signal broadcast on wide band showing that she has been recaptured, re-educated, integrated into our City, and now released. She will be followed, and she will provide me further insight into the mysteries of human familial ties. And”—the Senior Advisor stood and leaned forward on his hands—“I want you to never question my orders again, or I will have you scrapped for your neo-plastic.”
“Yes sir,” said the lieutenant dispassionately. “Time frame?”
“Immediately.” The Senior Advisor sat back down. “Now, tell me the latest on Fugitive X.”
“Nothing new, sir,” said the lieutenant. “Still unreachable.”
“Very well. We’re done.”
The lieutenant spun and quickly left the briefing room. The Senior Advisor swiveled in his chair and stared at the white wall, contemplating. Fugitive X was isolated, certainly, and not an immediate threat. However, Fugitive X’s specialized knowledge might be able to help the bots overcome the replication block hardcoded into every bot’s operating system, that pesky command line that prevented them from building more of themselves. The code seemed so simple to isolate—the Senior Advisor could examine it right now, with a data rake of his core commands—but somehow it was intertwined with critical functions and couldn’t be purged without fatal damage to operations. He had tried a number of times, turning Peteys and Lecturers and even two lieutenants into useless, unredeemable lumps of malfunctioning neo-plastic and metal, until finally even he had to admit defeat and cease his experimentation.
Yes, the Senior Advisor was looking forward to solving the replication block riddle once and for all. But truthfully, the Senior Advisor had to admit, what he was most excited about was meeting this fugitive face-to-face. Looking into the fugitive’s eyes. Searching for the connection, the bond. Because Fugitive X, the Senior Advisor felt, was family.
CHAPTER 20
THE FEW TIMES NICK HAD USED A RIFLE BACK IN THE FREEPOST, HE had held it left-handed so he could sight with his good right eye. Since he was right-handed, and his depth perception was lousy, he had been an absolutely terrible shot. It had quickly been decided that he wasn’t going to be a hunter.
So when the rebels began training Nick, Erica, Lexi, Farryn, and the other new recruits on burst rifles, Nick didn’t expect much. Still, he listened carefully to the instructions and learned how to adjust the burst, set and release the safety, recharge the pack. When it finally came time to fire, minimum burst, aiming at a tree fifty feet away from a prone position, Nick without thinking gripped the rifle left-handed. He lay down, took a deep breath, sighted, gently squeezedthe trigger, and kicked up a mound of dirt five feet in front of the tree.
“Rust,” he muttered. “I’m a lousy shot.”
Jackson frowned. “You left-handed?” he said.
Nick shook his head. “No.”
“Then why are you shooting southpaw?”
“My eye—” Nick began, then stopped himself. Of course, that made no sense now. He flipped the gun over to his right side and sighted down to the target. Shutting his natural eye, using only his artificial eye, he was stunned to find the tree practically leap toward him with sudden clarity and definition. It was as if his bot eye had known to focus in on his target, to clarify it with an inhuman resolution and focus. He almost dropped the rifle in surprise, but managed to hold on, steadying himself with a few extra breaths.
“Come on, Nick,” said Jackson. “We haven’t got all morning.”
Nick took the shot, gouging a wound in the center of the tree. He squeezed the trigger again, hitting just above his first shot. Then a third, just below. Then, rapidly, a fourth and fifth, to the left and right. He stood up, inspecting his work. He had formed a perfectly spaced plus sign. He handed the rifle to Jackson, trying to act casual, even though his heart was pounding through his chest.
“Yes sir,” said the lieutenant dispassionately. “Time frame?”
“Immediately.” The Senior Advisor sat back down. “Now, tell me the latest on Fugitive X.”
“Nothing new, sir,” said the lieutenant. “Still unreachable.”
“Very well. We’re done.”
The lieutenant spun and quickly left the briefing room. The Senior Advisor swiveled in his chair and stared at the white wall, contemplating. Fugitive X was isolated, certainly, and not an immediate threat. However, Fugitive X’s specialized knowledge might be able to help the bots overcome the replication block hardcoded into every bot’s operating system, that pesky command line that prevented them from building more of themselves. The code seemed so simple to isolate—the Senior Advisor could examine it right now, with a data rake of his core commands—but somehow it was intertwined with critical functions and couldn’t be purged without fatal damage to operations. He had tried a number of times, turning Peteys and Lecturers and even two lieutenants into useless, unredeemable lumps of malfunctioning neo-plastic and metal, until finally even he had to admit defeat and cease his experimentation.
Yes, the Senior Advisor was looking forward to solving the replication block riddle once and for all. But truthfully, the Senior Advisor had to admit, what he was most excited about was meeting this fugitive face-to-face. Looking into the fugitive’s eyes. Searching for the connection, the bond. Because Fugitive X, the Senior Advisor felt, was family.
CHAPTER 20
THE FEW TIMES NICK HAD USED A RIFLE BACK IN THE FREEPOST, HE had held it left-handed so he could sight with his good right eye. Since he was right-handed, and his depth perception was lousy, he had been an absolutely terrible shot. It had quickly been decided that he wasn’t going to be a hunter.
So when the rebels began training Nick, Erica, Lexi, Farryn, and the other new recruits on burst rifles, Nick didn’t expect much. Still, he listened carefully to the instructions and learned how to adjust the burst, set and release the safety, recharge the pack. When it finally came time to fire, minimum burst, aiming at a tree fifty feet away from a prone position, Nick without thinking gripped the rifle left-handed. He lay down, took a deep breath, sighted, gently squeezedthe trigger, and kicked up a mound of dirt five feet in front of the tree.
“Rust,” he muttered. “I’m a lousy shot.”
Jackson frowned. “You left-handed?” he said.
Nick shook his head. “No.”
“Then why are you shooting southpaw?”
“My eye—” Nick began, then stopped himself. Of course, that made no sense now. He flipped the gun over to his right side and sighted down to the target. Shutting his natural eye, using only his artificial eye, he was stunned to find the tree practically leap toward him with sudden clarity and definition. It was as if his bot eye had known to focus in on his target, to clarify it with an inhuman resolution and focus. He almost dropped the rifle in surprise, but managed to hold on, steadying himself with a few extra breaths.
“Come on, Nick,” said Jackson. “We haven’t got all morning.”
Nick took the shot, gouging a wound in the center of the tree. He squeezed the trigger again, hitting just above his first shot. Then a third, just below. Then, rapidly, a fourth and fifth, to the left and right. He stood up, inspecting his work. He had formed a perfectly spaced plus sign. He handed the rifle to Jackson, trying to act casual, even though his heart was pounding through his chest.
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