The Automatic Detective Part 11

"You can keep it, Lucia, as long as you tell me anything interesting you find when you crack it open."

"Deal." She dropped it in her purse. "So what do you expect me to find?"

"I don't know, but that's some hi-tech. Figure it's worth a look."

"Why, Mister Megaton, you're beginning to sound more like a detective and less like a cab driver every minute."

She was right. There was something appealing about breaking bones and asking questions, about mixing it up with lowlifes and intellectual dames. It was a d.a.m.n sight more stimulating than shuttling uptowners around the city.

I yanked Dome Head by his tie. "Who do you work for? And why would anyone go to this much trouble to kidnap a couple of kids?"

He gasped and gurgled. Harelip wasn't in any condition to talk either.

A new rotorcar roared into the alley. The Condor was a sporty model, 83 percent the size of the Albatross. It had rounded corners and a small, radiator-mounted prop that moved way too slowly for any practical performance and was simply there for aesthetics. The alley was big but crowded. Still, the driver was skilled enough to set her down in the small s.p.a.ce available.

"Let me guess," said Napier. "You want me to shut up and stay back."

I tapped my faceplate where my nose could've been. She got the gesture anyway.

Two guys stepped out. They looked like norms, but there was no way of knowing for sure. I was running across a statistically improbable number of mutants lately, so I didn't rule anything out.

The shorter one eyed Dome Head dangling from the tie in my right hand and Tony Ringo clutched in my left. "We're here for Ringo."

I dropped Dome Head. His helmet hit the ground with a gla.s.sy chime.

"You can have him, but I want to talk to your boss."

The norms chuckled. "Just give him to us."

Of course, they knew I didn't have a choice. I knew it too. Then again, I was still holding onto Ringo. Maybe Grey's reprogramming was finally slipping.

"Look," I said. "We had a little bit of trouble in this alley. Blastfire, yelling, fisticuffs, the whole nine yards. Now maybe in this neighborhood at this time of night that won't attract any attention. Or maybe there just happened to be a Tank monitor drone nearby to detect all the unsociable doings, and a rotorcar has already been dispatched. All I know is that I've got Ringo, and I'll hand him over eventually, but it might be a minute or five. Now why don't you use that two-way radio wrist.w.a.tch and see what your boss wants to do?"

The short guy nodded to his buddy, who shuffled off by the Condor and had a six-second conversation before nodding back to shorty.

"Okay," he said, "but what about the skirt?"

"Skirt stays," I replied.

"Too bad. She's got nice stems."

Shorty leaned over and rapped on Dome Head's helmet.

"Make yourself useful, bot, and throw these mooks in the trunk, would ya?"

I was happy to oblige, considering I was getting a free ride. It was a tight fit, but I managed to cram both Harelip and Dome Head in. Before they shut it, they gave Harelip an injection of some yellow liquid. Knocked him right out.

I tossed Tony Ringo into the backseat of the Condor and shoved in beside him. It was a tight squeeze, but Ringo wound up on the losing end of the deal so I didn't mind.

"Keep in touch, Mack," said Napier.

I nodded to her, then shut the door. The rotorcar lifted off, and we were on our way.

A part.i.tion slid up between the front and backseat and every window went pitch black. The boss must've liked his privacy and didn't want any robot recording his home address.

"It's not too late," said Ringo. "I know you can tear this car to pieces. We can escape. I know people."

"So I keep hearing, Tony." I spread out a little in my seat and mashed him against the door. "Now shut up and enjoy the ride."

I did consider his offer, but it was a moot point. Though I seemed to have regained some control of myself, Grey was still pus.h.i.+ng the b.u.t.tons. More importantly, I was pretty sure Ringo was a small-time hood, a loser who didn't know much of anything. It was better to move up the ladder and see who was waiting on the top rung.

We flew around for an hour and fifteen minutes. A good rotorcar, depending on skyway traffic, could cover half of Empire in that time, but there was also the likely probability the car was circling a few extra minutes as an extra precaution. Finally we landed.

The windows cleared. We were in a personal hangar. It was big enough for a collection of rotorcars, many of them pristine cla.s.sics. There was even a Wright Wyvern that looked as if it'd just rolled off the factory floor. Except they hadn't been made in factories, and last I'd heard there were only three in existence. There was no trace of the outside world, no way of knowing where I was.

