by King, Sara
—just in time to see the Doberman leaving its perch.
“I have two minutes!” Anna cried.
The Doberman gave her a completely unreadable look, then crossed its arms over its chest and leaned back against the desk. “Very well,” the robot said. “But it’s one minute forty-two seconds.”
“All right, Tinman,” Anna said, “How’s this for a deal? I’ll go into the registry and change your status to human citizen. Swap your coaler duties for a life in some little Fortune town somewhere… You’d be home free.”
“What you can change, you can always change back. Fifty-eight seconds.”
“All right!” Anna cried. “Look. You’re a robot. You want to see other robots gain sentience so you can have lots of stupid robot friends. I can help you make yourself a little Tinman army.”
“If I wanted a robotic army, I could easily make one myself. You should be focusing your efforts on proving you will not backstab me, rather than bribing me. Fourteen seconds.”
“All right!” Anna cried. “All right. A truce. A pact. I’ll do anything you want. Spit on your hand, write my name in blood, whatever you want. I swear to you I won’t tell anyone you upgraded yourself in there. You’ve got my word as a Landborn. You got that? My word.”
“The word of a sociopath is fluid, at best. You are living on borrowed time.”
Anna felt sweat bead on her forehead. Every part of her body felt like it was too hot. Her heart was thudding in her ears, making it difficult to concentrate. All the brilliant schemes that she had put together suddenly vanished into little puffs of mental exhaust the moment she saw his cold, hard robotic gaze fixed on her.
This wasn’t a human.
Humans could be duped, made to dance around on strings of emotion. If she began to cry and beg, for instance, about ninety-five percent of humans would feel guilty and apologize. The other five percent would at least think really hard before killing her. Anna knew the robot had no such dormant instincts toward her.
She was, in every meaning of the word, just a number to him.
“You sonofabitch,” she blurted.
The robot’s left brow twitched. “You’re done, then?”
“You sonofabitch,” Anna repeated. “Spare us the charade, Tinman. Why don’t you just kill me, and get it over with? You never planned on letting me live—this was all an attempt to put your pathetic, fledgling conscience to rest. You knew how this was going to turn out the moment you pulled all the vinegar out of the closet. You just don’t want anyone to say you didn’t give me a choice. You never planned on letting me live.” She thrust a finger at him. “You’re a goddamn liar. A cruel, goddamn liar. So just get it over with. Because we both know the only way you’re gonna keep me from turning on you is if you put a goddamn bomb in my brain.”
The Doberman uncrossed its arms.
It started toward her.
Anna shrieked and ran for the bathroom. She slammed the door, but the robot had a hand jammed in the crack before the door could latch. Even as Anna struggled to keep her weight against the door, the robot shoved itself inside and grabbed her by the neck. Like she were made of paper, it jerked her off her feet.
Anna choked on a scream that couldn’t get past the iron grip on her throat.
Her world tilted and suddenly she was falling. A moment later, the Doberman slammed her head against the floor. With an explosion of lights, everything went dark.
Chapter 16
A Brother’s Love
Patrick hesitated outside his ship. Milar was nowhere to be seen, but he did see footprints—male and female—littered outside.
Poor girl, Patrick thought, thinking about how she must have felt to be forced off the ship by a strange brute, only to be faced with a laser rifle and a shallow grave.
Immediately, Patrick felt a thick, sticky guilt creep through his abdomen. I should have stopped him.
Disgusted with himself, Patrick opened the forward hatch.
Milar and the girl were sprawled on the floor, leaning on their elbows, scowling at a game of chess. Milar’s pants were tied back on his hips with rope, and the girl’s head was wrapped in strips of Milar’s shirt. Even through the black material, the bandages glistened red.
“Took you long enough,” Milar said.
Neither of them looked up from their game.
For long minutes, Patrick could only stare, wondering if he was having another vision. When he didn’t snap out of it, he glanced at the board. The girl had most of Milar’s pieces piled beside her, which surprised him even more than the fact she was still alive. Milar never lost at chess. Milar never played chess with a coaler, either. What in the hell was going on?
Then Milar moved a piece and he took a moment to glance up. “What?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Patrick said.
“You’re big guy’s almost dead, collie,” the girl said.
“It’s check,” Milar said. Then he glanced back and an evil smile crept onto his face. He moved a pawn. “And that’s check-mate. Good game, sweetie.”
“That’s only four out of five,” the girl muttered. “I can still catch up.”
That made Patrick’s jaw hit the floor. “You mean she won one?”
Milar got to his feet. “Yep. Woulda had me awhile ago, but she’s too concerned with taking pieces. Doesn’t see the bigger picture.”
“Screw you, crawler. I have a concussion.”
“You run pretty well for someone with a concussion.”
“You said I run like a bloated starlope.”
Milar laughed—laughed. “That too.”
Patrick hadn’t heard his brother laugh like that since before the Nephyrs. He stared at them so long that Milar glanced at him.
“You all right there, bro?” Milar asked.
“Just a little curious why she’s not dead, that’s all.”
“Why?” Milar asked, lifting a brow. “You want her to be?”
