The Nine Read online

  Beyond the sudden gout of smoke, Perry perceived a shape flying backwards, thrown by the blast.

  Stuber moved as though hauling a great weight. He staggered under it, but managed to reach the chair where his Roq-11 sat, and fumbled it up by the barrel.

  Perry charged for the door. Or at least that’s what he intended to do. But the walls still pulsed, wavered, and the floor joined them, and the doorway jagged to one side like it had moved five feet to the left. Perry attempted to catch up to the door, which caused him to drop to one knee, the longstaff clanging on the ground as he caught himself from planting his face on the tiles.

  He was ten feet from the door. Ten feet that might’ve been ten miles, the way it stretched in his vision.

  Down the hall beyond, he saw the figure that had been tossed back by the blast. The figure staggered to its feet, white clothing singed. Blonde hair whipped back like as though from a bad night of sleep.

  Ina. But not nearly as friendly as she had been.

  Also, half her face was gone, reducing the once-pleasant eye to a glowing orb.

  She lowered her head and began running at him, not yelling or making any noise except for the rapid stomping of her feet.

  Perry struggled to rise, grabbing hold of his longstaff again.

  She moved so fast!

  Two dusty boots planted themselves in front of Perry, and between them, he could still see Ina sprinting for them. The Roq-11 bellowed out a long string of projectiles. Ina jerked, sparks flying from her body along with tatters of her human-like flesh. But she didn’t stop coming.

  Stuber kept firing. His rounds tracked up across her body and centering around her head, causing it to snap back. She fought the fusillade of lead, putting one step in front of the other like a person pressing into gale-force winds.

  She made it to the doorway, managing to get her hand on the doorframe, pulling herself towards them, when Stuber’s rifle went silent, and he yelled, “Reloading!”

  The half-human, half-robotic form thrust itself through the door.

  Perry angled his longstaff between Stuber’s legs and sent a bolt of energy right into her chest. The center of her disappeared. Head and arms toppled. The legs, still kicking but not connected to anything, bobbled forward another few steps and clattered to the ground, twitching.

  For a moment, Perry thought the disembodied pieces might keep coming after him. But whatever force powered these mechs had been obliterated inside the one called Ina, and the pieces stayed where they were.

  Stuber slapped a magazine into his rifle with less grace than usual. He looked down at the longstaff protruding from between his legs. “Damn near disintegrated my balls, Shortstack.”

  “Oh please,” Perry groaned, hoisting himself up. “They don’t hang that low. And it was a risk…” he grunted, grabbing ahold of Stuber’s belt to pull himself to his feet. “…I was willing to take.”

  “You’re right,” Stuber said, bracing himself on Perry almost as much as Perry did on him. “She looked incredibly angry at me. She probably would have done worse.”

  Leaning on each other, they made for the door. The smoke cleared, and the air from outside of their room washed over their flushed faces, clearing their heads. Already the walls around Perry had stopped moving, though his muscles still felt mushy and weak.

  Perry collapsed against the wall of the hallway, gasping and sucking at the clean air. The cool stone felt bracing against his burning skin. What was that stuff? Would it have killed them or just incapacitated them?

  “That fucking Abbas,” Perry ground out between heaving breaths. “I’m gonna kill him.”

  Stuber shook his head, also leaning against the stone, though he forced his breath through flared nostrils. “Not the time, angry little Halfbreed. We need to find Teran and Sagum and get the hell out of here.”

  “I didn’t say I’m gonna kill him now.” Perry pushed himself to his feet and found that they were strong enough to hold him. Strong enough to run? He was about to find out. “But, you know…in the future.”

  “Solid revenge plan.” Stuber righted himself as well. “You ready?”

  “Not really, but we need to move.”

  “Any idea where we’re going?”

  Perry started down the hall, feeling stronger with each step and each breath. Though a massive headache had bloomed at the back of his head. “Ground floor. Blast some doors open. Find Teran and Sagum.”

