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  Jaeger nodded. He removed a rudimentary map of the Lower City from the wall and flattened it out on the table. Allen retrieved a marker from nearby and ran the black ink over dozens of points on the map, tracing and crossing out each small segment and landmark in the blink of an eye. And then, almost as soon as it had begun, its movements ceased. It reviewed its handiwork and looked up at me in confirmation.

  “It … Rudi … was indeed at the pickup point you mentioned to meet with whatever suppliers you deal with, Mr. Jaeger. However, afterward, it was abducted and brought to this location here” — Allen circled an area near the 5th Precinct building — “before being brought quite far north, where its signal was left for about thirty hours.” Interesting, I thought.

  “Doesn’t explain why it came back from the dead to kill me,” I said, “or all those other bots coming back, either.”

  “Yeah,” Toby piped in. He had to be part of every conversation. “At least twenty of those bots were skulking around, trying to drag him to hell. It was freaky … and I’m saying that.”

  “We’re missing something,” I said. “Someone abducted the damn thing, removed its Neural-Interface, gave it a gun, and told it to shoot up the speakeasy. Then, after the deed was done, they tossed it up north in some dumping ground. But why not just shoot up the place themselves and toss Rudi’s shell in there to implicate Jaeger? Red-eying Rudi would take too long, and removing a Neural-Interface …”

  “Could take longer,” Jaeger confirmed. “If they were being careful, that is. And God only knows how its moving without a Neural-Interface.”

  I grumbled for a moment, rubbing the bridge of my nose, the frustration giving me a headache. “Allen, we’re heading to GE.”

  “Do you have any idea who we might speak to?” Allen asked.

  “Head programmer for GE — Vannevar Bush — is a big name in the company. Maybe he has his office hours open. Lord knows he should if he wants this mess dealt with.”

  “And me?” Toby said.

  “No, just me … they weren’t too interested in you, actually. Something to bring up later.”

  “No, I mean, where do I go after this?”

  “Oh, sorry. Stay with Karl, make sure no one comes looking for Rudi. Turn that Cortex off for a while, too. We don’t want any surprises.”

  Jaeger nodded and did as I said. Allen and I went out the front door to the Talbot. As we slumped back into the car, the machine looked down at my trousers: “Detective, are you sure you want to go to such a reputable place in your current … state?”

  It was attempting to be subtle. I’d give it points for that.

  “I’m sure. After all, there’s no fun in going up there if we can’t fuck with them on the way.”

  The site where Rudi had been taken that fateful night was empty, as I’d expected. Not even a building they could have dragged the metal man into — just trash, back alleys, and a few apartment buildings filled to the brim with human garbage. I made sure to check every single door. Those who opened up for me were happy to say they hadn’t seen any cops or G-men there. Those who didn’t answer either swore at me to go away or cocked some sort of weapon as a warning from behind their door. After about an hour or so trying to find possible witnesses, I concluded my search and moved on to the more pressing objective.

  Being in the neighbourhood near the 5th gave me a chance to head to the precinct and grab a Police Parking Tag, which allowed me to park my car anywhere I wanted to. Robins was happy to hand it out, since it required the least amount of paperwork to grant and made him look good in front of the agents in his office. An officer requesting something and following the proper channels to receive it? We must have looked like the picture-perfect face of law enforcement in their eyes.

  Having the parking tag made me feel so much better about driving my car onto GE’s precious lawn. I hit the emergency brake, and the car skidded across the grass, leaving tire streaks across the green expanse and no doubt ruining someone’s day. The armoured security guard was powerless to move the car or argue, what with the big New York Police Department badge displayed prominently on the windshield.

  Allen, of course, raised concerns about my parking, but I ignored them as usual.

  Walking into the futuristic foyer immediately caused a ruckus when the secretary recognized me and reached for the phone. “Shit, he’s back …”

  “Sorry, sweetheart. You can’t get rid of me today.” I lifted my hand to show off the card, prompting her to place the receiver back on the base.

