The God Wave

by Patrick Hemstreet

  “Yes, ma’am.” Reynolds moved to his bot.

  “Let me work with one of yours first, so I can see if they feel any different. That might help me if and when we shift into problem-solving mode.”

  Every one of the recruits turned to look at Reynolds.

  “You can use mine,” he told her.

  She inspected the robot visually first, asking Reynolds questions about height and weight, noting that the hands and feet were now more like humans’. That was good. There was also a small, brass plate on the bot’s right shoulder. Something was etched on it: “#DSRS04 Thorin.”

  She smiled at Reynolds. “You named them?”

  He smiled back. “Of course.”

  “Okay. What are the essential differences?”

  “They’re about thirty pounds heavier and eight inches taller and have a different setup with their appendages, as you can see.”

  “Their heads are larger, too,” Lanfen noted. “Any particular reason?”

  “GPS system. Infrared camera. Heat sensors.”

  “Heat sensors?”

  “Imagine you’re searching a pitch-black mine for survivors. In situations where even infrared tech won’t work, heat sensors will pick up the presence of a warm body. May be the only way to find a survivor in a situation like that.”

  “Cool,” she chirped. “Let’s see how they work.”

  Lanfen used the same method to get into Thorin’s mechanism as she did with Bilbo. That part worked seamlessly. The additional weight, height, and length of the limbs took a little exercise to get accustomed to, but ultimately she adapted. The new appendages took a bit more getting used to; both hands and feet could adaptively use one of their digits as an opposable thumb. She worked at opening and closing the hands for several moments before she was happy with the result.

  She put the new bot through his paces remotely, watching the way he moved from her own point of view. Finally she went into kinetoquist mode and threw herself into the bot. The world looked pretty much the same as it did from Bilbo’s POV. She drove Thorin through some rolls, kicks, and postures before returning him to Reynolds, who was watching her with almost exaggerated care.

  “What?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. Just wanted to be sure we got it right. Thorin seemed okay to you? No hiccups?”

  “None,” she told him. “I am a little jealous of your new gadgets, though.”

  Reynolds turned his head and tossed his classmates a look. She followed his gaze and saw that Seneca Hughes was hiding a smile . . . and looking at Bilbo.

  Lanfen turned to look at her bot, only then realizing that he, too, had been outfitted with the new handy feet.

  “Very nice,” she said enthusiastically. “Do I get GPS, too?”

  “Sorry,” said Reynolds. “The lab didn’t think he needed that. But the manipulators are Dr. Kobayashi’s design.”

  “Well, let’s put them to use. No more lollygagging, ladies and gentlemen. Let’s get moving. Have you done any practice work with them at all?”

  “A little,” said Reynolds. “Just proof of concept. We haven’t tried ventrilokinetics yet.”

  “Kinetoquism,” she corrected him. “We don’t want the bots to think we view them as dummies.”

  That actually netted her a round of laughter.

  Maybe this day would be all right after all.

  MINI’S EXPERIENCE WITH THE DEEP Shield people was, in her opinion, both bizarre and uncomfortable—probably as much for them as for her. She did not understand them; they did not understand her; and at first she fled each session to the grounds of the business park, where she would relax in the company of Jorge Delgado, a friend she had made among the gardeners who kept the parkland groomed.

  Jorge was a man of many words, with opinions about anything that grew from the ground. She found his botanical wisdom soothing and used the opportunity to study the construction of the plants he tended. She didn’t tell him everything she was working on, of course—only that she was an artist and wanted to paint the most realistic flowers possible.

  “I want them to leap off the canvas,” she told him, which prompted him to supply her with small pots containing clippings from his most-vivid blooms, along with lengthy discourse on the care and feeding of green pets.

  “You want them to leap,” he said, “then you must feed them energy food.”