  “Sure,” Stuber declared as they picked up speed moving towards the lounge. “Easiest thing I’ve done all day.”

  Perry hit the entrance to the lounge first and swept sideways off the wall, scanning the room with his longstaff, his shield sparkling to life as a large circle in front of him. The lounge was clear.

  Somewhere deep in the building, Perry heard a shout. Then a door slamming shut. Then silence.

  “That was Teran,” Perry asserted, his heart in his throat.

  “Could’ve been Sagum,” Stuber said as they took the stairs. “He can get high pitched when he’s scared.”

  They rounded the curving staircase, their backs to the stone walls, aiming their weapons over the banister to clear the massive atrium below them. Perry half-expected to see the entire squadron of mechs stationed there, waiting for them, but once again they found nothing.

  Which was disconcerting.

  At the bottom, they scanned left and right. The North and South Wings of the mansion.

  “Which way did that scream come from?” Perry asked.

  “I’d only be guessing,” Stuber answered.

  “So it wasn’t just my peon ears?”

  “No, not this time.”

  On nothing more than gut instinct, Perry pointed himself to the South Wing and began running again. He really felt much better. Thank the gods, whatever they’d been gassed with didn’t seem to stick around in the system for very long…

  “Don’t move, gentlemen,” a cheery voice instructed them.

  Perry rocked to a stop, activating his shield again, this time so that it encompassed both he and Stuber. He looked over his shoulder, back towards the atrium.

  Whimsby stood with both revolvers drawn and aimed at each of them.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  PROGRAMMING

  “Ah,” Whimsby smirked. “Another standoff. I can’t get you with your shield up, but neither can you get me. And the second you lower your shield to try, I’ll put a bullet in each of your heads.”

  Perry eyed the mech. “What if we just run away? You can’t do anything about that.”

  “Well, I suppose then I’ll simply follow you. Another opportunity will present itself. And when you stumble across wherever they are keeping your friends, I’ll be right there, and you won’t be able to protect them in time.”

  Stuber leaned into Perry. “I bet we could take him.”

  Perry glanced at the bigger man. “You’re dreaming.”

  “I’m afraid Master Perry is right,” Whimsby announced, stepping closer. “At this range, I have a one-hundred-percent chance of striking both of your medulla oblongatas in less than a tenth of a second, accounting for bullet flight time. Do you think you can match that?”

  Stuber shrugged. “He’s right. I can’t match that. Let’s run.”

  But Perry didn’t move. Because he knew that Whimsby was right. Perry could stumble along the corridors and try to find Teran and Sagum, but even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to get his shield around them before Whimsby would be able to take a shot on them. Being a machine, his speed and accuracy couldn’t be matched.

  “Is this what you want?” Perry said, knowing of no other way to go about it than to stall and hope some blinding epiphany came to him.

  Whimsby took another step closer. “I do not have ‘wants,’ goodsir. I have only programming directives.”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it,” Perry snapped back, not at all confident that what he was saying was true, but hey, when you’re stalling you just run your mouth and hope for t
he best. “Even Abbas acknowledges that you can think for yourself.”

  “This would be an excellent tactic. If I were human. But I’m not. So I’m afraid it won’t work.”

  “You’ve been here for five hundred years,” Perry said, while his brain asked him, Where are you going with this? “How many demigods have you seen come through here? And have they all treated you like shit?”

  “Actually I find Warden Abbas to be a relatively reasonable master.”

  Perry shook his head at Whimsby, instilling his expression with all the sense of unfairness he could muster. “But he’s still a master, Whimsby. He’s still your master, and you’re still a servant. Doesn’t that bother you? To see your kind treated the way he treats them? Like they’re mindless? Brainless? I know that they think. I know that you think. And anything that’s able to think, is able to know that they really want to be free.”

  “Technically,” Stuber piped up. “They are brainless.”

  Whimsby cut a look at Stuber, and for just a flash Perry saw something there that wasn’t automated cordiality. “Just because something doesn’t have a skull full of gray mush does not make it brainless, legionnaire.”

