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  Hayley pulled away, smiling, leaving Portland to watch as she went to the door. This triggered a mental note for Portland, who quickly fired off a text to Margot, who she hoped had not yet notified Hayley's parents of her disappearance. Hayley opened the door barely more than a sliver, only enough to expose her face, and spoke in hushed tones. She retreated from the door, and retook her seat at the table, arms folded and smiling. There was some rustling in the hall, chairs moving, murmurs, then they entered. Truman displayed his unabashed disbelief at the number of people in the room, while Dave glared in ignorant anger at having left his prod behind.

  Portland watched them walk in, sizing them up. She had Dave figured out by facial expression alone. She had spent every second since Hayley had been taken planning the death of this man, and now that the opportunity she was waiting for had arrived, she found herself left questioning. Her snap judgment told her that Dave was an idiot, and he was probably unlikely to be repentant, but he wasn't the evil agent she had built him up to be in her head. He was just a person. A dumb, regular-ass, Normie. No more than an animated corpse. She felt deflated. He was unlikely to even understand why he was being punished. There was little joy to be had in vengeance delivered to someone who didn't know what they did wrong. Well, maybe she could jog his memory.

  “Which one of you is Truman?” Portland watched Truman tense up, almost a wince. He looked at Dave, then raised his hand. He was obviously Truman, based on what Hayley had said about him. Dave just continued to glare, as if he had been unfairly put upon.

  Portland approached them, keeping her face pointed at Truman, so as not to scare Dave away. It wasn't until Portland walked past Truman that Dave's face started to change. He was not fast enough to even realize what was happening until Portland had grabbed him. She dragged him by his shirt across the floor and, with a quick kick to the back of his left knee, dropped him on his knees facing Cynthia. Keeping a hand on the top of his head while he struggled, she gave Cynthia the choice.

  “I am conflicted, so I'm going to do something out of the ordinary, here. Cynthia decides whether you live or die. Are you a loyal dog?” Portland yanked Dave's hair back, but he said nothing. “So we don't have any confusion here, Dave, you are in this position, not just because you kidnapped Hayley, but because you broke into my apartment to do it, and you prodded me. Cynthia, yea or nay?”

  Cynthia looked at her with all the emotion of a child watching the evening news, before turning her eyes to Dave. He made a slight, pleading whimper, but quickly caught himself. Cynthia finally let her mouth crack into a crooked smile. “Go ahead. Do it. Dave is... expendable.”

  Cyrus launched into a coughing fit, but Thom was quick to try to talk her out of it.

  “Portland, don't. Murder is life in prison, and that's a really long time for someone like you.” Thom was trying to appeal to her selfish nature, even though he knew it was a losing battle. He had never talked Portland out of doing what she wanted, and he doubted this would change today.

  “Sorry, Dave, but I have to. It's the principle of the thing. But, if it's any consolation, the girl has softened me to the point where I will not murder you in a grizzly manner. I will have mercy, and it will be a quick semi-painless death.” She had the awl-like device in her hand, although no one had seen where it had come from. She began to press it into the flesh at the base of Dave's skull. “Goodbye, Dave.” She thrust her hand forward. Someone squealed, someone yelled profanities, and Cynthia sat there, uncaring and unconcerned. Lydia launched herself at Portland, but she stopped short.

  Portland withdrew the awl, and there was a gentle click as it disappeared from her hand. She let Dave's head drop, and he slumped to the ground, sobbing.

  “I can't believe you were going to let me kill this man right in front of you. You are the coldest bitch I have ever seen.” Portland turned to walk away, but Cynthia's response snapped her back.

  “It was not a matter of coldness or being a bitch. You are physically incapable of murder, and I know this, so there was precisely zero chance of you actually killing him.” Portland raised an eyebrow, and she did not look pleased. “Did you really think you were capable of murder?” Cynthia laughed, loud. It was a cruel, joyless laugh, only performed for insult. It was the only laugh Cynthia had available to her.

