The Robots of Gotham

by Todd McAulty

  “You’ll never know,” she whispered.

  Then she pushed away from the table, lifted the med kit to her good shoulder, and started walking toward the exit.

  “Come on,” she said. “I want to get the hell out of this place.”

  I slid off the table and followed her.

  Damn, this woman knows how to flirt, I thought.

  The two of us walked up out of the dark, to the waiting Venezuelan army.

  XXVI

  Thursday, March 18th, 2083

  Posted 1:28 am by Barry Simcoe

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  When we walked out of the basement of Columbia College, there were soldiers waiting for us. They whisked Van de Velde away, presumably to a debriefing, but they didn’t seem to know what to do with me.

  Their eyes had no problem wandering to the bloodstains on my clothing, however. Two of them began to whisper, eyeing me.

  “Hey, is there a bathroom around here?” I asked the closest one.

  She escorted me to the east side of the field and pointed at a bunch of chemical toilets all lined up in a row. The Venezuelan army clearly had no use for modesty; there were no screens between toilets, and no screens between the toilets and the outside world. I could see all the way to South Columbus Drive, a hundred yards away, where two pairs of joggers were making steady progress north.

  I felt a little exposed. But while I was pissing in the third toilet, a young corporal came running up on my right, dropped her pants, and squatted three toilets down. She finished up and was on her way while I was still shaking out the last few drops. Army life, I thought.

  I rinsed my hands and looked around casually, The soldier who’d escorted me was keeping a discreet distance about thirty yards west. First thing on my agenda was to lose her. While I was still buttoning up, I started striding back west toward the assembled Venezuelan forces like a man on a mission, glancing neither left nor right. I walked straight for the northernmost tents, where about a hundred and fifty soldiers were assembled.

  No one challenged me as I threaded my way through the groups of soldiers, although I did get a few strange looks. When I was close to the tents I surreptitiously glanced behind. My escort was about forty feet back and jogging to catch up.

  I stepped inside the first tent I reached. It was a mobile communication center, a mini replica of the command center back at the hotel, with over half a dozen young officers sitting before portable displays. I strode right through as if I belonged there.

  “¡Oye!” said a woman, sitting in a folding metal chair. I ignored her and she got up, shouting at me.

  I reached the north end of the tent. The moment I was outside I took a hard right, taking five steps until I could see back down the length of the tent.

  My tail was hustling after me. I watched her dash into the south entrance of the tent. The moment she did, I doubled back south, sticking close to the side of the tent.

  I could hear voices inside. My tail was asking where I went, I guessed. The woman who’d called after me responded, no doubt sending her after me.

  I didn’t wait around to see how that unfolded. Sticking close to the side of the tents, I hurried south, then mingled in with a loose group of soldiers who were standing near Michigan Avenue, looking toward the college.

  They were watching López and Asis being brought out. I stood with them for a minute, watching the two body bags being solemnly carried across the street, to a knot of officers. I saw Leon standing in the middle. He knelt down to zip open the bags when they were laid in front of him, inspecting his returning men personally.

  With all their attention on the body bags, it was the perfect time for me to make a break for it. I headed north on Michigan and didn’t look back. There were a few checkpoints along the way—manned by AGRT troops—but they’d been instructed to keep civilians away from the operation, not keep them from leaving, so I had no trouble. Within eight minutes I was well away from the entire operation.

  It was a long walk back to the hotel. My feet were already sore, so I was dead on my feet by the time I reached it, and my hip hurt like blazes. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed for forty-eight hours, exactly as Van de Velde had instructed.

  I heard someone calling my name as I dragged my weary ass across the lobby. Martin was waving at me.

  “Where the devil have you been?” he asked, walking up. “Mike said he saw you get put into an AGRT car this morning.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Willingly?”

  I shrugged. “Mostly.”

  “Bloody hell. Tell me you’re not pissing off our hosts again.”