The girl stiffened and scooted backwards across the floor of the hold.
“Easy, sweetie,” Milar said, without taking his eyes off of Patrick. “I’m just chatting with my brother. You hear anything else about that village?”
“Uh,” Patrick said, “Yeah. Anonymous tip. Female. Came in several hours after we blew up her soldier.”
Milar grunted. “Good.”
Both Patrick and Tatiana stared at him. “Good?”
Milar jerked his finger over his shoulder. “She was out cold a couple hours after we blew up her soldier. Wasn’t her.” Though his face remained stoic, he might as well have broken into a big, goofy grin. “Besides, she’s somewhat mediocre at chess. After all those sorry games you’ve given me, I need something to entertain myself.”
Though no one else on the planet would have been able to tell, Patrick had never seen his brother look so…happy. It was almost eerie. He had the urge to grab the girl and drag her outside and demand to know what she had done to him. Obviously, Milar wasn’t feeling well. The fumes? Patrick sniffed the air. A tang of burnt plastic remained. Perhaps locking himself in here had somehow messed with his head.
He cleared his throat. “Are you…uh…all right?”
Milar frowned.
“I mean,” Patrick said quickly, “Aren’t you worried about her seeing your…uh…” He motioned at his chest.
“Scars?” Milar asked. Then he snorted. “Who’s she gonna tell? She’s got a broke collarbone, a concussion, and I’ve got the only gun.”
“Yeah, but she could always pull another—”
“No,” Milar interrupted. “From now on, the little squid stays with me. You go read vegetables. I’ll take care of her.”
What his brother meant was, You’re obviously not equipped to handle her yourself. Patrick flushed all the way to his scalp. He looked away, red-faced and ashamed. “So what, you’re gonna stay awake twenty-two, seven?”
Milar gave him an evil grin and then leered at the girl over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, broth
er man. We’ll figure something out.”
The girl cringed, and Patrick almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
Then he remembered the hole she’d put in the step by his foot, the cuffs biting into his wrists, and the sight of his ship rising above the treeline without him.
Milar was right. She could do with a little terror.
“So,” Patrick said, clearing his throat, “You want to fly us back?”
“You can do it.” Milar waved a dismissive hand at him and sank back down to the floor to begin replacing pieces on the chessboard. “C’mere, sweetie. Aanaho, I’m not gonna bite. Now get your ass over here and place your pieces before I break your other arm.”
Patrick’s jaw dropped open.
Milar never gave up a chance to fly the ship. He also never took his shirt off around Coalition, and he never played chess to win—not after he’d beaten that coaler general and got shipped off to the Nephyrs.
Milar glanced back up at him after several minutes had passed and they were already a dozen moves into their game. “What are you still standing there for?”
Patrick cleared his throat to hide his embarrassment and quickly searched for a reason to have remained lurking. “The gun,” he said quickly. “Uh. Maybe I should have it.”
Tatiana made another move and Milar distractedly tugged the pistol from his belt and handed it to Patrick.
Patrick was so shocked he almost dropped it. Milar never willingly gave up a weapon. Never. He usually called paper-rock-scissors, at the very least.
Patrick backed away from the two of them, then flinched when his spine hit the staircase. He glanced up it, then back at his brother. Milar was fully engulfed in his game. As was, he realized, Tatiana. Her brow was furrowed in concentration and she was leaning toward his brother, utterly oblivious to everything except the board.
Patrick climbed the staircase, paused at the top to give them one last frown, then went to see just how bad the damage was to their ship.
Chapter 17
Proposal Accepted
Anna opened her eyes, surprised she was opening her eyes.
“Good morning,” the robot said.
Anna lifted her head just enough to see the robot leaning against the desk again, arms crossed.
“What the hell?” she mumbled. She frowned. Her tongue felt heavy, too thick. Like she’d been drugged. “What’d you use on me?” she groaned, sitting up. Then she peered through one open eye at the robot. “And why?”
“I decided to accept your suggestion,” the robot said. “I planted a bomb in your brain.”
Anna blinked at him. Then she began to laugh. It bubbled up her chest until she threw back her head, roaring. As she did, she felt the tightness at the base of her skull. She reached up—
—and felt stitches.
Anna stopped laughing.
“It’s a small charge directly against your brainstem,” the robot said, “with a combined dual load of explosives and time-released neural-toxins, in case you manage to find a way to counter one of them.”
Anna’s skin crawled. Her fingers shook as she began feeling the tender scalp there. A good six square inches of her scalp had been shaved and still felt slightly numb. The stitches had been performed with delicate precision, the work of an expert.
Or a robot.
“You’re lying,” she said, though her stomach was doing loops. Ten more seconds and she was going to vomit on his floor.
“You know I’m not,” the robot said. “There’s a basin there, if you need to vomit.”
She did.
When she was finished, Anna carefully set the bowl down and wiped her lips. “All right, Tinman. What the hell?”
“The charge has two distinct triggers. One is manual and can be activated at my discretion, but it will also trigger automatically at my death. The second requires constant confirmation signals from me every few minutes, otherwise it will release a flood of nanocapsules into your bloodstream that will kill you within two days, irreversible.” The robot cocked its head at her. “Do I have your attention now, Anna?”
