HERB TWO NEGOTIATED the twisting labyrinth with something less than grace. I cringed as he careened off a rusty pipe in the dim passage, but the little guy quickly caught his balance and felt along the block wall for the doorway into the convenience store. He wobbled as he walked on too-small feet, but steadied himself with stiff, over-long arms.
I squirmed on the polished wood chair, trying to work feeling back into my butt as Herb’s progress unfolded on the courtroom screen. The video was crystal clear, a testament to the wireless button cameras that tracked his mission.
The janitor’s closet drew Herb’s attention, and it looked like he might head for the deep sink. But his blocky head swung in negation as he worked things out and made for the double swinging doors, determined to find his fallen brother.
No matter what anyone said, I was proud of the little guy. He was like a Marine; no man left behind. Then he exploded.
A knife jabbed into my gut and twisted as Herb’s right side erupted into a silent fireball, and his arm flew off-screen. Either the flying appendage or the secondary explosion that shattered the poor guy’s legs must have taken out the trailing camera because the screen shifted to grayscale security footage. Just my luck that the store’s back room was monitored after hours.
I took a deep breath and exhaled through my nose, trying to keep calm and settle the raw wound the phantom knife left. With a shaking hand, I slicked back hair a week past needing a trim, using the faint reflection in the polished table to get the mess under control. Keeping my straw-blond hair cut close at the ears undercut the messy style and played to my narrow face and wideset gray eyes. I cringed at my graphic tee, wishing I’d dressed nicer, then steeled myself and looked up. Losing one of my creations always hurt, and watching the scene made it feel like Herb had died all over again.
It wasn’t all that big of an explosion, not that a little autonomous robot made mostly of PVC and gears should have been able to explode in the first place. But my constructs had a flare for drama and always managed to self-destruct in the most inconvenient way at the least opportune time. Herb One had been no exception, having melted down after loading his cargo pouch with roller-dogs from the Quick-Y mart just a few nights earlier. Before he’d had a chance to check out, Herb One had ended up fused to the floor. He left wavy linoleum where Mr. Fulton, the owner, had pried him up after our failed munchie raid.
I’d been counting on Herb Two to get his predecessor’s melted remains back so I could do a post-mortem. It was the only way I was going to improve. But the stupid owner had kept him behind the counter like some kind of trophy, or maybe he was waiting for CSI lower Delaware County to show up and do forensics. Either way, no one was getting their hands on either Herb now.
The black and white video told the rest of the story. Although Herb Two left this world in something far less spectacular than, say, a C-4 blast, he’d been standing right beneath the store’s gas main and managed to engulf the decrepit regulator bolted to the wall in crimson death. A momentary whoosh of gray flames filled the screen perched on its rolling cart, drawing a sharp intake of breath from the handful of people gathered in the courtroom.
“You see?” Mr. Fulton shook an angry finger at the screen, then at Judge Michelson behind his fancy wood desk, and finally at me. “He blew up my store with one of his killer robots! Jason Walker is a menace and needs to be put down.”
“Frank, this isn’t a witch hunt.” Judge Michelson was a big, soft-spoken man in his late fifties. His salt-and-pepper hair stuck to its neatly parted lines as he tilted his head and held placating palms out to calm the shop owner. I liked how the flecks of gray in his eyes matched, until he turned his glare on me. “But the charge is more than a misdemeanor. And this fact-finding and preliminary hearing will determine how we proceed. Mr. Walker, you may consult with your counsel before answering questions, and of course are presumed innocent unless we proceed to trial and a jury finds otherwise.”
“He was caught red-handed watching it all on his computer! That’s where the police got this video and…” Fulton fell into sputtering silence at a glare from the judge.
“I wouldn’t say someone who comes forward voluntarily has been caught. Jason, why don’t you tell us your side of the story.” The robes and elevated desk made him seem ten feet tall as he looked down.
Five pairs of eyes turned to me, none of them sympathetic. The judge tried for an air of studied neutrality, while Mr. Fulton’s swarthy Italian face flushed red, and dark eyes smoldered from under his bushy scowl. The DA, a round, dark-skinned lady with curly hair pulled back into a tight bun, looked on with glee as if eager to sink her legal teeth into me. Regis Gladstone, a slender fortyish man with premature white hair, stood to the left of the seated judge, green eyes shining as he chewed at his pencil-thin moustache.
