Текст книги "Amped"

Автор книги: Daniel H. Wilson

Соавторы: Daniel H. Wilson
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“Does Lucy know?”

Lyle cocks his head at me. “Now, why would you go and ask that?”

I shrug.

“You got a thing for my sister, Gray?” he asks me, starting to grin. When I don’t say anything, he keeps going. “Lucy is a good girl. Hell, she adopted that kid after his reggie parents took off and she don’t even get paid for that. But she don’t know much about this. And we don’t tell her. Bad people are looking for us. Knowing isn’t good for her safety, you understand?”

“That’s why you’re always traveling,” I say.

Lyle shrugs.

“Gotta keep ’em guessing. And I got my tricks. Remember that cop with the frozen legs?” Lyle flashes a piece of flat black plastic tucked into the waist of his jeans, dimpling his skin. “Modified stutter gun. Low-power electromagnetic pulse generator. Neural Autofocus is built on ruggedized circuits, so it can deal with chickenshit EMP. But those cop steppers are cheap. Fucks their radios, too. Of course, sometimes it don’t matter how rugged a circuit is. If a nuke drops, for instance, we’ll all be brain fried before the sky gets pretty.”

At this, Daley chuckles. Stilman takes a drag from his e-cigarette. Steam rolls silently out of his nostrils and gets lost in the curls of his beard. Val just blinks.

“The real question,” says Lyle carefully, “is why you’re here.”

All four men have their eyes on me now. A blistering, familiar intelligence is behind each of their gazes. And a sudden glint of malice. This is a test. A pop quiz and I can feel the lies evaporating in my head, gone before they can reach my lips. So I find the truth.

“When things got bad, my dad told me to come here. Said Jim was a man I could trust. But the real reason I’m here is that a student of mine, an amp, stepped off a building. Killed herself in front of me. She was fifteen years old. Her name was Samantha. She was a genius and they said I pushed her.”

Lyle picks his teeth with the toothpick. Stilman casually rests one knuckle on his hip, just above the oblong denim imprint of a pocketknife.

“But Samantha told me something just before she died. She said there was no place for us in this world. That amps don’t belong. I don’t believe that.”

The three generals stare through me, crossed arms rising and falling on even breathing. They’re waiting on Lyle.

I take a half step back without thinking about it.

Stilman nods at Lyle almost imperceptibly. Daley shakes his head, tosses the e-cig. Thumbs-up, thumbs-down.

Eyes wide, I turn to Valentine. He’s watching me like a chess player, working out all the moves in his head. Finally, he bobs his head once, quick, then goes back to watching the empty lot.

“Good enough,” says Lyle, and all the men relax.

I suspect that Valentine has just saved my life. I exhale.

The cowboy leans against the warehouse and puts a knee up. He takes off his hat and wipes a forearm over his sweat-soaked forehead. Pushes his hat hair up out of his face. The generals relax slightly.

“That girl was smart,” he says. “And she was right. The world we knew ended and nobody told us. The world we belong to doesn’t exist yet because we haven’t created it. Thirteen Zeniths were made, including you, Gray, but only the five of us are left now because the government is afraid of the new world that’s coming. But what they don’t know is that they can’t stop us. We’re already so close to the end.”

“Who is hunting Zeniths?” I ask.

Nobody says anything. For all their measured cool, these former soldiers don’t have any idea. They’re clueless.

With the toe of my shoe, I scratch a symbol on the dirty pavement. It’s the icon I saw on the page of Joe Vaughn’s speech. The one tattooed on Billy.

EM.

“Elysium,” I say.

Stilman and Daley glance at the dirt, recognition in their eyes.

“Do you know what this means?” I ask.

“Where did you see that?” asks Valentine.

“Everywhere,” I say.

The men glance at Lyle. Some silent inscrutable communication is taking place.

“We think it’s some kind of elite Pure Pride group,” says Daley. “Close associates of Senator Joseph Vaughn. We’ve found members all over the nation. Most are law enforcement or security.”

“Soldiers,” I say. “The ones hunting Zeniths?”

“Maybe,” says Valentine. “We don’t know for sure.”

I feel the night pressing in. The warm breeze rustles the grass out there in the darkness and every half-glimpsed movement makes me want to bolt.

“Tell me how to activate my Zenith,” I say.

Lyle grins at his friends. An I-told-you-so grin.

“Here we go, then.”

