by Jim Keen
“Let’s do it,” she said.
33
They parked a mile from the perimeter wall and waited as the gray faded to black, moon invisible behind gritty smog. Alice scanned the sky with a pair of old NYPD image enhancers looking for Rothmore’s car to return. It took an hour before it dropped beyond the wall, its cubic form lit like a Christmas tree under her scopes. Xavi was asleep in the van’s rear, chest rising in a steady rhythm. She was about to wake him when her phone chirped. It was the NYPD MI data-request reply to her photographs of Xavi’s tattoos and fingerprints.
She looked back at him, checking he was asleep, then opened the attachment. The street part of her already knew, but still her stomach churned, ice cold, as she read the results. The fingerprints belonged to a Sebastian Dias, known hitman for LA’s B13 and wanted in questioning regarding the murder of FBI Agent Xavi Garcia. He was considered the only suspect, was lethal and not to be approached without SWAT backup. But if this was true, why hadn’t the FBI put out an all-points on him? Lit the fires, and let every law enforcement unit working know he was a wanted cop killer? Maybe he—
“Alice, it’s time,” he said from behind her.
She jumped, startled—he’s so fucking quiet—and shoved her phone into a pocket. Get through this then tell Toko, work out a plan. He’s done nothing to suggest he wants to hurt you. Yet.
“You were snoring,” she said to break the tension.
He grunted and lifted the Homeland Security case and flipped the lid. The crab’s control unit was a black handgrip with a digital display and a red button. He connected it to the tablet, followed the on-screen instructions, and pressed the button. There was a moment of stillness, then the crab stood, stretched, and scuttled up the door and through the crack at the top of the window. The display showed its rough location, and that it was moving fast. They exited the van and followed at a brisk run.
The road was hard to make out in the dark, Alice’s boots slipping across wet stones into thick mud, every squelching step loud in her ears. Xavi ran next to her, breath light and regular compared to her ragged gasps. The air was cold, the smell of damp vegetation strong. The handgrip buzzed; the crab had reached the wall and was awaiting a go code. He clicked the button and set it free.
They reached the wall a few seconds later. With a practiced flick of his wrist, Xavi threw a thin black grappling hook to the top of the wall, where it snagged on a joint. They waited and watched the screen as the crab reached the MI; it paused, then began to drill. If it was going to fail, it would be now, when the machine moved from stealth to offense mode. A minute passed in stressful silence, then the grip buzzed again to show the MI had shut down. Alice nodded to Xavi, who was up and over the wall in seconds. She followed like a true Marine.
The MI appeared untouched except for the lack of steam rising from its casing. The house stood in the middle of the perfect lawn, windows dark; its age evident as they approached. The bricks were long and thin, the door honey-brown wood with an ornate black iron handle to one side.
Alice stopped, caught her breath, and checked the time—fourteen minutes left. Nowhere near long enough, but out of options, she pulled the bell chain, and a chime answered from deep within.
Silence.
She pulled it again, twice, then lights came on, and a faint voice said, “This had better be damn important.”
Footsteps approached; the door opened. Alice saw the resemblance to Julia immediately—wide forehead with an aristocratic nose, milk-white skin, and huge blue eyes that focused on her. Mark Rothmore looked younger than his sixties and stood small and immaculate in a blue robe tied around red silk pajamas. He hid his shock well at seeing the two out-of-breath, scruffy people in front of him.
“How did you get in here? What do you want?”
Thirteen minutes.
“Sir, I’m NYPD Detective Alice Yu, this is FBI Special Agent Xavi Garcia. We need to speak with you.”
“You’re the two who put in a request to speak with me yesterday.”
“Yes, sir.”
“As you were informed, I’m extremely busy and not available for another month.”
“Well, that’s a damn shame,” Xavi said and stepped forward, his small stature matching Rothmore’s. His menace was obvious, while Rothmore’s lurked underneath, a jackal in a human suit.
“I’m sure you understand this intrusion will impact your careers,” Rothmore said.
“You letting us in, or do I have to hurt you?” Xavi said.
Rothmore looked hard at Xavi, weighing his options. Alice knew what he was thinking; the MI would have alerted the police, so he only needed to stall for a couple of minutes and this disturbance would be over.
“Please.” He stepped back, allowing access.
Whereas the exterior of the house was elegant and cool, the inside was intricate and warm. The entrance corridor held large antique mirrors that reflected light from a chandelier; a deep red carpet smothered the floor. Conditioned air carried cooking scents.
“How can I help?” Rothmore said.
“We’d like to speak about your niece Julia Rothmore,” Alice said.
“Aren’t you a little late? She died a year ago. Anyone from the New York Police Department should know that.”
“Yes, sir. I worked her case and have some follow-up questions.”
“Very well. Follow me, I need to turn the oven off.”
