The Receiver

1 5 - D I R E C T I V E

The whole planet is made of blue dust. From where I'm crouched behind a dune, my blaster clutched in both hands in front of me, I try to visualize the terrain nearby. The twins are behind a fulgurite of sand forming an archway, each of them using one of the pillars as his hiding place. At least that's where they were the last time I saw them, but they're so small and quick, they're hard to spot. And apparently, they learned from the best because I have zero idea as to where Milo might be lying in wait.

I dig my knees and the toes of my boots into the sand to try and climb higher and maybe peak over the top without getting blasted in the face, but the ground shifts beneath me and I fall, tumbling down the dune. I can't hide my outburst of surprise and by the time I roll to a stop, I look up to see Bo's head pop over the edge of the dune. He lets out a piercing war cry and a bolt of orange light strikes in the chest, dead center. The kid's a good shot.

And just like that, I'm out of the game.

"You little stinker!" I yell up at him. "You better sleep with one eye open tonight!"

He lets out a maniacal victory laugh and disappears, moving on to his next victim.

My sim costume disappears as well as the blaster I was using, which dropped from my hand during my fall, as I get to my feet, patting the sand from my pants.

I spin around until I spot the sim room door, about twenty yards away in the middle of the endless blue desert. The color of the sand and rays of heat radiating off the sand makes it look like ocean waves if you squint just right. I head toward the door, where Frank stands, blocking the exit.

As I get closer, I realize he's staring blankly ahead, not so much at as through me.

"Frank?" I say.

His facial muscles remain frozen. I reach out and wave my hand in front of his face. Nothing.

"Frank," I bark.

This time, his sensors spin, flashing a strange pattern.

"I apologize, miss," he says kindly, blinking me into focus. "I was just—" he stops midsentence, which is weird because bots don't get tongue-tied. "I'm afraid there's something you need to see."

The current sim dissolves so that only formless mounds of sand are left, much to the boys' dismay. Without their hiding spots I easily spy the three of them. Bear looks the most distraught with his little hands mushing down the skin of his cheeks, eyes wild while he makes manic monkey noises.

The twins trudge through the sand toward the door with Milo between them, mussing their hair and telling them they'll pick up where they left off tomorrow.

"What's going on?" he asks, sending the boys out with playful pats on their bottoms.

"I'm not sure," I say, putting my fists on my hips and nodding to Frank.

Wrapping around the entire room is a three hundred sixty-degree image of Lower. It's one of the main, heavily trafficked streets like Sixth Avenue, or maybe Canal Street.

"Why are you showing us Lower?" I ask.

"Perhaps it's nothing," Frank says. "But there was recently a large influx of bots sent into the lower side of Manhattan and they appear to be exhibiting odd behavioral patterns."

"And the English translation of that would be..." Milo prompts.

"Sorry," I say. "Sometimes he defaults to botspeak."

Then I see what Frank's referring to.

Around a street corner, a horde of bots, maybe five wide and twenty deep, march in unison, a regimented rectangle of biped droids. Once they reach the main street, they disperse and work together, moving overturned cars off the roadway, shoving piles of junk onto sidewalks, and snuffing out trash fires.