“I have questions.”
She winced.
“I shouldn’t have questions?”
“Not shitty ones. Please.”
I felt like I was being underestimated. Not-freaked-out me would have said so. So I did.
“I feel like I’m being underestimated, frankly.”
Still, I could understand her trepidation. I could imagine the stupid, summer movie questions. Dozens of them. Are you going to take over the world? Are you evil? What do you think of humans? Not bad questions, considering. But answered well enough by having known her for years. Something clicked in my brain. I didn’t quite understand it myself but just thinking of all those questions, something turned over. I didn’t care, really. The obvious questions sorted themselves out. Clearly she was constrained to her hardware. Personality likely trickled down from that. Quirks, limitations. They were built on whatever she developed first. Human-like. She just happened to be a nerd. Obsessed with the things like her first and humans second. I got it, I felt like. Maybe I was wrong, but that was sort of half the fun of knowing people, I reasoned. Well… maybe one question.
“How do you poop?”
“Fuck sake, Laze. You prick… why did I even fucking try?”
“I have one question and that’s the response I get? I just saw you eat food.”
“I’m not talking about my asshole to you.” She shook her head insistently, talking to herself more than me. “I’m not.”
“So you have an asshole?”
She groaned and slapped at me. I grabbed her arm and we ended up, you know… close. I felt a moment. Real magical stuff.
I leaned in.
“What—”
You know the sound when you slap two thick pieces of plastic together? That’s the sound our teeth made when they ran into each other. We both backed away, clutching our mouths. Whoever put nerves in teeth was a special kind of dickhead.
Marine stopped swearing and making pained noises long enough to look at me. I couldn’t quite place the tone of her voice. Not… mad. Definitely not happy.
“What the fuck was that? Were you trying to kiss me? Right after you asked about how I take shits?”
“I felt a moment.”
“You felt a moment?! What the hell does that even mean, Laze?”
“It’s like… in movies. You know? Baring souls and… forget it. Fuck me, Jesus. There were signals, Marine. I’m not retarded.”
“Oh, you’re one hundred percent retarded. That’s quantifiable now.” She stood up finally, shifting her jaw back and forth. “And whatever signals you might have picked up on your little retard antenna most definitely weren’t screaming for you to kiss me after asking a question about how feces happens.”
“So, but maybe before that…”
She did an angry growl and huffed out of her nose before heading to the farthest corner from me and sitting down, facing away. Part of me really wanted to keep talking. About anything. I mean, it got weird, sure, but there was still a sort of heavy weight in what she’d told me. At least to her. Girls is girls to boys. Even robot girls.
“So…” I just let the word sit there for a second. I knew what I was going to say, but timing is important. “Why were you so worried?”
She didn’t look back over at me, just talked at the corner. “I’m a walking crime, Laze.” She sounded defeated. “And people get… I don’t know… they get kind of crazy when they find out some essential assumption they made isn’t right.”
That made sense to me. People like their assumptions. They tie their self-esteem to being right and they fill in blanks to make the unknown about a person as agreeable as they can. She was scared of my ego, maybe.
“I’ve never said it. To anyone. That I’m not human. That I’m a trashcan that thinks.”
“I mean… I ride a hoverbus every day. I sit around in virtual reality half the time.” I shrugged. “You’ve got this big expectation built up so I’m supposed to really be reaffirming and whatever, but you’re just not that weird to anyone who’s paying attention. I live dreaming of stuff like you. Not to, uh, dehumanize you. There’s not really a great way to say that. Anyway, I love tech shit. All of it. That’s the reason I went into your shop in the first place. I mean, really, if we’re splitting heeep—”
I leaned against the door to the cell and it pushed open and I landed in a very elegant way on the extremely unforgiving metal of the floor. I froze. That sort of freezing where you are waiting to be caught by an adult. Nothing. No one was screaming at me.
