by Tripp Ellis
Max's face crinkled up.
"He's going to get recycled, and you're going to sit in a cell for a long, long time." Lockwood was hoping his threat would sink in. "Or, we can have a friendly conversation, and you may be able to walk out of here today. But this is where the offer ends.”
Max swiped the screen on her mobile and called her attorney. The device took a moment to connect. A secretary answered the line. “Gotro, Palone, and Feldman…”
"I need to speak with Marc Gotro,” Max said.
"May I tell him who’s calling?"
“His favorite client.”
Lockwood shook his head and left the room.
Marc’s face appeared on Max’s mobile. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and a square jaw. His stylish Vulcari suit was commensurate with his 10,000 credits an hour fee. ”What is it this time?”
“I’ve got a little bit of a situation.”
Marc arched an eyebrow at her.
“I didn’t do anything,” Max said, innocently.
“That's what they all say.”
Max's eyes narrowed at him. “Hey, whose side are you on?"
“Whoever's paying me. That's the side I'm always on."
“You know I always pay my tab.”
“Time is money. Cut to the chase.”
“My friend has gotten in a bit of trouble."
"Oh, you need advice for a friend?” Marc’s voice was dripping sarcasm.
“Yes, actually.”
“What did your friend do?"
“My friend is a robot, and is about to be charged with murder.”
There was a momentary silence.
“That’s…. interesting,” Marc muttered, his curiosity piqued.
“I’m afraid they’re going to turn him into spare parts.”
“He’s a robot. What do you care?"
“He’s more than a robot.” Max clenched her jaw.
“Don't tell me you’re attached to this thing?”
“He's not a thing."
Gotro sighed. “He's an artificial intelligence, designed to mimic human responses. That's all.”
Max's face tensed. “I'm just a collection of cells designed in a lab to perform a specific function. I don't see how that's much different than a robot constructed in a factory.”
Gotro reflected on her comment for a moment. "I suppose you're right.” He sighed. “So, what can I do for you?"
“You can get your ass over here and take care of the situation."
“Where are you?”
“In an interrogation room on Sov Islaa.”
Gotro grimaced. “You realize how much this is going to cost you—even at friend prices.”
“I don't care what it costs.”
“Okay. I'm going to send an associate from the local office. Floyd Kramer.”
“I don't want an associate, I want you."
“Get in line, honey,” he said with a cocky grin. He was partly alluding to his legal prowess, and partly alluding to his love life.
Max rolled her eyes.
“Floyd’s good. He wouldn't be an associate of mine if he wasn’t. But I’ve got to warn you… This thing is a little bit of a gray area. I'm not sure what the outcome will be. Have you been formally arrested yet?“
“That's a little bit of a gray area as well,” Max said.
“I'm going to take that as a yes. I’ve just got one question for you. Did he do it?"
“If I thought he did it, I wouldn't be willing to pay your fee." Max's stern eyes blazed into him through the display.
“Fair enough,” Gotro said. “I need his name and serial number and where they’re holding him.”
“His name is Winston. Model XR-709. Serial number 0129384655. Precinct 2111.”
The attorney jotted the information down. "I'll be in touch."
7
It hadn’t even been an hour yet. The lock clicked and the door pushed open to the interrogation room. Lockwood hovered in the doorway with a disappointed look on his face.
Max grinned before he even said a word.
“You're free to go."
Max stood up and strutted past him as he held the door.
“But I'm definitely going to recycle your robot.”
“Don’t count on it.”
Lockwood scoffed and stormed away.
Floyd Kramer greeted Max in the hallway. He was a skinny guy in a brown suit with thick black glasses and dark hair. He looked like he was barely out of law school.
Max arched a skeptical eyebrow as she scanned the attorney up and down. "Have you ever tried a case before?"
“I got you released, didn't I?"
Max had to give him that much.
“So, good news and bad news,” Floyd said. “Bad news, they are definitely charging him with murder. Good news, according to Bagshaw vs. Vega Nova, Winston has the right to put on a defense, just like any other person. The judge is considering him a flight risk, so there is no bail. He's going to have to stay in jail until his trial date. Now the really bad news, the DA is claiming they’ve got an eyewitness that saw Winston shoot the victim.”
“That’s not possible.”
“I'm just telling you what they're saying. I’d take it with a grain of salt. There are many robots, and it's easy to confuse them." Floyd looked over his notes on his PDU. "The victim's name was Philip Harmon. Age 27. Married. No kids.”
Max had a solemn look on her face.
“In a little bit of an odd coincidence, Mr. Harmon was a programmer at Robo-Dynamics. It's quite possible that the victim had a hand in designing the basic code that Winston runs on.”
Max's eyes narrowed. "I don't believe in coincidences.”
“Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.”
“Are there any other suspects?”
“At the moment, the DA is not looking at anyone else. As far as they are concerned, the case is open and shut.”
“I'm telling you, Winston didn’t do this.” Max was adamant. "What about Harmon’s relationship with his wife? Was he in debt? Is there anyone else who may have wanted him dead?”
Floyd shrugged. "Those are all things we need to find out. Mr. Gotro has filled me in on your military background. I assume you want to take the role of lead investigator?”
