by T. K. Toppin
The transmission ended abruptly as I gaped in horror.
* * *
I emptied my stomach, for the second time, into the sink. When my retching finally eased and my breathing leveled, I slumped to the floor and pressed my forehead to the cool tiles. I wasn’t sure what I felt, but after what I just witnessed, I was sick to my stomach.
The casual manner in which it’d been done—the quick shock on Margeaux’s face, a face so closely resembling my own. And that gaping slash of flesh! Was that flash of white the bones? The brilliant red of blood…
I was in a bathroom in an adjoining room. From beyond the door came the muted voices of John and Adam, their tones angry. I stood, my knees weak and shaky. Water ran down the sink as I stared bleakly at my reflection in the mirror. I’d seen quite a bit of what people could do to each other, the brutality of it and the end results. I had also done such damage—had to. But it was still a shock to see it, first hand, full-in-the-face, in vibrant living color.
I rinsed my mouth, splashed cold water on my face, and then stood over the sink, hands braced on the porcelain sides.
Margeaux.
I’d convinced myself not to feel anything toward her, that she was an impostor. But having seen her, I could no longer be sure. Her close resemblance to me aside, I couldn’t help but see a little of my brother’s daughter as well.
She’d been a little over a year old when I saw her last, but Fern had had those sparkling hazel-green eyes, set wide and large on a cherubic face. Her baby mouth had pouted and parted just as Margeaux’s had. Try as I might, I couldn’t shake the image of young Fern out of my head.
Again, I told myself Ho had copied—no, cloned—Margeaux from the old discs he’d discovered. This was all a big trick. It had to be!
And again, something inside me pitched and ached with a tug of longing, of wanting. A need to connect, to be part of a family.
John came into the small bathroom to find me still hunched over the sink, water running endlessly down the drain.
“Josie?” His soft tone sounded tense, worried.
“I’m all right,” I replied quickly.
I didn’t trust myself to look at him just yet. The need to cry—wail—for no reason at all was right there, on the edge of my sanity. Taking a deep breath, I raised my head, fussed with the sink and turned off the tap. With wet hands, I ran them through my hair, then reached out for a towel.
“Josie,” he said again.
Taking me by my shoulders, he tugged me closer with such gentle care until I was gathered into his warm chest. I didn’t resist and pressed my face into his neck. He held me for a moment. It felt good. I let out a big sigh.
“I can’t tell you not to feel.” He spoke into my ear. His voice alone was enough to bolster my spirits and calm my confusion. “Whether this is all a trick or not, I can’t say. But whatever it is, we will find out.”
“Okay,” I mumbled into his neck. “Did you see how…?” I couldn’t finish.
“Don’t,” he squeezed me tighter. “The man is clearly insane. Don’t let his actions distract you from his goals. He means to destroy us by any means necessary. He doesn’t care about anything else. Remember that when it comes time to fighting him.”
“Okay,” I nodded as he pressed his lips to my clammy neck. His simple way of putting things, so matter of fact, so clean, calm, made me feel ten times better.
Almost.
John pulled away enough to look at me and brush hair from my face with his hand. “He’s sent over a detailed log of the girl’s family history. I’ve sent it straight to Aline for her to compare and verify.” He put his fingers gently to my mouth when I opened them. “Shh. The moment she finds anything, she’ll let us know. But for now, let’s concentrate on the more pressing matters.”
I nodded. “She looks so much like—”
“I know.” He cut me off and gave me a small smile. “Don’t let that distract you either.”
“You think it’s a trick?”
“I think a lot of things. I’ll believe it when I see it for myself.”
I nodded again, feeling close to tears. I pushed it away, forcing it down, and managed a smile in return. “Okay. I won’t be distracted.” I didn’t sound too convincing, even to me.
“Come with me.” John wrapped an arm around my shoulders and we headed out the room. “Adam seems to think Ho wants the master code for all the droids.”
“What?”
“They spoke of it briefly in Taiwan. The possibility of a privately-run automated armed force.”
We’d stopped just outside the bathroom door. From the corner of my eye, I saw Adam slumped in a chair, hunched over, hands to his head.
“I don’t understand.”
“The government—my government—run all the automated armed forces as well as the domestic and service droids. We alone hold the controls for them. To put it into the hands of a private organization is madness. The temptations to abuse it would be too great. And yes, there is a master code for controlling the droids.”
John ran a hand down my arm when he saw the shock on my face. I disliked the droids, mostly because they reminded me too much of creepy life-like dolls. But it was their plastic faces, waxy and pasty, their programmed politeness and their unblinking soulless eyes. It all lent to the half-hysteria I sometimes felt when I saw them or was left alone in their company.
To me, they were the abominations. And as for the armed forces, they were nameless and faceless save for their gleaming square frontal viewfinders that were their eyes. Wrought together with shiny pieces of molded body parts to resemble their human counterparts—ruthlessly metal and brutally accurate in their single-minded programmed drive to destroy. They were just like the science fiction movies I used to watch, where the alien robots took over the world.
