The Preserve

by Ariel S. Winter

  The side of the screen nearest the police showed a CGI face in such high resolution that the only thing preventing it from looking real was that it was flat. “Just a little prank on old friends.”

  “So I’m sure you don’t know that we’re investigating a human murder in which the weapon was a Taser?”

  “In Liberty?” the robot said, rolling on his three casters to the large desk in the center of the room. “Do you think I could make it to Liberty without being stopped? I’m surprised I lasted on the preserve this long. I assume I’m closing down tonight?”

  “That may be negotiable,” Kir said.

  Negotiable? Laughton didn’t know what Kir was doing, but he knew to keep quiet.

  “I don’t think you killed the human,” Kir said. “But that doesn’t mean you weren’t involved.”

  “Dead humans, so of course I’m involved,” Kawnac-B said, mocking them.

  “See that guy down there?” Kir said, pointing at the window. Kawnac-B made no effort to look. “He’s their distributor, and he’s in your club, so yeah, you’re involved.”

  “I don’t know everyone who comes into my club.”

  “That why there are so many robots here? Robots usually aren’t buying what you’re selling.”

  “It sounds like you already have ideas,” Kawnac-B said. “I’m just a club owner. Go ahead and take samples from the bar. Nothing illegal down there. Numbers mostly.”

  “Just heroin and meth and opioids. You always catered to the human population, after all.”

  “You really can’t seem to decide what it is you want me for,” Kawnac-B said.

  Laughton hated the complete lack of body language in addition to the screen face. That was probably part of the point. “So how’s it feel to have a boss?” Laughton said.

  “Kind of pathetic, stuck in the backwoods,” Kir said, picking up on Laughton’s cue.

  “Yeah, the Sisters really put a leash on you,” Laughton said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The robot’s face and voice remained flat.

  “How’s it feel to be a pawn?” Laughton said.

  “The two of you have decided something that has no basis in reality,” Kawnac-B said.

  “And what’s that?” Laughton said.

  “You tell me,” Kawnac-B said.

  Laughton took the maglock from his pocket, concealing it in his hand. “I’m running out of patience,” he said, stepping forward.

  “Why don’t you just run out?” Kawnac-B said.

  “You want us to leave, we want to leave,” Laughton continued.

  “Then leave.”

  Laughton shrugged, and then tossed the maglock. It attached itself to the robot’s body with a smack.

  Kawnac-B’s face screen flickered, but he didn’t comment on the fact that he had just been maglocked. He wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction.

  “This is bad business for your boss,” Kir said. “Robots dying on sims just as you move into the field. Customers aren’t going to keep buying if they think that each hit could be deadly.”

  “You better make sure that doesn’t happen,” Kawnac-B said.

  “Was that a threat?”

  “Did it sound like a threat? Get this thing off of me.”

  “Let’s try this another way,” Kir said. “If the people who deliver the perfectly legal numbers being sold in your perfectly illegal club left wanting something in exchange, might they leave with something that Sam and Smythe had a hand in?”

  The face disappeared from the screen, leaving it black, and then it came back on, the whole thing lasting a second, a flicker. “Let’s say, hypothetically, yes.”

  “Anything new coming out of here in the last few days?”

  “Nothing new here in a week or so. Jones was supposed to show up with something, but he showed up with his tail between his legs, and nothing else.”

  “Says the metal who tried to kill me on sight,” Laughton said.

  “That had nothing to do with any of this. That’s just because it was fun.”

  As they were talking, the room below them cleared out except for Jones, who continued to sit at the table, staring straight ahead. He must have warned everyone the party was over, or maybe Kawnac-B had sent out a message. They’d all be across the bridge and off the preserve before anyone from the Department of Health and Human Services would get here. With no arrests, they wouldn’t clear them out for long, if not in this club, then somewhere else on the preserve with no people and little oversight.

  “Come on, Kawnac-B,” Kir said. “Give us something we can use. You really want the Sisters to run you?”

