by George Mann
The jury’s still out on precisely what these bug-bots were supposed to achieve. Mikey and a few others took away some remnants and partial-bots to look at in their own time in an effort to find out, but best guess is they were intended to insert something into the computer system—spy-tech, a sophisticated Trojan or maybe just a virus to wreak havoc. With their agility, resilience, and the aid of whatever shielded them from most of our security systems, they very nearly made it as well. Thank God for Pink!
“Any word on Wes?” Mac asked.
Wes was the one who discovered that the bug-bots were equipped with a defense mechanism. Somehow, they were able to deliver a powerful jolt of electricity through their carapaces—metal or no metal.
We avoided touching them with our bare hands after Wes went down.
I was proud of my guys’ reactions. The crash team were there in a flash and got his heart going again in next to no time. Even so, it had been a horrific moment, especially when someone first turned around and told me, “He’s dead.”
Thankfully that pronouncement proved premature, and Wes was soon in hospital. I’d made a point of checking shortly before coming on shift and had been assured that he was well on the road to recovery, with no apparent sign of any brain damage.
“He’s doing fine,” was all I actually said.
“Glad to hear it. Wish I’d seen those little critters,” Mac continued. “Heard about them, of course, but it would’ve been nice to have had a chance to stomp on a couple.”
“You didn’t miss much,” I assured him.
The blonde’s eyes flicked up at me as I spoke, then quickly down, without once looking in Josh’s direction. I struggled not to grin at his obvious disappointment.
I was the first off, exchanging cheery farewells with the two men and even getting a brief smile from Miss Anonymous Mouse, which must have really bugged Josh.
At the twenty-second the elevator opens straight into a vast open-plan office. Hilary was already there, distributing cloths, fresh trash bags, and aerosols of polish and disinfectant to her team, while off to one side Sissy was setting up, preparing to make the routine sweep for any extraneous electronic devices.
“Off to the loo already, Joe?” Hilary called out as I passed.
“Yeah, you know me: can’t keep away from the place.”
She was right about my destination, of course. To be more specific, I was headed for the Ladies. A few nights previously, a greeny-black mildewlike growth had been spotted in the corner behind the system of the end cubicle. Except that it wasn’t mildew. It was an artificial construct composed of near-microscopic units that were busily self-replicating and building at an alarming rate. Once discovered, the “infection” was easily removed and the whole area scoured and disinfected.
The next night it was back; same thing, same place. Again it was disposed of and this time we used some really heavy-duty disinfectants and cleansers, sealing off the cubicle for “maintenance purposes” to protect the office workers from any toxin traces the next day. None of which prevented the damned stuff from sprouting up again.
This was the fourth night and I wanted to make sure we finally had the problem licked before getting on with my regular duties.
“Any luck?” I asked Steve, the disposal team’s foreman.
The look on his face was all the answer I needed.
“So what do we try now?”
He sighed. “Same cocktail of toxins we used last night, more or less—plus a few variations. The samples I took of the stuff didn’t handle either electrical pulsing or a strong magnetic field too well. So we’re going to be hitting it with a three pronged attack: chemical, magnetic, and electrical.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
“I suppose nukes are out of the question?”
“Be serious.”
“Well... Do you remember the chompers I cooked up last summer?”
No, for a second I didn’t, but then memory kicked in to earn its keep.
“You mean those black beetle things that took care of the electric ants on fifth and sixth?”
“Yeah, they’re the ones. I thought I might adapt them to develop an appetite for this muck.” He nodded toward the offending cubicle.
I grinned and nodded approval. “Good move. Yes, I like the sound of that.”
Steve was still looking toward the cubicle. “What do you reckon this mold is supposed to achieve, in any case?”
“Beats the hell out of me.”
Infiltration of some sort, obviously, but to what purpose? In all honesty, we never even worked out how the stuff was introduced into the building. The sewers, ventilation system, human carrier, all were possibilities. Not that it was any of our concern, really—outside our remit. After all, we aren’t detectives; we’re just the cleaners.
No point in my hanging around, so I left Steve and his team to wage their war against the techno-mold, making a mental note to get an update later. My next stop was the sixth floor; time to check in with Jet. I knew she would have called me if anything unusual had come up, but I always like to show my face.
Speaking of faces, I never tire of looking at Jet’s. Not because she’s spectacularly beautiful or anything—although she might be, it’s hard to tell under all the makeup. Jet is a Goth through and through, a fact that’s obvious even when she’s wearing regulation overalls. You see, Jet does not so much wear her colors on her sleeve as on her face. The makeup is spectacular, from the pale-powdered cheeks and thickened lashes to the graded eye shadow and the layered lipstick, which shifts from deep pink outline to white at the very tip of the lips. The result is amazing and must take her an age to apply. I said as much to her one time, not long after she first joined us.
She looked at me in genuine surprise. “This? This is nothing—work-casual, a total compromise. You should see me when I make an effort.” She meant it too.
