Hearts Akilter Read online

  “It is shorting out? Will I explode?”

  “Don’t panic! Be glad the wire isn’t transferring current to its detonator cap.”

  “Affirmative. Yes. I am grateful for that, but why do you frown so?”

  “I don’t understand why the clay isn’t fastened down.” She again flashed the light inside him, up and down, right and left, then turned the unit off. “Looks like there’s nothing really to fasten it to.”

  “So when I move, it moves?”

  She shook her head. “It would take jostling or jarring, like when you suddenly engaged your treads just now.”

  “Marlee?”

  “Yes, Henry?”

  He almost whispered. “How did I get a bomb inside me?”

  “That’s a good question.”

  A very good question. Only a few techs had clearance for a prototype automaton like Henry. And all of them worked for the Guardian Security Systems Unit. Henry being one of the most sophisticated of units, he was serviced by the best in the GSSU, the ones who also worked on the top secret MSRs. Those Mobile Security Robots were Woodridge’s responsibility, or one of her underlings. “Henry, when did you last have your bib plates opened, and who opened them?”

  “Yesterday, 0920 hours, when Woodridge checked me.”

  “And she said everything was okay?”

  “Affirmative. Yes. Despite my complaint, she was insistent that nothing was wrong.” His eye lenses narrowed. “Surely Woodridge would have seen the bomb inside me, wouldn’t she?”

  “I should hope so. Unless it wasn’t there. No, no. That can’t be right. If you were in pain from the bomb, she had to have seen the bomb.”

  “The pain had subsided and vanished by the time she opened my chest plates.”

  “So the bomb may or may not have been there for her to see?”

  “Affirmative. Yes. Why are you frowning again?”

  “I’m perplexed.”

  “By what?”

  “Wondering why you wouldn’t know something extra had been inserted inside you.” A thought erupted that sent her pulse racing. “Henry, could someone have opened you up without your knowing it?”

  “I do not believe so. I will check for system and subsystem anomalies.” His eye rims spun until his irises became pinpricks.

  Marlee sighed and set her analyzer aside. Clutching her cold hands together, she concentrated on taking calming breaths to steady her nerves. At breath number eight, Henry’s eyes dilated to normal.

  “Marlee, I have checked all systems. Every nanosecond of time is registered and accounted for. I have received no data that is inaccessible or encrypted, nor have I found any instructions to shut down or to ignore a specific shutdown sequence. My internal logs confirm Woodridge has done all my downloads and upgrades. No one else.”

  Which meant, Woodridge had to know about the bomb. An icy coldness settled in Marlee’s gut. Why would one of the finest techs on the station not report finding a bomb inside Henry?

  “Marlee, how much time would it take to install a bomb in me?”

  “Depends on the bomber’s skill. My guess would be ten, maybe fifteen minutes or less. Only, come to think of it, to put the bomb in you, the person wouldn’t want to be interrupted or be seen doing it. Is there any chance—”

  “Woodridge upgraded my core processor unit three weeks ago. I was out of operation for eighty-four minutes.”

  “Upgrades happen all the time.”

  “This was different.”

  “How?”

  “Woodridge told her staff she was not to be disturbed while she made the installations. She sealed the lab doors. She has never done that before when attending to me.”

  “She might have closed the doors to make sure people left her alone. Sometimes, I lock my bay doors to keep people from distracting me when I’m working on something sensitive.”

  “Affirmative. Yes. It was likely that, and I am reading into the matter what is not in evidence. Why are you frowning again?”

  “Because it seems odd why Woodridge, or anyone else, would put a bomb in you. You’re a medical robot, a prototype, not any kind of security robot. You don’t even have access to people or compartments with high security or anything valuable.”

  “Affirmative. Yes. That is strange.” His voice changed to one of entreaty. “Marlee, please remove the bomb.”

  “Me? Don’t be daft. I’m a robotic-mechatronics tech, not the bomb squad.”

  The bomb squad!

  “Henry, I have an idea. We call the bomb squad—Wait. Forget that. Bad idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t have clearances for opening you up, and what will they say when they find out you can open yourself?”

