by Steve Perry
—and why did she suddenly seem so familiar?
“She was,” said Zac, “for me, the embodiment of what true beauty is: Time’s gift of perfect humility.”
“I know her,” said Killaine. “I’ve—and I don’t mean to sound like I’ve blown a fuse, Zachary, but I’ve seen her. Recently.”
He took the photo back. “Or maybe someone who looks a bit like her?”
“Yes!”
He put the photo back in the shoebox, replaced the lid, and returned his tattered treasure chest to its secret place. “That’s because you see some of her face every time you look in a mirror. Or at Radiant.”
Killaine was too stunned to speak.
“Have you ever noticed, Killaine, how I sometimes have trouble looking directly at you and Radiant?”
“. . . yes . . .”
“Psy–4 is under the impression that he is the eldest I-Bot, but if the truth were to be told—and I expect this to be our little secret—he’s the second oldest.”
“Who is the oldest, then?”
“Laraine.”
“Who?”
Zac returned to his chair and stared down at Cemetery Ridge, now made all the more dispirited by the incoming rain. “Laraine was the first I-Bot I designed when I was at WorldTech. I was still grieving for Jean, and without realizing it I fashioned Laraine’s face after hers. When I realized what I had done, I redesigned Laraine’s face into yours . . . and Radiant’s. So I guess that, technically, you’re the eldest.” He looked at her and tried to smile, didn’t quite make it. “But don’t tell Psy–4. Let him have his little delusion, all right?”
“Yes.”
“That’s why, sometimes, I can’t look at you and Radiant. Both of you have some part of Jean’s face, and it . . . it hurts to see you. You’re both so beautiful, so much like Jean. So please don’t be offended at those times when—”
He couldn’t finish.
Tears again.
He turned toward the window.
Killaine stood behind him, ran a hand through his hair, then leaned down and kissed the top of his head. “You’re a fine man, Zachary, the best I’ve ever known. And I am honored more than I can say that you’ve chosen Radiant and me as vessels to keep some small part of your Jean alive.”
“Thank you,” he choked. “Now, if you don’t mind, I . . . I need a few minutes.”
“Not too long. I’ve decided to make your favorite for breakfast.”
“Potato pancakes?”
“With real butter and maple syrup.”
“I’ll be there soon. With bells on.”
Killaine laughed. “That I’d like to see.” She nearly laughed again, then wondered if her laugh sounded anything like Jean’s had. And decided not to think about it.
“Not too long now,” she said from the doorway.
“I promise,” said Zac. Then: “Killaine?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“No, Zachary—thank you.”
Even though she stood several feet away from him, Killaine had never felt so close to Zac as she did at this moment.
She watched as he shook his head at some unvoiced thought, then looked a little to the right, through the window and down into the street at something unseen. Rain spattered against the wire mesh covering the window, forming dreary blurred slashes, and for a moment it looked to Killaine as if Zac were sitting on the other side of the window, outside looking in, his head lowered, hands clasped in front of him as if in prayer, getting soaked to the marrow and listening as the staccato rhythm of the downpour against the brick building underscored the constricting loneliness and anxiety of his life. He lifted a slightly trembling hand to massage his temple and in that moment, because of that simple, silent gesture, Killaine saw Zac’s life the way he must have seen it himself: the silent evenings where the only thing he could depend on in the night were upsetting dreams and, upon waking (if he slept at all), an old, tattered box of even older memories. She knew how he must view this room of his, so small and dark: a shabby little room for a shabby little life. She wondered if any of his clothes still held the scent of Jean’s perfume. Did he sometimes in the night touch them to remind himself that she’d been real? Did he ever find something of hers, a scarf, a kerchief, that held her scent, and did he sometimes in the night, when he was so alone and certain of his privacy, hold that scarf or kerchief to his face and breathe in the sweet, dying aroma left there by a sweet, dead, extraordinary woman who came to him now only in dreams?
“I know I’ve got a heart now,” said the Tin Man. . . .
She quietly closed the door and started downstairs.
The kitchen was quiet and dark. She turned on the bright overhead lights and immediately felt her spirits rise.
Coffee.
First thing, there must be her legendary Irish Creme coffee—an intoxicating aroma that almost no one in the building could resist—and then she’d begin preparing the food; not that any of them needed to eat, eating was a function of choice, like sleeping, but they all enjoyed the taste of food, the physical act of eating helped make them seem more human, plus the carbohydrates, fats, and sugars were broken down into a liquid that served various functions, such as taking the place of corneal fluid, saliva, and sweat.
She was just getting ready to pour the water into the machine when a panicked voice behind her hissed, “No, don’t!”
She spun around to see Itazura, wide-eyed and nervous, come at her with an electronic detecting scanner in his hand.
“Itzy? What on earth are you—”
“Stand back!” he hissed at her, his voice now taking on an uncharacteristic edge of panic.
Killaine did as he instructed.
Itazura approached the counter on which sat the coffeemaker.
He activated the scanner and began sweeping the entire area.
“What is it?” asked Killaine.
