The Liquidation Order

by Jett Lang

  “And what are you doin’?” Jack said.

  “Analysis. Philip kindly supplied me his passwords during the flight.” Then, addressing Philip: “Your continued cooperation will see you speedily home. Remember this.”

  It left the chair and walked away, the clip-clap of its elevator shoes fading. It entered into an LED-lit passageway on the far side of the garage.

  “That thing gives me the fuckin’ creeps,” Jack said.

  Queen rose and stood where the robot had. A chill permeated the air around her. She looked to the passage, but Five-Nine was already gone.

  “The creeps,” he whispered.

  ※

  The hallway was a cylindrical concrete tube ten feet high and ten wide. Most of the branching rooms consisted of unpainted walls, recharging stations, and open entryways – robot housing. After a short-lived and unproductive chat with Philip, she sought a resting area, someplace quiet, without the irksome buzz-hum of robotic men. She’d had enough of machines for one day, needed the comfort of a bed or, if worse came to worse, a futon.

  At the end of the hall, she found an oddity. Above an autodoor, the LEDs spelled out GUEST REC. The door appeared to be made of clouded acrylic glass. When she neared within two paces, it slid apart and the interior lit. Pool tables, arcade machines, and a loaded bar dominated the wide quadrilateral room. She noted a line of pleather couches near the very back, each one with a wood and glass table in front of it.

  Those would do.

  She headed inside, the autodoor silently closing behind her. The bar-counter to her left and the pool tables and gaming cabinets to her right were made of the same imitation oak. Dust had settled on the counter, a Cyclopean bartender powered off in a fetal position beneath. Its chrome plating was tarnished, its eye inert and the color of congealed blood. It didn’t make a sound, which was all she cared about.

  The digital magazines on the tables in front of the couches were decade-old gossips and automotive catalogues. The holograms were low to mid-definition, the image-cycler taking a good five seconds to load a page. Archaic garbage. She found the cleanest couch and wiped the cushions using her microcloth.

  Cold pleather caressed the side of her face, and she nestled deep into the couch. This was a nostalgic material, one that summoned recollections of her late mother reading in the living room. It had been wingback chair her mother had favored, deep blue and copper-legged. Her mother had often worn a frown on her mocha-skinned face, her features soft but erudite. Concentrating on a book’s contents, hinging on details, always details, and something about her hazel eyes spoke of vigilance, conspiracy. “Poet’s eyes,” Queen’s father had called them. Queen didn’t think so. She knew now that those were the eyes of an assassin.

  The memory ebbed. She slept.

  ※

  “Miss.” A gauzy voice.

  Queen shifted on the couch, not wanting to answer or open her eyes to see who it was. It could wait. She needed her rest, had earned it.

  “Miss.” Now a cool metal prod at her sternum. She backhanded the thing. Persistently, it poked.

  “What?” She opened her eyes, looked up into the single crimson eye of the tarnished chrome bartender. The pupil was infinite black, ten irises looping and looping about the epicenter. Heat and the smell of burnt wiring exuded from its frame. It was holding a silver pistol in its hand, the barrel torpedo-shaped. Flash suppressor.

  She righted herself cautiously, spoke similarly: “Hello.”

  “Miss,” it repeated. “It is closing time. You cannot stay here any longer.”

  “I’ll go, then.”

  “You cannot stay here any longer. There are rules, miss.” The gun was aimed at her chest. “The rules are quite specific.”

  “I imagine.” She remained perfectly still, her hands loose at her hips.

  “The rules must be upheld, miss. You are aware, yes?” It raised the barrel to her head in a sluggish arc.

  Queen slammed her sneakered toe-tips against the bartender’s arm. A gunshot rang out right over her head. She unsheathed her machine pistol and squeezed off a shot. Chrome fragments and internal clockwork vomited onto the parquet floor, and the robot tipped back like a great felled tree, crashed through a table. The glass shattered, magazines tumbled upon the floor beneath.

  She kept her gun trained on the downed servant bot. She tried to remove the silver pistol from its hand, but the digits were stuck in a death-furl, turgid. She fired one more round into its cranium to be sure. Sparks leapt, smoke curled. Then the last flicker of internal light died.