  “I hate to disabuse you of anything, but I don’t work with the Sisters. And you can believe me or not, but I had nothing to do with this.”

  “So who do you work with?”

  It clicked for Jesse. Of course, Kawnac-B wasn’t working with the Sisters. That’s why Crisper noticed a new route, because a competitor was siphoning off the product. “Titanium,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s the new route.” And that was why Jones was here, probably. He figured Smythe dead, Sam missing. Maybe time to look somewhere other than the Sisters. “The preserve opens,” Laughton continued, “and as a dealer in orgo drugs, your clientele moves. You follow, importing the drugs in, which means you have a delivery network into the preserve, might as well transport things out on the way back. Did you come up with the name Titanium? It’s got a nice ring to it.”

  “You are, again, way off base.”

  “Way off base?” Laughton said.

  “I think maybe just a little off base,” Kir said.

  “I don’t think I’m at all off base,” Laughton said.

  “I am not Titanium.”

  “What are you, stainless steel?”

  “Very funny, meat man.”

  “Watch it,” Kir said.

  “No, it’s okay,” Laughton said. “If he’s Titanium, I’m meat, I get it.”

  “I am not Titanium. I’ve never even met Titanium, or seen the guy.”

  “But you do know him,” Laughton said.

  “Of course he does,” Kir said. “He’s the one running our good friend K-B here.”

  “No one—”

  But before Kawnac-B could finish, the elevator door opened, and two enormous robots covered in black nonconducting bulletproof vests and helmets stepped into the room brandishing carbines. A squat robot in a black suit, no more than four feet tall, stood behind them. In comparison to the armed robots, he looked like a child.

  At the sight of them, Kawnac-B’s screens went black. He wasn’t going to get involved.

  “Mark Sysigns, Homeland Security,” the robot in the suit said.

  A movement in the room down below caught Laughton’s eye. Two more robots in riot gear, the letters “HSI” in white on their backs. “Shit,” he said. “Can I see some ID?”

  “Oh, right,” Sysigns said, pulling a badge from his pocket.

  “He’s legitimate,” Kir said. They’d already exchanged credentials electronically.

  Laughton checked the proffered ID anyway. It was for the Coast Guard Investigative Service. Sure, the Coast Guard was Homeland Security, but why would they be this far inland?

  “I called in Department of Health and Human Services,” Kir said to the Homeland Security man.

  “We were closer,” Sysigns said.

  “If you’re that close,” Laughton said, “why has this club stayed open?” Laughton kept expecting to see more forces, but other than the three robots in the room, and the two down below, no other robots appeared. It seemed like a small team for such a raid.

  “We’re here now,” Sysigns said. Realizing that wasn’t really an answer, he said, “Jurisdiction.”

  “Nobody contacted me,” Kir said.

  One of the HSI men was removing Laughton’s mag damper from Kawnac-B’s silent figure. When it popped off, Kawnac-B’s screen flickered on, showing nothing but a smiling mouth.

&nbs
p; Laughton’s muscles tensed with a desire to punch the robot in the face, crack his screen.

  “We’ve got everything under control now,” Sysigns said. “No need for you to stay.”

  “We can wait until the HHS arrives,” Kir said.

  “I called them off,” the short robot said. “We’ve got this.”

  Laughton and Kir exchanged looks. Laughton could see that his partner was even more skeptical of this whole thing than he was. “Come on,” Kir said.

  “I want my maglock back,” Laughton said, holding out his hand.

  Sysigns took it from the agent, and held it out to Laughton.

  “Elevator?” Laughton asked.

  “Be my guest, gentlemen,” Sysigns said, stepping out of the way.

  The chief and Kir stepped forward.

  “You’re sure you don’t need help?” Kir said.

  “Most of the patrons here were on the run by the time we showed up. I’ve got men trailing them outside.”

  This whole thing felt wrong. It had felt wrong from the moment they’d pulled up to the club, but this was even worse. “Fine. Whatever,” Laughton said. He entered the elevator, and Kir joined him. Once the door closed, the chief said, “What the hell?”

