by Corey Ostman
Not radioactive. Grace felt vindicated. She brushed away the foam, which fell from her body like soap bubbles.
Avonaco tapped his ptenda and her cell door raised. “Put your jumper on. You will need it.”
“No kidding.” Grace covered her relief in sarcasm. She tore open the trefoil-covered bag and removed her jumper, stepping into it and zipping up. The places where the foam had been felt scratchy. She hoped it wasn’t going to damage the mimic fabric.
When she was dressed, she tore off her goggles, walked out of the cell, and snatched Marty off the ground.
“All right, we can go,” said Grace to the waiting boy. “Let me have the bag.”
She went up to him, expecting him to hand over the duffel, but he didn’t let go. She tugged, and for a moment she lifted both the duffel and the boy off the floor. Tenacious bastard.
“Listen, Ano—what was your name?”
“Avonaco.”
“Right, sorry. Avonaco, I’m a protector. I’ve worked in this building. No matter what intrusion software you’ve managed to cobble together, we can’t just walk out of detention.”
“We are not walking. We are leaving the same way I came.”
He pushed an equipment cart further down the hall. Reaching up, he unlatched one of the high windows and tilted it open.
“Hand me the duffel and I will clamp it.”
Grace stepped backward, hugging the duffel to her chest. “Clamp it? On what?”
He motioned out the window. “I have a zip line attached. How else do you think I got in?”
Grace frowned. The exterior of the building was masonry, so it would have been possible to attach a zip line. She climbed onto the cart and looked out. There it stretched, anchored outside, above the window. But if she handed over the duffel, this kid could just as easily drop it, drop Tim. And they were two hundred meters above Avenue Main Mall.
“Come on!” He ordered.
Grace sighed and handed the boy her bag.
Avonaco attached Tim to the line. “I will go in front. You take up the rear.”
This is insane, Grace thought. This kid is barking orders like a commandant. And hell, I’m actually listening.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“We do not have time for this. I have worked it all out with Doctor Chanho. We go two blocks south, then we take to the street. I should have you at my father’s place in thirteen minutes.”
“You talked with Raj.” Grace couldn’t believe that Raj had sent a child to rescue her. “And who’s your father?”
“Djoser Reynolds.”
Grace barely recognized the name. But if Raj knew him, it probably meant this kid had illegal mechflesh at the very least. The thought didn’t make her comfortable.
She looked back at the cells, then at Tim’s duffel hanging on the line. Later. She’d deal with that later. First she had to get out.
Grace reached for the rear handhold. She and Avonaco pulled themselves up and rested their feet on the edge of the window.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Yes. Go!”
They pushed off.
The angle was shallow as they glided down the line, but they soon picked up speed. Above them was the clear Wyoming night, a few stars twinkling amidst the bright lights of approaching cruisers. Below, smaller buildings flew past. Despite everything that had happened that day, Grace felt wonderful. They crossed two blocks, heading toward a four-story building where the other end of the line was attached.
“In three, two, one, jump!” Avonaco shouted as the building flashed beneath them.
Not much of a countdown, Grace thought as she released her grip. Before she could grab the duffel, the kid unlatched it and landed on the roof. Grace skidded next to him, on her feet, taking a few meters to stop.
“You’re ready for Red Fox Academy,” she said.
Chapter 6
Morton Stacey took one last look at the midnight gleam and polish of civilized Port Casper, then walked under the makeshift arch that marked the entrance to Bod Town. Constructed out of scrap metarm, wood, and stranded carbon fiber, it proclaimed with its three unmatched letters, b-0-D, that bodies here were being marred and warped in defiance of true humanity. Its perversion was legendary, known far outside Wyoming Compstate, and it sickened Morton with every visit.
Like Hell, it was crowded: a bleating mass of human invention. There were partial skulls, half-mechanical mouths. Tentacles. Some had sawed off their natural limbs for metarm reproductions. His gorge rose and he averted his eyes, weaving through bodies beneath ramshackle buildings. Mechflesh brushed and bumped up against him, a succession of mimic fabric skins, hydraulic legs. Normally, a protector would be afforded a bubble of respect. But nobody seemed to notice his armored suit, the phasewave at his side. Mechflesh weren’t impressed by a standard human.
