Keno 2112: A Girl & her Robot, A Boy & his Dog

Keno 2112

A girl & her robot

A boy & his dog

M.A. Leibfritz

Copyright

© 2016 M.A. Leibfritz

All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Digital Edition

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

Warning: This book contains mature content, including strong language and graphic violence.

Chapter 1

A light flickered outside the containment cell. There shouldn’t be a patrol through this hall for another twelve hours. No way to visually confirm, the narrow door slits were too high, the restraints prevented adjusting. Footsteps, three individuals, echoed in the bare hallway beyond the door. Voices accompanied them, one he recognized.

I can’t recommend it. The squeaky voice of the facility technician sounded more tightly wound than usual. It was no secret that the occupants of this cell block terrified the fidgety man.

They came to a stop outside his cell. Unusual.

I’ve heard your opinion. The voice of the stranger was smooth, deep, and commanding. Male, above average height or weight, possibly both, late middle aged. Now open it. Hasty tapping, the click of the lock’s keypad. With a laborious groan, the heavy metal door slid aside.

It revealed a broad-shouldered man in his late fifties, wearing an expensive suit. Shaved head hiding male-pattern baldness, cut of suit masking a hint of paunch, style excessive to display wealth, easy stance and uptilt to chin indicating expected obedience.

He hated the bald man instantly. The familiar surge of flickering code, the phantom sensation of something pouring through his inner workings. It was always strongest when there was something in front of him, hard to sustain otherwise.

Behind Baldy loomed another man. Crisp suit cut to intimidate, position deferential. Bodyguard. Possibly concealing weapons.

So, you’re the infamous machine, Baldy said, taking a step into the cell.

The thick collar binding his neck meant all he could do was raise his chin, restrictive programming preventing a retort. A faint grinding sound escaped him, echoing his frustration.

I thought you would look more dangerous, Baldy continued. Instead, you look like any other unit on the streets. Good. Whatever Baldy wanted would be unpleasant.

His fists clenched, a futile movement as they too were bound. No one here had trusted the restrictive programing to hold, and it hadn’t. Too much time to devise work-arounds, so the restraints. A rare intelligent move on the part of the damn fleshy assholes.

Baldy grinned. You’ll want to know what this is about, of course. The paperwork this facility has been filing for the past decade has at long last gone through. After more than twenty years of incarceration, they’re finally going to destroy you.

He stilled, the statement sinking in. Baldy’s breathing was even, eyes steady. Unlikely to be lying.

Death, permanent cessation, it was not something he wanted. He didn’t fear it, like some weak-willed organ pile, but he was not prepared to embrace it.

Baldy kept talking, oblivious or uncaring. The public has forgotten you, and so your suffering no longer matters. He leaned in. They wiped your name from the world, along with any details outside the death count, allowing you to fade into obscurity.

A sensation like being struck. All that effort for nothing.

Baldy pulled back, eying him critically. I did some digging and came up with a bit of information. As I understand it, you’d had one too many mind-wipes, and snapped when faced with another.

Rage flooded his system. The cyclical, devastating assault on his identity, and subsequent war on those who inflicted it, condensed to a simple sentence.

He ran a slew of simulations to see how likely killing Baldy was. Negative results. Damn it.

So many things came from your little rebellion. Your production company ceased all manufacture of your line, and recalled the entirety of your series. All destroyed. And yet, you were not. I’ve always appreciated the irony that to rule you responsible for those deaths, to charge you with murder, they had to process you as they would a human, and were limited to a human’s punishments. Otherwise, it would be like claiming the deaths were the result of faulty tech instead of malice, and the victims’ families wouldn’t have it. So here you are, trapped in legal limbo, while all those like you were melted down. Until now.

Hate surged through his processor. Those units had been innocent, victims, why punish them for his crime? The piles didn’t care, didn’t attach any value to them. Easier to replace them than question what happened.

Baldy spread his hands. Given that and the time that’s passed, I’m not sure anyone even recalls what you look like.

The point of this conversation remained unknown. So what? What was the relevance? Even with the faint smile Baldy wore, the gloating didn’t appear to be personal, the man was simply pleased.

Let’s get to the point, shall we? Baldy smiled, a wide showing of teeth. I’m here to offer you a deal. I know how much your semblance of life means to you, and I can provide a way for you to keep it.