Even Phil, the court-appointed lawyer sitting to my left, gave me a good-fricking-luck eyebrow-lift and shrug. The top of the little shit’s curly head only came up to my shoulder, and I just brushed five-ten on a good day. His blond mop nearly matched my own in color, but was a wild, unkempt parody of the messy undercut crop I’d sported since high school.
Phil sure seemed to be hanging me out to dry. But he’d already explained that the proceedings were not a trial and to be candid but guarded in what I said so as not to prejudice anyone against me when I went to trial. His use of “when” instead of “if” had not escaped me, and the fact that he sat there like a fat little toad had me thinking I just might be in over my head.
“That gas regulator was a ticking time bomb!” I blurted. “Check my video. Joints were nearly rusted through and the calibration tag had to be from the civil war.”
My heartbeat pounded in my ears and air refused to enter my lungs. I wasn’t ready to be locked up and had to clamp down on a giddy little laugh when the irrational desire for Mom to be there arose. She had enough irons in the fire, and it wasn’t like I was a teenager anymore. Of course she’d probably find out after a few days when my car and sorry butt failed to make an appearance at the apartment over the garage.
All those eyes bored into me. Even the judge disapproved of my outburst, but I knew what I’d seen on my high-definition feed. I’d been tracking Herb’s progress from across the street, ready to welcome him and Herb One back, hopefully with a bag of leftover roller-dogs. Not only was the regulator on its last legs, the whole natural gas system had been a train wreck waiting to happen. The line ran way too deep inside before the pressure step-down, and taps along the way sent high-pressure gas off to the fryer and who knew what else.
Given time, I could have fixed it; I was a technomancer. That’s how I was able to build the Herbs and tons of other gadgets out of spare parts and bubblegum—almost like magic. Of course, my creations still tended to self-destruct, but I was working on it. I’d done plenty of repairs around the house for Mom and neighbors, and no one’s home had blown up yet.
Clearly, role-playing games, science fiction, and fantasy novels had shaped my self-image, but the fact is I was good with machinery and electronics. I had a super soft spot for everything I built. Even walking by what had been a simple repair made my stupid chest swell with pride. So sue me; I was sticking with the technomancer title, and I’d swear on a stack of bibles that the Quick-Y mart was destined to be a smoking hole in the ground even without my help. At least this way, no one was hurt. I’d always scoffed at our little corner of Philadelphia suburbs having the only known 18-hour “convenience” store, but not anymore.
I went on to explain my assessment of the store’s faulty utility systems, noting the frayed wiring and other safety issues—none of which impressed those present and only served to raise Mr. Fulton’s blood pressure to the point I thought steam would shoot out of his ears.
“Maybe you should stick to why your robot was inside,” the DA prompted.
“He’s an automaton, not a robot. Core electronics are essential components for…” I trailed off at a glare from the judge. “Okay, well, this is how it went down.”
I did my best impression of an extrovert, railing at the injustice of Mr. Fulton keeping Herb One, pointing out that the hot dogs I’d coveted on that fateful night were destined for the trash anyway, and again ticking off the unsafe conditions in the dilapidated little building that had supplied underage kids with cigarettes since its opening.
The judge interrupted my impassioned plea for leniency and my offer to help the owner bring his other properties up to code as recompense—a thought that likely had no grounding in legal precedence.
“So you sent both robots into the Quick-Y mart with no intention of causing damage.” The judge selected a pen from the cup on his desk, speaking slowly as if working out a line of logic. “There could be a larger liability issue here. Where’d you buy them from?”
“I didn’t.” His question caught me off-guard. “I made them myself, mostly from spare parts. I’m handy that way.”
His eyebrows and cheeks sagged as he blew out a breath and traded the pen for a pencil. My answer had disappointed him, but Mr. Gladstone quirked an eyebrow and gave a little nod as if impressed. I’d originally though he was a bailiff of some sort, but the black three-piece suit and thin black cane were too businesslike—if a bit antiquated. Maybe a neutral lawyer or consultant given how close he stood to the raised desk, that seat of power that would soon proclaim my fate.
“You live with your parents, correct?” Judge Michelson asked.
“Yeah.” I had no idea why that mattered, but his scowl reminded me to be respectful. “Yes, sir, in an apartment above the garage.”
“Any pets?”
“No, sir.”
“And your job.” The judge opened a leather-bound legal pad and scribbled notes. “Do you need to notify your supervisor of a leave of absence?”
Ah, so that’s how it’s going down.
“I’m between employers, mostly doing the odd repair job. So, no.”
