Cultwick: The Sweeper Bot Plague (5 page)

"Operative Page. I’m here to investigate last night's incident, gentlemen," she told them formally.

"We'll need to see some identification, ma'am," one of them said. "I'm sure you can understand our concern after last night.”

"Of course," Alice said and then lifted her left arm showing them the back of her hand. An intricate tattoo of church symbols that indicated her rank in the religion's hierarchy was etched into her skin.

"Apologies for the delay, ma'am," the guard said. "Go right ahead. Do you need directions?"

"No," she replied, moving forward. "I know where I'm going."

Alice continued through the building, following the hallway leading to the containment area for lottery winners. She was soon met with another guard, stationed at the entrance to the room with the black, riveted door. She was again asked to identify herself before proceeding inside.

In the center of the room was a guard station with no less than six guards watching over the remaining subjects. She entered the room and held up her hand declaring, "Operative Page. Show me her cell."

One of the guards grabbed a ring of keys and guided her down the hallway eventually stopping and unlocking the door to an empty unit. "This is it, ma'am," he said.

"Thank you," she replied, stepping into the cell and looking around briefly. "Can you get me the scientist in charge here, corpsman?"

"Of course, ma'am,” he answered. “I'll be back in a minute."

Alice nodded and continued to look at the empty cell, trying to piece together what was going on in the mind of the young apostate. She stood there for some time pondering on what she had learned thus far. It wasn’t long before the guard came back with a befuddled looking man in a white lab coat. Alice suspected that he had been woken in the middle of the night and had been questioned many times since then.

"Good afternoon, Dr...?" she began.

"Dr. Norton, miss," he said. "I was in charge of this subject.

"I see,” she replied flatly. “What did you inject her with before her escape, doctor?"

"Uh... well,” he began. “We called it Primer. It was a test on whether we could link two subjects on a mental level."

"Very interesting, doctor,” she said. “Am I right to guess there was another patient whom you attempted to link to Ms. Clover?”

“That’s correct,” he answered.

“Are we lucky enough to still have this other patient, doctor?” she asked.

"Over here," he pointed across the aisle of cells to the one directly opposite of the one she occupied.

"So..." she went on, approaching the other subject "did it work?"

"Hard to say. She escaped before we could capture any data. And this one," he said, pointing to the woman in the cage, "she's too far gone to really discern anything at this point.  We've done so many tests to her over the years; I doubt she's of much use to anyone anymore. There was an electrical problem with her door last night. That's the only reason she's still here. The only one in the whole place."

"Thank you, doctor,” she said. “That will be all for now. I'm sure someone will be in touch with you very soon."

The doctor looked a bit baffled, and he and the guard both left her alone, staring into the cage. The woman was huddled in the corner, facing away from her and rocking back and forth. Alice watched her for a few minutes before asking, "What did you see last night, miss?"

The woman continued to rock back and forth, not appearing to have heard the question.

Alice, unwilling to give up just yet, glanced at a paper stuck to the side of the cage with a magnet. She pulled the paper out, to see that patient's name was Fiona Newton. Her chart’s history indicated she had been taken from a mental facility that she had been in since she was a young woman. Also detailed in her file were all the experiments that she had been subjected to over the years.

Cellular Regeneration, Hive Mind Research, Augmented Vigor Injections, Dexterous Muscle Fiber Replacement, Nerve Tissue Death Therapy,
SC-Foresight Trials, and finally the Shared Mental Storage the doctor had mentioned. It was a shame none of the tests had yielded many results. This work could have been quite useful for the empire, she thought.

"So you were to share a consciousness with the heretic, Erynn Clover--" Alice paused when she saw the woman stop rocking and her ears perk up at the mention of the name. "Does that name mean something to you - Erynn Clover?"

The woman turned and stood up looking to be in quite a bit of pain. She walked over to Alice and asked, "Ryn?"

"Ryn? Is that what you call her?" Alice inquired.