I must’ve gulped loud enough, since I received a soft kiss to the forehead.
“So, Adam does have the codes.”
John shook his head. “No, he does not.” He watched me closely before he spoke again. “But Wellesley did.”
“What?”
Chapter 9
The day was turning out to be a long one.
Like a never-ending nightmare, the fallout from my fabricated past continued to buzz through the media. More stories, even wilder than the last, popped up like warts from all corners of the world.
Some were so outrageous and unbelievable even I had to laugh. My personal favorite was that I was the spawn of a half-mutant alien being, raised on the research colony on the Mars space station. I much preferred that story to the one about me being a droid, programmed to pose as the president’s wife since he was an alternative—the preferred term now for homosexual—and impotent but needed an heir. So my droid-self would then pose to look as if I were pregnant, then later pretend to give birth, when, supposedly, we were breeding his cloned spawns in large vats in a special underground laboratory.
Whatever the case, the media just lapped it up, spewed it out and, as predicted, made my life quite uncomfortable. Sequestered deep inside the Citadel, the brunt of it was buffered and tamed for my benefit, but people I passed still stared at me, whispering amongst themselves, nodding and sneering as if they believed the ridiculous stories. Some even laughed. In any case, I didn’t care. It was what I’d agreed to—conspired for. Besides, my mind was on more pressing issues.
Loeb was assigned the sole task of handling the media, which he did with aplomb. His boringly honest and bland features made good camera-ready respectability and sincerity. And he deserved a shit-load of awards for his superb acting abilities.
As agreed, Loeb arranged for me to release a statement. So at the appointed hour of four in the afternoon, queasy-stomached, I faced a camera and prepared to read my brief statement. Live.
I was dressed in a simple tailored black pantsuit that hugged close to my body to emphasize my toned form. I had biceps now! The wrist holster for my krima was purposely visible, since my sleeves ended just below the el
bows. I had been instructed to sit and glower at the camera and speak as if offended.
Reading from my prepared speech, I expressed my shock and offence at being the target of such ridiculous fabrications. I touched a little on my history, deemed it to be the absolute truth and dared anyone to disagree. I ended the six-minute statement by telling the world I was just plain disappointed with them for believing in such nonsense. There were far more serious matters that affected us daily, and efforts should be concentrated on these and not the frivolous lies the media helped to spread and fester.
In other words, I slopped out some approved bullshit.
When I finished, and the live camera feed winked out, I slumped back into my chair and almost got sick in my own lap. This president’s wife business was nothing short of misery.
Before Loeb could offer me a glass of water, I launched out the chair and bolted out the door, nearly crashing into Aida, John’s assistant, who let out a dignified squeak and yielded against a wall.
The press release had been held in my office, or the space that was called my office. It was a new room, attached to John’s own office, that had been constructed since my arrival. It was a mere box of a room with a faux window showing a view of the Swiss Alps. It held a desk with a small communications dock, and a chair. I’d not used it except to sit and pose for press and public relations photos and recordings. I usually preferred to loiter in John’s office next door whenever I ventured into the area. I was still a little clueless about what my real duties as the wife of a president entailed.
Rounding the corner, I gasped a big sigh of relief and put the ordeal out of my mind. It was done—over with. Without knocking, I walked into John’s office to find Simon there with him.
“Hey,” I called out, a little out of breath.
John gave me a bolstering smile. He’d said he would not be present during my statement, preferring I concentrate on my speech and acting skills instead.
Simon turned with a small knot between his brows, nodded to me once, and continued his conversation with John. “So far, no. They’ve swept the entire place twice. All is as normal as it could be.”
John straightened from the desk he was propped against and scrubbed a hand through his hair in annoyance.
As soon as we received the location for the exchange of the master code, Simon had had his men sweep the entire area in the hopes they’d find something that would lead to Ho’s location. While it was a predicted and expected move, Simon declared he didn’t care. He preferred to show Ho what we did on purpose, while secretly doing something else. Like trying to change the codes to the droids, which, in itself, was a tall order.
Ho had played us well. To change the master code for the droids would take at least two days to complete—hence the run-around with the guessing game. It meant first shutting down every single droid, sector by sector, all across the world. Then entering the code, deleting the current program and commands, re-entering a new code against the old code, rebooting and re-launching using the new code. Unlike the master code for the communications satellites and stations, it couldn’t be done remotely. One had to physically go to the space station ST-Cy 15, better known as the Scrap Yard. This space station was solely for the design and creation, manufacture and distribution of cybernetic technology.
If ever there was a mother ship, this was it.
Moorjani had only managed to catch an electronic shadow from Ho, somewhere near Switzerland. The most she could gather was that Ho was in the region of France or Spain, and close enough to hide under echoes and shadows. All this meant nothing to me, as my limited knowledge of the technical jargon of this future was pitifully non-existent.
“Could it be a trap?” I asked, snagging a glass of water from the bar. I sat down in a chair before John’s desk and gulped it down. “The location, I mean.”
