Coordinator Marx was still smiling when 231 arrived at the transport bay 15 minutes later. It was just enough time for him to make a quick trip to the armory for a tactical holster for his sidearm. He had grabbed several clips for the handgun, as well as two knives – one strapped to his chest, the other to his left calf. Much lighter armament than he was used to.
Marx waved his hand over the scanner to unlock the door to the main transport bay. Sophia was at his side, and she glanced up at 231 as he arrived. He bowed to her, then opened the door for the Coordinator.
She waited for 231 to enter the hallway, and fell into step beside him. “I’m sorry,” she said, catching his eye again.
From the look on her face, Sophia wasn’t joking. 231 had no idea how to react. No human had ever actually apologized to him before. Marx, he noticed, glanced back at them.
She must have seen – or sensed – his confusion. “For talking into your mind without asking. That was rude.”
Coordinator Marx’s laugh echoed sharply against the hard, flat walls. He threw a smirk over his shoulder. “Miss Sophia, you have no need to be polite to the Goliath. He’s a clone, my dear. Isn’t that so, two-three-one?”
“Milord, it is.” And it was.
Once again, Sophia glared openly at Marx. 231 saw the look, and wondered why.
The three rounded a corner and passed though another door before they arrived at the telepad. The reinforced glass dome sat atop a flat, circular plate 60 feet in diameter.
“Miss Sophia,” Marx said, folding his hands behind his back, “we’ve found a good place to start getting your memory back.”
Memory back? 231 listened intently.
The Coordinator led them to the gate. The metal tongue slid down out of its setting in the thick glass bubble and disappeared into the deck of the telepad. Marx stood just outside the entrance.
“The pad is set to take you and your chaperon to New Barcelona.” He paused, watching her closely. “Does that sound familiar to you?”” Marx frowned as she shook her head.
Sophia had forgotten something, and someone hired Tower to help her remember? Unless the Coordinator, or someone else at Tower, was the one who wanted her to remember.
Marx motioned for them to step on. Sophia, seemingly reluctant, stepped onto the pad, 231 a step behind. They were encased in a transparent shield, the hangar around them ever so slightly out of focus, the air slightly more compressed.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” Marx said. “It’ll all come back.” And he closed the door.