Bot Wars, Line Zero

  DIAL BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS

  A division of Penguin Young Readers Group

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com

  Copyright © 2013 by J. V. Kade

  Map illustration © 2013 by Steve Stankiewicz

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Kade, J. V.

  Bot Wars / J. V. Kade. p. cm.

  Summary: In a futuristic world where humans and robots are at war, a boy goes on a search to find his missing military father.

  ISBN 978-1-101-59222-9

  [1. Robots—Fiction. 2. War—Fiction. 3. Fathers—Fiction. 4. Missing persons—Fiction. 5. Science fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.K116462Bo 2013 [Fic]—dc23 2012017682

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  To Gavin and Bella

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  United Districts of America

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Acknowledgments

  ONE

  MY BROTHER LOST his leg because of the Deeta disease, but he tells everyone it happened during the Robot Wars even though his service only ran two months and he never even left the Military Zone. I call him Po now (short for Pogo, as in the old-fashioned jumping stick), because he used to hop around on one foot till he got his prosthetic leg. Which I sometimes accidentally-on-purpose misplace. Or steal.

  “Trout!” he shouts as the sound of his one foot thumps across the floor. “Where’s my leg?”

  I can’t stop the snicker from rasping up my throat and Po stops thumping around long enough to find me on the other side of the kitchen island. I laugh as he lunges for me and misses. His fake leg is heavy in my arms, and I hug it close to my side like a football as I duck left and run for the living room.

  Po grunts. Thumps. Grunts again. “Stop being a bolt-head or I’ll take your Net-tag away.”

  Whenever Po wants to threaten me with something serious, he goes to the Net-tag—the key card that gives me access to the Network and video games and, most importantly, my credits. A boy can’t survive without money. Or vid games. Or the Net. Okay, so I can’t survive without the Net-tag at all.

  I stop running and toss the leg on the couch. “Dude, you’re no fun.”

  Po frowns as he hops around the couch and collapses into it. He lets out a harrumph as he tugs the leg of his shorts up to expose the metal bracket his fake leg fits into. With a twist and click, the leg is back in place and he rises to his feet easily.

  “No fun, huh?” he says right before he grabs me, looping his arm around my neck. He takes me down. My knees slam against the floor and a sharp pain shoots to my toes.

  “Come on!” I shout.

  “Lookit the little trout squirming!” Po sings as he scrapes his knuckles across my head. It’s called a bolt burn and it hurts like crazy. I try to shake him off, but it’s no use. Po is not only seven point five years older than me, he’s also a foot taller and sixty pounds heavier.

  “All right. I give up!”

  He pulls back, fixes his hair with a quick flick of his hand. It’s still wet from his shower and it sticks up like porcupine quills. “Next time you screw with my leg, it’s the Net-tag and a groundation.”

  “If you have my Net-tag, what else are you going to ground me from?” I challenge.

  “From socks. And bread. And underwear. How about that?”

  I snort. “That’s stupid.” I sit up and straighten my own crappy brown hair. “So what are we doing today anyway?”

  “If you stop screwing around long enough to come back to the land of maturity, we’ll go downtown to the Heart Office and see if Dad’s thread has come online.”

  My stomach instantly goes squirrelly. Dad’s been gone for over two years now and there’s been no log of his thread in almost eight months. Not everyone has a chip in their heart (which gives off a frequency called a thread, which can be traced by the Heart Office), but Dad insisted we all get one right when the Robot Wars started. At the time I thought it was dumb because I didn’t want Dad or anyone else being able to track me all the time like some lame-o dog that might get lost, but now I’m glad he made us. It gives us something to look for instead of just sitting round the house like a couple lumps of space junk.

  The only crappy part? During the war, the bots used scramblers to make it harder to track the chips, but the war has been over for six months now and the scramblers have been turned off. Dad’s thread should have come on and stayed on, whether he was alive or not. I hate even thinking like that. I don’t think like that. Dad is out there somewhere, waiting for us.

  I push myself up to my feet and level my shoulders like Dad taught me.

  Stand tall, like a man, he’d say. So I do.

  “I’m ready,” I tell Po. “I’ve arrived at the land of maturity. But I don’t think they’ll let you in.”

  Po laughs. “You’re a trip, you know that?” He ruffles my hair one more time and we head out the door.

  • • •

  Downtown Brack is bustling with people even though the sky is the color of moldy doughnuts and threatens to spit rain any second. Above us, billboard screens flash ads from the tops of buildings as we head down the sidewalk. Long trip? one ad says. Reserve your seat on the Tamer Rail and cut your travel time in half. Get to Denver in under twenty minutes!

