MaBrown winked at him. “Old Earth reference. I’ll give you some holo recommendations later”
Porter rolled his chair toward the door. “Well, I guess I know what we need to do.”
He looked up at Isellia.
“You’ve got a race to run,” he said. “And we’ve got a ship to find.”
***
As the others prepared to go, Joey had to admit he wasn’t particularly sad to leave behind the dingy confines in which they'd stayed; they had been there almost two days while Porter rested. It did them all good. The sight of Porter using a wheelchair — an old model in which the motor would periodically short out, sending him cruising in a direction without brakes momentarily until it kicked back in — horrified him. But it felt good to be on the move again.
They wouldn’t be taking to the streets. Company C operatives were everywhere, another thing MaBrown found out in his outing. Joey didn’t understand much about what a reporter did. Didn’t understand the skill of digging for information, subtly shifting the conversation toward useful facts, or any of that. But he’d been impressed MaBrown was able to find out so much. He was curious how it was done.
“Ready to go, fella?” MaBrown asked.
Joey looked up at him, fastening the last lock of his backpack. “Yeah, I guess so."
“Sewers are gonna smell awful,” MaBrown said, hoisting his pack onto his shoulder. “Then again, the ship doesn’t exactly smell like Sasugan flowers..”
Joey chuckled a little.
“Hey, what’s wrong guy? It’s not gonna be that bad. And after all, nothing lasts forever. That’s what I try to think about whenever something shitty is going on. It’s only temporary.”
“Not everything ...” Joey muttered.
“Huh?”
“I just got a bad feeling. I feel — I think something good is gonna happen, and something bad. Something really bad. Ya know?”
MaBrown looked at him a moment, as if unsure how to respond, then shrugged. “I’ll see you by the door, kid.”
Chapter 50
“Now then, Underow, tell me you have results ...
“... You what? Again? This is most unacceptable. … Really Underow, these aren’t exactly the most gifted people you’re chasing. ... Well I don’t care that they had help. .... Underow, we gave you a chance; is this really how you intend to repay us?
“Stand by for further orders, Underow. ... No, nothing at the moment. ... When the time comes, you’ll be called for. … Right, off with you now. And you’ll be hearing from the higher-ups ... and no mistakes next time. Good day!”
Yardley set his comm device down on his finely polished mahogany wooden desk. He considered the antique from Old Earth his most prized possession — few items made the trip from Old Earth. During the evacuation, Company officials were more concerned with getting people off the planet than taking possessions; possessions other than what would fit in a duffle bag cost quite a bit extra. Other items were later salvaged by prize hunters in radiation suits. But smart dealers with enough money and/or pull at Company C found ways to work out deals to bring some valuable items off the planet — items they knew would collect far more for those dealers than the cost of getting them off the planet.
How Yardley had come to possess the desk is something only Yardley himself knows for sure. He’d held his position for decades and done so with the utmost loyalty, so no one in Company C has ever said a word about the desk.
He tapped its rosy-smooth surface, using the groove of its wood grains to try to comfort the uneasy feelings his guest in front of him conjured. Yardley looked at the — was woman the correct term? A lit cigarette wafted smoke into the room as it dangled off her fingers. She periodically lifted it to a hole in what should be her throat, the cigarette’s lit end flaring up as the artifical breathing apparatus sucked in the smoke. The machine around her neck assisted her breathing, and in this case, smoking. Yardley watched with intrigue and disgust as she smoked in this manner.
“Well, One-Lung Alice — may I be so bold as to call you that? That does appear to be your official racing nickname after all — it appears we indeed will be in need of your services after all. Oh then, do you care for some tea?”
Alice took a puff of smoke in from the cigarette, blowing it out her mouth as she spoke. “Do I looks like I need any tea?” Her voice was raspy and metallic. It unnerved Yardley.
“Ah, ahem ... indeed. Well then, I’ve prepared your payment schedule. This folder I’m handing you also contains receipts for your entry fees. I trust you know what to do from here?”
