DEV1AT3 (DEVIATE). Jay Kristoff
SOLOMON
“GOOD EEEEEEVENING, HUMAN FRIENDS!”
The shop was lit by flickering neon, red and purple and blue. The sign above the door read NEW BETHLEHEM PHARMACY AND GENERAL STORE. Walking inside with Hunter close behind, Lemon saw the space was huge, the shelves were crammed with gear, neatly cataloged and labeled. Filthy as New Bethlehem was, she noticed there was no dust on the stock or dirt on the floors. A small portrait of Saint Michael graced the wall. A sign over the counter informed Lemon:
YOUR SATISFACTION GUARANTEED
A buzzer had announced their arrival, and before the door was even shut, a tall logika had risen up from behind an antique cash register. Its hull was painted creamy white, trimmed in golden filigree. Its eyes were round and cheery, and when it spoke, an LED in its mouth flashed, lighting up its smile with every word.
“MY NAME IS SOLOMON, FRIENDS,” it said in a proper fancy accent. “AND WHO MIGHT I HAVE THE PLEASURE OF MEETING THIS FINE EVE?”
“Lemon Fresh,” the girl mumbled, feeling altogether wrecked.
“WELCOME TO OUR HUMBLE EMPORIUM, MISS FRESH! HOW MAY I HELP? NEW CLOTHES? FIREARMS, PERHAPS? I’VE THE FINEST IN ALL NEW BETHLEHEM, FIFTY PERCENT OFF AMMUNITION WITH ANY PURCHASE. YOUR SATISFACTION IS, AS THE SIGN SAYS, GUARANTEED.”
Hunter stared at the logika in disgust, lips pressed tight together. Lemon shuffled to the counter, wiped the sweat off her brow.
“We need meds,” she said. “Something for radsickness. You got any?”
“OH MY GOODNESS, ARE YOU ILL?” the logika smiled.
“I’ve had better days.” Lemon winced, pressing at her stomach.
“OH MY, THAT’S JUST TERRIBLE!”
No matter what it said or how it said it, the logika’s face wasn’t animatronic, which meant its expression never changed. The bot just kept on grinning, as if it were telling you that you’d just won the lottery, or that there was a mix-up at the medstation when you were born and you were actually CorpState royalty.
“Um, thanks,” Lemon said. “So about that medicine. You got any?”
“OH, GOODNESS, YES!” The bot waved at some small plastic bottles on the shelf behind it. “THREE PER DAY TO RELIEVE SYMPTOMS, BEST WITH MEALS, YOUR SATISFACTION IS, AS THE SIGN SAYS, GUARANTEED.”
“Fizzyfizzyfizzy.” Lemon sighed with relief, fully prepared to jump over the counter and kiss the bot right on his creeper grin. “Can I have some, please?”
“OH, GOODNESS, NO!”
“… Why not?”
“WELL, FROM THE LOOK OF YOU, MY DEAR, YOU DON’T HAVE TWO BOB TO RUB TOGETHER, IF YOU’LL PARDON THE EXPRESSION. AND I’M HARDLY RUNNING A CHARITY.”
Lemon reached into her undies, pulled out the second credstik she’d stolen from Brother Dubya. “It’s a good thing I’m not asking for charity, then, Sparky.”
The logika swiped the stik off the countertop, ran it through a reader beside the register. The tally flashed, and the bot leaned in for a closer look.
“MY GOODNESS, THAT’S QUITE A SUM. ENOUGH TO BUY OUT MY ENTIRE STOCK.”
“I’ll take it,” Lemon declared. “And some clean socks, while we’re on it.”
“OH, I’M AFRAID NOT,” Solomon smiled.
“You just said I had enough creds to buy your entire stock! How much do you charge for socks?”
“ALL OUR APPAREL IS REASONABLY PRICED, I ASSURE YOU, MADAM. BUT ACCORDING TO THE SERIAL NUMBER, THIS CREDSTIK WAS ISSUED BY SISTER DEE ON HER PERSONAL ACCOUNT. IT HAS OBVIOUSLY BEEN … HOW TO PUT IT GENTLY …” The bot tilted its head. “MISPLACED BY ITS ORIGINAL OWNER? HMM? AND I COULDN’T POSSIBLY ACCEPT STOLEN CREDITS AS PAYMENT. I’M A ROBOT OF SCRUPLES, MISS FRESH.”