A few more questions pulled me toward the inevitable conclusion: I was a criminal and going to trial. Innocent until proven guilty, I reminded myself. But this was going to break Mom’s heart. Hell, it wasn’t doing mine much good either. Freedom had never been a concept I dwelled on, but the prospect of being caged to await trial and then possibly for a very long time afterward had me reeling.
The DA—I never did catch her name whole name, Vivian something—made a few perfunctory remarks about the court’s coming case load and her assessment that I wasn’t a flight risk. I think Phil even chimed in on some point or another. I just blinked down at the wood grain table, wondering what had happened to my life.
“Jason, I don’t see many options here. There’s too much linking you to the explosion. Unless the owner is willing to drop the charges?” He dangled the question out to Mr. Fulton and lifted an eyebrow.
“No and no!” The shop owner crossed his arms and glared. “I want him off the streets for a long time.”
“It’ll be a trial then.” The big man nodded in resignation and made another note. “Vivian, check the schedule for—”
“Sir, I may be able to offer an…alternative.” Gladstone had an odd accent, a cross between Brit and Scott that was somehow gruff while sounding quite polite as he interrupted. “The Attwater Trade School has programs for gifted individuals. Mr. Walker clearly has mechanical talents. I’m sure their vocational counselors could recommend a trade for him to be trained in, thus making him a more—shall we say—useful member of society and getting him off the streets.”
That last was aimed at Mr. Fulton who was having none of it.
“Absolutely not. You break the law; you go to jail.”
“Sorry, Regis.” The judge shrugged his broad shoulders, and his neck disappeared into those midnight robes. “I think we’re beyond something like that.”
“Of course. I understand your concern.” Gladstone tapped his cane in a light, playful rhythm against the edge of the desk and looked to the store owner. “But won’t your insurance pay to build a new store, one that isn’t riddled with safety issues, one that has all the equipment you’ve always wanted?”
“Sure, my premiums are all paid up.” The cane tapped faster, and the little gold snake head that served as a grip flashed under the fluorescent lights. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to unload that dump and start fresh.” Fulton shook his head and blinked. “I guess this really is a windfall for me. I could even get a drive-thru for the kitchen. But that doesn’t change things.”
“Of course.” Gladstone rapped the desk and put a hand on the judge’s shoulder. “But if charges were to be dropped, you’d have latitude to order something akin to community service. Training at Attwater would fit that bill.”
“That’s a huge if, but still—” The judge scratched his chin in consideration.
“Now wait a minute!” I shot to my feet. “If I could afford college, I’d already be there” Probably. “And I wouldn’t just ship off to some place I’ve never heard of.”
“Not to worry. This is a trade school specializing in vocational training matching your skills. You can keep your garage apartment and commute. Attwater just opened a local branch to better serve the community. Your timing’s perfect.” Gladstone hovered over the seated judge and swayed as he spoke. “Or you could simply send him to the Army. They’ve got plenty of technical programs and would certainly whip this young man into shape in no time.”
That wasn’t a real thing, was it? Could the court order someone into the armed forces to avoid jail? Forget about her broken heart, Mom would have a cow. The cane tapped on. The room held its breath, or maybe that was just me being frozen like a deer in headlights. The army?
“What do you say, gentlemen?” Something flowed from Gladstone to the others, a palpable earnestness, as if he were impressing sincerity on the two men.
It’s difficult to explain, more of a feeling than anything that I saw. But the pressure hanging in the air reminded me of the force I willed into my automata in the pregnant moments before their first test—a kind of superstitious ritual I’d started years ago after an initial success at getting one to work.
“Well…” Fulton wrestled with his conscience, and it was touch and go for a good twenty seconds. “I could let it go if he’s off the streets and gets some focus beaten into him.”
Nice way of putting it—not!
“Judge, Attwater or Army?” Gladstone winked at me and tapped the snake head in a hypnotic little rhythm until the judge gave a sharp nod.
“Jason Walker, what’s your preference?” The judge’s pencil hovered over his notes.
Looks like I’m heading to school.
***
The damned bike quit again in front of a massive stone building off the city square. The towering columns reminded Owen of the natural history museum, but he didn’t recall anything like that downtown. Lettering chiseled into the granite above the entry steps read “Attwater.”
Owen swung his leg off the bike, shrugged out of his leather riding jacket, and scratched at the stubble on his chin. His hair was a wild mess thanks to the half-helmet, and he brushed back the few dusty-brown strands plastered to his eyebrows. Summer in D.C. was no time to be standing under a blazing morning sun dressed in black. But he’d planned on heading out into the Virginia countryside to ride the Blue Ridge Parkway for a couple of hours so needed some level of protection.