Energy crackled through his internal systems, filling his senses with hate. Hate for Baldy, his smug grin and easy conversation. Hot, spiking rage, sliding through his gears. How dare this pile dangle hope in front of him, in what was surely a devil’s deal?

Baldy turned to the technician. Loosen the protocols, I need it capable of speech.

The technician made a noise of protest, but complied. The programming changed, access given to his voice.

Who are you, that you can bargain with the condemned?

Baldy chuckled, a cold sound. My name is Lucas Korvid, he said. I run the family estate.

Recognition, memory retrieval, and while his anger didn’t abate, it was warring with interest, a need to know. The Korvid family had been one of the most powerful crime families in the area at the time of his incarceration; that one could get into a high-security facility for an off-the-books acquisition was not impossible.

I’m listening. Not that he had a choice.

Korvid nodded, all business. I need a bodyguard, he said. Someone with no compunctions about killing. You would be authorized to do whatever is necessary to keep your target safe, outside of countermanding a direct order from said target, or myself.

The idea was ridiculous. You want me to protect a human? he asked. Dedicate myself to the preservation of some pile of organs? It was insulting, enraging, and he pulled at his restraints.

Korvid smiled again.

He ran probabilities of getting loose and ripping Korvid’s face off. Negative results. Fuck.

Isn’t the irony delicious? Korvid asked. Don’t reject me too quickly, the only alternative is death. I understand the most probable sentence will be ordering you to walk into a recycling furnace.

A cold truth, and a cruel death. Could he stand to take orders from some heap of flesh again? He didn’t want to die. Walking himself into a furnace, unable to keep from compliance, trapped in a set of rules that would not allow him to save himself, turn, or even stop.

Most pertinent question: Why me?

Korvid shrugged, expression wry. I’m running out of options. I’ve found dozens of likely people, with professional training and experience, all have been rejected. Those who didn’t disregard instruction entirely were too easily cowed by the target. You represent a compromise: unimpressed, albeit with no choice concerning obedience.

What sort of individual would inspire such conflicting responses? Curiosity competed with the lingering hate over the description of his situation. Stupid learning protocols, compromising the purity of his disdain.

This is no guarantee, then. He could still be rejected, even if he agreed.

Korvid nodded, waiting.

This could be one last act of submission before destruction. Still, it was a chance. As long as he was alive things might change. Once he was out of this place anything could happen, chaos reigned in the wide world, probability laughable. His death would serve nothing, and was far more certain. Fine.

Korvid turned to the technician. Load the directives.

There was a buzzing whine as his personal programing changed. Primary directive uploaded: protect and obey Korvid, Sam. Immediately following it, Secondary directive, take further commands from Korvid, Lucas. It was accompanied by a large file, a complete breakdown of bodyguard protocols and requirements. Simple, precise instructions, easy to assimilate.

Lucas Korvid spoke again. Tell no one where you came from. You will not kill or assault anyone except in upholding your primary directive, and you will not insult me to my face.

The orders sank in, alongside a great deal of resentment. Not even out of his current restraints and they were already attaching new ones.

His system has accepted the orders, sir, the technician said. "Shall I wipe the rest?

All thought ground to a halt. No, not again, not this. No-no-no-no-no-no-

Korvid glanced back at him, a lingering moment of silence. No, let him keep his precious identity, he said. He’s useless to me without it.

The relief that flooded him was quickly replaced with shame. He would give no thanks to the latest in a long line of oppressors, no matter what they allowed him. It wasn’t a kindness, it was necessary.

Remove any unique markings, and file off the serial number. Can’t have a machine documented as destroyed found out on the street. Korvid refocused on him. Have you some designation you prefer?

My name, he said, glaring, is Keno. It was simple, and perhaps not very original, but it was of his choosing. That made it precious.

Korvid’s eyes narrowed. I really don’t care for your tone, bot. A cold smile. Don’t move.

Keno froze, though his anger rose. Damn directives, damn pile. He knew what was coming, or at least the sort of thing that was coming.

Sauntering over, Korvid licked his thumb, and pressed it against Keno’s right optical sensor. It left a blurry smudge. Don’t correct it, don’t mention it. His smile widened. And please recall that you agreed to this.

