Last Orders

by Laura Strickland

  “Who discovered the body?” he asked the unit.

  “The maid, Chrissie, sir.”

  Brendan pulled out his notebook. “Chrissie, you say? Not you?”

  “No, sir. Chrissie was the first in this room early this morning. She always comes before dawn to light the fire.”

  “A bit warm out for a fire, isn’t it?”

  “Master Bell insisted on it, sir. He frequently fell asleep here in his chair and felt chilly when he awakened.”

  “Ah, I see. And you—pardon me, but do you have a name?”

  “Unit Two, sir.”

  “Unit Two?”

  “We all have numbers, sir.”

  “What about Chrissie?”

  “Chrissie, sir, is in fact Unit Five. She chose the name of Chrissie for herself. Master Bell did not use that appellation.”

  Brendan resisted the impulse to look at Kelly.

  But the big automaton spoke. “What happened to Unit One?”

  “Sold for dismantling, Officer.” Unit Two’s sculpted silver face gave away nothing of its opinion. “That left me as head of the household servants.”

  “I would like to interview Chrissie, please.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Unit Two trundled off, leaving Brendan and Kelly to scrutinize the scene.

  “A mess,” Brendan pronounced. And not just because of all the blood. Tracks showed clearly that steam units had rolled through the puddles, and more than once.

  “It would appear he was sitting in his chair when he sustained the first blow,” Kelly observed. “I would conjecture that caused this spatter on the back. From the amount of blood on the floor, however, I would say he died there.”

  “Asleep perhaps when the first blow took him down.” Brendan could only hope so. It must have been horrifically violent.

  Unit Two rolled back into the room, followed by another steamie, virtually identical.

  “Sirs, this is Unit Five.”

  “Chrissie, is it?” Kelly asked kindly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You were the first to find your master here, dead?”

  “Yes, sir. It was not yet light when I came in to kindle the fire.”

  “What roused you so early?”

  “My device, sir.”

  “What device?”

  “I have a signal which brings me out of standby.”

  “I believe, Officer Fagan, she is speaking of an alarm,” Kelly put in. “It is a new invention for saving power.”

  “Master Bell insisted we all be on standby overnight,” Unit Two contributed. “He always complained we cost too much to run.”

  Not as much as a household of human servants on call virtually round the clock. All the wealth needed to keep this house, Brendan thought, and the bugger quibbled about a bit of coal.

  “And,” he asked Chrissie, “you found him in what position?”

  “Face down on the floor, sir, there where you see the blood. At first I thought he had fallen. I went to him and saw the fluids, sir. I did not think it right for him to be leaking so heavily.”

  “I should think not.” Fagan made notes.

  Unit Two offered, “Master Bell did frequently leak, but usually only urine.”

  “And you lot looked after him, did you? The five of you?”

  “We did, sir.”

  “Chrissie, is that what caused all the tracks through the blood? You checking on him?”

  “I checked on him, sir, and then I summoned Unit Two, who summoned the others. We all attempted to revive him.”

  “I see.” Brendan sighed. “And when you first entered the room you saw no weapon?”

  “No, sir.”

  “He was battered. There must have been an implement.” And right bloody it would be.

  Unless the units had battered him to death with their arms. Wouldn’t be the first time—back in July those hybrid prostitutes had beaten their creator to death using only their arms, and in front of a thousand witnesses.

  A malfunction, that had been ruled—and not one of them arrested.

  Could this have been yet another such malfunction? Had these units pummeled the old man and then cleaned themselves up?

  “And,” he said, “was the front door locked all night long? Was there any other way someone could have got in?” And left again, presumably carrying the murder weapon.

  The units assured him the door had been locked, as had the back entrance and the windows.

  “And no one heard anything?”

  “We were all on standby, sir, until Chrissie became operational this morning.”

  “And what time did you say that was?”

  “Five,” she answered.

  “Very well. Please go and get the other units so we may interview them.”

  When the two rolled away, Brendan looked at Kelly. “What do you think?”

  “I think we need more evidence in order to draw a conclusion.”

  “I agree. But the old man was no doubt abusive to his servants.”

  “No doubt.”

  “And the doors were locked.”

  There’d been a time a few years ago when no steamie in the city would dare raise a hand against its master. Much had changed, and now Brendan, as a policeman, must consider the impossible.

  “Let us interview the others,” Pat said, “before I give you my opinion.”

  ****

  Back out on the street, Brendan flexed his shoulders and drew a deep breath. The air in this city couldn’t actually be called agreeable, containing as it did a reek of coal smoke, river water, and general unwashed humanity, but it beat that fug inside the house.

  Lucky for the steam units left there, they had no sense of smell. Unlucky for them they’d never have the pleasure of scenting a pint—or a woman.

  He glanced at Kelly. “What will happen to that lot with the old man gone?”

  “Whoever inherits the property will also inherit them. They may be sold if they’re not needed or, if sufficiently antiquated, sent to the scrap yard.”

  “Hardly seems fair, does it, after all those years of faithful service.”

