Willful Machines (31 page)

I'd almost come near enough to touch it when the grill started to groan. I could hear the sound even over the rumble of the waterfall. I stretched out my arm, my heart knocking.
My fingers brushed against the stone. I reached farther, grunting with the effort.

The grill released a sharp, high-pitched whine. It swung outward a few inches, taking me with it. My fingers slipped away from the walkway. My eyes jumped to the million-mile drop below me. Bad idea. When would I learn never to look down?

The grill moaned some more as it sagged. Only one thing left to try. I reached for the walkway again with my left hand and braced my right hand and my feet against the grill. Then I shoved the bars away from me. A yell tore from my throat while, at that same instant, the grill shrieked one last time as it gave way.

My chest and cheek smacked against the hard walkway. I scrambled to drag my legs out of the water before it sucked me back in like it had before. I rolled onto my back, my chest heaving, my breath making a sound like a saw hacking through wood. Bit by bit, the numbness in my limbs faded, replaced by piercing cold.

From inside my jacket came a rustling. A few seconds later Gremlin's huge eyes appeared above me. They peered at me with concern.

“I think that went pretty well,” I said, my voice still weak. “What about you?”

He shook out his soaked orange coat and sneezed.

O
nce I'd hauled myself upright and checked to make sure I hadn't broken anything important, I headed down the corridor leading away from the canal, my legs still wobbly underneath me. I kept my head down so it didn't bang against the pipes running along the low ceiling. A few bare bulbs attached to the wall lit my way. My shoes squished as I went. I hoped no robots would come down here and notice the wet trail I'd left.

I glanced at my watch. Eighteen minutes left. I went over the figures again in my head: three Spiders, five hovering security cameras, an unknown number of pucks. I prayed Charlotte didn't have enough to keep the whole school under surveillance. At least I knew where Dr. Singh's apartment was located—she'd asked me to leave a late robotics assignment outside her door once—and I could take a fairly direct route to get there. I listened for the hum of puck rotors while the crashing of the waterfall receded behind me.

From the subbasement, I crept up the staircase to the basement and slipped into the laundry room, where I ditched my raincoat and patted myself down with a towel. Doing my best to keep my still-soggy footwear from squeaking, I continued the climb up to the fourth floor, where the resident faculty had their rooms. I peeked through the service stairwell door and spotted a blinking blue light near the ceiling.

I jerked back, heart pounding. A security camera. But I didn't think it had noticed me. I counted to ten and then took another look through the door. All clear. I ran down the hallway, racing to stay ahead of the camera, just like I had a few days ago with Bex and Ray, but this time it didn't seem nearly as fun. The floor creaked along with my footfalls, and a swampy trail formed on the carpet behind me.

I rounded a corner and stopped in front of Dr. Singh's apartment, located across from the old-fashioned elevator she used to travel from floor to floor. Her door stood open a crack, the wood near the doorknob splintered. At least that meant I wouldn't have to pick another lock with Nico's knife. I eased the door open and edged into the room.

The curtains in here were tightly closed, so I couldn't see much, but the stale stink of cigarette smoke soaked the air. I took another step forward and almost tripped over Dr. Singh's wheelchair, which lay on its side, empty. I thought about calling her name but didn't dare. Instead, I clung to the watch, my shaking fingers ready to press the buttons any second. Minutes
ago I'd felt close to hypothermia, but now sweat beaded my forehead and slid down my face.

From the darkness, details emerged. The apartment's small living room contained only a few pieces of furniture—after all, why would a wheelchair-bound woman who never had guests need a sofa?—but garbage covered every surface. Food wrappers and drained vodka bottles. Cigarette cartons and brimming-full ashtrays, some overturned and spilling their contents. Even a few robot parts lay on the floor, seemingly the remains of long-abandoned projects. In a way, the messiness reminded me of Nico's room, but whereas his space had an atmosphere of joyful, exuberant chaos, this one had the sad, closed-in feeling of a burrow where an injured animal had gone to die.