  The Tamer Rail is supposed to be like the jet version of a train. Po keeps promising to buy us tickets, but he’s always too busy working.

  The billboard changes to an anti-bot ad. There’s a menacing-looking bot in one corner, his eyes blazing red. Robots are responsible for the deaths of thousands of United District citizens, the screen says. If you see a robot, call the emergency hotline.

  I don’t remember much about when the war first started, since I was only like seven, but I do remember the news feed playing vid from C
hicago, District 4, where the violence first started. Robots were fighting soldiers with laser guns, and people were running away screaming.

  I shiver at the bot glaring down at me from the billboard. I don’t like those ads. They gear me out. Thankfully, the screen changes again and pop singer Tanner Waylon comes on flashing his pouty face. A couple of girls across the street point at him and screech. I roll my eyes. That dude is a total drain clogger if you ask me.

  Up ahead, the traffic light switches to green and hover-boards zoom past, the riders’ eyes hidden behind slick goggles. Po and I don’t have a hoverboard, but even if we did, I don’t think he’d let me ride it. Too dangerous, he’d say. You might lose a leg. And then he’d snicker to himself like making fun of missing legs was the funniest thing he’d ever come up with.

  I kick aside a bot gear (there are old pieces everywhere, if you take a second to look) and it skips into the street. It hits the glowing blue hover rail that lines the curb, and the metal clangs like a bell in a boxing ring.

  “Hey, come on,” Po says, giving me a shove.

  I look at him like, What? But he’s totally forgotten about me already. He’s locked his eyes on Marsi Olsen, who’s standing at the next corner with a hoverboard tucked under one arm.

  Po has the fiery hots for her and as she laughs, her dark red ponytail swinging behind her, Po turns into a drooling clanker.

  Marsi’s goggles hang around her neck. Her brown pants disappear inside tall brown boots, the buckles of which look super-complicated, like a puzzle I’d probably fail. A shiny white top is tucked into her pants, but the big sleeves flutter around her like wisps of smoke.

  I think she’s pretty, but not that pretty. I look at Po out of the corner of my eye. He’s just standing there, hands shoved in his pockets, this blank look on his face. Like all the important stuff just zipped out of his head.

  “What would you do if I yelled her name?” I say.

  Po doesn’t look at me as he answers, “Clock you one.”

  I breathe in deep and then say, “Ma—”

  A sweaty hand clamps down over my mouth, cutting me off. Which is fine. Because I wasn’t planning on saying Marsi’s name anyway. I just wanted to see Po gear out. Which he did.

  “Come on, you little squirt,” he says, tugging me in the opposite direction.

  I laugh around his hand as we turn onto the next street. Finally he lets me go and hangs his head like he’s all embarrassed. The sun breaks through the clouds for a millisecond and I squint as I glance over at him.

  “I don’t know why you don’t talk to her.”

  “You’re only twelve—”

  “I’ll be thirteen in ninety-seven days.”

  “So? When you’re older, you’ll understand it a little better.”

  I frown, because I don’t think there’s anything to understand except that Po is a big clucking chicken.

  We walk another three blocks before we reach City Hall, where the Heart Office is located. It’s this big building in the center of Brack, with curving stone steps that lead up to the front entrance. A gigantic screen on the front of the building flashes a pic of President Callo addressing some people in District 2, where the capitol is. His graying hair is swooped to the side and gelled straight out so that it hovers over his forehead like a diving board.

  Callo announces budget cuts, the headline says below him. Then, Districts still feeling the pinch after Bot Wars.

  When the conflict started, and bots either fled or were dismantled, the United States fell apart like dry biscuits. Stores and factories and stuff had to shut down because they had no bot workers. That’s when the states turned into the bigger Districts.

  Sometimes I hear my friend Lox’s parents grumbling about the “financial collapse” and how we became too dependent on robots. Once, when his mom caught us watching Man vs. Bot, she threatened to move Lox to Iceland, where the closest you come to a bot is a can opener.

  Since we parked our ancient X55 outside the city limits to avoid a downtown parking tax, my legs are tired from all that walking and I trudge up the steps to City Hall, lagging behind Po. I don’t know how he can walk all that way with a bum leg and not complain.

  At the entrance, Po slides his Net-tag in the reader installed in the wall just to the left of the door. The machine beeps and whirs and the lock clicks once Po’s been approved access.

