Brendan blew out a breath. “Intruder, do you think?”
Addelforce shook his head. “A damaged steam unit lay nearby. Looked like the man tried to fight it off. His other steam servants are missing.”
“No one else in the home?”
“The man’s wife is away visiting relations, according to the neighbors. The other case is even uglier. A pit on the lower east side.”
“A fighting pit, you mean? Dogs?” Brendan hated those places.
“You ever heard of a man called Deke Cooper?”
“We’ve shut him down any number of times.”
“Well, you won’t be shutting him down again. Seems he’s been running a new game—pitting steam units against one another. Details aren’t too clear. I want you to get over there and take a full report.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Take someone with you, maybe a member of the Irish Squad if one’s available.”
“I was just on a call with Pat Kelly. I wouldn’t mind taking him.”
“Everybody wants Kelly, but I sent him on another call just before you got back. Choose someone else.”
“Aye, sir.”
“And for God’s sake be careful. The last thing we need is more trouble.”
“Has Cooper’s body been collected?”
“At the morgue.”
“Manner of death, sir?”
“Bludgeoned. That’s all we know so far.”
Brendan collected Terry Greely on his way back out. Greely, big and fair-haired, didn’t tend to offer a lot in the way of conversation, unlike Pat. As they tramped their way to William Street, though, Brendan made the effort.
“So, Terry lad, how’s the wife?”
Greely’s new wife, Chastity—one of the hybrid units Virginia Landry’s mother created—had once been forced to serve as a prostitute before all hell broke loose at the Crystal Palace. Terry and Chastity had numbered among the automatons joined in wedlock at the mass ceremony near Hoyt Lake the month before last. To Brendan’s knowledge, the ceremony had been the first of its kind anywhere.
Terry’s handsome face broke into a rare smile. “Mrs. Greely is doing most excellently, thank you, Sergeant Fagan. We are very happy together.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“I am no longer lonely in the house I bought.”
Brendan gave Terry a sharp look. He’d never considered the notion of an automaton feeling lonely. He supposed he should be ashamed of that oversight.
“That’s good.”
“We are thinking of adopting a child.”
Brendan’s step faltered. “What?”
“We have learned there are many children in the city who are institutionalized for lack of willing adopters. Chastity’s good friend Lily and her husband, Reynold Michaels, are looking into the adoption procedure. We thought we might follow.”
“I see. Most admirable, Terry. But would—ah—such an adoption be permitted?”
“We are investigating that also. The situation for Reynold and Lily is a bit different, given that Reynold is human. But Chastity has discovered the plight of Negro orphans is particularly bad. We are hoping the authorities see fit to place one of them with us.”
Hope. Just months ago most folk would have declared automatons incapable of it. “Well, I wish you luck.”
“Thank you.”
“Your wife is a right clever lady. I’m sure she’ll come up with a way of achieving this.”
“She is, Brendan. I believe her capable of most anything.”
Like beating her creator, Candace Landry, to death. Chastity had been among the automatons who’d done just that. Would the authorities really hand an innocent child over to her?
And what would the child in question think? Of course, Brendan had seen the inside of those orphanages a time or two. He wouldn’t leave a cat there if he could help it.
But cats were cats, and it didn’t answer the question of what folk in this city would say if human children got adopted out to automaton parents. The good citizens might not want those wains, but all such considerations would go out the window in the face of ill feeling.
He changed the subject. “What do you know about Deke Cooper?”
“Only what I have been told. The last time James Kilter and some of our officers shut him down, he swore he’d get round the law. The next we heard, he was pitting automatons against one another.”
“Let me ask you a question: What do you think of that?”
“Well, Brendan, it might be argued by those who are not automatons it is better than abusing living, feeling creatures.” Terry looked at Brendan. “Only, being an automaton, I know we are living, feeling beings. It is remarkably like the situation with Chastity and the other Ladies. It was considered better to have them serve life sentences as prostitutes than to expose human women to that life.”
And see how that ended up, Brendan thought. He wondered what Virginia Landry thought about her mother having been beaten to death by her own machines. Yet she kept a few of the things around her.
He should have warned her. He didn’t want to answer one of these calls only to find her lying dead.
“What’s going on in this city, Terry, eh?” he mused.
“Change, Brendan. Great and important change.”
****
The scene at Deke Cooper’s establishment proved ugly in the extreme. Little more than a large shanty ringed by smaller outbuildings, the place consisted of the pit surrounded by benches, a poor excuse for an office, and a tiny area fitted with a cot. It appeared, from the extensive amount of blood trail, Cooper had been pulled from that place into the pit itself, where he had died.
Disturbingly, a number of steamies in various conditions remained on the premises. That was the problem with these crimes—steam units couldn’t be arrested, and no one seemed sure what else to do with them.
Could they be put on trial for murder? If found guilty, should they be decommissioned?
These units appeared battered, oft repaired, and scabbed together. All made from molded silver, none hybrid, many bore splashes of what could only be Cooper’s blood.
