Images careened through her memory like liquid spilling from a high to low point. Neon Trimpot, the grappling hook, the door in the copper mountainside . . . Vector, and Rain, and the glass cannon . . .
“Are you up, Ex?” Mr. Legacy called from the ground floor. She could hear CIN-3 playing from his workbench.
“Yeah, Dad,” Legacy said.
“Was everything all right last night? Are you okay?”
“. . . good question, is free love safer and more responsible than Companions? Maybe we should have a city just for that romantic Chance for Choicer, and see how fast it comes crashing down! Rumors that the four escapees may have had more nefarious plans which thankfully collapsed or backfired are circulating, but as yet, no formal charges . . .” Dyna Logan squawked.
“Yeah, Dad,” Legacy said, staring at herself in the elaborately framed but small and grimy mirror mounted above her dresser drawers.
There was a disastrous hickey on her neck.
Oh my god, that’s right . . .
Meanwhile, a new message was emitting from Flywheel’s iris-speakers.
“. . . see you as soon as possible, and I really mean that, Exa.” Liam’s authoritarian tone rattled Flywheel’s poor eyes. “We need to talk.”
“What happened, exactly?” Mr. Legacy asked downstairs.
“Nothing, really . . . It’s a long story. I . . .”
“. . . evening for an exclusive interview with Duke Taliko, when he will explain the importance of our Companion system, followed by a very personal, very intimate Q&A with every girl’s earl!” Dyna rattled.
Flywheel interrupted Liam’s message to give Legacy a schedule alert. “Lunch break at Cook’s Glass & Metal Fusion in fifteen minutes.”
“Shit!” she hissed, rifling through her disordered drawers for suitable clothing and extracting a slim, plain tank top and a pair of faded, high-cut harem pants with attached suspenders. She was jamming her feet into her shoes as Flywheel continued to play and play Liam’s messages, one after the other, seven so far, all ending with variations on the theme of needing to have a serious talk.
Legacy trundled down the wide-stepped ladder leading from the top level to bottom, snatching a Pleasant Fizzle Multi-Vitamin pill bottle from the shelf as she went and wrenching it open, dumping half a dozen capsules down her throat dry. Still, Flywheel followed her, and still, Liam’s voice rattled his little iris-speakers.
“. . . don’t feel like you’re thinking clearly, really, Exa . . .”
“Sorry I didn’t—Honey? What’s that big bruise on your neck?”
Both Mr. Legacy and his daughter blanched immediately.
“I, uh, mind if I borrow this?” she asked, darting forward and seizing a dismembered shirt sleeve from one of his many wardrobe alterations. “Gotta go, real late for work,” she explained, winding it around her neck. “Love you! Sorry about last night!” Bestowing her father with a kiss upon the cheek, Legacy fled onto the balcony and down the groaning stairwell, landing on both feet at the ground floor (Rrrah! Rrrah! and “Exa!” calling after her from the tiny window), completely missing the mechanical dragonfly who doggedly followed, playing through its eighth message.
“. . . soon as you can, we should talk.”
Flywheel was still following Legacy when she clocked out of her half-shift four hours later, accidentally deleting her missed message from Dax (“Hey, just . . . thinking about . . . stuff, and I thought I’d give you a . . . call, but . . . you’re not there, and it’s—it’s fine, I’ll see you at the thing, and I guess I wanted to say that—that I miss you, no, wait, that sounds . . . well, that sounds like what it . . . what I . . . Am I rambling?”), and replacing it with a recording of Cook lecturing her, which her malfunctioning robot companion then set as her out-going message.
Now, anyone who called her would hear Cook’s dialect, thicker when he was angry, instead of her own chipper greeting. “. . . head’s in the sky all damn day, Legs, ha, ha, ha, yes, ‘is very funny, innit, an’ I know it’s ‘cause of tha’ damn boy, I know it, so why don’ ya either tell ‘im ‘is never gonna ‘appen or else quit your damn job now an’—LEAVE YOUR MESSAGE AT THE TONE.”
Needless to say, Legacy had resolved to talk to Liam. Cook demanded it. Liam requested it. And Dax deserved it.
