It disgusted Isellia, as much as she loved the one-seater. What was the point of not going for it all? What’s the point of entering a race if you didn’t intend to leave everything on the course for a shot at first? But then, those racers continued on in the circuit. Trying to pull off a risky move to take the trophy and being disqualified for a “mechanical” — the term for when a racer can’t continue because their ship is in disrepair — would eventually get sponsors to rescind their offers. XR racing takes money, after all.
Her XR was her pride. She could take it apart and put it back together; she had, in fact, several times. She’d made the ship her own as much as was possible. But at some point, making any noticeable changes requires money.
But would they make enough of a difference? She frowned when she thought about everyone watching her, depending on her success. She wanted it to be for the glory of winning. She wanted to win so badly. It was in her blood.
It was for him.
He taught her to fly, to speed faster than should have been humanly possible. To stare death in the face and laugh. Because that’s what it took to win in the deadly sport of XR racing. The career pilot that owned her XR before her didn’t understand that. He was fodder, a racer there to collect a check. Skilled, perhaps, but not lacking the drive to win.
He lasted — he was probably able to retire, hang up his racing suit and tell XR stories to his grandkids.
But they wouldn’t be stories of wins.
Wallace, her father — he wouldn’t ever meet her grandkids, if she ever had any. But she would tell the stories. Of his victories.
And as they made their way to the Farven Point surface, she hoped she would begin the first of several of her own stories.
“Hey,” a deep voice interrupted her thoughts. “Where did those come from?”
Chapter 21
The robot’s aluminite pedal pad pressed into the yellow desert sand on the colony, leaving squarish prints as it ambulated toward the energy source its sensors detected. Its joints creaked and sparked as bare metal ground against bare metal that should have been coated in lubricant. It groaned with movement that should have been effortless.
It was running out of oil.
The sun set on the horizon, easing its way into the sand like an over-easy egg about to burst out of its thin membrane, oozing orange glow into the sky around it. The robot’s visual sensors adjusted to the incoming glare, adding a polarizing layer that nullified the overbearing light, allowing it to accurately perceive its surroundings.
The robot’s designers built it for the desert, for many conditions, to adapt to whatever environment it found itself in. Robots are designed for the harsh rigors of a lunar surface, oppressively dark on one half, blazingly bright on the other. Robots worked in mines, on the surface of traveling spaceships, on otherwise uninhabitable planet surfaces.
Of course, robots weren’t meant to perform that work without maintenance.
But at that moment, the robot wasn’t receiving the maintenance it needed, and the lack of repair wore the robot down into the sand as it trudged on. It needed oil.
No ordinary lubricant would do for the robot; not even an oil designed to technical standards. Robotics employ a synthetic blend of lubricants that function better than the ordinary petroleum-based variety used in simple machines, such as was once used in the automobiles of Old Earth. The oil blend is long lasting, but not infinite; it has to be changed eventually. And the robot was long past due for that change.
“Malfunction immanent,” its robotic voice crackled toward the horizon. Its strides appeared to be in slow motion, a comical version of the normally smooth and highly efficient robot.
The robot stopped mid-walk, its pedal pad twitching in the sand as it struggled to move its leg forward. Its central processing unit sent information to its motor unit to operate the pad, giving the gears and servos in its leg all the specific instructions it needs to ambulate toward the horizon, but its feedback system informed its processors that the task was impossible.
It was stuck in the sand in the middle of the desert.
The robot was programmed to continue, but it could not. It calculated that the energy source was not far away, but in the robot’s current state, it remained out of reach. The robot fell face down in its last effort to move forward, its visual sensors now inundated with the darkness of the desert sand.
A boy appeared after a few moments, watching the robot as it lay in the sand. The robot was aware of his presence as it sought the ROU holstered at its hip. Emergency safety overrides allowed it to expend more energy than it should have, and it managed to pull the weapon out of its holster and pointed in the general direction of the boy. But that was all the power the robot had left; immediately dropping the weapon, it fell to a gritty rest, oscillator glowing red into the sand.
All went black for the robot as it powered down. The boy stared at the fallen machine, stillness hanging in the desert air.
“Cool,” Joey said, staring wide-eyed and amazed.
***
Porter sat in his quarters, on the hard bunk covered by a thin sheet, his hands folded in his lap on his cargo pants. He stared at the wall in his captain's quarters — only slightly bigger than the others, and few more amenities. The room contained extra functions, such as a direct tie-in to the navigation system, along with a monitor to measure nearly everything on the ship. A reminder that the captain’s work never really ended. There was no such thing as “off-duty.”
The landing had gone smoothly enough — the orbital elevators were as efficient as he expected. It had been some time since he'd been on Farven Point, and he still marveled at the way it always appeared elegant, yet industrial. He wanted to describe it as dirty, but that wasn't quite it. Something about the atmosphere gave it the fade of a watercolor painting.
He'd already been holed up in his bunk by then. The others had gone out to explore the area near the elevator. He imagined their three guests were up to whatever it was they’d come to do. It bothered him that whatever that was, exactly, he had no idea. He had the feeling of being used, but then that’s somewhat the nature of the business he was in. Smugglers serve a purpose, and that’s what they’re used for. He supposed that’s the nature of most businesses, when it comes right down to it.
