Senator

by Richard Bowker

He fired and fired and fired. Felt the arm clutching at him, heard the cheers turn to screams, saw the jumble of bodies on the stage, the pointing fingers. Then he turned and faced his attacker.

  It was a minister, overweight, jowls trembling with fright. Doing his duty even though it meant he was going to die. He knew that feeling. He shrugged off the minister's feeble grip and shot him in the face.

  Blood everywhere. Had to get out of here. He raced down the center aisle of the church, taking off his bloody jacket as he ran. The place smelled of furniture polish and flowers. Had to get out. Past the pulpit, through a door, into darkness. His knee banged into something sharp. He cursed and limped ahead. He found a knob, turned it, and saw sunlight. He forced himself to run down the stairs and along the side street. Which way to his car? If he could only get to his car, everything would be all right.

  He heard sirens, squealing tires. He veered onto the sidewalk and dived into a shop.

  It was a drugstore, brightly lit, antiseptic. No customers—just a pharmacist, bald, skinny, terrified. He realized he still had his gun in his hand.

  The clock over the counter said quarter to three.

  "Rear door," he gasped.

  The pharmacist pointed past the shelves of pills. The man hurdled the counter and made his way through a storage room piled high with empty cartons. The door was bolted. He slid the bolt back and wrenched the door open. A dumpster, a car, a chain-link fence with houses beyond. He headed for the fence.

  The wire ripped his pants, cut into his hands. He didn't feel it. A Doberman was running toward him. He shot it, then noticed it was on a leash. A woman stared at him from her kitchen window.

  He ran.

  Had to find his car. The parking lot couldn't be far. Montpelier by nightfall. Sirens everywhere.

  Cindy, will you tell me my fortune?

  His knee was on fire. Couldn't run much farther.

  Just around the corner. I'm sure it's—

  The first shot hit him in the shoulder as he reached the corner. The car wasn't there. All he saw was flashing blue and red. He stopped and breathed the pure cold air.

  The car wasn't there.

  He wanted to apologize to that woman for killing her Doberman. Reflex. Unavoidable.

  The second shot hit him in the left buttock.

  And a lifetime to enjoy the memory.

  The third and fourth shots hit him in the spinal column and the right kneecap, respectively, and he fell to the ground. The fifth shot smashed through the rib cage and lodged in his heart.

  The thing of it was, he didn't know if he had succeeded. And now he would never know.

  * * *

  Late again.

  Shana York raced along the icy Beltway, weaving past the robocars that obediently observed the speed limit. This had happened a lot recently: there was a meeting she didn't want to attend, and she had conveniently forgotten about it until the last minute. People were annoyed enough with her as it was; she didn't want to make things worse.

  Still, what were they going to do—fire her? She had nothing but her conscience to answer to, and her conscience was having its own problems.

  She noticed that the damn radio was still on, giving her news she didn't want to hear.

  "There is still no evidence that the would-be assassin, Arnold Kolb, was part of a conspiracy, and law enforcement officials now theorize—"

  "Radio off," she said, and the radio obeyed.

  At least her time would be her own after the meeting. Gail was flying in to talk about the stuff that really mattered; that would be fun. It would all be fun, without meetings.

  When she finally arrived at York Robotics, the parking lot was full. She cursed herself for running one of those democratic companies where the boss doesn't get a reserved space. Too late to change. She parked on the access road and made her way across the ice into the main building. John Dixon and Tony Wornick were waiting for her in Dixon's office. "Hi, guys," she said, dropping her coat and briefcase onto an empty chair. "Sorry I'm late. Hope you started without me."

  "Not much to say without you," Dixon said—not very amiably, Shana thought.

  She poured herself a cup of coffee and grabbed a doughnut. She was a little afraid of Dixon; in a way, he was the voice of her conscience—of part of her conscience. He was a short man with a face as lined as a roadmap and the cold, narrow eyes of someone who had read too many financial statements. But he wasn't such a bad guy. It was the reality he represented that was a problem. He was president of York Robotics; she was chief executive officer. "Well, here I am," she said, sipping her coffee. "So how was California?"

