Free Sky Coyote by Kage Baker Page B

smell it, and so, unfortunately, could Mendoza. “You can leave your bags here, and we’ll deliver them to your rooms. Mr. Bugleg wants to discuss your mission over dinner.”
    “Great. Thank you very much. Where is the man?” I inquired, hurriedly because I could feel a confrontation building.
    “Go through that door at the end of the hall,” said the mortal girl, just before Mendoza said, “Did you know you’ve got an impacted wisdom tooth, Stacey? I’d have it checked out if I were you.”
    Stacey’s hand flew to the corner of her jaw, and my hand flew to Mendoza’s arm and I pulled her away with me down the hall.
    “Mendoza, that was not nice. Scanning them without permission is impolite.”
    “I don’t give a rat’s ass! Did you smell the way she felt about us? If she’s got a problem dealing with immortals, why’s she with the Company? Nobody told me there’d be mortals crawling all over this place.”
    “Are you going to do this to me again? Don’t do this to me again, Mendoza.”
    “What’d she think we were, for crying out loud?
Androids?”
    “You’ve never worked with any Company mortals, have you?” I paused, scanning the long featureless hall in confusion. What was that pinging noise?
    “Sure I have.” Mendoza turned her head irritably, picking up the sound too.
    “I don’t mean native busboys. I mean officers and shareholders of Dr. Zeus, from the future. We make them uncomfortable.” I paused outside a door and scanned the room beyond. There was a mortal inside, interfacing with an entertainment console. That was it. Somebody was playing a holo game.
    “But why? They made us, didn’t they? We do exactly what they built us to do, don’t we?”
    “I know. I’m not sure what the reason is. Maybe some of them feel we’re not much more than superpowered slaves and they feel guilty about that?”
    She took that in for a minute, as we walked on down the hall.
    “Well, that’s just ducky,” she hissed, and I knocked on Mr. Bugleg’s door before she could tell me just how ducky it was.
    We were let in by a mortal kid, I guess he was a junior clerk or something, and there was Mr. Bugleg standing at the other end of a table set for four. He’d put the table between us and himself, but otherwise you couldn’t have told he was a bigot at all. Nice plastic smile like the girl Stacey. He was mortal too, of course. The food looked lousy.
Ob, boy, this is going to be some tour of duty
, broadcast Mendoza.
Shut up
, I broadcast back. She looked around the room, which was otherwise bare of ornament or furniture save for a plain day bed and a wall console with an enormous private entertainment center. Quite a change from New World One. Bugleg cleared his throat.
    “Mendoza. Joseph. How are you? I’m Bugleg. Have a seat.” His smile faltered off. He looked like a scared toddler at a birthday party. He was a thirtyish mortal, not quite beginning to sag yet, fairly pasty-faced, and his head was a funny shape. (But, then, all their heads look funny to me.) He wore the same drab clothing as his staff: no medals, epaulets, or gold braid.
    “I’ll ring for my aide now,” he told us, and he did, and after an uncomfortable moment of silence a door opened and another man walked in. This one was an immortal and decently dressed, too, with a good wig and a spiffy brocaded coat. He had a black silk steinkirk knotted casually about his throat. To judge from the heels on his shoes, he wasn’t any taller than me, but he strode up to us with authority. The man had style.
    His eyes were gray and cold, and his grip was a little too firm as he shook our hands.
    “This is Mr. Lopez, my aide,” ventured Bugleg.
    “Joseph. Mendoza. It’s a pleasure meeting you. I’ll be briefing you on the mission as we”—he paused significantly—”dine.”
    He pulled out Mendoza’s chair for her. Bugleg sat down and watched in horrified fascination as Mendoza seated herself, settling her acreage of rustling