“The job of policing is tough on everyone.” Allen sat there rigidly. It never seemed to be comfortable, even when it knew what it was talking about. I took another sip of coffee. “Especially for former Manual Corps pilots,” it continued.
I choked on my coffee at the statement, drawing some attention to myself as I hacked the liquid out of my throat. “How in the hell —”
“His scars,” it said in a matter-of-fact sort of way.
“What the hell are you talking about? I don’t think I’ve spotted a single scar on him in the past decade. Except maybe the one on his forearm from a knife fight with a mobster a few years back. I didn’t even know he was in the Manual Corps. What did you see that I didn’t?”
“Around his collarbone he has two pronounced scars. They reach from his clavicle to the edges of his pectoralis major and —”
“I know what a Trauma Harness is, Allen. I fought in the War.” I drank more of the coffee, hoping that would force my metabolism to start processing the alcohol faster. “But damn, if he had a deployed Trauma Harness, I’m surprised he’s alive and well. Usually when those blades go into you, you’re a dead man fighting. He’s a tough bastard. Explains why he’s more shaken than I am.”
Allen perked up at the mention of myself. “You were in the War, Detective?”
I guessed it was story time. It might be useful for the machine to learn more about me.
“Yeah, a lifetime ago. I was in the CC — Cleanup Crew — for the Manuals. I was usually in the back repairing them, but in ’17 we got mobilized for a full-scale assault against Strasbourg. Goddamn … it was a nightmare.” I leaned back, hearing Martha’s shoes clacking against the floor as she brought my plate. The eggs still sizzled — fresh off the grill, all right. That was why I loved coming here.
“Would you rather return to the subject at hand, Detective?”
“Well, it was your tangent, but sure.” I smiled and chuckled, and Allen responded with confused — or perhaps apathetic — silence. Not the worst response I’d ever received, but it was up there. “So, on the subject of bloody things, any leads on what model of Automatic we’re looking for?”
“The data suggests that the machine is indeed a Swinger model from the early 1920s. It is well known that both the Swinger and Grifter models are favoured by the Mob, so this would seem to fit typical assumptions.”
“Other than the FBI denying the shooting, the dead Automatic’s empty head, and everything else we’ve uncovered thus far.”
“Precisely.” Martha passed by again. This time, Allen tried to get her attention. “Excuse me, ma’am?”
Martha kept walking by without acknowledging Allen, and a pin of empathy poked me right in the heart. Even with my own prejudices, it still hurt me to see something innocent being treated like that. I rolled my eyes and snapped my fingers, getting Martha’s attention. She came back. I looked pointedly at Allen, and she reluctantly followed suit.
“Might I have the same as he is having?”
Martha turned to me, still silent. We shared the same confused look as I shrugged and she nodded, walking back to the window to the kitchen to call in the order — this time speaking more quietly than before.
I’d thought that metal men only drank — just for recreation — but this one seemed to be craving an actual meal. It was too early for weird shit to be happening already. I did my best to ignore it, though, not wanting to cause a scene. The Irish coffee was starting to hit me now, too. The more I drank and the longer I sat, the more things became floaty. Comfort in the familiar, I supposed.
“How about you?”
I was shaken from my daze. “What?”
“What did you do while I was collecting paperwork from the precincts?”
Allen began swaying as it spoke. Or maybe I was swaying, or maybe the earth had decided to move a smidge to the left. Liquor and exhaustion didn’t mix well.
“I got some info from a few outsiders who owed me, and one of them was able to help me track down an apartment that one of those three cops owns.”
“We already have their addresses on file —”
“I got an unofficial address, an apartment one Andrew Stern bought on the side.”
“Ah, I see.”
The conversation died down as the second meal arrived. I was suddenly aware of the fact that I hadn’t touched my food, and it was beginning to get cold. I grabbed utensils and began scarfing it down, trying to get as much food down my gullet as possible before the conversation resumed. Looking up to see if Allen was about to rebut my claim, I had a shock. Allen, too, had grabbed some utensils and was working away at its own meal.
Alcohol made things foggy. I was halfway through my own breakfast, and Allen had begun its own. I was dumbfounded. It was eating — with its mouth and everything. It was strange, to say the least, like watching someone set water on fire. Allen hadn’t yet noticed me staring.
“I suppose that is as good a lead as any, considering we have very few at the moment. Should we split up again to search the official and unofficial addresses?” Allen blinked a few times, doing everything a human might do. That was the worst part. I wasn’t sure if it was imitating humanity, or actually operating that way. “Is something the matter, Detective?”
“No.” I straightened up, recomposing myself as I finished the meal and waiting for it to do the same. “No, we’ll go together, just in case things go pear-shaped. We