CIN-3’s headquarters were in the business district, lamentably close to Cook’s Glass & Metal Fusion. It was a looming, chromium structure, constantly strung in scaffolds to erect ever more robotic cameras of varying size, some subtle and some intimidating, all crawling and clinking along the seams of the siding, perched on loose bolts and leering from ventilation slats. As Legacy traipsed along the sidewalk lining the station, lenses the size of coins followed her, shuttering and popping with each frame they captured.
At the front door, a camera the size of a telescope curled down to peer at her inquisitively.
Legacy peered back at it, and could have almost sworn there was a tiny eyeball on the other end.
“Have an appointment?” a circular speaker set into the wall squawked.
“No, not exactly, but I’m a . . . a friend of Liam Wilco’s?” Legacy ventured. “He’s asked to see me.” She paused. “A lot.”
The lens blinked. “Mm hmm. All right, then. Just a moment. Name, please?”
“Legacy.”
“Mm hmm. All right, then. Just a moment. All right. Mister Wilco has been permitted a ten minute break commencing in two minutes.”
A slit above the speaker clattered and crunched, spitting out a golden card with several dots and lines pounded into it. “Take your clearance pass, please,” the voice commanded. Legacy obliged.
There were the booms and clacks of locks lifting and turning, then the heavy entryway cleared for her travel. Flywheel performed twirls behind her, following, murmuring, “Meteor shower visible in the hours be-be-between . . . Low power. Power. Low. Potassium hydroxide scrubber refill. Hydroxide scrubber refill is ready.”
The interior of CIN-3 was bustling, but grim. The shuffle of footsteps echoed without the ring of voices to match it, every head angled down. The walls were lined in tarnished, congratulatory plaques, and six sentries stood in a pretty little row leading directly to an elevator. They were outfitted in combat helmets for no apparent reason, and each held a musket-like stun gun at his side. The paternoster lift was equipped with a mechanical porter, a tall, slender “woman” in a simple red uniform. She wore a cap of glossy auburn hair, and her turn-key twisted and twisted in her back.
“Liam Wilco operates and executes in the tertiary department of this particular and specific, yet cumulative and cohesive, edifice,” one of the sentries rapped out as Legacy passed. She started, frowning after him and slowly continuing to walk.
“I’ve heard he’s going to run this place someday,” another sentry pipped, winking. “Secret millionaire, they all say, that’s Liam, all right; as gold are his pockets as the hairs on his head!”
That’s . . . a weird thing to say . . . He’s got . . . red hair . . .
“I’m sorry about those two,” another sentry added sincerely.
“Thank—”
“Third floor, with Dyna Logan, ma’am. It’s on the left,” the fourth sentry addressed her seriously.
The fifth hiccupped. “The one with the nifty free drink machine,” he informed her in a fluctuating squeak.
“You can’t miss it,” the last guard said, patting her shoulder in a familiar way. “You’ll do just fine, love. We all will.”
Legacy gave each of the six strange guards her most discerning scowl as the porter manipulated a lever, and the grate slid open without having to be touched, then slid back into place the same.
“Fl-fl-floor, please,” the porter said pleasantly, her marionette mouth falling opened and closed to imitate the motions of a real woman.
“Third, thank you,” Legacy said, though she supposed the automaton didn’t care if she was polite or not. They weren’t mechanized to care.
A glass bau
ble filled with emerald-colored water frothed, the floor lurched, and the robotic female automaton announced, “Third fl-fl-floor, thank you, have a good day.”
Legacy lurched again and staggered from the lift, Flywheel buzzing out behind her, his speakers vibrating back to his fellow bot, “Have a good day.”
Directly in front of her must have been the nifty free drink machine.
It was a sleek cart on four thin, wide wheels, several pipes sprouting from the top like an organ. The machine made a soothing series of gurgles and hisses as it worked, six transparent flutes of multi-colored liquid each percolating busily, next to them a deep sink which was half full of small, stained glasses. Accordion-styled arms with clamps dangled in wait on either side of the contraption. There was a Victrola horn attached above the instructions, “Audibly order here.”
Rather than being labeled “distilled water,” or “power pop,” like most would expect, these tubes were labeled as such.
