Junkyard Roadhouse
Junkyard Roadhouse was built to resemble an old-west saloon—the center part of the false front was stacked higher than the sides, a covered front porch offered shade, and hemp-plaz carbon-fiber composite building materials had the appearance of weathered wood boards. Exterior lights flickered like gas lanterns. Sturdy double doors that looked like oak were repurposed, reprogramed, repainted spaceship hatches. In front of the doors, steel barricades had been constructed in the shape of hitching posts, to keep the occasional drunken biker from driving his bike inside, just to see if he could get away with it. The sign at the façade’s apex glowed in the dark sky, lasers neon-red at night, painted red beneath to read by day.
The roadhouse looked homey, the kind of place a biker could bring his kids and have a meal with expectations of getting out alive and without bloodshed, but it was built like a fort, with a graphite epoxy frame and its armaments well placed and out of sight. Silk-plaz windows let in outside light but no visuals and no heat from inside showed though, inconveniencing drive-by shooters or long-range assassins. And my bouncer would be a droid—if Mateo and Jolene got it put together in time—so enforcing the Rules of Entry, which were printed on the doors, would be no problem.
I shoved the hood of my jacket back and stared at my new place, my breath puffing in white clouds. I had never considered a life not in hiding, but in the open, under my own name, and free. It had never crossed my mind because it had been impossible. Yet here I was, known to the world as Shining Smith, my roadhouse ready to open. And it wasbloody fine.
Near me, in his mostly repaired warbot suit, Mateo fully extended his three longer legs, rising over my head, to see the grounds from a higher angle. “Looks good,” he said, his metallic larynx raspy, emotionless. “I like that you can’t see the office from here, or the scanners from outside.”
We’d built in front of the office, closer to the street. Everyone who entered the roadhouse doors had to pass through a scanner that worked as metal detector, X-ray machine, and explosive detection device to make sure the First Rule of Entry was followed to the letter. The first rule was: No weapons allowed. Below the first rule was a description of what constituted a weapon. Pocketknives with blades five centimeters or longer were considered weapons. Box cutters were considered weapons. Toenail clippers were not considered weapons, but employing them in the roadhouse was considered a breach of good manners. Second Rule of Entry was: No fighting. Fighting was considered anything that broke furniture, spilled drinks, knocked out teeth, or drew blood. Arm wrestling was not considered fighting. Disagreements that required fists were relegated to the fighting ring in the parking lot and overseen by Mateo. The punishment for breaking the second rule was severe. The Rules of Entry was long, and all the repercussions for breaking them were ruthless.
Biker clubs tended to be legalistic these days. Not that most made-men would read the rules.
“Company, Shining Sugah,” Jolene said into my comms earpiece.
“Where?” I asked the AI.
“My scanners indicate something heading in from the west, down Pond Fork Road, so I activated more ARVACs. There’s one rider on a scooter heading this way. Fully electric. No detectable weapons. Rider’s a little person.”
“Like a dwarf or a midget?” Amos called from the open roadhouse door.
“Shush,” Cupcake said, snapping a dishcloth at him.
“What’d I do?”
“No, Amos, darlin’,” Jolene said. “Like a child.”
ARVACs—Auto Remote Viewing Air Craft—were flying drones with better-than-standard artificial intelligence and real time viewing, part of the junkyard’s defense system. We kept one aloft at all times now. Just in case.
“How?” I asked. “Pond Fork washed out a month ago.” No one answered.
I tilted my wrist, tapped my Morphon open, and Jolene put a vid up.
The ARVAC had low-light capabilities and, though everything was in shades of green, details were clear. The scooter was a small one-person bike, a pre-war youth model with an overheated battery, tires that were low on air, nearly flat, and a kid bent low over the handlebars.
“Deets?” I asked.
“Body measurements fit those of a male child, age twelve or thereabouts, no weapons except a small folding knife in a pocket. His scooter battery is about to blow. That could hurt him. Shining Sug—”
“Amos,” I interrupted.
“On it,” he said.
The plagues during and after the war had resulted in a lower than normal birthrate and a disastrously low survival rate for kids. Kids who survived were protected and, by OMW rules,abusers were killed on sight. Kids were golden. Even if this boy had been carrying a nuke, we’d have sent someone to help him.
Amos’ lumbering running footsteps faded into the dark and a moment later a gas powered, armored four-seater ATV, called a Quadro or quad, roared to life. Amos tore down the junkyard’s long dusty drive and into the street.
“Not a trap?” I asked Jolene.
“He’s alone, poor lil thang,” the starship’s AI said in her chosen Deep South accent. “And I think he’s wounded. He’s got a higher than normal temp and what looks like fresh blood on his side.”
“Prepare to decontaminate the premises,” I said to Jolene. “Cupcake, would you warm up the new Urgent Care, please?”
“Got it.” My number one thrall, and soon to be my vice president, took off at a run.
I didn’t have to say please. My thralls weren’t exactly bound to me body, mind, and soul anymore, but they weren’t fully autonomous either. I could force them to do most anything through the nanobots that had transitioned them from humans to whatever we were now, but that was sick. I’d seen the results of a queen who had done that, and it was horrible.
The roadhouse, the trading post, and clearing house-grocery store in back—every building I had been in over the last seventy-two hours except my office/quarters—locked down hard, and the WIMP antigravity devices in each area came on. With so many going at once, our power levels dropped dangerously low, the lights on the new sign browned out, and then went dark. Around us, the solar powered landscaping lights glowed on.