  "Warmer than Washington," he replied. "And quite interesting. Bormuth is in trouble. There's just no market for androids with the kind of software Integrated Intelligence can provide."

  "I'm not surprised. What about the hardware, Tony?"

  "Looks good to me," Wornick said. "A clone is a clone, right? They surgically attach a biochip interface to the cerebral cortex, and it essentially puts all higher cognitive functioning under the control of the software. The procedure isn't much different from the one we use for memory implants and stuff."

  "But they're talking about complete control," Shana objected.

  Wornick shrugged. "Question of degree. They've basically just integrated everything into one operating system. It's the connection going the other way that's interesting. They have a plug-in interface for a cartridge that contains the higher-order software. That means you can, theoretically, change the android's personality at will by swapping cartridges. Or you can take one out, fix a bug, and stick it back in."

  "What happens to the android meanwhile?"

  "Unconscious. Neat, huh?"

  Tony Wornick was head of engineering. If it worked, Tony thought it was neat.

  "Their androids must look pretty gruesome with a cartridge sticking out of their skulls," Shana remarked.

  "If they've got hair, you can't see a thing. Hell, you can barely feel a thing. Integrated Intelligence does nice work. Too bad it's going down the tubes."

  "It doesn't have to go down the tubes," Dixon said. "Not if they can get together with York Robotics."

  "But what's the point," Shana protested, "if Forrester is just going to ban androids, anyway? Christ, that's practically becoming the main theme of his campaign."

  "There are foreign markets. Not every country has a leader as crazy as Forrester."

  "But are there markets, John? I mean, full-scale humanlike robots have pretty limited usefulness to begin with, but at least they're durable. These things would have the limitations of human bodies and robot brains. The worst of both worlds."

  "Not if they had your new learning program," Dixon said.

  This was what it always came down to. "It's not ready," she said, and she bit into her doughnut.

  The room was quiet for a moment. Tony Wornick studied the frayed cuffs of his jeans. Dixon groaned. "Look, Shana, I know you hate all of this, but there it is. For a couple of years now you've been promising us this program. It'll revolutionize personality software, you said. New heights of realism, of flexibility. Well, okay, we let you go off and work on it. But this is a business—your business—and here's an opportunity to make money. If you've got anything to help us do that, you've got to come across."

  "I don't like androids," Shana said.

  "You can't afford not to like androids," Dixon replied, raising his voice for the first time. "We're in a niche market here, Shana, and we're having problems expanding. The nice stuff—the implants for stroke victims, the artificial memories, and all that—is too labor-intensive to be very profitable. Like it or not, making androids is the natural way for us to go. If you want to make moral judgments, go into politics. Otherwise, help us out."

  Shana got a headache whenever Dixon started using phrases like "niche market" and "labor-intensive." But he was right, as usual. She had stockholders to feed; her scruples were out of place. But still... "My learning program really isn't re
ady," she said. "And there are liable to be significant problems porting it to Bormuth's cartridge. Besides, I think it's premature to talk merger or buyout until after the election. If Forrester gets reelected with the kind of majorities he wants in Congress, we're going to have troubles, foreign markets or not."

  Dixon nodded his agreement. She wasn't totally stupid, after all: she had started the business without him. "All right," he said, "but we've got to start planning now, if only to keep Charlie Bormuth from calling it quits. He sounded pretty depressed out there. I'm sure we can get a couple of androids from him for development work. Tony, can you set up a lab and get things going?"

  "Sure."

  "And see if you can get Shana to give you as much of her l.p. as she'll part with."

  "Do my best."

  "You will help, won't you, Shana?"

  Shana stared at the cold dregs of her coffee. She hated these meetings. "It's my job," she said. And that seemed to be all that was worth saying.

