Clockwork Villains

by T. J. Lockwood

“DND?”

  He smiles. “Do Not Disturb.”

  I point to the ground and try my best to hide my disappointment at DND not meaning Dungeons and Dragons. “Talia said the sub-basement laboratory.”

  “Presumably. In times of ‘do not disturb’ the doctor turns off his location signal.”

  I pause. “Do I have a location signal?”

  He nods. “Yes, all parties allowed into the network do.”

  “Piper?” Robbie steps into the room. His appearance has changed. He looks like he’s ready to commit a heist.

  I push off the chair. “Where have you been? I’ve been kidnapped, told I should submit to being a willing prisoner, and apparently my father has locked himself in a room.”

  Robbie sighs. “It’s been a journey, miss. I apologize for the delay.”

  Georgie looks like he’s glaring at Robbie. “Unidentified data stream transfer—please identify file origin.”

  Robbie shakes his head. “Fascinating.”

  I walk over to him. “What’s fascinating? You’re saying that word way too much, you know?”

  Robbie steps towards Georgie. “I know you can’t see this, but his code… it’s like looking in a mirror, so to speak. There are a few differences, but the root programming is—”

  “Please identify file origin.”

  Robbie nods. “MagHaven, server R0331E—partition level administrative.”

  Georgie disappears and reappears in a matter of seconds. “Permissions to access this system have not been granted.”

  I make eye contact with Robbie. “What does that mean?”

  He swallows hard. “It means he’s going to try to forcibly remove me.”

  Robbie pushes me out of the way as Georgie flickers and tackles him to the ground. My shoulder hits a bookcase rather hard, but I don’t feel the effects of the impact. Both programs begin a scuffle worthy of a bar brawl back in MagHaven.

  Robbie kicks Georgie off him and rolls to his feet with ease. His stance exudes confidence. “This is nonsense.”

  Georgie snaps his fingers and a small revolver appears in his hand. “You are not registered as a welcomed guest.”

  Robbie raises both hands. “Violence isn’t necessary. We are civilized machines. I’m sure we can work something—”

  Georgie pulls the trigger and the next thing I know, Robbie falls back into the wall and slides down to the ground.

  I’m frozen in place. Why can’t I move? I feel my heart beating faster and faster in my chest. I want to hide, jump behind the big couch in the corner, but I don’t. Robbie begins to shake and I feel like I should go help him, but Georgie is here and I don’t know what he’ll do if I move.

  “Piper...” Robbie looks over to me. His shoulder looks blurred—pixelated. “I’ll... I’ll be back. I promise.”

  Georgie pulls the trigger again, but Robbie disappears before the bullet hits him. Silence gently blankets the room. Neither one of us moves for what feels like a really long time. Can that weapon hurt me? Georgie lets go of his weapon and I watch as it fades away completely before hitting the ground.

  I’m ready to jump behind the couch. “Georgie?”

  He turns, adjusts his vest, and smiles. “My apologies, Miss Piper. What was your decision on the ham and cheese omelette?”

  I take a deep breath and move closer to the couch. “Sure. An omelette will be fine.”

  There is no mistaking the waver in my voice and yet Georgie carries on as if nothing were amiss. I start frantically looking for a way out, but stop as Georgie begins to hum. A few seconds later and the humming becomes a song he sings to himself.

  There is a window, but I’m too nervous to move. I don’t know how big a drop it would be to the bottom.

  The singing stops. “Cheddar, miss?”

  I nod.

  There is no chance in hell that I’d be faster than a machine.

  8

  THE BARTENDER'S BLUEPRINT

  FEAR CAN BE PARALYZING. I used to see this nightly from behind the bar of Cano’s Tavern. Now, MagHaven is a big place and Cano’s certainly isn’t the only place to get a drink, but the where doesn’t matter at all; people are easily susceptible to self-doubt and often look to the nearest bartender for some liquid courage.

