Yngve, AR - The Argus Project
Page 7
"Pardon?"
"This is all pretend," Argus pointed out to the machine. "We're still in simulation."
"If this is a simulation, are you the real pilot or a simulated one?"
Argus laughed, and it felt good.
"Pardon?" asked the computer again - conversation was not its strongest feature.
Now Argus laughed hard.
"Please try to sit still. Health check in progress... Argus system status, stable."
"What are you, my mother?"
"No."
"But you will be in my ship, as you are now, when it's complete?"
"An updated version of this Navbutler will be in place on F-903 Class A."
"Good. Better get to know me, because I have a hunch we're related. Part of the 'big talking gizmo' family."
"Define 'gizmo'."
"Whatchamcallit, thingamajig, whatsitsname, thingy."
"Define 'thingy'."
"Can't."
"Please define 'thingy'."
"You really need to know?"
"Yes."
"Just how smart are you, Navbutler?"
"Request my origin?"
"Affirmative."
"Navbutler, Prototype Two, derived from parental programs in Fleetcom subsystems."
"Did you have a specific human designer?"
"No. I was generated at a request from Fleet Command. A 'bot' program searched the Fleetcom database and spawned a batch, from which I was selected through the standardized Darwin Sequence. My intelligence is lower than human average. Speed factors can compensate."
"I'll give you that, you were made for speed. Good."
"Thank you."
"Are you coded for emotional response?"
"Prognosis: uncertain."
Argus laughed again, and patted the ship's wall encouragingly. After a little coaxing, he arranged for Navbutler to set up an encrypted com-link between them, so that Argus could accept direct laser transmissions into his eye. Even if the two were separated by a long distance, Navbutler would be able to reach Argus through one of the countless laser links in the Solar System.
Soon, Argus started to ask Navbutler about the things that "Colonel Clarke", his dead double, was supposed to know.
"Nav, can you show me data on... strategy and organization?" Navbutler used its extensive access to the Fleetcom databases, and a world of information opened up to Argus. He asked if there was a faster way to sort and read the immense files.
"Do you have a serial port?" the ship computer asked him. Argus shuffled through his internal menu system, until he found a body map. The visual display in his view showed a full 3-D image of Argus that could be searched from top to bottom, from the whole to the minutest detail.
"There's too much to search."
"Use a 'Search' command," Navbutler suggested.
Argus formed the command "SEARCH FOR SERIAL PORT" on his internal display. In a fraction of second, the 3-D body image zoomed in on a spot on his left palm...
THE CORTEX PORT OPENS THE FIBEROPTIC LINK TO DIGITAL/ANALOG SIGNALS IN THE 100-1000 MEGACYCLES BAND. ARE YOU AUTHORIZED TO OPEN CORTEX PORT?
Argus chose a definite "YES" command.
CORTEX PORT OPENING... CAUTION... DO NOT EXPOSE TO DUST, FRICTION...
Argus looked at the center of his upturned palm: a tiny disc-shaped section of it irised out, to reveal a ring of pin-sized holes - and a smaller ring of metal pins, a millimeter high, inside it.
"Nav," he asked, holding up his palm to the instrument panel where he knew there was a camera, "is this port compatible with any other systems you know?"
"Search inside Fleetcom, or universal search?"
Argus wondered for a moment if he was compatible with a whole line of robots somewhere in the Solar System... and it struck him then, that there might be similar cyborg prototypes - something Boulder Pi never told him about.
"Search for... compatible systems designed by Boulder Pi."
"Searching..."
It took longer than he had expected; at this point, he did not fully realize how vast cyberspace was. Navbutler had not only Fleetcom at its disposal, but also - through a network of satellites, laser links and space nodes - all of the Inner Planets to search.
***
Argus was reading up on military strategy and had just learned that Napoleon was a pompous, megalomaniac little creep, when Navbutler came back to him. Two hours had passed.
"What took you so long?" Argus asked.
"Communication between planetary systems travels at the speed of light. Signals from Mars take several minutes to travel in either direction."
"List results on... wait... is this communication private?"
"Access to ship system is limited to flight trainers and the Kansler."
