The Zero Code (Max Mars Book 3)

by Tripp Ellis

  Sirens echoed off the canyon of skyscrapers, drawing closer.

  Max saw the action unfold on 42nd Street and watched Winston elude the officers. She followed the robot to the building and hovered outside.

  Max knew the officers were full of adrenaline. It would only take the slightest provocation for them to turn Winston into spare parts. She wanted to avoid that, if at all possible. There had to be some logical explanation for Winston's behavior.

  The swarm of police officers would soon descend upon the structure. It was out of Max's hands. She could only sit back and watch it unfold.

  The building was a manufacturing plant. Inside, automated assembly lines slapped together automobiles with expert precision. Robotic arms attached body panels, installed seating, and affixed steering wheels. Androids that resembled Winston put the finishing touches on the vehicles and oversaw the production facility. They all wore neon safety vests and hardhats. An injury to their neural cortex would create unwanted downtime, so the robots followed traditional safety protocols. The robots were expensive pieces of machinery.

  Winston grabbed a safety vest and a hardhat from the rack by the entrance before stepping onto the production floor. It was a noisy environment. The sound of ratchets bolting on parts filled the air. The assembly line moved with speed and precision. The vehicles were manufactured without any mistakes. The robots never got tired, hungry, or sick. They worked 24 hours a day and didn't complain about the long hours. There was only one human supervisor in the entire factory.

  Winston stepped onto the floor and tried to blend in.

  Moments later, a team of officers spilled into the factory. Angry plasma pistols swept the area as officers looked for the target.

  Sergeant Chapman's face tensed when he saw all the robots. It was impossible to distinguish them from one another. “SIPD! Stop production now!"

  All the robots turned their heads to see what the commotion was. The assembly-line ground to a halt. An eerie stillness fell over the facility. It was never this quiet. The assembly line never stopped.

  Winston saw this as an opportunity. He marched straight up to Officer Chapman. It was the best way to diffuse the situation. Chapman wasn't expecting his suspect to walk up and greet him.

  “Good evening, Officer. How can I assist you?" Winston said.

  “We are looking for a fugitive.” Chapman eyed him suspiciously.

  “I'm sorry to hear that.”

  “We believe the suspect is hiding in the facility.”

  “Oh, dear." Winston feigned astonishment. "I hope this individual isn’t dangerous?"

  “Nobody gets out of this building until they've been cleared. I need a list of all employees on shift.”

  The other officers fanned out, securing the facility.

  "Certainly,” Winston said.

  “What is your position?”

  “I am floor supervisor." Do you know the make and model of the unit you are looking for?

  Chapman shrugged. "I don’t know. You all look alike to me. What model are you?"

  “I am an XR-709,” Winston said proudly. “I specialize in—“

  "I don't give a shit what your specialty is. I want to see the documentation on every one of these tin cans. You got that?”

  Winston nodded. “If you'll excuse me for a moment, I can give you a list of all the workers and their serial numbers for identification purposes."

  “Well, what are you waiting for?" Chapman said, exasperated.

  Winston spun around and marched for the office at the back of the facility. If Winston had a heart, it would have been pounding in his chest. The robot equivalent of adrenaline flowed through his circuitry—all of his sensors were heightened, and his neural processor was on overdrive.

  4

  Winston stepped into the manager’s office. He was a round man with an angry face and a generally unpleasant demeanor. "What the hell is going on out there?" He grumbled, mistaking Winston for an employee. "Why isn’t the line moving?”

  “The SIPD seems to be conducting an investigation."

  “Bullshit. They can’t shut down production."

  “Apparently, they have.”

  “Get back out there and tell them to go fuck themselves!”

  “I think they may respond better if the message came from you,” Winston said.

  The shop manager grumbled under his breath. He pushed out of his seat and waddled onto the production floor, heading toward the officers.

