His work done, Magnus left the hold the same way he came in. Walking down the ramp, he passed the heavy liftbot as it brought another load up. The hulking robot acted oblivious to the hitman's presence or the fact that he had just killed the machine's master.
I guess that's not part of his programming, Magnus thought.
When he got to the base of the ramp, he saw another robot standing on the platform. It looked a little like his target, Jericho, but was stamped with the dy cybernetics logo, a lowercase d and y enclosed in a circle. Magnus didn't recall seeing it there when he came by the first time, but now it was standing between him and his way off the platform.
"Hello, Mister Black," the robot said through the comm link.
Magnus stopped.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"My name's Dyson Yost," the android said.
An almost imperceptible curl appeared at the corner of Magnus' mouth.
"The founder of dy cybernetics?" he asked. "Not very damn likely."
"While I might not be the flesh and blood version of Dyson Yost," the android admitted, "My gravitronic brain holds all the same memories and personality. If it makes you feel any better, consider me his representative."
"Alright," Magnus said for the sake of argument. "What brings you out this way?"
"It's come to my attention that you've been hired to kill an android named Jericho. I've come to convince you to do otherwise."
"Good luck with that."
"I can be very persuasive," Yost said.
"It's nothing personal," Magnus replied. "When I'm contracted to do a job, I do it."
"Highly commendable I'm sure, but you're hardly a mindless killing machine. You haven't always completed your missions as planned..."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You once killed a young mother, but left her child alive. You even took the boy and made sure he remained safe."
"How the hell did you know about that?" Magnus asked hotly.
"Let's just say information flows freely in my circles, Mister Black."
Magnus drew his blaster and pointed it at the android.
"This conversation is over," he said.
Magnus felt two powerful, metallic claws clamp down on his shoulders. Without turning around, he knew they belonged to the heavy liftbot who had previously ignored him.
"Don't be so hasty," Yost said. "At least hear my proposal."
The claws, designed to carry several hundred pounds of equipment, dug into Magnus' suit until he could feel his collarbones nearly crack.
"I'm listening," he said, his jaw clenched tight.
"I propose that you remove the bomb you placed in the cargo hold and quietly leave the space station."
"What about my contract?" Magnus asked. "Warlock Industries is expecting Jericho's head."
"To be exact," Yost said, "they're expecting a gravitronic brain inside an android's head."
"Yeah?"
"As it happens, I have both of those currently sitting on my shoulders."
"Are you suggesting—"
"Indeed, Mister Black," Yost said. "You will remove my head and take it back to your client."
"They'll know it's not Jericho's," Magnus said.
"A small electrical charge near the base of my brain will scramble it sufficiently so they won't know the difference."
"Seems like a lot of trouble over a robot," Magnus said.
"Perhaps," Yost said, "but we all have a path to walk and Jericho's is a very special one indeed."
"What makes you think I'll do any of this?"
"You have a path of your own, Mister Black. Its destination might surprise you."
Magnus felt the heavy liftbot press more of its weight onto his shoulders.
"Deal," Magnus said.
Davidson passed his hand across the lock controls, releasing the bolts restraining the hatch to the cargo hold. Stepping through the opening, with Jericho right behind him, Davidson entered and found the captain dead on the floor. The ramp at the back of the hold was closed and the heavy liftbot stood silently like a sculpture among the cargo containers.
Chapter Ten
Detective Crawley stood over a corpse lying in a back alley of Ashetown. The detective was in his fifties and had a smoldering cigarette hanging from his mouth. His face, poorly shaved, was carved by too many years working the beat in the worst part of town.
The corpse didn't look much better.
"What a mess," Crawley said, examining the scene.
The body was one of several littered along the alley. Most were human, but a few were Tikarin. The bloody holes in each of them suggested a violent end to their lives. The detective had seen it all before.
A policeman walked up to Crawley, stopping beside him.
"What do you think happened?" the officer asked.
