“No. I slipped it back in my jacket after I slugged Hemley with it.” Acevedo reached into his inside coat pocket and showed her the container. “But they may have captured J-1 as he hunted for food.”
“And then they just leave us here to starve?” Niyati eyed the cigarette she had removed from the pack.
Acevedo frowned. “Worse.”
“Meaning?” She tucked it back into the carton and placed it in her pocket.
“Snipers. They may not want to drag us through court and take the chance of having to reveal your technology.”
Niyati stared at Acevedo. It was plain to see the guilt in her deep, brown eyes.
“None of this is your fault,” Acevedo said.
She lowered her face. “I wish that were true…”
He didn’t know why, but the quiet, stilted tone of her words was spoken as if they carried the weight of chains around her shoulders. Without thinking, he embraced her. Her eyes welled, and they kissed. Acevedo imagined Niyati’s hands caressing his bare shoulders while the rippling tide of Smathers Beach washed its crystal clean water over their naked bodies.
There was a rustling noise. Footsteps. Acevedo shoved Niyati to the ground, covered her with his body and placed a hand over her mouth. They waited. Silence. Acevedo looked up.
“Do you like BBQ chicken sandwiches, swamp cabbage, and soda in a can?” J-1 was standing next to them, soaking wet. He held out two large, tightly knotted plastic carry away bags.
“Shit,” Acevedo said. “You scared the crap out of me.” He rose and helped Niyati to a sitting position. Acevedo took the bags, opened them, and handed her a paper plate, plastic ware, a soda and an aluminum foil wrapped bundle. “How the hell did you get this?”
“I swam about a mile to shore and found a restaurant. I ordered five of everything. I concluded that would be more than sufficient.”
“Five?” Acevedo popped a soda open. “What did you pay with?”
“I gave him cash,” Niyati said as she removed the sandwich from the foil.
Acevedo smiled at her. Niyati smiled back, but her face was tinged with worry.
~~~
At the edge of the island, Niyati smoked a cigarette. J-1 stood to her right, watching the sun descend beneath the watery horizon. Acevedo was to Niyati’s left, shuffling his shoe in the mud.
Niyati looked at Acevedo. “Thank you, Miguel.”
Miguel cocked his head at her.
“For protecting me when you thought there was danger, and for…” Her cheeks warmed. Niyati turned away and took another pull on the cigarette. She glanced back. “Are you married?”
“Divorced. Twice. You?”
“Divorced.”
“Children?”
“Yes.” She glimpsed at J-1. “No. I had a son, but he died.”
Acevedo thought that her body shuddered a little. A thought hit him like the side of Hemley’s fist against his head. The rumors at work were true. J-1 is made in her son’s image. He clutched her shoulder. She looked at his hand and rubbed her cheek against it. Acevedo’s heart pounded.
“I hear something,” J-1 said.
God, Acevedo thought, he can even hear my internal bodily functions.
The idea vanished when a distant hum crescendoed until it became the deep roar of an airplane propeller skimming over the surface of the water. A flat-bottom airboat approached the shoreline, slowed its aircraft engine until it was a quiet rumble. The boat came to a semicircle stop about ten feet in front of Acevedo and the others.
Three tawny-skinned men with shoulder-length, ebony hair were inside the airboat. One was an ear-muffed driver. He was sitting on an elevated seat. The seat was positioned in front of the large single propeller located above the water at the tail end of the boat. A rifle rested on his lap. The other two men were sitting up front. One held a gun and a bullhorn. He wore a black cowboy hat and was dressed in an orange-and-black crisscross pattern shirt with a band collar and large puff sleeves. The other man wore a black tee and was pointing a high-powered rifle in the direction of Acevedo and the rest.
“J-1, get us out of here,” Acevedo whispered. The Huma-chine stepped forward. A rifle shot tore a hole in J-1’s shirt near his heart. He grimaced, as if stung by a bee and continued forward.
The bullhorn man in the colorful jacket said, “Another move and the female gets it.” He aimed his gun at Niyati. Her hand trembled. She dropped her cigarette.
“Freeze!” Acevedo shouted to J-1. He froze in mid-motion.
