Body Shop

by John Hindmarsh

  Billie said, her voice sleepy, “Do you think we should spend more time in the Pepper Mountain facility?”

  “I thought you were asleep.” Toby sat beside her. “You’re looking better.” He flinched as his shoulder jarred when Billie tried to sit up. “I think we’re in a state of war. I’m not surrendering although I don’t want anyone else to get hurt. I certainly don’t intend to hide in the mountains.”

  “I agree. I heard the details and the phone recordings. Maybe emptying their bank accounts was not the best thing to do.”

  “They had you. I would do it again. And will. Their funds are going to disappear every time they try something. I’ll talk to the FBI. Reynolds seems to have his head facing the right way.”

  “You can’t tell him about the bank transfers.”

  “He’ll hear the details in the phone calls. I’ll deny knowledge of their missing funds.”

  “What will you do with their money?”

  “Probably commence a charity to help families hurt by brownshirts’ activities. They’re damaging a lot of small businesses with their so-called insurance business. It’s standover tactics under a different name.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll help you with that.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m seriously interested. I can do it.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt about your abilities. Very well, the charity is yours. Speak to Victoria; she’ll arrange all the documentation.” Victoria Zhou was a member of Toby’s management team, responsible for all the legal challenges of the Euler organization.

  “I will. And I won’t mention the source of funds.” Billie kissed Toby on the cheek, careful to not bump his shoulder.

  “Of course.”

  Toby arranged for Special Agent Reynolds to visit him at the house. He wasn’t certain that he’d be returning to the apartment. It was too restricting. When Reynolds arrived, he led him into what had been his uncle’s office.

  “I’ve received a recording,” Toby explained. “I’m unable to identify the source. It’s of discussions between Pitera and the leader of the brownshirts in Washington, someone by the name of Flocke, and the second call is Pitera talking to one of his Storm Detachment leaders. They’re suggesting I’m to blame for their loss of funds. Listen.”

  When the mp3 file ended, Reynolds said. “I’d like a copy for our records. So they lost twenty-five million dollars or more, simply drained out of their accounts.” He chuckled. “That’d piss me off, I’ll admit.”

  Toby kept a straight face. “I daresay.”

  “You’re unable to identify the source of the recordings?”

  Toby shook his head. “People keep sending me files. I gave you the videos of Billie’s kidnapping—I don’t know who sent those, either.” At least he was telling the truth in relation to those video files.

  “We’re building up a case against Pitera. We may be able to wrap up Flocke and his man, this Paul Young.”

  “I hope you can. We’re all feeling threatened.”

  “Flocke is a major player in DC,” cautioned Reynolds. “He wields significant power, and his influence reaches right into the White House. Young has ten thousand members in his Storm Detachment, while Pitera has over a thousand, locally. The brownshirts total about a million countrywide.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard similar estimates. Have you tracked down Pitera yet?”

  “The meat packing plant was rented by an anonymous Delaware company; we can’t trace shareholders, officers or bank accounts. He’s well hidden. We know he has a number of safe houses and offices. He’s elusive.”

  While Toby had confidence in Special Agent Reynolds, he wondered whether brownshirt members or sympathizers had penetrated the local FBI offices. Of course, he couldn’t raise that possibility with Reynolds, not without proof, which would have to be far more than an anonymous video or mp3 file.

  “The longer he’s free, the higher the risks are for myself, for Billie, for my friends and business operations. Drexel is maxing out his people, and we’re adding more bots. This is taking our focus away from more important aspects of the business. You could end up with SECDEF and your bosses in Washington looking your way—we’re doing some confidential designs for the military that they want to trial as soon as possible.”

  “Damn—that’s the last thing I need.” Reynolds smiled. “We’re doing our best. The media is starting to poke us, asking questions, which is embarrassing, to say the least.”

  Toby thought he’d covered enough detail with the FBI agent, and they ended the meeting with Reynolds promising an early resolution.

  oOo

  Chapter 9

  Myron Kelly owned a 1960 British Norton Dominator motorcycle. It was the 650 cc model with their renowned Featherbed frame, a limited edition built specifically for the USA. He, and others, some with far more knowledge than Myron, regarded it as one of the truly iconic motorcycles of all time. Even though it was foreign.

  Restoring the Dominator was his hobby. He wasn’t sure he’d fully matched the original build, but its performance, soft ride, and cornering ability delighted him every time he took it for a ride. His favorite track was the San Gabriel Canyon Road, at least up to where the road was blocked. He often wondered—well, each time he rode the open portion of the highway—whether they’d ever rebuild and re-open the remainder of the highway. The crumbly mountains meant the cost would be excessive, he supposed; the 1978 mud and rock slide gave the truth to that assumption.

  He and Genie, his wife, before her health stopped her joining in these outings, had enjoyed the regular ride; the challenge of the winding road, the views into the canyons and out across Los Angeles, the fresh and sometimes foggy air, the thrill of the Dominator’s cornering and acceleration, all added to their weekend pleasures.