  Replica

  A Techno-thriller

  by

  Richard Bowker

  ~

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  Replica

  from your favorite eBook Retailer,

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  Continue your journey with an excerpt from

  SUMMIT

  A gripping thriller of psychic espionage

  and political intrigue

  Excerpt from

  Summit

  A gripping thriller of psychic espionage

  and political intrigue

  by

  Richard Bowker

  Dieter Schmidt was glad to be going home. He despised Russia and he despised Russians, and three years was long enough.

  There was not a season here that did not make him miss Germany. It was spring now, and Russia was turning to mud. The people were starting to go outside hatless and coatless, and he was forced to see more of their doughy white skin, their thick, shapeless bodies, their ill-fitting suits and faded dresses. In the parks, he knew, the more adventurous of the women would be sunbathing in their underwear, a custom that almost made him sick with revulsion. Who could find these women attractive, with their steel teeth and their cheaply dyed hair and their square, sullen faces that looked middle-aged at thirty? Who could find this gray city attractive, with its absurdly outsized monuments and endless, dreary high-rise apartment buildings? Who would want to live through the fierce cold and the fierce heat, under the endless, impudent stares of people who wanted only to destroy your nation?

  He hurried past an orange-vested babushka sweeping the sidewalk and thought of home, of bright blond frauleins and neon signs and restaurants that really had everything listed on the menu—of being able to write and speak without worrying about the enemy....

  Not exactly, of course. He would still be in the fight. But he would be home, fighting an enemy for whom he had a little more understanding and sympathy. It could only be better.

  Reasonably sure that no one was following him, he turned off Gorky Street toward the address that had been given him. He wasn't home yet, unfortunately, and there was still business left here in Moscow.

  * * *

  "He's on his way," Yuri announced. He sat in a corner of the room, wearing headphones and smoking a Belomorkanal.

  Colonel Rylev nodded and turned to Professor Trofimov. "Ready?" he asked.

  "Of course, of course," Trofimov replied, wiping his hands on his white lab coat.

  They both turned to look at the woman.

  * * *

  She lies alone in darkness, waiting. Waiting to dream. Her mind is empty now except for one thing: terror.

  Dreams can kill. And worse.

  And the dream is about to begin.

  * * *

  Pavel Fedorchuk was waiting for the knock on the door. He was a small man, with jet black hair and eyes that were in constant motion. He was wearing a crisp new pair of Wrangler jeans and a sweatshirt that said Property of Alcatraz Federal Penitentiary Swim Team. A Duran Duran album was playing on his stereo. He was smoking a Marlboro; the ashtray on the table in front of him was overflowing..There was a half-empty bottle of vodka and a loaf of black bread next to the ashtray.

  When the knock came, he promptly stubbed out the cigarette and went to open the door. He walked with a slight limp, the result of a bullet wound received in an ambush outside Kabul. "Coming," he muttered.

  Dieter Schmidt was in the corridor, looking unhappy. He walked inside without a word, and Fedorchuk quickly closed the door behind him.

  Schmidt looked around. The apartment was in darkness, except for one bare light over the table where Fedorchuk had been sitting. "We shouldn't meet," Schmidt said in heavily accented Russian. "This is very dangerous."

  "Don't worry," Fedorchuk replied. "This is the last place anyone would expect you. Want some vodka?"

  Schmidt shook his head, not attempting to hide his distaste as he saw the half-empty bottle. Fedorchuk shrugged and sat down at the table. Schmidt sat opposite him. Duran Duran howled in the background. "I don't understand why you came to us instead of the Americans or the British," Schmidt said.

  "Why should it matter?" Fedorchuk asked, lighting up another Marlboro. "The glory will be yours instead of theirs."

  "If this is on the level. If we decide to take you."

  "Well, that's what we're here to talk about, right?"

  "Of course. Let us begin, then."

  "Yes. Let's begin."