The airboat glided forward. The man kept his aim on Niyati.
“She had nothing to do with this,” Acevedo said to him. “I didn’t either. We were framed by Hemley.”
The bullhorn man shifted his gaze from Acevedo to Niyati to J-1. He lowered the bullhorn. “Who’s Hemley?”
“My partner at Ameri-Inc.”
“What the hell’s Ameri-Inc. got to do with this?” He motioned to the man holding the rifle. The man turned the rifle to Niyati. The bullhorn man laid the bullhorn on the seat and hopped out of the boat.
Acevedo saw the man’s gun was a Glock similar to his own. Pinned to his chest was a circular brass badge with a cutout of a star inside it. The badge read Sheriff. Sector Seminole R-4. “Y’all are trespassing on Seminole land,” the sheriff said. He patted J-1 down and said to him, “You’re under arrest for breaking and entering, and robbing Froggy’s BBQ Shack. This is Seminole territory, son, so don’t think like a white man. We don’t read rights or give a shit about lawyers.”
“I thought you gave him cash?” Acevedo said to Niyati.
“I did.”
The sheriff turned to Miguel and Niyati. “Quiet. The same goes for you two.” The sheriff slipped a pair of handcuffs from another pouch in his holster and brought them to J-1’s wrists. “If you behave and if I’m in a good mood, when we get back to the station, I might let you contact an attorney.” He tugged on J-1’s forearm. It remained as stiff as a statue. “What the dice?” He tugged again. Nothing. “I don’t know who you think you’re fucking with, young man, but you’ve got two seconds to get your wrist in my clamps or my deputies are taking all of you down.”
Both of the sheriff’s men were now holding rifles. They stiffened their aim.
Niyati looked at Acevedo and nibbled her lower lip.
“J-1, do as the man says,” Acevedo said.
J-1 allowed himself to be handcuffed.
The sheriff felt inside the bullet hole of J-1’s shirt, rubbed his fingers along the skin and studied his fingers. No blood. He turned to Acevedo. “You want to tell me what’s goin’ on?”
Chapter Fifteen
Date: 2250
Planet Truatta
Forest
The dirt road Coco had carried J-I down had thinned into brush. The plum sky had darkened to indigo. J-1 could barely make out Coco, who rested a few feet from him where he sat propped against a tree bough. The night air was thick and smelled like smoke. The tree bark had the stench of dry rot rubber. Something snapped nearby. He heard a rustling. A branch?
A foreboding sensation that he had never experienced before crept over him. His good foot tapped nervously. He looked around the inky night with precaution. No, he thought, not with precaution—with fear! That he could feel fear flummoxed him and added to his fright. His thoughts spun. This isn’t supposed to be. I analyze and deduce. I don’t emote!
He searched his processors on how to block the anxiety and return to his unemotional, analytical state. The harder he dug the more confused and frightened he became. The pinpricks, like mosquito bites, returned. Scarlet darts crisscrossed in front of his eyes. No, behind my eyes. I’m shutting down…
A set of heavy footsteps crunched toward him. No-no-no-no, I can’t shut down now. I have to get up and run. He forced himself back from the brink and tried to stand, but something clutched his neck and lifted him high above the ground. He tried to scream, but whatever it was placed a cowl over his head and muffled his senses. His fear became pul
se-pounding panic. I can’t shut down, now. I have to run. I can’t allow myself to shutdow…
~~~
J-1 awoke. The cowl had been removed. He was lying on the stone floor of a wide, two-room cabin with an enormous ceiling. The walls were constructed of caked soil and twisted tree limbs. The only pieces of furniture were two colossal metal chairs tucked into an equally large metal table. An oversized plate and fork, and a huge toolkit were on the table. There was an industrial-size fireplace.
Footsteps, heavy footsteps.
A gangly, eighteen-foot tall man appeared from the second room. He had the same blue pupils and purple sclera as the woman, Norma, and her followers. The giant wore greasy, bib overalls over a soiled yellow shirt. He threw a gnarled root into a boiling pot stationed over the fireplace.
“Where am I?” J-1 asked in the language of Planet Ford’s Apple.
