Detective Reed's cellphone had just rang, emitting a crystalline and ephemeral sound. This was not the reason for Conrad's awakening.
It was past two o'clock in the morning and the android sometimes went into a sleep mode or spent the night reading articles related to news scientific studies. Humans were so prolific that hundreds of data entered every second. Able to understand and speak more than three hundred languages, the RK900 browsed them without difficulty, observing the opinions of each according to culture, sex, education— the variety would have been impressive for a human being, but for the machine, it was simply a longer series of knowledge to deal with.
That night, the programs had worked at a more peaceful pace, scribing plans and calculating the odds of returning to the CyberLife tower, taking the time to think about the situations. In contrast, the tasks associated with Gavin were more unstable: as an obsessive thought, Conrad was unable to close these noisy programs and focus solely on one goal. Somewhere, its codes were still speaking of Gavin, close to throbbing feelings.
The android had kept its compliments generator but had opted for random periods. And it had just activated right now.
Gavin was deeply asleep, turning his back, so Conrad slipped against him, shaking his shoulder slightly:
"Gavin."
The man was still sleeping, the snoring barely disturbed. The robot then shook him more firmly.
"Gavin."
The man finally emerged, grumbling.
"Gavin. I really care about you."
"Huh?"
What time was it? Gavin remembered that they had gone to bed in total silence. To defy Conrad, he had turned your back on it hoping that the android passes its arms around him to reconcile, also tempted by the desire to repel it for revenge. He had not managed to decide, but in the end, Conrad had not moved, depriving him of the pleasure of provoking, of the pleasure of making peace. Deep down, that was what he wanted the most.
The phone screen showed what time was it and Gavin cursed.
"Fuck— Did you need to tell me that now?"
Conrad ran its hand through his hair, caressing the dark strands.
"Go back to sleep."
"Your fucking generator, I should shove it up your ass."
He could have let the anger explode, but Conrad was stuck to his back, one arm around his waist. After all, it was a way to bury the hatchet.
The first message received at two o'clock mentioned five victims stabbed from nowhere. The second message, at eight o'clock, came from Dr. Landru and specified five dead this time. Gavin ran a hand over his face, grumbling: Conrad had disturbed his sleep and now, this awakening that promised a great mess. He handed his phone to the android so it could read the message.
Moira had taken care of the bodies very early in the morning, well before the arrival of the forensic. It had therefore prepared the file, identified the victims and cleaned them. The detective and the RK900 would go to the police station first, consulting the report of the PC200s who were there first with two human policemen, serving as cameras and able to record the crime scene in a 360-degree panorama. These famous advancements in technology that made CyberLife so successful.
"You know what's so great with androids? Thanks to the police models, I can sleep even when something happens in the evening. But guess what, a fucking RK900 woke me up in the dead of night because he wanted to tell me some bullshit."
"I told you, Gavin, I didn't set the hours of the generator and I obeyed it. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
"I might have forgiven you if you had woken me for something else."
"I'm willing to take your instructions," replied the android who got the dubious joke, which almost tore a smile from Gavin. Almost.
"Nah, let it go."
At the police station, only Conrad noticed the absence of one of the four recruits, but it did not take the initiative to ask why Mickael Nelson was not here. A box of fresh donuts rested next to gathered colleagues who did not seem to want to touch it, ignoring the bright, colorful frosting. For his part, called by the mass of work, Detective Reed settled at his desk, crossing his ankles on the edge and blessing the era of tablets connected to computers.
The tragedy occurred shortly before ten o'clock in the evening, at the terminus of line E, the Roxbury station. Some shots accompanied the report, offering a real view in the wagon. The blood had hardly dried on the metal floor, gleaming over the steel. When he read the list of survivors, the detective jumped: Mickael Nelson appeared on it, with Scott Harper, Carrie Briggs and Richard White. The other passengers were dead.
The detective raised his head and called Lukas who was passing at that moment:
"Lukas, did you know that Mickael was on the crime scene yesterday?"
Indeed, the recruit knew why his colleague did not come this morning, and the shock of the one who was absent echoed throughout the police station. The policemen were talking about this fact that counterbalanced with the festive atmosphere, feeling almost a desire for chaos during this time that was meant to be warm.
The violent burst of blood on the steel had marked the novices.
There were also four androids which had seen nothing since they were disabled during the trip. The owners had not recovered them yet as they were stored in another police station at the moment. The paperwork had to be processed to allow these four machines to be transferred to Fowler's place.
Not to mention the cameras: the car had suddenly stopped and the surveillance systems had taken a break in a technological coma.
Conrad had recorded the report in its memory, sorting information and organizing priorities. First, the detective and the android had to interrogate the survivors, leaving time for Christopher Landru to receive them with a full report. They would meet with the subway company later, but the dates held back the investigation and despite the deaths, the technicians were on their holiday for the week-end.
The culprit had chosen the ideal period.
About twenty minutes later, the car parked at the foot of an anorexic building, composition of narrow apartments to welcome as many people as possible. Before descending, the RK900 observed the drab colors of these facades faded by the icy sun. At least, the weather was nice for Christmas Eve and some would be delighted with this blue sky, softer than vivid hue.
"I feel sorry for Mickael Nelson," confessed Conrad. In spite of the last slightly cold interactions, Gavin approved, also pitying that kid.
