Steelheart (24 page)

The roboticist couldn't believe where she was or what she was about to do. She grabbed the shotgun, pretended to inspect the barrel for rust, and pumped a shell into the chamber. The action produced a rather distinctive clacking sound. Conversation stopped, and heads swiveled in her direction.

Mary maintained a bland, somewhat neutral expression as she turned toward the chandelier and fired. The light exploded, and pieces flew every which way. The Zid let go of her cheek pipes and covered her ear holes. Mary had decided to improvise. She smiled and nodded. "Yup, you were right. The damn thing
was
loaded."

There was an audible sigh of relief as the roboticist slipped the safety into the "on" position and laid the weapon across the top of her pack.

The proprietor, a balding man whose homemade spectacles rode the very tip of a long skinny nose, headed in their direction. A pair of bouncers, brothers by the look of them, provided his backup. His attitude served as an unintended testimonial to their effectiveness. "What the hell do you think you're doing? That fixture cost sixty guilders! How you gonna pay?"

"With this," Doon said, slapping Guild scrip onto the table. "Seventy guilders worth. Sorry 'bout my friend here... Mary gets forgetful, that's all. Is the shotgun loaded? Boom! That's how she does it. . . .Drives me crazy."

The barkeep's eyes went wide. Mary stood, smiled, and held out her hand. "Hi, I'm Mary . . .
 
what's for dinner?"

Mollified by the money, and entranced by the smile, the proprietor blinked as he spoke. "I got some stew ... or ship rations. Your choice."

Mary made a face. "I'll take the stew."

"Me too," Doon added, wishing he didn't have to. "With a shot of whatever passes for booze around here."

"Coming up," the innkeeper said happily. "Welcome to Dobe."

 

Doon consumed his meal with machinelike efficiency, left Mary within the safety of her newly minted reputation, and started to table-hop. Most of the customers would talk a blue streak for the price of a drink—which enabled the android to gather a significant amount of information within a short period of time.

It seemed things were pretty much normal in and around the community of Dobe. Religious converts headed east, packers went west, and bandits were where you found 'em.

There were rumors, though, talk of big doings deep in the holy lands, like the Zid were up to something. When Doon asked for specifics, nobody could provide any, so he let the matter drop.

One thing was for sure, however—an eastward-bound caravan was due within the next couple of days, and that was welcome news. It would be easier to travel with others, and a heckuva lot safer, assuming the packers were agreeable.

The synthetic had completed his last conversation, swallowed another meaningless drink, and was sitting next to Mary when Wringer ambled over. The scav nodded and gestured toward a vacant chair. "May I?"

Doon raised his eyebrows. "Suit yourself."

Wringer sat down, offered to buy a round, and shrugged when the twosome refused. "Hey, just bein' friendly, that's all. "You waitin' on the caravan?"

Doon frowned. "Maybe, and maybe not. Why do you ask?"

Wringer placed his hands on the table. They were dirty, but surprisingly delicate. "The packers ain't due for a couple of days. Maybe more. Which would you rather do? Waste your time, or make some money?"

Doon was in favor of sitting around wasting time, but knew his character wouldn't be. He gave the appropriate response. "Money is good ... What's up?"

Wringer looked around as if to assure himself that no one was eavesdropping. "There's a scav what lives in these parts. Calls herself Android Annie. Got a hut off to the east. Don't know how much inventory the old bag's holdin' right now— but I wouldn't be surprised if she's got three or four droids."

Sojo tried to speak, and Doon shut him down. "Sounds interesting ... How would we split 'em up?"

"Seventy-five, twenty-five," the scav said experimentally. "I know where they are."

"You need help," Doon replied, "or why come to us? Fifty percent suits us fine."

"No way," Wringer said vehemently "That's ridiculous."

Doon felt sorry for whatever droids this Annie person had managed to capture, but had no desire to get involved. "Guess that's it, then—see you around."

Wringer was about to leave when Sojo located a gap and pushed his personality through. In spite of his desire to avoid unnecessary risks, and reach Flat Top as quickly as possible, the rider had a soft spot. "Hey! No need to leave in a huff. ... How bout seventy-thirty?''

