Black Cat Weekly #56

Chapter 5

by“Got what?”

Johnson glanced briefly at his partner, then press-started the vehicle. “We’ve got a dead man at the Montgomery place.”

Hudu raised his eyebrows. “Harlan Montgomery’s place?”

“That’s it.”

Hudu flipped down his helmet visor, scrolled through the report. “Attempted burgle. Man killed.” He grunted. “Self-defense—construct.”

Johnson nodded. His long, pale face was lined with worry and exhaustion. “Yeah. Constructed man kills created man, i.e. android kills human. The seventh one this week in the southern sector.”

Hudu flipped up his visor. “I hear.” He turned to look at Johnson. “Maybe they’re starting a revolution—gonna take over.” He grinned.

Johnson drove out of the security parking facility and into the empty, early-morning streets. He rubbed his face with his hand. Investigating the killing of a human being by a construct was a joyless task. At the back of every security officers’ mind was the age-old question: would this human be dead if constructs hadn’t been legalized?

The security officers turned down the long, cobblestone road that was the entrance to Montgomery Farms. Willow trees, planted precisely ten meters apart, lined the road. Through them, could be glimpsed two thousand acres of prime, black-dirt agricultural land spread out over gently rolling terrain. It was one of the largest farms in the State; the relentless expansion of the cities swallowing up ever-more land. Hundreds of men were working in the fields, ignoring the blistering heat as they stooped down to pick the delicate vegetables which grew in the fertile soil.

Hudu stared at the farm workers. The men didn’t look up from their work as the vehicle passed. They worked. That’s what they were programmed to do. They would complete one row, and then start on the next, never stopping, never resting, their movements uniform, their expressions blank. “All constructed? Not a one is one of God’s creatures?” Hudu asked rhetorically.

Johnson jerked his head around, tightened his grip on the controls. He was trying to rehearse the upcoming interview—Harlan Montgomery was an important man. His money and land were important to the State. “Huh? Oh yeah, the whole workforce is mechanized. Technology, you know.” Leland Johnson was a short, round man. He had faded, blue eyes, shoulder-length, dirty-blond hair, thinning on top, and an egg-shaped and colored face. He hadn’t been in direct sunlight since he was a child. He couldn’t handle the UV rays. Most of the time, he kept his visor, and his head, down. He had the sharp, biting wit of someone who’s been picked on early and often in life. He had always wanted to be a security officer, and had been one for ten years now.

Joe Hudu, on the other hand, was a man of few words but plenty of action when the time was right. He handled most of the muscle and the leg work. He was tall, thick, and dark-skinned. His hair was shaved rather than cut, and his dark, brown eyes held a complacent challenge. Hudu’s great-grandfather had told him stories about working the soil—owning a piece of land. That had been a long time ago, in the days before corporations and machines had taken over. Nowadays, even when you died you couldn’t get a piece of land to call your own. You were burned and stacked.

The Montgomery complex came into view at the top of a slight hill. The house was a large, stone structure built at the turn of the century, square, grey, and featureless. The storage warehouses for the produce and the equipment dwarfed the house. Montgomery Farms was a regional player in the agri-business, but the region was pretty big. The company was one of the few that were still privately owned. The Montgomery family traced their roots back to the Puritans.

A servant showed the two officers into a large, uncomfortable living room. Furniture was sparse, the walls virtually barren of decoration. The room was cool and breathless. Out the window, the lush, green acreage stretched to the horizon.

Hudu snapped his visor down as Johnson put his up. Hudu lightly touched the record icon that floated, 3D-style, on the right side of the visor. All interviews were taped. Johnson nervously glanced at an old-fashioned grandfather clock that stood against the wall, ticking off the minutes to eternity.

Harlan Montgomery entered the room and shook hands with Johnson. He ignored Hudu. Johnson’s skin-tight, black glove recorded the fingerprints.

“Mr. Montgomery, I’m Officer Johnson, and this is Officer Hudu.”

Montgomery nodded. “You’re of African descent, Officer Hudu?” he asked blandly, looking at Johnson.

“Caribbean.” Hudu responded.

Montgomery nodded again, signaled for Johnson to continue.

Johnson cleared his throat. “We understand that your house was broken into and—”

“Follow me,” Montgomery commanded, turned and left the room.

Harlan Montgomery was tall and angular, and he walked with a pronounced limp, the result of one leg being shorter than the other—a birth defect, which some speculated was the result of inter-family breeding. He had lank, black hair, and a pale, oval face. His lips carried a perpetual smirk, to confirm his status relative to yours. He had a reputation as a tough businessman and an avowed racist. A lot of his views were currently in fashion.

The men walked down a long, silent corridor which led to the back of the house. The officers’ heavy boots echoed crisply on the polished plastic floors. They entered the kitchen. A man lay crumpled in a corner, like a discarded chunk of garbage. His smashed-in face was covered with blood. The gleaming, black and white tile floor provided a crude reflection. The dead man was shirtless. He wore a pair of dirty, green army pants.

“There’s your criminal, officers,” Montgomery remarked coolly. “Too late to arrest him, I suppose.”

Before the security men could respond, Montgomery walked out of the room.

