Like most cities in Albert's experience, the City of the Fours did not sleep, though it slowed and grew quieter as the night progressed. There were still people on the streets, though at this point they seemed as intent on their destination as he and York, but for all Albert knew this was simply how it was in a residential area. He had no idea what was going on in the city center, glowing like a beacon far away.
York led him down the street, hands in pockets and blue jeans turned grey under the orange light of the street lamps. A few cars passed by, large and boxy and lacking the smooth look that Albert had begun to adjust to in the twenty-first century. He stared as he noticed they had no wheels but hovered low to the ground.
"Meister," York called, glancing over his shoulder, "Don't walk behind me, get up here."
Albert quickened his step until he and the Jet clone walked abreast. "What's the problem? I don't know where we're going."
"Fours don't follow Twos. Either I'm behind you or next to you."
"Why?"
York shrugged. "Just the way it is."
"'The way it is' doesn't sit right with me," Albert muttered. He'd heard it too much growing up. Looking around, he saw mostly Fours, but here and there was a Two; one dozed next to some steps, curled into his jacket, and another indeed walked behind a couple of Fours, uninterested in their conversation and looking upwards at the lights of rockets above.
Albert watched them fly by as well, trying not to trip over his own feet. "I'm sorry for slowing you down," he said to York.
"Hm?"
"You probably could have flown home by now instead of walking with me."
York looked pained. "I couldn't fly anywhere even if I wanted to. When not at war, the fighter classes are flight-locked. Only transporters get use of the skies around here, unless you get a permit."
Albert stared. "You can't fly?"
"It didn't used to be that way, but one time I came home from war and they slapped the locks on our feet and that was that. I guess it's to keep congestion down. The transporters crash into each other enough as it is. Also fuel's expensive and we fighter classes aren't exactly economical, you know?"
York's lost flight ability was worrisome enough, but Albert found his comment on war alarming. "You're at war? With who?"
"Nobody right now, though there'll probably be another one soon, the economy's kinda shitty. Good for me I can finally get this eye replaced," he pointed to the eye patch, "They wouldn't send a soldier out half blind."
Not the answer Albert was looking for, but, "I though you said you were retired?"
"My class is retired, but all fighters still get drafted. They stopped making Yorks a long time ago, replaced us with the Mustangs. Now the Mustangs are obsolete and were supposed to be phased out by the Kirin class but the Fours finally noticed that they're shit for organized combat. I've heard rumors that they're making a new class that's supposed to phase out both the Mustangs and the Kirins."
"You make it sound like Twos are manufactured en mass."
York smirked at him and tapped his long nose. "Now you're getting it."
Anything Albert would have said in response was cut off as a Four dashed out ahead of them to the edge of the curb and waved his arm. A second later a Two in a yellow jacket dropped into the street before him and bowed.
"Two-Gustav-3641 at'yer service," he said.
The Four looked surprised. "Oh, uh, I wasn't…"
A flash of rockets and Albert stepped back as a couple more Twos, dressed in black and carrying a sedan chair on poles between them, lowered to the curb and landed gently, setting down the chair. The Two in front stepped clear and bowed.
"Orleans eastside cab number twenty-six, at'yer service," he gestured to the chair, "Meister."
Bristling, the Gustav pushed into the Orleans space. "Hey! I was here first, ya hackneys!"
"Oh please," the Orleans sneered, "no one wants to be carried around like a sack of potatoes. This one's ours."
"Transporter rules say first come first serve!"
The Orleans snarled and pushed the Gustav hard, "Back off! Go find a garbage bin to deliver. There's two of us and one of you. Besides," he pointed his thumb over his shoulder to the sedan behind him. The second Orleans had opened the door and the Four was settling himself in comfortably.
The Gustav's shoulders drooped in defeat while the Orleans repositioned himself at the front of the sedan chair. "By your leave," he hissed, then swept a leg out to trip up the Gustav before giving a short whistle. The two Orleans took off simultaneously and rose steadily into the air.
The Gustav, standing alone in the street, cursed and kicked at the curb. Someone chuckled in the small crowd that had gathered to watch the altercation and the Gustav whirled around at the sound. Albert stared; he looked like he was about to cry. The Gustav launched into the air, his rockets sputtered dangerously before stabilizing, and disappeared into the sky.
"Hoppla," York said, "he's getting low on fuel. Must be a freelancer; the stations wouldn't let him get that low. He'll be on the streets soon enough, if he isn't already."
"Does that happen a lot?" Albert asked, still staring after the Gustav.
"All the time. Usually gets a lot worse, that Gustav backed down pretty quick. Transporters are very competitive and Peacekeepers often get involved."
"No, I mean Twos on the streets. Gustav 2344 was worried about getting fired and now that one."
York slid his hands back into his pockets and kicked at the ground. Albert wondered if they noticed how often they did that, like they didn't know what to do with their own feet. "Like I said, the economy isn't too great right now and the problem with being a Two is that we're built for specific jobs. If all the slots are all filled, well…" he shrugged, "We try, but sometimes it's best to just give up on paying rent and sleep outside so at least you can feed yourself. Winter's coming, though, so everyone's scrambling. Even cyborgs don't like napping in the snow."