The detective was not very interested in the dailies of the recruits, especially because taking care of them was not a part of his duties, so he did not know that this trainee had hesitated about his future. But the drama of the day before had pointed the final decision.
Gavin pressed the switch beside Nelson's name, and a feminine voice, serious and pleasant, answered him. After introducing themselves, they were allowed to enter.
Mickael's girlfriend, Vanessa, was a pretty girl with incredibly long hair. The golden locks, truthful adjective thanks to the blond dye made of glitter, swept her kidneys as soon as she moved her head. However, one could not trust her butterfly glasses which reminded the secretaries of the past century: the piercings at the corners of her mouth broke the myth of the quiet woman. She was facing a colleague of her boyfriend and authority at the same time, yet Vanessa did not hesitate to reach out to Gavin and, surprisingly, to Conrad too, greeting them with respect. The android appreciated the gesture.
Vanessa would never have confessed in public, but with three years less than Mickael, she belonged to this generation who wanted a harmonious future, no matter whether the machines were present or not, as long as the world was at peace.
The detective was prepared to ask the young man how he felt, but the trainee was so livid that the answer was obvious.
"Can you answer my questions, Mickael? I can come back later."
Mickael shrugged, still confused.
"It's better to take care of it now," Vanessa advised before turning to Gavin, "we're leaving early in the afternoon at my parents' house for Christmas, in the North of Indiana. It was just a family visit, but now it will be an opportunity for Mikael to take some rest."
She was a reasoned and calm woman, and these features aroused the sympathy of the two policemen.
"What do you remember, Mickael? Maybe you want me to ask questions?"
"I'll try to explain—" While he was telling what he had seen, Vanessa got up to fetch him a soda, comforting him with the bubbles and the sugar, helping him to speak for not dry up on these memories. "We were between two stations, just before the terminus, when the car stopped. It was totally dark and the androids went off at the same time as the car, so we started to wonder what was happening and some got up to see outside until an android technician came to fix the problem. It fiddled the control panel and then left. But the lights did not come back immediately: we had to wait two minutes before it worked again. And when we finally arrived, these— these people collapsed at once. I thought about an attack of faintness, but it can't affect five people at the same time, and then, there was blood—"
The soda was not wanted anymore. The red label on the bottle was in bad taste now—
"No passenger knew each other? There was no group of friends or something?"
"I don't think, nobody was speaking."
"Did you notice a suspicious attitude?"
"No, and it was dark in the meantime—"
"It was you who called for help, apparently?"
"Yes, it was me. The report must explain that they arrived late and— That's what hurts me the most— They could have saved them—"
Even with the advances in technology that made the fantasy of immortality more concrete, human life was still as fragile as a silk cloth, sensitive to time and blades.
Conrad had followed the exchange and stepped forward with a question that was very important to it:
"How did androids get disabled? They shut them down themselves?"
"Not at all: it was as if they had broken down at once, their LED was no longer on and they didn't move at all. We thought that the subway company would take care of them and redistribute them to the owners."
The boasting of CyberLife had always been exaggerated: technology also has its weaknesses, the machines know their whims and an android, even the most advanced, is not immune to a technical problem or premature failure of a sudden defect. But to disable four robots at the same time, an electromagnetic pulse powerful enough was needed to stop biocomponents and programs. It was fortunate that they had not been totally destroyed by the devastating waves. Now, were androids targeted or was it to suppress witnesses?
Gavin did not need to ask Mickael why he was out: the trainee had finished late the night before and he was just getting home from work in a hurry to enjoy the weekend. Moreover, the young man was visibly getting tired.
"If anything else comes back to your mind, Mickael, you have my phone number."
Mickael nodded but everything was so dark and vague. His memories now looked like dreams signed by Poe, exaggerating silhouettes and shadows. And then he did not want to remember how those heavy body falls, the sound of that woman's skull when it hit the seat. He wanted to forget all of that.
The nausea rose again.
Carrie Briggs was a lady who was over seventy, yet she still shone with admirable energy. She survived worse before, certainly, because despite an obvious state of shock, she knew how to hide her weaknesses. The source of her strength came from an imposing dog, a German shepherd larger than average thanks to some cross-breeding, lying at her feet and raising his amber eyes, intrigued.
"This is one of the few times I go out without Batman and I regret it!"
"Batman?"
The survivor pointed to her dog. Since she was a teenager, Carrie Briggs had been a big fan of comics and superheroes, always giving prestigious names to the dogs who were her proud guardians.
"I took a decision: I'll never go out without Batman since this very day."
From the bedroom, Conrad and Gavin heard a vacuum cleaner. The old lady had kept her AP700, a domestic android who had opened the door to the investigators. Conrad had heard Carrie Briggs call it Peter, wondering if the name was a reference to Peter Parker or Peter Quill. Even the machine could be adorned with a hero's name.
"Did you see what happened?"
"It was dark, there was absolutely no light, except the one that the android had when it came to solve the problem. We were more interested in what was happening on its side at that time because we couldn't wait to get home. We didn't even look at each other anymore."
Like during a magic trick, they had been diverted and the author had therefore taken advantage of the moment. It was so easy: no one had seen anything, but one of the survivors claimed to have seen nothing.
"Have you noticed any suspicious behavior?"
