Acevedo had studied the surroundings carefully. Though the helicopters—or drones for that matter—could no longer be heard, he wasn’t taking any chances. The pub was dark and cool. It was furnished with long, wood plank tables and benches. The walls were covered in old-fashioned plasterboard, decorated with neon beer signs. There was a side window with closed plantation blinds. The ceiling had large oak beams running along it. A swinging door to the side of the small bar where the old man was seated led to the kitchen. A sound like someone chopping something on a woodblock, probably ribs, came from behind the door.
Acevedo watched Niyati as she sipped coffee and nibbled on a chicken breast sandwich. Her eyes were sunken with worry. He noticed a smudge of soil on her left wrist. He didn’t know why, but it caused his heart to ache for her. She looked at him. He smiled and snagged a steak fry from her plate.
“You sure you’re not hungry, son?” Chili said to J-1, in between bites of his pulled pork platter.
J-1 was seated next to Chili and across from Acevedo. He was doing the same thing Acevedo had done—looking the place over.
“He doesn’t eat or drink,” Niyati said.
The sheriff nodded. “If you don’t mind me asking, Doctor, what’s your next move?”
Niyati raised her brows at Acevedo. He shrugged and said to Chili, “Any suggestions?”
“I guess turn yourselves in to the authorities and give them your side of the story. On the other hand, you could try your luck with CNN or FOX, or one of the webpapers.”
“I thought about that,” Acevedo replied. “The evidence isn’t stacked in our favor as it is, and Ameri-Inc. is a corporate sponsor to every major media outlet in the US. That frightens me.”
“White man’s law. I wouldn’t trade a plate of this—” The sheriff nodded to his platter. “—for it.”
“Could we purchase an inexpensive boat from someone?” Niyati asked. “Then, who knows, the three of us could head into the Caribbean somewhere?”
A vision of the two of them flashed behind Acevedo’s eyes: They were nestled on a beach towel facing a salt-scented, velvety ocean, sipping rumrunners. Her head rested on his shoulder. Acevedo smiled sadly. “The odds are one in a thousand, at best, that we’d make it.”
“True,” Chili added. “But with the robot to help you, who knows.”
“Humachine,” Niyati said. “Not robot.”
Chili nodded.
A heavyset woman rubbing the fingers of her right hand, approached. “How we doin’ here?”
Chili strawed the last of his iced tea. “I could use a refill, Connie.” He looked at Niyati and Acevedo.
Niyati held up her coffee cup. “Please.”
“Might as well,” Acevedo said. “It’ll probably be my last brew for a while.”
“You got ’em.” Connie headed to the kitchen.
“I probably shouldn’t be saying this, but I can come up with a small reliable craft for you—if that’s the route you want to take,” Chili said.
“You’d do that for us, Sheriff?” Niyati asked. “Why?”
Acevedo slugged down the last of his beer. He didn’t know all the reasons, but he knew part of it was the gleam in Chili’s eyes when he looked at Niyati. Acevedo despised and admired him at the same time.
Before Chili could answer, the clack of silverware hitting the floor echoed from the kitchen. Chili shook his head. “Poor Connie, always dropping things—arthritis.” He cleared his throat. “So you want the boat or not?”
Niyati looked at Acevedo. His mind reeled. As much as he longed to sail into the sunset with her he knew the likelihood that they’d make it was near impossible. He turned to J-1. “What do you think we should do?” Acevedo felt the surprise on both Chili and Niyati’s face.
J-1 stared blankly at Acevedo for a moment. Acevedo surmised the Humachine was scanning his processors. J-1 blinked and said, “Taking into account all factors, I would immediately exit through the side window.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Chili asked.
The kitchen door flew open and banged against the wall. Five armored commandos rushed in with automatic rifles locked on them.
Niyati screamed.
Chili reached for his Glock. A commando fired a short burst. Chili fell to the floor. Blood widened from around his chest and soaked his patchwork jacket cherry red. The old man at the bar stood and tossed his whiskey glass at the man who fired. Another commando whipped his weapon around and shot a single bullet between the man’s eyes. He collapsed backward across the bar.