  “I had a capitán threaten to shoot me. Does that answer your question?”

  Martin was about to reply, then cut himself off as he took in the blood on my clothes and the torn state of my pants. “What the hell?” he said.

  “It’s nothing,” I reassured him.

  “You in any trouble?” There was genuine concern in his voice.

  “It’s all blown over. I think. Or it will, if I can just keep a low profile for a couple days.”

  Martin nodded. “Seems like a solid plan.”

  I started walking toward the elevators. “Damn straight. I’m going to spend the next twenty-four hours asleep.”

  “Breakfast tomorrow? I’ve got to hear this story.”

  “Sure thing—if I’m awake.”

  Martin started to walk off, then caught himself. He called after me. “Hey, Mac was looking for you.”

  “Was it important?”

  “Dunno.”

  I punched the button for the elevator. “Then I’ll see her when I wake up.”

  That turned out to be fairly prophetic.

  It was very dark and very late when there was a pounding at my door. I probably would have slept through it, but Croaker made such a racket that I was forced to stumble out of bed. My leg hurt like hell, worse than ever, but I limped to the door.

  It was Boone, the night security guy. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Simcoe,” he said.

  I rubbed my eyes. “What time is it?”

  “It’s just after eleven p.m., sir.”

  Croaker was trying to push past me so she could sniff Boone for herself. “Is that a dog, Mr. Simcoe?” Boone asked.

  “That is a dog, Boone,” I said, shoving Croaker back with my foot. She whined at me.

  “There’s no dogs in the hotel, Mr. Simcoe.”

  “How can I help you, Boone?”

  Boone rubbed his chin. “Do you know a guest at this hotel, Miss Mac­kenzie Stronnick?”

  “Mac? Sure, I know her.”

  “Miss Stronnick is downstairs, in the kitchen. She’s intoxicated and very disorderly.”

  “Mac?” That didn’t sound like Mac at all. “Are you sure?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. I asked Miss Stronnick if there was anyone I could get to assist, and she mentioned your name.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I stood there stupidly for a moment before I realized that Boone was waiting for me to accompany him. “Just a second,” I said.

  I closed the door and hurriedly got dressed. Lifting my leg just to put my pants on was excruciating, and I had the mother of all bruises on my hip, but I was a little less stiff than when I’d first gotten up. I pulled on a pair of shoes, told Croaker to stay, and joined Boone in the hall.

  “Are you sure she’s drunk?” I asked as we waited for the elevator.

  “Reasonably sure, yes sir.”

  “How did she wind up in the kitchen?”

  “I’m not sure. It was the kitchen staff who contacted me.”

  “Is she alone?”

  “The kitchen staff is with her now.”

  “I mean, was s
he drinking alone?”

  “It appears so.”

  We took the elevator to the second-floor lobby. I followed Boone as he led me through a service door, then to the kitchen.

  Most of the lights were out. I was surprised there was anybody here at all, but Boone led me to the back, where a small crowd was gathered around a slumped figure on the floor.

  They parted as I approached. It was Mac. “My God,” I said, dropping quickly to her side. “Is she breathing?”

  I leaned over her, holding two fingers to her throat. Her pulse was strong, and she seemed to be breathing fine. I caught a strong smell of alcohol and heard her mumble something unintelligible.

  “Someone bring me a wet towel, please.”

  One of the cooks complied, pressing a cold, wet cloth in my hand a moment later. I held it against her head, then her neck. Her eyes fluttered, but didn’t open.

  “How long has she been like this?” I asked.

  Two of the cooks started speaking to Boone in Spanish. “About fifteen minutes,” Boone told me.

  “Tell me what happened,” I said.

  “She came in,” the young cook next to me said, in a thick Slavic accent. “She talked—loud—” He made extravagant gestures, imitating her motions. “And then she fall over.”

  “Did she hit her head?”

  The cook shook his head.

  “Did she look injured at all?”

  Again he shook his head.

