Life for Sale

By Linda Nightingale

Mayfair Electronics has created life.

But four of their Special Editions—sentient androids indistinguishable from human—have escaped.
Rebel, Christian Aguillard and his owner, March, are on the run, but they have a bigger problem than his creator's plan to destroy him. They've discovered that one of the renegades has suffered a dangerous malfunction, threatening them with more than just exposure.

Trapped on a cruise ship in the middle of the Atlantic, March and Christian must stop the insane robot before someone else dies. All the evidence points to March being the killer's next victim.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Aug 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781509232161

Book preview

Inc.

The contents of the closed box had been branded on his retinas. Damn their eyes, who’d do such a heinous thing? Christian took control of his body, stilling his trembling hands. By effort of will, he didn’t acknowledge the package by even a glance. The pilot had been decapitated in the crash, but how the hell did his head end up in Houston, Texas, more particularly in their home?

Who was at the door? March must have seen something in his face. Frowning, she hurried to his side. What’s that funny smell?

The embalmed head of a man who looked like me. Another cold quiver leapt along his sensors. He’d never forget the look in the dead pilot’s eyes. Fear now had a physical illustration. If he’d possessed a stomach, he’d have been violently ill.

I don’t know how to tell you this. He swallowed hard and shrugged. What’s in that box… he pointed, is the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen. It can’t have come from Mayfair. They’d never resort to terror tactics.

Christian, what is it? She reached for the vessel containing a man’s—once a living, breathing human being’s—preserved head.

No. He seized her hand. March, you mustn’t. I refuse to let you see what’s in that box. It’s disgusting…and horrible. The pilot who died in the Jersey crash…it’s his head. The article mentioned he was decapitated.

His head! March recoiled. Dear lord, who’d send a dead man’s head to us?

Not to us. To me.

Praise for Linda Nightingale

"Linda Nightingale’s LIFE FOR SALE takes the characters from LOVE FOR SALE and sets them on a dangerous adventure for these androids posing as human. After fleeing at the end of the first book, they are trying to hide from the watchful eye of Mayfair, but decide a reunion is in order. One of the four, however, is suffering a murderous malfunction. The resulting story is not so much a murder mystery as it is a study of a chaotic mind, albeit lab created, yet eerily human in its madness. Nightingale has seamlessly made the unbelievable believable for the reader with a totally unexpected but thoroughly satisfying ending to this duet. Imaginative premise, well developed characters, and an insight into a mind gone wrong make this a great read."

~Susan Hutchinson

Life for Sale

by

Linda Nightingale

Tomorrow’s Angels, Book 2

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Life for Sale

COPYRIGHT © 2020 by Linda Nightingale

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Fantasy Rose Edition, 2020

Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-3215-4

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3216-1

Tomorrow’s Angels, Book 2

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To my editor

for her encouragement and help with all my books

Books by Linda Nightingale

published by The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

BLACK SWAN

GAMBLER’S CHOICE

LOVE FOR SALE

GYLDED WINGS

MORGAN D’ARCY: A VAMPYRE RHAPSODY

HER GENERAL IN GRAY

LIFE FOR SALE

SINNERS’ OPERA

Chapter 1

Houston, Texas, October

We are officially fugitives. I’m sure you know the safest course of action is to separate. One stays in England. The other two hide elsewhere. Goodbye, my friends. Christian shook Trevor’s hand.

Daniel embraced him, clapping his back. Good luck and Godspeed. Give my regards to March. I’ll find a way to keep in touch.

Yes, we must, he’d said.

And so, the rebels had parted and didn’t look back at the only home they’d ever known.

Mayfair Electronics, LLC. Mother Mayfair. Small, low-profile company. Big player in sophisticated computing and electronics. The Frankenstein of robotics. The AI units fleeing their creator understood, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Mayfair could, had intended to and still might, destroy them with the negligent back sweep of a hand. Christian tried not to replay that night, but it was an indelible stain on his memory. Only a complete reset would change such total recall. Or erasing his memory would obliterate his entire personality.

