Run Program

by Scott Meyer

  One of the officers asked, “Hey, can your toy take a bullet from that gun?”

  The operator said, “That puny thing? Yeah. The bomb-bot’s tough. It’s meant to withstand an explosion from two sticks of dynamite. The question is, can the other guy take a shotgun blast to the face?” He sneered as he manipulated the robot arm’s controls. But the sneer fell away; the control stick wasn’t responding. He banged on the side of the control panel, then moved both control sticks violently back and forth.

  The bomb squad robot remained motionless.

  “I’ve lost contact,” the controller said. “The stupid thing’s gone dead.”

  The robot with the rifle straightened back up and resumed his vigil over the truck. The bomb squad robot spun around to face the barricade, then pointed its robot arm, equipped with the integrated shotgun the operator had been so proud of, at the officers.

  “Well, that’s just wonderful,” the shop owner said. “Your robot’s joined the other side.”

  “Should’ve seen it coming, really,” the officer said.

  The noise from inside the shop grew louder. The police all hunkered down and prepared for action.

  The second robot stepped out of the gun shop and into the harsh light of day. Its Spider-Man sweatshirt was torn and perforated with bullet holes. Its hands were pulling the handles of two red wagons, piled high with yet more firearms and ammunition. Unlike their haul from the Walmart, these weapons seemed less designed for hunting ducks and more appropriate for maintaining a perimeter.

  The officer in charge again used his cruiser’s PA system. “Please let go of the wagons and put your hands in the air.”

  The robot paid him no mind. It pulled the wagons over to the demolished truck.

  “I repeat, please let go of the wagons and put your hands in the air.”

  The robot let go of the wagon handles, but only to dump the contents of one of them into the bed of the truck. The “Mommy” robot handled the second wagon. Both of them tossed the empty red wagons in on top.

  “This is your last warning. Stop this at once.”

  The bomb squad robot rolled in between the larger robots, and they immediately picked it up.

  “Put that robot down,” the officer in charge shouted. “That is police property.”

  The robots placed the bomb squad robot in the truck bed on top of the pile of weapons, then climbed into the now-ruined cab. The officer in charge continued to protest and shout threats as the truck started and then rolled forward, its popped, flaccid tires whapping against the ground and the truck’s own fenders.

  The cops behind the barricade darted out of the way as the truck pushed through at a point where the nose of one police car met the tail of another. The cars slid aside. Their bumpers dug deep creases into the sides of the truck as it squeezed between them, but there were already so many sets of creases that it was hard to pick the new ones out.

  Officers dived into their cars, but none of them would start.

  “Not a surprise,” the officer told the gun shop owner. “Same thing happened at the other seven shops they’ve hit.”

  “Stop ’em,” the owner cried. “You gotta stop ’em.”

  The officer said, “Our job is to protect life and keep the peace. Our orders are not to engage those things with deadly force unless they try to hurt someone first, and so far they haven’t tried to hurt anybody.”

  The shop owner looked furious, but he held his tongue. He watched as the truck drove away, sparks flying from the bare metal rims and the brass trailer hitch testicles, which were now permanently dragging on the road. The bomb squad robot turned to look back as it went. It moved its single arm, almost like it was waving.

  The owner whined, “If you didn’t plan on shooting them and you knew you couldn’t chase them, what was all that final warning crap?”

  The officer shrugged. “My guess is that he just meant he wasn’t going to bother warning them again.”

  23.

  “As you can see,” the real estate agent said, “the en suite bath features both a walk-in enclosed shower and a stand-alone soaking tub.”

  “Yes,” the Voice of Reason said. “It’s exactly as you described, one McMansion, complete with all the most needless extravagances.”

  The real estate agent feigned a sympathetic frown. “I am sorry if it’s more house than you need, Mr. Semple, but you did request a four-car garage and a swimming pool. Luxuries like those tend to come in houses with extra rooms and updated finishes.”

  “I need the garage for my work. And the pool isn’t a luxury. Having it makes the shower and tub redundant.”

