Stolen Future Read online

  Where on Mars were the computers?

  “So…” I stepped into the apartment. “This is your place?”

  “Yeah,” he said, hands resting on his hips. “Where the hell is Kramer?” He turned, and I glanced around, scanning for anything I could use as a weapon. A heavy glass bowl embedded with purple swirls sat on a table. I grabbed it, and as Ryken faced away, I struck him in the back of his head. He grunted in surprise and then staggered forward, landing on his knees before crumpling in a heap on the tiled floor.

  His body sprawled before me. What had I done? I kicked his legs to make sure he was unconscious, then hurried into the kitchen looking for something to tie him securely.

  Oddly enough, tricking him had been easy. Luring him in under false pretenses was somehow strangely comfortable, which only added to my theory that A) I’d been a criminal before I was a cyborg, and B) I kind of enjoyed being a criminal.

  But right now, I needed rope or handcuffs to tie him up. I rifled through kitchen drawers that were horribly disorganized. Ryken was not a neat freak. I found some bits of yarn and rubber bands, but nothing strong enough. On the level above where his bedroom was located, a nightstand beckoned. Maybe he was kinky and had handcuffs. I raced up the steps and checked the drawers, finding two books, a pair of strange-looking glasses—not Brain Flash, but I wondered—and a box of condoms. At least he was being safe.

  For some reason, I ran my hand under the mattress next to the bed and my fingers touched something hard and cold. I pulled it out and discovered it was a gun. Studying it, I thought I could fire it if I needed to, but I wasn’t quite sure how it worked, how to load it and such.

  There was a small closet nearby, and a rack with belts. I returned to the living room near the couch, where he’d fallen, and tied a belt around his ankles to secure them. Then I pushed him over—he was heavier than I’d thought, though by no means overweight. In fact, the muscles on his biceps were solid. I pulled his arms behind his back and looped another belt tightly around his wrists. He groaned, and I startled. When I was sure the binding was secure, I stepped away before he woke up and tried to fight or bite me.

  Then my stomach rumbled, so I foraged in his kitchen, finding nothing but a stale box of crackers and a bottle of beer. The guy was a true bachelor.

  As I twisted off the beer cap and took a swig, I regarded his inert, tied-up body and thought, What have I done?

  Fifteen

  While Ryken was passed out, I searched the rest of his apartment. Inside a tall cabinet was a small desk hooked up to a strange rectangular blue box. I swiped the screen like I did at the Lightspeed Café but nothing happened. Running my hands along the sides of the machine, I searched for any kind of switch or on-button and discovered a port that appeared to require a key or identification device.

  The jumbled keys on his belt. He’d used one at the café to let me search online, incognito.

  I approached him and spotted the mess of keys hanging halfway out of his pocket, underneath him. I grabbed his shoulder and rolled him onto his back. He groaned, and I recoiled, wondering if he would stir. Wondering if he would wake and try to fight me. A raspy snore emerged from his mouth, but his eyes didn’t open. Crawling on my knees, I slipped my hand near his left pocket and yanked on the keys, but it hung from a chain attached to his belt. I saw no way to unhook it and was running out of time; he was stirring. I’d planned to research information and be gone before he woke up.

  I would have to remove his belt.

  I tugged his shirt higher, gently, so as not to disturb him. This was so weird. I nudged the shirt higher. I tried desperately to ignore the sight of his stomach and belly-button as I unhooked the belt buckle and slowly pulled the strap from his midsection. It came halfway off, but then got trapped beneath him. Damn. I sat on my butt and pushed my feet under his back to lift him up as I yanked the belt free, and his wallet slid out of his pocket.

  Still, he was passed out, oblivious.

  I rose and carried the keys over to the computer. Studying the quadrant shape of the port, I looked for a matching key. He had at least thirty different keys and card devices and things I didn’t even recognize. Who was this guy? Finally, I spied a possible match and inserted it. The machine powered on. Clapping, I jumped half an inch and then stopped myself, staring at Ryken.

