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Stairs slowed the sweepers only briefly. They did not stop the faster and more aggressive prowler types at all. Only breaking visual line of sight would deter those, and on the high walkways there was nowhere to hide.
And yet, rudimentary pathfinding required the automata to give chase, to follow in their footsteps rather than surround and cut the interlopers off. This allowed Geraine and Soto to run in a loop, leap off the second-floor railings, and loop around to find this meat locker their locksmith was hiding in.
A heavy metal door sat on the far side of the restaurant pavilion where they’d assumed Dan had met his demise. It was blocked by a padlock – the irony! – which required Germaine to shoot it out. They hastily opened the door and the foulest smell of years-rotted meet wafted out. Dan, too, stumbled out, holding his nose.
Dan was… worse for wear. Industrial strength cleaning acid had melted the soles of his boot, turned his sleeves into ribbons. The plastic earpiece on his radio set drooped, the receiver damaged.
And yet, he was alive.
“No time to waste! We’re leaving!” Germaine put some rounds down the ersatz ‘alley’ at their back as a line of weaponized street sweepers pursued them.
The monorail awaited. Their employer sat in the cockpit; doors closed.
“Open up!” Germaine said.
He ran to the door and slammed himself into it rather than slow down. They were going to leave them – and their documents – behind!
Miss Diaz looked out the windows. She slammed an emergency button, and the front door slid open.
Soto and Germaine ran through the door. Dan limped behind with one good boot, throwing all his full body weight into a dive that left him sprawled out on the monorail floor. No sooner had they crossed over the threshold did the monorail begin to inch forward.
The tram doors remained open, to be forced shut by Vic once they cleared the Futurescape wall.
On the walkway, the sentry drones stood at the station until their red warning lights switched to green. They returned to their routes; their quarry having escaped the bounds of their allowed territory.
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“No cut is worth this,” Germaine said, breathing unsteadily. “Not even stock options!”
The monorail continued its looping northern path. A low-lying late afternoon sun was dyeing the western sky orange.
“What the hell’re we raiding this place for? Sure ain’t scrap.”
“Well, at least you’re loyal to each other.” Their employer said. “Less savory salvagers would’ve grown ecstatic over the notion of a four-way split.”
Their not-quite-dead locksmith sat on one of the monorail’s many benches while Soto provided some rudimentary first aid to minor chemical burns on his arms and left knee.
“Dan’s worked with us for eight years.” Germaine turned his back on Miss Diaz, stamping around in frustration.
“If you wanted mercenaries, you hired the wrong salvage unit,” Soto said.
Their employer went on about how automated resistance was unprecedented and how any unexpected loss of life could yet be compensated for.
Further argument was cut short when, south and to the east, the Futureplex zeppelin took a hit. There was a flash as cheap hydrogen burst alight. Its flaming carcass was halfway through a slow-motion fall to the swamp below.
“The militia has destroyed the dirigible.” Vic was camped out around the back of the front car. “They’ll have breached the wall by now.”
“Let ‘em,” Germaine said. “Like to see the look on the face of the first nutjob that encounters one of those anima-whatsits. They deserve each other.”
“It won’t stop them for long.” Vic said. “These sentries are modified. A skeleton crew. Rest of the garrison remains dormant. In the walls. When the whole hive is activated, should be the largest deployed force south of Virginia.”
The thought of the Lord’s Militia Army bum-rushing those sweeper bots, armed only with bootlegged AKs and prayer beads did illicit a certain sick mirth from Germaine. And yet, whoever won would still more than overpower their motley crew of four.
Acres of swampland stood between the Futureplex’s northernmost ring of neighborhoods and the towers in the distance. This ought to put space between them and the militia.
Germaine sat down, head in his hands. He sensed the train deaccelerating.
“We’re approaching an old hotel,” Miss Diaz said. “It should be long abandoned. Train won’t stop, but it will slow down a bit. Safety protocol.”
The monorail track sloped gently towards the ground, which in turn was elevated above the swamp itself. The upper canopy of a field of orange-bearing trees sat below the train. If the windows opened, they could reach out and grab some fruit.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
The automated tour intercom was going off again:
“Our purely automated orchards use the latest in space-age gene-selection techniques to produce only the ripest oranges. These very oranges stock our restaurants and homes. Our visionary Modern Hotel, designed by Dewey’s brother, Wallace Devereaux himself, offers an excellent view of the scenic orange groves. We’ll be stopping shortly. Come visit our Station-side café, for a refreshing orange juice and plantain combo!”
“Guess that explains the lack of inbound food supplies.” Dan winced as a burn on his bicep was patched up. “They grow it here.”
Ahead was a building shaped like an odd trapezoid. It was more of an A-frame, two slanted walls joined towards the top in a concrete tent.
The monorail zoomed at one-sixth speed right through the middle of this structure. They could see the front doors, designed like fake patios of midcentury homes, on either side of the track.
“There are still lights on…” Miss Diaz said.
The monorail rocked back and forth.
“We hit something!” Miss Diaz said again. “Makeshift barricade. Shouldn’t stop the tram. I’m speeding up…”
Figures ran through the halls on their flanks. All the while, a steady ping-ping sound of small arms impacted the train. Glass shattered.
“Gunfire! Get down,” Soto said.
Dan landed on his wounded arm, yelping like a startled dog. Germaine drew his revolver, for what good it would do at this speed against targets behind cover and knelt behind the tram’s chairs.
Miss Diaz rushed to the cockpit and forced the monorail to accelerate back to top speeds. Outside, a wind-tunnel effect blew one of their assailants over.