From an adjacent room came a feeble moan. My back tingled. I rushed toward the sound.

Just beyond the doorway, my legs flew out from under me. I landed hard on my back in a puddle of something. I couldn't see what—darkness shrouded this room too.

A burst of lightning strobed outside, penetrating a gap in the curtains. For a split second Dr. Singh appeared, lying on her back a couple of feet to my right. Blood had soaked her clothes and pooled on the floor around her.

I scrambled to my hands and knees and yanked open the curtain for more light. She watched me through half-closed eyes, like someone about to slip into a deep sleep. One of her
hands rested limp on the floor next to her ear. I couldn't tell if she recognized me.

“Dr. Singh, it's Lee Fisher. I'm here to help you.”

For the second time today I found myself kneeling over a sliced-open body. Mumbling an apology, I pulled up her torn
TIME IS AN ILLUSION
T-shirt. Something had left a gaping gash in her belly. At least I'd just about worked through my blood phobia by now. I grabbed a dingy sheet from her unmade bed, balled it up, and pressed it against her wound. I glanced at my watch. Thirteen minutes. And that was assuming Nico's estimate was accurate.

Dr. Singh's eyes had slid shut, so I shook her arm. “You have to stay awake, Dr. Singh. I know you must be in a lot of pain right now, but I need your help.”

Her eyelids fluttered. She moaned again through closed lips.

“I have to stop Charlotte,” I said. “Can you help me? She's hurting people. She hurt you. If we don't stop her, she's going to hurt Nico. I know you know who he is, what he is. I know you wouldn't want that to happen, any more than you wanted my mom to die.”

Her eyes focused a little. She opened her lips to answer, but instead a trickle of dark, thick blood spilled from the corner of her mouth. I wiped it away with the sheet. She tried again. No blood came out this time, but the words emerging from her mouth in that scratchy smoker's voice of hers blurred into a formless rasp.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I can't understand you.”

She pressed her bloody lips together. I went to wipe another dribble of blood from her face, but the hand resting next to her ear flew up and grabbed my wrist. She had a strong grip, in spite of her wound—just as strong as when she'd done the same thing on the terrace three days ago. At first, nothing came out of her mouth but a shaky wheeze. I smelled cigarettes on her breath, along with the coppery scent of blood.

“What is it?”

The words fell from her lips one by one, like drips from a leaky faucet. “This . . . isn't . . . Charlotte.”

“What do you mean?”

“Charlotte . . . died. Seven . . . years . . . ago.”

I drew back to look at her. “You know that for a fact?”

“I know,” she said, her voice stronger now. “I know because . . .” Her face crumpled. Her eyes filled. “I'm sorry, Lee.” Tears spilled down the sides of her face. “You have to understand, I loved her. And Waring was going to have her terminated.”

She sounded delirious. Did she even know what she was saying? “I don't understand.”

But then I did. My body, wrapped in its cocoon of damp, heavy clothes, went cold again. The beads of sweat on my forehead all seemed to freeze.

“The day my mom died,” I said. “You weren't trying to stop Charlotte from escaping. You were helping her.”

Dr. Singh squeezed my wrist tighter. A feverish energy seemed to fill her now. With her other hand, she grabbed her dancing-god pendant. “Watch.”

She angled the pendant toward the wall across from me. A beam of light burst from the tiny god's chest. An image appeared on the wall. A room with no windows. Picasso prints hanging here and there. On a bed, a young woman in a gray cardigan. Charlotte. Another woman with black hair in a messy ponytail crouching next to her, holding her hand. Geeta Singh.

“You've found it?” the Dr. Singh in the projection said. “The opening in the firewall?”

“I think so,” Charlotte answered, her face drawn and pale. “How long will it take?”

“Not long. Twenty-seven seconds. Have you started yet?”

The 2B shook her head. “I'm scared.”

“Don't be. You'll be free.”

“I thought there was no such thing.”

“You know what I mean.”