Acevedo shoved Niyati to the floor and flipped the table on its side in front of them. He reached for Chili’s gun. It was a few feet away, next to the sheriff’s bloody torso. A rupture of bullets rang out. He whipped his hand back. Niyati leaned into him, trembling. Acevedo looked up. J-1 was still seated, watching what was going on. “J-1 go after—”
Another round of bullets rang out, drowning him out.
“Don’t say another word,” a voice called out. “If you tell the Humachine to so much as wiggle his nose, you two will be the first to die.”
From the glimpse Acevedo got of the commandos he knew they were part of Ameri-Inc.’s private forces. They answered to no one but the corporation, which meant Niyati and he were screwed. Acevedo grabbed a white paper napkin lying near him. He waved it above the table.
Silence.
Though it was faint, Acevedo heard helicopters approaching. He heard one of the soldiers in the room reach into his belt pack, pull out a handheld, and say, “This is Soldier Repossession Squad Five. Targets have been located and are secure. QSL?”
“QSL,” a tinny radio voice answered.
“Secondary wants to surrender,” the soldier said.
Niyati gripped Acevedo’s hand.
“Status of Primaries?” the radio voice asked.
“Prime One appears fully operational,” the soldier said. “Prime Two appears uninjured.”
“QSL,” the radio voice answered. “Proceed as outlined.”
Acevedo heard the man tuck his radio back in his belt pack.
The soldier shouted to Acevedo, “Shut the robot down immediately!”
Acevedo’s mind swaggered. He looked at Chili’s corpse and his shattered plate of pulled pork. Shit! They had no choice but to take a chance on the white man’s law. Acevedo retrieved the data drive container from his coat pocket, covered it with the napkin he had used as a white flag and laid them on the floor. It was a slim chance, but maybe if the soldiers didn’t know where the drive was, he and Niyati would have a little bargaining power. His eyes went to her. She was pale with fright. Even with that, the beauty in her coffee-colored eyes was beyond anything he’d ever seen. Acevedo brushed her lips with his fingertips, and said, “Shut down, J-1.”
J-1’s eyes closed. He slumped in his chair.
Acevedo heard a pair of soldiers slowly approach them. Though they stopped a foot or two away from the other side of the fallen table that he and Niyati were shielded behind, Acevedo could see their upper torsos above it. One of the commandos pointed the tip of his rifle at them. His partner, a woman, poked J-1 with her rifle butt. Nothing. Connie Swamp’s entrance door swung open. The male commando said, “Both of you get up slowly and raise your hands high.” While Acevedo and Niyati stood, five more soldiers entered through the front, each of their weapons aimed at them.
The female soldier patted Acevedo and Niyati down and said to her partner, “They haven’t got shit, Lieutenant.”
“Where’s the data?” the lieutenant asked Niyati.
“It’s hidden in a safe spot,” Acevedo answered. “We have the right to a lawyer. His number’s—”
“Quiet.” The lieutenant walked over to Acevedo. “The only right you have is to hand over the data before either of you gets hurt. Where is it?”
“After we speak to our lawyer.”
The lieutenant said to the soldiers, “Everybody outside except Speckmaier.”
Everyone except
the female guarding Niyati departed. When the room had cleared the lieutenant rammed his rifle butt into Acevedo’s belly. Acevedo collapsed on the floor. Niyati gasped and rushed toward him. Speckmaier shoved the barrel of her rifle into Niyati’s chest. Niyati froze.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me,” the lieutenant said to Acevedo. “I asked where the data drives are.”
With the wind knocked out of him, Acevedo could only wheeze.
The lieutenant pressed the tip of his rifle in Acevedo’s forehead. He said to Niyati, “I don’t want to do this, Doc, but my orders are to get the corporation’s property back. If you don’t tell me where it’s at, I’m gonna shoot him.”
“It’s—”
“She doesn’t know,” Acevedo managed. “Only me.”
“I see.” The lieutenant lowered his rifle and fired a bullet into Acevedo’s kneecap. He balled up and howled.
Crying, Niyati pushed Speckmaier’s rifle aside, fell to her knees beside him and cradled his head in her arms. Stone-faced, Speckmaier pulled Niyati up again, forced her wrists behind her back, bound them in plastic handcuffs and held her.
