The Robots of Gotham

by Todd McAulty

  “That’s a most generous offer, Mr. Simcoe,” he said. “However, we’re talking about several hundred rooms, and the sums involved would be significant.”

  “Yeah, I gathered that,” I said. “For that many people, for an indeterminate number of weeks, we’re looking at several hundred thousand dollars, I expect. Yes?”

  “Certainly,” he said.

  “You’ll need financial guarantees, of course. In exchange for that, Mac and I will expect a substantial discount off of your best rate. We’ll also need at least two of your ballrooms in the next few days, to use for fundraising activities to help defray some of the cost. We can negotiate the details, once I arrange the guarantees.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” Renkain said. “As I explained to Ms. Stronnick, it’s not a matter of money. I don’t have the staff on hand to reopen those rooms.”

  “Right, right. We may be in luck there, though. From what I understand, they completely evacuated those two hotels—guests and staff. So many of the refugees outside are trained hotel workers. Now Mac here knows the, uh, the property manager for one of the hotels—”

  “The estate broker,” she corrected.

  “Right. With luck, she can get in touch with the correct people. It might take a few days, but my hunch is we can get you all the staff you need.”

  “I don’t have the authority to hire that many people on short notice,” Renkain said. “And it would take a week to process that many.”

  “I understand completely,” I said. “We understand this is going to take significant effort and accommodation on your part. But I think we can all agree that we don’t want anyone freezing to death, yes?”

  Renkain licked his lips. He leaned closer. “The problem,” he said quietly, “is the Venezuelans.”

  Ah. Now we were at the heart of the issue. “Yes,” I agreed.

  “I’ve already broached the subject with the AGRT,” Renkain continued in a soft voice. “They are inflexible. I cannot allow those people into the hotel without their permission. And I cannot open up the floors we’d need without a permit. I understand they have some designs on the space themselves.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “The man who can solve both problems for us is Colonel Perez. You know him?”

  “I do,” said Renkain carefully.

  My last conversation with Perez had started with him blaming me for the death of one of his officers. Nonetheless, I was optimistic our next conversation would be better. “My guess is that several hundred transitory refugees in front of the building where he billets his officers is an embarrassment and a security risk for Colonel Perez,” I said. “They’re an unknown quantity. He likely won’t want to give up the space he’s reserved at this hotel, but an argument that’s the right mix of pragmatism and humanitarian appeal might reach him. I’ll talk to him tomorrow and let you know his response.”

  Renkain gave me his best professional smile. “Even if you succeed, I’m afraid I’m not convinced that—”

  I stopped him before he could carry that ball too far downfield. “Mr. Renkain, you and I want the exact same thing. We want this hotel to be open again—really open, and not under the cloud of an occupation. Let’s face facts: you have a real problem. Every soldier billeted here makes this place more strategically important to the AGRT and less likely to ever be yours again. And it’s going to get a lot worse once those sixteen empty floors are occupied by soldiers.”

  I took a risk with that last bit, but it paid off when I saw the look on Renkain’s face. He knew about the coming soldiers; that much was obvious. Someone had talked. Likely someone from the AGRT—maybe even Perez—had been sniffing around about the possibility of billeting some of the arriving soldiers here at the hotel. It was just as obvious that was the last thing Renkain wanted.

  I put my palms on the desk. “But if you and I manage to fill them with refugees first, and make this building part of the fragile ecosystem keeping the peace here in Chicago, then this hotel will be too important to lose. It will be yours again. To be perfectly blunt, those people outside present an opportunity for you to get exactly what you want, and I don’t think another opportunity like this is going to fall in your lap again.”

  Renkain was quiet for several long moments. He looked me square in the eye, measuring my sincerity. Finally he said, “I’ll need to confer with the owners of the hotel.”

  “Excellent. Mac and I will need time to sort out the details at our end as well. Let’s meet in your office this afternoon—say three o’clock?”

  “Three o’clock,” Renkain agreed. We shook hands again, and Mac and I retired to a quiet corner of the lobby.

  “I can’t believe you just did that,” Mac said, excited. “Do you really think your company will foot the bill to put up all those refugees?”

  “Hell, no. Are you kidding me? That bit about financial guarantees was all fantasy. No, you and I need to get serious about fundraisers, and quickly. We need a story we can sell Renkain at three o’clock.”

  “Oh my God,” she said. “Tell me you’re joking.”

  “I’m not. Listen, do you want to help these people or not? Because it’s going to take some work. It’s not as simple as shaming the hotel manager and making it his problem. We can do this, but we’ll need to get creative.”

  “Creative? You just told a pack of bald-faced lies to that man. You’ve made things worse!”

  “I didn’t lie about anything,” I said. “All I did was make Renkain realize what was possible—and remind him of what he really wanted. If we’ve managed to convince him it can be done, believe me, he’ll be our biggest ally. That’s all I wanted to do at this stage. The next part is easier.”

  “Easier? How are you going to raise that money? Or find Renkain fresh employees . . . or food for an additional three hundred people a day?”