There was so much hate flooding his systems, desiring nothing more than to beat the man to death. Yet there was nothing to be done for this petty show of power. All he could do was go along for now, and run simulations of the best way to kill Korvid once he found a loophole. Most involved prolonged sessions of knife work, and perhaps a weed-whacker.

The strip went quickly, the grinder applied fast and sloppy. He was out in less than an hour, if it could be called out. He was no less imprisoned, no less restrained. The decreased efficiency in his vison was a constant reminder that things hadn’t really changed. More dust, more rust, nothing else.

The view through the car window wasn’t heartening. The city was as dark and dirty as it had been twenty years prior, though some of the signs had changed. Keno leaned back into the seat, mildly surprised at the transport. It was an old vehicle, dating back to the early twentieth century. Not the sort of thing seen on the road, even when he had last been out.

Though, it was full of inconsistencies. It was too heavy, didn’t shift when they entered. The tires may sport thick whitewalls, but the tread didn’t match. The window and windshield glass had altered shine, not standard. Analysis: vehicle heavily modified. Reinforced body, high performance tires with hand-painted whitewalls, bullet-proof glass.

Lucas Korvid, sitting on the other side of his still silent guard, noticed him inspecting the ride. Ever ridden in a Rolls Royce?

Keno considered the creamy interior, soft and indulgent. The exterior was all slick black and white, accented in chrome. The whole thing reeking of expense. No. It’s abysmally archaic.

That earned a raised eyebrow from his host. The preferred term for such cars is Classic. This specimen dates to 1937.

Is there a point to it? Other than proclaiming how wealthy and important you are. Technically, it wasn’t an insult, though his processors whirred uncomfortably. A test, to see what he could get away with. The modifications are extensive, it would have been simpler to procure a more current armored vehicle. More efficient as well.

Korvid shrugged. It’s a little opulent for my tastes, but it was a gift, he said. And it has indeed been modified. Reinforced paneling, bullet-proof glass, the fuel system replaced with something more economical. The whole engine was taken apart and put back together. He slid his hand along the upholstery. Most of it is still original or as close as the giver could come.

A waste of time and resources.

Lucas snorted. True. But, as I said, it’s a gift, and it does send a message. His eyes flicked back to Keno. Even you picked up on it.

Keno resumed looking out the window. Humans hustled along the sidewalk, heads ducked and coats pulled close against the wind. No glance was spared towards their fellows, eyes glued to data pads, or vacant stares while chattering into earpieces as refuse swirled around their feet.

There were robots, carrying boxes and bags, following behind inattentive owners. Most were bare of any adornment, few clean, and fewer seemed interested in their surroundings. Still slaves, all of them. Even Keno, enslaved all over again. In a way, it was worse than confinement.

An oddity caught his eye. Moving like one of the robots, laden with bags, a creature decidedly different trailed along. From a distance, it might have looked human, but the tattered coat and hat it wore didn’t conceal the canine ears that peaked through its hair and the fur on its face.

Is that an augment? Keno asked, forgetting for an instant in his curiosity that he shouldn’t ask anything, shouldn’t give the pile any opportunity to inform him. Yet, he had never seen one and desired confirmation. They had been rare, an expensive import, but this creature was ignored and shabby. Invisible.

Korvid didn’t even look. Probably. Wretched things are all over the city. The man’s gaze fell back on Keno. They became quite popular, after your little stunt. A few labs opened up in the area, pumping them out by the dozen.

Keno scanned the sidewalk, spotting more now that he knew what to look for. Cat features, dog tails. The augmented were as ubiquitous as his kind were, and looked as disposable. A stab of guilt: had he damned these creatures to the same fate he had so desperately tried to escape? And all for failure.

The car turned south onto a less traveled road, though the smooth ride meant the asphalt was maintained. The buildings broke up, interspaced by ragged trees, desperately clinging to browned leaves. Along the left, the view opened onto the lake, the opposite shore invisible. The massive body of water had once been the lifeblood of this city, the shipping that came through the harbor fueling manufacturing and industry. The fishing had supported a tourist trade, both for sport and renowned restaurants. But that was a lost heyday, and the plants and factories had started closing long before he was locked up. The Third Great Economic Downturn had crushed this region, and it never really recovered.