“Just a feeling,” he replied, moving the scanner from side to side, up, then down.
He finally zeroed in on the coffeemaker.
Killaine didn’t move.
Damn, had Annabelle found them so quickly this time? Had she already had her team in here to bug or booby-trap the place?
No—Preston.
That had to be it.
Preston must have had his goon squad in here last night while they were over at PTSI. That made sense; playing dirty was the only way a man like Sam Preston could ever get the upper hand on someone like Zac Robillard.
Itazura held out one hand in a gesture of warning.
He scanned the coffeemaker.
Lifted it gently.
Scanned the underside.
Set it back down.
Scanned the entire appliance once more.
Then stood back and deactivated the scanner. “Okay, Killaine, it’s clean—just don’t make any coffee this morning, okay?”
“Why?”
Itazura stared at her, unblinking. “Because I don’t like your coffee. Ha!”
He jumped into the air, executing a flawless double back-flip to the other side of the counter before Killaine could get her hands on him.
“Oh, Itzy,” said Killaine, her voice full of playful menace. “Haven’t you heard, boy, that it’s not wise to rile an Irishwoman’s temper before she’s had her morning coffee?”
“Gimme a break, Killaine—I got you a good one and you can’t stand it.”
Killaine came around the counter and nearly had him, but he faked right and went left, hurling himself back over to the other side, and all she managed to grab was empty air.
“I’ll get you for this, Itzy.”
“Oooooo, promise?”
“Promise.”
“Will you discipline me then, you haughty Amazon temptress?”
She stopped her pursuit of him, waited a moment, then relaxed. “I just realized something.”
“I’ll alert the media.”
“You have an awfully good time with yourself, don’t you?”
>
This time, Itazura stopped moving.
The look of confusion on his face was priceless.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just what I said.”
“What you said made no sense.”
Killaine shrugged. “It needn’t make sense to you, only to me.” She loved baiting him this way.
“Huh?”
Killaine laughed at him, then set about preparing the coffee. “Did you just get up?”
Another moment of confusion on Itazura’s face, then—realizing he wasn’t up to a verbal tug-of-war with her this morning—he shook it off. “I’ve been up since six.”
“Doing what, working out this morning’s little vaudeville?”
“No. I’ve been down in the cellar, walking my labyrinth.”
“Ah, your latest earth-maze. How was it?”
“I didn’t get very far into it, only past the Wheels of Confusion.”
Killaine looked at him, genuinely interested. “Is it a complex earth-maze this time?”
“Very—but that’s not why I didn’t get far.”
Before Killaine could ask why, she heard the distinctive whir-clunk-chink! coming up from the cellar. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yeah,” replied Itazura. Then, with a sly and slightly mocking grin: “Your favorite neighbor made his way through the sewers and has come a-calling.”
And that’s when the robot emerged onto the first floor.
Bloody Scrapper, thought Killaine, wondering what disaster had befallen the denizens of the camp where the old, outmoded, unwanted robots lived.
The visiting robot paused for a moment, its bright red eyes scanning its surroundings, then walked into the kitchen, nodding to Itazura and waving to Killaine.
“Hello, Singer,” she said, none too enthusiastically.
The robot lifted both its gold-metal hands and began making a series of quick gestures.
“Killaine,” said Itazura. “Singer’s talking to you.”
She sighed, irritated, then turned toward the Scrapper.
Singer pointed to the index finger of his left hand, then crossed the index and middle finger of his right hand, bringing them to the area of his face where a mouth should be.
“You . . . are . . .” said Itazura, interpreting the robot’s sign language.
“I can read,” snapped Killaine.
Singer pulled his right hand away, its fingers uncrossed, pressed his thumb in toward his palm, then moved his entire hand in a quick, single, counterclockwise circle; after that, he made the old “Peace” sign with the fingers of both hands, brought the tips of the fingers together in front of his chest, then raised his right hand to his mouth as if pantomiming eating something, quickly pulled it away, opened his right hand wide, then brought it back to the original eating position.
Holding both open hands at his waist, palms facing upward, Singer pointed toward the ceiling with his right index finger, then at his elbow joint with his left index finger.
This took perhaps four seconds.
You are looking very lovely today, he had told .Killaine.
Killaine, without making eye contact, muttered, “Thank you, Singer.”
Pointing, crossed fingers to mouth, then a downward sweep with fully open hand: You are welcome.
Killaine looked at Itazura. “Let me guess—trouble at the Scrapper camp?”
“Yeah. Seems a group of SMS punks took them by surprise earlier this morning and did some major damage to an old IA–2112 model.”
“Wonderful.” Killaine poured the coffee water into the sink and turned off the breakfast appliances.
“I’ll go get El Jefe.”
“No,” snapped Killaine, casting a distasteful glance at Singer. “Let me. He’s in a bit of a state this morning.”
“You’ve already seen him?”
“Briefly. He didn’t sleep well.”
Itazura shook his head. “Damn. I wish there was something we could do for him at times like this.”
“Don’t play softhearted with me, prankster,” said Killaine as she walked past.
Itazura took her arm, stopping her.
