Several vehicles filled the spaces between painted white lines. Four black-and-white police cars with standard light bars were parked in spaces numbered one, three, four, and six. Two and five lay empty. Seven and eight held sedans that appeared to be civilian cars. Signs at the next two places warned: TRANSIENT VEHICLES LOADING & UNLOADING ONLY. A gleaming scarlet ambulance with the familiar FDNY logo of the fire department idled in the one closest to a heavy metal door to the building.
The remaining vehicles in the lot had various smashes, dents, and dings, including one that appeared as if it had slammed directly into a large immovable object such as a building. Bits of windshield still clung to the misshapen metal rim that had once held it in place.
A sour odor permeated Susan’s vicinity, and she realized she was standing beside a massive maroon-colored Dumpster. She took a seat on one of its jutting wheel bases, enjoying the security of its shadow. She had practiced her words all morning, yet she still did not feel she had the right ones to convince the property clerk, or whoever he or she called to assist, that she needed to reactivate a man-sized robot who appeared to have murdered a man with one blow of a hammer. Not a hammer, she reminded herself, trying to remember the exact description Nate had used. A Stanley FuBar Utility Bar.
In the past, Susan had frequently walked the line between informing and insulting. She did not suffer fools, gladly or otherwise, and preferred to simply purge them from her life. She supposed that accounted for the short list of friendships, her run-ins with lazy or inadequate superiors, and why she had focused on schoolwork to the detriment of any social life. She had long convinced herself that learning took, not just priority, but all of her devotion until she had fully mastered any and all degrees and ensconced herself in a suitable, meaningful job. Now she wondered if she simply did not like nor appreciate interacting with the vast majority of people.
Susan shook the thought away. Such cynicism would not have entered her mind two years ago, when she had begun her residency with all the typical high hopes of the future-minded and selfless young doctor. The events of the last two years had rendered her sullen and world-weary, and she no longer had the patience to kowtow to the whims of the uninformed, lazy, or stupid, assuming she ever had.
The heavy exterior door flew open, something partially metallic slammed to the concrete, and a string of swearwords followed in at least two voices. Susan caught a glimpse of three uniformed men fumbling with a stretcher while a fourth held the door and tried to assist simultaneously. She ducked behind the Dumpster before she could consider why she felt the need to hide.
“Lucky this isn’t a real guy,” one said. “Or we’d have probably splashed his brains across the driveway.”
“He’s heavy as fuck,” another complained. Susan could hear the sound of cloth rustling as they apparently rearranged their burden. “I’ve been fucking carrying people a long time. This one’s four hundred if he’s a pound.”
“Not even a scratch.” This came in a third male voice. “Let’s get him in there. I’ve gotta pee.”
Susan peeked at the quartet from under the Dumpster. They had lowered the stretcher to the ground, and she could easily make out a tall, unmoving human form partially covered by sheets. She knew who it had to be. Nate!
“We’re all gonna pee,” the first man growled. “Or at least get one of those Danishes. Because I’m not touching this thing without everyone helping.”
The men’s trousered legs moved around the stretcher as they replaced all the flopping limbs and spread the sheets properly over the prostrate form.
The man who had estimated the weight spoke again. “Shit, he looks real. You sure that’s not a stiff?”
“Not unless stiffs got battery compartments in their navels now. It’s a fucking robot. And if that fall didn’t wake it up, nothing’s going to.”
Susan’s heart raced. She remembered what Jake had told them about evidence. Presumably, they were taking Nate either to a police laboratory or to the property clerk’s office at One Police Plaza. In either case, once Nate left the facility, she would have no access to him until the trial.
From the cab of the ambulance, two more pairs of legs joined the others, these wearing the navy blue tactical trousers of the FDNY. One went to the back, and Susan heard him or her punch in the sequence of numbers that would operate the exterior lock. Seldom used, in favor of the interior lock, it was reserved for demented, confused, or dangerous patients who might attempt to open the door during transport, putting themselves, and the paramedics, at risk. Of course, it also trapped the emergency medical team inside, but even that seemed preferable to giving the violent one the opportunity to shove someone, or themselves, out of a vehicle moving fast and erratically through traffic.
