Perfect Gravity (Wanted and Wired #2)(24)
She hadn’t thought about hunger since scarfing two protein bars right after her shower. Yesterday. “Yeah.”
He flashed a smile and scurried to the galley kitchenette near the unit’s front door. It always felt strange to watch a six foot six, human-shaped creature scurry, but she wasn’t sure what other word she could use to describe the way mech-Daniel moved when he was following up on one of his ideas. When he was trying to please her.
When he’d first come into her service, she’d been constantly weirded out by him. So much of what he said and did was just flat wrong. But after two years of constant companionship, she was used to him.
It was the whole-organic humans who freaked her shit out now.
“Savory or sweet?” he called from the kitchenette.
Farad or Fanaida or somebody—Kellen? No, probably not, but it could have been and would be so like him—had thoughtfully stocked the kitchenette with a box of full-spectrum-nutrition ration patties. Angela had endured this brand of rations before, and personally, she thought the lumps of vaguely brownish material tasted like a cross between toenail clippings and Styrofoam, depending on whether you chose the extra-crunchy or smooth variety. If you went smooth, they were pure, unadulterated cardboard. Both textures came with a healthy dusting of either sugar or salt. Hence mech-Daniel’s all-important question.
“Sweet,” she called back. If other people had been around to see, she would have gone with savory. Rosemary and truffle were the latest fad flavors. But Angela had a secret weakness for all things sweet, and indulging this once, when no one was watching, wouldn’t damage her brand.
Several cabinet squeaks and crockery clanks later, mech-Daniel emerged with a ceramic bowl full of steaming fake-sugar-drenched kibble-soak. He wore an acres-wide grin of goofiness.
Angela perched crisscross-applesauce on the edge of the giant bed, balancing the hot bowl on her heels, and dug in with a disposable biodegradable spoon, also sweetened. She tucked conversation in between bites. “I’m thinking about queuing up a message for Zeke, at least. He knows we survived the attack, so talking to him won’t ruin our hideout-and-watch plan.”
“You may dictate one, and I will apply for permission to establish a link during the next window,” mech-Daniel said in a disapproving (condescending?) tone that made both her middle fingers twitch.
“And while you’re at it, see what you can do about my analytics feed. I want to know what new horror is trending, how Zeke’s polling with eight days left before the election, and of course, what the vids and gossips are saying about me.”
Had Zeke reported her missing? Or was this a standard undisclosed-location narrative while the federales tracked down the attacker? How was the government PR machine spinning this?
“Processing,” mech-Daniel replied, holding up one finger. “I am in queue to form a live connection beyond this closed communication system during the next window. Oh, look! We have two new episodes of Cash Cow. Apparently one comes in with every window. Shall I route those to your internal com?”
It wasn’t information, and it wasn’t connection, but at least it would distract her for a couple of hours. “Yep. Do it.”
“As you wish.” He said that a lot, at least fifty times a day, but his digital voice had a different tone just then. “If I may ask, how is your shoulder?”
Angela rolled the shoulder in question, the one the wall had taken out back at the Riu. It still ached, but deep. Dull. “Lots better,” she lied.
“I can give you something for the pain.”
It was on the tips of Angela’s teeth to say no, she could power through this on her own. The pain wasn’t bad, and all her bones and sockets were back in their right places, thanks to mech-Daniel’s howl-inducing yankage back in the refrescando.
But he was right. The chems she’d injected at the all-night pharma had done a spectacular job of pain management, but they were now wearing off. Even the best stims didn’t last much more than a day.
She set her empty bowl on the duvet. “Hit me.”
He nodded and approached the rear of the lone seat in the room, a wide synthetic-skinned armchair that was both shabby and indecisively brown/gray. He motioned toward it. Angela went over to the chair and sat.
She couldn’t get a read on this building, half crumbling and ramshackle, half ultra posh with hot running water, which couldn’t have been cheap out here in the climatic hellhole of the southwest desert. Even in disrepair, a structure like this had to have cost a pretty penny. How did Kellen’s group of outlaws fit into the global financial matrix? Were they leasing? Squatting? Uncovering the financials would tell her a lot about the people who had agreed to keep her safe. Of course, there was no way she could find out any of that without a single goddamn feed. Argh.
At her back, mech-Daniel arched over her, removed her hairpiece, and placed his long, cold hands on either side of her head. The tips of his middle fingers loomed large in her periphery, overreaching her temples. When the sense-ports in his hands connected with the diodes screwed into her skull, she tasted metal.
She closed her eyes and willed herself to relax. She knew this didn’t hurt, but her body still innately protested.
“I will adjust your nerve settings,” he told her. “Initially, this may affect how certain tastes and smells register, but please do let me know if you experience any unusual side effects.”