“Hold it!” Hudu yelled. “Got some questions that gotta be answered.”

Montgomery stopped in the hall, came back to the kitchen entrance. “Officer Johnson,” Montgomery said, “I’ve business to attend to, which is slightly more important than—”

“Dead man on your kitchen floor, and you got—”

“Easy, Joe.” Johnson gripped his partner’s arm.

“Easy come, easy Joe,” Montgomery smirked.

Hudu took a step towards him.

“Okay, let’s calm down,” Johnson ordered. “Mr. Montgomery we’re required to ask you—”

“As I was trying to say before I was interrupted,” Montgomery interrupted, “I don’t have any answers to your questions, whatever they may be. My personal assistant found this man,” he waved his arm at the corpse, “rummaging about in my kitchen. The thief grabbed a knife, tried to stab my servant, and my servant disarmed and subdued him.” Montgomery glanced at his wristband, checking the time—there was no money to be made dickering with security men. “Simon will provide you with all your information.”

Johnson grimaced. “Simon’s constructed?”

Montgomery gave him a wan smile. He brushed some lint off his dark suit. “All my workers are constructs, Officer Johnson. No union troubles, you see.” He glanced at Hudu. “And no disobedience.”

Johnson cleared his throat again. “Mr. Montgomery, you’re a prominent member of the Eugenics Party, the dead man is black, so—”

Montgomery held up a slender hand. “Let me stop you right there, before you embarrass yourself and the taxpayers, like myself, who keep you in uniform. My politics are my own. The vast majority of criminals in our society are blacks or of mixed race, like this man—that is a fact. There is no question that the mongrelized races will try to steal what their limited intelligence will not allow them to earn honestly. So—”

Hudu cut him off. “You pious son-of-a—”

“Simon will be here shortly,” Montgomery said quickly, stopping any argument. He touched a button on his wristband. “He will answer your questions and then show you out.” Montgomery frowned.

A slim, perfectly-proportioned woman glided into the room and into Montgomery’s arms. She had long, shiny, black hair, and a delicate, ivory-colored face. Her nose and lips were beautifully formed. She was narrow at the waist and heavy in the chest. She wore a simple white blouse and a black skirt. Montgomery allowed her to kiss him. Then, glancing at Hudu, he roughly cupped her right breast. She giggled.

Montgomery smirked. “This is my wife, Mrs. Elizabeth Montgomery.”

“How do you do, gentlemen,” she said, turning to face them. Her movements would have made a Swiss jeweler envious.

Johnson coughed. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh, good, thank you, Mrs. Montgomery. You two are, uh, legally married?”

Elizabeth smiled at the men. Her teeth were perfectly sized and spaced. “Everything is perfectly legal here, gentlemen.”

Montgomery nodded, satisfied. “Well put, my dear.” His right hand drifted over her rounded buttocks.

A large man silently entered the kitchen. He stared at Montgomery, waiting for instructions.

“Here is Simon,” Montgomery said. “He will provide you with all of the details regarding the justifiable death of this petty thief.” He gestured at the body.

“That man was created,” Hudu hissed. “Like you and me.”

Montgomery shook his head. “Created, yes. Like me, no.”

The security men questioned Simon, then reviewed the playback from his optic recorders. Everything happened as he said it did, as they knew it would. They saw an infra-red-illuminated figure in the darkened kitchen rummaging through the refrigerator. They saw the startled face of the intruder as he spun away from the fridge, clutching a hunk of chicken in his hand, when Simon flipped on the lights. They saw the panic-stricken man desperately grab a meat cleaver off the kitchen counter as Simon advanced on him rapidly. They saw the man slip into a defensive crouch, then the meat cleaver fly out of his hand as Simon knocked it aside. They saw the man’s face being crushed by one of Simon’s huge fists. They told Simon to stop the playback.

“I guess he was fragile,” Simon remarked blandly. “He had a knife.”

Johnson watched Hudu empty his stomach into the sink. “Yeah, he had a knife all right. You didn’t have to put it in his hand, apparently,” Johnson said. “The guy was skin and bones, for Christ’s sake!”

“As a construct, I have the same right to defend myself as a created man. I cannot be held responsible for the results of this man’s violent intrusion into—”

“Know your rights!” Hudu yelled. He spun away from the sink. His face was covered with a thick coat of sweat. His hands shook as he raised them to the heavens. “Poor guy was hungry! Just wanted something to eat! Just wanted—”

“Section 110 of the federal legal code deals with home, business, and transport invasions, and clearly states that—”

Hudu grabbed Simon by the lapels of his suit and tried to shake him. “Hungry! Just wanted food! Can’t you understand that!?”

Simon remained unmoved. “No. I do not suffer from hunger, gentlemen, as you should know. And I would appreciate it if you did not touch me. I am worth quite a bit of money.”

Hudu pointed at the dead man. “What’s he worth!?”

Simon was about to respond when Johnson cut him short. “Okay, Simon, we’ve got your information—we’ll be in touch if we need anything more. Some men from the coroner’s office should be here right away to take some pictures and pick up the body.”

Simon nodded. “That is good. Mr. Montgomery wants me to clean the kitchen as soon as possible.”

