The Automatic Detective (9 page)

But there was that little girl, that family. Damn, some days I wished I'd been made a toaster.

I'd trudged halfway down the hall when Winifred called my name.

"Hey, Mack! Wait up!"

I stopped. "Yeah?"

She wasn't a big woman, but she had a strange, lurching walk that made her stained, green sundress swing from side to side. "So finding Ringo, it's pretty important to you, huh?"

"Yeah. It's important."

She lumbered past me. "Come on, then."

Winifred led me to the lobby, back to her front desk. "Place doesn't have a security network set up," she explained along the way, "but Violet sees a lot of things. And most people don't pay her enough mind to watch themselves."

The fuzzoid beeped happily as we approached.

"Memory replay, Vi," instructed Winifred. "File twelve."

Violet zipped in the air and projected an image on the wall from her left optical. I recognized the lobby of the Hotel Swallow, and I recognized Tony Ringo coming in with a young woman in tow. They stopped, made out a little, and continued on their way, obviously up to his room for some of that DNA swapping biologicals were so fond of.

"Well?" said Winifred expectedly. "Whadaya think of that?"

I didn't think much of it at all, but she'd at least tried to help me out, so I tried not to let my disappointment show. "Uh, thanks. That's really helpful."

She frowned. Then she grinned a gap-toothed smile. "You don't recognize her, do you?"

"Should I?"

She ordered Violet to replay the file. Winifred stabbed her finger at the projected woman. "You have to imagine her with blond hair, get rid of the sunglasses. That any clearer?"

"No," I answered honestly.

Winifred groaned. "Damn it, don't you watch the news?"

"Don't have a television."

"Paper. You gotta read the paper."

I shook my head slowly, as if admitting to some grievous fault.

Muttering, she had Violet pause the projection. "Damn it, Mack, how do you expect to be a decent P.I. if you don't know what's going on in this city?"

"I'm not a P.I. I'm a cab driver."

"Still, can't hurt you to crack a paper now and then. Then you'd recognize Lucia Napier."

She tossed a newspaper section at me, which I caught. Nice to know my reflex model was still functioning at 100 percent, despite Grey's fiddling. A glance at the paper showed a photo of a young female norm at a gala affair. My distinguishing software still had trouble telling attractive humans from ugly, but I gathered she was hot stuff, considering that she was in fine physical shape and with a lot of guys gathered around her. A label under the photo read, "Lucia Napier, Princess of Empire, out on the town."

"She's a big deal, huh?" I asked.

Winifred laughed. "Damn, you are one smart machine. Figure that out all by yourself, did'ja?"

"Is she Ringo's girlfriend?"

Winifred laughed harder this time. "Hell, no. Only saw her here two or three times. But the girl has a thing for mutants. And lowlifes."

"And Ringo is both," I said. It wasn't much of a lead, but it was the only one I had. "Thanks."

"No problem." She turned from the television. "So what's it worth?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The info," she clarified. "What's it worth to you?"

She held out her hand, and I realized she was asking for money.

"Uh . . . I don't have any cash," I replied.

One of her eyes narrowed. The other started sliding around again. "What?"

"No money," I explained. "I don't carry any money on me."

"None?"

I shook my head. "I don't need it."

Her face puckered. "Everybody needs money."

Everybody did. But all mine went to my rent, my electric bill, and maybe a cab ride now and then. I never needed money spontaneously. I turned out my coat pockets as illustration of their emptiness.

"Sorry."

She looked disappointed for a moment, but the moment passed. "Look, big guy, would you care for some advice?"

"Sure."

"If you're going to go around asking a lot of questions, it's always smart to have some cash ready to crank the cogs. Not everyone is as forthcoming and pleasant as me. Some people, they don't help nobody unless they get something out of it."

"I'll keep that in mind." And I would, but hopefully, I wouldn't have to be asking questions much longer. "If you want, I can go get some money and—"

"Forget it. I'm going to sell the video to the news anyway. Worth more to them than the nickels you'd toss my way." She settled into her chair. "Good luck, Mack."

"Thanks."

My volitional software started computing possible courses of action. Lucia Napier, Princess of Empire, lover of mutants and lowlifes. I didn't know anything about her, but my speculator suggested there was a very good chance I'd never get near her. Then again, that same reasoning eliminated Tony Ringo
from her circle of friends, and clearly, he'd gotten to know her. If a scumbag like that could, it stood to reason a nice, upstanding bot such as myself had a chance. Of course, the world wasn't reasonable. Or logical.

But I was, and Lucia Napier was my only shot, and sometimes being logical meant going against the odds. So I shut down my difference engine and headed for the door.

Lucia Napier's number was, of course, unlisted, so if I was going to speak with her, it would have to be face-to-face. Though apparently every other citizen in Empire knew every little detail of her life, including who she dated, what she had for dinner, and how many minutes her average shower lasted, I'd never heard of her. So I took the most direct approach in my search, and hailed a cab, one of my fellow Bluestars. I recognized the biological behind the wheel, thanks to my flawless memory matrix. I'd seen him around the garage on two-hundred-ten separate occasions, though we'd never actually spoken to each other before.

I leaned in the buzzbug's window, and it tilted a few degrees. "Hey, do you know where Lucia Napier lives?"

He glanced over at me. "You want a ride, buddy?"

"I just need an address," I replied.

"What do I look like, an information booth?"

"Do me a favor, will you? I'm a driver. Just like you."

"Yeah, I know you." He snorted, hocked up some phlegm, and swallowed it back down. "Don't mean I gotta give you free information."

Winifred had been right. Getting information in this town without money was like pulling a broken zip train up a steep incline.

"I don't have any money," I said.