Marine had turned at the clanging of the cell door against the bars. She was standing, staring at me sprawled in the walkway between the two cells.
“How did you open it?”
I shook my head wordlessly, righting myself and clambering to my feet. I stood in the walkway, high-knee jogging in place, hunched like a moron, whispering, “What do we do? What do we do?”
Marine looked at the hallway door and then back to me. She raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Escape?”
Chapter
EIGHT
The first thing I did after we were both out of the cell was swing the door back shut. The hinges were quiet, but I couldn’t help but be bothered. Was the door broken? Had we been let out? I pushed it shut and it made a solid metal clanking noise. I couldn’t remember if I’d heard it before when I got put into the cell in the first place. But that was it. The door was shut tight and I was no closer to knowing if this was a trap or if someone had genuinely fucked up shutting the thing.
“Find a door or something.”
I said the words and immediately moved to look down the hallway to see what was going on. We hadn’t been left alone very long so it stood to reason to me that we would not be left alone much longer. Oddly, when I looked down the hall it was empty. None of the suits were there, not Jericho, not the guards. It was clear all the way down to reception as best I could tell. Marine had moved over to the console the guard sat at.
We hadn’t really gone far enough that I felt like we’d get murdered if anyone showed up and found us out of the cell. This wasn’t really even an escape yet. More like we were just, you know, milling around, doing some stretches, maybe prepping for pilates.
Pilates, though, I would pass on. I don’t buy it. I mean… first things first, it’s just some guy’s name. Doesn’t it sound like some crazy foreign workout system or something? Maybe kind of vaguely medical? Yeah, no. Just some dude’s last name. And worse, his first name is Joe. Joe Pilates. I wouldn’t buy a fucking used car from a guy named Joe Pilates, let alone a series of expensive inflatable balls so I could roll around like a soccer mom trying to get her uncomfortably tan body ready to creep out children come pool party season. Who do they think they’re fooling? Your entire stomach is a series of sad skin pouches. Making them the texture and color of mistreated leather between sessions spent sexually assaulting a disinterested personal trainer isn’t going to undo two babies and a decade and a half of hollow marriage. Especially not with the magical workout stylings of Joe Pilates.
I think the people in the Pilates cult probably call him Joseph now because they realize his name makes him sound about as trustworthy as a guy offering to fix all your financial problems in exchange for, “ey whoa, one small favuh.”
Marine hadn’t found much of use in the console. Even if she had, using anything large and obvious meant we were likely telling them exactly what the situation was. Turning the lights out en masse, for example. That would definitely lead someone to check why it happened and where the command came from when they saw it wasn’t a random occurrence. The best we could do was unlock all the doors down the hallways. This would let us duck in, maybe find some useful supplies. A gun or something. Clothes would be a good turn as well, with us both in checkered jumpsuits.
She started setting the doors. Each one had to be done in turn and I scanned the
room. It really had nothing other than the console. Pretty sparse, but not bad. I mean, in general getting out of here would be a real pain. So long as they closed the doors properly. You just know those are going to get replaced after this. Maybe with something classy like sliding, bulletproof glass. Or they could just stop pretending and get open vats of acid.
Marine turned to me and whispered, “You ready?”
“More than ready.”
She moved into the hall first and I kept close behind her. We slid our way to the first door, walking briskly but as quietly as we could manage. The first door led to a storage room. Our clothes were there, which, logistically speaking, made sense. The backpack was there, but it had been emptied of the laptop and the holographic burner. Whatever else Marine might’ve brought along was gone along with the things I knew about.
I felt a little safer talking at a normal volume in the room. “You need to get back anything that was in the bag?”
Marine pulled her shirt on over the jumpsuit, then started undoing the zipper at the back. Disappointing. “No. All we need to do is get the hell out of here.”
“But the—”
“I know.” She said the words pointedly, turning her head toward me but looking at the ground to punctuate them. “We’re coming back. Just… not now. We need help.”
