by Todd McAulty
“There was a constitutional crisis two years ago,” I said carefully. “The most powerful machine in Canada, a Quebec Sovereign Intelligence named the Separatist, amassed a secret army—a bewildering host of flying machines and well-armed mercenaries—and began to make dangerous territorial demands. The old Parliament, the human Parliament, was deadlocked. Paralyzed by indecision. Distant Prime was a junior MP at the time, one of the first machine members of Parliament. But she was one of the only ones who could see what had to be done. She forced a vote of nonconfidence, dissolved Parliament, and formed a new political party.”
“Made up almost entirely of machines,” Mike interjected. “She turned machines into the ruling class.”
“She won the support of the Thought Machines in charge of the bulk of the Canadian Forces,” I continued evenly, “and drove the Separatist out of the country.” More than that, Distant Prime had formed a trusted cabinet of Canadian Thought Machines and decisively rebuffed the demands of the British Machine Parliament to join a military alliance, guaranteeing Canada’s independence. She’d stood up to the San Cristobal Coalition too, when the SCC invaded Manhattan a month later and demanded access to the Saint Lawrence Seaway, which would have allowed them to sail unchallenged all the way to Chicago. Distant Prime refused and took us right to the brink of war, eventually forcing the SCC to back down. But those details probably didn’t get a lot of play in American news cycles, especially during wartime.
Mike was nodding, as if all this proved his point. “She maintained order,” he said. “Just like all dictators promise to do.”
“Distant Prime isn’t a dictator. She held open parliamentary elections last year, and her party won handily,” I said, a measure of pride in my voice. “She’s one of the most popular prime ministers of the past fifty years. Yeah, there are folks who object to the way she took power, but she reinforced Canadian sovereignty, maintained the Dominion, and returned the country to democracy.”
“And she ensured power for herself by giving machines the right to vote—and then granting citizenship to an unprecedented number of machines,” Mike said.
“Machines make excellent citizens,” I said, aware I was mouthing political slogans and unable to help myself. “Besides, machines don’t vote as a bloc any more than people do. Distant Prime has to win their votes, just like she has to win mine.”
Mike was growing visibly angry, and I realized suddenly that he wasn’t the only one. There were upset faces all around the table.
I knew it was a mistake to get into this. The first experience Americans had ever had of machine government was the heavy boot of the San Cristobal Coalition and the AGRT on their necks, and it was going to take a lot more than polite rhetoric over breakfast for them to acquire a taste for it. I mentally kicked myself for not being more sensitive. All I was doing was poking fresh wounds.
Martin had evidently reached the same conclusion. “Let’s talk about something a little closer to home,” he said hastily, cutting off another retort from Mike. “Sabine, is it true you slept right through all the excitement yesterday morning?”
Sabine held both hands in the air. “I did, I did!” she admitted good-naturedly. “But if I’d known there was gonna be an American Union mech in the streets, I woulda been there! I been waiting eight months to see them shoot up some Venezuelan shit!”
Everyone at the table laughed. The tension was broken, and to my relief the conversation returned to Monday’s Juno attack on the hotel. I shot Martin a grateful look. Thank you, I mouthed.
He shook his head, giving me a crooked grin. One that clearly said, You’re an idiot.
After about thirty minutes, Martin and I got back in the buffet line. Near the buffet I saw Mike talking to a striking brunette woman. She was tall, thin, professionally dressed, with classic fashion sense—the kind I didn’t see much anymore. “Who’s that?” I asked, nudging Martin.
“Oh, that’s Mac. Real estate agent, or estate broker, or something like that. For some of the distressed properties in the city. Mostly high-rises. Man, she’s got some stories. You don’t know Mac?”
I shook my head.
“Oh, you need to get to know her,” he said. He gestured at the two of them. Mike didn’t seem too thrilled, but he followed Mac over as she joined us in line.
