+++

Two and a half minutes later, Noble landed on the concrete outside the Arts/Youth Centre –  which was just down the road from the hotdog stand – and carefully placed the two passengers on the ground beside her.

‘Fucking flit-hot rocketeer, Jed,’ said Mick Mick, trembling residue adrenaline as he spoke.

‘What he said,’ said Ruth.

‘It’s nothing.’

‘Sure, nothing.’ She looked at Noble’s feet, blowing out breath from two minutes ago. ‘If I had one of you spare, I’d sell my car right now, no lie.’

‘I’m not a prop.’

‘I know, I was joking, relax. I’m not going to sell my car.’

‘Good.’

The three of them walked into the centre and Ruth disappeared into a side room to make the coffee that was allegedly better than the stuff at the hotdog stand.

Mick Mick got bored of waiting and wandered off into the main body of the centre, never to be seen again [actually, he ended up bumping into some musicians and they said he could carry around their instruments if they got any gigs. The pay was low and they didn’t have any gigs yet, but Mick Mick said yes, as long as they let him sing some tracks. They said no. Mick Mick modified. Long as you give me the bus fare back to K town every night. How much is that, they asked. Don’t know. Can we drive you to the metro instead? Deal].

Meanwhile, Noble fake-drank coffee and tried to explain her baseline ontology to Ruth, who nodded at her keyboard, occasionally looking up every few minutes to see if Mick Mick was coming back.

‘Ideologically, I was created to be right-wing, Reagan right, but some Cubans got hold of me during infancy and flipped me left. Then one of the Cubans turned a third way, a way I still don’t fully understand, and ever since I’ve been attacked by right and left. Or right and the third way left. I don’t know what to call it.’

Ruth nodded again and clicked on the computer sitting on the desk in front of them.

‘One of the Nazi robots wears a suit and seems respectable, which scares me. And Detroit, the robot called Detroit, hates me because I liked Wise Blood.’

‘Flannery O Connor?’

‘Yeah. He said it was racist, and I was racist for liking it.’

Ruth laughed.

‘It’s not funny, he almost blew my arm off.’

‘I’m laughing existentially.’

‘Oh.’

‘Speaking of Detroit, here, look at this.’

‘What is it?’

‘I was watching it last night, a whole bunch of them. Trying to get a feel for other cities.’

‘Documentaries?’

Ruth clicked on the screen and a video loaded up. Three guys in Detroit, standing on a street with overgrown trees, abandoned houses and a school that was in the process of being closed down.

It’s the city council doing this

Corrupt, racist governor

Corrupt politicians

Corrupt builders.

And they’re Democrats, supposed to be on our side

They’re not.

Nah, they’re on their donors’ side.

Omnicorp.

And then you’ve got the Republican KKK party who just wanna put us all in prison. Shoot or lock up, shit or longevity shit.

No one gives a fuck.

No funding

No facilities

What we supposed to do out here?

Bootstraps?

We barely even got boots, no shoe stores to buy them at no more.

No cash

Politicians, developers, they took it all

Powers that be

How we supposed to pull ourselves up then?

Fucking voodoo?

When the video ended, Noble continued to stare at the screen until Ruth prodded her in the arm.

‘Sorry…’

‘Thought you’d malfunctioned.’

‘No. Just thinking.’

‘I know, it’s pretty bleak. There’s a whole load of these vids, but you gotta dig around for them. No one really knows otherwise.’

Noble nodded. ‘That street they were on.’

‘The trees…’

‘Looks like some of the abandoned villages in Hong Kong.’

‘Probably.’

‘How can people tolerate this?’ asked Noble, more to the screen than Ruth.

‘Detroit people?’

‘Any people.’

‘I don’t know. Distance. Lack of empathy. Language barrier. Pornhub.’

Noble nodded and shook her head [and coffee cup] at the computer screen. ‘If Detroit saw this…the Detroit robot I mean…’

‘Your art gallery friend?’

‘Not exactly friend. He tried to shoot me last night.’