"It hurts so much! The door will open. Metal will shine. Blood will spurt and flow. She’ll thank the good doctor for his good work. The western sun will burn so bright. She’ll find the jewel in the desert! And you. You...” The woman in the cage looked up at Alice with a pair of eerily bright, blue eyes.

“You...” she continued. “Page...
You will make this happen. You will be responsible for the pain brought to Ryn."

“Who
are you talking about?” Alice asked.

The patient paused, looking around for anyone listening. “Fiona,” she whispered.

Confused, Alice began “But I thought you were--”

“No!” the woman shouted. “I’m not her! She’s the one who will escape… the one with Ryn’s mind in her head! She’ll find her! She’ll do such horrible things to be with her again.”

A faint smile crept across Alice's face as she turned to walk away from the cell. She walked past the guards stationed at the command post, and one asked her, "Do you need anything else, ma'am?"

"No," she said. "I've got everything I need now."

Chapter 5. Rowland the Tonic Salesman

"Step right up!" Rowland shouted to the scarce few individuals walking through the nearly deserted town of Stonebrook. "Step right up! Get your miracle cures here! Tell me what itches, burns, bleeds, or otherwise hurts and I will cook up, on the spot, a miracle cure for whatever ails you! No malady or affliction is too severe or too dangerous for the mind of Professor Maxwell Rowland! I am at your service."

He had been attempting to sell his miracle tonics for some time, and he had received very little interest despite his many claims of brilliance. He had managed to sell one plague treatment to an older gentleman, but that
wouldn’t be nearly enough to secure transport to the next town, Dust Grove.

Stonebrook was a small, mostly deserted town just to the west of Cultwick City. The streets were mostly empty and many of the buildings were dilapidated and abandoned.

Rowland’s hope was that Dust Grove would have a higher yield of job opportunities than Stonebrook. If they didn’t find anything there, then they would try their luck in the other towns in the west.

Ash Cloud was one of the bigger cities in the region, but his preference
wasn’t to go there unless absolutely necessary. It was supposed to have a higher degree of empire control than he would like.

Then there was Chrome City and Red River, but unless they were interested in working the chromite mines or slaughtering cattle, those towns would probably have less to offer them. They might be able to find something in Willow Switch that would be more suitable to their talents though. It was the primary stop
of the railway between Cultwick City and the western towns, but if they kept a low profile Erynn might be able to get a job as a chromesmith for the train engineers.

Probably their best hope, he thought, was Pendulum Falls. It was one of the more
mechanically advanced cities in the region. It even rivaled that of the empire city in terms of raw machinery, but without the disdain for its creators.

Of the western
towns, Pendulum Falls had also managed to keep the most independence of both the government and the Church of Biosynthesis. The town’s chief point of notoriety was their invention and manufacturing of the skyships. He had always wanted to ride in one of the creations, and he suspected that Erynn would love to as well, despite her fear of heights.

Germ, Erynn and even Tern had all gone off on their own in the small town - each attempting to find their own means of securing a little money. He hoped they were faring better than
he was. It was then that Rowland spotted a young attractive woman with a bruise under her eye, and the fairly unsuccessful attempt to conceal it with a touch of makeup.

The professor approached her and said, "Greetings, madam. Perhaps I can offer you a medical salve to hurry the treatment of that injury?"

“No, thank you, mister,” she responded.

“Well then, perhaps, you would like a painkiller to numb the pain?” he asked.

“It doesn’t hurt too much anymore, mister.”

“Surely there is some way in
which I can help you, madam. I would hate to think I couldn’t help a young woman in trouble when she needed it most.”

Stopping, the woman replied, “What I really need is a way to defend myself from that drunk of a husband I made the mistake of marrying, so unless you can bottle that, I’m not sure how much help you can really be.”

At this, the professor’s face lit up. “I believe I can do exactly that, madam.” The professor pulled out of his bag a small selection of vials filled with various liquids as well as one empty one.