  “I see,” the real estate agent said, but it was clear from his tone that he did not.

  The Voice of Reason rolled his eyes, looked up at the sky, shook his head, and then turned back to the real estate agent. In a slow, even voice, he explained, “Jumping into a swimming pool cleans your body better than any shower. You get completely submerged in water that rushes over you very quickly at high pressure, and the water’s laced with chlorine, so it instantly kills any bacteria on your skin.”

  The real estate agent smiled and nodded despite the fact that his client was spouting nonsense, a skill all good real estate agents must master. He did ask, “But what about soap, Mr. Semple? Do you soap up before you jump in?”

  “Soap’s a scam. Think about it. You want to get clean, so you buy stuff to rub all over yourself and then wash off along with the dirt that was already there. How does that make sense? And all the different kinds. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash: it’s all just liquid soap. All it washes away is your money, and it gives you a coating of perfume to make it easier for the government’s dogs to track you.”

  The real estate agent stood stock-still, a smile frozen on his face.

  The Voice of Reason took a deep breath, looked around at the beige walls of the master bedroom, and said, “I’ll take it.”

  The real estate agent snapped out of his stupor. “That’s excellent, Mr. Semple. Let’s go back to my office and give the owner the good news. Then we can get started on the rental paperwork.”

  “Why don’t you get started on all of the paperwork? I’ll stay here and move my stuff in. Then I’ll swing by your office and sign.”

  The real estate agent said, “No, Mr. Semple, I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. You’ve decided that you want to rent the house, but the landlord has to determine if she wants to rent to you. She’ll need to run a credit check and a rental history.”

  “Because she’s afraid I might tear the place up or not pay my rent, right?”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “Why don’t you call her and tell her that I’ll take a one-year lease, paid up front in cash, and I’ll also double her standard damage deposit, but I need the keys within the hour. Get her to agree to that, and you’ll get a substantial bonus.”

  One hour later, the Voice of Reason watched the real estate agent drive away in his champagne-colored four-door with a thick sheaf of signed paperwork and a plastic grocery bag full of bundles of cash in the trunk. The look of shock on the real estate agent’s face when he handed over the money had been almost as satisfying as the look on the face of the bank teller when he withdrew it.

  The Voice of Reason reentered his new base of operations through the front door. He surveyed the grand entryway with its curving staircase and faux-antique chandelier while he lifted his smartphone. He activated the dictation app and spoke as he walked through the empty home.

  “I am the Voice of Reason, and I speak in simple, direct language. I have no use for similes or metaphors. Similes are a smokescreen. Metaphors are like camouflage paint, designed to make one thing look like something else. They’re meant to confuse, and they work all too well—so well that even the people who use them can’t keep straight which one is which.”

  He walked through the kitchen, squinting at the glare from the skylights as it reflected off the polished white quartz countertops. He opened the d
oor to the garage: a dark, cavernous space that sat completely empty, save for the brand-new, bright yellow four-wheel-drive pickup the Voice of Reason had bought just before going to the real estate agent’s office.

  “My words are so clear, my intentions so pure, my actions so decisive that my fellow man finds me deeply confusing. They’re so steeped in falsehood that they can no longer process honesty and sincerity. For example, when I told the Ford salesman that I wanted a simple, dependable truck with no frills, but that I needed an automatic transmission, cruise control, and a sunroof, he couldn’t wrap his head around it.”

  An hour later, the Voice of Reason stood in line at the home center, his hands resting on the handle of a shopping cart full of assorted plumbing fixtures. The young man in line in front of him pulled his wallet out from his back pocket while the cashier scanned his purchases.

  “Credit or debit?” the cashier asked as she carefully placed a tube of caulk into the customer’s shopping bag.

  “Debit,” the customer said.

  The Voice of Reason muttered, “Of course it’s debit.”

  The young man and the cashier both looked at him. “You have a problem with me using my debit card?” the young man asked.

  The Voice of Reason said, “No, not really. It’s your choice. I guess paying with a debit card isn’t any stupider than paying with a credit card. Either way, they track everything you buy. You know that, right?”