Most of the time, he gave little thought to what they were smuggling. He had rules — no weapons, for example. People looking to get weapons usually already had plenty of their own, and knew how to use them. He didn’t care much what they did with them — that was their business. But he knew the stats all too well — weapons smugglers ended up dead statistically a little too often for his liking. Not worth the risk.
His rules were always based on risk, not principle. A smuggler couldn’t afford too many principles — no money in it. He’d found that out the hard way.
Outside of smuggling, however, he stuck to his principles religiously. Stealing, for example. It wasn’t worth the risk — being banished from a port would seriously hamper his business prospects. But in addition to that, but he didn’t believe in stealing — especially not from other “businessmen.” It made good sense, but even an outlaw had to have some kind of principals.
So it bothered him that he was pretty sure Isellia was becoming a thief. She sputtered when he confronted her about the cooling coils that seemed to have magically appeared in her possession. She tried assuming a nonchalant attitude as she claimed to already have had them, but her facial color, which darkened enough to rival her bangs, betrayed her subterfuge. She took them, likely on Sasuga, from what he could figure. He had no idea where or when, but that wasn’t really what bothered him right now.
He would confront her about it at some point. Not now. Too much going on, he decided. He had enough to deal with.
The hatch to his quarters opened with a creak. He looked up, surprised he was not alone. Had someone broken into the ship? Did they not seal the hatch? Looters weren't common on Farven Point, but they weren't unheard of.
..
Instead, Celia walked through the doorway, answering his questions before he had long to ask them. He eased back into his previous posture, his back resting on the bulkhead again.
"It's only you," Porter sighed. The bunk creaked as he readjusted to his original position, wondering what fresh nuisance she was bringing his way.
"Only me?" Celia grinned. She continued walking toward him, her stiletto heels clicking against the hard metal. He raised an eyebrow as the long, thin stilettos’ strikes against the deck of his quarters drew his attention to her body as she approached. The assassin could move as silently as she pleased, he’d already observed, so he knew she was purposefully capturing his attention. What did she want?
She crossed the room to his bunk, sliding onto it with the ease of a leopard sauntering onto a rock. Her clothing stretched enticingly as she slid past him, curled up against his back and ran her hands over his shoulder.
He tensed, not sure what was going on. No, he was pretty sure he knew what was going on, but he wasn’t sure why. It had been a long time since he’d been with a woman, and never one like her. He was old enough to know something was about to happen, yet part of him doubted it. Wasn’t she with Rex? They’d seemed so close, he’d just assumed that was the case. Was this part of some game?
He let out a sigh as her fingers worked into his shoulders, finding just the right release point. Tension suddenly disappeared, his shoulders sank into a relaxed position and his breath increased.
“Relax,” she purred into his ear, close enough for her breath to touch his ear.
She worked his back and shoulders more, finding the knots and twists brought about by years of labor without rest, stress without release. She lifted his shirt, revealing his large, dark muscled back and shoulders, which she rubbed more.
Without warning and without much effort, she guiding him back on his bunk, his body easing onto it softer than he had ever remembered, the tension gone from most of his body. She perched over him, wearing only the tiniest bit of underwear that covered only a tiny fraction of her perfect body. When had she slipped that catsuit off? he thought, staring up at her in disbelief.
He felt desire start to overtake him, then he shook his head in disbelief. This had gone on too far.
“Listen,” he began, but she put her hand over his mouth.
“Shh,” she purred, putting her other finger over her pursed lips, and ran her other hand down his body until it met something it liked.
He tensed as she grabbed him with a gentle yet firm grip. She lay down next to him, stroking him.
“I said, relax,” she whispered in his ear, and for a moment Porter eased back, forgot everything and resolved himself to let whatever this was happen.
***
Isellia stomped through the Farven Point streets, hands clenching in frustration as she moved with the tenacity of a rolling thunderstorm. Joey did his best to keep up, purposefully leaving a bit of distance between the two, not entirely sure of what had sent her mood into a downward spiral but sure he didn’t want to get into its destructive path.
Joey realized he’d been fixated on her mood. Only after they passed through an impressive arch, rusty and ancient, and out of sync with the rest of its modern surroundings, did he notice the size of the buildings, which seemed to stretch up to the sky. They were metallic in tone, faded colors like chrome covered in years worth of dust. The sun of Farven Point, much larger than the one Joey was used to, faded through a thick haze that seemed to perpetually surround the city.
An old man carrying a sign in a language he couldn’t read bumped into him from behind, breaking Joey’s revelry. He turned to apologize to the man, but his words fell on deaf ears as the man bustled by, shouting at people as he passed. Joey watched him a bit out of curiosity, but realized that Isellia paid him no mind as she rolled like a thundercloud over the Farven Point horizon. Joey wondered when the proverbial rain would finally fall as he jogged to catch up, running in that gangly fashion young boys often do.
