Humans, Bow Down by James Patterson
I don’t hesitate when I connect to the cloud—I know right where I’m headed. Someplace warm.
I close my eyes, and I can feel the hot sun on my face. I’m gliding through the glassy turquoise water of a pool. This is my dad’s memory. A June afternoon. I’ve relived the same scene a hundred times.
There’s a tree covered with tiny yellow blossoms, and in the shade of it sits my mom, tanned and smiling in a red bathing suit, sunglasses perched on her head.
The air smells like fresh-cut grass and barbecue. Our neighbor, a big guy named Charlie Potts, is grilling hot dogs for the kids. It’s my sixth birthday, right before the Great War. There’s a giant cake with my name on it sitting on the dining room table.
A small blond girl teeters on the edge of a diving board. “Not the deep end, Sarah!” I say in my dad’s voice.
The kid is me, but this is my dad’s memory. I feel what he felt looking across that pool—fear, pride, and overwhelming love—as the kid starts bouncing on the end of the board, pigtails flying.
And then the kid—me—jumps. She seems to hang in the air for an instant, bathed in sunlight. Then she plunges into the water, making a huge splash, and Dad races toward her, ready to haul her up.
But she surfaces, slick as a dolphin, grinning and spitting water. “That was awesome!”
The water’s cool and the air’s warm, and I’m feeling all the emotions of father and daughter. And what kills me—what just about rips me open with longing—is how happy we were. How carefree. How beautiful we were together. Our family.
We weren’t hungry or frightened or lonely or desperate. We were just happy, and we believed we would get to keep on being happy.
How stupid we were. How naive.
I wake up shaking. I don’t know if I accidentally broke the connection with the Q-comp or if I just drifted off, but when I open my eyes again, I still feel wet. It’s not from a pool, obviously. It’s the snow seeping through my clothes.
I feel like crying. The life we knew was so beautiful—why did the machines we created decide they had to destroy it?
And then, before I can stop them, more memories come. But these aren’t from the Q-comp; these are my own.
Another perfect, sun-filled day. I was running down the street to the market, change jingling in my pocket. My mom told me that I could go buy an ice cream cone, and I was so thrilled that I paid no attention to the Bot cars rushing up my street. Nor did I register the distant pop of gunfire. I went to the grocery and picked out my flavors (strawberry and rocky road). I paid, then proudly strutted back to my house.
I was so deep in sugar heaven that I didn’t notice that our front door was hanging by one hinge. I didn’t notice the frightening silence inside my house—
No, I tell myself. Stop!
The first shots of the Great War? Seeing my first dead body at six years old, and thousands more after that day? It’s everything I want to forget, need to forget.
I huddle closer to Dubs, whose snoring has woken Trip, too. Her eyes gleam at me in the half-light. “You all right?”
I shrug. “Sure. I’m good.”
She reaches for my hand in the darkness. “Everything’s going to be okay, Six.”
But we both know she’s lying.
CHAPTER 27
IT’S ALMOST MIDNIGHT by the time Detective MikkyBo arrives home. At least her leg has nearly healed itself. There’s that. Riding the elevator up to her family’s apartment in the government high-rise, she watches her reflection in the mirrored door. Her black hair is still smoothly tied back; her choker still glitters at her neck. But Mikky stares at herself as she’d look at a disturbing stranger.
Something inside her has shifted tonight. She feels neither proud nor certain nor Elite: instead, she’s confused and scared. And she’s sadder than she’s ever been in her seven-year life span.
When she opens the door, her father glances up from his easy chair. “Ah, it’s you, my MikkyBo!” he says warmly. “I was beginning to worry.”
Mikky tries to find a smile. She hides the slightest limp. “You know you don’t need to worry about me, Daddy.”
“No, no, I don’t. You’ve always been my perfect girl,” NyBo agrees with a nod and a smile. “Your brother, on the other hand… your brother is going to be the end of me. He’s wearing me down to nothing.”
