“COME WITH ME,” Bowserbot said in a distorted mechanical voice then started to roll.
As Quey started to follow Bowserbot, speakers crackled throughout the lobby and the opening guitar riff to “Roadhouse Blues” sounded through the room. Quey smirked and said, “Welcome to the Morrison Hotel,” as he continued behind the bot toward the restaurant.
As they walked a second bot appeared. This one rolled on four wheels rather than tank treads. It had a torso, like the first, but no spikes on its back. Its paint job was equally elaborate and depicted some sort of pig man holding a trident with a mountain in the background. The bot had arms, like the other one, but only two, though they were larger.
“WOULD YOU LIKE A TABLE OR THE BAR?” Bowserbot asked.
“Bar’s fine,” he replied and approached the long dark cherry wood bar. Sitting on a stool he looked over his shoulder and noticed the two bots resting across the room, their lenses trained on him.
The barkeep was painted black and white, in the tradition of a tuxedo and had a perfectly etched red bowtie just below its chin. The tie was done so well, as a matter of fact, it was only on second glance that Quey realized it wasn’t real.
“Would you like a beverage?” the bot asked him in a less robotic voice that used a hodgepodge of old European accents. Quey chuckled and asked, “What’s your liquor cabinet look like?”
This time when the bot spoke he noticed the accents were primarily French and British, though it might have slipped into Irish from time to time, he couldn’t much tell. “Vodka, whiskey, rum, brandy and beer at the moment, sir.”
Quey was shocked. “You have all of that?”
“Yes sirrrr,” the bot replied.
“No wonder she doesn’t need my shine,” he said to himself.
“Pardon?” the Barbot asked.
“Nothing,” Quey replied, shaking him off. “Just… shit I’ll have to go with some whiskey.”
The bot lifted a bottle of brown liquid with one white hand and set a glass in front of Quey with the other. After filling the glass he pushed it forward.
Quey was amazed. He’d heard stories of Ryla’s bots but he’d never seen one and now that he had he understood her reputation. The Barbot poured a drink, not with the clumsy accuracy of a robot moving individual joints in accordance with its programming, but with the fluid dexterity of a bartender. There were the tiny imperfections in its movements that robots simply didn’t make, but people did. He’d never seen anything like it. “Thank you,” Quey replied and took a moment to smell the bitter liquor. It burned sweet in his nostrils and he sighed satisfaction before taking a sip. Smiling as it tingled on his tongue he swallowed and let it burn its way to his belly. “Ahh,” he sighed and then shivered slightly.
He sat sideways at the bar, looking over the room, taking in the elegance of its dark décor, a room of deep reds and dark browns and dim lights and then there were the two bots watching him. He watched their lifeless presence and found the uncertainty of their intent an ominous authority that trembled up his spine. He took another sip of whiskey and turned to the Barbot. “Ryla?” he asked it. It remained motionless, its lenses trained on his glass and he knew it was programmed to offer him another drink as soon as his glass approached empty.
The bots speaker cracked and Ryla’s voice came through. “Yes.”
“Do your friends have to… I mean, you know I’m not armed right?”
“Yes.”
“So do you think maybe your friends can do something else for a while? It’s giving me the creeps, the way they just sit there and watch me.”
“Don’t be rude,” Ryla said, “This is their home too.”
Quey peered at the Barbot, “Rude? I’m not being rude,” he said carefully and suddenly aware of that bit about her being a nutcase. “I’m just wondering if it’s necessary for them to keep watch on me. I mean, Bowserbot, is it? I think he’s got his weapon trained on me.”
“I think it is neither necessary or unnecessary and therefore irrelevant.”
“It just makes me uncomfortable.”
There was a long silence. “I don’t understand.”
“I have guns pointing at me,” he iterated with frustration. “Big ones too. It makes me nervous.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Quey replied after another sip, this one tickled the back of his head a bit and he knew he was on his way to a nice buzz. “Because they could kill me.”