The big v-twin engine pinged as it cooled, and Owen poked around with calloused, grease-stained hands, checking the oil, spark plug wires, and a couple other things. He blew out an annoyed breath. There just wasn’t much to check without a code reader. The fuel injected Harley was damned near bullet-proof compared to the old Indian motorcycle he’d been wrenching on for the last month. That beast of a project had painted his fingers and beneath his nails with the indelible skin art of old oil.
Sometimes you had to do things the old fashioned way, the Zen motorcycle maintenance method like the old book claimed. But this wasn’t one of those times.
Owen ran a hand over the seat, stilling his mind and “listening” to the bike. He’d picked up the trick years ago, the ability to imagine what the engine felt. More Zen master crap, but for some reason it always worked. He supposed it was more a matter of unleashing his subconscious to point out subtle signs he missed in a hurried inspection.
But sometimes, like now, no insights materialized. The engine seemed fine. So Owen gave one more little push, a kind of prayer to send a spark of life into the bike, and thumbed the starter. The engine roared to life.
“Sweet! Winding blacktop, here I come.”
***
“Bethany, you’ve got mail!” Darren called from the bottom of the steps. “Looks official.”
“Be right down!”
Bethany sighed at the need for code words. Her stepdad was all kinds of cool and supportive of her late decision to apply for college, but Mom was an entirely different story. Mom had issues with her own lack of higher education and for some reason liked to take them out on her daughter. That was why she’d had to apply in secret, and swear Darren to keep his lips zipped as the replies came in. If Bethany could score a decent scholarship, even her mother would have to agree it made sense to pursue graphic design.
So far the only response from her college applications had been a hard no, which was odd given she’d graduated in the top of her class. Slots for fall semester had filled up way before high school graduations kicked into gear, but she’d hoped starting in the summer would improve her chances.
She pinned the last couple locks of tightly coiled hair into the neat black bun she’d been experimenting with. Even though Mom was all about hair extensions—especially because she was—Bethany preferred to work with her thick natural mane. The coils came down past her shoulders, framing an oval face with full lips and wide set dark eyes. She’d always liked the contrast of midnight black plaits against her coffee-colored cheeks, but the bun exposed her elegant neck and delicate shell ears, which made her look sophisticated and sexy—like a college woman.
A peek out her bedroom window showed Darren’s old beater of a Chevy parked on the oil-stained cement of the drive. Mom was still at the plant, so it’d be safe to check the mail.
The envelope Darren handed over downstairs looked more than official; it was positively ostentatious, with a gilt seal boasting a stylized A across the flap, and addressed in flowing script.
“Thanks.” Bethany scurried back upstairs, unwilling to open another rejection, even in front of her stepdad.
“Good luck, kiddo.” The big sweetheart’s smile flashed in painfully white contrast to skin several shades darker than her own.
She plopped down on the edge of her bed and worked at the envelope with trembling hands, cursing her short nails when it took three tries to pry up that ornate seal. The paper within was heavy stock that resisted unfolding. She skipped right past the letterhead and salutation to the opening paragraph.
“We are pleased to inform you,”—her heart fluttered— “that you have been accepted to attend summer semester,”—her pulse thundered— “at the Attwater Vocational School.”
Attwater? What the hell is an Attwater?
She’d sent out over a dozen last-minute applications, but that name didn’t sound familiar. Maybe this was the Arts and Architecture program at one of the big universities she’d targeted.
Bethany compared the return address with the letterhead. No, the reply came from an institution she’d never even heard of, let alone applied to. Which probably meant it was junk mail dressed up fancy like an application reply just to get people to open it. Slimy trick!
She scanned on, just to see what sales pitch was at the bottom line, picking out phrases like “report for summer session” and “pleased to have you as a new student.” It went on to acknowledge her desire for entrance into a graphics design program, but stipulated her current skill level and talent would be assessed to place her in the appropriate course of study.
Hell, this wasn’t even a degreed program, just some adult training course that gave you a certificate of completion an employer would likely laugh off. Of course the back side of the letter—she hadn’t even realized there was more info there—promised career guidance and guaranteed job placement. Like that’s possible.
Hopefully, the real replies would start rolling in soon with at least a partial scholarship—even a work-study program would help. Ten hours a week at the local print shop for the past few years had taught her a lot about the trade and contributed to a growing college fund, but the few thousand she’d managed to save wouldn’t make much of a dent without financial help.