Often, the frantic goodbyes echoed in his ears. He’d told Daniel to keep in touch, but any exchange put them at risk for discovery. Living in Mayfair’s shadow, they faced perils enough. No one had contacted him. He’d contacted no one. Six months had passed since that fateful night in a foggy London alley.

Good morning. March pressed against his back, massaging the muscles along the top of his shoulder. You’re deep in thought.

Christian Aguillard, sentient android, thanked God for March Morgan. She’d paid an exorbitant price for him, possessed a Bill of Sale to document her ownership, but from his point of view, she held the deed to his soul. Without March, he’d be like Daniel, Trevor and Monica—cast alone into a potentially hostile society. Man feared what he did not understand. Fear bred hatred, and hatred became danger.

He was programmed to love her, but that special coding hadn’t been necessary. He’d fallen in love the instant he saw her, standing wide-eyed among his brothers and sisters in a room he thought of as smoke and mirrors. He catered to her in every way even though he might fight his independent streak sometimes. Was it love or programming? He didn’t know.

Christian turned, tucking his chin to kiss her hand. Memories.

She brushed her lips across the top of his head. Thinking of the Great Escape?

Nodding, he traced the clean line of her jaw with a fingertip indistinguishable from human. I can’t help wondering what happened to the others. He pushed back from the laptop; its screen littered with the inner workings of a rocket. Your coffee smells good.

That’s better, she purred against his temple. It’s Saturday. You shouldn’t be working anyway, and the coffee is a new brand I’m trying. From Brazil. Nutty, naturally sweet.

Mayfair had engineered Christian to be human. In every way, physically and emotionally, he was human except, as a machine, he possessed certain advantages over Man—superior senses, faster reflexes, greater intelligence…and enhanced sexual prowess. He’d been programmed to feel…to love, but often those feelings were a painful legacy. With total recall, he could relive the escape from Mayfair, accessing the emotions and data stored in the chips in his nervous system and in his computer brain. Today, 4,846 miles distant, excitement, joy, and despair chased through him, just as they’d done the night they had declared their freedom. So far, he’d seen no Wanted posters for the missing androids, but any day a bounty hunter from Mayfair might ring the doorbell or kick down the door.

Christian activated an internal block installed to protect against an overload of emotion and turned to his wife with a smile. You’re too good to me, March of mine.

You’re easy to be good to. She caressed his ear, sending bolts of shivery pleasure along his inner pathways. However, if another tall English hunk with pale blue eyes, wheat-colored hair, and an enormous price tag comes along, you could be replaced. Hey. She tapped his cheek. According to my purchase contract, you’re mine rather than vice versa.

Events since have rendered that contract null and void. All mock arrogance, he tilted his head, gazing at her with a shrug and upturned palms. We belong to each other.

Agreed. She twirled around the chair and settled on his lap, wriggling to arouse him. Is there anything I can do to take your mind off the past?

I’m sure you’ll think of something. He folded her to his chest and kissed her, desire stirring the appendage between his legs. Careful. You’re going to get what you’re so subtly asking for.

His hand delved between them, beneath the hem of the T-shirt skimming her upper thigh. Heat rose in him as he toyed with her sexy lace thong. His rebellious organ lengthened and hardened. Enough of this unless we’re off to bed…or up against the wall…or… He winked, his hand wandering higher.

The phone jangled. He ignored it, but March broke free, grabbing his mobile from the desk. She greeted the caller with a breathless, Hello. Her sparkling eyes locked on Christian’s as his hand slipped across her smooth stomach, seeking her breasts.

Daniel, how the hell are you? She squirmed, frowning and trying to escape his erotic caresses.

Surprised then anxious, he removed his hand from under her T-shirt, mouthing, Daniel?

She nodded. Where are you? Venice. Are you doing well? Good. I know you didn’t phone to chat with me. Here’s Christian. She shoved the mobile into his hand.

Daniel, good to hear your voice. It’s been a long time. The shadow looming over the escapees darkened, and dread seeped into Christian’s bones. Is anything wrong? He tapped the button, so that March could hear. You’re on speaker.

