Yngve, AR - The Argus Project

by The Argus Project (lit)

  But there and then, by some newly acquired confidence or understanding, Argus knew the prepared speech would ring false. Without thinking clearly of why he did it, Argus briskly walked off the welcoming carpet and toward the nearest row of soldiers. The Cute Squad stood alert, waiting for the Kansler's sign to charge ahead of Argus and distract him. The Kansler held his breath, and let Argus walk... a wild gamble, but not any worse than losing face by trying to stop him.

  Argus focused on the soldier who looked the least frightened, and walked up to face him from a few feet away.

  "Morning, soldier. How's it going?"

  The private was too perplexed to make a reply. Argus had no desire to play-act officer. He offered to shake hands. The young private looked nervously to the platoon sergeant, who glared at Argus, then shouted at the row of soldiers.

  "Companyyy - at eeease!!"

  Argus shook hands with the soldier and asked him his name.

  "Xian-Johnson, Colonel, sir. Lenny Xian-Johnson."

  "Just call me Argus. Kinda dumb, but the brass stuck to it."

  Very quickly, the whole platoon crowded in to shake hands with Argus, and another platoon looked to join in. His arrival was a success, the Kansler saw - and also understood that Argus's presence easily stole his show. The Kansler had to suppress his surging rage, and managed to smile and wave. His carefully crafted image did not allow him to mingle with lowly privates and civilians - the persona he had chosen was that of the devoted guardian and father figure, always present but lofty and distant. It annoyed him that Argus instinctively had chosen an opposite persona - the folksy Everyman.

  And the Kansler thought: I smell disobedience. Individualism. Rebellion. He - it - must be taught a lesson. Not now. I must choose a better time. Soon you'll learn what you are, cyborg - property.

  The Fleet's Intelligence Department monitored Argus's doings and sayings closely, ready to jam the public channels if he should happen to stray too far from the script. After a few minutes, the Kansler gave a com-link command that sent the guard robots to escort Argus away from he soldiers. The cyborg made only symbolic attempts to linger with the soldiers, and followed the escort without trouble. He walked after the Kansler and his deputy, across the carpet and into a tunnel that led to the spaceport's underground complex.

  "Kansler... how did it go?" he asked tentatively. For such a big man, he struck the Kansler as an overgrown child, pleading for fatherly approval. Excellent, thought the Kansler. Just as I thought, he's become conditioned to looking up to me.

  "Just fine, Colonel Clarke," the Fleet's commander replied without looking back. "You're much more relaxed around the soldiers now, than you used to be."

  "Yeah... thanks, Kansler..." Argus mumbled. "Permission to speak freely, Kansler."

  "Yes?"

  "I... I have trouble recalling things... aren't there old colleagues I ought to visit here, or... um... would you recommend I didn't see them, the way I look now?"

  "You should know, Colonel. You have no friends, neither here nor on Earth. Your personal aide, he flew your shuttle on your last Earthbound visit - and he died when it crashed in Kuwait."

  "Yeah, of course. But... you see, Kansler... there's this lady I met once, and -"

  Stopping in his tracks, the Kansler turned toward the taller cyborg and raised an eyebrow. "I have misjudged you, Clarke! During your previous career in the Fleet, you never struck me as... particularly interested in women. Or anything else. I always admired your single-mindedness, that devotion to your work."

  Argus tried to swallow, but couldn't. His new body was not built for it. "Well, you know me, Kansler. Duty comes first..."

  "Precisely. Now come here, and let us prepare for the first stop on the publicity tour. We can't keep the Marketing Department waiting all day."

  In the remaining minutes of their walk toward the local Marketing office, Argus had plenty of time to think over the meaning of the Kansler's last remarks.

  What the hell was that all about?

  The dead man that Gus Thorsen had replaced having no friends, no significant others... and in hindsight it seemed only slightly odder, that no one had mentioned Clarke's biological relatives. Maybe, Argus speculated, Clarke had been one of the many clones born and then rejected by a fickle parent... poor bastard might well have been raised by robots, just like Gus Thorsen's girlfriend Benazir. Such embarrassing details were of course glossed over in the official files - yes, that could be it. No one ever boasted about being "floor polish" - a discarded clone...

