“You’re going to a different place than them, buddy.”

“Yeah? Where’s that?” I ask.

The voice behind me chuckles. “Elysium.”

“Lucy?” I ask, panic infecting my voice.

“Don’t worry about us,” says Lucy. “Worry about Lyle.”

The distance between us is growing. The other agent is leading them toward a car. Its black doors gape open.

“I’ll come and find you,” I say, craning to look over my shoulder.

“Owen,” shouts Nick. “Owen, wait!” The kid tries and fails to wriggle out of the agent’s grasp, twists violently, hangs by one arm with his legs sprawled out.

“Use it,” he says.

The agent lifts Nicky and tucks him under his arm. He pushes the kid inside the car. As I’m shoved into the van, I can still hear the kid’s muffled voice: “Use all of it!”

EXECUTIVE ORDER

14902

Authorizing the Secretary of Defense to Prescribe Holding Areas

WHEREAS the successful safeguarding of the nation requires every possible protection against technological threats, be they from home or abroad, and the existence of persons made militarized by implantation technology poses a threat to their fellow citizens as well as to themselves:

NOW, THEREFORE, by virtue of the authority vested in me as president by the Constitution and the laws of the United States of America, and commander in chief of the Army and Navy, I hereby authorize the Secretary of Defense, and the military commanders whom he may designate, to prescribe “safety zones” in such places and of such extent as he or the appropriate military commander may determine, from which any or all persons may be excluded, and with respect to which, the right of any person to enter, remain in, or leave shall be subject to whatever restrictions are deemed necessary.

I hereby further authorize and direct the Secretary of Defense and the said military commanders to take such other steps as may be deemed advisable to enforce compliance with the restrictions applicable to each safety zone, including the use of federal troops and other federal agencies with added authority to accept the assistance of state and local agencies.

I’m sound asleep when one of the guards slams his nightstick into my cell door.

“I said wake up, pal,” says a deep voice from the other side of the door.

“How the fuck is this guy even asleep?” asks a reedy, high-pitched voice.

The blazing overhead lights never go off in here. I imagine that must make it hard for most people to rest. Me, not so much. Earlier, I dropped into my Zenith and asked my retinal implant to temporarily suppress my visual cortex. You don’t get this kind of mind-numbing darkness outside a closed cave system.

I fell asleep in the absolute black, everything stripped away except for that goddamn question blinking in my head: Do you consent? Insistent. Steady as my heartbeat. Trying to take me down another level. Level five. Full sensory networking. Long horizon mission planning. Command and control. Enhanced mobility and survivability. Do you consent? Do you consent?

Begging me to go whole hog.

Real power is in the connections between things, Lyle said. The pieces are in place but it’s up to me to turn them on. Give the go-ahead to let the retinal talk to the neural. Cochlear talk to retinal. The world opens up to you in ways you can’t imagine. You have to see it to believe it, Lyle said. And then the skinny cowboy made that hyena laugh of his. Threw his head back and let loose like he’d said the funniest thing in his life.

All you have to do is say the word. I refuse.

Bam-bam-bam-bam.

The sudden hammering at the door yanks me out of the deep cave of my mind and back into reality.

I turn my eyes on and blink at the light.

“Let’s go, buddy,” says a guard, speaking through the slot. “On your feet. Back to the door. Wrists together.”

My knees are stiff and it takes a second to stand. Weeks ago, two silent agents put a bag over my head and drove me here in the back of a van. I don’t even know where here is. I’ve been in this cage ever since. Pissing in a metal toilet. Eating whatever comes through the slot. Until now, nobody has spoken to me. Nobody has responded to my questions. I’ve been forgotten.

That nightstick smacks the cell door with an ear-ringing clang.

“Now, motherfucker!” screams the other guard.

Rough hands reach through the slot and ratchet cold steel around my wrists. I stumble forward. Behind me, the solid metal door glides open on oiled hinges. I hunch my shoulders instinctively as a burst of fresh air hits the back of my neck.

“Turn around, asshole.”

Two guards stand in the hall, a big one and a little one, framed by the doorway. Both men are wrapped in black armored vests, with kneepads and helmets. No writing and no insignias. The big one has a riot shield clutched against his barrel chest.

I’m standing here, cuffed, my baggy bright-orange jumpsuit hanging off my thin frame. In the weeks since I was captured, I’ve barely eaten or exercised. My bruises have gone from black to green to yellow. Healing.

The little guard flips up his protective face shield and grabs me by the front of my shirt. He drags me stumbling forward into the hallway. I crane my neck, soaking up the new sights and smells and sounds. Retinal reengaged, I can almost feel the electricity flashing spiderwebs through my visual cortex. My brain soaks up the novelty of information, drinking deeply after absolute deprivation.

Big puts a paw on Little’s shoulder. Through his helmet mask I see that he’s got worried brown eyes.

“Careful with him,” says Big in a deep voice. “They warned us for a reason.”

“Check his temple,” says Little. “This is just another Autofocus job. A fucking smarty-pants. What’s he gonna do, hurt me with his brain?”

Little smirks at me, shoves me forward down the hall. Big hangs back, almost cowering behind his Plexiglas riot shield. He palms his Taser holster with black-gloved fingers.

“Let’s just get him there, okay?” asks Big.

Little makes a high-pitched giggle. He prods me in the back with the nightstick, keeping me a few feet ahead, walking down the middle of an empty hallway.

My internal clock says it is one seventeen in the morning.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask.

In response, a wasp sting tap from the nightstick on my ear. It smarts like a bastard. I feel a trickle of blood running down my jawline.

Well, that answers that.

The long, low hallway has the feel of a submarine, running deep and quiet and unknown through midnight seas. Identical steel-plated doors line the walls. Taupe colored, the paint flaking. Each has one slot at crotch level and a slice of mesh-laced glass at eye level.

We reach a reinforced door at the end of the hallway. My breath catches in my throat as Little wrenches on my handcuffs, grinding my wrist bones together. I bite my lip and stop walking, trying not to react.

Little seems like the sort who wants to be provoked.

Big walks around me to clear the way. I notice he leaves a trail of watery boot prints on the hallway floor. It must be raining outside. A rumbling groan of distant thunder reverberates through the hallway. Must be a real hell of a storm to reach all the way in here.

Somewhere, a buzzer emits a quick grinding ring. The noise races up and down the hallway, as if searching for a way out. There isn’t one.

The horizon of my life is shrinking down to my line of sight. There are no moves left on the old chessboard. The little guard walks in front of me, cocky and armed. The bigger guard, cautious and wary, is hanging back. The hallway ends ahead in a yawning doorway, fluorescent lights humming on the other side.