He holds up three fingers on his right hand, thumb and pinky touching. “Default configuration. Think of the device,” he says. “Feel that tickle in your head. Concentrate on that, while you do this.” Then he counts down quickly, dropping his fingers to rest on the back of his thumb. Three, two, one. He tucks his fingers underneath, making a tight fist.

“Simple as that,” he says. “Think of the Zenith and count down with your right hand. You don’t picture the Zenith, it won’t activate. And if your hand ain’t working, just think about moving your fingers. It’ll be enough.”

“What? In case someone cuts off my arm?” I joke.

“Right,” he says. “There are five levels. You got to consent to each one. After you drop a level, that’s how deep you go from then on. Every time.”

Lyle looks me up and down. “You never been in the military.”

“No,” I say.

“Don’t matter. The Zenith knows stuff. It can tell your body what to do. How to stay alive in bad situations. How to escape. And how to kill, if you let it.”

The word orbits there for a few seconds: kill.

“How do I turn it off?” I ask.

“That’s the hard part, ain’t it?” Lyle says. “What goes down don’t necessarily come back up. You got to focus. Concentrate on yourself, on your actions. Force the amp to give back control. It ain’t always easy. But you’ll figure it out.”

Lyle extends his hand, palm open.

After a second, I shake it gamely. He pulls me in and claps me on the shoulder. “You never activated that Zenith, so you got no clue what you’re capable of. But you’ll find out, Gray. And we’ll see what kind of man you are pretty damn fast.”

“And what kind are you?” I ask. Valentine bites off a chuckle.

“Me?” asks Lyle. “I’m a mystery man. Full of surprises. For one, you really think I brought you here just to watch these meatheads tear each other up?” Lyle looks up at the sky, finds the moon, and squints at it. “Come on,” he says. “Should be about time.”

Around the side of the shed, a rectangle of light splays out onto the brushed concrete. Lyle’s teeth shine in the moonlight. He puts a finger to his lips and we creep.

Just outside the door, Lyle straightens his shirt and cocks his hat back on his head. Stilman, Daley, and Valentine form up outside the door, turn their backs to it. Lyle plucks the toothpick out of his mouth, looks at it, then crams it back in. He walks into the light.

I start to follow him but freeze up when I see what’s inside the toolshed.

Shirtless and massive, the Brain sits on a rolling stool. Steam rises from his wet skin. He stares expressionless at the rusted tools hanging from the wall while a skinny doctor in a dirt-stained lab coat methodically sews up his torn pectoral muscle. The hunk of meat flaps from the Brain’s chest as the doctor works, but the man might as well be a statue. A big, meaty statue.

The Brain’s deep-set green eyes flicker over to us as Lyle swaggers inside.

“Hey there,” says Lyle. “You don’t know me but—”

“I don’t want any,” says the Brain. His voice has the low hollow strain of a big mammal. A bull or an elephant.

“That’s good, because I’m not here to sell you nothing,” says Lyle.

“I’m not for sale, either,” says the Brain.

“Settle down, now,” says Lyle, hands out.

With a menacing scowl, the Brain starts to rise. The doctor steps back, impatient for Lyle to get beaten down so he can get back to work. Lyle watches the mountain of a man carefully, his boots scratching lightly on the concrete as he backs out of reach. For an elastic second Lyle actually seems scared, and then something locks into place behind his eyes.

“Ho there, partner. Just came to talk. I was a Son of Silence like yourself,” says Lyle.

The Brain stops rising. “What chapter?”

“Northside Dirty White Boys,” says Lyle.

“Mad Dog set?” says the Brain.

Lyle pauses, thrown. Then he takes the toothpick out of his mouth and points it at the Brain. “Dragon set, you redneck fuck,” he says.

The Brain eases back down. The doctor goes back to stitching him up in precise lunges with a spool of black thread that looks more like clothesline rope.

“Right,” says the Brain. “What do you want?”

“Street ain’t the place for men like us. Running drugs, it’s for peons. And look at you. Cops see you coming a mile away. You and me were meant for something bigger. What I want is to invite you to be part of another brotherhood. A group of people that you can relate to.”

Lyle takes off his hat and pushes a lank piece of hair away from his forehead, revealing the nub of plastic on his temple. The Brain’s small eyes flick between Lyle’s nub and my own. I can almost hear his thoughts: Does this really make us brothers? Is there finally someone I can trust?

The cowboy is here to recruit muscle—the sort of muscle that doesn’t even exist outside of amp circles. And for some reason, he also wanted me to see this. The outer limits of human amplification.