  I took a seat in front of the computer and studied the screen. I expected there to be a browser like the one at the café where I could just start typing. Instead, the face was black and blue and strange jumbled text appeared. “What on Mars is this?” I said out loud.

  Then I stumbled across a small tray that slid out and revealed an illuminated keyboard. I typed randomly, hoping that something would let me figure out how this machine worked. But the text on screen flashed repeatedly: Incorrect entry.

  “Stupid machine!” I slammed my fist against the side of the box and pushed away from the desk.

  On the floor, Ryken groaned loudly. I walked back to the kitchen and retrieved the pistol, placing it in the back of my pants at the waist. Then I picked up his wallet and opened it, standing a good distance away as he squirmed.

  “…the hell?” He whined. “My head.” He stared up at the ceiling and then turned his head, saw me. “Who…?” He paused. He must have been remembering me, our conversation in the pod, the walk here.

  I peered down at him.

  “You hit me.” He frowned.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Where’s Kramer? This has gone far enough.”

  I didn’t answer, studying the ID card in his wallet. Ryken Forrest. Date of birth 2092, making him 28 years old. Citizenship Class C.

  “What does Class C mean?” I asked.

  He was dazed and struggling on the floor. “What? Who cares? Untie me now and bring Kramer in already. This is ridiculous.”

  I sighed. “Your stupid friend isn’t involved in this. What’s Class C?”

  “Kramer’s not…?” His eyes darted about the room wildly. “Who's behind this then? Cruise? Blockhead?”

  Ignoring him as he tried to piece together the situation, I checked the other contents of his wallet: a small card that indicated a pass to a gym. A circular disk that said Meet.Elevate. “What’s Meet.Elevate?” I asked.

  “Have you been living under a rock?” He asked bitterly. “It's a dating service.”

  “Oh.” The rest of his wallet consisted of punchcards for a nearby taco joint and a tattoo parlor gift card.

  He’d managed to sit up and lean against the side of the sofa. “What are you looking for? Are you here to rob me?”

  I grabbed the chair from the computer, dragged it over, and faced him, still far enough away that he couldn’t lunge at me, though he was in no shape to fight.

  He leaned his head against the couch and grimaced. “Could you get me a bag of ice for the back of my head? It’s killing me.”

  “No way. Not until you answer my questions.” I had to exert authority here, try to scare him. I pulled the gun out and held it in my right hand, trying to look cool and casual as I sat there facing him. I rested the weapon on my right thigh.

  He sighed, and his shoulders sagged. “I see you found time to search my place. What do you want?”

  “Why did you call the police at the café? Or did you contact NeuroDyne? And when?” I realized I had so many questions… Play it cool! Earlier, I thought I’d made a mistake—that he didn’t rat me out at the café—but I had to be sure.

  “I didn't call any police or NeuroDyne,” he said, his arms tensing. “You have me confused with someone else.”

  “Then who summoned them to the café?”

  “How should I know?” He drew his bound feet toward him and then kicked out in frustration.

  “And how did you know to exit the building through a side door? Why not just walk through the front door?”

  “Because I…” He paused for a moment. “I got a heads-up that they were outside.”

  “How?”

  �
��I can't say.”

  “Tell me.” I pointed the gun at him, doing my best to appear threatening.

  “I have a security hover-drone. It's something I designed. It waits above the street and looks for threats, then alerts me if it notices any unusual patterns.” His tone was even, a marked difference from his earlier heated reactions. “And it worked. The drone noticed all the cops and soldiers about to come in. So, I found a new exit.”

  I regarded him in silence. I thought to myself, turn on sensors, trying to summon the cognition that evaluated a person’s heart rate and perspiration levels, but nothing happened. I bit my lip. It initiated when I didn’t want it and failed when I really needed it. I start blinking rapidly, wondering if that would turn it on.

  He scrunched his forehead. “Are you okay?”

  I recovered. “Yes, I'm fine. Just had something in my eye.”

