“SEE YOU AROUND, ROACH …”
Simone retrieved a handkerchief from her purse and handed it to me. I stuffed it against my lip to clot up the fresh wound and sat down on the concrete steps. Simone sat behind me, almost cradling my head as I tried to regain my sense of balance.
“I’ll get you a new handkerchief,” I said.
“No need.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” She didn’t seem it. “It’s been a while … Haven’t had a gun put to my head in a long time. Jesus, was that Maranzano? I thought he was more of a passive don, not one who does the dirty work himself.”
“Yeah, well, you learn something new every day.”
“And her. The Iron Hands …” She stopped, like her brain was still processing things. “They’re real? I’ve never seen them in action, only heard stories.”
“Mm-hmm.” I looked at the blood-soaked cloth and cursed under my breath. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this.”
“It was more of an adventure than I was expecting.” She laughed nervously and coughed from the cold weather. “What if they hadn’t shown up?”
“What?” I asked.
“What if the Eye or that big Red-eye hadn’t shown up? How would you have gotten us out of that?”
“I would have pulled my gun, punched Maranzano, put bullets in everyone there.”
“But would you have been able to save both of us?”
I paused. She knew the answer already. “I haven’t worked with anyone else in a long time. A long, long time. I’m not used to worrying about other people in tough situations, but I would have done all I could …”
“Would you have taken that bullet if it meant I’d have gotten out of there alive?”
No hesitation. “Yes. Yes, I would have.”
She smiled. The tension dissipated, and it felt like we were back at the restaurant.
“Thank you, Detective.”
“Just Roche. Or Elias. I’m not a detective anymore. Allen just calls me that as a formality.”
Once I’d recovered enough to walk, Simone helped me up, and we walked a few blocks south back to the bustling Upper East Side. I hailed a cab and put Simone in it after I’d made sure the driver wasn’t one of the Eye’s goons.
“You can come back with me. I feel safe with you nearby,” she said.
“I got some errands to run. I’ll catch you later. Stay safe.”
Simone nodded and closed the door, the cab heading back south to bring her home. It felt better to be alone up here. I didn’t need people relying on me. That was the easiest way to get them killed. Besides, I had a feeling Maranzano and the Eye weren’t the only people who knew about that break-in. I’d rather Simone not be prosecuted along with me if it came to that.
I stuffed the handkerchief into my mouth, laughing lightly as I remembered what that Black Hat Masters had said before I caved in his chest.
“At least James ain’t around to see this.” I chuckled again and walked off.
CHAPTER 16
ALLEN’S INVESTIGATION IN ONE of the lobbies of the Plate yielded the information that Elise Schafer was not a resident of the floating city. Whereas Roche would have cracked some skulls and gotten that information in seconds flat, Allen had had to wait until the 5th’s Plate Card had almost run out of time before he got to speak to someone. He did his best to ignore the condescending comments and get the answer he needed, and by the time he did, the Card had seconds left on it. There was some comfort in knowing that the badge he carried could get him what he wanted, despite the lengths he had to go to.
He made his way out of the city for the first time since he’d arrived almost a year ago and went east to Long Island. It was surreal to come out from under the Plate and see the stars shimmer, without the Upper City’s pollution choking the night sky. More than once, he caught himself staring upward, then having to swerve out of the way of an oncoming car, having drifted into the wrong lane. Still, the uncongested highways posed less of a threat than the busy arteries of Manhattan.
Queens opened up before him as he drove: suburban homes dotted the landscape, and highways and bridges under construction gave some lucky people work. Still, cheap housing and poverty were rampant here, since living in the city was just too expensive. Residents had to drive into the city for work; there were only so many construction jobs in the area. Ironic how even the abandoned Automatic neighbourhoods in downtown Manhattan were still too expensive for most. Speaking of Automatics, plenty of Blue-eyes roamed the streets, transient or perhaps looking for work. The people outnumbered them vastly, a stark contrast to inner Manhattan. Times Square was often completely populated by chrome and steel. There didn’t seem to be many Green-eyes out and about, hopefully because they were working.
After Queens, it was nothing but trees and vegetation, urban development not having reached the northwestern edge of Long Island yet. The smell of fresh air and living things gave the area an unseen colour, even under the white frost. In the darkness, with the wind blowing through the shrubs and the coniferous trees shooting their green spines through the white blanket of snow, Allen felt an unfamiliar sense of ease. He turned north through Hempstead, where the roads were cleaner and well constructed, the trees tall and trimmed, and almost every exit led to a mansion or a golf club. There weren’t any cars on the road besides the Talbot. No police cruised the area, keeping an eye on everything.
Manorhaven, still in development, was visible even from several miles away. The tops of the manors were visible from the opposing peninsula, and the private marinas were full of yachts and sailing boats. Allen deduced that the farther east one went, the fewer machines there were. In fact, he hadn’t seen another Automatic since Queens.
