Page 23 of Dustwalker
Her eyes widened at sight of the credits. She turned back to Greene and pointed to one of the smoked meats. “That. And some of those potatoes and carrots.”
“That all?” Ronin asked. He didn’t know how much humans needed to eat and drink, though he was certain the information hid somewhere within the smoldering ruins of his memory.
“It’s more than I’ve had in weeks,” she murmured before pointing at the hanging meat. “Gimme some more of that jerky, too.”
Greene deftly chopped the vegetables and slid them onto the flat surface of the grill. While they cooked, he cut several slices of smoked meat and plucked down a few strips of jerky, wrapping both items in their own paper packages.
Greene didn’t seem capable of reason or thought on the same level as more advanced bots or synths, but he performed his tasks with efficiency and speed that could only be the result of fulfilled programming. This was Greene’s purpose, the reason he’d been shaped by the Creators and awoken by the Prophet.
Ronin settled the payment after Lara received her order, and together they continued through the market. His olfactory sensors focused on the smell of her food, on the spices the meat had been treated with, and the aroma of the cooked vegetables. Scents he’d detected many times, in many places, but had never given any consideration. For humans, those smells meant survival.
Once the food was handed to Lara, Ronin departed from the stand.
“Why was that one so confused?” she asked, hurrying to walk beside him. She clutched the bundles of food to her chest.
“Greene?”
“Yeah.”
“We’re all shaped by the Creators, but not equally.” He swept the area with his optics, noting bots of at least a dozen different models. The synths were all similar in that they appeared human on the surface, but no two were truly alike beneath.
“What do you mean? I know you all lookdifferent, but…”
“Greene’s function is to prepare food. Other bots are designed and programmed for different specialized tasks, like inspecting and repairing buildings or manufacturing machinery. Many of us werecreated with a very specific purpose in mind, and some have retained that purpose through the Blackout.”
“Blackout?”
“It happened a long time ago. Long enough that neither of our kinds remembers what it was. We just…woke up, knowing that some part of us had been lost and that nothing seemed right.”
He replayed those earliest memories, in which there was a snowy flicker in his optics and feedback overwhelming his audio receptors. Nothing remained of who he had been before. There was only static, the slow churn of diagnostics and reboots, and the kindly voice of the one who’d reactivated him.
Lara wore a troubled frown, eyes on the ground. Didn’t humans tell any stories of those times? They must have. All the Creator’s children had experienced the Blackout. Even if their lives were relatively short, wouldn’t they have passed the knowledge down from generation to generation?
“What’s your purpose?” she asked.
For an instant, Ronin’s processors stilled, and everything in him was quiet.
Good evening. My name is Ronin, because I cannot remember what it used to be. How may I assist you?
What response could he possibly give? He’d searched for one hundred and eight-five years and still had no satisfying answer.
They reached the gate leading into the bot district. This one was also open, but only wide enough to allow people through single file. The large flood lights atop the wall were turned on, bathing the area in harsh white light and fighting back the storm’s gloom.
The timing of their arrival was convenient.
“No more conversation,” Ronin said. “I’ll talk if they ask anything.”
Two gearheads stood guard at the gate, one on each side of the opening. Their weapons were more formidable than those of the bots at the roadblock on the edge of town. These were pre-Blackout automatic rifles, built with matching parts. Even without armor-piercing rounds, they had a chance of penetrating Ronin’s casing from this range.
Lara followed close on Ronin’s heels, and the gearheads’ optics flicked from her to him. Though it was slung over his shoulder, his weapon suddenly seemed very far out of reach.
“Dustwalker,” one of the gearheads, a synth, said in greeting. Theright sleeve of his coat had been removed, displaying the blue casing of his arm and Warlord’s mark on his shoulder.
Ronin slowed to a stop two meters away from the gearheads. Lara didn’t bump into him this time, but she pressed lightly against his back. His skin flared to life, electrodes firing off a wave of pleasure at her touch despite the clothing separating them. “Cobalt.”
“Heard you had a chat with Warlord last night,” the other bot said. He was a broad-built synth who’d removed the skin from his lower jaw and neck, baring a skeletal row of teeth and the cords of his throat. Went by the name Northside.
Lara stiffened and inhaled sharply.