  Mini wasn’t certain that Jorge’s wisdom would help her with the Deeps. In fact, at the beginning of their sojourn together, she hadn’t been sure she could teach them anything useful for a military application. Why did they care about manipulating art software or even pixels and photons on a screen?

  So finally she asked.

  “Our goal,” the group’s lieutenant, Rachel Cohen, had told her, “is to be able to manipulate pixels directly, the way you do it. It obviates the need for specialized software.”

  “Well, yes, but to what purpose?”

  “Just imagine the time saved if we can prototype skins for our robots, create rescue scenarios, and demonstrate them without having to work them out painstakingly, using standard wire frames and animation software. The applications are practically endless.”

  So she had taught them the art of pixel manipulation, first using the software, then moving beyond that to simply create images on the screen. It did not escape them that there was a different quality to her images and animations.

  “Yours look three-dimensional,” said Rachel. “How are you doing that?”

  The question was a gratifying reward for all of Mini’s hard work. She had spent hours working alone in the lab and even at home, pulling and pushing the pixels, extending herself into the medium to draw them out and imbue them with three dimensions.

  Using the flowering plants that Jorge had been kind enough to surprise her with, Mini walked her class through 3-D, drilled them on it, and was eventually satisfied with their work, though in her heart of hearts she knew it was not equal to what she could do. She felt a small thrill of satisfaction at that but quashed it, knowing that in the end she was being asked to make them her equals.

  Even as she moved her students along, Mini knew she was close to moving beyond what she was teaching them. The prospect excited her . . . as did daydreaming about a fitting way to reveal her new trick.

  She’d show Eugene first.

  “IS IT MY IMAGINATION, OR are there more Smiths roaming our halls today than there were yesterday?” Sara Crowell set her cup of hot coffee down on the café table between Tim and Mike and pulled up a chair.

  “Why do you call them that?” asked Mike, sipping at his own cup. Hot chocolate, Sara could tell by the aroma. The man was addicted to it.

  Tim answered. “It’s from the Matrix movies. I thought you knew that.” At Mike’s head shake, he added, “Agent Smith is this sort of generic man in black who’s, like, everywhere.”

  “I swear they’ve multiplied,” said Sara. “There are three in the main lobby, and God knows how many wandering the halls.”

  “Two by the espresso machine,” murmured Tim, flicking a glance in that direction. “Maybe they’re clones.”

  Mike laughed. “Naw, the one on the left is shorter than the one on the right. See?”

  “What are they doing here?” asked Tim.

  “According to Matt,” said Sara, “they’re supposed to be making sure no one crashes the party or tries to remove classified items from the lab. Presumably the enemies of the US of A would be very interested in what we’re doing here. This zeta wave stuff is off the charts as far as human-machine interface tech goes. I’d be willing to bet no one has anything like it.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure,” said Tim. “Stuff like this seems to be in the ether. I’ve talked to editors who say the same story idea has come to them from multiple writers in a short time period, and scientific discoveries seem to happen in clumps, too. Do you know how many Nobel laureates share the prize with people who were working on the same concept halfway around the world?”


  “I don’t think so this time, Timmy. It took a serendipitous confluence of two completely opposite minds to get us to this. I mean think of all the threads that have to come together: creativity, openness to seemingly outrageous ideas, a knowledge of the human brain, a deep interest—no, an obsession with the workings of the human mind—and the mathematical and mechanical chops to pull it off. I think we’re it, boys. So I guess it makes sense that Uncle Sam would want to guard us like the national treasures we are.”

  Tim made a face. “So we’re just pieces of tech to them. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Not necessarily. We’re human resources.”

  “Personnel?” Mike offered.

  “Wetware,” Tim countered.

  “Just be glad they didn’t give you a jarhead haircut.” Turning to Mike, Sara asked, “How’re your troops doing, Mikey?”

  “Pretty good. They’re operating servos like they were born to it. But . . .” He hesitated.

  “What?”

  “It’s just . . . I’ve been wondering why we even need the servos.”

