by L M Rozycki
‘No doubt.’
‘Where do we go from here?’
Carter pushed a hand through his hair. ‘I’m not sure. Yet.’
Carter’s intuition, a decidedly human trait was, at times like these, what he relied upon to prompt him. Otis was a quick thinker, intelligent, and host to an impeccable memory. But teaching intuition to a droid was liking teaching a blind illiterate to read. He returned to the case notes.
The answer must be in here.
But these things were never simple. Or were they? He mulled over the possibilities in his own feeble mind before summoning the use of Otis’ computing power.
‘Otis.’
‘Hm?’
‘Was there security at City Hall?’
‘Other than the one guard? No.’
‘And no police at the crime scene?’
‘The Mayor said it was to handled-’
‘Sensitively.’ Carter sighed. ‘And the security footage from City Hall shows no-one but us entering from the time of the attack on El Pleasant back there.’
‘But he was wounded when we arrived. The attacker could’ve scattered the security scanners. Expensive. But possible. Why?’
Why? Because my intuition is pricking me again. And I hate the fact it’s usually right. A vibration and accompanying ring disturbed him. Ah, the download from the terminal is complete. He scanned it eagerly. Then paused, licked his lips, and looked again. Scrutinisingly. Otis’ glazed eyes waited expectantly. Carter left the windowsill perch. The snoring had stopped.
The gun barrel was steady and honed on him.
Carter stared. ‘Because Otis, his injuries were self-inflicted.’
‘Well, Mr ranger. It seems I didn’t give you enough credit.’
‘Don’t sell yourself short, Mr Lankome. You didn’t give me any credit.’
‘I told him, I insisted Mayor Goldstein to keep this business in house where it belongs. But no. He was very persistent. We had to bring in outside help and not the regulars who could be bought. No. Not the police, or freelancers. A ranger. He wanted a ranger.’
I’m shocked.
‘You sicken me. But, I believe in giving credit where credit is due. You were easy to manipulate. All I had to do was give myself a few bruises and you came running. Now, if I finish you here, there’ll be no-one left to stop me.’
Carter looked to his hand. Mr Lankome caressed the grenade lovingly.
‘You won’t get past security.’
Mr Lankome remained unmoved. ‘Such trivialities are of no concern to me, ranger. I’ve made contingencies for such scenarios. Or do you think so little of me? There are ways of dealing with loud-mouth morons like our dear Mayor Goldstein from a suitable distance. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment. I’d hate to keep the Mayor waiting. That just won’t do.’
Otis looked at Carter. Carter looked at Mr Lankome. Mr Lankome slid the activator on the grenade, threw it on the coach and pulled the door shut behind him. The grenade settled on a cushion, a lone red light flashing with an accompanying beep. The two rose to a fever pitch.
Carter and Otis moved in unison, pushing themselves through the window as the conflagration lit up the apartment and waves of fire cascaded towards them. The two of them met the cold evening air as the fireball burped out the window.
Seven
Carter squirmed uncomfortably.
He’d been reclined in the chair, moulded like a dentists and with torn padding to-boot, for three hours while Otis administered medical care with the precision of a one-armed builder and bedside manner of the old witch who fancied herself a piece of Hansel and Gretel. Mm, would you like some candy with your needle?
‘The tools used to dismember the victims. Handheld hydraulics stolen from a shipment a month ago, down at the port. Mr Personality hadn’t been too careful when buying them and his pleasant demeanour was caught on a downtown scanner. Ow.’ He flinched. ‘Would you be more careful? Here, give it to me.’
Carter retracted the needle from the hole in his arm with a delicate slowness, the damn thing didn’t deserve such tender care. It had been relentlessly pumping the bionic fluid into his veins. It would be warmer if he’d shoved liquid nitrogen in there. The hole, capped in a metal plug no bigger than a press stud, sprang back as he withdrew the needle tip. He deftly loosed the needle from the line with one hand, the metal end landing in the bin with a metallic ping. The line wound back to a now empty bag hanging lifelessly on a peg, the label slapped on the front read ‘Biometric Fluid - Grade A. 10/30 viscosity. Completely Synthetic. Not For Human Use’. He kicked the drip stand aside and sat up.