Bethany lowered the letter toward the little square trashcan by her nightstand, but paused at a flash of crimson on the page. She scanned the black and white text and shook her head. Nothing printed in red, but how had she missed the big bold typeface along the bottom?
“Attwater School offers Bethany Daniels a full scholarship.” The fine print went on to say accepting would cost zero dollars out of pocket for an eighteen-month program spanning three semesters. Although a non-residence course of study wasn’t ideal, there were apparently opportunities for students continuing enrollment past the first semester to find on-campus housing—she’d need that to keep sane given Mom’s passive-aggressive skills.
Maybe this Attwater place would be a good fit after all.
***
The bike purred its way along the twisting grandeur that was the Blue Ridge Parkway. The smooth ribbon of blacktop brought quiet serenity despite the ever-present throbbing of the big v-twin. Owen sighed and settled deeper into the saddle as the forest slid past.
A vibrant patch of purple carpeted a clearing off to the left, tiny flowers dangling in clusters from a forest of stalks rising above leafy green plants. Virginia bluebells flowered late, and he inhaled their delicate sweet fragrance along with the scent of hot asphalt.
Light pressure on the handlebars and gentle leans guided the big cruiser through more hypnotic curves. Traffic remained delightfully light so that he’d only been trapped behind a line of cars once, and they’d been trapped behind an ancient motorhome chugging its way up an incline.
Halfway down the off-ramp into a sleepy little town, the engine cut out for the third time. Owen cursed, kicked into neutral, and rode the hill down into the valley with just enough momentum remaining to turn into a little strip mall. He rolled to a stop and kicked out the jiffy stand in one smooth motion like he’d meant to park in front of the big ironbound doors. The heavy wood doors and stonework didn’t match the glass storefronts to either side.
Owen stripped off his helmet and scratched at the neatly trimmed stubble running from sideburns to chin as he glared at his ride. Not only had the bike shut down in the city, it’d crapped out again when he cruised through suburban hell looking for lunch. He’d managed to limp into the entrance to a sprawling estate surrounded by high wrought iron fencing. He again hadn’t been able to pinpoint the problem, but got the engine restarted through sheer force of will. Maybe the cam sensor was going; that would cause the pea-brain computer to shutdown ignition to protect components.
He pulled off his gloves and was about to dive into troubleshooting, when the placard at the head of the parking spot caught his eye. Flowing white lettering stood out against a blue background, declaring the spot “Reserved Student Parking.”
“Just great.” Hoofing a dead eight hundred pound bike over a few spots wasn’t the end of the world, but what a pain in the ass.
The spots stretching off to either side of him were empty, but a similar blue sign watched over each. Somebody got more than their fair share of parking, and that would mean pushing the bike too damned far. But hey, it was the middle of the afternoon and the lot was nearly empty.
If the owners of—he squinted at the door looking for a sign, but there were no posted hours or business name. He mentally kicked himself when he finally spotted the massive lettering carved into the stone high above the ridiculous doorway. Well, if the folks at Attwater Academy wanted to complain about a little temporary parking violation, they could come out to chat.
Attwater?
Odd, wasn’t that the museum name he’d seen downtown just this morning? For that matter, there’d been a big golden A hung across the gates to the estate he’d broken down in front of at lunch. Sometimes events that seemed related were simple coincidence, but this pushed the bounds of believability.
As on his prior unplanned stops, a quick inspection didn’t uncover any problem with the bike. But no amount of coaxing and cajoling could convince the beast to fire up this time.
“Son of a—” Owen bit off the curse, not due to any sense of propriety, but because the sign over the parking space he’d appropriated appeared to have changed. The blue placard with its ornate script now read, “New Student Registration Only.”
Owen looked to the double doors that better suited a medieval castle than a strip mall training institute. He shook his head and started to pull off the leather jacket, but a cold wind rose out of nowhere, making him shiver and abandon the motion. When he looked up, the left-hand door stood a few inches ajar, and he just had to shake his head. Unbelievable. Someone was already spying on him for illicit parking.
He let out a mighty sigh and strode toward the doors, engineer boots clomping on flagstones set into the cement to form a path to the doors. He hated to call for a tow, hated even more the thought of killing time until some country bumpkin driver finally showed up. There was no way this was going to be quick.
While he waited, maybe someone inside could explain why Attwarer was suddenly cropping up everywhere.
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