Traitor Born (Page 4)

The mechadome shifts its weight from wide metal foot to wide metal foot and back—clang, clang, clang—and its glowing red eyes stare up at me.

I unfasten the armor clasps of my heat resistant hauberk and pull it over my head. Holding out the metallic mesh garment, I let go. As it falls, Phoenix lifts its short, cannon-barrel-shaped arm. The hollow appendage whines, and a powerful vacuum sucks the armor to it, catching it before it hits the floor.

Straightening my black tank top back into place over my abdomen, I realize that this little unit probably used to suck up sewage—a thought I don’t want to dwell on when it brings me my dinner later this evening.

Phoenix uses its other longer arm with the clawlike hand to secure the armor. The mechadome makes an awkward turn because its hover mode no longer works. With more clanging noises, it crosses the foyer at a toddling pace, depositing my hauberk into a transparent case. The thickset bot programs the storage unit to sanitize the armor. I pat its iron head on my way by to check the parcel chute.

The bin is empty—nothing from Hawthorne to let me know if he’s alive.

I cross through the drawing room to the message console on the wall in the den and take out the hologram pad. Lifting the antiquated handheld device, normally used by the administrative arm of the Halo Palace, I switch on the pad. An automated virtual image of a Stone-Fated secondborn appears, in holographic form, with a message: “Your request for a manual and tools to repair a Class 5Z Mechanized Sanitation Unit has been denied. You do not hold the moniker classification for this task. Please requisition a Star-Fated or Atom-Fated representative for further assistance.” The hologram winks out.

I growl in frustration. Using the handheld hologram pad, I record and send a request for a Star to visit my apartment. I shove the message pad aside. I’m irritated, for the millionth time since arriving here, about the restrictions on my moniker communications.

I squat down. “Don’t worry, Phee. I’ll get your hover mode fixed soon.” Phoenix responds by shifting its feet—three quick clangs—reminding me of the maginots’ tails wagging.

Straightening, I leave the den and walk to the winding stairs near the drawing room. As I climb them, I hear Phoenix behind me ramming repeatedly into the bottom step, trying to follow me. It turns on its powerful vacuum arm and angles it down. Reversing the flow of air, it blows a stream of wind, acting as a propulsion system. The squat little bot almost levitates to the first step. “Stay, Phoenix,” I order. It stills. The air system powers down.

The expression on its little face is almost forlorn. Its eyes glow brighter red. Its portal mouth, which is where it attaches to a power source to recharge its hydrogen power cells, can curve up or down to show the bare minimum of humanlike expression. The oblong opening is in a definite frown. “I’ll be right back.” I feel a bit stupid for talking to it this way. I don’t know the extent of its intelligence or whether it has genuine feelings, but still I’m acting as if it has both.

I jog up to my bedroom suite to take a quick shower. When I’m finished, I wrap a robe around myself and move to stand in front of the holographic mirror in the dressing closet adjacent to the bathroom. The mirror reflects my image with a holographic list of categories on its right side. I select “Casual Wear” by touching the air button. My image in the mirror becomes garbed in a champagne-colored silk blouse with off-white leather pants that taper at the leg. I swipe away the leather with a gesture of my hand. I want something that will suit my mood, which isn’t bright. The leather pants are replaced by cherry-red cotton leggings. I wrinkle my nose and keep swiping.

I was advised by the Stone-Fated attendant who gave me the tour of the Halo Palace that I’m not to wear any symbols of the Sword secondborn military while in residence here. Instead, I’m to dress like Sword aristocracy. The Palace agent fell short of telling me to comport myself as if I’m firstborn, but it was implied in his rhetoric. I have outfits for a myriad of occasions, from formal to beachwear, but everything in my clothing lists is stylish and feminine and fits the profile of a wealthy firstborn.

Tailored black high-waisted trousers finally catch my eye. Pausing on them, I swipe through a range of different tops to pair with them, settling on a clingy, long-sleeved black top with an asymmetrical neckline. All the appropriate undergarments that accessorize the outfit display as well. I order them. About seven minutes later, the outfit arrives through the air-driven clothing conveyor chute inside the dressing closet. The items are packaged in separate garment bags that store neatly in clothing cubbies until I send the garments back in them later.

The black heels I order have a wait time of thirty minutes. Barefoot but dressed, I go back to the bathroom. As I’m twisting my hair into a smooth knot at the base of my head, the door of my apartment bleeps in melodic tones.

“You have a visitor,” a sultry male voice says from the apartment’s speaker system. The heavy metallic ring of Phoenix’s feet begins in earnest below—clang, clang, clang, clang—

“Who is it?” I ask, securing my hair with a few pins.

“Secondborn Kinjin Star,” replies the simulated voice.

Clang, clang, clang, clang, clang—

Smoothing the last hairs into place, I leave the bathroom and descend the stairs. “Open the front door,” I command, hurrying across the drawing room to the foyer. The apartment door opens, and the young woman outside gazes down at Phoenix at her feet. The mechadome shifts noisily from side to side.

The Star-Fated woman looks up at me as I approach. “I read the order, but I thought it was keyed in wrong. You have a Class 5Z Mechanized Sanitation Unit as a domestic assistant?” Her brown eyes sparkle with restrained mirth. She rests her hand on the knee of her lemon-colored uniform, bending toward Phoenix in fascination. The silver belt around her waist holds magnetized tools. In her hand is a silver case.

“They’re the up-and-coming thing,” I reply, my lip twisting with sarcasm. “Everyone will have to have one soon. Please come in.” I move aside, allowing her in. “This one has seen better days, though. The hover module doesn’t work on either of its feet.” The door slides closed behind her.

“Is there a place I can work?” she asks, appearing as if she’s making mental notes of all the tests she’d like to run on my little bot.

“This way.” I sweep my arm toward the long table in the formal dining area. Phoenix toddles along behind me like a puppy. At Kinjin’s urging, I help lift Phoenix off the floor and onto the marble tabletop.

“Thanks,” she says. “These little units are heavy. Their outsides are iron, and their insides are lined with lead.”

She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand and goes to work pulling rusted fasteners from Phoenix’s abdomen. As she works, I watch, asking questions when she pulls out soldering tools and replacement wiring. She runs upgrades on the operating system. After minutes of poking around, Kinjin pulls out a blackened metal part.

“I don’t have a replacement component for this,” she explains with a sheepish expression. “The lead is fine, but the receptor nodes on either side of it have shorted, and its boards are shot.” She sets pieces of lead on the marble table. “The hover mode won’t work without them. I can requisition replacement parts, but it will take several weeks because it’s not a high-priority item.”