"Fire!" I shout. "We have fire in the hole!"
Maxwell rips his head out of the console. His hair is messed up. His glasses are crooked. He looks wild-eyed.
"Did I kill him?" he asks breathlessly.
I look at Bob. He has a camera sticking out of his liver, a stab wound in his neck, and he is smoking.
"Well," I say, examining the damage. "His heart condition is no longer his primary concern."
Maxwell slumps back in the chair. He puts his head in his hands.
"We are frauds," he whispers into his palms. "We are charlatans. I just destroyed a thirty-thousand-dollar simulator."
"To be fair," I say, trying not to laugh, "Bob was asking for it. He had a bad attitude."
"This is not funny, Jax. Sterling wants data. He wants a protocol. And all I have is a robot that thinks it is a blender."
He looks devastated. The Golden Boy, defeated by faulty coding.
I walk over to the console. I put a hand on his shoulder. He’s tense, vibrating with frustration.
"Hey," I say softly. "Look on the bright side."
Maxwell looks up, miserable. "There is a bright side?"
"Yeah. If the robot uprising ever happens, we know their weakness."
Maxwell stares at me. "Which is?"
"Arrhythmia," I say. "We just have to dance at them aggressively, and they’ll short-circuit."
Maxwell blinks. Then, a small, reluctant snort escapes him. Then another. He starts to laugh. It’s a desperate, hysterical sound, but it’s real.
"We are going to prison," Maxwell wheezes, wiping his eyes. "For murder of a mannequin."
"Nah," I say, leaning down until our faces are level. "We’ll just tell Sterling the data was corrupted. We’ll buy time. We’ll figure it out."
Maxwell looks at me. The laughter fades, replaced by that intensity that always hits me like a physical blow.
"You really think we can?"
"I think," I say, "that between your brain and my ability to improvise, we can fake anything. Except maybe the robot dance. You should never do that again."
Maxwell straightens his tie, recovering his dignity by the millimeter.
"I do not dance," he informs me. "I execute movement protocols."
"Right. Well, let’s execute a 'Get the hell out of here before the smoke alarm goes off' protocol."
I offer him a hand.
He takes it. His grip is firm.
"Agreed," he says.
We flee the scene of the crime, leaving poor Bob smoking on the table. We’re liars. We’re frauds. And we’re absolutely screwed.
But as we walk down the hallway, Maxwell’s shoulder brushing mine, I realize I haven't had this much fun in years.