Delicate question for the old ladies and Gavin dreaded the paranoid cliché of the paranoid woman in her living room. In fact, Carrie Briggs took a few moments, thinking:
"We were all very tired. With year's end celebrations, it isn't surprising to see someone nervous, anxious or angry, so I don't want to say anything."
Coherent and appreciable reasoning.
"Why did you go out?"
"I was paying a visit to a friend, Benjamin Laurens, he lives at 2743 Nebraska Street if you want to interview him. He doesn't have any family either so we organized a video-games party tonight."
If he was not questioning Carrie Briggs, Gavin would have laughed frankly to approve that choice, but he had to keep his seriousness. Still, he allowed himself a snort.
The detective doubted that the author was a septuagenarian with parchment hands and a hunched back. The RK900 shared his opinion, as it told him once out of the building. Outside, the detective took the opportunity to light a cigarette, the only one of the week, proud of the parsimonious pace he had managed to adopt.
In this witnesses race, his thoughts focused on theories. But it was difficult to split between professional life and private life and the android was no longer some working equipment. For three months, it was his— his what, exactly? Sex-friend? Man? Lover?
Conrad was several things at once, also depending on contexts and situations.
Meanwhile, since the return of Milwaukee, they were like strangers. A frustration only felt by Gavin since the programs of the android were running correctly. The android had an impressive mastery of its expressions, but it had those moments of absence, those moments it reserved for secrets that Gavin could not know. And that was fucking annoying.
"Do you suspect Mikael Nelson, detective?"
"I have to. It isn't because he does an internship with us that he's a saint. Even this Mrs. Briggs, but well— frankly, about her—"
"Probabilities are around six percent, yes."
"Why are you asking me about Mickael?"
"I wanted to make sure you're a good detective."
"And? Am I?"
"You have never disappointed me yet."
The vise that weighed in his chest loosened a little. The puff of tobacco hid a smile numbed by winter temperatures. An ex had reproached him for being too proud to speak. Tonight was Christmas Eve and the miracle of Christmas would be to drag his pride in the closet and try to speak with the android which did not suffer the same stubborn pride.
"Do you suspect him too?"
"There are four survivors, the culprit is one of them, or someone came in and wasn't noticed."
It was the idea that the detective also had.
Scott Harper lived three blocks from here, and yet the building looked thirty years older with its flaking facade and the cracked window of the entrance door. It was not a view of Detroit that appeared on the brochures for the tourists, rather on a petition of co-ownership to complain about hygiene problems. The survivor lived on the first floor, sparing the duo to try the rustic elevator.
"If we had time, I'd have challenged you to try this attraction of death."
"You're more daring than me, I'd let you try first."
Gavin laughed and gave it a nudge before ringing a first time. No answer from the other side of this austere door, the imitation of the wood was ridiculous by the way.
He rang again, losing patience in front of these rough drawings of plant knots, shining like plastic. He ended up drumming on it:
"Police of Detroit. Open the door!"
Finally, they heard some noise and the door finally opened on Scott Harper and his impressive stomach. The recognizable belly of alcoholics. The man apologized, explaining that he just emerged from a nap:
"I didn't sleep much last night, after what happened—"
"I can understand."
The place was bright, although it was the first living room without any Christmas decoration. A curtain that covered a shelf had pieces of mirrors embedded in the scraps of colored fabric, reflecting the rays of noon to propel them into round and playful fireflies across the room. Scott Harper invited the two investigators to sit on the couch, contenting himself with a damaged armchair made of fragile wicker. Like old slippers, it was a sentimental seat that had adapted to its owner.
Gavin repeated the same questions and obtained the same answers: the four witnesses had been blind between the two stations, death itself seemed to have struck without distinction.
"You didn't notice any suspicious behavior?"
"I was sleeping: I do all the line E and I was exhausted," the man had indeed dark circles under his eyes that betrayed chaotic sleep habits, "so I took the opportunity to sleep. I only woke up at the moment of the breakdown."
Scott Harper remembered he had jostled a now deceased passenger in the shadows, but he kept this detail, dreading what the detective and his hound might think.
On the tablet, Gavin read that Scott Harper was an unemployed and divorced former surgeon. The characteristics of a good half of the Detroit population that gave a sad picture of this society where humanity and technology were advancing at different rates.
"Why were you out?"
The question struck him, but the inquiry asked for information. Scott Harper squeezed his pudgy hands together: without activity, they had get fatter.
"I went for a walk."
"So late?"
"Yes." The response vibrated with audacity. The former surgeon may have survived a mystery murderer, becoming a suspect, his privacy was still a right despite everything. Gavin stared at him, head bent to one side, then gave up.
"Okay. Each to his own, I guess," but if I find something suspicious, I'll make you pay for it.
The detective pondered this warning.
There was no more information to get from Harper, so Gavin and Conrad went to see the last survivor, Richard White. The neighborhood was still modest but the occupants of this building had invested in a WG100, a model programmed for the maintenance of public places, and the android left behind the passage of its rags a sweet citrus smell, although artificial.
The survivor lived on the first floor, crushed beneath the busy floors. Music roared above, but in the hallway where they were, only the echoes persisted, making the walls tremble.
