“They smooth out if you spend enough time around him,” Allen joked.
“An Automatic that gets figures of speech? I’ve misjudged you.”
Her eyebrows gave a suggestive flair to the end of her sentence as she took a sip from her drink. Allen was frozen, his synthetic heart palpitating from her mere presence, let alone what she said.
“We don’t really want to let people see pictures of him, though — it would ruin the whole allure. The anonymity, how anyone could be the Nightcaller, all that jazz.”
“Of course.” Allen nodded.
“So why are you here, Allen? Care to explain why Roche would drag a Blue-eye to an almost exclusively Upper City gala?”
“Uh … that’s confidential.” Allen tried winking, which prompted a laugh from Simone. “But, well, you already know Detective Roche and I are following the Edison Hotel case, seeing as you cornered us at the crime scene. In fact, it would help us to get a political lay of the land in terms of GE executives. Would you mind?”
“Oh sure, I know them all a bit too well. And I’m very willing to help our boys in blue.” Simone grinned and turned to survey her surroundings. “Well, you already know David Sarnoff, head of RCA, golden boy for GE, and one of the main investors on the Board of Directors. He’s one of the most powerful people in the company, and he’s only climbing higher. RCA is just a stepping stone. If he could burn it all for cash, he would.”
“Who else?” Allen asked, leaning in. His attention was more on her than on who she pointed out.
“We have Owen Young over there, founder of RCA and current president of GE. Little guy knows how to handle his liquor and fame, unlike Sarnoff over there. And over there are Sanford Moss and Harold Black. The former heads GE’s avionics and aeronautics division, and the latter is responsible for the Tesla Grid on the Eastern Seaboard. Funny how even with free energy for one and all, we’re still surrounded by greedy assholes, eh?”
“Inequality is the root of greed, unfortunately,” Allen agreed.
“Yeah, but even with significant equality, people will find something to pick apart and have more of,” Simone said. “Anyway, they’re both on the Board of Directors, too. Tesla used to be on the board until the mid-’20s, but we have no idea where he went. He sort of just up and disappeared. You know all about him, though, right?”
Allen gave Simone a quizzical look. “No, should I?”
She almost choked on her drink. “How do you not know?”
“No one’s ever told me about the man the battery is named for.”
“Jesus, Allen, Tesla is the man who saved the world, so to speak. His little accident at the Wardenclyffe joint on Long Island is what made the first Tesla Battery. It’s funny — it almost never happened, which means you almost never happened.”
“Oh?” Allen raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, see, he was deep into debt making that tower thing and pleading for money. The guy who financed him, JP Morgan, was about to pull out, but at the last second, he decided to give Tesla the funds he needed to complete his experiment. When it all went up in smoke, people were quick to disregard him, until he found the core of his tower intact, and producing a ton of energy. He was able to reproduce the results with the money he gained selling the thing. Made towers all over Long Island, and things went from there. He revolutionized the world, yet hardly anyone wants to remember him. Disgusting, isn’t it?”
“Yes …” Allen pulled back from the conversation. Why had no one ever told him this history? He really should have known all this, or at least read about it somewhere. Something to research further when he had the time. “Do you also know how the first Blue-eyes came about?”
“Ah, that’s history no one likes to acknowledge. Many consider it a mistake.” The corners of Simone’s mouth pulled down. “Automatics were sold as cheap labour, and the one company that needed cheap labour the most was the one that made them, GE. You know how Green-eyes are, right?”
“They can be single-minded,” Allen said.
Simone nodded. “They can miss things a human wouldn’t, which cost the company thousands of dollars in damages, because they’d tell a machine to do something and it did it … even as the room was burning. So, a little tweaking led to Blue-eyes: it gave them some self-preservation instincts and broader perception, and developmental experience led to their gaining personalities. Of course, free will led to other headaches, like how they didn’t want to work 24-7, and even bigger ones when they started demanding paycheques. Even with all that, they still consider Blue-eyes more valuable than Greens.”
