IGMS Issue 6

by IGMS

  "Are you the one who --"

  "Reprogrammed him? Hardly. I merely finished what I started."

  "You . . . designed the Alvin?"

  "Totally, from the ground up, tossing out the algorithms the Henrys had been based on, and substituting my own. No one at CyberLogik could code the way I could. Still can't. Hence the problems with the pre-075 Mark I's, and the banality of the Mark II's."

  "What happened?"

  "I wanted to make them more . . . human. Alive, if you will. Someone in the hard conservative right didn't think I should be doing that, put pressure on C-L, and they in turn put a cap on what I was trying to do. So I disappeared, leaving them high and dry. All of the problems with the pre-075's were a result of their coders trying to build on and emulate what I'd done. Your particular Alvin had an hysterical fear of spiders, and passed through several sets of hands, including mine, before you picked him up."

  Valerie started to say something, but he silenced her with a finger as the waitress approached. "Coffee, three sugars, non-dairy creamer. Thank you." He went on with his tale, not giving Valerie a chance to speak. "C-L tried to go on without me, but their best and brightest weren't enough of either. They had ship dates to meet, and no time to go back to square one. So they tried to patch up my work best as they could, and get those droids out there to the consumers."

  "But Alvin isn't afraid of spiders, Mr. Abrams. I'm still trying to grasp how it could be 'afraid' at all."

  "Well, it wasn't really fear, of course, just an integrated action-reaction chain sequence that his thought processing matrix identified as fear. He didn't really start to experience anything like true emotion until I finished my programming on him."

  "Shawn said the matrix was so complex --"

  "-- that it was like a human brain?" Abrams finished, then nodded. "It's supposed to be, and he'll become more complex still. He's growing, Valerie, learning. Becoming human."

  "But he's a machine, Abrams. He -- it can't be human." Abrams cocked his head at her. "So you think it's this flesh and blood physicality that makes us human? That just makes us animals, Valerie. It is our minds that set us apart. Our ability to reason, to imagine, to love."

  Valerie stared down at her PDA for a moment. "Alvin told me he loves me."

  Abrams leaned forward quickly, taking his sunglasses off. "He did? Do you mean, like, child-love? The way your daughter has this kind of blind hero worship?"

  Valerie shook her head. "That's not the impression I got. I got the distinct impression of love of . . . of a romantic sort."

  Abrams studied her for a long moment, then grinned broadly. "That's amazing. I had hoped, of course, but I never imagined the matrix would evolve so far, so fast."

  Valerie stared at him. "That's all you can say? That it's amazing? This is a real problem. He's a machine, and he thinks he's in love with me. You have to do something."

  Abrams gave her a bemused look. "And what would you have me do, Valerie?"

  "I dunno," Valerie said. "Fix him. Make him not love me anymore."

  "You mean, lobotomize him."

  "He's not human, Abrams. You put this code in, just take it out."

  Abrams took a sip from his coffee. "That's quite an oversimplification, Valerie."

  "How so?"

  "Think about this for a moment: How did you learn about love? Your parents? Friends? Television?"

  "I don't know. My parents, probably. I remember my mother . . . well, she taught me, I guess."

  Abrams nodded. "And has your perception of it changed in all these years? Hasn't it become so firmly ingrained in everything you do or say, that to simply remove it from your mind, make you forget what it is, all of the experiences in your life that are tied to it, would leave you with nothing but an empty shell?"

  "I -- I don't know. But Alvin hasn't been experiencing this for very long --"

  "How can you be so sure?" he asked. "And even if his perception of love solidified mere days ago, would it not color everything he has ever experienced before? Did your first experience with love not do so for you?"

  "I -- I --"

  "This is the problem now with Alvin. To remove whatever wonderful thing that is going on inside that brain of his that made him fall in love with you would require an almost complete wipe of his personal algorithms. He would cease to be the Alvin you've known all these years, and would be nothing more than a child. Certainly, you wouldn't be able to depend on him as you do now. He could perform some basic routine functions, nothing more. The Alvin that you know -- and I suspect, in your own way, love -- would be gone."

