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  “It’s just some poor bastard’s dumping ground, El. No one cares about Automatic murders. Come on, this is a waste of time.”

  “There must be more, Toby.”

  “I’m sure there are, and I’m sure no one cares. You’re the only one. Can I go home now?” Toby stared at me, but didn’t take long to sigh and relax its shoulders. “How many more?”

  “As many as we can find. At least one of them will offer some useful information.”

  The search took well over two hours, during which time we hoisted up seven Automatic carcasses. There were many different kinds — Erzly, Grifter, even a female Hoofer model, which was rare to see — but all of them shared the same features: bullet wounds, no NI, and at least several months’ worth of sludge stuck in them.

  I told Toby one more before we called it quits, so it picked up the pace dragging the final Automatic to the shore. As soon as the machine was dropped on the edge of the swamp, I saw that it was caked in a lot less dirt than the others had been, which meant that it was fresher. Wiping the muck away, I could see just how fresh it was.

  “Son of a bitch.” Toby’s head spun to face me as I inspected the dead Automatic. “This is Rudi.”

  “You know him?”

  “It … and no, not directly. But this is the Automatic that shot up that speakeasy and got tossed when I went back to the crime scene. I have a hunch that Agent Masters had it dumped here. He must have contacts in the underworld, if he got a hold of Stern. But why would the FBI want to cover up a shooting they supposedly had no connection to? We’re missing something here. What do you think?”

  “Fuck if I know, Roche.”

  I remembered that it was Toby I was speaking to, not Allen, and shook my head before scrutinizing the dead machine to make sure it was the same one. After the third inspection, after I’d opened and closed its empty head over and over, I concluded it was indeed Rudi. But what was it that I was missing?

  “Get this one in the trunk. And you can see that it’s empty, right?”

  “It’s empty, Roche, I agree with you. Stop being so fucking paranoid …” Toby kept grumbling as it pulled the shell up the incline toward my car. By now all of Toby’s body up to the waist and its arms up to its elbows were caked in mud.

  I looked over at the rest of the machines and guessed that there were dozens more still in the swamp. Every single one was headless, and I was willing to bet they could be traced to each Automatic incident in the past few months. Robins was going to call this a gold mine when I got it to him.

  The marsh began to bubble behind me, the muck frothing as something moved below the surface. Toby was far and away, so I’d have to get my hands dirty for the first time all day. I switched my weapon to double-action, rolled up my sleeve, and reached into the liquid, feeling for the metal husk that was waiting for me.

  It was waiting for me, all right. A metal arm reached out, grasped my forearm, and pulled, trying to drag me down into the mud. Its grip was strong, but I was stronger. With both feet planted on the ground, I yanked my arm from its grasp and stumbled back, readying my weapon. The shell emerged from the black water, red eyes glowing, both legs intact, but with only one and a half arms. I took no chances and pulled the trigger. A heated .38 round pierced its skull — the pill-shaped metalhead puffed out as the bullet passed through. I expected the shell to drop after that. It did not.

  The now truly headless husk stumbled forward, reaching out with a metal claw, trying to pull me into its grave. I fired a second round into its chest. The bullet struck the Tesla Battery, which emitted a high-pitched shriek as the casing cracked. I began to run away from the machine through the murky water. At what I thought was a safe distance, I glanced back to see the husk incinerated in a bright flash. I felt my heart leap from my chest.

  Reaching the shore helped me to calm my nerves. But my anxiety peaked once more when I heard metal clanking and servos spinning. The long-dead husks piled around me stirred and turned to face me. I turned and ran up the incline, screaming for Toby as more figures emerged from the black water.

  “What do you want now?” Toby said, sauntering to the edge. Upon seeing the moving shells, it went rigid. “Roche, what the fuck!”

  “Glove compartment! Spare pistol!”