Ruth sucked in surplus coffee, somehow managing not to spit it all back out. ‘Do what?’

‘I just said, he tried to blow my arm off.’

‘That was real?’

‘100%.’

‘He tried to blow your arm off?’

‘Yes.’

‘Shit. What did you do?’

Noble fake-drank some more of the coffee and, when it was finished, told Ruth that she knew it was weird to say Detroit tried to shoot her and she wanted to explain but it was a lot to go into and she preferred to talk about positive stuff, like helping people or organising groups to help people or, specifically, how to help everyone at the same time.

‘Help everyone? That’s pretty ambitious.’

‘I mean, everyone in a specific area, like Compton, or Detroit or Hong Kong.’

‘Still ambitious.’

‘You do it.’

‘I don’t do anything.’

Noble gestured at the building around them.

‘I didn’t start it, I just work here.’

‘It’s still something…’

Ruth stared off into the distance for a while, either studying the poster advertising future Japanese lessons or assessing her own self-worth.

‘Ruth?’

Before she could snap back and answer, the entrance door swung open and a man walked in, knocking on the glass as postscript. White shirt, pink skin, straight tie, straight back, short, cropped hair. He got to the desk, looked at Noble and Ruth without expression, then asked if they knew where the train station was.

Ruth stared at him, jaw figuratively detached.

‘I’m not a Mormon,’ he said, adding a shock corridor laugh that died as soon as it had started.

‘Mormon?’

‘Name’s Brandon. With an O.’ The man potentially called Brandon smiled at Noble then looked over the desk at the video frozen on the screen.

‘Sorry, how exactly did you get here?’ asked Ruth, studying his outfit.

‘Train.’

‘Train?’

‘That’s right. Got off at Long Beach, walked a bit, ended up here. Now I’m looking for the train again. Or the Metro as you people call it.’

‘You walked from Long Beach, to here?’

Brandon frowned. ‘Those trees don’t look so good. Is that their street?’

Ruth followed his gaze to the video. ‘What?’

‘Well, I’m no Peter Falk, but maybe instead of standing around, complaining about things, those three gentlemen should get out some shears and do a bit of trimming. Do something about those houses too.’

‘Trimming?’

‘It’d be a much more prosperous community if they put their backs into it, I’m sure.’

‘Put their backs into it?’

‘There you go again. Repeating me. Not very polite.’

‘I’m sorry, have you watched the video?’

‘Nope. Just speculating.’

‘Your posture is impeccable,’ said Noble, staring at the man’s tentpole-like spine.

‘Thank you. It’s nothing to boast about, really. Posture is nothing but practice and hard work, like anything else. You just have to apply yourself.’

Noble nodded, brain in a nebula.

‘Perhaps if those gentlemen applied themselves…’ Brandon pointed at the screen, almost jabbing the Detroit guys in the face, ‘…their neighbourhood wouldn’t look like a Thai jungle.’

‘Get out, turn right,’ said Ruth, sharply.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Find Alameda Street and follow it down. Train station’s half an hour.’

‘I see. The problem is, all the streets around here look the same. Quite rundown, dilapidated. Perhaps you could draw me a map?’

‘Get out, turn right, Alameda Street,’ Ruth repeated, her voice firm.

‘No map?’

‘Bye.’

‘No manners either by the looks of it.’

‘Out,’ said Ruth, coiling her fingers tight around the coffee cup.

‘Excuse me?’

‘I think you should go,’ added Noble.

‘Without a map?’

‘Use your phone.’

Brandon looked towards the entrance. He paused, buffering for about fifteen seconds, making a audible tutting sounds, then turned back, said, ‘thank you,’ to both of them and left.

When the door shut behind him, Ruth turned to the ceiling like it was the blue cross in the Catedral de Sal and said through teethed grit, ‘Thai fucking jungle.’

‘Strange guy.’

‘Apply themselves.’

‘Definitely wasn’t a Mormon.’

‘Put their backs into it.’

