I chew the last bite of my last kangaroo jerky, my tired, heavy eyes locked on a service road next to I-90. Four vehicle charging stations line a dimly lit rest stop in front of me. All have been empty the hour and a half I’ve been here.
Just outside the surveillance camera’s range—I counted four, one in each corner—I wait unmoving, sandwiched between two benches. I kneel uncomfortably, a sharp corner digging into my lower back, to stay awake.
My stomach growls at me to pay more attention to the 3D food printer I saw posted outside the restrooms. I still have my microchip and my umbrella—the government doesn’t know to track Aeron Rowe yet—so I could grab a few supplies for the rest of my journey. Mira has the megaprotein kits from Rayla’s survival food supply in her bag. But I have all the water—and I can survive up to three weeks without food. Mira will need water within three days.
Despite this biological fact, my belly emits a loud grumble at the thought of the freeze-dried chicken and black beans in Mira’s possession. The label promised the food would taste just as great today as it will in twenty-five years. Be quiet, I scold my stomach. If the cameras detect a lone, skulking figure at a vehicle rest stop, the military might descend upon the area with a drone or an entire company of soldiers.
Suddenly the benches on either side of me begin to vibrate. A harsh, low rumbling of what seems a thousand thunderous engines seeps into my bones, overtaking my eardrums.
Motorcycles. A gang of them.
Lights off, cloaked in blackness, the souped-up bikes storm the station, and I press my body tight against the pavement, attempting to make myself invisible. I turn my head and dare a shadowy peek from between the bench’s legs: half a dozen bodies fly off terror-inducing metal monsters, all wielding handcrafted weapons designed to inflict property damage or bodily harm.
What the hell is going on?
I squint my eyes to zero in on their faces. Shockingly, every single one has the same bland features, tanned skin, and an identical five o’clock shadow. John Doe masks. The gang members all illegally share an identical 3D-printed prosthetic face, essentially becoming one man. I’ve never seen anyone wear a John Doe before. They’re forbidden by law, seen as impersonating a false identity. Merely owning the mask is cause for arrest. This defiance is a stinging slap in the face to the government’s multibillion-dollar surveillance system.
A slap that leaders like Roth would never allow.
Screaming like madmen, the anonymous bodies disperse, each one running full bore at a predetermined target. Chilling yells ring through the air, and I hear the naked defiance in their voices. I watch, a shiver creeping down my spine, as they swing their clubs over and over, smashing the cameras like pi?atas.
I’m not afraid—of the recalcitrant gang, of the Guard showing up any second, of the weighty task I was entrusted to carry out—even though I know I should be. The John Does’ angry cries only harden my certainty.
The government can be wounded. Blinded.
Four of its eyes were just plucked out right in front of me.
The gang returns to their motorcycles and charges back into the night, leaving me alone once more on the cold, rough pavement.
Barely clinging to consciousness, I wait in the quiet stillness for something to happen. Either the Guard will come sweep the station, or another vehicle will eventually pull into the rest stop.
I go over my plan again, fighting to remain alert. First, I must find a driver headed west on I-90, then abandon the vehicle to locate another headed north on I-15 toward Helena, then possibly Route 287 . . . Sleep stubbornly pulls at my mind, closing my heavy eyes, relaxing my clenched fingers that grip the rucksack resting against my chest.
A loud squeak of brakes and my eyes fly open, my senses at once sharp and wary. Scouring the area, I quickly find the source—a water-tanker truck pulling into the wireless charging station farthest from me. A sleepy uniformed Water Guard emerges from the cab, yawning and stretching. She must have fallen asleep on duty, leaving the autonomous system to haul the precious resource across the dark highways of Montana. She scans her wrist with a high-pitched ping, and the red light above her station turns green, authorizing the power transfer to begin.
I shift into a crouch as the woman turns to evaluate each broken surveillance camera. She’s going to report the vandalism.
The Guard reaches for something in her inside pocket—a communication device? a gun?—but I’m unable to tell what it is until I hear the soft click of a lighter followed by a whirling puff of smoke. The woman exhales with a deep, satisfied sigh, relaxing her wide shoulders against the truck’s door.
This is my chance. The monitors inside the cabin will be unattended for the next few minutes while she freely enjoys her illegal cigarette. Tobacco is strictly prohibited; the US doesn’t even grow such a planet-destroying product anymore.
Trusting the Guard will take her time, I exploit the shadows, quickly making my way toward the far side of the truck unseen.
A soft ding—charge complete—right as I reach the top rung of the ladder. I rush to flatten myself against the smooth cylinder tank. I push forward on my stomach, taking pains to produce no noise, before plunging into a depression outside the passenger cabin.
Through a small gap to my left, I see the Guard suck in a final, hefty inhale, then toss the cigarette to the ground. With a slight groan, she crushes it with the toe of her boot and places the butt inside her pocket, hiding any evidence of her infraction.
I duck when she turns to climb back into the truck. Pulling my hood low, I tuck my body into a ball and tightly grasp a protruding metal bar.
The door slams shut, and the engine starts up quietly.
Racing west at ninety-five miles per hour, the hours inch by painfully slow.
And lonesome.
Not even the moon glistens above, my only companion shielded by clouds.
Before, I could sense Mira somewhere in the back of my mind. Distant, but still unmistakably by my side.
When I reach out for her now, she’s no longer there.
I can’t feel her at all.
MIRA
I am Marley Townsend.
I am Mira.
I am more than just part of Ava.
It’s 9:00 p.m.
The seconds could be hours, years. Time doesn’t matter.
I peel off my analog watch—glass cracked, leather scratched—and shove the timepiece into a flap inside my rucksack. I would just as soon trash the timepiece among the willowy gray needles of the western wheatgrass that pad my hideaway, but I can’t leave any breadcrumbs for my capture.
My stomach growls.
The disquieting hum of a low-flying drone was stalking the land just to my right. But it died away long before sunset without passing over the gnarled gray branches of my ceiling. A bald eagle hunting for weakened lambs. I imagine the governor behind the eyes of the camera, reveling in his God’s-eye view.
My limbs crave sleep, but my dry mouth and pounding head tell me to move. I must find water.
I emerge from the shelter of a lone tree and turn left. West, east, south. It doesn’t matter.
With slow, labored steps I climb the hills. In the daylight it must look like I’m walking atop golden waves across a rolling sea that leads to the end of the world. I’ve never seen the ocean before. Maybe I will if I just keep walking.
I reach the summit of a particularly unfriendly knoll, its incline steep and packed with loose rocks, and allow myself a moment to catch my breath. Sweat drips down my sides, pooling in my belly button, clinging my shirt to my skin, and I curse myself and this hill for wasting such essential water to the greed of evaporative cooling.
My quads are on fire but I stand, pivoting in a tight circle, searching for lights or a hint of the moon’s reflection bouncing off a lake or a stream. I have roughly three days to survive without water. Two and a half, I think, mopping the beads of sweat from my upper lip.
I complete my circle and end where I began. No lights. No reflections. Adjusting my rucksack, I descend the hill to begin another.