Night Call Read online

  “Yes, there are currently ten thousand eight hundred and twelve of us across the country.”

  “So, it’s an invasion?” I chuckled. It didn’t.

  Right, humour. “Never mind. Who made you?”

  “The National Academy of Sciences. The official name of the endeavour was Project Lutum, which was conducted in secret somewhere in the midwestern United States.”

  “Ah, yeah, no one would go looking in the Dust Bowl. Next question: Why?” Allen simply shrugged. “All right then, when did you begin to invade — or should I say enter — society from where you came from?”

  “Our peak integration years were in 1925 and 1926, with the numbers dwindling until this year.”

  “You saw the crash in ’29? Jesus, how’d your kind fare through that little event?”

  “We took a hit to our finances, as many did, and, being lumped in with the Automatics, we found our rights stripped away. Many of us were left behind, so to speak. Some of us were employed in the construction sector to continue building the Plate. That allowed many of us to cope, at least for several months. I only know this from second-hand accounts, as I came to the city only last year.”

  Allen’s deadpan delivery felt strange and more mechanical than if an Automatic were telling me all this. It gave me a feeling of unease, like it was separated from the real world.

  “Well, shit, at least you didn’t see Red August. Hopefully none of your friends did, either.”

  The machine finally made a face of confusion. “I’m not sure what that means.”

  “Really? You’ve read up all about the codes and the conduct and everything to be a cop, but no one bothered to tell you about Red August?”

  “How important is this event, Detective?”

  “Well, it’s one of the big reasons Robins has presumably told you not to go north of 110th. It’s also why no one likes GE.” Allen was on the edge of its seat, urging me to continue.

  “Your kind saw ’29, but you didn’t experience it how we did. When the Smoot-Hawley Act passed — because, of course, they thought hiking up trade tariffs would make them money instead of drive out business — things went from bad to worse, leaving most countries steering clear of American exports. Hoover’s last nail in the coffin was the Corporate Relief Act. The bastard didn’t want to help us, so he let the big faceless corporations do it for him. There was quite a lot of space down here when the mass exodus to the Upper City began, so they wanted to shuffle everyone in Harlem down south and turn everything north of 120th into a massive factory neighbourhood to put people to work. Needless to say, the people didn’t take that lightly, and there were riots almost daily. Both cops and GE mercs were stationed there, trying to calm people down and keep the violence to a minimum … unsuccessfully.”

  “And when was Red August?” Allen’s voice was quieter now.

  “A year later, in ’31. Violence had been escalating, and then someone threw the first punch. Not sure if it was the cops or the civvies, but soon enough everyone in Harlem was diving in to try to kill someone on the other side. Did you know the police still had Manuals in commission for large-scale threats? I didn’t. They’re retired now, but back then, every precinct had a few on hand. You could hear the automatic fire and the rockets from Five Points. That little PR nightmare scared GE into never coming back, but the damage was done to that area. It’s unlivable now. Only people who stay there are squatters and criminals. The Wild West all over again …”

  The mood had been severely soured by talk of the past. I tried to lighten it back up. After all, I didn’t want to spend the whole night next to a depressed … whatever Allen was. “Ah, fuck it, at least we got Roosevelt last year, and he seems competent enough to keep GE at bay. So, tell me, how’d you get this gig?”

  Allen seemed to shake off the melancholy of the previous topic. “My designers, or someone connected to them, called in some favours, and the 5th Precinct was described as one of the most reputable and Automatic-friendly precincts in the city. Thus, I was soon transferred and placed in the employment of Commissioner Robins.”

  “Yeah, the 5th is reputable, that’s one way to describe it.” I grinned, watching Allen grab its darts before returning to its seat. “It was the only precinct that steered clear of Red August. A mix of respect and fear does wonders for a reputation down here.”

  “I see.”

  I still had more questions. “So, you have a knack for ‘seeing things.’ All that stuff at Jaeger’s proved that point … I mean, most people are too preoccupied by obvious tells and assumptions to pick out the little details around them. Spotting the less-than-obvious is one hell of a skill to have in this business. Can you do it with anyone?”

  “I believe I could. The speed of the deductions will depend on the evidence available.”