Jet was at her usual terminal, eyes glued to the screen, not even looking up as I came in. She knew who it was.
“Anything?”
“Nope, all quiet so far. Ah...” Her eyes lit up.
“What is it?”
“Nothing for you to worry about; just the Ghost back to take another crack at us.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard.
The Ghost was the latest in a long line of hackers who keep trying to break into the company’s systems. The fact that Jet labeled him “the Ghost” is a testament to his skill. Previous opponents included Rammer, Thick-as-Shit, the Nerd, Dopey, and Dumb-Wit—actually the “dumb” part was my amendment, Jet had used a far less complimentary term.
Jet’s hands were motionless for long seconds as she studied the screen, then she started to smile.
“I see what you’re up to. Clever, very clever... But not clever enough.” Again her fingers danced and the air reverberated with the rat-a-tat machine gun fire of hammered keys.
“I’ll leave you to it,” I told her.
“Okay.”
“Have fun.”
“I will.” Still no glance in my direction, but in fairness she was busy. The Ghost seemed destined for another frustrating night. I knew how good our girl was.
I continued with my rounds and it must have been an hour or so later when Pink called. Any of my supervisors can get in touch anytime they want. In theory I could spend each and every night sipping coffee with my feet up, nattering to Security at the front desk in the knowledge that I’d be contacted if anything noteworthy happened. But that’s not my style. I’m more your hands-on kind of guy and would only end up fretting about what might be happening on my watch if I tried something like that. So instead, like some restless mother hen, I prowl around the building keeping an eye on things, coordinating resources, and providing help wherever it’s needed.
“Joe,” said Pink’s voice in my ear, “I think you’d better get over here.”
“What’s up?”
“Not sure, but I don’t suppose it’s anything good.”
Pink was on fifth, the f
loor below Jet. When Jet first joined us I’d put her in with Pink and his boys, but she and he had taken an instant, mutual dislike. The sniping and bitching between them became so bad that it was distracting the rest of the team and work suffered—they nearly missed an incursion that could have been disastrous—so I shifted Jet out to her current one-woman station on sixth. She seems to like it that way.
When I arrived, Pink and Simon were crowded around Del, who was busy at his workstation. All three were staring at Del’s screen, which was completely hidden from me courtesy of their huddle.
“What is it?”
Pink stood back and ushered me forward. “Take a look for yourself.”
On the screen was a 3-D simulation of... “The kitchen?”
“Yeah. Del’s been picking up a strange energy signature—very faint, almost certainly leakage rather than a deliberate signal.”
This inevitably triggered memories of the previous night. Naturally the kitchen was next to the canteen, on the eleventh floor. “We must have missed one of the bug-bots in yesterday’s clean-up.”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
He shrugged. “Well...” After being tapped on the shoulder, Del slipped out from his chair, allowing Pink to replace him in front of the screen. “The signature’s not the same. Similar, but not identical.”
“Perhaps the battery—I mean power source—is damaged.”
Pink made no comment. At his deft coaxing the perspective of the image started to change. We zoomed in on a work surface, squeezing between storage jars. A nebulous shape behind the jars seemed to move.
“There!” Pink exclaimed.
The image provided no detail, not even a distinct outline, just the impression of something.
“It’s not a very clear picture,” I grumbled.
“It’s not a very clear signal.”
“Has to be a bug-bot; too much of a coincidence otherwise.” I sighed. “Okay, I’ll go and take a look.”
“Do you want some help?”
“No; if it is just a damaged bot there’s no point in pulling half the shift away from what they should be doing as we did last night... and if it’s anything else, I’ll let you know.” I paused at the door. “I take it you can guide me to whatever it is and keep tabs on the thing if it moves around?”
“Of course.”
I went to leave.
“Joe, let me come with you.”
I turned around, amazed. “What’s up, Pink, need some exercise?”
“No...” I’d never seen him look so uncomfortable. “But I’ve got a bad feeling about all of this. The bug-bots, what happened to Wes and now this, whatever it is... Something’s not right, I can feel it.”
I laughed and then shook my head, wondering if perhaps I’d been working him too hard. “I’ll be fine. Just let me know where the damned thing is, okay?”
“Okay,” but he clearly wasn’t happy.
The eleventh was deserted, the crew evidently having finished here and moved on. In passing I noted with approval the swept floors and glanced in at one or two of the meeting rooms—just a random sample—confirming that the bins had been emptied and the desks cleaned. Everything seemed in order.
It’s funny, but the canteen, or restaurant as we’re supposed to call it, is the only bit in the entire building that gives me the creeps. I must have been through every room on every floor of this place a thousand times, finding each one deserted as often as not. Abandoned workstations, empty rooms that reverberate with stark knocking from the pipes and silent corridors in which every individual footstep echoes sharply—no problem. But the canteen always strikes me as spooky. This vast area, filled with row after row of empty tables and chairs... and complete stillness.