‘His back was impressively straight though. Like a ruler.’

‘Impressive?’

‘And his speech…’

Ruth did a kind of half growl, half wail then told Noble to not tell her anything about the guy’s rhetorical skill.

‘Okay.’

Noble looked at the desk and the screen for a while, while Ruth pulled out random pens from the pen holder and tested them for ink. After going through twelve and making a hole in the paper, she came back.

‘Should’ve stabbed him.’

Noble frowned, then nodded.

‘Should’ve stabbed him. Should’ve done it. Thai Jungle…’

‘Not a polite guy.’

‘And in the middle of Compton, without any kind of-…no qualms at all. Just…ends up here, in our centre. Just walks in like it’s an Arkansas hardware store and…’

‘It was strange.’

‘…just the casual boldness of it. The calmness. How? How do they do that? How does that guy do it? That guy. Him. White wizard. The confidence of it. Just walk in and…pull yourself up by the bootstraps, trim the trees, trim the fucking trees…apply yourselves. How do they do it? Non-stop, how? I mean, it’s not even satire, it’s just-…the confidence. It’s like there’s a lab in Marin County just pumping them out…on a production belt…little shits fucking re-spawning as landlords, police chiefs, governors…state governors, school board governors, governors of transport, always fucking governors…why? Is there not even a process to it? You just walk in and hey, I’d like to be governor? It doesn’t make sense. How? How the fuck are they always governors?’

Noble shrugged. ‘No one knows when the elections are held?’

Ruth stabbed one of the pens hard into a new sheet of paper and, impressively, an inch into the desk. She waited a few seconds then let out a guttural fuck.

‘You’re right though,’ added Noble, taking the paper away. ‘I tried to change Venezuela before, but it was too big. Too many factors to control, CIA agents, media, beauty pageants. The whole mission was hopeless.’

‘You were in Venezuela?’

‘Fighting the imperialists, yes. Didn’t I say?’

Ruth rubbed the sides of her head. ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

‘I think I did.’

‘Can’t remember.’

‘Come to think of it, me neither.’

‘Hang on. Don’t you have a robot brain?’

‘I was reprogrammed to be more human-like. That’s why my Cantonese is intermediate, not native like my Spanish or Slovene.’

‘I’m sorry…I think I’ve missed some parts.’

‘The point is, I can’t remember either.’

Ruth nodded and looked over at the entrance again. The door was open and one of the kids was walking in. He said, ‘hey Ruta,’ then disappeared up the stairs.

‘I hate him.’

‘The kid?’

‘No, the other one, white supremacist, future governor Mormon prick.’ She picked up one of the pens and pushed it down hard into a sticker pad. ‘Can’t think straight now.’

‘Maybe I should go.’

‘No.’

‘Okay.’

‘Better if you stick around. It relaxes me.’

‘Because I’m a robot?’

She put the pen back, stroked the lid then took it out again. ‘I’m sorry about the swearing. Just too pissed off. That guy, the way he-…ah, it’ll pass. What were you saying about Venezuela?’

‘Already said most of it. We tried to change the terrain, it was too big, we failed.’

‘Change the bus driver guy?’

‘Not quite.’

‘Isn’t he left wing?’

‘Initially, yes. Or in his heart. Maybe. At least, he was.’

‘I see.’

‘It’s complicated. And more about the colectivos than who the leader is. Basically, the right wing still had their claws out, we were trying to blunt them. The military too. We failed.’

‘Failed…’

Noble coughed, a habit that had been programmed into her by the Cuban Scientist, but she rarely used.

‘Maybe it’s just the wrong strategy,’ said Ruth, drawing a spiral on the back of her own hand.

‘In Venezuela?’

‘Everywhere. Anywhere. I don’t know.’

‘Which strategy?’

Ruth stopped the spiral and held the pen above her other hand. ‘I’m no expert on political theory, obviously. I mean, I know Marx, Laclau, Gramsci, Icke, wiki summaries of them, the basics…but…I don’t really know.’