The double doors opened soundlessly, but Susan heard a thunk as they reached their maximum capacity. The men crouched to lift the gurney again. She could see muscles straining in their arms; then the gurney rose until she could no longer follow it from beneath the Dumpster. She watched their black dress shoes moving toward the back of the ambulance, heard a few grunts of effort, then the thud of the gurney landing on the floor of the ambulance. The ambulance workers helped the police feed the gurney into the back, the bottom of it making a shearing sound against the floor. Then, the doors slammed shut, and she heard the solid tone of the lock.
Ideas galloped through Susan’s mind. Once the ambulance drove away, she had little hope of speaking to Nate, of finding out what actually happened before the trial when it would, likely, be too late. She needed to follow that ambulance, to hope they made a stop somewhere along the way. But how? Without a car, she could never keep up, and public transportation would prove of little help. Since the upgrade to glide-buses, cabs had become scarce. She would have to call the company, wait for the car to pick her up, and hope they could still find the retreating ambulance. With no other options, Susan reached for her Vox.
A woman spoke next, apparently one of the ambulance workers. “Did someone say something about a bathroom and a Danish?”
“This way, my lady,” one of the men said with exaggerated gallantry. The breathless catch in his voice identified him as one of the people who had helped carry the gurney. “Grant and Bryson collared a perp running out of Freja’s Bakery with his ski mask still in his hand, and they sent over several boxes this morning in gratitude. There’s a cheese one in there with my name on it.”
Susan watched all five sets of legs heading toward the door. “I’m getting apple,” someone said. Then they all disappeared inside, and the door clicked shut behind them.
Susan found herself dashing to the back of the ambulance. She tugged on the door, which did not budge. Nate’s in there. And I’ve got about five minutes to do something about it. She glanced at the keypad, suddenly remembering a fact she had never had to previously use: every six months, the emergency medical technicians and doctors at Hasbro received the new ambulance key code. All of the companies in the local area used the same one to prevent any delays should the external locks be required or become activated accidentally. The code was always five digits, distributed to every department. Psychiatry Voxed a copy to every active attending and resident, since they were the most likely to be called to assist with an uncontrollable patient. Determined to be prepared for anything in her new role as senior resident, Susan had memorized the ambulance code for the first time in her career at Hasbro. Silently thanking her obsessive-compulsive side, she punched in the proper sequence and was rewarded by the click of the opening lock. Seizing the door handle, she wrenched it open and leapt into the back of the ambulance. Mindful of time, she yanked the sheet off the figure on the gurney.
Susan recognized Nate immediately. His pants were loose; apparently, no one had done them back up after Lawrence removed the battery. She pushed the flaps aside, then pulled up his blood-splashed polo to reveal the all-too-human skin. She might not have seen the tiny battery com
partment were it not partially open. Susan seized the atomic battery from her pocket, pressed it into place, and folded closed the hatch.
Almost immediately, Nate rolled toward Susan. His eyes flashed in a way no human’s ever did, then dulled to their normal brown, with pupils appropriately enlarged in the darkish interior of the van and an occasional red vessel visible in the whites. “Susan?” he said in a tone that revealed confusion. “Where are we?”
Explanations could wait. “Do up your pants, turn your shirt inside out, then come with me,” Susan commanded softly. “I’ll explain while we walk.” Her heart pounded so hard, she felt pain through her chest and left arm. Her throat went dangerously dry, and her words emerged more like a croak. Without hesitating, she jumped out of the ambulance and waited for Nate to follow.
