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  She cocked her head and gave him a look. “I don’t understand. You think you can make me love you by robbing me of my power?”

  “Of course not, but I can keep us continuing along our same little path if I don’t sell to Herb. Isn’t that right, love?”

  “Not at all. There are plenty of other stockholders out there willing to sell. You forget, even if Herb buys your shares he won’t reach fifty-one percent. All you’d be doing is forcing me to speed up my own buying. So, fuck you, Xia.”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  “Want to bet?” Of course she was bluffing. There was no way in hell she could get to fifty-one percent before Herb if he purchased Xia’s shares, but it was the only move she could think of for the moment.

  Xia rolled the cigar around his mouth. He studied her. “When I feel the time is right…well, I’d be willing to make a deal with you for my stock.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “You buy my shares at a very generous purchase price. I am to receive a permanent percentage of company profits along with a continuous supply of GTS, and—” He cleared his throat. “—ongoing conjugal visits with you.”

  “Wouldn’t it be simpler to combine our assets through marriage?”

  “My dear, I’m afraid I may fall prey to an unseemly mishap shortly after the nuptials.”

  She suppressed a smile, knowing there might be truth in his words. “And when would the proper time be to make this sale?”

  “Whenever I determine it.”

  With micro speed, Rebeka snatched the cigar cutter and slipped the tiger’s gaping mouth around his penis. “Sorry, Xia, that’s not good enough.” She clamped it tight enough to draw a blood trickle.

  Xia jerked his buttocks back. It produced a scrape. He screamed.

  “Sir?” Ernest’s voice rang out from the other side of the boudoir door. “Is everything satisfactory?”

  Rebeka glared at Xia and nodded as if to say, “Tell him yes.”

  Staring at the cutter, Xia hollered, “Everything’s fine.”

  “Sir, you’re positive?”

  Rebeka pulled on the head of Xia’s penis until the flaccid shaft straightened. She pushed the cutter closer to his scrotum.

  “Yes! Leave us be. We’re fine.”

  “Certainly.” Ernest’s footsteps disappeared down what sounded like a hallway.

  “Now, then.” Rebeka loosened her grip. “I’ll make your deal. You can even include the conjugal visits.” She had to admit, he was a good contrast in bed from Jocsun. “I want it drawn up now, but I won’t sign until the GTS warehouse is up and running again.”

  His eyes remained on the cutter. “Whatever you say, but why then?”

  “Like I explained, I don’t want to spark a sell off. Who knows how others will react if you agree to eventually dump your shares—even to me—while we’re rebuilding. No, that won’t do.” She smiled. “Call your attorneys immediately and have them send over a contract.”

  “Now?”

  She squeezed the cutter. “Now.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Date: 2250

  Planet Truatta

  Cleveland Stringer’s cabin

  Stringer squeezed tighter. Sparks flared from the pliers. The whit-wa-wheet sound increased. J-1 screamed. His chest felt as if it was being crushed into itself. “Stop! I’m sorry I insulted you.” The words came out in a groan.

  “Too late, mecho-boy.” The whit-wa-wheet picked up. “I’m deactivating you.”

  J-1’s chest made a crick sound similar to knuckles being cracked. He jammed his arms into the empty space at the crook of the clamps and tried to force the tool apart. It was hopeless. The room spun, then it drifted, then it darkened. The whit-wa-wheet crescendoed, faded and was replaced with a knock, knock, knock.

  Is that my heart? J-1 asked himself. He laughed. I didn’t know I had a heart! The knocking sound grew louder and repeated itself. J-1 felt as if he was sinking as surely as he was floating. There were more knocks—louder and quicker. His strength withered. His limbs weakened.

  “Tradshit!” Stringer loosened the clamps. He left J-1 on the table and tramped to the door. Without opening it, he said, “I’m closed. Come back tomorrow.”

  “Come on, Stringer,” a voice said from the other side. There was a pounding on the door. “Open up. We have business to discuss.” More pounding.

  The pounding. That was the sound I heard, J-1 thought. He tried to move, but his body was as limp as a rag doll’s.

  “What kind of business, Norma?” Stringer asked from behind the door.