  Queen surveyed the rec room. There was an oaken cabinet beside the bartender’s previous fetal position, slightly ajar. So that’s where you kept the gun. She should have checked more thoroughly. Exhaustion wasn’t an excuse. She had been sloppy. On the upside, she was well rested.

  The autodoor parted. Jack strode into the room, shotgun in his hands. He swept his gaze left to right, from bar to pool tables.

  “There’s a problem.”

  “Don’t tell me: The robots have gone haywire.” She vaulted over the countertop.

  “That they did. Seems Philip had his drive booby trapped, spread a virus in the network here when Five-Nine was going over the data. Philip claims he doesn’t know shit about that. Luckily most of the bots just crashed, but a few got . . . uppity.”

  “Oh, good. I can’t wait to slap that junky around a little more.”

  “Go nuts. Our Supreme Metal Leader told me to tie him up and await orders, so I got him locked and bound in an office near the garage. He’s goin’ nowhere.”

  “And the data?”

  “Salvaged. Mostly. None of the important files were lost.” Jack glimpsed the wreckage at the lounging area. “What about you? You alright?”

  “Both a gentle and rude awakening. I’ll manage,” she said. “Did you sweep the place?”

  “Sure did, yup. Again, a majority of the bots were not lethal. Just brain dead.” He looked over his shoulder, then back at her. “We never finished our conversation earlier.”

  Queen checked her weapon clip, the safety.

  “I received a message from the boss.”

  “My former boss.”

  “You might change your tune after you read the message, sister,” Jack said, flipping up a breast pocket. He handed her some ticker tape. Handwritten, no immolation-ink. A strangely pretty cursive.

  “Strong emphasis on ‘might’,” she said. “Did you write this?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “No reason.”

  The widow’s web expands. Beware those that guide her.

  She thrust the slip of paper at him. “I thought you said you decoded this.”

  “I did. That’s the translation. You know how he is about security. The more cryptic, the safer he feels.”

  She reread the line. It rekindled no warmth for her once-employer. “He’s telling me things I’m aware of. Does he think I lack the basic concept of distrust?”

  “Cool your jets for a sec there, sister,” Jack said. “He’s helpin’ in whatever way he can.”

  “What are you, his spin doctor?”

  Jack shook his head. “This chick, Syntheia, wants us to think we’re hot on her trail. We’re not; we’re in the web. Indulge the theory.”

  Queen inhaled deeply, breathed out. “Okay.”

  “Chamber wants Wayne to merge companies. Chamber’s son was the bridge to that happening, through his relationship with Syntheia. Chamber’s son dies, the bridge collapses. But not completely. Syntheia is still alive and now she’s pissed at big daddy Wayne. Chamber is a calculatin’ man, and he likes his resources. Why would he waste an opportunity to use a bereaved woman on the inside? That’s too big a resource to throw away.”

  “He treats his children like pieces on a board, so why not everyone else?” She tugged at her gel-vest, her jacket. “I get that.”

  “Right. So my thinking is Chamber contacted Syntheia, offered his condolences and a bit of information: foul play
was afoot. That set Syntheia thinkin’. She contacted her brother to confirm the family’s hand in her man’s death. Then Syntheia contacted Chamber. Then the intrigue really kicked off. They made a deal. She’d ascend the corporate ladder in her father’s company if Chamber gave her something in return.”

  Her throat felt dry. She swallowed. “Us? But I didn’t kill her man. And you had no part in any of it.”

  “They probably don’t want me. But someone had to fly you over, and I might know too much at this point.” Jack gazed up at the ceiling. LEDs bright. “Sparkin’ a company feud is not in Chamber’s best interest. What is in his best interest is an arms monopoly on the eastern seaboard. This is his secondary plan for that. That’s what I think.”

  “With Syntheia as a puppet partner, or less.” She scratched at the bridge of her nose. “The Business Consortium won’t like this, if it’s true.”

  “The Consortium doesn’t like a lot of things, but we have evidence.”

  Queen could count that evidence on one hand. “The logs, those ice axes, and a theory. It’s not much.”

