“Elkin?” Muzi says to his flesh self. Clever4–1? he then says to his metal self, almost simultaneously on the order of nanoseconds. Muzi finds it strangely efficient to carry out two conversations at the same time, never losing focus, never getting confused. He quickly learns that Elkin’s body had been too badly mangled for Nomvula to repair, and his soul took a detour into Muzi’s body. And Muzi had been funneled into Clever4–1, who seems all too happy to have a houseguest—eager to share its subroutines, motor functions, hard-drive sectors. But Nomvula—she’s pissed off seventeen different ways, despite her calm demeanor.
“Elkin says you gave up your powers to bring him back,” Nomvula says, her blue-white aura going orange red along her cheeks, along the crown of her head.
“I’m still here, like I promised.” Muzi shrugs, but the action gets lost in translation. “Sort of, at least.”
Nomvula crosses her arms over her chest. “Save your excuses. Can you walk, at least?”
Muzi tries, stumbles. “I just need a few more minutes. To test things out.”
“Do we look like we have a few minutes? Those Clevers out there are going to come looking for their leader any minute.”
Clever4–1, Muzi says. Can you detect their locations?
There’s no response.
Clever4–1?
Apologies, says the thought. It appears I have underestimated the capacity of your mind. I’ve been shuffling to keep things in order, but . . .
But what? Muzi asks, but he’s already started to notice, sluggish responses, his memories further and further away. Clever4–1’s 256-terabyte hard drive is quickly approaching capacity. The godfruit, Muzi remembers. Like trying to reorganize an ocean, teaspoon by teaspoon.
Two point eight percent free space left. A minute, two at best, before things start getting ugly. Muzi looks down at the decommissioned Clever unit, then back to his flesh self.
“Elkin, I need that hard drive.”
Elkin grimaces. “This one? It’s just a K12 dual point. Literally the cheapest hard drive made. More bad sectors than good.”
“Just hook it up,” Muzi says, reaching underneath his body and opening the access panel.
So then Elkin hops to it, disconnects the drive, then wires it up to Clever4–1’s spare port. Clever4–1 doesn’t waste a moment and begins a quick format of the drive, ghosts of Clever4–1.1’s psychopathic thoughts bleeding through their circuitry.
One point six percent free space. Clever4–1 starts throwing data on sectors as soon as they’re scrubbed clean, but they’re still losing ground.
Wait, Muzi says. Stop formatting.
That would be inadvisable, Clever4–1 says.
But we could crack his communication encryption codes and walk out of here without a peep from those other bots.
I don’t have that capability.
But we’ve got a certifiable genius on our team. “Elkin. I need you to crack Clever4–1.1’s comm codes. Fast.”
Inadvisable. The human mind couldn’t possibly be sophisticated enough to decipher such a code, even if given an infinite amount of time, which clearly we do not have.
You’re starting to sound a bit like our friend here, Muzi says, looking at the scrap pile Clever4–1.1 has become. Muzibot shudders at Elkin’s touch, the tap of his fingers on his keyboard, rhythm of his keystrokes producing a mechanical euphoria. Clever4–1 hasn’t stopped the formatting though, and each moment that passes means those codes are likely to vanish forever. Please, Muzibot says. I have faith in him. He can do it.
Point nine percent free space. Clever4–1 stops. Faith. Such a human word. One hundred percent illogical. But I understand.
Point six percent free space. Point three. Space is eaten up by the gigabyte, massive chunks of data stored all over the place, wherever there’s room. Organization is no longer a priority. Elkin’s fingers rip through him as the entire system grows sluggish, warning protocols blaring the threat of permanent disk damage.
Point zero four percent free space.
“I’ve got it!” Elkin yells. Not a nanosecond later, Clever4–1 issues the command to continue formatting. Point two percent free space, and climbing.
Faith, Clever4–1 says, integrating the codes and sending a message to the bots outside the closet to stand down.
Muzibot takes a lock of hair from Elkin’s corpse and stores it away for when he can mourn properly. Just seems like the logical thing to do. Then they leave the supply closet—Nomvula, Elkin in his Muzi suit, and Muzibot/Clever4–1—sticking close to the walls, a dozen mono-eyes following them, but not acting. If Muzi had a heart, it would be beating straight out of his chest right now. They make it to the sewer room exit without incident. As soon as he’s outside, Muzibot temporarily stops his visual input, and takes in a breath full of air, or at least its approximation. A hundred different scents filter through his nasal emulators. The salty ocean air, the distant scent of pine, car exhaust, rhinoceros dung, lion’s breath. Muzi’s visual input resumes, and he sees a fierce beast crouched before him, like no animal he’s ever seen before. Fangs like he’s never seen before. And that horn . . .
Muzibot shits himself. Or at least its approximation.
Chapter 52
Riya Natrajan
Riya Natrajan feels like she’s flying, her bare feet only hitting the ground out of courtesy as she rushes through the streets, trailing after that beast. Glass and metal and other shards of destruction dig into the flesh of her feet—sweet dollops of twinging pain with each step, telling her she’s heading in the right direction.
She spares a second to check back over her shoulder. Rife’s not there, damn it. Either he’d chickened out, or he’s shifting again like the weasel that he is. Just as Riya Natrajan starts to cuss his name, she sees him turn the corner, panting something fierce, a hand pressed to the brick of a nearby building for support.
She smiles. “I could run faster than that in six-inch heels,” she scolds. He looks up, face flushed red. Riya Natrajan slows her stride, setting her eyes on a couple fleeing from the carnage ahead. They watch her like she’s a predator approaching, the man limping badly, but all the while shielding his wife, pressing her closer and closer to the storefronts.
“I won’t hurt you,” Riya Natrajan says. She holds her hands up, palms out so she won’t look intimidating. “I’m a nurse,” she lies, glancing down at her blood-soaked concert ensemble. “In my spare time.”
She’s close enough to touch them, but she doesn’t, not right away. “Can I look?” she asks the man. He and his wife exchange sharp glances, too terrified for words. Riya peels back the sliced fabric of his pant leg. It sticks to the wound beneath, but she’s careful, grazing the skin around lightly to soothe it. Then she presses both hands around his thigh, feeling the fracture mend, the flesh, the skin.
“Thank you,” he says, mystified yet grateful.
“No, thank you,” Riya Natrajan says, words so fierce in her throat now, primed and ready.