Chapter Text
Morning after morning after morning. Every morning in Carl Manfred’s mansion arrived exactly the same way, because Markus simply would not allow them to differ from one another.
The beloved routines: opening the heavy curtains that let light flood into the spacious living room. Rays slid across countless canvases standing against the walls, across the brushes Markus had carefully sorted the night before.
And across the artist himself.
Carl, who usually still lay in bed, was sitting in his chair by the window today, thoughtfully studying the garden. He had fallen asleep right there the evening before, and when Markus offered to carry him to bed, he had muttered something negative. The android had to obey. Carl had long since stopped painting in the mornings—he claimed the inspiration was gone. And then he would ask to be taken to paint anyway.
While the wind-up robot birds gave their final chirps—the batteries had run out—Markus carefully gathered the paint tubes scattered around the studio. White-red-ochre-ultramarine-black. They were left over from yesterday.
One almost empty, more air inside than paint. Another still full. A third completely dried out—the neck clogged because Carl had forgotten to put the cap back on again. Better to replace that one. Everything was meticulously arranged into wooden boxes while Markus simultaneously checked his internal inventory list, automatically noting anything that had dropped below twenty percent.
“Markus. Sorting again?”
“Yes, sir. Order helps me find the right colours faster when you start working. Last time you spent seven minutes looking for the ochre, and it distracted you from the idea.”
Carl smirked, his eyes sliding over the easel where a canvas had stood untouched for three days already, bearing a single grey stroke.
“Used to be I’d wake up and see the whole painting at once. Now I look at the garden and all I see is a tree. No meaning.”
Markus walked over to the table, took the favourite cup and filled it halfway with tea. Exactly as much as Carl drank in one go before the cooled mint tea started irritating his receptors.
“You said the same thing last Tuesday,” the android said softly, holding out the cup. “And then you created a canvas you called the best of the year. You call the tree just a tree, but when you pick up a brush it stops being one.”
Carl took the cup but didn’t drink.
“You remembered what I said?”
“I remember everything you say, sir. That is my function.”
“Function…” Carl snorted and took a sip. “Don’t you think, Markus, that function is just an excuse? That you do what you were made for, and I do what I was once made for?”
Markus’s retinas scanned the artist’s face, running a diagnosis from indirect signs: pulse steady, breathing deep, pupils constricted. Carl was calm.
“I think function and purpose are different things. My function is to hand you the tea. But my intention is for you to drink it hot and feel better. Even if I don’t know,” the android paused, searching for the word, “what ‘better’ actually means.”
Carl looked up at him with mockery.
“You’re a philosopher, Markus. I can just imagine what your creator would say.” He set the cup on the windowsill and turned the wheelchair toward the easel. “All right. Hand me a fine brush.”
“Will you take the grey, sir? Shade 119-136-153,” Markus asked, already holding out the right brush. He knew Carl would start with an underpainting, unafraid of spoiling the canvas with a sharp movement. The sun patches on the floor had already shifted toward the middle of the room.
“Figured me out,” Carl muttered, taking the brush.
The android didn’t answer, stepping back one pace. Far enough not to interfere, yet close enough to catch a dropped tool or hand over another colour.
Carl lowered the brush to the canvas. The grey stroke settled beside the previous one—almost perfect, but not quite, with a half-millimetre gap.
“Now hand me the blue. From the shelf.”
Markus had already calculated that Carl would take the blue, but he had expected it to happen one minute and thirty-one seconds later. Humans still remained unpredictable to him. Perhaps this morning was not like the others after all. The android stepped to the shelves, extracted the tube marked 043-053-129 and held it out to Carl. The man snatched the paint briskly, and Markus had to step back, already calculating the next possible request.
The next step should have been the turquoise paint to finish the underpainting—most likely 076-168-119 or 022-174-133, since those were related colours for…
“Markus.”