Some thugs s.n.a.t.c.hed Ringo, Dome Head, and Harelip. They were all mutants, and one of them had a head resembling an orange jellyfish. That was an extreme mutation, the likes of which you rarely saw even in Tomorrow's Town.

He caught me scanning. "You got a problem, buddy?"

"No problem," I replied. "But you might want to grab a napkin. You're dripping all over your collar."

He executed a maneuver with his tentacles that I could only a.s.sume was derogatory in nature.

Jellyfish and the gang dragged Ringo and his buddies one way while Shorty directed me another. On the other side of that hangar was a long hallway with plush carpeting and good old-fas.h.i.+oned simulated light fixtures. The photon generator even did a fair replication of soft candlelight. There were odd paintings on the wall, full of shapes and colors but all abstract and unrecognizable. Somewhere a six-year-old finger painter was making a fortune.

We stopped at one of the doors. It had an actual handle. Shorty had to reach over and turn it, and the door didn't slide open but instead swung on hinges. I'd heard about doors like that, scanned them in movies, but it was a weird thing to scan in person.

"They're waiting for you," said my escort.

I stepped inside. They closed the door behind me. On the other side was a greenhouse. Except it was red, not green. It didn't have a gla.s.s roof but a bunch of soft crimson spotlights overhead. It was filled with plants, almost every single one a strange blue color with hexagonal leaves. I didn't recognize them, but foliage wasn't part of my database, and you didn't scan a lot of greenery in Empire. Or blue-ery.

Knuckles the Mark Three was there, still wearing my bowler. And Grey sat in a cozy chair beside the auto.

"Hey, Mack, good to see you," said Grey.

Knuckles beeped in a decidedly sarcastic way.

Something ruffled in the bunch of plants next to them, and out stepped a four-foot, two-inch biological in overalls. His skin was a s.h.i.+ny emerald hue and 30 percent of his height was devoted to his forehead. He had big black eyes and two antennae over them. He cradled a plant in his gloved hands. Whatever it was, it was breathing surprisingly loud for a plant.

He smiled with his very small mouth. "So you must be this Mack Megaton I've been hearing so much about."

"If I must," I agreed. "And let me guess. You must be Greenman."

He touched his face in that spot where he should've had a nose but didn't. I got the gesture anyway.

9.

"You can call me Abner," said Greenman. "Got to tell you, Mack, I'm impressed. First, you find Tony Ringo in . . . how long has it been, Grey?"

"Eleven hours, boss."

"Ten hours, forty-four minutes, six seconds," I corrected. "Give or take."

Greenman grinned. It was hard to spot with his little mouth. "See, that's what I like in my people. Precision. An eye for detail. But what truly impresses me is that you know my name."

"Wasn't hard to come by," I said.

"Just the same, not many people know it. Isn't that right, Grey?"

Grey nodded. "That's right, boss. Like to keep a low profile, stay out of the . . . whaddayacallit . . . limelight."

"Exactly," said Greenman. "You seem to be a remarkable detective for a bot who makes a living driving a cab."

"I'm a versatile unit," I replied.

He set the plant down in a bed of soil. The breathing blue flora scuttled over to a comfortable spot and dug in its roots. Greenman stroked its leaves. The plant purred.

"So what do you want, Mack? Money, I suppose. Everybody wants money. Makes the world go round, doesn't it?"

"I'll take some money."

"See that Mack gets a fair payment for services rendered. Throw in a bonus for timeliness and . . . what's that phrase they use?"

"Chutzpah, boss."

"Yes, chutzpah." Greenman frowned, mumbling to himself. "Chutzpah, chutzpah, chutzpah." He shrugged. "Odd sounding word, isn't it?"

Knuckles beeped his agreement.

"Perhaps I should consider making Mack a permanent addition to the payroll," said Greenman.

"Don't know, boss," said Grey. "They already sell chauffeur autos for cheap."

Knuckles beeped again, this time with a shrill antagonism.

It was a safe a.s.sumption that Greenman's goons weren't very fond of me. Our first meeting hadn't gone so well and now I'd made them look bad in front of their boss.

"Of course, money isn't the real reason you're here now, is it, Mack?" asked Greenman.