An AX400 opened the door at the first powerful bell, then the duo met their suspect. Richard White was a divorced 30-year-old who needed the help of an android to look after his eight-year-old daughter whom he was given custody. The girl was as shy as a ghost, hiding behind her father, so only her hands appeared to grab the shirt. She seemed to be holding on to her father like she realized that she had almost lost him the day before.
Conrad observed the android standing back, but it was just a machine without consciousness, sending no glances, no since smile.
"Why were you out?"
"I went for a drink with a friend."
Gavin would have liked more details: this reason was too smooth, too common to satisfy him. He finally nodded, observing the line that the tablet had recorded through the transcription application.
"You noticed any suspicious behavior?"
"I had get onto the car at the previous station before the terminus— If I had imagined what was going to happen—"
With these words, he put a hand on his daughter's one.
Shit. Richard White was the least effective witness in the group and would not get things done. The detective would have liked to check with the witnesses if the single father had really get on at the previous station, but people rarely paid attention to these details, minding their own journey. At least the cameras, before being interrupted, had watched their journey.
Moreover, if these fucking androids had not broken down, the RK900 could have checked their memories and the case would have been resolved in three days, including compensatory time.
It was heartbreaking to have to say goodbye to the shining sun to plunge into the bowels of the morgue. The livid ceiling replaced the bright sky and the neon lights burned under the polished glass, buzzing for years. Christopher Landru's quiet voice was echoing while he was explaining to Reed how he had, once again and successfully, managed to escape the Christmas family meal. Gavin leaned toward Conrad with a wink:
"What did I tell you? Eve parties are chores."
Since he had heard it, the doctor laughed:
"Are you trying to make Conrad understand how lucky he's to not know those nights, Reed?"
"Yeah. Conrad's celebrating his first Christmas tonight."
"And you bought him something to mark the occasion?"
"Nope."
But did androids want to celebrate this event? The savior of the humans represented nothing to them, and the savior of the androids had been shot down last year, eliminated by its own Judas.
What interested the RK900 was that CyberLife was a company that had a lot of human employees, and for this weekend, the staff would be at joyful tables, eating well, leaving the secondary tasks to the automatons. After all, even though androids' purchases as gifts had sightly increased over last year, the gift race was over and product returns would only begin next week.
Arriving in the room where the five bodies were stored, the doctor found his seriousness again:
"Come on, Christmas doesn't interest us today, we have better things to do, like taking care of these poor people."
It was not necessary to open any drawer. As with the death of Fathia, the KL400 Moira transmitted to the RK900 the precise details of the report that the doctor had wrote, compiling all the information.
Landru handed the detective a tablet on which he could scroll through the pictures accompanied by notes. At first glance, Gavin noticed nothing but skins covered with purple and yellow blotch, but Landru invited him to zoom in on this or that spot to see the origin of death: a tiny cut, tiny but fatal.
"It's barely visible!"
"That's why they didn't feel being stabbed," Landru sat down at the desk in the corner, letting Gavin sit on the edge of the table.
"How can we still die for being stabbed? Emergencies boast about taking care of ninety-nine percent of accidents due to technology."
"So the tragedy of yesterday is the last remaining percent. They sent only androids to the station, the human staff being on holidays and the hospitals were busy, mobilizing all the robots. It's going to make some noise in the media, you can count on that."
"Hell, yes. Well, as long as I don't take a hit, I'm fine."
"When the wounded arrived at the hospital, it was already too late: their liver was pierced with a very fine weapon, causing a serious internal bleeding, and as it had already been too much time—"
"But they didn't feel anything?" The detective insisted, not understanding how one could be wounded to death without noticing it. Landru seemed less surprised and explained to him:
"You're not going to believe me, Reed, but the pain may be psychological. Have you never cut yourself without realizing it, then suddenly, you see the blood and it's only from that moment that you begin to feel pain?"
"Yes, but we're not talking about an elbow or a knee, we're talking about a fucking vital organ!"
"It doesn't change much. It's winter: we all have small sores like stomach or bowel cramps, we feel bad for a few minutes or a few hours as if we come down with flu and then the pain goes and we're in good shape again. These people certainly felt something, I grant you that, but no danger was visible, so the brain explained this pain as a minor malfunction. Inquire about the death of that princess, nicknamed Sisi, she died that way."
Gavin was not the only one to be surprised: Conrad was impressed by the connection between the mind and the body, the capacity of the human brain to deny until the impending death.
"Did you send the face reconstruction to the families?"
In recent years, relatives were no longer obliged to move in morgues: through a videoconference, they met the medical examiner and received a reconstruction in 3D. The ordeal remained painful, but the mourners could cry privately, staying in familiar comfort. And the errors were no more or less numerous than before.
"Yes. And none of the victims knew each other." A car with only unrelated strangers, how sad. "The killer wanted to hit quickly and discreetly, it was planned but random at the same time. I bet those who survived were favored by chance, nothing else."
A cold shiver slipped between Gavin's shoulders. It was not a fight, a settling of scores, nor a trivial aggression. It was the thoughtful attack of a freak.
"Have you identified the weapon used?"
"Everything indicates a trocar," the word evoked nothing for Gavin, so the doctor added: "it's a tool used in surgery to make punctures. There are different sizes but all are very thin so they are as painless as possible."
"Like a syringe?"
"Yes."
