by Steve Perry
“You can really save him, Zac?”
“Yes, Annabelle. And that is precisely what I’m going to do.”
She smiled at him. “Thank you.”
Robillard nodded, then said: “This isn’t over, you know?”
“I know.”
“I’ll never come back to WorldTech.”
“I understand.”
“Fine.”
“Just as long as you realize, Zac, that I’ll never stop hunting you.”
“I figured as much.”
“I’ll catch you eventually.”
“Try it.”
Annabelle wiped her eyes. “But for now, I’ll let you go safely, because you have my son. Take good care of him, Zac.”
“I will.”
“Because I’ll have him back one day . . . and the two of us will enjoy looking at your stuffed fucking head hanging on the wall of our living room.”
Robillard laughed.
Annabelle sneered at him.
Then the skylight shattered, glass raining down, a cable dropped into the computer room and a figure came sliding down, spraying automatic gunfire in all directions, taking out the guards in the hall and destroying a section of the computer.
Janus swung around and threw himself from the cable, landed solidly on both feet, pulled a grenade from his pocket, and shoved the business end of the gun against Zac’s temple.
“You double-crossed me, Annabelle,” he shouted.
“Danny?” said Killaine, staring at him in shock.
“Hello, Janus,” said Annabelle.
Janus kicked out with his left leg, hooked his foot into the handle of the portable chamber, and pulled it over. “I’ve got half a mind to kill your dear old Zachary and blow the rest of this place to hell,” he shouted.
None of the I-Bots dared to make a move toward him while he controlled that chamber.
“I warned you, Annabelle—never screw me. I can be one nasty son-of-a-bitch when I choose to.”
“So I see.”
Annabelle hoped the panic she felt wasn’t evident in her voice.
Janus slowly turned to face the I-Bots, using Zac as a shield and moving the portable chamber with his foot.
“Okay, you pieces of mechanical shit,” he said. “Move! Into the hall—NOW!”
He snapped his head toward Killaine, who felt a pain in her center that defied any she’d ever known before.
“You’re . . . you’re Janus?” she croaked.
“What? You develop an affection for the hump and braces?”
Then he did something that no one else but Killaine saw.
He gave a quick grin and winked at her. . . .
Itazura and Gash moved toward a blasted section of gate, their swords colliding so fast and furiously that the blades could barely be seen.
Finally, Itazura pulled back, bent his legs, and jumped into the air, executing a double somersault over Gash’s head and snap-kicking his opponent in the small of the back before landing behind him.
Gash screamed.
He fell one way.
His sword went another.
Itazura stood over Gash, sliding his own sword back into its sheath. “I’m sorry I had to do that,” he said. “But I’m kind of pressed for time.” He knelt beside Gash. “Don’t worry about that numbness you’re feeling right now. I haven’t crippled you or anything like that. Just don’t move from this spot, all right? I’ll make sure to send an ambulance for you.”
“. . . no . . .” Gash croaked.
He reached out for his sword.
Itazura laughed. “You’re in no condition to continue the fight.”
“. . . I don’t wish to fight with you any longer . . .”
“Then . . . what?”
Gash stared directly into Itazura’s eyes. “Can we call this a matter of honor?”
Then Itazura understood.
“I’m sorry, Gash. I can’t do that.”
“. . . yes, you can . . .”
“No, I really can’t. It’s a programming conflict that can’t be overridden.”
Gash turned pale. “ . . . programming conflict?”
“Bites, doesn’t it?” said Itazura. “You’ve been playing whupass with a robot all along and never knew it.”
He rose, then he turned and walked away as Gash screamed: “A FUCKIN’ ROBOT! YOU’RE A FUCKIN’ ROBOT? COME BACK HERE! ELL PULL YOUR HEAD OFF WITH MY HANDS! WRECKAGE! WRECKAGE! I WANT MY WRECKAAAAAAAAAAAGE!”
“Too bad,” shouted Itazura over his shoulder. “But we all need a nemesis to keep our lives interesting, don’t we?”
He looked beyond the gates and saw no sign of the crowding shadows.
Maybe the Stompers couldn’t stand to see their leader fall to a Tin Man. . . .
* * *
In the hallway, Janus looked around, made sure all the guards were dead, then pushed Zac away. “All right, there’s a chopper by the east gate and a truck just outside what’s left of the west end of the compound. You’ve got a better chance of getting out of here if you split up and take different types of vehicles.”
They all stared at him.
Killaine approached him cautiously. “Why are you doing this?”
“She double-crossed me.”
Killaine shook her head. “I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care right now,” yelled Janus, then let fly with a burst of gunfire into the ceiling. “That was for the benefit of any approaching guards.”
“Come with us,” said Killaine.
“Oh, right—like that’s going to save me now.”
Zac was the next to speak. “You don’t have to help us, Janus.”
“Well, duh. Thanks for clearing that up.”
Killaine grabbed his arm and turned him to face her. “Why are you doing this?”
“Tell your friends to start getting the hell out of here and I’ll tell you—only you.”
Killaine cast a pleading look at the others. “Please?”
They began to scatter.
