Susan dared a look, only to see he spoke the truth. “Are they after you?” she gasped out.
“Hell no!” The man urged her on faster. “They’re clearly trying to kill you. What the hell did you do?”
Susan required every breath. Even if she did not, she would not have answered.
More suppressed gunshots sounded, but Susan could not see or feel the results. Neither the stranger nor Nate slackened his pace, either. The jogger did not waste time or effort returning fire. He simply guided them around the corner of the path and shoved Susan toward a black and silver Harley-Davidson motorcycle with a generous sidecar that held a gym bag, a helmet, a blanket, and miscellaneous clothes. “Get on! Get on! Get on!”
Susan had never ridden a motorcycle in her life, not even as a passenger. She had originally been told a car accident killed her mother when she was only four. Nearly her entire life, she and her father had avoided any transportation but the public variety.
The jogger all but threw Susan into the sidecar, then waved for Nate to join him. She slammed down hard on the helmet, and something inside the gym bag stabbed into her buttocks. She managed to hunker down amid the bric-a-brac as Nate and the stranger each flung a leg over the motorcycle seat, the jogger in front. He turned the key, and the motor sputtered to life just as the uniformed men rounded the curve, guns raised.
“Go!” Susan screamed.
As if in answer, the jogger twisted the throttle, and the bike leapt to life, hurtling down another pathway and veering around a surprised pedestrian. Susan heard more suppressed fire. People screamed, and something rattled against the sidecar and the rear of the motorcycle. Grabbing the helmet, Susan slammed it over her head and ducked deeper into the sidecar, no longer caring about the bruises inflicted by his gear.
The driver took them on a circuitous route, clearly trying to avoid hitting any innocent walkers or joggers who were now fleeing in erratic and foolhardy directions. Susan dared a glance behind them. The guns spoke again, a woman collapsed, screaming, and civilians fled in utter chaos. The uniformed men whirled, running back toward where their fellows had fallen.
Susan did not try to convey that information to the stranger. He would never hear her over the whoosh of the wind and the roar of the motor. Only after the shooting stopped did she recognize the reckless speed of the motorcycle. It felt as if they were flying, a hundred miles per hour if one, and every rock and bump sent her airborne, threatening to eject her.
Head down, buried beneath the overlarge helmet, Susan had no idea of their route. The screaming and gunshots disappeared entirely, replaced by the familiar honks and distant sirens that defined the Manhattan streets. The ride smoothed a bit, punctuated by unexpected and massive bumps where the driver, apparently, ran over curbs, maneuvering strange and unpredictable shortcuts. Finally, after what seemed like hours but was probably only a few minutes, he stopped. The noise of the motor disappeared, leaving only a loud and continuous ringing in Susan’s ears.
Gently, a fist rapped the helmet, as if knocking on a door.
Shaken, dripping sweat, and wildly uncertain, Susan peeked out from beneath the helmet to meet startlingly sky blue eyes: beautiful, deep and soft, almost mysterious, and radiating intelligence. She could barely look past them to the well-formed, straight nose and strong line of his clean-shaven jaw. Wind-whipped black hair fell in tousles around highly set cheekbones and plushy lips. Under the strong and piquant odors of wind and gas, Susan could smell a hint of honest perspiration, and she found it strangely attractive.
The man finally spoke, in a deep voice radiating concern. “Are you all right?”
“Physically, yes.” Susan removed the helmet, though it revealed her stringy, hat-crushed hair. “Thank you. You saved our lives.”
The stranger ran his thumb and index finger along his chin. “Should we go directly to the police station? Or the hospital first?”
“No police,” Susan said before she could stop herself. She looked at her hands and found them trembling.
The man leaned against his motorcycle, Nate still astride behind him. The warmth left his eyes, replaced by an emotion Susan could not yet name. “Oh no.” He stood upright, a solid six feet. “Oh no. Don’t tell me I rescued the bad guys.”