  The young man said, “Nobody’s interested in what I’m buying. I’m not getting anything bad.”

  “Doesn’t matter. They watch everything, and they decide for themselves if it’s bad or not. Don’t take my word for it; try this experiment. Take your debit card and buy a new pair of sneakers, then fill up two vehicles full of gas. Your card will be deactivated by close of business.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “They say they’re watching for credit card fraud, for our protection.”

  “Well, that’s good, right?” the cashier said.

  “It would be, if it were true. I believe that they watch gas because it’s so dangerous. It’s not just fuel. It’s an accelerant. You can make napalm out of it. You can do a ton of damage, a ton, with gasoline.”

  “And what about the shoes?” the young man asked.

  The Voice of Reason nodded his head sagely. “They figure you’re buying them because you plan to do some running, possibly from something that’s on fire.”

  The young man ran his debit card, grabbed his bag, and left the store with great speed. The cashier looked at the Voice of Reason’s cart full of plumbing fittings. “Did you find everything you need today, sir?”

  “No,” the Voice of Reason said. “Turns out you don’t carry gunpowder in this place.”

  “Oh. But you found everything else.”

  “Yes,” the Voice of Reason said. “It’s all of this and the stuff on the flatbed behind me here.”

  The cashier craned her neck as the Voice of Reason stepped aside and pulled forward a flat-topped cart carrying three empty fifty-five-gallon drums.

  The Voice of Reason thought, And now, the final piece of the puzzle.

  He placed his cardboard box full of french fries and chicken strips on the passenger seat, opened the door, and stepped down out of the cab of his truck. He took a biscuit with him, though, because even his willpower had its limits.

  A white Subaru hatchback with a mismatched matte-black hood and two hood scoops like flared nostrils went silent as its engine died. The driver’s door opened, and a thin young man got out. His carrot-colored hair and the collar of his polo shirt both stuck straight up. “Hey,” the young man said, smiling.

  The Voice of Reason asked, “You Fulton?”

  The young man said, “Yeah, that’s me. Good to meet you.” He bounded around to the Subaru’s rear and opened the hatch. “I’ve got the gear right here.” He pulled a very full-looking nylon backpack out of the car, then a medium-sized duffel bag, which was not packed tight but clearly held more than one object.

  The Voice of Reason said, “And I have the money.” He was here to do business, not to socialize. Besides, the smell permeating the Popeyes Louisiana Kitchen parking lot they were using for their transaction was driving him mad with the urge to buy an order of chicken, even though he already had a full order waiting in the truck. He took a bite of the biscuit to dull his chickeny urges.

  Fulton closed the Subaru’s hatch and lugged the two bags around to where the Voice of Reason was standing. He started to put the bags on the pavement but stopped as he took his first good look at the buyer. A look of concern flashed over his face. “Hey, man, is, uh . . . is this stuff a gift for someone?”

  The Voice of Reason said, “No,” then swallowed his mouthful of biscuit.

  “Oh,” Fulton said. “Uh, cool. Cool. What are you going to do with it?”

  The Voice of Reason said, “I’m going to look at it. If it’s all in order, I’m going to pay you for it. Then I’m going to do whatever I want with it, and it won’t be any of your concern.”

  Fulton said, “Hey, I get it, man. I’m not trying to dig into your private life, or talk myself out of a sale or anything. It’s just that BASE jumping isn’t the right sport for everyone.”

  The Voice of Reason said, “I agree. So what?” He took another bite of his biscuit.

  “It’s just that this gear might not work for you. I mean, it’s good gear. I’ve used it myself. It’s rock solid, but this parachute wasn’t designed for someone of your, uh, you know, size.”

  The Voice of Reason swallowed another mouthful of biscuit. “You’re worried about my weight.”

  “I’m sorry, guy, I don’t mean anything by it. You’re not all that heavy, really, but this stuff isn’t rated for anyone over two hundred pounds.”

  The Voice of Reason said, “That won’t be a problem.”

