Tales from the Wheel

“Once one has mastered sailing through the realms of possibility; any return to so called reality, even temporarily, can be devastating and should be avoided whenever possible.”

– Sut’ Munthu “The Dream Strider”

Pawns Without a King?

Summer, Earth Year 2901- Some side Alley’, Copper Lane District, Mars.

‘Winston’ paused for a moment once the pawns were certain they weren’t being chased and they could no longer hear the chaos of Hassan’s Corner in the distance. “These side streets lack logical cohesion.” Pawn #1 stated. “Yeah,” #2 agreed. “We are definitely lost now.” The balance asked #2 to review Winston’s database. After a moment of digging 2 responded “He’s got a fairly updated street map for every single district of Mars, but we need a recorded point of reference to be able to use the internal GPS effectively.”

“Then obviously we need to try and find a reference point near the place called Hassan’s Corner.” #1 spoke up again. Surprisingly, the usually optimistic sounding #2 countered with some skepticism, “Winston moves even faster than the specs indicated and we didn’t track any pattern when we…” struggling to finish the sentence for a second, her reverted to TV talk, “…when we fled the crime scene sugar.” Pawn #1 did not argue with the assessment and instead responded with a suggestion. “Then maybe we need updated instructions and verification if the current task is still valid. Can we try to touch the whole again?”

Pawn #3 thought that was an excellent idea. It was a thought attuned to the balance. They should have been the one to suggest it in that case, but as the lack of reconnect and upload dragged on, #3 had begun to notice all three of them were displaying a slow ‘bleeding’ into each other’s functions. Not a good thing? Once that was certain, but #3 could no longer say that with same certainty. That alone might be a sign of the danger of this extended absence of the whole of the King. They reached out, only to slam into an almost solid wall of anxiousness and irritation. Flashes of the King reaching out to manipulate a combination of machine and animal played in a three of the whole’s minds. “Freedom of the physical is in question. I am busy! You are supposed to be more than the Drone. Continue on and endure!”

It was an unconscious thought for the King as he pushed to manipulate Bartrand. Barely noticed and never considered after. “So, we are still on or own partners.” Pawn #2 two voiced overdramatically in that TV fashion. Still, #3 was growing concerned. With the continued delay of the upload/ download to and from the whole, would it be possible that the three would become a separate whole. A twin to the whole of the King, but also fully different. And after that, could their new whole just be reabsorbed into ‘the whole’ without consequence? “See, you sound more like #2 already.” #3 thought with a mental grimace.

 “So, then we do need to find a landmark to proceed.” Pawn #1 couldn’t quite hide the disappointment of not being able to connect yet again. The other parts did not disagree but were uncertain how to proceed. Winston’s metal frame had proven surprisingly strong, but his visual sensors, already damaged by Tommy Trench coat, were not that much better than the average human. Ultimately the hospitality bot was built to store information for casual gossip, serving food & drinks and collecting credits for a till vs. any military application.

“Maybe we should start with an upgrade then.” Pawn #2 thought he shared that with only his fellows of the whole, but a sudden loud, “Huhh, wha the fuck?” coming from under a pile of carboard boxes nearby alerted it that accidently when they had been conversing, his responses had also come through on Winston’s vocal emulator. An old man with a dirty greying beard and dressed in clothing that was more rags than actual outerwear rolled out from under the pile and stumbled to his feet, an empty bottle of hooch in his hand. If that wasn’t enough to indicate to the pawns that he was more than a few sheets to the wind, then the smell certainly was.

The hobo gave Winston look up and down while wiping some gunk out of his blurry eyes. “Wha.. z’at you Dizzy? Ya come to apologize ya mean bot? Did ya finally bring me my drink like you shoulda before? Bastard cutting me off for no reason…” The fellow continued mumbling about the apparent injustice of denying a thirsty person a little libation while adding something about ‘those two bitches’ not being able to take a joke. As they listened, all three of the whole had little difficulty imagining this one’s jokes might be perceived as highly unfunny by the majority of the population. “What did he call us, Dizzy?” #2 pondered. That reference rang a bell.

 Accessing Winston’s directory and searching for the noun ‘Dizzy’ yielded fast results. “Dizzy’s Brew Stop” was a street side stool bar. The information noted it was a local chain that had about a dozen locations between the Lane and Dawson City. Each place had its own model C designated ‘Dizzy’ behind the bar. The owners appeared to be an off-world conglomerate based somewhere called Jump Point Station. All of this #2 scanned in an instant before quickly broadcasting the info to the rest of whole, “We’ve seen one of these ‘Dizzy’s’ spots.” This time Pawn #2 made certain they were speaking internally only. “We passed it with the Grix on our first afternoon in Copper Lane.” Realizing that was correct, Pawn #1 excitedly demanded they question the man before them. “Even if he can only point us in the general direction, if it is nearby, we should be able to find it.” 