“You ought to come out and see us at Eden,” Lyle urges. “Hang out. Be yourself for a little while. Nobody there to judge, you know it?”

Unconsciously, the Brain reaches up to his own bald head and touches the nub there. As his great arm rises, I catch a glimpse of something on the back of it—a peach-colored slick of mottled scar tissue. Burned skin. It’s a removed tattoo.

Faint, very faint, I catch sight of an outline that could be a dragon head. Some kind of gang insignia that’s been burned off the back of the Brain’s arm.

Clever cowboy.

The relic of the tattoo disappears into a fold of muscle as the Brain sends his massive arm out like a crane, hand extended. Lyle pops his hat back on and bounces forward to shake it, his nimble fingers disappearing into that massive paw.

The Brain’s fist closes tight and he yanks Lyle forward. The Brain frowns, small eyes trained on Lyle’s forearm. A phrase is tattooed there. Tight black capital letters: AD ASTRA CRUENTUS.

“What’s it mean?” asks the Brain.

Lyle flashes a grin, impenetrable as ever. “It means we’re going to the stars together, stained in the blood of our enemies.”

[SECRET]

ARMY RESEARCH LABORATORY (ARL)

White Sands Missile Range, NM 88002-5513

Impact of Experimental Zenith-Class Neural Autofocus on Battlefield Situational Awareness

ARL—TR—6445

Reaction Time (Excerpt)

Decreasing the time course of mental operations in the human nervous system confers wide-ranging advantages, particularly for amplifying situational awareness. Previous research gauges average human reaction time to visual stimulus at approximately 60 milliseconds. This is widely recognized as a hard limit.

Brain implants, however, allow us to drastically increase the speed of reaction time for complex behavior involving multiple brain systems (sensory, cognitive, and motor). Completely bypassing input from higher brain regions, implants may autonomously intercept and monitor sensory information and direct action at the speed of reflex.

High-level behaviors such as situational awareness, evasion, and even combat maneuvers can be turned over to the implant. In the following study, we demonstrate that implanted test subjects become capable of acting in complex real-world situations with hard limit spinal reaction times—approximately twice as fast as nonimplanted control subjects.

—Not approved for public release; distribution is limited.—

As I finish shaving the next morning, I see myself in the mirror and I can’t help but marvel at how normal I look. Last night, I saw what implants can do to a person. Saw what people can become when they let the technology inside.

And for the first time, I understand why Priders are scared: we’ve gone and become our tools.

In the distance, I hear the puttering of Jim’s pickup truck. Like most people around here, he’s got an old manual drive. Can’t afford the safety of an autonomous car. It makes a hell of a racket as he pulls up outside.

I can’t help thinking that the men in those freak fights are a type of person that has never existed before. Clawing each other to pieces in a ring lit up like an operating theater, they looked like newborn creatures exposed under the spotlights, blind and mewling, skin glistening. New breeds of men that have Joseph Vaughn and his Priders scared crazy, foaming at the mouth.

The unblinking generals—Valentine, Daley, and Stilman—went home to their own cities last night. Of all the new breeds, I think the Priders should fear them first. Zeniths, like me.

And yet a normal-looking former teacher is staring back at me in the mirror.

Knock, knock, knock.

The flimsy bathroom wall shudders.

“What happened to the front door?” asks Jim, voice muffled.

I step into the dim hallway with a towel around my waist, squeezing the ratty carpet between my toes. Jim waits for me, a serious expression hiding in the wrinkles of his face. It looks like he hasn’t slept since he left.

“I met Lyle Crosby,” I say. “I’m in. If I want to be.”

“He know about your Zenith?” asks Jim.

“He knows. It’s why he’s interested,” I say. “He’s building an army.”

Jim rubs his eyes with the balls of his thumbs. “Yeah.”

“Claims he’s the only thing protecting amps,” I say.

Jim stands in the hallway, breathing steadily and slowly. “Hell, he may be right, but it’s already gone too far. He’s going to give the reggies a reason to start a war. Make all Vaughn’s crazy predictions come true.”

Someone bangs on the front door. We both ignore it. I push past Jim into my bedroom. Throw on some clothes. Jim stands in the doorway, face shadowed.

“Watch him, Owen. Learn what you can. But for God’s sake, be careful,” he says. “The rest of the world is waiting to come down on us like a tidal wave. Not just Eden. All the amps. Half a million innocent people.”

The banging isn’t stopping. Light, repetitive taps that shake the screen door. Again and again.

“Lyle wants me to turn it on, Jim,” I say.