Well, yes and no. Tired of hiding. I’m in London interviewing as an entertainer for a cruise line. Why let the musical talent go to waste? Christian, I saw Monica II today on the front page of a newspaper.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Was Daniel nervously drumming his fingers on his phone?

She’s in the Channel Islands. The Isle of Jersey. She was the sole survivor of a small jet crash. The weird thing is the pilot bore a striking resemblance to you.

Poor chap, he murmured jokingly, but anxiety tensed his shoulders and neck, his muscles knotting painfully. Was Monica II damaged?

I plan to contact her as soon as I complete this interview. Daniel’s voice dropped to a whisper, If Mayfair saw that paper—

Exactly. Christian’s nerves ratcheted tighter. Let’s pray she somehow avoided medical attention. There would have been an unholy hue and cry already if she’d been examined.

Daniel laughed, but the dark cloud they all feared lingered, shadowing pasts and futures. Dr. Jim, Google android appendectomy. I’m not sure this wire attaches to that circuit.

Christian chuckled, picking up the thread of the joke. Miss Scarlett, I don’t know nothin’ about birthin’ robot babies.

A loudspeaker paged Passenger Dressler to come to the British Airways desk. The noise of a busy airport buzzed in the background. To Christian, airports were as lonely as a tomb. In the hurry and flurry, he felt abandoned at the very heart of loneliness. He was glad he had little occasion to visit airports, and now when he did, March was with him. It wasn’t his fear of Mayfair or that he feared being alone. It was the vast inhumanity of the masses.

Daniel, you must be at the airport. When his friend answered in the affirmative, Christian spared one moment to reverie—the original Monica’s lovely gray eyes, the light of a crystal chandelier sparking fiery highlights in her reddish-brown hair. The image shifted to Monica II, an exact replica, in the alley behind Mayfair. Another lifetime, or so it seemed. Still, the warmth he’d felt, the affection in his voice, surprised him. So, Monica followed my advice. I suggested Jersey as a good place to hide.

Then she did indeed follow your advice. I’m not surprised. I remember how she looked at you…like the conquering hero. Daniel’s voice wavered over the transatlantic connection. We all did, I suppose.

The night of their Great Escape, Monica II had gazed at him, her eyes begging him when she said, I want to come with you.

As the images played before his eyes, a tug at his heart amazed him.

His brows had darted up in surprise. I’m afraid that isn’t possible.

I wasn’t programmed for anyone yet. Her sad, fearful expression had twisted his heart. I don’t know where to go or what to do when I get there.

She seems to have changed, Daniel was saying as Christian snapped back to the present. "I can’t tell you how. I don’t know. Merely a feeling."

Did you have a near-death experience? Psychic now? Christian teased.

Tarot cards and a crystal ball. Daniel’s laughter was contagious, but he sobered instantly. "We have the same coding—well, almost the same—don’t you simply get a feeling now and then? Something you can’t name, but it’s there all the same."

I know what you mean. I think of it as my sixth sense. Christian breathed a laugh. A sixth sense in a computer brain.

"Our brains might be computers, but we were given human hearts, Daniel said. Why are the few of us Dr. Wills created different? We’re not only conscious with emotions like the others, it’s almost as if we were autonomous. Why, Christian?"

He didn’t have an answer, and Daniel rushed on, We think, therefore, we are. We love, therefore, we are human. Daniel paraphrased Rene Descartes’ philosophical proposition.

"Je pense, donc je suis I," Christian answered. Descartes had translated the original Latin into French in his Discourse on the Method.

"Cogito ergo sum," Daniel responded in Latin with an operatic flair.

March rolled her eyes. If you two are quite finished showing off your skill with foreign and dead languages, I’m off to shower.

His lady love relished long showers with a divine orange-ginger bath gel. When she emerged, Christian liked to be on hand to towel her dry and enjoy the fragrance from the matching lotion she smoothed onto her skin. He nodded, giving her firm ass a parting smack. She glanced over her shoulder, sticking out her tongue like a spoiled little girl, but she was all woman, and he’d wager she’d rock any man’s world.