‘Don’t be too hasty. The glue hasn’t dried yet.’
‘It’ll be fine.’ Carter said dismissively and pulled on a shirt. The garage was as cold as a fridge.
The tear in his abdomen where a keen splinter of glass about three inches long and nine-out-of-ten on the pain scale thick, found ample opportunity to wedge itself in before gravity fully took hold and pulled him clear of the fireball pluming from his apartment. A saving in rent on a safe house but twice as much on supplies. The dismal garage was lined with lockers and not-so-legal medical supplies. Dwindling supplies. If I keep injuring myself this often I’ll need to draw my pension early. Too bad I don’t have a pension. But, hey. No pension, no interest.
He looked at the empty bag hanging on the drip stand. Buying too much of the cold and black stuff would arouse suspicion. Being a connoisseur was fine, but binging the stuff would soon bring unwanted attention. He touched the wound gingerly. The glue was drying nicely.
‘I’ll get it seen to when this is over. It’ll hold for now.’
Like putting plaster on a leaky dam. The glue stung as if Otis had poured a liquid hornets nest onto his stomach and he was recompensed with a verbal slew of any and all degrading things to call the droid who was merciless in his treatment.
‘If I’d put it together sooner we wouldn’t be in this mess.’
Otis’ dented limbs and constant blinking of his left eye being the only damage he suffered. Droids were after all, meant to be as resilient as ex-girlfriends.
He grabbed the digi-pad from the table. ‘Mr Lankome’s employment only began three months ago after our dear Mayor’s previous right-hand got unexpectedly transferred.’
‘Not so unexpected?’
‘Right. But the Mayor insisted. He’s obviously gone through a lot of trouble and expense to get to his position.’
‘Which he won’t let go to waste now he knows we’re onto him.’
Carter finished a glass of water. A cool dash to wash out the sawdust in his throat. ‘Hopefully, as far as he’s concerned, we’re toast. And why shouldn’t he? It was quite a spectacle after all.’
The draft when falling eight floors takes the breath away, something never shown in the cartoons. Orange fire above lapsed into a black cloud sending down a shower of glass. Folk below, busy about their nightly affairs, some on phones, some driving or skating past, others buying the only kind of goods available after watershed, jumped at the crash of metal as Carter and Otis, falling with a soundless grace, landed across two empty cars. The roofs caved in and crimped with an aggravated groan. The bemused onlookers glimpsed the spectacle; a recreation of the Coyote hitting the dirt after once again being outdone by Road Runner.
That’s made their night.
‘Come on. Morning’s here.’ Confirmed by the natural bulb in the sky dimming out man’s pathetic attempts at reproducing it.
‘The car’s outside. The convention schedule has the Mayor delivering his address in just over an hour.’
Carter deliberated. ‘Then you’d better step on it.’
Eight
The car rolled to a stop.
Otis took up a vehicle bay in the underground parking lot of the Victoria West building on 7th Avenue.
Carter got out with difficulty. The car sat low and to him it felt like climbing out of a well rather than stepping out of a car. The convention was unm
issable. The street was a hive of activity. The press had gathered, cameras aimed and trained at the delegates who were unearthed from their unblemished cars by valets in clean pressed suits. The drone carried over to them on their way past. Journalists vied to get the money shot in a push and shove resembling the collision of great armies on the field of battle.
The sign hanging over the entrance read, ‘Augmenting the Future’.
Conventions of this type, public displays of the upper class being corralled to highlight how many of them were rich, like shoving all the city’s diamonds into an exhibit, were often fronted by such ironic puns intended to be humorous. But, such blatant distinctions between those with money and those with a bag to sleep in, landed on the crowd’s sense of humour like a deflated balloon at a birthday party.
A phalanx of police officers struggled against the tide of protesters. Banners thrust skyward. Demands blared down loud-speakers. Some protesters wore faces of delegates, masks printed with eyes missing. Carter recognised the face of John Curtis II, CEO of Lynex Inc.