  The truth is, such a thing doesn’t exist. The alcohol may provide lucid thoughts, but courage is courage. People are responsible for their actions and alcohol shouldn’t be a necessary crutch. End of story. No substance can help you deal in the long term. I have no problem serving, but drinking is another story entirely.

  I think back to the days before I took off after the train. On the surface, I wanted to find my father, but I’d be kidding myself if I thought that was my only reason for leaving. It’s stupid to chase after someone—anyone—once they’d left you a long time ago. No, I think what I wanted, and what I still want, is to belong.

  “Hey, bartender, one neutron star please.” It was a quiet Tuesday and I had just set the playlist to a string of retro rock hits. The music contrasted with the jazz-themed interior, but I didn’t care. The only jazz this place played was on Sundays and even then it depended on whether or not the band decided to show up. I’m almost certain Cano’s was a front for something. There is no way we had enough foot traffic to keep the place open with the regulars.

  I nodded and took a brief survey of the bar. Aside from the guy who just ordered the drink, two ladies were shooting pool by the pinball machine. “Coming right up.”

  The man was tall, tired, and looked like the day had been more than he’d bargained for. I didn’t ask, but people have a tendency to tell. It’s the liquor—humankind’s oldest truth serum.

  I popped open the shaker and grabbed a bottle of raspberry vodka off the shelf. Of all the booze back there, I definitely went through that one the most. Two ounces flowed from bottle to shaker and I was reaching for the amaretto before the last drop hit the ice. “You prefer Cola or Peps?” I made eye contact as the amaretto filled the jigger.

  The man shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

  I paused. “That’s where you’re wrong, sir. Depending on your mood, one most certainly will be better than the other.”

  He sighed. “Cola will be fine.”

  I smiled, closed up the shaker, and spun it in my palm. “Excellent choice.”

  The amber liquid traveled around the ice in the shaker, stopping only as I paused to rim the glass with pop rocks. The man started tapping his fingers against the bar. He was getting antsy, and that made me hyper aware of every little movement.

  Two cubes, the contents of the shaker, and a final top-off with cola signaled the completion of the cocktail. I dropped in three raspberries for good measure—that’s not standard part of the garnish, but I always found the extra bits gave the drink just a little more punch. I wiped the counter and placed the drink on a coaster in front of him. He downed it in record time.

  “Another.” He barely had time to catch his breath before speaking. “And a shot of vodka on the side.”

  I nodded and began the cocktail-making process again. “You want to order some food as well? I can have the kitchen whip up something for you.” Fast drinkers are fifty percent more likely to run out without paying and this guy had the mark of a runner all over him.

  He shook his head. “No, it’s ok. After this, I think I’m good.”

  I prepped the shaker. “Want to settle up now then? It’ll save you the trouble later if you’re in a hurry.”

  He paused. “Umm... no. I’ll just do it then.”

  The next neutron star I made him had almost no alcohol in it. He downed it just as fast and was partway through swallowing his vodka as he made a break for the door.

  The two women at the pool table tackled him to the ground before he so much as touched the handle.

  I rolled my eyes and began wiping down the bar.

  “He clear his tab, Piper?” The woman with blue hair called over her shoulder.

  I sighed. “Nope. Thanks, Josie
.”

  She smiled. “Anytime, girl.”

  Heinrich, the line cook, came out from the kitchen and looked at me with an exasperated expression. “It’s my turn, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, it is.”

  He rolled his eyes. “How much?”

  “Two drinks and a shot.”

  He sighed and looked at the man currently being pinned to the ground. “Jeez, man. Why did you go and do that? Now I got to do something I don’t want to.”

  Both the girls got up and went back to their game of pool while Heinrich grabbed the guy by the collar and dragged him outside. This was the daily—someone always ran out, and when it was my turn to chase them down and force payment, I found myself less than capable. Reading people—especially the desperate ones—isn’t hard, but I don’t have it in me to... force matters. Most of the time I’d buy the sob story and settle their tab out of my own pocket.

  We all wanted nothing more than to become citizens and yet, at that moment in that bar, I didn’t know how.

