Stolen Future Read online

  Without a word, he rose slowly and used a scanner device to unlock the door. On the stairs above, footsteps sounded—someone was coming down fast—and if it was Ryken and he managed to tell the guard what I’d done, I would have a hard time fighting this guy along with Ryken. I knew I was strong, but I didn’t know how many men I could fight at once or whether my cyborg abilities would be reliable.

  When the door unlatched, the big man pulled it open for me. I raced down the front landing onto the street. Twenty feet ahead was the pedway. Pausing, I glanced back at the entrance to Ryken’s apartment building. He had followed and stood just outside the entrance, his eyes scanning for me, then picking me out of the crowd. The muscled bouncer loomed behind him. Ryken muttered something to the man, and when I zoomed in on their faces, I picked up their conversation.

  “A new friend? Haven't seen her before,” the muscleman said.

  “It's complicated,” Ryken answered, shrugging.

  I headed out onto the boulevard, into the mass of people walking, loitering, and hustling on a busy Saturday night. A clatter of honking horns sounded from nearby, followed by shouts. The normal street bustle was turning into chaos as something began to separate the crowd a hundred meters away. People on bikes and scooters veered off or suddenly changed direction like ants scurrying from an oncoming stream of water.

  A dozen pedestrians jogged past me; one man sprinted. “Scyther!” he yelled, and the expression on his face was one of panic.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ryken coming down the front stairs of his building. I started walking away from the disturbance down the road, and that was when the screaming started.

  A man over seven feet tall headed my way. His broad shoulders were framed in a heavy, dark coat with long flaps. His left arm was abnormally long and shaped like a canister. He raised it, and I glimpsed his face—red machine eyes sat on a humanoid face, but something was odd. Not soft skin—something hard and unyielding covered the surface of his glimmering face. He was a machine, whatever the people were calling Scyther. His gaze caught mine, and my cognition threw up a red flashing alert. Threat level 10.

  Without hesitation, I turned and started to sprint away from the machine man who had raised his cannon arm. And then something struck me high on my right shoulder with the force of an oncoming truck. I was thrown forward onto the pavement, landing in a sprawling heap. People were shrieking and running past. I looked up as a man yanked a woman’s arm, running down an alley to hide. I glanced around, but there were no signs of anyone who could help. No police.

  My cognition read, Damage assessment… Processing… and a little wheel spun to indicate something was happening.

  I rolled over, and a jolt of pain sent spikes up and down my back. Groaning, I managed to sit up only to see the Scyther stomping toward me. Coming to finish me off.

  Stats flashed on my field of vision. Bullet entry upper right shoulder. Medium-velocity 1,100 ft/s. Damage level 7.6.

  Forcing myself to my feet, I ran ten feet before stumbling. After regaining my footing, I peered over my shoulder, grabbed the gun from the back of my pants, and aimed it at the Scyther.

  There was a click. Empty chamber. So Ryken hadn’t been lying.

  Still, the machine man with the burning red eyes advanced. As he drew closer, he lowered his gun. I turned and almost collided with the wheel of a hoverbike. Glancing up at the driver, I saw it was Ryken.

  He reached down with his right arm, fingers splayed. “Get on. I’ll get you out of here.”

  I grabbed his hand and climbed onto the back of the bike, though I nearly fell off as he steered forward and accelerated. Gripping the sides of his jacket was the only thing keeping me upright. Once I gained a foothold on the metal sides, I slid forward on the seat, clasping my hands together around his stomach. A burning sensation in my shoulder told me everything was not okay. A shooting pain rippled all along my spine and down into my right leg. I turned my head as the bike picked up speed, hovering just two feet off the ground. Ryken slammed on the horn, shouting at people to move.

  “Scyther!” he yelled, and people looked over with horrified expressions.

  Behind us, the hulking robotic man pursued. It sprinted forward at an alarming pace with its arm raised again, taking a shot that missed and shattered a glass shop window. Ryken steered us sideways and zoomed up to cruise two feet above the sidewalk, managing to dodge panicked pedestrians.