Two blocks seemed a long way.
As he neared the main rhombus of Bod Town, he noticed a crowd gathering outside of Delight, a swanky restaurant taking up one side. From what he could see, two big mechflesh were squaring off. Some looks shot his way from the fringes of the crowd. He shook his head. He wouldn’t get involved. No protector was allowed to get within ten meters of Delight. The owner had paid for the privilege of chaos. Anyway, Morton didn’t care: he didn’t have anything to prove. Let these people rip themselves apart.
Ignoring the shouts from across the street, he turned toward the pulsating neon of Balaharas, the club on the other side of the rhombus. The first story was stucco; the next two stories were made of cruiser glass fragments and roider parts. On top was a red structure that leaned at an angle off plumb. Like Bod Town, it was warped.
He walked up its five glass steps, passing between granite pillars that were probably mimic fabric disguising structural concrete. A laser danced across his body and the copper doors opened.
Balaharas was silent except for a koto plucked somewhere deep inside the club. A robot approached from a dark alcove and stopped to his right, hovering. It was a modified sentry loafer, plated in gold and sporting a bow tie that somebody had wrapped around the top of its central cylinder.
“Protector Stacey, welcome again. Suite B-4 awaits you.”
It sounded like a hive of bees speaking in unison. Morton ground his teeth and followed it, looking forward to collapsing in the refuge of the private suite and tossing back a few drinks.
As he strode deeper into the club, a room to his left went from transparent to opaque. Before it did, he caught a glimpse of a face he knew from the news. He couldn’t recall her name. Some gene addict bureaucrat, with her too-bright eyes and her blue-tinged skin. She was having a heated argument with two naked mechflesh. Morton wondered how many of the other veiled rooms concealed similar unnatural encounters.
The dance floor was empty, individual tiles pulsating with light as he walked, patterns shifting to avoid his footfall, flowing around each step like the current of a river. The robot sailed around the vacant DJ throne and opened up a wall panel Morton had never seen before.
It was a concealed stairway. Morton stopped at the top tread. The way below was inky black, and the loafer had disappeared into its shadows. He’d never had a meeting down there before. Was the loafer off its track?
“Hey, Stupid! I have a meeting! Where are you going?” he yelled into the shadows.
“Attending to the light, sir,” the loafer buzzed from below.
The stairway glowed crimson. Morton sighed and started down. Like the dance floor, each tread throbbed with color. At the bottom was the loafer, beside a door marked B-4. There were no other doors that he could see.
“You may go inside, sir.” The loafer turned and began ascending the stairs.
“Wait! What about drinks? You gonna take my order?” Morton growled. He didn’t want to be dumped in this pit. He wanted service, the whole Balaharas treatment.
“The pad inside can be used to order additional food, drinks, and diversions, should you so desire.”
&
nbsp; The loafer accelerated and vanished.
“Piece of crap.”
Morton turned to the door. Its access panel glowed red: locked. He swiped his palm and to his relief, the door slid open.
The suite was a circular room with orange velvet couches along the periphery and a group of highback leather chairs in its center. On a low table sat a pitcher on a silver tray with four large glasses.
Morton slumped down in the closest leather chair. The suite’s door slid shut behind him. Soft music began to play, a classic tune he’d heard before: he approved of the whispery voice, the harp, and tenor sax. Morton grabbed a glass and poured a small amount from the pitcher. He sniffed. Honest cloister ale. He sipped. And cold, too. He filled his glass to the top and reclined in the chair. The other glasses clinked as he rested his boots on the edge of the table.
He fingered his ptenda, discarding unread alerts: the chronometer said he was fifteen minutes early. He took a big swig of ale and closed his eyes. The brew was perfect, exactly what he needed after today. He’d wasted most of it dealing with Grace Donner, a swaggering waiver-status protector turned synth-lover. She thought machines deserved the same rights as people—it was laughable. Hell, the idiot probably thought that walking nuts and bolts needed special privileges. She had been stupid enough to turn up in Port Casper on his watch. His squad had taken her out before she’d even left the spaceport.