Mikky unbuckles her holster and sits at the kitchen table. She really doesn’t know if she can handle another crisis today. “Daddy, I’m not your perfect girl tonight. Not even close to perfect.”
NyBo looks startled by the despondent tone of her voice. He stands and hurries to her side. “You’re shivering,” he says, rubbing her arms. He holds the back of his hand against her forehead. “Your core temperature is too low.”
“I was in the mountains. At the Reserve,” she says. “Something happened there.”
“What’s wrong?” NyBo asks. “What happened?”
But she doesn’t have a chance to answer. Her tiny tornado of a sister comes spinning into the room. She bounces into her big sister’s lap.
“Kitty Kat,” Mikky says, wrapping her arms around her, cuddling her. “You’re getting big to be launching yourself at people like that. One of these days you’re going to—”
“‘Cause bodily harm,’ I know.” Kat giggles. “Dad’s always telling me that, too.”
Suddenly Mikky starts shivering so hard that Kat is nearly knocked off her lap.
“Hey!” Kat huffs. But then she looks at MikkyBo, and her eyes widen. “What’s wrong, Mikky?”
Mikky can’t stop shaking. She’s thinking about those dead kids—some of them no older than Kat. She clasps her hands together, then twists them so hard, she can almost feel her polymer bones cracking.
“Your sister is fine,” NyBo says to Kat, but he sounds uncertain. “It’s just that, uh, Mikky’s slipstream is a little overloaded.” He starts to usher his youngest child out of the room. “KatBo, you’d best get to bed. School in the morning.”
When NyBo comes back from tucking Kat in, he sits across from Mikky. His dark eyes search her face as he takes her icy hands in his.
“Now,” he says, “tell me what happened in the mountains.”
By the time Mikky gets through the whole story, she’s not shivering anymore. But she feels sick and empty—worse than she’s ever felt except on the terrible day when her mother expired.
“The commander said it was necessary,” she says hollowly. “But I think—it was a massacre. There was no just cause. We fired on those humans.”
“Sometimes, the state must do hard things—for the greater good,” NyBo says quietly. “You were raised to believe we live in a secure place, Mikky. And for Hu-citizens, that’s how it should be. But you are Elite now, and so you are exposed to the complexities of politics and social order. Sometimes you may have to pretend all is well. Even when it might not be.”
“Pretend?” Mikky narrows her eyes. Pretending goes against everything she’s been taught by her mother and father. It goes against honesty, integrity, and good faith. “How can anyone trust me if I am pretending?” she asks. “And how can I trust myself?”
NyBo sighs. He is a perfect father, always. “In that case, you must do what you think is best. That was my way. But look where it got me. Decommissioned.”
“I think I should report the human massacre,” Mikky says.
NyBo purses his lips. “That could cost you your career as a detective. It’s your decision, my dear, but make sure you think it through carefully. Very carefully. Then, Mikky, I urge you to do what you think is best.”
CHAPTER 28
“DO WHAT YOU think is best.”
That’s what being Elite means, isn’t it? That’s what separates us from the humans? That’s why I’m in such a state today, why I’m here putting my career and life in jeopardy.
“What’s this?” MikkyBo’s supervisor juts his chin toward the file Mikky has placed on his desk. He makes no move to pick it up. In fact, he star
“It’s my report on last night’s incident at the Reserve,” Mikky answers.
NoamSha is the complete opposite of the commander: a nervous man, unusually short for a Hu-Bot, and often as lazy as a human. Since he’s always obsessive about “following protocol,” Mikky thought he’d be pleased by her careful record keeping.
Yet his expression is sour, as if he’s just eaten something rotten.
“You’ll find a detailed account of the events,” Mikky goes on, pushing the folder toward him.
She’d worked on it all night, replaying the horrors, wondering how she could have taken control earlier. How she could have stopped the killings. But the commander, MosesKhan, said he was behind them. So now what?
