Part 3A: Rayven

"Bring her in here, please!"

I jolted as Lenn's voice echoed from the foyer. After hearing the loud bang! of the front door being slammed into a wall, I rose to see what was going on. As soon as I walked through the door connecting Lenn's living quarters with her office, I stopped on seeing Gael Layne and Lenn wheel in someone on a stretcher, she guiding it from the front to her lab. Watching them disappear around the corner, I looked back to see a Niagara Regional Police sergeant standing by the main door. "What's going on here, Sergeant..." I checked his nametag. "Miles?"

He gazed on me, and then smiled. "You're Deanna Hordye? Marlenn Ioanis' owner of record, right?"

"That's me," I replied, sensing the recognition in his eyes. From Welland natives, that normally meant one thing. "Which school? What grade?"

"Grade Six. I worked with your mom in the library when she was at Plymouth," he replied, holding out his hand. "Izak Miles. Call me Zak."

I gave him a firm handshake. "Deanna. Pleasure to meet you, Zak. I'm sorry for not recalling your name."

"Doesn't bother me," he affirmed with a chuckle. He was a handsome fellow, trim in the mode of most serious track-and-field athletes. Noting that, I wondered what sort of street work Zak did for the police. "Lord knows, with the way your mom got around the elementary schools in Welland, it wouldn't surprise me that she got to know at least half of the people in the city who were in Grades Six, Seven and Eight from the day she started work at Crowland Central until the day she retired after her time at Empire. How many could that've been in the long run?"

"Yeah, Mama was like that," I admitted as I canted my head in the direction of Lenn's laboratory. "What's the story here?"

"Auto accident on the 406 north of East Main," he reported as we walked to the entrance to the shop. "Car smashed into a tree on the side of the road. No other vehicles involved, thank God. Only ones hurt were one 'bot and three normals, all female."

"What about the normals?"

"Welland County General," he said. That was the local hospital on King Street three blocks south of Lincoln. "Chances are they might have to get airlifted to the Hotel Dieu in Saint Kitts or one of the hospitals in Hamilton, though."

I gazed concernedly at him. "Bad?"

He returned my look. "And then some."

"Busy night," I noted, glancing at my watch. It was close to nine-thirty on Saturday night, a week after I had taken official custody of Lenn -- to tell her apart from her creator, I used a "pet" form of Marlenn's name -- from Dayle Ioanis, Marlenn's older brother.

"Actually, it's been pretty quiet," Zak noted with a shrug. "Which makes incidents like this all the more worse at times."

I patted his shoulder in sympathy. "Sorry to hear that."

"Thanks."

We stopped by the closed doors leading into the lab, and then I pushed one of them open, beckoning Zak to follow me in. Lenn, having slipped on her work smock, was busy inserting leads in the unmoving fembot's body. Gael, a man who would be Mama's age who worked as Welland's only licensed 'bot part recycler, manned the controls on the primary diagnostic machine. Hearing Lenn and Gael exchange information in the sharp, staccato-like language doctors and nurses in a hospital's emergency ward used, I found myself grateful for the intensive education Lenn had given me over the last two weeks concerning her work as a 'bot maintenance technician. By the sounds of it, their patient -- at least her core personality matrix and memory files -- stood an excellent chance of survival. That would make Zak's work a lot easier.

"Okay, here's her RID," Gael called out.

"Call it," Lenn ordered.

A fifty-digit code of letters and numbers flowed out of the recycler's mouth. Hearing the first string of ten digits, I nodded. She was an American-built robot from Virginia, four years old, a product of the Noram Cybersystems Group, a fembot in body structure and basic personality programming. Learning the many interesting nuances of a 'bot's RID -- Robot Identification Directory -- number would probably drive even an experienced robot tech to distraction. Remembering what Lenn told me about the information one's RID can relay right up front, I asked her why all human 'bot technicians didn't have a robot assistant when it came to the clerical work.

