“Oh boy. You’re sleeping with it aren’t you?” Terminal9 shook his head. “Now I understand the defensiveness. You don’t want to admit you’re getting jiggy with a toaster. Got some balls givin’ me ‘tude about my anime ladies.”
“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill this little prick.” Kevin stood.
Tris pulled him back. “No. Don’t.”
The machine beeped. Tris flinched at the same instant.
“File transfer completed.” Terminal9 kicked off the floor, spinning his chair in a graceful twist before a bare foot on a file cabinet stopped him. “Let’s see what we got.”
A list of text scrolled down the screen. A few seconds later, music blared out of the speakers. Terminal9 pushed himself back around, hand over his mouth. He sat still for a moment, before pulling his fingers away and smacking his lips.
“Never mind about the tittie pictures… I can’t…”
Kevin handed Tris her shirt. “What? What is it?”
Tris bit her lip, bundling the leather garment in her lap as she leaned forward. “What is it?”
The hacker exhaled hard. “Well… you were almost correct. She does have The Cure in her head, but… not for any virus. Her implant is carrying Mp3 files… the entire discography of a band named The Cure. As soon as I opened the file, it had a script that forced a particular song to play… uhh, called ‘Burn.’”
“Wow…” Kevin stared at the wall. “Nathan really is that kind of asshole.”
“No…” Tris slouched and sobbed.
Kevin unplugged the wire and pulled her shirt over her head.
“I’ll, umm… leave you two some privacy.” Terminal9 stood. “Please don’t touch any of the equipment? Thanks…” He slid past them and scooted out to the bedroom area.
Tris cried for a few minutes before flopping back in the chair like a marionette. No strength seemed to exist in her limbs. Kevin reached up under her shirt and threaded her arms into the sleeves, dressing her like a toddler.
“You said it was bullshit.” She continued gazing into space. “I was so convinced I had the cure.”
You, uhh… did. He cringed. “It’s okay. It didn’t cost us anything but time to come here.”
She sniffled. “It’s hopeless. The Virus is going to wipe everyone out. Doctor Andrews… we were supposed to stop them.”
Kevin looked around, wanting to smash something. The way she seemed… dead… clawed at him, making him feel helpless to do anything about it. He squeezed her hands and tried to pull her to her feet. “Hey, come on. Zoe’s counting on us to find her family.”
Tris continued to stare into nowhere. “Why? They’ll only get sick and die like everyone else. How could I have been so stupid?”
Kevin shook her by the shoulders, but she remained limp. Great. I knew this was a damn mistake. He looked at the door. “Hey, Term… how do you shut this shit off? I can’t hear myself think?”
He closed his eyes and let his forehead rest on her shoulder.
othing mattered anymore. Tris lost herself to memories of home. She tried to think back to growing up, of being a child with two loving, albeit surrogate, parents. All that came to her were fleeting glimpses that felt a little too much like purposefully arranged ‘memory bytes’ designed to create an illusion of a life. Did I really have a father? When he ‘died,’ and I got reassigned to a new family… were they the ones who bought me?
“Tris?” Kevin jostled her. “It’s not the end of the world. That already happened. Come on, come back to me.”
She focused on the image of an older man, thin, with long white hair. Daddy. He had to be sixty… how could he be her father? That’s the man who made me… I’m a robot. He was the designer.
Kevin tried to drag her upright, but her legs held no weight. She slumped to her knees. “Tris, knock it off.”
“It’s all a waste of time. Humanity is doomed. The Enclave already won.”
He lifted her back into the chair. “Don’t make me slap you. Come on.”
“That’s why my cell had no toilet. I’m a robot. The little guy’s right. I’m… That’s why they want to kill me so badly. I’m probably top secret. They knew the data was fake.”
She slipped into old memories again, hours upon hours of being confined in a tiny octagonal room for refusing to have children with a man she detested. Is that a lie too? The more she tried to picture Dovarin’s face, the more indistinct he became. Was he real? Maybe he was one of the programmers… a convenient face to insert into fake memories. She gazed at the time display hovering like a cyan specter at the corner of her view. I don’t have an optic nerve. I’m a machine.
