As the two men departed, McCade bent over and picked up the metal sphere. Holding Cy with one arm, he picked up his carryall with the other, and headed for the reception area. It was clearly marked with a neon sign.
"DC power . . . I need DC power soon . . . dying." The weak voice came from the metal sphere.
It was weird, but if a metal ball could scream, then talking seemed reasonable too. "OK, my friend," McCade said, "DC power it is. My treat just as soon as I check in."
Cy wanted to express his gratitude but couldn't find the energy, so he allowed himself to sink back into darkness, carefully monitoring the trickle of energy which flowed to his life support systems.
The reception area was huge, and sparkled with a thousand lights. Tiers of balconies reached up to a ceiling hewed from brownish rock. Gentle music merged with the hum of subdued conversation to create a comfortable jumble of background sound. Thick carpeting, well-padded furniture, and tasteful decorations all combined to create a feeling of restrained elegance.
In fact, the check-in counter even boasted a live receptionist. She was young, quite pretty, and well aware of it. Flanking her on both sides were the latest in autotellers. They did the actual work of checking people in and out. She was supposed to provide the human touch. But right now her practiced smile couldn't quite conceal her disapproval. She'd recognized Cy immediately. "Is that, er, thing yours, sir? I hope it hasn't been bothering you."
"What this?" McCade asked in mock surprise. "Certainly not. This is my portable gatzfratz. Never leave home without it. Hope you have some DC power in my room. Damned thing won't work off AC."
"Certainly not," the receptionist sniffed, appalled by McCade's obvious lie. "None of our rooms supply DC power."
"Well, mine had better supply some, and damned fast," McCade said, eyes narrowing. "I'll be happy to pay whatever costs are involved."
The receptionist gulped. "Just a moment, sir, I'll check." She didn't like this man's expression. She punched some keys on her com set and explained the situation to her supervisor.
He laughed, and said, "Sounds like Cy found himself a sucker . . . well, what the hell . . . give the man what he wants. Like Mr. Joyo says, 'The customer's always right.'"
Half an hour later McCade was thanking the maintenance tech, and showing him out. The tech had managed to run a cable from a junction box thirty feet down the hall, under McCade's door, and into his room. He closed the door and turned to see Cy extrude a power pickup and plug in. He yawned. "Enjoy, my little friend. Meanwhile I need a nap." With that he stretched out on the bed and was asleep ten seconds later.
Eight
McCade awoke to find the metal ball floating ominously over his head. In one fluid motion his gun came up and centered on Cy. "You'd better have one helluva good reason for being up there," he said levelly.
"Ooops, sorry," Cy replied, and used a squirt of compressed air to propel himself toward the far wall. "It's been a while since I could afford to run my anti-grav unit. I'm afraid I drifted off to sleep . . . and was blown over you by the air conditioning."
"No problem," McCade said, holstering his gun. He swung his feet over the side of the bed, stood, and headed for the bathroom. He stripped to the waist and smeared his face with shaving cream. It was sort of old-fashioned, but he liked the ritual. The metal sphere had followed him, and now hung suspended in the doorway. "So," he said, shaving the left side of his face, "did you get enough power?"
"Oh, yes," Cy answered eagerly. "I don't know how to thank you. It's been months since I've been able to bring storage up to max. They don't pay me much . . . so I can rarely afford more than a half charge."
"They charge you for power?"
The metal ball bobbed up and down as though nodding in agreement. "Oh, yes . . . nothing's free on Joyo's Roid."
McCade studied the hovering sphere in the mirror for a moment before starting in on the right side of his face. "No offense, but what are you anyway, some sort of advanced robot?"
A distinct sigh emanated from the silver ball. "That's what everyone thinks . . . but I'm not." Cy paused for a moment getting ready to say it. The words never came easily. Finally he steeled himself and said, "I'm a cyborg."
"Part man and part machine?" McCade asked. He'd heard of them but never met one.
"That's right," Cy replied, "although I'm mostly machine, and very little man. In fact my brain's all that's left of the man."
McCade regarded the cyborg thoughtfully as he wiped his face with a soft white towel. "So you must have a name . . . I'm Sam Lane." He'd almost said "McCade" but caught himself just in time.
"Glad to meet you, Sam. I'm Cy Borg."
"No, that's what you are . . . I asked who you are."
"No," Cy said stubbornly, "that's who I am too. The old me is dead."
"OK, have it your way," McCade replied, walking into the bedroom. "Mind if I ask how you wound up in your present, ah, condition?"
Cy spun back and forth as if shaking his head. "Why not? It's common knowledge. I gambled myself away."
McCade finished putting on a fresh set of leathers and zipped them up. "You what? How the hell d'you manage that?"
Cy bobbed up and down slightly as he passed through the cold air being blown out of a vent. "I'm afraid I was a very sick man. Believe it or not, I used to be wealthy. Made it all myself too. I was a whiz at electromechanical miniaturization, computers, stuff like that. In fact, I designed myself. What do you think?" Cy spun full circle like a model showing off a new gown.
"You're the best-looking metal ball I've ever seen," McCade answered dryly. "So how did you gamble yourself away?"