  “Life is rarely fair, Friend, for an automaton. And to be honest, it happens to human servants also when a household is broken up.” Kelly glanced back at the house. “Before that happens, it is possible someone may break in and liberate them.”

  Brendan raised his eyebrows. “You wouldn’t be knowing anything about that, would you?”

  Kelly hesitated, an action so unusual it made Brendan pause.

  “Nothing certain,” Kelly replied at last. “Only what I have heard through the grapevine, so to speak.”

  “Grapevine, is it?”

  “A term I picked up through my reading. It may be more correct to say something I picked up underground. There is now a powerful movement in this city.”

  “Of steamies, you mean.” Now Brendan hesitated. “Militant steamies.”

  “Automatons standing up for what they believe is right.”

  Brendan took a moment to contemplate that incredible statement.

  “Some fight for their rights and some for their existence. They are slaves. And though many humans have, in the past, experienced slavery, few know how it would feel to exist under the threat of being turned off.”

  “So.” The idea—the very idea—that automatons of all grades admitted to possessing feelings and would fight to liberate themselves seemed so big even Brendan’s quick wits quailed before assimilating it.

  They walked a block or two in silence before he asked his companion, “Do you think these murders are part of this new movement you describe?”

  “It is possible, Officer Fagan.”

  “And you think someone from this movement might ‘liberate’ those steamies back there?”

  “Also possible,” Pat admitted expressionlessly.

  “Well, now, I’m thinking if there is such a movement, you—being a light among automatons and the Force both—might just be at the head of
it.”

  Pat turned bland green eyes on him. “Brendan, I am a police officer. How could I do anything illegal?”

  There was the question. He’d seen Pat bend the rules before—just as he sometimes did himself—if the cause warranted.

  And what cause could be dearer to the automaton’s nonexistent heart?

  Chapter Three

  “This is the location.”

  The man seated beside Ginny in the steamcab gestured out the window before opening his door and stepping out. Ginny followed more slowly, wondering again just why she was here. An inheritance, the lawyer back home had said—one from a woman Ginny had never known.

  She climbed onto the sidewalk and stood beside Philip Ballister—yet another damned lawyer—though not too close. A woman who usually if not always followed her instincts, she listened when they spoke. And they’d been telling her since she met Ballister not to trust him.

  Well, he was a lawyer, after all. Shifty-eyed and too damned good-looking.

  She glanced back at the steamcab driver, who hung out his window, watching curiously. Much more the type of man with whom Ginny felt comfortable—ugly and honest.

  Ginny had a decided weakness for ugly men. They could—and had—talked her into most anything. But you couldn’t trust those slick, handsome fellows.

  Ballister, who had a loose tongue, resumed talking, something he’d done virtually nonstop since she’d arrived in Buffalo and met up with him at his law offices. Buffalo—the Niagara Frontier, they called it—was a rough and tumble place, for sure, and nothing wrong with that.

  “You can see it’s a fine, large site.”

  Large? Ginny’s eyebrow twitched. Where she came from, a fine, large site involved the term acres. Clearly things here were different, and she refrained from saying anything.

  Best to remain silent if one couldn’t contribute intelligently, according to one of the adages her stepmother, Winona, was known to mention.

  Remembering it made Ginny smile, which she hadn’t done much since arriving in Buffalo. Still, it seemed an interesting city, and she meant to explore thoroughly during the brief time she was here.

  “An important site,” Ballister blathered on.

  Ginny narrowed her eyes. All she saw was a corner bounded on two sides by streets, on the third by another building, and in back by an alley—cleared of all but a modest amount of rubble.

  She waved a hand. “Sell it.”

  Philip Ballister turned his pale eyes on her. She could tell he now chose his words carefully. “That may not be so easy, Miss Landry.”

  “Why? You say it’s a prime site, correct? It should be worth something on the market.”

  “Ah, yes. But your mother…” Ballister stopped speaking abruptly. When he’d first met her, he’d immediately offered his condolences on her mother’s death. She’d lost no time in setting him straight.

  “Let me make it clear, Mr. Ballister, I never knew my mother and feel no grief at her passing. No one could be more shocked than I at finding out she has left me this inheritance.” Of which Ginny wanted no part—it was a chore, and an inconvenient complication.

  Ballister had seemed taken aback by her attitude and perhaps by her forthright manner of speaking. She wondered what sort of women inhabited this city, if they refused to own their emotions.

  To Ginny, Candace Landry was just a name, one spoken infrequently. Her father and mother had parted ways when Ginny was a mere three months old. Her father had journeyed out west. Her mother, from what Ginny had been able to establish, had spent time in several Eastern cities before settling in Buffalo and practicing some hellish craft.

  “Tell me about my mother, Mr. Ballister,” she invited now, all too aware the cabbie still listened.

  “Ah, well, Miss Landry. She was an extraordinary woman. Some say a genius. Others—others did not appreciate the manner in which she expressed that genius. As for the manner of her death…suffice it to say the city moved to tear down what was left of the Crystal Palace at once. But I’m not sure any buyer will touch the site with a bargepole despite its favorable location.”

