Driftmetal III

by J. C. Staudt

  The medallion was not the only old friend with whom I was reunited that day. As we lined up to leave the room, Angus turned back and snapped his fingers. The door to one of the low floor cabinets opened, and out stepped a small fellow I was more than a little happy to see. He waddled over and stood beside Angus, hugging his leg like a child.

  “Nerimund,” I said, squatting down to greet him.

  The little duender shied away from me, shimmying behind Angus’s leg and going still, like a fat man trying to hide behind a skinny tree. He no longer exhibited any signs of his wooden stasis, though; he was as normal a duender as he’d ever been. Which is to say, not very.

  “He knows who you are,” Angus assured me. “His memory is healthier than his courage.”

  “You’re wrong,” I said. “I’ve known few people braver than this little guy. I owe you my thanks, Neri. The whole crew owes you our thanks. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that the last time I saw you. I was a little preoccupied at the time. The truth is, I probably owe you my life. Or at least my ability to walk.”

  I stood up again.

  Nerimund made a little squeaking sound into the back of Angus’s thigh.

  “That means he’s happy,” Angus said. “And I’m sure, if he were in the mood, he’d say you’re welcome.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “It’s not easy for me to admit it when someone has helped me as much as he has, but you know… praise where it’s due, and all that.”

  Angus gave a thoughtful nod. We stood there in awkward silence for a moment before the automatons began goading us out into the hallway. I could smell food as soon as we came around the corner. It smelled worlds better than anything they’d been shoving at me through the door slot of my isolation cell. Half the time, I hadn’t even known what I was eating. That would’ve been a scarier thought if I hadn’t been so hungry at the time.

  Our dining area was a plain, narrow room with a long cafeteria table down the center. The place settings were neat and simple, unpatterned china and modest silver. Sitting at the end of that table, hunched over in his wheelchair like a man much further on in his years, was yet another old friend.

  “Rindhi!” I exclaimed, sounding more excited than I had expected to. I strode over and slid in next to him. “How did you get here?”

  Thomas spoke up. “I requested leave to fetch Rindhi from the hospital in Everwynd. Maclin did me one better; they picked him up and brought him here on my behalf.”

  “Maclin’s got their claws in you too now, huh?”

  “I would stay with Thomas, despite any claws,” Rindhi said.

  “You’ve seen enough claws for one lifetime, my friend. And tusks, too.”

  He smiled. “Yes, but I do not think I have seen the last of those.”

  I smiled back at him. “Maybe not. While I’m in the habit of thanking people, I ought to thank you for what you did in Torag Canyon.”

  “It is not you who should be thanking,” Rindhi said. “You are the reason I sit here before you.”

  “I’m also the reason you’re sitting, and not standing,” I said.

  “I would rather be sitting than lying down,” he said.

  I had saved Rindhi’s life, but he’d also bought us the time we needed to save ours. Of course, he and I had almost killed each other when we first met. I guess we were even, in a way. But I was too hungry for a gratitude competition, so I put a hand on his shoulder and said, “I’m glad we’re both sitting.”

  “As am I,” he said.

  “So Maclin actually came out and hunted you down on Everwynd?”

  “I suppose Thomas told them where I was, but… yes, I think so.”

  “I didn’t even have to tell them where he was,” said Thomas. “It was as if they just… knew.”

  My gears were spinning, but I didn’t say anything. An idea was forming in my head, and I needed food to fuel it to completion. “Interesting,” I said. “I have more questions. But first, let’s eat.”

  The food was excellent, comparatively speaking. Paired with the medallion’s sweet nectar, it was twice as good as it might’ve tasted otherwise. I felt like I was halfway to paradise by the time I’d finished eating. Our odd little group was dozing on the benches, fat and happy, when Cordelia Foxglove entered the room.

  “You again?” I said. “I’ve seen you too many times today.”

  “This is only the second time—”

  “Like I said.”