Allen scratched his neck. “And they just … started paying them, just because the machines asked?”
“Oh, no, that was a case headed by Franklin Deist. Getting Blue-eyes a decent paycheque was the only case he took pro bono.”
“I know that name.”
Simone smirked. “I should think so. He was the lawyer that got GE their extraterritoriality; they’re exempt from the jurisdiction of state law. Only GE and a few other companies can legally employ Blue-eyes. You know, for the benefit and sustainability of modern civilization.”
“Hmm …” Allen took a moment to process everything. “Are Blue-eyed Automatics still being made?”
“Not since the Prohibition. Now they come pre-Greened, and they don’t get the same freedoms the Blue-eyes have. That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen, especially if they start spilling over into critical infrastructure sectors. Too bad Deist is dead, else he’d jump on that.” Simone turned back to the crowd, looking for more important figures. “Dr. Vannevar Bush should be here, but he’s not one for formal events. He heads GE’s Automatics Division, and he’s one hell of a brainiac.”
“I’ve met him. He was quite cold … direct.”
“Sounds like Vannevar.” She grinned.
“He probably isn’t the only one who tends to avoid these gatherings,” Allen prompted.
“Yeah, Gould doesn’t come, either. But as the man who owns the Plate and GE, he has that privilege. Last but not least, the newest appointee to a directorial position, Elise Schafer, head of finance. She’s an absolute corporate monster. She’d tear out throats if it would adjust her bottom line.”
“Is that bad?”
“No, it just means she knows what she’s doing and what she wants. But I do wonder what kind of damage she could do, now that she has all this power.” Simone put down her drink and looked over her shoulder to see Schafer approaching. “Speak of the devil, boss woman coming in.”
Allen sat up straighter. Schafer was snarling in his direction. She reached the table and addressed Simone. “Where’s our poster boy? Sarnoff wants to show him off to investors.”
Simone looked at Allen. “He’s in the washroom.”
“For an hour?”
Allen shrugged.
Schafer rolled her eyes. “Move away, capek.”
Allen took his leave, sliding out of the booth and walking a few feet away. Even through the noise of orchestral music, glasses clinking, talk, and laughter, he was quite adept at eavesdropping. His first encounter with Roche had been to listen to him from the other side of a door.
Schafer began, “You’re stepping on toes, Morane, and people are taking notice.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t give a shit who you know on the Plate, you are not getting out of the reporting business down here. This stunt with the robot — seriously? It’s here because of a radio show. Don’t give it the dignity of being acknowledged like a person. This Nightcaller business will not help your career. Remember who sits on top and gives you your paycheque.”
“Yeah, a bunch of assholes with no sense of decency. I saved RCA by finding Roche and giving you the idea for this radio show, and you’re reading me the riot act?”
“I’ve looked into your paperwork and your calls. Transfer to the Upper City? What the hell are you going to report on in the Upper City? Oil prices? Clothing sales? Get over yourself, you’re not the breed of pers
on who lives up there. You’re a Lower City girl, and you’ll be one until the day you die.”
“And how would you know what a Lower City girl is or isn’t? You come down from your ivory tower once, maybe twice a year, make your appearance, get some votes for reapplication to the Board, and fuck off back up top. You’re more out of touch than I thought.”
“I could kick you out of this building and destroy your reputation in seconds.”
“But you won’t. My father would blow a fuse. You can stop me from going up top, but if you want to keep your promotion, you’ll leave my career alone.”
Schafer seethed with rage, gripping the glass in her hand so hard that her knuckles went white. “Entertain the capek, I don’t care. But you won’t last much longer here. Just look at Hartley.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It might be.”
Schafer stormed off, and Allen saw Simone flush with tension. He went back to her, noticing her loosen up when she saw him approaching.
“Enjoying the party?” Her voice wavered, and she cleared her throat, trying to shift gears.
