by Rob J. Hayes
To the left of the door is another body, collapsed underneath the intercom. Kendall. I wonder who could have performed a hit like this. At first I thought it might have been Kendall, her old file suggested she had the skills, but now I can see that whomever it was, took out the assassin as well. They had to be good. Maybe more than just good. Definitely out of my league. I can only hope they’re gone. Again the hope.
I glance towards the collection of harvesters. I have no chance of operating one alone. They require a trained professional. Someone like Pascal.
I find the doctor slumped over machine number four. He has a small satchel in one hand and a small pistol in the other. Four bullet holes in the back. One in the head. His eyes are open, staring towards me without sight. His jowly face is slack and pale.
Sadness. I didn’t even realise I could still feel it. Pascal knew me better than anyone. He was a confidant and a friend. Now he’s gone. Not the first friend I’d lost. But the first one I’ve cared about in a long time.
“Shit,” I breathe into the still darkness of Pascal’s workshop. First Allen, now Pascal. It’s worrying for more than one reason. I don’t know any other harvesters in the city. No way to rid myself of my emotions.
The sound of a ragged breath from behind. I turn and bring my pistol up in one smooth motion, my finger hovering over the trigger. Sloppy trigger discipline. My hands are still shaking. I’m not even sure I could hit a target.
Kendall shifts against the wall. I see a pistol of her own in her hand. Small, likely only carries a few shots, but it’s pointed my way. Her hand shakes and she squints at me. For just a moment we watch each other down the barrels. Then her hand drops and she lets out another ragged breath. She doesn’t sound healthy. She doesn’t look healthy.
I close the distance slowly, pistol still raised. Kendall watches me the entire time. I stop a short distance away and stare down at her. She looks badly injured, probably fatal, but I don’t want to get too close. Her old file said she was as good in close quarters as she was through a scope.
“You’re the robot.” It’s not the worst thing I’ve been called. Kendall’s eyelids droop a little. Her pistol is lying forgotten in her hand now and I notice that hand is bloody. Her chest is bloody too. I see two bullet holes in her jacket, the fabric ragged and red.
“You’re the assassin,” I say.
Kendall gives her head a little shake. “Not this time.” Strands of hair have come free from her dark braids and fallen over her face. I remember she had blonde hair in the old file. Now it’s black as a raven.
I look up at the intercom above her. I see a smear of blood on it.
“You buzzed me in?” I ask.
Kendal fixes me with a stare. She has pitiless eyes. I’ve seen it before in other murderers. The eyes of a shark.
“I buzzed someone in. Didn’t care who. Gaia’s breath this hurts.” Her voice is quiet and tired. She’s dying. I feel a strange sadness about that. Too many emotions. I’m feeling too much. I don’t even know why I care.
“Why?”
“Can’t make it out of here on my own,” Kendall slurs. Her body shudders as she coughs and a thin trail of blood and spittle leaks from her mouth. It seems to take a monumental effort, but she raises a hand and wipes her lips. She’s gives me another dark stare, as though witnessing her final moments is an embarrassment to her.
“You’re dying,” I say. It seems obvious to me. I can’t understand where she might want to go.
“I’m not dead yet,” Kendall growls and coughs up a bit more bloody spittle. Again she wipes it away. “I know a doctor. She might be able to save me.”
“Who did this?” I ask.
Kendall gives her head a slight shake, that predatory look returning to her eyes for a moment. “Get me to my doctor and I’ll tell you.”
I stand and pace. My feet are aching. It’s not surprising given how far I’ve walked. I could leave Kendall here, let the assassin die. I could get out of this situation before I become a real part of it. I should. I won’t. There’s a pressing need to know what happened. To know who killed Pascal. I want to know why. Curiosity demanding the answers to so many questions.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Mextown.”
“Great.” Annoyance. As useful as irritation and just as worthless.
I turn my arm over and tap my PD, selecting an auto-driver taxi service. I order one to pick up from Pascal’s apartments. Then I stoop down near Kendall. She glares at me, but doesn’t move.
