Unstable Prototypes (41 page)

"You spoil me, dumpling."

Garotte ended the transmission. Silo
continued to slide through the remarkably deep inventory of the
clothing outlet for a while. Ma, watching with deep interest,
periodically traced out a few sentences.

"May I ask you something, Miss Silo?"

"Sure, sweetheart," she said
absentmindedly.

"Based on prior experience, my questions may
be of a rather uncomfortable sort, covering a subject you may be
reluctant to engage in conversation regarding."

"Oh?" Silo said, glancing briefly at the
creature.

"What is the nature of your relationship with
Mr. Garotte?"

Silo snorted. "Like I said before, there is
no relationship with Mr. Garotte. Not the way you mean."

"I have attempted to discuss the relationship
between Miss Modane and Mr. Alexander. Though there is an
acknowledged romantic association between them, Mr. Alexander was
clearly uncomfortable with the topic, particularly when I began to
question some of the underlying inequities in the association. My
observance of your own interactions with Mr. Garotte have shared
many distinctive indicators of a similar association."

"Listen, hon. Garotte is just a friend. I
really don't have very many of them right now, and he likes to
tease. That's all. I don't have a 'romantic association' with
anyone."

"I see. Why not?"

"Well I was in prison for three years."

"I see. Were you a part of a romantic
association prior to your incarceration?"

"Not really. Off and on, I suppose, but never
anything serious."

"Were you ever romantically involved with the
individual you referred to as Claymore."

Silo scoffed. "No. Claymore is absolutely not
my type."

"Explain, please."

"Well, you know how Garotte is... let's say
enthusiastic
about espionage?"

"Yes."

"I'm the same way about heavy weaponry. And
Claymore is that way about the mission. I worked with him for
years, and I don't know that he's ever really been outside of a
mission during that time. If he isn't in one, he's plotting out the
next one. I mean, there is focus and there is obsession. That's why
I think he would have been a better addition to this mission than
me, at least at first. He's got the most balanced set of skills and
he's got the best strategic mind."

"These are not elements of your type?"

"No."

"Please state the appropriate criteria for
your type."

"Oh. Well, I like him tall, fit. He should
have a sense of humor, not take himself too seriously. He should be
able to take care of himself, and understand that I can take care
of myself. But he should want to take care of me anyway. Someone
like that."

"Garotte seems to fulfill those
criteria."

"There is nothing going on between me and
Garotte. I told you. I've never let
anyone
get terribly
serious for very long."

"Why not?"

"... I hadn't really thought about it, hon.
I... I don't know, I guess there was never really any room for it
in my life. There were always more important things, you know?"

"I do not know. That was the purpose for my
inquiry."

"Um... Well..." Silo said, finally pulling
herself entirely away from the catalog.

"You are exhibiting many of the same stress
indicators displayed by Mr. Alexander when I questioned him. You do
not appear to be confident in your ability to address this subject.
Why are discussions of this sort so trying? Is it possible that I
have yet to interview someone who has attained a full understanding
of the relational process?"

"I'd say that's very possible, sweetheart. I
don't think anyone really understands how love works. At least,
I
sure haven't figured it out."

"Understood. If I am able to ascertain a
definite explanation, I will be sure to communicate it to you, and
to Mr. Alexander as well."

"You do that, hon," Silo said with a pat on
her head.

"Alright you three. On your feet," said
officer Franco.

"Finally! I was wondering when you were going
to let us talk to our lawyers," Michella said, springing to her
feet and marching up to the bars.

"You won't be talking to any lawyers," the
policeman said.

"What!? Why you fascist, megalomaniacal-"

"Mitch! Remember what happened last time?"
Lex interjected, putting a hand on her shoulder.

"Yeah! Keep your mouth shut!" Jon said. When
a glare of righteous vengeance turned his way, he quickly amended,
"... Boss."

"It seems that the footage you put up of the
three of you taking care of the engine problem on the disabled
truck has earned you the support of the public. We are getting a
significant amount of pressure to release you. Public Relations
thinks it is a good idea."

"Wait... the police force has got a public
relations department?" Lex asked.

"In Rackton it does..." said Franco, clearly
indicating his wishes to the contrary.

"And it has influence in sentencing?!" Jon
remarked.

Franco's lips peeled back in a grimace. "Here
is what is going to happen. And when I tell you that it is going to
happen, I mean that it is
going to happen.
It is not a
suggestion or an offer. It is not up for negotiation or debate.
What I say goes. Do you understand?"

Michella opened her mouth, but Lex and Jon
quickly interjected with "Yes!"

"You will be released. Any legal
ramifications of breaking the police cordon will be waived. You
will pay for the damage done to your vehicle and to any public
property. Any traffic fines or citations will be waved, but a
probational lock will be placed on all piloting privileges within
city limits for the next eighteen months. That means fully
autonomous control of any vehicle of which you are even a
passenger. You will share any additional information you have
regarding the attack, and you will be sent on your way.
Understood?"

"I speak for everyone when I say, that's more
than fair," Lex said.

"You most certainly do not-" Michella began
to object.

"More than fair," Lex repeated loudly.

"The Rackton Police department thanks you for
your cooperation," the policeman said flatly, tapping out the door
code.

Over the next few hours, the debriefing that
Franco had attempted initially finally took place. Jon eagerly
restated himself, Lex made what few additions he could, and then
Michella had her turn. After a few spitefully silent minutes, her
inner newscaster finally broke through, and she neatly summarized
all of the relevant information to a level of detail most police
officers would drool over. When she was through, they were led to
the evidence locker to retrieve their personal effects. Jon was
carefully checking over the camera, and Michella replacing the
individually bagged contents of her purse, the carton marked Trevor
Alexander was placed down on the counter and the overweight,
agitated evidence officer who had never quite been able to grow the
standard issue police officer mustache was reading through the
list.