Lenn's response: "Mother wondered the same thing before she built me."

"Excuse me, Mister Layne, what's the last part of her RID again?" Zak called out, PDA and hand-held mouse at the ready.

Gael repeated the number slowly to give Zak a chance to scribble it into his PDA. "Her name's Rayven," Gael added. "R-A-Y-V-E-N. I'm tapping into the public files to get the identity of her owner right now. Just give us a minute, Sergeant, okay?"

"No problem."

"How is she, Lenn?" I asked.

Lenn grimaced. "Bad. Her main power cell's leaking acid into her lower abdomen. Left arm sheared off at the biceps, the upper parts of both legs crushed. She was probably driving the car. The damage pattern tells me she had the whole engine block rammed into her."

"That's how we found her," Zak confirmed.

I whistled, shaking my head. "Shit!"

"You'll have to disengage her brain from her power cell, Marlenn," Gayle warned.

Lenn nodded. "On it."

As we stood there, Lenn effortlessly severed the energy leads from Rayven's main power cell -- on all robots, that is normally located where a human's stomach and liver would be -- and her central mind. Like a human's, a 'bot's brain and primary memory banks are located in the head. Backup memory banks and an auxiliary central processor unit are placed where a human's heart would be. Given what Zak had told me about the accident and what happened to Rayven's human companions, doing everything to preserve her memories was now all the more paramount.

Once the links to the leaking power cell were severed, Lenn hooked Rayven's mind into the laboratory's power grid. This would allow whatever intact systems that remained to operate, including speech. It was possible for Lenn to cyberlink with Rayven mind-to-mind, of course. No doubt, preferring to verbally speak with her patients was one of the many quirks Lenn's IP-type programming forced on her.

"Okay, she's linked in," Lenn reported. "Wake her up."

"Right."

Gael tapped controls. Silence fell as we waited for Rayven's mind to come on-line. Zak shifted himself to stand beside Lenn. I stayed where I was, barely able to see much of my lover's current patient. "Okay, she should be coming on-line..." Gael hissed through his teeth.

"Where am I?"

That voice spoke in a husky, deep baritone, almost mannish in its quality though still recognizably female. "You're in a robot repair facility in Welland, Rayven," Lenn replied. "I'm Marlenn Ioanis. This is my shop."

A pause as Rayven processed that. "I'm a mess, I take it."

The surprise on Lenn's face on hearing that statement was more than obvious to me. Was Rayven an IP 'bot, her matrix formed from a copy of an organic human's memory? I knew information about that sort of programming would be included in Rayven's RID, but I couldn't recall where it would exactly be. Oh, well. Answer that later. "Yes, you are, I'm afraid," Lenn confirmed with a wry chuckle. "But it's repairable. I hope your maintenance insurance is paid up. You need to get a new arm, plus your whole abdomen and both your thighs have to be rebuilt."

Another pause as Rayven took in that news. "I see."

"Miss Rayven, who's your owner?" Zak then asked.

The answer was automatic. "Brenda Beemon."

I perked on hearing that name. "Brenda Beemon?! From the Vee Beemers?!!"

"Who's that?!" Rayven demanded.

Lenn waved me over to join her. "My owner of record," she reported as I walked around the foot of the diagnostic table to stand beside Zak.

"Deanna, who're the Vee Beemers?!" Gayle asked.

"Thrash band from New York City," I reported. "They're not one of the really headline-grabbing bands -- they've only been touring for the last two years -- but they're getting there. Or so Irene tells me. She can't get enough of their music."

"Nice to know I got fans," Rayven mused, a grin crossing her face.