“As much as I can, considering Detective Roche has disappeared. I can see now why he’s uncomfortable in this setting.”
“Do tell.”
“He’s a man who deals with things using a gun. Maranzano, the Iron Hands, common crooks — if you threaten them, things move. But here …”
Simone chuckled, causing Allen to trail off.
“What’s funny?” he asked, genuinely confused.
“Oh, it’s just that you mentioned the Iron Hands so seriously. Given all the crazy stories we hear about them …”
Allen continued. “Here, pulling a gun out would put him in hot water or prison or worse. It’s one thing to put your gun against a don’s head. It’s another to put it up to society’s.”
“That makes sense.” Simone put her fingers back on the stir stick, spinning the melting ice cube. “But I admire his tenacity. He doesn’t let anything get him down. We could all learn something from him.”
“I hope not,” Allen remarked.
Midnight came, and people began to leave. Drunk off fun or alcohol, they were sure to have a good night in their million-dollar estates on the Plate or outside the city. Allen had coaxed Roche out of the bathroom long enough to get a few pictures with Sarnoff and other big names at RCA and GE. Even Vannevar Bush eventually made an appearance for the GE holiday photo, though he stayed far away from Roche.
Schafer departed soon after the photos were taken, and Simone left around the same time Allen and Roche did. Roche insisted on Allen driving them out. The valet was nervous handing the keys to the machine. After a quick inspection, Roche declared himself happy that the Talbot wasn’t scratched. The tip he gave the valet made up for his previous outburst.
The drive back to Roche’s apartment was quiet, but not tense. Roche gazed out the window at the passing buildings, while Allen focused on the road.
“Thanks for not prying, Al,” Roche said, in passing.
Allen nodded. “I’m getting better at reading situations.”
“You’re a quick learner.”
He was hesitant to ask, but he was curious. “You noticed something, didn’t you? When we were talking to Schafer and Sarnoff?”
“Just some guy. Tallish, black hair, weathered. Looked like a soldier. It was odd …”
“Odd how?”
“He was looking at me, with … I’m not sure. Something wasn’t right about it. Can you look into him for me?”
“It’ll be hard without a name, but sure, I’ll see if anyone recognizes the description.” Allen smiled to himself. “So, I can drop you and the car off?”
“Keep the car,” Roche said. Allen’s eyes went wide in surprise. “I’m going to be lying low for a few days. You might need it. I trust you.” Roche let the silence simmer for a time before speaking again. “Tell me about those GE projects in the future sometime. They sound interesting.”
“Can do.”
They arrived at the apartments of Bowery and Bayard, and Roche stepped out. He gave Allen a final nod before departing.
Allen made haste back to his own residence, making sure to park the Talbot somewhere it wouldn’t get broken into. Though, given Roche’s reputation, people likely recognized whose car it was.
Allen’s tiny apartment on Madison Street had been given to him as a gift during his “integration,” and it was well maintained, inside and out. The rooms were spartan; Allen wasn’t the kind of person who needed much in the way of amenities. There was a couch, a small radio on a table, and a fireplace in the living room. The tiny kitchen was dusty and forgotten, the stove and oven untouched. The fridge was the only appliance he used.
Down the hall was his bedroom, which contained a chair, a small bed, and a closet. Allen took off his suit jacket and shirt, placing them on his bed. He could feel things, both psychologically and haptically, but he found no comfort in his bed. Not since he’d taken a life a little over a month ago. He found no respite in soft sheets or a comfortable mattress and had started sleeping in the chair, perhaps to punish himself, or perhaps because it was less constraining than lying under thick blankets.
He walked to the bathroom, flipping on the light in the tiny room to reveal a toilet, a sink, and a bathtub. In the mirror, he inspected himself. Though metal on the outside, he was alive inside, his electrically oriented cells moving and growing within. At the moment, though, he was more interested in his exterior: his almost human face, concave funnel chest, thin frame, and broad shoulders. He widened his stance and stood at different angles, trying to look at himself the way a human might.