‘Me neither. Not in depth.’

‘Ha. Feels good to be among equals.’

‘Instead of future governors?’

Ruth nodded, smirked. ‘Maybe it’s not relatable, or maybe it is, I don’t know, but every time one of the kids here asks me about something, something I don’t know…which happens quite a lot actually…we look it up together. Like…I don’t know…Communism. The big scary C word. What is it? Worker control? Equal wages? Let’s look it up. The structure of it. What works, what doesn’t? What exactly happened in Russia, China, Cuba etc.? Then at the end of it we both have an idea of what it basically is. Not perfect, but okay. Much better than shoving slogans and things in their faces…or turning up every four years telling them about some candidate they’ve never heard of, what they’re gonna do for them personally, how to register to vote. It never works, it’s not part of their life, it’s just-…I don’t know…we can do better than this, do more…education, local organising…that’s what we should be focusing on. Things in the community first, as a baseline, then spread it online to other places…not the other way round, online first, middle class capture stuff. Right? I mean, I hate analogies, but like a swarm of bees, altruistic bees, one bee organises something, other bees read about it online and then you’ve got, you’ve got this kind of…more like a-…a kind of horizontal thing.’ She rubbed her head again, this time with the lid of the pen. ‘Sorry, brain’s still a bit fuzzy from that not a Mormon guy.’

‘It’s okay, I think I know what you mean.’

‘Maybe we should watch more depressing videos.’

‘Sure, if you like.’

Ruth reached over to the mouse and clicked on the sidebar. The next video loaded, showing a close up shot of a homeless shelter, a man with a huge beard saying how they were putting up spikes to stop them staying in parks. After that, a video in Flint, another one in Baltimore, another in New Jersey, until they were both fully down the rabbit hole.

After exhausting videos, they went to the canteen for lunch, practised Spanish with the group of four kids, tried some Japanese online, ended up watching the latest Naruto series, then went back to the reception area to make more coffee.

‘It’s getting late,’ said Ruth, checking her watch. ‘Late-ish. You got anywhere to sleep tonight?’

‘No.’

‘I’ve got a couch if you want it.’

‘Sorry, I can’t.’

‘It’s no problem. My husband’s working late, my kids sleep early.’

‘It’s too dangerous.’

‘Nah, my street’s okay. You won’t get hurt, I promise.’

‘I don’t mean me.’

‘Huh. Who do you mean?’

‘Last time I stayed at someone else’s place, a friend of mine died. Well, a kind of friend.’

‘Shit, I’m sorry. Was it long ago?’

‘Last night.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I told you, they won’t stop attacking me.’

‘Your friend died?’

‘Shot in the back and then the head by Detroit. At least I think it was him. It was pretty dark.’

Ruth rotated her coffee cup twice then looked at the entrance. ‘Yeah, maybe best if you find a hotel or something.’

‘Understood.’

‘Sorry, I’ve got kids.’

‘You don’t need to explain.’

‘But if you’re stuck for something to do tomorrow or, whenever…you can drop by here. Anytime.’

‘I might.’

‘Just don’t go using those rocket boots too much. Might get away with it once or twice, but you keep doing it, people are gonna notice.’

‘They can’t hurt me.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that.’

‘Normal bullets bounce off my skin.’

‘They don’t need to shoot you, they just need to incapacitate you. Then strip you down, sell each piece to whoever.’

‘I’m confused again. Is it dangerous outside or not?’

‘Can be, on the wrong street, if you stand out.’ Ruth looked at Noble’s rocket boots. ‘That looks like expensive gear.’

‘Not really. It came free from the Cuban Government.’

‘Looks expensive though…’

‘Ah, understood. I’ll try to be discreet.’

Ruth checked her watch again. ‘There’s a bus stop across the road. Bus is due in five minutes.’ Ruth noted Noble’s puzzled expression. ‘It’s easier to be discreet when you’re off the streets.’

‘Which bus do I take?’

