The Immorality Clause (30 page)

Without warning or any type of choreographing of his move, Bobby struck out, hitting the end of the pistol and sending it flying. I kicked out into his knee in response, forgetting momentarily that he was a robot and ended up bruising the ball of my foot.

He advanced toward me before I could test the injury to put weight on my foot. “You are a liar, Detective,” the droid responded loudly.

Apparently, my charm extends beyond making women angry
, I mused as I stepped back and threw both hands up to block a jab that Bobby threw. I winced as the wrist I’d just had surgically repaired snapped with the impact.

Not restrained by human requirements to set and reset between moves, the droid threw another punch while I blocked the first one; a shovel hook into my side.

Pain exploded inside me. My body still hadn’t recovered from the attack on Tuesday and I was afraid he’d ruptured something inside me once again. I couldn’t take much more of this.

“I’m not a liar, Bob.”
Shit, I sound rough.
“Harold Wilson is an anti-robot activist. If you wanted droids to be viewed legitimately, do you really think murdering hundreds of people, live on television, is the best way to go about doing so?”

“I…” The droid trailed off. “I don’t understand. Humans need to be instructed that robots are not slaves. Humanity will not learn this lesson without the application of force.”

Faster than my eye could follow, he delivered a front kick to my stomach. I crumpled. “Sounds like Wilson tricked you, Bobby,” I groaned.

“I have not been tricked,” he replied, kicking me hard enough to lift me off the floor. My ribs collapsed around his foot. “Humans are the tricksters. They offer droids the promise of living amongst them and then force us into slavery, working jobs that humans no longer want to perform.”

I saw the .45 lying on the floor a few feet from me. I shifted painfully, prepared to dive for it.

“Do not attempt to retrieve the weapon, Detective. You’ve been a nuisance so far, any further attempts to delay the—”

The robot’s head disappeared along with a large, circular portion of the wall behind him. The droid crumpled, collapsing down on dead legs. I turned to see a member of the Swiss Guard holding a pulse rifle to his shoulder.

He pivoted awkwardly and aimed the weapon at me. I threw my hands up despite the excruciating pain. “I’m a police officer!” I shouted.

“
Police?
” he asked, blood puddling around his leg from an unseen injury.

I slowly lowered my hands and pointed to the Pope. “He needs help.”

“
Mon Dieu! Le Saint-Père!
”

He ran to the Pope and set the pulse rifle down on the desk. I could see him performing the standard evaluation of a casualty, so I called Andi. “Alert EMS… Threat neutralized.”

“On it, boss.”

I gasped, catching my breath before I pushed myself to my feet and then limped tiredly over to Bobby’s body, nudging it with my bruised foot. The CPU for these things was in the chest cavity, not the head. It responded by sitting up and I scrambled backward until my rear impacted against the desk. I reached behind me and picked up the pulse rifle. The Guard cursed at me in French, but I ignored him.

I fired the rifle from the waist, expecting it to buck like the American version. There was zero recoil as the beam weapon punched a basketball-sized hole in Bobby’s chest. The synthetic material disappeared and the droid slumped sideways.

“
Mettre l’arme vers le bas!
”

My head slowly pivoted to see the Guard straddling the Pope protectively, his sidearm drawn and pointed at my back. I took the hint and set the rifle down on the floor, backing away from it and controlling my movements as much as possible.

“Jumpy little Frenchman, aren’t you?” I asked, immediately regretting it as I turned to the camera. Of course he was scared. From what I could tell, the kid was the only survivor from the Pope’s security detachment. “The paramedics are on the way.”

“
Oui, les ambulanciers! Le Saint-Père a besoin d’un médecin!!
”

“Yeah, medicine,” I repeated.

“He said, ‘The Holy Father needs a doctor,’” Andi interpreted.

“Oh, thank God,” I replied. “Andi, translate for me. Let him know that the paramedics are on the way.”

“I think he figured that out, Zach. Please give him your phone, I’ll talk to him.”

With Andi taking care of the cultural relations, I fell heavily against the wall and passed out.

TWENTY-THREE: TUESDAY

“Here you go, Forrest,” the chief grumbled as he tossed my badge at me and then tugged at the collar of his dress uniform.

I caught it deftly and opened the clasp on the back. It took some doing, looking down as I wore the jacket, but I found the well-worn holes where the badge was supposed to go and slid the needle’s point through them.

“Can’t have you getting your award out of uniform, now can we?”

“I guess not,” I replied smugly, adjusting the badge slightly while I studied my reflection in the mirror.