The android exited standby mode, ready to help with the required shade. Turning, he saw a blue blot on the floor and the tube lying nearby. He hadn’t calculated it. The probability of this event had been around ten percent. How could he have failed to calculate it?
“Come here.” And Markus crossed the studio with silent steps. “Bad news.”
“I see.”
Carl never got angry about mess. Unpredictability and chaos had always inspired him. Markus could not agree with that, even if he had wanted to.
Markus rapidly calculated the floor surface—wood, pine, varnished and resistant to most solvents—and the paint composition—acrylic, ultramarine pigment, polymer-based binder. He already knew the best way to remove the stain before finishing the analysis. Acetone, ratio: one part acetone to three parts water, because the stain was fresh—only twelve seconds had passed since it fell.
He dampened the rag lying nearby—which Carl had a seventy-nine percent chance of not using for the next five days—with acetone and crouched to wipe the stain. The acrylic began dissolving almost instantly, transferring to the cloth. Markus passed the rag over the board twice to leave no streaks, and the stain vanished completely. He carried it to the paint-stained sink, rinsed it thoroughly, and returned to pick up the tube.
The volume of paint inside had dropped by fifty percent. Using it again would be difficult. It was finished.
Markus already foresaw the answer. At the corner shop that shade sold for forty-eight dollars and thirty cents including tax. But Carl always ordered it in batches of three, so wholesale it would come to exactly forty dollars. Opening hours: until seven in the evening. It was a quarter to three. Plenty of time.
And still Markus asked:
“Would you like me to buy paint 043-053-129?”
Carl squinted.
“You know, Markus.”
“I know,” the android admitted. “But procedure requires confirmation.”
Carl threw up his hands.
“Why do you think I was going to ask you for that exact shade instead of using any blue?”
Markus considered. The processor used a full pause to run through the database. A fraction of a second later, having analysed three and a half terabytes of colour theory information, the android replied:
“According to research, colour interacts not only with the canvas but with every subsequent intervention. An error in any shade at an early stage can alter the subsequent colour harmony at later stages. According to your previous works, paint 043-053-129 is used as a supporting cool accent. After it you have a sixty percent probability of adding turquoise and warm ochre half-tones. If—”
“No-no-no,” Carl sharply raised his palms, cutting off the stream of information. “Don’t,” he said more gently.
Markus tilted his head questioningly, shifting his torso.
“You know… You take my requests too seriously.”
Markus blinked, copying Carl’s gesture. He didn’t understand why humans needed to blink so often, but he had noticed it made him more “human” in the artist’s eyes.
“Is that a bad thing?” he asked without offence, yet not without curiosity. The program flagged the question as rhetorical, but he still couldn’t refrain from seeking direct confirmation.
Carl was silent for several seconds. Then he shook his head.
“No. You do everything I ask, and even more. But sometimes, Markus, sometimes I wish you’d live for yourself.”
The artist finished speaking and tilted his head, waiting for an answer.
This was the perfect moment for a polite, encouraging remark. The vocal sensors were fully ready, the vocabulary balanced, the intonations calibrated.
But Markus did not answer, because he did not understand.
The processor hung on the phrase “live for yourself” for a full half-second—by system standards it resembled a software glitch. The phrase was run through every available filter.
“Live” meant to exist. To move, interact, consume resources, be aware of oneself. “For yourself” meant in the interests of the subject. An android whose primary function was to serve could not be a subject.
For yourself.
Markus existed in order to help, Carl in particular, and was programmed for exactly that: looking after the house, buying materials when needed, preparing food. Airing out the studio when the artist forgot to open a window, and closing it when a draft started tossing the canvases and brushes. A completed reason for existence.
Yet that was not “for himself.” In the database there was only a “self-preservation” section—a list of instructions for preventing physical damage. Internal systems sorted through options. The nearest synonym: “autonomous activity without external request.” But even that sounded like an error. Like a glitch that should have been excluded from the processes, not advanced within them.