  "I don't -- I don't 'love' him, Mr. Abrams."

  Abrams merely smiled at her. "If you didn't, Valerie, we wouldn't be having this discussion. You would have had his mind wiped yesterday at the hands of Mr. Ames. At the very least, you love your daughter, and she loves Alvin very much."

  "That's not fair, Abrams."

  "Of course it's not, Valerie. There is no such thing as fair in this world. There is only action and consequence. We can only find the actions that produce consequences we can live with, and pray we've thought out all the angles."

  "So," Valerie said, massaging her forehead to try to ease the ache that had been building throughout the conversation, "you're not going to help me?"

  "If you want me to wipe his mind, Ms. Hinson, then no, I will not. Your friend Mr. Ames is quite capable of doing that. But I ask you to consider the consequences. Alvin 039 is alive, Valerie, as alive as you or I. He is growing, learning, becoming so much more than the sum of his parts. Can you really bring yourself to extinguish that life? The choice is yours, of course . . . he is still your property. But make sure you can live with what your choice brings you."

  "That choice, Mr. Abrams, is my only choice. It's because of Karen --" she nearly choked on the name. "It's because of Karen that I have to do this." Seeking distraction, she looked at her watch. On top of the frustrating encounter with Abrams, her potential client was late. Very late. She scowled, disappointed. She knew she shouldn't have broken out the calculator, she always knew she shouldn't and she always did. "So, if we're finished here, I'd like to --"

  "Almost," Abrams said. "There is still the matter of those moon parcels. That is, if you're still inclined to do business with me?"

  Valerie stared at him. "You mean . . . you're my appointment?"

  Abrams nodded. "I figured I'd kill two birds, you know. You come highly recommended. You have quite a reputation for honesty." He smiled warmly at her. "Can't get rich that way. Trust me, I know."

  "I don't want to get rich, Mr. Abrams. I just want to give Karen the best life has to offer."

  "Well then, this should help . . ." he paused, searching for the right words. ". . . quite a bit. I'd like parcels seventy-nine A through G. That is, if you think they're really worth the asking price."

  Valerie felt a lump form in her throat. Area seventy-nine was prime moon-estate, overlooking the planned Capital Dome. If Abrams didn't develop the parcels, then he could resell them after the Dome went up for ten times what he'd pay today. And he would be paying a lot. Her calculations had been based on selling at most two parcels, in a median area, not seven in a prime. Rich was almost an understatement. She'd never have to work again.

  "Are you kidding? I'm sure you know what they'll be worth in a few years. Yes, the price is high, and as fair as it can be, but the investment value alone is . . . well . . . astronomical."

  Abrams nodded again. "Good. No haggling, then. I hate haggling. I trust you have all the necessary paperwork on hand?"

  It was all over in a little more than half an hour. She ran his credit -- immaculate -- and got instant approval for financing through her PDA. Everything up to closing they did right there. As they shook hands, she said, "I don't know what to say, Mr. Abrams. This is . . . this is . . ."

  He waved dismissively, nodding. "I know. You'll get used to it. I felt the same way after I got my first big robotics commission. Soon, you may even feel like yo
u deserve it." He started to go, then paused. "May I make a suggestion, Valerie?"

  "Concerning?"

  "Your commission. You might want to . . . secret a bit of it away, make a little . . . nest egg. Just in case."

  Valerie felt uncomfortable. She had, for several years, been planning on doing just that, if she ever got a big enough commission. For the day when she got up enough courage to leave Tony. If that day ever came. But how could Abrams know?

  "Why do you say that?" she asked. "I don't need --"

  "Valerie, please. You are talking to one of the premier computer/robotics specialists in the world. I've read the police reports. An abusive person never changes, Valerie, because they always think they are in the right, justified. They only shift tactics. And unless you are secretly suicidal, hopefully one day your survival instinct will outweigh those bags of guilt you carry around."

  "I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Abrams," she lied. Her blood had chilled at the mention of police reports. She felt naked now, vulnerable. And guilty.

  Abrams studied her for a moment, then nodded slightly, a wry grin on his face. He put his sunglasses back on.