"Too bad for you then, huh?" The driver punched his accelerator, but I held onto the starboard wing, keeping it from vibrating sufficiently to push the bug forward.

I could pull zip trains all day. And holding one little cab wasn't much of a strain on my servos.

"Le'go, man," grunted the driver.

"Address," I replied, tightening my grip on the door. "Or you could keep accelerating until the wing vibrates itself out of the frame."

Obviously, he didn't relish the notion of having his wages garnished to pay for a replacement wing. "She lives in Proton Towers. Everybody knows that."

"Thanks." I would've tipped my hat to him, but I didn't have one anymore. "Don't suppose I could trouble you for a lift. Free of charge. One Bluestar employee to another."

As soon as I released the cab, he shot away, tossing one parting "Asshole!" from his window.

"Didn't think so," I replied.

It was a long walk to Proton Towers from Warpsville, but it would've taken longer by omnibus. While public transportation could get you anywhere you wanted to go, it didn't always take the quickest route. It was common knowledge that the omnibuses intentionally took roundabout journeys from the less desirable neighborhoods to the higher rent districts. It discouraged casual visitation. I chose to walk, counting off every cent added to my power bill with each step.

It started to rain.

Rain in Empire is risky business. Sweeper blimp drones skim the skies, vacuuming up all the harsh chemicals floating in the air.
For the most part, they did a decent job of filtering out the truly nasty stuff. But the factories and labs pumped out a lot of volatile vapors, and there weren't enough filters to get them all. Once in a while, you got something unexpected mixed with the shower. Two months back, midtown had been hit with a sudden downpour and all biologicals caught in it sprouted hair from every inch of skin touched by the rain. And six years before that, when I was but a twinkle in an evil genius's twisted brain, there was a shower of exploding hail that'd nearly brought Tomorrow's Town to its knees. Since the sweeper drones had been implemented, nothing as bad as that had happened, but cautious citizens still went inside when it rained, and smart citizens sought cover even when it was cloudy. But I was a tough bot, and my tactile sensors assured me this rain, while acidic enough to irritate biological skin, wasn't going to do anything to my chassis or coat.

With my fellow pedestrians thinned to a few brave biologicals and metal-skinned robots, I was able to pick up the pace. Though I'm a big bot, I'm not slow when I have enough elbow room, and I'm able to move at a fair clip once I get going. Forty-four miles per hour in a straightaway, but my maneuverability went right to hell and stopping was more trouble than it's worth. I punched it up to 10 m.p.h. and trusted my guidance system to avoid stepping on anyone as I navigated the streets on autopilot, the bulk of my processing power still obsessed with finding that damn worm Grey had planted.

Over and over, my diagnostic came up dry. I could run a more thorough check when I next recharged, but I doubted that'd turn up anything. Whatever Grey had slipped into my code, it was deep inside. Maybe the doc could find it in my next therapy session. She knew my programming better than anyone. Of course, she'd ask questions. And since she could tell when I was lying, I'd have to tell the truth. My scenario simulator started running possible outcomes.

"Just running around town, tussling with auto hooligans and mutant thugs, getting rogue viruses crammed in my programming. No big deal, Doc. Just following orders. You said I should try to be more social."

I calculated the possible responses. 52 percent probable: She'd nod knowingly, tap her pen against her pad, and make some vaguely disapproving noise. 46 percent: She'd nod knowingly, tap her pen against her pad, and make some vaguely approving noise. 2 percent: She'd nod knowingly, tap her pen against her pad, and howl like a coyote. I attributed that last possibility to a bug in my calculations. Or maybe my difference engine was screwing with me.

Proton Towers had a state-of-the-art weather regulator. Experimental, but so far, it'd worked like a charm. There was a cylinder of perfect climate stretched four thousand, two hundred, twelve feet around the three shining skyscrapers.

An everyday working bot such as myself didn't belong in this district. It didn't help that my coat was soaked and torn ragged from my run-in with Knuckles. I still hadn't buffed out the smudges on my chassis. The rain had only smeared them around. Every other robot I walked past was either a service drone or personal auto. No bots here, except me.

Proton Towers was surrounded by hedges, lawns, and fountains. It was a use of real estate that only the rich and influential could afford. Flying gun drones zipped around the complex, a metallic swarm of heavy-duty firepower. The Towers were a fortress, as if the wealthy and powerful were just waiting for the poor and disenfranchised to rise up and revolt. Wasn't so far-fetched, I supposed, when you stared down from your ivory tower all nice and cozy and dry while the teeming masses cowered from toxic rain clouds.

The front door was guarded by a doorman dressed to the nines with his perfect little burgundy doorman suit and his
perfect little burgundy doorman hat. A badge labeled him "Dennis." Behind him was a pair of security autos. The autos, clothed in black suits, were smaller, sleeker models than me. My threat assessor detected holstered weapons judging by the bulges in their jackets. They hadn't made a raygun that could pierce my hide, but I wasn't looking for trouble.

Three small scanner drones shot forward and hovered around me, analyzing me thoroughly. The security autos were no doubt being transmitted the information.

Dennis stepped forward.

"Hello, sir," he greeted, sounding far too sincere. "How may I help you today?"

"Hello," I replied, trying to sound jovial though neither civility nor friendliness ranked high on my personality template. "I'm here to see Lucia Napier."

"I see, sir. May I have your name, sir?"

"Megaton. Mack Megaton."

"Thank you, sir. One moment, sir." Grinning, he turned on his heels and marched over to a podium by the door. He flipped through a list, smiling all the while.

A scanner drone floated too close to my faceplate, and I brushed it aside.

"Get lost."

It beeped and zipped back out of my reach. This did not endear me to the security autos, both of whom reached under their jackets. I met their determined red opticals in a hard stare.