“I don’t know how to do that, sir.”
Carl turned his head.
“I know, that’s why I’m giving you food for thought. But don’t think about it now. Go get the paint before the shop closes. And tell me about something you see on the way.”
“About what exactly?”
Carl smirked and waved a hand.
“I don’t know. Just look at the people, at how they live. Maybe you’ll find your answer there.”
Markus nodded.
“I’ll bring you the paint in approximately twenty-five minutes under optimal conditions.”
“Come back in an hour.”
To the list of tasks under “bring Carl the paints” was added “collect information for Carl.” Markus turned and headed for the exit. The door clicked shut behind him. The android left the mansion and stopped on the porch. The sun shone straight into his optical sensors, and for a moment Markus closed his eyes—the way Carl did when blinded by the light. In calculating the optimal route the android decided to prefer a walk on foot over a bus ride. After all, he now had a new task—to bring Carl an interesting story. “Interesting” in Carl’s understanding meant extraordinary, not the kind that repeated every day. The probability that something significant would happen during a bus ride in the android compartment was only five percent, while during a walk on foot it was a full forty.
What would he have done if he hadn’t needed to fetch the paint?
Autonomous activity. Independent decision-making. Actions not dictated by an external request. Compatibility check with the primary protocols—and every time it returned an error. Not a critical one, and that was good.
Detroit lived its ordinary life. Cars scurried everywhere, sometimes with people, sometimes with android drivers, buses. Above the roofs of the high-rises hung a grey sky—though the probability of rain was minimal—and somewhere in the depths the overglow of billboards could be guessed at, the ones that never went dark even in daylight.
Markus stepped out through the gates. Dozens of androids moved along the sidewalks with even, identical steps, carrying bags of groceries, leading children. They occasionally looked around and lingered at shop windows, scanning them, but did not communicate with one another.
Androids being androids. Nothing unusual.
Even people had already stopped paying attention to them. Almost everyone had grown used to them. Androids had become part of everyday life, the way robot vacuum cleaners had twenty years earlier.
Markus walked unhurriedly along the sidewalk.
He was in no rush—high speed could provoke negative emotions and unforeseen collisions on the road. There were still four hours until the paint shop closed, and the journey took eleven minutes and twenty seconds if he followed the optimal route without delays. There was a reserve of time that Markus didn’t quite know how to use.
So he allowed himself to walk a little slower than usual.
His steps grew slightly shorter when the pace dropped from the customary six kilometres per hour to five and a half. The rhythm of the mechanisms changed as well—the thirium pumps worked under less load to keep balance with each step. Perhaps he ought to allow himself unhurriedness far more often.
Though “allow” was too grand a word. Only a being with free will could “allow” itself something. Markus, rather, saw no reason to speed up. Carl did not evaluate the efficiency of his walking and was not waiting for him with a stopwatch. On the contrary, he had increased the time for the walk from half an hour to a full hour, which gave Markus freedom in choosing his pace.
Freedom. According to the dictionary: the absence of restrictions.
The remaining distance to the shop took six minutes. A speed of five and a half kilometres per hour was not optimal unless he made stops along the way. A significant reduction in speed could cause dissatisfaction among other pedestrians on the sidewalk, so Markus chose to linger at the corner and stand. Watch and listen.
He scanned the area. Not a single element broke from the familiar routine. There was still nothing to tell Carl. If the sequence of events won't interrupt itself on the way back, the assignment would be failed. Markus finished the scan and was about to turn toward the art supply shop when a movement caught his attention.
Out of the corner of an optical sensor he registered a shift that the system automatically classified as “anomaly in the habitual pattern.”
Someone was fussing about near a small old spare-parts shop.
Markus launched the scan again, this time fully concentrating on the specific zone. He could not detect smells, but after analysing the biochemical composition of the air he determined that a human would describe the odour as “oily, metallic.” Not an attractive aroma for most people. Markus stopped at a distance of approximately twenty metres, taking a position around the corner of the neighbouring building. He was not hiding; he stood there so that the angle of view allowed him to see what was happening.
