Free LEGACY BETRAYED by Rachel Eastwood Page B

her summer selection.
    Legacy sighed.
    That’d been the only time she’d left Glitch’s in two days.
    Dax couldn’t possibly be that busy, could he? The selection labs, like most other businesses of repute in the city, closed their doors at sundown. She’d called him, too. No answer. Just messages. CIN-3 mentioned no recent crimes or arrests. If anything, it was almost as if Dyna Logan’s streaming updates were on a loop.
    What if Dax was taken to the castle and tortured for information on my whereabouts? Legacy wondered, unblinking. But then again, I know Kaizen is the duke now. He wouldn’t do that . . . would he?
                  Dax wouldn’t just leave her to languish at Glitch’s, either, though, and he didn’t know that the Widow Coldermolly had offered her several hundred pieces. As far as he knew, she had only forty, which would’ve been gone yesterday at the rental price of twenty pieces per night. As far as he knew, she was broke by now, sleeping on the streets. It didn’t make any sense.
                  Suddenly, the automaton in the corner – who hadn’t moved in the past several days, except to alert Legacy of the date, the time, and his need to have his key turned – sprang to life. Rusting and inexact, this complimentary automaton made Bart-12 look state-of-the-art. “Hell-hell-o, D-D-Dax Ghrrrenadel!” the automaton greeted, bringing a fresh pang to Legacy’s chest. “ Grouuup b-b-bull-bulletin incoming from Leopold Comstock. Grouuup b-b-bull-bulletin incoming from Leopold Comstock. Prrrivate! CC meeting! Friiiday night! Mmmidnight! Industrial territory, lot-lot #3! Again! Prrrivate! CC meeting! Friiiday night! Mmmidnight! Industrial territory, lot-lot #3!”
                  Legacy glared at the automaton, a shuddering silhouette in the corner.
                  So Kaizen had been telling the truth.
                  And if this automaton, registered to Dax, received that message, it also meant that Dax’s personal automaton had received that message. And if he didn’t visit her within the next three days, he’d have no way of knowing that it was a trap.
                  And what if . . . what if Trimpot had already been around? What if he . . . had gone to see Dax, and was slowly building up an arsenal of incriminating evidence? How deep did this newfound allegiance to the monarchy go? What if he had to make sure that no one could possibly blame him for Malthus’ death? And Dax wouldn’t know. Dax would never suspect. The guilty party would be ferreted out, for all intents and purposes, the monarchy secured, Trimpot given an informant’s stipend and a new home beyond the gates of Lion’s Head, and Dax gone forever.
                  Legacy lunged from the bed, spinning the key-corsage on her golden vest – which she still mentally considered to be “Flywheel-2.”
                  “Good m-m-morning, Audio Swan, ” the assistant greeted. “The date is Wed-wed-wednesday, August the Sixteenth, Two Thousand, Three Hundred and Twelve. The time is 7:38 pm. No events on schedule. Two old messages. No new messages.”
                  She had to do something, something big, before Friday . . . It wasn’t just about Dax. She couldn’t let all those good people – people just like her, who wanted the option to love and work as they pleased – go to jail.
                  Preoccupied by thoughts of this, the old messages played on. The first message was from her parents.
                  Mr. Legacy’s voice came over the iris-speakers first. “Just calling to let you know that we’ve got some clothes and vitamins all packed up for you–”
                  “Just in case!” Mrs. Legacy added.
                  “–so drop by and grab them if you can, okay–”
                  “But be safe!”