He tapped Isellia on the shoulder as he caught up, catching his breath a little. A red flush found Joey’s face as he realized it wasn’t Isellia’s shoulder that he grabbed, but a similarly pink-haired stranger. The woman was much older than young Isellia, and instead of a pink flight suit she wore a pink dress with nearly the same form-fitting quality. The woman snorted and turned, not seeming to care much one way or another about what had happened.
Joey shook his head and looked around. A slight panic struck him as he realized Isellia had disappeared. He spun around, looking frantically. Rex, Stephen and the others went out the east exit, and told Joey and Isellia to stick to the main square in front of the entrance. The feeling of being lost gave him a slight chill, as the embarrassment turned to fear of being alone. Then he remembered that the dock was right behind him. He could find his way to the ship, presumably, with a little searching. The thought comforted him a little.
He jumped at a tap on his shoulder.
"This way, dummy," Isellia said, looking impatiently at him. He turned slightly red, once again embarrassed.
"Sorry," Joey said.
"Whatever, come on,” Isellia said, grabbing his hand. "Stay close, it's easy to get lost here." He followed him, feeling like he was being dragged more than led, and quickly they were surrounded by a throng of people. He stared down at the hand that held him, feminine yet strong. The contact from Isellia made him feel both good and uncomfortable. Joey quickly cut off his enjoyment of the moment, not wanting Isellia to catch on to what was going on in his head.
"Where are they all going?" Joey said absently, looking at all of the people. Most seemed human, though with unusual variations. A person with unnaturally bright orange hair brushed Joey’s shoulder; a man with metallic silver eyes stared at him; a woman with fur and long claws — he was pretty sure she purred at him.
Isellia kept pulling Joey, enough to keep him hurtling forward through the crowd and stopping him from staring at anyone for too long.
"Are you OK?" Joey asked, once he found a being-dragged-along rhythm. "Are you mad or something?"
Isellia didn't hurl an insult or rebuttal, like she often did. She said nothing as she continued to drag him further from the dock.
A large screen caught Joey's attention on the side of one of the buildings. On it was a very clean-cut man with dark-rimmed glasses, dressed in what Joey could only guess was a very expensive suit. He seemed very confident, articulate, and had a nasally voice that pierced the crowd’s din. It sounded to Joey like he was delivering an address.
"... and that's why it is truly an honor to be able to offer this tremendous opportunity, which by its very nature presents a multitude of potentialities for our community assets. With the introduction of the triple C employment services, our presence in the galaxy will not only be multitudinous, but will exponentially grow with reciprocity agreements that..."
“Are those even real words?” Joey laughed. “I think he just made those up!” Joey smirked as he looked at Isellia, who’d stopped in front of the screen.
"You know, if he'd have given me the money in the first place," Isellia muttered to herself. Joey could tell by her posture that she was pouting.
"Huh? What money?" Joey looked confused, scratching his head.
Isellia turned around suddenly. "I mean, we had to take them, right? How else would I have — I mean, I need them for the race. And what about an attack? I mean, space is full of stuff that wants to kill you, right? I need to be at my best!”
"Um, sure, I suppose, I —“
"So how would I have the ship in tip-top condition without them? And it wasn't easy. It's not like I didn't earn them. We worked hard. You helped. He’d be mad at you too if he’d found out!”
"Mad at me? But I—“
"Cause he only yells at me, that's why. I'm always at fault. What makes him think he knows everything? Like he's so great. We're smugglers, right? It’s not like we always follow the law, right?”
“Really? Well, I—“
"And then this whole thing with Rex and Celia—" Isellia stopped mid-sentence as an XR — what sounded to her like an XR-15 — whizzed over her head. Her face changed as the ship soared overhead, her skyward face suddenly lighting up with excitement.
"What about Rex and—"
“Oh forget it, let's go!" Isellia pulled his arm so hard Joey thought for a moment it might come off, as she pulled him further into the heart of Farven Point toward a distant noise Joey didn’t yet recognize.
***
Porter stood polishing the consoles diligently, carefully digging into each crevice with care as Stephen, Kenpur and Rex returned. Porter looked up at them, gave them a quick nod before returning to his cleaning.
"It is settled," Kenpur said, settling into a seat on the side of the bridge. "We meet with the administrator of Farven Point tomorrow."
"Fine," Porter said, nodding without looking up from his cleaning. He rubbed extra hard at what appeared to be a coffee stain.
Rex eyed him suspiciously. "Nothing to say about it?"
Porter's heart skipped a beat, but he was relatively sure he maintained his poker face without his rag missing a swipe. "What do you mean?"
“Before you didn't want nothing to do with what the old man is up to. Now you could care less?”
Porter looked at the old man, who grinned at him a moment before resting back in the chair, closing his eyes. He had a self-satisfied look that Porter hoped had to do more with results of his meeting with the administrator than any knowledge of his encounter with Celia. Porter decided to bank on the former.
"It doesn't matter, Rex,” Kenpur said, his eyes still closed. "Tomorrow it will all be settled."
“What will be settled?” Porter asked, with only a hint of inquisitiveness.
Robot Awareness: Special Edition Page 25