  As we walked to the executive elevators, we were once again harassed by the same security guards who had given me a few noticeable bruises on my face. They moved to grab their pieces, but a flash of my card froze them in place.

  That made me smile. “At ease, gentlemen.”

  “You’re no better than a vagrant, you know that? You deserve to be out there on the streets.”

  “Try and put me there, then.”

  Allen pressed the elevator button, and we heard it roaring downward on its high-powered magnetic rail.

  The guards parted as the doors did, but the sneers on their faces revealed fantasies of beating me black and blue. I waved at them once more before swiping my card. The doors whirred closed.

  The elevator shot up faster than I was expecting. I reached for the wall to steady myself. The elevator was quite spacious — almost as large as my bedroom, in fact — with four lavish chairs bolted to the walls, each accompanied by a side table. The wall opposite the door had a large window that looked out onto the Lower City. The bulbs on the Plate had yet to brighten and illuminate the dusk. As we rose higher and higher, more of the cityscape became visible. Allen was on the edge of its seat with its hands up to the glass, taking in the sight like it’d never see it again.

  For all I knew, it might not. Me, neither.

  I could see many of the southern Control Points for the Plate: my apartment building at Bowery and Bayard, the Empire, Chrysler, Flatiron, and 60 Wall Tower, all of them balancing the world’s broken economy on their shoulders.

  Soon enough, the elevator passed through the Plate, and we lost sight of the Lower City, entering instead the dozens of layers of manufacturing and heavy industry that kept New York — and America itself — afloat.

  The elevator slowed to a stop and the doors opened onto a dark-grey corridor that stretched out about twenty feet, with an elevator at the other end. Halfway along the corridor was a metal ring that protruded two inches from the walls, a sort of security gate. Allen looked spooked.

  “Is this the right way, Detective?” it asked.

  “Unfortunately.”

  We emerged from the executive elevator and started across the hall, our every step reverberating. Allen’s steps were much lighter than mine, despite the metal frame. We were about five feet from the metal ring when the walls began to move; seamless doors built into the sides of the hall slid out of the way, and the Plate’s own Underguard emerged to look us over.

  They wore faceless masks and strange plated armour that hid their actual proportions, and they carried sleek Frag Rifles. These chrome weapons were designed with maximum lethality in mind; the ammunition was stacks of tungsten-iron flechettes which were fired silently — no primer or gunpowder needed, only magnets — and could punch through both Automatic casings and human flesh.

  The guard closest to me held out a hand. “Identification?” Its voice sounded scrambled and electronic.

  “Elias Roche.” I jabbed my thumb toward my companion. “Allen Erzly. Here to do some police work.”

  “No Blue-eyes allowed on the Plate.”

  “It’s a cop, same as me.” The merc didn’t believe me. I pulled Allen’s broken badge from my pocket and handed it to him. “Fifth Precinct.”

  “No weapons allowed on the Plate,” it continued.

  I glanced down at my Diamondback in its holster, but instead handed the merc my access card. “Police business. I keep the weapon. Can’t have me defenceless, now can
we?”

  They could have intimidated me, maybe raised their rifles and spooked us by threatening our freedom or our lives. But they didn’t. Perhaps they were in a good mood today, because the excuse I gave seemed to suffice. They let us proceed through the ring. I felt an electric buzz on my skin. Elsewhere, the ring’s security feed would indicate everything that I had on my person, both over and under my skin. The ring must also have served as a deterrent for Automatics, because Allen seemed erratic and a bit scrambled for a few moments after going through.

  The elevator at the end of the hall opened, and we entered as quickly as possible, turning around to see that the Underguard had already pulled back and disappeared behind the walls, seamless doors returning to their original positions.

  Allen looked at me questioningly.

  “They can’t have just anyone walking around up there,” I said.

  “I suppose.”

  The doors closed, and we shot upward again.

