"It's cool, no worries," the guard said. One of them whistled, and Amy peeked around a corner to watch a camelbot wake from its slumber. They stood to attention, forklift teeth raised, and seemed to await further instruction. "I'll show you the pile. We've got a ton lately."
"Sweet."
The men and the robots walked down one corridor of garbage, headed straight for the pile of bluescreens – and Junior. Amy was up on her feet instantly. Her feet had already left the ground when Javier grabbed the belt loop of her jeans and hauled her back down.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"They're going to find Junior!"
Javier nodded. "Maybe, but we have a perfect shot at the feedstock right now. We should take it."
"If they find him, they might do something terrible to him! Like the experiments on my mom!"
Again, he nodded. "Yeah, they might. But we have to eat."
Amy took a step away from him. "You don't care, do you?"
"Should I?" He shrugged. "If it were a human kid, then it would be different. I'd be programmed to rescue him. But he's not. And the sooner I can get some fucking food, the sooner I'll be able to iterate another one of him." His expression softened. "If you were normal, you'd understand."
Amy backed away. "Normal?"
Inside her, Portia laughed. Don't tell me you were expecting more from him.
Javier had put her back together. Granted, he had done so while on a mission to roll her corpse for money, but he healed her and she had only made life difficult for him in return. Amy had wanted to repay that debt. Everything in her – everything that was still hers, everything that Portia had yet to corrupt – had said that doing this was right, even though it was dangerous. She had felt the same way about fighting Portia to save her mother. Given the choice between doing something and doing nothing, she had chosen to do something, even if it was a stupid something. But if it were Javier, he'd have let his own father be devoured.
"You're really OK with leaving your son behind?" Amy asked.
Javier's answer was to look away, toward the compiler.
Amy shook her head. "Then I guess you'll be just fine leaving me behind, too."
She turned around and leapt away.
Amy still wasn't as graceful as Javier, and couldn't do anything really fancy, but she didn't need to. She hopped over the heaps of garbage and tried not to make too much noise. She heard the faint cicada buzz of oncoming botflies. They rose, flanking her, blinking green light. They hovered over her almost as though they were concerned. Still, no alarm sounded. She had no idea why not, but didn't care.
She made the final jump toward the baby barrow. The guard there held Junior by one arm. He turned as she landed. His face whitened and he dropped Junior. His right hand found his holster; the weapon came out.
"These are puke rounds," he said. Up close he looked young, at least in human years. His face was all spotty. "You'll blaze up in no time."
Amy put up her hands. Doing so felt silly; putting your hands up for a person brandishing a weapon was something that was only supposed to happen in dramas or games, not real life. But her hands came up anyway. "Please just give me the baby."
"You think I don't recognize you?" he asked. "Look, I don't know how you fooled the flies, but–"
Something heavy struck Amy in the back of the head. She pitched forward, catching herself at the last second. The heavy something – it felt like a piece of rebar – caught her across the shoulders. "Dude, thanks!" the guard was saying.
She tried crawling away. Someone kicked her in the side. She flipped over. It was the truck driver. He carried what used to be the arm of a building bot – a massive steel arm with a fat cog for a shoulder on it, the sort only worn by the things that made cars. He swung the shoulder down at her head. She rolled away.
"Should I shoot her, now?" the guard asked.
"Nah, I want you to see this," the truck driver said. He pointed at Amy. "You're one of those special ones, huh? Gimme your best shot. Lay one on me, right here." He pointed at his mouth.
Amy pushed herself to her feet. "All I want is that baby."
The truck driver reached down and plucked Junior off the ground. "Which baby? This baby? This baby right here? You want this?" He shook Junior by his foot like a dog owner shaking a tennis ball. Junior's little arms flailed. He shook him harder, from side to side, the way her dad did when he was snapping a kitchen towel. "You want this?"
"Yes," Amy said. She tried to step forward, but the truck driver took a step back. "Yes, I want him back. Please give him to me."