  “Where did she come from?”

  “I spoke with Randolph, at the bar,” said Boone. “He said she was there for the past two hours.”

  I checked Mac’s head and neck, did a cursory inspection of the rest of her, and didn’t find anything alarming. She was breathing normally, and the smell of alcohol was very strong. It was hard to believe that Mac had simply drunk herself into unconsciousness, but that’s what it looked like.

  “She can’t stay here,” Boone said.

  “Yeah,” I said. She was wearing a light jacket, and I fished through the pockets. I found a folded piece of paper and a thin strip of metal. “Okay, this is her room key. Can you two help me get her up to her room?”

  The cook and Boone nodded. They stood on either side of her and got her to her feet, and then started toward the kitchen doors.

  “No, no . . . wait a minute,” I said. “Let’s see if we can avoid parading her through the lobby. Bring her out back, to the freight elevator. We can take that up to the seventh floor and then move her to the guest elevator.”

  We managed to get her to the freight elevator without incident. But once we got in the elevator, another problem emerged.

  “She’s . . . ah, she’s going to . . .” said the cook, suddenly looking very nervously at Mac.

  “No, she’s not,” I said reassuringly. “She’ll be fine.”

  But she did. She threw up all over the cook, and herself, and the elevator. And then she did it again.

  The cook did this amazing little jig, danced his whole body away from her, practically to the other side of the elevator, all while managing to keep one arm under Mac’s shoulder. He was able to avoid getting splattered a second time, for whatever good that did.

  “Okay—get her down, set her down, easy,” I said. “Keep her head up, please. Make sure she doesn’t choke. Mac—Mac, honey, can you hear me? Are you okay?”

  Mac gave me a brief, quizzical look, mumbled something that sounded French, and then closed her eyes. The cook and Boone both stared at me, incredulous.

  “Wow, she is out,” I said. “Boone, you said she was drinking alone?”

  “I’m not certain. I didn’t inquire.”

  “Find out. I want to make sure someone didn’t slip her something.”

  Boone nodded. “I will.”

  I felt her forehead. Her skin was warm, but not feverish. I checked her pupils. They were dilated, but that didn’t necessarily tell me anything. I deliberated violating curfew to try to get her to a hospital, but that seemed too risky.

  The elevator doors opened. The hallway was empty. We left the cook behind to tend to the mess in the elevator, and Boone and I carried her down the hall to the guest elevator.

  “What floor is she on?” Boone asked.

  I frowned, looking down at Mac. She was breathing okay, but she looked very pale. I didn’t like the idea of just dumping her in her room.

  “Change of plan,” I said. “I don’t think she’s in danger, but I don’t think we should leave her alone. Let’s take her to my room.”

  Boone nodded, punching the button for thirty-three. I squatted down next to Mac.

  “She really mentioned me?” I asked Boone.

  He nodded. “Is that surprising?”

  “We haven’t known each other all that long.”

  He seemed a little surprised. “You two aren’t . . . ?” he said.

  “Me and Mac? No.”

  “Is there someone else we should have contacted?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  The elevator opened on thirty-three, and Boone and I carried her to my room. Croaker was as excited as I’ve ever seen her when the three of us came in, running around underfoot.

  “Where do you want her?” Boone asked, studiously ignoring the dog.

  I was about to say the bed, when Mac hiccupped abruptly. Boone looked alarmed.

  “Put her in the tub, and help me get her jacket off,” I said.

  As quickly as we could we got her laid out in my bathtub, head at one end and boots propped up on the porcelain at the other. Boone lifted her up enough for me to tug her jacket off, and I draped it over a towel rack. Boone and I stood back to survey the situation.

  She was resting quietly and gave no sign she was about to throw up again, which was a relief. Miraculously, her jacket seemed to have escaped more or less unscathed. But that was it for the good news. She’d splattered her silk blouse and her pants with vomit, and her hair was matted against her chest, sticking to her. She reeked.