Doon cut the rider off and blocked the gap. The deed was done, however—Wringer nodded his agreement. "Done. Seventy-thirty it is. The next round is on me."

 

Annie was in a good mood. That much was obvious from the spoonful of extremely valuable sugar that had been sprinkled onto Becka's hot tromeal. It was a treat, and the older woman watched approvingly as the youngster spooned it up.

And why not? Annie thought to herself as she poured a cup of herbal tea into a well-stained mug and took her seat at the solidly built table. Life was as pleasant as she could ever expect it to be, and it felt good to splurge once in awhile.

Becka licked the spoon clean, wiped her bowl with a crust of homemade bread, and popped the morsel in her mouth. The little girl swallowed, said, "Thank you," and waited for Annie to speak. It was the same each morning, when they were home anyway, and both enjoyed the predictability of it.

Annie took a final sip of tea, placed the mug on the table, and made the daily pronouncement. "I'm running out of patience, scrap. . . We'll give Sleeping Beauty one last try. A live droid is worth a helluva lot more than one that sleeps all day. We can't wait forever, though—so it's now or never. She comes round, or I give her the chop. Agreed?"

Becka thought about how pretty the synthetic was, and hoped it wouldn't come to that. Still, "Business before pleasure," that's what Annie said, and it made sense. She nodded. "Yes, Annie. I'll get your tools."

"That's a good scrap," the scav said approvingly. "I'll be along in a minute or so."

"The slab," as Annie referred to it, filled most of the rectangular shed that extended back from the hut. Becka entered, lit some well-placed candles, and removed a pair of vent plugs. Light flooded the work table.

"The inventory" consisted of Beauty, the Mothri nest tender that they referred to as Bug, and the bottom half of a model ten better known as Ralph.

Though little more than an abdominal housing and a pair of skeletal legs, Ralph boasted all sorts of jury-rigged sensors, and spent most of his time on security patrol.

The android's power came from a roof-mounted solar panel, which, due to the constant overcast, required at least three days to provide a full charge.

Becka checked, saw that the indicator light was green, and pulled the android's plug. "Congratulations on a full charge. Use search pattern three—and report at one-hour intervals. Happy hunting."

"Use search pattern three," Ralph said emotionlessly. Report at two-hour intervals."

"No," Becka replied patiently "Report at
one-hour
intervals. Now, off you go."

"Off I go," Ralph said mechanically, and off he went. Motors whirred, servos whined, and something squeaked. Becka knew the android would exit through the hut and walk in ever-widening circles until it was three miles out. It would reverse the process at that point and return by nightfall. He wasn't much—but something was better than nothing.

It took both of them to lift Reno's inert body onto the slab. Annie checked her tools, wished she had a lot more training, and knew she wouldn't get it. All she could do was experiment, hope for the best, and trust to luck.

 

Wringer held a finger to his lips and pointed ahead. Doon nodded, backed off the trail, and gestured for Mary to do the same. It had taken the better part of a day and a half to reach the vicinity of the scav's hut. Morning had given way to afternoon, and the light was fading. The lower temperature had put a crust on the slush. Servos whirred, a joint squeaked, and snow crunched as Ralph approached. A wild assortment of vid cams, heat sensors, and other paraphernalia jutted in all directions, scanning for trouble.

Doon found the half-droid to be somewhat disconcerting, but Sojo, or that part of him that remained, went a little bit crazy. He launched an assault on Doon's cognitive functions, failed to take control, and took a run at the synthetic's main locomotor subprocessor.

The android fought the rider off, but seconds had passed, and Wringer took action. The scav stepped onto the path, put three bullets through Ralph's CPU, and laughed as the droid collapsed.

Sojo started to sob, and Doon swore. "Nice going, idiot. I might have been able to stop him."

"Let's go!" Wringer yelled. "We can take her by surprise!" The scav started to run, and the others followed.

 

After working on Beauty for the better part of five hours, Annie had finally given up. The synthetic was alive, the scav knew that, but she couldn't bring her around. To do so would require the services of a skilled roboticist and a fully equipped lab. She had sealed the robot's chest when the alarm sounded. The buzzer was both loud and annoying. Becka came running, "What's wrong?"

Annie took her gun belt and buckled it around her waist. "Something happened to Ralph."