  Tim’s eyes lit up. “Sara and I don’t use servos.”

  “What do you mean? You can make anything move with your minds?”

  “Hardly, or Kate Upton would be sitting here right now.”

  Sara’s eye roll was almost audible.

  “I’m not sure I can put words on what it is we do, but it doesn’t require a mechanical interface. We’re just able to manipulate unmodified pieces of machinery.”

  “Wow, Timmy, you make it sound as easy as shooting a layup,” Mike said.

  “Still can’t do that.” Tim frowned.

  “It has to be machinery that we have some idea how to operate,” Sara added. “But for you that’s pretty much everything. Have you tried it?”

  Mike looked over at the espresso machine, with its gleaming copper and brass fittings. The two Smiths were still standing next to it, exchanging notes about something.

  Sara followed his gaze. As she watched, one of the taps on the side rotated its nozzle, and a jet of steam shot out of it, forcing the two agents to retreat several steps. The tap closed again just as quickly as it had opened.

  She looked back at Mike. His expression was noncommittal and completely innocent.

  Tim was chortling. “Dude, you better not let them know you can use the Force like that. They’ll classify your ass.”

  Would they? Sara had wondered that many times since they’d embarked on this partnership with Deep Shield. What if the military came to view the zetas as little more than classified warmware? What happened to people whose brains and the thoughts in them were considered classified?

  “We’re already top secret, aren’t we?” she asked.

  Tim cast another glance at the Smiths. “Yeah, well, apparently so are some of the projects our trainees are working on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I went up to my lab to snag my coffee cup before I came down here, and one of my students—the lieutenant, what’s his name . . . Pierce—was sitting at his computer. I don’t think I imagined how fast he shut that puppy down and put up the piece we were working on yesterday.”

  Sara leaned in. “Did you get a sense of what he was really working on?”

  “Something using the same software. He was designing something. Armor, looked like to me.”

  Mike chuckled. “You caught him playing games, Tim. He’s probably designing a video game in his spare time.”

  Tim seemed to think about that for a moment and grinned. “A man after my own heart.”

  Sara glanced back at the two agents, who were now sitting at a nearby table, looking anything but relaxed over their cups of whatever. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

  “What if I told him I noticed he was working on a personal project and suggested I’d be happy to help him with it? Then he’d show me, right?”

  “At your own risk, Timmy.” She stood and picked up her coffee. “Almost time for class. I’m heading down to my lab. Be careful poking your nose in their business, okay?”

  “You’re paranoid,” Tim said.

  “So are you, usually,” she reminded him. “Why not now?”

  She left Tim with that thought and went off to teach her class.

  SOMETHING WOODSY AND FLORAL INVADED Chuck’s olfactory senses. Something that made him imagine he heard running water and felt grass under his feet. He knew that fragrance. Smiling, he glanced at the door of his office and found Lanfen standing in it.

  The expression on her face put a damper on his smile. “What’s the matter?”

  She made a closing gesture at the door. “Can we talk?”

  Ah. The three most feared words in the English language. “Sure. Come on in.”

  She carefully closed the door, making sure the latch bolt clicked in the strike plate.

  She sat in the chair across from his desk, her arms crossed over her chest. She frowned at the Camden Yards snow globe on his desk as if it had done something rude.

  “Where were you today?” he asked when she didn’t say anything.

  That apparently startled her. She lowered her arms and looked up at him. “You don’t know? You really don’t?”

  “No. What happened? What’s wrong?”

  “I got hijacked this morning. Bilbo, too. By the Deeps. They carted both of us off to their facility, where we spent the day with our team of recruits and their shiny, new and improved robots.”

  “They . . . they did?”

  She nodded.

  He’d known about the new bots but not that the Deeps had planned on changing the venue for their training.

  “No one told you this was going to happen?” she asked.

  “No. I had no idea. Have you talked to Matt about it?”

