by Steve Perry
“Don’t compare me with that, that—”
Zac managed to pull himself up enough to keep his face almost level with hers. “The whole purpose of the I-Botics program—at least as you outlined it for me initially—was to create a workforce of teachers, an automated race designed to handle the complexities of computer programming, lunar mining, fusion engineering, laser communications, neurophysiology, and so on.”
“To compel the advance of technology, yes,” said Annabelle.
“But there was a bit more to it than that, wasn’t there?”
“I will not listen to your paranoid—”
“Wasn’t there?”
“Yes! But you, the mighty Zachary Robillard, you couldn’t see past the surface of the goals, oh, no—not the grandson of the great Benjamin Robillard! You were so busy climbing up on your antiquated soapbox and spouting your grandfather’s code of morality that you refused to see the beauty of my logic.”
“The beauty of your logic?” shouted Zac. “Oh, that’s rich. You decide to use I-Botics to lay the groundwork for totally wiping out the subwork of humanity—”
“—the mind-numbing, soul-sucking grunt work, Zachary! The pushing and digging and filing and punching and clicking and all the repetitive motions done by the mind and body that could be done so much more effectively and exactingly by robots.”
“Yes,” said Zac. “A completely controlled workforce to ensure that the world could be run so well and smoothly that only a handful of human ‘foremen’ would be needed to engage in the few remaining professions and ‘supervisory’ positions to ensure that the rest of the world remained housed, fed, and cared for. How stupid do you think I am, Annabelle? Did you really think it wouldn’t eventually occur to me that these ‘supervisors’ would be answerable only to you? And to whom would Annabelle Donohoe answer? No one!”
“You make it sound as if I’ve some sort of demigod complex.”
“What the hell else would you call it? An admirable career goal?”
“Stop making it sound as if I thought of no one but myself,” yelled Annabelle. “We both knew that the future would be owned by those who understood the complexities of the emerging technologies. During all our arguments, all your rages, did you ever once stop to ask yourself what was going to happen to people like those you see living in the streets or hurrying into the hellish factories every morning, their pitiful little metal lunch pails tucked under their arms? Sure, they can operate a metal press, they can run a lathe, but what good is that when faced with the control board of a fusion chamber? Face it, Zachary—there is no place in the future for that sort of worker, menial laborers with at-best limited mechanical skills. Already we’ve seen over forty-three percent of the blue-collar workforce replaced by robots, and in another five years, ten at the most, all of those jobs will be performed by robots. Did you ever ask yourself where the noble janitors would fit in, or wonder what would become of the dependable trash collectors? What of them, Zachary? What of the broom-pushers and window-cleaners with only a grade-school education? What fate lies waiting for the butcher, the baker, the old candlestick maker who are still holding onto their soon-to-be lost jobs? What will happen when the robots are finally, totally in place?”
Zac snorted a derisive laughed. “You really expect me to believe you’ve worried and agonized over the plight of the common man during all this?”
“Yes!”
“Bullshit, Annabelle! Do I look like I just fell off the turnip truck?”
“Yes, actually.”
“Oh, hardy-har.”
Annabelle shrugged. “You asked.”
“You jump down my throat about not considering what would happen to the broom-pushers and menial laborers who’ll be swallowed up in the technocratic future that’s already overpowering us? Turn the question back on yourself, Annabelle! What are those people going to do when you strip them of a job? What’s going to happen when your noble plan goes into effect and they find themselves with nothing to do?”
“Don’t you see, Zachary—that’s where the I-Bots come in! Each person, regardless of their level of education or their station in life, can be assigned a teacher that can open their eyes to their dormant potential. Each person, guided by a teaching machine sophisticated enough to offer an endless array of human activity, can discover and then master what he or she is best suited for. Think of the dreamless ones who can be given the opportunity to achieve their dreams! What is so evil about that? In the properly automated and educated world, machines such as the I-Bots could prove to be the true humanizing influence! The I-Bots can teach while the other robots and machines do the menial tasks that make living possible, while human beings can do all the things that make life rich and adventurous and enjoyable!”
“Then why insist,” snapped Zac, “on the robots and I-Bots being designed more and more to resemble human beings? Why design machines that are based on the human form?”
Annabelle stared at him. “I’m not sure I—”
Zac pulled himself up into a full sitting position. “We began with machines. Those machines became robots molded in our own image. Then we took the next step, we created the I-Bots, cybernetic organisms that are indistinguishable from human beings except upon the closest inspection. Why? Why go through the process of wiping out the subwork of humanity by building more humanlike machines? Why not just try reeducating human society by offering free seminars and classes to the broom-pushers and trash-collectors and candlestick makers? ‘Learn fusion at home.’ ‘Master neurophysiology with a free home computer and this program.’ A society that wants to better itself can better itself.”
Annabelle sneered at him. “Still have the old soapbox handy, I see.”
“Answer my question, Annabelle. Why go to such lengths to relieve humanity of the burden of work if you only plan to replace human workers with mechanical workers designed to look like human workers?”
“Most of the world’s menial tasks have been designed to be carried out by humanoid beings.”