Tris felt herself crying again. She made eye contact with Kevin. He looked frightened and clueless, like an overgrown boy lost without his mom. He doesn’t want me anymore. He’s horrified at what I am.
When she turned, he grasped her chin and made her look at him again. “Tris. Don’t let that bastard win. Nathan’s an asshole. He used you. I told you all along the data was horseshit. They’d never let it out. You didn’t fail. It never was.”
He thinks I’m a monster. She shied away from him, staring at the stack of electronic components. Maybe those are my family.
“Tris!” He grabbed her arms and pulled her standing, supporting all her weight.
She sniveled at the look he gave her. Hurt. Maybe he had loved her, but who could love a toaster. “Go on… I can’t.”
“Tris,” he whispered. “This isn’t you.”
“Leave me alone. I know I’m an android now… I don’t need you to feel sorry for me.” She yelled and pushed away, falling back into the chair. “Go on… go get your coins and roadhouse and sell shitty beer to idiots. That’s all you ever cared about anyway.”
He sucked air in his nostrils. A sudden motion made her flinch, expecting a slap―or fist, but he stormed out without laying a hand on her. At the thuds of his boots on the airplane floor growing quiet, she cringed, curled tighter on the chair, and sobbed.
Silence lasted for some time before Terminal9 risked walking in. “Hey… Uhh, what happened?”
She stared at the floor.
“Guess you had him fooled huh? Hey, I have no issues with cross-species mixing… Since he’s gone… if you uhh, get lonely or anything…”
“Nerve gas will come out if you die, right? Since I’m an android, it won’t hurt me, right?”
“Most people would just say ‘no thanks’ or maybe ‘go fuck yourself.’” He chuckled, raising his hands. “Take it easy.”
Kevin…
Tris grabbed the armrests and leapt up, causing Terminal9 to yelp and scurry away. At the sound of electric tires peeling out, she ran across the bedroom, down the stairs, and down the length of the plane. She flung open a door near the tail, teetering on the edge and staring at a receding plume of dust. The Challenger, a tiny black dot at the head.
He really doesn’t want me anymore. She slumped to the floor, sitting with her feet dangling. Out below her, miles of scrap and junk stretched as far as she could see. A rattle caught her notice a moment later, from a metal chain ladder that must have fallen when she shoved the door open. Terminal9 kept his distance, not having bothered to leave the safety of the upstairs.
Tris stared at the car until the ever-shrinking black dot vanished amid the terrain. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling every beat of her heart… or every simulated sensation fed to an electronic brain trying to convince her she had one.
Images of being carried into Wayne’s, bound hand and foot, returned to her mind. The tightness of phantom rope gripped her skin. If I’m an android, why couldn’t I break free? She stared at her wrists, wiggling her fingers around and watching what appeared to be tendons move beneath the skin. I am as strong as a big man… too strong for this little body. Not superhuman. Easier to hide.
She replayed killing Neon’s bodyguards. Four men dead in seconds. Tactical computer coupled with neural accelerators and dexterity boosts? Or did she have electric muscl
es and a computer between her ears?
Desks appeared in her daydream. Thirteen years old, sitting in school and surrounded by other children her age. All but five with white hair too. The teacher, a pleasant-faced older man in a crisp black jumpsuit, wandered back and forth while rattling on about advanced artificial intelligences. He explained how they evolved to a point where they could pass something he called the Turing Test, capable of emotional mimicry, empathy, and sentience. Her vision focused in on the tip of a pen in her fingers, doodling a silly, smiling anime catgirl head. School had been boring. Most kids hated being there, and she didn’t remember being any different.
Tris looked up at the horizon. No dust. No Challenger. No Kevin.
With a lethargic shove, she shifted around and climbed onto the ladder. Chain and aluminum tubes rattled as she made her way to the ground below the plane. I eat. Nanites needed raw materials. Maybe whatever she didn’t need came out? An ‘infiltrator model’ would have to pass as human in every way.