  “Matt is strangely absent from his office. And his lab. And everywhere else I’ve looked for him this evening.” She leaned forward and put her clasped hands on the edge of his desk. “Chuck, I don’t mind working with them at their facility. I don’t mind that they gave Bilbo cool new appendages. I do mind that they didn’t tell me they were planning on doing either. Can you . . . will you talk to General Howard about this? Can you make him understand that we’re not used to being hauled around like . . . like ordnance? I’m not government property. Neither is Bilbo. It’s not right for them to just take us like that.”

  “No. No, it’s not.” Chuck fought the momentary sensation of swimming in a very deep pool, the bottom of which he could not see. There were currents here he didn’t understand, much less trust. “I’ll talk to Matt. We’ll get this straightened out.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You said they made changes to Bilbo?”

  Her expression brightened a little. “They installed these handy new feet with situationally opposable thumbs.” She waggled her thumbs up and down. “Based on Dice’s design, they said. In addition to that, their bots have built-in GPS and infrared units. For rescue work.” She frowned again. “Am I being ridiculous? I mean we’re all on the same team, right? Why should it bother me if they change the drill?”

  “You’re not being ridiculous. Being a military agency or being our chief client doesn’t give them the right to just change everything on a whim. I’ll talk to Matt.”

  “Thanks,” she said again and shrugged. It was as if, having divested herself of this problem, she was simply slipping it off the way one slides out of a too-warm coat. Her posture straightened, her face lost its pensive expression, and her eyes brightened.

  “It’s six o’clock,” she announced. “Have you eaten?”

  He shook his head, still pondering unseen currents.

  “I know a great Szechuan place about a mile from here. You like Szechuan?”

  “Love it,” he said, though he was pretty sure he couldn’t tell Szechuan cuisine from Cantonese or Mandarin. He really didn’t care. He decided that if it meant having dinner with Lanfen, he would have said he loved lima beans.

  EUGENE LOOKED UP FROM
HIS laptop screen at the pinecone that had just tumbled to the middle of his office floor. He turned his gaze to the door to find Mini standing there watching him, smiling enigmatically.

  He practically leapt out of his chair. “Wow, is it that late already? I’m sorry. I said I was going to come down to your classroom and rescue you, didn’t I?”

  She didn’t say anything, only crooked her finger at him and backed out of the doorway.

  Okay. She was in one of her playful moods. He liked those well enough, though he was sometimes afraid they were a coping mechanism she’d adopted because she was often perceived as young and cute and harmless. Two out of three of those are true. But she had a strong will and some cutting insights. The girl could do some damage if she wanted to. Luckily she rarely wanted to.

  Eugene rolled his eyes at his own concern. Who was he to worry over someone else’s coping mechanisms? He had about three dozen of them himself, from the geektastic use of Yiddish to flaunt his native nerdiness to the clothing choices he made to hide it.

  Right now he decided to embrace his inner geek because Minerva liked it. He got up from his desk and moved to the doorway, dragging one foot and hunching one shoulder, so his right arm dangled crookedly.

  “Yeth, mithtress,” he lisped. “Igor hearth, and Igor obeyth.”

  He reached his office doorway to find Mini beckoning him from the middle of the A lab.

  “Here, Igor,” she called.

  There was an odd quality to her voice that he couldn’t quite put a finger on. Before he could, she stopped beckoning, smiled brilliantly, and held out a hand to him. He reached out his dangling hand to take hers and shivered as their fingers met. It felt wrong—cold, soft . . . like liquid. His mind had barely processed that bit of weirdness when she disappeared. Literally and completely. Vanished. As if she’d never been there in the first place.

  Eugene, still hunched over in Igor mode, stared at the spot where she’d been standing, his mind scrambling to make sense of the situation. I’m asleep, he told himself. I’ve fallen asleep at my desk, and I’m dreaming. I need to wake up.

  He said the words aloud. “Eugene Pozniaki, you need to wake up.”