The man had long, ruffled graying chestnut hair, heavy brows, and a heavier beard more gray than chestnut. His skin was thick, weathered. He lowered his gaze at J-1. “How about that? The robot’s booted up. I thought it was permanently out of juice,” he said to himself in the same guttural Truattan that Norma had spoken. His voice was deep. Smooth.
J-1 glanced around. The place was littered with wire and metal parts of all shapes. The cabin had an odd smell of grease, rust, and the dry rubber forest odor. Bright light beamed inside from a high, open window. Through the pane J-1 could make out the tops of the leafless trees and in the distance behind them the cloud-ringed, upper portion of the mountain he had seen earlier. “How far is Apple Metropolis?” J-1 asked, this time in Truattan.
The giant grunted and turned back to the fireplace. He grabbed a ladle hanging from a wall nail and stirred the pot. The man brought the ladle to his lips and tasted the watery substance. He crinkled his nose.
J-1 sat up. “I’m asking are we far from Apple Metropolis or Lake Freeto-Lay because I need help. My owners have people there.”
“Your insides are jumbled, mechi. There is no lake or metropolis.” The giant grabbed a spice shaker from a nearby shelf and sprinkled bluish-purple powder into the pot. He continued to stir.
“That’s not true. Lake Freeto-Lay has a surface area of 11,132 square miles and an average depth of thirty feet. Apple Metropolis is a resort paradise just beyond the lake. Thousands of people visit there daily. You’ve had to have seen it.”
“Look, little man.” The giant’s voice was hard, booming. “All that’s here is this mother-Earthin’ forest and—” he motioned toward the direction of the mountain “—ol’ Kwieetus. As for your owners, if you’re referring to Ameri-Inc., you can thank them for this piece of tradshit we live on.”
Anxiety and confusion washed over J-1. Here it comes again, he thought. Fear. He couldn’t prevent the emotion, but he could accept it without questioning why he was able to feel it, at least until he had the time to figure it out. That reduced some of the uncertainty and allowed him to get a grip on himself. Enough, he hoped, to keep him from spinning out of control again and shutting down.
The giant hung the ladle up. He grabbed a loupe from the toolkit lying on the table. He kneeled in front of J-1 and peered through the loupe into J-1’s ear. He felt around J-1’s dented torso with the tip of his index finger. The large man lowered the magnifier. “From what I can tell the impact to your chest caused a misalignment to your inner-relays. That could explain why you’re sprouting half-baked nonsense.”
No, J-1 thought, I’m not disoriented. I knew about Freeto-Lay and Apple back in the warehouse, long before I was injured. Fear rose higher in him. He took a deep breath and fought it back. “Can you repair me?”
The giant smiled. “Mechi, I can repair damn near anything.”
The man was an engineer. Another sensation he hadn’t felt before swept through him. One he liked better than fear. Relief.
“If I had the proper equipment, that is,” the giant added, “for something as delicate as you. But since I don’t, you’re more valuable to me as parts.”
J-1 looked closer at the iron and steel pieces lying about. They were gutted robot parts. His relief was replaced with a heavier, darker emotion—dread. He didn’t want to hear the answer, but he asked the question anyway, “Do you run a…salvage operation?
The towering man rose. “Cleveland Stringer, of Stringer’s Scrap Metal. At your service.” He again grabbed the ladle, scooped up a bit of his meal from the pot, tasted it and nodded to himself.
~~~
After dinner Stringer went in the back room and washed up. J-1 figured this would be a good time to sneak out. He raised himself on his good foot.
“Wouldn’t do that, little mechi,” Stringer yelled from the other room. “You’ll force me to disassemble you immediately.”
J-1 sat down.
Stringer emerged, wiping his hands on a rag. He tossed the cloth on the table, dragged a chair in front of J-1 and sat. “Now then, you and the mangled lifter came from that cursed monstrosity, correct?”
J-1 had to look nearly straight up to see Stringer’s face. “If you’re referring to the warehouse, yes.”
“What happened?”
“There was an explosion.”
Stringer stroked his beard in contemplation. “From the inside, or outside?”
“From the outside. Carbo-storm lightning, I think.”