  “I have no idea. Besides, weren’t you listening? Those aren’t the big issues. Renkain doesn’t really care about that. He wants to help. If we can get sign-off from Perez, Renkain will work with us on the small stuff, trust me.”

  “What’s your plan? How are you going to convince Perez to let this happen?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted.

  Mac was so frustrated she looked on the edge of tears. “What are we supposed to do now?”

  “Mac, listen to me. Half an hour ago, three hundred people in the street had no hope. Now, they have a chance, and you and I have a few challenges ahead of us. That’s how this works. We exchange big problems for smaller ones. And we do it again, and again, until we end up with problems we can solve.”

  She fixed her gaze on me. “You really have no idea, and yet you’re sure we can do this.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Is this what you do all day? For your business, I mean? These kinds of deals?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “How many of them succeed?”

  “One or two,” I said.

  “You really think we can do this one?”

  “I know we can,” I said.

  XXXI

  Saturday, March 20th, 2083

  Posted 11:06 am by Barry Simcoe

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  When I woke up this morning, I spent the first ten minutes staring at the ceiling wondering how much longer I’d be a free man. Or even alive.

  I don’t always have the easiest times with mornings. And when there’s as much weighing on me as there was today, it can be especially tough. The hardest part wasn’t just that there was so much arrayed against me—that I could see my doom approaching along so many dark vectors—but that I couldn’t do anything about it. Sergei had told me to keep a low profile, and that was great advice. But it was killing me to sit on m
y hands when I knew my days were numbered.

  What finally got me out of bed was the thought of Mac, and her missing son Anthony, and her crusade to save the refugees outside the hotel before they froze to death. Offering to help her had been the right decision. If Van de Velde sticks to her threat and reports what she knows to Perez on Monday, I’ll be arrested and my movements for the previous seventy-two hours will be scrupulously reviewed. It’s too dangerous for me to help Sergei with the reactor or to meet with Black Winter. But when everyone around me is risking their lives, I need an arena where I’m not helpless, where I can do some good. And by helping Mac I can do some good. For once, I’m in a situation that plays to my strengths.

  Our meeting with Renkain yesterday in his small office on the first floor of the hotel had gone about how I expected. He’d spent the first few minutes chatting with us about the challenge of managing the supply chain for four hundred and eighty people—a hundred guests, nearly three hundred AGRT soldiers, and his employees.

  “What’s it like billeting that many soldiers?” Mac had asked him.

  “It was the compromise that allowed us to keep the hotel open,” Renkain said, with practiced ease. It was obvious he’d given this answer many times. “We were unable to get the necessary fuel concessions and investment approval from the Venezuelan civilian commission to do it. Fortunately, Colonel Perez happened to need temporary accommodation for his AGRT peacekeeping forces and was willing to intercede on our behalf. It was a happy partnership.”

  “Yeah, but they sure have an appetite for remodeling. I’ve been on the sixth floor, and I don’t think there’s a wall left standing,” I said.

  Renkain forced a smile. “Their tenancy agreement gives them a high degree of latitude.”

  When our conversation turned to the fresh reports of more AGRT troops headed to the city, it was clear the topic made Renkain uncomfortable. His biggest concern was that many of those soldiers would end up here, in his hotel, which could kill his dream of opening up the entire hotel for civilian occupancy. Accepting more guests into the hotel—even refugees—could help prevent that, if he filled enough floors to keep the soldiers out. And if he could get the permits.

  The key to all this, of course, was Colonel Perez. Perez could issue the permits and let the refugees resettle in the hotel. He was also the key to helping Mac and me raise the money we needed to defray the cost of the rooms.

  “So nothing’s changed then?” Mac asked as we walked through the lobby after our meeting. “Your company isn’t going to help pay for this?”

  “No. But Renkain doesn’t care where the money comes from. I don’t think he cares that much about the money at all. He wants civilians in those rooms as much as we do.”

  “So why not just give us the rooms for free?”

  “Because it’s not just the rooms. He also has to provide power, food, and services for another three hundred people. The good news is Renkain doesn’t need to make money on the rooms. He just needs to cover expenses. I think we could do this for around two hundred thousand dollars.”

  She stopped walking. “That much? You’re joking.”

  “I wish I were. We’ll need at least half of it in the next three to four days . . . and the rest pretty quickly thereafter.”

  “Dear God. Where are we going to get it?”

  “We’re going to raise it. You and me. With a charity ball, right here in the hotel. A big celebration. One that says: We made it, Chicago. We survived. The worst is over, and it’s time to start living again. I want music, dancing, speeches, the works.”

  “You can’t put something like that together in less than a week. How will you get food and alcohol? Or staff to serve it?”

  “That’s the easy part. I’ve already talked to Nguyen in Hotel Services . . . it’s tricky, but it can be done. The hard part is promotion. It’s not like we can advertise online or take out radio ads. We need to get the word out immediately. We’ll need money up front to pay for food and alcohol, and that means we need donations now. The only way this will be a success is by word-of-mouth. People need to be excited. They need to really want to come—and not just because it’s a charity. We need a major draw. Today.”