Schafer’s manor matched all the rest in grandeur and aesthetic. It had two floors, white marble pillars, and a metal gate that was most likely electrified. She had her own marina and a pool, as well — who needed a pool when their property sat on the edge of a lake? He thought he could he see a green glow from a buoy bouncing about in the dark water that must be for directing yachts.
He exited the car and went up to the locked gate. There was an intercom attached to the brick base of the metal fence. He pushed the button.
“State your business,” a staticky male voice demanded.
He leaned in to the microphone. “NYPD.”
“This is Long Island, not Manhattan.”
“This is still the state of New York, sir.”
A groan followed as the gates spread back into the property, allowing Allen to drive through and cross the gargantuan drive that ended in a horseshoe in front of the manor. The large wooden doors were already open when he parked near the steps. He made his way up to meet a youngish man with slick jet-black hair and a thin beard. He was dressed in a clean suit and wore an exposed holster.
“State your business, capek. Miss Schafer isn’t a fan of house calls,” he said.
“I’m investigating the murder of eight people connected to General Electrics, and Elise Schafer is a prime suspect. I believe she would want this matter settled quickly and quietly, so it would be shame if she refused entry and this information was leaked to the public.”
“It would be a shame. Is that a threat?”
“Not from me, but I believe she knows there are more than a few journalists in the city who are all too eager to find a big story.”
The man nodded and opened the door wide. Allen got ready to display his badge just in case, but the man turned away from him before he could flash the symbol.
The interior was stunning: two curved staircases led to an upper landing. A chandelier hung above the foyer, firing light in every direction. From the massive entryway Allen could see a kitchen, a recreation room, a library, and a living room. This man was unlikely to be her only security personnel; Allen could feel eyes on him from every direction, as though every step he took was being measured and recorded.
Schafer came down from the stairs, the clacking of her
shoes echoing in the foyer. She wore a smart grey suit and a black glove on her right hand. Her arms were covered by a jacket, and her black hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Allen couldn’t help being intimidated, assaulted by her mere stare. She looked up at him, several inches shorter than his own gaunt metallic frame.
“Can I help you?” Her tone was harsh.
“Miss Schafer, I have documents showing you purchased one of the three known Mercier Vierling rifles. It has been in your possession for well over two years. Is this correct?”
“It is.”
“May I see this rifle?”
“Why would I let you see it?”
“Because we believe that a Mercier Vierling was used in the murder of Desmond Hartley, along with prominent figures in the Maranzano Mafia. I’ll require a look at the weapon to check whether it has been fired or cleaned recently.”
Schafer gave off an aura of impatience, but not a sense of guilt. Given her haughty attitude, though, she might find it easy to hide such emotions. She led Allen deeper into the house. The security guard followed behind, the holster under his arm slapping against his side with each step. A staircase led down into the basement, most of which was a converted wine cellar for keeping expensive bottles chilled and suitable for drinking. A sliding door revealed a second room, this one catering to something very different from wine.
Weapons of ancient origin were displayed in glass cases and on racks, everything from spears to swords to pepperboxes and Colts from the Wild West. An old naval cannon resided in the corner, the stamp on it indicating that it was of British origin and older than New York. A glass case on the back wall held one singular rifle sitting on red cushions, and it was protected by both combination and padlocks. Schafer stood between Allen and the case to make sure he couldn’t see the combination as she opened it. The silence was crushing. If he’d had the ability to sweat, Allen’s clothing would have been soaked through by now. The security guard’s measured breathing behind suggested that one of his hands was on his gun, ready to shoot Allen if anything surprising happened.
Schafer retrieved the rifle carefully, cracked open the barrel, and rested it under her armpit and over her forearm, as a hunter might. Allen looked it up and down and held out his hand to take it. He couldn’t help looking Schafer up and down, as well. Simone might have unlocked a part of him he wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with.
“You think I’m just going to hand this over? This weapon costs half as much as this house. I’m not about to let anyone touch it.”
“We can’t complete our investigation without examining it.”
Schafer raised her eyebrows, then turned to wander through her collection, signalling Allen to follow. He was unsure what she was doing, but he felt uneasy.
“What was the name they gave you, again? I can’t remember whether Roche mentioned it at that useless gala.”
“Erzly. Allen Erzly.”
“Built off some combination of letters and numbers, no doubt.”
“My original designation is Forty-One Echo-November.”
“41-EN. That sounds more like a name for a machine. Tell me, if this rifle could speak, what would it say to us? Would it tell us if it really did kill those people? Would it feel remorse or empathy? Would it acknowledge anything that it did at all?”
Allen drew a blank as he followed her around the room. “I’m not sure, Miss Schafer.”
“And you, Dante?” she said, calling over to the guard. “What do you think it would say?”
“No clue, ma’am,” he said, monotonous and emotionless.
“See, with Dante, I expect him not to know. He’s human, same as me. You, on the other hand, Erzly, should know what it thinks. You and it aren’t very different. Both of you are inanimate objects, originally weapons. Now, it is an artifact, and you … well, we’re not sure what all of you are now.”
“I’m not a weapon, Miss Schafer. Not mindless and violent like one, at the very least.”