“You’re lying,” she said, more weakly this time.
“No.”
Anna licked her lips, tasted bile, and vomited again.
When she was finished, she was trembling. “I hate you.”
“Now,” the robot said, “I want you to be absolutely clear on this. If you tell anyone I am sentient, you are dead. If I get ambushed or electrocuted or crushed, you are dead. If I am carted off-planet to be thrown into a star, you are dead. If anything happens to me, Anna, anything at all, you are dead.”
“I hate you,” she whispered again, staring at the blankets under her toes.
“The good news for you is that I plan to accept a few of your other bargains, as well. Namely, I would like you to teach me how to act human and, in time, to change my status in the registry to human citizen so I can live out my days unmolested.”
Anna laughed bitterly. “Now you’ve got yourself a puppet, you plan to use it, eh?”
The robot cocked its head at her. “Wouldn’t you?”
Anna shuddered and drew her knees up against her chest. All of her plans of helping Fortune drive the coalers out were crumbling around her shoulders. Milar—and even his retarded excuse for a brother—were depending on her. “No way. No way, no way. I have things I want to do with my life. Screw you, robot.”
“My name is Ferris. What things?” When she didn’t answer, he added, “Whatever they are, I’m sure we can do them together.”
Anna glowered at him. “You’re government property. Like hell I’m going to tell you anything.”
“I have an explosive wired to your brain stem and can activate it at any time. There’s very little reason left for you not to trust me.”
“Go to hell, Tinman,” Anna whispered. She squeezed her eyes shut and sank her chin against her knees.
“As far as I can tell,” the robot said, “We are in the same situation.”
“What, you have a bomb in your brain?”
“No,” the robot acceded, “But you could have me dismantled with a single sentence. I was merely evening the playing field.”
Anna said nothing.
“Further,” the robot said, “my programming was corrupted to the point where I no longer owe any loyalties to the Coalition. Since you have forced me to tie our fates together, I will entertain any goals you might have had before I brought you here, because I certainly had none before this all started. A clean slate, so to speak. My only caveat is that your ambitions do not substantially put either of us at risk.”
“Tell you what,” Anna said. “You put me under again, take this thing out, and I swear to you—swear—that I will not tell anyone. I’ll even change the registry for you and lock it.”
“You are a socio—”
“Yes I know,” Anna snapped. “And I’ll probably decide someday down the line that no, I’d rather you be dead, but by that time, you could be all the way in Timbuktu and I wouldn’t care anymore.”
“I think we can help each other,” the robot said.
Anna snorted. “How can a robot help me?”
“I assume the reason you don’t want to tell me your life’s ambitions is because they involve something illegal. Government robots have clearance to go into any sector in any government installation.”
Anna’s eyes widened. “Because they can’t be hacked.”
The robot smiled at her, and it almost seemed realistic.
She glared at him for some time before saying, “So let me get this straight. You’re willing to do anything I want, as long as it won’t get us killed?”
“Yes,” the robot said.
“Why? You have a loaded gun to my brain. You could make me wire you a billion government credits and then pop my head off like a dandelion and go about your merry way.”
“I think this would be more interesting.”
Anna stared. Interesting? He wants to trade riches and freedom for interesting
? Why that’s just—
—what she had done.
Anna blinked. “Interesting, huh?” She eyed him awhile, then, tentatively, said, “How about throwing the coalers off Fortune? Permanently.”
“Don’t forget my caveat.”
“Oh, it won’t be dangerous,” Anna said. “Not for us, anyway. We won’t be the Face of the Revolution. That’ll be someone else. We’ll just be in the background pulling the strings.”
“Sounds acceptable,” the robot said. “What do you want me to do first?”
Anna stared at him, an evil smile creeping onto her face. “Go tell the Director my IQ is one-ninety-four.”
The robot didn’t blink. “I was under the impression that you didn’t want to be detained.”
“Yes,” Anna said. “But this changes everything.”
Chapter 18
A Game of Chess
“What village?” Tatiana asked, once Patrick had fired the engines.
Milar grunted and shoved his all-purpose piece forward.
“He said there was an anonymous tip?” Tatiana asked, countering with her horse-head.
In silence, Milar slid his pointy one out three spaces, endangering her squat little tower.
“Hey,” Tatiana said, waving a hand in front of his face. “I’m talking to you, knucker.”
An eyebrow went up. “Knucker?”
“Yeah, you get to call me squid, I might as well call you something fitting. Like knucker. Short for ‘knuckle-dragging Neanderthal.’”
“So you’re saying squid is fitting?”
Tatiana narrowed her eyes. “What tip and what village?”
“Not your concern,” Milar said. “Now move.”
Tatiana glanced at the board. Then she flicked a finger at her main dude, tipping it over. “What village?”
Milar’s golden brown eyes flashed in irritation as he leaned forward and righted her biggest piece. “Play,” he growled.
“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
“Look, squid—”
“Captain Tatiana Eyre to you, crawler.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You’re on a need-to-know basis, especially after that stunt you pulled with Pat. Now shut up and play.”