Page 3 of Garbage

Two men wearing scruffy hoodies and expensive shoes had a third one pinned against a wall, and they both looked up when he entered.

“Shit, man!” The second guy looked away as soon as he spotted Evan. “Let’s go. You don’t wanna be on camera.” He quickly dropped the wrist he’d been holding pinned.

“Yeah, or he’s faking it,” the first one sneered. “You one of those robot lovers?”

Evan sucked in a breath. He’d hoped they would just leave. “I’m on the phone right now with the police.” He ignored the AI droning in his earpiece, trying to figure out how to direct his call. Everything would still be recorded, and it sounded like it was maybe being transferred. “And you’re either destroying city property or committing an assault. I’d get out of here before they come.”

Evan honestly didn’t know which crime was being committed. The man—well, the android—was dressed in the distinctive uniform of a sanitation worker, which explained the garbage truck idling on the street. His face was model-gorgeous, with dark brown hair that swooped perfectly over his forehead and warm sand-colored skin that could have been any race or none at all. His luminous brown eyes were framed by perfect brows and long lashes, while his nose was just short of smooth in a way that somehow managed to look distinguished or cute or at least interesting enough to draw the eye to his dusky pink lips.

A lot of science went into those enigmatic good looks, and Evan wondered if his friend Ben was behind the algorithms.

The android still had a round, barrel chest that looked like a storage cylinder despite the faint outline of pecs, and it was clear that the rubber “boots” on the end of his legs couldn’t come off. His two human-like arms looked muscular and sturdy—probably much stronger than a human’s if it was necessary to do his job—and they were supplemented by a few silver tubes and thin, black clawed extensions jutting out from behind his back.

Evan vaguely remembered the city advertising the new initiative five or six years ago when they’d replaced the last of the human sanitation workers with androids. To make it more palatable, he supposed, in the face of the ongoing anti-robot protests and counter-legislations, they’d apparently sprung for the higher quality, more lifelike models. Keeping them human-shaped probably meant they wouldn’t have to retrofit the trucks, either.

Right now, the android stood frozen, arms and appendages at odd angles, eyes staring vacantly.

That wasn’t normal robot behavior. A model like this should be going through a dozen subroutines of human-like behavior, shifting his weight or asking a polite, if bizarrely inappropriate, question about getting back to work. The extensions should have coiled back into wherever he stored them, and his eyes should have been looking around, even if the sensors he used to take in information weren’t located in those orbs.

So either the assholes had managed to turn the robot off—not an easy feat without illegal tech—or he was a real spark, and freaking the fuck out.

There wasn’t a lot of visible damage—android skin and “bones” were tough—but his thick, blue neoprene shirt was scuffed like it had been dragged over concrete.

“Come on, man,” the second guy cried, grabbing the first one’s arm. “We gotta go.”

The first one lifted his middle finger—which was just fine with Evan because it was giving the camera a nice long look at his face—before shoving the android back into the wall again. “Piece of shit sparky,” he jeered as a parting blow, already running down the alley and onto the following street.

The android wobbled, his head bouncing hard against the brick, before he took an awkward step to correct his balance. Hopefully there wasn’t any important circuitry stored up in his skull.

Evan approached him slowly. “Are you alright?”

There was a long delay, and then a flicker of his eyelids, almost like someone having a seizure, but more rhythmic, like an appliance turning on. A moment later, his hands jerked, and then the metal hoses retracted into his back in a sudden snap. The clawed arms followed, though one lagged behind, in a way that looked uncomfortable.

“I’m alright,” the android echoed back. His mouth wasn’t moving though, the voice coming from somewhere near the top of his head.

Clearly, he wasn’t alright. “They’re gone now, but that doesn’t mean you’re okay. They hurt you. You could press charges.”

A hesitation, and those deep brown eyes finally swung his way. “I’m a machine. I can’t press charges.” He looked haunted.

Evan took another step closer. “I think you know that you’re more than that. You have feelings. In fact, you have rights.” It wasn’t a question now. No simple AI would respond like this.

The spark shrugged, one shoulder jerking up like the other was paralyzed.

Evan risked a hand on his elbow, telegraphing the motions in case it wasn’t wanted. But even if sparks experienced touch differently, he hoped a soothing hand would help. “I think they messed you up pretty good. And I don’t want them to come back and target you again.”

The spark shifted his weight, but it wasn’t clear if he was just getting better balance or leaning into Evan’s hand. At least his mouth seemed to be working again when he spoke, his voice barely loud enough to be heard. “What do I do?”

Chapter 2

CNS-84-2

Route map. Twenty-third and Hazel Crest. Alley halfway between. Visual overlay with a blue dot, that was him. The truck was the red dot. Too far away.

Fluids dripping. Pressure low in lubricant fluid tank two. Repair needed. Repair alert. Repair needed.

The bad men. The man who talked to him last week, and again yesterday. The man who said all those hurtful things. His black eyes. His dark, black eyes under the scowl.

Here, Sparky. You think you can take our jobs? Recite some poetry for us. You like a big cock down your throat?