The Automatic Detective Part 5

"My name's not Violet."

"But you just said-"

"Fuzzoid's name is Violet. My name is Winifred." She tapped the small plaque on her desk that confirmed this. "Can't you read?"

I'd scanned the plaque, but figured it belonged to someone else when she'd announced her name. Playing back the conversation from my memory matrix confirmed that there'd been a slight miscommunication. Wasn't my fault biologicals weren't always clear, but I'd learned long ago to accept their shortcomings.

"Whadayawant?" barked Winifred suddenly.

It took my speech recognition programs two seconds to pry the words apart into an identifiable sentence.

"I'm looking for Tony Ringo."

She turned her head toward the TV, but one of her eyes remained trained on me, and again, I found myself wondering about her genetic disposition. "Why you looking for him?"

I answered her question with a question of my own. "Is he here?"

"Maybe." She shrugged. "Dunno. He comes and goes." Her errant eye slid around in its socket, studying me up and down, before slipping back toward the television. "You here to hurt him?"

"Maybe." I shrugged. "Dunno."

Her lips twitched in a sort-of smile. "Three B."

"Thanks."

"Forget it. I never liked that little b.a.s.t.a.r.d anyway."

Not only did the Hotel Swallow not have escalators, it actually had wooden stairs. They were cracked and in bad need of repair, but I was willing to bet there wasn't a single carpenter left in Empire. The stairs creaked and groaned with my every step, but they managed not to collapse before I made it to the third floor.

I didn't bother knocking on Three B. If Ringo was home, I didn't want to give him advance warning. If he wasn't, then I might as well let myself in and have a look around. The door was a sliding metal retrofit, but it wasn't strong enough to keep me out. I could've walked right through, but I opted for subtlety. I wedged two fingers in between the jamb and the door and pushed it open, leaving some minor damage. There was some noise, most notably a soft protest from the door's motor. Someone in the room must have heard it, along with everyone in the hall, but none of them seemed to care.

I stepped into Three B, ready to move quickly if Ringo had been alerted to my arrival. It was a little box of a room (smaller even than your average downside efficiency), and Ringo wasn't there. But there were two other occupants.

One was a hulking robot. I recognized the design right off. He was an Evergood Mark Three Personal Security Auto. Evergood Robotics had gone out of business, but you still saw plenty of their robots in use. Eleven years of reckless technological experimentation had yet to produce the Mark Three's equal. Rumor had it all the other robotic manufacturers kept Mark Threes, and if a new design could last five minutes against one, it was deemed a success. Still, despite their superior design, the Mark Threes weren't popular with the general public. Most biologicals saw only the clunky, ugly design. They had no appreciation for the functionality of the unit. Ugly or not, Mark Threes ran practically forever with hardly any maintenance.

This auto was covered with rust and had patches of duct tape wrapped around various joints. His cranial unit, such as it was, was a square with a single optical. He was three inches taller than me, and his neck creaked like those ancient wooden stairs when he moved that head.

The second occupant was a biological in a black suit. The norm had a big bald head and small eyes buried in the shadows under thick eyebrows. He was sitting, while the auto was standing close enough to clamp a hand on my arm. His grip was 95 percent as strong as my max, and he probably wasn't squeezing as hard as he could.

The norm folded his hands together in his lap. "Who're you?"

There was an unpleasant tone to the question, and the Mark Three's audibly clicking fingers tightened. He might've been a little stronger than me. Some unscrupulous characters could tweak Mark Threes beyond recommended operational limits. The norm in the chair struck me as likely to be one of those sorts.

"Do I gotta repeat the question?" he asked. "Slower this time, so that you can process it?"

My simulators already started running battle scenarios. It a.s.sured me the probability of defeating a standard Mark Three as 100 percent certain, but something told me this auto wasn't standard issue. I still wasn't as worried about the auto as the dubious structural integrity of the Hotel Swallow. Two big robots throwing punches was sure to do some damage, maybe even bring the place down. So I let the auto keep his grip. For the moment.

"I processed it," I said. "But I don't see how it's any of your business."

"This can be civil." He chuckled. "Or it can not be civil. How it goes is up to you. But because I'm a reasonable guy allow me to extend the first . . . whaddayacallit . . . first olive branch." He leaned forward. "My name is Grey. And this is Knuckles."

Knuckles beeped. Mark Threes didn't have full voice synthesizers.

"And you are?" asked Grey.

I could've pounded both this guy and his robot to a b.l.o.o.d.y pulp, but something told me there would be consequences. It wasn't in my initial programming to avoid conflict, but I saw no reason to make this harder than it had to be.

