But I was, and Lucia Napier was my only shot, and sometimes being logical meant going against the odds. So I shut down my difference engine and headed for the door.
7
Lucia Napier's number was, of course, unlisted, so if I was going to speak with her, it would have to be face-to-face. Though apparently every other citizen in Empire knew every little detail of her life, including who she dated, what she had for dinner, and how many minutes her average shower lasted, I'd never heard of her. So I took the most direct approach in my search, and hailed a cab, one of my fellow Bluestars. I recognized the biological behind the wheel, thanks to my flawless memory matrix. I'd seen him around the garage on two-hundred-ten separate occasions, though we'd never actually spoken to each other before.
I leaned in the buzzbug's window, and it tilted a few degrees. "Hey, do you know where Lucia Napier lives?"
He glanced over at me. "You want a ride, buddy?"
"I just need an address," I replied.
"What do I look like, an information booth?"
"Do me a favor, will you? I'm a driver. Just like you."
"Yeah, I know you." He snorted, hocked up some phlegm, and swallowed it back down. "Don't mean I gotta give you free information."
Winifred had been right. Getting information in this town without money was like pulling a broken zip train up a steep incline.
"I don't have any money," I said.
"Too bad for you then, huh?" The driver punched his accelerator, but I held onto the starboard wing, keeping it from vibrating sufficiently to push the bug forward.
I could pull zip trains all day. And holding one little cab wasn't much of a strain on my servos.
"Le'go, man," grunted the driver.
"Address," I replied, tightening my grip on the door. "Or you could keep accelerating until the wing vibrates itself out of the frame."
Obviously, he didn't relish the notion of having his wages garnished to pay for a replacement wing. "She lives in Proton Towers. Everybody knows that."
"Thanks." I would've tipped my hat to him, but I didn't have one anymore. "Don't suppose I could trouble you for a lift. Free of charge. One Bluestar employee to another."
As soon as I released the cab, he shot away, tossing one parting "Asshole!" from his window.
"Didn't think so," I replied.
It was a long walk to Proton Towers from Warpsville, but it would've taken longer by omnibus. While public transportation could get you anywhere you wanted to go, it didn't always take the quickest route. It was common knowledge that the omnibuses intentionally took roundabout journeys from the less desirable neighborhoods to the higher rent districts. It discouraged casual visitation. I chose to walk, counting off every cent added to my power bill with each step.
It started to rain.
Rain in Empire is risky business. Sweeper blimp drones skim the skies, vacuuming up all the harsh chemicals floating in the air. For the most part, they did a decent job of filtering out the truly nasty stuff. But the factories and labs pumped out a lot of volatile vapors, and there weren't enough filters to get them all. Once in a while, you got something unexpected mixed with the shower. Two months back, midtown had been hit with a sudden downpour and all biologicals caught in it sprouted hair from every inch of skin touched by the rain. And six years before that, when I was but a twinkle in an evil genius's twisted brain, there was a shower of exploding hail that'd nearly brought Tomorrow's Town to its knees. Since the sweeper drones had been implemented, nothing as bad as that had happened, but cautious citizens still went inside when it rained, and smart citizens sought cover even when it was cloudy. But I was a tough bot, and my tactile sensors assured me this rain, while acidic enough to irritate biological skin, wasn't going to do anything to my chassis or coat.
With my fellow pedestrians thinned to a few brave biologicals and metal-skinned robots, I was able to pick up the pace. Though I'm a big bot, I'm not slow when I have enough elbow room, and I'm able to move at a fair clip once I get going. Forty-four miles per hour in a straightaway, but my maneuverability went right to hell and stopping was more trouble than it's worth. I punched it up to 10 m.p.h. and trusted my guidance system to avoid stepping on anyone as I navigated the streets on autopilot, the bulk of my processing power still obsessed with finding that damn worm Grey had planted.