This newfound self-consciousness wasn’t welcome in his head. But Simone was lodged in his brain. Something about her made him lose focus, lose his logical edge. What might a human woman see in another human, but not in him? It was stupid, maybe, but if human men could use feminine Automatics for their own needs, wasn’t it possible for a human woman to perhaps feel some sort of attraction to a male Synthian like him? Or even to an Automatic?
“Focus on the murder,” Allen reminded himself, trying to move his thoughts off of Simone and onto Hartley. He pointed at himself in the mirror. “Stick to the case. The murder first, then deal with everything else. If it becomes an issue again. Only if it persists.”
He turned off the bathroom light and went to the chair in the bedroom, reclining as his blue bulbs shut and his body went rigid. He never usually rested well in the chair, taking hours to find some semblance of sleep. But tonight it took only seconds to close his eyes and drift away. Tonight, the images of his past sin were blocked out by a smile and the stirring of an ice cube.
CHAPTER 9
I HATED MADE MEN. They talked too much and did too little. This one was no exception.
The truck behind me full of alcohol, drugs, other expensive toys, and three fresh bodies was burning in the alleyway. No one would come investigating. Commissioner Tony Shen wasn’t a man to blab about anything, especially not after his men had been threatened.
“Goddamn, my arm!”
The made man cradled his dislocated shoulder. The arm drooped dramatically lower than the functioning one. I was covered in a mix of oil and blood, the former from the truck, the latter from the dead boys burning inside.
“You knew this would happen,” I told him.
“You crazy fuck! Do you know who you’re messing with? We will find you, gut you, tear your throat out!”
I cracked my rifle open, extracting the three empty cartridges and placing them in my pocket before reloading the three barrels. “I know who you are, and I know you can’t do anything. You and your boss are too brash, too hasty. You don’t think.”
“You’re dead, you hear me? Dead!”
His voice slurred as he slumped and groaned in pain. The blood loss and shock must be getting to him.
“You’re not dying that fast. Get up,” I said.
He moved his legs, struggling to stand, h
indered by delirium. Finally he turned and faced eastward. I put the end of my rifle in his back.
“Get walking. I have a nice place to string you up from.” He stayed where he was, so I jabbed the rifle forward. “Move! You want two busted arms?”
I wasn’t expecting him to have the balls to try and struggle out of this. But without warning, he twisted around and grabbed the barrel assembly with his working arm, pushing it down to keep me from firing at his chest. He was helpless without two working arms, though. He’d have to rip the gun from my hands to get away. Good luck with that.
I shoved him up against the nearby wall. His arm was weak, as was his willpower. He pushed the rifle down to his stomach, and the end of the barrel assembly lodged itself just above his belt. He was red, sweaty, panic in his eyes. He knew he wouldn’t make it out of here alive.
A shove and a kick from his leg pushed me backward. I lost my balance, landing with my back against the opposite wall, dazed. He pulled out a knife and threw it in my general direction.
Instinct took over, and I yanked on the centre trigger. The other two got pulled back, as well, dropping all three hammers.
The bullets hit his chest and stuck into the wall behind him. The smoking holes in his sternum were almost cauterized. He slid down the wall, his face slack. The knife I soon found between two bricks in the wall behind me. It had carried some blood with it after cutting my right bicep.
Shit.
I kicked the fresh corpse, angry I’d let that happen. Goddamn it, never again. Don’t be stupid. Be quick and clean. There’s no use sending a message to these assholes.
I used dirty rags to close the wound, then broke the rifle in two and hid it in my briefcase nearby. My pocket felt lighter than before. I might have lost a shell or two during the struggle, but I had to get moving. The 11th might be dissuaded from coming here, but Elias Roche wouldn’t be.
Midnight Page 9