I suppose it’s simply the absence of noise and bustle, of conversation and activity and the clatter of cutlery that’s so much a part of canteens everywhere, but I always imagine that I can sense things here; sounds and movement—people—just beyond the reach of perception.
So I didn’t linger. I looked straight ahead and walked through quickly, fixing my eyes on the swing-door that leads to the kitchen.
Even so, Pink’s misgivings echoed through my mind, to be summarily dismissed. I was convinced this was nothing more than a damaged bug-bot and the previous night had taught me how to deal with the likes of them.
“Pink, you reading me?”
“Loud and clear.”
“Has it moved?”
“Some, but it’s still in the same general area. Don’t worry; we’ll lead you straight to it.”
Once I’d switched on the lights, the first thing I noticed was a pail of dirty water and a mop resting against a counter. Both were in line of sight of the door and had obviously been overlooked by my lot when tidying up. Sloppy; I’d take care of them later and would have a word with the supervisor.
“Okay, Pink, talk to me.”
“It’s on that shelf to your left, the one at about head height.”
I saw the shelf he meant. “That’s not where the thing was when you showed it to me, is it? Wasn’t it on the work surface below?”
“Yes.”
“So whatever this is, it climbs walls like a bug-bot.”
“But a fair bit slower.”
Which would make sense, if this were a damaged bot as suspected.
I started to walk down the aisle between ovens and work surfaces, eyeing the shelf in question.
“You’re almost there,” Pink said after a dozen or so steps.
There was still no sign of anything unusual on the shelf. I reached up and moved a large, stainless steel mixing bowl, which was the most obvious obstruction. Had I caught the suggestion of movement? Nothing that could be seen directly, but in the corner of my eye a shadow appeared to shift a fraction. I took down a second bowl... and found myself staring at the bug-bots’ bigger brother. It was three or four times the size and by no means identical to the previous night’s pests, but clearly came from the same lineage.
I would love to put what happened next down to my lightning-quick reflexes or a nebulous sixth sense, but in truth it was more a case of surprise and alarm mixed in equal measure. The thing was pointing its snub-nose straight toward me, and it looked for all the world like the business end of a gun. Instinctively I flinched and ducked away, just as a lance of energy stabbed out from the bot, bisecting the space my head had occupied a split-second earlier.
I swear I felt the heat of the beam’s passage, although others have suggested since that this is nothing more than an elaboration of my own imagining. Hard to say; at the time I was too busy scampering away on all fours and hauling my ass around the corner of the ovens to give the matter proper consideration.
“Joe! Are you all right? What happened?”
“The frigging thing shot at me! Some sort of energy weapon. Where is it now?”
“No idea.” Pink sounded as frantic as I felt. “We’ve lost everything: visual, virtual—all whited-out. Ah... coming back on now. Five point two seconds. Remember that. If it fires at you again, I’m going to be blind for a little over five seconds.”
“Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind.”
“I’m sending you some back-up.”
“No!” I thought of what had happened to Wes and had sudden visions of people charging in and getting themselves shot. Not something I intended having to explain to Gus, let alone their families. My deepest sympathies for the loss of your son— killed in the line of duty... Yes, I know he was only a cleaner. It’s a dangerous business. “Leave it to me.
“Don’t be an idiot, Joe. What are you going to do, talk it to death? That thing’s armed. You’re not”
“Nor is anyone else. Sending others in here will just give it a few more targets to shoot at.”
“Point taken. But what are you going to do?”
“I’ll think of something.”
“Well think quickly, because it’s moving along the shelf toward you. The blood
y thing will have you in sight again any second now.”
No sooner had Pink spoken than I saw that distinctive snub nose poke over the edge of the shelf. I scrabbled away and in doing so, again managed to avoid being singed by a hair’s-breadth, as it fired for the second time, scorching the base of the wall. A detached corner of my mind registered the resultant burn-mark and recognized what a pain it would be to shift before the morning.
Five seconds was where most of my mind was focused. Pink was silent. This time even the comms seemed to have gone down. For the next five seconds I was cut off, completely on my own. Just me and the big bad bug-bot. Did it need time to recharge between shots? I needed a weapon, desperately. My eyes focused on the mop, across the other side of the aisle. Pausing only to pray that the thing wasn’t yet ready to take another potshot at me, I flung myself over, clasped the mop, and clambered to my feet.
Looking back, I think I may have shouted or roared—though goodness knows why—as I swept the makeshift weapon across the shelf, sending pans and utensils flying in all directions, clearing everything in its path. Including my automated adversary.
The five seconds must have been up around then, because suddenly Pink was yelling frantically in my ear.
“Joe, what’s happen—” Which is when the bug-bot landed in the pail of water. I’m not sure whether it tried to fire again or simply shorted out. Either way, there followed a violent flash and Pink was cut off in mid-sentence, vanishing for another five seconds.