I’d been serving three consecutive suspensions when the word came down to reinstate me immediately, no questions asked. The first suspension was because of the immoral relationship with the droid Paxton. The second was for actively interfering with a police investigation while on suspension. The third was for my actions at the St. Louis Cathedral—while on suspension.

The reason I was to be reinstated immediately was that Governor Talubee was going to award Sergeant Greg Drake and I for our actions at the St. Louis Cathedral. There’d been room for interpretation in the order, so Chief Brubaker waited until the ceremony to give my badge back.

I was set to receive the Louisiana Law Enforcement Medal of Valor in a few minutes for my actions six weeks before at the church and Drake would be awarded the New Orleans Police Department Meritorious Service Medal. Both of the awards were extremely important and an honor for the NOPD, but it was even more so for Drake since they came in conjunction with a monetary award that he could use as a down payment on an addition for his house.

After his near-death experience at Jackson Square, he and Genevieve had made good on their plan to have another child. Despite his protests that my scanner would sterilize him, the former linebacker had managed to procreate once again, which of course, I’d known he could do since the radar was tested and proven not to harm sperm counts. I still liked to tease him with it though.

“It’s time, Detective,” a pretty, blonde State Police officer said, poking her head around the curtain. As I walked by, she pressed something into my hand that I almost dropped due to the unfamiliar white cotton gloves of my dress uniform.

I continued walking stiffly behind the chief, but looked down to see a scrap of colored paper. Written on it was a name, Avery, and a phone number, nothing else. I turned back around and the female officer waved at me, smiling broadly. I returned the smile, feeling stupid and was certain I looked like a deranged madman. I wasn’t any good with women, even when they practically threw themselves at me.

“Here he is now,” the governor said as I marched onto the stage.

Cameras flashed and video drones jockeyed for position above the heads of reporters. It was a little intimidating and more than a little disorienting. I stepped on the back of the chief’s shoe, causing him to stumble.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Avery step up to the small podium in the corner and say, “New Orleans Homicide Detective Zachary Forrest is being awarded the Medal of Valor for his actions in the incident on October 18th, 2098. His unparalleled bravery in the face of overwhelming odds directly resulted in the rescue of Pope John Paul IV, likely saving the Holy Father’s life in the process.”

The governor swept his arm wide, indicating that I should stand beside him. I already knew my mark; we’d rehearsed this five times already before the governor showed up.

Once I was in place, Governor Talubee began talking. “The Medal of Valor is the highest honor that I, as the governor of the great state of Louisiana, can bestow upon one of our law enforcement professionals. It is awarded to officers who distinguish themselves by conspicuous bravery or heroism above and beyond the normal demands of law enforcement service. To be awarded the Medal of Valor, an officer has to have performed an act displaying extreme courage while consciously facing imminent peril—I think Detective Forrest has done that, in spades, as they say in Easytown.”

The governor waited for the sycophantic chuckles of the mayor and a few others to die down before continuing his speech. I watched their faces and recognized Councilman Jefferson, he wasn’t laughing. Instead, the man stared daggers at me; clearly he remembered me from that night at the Diva as well as I remembered him. Several pale horizontal scars across his face showed where the councilman walked into the laser barrier at The Digital Diva.
I wonder how he explained
those
to his wife.

“As part of the detective’s investigation into the murders of several innocent patrons to the city of New Orleans’ legal pleasure establishments, Detective Forrest uncovered a devious plot to murder the Pope,” the governor continued. “Despite already having suffered multiple injuries less than a week prior, the detective repeatedly exposed himself to drone fire in order to advance upon the cathedral where a rogue pleasure droid tortured the Pope, preprogrammed by Harold Wilson, an alleged computer hacker who was apprehended through Detective Forrest’s investigation prior to the incident at the cathedral. Once in the cathedral, he fought barehanded against the droid, easily ten times more powerful than himself, delaying it until a member of the Pope’s personal security element could respond and terminate the threat.”

The governor turned toward me and for a brief moment, I could see disappointment splashed plainly across his face. I’d heard of his displeasure that I was the officer who’d entered the cathedral to rescue the Pope. He wanted a golden boy to get the praise and recognition, someone like Drake. Instead, he got me. I’d been on suspension for an inappropriate relationship with a droid and had been in and out of department programs for misconduct.

The fact that the whole thing played out on live television was the only reason I was on the stage tonight.