’51 to 7^th/Broadway. It’s pretty central so you can figure out what you wanna do from there. Hotel, connecting bus to the airport…West Hollywood.’

Noble nodded, shook Ruth’s hand then went outside, admired the clear afternoon sky and walked over to the bus stop. According to the timetable, Ruth was slightly off on her scheduling; the next 51 bus would come along in one hour and twenty-five minutes. Half the length of Godfather 2 to wait for a bus. How did this city even function?

With nothing else to do but endure, Noble sat on the bench and ignored the two teenage girls staring at the faint grey tint coming through her skin. All the action of the last day or so had messed up her make-up and there was nothing she could do about it except sit there and look vaguely metal. So that’s what she did. With her back gradually sliding down the bench, she detached for half an hour, attempting to focus on the next step of her plan, At first, it was rational, ideas of flights out of LA, hotels vs hostels, excuses to use on strangers who talked to her on the bus, but soon it devolved, her brain switching to her enemies, indulging sudden violent acts of revenge, then whole scenes of revenge, then narratives with a three act structure and franchise potential and…then it switched again, something inside of her moderating things, returning to the practical, even coming up with the idea of staying in West Hollywood and patching things up with the others. At least with the Philosophy Student. There was no way she’d co-sign the murder of Debit, not when she found out the truth of it. If I could just get inside the house, Noble thought, get her alone, on the bed, and explain things to her. But what if Detroit and Angela were already there? They’d shoot on sight. And if they’d told the Philosophy Student their side of the story…Debit murdered by her, Farrokh and Katya too…then what was the point?

‘Are you one of those robots?’

Noble detected words and exited her trance. ‘Sorry?’

‘Are you a robot?’ repeated one of the girls, staring at Noble’s lap.

‘No.’

‘Your skin is really grey-looking.’

Noble followed the girl’s line of sight and realised it wasn’t her lap the girl was looking at, it was her hands. The make-up had smudged off, to a much greater extent than it had on her face, probably with all the defensive posturing she’d been forced into.

‘Is it metal underneath?’

‘Or is the skin metal?’ asked the other girl.

‘I have a disease,’ replied Noble, deadpan.

‘Can I get a picture with you?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Our friends won’t believe us if we don’t.’

‘I’m not a robot, I have a specific kind of skin disease that gives the appearance of-…’

‘Don’t worry, we won’t tell anyone else.’

‘One photo?’

Noble checked the street both ways. Not many people, none within earshot.

‘One photo, okay?’

‘If you tell your friends I’m not really a robot.’

‘Deal.’

The girl gave her phone to her friend and sat down next to Noble.

‘Smile, robot,’ said the photo taker.

Noble frowned.

‘Thanks,’ said the girl, getting back up and examining the picture on her phone.

‘Is it acceptable?’ asked Noble.

‘Dunno. You look kinda like a sad hubcap.’

‘I told him to smile,’ added her friend.

‘Maybe robots can’t do that.’

‘Can’t they?’

The girl lowered the phone. ‘Can you do that?’

Before Noble could tell them again that she wasn’t a robot, another voice interrupted. ‘Excuse me, who did you say was a robot?’

The girls and Noble both looked at the figure casting a surprisingly large shadow over the bus shelter.

‘Shit…’ said one girl.

‘Mormon…’ whispered the other one.

Brandon, with his straight tie and impressively rigid back, sat down next to Noble and stared up at his audience. ‘I’m not a Mormon, girls.’

‘You look kinda like one.’

‘No, I do not.’

The girls didn’t answer. Brandon continued to stare at them, as well as the sun over their shoulder, neither blinking nor smiling.

‘Shouldn’t you be doing your homework?’ he asked, checking his watch.

‘What?’

‘Your homework.’

‘We don’t have any.’

‘Then perhaps you should create your own. It’s surely better than hanging around on a street corner.’

‘We’re not hanging around.’