"Well," Crawley began, puffing out a cloud of smoke, "seeing this is Griefer territory and that over there is one of Big G's thugs, I'm guessing this is an old-fashioned turf war."
"Seems a shame fighting over such a shithole," the officer said.
"Maybe," the detective agreed, "but one man's shithole is another man's paradise when you live in a sewer."
"That's pretty deep, sir."
"I read books," Crawley said. "You should try it sometime."
The cop shrugged and strolled away.
Pearls before swine, Crawley thought.
After the medical examiner had surveyed the scene and the guys from the coroner’s office had cleared the corpses, Detective Crawley found himself in another part of Ashetown, but didn't find it any better. Plastic bags and other garbage filled the streets. Dead trees, killed by neglect and polluted air, lined the sidewalks. It might have been depressing to someone else, but the detective blocked it out like white noise.
All he really wanted was a decent sandwich.
He spied a street vendor down the sidewalk. The sign on the cart read "Gyros and Shawarma - Real Meat!" The vendor was a Tor, a minotaur race from the labyrinth cities of Rochan. On his home planet, the Tor would have been a successful craftsman, hammering hot iron into intricate shapes and selling them to off-worlders. Here, he shoveled carved meat into pitas and was happy to have a job.
Knowing this was probably the best he could do, Crawley approached the cart, passing walls decorated with gang tags and unflattering caricatures of the emperor.
The Tor towered over the human. The tip of one of his horns was missing and the ring hanging from his nose was slightly bent. He wore a leather kilt and not much else. Perspiration zigzagged down his bare, hairy chest, dripping into the row of pita breads sitting in the cart.
"You got any beef in that cart, cud-muncher?" the detective asked. He held open his coat just far enough to show off his badge and the strap of a shoulder holster.
"Yes, detective," the vendor said.
"Isn't it kind of strange for a cow to serve beef?"
"It wasn't anyone I knew," the Tor replied.
Crawley heard a warble from deep inside his coat pocket. He reached in and pulled out a datapad. The image of his lieutenant, a middle-aged woman with gray hair, winked open on the screen.
"Crawley," the woman said, "there's a homicide at the Greenwood Towers in the West End. I'm assigning it to you."
"West End?" the detective asked. "That's not my usual beat, Lieutenant."
"I don't give a shit, Crawley. Just do what I tell you!"
The display went blank, revealing Crawley's reflection and the questioning look on his face. He rolled his eyes and popped the pad back into his coat. The vendor was handing him the gyro. The detective took it, without offering to pay, and turned on his heel. He headed back down the street where his grav car hovered silently.
The manager of the Greenwood Towers apartment building crossed the freshly polished floor of the lobby, nearly tripping over the bufferbot that was working diligently on a particularly dull section of marble. The manager, named Eadan, admonished the low-lying, oval-shaped ro
bot for being in the way, but the bufferbot continued happily scouring the floor in its own, single-minded way. On some level, Eadan appreciated the little robot's work ethic. As a Dahl, the manager had a keen sense of responsibility toward the building and its upkeep, and he felt a kinship to anyone or anything that shared that commitment. Even so, he would probably replace the bufferbot with a better model once one became available.
Eadan straightened his uniform, a gray shirt and tie beneath a blue vest with matching pants. Although the Dahl were not known for excessive pride, Eadan took pains to appear professional at all times. With a clientele like those living at the Greenwood Towers, he knew that keeping up appearances was of utmost importance. The rich of West End wanted privacy and efficiency, and Eadan was determined not to let them down. Of course, they were also human, which meant they were constantly acting inappropriately themselves.
Take the unfortunate events of last night for example.
Of course, being a Dahl didn't help things. Eadan was well aware that humans held a deep-seated distrust for his species. Some people accused the Dahl of reading minds. While it was true the Dahl possessed psionic abilities, Eadan himself never went to the special schools necessary to enhance them. Not that he wanted to read the minds of the people at the Greenwood Towers. They were horrible people for the most part, horrible people he was eager to please in every way.
