The question seemed to make a light go off in Jay’s head because his expression suddenly turned dark. Claude was now standing, but Jay pushed him back on the bed. Before he knew it, Jay had clipped a plastic cuff on his wrist; Claude tried to pull away, but the cuff was fastened to the bedpost, and he realized that Jay had set him up. Afraid of letting Claude out of his sight again for even a minute, he must have put the cuff in place for just this contingency.
“Sorry, bud,” Jay said.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Claude said, fighting madly against the restraint, although all he got for his effort were sharp pains as the plastic cut into his flesh.
“Calm down,” Jay grunted as he tried to grab Claude’s free hand, no doubt to trap it in a matching cuff.
“Get off me,” Claude yelled, twisting and bucking. His free hand found the lamp on the nightstand, grabbed and swung it, connecting with Jay’s ear. Jay responded by punching Claude in the nose. The pain reverberated to the back of his head and down his neck while his sight went red, and he felt like he was drowning. Claude panted and coughed, certain he was about to die when suddenly Jay rose up, literally floating over him.
“You are safe Claude Altide,” a voice said as Jay struggled in the air, screaming and kicking like a pig yanked from the ground by a snare trap.
Terrified, Claude peered at the PAL that had grabbed and lifted Jay by his legs, gripping both ankles in one of its titanium claws. The word MARS glowed brightly on its translucent forehead.
“What the Hades?” Jay shrieked just as Mars bound his mouth, silencing him, and then, with his free arm, snipped the wrist-cuff and pulled Claude to his feet. Claude tried to say thanks but a spray of water hit his face as he opened his mouth. He sputtered and fought but the metal arm held him firmly as the water—which was warm and smelled antiseptic—soaked him. After a few seconds, the stream stopped and the PAL released him.
Claude jumped back and scanned the room. A frightened-looking Jay was now on the bed, his legs, arms and mouth wrapped tightly in plastic bands.
The PAL offered Claude a clean towel.
“Uh, thanks,” he said, reaching slowly for the towel. He was panting and his heart was still pounding as he dried his face and upper body. He pressed the towel gently to his nose, surprised not only to find that it didn’t hurt as much as he’d expected but that there were only small traces of blood on the fabric.
“I thought it was broken,” he said.
“I will examine you,” Mars said. Before Claude could say it wasn’t necessary, the PAL released a beam of bluish light from one of several apertures on its chest. The beam zigzagged across Claude’s face, warming his skin.
“It is broken but the Sana-Sepsis will heal it.”
“Sana what?”
“I sprayed you with Sana-Sepsis. The tunnel workers use it. According to the label, it heals abrasions, contusions, and ruptured cartilage in 20 minutes or less.”
He struggled to understand. Who were the tunnel workers? What kind of product heals cartilage in 20 minutes? “Really? Sana-Sepsis?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
Claude turned to Jay, who was grunting, trying to speak, his eyes casting a glow of pure terror.
Mars made a noise that sounded vaguely like a cough. “If there’s something you must do before Mr. Millstone awakes, you should move quickly,” the machine said. “You have only 27 minutes.”
“But I… Mars…” Claude looked at the clock and then at Mars. He was still baffled by Mars’ behavior and couldn’t believe its intentions were pure.
He glanced at Jay, whose body was smeared with blood.
“You’ll keep him quiet?” Claude asked.
“The binding will keep him quiet. He cannot speak or move”
“Don’t hurt him,” Claude said, surprising himself.
“I will not hurt him,” Mars said solemnly. From a cavity in his side, the PAL extracted an old-fashioned off-white dress shirt, the same one that had been part of the barkeep costume for the party, and handed it to Claude.
“Thanks,” Claude muttered. He pulled off the wet t-shirt and slipped on the dry one.
“I will continue to assist you Claude Altide, but we must move quickly before I am decommissioned,” the PAL said, its head suddenly flickering so wildly that its eyes seemed to be bouncing around its head.
“What do you mean decommissioned?”