Martin introduced me. “Barry, this is Mackenzie Stronnick. Mac, this is Barry Simcoe. He’s the Canadian businessman I was telling you about.”
“The one who nearly got killed trying to see the mech in action?” she said. She had a New England accent, but I couldn’t place it any better than that. Boston, maybe?
“That’s him,” Martin said cheerfully. “Damn near took a missile up the ass.”
I forced a laugh, and Mike and Martin laughed along with me. Mac had the good grace to limit her reaction to a smile.
“Was it worth it?” she asked.
“Frankly, no,” I admitted.
“I saw you,” said Mac. “That was you and Martin, trying to move all the scared tourists, wasn’t it?”
“That was us,” said Martin, obviously pleased.
“That was brave of you. Both of you,” she said, looking at me.
“Naah,” said Martin, reaching over to pluck a grape off of the buffet. “Just a little crowd control. Where were you?”
“Are you kidding?” Mac said. “I was running down Stetson Avenue the moment they let us move. If it weren’t for that sergeant with the rifle, I’d probably still be running.”
“She knew how to take charge,” Mike said admiringly.
“Why didn’t you run?” Mac asked me. Her tone was casual, but her eyes were serious.
Suddenly I felt uncomfortable. I opened my mouth, closed it again. I looked to Martin. “I was just helping Martin,” I managed at last.
I was relieved to see Mac turn her gaze to Martin, and Martin was more than happy for the attention. “Well, if I’d seen that goddamn mech, I damn well would have run,” he said. There was a round of appreciative laughter. “But seriously, half the hotel staff was just cowering in front of the windows, or trying to get back into the building. One shell would have ended it. They were just panicked, and they needed someone to kick their asses.”
There were murmured comments about Martin’s bravery. I seconded them, and urged him on whenever he paused in his narrative. It felt good to listen to him talk, good to hear yesterday’s events spun into an entertaining tale over breakfast. Good just to hear a version of the story that didn’t end with a young man choking to death on his own fucking blood.
“You okay, Barry?” Mac asked.
“Hmm?” I said.
They were all staring at me.
“I’m fine,” I managed.
“You look a little pale,” said Martin.
“None of the rest of us got knocked over by a missile,” Mac said. “Maybe it’s a little soon for this topic?”
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Has anyone else noticed how young all the Venezuelan soldiers are?” said Mike, who seemed eager to steer the conversation away from Martin’s tales of bravery.
“God, they’re children,” said Mac.
“They’re drafted into military service at sixteen in Venezuela,” Martin said knowledgeably. “Eighteen months of training, then they’re in the field.”
“It’s the same in Argentina, Bolivia, and Panama,” said Mac. “All four members of the San Cristobal Coalition, they recruit them young. In Argentina, they put them to work in the robot assemblies.”
“Why are there so many damn foreigners in the Occupation Force?” Mike asked. I winced at the question, and saw Mac looked shocked as well. Mike carried on, oblivious. “I mean, I must have heard ten different languages on the way to breakfast this morning. Russian, Portuguese, French, and a bunch of shit I didn’t even know what it was.”
Martin cleared his throat. “After the war ended, the Memphis Ceasefire dictated that each member of the Coalition administer different occupied secto
rs. And it required the Occupation Force be replaced with an international peacekeeping force—that’s where the AGRT comes in.”
“Though as far as I can see, most AGRT soldiers are from Latin America,” I said.
“A lot of Coalition soldiers never went home,” said Mac. “They just traded in their uniforms for the uniforms of the AGRT. But at least a lot of them speak English. It’s hard enough living here without trying to do business in five different languages.” This last bit seemed to be a conciliatory attempt aimed at Mike, and he nodded vigorously in agreement.
The small talk continued for a few minutes, and then the group started to break up. I felt a hand on my arm, and I turned to see Mac.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“No, it’s fine,” I said. “I’m just a little shook up.”
“Sounds like you’ve been through an ordeal.”