“This is going to hurt,” I warn her.
“Good,” she spits. “The two gunshots only tickle.”
I put one arm behind her back and the other underneath her knees and lift. Kendall is heavier than she looks, or maybe I’m weaker than I think. She’s short, but muscled. A powerhouse. Now she’s just dead weight in my arms though. It’s not easy, but I get her up and start through the workshop door.
Kendall winces and groans as I carry her. I’m being as gentle as I can, but I’m struggling with the effort. Over the bodies and past the elevator. Kendall glances towards it. I stumble, but manage to keep my feet and she lets out a yelp.
“Are you sure you can’t walk?” I ask. I think I’m joking. Maybe half joking.
“Sure. Let’s see you walk with two bullets in you.”
I nod as I step over the other bodies and fumble with the door. I think it’s more likely the blood loss that’s making her so weak. Eventually I manage to shove the body of the ex-marine away and open the door, slipping through. I start down the stairs, trying to keep Kendall as stable as possible.
My courage is bolstered by having someone else with me, even if she is slowly bleeding to death in my arms. It’s strange, but the feeling of terror seems further away now. Companionship can do that to a person.
I struggle down the stairs and eventually hit the ground floor and push through the door into the lobby. My arms are aching like fire and I’m dripping sweat. I stagger over to the door and, through the window I can see a taxi waiting outside.
Kendall reaches up with a shaking hand and presses the button to unlock the door. She’s still carrying her little pistol in her other hand. I pull the door open and hurry down the steps to the street below.
“Open,” I growl at the taxi as I get close. The rear door pops open and I struggle to slide Kendall into the seat and then pull her upright.
There are people watching now. People who saw me carrying a bloody woman out of the building. People who can see me sweating like a guilty man and covered in her blood. I ignore them and move to the other side of the taxi, pulling the door open and sliding into the car.
The screen is awaiting payment.
“Do you have a cred card?” I ask.
Kendall nods slowly. She’s pale, ghostly, even for her dark complexion. Her lips are a dull purple. Blood loss. She doesn’t have long.
“Back… pocket.”
I push her forwards a little. She doesn’t even react to the obvious pain. I pull her wallet from her trousers and open it, finding her cred card and pressing it to the screen. Some people are approaching the taxi slowly, curious looks on their faces. Some are tapping away at their PDs. We need to get moving. The screen asks for identification.
“Kendall.” I shake the assassin. Her eyes are unfocused. “Say your name.”
“Kendall.”
“Your full name.”
She looks confused for a moment. “Tasha Kendall.”
The screens flash accepted, then ask for a destination.
“Where are we going?”
Kendall’s eyes flicker closed. I shake her again, more violently this time. Ignoring the faces peering into the taxi.
“Where are we going, Kendall?”
“Mextown,” she slurrs.
The taxi starts to drive. Mextown is a big place. The taxi will only take us to the border without proper instructions.
“Kendall. Where in Mextown?”
She looks at m
e, her eyes focusing for a moment. “Second off Arling. Doctor Mohinda. Next to the park.” Her eyelids close again. She’s so pale. Lost too much blood and still losing.
“Did you get that?” I ask the taxi. Of course I get no reply.
Chapter 8
Worry: Gnawing. Crippling. Undermining. Worry is a strange one. It shouldn’t sell. Has no reason to sell. Strange that it does then, and it sells well. I can’t imagine why.
I open the door as soon as the taxi stops, run around the car and pull the other door open, reaching inside and grabbing hold of Kendall. She hasn’t spoken in a long time. Hasn’t moved. I can’t shake the feeling she’s already gone.
As I pull Kendall out of the car and into my aching arms again, her hand drops to her side. Her little pistol clatters to the concrete street. It seems a bad sign. I ignore the fallen weapon and the taxi, and stagger towards the clinic. No security, I notice. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. I kick at the door and wait, struggling with Kendall’s weight.