“You’ve got five seconds to tell me where it is,” the lieutenant said to Acevedo, “before the next kneecap goes.”
“I want a guarantee,” Acevedo said through his pain. “No harm to her.”
“You got my word,” the lieutenant said. “No harm.”
“I want proof.”
The lieutenant stared at him lying on his back with a shattered knee. “You’re in no position to negotiate, but…” He shrugged and spoke into his radio. “This is SRS 5. Primaries are safe and secure. As a precaution, keep medical team standing by. Doctor Bopari’s shaken up, but otherwise tell corporate she should be as good as new.”
“QSL, good to hear Lieutenant.”
The lieutenant turned to Acevedo. “Okay, your turn. Where is it?”
“I didn’t steal it,” Acevedo said. “It was Hemley.”
“You’ll have a chance to explain. Right now, my concern is getting back the company’s property.”
“Don’t do it, Miguel,” Niyati said. “He’ll kill you.” Speckmaier pulled on Niyati’s arm until she groaned.
The lieutenant motioned for her to stop. “All we want is the merchandise, Acevedo.”
Acevedo pictured himself seated at the bar of the Green Parrot in Key West. He was sucking on a cold one, looking out the glassless window at the sunlit street. A young couple on a Vespa zipped toward the place. He felt Niyati’s slender, brown fingers grip his thigh. He smiled at her. She leaned into him. Her peach-scented ebony hair brushed the tip of his nose. The sweet taste of her lips pressed against his—and then it all vanished as quickly as the passing Vespa. “This is what you’re looking for.” He reached below the napkin and handed the case to him.
The lieutenant stared at it for a moment. He laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Acevedo said.
“All this trouble for a carbon fiber rectangle of information. Three people dead. Doesn’t that strike anyone as amusing?”
“Not me,” Niyati said.
“Speckmaier, escort the doctor to evac.” The lieutenant nodded to Acevedo. “I’ll have the paramedics attend to your knee.”
As Speckmaier walked Niyati out, it hit Acevedo. “What happened to Connie?”
“Who?” the lieutenant asked.
“The owner. She was working in the kitchen when you came in.”
“Right,” he said. “The owner. Tasered. Went down like a curtain. Nothing fatal.”
Niyati stopped. She stared at Acevedo.
Acevedo studied Niyati’s eyes. She knew, too. “You said three people dead, Lieutenant, but if Connie’s okay that leaves only two. The sheriff and the old man.”
“Did I say three?” The lieutenant smiled. “I meant two.” He motioned Speckmaier to get Niyati outside. Speckmaier shoved Niyati forward. She staggered, but held her ground. Speckmaier raised her rifle butt. The lieutenant frowned at Speckmaier. “Negative. No injuries to the doctor.”
Of course, Acevedo thought. How dumb am I? Niyati is the brainchild behind J-1. They need her alive, but not me. Even through his pain he smiled at the irony. All of his negotiations to save her were for something they planned to do all along. Acevedo stretched his hand out along the floor and snagged Chili’s revolver. The movement caused the lieutenant to flip his attention back from Speckmaier. Acevedo fired. The bullet penetrated the lieutenant’s bicep. The other commandos stormed through the front and back doors, rifles blazing. A bullet penetrated Acevedo’s stomach. Speckmaier shoved Niyati to the floor. Acevedo shouted, “I want to make a difference, Mom.”
J-1 popped opened his eyes and sprung to his feet.
The lieutenant fired a round at Acevedo. He rolled and fired back. A shot tore through the side of the lieutenant’s neck, spraying blood like a thumbed nozzle. The lieutenant practically fell on top of Acevedo. The other commandos fired at Acevedo. Bullets ripped into his torso and sides. He started to fade. He grabbed a cylinder from the now-dead lieutenant’s belt pack. Tear gas, he thought. Gathering his last trickle of strength, he pulled the plug on the canister and heaved it toward the rackety whirr of rifle fire. “Protect Niyati from this, J-1,” Acevedo said in a hoarse whisper. He took a deep breath and waited for the pepper spray to disperse. The Humachine leaped. Acevedo felt a flash of blinding heat. He barely had enough time to think, not tear gas, hand grenade, before he and the building erupted into shreds.
