24. Volt #3
Volt let himself enjoy the evening, even with a cloud hanging over his head. Sitting with Magnolia reminded him of what he cared about. Why all of this was important.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead as her breath evened out in sleep and turned the lights down to a dim glow. The Calliope bot had all the necessary instructions if anything came up in the night.
Maybe he could put the Calliope bot back in rotation and have one of the other bots that would be less in demand stay with Magnolia?
He sighed. Magnolia liked the Calliope bot, and really, how much difference would it make?
They were drowning.
They’d have to sell one of the bots.
He had a spreadsheet already of their market values, which were depressingly low against some of their mortgages.
Used sexbot for sale didn’t have a great ring to it, but they’d probably be selling to another institution like theirs.
The immediate income from the sale would hardly compare to the long-term income they could make with it over a year, not to mention the decades it should be good for, but it would stem the gaping hole in their finances.
He stopped to fix a wobbly cabinet door in the kitchen that the chefbot had sent him an alert about and slipped through the lounge to be eye candy in his full tuxedo uniform.
He greeted a few customers, inquiring about their interests and making alluring promises about the bots, but inside, he was turning over the same problems, as if he could just maneuver the finances a different way and come out on top.
There wasn’t a single utility they could cut. Without electricity, water, and sanitation, they didn’t have a business. And the hospital had already been generous with them, forgiving some of their expenses and making a payment plan for the rest.
But cooler weather was coming, and their heater had finally given up the ghost the first time he turned it on.
No extra mods could help him repair it, and the parts were so old that ordering new ones would be more than the cost of a replacement.
That had eroded the last crumbling foothold that he was clinging to before bankruptcy.
At least there was a good crowd tonight.
Angel was trying out a new strategy of having one of the bots dance seductively on a wide table that they’d set up like a stage, and it seemed to be working well.
Even with a longer wait, clients didn’t seem to mind as much, and it meant that they didn’t need as many of the bots mingling with the crowd before they made their choices.
Most of the rooms upstairs were full, three bots were still wandering the room serving drinks—albeit the more fanciful models that weren’t often picked—so at least he could count on good revenue for the evening.
If only that would make enough of a difference.
He was checking that the bar was all in order when a commotion from the door caught his attention and, at almost the same time, an alert sounded from the security system.
Fuck. Could it get any worse?
He didn’t even have to cross the lounge, because Angel was already streaming footage.
A balloon, hurled from a car toward their front door, and then an explosion of black paint.
If the door had been closed, it would have already been a frustrating mess to clean up.
But the door had been wide open, with a customer coming in, and the paint had hit him square in the back, then splashed around him onto the rich carpet and curtains of the lobby.
Fuck. Just fuck!
Volt reviewed the security footage, even as he raced across the room.
An unremarkable black car with the license plates covered.
A masked man, wearing gloves to cover every scrap of skin, leaning out of the sun roof to throw a blue balloon.
Volt watched in slow motion as it hit the client’s back and exploded.
Volt wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take.
He wanted to rage. He wanted to cry.
Angel, who had also been splattered, was already fussing over the man who’d been hit, leading him toward the elevators, presumably upstairs to take a shower.
The black footprints they left all over the floor were going to have to be a problem for another day.
And that left Volt to deal with the rest of the crowd, who were now gawking, all interest in the mindlessly dancing bot forgotten. Volt shut it off, grateful that its programming let the routine finish gracefully, because he would have just left it hanging there, mid-movement.
“My dearest guests,” Volt said, channeling his inner Angel and trying to pretend that he wanted all of those wary eyes on him.
“My deepest apologies for this unpleasant situation. It seems that some miscreant has thrown a balloon of paint at our door, though the car they traveled in is now gone. We’ve just locked the doors for your protection”—he made the mental change even as he spoke—“and we ask that you remain inside until one of us can escort you directly to your vehicle via our side door. If you would like to continue to enjoy our entertainment tonight, you’ll receive a credit for two drinks, and fifty percent will be deducted from your bill.
And if you’d like to return another night, I can provide you with a voucher for the same. ”
Had he done all of that right? He looked from face to face, trying to project confidence and reassurance, while inside he was close to spiraling, his processes jumping all over each other as they tried out possibilities that all led to the same conclusion. They were fucked.
They just didn’t have the money for the clean-up and repairs this would take.
They didn’t have the money to handle an evening of half-priced visits and then shutting down early.
They definitely didn’t have money for future lost sales if people didn’t feel safe coming here and told their friends.
No one said anything, and he tried to guess what Angel would do. Serve more drinks? Go around to them one by one to ask what they wanted to do? Probably both of those things.
Jesus. Volt hated this.
Just as he started toward the nearest client, a deep voice rose from the back of the room. “I’ll stay! Don’t need to kick me out because of some little punks disrupting your business.”
Volt blew out a breath, relieved to see others nodding along.
“I’ll stay, too,” a young woman chimed in from the front.
“Can’t say no to half off and free drinks!
” She wandered over toward the bar. And, thank fuck, half the room followed her, already starting to chatter about the event as they congregated closer, talking with strangers who they otherwise would have ignored.
Alright, one crisis averted. “Please come and see me if anyone would like a voucher for another evening,” Volt called out after them, but no one took him up on it.
Thank God.
He told the dancing bot to keep dancing.
He called over the next bot—the lizard-like one that didn’t get requested often—to find rags, dish soap, and warm water, which the internet told him could mitigate paint stains. He didn’t have high hopes, though. How much of the carpet, he wondered, would they have to replace?
Prism didn’t have any cleaning bots, since it was easy enough to program the sexbots to sweep and dust in their off hours, and cleaning the rooms after each use was already part of their core programming.
Volt finally sent the chefbot from the kitchen to the front with a trash bag and several rolls of paper towels to try and absorb the paint on the other side of the door.
He hoped that, if the assailants came back, they wouldn’t have any reason to disturb it.
Which just left him to put up signs directing people to the side door, supervise the lounge for the rest of the evening, assure the guests that they would have unparalleled experiences, and catch each guest as they came down the elevator to explain the situation and escort them outside to their vehicles.
By the time Angel came back down, with just one or two guests still waiting for their turn upstairs, Volt was exhausted.
He wished he could lay down somewhere, maybe curl up in a ball and sleep.
He knew it was all psychological—his battery was still in the forty percent range, and it wasn’t like he could actually get tired—but emotionally, he was done.