скачать книгу бесплатно
“It’s worth a life stretch in a Daedalus factoryfarm.”
“Pfft.” Lemon shook her head. “How many CorpCops you seen round here lately?”
“Are you familiar with the First Law of Robotics, Miss Fresh?”
Lemon sighed, spoke by rote. “A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.”
“Correct. That includes standing with my hands down my pants while my mistress does things liable to get herself perished.”
“You’re not wearing pants, Crick.”
“Just sayin’. They outlawed those things for a damn reason.”
“Your concern is noted in the minutes, Mister Cricket,” Eve said. “But we got zero creds, and meds don’t buy themselves. So don’t tell Grandpa about it yet, okay?”
“Is that an order or a request?”
“Order,” Eve and Lemon said in unison.
The bot gave a small, metallic sigh.
They trudged on in silence. Eve ran her fingers over Kaiser’s back, pulled her hand away with a yelp as she discovered the blitzhund was scalding hot. Dragging off her poncho, she slung it over him to cut the glare. Kaiser wagged his tail, heat sink lolling from his mouth.
She’d seen an old history virtch about the Nuclear Winter theory once. All these scientists messing their panties about what’d happen when the fallout blotted out the sun after mass detonation. Seemed to her they should’ve spent more time worrying about what’d happen after, when all that carbon dixoide and nitrogen and methane released by the blasts ripped a hole in the sky, and the UVB rays waltzed right through the ozone and started frying humanity’s DNA. Abnorms and deviates had been popping up ever since. “Manifesting” was the polite term for it, but polite didn’t have much place in Dregs.
Of course, everyone had heard talk about deviates who could move things just by thinking on it, or even read minds, but Eve figured that was just spit and brown. Because as fizzy as “mutation” might have sounded in old Holywood flicks, most folks didn’t get superpowers or Godzilla smiles or even great suntans in Dregs. They just got cancer. Lots and lots of cancer.
And the few folks who did get “Special”?
Well, the Brotherhood got them dead.
The quartet was deep in Tire Valley when an automated sentry gun twisted up out of a cluster of old tractor tires, spitting a plume of methane smoke. Hoping the voice-ident software wasn’t fritzing again, Eve started singing some antique tune Grandpa had made her learn. Beethovey or something …
“Da-da-da-daaaaa. Da-da-da-dummmmmm.”
The gun slipped back into its hidey-hole, and they rolled on. Eve had to sing at a couple more automata sentries on the way, dodging the thermex charges Grandpa had laid for uninvited guests, finally rounding a bend to find home sweet home.
It was a series of shipping containers and antique trailer homes, welded around the hulk of a heavy thopter-freighter that had crashed here years ago and buried itself up to the eyeballs in trash. The freighter’s engines had been slicked with grease to spare them the rust that was slowly eating the rest of the ship. Methane exhaust sputtered from three chimneys, and the structure rattled and hummed with the songs of wind turbines and coolant fans. It was surrounded by mountains of tires and the remnants of an old 20C amusement park. The rusted spine of an ancient roller coaster could be seen cresting the trash around them, like some corroding sea serpent swimming through an ocean of garbage.
Eve strolled up to the freighter, banged on the hatch.
“Grandpa, it’s Evie!”
Dragging her wilted fauxhawk from her eyes, she banged on the door again. She heard slow whirring from inside. Pained, labored breathing. The vidscreen beside the door crackled to life and two rheumy eyes peered out from the display.
“We don’t want any,” a voice said.
“Come on, Grandpa, let us in. It’s hot out here.”
“‘Grandpa’?” His voice was all gravel and broken glass. “I used to have a granddaughter once. Damn fool stayed out all night and half the day. Got herself the cancer. Died screaming with her eyes swollen shut and her belly full of blood.”
“That is foul, Grandpa.”
“You kinda remind me of her, actually.” A wet cough crackled through the speaker’s hum. “She was better-looking, though.”
“Come on, I wore my poncho, cut me some rope.”
“The dog is wearing your poncho, Eve.”
