Night Call Page 23

  Especially not Masters. He was my next stop.

  CHAPTER 18

  “ALLEN, LOOK AT ME. YA GOOD?”

  Allen sat in the same folding seat in the Rotorbird that he’d begun the journey in, the steely blue lights of his eyes bouncing across the metal of the bird. His hands shook, and the metal plates of his palms clicked against each other. Looking outside, he could see the vast ocean of buildings in the Anchor, a nice change of scenery compared to the warehouse. Sinclair had just come back from booking Belik and had felt it appropriate to keep Allen from going downstairs just yet.

  “Allen, look at me. I need ya to focus now. Roche will handle the case, but right now you need to keep yourself from goin’ belly-up … if you can. If you had skin, you’d be positively green right now.”

  Allen’s eyes shot up to meet Sinclair’s. The cop had a look of understanding on his face, clearly empathetic to the anguish Allen was experiencing.

  “Patrick, I killed a man. He’s dead because of me.”

  “Yeah, I saw. You killed him, but you had to. Try not to think about it anymore.”

  “Police doctrine states that no perpetrator should be fired upon without instigation, and —”

  “Allen, he provoked you, since he was tryin’ to kill us. I need ya to focus on somethin’, okay? You may have killed him, sure, but you saved my life, and Roche’s as well. If Elias had fired the Suppression Rifle in that situation, the electrical discharge would have destabilized the Rotorbird, and we would have ended up in the ceiling, or flipped, or worse. You saved the lives of two officers today — well, an officer and a vigilante. I think that’s fair, eh?”

  “I attempted to render him inoperable by aiming at the Tesla Battery. However, I found the armour to be too tough to puncture using a regular firearm. The only possibility to prevent more mortality was …”

  “I know, bud. I do.” Sinclair sat in the seat beside Allen, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You need to calm down before ya hurt yourself. I need you to take a breath … if you can breathe.”

  Allen stopped shaking momentarily, sucking air into his synthetic lungs and holding it for some time before expelling it violently. He began shaking again, his jaw quivering as he continued to try to calm down. Sinclair kept a close eye on him.

  Suddenly Allen jumped out of his seat, threw himself from the aircraft down onto the helipad, and spewed a clear liquid from his mouth onto the floor. Sinclair jumped down to help him up, but Allen yelled at him to stay back. “Don’t touch it. Highly concentrated hydrochloric acid. I don’t want you losing any skin.”

  “Didn’t think you metal men had any fluids in ya, to be honest. Other than alcohol, that is.”

  “Most of us don’t. We have no saliva for initial digestion, though we contain acid in our stomach-like compartment for breakdown and absorption of organic molecules for our metabolism. We operate similarly to you, though with exceptions.”

  “Yeah, like the whole replacin’ of your limbs … thing,” Sinclair said. “Sometimes I wish we could do that. Be easier than having to get a broken arm worked and pulled for three months before it even rotates properly, eh?” He rotated his stiff left arm.

  Allen picked himself up, shaking the fluid from his hands before climbing back into the aircraft to take a seat again.

  “Look, Allen, just breathe, that’s all ya need to do,” Sinclair continued. “Just … let’s get your mind off of it. Tell me somethin’, anything.”

  “Like what, Detective Sinclair?”

  “Tell me about … tell me about where ya came from. Usually that helps normal people — humans, I mean — try to get their mind to a more relaxed state. Maybe you work the same, Allen. Somethin’ about your ‘childhood’ … or the equivalent.”

  “I was made exactly seven years ago in a secret location known as Camp Theta in midwestern America, but I was born far earlier than that.”

  “What do you mean born? You’re a machine. Right?”

  “In the early 1920s, China was conducting advanced research in human biology. This was feasible only with the increase of accessible technology due to the Tesla Battery’s widespread availability — America transported Manuals through China during the Great War, and proprietary technology had been ‘lost’ time after time. With that in mind, after China’s major breakthroughs in researching the human brain, most of their data was stolen through espionage by the Allied countries of America and France after rumours had begun to spread of such experimentation. These developments enabled further Automatic advancement with minimal effort and prevented China from getting an economic edge in either the Automatic or medical industry. American scientists endeavoured to enable true synthetic intelligence, and so a project was founded to create me. Or, rather, us — the Synthians. This was the briefing they gave to us after we developed true consciousness.”

  “Really? And how do you feel about being ‘born’?”

  “What do you mean?” Allen asked curiously.

  “Well, a lot of people — me included — often look back and ask ourselves if our lives are any good, or wonder if we were born at the right time. For example, if I’d been born a few years later, I’d never have joined the military and learned to pilot Rotorbirds. If Elias had been born earlier, he might not have met …” Sinclair’s voice trailed off. “You got any thoughts on that?”

  Allen stared at him for a while, pondering the question. “I suppose I believe I was born too early. As of now, we Synthians are still herded in with the common traffic of simple Automatics and are regarded as nothing more than programmed machines. The few humans who do learn of our true nature either fear us as imposters trying to replace humanity, or revere us as engineering marvels rather than seeing us as equals. I believe in a way that we were created by scientists just to prove they could play God. Maybe in several years — perhaps even decades — we will be accepted, but as for myself, I feel stuck here, attempting to set precedents that I will never be able to take for granted.”