NoamSha finally reaches out and flips through the first few pages. “I’ve already been briefed,” he says. “The commander informed me you nearly botched the mission.”
Mikky is angry now, but she lowers her head meekly. It’s best not to make NoamSha feel he’s vulnerable to criticism from his superiors. “I take full responsibility for what happened,” she assures him. “That’s why I prepared this thorough report. I thought someone might want to review protocol, not to mention Bot communication. As well as any mistakes I may have made.”
NoamSha snorts. “The commander has reviewed it.”
Mikky takes a deep, calming breath. She’d like to take this sorry excuse for a Hu-Bot and shake him until his bolts come loose.
“Someone else, perhaps,” she says carefully. “I know the premier wants to maximize human cooperation. I understand he takes the loss of life seriously. A raid on this scale, with so many casualties… I just think it should be looked into very carefully.”
Her superior’s eyes narrow. “You should do less thinking,” he says quietly, “and more obeying.” His pale hand slices through the air. “That’s the end of it, Detective Bo,” he says. “Go back to your desk. This matter is closed.”
CHAPTER 29
AM I MAKING a huge, terrible mistake? I’m putting everything at risk, and for what—a few human lives?
Mikky accelerates up the winding mountain road, watching as the trees grow more stunted, the ground more brown and scabbed. She can hear the wind whistling through the rocky pass, and even inside her climate-controlled government-issue sedan, she shivers.
This is completely illogical. I almost feel like a human. Why am I doing this?
But as many times as she asks herself this question, MikkyBo always comes back to the same answer: Because there’s no one else who gives a damn about what happened.
She knows that NoamSha will look at her report for no longer than the two seconds it takes him to carry it to the recycling bin. Which means that MikkyBo is on her own right now.
But it isn’t until she enters the Reserve that she really understands what on her own means.
Mikky has to slow to a crawl to maneuver her cruiser on the muddy, pothole-riddled paths. She’s heading toward what she thinks is the heart of the Reserve: a shoddy, garbage-strewn square with a headless, armless statue positioned right in the center of it.
The Great War destroyed even stone humans, Mikky thinks.
She grips the steering wheel tighter. At this speed, she can’t look away from the humans the way she does in the city market. She can’t ignore the pain and the poverty all around her: the cold, brutal concrete housing, the half-naked children picking through the trash, and the field of tents and lean-tos on the ridge that smells so bad, she retches as she drives.
It’s terrible. It’s heartbreaking. At the same time, she knows it’s the humans’ nature to be this way. Their fault. They lack the Hu-Bots’ ingenuity and initiative. They let their impulses drive them into poverty and despair. They lie and fight and steal from cradle to grave; they live in filth and addiction.
All that any of these humans needed to do was agree to Reform, and then they’d enjoy a comfortable life in the City working for a caring Hu-Bot Keeper. And yet they refuse. They’d rather live like animals.
Something strikes the side of her car. MikkyBo inhales sharply, then looks out to see the dark, angry eyes of a young boy. As she watches, he throws his other shoe at her cruiser. It goes sailing over the hood. Someone jeers. Then there’s another thunk as something else connects with a rear door.
She’s a Hu-Bot in human territory—a Hu-Bot alone and vulnerable.
This is the dumbest thing she’s ever done.
She tries to speed up a little, but the humans are coming out of buildings and crawling out of gutters. They’re pressing themselves closer to her vehicle.
Mikky tells herself not to be afraid. She’s here to help. Maybe she can make them understand that.
At the edge of the town square, she stops. The humans are crowded so close around her car now that Mikky couldn’t go farther if she wanted to.
She takes a deep breath and then leaves the safety of her cruiser. She forces herself to smile in the cold, foul air.
“I’m here to help!” she calls.
Their response is silence. Then someone whistles at her, yells, “You can help me, Sexy Bot—I’ve got a problem down in my pants! You think you could work it out for me?” A wave of unpleasant laughter ripples through the crowd. Humans love their sense of irony, don’t they? Hu-Bots have little use for irony.