Over and over, my diagnostic came up dry. I could run a more thorough check when I next recharged, but I doubted that'd turn up anything. Whatever Grey had slipped into my code, it was deep inside. Maybe the doc could find it in my next therapy session. She knew my programming better than anyone. Of course, she'd ask questions. And since she could tell when I was lying, I'd have to tell the truth. My scenario simulator started running possible outcomes.
"Just running around town, tussling with auto hooligans and mutant thugs, getting rogue viruses crammed in my programming. No big deal, Doc. Just following orders. You said I should try to be more social."
I calculated the possible responses. 52 percent probable: She'd nod knowingly, tap her pen against her pad, and make some vaguely disapproving noise. 46 percent: She'd nod knowingly, tap her pen against her pad, and make some vaguely approving noise. 2 percent: She'd nod knowingly, tap her pen against her pad, and howl like a coyote. I attributed that last possibility to a bug in my calculations. Or maybe my difference engine was screwing with me.
Proton Towers had a state-of-the-art weather regulator. Experimental, but so far, it'd worked like a charm. There was a cylinder of perfect climate stretched four thousand, two hundred, twelve feet around the three shining skyscrapers.
An everyday working bot such as myself didn't belong in this district. It didn't help that my coat was soaked and torn ragged from my run-in with Knuckles. I still hadn't buffed out the smudges on my chassis. The rain had only smeared them around. Every other robot I walked past was either a service drone or personal auto. No bots here, except me.
Proton Towers was surrounded by hedges, lawns, and fountains. It was a use of real estate that only the rich and influential could afford. Flying gun drones zipped around the complex, a metallic swarm of heavy-duty firepower. The Towers were a fortress, as if the wealthy and powerful were just waiting for the poor and disenfranchised to rise up and revolt. Wasn't so far-fetched, I supposed, when you stared down from your ivory tower all nice and cozy and dry while the teeming masses cowered from toxic rain clouds.
The front door was guarded by a doorman dressed to the nines with his perfect little burgundy doorman suit and his perfect little burgundy doorman hat. A badge labeled him "Dennis." Behind him was a pair of security autos. The autos, clothed in black suits, were smaller, sleeker models than me. My threat assessor detected holstered weapons judging by the bulges in their jackets. They hadn't made a raygun that could pierce my hide, but I wasn't looking for trouble.
Three small scanner drones shot forward and hovered around me, analyzing me thoroughly. The security autos were no doubt being transmitted the information.
Dennis stepped forward.
"Hello, sir," he greeted, sounding far too sincere. "How may I help you today?"
"Hello," I replied, trying to sound jovial though neither civility nor friendliness ranked high on my personality template. "I'm here to see Lucia Napier."
"I see, sir. May I have your name, sir?"
"Megaton. Mack Megaton."
"Thank you, sir. One moment, sir." Grinning, he turned on his heels and marched over to a podium by the door. He flipped through a list, smiling all the while.
A scanner drone floated too close to my faceplate, and I brushed it aside.
"Get lost."
It beeped and zipped back out of my reach. This did not endear me to the security autos, both of whom reached under their jackets. I met their determined red opticals in a hard stare.
The doorman marched forward again. "I'm sorry, sir, but there's no appointment listed."
"I don't have one."
His smile dropped a third of a m
illimeter or so. "I'm sorry, sir, but there are no unauthorized visitors allowed." For a biological, this guy sounded more like a robot than I did.
"Can you give her a buzz and let her know I'm here?" I asked. "I'd appreciate it."
"I'm sorry, sir, but if you're not expected I'm afraid I must ask you to leave the premises." The security autos took a step forward.
I stuck with tried-and-true robot persistence. "Just buzz her. Isn't she home?"
"I'm not allowed to give that information, sir."
This outcome was not surprising, but I was still annoyed and somewhat insulted that Dennis didn't at least take the time to go back to his podium and pretend to call somebody so he could come back and say I'd been refused. It seemed the polite thing to do. Instead, I was treated like an encyclopedia salesman. I ignored my common sense emulator and kept on trying.