“Then why was WorldTech so hell-bent to eventually turn all antiquated robots into I-Bots? Why were you so determined to produce an army of humanlike cybernetic organisms?”
Annabelle only stared at him.
“Because,” snarled Zac, “your ultimate goal, your hidden agenda, was not to give humanity room to realize its potential, but to create a new and highly selective aristocracy, and like all aristocracies throughout history, in order to live in luxury and exquisite idleness, you require sweat off the backs of slaves, serfs, and peasants. Knowing damn well that no human being with an ounce of dignity would allow themselves to be ruled that way, your goal was to create a humanlike peasantry—because, after all, how can an aristocracy revel in its superiority if there is no one to be feel superior to?”
Annabelle, wide-eyed, shook her head. “I think all these years of running having finally sent you off your nut, Zachary. You’ve gone completely insane.”
Zac pushed himself forward as best he could, his face only two inches from hers. “Not only did you wish to create a new aristocracy, Annabelle, but you also knew that a certain percentage of the people you put out of work would become depressed and simply allow themselves to rot—but the rest . . . the rest, as you say, would turn to mechanical teachers, who would have been programmed to teach them only as much as you wished for them to be taught. You couldn’t give less of a damn about the common folk learning the liberal arts or gaining an appreciation for music or poetry or philosophy—you and your chosen followers would have complete, unadulterated, unchallenged, irrevocable, and—best of all—hidden control of all things human and robotic. What more could you want? To rule a world that doesn’t even realize it’s being ruled.
“Well, fuck you, Annabelle Donohoe. I will not give you the materials or information you need to enslave those you see as being inferior to yourself.”
“I take it, then, that our little stroll down memory lane is finished?”
“I hope I liv
e long enough to piss in your open grave, Annabelle.” Zac nodded. “Now it’s finished.”
“Fine.” Annabelle crushed out her cigarette, took a deep breath, then grabbed a vase from a nearby table and smashed it against the side of Zac’s head.
There was a moment of blinding, intense pain, and then an incessant, dull throbbing.
He was aware of several things happening at once; Simmons setting a large iron box on the floor near Annabelle’s feet, someone else handing Annabelle a black case roughly the size of palmtop computer; then Annabelle, rising from her chair, opening the lid of the case, and removing a bright, shiny syringe filled with an oddly colored liquid.
“I’m going to give you one last chance, Zachary, to cooperate.” She tapped the side of the syringe to make sure there were no bubbles, then leaned over and stuck the needle into the IV tube, pressing down on the plunger until the syringe was emptied.
“Do you know what that was?”
“. . . no . . .” He could barely get the word out.
Dizziness. Nausea.
Then Annabelle lifted his head and gave him a long, luxurious drink of cool, cool water. “Better now?”
“. . . a little, yeah . . .”
Another cool drink, and Zac’s head began to clear.
“Back with me now?” asked Annabelle.
“. . . sure . . .”
“Simmons,” she said.
Simmons rolled a television stand over, positioning it at the far end of the sofa so Zac could get a good view of the screen.
Turning on the set, Simmons inserted a small video disk into the set’s preinstalled player.
“The gentleman you see there,” said Annabelle, “is—or rather, was—named James. He was a spy the Board of Directors planted in my company—but that’s another story and one you’d probably find frightfully boring. Watch what happened to him.”
Zac stared dispassionately at the whole ugly scene, from the first thrashings until the final, fiery, grotesque explosion. He refused to show Annabelle any reaction whatsoever.
When it was finished, Simmons turned off the television set and rolled it away.
Annabelle took her seat before Zac once again. “Now do you know what I just injected into your system?”
“A nanite.”
Annabelle nodded her head. “But you didn’t get the James’s brand of nanite; nor did you get the second, deadlier strain; no, for you, Zachary, we used a new, experimental model. It functions at seven times the speed of the others.”
“. . . how long . . .?” whispered Zac.
“Before the fireworks? An hour and twenty minutes. Give or take a minute or two. Bearing in mind, of course, that this third-strain model has proven to be a bit unstable in some tests.”
“So it can go at any time?”
“More or less, yes. Or I can always press the button and activate it. Isn’t this wonderful? Like playing Russian roulette with a gun that has a hair trigger, only no one knows it but the gun.”
Zac laughed to himself. It hurt like hell. “So you’re hoping for a deathbed confession or something along those lines?”
Annabelle shook her head. “Oh, no; you’re far too stubborn for that sort of thing. I’m figuring that you’ve developed a deep affection for your creations over these past five years, and that you’ll agree to come back to WorldTech not out of any loyalty to me, but because if you don’t I’ll sit here and watch you die.”
“I’m prepared to die,” said Zac.
“I’ll alert the media,” said Annabelle with mock-surprise. “I know you’re prepared to die, Zachary. But consider: The I-Bots are most likely rushing here to save you as we speak. If not, then they’ve gone depressingly dim—Simmons, Janus, and I planted enough clues with the media that even an amoeba could figure out that you’re being held hostage at PTSI.”
“So?”