  “They got here very quickly for Homeland Security,” Kir said.

  “Why am I starting to feel like the whole preserve is a sham?”

  “It’s not a sham, but Homeland Security’s anti-sims policy might be based on this bullshit.”

  “At least we found Jones,” Laughton said.

  “Yeah,” Kir said, but he was thinking, his mind somewhere else. Or maybe he was actually conversing with someone in his department silently.

  Laughton wondered how he had been so unaware of what was happening on and around the preserve. Maybe Liberty was a way of putting his head in the sand, and he was fooling himself to think he was doing anything of importance. It seemed like there were many greater forces involved.

  “Let’s get Jones and get the hell out of here,” Laughton said as the elevator door opened into a room adjacent to the larger dining room.

  “Hell yeah,” Kir said.

  But when they returned to the dining room, it was empty. Jones was gone.

  It was a little after 2:00 a.m. when Laughton’s truck pulled into his driveway. The plucky GPS announced, “You have arrived.” Laughton was awake, but his face hurt and he needed the day to be over. Tossing the maglock, the weight leaving his hand, and then the satisfying snap as it attached itself to that metal bastard… that had felt good. A million times better than playing limousine service to a bunch of drunks. But the bad taste of their run-in with Homeland Security soured an already terrible evening. And Jones was in the wind again.

  Inside, Laughton used the flashlight on his phone rather than turning on the lights. “There’s a charger cord in the corner,” he said, shining the light in that direction. “We’re one hundred percent solar, so I don’t know how strong a charge you’re going to get.”

  “It’s fine,” Kir said.

  “You need anything else?”

  “Go to sleep,” Kir said. “You need the rest more than I do.”

  But Laughton wavered. He felt the pull of the bed upstairs, but he didn’t want to leave Kir either. It wasn’t that he had something to say to him. He just wanted the companionship, the comfort, feeling like himself in a way he hadn’t realized he didn’t anymore. “I missed you,” he said at last.

  “You wouldn’t believe…” Kir said.

  “Okay. Good night.”

  “Jesse, we’re going to get them,” Kir said. “We always do.”

  “Selective memory,” Laughton said.

  “Robots can’t have selective memories.”

  “Right,” Laughton said, laying some heavy irony in his voice. He turned and went upstairs. Halfway up, he could hear the charging cord unspool from the wall socket.

  On the landing, he considered Erica’s door. It was closed, but not latched, the cool glow of her nightlight just visible between the door and the jamb. She liked to have it closed enough to block out any noise that he or Betty might make before they turned in, but having it latched made her anxious, so this was her compromise. He peeked through the crack, but it was too dark to make her out. He was afraid if he went in, he would wake her, so he turned to the bathroom instead. He propped his phone on the edge of the sink so that the flashlight was shining on the floor, giving enough light to see by, but not so much as to hurt his eyes.

  He used the toilet, thankful for the Liberty waterworks that prevented the horror of the bathroom out in Santee. He counted the hours before he needed to be up again, and it was too short. He flicked off the light on his phone, and went into the bedroom. Betty rolled over on the bed, her shape a black outline in the darkness. Her voice, coated in sleep, came out with a sigh. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” he whispered. “You’re supposed to be asleep.”

  “How was your thing?”

  “Fine. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  “No, I’m up, I’m up,” she said, slurring her words together. “Come.” And he could see the silhouette of her outstretched arms. He pulled off his shoes, slid the shirt over his head, undid his belt, and stepped out of his pants, climbing into bed in just his boxers and socks. He lay on his back as Betty scooted herself over to him, rolling so her head was on his chest, her body wedged against him. Every muscle in Laughton’s body relaxed. He felt himself sinking into the mattress. He closed his eyes, his face tingling.

  “Kir plugged in downstairs?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So much for taking it easy,” Betty said.

