I move to the case, using the side of my fist to break the glass, hoping that an automatic alarm won’t be set off. Luckily, there’s silence as I grab the drone-riser, switch it on, and throw it to the floor. The small black platform hovers a few inches above the ground and I step on, lifting my toes to command the board to rise up. It does so, rapidly.

I’m whooshing up between the staircases, the gargantuan waterfall booming down beside me, Apple-Moth struggling to keep pace as I rush up and up, trying to keep an eye on the floor numbers as they flash past.

Floor fifty-five, the black letters say, floor fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight. The higher I go, the less space there is between me and the water as the dome shape of the building gets narrower and narrower. And at around floor sixty, the waterfall stops, and I am above it.

I lower my toes, slowing the platform down, but not by much.

As we reach the highest point, I slow the riser down to a crawl, and jump off at floor sixty-six, the top floor.

I find myself on a circular platform, and I’m dumbstruck by what I see—a production line of drones being created by robotic arms, thousands and thousands of them. Large attack drones on the left, and small Mosquito drones on the right. The robotic workers attach rotor blades, tracking devices, cannons, antennae, and scanners, and then the drones fly straight out into the gigantic cloud that encircles the city.

“What the hell is this?” I whisper.

Apple-Moth glows red in front of my face, hiding me from each individual Mosquito as it is born and flies off into the air.

The drones, both Mosquitoes and attack drones, are being produced at a rate of about one per second, maybe even faster than that.

I stare at the conveyor belt for too long before snapping out my amazement. I have to go. I turn, running toward the staircase.

Right now, all that matters is saving my friends, and they are not on this floor.

I move down to floor sixty-five. Compared to the lower floors, the shape of the building means that the corridor is much, much smaller up here, and there are only two rooms facing each other. The plaque on one reads: LABORATORY: RESTRICTED ACCESS. The other reads: RECOVERY ROOM: RESTRICTED ACCESS.

I move to the laboratory door and try the handle—it’s locked.

“Apple-Moth, time!” I call.

“11:04 a.m., friend.”

“No, no, no, no!” I yell, no longer caring who hears me.

I failed, I think. My friends are on the other side of this door, and I can’t get to them. Woods becomes one of them in three minutes.

“I couldn’t save them,” I say, my voice coming out in a croak. “There’s no time left. I couldn’t save them.”

“Friend,” Apple-Moth says, hovering beside my ear.

“What?”

“Do you need to get into that restricted area to save your friends?”