  “That, Mr. Ballister, is not good news.” She’d hoped to dispose of her mother’s property as quickly as possible and get back to the Dakota territories where she belonged.

  Ballister, being Ballister, pushed on. “There have been incidents since your mother’s death, which unfortunately proved to be a sort of catalyst. Steam units as well as some more sophisticated automatons such as those your mother built—all grades, really—have joined forces in a movement for rights. This lot, where the Crystal Palace once stood, seems to attract them. They meet here occasionally and—er—encourage each other.”

  “The steam units do?” They didn’t have many steam units in the wilderness. Nobody had the time or money for such luxuries. Ginny knew her father, a doctor out in the territories, abhorred them.

  Maybe she should have asked him why.

  “Yes, Miss Landry. Another reason potential buyers might shy away. They may fear repercussions, riots.”

  Oh, hell. In what kind of mess had she landed?

  “Mr. Ballister, I need to sell all my late mother’s properties as quickly as possible. I’m sure you will do your best for me.”

  “I will, Miss Landry.” He sounded unhappy. “However, I would not like to see you undersell yourself. You can see this is a good area.”

  All things being relative. “Mr. Ballister, until a month ago I had no expectation of any inheritance from my—uh—mother…” Damn, it killed her to refer to Candace Landry as such. To Ginny, “mother” meant Winona, her father’s second wife, a full-blooded Sioux. Winona had taught her all she needed to know about courage, compassion, and living in harmony with her world.

  Yet she sensed little harmony here, only a wagonload of trouble.

  She finished her statement. “So I would appreciate it if you’d just liquidate everything.”

  Ballister chewed his lips in consternation. His pale gaze wandered over her as if he couldn’t help himself. Ginny didn’t suppose he saw women like her often, wearing boots, a woolen shirt, and a buckskin jacket, her dark brown hair neatly braided and hanging down her back. His eyes probed the tiny steam cannon she wore strapped to her hip, and she saw him gather his forces with an effort.

  “Your mother had other properties that may sell more readily, if you’d like to view them.”

  Must she? “Yes, your letter did state multiple properties.”

  “There’s the dormitory on Hudson Street, where she housed her—er—experiments. And a house on Linwood kept for her own habitation, though very little used.” Again he hesitated. “I thought you might like to stay there while you are in the city.”

  Ginny sighed. “Empty, is it?” Cold and barren, no doubt.

  “It is still staffed with a full complement of steam servants. No one has been quite sure what to do with them. That will be your decision.”

  Steam servants again? This place seemed to be rife with them. “Very well. Please take me there.”

  Ballister nodded and climbed back into the cab. Ginny paused before following and leaned down to the front window, where the cabbie still watched her closely.

  He had a broad and wondrously ugly face, a nose that had obviously been broken at some point in the past, and a bandit’s smile. Just her type.

  For his ears alone, she whispered, “What are you doing later, and when do you get off work? Maybe you would like to show me some of the taverns in this town.”

  His face lit. “I sure would. And I can ditch this cab any time you like.”

  She winked at him—a promise—and climbed into the back of the cab with Ballister who, of course, immediately resumed talking.

  “Your mother, as I say, was a brilliant woman. Whether or not one agreed with her aims or admired what she accomplished, that fact cannot be denied.”

  “And Mr. Ballister, did you admire what she accomplished?”

  Ballister barely hesitated this t
ime. “Indeed. I have seen her hybrid steam units. They are amazing creations—one might almost call them works of art.”

  “These are the ones you say beat her to death.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Within view of dozens of witnesses.”

  “Hundreds, actually.”

  “With no reprisals.”

  “That is a matter of some contention. Currently, automatons are not subject to the law. That may well change, but whether the laws would then be retroactive is another question.”

  “So Candace Landry’s killers are now free and may remain so.”

  “They may, yes, particularly because they have shown no further signs of aggression. Most if not all of her Landry’s Ladies—the appellation given to her mechanical prostitutes—have since married and are living peaceful…er…lives.”

  “Wait a minute.” Ginny held up her hand. “You say she built mechanical prostitutes?”

  “I do apologize. I thought you knew.”

  The pieces began fitting together in Ginny’s mind. He’d said the Crystal Palace—once situated on the site they’d just left—had been open to the public. That fact had failed to penetrate till now.

  “The men of this city agreed to visit mechanical…ladies of the night?”

  “That’s just it, Miss Landry. I’ve seen them, and it’s very difficult to tell they aren’t human.”

  She looked at him from the corner of her eye. “Seen them, or visited?”

  He drew himself up. “Seen from a distance, I assure you. I did speak with one or two, given we are handling your mother’s estate. Just so you understand, they all consider themselves liberated, following your mother’s death. You could challenge that if you wish, since they are in truth part of your inheritance, and they are quite valuable.”

  “Really? Who would want to purchase a steam unit that beat its last owner to death?”

  “There is that, miss. And given the current social unrest, I would have to discourage you from pursuing a claim of ownership.”

  “You say they’ve…married? But they’re machines.”