  Winston took the opportunity to push through the back door of the office and escape into the alleyway. He tossed his vest and hard hat into a dumpster and ran to the next street. A bus rolled to the curb at just the right time. The brakes hissed and squealed, and the main double doors opened. Winston stepped aboard. The bus rolled away, disappearing into the city.

  Sov Islaa was an easy city to get lost in, which was great if you were on the run. Max could have easily found Winston if he would have stayed online. But he hadn't been answering comms, and he deactivated his tracking device. The last location she had for him was at 23rd and Lexington, when his tracking dot vanished from the screen on her PDU. She slipped the mobile device back into her pocket and caught an automated car.

  She slid into the back seat and called out the street address.

  “That will be 65 credits," a silky smooth automated voice said.

  Max pressed her thumb onto the pay pad. Her image appeared on the screen, but the name associated with the account wasn’t Max Mars—it was Cassandra Lane. That was her disposable alias for this month. With the ability to morph her fingerprints, she was constantly changing identities. It made her impossible to track across the galaxy. Silas Rage had the ability as well. Every former member of project SW Ultra did. And they were all like ghosts.

  The car sped away from the curb and whisked her through the city streets. The buildings and lights blurred past. Max had a few moments alone with her thoughts to ponder what had gone wrong with Winston, but she was still no closer to the truth.

  A light rain started to fall, splattering the windows of the vehicle. The kaleidoscope of lights cascaded through the droplets, and reflected off the surface of the slick streets. When Max got out of the car on the corner of 23rd Street, the air was sticky. It was like she had stepped into a sauna. The smell of the hot wet pavement wafted up to her nostrils. Sov Islaa could be sweltering in the summertime. Even after dark. At least the rain would cool it down.

  There were rows of bars on Lexington Avenue. Crowds of revelers filled the sidewalks, hopping from club to club. The southeast side was an entertainment center. There were restaurants and boutiques. Street vendors and buskers. Artists and performers. Most of the robots that were in the area were in service positions. Waiters, bartenders, chefs, and custodians. Max wasn't going to find Winston in a bar—a robot didn't have much use for shots of tequila.

  Max glanced around, trying to eliminate the places that he wouldn't be. "If I were a robot on the run, where would I hide?" Max muttered to herself.

  A green and yellow sign that read Fitzpatrick's caught her eye. The logo included a four leaf clover. Max pushed into the Irish pup, then sauntered up to the bar. “I'll take a shot of Antarian Whiskey. Bulvacci Special Reserve.”

  The bartender sneered at her. "We don't serve that here. You've got your choice of Conley, McGrath, Donovan, or O'Dwyer.”

  Max grimaced. "I'll take the O'Dwyer.”

  “Good choice." The bartender poured a shot and slid it across the bar.

  Max placed her thumb on the pay pad and completed the transaction. It wasn't her favorite whiskey, but it would have to do. She held the glass to her plush lips and tipped it back. The warm liquid slid over her tongue and down her throat. It wasn't quite as smooth as Bulvacci, but after two or three the result would be the same. “I seem to have misplaced my robot. Is there someplace around here they tend to congregate?”

  "You might want to try the dumpster out back,” he grumbled, his voice thick with disdain.
>
  “Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?"

  Max had definitely touched a nerve.

  “Every beverage we serve in this bar is handcrafted, by human hands. It's shipped, stocked, and dispensed by people. It's a little more expensive, but it's the way I choose to do business. You can't trust those damn things. One day, they're gonna come for all of us. Hell, I saw the news tonight that one finally went nuts and shot somebody.”

  Max tried to hide a frown. “Allegedly. Nobody has proven anything yet.”

  The bartender's eyes narrowed at her. "Oh, you're one of those.”

  “One of what?”

  “Don't come crying to me when one of them takes your job.”

  “I'm not too worried about that. I lost my job a long time ago.” Max tipped her class, motioning for a refill.

  “I'm sorry, but we’re all out.” There was plenty of liquor left in the bottle. He just didn't want to serve her anymore.

