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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Copyright © Neverafter Pty Ltd 2018
Map art copyright © Virginia Allyn 2018
Cover design by Mike Topping © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
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Asimovâs Laws of Robotics from I, Robot by Isaac Asimov
Copyright © Isaac Asimov 1950, 1977
âÃnemaâ lyrics written by Tool, appearing on the 1997 album Ãnima and published by Toolshed Music/EMI Virgin Music [ASCAP].
Copyright © BMG Music and Sony Music Entertainment 1996 and 2008
Jay Kristoff asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authorâs imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008301361
Ebook Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9780008301347
Version: 2018-05-18
Iâve a suggestion to keep you all occupied.
Learn to swim.
Learn to swim.
Learn to swim.
âMaynard James Keenan
The Three Laws of Robotics
1. A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
YOUR BODY IS NOT YOUR OWN.
2. A robot must obey the orders given to it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.
YOUR MIND IS NOT YOUR OWN.
3. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.
YOUR LIFE IS NOT YOUR OWN.
automata [au-toh-MAH-tuh]
noun
A machine with no intelligence of its own, operating on preprogrammed lines.
machina [mah-KEE-nuh]
noun
A machine that requires a human operator to function.
logika [loh-JEE-kuh]
noun
A machine with its own onboard intelligence, capable of independent action.
They kill my father first.
Shiny boots ring on the stairs as they march into our cell, four of them all in a pretty row. Blank faces and perfect skin, matte gray pistols in red, red hands. A beautiful man with golden hair says theyâre here to execute us. No explanations. No apologies.
Father turns toward us, and the terror in his eyes breaks my heart to splinters. I open my mouth to speak to him, but I donât know what Iâll say.
The bullets catch him in his back, and bloody flowers bloom on his chest. My sisters scream as the muzzles flash and the shadows dance, and the noise is so loud, Iâm afraid Iâll never hear anything again. Mother reaches toward Fatherâs body as if to catch his fall, and the shot that kisses her temple paints my face with red. I taste salt and copper and milk-white smoke.
And everything is still.
âBetter to rule in hell,â the beautiful man smiles, âthan serve in heaven.â
The words hang in the air, among the song of distant explosions against the hymn of broken machines. A woman with flat gray eyes touches the beautiful manâs hand, and though they donât speak, all four turn and leave the room.
My brother crawls to Fatherâs body and my sisters are still screaming. My tongue sticks to my teeth, and Motherâs blood is warm on my lips, and I can think of nothing, process nothing but how cruel they are to give us this momentâthis fragile sliver of time in which to pray that itâs over. To wonder if anything of loyalty or compassion remains inside those shells we filled to brimming. To hope perhaps they wonât murder children.
But the screaming finally stills, and the smoke slowly clears.
And again, we hear shiny boots upon the stairs.
Almost everybody called her Eve.
At first glance, you mightâve missed her. She wouldnât have minded much. Hunched on the shoulder of a metal giant, she was just a silhouette amid the hiss and hum and halos of glittering sparks. She was tall, a little gangly, boots too big and cargos too tight. Sun-bleached blond hair was undercut into an impressive fauxhawk. Her sharp cheekbones were smudged with grease, illuminated by the cutting torch in her hands. She was seventeen years old, but she looked older still. Just like everything around her.