Love, Death, Robots, and Zombies Page 19

  Chapter 17.

  The caravaners are none too happy about leaving Byron alive. The burly driver promises to hunt him down once Echo and the others are found, regardless of any promises I make. It’s an idle threat though. The caravaners still have a chance of recovering their abandoned property on the road south of Apolis. I doubt anyone will risk coming north again to track down Byron.

  After I tell Starbucks the situation, the robot takes a long look at Byron with unblinking black eyes. He nods once. Byron can’t see him, but the silence puts more fear in him than all the caravaners’ boisterous threats combined. I have no idea if Starbucks will abide by any agreement I make when all this is over–but hey, that’s between them.

  I bind Byron’s wrists with a cord from my pack. We make our way to an abandoned electronics store. The windows are broken in and there’s no sign of the owner. With the right parts, a radio receiver can be pretty easy to make. With the wrong parts, it can be impossible. What I’m making isn’t just a receiver though. It’s a direction finder. It has to identify where the signal is coming from and provide that data to the user. I cop together a working model, using a circular compass-face for the readout, configuring the needle to pull in the direction of the signal. I’m pretty proud of it, honestly. When I’m done, I keep the soldering tube and hand-cranked generator. Then I stuff my pack full of spare parts. I’m building up a solid collection.

  “Look at these,” Starbucks says, hefting a small gray sphere.

  I give him a puzzled look.

  “EMP grenades. Twist this and press–five second delay, kill all the ‘tronics in range,” he explains. There’s a big box full. Starbucks puts a few in his pack. I grab some for myself. The caravaners take a few too, no doubt thinking of hostile robots on the road back.

  Outside, even more plague-walkers have begun wandering south. They’ve had their party. Time to aimlessly occupy the z-line again. Some of Mudcross’s residents have clearly survived the siege. They’re barricaded into homes or shops. One tracks us with a rifle from a rooftop. We give him a wide berth. Other buildings have been abandoned, and these we sack for goods. The caravaners take weapons and supplies, but I make the best find of all: a working vehicle.

  I’m not sure if it’s meant for farming or travel or what, but it’s got one wheel up front and a pair of tracks in the back. A solar-cloth canopy absorbs the sun and keeps out the rain. It can hold four people comfortably. It’s sitting right in the street. The driver, a middle-aged man, lies dead only steps from the controls. It appears he was dragged from the vehicle and half-eaten by roamers. At some point he used a gun on himself. I stare down at the corpse as Starbucks retrieves the keys.

  “So he was human. Now you feel bad?” the big robot asks.

  I see his point. Indirectly, we killed a lot of people in this town. It was easier not to view it that way when all I saw were robots. I always thought of Lectric as a living thing, but it’s not as obvious with the robots in this town. I didn’t know them. They could’ve been mindless automatons. Consequently, it’s easier not to feel bad for them. But the human, well, that could’ve been me. Not that any of this was undeserved. These people, human and robot, lived in a place that thrived on abducting travelers and selling them into slavery. You live on a volcano, sooner or later you face lava.

  With the half-track and new supplies, our band makes its way out of town.

  On the grassy rise, we part ways. The caravaners embrace me again. They thank us and wish us luck. They curse Byron and spit on him. He affects a conviviality which proves indefatigable, however. He thanks them and makes light comments as though they were honoring him with their saliva. The burly driver socks him hard in the stomach.

  “Oh, you’re too kind,” Byron says in a strained voice. “Give the missus my love.”

  The driver boots him into the dirt with disgust. The caravaners depart south, leaving the three of us on the half-track.

  “Time’s a-wasting, friends!” Byron says.

  Starbucks sits next to him, very deliberately, his rhythmic robotic breathing close in Byron’s ear, and says, “Don’t talk again.”

  Byron opens his mouth … and thinks better of it. Starbucks sits there staring at him, breathing in, breathing out. He reaches back and feels for one of his sickles, brings it forward and begins sharpening it on a small grinding sponge. Byron licks his lips. I take the driver’s seat. The controls are easy to learn. And by the way? Driving is fun. Liberating. Empowering. Enough of this walking bullshit. We rumble north.