  A few clicking sounds came from deep inside his chest cavity. Gravely he said, “There is a ninety-two percent likelihood they will conclude I am evolving into an AI. I will be deactivated. I will be crated and shipped to Razl. Disassembled…” His voice became a strangled whisper. “I will cease to exist.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Marlee, dearest friend, I do not want to perish. How can we get the bomb out of me?”

  “We? I just said I can’t help. It’s a bomb, Henry. You need an expert, a bomb expert, and offhand I don’t know any bomb experts.”

  “I do!”

  “What?”

  “His name is Deacon Black. He is a major in the Centauri Space Fleet. He arrived six weeks ago to instruct the bomb squad on new technologies and to certify and re-certify squad members for duty. Five days ago, one of his demonstrations prematurely fired. He received third degree burns on his left forearm, which necessitated treatment in the ER.”

  Hope flared and warmed her. “Is he still in sickbay?”

  “Negative. No. He was released. I saw him daily during his stay in sickbay and dressed his wounds. He did not treat me like a drone. I like him.”

  “But the question is, can you trust him?”

  “I do not know. His next scheduled checkup is in three days. Considering the bomb, that is a very long time to wait to talk to him, is it not?”

  “Yes, it is.” Marlee laced her fingers together. Resting her hands on the top of her head, she leaned all the way back in her task chair, the pivot joint softly creaking. “Let me think and see if we can come up with a plan or two that won’t get me reprimanded and busted down to a drone dispatcher, or worse—you shipped off to Razl.”

  ****

  0230 Hours, Deck 11, the Lamplighter Saloon

  Deacon Black sat at the far end of the bar in the semidarkness of the American, Old West themed saloon. He sipped his third DW. The DeLupian Whiskey hit his stomach with a smooth warmth. A memory surfaced of his first night on the space station. In this saloon, he’d drunk a dock worker under the table and won over a thousand drails in the betting.

  Such credits were a nice perk for being one of those rare individuals DeLupian Whiskey didn’t make drunk. Oh, he might end up happy by the tenth one. Still, it didn’t do to out-drink too many men, or women. Particularly tonight. Tonight he must be extra cautious, extra observant, because liquor and meds rarely mixed well, and he had an objective.

  He glanced down at his left forearm. Beneath his brown Centauri uniform’s sleeve, a hard-shelled, transparent cylinder protected his second and third degree burns so they would heal without scarring. An instant later, he felt the tingling of the atomizer inside the container spray meds over his wounds.

  None of the other med vials had created a tingling sensation. But this was a new cartridge, and his burns were healing, so maybe the CMO changed the prescription. Besides, he hadn’t noticed any adverse reactions to the meds and drinking DWs, now had he?

  He shifted his gaze to his liquor. A few more sips and he’d call it a night. To anyone watching, his self-imposed three-drink limit would make them believe he was a staggering drunk when he left. But would his drunken act succeed in bringing out the lowlife who was trying to kill him?

  A twangy piano tune
wafted out of the bar’s hidden speakers, followed by the caterwauling of the beer-glutted foursome nearby. He was used to military uniforms and ranks, but here on Kifel, the uniforms were a color-coded caste system. The foursome’s denim-blues meant they were spacedock workers. They huddled around a small gray table. Two men, two women—all singing off-key and butchering the lyrics.

  Across the way, two heavy-set men in a booth put their heads together, whispering then chuckling. Their beige jumpsuits designated them as food service workers.

  Hearing the rattle of glassware, Deacon eyed the bartender. The thin man, in circa 1800’s attire, stacked clean shot glasses into the auto-dispenser of a one-armed liquor servobot.

  Deacon took another glance about the saloon. No one looked like a killer. Then again, few killers ever looked like killers.

  With the next lull between tunes, the patrons silenced their chatter.

  The bar seemed too quiet, the patrons too subdued. Okay, so the bartender mentioned this was a slow night, the usual for two days before cargo handlers got paid.

  The saloon’s side doors shushed open, and a slender woman, in a rumpled, russet maintenance tech’s coveralls, walked in. Sticking out from under several denim-blue pocket flaps were tools of her trade.