“Well? Why ya in my face Diz?” The man was beginning to sway and the pawns realized their window for questions might be closing. “And what’s up with ya face? Some one punch ya? Didja cut them off too? Ya probably deserved it ya piece of junk.” Pawn #2 had Winston nod his head. “You are right good sir. And that deserved thrashing I took reminded me I needed to come and apologize to you too.” The old man stared stupidly for a moment and then smiled triumphantly, “S’about time I got a little respect from ya Diz. I mean, thems bitches comes and goes, but we’s neighbors gods fuck it!”

Keep a talker talking, “Lazer Fist rule #3.” Pawn #2 recalled. “You are so right. You know neighbor, I always wondered how you were able to get to us so easily. These alleys can be so confusing.”

“Jus cause you a dumb pour bot. Letss sees, from spot fours here…” he closed his eyes and mumbled for a second, then pointed to the far end of the alley. “Up and out on the lefts. Pass one right, take a second. Ups and outs on the left again. There you always are.” He beamed with drunken pride like he had just parted with some profound piece of esoteric wisdom. “You came to say sorry, ba where’s mine drinks then?” A quick suggestion by Pawn #1 and finessed by #2 became Winston’s response, “We tired, but ‘the man’ wouldn’t let us carry even a couple open bottles.” The old hobo nodded sagely and grumbled for a couple minutes about how ‘the man’ likes to screw everyone, even dumb bots.

‘Winston’ handed him a few credits instead before announcing he had to go. “Thankshss Dizzy. I guess maybe you’s okay after all. Hey, thas coat lookin pretty cool on you bye the bye.” Really, we look cool? Nice! Even Pawn #1 appreciated the complement. Winston said thanks and was just turning to leave as the old man added after a quick belch, “Stinks sumthin’ awful though. Smells like piss an’ burnt pig.”

*****

The old man may have been swimming in more hooch than an Irish wedding, but his slurred directions turned out to be completely on point. ‘Winston’ stared at Dizzy’s Brew Stop from across the street, trying to stay in nearby shadows as the evening continued its encroachment. Fortunately, it did not appear to be very busy. This was more a main throughfare vs. the side streets and alleys they had just been traveling through, and the pawns were reminded of the need for increased caution. Based on the information they had absorbed so far, they were certain a lone robot just strolling around on its own was far from a common sight. Despite what some of the conspiracy sites and fictional dramas they reviewed might have claimed, these machines were not capable of independent thought and couldn’t just decide to go for a walk. For example, as a model C Hospitality Unit Winston itself lacked the programing and context on its own to be able use the old shot gun they were currently wielding, and there was no way it could ‘learn’ to do so unless its base programing was updated.

“We must be cautious about attracting to much attention.” Pawn #3 explained after rejecting #1’s suggestion that they incapacitate Dizzy and strip it for parts. “There is no guarantee a customer won’t happen by while we are cannibalizing the other unit. Humans may assault each other all the time, but a robot seemingly randomly attacking another will raise too many…. humm, what was the term again? Ah, Red flags, that was it. It would raise to many red flags”

“I think I’ve found something if we need to keep it ‘low key.’” #2 was secretly ecstatic that #3 was finally getting into the linguistic spirit of things. Using this Dizzy’s, designated the Simcoe Blvd. Brew Stop location in the guide as a point of reference, Pawn #2 thought he had found a location that was both off the beaten path and could provide the materials they needed to upgrade Winston. “It’s called Brown's Recycling Center & Scrap Yard. It’s actually located pretty close to the entry gate with the Stretch we used with The Grix to come to Copper Lane.” Pawn #1 frowned mentally, “Wouldn’t this be like back tracking then?”

“Not necessarily,” #3 noted, “After all, we don’t have an actual location on the house of X at the moment. It may very well be hidden in another district of Mars anyway. Let’s plot a course. One that avoids any main thoroughfares.”  As they ducked back into an alley while Winston mapped possible routes Pawn #2 also wanted to highlight what he found on the owner’s activities. “Check it out. We might be able to use this to enlist her help.”  As they reviewed the profile #1 missed it at first, but Pawn #3 picked up on it. Carly Brown, owner/ operator, single, aged 37. Completely typical until they got into her preferred sites and vid chats. Nearly all of them where crank sites or conspiracy theory forms. Several even held regular discussions on a ‘Fridge X’. The three of the whole updated their designation to match. “So, she’s what the so-called polite members of her society might call a crackpot.” #3 mused. “You are right. We should be able to use this.”