Killaine shouted, “Radiant—remember Singer!”
Then faced Janus again. “We’re alone and there’s not a lot of time. Why did you—?”
“I only lied to you about my name and the scoliosis,” said Janus. “Everything else I told you was the truth. I was a carny as a kid, I did time at the Ohio Pen for running a flat store, I love kids and wish to hell I could protect them all from chronos . . . and I’m crazy about you.” He pulled her close and kissed her on the lips.
Killaine didn’t fight it.
She didn’t want to.
Janus pulled back and began leading her toward the exit where the others were waiting for her. “Listen to me, Killaine. I never, ever, not once in my whole miserable life gave a thought to the state of my soul because I never believed I had one . . . until I met you. I’ve done things for money that would make you sick—”
“—I don’t care, Janus, I don’t care, I love you and—”
“—and I love you, too, for what it’s worth, but I refuse to poison you with what’s inside me—don’t look at me like that, no one’s being noble here, I’m just stating a fact. Violence is not just something I do, it’s what I am. I could try to rein it in, and who knows, I might be able to for a while. But it always rises to the surface, Killaine. Always. And it’s black and it stinks and it infects everyone and everything around me and I won’t do that to you! I never understood what genuine decency was before I met you, and I almost wish I still didn’t understand—but I’ll never regret having known you. Never.” He pushed her outside.
“Janus,” said Killaine. “You can come with us, we can use someone with your—”
“I would grow old, Killaine. I would get sick. And I would die. And somewhere along the line I would start resenting you. I love you more than anything I’ve ever had or ever will have in my life.” He looked behind him. “Guards are coming.” He slammed a fresh clip into his weapon and, not looking back at Killaine, said, “I wish we could hav
e gone on the carousel together,” then opened fire and ran toward the new wave of guards, hosing the area and tossing the grenade, then somebody screamed and the entire hallway went up in fire, smoke, and debris. . . .
* * *
Zac, Radiant, and Psy–4 took the chopper.
Roy was with them, safely functioning in his new, temporary home.
Killaine, Stonewall, Itazura, and Singer took the truck, a military-style transport with a green canvas tarpaulin tenting its bed.
Stonewall drove, and Itazura rode up front with him.
As they sped through the night, Killaine held Singer’s head in her lap, watching as the red glow of his eyes slowly faded.
The equivalent of a human stroke, Zac had said.
Like the robot in the Scrapper Camp, there was nothing anyone could do for Singer.
And so Killaine held him in his last minutes of life and wept for not having known him better, or longer, or, ultimately, at all.
Maybe she wept for herself, as well.
For all the loss and guilt and pain she’d had to absorb over the last few days.
She was pulled out of herself by the touch of Singer’s hand against hers.
She wiped her eyes, leaned down, and whispered, “What is it? What do you need?”
Not here, he signed.
“What do you—?”
Not in here. Not in darkness and hiding.
Killaine couldn’t find her voice.
Under . . . stars. I want . . . stars . . . under.
She nodded her head, understanding.
“Stop!” she screamed. “Stop the truck!”
Stonewall braked and drove the truck to the side of the road.
Itazura jumped out, ran to the back, and threw aside the tarpaulin. “What is it?”
But Killaine was already climbing out and down, cradling Singer in her arms.
“He doesn’t want to die in there. He wants to die under the stars.”
Itazura shook his head. “Killaine, look, I know how you must feel, but—”
Her glare silenced him.
Itazura started to say something else, but then Stonewall placed a massive hand on his shoulder.
“Let her go, Itzy. This is something she has to do alone.”
Killaine walked across a moonlit field and began heading up a small hill.
She reached the top, and she saw the glory of the night, the acceptance of the stars above, and finally understood what Radiant meant when she spoke of the “silent poetry of the world.”
“I wish we’d had more time together,” she whispered to Singer.
He managed to squeeze her hand.
Just a little.
“Can you ever forgive me for the way I treated you all this time?”
He tapped her arm.
She looked down at him.
Nothing to forgive, he signed, the light in his eyes dimming more.
Killaine had to fight with everything she had in order not to break down. She didn’t want Singer to see her grief, not at the end.
“Is there . . . is there anything I can do for you?” she whispered.
Singer held up two fingers: Two things.
“Name them.”
He pointed toward the sky, then made a circling gesture with his finger.
Killaine puzzled over the gesture.
Singer made the circling gesture again, only faster.
“Flying?” whispered Killaine.
Singer managed a nod.
“I don’t understand what—”
He pointed to the sky again, then managed to sign two words: Use me.
And Killaine understood.
Roy. Singer wanted his body to be used for Roy.
“I promise you, my friend. I promise.”
Then Singer placed two fingers against the area where his mouth would have been if he’d had one and reached up and placed the same two fingers against Killaine’s lips.
She understood his wish at once.
Tell me the rest of the story.