  Max eyed the row of whiskey on the shelf behind the bartender. “Then, I’ll have a shot of Donovan.” She flashed an insincere smile.

  “Sorry. We’re all out of that too. Why don’t you try Oscillations across the street. They even serve robots over there,” he said with an upturned lip.

  Max pushed away from the bar and strolled back to the sidewalk. An old-style arcade across the street caught her eye. Zaps. They had retro games dating as far back as the 1980s—all in mint condition. The place was packed. Display screens flashed. 8-bit sound-effects filled the air. It was the last place in the galaxy you’d expect to find a robot. It was the perfect place to hide.

  Max strolled into the bustling establishment and weaved through the maze of games. She found Winston in the back playing a first-person virtual shooter. He was firing a toy plasma rifle at the targets with incredible accuracy. He was heading for the high-score. A small crowd had gathered around to watch him play.

  Max stepped to Winston. "We need to have a little talk."

  “I'm almost finished with this level. Can the discussion wait? 3000 more points and I will be the highest-ranking player."

  "No. It most certainly cannot wait."

  Winston frowned. He handed the rifle controller to the kid next to him, who took over his game. The kid’s eyes lit up with glee. He was going to put his name as the high score.

  "I quite enjoyed that game. And I seem to have a natural aptitude for it.”

  “That's what worries me," Max said. "I'd say right about now, every cop in this city is looking for you. Do you want to tell me what happened?."

  "I'm not sure.”

  “You’re not sure that you want to tell me? Or you're not sure what happened?"

  “A little of both."

  Max arched an eyebrow at him.

  5

  "I have no recollection of the event,” Winston said. “The last thing I remember is when you told me to stay put and stay out of trouble.”

  “Glad you took that to heart,” Max replied with more than a hint of sarcasm.

  “There is a gap in my memory. I searched my data storage, but that time frame seems to be missing. The next recollection I have is standing over a dead body in the alleyway, holding a pistol."

  Max scrunched her face up. "And you have no video or audio footage from that time?”

  “As I said, I have been unable to retrieve any data relating to the event. It's as if my memory has been wiped."

  Max took a deep, frustrated breath. "I'm going to ask you one time, and you have to be perfectly honest with me. Did you kill that person?“

  Winston shrugged. "I don't know. I can tell you that violence is not in my nature. It would be against my basic programming to cause harm to a human being. It is an impossibility for me to commit murder.”

  “Could there be some kind of glitch in your programing? A fault in your circuitry?”

  "My diagnostics suggest I am functioning properly."

  “Why did you run?"

  Winston was silent for a moment. His face was solemn. “I was scared."

  Max frowned and looked at Winston with sad eyes. She knew the robot would likely be terminated once the SIPD got ahold of him. Just then a swarm of officers burst in through the front door, fanning out through the arcade. Within seconds, angry barrels of plasma rifles pointed at Winston.

  “Get your hands in the air, robot!" Sergeant Chapman growled. "Slowly. Or you're going to end up as scrap metal."

  This time Winston complied.

  “Don't hurt him,” Max shouted. “He's unarmed.”

  Chapman sneered at Max while one of his officers grabbed Winston's wrists, cuffing him behind his back. The officer began to read him his rights, then stopped after a few sentences. "Does this thing even have rights?”

  “Not as far as I'm concerned," Chapman said. "But I'm not letting this one off on a technicality. Read him anyway."

  The officer finished reciting the passage and escorted Winston out of the arcade.

  “Don’t say a word to anyone without an attorney,” Max shouted.

  “Does he belong to you?” Chapman asked Max.

  “In a round about way."

  “I'm going to need you to come down to the station with me, answer some questions.”

  Max's eyes narrowed at him.

  “It wasn't a request."

  “You arresting me? On what grounds?”

  “Look, lady. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way."

  “You have no idea how hard the hard way is going to be.” Max glared at him.

  Chapman didn't like her response. He clenched his jaw. “Are you sure that's the way you want to play it?"

