The Saffron Malformation (7 page)

             
“How much?”

             
“Not… I mean, you could take the shine and sell it yourself if you’d like.  It’s stamped with the Pickens and Zaul label so it’ll fetch you a fine price.”

             
Moments passed.  “Will it clean?”

             
“I suppose so,” he replied with a shrug, insulted by the idea that his shine might be used to scrub metal rather than consumed and enjoyed.  “It’s worth more as a beverage though.”

             
“Distributing intoxicating poisons is not my function.  Does it burn?”

             
“Burn?  Yeah it burns, pure and blue too, not a tinge of led in it.”  Silence followed so Quey continued, “Is there any way we could, maybe meet and talk about it?  Maybe we could work out an arrangement?” Quey asked, hesitant.

             
The speakers cracked and she answered, “I don’t understand.”

             
“I’m just saying if we met then maybe we could understand.”

             
The speakers cracked.  “We have met.  We are talking.  Understanding is inevitable.”

             
“No, I mean… I find negotiations go better once people are introduced.”

             
“You are Quey.  You know I am Ryla.”

“I mean in person, you know, look each other in the eye sort of thing.

“Irrelevant.  Either I will deem your product desirable and make an offer or I won’t.  You will either accept the offer or you won’t.  Eyes are inconsequential.”

             
Quey sighed.

             
Ryla continued, “What is the TH-147’s malfunction.”

             
He looked at the cameras and replied with a shrug, “Gunfire?”

             
There was another long pause.  “Assessment of the machine is necessary before an offer can exist.  Do I have your permission to tow the TH-147 here for a diagnostic?”

             
“Yeah,” Quey agreed.  “It’s just sou-“

             
“I’m aware of its position.”  The door in front of him opened faster and less noisily than the one behind him had.  Quey felt cold air rush over him and stood stunned.  He sold shine to all sort of customers in all manner of cities and towns, some of his clients owned some of the finest hotels in the world and still Quey was strained to recall a lobby as fine as the one standing beyond that door.

He heard a whirr and noticed the fire turtle bot and question mark bot roll up to him.  “Please place your weapon and sheet into question bot,” Ryla instructed from the speakers.

Quey looked up at the cameras and nodded as he pulled his gun from his belt and dropped it into the question mark bot, along with his burned-out sheet.  “Now please follow Bowserbot,” the voice instructed him.  “He will lead you to a waiting area where you can take advantage of our hospitality.”

             
Quey almost laughed.  Hospitality?  But then he thought if this was her being hospitable…

The temperature of the room must have gotten to him then because suddenly his skin was tight and goose bumped.

Without a word or smile Quey stepped forward.  Though it wasn’t the sole cause of his skin’s state, it was true that he’d never felt a building so cold in his life.

             
The door closed behind him and he looked around at the lobby.  Red carpet below his feet accented by dark brown wood and above him elegant chandeliers that glowed warmly.  There was a greeting desk along the wall to his right with a bot standing lifeless behind it, probably active and waiting to serve its function.  There was a grand staircase that led to a metal door.  There was what appeared to be a dimly lit restaurant to his left with dark red and brown décor.  On the other side there sat couches and chairs, black leather, scattered in a warm sitting room where a bot waited next to an elegantly stenciled sign that advertised coffee and snacks.

             
“COME WITH ME,” Bowserbot said in a distorted mechanical voice then started to roll.

             
As Quey started to follow Bowserbot, speakers crackled throughout the lobby and the opening guitar riff to “Roadhouse Blues” sounded through the room.  Quey smirked and said, “Welcome to the Morrison Hotel,” as he continued behind the bot toward the restaurant.

As they walked a second bot appeared.  This one rolled on four wheels rather than tank treads.  It had a torso, like the first, but no spikes on its back.  Its paint job was equally elaborate and depicted some sort of pig man holding a trident with a mountain in the background.  The bot had arms, like the other one, but only two, though they were larger.

              “WOULD YOU LIKE A TABLE OR THE BAR?”  Bowserbot asked.

             
“Bar’s fine,” he replied and approached the long dark cherry wood bar.  Sitting on a stool he looked over his shoulder and noticed the two bots resting across the room, their lenses trained on him.

             
The barkeep was painted black and white, in the tradition of a tuxedo and had a perfectly etched red bowtie just below its chin.  The tie was done so well, as a matter of fact, it was only on second glance that Quey realized it wasn’t real.

             
“Would you like a beverage?” the bot asked him in a less robotic voice that used a hodgepodge of old European accents.  Quey chuckled and asked, “What’s your liquor cabinet look like?”

             
This time when the bot spoke he noticed the accents were primarily French and British, though it might have slipped into Irish from time to time, he couldn’t much tell.  “Vodka, whiskey, rum, brandy and beer at the moment, sir.”

             
Quey was shocked.  “You have all of that?”

“Yes sirrrr,” the bot replied.

“No wonder she doesn’t need my shine,” he said to himself.

“Pardon?” the Barbot asked.

“Nothing,” Quey replied, shaking him off.  “Just… shit I’ll have to go with some whiskey.”

             
The bot lifted a bottle of brown liquid with one white hand and set a glass in front of Quey with the other.  After filling the glass he pushed it forward.