“Perhaps. But why set a trap when we have something he wants?” Simon cocked his head to me, pushing up a single brow. “You’re not going to throw up, are you?”
“Nothing left to hurl.” I smirked back and tried to look casual. Truth was, there was still a little bit of biley puke in me. “I’m just glad it’s done.”
It wasn’t the press release that had made me sick. It was the constant image of Margeaux’s hand being sliced open that replayed in my head like a stuck record. Try as I might to shake it out of my mind, I couldn’t. And each time, all I saw was the slash of pink flesh gaping open, parting like an eye. Then the sudden rush of blood—that bright, fresh, red.
Understanding, John watched me as I struggled. He knew that, aside from the images on replay through my mind, the nagging possibility of this girl being my niece tormented me. And I was helpless to save her. He had said, maybe to make me feel better, that if it was his niece, Amelia being sliced open so, he would’ve gone blind with mad fury.
“So,” I changed the subject, as I was uncomfortable with how John stared at me, the way he seemed to see through me, “what did I miss? Who does have the code?”
“The governor of the space station,” Simon said. “General Ayo Mwenye.”
“Oh.”
“And, no. He’s not going to change it.”
“Why?”
“Because, Josie,” John went to the drinks cabinet and poured a tall measure of whiskey, took a sip, turned, and continued, “before automated technology was standardized world-wide, most were independently controlled. As in, each unit was programmed and controlled by the user. That’s still the case, for personal-preference programming only. But the main control or mainframe is on the Scrap Yard.
“About twenty-five years ago, a master code was developed to safe-guard the mainframe controls. Every new unit developed and distributed since is under the control of the mainframe. Once a new unit is created, it’s added on to the existing program. Of course, the code is needed for this as well. Older units can be upgraded, what have you, by logging onto the mainframe. Again, the code is used. But a total shutdown to change the code is borderline madness. First you need to enter the code to access the kill-switch. Then every single unit would have to be shut down across the world. That would take close to a day. Not to mention the chaos it would create when automatons that we depend on are stopped—suddenly—without warning. By informing the public, we will also alert Ho. And because this code is used so frequently for basic operations and for access within the mainframe, it is impractical to change it. At least, not at the drop of a hat. It takes time and preparation for something of this magnitude to be accomplished.”
“Oh. Fine.” I sat up. “But what I don’t get is, why did Ho think Adam would have this code? Surely people must know this Governor Mwen-whatever holds it.”
From beside me, Simon piped in. “Not really. It’s not that common knowledge. Most people don’t like to think we control their droids.”
“I wonder why?” I answered with as much sarcasm as I could muster. “But then, how did Lorcan get it?”
Because I had to be coached on my press release by Loeb, I had missed some key points in the subject. Simon filled me in.
According to Adam, he and Ho had, in passing, discussed the possibility of a privately-run cybernetics company. There were already many such companies, operating under the strict guidelines and controls of the government. The government then paid the private company, taking over control and integrating them into their own system. There had been casual mention of how it worked. Adam had supplied the basic knowledge he had on the subject. Ho had shown keen interest, but immediately changed course and concentrated on matters more relevant to Max Wellesley’s cause. And never mentioned it again.
At some point, Ho must’ve acquired the code. John and Simon had a vague idea how. Then Ho believed Adam had stolen the code from him. After Ho vanished, soon after Lorcan disappeared and I came to the Citadel, Ho had gone to Korea, as had Lorcan. Lorcan had followed Adam, who he knew at the time only as Mr. Jones The Expert, in the hopes he’d lead him to Ho, which he did. However, Adam claimed he’d
never been to Korea, but knew Lorcan was following Ho. Now Lorcan was dead, along with whatever he had supposedly stole from Ho. It was sketchy, but the best answer they could supply.
“But,” I had to stand and pace, “what I don’t get is, why, if Ho had the code in the first place, could he not have gotten hold of it again—like he did the first time? Why ask for Adam? And why the fuck didn’t he make a copy? That’s pretty dumb on his part, considering he’s meant to be so smart with himself and all.”
Simon rose to pace with me. “Adam was the likely choice. Ho thought he had it. You see, the code is under heavy guard. The space station, that is. There was, maybe, one time when Ho could have gotten the code: when Mwenye went off-site to attend his mother’s funeral. We’ve contacted him, but he doesn’t remember anything but the actual funeral. There are gaps in his memory. Suspicious? I would say yes. He had pegged it down to grief and thought nothing more of it.”
“So, Ho just can’t be bothered to get the code the hard way but would rather—Oh, fuck!” I spun around to face Simon, then to John, who smiled with satisfaction that I’d caught on so fast. “Ho had his mother killed just so he could get him off-site!”
Simon nodded. “We had a look at how Mrs. Mwenye died. It took some doing, but it’s quite interesting. She was murdered, a shot to the head by a pulse gun. Made to look like a robbery. Her home was ransacked, but nothing taken.”
“The little fucker!” I exclaimed. “So, why not just come right out and say that was the code he wanted? Why the big guessing game?”