Chapter 3: CHAPTER THREE (Part 1)

During the weekend he stood on the other side of the training track, stopwatch in hand, as Tony worked with Dawny Lee. The filly still tried to do most of her running at the start of the race, but she did show sign of mild improvement. On Sunday Tony rated her as well as he had ever seen, and the filly managed seven furlongs before tiring while trying to stretch it to a mile.

“Hey, I think we got it this time.” Tony leaped from the saddle like a winning jockey, a big smile on his face.

“We got diddly squat,” he said, spitting phlegm to the side, “unless she improves... a lot.”

“Yeah.” Tony’s voice was quieter now, and the smile had faded.

“I just can’t understand it,” he muttered, trying to figure out the filly. “She should be running a mile in one thirty... no, that was Dr. Fager’s record... one thirty-two... one thirty-five...” His voice drifted into silence. Her dam dropped a dud. He regretted that thought immediately.

On Monday Dawny Lee returned to her old self. She burst out of the starting gate as if a hot poker had been driven up her ass. Streaked past him like a horse pursued by ravenous demons. He yelled at Tony to slow her down, damn it, slow her the fuck down.

Swearing didn’t come easy for him.

“Damn it,” he yelled after Tony had reined her in at the gate, “she’s playing with you.”

“No. She’s a—”

“I know what she is.” He rammed the stopwatch deep into his pocket.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Stop saying that and do what I tell you. If every race were four... maybe five furlongs she’d be two-year-old champion at the end of the season.” He didn’t want to hear any more excuses from his exercise rider. “The year’s half over, and she hasn’t set foot on the racetrack yet. Westover closes the last Sunday in November, and I’d like to run on her on that track before it does.”

“She keeps getting away from me,” Tony said, but he wasn’t listening. He swung around, stormed off to the house.

He woke up Tuesday morning, the appointment with Richard Peterson the first thing on his mind. Peterson's image left a bad taste in his mouth.

Shower, shave, breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, coffee. To go or not to go, that was the question.

I thought you’d want to know what makes those thoroughbreds tick.

Maybe that’s what they did. Tick like a watch. Tick tick tick. Switch on, switch off.

Let him tell you about Equine Electronics, about their... horses. Then you can use what you know against them.

Maybe the boy did have a point. To know how the other side conducted their business might prove an advantage.

What to look for at Equine Electronics? He had no idea, but he would keep his eyes open, ears open, mouth shut except to ask questions. Lots of questions, and he’d learn, and keep the answers in his head. Somewhere down the road he’d see if Dawny Lee could take advantage of what he had learned.

Tony wanted to exercise Dawny Lee but he told him to give the filly a rest today. “Too much work isn’t good either,” he added, not caring about Tony’s disappointment. The young man had to remember his place on the farm. While he appreciated his opinion regarding the filly’s status, the boy had to realize who owned the horse.

“But she loves to run, Mr. Gilbert.”

“I know that,” he said. “Running is what she does, but we have to have some control over how she runs.”

“Couldn’t I take her out for a relaxing ride? Along Arrowhead River, maybe.”

“No.”

“Please.” Like a little boy asking for a snack before dinner.

“And don’t even think about it when I’m gone,” he said. “Just make sure she has enough food and water, and muck out her stall.”

Tony glanced at his shoes, as discouraged as a youngster left out when Christmas toys were handed out.

Gilbert walked over to Dawny Lee’s paddock. The filly was grazing, hind end toward him, tail always moving. Despite the deaths of so many horses the flies were still around, refusing to leave. Dawny Lee was the last of thirty six horses he once owned and bred and raised. The mysterious virus that had decimated the equine population didn’t care if the breed was thoroughbred, standardbred, quarter horse, or any other breed. A horse was a horse, of course, and they all suffered, all except this filly, and throughout the world, a few others. Too few.

Dawny Lee’s mother died shortly after giving birth, coughing, diarrhea, fever, leading to her demise. He didn’t give the foal much of a chance, but somehow she managed to defeat the virus, managed to stay on her hoofs. He couldn’t explain it, and neither could her vet, Doc Landon. All the vet could do was to continue examining her, remarking that he couldn’t understand why a filly so young could live despite the virus’s effort to take her life.

