by Brian Parker
“That is a better question.”
“Well, did you?”
“Yes.”
This time the words hit me hard enough to knock me to the ground. So many questions ran through my head, but I had just one more left, and couldn’t waste it on curiosity. I needed to word it just right if I was going to find the closure that we all desperately needed. I wanted to know how a woman could kill her own child, but that wasn’t going to give us the answers we needed. I wanted to know if she pulled the trigger herself, but that knowledge wouldn’t change anything. Damn, she had a point.
None of this would fix anything.
“Why?”
“He was mine, and mine alone,” she wailed. “All those years I supported him. I built him into the man he would become, and then he spit on me and my life. He used me to build a small fortune so he could just walk away and never look back. I wasn’t going to be treated like a piece of trash to be thrown away. If he wanted to leave, he could do it in a body bag.”
“But he wasn’t leaving. They set up shop here. Near you.”
“You know nothing child. They were leaving. Your silly little psychic business wasn’t meant to be forever. They were packing up and heading out. He wasn’t even going to say goodbye.”
“No, that isn’t true. We were happy here. I had school, and we had a life.”
“Your mother always wanted more. She wasn’t happy here. Always pushing him. She ruined everything. You ruined everything.”
She chugged the last bit that was left in her bottle. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, as I could see a change in her manner.
“Come to think of it, why should I be the one to be punished? I am not the one who destroyed everything, you were.” The gun was now pointed right at my face. “Everything was fine until you came along. I could have gotten him back, but once your mother had a little anchor to keep him attached to her, I never stood a chance. I could tell the police that you came in here threatening me, that you wanted vengeance. That I had to save myself from my misguided granddaughter who thought I, the victim’s mother, would have hurt my own child. Then with you gone, and no one really digging around anymore, I could slip them a few bucks to make the whole thing go away.”
“Lisette, put the gun down.” Shan’s voice was calm, but forceful from the doorway behind me.
“Oh please, if you haven’t killed me in the last dozen years, this is going to be the catalyst for you to pull the trigger now? You don’t even like the pathetic little excuse for a legacy. She is nothing like him, and worse she’s a reminder of everything you missed out on.”
“I’m serious, Lisette. You won’t erase every trace of him.”
“I’m not the one that shot him.”
It was the kind of revelation that makes you ignore a gun pointed at you to turn and face the person who killed your father.
“Don’t look at me like that, Ophelia. I was used. Just a pawn in her sick game to punish all of us. It wasn’t supposed to be him. It was going to be your mother—at least that’s what she told me.” She shook the gun in the direction of my grandmother. “Promises were made. She sold me a life I would never be allowed to have, and tricked me into doing her dirty work. We were going to be a family. Beau, me and you. I would have given you both time to grieve, but then I would have stepped in. It would have been perfect. But, she lied to me. Your dad was supposed to pick you up. When I fired the shot, I didn’t know it was him.”
“What does any of this matter now?” Grand-mère asked. “What’s done is done. Time to clean up the loose ends and move on, Shan.”
“It sure is.”
The gun went off and I braced myself for impact, but it never came. Lisette’s head jerked back and then she slumped in an unnatural position in her chair. Crimson liquid began to flow again, but this time I was sure it wouldn’t haunt me. A sour, metallic scent filled the room. Shan hyperventilated behind me.
“I’m sorry, Ophelia. I was young, stupid, and in love. I wanted to believe that he would love me back, but he never would have. Would he?”
Before I could process the question she asked, the gun went off once again.
“Well, ain’t that some shit right there?”
“Geez, Gran. Always the wordsmith.”
“I’m glad you’re ok, Ophelia.”
“Me, too.” I hugged her tight and pulled away. She handed me an electronic cigar filled and ready to go. “You’re my favorite grandmother. To be fair, though, your competition had my father murdered and had a gun pointed at me today, so it isn’t a difficult title to win.”
“Hrumpf. Don’t push it kid. The day is young. I could always get a piece.”
“Please, you need me around.”
We both turned to look at my mother, who was still speaking with the police. They needed to wrap up the case with a neat bow, so the connections needed to be made for their report. She was answering them, but most of her flair was missing. I had hoped that closure would heal us, but it may be a delayed reaction.
“You think we can convince her to leave?” I asked. “I think I finally know what I want to do.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“Live.”
“Well, that’s vague, but I can work with it.”
“Good. Because it’s all I’ve got right now.”
ABOUT VALERIE LIOUDIS
Valerie Lioudis is an American author from New Jersey. She is a genre-hopping author who hopes you will enjoy her stories whether they are tech loving fortunetellers, zombies, assassins, or even the world’s most mediocre man. Her style will always bleed through, no matter the subject matter, and it is sure to be filled with snark.
LINKS
For more information on Valerie’s works, you can follow her on Facebook at Author Valerie Lioudis, or join The Reanimated Writers Zombie Fiction Fan Group, where she is known to be extremely active. You can also look up her work on Amazon, where you will find several novels, and numerous anthologies.