“Do you really think I don’t feel for the man?” he asked.
“Sometimes I wonder.”
She saw the hurt and resentment in his eyes.
He released her arm. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Itzy, look, I didn’t mean—”
“—you always mean what you say, Sis, so just drop it, all right? Now I’d advise you to get out of here before you’re infected by Scrapper cooties or something. Hurry! Hurry!”
He actually pushed her out of the kitchen.
As she headed up the stairs, Killaine heard the subtle scrape-clink-squeak of Singer signing something.
“I don’t know why she doesn’t like you, Singer,” said Itazura, the anger and hurt still very evident in his voice. “It’s not like we’re all that different from you.”
Indeed, it isn’t, thought Killaine, and wondered if that might not be part of her problem.
Zac was coming out of his room, clean faced and clear eyed, as she hit the top of the stairs.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Singer.”
So much information, so much emotion, so much history could be summed up in speaking a simple name.
Benjamin.
Jean.
Singer.
“I’ll get my gear,” said Zac.
The kid with the electron gun moved closer to Singer, smiling, displaying his crooked, nicotine-stained teeth. “I’m gonna make it fast, Scrapper.” He studied Singer for a moment. “Yeah—I think your faceplate will do all right. That’s proof enough.”
Killaine and Zac were pressed against the back of one of the buildings, hidden enough by the shadows, mist, and rain that the kid didn’t see them; he was too focused on tormenting Singer.
“Initiation,” whispered Zac.
“What’s he supposed to—?”
“Kill a robot point-blank dead-bang against the cranium, then bring back some section of its body.”
“Lovely,” said Killaine, wanting nothing more than to get her hands on the kid, who, she now saw, already had the SMS scar carved into his forehead. It must have been done recently; the wound was still seeping slightly.
The Silver Metal Stompers were a group of militant anti-robotic fanatics who broke away from the waning American Nazi Party around 2007—not that they’d abandoned many of the Third Reich’s sensibilities; the SMS, like the Nazis, started as a fringe movement but quickly gained members and credence as the public’s ever-increasing demand for newer, smarter, stronger, user-friendly robots became more intense. Those private citizens who owned robot domestics bought newer, shinier, streamlined models and, unable to sell their older-model robots, either threw them away—turning them out into the street—or dumped them at a government recycling facility where the robots were stripped of their circuitry, drained of their programming, and torn down to be melted to make parts for new models.
Still, there was the problem of those robots that had simply been dumped, so in order to stanch the flux of obsolescent robots into the streets of the country, the local governments of every major city were allotted monies to form “Recycling Squads,” groups of glorified trash collectors who made weekly sweeps through the city to gather up any wandering robots and deliver them to the recycling facilities.
Most local governments chose not to come down too hard on the SMS; after all, the kids often did for free what the governments had to pay good money for.
Now most cities were filled with hundreds, possibly thousands, of “Scrappers”—old, outmoded, unwanted robots without owners, without significant scientific value, without purpose.
The Scrapper camps were born out of the old robots’ programmed desire to protect themselves. Banding together throughout the cities of the world, the Scrappers were constantly on the move, always looking over their shoulders for either the Recycling S
quad or the Silver Metal Stompers.
In short: victims waiting to happen.
And so the SMS descended on them, tracking down the transient Scrapper camps and leaving wreckage in their wake.
The worst part of it all were rumors of SMS supporters holding high office in local law enforcement agencies.
There was nowhere in this country now where a Scrapper was safe.
Nowhere they could hide for long.
And no one they could turn to for help.
No one except Zac Robillard.
Or “DocScrap,” as he was called among the camps.
Anytime, any day, anywhere in the city where a Scrapper needed help, needed repairs, Zac would come to their aid—no ifs or whens or maybes about it.
If they needed him, he’d get to them.
Somehow.
All of this flashed through Killaine’s mind in less than a millisecond as she watched the SMS-initiate walk over to Singer and press the business end of the electron gun against the robot’s head.
Killaine tensed.
One burst of the gun’s electrons at Singer’s cranium—the shot had to be point-blank in order to be immediately effective—and the robotic brain paths would be neutralized; enough energy would be released to fuse the robot-brain into an inert ingot.
“We have to do something,” said Zac.
“He’s too close to Singer,” whispered Killaine. “We don’t dare chance surprising him or—”
Zac coughed.
Several times.
Very loudly.
The kid jerked his head in the direction of the sound but kept the electron gun firmly pressed against Singer’s cranium. “Who’s there?”
“How . . . how dry I am,” sang Zac in a rusty, ersatz-drunken voice. “How dry I . . . I am . . . oooooooo, nobody knows . . . how dry I am . . .”
He dropped the duffel bag into the shadows and now was staggering out into the alley, heading straight for the kid and Singer.
“Stay right there, asshole,” snarled the kid, reaching into the other pocket of his duster and pulling out a silver-plated .577 Magnum Auto-Mag.
He pointed the gun directly at Zac.
Every particle of Killaine’s being was readying for battle.
If this kid so much as scratched Zac Robillard—