  I gulped for air as my hair flew into my eyes, and I pressed the side of my face into Ryken’s back, holding on and trying not to fall off as he sped up, then braked repeatedly to avoid people and collisions with carts and storefronts.

  Finally, he veered down a side alley that led to a less crowded street. “Is he still behind us?”

  I craned my neck only to see the robot sprinting, still following. “Yes.”

  “Hold on tight!” I squeezed my hands together around his waist, my nails digging into him. He braked fast and took a left down an alley, then a hard right, and we were speeding through a maze-like industrial corridor. It was sparsely populated, and I wondered why Ryken had chosen a less crowded place. Wouldn’t that make it easier for the Scyther to kill us and leave no witnesses?

  Ryken steered around a stack of trailer pods that looked like shipping containers all piled on top of one another. He navigated around the many stacks which measured ten to twenty feet high. After two minutes, he stopped the bike, letting it settle to the ground. He jumped off and helped me down from the seat.

  “What now?” I asked, searching his eyes.

  He raised his finger to his lips. “Quiet now. We try to hide.”

  My temples throbbed and my heart raced laps in my chest.

  “Follow me,” he said. Peering carefully around the edge of a rectangular pod, he paused and then pulled me out into an aisle. We crossed and hid behind another stack, moving away from the deserted bike.

  “Can he find us?” I whispered.

  “The Scyther follows heat trails. We need to get away from the bike as quickly as possible,” he answered.

  We darted around the side of the stack so he could look around another corner, but he recoiled, pressing his back flat against the metal pod’s wall. “He’s coming this way, toward the bike.”

  The Scyther’s boots clanked against the pavement, surefooted and ominous.

  We’d moved far enough away to clear the hoverbike, and once Ryken heard the robot approaching it, he started to run, and I followed as quickly as I could despite the sharp, stabbing pain in my shoulder and spine. Ryken still gripped my hand tightly, dragging me along.

  We ran down another series of alleys before finally emerging into a crowded plaza. Ryken pulled his hood down, exposing his head, and stopped running but didn’t release my hand. Our skin was slick with sweat. We were among a throng of people, none of whom were panicked or aware of a Scyther in the vicinity.

  “Now, we just blend in,” Ryken whispered. He threw an arm around my shoulder and drew me close, as if we were a couple. I winced because he was leaning on the side where the bullet had entered.

  “Sorry,” he whispered once he saw my grimace.

  I couldn’t talk, just bit my lower lip in pain, trying not to faint. We walked this way slowly for at least five minutes, passing bystanders—mostly teenagers and young couples—past a huge statue of the Apollo 11 astronauts that graced the middle of the Plaza. The area was apparently a big Saturday late-night hang out spot, and we blended in with other couples holding hands or dancing to the beat of techno music blaring from speakers.

  Once we reached the plaza’s far side, we paused near a statue of Stephen Hawking and looked back toward where we’d come from. There on the edge of the crowd, I spotted the Scyther. He lingered in the shadows of the plaza’s perimeter, scanning.

  “Don't let him see you,” Ryken said, pulling me back and twisting me around to face away. We lingered for a few moments, both of us catching our breath, his taller frame sheltering me from view. />
  “What’s your real name?” Ryken asked.

  I swallowed, wondering whether I should lie, but he’d helped me escape. Ryken was on my side. So far.

  “Diya.”

  “I know a place we can go, Diya. Where I think we’ll be safe for a while.”

  Seventeen

  Ryken led me down a dark, winding street that came to a dead end. Dizziness swept over me, and I was nauseous.

  “Hey,” he said, looking at me. “Are you okay?” He wrapped one arm around my midsection to steady me, but I was so wobbly, I couldn't answer, not with the huge lump in my throat. Here I was, following a stranger into a dead-ended alley where anything could happen. Weak and wounded. Despite my enhancements, I couldn't have fought off a mouse at the moment.

  “Hang in there,” he said before stepping around to peer at the back of my shoulder. He drew a sharp breath.