  * * *

  She lay strapped to a cot inside a large Plexiglas pyramid. Halved table-tennis balls were taped to her eyes, and headphones covered her ears. Sensors were attached to various other parts of her body; the wires ran to a console outside the pyramid. A white sheet was draped over her legs. She didn't move. She looked like a mutant insect, an electronic corpse.

  The people outside the pyramid heard Duran Duran scratchily through a speaker Yuri had turned on. "I despise that music," Professor Trofimov muttered, and he turned away from the woman. Rylev glanced at him, then shrugged, and he too turned away.

  Doctor Olga Chukova stood apart from them, in front of the console. Her eyes stayed on the console's dials and digital readouts. She could not bear to look across the room at the woman about to dream.

  * * *

  "Let us begin, then."

  "Yes. Let's begin."

  How does the dream start? She never tried to figure it out. Her mind is ready, and the machine is ready, and it starts. Why worry about it further? Out of the darkness the familiar scene appears. She can barely hear the distant voices through her earphones, but they don't matter very much. What matters is the building in front of her.

  It is too dark to see anything clearly, but the building appears to be made of some kind of white brick. Its door is open—a mouth waiting to swallow her. Above the door a light blinks in the darkness—red, red, red—like a bloodshot eye trying to see her more clearly. She has to enter this building.

  She moves forward, her legs unsteady beneath her. She walks down a couple of steps, holding on to a black iron railing, and then she is in the open doorway. She takes a couple of breaths to control her terror, and she goes inside.

  There is enough light to show that she is in a large, empty entrance hall. She has tried in the past to examine this hall—to see whose portrait hangs on the far wall, to read the papers on the bulletin board to the left, but she has never succeeded. All that is clear is a large grandfather clock, which stands like a sentinel in the middle of the marble floor, its hands always pointing to ten past nine.

  A failure of imagination, perhaps, or perhaps that is simply the way this world is. She feels as if she is inside a photograph that is slightly out of focus at the edges, and no amount of squinting will make certain things come clear. At any rate, she does not even try this time; inst
ead she walks slowly past the clock and up the steep staircase.

  The second floor is her goal. It is an endless corridor, an endless gauntlet she must run, an endless nightmare to which she must now return. She closes her eyes for a moment, then starts down the corridor. She knows every door she passes and the secret that lies behind it; every secret is part of the nightmare. The doors are closed. She keeps walking until she reaches one that is open.

  The distant voices babble on. She doesn't want to go inside this room, but she has no choice. The room becomes brighter as she enters—as if it has been waiting just for her, as if her presence makes it come alive. The room is empty except for a four-poster bed. And on the bed is what she fears most in this world.

  A baby, smiling up at her as if it has finally found its mother.

  * * *

  Nothing bad yet. Pulse rate slightly elevated, EEC normal, body temperature okay. But Doctor Chukova knew what was coming, and she prayed that her patient would be all right.

  "It's about time it started," Colonel Rylev murmured.

  In the Plexiglas pyramid, the woman started to sweat.

  * * *

  "It's a lot of things," Fedorchuk was saying, "but mostly it's a sense of failure. How many Soviet citizens are there in my line of work? Half a million? More? Nobody really knows. But the sheer immensity of the security organs is a measure of the failure. What do we spend our time doing, after all? Stealing technology from the Americans that our system is incapable of developing itself. Enforcing a loyalty in our own people that the Party cannot instill any other way. Where will it end? Logically, when we all work for the organs, all spying on each other and on the West, nobody doing anything real. That is a very depressing thought."

  "Aren't things improving under Secretary Grigoriev?" Dieter Schmidt asked.

  "Bah." Fedorchuk swallowed some vodka and immediately bit off a hunk of black bread. "Window dressing," he said when he had swallowed the bread. "And he isn't going to last long, believe me. The organs don't like to have their jobs threatened. He will find out soon enough who really has power in the Soviet Union."