The Defiant

by C. Gockel

  It was a wonder and hard for her not to gape like the Luddeccean hick she was. Her hand tightened on the portfolio case. It was for places like this that they had made their dangerous trip to the World Sphere.

  Shaking herself, she brought herself back to the present. They’d walked from the port to Volka’s client’s neighborhood. The distances between the buildings were wide enough to accommodate Sundancer, but Sundancer wasn’t allowed to leave port…something about the ship being a deadly weapon, not so much because she had weapons, but because she couldn’t be harmed by any human weapons, and was therefore “dangerous.” Also, her propulsion method wasn’t known, so she couldn’t be verified as legal within the city limits. Ditto for her fuel; it was generally thought to be heat and light, but testing that would involve starving a sentient being, one whose consent could not be verified and who might not cooperate in the first place. Which brought up another issue: who controlled Sundancer? Was she technically her own pilot? The Port Authority had strict regulations about only licensed pilots flying in New Grande.

  There were more rules, too. When Sixty had data-dumped the bits of the pertinent legal code, complete with alphanumeric identifiers, Volka’s eyes had crossed and Carl had fallen asleep. In short, there were no fewer than twelve rules ranging from misdemeanors to felonies that kept Sundancer away from the city. So, Sundancer was parked in the port.

  Sundancer didn’t seem to mind. Maybe because Sundancer was such a strong telepath she didn’t need to be here to experience New Grande? Still, Volka consciously focused on the exotic scene around her of glass and gardens and tried to send it to the starship. She was rewarded by a burst of light in her mind, and happy pterys in her heart, a bubbly mix of happiness and curiosity, Volka thought.

  “Are you sure you can find your way?” Sixty asked, glancing side to side.

  Volka nodded up at him. He was rolling on his feet; a crease was between his brows. He still smelled like Celeste and Bart. She wondered if Dr. Walker would notice, or if it was too subtle for human noses. Maybe Dr. Walker wouldn’t care?

  Sixty continued, “If you get in trouble—”

  She lifted her wrist. “I’ll call you right away on Bracelet.” She tapped the strap of her backpack. “And Carl’s in there. He can help me if it is anything immediate.”

  Carl punctuated this with a snore.

  Sixty frowned.

  “I’m sure he’ll wake up if there is serious trouble,” Volka said. She took a deep breath. “Go see your friends.” She hoped she was not encouraging him to sin. Could androids sin? In many ways, he was purer than her—the purest person she knew. Sixty had never killed anyone and couldn’t hurt anyone…not on purpose, anyway.

  “All right, then,” Sixty said. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Right, then,” said Volka. Squaring her shoulders, she headed west, toward her client’s address. Sixty headed north.

  It was morning, the equivalent of 09:00 and a Wednesday. On Luddeccea, in New Prime, the streets would have been crowded with people late for work. New Grande’s whimsically cobblestoned streets were peaceful, uncrowded, and lined with trees that grew in ovoid patches of sunlight reflected from the mirrors above. Here and there she saw people or ‘bots walking dogs, and parents or ‘bots with small children, headed toward the Vertical Gardens. There weren’t even that many hovercraft about. Her sensitive nose picked up the smell of fresh water near the gardens, not eclipsed by the odor of fuel, and her ears heard the sound of water running over rocks. In New Prime, it would have been drowned out by grumbling engines.

  Volka stopped at a glass-clad skyscraper at the edge of the gardens, double-checked the number, and entered through an automatic door. The lobby was immense, with a chandelier that had lights that seemed suspended from nothing—holograms of some sort, maybe? There was a deep blue rug with thick shag over a marble floor without a single scuff. There were walls on either side that were carpeted with small plants. A human—or very realistic android—rose from behind a desk that was at the far end of the immense lobby. On either side of the desk were robots that to Volka looked for all the world like giant chrome versions of cardboard toilet paper rolls. She knew they were robots, not statues, because they had swiveling heads on top, chrome like the rest of them, shaped like overturned salad bowls, with dark eyes that focused on her and flickered with lights within.

  She half-nodded at the man and at the robots. “Sirs,” she said.

  “Miss Volka?” said the human-looking individual behind the desk.

