But my car could handle it.
I hit the gas, shifted to second gear, and heard paint and metal scraping as my car flattened the machines. I was going at least seventy, and I didn’t stop until we were past 90th. Toby looked exasperated. Its weapon was smoking and the slide was locked back, signifying that it was out of rounds.
“Wait, the car was locked. How did you …” My question was answered by the sound of wind whipping around the shards of broken glass that remained where my passenger-side window should have been. “Goddamn it, Toby.”
“How else was I supposed to open the door of a locked car?”
“Did you have to break my window to do it?”
“I’m an Automatic. I take things literally, you know that.”
“I sure do. So, interesting case, right?”
“You could say that.” Toby slumped in the seat, throwing the gun on the floor. “You owe me big time after this.”
“Roger that.” I owed a lot of people. Toby was just another debtor in a long list. At least it was patient, unlike some other debtors I knew.
“You got a plan for the one in the trunk?” Toby turned back toward the back of the car. We could hear Rudi in there struggling to get out.
“I know a guy, and I trust him, too. He’ll be happy to see it back in one piece.”
I’d feel better once I’d proved to Allen and Jaeger that I wasn’t crazy. However, I couldn’t say for sure that the rest of the city wasn’t going nuts.
CHAPTER 10
ALLEN RAPPED HIS METAL KNUCKLES on the door of the speakeasy. A small viewing window opened to reveal a pair of blue eyes that looked him up and down. After a few seconds, the door swung open, allowing him to enter the premises. The Automatic bouncer didn’t say a word, but shot Allen a glance. The towering Titan model stood on its massive metal arms. It had a large square body, and disproportionately small legs hung underneath. Its red eyes scanned Allen several times more before determining he wasn’t a threat.
The detective-in-training threaded his way between the tables and chairs and found an empty booth to slide into. A robot waitress ran past, asking for his order in Bitwise clicks. He passed his eyes over the menu that was stuck to the table and decided on sugar water.
Allen sat rigidly, peering around to discern the motives of the other Automatics in the speakeasy. A group of Erzly models similar to him — yet not the same — sat across from him, speaking Bitwise and calling out with flanged laughter, their blue bulbs glowing bright. They were unemployed, but seemed far happier than many others here who had occupations. Everything in here was a sharp contrast to the dark world he and Elias were working in: the smooth jazz, the laughter, even the variety of Automatic models.
Allen surveyed the bar for a while, making absolutely sure he was in the right place. When Elias had mentioned “high-profile Automatics,” Allen had pictured the sort of noble Blue-eyes one might see up on the Plate, full of chrome and wit and willpower. He didn’t see any Automatics like that, and he stuck out like a sore thumb, his dapper black suit clashing with the loose flannel shirts, torn jackets, and rust aesthetic of most of the patrons. He felt like more of an outsider than he ever had before, even going so far as to muse that he’d be more comfortable in a crowd of humans.
A few minutes later, a pair of Blue-eyes sat down next to him — a Grifter model who was far from sober, and an Erzly model much older than Allen. The Grifter’s one eye flashed red in intoxication now and then. Their Bitwise was broken, and they switched to English to communicate with Allen. The Grifters had their original model name lost long ago, as they’d famously become the Automatic of choice for Brunos to send on easy hits when they’d rather not risk a human operative. This Grifter had marks across its shirt, walked funny to the table, and had some odd attachments on its crown. Construction worker? Most likely.
“Got a name, square? You new here? You look it,” the Grifter said.
Allen recoiled from the forced English. “Allen Erzly. And I’m not box-shaped in any way, sir.”
“Fuck off. Green-eyes aren’t allowed in here.”
Allen was discovering why so many Blue-eyes had been shut down or programmed to be more docile. But he was still exploring the extent of his own psyche and felt no irritation at their insult. “My optical nodes are quite blue, sir.”
“What’s this sir shit?” piped up the other one. “You a Humanist? Don’t like Bitwise?”
The old Erzly model had a pill-shaped head and a slender base body. It was stripped down from the beefier models used for combat back in the War in an effort to make the human populace more relaxed around them.
“I apologize if I offended you,” Allen said. “I’m just looking for information.”
“Everyone is here for that reason — information and answers! And a fellow Blue-eye like myself knows all the answers,” the Erzly replied, throwing its arms up and spilling some of its alcohol onto the floor.
A small Tapper bot skittered out from under a nearby table to wash the sticky liquid from the ground. It was spider-like, with a small bulb-shaped head, and it made a squishing sound as it ran across the spilled liquid.
“Exactly,” agreed the Grifter, spouting off even louder than its friend. “We know everything that’s happening. The world is creepy and dark, weird shit is dropping on people’s heads, and the Automatics aren’t free from the city, whether you’re a Green or a Blue.”
Allen worried that their level of intoxication might lead to violence, but knew that trying to get away might