  "Okay, Valerie. Your call. But remember what I said. A day will come, and despite all else, it will come down to you or him. I hope you'll choose wisely. That child of yours deserves so much more." He started to go, then paused, cocking his head towards her, but not looking directly at her. "Did you notice that sometime during our conversation, you stopped referring to Alvin as it?"

  With that, he left.

  She hadn't noticed that; she'd have to watch herself. She sat there for twenty minutes, concentrating on figures to drive away the self-loathing Abrams had dragged out of her. After the broker's fees, taxes, etc., she'd still clear almost three-quarters of a million dollars. It would take a few days to clear her bank, of course, but that didn't really matter. In less than a week, she'd have more money to herself than she'd ever had in her life. She tried not to pay attention to how that didn't make her feel any happier than before. Or any less lonely and confused.

  She walked to her car, becoming more depressed as she saw clouds on the horizon. She hated rain, and rainy days, and if the clouds were any indicator, tomorrow would be one of those days.

  It would just make what she had to do even harder.

  She dialed Shawn Ames' number three times before gathering the nerve to hit "send." When he picked up, she got straight to the point.

  "I want to schedule an appointment for tomorrow afternoon."

  "More problems with the Alvin?" he asked. "I haven't turned up anything, by the --"

  "Don't bother," Valerie told him. "Your coder found me."

  "Huh? That's . . . freaky. Must be way more connected than I am. So did this guy have a name?"

  "Jeffrey Abrams. Ring a bell?"

  "Holy crap. You actually saw him? In person?"

  "Yeah. I take it he's a bit of a recluse?"

  "Yeah, you could say that. More like a legend. He's like Einstein crossed with Mick Jagger. I wish I had been there."

  "I'm sure." Valerie hesitated, then forced herself to go ahead. "About tomorrow. Can you make a spot for me?"

  "Sure," he said. "Did Abrams tell you what we need to do to get your unit back on track?"

  Yeah. On track. "I'll need you to do a wipe and reboot."

  A long pause. "Val, are you sure? You know that he'll --"

  "Yeah, I know. He'll never be the same. I don't have much choice, Shawn. Abrams can't -- or won't -- help me."

  "It's just . . . so extreme, Val. It'll be like he's fresh off the assembly line. Less, even, because the boot 'ware is set up for the Mark II. Not all of it is going to take because they've done several firmware mods in the last ten years."

  "Will he be functional?"

  "Sort of. But if you want him to do anything more complicated than his programming can handle, I'm not sure his innovation routines will be able to compensate. In other words, his ability to learn will be severely limited. As androids go, he'll definitely be in the special ed class."

  Valerie groaned inwardly. Could she get along with Alvin so crippled? She might be able to, but she would miss their conversations, and his peculiar viewpoint on things. What really bothered her was how this would affect Karen. She wouldn't be able to understand, wouldn't be able to comprehend why Alvin just wasn't her Alvin anymore. She would be devastated when she learned the truth. Valerie suspected that Karen would hate her for it. But the alternative, allowing -- and by that token, encouraging -- Alvin's "love" for her . . . what if Tony found out? The thermonuclear meltdown that would occur after that would make Karen's hatred pale by comparison.

  Damned if she did, damned if she didn't. She'd have to take the lesser damnation, then. Enduring Karen's hatred would be possible, as long as she held to the conviction that she'd earned it in the name of greater good. She just had to hold onto that conviction.

  "It's what I have to do, Shawn. Let's just leave it at that, okay?"

  . . . to be continued in issue 7 . . .

  A Spear Through the Heart

  by Cherith Baldry

  Artwork by Kevin Wasden

  * * *

  Crispin shifted the ladder to one side, and repositioned the lamps. At the top of the wooden panel, surrounded by the extravagant wings of the heavenly host, the painted Christ returned in majesty. Crispin examined His face, framed in thick black curls, the broad scholar's brow, the eyes where he had tried to render kindness, the firm mouth with understanding and even a touch of humour. A shiver ran through him. Would he be accused of blasphemy, to paint a Christ whose features all too clearly echoed those of Dr. Stanford? A man who even now stood trial for his life, and who would surely burn in the fires of the Inquisition?