“Then you need to know everything,” says Jim, sighing. “After activation, you’ll enter a consent mode. Yes or no. You might hear a voice or see it in your mind’s eye.”

Bang, bang, bang.

“What does it do?” I ask.

“Autonomic delegation,” says Jim. “Your body acts and reacts faster than you can think. Action without thought. Your true self making the calls. The deeper you go, the harder it is to turn it off. And once you go down a level, you’ll always go that deep. No coming back. It can take you to dark places.”

The banging stops.

“It’ll turn me into a weapon,” I say, my voice suddenly loud.

“All you got to do is curl your hands into fists and you turn into a weapon,” says Jim. “Your body is just another tool. This technology changes nothing; it only amplifies. You decide how to use your tools. Whether to do good or evil.”

There’s a scratch on my bedroom window as someone hoists his face to the crack. “Owen,” says a familiar high-pitched voice. “It’s Nick. Lyle sent me. C’mon, you gotta come see this!”

Nick leads the way, stubby arms swinging. He’s so little to be in the middle of this. Just a baby on the railroad tracks. Once we’re out of earshot of the trailer, I put a hand on his shoulder. Slow him down so we can talk.

“Nick,” I ask, “has Lucy said anything …”

“About you yelling at her?” he asks.

I blink, surprised. I didn’t know it was that loud.

“Nope,” he says. “But you should apologize.”

“I am sorry for that. And I will. But I meant … about Lyle,” I say. “Is something going to happen around here? Something big?”

Nick shrugs. “Who knows? He’s always telling her to buy a gun. But the guy is weird. You can ask him yourself here in a second.”

As we approach Lyle’s trailers, I see a crowd of about a dozen of his followers loitering around. They’re peeking in the dusty windows of a rotten, spray-painted trailer. I recognize some, but they give me a lot of space. I’ve got Lyle’s aura on me now—it demands respect, and fear.

“This is messed up, man,” says Nick, breathless.

“Go home,” I say. “I’ll tell you about it later. Go on.”

Noncommittal, Nick backs away into the crowd of legs. The others step away from me, forming a ragged patch of space. I knock on the waterlogged front door. Instantly, the hinges squeal and the door parts. In a stripe of light, an eye appears.

“Get your ass in here, brainy smurf,” whispers Lyle. Turning sideways, I squeeze in through the door. Lyle shoves it closed behind me.

My stomach sinks when I see what’s going on.

In the dim, damp interior of the trailer, I see two teenage boys. Strapped to plastic lawn chairs with lots of duct tape. Not struggling. And they don’t look like they have implants. They look like those kids from the field, probably sixteen or seventeen.

God only knows what Lyle is doing here.

“Thanks for coming, doctor,” says Lyle. “These boys are just about ready for their implants.”

My mouth pops open audibly.

Lyle puts an arm around my shoulder. “Don’t worry about your tools, doc. Your nurse is bringing them. Should be here any second.”

The two strapped-in teenagers are watching me, a strange mix of fear and anticipation on their faces. I know I should hate these little bastards for what they did to me, but they look so young and stupid sitting there. A couple of dumb kids who just fell into a shark tank and don’t even know it.

“What?” is all I can get out.

“Besides,” continues Lyle, “before you get started operating, we’ve got to make sure and get permission from these young men. Ain’t that right, boys?”

“Y-yes, sir,” they both say.

“Now, where do y’all live?”

The bigger one speaks up. “Just across the field there, sir.”

“And why exactly are you here?”

“To see about getting an implant, sir.”

“We wanna get amped,” says the other one.

Lyle looks over at me, smiling. Keeps on questioning the kids, watching my reaction to their words. “And why is that? Why do y’all wanna get amped?”

“Cause we heard you could do stuff. Fighting type of stuff.”

“Like it makes you faster and smarter and stuff,” chimes in the sidekick.

“And stuff,” repeats Lyle. “Your parents know you’re here?”

The kids glance at each other. Try to have a conversation with their eyes. Fail at it. The big blond one rolls his eyes as the smaller one admits, “No, sir.”

“That’s fine. We don’t care about that. Y’all two are young men. You can make your own decisions. If you want to get an implant put in your noggin so that you can get smarter and stronger and stuff … why, that’s your call.”

The kids smile hesitantly at each other as Lyle continues. “Men fight. Think about the Zulu War. Africa. 1879. A few hundred British troops used Gatling guns to mow down a horde of over two thousand enemy soldiers. Not a single British casualty. There were gods on the battlefield that day. When we’re done with you, you’ll be the same as them.”