  I was good at my job—very good, but I wasn’t fulfilled. Watching Heinrich flexing his knuckles after the encounter only confirmed that for me.

  Bartenders didn’t earn tickets. If I wanted something different, I had to get creative. That was when I planned it all out with Robbie and put the operation in motion. I was going to get to RigMire, even if the trip ended up killing me.

  9

  THE EMPTY HALLWAY

  THE STEAM FROM THE PLATE carries the subtle scent of cured ham and melted cheese. I find myself sitting at the head of a long dining table with eight seats on either side. Georgie smiles in a welcoming manner. If I hadn’t seen what he did to Robbie, I would have found it hard to believe that his programming would allow him to be violent in any way. His mannerisms are all wrong. They aren’t human.

  His eyes are fixed on me, waiting for feedback on the plate he prepared in record time. Wouldn’t surprise me if he made this meal daily.

  “Is something amiss, ma’am? Do you require pepper?” Georgie looks ready to program extra seasoning.

  I pick up the fork and sigh. “No, Georgie. This looks perfect, thank you.”

  I can’t help but be cautious as I dig into the omelette and wiggle a corner free. The room is silent, apart from my own movements, that is. The omelette tastes as I expect it to—lots of cheese and a hint of tabasco for a kick. This is a meal for my father.

  “Georgie?” I swallow and set my fork down. “I want to see my father.”

  He pauses. “Ma’am, as I explained before—”

  “I don’t care. Take me to him.”

  “Miss Piper...”

  I slide my chair back and walk out of the room. Georgie appears beside me every few steps to protest, but he doesn’t do more than follow like some annoying ghost.

  The hallway looks the same every time I turn the corner. I can’t help but wonder if I am going around in circles.

  “Miss Piper...” Georgie appears directly in front of me.

  I shove him to the side and continue forward.

  “Manners, Miss Piper. My programming says you were taught them.”

  I stop mid-step and turn to face the piece of code who is now receiving the full brunt of the unimpressed look on my face. “I’m sorry. What the fuck did you just say?”

  Georgie takes a step back. “Miss Piper, I didn’t mean—”

  “No, come on. Talk. What did you just say?”

  He pauses. “Miss Piper—”

  “You’ve got some nerve talking to me like I’m a child. I grew up on my own in a very empty house with a mainframe who tried very hard to understand human behaviour. My father left me to fend for myself, so yes, I was taught manners, but no, it most certainly wasn’t from him. Get out of my way, or so help me, I will fuck you up so bad that not even my father will be able to piece your code back together.” I’m ready to hit him. Ever since I was little, Robbie has been helping me control my temper, but sometimes there are triggers that no amount of mindfulness exercises can help with.

  Georgie stands with his back straight, but his eyes convey something I hadn’t seen before—he looks hurt.

  He bows slightly and makes sure not to make eye contact as he straightens his posture once again. “My apologies, ma’am.”

  And with that he disappears.

  Aside from the hum of the lights, it is silent. For a long time, I feel as though I’m frozen in place. My stomach starts to feel uneasy. I feel bad, but I shouldn’t.

  Should I?

  Georgie is just a program. He doesn’t have feelings.

  But Robbie has feelings.

  “I’m such an asshole.” I take a deep breath and kick the wall.

  No, he shot Robbie. I will not apologize to the program who hurt my friend. Why is this bothering me so much? I shouldn’t be feeling guilty about this.

  “Why is your hue crimson?” That voice again.

  I look up and see the silhouette of a man standing across the hall. His features are blurred out just like Talia’s were back in the bakery.

  When you’ve spent a long time imagining how something would play out, the moment feels familiar when it finally comes. The anticipation is supposed to melt into something positive. Right here and right now, I feel none of that. I can’t remember how this moment was playing out before. All I recognize is the here and the now. I shouldn’t have come here—I didn’t need to come here.

  I’m quite done with playing games.

