“But, if you would prefer an observation, it is apparent from the ink on your left hand, as well as the condition of your nails.”
“Nails?” I had to sit and think. I had no idea how either of those things would give Allen clues.
“Yes. On your right hand.”
“Okay, spit it out.”
“I do not have saliva.”
“Shut up and talk, Allen!” Christ, robots could patter on. It could probably deduce things about my sex life from the way I cut bread.
“The ink on your left hand shows you are more comfortable writing with that hand, smudging the ink on the paper as you write. As well, there is the staining of sealant on the bottom of your thumb. When you drive, you steer with your left hand, specifically with only your thumb, during leisurely drives. This means that one particular spot on the steering wheel is worn away faster. You often repair it with sealant.”
“And the nails?”
“You’re more comfortable holding a weapon in your right hand. You’ve chipped and filed down the nails on several of your fingers as you have the nervous habit of spinning the barrel of your Diamondback revolver — which is still illegal, I might add. You stop it with friction from the fingers of that same hand, leading to your nails being damaged from the action.”
Well, it wasn’t wrong.
“So, this is what my entire life will be like partnered with you? That is, if I agree to keep you around beyond this case. Remember that the G-men are the only reason you’re still here with me.”
“What would you have me do instead?”
“How about you stop talking and start conversing? That would be a great help to our little … relationship.”
Allen was silent, either processing what I’d said or agreeably keeping quiet for once.
“I have a few things I’d like to converse about,” I continued. “It’ll help you seem more natural and less migraine-inducing.”
“All right, Detective. By all means, lead the conversation.”
It was dangerously close to getting on my nerves. It stared at me like a lost child, though — it wasn’t being sarcastic. Hell, it probably didn’t know how to be sarcastic.
“Okay. First question: At the diner, did you eat?”
“Yes. But, a question for you, Detective: Do you have a deduction or theory in regards to that fact?” Allen had stood up again and grabbed its darts from the table. Nothing about it made much sense anymore.
“Honestly, I got no fucking clue. You’re a machine, an Automatic. You should be able to drink, but not eat. Automatics enjoy the bottle now and then, but you’re not supposed to sleep or think or do most of what humans can.”
“I am not an Automatic. I may have a mechanical exterior and interior — the latter is questionable, though — but I am far from one of the simple, mundane machines you’re accustomed to.”
Now things were getting interesting. That was a bold statement coming from a metal man.
“Want to run that by me again?”
“Although I am contained within a frame similar to other models, I am not an Automatic.”
“I’m inclined to believe you, but — as with anything — I need proof.”
“Were my actions at the diner, as well as my abductive reasoning at Jaeger’s shop, not enough proof for you?”
It had me at a loss. It was indeed something to think about. But I was a skeptic. Always would be.
“Okay, fair enough. Then please, explain to me how you’re able to accomplish such things.”
“I can consume basic meals to regain expended energy. I have a recharging mechanism similar to that of human processes, though the energy can be stored in small batteries for later use.”
“But you don’t ever go to the pisser. At least, not that I’ve seen.”
“I can expend my waste products as harmless gases. It did take some time for my designers to find a way to convert urea into a non-toxic, inert product. As well, the issue of defecation and hemoglobin removal has been remedied by the lack of hemoglobin in my system.”
I scrunched up my nose, realizing that I’d been inhaling its waste ever since we met. But I decided to strike that from my memory, and fast. “For thinking and everything, most Automatics have a certain line that they can’t cross. Most can’t deduce a thing, even if a crook were standing in front of it, with a murder weapon in their hand and a body on the ground. ‘Semiself-awareness,’ they call it. So you’re fully self-aware, then?”
“I do not have a Neural-Interface, as Automatics have. Instead, I have a synthetic brain similar to yours, though its structure allows it an edge in processing time, reaction speed, and learning capability. Automatics are limited by Green-eye protocols. I do not have such protocols, as I lack said Neural-Interface.”
“Well, this is some interesting stuff indeed.” I felt like I needed a drink to settle my mind after all this. So there weren’t any Automatics in the Force after all, since Allen wasn’t an Automatic. Not technically.
“Are you … concerned, Detective?”
“A smidge, but not enough to pull my gun on you. If I ever see you murder someone of your own free will, with your eyes still blue, that’s when things will get scary for me.” I stood and pulled my darts out of the board, then sat back down.
“I assure you, Detective Roche, I do not plan on engaging in any gunfights with humans, and I’m quite adamant that I won’t be taking any lives in my career as a police officer.”
“You say that now …” I trailed off, thinking back to when I had been a newbie on the Force. I’d thought my killing days were done after the War. How wrong I’d been. “Well, go ahead. Show me what you can do.”
This time, Allen stood in a similar stance to mine, rather than its previous rigid