“Guns are only dangerous if fired.”
“Well what if they fire?”
“They will only fire if you conclude a defense directive program gate. Do you plan to do so?”
“No,” he replied uncertain about what she just said, then continued, “but… I mean… I don’t know. I’m not sure what that means.”
“The bots will collect and run data through a collection of logic gates to determine whether or not a subject is attackable. Example. Defense gate one. Is subject foreign. If yes, is subject human. If yes, is subject holding an object. If yes, run object through threat gate. Did object match in threat gate. If yes initiate fatal fire program sequence on subject.”
“Fatal fire…” Quey trailed off. “So no warning?”
“Just keep as you are and you’ll be fine,” she said curtly. “Look, your truck is here now. If you want to keep this up fine, but I’m going to start charging you by the hour.”
“Alright,” Quey said, a bit flustered, and drank the last of his whiskey.
“Another?” Barbot asked in his hodgepodge euro voice.
Quey nodded and as Barbot filled his glass he asked, “Got anything to eat?”
“Certainly sir, what would you like?”
Quey shrugged, “Got any burgers?”
Barbot buzzed, his head moving back and forth in short quick jerks. “ERROR,” the bot screeched in a mechanical voice, “INVALID INQUIRY.”
Quey stood and took a step back. He almost reached for his gun when he remembered he didn’t have it any longer. Finally Barbot recovered and was back to his European self again. “Would you like me to ask the cookbot for,” there was a pause and then Quey’s voice played through the bots speaker, “Burgers.”
“Sure,” Quey nodded.
A light flashed on the top of Barbots head and a moment later a robot with an apron pained on its torso burst from the back and asked, “Did you mean… hamburgers?”
Quey nodded and answered, “Yeah,” with a degree of uncertainty.
Cookbot disappeared into the back and Barbot asked him, “Would you like some tobacco while you wait? Or perhaps some Marijuana?”
Quey sat back down at the bar and asked, “You have that?”
“Ye-e-e-essss,” Barbot replied.
Quey shrugged, “Sure why not,” and watched Barbot roll him a joint and light it before passing it over. “Hey?” he began as he accepted the cigarette, “You got any jazz in that thing?”
“What thing?”
“The music player, you know,” Quey answered. The cherry ember brightened in the dim room as Quey pulled a lungful from the joint and blew a stream of smoke into the air. It was sweet, infused with a hint of vanilla he thought, and countered the burn of his whiskey brilliantly.
“No, but I can access the planetary network and pull something off the archives if you’d like.”
“Miles Davis,” Quey said, sitting back in his chair. “If you can find him.”
“Downloading,” Barbot announced.
Quey smiled, “Nothin’ makes you feel like a man like whiskey, a toke, and a fine bit of jazz.”
Morrison was interrupted halfway through “Blue Sunday” by a piano progression that exploded into a frenzy of drums and horns and standing bass half a dozen notes in. Following his whiskey with a drag, Quey kept the rapid hi-hat tempo with his foot, tapping it against his stool. As the music went on he felt the effects of his joint close around him. Whatever was in that thing was strong.
By the time he was through with it his hea
d was soup, and when Cookbot emerged from the back with his burger and set the plate down in front of him he felt a rush of excitement. Quey’s mouth watered at the smell of the meat, slightly charred and seasoned with garlic and pepper. It was a fat patty atop a fresh bun and there was lettuce, tomato, onion and a pickle on the side.
“More?” the bot asked, indicating his glass and Quey shook him off as he loaded the sides onto the patty and closed the bun. Quey took a bite and groaned satisfaction. The meat, the bun, the veggies, they were all perfect and flavorful.
“Is it to your liking?” Barbot asked him and Quey nodded.
“This is the best fucking burger I’ve ever had. Where the hell did you get this stuff?”
The bot took a moment to answer, “Kitchen.”