Now she was safely ensconced at ITB, on a cell block all her own. After this meeting and some sleep, he’d pay Donner a visit. He took another pull of ale, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned. Did she think she could just waltz back into Port Casper?
“Not after the way she helped AIs on Mars,” he chuckled, followed by a deep belch.
“Is that your problem with her, Protector Stacey?”
Morton choked, ale running down his chin. The door hadn’t opened, hadn’t closed. He brought down his glass and started to rise, just as an aposti in a dull black robe slithered around his chair.
“Were you—”
“No matter. Sit down, Protector. Enjoy your drink.”
Morton staggered backward and the chair reclaimed him. Nootau settled in the adjacent seat, adjusting his robes and pulling his cowl forward. His dark brown face receded in shadow. Theatrical jerk.
“You’re early,” scowled Morton.
“Because I enjoy your company,” said Nootau. “And I’m eager to hear your report. The fact agents mentioned a little skirmish out at the spaceport.”
“Yeah. I’m surrounded by dopes,” Morton said, reaching for his glass and draining it.
“The mechflesh demonstration?”
“Got nowhere. Most of the citizens ignored it. I got the few who sympathized with their bleating.”
“I see,” said Nootau. “And the blind bang?”
“I didn’t want Grace Donner thrown into the mix. Can you imagine how her presence would have riled up the mechflesh? I wanted order.”
“The false radiation was an excellent idea.”
“Yeah,” said Morton, pouring himself another glass. “Maybe. Based on her profile, I thought she’d just go along. Let herself get treated in the hope she’d be out on the street again.”
“Donner has no respect for true human authority.”
“Should’ve sent in a machine,” Morton smirked.
Nootau steepled his fingers. “The fact agents noted Grace Donner by name. I wonder how they knew.”
Morton narrowed his eyes. “I told the bang who to look for. What gives? You were the one who gave me all the details.”
“The fact agents knew too quickly,” Nootau said. “It happened at the same time as the bang. Someone overheard you.”
“We still bagged her.”
“Synth advocates have been using her name.”
“Your problem, not mine,” said Morton. “You asked me to remove her. I removed her as quickly as possible.”
“But to ITB? I wish you hadn’t taken her there,” Nootau said. “It employs sympathizers.”
“ITB is my turf. Where else did you expect me to go?”
The suite went silent as his words died away. The aposti adjusted his sleeve and glanced at his ptenda. Morton sneered into his glass. The message of the aposti was strictly luddite, and people assumed they eschewed all tech because of it. But aposti were just as dependent on ptendas and fact agents as anybody. Just more hypocritical about it.
“Anything since then to report?” Nootau said.
“Nope.”
The door slid open and the loafer returned with a silver tray. Morton noticed two exquisite crystal tumblers filled with amber fluid. This looks much better than ale, Morton thought, putting down his glass.
“Whiskey, gentlemen. Compliments of Ephron Panborn,” the loafer sizzled.
Ah, yes. Much better.
The loafer offered the tray and its precious fluids first to Nootau, then to Morton. With the drinks served, it left the suite and the door closed.
“A toast!” Nootau raised his tumbler.
“After what I’ve accomplished, I certainly deserve it,” Morton added, draining his own whiskey in a single gulp.
Nootau sipped at his drink and stared back. “Yes,” he said, “after what you’ve accomplished.” The man’s eyes narrowed as he continued to focus on Morton. “Fool. You let Grace Donner escape.”
“What are you talking about?” Morton asked, then remembered the ignored messages. He tapped his ptenda, his fingers feeling numb. The screen looked blurry. When he felt his lips tingle, he set the glass down, hands shaking. He rubbed his mouth, now burning like fire. His hand came away coated in blood. Searing pain hit his gums and the roots of his teeth.
“Y-you need me!” Morton gasped.
“All cloisterfolk are sympathetic to our cause. We will find somebody better,” Nootau said.
Morton fell to his knees. “I expected to be killed by synths, not real hu—”
Chapter 7
“Midnight,” said Raj.
