Iamafraid. Or at least my body is. There’s that sharp tingle of adrenaline in my arms and legs, the way my vision narrows.
My mind, on the other hand, is racing. I am a knight on the chessboard, behind enemy lines. This isn’t safe.Iam not safe.
But “safe” isn’t where Augusta Pine thrives.
A buzz draws my attention and I look up sharply. A bee clings to the grate of an overhead vent.
Relief lurches through me. “Edgar,” I say.
The bee shifts his wings, but my earpiece remains silent.The jammers, I think, with a flash of irritation.
I grimace and slide a finger along my ringware. It takes a few moments for me to fix our audio connection. I can’t rely on the internet or cellular, so I set up a short-range signal between us. It’s not secure, but it’s better than nothing. It’ll also allow me to control my visor with my ringware again.
“—hear me now?” Edgar’s voice is too loud in my ear.
I flinch. “Yeah, I hear you. Edgar, stop yelling. Listen, you’re on short range only. Which means I’m only going to hear you if you’re within thirty feet.”
“Acknowledged.” Edgar flies down from the ceiling and settles on my fingers. He looks as adorable as ever—a bumblebee with huge eyes and a fuzzy body. He regards me for a moment. “Orders?”
Of course he would want orders. Because this is exactly what Edgar was built for: high-stakes surveillance, going places no human can, collecting valuable information.
I need a few moments to collect my thoughts. “Just… give me a second.”
He does. For exactly one second. Then—
“Orders?”
I sigh. “Tell me about the intruders.”
Edgar flutters his wings. “There are six. I took the liberty of recording their faces for you.”
I blink in surprise. AIs aren’t known for anticipating needs beyond their original programming; I was planning to write a macro into Edgar’s code so that he would do this very thing. But after working together for three years, he has begun to anticipate my needs.
“This is how the robot uprising begins,” I say. “When you and your AI brethren rule over us, please remember me fondly.”
Edgar seems to consider. “Humor?”
“Humor,” I say. “I hope. Are there any intruders on this floor?”
“No,” he says. “Two in the basement. Two on the main floor. And one on the roof.”
“Probably setting up those jammers,” I murmur to myself. “All right. All right.” I bounce on the balls of my feet, hoping the movement will kick-start my brain. “Let’s see who I’m working with,” I say. Five holographic faces appear in midair, projected into my vision by the visor.
The first is Goldie Glocks, aka Hannah Vale. She looks like a beauty pageant contestant instead of a cyberterrorist. She isn’t tall, but she carries herself with unmistakable confidence.
The second is the burly, towering man. He has a visible golfer’s tan peeking out from under his dark short-sleeved shirt. “Who’s that?” I ask. Normally, I could run his face through my facial recognition software, but without the internet, I have to rely on my own wits. And my spybot.
“I heard someone call him Corey,” answers Edgar. “The other man is called Bud.” A new picture flashes up to replace the last one. This man has shoulder-length hair, long limbs, and the pale countenance of someone who only sees sunlight under duress.
“And the next one?”
“That is Carla,” says Edgar, and the picture changes to show a Black woman kneeling beside a backpack. Her hair is in two-strand twists and she has a smart-ring on every finger. In the photo, she is unloading several small items. The jammers, I realize. A second woman is helping her—the one with bright red-orange hair, light skin, and the compact build of a gymnast. She still has a golf bag slung over one shoulder. “I did not catch her name,” says Edgar.
“Five,” I say quietly. “A five-person crew. One leader, one brought to you by steroids, one that’ll burst into flameif the sun hits him wrong, one tech expert, one who’s definitely not here to golf, and…” I frown. “Wait, you said six. Where’s the sixth?”
Edgar’s wings flutter. “I did not get their picture. They weren’t in the lobby.”
I frown. “Then how do you know there’s a sixth terrorist?”