“The British?” asks the small kid.

Lyle throws his head back and cackles. It reminds me of the first day I saw him, shirtless in the street and hurting people. A manic energy is building inside him as he speaks. “No, you little dumbass. The Gatling guns. A new standard. Human beings, perfected by our own technology. Only to be wielded by the chosen few. Not by the sheep but by those who are better. Those who are willing to make it to the stars through blood.”

“Oh,” says the kid.

The teenagers are glancing at each other now. Panic starting to build. Lyle keeps going. My teacher instincts are kicking in, and now I’m thinking about how to get the two of them out of here.

“I won’t lie and say the procedure isn’t painful, because it is. Gonna be a lot of bleeding. Lot of drilling and sawing. When it’s over, y’all gonna have a big old mark right here.”

Lyle taps the dot on his temple.

“Everybody is going to know exactly what you are. Only they won’t know what you’re capable of. Not at first.”

The smaller kid is starting to squirm under his duct tape. His breath is coming in quick shallow gasps. It’s pathetic and I don’t want to see Lyle torture them anymore.

“So you see, guys,” I interrupt, “you don’t want to do this. Why don’t you just go back home and forget about it?”

Shaking my head at Lyle, I kneel next to the blond kid’s chair. Start ripping off the duct tape.

“C’mon, what’s the matter?” asks Lyle, throwing his arms out.

“Well,” squeaks the small one. “Can we get it so that … I mean, we can’t have anybody know.”

“Whatcha talking about? Spit it out, kid,” says Lyle.

The big one blurts, “Can you do it without the maintenance nub? On the temple? Otherwise our folks’ll find out. We’ll get in trouble. You understand, right? I mean, we don’t wanna be amps.”

That word “amp” just seems to lie there like a dog turd on the carpet. I urge my fingers to move faster on the duct tape. These kids are brainless and Lyle is unpredictable and the whole combination is going to explode any second.

Lyle chuckles harshly. “Amps, huh. We sure wouldn’t want that. Talk about wanting your cake and eating it, too. Ain’t that right, doctor?”

“Meaning no disrespect, sir,” says the blond one.

“No can do, little amigo,” says Lyle. “No nub means no fixing the implant. Have to cut your head open every time we need to adjust the contacts. Besides, you gotta coat that thing with bio-gel. Otherwise the inside of your brain scabs up until the whole thing shuts down. Lights out.”

A knock comes from the flimsy door, hard enough to shift the walls of the whole moldy trailer. I hear the wet wood splintering.

“That must be our nurse,” says Lyle.

He dances across the room and yanks the door completely open. At first, I think it’s dark outside. Then I realize the Brain is standing in the doorway, huge and slump shouldered. Both the kids blink in fear, trying to grasp the size of this human being.

I finish freeing up the blond kid. Move on to the smaller kid. Curious faces are gathering in the clouded window.

The Brain steps inside, plywood floor groaning under his weight. He says nothing. Leans forward to avoid brushing his bald head against the mold blooming on the ceiling. In this enclosed space, the sound of his breathing is epic. It’s like being locked up in a room with a prehistoric animal.

The kid in front of me starts squirming harder.

Lyle shakes his head at me. “Wanna do good cop, bad cop, huh?” He holds up three fingers on his right hand, preparing to activate his Zenith. Three. Smiles at me, lowers a finger. “All right then.”

Two.

“No, Lyle,” I say. “Why?”

One.

“We’re sorry,” sputters the younger one, wriggling to get his hands free. “It was his idea. He dared me to come.”

Zero.

Lyle’s eyes go hard and mechanical. Like somebody blew out the candle in a jack-o’-lantern. Face gone slack, he spits out his words in a torrent. “Did you little reggies think you could just show up here and we’d welcome you in? Make you one of us?”

And then Lyle’s face is inches from the blond kid. I blinked and while my eyelids met, Lyle moved. I keep tearing at the duct tape, frantic now.

“You can’t be one of us,” says Lyle. “You haven’t got the grit. Your hearts are full of fear. You dumb fuckers belong in that field, holding on to a spotlight like it was your dick. Afraid of the dark and for good reason. You better keep that spotlight burning bright. Because there’s something out there in the dark. Something dangerous. Not fully human.”

Lyle smiles and his canines flash. There’s that dullness again in his eyes, like he’s acting or watching this unfold on television.

I’m done. The kids are both free.