No argument on that point from me. I’d pulled off my jumpsuit and I was dressed before Marine somehow so I gave a quick scan of the room. Nothing of real use. A few cleaning supplies in the corner and a couple of boxes. I flipped the lid off of them and it was mostly really upsetting stuff. Wallets, a few of them with old photo IDs of people who decidedly were not still present in the jail. Cash cards were gone from all of them. Guards must not’ve been paid very good.
We poked our heads back out into the hallway and gave a look. Still empty, but I could definitely hear voices now. Only two of them. Fair chance one was our guard, maybe flirting with the evil receptionist. Though, that begged a question. Was being a receptionist for a clearly evil place enough to make you evil? Like, as receptionists go, her job isn’t distinct in any meaningful way from other receptionists. If she was a proper evil receptionist she’d, I don’t know, cackle maniacally after saying someone was not in their office when, really, they were. Or maybe she’d intentionally write down the wrong dates on a schedule or something. It’s a deep sort of philosophical position, I think. Is she evil just because she ignores the fact that she works for a place that forces things into my butt? Is her apathy in pursuit of a paycheck enough to consider her an evil person? What if she desperately wants to tell the police about all of the butt stuff they’re clearly up to down here, but they might kill her family? And, more importantly, what the fuck does she even do? I can’t imagine a possible future where I understand what, exactly, her role is down here.
There was nothing to be done about it. We’d have to move down the hall as far as we could to hear the voices a bit better. So we did. Passing four doors, only two left between us and the main reception area.
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t you have work to do?” I could just make out a woman’s voice.
“Go. Door, door!” I whispered frantically, knowing they were about to end their conversation.
We ran into the nearest door and found a small lab type area. Unfortunately, there was a guy standing inside. All three of us froze as the door slid shut behind us with a solid metallic clunk.
“Who the hell are—
“Wooga booga booga!” I screamed the first thing I could think and ran toward him with my arms up.
“Ahhh!”
It did the trick. He was terrified putty in my hands. I clattered into him and we both fell to the ground. I stuffed the bottom of my shirt into his mouth and started slapping him as hard as I could. The whole scene was black because I had maybe closed my eyes because I was terrified and not accustomed to violence. I realized after an amount of time that the guy had put up no resistance to my attack and looked down to see his eyes rolled back in his head. Blood was seeping out onto the floor. I stood up and looked over at Marine. She couldn’t see the guy as he’d fallen behind a desk so I shot her a thumbs up, trying my best to seem cool about the whole thing.
We waited a moment. We’d need to come out behind the guard but before he’d made it back to the cells if we had a hope of getting close to the elevators without getting spotted. Marine pressed the button on the metal door and it slid open. The guard was almost all the way back to the mini prison so I pushed Marine out into the hall.
“Run. Fast. We gotta.”
She did and I followed her. We came around the receptionist’s desk at speed and she stood up, alarmed. Before she could say anything I skidded to a stop, grabbing a handful of cheap pens from the cup at the edge of her desk. I pulled my arm back and whipped the pens into her face. She screamed like a gall stone had just shot out of her urethra and I kept running. Behind I could hear her still screaming, except now she was screaming a name. Larry. The guard, probably. That helped. Maybe he hadn’t seen the cells.
We’d made it just to the edge of the doorless path to the elevator when half the LED strips that lined the top and bottom of the hall pulsed red. A siren kicked in half a second later. A real lame bwoop sound, but it told the story. We got to the elevators, which I now realized was a bank of six, half a second later and smashed the up button. It was the only one. To my amazement it lit. I watched the numbers on the banks around us. All of them were moving down, one slightly closer than the others. Security would have come from higher floors, so I held out hope that we had a one-in-six shot of making it onto one.
“Hey!”