“He was hot!”
“And where’s your gas mask?”
“I look defective in that thing.”
“And you’ll be the belle of the ball with a faceful of basal cell carcinoma, won’t you?”
“Are you gonna let us in or what? Kaiser’s brain is probably roasted by now.”
The door cranked wide enough for the group to squeeze inside. Grandpa waited beyond, slumped in his old electric wheelchair. The chair had no manual controls—directions were jacked straight from Grandpa’s brain via the wetware implant at his wrist.
The old man was thin as a starving gull. A shock of gray hair. Eyes sharp as scalpels pouched in sandbag sockets. Wheezing breath. It made Eve’s chest hurt to look at him—to remember what he’d been and see what he’d become. Instead, she looked at the floor and crooked a thumb at her co-conspirator.
“Fizzy if Lemon stays over?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Grandpa frowned. “She’s stayed over for the last ten months.”
“Always polite to ask.” Lemon leaned down, kissed him on his stubbled cheek.
“Away with you and your feminine wiles, Miss Fresh.”
Lemon grinned. “How you feeling, Mister C?”
“Like ten miles of rough road.” The old man coughed into his fist, loud and wet. “Better for seeing you, though, kiddo.”
Kaiser pushed past Eve, still boiling hot. He padded down the hallway, shaking off Eve’s poncho and slinking inside his doghouse. Motion sensors activated the coolant vents, and his tail started wagging in the recycled freon.
“It’s almost midday.” Grandpa scowled up at Eve. “Where you been?”
Apparently, Grandpa had continued in his Surly Old Bastard traditions and hadn’t watched the newsfeeds. He’d no idea about the Dome or what’d happened there. The Goliath. Her outstretched fingers. Screaming …
“Went to WarDome last night to watch the bouts,” she said. “Hit Eastwastes on the way home, looking for salvage.”
Grandpa glanced at Cricket.
“Where’s she been?”
“Just like she said.” Cricket nodded his bobblehead. “WarDome. Eastwastes.”
“Oh, so you believe him and not me?” Eve sighed.
“His honesty protocols are hardwired, chickadee. Yours only work when it suits you.”
Eve made a face, wrangled her satchel off her back, started peeling away her plasteel armor. Underneath, she was wearing urban-camo cast-offs and a tank top that predated the Quake. She stashed Excalibur near the door. Despite the lawlessness in Dregs, Grandpa wouldn’t allow guns in the house, and with her nightmares being what they were, Eve was only too glad for it. Some old grav-tank pilot’s armor and Popstick were the only armaments keeping her bat company.
She looked sideways at the old man, tried to sound casual.
“How you feeling, Grandpa?”
“Better than I look.”
“How’s the cough? You take your meds? How much you got left?”
“Fine. Yes. Plenty.” Grandpa scowled. “Although I sometimes hear this annoying voice in the back of my head, speaking at me like I was a three-year-old. Is that normal?”
Eve leaned down and kissed her grandpa’s cheek. “You know, the whole lovable grouch thing? Really working for you.”
“I’ll keep it up, then.” He smiled.
Kicking off her heavy boots, Eve made fists with her toes in the temperfoam, relishing the air-con on her bare skin. Then, hoping the desalination still was back online, she hefted her satchel with Lemon’s help and shuffled off in search of something to drink.
Grandpa coughed as she padded up the hall, dragged wet knuckles across his lips. Glancing at Cricket, he muttered softly.
“Salvage in Eastwastes, huh?”
“Yessir.”
“She find anything good?”
Cricket looked from Grandpa to the satchel the two girls were hauling away, the beautiful red prize coiled inside.
“No, sir.” The little bot shook his head. “Nothing good at all.”
“You know, for the reddest of red tech,” said Lemon, “he’s not hard on the eyes.”
Eve looked at the body laid out on her workbench, stripped of its bloody flight suit, a pair of skintight shorts leaving just a little to the imagination. Smooth olive skin, hard muscle, a thousand different cuts from its journey through the windshield scored across tanned pseudo-flesh. Its brow was smashed inward, its right arm sheared off at the shoulder, that coin slot riveted between its pecs. And yet, it was somehow flawless.