  “I have some eye drops if you—”

  “Shut up.” I pointed the gun at him. “You have security drones. Why are you running from the police?”

  His jaw dropped for a moment. “That's my business.”

  I straightened. “It's my business now.”

  “Seriously, though, who put you up to this? Chuck? Christopher?”

  I stood and paced the small floor, tracing a circle in a worn Persian-looking carpet. “You're a computer expert, correct?”

  “I can hold my own,” he said. He glanced at the computer screen still lit up in the cabinet. “You didn't get very far, did you? Although you managed to turn it on. At least you have that going for you.”

  I glared at him. “What the crap kind of computer is that?”

  “I’m a coder. It's a custom machine.”

  “Is that what you do for a living? Is that Citizenship Class C?”

  He shook his head and narrowed his eyes. “Where are you from? The citizenship classes are based on aptitude tests, A being the best and F being the bottom of the barrel. I fell in between. Average.”

  “Aptitude tests? When are those given?”

  “If you want to apply for work,” he replied.

  “Here on Luna?”

  “Here and on Earth. I don't know about Mars. I've never been.”

  I wish I had an ID or something that told me about my past and my class. I glanced at his computer. “So, you’re a genius with these things, right?”

  “I wouldn't call it genius, but I do okay.”

  I wasn’t sure I could trust this guy. But he hadn't threatened me or even tried to break free of the restraints. He could be biding his time, waiting to lull me into a false sense of comfort. But what options did I have?

  “What you do for a living with your Class C?” I asked.

  He frowned. “Technically, I’m a computer repair service specialist. I work in a small shop down the road, occasionally traveling to companies or corps to handle repair calls.”

  “And off the record?”

  “Off the record, I dabble.”

  “Go on,” I urged, still pacing.

  “Security drones, like I mentioned, small robotics that can spy or perform other small tasks, and…” He tilted his head. “You sure Blockhead isn’t behind this? You're really operating on your own?”

  “I don't know who Blockhead is, and I'm the one asking the questions here, remember?” I clutched the revolver’s grip. “And what? Finish your sentence.”

  “You could say I have an interest in memory devices.”

  My eye twitched. “Like those Brain Flashes they sell in the stores where you can record experiences and play them later?”

  “Like that, yeah.” He nodded.

  “Can you help someone who might have a memory problem?”

  “Such as…?”

  “Someone with amnesia?”

  He regarded me with unflinching dark gray eyes. “Do you have amnesia? How did you find out about me? Who told you?”

  “Who…? Well…” I was flustered. “I have my sources. Anyway, this is for a friend.” I pulled the memory card from my pocket. “Can you tell me what's on it?” I held the retrodisc closer to him.

  “A friend, huh?” He scoffed. “Yeah. I can tell you what’s on your disc, but I have some conditions.”

  I narrowed my eyes, waiting.

  “First, you need to untie me. I can’t use my hands now, obviously. Second, I need an ice bag for my head.”

  “Fine. But understand, I'll keep the gun on you.”

  “Understood,” he said quietly.

  I edged toward him and uncinched the belt around his feet. “I’ll make the ice pack first, and then undo your hands.”

  In the kitchen, I piled several cubes from the fridge’s ice tray into a small hand towel. I returned and thrust the ice pack in his lap where it brushed against his still exposed stomach; he flinched. “Hawking hell, that's cold!”

  “Hands out,” I said. He cooperated, and I unhooked him, letting him loose, but I stepped away, gun pointed.

  Grabbing the pack, he lifted it to the back of his head and pushed himself up to standing. Then he plopped onto the couch. “That feels better.”

  I backed up a few feet from where he sat.

  “You really whacked me hard,” he continued, eyeing the overturned glass bowl on the floor.

  “I couldn't take any chances. You understand, don’t you?”

  His gaze traveled to the gun barrel aimed his way. He rose from the couch, and I widened my stance.

  “Don't make me use this.”

  “The thing is,” he said, his voice low, “I’ve been nothing but nice to you since that café.”