“What?” It took Susan inordinately long to understand what he meant. “No! No. We haven’t done anything wrong, honest. And those weren’t cops. Cops don’t open fire on unarmed people. They don’t attack with hedge clippers, and they certainly don’t shoot into fleeing crowds.”
Suspicion tainted his tone. “Then why wouldn’t you want me to take you to the police station?”
He deserved to know, but Susan was not ready to take anyone into her confidence, especially a total stranger. Then, another thought struck her, and she asked it in lieu of an answer. “How did you know I work at the hospital?”
He drew back. “You work at the hospital?”
That response surprised Susan. “Isn’t that why you asked if I wanted to go there?”
The soft, full lips broke into a kindly smile. “I asked if you wanted to go there because you’re clearly and understandably traumatized. Also, I think your boyfriend might have been shot.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” Susan could not believe those were the first words out of her mouth. Quickly, she turned suitably widened eyes on Nate and asked with appropriate alarm, “Oh my God! Were you hit?” She eyeballed him for signs of a wound, but found her examination mostly blocked by his slouched position on the bike. Her concern was an act. A single bullet from a handgun could not do any significant damage to a robot, and she certainly could not take Nate to any hospital for care.
Nate answered the only way he could. “I’m fine. I don’t require any medical attention, thank you.”
The stranger looked all around them, clearly still worried about pursuit. “So . . . the . . . police station, then?” None of them had spoken loudly, but he lowered his voice still further, until she had to strain to hear. “I mean, I shot three guys, for Christ’s sake. There’re laws against shooting and running.”
Nate said simply, “I’m pretty sure there’re laws against shooting people, even if you stand still afterward.”
Susan gave Nate a firm look, intended to convey that he should say as little as possible. “It’s legal to use deadly force against someone when it’s in defense of yourself or others, so long as you’re not engaged in an illegal activity. The police may do a lot of investigating, but you’re not likely to get convicted of any crime.”
The jogger stared at Susan. “You said that with an awful lot of authority.”
Susan managed a haggard smile. “I’ve had the need to know.” She did not explain further. She could no longer ignore the incessant urge to find a safer place to talk, to be. “I’m not sure exactly where we are, but I doubt it’s far from my apartment. Can you take us there? I’d rather discuss this indoors, where I’m not so worried about people shooting at me.”
He nodded, but without much assurance. “If you’ve got people who want you dead, wouldn’t we be safer somewhere else? Like, maybe . . . my place?”
Remembering she had promised to meet Jake at her apartment, Susan shook her head. Under the circumstances, it seemed ludicrous to aggravate the police. If the SFH had known the location of her apartment, they surely would have attacked her there rather than out in the open and among multiple witnesses. “My place,” Susan insisted, fairly whispering the address. She added, “It’s behind Lincoln Center.”
The jogger retook his position but made no move to start the engine. After several moments of stillness, he spoke without bothering to look at Susan. “I’m not going anywhere until your helmet is on.”
Though she felt like a child chastised for not buckling a seat belt, Susan pulled the helmet back over her head and ducked low into the sidecar. As if on cue, it roared to life again, and they took a
long and circuitous route to Susan’s building.
Chapter 6
Susan’s apartment had never felt smaller than it did with three adults crammed into her tiny bedroom. The men sat side by side on the futon and, for the first time, Susan appreciated that the only sleeping surface she could fit formed a more than satisfactory couch. It also seemed more proper and appropriate than having two men sprawled across her bed. While the stranger had hidden his cycle and sidecar in the shadows near the Dumpsters, Susan seized the time outside to quickly coach Nate. It was not long enough for her to create a cohesive identity for him, but she felt confident Nate would not reveal himself as a robot before they knew whether they could trust their new companion with the information.
Susan stepped to the kitchen to scout her dorm-sized refrigerator for something to drink, and the jogger started the introductions. “My name is Pal Buffoni.”
Susan called back to him from the kitchen. “Did you say Paul?”
The man laughed. “No one under the age of a hundred is named Paul anymore.”