"Oh, that," Cy replied, as if coming back to an uncomfortable subject. "Well, I came here like most people do, just looking for a good time, you know, a little fun and relaxation. So I tried a little of this, and a little of that, and then I discovered gambling. I'd never gambled before . . . and, I loved it. I loved the risk, the excitement, the pure adventure of it. Well, to make a long story short, before I knew it I'd gambled away all my money. And when that was gone, I gambled away my business and my yacht. Then I tried to stop. But it was too late. I couldn't. So I gambled the only things I had left, my bodily organs. And I lost."
For a moment there was silence as McCade tried to imagine what it would be like. Being wheeled into surgery, knowing they were about to take your body apart, package it, and sell the pieces like so much meat. Then awaking to find they had left only your brain. It was horrible, but all too possible, since there was quite a market for organs and anything with value could be gambled away. He thought of the people cavorting around Lady Linnea's pool in their biosculpted bodies. Maybe some of them were using Cy's organs. He shuddered. "I'm sorry, Cy . . . that's a tough break. But it looks like you did a good job redesigning yourself."
"Yeah, it ain't too bad," Cy agreed, extruding a vid pickup to examine himself. "Although I should have gone for a better AC converter. But I only had a week to design and build my new body, so I had to work with what I could get. Most of me came from junked robots," Cy added proudly.
"Well, you did a damned fine job," McCade said thoughtfully as he pulled out a cigar and puffed it alight. "Now it happens that I need a guide. I don't suppose you'd have time to show me around? I'd be happy to pay you."
"Of course, Sam," Cy said eagerly. "I wish I could refuse the pay . . . but I'm afraid I need it."
"I'd insist anyway," McCade replied. "You mentioned a job earlier. Are you sure working for me won't interfere?"
Cy dropped a few inches as though hanging his head in shame. "It's not regular work, Sam. Sometimes they hire me to spy on people."
McCade raised one eyebrow. "Spy on people . . . whatever for?"
"You know," Cy said unhappily, "find out what they like, what they don't like. It helps the staff cheat them."
McCade considered the cyborg's small body and anti-grav capability. "I suppose you can go places the rest of us can't," McCade said, thinking out loud. A ha
ndy talent to have. The fact that Joyo cheated his customers didn't surprise McCade. He'd never seen an honest casino yet.
Cy bobbed in silent acknowledgment.
"Well, don't worry about it, partner," McCade said, patting Cy on his top surface. "We all survive as best we can. Let's see Joyo's Roid."
The two of them set off, and it didn't take long for McCade to discover that the asteroid was a maze of tunnels, corridors, and passageways. Some were natural and some artificial. Together they connected the countless bars, nightclubs, and casinos. Joyo knew that while all his customers wanted the same things, they didn't necessarily want them the same way. So while each area offered drugs, sex, and gambling, each made it seem like a different experience.
One area they visited was all brightly lit efficiency. Here sex and drugs were offered by wholesome-looking types, and the whole thing looked like a health-food store. At the other end of the spectrum was an area called Hell's Basement. Here everything was sleazy and decadent, dark bars harbored leather-clad deviants, and customers felt they'd stumbled into hell itself. They loved it.
McCade thought it was funny. He'd spent a lot of time in bars that really were as decadent as this one pretended to be, and knew the richly clad customers who lined the bar, and filled the tables, wouldn't last ten minutes in the real thing. But they were having a good time living out their fantasies . . . so what the hell. He ordered another whiskey from the half-naked bartender, and turned to watch the threesome on stage. They were making love, if you could call their intricate gymnastics "love," and McCade was wondering how they did it. Double-jointed perhaps? Well, it didn't matter. He had work to do. And sitting around wasn't getting it done. Cy, it turned out, was a good guide, but also attracted a lot of attention.
For one thing, all of Joyo's staff knew Cy, the same way bartenders all know the local wino. And it was quickly apparent from the comments they made, that Cy still gambled whenever he got the chance. Plus the two of them were pretty visible. A hard-eyed man dressed in black leathers with a silver ball for a sidekick is hard to miss. So much for the low-key approach. So maybe he'd try something different.
"OK, Cy . . . I think I've got a feel for the basic layout. Now let's have some fun. A friend of mine told me about a game that uses oddly marked six-sided dice. I can't remember what he called it, but it sounded interesting."
Cy gave a metallic-sounding whistle. "Odd six-sided dice . . . your friend must have been a high roller . . . and a bit crazy to boot. Don't tell me, let me guess. When you talked to him he hadn't played Destiny, he was just planning to."
