by J. S. Volpe
* * *
It wasn’t until that night, as they drove west toward Quontoon in Reynard’s Blissmobile PurplePurr, that he broached the subject that had been nagging at him since the Toy Box’s back hallway: “So, um, I saw a woman while we were escaping. One of the prostitutes, I think.”
Zezzy glanced at him but said nothing. She had been abnormally quiet and surly ever since they hit the road. He wasn’t sure if she was exhausted, if the horrors of the day had finally caught up with her, or if she blamed him for the loss of her job, friends, etc. Maybe all three.
“I think I know her,” he went on. “She has, uh, black hair, light brown skin. Kinda thin. Nice teeth.”
Zezzy rolled her eyes. “That could be one of, like, ten billion people. Besides, are you sure she wasn’t a client or something?”
“No. But she was dressed in this sort of pink-and-white outfit like a nurse.”
“Oh! You’re talking about Consuela. She’s the resident clinician.”
“Clinician?”
“Sure. By law every brothel has to have an onsite clinician. You know, someone to check the workers for diseases, make sure everyone’s up to speed on health issues, distribute contraceptives, shit like that.”
“Ahhhh.” Reynard nodded. Yep. That made a lot more sense than her being a prostitute. “Any idea what her last name is?”
She sighed wearily, as if the question were an enormous imposition. “I don’t know. I hardly ever dealt with her. If you’re that curious you could try contacting the Toy Box’s management.”
“Uh, think I’ll pass.”
“Figured as much.” She gazed out the window at the starlit surface of the Saros River for a moment, then turned to look at him again, her expression pinched with what looked like jealousy despite her repeated protestations that their relationship was strictly professional. “So where do you know her from anyway? She’s not a con, is she? She always struck me as a total square.”
“No, she’s not a con,” he said. Then he chuckled. “She’s just someone I always happen to run into when there are killer robots on the loose.”
Zezzy’s eyes narrowed, and she sank down into her seat with her arms folded across her chest.
“Fine, don’t tell me, jackass,” she muttered.
7
The T-Net
6692 A.C.