“You interview half of them,” Brendan told Terry, “and I’ll take the other half.”
The first unit Brendan interviewed had damage to its voice box and could barely speak. It denied all knowledge of Cooper’s murder, even though its shins were splashed with blood.
The second, which looked like it had been put together from two separate units, admitted it had heard nothing because it and the other units had been on standby.
“We found Master Cooper in the pit when we came in to clean for tonight’s session. We tried to move him, and there was a lot of blood.”
“I see. Why would you need to clean?”
“We are ordered to do so.”
“What’s in the pit that needs cleaning?”
“Nuts. Bolts. Metal fragments. Spilled coal.”
“He’s been pitting you against each other, then?”
“Yes, Officer.”
“Against your will?”
For the first time the unit failed to answer readily.
“Why do you—did you—fight for him if you don’t want to?”
“We follow orders, Officer. We were created to follow orders.”
Not until all the interviews had been conducted and Brendan rejoined Greely did they compare notes.
Terry reported, “None of them admitted to killing Master Cooper—even though all of them described him as cruel.”
“That’s the result I got, too, Terry.”
“They say they discovered and attempted to revive him, thus acquiring the blood they show.”
“And who’s to say differently, eh?”
“Cooper had collected a stable of units for fighting. The others have absconded.” Terry’s eyes met Brendan’s. “One unit also told me there are dogs in a kennel out back.”
“Oh, hell. I suppose we’d better take a look.”
They heard the
dogs before they saw them—not barking but whimpering. The conditions inside proved so appalling Brendan took one look and decided Cooper had got precisely what he deserved—not that he could take that line, officially.
“We’ll call in Jamie Kilter,” he told Terry. “By God, some of these poor creatures are in dire shape.”
Terry lowered his voice. “Brendan, one of the units confided to me that Cooper had been pitting some of the dogs against steamies. He did not like to say it, but confessed Cooper had been charging extra for those matches.”
Brendan didn’t know which was worse—Cooper or the patrons who came to watch. “Bloodthirsty bastards.”
“Aye.”
“Sometimes, Terry, I hate this job. But why did the unit want to keep it a secret?”
“I believe he was ashamed of following orders when it meant injuring a dog.”
Well, Brendan thought, and they say steamies have no conscience.
Chapter Ten
“Miss Landry, I think I may have a buyer interested in one of your mother’s investments.”
Ballister had showed up at Ginny’s door right after dinner, apologizing for arriving so late, but he explained it by saying time was of the essence.
“It’s the charity hospital on Ellicott Street.”
Ginny’s nose wrinkled involuntarily. Ballister had taken her round to see that place, which she’d found to be bleak and, frankly, appalling.
“Unfortunately, the offer’s on the table, and I need an answer right away.”
“Why don’t we discuss it in the parlor? Millie”—Ginny turned to the steamie—“will you please bring some tea?”
“Yes, miss.”
Ginny led the way to the comfortable room. Outside the windows, the day had just begun to fade. She found herself looking for the wink of steamies pacing the sidewalk.
Ballister seated himself on the settee and spread a sheaf of papers on the low table that stood in front of it. “You did say to liquidate your mother’s holdings as quickly as possible.”
So she could get out of this city. “Yes. Who’s the buyer?”
“Well, that’s the thing.” Ballister spread his fingers across the papers. “It’s what we need to discuss.”
Ginny raised her eyebrows. “I can’t imagine who’d want to assume my mother’s interest in that place—don’t know why she even held an interest.”
“That’s easily explained. Your mother was a doctor.”
“So she housed patients there?”
“No. But that has always been one of the few hospitals that treat Buffalo’s fallen women. Your mother volunteered her services there. We think it’s where she first encountered the plight of the streetwalkers in the city. There’s no proof, but it’s also believed that’s where she obtained the materials to build the batches of her Ladies.”
“Materials?”
Ballister cleared his throat. “The cadavers.”
Ginny’s stomach dropped. “You mean to tell me she built them from actual women? Former streetwalkers?”
“Let’s face it—she needed to obtain the skin, eyes, hair, and—er—other fittings somewhere. Obviously she chose only the most beautiful and then improved upon them, fixing teeth, scars, and so forth.”
Now Ginny’s stomach did a slow roll.
Ballister eyed her. “I see this has come as a shock. Have you ever met any of your mother’s creations?”
“Met? No.” Just Patrick Kelly. Had he, too, been built from a cadaver?
“I will have to see if I can arrange it. The effect must be experienced to be appreciated. I have to say, Dr. Landry was a genius.”
“I did meet a member of the Irish Squad today. If they’re like that…”
“They are, but still more advanced. Impressive, are they not?”
Ginny clenched her fingers together and nodded.
“Miss Landry, I understand how difficult this is for you.”
“Difficult, disturbing, upsetting…you name it, Mr. Ballister. I say go ahead and sell my interest in that awful place.”
He shuffled his papers and stared at them. “The buyer—or I should say buyers, for it’s a consortium—is the Automaton Liberation League.”
“What?”