  “Syntheia must have leaked those weapons. Who else? Who else has a connection to Chamber? His son was bangin’ her.”

  “Right,” she said. Was her jacket shrinking? It seemed so tight all of a sudden. She unzipped it the rest of the way, walked over to the bar counter. Back to Jack.

  “Uh, Queen?”

  Queen shrugged out of her jacked, balled it up, and offered it to Jack. “Just take this. I can’t wear it.”

  He took it. His eyebrows were knitted. “You’re sweatin’.”

  She glanced down at her palms. Wiped them on her jeans. “I think it’s this place. I’m not keen on, uh, close spaces. Funny, I thought they hammered this out of me in training.”

  “You need a minute? The hangar might help. Larger.” He handed her a blue-grey microcloth. “Here.”

  She patted her cheeks, forehead, neck, front and back. “Thanks. Just give me a minute.”

  “Wanna have a seat? Might help.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good.” She returned to the wooden countertop and hopped up. From here, she could see the entire room.

  Jack sat beside her. He placed his double-barrel on his lap, lapsed into silence.

  The circular autodoor became her focal point. Each ragged breath reminded her that she was underground. The recycled air tasted stale and dead. Dead. That’s what I’ll be if I don’t do something soon. She looked down at her hands, flexed her fingers slowly. Blind obedience would not see her through this. She needed a solution. A future.

  “Jack.”

  Arms folded, he regarded her edgewise.

  “You’ve known Mr. Chamber for longer than you let on, haven’t you?”

  “My father,” Jack said. “He’s had dealings with Mr. Chamber before. Certain circles call him the Serpent, and for good reason. There’s cold blood runnin’ in those veins. He’s ruthless like a desert warlord, and he knows how to manipulate the systems which govern the city-states. Trouble, that’s what he is.”

  “Murdoc seemed like a good guy when I met him. Not very corporate-minded, either.”

  “That’s the thing about snakes: They’re deceptive.”

  She smoothed the ticker tape in her hand. “Okay.”

  “Okay then.” Jack kissed her temple. “So what’re you feelin’?”

  “I trust your theory. We should act on it.”

  “Ahead of you on that,” Jack said. “You know those ‘repairs’ to the hovercraft? Well, seems the robots also put a control override on it, too. While they were goin’ nutballs, I had myself a looksee and deactivated it.”

  “Nutballs?”

  “Utterly nutballs.”

  “So, Five-Nine put it on, I assume? Won’t it notice the device isn’t functioning?”

  “After a while, sure. It probably intends to land us outside Prosperity, shoot all three of us, then bury us six feet under. I don’t really fancy sleepin’ in the snow. So, I’d suggest we do somethin’ before that happens.”

  She slid from the counter and made for the murky autodoor. Paused in front of the sensor pad. Jack passed her the balled-up jacket.

  “Are you still mad at me?” he said.

  “Not especially.” Queen fit into her jacket, left it unzipped.

  “Excellent. I’ll see you in ten for a roll in the hovercraft, then.” He brushed by and exited the rec room, bound for the concrete hallway.

  She smiled and shook her head.

  ※

  Chrome robots were scattered about the vast hangar. Queen treaded over bits of metal guts, polished trays, power tools, and shredded wiring, the dismantled servants as lifeless as the barkeep. Without the buzz and hum of the robots, the hangar was silent. Five-Nine was not among the wreckage. Too much to hope for.

  Ahead of her, Jack checked the hovercraft, the vehicle propped up on one side. The four lighted passageways leading away from the hangar lacked movement. She told him to hurry.

  Radio static crackled below; Jack’s legs ceased a moment. Five-Nine’s voice, muffled by metal: “The data is compiled. We will depart this shelter and travel to Prosperity.”

  “What about Philip?” Jack floated out from underneath the craft on a mechanic’s propulsion board. Queen helped him to his feet.

  “He is to accompany us.”

  Jack and Queen exchanged a look. He thumbed his shoulder comm-link. “You said the data is recovered. Isn’t he useless to us now?”