I got a full look at her -- or at least as much as the thick blanket now covering her from just below her breasts to her feet allowed. Already, oily blue-green stains were appearing on the blanket around the area of her upper left arm, stomach, hips and both legs. Her lack of a left arm from just above the elbow was impossible to ignore. From what I could see of her, she was tall -- almost my height in fact -- and shapely, what one might expect from your average fembot. Staring at her mostly-intact face, I noted there was a deep vertical slash from her hairline through her still-intact left eye to above the corner of her mouth. Looking at her, I was instantly reminded of Chie, one of the dancers at Russell's Retreat who was now the property of my friend Pauline Kim. Rayven's face had the same type of hawkish slant, though her eyes were a light gold-brown instead of Chie's stormy grey. Rayven's hair was a dark brown, shaggily cut, flowing to the bottom of her shoulders.

As the wounded 'bot's eyes turned toward me, I added, "Irene's a showclub performer. In her stage shows, she often uses your band's music."

Rayven blinked -- well, only her right eye could do that now. "Really?" She then glanced towards Zak. "Where're Brenda, Kip and Monica?"

"Welland County General Hospital, in intensive care. All of them are in very critical condition," the policeman replied. "With your consent, Miss Rayven, I'd like to obtain a copy of your memory files to better ascertain what happened tonight..."

"It's not their fault!"

We all started on hearing Rayven's assertion. Seeing a trace of panic cross her face, a sense of dread gripped my heart. Walking around Zak and Lenn, I bent down to gaze into Rayven's eyes. Reaching under the blanket to draw out her still-intact right arm, I held her hand close to my cheek as I projected what I hoped would be an understanding gaze on Lenn's patient. I knew Rayven wouldn't be able to feel anything below her neck -- a glance to her large breasts and the flat, unresponsive nipples at their peaks confirmed that -- but I hoped that my sympathy play would calm her down. "Raye, no one's saying anything about whose fault it is right now. But Zak here can't do anything to figure out what did happen without your help. Brenda and her friends can't help; they're just as banged up as you are. Please?"

Rayven stared at me, the fear on her face slowly fading into a sad understanding. "It's not their fault," she repeated, her voice etched with what sounded like weariness. Whatever was going on -- and my imagination was going into overtime coming up with a storm of theories about that -- it sounded like it had been plaguing Rayven and her bandmates for some time now.

"Will you let Zak get a look at your memory files, Raye?" I asked her.

A longer pause, then she closed her still-functional eye. A tear trickled down her cheek. Shame? Or relief? "Do it."

"What's Rayven doing here?! What happened to her?!"

I looked up to see Irene and Reika standing at the bedroom doorway. It was well past three o'clock early on Sunday morning. I was now in bed, waiting for Lenn to finish up with her newest patient before joining us for a good night's romp. "She was in a car accident on the 406 earlier this evening," I reported as my lovers dropped off their purses and overnight bags on the couch nearby, and then they moved to sit on the bed. I sat up to stretch. "The others in the band are at the hospital in town, all in critical condition."

"That's awful!" Reika whispered, squeezing her sister's shoulders in a surprisingly human gesture of support. "What are their chances?"

"The police didn't say." I shook my head before perking on seeing Lenn step inside. "She okay?"

"I had to shut her down." Lenn gave my other lovers a warm smile, and then she slipped off her smock and housecoat. Despite what had happened this evening, I felt a shiver on seeing Lenn's nude body. She remained in full-female format, as were Reika and Irene since they just got back from the Wheelhouse -- Port Colborne's only showclub -- and the Station Hotel respectively. "Fortunately, her maintenance insurance is all paid up, so I can get started on the repairs first thing tomorrow. She should be back on her feet by Monday afternoon."

"Can we help out?" Irene asked as she and Reika rose to undress.

"Not really." Lenn shook her head as she moved to slip into bed beside me. "Other than keeping your fingers crossed."

They nodded understandingly as they finished slipping off their clothes and came to join us in bed. Watching them, I felt another shudder run through me as Reika and Irene assumed bi-'bot format. God, I still can't get over watching it happen. One moment, they're the perfect idols of the female form. Next moment, wham! They're a perfect pair of hermaphrodites. Watching Lenn change from full-female to bi-'bot format hits me even deeper in my heart. Then again, given my long crush on Lenn's "mother," what could you expect?