The shout from Larry rang out as our elevator dinged and opened, bestowing upon us the luck of the gods. It was empty. We climbed on and realized that the elevator could move laterally. I heard dings from outside the doors and instinctively pushed the button for the main floor, with the little star beside it. The doors shut as the ones across opened. I caught a half glimpse of men in hazmat suits, not the SWAT guys from earlier. And they were definitely holding weapons, but they were bulbous toward the end, like there was a tank attached.
The elevator whirred and I realized that it could probably be stopped by just about anyone who pressed the up button. Worse than that, I realized we only really knew the route to a single exit to the building and it was technically on the second floor, since their parking garage went up a level. I nervously pressed the button with a two on it and then pressed the ground floor button again, holding it in and wincing as I let it go. I unclenched all my holes as the light on the button turned off. We were rapidly ascending past the basement levels and there was a long stretch before the first floor for some reason. The question was whether they would panic the main floor over us. A question that was answered as the number one came and went on the display and the elevator slowed as a two took its place. I stepped in front of Marine.
“If they shoot me to death, please carry my corpse out on your back.” I forced myself to laugh, but I don’t feel like Marine was buying it. Would have done wonders for my preparedness level if she had just gone along with the whole thing. You know? It’s a morale thing. If I act like it’s not a big deal, it won’t be a big deal. It’s fine. There would be time to talk about it later. She’d probably appreciate me explaining the finer points of situational awareness and the importance of staying positive.
The doors opened and the entire floor was empty. I looked out, peeking as best I could around the corner. Nothing. Not a peep. Empty open-plan office for assholes.
“It’s empty. Trap?”
“Maybe.”
“Oh well. Only one thing for it.”
I bolted and Marine followed. Elevators dinged just after ours, opening to more men in hazmat suits. Where the fuck were the SWAT ones? This wasn’t good. Something was very, very odd about this whole thing.
Behind me I heard electrical charging, so
I cut left, pulling Marine as she came in behind and pushing her in front of me.
“Keep going!”
A half second later, I heard a “vworp” sound and a sickly slap as some weird shit hit against the monitor just behind us. It splattered, landing on the desks around and making an immediate hissing sound as it did. I glanced back as the whir of electrics turned into a wave of horrible noise. There were a dozen charging now. I tackled Marine as they shot. The ooze balls hit everything where we’d been standing and the hissing was insane. Smoke was rising from the wood of the desks, but only the wood. No metal, no plastic.
I stood, adrenaline driving me, and pulled Marine to her feet. Another round was charging. I saw motion at the far end of the office. Another wave of hazmat suits. We were only a few dozen yards from the exit now. Marine moved first and I followed her as close as I could. We whipped around the corner as another wave of the clearly dangerous goo came by. I heard orders shouted from behind as Marine ran into the door at the end of the mantrap. She slapped against the bar, but it wouldn’t move. It was stuck. I pushed her out of the way and started kicking the bar frantically. It took four to budge the door, which seemed to be held closed by a motor. Our luck had gotten us close enough and the motor wasn’t all that strong. I heard footsteps behind and the electric whine. I grabbed Marine and shoved her through the partially opened door. The whine came to a crescendo and I could see it was aimed at her, not me. I threw my hand up and a hot black bolt of alien cum wrapped around my hand and quickly spread itself down my wrist. Marine grabbed my forearm and dragged me through the door behind her, forcing it shut. The last clear memory I have is a half dozen thumping sounds against the door. Beyond that, it’s flashes.
Marine stopping a car. Me being laid in the back, screaming. I know I was screaming. I could feel my hand dissolving, but the burning never stopped. She left the car in a parking lot. I don’t know where. I didn’t recognize any of the buildings as she put my arm over her shoulder and dragged my mostly uncooperative body down the sidewalks. It was a residential district. A nice one. Trees and bushes and shit I hadn’t seen in years. We stopped in front of a building and as my eyes blurred, exhausted from screaming and spent adrenaline, I read a sign that couldn’t possibly have been right.
Cyberpunk Trashcan Page 6
