Howling, Tara swept Daisy up and hugged her to her chest.
Vick drew Tara to her feet. “We have to go, Tara. Right now.”
“Look what he did! Look what he did to Daisy. Bully!” Tara looked devastated.
“You can fix her good as new. Come on. Quick. Quick.” Vick got her moving.
When they were out of the dump, Tara set Daisy down. “Can you walk, girl?”
At first Daisy tried to walk as if the leg was still there, and stumbled badly. Then she adjusted, hopping along on one back leg as if she’d been doing it the whole time.
“What are we going to do without our dump?” Vick asked. He couldn’t stand the thought of going back to standing in endless lines at churches and government ration stations, trying to get handouts before they ran out, wolfing them down before someone bigger snatched them away. Why were those people suddenly interested in the dump? The salvage in it wasn’t worth much. Vick should know.
Wait. Surely they wouldn’t be there at night. He and Tara could go after dark with the flashlight. They’d have to stick close together, since they only had the one flashlight, and they’d have to spend a lot more on batteries, but it was better than nothing. With any luck they’d find the part Tara needed to make more Daisys. Then they’d have enough to buy a bunch of batteries. A bunch of food, too.
“Danger,” Tara said.
“What?”
“The blooping sound. Daisy was trying to warn us there was danger ahead.”
No robot should be able to figure out whether something was dangerous or not, but Daisy had kept getting in front of them, like she wanted them to stop. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right,” Tara said.
“What else can she do?”
“I don’t know.”
Vick stopped walking. “You built her. How can you not know?”
Tara gave him an impatient huff. “I built her out of used parts. Even her brain. I didn’t program the chips; I just installed them and added a few things.”
That made sense. Tara was a tech genius, but when would she have had time to program something as sophisticated as Daisy clearly was? “What kind of things did you add?”
“That she should never hurt anyone, and she’s loyal only to me and you. The rest of what’s in there was too complicated. I couldn’t understand most of it.”
When they had time, Vick needed to figure out exactly what the little bot could do.
It was too dark to see Daisy, but occasionally Vick heard her steel feet scrabbling on the concrete nearby. As they got close to the dump, Daisy showed up in front of them and made the blooping sound again.
Tara stopped walking. “Danger.”
Vick closed his eyes for a second, frustrated. They had to work. They had to. “Let’s get close enough to see. If anyone’s there, we’ll leave.”
Tara clearly didn’t like that plan, but she followed along as Vick approached the dump. He pressed close to the buildings so it would be harder for someone to spot him from the dump, if anyone was there at this hour.
In the light of a half-moon hanging in the sky above the tenements, the dump was silent. Even the flies were asleep. That was a bonus to working nights that hadn’t even occurred to Vick.
“Let’s go.” Vick climbed into the trash. The darkness did nothing to lessen the stench, unfortunately.
When he crested the mound, he saw the dump was now divided with ropes into square sections, like an archaeological site. Weird. He picked a section at random, stepped over the rope, and handed the flashlight to Tara. “Why don’t you hold the flashlight while I dig?”
Tara turned on the flashlight and aimed it at the ground. Vick got to work, wondering what was going on here. What was the point of roping the dump off like that?
“What sort of parts are we looking for, to make more robots like Daisy?” Vick’s words were partially drowned out by Daisy, who’d started blooping again. Vick surveyed the dump, but it was silent and empty.
Oh, no. No it wasn’t. Vick’s legs felt like they were turning to liquid. Tiny was racing across the dump toward them, his enormous T. rex head bobbing.
“Run.”
Tara took off, and Vick followed. As they raced down the hill, Tara lost her footing and tumbled forward. She stuck out her hands to break her fall, landed halfway down the hill, and slid, an avalanche of garbage cascading along with her.
Vick rushed after her and helped her up.
The watchdog stepped out in front of them, making a low, rolling, mechanical growl. Its knees were bent, ready to leap.
Vick froze. “Stand still.”