“Corporate security,” Diaz said, hair whipping about in the wind now that all the windows were blown out. “They’re the real deal. Serious business.”
“Oh, so the robots were sicced on us as a joke?” Germaine asked, still squatting down behind cover.
“They’re force multipliers.” Diaz crouched down as the monorail cleared the hotel. “Obviously there’s something in the actual park these guys are here to defend.”
No way to turn back now, anyway.
“So, what’s the plan to deal with both these mercs, their robot attack dogs, and the militia outside and get out alive?” Soto asked.
“Leverage,” Vic said.
Miss Diaz swiveled the pilot’s chair around. “These mercenaries, the lockdown. It’s all a result of a corporate takeover. The park was never supposed to close.”
Germaine scoffed. “Think you would’ve had to close eventually when weird militias started shooting up the front gate.”
“I’m listening,” Soto said.
“Devereaux World Futureplex and all Devereaux, Inc properties worldwide were meant to be inherited by his eldest descendent, provided they were of age. Park operations were seized by corporate raiders in the mid-eighties – before this trust could be established.”
“Wall street guys,” Vic clarified.
“Back when the post office and labor departments were being privatized, yes.” Dan said.
“I… think I read a headline about that,” Germaine said.
Funny thing about that, Germaine also recalled that takeover attempt failing. The name of the park was different, too. Like he’d heard a variant of all this in a dream, somewhere.
“The original creator – Dewey – was a bit of Futurist. Had this idea to build an experimental community of tomorrow, almost entirely automated. Of course it was also a theme park, where visitors could come gawk and shop and ask if they could order these automated systems for their own home.”
“Hence the Futureplex. Gotcha.” Germaine nodded.
Still, the format and function of the park didn’t quite mesh with Germaine’s half-remembered recollections.
Miss Diaz continued. “It was never going to work, ultimately. The tourist trap aspects and the structures you need for some kind of utopian society were always going to be in conflict. So, Dewey dies, corporate raiders stage a hostile takeover, and for nearly ten years the family fortune has sat in private equity holdings, gathering interest. The family lands…” Miss Diaz gestured around. “… have gone fallow. Possession is nine tenths of the law. Just need to clear the squatters out, and it’s my own personal fiefdom. Easily defensible, housing for actors… employees, refugees, a garrison, or what have you. Future income opportunities once tourism picks back up. And a plurality of all American cultural output, accounting for various intellectual property holdings. Activate the bots, program myself as their owner and you all as registered guests, and we are sitting on a highly defensible goldmine.”
Outside, the sun wafted low to the west. Early evening was upon them. The orange groves gave way to rows of grapes, and an out-of-a-picture-book winery. All trimmed, planted, pressed, and bottled by automatons.
“Aha! Knew it! You’re the, what, daughter of this old Devereaux guy? Why the fake name?” Germaine asked.
“There is no blood relation.” she shook her head. “Never personally met the guy. He was my late husband’s granduncle. He, and the rest the Devereaux family down to fourth cousins, died back at the California campus. The corporate takeover was a… rough affair. This was years ago. I don’t need your condolences – most were distant in-laws. Diaz is my maiden name.”
Miss Devereaux nee Diaz continued. “I was hoping corporate had cut their losses on this place. There’s little direct profit to be gained by holding the site itself. Certainly not when the gates have been closed to guests for years.”
Once more, the aging intercoms came to life with a blare of static. It was not the rehearsed voice of a professional narrator, however.
“Rest assured; we’ve been tracking your movements since you touched ground in the state.”
The voice belonged to a forty-something woman with a sharper, northeastern accent. Real grad school air about her.
Soto and Germaine looked around, half-expecting a fifth passenger to have stowed away on the train.
“Meyers,” Miss Diaz said with a scowl.
“Just how is she hearing us?” Germaine asked.
“Maybe the cars are bugged?” Dan looked around but came up empty handed.
“There were microphones in the cars and around the parks, to judge guest satisfaction.” Vic nodded.
“Hiring those yokels currently taking acid baths in the eastern neighborhoods as a mercenary army was an inspired touch. Leaving them behind to rush to the throne, however? Unwise.”
“The cult isn’t with me, Meyers. They’re just yahoos. Look, just let me pass. I’ll turn on the defenses, rout the militia, and you’ll receive an ample payout. You can just go back to New York and… I honestly don’t know what you guys do in your free time. Trade stocks?”
“It’s a long walk to the castle.”
Miss Diaz turned to the console. “She’s not forcing us out. Or overriding the controls.”
“Friend of yours?” Soto asked.
“One of the corporate raiders.” Diaz peered ahead out the windows.
“Ah, so the wall street guy is a wall street gal,” Germaine said, then turned to Diaz. “So, you two have a history – or?”
“Met once, at a company barbecue. She’s one of a conglomerate of a dozen corporate types who muscled out all the small-time stockholders, then shot anyone left with significant voting power.”
A streak appeared on the horizon. It curved, like an arcing firework. Then, it swerved, aiming directly at the tram!
“Rocket!” Germaine said. “Brace.”
Miss Diaz was already sitting down, strapped into the pilot’s seat. Soto scrambled into a simple vinyl-covered seat lining up against the right wall and held onto the flimsy siding.
Vic found another seat with proper restraints lining up against the back wall. Germaine braced himself against the nearest pole. Dan sat in the bucket seats, grabbing on to an overhead hanging handhold for dear life.
The missile hit the train in its midsection. Flames advanced down the length of the train even as it bucked and shook itself off the lone railing. The lead car found itself falling lop-sided to the ground below.
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