“Like Susan?” Susan proffered with a smile he could not see through the wall.
“Exactly. Another moldy oldie, that”—either cued by Nate or catching on independently, he changed course abruptly—“is nevertheless a beautiful name. I don’t suppose it’s yours?”
“Nice save.” Managing to locate only one can of mango-pineapple fizzy juice, Susan grabbed that for their guest, then opened the cabinet for a hard plastic cup. “Susan Calvin. Named for my grandmother, who by the way, would only be in her late eighties, if she hadn’t died some years ago.” She filled the cup with tap water. Then, realizing she was trying to pass Nate off as human, she grabbed and filled a second cup with water.
Pal continued the distant conversation. “I wasn’t named for my parents’ dog, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s short for Paladin. Apparently, paladins were ‘paragons of chivalry’ in certain role-playing games. My parents wanted me to be one of the good guys.”
“Well, you certainly were today,” Susan reassured him as she carried the can and cups into the bedroom. “If I remember my history correctly, paladins were the elite warriors of Charlemagne.” She offered the can of fizzy juice to Pal.
He reached for the water instead. “Carbonation interferes with my running regimen,” he explained.
Susan switched hands, allowing him to take one of the cups. Constrained by propriety, she next offered the can to Nate, who took it absently and placed it on the floor near his foot. He could take a sip or two for appearances, but he had no need for nourishment. Taking a seat on the floor in front of Nate and Pal, she placed the water beside her.
“Well, I’m just glad they didn’t name me Charlemagne. I mean, how would you shorten that? Char? Charla?” Pal shook his head. “Way too feminine.”
Susan could not help smiling. “Well, as Charlemagne means Charles the Great, I’d assume Charles or Charlie. Maybe even Chuck.” The grin widened. “Another name from the Susan and Paul era.”
Pal chuckled. Susan liked the sound, outgoing, uninhibited, and originating deep in his chest. He turned his attention to Nate. “You’re awfully quiet, not-the-boyfriend.”
Nate glanced at Susan, apparently for help with responses, then finally replied, “She’s right. I’m not her boyfriend.”
“He’s my cousin,” Susan supplied, uncertain whether robots could lie, at least without a direct order to do so. “Layton Campbell.” She chose a name that did not sound too much like Nate but that she could pass off if she slipped. “He’s visiting from Idaho.”
“Iowa,” Nate corrected from the snatch of conversation they had managed to exchange while Pal tended to his motorcycle.
Susan wished Nate had not taken her so literally. It did not matter which fictional hometown they gave him. “Iowa,” she corrected. “I get those central, vowel-saturated states confused: Idaho, Iowa, Ohio.” Susan suspected a real Iowan would either take offense or find her big-city mentality amusing, but Nate did not know how to play the game. Deception was not in a robot’s nature; it was one of the things she loved about them.
Pal turned Nate a brief nod of acknowledgment, then downed his water in one long gulp. Afterward, he put down the cup and wiped his mouth on the back of his jacket sleeve. He gave Susan an earnest look. “So, tell me why people are trying to kill you, Susan Calvin.”
Susan preferred not to answer but knew she owed him some kind of explanation. He had saved her life and, thus far, had not called the police. She allowed herself to look directly into those blue eyes, every bit as intense and startling as the first time she saw them. She found herself wondering what it would be like to look into them every day, if they could ever become commonplace and normal, or if each glance would continue to amaze her, to send her heart fluttering. Her mind raced, concocting possible explanations; then she realized the wisest approach was to stick as closely as possible to the truth. Stress was making it hard enough to remember even such simple details as the state of Iowa. The more she lied, the greater her chances of slipping up and sending Pal racing to the police with a detailed description of herself and Nate. “They think I’m the only person who knows something. And, if they kill me, the knowledge will cease to exist.”
“Ah,” Pal said, though the hesitant tone with which he spoke the exclamation of understanding suggested he did not grasp the situation at all. “Are they right?”