A little woman with black hair and olive skin steps around a desk inside the building and approaches the door. She’s squinting at me over her glasses and then stops when she sees who’s in my arms. The door is open in a flash and the woman stands aside to let me in.
“Jasmine!” the little woman roars as she closes and locks the door. I stand there with the assassin’s body in my arms, unsure of what I should do and no idea if she’s even still alive. There’s so much blood. On her. One me. We’re both covered in sticky red. “It’s Kendall. She’s hurt.”
Within moments another woman appears from a back room. She’s tall with sharp cheekbones that give her a severe look only matched by the intensity in her eyes. She barely even acknowledges me, running over and putting two fingers to Kendall’s neck.
“Follow me,” the doctor snaps and I do without question. It’s almost hard-wired into our brains these days. Doctors know better than us. Do what they say without question. It goes doubly so for anyone with any sort of military background. They deserve and receive absolute trust.
“Two gunshot wounds to the chest,” I say as I carry Kendall around the desk and towards a bright doorway.
Bright lights, white walls, and a sterile smell. The room the doctor leads me too is an operating theatre without doubt. An adjustable table sits in the centre and there’s any number of machines I don’t recognise around the walls. Cabinets too, containing all manner of drugs and tools. With no security, it’s a wonder this place hasn’t been picked clean by the gangs. Either that or it’s because the place is protected by them all.
Allen’s workshop was protected too, but it was still hit, Allen killed along with all of his security. Just like Pascal.
I lower Kendall down onto the table and step back, my arms and back feeling the weight lifted. Pleasure. Relief. Free of one burden at least.
“How do you know Kendall?” the doctor asks.
“I don’t. Not really. She was working protection for my… boss.”
The doctor glances at me, but only for a moment, before she starts cutting away at Kendall’s clothing to expose the bullet wounds.
“I need to talk to her,” I say. I have to find out who did it. Who killed Pascal.
“Out! Now.” The doctor doesn’t shout, she doesn’t need to. Her voice carries that tone of command that demands obedience. I back out of the room slowly.
“Thank you,” says the smaller woman with the olive skin. I turn to find her peering into the room as the doctor works to save Kendall’s life.
“I need to talk to her,” I repeat. “If she lives I…”
“She will live. Doctor Mohinda will save her.” I’m not sure if the woman is acting so confident for me or for herself.
“If I leave you my phone number, can you ask Kendall to call me when she wakes up?” I ask.
The little woman takes hold of my arm and steers me towards the exit. “Of course,” she says. She stops at the desk and picks up a pen and a scrap of paper. I tell her my phone number and my name.
“I, um, I don’t have any money for a taxi home,” I admit.
“We’ll have someone drive you.” The little woman presses a button on an intercom and asks for a man named Boris to bring the car around. I get the feeling they want me gone. It’s the second Mextown clinic I’ve been politely ejected from in the last day.
“You, uh…” I stop the woman as she guides me towards the door. “You don’t have emotion harvesters here, do you?”
The woman’s eyes narrow and she stares at me. “We don’t do that here.”
I nod and let her guide me out of the door. There’s a man waiting in a banged up green Jasper. I climb into the passenger seat and tell him where to take me.
Chapter 9
Affection, trust, acceptance. Big sellers. People like to feel wanted. They like to feel part of a group. Some Drones specialise in it. Too difficult for me. Too hard to cultivate. It’s too much effort.
My PD reads 7:21am by the time I stagger through the door of my apartment. The morning sun streams in through my windows giving everything a shiny look. Glare bouncing off my dining table. A single mug still sits on the table. I can remember leaving it there, but I still can’t remember how long it’s been. I haven’t had a chance to sit down and sort through my memories, figure out where they all fit.
I stumble behind the kitchen counter and press the button on the coffee machine. Then I lean back against the counter and close my eyes, listening to the electric hum as the machine whirs to life and grinds the beans. I’m exhausted. My limbs feel leaden and my head feels fuzzy. I like it. It’s hard to feel anything when I’m so tired, almost like after a harvest.