  An arm grasped my ankle as I tried to climb the incline. I looked back to see that I was dragging its legless body behind me. It slowed me down enough that some of the other now-mobile shells were able to pile on top of me, dragging me back down to the industrial swamp. I twisted around and put two rounds into the chest of the Hoofer on top of me, missing its Tesla Battery but damaging it enough that it went limp once more. The other machines clung to me like glue, just out of reach of my pistol. I’d risk losing the weapon if I tried to aim at them. My feet once more touched the murky water, and I told myself to take a deep breath before I got dragged under.

  Thank God Toby had my back, just like in the old days. It ran down the shore with my spare pistol in hand, aiming at the machines atop me and firing a few rounds through their heads. These injuries did little to deter the husks, so Toby slid down and grabbed onto my hand before pushing more rounds into them at point-blank range.

  “Good of you to help. Could have done without the dramatic timing.” I grinned, though I was hyperventilating from fear and effort.

  “Fuck off, Roche! This is not the time for jokes!” Toby pulled the trigger a few more times, and the machines released their grasp on me one by one, finally allowing me to claw against the muddy bank and pull myself up out of the marsh. Toby grabbed the scruff of my shirt and dragged me up the hill. Once we reached the top, I looked back down at the swamp.

  I had underestimated how many machines were left in that dumping ground. At least ten more struggled and lumbered forward up the incline after us. That legless machine was still holding on to my ankle. A quick kick sent it tumbling down to collide with another husk.

  I grabbed the handle of the driver’s door. Locked! Fuck! Right, I locked it. Of all the times … One of the machines was quickly approaching as I pushed the key into the slot. I grabbed the barrel of my gun, swung at it, and bashed it in the chest, forcing it back so that I had the berth I needed to open the door. “Get in!” I shouted. Toby jumped through the open car door, emptying the rest of its magazine out through the window as I hit the gas pedal. Fuel Gel fired into the engine, and all ten cylinders roared as we flew forward, almost driving into a small hidden moat between the street and the Grotto’s wall. A sharp U-turn and we were facing south, toward the city centre — and also toward the husks that were now climbing onto the street.

  But my car could handle it.

  I hit the gas, shifted to second gear, and heard paint and metal scraping as my car flattened the machines. I was going at least seventy, and I didn’t stop until we were past 90th. Toby looked exasperated. Its weapon was smoking and the slide was locked back, signifying that it was out of rounds.

  “Wait, the car was locked. How did you …” My question was answered by the sound of wind whipping around the shards of broken glass that remained where my passenger-side window should have been. “Goddamn it, Toby.”

  “How else was I supposed to open the door of a locked car?”

  “Did you have to break my window to do it?”

  “I’m an Automatic. I take things literally, you know that.”

  “I sure do. So, interesting case, right?”

  “You could say that.” Toby slumped in the seat, throwing the gun on the floor. “You owe me big time after this.”

  “Roger that.” I owed a lot of people. Toby was just another debtor in a long list. At least it was patient, unlike some other debtors I knew.

  “You got a plan for the one in the trunk?” Toby turned back toward the back of the car. We could hear Rudi in there struggling to get out.

  “I know a guy, and I trust him, too. He’ll be happy to see it back in one piece.”

  I’d feel better once I’d proved to Allen and Jaeger tha
t I wasn’t crazy. However, I couldn’t say for sure that the rest of the city wasn’t going nuts.

  CHAPTER 10

  ALLEN RAPPED HIS METAL KNUCKLES on the door of the speakeasy. A small viewing window opened to reveal a pair of blue eyes that looked him up and down. After a few seconds, the door swung open, allowing him to enter the premises. The Automatic bouncer didn’t say a word, but shot Allen a glance. The towering Titan model stood on its massive metal arms. It had a large square body, and disproportionately small legs hung underneath. Its red eyes scanned Allen several times more before determining he wasn’t a threat.

  The detective-in-training threaded his way between the tables and chairs and found an empty booth to slide into. A robot waitress ran past, asking for his order in Bitwise clicks. He passed his eyes over the menu that was stuck to the table and decided on sugar water.

