Prophet Margin by Simon Spurrier

hallmarks of a weapon being cocked followed the statement, like a full stop with attitude issues.
    Johnny's blaster was in his hand before his brain had even registered a threat, spinning him around and fingering the trigger stub. It was an instinctive process - from the moment of alarm to the draw, from feathering the locking pin to the discharge itself, roaring like a highly personalised thunderstorm.
    Something metallic belched a shower of sparks, rocking backwards like a drunken granny. A brief geyser of shattered metal rattled against the rear wall which is generally the province of interesting fluidic splatters. Johnny, who was already fighting the usual rush of guilt (it was always worse when there was no money involved), sighed in relief. Just a droid.
    "Well, that wasn't very friendly," said the voice, dripping indignation, from behind the clouds of oily smoke.
    Johnny holstered the weapon, spinning it on his knuckle. "Yeah. Sorry. Thought I heard a gun."
    "I was only switching on my minibar unit..."
    The smoke cleared enough to reveal the battered droid, its gangling limbs giving it the appearance of an emaciated ape. Sticky battery fluid dribbled from a hole in its chassis.
    "You with the police?" the machine rattled, apparently oblivious to its damage.
    "Uh, I catch criminals, yeah."
    It wobbled uncertainly. "I'd shake your hand, except the right side of my armature isn't responding."
    "Sorry."
    "Not to worry, sir. That's showbiz!"
    Johnny went back to scouring the room, keeping half an eye on the droid. With a blaster charge monkeying with its hardware, the directive leap between "passive/submissive/assistant" and "Crush Puny Humans" wasn't as enormous as one might imagine. "Listen," he said, peering around the drab walls, "what are you doing here?"
    "I'm a hospitality facilitator."
    "Meaning?"
    "Oh, you know. PA responsibilities, makeup, hair, sexual favours. Ha ha, once I even had to perform an act of gro-"
    "I get it. You knew Koszov, then?"
    "Oh, goodness, yes. Charming man."
    "And I'll bet the police asked you all sorts of questions about him?"
    "Of course. Your colleagues were very thorough."
    "They asked you if you knew where he was, what he was up to, all that stuff?"
    "Oh, yes sir. I told them the truth, of course. I haven't the foggiest."
    "And then the cops left you switched on?"
    The droid tilted its head. "Oh, under normal circumstances they would have deactivated me. Confiscation of evidence, you see. They certainly tried."
    "But?"
    "But I'm run off a macroreactor. Self sufficient." It gave a small twirl, like the world's weirdest catwalk model.
    Johnny gave up on the walls (all of them one hundred per cent solid and devoid of hidden safes, vaults or escape routes) and frowned. "That makes you a - what's it called - CAB?"
    "Near enough, sir. Citizen-Class Artificial Being." If it'd been able to puff out its chest, it would have. "Not just some glorified toaster."
    "So the studio doesn't own you?"
    "Goodness, no, sir. I own me, just like everyone else." It shuffled its feet. "It just so happens I'm paid less."
    "And the cops couldn't turn you off without violating your rights?"
    "Got it in one, sir."
    "Which also means they weren't allowed to read your memories."
    "Yes... Sir, if you don't mind me asking, where is this line of questio-"
    "And it means you're not programmed with all that Asimov crap? Always be honest, always protect human life, blah, blah..."
    "Assy-who, sir?"
    "Right. Which means you could have lied to the police."
    The droid flexed the light flags above its optics; a rather sinister analogue for narrowing eyelids. "I think I should like to see your police identification," it said. "Sir."
    Johnny wasn't listening. "And if you're run off a macroreactor you don't have any batteries."
    "What's that got to do with anything? Look, unless you show me some ID I'm calling secu-"
    "It's got to do with the fact that there's still battery fluid squirting from that blasterhole."
    The droid fell