Jacob knelt down and took the cartridge off the ground. “Thanks.”
“Any time.”
He shook my hand, leaving the Nessie in my palm. “You might wanna hold onto this.” The crowd had dispersed, given up on the charity for the day. A few people had stuck around, but most were gone to avoid the heat. “Drew, you’re in charge, yeah? I’m gonna split. Come with me,” he said, hooking his arm around mine. Startled, but feeling safe, I let him take us down another alley. The walls were plastered with red flyers for “Chat Jazz,” apparently the hottest gynoid cathouse in Redmond. I looked up at Jacob, wondering where he wanted to take me. “What made you come down here, Mrs. Gaban? The killings?”
“The killings.”
“And who do you think is responsible?”
“Stop for a second,” I said, slipping my arm out. “I need a smoke.” The first breath made me shake. I realized how afraid I’d been facing down the AMU. “Are you really Sons of Man?”
He slipped his hands in his pockets and sat down on a bike rack. “Yes.” He saw the look I gave him, and rubbed his nose. “Are you surprised at the work we’re doing?”
“I don’t know what to think about it.”
“Do you think we had something to do with the rogue attack?”
I didn’t answer.
Jacob hopped up and motioned for me to follow. “Why did you stick up for me back there?”
“You seem like a good person.”
“I hope so.”
Sloped roofs hung over us, dribbling condensation from the routing station. “I’ve been down this alley before,” I said, reaching out a hand to run it along the wall. “Many times, actually. I had my first kiss here. Well,” I squinted, “a few blocks up. Closer to the school.” I had a last drag and dropped it in the gutter. “This place is changing for the better. I realized you’re part of it.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“Do you know what the Sons did to my family?”
“Of course I do. All of us know.”
“You’ve changed, that’s clear. I can’t be sure how much, but what you and those others do, that’s good news around here. So there’s your answer.”
Jacob took a quick look around, and patted the wall a few times until he found the spot. He knocked. “We’re here.” The wall chunked open. “You only answered one of my questions,” he said.
—
My nose began prickling as we got further and further down the hall, and I knew where I was. “You’re lucky I’m not a cop.”
“I wanted you to see this. A token of trust.”
“What is this place, an old gym?” The walls were covered in glass cases like the kind that might hold trophies and ribbons. Now they were filled with startup operation pages from android manuals.
“This part of the complex was a beauty parlor. Here.” He pushed me insistently through a door marked with a chalked letter ‘C.’ Seven massage tables were set up in the room, with the eighth space taken up by a cart full of meticulously sorted accupins. “The so-called factory,” he murmured, not wanting to disturb the ritual.
Five tables were occupied by androids and their engravers. Face down through the table’s cradle cushion, various states of activation. One was limp, the others twitched and breathed. The metal rasp of pins sliding into pattern pores was constant. “They work so fast.”
“Go closer and watch. They won’t be bothered.”
A rail-thin boy of about 13 lay next to his Grady and was setting out the groundwork. I saw the map materialize, jagged and branching like a river. He was engraving a warm, impulsive android, one that loved a crowd, could make the party. But with a complex flair I couldn’t read. I caught snatches of it, spotting sequences from my style, Helen’s, Said’s.
“That’s Lillard. He’s been with us for half a year now.”
“Does he live here?”
“Not here. We have homes outside, that aren’t linked to…questionable activity.”
“But you’ve taken him in.”
“Look at his eyes.”
Lillard scanned the scratched white plain of his android’s processor before each pin, which he planted every few seconds. Though his map was overly complex, the kid knew what he wanted and how to get it. His eyes were the color of rust, and in them I saw blank, serene determination. I rubbed my fingertips together, imagining that I held a sheaf of pins. I worked in my head, the slow lazy warmup. I planted a row, then diamond circuits branching off.
“He hasn’t talked much since he came to us. But this is the calmest we ever see him.”
“Has he produced a sentient?”
“No. Few of us have.”
“Have you?”
“No. It’s not the point. The point is to try.” But when we left the room, he asked. “What does it feel like?”