"No, but I've got a power bill to pay."

"Well, what other personal business can I help you with?"

"I want to know who Ringo's working for."

"As would I, Mack. As would I."

"You don't know?"

"Until a few days ago, I would've said he was in my employ. Apparently I was mistaken." Greenman frowned. "In any case, I've arranged for a discussion with Ringo, and you're welcome to sit in."

Grey stood. "I don't know if that's such a good idea, boss. How do you know we can trust this bot?"

Knuckles beeped his agreement.

"Come now, Grey. We wouldn't even have Ringo in our custody without Mack's services. His trustworthiness is as reliable as your considerable talents, so to question him is to bring yourself into question as well. If you're uncertain of yourself, please feel free to say so now."

Grey sneered, but didn't say anything.

"Excellent." Greenman tapped a b.u.t.ton on his dusty overalls, and they transformed into a wrinkle-free olive suit complete with a dark green tie in a perfect Windsor knot. I could've really used one of those. All the dust was gone, and there was a fresh crease in the pants and some s.h.i.+ny cuff links as well. "Shall we, gentlemen?"

"After you, boss," said Grey.

We walked down another hallway. Greenman led the way, with Grey next, then me, then Knuckles clomping right behind me. Close enough, I detected a very slight ping in his left shoulder joint every time his right foot hit the floor. An urge to take back my bowler perched on his head and dismantle him bolt by bolt in the process rose in me, but I squelched it.

They were holding Ringo in a clean white room with clean white lights and a single clean white chair. There was a faded stain on the ceiling. Old blood, I guessed, though I didn't ponder how it'd gotten up there.

Ringo looked scared. Very scared. He was always a little punchy, always had this look on his face that said he was perfectly willing to pick a fight, even if he wasn't always willing to follow that att.i.tude to its logical conclusion. Now, he looked terrified, sweating and crying and holding his broken arm close to his body. I was somewhat surprised that he didn't appear any more roughed up than the sorry state he'd arrived in. There was plenty of time left to work him over. h.e.l.l, maybe Greenman wanted to get a few slaps in himself.

Somehow, I doubted it. Not because Greenman was such a little guy either. Abner Greenman was clearly a man in charge, and Tony Ringo was a loser, designed by nature to be pushed around by anyone and everyone. I felt sorry for him. In the messy business of biological evolution, defective designs were inevitable. It wasn't much different than robots, except we got to learn our lesson after one or two unsatisfactory prototypes. But biologicals, they just kept churning out the useless ones.

No, Greenman wasn't the kind of guy to slap around anyone. That was the impression I got, anyway. Could've been wrong because Ringo was trembling, and it wasn't me or Knuckles or Grey that he was staring at now. It was little Abner Greenman.

"h.e.l.lo, Tony," said Greenman.

"h.e.l.lo, Mr. Greenman, sir." Tony's voice shuddered. "I'm sorry. They made me do it. I'm sorry."

Greenman circled Ringo. He rose an inch in the air with each step, like he was walking an invisible staircase. When he got high enough, he straightened Ringo's collar. "Look at you, young man. Such a mess."

Greenman's antennae twitched. The door opened, and a nurse walked into the room. She was blue-skinned, voluptuous, with b.r.e.a.s.t.s threatening to spill out of her low-cut uniform, which I doubted was regulation. Maybe it was this new detective gig that made me notice, but she had long legs that went on forever, circling the curve of s.p.a.ce and meeting themselves back at the end of eternity. And her face: it belonged in movies. Monster movies. The kind where some thing with six eyes and a lamprey mouth sucks out teenagers' brains.

Her voice was smooth as jagged gla.s.s. "Now, this'll only hurt for a minute, sweetie." The nurse injected something into Ringo's broken arm. He winced. His arm made a weird crackling noise for twelve seconds, then-bam-it straightened good as new.

"Thank you, nurse." Greenman patted her gently on the a.s.s.

"Fresh." She chuckled. Or gurgled. She ran a green tongue around her sucker mouth in a way I a.s.sumed was supposed to be appealing and pinched his tiny cheeks before swinging her hips to an out-of-the-way corner.

Greenman turned his attention back to Ringo. "Now, isn't that better?"

"Yes, sir, Mister Greenman."

"Good, because I find pain in the subject distracts from the extraction process."