Page 9 of Even Robots Die
“I don’t think so,” he answers. “Unless you’re planning to use more of your weapons on me or my men.”
His last sentence is said with an upward inflection at the end as if it’s a question.
“You’re leaving them here?” I ask instead of answering his interrogation.
“I’ll have someone pick them up once we’re back at the castle,” he tells me. “We’ll give them a proper burial in the morning.”
“Bad idea,” I answer, happy to finally have the upper hand.
“And why’s that?” he asks, and without even turning my head to face him, I know that he has one of his eyebrows raised in question.
“You wouldn’t want to bury them alive, would you?” I ask, amused.
“What did you do to them?” Brice asks, no longer amused. “I can’t hear a single heart beating.”
“Oh. Does that mean you have a deserter? Because I only shot four of your men,” I tell him smugly.
I shouldn’t poke the bear—well, the bat—but it feels so good to have something he doesn’t have at this instant.
He doesn’t answer my question.
“None of your business,” he says instead. “How can they be alive?”
“Hmm. Let’s see,” I say. “Maybe because my bullets don’t kill, just paralyze.”
He doesn’t say anything after my little assertion and I don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t believe me or if he finally understands what I’m capable of.
I turn my face in his direction so I can decipher his expression, but his face is blank.
“Why should I believe you?” he finally asks when our eyes meet.
“Believe me or not,” I answer him. “I don’t care. They’re your men, not mine. And as far as I know, they were going to beat me to death, so good riddance.”
“Who made those bullets?” he asks, and I’m surprised by the question.
I thought he would ask about his men’s health or at least how to get them to, well, be resuscitated.
Because he’s not wrong. Their hearts stopped, and it’s never good for those to stay paralyzed for too long.
“I made them. Why?”
“Like you built this AI of yours?” he answers by way of his own question.
“Yes,” I tell him. I don’t see why I would hide that. I thought all of Paris knew because of all the work Christina sends me. Maybe only humans know, though.
I might be wrong.
“How do they wake up?”
Here it is. The million euros question.
“Only I can wake them,” I answer with all the aplomb I can muster. I’m calm, collected, and maybe a little smug.
When your dad makes lying his profession, you’re bound to pick up a few things. And when you have to keep lying through your teeth to make sure your little sisters will never know about it, you get better than even him.
Lying is like second nature to me. I don’t get the little adrenaline peak people usually get at the possibility of getting caught. I’ve lied so many times that IknowI’ll always manage to say whatever I want.
The trick is to never really lie. It’s to bend the truth. Because if I’m not really lying, why would I stress about it?