  Before long, our eyes were assaulted by the unobstructed sun. The view beyond the glass was of a city alien to us bottom-feeders. The streets were adorned with cars of a much simpler and cleaner type than those found in the Lower City. Sleek, stylish, and designed for passengers’ maximum comfort, these little automobiles were no doubt made by Ford or Chrysler. The roads were wide, with simple lines and no curbs; the pedestrian paths were flush with the roads. Quite an odd design choice, I thought. Even odder, all the drivers seemed to be Automatics. But not Blue-eyes; every machine on the Plate was Green.

  The parks and natural green spaces of the Plate were hills and valleys that were integrated into the ebb and flow of the roads. Small parks were set in the centre of large rings of buildings. There were no skyscrapers up here; instead, simple buildings rose to a maximum of ten storeys, likely to limit the weight placed on the Control Points. People here looked ritzy and pompous, flaunting their clothing and influence as if no one would try take it from them. Up here, no one could take it from them.

  “Wow.” Allen finally broke the silence. Its face reflected both exasperation and fascination. Seeing these emotions made me feel better and made my partner seem more human.

  “Yup, welcome to the home of those who escaped the collapse. Lucky bastards.”

  The elevator rang as we reached our floor: 150, head of research. The doors parted. Several people were standing there, waiting to head down in the elevator, and they recoiled at the sight of me. I waved my dirty left hand at them, and Allen apologized in passing as we walked out onto the sleek floor. Said people — dressed in their expensive, gaudy clothing — tsked as they entered the elevator and checked that I hadn’t sullied their transportation.

  The area we stood in was much like the foyer of GE, but maintained to a degree that no one in the Lower City would have considered feasible or ethical. Machines scrubbed the floors of dirt and dust, and the white tiles and silver walls were adorned with windows and interesting sculptures that made me feel like I had stepped into an art museum. The reception area was manned by a lone woman who was quite lovely and more amicable than her counterpart downstairs. Above her station was a painting of a Mercury train passing over the conceptualized and newly planned Golden Gate Bridge. The piece was called Gateway to the Future.

  Cute.

  The woman looked up at me, smiled, then frowned — not in disgust, but concern. “Sir … are you all right?”

  “I’m good, darling.” I showed her the access card, resting my clean arm on the surface of the desk. “Just checking in. Official police business. My partner and I are up here to question some bigwigs in the Automatic Department.”

  She nodded and took the card, examining it before handing it back. “Saved up quite a few trips to make this one, Mister …?”

  “Detective Roche. Allen is the Blue-eye.”

  “Ah. Well, Detective Roche, I would suggest keeping your machine on a short leash … people up here aren’t too fond of Blue-eyes. You have two hours to conduct your business, after which we must have you removed. Do you need assistance reaching anyone in particular?”

  “Mr. Vannevar Bush’s office does not seem to be posted here,” Allen said, scanning a directory. “We are hoping to speak to him.”

  “Doctor Bush is the head of Automatic Research. I’m afraid you won’t be able to see him on such short notice.” Her tone had changed from pleasant to slightly annoyed.

  “Tell him the fate of his creation is in the balance if news of what we know gets out,” Allen said, interrupting her. “Trust me, he’ll want to clear things up. I’d bet my salary on it.”

  The secretary bit her lip before standing up. “I’ll see what I can do. Don’t go anywhere.”

  As we waited for the secretary to return, we looked out the window, down at the men and women passing in and out of the building. I had the feeling that Allen was uncomfortable seeing only Green-eyes up here, being used like slave labour with no room for personality. The Plate was an impressive accomplishment of culture and engineering, but it had not occurred without sacrifices.

  “All this space wasted on so few,” Allen said, finally breaking the silence.

  “Two million ain’t exactly a few, Al.”

  “But why?”

  “Why stay up here, or why leave us twelve million down there?”

  “Why build it? Why create this little world separate from ours below? Do they feel that they’re better than us? Why did people not fight this as it became a reality?”