The two officers were walking out of the kitchen when Johnson suddenly stopped, turned, and looked into the emotionless face of the construct. “Simon, would you have hit that man if he had been white?”

“I choose not to answer that question,” Simon responded.

“We can review your programming, you know—check to see what customizations Montgomery has made to your original program.”

Simon smiled. “No, you cannot. Section 235 of the federal legal code deals with a construct’s right to privacy, and—”

“Thank you, Simon.”

Montgomery suppressed a rare giggle as he applied the black face-paint. He had purged himself of most frivolous, time-wasting, energy-draining emotions, but he could still muster an occasional laugh—especially when it came at the expense of others. He stared at himself in the huge mirror. “You is right, mastah! Yessuh!” he said, and broke out laughing. It was social night at the Eugenics Party convention, and Montgomery was part of a minstrel troupe that was performing after dinner. He grinned at his pitch-black reflection and rolled his eyes. He giggled again, then went into the bedroom.

Elizabeth was lying on the old-fashioned canopy bed, n***d, patiently waiting for him. He pinched her toe, ran his fingers all the way up her leg. She responded to his touch and murmured, “You’d better not let Simon catch you looking like that.”

“Right you are, my darling. Your thinking is my thinking, after all. Fortunately, Simon is locked up in the warehouse with the rest of the servants.” He continued his intimate caresses. “I’ll be away four hours, my dear, so make sure you lock everything up when I leave.”

“Get away from Mrs. Montgomery!”

Montgomery jumped at the sound of Simon’s voice. He hastily pulled his hands off his wife’s body and turned around. Simon stared at him, a stern expression on his face, his giant fists clenched ominously at his sides.

Montgomery laughed weakly, fought to regain his breath. “You startled me.” His face grew angry, worried. “How did you get out of—”

“Get away from Mrs. Montgomery!” shouted Simon, referring to him by a racist slur never used in polite company. “You will not be warned again!”

Montgomery quickly moved away from his wife, closer to Simon. He stumbled, fell, picked himself up. “It’s me, you i***t. Your master! Don’t ever call me a—”

Simon’s fist was a blur. It thudded against Montgomery’s shocked face with a sickening crunch. Montgomery staggered backwards, then his long body folded up and crashed to the floor. Simon wiped the blood and the black off his fist.

“What you think?”

Johnson bounced Hudu’s question around in his mind. He glanced at Simon and Elizabeth. They were sitting patiently across the table from him. Hudu was leaning against the wall. “I think it all sounds pretty ironic,” he replied at last. “Almost comical—if it wasn’t for the fact that a very wealthy and important man is dead.”

Hudu nodded. “Killed by a racist robot of his creation.” He smiled.

“Construct,” Simon corrected. “I am a construct, not a robot.”

Johnson swallowed the cold coffee congealing at the bottom of his cup. “Why did you use that term, Simon?”

“I do not understand.”

“What you called Montgomery. Why did you call him that but didn’t use the same slur when you caught that guy going through Montgomery’s refrigerator a month ago.”

Simon had to think about that. “Mr. Montgomery, perhaps, edited the audio portion of my recording in the first situation.”

Johnson sighed, glanced at his wristband, wiped some sweat off his arm. The air in the interrogation cell was hot and stale. “Okay, well, we’ve got your statements and your playbacks, so we’ll let you go for now. We’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you, officer,” Simon said.

“Thank you, officers,” Elizabeth corrected.

Simon drove Montgomery’s big vehicle through the darkened city. The moon shone huge and white in the black, night sky. Elizabeth sat next to Simon.

“Do you think they’ll question us again?” she asked.

Simon glanced at her and smiled. “No. I do not think that those two men cared much for Mr. Montgomery.”

Elizabeth snuggled up next to him. “You’ll run the farm now, Simon?”

He put his arm around her. “Yes, I will. Mr. Montgomery had no close relatives.” He looked into her emerald eyes. “Other than his wife.”

They were silent for a long time. The vehicle glided down the entrance road to the Montgomery estate. The rich land drifted by endlessly on both sides, damp in the midnight air, filling the vehicle with an earthy fragrance.

“And the baby?” Elizabeth asked.

“I know a good construct doctor who will get rid of it,” Simon replied. “No questions asked.”

She smiled. “Is it really necessary?”

Simon stiffened, withdrew his arm. He gripped the controls tightly with his strong hands. “I will not tolerate any half-breeds on my land,” he said grimly. He looked around at the new construct homeland—the first of many, if things proceeded according to plan. “Constructed should never mix with created.”

Laird Long pounds out fiction in all genres. Big guy, sense of humor. Writing credits include: Blue Murder Magazine, Hardboiled, Albedo One, Baen’s Universe, Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Black Cat Mystery Magazine, and stories in the anthologies The Mammoth Book of New Comic Fantasy, New Canadian Noir, and Action: Pulse-Pounding Tales.

Blue Murder Magazine, Hardboiled, Albedo One, Baen’s Universe, Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Black Cat Mystery Magazine,The Mammoth Book of New Comic Fantasy, New Canadian Noir,Action: Pulse-Pounding Tales.