by Steve Perry
“Get it wrong, and . . . well, you saw what happened to poor Mr. James.”
Before closing the door, she smiled at him and said, “And just so you know, I’m doing it this way just to make you squirm. Payback’s a bitch, and so am I.”
With that, she smiled, blew him a kiss, then closed and locked the door behind her.
78
* * *
Driving out of Cemetery Ridge, Stonewall checked his watch, then cast a glance at Singer and asked, “You’re positive that the other robots know how to—”
Yes.
Stonewall shook his head in amazement. “All of you know the sewer systems that well?”
Yes. You would be surprised how much more quickly you can get around on foot underground than with an automobile or even hover-car on the surface.
“How many HIR units did you program?”
Twenty-two. That is all Itazura had.
“Then it’ll have to do.” Stonewall looked over at Killaine. “Are you going to snap out of this anytime soon?”
“. . . I . . . how could it have happened?” She shook her head and turned her face up toward Stonewall. “Tell me, Stoner; how was it possible for me to kill him? Not only that, but why haven’t I ceased all functions?”
Stonewall looked at her, then returned his attention back to the road. “I want you to listen very carefully to what I’m going to tell you, Killaine, and you mustn’t ask any questions, all right?”
“I can’t promise that.”
“You’ll have to, because I won’t have any answers to them. There are certain areas of our programming that only Zac fully understands, and for his own reasons, he chooses to keep those reasons to himself.
“Over the years,” said Stonewall, “Zac has entrusted each of us with bits and pieces of information not known to the others. I suppose the practical reason was so, in case any of us were captured or stolen by Annabelle, no one of us on our own would possess all the information she’d need. I think the more humanistic reason is so each of us will feel a bond with him—sharing a secret with someone just naturally has that effect.” He shrugged. “I’ve also always believed he did it because he wanted us to know what it felt like to have to choose to betray a confidence in order to serve the greater good—to make the kind of difficult choices humans have to make, and in our doing so, becoming a little more humanlike—after all, we were designed to replace humankind if the worst ever happened so that humanity’s best principles wouldn’t perish.” He sighed, checked the mileage, then continued.
“Here is a secret I share with him—or, rather, did share until now: When Zac modified our programming from ordinary robots, he made it possible for us to kill an opponent if it was absolutely necessary. He realized that, because each of us has a different and distinct personality, that certain . . . variables had to be taken into account. Itazura’s playfulness, my aloofness, Radiant’s vanity . . . your temper.”
Killaine’s head snapped back up.
“You’re probably already getting the idea,” said Stonewall. “By giving each of us the ability to kill, he knew it would only be a matter of time before one of us did. And because the last thing he wanted was for us to look upon the taking of a life dispassionately, to view it simply as a means to an end, something with no emotional price to be paid . . . he modified the programming further, taking into the account the possibility of an accidental killing.”
Killaine wiped her eyes and whispered. “But . . . why?”
“Because each of us, in our own way, will sometime, someday have to experience the grief, the guilt, the rage, the confusion, all of the emotions that accompany the act of taking a life, and then learn how to expand our capacity to learn from that pain.” Stonewall looked at her and gave a sad smile. “You just happened to be the first of us to do so. You now possess knowledge that the rest of us don’t: You know what it feels like to kill. So now it’s up to you to make the rest of us understand the price one pays for that.”
“. . . still don’t understand why . . .”
“Zac has a deep, abiding reverence for life—all life. Think about it—have you ever seen him so much as swat a mosquito?”
“No.”
“Even with the DNA he gave to us, Zac knew there was no way he could teach that reverence for life to us. It had to be obtained through experience.”
“. . . and so one of us had to be the first to kill.”
Stonewall nodded his head. “I’m afraid so. And I’m afraid it now falls on you to make us comprehend how that makes you feel.”
“But what about . . . I mean, if I accidentally killed once, what’s to prevent me from losing control and doing it again?”
“Our individual capacity to learn from what happened—your capacity, in this instance. We may very well be put in a position again where we have to kill in order to save human lives from certain death. All we can do now is our best to not put ourselves in a position where killing may be necessary—a conscious, individual choice on each of our parts.
“But face the facts, Killaine; an absolute ‘no kill’ rule for all of us, given Annabelle’s pursuit and some of the security work we do, would be a disaster.
“There’s now a kind of fail-safe device that links us all together. Because you have done what you’ve done, you have activated a sort of gestalt mechanism contained in each of us; from this day on all of us start learning the hard lessons that taking a life has to teach us.”
“Lessons?”
“Knowing what you do now, knowing how it feels to take a human life, would you ever do so again and take it lightly?”
“No, no—never!”