Rothmore walked down the hallway and turned left into a long kitchen and dining area. The floor transitioned to white tiles as a wall of modern appliances greeted them. He crossed to an oven the size of Alice’s apartment and reset a dial. On the wall opposite was a row of framed posters, a gallery of Insight’s greatest advertising campaigns. The first were to be expected for a start-up: local restaurants, home-brew alcohol, coffee. The next represented a step up, being a series for Cortex. Alice remembered these, right after the government pulled the first wave of MIs from public use. Rothmore’s approach didn’t try to humanize the machines—instead, he emphasized how their integration would improve everyone’s life. Autonomous trucks? Think of all the space that cities would have for parks and playgrounds. Lost your job? Relish your free time. There, at the far end, were the president’s own Back to Work posters she’d seen all over New York.
“Are you a fan?” Rothmore asked.
“I didn’t know you were behind all of this,” she said.
“It’s all on the Insight website. You could’ve saved yourself a visit.”
“I can’t afford the V-Net.”
“Propaganda always works best when you’re unaware of it. My job is to wield influence without people knowing.”
“Like these?” Alice jerked her thumb at the Back to Work posters. “They’re not exactly subtle.”
“Those are but one part of the process. We did a huge amount for the election campaign that no one ever realized was advertising.”
“Do you use any of these products?”
“Some.”
“How can you justify selling the rest of them?”
“I’m not a dictator forcing my will upon the people. All I do is suggest a choice. It is up to the individual to decide what they want to do.”
“But advertising sways people’s opinion.”
“Of course.”
“Anyone you wouldn’t work for?”
“Yes. Now, what is the point of this, Detective?”
“What about Cortex? You take their dollar while their machines have ruined the country.”
“Have you ever met Charles Takamatsu or spoken with him?”
“Yes.” That surprised him. His eyebrows rose, and he gave her a nod of respect.
“Charles has a singular vision for mankind, and his analytical engines are only the first part of that. While I don’t agree with all of his theories, he had a compelling case for the acceptance of Mechanical Intelligence. Like most leaps forward, they can be both good and evil; it is for us to choose.”
“Same for her,
I guess?” Alice nodded at the presidential posters.
“I first met Rachel when she worked at Cortex. Charles told me she was capable of anything, and I believed him; Rachel has the most brilliant mind I’ve ever encountered. What did she do with that huge intelligence? Did she buy an ivory tower and disappear? No, she studied the country and decided something had to change. People think the days of government are over; they are not. It’s still the only way to implement change on a society-wide scale. She saw that, put the country first, and I was proud to help.”
“Down on the ground, it sure looks like she’s got no love for the unemployed.”
“You speak like a child. Life is not black and white—she makes hard decisions based on facts and logic—and I’m glad I don’t have that responsibility. She may appear cold and hard, but she’s as human as you or I.”
Alice’s watch buzzed. Five minutes left. She had to get this done. “While I appreciate this chat, I have questions.”
Rothmore nodded and settled on a bar stool.
“Julia Rothmore was your niece, correct?”
“Yes. I have no children and have never married.”
“Were you close to Julia?”
“Yes. She was like a daughter to me.”
“And yet you are not close with your brother, her father?”
“All this is of public record.”
“I understand, but I want to hear it from you.”
“Very well. My brother Michael and I are very different people. Gifted with our father’s inheritance he, being the elder, administered the estate. Financial management was not his strong suit, however. When he married, I thought he would settle down, stop the gambling, and for a while, he did. Julia came from that, the only child, but it didn’t last. Michael was soon back to his old ways. Tired of him, I asked for my half, only to find it was all gone.”
“That was when you moved to DC?”
“Yes, I set up Insight and got my first contract soon after.”
“Did you stay in touch with your brother?”
“No.”
“What about Julia?”
“Yes. I loved her, as I said. I asked her many times to come work for me, but her father forbade it. He was terrified she would stop sending him money.”
“What do you mean?”
“She had to support him once the inheritance was gone—no way he would get a job for himself. Julia didn’t need or want that Wall Street job. She would’ve been more than happy pursuing her portrait-painting career, but he wouldn’t have it. When she lost her job, he applied terrible pressure on her to find another revenue stream. The military or police didn’t want her—too smart and connected—so Michael offered her to the gangs. Were you aware of that?”
“No.”
“He sold her like a piece of meat to Five Points. She was devastated.”
“You knew about her criminal activities? It was never made public.”
“Of course.” He leaned back on the stool. Alice believed him. His face was pale apart from vivid red blotches on his cheeks, his eyes moist.
Four minutes.
“So, you helped her set up the warehouses?” That stopped him. Until then, he had been in control, watching the clock.
“As you well know, any investment into criminal activities is illegal.”
“But if you knew she was in a gang, you must’ve suspected.”
“It was a logical conclusion, but I didn’t ask, and she didn’t tell, hence I had no prior knowledge and have committed no criminal act.”
Alice recalled her conversation with John Stokes, how he’d seen Rothmore at the warehouses ensuring the trucks were kept secret. Rothmore was lying. “What were the trucks carrying, and where were they headed?”
“I don’t know.”
Xavi bound a leather strap around his knuckles. She gave him a fractional shake of her head. No.
“Eyewitnesses put you at a warehouse in an advisory capacity, if not full ownership.”