“So if you’re dead when they get here, I’ll have the advantage of shock on my side. That, coupled with a controlled blast from a positron-freezing gun, will enable me to reclaim my property.” A triumphant grin. “And you know that, once they’re back in my possession, you are arguably expendable. Oh, sure, those scientists I have won’t know nearly as much as you, but they’ll know enough to reverse engineer the process.”
Zac started at the words “reverse engineer.” “You wouldn’t?”
“Dismantle them?” asked Annabelle. “In a heartbeat. So, I figure that you’ll decide to go on with your miserable, misguided existence not because you care about yourself, but because you care about them.”
Zac glowered at her.
Because she was right.
Dammit.
“All right,” he said, hoping to buy some time until he figured out what to do. “You win. I’ll come back. Just . . . undo whatever you’ve done with the nanite and I’ll—”
Annabelle laughed. “To use your own quaint phrase, Zachary, do I look like I just fell off the turnip truck? If you want to live and cooperate, you’re going to have to earn the privilege.”
She rose and nodded her head.
Simmons came over and lifted the metal box that had been placed at Annabelle’s feet earlier.
It was a small safe with an electronic lock.
Simmons placed the safe on Preston’s desk.
“The lock mechanism is voice-activated,” said Annabelle. “When I press this button, you will speak your name, Zachary; from that moment on the safe will only respond to your voice. In order to unlock it, you have to speak the combination.”
Zac only stared at her, waiting for the punchline.
When it came, it was a lulu.
76
* * *
Psy–4 gathered everyone together and explained the situation.
“How long do we have until Roy has to be disconnected?” asked Radiant.
“One hour and twenty-seven minutes.”
“Give or take ninety seconds,” added Stonewall.
“And that’s not counting how long it’s going to take to locate Zac,” said Itazura.
Killaine sat in silence.
Psy–4 looked at her for a moment, then turned back to the group. “All bets are off. They’ll know we’ll be coming after Zac, so the element of surprise is shot. Our only hope is to hit them hard, with everything we’ve got.”
Singer tapped Psy–4’s shoulder.
Would a large diversion be of use?
“What did you have in mind?”
“He’s already explained it to me,” said Stonewall. “We don’t have time to give you the details. Singer, Killaine, and I will take the first van. Give us a five-minute head start, all right?”
“Done,” said Psy–4. “Did you divide the weaponry—?”
“As evenly as possible, yes,” replied Stonewall.
“Where do we meet you?” asked Radiant.
“The same area of the fence where we entered for the security test.”
Itazura held up a hand. “What about all the equipment?”
“Most of it’s all set to go,” said Stonewall. “What isn’t ready we’ll have to take care of when we get back.”
“And if there’s not enough time?”
“Then we take what we can and blow up the rest.”
Stonewall snapped his fingers at Singer, then grabbed Killaine’s arm and pulled her to her feet, dragging her toward the steps to the garage bay.
“Five minutes,” called Psy–4. Then, to Radiant and Itazura: “Let’s see how much more of the equipment we can get packed. Something tells me we’ll be leaving in a hell of a hurry once this is over.”
They were heading for the control room when Itazura said, “Where’s all my HIR equipment?”
77
* * *
“In this safe,” said Annabelle, “you’ll find another syringe. This one’s filled with a little something we call ‘liquid burn.’ It’s the antidote you need. But here’s the tough part, Zachary.”
There was a slip of paper taped to the door of th
e safe. Annabelle reached over and gently removed the paper, then handed it to Zac.
There were seven numbers on the paper: 1, 2, 6, 12, 60, 420, and 840.
“An employee of mine who dabbles in math and mystery novels came up with this,” said Annabelle. “There is an order to that sequence of numbers, though it’s not as obvious as you might think at first glance.” She pressed the button. “Say your name.”
Zac remained silent.
Annabelle nodded.
Simmons stood by Zac and tossed a small amount of salt into the cut made by the vase earlier.
“Ouch!” cried Zac.
“Good enough,” said Annabelle, gesturing to the red indicator light at the top of the safe. “The mechanism will now respond only to your voice, Zac, and—no, don’t speak. Whatever you do, for the next several minutes, you absolutely must not speak. Nod if you understand.”
Zac nodded.
“Good. Now, the eighth number in that series completes the combination that will activate the lock mechanism and open the safe. Just to make it tricky, there are several correct solutions to the sequence, but only one will open the safe—you’ll know which one it is . . . Keep in mind that you are free to move about this office, Zachary; but also keep in mind that we have disconnected the computer, removed Samuel’s electronic calculator, and taken every piece of paper and writing instrument, so you’ll have nothing with which to do your figuring. That will have to be done in your head. And in silence.
“You see, Zachary, you can only speak aloud once, which means that you can only recite the combination once; that’s all the program allows. Say one word, utter one syllable that isn’t the combination, and the program will consider that your guess and shut down and you won’t be able to get to the antidote. Understand the rules so far?”
He nodded.
“Good. So now, all you have to do is, in silence, figure out the next number in that sequence and say it aloud.” She signaled Simmons, then she began to move toward the office doors. “Get it right, and the door will open, you’ll grab the syringe and inject yourself with the antidote and be a happy camper.