“You couldn’t be, because a weapon is neither mindless nor violent. A weapon is a weapon; it does nothing its wielder does not. You couldn’t blame a gun for taking a life, since the gun didn’t load itself and shoot someone — the person who carried it did. A weapon is a tool to make real a violent intention. Does that make sense?”
“It does.” Allen nodded.
“And yet you things are … confusing. An autonomous weapon — such a terrifying combination of words. Who’s in control, do you think? Surely, if a machine takes orders, the responsibility falls on whoever gave it an order, as in Red-eye Law, when we prosecute whoever rewires the Automatic. The rules and laws are built around the concept that no Automatic can be at fault for a crime, because it’s believed that they aren’t capable of making decisions like that. You discard a weapon but prosecute a person, and the way we prosecute machines is to destroy them. That defines how we think of them. Do you see what I’m saying?”
“I think I follow, to a degree. Though I do believe it was GE that helped establish Blue-eyes as people in the eyes of the law.”
“I thought you might have heard about that. Yes, we did our best there. But while Blue-eyes can be considered autonomous beings in regard to the development of a personality through experience and mostly free will, they aren’t really people.” She pursed her lips. “We did have to make some concessions on that case.”
“If they are considered to have free will, surely they can be tried as people.”
“In a perfect world, they would be. But if you were to turn that gun on me and Dante, you know who they would prosecute? Elias Roche and Jeffrey Robins, and then they would feed you to a shredder. You aren’t at fault simply because you are just a weapon, a meaningless tool for violence. So long as society classifies you as such, you will be nothing more. Of course, without police programming, no doubt you couldn’t even point a loaded weapon in my general direction. Nevertheless, no Automatic’s actions are its own.”
“I am capable of choosing my own actions, Miss Schafer. I am not a slave. Not like every other Automatic.”
“As this conversation has indicated, yes, it seems you’re correct. Project Lutum was one of GE’s pet projects, green-lit by Gould. Tell me, if you’re so offended by my grouping you with every other Blue-eye walking the streets, then why don’t you make your presence known in the world? Why not stand up and shout that you are different, you can think, you aren’t a mindless machine?”
Allen did not have a response to this, so Schafer supplied it.
“Because that would be suicide. Because we both know that you aren’t the problem, and neither are Red-eyes or Green-eyes, nor the War, nor anything else related to you. As with weapons, the problem is people. They’d rather you remained weapons, both socially and legally, because it sets their minds at ease not to have to compete with you; you are all mindless things, and they will always be on top. The moment they realize their weapons can decide for themselves what to do and what not to do, that’s when the pitchforks will come out. That’s when people will get scared, and scared people do very stupid things.”
She closed the weapon and held it out before her. Allen reached out and grasped the Vierling firmly in his hands. Schafer turned to leave the room.
“Dante, keep an eye on it. Get it anything it needs,” she said as she left.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Allen spent about fifteen minutes examining the weapon in its entirety. He cracked the breech back open and inspected the mechanisms in action. The bottom barrel was pristine, never fired before, with no scrapes indicating a barrel shroud had been used to fit a Von Whisper round inside it. The Lebel barrels, too, were clean. The weapon was dusty from disuse, and the rifling was polished. Not a single round had ever been fired from it. He moved the weapon around, feeling the four barrels rotate in their socket and testing the hammer and trigger mechanism. Each barrel fired its own individual bullet when aligned with the firing mechanism in the base of the breech. After several dry fires, he concluded t
hat there was no way all three barrels could fire simultaneously.
Indeed, the pictures he had seen of the other Mercier Vierlings proved that this was a feature in all three of them; the three Lebel barrels could not fire at the same time. Even if Schafer had used this weapon, scrubbed it clean, polished the rifling, and disposed of the rest of the evidence, there was no way she could have produced the firing pattern he had seen at the scene with McIntyre. He even asked the security guard if there was a possible way for all three barrels to fire at the same time, but the man confirmed what Allen now knew: they had the right weapon type, but not the right weapon.
He laid the rifle back in its case and closed it, hearing it lock automatically. The guard escorted him back upstairs, where Schafer was waiting by the door, her gloved hand already on the handle as he approached.
“Regarding our conversation downstairs,” Allen began, “I do feel regret for what I’ve done. I made a decision to save the lives of my friends, but it cost someone else’s. Every day, I think about that, and how I don’t want to be in a position like that again.”
Schafer nodded, her hostility seeming to diminish upon hearing this. “And would you do it again if you had to?”
“I don’t know. In that moment, I knew I had to, but if I’d had time to think and find another way … I just don’t know. The entire experience was … disturbing.”
“Then you’re more like people than we’d care to admit. People are indecisive, impatient, temperamental, instinctual, everything we shouldn’t be to survive as a society. We wear sheep’s clothing — we’re born into it — though all of us are wolves underneath. But things like you and your people — what are you? Are you born sheep or wolves? Do you feel the same desires that humans do? For sex, for violence, for anything at all? I hope not. I’d rather deal with someone who doesn’t lie to themself about their true nature.”
Midnight Page 18