She exited the room, not quite storming out but coming pretty close.
"You got a real way with people," said Humbolt.
"Design flaw," I said. "I just can't figure biologicals out."
"What's to figure? They ain't that complicated, pal. Take the boss there. She likes to play the carefree, freewheelin', spoiled little rich girl, but she's tired of it. Only she's been doin' it so long, she can't figure how to stop. All she really wants is a friend, Mack."
"She's got you," I said.
"Ah, I don't count. I'm programmed to like her. She could be a total bitch, and I'd still think she was the cat's pajamas. Most people are like that. They don't like each other for who they are, but who they're supposed to be. I guess the lady was hopin' you were different."
He was right. Lucia had done nothing but help me, and I'd returned the favor by pushing her away. No wonder I didn't have many friends.
"You'll excuse me, Humbolt." I went to Lucia's room. The door was closed, but when I went to knock, it slid open. Lucia glared up at me.
"What is it now, Mack?"
"I'm sorry."
Funny how two little words could have such an immediate and noticeable effect. Lucia smiled—not just her mouth but her whole face. Especially her eyes. She was beautiful. Oh, I'd already calculated she was statistically attractive, but there was something more there. I couldn't say what it was. Some things weren't subject to analytical breakdown. All I knew was that her smile meant a lot to me. For the first time, I wished I had a mouth so I could smile back at her.
Then she hugged me. She was such a delicate little thing, fragile bones and pulpy organs. After seven seconds I gently placed one massive mitt on her back. The hug went on for another six seconds before she pulled away.
"Well, we better get some rest," she said. "We've got a big day tomorrow. Good night, Mack."
"Good night, Lucia."
The door slid shut. I turned around and nearly ran into Humbolt.
"See, Mack? Told ja biologicals weren't that complicated."
"Who programmed you to be so insightful?"
He adjusted and smoothed his collar. "Hey, just 'cause I don't sport that fancy red paint job of yours, don't mean I'm a complete drone."
11
Biologicals thought that because the Big Brains hadn't figured a way to download their memories onto a monitor that it was somehow more magical than how we robots learned. They were right. Biological memory was magical, biased by personal experience, reshaped by every recollection. It wasn't worth much.
We robots record it. Every replay would be the same. I could tell you the last time I saw Lucia smile (last night, fourteen minutes after three), the room temperature when I saw that smile (seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit), and the number of strands of hair fallen across her left eye as she did (three or four; I've got good opticals, but even I've got my limits). About the only thing I couldn't tell you was how she smelled (not my fault, since I wasn't built with olfactories).
I don't want to make it sound like the human brain is bad hardware. What they lack in accuracy, they make up for in imagination, intuition. The Big Brains hadn't perfected that in robots yet. We could learn. We could figure things out. We could solve problems. We could even deduce. It just took a little while sometimes.
The next morning, it hit me like a ton of bricks. More like thirty tons of bricks since a ton would barely register on my tactile web. I'd needed a good night's defragmenting to sort out the facts.
It was only a hunch, not an actual irrefutable conclusion. A theory gleaned from things I'd scanned: guys with domes covering their heads and others with giant skulls or jellyfishes for faces. A nurse with a mouth that could suck the eyeballs right out of a skull.
These were aliens we were talking about. Maybe.
It was hard to know for sure, what with the percentage of mutants walking around Empire. There were a lot of mutants in the city, and everyone had gotten used to it. But these guys would get a second glance. Probably even a third. They wouldn't blend in. Maybe they were only extreme mutations, hiding away from public scrutiny to avoid persecution.
It was a possibility, and it would've made more sense except for that little teleportation gizmo that had fallen into my hands last night. There were a couple of breakthroughs that everyone in Empire was waiting for: time machines, food pills, and teleportation topped the list. If someone had invented a practical teleportation device, it'd already be out on the market, with a catchy little jingle on the radio and billboards everywhere. Whichever company came out with it would make a fortune because everybody in the city would want to have one. Probably two.
