After Death(91)

The robots are quick and nimble, all but gliding across the open land at between fourteen and sixteen miles per hour. In the moonlight, their exquisitely engineered bodies are as silvery and seem almost as liquid as if they are shapes of coherent mercury.

Although the F-150 is capable of far greater speed than their quarry currently exhibit, Walter says, “Don’t lose them.”

“I won’t lose them,” Juan declares.

“They’re probably scouts.”

“Yeah. I’m hoping they’ll lead us to the ship.”

“Is that a good thing?” Walter wonders.

“Why wouldn’t it be a good thing?”

“What if the aliens are evil?”

“They aren’t evil.”

Walter says, “You would know—how?”

“I’m more with Spielberg than Ridley Scott.”

“So it’s an issue of faith with you.”

“No. Logic. The ETs in Alien were just bugs. They weren’t able to build robots, spaceships. ETs with spaceships are advanced beyond violence.”

At the top of a hill, the robots halt and turn and rear up on their hind legs, mantis-like in the headlights, and something about their posture suggests they might be equipped with weapons.





In the lightless attic with Nina and John to his left, sitting with his back to the wall, Michael Mace takes over control of Gog and Magog out there in the night, while he also enters the universal service network that all telecom companies share. He locates the provider of service to Juan Louis Gainza, who was earlier identified in the DMV files as the owner of the F-150.

Perhaps because she is sitting shoulder to shoulder against Michael, Nina senses him reacting to the crisis. “What’s wrong?” she whispers.

He murmurs, “Stay calm. I’ve got to make a call. I’ll explain later.”

Once he has Juan Gainza’s number, he is able to identify the maker of the phone in six seconds. Apple. He’s been there before. Easy to enter their system. From Apple’s ocean of data, he siphons the transponder code built into that particular iPhone. He departs Apple and trampolines from the internet to an orbiting navigation-service satellite from which he seeks the current location of the signal being emitted by Gainza’s phone. He finds it, funnels down the microwave linkage into that device, and switches it on. Mindful that Calaphas is searching the house below them, he keeps his voice as low as he can without whispering, while nonetheless sounding authoritative. “Juan Gainza, stop.”





Evidently, the trap ladder was retracted from above. Calaphas isn’t so foolish as to pull it down and use it. The noise will alert them. Mace will be in the most advantageous position he could find. Calaphas can’t climb a steep ladder quickly, with a rifle in both hands. No one can. Impossible. That’s Hollywood action. He isn’t John Wick or Jason Bourne or Harry Callahan. Neither were Keanu Reeves nor Matt Damon nor Clint Eastwood, not for real. The bennies have pumped him up. He’s wound so tight with rage that his ears are ringing. He feels the arteries throbbing in his neck. The taste of blood is in his mouth because he’s bitten his lip in frustration, such is his need for action. But when those in the attic sense that he’s nearing the top of the ladder, they’ll pin him with at least one beam of light. Probably two. Directed by the woman and the boy, maybe neither of them anywhere near Mace. If Calaphas is wearing the night-vision gear, he’ll be blinded by the amplified light. If he isn’t wearing the unit, he might not see where his primary target waits in the shadows. In either case, Mace won’t hesitate; he’ll go for a head shot.

Calaphas stands gazing up at the trapdoor. His mind races, chemically enhanced. Thanks to the bennies, he doesn’t feel tired. He is clearheaded, and every thought is as sharp as a blade flashing off a stropping stone. He knows exactly what to do.





The robots halt and pivot and rear up on their hind legs.

Juan brakes to a full stop about ten yards from them, halfway up the hill, and Walter says, “You still all Spielberg about this?”

“We’ve got to be careful here,” Juan says. “We do the wrong thing, and it’s misunderstood, could seal the fate of humanity.”

“Like in The Day the Earth Stood Still.”

“Maybe. Though that was a lame movie.”

“It was lame,” Walter agrees.

Juan’s phone is fixed in a WeatherTech device that fits in a cup holder. The screen brightens, displaying the familiar photo of Juan’s much loved—and recently deceased—golden retriever, Jasper. The phone doesn’t ring or vibrate, but a male voice issues from it: “Juan Gainza, stop. Shut off your engine. You’ve accidently strayed into a Department of Defense field test.”

“Shit,” Walter says.

“Stop where you are. We’ll be coming to take your statement.”

“Are we going to be arrested?” Juan asks. When the screen goes dark, he says to Walter, “Angelina will kill me if I’m arrested.”

“They won’t arrest us,” Walter assures him.

Killing the engine, Juan says, “Why wouldn’t they?”

“Like he said, it was accidental.”

In the headlights, the robots stand watching them for a moment. Then the machines drop to all fours, prowl across the crest of the hill, and vanish into the night.