His eyes, pale and very serious, lifted to meet hers.
At that moment, Millie rolled in with the tea tray. Not until she went out again did Ginny get to her feet and say, “I need something stronger than tea after all. Mr. Ballister, would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you, Miss Landry.”
She stumbled to the side table and poured herself a tot of whiskey, which she tossed back like a lumberjack. She turned to face the lawyer. “Please explain.”
“Your mother’s death—her bludgeoning by her own hybrids—sparked a movement for automaton rights.”
“Yes, you mentioned that.”
“In the fire that took place at the Crystal Palace previous to your mother’s murder, several of her hybrid units were destroyed. Their remains were claimed by the surviving Ladies and members of the Irish Squad, most of which have now formed marriage unions. Word is they have studied your mother’s work and intend to begin building their own models.”
Ginny gasped. “Can they do that?”
“It’s not known for certain, but I would have to speculate they can. They are endowed with high levels of intelligence and are capable of both learning and adaptation.”
“But why? Why would they do such a thing? If they want to be independent, why create others who’d have to exist in the same situation?”
“I think they consider doing so a mark of independence. They do not want anyone else—anyone human—resuming the process. Besides, they cannot have children.”
“Oh, I see.” At least Ginny thought she did. If these units couldn’t bear children, building others would be their only chance to produce progeny. And doing so would feel far different from having done to them.
She recalled the look in Patrick Kelly’s green eyes—bright, aware. Intelligent. A spasm wracked her body.
She poured a second drink.
“How many would they build? I mean, this gives them scope to increase their numbers many times.”
“Not really. They are limited by time, expense, and opportunity. The main difficulty in producing hybrids is, as your mother as well as Mason and Charles—the two geniuses who conceived of the units which ultimately became the Irish Squad—discovered, is there’s no easy access to large numbers of viable cadavers. Mason and Charles solved the problem by choosing their specimens and then having them killed to order. Your mother used the hospital and, being a doctor, may have had access to cadavers elsewhere. But only so many people die, and even fewer specimens, I imagine, are suitable to utilize.”
Ginny wished Ballister would stop referring to Candace Landry as her mother. She chugged the second drink. “But Landry’s Ladies and presumably the members of the Irish Squad were built to certain specifications. We don’t know if the Automaton Liberation League will do the same. They might use inferior corpses—any corpses.”
“That is true.” Ballister leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I have heard a rumor they have built a child.”
“What?”
“Children die in this city too, many of them orphans.”
“But…a child would always stay…”
“A child, yes. Some of the couples who were married in July have also applied to adopt human orphans. So far, permission has not been granted, but it is still under debate.”
“Would they, the powers that be, allow machines to adopt human children?”
Ballister shrugged uncomfortably. “Some of the children in question live in deplorable conditions. It might be argued they’d be better off in homes, even with automaton guardians. But as you may imagine, the idea isn’t a popular one with the human contingent. The climate here right now is…shall we say, sensitive? Selling your interest in the hospital to the League and, in essence, giving them legal access to r
aw materials will not meet with much approval.”
“And I’m already under scrutiny because of Candace Landry’s actions.” Ginny truly hated having to call the woman “mother.” Her father’s second wife held that title in her heart.
“Precisely.”
“What a conundrum.”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Ballister, I want shed of this city.” Away from the buildings, the people, and the tangle of problems. She wanted to return to the clean wind and the open spaces of the Dakota Territory. “But I’m not sure I want to contribute to the discord here.”
Ballister spread his hands. “That is why I sought to present the bid. They’ve offered a fair price—not a great one. These are not wealthy…er…people. But fair. And quite frankly I do not see anyone else taking it off your hands.”
“Is the interest I now hold a major one?”
“It is.”
“Would I be better off just sitting on it so no one else can gain access?”
“That is something only you can decide.”
“I need to think about it. Please stall them until I can give the matter and its ramifications full consideration.”
“I will. As for the Crystal Palace—or rather the site where it stood—we have had no offers yet. In spite of it being a prime piece of real estate, I’m very much afraid the fog cast over the site by your mother’s death is keeping buyers at bay.”
“Yes, well, Mr. Ballister, keep trying.” Ginny did want rid of that—unless the Automaton Liberation League stepped in there also.
Ballister gathered his papers together and rose. “I will be in touch soon.”
“Thank you.”
Floyd materialized and showed Ballister out. Ginny, left standing in the parlor, assembled the pieces of her situation.
A pariah—that was what Candace Landry had become, and Ginny too, by association. She could go home and let Ballister handle things here, but she had a vague sense that she should in some way make recompense for the woman’s sins.
A ridiculous premise. She’d never known Candace Landry and had no responsibility for her actions.
She wished she could speak with her father. Michael Landry never seemed to have difficulty with moral decisions. Though far from conventional—and Ginny had no doubt inherited his unconventional streak—he nevertheless invariably cut to the heart of what was right and wrong. He’d offered his professional services on the reservation free of charge because he felt it right and because he could. His unconventionality never seemed to interfere with his conscience.
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