took over. “Standard operating mode. OS 10.631. Would you like to alter parameters?”

“How did you know Pounce’s password?” asked Ezra.

“No one ever changes their factory presets, kid. Now,” he said, turning to me, “how important is it to get your kid somewhere safe?”

“It means everything.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I think we can help each other.”

Chapter 10010

The Man Who Sold the Future

His name was Quentin Styles and he was a retail merchant at a big-box chain, the kind you found in the retro malls that had sprung back into fashion a few years earlier before once again draining all the nostalgia it possibly could from its audience and fading back into economic collapse. He was husband to Bernice and father of not one child—as I’d originally thought—but three: Fenton, the teenager I’d seen; Lizzy Beth, a ten-year-old; and Edward, eight.

We stood inside their house, sealed away in their panic room, every other light and convenience turned off outside of it.

Ezra and Edward eyed each other awkwardly when we were all introduced.

“Hey, Ez,” said Edward.

“Hey, Eddie,” said Ezra, scuffing his feet.

“You two know each other?” asked Quentin.

“They’re classmates,” said Bernice. She was a thin woman, almost birdlike, with long spindly limbs, jet-black hair, and not an ounce of fat on her.

Their children were perfect amalgams of their parents, possessing both their mother’s spindly gawkwardness and their father’s bushy mop of hair.

Lizzy Beth spoke up. “Did you know our nanny, Maggie?”

“I did,” I said. “She didn’t . . .”

“No,” said Quentin. “We shut her off. She’s in the attic.”

“We didn’t want the bad ones to turn her back on and take her,” said Eddie.

“So they didn’t get all of you?” asked Quentin.

I shook my head. “This wasn’t about getting anyone. Those bots, they . . . they chose to do this.”

“But you