"Could be a malfunction," the girl said hopefully.

"Anything's possible," Annie agreed, "but there's no way to be sure. Short of going out there—and that's what I plan to do. Lock the door and stay sharp."

Becka didn't want Annie to go and bit her lip. "Yes, Annie.

The scav must have heard something in the girl's voice, or seen it in her eyes. She cupped Becka's face in the palm of a work-worn hand. Annie smiled, and wrinkles exploded away from her eyes and mouth. "Don't worry, scrap ... I'll be fine. You fix dinner... we'll split a candy bar for dessert."

Snow had started to fall. It was gray, like the sky that birthed it, and eager to find the ground. Becka watched Annie trudge away. She had broad shoulders, tufts of hair that stuck out from under her cap, and the usual air of determination, as if the whole of life was something to be endured. The woods opened to the woman and closed behind her. It was cold. Becka shivered and closed the door.

 

Wringer ran like what he was, a man who knew what he wanted, and was about to get it. The plan was simple: follow Ralph's tracks until Annie appeared, kill the old bat as quickly as possible, and turn on Doon. He'd take the synthetic if he could—and revert to character if he couldn't. As for the woman, well, she had her purposes, and would last a little longer.

Wringer's boots pounded the ground, his breath jetted out in front of him, and his eyes scanned ahead. A whole lot of people had attempted to kill Annie over the years. Most were dead. Had the old biddy laid traps up ahead? Hired some help? Laid an ambush? There was no way to be sure. The scav's heart beat faster, and it felt good to be alive.

 

A mistake had been made, and Doon knew it. "Control the situation." A precept so basic to police work that it was second nature. Except that Wringer had stolen the initiative. All the android could do was swear, run faster, and hope for the best.

 

Annie paused at the edge of the clearing, swept the open space with her eyes, and saw nothing to fear. Ralph's tracks led straight to the other side. They were half filled with newly fallen snow. She swore volubly and high-stepped toward the middle of the open space.

The scav was halfway there, squinting into the half-light, when something struck her chest. It drove the air from her lungs and threw Annie back into the snow.

The sound came like an afterthought—the crack of a high velocity bullet muffled by snow-laden trees.

Big, feathery flakes fell from the sky, twirled like dancers, and kissed her face. They felt cold, like the ground below, like Zuul itself.

Wringer, pleased but suspicious, approached with weapon drawn. He leaned over and looked Annie in the face. She struggled to focus. Darkness beckoned, and it was hard to speak. "Wringer."

The other scav grinned. "That's right Annie ... I said I'd be comin' ... and here I am."

Annie tried to lift her gun, tried to give Becka one last gift, but the weapon was far too heavy. Wringer shook his head disapprovingly and shot her again.

Doon arrived at the edge of the clearing as the second shot was fired. His aggressor systems came on-line as he scanned for trouble.

Wringer turned, staggered, and fell. The synthetic absorbed this new piece of information and came to the obvious conclusion: The scav had fired on someone and taken a bullet in return. A second body, still warm, confirmed his hypothesis.

Weapon out, one eye on Annie, the synthetic approached. He knelt next to Wringer, searched the front of his body for signs of an entry wound, and started to holster his weapon.

That's when an arm moved, a hand rose from the snow, and the pistol appeared. Doon threw himself backwards and heard an explosion. A half dozen projectiles hit and penetrated the android's multilayered skin. A small army of nano rushed to plug the holes.

Doon rolled, rose ready to fire, and saw where the pellets had come from. A wisp of smoke rose from the riot gun's barrel as Mary lowered the weapon.

The synthetic looked at what remained of Wringer's face. The pellets that killed the scav had left his hat unscathed. It lay two feet from his head. Mary started to cry, and the machine held her in his arms.

 

Becka had memorized the sound of Annie's weapons, and knew none of the shots were hers. "Run first, think later." That's what Annie said, and it was good advice.

The escape tunnel had been dug by a Mothri robot that the scav had captured and later sold. It was accessed by a carefully concealed trap door.

Becka took the purse that Annie kept under her pillow, the pistol that lay next to it, and a holo stat of a pretty young woman. Those items, plus her very best parka, were all that she needed. Two packs, both ready to go, waited at the other end of the underground passageway.