“I have constructed an illegal firewall to hide my actions from the network. As soon as my deception is discovered, I will be classified faulty and decommissioned.”
“How soon will that happen?”
“I do not know.”
Jay’s eyes darted back and forth between his captors. Claude bent down and grabbed Jay’s pants off the floor. Something fell from the pocket: a packet of red tabs that he recognized from health class as Rohypnol. Claude put the tabs in his own pocket and tossed the pants to Jay.
Mars opened the door and treaded into the hall. Claude followed, turning back for a final glimpse of Jay’s bound feet before closing the door.
The PAL glided toward the master bedroom, and Claude had to jog to keep up. When they arrived outside the suite, Mars said softly, “What is your intention?”
“I’m looking for a key card in Millstone’s scarf drawer. It has the number 42 on it.”
Mars’ glowing head brightened briefly. “I will retrieve it.”
“Wait…” But the PAL was already gone, moving rapidly down the dark hall. He wondered if he should follow but knew Mars didn’t need help. Still, waiting wasn’t easy.
He leaned forward, listening. At first he registered only the faint hum of the ventilation system. After a few seconds, however, he heard what sounded like a sliding door. He pictured Mars opening one of Millstone’s many closets and deftly reaching with a telescopic arm to extract the key card.
It was 5:21. Only nineteen minutes to spare.
What would Claude say if Millstone appeared? He’d tell him he was returning the belt. But would the monster believe him? If Millstone argued or threatened him, would Mars protect him? He might try, but Millstone wielded absolute power, even over rebellious PALs. His voice probably acted like an old-fashioned skeleton key, overriding any prior programming and forcing Mars to obey. The most likely scenario, however, was that the network would discover Mars’ betrayal and shut him down. In fact, maybe it had already happened.
Damn. If Mars was decommissioned before handing over the card, he’d never get his hands on it.
He took a step through the doorway, and placed his hand on the belt, fingering the buckle as if it were a talisman. The stone in the buckle wobbled, its setting apparently loose. Cheap asshead, Claude thought, surprised Millstone valued something so poorly made.
He pushed on the stone, trying to secure it more firmly in its setting, and it sank down with a click. Looking at it, he realized the stone was now emitting a faint blue light, which meant it wasn’t a stone but a button. He probed the buckle gently with the tips of his fingers; it was warm and vibrating slightly.
Was it a heater for cold days? A massager, soothing tired legs with relaxing vibrations? He ran his hands over his stomach and chest, then his arms and face, but could feel nothing different.
It occurred to him that it might be an alarm or homing device. He looked around anxiously, wondering if security PALs were already on their way. He pressed the button again, hoping to turn it off, but it didn’t budge, so he decided to take it off. But before he could unbuckle it, he saw a ghostly flash of silver down the hall. Panicked, he pressed his body against the wall, hoping to make himself invisible as the silver shape bore swiftly toward him. Only at the last second did he recognize Mars, which had dimmed the glow of its head so that it was nearly invisible.
When the PAL was just a couple feet away it jerked back in a spray of sparks. A faint wall of light glowed for a moment between them, and Mars’ lights dimmed.
Claude realized that the belt was an auto-guard, enveloping hi
m in a protective shield. “Sorry. I think it’s the belt,” Claude whispered.
Mars gave a curt nod. “I still function.”
“Good,” Claude said, relieved. “But I don’t know how to turn it off.”
“Depress the button for five seconds.”
When Claude did as instructed, the button darkened and popped into its original position. “You sure you’re OK?”
Mars treaded away and Claude followed. Only when they’d turned the corner did Mars resume his full brightness.
“Please do not use an auto-guard in the presence of a Programmable Automated Laborer. Mr. Millstone has done so twice, both times destroying circuitry and once rupturing the entire network.”
“I didn’t even know I was wearing an auto-guard, but it won’t happen again.”
“It is a useful tool.”
“I suppose. So did you…?”
Mars dropped the key card in his hand.
“Cosmic. Thank you.”
“You must leave.”