“Yeah, I know what ta do. I been racing since before you was born, Frenchie ...” A flick of her cigarette sent a small ash heap dropping onto the wooden desk.
“Frenchie?” Yardley nearly stood out of his chair. It’d been ages since Old Earth existed, but for the sake of his ancestors he still took insult at the term. His line came from the best breeding of his native land of England. He was English through and through, and devoured as much of its history as survived. He wouldn't suffer being called French, cyborg or no.
“Whatsa matter wit you?”
“Nothing,” Yardley said, straightening his perfectly pressed jacket. He produced a small white brush seemingly out of nowhere, quickly dusted the ash off of his desk, and returned it quickly to some unseen pocket in one fluid motion. “Now then, you can assure us that this young lady won’t finish this race?”
“Course,” Alice said, looking over the folder. “Isellia, huh? Heard a her. Father was a heck of a racer. Never heard much from her.”
“I wouldn’t know much about racing or the like,” Yardley said, polishing a smudge on his desk.
“Yeah, that’s a real shock. Listen Jeeves, you just make sure all this pay is taken care of. Ol’ Alice will do the rest.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure that you do. You see, my boss isn’t entirely forgiving of failure.”
“You threatening me?” Alice’s cold eyes stared at him from behind the machine.
"Oh, heavens no, I wouldn't threaten a soul! But you should understand, my employers are entirely different people. They can be most unpleasant when angered."
“Yeah, well, I ain’t 'xactly pleasant neither.” Alice took a puff from her cigarette, blew out the smoke, and flicked it toward Yardley. His eyes perked up, and he lunged for the cigarette to intercept it on its course toward the desk. Yardley managed to catch the very end of the cigarette, just inches from the desk’s pristine surface.
“Why, you stone-faced, dreadful bitch!” Yardley snarled.
“Yeah, ain’t I, though?” she said as she left.
***
They’d managed to slip into the sewer system unnoticed. Or at least, unnoticed by anyone who would have cared. From the vantage point of the alley where the access tunnel led to, crowds of people could be seen between the alley’s walls speeding by. Few if any bothered to look at motley crew of vagabonds for more than a quick glance, if at all, as the crew made their way into the manhole. Getting Porter down the hole had been the toughest part; they’d had to hand his wheelchair down before him; Porter was strong enough to climb down the stairs with his arms. None of the passersby had much interest in getting involved in someone else's business.
Dirk pulled the rusty hatch closed above him, its hinges creaking slightly as it clanked into place. He turned the handle, locking the hatch, and slapped the dust off his hands. Nix handed out a few flashlights Kenpur’s group had managed to obtain over the years.
“Oh god, take a shower,” Isellia said, hitting Nix lightly on the shoulder and then holding her nose when he turned around.
“It’s the sewer!” Nix protested.
“Jeez, I’m kidding. Can’tcha take a joke?” Isellia rolled her eyes as she walked past him. Nix looked dumbfounded.
“Stop teasing him, Isellia,” Porter sighed. “I assume one of you knows which way we’re going?”
“Aye, aye, cap’n,” Dirk said, hopping down from the ladder into th
e inch or so of water that covered the floor.
“Do we really need these boots for this?” Joey asked. “Doesn’t seem like much water.”
“Oh, it’ll get deeper,” Dirk said. “Trust me, little friend.”
“Exactly how many times have you been down here?” Isellia asked.
“Oh, all the time,” Dirk said, winking.
“Why?” Isellia asked, incredulous.
“‘Cause, little lady,” Dirk said, tipping a wide-brimmed hat he’d donned before they’d left. “It’s the best way to go, when you don’t want no one else knowing where you’re going.”
“I can see why.” Isellia said, giving him a side glance.
“Too good for the princess,” Nix said, rolling his eyes.
“Princess?!” Isellia growled. “I'm like the opposite of a princess!”
“Whatever, princess,” Nix teased, realizing he’d found a weak spot.
“Come here, you little mouse rat,” Isellia walked toward him, pounding her fist into her palm.
“All right, enough you two,” Porter said, wheeling his chair between them. “Isellia, do you have to pick a fight with everyone?”