  And north.

  And further north.

  “You better be right about this,” I tell Byron repeatedly. We’ve crossed broken roads heading in other directions, though none too traversable. It’s likely we’re on the right track. Nevertheless, I worry constantly. I feel blind, not knowing how close or far the Grass Man is.

  At night, we camp in a forest off the road. I tie Byron to a tree.

  “Oh, thanks for helping me with this gravity problem. I’d just float away if I wasn’t tied down,” he says, smirking.

  “Yeah, pretend it’s all a joke. You’re still the one tied to a tree,” I say.

  “Pshh, this is a swim in the pond,” Byron says, shrugging. “Torturing people just isn’t your thing, Tristan.”

  “Maybe not. Comes naturally to you though, huh?”

  “Torture? I’ve never tortured anyone,” Byron says.

  “What do you call locking people in cages and ruining their lives?” I ask.

  “I call that the Grass Man’s doing. And hey, if people are stupid enough to trust random strangers and walk into an ambush–well, maybe they don’t deserve quite so much freedom. In a way, I’m performing a service. I’m removing the gullible from the gene pool. Evolution, baby.”

  “Unbelievable. You’re taking money to betray innocent travelers. How do you rationalize that for the greater good? You can’t even admit to yourself that it’s wrong. Well, it really paid off this time, didn’t it? Your face looks like somebody used it as a battering ram.”

  “Yeah, and who did that? Speaking of torture, those ‘innocent’ friends of yours would’ve killed me if the guards hadn’t happened in at the right moment. Your two blonde bimbos were only too happy to help. What’s that make them? I should’ve tasted Echo’s sweets when I had the chance. She knew why we were going into that forest, don’t kid yourself, Tristan. She may have said no, but she wanted it like a cat with its ass in the air.”

  My hands are wrapped up in his collar before I know it.

  “Don’t say another goddamn word.”

  “Or what? Hit me, Tristan. Go on, like your friends. Even they were weak. I’ve been through worse.”

  Letting out a breath, I relax my hands and stand up.

  “Yeah, I’ll bet. Not the first caravan you’ve sold into slavery, I’d wager. One of the others catch you too?” I ask.

  “No. I reckon the others would’ve killed me if they’d caught me. But this is still a swim in the pond.”

  “Whatever. All you’ve got are lies and tricks, smoke and mirrors.”

  I start to move away, but something in his voice gives me pause.

  “Lies? Lies, Tristan?” he asks, and his sudden laugh is bitter. “Try being chained up with pigs for a few days. My step-father was fond of that tactic. I got quite used to eating out of a troth. All the same, he wasn’t angry those days, just bored, you understand? It’s the other days that were bad. I won’t tell you about those. Now, would you do that to a child, Tristan? Would you make them kneel in glass when they ‘walked too loud’? Would you piss on them to wake them if they slept late? I don’t think so. You don’t have the stomach for it. Real cruelty takes willpower, Tristan. It takes commitment. That’s why I say you don’t have what it takes, and that’s why this is a swim in the pond.”

  I want to say he’s lying, but I don’t think he is this tim
e. Well, what did I expect? That he was born evil? People are programmed, much like automatons, only it’s the world that programs us. So Byron had a bad childhood; it doesn’t excuse him from what he does now. He can still make choices. He doesn’t get a free pass on betrayals. Even so, I understand him a little bit better as I walk away.

  The next day is much the same. We see a few robots on the road. Starbucks greets them in passing. I keep my eyes down. Starbucks has warned us to pretend we’re his slaves if we meet anyone. Humans and robots travelling together as equals is less common and more offensive in these parts.

  On the third day, it’s clear the swelling around Byron’s eyes has gone down enough for him to squint. He claims his vision is too blurry to be any good, but I’m doubtful. In any case, I figure it’s time we parted ways.

  “You can see well enough. Now give us the frequency,” I say, bringing out the receiver.