Killaine looked up at the stars. “Well, the girl with no name prepared a magnificent feast for her relatives and . . . and everyone else in the village. The feast lasted for days, and even those who had arrived feeling angry or sad or resentful of a neighbor left with full bellies and bags of extra food and more happiness and hope than they’d known in years. When it was done, when the girl with no name had finished cleaning up and storing the leftovers, one of her aunts took her aside and said, ‘Where will you go now?’ ‘I don’t understand,’ said the girl. ‘Well,’ replied her aunt, ‘now that you have given everyone enough food to last throughout the winter—and a fine feast it was, my dear—now that you have done so much for us and the village, you need not stay here any longer, not with all the money you’ve inherited.’ Then the girl laughed. ‘What is so funny?’ asked her aunt. ‘May I have a name now?’ ‘Why not choose it yourself?’ ‘Because I think I may have done a foolish thing, but I don’t care.’ ‘What foolish thing is that?’ ‘I have no money left,’ replied the girl. ‘I spent all I had on the feast.’
“Then the girl began to cry, so embarrassed was she by her foolish behavior, but her aunt took the girl into her arms and whispered, ‘You have not done a foolish thing, my dear. You have given of yourself in a way that few of us ever have. And because’”—Killaine’s voice broke and the tears began streaming down her face—“‘because of what you have done, and for all that you’ve given us, there is only one name worthy of you. From this day forward, my dear, your name shall be a reflection of your soul. From this day forward, you shall be called Grace.’”
Killaine looked down at Singer as the last of the light faded from his eyes.
She looked up at the stars and the night, wishing that she knew a prayer.
Then she slowly turned and made her way back down to the truck where Stonewall and Itazura waited in respectful silence.
“Is he gone?” asked Stonewall.
“Yes,” whispered Killaine, lowering her face and kissing Singer where his lips would have been.
“He was a good friend,” said Itazura, his own voice breaking. “I’m sorry he died.”
Killaine shook her head, her tears spattering gently on the shiny metal of Singer’s stilled face. “He gave up his life,” she said. “And he never even knew his real name.”
“He was a robot named Singer,” whispered Stonewall.
“No. He was a lamb. His name was Grace. Never forget that.”
AFTER ALL
“I have some rights of memory in this kingdom . . .”
—Shakespeare, HAMLET
ONE MONTH LATER . . .
Time was, he knew happiness, hope, and acceptance.
But now, even though he had all those things and more again, Roy thought he ’d settle at the moment for just being able to get his new hands to do what he wanted them to.
“Darnit,” he said aloud, still not used to the sound of his new voice or the feel of his recently installed voice box.
“Such language,” said Itazura.
“I sorry,” replied Roy.
“We gotta work on your sense of humor, kiddo.”
Annabelle Donohoe stood at her office window, gently fondling the locket.
She was not even aware that Simmons had entered the room and stood staring at her.
“Madam?”
She blinked, then looked at him. “What is it, Simmons?”
He shrugged. “I was . . . concerned. You’ve not been out of your office all day.”
She smiled, staring out at the night.
Time was, she’d have been consumed by anger and her desire for revenge.
But now . . .
“It’s odd, Simmons.”
“What’s that, madam?”
Now it was Annabelle’s turn to shrug. “I should be three times as driven to locate Robillard and the I-Bots as I was before, but, somehow . . .”
“We’ll locate them again, madam. We always do.”
&n
bsp; She shook her head. “I know. But let’s not be too intense about it for the time being.”
“May I inquire why, madam—if it’s not overstepping my bounds?”
“You may, and it isn’t.” She turned away from the window with a wide, genuine smile on her face and in her heart. “He’s alive, Simmons. My son is alive and out there, in the world. And even though I can’t see him, can’t touch him, can’t hold him . . . I feel him near me. Does that make sense?”
Simmons remained silent.
Annabelle turned back to the window. “I want to wait a while before going after Robillard again. I want my son to have some time to enjoy the new world Zac has given to him.”
Her hand came away from the locket.
“But just a little more time.” She grinned her typical grin. “A mother’s patience can only be stretched so far.”
Outside their new temporary headquarters in an ugly white house on Oceola Avenue in Nashville, Tennessee, Zac Robillard was making a final check on the contents of the new truck.
“Everybody comfy?” he called into the trailer.
The Scrappers who’d been of such help to them during the siege at PTSI all nodded their agreement.
Stonewall and Radiant brought out the last of the documents that Zac had requested.
“Thought we could use a little road food,” said Radiant, loading three bulging picnic baskets into the cab. “I can’t believe we’re going to Washington.”
“Testifying before Congress,” said Zac, still having a hard time believing he was going to do it.
One week ago legislation had been introduced to appropriate funds for the creation of “training centers” for all the so-called Scrappers in the country. The idea was that the outmoded, homeless robots would be rounded up and—instead of destroyed and recycled—trained to perform “public work” tasks; public sanitation, security, crossing guards, and other occupations that were becoming increasingly difficult to fill because of the low pay.
Zac had spoken with a congressional representative last week and suggested naming the legislation “Singer’s Law.”
He was scheduled to testify before Congress in two days, and Washington was abuzz with anticipation of hearing from the “reclusive” grandson of Benjamin Robillard.
Zac figured it wouldn’t hurt to be accompanied by Stonewall, Radiant, and the baker’s dozen of robots who now waited in the back of truck.