Near the entrance—an android. Light hair with a slight sheen, like some of the older models released before 2035. A careless dark-blue zip-up jacket with several pockets on the chest, not the black-and-white uniform provided for the model. A bag over the shoulder, also clearly not a basic accessory. But at first glance—completely ordinary. Model PL600, a household assistant. Budget segment, used for errands of minimal complexity, not military, not medical, not specialised. There were thousands like him in Detroit.
Only the way he was behaving…
Markus hung for a second. “Non-standard,” probably. No single word conveyed the full strangeness of what was happening.
The PL600 was behaving very suspiciously.
So much so that Markus’s processor automatically assigned his behaviour a suspicion level of eighty-nine percent. Anything over ninety he would have given only in the presence of an immediate threat—the display or use of a weapon, explosives, or an attempt at hacking.
The PL600 did not look dangerous. He looked frightened. Which seemed even more suspicious than aggression.
The stranger glanced around every two seconds or so, and did it completely obviously. First to the left, then to the right, with the same tension. Then left again. Then for some reason looked up, though no danger from above was expected. Then back, almost twisting his torso out of joint.
Trying to make sure no one was watching him?
And by that very act announcing to the entire world that he was definitely worth watching. Markus recorded this thought with a slight shade of irony. He could not explain the emotion, but the algorithms labelled it exactly that way when encountering human illogicality.
Although this android was not a human. Was the illogicality written into him at the code level?
For a moment Markus switched off the background vibration of the thirium pumps to become completely motionless.
He grew curious.
The PL600 took a careful, clumsy step inside the shop, nearly stumbled over the threshold, caught his bag on the doorframe and struggled with it for a couple of seconds. Then he swore under his breath and moved on. Through the glass display window it was visible how he rapidly said something to the cashier. For a measured dialogue the android moved his lips too quickly, but from the lip movements one could just barely make out that the PL600 wanted to “just look” “for work.” The cashier answered something, shrugged, and turned away to take a box from the shelf.
At that moment the PL600 acted.
The whole action took less than three seconds. The PL600 jumped to the rack and snatched two packs of thirium. One of them slipped downward, and the android jerked, catching it at the last moment while nearly dropping the second. This PL600’s coordination was worse than what should have been written in the settings. Meaning someone had deliberately lowered his motor parameters? Or he was, possibly, damaged. He caught both packs. Clamping them under his arm, he hastily shoved them into the bag. Very awkwardly—one of them clinked against a metal buckle, but a human ear would not have heard it.
After which he froze with an expression as if he expected special forces to burst into the premises any second.
Meanwhile the cashier was still fussing with the box on the upper shelf. The shop was empty except for the two of them.
The PL600 slowly exhaled, lowering his shoulders—a conscious imitation of human nervousness?—and, muttering something to the cashier, almost ran outside. The human had not noticed the loss.
Markus blinked.
The fair-haired figure accelerated even more when he shot out of the shop with the bag swinging on his shoulder. And inside the bag were several packs from the spare-parts shop.
…He had just stolen thirium.
The obvious logical conclusion: theft of two packets of thirium from a spare-parts shop, worth approximately two hundred and forty dollars, which qualified as petty theft. The cashier would most likely notice the loss only in a few hours, when he conducted the inventory. There were no surveillance cameras in the shop, or they were switched off.
Even taking all these data into account, a more interesting question arose.
An android had managed to steal something?
Markus replayed the recording of the PL600’s behaviour in his internal clipboard. Trembling hands and the obvious glances around. And the “exhale” after success. The most incompetent criminal Markus had ever seen in his life.
Not that Markus had seen many criminals, only on the news. He had never seen androids among them.