Nate paused only long enough to follow Susan’s orders before joining her. The moment his feet touched the pavement, Susan swung the door shut and activated the lock button. When the ambulance personnel arrived, she wanted them to find nothing amiss, at least on the outside. With any luck, they would not notice Nate missing until they arrived at their destination and opened the back of the truck.
Susan scampered behind the Dumpster, and Nate trailed her curiously. She appreciated that he did as she bade him without further questions. Quickly, she studied his shirt. She could see the seams, but she doubted anyone else would examine him closely enough to notice. To her relief, no blood had seeped through to the underside. She wondered what the penalty was for stealing evidence from police custody and suspected it would result in a couple of years in prison, at least.
What the hell am I doing? Susan shook the concern away. The police had to catch her first; and, even if they did, it would take time. Meanwhile, she would get the information she needed to rescue Lawrence and to keep Nate safe and secure. It was a crime of opportunity, of necessity, and she could only hope Lawrence would help her find a competent lawyer when the time came to assist her. She headed for the streets.
Susan had traveled several blocks along Sixty-seventh Street, with Nate in tow, before she managed to slow her pace to something less suspicious, more normal. She assumed the typical march of a New York commuter: head high, pace a straight and fast walk, avoiding eye contact as much as possible. Nate marched right alongside her, taking his cues from her demeanor and actions, though he had little experience on the sidewalk.
No one seemed to notice them amid the myriads passing to and fro around them; at least Susan hoped that was the case. Her back felt tingly, as if unseen eyes followed her and, at any moment, they might find themselves surrounded by police cars and officers on foot. She could imagine them commanding her to stop, their pistols trained on her and Nate, preparing the handcuffs. If they caught her escaping, she realized, it was all over. It did Lawrence no good if she went to jail, and Nate would languish in storage.
Yet, Susan realized, if she did not take this opportunity, Lawrence would still be in prison and Nate still in an evidence storage room, devoid of thought or movement. Now they had a chance, if only a marginal one; and she had no choice but to attempt to get Nate somewhere she could question him in solitude. We can do this. She tried to ignore the feeling of being watched, the stab of guilty conscience, the desperate fear of discovery. We have to do this.
As they plunged into Central Park, Susan caught Nate’s hand. He gave her a curious look but did not pull away or question. The excited squeals of children rose over the rising and falling din of human conversation. Occasionally, Susan could make out the thud of a ball or Frisbee and bursts of laughter. In every direction stretched swards of grass and stands of trees, a web of pathways and paved roads winding through them. A bronze statue of a husky stood on a rocky outcropping, children scurrying up and down its burnished back.
Susan’s Vox buzzed, startling her. She glanced at the display, and the sight of Jake’s name made her throat constrict. She willed herself to relax, allowing it to buzz twice more before poking it on. “Hi, Jake. What’s new?”
The policeman’s familiar voice came through the speaker. “Ah. So you’re taking my calls now?”
Susan continued along the pathway extending from Sixty-seventh Street as it veered southward, Nate at her side. She made a gesture to silence him, though he had not yet spoken a word. “I said I was sorry. How long are you going to make me suffer for my stupidity?”
“As long as it still entertains me.” Jake granted Susan no quarter. He added not quite casually, “Where are you?”
Susan suspected he could hear enough background noise that she did not dare to lie. “I’m taking a walk through the park. Clearing my head. Why?”
“Something’s come up, and I need to talk to you. When do you think you’ll be home?”
“Can you give me an hour?” Susan doubted he would agree to any longer. “I’ve worked up a sweat, and I’d like to clean up a bit.” Susan tried to maintain as much innocence as possible. “What’s it about, anyway?”
“It’s about Nate.”
Susan felt something clutch in her chest. She took a deep breath, purging the discomfort before continuing. She did not want her voice to sound strained. It made sense for her to express concern, but panic over the mere mention of the robot would betray her. “What about Nate? Is he all right?”
The detective gave her nothing. “We’ll talk about it when I get there.”
“Just tell me no one’s damaged him.”