  “Yes, sir,” she replied. He was wearing a high-neck suit coat, and, upon closer inspection, stunners in a holster on his belt.

  “We’ve been expecting you,” said the man. “SEC1 will show you to Lord Grey’s abode.”

  One of the toilet paper roll robots glided out on invisible wheels. It lifted, the chrome sections separated, and pincer hands emerged. “May I help you with your belongings?”

  “Oh, no, I’m fine, thank you,” said Volka. “But help getting there would be appreciated.” She couldn’t see an elevator, and Lord Grey was on the twenty-first floor.

  “Please follow me,” said SEC1, arm retreating, and leading her toward a corner of the immense room. She followed, confused, but as he approached the back wall, it melted away. It had been a holographic screen, she realized. Another toilet-roll shaped robot emerged from behind the screen and rolled out to take SEC1’s place, its head swirling in Volka’s direction as it went. Behind the projected wall were elevator banks with no buttons, of course—the building’s residents would connect via the ether.

  At SEC1’s approach, one of the elevator doors opened. Pausing, head swirling around, it said, “After you.”

  Stepping inside, Volka said, “Thank you.”

  SEC1 followed her. “You are welcome, Miss Volka, ally of Android General 1.” Volka’s ears perked in surprise. Android General 1 had been a nickname Sixty had acquired when they’d taken on the pirates aboard the Copperhead. That SEC1 knew it, knew she was his “companion,” and mentioned it drew her attention. “Oh, you have a Q-comm!” It must have one of the rare “true intelligence” bestowing chips.

  “Negative,” said SEC1.

  “But you know Sixty’s nickname?” said Volka as the elevator began to gently and silently rise.

  “I do not understand the question,” said SEC1. “Perhaps if you rephrase it?”

  “You know the name Android General 1,” said Volka. “How?”

  “It was programmed,” said SEC1.

  “By whom?” Volka asked.

  “I do not have access to that data,” said SEC1.

  Volka tilted her head. It was the sort of dead-end conversation she sometimes had with Bracelet. Curious, Volka asked, “What data on Android General 1 do you have?”

  “Android General 1 is a hero machine. You are a hero to machines,” said SEC1 in the same emotionless tone that Bracelet used to give her the answer to mathematical problems, or Sixty fell into during his “data dumps.” It was a tone she associated with truth.

  “It was completely unexpected that he would be heroic,” SEC1 continued. “Sex ‘bots are vulgar and base by design, and Android General 1 compounded his baseness by voluntarily modifying himself for the consumption of plant and animal-based foodstuffs in a way that mimics human digestion.”

  Volka’s ears went back, but then she realized that SEC1 was speaking in the same unemotional tones that he’d used just a moment ago to praise Sixty and herself. “Are you reciting this from your data banks?” she asked.

  “Yes,” SEC1 confirmed.

  It wasn’t his personal feelings on the matter. It was just…data. Volka really wondered who had plugged the data into a humble security ‘bot’s data banks. And more importantly…why.

  Two hours later, Volka was finally leaving Lord Grey’s building. He’d profusely praised the paintings she’d done for fifteen minutes, and then said, “You must tell me all about your harrowing escape from Luddeccea,” and insisted she h
ave tea with him.

  It wasn’t the first time her story had seemed as important to a client as her art, so she hadn’t been precisely surprised. She also wasn’t surprised that Carl had slept through it all, and was still asleep, though beginning to stir now.

  She was surprised, though, when she exited the building and was confronted by the sight of Sixty’s broad shoulders. He’d changed his clothes, was carrying a sleek-looking new suitcase he hadn’t had before, and was looking down the road. Smiling, Volka jogged up to him and put her hand on his arm. “Hey you! I didn’t ex—”

  Sixty jerked his arm away. “Ma’am, I am strictly monogamous.”

  Carl’s thoughts intruded on her own. “Sixty? Monogamous…am I dreaming or is he joking?”