  Portland glared and said nothing. What if it was true? What if she was not capable of murder? What if she had not decided to let him live, but the body, itself, by virtue of its programming, had made the decision? This was a disturbing, and all-too-likely possibility. She turned away from Cynthia and walked, without looking at anyone else in the room, outside, through the destroyed door, into the darkening night.

  Plastic Hayley thought back to the night she had been taken from the hospital. She was certain she had murder in her intent, and had pummeled the driver of the van to the point that he was going to die. If what Cynthia said was true, how had her body allowed that to happen? “I may have killed someone, though. The night you guys took me from the hospital. I'm pretty sure I killed the van driver.” She looked to Truman for response, since Dave was busy hiding at Cynthia's feet.

  “Did you mean to kill Greg?” Truman was not too surprised. With how calm and jovial Hayley had been throughout the day, it would stand to reason that her plastic version would share the same psychotic temperament. She did not answer immediately, and Truman wasn't sure if that was guilt, but just in case... “Because you didn't. You beat him up pretty bad, but he got mostly fixed up in the hospital.”

  Hayley looked at him, trying to figure him for a liar, but she could not make it work. “Greg... was the driver? And he didn't die?”

  “Of course not. He had a couple cracked ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and a fractured jaw. Still pretty bad, but nothing that was life threatening.”

  Cynthia tried to point this out as a function of the robot take over, but Lydia was quick to squash that.

  “Reasons that is complete bullshit, Part One: Why would the robots care what you did to animated corpses? Part Two: The witch-girl killed three meatmen, by her own admission, using the same-ish body and OS that we use. Part Three:” She looked down into Cynthia's eyes, making sure she was paying attention. “I have, personally, killed almost a dozen living, breathing, sacks of meat with my quote, unquote, bare hands.” She smiled wide, hinting at a madness writhing just beneath the beauty of her face.

  Cynthia's face remained in her perpetual state of boredom. She was not convinced by these anecdotes, and was not about to be swayed by the very people who stood to profit from spinning their falsehoods. “Fine, if that's what you want to believe. It changes nothing for me.”

  Cyrus found both sides of this argument disturbing, and when Hayley Prime rose and began to walk out of the room, he took the opportunity to follow. Outside, they went to Portland who was leaning against her car, staring into the sky, where the pink clouds had dispersed, leaving the world all-the-darker for it. And the dome of light from the city robbed them of the sight of stars, turning the sky into a murky, dark, unfulfilled promise. Hayley took Portland's hand in her own, and Cyrus became uncomfortable with his decision to follow her.

  “If it counts for anything, I believe you did the right thing, not killing Dave.” Hayley was searching Portland's face, but she didn't look away from the sky.

  “It's all just noise, Hayley. Static frequencies interspersed with senseless chatter.”

  Cyrus turned his head, slightly, and raised an eyebrow. Jargon or madness, he couldn't tell, but either way it didn't sound like the girl he had shared a life-altering car ride with just hours before.

  “Portland, I'm not sure I understand.” Hayley clutched Portland's hand in both of her hands, and pressed it to her chest.

  “My memories of times I've nearly killed people. All the times I have decided not to kill. The times I decided to let it all go, and not even start to seek revenge. The times when my work called for judgment, and I chose mercy. How many of those were my choice, and how many
were the choices of this body?”

  “But that other girl said she's killed people.”

  “The redhead? She's a military thing, so it might be different for her.” Portland continued to stare into the sky, as if it held any answer to anything, despite knowing that it could not answer the simplest of questions.

  Cyrus, however, had just stumbled upon a thought, while thinking of the witch-girl's confession. “Portland, I know I don't know much about this, but Tabitha could hack you, right?”

  Portland lolled her head in his direction, unblinking, mouth slightly open.

  “When she hacked you, she could make you do and say stuff, right? Like I saw when Lydia said she was everywhere. But, could she make you think stuff?”

  Portland had not considered it, but looking back on it, the witch-girl had only hijacked the robot body, leaving the ephemeral mind portion largely unaware of what the body was doing. Tabitha had not performed any mind control that made her decide to flash everyone, she had made the body do it while the mind remained untouched. Portland began to smile.