  “Allen, there’s no reason to say that.” Sinclair put his arm around him. “Maybe you will enjoy those precedents and rights, eventually. Everything takes work and time. Look at humanity itself: before you — I mean, before Automatics came along — there was a lot of inequality between races, sexes, ideologies. A lot of it has been swept under the rug. Overall, things have improved … marginally.”

  Allen raised an eyebrow. “Marginally?”

  “Look I’m just saying that things will get better. Maybe not now, while things are on edge, but it’ll happen, eventually you’ll be accepted …”

  “Perhaps, but at whose expense? Another machine, far more advanced than I, might have to suffer as I do now, while I sit there powerless to help. I believe the cycle of scapegoating must end here, with us.”

  “Yeah, good luck with that, Allen. Human nature — so your nature as well, I suppose — dictates otherwise.”

  Sinclair leaned back in the chair, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. He offered one to Allen, who shook his head. “Speakin’ of which, you seem more knowledgeable about human nature than most humans. What did you do while you were stuck in that camp out west for seven years?”

  “I was educated through academic study, mostly. New areas of study emerged after the War in the fields of physics and psychoanalysis, which intrigued me, so instead of going out like many other Synthians, who attempted to integrate along with the Automatics, I decided to further my knowledge in hopes of using it to better human- and machine-kind.”

  Sinclair nodded. “Why are ya trustin’ me with all this, by the way? This whole Camp Theta thing sounds shadier than mustard gas. Why do you trust me with all these secrets?”

  “In our limited contact with each other thus far, I have observed you to be a trustworthy individual.”

  “Right, you have that ‘seein’ things’ knack. I hope you’re right, Allen. But while we’re on the topic of honesty, we should really talk about your bedside manner.”

  “You mean my lack
thereof?”

  “Yes, that.” Sinclair leaned against the sliding door frame. “Police work isn’t usually like this, Allen. Ya can’t go around telling everyone they’re wrong and you’re right. People have far too much pride to roll over and accept what you say, and some might even put a bullet in ya for disagreeing with them. Real police work is gut feelings, knee-jerk responses, and sometimes puttin’ a sock in your mouth if someone starts gettin’ hysterical. I just need ya to realize you can’t play the detective all the time. That sometimes other people have to be right, eh? Today you did somethin’ any sane officer would have in the situation, and you resorted to violence only when it was absolutely necessary. But as y’know, not everyone follows doctrine like me or you.”

  “Like Detective Roche.”

  “Like Elias, yes. Roche is risky and reckless, but I give him the benefit of the doubt in some areas. If there’s ever a case that needs solvin’, no matter how incredibly illegal it is to investigate or how insanely dangerous, I’d trust him with my life to get it done. No matter what the cost. And sometimes that’s what it boils down to. Ya don’t have to go in guns blazing, killin’ people, but you can’t sit by and expect everythin’ to clean itself up if things go south. Ya get me?”

  “I do, truly. I suppose I’ve been looking at his methods as an outsider. To look at him as an insider — such as yourself — might lead me to understand why he operates the way he does, and why you and Robins continually trust him with such delicate cases. Regardless, however, I still cannot condone the liberal use of lethal force.”

  “I agree with ya there, but that’s a conversation for another day. The last thing we need to do is set him over the edge when he’s this close to finishin’ the case. First, we end this fiasco, and then we get ya a cozy little cubicle where you can spend your slow days at the station. After that, you and Roche can have a long talk about his ‘ methods.’ You can even talk to him at your little desk. Now, let’s get the hell off of this bird before any G-men wander up and see us. They might think we’re planning on stealing it.”

  Allen snickered at the comment before disembarking. Just then, the precinct’s own Rotorbird appeared in the sky, beginning its descent to the large helipad. Sinclair turned back to Allen with an anxious look, checking his watch to see it was nearly seven o’clock.

  “Actually, you head downstairs. Tell the agent in Robins’s office that Belik was booked … I have somewhere to be.”

  Allen knew better than to question him. He nodded and headed for the stairs.

  Agent Ewalt seemed relieved to hear that an arrest had been made without the need for guns — at least, that was what Allen told him. Ewalt phoned the Plate, trying to find out where Masters had gone, but eventually gave up and decided to reschedule the inspection for a less tumultuous time. The agent contacted his Rotorbird pilot and flew back to the Plate, and soon enough, everything started to go back to normal. The stress of the past few days had earned most of the officers a night off, told that the 7th would pick up their slack. When ten struck, the station was deserted save for Allen and Robins.

  According to Robins, if there were any issues tonight, the 7th would deal with it. Allen, however, couldn’t relax like everyone else until he’d settled a few things. When he knocked on the door, Robins yelled gruffly, “Yeah? Get in here.”

  At the sight of Allen, the commissioner’s hassled demeanour shifted to a welcoming one. “Forty-One! Good evening, come in. Sorry about that.”

  “It is quite all right, Commissioner Robins. And if you don’t mind, I believe it’d be easier for you to call me Allen.”