  She swiped her fingers through her long mahogany bangs, raking them to the right and behind her ear. As she continued to the other end of the bar, she glanced at him but didn’t make eye contact.

  Yet, it was enough of a glance.

  He recognized the mirror-blackness of her eyes. Both eyes were implants. Usually such implants were a one-eye necessity for the micro-techs. Was she so skilled she chose implants for both eyes? Or was she a cyborg?

  He took a closer look at her loose-fitting coveralls for any enticing feminine attributes, but there didn’t seem to be any of note. What was noteworthy was the number of gold chevrons under her sleeve’s MRMT patch.

  Likely not a cyborg, but too dedicated to her job and too brainy by half.

  When she leaned forward to give the bartender her order, light flickered off something white holding her hair in an unkempt knot at the back of her head.

  A bio-bundle tie.

  Leave it to a geeky tech to improvise. He almost chuckled but stopped himself. He had to look like a stoic drunk and keep his wits about him if he hoped to catch the person trying to kill him.

  With a flourish, another tune erupted out of the speakers.

  As he reached for his whiskey, the tingling spray misted his burns. Only the sensation was cold enough that gooseflesh raced up his spine. To quell the feeling, he swigged down the rest of his whiskey. A flash of warmth filled his veins.

  It was time to go. Time to catch the pervert who wanted to kill him.

  He stood up, swaying for effect. With senses heightened, he wove slowly around tables and exited by the main door.

  No one followed him out.

  A momentary flood of disappointment rushed over him, but he kept the guise of walking drunkenly to the lift.

  Ahead was a corridor intersection. That junction would be an excellent place for an ambush.

  What if the killer had an accomplice in the bar? One now sending a message to alert the hit man?

  Senses straining, muscles at the ready, he continued toward the lift.

  One more step…

  No one sprang out of either side of the crossing corridor.

  Disappointment again washed over him.

  Arriving at the lift, he triggered the call button. The doors opened, and he took a deliberately slow, giant step into the lift. Sometimes pretending to be drunk was fun. He grinned and did a drunken two-step shuffle toward the back of the lift, reeled about, and made his way to the lift’s control panel. He teetered to a stop and circled his finger in the air twice before striking the door’s close button.

  Seconds later, through the ever-narrowing gap of the closing doors, the bedraggled female tech, the one he’d seen enter the bar, rushed in.

  Why hadn’t he heard her approach?

  As she passed him, he glanced at her feet.

  Atarq boots. Ones with special, foam-like soles that allowed climbing and balancing on the station’s interior bulkhead walls, and which also made it impossible to hear techs walking the decks.

  He watched the booted feet until the woman stopped at the back of the lift and faced him. When he shifted his gaze to her face, the optic glass of her irises seemed like jet-black onyx mirrors.

  Fascinating eyes. Bewitchingly lovely eyes…

  Only those eyes weren’t focusing on him.

  Why isn’t she looking at me?

  Instinct whispered that she wasn’t a threat, that he ought to get to know her.

  Stupid thought. If he weren’t careful, his libido would sidetrack him into a coffin. To find out if she was friend or foe, he should force the issue. Yes. Force the issue. And there was nothing like driving a tech-geek nuts to do that.

  He cleared his throat, which had her looking at him. Grinning his best drunken-shit-eating-grin at her, he faced the control panel. As fast as he could, and at random, he punched buttons.

  The lift began to drop, bucked to a halt, and dropped again.

  “You idiot!” The woman lunged toward him, but without a weapon in hand. She grabbed the sleeve of his injured arm, pulled him back with a strength that belied her size, and released him.

  The lift jerked twice in rapid succession.

  He lost his balance and slammed sideways against the wall. Grabbing the back railing, he steadied himself. A second later, he felt weightless.

  Oh, hell. The lift was in a free fall!

  Glancing at the woman, he found her releasing the emergency button, but it wasn’t lit. She thrust her hand into one of her big, coverall thigh pockets.

  What was she doing? Was she going for a weapon?

