Static. Then Ham’s voice, broken: “—backup unit. Different configuration. Be—” The rest dissolved into noise.
Dakota was already moving. But the deeper he went into the building’s infrastructure, the worse the communications became.
Fragments reached him—West reporting a third unit disarmed, Skeet finding the fourth, Ham coordinating from somewhere that kept cutting in and out. The Opera House’s concrete and steel were interfering with the signal, turning updates into puzzle pieces Dakota had to assemble blind.
He climbed through access passages, worked his way toward the upper levels, where the ventilation systems fed air into the concert halls. The sixth mark on his tablet pulsed like a warning.
“—fifth unit secured.” Skeet’s voice, barely audible. “That’s all the docking stations accounted for.”
Five robots. Five stations. All neutralized before they could leave their ports and head toward their deployments.
But there were six marks on the blueprints.
Dakota emerged onto an upper terrace—one of the outdoor areas that tourists loved for photographs, with its sweeping view of the harbor. It spread out below him. Sydney going about its beautiful day.
He stopped.
Not because of the view.
Because of what he heard through his earpiece.
Breathing. Hard, labored. The sounds of impact—something hitting metal. And then Jayden’s voice, strained and desperate:
“—locked in—can’t get?—”
His heart seized.
“Jayden.” He keyed his mic, voice sharper than he intended. “Where are you?”
Static. More sounds of struggle. Then, fragmentary but clear enough:
“—the boat—the harbor?—”
Dakota was at the terrace railing before he realized he’d moved. His eyes swept the waterfront below—the crowds, the ferries, the tour boats bobbing at their moorings.
And one boat in particular. He put his binoculars to his eyes.
And spotted Vic. The nervous IT consultant who’d been hiding in plain sight for a week.
And Jayden—where was she? Maybe locked in a cargo hold or closet, fighting to get free.
The sixth mark pulsed on his tablet. The ventilation access was behind him, twenty meters away. The device was somewhere in there, waiting, counting down.
The boat was below him, a hundred meters away. Too far. Too much distance.
He couldn’t do both.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. The device or Jayden. The mission or the woman. Hundreds of lives or the one life that had somehow become more important than all of them.
He couldn’t do both. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? At the core, he couldn’t do both.
“I’m sorry.”
The words came out before he could stop them. Into the comms, not knowing if she could hear, not knowing if the signal would carry.
Static. Then her voice, strained but clear for one impossible moment:
“For what?”
