“The lies of our dreams, our heritage, our rights as citizens of this city. Humans may try and keep us down, but we’re better than they could ever be. Our so-called ‘betters’ are weak in flesh, and they built us to be stronger in metal.”
“Speaking of being ‘strong in metal,’ would either of you happen to know where one could acquire” — Allen leaned closer and lowered his voice — “inexpensive parts?”
“So, you are a Blue-eye, brother!” The Grifter laughed and slapped the table. The sound of steel on steel kept ringing for several seconds after the initial impact. Allen noticed the Grifter had burns on its shirt and belt lines. Construction worker, definitely. The clasps on its head were for a helmet — it was unmistakeable now. “The easiest place to get cheap parts is over in Times Square, or at a small joint near the western warehouses.”
“Is there an address?”
“Just look for the people you can trust!” It laughed again, and its friend joined in as well. “Or at least, the people we would trust!”
“And whom do you trust?” Allen’s sense of intrigue was stirring. Maybe they knew more than he gave them credit for.
“Why, each other! What’s a Blue-eye without another Blue-eye beside him? We’re all brothers, built not of flesh and binding blood, but of metal and eternal spark!”
The Grifter went on like this for several minutes before falling over, its upper functions ceasing as the alcohol began to interfere with its programming. It saved itself by powering down its Neural-Interface. The Erzly did little but laugh and drink.
“That did not sound like something even humans would say in regular conversation,” Allen noted, peering down to make sure the Grifter had not harmed itself during the fall.
“No, it was, brother. Ha! He’s a riot.” The Erzly gave its unresponsive friend a quick kick of endearment. “He’s been traipsing around a bunch of preachers down on 23rd Street. They’re heralding in the new age of the machine — the Technossance, they’re calling it. Like some bible verse or something. But let’s be real — nothing changes. They’re kidding themselves. And besides, he won’t be repeating their rhetoric if they lock him up and Green-eye him.”
“I’m sure the police wouldn’t react so drastically to such … gibberish.”
“Ha, maybe you’re right.” The Erzly grabbed its beer and downed the rest of the bottle, shaking its head before looking back at Allen. “So, you need parts? I know the people. They’re not too active these days. Everyone’s getting paranoid, which means we’re suffering. I can get you in contact with them next time they pop up, but it might be a few weeks before that happens. Can you make it that long without?”
“I’m quite sure I can. I pride myself in my patience.” Allen smiled, and the Erzly lifted its drink and laughed.
“The name’s Tim,” it said. “Model number TM-11. Don’t worry ’bout the scrap metal on the floor, he can’t do anything without me around. Be sure to look me up if you decide to visit here again.”
“Thank you, Tim, for your assistance.”
Allen stood up and made his way out of the speakeasy. He made sure to thank the Titan on the way out. This took the behemoth by surprise; its job was not a thankful one.
On foot, Allen could take the time to slow down, take in the city. He had been hidden away in back rooms and police training classrooms for long enough; he needed to know more about the city he’d been hired to protect. Although, given the state of SoHo, he didn’t think there would be many people to speak to here.
He walked north toward the Central Village and Chelsea and noticed an increase of people and machines on the street, a kind of life segregated to certain sections of the city. Apparently, SoHo had been labelled an Automatic Neighbourhood in the early years before Second Prohibition. As the controversies arose, people had left in droves. He got a few glares from humans as he entered the Central Village, but otherwise he was left alone to explore the area.
Every corner of the city had a crier, it seemed, saying this and that, handing out newspapers or pamphlets, or just screaming nonsense. Allen’s “ears” caught the words of street preachers speaking of the “coming of the age of the machine” and other apocalyptic prophesies. The subjects discussed in the newspaper sounded far more interesting, and Allen deposited a few coins into the crier so he could see what exactly was going on in the world. He sat on a nearby bench, machines and men passing him by without a second look as he read the news.
The world kept turning while America suffered, though not every corner of the great Land of the Free was under the iron thumb of debt and poverty. The West Coast was doing quite well, with construction of the Golden Gate Bridge nearing completion and reports of Automatics being brought into the workforce to expedite the process. The column right next to that one mentioned that the current Automatic crime rate was greater than what the Mob crime rate had been before Second Prohibition. Definitely something he had to read up on later.
“You! Abomination!”
Allen peered up from the pages of the newspaper. A dishevelled man stood before him, waving a pamphlet in his face. His beard was longer than the hair on his head, and he wore a tattered, stained jacket. He threw the pamphlet at Allen before walking off, talking to no one in particular. “You dare affront God with your hubris and spirit! May you be stricken down by the Lord and by mankind!”
Allen tried to think of an appropriate response. “Thank you …”
When he looked down at what had been thrown at him, his eyes narrowed. It was old