  “The supplies?” he prompts.

  I toss a canteen and some foodstuffs into the road beside our half-track.

  “And your word,” he says.

  “I won’t kill you. Or maim you. I give my word. Unless you break the deal. If the frequency’s no good, or if it doesn’t lead to the Grass Man, all bets are off,” I say.

  “Fair enough. But what about him?” Byron asks, indicating Starbucks.

  Starbucks sighs. Maybe he was counting on the oversight.

  “I will look for Jarvis. If I do not find Jarvis, I will look for you,” he says.

  “Guess that’ll have to do. Best of luck then, old chum. Now, I know Tristan will keep his word, but robots I can’t read so well. So here’s what I propose. I’ll take the receiver and go to the top of that hill. I’ll set the frequency. When I set it on the ground, you’re free to come get it. This way I’ve got a little head-start in case chrome-dome gets trigger-happy.”

  Starbucks and I glance at each other.

  “That’s not the deal. Give us the frequency or you have no need of your tongue,” Starbucks says, reaching for one of his sickles.

  “You see? I knew he had violence on his mind,” Byron comments.

  “We trusted you once. We won’t make that mistake a second time,” Starbucks says.

  “He’s right. No more tricks. Give us the frequency,” I say.

  “I didn’t think this was the type of ‘echo’ you were looking for,” Byron says. “We can do this all day. The fact is I’m rather attached to this life. I can’t give you the frequency unless I’m sure of my own safety, and from where I’m standing, things aren’t looking too safe. Maybe old Starbuckle here gets it in his mind to use that laser rifle. All I want is a little distance first. Setting it to the right frequency is in my best interests–I’d much rather have you going after the Grass Man than me, get it? Reason it out, Tristan.”

  What he says makes sense, but people like Byron will use your own logic against you. They’ll shake your hand while signaling someone to shoot you in the back.

  “I’ll keep the receiver,” I say. “You go to that hilltop alone and shout out the frequency. Then you wait there while I check it. If you run before then, or if it’s wrong, or if you try something–anything–Starbucks comes after you. Deal?”

  “Can’t say I’m very fond of that last part, but as I have no reason to lie to you–sure. Happy travels, gentlemen.”

  Byron moves into the forest toward the appointed hill. Starbucks watches him, fingering a laser rifle. I hand-crank the receiver to full power and switch on the speaker. Byron reaches the top of the hill. For a second he looks like he’s going to run, but he cups his hands over his mouth and shouts out the numbers one at a time. I fiddle with the dial. It’s hard to get it just right. It’s not like I spent weeks perfecting the device. What if it’s not calibrated well enough? I tested it in Mudcross, but it’s been bumping around in my pack since then. Finally, the speaker emits a high-pitched blip. It’s getting a signal. The needle jumps to life, swinging north toward the origin. Ten seconds later, the blip comes again. This has to be it.

  I look up at Byron. His treachery cost Kitra and Ambrose their lives. What’s honor compared to justice? Why should noble ideas protect the wicked? He should be punished. Even so, it would feel wrong to burn him down after agreeing to this deal. Maybe I’m as trapped by my programming as any good automaton. So be it.

  “Got it,” I shout, waving.

  Byron turns and runs down the hill.

  “Let’s go,” I say. But Starbucks is still looking that way.

  “I’ll be back,” he says, and takes off after Byron.

  I wait, watching the signal.

  It’s a long while before the robot returns.

  “Just making sure he wasn’t up to anything suspicious,” he says.

  “Was he?” I ask.

  “Didn’t seem to be. He saw me while I was following though and panicked, went into a river. He was swimming, last I saw. Must’ve thought I was coming to end it.”

  “Were you?”

  “I was keeping my options open.”

  We push the half-track north as fast as it’ll go–which is not as fast I’d like. It’s difficult to tell how far the Grass Man is, but the signal gets stronger as we progress. We sort through our weapons and talk about what to do. Our hope is to come upon his camp, take out his bots with the EMP grenades, and burn him down with the rifles. We don’t know how well his bots are hardened against pulse weapons, however. I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

  We come to it awfully soon.