"So what do you want to do, Mistress?" Irene coyly wondered as she sat beside me, prepared to offer me anything I could desire.

I blinked, glancing at my companions for a moment, and then a shiver ran through me as the image of Rayven's wounded face passed before my mind's eye. "I'm not in the mood tonight, girls," I breathed out, allowing my head to sink into the pillows. "Let's just get some sleep."

My lovers exchanged looks on hearing that, and then they nodded...

Sunday passed by sluggishly slow. To ensure we didn't interrupt Lenn's work on Rayven, Reika, Irene and I headed back to our apartment on Denistoun Street to spend a quiet day together in front of the home media centre. It was hard for me to concentrate on watching our DVD collection of 24 Sussex Drive -- Canada's answer to the long-running The West Wing -- though, to say anything about listening to some of my favourite music. I barely noticed the concerned looks on Reika's and Irene's faces as we ate breakfast and lunch in near-total silence.

I was amazed at how the injury to a 'bot I'd never even met was affecting me, not to mention...

Every time I tried to think about something -- the shocking revelation I received from Drew Keir concerning a possible twin sister; Pauline Kim's ongoing trials and tribulations in forming a working relationship with Chie; the planned trip I would take with the senior student in the tojang, Iruka Shiina, to Ottawa so she could take her final test for her black belt; a party on Monday night at Jim Graham's place; the possibility that Irene and Reika would have to obtain some hardware upgrades from Lenn sometime this week -- Rayven's lovely face, her husky voice, what she'd possibly look like after Lenn finished repairing her, her words in defence of her bandmates...

"Deanna?"

I jolted, and then noticed Irene standing beside me in our bedroom. I had gone there midway through the afternoon to put a new entry into my LiveJournal site. Glancing at the blog before me, I noticed that I hadn't typed a single word. Staring at the time at the bottom right corner of the screen, then comparing it to what time I had logged into LiveJournal, I breathed out. Damn, I had the thing open for an hour and I hadn't written a single bloody thing into it? Quickly, I logged off and closed down the computer before turning in my chair to face Irene. Before she could say anything, I reached over to draw her into an embrace, allowing the side of my face to rest against her tummy. Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around my head. "I'm sorry, Irene," I whispered. "I'm being an old poop today."

"What's wrong, Deanna?" she prodded. "Is it Rayven?"

"Yeah. Among other things. I just can't stop thinking about her."

"She'll be alright," Irene assured me.

"Oh, sure. Physically, she'll be as good as new. Lenn's the best there is when it comes to 'bot repairs. But, mentally..."

"Why are you worried about that?"

I breathed out, pulling away from Irene as I relaxed in my chair. She shifted herself to sitting on my leg, keeping one arm wrapped around my shoulders. We gazed into each other's eyes, and then she leaned in to give me a warm kiss. "Do you best," she whispered, giving me a wink.

I laughed. "Oh, Irene-chan, arigatou," I thanked her in Japanese as we hugged each other, then I gazed up to the ceiling. "I don't know, Irene. I mean, there she is, badly banged up. Her bandmates are in ICU at the hospital. We've no idea how much they've been hurt, but it's gotta be bad. And when Zak asked to get a copy of her memory files, the first thing Raye said was, 'It's not their fault.'"

"That's a strange assertion to make," Irene mused. "Do you think drugs might be a problem?"

I considered that for a moment. "Have there been rumours about the Beemers using drugs?"

"Nothing specific," she replied. "But I've heard lots on how harsh the music industry can be. And the Beemers are a successful band. Three records, the first one having just gone gold. Three Top Ten hits on the Billboard pop charts. All that in the last two years."