  “Right, right, of course. Take a seat, Allen.”

  Robins waved a hand toward a chair. As Allen sat down, Robins walked over to a small table that held a few confiscated alcohols and picked up a bottle of brandy. His desk was still covered in loose pieces of paper, files, and other sorts of information, but whatever forms or figures the FBI agents had pinned to the walls had since been torn off and scattered on the floor at the edges of the room.

  Robins filled a snifter and looked at Allen. “Care for one? I only break it out for special occasions. And it’s legal … well, mostly.”

  “I … I believe I would like some, Commissioner.”

  Robins chuckled as he poured a second glass and brought both over. He sat down and met Allen’s gaze. The robot wrapped his metal fingers around the glass. The feel of the cool material was somewhat alien to him. He thought for a moment that drinking might be irresponsible, but his qualms went away after several drops passed his lips.

  “What brings you to see me?”

  “It’s … it’s about an incident that occurred three hours ago, at about five thirty in the evening, at the western docks, during Belik’s apprehension.” The robot looked at his glass for a few silent seconds before electing to pour more brandy down his metal throat. The liquid passed though him and hit his stomach. The sudden influx of alcohol into his synthetic circulatory system sent jolts through him and produced a ringing sensation in his head. “I don’t believe I’m fit for active duty, sir.”

  “Fit for duty? What makes you say that? Sure, it was a rough patch taking care of that raid, but from Paddy’s description, you did phenomenal for a rookie.”

  “Yes, I understand that. The problem is …” Allen realized that the alcohol in his system was making this both harder and easier. His silicon organs worked harder than their human equivalents, giving him a buzz faster than any lightweight. Robins got up, retrieved the bottle, and poured another inch into the robot’s glass. “Under the circumstances, I had to take a life in order to rescue Detectives Roche and Sinclair from the augmented human who was assaulting them. If the job calls for me to have other people’s lives in my hands, I don’t believe I can continue.”

  Robins nodded, an expression of empathy on his face. “Allen, it’s not always like this. Your investigative skills are magnificent, and I wish I had twenty of you. But I hate to break it to you — you can’t always play the nice guy. You gotta switch between good and bad cop. Good cop gets the perps to talk and tries to understand why criminals do what they do. Bad cop keeps those people from hurting others — including officers, if they become unreasonable. What you’re experiencing is something every cop in every city in every country has gone through. It’s just something that sometimes happens. You have someone’s life in your hands, and you need to decide whether that life can be redeemed, or will only continue to cause destruction and pain. And if you decide the latter, then sometimes you have to make an even tougher call … which you already have done. Honestly, I didn’t think you’d have this experience until far later, but I also believe it’s best to have the experience as early as possible. The earlier you learn to deal with this kind of guilt, the more prepared you’ll be the next time a life is in your hands.

  “This is not to say that a life you have to take is worth nothing. Every life is worth something. But we follow a code: that we will never kill anyone who has not taken the life of another. Someone who has taken the life of another is no longer a man or a woman, but a monster. And we do more than just hunt monsters: we see if they can become human again. Or we prevent them from causing more pain if they cannot be brought back.”

  “That seems like an extreme perspective to have, commissioner, especially in your position.”

  “Yeah, well, you develop some interesting perspectives if you stay in the lower city long enough …”

  Thousands of thoughts were running through Allen’s brain. The alcohol made it easier to sort through which ones were worth listening to. “I just find it odd that we are sanctioned to kill in order to prevent others from killing. It feels oddly backward and self-destructive. What discerns us from the ‘monsters,’ as you call them, if we do what they do? Is there a guarantee that we will always be good and they will always be evil?”

  Robins stood up and looked out the window at the fountain outside his office. He let out a long sigh. “There’s no guarantee, Allen.
We can’t know for sure that no one will switch sides, as you’ve seen from this case. But I suppose the best thing I can say is that police work isn’t shades of grey.”

  “It is shades of red. Though death is an inevitability, we kill only when absolutely necessary. Spilling blood to save lives.”

  Robins grinned, his shoulders relaxing as he returned to the chair. “I’m glad Elias has taught you as much as you’ve tried to teach him.”

  “It was a difficult situation when we first became partners, but we’ve worked past our immediate differences. At least for the moment.”

  “Excellent, excellent.” Robins sat back in his chair and sipped his brandy.

  “But to my original point, I do understand the reasoning behind the methods. There is no doubt in my mind as to why killing may be necessary. But the fact is, I just cannot accept these methods. I’m not built for this work. I can’t see myself becoming accustomed to this sickly feeling of —”

  “Allen, stop.” Robins didn’t let him finish. “This is the way to look at it: you’re now at a crossroads. You can either move on and fight like hell to never let it happen again. Or you can let it haunt you, and become a nervous wreck of a man … er, machine. Sorry. You killed a man, and that’s hard for anyone, even me. I’ve been doing this for more than thirty years — first in the War, now down here — and I still hate the feeling of having to pull the trigger. So, use this as a way to remind yourself to be the good cop. But know that if push comes to shove, you can handle the aftermath of having to play bad cop. Now, I swear, if you mention quitting again, I’ll slap you myself.”