  Two days after Byron’s departure, the direction-finder swings west. A forest grows through the debris of fallen houses on either side of us. I’m expecting the path to fork toward the signal, but there are only trees in that direction. Then there’s something in the road ahead. Something metal. I stop the half-track.

  “What is that?” I ask, remembering the mine in the desert.

  “Can’t tell,” Starbucks says.

  The spyglass reveals more.

  “It’s one of the Grass Man’s bots,” I say, throttling the half-track, throwing it forward.

  The thing is clearly dead. It’s sprawled in the road, covered in mottled green-brown fur, its cheetah-like legs out to one side. A burn-line has cut it almost in half. There’s no one else in sight. If there was a battle here, it’s over. I exchange a worried look with Starbucks. We grab our weapons.

  The signal lies due west. The forest isn’t overly dense but it’s enough to prevent the half-track from getting through. We set off on foot. I carry a laser rifle; my crossbow is strapped to my back, taut against my pack. The forest is eerily quiet–or is it only because I’m listening so closely?

  “There,” Starbucks whispers, pointing.

  At the base of a tree sits a dead man, his head slumped forward over the blackened hole in his chest. He’s wearing faded green camouflage. I don’t know what to make of him. Other signs of a fight emerge. The trunk of a fallen tree has been sheared off by a beam-weapon. A second grass-bot lies dead in the dirt, riddled with small holes. Charred grass and dirt surround a shallow crater. Twenty feet from the crater is a single muscled arm with no sign of a body. It’s pale and purple-white, like a rubber toy. Absurd that it could’ve belonged to someone. Bile rises in my throat. Fear too, as we move forward.

  Crom, give me strength in battle.

  But Crom doesn’t grant prayers. He only respects the strong–which, in all honesty, doesn’t bode well for me. We’re losing light. The sun is an angry red ball sinking beneath the hills. More black scorch marks mar the grass here and there.

  Then we reach him.

  The Grass Man.

  He’s sprawled headless in a leafy dip between two slopes, at the epicenter of the surrounding destruction. His tall, tufted body has been chewed by bullets and burn-holes. Someone did our work for us–and thank God for that, because it looks like he put up one hell of a fight. Mo
re of his bots lie dead on the slopes. A bevy of trees have fallen along the perimeter, eaten by grenades or energy weapons. Men are dead here too. Three that I count, all in the camouflage. Yet one thing is missing: the sled. The signal still leads west.

  “Tracks,” Starbucks says, pointing. They’re from the sled. They lead up the western rise. We head down the first slope, stopping to examine the Grass Man. His head is gone. His weapons too. I’m still looking at the body when there’s a crunch of boots atop the western slope. My head whips up–three men are coming over the top, startled, one raising a long-barreled weapon. A loud crack reverberates through the forest. There’s movement beside me. It happens that fast.

  Has he shot me? I’m unsure a moment. Perhaps I’m already dead and have yet to realize it. But no, I don’t think I was hit. I’m frozen by the sound, by the suddenness of it.

  “Drop the weapon,” one of the three says.

  The laser rifle is still in my hands. I drop it.

  “I think we’d better–” I start to say, turning to Starbucks. But Starbucks is on the ground. Starbucks has fallen backwards over the Grass Man. Starbucks has been shot in the head.

  Shock rips a hole in time. I know instantly that he’s dead, but it’s too much to grasp. He was here. Right here. Now he’s not. A single moment, a cutoff point–life on one side, death on the other. It’s unreal, a puzzle, a joke in poor taste. Can it be? Did this just happen?

  I’m leaning over him. His malleable expression has gone slack. There’s a hole above his right eye. It’s still smoking. The three men have come down the hill. They might as well have teleported. They’re saying things that don’t make sense. Everything is muted. I’m only dimly aware of them. One grips my upper arm. The touch trips an alarm in my brain, and then I’m screaming.