Superfilly, the vet had called her. Now that he thought about it, he wished that term would translate to her ability on the track.

“You should be dead,” he said. “I should be racing artificial horse, not trying to get back on the track with the likes of you.”

He regretted it immediately, and at the same time didn’t. Although he wanted her to run, unless more real horses could come together to assemble a number of races there was no use even thinking about it.

He arrived at Equine Electronics at ten to two. The burly guard at the gate asked his business, and it took him a moment to answer. Something about the guard troubled him, and questions ran through his mind.

“I have an appointment with Dr. Peterson,” he finally said.

“Just a minute.” The voice seemed real, but the guard had trouble trying to decide on an accent. One moment he sounded as British as King Charles, the next a voice straight out of a century old western, the next more Australian than the character in that old movie, Crocodile Dundee.

A moment later the guard poked his head out the little guardhouse. “You’re too early... early... but... but you can go... in?” A question? “The porking lot is... straight ahead and to your light... right.” He spoke the last part with an Australian accent so thick Gilbert expected him to say, “Good day, mate” at any moment.

Porking lot?

The gate opened automatically, and he drove through. An involuntary shudder ran through him, and he tried to think of something that had nothing to do with Equine Electronics. He wanted to turn around and forget all about this, but he shook the thought from his head. Too far now; he’d see it through,

Equine Electronics consisted of a series of square and rectangular buildings set together like building blocks, connected by covered walkways. At first, the design seemed haphazard but in all likelihood probably served some sort of purpose.

He walked into the building marked Administration, thoughts of leaving now completely gone, replaced by curiosity. The first thing he noticed in the spacious lobby was the receptionist’s desk, and behind it, the receptionist, blonde, pretty, breasts trying to escape the white blouse she was wearing. He reminded her of Lisa after she had dyed her natural dark-brown hair and turned it into a sickly-looking blonde. He told her he hated it, and she had run to the bedroom, crying. Next day, her hair had returned to her natural color.

“Welcome to Equine Electronics,” the receptionist said, white teeth gleaming. “How may I help you.” A slight Southern accent, but there was still something different about it, something he couldn't place at the moment.

He told her. She asked for his name, smiling all the time, as if someone had instructed her to smile, and keep on smiling.

She looked at the computer screen. “One moment, Mr. Gilbart.” She handed him a badge with Equine Electronics, words and logo on it. Still smiling.

Could have come in here with a gun, blown her head off, and she’d still be smiling.

“Gilbert. The name is Gilbert.”

“Dave.” A familiar voice behind him.

He faced Paul Brenner. Didn’t want to see him, but had no choice. This was Brenner’s territory, and he was the guest.

“I came to see Dr. Peter... Dr. Peterson.”

“He’s busy at the moment,” Brenner said. “Something... came up. I’ll show you around till he gets here.”

He followed Brenner down one of the main hallways branching off from the lobby, trying to keep up, while at the same time taking in everything.

“She’s an excellent model, isn’t she?” Brenner said in front of him.

It took him a moment to realize Brenner was referring to the receptionist. “You mean she’s...”

“Model SU19215. We call her Sue.”

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Gilbert glanced back toward the lobby. It hadn’t occurred to him that Equine Electronics might be using androids as receptionists. And if receptionist why not other functions? How many men and women in this hallway were androids?

“And the guard?”

“Android.”

“Something the matter with him... it? One moment he sounds like the king of England, the next like a cowboy, and he does a pretty good imitation of that crocodile guy... you know, Crocodile Dundee.”

“I know. He needs some tuning up.”

“I thought you dealt only in horses.”

“We do. We acquired the androids from ‘Androids for Business.’ They specialize in receptionists, secretaries, security guards, positions like that. Very exclusive, very expensive. Have to kiss a lot of ass just to get even one of them.”

They rounded a corner, and he was looking down a covered walkway leading hopefully somewhere. How much more walking? The answers were here.

Let him tell you about Equine Electronics, about their... horses. Then you can use what you know against them.

The first part should be fairly easy, the last part not so much.