“At first, it’s the same. The work is the same, just pins and patterns, trimming, blocking. At some point, though, it begins to change. You start to see it as something new. For me, when I started, it was tinkering. Just an extended experiment to see what I could make happen. For lack of a better word, it takes on a life of its own. Like all art, isn’t it? You start to feel responsible for making it come out the way it wants.”
“And it felt that way when you first made Juliet?”
“I spent months refining her,” I said with pride. “I hadn’t set out to make anything like her, but she was no mistake.”
“I knew that defense was BS.”
“I wanted to believe it,” I said. “After what Harriet did, how could I not?” Down another maze of corridors. “I haven’t been to see them in a long time.” We were walking through an empty basketball court. I sneezed at the fog of dust, and it echoed. “Now that I’m older, there’s another feeling. One I didn’t recognize before.”
He didn’t speak, but waved me on.
“Back then, I enjoyed the feeling of playing God. I would enjoy it now. But with sentients around, it’s…well. It feels wrong, that’s all.”
“Meditative engraving is different. It’s done out of selflessness, not the other way around.”
“It isn’t different. You’ve never produced a sentient. It doesn’t matter how pure your intentions are. You’re making changes to a fully-realized person.”
“You could stop when you know you’ve reached that point.”
“But you never do know, that’s the issue, isn’t it? There’s no proof any sentient actually has sentience. There’s only a failure to disprove it. When you’re working, it’s iteration after iteration, revision and tweaking, getting it just right. But it was right the first time. Some time in the past that you wrote over. If sentience is the ultimate goal like you say, then every sentient is perfect at every invisible stage. Engraving doesn’t allow for that mindset. We don’t even know where sentience comes from.”
“I don’t have any resentment toward my engraver. I’m grateful to be alive and awake.” Jacob kicked the corner of a metal door, and pushed it open. I could hear the outside again. “This place is our secret, right?”
“Sure.” He wanted me to leave, and loomed somewhat behind me, trying to get me to shuffle out. “Tell me something. Does your church release its works? Are there dopps produced through meditation walking around in the block?”
“You do think we did this.”
“People make mistakes, Hall. I see engravers, I wonder if someone’s making a mistake. I’d rather it be that than a planned attack. Do you set your androids loose?”
“This is how we procreate. Some are sent out. Others get rewritten until they’re right. As far as I know, no. It wasn’t ours. It was an honor to meet you, Mrs. Gaban.”
—
Dieter Herzog lived in Fountain Towers. My detour with Jacob had taken me a good distance, so I hailed a bike cab to drive me over. The fountain was dry, of course, and had been since the towers were built. A squared concrete spiral climbing up to an obelisk studded with nozzles that had been designed to wave up and down. It was littered with little block rats watching a small menagerie of scrap animals they’d built. Cheap artificial animals broke in a year or so, and their processors were easily repaired by even novice Redmond hobbyists. The plaza of the Fountains was heavily trafficked, a good cover for DH’s side operation. A few food carts sizzled, along with a scarf vendor and a toy printer.
“Spare change?” Yelled one of the kids from the fountain. She wore a purple knockoff of Baird’s signature headset. Eyeglass form factor with a miniature battery and computer pack behind the ear. “Hey lady, spare change?”
I ignored them and moved on, to jeers. I stepped around a large insect-like scrap animal. There were dozens of people, and I couldn’t see DH’s girl anywhere. I turned back. “I’ve got something for you.”
The girl on the fountain kicked one of her friends gently and pointed at me. He hopped off the ledge and came to me with his hand open. I handed him a couple dollars.
This girl was clearly queen bee, so I addressed her. “I’m looking for some business,” I said.
“Let me guess, your block’s too good for nessie.”
“Do you know DH?”
“DH don’t work with dirt.”
“I heard his girl does.”
She snorted. “Who told you that, a cop?”
“Give me a break, alright? I’m hurting. I heard he’s got the best.”
“If you’re looking for the best, you can do better than three bucks, lady.”
I went digging in my pocket for more money, but I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Quit hustling the sunner, Violet.” It was the girl. Dark skin and a white jacket. A headset with a black visor that sat on her head like a comical bow. “Penny Giles. You’re Grace Nguyen.” She put out her hand. When I shook, she grabbed hard and didn’t let go. “I hear you’re trying to take me out of the game.”
Stargazer 