Biologicals weren't always motivated by cash or food or the need to empty accumulated waste products, but there was a lot of money to be made in the teleportation industry. The only reason it wouldn't have reached the public yet was because someone had better ideas. Trying to maintain a technological advantage was the strongest reason I could hypothesize.
So I was either dealing with a secret alien invasion or an underground organization of extreme mutants with very advanced tech, either an invasion or an uprising. Both sounded like trouble, and something a smart bot would've avoided. But I'd come this far. Might as well go all the way.
I snapped back on. Humbolt was already up and functioning, waving a dust eradicator around the room. He gave me a courtesy pass.
"Mornin', Mack. The lady's downstairs."
"Already?"
"You know the doll. She couldn't stay away from the gizmo."
She couldn't have gotten much sleep. My defragmenting had taken four hours, ten minutes. I went to the lab and found Lucia hunched over the table in the middle of her reassembly attempts.
"Hey, Mack, it's taking a little while longer than I expected. It shouldn't be more than another hour or two. So how was your recharge?"
"Insightful. I think I figured some things out."
"What's that, sweetie?"
"Can't say."
She kept making tiny welds with a miniature heat ray. "Oh, come on. I can keep a secret. I promise."
"It's not an issue of trust," I said. "It's a bug I'm working through."
"Why don't you have your shrink take a look at it?"
"Already did. She said it'll just take time." I scanned the many scattered parts. "Are you sure you can put it back together?"
"Put it back together? Heck, Mack, sweetie, I'll even add a couple of improvements."
"Lucia . . ."
"Relax, big guy. This is what I do, freelance technologist consulting." She wiped sweat from her forehead. "You don't see me questioning your ability to smash things, now, do you?"
"Smashing things is easier than putting them back together," I said.
"Maybe for you, hon."
Humbolt, carrying a telephone, descended the lab staircase. "Yo, Mack, call for you. Says he's a cop."
It was Sanchez. I figured it would be. No other cops were interested in my activities as far as I knew.
"You got a minute?" he asked. "There are some things I'd like to show you."
"Actually, Sanchez, I'm kind of busy right now."
"It wasn't a request, Mack."
Either the earpiece was loud enough for Lucia to hear the conversation or she pieced together Sanchez's end all by herself. "Go ahead, Mack. I'm not going to be done with this for another hour or two."
Sanchez must've heard her. Or maybe he just didn't care.
"I'm waiting downstairs," he said. "Don't keep me waiting long."
He hung up. No debate. I could tell he meant it. I may have been a tough bot, but if I was going to keep digging, it couldn't hurt to have Sanchez on my side.
"I'll be back in an hour, Lucia. Two at the most."
"I'll be ready, handsome."
True to his word, Sanchez was waiting for me at the bottom of Proton Towers.
"How'd you find me?" I asked.
"It's my job."
He took a long drag on his cigarette and tossed it aside. A two-leg
ged automatic vacuum hopped over to clean it up with more enthusiasm than was healthy even for a drone.
"So what's this about, Sanchez?"
"We found Tony Ringo."
Might've been those pesky foreign behavioral dictates my maintenance protocols had yet to purge, but I feigned surprise. One of the advantages of having a bare faceplate was that I didn't have to be a good actor. I didn't say anything.
Whatever I didn't say must've struck something in Sanchez's finely honed cop instincts. He could always read me like a technical manual. His expression didn't change, and he didn't say anything. But there was something about the way he didn't say it.
We took Sanchez's Ambler to the Think Tank. It was a lousy ride. Instead of wheels or treads, amblers had six pneumatic legs. Don't ask me who thought that was a good idea, but whoever it was managed to convince someone with a factory to crank out a few thousand. At first, they'd been a commercial failure, but then word got out. Amblers never broke down. Never. You could shove a piece of lit dynamite in the power coil, and the only noticeable effect would be a little more smoke when you started it up. Only a little more. It was the kind of technological reliability that was hard to find in Tomorrow's Town. So people bought them. And used them forever or until they got sick of them and sold them to someone else.