"Who has access to... to my internal databanks?"
"Only you, Argus. Direct access is limited to Serial Port, by manual connection only. Any other access unknown to me."
"Meaning, they can't transmit anything in or out of my brain by radio or laser or anything?"
"Yes."
"Right. Can you give me the list of compatibles in way that cannot be intercepted?"
"Navbutler suggestion: Direct optic transfer subsystem. Direct your left eye at laser port on panel. Set your visual receptivity to 'LOW', to avoid overheating the receptor membrane."
Argus did so, and told Navbutler to transmit. A laser projector on the ship's panel sent the files as optic images directly onto his retina, where he could see them in vivid color and imagery...
UNITS COMPATIBLE WITH ARGUS-A:
1: CYBORG ASSEMBLY UNIT ER-64385-2118-C
PRESENT LOCATION: LUNAR RESEARCH COMPLEX - ACCESS DENIED
2: PROTOTYPE CYBORG COMBAT CHASSI
PRESENT LOCATION: LUNAR RESEARCH COMPLEX - ACCESS DENIED
3: COMMAND CENTER, E.S.S. WILLIAM JEFFERSON, FLAGSHIP CLASS
PRESENT LOCATION: LUNAR ORBIT
4: THE VENIX PROJECT - ACCESS DENIED
PRESENT LOCATION - ACCESS DENIED
"What is 'The Venix Project'?" he asked, immediately regretting that he'd asked.
"Searching... your authorization level is not high enough. Sorry."
Argus thought for a moment, and got a wild hunch. This was just a computer he was talking to - not much smarter than those thickheaded guard robots. It had to have a programming glitch somewhere...
"Nav... can you tell me if the present location of The Venix Project is NOT on the Moon?"
"Yes."
"Well, is it NOT on the Moon?"
"Yes."
"Is it NOT on the Jovian satellites, or any of the Outer Planets?"
"Yes."
"Is it NOT on Venus or any of its orbital stations?"
"...yes."
"Is it NOT on Earth?"
"Classified information. Sorry."
Argus chuckled - it sounded a bit odd with his synthetic speech - incredible, how easy computer programs were to trip!
"Okay, you can close my access to Fleetcom, Nav. I... I think I need a little rest."
"Navbutler suggests: recreational software. Games? Sims? Sports events? How about last year's Martian Skysurfing Grand Prix? " Navbutler must have registered the sudden change in Argus's posture, for it changed its tone quickly. "Please suggest a sports event," it asked.
"Boxing, traditional type, live events," Argus replied without a moment's pause - wondering if he had begun to sound and think like a computer.
"Searching... wait... no public boxing events are in progress right now. Search for previous events?"
Argus nodded.
"Searching... last public boxing event is six weeks old. The Boxing Federation of the Inner Planets has been dissolved due to a low popularity index. Play last event?"
Argus sat up and stared at the blank viewplate. An involuntary reflex caused his hand to search his pockets for the Boxing Federation membership card - but he no longer wore clothes or pockets - and the card had been lost in the aircraft explosion.
"No boxing matches... anywhere?"
"Seek the public cam networks for unscheduled fights?"
"No... forget it."
"Erase previous request - yes, no?"
"Yeah... yes."
In a state of shock, Argus climbed down from the simulator and sleepwalked to his quarters. He was, or had been, the last heavyweight boxing champion. There might never be another one. His body felt heavy as lead, as if his internal batteries were running down.
***
A week later, the Kansler met with Boulder Pi and a few top-level officers of the Fleet.
"I agree with Boulder Pi," the Kansler admitted, surprising the others. "And not just for the sake of Colonel Clarke's morale. It is important to the Fleet, to the Terran public, that we show results soon. But Argus must be sizzle and steak. He must prove to everyone that he is powerful, invincible, loyal to the Fleet and to Mother Earth. Children must not be afraid to sit in his lap. And we have to allow Argus some limited incognito movement on Earth, for... recreation. I'll tell you later."
Both the Kansler and Boulder Pi thought - again - of all the champagne glasses that Argus had shattered, and what might happen to a human in his hands. Boulder went a little pale.