  She frowned. She didn’t have to say a word for me to know what she was thinking. She was thinking that I’d still be in that isolation cell if it had been up to her. If Thomas hadn’t convinced Angus to make the request, I still would be. “My apologies for interrupting your dinner,” she said. “It’s just that… well, I’ve had word that you’re setting up a testing floor for the Mark-Sevens, Angus.”

  “That’s right,” Angus said, expecting a challenge. “Mr. Nordstrom has volunteered to run it.”

  Ms. Foxglove looked at me, her mouth drawing into a sneer. “Don’t you think this is a little premature? Besides, I thought we agreed that Mr. Nordstrom was not to be allowed contact with the Mark-Sevens.”

  “We didn’t agree. You made a suggestion. It’s a closed test, Cordelia. I’m not letting him anywhere near the factory.”

  She bit her lip, aware that all conversation in the dining hall had stopped, and that all attention was focused on her. “I won’t allow it,” she said.

  “Allow me to set the record straight while everyone’s paying attention,” I said. “Until today, I thought Angus was here because you were making him pay for his loss of company property. I sabotaged that assembly line for one reason, and one reason only: I wanted to stay here, too. I wanted to be a part of this. I made a rash decision so I could get what I wanted. No one will ever accuse me of anything less. If you think I had any ulterior motive, or that I bear any ill will toward Maclin, you’re wrong. Now—I’m here to help. I want these robots in ship-shape, just like you do, Ms. Foxglove. The only difference between you and me is that I’m not getting paid for it.”

  She looked at me skeptically. “Why does this matter to you so much, Mr. Nordstrom?”

  “Because there are people out there who I care about, who are in big trouble, when I should be the one in their place. And as soon as we’re done here, I can start fixing everything that’s wrong. With my life, and with theirs.”

  Cordelia drew in her lips, as if she didn’t quite know how to respond.

  “If two heads are better than one,” I said, “then with all the fat brains we’ve got floating around in here, we should’ve been done with this thing a long time ago.”

  “Yes… we’ve become a regular hostel, haven’t we?” she said, looking around at us.

  “From what I hear, Maclin has the resources to find people pretty easily. Is that true, Ms. Foxglove?”

  “I suppose it is,” she said.

  “Good, because it seems to me that we need a little more help than we’ve got right now. And since I’m not allowed to leave here to go get it, I was hoping that was something you could arrange.”

  “What kind of help do you need?” Cordelia asked.

  “There’s someone I need you to kidnap for me.”

  4

  After dinner, the robots escorted us home like the proper gentlemen they were programmed to be. Our habitat was a room as bare and desolate as the dining hall, only without the comfort of hot food to mitigate the dreariness. Creaky metal bunk beds lined the walls. Harsh, cold light blared down from the ceiling panels. It was like I’d just joined the military; I was as close to being a Civ-in-training as I ever wanted to.

  There was plenty of space, at least. The room could’ve housed many times our number without trouble, the bunks stretching out from one end to the other like mirrored copies of one another. Mirrored, except for the messes of clothing and washroom implements spread out over those bunks which were occupied.

  I found a bunk I liked and set up shop. I chose it becaus
e the adjacent beds were also empty. Dragging the filthy wafers that passed for mattresses off these two empty bunks, I proceeded to pile them on top of mine until I had something that looked like a stack of ice cream sandwiches.

  “Gods, Mull… what are you doing?” asked Ezra.

  “What’s it look like I’m doing? Making myself at home. Help me lift this, will you?”

  We nudged the bed against the wall and pulled the pins, then removed the top bunk and set it in the middle of the room.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Much better. Now I’ll be able to sit up when I have nightmares about Ms. Foxglove. Do I get a nifty kit of jammers and soap like you guys?”

  “What’s all this about?” Angus asked, coming over to inspect the decor.

  “It’s about comfort and serenity,” I said. “Not unlike myself.”

  He blinked, shook his head, and walked away.

  “Wait, where’s my soap? These mattresses smell like piss. I’m gonna need two showers a day to wash the stink off.”