“Still thinking of trying to get your horse into the races?” Brenner asked.

“Of course.” No hesitation.

“You’re a fool.”

Anger welled up inside him but he suppressed it. He wouldn’t bother himself with Brenner too much.

“You’re blind,” Brenner said. “The Jockey Club will never allow your horse—”

“Shut up,” he snapped. “Just show me around.”

“All right, if that’s what you want.”

At the end of the covered walkway, another hallway, this one only a short distance to a closed door. Brenner pushed open the door, held it for him, but he just stood there, staring at a large room filled with silver metallic tables cluttered with various equine heads, limbs, chests, back, and other small parts, as well as numerous tools, many of which he didn’t recognize.

“This is one of our production rooms,” Brenner said, “although you might say this is the main room.” Spoken like the CEO of a large factory showing the facility to a visiting foreign dignitary.

He stepped into the huge manufacturing plant, watched the workers scurrying like ants. If androids and humans were working side by side he couldn’t tell the difference. Unless they had faults, like the security guard outside.

“Over here,” Brenner called.

He joined Brenner at another table. “Each table serves a specific function,” his former trainer said. “The worker at the table you just looked at is responsible for hind legs. Nothing else, just hind legs. This worker...”

“Are they androids?”

“Some are, some aren’t. Remember, they cost a lot.”

“Dr. Peterson to Room 107, Dr. Peterson, Room 107,” a feminine voice announced over the P.A. system.

“Dr. Peterson is on his way,” Brenner said.

Gilbert watched the worker assemble a horse’s head. Divided into two parts, but instead of flesh and blood and brain he saw only two empty shells, reminding him of a walnut. Or maybe two eggshells emptied of yolk and white.

Peterson joined them a few minutes later, rushing into the room. When Brenner immediately stepped aside Gilbert realized who was really in charge.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Gilbert,” Peterson said. “I apologize for not being here to meet you, but a matter of utmost urgency came up.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

“Oh, not at all. The matter has been resolved.”

“Brenner’s been helpful.”

“Thank you, Brenner,” Peterson said. “I’ll take it from here.”

Brenner almost bowed to the older man before heading back to the door.

Gilbert smiled. A subordinate at the farm, a subordinate here.

Tell me all about your operation here, he thought as he followed Peterson to another table. I want to learn as much as I can.

“Each of these workers is responsible for a specific part of the horse. Thus we have one worker who assembles forelegs, another does hind legs, another the tail, and so on until we put everything together and the finished product is a horse.”

“How do you... program a horse?” He didn’t want to sound too curious, but the question had been nagging at him since he entered the building.

“That’s not my department,” Peterson said. “The geniuses in Building C are responsible for that.”

He followed Peterson like a well-trained dog, as inquisitive as a puppy. Learn everything you can, try to remember, take advantage.

Scattered on the next table were what appeared to be about a dozen penises, and scattered among them, testicles.

Are they kidding? That was the first thought in his mind. “Why do the horses need those?”

Peterson removed his glasses, took a small cloth from his breast pocket, wiped them gently. “Realism, Mr. Gilbert. We build colts, fillies, geldings, whatever a racetrack wants... or should I say needs.” The glasses settled on his nose again.

“But I thought...”

“None of these items are functional, of course,” Peterson said. “They do, however, help the track decide which horses are suited for which races. Westover, for example, wants older horses, four and up. They tell us they have enough two and three-year-olds. Woodbine, Santa Anita, Belmont... they want younger horses. The remaining tracks in North America don’t really care.”

“Specifics,” he said.

“At least there is variety at the various tracks.”

“Fillies and mares...”

“Their genitalia is somewhere up there.” Peterson waved at another table.

Races for fillies and mares only, or for colts and geldings only still existed, but he thought tracks like Westover did that because of nostalgia. Android horses should be as sexless as porcelain horse you bought at gift shops.

Peterson picked up a testicle the size of a grapefruit. “Maybe one day we’ll be able to build horses that reproduce, but for the moment we are mortal.” He chuckled, a sound that left Gilbert cold.

“Instead of building horses, why don’t you save the real thoroughbreds, the real breeds, that are left?”

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