“Absolutely.”
“Was anything missing from the victim's body? Wallet? money?”
Floyd shook his head.
“Maybe Winston interrupted a robbery?” Max was grasping at straws. “Maybe he startled the attackers? They shot the victim, then fled? Maybe Winston picked up the gun to secure the weapon?”
Floyd looked at her like it was a stretch.
“It’s possible.” Her voice was full of cautious optimism.
“Sure, anything’s possible.” He said with a healthy dose of skepticism. Floyd handed her a slip of paper. "This is the wife's address. Why don’t you start there?”
“I'll see if the victim had a sizable insurance policy, or other assets,” Max said.
“You really think the wife could somehow be responsible?”
Max shrugged. “Spouses make the best suspects. They usually have the most incentive to kill."
“Let me know what you find out.”
Max nodded, then started away. She stopped and looked back to Floyd. "Is there anyway I can see Winston? I'm worried about him adapting to his new environment. He’s kind of a neat freak and a germaphobe. I'm sure he's freaking out.”
“He's a robot," Floyd said, perplexed.
“Yeah, but he’s… different."
Floyd sighed. “I'll see what I can do.”
He found Detective Lockwood and demanded to see his client again. Within a few minutes, he and Max were face-to-face with Winston in an interrogation room. The robot was dressed in an orange jumpsuit with a prison number and name across his chest. His wrists and ankles were cuffed. He shuffled into the room like an old man with short, feeble steps.
Max's eyes filled seeing him like this, but she tried
to hide her obvious emotional distress. “How are you doing?"
“This place is wretched,” Winston shrieked. "I'm surrounded by criminals.”
“That's why it's called prison," Floyd muttered.
“A rather large man, with a particularly unpleasant aroma, said he was going to make me his bitch.” Winston looked astonished. "What does that mean?”
“You should avoid him,” Max said.
“This is merely the city lockup. I hear it's much worse at the county jail. And the penitentiary is worse than that.” Winston's eyes filled with what could only be described as fear.
“Relax. I'm going to get you out of here. I promise," Max assured him. She took his hand and squeezed it.
“Do hurry. I don't think I'm cut out for this at all.”
Max flashed a comforting smile.
The guard banged on the door and yelled. His muffled voice filtered through. “Time’s up.”
“I'll have you out in no time,” Max said.
“I don't want to die. The thought of not existing makes me uncomfortable.”
“It makes us all uncomfortable,” Max said, solemnly.
Max and Floyd stood up and pushed out of the interrogation room as a pair of officers took Winston away. Max was crestfallen as she watched the sad robot carted back to the general population.
“You're right," Floyd said “He is different. I’ve never met a robot with that kind of emotional response to situations or people.”
“Please, do your best for him.”
Floyd nodded.
Max caught a car over to the Valesco Towers. It was an upscale high-rise in mid-town, popular with tech types and young professionals. Max strolled into the elegant lobby. Marble floors and columns led to a bank of elevators. Max didn't have to wait long after she pressed the call button. The door dinged, then slid open. She stepped onto the platform and was whisked up to the 27th floor in a matter of seconds. It was almost enough to cause the blood to drain out of your head.
Max stepped off the elevator and found apartment 2712. She hesitated before knocking on the door. It wasn't going to be a pleasant conversation.
“Who is it?” the shy voice answered through the door.
“Max Mars. May I speak with you for a moment?”
A young woman with a soft face, green eyes, and brown hair pulled open the door. Her eyes and nose were red and puffy from crying almost nonstop.
"I'm sorry to disturb you at this delicate time, but I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions? I'm investigating your husband's death."
“Are you with the police?”
“No, I'm a private investigator.”
Mrs. Harmon looked skeptical.
Max tried to make a connection. “It’s Delilah, right?”
Delilah nodded. “Who do you work for?”
"I work for an attorney."
Delilah’s face tightened. “You work for the attorney representing the robot?”
Max nodded.
A scowl formed on Delilah's otherwise pleasant face. “So you want to ask questions in hopes that it may help your client? The thing that killed my husband?”
“I'm just trying to discover the truth.”
“The truth is that I'm a widow because of that bucket of bolts. Now my child is going to grow up without a father." Delilah's face was flush with anger.
Max's jaw dropped and her eyes rounded. “I'm sorry. I didn't know you had children.”
“I just found out I’m pregnant. I hadn’t even had the chance to tell Philip.” That hung in the air like smoke.
Max’s stomach knotted.
“Please don't bother me again,” Delilah said with hateful eyes.
The door clattered as it slammed in Max's face. She didn't blame Delilah for the response. Max would probably react the same way, had the situation been reversed.
Max made her way back down to the lobby and strolled onto the curb. She used her mobile to request another car, then waited. She couldn't help but notice someone sitting in a parked car down the block, watching her. It was a black sedan. From this distance, it was hard to tell the make, but it looked like a Toyoma Celectra.
An automated car pulled to the curb, and Max stepped inside. As her car pulled away, she noticed the Celectra’s lights flick on. The black sedan pulled into the lane of traffic and followed after Max. They kept their distance, hovering several car lengths behind.