  “It didn’t start out like that. Rockefeller started the project in the early ’20s, way before Second Prohibition. He wanted to create a way to fit even more people into the city, to allow people from across the country and the world to flood into New York and call it home, everyone from stockbrokers to farmers to dirt-poor beggars. His dream was a city of two worlds, mingling and joining together in brotherhood. After GE and the first few places on the Plate were built, the FBI moved up there, followed by a few dozen denizens, then the Stock Exchange.”

  “And then?”

  “And then Black Tuesday hit.” I leaned my shoulder against the glass, with every Automatic on the floor looking at me as I stained the windowpane with my dirty clothing. “Rockefeller could build GE, but the rest of the Plate was going to be expensive, so he asked for assistance. Of course, the wealthy could afford to help, and the only thing he could offer them was space on the Plate when it was complete. The more people who helped, the more people he owed, so when everything was settled, everything on the Plate had been scooped up by those who could afford to invest or to pay the rent. It became its own monster, a monolith of hypocrisy. People say he lives in the Lower City now because he’s disgusted by what he had to do to realize his now-perverted dream … but those are just rumours. I’d bet any money he lives at the top of the Empire … right next to Gould.”

  “Who?” Allen asked.

  “Gould, the guy who runs the Plate. Or, well, it’s complicated, but he has more shares in GE than anyone else and helped mitigate the financial problems they experienced when the Depression hit. Now he controls almost everything up here.”

  “So, how does one get on the Plate, then?” Allen asked, even as a Green-eye guided me away from the window so it could clean the fogged glass.

  “No clue, Allen … no clue. I’ve been trying to find out for a while now. Most people pay through the nose to get up here. Or you’re just born into it now. Lucky pricks.”

  “Born into what? Wealth, or living up here?”

  “Both. Hopefully one day their world will be turned upside down and they’ll understand what the rest of us are experiencing.”

  “That woman said to keep me on a ‘short leash,’” Allen said self-consciously. “Do they treat us that badly up here? Are we not already victimized on the ground?”

  “You’re less than a second-class citizen here, Allen. You’re less than a piece of meat. To them, you’re the quintessence of slavery. The Green-eye is the perfect subservient creature that’ll do everything
they can’t be bothered to. Drive, clean, walk the dog, babysit, work in the factories. Anything humans consider themselves too good for, they have you do it.”

  “But … why?”

  “Because even in paradise, someone needs to scrub the shitters.” I pulled out my package of cigarettes, preparing to light one when I heard my name.

  “Detective Roche?”

  Allen and I turned to the man who had addressed me. He was average-looking with a rectangular face, thin hair, round spectacles, and a soft, calculating face. He was smart, and he knew it, but he wasn’t an asshole about it. His voice was gentle but stern, commanding authority but not demanding it. With hands behind his back and an upright stance, he compelled us to follow.

  “We have much to discuss.”

  CHAPTER 12

  VANNEVAR BUSH’S OFFICE WAS on the top floor of GE, and just based on its doors, it deserved to be there. They were tinted glass, which gave visitors a faint look at the clutter inside without giving away too much. A flash of his wallet near a sensor unlocked the doors, allowing Vannevar inside, with Allen and me trailing behind. The doors shut immediately after, locking as if to prevent anyone from interrupting our meeting.

  The walls were covered with awards, certificates, paintings, and portraits of famous men and women. There was a central desk covered in papers, a small workbench big enough to play with an Automatic arm on, a couch, two chairs, and a sleek circular coffee table in the centre. Above the desk was a chiselled wooden Automatic arm filled with ornate shapes and imagery. The thumb was sticking up and the fingers were curled in. The inscription read First Annual Vannevar Bush Engineering Award.

  “I haven’t got all day, Mr. Roche. I’m quite a busy man. Keeping an entire race of sentient … things … alive, you know. So, please, do tell me how you plan to threaten my livelihood.”

  The old bastard was pretty tough. He hadn’t the stature nor the commanding voice to say what he did with any sort of weight, but standing in his office was enough to make me feel like the Plate would crush me if I stepped out of line. I was at a loss for words.