"I have completed for you an outline of the P.R. tour, Kansler," said General Boudiou, head of the Fleet Marketing Department. "Look here. In just one week, we can saturate public awareness of Argus-A. Kids will love him, especially with the personality change that Colonel Clarke underwent after he was... rebuilt. The simulation footage you've shown us is extremely good publicity. He's jovial, he jokes, he raps... he's incredibly fast! How does he do it?"
"Ask Boulder Pi," the Kansler smiled. "Our wizard of cyborg science."
"Thank you, Kansler," said Boulder. "Now, about this P.R. tour I'd like to give some advice..."
Argus wasn't consulted. After all, he was property.
11: The People's Cyborg
And so, with Argus's training program finished, the Kansler and Argus took a shuttle down to Earth for a weeklong propaganda tour. Their arrival was preceded by a cleverly designed teaser campaign that increased the public's interest to a fever pitch. At the time of the new warrior's physical visit to Earth, even two-year-olds spontaneously said "Ar-gus!" when they saw the image of a masculine black silhouette with a yellow stripe.
The Marketing Department of the Terran Fleet provided the Kansler with various accessories for his rare public appearances. And his most elaborate, expensive accessory was - the Cute Squad. Being the end-product of a long tradition of children handing flower bouquets to powerful criminals, the Cute Squad consisted of 200 genetically engineered midgets - each chemically kept in a perpetual state of childhood.
A typical Cute had shiny eyes the size of tennis balls with five-inch eyelashes, garishly yellow hair, a pastel-hued skirt and an enormous sash. The sash was often made of starched fabrics so as not to get dragged along the ground - and, in case it was very long, was carried along in the jaws of a furry, pink robot puppy. The crowds adored the Cutes, who made millions in PP every time they appeared in public.
For the official arrival of Argus, the Cute Squad had trained its very best performers, and grown the largest flowers ever used. The Kansler checked every detail of the ceremonial preparations during shuttle transit - until his deputy officer advised him to rest. Reluctantly, the Kansler took a sleep-drug and spent the remainder of the flight in a state of unconsciousness. Even so, his sleeping body twisted with fits of anxiety, and he had nightmares of fiasco and humiliation.
There was one, ultimate control measure he could use if Argus still proved unreliable... but which would signal failure, if the public ever found out.
Argus himself sat awake, when not slumbering, in his flight cabin, watching the news channels, and made a search for boxing matches. He searched the public network for his old gym, and got a street-camera image of the place where it had been.
The gym, he saw, was rapidly being torn down; a team of robots and pygmy chimps were disassembling the pieces to carry them off. Gangs of pygmy chimps, a growing social problem, built their own slum houses from such scavenged house parts. No one knew how it had happened (the greenhouse effect was widely blamed), but in recent decades the Bonobo chimpanzee had evolved enough to function in a human society. The species spread from Africa to the Orient and Europe... without acquiring full recognition of human rights. The Bonobi bred quickly and their numbers were rising rapidly - but they lived short lives, abused by shady human employers and exploiters.
A transparent hologram was projected onto the new construction site, showing the Giant Panda's Final Resting Grounds branch that was to be built there. On top of its flat roof sat a huge robotic panda bear, waving at passing pedestrians and air-traffic, and called benevolently: "COME REST WITH ME!" Argus winced at the panda image, switched off the display plate, and sat watching the view of space through a porthole in the shuttle. He spent some time fantasizing about getting in touch with people he knew, once he got back to Earth.
But every imaginary scenario ended the same way... the friend/relative/mistress screaming: "But you're dead! We saw your corpse at the funeral! This can't be you!" and fleeing in horror. All that remained was duty.
Biting his knuckles, Argus thought: God, I miss my dog... A flashing warning signal went off in the corner of his vision:
RELEASE TEETH!
Almost too late, Argus noticed he had nearly bit a hole in his own artificial hand. The dent began to repair itself automatically. He thought: Duty. Have to remember that. Mustn't disappoint the people back home. Even if I fail as a pilot, they need the encouragement. Mother Earth. Our home. My home...