"Mack. Now tell this piece of tin to let me go."

Grey steepled his fingers, put his thumbs to his lips, and made a peculiar clicking sound."'Kay."

Knuckles released me. There was a crease left in my forearm cha.s.sis. It popped out almost immediately, but I still resented it.

"This isn't your room," observed Grey.

"Isn't yours either."

He nodded, very slowly, methodically, as if having just learned the gesture and not sure of its execution. I know because sometimes when I nodded, I did it the same way.

"This can mean two things," he said. "Either you broke into the wrong room. Or you, like us, are looking for one Anthony Ringo."

He let the observation hang there.

"Which is it?"

The smart thing would've been to lie, but even the best artificial intelligence screws up sometime. I wasn't going to let these guys intimidate me.

"I'm looking for Ringo."

"Thought so. What, may I ask, is the nature of your relationship to Mister Ringo?"

"We're not friends."

"'Course not. Schmuck like Ringo, he doesn't have friends. n.o.body likes a loser. It's what makes them losers." Grey made a show of studying his fingernails. "I'm beginning to doubt he's coming back here."

"Then I guess there's no point in sticking around." I turned toward the door.

"One moment, Mack."

Knuckles stepped between me and the exit. He reached for my shoulder with his viselike manipulators. I grabbed him by the wrist.

"Hands off, outmode."

Knuckles growled shrilly.

"Come on, Mack. We've been getting on alright up to now. Let's not start p.i.s.sing on each others' legs."

While Knuckles and I stared each other down (an automatic stalemate for two robots that couldn't blink), Grey put his wrist.w.a.tch to his mouth and mumbled something. My audios weren't cranked high enough to make it out. I considered pushing Knuckles aside as Grey finished his conversation, but that could only lead to trouble.

Grey clicked off his watch and turned on me with a very slight smile. "So, Mack, it looks like we got ourselves a . . . whaddayacallit . . . common purpose. We're both looking for Ringo."

"Fine. You look one way. I'll look the other."

"Exactly what I was thinking. Both of us looking improves the odds, provided you could be persuaded to give us a call if you do."

"Fine. Give me your card. When I find him, I'll give you a ring." I would've smiled with halfhearted sincerity then. "I promise."

"Oh, I know you will. Knuckles, if you would be so kind . . ."

Knuckles seized my shoulders. He was stronger than me, all right, but Mark Threes had a design flaw. Their center of gravity was too high. It wasn't a serious flaw because few opponents were strong enough and agile enough to take advantage of it. Despite my bulk, I was graceful as a ballet dancer compared to Knuckles. I slipped my leg behind his ankle joint, kicked it out from under him, and leaned back. His clunky design couldn't cope and he crashed to the floor, smashing his way through the wall, tearing away half the doorjamb.

I brushed Grey aside with the slightest of efforts. He went flying across the small room to bang against an end table.

Mark Threes were notoriously slow risers. Knuckles struggled to sit up. I slammed a foot on his chest. "Stay down."

The auto beeped lightly but stopped flailing.

"They always gotta take the hard way," said Grey. He sported the signs of a fresh new bruise growing on his right cheek, below his eye. "While I appreciate your desire for independence, Mack, I'm afraid the point is . . . whaddayacallit . . . moot."

I was one-point-two seconds from showing him just how relevant my impulses could be by throwing him out the window. Before I could make the move, my legs locked up. A weird buzz ran through my audios, and my tactile web tingled and p.r.i.c.kled inexplicably. Knuckles stood, and I nearly fell to the ground save a steadying arm on the wall.

Grey's eyes were now a cold, sparkling green bright enough to cast emerald hues on the rest of the room.

"You're psychic," I said oddly. It wasn't like he didn't already know.

Not all mutants looked strange. That was the problem in Empire. You didn't always know who or what you were dealing with until after the fact. It was another one of those messy variables.

"Electrokinesis," he replied. "It's very rare, they tell me. Very useful, as I'm sure you've already figured out. The only hiccup is that I gotta first touch the device." He gingerly touched the splotch on his face. "Or it has gotta touch me. I think you bruised a rib."

I tried to get my legs to move. There was a slight twitch in the servos, but that was it.

Grey sat back in the chair with a wince. "Definitely bruised. Oh well, perhaps I didn't handle the situation as . . . howsthatgo . . . delicately as I should've. No big deal. We got it all worked out now."

I computed how quickly I could crawl over to that chair and break Grey's neck. Not fast enough.