  “The automaton. We know you have it. We saw his mangled compadre outside.”

  “You mean the lifter? I found both of them. They’re mine.”

  “We don’t dispute that. We want to make a deal for the robot.”

  Stringer glanced at J-1, who was motionless. “Come back tomorrow and I’ll have all the parts separated.”

  “No. We want him whole and operating. We’ve got core dust, Stringer.”

  “Crud,” Stringer said to himself. “If I knew the bugger was worth more whole than as scrap I would’ve never de-activated him.” He hurried to J-1 and tapped on his forehead a couple of times. There was no response. Stringer grabbed a tool resembling a knitting needle from his toolkit. He pressed a button at the end of the gadget. A thin, swirling green ray beamed from the tip. He opened J-1’s mouth and aimed the ray down his throat.

  “Come on!” Norma yelled. “We’re in a hurry.”

  “Hold your garzatz,” Stringer growled. “I’m tidying up.” J-1 remained limp. Stringer turned off the needle device, tossed it aside and again rifled through the toolbox.

  ~~~

  Norma said to Teague, “Stringer’s tidying up?” The five other members of her squad were gathered beside them. “Right.”

  She pounded on the tall door. “Open up, Stringer!”

  “Just a minute!”

  Norma glanced around the junkyard. Besides the piles of metal, laser and cable there was a stack of logs and branches waiting to be cut into firewood. She motioned her brigade toward a large trunk. “His minute is up.”

  The group went to the woodpile, hauled the trunk back and aimed it, battering ram style, at the door. “On three,” Norma said. “One, two, thr—”

  The door swung inward. “What the landerbyss!” Stringer exclaimed. “Are you out of your gourds?”

  “I told you, we’re in a hurry,” Norma said. “We’re already a day-and-a-half late returning to the compound thanks to that damned ice storm.”

  “Or maybe because of something else.” Stringer winked. “Boom.”

  “Let’s get this over with,” Norma said, not acknowledging his remark.

  “Sure, as soon as my property’s returned.” Stringer motioned to the tree trunk.

  Norma ordered her people to return the log. Stringer motioned her inside, but kept the door partially open. Norma wasn’t sure if it was so he could make sure the log was returned properly or as a goodwill gesture to allow the others to monitor their transactions.

  When inside, Stringer gestured to J-1, who lay motionless on the table. “It sure is special,” Stringer said. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Have you?”

  “It’s a mechanical wreck with a useless hand and a bum leg, and you know it.”

  Stringer looked down at her and smiled. “Then why do you want it?”

  Norma smiled back. “My pet plotky died last week and I want to replace it with something that’s already housetrained.”

  “That’s pretty weak, Norma,” Stringer said.

  “Look. What do you care what I want it for?”

  “I don’t, as long as you’re willing to pay for it.”

  “How much?” Norma asked.

  “Four cuppers of core dust.”

  “Are you zagged? That thing’s a busted up junk pile, not a Pravel carving.”

  Stringer shrugged. “That’s what I can get if I sell the parts separately.”


  “There’s only a half-cup worth of scrap on that thing and you know it. Two cuppers and not a spoon more.”

  “Four cuppers,” Stringer said. “And I’ll throw in the lifter.”

  “That’s more than we can afford.” Norma was lying, but not by much.

  Stringer stared down at her. He curled his lips inward.

  “Unpolluted robbery,” Norma added, hoping he didn’t hear desperation in her voice.

  Stringer smiled. “That’s my price.”

  Norma glanced back at the others. They were peeking through the partially open door. They would have her head on a stick if she gave that much of their supply away. She glanced at the prone, beat-up robot with the cinnamon skin and wispy black hair. Something—an instinct—told her it was special. She had to get it back to Mata. She inhaled deeply. “Done…” she said quietly so the others wouldn’t hear. She held her hand up and out.

  Stringer reached down and shook her smaller hand with his thumb and forefinger.

  Norma unfastened a cup from her fanny pack. She handed it to Stringer. He inspected, what to him was a child’s teacup-sized container, nodded and handed it back. She removed a pouch from the fanny pack, and dipped the cup into it. Before slipping the cup out, she again glanced at J-1 lying inanimate on the table. “The mechi is operational, right?”