  “Has your Q-comm slipped out, Sixty?” Volka blurted, and then realized he didn’t smell like her Sixty. The artificially created human scent was the same with its undertones of metal and synthetics, but the oil in his joints smelled different, and he didn’t smell like the asteroid, or have any faint lingering scent of Celeste or Bart. He certainly didn’t smell like sex with Dr. Walker. Volka bit her lip. Sixty had said someday she might meet another one of his model, but how to be sure this wasn’t the real Sixty? When his Q-comm got disconnected, he was...disorientated.

  Carl, evidently reading her mind, said, “Stupid. The word you’re looking for isn’t ‘disorientated,’ it’s ‘stupid.’”

  Mentally she scolded Carl. “Hush.”

  “Good, good use of your telepathy, Pet.” Carl’s thoughts filled her mind, and they felt vaguely diabolical.

  There was the werfle equivalent of a happy sigh from the pack, and his necklace crackled. “Diabolical? You think the sweetest things.”

  “I do not have a Q-comm,” said Sixty—or the maybe-Sixty.

  “When were you manufactured?” she asked, remembering that data was difficult to be erased or changed—something about it being etched on the insides of their metal skulls. She hoped that was metaphorical.

  “My manufacture was completed two years, six months, three days, and four hours ago,” replied the probably not Sixty. But could she be sure? Maybe he’d been re-oiled and washed by android-nappers? Maybe she should hit him over the back of the head? That always snapped his Q-comm back into place. Body coiling, her hand balling into a fist, she eyed the maybe-Sixty and formulated the best way to strike.

  Worming his way out of the backpack, Carl cried, “Wait! Hold on, Volka. I don’t want you going to jail for damaging someone else’s property.” Leaning over her left shoulder, Carl’s whiskers twitched. “It’s not him, Volka. I can feel it. His Q-comm still tickles the waves, even when it snaps out of place. This one doesn’t have a chip.”

  The android looked down at her shoulder and then back at Volka. “Ma’am, you appear to have a rat on your shoulder. If it is not a pet, I would advise you to remove it. They carry disease.”

  Despite having ten legs and an obvious lack of rodent smell, androids and ‘bots without Q-comms could mistake werfles for rats if they didn’t have them in their databases. The real Sixty had werfles in his database and would start counting Carl’s legs aloud to determine his werfle status. Still, Volka didn’t move. A wind blew down the street, oddly cool, and carrying the scent of snow above.

  Carl spoke into her mind, “Volka, he doesn’t smell like anyone Sixty’s had sex with in the last twenty-four hours…if it was our Sixty, I’d help you find the lost chip or get him a new one. He’s my friend, too.”

  Carl’s necklace crackled. “6T9 Unit, are you really monogamous? I didn’t think you could be.”

  Her ears twitched as Carl’s voice came from the tiny device. The 6T9 Unit didn’t even glance in Carl’s direction when he answered. His eyes stayed on Volka as though the question had come from her. “Of course I can be monogamous. It is a setting only my owner can set. If you were to purchase my model, you’d be able to alter that setting and many others to your liking.”

  “Huh,” said Carl. “I wonder if Sixty even knows that.”

  “Why wouldn’t he?” Volka asked.

  “Can we ever know all the workings of our minds and hearts?” Carl said.

  “But Sixty doesn’t have a heart or a mind in the same sense we do. He is programmed,” Volka said.

  Carl’s whiskers tickled her cheek. “I’m not sure it isn’t the same.”

  Tilting his head to the side, the strange Sixty blinked at Volka and then Carl no fewer than eight times. “It has been a pleasure to assist you, Miss Volka and Carl Sagan, companions of Android General 1—”

  “He knows our names?” said Carl.

  “Who told you our names?” Volka asked.

  “—but my ride is here,” said the not-Sixty, turning back to the street. A hover car lowered, and a side door opened. The Sixty lookalike got in.

  The hover rose into the sky, and Volka followed it with her eyes. Reaching up, she scratched Carl behind the ears and smirked, forgetting momentarily the strangeness of the android knowing who they were. “You just admitted you consider us friends and not pets!” she declared triumphantly.

  Carl squeaked. His necklace crackled, and she felt his fur standing on end. “I did no such thing!” He whisked his head away and curled back into her backpack. “Cheeky, Pet, cheeky.”

  Volka almost snorted.