“Is that it, then?” Anna asked.
“We’ve got a few more tries left.” Raj woke the screen and tapped the connect icon again.
Dan leaned forward, his face lit orange by the flickering firelight. “Are you sure this AI—”
“Yes.”
They went silent, watching the connect icon. It blinked from green to orange as the other end initiated a frequency hop. Avonaco had warned him of this precaution—it was imperative to keep the Freer Diner safe. When it glowed green, Anna whooped and Dan went to turn up the lights in the room.
The vid display filled with Grace Donner. She was seated in an old restaurant booth, a hint of chrome and red leather visible. There were decryption artifacts, but there she was, smiling and safe. She seemed fine, no different than when he’d last seen her on Mars.
“Raj!” she yelled. Her mouth moved again, but the audio dropped. Her lips formed the word “Dad!”
“I can’t hear her,” Dan complained.
“The hops shouldn’t be doing this,” Raj said, boosting the signal.
“Port Casper’s firewall is getting better,” said Anna.
“My bet is aposti. Screwing with cloister communications again,” said Dan. “Most of us have access to fact agents, just like they do, but they want to keep cloisterfolk ignorant of what’s going on out there.”
Grace’s voice suddenly came out, the words compressed, slowing to “—Raj? You reading me?”
“Grace, we may not have much time,” Raj said. “I need you to get Tim’s crystal memory from my apartment. In the green case, it’s—”
Damn. The display froze. Had she even heard him?
“I’ll see if I can stabilize the audio, at least,” said Anna. The light from her ptenda reflected on the static screen.
Blocks of pixels shimmered as the feed returned to real-time. Avonaco appeared on screen next to Grace.
“Avonaco, can you boost—”
“I can go!” Avonaco said.
/> “A boy?” said Dan.
“Security will only allow me, Grace, or Tim to enter.”
“No problem. I’ll go,” Grace said. The screen froze again, but her voice remained clear. “Then I’ll come to Cloister 11.”
“Ok, Gracie,” said Dan. “Make sure you avoid the highway. Compstate patrols the entire length past Cheyenne.”
“Ok, Dad! Love you,” said Grace.
Dan grunted and wiped his eyes.
“I’ll head south. Hike to the east of Medicine Bow and down to Cheyenne.” Grace spoke, garbled but intelligible, as the vid went black and the icons disappeared.
• • •
“This is so good.”
Three old diner tables occupied an alcove off the abandoned subway station beneath the Freer Diner. There wasn’t any outside view, and the lighting either flickered or was too dim, but the food was good as ever, and she welcomed every mouthful.
Grace sliced through the tender ribeye before knifing a piece of egg onto the forkful and popping it into her mouth. Grilled to perfection. It was moist, juicy, and bursting with flavor. She chewed slowly, savoring it. Her first Earthborn food in nearly two years. Not rehydrated, reheated, or reconstituted. The beef had ragged, organic edges and was marbled in fat. The egg yolk was a welcome, if impromptu sauce for the steak. On the side of the plate was spinach, glistening with butter. I’ll get to you next.
Grace leaned back at the battered table and chewed, watching the kitchen bustle around her. One wall was all refrigerators and freezers. A center section sported griddles of various sizes and vintages. And though hoods provided plenty of ventilation, there was enough aroma to keep Grace here forever.
Behind her, wood scraped across the concrete floor. She looked over her shoulder. A shallow, half-meter square sandbox slid into view, propelled by a forearm.
Just a forearm. Its hand with no fingers, but six thumbs. A wheel squeaked where an elbow should be, and there was no body behind it. Grace froze.
“That’s Hitch,” a female voice said. “And here’s your coffee.” A robot swept into the kitchen with a steaming cup. Or was it robots? She—or they—were unlike any AI Grace had ever met. Mari and Dora were both synths, and friends. They had been together in a transport accident four years ago. Both were mangled, both given zero chance of repair. According to Avonaco, Djoser Reynolds had worked with Raj to fuse the less damaged parts from each. Mari had offered parts to Dora, and Dora parts to Mari. They were now permanently fused, and fine with the result.