"It's about a friend of ours. Name's Tony Ringo." I turned to one of the scanner drones and repeated the name in case anyone important might be listening. "Tony Ringo."
Five gun drones dropped from their orbit of Proton Towers and circled around me. Their guns hummed with ready charges. The two security autos pulled their weapons and drew a bead. Worst of all, Dennis's smile completely vanished, replaced by a determined blankness.
"Sir, if you do not retreat to a safe distance immediately, I am authorized to use force."
The smart thing to do would be to back away. Unfortunately, my core aggression index, that thing I wasn't supposed to be having problems controlling, kept me from budging. Already my combat analyzer was plotting battle strategies.
"Sir, I will not ask again."
Whether I would've done the intelligent thing and retreat or not was anybody's guess. Especially mine. But the issue was nullified by a strong pinging from the doorman's badge.
He ordered security to hold their positions as he turned his back to me.
"Yes, ma'am?"
A new voice issued from his badge. Unfamiliar, but I had a pretty good guess as to whom it belonged.
"Please, Dennis," said Lucia Napier, "do send Mr. Megaton up."
The gun drones shot back into their orbit, and the autos put away their guns. Dennis turned back to me. The smile, as bright and shiny as ever, was back on his face.
The doorman led me inside, handing me off to a concierge. The short norm was meticulously groomed, right down to his wrinkle-free black trousers. My recognition file always picked out one or two features in a person to mark them for easy retrieval from my memory matrix. The details it noticed about him were his excessively plucked eyebrows and his hair: black, greased into submission, with a part so neat and precise that it must've taken a mathematical algorithm to get just right.
He bowed. "Hello, sir. If you'd be so kind as to follow me. . . ."
Most of the city still used the old-fashioned elevators, but Proton Towers had the latest in levitator pods. The concierge and I stepped into a pod decorated with a couch, a plant, and a painting of a garden villa. I found the painting very odd. Having been activated in Empire and never having set foot outside the city limits, I couldn't imagine a world where such a thing was possible. A building made of wood, all that green, and an expansive blue sky.
I wondered if it even existed.
The concierge caught me studying it. Actually, I'd already committed it to memory file, and could study it anytime I liked. I hadn't bothered to turn away from it.
"Do you like it, sir?" he asked.
Perhaps like was too solid a word. I had no desire to leave Empire and see the rest of the world. But there was something about this painting and its otherworldliness that kept my attention. Inexplicable, yes, but part of true consciousness was having inexplicable reactions from time to time.
"It's nice," I replied.
"Yes, sir, indeed, it is."
The doors closed, and the pod shot up. Seventy-six floors zipped by in forty seconds, and when the doors opened again, Lucia Napier and her penthouse were standing before me.
"Mr. Mack Megaton," announced the concierge, just in case she failed to notice the seven-foot robot standing behind him. She invited me in and dismissed him.
"It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir," he said.
"Likewise," I returned as the pod doors closed.
I scanned and analyzed Lucia Napier. Biological notions of beauty meant nothing to me, but my evolutionary programming had been attempting for some time now to work out what made humans attractive. It broke all the features down: five feet, seven inches tall. Long, blond hair. Sparkling blue eyes. Button nose. Smooth complexion. Proper number of well-proportioned limbs. Thin waist. Round hips. Breasts that were small but perky and noticeable. A nicely tailored dress that emphasized her curves without being showy, allowing a tasteful glimpse of cleavage. My evaluator performed some quick calculations and spit out a rating.
Attractive to 92 percent of the average biological populace with an eight point margin based on personal preference. It was hardly reliable. Beauty was more than the sum of its parts. Or sometimes, less.
Napier took longer to form her assessment of me. Wasn't her fault. Just the inefficient nature of that chemical lump sitting in her skull. She stood there for ten seconds, her face a blank slate save for a slight smile.
"Very impressive." She stepped forward and held out her hand, palm down, for me to take. That surprised me. Most biologicals don't trust a big, dangerous machine enough to risk a handshake right off the bat. Those giant, bone-crunching hands of mine can be fairly intimidating, and as I took her delicate, squishy skin in my metal mitts, I couldn't honestly blame biologicals.