  He slipped his hand into his hip pocket, felt the snub-nosed rodgun, clutched it, and rolled the ball trigger to stun. About to pull the gun out and aim, he found her back was to him.

  The loud slap of a tech-tool onto the lift control panel’s cover was followed by the pop of the panel coming free. The tech shoved the cover aside, pocketed the tool, reached her left hand into the box, and brought out a wad of bio-lines. She shoved her other hand armpit-deep into the control housing.

  He heard the snap of plugs pulled from their sockets, then the whopping thumps of the safety brakes deploying. The force and friction between the brakes and the stop rails set off a cacophony of high-pitched squeals that drowned out all thought.

  The lift came to a jarring halt that sent his feet skidding out from under him. He hit the floor butt first.

  Damn it, was she intent on killing him or not?

  Maybe she’s only saving herself.

  All he could do was wait and see. Or, better yet, give her the perfect target.

  He slipped his rodgun up his sleeve, feigned a loud groan, rolled to his side, pretended to pass out, and covertly watched her.

  Marlee eased her grip on the frame of the lift control panel, which had helped her weather the lift’s sudden stop. That and her Atarq boots. Blessed be her boots!

  She half-turned and studied the man on the floor. The major’s breathing seemed steady and even. The color of his cheeks normal despite the dark stubble of whiskers. His face…so peaceful in repose. With his dark hair and the horizontal slash of his eyebrows above a classic nose, he was good looking, in a boy-next-door sort of way.

  Skom, she shouldn’t let her thoughts drift.

  What should she do now?

  Fix the lift so you can use it.

  Right, fix the lift.

  She replugged the jacks she’d pulled out of their sockets, let go the bio-lines, which slipped back into the wall, and hit the reset button. A tiny amber light flickered on, indicating the reboot. Once satisfied the system’s green lights were lit as they should be, she put the cover panel back. She faced the major. How was she to deal with him?

  Fingers laced, she
placed her hands on her head to think. Ambrosia, the code word for Plan A—which was meeting the major, getting him alone to discuss, in private, Henry and the bomb—had failed. She went through the list of the other plans she and Henry had come up with. Dragon, Plan D, seemed the most appropriate. That called for kidnapping the bomb expert, taking him to the incinerator, and talking him into disarming the bomb.

  Simple. Straightforward. Nothing to it.

  She tapped an autozipper to a pocket, reached in and pulled out a thumb-sized lift override drive. Returning to the lift controls, she plugged in the drive. When the ready light lit, she gave the lift commands. Then she tapped her sleeve band’s comm unit and sent the code word Dragon to Henry.

  A moment later, the lift began its descent at a normal rate of speed. Once the lift stopped, the doors opened, and she set them to stay open. As she stepped out of the lift, corridor lighting automatically flickered on. She paused to look around and get her bearings.

  The corridor’s sparse lighting cast shadows about a refuse compactor’s giant beater blades and half-story tall pieces of dismantled grinding hammers. The lingering odor of rotting waste assailed her along with the old smells of glazed-hot bearing fluids and burned bio-matter.

  Seconds later, she heard rubberized treads moving rapidly across the grate decking toward her and spotted Henry. Behind him, he towed her old maintenance-issue, antigrav skiff, which was loaded with satchels. He squelched to a stop a meter from her.

  “He’s drunk!” She whispered more harshly than she had intended.

  “Drunk? He should not be drinking alcohol. It will have an adverse reaction with his burn medications.”

  “Do men ever listen to doctors?”

  “Some do—”

  “Never mind. In his drunken state, he fouled up the lift and almost killed me. He passed out. Check him. He might have hit his head. If he’s concussed, we’ll have to haul his ass to sickbay.”

  Henry released the skiff, and it hovered in place. Once beside the major, Henry extended his effector, took a sweat sample, and whispered, “Marlee!”

  Dread, like a cold snake, slithered down her spine, but she went to Henry’s side.

  From Henry’s mouth came a holographic projection, the screen filling with Vital signs are within normal parameters. His blood alcohol level indicates he is not drunk, not even under a sufficient amount of liquor to be impaired. No head trauma. He is conscious. I do not understand why he is pretending to be unconscious.