Quey was amazed.  He’d heard stories of Ryla’s bots but he’d never seen one and now that he had he understood her reputation.  The Barbot poured a drink, not with the clumsy accuracy of a robot moving individual joints in accordance with its programming, but with the fluid dexterity of a bartender.  There were the tiny imperfections in its movements that robots simply didn’t make, but people did.  He’d never seen anything like it.  “Thank you,” Quey replied and took a moment to smell the bitter liquor.  It burned sweet in his nostrils and he sighed satisfaction before taking a sip.  Smiling as it tingled on his tongue he swallowed and let it burn its way to his belly.  “Ahh,” he sighed and then shivered slightly.

              He sat sideways at the bar, looking over the room, taking in the elegance of its dark décor, a room of deep reds and dark browns and dim lights and then there were the two bots watching him.  He watched their lifeless presence and found the uncertainty of their intent an ominous authority that trembled up his spine.  He took another sip of whiskey and turned to the Barbot.  “Ryla?” he asked it.  It remained motionless, its lenses trained on his glass and he knew it was programmed to offer him another drink as soon as his glass approached empty.

             
The bots speaker cracked and Ryla’s voice came through.  “Yes.”

             
“Do your friends have to… I mean, you know I’m not armed right?”

             
“Yes.”

“So do you think maybe your friends can do something else for a while?  It’s giving me the creeps, the way they just sit there and watch me.”

“Don’t be rude,” Ryla said, “This is their home too.”

Quey peered at the Barbot, “Rude?  I’m not being rude,” he said carefully and suddenly aware of that bit about her being a nutcase.  “I’m just wondering if it’s necessary for them to keep watch on me.  I mean, Bowserbot, is it?  I think he’s got his weapon trained on me.”

              “I think it is neither necessary or unnecessary and therefore irrelevant.”

             
“It just makes me uncomfortable.”

             
There was a long silence.  “I don’t understand.”

             
“I have guns pointing at me,” he iterated with frustration.  “Big ones too.  It makes me nervous.”

             
“Why?”

             
“Oh, I don’t know,” Quey replied after another sip, this one tickled the back of his head a bit and he knew he was on his way to a nice buzz. “Because they could kill me.”

             
“Guns are only dangerous if fired.”

             
“Well what if they fire?”

             
“They will only fire if you conclude a defense directive program gate.  Do you plan to do so?”

             
“No,” he replied uncertain about what she just said, then continued, “but… I mean… I don’t know.  I’m not sure what that means.”

             
“The bots will collect and run data through a collection of logic gates to determine whether or not a subject is attackable.  Example.  Defense gate one.  Is subject foreign.  If yes, is subject human.  If yes, is subject holding an object.  If yes, run object through threat gate.  Did object match in threat gate.  If yes initiate fatal fire program sequence on subject.”

             
“Fatal fire…” Quey trailed off.  “So no warning?”

             
“Just keep as you are and you’ll be fine,” she said curtly.  “Look, your truck is here now.  If you want to keep this up fine, but I’m going to start charging you by the hour.”

             
“Alright,” Quey said, a bit flustered, and drank the last of his whiskey.

             
“Another?” Barbot asked in his hodgepodge euro voice.

             
Quey nodded and as Barbot filled his glass he asked, “Got anything to eat?”

             
“Certainly sir, what would you like?”

             
Quey shrugged, “Got any burgers?”

             
Barbot buzzed, his head moving back and forth in short quick jerks.  “ERROR,” the bot screeched in a mechanical voice, “INVALID INQUIRY.”

             
Quey stood and took a step back.  He almost reached for his gun when he remembered he didn’t have it any longer.  Finally Barbot recovered and was back to his European self again.  “Would you like me to ask the cookbot for,” there was a pause and then Quey’s voice played through the bots speaker, “Burgers.”

             
“Sure,” Quey nodded.

             
A light flashed on the top of Barbots head and a moment later a robot with an apron pained on its torso burst from the back and asked, “Did you mean… hamburgers?”

             
Quey nodded and answered, “Yeah,” with a degree of uncertainty.

             
Cookbot disappeared into the back and Barbot asked him, “Would you like some tobacco while you wait?  Or perhaps some Marijuana?”

             
Quey sat back down at the bar and asked, “You have that?”

             
“Ye-e-e-essss,” Barbot replied.

             
Quey shrugged, “Sure why not,” and watched Barbot roll him a joint and light it before passing it over.  “Hey?” he began as he accepted the cigarette, “You got any jazz in that thing?”

             
“What thing?”

             
“The music player, you know,” Quey answered.  The cherry ember brightened in the dim room as Quey pulled a lungful from the joint and blew a stream of smoke into the air.  It was sweet, infused with a hint of vanilla he thought, and countered the burn of his whiskey brilliantly.

             
“No, but I can access the planetary network and pull something off the archives if you’d like.”

             
“Miles Davis,” Quey said, sitting back in his chair.  “If you can find him.”

             
“Downloading,” Barbot announced.

             
Quey smiled, “Nothin’ makes you feel like a man like whiskey, a toke, and a fine bit of jazz.”

             
Morrison was interrupted halfway through “Blue Sunday” by a piano progression that exploded into a frenzy of drums and horns and standing bass half a dozen notes in.  Following his whiskey with a drag, Quey kept the rapid hi-hat tempo with his foot, tapping it against his stool.  As the music went on he felt the effects of his joint close around him.  Whatever was in that thing was strong.

             
By the time he was through with it his head was soup, and when Cookbot emerged from the back with his burger and set the plate down in front of him he felt a rush of excitement.  Quey’s mouth watered at the smell of the meat, slightly charred and seasoned with garlic and pepper.  It was a fat patty atop a fresh bun and there was lettuce, tomato, onion and a pickle on the side.