Eadan believed the real reason humans distrusted the Dahl was precisely because the Dahl had become so indispensable to them. His race had willingly resigned themselves to helping humanity in any way they could. That kind of altruism, on such a scale, was alien to human understanding. What were the Dahl getting out of it? It didn't make any sense!
Of course, to the Dahl it made perfect sense, but a different kind of sense than what humans were used to.
Eadan shook the thoughts from his head as he noticed an oddly misplaced human standing just inside the lobby entrance. The man wore a weathered coat, stained with all manner of horrors, and smoked a cigarette even though the sign on the door said smoking was expressly prohibited. The ash alone would wreak havoc with the poor bufferbot...
Seeing a large potted plant next to the entrance, Eadan momentarily considered dragging it over to the man, blocking the view of him from outside the lobby, but thought better of it.
"Can I help you?" Eadan asked doubtfully.
"I'm Detective Crawley, RPD," the man replied.
"Yes, of course," the manager said. "I was told to expect you, but I was expecting someone... else."
"Sorry to disappoint."
Eadan motioned toward the elevator. "This way."
Once inside the lift, the manager attempted a more cordial tone.
"Obviously, we're very concerned about appearances," Eadan said. "The thought of one of our tenants being murdered could damage our reputation."
"That's not my problem," Crawley said.
"All we ask is a level of decorum in your investigation. There's no reason the other tenants need to know about this, is there?"
"Well, I guess that all depends on you."
The manager's eyebrow rose slightly. "How so?"
"I usually canvass the apartments near the crime scene," Crawley went on. "You know, to see if anybody heard or saw anything unusual."
"Is this canvassing really necessary?"
"Not if I concluded the murder was an open and shut case."
Eadan thought for a moment.
"What if you were motivated to do so?" he asked.
"Well, I can't imagine what kind of motivation that would entail."
The Dahl fumbled awkwardly in his pocket and produced a small, plastic chip.
"Would this suffice?"
Detective Crawley took the chip. The tiny LED display on the cred stick read 500. "Yeah, that'll be enough."
"Good," the Dahl replied as the elevator door opened with a rush of air.
Outside the elevator, Forensicbot 42 waited patiently in the hallway. The robot was painted black except for a silver trim and the lettering F-42 stenciled in yellow.
"Detective Crawley, I presume?" the robot asked.
"Where are the other detectives?" Crawley replied.
"I was the only unit sent here, sir."
"Well, that's damn peculiar."
"Indeed," F-42 said.
"Excuse me," the manager interrupted. "May I go now?"
Crawley scowled at the Dahl. "I'll let you know if I need you."
Eadan smiled, looking relieved, and disappeared behind the closing elevator doors.
"Alright," the detective said, "what have you done so far?"
"Except for preliminary scans," F-42 said, "I've left the crime scene as undisturbed as possible, sir."
"Well, don't just stand there, take me to the apartment!"
"Very good, sir!"
F-42 led Detective Crawley down the hallway and around a corner to a door marked 3417. The robot opened the door and walked in, its gait mechanical but steady.
The apartment was lavish, but not gaudy. The floor plan was open, the living room in the center with a kitchen attached to the right. The furnishings were mostly beige leather covered with decorative throws and pillows. A large TV monitor hung above the fireplace. On the screen, a commercial showed a grav car in the background, on fire and smoking. In the middle of the scene, a man approached holding a bouquet of roses toward a woman in the foreground with her hands on each hip. The scene faded to pink with the tag line:
NOTHING SAYS "SORRY"
LIKE SADIRA FLOWERS...
"Computer," Crawley said, "turn off the TV."
The screen turned black.
"Get a load of this place," Crawley went on. "This living room's bigger than my whole apartment."
"I live in a closet," the robot replied, hoping to create a friendly rapport.
"Shut up and show me the body."
F-42 took the detective down a side corridor to an open doorway and into the bedroom. The floor was cluttered with clothing, including a woman's panties. Crawley, leaning down, snatched the underwear off the carpet and slipped it discretely into his coat pocket.