MikkyBo pretends not to notice their insults. “I brought medicine. Bandages. Antiseptic.”
The humans stare at her like she’s speaking a foreign language. Her hand flutters up to her choker uncertainly. Then a middle-aged human—clean-shaven and dressed in clothing that is almost respectable—shoulders his way to the front of the crowd.
“What can we do for you, madam?” he asks, and Mikky immediately recognizes him as a Reformer. Perhaps he is a teacher at one of the Reserve schools—a thankless job, if there ever was one.
“I brought medicine,” MikkyBo repeats. “For the wounded.” She hesitates. “The massacre was an unfortunate occurrence and a breach in protocol. My goal today is to help the agitators and their families through this difficult time. Perhaps sponsor their transitions to Reformation…” She trails off.
The teacher is blinking at her. No one else says anything. And not a single human steps forward to accept her supplies.
What’s wrong with these people? Are they too stupid to accept help when it’s offered?
“I’m sure there’s someone here who could use antibiotics,” she goes on. “Or painkillers.”
“You got any codeine?” someone shouts. “’Cause I snorted my stash last night. Whooee!”
MikkyBo frowns. This isn’t how things are supposed to go at all!
“Listen,” she yells, “if you are wounded or sick, please come forward. I can help you!”
But MikkyBo can feel the hostility in the air, crackling like electricity. She glances back at the cruiser, where she left the Mercy 72 tucked under the seat.
No. That’s not what this is about. She’s here to make peace. “I’m trying to help!” she shouts at them. “Don’t you understand?”
“It’s Hu-Bots who need to understand!” someone yells, and cheers go up in agreement.
A young boy’s voice catcalls, “HU-BOTS, BOW DOWN!”
Mikky gasps. That is sacrilege.
Enough is enough.
“You’re hopeless,” she cries. Her voice booms over the crowd. The front row of people flinches. “Your whole species is hopeless!”
She drops the bag of supplies at the curb and yanks the car door open. But a human hand slams it back shut.
A male, probably twenty years old, leers at her. “I thought you were going to help me with my problem,” he says, leaning in close to her neck. “Mmm, you smell as fine as a new car.”
Angrily, she shoves him back. He stumbles. She manages to get back into her car and start the ignition.
The humans are hitting the roof, the windows, calling out obscene, cruel things.
To hell with humans.
But she’s getting away. Sure, she’s driving only about eight miles an hour, and her car’s being pelted with rotten food, but it doesn’t matter: she’s safe.
And then she hears the choppers.
CHAPTER 30
“THEY’RE BACK!” SOMEONE screams, and the humans start dropping to the ground, covering their heads for protection. Others race for the safety of the tree line.
Mikky looks up to see the first of the helicopters zooming toward the Reserve. Seconds later, they swarm overhead like flies, nearly blotting out the gray sky. For a millisecond, she feels relief. They’ve come to protect her. But then, almost immediately, comes a terrible dread.
The scene at the Pits rises before her eyes: a girl’s face exploding in red, the line of young men shuddering as bullets made them dance…
Mikky brakes and climbs out of the car, waving a white bandage like a flag of truce. Don’t kill them, she begs silently. Please, don’t shoot.
And, miraculously, they don’t.
That’s when Mikky realizes that they aren’t the standard-issue police choppers that were used in the Pits raid. A Capital Center insignia is painted on their sides.
“Return to your housing blocks immediately,” a voice shouts from a speaker. “The Reserve is now on lockdown.”
The helicopters land in the square, kicking up wind so strong, it blows down a dozen tents. Soldiers tumble out—mostly Bots, with some Elite Hu-Bot ranks from the Center headquarters mixed in—and Mikky watches as the remaining humans rise and scatter.
When MosesKhan steps out of the last helicopter, Mikky swallows her dread.
She salutes him crisply. The commander ducks his tall frame under the still-spinning blade of the Center chopper and strides past her like she’s invisible.