The Automatic Detective (23 page)

And to think, I'd almost liked him.

An explosion shook the transport. It lurched to one side. No doubt, the rocket pods had been sabotaged to rid me of pesky options. The pilot drones kept us afloat with cool automated reliability. Until the second and third pods blew.

The transport tilted at a steep forward angle, and my ankle actuator and gyros weren't able to keep me upright. I tumbled, crashing into the cockpit, trashing the pilot drones. Not that it mattered. With only one working pod, this transport was going down fast. With no windows, I had to estimate the time to impact.

I was off by two whole seconds.

I didn't record the details of the crash. My array went haywire, and I couldn't make heads or tails of it until it was all over. I'd suffered more internal damage. My left arm hydraulics were compromised and the limb was limp and unresponsive. My right optical was cracked and full of static. My gyros were listing as inconsistent, so my balance was worthless. On the bright side, I'd apparently been thrown clear so I wasn't buried under ten tons of scrap metal.

I was lying on my side. I didn't try to move yet. It would've only ended badly. The transport was a smoldering wreck. It'd lost some bits, but it was mostly in one piece, albeit a twisted, misshapen piece.

I'd landed in Venom Park, the worst industrial accident site in Empire, which was saying something. It was a cubic half mile of toxic sludge, corrosive soil, and greenish brown, poisonous air. All the buildings had corroded and dissolved into the sinking mud. Nothing biological could survive nine
seconds in this environment, not even the hardiest drat or most stubborn mutant squatter, making it about the only place someone could crash a heavy transport in Empire without killing a lot of innocent civilians. It was the vacant bull's eye in the endless sprawl of the city, and Doctor Zarg had set me down here with the mathematical precision and flawless aim of a supercomputer playing darts. Whatever my beef with Zarg, he was one smart bot, and he'd gone out of his way to avoid casualties. If Julie and April had been aboard that transport, and if, by some fluke they'd survived the crash, they would've died breathing the air.

I was soaked in acid and mud, but my chassis integrity remained intact so I didn't have to worry about additional damage to my internals except if I dared move, which I must because I was beginning to sink into the quagmire. Venom Park soil was slow to suck you in, but once it had you it didn't let go. There were supposed to be a lot of bodies tossed into this plot of land, but no one knew for sure. A biological dissolved, bones and all, after about three days. I'd sink to the bottom and run out of juice, but the results would be the same. Permanent deactivation.

My logic lattice advised me to remain still, await recovery and repair. I wasn't that optimistic. The only recovery team I could expect would be Pilgrims. If they hadn't figured out I'd escaped yet, they would be on their way now to salvage what they could and cover up the rest. I couldn't have more than four minutes at the outside. I expected only two. I'd wasted twenty seconds waiting for any two of my five gyros to start agreeing, but that wasn't happening. The only way to recalibrate my equilibrium was through trial and error.

It wasn't pretty and took twelve seconds longer than it should've, but I got to my knees. I could scan the ground. I
knew which way was down. But without the gyros, I'd have to calculate weight distribution with each move I made. It would've slowed me down if I were in tip-top shape and knew exactly what to expect from myself. But with all my impaired internals, I would have to adapt to so many new variables that it was statistically impossible for me to get the hang of it this side of seven hours.

Sometimes, statistics were wrong.

I stood. The gyros spun, but I ignored their input. I swayed two inches to the left, overcorrected, and tilted three to the right. I tried counterbalancing with my left arm, but it made a harsh grinding as shoulder gears were stripped, rendering the appendage now entirely useless. An attempt to straighten up was a complete failure. All the damage and the sucking mud proved too much of a challenge. I collapsed on my back. My neck joint was so damaged that it couldn't move. All I could scan was the sky. I was supposed to be an invincible mechanical death machine, and I didn't accept my position with grace or logic. Sixteen seconds of ineffective twitching confirmed that getting up was now out of the question.

A black rotorvan passed low overhead and set down just out of sight. I detected the sound of approaching rotors. The salvage team had arrived. Their squishy footsteps drew closer. Something clamped onto my leg and dragged me through the mud. I was lifted out of the muck and tossed into the van, where I lay like a pile of scrap.

Grey sat beside me, clad in a bright red biohazard suit. His static-filled voice issued through the plastic bubble around his head. "Hi'ya, Mack."

Doctor Zarg had said I wouldn't have to find Greenman. Greenman would find me.

"Hello." I nodded, and nothing in my neck joint popped. A pleasant surprise.

Knuckles climbed into the van and beeped once.

"You look like hell," said Grey.

"Oh, this? It's nothing. My warranty should cover it."

Smiling, Grey shut the doors as the van lifted off.

I kept thinking of Julie and April and Holt. I'd found them. Then I'd lost them. I'd practically scrapped myself in the process. The entire mission was a failure.

The rotorvan carried me to an undisclosed location. I assumed it was undisclosed since I didn't bother asking and no one told me.

"Can you walk?" asked Grey. "Or should I have Knuckles here fetch a gurney?"

I should've asked for the gurney and avoided any unnecessary stress to my systems. But a bot has his pride, so I limped my way through what scanned like a warehouse full of toys: mostly little Gabby Goosey dolls and My First Android drones.

There was also a nice collection of rotorcars: expensive machines, all shiny and perfect, like they'd never been flown. Greenman was definitely a collector. The prize of the seven I scanned was a beauty of a teal Hornet. It had a rounded body with a convertible cockpit, superfluous wings and fins, a spacious trunk, and plenty of legroom, even for a bot of my proportions.

Guys in black suits with zap rifles at the ready roamed the warehouse. They didn't seem to have anywhere to go. From their humorless expressions, they sure seemed determined in their wandering. Tucked away in a back corner of the place was an e-mech repair room outfitted with all the latest equipment, including four e-mech drones and another robot model identical to Doctor Zarg. Except he had a different symbol painted on his torso.