  It must have been bad. Very bad.

  “We need to go to a hospital.” His voice was low. “It’s dark out here, so I can’t see the extent of your injury, but you’re losing a lot of blood.”

  How could that be? When Drive Nine had sliced my arm open, there was no blood, just the metal mesh. And when Benny’s gang slashed me with a knife, there had been some blue liquid leaking where the wires had been slashed. Why was I now bleeding all of a sudden?

  “Just leave me here,” I managed to say and slumped against the alley wall.

  “Whoa, whoa,” he said, straightening me. “You gotta stay on your feet, okay?”

  “The hospital—it's too public. That thing chasing us…”

  Ryken swallowed, pressed his lips together, then clenched his jaw. “We can hide out. There's a place with a medical kit. Can you walk a little farther?”

  I met his gaze. He’s not unattractive, I thought, as his face blurred in and out. “Zandal.” I was barely coherent.

  “I have some of that inside the kit. Should help with your pain, and I can dress your wound.”

  We backtracked down the alley to a side door. Ryken closed his fist and banged hard three times. After a few seconds, a small portal slot in the door opened and a man peered through. I glimpsed his eyes and raised eyebrows as he regarded us.

  Ryken glanced sideways, making sure we were alone. He spoke into the portal, “Let slip the dogs of war.”

  I didn't know what on Mars he was talking about, but it must have been a password because the portal panel slid shut, and the door swung open with a loud creaking twang.

  What was this place? Ryken could be leading me anywhere—into a trap sprung by NeuroDyne. And with my gunshot wound, I was helpless.

  I followed him through a dim corridor, unable to acknowledge the man who had let us in. Darkness surrounded us, a single red bulb the only thing lighting our way. The walls were covered in graffiti, and the place reeked of piss, booze, and vomit, and somewhere farther inside the building, a pulsating rhythmic beat throbbed. We were inside a dance club, I assumed, and protected from the Scyther, at least for the moment. Would the bouncer at the door be a deterrent if the robot had tracked us here? I didn't think so but couldn't dwell on it now.

  I clung to the back of Ryken’s jacket as we tread deeper into the club. “Keep up,” he said with a glance over his shoulder. He wasn't moving especially fast but walking at all was proving difficult for me. We reached the end of a hall where a blonde, spiky-haired woman loitered, smoking a vape pipe. Her arms folded, she regarded us with a scowl.

  “Hey, Ryken, looking good tonight,” she said. “When you're done with her, you know where I’ll be.”

  He ignored her and turned right into a loud room that opened up to view a rectangular platform—a boxing ring with three ropes lining the perimeter. Around the arena, an audience of men and women stood at high-top tables or sat on tall stools inside the hazy room. They waved neon lights sticks, swinging them like tiny lassos as they shouted and jeered and clapped. Fury, Fury, they chanted.

  I grabbed Ryken’s upper arm and squeezed. Pausing, he turned his head sideways, and I asked, “What is this place?”

  “Robot fight match,” he said. “Underground.”

  The music changed suddenly, and the dance beat morphed into a loud triumphant marching song as a nine-foot-tall metallic silver robot appeared from a side entranceway. Cries arose from the audience along with shouts of Fury and Bird Man. The robot, flanked by two human assistants, strode to the edge of the fighting ring, dipped under the bottom ropes, and climbed into the arena where it paraded for the screaming fans.

  I’d trailed Ryken a few more feet when he stopped at a side table along the back wall. There he sat me on a stool that leaned against a floor-to-ceiling mirror.

  “Stay here. I'll be back in a minute,” he said and walked off.

  Too discombobulated to protest, I noticed a man sitting across the table dressed in a business suit and thin blue-framed glasses that covered his right eye. I recognized the brand—Brain Flash—from the store I’d visited earlier. They were the cheapo memory devices. He looked at me, recording me in his vision, and then shifted his gaze toward the arena. Wobbling on the stool, I caught my reflection in the mirror. My hair was tangled and the hollows under my eyes were pronounced. Something else was strange. A bright blue shimmer surrounded my pupils. Was I hallucinating? My eyes were brown; why would they be glowing blue?