She remembered her first bath with Kevin. Her first time with him. Tears blurred her vision. I’m such an idiot. Why did I call his dream stupid? She sniffled. He was only looking for an excuse to get rid of me… I didn’t have to make it so easy. Shame fell heavy on her shoulders as she imagined his horrified expression. Every memory she had of making love to him changed as if she’d turned into Bee in the middle of the act. The look of utter repulsion on his face drove her deep into sobs.
When no more tears came, she stumbled to her feet and trudged in a random direction that brought her into one of the corridors formed by stacked junk. Microwaves, computers, monitors, security equipment from the airport, X-ray machines, and android parts surrounded her in rising walls that felt as though they could fall in and engulf her at any moment. She wandered the maze for a little while, until she found a dead-end ringed with arms, heads, and legs. Some resembled Bee, a few looked more advanced―though none were as high-tech as her. Not one of them would fool even the most idiotic dweller in the Wildlands into thinking it was a real person.
These are my ancestors. She walked over to a small body that resembled a tween girl, with a bundle of wires hanging out of its open mouth. Plastic eyes lolled back in its head like one of those dolls whose eyes closed when you tilted it back. Rich black hair fell in curls around a face marked with thin seams. She traced her fingers over the cheek. Hard. Lifeless. Artificial.
A few feet away, an artificial torso made to look like a twenty-something man jutted out at a horizontal angle. Blond, short hair sat atop his head like a sponge, impervious to the world. He wore only the smile one might expect from a person trying to sell something to someone for more than it was worth. Fortunately, no attempt had been made to include all parts. He remained as featureless as the department store mannequin he resembled.
Tris sat on the mound of junk and slipped a hand down her pants, surprised at not feeling smooth nothing. She got no thrill from the contact, only revulsion at the thought she’d been made too real. A memory of Kevin’s scruffy face sliding around between her thighs brought another wave of sniffling.
She withdrew her hand and curled up on her side. The couple to which she’d been reassigned at nine years old treated her like their own daughter. They never once spoke of the man she thought of as her father. To them, she’d always been theirs. Had they been right? Was the old man a daydream?
Why did she have memories of being little and having such an old man for a caretaker?
Why did she want to run home to those ‘parents’ who may not have even existed?
Why did she feel terrified at the thought she couldn’t go home because Nathan would kill her.
A vague memory of a bedroom, a child’s safe haven, came and went. Did she cease existing to them as her real father had the minute she’d been detained?
The Enclave wasn’t my home.
She crunched herself up in as tight a ball as she could manage, and closed her eyes. Androids didn’t need food or water… or anyone to love.
I’m where I belong. Another broken machine no one wants.
ile after mile of road slid under the Challenger’s nose. Kevin hadn’t thought about much but driving. Tris’s shouting voice played in his brain, running an endless loop. All I ever cared about… He snarled. Yeah, I’m an asshole. So what? People who don’t chase their dreams lose them. Am I wrong? For some reason, he still headed north. Two thousand coins to give some idiot a ride out of Chicago. He grumbled. Guy is probably dead already. I could kill a few days, go back, and say I couldn’t find him. He flicked at the wheel, imagining the horrified look Tris would give him for suggesting that.
“Damn women.” He shook his head. “All she wanted to do was get that damned data out of her head. I told her it was bullshit.” He gestured at the windshield. “I told her it was a lie. Did she believe me? Nooo. Of course not. I’ve got a dick. I know nothing.”
He huffed.
Five minutes later, the weight of the empty seat to his right gnawed on his mind. Whenever sunlight flickered off the passenger side mirror, he glanced at the flash, expecting to see white hair.
“Fuck it. Wayne’s alone. He’s happy.” Kevin shifted in the seat. “She told me to go away.”
Five minutes later, he glanced at the empty seat again.
“I didn’t even want to go to Chicago. I know this is a damn suicide run.” He slapped at the wheel and tapped his left foot, attempting rhythm―poorly. An imagined Zoe pouted at him. He sighed, feeling even more like an asshole.
Red light caught his eye up ahead. A roadhouse sign. Kevin eyed the charge meter, a little over forty percent. Better to be sure. He took the off-ramp to an old highway rest stop. That’s a damn good idea. I wonder if there’s any abandoned rest stops up on 80 I could take over… He parked by the front and hooked up the charging cable, noting the numeral 2 over the plug.