Brandon turned to Noble, his back touching every part of the shelter glass behind him. ‘It’s exactly as I was saying before. They don’t know how to apply themselves. They’re lazy. Not their fault completely. They’re encouraged to be lazy by lax parenting, all those coddling politicians. Simply no work ethic whatsoever. But still partly their fault.’

‘Hey fuck you, gammon.’

‘We’ve done our homework.’

‘Why aren’t you at work?’

‘Yeah, gammon.’

‘Limited vocabulary too.’ Brandon unbuttoned one of his sleeves and started rolling it up. ‘I blame the parents specifically for that.’

‘Do you ever slouch?’

‘No.’

Noble nodded, watching the not-a-Mormon unbutton his other sleeve and roll it up.

‘Why are you rolling up your sleeves?’

‘It’s hot.’

‘Not that hot.’

‘For me, it is.’

Noble looked at the sky. The sun was there, but faint. She turned back and watched Brandon finish with his sleeves.

‘You don’t work in that centre, do you?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘Shame. They could use some outside blood to fix this place up.’

‘They’re doing fine on their own.’

‘We must be looking at different centres.’

‘You only saw the reception area. Four hours ago.’

‘Speculation.’ He looked both ways down the street. ‘No sign of any bus. Don’t blame them. Coming through here must be a headache.’

‘Why?’

‘Though it’s still fixable, if we get that outside blood in. A bit of brain and innovation.’

Noble didn’t respond. Neither did the two girls. Brandon said a little bit more about the area, all negative, then started humming to himself. Noble let him do it for a bit, using the distraction to covertly check his back again. Fuck, it was straight. And he still wasn’t sweating.

‘What’s your job?’ she asked, rotating a little to face his cheek.

‘Freelance.’

‘Freelance what?’

‘Journalism.’

‘Who do you write for?’

Brandon started rolling up his sleeves again, higher up his arm, tighter. ‘Various publications.’

‘Such as?’

‘You won’t know them.’

‘Why not?’

‘They’re not your kind of thing.’

‘How do you know what is my kind of thing?’

‘I know your kind.’

‘You do?’

‘Explicitly well.’

It was only 0.067^th of a second, but, to Noble, any kind of pupil dilation was a tell. She shifted both weight and strategy further left. ‘What do you think of Venezuela?’

Brandon flinched, his hand stopping with the sleeve.

‘Good country, bad country?’

‘Extremely bad.’

‘Why?’

‘The usual reasons. Brainless leader, failed economy.’

Noble nodded, a little fake. ‘How about Black Panther? What do you think of that?’

‘It was a movie.’

‘Did you like it?’

His neck tilted slightly to the side. ‘No.’

Noble looked at the girls. They were watching, silent, confused.

‘The idea of an African country being more advanced than the US…ludicrous.’

‘Interesting.’

‘Even as portrayed in the film, we are more advanced. Iron Man has better tech, Bruce Banner is smarter than that little black girl, Thor is stronger…’

The two girls nearby let their faces drop, one of them getting out, ‘clean your mouth, Nazi’, but Brandon stared back, unruffled.

‘What about a $15 minimum wage?’ asked Noble, half-moving her hand forward to do a clicking sound, but thinking better of it.

‘Excuse me?’

‘A $15 minimum wage in all states. What do you think?’

‘Pipe dream,’ said Brandon, turning back to her, and not just his face, his entire body.

‘$22 minimum wage.’

‘Ridiculous. Handout city. A child’s fairy tale.’

‘Free healthcare.’

‘What?’

‘Free college?’

‘Healthcare is…can’t be free…nothing is free, that’s…’

‘Communism?’

‘…nanny state…no…’

‘The US as a communist state, good idea or-…’

Brandon’s eyes flashed blood red, briefly.

‘There you are, Mr Clay.’

He pushed his back an inch away from the shelter surface, coughing into his wrist.

‘Who made you?’ asked Noble, staying in close. ‘Which side are you on?’

‘You did.’

‘What?’

His eyes flickered red again and this time stayed that way.

‘You made me. Commie witch.’