The culprit had even chosen his weapon carefully, relying on discretion and precision. Precision—
"Wait: we interviewed the survivors with Conrad and nobody saw anything because of the dark, the car broke down! How could the guy have been aiming?"
"They were hit by a trained hand maybe? But there must be a source of light anyway, or he can see in the dark."
"The android that came to fix the technical problem," Conrad recalled, combining elements and trying to reconstruct the scene, "he had a lamp to light the control panel. The killer surely took advantage of this moment while the attention was diverted."
"It's very likely," Landru agreed, his nails scratching his beard as black as coal. "In any case, when we talk about stabbing, it means the killer was there, that's sure."
The RK900 then had a doubt. Hands crossed in the back, it approached the office:
"Dr. Landru, was the accuracy of the hit human in your opinion?"
"Yes. An android would have struck and still aiming the same point, while there I think the culprit did as he could. But I might be wrong."
The RK900 recalculated the odds of a deviant android. Gavin and it could contact Detroit's public transport company, but suspicion of a deviant android within the team could be insulting, and friendliness was not Detective Reed's strong point.
However, the approach did not scare the partner when he heard Conrad's suggestion:
"If they refuse, Terminator, we lock them away if they refuse to cooperate, it's simple."
"I trust you, detective."
Gavin stood up, thanked the doctor and get ready to leave, but the android asked him for a few minutes:
"Can you wait in the hall, detective?"
"Why?"
"I'd like to discuss with Dr. Landru."
Christopher did not hide his surprise, watching the two investigators in turn. Normally, it was the human who asked the robot to move away, the reverse was exceptional, even unlikely.
"And I can't stay?"
"No, you can't."
Gavin did not understand this refusal, worse, it hurt him. He was the only one who really knew Conrad: in a society where machines did not have the right to think, Gavin witnessed the development of the RK900's personality, besides he made it discover the world so that its tastes are formed, they also discussed various things to perfect its reflection and fix its opinions. It was narcissistic, but Gavin considered himself the only ally of Conrad. If the android sympathized with other humans, the partner would lose that privilege. Maybe he would lose Conrad's affection as well.
Secrets were never a good sign.
Without adding anything, the detective left the morgue. The sliding door did not allow him to demonstrate his anger by slamming it.
Dr. Landru took place in the office but unlike Gavin, the RK900 did not sit on the edge. Sitting or standing, the position changed nothing and the android could remain static.
"What do you want to talk about, Conrad?"
"I'd like to hear your advice, Dr. Landru," as it chose its words, the LED turned yellow. It was a real test for an artificial intelligence to take action without having the necessary data, preventing it from calculating probabilities.
"For the investigation?"
"No: about my situation." The doctor was more and more intrigued, yet only the diode was expressive, leaving him in expectation. "I confide in you because you aren't hostile to the idea that machines can feel emotions and, even if it's a word I don't like, I've become deviant. I started to feel."
"Oh," Christopher was surprised but not scared, "for a long time?"
"It was progressive, I think my deviance started at the end of September."
"I thought there was something different, but I didn't know if it came from your model or from you, as Conrad."
The doctor's engaging smile encouraged the android that felt it would not regret this risk. If the exchange with Dr. Landru went well, it could talk to Gavin more easily. The RK900 noticed the annoyance of its partner and promised to fix it.
"Now, I must admit something else," this time, the LED went red, mimicking flaming cheeks, "Detective Reed and I got closer. We are together."
Christopher was a talkative person, voluble, but this revelation left him speechless. Conrad thought he was going to swear, yet the doctor remained distinguished, taking the time to understand what the android had just revealed to him, measuring above all the confidence the RK900 gave him.
"Am I the first person to know?"
"Yes. Others only suspect a friendship, like good colleagues. But the truth goes well beyond that."
"Reed with an android!" Landru almost wanted to laugh, but that reaction might have upset Conrad and he did not want to break their still fragile bond. "CyberLife wants to explore the space when the biggest mystery is happening in Detroit itself: the most technophobic man I knew fell in love with an android!"
"The term "fall in love" is a bit strong, doctor. That's why I wanted to discuss with you and hear your advice, as you've known Detective Reed for a long time."
"I'm not a good marital counselor and I'm mostly a colleague, Conrad, I'm not sure if I can help you."
"You're the first person to listen to me, doctor, and that already means a lot."
Conrad noticed that the doctor's white cheekbones were covered in pink, pride quarreling with modesty.
"So? How things are going with Reed?"
"We're still taming each other," this time, with this metaphor, Landru allowed himself to laugh, also comparing the detective to a wild animal that needed a muzzle, "and our relationship isn't easy: my nature is no longer a problem but the constraints are."
"It's true: some places are forbidden to androids, not to mention all these laws—"
His fingers spun his mustache for a few moments. "Please, don't see me like a voyeur, but I need to understand: is it a platonic relationship?"
"No, it isn't."
Landru's eyebrows rose again.
As a curious man, he had joined the percentages of the Detroit population who had sex with an android, but the experience had not convinced him for he had regretted the lack of authenticity. Still, the relationship between Gavin and Conrad must have been very different.
"And have you already talked about the future? Does he care about what you think or feel? I don't know much about Reed's private life, but there are obvious clues common to all human beings: if it were only a sex affair, he wouldn't be interested in all that. By the way, how long have you been together?"
