Reboot

  DEDICATION

  For my sister, Laura

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Ad

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  ONE

  THEY ALWAYS SCREAMED.

  My assignment wailed as she slipped in the mud, whipping her head around to see if I was gaining on her.

  I was.

  Her feet hit solid pavement and she broke into a full sprint. My feet grazed the ground as I chased her, my short legs easily overtaking her panicked attempt at running.

  I yanked her arm. She hit the ground. The sound that escaped her mouth was more animal than human as she desperately tried to stand.

  I hated the screaming.

  I pulled two sets of cuffs off my belt and secured them around her wrists and feet.

  “No, no, no, no,” she choked out as I attached the leash to her handcuffs. “I didn’t do it.”

  I wrapped the leash around my hand and ignored her protests as I hauled her to her feet and dragged her down the street past the crumbling wooden shacks.

  “It wasn’t me! I didn’t kill nobody!” Her movements became wild, almost convulsive, and I turned to glare at her.

  “There’s some human left in you, ain’t there?” she asked, craning her neck to look at the number above the bar code on my wrist.

  She froze. Her eyes flew from the 178 printed on my skin to my face and she let out another shriek.

  No. There was no human left in me.

  The screaming continued as I led her to the shuttle and threw her inside with the other members of her gang. The metal bars clanged down as soon as I stepped aside, but she didn’t try to make a run for it. She dove behind two bloodied humans in back.

  Away from me.

  I turned around, my eyes flicking over the slums. The deserted dirt road stretched out in front of me, dotted with poorly constructed wooden homes. One of them was leaning so heavily to the left I thought it might tip over at the slightest gust of wind.

  “Wren One-seventy-eight,” I said, adjusting the camera on my helmet so it pointed straight out. “Assignment secure.”

  “Assist Tom Forty-five,” a voice on the other end of my com ordered. “In pursuit on Dallas Street. Coming up on the corner of Main.”

  I took off down the dirt road and turned into an alley, the stench of rotten trash hanging in the humid air so thick I wanted to bat it away from my face. I sucked in a deep breath and held it in my lungs, trying to block out the smell of the slums.

  Forty-five whizzed past the alleyway on the paved road in front of me, his black pants torn and flapping against his skinny legs. He left a liquid trail behind him I assumed was blood.

  I darted onto the street and flew past him, the sound of my boots causing the human ahead of us to turn. This one didn’t scream.

  Yet.

  He stumbled on the uneven road and a knife fell from his hand and skidded across the pavement. I was close enough to hear his panicked breathing as he dove for it. I reached for him, but he shot to his feet, whirling around and slicing the blade across my stomach.

  I jumped back as the blood trickled down my midsection and the human’s lips turned up in a triumphant smile, like this was a victory.

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

  Forty-five hurled himself at the beefy human, taking them both down. I hadn’t trained Forty-five, and it was obvious. Sloppy and impulsive, he was barely faster than the human.

  Before I could intercede, Beefy took hold of Forty-five’s neck, gave his helmet a shove with his palm, and jammed the knife straight through the boy’s forehead. I winced as Forty-five gurgled and slid off him, his bright, gold eyes vacant as he hit the dirt.

  The human scrambled to his feet, doing a few celebratory jumps and making whooping sounds. “Yeah! What you got, Blondie?”

  I adjusted my com, ignoring the human’s annoying attempt to bait me. “Wren One-seventy-eight. Forty-five down.” Beefy’s smile slid off his face at the mention of my number.

  “Continue.” The voice coming through my com was flat, uninterested.

  I locked eyes with Beefy. I wanted him to run. I wanted to kick his legs out from under him and smash that triumphant look on his face into the dirt.

  I took a quick glance down at Forty-five.

  I wanted it to hurt.

  Beefy whirled around and raced away from me, pumping his flabby arms as fast as he could. I bit back a smile as I watched him go. I’d let him have a tiny head start.

  The chase was my favorite part.

  I leaped over Forty-five’s body and the human looked back as I gained on him. I grabbed his shirt and he stumbled with a grunt, his face smacking against the ground. He clawed desperately at the gravel, but it was too late. I jammed my foot into his back as I pulled out my cuffs. I snapped them around his ankles.

  He screamed, of course.

  “Wren One-seventy-eight. Forty-five’s assignment is now secure.”

  “Report to the shuttle,” the voice in my ear said.

  I attached a leash to Beefy’s wrists, jerking it tighter until he yelped in pain, and tugged him over to Tom Forty-five’s body. He was a young kid, maybe fourteen or so, just out of training. I avoided his vacant eyes as I roped the leash around his wrists.

  I lugged them past the sad little wooden houses of the slums and back to the shuttle, the blood crusting on my stomach as my wound closed. I shoved Beefy into the black box with the other humans, who cringed at the mere sight of me.

  I turned away and headed for the other shuttle, pausing to pull the knife out of Tom Forty-five’s head. The door opened and the Reboots looked up from their seats, their eyes immediately skipping over me to rest on Forty-five.