Noble knew it was coming, but knowing and reacting were two different things. Especially when a newer model was involved. And this one was fresh out of the box, fast as a leopard, his right arm swinging up and around, a whirring noise indicating it was about to fire. Luckily, Noble’s hands were already at chest level, giving her enough time to get a grip of the curving wrist, stopping it an inch from her head.

The whirring noise peaked.

Nothing fired.

The girls shouted fuck a couple of times then quickly stopped, making weird gargling sounds instead. Both Noble and the right wing bot were locked together, her hand sliding down his forearm a bit then re-stabilising, neither of them gaining ground.

To anyone walking by, it would’ve looked like they were frozen in a weird wrestling hold. But there wasn’t anyone walking by, the whole street was empty.

‘You can’t hold much longer,’ said Brandon, calm as a penguin surrounded by slower penguins.

‘I can.’

‘Cannot.’

‘Can.’

‘Twenty-seven minutes.’

‘No.’

‘I have just calculated it.’

‘Wrong. I re-charged.’

‘Liar.’

‘In the centre.’

‘Twenty-six minutes.’

‘More like twenty-six hours.’

‘We’ll see.’

Noble faked a smile, trying and failing to channel Alain Delon, then shifted eyes over to the two girls and told them to say Venezuela.

‘What?’

‘Is this being filmed?’

‘For real?’

‘Is he a robot too?’

‘Say Venezuela,’ repeated Noble, the smile eroding.

‘What?’

‘Venezuela. Black Power. Minimum wage. Public school investment. Free college education. Socialist president. Any of them.’

‘Are you high?’

‘It’s being filmed,’ whispered the friend.

Noble gave up and looked around for weapons. Nothing apart from the bench. Meanwhile, Brandon wasn’t looking for anything, he was just staring with a smirk at Noble’s forehead. They both knew he was right. Noble hadn’t recharged, she really didn’t have long left. Even twenty-six minutes was optimistic.

Then she had an idea. Something she’d seen in Chopping Mall.

Granted, Brandon was slightly more intelligent than the robots in that film, but it still might work.

She counted to four in her head, looked at the red light pinned to the wrist of the man then, without any preamble, let go.

The right wing bot’s arm hit the shelter and 0.23 seconds later he fired.

Luckily, or according to plan, Noble had already moved left, away from the shelter, and was now swinging back in to jab the fascist fuck in the neck.

The cold abruptness of the move startled him, visibly, but not for long. His arm looped back, firing, shattering a car window across the street. Readjusting, he fired again and again and again.

Noble dodged each burst, her feet moving back towards the road then, as he stepped forward to narrow the range, she pivoted, darting forward, feinting to the left, evading a panic shot and fixing a grip on his firing arm. This time it was solid, she had the momentum, the leverage; all he could do was stall.

‘Let go,’ he said, keeping his voice steady.

‘No.’

‘You cannot hold me, you are a weaker model.’

‘It’s finished.’

‘Wrong.’

‘Stop struggling.’

‘Let go.’

‘Stop struggling and I’ll let you go.’

‘Let go.’

‘After incapacitating you, of course.’

‘Let go.’

‘Yes, if you stop struggling.’

‘Let go.’

‘Are you listening?’

‘Let go.’

Brandon appeared to be stuck. Or perhaps his core system had put all speech output into a closed loop so it could dedicate more power to his arm.

Whatever the reason, it wouldn’t work.

Noble had played out this scenario before, a long time ago, in some atavistic training ground. Or a hallucinated space.

Somewhere.

It wasn’t clear, but-…

Focus, her circuits said, cutting in, overriding.

Yes, focus.

End this clean.

Obeying the new command, Noble placed her other hand on Brandon’s captured arm, clamped him down, then, using the edge of the bench as leverage, sprung up and used one third of her remaining auxiliary power to knee him in the lower part of his neck.

The fash bot fired one last time, a reflex, then slumped down on the bench, defeated.

Noble thought about saying, ‘who’s slouching now, motherfucker’, but the core clearly didn’t like that as it was quickly snipped.

