Fang

48

“HAVE YOU BACKED UP the data?” The head of information finished sca

The tech clicked her mouse quickly through the static scenes. The image on the screen changed from an empty living area with one lamp burning to a darkened kitchen area. The kitchen was a mess, with dirty plates and pots and glasses stacked on every surface. Food containers had been left open, unrefrigerated. The next image was a long, empty hallway with large windows on one side. After that was a bedroom.

“This is Subject Twenty-two, sleeping in Subject One’s bed, since she isn’t there,” the tech said. “During the day he’s mostly been practicing flying, but at night he’s been restless, not sleeping deeply. It could be that his circadian rhythms haven’t stabilized yet. His physio readings suggest that he’s anxious or unhappy.”

“Yes. His prime focus went away.”

“I see. Before he went to sleep, he walked around the room, examining everything, touching everything, even smelling things.”

“He’s imprinting,” said the head of information. “That’s good. But the notes indicate he’s made no attempt to follow Subject One. Can you confirm?”

“His flying skills are improving, but at this stage wouldn’t enable long-distance -”

“Irrelevant,” the head jumped in dismissively. “His programming should compel him to use any means available. Possibly a minor malfunction,” she speculated, dropping the tech’s notes on the desk. “But possibly a major one. Keep an especially close eye on that one’s stats.” She swiveled on her heel and in a flash was gone.

The tech bit her lip. The heads – as intimately familiar with the details of their constructions as they were – somehow all seemed to forget that the subjects were not, in fact, robots.

There was no malfunction. It was simply that the soul could not be programmed.

49

I WAS WORKING through Italian spumoni on a cone as Fang and I threaded our way amid the streaming crowds on the sidewalk. Those of you who haven’t been to Vegas – well, it’s bizarre in sort of a “let’s gussy up this car wreck” kind of way. It’s Disney World meets the seedy underbelly of America. But with more liquor and people smoking. A grown-up amusement park.

“I’m dying to go to a casino,” I confessed to Fang.

“We’ll have to throw ourselves three more birthday parties first,” he said. “It’s illegal – we’re underage.”

“So when has that ever stopped us?” I stared at him. “That’s just a way to make sure crazy kids don’t spend all their parents’ money. We’re not crazy, and we don’t have any parents’ money. Just our own hard-earned cash from all those CSM air shows we did.”

“Which has gotta be ru

“Don’t get all grown-up on me. This is, like, our vacation from being the grown-ups of the flock. And I want to go…” I looked around at the spectacularly campy scenery.

“There,” Fang declared, pointing to a building in the shape of a… horse? It definitely topped the Bizarre-o-Meter of novelty architecture. “The Trojan Horse.”

Suddenly I was having second thoughts. “Wasn’t that, like, a giant sculpture that was full of enemy soldiers or something? Back in the old days?”

Fang looked blank. “Guess I missed that lesson in Max’s Home School.” He took my hand. “Come on!”

We strolled in easily across the dizzyingly patterned carpet. Barbie doll women with trays of drinks were zipping around helping to get people loopy so they’d spend more money. Even without a drop of alcohol, it took about two seconds for me to become seized with a very u

Fang leaned close and whispered, “Don’t freak out, but there are cameras in the ceiling every couple feet.” Ordinarily, that fact would guarantee I’d break out in paranoid hives. “And notice the guys in dark suits standing around watching everyone? Don’t worry. They’re just looking for cheaters.”

“Cheaters? us?” I smiled. “I guess we’re safe.”

The flock had always looked a little older than our biological ages – guess that came from being evolutionary wonders. But I was surprised that people didn’t boot us out immediately. Imagine money being more important than law enforcement!

We got a bunch of quarters and parked ourselves in front of a Treasure Island slot machine. I fed a quarter into the slot and pulled the arm. The wheels spun fast, eventually stopping with cherries, a weight, and the number seven.

My eyes narrowed and I pushed another quarter in.

Another miss.

“That machine took my money!” I said. “I must have revenge! Fang, get on that machine next to me,” I ordered, spilling half of my quarters into a separate plastic bucket for him. “This could take a while.”

And so our hypnotic rally began. Seriously, those spi

Maybe that explains why it only took about fifteen minutes for the machine to start messing with me.

’Cause instead of cherries, bars, and numbers, I saw a cartoony wolf face pop up.

Then another.

Then another. Jackpot?

“Jackpot, Max!” I heard the voice of Dr. Gunther-Hagen come from behind me.

50

I WHIRLED AROUND and saw no one. No psychotic mad scientists, anyway.

“Jackpot, Max! Jackpot!” It was Fang, and he was giggling hysterically.

For those of you just joining us, Fang doesn’t giggle. Especially hysterically.

So for a second, this seemed like one of the weirder dreams of recent days, until Fang clutched my shoulders and started shaking me. “Check it out, Max!”

The jangling sound of metal coins rushing out of Fang’s machine suddenly entered my consciousness. Fang had morphed into a wide-eyed maniac scrambling to scoop all of the change into his cup, then mine. “Get another cup!” he ordered, and I grabbed two more that had been orphaned nearby.

While Fang focused on the money, I did a 360 and started to sweat. Downside of a jackpot? People notice you. And in our case, it wasn’t all pat-on-the-back, “Oh, congratulations! How wonderful for you!” More like “Who the hell are you and could you even possibly be eighteen years old?”

As I saw figures moving toward us, I had a vision of troops inside the Trojan Horse flattening their enemy as they swarmed out. “Outta here now, Fang!” I said in my most don’t-even-think-of-arguing-with-me voice.

Clutching four heaping cups of coins, we booked it into a glass elevator that delivered us gamblin’ fools down, down, down the leg of the Trojan Horse to ground level.

“Remind me never to go to a place called the Trojan Horse again,” I said.

“What’re you talking about? It was good luck,” Fang countered.

“Not exactly,” I said, as the glass door slid open and Dr. Hoonie-Goonie was standing there to greet us.