  I must be out of it.

  But then I remembered that Ryken had said something about my eyes glowing. I hadn’t known what he’d meant at the time. He’d been horrified. Apparently, my cyborg cognition was causing my eyes to change.

  Where the hell was Ryken, anyway?

  A woman whistled between her fingers nearby, and it was ear-splitting. I spun in my seat, looking back at the ring. Another robot, this one red and shorter than Fury, had emerged from the fighter’s entrance and approached the ring. I scanned the room, searching for Ryken, but couldn't see him.

  I slapped a hand on the table to get my neighbor’s attention, realizing too late that his camera meant he’d have evidence of me. If his device was linked into the police warrant logs and his software triggered facial recognition, I would be in trouble. Now he peered at me, waiting for me to say something.

  “Did you see where he went?” I asked.

  But the man stared at me, perplexed. Raising his hands helplessly, he shook his head. He didn't understand English, and I didn't have a language implant. Apparently, he didn't either.

  “Forget it.” I turned away and centered my focus on the match, willing myself not to pass out and fall off the stool. Wherever Ryken had gone, I hoped he would come back for me. Maybe he was right. Maybe I should've gone to a hospital. But if the Scyther followed me…

  The fervor in the club had risen to a peak. A rumbling sounded as people stomped their feet and waved their sticks in exultation. A bell rung, signaling the match start, and silence descended on the room as the two robot contenders faced each other. Now I understood why the silver one was called Bird Man; it had shiny black wings on its back that were folded inward but looked like they could stretch to a ten-foot span. People had passed money back and forth before the match began. Even I knew gambling was illegal on Luna. Ryken had said this was an underground place, meaning the police could raid the establishment at any time.

  Where was he? I bit my lip and dug my nails into my palm to keep myself awake. And then I saw him leaning against the bar ten meters away, talking in a hushed voice to a bartender. This was no time to worry about drinks, and anger bubbled up, making me clench my fists.

  But there were no drinks in front of him. Their conversation looked rushed, heated. Ryken glanced over at me, and I tried to nod, but I think I wobbled instead. Luckily, I caught myself before falling over.

  I stared at the floor and everything had started to blur by the time Ryken reached me and held me up by my shoulder. I knew it was him; he had a minty, clean soap smell that I’d noticed ever since we’d been walking closely together in the plaza.

  “Come on
,” he said gently. “Let's get you out of here.” He helped me stand, supporting my weight. “Grab onto me.” I could feel the warmth of his body as I let him wrap an arm around my midsection and walk me forward. I couldn't have stood or traveled without him—all the neon party sticks had become a flashing jumble of trailing lights. The electronica music throbbed in my head, and the shouting rang so loud, it pounded inside my chest.

  I held onto Ryken’s hand and loosely grasped his hooded jacket as he guided me through a side door next to where he’d been talking to the bartender. The man stood there with his arms folded, a frown plastered on his face.

  “Thanks, Kramer. I owe you,” Ryken muttered as we passed through and exited the fighting room.

  Eighteen

  “That’s Kramer?” I garbled as we reached a dim stairwell.

  “The one and only,” Ryken said. He guided me, still supporting my weight. My right leg had gone numb and become useless, and we faced a steep set of stairs that led down to what looked like a basement.

  “Ugh.”

  “Can you make it down?” He looked nervously behind us in the narrow passageway.

  I leaned against the nearby wall, and my head rolled forward on my shoulders.

  “I take it that's a no,” he said. “Okay, Plan B. Grab me around the neck and climb on my back. Think you can you do that?”

  Was he serious—a piggyback ride? I narrowed my eyes. “I’ll try the stairs.” I took one step down and nearly fell forward, but he caught me and kept me standing.

  “Get on my back, okay? It's the only way.” He sounded pissed, and a flicker of annoyance crossed his features.