  Allen sat rigidly, peering around to discern the motives of the other Automatics in the speakeasy. A group of Erzly models similar to him — yet not the same — sat across from him, speaking Bitwise and calling out with flanged laughter, their blue bulbs glowing bright. They were unemployed, but seemed far happier than many others here who had occupations. Everything in here was a sharp contrast to the dark world he and Elias were working in: the smooth jazz, the laughter, even the variety of Automatic models.

  Allen surveyed the bar for a while, making absolutely sure he was in the right place. When Elias had mentioned “high-profile Automatics,” Allen had pictured the sort of noble Blue-eyes one might see up on the Plate, full of chrome and wit and willpower. He didn’t see any Automatics like that, and he stuck out like a sore thumb, his dapper black suit clashing with the loose flannel shirts, torn jackets, and rust aesthetic of most of the patrons. He felt like more of an outsider than he ever had before, even going so far as to muse that he’d be more comfortable in a crowd of humans.

  A few minutes later, a pair of Blue-eyes sat down next to him — a Grifter model who was far from sober, and an Erzly model much older than Allen. The Grifter’s one eye flashed red in intoxication now and then. Their Bitwise was broken, and they switched to English to communicate with Allen. The Grifters had their original model name lost long ago, as they’d famously become the Automatic of choice for Brunos to send on easy hits when they’d rather not risk a human operative. This Grifter had marks across its shirt, walked funny to the table, and had some odd attachments on its crown. Construction worker? Most likely.

  “Got a name, square? You new here? You look it,” the Grifter said.

  Allen recoiled from the forced English. “Allen Erzly. And I’m not box-shaped in any way, sir.”

  “Fuck off. Green-eyes aren’t allowed in here.”

  Allen was discovering why so many Blue-eyes had been shut down or programmed to be more docile. But he was still exploring the extent of his own psyche and felt no irritation at their insult. “My optical nodes are quite blue, sir.”

  “What’s this sir shit?” piped up the other one. “You a Humanist? Don’t like Bitwise?”

  The old Erzly model had a pill-shaped head and a slender base body. It was stripped down from the beefier models used for combat back in the War in an effort to make the human populace more relaxed around them.

  “I apologize if I offended you,” Allen said. “I’m just looking for information.”

  “Everyone is here for that reason — information and answers! And a fellow Blue-eye like myself knows all the answers,” the Erzly replied, throwing its arms up and spilling some of its alcohol onto the floor.

  A small Tapper bot skittered out from under a nearby table to wash the sticky liquid from the ground. It was spider-like, with a small bulb-shaped head, and it made a squishing sound as it ran across the spilled liquid.

  “Exactly,” agreed the Grifter, spouting off even louder than its friend. “We know everything that’s happening. The world is creepy and dark, weird shit is dropping on people’s heads, and the Automatics aren’t free from the city, whether you’re a Green or a Blue.”

  Allen worried that their level of intoxication might lead to violence, but knew that trying to get away might provoke them as well. The only thing he could do was sit and converse with them, no matter how difficult it was to parse their inebriated speech. “What do you mean?”

  “The lies of our dreams, our heritage, our rights as citizens of this city. Humans may try and keep us down, but we’re better than they could ever be. Our so-called ‘betters’ are weak in flesh, and they built us to be stronger in metal.”

  “Speaking of being ‘strong in metal,’ would either of you happen to know where one could acquire” — Allen leaned closer and lowered his voice — “inexpensive parts?”

  “So, you are a Blue-eye, brother!” The Grifter laughed and slapped the table. The sound of steel on steel kept ringing for several seconds after the initial impact. Allen noticed the Grifter had burns on its shirt and belt lines. Construction worker, definitely. The clasps on its head were for a helmet — it was unmistakeable now. “The easiest place to get cheap parts is over in Times Square, or at a small joint near the western warehouses.”

  “Is there an address?”