“Yeah, but the ingredients, where did they come from. I haven’t had anything this good since I was a kid.”
Something inside the bot clicked and whirred as it thought before answering. “Food distribution unit.”
“Fuck it,” he said past a mouth full of food and yelled, “Ryla.”
“Speak,” she answered coldly through the bot’s speaker.
“Where did you get these tomatoes?”
“That query is irrelevant to your purpose here.” The speaker cracked again. Ryla had hung up on him.
“I just was curious. I don’t think I’ve ever seen vegetables this… I don’t know… good.” Chewing, Quey looked up at Barbot and said, “You know, the lady of the house can be a bit of a strange one.”
Barbot did not respond.
Plots and Lies
Sticklan Stone walked into the office, one of many rooms in Richter Crow’s estate, and sat down on a comfortable chair across from a heavy dark wood desk. The outer wall was a floor to celing window that tinted based on the intensity of the sun. It overlooked the massive expanse of land behind the Crow estate; well-manicured flower gardens and shrubs enclosed by a massive stone wall.
Richter gave him the, ‘be with you in a minute,’ sign from the other side of the desk where he was talking to someone through a monitor and camera over the Universal Network. It was a shaky bit of tech at best that sent messages between planets and was responsible for updating the Planetary Networks every few months. Richter was in conference with a bigwig back at Blue Moon, they spoke of money and industry and things that bored Sticklan, but as the conversation moved away from commerce he grew intrigued.
“Well that brings us to what I wanted to talk to you about most. I’m afraid the situation here is dire,” Richter Crow said.
Sticklan scanned the shelves of books running floor to ceiling along the wall to his right and wondered how many of them his new acquaintance had actually read. More than was expected but less than he claimed was his guess.
“Explain,” the man on the other end of the transmission told him.
Richter sighed and ran a hand down the side of his face. “It seems some members of Anti-corp got through our screening process. They’re on planet and active.”
“Are you sure?” the man on the other end asked, stern.
“We’ve had a number of attacks and,” Richter let his voice trail off. First rule of fishing for suckers was to let them reel themselves in.
“And?”
“We’ve got reports that they may have planetary devastators.”
“Fuckin’ shit,” the man on the other end of the transmission said, exasperated.
“Things seem to be under control for now but you know how these rats work, underground and off the grid.”
“Yes, we know. I have to warn you that we can’t afford an aid mission. Profits from the new worlds won’t begin to show for two years. If you can’t get a handle on this yourself-”
“This is not a call for aid sir,” Richter Crow interrupted. “I feel confident this situation will be resolved on our end. It may take some time, but...”
“Don’t bother with the explanation you’re just going to have to make excuses about later. We understand how these things work. What was it you wanted from us then?”
“Oh yes, what I was hoping to get from you is a red flag.” There was a pause while the man on the other end contemplated the request. “Please sir, if a transport were to come to the planet these terrorists will look to get hold of it, and if they do have devastators…”
“Right, right,” the man on the other end agreed. A moment passed and then he asked, “How’s everything else down there?”
“Aside from this small group of vermin, we’re spectacular.”
“The terraform’s alright?” the man sounded concerned. “We’ve gotten word from two other worlds that their ‘form has been having issues.”
Richter shook his head. “Everything’s peaches and cream here, aside from Anti-corps that is.”
Sticklan knew the man on the other end of the line was nodding. Then he spoke. “Well if anything comes up, let us know. We have some means of dealing with the instability in the ‘forming. Anything like that happens we’ll have to risk an aid ship. Saffron can’t turn a profit if it dies.”
“If my scientists come back with anything I’ll let you know.”
“Good. Well it seems like you’ve got everything in hand down there. I’ll red flag you for the time being, if you think that’s best.”
“I do.”
“You just let us know when the situation passes and we can get you back on green grid.”
“Will do.”
The men exchanged farewells and Richter turned his screen and camera off. He sat back in his chair and sighed.
“You need me?” Sticklan asked.
