Page 11 of Dustwalker
“Astute observation.”
Comp grunted again and extended a thumb, jabbing it to the side. Ronin walked across the foyer, giving Comp a wide berth, and entered the main room.
It took two seconds for his optics to adjust to the confused lighting. More pink and violet bulbs cast conflicting glows upon numerous reflective surfaces, strengthening the contrasting gloom hanging in the air. Mirrors and polished chrome poles and rails gleamed on the stage, on the bar, around the doors, and even on the ceiling.
More so than the bot district, this place was a blatant statement of defiance against the Dust, a callback to an era no one remembered. An era before broken people scurried through a broken world. Before dirt had worked its way into everything, before metal had rusted and corroded and electronic minds had deteriorated alongside it.
People, bots and humans, were scattered in the chairs. Some were in small groups at the tables, but most were sitting along the stage. Two synths stood behind the bar, one of them a tall, white-skinned female in a tight dress that accentuated her body, the other a bare-chested, brown-skinned male in black leather pants. Apart from the pulsing music, the place was quiet. No conversation, no cheering. In one corner, a naked woman writhed sensually on a man’s lap, but the rest of the patrons just stared at the stage with rapt, hungry eyes.
Ronin sat at an empty table.
Two women danced at opposite ends of the stage, swaying their hips, running their hands over their bare skin and across their painted lips, stroking their nipples.
Something stirred within him. He’d gone a long time without sexual stimulation.
The brown-haired woman on the left moved with slow precision. Her dark brown skin was flawless, her curves generous, her breasts perky, and her face was perfectly symmetrical. A synth. She caught his gaze, smiled, and squeezed her ample bosom.
Ronin looked to the other woman. In comparison, her movements were erratic, varying in direction and speed. The subtle motion of muscles beneath her skin and the hint of ribs at her sides said she was human. Her breasts were smaller, and pale scars ran up the inside of her right arm. There was a mole on her abdomen, near her navel—which synths lacked—and another on her inner thigh.
As he watched her, he allocated extra processing cores to map her movements. There had to be a pattern, had to be a way to predict them.Minutes passed in the gloom; forgotten, insignificant minutes dominated by droning music and teasing flesh. Credit units were tossed onto the stage at the dancers’ feet by silent onlookers, disrupting the ambient rhythm.
Though there was no predictable pattern, she had several tells. Her movements were simple, sensual, and ultimately repetitive. When she slid her hands down along her sides and hesitated, it meant they were about to converge over her pubis. If she didn’t hesitate, she would instead run her palms over her thighs.
Would the woman in the shack have betrayed such signs, had there been enough time to observe her?
He compared their forms. This woman was slightly taller and seemed better fed, though the redhead in the shack had more muscle tone on her calves. Both had long legs and thin waists.
But they danced in drastically different manners.
Ronin raised his optics to the dancer’s face. The rare times she opened her eyes, she fixed her gaze on the ceiling or the wall rather than looking at the crowd. Her lips were parted slightly, as though in arousal, but it didn’t carry to the rest of her expression. Ronin had seen the way human bodies reacted to sexual stimuli. There was no color on her cheeks, no muscles tightening in anticipation of pleasure, not so much as a flicker of movement in her passive brow.
This was all performative, an act for the gratification of the audience. And it was ultimately empty.
The red-haired woman hadn’t feigned her emotions. She’d worn them as plainly as her clothing, and they’d been genuine, powerful, and alluring. And there was something about her physical form, something about her features, that Ronin found far more enticing. He’d seen beautiful people before. There were many here, right now. But the human in that shack on the edge of the slums, she had a beauty that outshone any he’d witnessed.
“I was told you gave my guards trouble when you came into town,” someone said from beside Ronin.
Ronin turned his head. He’d heard no approaching footsteps. Whether due to the music or his focused analysis, his carelessness was inexcusable.
The bot standing next to Ronin’s table was a synth of average height and build, his hair trimmed to stubble, wearing a faded leather jacket, blue jeans, and brown combat boots. No obvious weapons, nobulked-up frame or visible combat modifications. His face was neither particularly attractive nor displeasing, unremarkable save for a single feature—the only feature that set him apart from anyone else. The tear in his synthetic skin, running from his left optic to his jaw, had never been properly repaired. It was held together by thin metal sutures, allowing a glimpse of the faceplates and human-like teeth beneath.
“Enough trouble for you to investigate personally, Warlord?” Ronin returned his attention to the human on stage. “I think your bots have spent too much time with humans. They’ve learned to exaggerate.”
At the edge of Ronin’s vision, Warlord pulled out a chair and eased onto it, turning his optics toward the dancers. “These sacks of meat don’t have many admirable qualities, but they can be…entertaining.”
The human on stage flicked her eyes to Warlord, and her movements faltered.
“Yes.” Ronin replayed the redhead’s dance again. Entertaining was one word for what she’d been doing, but so many other words seemed more apt—fascinating, mesmerizing, moving.
Warlord leaned an arm on the table. He tapped his index finger atop it, in time with the music’s beat. “Good for brief diversions.”
Ronin clenched his jaw. Warlord was not to be taken lightly, but the dustwalker rarely sought company. “You find me just to scold me about coming in late?”
Warlord made a sound almost like a human laugh, but from his mouth, it was hollow and flat. “Comp said you look like trouble.”
“And what do you see?”
“Opportunity. You’ve traveled the Dust, you’ve seen what this world is. And you know the truth of things.”