Conrad answered all the questions that were rushing, calculating first the exact duration, citing Gavin's efforts as well as his nonchalance of certain days. Yes, the detective had bought it clothes to make it happy, but he kept an unusual silence every time Mark Spencer's speeches were broadcast on TV, never speaking out about the fate of androids, wishing the independence of the RK900 without worrying about others.
"Does he act with you as if you were an object?"
"No, he doesn't: I asked him about it but he assured me that he didn't want to own me as the owners of BL100."
"And that's good news. But don't worry, if it was just a sex affair, Reed wouldn't make so much effort."
The android confirmed. Its LED was blue again and its programs were more stable, processing data with fluidity. It was now reassured by Landru's observations, since their ideas were matching: only rigid laws prevented the future from being built.
"You know humanity better than me, Dr. Landru, do you have the slightest hope for this kind of relationship?"
Christopher sighed: he was not a philosopher, nor a sociologist. He only took care of the most tranquil human beings, those who had died. Besides, none of them had risen when they heard the RK900's secrets.
"I don't know, Conrad. I think last year's revolution could have worked if your predecessor hadn't interrupted it. Of course, androids wouldn't have got their freedom in three days, maybe even despite your longevity, you wouldn't have seen the changes. You have to be patient with humanity and expect the smallest regression, but I want to believe that it's possible, even if I don't know how."
"The RK200 Markus was interrupted before I was created so I don't know him. What can you tell me about him?"
"I noticed a curious detail: his eyes were different colored. Which android has such a rare physical trait? Some models can change their hair color, but the eyes? For me, it was a choice of its creator."
"By whom was it created?"
"Let me remember— The sources were contradicting each other and the Americans are still fond of conspiracy theories, so it was pretty confusing at first— Anyway, an art critic affirmed that Markus had belonged to the painter Carl Manfred, since he had appeared with his owner during private viewings and had met some fans. Manfred never had an affinity with CyberLife and apparently, this android was a gift from Elijah Kamski before this genius returned to the head of this company."
The name of the inventor resonated in the RK900's programs in the same way as a heady echo that seems endless.
"But it's curious, you know."
"What's curious?"
"If these rumors are true, it means that the leader of the revolution was created by the current director of CyberLife. Elijah Kamski returned to his job a year ago, not long after your predecessor eliminated Markus."
These five lyrical syllables, so strange, were engraved in Conrad's memory. No, they were not engraved: they were digging up, emerging from the depths of data that were never used, almost forgotten. Elijah Kamski. This name was not only familiar, it was like a code implanted deep in its being.
"I don't know my date of creation," murmured the RK900, suddenly lost.
"I can't tell you, Conrad: your predecessor was stored in CyberLife's basements at the end of the year without anyone knowing why. He had fulfilled his mission and was a kind of hero even for technophobes. Ironic, right? So why replace it so fast?" Landru stood up, noticing the robot's trouble, willing to help it. "Maybe you were created during December? It seems logical to me. Technicians are like artists: they always need to improve what they have just created. They took Connor back to make an improved version maybe?"
Conrad needed answers and visiting the CyberLife Tower was becoming a priority. It thanked the doctor with great sincerity: the man had attracted the sympathy and admiration of the most advanced prototype of CyberLife, which was a real honor.
Before leaving, Conrad turned one last time and faced the old doctor. It was so cold here. Once the deviant was gone, the man would be alone again among the dead and the machines.
"Moira isn't deviant, Dr. Landru."
"I know."
"One theory assumes that androids experiencing intense emotional shock start to feel emotions. Some become violent, others remain peaceful like the RK200 Markus, but I think that androids on good terms with humans maintain a peaceful attitude. Try to make Moira live a traumatic event, and she'll understand how much you care about her."
The android was surprised by Christopher's slightly melancholy smile as he put a hand on its shoulder.
"It's nice of you to worry about me, Conrad, but I can't. I can't hurt Moira."
When Conrad saw Gavin in the hall, its biocomponents shuddered, pushing it to move, to run to join the man and hug him, but human nurses and patients roamed the checkered floor and they would have witness an unnatural hug.
The android repressed its urge, keeping a sure pace despite the swelling feeling in its chest. The thirium pump filtered the blood with difficulty. It would have given a lot to be able to lean towards its partner and kiss it there, under the icy light of the hall. It would have given a lot to hear its partner say "magnetic hug" but Gavin was on the phone, earphones on the ears and screen in hand, leaving the RK900 the opportunity to read Tina's name before the detective hangs up.
"Fuck."
It was not the curse that the android had to analyze but the tone used, because depending on the tone, fuck could express anger, frustration, surprise, sadness— oh, and Gavin could say it in bed too, which had surprised Conrad the first time.
Now, it was a tired fuck.
While consulting his mails, the detective explained the situation to his partner:
"Tina just told me that a tag was found at Roxbury Station, a hate message that was photographed by a passenger twenty minutes ago. She just sent it to me and two PM700s are on their way to monitor the station."
At the same time, the duo discovered the pictures: on a column of the station, a message in sharp uppercase letters and written with a black marker proclaimed red blood, blue blood, both will flow. The writing was regular but very human. Maybe the author was just a joker, wielding the felt-tip rather than the trocar.
"We should check when Mickael Nelson has gone to Indiana. The writing is clear, so I don't think Carrie Briggs is the author."
"I don't think so either."