The bot handed back her stik, kept right on smiling.
“Waitaminute …” Lemon blinked. “You are a robot. And the First Law says you’re not allowed to hurt humans, yeah? Doesn’t that mean you have to give me the meds? I’m gonna die without them, right?”
“OH, ALMOST CERTAINLY, FROM THE LOOK OF YOU. BUT I’M AFRAID THAT GIVING YOU THE MEDICINE WOULD RESULT IN A FAR MORE SERIOUS INFRACTION OF THE FIRST LAW.”
“… How’s that?”
“WELL, THIS SHOP IS A BUSTLING HUB OF COMMERCE HERE IN NEW BETHLEHEM, YOU SEE. THE CUSTOMER’S SATISFACTION IS, AS THE SIGN SAYS, GUARANTEED, AND AS SUCH, FOLK COME FROM ALL OVER, KNOWING THEY’LL GET A FAIR PRICE AND PAY A FAIR PRICE IN RETURN. BUT IF I WERE TO JUST START GIVING THINGS AWAY, WELL, THE SYSTEM WOULD COLLAPSE, WOULDN’T IT? AND WITHOUT THIS STORE, MY TRADERS WOULD BE OUT OF A LIVELIHOOD, AND NEW BETHLEHEM CITIZENS DEPRIVED OF WHAT THEY NEED TO SURVIVE.”
“Okay,” Lemon frowned. “But without the meds, I’m still gonna die.”
“QUITE THE CONUNDRUM, YES?”
“So shouldn’t your logic centers be short-circuiting or something right now?”
“NO, I’M GOOD WITH IT.”
Hunter slammed her fist down on the counter. “Lemonfresh requires the medicine, fleshless one. Give it over or—”
“I SHOULD STOP YOU RIGHT THERE, MADAM,” Solomon said, raising one hand. “BEFORE YOU FINISH YOUR NO-DOUBT-ELOQUENT ATTEMPT AT INTIMIDATION, I MUST WARN YOU THAT THE THERMOGRAPHIC CAPABILITIES IN MY OPTICS HAVE ENABLED ME TO SURMISE THAT YOU ARE NOT, IN THE STRICTEST SENSE, HUMAN. AND THEREFORE BLOWING A HOLE THROUGH YOUR PELVIS WITH THE GAUSS CANNON CURRENTLY POINTED AT YOU UNDER THE COUNTER WOULD BE ABSOLUTELY NO IMPEDIMENT FOR ME WHATSOEVER.”
The logika tilted his head and smiled.
“YOU WERE SAYING?”
“I need those meds,” Lemon pleaded.
“AND IF I MAY SPEAK FRANKLY, MY DEAR, YOU ALSO NEED A SHOWER AND CHANGE OF CLOTHES. BUT I’M AFRAID I DON’T SEE ANY OF THAT IN YOUR IMMEDIATE FUTURE.” The logika smiled. “THOUGH FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH, I AM TERRIBLY SORRY ABOUT YOUR IMPENDING IRRADIATED DEMISE. I’M TOLD IT’S QUITE UNPLEASANT.”
“Well, is there anything else—”
“THANK YOU, COME AGAIN!”
“But I—”
“THAAAAAAANK YOU, COME AGAIN!”
Lemon looked Solomon up and down. She’d met its kind a thousand times before, though admittedly, never in bot form. Kicking up a fuss now was only going to spell more trouble, and trouble in New Bethlehem meant Brotherhood. And so, despite the growing worry she might actually end up dying in this rat-hole town, she pulled on her braveface. Her streetface. Gave the logika a small nod.
“Thanks for your time, Sparky.”
Lemon limped out the door, the buzzer chirping as she stepped into the street. Down the end of the block, she could see the crowd had cleared out from the Brotherhood’s stage and filed into the WarDome—she could hear the familiar sound of distant roars, the drumming of impatient feet. Around the stage, a dozen Disciples were silhouetted against drums of burning trash, and beyond them, Lemon could see those big wooden Xs where two luckless figures hung.
There’s worse ways to go than radsickness, I guess.
Hunter