The smaller one looks over my shoulder at the window. I follow his gaze and see Nick’s face. He’s got the Rubik’s cube in one hand and the windowsill in the other. A moist Band-Aid still clings to his forehead. No emotion on his face. I can’t tell if he’s happy to see these bullies punished.

“Enough,” I say. “C’mon, Lyle.”

I reach for Lyle’s shoulder, but he isn’t there. Now he’s standing in the middle of the room. The way he moves is sickening, fast.

The little kid’s lips are shaking. “I’m sorry about Gunnin’ Billy,” he says to me. “He told us to watch the field.”

The bigger kid shoves him, and the little guy shuts up.

Only now do I realize my opportunity.

“Billy?” I ask. “His tattoo. What does it mean?”

No response.

“Answer me,” I say, “and I’ll make him stop.”

Blurry faces crowd the window. Lyle doesn’t look, but I know he sees them. He’s putting on a show for those gathered outside.

Lyle breathes in hard through his nose, savoring the fear. “It’s me out there in the dark, boys. Me and mine. And we’re not human. Not like you. We’re better than human. Better than you.” Lyle taps his temple. “Scared little rabbits. I can feel your hearts all aflutter. I can make them freeze up just by thinking about it.”

The blond kid has started shaking. The trailer is warm and moist as the inside of a fresh-cooked biscuit, but he’s got his sunburned arms wrapped around his torso and his elbows are bouncing around like he’s riding in the back of a pickup truck.

Lyle curls two fingers back and makes his right hand into the shape of a gun. He steps back, extends his arm all the way, and lowers it. Points directly at the middle of the blond kid’s heaving chest.

“What’s the symbol mean, kid?” I ask. “Elysium? The EM? What?”

I’m a ghost to Lyle, invisible. Not part of whatever show is playing in his mind.

“Ready to die, kid?” he asks. “The United States Army gave me this power. They did this to me. Took away my life and made me good for one thing: killing.”

The little one has started crying. Eyes closed, hands unbound but down at his sides anyway. Helpless in the shadow of the Brain. “It’s a secret club,” he blubbers. “They call it Elysium. Billy and them have special meetings and stuff. Only the ones with the tattoo get in. I don’t know nothing else.”

“Shut up!” shouts the big kid.

Eyes half lidded, Lyle presses his fingers into the big blond kid’s chest. “You are going to die today,” he says.

The blond kid whimpers, shaking uncontrollably now. “Please,” he’s trying to say in a strained whisper, “please, no.”

“Who’s in charge of Elysium?” I ask.

“Vaughn,” whispers the blond kid. “Billy knows him. He’s the boss. The spotlighters are out there because he said so. Please.”

Lyle lifts his hand. Then he abruptly drops it, presses his fingers into the kid’s chest. The kid takes a deep breath and holds it.

“Boom!” shouts Lyle, and bursts into a hyena cackle.

The blond kid shrieks. Keeps shrieking. Goes rigid and slides off the chair onto the soggy floor. Scrabbling and screaming. Eyes open but blind. His little friend slumps, sobbing in his chair.

All of it against the backdrop of Lyle’s wild laughter. And under the gaze of the Brain. The giant man stands motionless save his breathing, a placid boulder.

I try to pull the blond kid up off the ground, but he’s lost his mind. Grunts and shrieks. Lyle leans over and slaps the kid across the face. He keeps screaming, so Lyle tries to slap him again.

I grab Lyle’s bicep, pull him back. It takes all my strength. “Brain,” I say, putting Lyle into a full-on bear hug. “Dump them in the field. Don’t hurt ’em.”

The Brain says nothing, glances at Lyle. I’m not a general like the other Zeniths: Stilman, Daley, Valentine. But the cowboy has gone vacant, so the Brain obeys me. Grabs both the kids by the back of their shirts, one in each hand, and drags them out the front door. Two sacks of squirming meat wrapped in T-shirts.

I let go of Lyle and he drops to the floor. Scoots back to lean against the wall. He rests a tattoo-stained arm across one knee. His forehead wrinkles as he tries to come out of it. His limbs quiver and he grimaces, shakes his head. I start to breathe normally again. I could puke, but damned if I’m going to lose it in front of Lyle. Not ever again.

“What the hell was that?” I ask him.

Lyle wipes his face with his sleeve. He stands up and peeks out the window. Grins, daylight flashing from his shark eyes.

“If you’re gonna be useful, I needed you to see,” he says. “You got to know how bad they want what we got.”