Colony War: The Elderon Chronicles, #2

By Tarah Benner

From the author of Colony One comes an action-packed sequel to the near-future conspiracy.
An army of bots is roaming the space station — hijacked by a terrorist inside BlumBot International. The bots share a hive mind that learns and adapts, making them the most deadly adversaries Jonah has ever faced.

Jonah and Maggie are prepared to fight alongside the Space Force, but how can they defeat an army that never eats, never sleeps, and never grows tired? To protect the colony, they must join forces with Tripp Van de Graaf — the cocky young executive with dimples for days. Tripp makes no effort to hide his attraction toward Maggie, and Jonah hates him instantly. But Tripp's company holds the key to defeating the bots: their human creator, Ziva Blum.

When Maggie, Tripp, and Jonah learn that more humanoids are hibernating on Earth, they must race to stop a madman bent on destruction and save the world from a robot apocalypse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tarah Benner
• Release date: Sep 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393651871

Book preview

1

Jonah

Blood gushes through my fingers like melted butter. It soaks through the wad of blue fabric pressed deep into the gaping wound.

Callaghan’s body is still beneath my hands. His face is damp, chalky, and pale. His eyes are still slightly open, but there’s no fight left in them. Callaghan has surrendered.

We have a problem, says Maggie.

She’s kneeling over the hostess’s body — the bot that’s been passing for a human.

Callaghan must have smashed her head with the edge of the heavy frame he ripped off the wall. She — it — didn’t shed a single drop of blood. All that’s left is a corpse of silicone, plastic, and copper.

Its eyes look like Callaghan’s — cold and lifeless. There’s not the faintest glimmer of a person left in those eyes, but Callaghan is dead. There’s a difference.

We could leave the bot here until every human died. It wouldn’t change. It wouldn’t decay.

Callaghan doesn’t have that luxury. His body is made of flesh and bone. Someone’s going to notice he’s dead.

Close the door, I say to Ping. My voice is different — rough and hoarse.

He does as he’s told, takes a step toward the bot, and gives it a nudge with his foot. Is she . . . Is it . . .

Maggie nods, looking sick. She turns to me. Is Callaghan . . .

He’s dead.

Her eyes flicker in surprise. Maggie’s never seen a dead body before — at least not freshly dead.

Ping seems worried. It’s a strange look for him. What do we do?

I shake my head and realize that I’ve still got my hands pressed into Callaghan’s wound. With great effort, I peel them away and experience a sickening tug as the flesh separates from the layer of blood drying in the fabric. The overshirt I’d been using to staunch the flow of blood has become part of him.

Maggie recoils. At first I’m not sure what caused her reaction, but then I see that I’m covered in blood and that it’s drying under my fingernails.

We need to contain this, I say.

Contain it? Maggie croaks.

Nobody can find out about this.

Ping glances at Maggie. He thinks I’m losing it. Uh, sarge . . . I think they’re gonna notice.

I shake my head. We need to move the body.

"What?" says Maggie.

"That thing that killed Callaghan . . . We don’t know how many more there might be. If they’re going after Space Force leadership, we need to get them before they get us."

You think they’re assassinating Space Force officers? Maggie whispers.

Maybe.

And you think we’ve got the element of surprise? asks Ping.

These things aren’t like the security bots, I say. They’re smarter — deadlier. If this gets out . . . If the other bots think we might try to shut them down . . .

They could start killing anyone who gets in their way, Maggie finishes.

I nod.

Ping looks panicked. What do we do?

We need to find the person who’s in charge now that Callaghan’s dead.

Ping scrunches his face in disgust. First Lieutenant Greaves?

That’s the guy.

"Greaves? Ping groans. Flaccid Greaves? Are you sure that’s a good idea?"

No, I admit. But that’s protocol.

I’m sorry, says Maggie. Who is this person?

I almost forgot. Maggie isn’t Space Force. Maggie’s just a journalist who got in way over her head.

He’s next in the chain of command.

If Callahan weren’t dead on the floor, Flaccid Greaves would be the absolute last person I’d call. Greaves got to where he is by being a first-rate kiss-ass. He got his nickname because he’s useless. He does everything by the book and is utterly incapable of thinking for himself.

So you’re going to tell Greaves . . . what exactly? asks Ping.

I’m going to tell him that Callaghan was murdered and that we could be looking at a bot takeover if we don’t contain it.

The one benefit to bringing Greaves into the fold is that he’s highly suggestible. If someone else has a plan and it’s a good one, he’ll steal the idea and take all the credit.