Under heavy military escort, the Kansler's shuttle landed on Manhattan Spaceport. After the devastating Greenhouse Floods of the last century, the entire evacuated island had been converted into runways and launchpads; the Terran Fleet owned Manhattan with its launchpad towers, magnetic accelerator tracks and towering cargo shuttles. The shuttle landing-pad stood surrounded by 2,000 soldiers, a few hundred guard-robots, and the Venusian Symphony Orchestra on a podium. The moment the craft settled, the 200-man orchestra played up the planetary anthem, "One Earth". The 2,000 Terran soldiers sang along in solemn unison - a tune created in the previous century by the World Council, after the big floods:
Green and blue, white and brown,
Colors of our Mother Earth,
For all peoples home and hearth,
How we love you, Mother Earth,
To the ends of time!
From your bosom, all life sprung,
You are always lush and young,
We will protect you,
We will cherish you,
To the ends of time...
The civilian crowds were being kept at a respectful distance, while giving the Manhattan Traffic Control a logistic nightmare. Thousands of small flight-pods were buzzing about the restricted military area, trying to get a close peek at the proceedings. As the anthem ended, the Kansler stepped out of the shuttle, cheered on by the rows of soldiers.
The color-camouflage of their uniforms had been programmed, so that seen from the air their ranks formed images - of the Kansler's face, of Earth, and of Argus. Naturally, Argus couldn't see this from where he stood behind the Kansler. All he saw were row upon row of cheering soldiers, and he wanted to hide away. He felt like a total fraud; he wasn't worthy of this welcome.
The Kansler smiled and waved at the crowds, reveling in the moment. He hadn't done this kind of stunt in some time, and he still loved it. How much easier it was, he reflected, to deal with other people when they were but dots in a mass - a dough - that he could knead into what he wanted. Masses of people always reminded him of minced meat lying in the open...
"Good morning, soldiers!" he shouted in a steely voice to the many floating cameras. A collective rumble from the ranks came in reply. As it died down he added: "This is a great day to be a soldier and citizen of Mother Earth!"
&nbs
p; He made a feint of sudden emotion, fell to his knees and kissed the ground. On that cue, the Cute Squad rushed forth to greet him. Not one, but ten Cutes, all grotesquely large-eyed, crowded around him, carrying flower bouquets that were twice their height. Each bouquet contained ten chromo-roses, two feet wide, in various colors. The Kansler grinned benevolently as the midgets dropped their load at his jackbooted feet, then hugged and kissed each of them in turn. The most talented Cute shed large tears and whispered her undying love into his ear - perfectly timed so that all the cameras would capture it.
The Kansler wiped away a tear from the corner of his eye, waving at the Cutes who ran away, and addressed the troops again. The cam-bots carried his voice to every corner of the Earth.
"Yes, it is a great day! For I bring with me, back from the training camp, the man the Jovians couldn't kill - the great hero who volunteered to become the ultimate defender of the Earth! Welcome back to the homeworld, Colonel Haruman Clarke - now known as ARGUS-A!" The Kansler turned to greet Argus... who remained in the doorway of the shuttle, paralyzed with anxiety. The deputy officer gave Argus a light forward push, and the black-clad cyborg took a hesitant few steps out onto the ground.
All around him, masses of soldiers fell silent. Argus saw thousands of pairs of eyes focus on him - and his artificial eyes actually saw each and every one of them in the clear daylight. Then he remembered his script. He made a one-hand salute, not too strict, and gave the other soldiers a steely gaze. Hesitating only a moment, all the 2,000 men and women returned the salute. Argus let his eyes zoom in on each and every one of them in a single sweep. So many of them had the kind of face he used to recognize on the panel-cleaning shift, in the boxing gym, or in the below-5,000 PP outback where he grew up. It could have been any of you guys, Argus thought to himself. Any of you could have been in my place. Don't - don't look at me like I was some kind of weird thing.
The Kansler turned to watch Argus, waiting impatiently for the speech he was supposed to make. A cam-bot hovered around his head and flashed a message: READY, COLONEL. He had the speech perfectly memorized. Lots of high-minded, noble-sounding stuff about honor, solemn duty, Mother Earth, courage in the face of danger, declarations of friendly loyalty to the Kansler... a committee had written it.