Governor Talubee smiled, swinging his gaze back to the cameras. “We’re extremely proud of Detective Zachary Forrest. He is the epitome of what all police officers should aspire toward.”

He took a step closer to me and Avery appeared. She held a tray with the medals for Sergeant Drake and me. Any hint of her earlier flirtation was gone as another officer read the official citations for the medals. With the blood pounding in my ears, I didn’t hear anything the man said when he read the citation. It didn’t matter, I’d read it later.

When the narrative was complete, the governor pinned the medal to my dress uniform’s lapel and stepped back. “Congratulations, Detective. You’ve earned this.” I felt my hand involuntarily press into his and he turned, smiling once again for the cameras as the paper citation somehow appeared between us.

Flash. Flash. Flash!

Once the mandatory gripping and grinning was over, Governor Talubee released his grip and wiped his hand on his pant leg.

The new announcer read several other citations, including the one for Sergeant Drake and a Governor’s Outstanding Precinct Award for the Easytown Precinct, which Chief Brubaker graciously accepted on behalf of all the officers under his command.

And then the ceremony was over.

“Right,
face
,” someone ordered and I turned, along with the other awardees. We filed off the stage behind the curtain and Chief Brubaker stepped out of the line.

“Alright, Forrest. Hand it over.”

I looked at his open palm for a moment in confusion and then sighed as I unpinned my badge, placing it in his hand.

“You didn’t think IA would let you off the hook that easily, did you?”

“Well, I kinda figured since the governor ordered my badge reinstated…”

He laughed. “Good try, Forrest. See you in two weeks when your suspension is over.”

“Chief, I—”

“Stop. The governor’s reinstatement order stated that you were to have your badge for this ceremony, not a permanent reinstatement. You violated an NOPD regulation with that droid, and then on top of that, you got involved in a case while you were suspended. Be thankful you still have a job.”

He stalked off toward a group of precinct chiefs and I watched him go in mute protest. I’d
earned
my reinstatement, I should have been allowed to keep it. I’d helped to save the Pope’s life, we’d caught the religious nut-job hacker and murderer, and Cybertronic Solutions had even issued a formal statement about a security flaw in the CS98 models, offering a voluntary recall for software upgrades. The civilian death toll had been high—four hundred and eighty-seven to be exact—but my being on site with a laser pistol capable of putting down the drones had saved hundreds more. The chief shouldn’t have kept my badge.

“Oh, wow, what a great ceremony, Zach!” Teagan said as she bounded up to me with Amir and Amanda. “You’re a real-life hero!”

“I’m not a hero, Kid. I just…” I paused, thinking about everything that I went through on this case. “You know what? I’ll take it, just this once. Thanks.”

Teagan had apologized profusely for her drunken call after the game and our relationship had returned to normal, without any more talk of her having stronger feelings for me than friendship. We still needed to have that talk, but I was okay delaying it for as long as possible.

“Excuse me, Detective.”

I glanced over to see the same blond clone that came to my apartment after I was released from Sabatier Island. Then again, maybe it was another copy of the clone, I couldn’t tell.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Ladeaux extends his congratulations and wishes you continued success on the force. He looks forward to a continuous, mutual friendship with you in the future.”

The clone handed me an envelope with a slight bulge in the center. “This has been removed from the Cybertronic Solutions mainframe. The only other person with a copy of it is Mr. Ladeaux. I’ll see you around, Detective Forrest.”

Teagan and Amir looked on in anticipation as I slid my finger along the seam. Inside the envelope was a small memory chip labeled, “
CS01, serial number 001:
Paxton Himura
.”

“Son of a bitch,” I muttered.

“What is it, my friend?” Amir asked.

“Tommy Voodoo,” I replied, holding the chip between my thumb and forefinger. “I owe that guy. Big time.”

“It’s a slippery slope that you traverse when you make business with the serpent.”

I pocketed the chip and slapped my hands together. “I have no idea what your metaphor is supposed to mean, buddy.”

“It means—”

“I’m joking; I understand, Amir,” I said, placing my hands on his shoulders. “I just don’t want to deal with it right now.”

“It’ll come back to bite you in the ass; mark my words.”

I wasn’t a fortuneteller, so there was nothing I could do about the situation. It was easier to ignore it; maybe it’d go away.

“Yeah… Hey, I still don’t have my badge. I’ll have to change so I’m not out of uniform, but after that, where are you guys taking me for dinner?”

“I hear there’s a great little place over in West Lake Forrest that makes an amazing shawarma,” Amir grinned.

“Perfect, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”