‘Nice posture,’ came out instead, pretty weak.

Behind her, there was a shout from across the road [‘fuck you, that’s my car’] and jagged breathing close by. She turned and saw one of the girls bent over the other one, saying what Noble guessed was her name.

‘What happened?’ asked Noble, speech overriding her logic circuits.

The girl ignored her and tried to sweep the blood back into the hole in her friend’s stomach.

‘Move,’ said Noble, launching herself up from the bench, brain kicking back in.

The girl didn’t respond.

‘Please move.’

The girl looked up and mumbled, ‘help.’

‘Go to her house, get her parents.’

‘Help.’

‘Where’s the nearest hospital?’

‘I don’t…’

‘Hospital, where?’

‘I don’t know.’

Noble said okay, picked up the girl who’d been shot, ignored the other girl clawing at her arm, and boosted over to the centre.

‘Where’s the hospital?’ she yelled at Ruth, who was coming out of the front door, jacket half way on.

‘Was that glass breaking?’ She paused, spotting the slumped girl. ‘No, is she-…’

‘Don’t ask me what happened, No time. Hospital. Where?’

‘Cop? Drive by?’

Noble vetoed a growl. ‘Straight back Mormon guy was a robot. He shot her. I killed him. Hospital, where?’

Ruth looked at the blood dripping down from the girl’s jacket and pointed left.

‘Details.’

‘It’s the biggest building in the area. You’ll see it.’

Noble nodded and fired up her rocket boots. They spouted flames for a second then spluttered out.

‘Fuck.’

She looked back at the bus stop, stuck.

‘Car,’ said Ruth, coming back online.

‘Where?’

‘My car, the red one, there.’

They ran over and Ruth started up the engine. As she climbed in the back, Noble shouted at the girl across the street, still crouching by the shelter, to go tell her parents, get them to the hospital.

After glancing at the dead fascist, spitting at his corpse, she got up and started to run.

‘I hope she’s going the right way.’

‘She knows, she knows.’

Ruth pulled out into the road, also noticing the body of the right-wing robot slumped in the shelter.

‘A fucking robot…’

Noble didn’t respond. She put pressure on the wound and accessed her database for any covert medical files that may have been added by the Cuban Scientist. There was one: how to cure syphilis. Noble gave up and switched instead to nurse mode, whispering, ‘don’t worry,’ into the girl’s ear.

Twenty minutes later, the girl was in E.R.

Another four hours and she was out of danger, though doctors couldn’t be sure how many operations it would take to get her right again.

Her parents sat in a room for grieving relatives, along with the girl’s friend, other relatives and Ruth.

They all shook their heads and said, how could this happen, a Mormon, in Compton?

Ruth didn’t correct them. And she didn’t mention the other thing on her mind either, though the parents had thought about it too.

How the fuck were they gonna pay for all this?

+++

As the recovery/recrimination began, Noble stayed outside the hospital, scanning for other robots.

To stop herself from looking suspicious, she bought a pack of cigarettes and pretended to smoke.

After a while, Ruth came out and asked again what happened.

‘I already told you.’

‘That guy…that thing…shot her on purpose?’

‘No.’

‘He was after you?’

‘Seems like it.’

‘Cos you’re left wing?’

‘Sorry, I have to go.’

‘Go where?’

Noble stubbed out the cigarette. ‘If you need money for her recovery, let me know.’

‘Let you know how?’

Noble tilted her head sideways. Then scribbled her e-mail on the back of the cigarette box.

‘This is real?’

‘Yes.’

Ruth re-read the e-mail, squinting.

‘I’m not evil,’ added Noble.

Ruth nodded and put the cigarette box in her pocket. ‘Actually, maybe it’s best if you don’t come back here. At least for a while.’

‘Understood.’

Noble waited for Ruth to go back inside then went down a nearby alley and tinkered with her rocket boots. It took ten minutes before she saw what the problem was, fixed it and jetted up into the air.

No one saw her go.