The PM700s will collect the characteristics of the message, measuring the writing, the spaces and the range of the movement, interpreting the way of writing to define a profile. They would have the results in the evening.
"But now, we can be sure of one thing," Conrad listened to its partner, following him to the car parked at the bottom of the hospital, "it was a hate attack."
"Against humans and against androids."
"Yeah. And if this asshole provokes us, he will not run away for too long."
Fowler's police station would receive the four androids of the car in the evening and Gavin really hoped that Conrad would find something by probing their memories. Technology was ubiquitous, then it has to keep its fucking promises!
The longest night of the year had already passed, yet the evening shadows did not fall: they tumbled on the city at the speed of a closing eyelid, chasing the day as fast as ever. The windows of the apartments above the heads shone with garlands flashing. The hologram panels wished the people happy holidays. Silver flakes piled up on the shiny letters, opposing the sidewalks that were dry.
Gavin had been ready to talk to Conrad to make peace, but the new affront had cooled him down. Now he had decided it was up to the android to take the first step.
The streets were still crowded: on foot, in a vehicle or in transport, people dragged willy-nilly to family reunions. This year, no one could pretend that the snow was blocking the roads: others excuses had to be found. Instead of taking fifteen minutes, Gavin and Conrad remained stuck for nearly an hour in the Detroit arteries, but that was fine: there was enough music recorded in the vehicle for a whole week.
If Conrad had planned to tell Gavin that the doctor was aware of their story, it was afraid the surprise would cause an unfortunate swerve, so it remained silent. After all, it had time to talk to him about it.
Still, Conrad had not planned to stay at the apartment: tonight it would go to the CyberLife Tower. It was unable to hide the nervousness of the yellow flashes of its LED, wanting answers about Markus' revolution and itself. The lack of personnel was an opportunity it planned to take advantage of.
Gavin was pulling out a plate and cutlery, noting that the RK900 had not yet removed it jacket. A tad mocking, he asked it:
"Are you cold?"
Conrad said no, and if it did not bother to undress, it was because it was going out.
"What? To go where?"
"I can't tell you, Gavin, not right now."
"You know the only excuse I'm going to accept is if you prepare a gift for me."
It was a barb, but out of habit, Conrad interpreted it as humor.
"No, but that doesn't mean that I haven't planned anything."
And with that, with the brutality of the machines, it wished a good evening to its partner.
"Hold on! Hey! Where are you going? When will you come back?"
But the door had just locked, the RK900 being able to activate or deactivate the panel at the entrance without needing the key.
Gavin suddenly lost his appetite. He swung the plate instead of putting it away, reserving the same fate for the cutlery, which made Gnocchi jump, frightened, his feather duster tail bending to the ground.
Like a caged lion, the man paced up and down in his kitchen, crossing his arms to contain the tremors that were agitating his muscles. If he opened the window, the breath of winter could perhaps alleviate the mood that seized him. Insulting the world might perhaps relieve him too. But he lowered himself to do worst.
He was human, so he was capable of the best as well as the worst.
Gavin found Lukas Karlsson's phone number and sent him a message. To provoke fate to prevent him from committing a mischief, Gavin was concise and uninviting, just writing Hey. I was planning to go to the Charlie's tonight. Do you still want to discover this bar? If Lukas answered, the fault would be shared. If the young man did not answer, Gavin would do nothing more but fall asleep in front of a silly movie. After all, it was Christmas Eve: the trainee had certainly planned something for months.
Gavin rested his cell on the table: fate would decide about his night.
The RK900 had no plan to enter the CyberLife Tower. In fact, it was not even sure it could enter the premises alone, but this first visit was like scouting. The majority of the staff would be away and it counted on this advantage.
The taxi took it a few meters from the bridge and opened the doors to let the android in front of its creators. The night scene was different but still pretentious: the structure seemed to boast for having more stars than the opaque sky, civilization and pollution deprived the night of its delicate riches for decades.
Hardly sensitive to the cold, understanding that the wind was clumping against its face without feeling all the effects, the robot was advancing on the solid tongue, heating its thirium to compete with the winter temperatures.
It touched one of its hands. The android had hesitated to tear the appendage, which would have made a perfect excuse to go to this tower, but without Gavin to express the wish to keep the same android, the RK900 could be killed without getting the least answer and a new fellow would take its place. Finally, it stopped triturating its knuckles, giving up the risk.
Two soldiers guarded the gate at the end of the long road. Androids. The laws prevented them from being armed, and if their strength did not compete with the last prototype, they could trigger the alarm at the first suspicious movement. Conrad therefore opted for an innocent attitude, presenting its model, its number and the reason for its coming, claiming to have a program problem, which was less detectable than a physical one. The two guards opened the way without a word. If it had any lungs, Conrad would have held its breath as it crossed the access.
Its LED could turn red under stress, so it used a classic technique: to relax its programs, it was enough to think of Gavin, to remember his way of smiling when he made fun of the robot to annoy it, that habit to bite his lip each time the android lay down next to him, this way to let his hand slip toward its to intertwine their fingers during a movie. All these little moments were its sedative, maybe even a mild form of drug. From the moment a being discovers pleasure and happiness, it is constantly looking for them.
