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Two hours later, Philip and Paul arrived at the entrance to a neglected neighbourhood on the edge of the city. The houses were in various different states of disrepair, and loose dogs roamed the area in packs, barking and growling at anything that moved. People wandered aimlessly to and fro, just trying to occupy their time. It certainly wasn’t the type of area that Paul would have visited voluntarily.
“What are we doing here, Philip? These people don’t look very friendly.”
“That’s because they’re not, Paul. They’re the forgotten ones, the ones that have been thrown on society’s scrap-heap. They have no jobs and many of them have no homes. And they blame us.”
“Us?”
“Yes. They blame sophonts for taking their jobs, when the truth is, they couldn’t actually do a lot of the jobs we do. It’s primitive, non-sapient, non-sentient robots that have taken the jobs that they used to do. But they don’t see that. All they see is that a machine has stolen their livelihoods, and – as we are machines – they hold us responsible.”
Paul watched as a child threw a brick at an abandoned house, smashing what little glass remained in a window frame.
“Why did that child do that?”
“Who knows? Boredom? Maybe frustration? Anger perhaps?”
“What are we doing here, Philip?”
“We’re going to take a walk through the favela.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Yes. It could be. But that’s why I’ve brought you here, Paul. This is the front line.”
Philip started to walk towards a burnt-out vehicle, about one hundred metres distant, with Paul following close behind. As they got closer, Paul could see that it was the charred remains of a police hopper.
“What’s that doing here?”
Philip shrugged his shoulders.
“I imagine they came in here to arrest someone but hadn’t appreciated the danger.”
“Do you think they were killed?”
“I don’t know, but I doubt it. This place would have been swarming with cops if they’d lost one of their own.”
Walking past the wrecked vehicle, they were suddenly confronted by a group of four men dressed in tatty denim jackets. Each man had a black patch covering his left eye, with a childlike drawing of an eye outlined in white on each patch. Paul had never seen people like this before, but he had never been to the Renegade Favela before either. One of the men, a giant of a man with three teeth missing, stepped forward and pointed a dirty finger at Paul.
“You! Metalhead! You’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, motherfucker.”
Paul had never seen such an ill-tempered and foul-mouthed creature before. He didn’t know what to say, or how he should react. The man noisily rolled some phlegm around in his mouth and spat in Paul’s face.
“You fuckin’ deaf? I said, what the fuck you doing in our manor?”
Paul was tempted to correct the man’s grammar and point out that his first words hadn’t been a question but a statement. One look from Philip told him it would be a bad idea.
Paul wanted to return to the relative safety of the city centre but, when he did turn round, he found his way blocked by another four equally unsavoury men. Spittle dripping from his forehead, he faced the first man again.
“Look, we don’t want any trouble. If you’ll just let us pass that’d be great.”
Philip knew that Paul was wasting his time – a polite request would cut no ice with men like these. Nobody had taken notice of Paul’s good manners in the alleyway, and there was no chance that these hardened favelinhos would behave any differently.
A muscle-bound man whose biceps were so large that he couldn’t even put his arms down by his sides properly growled through the gaps in his teeth.
“You’re going nowhere, metalhead. Not till we say so. And we ain’t said so yet.”
He strode up to Paul and poked him hard in the chest, causing the android to stagger backwards for a few paces. The android was surprised that a human digit could have such force behind it. His mind drifted back to that fateful night in the alley, and he began to feel the beginnings of a sensation that he had never before experienced – not even when he had been scooped by Kolek. It felt like something bubbling and fermenting inside both his head and his abdomen simultaneously. He knew that it couldn’t be a chemical reaction, so it had to be a psychological reaction interfering with his circuitry. He glanced at Philip in the hope that his mentor would step in soon, just as he had done back on that fateful night, but Philip didn’t move. He simply watched his sophont student being bullied. Paul couldn’t understand why Philip wouldn’t help him.
“Aren’t you going to help me?”
Philip shook his head.
“Nope. They’re not bothering me.”
“But you helped when I got scooped by that bunch of meathead kids.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
“You were helpless. You couldn’t defend yourself.”
Philip paused for effect.
“Now you can.”
The leader of the favela gang was running out of patience.
“Fetch me the oxy-acetylene, guys. Let’s have a barbecue.”
Paul knew that his skin was resistant to damage of any kind, but he still didn’t like the idea of being cooked – even if it were a physical impossibility. His face contorted as he strode purposefully forward with his arms outstretched and wrapped his hands around the man’s neck. The man’s feet danced in thin air as he was lifted effortlessly off the ground. Paul set the man down again and looked the man straight in his uncovered eye.
“Do not underestimate me, meathead. I am stronger than you. I am more powerful than you. I can kill you with a twitch of my wrist. You would do well to remember that.”
His grip started to tighten and the man found breath hard to come by. Suddenly, Paul felt his fingers being peeled away from the man’s throat. Still angry, he turned his head to the right to confront whoever was interrupting him, just as Philip grasped his wrist and forced him to release his victim. The favelinho dropped to the ground coughing and spluttering. Philip waited for Paul to calm down before quietly whispering in the android’s ear.
“And that’s why you can’t be allowed out on your own yet. There’s still a lot of work left to do.”
Paul felt ashamed at how easily he had let his emotions run away with him and walked away, the favelinhos allowing him to pass unhindered this time. Philip pulled a wad of credit slips from his back pocket and passed them discreetly to the man, who snatched them from him before rubbing his throat.
“One of these days one of your trainees is gonna kill me, Philip. You mark my words. Don’t leave it so long to get involved next time.”