Napier's smile widened. "A pleasure to finally meet you, Mack."
"Likewise."
"Are you just saying that to be polite or do you really mean it?"
"I'm just saying it."
She giggled lightly. "Oh, I love you robots and your ruthless honesty. Biologicals are so difficult to nail down. Not you though. You say what you want."
"My shrink says I should work on my social subroutine."
"Oh, my no." She frowned. "Don't change a thing. It's so refreshing." She drew in a deep breath. "So delightfully direct."
She turned and walked through a pseudo-classical archway. Since she was still holding my hand, I did the polite thing and followed. We stepped into a hallway lined with photos of Lucia with other people. I hypothesized that they were important folks, though I didn't recognize many. Still, there were enough photos that I scanned a few movie stars, jazz musicians, and politicians stored in my memory matrix.
The biggest portrait was of Lucia receiving an award from Diamond Jill Mahoney, the first mutant mayor of Empire City. She'd been a norm when elected. The spontaneous crystallization of her skin had happened in the third year of her first term of office.
The hallway came to an end, and we stepped into a new room of gleaming steel. Everything from the walls to the floors to the furniture shimmered like it'd just been freshly polished. There were seven white rugs placed around the room, two metal vases shaped to look ancient and new at the same time, and a nine-foot lump of titanium trying to pass itself off as a sculpture. The room didn't look like the kind of place a biological could actually live in. Nonetheless, Napier let go of my hand, nestled in the corner of a fluffy white couch, and somehow managed to actually look comfortable.
A butler auto, wrapped in a cream tuxedo, glided his way across the room. He wasn't a model I recognized, and he didn't bear any company logos. Had to be a custom job. He handed Napier a bubbling green concoction.
"Thank you, Humbolt."
"My pleasure, doll." She'd forgone the standard Olde Money English Butler voice package and given him a gruff Brooklyn accent.
She sipped her drink. "Atomic Kiss. All the rage. Well, not quite yet. I invented it this morning. But give it a week. I'd offer you one, Mack, but, well, you know . . ."
"I know," I replied.
"It must be a very odd existence." She took a very slight sip of
her drink. "Then again, I suppose we flesh and blood creatures must appear very strange to you as well."
"I try not to judge," I said honestly.
"Please, Mister Megaton, have a seat." She gestured toward a chair. My coat was still wet, my chassis smudged, and to sit in the chair would've required the white cushions be sent out for dry cleaning. More likely, Napier would toss them in the trash and order up another one. Probably went through couches like I went through plastic airplane models.
"I'll stand. Thanks."
"As you wish." She took another measured sip, rose from her couch, and drew closer. Her movements were graceful, confident. This was a woman who was used to being in charge. She reached toward my faceplate.
"May I, Mister Megaton?"
My threat assessor marked her as physically benign. Of course, in a non-battlefield situation there were more dangerous things than ray cannons and plasma bolts. In her own way, Lucia Napier was more perilous than Grey and his electrokinetic touch. At least, I thought so. I had no real proof. Only an impression gleaned by edgy subroutines.
"Sure," I said, ignoring my better judgment.
She put her hand on either side of my cranial unit. "Hmmm. Interesting. You're cooler than I expected."
"You know it, daddio," I replied.
An unidentifiable expression crossed her face. "Is that a joke?"
"You tell me."
"A rudimentary sense of humor. How wonderful." She smiled. "Might I bother you to remove your coat?"
"Miss Napier, I'm not here for—"
"Oh, please, Mr. Megaton. I'll be happy to answer any of your questions afterwards."
She batted her eyelashes at me, and while the look had little effect on me, my problem-solving skills usually sought out the most direct solution. I removed my coat. The butler auto smoothly glided beside me and held out his hand.
"Want me to take that for you, buddy?"
I was about to tell him not to bother when he snatched it away and glided out of the room.
The Automatic Detective Page 7