  I pushed aside the nagging voice that said I should have been able to save him, and carefully placed him on the floor. I took a quick glance around the shuttle and found my most recent trainee, Marie One-thirty-five, strapped into her seat. I scanned her for signs of injury, but didn’t see any. She’d survived her first solo mission. Not that I’d expected otherwise.

  She looked from me to Forty-five and back again. She’d been silent through most of our training, so I barely knew her any better then I had her first day as a newbie, but I thought the expression on her face was gratitude. My trainees had the best survival rate.

  I handed the knife to the shuttle officer, who gave me a sympathetic look. Leb was the only officer I could tolerate. The only human I could tolerate, for that matter.

  I took one of the small seats lined up inside the black windowless shuttle, pulling the straps down my chest as I leaned back. I stole a glance up at the other R
eboots, but they were all looking at Forty-five sadly. One even wiped at tears on her face, smearing blood and dirt across her cheek in the process.

  The lower numbers often cried. Forty-five probably cried. He was only dead forty-five minutes before he rose. The less time dead before the Reboot, the more humanity retained.

  I was dead for 178 minutes.

  I didn’t cry.

  Leb walked to the front of the shuttle and gripped the edge of the open door as he peered inside.

  “Ready,” he said to the officer piloting the shuttle. He pulled the door closed and I heard the locks snap into place. We lifted off the ground as Leb slid into his seat.

  I shut my eyes until I felt the shuttle land with a jerk. The Reboots silently filed out onto the rooftop, and I resisted the urge to look back at Forty-five one more time as I brought up the rear.

  I joined the line, pulling my long-sleeved black shirt off to reveal a thin white undershirt. The cool air tickled my skin as I tossed the shirt over my shoulder, spread my legs, and held my arms out like I was trying to fly.

  I saw a Reboot fly once. He jumped off the top of a fifteen-story building with his arms spread, hit the ground, and tried to drag his broken body to freedom. He made it maybe two feet before they put a bullet in his head.

  A guard, a human who smelled like sweat and smoke, quickly patted me down. He could barely keep the grimace off his face and I turned to look at the squat little buildings of the slums instead. The guards hated touching me. I think they flipped for it.

  He jerked his head toward the door, wiping his hands on his pants like he could wash the dead off.

  Nope. I’d tried.

  A guard held the door open for me and I slipped through. The top floors of the facility were all staff offices, and I ran down several flights of dark stairs and stopped at the eighth floor, Reboot quarters. Below were two more floors Reboots were allowed to access on a regular basis, but under that it was mostly medical research labs I rarely visited. They liked to examine us occasionally, but they mostly used the space to research human diseases. Reboots don’t get sick.

  I held my bar code out to the guard at the door and he scanned it and nodded. My boots made little noise on the concrete floor as I made my way down the hall. The girls in my wing were all asleep, or pretending to be. I could see into every room through the glass walls. Privacy was a human right, not a Reboot one. Two girls per room, one in each of the twin beds pushed against either wall. A dresser at the end of both beds and one wardrobe at the back of the room to share—that’s what we called home.

  I stopped in front of my quarters and waited for the guard to call in the order for someone upstairs to open my door. Only the humans could open the doors once they were locked at night.

  The door slid open and Ever rolled over in her bed as I stepped inside. She hadn’t been sleeping much the last few weeks. It seemed she was always awake when I came in after an assignment.

  Her big, green Reboot eyes glowed in the darkness and she lifted her eyebrows, asking silently how the mission went. Talking after lights-out was prohibited.

  I held up four fingers on one hand, five on the other, and she let out a little sigh. Her face scrunched up with an emotion I could no longer stir up in myself, and I turned away to loosen the strap of my helmet. I put it on my dresser with my camera and com and peeled off my clothes. I quickly pulled on sweats—I was cold, always cold—and climbed into my tiny bed.

  Ever’s pretty Fifty-six face was still crumpled in sadness, and I rolled to stare at the wall, uncomfortable. We’d been roommates four years, since we were thirteen, but I’d never gotten used to the way emotion poured out of her like a human.

  I closed my eyes, but the sounds of human screams pulsed against my head.

  I hated the screaming. Their screaming was my screaming. The first thing I remembered after waking up as a Reboot was a shrill yell bouncing off the walls and ringing in my ears. I had thought, What idiot is making that noise?

  It was me. Me, shrieking like a crack addict two days out from a fix.

  Rather embarrassing. I’d always prided myself on being the quiet stoic one in every situation. The one standing there calmly while the adults lost it.

  But at the age of twelve, when I woke up in the Dead Room of the hospital 178 minutes after taking three bullets to the chest, I screamed.

  I screamed as they branded my wrist with my bar code, my number, and my human name, Wren Connolly. I screamed as they locked me in a cell, as they escorted me to the shuttle, as they put me in line with the other newly undead former children. I screamed until I arrived at the Human Advancement and Repopulation Corporation, or HARC, facility, and they told me screaming meant death. Acting like I was still a human child meant death. Disobeying orders meant death.