"... Seventy-three thousand credits in
assorted gambling tokens. And finally this stupid slidepad. I swear
to you, if this damn thing went off one more time, I was going to
toss it in the incinerator."

"Well who was it?"

"Your mother, apparently. I'll tell you what,
though. You've got to let me know who made your security suite. We
couldn't crack that thing enough to even answer the calls."

"Thanks. It's a custom job," he said,
pocketing the last of his items and snatching the slidepad. "Thanks
for keeping such good care of it. So long."

Lex held the slidepad tightly in his hand and
tried his best to walk away quickly without appearing to be in a
hurry. Michella, who presumably had a good deal more practice at
honing her poker face for situations like this, pulled it off much
more convincingly. Jon didn't even try, practically sprinting out
of the police station like the roof was about to collapse, then
behaving as though he had simply been extremely eager about holding
the door for the others.

"I'll get GolanaNews to foot the bill for the
damage and fines. The ad revenue and distribution fees for our
footage has already tripled that, and it hasn't even hit prime
browsing time with most of the larger audiences," Michella
said.

"It's been a while since I had someone
willing to subsidize my misbehavior," Lex remarked, though the
flatness of his tone suggested he had more pressing matters on his
mind.

He and Michella approached the door, all the
while becoming more acutely aware of a dense crowd that had formed
outside. When they emerged onto the street, it was to a roar of
approval, as though a rock band had just taken the stage. It is a
peculiar thing about the human mind, but in times of great tragedy
or disaster, the public has an almost pathological need to put a
face of courage and heroism on the event. Sure, you'll hear stories
about looting and robberies after an earthquake, but not before
you've heard about the noble dog who led rescue workers to its
trapped master, or about the group of boy scouts who managed to get
a building evacuated before it collapsed. Rackton was a city that
had never seen a war. It had never known hardship, or even poverty.
The 150 people who lost their lives in orbit, and dozens more who
emergency crews would not be able to save on the ground,
represented the greatest disaster to strike the city since it was
founded, but already it was agreed that that number would have more
than doubled if the tanker's engine had been allowed to explode. If
the explosion set off the terrorist weapons or frightened them into
setting them off themselves, the death count would be in the
millions. Lex, Michella, and Jon weren't just the ones who managed
to get a news report out when no one else could, they were the
silver-lining to a very dark cloud.

Lex carefully slipped the slidepad into a
reasonably secure pocket and set about shaking hands and posing for
pictures. Fate, with its infinite capacity for irony, had managed
to restore his long lost fame at the precise moment that he most
needed just a few minutes to himself.

"No, no, that's okay. … It... No I didn't
have any special training, it was... That's a common engine
problem," Lex tried to explain as a flood of questions flew his
way. He turned aside to whisper in Michella's ear. "The crowds are
a lot more inquisitive when there's a journalism convention in
town."

"You think it's bad now, just wait until we
get back to the Pavilion," she replied before turning back to the
crowd. "All of the details are available on GolanaNet! Check back
for exclusive interviews!"

"Then maybe we shouldn't head back there just
yet."

Jon, as the only member of the group who had
never been the target of such aggressive public interest before,
was simultaneously the most lost and the most excited.

"That was me right next to him during the
engine thing! … I don't know, I just did what he told me to do! It
was an emergency! I didn't think, I just acted!" He proclaimed,
wide and enthusiastic eyes turning to his friends, "Is this normal?
Does this happen every time you do something like that? Because if
it is, I'm starting to understand why you do it!"

"It gets old fast, Jon," Michella said.

"Maybe, but it isn't old yet! That's Jon,
J-O-N, Nichols, from Golana! Comment on my profile!" he cried out
as Lex tried desperately to hail a cab.

It took more than ten minutes, but finally an
auto-cab managed to edge its way through the crowd. The trio piled
in and shut the doors. Since personally driving your car for any
measurable distance was strictly prohibited, public transportation
in Rackton had been designed without a driver in mind. Thus, rather
than the typical "all seats facing front" design that had been the
norm since the invention of the automobile, the auto-cabs had two
sets of wide, luxurious seats facing each other. Lex hated to admit
it, but it was a much more pleasant ride, allowing conversation
between all occupants without the person riding shotgun getting a
crick in his neck. The reason he hated to admit it, though, was
because his bread and butter was piloting vehicles, and if word got
out that automated cabs were vastly superior, no doubt his limo
service wouldn't be far behind.

"Please state destination," stated the cab's
system, in a voice near enough to one of Ma's borrowed voices to
make Lex do a double take.

"Where
are
we going?" Jon said.

"Uh... Let's just do a scenic tour for now,"
Lex said.

"Please select one of the preset tours from
the display to your right."

He tapped the first on the list, something
labeled, "Historical Rackton."

"I'm sorry, due to police activity, some
points of interest will not be accessible."

"That's fine."

"Revising travel itinerary. Transit time is
approximately. Twenty-four minutes. Would you like audio commentary
for points of interest?"

"No."

"Enjoy your ride."

The auto-cab lifted up and into a narrow
skyway, no doubt set aside specifically for leisurely sightseers,
and went on its way. Lex pulled out his slidepad.

"Seventy-six missed messages," Lex said,
"Text only. All from Ma. The first one says, 'Lex. We have received
your message. We wish to question you on certain important matters.
I will attempt to contact you at thirty second intervals whenever I
am within range of a communication pylon. This is attempt 1.' It
looks like all of the rest say the same thing, but with a different
number."

"Well call back. We need to compare notes,"
Michella said.

"Hang on a minute. Before I try getting in
contact with her, I want to make sure we know what we are doing,"
Lex said.