A crystalline, fizzing, pale yellow.
Brilliant Vocabulary Enhancement: Lends itself to the most superfluous and bombastic of oral permutations!
A dark purple elixir.
To Lie Smoothly and Creatively: May cause serious damage if taken more than once in a twenty-four hour period. Dose with caution.
An attractive, sparkling crimson, strangely thick.
Invigorate the Heart with True Purpose: Knees knocking? Tongue tied? One glass guaranteed to keep your head on straight all day!
A murky, grayish soup.
Remember Lines: STAFF USE ONLY.
A clear syrup.
Comedic Tone: Dose carefully! followed by a paragraph of fine print.
And a smoky green tonic.
Calm the Nerves: To remain agreeable in otherwise adverse situations. Drink slowly for longer-lasting and reduced impact! DO NOT INJECT.
Intrigued, Legacy stepped forward and enunciated, “Invigorate the heart,” into the horn.
One of the accordion-style arms extended, spitting a small glass into its clamp, and the other accordion-style arm wrenched a valve on top of the deep red tube. The viscous liquid, blood-like, filled the glass completely, and was extended wordlessly toward Legacy.
She took it and looked around.
No one was here, except the cameras blinking at her from every corner.
She placed the glass to her lips, but the liquid had only just begun to pass her throat when a door slammed and Liam called, “Exa!” from down the left corridor. Flywheel dove into her braids and nestled there.
Legacy choked and hastily tossed her beverage into the sink, guiltily meeting her suitor’s eyes as he approached.
“Those are for guests,” he rebuked. Then he hesitated, looking from her to the sink and back, and for once, he seemed thoughtful rather than merely restraining his annoyance. “Did . . . did you just order Invigorate?”
Wish it worked a little faster, Legacy thought, feeling her heart rate kick up and her shoulders square. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply through her nose.
“Why would you be feeling knock kneed and tongue tied?” he asked.
Legacy opened her eyes and exhaled, long and slow, out her mouth.
The man peering back at her was suddenly clearer than he’d ever been.
“Because it’s hard to tell anyone that they’re a bad match for you, Liam,” she told him firmly.
There was a beat where he merely absorbed the shock of the bluntness. “CCSS didn’t think so,” he replied, oddly plaintive. She’d noticed the way he became more child than man when he began to lose his sense of a grip on her.
“I honestly don’t know what those difference engines thought, if they do think, which they don’t,” Legacy said. “They’re nothing but metal. Cold calculators. But this?” She grabbed his hand and pressed its palm over her heart. “I feel nothing,” she told him. “I feel nothing at all right now.”
Pink crept up his cheeks, and he wrested his hand from her unwelcome demonstration, “Well, of course, right now, but the engines knew what they were doing. Those are very careful exams, you know. It’s not just about genetics, Exa. We have companionate personalities, too. We both have rigid codes of integrity that are of utmost importance to us. We believe in diplomacy and compromise. We’re introverted, we’re task-oriented; Exa, they took all these elements into account, too. In time—”
“It’s been three years,” she reminded him.
“But there was no one else!” Liam flung his hands into the air, frustrated and reddening all the more. “If there was someone better for you, then why didn’t you get matched with them, huh? You’re my only option! And I’m yours! That’s the way it happened!”
“But that’s not the way it happened,” Legacy explained coolly. “I don’t feel that way. The engines tried to determine our path, but it was already too late.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about real life. Things happen! Things happen that are spontaneous and inexplicable and illogical. It’s . . . it’s magic, not math. The leap in my chest that I feel when he smiles has nothing to do—”
“Who?”
“Dax,” Legacy answered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Ghrenadel?”
She only pursed her lips in response.
“You’re crazy, Exa! Don’t you—Haven’t you read the Compatible Companion Laws? You can’t be with just anyone you like! It’s not—it’s not legal!”
“I already am,” she said simply.
Liam gaped at her in silence as the door at the end of the left corridor shuttered open again.
“Mister Wilco, we’re going to need you back in here,” another member of the crew called.