  “Right.” I looked around the packed speakeasy. It was filled with humans mostly, though some Blue-eyes were skulking about the place in a small group. They seemed quite segregated from the others, but I thought picking on them might be too easy for Allen. “Take the barkeep over there. Any thoughts on him?”

  Allen reclined in its chair, narrowing its field of view as it scanned the barkeep what seemed like a dozen times. An odd silence fell in our little corner of the speakeasy for a good few minutes before it leaned toward me and began to spit out what it had observed.

  “He’s left-handed, as he uses it primarily for wiping the counter, but as a child he was repeatedly beaten for using it, which is why he hesitates when reaching for items with his left hand. He hasn’t seen his wife and children in at least three years, judging by the grime and dust building on the photo of them behind some of the items on the wall behind him. And finally, he is far too trustful of his patrons, as he leaves his shotgun on the wall, rather than a more accessible location. Ordinarily, I might guess that he hides the shells underneath the counter, but that seems unlikely, considering where the weapon is. I’m betting that he has a .22 revolver under the bar in case he has to deter any vandals.”

  “Fascinating, Allen. I’m glad I’m not the only person who gets the raw end of your judgment.” I leaned back in my chair, satisfied.

  “It is not judgment, but simple observation.”

  I looked at Allen for a good while. It made a point without speaking: I really did take things too personally at times. It was something I should work on. “I need to piss. Watch out for the perp while I’m in there.”

  “Yes, Detective.” It nodded, turning to keep an eye on the street through the window.

  I left my darts on the table, stood up, and sauntered over to the bathroom door at the far end of the speakeasy. The small tiled room was clean, and I was sure the barkeep worked far too hard to keep it this way. I wandered over to the mirror to look at myself. The bags under my eyes were fading somewhat due to the naps I’d taken earlier today.

  “He’s not an Automatic,” I told myself, unzipping my pants. I tried to imitate Allen’s voice. “Detective Roche, it is not judgment, but simple observation … fucking Blue-eyes.”

  A wave of relief washed over me — or rather, out of me. I leaned my head back, enjoying the relative silence inside the cramped white bathroom.

  I had only a few moments of enjoyment before some calamity outside grabbed my attention. Sounds of yelling and shuffling came from the other side of the door. Whatever the tension was, I shouldn’t get involved in it. But then again, who would I be if I didn’t? I finished halfway through my stream, zipped up my pants, and walked out the door to see four cops cornering Allen.

  The chair it had been sitting in was turned over, and the darts that had been on the table were strewn around the floor. The Blue-eyes in the bar backed away, trying to put space between themselves and the cops. The other patrons watched, but with much less concern than they would have had if the boys in blue had been roughing up a human.

  Allen looked tense. It was as stiff as usual, but it wasn’t clenching a fist or even holding a hostile stance. It looked patient,
if not perturbed.

  The leader of the squad of cops — which precinct they belonged to, I couldn’t tell — was pushing Allen against a wall, obviously enjoying seeing the machine in distress. He took the badge out of Allen’s suit pocket, looked at it briefly, and threw it on the ground before stomping on it. I heard the metal crack from the other side of the speakeasy. “How do you feel about that, capek?”

  “I am aggravated, officers. I’ll have you know I’m legally allowed to enforce the law in this city.”

  “That so, eh?” They wouldn’t have any of it.

  I was curious to see how Allen would handle this, as none of the patrons was keen on helping out. The barkeep, too, was hesitant, knowing full well that even raising his voice against a dirty cop was a one-way ticket to the slammer. After all, good cops didn’t exactly go around abusing random machines in public.

  The cop grabbed Allen’s coat lapels and hoisted the metal man up against the wall. Its servos whirred in surprise and the wall shuddered from the impact. Allen seemed to wince, like it had been hurt.

  “You the 5th’s new lapdog, capek? Gonna bark when we kick ya?”

  “I don’t believe it is wise to threaten another officer, sir. Especially not one from a reputable precinct.”

  “Look at that: capek thinks it’s big shit being part of the 5th, thinks we can’t touch it!” he shouted to everyone else in the speakeasy. The other cops laughed, while the patrons — both human and Automatic — kept their eyes off the altercation. “We got our eyes on you, hear me? You fuck up once, we’ll shred you.”