  And then I was silent.

  TWO

  “DO YOU THINK THERE WILL BE A HOT ONE THIS TIME?” Ever asked as I smoothed my black shirt down to my pants.

  “Didn’t you think Seventy-two was hot?” I asked, turning around to give her an amused look. She liked it when I looked amused.

  “Kind of a jerk,” she said.

  “Agreed.”

  “I feel like we’ve had a real dry spell.”

  I laced up my boots, genuine amusement sparking inside me. New Reboots arrived about every six weeks, a time many saw as an opportunity to replenish the dating pool.

  We weren’t allowed to date, but the birth-control chip they shot into the females’ arms the first day suggested they knew that was one rule they couldn’t actually enforce.

  For me, new Reboots meant only the start of a new training cycle. I didn’t date.

  The lock on the door to our room clicked, like it did every morning at seven, and the clear door slid open. Ever stepped out, looping her long brown hair into a knot as she waited. She often waited for me in the morning so we could walk to the cafeteria together. I guessed this was a friend thing. I saw the other girls doing it, so I went along with it.

  I joined her in the hallway and the pasty human standing just outside our door shrank back at the sight of me. She pulled the stack of clothes she was carrying closer to her chest, waiting for us to leave so she could drop them on our beds. No human working at HARC wanted to enter a small, enclosed space with me.

  Ever and I headed down the hallway, eyes straight forward. The humans built glass walls so they could see our every movement. Reboots tried to afford one another a smidgen of privacy. The halls were quiet in the mornings, the only sounds the occasional murmur of voices and the soft hum of the air-conditioning.

  The cafeteria was one floor down, through a pair of big red doors that warned of the dangers inside. We stepped into the room, which was blindingly white except for the clear glass that lined the upper portion of one wall. HARC officers were stationed on the other side, behind the guns mounted to the glass.

  Most of the Reboots were already there, hundreds of them sitting on little round plastic seats at long tables. The rows of bright eyes shining out against pale skin looked like a string of lights down every table. The smell of death hung in the air, causing most humans who entered to wrinkle their noses. I rarely noticed anymore.

  Ever and I didn’t eat together. Once we got our food, she split off to the table for the Under-sixties with her tray and I sat down at the table for One-twenties and higher. The only one who came close to my number was Hugo, at One-fifty.

  Marie One-thirty-five nodded at me as I sat down, as did a few others, but Reboots over 120 minutes dead were not known for their social skills. There was rarely much talking. The rest of the room was noisy, though; the chatter of Reboots filled the cafeteria.

  I bit into a piece of bacon as the red doors at the end of the room opened and a guard marched in, followed by the newbies. I counted fourteen. I’d heard a rumor the humans were working on a vaccine to prevent Rebooting. It didn’t look like they’d succeeded yet.

  There were no adults among them. Reboots over the age of twent
y were killed as soon as they Rebooted. If they Rebooted. It was uncommon.

  “They ain’t right,” a teacher once told me when I asked why they shot the adults. “The kids ain’t all there anymore, but the adults . . . they ain’t right.”

  Even from a distance, I could see some of the newbies shaking. They ranged in age from about eleven or twelve to older teenagers, but the terror that radiated from them was the same. It would have been less than a month since they Rebooted, and it took most much longer to accept what had happened to them. They were placed in a holding facility at the hospital in their hometown for a few weeks to adjust until HARC assigned them to a city. We continued to age like normal humans, so Reboots under the age of eleven were held at the facility until they reached a useful age.

  I’d had to spend only a few days at the holding facility, but it was one of the worst parts of Rebooting. The actual building where they kept us wasn’t bad, simply a smaller version of where I lived now, but the panic was constant, all consuming. We all knew there was a good possibility we would Reboot if we died (it was almost certain in the slums), but the reality of it was still horrifying. At first, anyway. Once the shock wore off and I made it through training, I realized I was much better off as a Reboot than I’d ever been as a human.

  Rebooting itself was simply a different reaction to the KDH virus. KDH killed most people, but for some—the young, the strong—the virus worked differently. Even those who died of something other than KDH could Reboot, if they’d had the KDH virus even once in their lifetime. It Rebooted the body after death, bringing it back stronger, more powerful.

  But also colder, emotionless. An evil copy of what we used to be, the humans said. Most would rather die completely than be one of the “lucky” ones who Rebooted.

  The guards ordered the newbies to sit. They all did so quickly, already informed that they followed orders or got a bullet in the brain.

  The guards left, letting the doors slam as they hurried out. Not even our hardened guards liked to be in the presence of so many Reboots at once.

  The laughter and scuffling started right away, but I turned my attention back to my breakfast. The only newbie I had any interest in was my next trainee, but we wouldn’t be paired up until tomorrow. The Nineties liked to break ’em all in right away. Considering the speed at which we healed, I saw no problem with the newbies being roughed up a little. Might as well start toughening them up now.