Stunned by the question, it took Susan inordinately long to answer. “Right? To try to kill me?”
Pal shook his head, explaining, “Right that killing you would cause the information to no longer exist.”
“No,” Susan said, without hesitation. “The knowledge does not exist; it never has.” Seeking his sympathy, she added, “They already murdered both of my parents over this mythical secret. They came after me once already, last year, and failed. I thought the police had shut them down, but here they are again.” That bit was not exactly the truth. Jake had suggested that Cadmium would undo the SFH using the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, RICO, but Susan did not want to bog down the explanation with details.
Pal considered Susan’s words. “Maybe if you made it clear you had shared the secret, they would no longer have a reason to silence you.”
Susan heaved a sigh. “You’re not listening. There is no secret. How can I share something that doesn’t exist?”
“Good point.” Pal drew his knees to his chest. There was not much room for anything else. “Dare I ask what kind of secret is worth killing for? Perhaps the plans for . . .” He paused to think.” Some new type of hospital scanner that runs on . . . human flesh?”
Susan pursed her lips but still saw no reason to lie. The more people who understood the Three Laws of Robotics, and the safety they engendered, the better. “It’s difficult to explain. In brief, they think I have a code, created by my parents, that would deactivate the features preventing robots from ever harming human beings. They’re afraid of robots and, somewhat understandably, don’t want that to ever happen.”
“Somewhat understandably,” Pal agreed aloud. “Except for the attempted murder part. Isn’t it rather hypocritical to kill people in the name of preventing people from getting killed?”
Nate bobbed his head appreciatively.
Susan shrugged. “I don’t pretend to fully understand their motives. On the other hand, I’m just as befuddled by activists murdering doctors in the name of ‘life’ or animal rights groups who kill scientists or drive domestic animals out of cages and pens to their doom. It’s at least equally hypocritical, yet it’s happened more than once.”
Pal shook his head, rolled his gorgeous eyes, and grunted.
Susan did not want to talk about herself anymore. She had a million questions to ask Pal Buffoni, but she decided to ease into them with the obvious choice. “What do you do for a living?”
The corner
s of Pal’s mouth twitched, but he did not smile. “You mean besides rescuing DIDIs?”
“Didis?” Susan repeated, brows furrowed.
“Damsels in distress,” Pal said, explaining the acronym.
Susan felt her cheeks grow warm. “You mean me?”
Pal’s attention rolled briefly to Nate. “Well, I didn’t mean him.”
“I’m hardly a damsel,” Susan shot back.
Pal’s gaze returned to her. “I don’t think we can dispute the ‘in distress’ part. You’re a young, beautiful, unmarried woman. The very definition of a damsel.”
He thinks I’m beautiful. The warmth in Susan’s cheeks became a bonfire. She had to look away, mumbling, “I think noble birth is also a factor.”
Pal did not pursue the subject further. “And I’m . . . um . . . between assignments.”
I knew it was too good to be true. Regaining her composure, Susan found herself asking before she could stop herself, “You mean you’re unemployed?”
“In a way. I just finished a twelve-year stint in the Marines, eight of them in MARSOC. I’m planning to apply for a civilian job, but for a few months I thought I’d just enjoy my freedom.”
“MARSOC?” Susan had never heard the term.
“Special operations forces,” he explained succinctly.
Guilt trickled through Susan’s thoughts, and she winced subtly. “I’m sorry. I should be thanking you, not chastising you.” She added hastily, “Thank you for serving our country.” She had no idea exactly what that currently entailed. She could barely remember adults arguing vehemently over various skirmishes. Once, one could Vox almost every detail of a current war, nearly in real time. It had become so politicized, it had crippled defense, rendering it a consequence of elections, lies, and promises. In the last few decades, the country waged its wars in secret while the populace went about its business without becoming embroiled in death counts, images of horror, and politically spun stories designed, not to keep the country safe, but only to assure the reelection of politicians or gain momentum for their parties.
Isaac Asimov's I, Robot: To Preserve Page 10