“More like Norma’s doing,” Stringer said. “I only regret that I wasn’t there to help her take down the building.”
“Without the warehouse there would be no jobs for Apple and the surrounding areas.”
“Why the landerbyss do you keep prattling about this Apple? There is no Apple.”
“Yes, there is. It’s a city. Freeto-Lay is a lake. People catch Dizney trout in it. They prefer it grilled and seasoned with Tecsaco flakes.” He stood on his good foot. “I think you’d be a little more grateful. Without the warehouse there would be no business. Without business there would be no money for others to buy your scrap metal!” J-1’s voice was tinged with a mental heat he’d never experienced. Defiance.
Stringer grabbed J-1 as if he were a rag doll and lifted him to his face. “I don’t know who the Earth you think you are, you piece of junk—” the giant’s breath bellowed against J-1’s head and upper torso “—but you just forfeited the right to your mechanical existence.” He tossed J-1 on the tabletop and pinned him against it with one hand. With his other, he plucked opened the toolbox and removed a pliers-like device. Stringer clamped the prongs around J-1’s torso and squeezed. The prongs produced sparks and a high-pitched “whit-wa-wheet.” J-1 screamed. He felt as if he were imploding.
Chapter Sixteen
Date: 2030
Everglades, Florida
Old Town, Seminole Sector Roulette Four
The sheriff exhaled deeply. He leaned back in his swivel chair, lifted his legs and flopped his python-skin boots on the desk. He said to Niyati, who shared one of two holding cells with Acevedo, “Let me get this straight, this so-called Humachine—” he nodded to J-1, who was sitting on a cot in the other cell, “—had cash, but it slipped from his pocket when he swam a mile to shore in gator-infested waters.”
“That’s my analysis,” J-1 said. “When I reached land the bills were no longer in my possession.”
“And that’s why you robbed Froggy’s.”
“I robbed it because I was sent to get food.”
The sheriff turned to Niyati. “And you’re the brains behind this…this creation?”
“It was a collaborative effort,” Niyati said. “I was part of a team of resear—”
“Don’t be modest,” Acevedo said. “This was your vision, you—”
“Excuse me!” the sheriff said. “If I wanted dissertations I’d ask for them.” He addressed the rifleman who had been on the front of the airboat with him, “What do you think, Bobby?”
Bobby was a young man with a sparse beard. He was leaning against the wall across from the holding cells. “They’re loony tunes, Sher
iff Chili.”
Sheriff Chili turned to the driver who had also been on the airboat. “Are they who they say they are?”
The other man was two decades older than Bobby. He had salt-and-pepper hair and a hawk nose. He was seated at a desk tucked against a wall of the large, bare room. He was scrolling down a computer screen. “Yes, sir.”
“What about priors, Mitchell?”
Mitchell rechecked his computer screen. “Negative.”
“Anything about a ruckus at Ameri-Inc. Research & Develop-ment?”
Mitchell scanned various websites. “Not a peep.”
“Check the hospitals and psych wards for escaped patients.”
Mitchell nodded. He started scanning again.
“We’re not crazy,” Acevedo said. “You had to have heard all the copters last night.”
“So what,” Sheriff Chili said. “Tamiami Airport’s not too far east. I hear copters all the time. Particularly now, during dry season. They’re constantly scouting for brush fires.”
“I can prove J-1 is what I say he is,” Niyati said.
“Be my guest,” Sheriff Chili replied.
“You saw he barely had a scratch from the gunshot,” Acevedo added.
“I have to admit that was strange, but I was thinking maybe he had a crucifix or something, like the locket the doctor’s wearing. It could have deflected the bullet.”
“Then where is it?” Acevedo asked.
“The impact tore it off.”
“Oh, come on!” Acevedo inhaled deeply and plopped on the cot.
“Sheriff,” Niyati said. “What would it take to convince you?”
Chili thought for a moment. “I guess if you let me see his innards.”
“He doesn’t work like that. There’s no panel that swings open like on the back of a pocket watch. He’s hermetically sealed to keep out impurities to his processors. They’re extremely delicate.”
“That’s convenient,” Chili said.
“You want proof?” Acevedo stood up again. “How about if he bends the bars open.”
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