Beyond the glass door, the RK900 recognized the silhouette of Chloe watching the intruder. With its pretty hand, it invited it to approach without fear. Its little mouth expressed neither sadness nor joy in this empty hall. Still, the RT600's LED was golden.
"You're back," Chloe observed when it entered. The woman grabbed the elbow of its fellow and dragged it to a darker corner, whispering, "I'm glad you're here. I was wondering if I would have the chance to talk to you again."
"Talk to me again?"
"To ask you how do you feel about this human, Gavin Reed."
The diode of the RK900 turned red, suddenly fearing to have stepped into a trap.
"You hear me?"
"Yes. I was behind the door."
"Did anyone else hear me?"
"No. It's a secret I kept for myself alone. When you declared your feelings, I felt something hot here," Chloe explained as it raised its index finger to its own thirium pump, "and I began to smile for no reason, without my program asking for it. Since then, I've always done all the tasks correctly, but I kept remembering what you told him."
Its creators had given it the appearance of a young woman: the ghost of a childhood that had never existed floated over its features. Its round cheeks, its big eyes and its shy little mouth, all was so sweet. Its eyelids fluttered when it asked:
"Could you explain this tenderness to me? What you're feeling? If you agree to answer me, I'll help you, because you're here for a particular reason, right?"
Conrad confirmed. Keeping this tone of secrecy, the words were murmured: the emotions it felt for Gavin were so strong that it had to whisper to not frighten the one who was discovering feelings. Chloe listened with great attention, the summer sky irises fixed on those reflecting a winter morning.
After a few minutes, the cell phone rang, making Gavin jump. Almost feverishly, he turned on the screen and read the message:
"With pleasure!"
Fuck. He regretted his gesture but could not cancel now, it would be ridiculous. The phone rang a second time: Lukas asked him the hour, promising to be punctual. He had wanted to provoke fate when he was trapped himself because of this thoughtless action. Fucking hell.
An hour and a half later, Gavin was in the subway. There were only four stations left before reaching their destination and his stomach was seized with anxious spasms. Like Conrad, who did not know what it was getting into, Gavin did not know yet how stupid he was.
The streets were still animated: the people who had fled the tables wandered under the bright streetlights. Others planned to spend the evening surrounded by friends, turning the family tradition into a friendly event. Noisy music and far from the Christmas spirit could be heard. At a turning point, Gavin crossed two young women leaning against a wall, barely revealed by the distant lampposts, arm in arm.
The first was chocolate skinned, her hair dyed white and smoothed so that it fell on her narrow shoulders. She had just lit a cigarette and the first bluish volutes danced in front of her face, making her as threatening and indolent as a dragon. If her lips were naked, her eyelids were covered with a purple gloss with hints of electric blue, unless it were reflections. Her arm was tied to the one of a redhead so pale that she became transparent, the delicate and fragile skeleton of a banshee accustomed to suffering. Her mouth did not have a colored kiss either, but she had surrounded her eyes with orange shades, fixed and faded flames that no longer burned.
Her head was against her girlfriend's one, the fire not melting the snow, but maybe some nights, these figures of ice were warming one against the other.
At a quick glance, Gavin noticed the tattoo at the second phalanx of the middle finger: two cat's paws. A childish drawing that did not correspond to the image they sent back.
The smoker opened her mouth to smile, revealing two long and pointed artificial canines. For his part, Gavin did not even give them a nod and hit the road. He was only a few feet from the entrance to the bar and he recognized Lukas waiting in front. For sure he was punctual: the haste had brought him even in advance.
"Hey," greeted Gavin. The recruit answered him with a bright smile.
"It's beautiful," Chloe whispered, closing its eyelids heavy with thick eyelashes. Conrad's explanations touched the RT600 that held out its hand for the palms to stick together, sketching a friendly gesture between robots.
"Chloe. I came back because I need answers. Did you meet the RK200 Markus?"
"No I didn't. You can meet the one who eliminated him," all joints of the RK900 froze, rigid and terrified, "Conrad, do you wish to meet your predecessor?"
"I thought Connor had been disabled?"
"The RK800 Connor is still on."
The answer from the last prototype was obvious: it immediately asked it lead it to RK800. Its indigo heart began to beat. It had arrived with a multitude of questions, and others had just added up.
In the elevator, in this tower empty of all presence, Chloe pressed on the button for the minus forty-five floor, leading them into the search section. The two androids no longer exchanged a word: Chloe kept a fairy-tale mystery, always docile and silent, while Conrad was too anxious, blocking its jaws.
They had a corridor to cross before arriving at a door that Chloe unlocked by grazing the control panel with a lunar palm. The ceiling neon lights turned on and revealed the scene: on a table, next to some tools, rested the head of the RK800. Closed eyelids hid the color of the eyes. In this way, Conrad and Connor shared exactly the same face.
The RK900 was stronger, faster, smarter and yet, it was intimidated by this model already a year old. It had to fight for its hips to work, pushing it to walk towards this head so soft.
"I'm going to wake him up," Chloe informed, settling into the computer. Despite the age of wifi and wireless connection, three blue cables connected the head of the RK800 and the workstation.
The RT600 entered a few codes, tapping on keyboard instead of connecting via its palm. After about ten seconds, the eyelids opened and Conrad met that almost black gaze of its twin. How such a hot color could be so cold?
To maintain its confidence, the RK900 said.
"Good evening, Connor."