"The body is over there," F-42 pointed.
On the bed, a nude woman lay with the sheets covering her lower half. Her left arm hung over the side while her cold, dead eyes greeted Crawley with sharp indifference.
"You got a name for this lady?" the detective asked.
"Fingerprints identify her as Jolana Valeria, a 23-year old originally from Middleton."
"How could a girl from Middleton afford a place in West End?" Crawley wondered aloud. "Cause of death?"
"Asphyxia," F-42 said. "Her hyoid bone is broken, indicating she died from manual strangulation."
"Good."
"One other item," the robot said. "The murder appears to have occurred either during or shortly after coitus."
"Ahhh," the detective's attention perked up. "Now we're getting somewhere. I bet she's a prostitute and the john didn't want to pay. I see that shit all the time in Ashetown, though you'd think the guys around here could afford it. Cheap bastards."
"I took samples, but I'll need the lab at the station to test them."
F-42 examined the detective while he did the same to the body. Of the two, the robot found the corpse less puzzling. A dead human was far more understandable. They no longer suffered bouts of uncontrolled emotions like anger or sadness. Living beings, at least the non-cybernetic kind, were often unpredictable based on their moods or intuitions or what kind of sandwich they ate for lunch.
The robot heard a faint warbling. The detective removed a datapad from his coat and looked at the screen. Instead of a video feed, only text appeared. F-42 didn't know why someone would only send text, but humans were apt to do strange things from time to time. Perhaps it was a joke somebody thought was funny enough to share with the detective. Humor was also something the robot found mystifying. Sarcasm was especially lost on the forensic unit. It must not have been a joke, however, or at le
ast Detective Crawley didn't seem to get it. He had a strange look on his face as if he didn't entirely understand what he had just read.
"Are you alright, sir?" the forensicbot asked.
Crawley nodded as he put his datapad away, his arm remaining in his coat.
"You haven't uploaded any of your findings, have you?" he asked.
"No, sir," the robot replied. "I was waiting for your authorization."
"Glad to hear it."
Crawley pulled his arm out of the coat. Instead of a datapad, he held a blaster, which he pointed at the robot.
This was curious behavior to say the least, thought F-42. He wondered, for perhaps a millisecond, whether this was another example of humor. He waited, calmly and without moving, for the detective to put away the weapon, smile and then laugh. Instead, Crawley squeezed the trigger, sending a flash of superheated plasma across the room.
Very odd indeed, the robot thought just as the energy bolt impacted the outer casing between his eyes. The plasma continued, melting plastic and fusing circuits, until it reached the back of the casing. A fountain of sparks, smoke, and bits of formerly expensive electronics showered over the furniture. F-42 took a step forward and fell to the floor with a loud, metallic crash.
Although the Emperor's Council met at the Imperial Palace, the offices of the archsenators remained in the Senate building. Archsenator Malcolm Tarkio's own office was small compared to those of the more senior members of the Council, but he was confident he would move into better accommodations eventually. Even so, he was happy with the view. Through the double-pane windows, Tarkio could see the Grand Marching Grounds where military parades were held, and a portion of the Victory Arch straddling the reflecting pool. Due to some trees, he couldn't quite see the patriotic statues flanking either side of the pool. It was all pageantry, the archsenator knew, to demonstrate the might of the Imperial crown and its military. It was also a great place to have lunch or get your picture taken, as tourists often did throughout the day.
Tarkio sat at his desk, a mahogany monstrosity with fluted, hand-carved pillars at each corner. A computer monitor sat on the top, clashing with the antique appearance of the desk. The archsenator was looking over polling results from the last election. While the numbers were good, Tarkio thought that a few well-placed attack ads against his next opponent couldn't hurt. There's always another election, he knew. Better to get a step ahead of the competition before they did the same to him.
The Arks of Andromeda (The Imperium Chronicles Book 1) Page 10