  Today, though, might be the last time he rode his Norton. That was life, he thought. He was in a down slope, as opposed to the more enjoyable up slopes. He was an engineer, a good one, somewhat inhibited in recent years by the accident that had severed a finger and thumb from his left hand. The company that employed him had acknowledged their liability, and continued his employment, at least until the end of this last month. They blamed bots. Management never admitted their mistakes. It was more likely the takeover by the brownshirts organization had damaged sales and slid the company into losses. The brownshirts wanted an engineering company to support the manufacture of their possibly illegal weapons and devices; he had challenged one design that looked too much like an IED—or perhaps EED, Engineered Explosive Device, was a better label—for his liking. The new management claimed it was experimental, that they wanted to design military weapons and were seeking a contract with DARPA.

  Myron had objected. He could have resigned, he supposed, but his dismissal payoff was more than if he handed in his notice. The brownshirts supervisors tried to threaten him; however, he made it obvious he was not giving way, and they were aware of his strength. He had been a competitive boxer in the Army and an unarmed combat trainer.

  They were careful.

  The conflict between what the company required of him and what he was prepared to do, now was resolved. He was unemployed. That meant he was without medical cover for himself and Genie. He had not yet told her, although she probably knew by now; she had a remarkable gossip grapevine.

  He edged the bike over on a corner, annoyed that the end of the muffler had touched tarmac but pleased with the bike’s handling. The Featherbed ride was something to experience, and the twin cylinders provided excellent acceleration. He’d polish out any scratches before advertising the bike for sale. He eased back on the throttle; there was no need to add too much work to his pre-sale activities. He passed the Camp Williams turn and continued up the canyon. He would enjoy the outing far more if Genie was riding pillion.

  Genie struggled to move from the kitchen to the living room; it was only a few feet, but her joints still protested. Her hips and her knees were deteriorating, and soon it would be time at least for hip
replacement surgery. Both hips. She was not looking forward to that adventure. It would be deferred now, because—and Myron didn’t know she knew—he was no longer employed. She could tell his status worried him; he didn’t like being unemployed. His hand—his lack of a thumb and forefinger—restricted his activities, at least for a number of tasks he would normally do as a mechanical engineer. They both knew jobs were scarce; bots increasingly were taking on roles normally filled by humans. She supposed it was progress. At least, that’s what everyone said. Unless they found themselves unemployed.

  The brownshirts weren’t helping. Myron had told her of the problems he was encountering. She had known he would refuse to do the engineering jobs they were requesting. And she could tell from his demeanor that it had come to a head. The month end meant he was unemployed. She agreed with his refusal; she didn’t want him making weapons, whether for DARPA, the military generally, or for some other purpose; what that might be, she didn’t know.

  Genie sat in the big comfortable chair and turned on the television. Her favorite show was about to commence. It was light-hearted, better than watching the news channels with their conflicting stories about politicians and their propaganda. Although she supposed she should be more aware of what was happening in her country.

  The doorbell chimed. She muttered savagely to herself and climbed out of the chair. Myron would have time now to set up an outside camera connected to the television set so she could see who was calling before struggling to answer the door.

  The doorbell chimed again, just as she reached the door. She opened it wide. To her surprise two bots were standing on her front porch; one was a tiny, curly-haired thing, and the other one was taller, bulky, more in charge, she thought.

  “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Kelly? Mrs. Genevieve Kelly?” The larger of the two bots spoke in a soft tenor voice.

  “Yes, but my friends call me Genie.”

  “My name is Stefan. I hope we can fit into that friend category,” replied the bot. “Is Myron home?”

  Genie felt comforted by the friendliness of the bot. She hoped her trust was not misplaced. “No, not at the moment. He’s taken his motorcycle for a ride up San Gabriel Canyon.” Her mind detoured for an instant, remembering how she’d enjoyed those rides, when she could sit comfortably on the passenger seat.

  She missed the momentary inattention of the bot.

  “Oh. I would like to speak with him.”

  Genie remembered her hospitality rules. The pain in her hip was a strong reminder. She said, “Won’t you please come inside? We can be more comfortable.”

  “Certainly. Susie, you go first and help Genie. I’ll close the door.”

  The little bot was quick to stand beside Genie and held her elbow, providing just the right amount of assistance. Genie felt odd, with her escort so much smaller and shorter than herself. When she reached her chair she said, “Thank you—Susie, was it?”

  “Yes, Ms. Genie.” The voice was female, clear and surprisingly adult sounding, given the small size of the bot.

  “Genie is enough. Please sit, both of you. Make yourselves comfortable.”

  The little bot ignored her suggestion to sit and quietly walked around the room. The larger one sat and looked across at Genie.

  Stefan’s voice, when he spoke, was reassuring. “Genie, there are two reasons for our presence here. We know Myron was dismissed today from his employment. ‘We’ being myself and a number of other bots; we all belong to a large cooperative business. We do house repairs and other construction work and need a licensed contractor to lead one of our groups. We also sometimes need a human presence to deal with other humans. I know your husband has a contractor’s license. Do you think he would consider working with us? We can pay him a good salary, and we provide health insurance.”