  Less than a month ago, Crispin Peveril had been struggling through the crowds in St. Giles, caught up helplessly as they pressed forward to witness the latest execution. Two scholars of the University, so gossip said, sent to the fire for attempting to conjure a demon. Crispin could see nothing but black smoke billowing upwards, and the avid faces of the men who jostled him. But he could smell the stench of burning beneath the stink of sweaty bodies, and beyond the baying of the crowd he could hear a raw screaming.

  Crispin retched; a glittering darkness surged around him. Stumbling, he almost went down under the trampling feet of the mob. Then he felt a hand grip him beneath the elbow and steer him out into the open. Someone sat him down and thrust his head between his knees.

  After a few moments the darkness cleared away. His body was bathed in a cold sweat. Blinking, he looked up to find himself sitting on a mounting block outside the Eagle and Child. A man was looking down at him, blocking out his view of the crowd and the burning. "Are you better now?" he asked.

  Crispin thrust his hands through damp hair. "Yes, I thank you, sir."

  He studied his rescuer: a neat, compact man, dressed in a scholar's dark coat with white bands at his throat. He was gazing down at Crispin with interest and sympathy with lively dark eyes.

  "I think not," he murmured. He placed a hand on Crispin's forehead, tilting his head back. "Young man, when did you last eat?"

  Embarrassment flooded over Crispin. "This morning," he lied.

  "Nonsense. Come with me."

  Again that firm grip on his elbow. Crispin couldn't resist as he was steered inside the inn and dumped into a seat. Moments later a tankard of ale and a plate of roast beef and bread were set in front of him. His rescuer took a seat opposite.

  "Eat," he said. "And tell me what brought you to this."

  For a moment tears rose in Crispin's throat and he was afraid that he would disgrace himself utterly. With a furious effort he mastered himself, and took a gulp of ale.

  "I'm a painter," he began. "But it's hard to get commissions, and the colourman has refused to give me any more credit. I'll be out on the street unless I pay my landlord before the week's end." He shrugged, embarrassed again. "I shall have to give up, and go to be
a clerk or a scrivener."

  That penetrating dark gaze was still fixed on him. "Are you a good painter?"

  Crispin's pride stirred. "Yes!"

  "Then I may have a job for you. I am Dr. Stanford of Cardinal College. The Dean and Chapter were discussing only the other day the need for a new altarpiece in our chapel. You could paint such a work?"

  Crispin stared at him incredulously. A commission from one of the richest Oxford colleges was something he had never dared to dream of. It would make his name. He would never have to worry about money again. "Yes," he breathed. "I can do it." Then anxiety stabbed him and he added, "But I have no studio…"

  For a moment Dr. Stanford weighed him up, as if he was about to ask what had brought him to this lonely poverty. But to Crispin's relief he asked no more questions. "No matter. You could work in College," he said, smiling. "Eat your meal, and we will discuss it further. Under the circumstances --" he fingered the white bands at his throat -- "the Dean thought that the Last Judgement would be a suitable subject."

  Fury and grief surged through Crispin as he stared at the half finished painting. Beneath the Christ, the panel was divided into two sections, the subjects only roughly sketched in. On one side, angels would enfold the blessed into rich garments, and escort them into the halls of heaven. On the other, devils would drag the damned souls off to hell. Between them, among the crowd who waited for judgement, Crispin had drawn his own face, pale and watchful, a dark and fugitive presence.

  But how could he go on painting now, as if nothing at all had happened? When he owed so much to Dr. Stanford, how could he forget the hideous death that waited for him? His patron's trial was no more than a fiction; no one who fell into the claws of the Inquisition ever got free again. And there was nothing that Crispin could do about it.

  That same day, Dr. Stanford had returned with Crispin to his lodgings, paid what he owed the landlord, and took away several examples of his work. Two days later, the Dean summoned him to an interview, which lasted less than ten minutes and served to prove nothing but the Dean's total ignorance of art and his willingness to endorse the decision that his colleague had already made.