  “Piper?” The silhouette offers a hand, but I shake my head and turn away.

  “Fuck off, Dad.”

  All of this was a mistake. Sneaking onto that train, the incident at the bakery, dragging Robbie into this oversized mess of a hard drive—all a mistake.

  I look at the silhouette. Why did I want to find him? “This place isn’t a paradise; it’s a prison.”

  The silhouette solidifies and for a long moment I’m staring into my father’s artificially brightened blue eyes. “Pip...”

  I shake my head. “I can’t tell what’s real in this place.”

  His hue is a distinct chartreuse. I can’t help but marvel at how it brings out his features. I have no doubt that you’d notice him the moment he entered a room. He looks important, while I am still crimson. It’s very clear you’d notice me, but for the opposite reason.

  “I’m real—all this is real. I promise.” He looks as if he’s studying me.

  I step away from him. “People aren’t supposed to live like this, appearing and disappearing at will. What is the point of being healthy if people eat what they want because they want it? Nothing has consequences here. It’s not natural.”

  He sighs. “Will you... let me show you something? I think you’d understand RigMire better if you just—”

  “Dad, I want to go home.”

  There it is; the look of pure disappointment. He looks as if he’s struggling to find the right words. “That’s impossible.”

  I pause. “Nothing is impossible.”

  He chuckles. “In this case, it is. Accepting the terms and conditions meant you consented to this life. Your body was forfeit the moment you entered RigMire. Like it or not, every action has a consequence.”

  I nod. “I didn’t, though.”

  “You didn’t what?”

  “Agree to the terms and conditions.”

  The expression on his face shifts. He’s agitated. “What do you mean?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know how I could have been any clearer.”

  “No, no no no no...”

  “Dad?”

  He turns away and then disappears in front of me. I should be used to this weird teleportation thing, but it still bothers me every time it happens.

  I stand alone as I’ve done for years, but this time it’s different. This time I feel trapped with nowhere to go. I move to continue down the hallway when my father reappears next to me.

  “I need you to tell me everything. Absolutely everything. Spare no detail.
” In one hand is a small memo pad; in the other is a very fancy-looking pen.

  “You want to do this now?”

  He nods, snaps his fingers, and suddenly I find myself in what looks to be an extravagant study. My father—I’m swirling with emotions. I want to hug him, I want to hit him, I’m oddly relieved and I’m angry. I’m just so angry. This isn’t the time nor the place for reconciling. When I’m pissed off, the best thing for me to be is alone, but it doesn’t look like that’s an option right now.

  10

  THE LONG GOODBYE

  BOOKS ARE A COMFORT LIKE NO OTHER. I’m not talking about the electronic files of text on screens, but of stories with real pages bound together in your hands. I’ve gotten through all of the lowest points in my life with a book recommendation from Robbie and a cup of warm tea.

  I want to bundle up on a couch and get lost in a world totally unlike this one right here. My father walks over to a small cabinet and pulls out an almost-full bottle of what looks like whiskey. He doesn’t look at me after he finishes pouring the liquid into a glass, nor does he say anything as he hands the drink to me. No eye contact, no words—nothing.

  “What are you doing?” I smell the drink—definitely whiskey.

  He looks mildly startled. “It helps.”

  I nod. “And what does it help exactly?”

  “With words.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  He starts writing on his pad. I set the drink down on one of the side tables. For a few seconds, the only sound I hear is the scratching of his pen. Why is it even making a sound at all?

  Then he stops.

  I shake my head. “What are you doing?”

  He sighs. “Waiting for you to start your story.”

  “What story?”

  “The one that begins with how you got here. I need to know every variable. Spare no detail.” He sits down in an old French provincial style chair next to the alcohol cabinet.

  I consider being dramatic with the whiskey, but don’t. Instead, I make my way to a large window leading to a balcony. He doesn’t react as I unlatch the lock and step outside. The air feels lighter here—fresher even. The city looks distant. This house looks to be a good hundred kilometers from the main roads. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought this place were a palace.