He shut the car door and thumbed his wound tenderly. It was holding so far.
‘Take the elevator to the top floor.’
‘Not the convention floor?’
‘We’ll never get in. Go above, and we’ll drop down. Makes things easier. How long?’
‘Five minutes.’
‘Mayor Goldstein will be behind the curtain by now. In five minutes he gets on stage.’ Carter said, pressing the button in the elevator for the desired floor. ‘Locate him and try to prevent him from getting on stage.’
‘And you?’
‘I’m going to look for our sniper.’
‘How do you-’
‘This place used to be an old theatre house with a projection booth. He’s got access to the building and won’t try a direct move, he won’t be guaranteed an opportunity. And this way it makes a public spectacle. Gets the point home. Besides, I got you if anything goes wrong.’
‘No pressure on me then?’
‘I thought droids didn’t feel pressure?’
‘Goes to show what you know. I feel a circuit overloading.’
The elevator slowed to a stop and the well-oiled doors opened noiselessly.
‘Out you go. Take the stairs down there. I’ll head for the booth. And Otis, don’t blow a fuse.’
Was Otis showing him a bemused look? Could droids do that?
Carter jogged down the carpeted passage. It stretched round the venue like a horseshoe with stairs dotted about leading to barren viewing booths. He peered over the railing to the hubbub below. The guests swarmed around each other like an ant hill, vying for a seat at one of the many circular tables scattered about. The chairman was already on stage. His voice boomed from speakers.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the 21st annual augmentation convention. An occasion for us to celebrate the achievements made thus far and were we can look forward to hearing new announcements to take us into the future. It is my pleasure to-’
Blah blah, count all of our money, blah blah. Carter tuned out. The dignitaries sat disorganised, creasing their new suits and dresses, bought just for the occasion and all stained by the ID tags leashed round their necks on lanyards.
Time waned and he hurried to find the projection booth. The upper floor was coated in dust and spattered with cobwebs. The speaker came to his end.
‘Would you please put your hands together for Mayor Goldstein.’
A welcoming applause, not thunderous and deafening, but dignified as befitted the speaker, rumbled off the crowd. Carter dove for a view. The Mayor strode across the stage in a confident gait, no notes in his hand as someone of his stature already knows what to say. He soaked in the light and the applause as if he was photosynthesising.
‘Thank you. Thank you. Thank you all for the warm welcome. It is my pleasure to host this years annual convention. There is quite a programme ahead full of surprises, treats to amaze and I’ll even try my hand at a joke or two.’
The audience humoured him with a bemoaned chuckle.
There. From his viewpoint high up Carter saw Otis behind stage, doing what he always did best. The Mayor’s security didn’t take kindly to being told of their ineptitude and being thrown aside as Otis burst on stage. The crowd awed. The Mayor turned. The small, almost imperceptible, red beam settled in a circle on the Mayor’s breast and snaked its way upto his face.
Otis crossed to him in two bounds, grabbed the Mayor by the shoulder and pulling him close like a child, turned his back to the crowd. The operatic boom of the shot rang out.
The audience ducked in unison. The ladies screamed. The gents screamed louder than the ladies. All broke their stoicism, left their airs and graces on their meal plate, and dove for shelter under the tables. The chandelier overhead shimmered. A frail window shattered.
The Mayor’s security, a team of three burly bruisers all dressed in suits a size too small, directed Otis, still clutching the distraught Mayor, off the stage and out to his car.
Carter took all of this in, recording all of the detail, in the same few seconds it took to unravel. His vision was enhanced to a keen sharpness he drew in his mind the bullets trajectory. Its course drew back and above him. He darted for the stairs. The last step terminated at a door. ‘Projection Booth - No Admittance’ signed on it in faded red letters. The handle clicked as he opened it.
He heard the chamber of the rifle being pulled back before he saw it. The casing clanged on the floor. The room was dark. But not to him. Mr Lankome threw the slide back, reloaded another large calibre bullet ready to tear a hole the size of his fist into a bear and, should it have made its target, left the Mayor a head shorter. The room was small and the barrel was long, too long to turn on him in time.