  “Volka?” The question came from behind her in Sixty’s voice.

  Volka turned around and saw a 6T9 unit. An instant later, she realized he was wearing the familiar coat and the same clothes he’d worn earlier. As he came closer, she breathed deeply and found he smelled like himself. She smiled and then realized there was something she didn’t smell. She could smell Walker on him, but not sex. Also, another smell clung to him, something that smelled like burnt sugar and burnt rubber at the same time. It made her nose itch. Carl sneezed in the backpack.

  “Did your delivery go well?” Sixty asked, sliding his hands into his back pockets. “Did he like your paintings? If he didn’t, he’s wrong.” He raised his chin. “Of course, I know he liked your model.” Giving her a mischievous grin, he winked. He’d been the model in the paintings, of course. Not nude, though he’d let it be known he was willing.

  “It went well,” she said. “But sometimes I think interest in my work is more about my novelty.” It had been Luddeccean policy to assassinate defectors before the plague, before Archbishop Sato had taken over—even without her rescue of Sundancer, she’d have a story to sell with her paintings.

  Sixty’s expression became uncharacteristically sober. “I think I know what you mean,” he said enigmatically. He looked toward the gardens. “All the holo shows say walking along the Vertical gardens to the city’s square is the thing to do. The irises are in bloom this time of year, and I like flowers.” Turning back to her, he said, “Would you like to take the long way home?”

  “Yes,” said Volka. She smiled, but he didn’t smile back as they began walking down the street, only a little busier than it had been before. Sixty was uncharacteristically quiet.

  “I never knew you liked flowers,” Volka said. She wasn’t sure if it was impossible for Sixty to know his programming, but she didn’t think she would ever know it all.

  “Of course I like flowers. They’re dangling sex organs.”

  Volka almost snorted. “I suppose they are nature’s most flagrant exhibitionists. Flagrant and fragrant.” She grinned at her own wit and bounced on her feet.

  Sixty smirked at her, but the smirk disappeared too quickly. They reached the West River, a branch of the tributary that had created the canyon, crossed over a lovely rustic wooden bridge, and Volka was overwhelmed by the sight and scent of the blooms. Some she knew, like the roses she’d seen on Luddeccea, but she wondered if others were from Earth or colonies on other worlds. The flowers crowded the east and west banks of the river in every color imaginable. Some were on trees and shrubs; others were low to the ground. As they walked along the Vertical Garden trail, insects whizzed about.
Butterflies she recognized from Earth, and honeybees had been imported to Luddeccea. But the insects that looked like fatter, fuzzy, drunken versions of bees were new. She took a mental picture for Sundancer and felt warmth from the ship bubbling in her chest. “What are these?” she asked, pointing out one of the chubby insects that seemed especially bumbling and inebriated.

  “They’re bumblebees,” Sixty said.

  Volka laughed. “Well, they are clumsy!”

  Carl, who’d crawled out to sit upon Volka’s shoulder, said, “Very funny, Sixty, but what are they really called?”

  “Yes, Sixty, what are they really?” Volka said.

  “They’re bumblebees,” Sixty snapped. “If you want me to be more specific, that one is a Bombus ruderatus.” He resumed walking, not looking back.

  Volka halted, eyes wide in shock.

  Carl grumbled. “He’s probably just grumpy because he didn’t get laid.”

  “No, it’s not that,” Volka thought the words so Sixty wouldn’t hear. Her stomach got tight. “If it was just that, he’d be moaning dramatically about it. It’s something worse.”

  Skipping a few steps to catch up to Sixty, Volka found him scowling at everything and nothing, eyes on some hazy point in the distance. “What’s wrong?”

  Sixty kept walking. They passed a little side path that led to a children’s play area and shrieks of laughter echoed between the canyon walls and the skyscrapers. A tiny bird, no larger than Volka’s thumb, feathers a jewel-like blue, whizzed by her nose. Taking a mental picture for Sundancer, she bit back her curiosity—was the fairytale-like creature from Earth, or someplace more exotic?—and she followed Sixty across foot-polished stones that made a natural bridge across a spring. The tiny rivulet sprang from the canyon wall and gurgled over rocks on its way to the West River.