  “I hear you officer … though I must say, you are making a big mistake manhandling me.” Allen’s tone had changed from fear to concern. It could see me moving toward the cops from behind, and knew they were much too busy harassing it to spot the obvious danger I posed.

  “Is that a fact?” the lead cop asked Allen.

  “It is. I would suggest you release me.”

  “Oh yeah? The fuck you gonna do about it?”

  The cops suddenly knew what would happen when I swung at the one holding Allen. He dropped like a sack, hitting the floor as the others backed up, grabbing their pieces. But mine was already out.

  I pressed a small switch on the side of my Diamondback, hearing the internals snap and lock as the weapon went from a double-action to a single-action trigger.

  Then they recognized me. Every cop knew me.

  “All right, boys, you want to settle this the old-fashioned way?” I said, stepping forward and pressing my foot down on the neck of the cop on the ground. He grabbed at my leg. I lowered my gun to my hip while my other hand hovered over the top of it, pulling the hammer back. “You can try to beat me in a gunfight … but you won’t.”

  The silence was palpable. The other patrons had all begun backing up as soon as my hand had connected with the cop’s face. The Blue-eyes, however, were getting brave, nodding and backing me up since I had stood up for one of their “brothers.” Allen was slumped against the wall behind me, and I turned to see if it was okay. It wore an expression of utter shock. Of course, I wasn’t going to kill the cops, or even shoot at them, for that matter. But they didn’t know that.

  I kicked the cop on the ground and heard him cough as he breathed in. He pushed himself off the ground and returned to his companions. I kept my Diamondback levelled, not ready to let them off the hook just yet. They might want to take my head off, but they wouldn’t. They couldn’t.

  “C’mon, boys …” The lead cop spat a glob of blood onto the hardwood floor. “Only dirty cops drink here.”

  “You got that right. Get the hell out!” I yelled.

  The four cops lumbered out the front door, careful to not take their eyes off of me. I figured I might be seeing them later.

  I pushed my revolver back into my holster, turned to the other patrons, and shrugged. “Round on me?” The crowd cheered and lifted whatever glasses they were holding. I slapped a twenty on the counter and signalled the barkeep.

  Then I went over to help Allen up, brushing off its suit jacket. It walked past me back toward its seat. I picked up the largest piece of the mangled badge and scooped up the remaining shards from the floor. Allen could get a new one eventually — the last thing it needed now was to worry about that. It righted the overturned chair and took its previous seat, as did I. We sat together in a silence that went on for the better part of an hour.

  “You okay, Allen?”

  It turned to me, seemingly pulled out of deep thought as it took some time to formulate a response. “Yes, Detective. I believe I sustained only minor or superficial damage.”

  “Not what I meant. You good?”

  “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  We sat in silence for a while longer. The group of Blue-eyes came up to me soon after, thanked me for “sticking it to the coppers,” and offered us both drinks. A tonic for Allen, and for me, some of the beer the barkeep kept in the back corner of the storeroom. It felt good being thanked — even if I had spent a hard-earned twenty on strangers, and even if my methods weren’t the best way to defuse such a situation.

  It was good to hear Allen’s flanging voice finally pierce the silence. “There is one thing still bothering me.”

  “How fucking lowlifes like them got badges in the first place?”

  “I meant about the case.”

  “Ah, right.” I’d been so wrapped up in street politics that I’d almost forgotten why we were here.

  “We have probable cause for this Stern, whom we are cornering at his apartment, and we have deduced that Jaeger did not have the necessary motivation or tools to enact this kind of vengeance. However, the absence of a Neural-Interface in the assailant that you reported is cause for concern, as such evidence could be dismissed as human error. While I am quite knowledgeable in Automatic functions, I believe that in order to narrow down the possibilities, we must definitely prove whether or not it is mechanically possible for them to run without a Neural-Interface.”

  “Agreed.” I bit my lip, thinking. Not many people down here know anything about Automatics, beyond how to fry them or Red-eye them. Jaeger was one of the best, and he’d had no clue. I figured we needed to go higher. “Can you get me a warrant for GE?”