‘It’s over, Lankome. Give it up.’
Mr Lankome was hunched over the rifle struggling with the stubborn rifle. ‘It’s not over yet. It will never be over as long as there’s people like me in the world.’
‘Then I guess it never will. But you are. Hand it over.’
‘Don’t you care?’ Mr Lankome let go the trigger. ‘Don’t you care at all, ranger? This is what we’re doing to ourselves. We’re butchering ourselves. Who needs flesh anymore? Why not build a robot instead of growing a child? The child’s going to be mutilated into one anyway. This is barbaric what we’re doing.’
‘I don’t care, Lankome.’
‘Is the paycheck all you care about? You’re no different than a mercenary.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’
‘Then I’ll pay you. Enter my service.’
‘I’m not an assassin. Or fanatic.’
‘Then, what are you?’
Carter drew in a deep breath. ‘I’m just a guy trying to make his way in the world.’
‘Then, I should’ve known better. I should’ve rigged the whole floor to blow.’
The cornered Mr Lankome drew a sidearm from his shoulder holster like a striking cobra, aimed, and plagued Carter with a hailstorm of bullets. The shots from the pistol echoed in the small room. When the magazine emptied and the hammer clicked nothingness, Lankome stopped. And frightened at seeing Carter still standing there having only been pushed back a foot, he grabbed the rifle nestled the butt into his shoulder and fired.
Carter stepped aside deftly. The large calibre buried itself into the doorframe and sprayed chippings. He was on Mr Lankome in one bound who’d been sent to ground by the shot and yanked the rifle from his hands.
‘How? How is it possible?’ Mr Lankome asked hoarsely.
Carter held the rifle by the barrel and butt, braced himself, and squeezed. The rifle buckled. The metal shrieked and the sand wood butt cracked loudly.
Carter hoisted Mr Lankome to his feet by the collar and took him for detention not giving him an explanation.
Nine
A stiff breeze pungent with sea salt buffeted him as he swayed on the harbor edge and listened to Otis’ debrief. ‘He probably stashed the weapon in
the booth weeks before. It wouldn’t be hard for someone like him to slip a coin to the janitor.’
Carter chugged back the antibiotics, swallowed hard then spat like a camel. He ran his tongue over his teeth and grimaced. ‘Engine oil might taste sweeter. And janitor? Coin?’
‘Jargon.’
‘Expanding the vocal sub-routines?’
‘Helps me fit in.’ Otis pulled a cigarette from a carton, put the filter between his lips and hung the end over an obliging flame sprouted from a gold flip lighter. The paper wrinkled and caramelised then glowed pleasingly. He sucked back a long drag, held it in a moment to savour it like a wine taster and then vented a grey cloud between pursed lips. He reclined on the bonnet.
Carter watched the event with interest. ‘Fags?’
‘Mm. I’m hoping it’ll alleviate some of the discomfort people feel on meeting me.’
‘You’re pandering too much.’
Otis showed the same disinterested look he always showed. The same blank expression an ATM shows when his account’s dry. ‘Perhaps if people understood us synthetics better they wouldn’t try to become us. Like our recent victims. All of them were part machine. In essence. The augmentation process is painful, unnecessary, and serves only to bring people closer to being a machine. And yet growth, pure human growth is harmonious, leaves no damage and is natural. When you compare the two, my creation sounds painful. Our victims wasn’t. Don’t you think it’s strange people would subject themselves to that?’ he inhaled hard on his cigarette. ‘I’d sacrifice a lot to grow naturally. Even if it meant being limited by age. What’s funny?’
Carter chuckled. ‘We’ve got victims who try to be something more and a droid wanting to be something less.’
Could Otis compute poetic irony?
‘Folk out there wouldn’t give you the benefit of the doubt under any other circumstance.’
‘Like you, when you hoped for a decent paycheck?’
Carter drew the paycheck from his pocket and held it against the light. ‘I guess the Mayor doesn’t hold himself in such high esteem.’ The little black slab, a cram longer than a stick of gum lit up when he pressed his thumb to it.