  “He is not,” was the only rationale the machine gave. “Secure him for the journey. I will meet you soon.” It severed the link.

  “That theory of yours is solidifying nicely,” Queen said.

  Jack rotated a steel handle, unlocked the pilot-side door. “Can’t say I’m too happy about bein’ right.”

  “Don’t mope; we can take care of this.”

  He ducked into a cockpit of conforming black leather and multicolored readouts, one leg on the concrete, another on the interior floor mat. Configured the craft for autopilot takeoff. He seemed distracted, his actions mechanical. Deep in thought, she was sure.

  “I’m stayin’ here. You’ll need this.” He fished out a cardkey from his front pocket, tossed it to her. “The kid’s in the room that says ‘senior mechanic.’ Don’t slap him too hard.”

  “I’ll be gentle.”

  ※

  Philip sat native style on the stained office carpet. He frowned when she entered the room, but his attention remained fixed on an aquamarine wall. The color had been popular about seven or eight years ago when she was still a brooding teen trying to support herself. Terraforming technology in New Paradise and the subsequent leasing to coastal regions such as Angel Bay and West Talon had opened the floodgate for style and kitsch. It was dubbed ‘Blue Fad.’ Clean, sparkling ocean colors on every family’s mind. Lots of aquariums and sea life in general.

  As Jack had so eloquently put it, “Water is life and yadda-yadda.”

  Whole industries and aqua-themed restaurants rose and fell to the wayside within a few short, if profitable, years. Queen had a goldfish-shaped shot glass back at her apartment. The thing had seen plenty of use during her advanced training.

  Philip stirred, his cuffs rattling against a steel desk leg bolted to the floor. His tanned skin was unmarked, so he must have been willingly restrained. Defeated, that’s how he looked.

  “What do you want now?” he said.

  “We’re leaving, and you’re tagging along.”

  She strode over, kneeled, unlocked his cuffs, and lifted him up by the collar of a tropic-themed shirt Jack had loaned him. She put a hand on his shoulder, stopped. Peering out the office’s one-way window, she witnessed Five-Nine’s arrival to the garage. The robot’s long, black coat swayed around its ankles, a rucksack slung over its shoulder. It inspected the exterior of the hovercraft, then ducked into the far passenger seat.

  “Why don’t you just finish me here, poltergeist? It’s all you’re good for,” Phi
lip said.

  “I’m good for a lot of things,” Queen said, “Like getting you out of this mess. If you’re willing to help me out.”

  He turned his head, his profile movie star perfection. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

  “The robot’s going to put a bullet in our brains before we even see the city-limit sign. I’ll give you one guess for who ordered this.”

  “Chamber, obviously.” He caught her stare and looked down, considering. When he raised his head again, he said, “What? Syntheia? She wouldn’t be working with Chamber. She doesn’t work with anyone except herself. She’s not like the rest of us.” His laugh was bitter and low.

  If only Syntheia hadn’t been the favorite. Daddy Wayne might have seen fit to program her mind with the same subliminal allegiance as Philip. But the true heirs were free-willed. She’d known his kind before. Rich kids with drug problems. Usually she had to eliminate them as they were waking up from their programming, programming that muddled creative functions of the brain. Dulled the blade that selective breeding whetted into a razor’s edge. The process was for the likes of Philip. The could-have-been kid, the genetic shortcoming, just smart enough to sow discord inside the company if left unaltered.

  “She is working with him.” Queen was glad she had a firm grip on Philip, because as soon as the words left her mouth he tried to break free, struggling against her. Artificial loyalty reached into his core. The Pharaoh was out of his system – the one method for thwarting his father’s control. A hopeless junky, or a subordinate son. He was condemned either way.

  “You want to save your father’s company?”

  Philip lapsed to a fragile tranquility, his nostrils flaring as he eyed her sidelong. He nodded minutely.

  “Good. I have a proposition for you, then.”

  ※

  Queen’s passenger-side door hissed closed.

  “I see Philip was uncooperative this time,” Five-Nine said. The robot was sandwiched between her and Wayne’s son. It examined the junky closely, who sported a bloodied and broken nose. “Delightfully excessive.”