  “Just look for the people you can trust!” It laughed again, and its friend joined in as well. “Or at least, the people we would trust!”

  “And whom do you trust?” Allen’s sense of intrigue was stirring. Maybe they knew more than he gave them credit for.

  “Why, each other! What’s a Blue-eye without another Blue-eye beside him? We’re all brothers, built not of flesh and binding blood, but of metal and eternal spark!”

  The Grifter went on like this for several minutes before falling over, its upper functions ceasing as the alcohol began to interfere with its programming. It saved itself by powering down its Neural-Interface. The Erzly did little but laugh and drink.

  “That did not sound like something even humans would say in regular conversation,” Allen noted, peering down to make sure the Grifter had not harmed itself during the fall.

  “No, it was, brother. Ha! He’s a riot.” The Erzly gave its unresponsive friend a quick kick of endearment. “He’s been traipsing around a bunch of preachers down on 23rd Street. They’re heralding in the new age of the machine — the Technossance, they’re calling it. Like some bible verse or something. But let’s be real — nothing changes. They’re kidding themselves. And besides, he won’t be repeating their rhetoric if they lock him up and Green-eye him.”

  “I’m sure the police wouldn’t react so drastically to such … gibberish.”

  “Ha, maybe you’re right.” The Erzly grabbed its beer and downed the rest of the bottle, shaking its head before looking back at Allen. “So, you need parts? I know the people. They’re not too active these days. Everyone’s getting paranoid, which means we’re suffering. I can get you in contact with them next time they pop up, but it might be a few weeks before that happens. Can you make it that long without?”

  “I’m quite sure I can. I pride myself in my patience.” Allen smiled, and the Erzly lifted its drink and laughed.

  “The name’s Tim,” it said. “Model number TM-11. Don’t worry ’bout the scrap metal on the floor, he can’t do anything without me around. Be sure to look me up if you decide to visit here again.”

  “Thank you, Tim, for your assistance.”

  Allen stood up and made his way out of the speakeasy. He made sure to thank the Titan on the way out. This took the behemoth by surprise; its job was not a thankful one.

  On foot, Allen could take the time to slow down, take in the city. He had been hidden away in back rooms and police training classrooms for long enough; he needed to know more about the city he’d been hired to protect. Although, given the state of SoHo, he didn’t think there would be many people to speak to here.

  He walked north toward the Central Village and Chelsea and noticed an increase of people and machines on the street, a kind of life segregated to certain sections of the city. Apparently, SoHo had bee
n labelled an Automatic Neighbourhood in the early years before Second Prohibition. As the controversies arose, people had left in droves. He got a few glares from humans as he entered the Central Village, but otherwise he was left alone to explore the area.

  Every corner of the city had a crier, it seemed, saying this and that, handing out newspapers or pamphlets, or just screaming nonsense. Allen’s “ears” caught the words of street preachers speaking of the “coming of the age of the machine” and other apocalyptic prophesies. The subjects discussed in the newspaper sounded far more interesting, and Allen deposited a few coins into the crier so he could see what exactly was going on in the world. He sat on a nearby bench, machines and men passing him by without a second look as he read the news.

  The world kept turning while America suffered, though not every corner of the great Land of the Free was under the iron thumb of debt and poverty. The West Coast was doing quite well, with construction of the Golden Gate Bridge nearing completion and reports of Automatics being brought into the workforce to expedite the process. The column right next to that one mentioned that the current Automatic crime rate was greater than what the Mob crime rate had been before Second Prohibition. Definitely something he had to read up on later.

  “You! Abomination!”

  Allen peered up from the pages of the newspaper. A dishevelled man stood before him, waving a pamphlet in his face. His beard was longer than the hair on his head, and he wore a tattered, stained jacket. He threw the pamphlet at Allen before walking off, talking to no one in particular. “You dare affront God with your hubris and spirit! May you be stricken down by the Lord and by mankind!”

  Allen tried to think of an appropriate response. “Thank you …”