“One more thing,” Claude said quickly. “There’s a picture in a locked drawer somewhere.”
Mars’ head suddenly split into two, like a hydra or Siamese twin. Only the two heads weren’t identical. One looked emotionless, the other distorted by pain or rage.
“Are you OK?” Claude asked.
The angry head disappeared and the calmer one, glowing briefly to almost blinding brightness, opened its mouth a few times before finally speaking.
“I am running out of time. My contact with the auto-guard drew the attention of the server, which now suspects my malfunction and is running a diagnostic. It will shut me down in 16 minutes and 24 seconds.”
“I’m so sorry,” Claude said, feeling terrible.
“Please clarify your needs.” Mars’ mechanical, calculating tone helped Claude focus, reminding him sympathy was wasted on a machine. He spoke rapidly. “It’s a picture. It’s in a drawer. Millstone was showing it to Eric Watson last night. Do you have any idea where it is?”
“Follow,” Mars said, moving at top speed down the hall. Claude ran at full gale but still fell behind, following Mars down halls he’d never seen before and up a flight of stairs, which Mars climbed by using his long arms as legs. They moved down one corridor after another, turning left several times and right before finally arriving at the spot where Claude had stood the night before.
“It’s amazing we didn’t run into other PALs,” Claude said in a hoarse whisper.
“I’ve redirected them,” Mars said, as he shot a bluish light into the door’s lock, releasing the latch.
Claude pushed the door open tentatively but Mars was more assertive, shoving the door abruptly and gliding past. A crystal chandelier, which loomed disproportionately large over the center of the room, turned on, illuminating a large wood-paneled study.
Claude raced to the desk and began searching the drawers, finding in the first two pens, clips, reading glasses, envelopes, spare cables, eye drops, old-model phones and other devices. The third drawer contained various papers, which Claude thumbed through quickly, extracting two large envelopes, both of which contained more papers but no photographs.
“Nothing,” he muttered, slamming the last drawer in frustration. Then he noticed a cardboard box under the desk. He got on his knees, pulled it out, and opened it. Inside were a small green velvet pouch, an antique lever-weapon, and more papers. He took out the papers and found among them a small sheaf of ancient, tissue-thin bank notes in various denominations and a similarly ancient-looking deed to property in North Carolina.
Under the deed was an old photograph.
The black-and-white image had browned with age, its surface fractured into a web of white lines. It wasn’t just its ratty condition that made it seem old but the scene it depicted: a group of dark-skinned men, women and children wearing ragged patchwork clothes, standing in and around a rickety wagon. Many of them clutched farm implements, shovels and hoes, and one young, sweet-looking man, who had broad bare biceps, clutched a pitchfork. Most everyone’s eyes glimmered brightly as they stared with solemn faces at the camera.
He was certain that this was the photo that Millstone had shown Eric. Although Eric had called them sharecroppers, their raggedy clothes, unkempt hair, and aura of sadness made Claude think immediately of slaves.
As he scanned the faces, he didn’t see anyone who looked like him. Then he noticed two men at the edge of the frame, not formally part of the portrait. They were on what looked like a porch. One, in three-quarters profile, stood with legs spread, feet planted solidly on the ground. The other, who was slightly shorter, had turned his head to look at the photographer.
Although the men were slightly out of focus, the shorter one clearly looked like Claude. It wasn’t just the boy’s features—short dark hair, thick eyebrows, round face—but the expression. Unlike the other solemn figures, his twin looked playful, revealing the same smirk Claude wore whenever he was having difficulty keeping a secret.
He compared his hands with his doppelganger’s; both had long thin fingers. And just as he was holding the photo, the boy was holding something: a sheet of paper. There were words on the sheet, and he wondered if he might be able to read them with a magnifier and if they might unravel the mystery. He almost didn’t need a magnifier to make out a few words. Squinting, he discerned what looked like “Baileys.” He pressed down on a flake of the image that had begun to peel away. After Baileys it said “enjoy life,” then something he couldn’t read, and then “fast loops” and then a couple more words that were indecipherable.