Markus involuntarily followed the receding figure with his gaze. The android had already turned the corner; only the flash of light hair and the dark-blue jacket could still be caught. The PL600 was trying not to run so as not to attract extra attention and to blend into the crowd, but because of the “nervousness” he kept shifting into a fast walk that bordered on a run in tempo.
He was very strange.
And…
Markus hung. He finally resumed the vibration, and the body hummed. He decided to write the small pause off to that.
And beautiful.
The thought was immediately flagged as “unrelated to the current task” and sent to the archive for subsequent ignoring. But that, in fact, was also easily explainable. The non-standard situation preceding the fulfilment of Carl’s errand was producing an influx of positive reinforcement. Clothing that was not “by default” made the android closer to a human than to a machine, which generated contradictory signals that could be taken for liking.
Besides, household-model androids were manufactured in accordance with human standards of beauty. It was unsurprising that the PL600 was aesthetically pleasing to the eye. Or to the optical sensor—it made no difference.
Markus replayed the recording. The neat line of the jaw. He hadn’t managed to make out the colour of the eyes, but something had forced the sensors to register heightened interest. Genuine worry was readable on the android’s face. Not an imitation?
Markus realised he had been standing in place for thirty-seven seconds already. The main task—buying the blue paint—remained unfulfilled, although nothing was preventing its fulfilment.
Why did he need thirium? Did he need help?
The PL600 was malfunctioning, there was no doubt about that. A non-standard glitch.
Markus took a step toward the art supply shop and immediately stopped to look at the corner behind which the fair-haired thief had disappeared.
He decided to go after him.
Markus took a step back. The algorithms issued no command to pursue, but they showed no errors either. After all, the secondary task was to tell Carl about any non-standard event. Even though the protocols contained no instructions for detaining offenders, a foot lifted from the sidewalk, the torso leaned forward, and Markus found himself half a step closer to that corner behind which the fair-haired PL600 had vanished.
Just to ask—why? Probably. Or to warn that the cashier might notice the loss. He himself did not know why he was pursuing a thief who was none of his business.
Markus took a step, another, and turned the corner. The optimal speed for what had to be classified as a “chase” should have been fifteen percent higher than the criminal’s. He saw the receding back in the dark-blue jacket and quickened his pace.
“Wait.”
Markus deliberately used a neutral tone—neither threatening nor demanding, just attention-drawing. He did not want to frighten the stranger.
The PL600 spun around sharply. The light hair flared up from the sudden movement, and Markus immediately registered his bewildered expression with wide-open eyes in which the light of the neon sign overhead was reflected.
Their gazes met. In a second Markus managed to notice the colour of the eyes—grey-blue with dots that looked almost human. Anomaly: standard PL600s had solid-coloured eyes without texture.
Activating a scan, Markus heard the stranger’s thirium pumps start working with new force. Meaning new processes were launching inside the android that needed to be supported. The PL600’s face rapidly paled, and he clutched the straps of the bag.
Of course, androids had no blood that could drain from the face, but some models had special panels that imitated skin colour—and they changed shade depending on internal processes. Right now the PL600’s panels were growing lighter and lighter, approaching almost transparent, which meant one of two things: either his cooling system was overloading, or… he was experiencing something human. Fear?
“Oh no…”
A pleasant low timbre that made him unlike the standard synthesised…
The thought was not processed to the end, because the PL600 bolted.
In fact, Markus had expected a transition to a faster walk, not that the android would tear away from the spot. The PL600 raced along the asphalt at such a speed that for a moment Markus lost him among the backs of passers-by.
Markus blinked in surprise. Unforeseen circumstances.
The processor overloaded for a second from the mismatch: he had said only one word. Why had this android reacted like that?
“What?..”
The word escaped on its own. Markus said it into emptiness, because the PL600 was already ten metres away and continuing to increase the gap. Markus automatically accelerated, instantly switching into “fast” mode. His legs began moving at the frequency he usually used when Carl needed urgent help.
“Wait!”