All due respect, sarge . . . I think we need to call an emergency briefing.

And say what, exactly? I snap. "Tell everyone that Callaghan’s dead and that there are a bunch of killer bots loose on the space station that look exactly like people? Do you really think that’s a good idea?"

We have no way to tell the bots from humans, says Maggie. People could turn on each other.

Or the bots could just decide to kill us all.

Right, says Ping. He seems to be deep in thought, but we don’t have time for him to process this. I let out a heavy breath and try to keep my shit together.

Ping . . . You stay here and make sure no one comes in. Maggie and I will go find Greaves.

What? he cries, looking panicked. Why can’t we just ping him?

Because we don’t know who might be listening.

Ping still looks as though I just asked him to walk into a burning building.

I can stay with him, Maggie offers.

No, I say quickly. You’re coming with me. Buford’s still on the loose. He wants you dead. I’m not letting you out of my sight.

Maggie seems a little thrown off by my reaction, so I add, With a little luck, we can get Greaves to put out an order to isolate all Hospitality workers until we figure out who’s human and who’s not.

How do we test them? asks Ping.

I hesitate. I hadn’t thought about that.

We cut them, says Maggie. The bots don’t bleed. We cut everyone on Elderon . . . just to be sure.

I nod. It’s a little primitive, but I like her style. I can’t think of any better alternative.

We’ll start with the Hospitality workers, I say. Hopefully Greaves doesn’t fuck it all up. I’d do it myself, but we need to get him up to speed. People from the government are arriving by shuttle. They’re gonna want to speak to Callaghan.

We leave Ping in the war room and head straight to Greaves’s quarters. I move fast and walk with my head on a swivel, hoping we don’t encounter anyone along the way.

Maggie is trailing a few feet behind me, looking as though she might pass out. I’m still covered in Callaghan’s blood, which could raise questions I don’t want to answer.

I’m not sure what I plan to do if a Hospitality worker crosses our path. Kill first; ask questions later is not Space Force protocol, but at the moment it’s what my instincts are telling me to do. It might be different if I were alone, but with Maggie I can’t take chances.

We reach Greaves’s quarters spooked and out of breath, and I pound on the door with my fist. Nothing.

I knock again — pounding hard enough to wake the officer in the room next to his — but Greaves still doesn’t answer.

Shit.

You think the bots got him? Maggie whispers.

I don’t know.

She thinks for a moment. Is there anywhere else he could be?

I shrug. Greaves could be anywhere: the fitness center, a girlfriend’s suite, in a meeting . . . Still, it’s getting late, and something feels off.

Maggie is wearing a look of deep concern, and my anxiety morphs into anger when I remember what she’s been through. Just a few hours ago, she was trapped in an airlock and nearly killed by a rogue maintenance bot that had been infected by malware.

Buford is the man responsible, and the two-faced lieutenant is still at large. He’s slinking around Elderon with the authority of an officer with no one but Maggie to contradict him. He could be with Greaves right now.

I shiver. As long as he’s out there, Maggie is still in danger. We all are. No one knows what Buford is capable of, and he has unrestricted access aboard the space station.

Once it becomes clear that Greaves isn’t going to answer, we hightail it back to Sector R. Our footsteps echo down the long stark hallway, and the lights overhead start to flicker.

It’s quiet — too quiet. I hold out my arm, and Maggie stops. I don’t turn around, but I feel her standing there, waiting.

I take a deep breath. My heart is pounding in my chest. Sweat is beading up under my arms, and a horrible sense of déjà vu swamps me.

Callaghan wasn’t in his quarters. If he had been, he might have been able to postpone such a gruesome and violent death. If he was summoned to the war room shortly after dinner, maybe Greaves was summoned, too.

A dozen horrible thoughts flash through my mind, but I try to push them away. Greaves can’t be dead — not Greaves and Callaghan. With both of them gone, the chain of command would dictate that the next senior lieutenant take command of the Space Force.

I rack my brain, trying to remember who that is. It can’t be Buford. It makes me sick just thinking about it. But I can’t remember if Buford served longer than Crispin or not.

I start walking again, and Maggie follows. We round the corner, and my chest tightens as if it’s being crushed by a giant fist.

Two figures are standing at the end of the hall looking into the war room. It’s Greaves and another man I can’t make out. Light is spilling into the hallway from the open door, and Greaves is standing just outside the room. The second man is standing in the doorway and has his back to me.