More human than human.
“It’s not a ‘he,’ Lem,” Eve reminded her bestest. “It’s an ‘it.’”
Eve leaned close to its face—that picture-perfect face from the cover of some 20C zine. Brown curls, cropped short. A dusting of stubble on a square jaw. Smooth lines and dangerous corners. She tilted her head, ear to its lips. Her skin tickled at the kiss of shallow breath, hair rising on the back of her neck.
“I swear it had no pulse …”
“Am I smoked, or is he a lot less banged up than when we found him?”
Lemon was right. The tiniest wounds on the lifelike’s skin were already closed. The deeper ones were glistening—healing, Eve realized. She peered at the ragged stump where the lifelike’s arm used to be and wondered what the hells she’d signed herself up for.
Lemon pointed to the coin slot riveted into the boything’s chest. “What’s that about?”
“Clueless, me,” Eve sighed.
Lemon hopped up on the workbench, cherry-red bob snarled around her eyes. She brushed the dust off her freckles, poked the six-pack muscle on the lifelike’s abdomen.
“Stop that,” Eve said.
“Feels real.”
“That was the whole point.”
Lemon hooked a finger into the lifelike’s waistband and leaned down to peer inside its shorts before Eve slapped her hand away. The girl cackled with glee.
“Just wanted to see how lifelike they got.”
“You’re awful, Lemon.”
Eve’s work space was a shipping container welded in back of Grandpa’s digs, cluttered with salvaged scrap and tools. Spray-foam soundproofing on the walls, junk in every corner. Flotsam and jetsam and twenty-seven empty caff cups, each with a tiny microcosm of mold growing inside (she’d named the oldest one Fuzzy). The door was a pressure hatch from a pre-Fall submarine, the words BEWARE OF THE TEENAGER spray-painted in Eve’s flowing script on the outside.
“So what we gonna do with him?” Lemon wagged her eyebrows at the lifelike. “Fug’s still breathing. Can’t sell him for parts now. That’d be mean.”
“It’ll be a tough sell, anyways. These things are outlawed in every citystate.”
“What for?”
“You never watched any history virtch or newsreels?”
Lemon shrugged, toying with the five-leafed clover at her throat. “Never had vid as a kid.”
“They were only outlawed a couple years back, Lem.”
“I’m fifteen, Riotgrrl. And like I said, we never had vid when I was a kid.”
Eve felt a pang of guilt in her chest. She sometimes forgot she wasn’t the only orphan in the room. “Aw, Lem, I’m sorry.”
The girl let go of the charm, waved Eve away. “Fuhgeddaboudit.”
Eve dragged her fingers through her fauxhawk, looked back at the lifelike.
“Well, BioMaas Incorporated and Daedalus Technologies are running the show now, but GnosisLabs was another big Corp back in the day. They made androids. The 100-Series was the pinnacle of their engineering. So close to human, they called them lifelikes, see? They were supposed to give Gnosis the edge over the other Corps. But the lifelikes got it into their heads that they were better than their makers. They somehow broke the Three Laws hard-coded into every bot’s head. They ghosted the head of GnosisLabs, Nicholas Monrova. The R & D department, too. Whole company came crashing down.”
“Sounds kiiiinda familiar,” Lemon said. “Gnosis HQ was on the other side of the Glass, right?”
“True cert,” Eve nodded. “They called it Babel. I seen pix. Big tower, tall as clouds. But the reactor inside went redline during the revolt, ghosted everything within five klicks. Babel just sits there now. Totally irradiated. Most peeps figured the 100-Series all got perished in the blast. But Daedalus Tech and BioMaas got together and outlawed lifelikes afterward, all the same. First thing they’ve agreed on since War 4.0. Every pre-100 android got destroyed. And nobody’s seen a 100-Series since Babel fell.”
Lemon nodded to the body on the bench. “Till now.”
“True cert.”
