Page 94 of Even Robots Die
“She doesn’t take orders,” the man says.
That seems to make Florentine’s smile deepen.
“I can assure you that she will receive me. Tell her Miss F. won’t deliver the blueprints for the next generation of guns because youdidn’t let me see her, and I can assure you thatyouwon’t be taking orders from her any longer.”
The man stills completely.
“What did you say?”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t do the math in that shiny head of yours …” she says as she crosses her arms under her breasts in a move that oddly reminds me of her little sister. “I can turn off all the electricity in the catacombs. I’ve hinted at being able to turn off holo communications. Do you know anyone who can do that who isn’t the person who provides new weapons to fight the birds?”
The glare she casts in his direction is a mix of contempt and triumph.
And it’s at this moment that I realize one thing. I want her to see herself through my eyes.
Because I thought she was a goddess earlier and I stand by my words.
She could make civilizations kneel at her feet with just the strength of that glare.
She is magnificent.
She is perfect.
And I’m never letting her go.
53
Florentine
Something is glinting in Brice’s eyes and I don’t know what it is, but he can’t keep his eyes off of me after my little display.
I don’t enjoy belittling people, but he had it coming. I have every right to be here. Without me, they wouldn’t be so well armed.
I deserve to be respected and to be able to see Christina whenever I need.
Don’t I?
The man who opened the door only grunts in answer, doesn’t provide his name, but moves aside to let us in.
I have a feeling that if he could be sure the door would lock itself on its own, he would have strolled away without a backward glance.
As it is, he waits for us to come inside, locks it, and then does exactly that.
Neither Brice nor I speak for as long as we walk.
We follow the man as he takes turns, right and left, and if I didn’t know that I could easily find the blueprints of the catacombs on the interweb, I would be anxious as to how we would get back out on our own.
Brice seems to be at ease next to me, and I have to wonder if he already knows the blueprints by heart and is planning possible escape routes each time we come to a crossing.
I can’t stop looking at the wall, though. I’ve never been here before—all my dealings with Christina were done over holos, so I’ve actually never set foot in the catacombs.
I know they used to organize tours for tourists here and that it was quite popular. Until now, I didn’t understand the appeal. But now? I’m mesmerized by the messages carved into the stone walls in Latin or French. Two of those messages stay with me as I keep walking.
Ils furent ce que nous sommes,
Poussières, jouets du vent;
Fragiles comme des hommes.