“You’ll link that to the rest of us now . . . until it happens with another one of us.” He reached over and placed one of his mighty hands atop Killaine’s. “Robots aren’t supposed to be able to kill, but we’re not robots—not wholly, anyway. Human beings shouldn’t kill, but they do. And we’re partly human—at least, in the psychological and emotional sense. Like it or not, violence is a fact of our existence. We cannot be like regular robots who are physically incapable of killing. Zac knew this when he made the modifications. We can take a life under the most extreme of circumstances, Killaine, but, with your guidance now, we’ll learn to value all levels and forms of life.”
Killaine shook her head. “So I’m the standard-bearer for I-Botic freewill?”
“That’s pretty much it. It’s the first day of a new school for all of us now.” He touched her cheek. “If it’s any comfort to you, I would have torn the little bastard in half for shooting Zac and that boy.”
Killaine leaned up and kissed Stonewall’s cheek. “Thanks, Stoner.”
He looked at her. “Feel better?”
“No . . . but I can now believe I will. Eventually.”
“Well, then.”
“Yes. Well, then.”
79
* * *
1, 2, 6, 12, 60, 420, 840.
Zac stared at the numbers.
Okay, Zachary, think, think.
Begin with placement, then try division.
In any incomplete/interrupted sequence of numbers (if he remembered his Euclidian logic correctly), you have to remember to count the number of the place of the missing digit.
There were seven numbers, but eight places; and once you have the eighth number, you have to remember to count the ninth place, even if you don’t have that number.
Piece of cake.
Right, he thought: And if you believe that, odds are you’ll find a guy with some prime real estate to sell in the Florida swamps.
But that sort of thinking was getting him nowhere.
He looked at the numbers again.
The larger numbers could be easily divided in countless ways, but the key had to be with the smaller numbers.
To whit: 1 can only be divided by 1 itself.
2 can be divided by both 1 and 2.
6 can be divided evenly by 1, 2, and 3—in fact, it was the smallest number that
could be divided by those digits.
Except there’s no three, you moron! Zac scolded himself.
Unless it has something to do with consecutive digits beginning with 1 that can serve as divisors. 6 appeared third in the series, so the number 3 must be relevant.
Okay, maybe, maybe there was something there.
Go with it, he thought.
He managed to get to his feet and, taking hold of the IV rack, began to slowly pace.
He nearly fell at first from the initial dizziness but caught himself on the edge of Preston’s desk.
All right, then: 12 appears fourth in the series. 12 can be divided evenly by 1, 2, 3, and 4. Okay, Zac old man, you’re onto something.
The fifth number was 60. That could be evenly divided by 1, 2, 3, 4, 5—and 6!
Six. How could he have overlooked the most often-employed number in long division? Not only that, but he wasn’t taking into account the fact that there was an eighth number in the series, so even though he didn’t have the number itself, he did have its place—number 8.
Whoa, Zac—hold the phone. Didn’t you start off reminding yourself of that?
Dammit to hell! This was not—repeat not—the time to let himself confuse himself.
Zac increased the speed of his pacing.
420 could be divided evenly by all the previous digits and the number of their placement in the series—1 through 7—right: and the final number, 840, was divisible by all the digits and the number of their placement in the series: 1 through 8.
Okay, all right, getting closer, have to be getting closer now . . .
He stumbled again, almost crying out, but managed to choke back his voice at the last second.
Son-of-a-bitching IV!
He looked at Preston’s desk until he found what he was looking for: a tape dispenser.
He pulled off several strips of plastic tape and attached them to the edge of the desk.
Then he gently removed the gauze pad, cotton balls, and medical tape that covered the spot where the IV needle entered his vein.
He scanned the top of the desk again and found a large eraser, which he picked up, dusted off, then clenched between his teeth.
He took a deep breath, then quickly pulled the IV needle from his arm.
For a moment, there was a frightening amount of blood.
Zac pressed the gauze pad and cotton balls to the wound and bent his arm, then quickly grabbed up the medical tape and strips of plastic tape and slapped them to the gauze, pulling each strip tighter than the one before.
It took a moment, and he had to spend two minutes holding his arm over his head, but eventually the bleeding stopped.
Exhausted, he staggered back over to the sofa and sat down.
Okay, where was I?
The seventh number, 840, and the missing eighth digit.
The next number in the series, which damn well better be the combination or he was toast, should be the smallest number that could be divided evenly by all the previous numbers and the number of the space following: 1 through 9.
If you multiply 840 by 3, the product is divisible by 9 and remains divisible by all the lesser digits in the sequence. And, since 840 multiplied by 3 is . . . is . . . c’mon, c’mon, you used to be good at this . . . carry the 1 . . . add that to the . . . right, right . . . 840 times 3 is 2520.
The combination has to be 2520!
He opened his mouth, then snapped it closed once again.
Not because he was uncertain of the solution.
Not because he doubted his logic.
Not because he was worried that he might slur his words.
No; Zac Robillard shut his mouth because he was afraid he might laugh—not only at Annabelle’s remarkable cleverness, but at his own stupidity, as well.
2520 had been his employee number when he worked at WorldTech.