Silence fell as I took in what Irene just said, and then a slow nod tilted my head. "Too much pressure to produce," I concluded. It seemed the only conclusion that I could make from the information I had about Rayven's band. On the average, most musicians take a year to produce a new record. But to pump out three records in two years' time, plus factor in tours, promotions, whatever personal problems are there... !

Yeah, it made a load of sense.

The video phone rang. Irene tapped controls to flick on the screen. I smiled on seeing Zak Miles. "Hey, Zak! What's up?!"

He grinned in return, and then he glanced at Irene. "Hello, Deanna! One of yours?"

"Yes, she is." I smirked as Irene slipped off my leg, then I did introductions. Once that was done, I asked, "So why're you calling?"

"Got some bad news about Miss Rayven's friends," the policeman replied. "Very bad news."

"Being?" I prodded.

"The doctor in charge of their cases reported that they are now on full life-support," Zak stated. "One girl has collapsed lungs that they can't re-inflate. Her heart's stopped five times since she was brought in. The second girl's liver is badly lacerated; they've had to put her on a blood-cleansing machine. According to Doctor McLeod, her small intestine and a good portion of her large intestine were turned into sushi. And the third girl's neck is broken; spinal cord was severed clean through."

I winced before gazing briefly at Irene. "Oh, jeez... !" Seeing the tears in her eyes, I could only imagine how the Beemers' other fans would react to this news. "What are their ultimate chances, Zak? What did Anne-Marie tell you?"

Zak's eyes widened. "You know Doctor McLeod?"

I winked at him. "Anne-Marie and I were classmates at Centennial."

He chuckled. "Ah! Like mother, like daughter."

"Unfortunately." I shrugged impishly before quickly sobering. "So what's Anne-Marie's final verdict?"

Zak gazed at his notepad. "For Miss Beemon -- she's the one with the collapsed lungs -- and Miss Hilary -- that's the one with the spinal injury -- their ultimate chances are rated as less than twenty percent. Miss Pascale has a ten percent chance." He lowered the notepad. "The problem is, given how bad the injuries are, Doctor McLeod won't dare try to move them to Toronto. Even sending them to Erie County General in Buffalo's out of the question. The only hope they'll have to eventually recover is to get them stabilized here in Welland, then move them to a better-equipped facility. Much as Welland County General is a good facility for most emergency situations..."

"It serves a city of sixty thousand people, so the population base doesn't justify more advanced gear," I finished.

He nodded. "I'm afraid so."

"Has someone contacted their agent or record company?"

"Their agent's on his way up from the Big Apple right now, but she won't be in town until early tomorrow morning."

"Damn!" I spat out before taking a deep breath. "So why tell me all this, Zak?"

"Well, you are Marlenn Ioanis' owner of record. Since she's busy putting Miss Rayven back together as we speak, you have the right to know the whole situation concerning her. And..." Here, he took a deep breath before giving me a knowing look. "If her friends don't make it in the long term, Miss Rayven might need a new home. What would her record company do in a case like this?"

"Right," I grunted, my fingers rubbing the bridge of my nose. "Look, Zak, let me talk to Anne-Marie about this. Then I'll go break the news to Raye tomorrow after Lenn gets her back on her feet. Is there any problem with that?"

"None. I'll hold off the agent until you do."

"Fair enough."

If Anne-Marie McLeod were a fembot, she'd be the typical American cheerleader of the type found in every showclub, escort service and sim brothel. She stands 168 centimetres -- that's only five-foot-six in the metrically-challenged republic south of the border -- tall and avoids high heels as much as she can. Her sunflower blonde hair is wavy and very soft to the touch. These days, she keeps it cut at the collars so she can fit it into a surgical cap when she's needed in the operating theatre. Her eyes are the same shade as mine, though I often admit that on Anne-Marie's face, they look far prettier. Quite shapely, she would've been a shoe-in for the Centennial Cougars cheerleading team if she hadn't also been born with a high IQ and a desire to learn that puts even Pauline Kim to shame.