  The door rushes open and Po heads in, saying something about how hot it is in there. His voice bounces around the big space. It’s like a cave, but a shiny, expensive cave that smells like lemons and old leather shoes. The floor is a black-and-white checkered pattern, and if I stopped long enough to look straight down, I’d probably see my reflection in the polished marble. A big old staircase rises in front of us, branching off at a landing. We cut left, passing the stairs and the two security guards stationed there. All the important officials work on the higher levels, and they take security seriously. People like Po and me aren’t allowed up there. I bet it’s just a bunch of boring offices and stuff anyway.

  I avoid looking at the guards because their metallic eye bands gear me out. They’re special glasses that display information through the lenses, so a guard can look up anyone’s information without going to a computer. Lox thinks they help with shooting and fighting too, but I don’t know if that’s true.

  As we head for the Heart Office, I tap the stone statue of President Callo that stands just inside the hallway. Dirt and fingerprints cover his shoulders on both sides. People believe touching Callo is good luck because he got struck by lightning—twice—and lived. That sounds like bad luck if you ask me, but Dad said there’s a belief that lightning doesn’t strike the same spot twice, so that makes Callo about as lucky as a lottery winner. And I figure I’ve got nothing to lose.

  Directly behind Callo is a picture of Sandra Hopper, the Head of Congress and governor of 5th District. Everyone calls her Beard though, because of her whiskers. Apparently she’s never heard of a laser razor.

  Po is the first one to reach the Heart Office, but he lets me go in ahead. Tanith, the clerk, smiles when she sees me.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. St. Kroix. How are you?”

  I smile big to match hers. I like that she calls me Mr. instead of Trout.

  “Fine. How are you?”

  “I’m well.” She pushes a hunk of her wavy black hair off her shoulder and leans over the counter. “And how about big brother?” She winks at Po and Po blushes.

  “I’m good. Thanks, Tanith.”

  She nods. “So, should I check the log for you?”

  Po and I nod. Tanith taps in a few things on her computer. She waits, watches the screen, taps in a few more things. Suddenly my heart feels like it’s going to burst outta my chest.

  I swallow. Lick my lips. Every time we come here, and every time Tanith types in Dad’s ID thread, there is this moment where anything can happen and it makes every nerve in my body hum. I want this time to be different from the hundred other times we’ve come here. I want Tanith to smile and give us the word that Dad’s thread finally came back online.

  I feel like I’m leaning in more and more, like I’m afraid if I don’t get in close enough I might not hear her answer. But really I haven’t moved at all. It’s just the world that seems to have gotten smaller.

  The frown on Tanith’s face tells me what I need to know.

  Nothing’s changed.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, like she does every other time we’re here.

  “It’s all right,” Po says behind me. “Thanks for checking. We’ll be back next week.”

  Tanith nods and her hair falls back over her shoulder like a curtain. “I’ll be here.”

  I turn, and hurry into the hallway. I think about kicking old President Callo on the way out. Stupid statue and its stupid promise of good luck. It ne
ver works anyway. Like touching a hunk of stone will somehow change anything.

  “Hey.” Po catches up to me and sets his arm on my shoulders. “He’ll come back online. I just know it.”

  I don’t say anything, but I don’t push him away either.

  “Why don’t we go across the street to the diner? Get some ice cream. How about that?”

  I shrug, like I don’t care, but deep down in the trench of my gut, I do. Po is usually so busy we don’t hang out much except for on his days off. And usually we can’t afford ice cream. Even though I know it’ll take Po a good two hours to work off the price, my mouth waters thinking about it. If anything had the power to freeze this crappy feeling in my chest and turn it cold and dead, it’s ice cream. Maybe.

  “Can I get Bot-N-Bolts?” I ask. Bot-N-Bolts is this cool silver ice cream with little blue flecks of candy inside. If the Great Wall of China was made of Bot-N-Bolts, I’d eat my way through it.

  Po pushes open the door and says, “You got it, little bro. Bot-N-Bolts it is.”

  TWO

  THE ICE CREAM sits like a hunk of space junk in my stomach as we head back for the car. Po walks slower than he did on the way to City Hall and I wonder if he’s thinking about Dad too. Fact is, Dad isn’t the only soldier still missing after the wars, but he’s the only one with an ID chip who is.

  It sucks not knowing what happened.

  By the time we reach the car, Po has only enough time to drive me home before he has to head off to Chinley’s, the restaurant on the west side of town where he works. It takes a good fifteen minutes just to get there.

  We pull up in front of the house and Po starts in on his rules. “As soon as you get inside, lock the house down. Don’t answer the door. No cooking—”

  “On the stove. I know. I know.”

  “Hey. Big bro”—he points at himself, then at me— “little bro. Big bro gets to pester little bro about the rules whenever he wants and little bro will not whine.”

  I screw up my mouth as I look over at him, which makes him laugh real hard.