David Robbins - Houston Run

“There are discrepancies in your account,” the Superior in a brown chair across from the gunman said.

“What kind of discrepancies?” Hickok asked innocently.

The Superior studied a clipboard in his left hand. Two other androids were ten feet away, one on either side of the closed interrogation room door.

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” Hickok facetiously asserted.

“Then how can you explain the discrepancies?” the interrogating Superior queried.

“Like what?”

“Like everything,” the Superior said. “You say your Home is in northeast Minnesota, but we already know the Home is in northwest Minnesota. You say there are only eight Warriors defending the Home, but we know there are a minimum of twelve, perhaps even fifteen. You claim the Warriors are poorly armed, but we possess information to the contrary. You allege the Family keeps to itself and avoids conflict, but we are aware of the war you waged against the Doktor, and we know you have fought the Technics in Chicago and the Soviets in Philadelphia.”

“I was never in Philadelphia,” Hickok interrupted.

“We have monitored Soviet transmissions reporting the presence of Warriors in Philadelphia last October,” the Superior revealed.

“Yeah. So?”

“One of the Warriors was referred to as a ‘gunman’,” the Superior stated.

“But it wasn’t me,” Hickok said truthfully. “That was Sundance.”

“Sundance is a Warrior too?” the Superior said, scribbling on a pad attached to his clipboard.

“Yep. He fancies himself a gunfighter.” Hickok leaned over the table and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “But just between you and me, he couldn’t hit the broad side of your butt if you were sittin’ on his face.”

The Superior lowered the clipboard to the table. “This is a waste of time.”

“I’m havin’ fun,” Hickok said.

“I was told you had promised Primator to cooperate with us,” the Superior mentioned.

“I didn’t promise beans!” Hickok retorted. “Blade did all the promising.

If you want information, you should talk to him.”

“We will,” the Superior said. “He is on his way up here right now. His escort will return you to your cell.”

“And what then?” Hickok asked.

“Your fate is in Primator’s hands,” the Superior stated.

Hickok chuckled. “I was told you jokers are smart! Don’t you morons know a computer doesn’t have any hands?”

“The Superiors are Primator’s hands,” the Superior said. “Whatever Primator wants done with you, we shall do.”

“I’ve been wonderin’ about that,” Hickok commented. “How come you Superiors let yourselves be bossed around by a bucket of bolts?”

“Primator is not our boss,” the Superior said, disputing the gunman.

“What else would you call him?” Hickok countered. “He bosses you around, doesn’t he? Tells you what to do and when to do it. He sure sounds like a boss to me.”

“Primator directs us because he is endowed with a greater intelligence,” the Superior mentioned. “Logic dictates we adhere to his mandates.”

“Call it whatever you want,” Hickok said, shrugging. “But from where I sit, it looks like you Superiors are slaves to a measly machine and your own intellect.”

“What a peculiar observation,” the Superior remarked.

Hickok glanced at the door. How soon before Blade arrived? he wondered. He was looking forward to seeing his friend again. They’d been placed in separate cells in Containment after the audience with Primator, held fast by those blasted black bubbles. He needed to concoct a scheme to get together with the big guy, so they could devise a means of escaping from Androxia. The thought of an escape attempt prompted a question.

“Do you know where my hardware is?” he asked the Superior.

“Your hardware?”

“My handguns. My revolvers. My Colt Pythons,” Hickok explained.

“Your antiquated firearms,” the Superior stated.

“Where are they?” Hickok reiterated.

“Why should I reveal their location?” the Superior rejoined. “You wouldn’t answer one of our questions correctly.”

“I admitted I wasn’t in Philadelphia,” Hickok reminded the android.

“So you did,” the Superior conceded. “Very well. I sec no harm in such a disclosure. Your Pythons, and Blade’s Bowies, are in the Weapons Room downstairs.”

“My Colts are in this building?” Hickok queried, suppressing his excitement at the news.

“On the level below the lobby, in the middle of the corridor,” the Superior detailed. “They were locked inside upon your arrival. Firearms are not permitted in Androxia.”

Hickok nodded toward the two androids guarding the door, both of whom were armed with Gaskell Lasers, each with a Laser in a holster on their right hip. “What do you call those Lasers of yours? Ain’t they firearms?”

“Not in the conventional sense,” the Superior replied. “The Gaskell Lasers are state-of-the-art weaponry, and only a Superior may carry one. Conventional rifles and pistols and other firearms are illegal to own. Occasionally we apprehend a Malcontent armed with a conventional firearm, and the firearm is confiscated and locked in the Weapons Room.”

Hickok found that tidbit of information very interesting. He looked the Superior in the eyes. “There’s something that’s been puzzlin’ me about you bozos.”

“Only a biological organism would find a life of logic puzzling,” the Superior said.

“Are you gonna hear me out or insult me to death?” Hickok asked flippantly.

“What puzzles you?” the Superior inquired.

“Just this. I’ve noticed a strange trait you have. Last night, every time Blade asked one of you guys a question, you told him the answer, straight out. The same deal with me. What is it with you varmints? Do you always tell the truth?” Hickok queried.

“Superiors are not humans,” the Superior responded with a touch of indignation in his tone. “We do not deliberately falsify. We are not chronic liars, like so many of you biological organisms. We relate the truth as we perceive it.”

“As you perceive it,” Hickok repeated thoughtfully. “Which may not be as others see it.”

“What others? Humans?” The Superior scrutinized the Warrior.

“Surely you’re not suggesting that human perception of reality is more acute than ours?”

“Could be, buckaroo,” Hickok said.

“Impossible!” the Superior declared.

“Seems to me there’s one thing you keep forgettin’,” Hickok remarked.

“I forget nothing,” the Superior stated. “What are you talking about?”

Hickok smirked. “There’s a fact you conveniently overlook. Namely, if humans are so blamed inferior, then how come humans created the Superiors?”

Before the Superior could reply, the interrogation room door opened.

Hickok glanced up.

Another android was framed in the doorway. He wore a Gaskell Laser on his hip. “RM-14, we have brought the Warrior Blade,” he announced.

RM-14 swiveled in his chair. “Bring the human in.”

The android in the doorway entered and stepped to the right, beckoning for the prisoner to come inside.

Hickok grinned at the sight of the head of the Warriors.

Blade hesitated in the doorway, looking in both directions, then at RM-14, and finally at Hickok.

“Howdy, pard!” Hickok greeted him. “I’m glad to see your ugly puss again.”

Blade smiled. “Same here. Looks like it’s a nice day for some rain.”

Hickok tensed. Over the years, the Warriors had developed a complex system of secret signals, consisting of everything from whistles to body movements to code phrases. A low whistle meant danger. The words “Code One” indicated an emergency existed. And the phrase “nice day for some rain” was a means one Warrior could cryptically alert another to an impending critical situation. And there was only one critical situation, given the circumstances, Hickok could associate Blade’s use of the phrase with: Blade was about to make a bid for their freedom.