Greaves is a tall guy — clean cut with broad shoulders and oversized biceps. He clearly lifts weights but spends too much time on his upper body. The second man is of average height with mousy brown hair growing thin on top.

When Greaves sees me and Maggie coming toward him, his grim expression darkens. I know how we must look. I’m half out of uniform and covered in blood. Maggie is in civilian clothes — bruised and bloody with a bandaged neck.

The man standing next to Greaves pivots, and I feel a surge of bile rise up in my throat. It has the heat of anger and the gag of disgust. The man has a baby-smooth face and a mouth that’s usually stretched in a smile. It’s a fake salesy smile that’s always set me on edge, and now I know I was right to distrust him.

The man isn’t smiling now. His eyes are twinkling with a smug expression, and I have the urge to grab him by the throat.

It’s Buford.

2

Maggie

At the sight of Buford, all the blood seems to pool at my feet. I feel a sick chill roll through my body, leaving my extremities numb.

Buford doesn’t look surprised to find me out of the airlock. He’s got this demented glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes — as though he finds my presence exciting.

The man standing behind Buford is extremely good-looking. He’s built like an action figure and has a short crop of sandy-blond hair. The insignia on his uniform says he’s a first lieutenant, and I’m a little surprised that this is the one they call Flaccid Greaves.

Sergeant, this isn’t a good time, says Greaves, eyeing Jonah’s bloody clothes. This entire sector is on lockdown ’til morning. Get back to the barracks and clean yourself up.

It’s all right, Lieutenant, says Jonah, leveling his gaze at Buford. We’ve already seen him.

Greaves frowns.

We’re the ones who found him, Jonah adds. We came to look for the captain after —

Of course, says Buford, cutting in smoothly.

My body recoils at the sound of his voice.

Lieutenant, this is the woman I was telling you about.

The sick feeling in my stomach intensifies, and I shoot Buford a glare.

This is the woman who has been posing as a Space Force operative to divulge the inner workings of the organization in her filthy magazine.

Fury and dread stir inside me, each competing for dominance. My blood is boiling. I can’t think straight. But it’s Jonah who speaks first.

You fucking piece of shit, he growls.

Sergeant! Greaves snaps, taken aback by Jonah’s outburst. His mouth tightens in frustration, and he glances down the hallway behind us. Inside. All of you. Now!

Jonah hesitates. I can tell that being in the same room with Buford offends him to the core. He holds Greaves’s gaze for a long moment and seems to decide that we don’t have a choice. He sighs and glances at me, and we all pile inside the war room.

Ping is still exactly where we left him, standing between Callaghan’s body and the decimated bot in his Orlando Magic jersey. He looks horrified.

As soon as the door snaps shut behind us, Jonah turns and faces Greaves. Lieutenant, I came here forty minutes ago to find Captain Callaghan.

It’s late, says Greaves. Why did you need to speak to the captain?

Jonah’s gaze flickers to Buford. His face is a mask of rage and disgust. I came here to report Lieutenant Buford, sir.

"You were going to report me?" says Buford, looking shocked.

A muscle is working in Jonah’s jaw. I can tell he wants to strangle Buford right here and now, but Greaves’s presence is holding him back.

Buford kidnapped Private Jones, sir. He stole classified data from Space Force servers and used it to help his accomplice program the bots that carried out the attacks on Earth. He held Private Jones captive in an airlock. He would have killed her, except —

Except that this entire story is absolutely ridiculous, Buford cuts in. The fact that Ms. Barnes concocted such an elaborate story may be evidence that she is a gifted writer of tabloid fiction, but her past deeds hardly speak to her credibility.

So you deny the accusations? says Greaves, raising one eyebrow. I can tell that he wishes he didn’t have to referee this dispute with Callaghan’s body rotting on the floor.

Of course! says Buford, as though he finds the whole situation ludicrous. Sergeant Wyatt has obviously been bamboozled by this young woman’s story, but I assure you that I have never so much as laid eyes on her before.

"He’s lying!" Jonah yells.

Buford lets out a breathy little laugh and turns to Greaves. Forgive me, sir, but Sergeant Wyatt hardly seems fit for duty. This is understandable, given his history of — he cringes — mental illness, but I’m not sure what I’ve done to earn this treatment.

You asshole, Jonah snarls.

I feel sick. Greaves looks completely derailed by this turn of events, while Buford seems buoyant. He knows how Jonah’s accusations must sound to Greaves. He knows that his position in the Space Force makes him practically untouchable, and he knows that my true identity will only support his claims.