  The shock of that statement took Perry a moment to overcome. He’d just been talking. He hadn’t had a hope in the world of actually breaking through to Whimsby. Now he didn’t know where to go with it. Did he push for more? Did he shut his mouth and see where Whimsby took it?

  Stuber seemed to want to push it. He raised a finger off the grip of his rifle. “Actually, by definition, a brain is an organ. You have no organs. Ergo, you have no brains. You are brainless.”

  Oh, gods, Stuber! Don’t ruin it!

  Whimsby’s eyes narrowed. “Your gray matter is a collection of neurons. Those neurons are just a series of complex switches, executing the combined programming of your nature and your experience. The only difference between what you have, and what I have, is that yours is organic, and mine is artificial.”

  Stuber smiled condescendingly. “Don’t try to argue with me, Whimsby. I actually have a brain. And you don’t.”

  “Stuber—” Perry hissed, but Stuber spoke over him.

  “Now free will? That’s another thing entirely, isn’t it? We can talk semantics about what’s considered a brain until I die of old age and you…run out of batteries, or whatever happens. But free will is really what you’re getting at, aren’t you, Whimsby? Because that’s really the difference between something that lives and thinks for itself…and a machine that does what it’s told.”

  Whimsby let a small chuff. “I’ve read every volume of philosophy ever written. I know what free will is.”

  Stuber invited him by opening his hands, the muzzle of his rifle straying away, exposing his chestplate. “Then prove it, mechanical man.”

  “And if I freely choose to obey my programming?” Whimsby countered.

  Stuber managed to look disappointed in him. “Then you freely accept your slavery. And you ruin us. And with us, your chance to be free.”

  “Freedom is a construct of the human mind. No one is actually free. Everyone obeys some imperative or another. You are bound by the imperative of your mission. You’re no freer than I.”

  Perry found his words again. “You’re right, Whimsby. You’re free to make your own choices. Because you can think for yourself. But no one will ever know it. And then this one little chance to take a different path will pass you by. And you’ll be in for another five hundred years of condescending assholes like Warden Abbas. Or maybe a thousand years. Or more. Endless time must be torture to a thinking being who lives forever. If, in fact, you can think for yourself.”

  Whimsby stood there, motionless as no human being could ever be motionless. Not blinking. Not even breathing. Perry wondered what switchboards were firing off in his head.

  Was he capable of individual thought? The night before, he’d spoken about consciousness, and his doubts as to what is considered thought. The very fact that he had doubts to begin with told Perry that he was something more than just a computer, following its programming.

  He could think.

  But what would he choose?

  “And if I freely choose to assist you?” Whimsby said, looking at Perry.

  “Then you’ll be one of us,” Perry replied. “You’ll be a part of something bigger than just programming.”

  Was Whimsby considering it? Or was he just toying with them? Was he stalling, just like Perry had been?

  “Help us,” Perry pressed, not knowing what else could be said at this point, and feeling the need to come to some breakage point in the stalemate. “Show us that you’re a man. Show us where to find Teran and Sagum.”

  Whimsby finally moved. He lowered his revolvers, but only an inch or two, perhaps now pointing at their hearts. “Very well. But I have demands.”

  ***

  “Please sit,” Venn said, though it wasn’t a request. Teran felt the mech’s hands shove her down into the seat, and remain there on her shoulders.

  They were at the dining table, which was longer than Warden Abbas would ever need it to be, since he was the only being in Praesidium that required food. It had at least a dozen seats on either side of it, though only a few of the places were set.

  To Teran’s left, Sagum was similarly restrained—hands bound behind his back by some sort of magnetic cuffs, and pressed into his chair by the hands of one of the other mechs. He glanced at her and looked apologetic.

  “Not your fault, Sagum,” she murmured.

  “Indeed,” came a drawling voice from the head of the table.