  “Of course!” Stringer said. “What do you think I am? A swindler?”

  Norma narrowed her eyes. “Activate him.”

  “Sure, sure.” Stringer walked to the table and nudged J-1. He didn’t stir. Stringer glanced back at Norma. “Takes a minute to reboot.” He poked J-1 again. No response.

  Stringer grabbed his loupe and a precision screwdriver from the toolbox. He held the glass in front of his eyes and pressed the screwdriver’s tip into J-1’s deformed hand. He twisted the tool. J-1 moaned. There was a faint whirring sound. J-1 sat up, but quickly fell back again.

  “Mother Earther, Stringer, you said it was operating.”

  “It is. It is.” He whispered to J-1, “Boot up you little piece of garbage. Boot up.” No response. “It was working just a minute ago. I swear.”

  “Mother Earther,” Norma repeated. She closed the pouch and shoved it back in her pack. “So long, Stringer.” She headed toward the door, pissed and deflated. Her gut told her there was something about the machine and now Mata would never get the chance to confirm it.

  Stringer groaned. He turned to her and reached out as if trying to grab air. “Wait…you can have it for three cuppers.”

  Norma ignored him. There was no way she could justify paying that much core dust for a hunk of scrap metal. She kept walking.

  “Two cuppers!” Stringer said. “One cupper!”

  Norma stopped and turned. At that price she could afford to at least let Mata get a glimpse of the thing and afterwards they could salvage the parts for the compound. “All right. One cupper.” Norma returned and they shook hands.

  J-1 sat up. “Where am I? What happened?”

  Stringer spun around. J-1 wiggled his finger for Stringer to come in closer. Stringer bent his face to J-1’s. He whispered to Stringer, “Boot up you little piece of garbage. Boot up.”

  Stringer’s face flushed. “You were activated the whole time, you little tradshit!” He grabbed J-1 and shook him.

  “That’s enough!” Norma said. “That’s not your property anymore.” Her brigade stepped inside. Teague had his weapon drawn and aimed at Stringer.

  Stringer glanced at them and took two big breaths. “Sorry,” he grumbled to Norma, practically flinging J-1 to her.

  She pulled out her pouch. Stringer grabbed the food shaker from the shelf, unscrewed the lid and held the open container out to Norma. She removed one level cup of the core dust and held it out to Stringer. J-1 recognized the bluish-purple granules. It was GTS powder, the same substance that Stringer had sprinkled over his boiling pot. Stringer nodded glumly. She dumped the powder into his shaker. With Norma’s assistance J-1 hobbled outside. He activated Coco and took his place on the lifter’s tray. As they headed out, J-1 asked Phineas, the man with the stooped back, where they were going.

  Phineas pointed to the mountain beyond the forest. “Pocketsville, near the top of Kwieetus.”

  “How far is that from Apple Metropolis?”

  “Are you still sprouting that nonsense, automaton?” Norma asked as she motioned the squad forward. “It’s irritating me. Got it?”

  “Yes, but at least tell me what hemisphere of Planet Ford this is?”

  “Planet Ford? What’s that?”

  “This.” He pointed to the ground. “The sixteenth planet from the sun.”

  “Whose sun?”

  “Earth’s, of course.”

  “You pile of trash,” Orson said, taking a step toward J-1. Norma held her arm out. Orson grumbled, but remained still.

  “I don’t know about this Ford thing, mechi, but you’re on Truatta. It’s one hundred and thirty trillion miles from your solar system,” Norma said. “In your legal documents we’re described as 3545 E1A: the fifth exoplanet from star system Apis.”

  “I don’t know about legal records,” J-1 said. “But according to my internal data we’re on Planet Ford. Why aren’t any of you telling me the truth?”

  Orson grinned. “He just called us liars, Norma. Are you gonna let him get away with that?”

  “Get off her back,” Teague said.

  “Get off my back, lover boy,” Orson said.

  Matilda rushed to Orson, pressed his forearm and said, “Calm down.” She said to Norma, “He’s hungry and tired like the rest us.”

  Orson placed his free hand on top of Matilda’s. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