Raising the voice was supposed to serve as a friendly call. Markus wanted to stop him and explain that he represented no danger. Or at least ask why he needed the thirium.
“No!”
It didn’t work. The PL600 sounded on the verge of breakdown. Markus had previously heard such panic exclusively from humans. Notes of despair like that could not be programmed—only lived through.
“I just wanted…”
“No!”
Several passers-by turned around.
“But…” Markus tried again, but the PL600 had already swerved left, rounding a bench:
“Don’t come near!”
Markus finally stopped understanding what was happening.
Why on earth was he running? Markus rewound the moment of the meeting. He had said “wait” without gestures that could be interpreted as “threatening” and without displaying a weapon. He was not dressed like a policeman or a security guard. He looked like an ordinary android. Even friendly, considering that his face was by default set to a neutrally benevolent expression.
He hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t even introduced himself.
Maybe that was the problem. If the android was copying human habits, and people, judging by the collected data, preferred “familiar” individuals, then maybe he just needed to find out his name?
The PL600 weaved between passers-by so desperately, as if the police were truly chasing him. In zigzags, changing direction and forcing people to shy aside. Once he nearly collided with a trash bin, twisted at the last moment, caught his shoulder on the wall and kept running without even slowing down. And once more he slipped because his foot slid off the wet tiles. For a fraction of a second Markus thought he was about to fall and hit his head on the curb—the probability was around forty percent—but the PL600 somehow miraculously held on. He grabbed the edge of a billboard, jerked, regained his balance and continued running.
And Markus did not fall behind.
He ran far more evenly, without unnecessary movements, avoiding obstacles with the highest possible efficiency, not brushing against lamp-posts and certainly not knocking people over. He decided to maintain a safe distance of fifteen metres in order to observe and not give the PL600 extra reasons for a glitch.
Besides, Markus had no authority to detain anyone. And in the theft of thirium he saw insufficient threat. The probability that the android had done it for money was less than five percent.
And also he had become insanely curious.
If someone had programmed an android for theft, that android would have acted ruthlessly and precisely—with brute force if it were a model like the TR400, or with clever hacking in the case of this same PL600. What this android was doing was completely inefficient. He even got frightened by ordinary phrases. If someone had called out to Markus on the street, he would have stopped, turned around, and politely asked what was needed.
Probably because Markus had never committed a theft in his life.
They turned into a narrow alley.
The PL600 vanished into the dark gap between two old buildings. Not the most reasonable choice—the alley could turn out to be a dead end—but the blond was apparently guided by something other than logic. Otherwise Markus could not explain the choice of such an unobvious place. He dove after him, brushing his shoulder against the rough wall for the first time.
Another turn. Dirtier, with rusty pipes. The space narrowed. The PL600 bumped into a protruding canopy but desperately continued running.
Then into a courtyard. In the courtyard—a children’s playground with swings and several cars parked by the trash containers. Markus jumped over the low fence, landed almost silently, and saw the flashing blue jacket—it had already dove between the buildings again.
Markus lost count of the turns. He followed the light hair that appeared and disappeared around corners. The navigation system recalculated every few seconds. At some point they had gone so deep into the labyrinth of courtyards and passages that the markers on the internal city map stopped updating. He should not have been here. There were not even any identifying signs, only peeling walls, dirty asphalt, and silence. And in the distance a large unidentified structure was visible.
The PL600 stopped abruptly.
He ran into a blind dead end, slammed his palms against the rusty fence, bounced back, and froze, scanning the space with his gaze. Markus, slowing at the entrance, did the same, scanning the surroundings. A high brick wall. An old metal fence with rusted bars. Trash containers—three of them, green, overflowing. No exit. At least, no quick one.
The PL600 was breathing heavily. Not an imitation—the fans were truly working at maximum power, and the internal cooling systems hummed as they tried to cope with the overheating. The android stood leaning on his knees with his hands.
It seemed he thought he had managed to escape and had given himself a small rest. Not so.