A skinny old man who looked like beef jerky bestowed with sentience clung to the back of a glass counter inside. Wild grey hair exploded in all directions from his scalp and face, somewhat contained by a floppy, wide-brimmed leather scrap that resembled the bastard love child of a sombrero and a ten-gallon hat.
Above him, an old menu bar listed various items, mostly fried chicken and burgers with prices. Kevin’s eyes almost popped out of their sockets. This old bastard better not ask me for 599 coins for a burger.
“Need a charge on port two, and do ya got any hot eats?” Kevin leaned on the counter.
“Whazzat?” asked the man, hand by his ear.
Kevin repeated himself, at a shout.
“Ah, got ya. Too much shootin’ ya know. Ears ain’t what they used to be.”
“No problem.”
“Whazzat?”
Kevin sighed. “How much?”
“Two fer’a charge. Got some hopper skewers. ‘Nother two.”
“Done,” yelled Kevin.
The proprietor shuffled to a circuit breaker box to the right of the counter and threw a switch. Every light in the place dimmed for a second. Kevin glanced over his shoulder at the window, terrified he’d find the Challenger on fire… but it looked okay. As the man teetered off to cook, Kevin pulled out four coins and set them on the glass counter. Old red and white paper buckets lined the topmost shelf, though they were empty of everything but dust.
‘Whazzat’ returned in about four minutes, with a pair of metal skewers loaded with flat bits of meat basted in a dark sauce. Kevin pushed the four coins over the glass and took his food. The fragrance of barbecue sauce―or something making a decent attempt at it―flooded his nostrils. He walked to a tiny red table by the window where he could watch his car and settled in a plastic ass cup someone had the nerve to consider a chair.
He nibbled on the dust-hopper, and couldn’t help thinking about Tris going savage on the one he’d cooked the first time they’d camped. For most of that day, he expected she only wanted to get him off guard long enough to steal the car. Untying her ankles had been sheer laziness, since he d
idn’t want to carry her. Cutting her hands loose had been a matter of survival. He couldn’t drive, dodge a machine gun grenade launcher, and drop a hand grenade through the slot at the same time.
Even after they’d stopped to sleep, he couldn’t settle down. He remembered the sorrowful face she’d given him when she offered to let him tie her again so he could feel safe enough to sleep. Tris hadn’t flinched when he grabbed rope. She’d even talked him into taking his armored jacket off and given him a back rub. He closed his eyes as phantom fingers kneaded his muscles.
I’m a sucker, just like dear old dead Dad. He gnawed on the tough, stringy meat. She didn’t steal the car.
“She’s too whiny.” Chomp. “Soft-hearted… that gets you killed out here.” Chomp. “Probably is a damn android. Humans aren’t that caring.”
His newer daydreams haunted him. Working the counter of his own roadhouse while Tris waited tables… or he waited tables and she cooked. Or he cooked and she worked the counter… or they worked on cars for people together―in his roadhouse. Their roadhouse.
Not alone.
Kevin dropped the empty skewers on the table. It’s Morgan all over again. I got too attached.
He caught a catnap at the table until a sharp buzz from the circuit breaker startled him awake. ‘Whazzat’ ambled over and flipped the switch. Kevin waved, stood, and made his way down the length of the rest stop to one of the bathrooms. After adding a little more stench to a urinal that hadn’t seen running water in fifty years, he returned to the car.
For a few minutes after getting back in, he stared at the fake bricks a few feet in front of the bumper. His gloves creaked on the wheel. He pressed his thumb down on the main power switch and swiped it across the five others in a practiced gesture. Within seconds, the Challenger was ready to drive. The battery meter read 98%; the rad meter showed 000.
He backed around in a semicircle and stopped with the car pointed at the exit to the highway. Another two minutes of staring through the windshield passed. He dreaded what waited for him in Chicago. A look to the rear seat at the bundle of jerked dust-hopper and a handwritten letter slapped him with guilt. He grasped the corner of the empty passenger seat and squeezed.
One More Run (Roadhouse Chronicles Book 1) Page 34