  Norma nodded and turned to J-1. “Careful how you speak to your benefactors, automaton. You don’t want to piss anyone off any more than you already have, now do you?”

  J-1 studied Orson and the others. They eyed him warily. “No, I don’t wish to anger anyone.”

  “Good. Now remain silent and hop on your lifter.” Norma turned away from him. “We’ve got a long way to go.”

  J-1 clung to Coco’s broomstick handle. The lifter wobbled along at the rear of the brigade. J-1 stared at the dark mountain lingering in the horizon. He thought over what he was told about Planet Ford, Apple Metropolis, and Truatta. He wrapped his mind around the notion that maybe his processors had been damaged and that his ability to handle data properly had been crippled. In other words, he was losing his mind.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Date: 2030

  Everglades, Florida

  Old Town, Seminole Sector Roulette Four

  Acevedo looked to the sky and squinted at the noon sun. The copters sounded like a swarm of scattering bees as they drifted away. That’s a good sign, he thought. Their search pattern was taking them past Seminole territory.

  “This is Old Town,” Sheriff Chili said. “I prefer it over the commerce district ‘cause there’s no money to be had here. That means the tribal council stays out of our hair.”

  The words drew Acevedo’s attention back. Chili led the three of them down a sidewalk fronted with wooden horse railings that ran alongside a barren, two-lane asphalt road. On the other side of the road were matching sidewalk and railings. Built shoulder-to-shoulder along each of the walkways were colorfully painted mom-and-pop Dade pine storefronts, with names like “Mabel Henry’s Stop ‘N Shop”, “No BS Fine Liquor”, and “Rump’s Computer Sales and Repairs”. On the side they walked, an old coral-rock house stood at the end of the block. The only franchise store to be seen was an antiquated Dairy Queen just beyond and across from the coral-rock building. It had a thatched roof and was coated in stucco. It looked more roadside shack than formal building.

  “The DQ’s been here since 1942,” Chili said. “It served Everglades’ tourists until the Army Corp of Engineers came along in ’46 and built the highway a couple miles east of here. That put an end to the tourists. In the ’50s the tribe was awarded custod
y of the stand as a consolation prize. Old Town sprung up from it.”

  Beyond the buildings there was nothing but wide marshes of mangroves, sawgrass, and pockets of clustered slash pine and an occasional oak tree. Because they were deep in swampland, Acevedo expected the air to have the pungent, sulfur smell. Surprisingly, it smelled fresh. Probably because of the warm breezes he could feel. Niyati coughed. He glanced at her.

  “Sinuses,” she said. Her gaze lingered. They both blushed. She quickly turned away. “I think Old Town is lovely, Sheriff. Very tranquil.”

  “Dead is more like it,” Chili replied. “The only reason the council keeps it around is because it looks good on the Seminole website and tourist brochures.”

  Niyati smiled at him.

  Acevedo’s jealousy surprised him.

  As they walked along, J-1 rubbed a hand along each building and touched those fingertips to the fingertips of his other hand as if he was savoring, or analyzing what he felt.

  Though it wasn’t far to the end of the strip, where the coral-rock house stood, sweat had formed on Niyati’s skin from the heat and humidity. She studied the dirty-white barnacled stone of the building. The hipped roof had a coral-rock chimney on top. Wonderful smelling gray smoke rose from it. Hickory, she guessed. Four steps led up from the sidewalk to a small porch with a screen door. Over the screen door a small sign read Connie Swamp’s Café.

  “This house was built in the thirties by a descendant of Henry Flagler’s,” Sheriff Chili said. “A pompous bastard who didn’t treat my people very nicely.” He smiled. “They found his severed head in the belly of a gator.”

  Sheriff Chili led them up the steps, through the porch and into the diner.

  ~~~

  Acevedo took another bite of his bulky burger and washed it down with a swig of Barred Owl Beer. Other than an elderly man in suspenders who was sitting at the bar, they were the only customers.

  “It isn’t fancy,” Sheriff Chili said, “but Connie Swamp’s serves the best BBQ in the sector.” He said to J-1, “It leaves Froggy’s in the mud pit.”