Tara buried her face in Vick’s shoulder. “I don’t like this. I don’t like that noise.”
Vick grasped Tara’s shoulders. “You have to stay calm. We need to stay still and not upset it.”
“I can’t help it. You know I can’t help it,” Tara said. She was trembling all over.
“You have to, Tara. Think of a way. You’re smart—you can figure this out.” Vick didn’t know enough about watchdogs to know what might provoke it to attack. It looked ready to spring, that terrible growl going on and on, its beady black eyes locked on them. Watchdogs were built in people’s garages and basements, so each was unique and had unique programming. Back in his past life Vick had thought they were so cool; he had read all about them on the Internet. He didn’t think they were cool now.
“Maybe I can put it off until later,” Tara said.
“Good idea. As soon as we’re home, you can let it out.”
“Okay. I’ll try.”
While Tara struggled to hold off her meltdown, Vick tried backing them up. The pitch of the watchdog’s growl grew higher and it took a warning step forward.
Daisy was about a dozen feet behind the watchdog, pacing, like she was trying to figure out what to do. What could she do? The thing would bite her in half if she got near it.
“We’re okay.” Vick squeezed Tara’s arm. “We’ll just stay right here. That man will come and call it off.”
“He’s a turd. He hurt Daisy.”
Vick couldn’t argue with that, even if Tara had replaced Daisy’s leg in no time at all. What would he do if he found them back here again? Probably sic his watchdog on them. Vick tried to think of something to do, but there was nothing. If he still owned a phone that worked, he could try calling for help. Surely the police came if you flat-out called them. Unless someone wandered by and he could get them to call 911, though, he was out of luck.
All they could do was sit in the trash and hope Stripe would set them free with another warning.
“Daisy, go home,” Tara called. “Wait there.”
Daisy ran off. No use risking Stripe tearing off another limb, or maybe her head this time.
As they settled into the trash, Tara pressed close to Vick. Mom had told him most kids with autism didn’t like to be touched or held. Not Tara. When she was scared she went overboard the other way, pretty much climbing into your lap and squeezing you until you couldn’t breathe.
A vehicle engine woke Vick. He wasn’t surprised Tara had fallen asleep after staying up all night the night before, but he couldn’t believe he’d managed to sleep with that massive, lantern-jawed, razor-toothed watchdog standing two steps away.
The van door slammed. Stripe was carrying a cup of coffee. He didn’t seem surprised to see them; in fact, he seemed almost happy.
“Unbelievable.” He patted the watchdog’s massive head before pulling out his phone and making a call. “Remember the hip-socket designer? Yeah. She’s right here.” After a few minutes’ conversation Stripe put away the phone and smiled at Vick and Tara. “I set aside the whole morning to find you, and here you are. Now I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself. Maybe I’ll go to the movies.”
“Why did you want to find us?” Vick didn’t know whether to be relieved or scared. Stripe was taking their trespass much better than Vick had expected.
Stripe took a swig of coffee
, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “The boss wants to talk to you. Well, to her, actually.” He gestured at Tara. “Be polite. Call her Ms. Alba or ma’am.”
The boss wanted to talk to Tara about Daisy’s hip design. That didn’t sound so bad. Tara could tell Ms. Alba or ma’am everything she wanted to know, and then they could go home. They’d still have the problem of what they were going to eat today, but at least they’d be free from Tiny and these people.
Before long a black Maserati Air pulled up to the edge of the dump, and an Asian woman stepped out. She was dressed in white leather, with a flowing red robe that nearly reached the filthy ground. She looked like a rock star, and strutted like one as she stopped just short of the trash, glanced at Tiny, and said, “Off. Go.”
The watchdog trotted away.
“Which of you is my hip designer?” The woman folded her arms and studied Vick, then Tara. Vick had never felt so filthy and smelly as he did in the presence of this clean, brilliantly dressed woman.
Tara raised her hand. “I am. I’m the hip designer.”
“Come here.”