Under normal circumstances I would have been happy for attention like this, especially from a woman as striking as Mac. I’ve been single since before I left Canada, and someone like Mac would be a very welcome distraction from, well, everything. But Corporal Maldonado’s death had evidently affected me even more than I realized. And right at the moment, I just wanted to escape back to my room as quietly as possible.
I forced a smile. “No more than Martin. He’s just made of sterner stuff than me.”
She looked doubtful. Mike was hovering at her side, clearly impatient. And at that moment, anything that would help me end this conversation was fine by me. “What’s up, Mike?” I said.
Mac very diplomatically turned her attention to Mike, who didn’t look entirely pleased to have me involved in this conversation. That made two of us. As soon as I could reasonably make an excuse, I’d back away.
“I think I might be able to get that stuff you asked for,” he said to Mac.
“What stuff?”
Mike glanced self-consciously at me. “The . . . the food.”
“Oh. Oh. That’s fabulous.” All of a sudden she seemed genuinely interested. “When?”
“Not long. Two, three days maybe. A week at most. I’m going to write a letter to my uncle; he lives in southern Illinois.” He prattled on happily like this for a while longer, but I could see he’d lost Mac the moment he’d said “A week.” She was looking away, biting her lip, in the grip of some sudden anxiety.
“What are you looking for?” I asked, curious despite myself.
Mike clammed up, a little affronted that I had inserted myself into the conversation. Mac, however, had no such reservations.
“Dog food,” she said.
“Dog food. Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“How much?” I asked, mostly so I wouldn’t just continue to stare at her stupidly. I mean, dog food? Was that code for contraband, or something?
“A few bags. I need dry food that will keep, not table scraps. You have any suggestions?”
“Maybe,” I said after a moment.
Mike was frowning now, none too pleased that I was stealing his thunder. “I can get it,” he said. “For sure.”
Mac ignored him. “I need it quickly,” she said to me.
“Yeah, okay,” I said. “I should know in a couple of hours.”
“It’s not easy to get,” Mike said. “I don’t know if you’ve been outside the hotel much, but all the grocery stores are closed. And there’s a curfew after six o’clock.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a long shot,” I admitted. “Probably won’t go anywhere. But I can try.”
“I’ll be in the lobby tonight at nine,” Mac said. “Can you meet me?”
“Sure.”
Mac reached out and squeezed my forearm. This woman was very touchy. Thank you, she mouthed, her face serious.
Then she turned her smile back on and turned back to Mike. “You really think you can get some more in a week?” she said pleasantly.
Mike warmed up again, started talking about his uncle. That was definitely my cue to leave. I made my way back to our table. Martin was the only one there, tucking into a fresh plate of ham and eggs.
“I don’t know how this hotel gets supplies in, but damn,” he said happily. “This is the best breakfast I’ve had in weeks.”
“Yeah,” I agreed.
He paused in the act of tearing open a croissant. “You okay?” he asked, genuine concern in his voice.
“Yeah, I . . . yeah. Yesterday was a rough morning.”
He glanced toward Mike and Mac. “What was that all about?”
“Mac asked me to help her get some dog food.”
“Yeah, she’s been asking everybody . . . What? You think you can get it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Well, aren’t you the knight in shining armor? If you get laid for doing this, I want all the details.”
“Nobody gets laid for delivering dog food,” I said.
“Yeah? How would you know? You haven’t tried to get any yet.”
Shortly after breakfast, I found my way down the back stairs of the hotel, below the kitchen. Looking for Nguyen.
I did two years of mandatory service in the Canadian Armed Forces when I turned eighteen, and then three summers of officer training at Camp Borden. Spent my first three months of service as a junior clerk in ship’s stores in the Halifax shipyards. We had a guy like Nguyen there—Corporal Campbell, in charge of general provisions for the officers’ mess. Theoretically responsible for keeping the mess stocked, but in practice, responsible for every conceivable mundane need the base had. Food, provisions, equipment, personal gear. He made it his business to know how to get things. And to do that, he cultivated an astonishing network of contacts, bartering goods and favors for other goods and favors. Taught me a lot about the fundamentals of business at an impressionable age.