"Do the Fours have similar problems?"
York gave him an odd look. "Probably, just not to the same extent. Fours have the gift of versatility," he paused, "Versi…? That is the right word, isn't it? Anyway, don't bother asking a Two about it, we aren't informative types, I told you."
Albert frowned at the blatant brush-off. "You seem to be doing well enough."
"I'm a York."
"I don't know what that's supposed to mean, damnit!" Albert snapped, his frustration getting the better of him. He was tired and lost and had no idea how to even begin trying to get home, much less understand this foreign city of Twos and Fours.
York arched a brow at his tirade then tossed his hair back. He was going grey just above his ears. "It means I was made before they began to genetically alter Twos. I'm also older than most you'll meet."
"Genetically alter?" Albert asked, his frustration suddenly whisked away by developing discomfort.
York sighed then glanced around, making sure no one was nearby, before he leaned close to Albert and whispered, "A servant who is too stupid to recognize himself as such doesn't complain much about it, does he?"
Albert shut his eyes. "How did that even happen?"
"Not here," York said and pulled back before turning and continuing down the street at a quick pace, his strides long.
Albert stared after him. What the hell kind of place was this?
"Meister!" York called, impatiently waving Albert back to his side.
Meister indeed, he thought, then hurried to catch up.
They arrived at York's residence seven blocks from where they began and the difference was startling. The streets were dark, not from lack of street lamps but the fact that most were broken or burned out and had not been replaced. The number of people dwindled to a few small groups of Twos huddled in the dark, watching them pass with interest. Albert thought he saw the glint of a blade.
"Put your arms over your head, like your stretching," York whispered to him, "Make sure they can see your gun-hand."
Albert did as he was told, throwing in a yawn that wasn't fake. York nodded minutely in satisfaction.
"The gangs around here prefer easy targets," he explained, voice still low, "and a weaponized cyborg is too much trouble."
Sure enough, when Albert glanced back, the small group had turned away, their interest lost. He saw a young Four among them.
York ascended the steps of a four-story building, thin and wedged amongst its fellows tightly that there was barely any space between. It was worn, but hardly run down and might have even been considered welcoming in daylight compared to the rest of the block.
"Home sweet home," York muttered, pulling out a key and unlocking the door.
Inside was clean but claustrophobic, barely room for the two of them to stand before they hit the stairwell. Next to them was a door to the ground floor apartment, a plaque with available hours posted beside it. York put his fingers to his lips and whispered "landlord" before he started up the steps.
One flight up and they reached the landing where the staircase turned 180 degrees and rose up to the second floor. The hallway ran flush with the stairs and Albert saw two doors. He'd thought, with the building so thin, it would stretch back from the street but he was mistaken. The rooms were undoubtedly small. He followed York up the next flight of stairs where a Two sat at the top of them, a thin magazine in his hands.
"Berlin," York said as he approached.
The other Two glanced up. "Hey, York." One eye was milky with a cataract.
"What'cha got?"
"No luck at all. There was a perfect job available down by Philo's and I thought I had it made. I had the most experience of the lot and the best pedigree. They picked a Moscow. A Moscow!"
York smiled. "They'll be regretting that in a week."
"Yeah, but in the meantime, if I don't get this month's rent in I'm out on the streets."
York gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder but kept walking. "Hang in there, Donut," he said, "You'll be right."
"Sure," the Berlin sighed, dropping his chin in his hand. As Albert passed, he stared, mouth open. Recovering, he buried his face back into his magazine.
Albert tried to get a look at what he was reading. It wasn't a magazine, but a booklet of available jobs. There were no words, but simple pictures showing different jobs, construction or a server at a restaurant, with a map beside it and a time under that. No dates, so he assumed new booklets came out daily. Shrugging, he followed York up the last flight of steps to the top floor. York went to the second door, unlocked it, and entered. He wait until Albert followed and shut the door behind him.
The apartment was remarkably clean and organized (Albert assumed its two occupants being military had something to do with that), but indeed very small. Two steps in and he nearly tumbled over the couch, placed in the middle of the room and facing a fireplace. There was a radio on a stand beside it, but no television. On the opposite wall of the fireplace was a large wardrobe set, made of cheap wood and without doors or covers, leaving its cubbies open. Shirts and trousers were folded into the cubbies separately, the available hanging space reserved for the Two's uniforms, black and plain, save one that was covered in plastic.
The couch formed a walkway to the back of the room where there was a kitchenette and the sleeping area, comprised of two bunks set into the wall on top of each other, like berths in a submarine. They were thin but long enough to accommodate a Two's height, like they been built with the Jet clones in mind. Each had a curtain that could be drawn to give the sleeper privacy. There was only one window in the apartment and it was in the currently occupied kitchen.
A Two, Mustang, stood over the stove, stirring a pot of stew that filled the small apartment with its heady scent. Albert's mouth started watering; he hadn't realized how hungry he was.
"Welcome back," Mustang called, adding a healthy amount of salt to the stew and not turning around.
"Hey, Tank," York maneuvered himself past Albert and the couch, "You got enough dinner tonight for a third?"