  “I knew I liked you. I'd kiss you, if I didn't find the idea so repulsive.” And she began to swish back and forth, heading back into the building.

  Cyrus smiled and began to follow, before catching the repulsive part. An odd hand grenade of an insult that seemed completely unnecessary.

  Hayley set a hand on his arm, as they walked back into the warehouse. “I don't know what she means. You're very pretty.”

  Cyrus stopped in his tracks, watching Hayley walk past him, into the warehouse. No one had ever called him pretty, before, and he wasn't sure how to feel about it. Once, when he was a child, a grandmother had told him he was a handsome boy. Whatever her intent was, it had not stuck with him, and it became increasingly rare, as he grew older, that anyone remarked on anything that wasn't about his size. He still felt the warmth of her hand, long after she had removed it from his arm. Her touch had stirred something inside of him, a nervousness, a sort of gentle vibration in his stomach. Portland was right, she was something very different from the plastic version. A description that Cyrus had never liked came into his mind, and for the first time ever, he could see why people would use it to describe someone: Intoxicating.

  They entered through the crumpled door to Portland delivering instructions. “So, disappear yourself, or get disappeared. And you,” She looked like she was addressing Dave. “Where's your prod?”

  Dave squirmed, but kept silent. Portland's hand made a sharp thwack against his face, but he wouldn't talk. Tears were welling up in Dave's eyes, and it was making Truman shake more than he already had been.

  “It's under the table in the hallway.” Truman hoped she was just going to break it, or something, but he needed to stop this before any of her wrath spilled over onto him.

  Portland vanished through the door, made more noise than was necessary, and returned with the cattle prod. She raised it toward Dave's face and lit it up a couple of times in quick succession, for display to herself as much as anyone else, before setting it on a course for Dave's chest.

  “Wait!” Hayley cried out, stopping Portland dead. “Where's my phone? If it's on him, don't prod him, you could fry it.”

  Portland rested the prod against the side of her boot and nudged Dave with the other foot. “Where is it?”

  Dave, apparently, needed to be smacked again before he was willing to return the phone. Portland passed it to Hayley. “Anyone else need any electronics off of Dave?” She didn't wait for a response before she stabbed the prod into Dave's chest. Dave shuddered and dropped on his side. After giving him a few seconds to recover, Portland hit him again with the prod, this time holding it for several seconds before releasing. He wasn't quite passed out, but he wasn't really awake, either. Portland took the prod by both ends and brought it down against her knee, bending it in a smooth arc with almost no resistance. Lifting it from her knee allowed it to return to its straightened shape, and Portland almost screamed. Cynthia laughed at her, which certainly didn't make Portland feel any less angry. She whipped the forked end of the prod against Cynthia's face, who returned a glare, before stabbing it at her chest and firing it for a little longer than was reasonable. Cynthia's body had shut down immediately, but Portland held the prod in place until two small brown-ish spots started to radiate from beneath the prod's fork.

  “What the hell?” Hayley had her phone in her hands, not looking up. “I'm getting a lot of notifications from my latest post...” She was swiping her thumb frantically across the face of the phone. “Holy shit. That asshole posted pics of my abduction, and the idiots that follow me think it's performance art. He posted it everywhere, plus he posted pictures from the phone that were my personal pictures.” She flicked the phone off and slid it into a pocket. “Portland, where's that stabby thing? I'm gonna kill him.”

  Hayley tried to appear determined, but she was swaying lightly, walking toward Portland. She, then, realized that she had not slept in a long time, and it had been catching up to her for a while. Her body was protesting her continual consciousness, and when she made it to Portland's side, she grasped her arm and slumped against her. “Sorry, I think I need a nap.” She smiled weakly at Portland. “Maybe I can kill him later, or something.”