  “Taking it easy” was why Laughton had come to Liberty. The thinking had been that the stress and hours of city homicide made his facial pain and headaches worse. After nine months, he wasn’t sure either was any better, but he’d been available to Betty and Erica more, and that was a win, if nothing else. “Hon?” he said, but Betty was already asleep again.

  He squeezed her. After a moment, she rolled away from him, and then he turned onto his side, and lay there, so exhausted he couldn’t sleep. He remembered his phone, and leaned over the edge of the bed to hook his pants with his finger and retrieved the phone from the pocket. He placed it on the charger on his bedside table, and dropped back onto his pillow.

  His mind slid into Kawnac-B’s club even as he tried to suppress the thought, to clear his head. Crisper’s map had proven accurate, and that meant they’d have to check out the harbor to figure out how sims were leaving by boat. It also confirmed that Titanium was not a myth. If it turned out this whole thing came down to a turf war… He needed to find the Sisters. But there was that stupid meeting at Charleston police headquarters in the morning. Damn it!

  He flopped over on his other side, and closed his eyes. He just needed sleep. If only he could will his body to shut down.

  In the morning, when Laughton took his phone off the charger, he was greeted with the headline “Nine More Robots Burned.” The words made his throat close up. The situation was devolving faster than he could handle it. The fact that the article didn’t link the deadly virus to the preserve yet was only a small consolation. He jumped out of bed and put on the same clothes he had been wearing the day before.

  Kir was fixing eggs for Erica in the kitchen, and Betty’s mom was at the table, the lower half of her face swollen, purple and yellow. She mumbled, “Good morning,” through clenched teeth.

  “Morning,” he said, and then to Kir, “Did you see the news?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any word from your boss?”

  “ ‘Hurry up,’ ” Kir said.

  “Then she shouldn’t have us scheduled for meetings in effing Charleston. Let’s go.”

  Betty came up behind him. “Aren’t you eating something?”

  Laughton kissed her on the top of the head. “No time,” he said. “Be good for mom and grandma,” Laughton called to Erica. Then he and Kir left.

  In t
he truck, on the way to the meeting where Laughton and Kir would have to convince the army, Homeland Security, and the FBI that Smythe’s murder was not a valid reason to seize the preserve from the Department of Health and Human Services, Laughton kneaded his forehead with the bases of his palms, and grunted.

  “What is it?” Kir said.

  Laughton shook his head, as though to clear it. “Nothing,” he said.

  Kir nodded without saying anything, and Laughton was grateful again to have his partner, someone who knew when to lend silent support. In the quiet, he tried to get a picture of the whole case in his mind. The orgo drug trade and the robot drug trade were intertwined, and the preserve, with its legal status outside of the robotic purview—at least for now—was the hub. The Sisters, who had already run the sims trade in the southeast, had dominated the business since the preserve opened, but a new player, Titanium, was moving in. Carl Smythe and Sam McCardy had been two of the best sims programmers on the preserve, and their product was moved through Jones by the Sisters. Smythe was murdered, and McCardy and Jones both disappeared at the same time that a deadly virus started killing robot addicts. How did it all fit with the murder? Any one of these things could be relevant, or none of them could be. Perhaps they had gotten too far away from the actual murder. They needed to step away from all of the noise.

  He pulled out his phone, and opened the photos he had taken of the crime scene. The body slumped against the back of the grocery store, its chin resting on its chest. The slashed-open arm and leg were perhaps most arresting for the lack of blood. It looked like such a severe trauma, but impossibly clean. Laughton zoomed in on the arm. There was no way to see the hidden pouch that Dr. Conroy had found. He pulled the image around, trying to focus on the ground around the body, instead of the corpse itself, but there was nothing but weather-beaten asphalt, pebbles, and grime.

  “You find something?” Kir said.

  “Just going back over everything.” Laughton swiped to the next photo. It was a wider shot of the back of the building: the delivery truck, the police cruiser, several people standing around. He zoomed in to look at each of the people that he had talked to that day, trying to read their expressions.