“No one’s damaged him,” Jake repeated dutifully, then added, “I’ll talk to you soon.” He broke the contact.
Jake had no way of knowing if anyone had harmed Nate. Unless they got me on tape. Susan knew most, if not all, of the proceedings inside a police station were recorded. However, she doubted they had equipment trained on the back lot. Even most of the European countries had gotten away from street cameras due to the outcry from a citizenry demanding a modicum of privacy. Vox was intrusive enough. At any given time, some individual seemed to be recording everything, even if only indirectly.
Then, Susan realized, he had more likely simply taken her at her literal word. She had told him to tell her no one had damaged Nate, and he had done exactly so, not necessarily with any regard to the real or possible truth. Don’t get paranoid. That’s not how to win this game. Susan quickened her pace, and Nate hurried to keep up with her.
As they approached Sixty-fifth Street, Susan could hear the sound of vehicular traffic passing through the park. She kept them north of it, not wishing to add to the number of witnesses who might spot them together. Had she planned the heist, she would have brought something to disguise them. Now she relied on people’s focus on self and family, working hours, and the normalcy of a couple out for a stroll in the park to keep them from becoming lodged in others’ memories.
The path turned into one of the wooded areas of Central Park. Neatly trimmed prairie grasses rose along the sides of the pathways and wound between rows of trees. Three men in olive green uniforms raked leaves, grass clippings, and trash from either side of the route, stuffing their findings into bright orange, biodegradable trash bags. Another clipped overhanging branches with massive shears. None of them seemed to pay Susan or Nate any attention. For the first time since she had made the decision to steal Nate, Susan no longer felt as if hidden spies watched her every move.
Nate spoke his first words since they had left the parking lot. “Are you going to explain now?”
Susan suddenly realized she had promised to do so on the walk but had, thus far, told him nothing. “Well . . . ,” Susan started but got no further.
A sound like a distant gunshot silenced her. A chunk of bark leapt from the tree trunk nearest her left hand. Not again. Susan realized it was not a matter of distant, but suppressed, fire. She whirled. The uniformed men had dropped their rakes, replacing them with pistols lengthened with metal cylinders and aimed directly at her and Nate. Beyond them, a jogger headed blithe
ly toward them on the woodland path. “No!” Susan shouted, as much to warn the oncoming man as to stop the shooters. She doubted it would have any effect on anyone. The Society for Humanity had shown no hesitation when it came to killing her parents or herself, and neither Cadmium nor the police would have fired the first shot for fear of doing her harm.
Seizing Nate’s arm, Susan darted for the forest, hoping to give them a smaller, swiftly moving target. The sudden movement all but impaled her on the hedge clippers. The man suddenly in front of them held the shears open, the only thing that saved her, but only for a moment. He lunged for her throat, and Susan found herself backpedaling directly into the line of fire. She steeled herself for the certain agony of bullets penetrating her every part.
A louder gunshot, unsuppressed, deafened her. Susan grunted in anticipation, but no pain followed. Instead, one of the uniformed men collapsed, the pistol falling from his hand to the dirt. The other spun toward the jogger, too slowly. Another booming shot, and this uniformed man also tumbled to the ground. The man with the clippers dropped them. Susan could hear them hit the ground at her back. The second it took him to draw his gun proved his last, as the jogger’s pistol spoke again. Shears-man jerked, hands flailing at his abdomen. A fourth shot sent him sliding to the ground. Susan looked for the last of the uniformed men, only to see him fleeing through the forest.
The jogger sprang forward and seized Susan’s wrist with his empty hand, his right, the pistol still clenched in his left. “This way! Quickly!” He pulled her back in the direction he had come.
Susan did not need a second invitation, though she did pause to make certain Nate joined them. Her hesitation earned her a jerk that nearly sprawled her.
“Come on!” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “The last one’s coming back.” He swore viciously. “With reinforcements.”
Isaac Asimov's I, Robot: To Preserve Page 9