Page 10 of Dustwalker
DANCERS!exclaimed one of the signs. Perhaps the red-haired woman had been right. He could find what he wanted at Kitty’s, after he saw to his salvage.
The scrapper, Zeke, operated out of a large building with few windows. Ronin approached the counter, which stood outside one of the doors. The scrapper was a tall, thin synth who’d worn the skin off his hands and never bothered to replace it. Considering his profession, it wouldn’t have lasted long, anyway.
“Dustwalker. I detected the clang of your pack a mile out.” Zeke’s modulator produced a voice that was deep and rough, perfectly suited to Cheyenne.
Ronin unslung his rifle to swing his pack off his shoulders. Unclasping the flap, he loosened the drawstring and upended the bag. Scrap clattered onto the scuffed countertop. Zeke watched, expression neutral, as bundles of tangled copper wire bounced over plates of lead and steel, as plastic chips and long-dead power cells clattered into a haphazard pile. Plunging a hand into his pocket, Ronin added the ammunition he’d taken from the reavers to the haul.
“Never seen one as productive as you.” Zeke’s hands hovered overthe scrap, fingers twitching. “You’re a far-rover, to be sure. Creators programmed you special.”
Ronin’s core programming was shrouded within a deep, corrupted memory bank. If the Creators had instilled him with a special purpose, they’d also gone out of their way to hide it from him. He was the same as any bot without a discernable directive.
“How much?” Ronin asked.
Zeke sifted through the pile, rubbing and tapping various items and occasionally lifting a piece to test its weight. “Forty units advance. Give me an hour, and I’ll have your full tally.”
“Estimate.”
The middle and little fingers on Zeke’s right hand curled for an instant, spasmed, and straightened. “Three fifty. Depends on the damage to the cells, and the precious metals in the chips.”
Nodding, Ronin slung his rucksack over one shoulder and his rifle over the other. Would the human woman dance for hard credit?
Zeke counted out the chits and stacked them on the counter. Two yellows and a green made forty units. Each plastic disk had Warlord’s symbol etched at its center, with grooves radiating outward from it like spokes.
Ronin slid them off the counter and dropped them into his pocket. Credit units were good enough for now, but they held no value outside Cheyenne. He’d have to convert them into solid goods before he moved on to another town.
“One hour,” he said, walking away from the scrapper’s.
He ran his optics over the market, noting the presence of the merchants he’d need to visit. More than anything, he required ammunition, which was rare and therefore expensive. Forty credits wouldn’t get him much, and he didn’t care to negotiate prices without the chits in hand.
Kitty’s gaudy lights caught his attention again. The recording of the red-haired woman dancing rose to the forefront of his attention. An hour spent satisfying his curiosity couldn’t be considered wasted time, and would perhaps be enough to help him understand why she had so intrigued him. He walked toward the building.
Maybe he’d been in the Dust too long. Diagnostics checks told him his processors were functioning normally, that there was no new corrupted data, but how could he be certain?
It was always his choice to venture into the wasteland and scavenge,at immense risk to his functionality. Often, he was forced to fight. Rarely did those fights end without Ronin having sustained some sort of damage. Yet it was only in those instances, in the chaos of combat, that he felt closest to realizing his core programming, that he felt something…familiar.
It had been that way for Ronin since the Prophet had awakened him one hundred and eighty-five years ago, fifteen years after the Blackout had shattered the world.
So why had the woman’s dance invaded his thoughts so thoroughly? What about her had so utterly captivated him?
He stopped at the front door, staring up at the neon sign. He’d never been tempted to enter before tonight. But change was a natural part of existence for all things. Even mountains changed over the eons. Why not bots, as well?
Ronin opened the door and stepped inside. There was a partial wall directly ahead, creating a small foyer and dulling the rhythmic thump of music from beyond. The space was dominated by a broad, blocky bot that stood at least nine feet tall. The bot’s twin optics audibly shifted to focus on Ronin as it raised its thick arms and folded them over its dented metal chest. Warlord’s symbol was displayed on its left shoulder in bright red paint.
Though the source of the knowledge was unclear, Ronin knew this bot had been made for warfare.
“Ten units to watch,” it said, voice projecting from somewhere within its suspension-cable neck. It had no moving mouth.
One frivolous expenditure couldn’t hurt. It might mean a few less bullets, but Ronin needed to conserve ammunition, anyway. He plucked a yellow chit from his pocket and dropped it into the bot’s waiting hand.
The bot curled its fingers over the chit. “You the dustwalker the boss mentioned?”
“I’madustwalker,” Ronin responded. “Couldn’t tell you which one he meant.”
It slitted its optic shutters and released an electronic grunt. “I’m Comp. You?—”
“Comp?”
“Yeah. Short for Compactor. You start trouble, you deal with me. You don’t want that.”
