The Prey of Gods



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Observe: Human Muzikayise McCarthy (Master) direct interface with Human Elkin Rathers; Observe: Behavior outside previously observed parameters; Observe: Blood pressure elevated; Observe: Exchange of bodily fluid; Output: This Instance worries for Human Muzikayise McCarthy (Master); Output: This Instance worries that This Instance is capable of worrying; Schedule: Full Systems Diagnosis 12 June 2064 03:13:34:00:44; 01001001 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01101011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 01100110 01101111 01110010 01100101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01100001 01101101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01101011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 01100110 01101111 01110010 01100101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01100001 01101101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01101011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 01100110 01101111 01110010 01100101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01100001 01101101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01101011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 01100110 01101111 01110010 01100101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01100001 01101101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01101011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 01100110 01101111 01110010 01100101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01100001 01101101 0010000





Chapter 3

Sydney




Sydney Mazwai cusses herself as the roundabout sucks her in like a soap bubble circling the drain. She gets no respect on this piece-of-crap moped—rusted handlebars, no rear fender, expired license plate. But there’s no point in worrying about being street legal when she’s doomed to spend eternity doing clockwise circles in the midst of Volvos, Land Rovers, and tricked-out bot taxis looking for an easy fare in the crowded streets of Port Elizabeth, South Africa.

Victorian-style buildings pass by again and again, like the backdrop of a 1930s gangster movie car chase. The blare of a tour bus horn sets Sydney’s nerves on edge. She’d spent the bulk of her morning coaxing coffee residue out of an all too empty can, hoping to churn up enough black gold to get her through her commute. Now Sydney grits her teeth as she passes the eighth beanery on her way to work. Dropping forty rand on fancy coffee drinks isn’t an option, though, not when the rent check is three days overdue. She’ll settle for Ruby’s tart brew at the nail salon. It tends to taste faintly of acetone, but it goes down smoothly enough. More importantly, it does its job: injecting caffeine into her bloodstream as quickly as possible without the aid of a hypodermic needle. And while, yes, it’s supposed to be for customers only, everyone in the shop knows better than to get caught standing between this Zulu girl and her morning Joe.

Sydney holds her breath and leans, cutting sharply in front of a bot taxi. She glances over her shoulder and laughs as the mono-eye of its robot driver flashes red, road rage mechanical style. Her happiness is short-lived as a sea of brake lights greets her on Harrower Road. She can’t be late if she’s going to hit Ruby up for an advance on her paycheck. Reluctantly, Sydney lifts her index finger and draws upon a fragile force within, but then pushes it back down. The lights will turn green on their own soon enough. There’s no sense in compounding caffeine withdrawal with a stomachache as well.

Sydney grits her teeth, hops the curb, and motors down the pavement while swerving past bustling pedestrians, a late-model alpha bot running odd errands for its master, and a dreadlocked street musician tooting on an old bamboo pan flute. His staccato song flutters Sydney’s heart, and she puts her shoulder to the wheel, pushing her little 49cc engine to its limit. At last, she cuts down a series of familiar alleyways, dodging ornery dik-diks rummaging through the overspill from a restaurant’s rubbish bin, and kicking past a stack of wooden pallets from the Emporium her salon shares an employee driveway with. Sydney props her moped up against the side of the brick building and takes her helmet inside with her. At least it has some value.

She stumbles in, beelines straight to the coffee carafe, and pours herself a tall cup. The earthy aroma puts her at ease, and the warmth of the cup pulls the morning chill from her bones. But before she can take a single sip, Ruby’s right there, glaring with those eyes too wide for her face and an unlit cigarette dangling between her lips. “You’re late,” she says, hands propped on her hips. She juts her chin toward the reception area. “Mrs. Donovan is waiting. She’s not happy.”

Sydney glances down at her watch. She’s three minutes early actually, but her clients expect nothing less of her than to bend space-time to accommodate their schedules. Especially Mrs. Donovan. Sydney rolls her eyes, grabs her alphie off its dock on the shelf, then puts on a smile that’s somewhere south of sincerity but north of keeping her job.

“You appreciate me, don’t you?” she says, clicking the alphie’s on switch. The robot’s screen yawns to life, and its spider legs extend down from its round silver body until they clink against the floor with the sound of a rat tap-dancing on a tin roof. Sydney strokes her hand over the smooth dome surface, and the alphie coos like a beloved pet—all preprogrammed, but it’s nice to feel needed nonetheless.

“She’s waiting!” Ruby’s voice comes from out back as she snags a quick smoke.

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