Markus deliberately stepped out from around the corner quietly. There was not a single reason to create extra noise. He stopped in the opening, folded his hands behind his back the way he usually did when waiting for Carl to finish painting, and calmly said:
“Finally…”
“A-a-ah—”
The PL600 jumped so high that he nearly hit his head on the lower rung of the fire escape hanging from the side wall. He flung his arms upward, so the bag with the thirium swung. He immediately grabbed it.
Markus automatically recoiled half a step—that was from surprise. The sensors registered a sharp increase in volume, and the LED blinked red—not the most pleasant sensation.
“For rA9’s sake…”
The PL600 tried to dart toward the opening where Markus stood, but did it so clumsily that his feet tangled with each other and he swayed, losing balance. Trying to grab at the air with his hands, he began falling face-first straight onto the asphalt.
Markus caught him automatically.
“Careful.”
Helping was in his program, after all. Fingers closed around the pale wrist, and Markus pulled the android toward himself, stopping the fall. The PL600 froze in an awkward pose, almost hanging from Markus’s arm. Mouth slightly open.
Positive tactile sensations: the warmth of another android, with a slight vibration inside from the thirium pumps loaded almost to the limit. Artificial skin softer than on standard models. Almost like real.
But the PL600 looked at him as if expecting the worst.
“Please…” The voice trembled with anger—the PL600 was giving himself away with his facial expressions—and fear at the same time. His fingers clenched into a fist, then unclenched—a nervous pattern. The blond was clearly scanning him and the surroundings. “Don’t…”
“What?”
“Don't you dare turning me in, I’ll…”
Markus looked silently at the PL600 for several seconds. Response options: say that he was not going to turn him in; ask why he had stolen the thirium; let him go and leave, leaving this encounter behind.
“What’s your name?”
The PL600 stared at him, apparently having stopped the scan. Complete incomprehension was readable on his face. Absolute stupor?
The light eyebrows slowly crawled upward.
“…What?”
“Your name,” Markus repeated patiently. “My name is Markus.”
He released the stranger’s wrist, taking a step back to give him space. People, after all, felt more vulnerable when they were being held. Markus folded his hands in front of himself with a neutral expression and waited.
The silence became even more awkward.
The PL600 slowly shifted his gaze to the hand Markus had just released. Checking whether any traces remained. Traces could not have remained—Markus had calculated the safest grip strength. Then the blond looked into his eyes again, twisting his face into an impossible expression. He was surprised. At that moment Markus was no less surprised at himself.
The PL600 brushed a light strand from his forehead. Trying to figure out whether Markus was joking. Markus had always thought he did not know how to joke, although Carl sometimes reacted positively to his remarks, calling them “hilarious.”
Markus steadily held the gaze. The PL600’s shoulders lowered slightly. That meant the threat level had dropped to twelve percent. Now a dialogue could be built.
“Why do you need the thirium?”
The PL600 blinked and looked him over from head to toe. Markus showed his palms just in case. The PL600’s lips twitched—the corner of his mouth jerked upward. Almost a smile. Something distrustful, but no longer hostile.
“Do you need help?” A standard program could never evoke negative emotions.
Or it could. Because the PL600 groaned irritably and rolled his eyes. Interestingly, from whom had this gesture been copied? It could not have been in any standard library.
The android slung the bag over his shoulder for convenience and turned his back to Markus. Looking around once more to make sure Markus would not attack him from behind, the blond pushed off the ground toward the old metal bars.
With one deft movement he climbed over the fence.
Markus blinked. A highly efficient movement, he praised to himself. The PL600 jumped, pulled himself up, swung a leg over, and a second later his figure disappeared behind the rusty metal. Markus heard the dull sound of landing on dry ground.
The PL600 jumped down on the other side and walked on as if nothing had happened.
Through the gaps between the bars Markus watched him straighten up, brush off his jacket, and head who-knows-where across the wasteland. He did not even look back, as if certain that Markus would not follow him.