  “Closet,” he said, pointing.

  “Ah. Thank you, my good man.” I went over to grab myself a set of towels, brushes, and supplies for cleansing my various crevices. I could see that this living arrangement was going to work out swimmingly.

  The conversation before bedtime centered mostly around lighter topics, with Thomas and Rindhi doing most of the talking. They were both well-traveled, as it turned out. They’d seen more of the world than I had, both separately and together in the service of the Archduke, and there were plenty of good stories to tell.

  Rindhi, in particular, had spent huge swathes of his life abroad, spending months or years in some places to study his first passion—languages. All his modest talk about not having ridgebacks in Mani-Pani had been no indication of how well he knew their particular dialect. The common name of their language was Grallish, he said, though that sounded nothing like its formal name.

  While Rindhi told tales about being worshipped by natives, robbed by street urchins, and cursed at by kings in a dozen different languages, I thought of other things. Largely they were the same things I’d gotten into the habit of thinking about in my isolation cell—Pyras, Gilfoyle, Yingler, Ostelle, Mom, Dad, Sable. Loose ends, spinning in my head like a six-gun’s cylinders.

  Mostly, of course, it was Sable. If I’d ever come close to being in love with anybody, it was her. Not in love, mind you—just close to it. As the days drew on, I got more and more anxious about finding her. Partly because I cared for her, and partly because I felt guilty for letting her and the others take the fall.

  Over the next few days, we worked from dawn to dinnertime, the Brunswicks and myself tinkering away at the logic drive while Thomas hovered, Rindhi rolled, and Nerimund lurked in whatever cabinet or cubbyhole struck his fancy. Nothing exciting happened.

  Then, the day came when the testing floor was ready. That was the day I had to remove the medallion again, and it hurt me even more than the first time. I could’ve sworn it was clinging to me, like a stubborn spot on a piece of clothing, refusing to let go. Maybe now that it had tasted the darkness in my heart, the entity inside felt as drawn to me as I did to it. It was the poison pill I wanted to keep taking. Only, it was also taking me.

  I set the device on the counter and rubbed my bare chest, feeling empty inside. The callouses had softened, the skin now as supple as a feather pillow. Angus picked it up, clutching it between tender fingers, as if he was scared he might break it. He lowered it into our custom-built receptacle and locked it into place.

  The emerald-colored gems in the medallion’s face did not sparkle or glimmer when Angus flicked the switch to turn on the remote control unit. Neither did the automaton on the other side of the glass move or illuminate. The test subject was a stripped-down version of the guards that had been accompanying us everywhere we went. It wore no clothing, no mask, and no outer panels to cover its machinery.

  “Kelvin, guard the door,” Angus said, speaking through the comm unit.

  The robot obeyed, walking to the wall and putting its back to the glass.

  “Kelvin, move to the center of the room.”

  It did.

  “Kelvin, jump up and touch the ceiling.”

  There was a short delay as the automaton processed. It sank to its haunches. Then it leapt, its powerful legs launching it into the air like pistons. It reached with its hand, but its full extension was two yards shy of the ceiling. Landing gracefully on its toes, it bent its knees again and froze in place, calculating.

  The next jump was higher, but the robot’s hand still fell about a foot short. It crashed to the ground, still on its feet but with a heavier rumble than before. It repeated the same motion, bending at the knees and jumping, but getting no higher this time. Over and over, it jumped and landed, like some simple-minded kid caught in a never-ending game of Simon Says.

  Angus turned off the comm. “They can only jump so high before they start sacrificing some of their balance. This one could touch the ceiling easily if it wanted to, but it’s programmed to stay within certain physical limitations so it doesn’t cause undue damage to itself or its surroundings.”

  “If he jumps any higher, that floor ain’t gonna hold out,” said Ezra. The old man cringed each time the robot came crashing down onto the concrete.

  Angus flipped on the comm. “Kelvin, stop.”

  The robot crashed down, stood up straight, and froze.