Richter looked at the man for a long moment, sizing him up. He still wasn’t sure about Mr. Stone, if he could be trusted or, more importantly, controlled. There wasn’t much choice though. He had to keep things together for another ten to fifteen years at least. Crow stood and crossed to the windows where he stood looking out at the cliffs and ocean below. “You know why you’re here?” he asked.
Sticklan looked at him. “Because you need people killed.”
Richter Crow shook his head. “No, mister Stone. I have men who kill. Trouble is they have lines.” He turned to face Sticklan. “Things they won’t do, things they can’t do. I understand their quandary. Hell I can’t do them myself, and that’s why you’re here. See, the people I need to get to, I can’t just kill. They’re important.”
Sticklan watched him and saw his pathetic nature bleeding out around the edges. He was a scared little man running from his troubles by placing them in someone else’s hands.
“I need them to see reason but I can’t force them to, neither can any of my men. But you,” he said stepping forward and sitting on the corner of the desk. “A man like you might be able to get through to them. See, these are people. People with families.”
“You want me to kill their families.”
Crow shook his head. “That’s no good, if it were that easy I’d do it myself. A bomb from a thousand miles, even if I knew it was going to blow up a bus full of kids, I could push that button. No, killing a man’s family is handing him a reason to hate you. I need you to get close. Find out what buttons to push. How much do you have to hurt their families for them to finally see the only way out is with us? As part of the Blue Moon family.”
Sticklan nodded once.
“Up close and personal, that’s the trouble. My men can’t do it. They can’t cut on a woman, not to mention a kid.” Richter Crow stood and paced a bit, then spun and pointed at Sticklan as he said, “But you. Someone like you. Probably might even get a kick out of it.”
Sticklan smiled. He didn’t like Richter Crow, might even decide to kill him some day, after the rest of his family of course, but at the moment he was the C.E.O. of Saffron and he was offering free reign to do what pleased him most. “I think I can help you.”
Richter Crow nodded. “Then I have your first assignment,” he said lifting a sheet computer off the desk and handing it to Sticklan. Sticklan looked at
the list of names. He touched the first one, Andy Froth, and it brought up a file on the man.
“These aren’t Anti-corps members,” Sticklan said with a smirk.
“What?” Richter began perplexed, then laughed a bit and added, “No. No, there’s no Anti-corps on Saffron.”
Sticklan nodded. “That business on South continent?”
“A brewing storm brought on by men such as those,” he answered pointing to the sheet in Sticklan’s hand. “I want you to know that as an employee you’ll be well taken care of, got you a car out front and a house down the hill. And you will make it off this rock when the time comes.”
Sticklan looked up at him puzzled, then nodded. “The wastes.”
“Heard about them huh?”
“Any who haven’t?”
“Well thing about that is-”
“Thing about that is I don’t care.” The men met eyes for a moment and Richter looked away. “You went through a load of trouble to keep me secret and get me out. Spent a barrel of dough and lied to corporate about how the world’s settling, so I have to think you have a ripe bit of profit coming somewhere down the line.” He looked back down at the sheet. “I’m here to handle an issue you have. These men are scientists, people who might let the world or even the universe know what’s what down here on this dying rock. I’m here instead of dead because you need a man who’s not squeamish about women and kids. Anything else doesn’t have shit to do with me.”
Richter nodded. “Fair enough.”
Sticklan looked through the files. There were names, pictures, and addresses. “Ya made this cake. Won’t even have to look with my eyes open to find ‘em. How detailed do you want the report?”
Richter shook his head. “Just success or not.”
Sticklan smiled. “Sure you don’t want video?”
Richter shook his head.
“What if they hold out anyway?”
Richter looked at him.
“I mean, I’ve seen ‘em. Men whose principals are stronger than any emotion another might have.” Sticklan chuckled, “I once had a man hold out for three days. Man watched me-”
The Saffron Malformation Page 6