  “General Electrics is accessible to the public.”

  “I meant the higher floors, where the bigwigs sit.”

  “Ah.” Allen nodded. “I can ask Robins to try getting something that will keep us there long enough to get some answers. It might be tricky, though.”

  “Well, call it your next assignment. I have all the faith in the world in you.” I sipped my drink, wetting my throat. “Also, be sure to check out some of the local speakeasies in the area. I know the Brass and Pass is the place for high-profile Automatics. Maybe someone there knows those dead boys and might be able to give us a lead. Something tells me it’s bound to be tied up with the Iron Hands.”

  “The who?”

  Shit. Forgot it doesn’t know anything about them. Don’t sweat, or it’ll think something is up.

  “They’re the biggest Automatic parts cartel in America and currently the biggest crime family on the Eastern Seaboard. They’re everywhere down here, and nothing gets past them. Most criminals who try to edge into the Iron Hands’ business turn up face down in the dirt or in the bay after they attempt something. I don’t know why those boys were shot at Prince and Greene, but I have a gut feeling the Iron Hands might be the cause.”

  “I’ll be sure to check thoroughly, Detective. Until then, it seems we can’t do much without Stern here. We are still at a loss as to his whereabouts and will remain so for a time.”

  “In any case, darts again.” I stood up and felt my body bloat. I suddenly remembered that I hadn’t finished my piss after dealing with the assholes who roughed up Allen. We could play darts afterward.

  CHAPTER 9

  HOURS INTO THE DRINKS, GAMES, TALKS, and even laughs, the speakeasy was at a standstill, and anyone still here was either passed out o
r very near to it. It was during this winding down of Tuesday night — or Wednesday morning, to be precise, as it was three in the morning — that the yellow Duesy came careering around the corner and shot into the parking tower. I tipped my head to alert my partner, then Allen and I got up, tossed some cash on the counter to pay for our most recent drinks, and left the speakeasy. We elected to walk over to Stern’s apartment, as every cop and criminal knew my Talbot from a glance.

  We headed into the building’s ground-floor foyer, which was far dirtier than the upper floors that we’d seen previously. We gave the perp a few minutes’ leeway before ascending in the elevator. If he was smart, he’d see that someone had tossed his apartment, and he’d start packing. If the landlady had secured the floor as she’d agreed to, the only way in or out was this elevator. Still, too many ifs. I nervously fidgeted with my revolver in its holster. Allen eyed me as he heard the cylinder spin. I pulled the gun out, cracking the breech to see how many rounds I had to play with. One shot spent, another six loaded. If things went south, I’d need only one more.

  “Where did you acquire the Diamondback revolver, Detective?” Allen asked as I slid it back into the holster tucked in my vest.

  “Took it off a dead Kraut in the War. These things were valuable back in the day, and a lot of veterans sold them. But I kept mine. I made the calibre smaller, fitted it with a seven-shot cylinder instead of the six it came with, and made it my official police pistol.”

  “Those are quite curious modifications. How did you get such specific work done to it?”

  “I have some contacts around the city.”

  With that, the doors slid open on the dingy hallway we’d first visited almost twenty-four hours earlier. Floor 37 — Allen had remembered.

  Stepping out, I peered left and right. No sign of our perp. A few dozen steps away, I noticed that one of the doors was slightly ajar, with light creeping out from underneath. I gestured to Allen to stack up on the other side of the doorway.

  I approached, grasping the handle. I lifted the handle — and therefore the door — as I pushed, keeping the hinges from squeaking. Inside, the place was more ransacked than when we’d left it. It was obvious Stern knew the jig was up and was doing his best to pack. All the landlady’s work to tidy up had been undone. The kitchen was strewn with glassware and circuit boards, the couch was torn to pieces, and the hallway leading to the bedroom echoed with the sounds of zippering and scrabbling. Allen was on my heels as I skulked down the hall. The bathroom was also a mess, and a trail of debris led back to the bedroom. Allen edged ahead of me, peeking between the door frame and the door for several moments before coming close to whisper, “Stern is packing. Several suitcases, and judging by the displacement of the mattress, they’re filled with some of the Automatic parts we observed previously.”