He began carefully measuring out certain levels of the fluids and pouring them into the empty tube. He clumsily placed his thumb on the end of the tube and shook the vial, allowing some to spill out onto the sandy ground beneath their feet. Once the color had changed from a yellowish brown to a bright green, he
pronounced the creation ready. The liquid smelled like rotten fish, and Rowland could only imagine the flavor that went along with it.

Rowland placed back the unused liquids into his bag and pulled out a syringe. He stuck the needle down into his concoction and pulled back the plunger, sucking the liquid into the glass tube of the syringe.

“Here you are, madam,” he announced. “This should rectify all your problems with your husband.” He held the syringe out for her to take.

“You say this will help me defend myself?” she asked warily.

“Indeed it will. Just one injection into your thigh will give you the strength to defend yourself from whatever threat you might face.”

“Well, I suppose it’s worth a try,” she said. “What do I owe you?”

“Whatever you can spare, dear,” he responded. “We are trying to get to Dust Grove and need to pay for transport.”

“Here’s all I have on my person, mister,” the woman said holding out a few coins. “There is a mechanical buggy that goes between here and Dust Grove every other day. It should probably be here a bit later on. This should pay for at least one person.”

“You have my thanks,” said the professor. “And good luck to you. I am sure your problems are at an end.”

The woman walked away, and Rowland found himself confident in his success. He suspected, however, that he had come to the end of his customers in this town
, and decided to return to the location their group had determined to meet up after they had searched the town for financial opportunities - the First Chance Saloon.

Rowland pushed his way through the swinging double-doors of the
dimly lit saloon and allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the bar’s interior. Inside were a series of circular tables, some of which were occupied by small groups of men with dice. The saloon had a musty, stale smell in the air as if some of the beverages had leaked and never been properly cleaned.

Behind the
bar, a barkeep cleaned shot glasses with a tattered, off-white rag. He looked over his small, circular spectacles at him, as the professor walked toward the bar and took a seat on a stool.

“What can I getcha?” the man asked familiarly.

“Do you happen to have Red Eye Whiskey?” Rowland asked the barkeep.

“That stuff’s a little pricey for this place, mister,” he replied. “You’ll have to aim a bit lower.”

“Well, I suppose you can just bring me something on tap then,” he said.

The bartender grabbed a mug from below the counter and pulled a black lever with white lettering, labeled simply, ‘Beer.’ “Here you go,” said the man.

Rowland shuffled through his pocket and eventually pulled out a small coin, sliding it across the counter to the bartender. The man took the coin, placing it in his pocket and went about his business behind the bar.

In the corner of the saloon, the professor spotted a man sleeping. He had a Stetson slung down over his eyes and
his feet were propped up in a nearby chair. The man looked like the pure embodiment of what the professor had always imagined the west to be like.

Rowland turned, putting his back to the bar and sipped on his beverage. He watched one of the groups of men playing their dice game and began to notice patterns in their behavior.

He sat there for some time, and despite having never played the game before or knowing anything about the rules came to several conclusions. The men, he thought, were being painfully obvious with their actions. If this was a game of bluffing, they were all doing a terrible job.

A fat balding man scratched the underside of his chin and raised the stakes. The man beside him, a tall gentleman with quite a tall top hat
, blinked his eyes several times and raised as well. A dirty looking man with a pair of revolver pistols at his belt licked his lips and raised them still further. Finally, the last man in the circle, a clean, well-mannered gentleman looked under a cup concealing his dice, back up at his opponents and then finally gave in, revealing his rolls.

“Do
not do that!” shouted the professor in irritation.

Everyone in the bar turned to watch the professor as he stormed forward toward their table.

“You could have won that hand,” he continued. “The fat man had at best two threes, the tall one had a decent set, but not anything to fear, and the dirty one was bluffing - he had nothing!”

The dirty man, irritated at this interruption pointed a finger at Rowland and said, “Get outta here, old man. You dunno what yer talkin about.”

