She’d messed up on the subject of Max too. She shouldn’t have let on she knew him at all, much less making those pathetic demands. But it was too stupid, him claiming his name was Phil. Phil! She could never have flung herself into the arms of a man called Phil. Phils were pharmacists, they were never in the daytime-TV shows, they had no inner shadows and banked-up flames of desire. And Max did, even in that ugly driver’s uniform he was wearing. She knew he longed for her; she’s sensitive, she has an instinct for knowing that.
Then she got it: she should act dumb, because they were messing with her head. She’d seen movies like that: people disguising themselves as other people and pretending not to know you; then, when you accused them of doing it, they’d say you were crazy. So it’s safer to go along with whatever made-up version of themselves they want to put out there.
Though if she could corner Max alone, and make him kiss her, and get a firm grip on his belt buckle – a familiar buckle, one she could undo in her sleep – then his cover story would smoke and burn and turn to ash, like the flammable thing it is.
After they’d driven her back from the clinic and she’d crawled into bed, Charmaine kept as quiet as a mouse. She couldn’t even pace the floor or wail because Aurora had insisted on sleeping in the guest bedroom. Someone needed to stay with Charmaine, said Aurora. Considering the shock of the chicken facility tragedy, Charmaine might do some rash thing that Aurora was obviously dying to spell out.
“We wouldn’t want to lose you too,” she said in her falsely considerate voice, the one she used to demote people. The dark-haired woman – who’d showed her badge, she was from Surveillance – had backed Aurora up.
“How do the trucks get in?” asks Stan, keeping his voice neutral. “I never saw any big trucks driving through the streets of Consilience.” It’s a scooter town; even cars are a rarity, reserved for Surveillance and the top brass.
“They don’t come through the town,” says Budge casually. “This place is an extension, built onto the back of Positron Prison. The back portway of Receiving opens onto the outside. ’Course, we don’t let any of those truckers come in here. No information exchange, that’s the policy– no gawkers, no leakers. As far as they know they’re delivering plumbing fixtures.”
Now that’s interesting, Stan thinks. An outside portal. How can he wangle a job in Receiving without appearing overly eager about it?
“Plumbing fixtures,” he says with a chortle. “That’s good.” Budge grins happily.
“The boxes have only the parts,” says Kevin. “Made in China like everything else, but it doesn’t pay to assemble them over there and ship the bots here. Not enough quality control.”
“Plus there would be breakage,” says Gary. “Too much breakage.”
“So they come in units,” says Budge. “Arms, legs, torsos, basically the exoskeleton. Standard heads, though we do the customizing and skinning here. There’s a lot of special orders. Some of the end users are very specific in their requirements.”