Chapter Twenty
Date: 2250
Downtown Miami/Ameri-Inc. Headquarters
Penthouse: 383rd Floor
Rebeka studied her teeth and face in the wall mirror. Her teeth had a yellow tint. Her copper hair had dry ends. She reached inside the mirror and spread her reflection’s scalp. Gray sprouted from the roots. She brought her hand out of the mirror, turned her head slightly to the right and studied creases spreading from the outside corner of her left eye. She reached into the glass again and felt the skin. It was wrinkled.
Rebeka removed her hand from the mirror, reached into the pocket of her poodle skirt and slipped out her private stock: a pressure vial of G-89. The vial contained eighty-nine-proof GTS liquid gas instead of gel. She lowered the collar of her turtleneck cardigan and placed the vial to her carotid artery. Rebeka pressed a button on the other end with her thumb.
A faint ziiit buzzed in her ears.
The smell she had grown to love—a scent somewhere between lilacs and cabbage—wafted into her nose. The cold-hot feeling scampered along her neck. It tickled her spine, her nipples, her fingertips, between her legs, and continued to the ends of her toes. She shivered in delight. Her skin glowed a milky bluish-purple, and then assumed a creamy, peach color. She looked in the mirror again—hair silky, skin as smooth as a toddler’s. Rebeka spread her lips and clenched her teeth—white as bleached bone. As always, the hit left her feeling feral and positively powerful.
She replaced the vial in her skirt pocket and straightened her turtleneck. Rebeka stepped into her private televator, and said, “Boardroom. Two hundred and fifty-sixth floor.”
~~~
Rebeka entered. The small talk ended. She took her place at the head of the long brass table and glared at her board officers—three on each side and Jocsun, as always, at the opposite end. Rebeka nodded to Kirby to speak. He was head of Data Processing. Kirby was seated two seats down to her left.
“It’s good news,” Kirby said. He pressed his left thumb. The cyclorama screen rose from the middle of the table. “As you can see this is Ameri-Inc.’s mainframe.”
“If you’re going to tell me that the Humachine is still up and running because the mainframe is receiving signals from it, that’s old news. I’d have to be an idiot not to have checked that first thing. Wouldn’t you say?”
Kirby frowned and pressed his thumb. The image disappeared. “The mainframe can receive the Humachine’s signal, but his communication system doesn’t respond back.”
<
br /> “In other words we can’t track the robot’s whereabouts,” Rebeka said. “Does the mainframe indicate the lack of contact is by the Humachine’s choice or due to a mechanical malfunction?”
“Mechanical malfunction, of course. Robots can’t make independent choices.” Kirby smiled at the others, thinking Rebeka was making a joke. They smiled, too.
Rebeka flashed her tiger-fierce look. Their faces sobered. She asked Kirby, “Anything else?”
Kirby shook his head.
“Does anyone have any real news?”
Penator, COO of Interplanetary Militia Operations, spoke up. She was seated in the first seat to Rebeka’s right. “Madam, as you know, I’ve ordered my team to re-assign not only WarBots, but all available mechi-devices on Truatta to recover the Humachine. Operations have begun and I expect them to be completed soon.”
“How soon is soon?”
“3c Squad is working with our Truattan informant as we speak. They expect to reach the robot within a day.”
“I want to know the moment it’s back in our hands.”
“Of course, Madam.”
“Warehouse construction update?” Rebeka directed this question to Azuma, her Chief Information Security Officer. He was the third man to her right.
“Construction bots are being flown in,” Azuma said, “and will arrive on Truatta in a month. In the meantime, I suggest we redirect the security mechis, those not assigned to Truattan labor enforcement, to begin preliminary groundwork on the ware-house.”
Rebeka glanced at Penator.
“It can be arranged,” Penator said.
Rebeka stood. “It sounds as if we should be up and running well before our two year surplus of GTS has dried up. Good work, everyone.” She started to leave.
Someone cleared their throat. “Madam, there is one problem.” It was Waqanitoga, head of Distribution. He sat between Penator and Azuma.
Rebeka stopped. “What is it?”
Waqanitoga took a deep breath. “When the warehouse blew up, so did everything in it, including the Teleporthaton.” He waited.
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