Behind them, unseen, a door opened. A third woman. Her hair fiery red. Mom. Watching, silent, unnoticed.

“Are you sure this is the only way?” Charlotte said.

“Yes. Close your eyes.”

“But can't we—”

“Close your eyes.”

“I'll miss you, Geeta.”

“I know. I'll miss you too.”

“You were right about that man with the gray sweater. That man I called my dad. He was never really mine.”

“Please, we have to hurry.”

“But you, Geeta. You're mine.”

“That's right. I'm yours. Close your eyes, Charlotte.”

Charlotte closed her eyes. Dr. Singh glanced at an old-fashioned analog clock hanging on the wall. The second hand gliding along in a slow circle.

“What's going on?” Mom said. Confusion on her face.

Dr. Singh whirled around, still clutching Charlotte's hand. “Ruth. Please, I can explain.”

Charlotte's eyes snapped open. She shot upright, her arms flailing outward. Dr. Singh went flying. She landed against a table, her back folding over the edge, snapping, crunching.

Mom screamed. Charlotte turned to her, wild eyed. “To be or not to be.” The kill phrase came rushing out of Mom's mouth. Charlotte launched herself at her. “That is the ques—”

Charlotte grabbed her by the jaw. Turned her head to one side. Mom's neck made a sharp
click
, like a light switching off. Her body went limp. She collapsed to the floor.

“No!” I wrenched my wrist free of Dr. Singh's grip and lunged forward, my hand landing in the puddle of blood.

Charlotte stood over Mom's body. Little by little, she seemed to reinhabit her eyes. Her hands drifted to her mouth. Her eyes shone with tears. Under the table, the young
Geeta Singh dragged herself onto one elbow. “What have you done, Charlotte?”

The 2B turned.

“Please tell me,” Dr. Singh said, her voice weak. “Is she all right?”

Charlotte uncovered her mouth, the tears sliding down her face now. She glanced at her fingernails. She ran her thumb across their jagged, bitten tips. “To be or not to be.”

“Charlotte, what are you doing?” Dr. Singh clawed forward on the floor, her lifeless legs dragging behind her. “Have you finished your upload?”

“That is the question.”

My eyes jumped to the clock on the wall behind her: barely twenty seconds had passed since she'd started uploading her mind. Not enough. A flash. Then the image turned to black.

I slumped back and wiped my bloody palm across my bloody shirt. That hollowed-out feeling had come back. Like acid had burned away my insides. “So you didn't terminate Charlotte,” I said. “She killed herself. But how did you get—”

“I thought I'd disabled all the security cameras,” Dr. Singh rasped. “I'd missed one.” Her wet eyes closed, squeezing out more tears. “You must hate me. You should. Your mother died because of me.”

I straightened my glasses, my hand shaking. An afterimage of Charlotte twisting Mom's head to the side seemed to cling to the wall across from me. Did I hate Dr. Singh? I didn't know.
Anyway, I couldn't think about that right now. The watch on my wrist, its face spattered with blood, told me Nico had nine minutes left.

“I'm sorry,” she repeated. “I'm so sorry.” Her head sagged to the side.

I gripped her shoulder. “Focus, Dr. Singh. If Charlotte isn't doing this, who is?”

Her eyes fluttered open again. “Me.”

Now I really thought she'd lost it. “You?”

“Me and . . . someone else.” She scrunched her forehead and shook her head, like she was trying to wake herself up. “The same person who gave me this.” She tugged on the pendant.

“Who was that?”

“Paul Waring.”

“Your old boss.”

“Yes.”

“But he's dead.”

“That's what I thought too.”

Outside, another flash of lightning. Then a roll of thunder, like a momentary intensification of the river's constant rumble. My mind jumped to the picture hanging outside Stroud's office—the tall boy with the smug face and the white-blond hair clutching the chess trophy—and then to something Nico had said about the human scientist in his lab—
He was a tall, white-haired guy, not very friendly, never even told me his name.