McCade nodded, playing along. "I thought so," Cy said knowingly. "Only crazies play Destiny. If they lose you never see them again. That's part of the game. Or used to be. I heard they shut it down. The payoffs were rare, but damned expensive when they came. Did your friend tell you how it worked? No? Well, it was supposed to be like getting born again. You know, sort of a second chance. An opportunity to overcome the cards dealt you at birth. That's why it was called Destiny. First they'd have you reach into an anti-grav cage where there were thousands of six-sided dice flying around. You'd grab one and check it out. You'd see it had numbers on five sides and Joyo's logo on the other. Each of the numbers would represent a possible life outcome, like with five you might end up a millionaire, and forty-two might mean you're a settler on some frontier planet, and so on. So each of those five numbers became your possible destinies. Then the game would begin. So you roll your dice. Let's say forty-two comes up, you're a settler on some Sol-forsaken frontier planet. But that's just the beginning. According to the rules you must roll sixty-six times. So you keep going. According to the next roll your first two crops fail, your net worth decreases, and your family starts to starve. But you roll again, good news, you discover rare metals on your land. However the next roll brings a pirate raid, and so forth. Once your sixty-six rolls are up, you receive your net worth, if any. From what I've heard most players were damned lucky to avoid slavery. That's right, Sam . . . slavery. If you ended up with a negative net worth you belonged to Joyo. Hey, you think I was stupid betting my organs? These people bet the rest of their lives. So, if they're still playing Destiny, I suggest you avoid it like the plague. Let's try mind-maze or roulette instead."
McCade groaned inwardly. Great. A game where a prince could wind up just as miserable as everyone else. Just Alexander's cup of tea. So if he wanted to find the prince, Destiny might be the path he'd have to follow. McCade assumed what he hoped was a nonchalant grin, and said, "Well, let's find out if they still play it, and then I'll decide."
Cy dipped in what might have been a shrug. "OK . . . it's your neck . . . but don't say I didn't warn you." With that Cy turned, and squirted himself toward the door.
McCade followed as Cy led him deeper and deeper into Hell's Basement. Finally, after what seemed like endless twistings and turnings, Cy rounded a corner and disappeared. McCade followed. But instead of another endless hallway, there was a door. Except it wasn't really a door—since only ribbons of multicolored cloth barred his way.
Brushing them aside, McCade stepped through it and into a tunnel of pink silk. A host of concealed lights made the fabric glow, and a steady breeze caused it to ripple gently, as though invested with a life of its own. Cool air touched his face with the slightest hint of perfume, and brought with it the half-heard strains of distant music. Then came the voices. There were dozens of them, all whispering, all saying the same thing. "Welcome to the Silk Road. Welcome to the Silk Road. Welcome to the Silk Road." They said it over and over, echoing each other endlessly, like ghosts speaking from beyond the grave. It sent a shiver down his spine.
As he walked down the tunnel, the whispers gradually died away, and the music grew gradually louder, its soft but insistent beat pounding with the same rhythm as his own pulse, ebbing and flowing around and through him. The Silk Road. The place the beautiful face on his com set had suggested he come. Perhaps he'd see her. He found himself walking a little faster, as the tunnel curved gently, and then emptied into a large circular room.
The walls were covered with the same pink silk which lined the tunnel. Tables circled the room, each protected by its own silk enclosure, granting those within a gauzy sort of privacy.
Dominating the center of the room was a sunken bar, also circular in shape. And there, bobbing gently in the air-conditioned breeze, was Cy. Autocarts scurried this way and that, serving their customers, and skillfully getting out of McCade's way as he headed for the bar.
The bar was practically empty, most customers evidently preferring the curtained pleasures of the surrounding tables, to the more standard liquid refreshments. Taking the empty seat next to Cy, McCade said, "Nice place, Cy . . . by far the fanciest whorehouse I've ever seen."
"Yes," Cy answered wistfully. "I can remember enjoying such things . . . but not very well." He sighed, and extruded an infrared pickup to supplement his vision. "When the bartender comes, tell him you wish to speak with Silk. She owns the place, and used to run the Destiny games. If they're still going she'll know. But I think you're crazy to even consider playing that game."
"You're probably right," McCade replied. "But I'd like to ask her a few questions." Moments later the bartender appeared from the other side of the bar, lumbered up, and ran his bar rag over the pink plastic countertop.
"Want?" His voice was a guttural rumble which sounded like distant thunder. Luminescent green eyes peered out from under craggy brows to regard McCade with generalized hostility. Like all his race, the Cellite was a humanoid mountain of muscle and bone, sculpted by the heavy gravity of his home world into a living Hercules. His oiled torso rippled when he moved.
"I'll take a whiskey and water," McCade answered. "Terran if you have it."
The bartender gave a grunt of assent, and tapped three keys on his auto-mixer. The glass emerged with a whirring sound and disappeared into the bartender's huge hand. As he set it down, McCade said, "Thanks. And I'd like to have a word with Silk w
hen she has a moment."
The bartender eyed him appraisingly, and then grunted, "Wait." With that he lumbered away and out of sight.
McCade eyed Cy as he lit a cigar, and took a sip of his drink. He had a feeling that direct questioning wasn't going to get him much. So he needed some help, but how far could the cyborg be trusted? He wasn't sure, but decided to take a chance. That way he could pursue the gambling angle, while Cy tried other less obvious possibilities. He cleared his throat. "Cy, I'm afraid I wasn't entirely honest with you earlier."
"I know that, Sam," the cyborg replied calmly, turning a vid pickup in McCade's direction. "Regular customers either ignore me, or just laugh at me. They'd never risk a fight with Rad. So," he added shrewdly, "since you aren't a customer, then you're after something, or somebody."
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