  “All right, I’ll keep an eye on her in here for a while,” I said. “As long as she’s in the tub, I might as well clean her up.”

  “Do you . . .” Boone licked his lips. “Do you need any help with that?”

  Honestly, some help would have been great. But I didn’t like the way Boone was looking at Mac as she lay unconscious in the tub.

  “No, I think I got it.”

  Boone tried to hide his disappointment as he walked to the door.

  “Listen, don’t forget about finding out if she was with someone tonight,” I said. “If she was drugged, we need to know. The sooner the better.”

  Boone seemed to appreciate having a task to do. “I’ll look into it,” he said.

  “Thanks. That’ll be a big help.”

  When he was gone, I returned to the bathroom. Croaker had padded over, sticking her snout into the tub and sniffing Mac’s shoulder. I rubbed the top of Croaker’s head.

  “What do you think, girl? Any advice? She’s going to live, but I don’t think we can just let her sleep it off here . . . Croaker, leave her alone. Don’t lick that—get away from her! I swear to God, you are the grossest dog I ever met.”

  Croaker slunk away, flopping to the tiles to watch us from the other side of the bathroom. I dragged a garbage pail and a roll of toilet paper to the tub and spent a few minutes trying to clean off the worst of it. It was slow, nauseating work. Her blouse and her pants were soaked, and she stank of vomit and alcohol. I swabbed at her neck, as patiently as I could. Just as it seemed I was making progress, Mac’s whole body jerked, and her eyes flew open.

  “Mac? I’m here, it’s okay—”

  Mac retched once, splattering vomit over my right hand and wrist. Her eyes closed, and she sank back into the tub.

  I cursed up a storm. I cleaned up in the sink, then turned back to Mac. I pressed my left arm to my nose, blocking the smell as best I could. I wasn’t sure I had the stomach to try this a second time.

  I debated leaving her in the tub, but th
at was a bad idea. One or two more violent spasms, and she’d knock out a tooth. I glanced at my bed, twenty-five feet away. I didn’t relish the idea of carrying her in her current condition. At all.

  “Screw it,” I said in disgust. I poured half a bottle of shampoo over her and turned on the water.

  That was a mistake. The tub filled quickly; I managed to tug off her boots before they got too wet, but that was all I was able to remove before the rest of her clothes were soaked. In minutes Mac was nearly buried in an avalanche of suds. After she’d soaked for five minutes I let the water drain out, leaving a gunky, sudsy residue around the tub.

  Mac was now completely drenched. Her wet hair dripped slowly onto her blouse, and her jeans were caked in vomit and suds. “I should have just dumped you in bed,” I said remorsefully.

  That was true. It probably would have ruined the sheets, but that would be no big loss. She would have slept right through it all anyway. But she was never going to dry in this tub, and I realized now that I couldn’t put her to bed like this.

  I ran my hands through my hair and made a decision. “You’re going to hate me for this,” I said to Mac.

  I gently tugged off her blouse, raising one arm at a time. Just as I finished she started awake again, staring around, wide-eyed, talking excitedly. “Tony—Tony, stay here, you’ll get hurt, honey, stay with me—” But just as quickly she was out again, sinking back into the tub without acknowledging me at all.

  I rinsed her blouse in the sink, then left it to soak in cold water. It was probably a total loss, but I’d hang it up later to dry anyway. Underneath the blouse she was wearing a thin white camisole that I left alone.

  Her jeans were a different story. They were a nightmare. I think they must have shrunk two sizes. They were soaking wet and plastered to her skin like a wetsuit possessed by Satan. By the time I got them off and more or less cleaned off, I was completely soaked. The wound in my hip hurt like blazes. There were chunks of soggy vomit on my shirt, smeared on my pants, and probably in my hair, for all I knew.

  I really wanted a shower. I settled for running the water in the sink, splashing enough to scrub my face and hair, and then drying off and changing clothes.