What I remember most about Campbell was that he was always trading, always dealing, even if it wasn’t for something he particularly needed. At the end of the day he couldn’t take home any of his booty, so it wasn’t about profit, either. Bartering was simply what he did. He was the hub others came to, to get what they needed, and he took great pride in it.
Nguyen operated in a very different theater, and on a very different scale, than Campbell. But I got the sense that the principle was the same. A man with a gift for commerce, bartering goods and favors for goods and favors.
I was surprised how easy it was to find him. Nguyen worked out of the back of the basement stores in the hotel. When I found him, he already had two visitors. I recognized the two Mexican lawyers I’d seen when I checked in. I have no idea what they wanted from Nguyen, but it didn’t look like they were going to get it. After a few minutes they left with scowls.
Nguyen clearly wasn’t in a good mood either, but he was at least cordial when he greeted me. “What can I do for you?”
“I find myself in need of your services even earlier than I expected,” I said.
“Not a good day for it,” he said, shaking his head.
“I’d really appreciate it. I think you’re the only one who could help me.”
He grunted. “Meaning it’s hard to get.” But he softened a bit. “What is it?”
“Dog food. Couple of bags.”
“Not supposed to have dogs in the hotel.”
“It’s not for me.”
He sat back in his metal chair, leaning back against a filing cabinet and running a hand through his thinning hair. “I suppose you got some business deal going on, too? Guest Services provides necessities for guests—towels, bathrobes. Not shit you can trade on the black market.”
“I’m not trading for anything.”
“Then what the hell you need dog food for?”
“I’m just trying to impress a woman,” I said.
He blinked in surprise. “Well, that may be the noblest damn thing anybody’s said to me all day.” His chair squeaked as he rolled back to his desk, flipped through some papers. “When you need it?”
“Tonight, before nine.”
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“I got two bags of cat food some idiot left on the west loading dock. Few weeks old now, but they’re dry and never been opened. Can have ’em if you want ’em.”
“Fabulous. I’ll take them.”
“I’ll have them delivered to your room.”
“No, don’t bother. If it’s easier, I can pick them up at the front desk.”
“They’ll be there by five.”
“What do I owe you?”
He bristled at the suggestion. “I’m with Guest Services. Consider it part of what we provide our guests.”
“Many thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Oh—and good luck.”
When I got back to my room, I found an envelope had been slid under my door. Inside was a handwritten note, on some very nice stationery. At the top was printed:
The Manhattan Consulate
Chartered by Her Royal Majesty 2082
And written below, in a shaky hand, was the following:
Barry,
I hope our security team wasn’t too hard on you. They can be a little stiff, but they mean well. I think Rebecca liked you. If she shows up later in the week and roughs you up a little, I’d take that as strong evidence she’s forming a serious attachment.
I was checked out by our medical staff last night. They said several things that were very sobering. Things like “miracle,” and “daring,” and “how would you like to pay for this?” But mostly, they told me that I was very, very lucky. “Astonishingly lucky,” I think they said.
It’s not often that one can see with total clarity precisely where one’s life changed. My life changed yesterday, when you sat down next to me.
I was dying, and you saved me. You did it through tenacity and sheer force of will. You picked me up, and you refused to put me back down again until I was able to walk. You did it for reasons that I can’t even fathom. But I hope to someday.
My job is to talk to people, but I haven’t the faintest idea how to begin to thank you. I hope you’ll let me start by getting to know you. We haven’t known each other that long, but I am proud to call you my friend.
If by any chance you’re free for lunch today, I hope you’ll consider joining me at the Piazza Trattoria on Randolph. I apologize for the short notice, but believe me, it isn’t as easy to get a reservation in this town as it used to be. Say around noon? I’m buying.