  “All right,” she said. “Don’t keep me in suspense. Who is our major draw?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Last year, Chicago lived in terror of invasion. Of what life would be like when it was all over. Now it is over, and the conquerors aren’t going anywhere. And the living embodiment of everything Chicago has been terrified of for the past twelve months is right here. In this hotel.”

  “You mean Colonel Perez? You think people want to meet him?”

  “I know they do. He’s the boogeyman. The thing they’re all afraid of. And if we separate him from the protective apparatus of the AGRT, put him in uniform, get him in front of a crowd in a banquet hall, and then get everyone liquored up . . . I think they’ll even shake his hand. I think they’ll pay money to do that.”

  “I remember what he was like during the war,” she said. “Commander of the Nineteenth Venezuelan Expeditionary Force, tasked with pacifying northern Illinois. He’s the bastard who shelled the near north side and took Chicago. He’s the living embodiment of everything the city has been terrified of for over a year.”

  “Well, the occupation is a fact of life now, and people want to get on with their lives. Get on with doing business. And that means making peace with the new regime.”

  She considered for several moments. “You might be right. But can you get Perez to agree?”

  “I can give him a safe environment. The hotel is secured by his own men. The metal detectors at the doors will prevent anyone from smuggling in a weapon.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I meant that with one hand you’re inviting the colonel to speak at our ball, and with the other you’re simultaneously trying to take away the housing he’s probably counting on for hundreds of soldiers.”

  Well, that was the first of the really hard questions: Could I get the colonel to overlook that little detail?

  The other one was: How could I get him to make a commitment he’d stick to, even if I ended up in custody in forty-eight hours?

  I had to have answers fast. And the only way to get them was to get a meeting with Perez. I had nothing substantial to offer him, but we were out of time. The wheels were already in motion. Ready or not, I needed to talk to him.

  So at 7 a.m. this morning I got out of bed, cleaned myself up, and rode the elevator to his office on the sixth floor. I gave my name to the guard who stopped me the moment I stepped out of the elevator and prepared to spend most of the day cooling my heels.

  To my astonishment, one of Perez’s lieutenants came to get me barely ten minutes later. “The colonel will see you,” she said.

  We walked down the same hall the kid had marched me down twelve days ago, after the death of Corporal Maldonado. A lot has changed since then. Just as many walls were down, but there were a few more pretend offices, with walls constructed entirely of protocol. There was a row of desks on my right, spaced every twenty feet or so, and officers in AGRT uniform had their heads down, working away at the day-to-day grind of subjugating America. Working at 7 a.m. on a Saturday no less.

  No rest for the wicked, indeed.

  We stopped in front of Perez’s office, at the slender stretch of wall that’s the only piece of drywall still standing on the east side of the building. The lieutenant knocked on the door, in deference to the colonel’s imaginary office. I’d seen this before but, I mean, seriously? It gets me every time.

  The colonel responded, and the woman opened the door for me with a smile. Five seconds later I was shaking the colonel’s hand.

  “It is a pleasure to see you again,” the colonel said. Then he did something odd. He gestured me away from his desk, toward two leather chairs in the corner (or at least what would have been a corner, if his office had corners). Between the chairs was a table, with a kettle and two cups. He took the seat on t
he left and gave me a warm smile, and I sat down next to him warily.

  I was running through scenarios in my head. Did Van de Velde rat me out already? Jesus, Noa, you said I had three days. Or maybe Hayduk got to him? Or he’s reassessed my culpability for Maldonado’s death? Damn. So many possibilities . . . and all of them bad.

  I smiled right back at him. “You’re much too kind. Thank you for seeing me so quickly.”

  “Not at all. The truth is, I’ve been wanting to follow up on our last conversation.”

  “Really? Are you willing to take me up on my offer to improve your communications infrastructure?”

  The colonel blinked. To his credit, it took no more than a second or two before he dredged up the details of what I’d said the last time I was here. “No, but your offer was very generous,” he said smoothly. “You were right about our poor infrastructure. And absolutely, you will be the first person I call when we begin.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “I understand you have made friends among the men and women of the AGRT.”

  That caught me a little off guard. Perhaps he’d been talking with Capitán Leon, the officer who’d grilled me before letting me accompany Van de Velde into the tunnels under Columbia College. And who had implied that I was in a relationship with Van de Velde. So it was probably a thinly veiled reference to Noa. Or perhaps my friendship with Sergei?

  It didn’t really matter. “I have,” I said with a smile. “To be truthful, probably the closest friends I have in Chicago are in the AGRT.”

  “Splendid,” said the colonel. “I’m glad to hear it. And you understand what it is we’re doing here, yes?”

  “Sure, I guess. A peacekeeping mission.”

  “And do you believe that?”

  I chuckled without much humor and answered as diplomatically as I could. “Colonel, I’m well aware of your reputation as the man who conquered Chicago. But I also watched a Juno-class mech attack your soldiers in front of this hotel, and I saw how quickly you acted to protect the civilian guests—including me. I watched Colonel Maldonado die, right in front of me, while trying to protect us. So, yes. I do believe that, for the present at least, you are on a peacekeeping mission. And I do believe that you have the best interests of the civilians under your protection at heart.”