Vick followed Tara down the hill of trash as Ms. Alba stepped closer. “What’s your name, honey?”
“Tara.”
“Tara, ma’am,” Stripe corrected her, his arms folded across his chest.
Tara looked at Stripe, her eyebrows pinched in confusion.
“Well, Tara, how would you like to work for me?” Ms. Alba asked.
It took a moment for the words to sink in. Work? A paycheck? They could get an apartment, eat three meals a day. “You’d have to hire me, too.”
Ms. Alba gave Vick an annoyed look. “And why is that?”
“I’m her assistant, and her twin brother. She has to stay close to me. She has autism.”
“That’s true. I’m severely autistic,” Tara chimed in. “But I don’t mind—it’s probably the reason I can design hip joints so well.”
“Fine, you can both work.” Ms. Alba turned to Stripe. “Pack them up. I’ll meet you at the shop.”
“Let’s go.” Stripe gestured toward the open hatch of his beat-up white van. There were no seats. They sat on the floor beside a stack of cardboard boxes.
“Any luck?” Ms. Alba asked Stripe as they waited. She was looking up at the dump.
“Not yet, but we’ll find it,” Stripe said.
Ms. Alba kicked an aluminum can lying beside her foot. Her glistening high-heeled boots looked like they were made of polished silver. “Those idiots.” She headed to her sports car without a glance back.
“Tiny. Up.” Stripe slapped the rear bumper of the van. The watchdog climbed in; the back of the van sank under his weight. Vick and Tara scurried deeper into the van until they were pressed against the wall that separated the back of the van from the seats.
Clinging to the sides to keep from sliding when the van turned, they eyed the watchdog as it lay in front of the door, its massive head raised, beady black eyes staring back at them.
“I don’t like this. At all,” Tara said, glancing around.
Vick swallowed and tried to fight off a growing sense that he’d made a mistake. “It’s okay. We work for them now. They won’t hurt us, and we can save up some money.” Except they made watchdogs that hurt people. He’d temporarily forgotten that—he’d been too busy thinking about the money they’d make.
When the rear doors swung open, they were in the parking lot of a body shop strewn with rusted-out vehicle parts and cars with flat tires, or no tires at all, lined up against a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire.
Just as Vick turned away, he caught a glimpse of movement on the roof of the doughnut shop beyond that fence. He turned back and studied the spot, but there was nothing there.
“This way.” Stripe pointed toward an open roll-up door.
“You know, on second thought, I don’t think we’re old enough to be working here,” Vick said. “Maybe we’ll just go home.”
Stripe shook his head. “Sorry, kid, you’ll have to discuss that with Ms. Alba, and I don’t think she’ll be happy about you going back on your word.”
Vick stayed beside the van, with Tara pressed close to him. “Believe me, Tara would be the worst employee you’ve ever had.”
Tara nodded in agreement. “Plus it’s against the law. You have to be sixteen to work.”
Stripe laughed at that. “Don’t worry, we have special permission from the mayor. There are lots of kids your age and younger working for us. Now come on, let’s go.”
Vick’s heart was tripping wildly as Stripe led them through the body shop to a back staircase, down to a huge, low-ceilinged basement. Thirty or more people were working under bright lights, bent over parts, operating machines, working blowtorches. They were building watchdogs. Most were kids, although one man was at least eighty.
Ms. Alba was waiting on the shop floor. She led them across the grease-stained concrete to a dim office that stank of cigarettes. A big woman with dyed red hair was working at a computer while smoking.
“Dixie, I’ve got a couple of new workers for you.” Ms. Alba put her hand on Tara’s head. “This one is a whiz. Put her in R and D.”
Dixie grunted. “What’s wrong with her? She looks weird.”
Vick braced himself for Tara’s outrage at being called weird, but she only stood there, arms dangling loosely, her whole body trembling.
“She has autism.” Vick’s voice sounded shaky and timid to his own ears.