  “You ready, Hal?” Angus asked, turning toward me.

  “As I’ll ever be,” I said, wondering what I’d gotten myself into. If this was what it took to prove the medallion’s value, I supposed it was worth it.

  Before he unlocked the heavy metal door, Angus explained to me what was going to happen. They were the same plans we’d discussed previously, so it was more a reminder to me and a briefing to everyone else. He was going to transfer command of the automaton to me. After a few preliminary tests, he was going to transmit the medallion’s signal through the remote device—not to override the automaton’s built-in programming, but to add to it. We’d observe the robot’s behavior, and I’d give it a set of commands that were more complex than it was used to.

  “Good luck, Mr. Nordstrom,” Thomas said. He’d been good about calling me that in front of Angus.

  “Something tells me I’m going to need more than luck.”

  The testing floor smelled of friction and oiled steel. It was the size of a small gymnasium, but it felt more like a cardboard box with the automaton standing there. It swiveled its head, following me with its eyes as I moved across the room. This is nothing I haven’t dealt with before, I told myself, knowing it very much was. The medallion was now playing for the other team. To make matters worse, all my augments were gone. That made me feel as naked as the robot was.

  I moved into position, fearing for my life.

  Angus’s voice came shallow and tinny through the speakers. “Transferring control.”

  Getting me set up to command the test subject had been no simple task. We’d had to record a vocal imprint so it would recognize me. The imprint also identified me as the robot’s master, whom it was programmed not to harm under any circumstances. That was what we were here to test today.

  “Kelvin, come here,” I said, loud and clear.

  Inside the robot’s abdomen, gears began to spin. It turned and came toward me, moving with such swift and determined gait that I readied myself to sidestep it in case it didn’t stop. I had no doubt it would’ve trampled me into the floor. And yet I stood firm until the robot came to an abrupt halt in front of me.

  “Kelvin, take three steps back and do four jumping jacks,” I said. Simon says.

  The automaton paused to process before it followed my instructions, surprisingly light on its feet. Okay, so it was doing what I told it to. The easy part’s over, you bucket of bolts.

  I drew the pulser on my hip and pointed it at the robot. “Oh, the pain!” I shouted, flying into hysterics. “Kelvin, help me, help me…
please! I need help!”

  It stared at me, processing, sporting the most what-the-hell-am-I-supposed-to-do look I’d ever seen on a robot’s face. Of course, it was the only look I’d ever seen on a robot’s face.

  “Kelvin, help me, you accursed thing. I’m being beaten to death by swarms of tiny invisible men. Get them off me, Kelvin. Kill them all!”

  At the word ‘kill,’ the automaton stutter-stepped forward, then stopped, processing some more. I moved the pulser and fired a burst past its left shoulder, close enough to have sizzled the hair on its skin. If it’d had hair. Or skin.

  Angus’s voice came through the speakers. “You have to start by saying its name, or it won’t respond to you.”

  “Kelvin, never mind. They’re gone,” I said. “I’m fine now. Kelvin, get out of the way, or I’m going to fry your circuits like bacon. Kelvin, from now on, hop on one leg.”

  It paused, then lifted a foot and hopped aside as I sent another burst past its head. Its internal components were ticking and spinning as it balanced, waiting on my next order.

  Now it’s time for the real test. “Kelvin,” I said, “go pick up the gun.”

  Kelvin began to hop across the room toward the table that stood against the back wall. It armed itself and turned to face me.

  “Kelvin, stop hopping.”

  The robot lowered its other foot and stood still.

  I went over and stood beside it. There were three black squares mounted to the far wall, each about the size of a pizza box. They were called RadPads—Patent and Trademark Maclin Technologies—and each was bordered by a thin strip of color around its edge. Red square on the left, blue in the center, and green on the right.

  “Kelvin, arm laser and prepare to fire.”

  It raised its hybrid rifle and switched over.

  “Kelvin, commence firing drill sequence. Target RadPads.”