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Misha
By Joseph Hansen
“Misha; Misha, Misha… what’s a hot little number like you doing working overtime on a Friday night?”
“Well if it isn’t Tom the Magnificent, solver of all crimes great and small—and I emphasize the small,” I mocked back. I could have brought him up on sexual harassment charges many times for the stupid shit the big detective has said to me but not in good conscience. I too tend to have loose lips and with the right person I don’t mind a little explicit humor. We are cops after all, and with all of the shit we see all day long it’s hard not to let loose somewhere. I should say ‘shit they see’ because ninety percent of the time I’m stuck in the office doing research, just like I’m doing right now, late on a Friday night.
“No, seriously, what’s got you here so late?”
“Ah, there are some signs of tampering on some of the pleasure droids and crack bots that the chief wants me to look into. Nobody’s died yet or it would have been turned over to you.”
“Not me, I’m going on vacation and will be gone into the real world for two weeks, and I’m leaving now. Do you want a ride home?”
“Yeah, there ain’t nothing here that can’t wait until tomorrow,” I said, hooking my purse over my shoulder and following him towards the door.
“So what’s the issue? Are droids stealing synthetics again so their clients can’t get high or desensitized, or whatever their particular brand of fucked-upidness is?”
“No. It seems that there’s a rash going on with bots and droids that speaks of a higher level of piracy. It could be theft or sabotage at this point. Parts are being swapped out for private made replicas, not a big deal if they were an identical switch but they’re not; these parts are different.”
“Oh, hmm. Like what?” he asked me as he started the engine on his vehicle leaving his AI off so we could talk.
“Don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“Has
anybody been hurt or have the morality laws been violated?”
“No—not that I know of anyway. It seems to be more of a parts switch but the return on the black market for used original parts isn’t as significant as when you compare them to bootleg parts in general, which actually seem to be better made.”
“Meaning?” he pressed, forcing me to vocalize what had been running through my mind. I’m not a computer geek by any means, but I know what chips look like and what they do.
“I don’t really know, it just seems the bootleggers designed the replacement parts to do more than the dedicated tasks they were originally designed to do.”
“So, there are bunch of pleasure droids—”
“As well as maintenance and service droids from what we can tell, maybe more. It does seem to be the newer models that are being targeted.”
“That’s a lot of droids, which implies that it’s a large, and expensive, operation, which, in turn, tells me that there has to be an end goal.”
“Making, designing, installing and many other things is really a huge undertaking if it was only for a small district, but this seems to be city wide. Who has the capacity to manage something on that scale?”
“That’s a tall order; you have your work cut out for you.”
“Hopefully I can solve it in the lab before it makes it to your desk. We don’t want you big boys messing with it,” I said, pulling on the obvious departmental rivalries.
“Yeah, I’ve been there too.” He said referring to research.
“You’ve never done research, you just go out and pound on doors, shoot bad guys and hope that you get lucky,” I said half sarcastically, but there was a part of me that believed it. He chuckled as we pulled up in front of my building and I opened the door to get out, but he grabbed my wrist before I could go too far.
“Check the patent office,” he said and winked.
“Patent office? Why?”
“See who’s downloaded any design specs for the parts in question. It might solve the mystery right then and there.”
“Oh no, you son of a bitch… You’re not that good, but thanks Macho Camacho, I’ll give it a shot. Maybe you’re not the arrogant prick I thought you were.”
“Yes, I am. We all spent time in research. It’s where I got a lot of my tricks. Adios.”
I was making my way up the front steps to the brownstone where I lived when my monitor went off. I call it a monitor because research cops aren’t worthy of a radio or pager. I hit the app on my phone to hail a cab as soon as I saw the incident was only a few blocks from my place.
I got there before the investigating officer did, so I stood and watched. I didn’t have clearance to be first on a scene but if I knew the officer—which I probably did—I’d ask if I could observe. As I waited, a girl approached me from a dark corner, her movements were furtive, unsure; yet she didn’t make me uncomfortable… at least, not in a physically threatening way.
“Hi,” she said and paused for a minute and I just nodded my head trying to stay focused on the scene. With the new models I couldn’t tell if she was human or not, she was pretty though…beyond pretty. Which made me think, Not human.
“Are you waiting on someone? Or…” She hesitated and I noted the roll of her R’s and the tone fluctuation told me that if she was human she had spent some time in Ireland and if she wasn’t then her programmers were good enough to make her feel as if she was. Her darker skin tone and almost black hair spoke of anything but Ireland, which further convinced me that she was a droid.
I caught the scent of her pheromones and felt my body stirring from the chemical reaction they were designed to inspire. In this day and age, concepts of hetero- and homosexual flew out the window once the subject of human and machine came into the picture. Even so, there was some confusion with the situation. For instance, the mass shooting at the court house just six months ago when a judge refused to let a woman marry her Cybertronics pool boy. She went into induced rehab where they put you into a coma for a month and use brain washing techniques to remind you that these units are chemically equipped to make you feel that way. I think that was what I was reacting to now, pheromones designed to lure and entrap. The woman is out of stasis now; her induced coma treatments having failed. The entire situation is now considered to be a disease and is filed in with the millions of cases of PTSD. It wasn’t called PTSD, but the treatments as of right now are the same, as is the lack funding.