Ahead loomed the Korvid estate. Its manicured lawn was still lush, and some enterprising soul had landscaped it primarily with evergreens, denying the oncoming winter. Crowning the clipped hill, amid the shrubbery and flowerbeds full of mums, was a massive building, all Greek columns and tall windows. Its stark white exterior stood in gleaming defiance of the city’s pervasive grime.

The gates—and the crisp little gatehouse in the same stark white siding and black roof as the other buildings—were manned by a stubby fellow with a floppy cap. The mottled-skinned pile waved them through, and the car glided up the drive. Rather than head for the main house, it turned to the right, heading for an outbuilding mostly comprised of garage.

The Rolls came to a stop, and Korvid and his shadow got out, waiting for Keno to follow.

Keno slid out, and begrudgingly took up a positon just behind the man to the left, Korvid’s guard on the right. He walked after them, albeit stiffly. He had been chained up for too long, and hadn’t been in the best of repair when put away. They went in through a door with a nondescript sign declaring this ‘The Shop’ and were assaulted by noise.

Aggressive music blared over speakers set around the ceiling. No inkling of sound had been evident outside, meaning the building was probably more secure than it looked. The screaming guitar and spastic drums didn’t quite overcome the high whine of the air ratchet currently in use under the propped hood of another archaic vehicle.

The mechanic was nearly engulfed by the massive Oldsmobile being worked on. Female, slight, and fit were all he could tell by the hips and snug jeans. From this angle, nothing else could be said with certainty. Probably young, mid to late twenties.

Lucas Korvid winced, eyeing the speakers, and stood with arms crossed.

The music ceased, replaced by ringing. The mechanic set down the ratchet and bolted to an old-fashioned telephone. You’ve reached the Shop. Her voice was smooth, if not friendly. This is Sam. She stood with her back to them, still oblivious to their entry. Her dark hair was pulled back in a short tail, blue bandana around her head liberally smeared with grease and oil. An equally smeared loose button-down mechanic’s shirt hung over a snug black tee, sleeves rolled above her elbows.

What? She turned, presenting a sharp profile with an angled nose. Prominent eyebrows scrunched over her narrowed eyes. What are you talking about? She hissed, teeth clenched. Damn it, Henry. How could you burn out a clutch in three months? That Javelin is a refined, precise machine. Do you have any idea how hard it’s going to be to find a replacement? If you’re that incompetent, hire a damn driver. It won’t cost half as much as what it’s going to take for me to get that part. She slammed the phone back onto its receiver.

Lucas cleared his throat. Do you know how hard it will be to replace that phone?

That’s different, Dad, Sam said, turning. "I’ve an old phone so I can slam… Her eyes fixed on Keno. Hello? She smiled widely, walking toward them. I don’t believe it, you’re a Calgary 700 series, right? Her hazel eyes raked over him, the intensity in them startling. I thought all the 700’s were recalled. Where did you come from?"

Lucas cut in. Storage. It was oddly accurate, and would work as a plausible cover if the question was asked in the future.

Sam glanced at her father, refocused on Keno, and extended her hand. I’m sorry, I’m being terribly rude. I’m Sam, and you are?

He considered the hand. Tempting as it was to ignore the gesture, it was the first time he could recall being extended this basic courtesy. He took it and shook, though it was curt. Keno.

Can I ask what brings you here? she asked, eyes brimming with enthusiasm.

He hesitated. The address was strange, when there were humans known to her that she could ask. No one spoke to him by default, always inquiring with his apparent handler.

Lucas chuckled, drawing her eye and ending the dilemma by answering in Keno’s stead. He’s my compromise.

Sam’s eyes widened, and she turned to Keno again. That so? Combat training? Bodyguard licensing?

No, Keno said, uncomfortable with how closely she was looking at him. Only practical experience. Guarding piles of meat isn’t something I’ve pursued as a career. The snapped comment should cause her to pull back, give him a moment to reassess.

Sam’s smile returned, full of teeth. Perfect. She turned back to her father. I assume I’ve free reign?

More or less, Lucas said, far less happy. He’ll take your orders, you might want to curb his language.

Your suggestion has been noted, Sam said, waving a hand. Her eyes fixed on Keno again. We’ll get on just fine. Did you need anything else, Dad? Or can I get to work?

No, Lucas said, shaking his head and turning to the door. "Be