Wyatt, I’m assuming you’re not in the habit of making baseless accusations against your superiors, says Greaves.

No, sir.

I have to ask . . . What led you to believe that Lieutenant Buford would be involved in something like this?

"He kidnapped her! Jonah cries. I was the one who pulled her out of the airlock!"

"But you did not see Lieutenant Buford force Private Jones —"

Ms. Barnes, Buford corrects.

Greaves glances from Buford to Jonah and back to Buford. "— this woman into the airlock?"

Jonah lets out a defeated breath. No, sir.

We saw it on the security footage! Ping breaks in.

I’d almost forgotten Ping was in the room, but I’m instantly grateful for his help.

You saw it? Greaves repeats. How?

Ping opens his mouth and closes it again. He doesn’t want to say that he hacked the security feed, so he says nothing.

Greaves shakes his head. Wyatt, I appreciate your concern, but I would caution you not to ruin your already precarious reputation by disparaging a fellow officer until we have all the facts.

What more facts do you need? Jonah growls. "We saw him carrying Jones into the restricted area — unconscious. When I came to find her, she’d been beaten and forced into the airlock. He steps aside and gestures up and down my body. Look at her!"

I’m guessing those are self-inflicted wounds, says Buford lazily, his mouth flickering into a smile. "Sergeant, your private had us all fooled. I think if you check her credentials, you’ll find that Maggie Jones is just an alias. Her real name is Magnolia Barnes. She works for the press corps and has a following with a publication called Topfold . . . under the name Layla Jones. Maggie Barnes is a woman with three names who could not stumble upon the truth if her life depended on it."

At those words, my body tightens into a coil of rage, and all eyes in the room snap on to me.

Is this true? Greaves asks.

I take a deep breath. Now is not the time to lose my shit. Partially, I say in a slow voice. "My real name is Maggie Barnes. I do work for the galactic press corps, and I do have a column on Topfold. But —"

You see? Buford snaps, waggling his finger at me in a way that makes me want to snap his neck. She’s a journalist — if you can call it that. Clever girl . . . Managed to forge the correct documentation to infiltrate the Space Force.

You did all this for a story? asks Greaves.

I’m afraid she’s been radicalized, Buford blurts out. She may be working with the Bureau for Chaos to destabilize the Space Force and spread terror all over the world.

"What?" I splutter, feeling a scorching wave of anger rising up inside of me.

I don’t know how to explain myself. It’s hard to come clean and expect people to believe anything you say after a deception as big as this one. Still, I don’t know what else to do. Buford is making me out to be a pathological liar and a potential terrorist.

I straighten up and turn to Greaves, who is studying me as though he’s never seen a woman before. Time to put on your big-girl pants and tell the truth, Maggie.

I take a deep breath. Lieutenant, for the past three weeks, I’ve been posing as a Space Force operative under credentials provided by Maverick Enterprises. I was investigating the Space Force until I was kidnapped by this man. I throw Buford a dirty look. He grabbed me when I was on my way back to the barracks and held me captive in the restricted area where the maintenance bots are stored. He told me that he planned to frame me for the bot attacks and then trapped me in an airlock. I take a deep breath. I’d be dead if it weren’t for Sergeant Wyatt and Ping.

A long moment of silence follows the end of my story. Greaves doesn’t say a word. He just stares at me as if he’s trying to tease out the truth, and then he glances at Jonah, Buford, and Ping.

You found the captain like this? he asks Jonah.

Yessir.

Did you see who attacked him?

No, sir. They were like this when we got here — the captain and the bot.

And who administered first aid?

I did, says Jonah.

That should be easy to verify, says Greaves. I suppose that’s part of your uniform there, isn’t it? He points to the wad of blue fabric resting on Callaghan’s abdomen. By now the blood has dried, leaving a dark-brown stain spreading from the site of the wound.

Yes, sir. I tried to control the bleeding, but he was barely conscious when we arrived. I asked Private Ping to call emergency dispatch.

I canceled your request, says Greaves. This entire sector is on lockdown until cause of death can be determined. After that, I’ll have a better idea of what we’re dealing with. He glances over at Buford again before settling his gaze back on Jonah. Sergeant, how did you get involved in all this?

Jonah sighs. I discovered that Private Jones was a journalist working undercover . . . I confronted her about it. I told her that she needed to turn herself in, but then she disappeared.

And how did you determine her whereabouts?