  Portland had an idea. “Hey, where're the keys to the van?” She kicked at Dave, but he just rolled over and groaned, and was in no condition to respond. She slipped out of Hayley's hands and bent to rifle through Dave's pockets. She fished out two sets of keys, and took them both, figuring one had to be for the van, and the other set could be collateral damage. She wasn't too concerned with Dave being able to get home, or even into that home if he got there. As far as she was concerned, he should be grateful to be alive, after what he did to her.

  “We can take the van to ease the strain of our current head count, and Thom can return it later, right?” She looked at Thom, assuming he was going back to work. After all, it wasn't his fault any of this happened, and Alex had not been informed that Thom was even incidentally attached to any of this.

  “I don't see why not.” He shrugged.

  “Then it's settled. Who wants to ride with me?” She smiled wide, knowing that there was only one person who would volunteer for that kind of a ride, and that person was half-loopy from lack of sleep.

  Alan had to issue several commands to finally get the robot-girl into the back of the van, but that turned out to be the hardest task, and everything after that went pretty smoothly. Portland stopped them from leaving in Alan's car, and it looked to the others like she was checking the door latch on the driver's door. Only Thom would have known that she was retrieving her tracker, but he had already forgotten about that, and was working his way into the passenger seat of the transport van.

  “Who's driving the van?” Portland looked around the group, and she figured Cyrus to be the most likely choice. “Cyrus?”

  Cyrus shrugged, caught both sets of keys before they had time to split apart in the air, and walked around to the front of the van. “Where're we going, now?”

  “I know where the house is, and I assume Lydia knows,” Portland blinked, stood silent for a second, then continued addressing Cyrus. “I would send you the link to the route, but you don't have a phone.” She looked like she was scratching her shoulder, but when she brought her hand down, she had a phone in it. She handed it to Cyrus. “I'm not sure we'll find what I'm looking for, there, but it's the best chance to give the sexbot her reunion,” She paused, briefly, “and it might do well to house a few of us until we get the details hammered out with Ersatz Hayley.”

  Plastic Hayley was clearly not a fan of this new name, and with the way her night had been going, she could have done without Portland's constant needling. This feeling manifested itself in the form of a gentle grunt of derision, and a slight glare that softened into a scowl. She held this face until Portland was in her car, and pulling away from them. She could hear the scraping of Portland's car as it dragged itself out of the
parking lot, and she winced as a reflex, which reset her face to her usual neutral-blank gaze.

  Chapter 23: Haptic Feedback

  Alan Rice did not want to go to the house after dark. No one could seem to get a complete answer out of him, but the reason was something of a cross between the house being haunted, and the house being too empty. It provided no comfort to him when Hayley pointed out that a haunted house would be, by definition, not empty. And yet, here they were, entering the code at the front gate, and piling their cars and themselves up the driveway, to come to rest in the gravel in front of the house.

  Portland stood against her car and surveyed the house. It was a grey-ish colonial-style McMansion, with no visible garage. Portland imagined that she could almost smell the cardboard and chicken wire of the white columns. Tacky. She had not planned on waking Hayley, but she, also, did not want to let her out of her sight, after the stress of her abduction. Fortunately, Hayley awoke when the car came to rest in front of the house, and Hayley drowsily pulled herself from the passenger seat.

  At the door Alan Rice made a gesture with his right hand, and the door clicked, then swung open, revealing a large entryway. It looked exactly like one would expect an actual mansion to, with real-stone tile flooring, a fine quality couch that would barely seat one, a couple of tables with small statues on them, and a wide, carpeted staircase in the middle, rising up to the second floor, all beneath a gaudy, crystal chandelier.

  Three people entered the house with barely the noise of a breath before Portland's boots signaled her entry. She was, also, not shy with the volume of her voice, but no one really would have expected her to be.

  “Dank. The driest dank, to be sure, but dank, none-the-less.” She began inspecting a small statue that stood on a table along the wall near the door. She picked it up, judging its heft, and looked for a label on the bottom, but found, instead, a string of letters and numbers inscribed. They appeared to be chipped away, not cut out of clay before firing. “Where'd this come from?”