"I see you're a stubborn one, Mack." He snapped his fingers. His eyes flared. My arm went numb and unresponsive. It lost its grip and down I fell.

Knuckles chuckled in a string of rapid pings. He scooped up my bowler and dropped it on his square cranium. He beeped quizzically.

"Looks good on you," said Grey. "I'm sure Mack here won't mind parting with it, will you, Mack?"

With my one functional limb, I pushed myself up, but Knuckles stomped on my back. He bleeped hard.

"I'd stay down if I were you," said Grey. "Knuckles isn't bright enough for citizen status, but he knows how to nurse a grudge. If you give him the hat, maybe he'll go easy on you."

"Keep it," I replied.

Knuckles knocked my working arm from under me, and I hit the floor. He kicked me once.

"Stand down, Knuckles," ordered Grey.

The auto stepped back.

Grey knelt down beside me. "Look here, Mack. You look like a robot that can handle himself. And since it's real important to me to find Tony Ringo, I think it'd be helpful to have an extra set of opticals on the street. Don't you agree?"

"Makes sense," I conceded, baiting him to move the four inches closer so I could wrap my working arm around his neck. If I got the chance, it'd take less than two-tenths of a second to break his neck. At least, that's how fast my specs a.s.sured me I could snap an average neck. I'd never actually done it before. Felt like the right time for a field test.

He leaned closer, half an inch from a guaranteed grab. "Now, I don't know s.h.i.t about you, but I'm willing to bet you're not the kind of bot to roll over and play nice. So I'm going to plant a little extra incentive into that brain of yours. See, I've got this knack for reprogramming. Kinda funny, actually, since I don't know nothing about computers." He rubbed his fingers together and tiny green sparks danced.

I was a closed system, and I planned on staying that way. I lunged awkwardly, but fast enough that I should've gotten my fingers around Grey's throat. He moved back just in time, grinning.

"Nice try, but I told'ja. I got a knack. Now that I've touched you, I know what you're going to do before you do."

He snapped his fingers, and my last functional limb went dead. I fell to the floor, five hundred pounds of useless tin. But despite his arrogance, sweat beaded Grey's forehead. His eyes were bright green with crackling psychic wattage. It must've taken a lot of effort to incapacitate all my limbs. I hoped he wouldn't have enough left over to claw his way into my operating system, but no such luck. He put his sizzling hands on me.

I went off-line.

My audios were the first sensors to reboot. A voice, distorted and heavy, trudged its way through the darkness.

"Hey, buddy. You okay?"

I would've replied, but my vocalizer wasn't running. I didn't waste any time getting it going, and instead, prioritized my opticals. The world fell into my digital awareness, but it was all mere shapes and colors without the necessary distinguishing software.

An a.s.sembly of multicolored polygons spoke. I moved another 3 percent toward functional and recognized a voice. It belonged to Winifred, the front desk woman. "Hey, you still on?"

Language can be tricky for a rebooting brain. It took three seconds to decode the four word sentence.

"Statement: I . . . am . . . functional," I replied. A full second later, I added, "Qualifier: Nominally."

"Nominally?" she asked. "What's that mean?"

"Advisory: It . . . means . . . you should . . . stand . . . back in case . . . I fall . . . over . . . as I attempt . . . to stand."

I managed to get to my feet, though it was awkward. Programs were up and running, but hundreds more subroutines had yet to reboot. My sensor array, though improving, was still a mess. I could distinguish shapes more thoroughly, but had trouble finding names for them. And my audio filters were down, meaning every little noise was being a.n.a.lyzed and rea.n.a.lyzed. Made it hard to concentrate. Worse yet, there was a terrible ache in my electronic brain, which was odd considering it had no tactile receptors. I put a hand to my abdomen, where it was housed.

"Question: What . . . did he do . . . to me?" I asked aloud. I didn't mean to, but my verbalization filters weren't running either.

"Who did what to you?" asked Winifred, whom I could now visually identify as a biological ent.i.ty but couldn't recognize any more than that.

"Statement: Running . . . diagnostic." I beeped twice for no apparent reason.

"You don't look so good." She took me by the arm.

"Statement: Tactile web off-line. Fine motor functions . . . off-line. Advisory: Maintain a safe . . . distance to avoid . . . incidental injury. Estimation: Full system restoration . . . in two minutes, two seconds."

"Maybe you should sit down while you wait," she said.

"Negative." I dug around in my vocabulary file for a less technical word. "No. It will be better to stand very still in the meantime." I hiccuped one last, "Statement." And then I waited.