Right in front of me was Abner Greenman. The shortest guy in the room, but the most dangerous. Especially now that I was damaged goods.

"So good of you to join us, Mack," said Greenman. "Please, lay down on the table so the doctor can have a look at you."

"I'll stand. Thanks."

Greenman frowned. "Come on, Mack. You could use the repairs. I assure you Doctor Zort is the finest robotics technician on this planet. His original ravager specs are the foundation of your design. Isn't that correct, Doctor?"

"Correct," said Zort.

"Forget it. I don't open this chassis for anybody."

"Illogical," said Zort. "You are in need of maintenance." He trundled over along with his drones. "Allow me to assist you to the table."

I threw my forearm into one of the drones. Since it was nothing but a multi-armed cylinder on wheels, it fell over easy.

"Back off, Doc."

Knuckles made a move toward me. He would've wiped the floor with me in my condition, except Greenman stopped him.

"Mack, I feel compelled to help you because believe it or not, I respect you. Hell, I like you, but we can't fix you if you won't let us. So tell me, what do I need to do to earn your trust?"

The odds of Greenman earning my trust were so small that
when my difference engine calculated to the seven millionth decimal point I rounded it off and just called it zero.

"Lucia Naper," I said. "Get her here, and she can fix me."

"Surely, you're aware the lovely Miss Napier is under arrest." His antennae twitched. "Something to do with a prison break, I believe."

"You've got connections, I bet."

"Perhaps I do." He smiled. "But before I put gears in motion, perhaps there's something you'd like to give me."

I didn't play it cute. No reason to. I let the finger Zarg had given me fall from the socket. Greenman snagged it telekinetically before it hit the ground. He floated it over to Grey's hand.

"Thank you."

"No problem," I replied.

Greenman nodded to Grey, who nodded back. He left to go set those gears in motion.

"I suppose you think you've earned an explanation," said Greenman.

"What's to explain? You're aliens. They're aliens. They're up to something. You want to stop them. Am I close?"

"We prefer the term Pilgrims."

"And mutants want to be called genetically enabled. But it probably isn't going to catch on."

Greenman smiled with his little mouth and blinked his big, fishy eyes. "We aren't evil, if that's what you think. We only need a place to live. You of all beings should be grateful for our arrival on this world. Without us, you wouldn't even exist."

He wasn't telling me anything I hadn't calculated on my own. I may not have been the smartest bot, but I'd scanned enough to get the larger picture. Somehow, I was tied to these Pilgrims. All of Empire was.

"Believe it or not, it was purely by happenstance that we came to Earth. We were a colonization ship headed to a far different
star system. An unfortunate malfunction in our warp drive threw us off course. One in a million fluke. We should've died in space but for the good fortune of finding this world. However, the world was already inhabited by intelligent life-forms, and they were not advanced enough to accept us."

"You could've asked."

"We couldn't afford to ask," he said. "Our ship didn't have the power to leave this system, and our faster-than-light communications were damaged. We were cut off from our homeworld by the inhospitable vastness of space. We needed a new home, and if the earthlings would not have us, we couldn't force them."

"You're telling me this isn't an invasion."

He chuckled. "We're one colony ship with a population of ten thousand chosen from two dozen different species. Though we have weapons, and they are far superior to the armaments of the earthlings, we could not possibly hope to overcome this world's defense forces."

"You're breakin' my power cell."

Greenman frowned. "You prove my point exactly, Mack. Now that you know what I am, you assume I'm an amoral monster. But we are a moral people. As moral as the people of earth."

"That's not saying much, Abner."

"Are you sure we couldn't have Doctor Zort take a look at you? At the very least, he might be able to adjust your personality template. Perhaps lower that nasty cynicism index a bit."

"I concur with this assessment," said Zort. "This unit's behavioral functions remain dangerously unpredictable. Despite the previous data cleansing, his motivational directives contain obvious corruption. It remains impai—"

"I advise you not to finish that sentence, Zort. Or else I might have to come over there and show you how corrupted my motivational directives have become."

It was an idle threat, but it seemed to do the trick.

"The hostility of this unit renders my presence here unnecessary." Then he left.

Greenman laughed. "I do believe you frightened the doctor, and that's saying something. You're not very popular among the technomorphs."

"Ask me if I care." I limped over to the table and had a seat to take the pressure off my actuator, which my diagnostic warned had a 2 percent chance of shattering with every step.

"So what's in the finger?" I asked.

"That doesn't concern you at this moment."

"You owe me."

"Yes, and that's why I'm going to considerable trouble to fetch the notorious Miss Napier. I'd say we were even." He rose and sat, hovering in midair. "However, though the technomorphs may consider you a defective unit, I believe a bot like you could be useful in my employ."

"Not interested."

He wagged his finger. "Ah ah, Mack. Don't turn me down just yet. Wait until you hear my offer. I'm not talking about a permanent position. More of a work-for-hire proposition."

"Still not interested."

"Not even if I could tell you the secrets of your origin, of this vast alien conspiracy and your place in it? And believe me, you do have a very important place."

I only wanted to get fixed and go home, maybe lower my surge protectors, plug in, and hope I could overload my memory matrix and wipe the whole thing. Erase Greenman and the Pilgrims, these last three days, and even Julie, April, and Holt. Just reactivate as a simple cab-driving machine.

"You can pretend not to care," said Greenman, "but you do. That defective electronic brain of yours is too prone to sentimentality, concerned with certain illogical motivations. Drives the technomorphs mad, believe me. They assumed you were
the next step in their evolution, yet they can't reconcile the apparently randomization of your behavior."