Jonah glances at Ping. I know he’s thinking about all the illegal hacking Ping must have done to find me. He wants to come clean, but he also wants to protect his squad member. We tracked her Optix to the restricted area, sir. When I got there, she was in bad shape. She’d been held hostage for nearly fifteen hours.

I see, says Greaves, though he looks more confused than ever. And how is it that you accessed the restricted area?

I hacked it, sir, says Ping from the corner.

Greaves turns to him in surprise, as though he’d forgotten that Ping was there. You hacked it?

Yes, sir.

I asked him to, Jonah adds quickly. It was crucial that she be found.

"And was Ms. Barnes alone when you found her in the airlock?"

Yes.

I glance at Buford, who looks vindicated. I know where this is going.

Did you see Lieutenant Buford in the restricted area at all?

No, sir.

But you saw him on the security feed.

I saw a man who looked like him, says Jonah. I can tell he’s choosing his words carefully.

You saw his face?

I look at Jonah, who seems conflicted. Finally, he says, No.

You didn’t see him?

No, sir.

My heart sinks.

So how did you learn that it was the lieutenant who brought Ms. Barnes to the restricted area in the first place? Assuming her story is true . . .

She told me, says Jonah. "Buford looks like the man who brought her to the restricted zone because it was him."

But you never saw Lieutenant Buford yourself?

Jonah sighs. No, sir.

Greaves looks frustrated. This situation is . . . unprecedented. But it’s not my most pressing concern. In a couple of hours, representatives from the FBI, Homeland Security, and the NSA will be arriving to question anyone who might have been involved with the bot attacks on Earth. They’ll be asking to speak with Captain Callaghan in person.

"A couple hours? snaps Jonah. They weren’t supposed to be here until tomorrow night."

They got an earlier weather window, and they took it, says Greaves. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that if news of this gets out, it will severely injure the Space Force’s reputation. Conspiracies will spread like wildfire. It will be all anyone is talking about.

I frown. That’s what this guy’s worried about? Bad press?

Greaves casts around the room, as if looking for someone to tell him what to do.

Lieutenant, says Buford, his voice oozing experience and an annoying degree of helpfulness. If I may speak freely . . .

You may, says Greaves, looking as though he already regrets his decision.

"These are disgusting accusations. Of course it is your duty to investigate the matter fully, but in the meantime, I suggest —"

Lieutenant, this man is a traitor and a terrorist, says Jonah. He needs to be locked up before he can cause any more damage.

Watch yourself, Sergeant, says Greaves sharply.

I already don’t like this guy.

Do not say anything else that you’ll regret. I appreciate that you feel the need to advocate for your private, but until we have all the facts —

The facts are clear, Jonah snaps. "Buford stole classified Space Force data and tried to murder a member of my squad."

A journalist, Buford mumbles.

His bot already murdered Captain Callaghan, and —

The one fact that is not in dispute is that Ms. Barnes has been using a fraudulent identity, says Buford smoothly. At the very least I believe she should be detained for further questioning until a disciplinary hearing can be arranged.

Greaves sighs. He seems to be considering this. Very well, he says, looking as though disciplining a journalist is the absolute last thing on his mind.

"What?" Jonah yells.

Horror leaks into my gut. This is it — they’re putting me away. They’re going to lock me up and throw away the key until a shuttle can be arranged to take me back to Earth.

As for the sergeant and Private Ping . . .

Lieutenant, listen to me, says Jonah, taking a step toward Greaves.

Wyatt, let’s not make a scene . . . says Buford.

Shut up! Jonah growls, lunging at Buford so fast that Buford physically recoils.

Before I know what’s happening, Jonah’s grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him up against the wall.

Sergeant! Greaves bellows.

You saw it, Lieutenant! Buford pants, looking terrified. "That is assault. He should be locked up! Committed!"

Sergeant, control yourself!

Jonah doesn’t move. His gaze flickers away from Buford’s face, but he lowers his voice to just above a whisper. You lying sack of shit, he breathes, releasing Buford with a huff of anger.

Buford’s face darkens. You see, Lieutenant? Completely unhinged. I expressed my concerns prior to his appointment, and I will reiterate: Sergeant Wyatt is a threat to the security of this organization, and he should be discharged immediately.

We’re wasting time! Jonah growls, rounding on Greaves with a desperate expression. Those maintenance bots are still loose in the colony. And we don’t even know how many humanoids there are. He nods at the hostess bot’s prone body. Its legs are splayed at an unnatural angle, and its dark hair is spilled over the floor like oil. "We need to round them up as quickly as possible. The element of surprise