The coffee machine beeps to let me know it’s finished. It seemed quick. It’s possible I dozed with my eyes closed. I reach for the cup and realise my hand is still bloody. Not just my hand either. My clothes are crusty with Kendall’s dried blood.
I take off my PD and give it a wipe down. It certainly doesn’t look new anymore. Then I strip down, not bothering to leave my kitchen, and throw my clothes into the bin. There’s little like blood to ruin a good shirt. My hands and arms are still bloody, my chest too where it soaked through my shirt and jacket. I gulp down half of the cup of coffee, wincing at the burning heat, but enjoying the bitter taste.
Joy. I’m still feeling joy at the taste of coffee.
I’m in a bad situation. I have no way to rid myself of my emotions and I’ve got so many of them swimming around with my memories. Panic closes in on my chest. The shakes comes back and I feel sweaty all over again.
I decide to put my situation out of my mind for now. Or at least I try to. It will always be there in the back of my head. I’ll need to form a plan of action and soon. Most importantly, I need to find a new harvester.
I head into the bathroom and turn on the shower. As hot as it goes. I wash away Kendall’s blood and my own sweat. Shame I can’t just wash my emotions down the drain.
I lose track of time in the shower. Long enough until my fingers are wrinkled and I no longer feel the heat of the water. My legs start to wobble. I need to sit down, to rest. I need to sleep.
Out of the shower, I wrap a towel around my waist and head back into the kitchen. The coffee is cold. A muddy puddle of water. I drink it anyway and set the machine to making another. My PD sits where I left it, just next to the sink, a smear of blood still on the screen. Terrible job of cleaning it. A light flashes next to the screen, I have a message waiting.
I wait for the new cup of coffee and take both it and the PD to my dining table, sitting down and tapping the screen. Two missed calls and a voice message. The message, along with one of the calls, is from Summer. I delete it.
Shame. Shame at ignoring my own daughter. The same shame that I’ve been giving away for four years, bubbling up now I don’t have access to a harvester. I can’t deal with Summer right now. I can’t deal with the guilt.
The other missed call is from Aaron Langdon. I stare at the na
me for a few seconds, trying to remember the last time we spoke. Almost four years ago. A few months after I started life as a Drone. A few months after I killed Summer.
I position my PD so the camera has my face in view then return the call, sipping at my coffee as I wait for Langdon to pick up. It only takes a few seconds.
“Garrick,” Langdon says. He’s smiling. Red-faced and sweating, his head bobbing up and down in front of the camera. He’s also more bald than I remember, barely a wisp left on his head these days. He squints. “You look like shit.”
I smile. “It’s been a long day.”
Friendliness. Happiness at seeing an old friend. I’ve known Langdon for half my life. It’s good to see him again, talk to him again. Not all emotions are painful. They often lead to the painful ones though.
“Long?” Langdon asks as he taps the screen of his PD. “It’s eight O’one. I’m still out for my morning run.” I can see a stationary ceiling behind him, a pallid yellow light hanging from it. He’s on a treadmill, not out anywhere.
“Yeah. Well I haven’t slept in…” I trail off, still trying to remember.
“Hey! Don’t you go all catatonic on me, Garrick.”
“Not much chance of that at the moment,” I say. “I’ve not…” I trail off again.
Langdon squints into the camera. “Look, Garrick. I hear you might be out of a job.”
“You did? How?” I’ll have to check the news, see if there’s any information on Pascal’s murder. If Langdon has heard, it must be common knowledge. I wonder how he knew who my harvester is… was.
“Eh? It’s everywhere. Congress has never pushed through a vote so fast.” He’s talking about the new law, not about Pascal. I wonder if anyone knows about Pascal yet. “Look, we all know… what you do, Garrick. Heh, I guess we don’t have to beat around the bush anymore, now it’s legal. We all know you’ve been selling your emotions ever since that thing with Summer.”
I glance away from the camera, trying to hide the guilt on my face by sipping from my coffee. That thing with Summer. He says it as if it was a trivial matter.