“Of course I do,” he continued, oblivious to an angry looking man coming into the saloon behind him. “You always lick your lips when you bluff, you ugly buffoon,” he said pointing at the dirty man.

“You, fat man, scratch your chin when you have a safe bet,” he said with a finger aimed at the fat man.

“You blink too much when you have a set that you know you should not be wagering on,” he said while pointing at the tall man.

“And you,” he said pointing at the well-mannered man who was staring behind Rowland with a pale-white face.

It was at this point Rowland heard the click of a pistol hammer being cocked back and then felt the barrel of a gun pressing against the back of his head.

“You the one selling tonics in town?” a voice behind him asked.

“Whatever problem you are having, gentleman,” the professor began holding his hands up in the air as he talked, “I am sure we can work it out peacefully.”

The dirty man at the table who had been insulted enough stood up and removed his revolver from its holster and also pointing it at Rowland said, “Who are you? This man was just about to get a severe lesson in manners. He interrupted our game of dice.”

The man behind Rowland spoke up again, “He sold my brother’s wife a tonic. She just went home and killed him in cold blood.”

“Your brother can go to hell for all I care. He probably had it coming,” said the dirty man.

The man behind Rowland pushed the professor aside and knocked him to the floor. The man then pointed his pistol instead at the dirty man. “What did you say about my brother, mister?”

The other three men at the dice table took this opportunity to get out of their chairs and step back quite quickly. Th
e scene seemed all too common to the men. Behind the saloon bar, even the owner had dropped below the counter to avoid any possible stray bullets.

Rowland’s arm
, meanwhile, began to throb with a cold, numb pain that he was all too familiar with. He instinctively pulled a syringe of biojunk from his bag and injected himself in the arm, just above the gauntlet. A warm, soothing sensation filled his whole body, while the two men continued to berate each other.

With the biojunk working its way through his system, Rowland stood up and casually strolled out of the bar, having completely forgotten about the altercation behind him. Outside the
saloon, Erynn and Germ were talking on the other side of the street and Tern had begun to approach them from a ways down the dusty road.

Rowland waved and walked up to the two of them. “Hello, it
is me. Dr. Maxwell Rowland.”

“We know who you are, sir,” Germ replied. “Did you manage to sell any of your ‘miracle’ tonics?”

“As a matter of fact, I sold two,” he answered. Seeing the frown on Germ’s face the professor then asked, “You are not still upset about the broom and dustpan debacle are you?”

“I don’t
have any idea what you were thinking, sir,” the rat responded.

“I said I was sorry about that,” Rowland explained.
“It is just that I thought those were your favorite possessions. You were always running around the manor with them.”

Sighing, Germ explained, “That’s because you always make a mess, sir.”

“At least I grabbed the journal,” Rowland said.

“It’s something, I suppose,” Germ admitted.

“Anyway,” the professor went on, “a nice young lady told me about a buggy that comes to Dust Grove that should be arriving back here soon.”

“That’s good,” Erynn said smiling. “I think if we pool our money we should be able to buy a ride there.”

Behind them, they heard a series of gunshots fired from within the saloon, causing the professor to jerk startled. “I wonder what that was all about,” he declared.

“I told you the west is pretty lawless,” Erynn responded.

As she made the statement, a sheriff with pistols drawn ran toward the saloon, rushing cautiously inside.

“Well, mostly lawless, I guess,” she amended. “Where is this transport supposed to be, Max?”

Tern then arrived and answered that question inadvertently, “I have secured transport for three life forms and one automaton. We leave in one-quarter hour and the price is not negotiable. Twenty-five coins. If we have acquired this sum, then we will be in Dust Grove by dusk tonight. We are to meet the driver on the other side of town.”

“Guess that answers that,” Erynn said. “I guess we should head that way then.”

They began to walk along the road, but the professor turned back and stopped, staring at the saloon.

“What’s the matter, sir?” asked Germ.

“I am not sure, old friend,” he replied. “I just feel like I may have forgotten about something is all. Oh well. It could not have been too important, I suppose.”