  I swallowed as he took another slow, plodding step toward me. “I helped you turn on your computer, close down some shit you didn't want.” Ryken’s face grew flushed and a vein on his temple throbbed. “I was even nice to you when you interrupted me at the club. Then I take you home—Mars knows why I believed your story—and you hit me on the head, tie me up, and hold a gun on me.”

  He kept coming forward.

  “Stop where you are,” I said with a shaky voice.

  Ryken paused. “The thing is, Valentine, I think deep down, you might be a good person… but your behavior is off the charts.” Another step, and between clenched teeth, “I think you're just looking for a clue about who you are.”

  Now he was only two feet from me, and I had run out of room; the wall loomed behind me. “Stop moving!” I hissed, my arms trembling.

  “The thing is, if you were really out to kill me,” Ryken glared at me. “If you were really the cold-hearted criminal you want me to believe you are, you would know that gun you’re holding isn’t loaded.”

  Sixteen

  It took 1.2 seconds to register what Ryken was saying as he stood before me in his apartment. I hadn’t thought to check the gun for bullets; I didn’t know how.

  “It’s not loaded,” he insisted. His charcoal eyes were unflinching; his jaw was set and betrayed no sign of the usual smirk. Still, could I trust he wasn’t lying to save his ass?

  “How do you know I didn't load it while you were passed out?” My arms, held straight, shook as my hands squeezed the grip.

  A sly smile crossed his face. “Because I don't have any bullets here in the apartment.”

  My pulse raced in my throat. I breathed in, trying to steady myself, when he rushed at me, groping for the revolver. He was faster than I’d expected, and strong—as I knew he would be judging from his lean, muscular frame. His warm, clammy palms grasped my forearms, and he pushed my arms straight up so I lost the grip on the gun, which clattered to the floor. His momentum was surprising, and I staggered back, then fell onto my left hip.

  He landed beside me, now facing me with narrowed eyes. He grunted as I struggled to roll away, but he was there, pinning my shoulders down and driving his knee into my hip.

  The strange tingling sensation began in my head—I’d only felt it a few times now—but every time was frightening, as if someone was hijacking my brain. The enhanced cognition snapped on, and my
digital target gaze locked onto him, revealing his elevated heart rate and erratic, rushed breathing.

  I yanked my left arm away and punched him in the shoulder. As if in slow motion, his expression changed; his mouth rounded into an oval, and his body was thrown backward from the force of my blow. I leaped to my feet like some kind of acrobat, landing with bent knees and arms poised, ready to fight.

  Ryken stared at me from the floor, clutching his shoulder and frowning. “Y-your eyes are glowing. What are you?”

  I just stood there looking at him, knowing I could hurt him like I hurt Benny and his gang. Knowing my cyborg abilities were something powerful—something I hadn’t yet begun to fully understand. I stepped forward as if to strike, and he recoiled.

  “Please,” Ryken said, fear edging his voice. He raised his arms defensively to protect his head—from me. I wasn’t expecting this reaction. He was bigger and stronger, so why wasn’t he fighting me? I hesitated with clenched fists, my striking position frozen in midair.

  What had I become?

  I had lied to him, knocked him out in his own home, rifled through his belongings, and now threatened to seriously hurt him. Or even kill him.

  I lowered my arms and backed away, still facing him, until I bumped into the wall. Then I groped behind me, desperately searching for the doorknob when I spotted the gun lying on the cracked tile two feet away. I grabbed it and placed it into the back of my pants.

  The whole time, Ryken watched me, panting, face flushed. “Wait, maybe I can help you.”

  But I didn’t want his help. I didn’t trust him, and I couldn’t promise I wouldn’t try to hurt him again. Turning, I bolted out the door, descending the stairs two at a time, hurrying past the muscled man who guarded the building’s entrance. He sat in a chair reading a yellowed paperback and didn’t move. Just beyond him, I arrived at the heavy steel door and yanked on it, but it wouldn’t budge. I turned my head toward him. “Can you please open this? I need to leave.”