“I’ll be there in a minute!” Liam yelled without turning. Although his co-worker said nothing and returned to the studio, and the door shuttered shut, Liam closed his eyes and rubbed his temples as if he’d just been reamed by Dyna Logan. “I really—This is the worst possible day for you to do this,” he said.
“You said you wanted to talk,” Legacy reminded him. “As soon as possible, you said.”
“I wanted to talk about what you did at the founder’s ball,” he elaborated. “We ran a fucking story on you this morning! What happened? Did you know Dyna implied—heavily—that you were with Chance for Choice all along? That the tantrum you threw at the duke’s speech—”
“It was not a tantrum—”
“—was all some thinly veiled attempt to stage a protest?”
How quickly he forgot everything she’d just told him, continuing to speak to her as a master would. She supposed he liked this turn of topic better. It gave him a more tangible sense of leverage.
“What if I was in Chance for Choice?” Legacy rebutted. “What then?”
“Then you’d be insane!”
“Or would I be free!”
The door at the end of the left hallway shuttered open again.
“Mister Wilco—”
“I know, damnit!” Liam snapped. He took a deep breath, though it didn’t seem to relax him the way that people claimed a deep breath would. “I’ve got to go, Exa. Dyna’s got an interview with Taliko. If she knew you were here . . .” He looked back at the shuttered door. “She’d drag you in there for an impromptu debate, I’m sure of it. She’d try to bait you into being sent off to jail for the second time.” His jaw clenched.
“Well, it wasn’t a real jail,” Legacy explained feebly. The elixir of courage dwindled in her veins, and she deflated. “It was just a little holding area full of drunks. Liam, I—I’m sorry. I know that . . . I am your only choice . . . if you want to obey the law. But—”
Liam was holding his hand out to her in the gesture of silence. “Stop,” he ordered. “I don’t have time for this.” He turned on his heel and strode back down the corridor, toward the studio where Dyna and Taliko waited. “You should seriously go out the back,” he informed her, not turning to look as he spoke. “As soon as they realize who
you are, they’re going to want to keep you here, and you don’t want Dyna’s hooks in you. Trust me.”
With that, the door shuttered open and closed, and he was gone.
Flywheel wiggled out of Legacy’s braids. “Blood pressure is slightly elevated,” he informed her helpfully, fluttering away.
“You’re telling me,” she murmured, considering the nifty free drink cart again. Snatching the Victrola horn, she ordered, “Calm the nerves,” and another glass shot from one arm, the other twisting the valve, then delivering the mossy substance to her hand. Legacy poured the concoction down her throat whole, swallowed with a cringe, and tossed the glass into the sink, wishing again that they worked faster than immediately.
Finding the back door of CIN-3 would be harder than it looked, because it required Legacy to first locate the stairwell.
Meanwhile, the drink wove its tentacles around her, through her, making everything so pleasant and meaningless; it was harder and harder to focus on where each door led, harder and harder to focus on why it might be unfavorable for the security of the building to apprehend her . . . What did it matter, anyway? What could they do to her? Steal her wings?
Legacy smiled dreamily and kind of forgot the whole thing, playfully rustling the wig of a dormant, very formal-looking automaton as she passed.
Kaizen supped at a cigarette, taking the toxic fibers into himself and then expelling them in a mindless rhythm, much like the automata which bustled about the castle would have done. He welcomed the burn. Anyone affected by numbness welcomes a bit of pain, don’t they? The silky coil of smoke unfolded before him, and Kaizen attempted to loosen his shoulders, to let his neck fell back and just . . . let it . . . go.
His father was going to kill him. He’d taken out Newton-2’s key for a moment of peace, and Johannes had been commanded to go take a stroll around the block, and here Kaizen was, alone, finally alone, stretched out at the foot of yet another stairwell, smoking one of his cigarettes. Not one of his cigarettes, one of his father’s cigarettes. There were only two handfuls left in the whole castle, and he’d smuggled three onto the carriage in recompense for being forced to attend this banal interview. Malthus had it in mind that Kaizen needed the exposure, the experience, and in his heart of hearts, he was vindictive about the night before. When Dyna Logan suggested that Kaizen attend the public image salvage, Malthus seized upon it.
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