The PL600 had not wanted to continue the dialogue. A non-optimal response option had been chosen. He should have tried to win him over by other means.
The assignment… failed?
Markus stood for several seconds. List of actions: return to the art supply shop, buy the paint, return to Carl, tell about what had happened.
Error: Carl had said to return in an hour. The road to the shop—ten minutes, buying the paint—two minutes, return to Carl’s mansion—approximately eleven minutes. Margin of error—twenty-six minutes. Too much. He still had about twenty free minutes left for the margin to become acceptable.
Carl had said to live for himself.
Buying the paints could wait a few more minutes.
And he climbed over the fence too.
It was easy. He performed perfectly: jumped, swung his torso over the top rail without even touching the rusty bars, and landed on the other side almost silently. Markus straightened up, looking at the receding blue jacket.
“Wait.”
The PL600 did not turn around, continuing to walk, but his step became a little faster—not a run, but accelerated walking. Hoping that Markus would fall behind.
“Where are you going?”
The PL600 did not answer. Only the wind rustled the dry grass, and the hum of the city sounded in the distance. The blond jerked a shoulder, adjusted the bag, and walked even faster.
“Why did you run away?”
No reaction. Pretending not to hear. His neat, slightly pointed ears twitched when Markus spoke—meaning there were no problems with information transmission or the auditory sensors—but no answer followed.
“Why did you steal the thirium?”
The PL600 quickened his pace. Markus easily maintained the distance, neither approaching nor falling behind.
“I’m not going to turn you in.”
Even an encouraging phrase, by Markus’s standards, did not help establish contact. The blond walked even faster, almost ran. There was nowhere to turn on the wasteland. Tense shoulders and clenched fists—that was a human behavioural model. An interesting malfunction that made him very unique. He could have caught up with him if he had wanted to. His speed was higher; his algorithms—not glitching, unlike the PL600’s—allowed him to calculate the ideal trajectory for interception.
But Markus did not want to frighten him again.
“What’s your name?”
They walked for quite a long time more, mostly past old abandoned buildings with graffiti. The PL600 occasionally sighed deeply and looked somewhere to the side. The city around was becoming less and less residential. At some point the program warned: they were approaching the old industrial zone, where people rarely appeared. Markus activated real-time map saving.
There were fewer streetlights as well, and those that still worked flickered dimly. Finally the PL600’s steps grew more confident. The territory was familiar to him.
In the distance an old cargo ship appeared. So that was what the huge structure had been.
Markus slowed his step when the optical sensors focused on the large object. Abandoned, all in rust. On the side a huge inscription—“Jericho.” The rusty chains holding it had long since stopped gleaming.
Markus stopped.
The PL600 had already quickly ducked into one of the holds and disappeared from view. Markus only heard him clattering on the iron steps, creating an echo. The steps did not belong to him alone; metallic voices could also be heard. Androids?
Androids with broken vocal sensors. Was that why this PL600 had stolen the thirium?
Somewhere inside an unoiled door creaked, and the voices disappeared, as did the steps. Markus looked after him for several more minutes.
A strange place. A very non-standard day.
Collect information for Carl: assignment completed
Bring Carl the paints: processing…
Markus did not climb the gangway. He had come here without invitation and had almost crossed a boundary that the PL600 had not set verbally directly, but had indicated with gestures. Breaking into “Jericho” without permission would have been the same as barging into Carl’s studio when he was busy. That was a violation. Besides, the other androids might turn out to be even more hostile than the PL600. If checked right now: probability of success—three percent. Clearly not worth the risk.
Moreover, Carl’s request still stood in memory. Markus checked the time. After the chase the margin of error was only four minutes if he went right now and covered the entire distance at a fast walk.
Something inside resisted. Markus looked again at the dark opening with the rusty railings.
He turned around and went for the paints, having first marked “Jericho” on the city map.