Lock In (Lock In, #1)(24)

“He said I was at fault because I owned the threep and the threep came into his path, and he had the right of way,” Dad said.

“He wouldn’t have had a case,” I said. “Personal Transports are a special class of machine under the law. Short of manslaughter, hitting a threep with a truck carries the same penalties as hitting a human body.”

“Right, but I didn’t want to have my name in the news over it,” Dad said. “So I bought him off. Paid for the truck damage and gave him floor tickets to the Wizards.”

“You’ve never given me floor tickets,” Buchold said.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Dad said, and everyone laughed again. “Besides, Chris is an FBI agent these days. Now you’d get in trouble if you hit my kid with a truck.”

“The other thing I remember is that the next threep I got was a real lemon,” I said, and turned to Dad. “What model was it?”

“A Metro Junior Courier,” Dad said. “A really janky model.”

“Uh-oh,” Hubbard said. “Accelerant owns Metro.”

“Well, then,” I said. “I blame you.”

“Fair enough,” Hubbard said. “Although this was twenty years ago, right?”

“About,” I said.

“Then I didn’t own it yet,” Hubbard said. “We bought it eighteen years ago. No, seventeen. Seventeen?” He turned to Schwartz, who looked surprised. Hubbard looked annoyed at his counsel, but then reached out to pat his hand reassuringly. “Seventeen,” he said finally. “We bought it because the stock was depressed from a bad run of models, including the Courier and the Junior Courier.”

“I can believe it,” I said. “It was the last Metro model we ever bought.”

“They’ve gotten better,” Hubbard said. “I can send you over one of our latest if you’d like a test drive.”

“Thanks, but I just got this,” I motioned to my 660XS. “I’m not in the market.”

Hubbard smiled. “It’s funny because we’ve begun discussions with Sebring-Warner about a merger.”

“I read about that in the Post this morning,” Dad said.

“That story was only about sixty percent inaccurate,” Hubbard said.

“A-ha,” I said, and then looked over at Schwartz.

“What?” he said.

“That’s why you’re using an Ajax 370,” I said. “Market research.”

Schwartz looked at me blankly. “Very perceptive,” Hubbard said. “Yes, Sam’s been trying out some of the models, along with some other folks on my staff. There’s something to be said for hands-on experience, as it were.”

“Is this related to Abrams-Kettering?” Dad asked. “The merger talks.”

“Somewhat,” Hubbard said. “The government subsidy for threeps dries up at the end of the year, so right now we’re selling every threep we can put out there. But when January comes around everything’s going to contract. Merging’s a hedge against that. But I’m also interested in their R&D program, which is doing some interesting things.” He turned to me. “They’re doing some groundbreaking work in taste right now.”

“As in esthetics, or in, like, tasting things?” I asked.

“Actually tasting things,” Hubbard said. “It’s been the one sense that’s really never been well developed in threeps because there’s not a practical use for it. Threeps don’t have to eat. But there’s no reason why they couldn’t.” He pointed to my place setting, which was bare of food. “Your being at the table right now would be more natural if you were eating, and not just sitting there.”

“To be fair, I am eating,” I said. “Just in the other room.” And through a tube, which I did not say, because that might have been a little dark for dinner conversation. “And my seat cushion has an inductive charger. So my threep’s eating too, so to speak.”

“Even so,” Hubbard said. “Chris, one of the great goals that you and your family have tried to realize is the idea of making people see threeps as human. Despite your good work, there’s still a ways to go with it.” He motioned over to Carole Lamb, who seemed startled by the sudden attention. “Our colleague’s daughter has made that point for us just this evening. Being able to have a threep sit down to a meal and actually eat would continue that humanizing path.”

“Maybe,” I said. “I have to tell you I wonder where the food would go once I tasted it.”

“There are better ways to humanize Hadens,” Buchold said. “Like giving them back their bodies.”

Hubbard turned his attention to Buchold. “Ah. Right. Jim Buchold. The one person at the table whose business isn’t affected by Abrams-Kettering.”

“I don’t think you can criticize Congress of keeping Haden medical research levels at one hundred percent,” Buchold said. “We’re looking to solve the problem, not profit from it.”

“That’s noble of you,” Hubbard said. “Although I saw Loudoun’s last quarterly. You’re profiting just fine.”

Buchold turned to me. “Chris, let me ask you,” he said. He pointed to my empty dinner plate. “How would you rather taste your food? Through a threep or with your own tongue?”