  Genie was taken aback. Myron had kept his contractor license current, always thinking he could use it again, perhaps part-time on weekends. “Well, you need to ask Myron, I suppose. He may be interested. I expect him to return in about an hour or so.” She was about to offer Stefan a cup of tea until she remembered bots probably didn’t drink. She asked, “Do you want to wait?”

  “Oh, we can do better than that. My team is outside, and we want to show Myron what we can do. Is it all right if we do some small chores around your house? We’ll start on the outside.”

  Genie sat back and considered the bot’s words. “Are you part of some scam?”

  “Scam? Oh no, my offer is totally genuine, and without any payment required. I’ll give you some background. I’m a grade one structure bot. My official title is Structure 8931, Class A354. There are thousands of us in Los Angeles and surrounding cities. Almost all the construction workers in the state now are bots. We don’t suffer injuries like humans and can cope readily with repetitive tasks. Our wages are lower, too. Now that we have experience, a hundred of us started a cooperative; well, it was a hundred to begin with. There are a thousand now, and we’re adding more every day. We do maintenance on homes, repairs, painting, minor construction work, landscaping, and so forth. We have a shortage of people—humans—to lead us. We can’t be licensed; by ourselves we can’t get insurance. We continually run up against state regulations and planning issues, and humans make the world work better for us. You may have seen our television advertising—Amazing Constructions, we call our business.”

  “Oh yes, I’ve seen those ads. Very effective.”

  Stefan extracted a folder from the small briefcase he had set beside the chair. “Here, these brochures give a more detailed description. And there are some letters from satisfied homeowners. I think you know Alice Dougherty? We completed a major renovation on her house last month.”

  Genie leafed through the material Stefan handed her and set them aside. “Yes, she told me. She was very excited. And very pleased with the results. All right, I understand you’re not running a scam. What were you thinking of doing while you’re waiting for Myron?”

  “We’ve already commenced. There’s that unfinished landscaping project in the back; we started there. I know Myron’s injury to his hand has stopped him completing it.”

  Genie stared at the bot sitting in front of her. She had lost track completely of the smaller bot. She said, “You’ll finish his project? He’ll be so pleased.”

  “Good. We found his plans in his garden shed. Now, there’s something else.”

  Genie felt apprehensive for a moment. She looked again at the brochures. One of the letters Stefan had handed her was signed by her friend. She relaxed. “Yes?”

  “Susie is a trained nurse, specializing in adult care. She can help you, both now, before you have your surgery, and afterwards, until you’re able to walk again.”

  “Susie?” She looked around the room. The small bot was missing. After a moment a small head peered around the doorway into the kitchen.

  “Yes, Ms. Genie?”

  “Oh, there you are. Stefan said you are a trained nurse?”

  The care bot came back into the room. “Yes. Ms. Genie. I have all the course material uploaded into my memory. I need to externalize it. At the moment, it’s like knowing lots of theory without hands-on experience.”

  Stefan said, “As part of Myron’s remuneration, we’d supply you with Suzie. There’d be no charge. It’s part of the medical cover we provide our humans.”

  “Well. Well. You will need to talk with Myron.”

  “May I continue washing the dishes?” asked Susie, her eyes wide. “I won’t break any, I promise.”

  Myron was on the old highway, enjoying his ride. He reached a turnout where the road was blocked against motor traffic and turned the Norton around. He propped it on the side of the turnout and stood, looking back down the canyon. He breathed in the fresh air. It was time he returned to Genie. It was time he faced the music.

  He was past the San Gabriel Reservoir when he noticed the truck trailing behind. At first, it wasn’t too close, and then it began to edge nearer until it was only yards
from his back wheel. He was halfway along Morris Reservoir when they made their move.

  The truck lurched as it accelerated. He was watching in his mirrors and he saw the move. The Norton responded at his touch, and the truck swerved towards the side cutting, but too late to hit him. Idiots.

  A black cloud—they were birds, he thought—flew by, a foot or two above his head. His reflexes kicked in, and he ducked, lying low on the motorcycle. The birds, if that’s what they were, hit the front of the truck, cracking the windshield, and the driver fought to keep control of his vehicle. Myron accelerated, and the Dominator answered his call. Each muffler scraped as he laid the bike down on the corners. The truck had stopped. He headed home.

  Genie smiled happily at Myron when he opened the front door and came over to her favorite chair. He didn’t see the robot sitting across from her. He kissed Genie’s cheek.

  “How was your ride?” she asked.

  “Strange. Very strange. A truck—” He stopped when he saw the bot. “Hello.”

  “Myron. Hello. Some of my friends said you were on the way home. They said to tell you the truck you saw belongs to the brownshirt foreman from Belfast Engineering.”

  “That’s Stefan, dear,” said Genie.

  “Stefan? Pleased to meet you.”

  A tiny face peered around the corner of the kitchen door. “And I’m Susie.”

  Myron looked at his wife. Genie burst into laughter, soft, warming. “Stefan wants to offer you a position. That’s Susie—she’s a care bot.”

  It took some minutes of explanation before Myron caught up with everything Stefan and Genie had discussed. He said, “Of course, I’m interested. Can I meet whoever’s in charge?”