"What? I barely got enough for two! What're you…" Mustang turned, saw Albert, and froze, a spoon raised in his hand. "Meister," he said, though in his confusion it came out more of a question.
He had cybernetic eyes as blank and translucent as Albert's own, framed by metal plates reaching from the corner of his eyes to the arch of his ear down to his jaw. Albert could not guess their purpose, nor that of the prong of metal, folded like a lady's fan, jutting out of Mustang's head at an angle behind each ear. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, revealing two completely cybernetic arms, the gun-hands unmistakable. A weaponized cyborg, like himself, and it made Albert feel sick inside to see Jet, or at least his replica, like that.
Mustang set down the spoon and approached warily. "Hello. Mustang 9669, at'yer service," he began, uncomfortable, and more obviously so as he transmitted, What the hell is going on, York?
"This is Albert, he's had a bit of trouble and nowhere to go, so I offered him the couch for a night," York said.
"I see." Mustang looked Albert over, whatever he was about to say lost as his eyes fell on the German's gun-hand and widened. "Is that…?" He reached toward Albert's hand but paused, "Can I?"
Confused, Albert held out his hand and tried not to flinch when Mustang gripped it with an unnerving clank of metal, inspecting Albert's palm and fingers with growing excitement.
"Oh wow," he said, "this is original Black Ghost design. Look at the detail!" He pulled Albert's sleeve down a bit and the 00 cyborg fought not to yank his hand back when Mustang peered down the finger barrels as though there was no danger. "Holy! This isn't a replica, this is functional! Shit, Meister, this must have cost a fortune!"
Mustang released Albert's hand and he couldn't help but recoil a little, polite as he was trying to remain. Blatant adoration of his destructive capabilities was no less disturbing than the fear or his own self-disgust. The Jet clone didn't seem to notice his discomfort but neither did he advance again.
"Your other hand," Mustang continued, "does it have the laser knife?"
Albert sighed and held up his left hand, laser knife activated. Mustang made a terrifying eee! noise of excitement so high pitched that only cyborgs and dogs could probably hear it.
"That's fantastic!" he said, but again his transmission to York was one of confusion, Tell me again why an obviously very wealthy Four is staying here instead of a hostel or something?
Like I said, York answered, he's had some trouble. Doesn't remember anything, didn't even know we were clones.
A colonial?
Maybe.
Gotta wonder what they're teaching out there.
Albert pondered letting his hosts know he was receiving their conversation, but decided against it. If there was a chance he could overhear something they wouldn't tell him then he had to be able to take it. He must have latched on to York's frequency when his translator program was performing its subliminal scan of local radio and now had access to his and Mustang's channel. Not at all polite, but his survival was dependant on information and that was far more important than his manners.
"Hey," Mustang said, an idea forming, "maybe you're one of those re-enactment guys who go out and pretend they're the 00 prototypes, or an actor! Your name's Albert? Like the Progenitor?"
"No, I'm not an actor," Albert said. The idea that people went around pretending to be his team was a disturbing one. He didn't answer Mustang's second question and almost expected York to bring up the fact that he claimed to be Albert Heinrich, but York said nothing. "There's no problem with my memory, I'm just a bit…misplaced."
"I'm sorry to hear that." Mustang sounded sincere.
After hanging up his jacket, York leaned around Mustang and said, "Forget what I said earlier, Meister. He likes you; Mustang's a pussycat."
Mustang laughed and shoved York aside, returning to the kitchen. "Not when I'm on top!"
"Oh, uh," Albert faltered, his face flushed, "Are you two together?" he asked York.
"No no, just roommates." York shrugged, "I mean, we fuck on occasion because what else are we supposed to do? Here, have a seat. I'm being a terrible host."
Albert moved around to the front of the couch and sat. He didn't know what else to do. Save for the radio, there was nothing of entertainment value that he could see in the apartment, no books or magazines and no games. In fact, York and Mustang's home lacked any personal touch; it was just a place in which they were supposed to live, nothing more. The only object of note was a saber mounted on the wall above the fireplace.
"I forgot the mail," York sighed and reached for his jacket.
"Already got it," Mustang said.
"Anything?"
"Nothing from the Finance Office, sorry."
York replaced his jacket back on the hanger and slammed it onto the rack. "Abominations' shit! They think we live on air?"
"Don't worry, I've got enough saved up to cover the rent myself this month."
"I'm sorry, Tank, you shouldn't have to. I'll go to Military Finances tomorrow and see if I can convince someone I'm not dead."
"That's all the way on the other side of the city."
"That's three months' worth of pension they owe me, and I need it. No one's going to hire an old piece of crap cyborg like me, so I don't see any other option."
Albert felt very awkward. He'd been dropped into these two men's lives out of context and was an intruder upon it regardless what York said. Maybe they just weren't used to company. Waiting until they remembered him he had no choice but to ride it out.
Mustang switched off the stove. "Grab the bowls for me, will ya? And don't talk about yourself like that."
"Yeah, yeah." York reached down and clasped Albert's shoulder in a grip that was almost affectionate, "Come on, let's eat."