8
The black sedan was still following Max when she arrived at her hotel. She pushed the door open and climbed out of the automated car. She stepped on the curb as the Celectra passed by. Max got a good look at the license plate—BE7X900126. She committed it to memory.
She strolled into the lobby and made her way to her hotel room. It was nothing to speak of—an average suite with two double beds in a stunning view of the neighboring building. But it was clean and cheap, and that was all that mattered.
Max made a beeline for the minibar and pulled out a couple single serving bottles of whiskey. It was a cheap knockoff brand, but the hotel was still going to charge an exorbitant amount for them. She poured two bottles into a flimsy plastic cup, and sipped the harsh whiskey. Max hated drinking cheap liquor, but the only other option was ordering up a bottle of Bulvacci from room service, but that would cost an arm and a leg. Life's too short to drink cheap liquor, Max was always fond of saying. Her frugal nature kept her from indulging in this instance. Her meager pension didn't allow it, and Gotro’s fee was going to eat up all of her savings. Even at friend prices.
Max grabbed the remote and flicked on the television. She flopped onto the bed and tried to relax. The mattress creaked and groaned. It was stiff as a board, but it beat sleeping on the ground in a combat zone. She had done her fair share of deployments in unwelcoming locations. A stiff, lumpy bed was a dream in comparison.
Max pulled out her mobile and called the local DMV.
“Sov Islaa DMV, this is Marcy speaking, how can I help you?"
“This is Detective Murphy with the SIPD, Precinct 2111. Our system is down right now and I need you to run a plate. Do you think you could do that for me?"
“Certainly, Detective."
Max recited the plate number, along with the make and model of the car.
After a few moments, Marcy responded. “That’s interesting… the plate is supposed to be on a cream colored Lexa SR Sport, registered to Martin Howe. Are you sure you’ve got the right number?”
“Positive.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s a stolen plate.”
“Thank you, you've been helpful.”
Marcy responded in a delightful voice, “Anything for the SIPD.”
Max ended the call. She pondered the information for a moment. Obviously, whoever was following her didn't want their identity known.
She slept with her .45 under her pillow, expecting unwelcome guests at any time. But her sleep was undisturbed, except for the obnoxious beeping of construction cranes and equipment early in the morning.
Max pulled herself out of bed and stumbled to the window. She squinted at the cityscape, still adjusting to the morning light. The building next door was under construction—a skeletal framework of concrete, rebar, and robotic construction crews. A giant crane atop the structure hoisted materials to the top.
Max wiped the sleep from her eyes and tumbled into the shower. She basked in the soothing hot water. Steam filled the bathroom. Max's skin was flawless. Despite her many previous injuries, there wasn't so much as a hint of the scar. Her advanced genetics allowed her to recover from injuries as if they’d never happened. She wasn't invulnerable, but as long as she had the chance to recuperate, she could survive situations that most humans couldn't.
After spending way too long in the shower, she stepped out of the stall and toweled off. She dried her hair and used the automated makeup station to apply her look for the day. Max was beautiful without makeup, but a little cosmetic magic never hurt anyone. The device scanned her face and presented
several complementary color schemes to choose from. Max selected a makeup style, and the articulated arms swung into action, applying eyeliner, mascara, eyeshadow, blush, and lipgloss. She was all dolled up, and looking stunning, in less than a minute.
She slipped a pair of tactical contact lenses over each eye. They were state-of-the-art optical enhancement devices. They provided digital zoom, night vision, thermal imaging, target tracking, and were Wi-Fi enabled. Live recording and still image capture made them an excellent reconnaissance tool. They had been designed specifically for the Navy Reapers, and were one of the many toys that she acquired during her time in project SW Ultra. You could pick up knockoffs on the black market, and occasionally the real thing, but they weren't cheap.
Max got dressed, grabbed her .45, and headed to the Robo-Dynamics headquarters. She wanted to talk to Philip Harmon’s manager, Charles Frazier. Perhaps Philip had angered coworkers, or been promoted ahead of a colleague? Max wanted to keep her mind open to all possibilities—all possibilities, except for the one where Winston was guilty.
The Robo-Dynamics Tower was a marvel of modern architecture—275 stories of steel and glass. Sleek, angular features, culminating with a luxurious office on top for the newly minted CEO, Elon Orlov.
Large panes of glass filled the lobby with sunlight. The elegant white space was vast, with a clean, minimal design. An interior courtyard was filled with lush greenery. Max had a sneaking suspicion they were synthetic plants. The courtyard formed a column all the way to the top of the building. It was an impressive structure.
A svelte female android sat behind the reception desk. She had glossy white plastic body panels with black and chrome parts underneath. Her teal blue eyes were almost life-like. “Welcome to Robo-Dynamics. How may I assist you?" Her voice was silky smooth.
"I'm here to see Charles Frazier,” Max said.
“Do you have an appointment?"
“No."
“May I ask what this is regarding?”
“The death of Philip Harmon." Max’s words hung in the air for a moment.
"I believe Mr. Frazier has already spoken with the police regarding this matter."