"As to Monica II, when we decamped, she’d only existed for a short time," Christian mused, the dates on his internal calendar flipping back. The Monica model had been created for the utmost allure. Monica II was a perfect representation of her line.

Christian, did I lose you? Daniel prompted.

Had he been that slow to answer, lost in remembrances?

No, no. March says I think too much. Christian rose and removed the glasses he wore to heighten the impression of a man in his profession. He’d also added gray streaks to his hair, both to look more distinguished. Daniel, why did you choose Venice?

I found it difficult to decide on a hiding place. I was reluctant to leave the only home I’d ever known yet driven to do so. For hours, I stood in the shadow of St. Paul’s Cathedral, weighing my options. At last, a cold fog rolled in, hurrying my decision. We might only recognize the cold, but with Mayfair searching for us, I didn’t like being trapped a fog growing denser all the time. I was encoded as an Italian opera singer, so I caught a plane to Venice. He could hear a shrug in Daniel’s voice as his friend concluded, Maybe Italy was the too-obvious choice but sometimes one can hide in plain sight.

Agreed. I’m exactly where they’d look for me. Christian bent, struck a long match, and lit the fragrant oak logs in the fireplace.

He preferred a wood fire to a gas fire, the smell and sparks soothed. This October day was cool for Houston. In the bathroom, he heard March singing an old folk song and smiled. She constantly warmed the heart Daniel claimed they possessed. If feelings were hearts, his brother was right.

At an airport in London, a baby cried, and Daniel said, How’s the rocket scientist gig going?

Love the job. I’m surprised dear old Mother didn’t put the brakes on that when we left her tender care. Speaking of independence, surely you’re not returning to England under your own name.

By manipulating various computers, I’m sure you know what I mean, I’ve acquired all necessary documentation, including a passport under the name Andrew Evans.

Pleased to meet you, Andrew. Christian watched the orange-and-blue flames licking up the chimney. Damn, this plane crash could be the catalyst that brings our little house of cards tumbling down.

Christian. Daniel’s tone became guarded, a bit muffled as if he spoke behind his hand. Someone’s watching me. He’s lounging by the airline counter. Too far away to hear, I think. I don’t know how long he’s been there. Doesn’t look like someone Mayfair would employ, but he’s definitely keeping an eye on me.

Christian launched into a fierce pacing from the fire to the window in his office. Are you sure?

Sure as the grave.

That’s an odd statement from an immortal.

Is our immortality a certainty? Parts wear out. Without our loving mother… Static crackled on the long-distance airways. I need to run now. We’ll see if he follows.

It has been damned good talking to you. Christian came to rest with his back to the fire. Keep me posted on your shadow. Looks as if Mother Mayfair isn’t the disinterested parent after all.

Yes, we have a lot of catching up to do and even more to discuss by a warm fire one night soon. Daniel’s tone was falsely cheerful. In a second, he muttered, "The swarthy fellow just walked by me and is buying the newspaper. Go to The Daily Reporter on-line and see if the article is there."

Will do. Be extremely careful.

"Ciao for now." Daniel rang off, leaving Christian worried about their collective fate.

Had Monica poked the sleeping dragon? Was Mayfair now intent on locating and destroying its errant children? Their creator could rob them of freedom…even their lives…and no one would be the wiser. Except March, and she couldn’t go to the police with her ownership documents, marriage license, and a story they wouldn’t believe. It was all too likely they’d laugh in her face or commit her to an asylum for the insane.

Wearing nothing but a towel around her hair, March strolled into the office. What did Daniel want? Oh, no, I can tell by the look on your face, it isn’t good.

I don’t know yet. Not to any certainty, but he felt he was being watched. He called from the airport to tell me that Monica II had been involved in a small plane crash. She was the only survivor. Christian raked his hair back from his face. I must contact her. Before Mayfair finds her.

March nodded. Where is she?

"The Isle of Jersey. First, I need to read the news account of the crash. I’ll see if I can locate it on-line. The Daily Reporter isn’t a large newspaper. I’d be surprised if they have an electronic presence."

Christian turned, typed the paper’s name into the search engine.