Part 8 (1/2)
She lifted up the markers. ”I don't suppose I could have these as part of my payment?”
Was that a smile that tugged his mouth slightly sideways for one second? ”You can have them.” Maynard produced a business card and presented it. ”This is my direct number. If you figure anything out, give me a call. It is always answered.”
Of course it was-he was G.o.d of Pittsburgh. There was no name on the card, only a phone number. Wow, G.o.d's private phone number.
Tinker pocketed it. ”I'll let you know what I find out.”
”I'll take you home.”
She wasn't comfortable with the idea of G.o.d knowing where she lived, although, he certainly could find out easily enough. ”I've got some shopping to do, before everything's gone. Could you just drop me at Market Square?”
3: Accidental Lolita
It wasn't until Maynard's armored limo rolled away that Tinker realized she had just stranded herself downtown.
She had taken her headset off in the trailer, and thus Windwolf had carried her into the hospice without it. Pay telephones had started disappearing from Earth cities at the turn of the century as cell phones eliminated the need for them. Luckily, Pittsburgh had moved to Elfhome before the last wave of dismantling pay phones. Supposedly to maintain the lines of communication between Shutdown and Startup, the governments of Earth heavily subsidized Pittsburgh's phone system. Thus Tinker was able to find a phone, and with her lone rumpled dollar changed into dimes at the okonomiyaki okonomiyaki cart, could afford ten calls. cart, could afford ten calls.
The afternoon sun had heated the plastic of the pay phone to nearly blistering. Tinker winced at the pain it lanced through her newly healed hand, and juggled the hot receiver around while she called Oilcan. He didn't pick up, which was odd. She tried his home number, but he wasn't at his condo. She didn't bother leaving a message; most likely by the time he checked his home machine, she would be someplace other than Market Square.
Oilcan wasn't at the sc.r.a.p yard either. Because she'd yanked her workshop to ferry Windwolf around, her office AI was offline at the sc.r.a.p yard. After a dozen rings, she hung up, and called her loft.
Her home AI Skippy answered. ”h.e.l.lo, this is Tinker's residence. Tinker isn't in. Please leave an audio message, video clip, or data file.”
”It's me. Let me have the audio messages.” She used her voice code. ”Tesla t.i.tillates treacle.”
”There were sixty-seven calls,” Skippy reported, and started into replaying the messages. ”Message one.”
Sixty-seven? Who the h.e.l.l is all calling me? Tinker frowned as Nathan's voice came on.
”I was wondering what happened after I left,” Nathan said. ”Call me. I'm worried about you.”
Skippy time-stamped the message from the morning of Shutdown and gave the number. She recognized it as the pay phone at the McKees Rocks gas station; Nathan might have stopped there after checking the sc.r.a.p yard. She made a mental note to call him.
”Message two,” Skippy queued into the next call, which was from Oilcan.
”Hey, I got gas for the shop, tracked down a load of fresh batteries, and even managed to snag you a new clutch system for your bike. I swung past again to pick you up, but you had gone already. I'm heading out to buy food now. I don't know about you, but all I have in my cupboard is instant oatmeal and brown sugar. I'll see you tonight at Lain's.”
Lain's?
Skippy time-stamped the call at two hours earlier, meaning Oilcan must have been on Maynard's heels in his attempt to pick her up at the hospice. The phone number was a South Hills number, so Oilcan must have gone straight out to the food warehouses.
”There are no more audio messages,” Skippy reported.
”Wait, what about the other sixty-five calls?”
”No other messages were left.”
The phone company's automated system hijacked the connection and demanded more money. Tinker fed two of her dimes into the coin slot. Satisfied, the phone company's AI released the line.
”Give me a report on all calls.”
Nathan's was indecently early, meaning he had probably left it as he came off s.h.i.+ft. The second call hit at the unG.o.dly time of 5:15 a.m. The third was at 5:30 a.m., and then the calls settled into an every-half-hour event. The first thirty-eight originated from an Earth phone number with an area code that she didn't recognize, and came with no ID flag. At midnight, when Pittsburgh returned to Elfhome, the Earth phone number dropped off the list.
At six the next morning, the calls started again, only this time the phone numbers were all local pay phones at systematic half-hour intervals. They moved in a widening circle around the sc.r.a.p yard, starting at the gas station on the corner. She had just missed the most recent call.
Just out of curiosity, she had Skippy compare call times for all calls, Earth-based and local. All of them listened to the full outgoing message, as if checking to make sure nothing had been changed.
The phone company's automated system hijacked the line again, demanding more money if she was going to stay on. She hung up instead, not sure what to make of the mysterious phone calls. Obviously someone, apparently from Earth, was looking for her, but who?
Perhaps Lain knew, as all of Tinker's contacts with Earth came through the xen.o.biologist. Tinker used her fifth dime to call the xen.o.biologist, and got Lain's AI.
”It's Tinker,” she told Lain's simple, unnamed AI.
”Tinker,” Lain's recorded voice came on. ”Oilcan called early this morning. He said there's nothing to eat out at your place. We're doing the traditional summer Startup cookout here at the Observatory. I'm probably outside, so just come on up. You can spend the night if you want.”
Tinker's mouth drooled at the thought. Huge and crowded as Earth was, the scientific community of Earth remained small enough that the incoming scientists knew to bring food for a social gathering, each trying to outdo the rest. Since Pittsburgh pulled in people from all across Earth, the cookout was held the day after Startup, so those coming in at the last minute wouldn't miss out on the festivities.
Getting to the Observatory, however, might be tricky. Maybe she should have taken Maynard up on the offer of a ride. While South Hills still had a light-rail public transportation system, only taxis went to Observatory Hill. She now had only five dimes to her name.
She considered her dimes, then dropped one into the coin slot and called Nathan.
He picked up on the first ring.
”Czernowski.”
”It's Tinker.”
”Tink! What happened after I left? Where have you been? Are you okay? Where are you?”
”I-um...” She paused, not sure which question to answer first. The last two days' events seemed impossible to explain. ”I'm fine. I'm downtown. Market Square. I'm kind of stuck. I need a ride out to the Observatory. I'm going to crash with Lain tonight.”
”I'll be right there.”
Which was what she had hoped he would say.
Nathan double-parked his Buick by the pay phone, twenty minutes later. ”I've been worried sick about you,” he called as he climbed out. ”I'm sorry I had to leave you with that mess. The accident was unreal, and I was stuck there all night. By the time I got free, you had yanked your trailer and were gone.”
”It's okay.” She waved it away. ”I had Oilcan and Lain to help me. You're here now.”
”Lain! Of course.” He surprised her by hugging her. What, was everyone suddenly touchy-feely? ”How's your hand?”
She showed it to him, flexing it. ”It got infected.”
He dwarfed her left hand in his and eyed it with deep sorrow. ”Oh, Tinker, I'm so sorry.”