“Yeah, whatever.” Dixie’s chair screeched as she stood. On her way over she plucked two black tubes from a glass jar. Ms. Alba reached down and grabbed Vick’s wrist; then she grabbed Tara’s with her other hand.
“What are you doing?” Vick took an instinctive step back.
“Just hold still.” Dixie was chewing gum, working it furiously. She set one of the tubes down. Vick tried to pull away.
“Hold still, or it’ll hurt like crazy and we’ll have to do it all over again.” Dixie lifted the tube and jabbed it against his arm. It felt like a huge wasp was stinging him, the stinger sinking deep and staying for a long time as Vick grunted, his jaw clamped tight against the pain.
Finally she pulled it free, and he realized it was some sort of syringe. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”
“What did you do? What was that?” Vick pressed his hand over his arm. The spot was still throbbing and burning.
Dixie set down the spent syringe, and then quickly picked up the other as Tara tried to pull free from Ms. Alba.
“Hold still.” She pressed it to Tara’s arm as Stripe held Vick back.
Tara shrieked in fear and pain as the shot stung her arm.
When Ms. Alba and Stripe let them go, Tara threw her arms around Vick, and Vick hugged his twin sister fiercely, rocking her gently. “We’re okay. It’s over now. It’s over.”
Dixie and Ms. Alba stood over them, waiting.
“Move away from the door,” Dixie said, grasping the knob. Vick moved Tara. Dixie opened the door and called, “Tiny. Come.”
Vick heard Tiny’s metal claws on the concrete floor before he saw him, his chrome body glistening in the light, filling the doorway.
Dixie looked down at Vick and Tara. “What we injected into you was a tracer. If you run away, Tiny will know just where you ran. He’ll come after you and drag you back here. You understand?”
Over Dixie’s shoulder, Vick saw a window high up on the wall. It had heavy steel bars across it. Vick wanted to tell this woman that they couldn’t get away with pulling kids off the street in broad daylight. But the truth was, they could. No one would be looking for them.
Dixie curled a finger toward Tara. “Come on, I’ll show you where you’ll be working.”
Vick leaped to his feet. “We have to stay together. She can’t be on her own.”
Dixie scowled at him. “She won’t be on her own.”
“I mean, she has to be with me or she’ll lose it.”
Every word Vick uttered seemed to ma
ke Dixie angrier. “You know what your sister’s problem is? I’ll give you a hint: it’s not autism. Her problem is she’s a sissy. She needs to toughen up. And now’s as good a time as any to start.”
Ms. Alba nodded briskly. “She’ll get used to it. We need you doing other things.”
As soon as Dixie bent and pulled Tara to her feet, Tara started wailing. Vick tried to follow her, but Ms. Alba held him back.
“You don’t understand; she can’t control it. I have to stay with her or she won’t be able to work for you.”
“That’s enough. Let’s go.” Ms. Alba led Vick to the main floor, to a tall, gangly, dark-skinned girl who looked like she was Vick’s age, maybe a year older. Ms. Alba told the girl to show him what to do, then headed for the exit without another word, and nothing Vick said about Tara got a second glance. When he followed her to the door, protesting, Stripe stood in his path. “Back to your station, kid.”
It was agonizing to hear Tara’s wails and not be able to help her. He went back to the table with the tall girl and stared at the door where they’d taken Tara.
“There’s nothing you can do right now,” the girl said. “You need to pretend to work, at least.” Her name was East, and she said she’d been in that basement for three months. Vick had picked up enough of the basics of DIY robotics from Tara that they could talk in low voices while Vick pretended he was getting the hang of things. It was hard to concentrate with Tara wailing in another room.
“All Alba cares about is getting rich—like, private jets and bodyguards rich,” East was saying as she worked on a spine. Her curly hair was pulled back away from her face with a rubber band. “She thinks watchdogs are her ticket.”
“She thinks she’s going to get rich enough to fly in private jets making watchdogs?”
Watchdog Page 3