  “No?”

  “No. I won’t be falling all that far.”

  “I don’t know,” Fulton said. “I’m not comfortable with this.”

  “You BASE jump, you drive around in a souped-up go-kart, but you think it’s too risky to sell me your old stuff for cash?”

  “I take calculated risks with my own safety, man. I don’t want someone else’s injuries on my conscience.”

  “Look, you’ve warned me, and I promise, I won’t get hurt, and if I do, you’ll never hear about it. Now can we just do this? My chicken is getting cold.”

  “I don’t know,” the young man said, running a hand through his red hair, making it stand up even straighter. “I might need you to sign a waiver or something, saying I warned you.”

  The Voice of Reason rolled his eyes but said, “Fine. Whatever you have to do. Write one up. I’ll sign it.”

  “Cool! Okay! Um, do you have any paper?”

  The Voice of Reason gave Fulton a pen and one of his unused napkins. Fulton scribbled on the napkin, using the hood of his Subaru as a desk.

  “Hey, what’s your name?” Fulton asked.

  Damn, the Voice of Reason thought. I really wanted to keep this anonymous. Think fast!

  The Voice of Reason said, “The name. My name. Of course. My name is . . . Crrrraig Semplllllleton.”

  Fulton said, “Craig Sempleton. Good to meet you.” He scribbled a bit more on the napkin, drew a line, and handed the napkin and pen back to the Voice of Reason.

  He pressed the napkin against the door of his truck and signed, taking care to spell the false name the same way Fulton had. He handed over fifteen crisp one-hundred-dollar bills and took possession of the BASE jumping equipment, which he hoisted into the bed of the truck. Even with the plumbing fixtures, the empty drums, the welding gear, and the minibike, there was plenty of room.

  24.

  Hope stepped out of the DC-3 under her own power, as did Torres, Madsen, and Jeffrey. Eric moved sideways out of the plane’s rear hatch with his arms draped over the shoulders of Lieutenant Reyes and Private Cousins. The soldiers supported most of his weight
as he hopped across the darkened tarmac. The rest of the squad had their hands full carrying bags of gear and Al’s waterlogged former PC. They all found a way to free up their right hands to salute when Colonel Dynkowski approached.

  She returned their salute, said, “As you were,” then offered Robert Torres a handshake.

  “Good morning. Welcome to Fort Riley.”

  “Thank you, Colonel,” Torres said, “but as far as I’m concerned, four a.m. is still the middle of the night.”

  Dynkowski smiled. “Maybe in the civilian world, but you’re not in the civilian world anymore.”

  Torres said, “Colonel, I should introduce Dr. Lydia Madsen.”

  Dynkowski shook Madsen’s hand. “Thanks for coming, Doctor.”

  “It seemed like the right thing to do, Colonel.”

  Dynkowski smiled again. “Quite.” She glanced toward Hope and Eric and said, “And this is your team?”

  Madsen said, “Well, if I was going to come all the way out here, I didn’t see why they should get to stay home.”

  Torres leapt in. “Colonel, this is Hope Takeda and Eric Spears.”

  Colonel Dynkowski shook hands with Hope, then Eric. “I understand the two of you worked directly with the A.I., is that right?”

  “Yes,” Madsen said. “And don’t worry, Colonel, I’ve already made it clear to them that they’ll have a lot to answer for once we’ve cleared up this whole mess.”

  Dynkowski said, “Really? That’s funny. I don’t see how they’re to blame. I find that responsibility usually settles on the shoulders of the person in charge.”

  Madsen said, “An excellent point, Colonel,” then looked pointedly at Torres. She shifted her gaze back to Dynkowski, who was staring at her without the slightest hint of amusement on her face.

  Hope thought, Wow! We only just got here and she’s already got Madsen’s number. I think we might be in good hands.

  Colonel Dynkowski looked at Eric, then glanced back over her shoulder at an approaching ambulance. “Medics are here to get you fixed up. I thought you had just suffered some sort of fracture, but I must say, you don’t look at all well.”