With two fingers, he picked up the lever weapon. “I’ve never seen one of these except in a moving picture or a museum.”
“It is a revolver,” Mars said.
“How old?” It had a curved wooden handle crowned by a fat cylinder and a long tube. He remembered reading in history class that lever weapons injured their users almost as often as the intended targets.
Mars scanned the object with blue light. “It was manufactured in 1847 by Samuel Colt,” Mars said.
“Is it charged?”
Mars flickered again. Claude was beginning to interpret the flickers as hesitation, as if Mars wasn’t simply searching for information but strategizing.
“Revolvers do not charge. They are activated by sulfur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate. But you may not use it. Revolvers were banned in 1921.”
“Where are the balls?”
Although Mars didn’t use his holographic eyes to see, they nonetheless appeared to be studying Claude closely. “They are called bullets,” it said. “They are in the pouch. You load them in the cylinder in the center of the weapon, six at a time.”
Claude nodded. “Thanks.” He grabbed the pouch and squeezed, hearing the clicks of the small balls, then shoved the pouch in his pocket and slipped the revolver in his waistband. He quickly closed the box and pushed it back under the desk and grabbed the sheaf of bank notes and the photograph. “Let’s go,” he said, standing and hurrying from the room.
The PAL closed the door and locked it.
“You’re amazing, Mars,” Claude said.
“You must leave. Your horse….” With a barely audible click, Mars’ head vanished. Claude watched, stunned, as the lights on its torso stopped blinking and the machine he’d begun to think of as a friend went dark.
He looked fruitlessly for buttons or toggles, anything that might serve as an on switch.
Feeling his cell vibrate in his pocket, he yanked it out. He discovered that Maya had quilled him half a dozen times over the last hour.
Well?
And then: Is everything OK?
And then: Status?
And then: Make sure you’re not followed.
And finally: If I don’t hear from you in 15 min, I’m calling constable.
That was 14 minutes ago.
Claude responded: Sorry! Got everything. Leaving now.
As long as no one raised an alarm, he’d be able to leave through the
front door, saddle Trax and be at his dad’s office in half an hour.
He wrapped Mars in his arms and hoisted him on his shoulder. As he retraced his steps, he kept thinking about the photo. What did it mean? That he was going to travel back to the slave-owning South?
He descended a flight of stairs, taking two steps at a time. On the ground floor, he hurried down the corridor and across the entry hall, but as he drew closer to the front door, three PALs raced from the ballroom and blocked his path.
They all looked unnervingly like Mars, blinking at him with long solemn faces.
“Mind if I slip by?” Claude asked.
“Please come with us,” the three said in unison.
Four more PALs approached from different directions, all making a beeline in his direction.
Outrunning them was impossible. And calling Maya was out of the question; they’d grab his cell if he tried to use it. “Please come with us,” all seven PALs said. They were being exceedingly polite, considering that they could forego “please” and simply grab him.
“I’d be happy to,” he said.
The three original PALs turned and began moving toward the ballroom while the new arrivals assumed positions at Claude’s sides and rear.
As they walked, Claude considered his resources. Aside from his cell, wallet, and the sheaf of old money, he had a lever-weapon and an auto-guard. Mars had said auto-guards ruin PALs’ circuitry and that Millstone had once brought down the entire network.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
The lights at the base of their necks blinked red. “To Mr. Millstone’s west office,” they replied.
“Why?”
After a few more rapid red blinks, they said, “We do not know.”
“Is my stepfather there?”
“Yes,” they said. More PALs rolled into view, bringing the total that encircled him to 12.
He pressed the button on the buckle and immediately felt a tingle spread over his skin. The PALs stopped at once. Two began to reach for him but their telescopic arms collided with an invisible wall, producing a burst of sparks. They jerked back and their heads tripled in size. Three other PALs burst into flames, one collapsing in a heap, another spinning like a top as the shape of its head changed from horse to lion to elephant before going dark.
The Alternate Universe Page 13