No one bought an Ambler for any other reason than practicality. Cheap, dependable, and built to last. No one bought a new model when they could find used ones, and the launch of several brand-new styles did nothing to encourage sales. A couple of fancy fins and some high beam headlights didn't make the ride any cooler or smoother. The Ambler Motorcar Company went out of business, proving that a quality product isn't always a worthwhile endeavor. But its ghosts still haunted Empire, thousands of lurching, rusty machines with chipped paint and cracked windshields hopping their way down her streets.
Sanchez's Ambler was still in decent shape. It didn't make the ride any smoother. By the time we got to the Tank, my internal gyros had taken a beating. I nearly fell over when I got out of the car.
"Thank God I don't vomit," I said.
"Don't be such a pansy." Sanchez didn't look worse for wear, but even if he had turned green there was no way of telling under that fur.
We entered the Tank. All the bells and whistles went off with my arrival, but Sanchez waved off the incapacitor. Parker, the front gate watchdog, wasn't too happy about that. He made Sanchez sign a couple of waivers, in triplicate, then called for confirmation. The whole thing took so long, it would've been easier to clamp the incapacitor on.
After we got through security, Sanchez led me to the elevators. We stepped in. He lit a cigarette, puffed on it slow and thoughtfully. "You didn't ask."
"Ask what?"
"Whether Ringo was alive or not. You didn't ask."
"I guess I just assumed."
"Guess you did," Sanchez mumbled. He was so short and his voice was so low, I had trouble picking it up. "Not like you to make assumptions, Mack."
We rode a little further. If the Tank had levitator pods, this would've been a lot less awkward.
"You still didn't ask."
"Since we aren't heading toward the morgue, I figured he was alive."
Puff.
"He's alive, isn't he?" I said.
"Oh, he's alive. Depending on how rigid your definition of life is." Puff. "You didn't ask if we'd gotten any information out of him."
"Did you?"
"Nothing useful."
The elevator doors opened, and he led me further into this web of deceit. Not exactly outright lies. Omitted truths. It had to be Grey's countermands that kept me from fessing up because I couldn't think of a good reason not to admit what I knew. Sanchez might've even known something about Abner Greenman, but I kept it to myself.
Tony Ringo was under lock and key in his own little special white room. Protective custody, Sanchez explained. His blanked mind was evidence. Sanchez didn't admit to it, but I could tell he was worried. Psychic crime wasn't unheard of, but telepathic murder was still a rare occurrence.
Sanchez had been right. Technically, Ringo was still alive. His heart still pushed his blood through his veins. His lungs still drew in gulps of air. His eyes still twitched at the twinkles of light. But he was a shell.
"What happened to him?" I asked, compelled to continue my charade.
"We're not sure. Somebody did a number on him though. Burned his brain. We had our forensic telepath probe his mind. There's not much left in there anymore."
"There's stuff left in there?"
"Little bit. Brain holds a lot of information. Can't scorch it all. Though they came damn close. But there was some stuff left behind. Fragments. Mostly random memories. Nothing much of any importance. Oh, and a name."
I didn't ask because I figured I knew what the name was and that Sanchez would tell me in his own due time. I was right on both.
"Mack."
"Yeah?"
"That's the name: Mack."
"Common name," I replied. "Were there any witnesses?"
He sighed. "Ringo was last seen at a jazz club. Some hole in the wall called The Golden Diode. It's the kind of place where witnesses are hard to come by."
"Surveillance?"
"Even harder to come by."
Up to now Ringo had been lying in his bed, drooling and moving his lips like he was trying to say something. Suddenly he sat up like a shot and stared me right in the opticals. He opened his mouth and screamed a harsh, warbling shriek. He started laughing and crying at the same time.
"It's you! It's you! It's you!" He stifled a sniffle and grabbed at his ears. "You, you, you, you!" Then he collapsed, dead to the world. Except he wasn't dead, and he wasn't just a shell. He was a thing that had once been a man but was now a handful of confused memories. Names and dates and places that could never fit together again. What Greenman had done to him wasn't murder. It was worse.