“Yes, I’m waiting for someone,” I said hoping that would be the end of it. I didn’t need her standing there and distracting me because, believe me when I say, she is a distraction. I’m talking on a level that is hard to conceive.
“Oh? Do you mind if I wait with you?” She batted her eyes at me and I felt myself being drawn in. I looked deep into her eyes, amazed that I couldn’t even see the mechanical workings of her pupil. “I’m all alone and this isn’t a very good neighborhood,” she pressed.
I held up my badge and looked her in the eye; their programing wouldn’t allow them to lie about being a human to a cop.
“You’ve heard of the Immorality Clause? Not interested,” I said sternly. She was a pretty thing and I would have liked to meet the woman that she was modeled after, but a droid was a deal breaker. One cop got away with it but there was such an uproar that I doubted another one would, especially a lower tier cop like me.
“I’m not a robot. I’m human.”
“Human? What are you doing working the streets?”
“I’m not working the streets,” she said defensively. “I was asking if I could stand with you is all.”
I looked at her for a while before I spoke trying to let my instincts feel her out. I would have scanned her body looking for weapons, but I knew that my eyes would linger in the wrong spots for uncomfortable seconds. She didn’t look homeless, too clean and well dressed, yet she appeared as if she had nowhere else to go. I flashed back on my own college years, when being the pretty girl at the party caused me more harm than good, and I found myself alone with only half of the possessions on me that I left the house with, my head feeling a massive hangover was in my very near future. But, she didn’t look inebriated.
“Yeah, you can stand here; I mean it is a free country. However, I’m working so I may have to leave.”
“That’s alright,” she said and fell in next to me. She waited for a couple of seconds, kind of bouncing on her toes a bit. I wondered why she wasn’t cold from her lack of clothing and thought about offering my coat before I realized I had too much in my coat to offer it to anyone—especially a stranger.
“I’m Tracy.”
“Pleased to meet you, Tracy. I’m Officer Misha.”
“Misha, huh? Is that your family name?”
“Yeah, say… Who is that?” I asked her as a compact vehicle pulled up right in the loading zone and a man got out with a carpet bag and a brief case.
“Him? That’s Skelly. He fixes the droids. I hear that he’s a lot cheaper than the factory.”
“Skelly, huh?”
“Yeah, he’s always been nice and has been a long term customer of the neighborhood establishments even before he got the contract for maintenance.”
“Are you going to be around a while? I’d like to ask you some more questions.” I saw Ron approaching and had to break off the conversation but I wanted her here when I was done.
“I don’t know, if someone was to offer to buy me dinner and direct me to a hot shower I might stick around,” she said and moved her shoulders back and forth seductively. She was playing me now. We both knew it and neither of us cared. I pointed my finger at her sternly.
“Be here when I’m done or I’m coming to find you.”
She smiled and gave me a little nod that seemed to send a ripple down her entire body. Flawless skin like that on a human? Unheard of.
“Ron!” I shouted and ran up to him as he met up with the maintenance man. ‘Skelly’ hadn’t been allowed in without the cop by the door security gua
rd.
“Misha?”
“I was in the neighborhood and thought I could help. Do you mind?”
“Standard training protocol says you can, but I’d let you anyway. Here, everybody put these on,” Rob said as he handed out rubber booties, hairnets and gloves. We then followed another security guard up to the third floor of the Vacillate Inn and down the hall to the door at the end, which should face out right above where we entered.
The room looked hardly used, with a couple on the bed wrapped in a permanent lovers’ embrace. The only sign of anything out of place was the stench of bowels and bladders releasing. The man was quite dead with telltale char marks on his body where he connected with the droid. The droid was also inoperable and looked as if her circuits had been fried completely.
“This must have been one giant spark. I’m surprised the room didn’t catch fire,” Rob observed.
“It don’t work like that,” the repair man said as he looked on the scene. I could tell right from the start that the man was Cajun. I couldn’t tell if he still lived in the swamp, it would be hard with having a business here. He had, however, lived there for quite some time I suspected, and would forever carry the twang to his tone.
“This particular unit is a Mattronic PM27. It requires a lot more power than your typical Cybertronics unit due to the specialized nature of what these bots can do. They have a dedicated transformer inside. Draws off of battery power and harnesses any errant electricity in the room,” the man said as if he were reading it out of a manual.
“What does that mean, exactly?” Rob asked, making me feel good that he didn’t get it either.
“It means,” he started with a sigh to his voice proving that he had repeated this many times in the past, “that electricity leaving the man’s body went directly back into the droid where it was directed back into him. It didn’t cook him right away since there was somewhere for the power to go so his body became nothing more than a conductor, like a wire; though not nearly as conductive as wire.”