“Calm down, ya goofballs,” Dirk said to Isellia and Nix, tipping his hat forward. “How’s about we do some explorin’? Got a lot of ground to cover.”
Isellia nods, giving Nix the “I’m watching you” gesture.
***
Celia held up a purple skirt, admiring the way the material shined as it twisted under her fingers. Its deep color changed slightly as it caught the light. She pressed it against her body, trying to judge how it might hug her curves.
“I’m going to try this on,” Celia said.
Rex stood with his arms crossed, bored. He shook his head to remove some of the shoulder-length black hair from his face. He barely grunted acknowledgement at her comment.
“Oh, what’s the matter now?” Celia said, pouting to mock his disinterest. Other store patrons watched them in the small clothing boutique. Rex — both of them, really — looked entirely out of place in the brightly colored shop, patronized mostly by retired Company women who’d once held high rank, or by aristocrats who had little need of title or work. Rex, in his dusty slacks and long-sleeved shirt that’d seen more than one battle, didn’t exactly fit in. But no one would dare say a word about him — nor would they challenge the assassin, her profession clearly marked by her choice of outfit. Celia considered changing but realized she wouldn’t get Rex to don fancy duds. Fear was her best chance of ensuring service.
“You really like this stuff?” Rex snorted.
“Silly, every girl likes clothes,” Celia sang. “Well, most of them, any way ...”
“And you’re OK with...”
Celia looked back at him. “OK with what?”
Rex lowered his voice to nearly a whisper. “You know all these shops pay tariff to Company C. They all do in the Inner Circle.”
Celia shrugged.
“The credits you spend will go to our enemy,” Rex whispered with an edge.
“Oh really? Gee, I hadn’t thought of that. Now, where did that money I would be spending here come from? Let me think... Oh yeah, from Company C when I killed for them!”
Rex looked around nervously, and he wasn’t the only person in the shop who looked pensive; other shop patrons worked really hard to appear to be unaware of the two. The setting made him uncomfortable to begin with. Give him scores of soldiers and he would fight them with little fear, but a woman’s clothing shop made him squirm.
“All right, keep it down,” Rex muttered.
“Go wait outside,” Celia ordered, then smiled to the fidgeting clerk behind the counter, “while I try on my new skirt.”
Rex sighed, at least happy to be leaving the shop.
***
Isellia sloshed in water nearly up to her knees, while drops of brown liquid dripped from the ceiling, occasionally touching their noses or brows. Her boot got stuck in something solid for a moment, and she lurched forward; she likely would have fallen if she hadn’t collided with Joey in front of her. He stumbled forward a couple of steps but kept his balance.
“Jeez, ‘selia!” Joey said.
“Wasn’t my fault!” she said, wagging her finger at Joey. “And what did I say about shortening my name?”
“OK, OK...”
“Careful there, little lady,” Dirk said from in front of both of them. “Likely to be more where that came from. Watchyer step!”
“What, did you think you’d just take us on the most disgusting route possible?”
“Negative,” said a familiar metallic voice. Everyone turned to a side hall where the voice had come from. The robot emerged, it’s metal legs swirling the water fluidly as it stepped into the light of their flashlights.
“Other routes with more significant material fitting the classification exist. Exactly seen variations contain more disgusting material,” the robot said while the others gaped.
"Whoa, Robot?!" Joey exclaimed, looking the robot up and down in disbelief.
“Where did buckethead come from?” Isellia asked. “You were broken and we’d left you behind.”
"Robot was malfunctioning. Robot is repaired."
Joey opened the panel, looking over its circuitry. He stared in disbelief at the rerouting the robot had done. "Oh my god," Joey said.
"What is it?" Isellia asked.
"Its circuits. They're not where they're supposed to be ... "
"What?!" Isellia asked. "Just spit it out already?"
"The robot," Joey said, looking up at her. "It's changed its own circuits. It bypassed the damaged coupling, created a new circuit design to compensate. It's ... it's genius."
"It's evolving," Kenpur said.