"What'll happen to him?"
"We'll try to dig some more information. Then I guess we'll ship him off to the hospital. I got a feeling it'll be an extended stay."
Poor bastard. At least a defective robot got the dignity of a quick deactivation. Ringo had gotten mixed up with some nasty business, and he'd come out the losing end of it. That'd been his whole life. While I didn't exactly feel sorry for him, if I'd found him on the street like this I would've crushed his head and put him out of his misery.
"He seems to know you," said Sanchez.
"He doesn't even know who he is. Are we through here, Sanchez?"
"I don't know, Mack. Are we?"
I'd have loved to let him in on my little secret of a possible alien invasion or mutant conspiracy. If anybody would believe me, it'd be him. He was waist deep in this sort of stuff more often than not. Empire had its problems, but they'd have been a lot worse if it wasn't for men like Sanchez, bless his furless little tail and twitchy pink nose.
I kept quiet.
"Fine, Mack. If that's the way you want to play it. C'mon. I'll drive you back."
"In that lurching junkheap of yours, Sanchez. I don't know. I might end up losing a couple of bolts."
Before we reached the elevator, a uniformed cop chased Sanchez down.
"Sir, you wanted us to keep you up to date on the Bleaker case."
My audios tuned in. The cop stifled himself as if he wasn't sure he should speak in front of me.
"Go ahead, Dougal," said Sanchez.
"They found one of them. The father, sir." Dougal hesitated, but Sanchez gave him a nod.
"He's dead, sir. Bludgeoned to death. Report says somebody worked him over, like he was shoved into a crushing unit."
Sanchez glanced up at me, at those giant hands of mine. The kind made for bludgeoning and crushing. "Guess we're not through here after all, Mack."
12
You know the scene. Seen it in a dozen crime pictures. Some dumb mug finds himself sitting in a tiny room with a cop standing over him, reading him the riot act. That's pretty much what hap
pened to me.
Except I wasn't sitting. I don't sit much. Most furniture isn't made for my weight, and my feet don't get sore. Also, it wasn't a tiny room. It was a big basement cell, thickly enshrouded in shadows excluding a few a bright spotlights. I assumed they blew the lighting budget on the three giant cannons pointed my way. And Sanchez, who was barely tall enough to stand over my knee, wasn't reading me the riot act. He was sitting at the table, puffing on a cigarette, letting the ash dangle. Otherwise, it was exactly the same.
I stood in a small red circle painted on the floor. There was nothing keeping me from stepping out of it except the three heavy blast cannons trained around me. Unlike Sanchez, the cannons did tower over me. I was thick-alloyed, but the Think Tank had my specs, so it was a fair bet these weapons could pose a danger. My threat assessor suggested it'd be a good idea to play it safe and not step out of the circle.
Now that I was here, I wondered if it might've been smarter to make a break for it while I had still been above ground. I might not have been able to bust out of the Tank. The security was tight, and the weaponry dangerous enough to give me reason to think twice, but at least I'd stood a chance. Now, I was stuck.
Sanchez hadn't said a word in the last six minutes. He was content to let me sweat. It was a tactic that had worked a thousand times before. But I don't sweat, and I could wait just as long as he could.
I won the stare-off.
He leaned back in his chair. "The Council approved this room's construction. As a precaution, you understand. Each of these cannons cost more than I make in twenty years. If they go off even once, the Council will have to approve a tax hike to pay the power bill. And from what I understand, they're each only good for about a dozen shots before the unit burns out and has to be replaced.
"I can't get the budget approval for a new automimeograph, but I guess somebody very important thought there might be a need for a special room like this. To hold guys like you."
"Guys like me?" I asked. "Or just me."
"Right now, you're the only guy like you." He stabbed out his cigarette and lit up a new one. It was a miracle those little lungs of his still worked.
The Automatic Detective Page 13