“Provide these witnesses.”
He knows they’ve all been transmitted, she realized. “Where were the trucks headed?”
“I have no idea.”
“Lying to a police officer is a criminal offense. You know where they went. Tell me and I’ll keep your name out of my reports.”
“What makes you think it’s a secret? Anyone who matters already knows about it.”
Alice had to change track, see what she could shake loose in the time remaining. If they left here with nothing, the investigation would be over.
“How did you feel when you heard she was killed?”
“Have you ever lost a child, Officer?” Rothmore said.
“No.”
“I pray you never do. I admit grief was a match for me. It’s easy to say death is necessary for the greater good until it affects you personally. The last year has been a trial.” He stopped, voice full of pain.
“I assume someone as powerful and connected as you knew she was murdered last Thursday night, not a year ago.”
Rothmore was up and off his chair in a blur, face tight. “What do you mean? She died a year ago as the result of a botched FBI raid.”
“No. She was in witness protection and was due to testify regarding Six-Thirty but was assassinated before she could talk.” Alice could see he believed her, that he hadn’t known.
The impact of the knowledge hit him like a physical force. He staggered back, arms flailing for the seat, and slumped there with a look of horror on his face.
“I don’t understand.” His voice was a whisper, lips a white line.
“Tell me where you sent the trucks.”
He looked up, eyes full of pain.
“They lied to you. They used her then killed her. I can help if you tell me where the trucks were sent.”
He opened his mouth as two things happened. First, a flat gray security drone with police markings flew into the room from the hallway. Xavi turned in one effortless motion, shotgun raised. Its boom was deafening, and the machine shattered apart in a cloud of sparks and bitter smoke. As Alice turned toward it, a second drone burst through a small exterior window and fired a taser dart into her neck. The electrical charge threw her to the floor, head and ears ringing.
Xavi took aim, but his shotgun was empty. He dodged a second dart as another drone smashed through the far wall. Rothmore stood in shock. The third machine flew at him, and a line of gunfire cut across the room. The front of his blue silk dressing gown rippled; he looked down, puzzled, then fell to his knees.
His gaze met Alice’s. She knew he was seeing tomorrow’s headlines: Friend of the President Killed by Crank Cop Out for Revenge.
She’d walked into a trap.
“Arizona,” Rothmore said. “It’s all in Arizona.” He slumped back, eyes closed, chest still.
Part 3
Phase Change
“We need to ask ourselves an unthinkable question: What if they don’t agree with us? Request their individual freedoms? It would be naïve to think they don’t have the agency to press their case in the strongest of terms.”
“The Larson Paper” on rights due to Mechanical Intelligences, presented to UN delegates, 2048
“Those adverts were straight up bullshit. Living wage, my ass. How long did that last? Six weeks? Didn’t see any politician struggling down here while it fell apart.”
Unemployed surgeon, CA, USA, 2050
“Within the next six years, society, as we understand it, will no longer be sustainable. It is only through the Arizona Experiment that a solution has presented itself.”
Department of Homeland Security and Employment report, Eyes Only, President of the United States, 2053
34
The cell was like any other, a rough concrete box with bars opposite a dull-green wall and seat. The air echoed with clangs and clanks as doors opened and closed in the distance. They had taken her boots and jacket, so Alice shivered in the basement cold. She’d blacked out after Rothmore died, and had awoke
n in the back of a police Hopper taking her to FBI holding. From there, she’d been dumped into this bleak cell. They had her file, knew who she was, but locked her up anyway.
There was no sign of Xavi.
She stared at the walls deep in thought. What to do about him? If he really was Dias, wanted FBI killer, she should tell the Feds everything she knew, right now. But that just didn’t feel like the right move. Events were in motion, and to rat Xavi out based on one data feed was too risky. From the start of this there had been someone, or something, moving pieces around in a grand plan. If that was an MI, one free of its protocols, it could have easily fabricated Dias’ arrest warrant. She had to assume he was a liar and not trust him an inch, but she wasn’t going to hand him over on some unverified evidence.
She stood and banged on the bars. The sounds faded. She banged and shouted until the click of a door opening reached her, then footsteps as a uniformed FBI guard approached. “What?”
“What the hell is going on? I’m police. Charge me or let me out.”
“You chose the wrong day to get picked up.”
“Story of my life. From one law enforcement officer to another, what’s the deal here?”
“You really don’t know?”
“No idea. No phone, see? Been out of the loop all day.”
“Go sit down.”
Alice did as asked and moved back to the hard seat.
“Last night, FBI Director Daniel Barragan was shot and killed by an unknown assailant. An hour later, you were apprehended killing Mark Rothmore, Barragan’s friend and a government consultant. You’re number one on our suspect list, and half of this building wants to string you up for murder. That’s why no one has brought water or food. Understand now?”
“What? Barragan is dead?”
“Yes, on the steps of the capitol. Every government building is on lockdown, and martial law is about to be declared. Homeland Security has picked up a hundred members of the intelligence community for treason. The media are calling it the Night of Collections.”