Siege by Mark Alpert Page B

the high school, looking for a landing spot. At the same time, I turn my Quarter-bot to Shannon. “Should I set the aircraft down? So we can go after him?”
    â€œAffirmative.” Her synthesized voice is crisp and professional, and the screen on her robot’s head is turned off. I can’t read her emotions.
    Twenty seconds later, I land the V-22 and lower the loading ramp at the back of the plane. Zia’s War-bot is the first Pioneer to charge outside, her footpads pounding the lawn. She’ll go with Shannon and me into the high school, just in case we run into any trouble. I pull the copies of my memory files out of the V-22 and hand over the aircraft to Marshall and his Super-bot. He’s going to stay with the plane and maintain our radio link with General Hawke. The general is overseeing the mission from Joint Base McGuire in New Jersey, which is the nearest military base with a biohazard treatment center that can handle anthrax cases. Once we track down the Rodriguez kid, we’ll bring him back to the V-22 and airlift him to the treatment center.
    While Marshall copies his own files and stretches his mind to occupy the aircraft’s controls, I march my Quarter-bot down the loading ramp and onto the grass. I train my cameras on the parking lot but see no one else outside the high school. Then my acoustic sensors pick up a high-pitched whirring behind me. DeShawn has attached his Swarm-bot to the bottom of his quadcopter, which revs up its four rotors and takes off from the loading ramp. He’s going to hover above our landing zone and watch over the area. In particular, he’ll keep a lookout for long-range missiles. Sigma has used them against us before.
    Shannon is the last Pioneer to come down the ramp. Her Diamond Girl strides across the lawn and catches up to Zia. “Let Adam and me take the lead,” she orders. “We know this place. And if Sigma tries to surprise us, it’ll probably attack us from behind, so that’s where I want you.”
    I can’t help but admire Shannon’s tact. She doesn’t mention the main reason for keeping Zia in the rear: because her nine-foot-tall War-bot is the scariest-looking Pioneer, so big and menacing it’ll probably terrify any survivors we find. The Diamond Girl and the Quarter-bot are intimidating too, but at least we’re closer to human size.
    Zia raises her massive right arm and salutes. “Heard and understood. If Sigma shows up, I’ll make him sorry.” She stands at attention until Shannon and I stride past her, and then she follows us into the high school.
    I haven’t seen the inside of Yorktown High since I finished tenth grade, almost a year and a half ago, but the building hasn’t changed a bit. Just past the doors is the glass-fronted cabinet that holds the school’s football and baseball trophies. On the opposite wall is the Yorkie Notice Board, thickly papered with announcements about class schedules and cheerleader tryouts. Above the notice board is the school’s motto, spelled out in big red, white, and blue letters: DESTINY IS NOT A MATTER OF CHANCE. IT IS A MATTER OF CHOICE . On the ceiling is the same fluorescent lighting I remember from my two years in this place, and on the floor is the same ugly, beige linoleum. The only difference, really, is the corpses.
    The body of an overweight, middle-aged man is near the notice board, lying on his back in a rumpled brown suit. I recognize him in an instant—it’s Principal Wilkens. His thick, black glasses have slid off his face, and his eyes are wide open and unblinking. Ed McGrath, the football coach, lies a few feet away. His face, always so red and scowling at the Friday-night games on the Yorktown field, is pale and motionless now, drained of anger and everything else. Mr. Kramer, the school’s chemistry teacher, is sprawled near the trophy cabinet, and farther down the hallway is Ms. Lynch of the English