Engineman - Eric Brown [172]
I waste no time and get through to Massingberd.
"Is! You okay?"
"I'm fine, Mass. Look, I need some info. You ready?"
I look at Da Cruz. She gives me the Andy's tag and classification, and I relay this to Mass with the rider, "Not that he's filed under that. Check wide. You know where to find me." I cut the link.
"You not out of that thing yet?" I stare at her. "Hey, you got something to hide?" Which, considering I have access to her head, is cruel.
I peep over masonry. I can't see the Andy or his boat from here, but his accomplice is still junking robot rodents. Bolts hail continuously from the far side of the complex.
"Come on!" I say.
She's out of the suit and staring defiantly at me.
The right side of her face is disfigured by a long scar more suited to Frankenstein's monster. Even in the flickering light I can see that it was once far worse, before plastic surgery. And it's still ugly. She's a nice kid, too - a small, dark Peruvian with skin like Aztec gold.
The scar's much deeper, of course. The surface damage is superficial; it's the scar inside her head that causes all the pain.
I give her my hand. "There must be a service hatch somewhere," I say. "We can approach the killer from below without being seen."
She leads me to a concealed swing door and we hit the underside. Less attention has been paid to illumination and glitz down here. Glo-tubes rationed to every ten metres stitch the gloom. The thunder of machinery is deafening. We jog along a vast, curving gallery, mirror image of the corridor top-side where I met Da Cruz.
And I'm scanning all the time for the killer.
My hand bleeps and we stop to take the call.
"You're right, Is," Massingberd rapps. "The 'droid isn't on our files - under that tag. I came up with a likely candidate, though. A B-grade Andy manufactured in the Carnival clinic twenty-five years ago. It was employed for the first ten years as an extra in kids' films. It applied for up-grading several times but got nowhere. It was transferred to Disneyworld Shanghai, where it worked for another decade. Then - get this, Is - five years ago this 'droid was reported rogue. It dropped out and disappeared. We have a few reports on file as to its alleged activities during the next five years. Apparently it joined the outlawed Supremacy League, that crackpot band of 'droids who demand the rule over humanity. It was involved in the bombings of '65, but was never apprehended. We have a number of reports that it underwent a programme of training as a cyber-surgeon so that the League could expand its up-grading of all the 'droids who joined them. We lost trace of it earlier this year, Is - around the time that your 'droid joined the Carnival outfit. It's quite feasible that it gave itself new retina-, finger- and voice-prints, doctored certificates and became the actor who played Dr Frankenstein. The 'droid returned home, Is-"
"To do a little counter publicity for the largest manufacturers of B-grade Androids," I finish.
"You got it."
"I'll keep you posted, Mass."
We set off again.
Da Cruz is murmuring to herself. "And he seemed so genuine at the audition..."
I ignore her and concentrate on the sudden flare of sentience that's just appeared a kilometre up-front. I've never before scanned anything like it. As we draw closer I realise that I'm not dealing with a normal human being. The thing up there overwhelms me with fear and pain and regret and guilt.
I go for the killer's identity, but I'm either too far away or the signal is weakening. I get the impression, then, that the killer is losing his strength, dying...
We're almost underneath the place where the maniac made his stand. To our right is a viewscreen, showing space and the quiet Earth. On our left we pass a pair of green swing doors, marked with heiroglyphs: the representation of a man and what might be an icicle.
It doesn't hit me for another five paces.