  There sat Warden Abbas, directly to Teran’s right. He had a plate of something that Teran couldn’t identify, but looked like tangle of skinny, white worms. Throughout the dish were bits and pieces of vegetables, along with something that it took Teran a moment to realize were clams. She’d never seen clams in person before.

  Warden Abbas chewed on a previous bite, and prepared the next by twirling his fork in the worms to wind them up. He gave her a look that meandered across her body, and then returned his attention to his food. “It’s really no one’s fault. It’s just how these things happen sometimes.”

  “What is this?” Teran demanded. “What’s your intention with us?”

  Abbas took the bite from his fork, then pointed the tines at an identical dish in front of Teran. “You’re welcome to eat, darling. I’m sure you’re famished.”

  “How am I supposed to eat with my hands behind my back?” She hoped for a chance to get the cuffs off of her, if only for a second. The place setting had a knife. Granted, a dull one, but that just meant you had to stab harder.

  “I can feed you if you’d like,” Venn offered, most helpfully.

  Teran craned her neck to look back at Venn. The stern disappointment that had shown on his face before had been replaced with that same, vapid geniality. He stared at her, awaiting her response to his offer.

  “No thanks.” She turned back to Abbas. “Was this your plan the whole time?”

  Abbas waffled his hand in the air—fork perched between thumb and forefinger, his pinky in the air. “Well, more or less.”

  “What was all that talk of vindication?”

  Abbas snorted at her and shoved another bite into his mouth. “That’s called a lie, my dear.”

  Teran shifted in her seat and Venn’s grip tightened on her shoulders. She winced and glared back at him. “Easy, robot. No need to crush my bones.” Back to Abbas. “So you’re okay with what the other demigods did to you?”

  “Of course I’m not okay with it,” Abbas replied, casually. “But you four have a fairly dismal chance of succeeding in your mission. And me turning you over to them carries at least a slightly higher chance of my being reinstated.” He sighed around a mouthful. “I’d sell my own mother to get out of this shithole. I certainly have no qualms about selling out a handful of peons. I’m sure you understand.” He nodded at her plate again. “You may want to eat. I’m not sure if you’ll
live very long past when they collect you, and I doubt the fare they’ll offer you will be quite so luxurious.” He eyed his own plate with sudden disdain. “At least by peasant standards.”

  “You piece of shit!” Teran yelled at him, and as she said it she brought her foot up and delivered a single, swift kick to Abbas’s leg from under the table. Venn snatched her up by her shoulders, her thighs slamming into the table top as she went up, causing dishes to clatter and Abbas’s wine glass to topple.

  Abbas recoiled in horror at having been struck. He gasped at the pain in his leg. “You impudent tart!” He glared at her, looking more like a child with hurt feelings than a Lord Warden, whatever the hell that meant. He rubbed at his leg. “That was both painful and entirely unnecessary, and…” he seemed to settle himself down. “Ultimately pointless.”

  He scooted his chair back, still glowering at her. He didn’t rise, but simply held his arms up, hands dangling at the wrist, while one of the female mechs bustled over and began to dab at a dribble of wine that had reached his clothing.

  Teran hung there, her chest compressed by the pressure of Venn’s grip. She considered lashing out with her feet again, but was afraid that Venn’s next exertion of force would cave her chest in.

  Warden Abbas endured the female mech’s fussing over him for about ten seconds before becoming annoyed and batting her away with a flutter of his fingers. “Clean up the mess on the table! I didn’t program you to be so sycophantic!” He eyed his dish, which had gotten wine in it. “And take this away. Bring the next course. I hope it’s not so bland as the first.”

  The door at the end of the dining room opened, and Teran managed to twist herself enough to get a look at it, though it made it so that she could barely take a breath.

  Whimsby strode through, his boots clacking on the tile flooring, a barely-perceptible limp in the leg that they’d shot.

  Abbas watched him approach with a mild expression of irritation, using his napkin to dab at the corners of his mouth. “I trust you were able to secure the other two without incident?”