****
“Yaaardley,” the man with no face hissed, as the large, well-groomed man walked in. “Have a sssseat...”
“As you wish, sir,” Yardley said, bowing slightly before sitting in the oddly shaped silver chair. It had a platform to sit on and a backrest that appeared to be hovering without support. The man with no face made him queasy, but Yardley was more than a little practiced in the art of making good appearances. In fact, it had been the sole focus for decades.
“The CEO is growing most dissssspleased with our lack of progressssss in the matter of robots and racersssss.”
Yardley stared at the man’s chin — he knew from experience that if he were to look where a normal man’s face should have been, he'd be caught in the man's hypnotic gaze. He preferred to remain in control of his attention.
“Um, yes, well, sir, as you know, our little fellow Underow is taking up the matter once again—"
“He will fail,” the man said. Neither man spoke for a tense moment.
“Most likely, sir. It will hardly matter in the end, I should think. I’ve made arrangements that should settle things at once.”
“One-Lung,” the man said. He seemed pleased.
“Why, yes, sir, but how did you —?"
“I know what I need to know,” the man said. Yardley went quiet again, trying to figure out how the man with no face could know such a detail.
“Yes sir,” he eventually gathered himself to say. “If I may ask sir, why not simply take out this Kenpur and be done with it? It seems to me simply a matter of cutting off the head of the snake to kill the beast. I say this not to question your wisdom, sir, but only so that I may understand.”
The man with no face leaned back. There was a moment of silence, and Yardley wondered if he hadn't pushed his luck a bit too far. He thought he'd reached the point where he could ask a question or two, but perhaps he'd misjudged his standing? He'd have to be more careful in the future.
“Kenpur isssss too powerful,” the man hissed. “He issss a legend, and a martyr. There issss little we can do. Instead, think of him assss a table. If we cut the legs from underneath him, then he isn’t much of a table, now issss he?”
“I understand, sir,” Yardley nodded. “But,
one thing, if I may: Don’t you mean, he would become a martyr?”
The man with no face made some kind of sound — was it a laugh? “Therein lies the other difficulty in going after Kenpur, Yardley,” the man said. “I didn’t misssspeak. He is a martyr. Kenpur hassss been dead for ssssssome time.”
***
Several hours of sloshing through a series of tunnels, in dimly lit, light brown wastewater that ranged from ankle deep to nearly waist deep in some areas, the crew exited a tunnel that led to a large chamber. In the center of the chamber a large turbine rotated, as water rushed in from the sides toward it. Ledges lined the sides of the multi-storied cavern, which reached up several stories to large glass access panels where light cascaded into the chamber.
Isellia shielded her eyes as she looked up toward the top, the light hurting her eyes, sensitive from being in the dark for so long.
“This be it,” Dirk said, standing next to her attempting to block some of the painful light.
“Yeah, the ship is right through that chamber,” Nix added.
“Well, no time to waste,” Porter said, trying to see which chamber they were talking about. Water rushed past their feet about ankle deep (or somewhere above the tire line on Porter's wheelchair) flowing toward the chamber. The rush of the water mixed with the dull roar of the slowly turning turbine.
“Waste,” Isellia said. “That’s real funny, Porter.”
“No pun intended,” he said.
“So, how’s about we —“
Dirk started to take a step but was cut off by an ROU blast toward his foot. He looked across the chamber to see a man obscured in shadow, slowly emerging into the light.
“Not so fast,” Underow said. A flock of Company C soldiers came rushing out from tunnel entrances throughout the chamber. All were armed, much like the soldiers the crew had faced back on Sasuga. This time, however, there was no Rex or Celia to help fight them off.
Porter stared at the sunken-eyed man, and he started to grow angry. “Are you the one responsible for this?”
“You mean the one who planned to blow you all up? And the one who is going to clean up my mess now? You mean the one who had to leave my important work to come to this filth hole to deal with you losers? The one whose office is going to move floors or maybe even entire buildings after I take care of you no good rebels? Is that what you’re asking? Is it? Then yes, yes it is. At your service.”
Robot Awareness: The Inner Circle Page 8