  Several officers surrounded Max. They looked ready to take her down to the ground and administer a beating. Max had no doubt the situation would end poorly for the officers. Max could handle these clowns, but it wasn't going to help Winston’s situation any if she beat them to a pulp.

  "Fine. I'll go down to the station and answer some questions.” Max forced a smile.

  “See, wasn't that a lot easier?" Chapman said. "And since you're compliant, I'm not even gonna handcuff you.” He looked over her graceful form. “Besides, it's not like you could do too much damage anyway.” Chapman and the other officers chuckled. He had no idea who he was dealing with.

  Max just grinned. She preferred her opponents to underestimate her.

  Red and blue lights danced atop patrol cars as the officers marched Max out of the arcade. A crowd gathered on the sidewalk, gawking. This was good, free entertainment for a Thursday night. The cops stuffed Max into the back of one patrol car and Winston into another. The show was over, and the crowd dispersed. The herd of patrol cars sped away.

  Precinct 2111 was located in the heart of the city. The walls were a dingy, grimy lime green. There was a constant flow of foot traffic in and out, and no one looked happy to be there—not even the officers behind the desks. The waiting area was full of people either making complaints, inquiring about an incarcerated friend or loved one, or waiting for someone's release.

  Max and Winston were ushered into separate interrogation rooms. They were small, spartan rooms with a table and two chairs. Harsh overhead lights made the rooms an unwelcoming environment.

  Max detected a barely audible frequency that was pumped into the room through hidden speakers. It didn’t take long to give her a splitting headache. It was an old PSYOPS (psychological operations) tactic used to assist interrogations. They were used in multiple police departments across the galaxy, despite the fact the courts had ruled them unconstitutional. The whole game was to make suspects as uncomfortable as possible and force a quick confession—whether they were guilty or not. Max knew the game and had played it a few times.

  Locked in the room, Max took a seat and waited to see how this scenario would unfold.

  6

  "I want to speak with my attorney.” It was the first thing Max said to Detective Lockwood when he entered the interrogation room.

  Lockwood looked abou
t 35. He had wavy blonde hair, blue eyes, and a little bit of stubble. He wore a brown leather jacket and had a badge hanging from a lanyard.

  "Why do you need an attorney? I just want to ask you a few questions."

  “Am I under arrest?"

  "Not at the moment." His tone was vaguely threatening.

  "So, I'm free to go?"

  "After you answer a few questions," Lockwood said with a smug grin.

  "It seems to me this is a custodial interrogation. I've asked to speak with an attorney. Once that request is made you must cease asking me questions."

  A slight grimace crinkled on Lockwood's lips. He didn't like the fact that she knew the law. Max knew enough to know better than to talk to cops. Ever. Even if you were innocent, words could be twisted. Inconsistent statements could diminish credibility, or conflict with eyewitness testimony (which is notoriously inaccurate.)

  "Like I said, you're not under arrest,” Lockwood said. “Yet."

  Max pushed away from the table and stood up. "Well, it was nice to meet you, Detective.”

  "Sit back down!" He demanded.

  Max glared at him. She didn't like anyone giving her orders. She was done with that part of her life a long time ago. No more orders. No more rules. "Arrest me, or fuck off."

  Lockwood grinned. "Feisty. I like that." Lockwood slid Max's mobile phone across the table. It had been confiscated, along with the rest of her belongings when she was brought down to the station. "Call your attorney."

  Max sat down and picked up the device. "You mind giving me some privacy? This is a privileged conversation. And turn off your surveillance video. Anything captured during this phone call won't be admissible."

  Lockwood was mildly irritated, but he took it in stride. He had learned to have a healthy detachment from his cases. Getting overly involved wasn't worth the stress and high blood pressure. He strolled to the door and glanced back at Max before exiting, "I'm going to give you one last chance to have a friendly conversation. Because your robot is going to go down for this. And I'm going to get you on aiding and abetting a fugitive."