Taking a deep breath and composing himself, Zac opened his mouth and spoke slowly and clearly.
“2, 5, 2, 0.”
The safe buzzed, clicked, and the door swung open, revealing the case within.
Zac stumbled over, retrieved the case, and opened it.
Annabelle hadn’t been lying; there was the syringe.
But what if it’s a trick? he suddenly thought. What if the initial shot was nothing more than colored water and this syringe contains the nanite?
No—Annabelle would have stayed to watch if she was going to pull something that perverted.
And, whether she was willing to admit it or not—Annabelle Donohoe never admitted to any weakness—Zac was useful to her.
He tapped the side of the syringe to remove any bubbles, then found a nice, plump vein, and gave himself the shot.
After that, he fumbled around Preston’s desk until he found the hidden button, pressed it, and opened the secret passage behind the monitor banks.
Time to see where you go, he thought, and began to slowly, cautiously, descend the iron spiral staircase.
80
* * *
It took Singer a little more than nine minutes to place the portable HIR units at various locales surrounding the outskirts of the PTSI compound.
He returned to the spot where, now, all the I-Bots were assembled.
“Well?” asked Stonewall.
Singer gave him the thumbs-up sign.
“I can’t believe you were messing around with my equipment,” whispered Itazura.
Singer put a hand on Itazura’s shoulder, then signed, Sorry—but wait until you see the modifications I made.
“Modifications?”
“Shhhh!” said Psy–4. “We have to take a vote.”
“On what?” snapped Radiant.
“Do we focus solely on retrieving Zac or do we try for both Zac and Roy?”
The rest of them exchanged confused glances.
Itazura was the one who said it: “After all this, you’re willing to abandon Roy?”
Psy–4 glared at him. “We’ve got seventy-nine minutes until the final D and D stage is complete. Given a choice between Roy and Zac, there is no choice.”
“You have to hate that.”
“What I feel about it doesn’t matter—which is why I’m not voting. Singer can have my vote. It’s up to the rest of you: Zac or Zac and Roy?”
Why either/or? inquired Singer.
“Because—” began Psy–4.
“Shut up,” said Killaine.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, ‘shut up.’” She looked at the others. “I say we split up. Psy–4 and Radiant already know Roy’s physical location. They head to the lab, the rest of us will search for Zac.”
“What about Singer?” asked Stonewall.
Killaine smiled and put a hand on the robot’s shoulder. “Singer’s going to be busy creating a diversion for us, aren’t you, my friend?”
Diversion is so mild a word for what I have in mind.
Killaine put out her hand. “Does everyone agree?”
All of them, Singer included, placed their hands into the circle.
“Then we are decided,” said Psy–4.
They broke the circle, waiting for Singer’s signal.
Singer activated the main HIR unit, checked the signal strength, then signed: Nothing up my sleeve . . . Presto!
And with the flick of a switch the grounds surrounding the PTSI compound were swarming with an army of robots.
“Let’s move.” said Psy–4.
And the siege began. . . .
“Control, this is East Tower Two, over.”
“Go ahead East Tower Two, over.”
“We have initiated security lights and have established visual contact with a large group of robots, approximately twenty-five to thirty in number, armed and moving toward the Sector B entrance gate. Please advise, over.”
“East Tower Two, are you certain that the robots are armed, over.”
“Affirmative. The largest of the group is carrying what appears to be an M–60, over.”
Sile
nce.
“Control, we need permission to open fire, over.”
“East Tower Two, the order is given; commence firing upon intruders, over and out.”
Once inside the gates, Radiant rerouted the energy of all security sensors so the I-Bots could move quickly and undetected toward the main building.
They were less than one hundred feet from the basement entranceway when one of the guard towers opened fire with a large, fully automatic machine-gun.
“What the hell—?” said Itazura.
“They’re firing on the robots,” whispered Radiant.
“How long do you think it will be until they figure out they’re holos?”
“Not before Singer activates the next batch. Now, come on!”
“Control, this is North Tower One—”
“Control, this is Security Kiosk Seven, South-West Sector—”
“Control, this is Observation Booth Five, Main Building—”
“—we have visual contact with a large group of robots—”
“—we have established visual contact with what appears to be a band of robots—”
“—visuals on a group of robots, approximately thirty to forty in number—”
“—please advise—”
“—please advise—”
“—please advise—”
The guards were just moving McCarrick’s body from the computer room when one of their portable radios squawked loudly. The guard answered at once, then looked toward Preston.
“Sir?”
“What?”
“We have a situation outside the compound.”
“So? Handle it.”
“Control respectfully asks that you pick up on line one.”
Preston groaned and snatched up the receiver. “This had better be damned good.”
He listened to what Control had to say.
His face grew pale.
Then he nodded his head and said: “You have authorization to use any and all means at your disposal to stop them. Yes, including explosives. Keep me advised.” He slammed down the phone, turned toward the guards, and said, “Why are you still here?”