  A new curiosity stirred in Argus; he wished he had known the total stranger whose identity he had assumed. He recalled that Clarke had been quite visible on the public networks shortly before the plane crash that killed him - a sort of poster-boy for the Fleet, being groomed for promotion, no doubt, and that Argus Project. But who was Clarke? A career-obsessed loner? Or just a nobody like Gus Thorsen, hand-picked to become a cyborg soldier? What if Clarke might somehow be connected to his own previous life?

  If their superficial likeness was more than coincidental... no, he thought, it sounded too far-fetched, like that soap-opera series where a group of identical clones were brought up separately. And so he dismissed the idea.

  Through the rest of the day, while busy with the work at hand, a nagging sense of having lost an unknown brother refused to leave his mind...

  ***

  " Wheee! Please lift us again, Argus!" the little boy shouted happily.

  "Sure! Hold on, people."

  The group of twenty people grabbed hold again. Argus walked into the pit below the platform upon which they stood, and lifted the platform on his arms a second time. A load of more than three tons, and the strain upon his limbs was almost nothing. The crowds around them applauded and took pictures.

  Another three times he made the trick, until the Kansler's deputy reminded him of their tight schedule. As he entered the waiting shuttle to take him to the next public appearance, Argus waved at the crowds and shouted the lines from his script.

  "Remember, we're all in this together!" - "Earth needs your support!" - "Click a hit or two to cheer up our boys out there!" - "Click war bonds!"

  Well inside the shuttle and taking off, Argus let out a sigh. "How many left? Wait, I know - fifty-six appearances across all timezones, eleven left. I almost miss having to sleep every night..."

  The deputy yawned, and replied: "I wish I were you, Colonel. It must be great, never to get tired..."

  " Heh ... who says I can't get tired?" He looked out the window, at the hologram being projected on the clouds: a large animated image of himself, and and enormous text.

  HE'LL FIGHT FOR US - HE'S OUR 'GUS!

  Argus told himself that the chill running down his spine was just another ghost-reflex.

  "Are you all right, sir?" asked the deputy. "Excuse me for saying it, but your face..."

  "What about it?" Argus asked; when the deputy held up a mirror, he saw. "I look... older." He pressed his fingertips against his artificial forehead, and wondered if he could just smooth out the new worry lines with sheer brute strength. He looked to the deputy, whose younger face expressed some concern. "How did you get to become the Kansler's deputy, Islington? Don't take it the wrong way - just curious."

  The deputy, a captain of unassuming countenance and gifted with the ability to make himself invisible to the attention of others, shrugged. Only a cyborg with the hyper-sharp senses of Argus-A would have noticed the movement of his shoulders.

  "I... well, I... guess I happened to fit the criteria of a deputy, sir. Loyal, stable, diligent without being ambitious. That's Fleet efficiency, sir - every man in his right place, working together for Mother Earth."

  "Have you got a family?"

  "Why certainly, sir. I talk to them every day. You want to see their pictures? My youngest one became four years old last week. Gave him a... you'll laugh at this... an Argus-A action figure, fully voice-controlled, runs on solar cells just like you! In fact, those toys share som
e components with your design... ah... apart from your mind, of course..."

  "Tell the Kansler I need some shore leave, and soon. Need it badly." It was as if the crowds were draining him of life. The more he repeated the same phrases to the people out there, assuring them that he was "just one of the guys", the more it sounded like a lie. And he had heard every word uttered in the crowd, even the less nice ones. More than once, he had snapped up a stray comment: "...the poor man, puts up a brave face despite what's become of him..." or even: "...cybernetic freak..."

  Shortly, the Kansler called from Manhattan Spaceport; Islington informed him of Argus's request.

  "You do look a little weary, Argus. What do you say about a shore leave. I hereby abort the remainder of the tour schedule for your part, and let the rest of the tour be done by Marketing's lookalikes and holograms."

  "Thank you, Kansler. I really appreciate it. About my shore leave... where can I go, now that everyone recognizes my face? The Moon?" When he heard the words "everyone recognizes my face" and "the Moon", a quick streak of worry passed across the Kansler's middle-aged, potato-nosed face. Then he smiled, too much so.

  "We have thought of everything! In fact, I fixed a little reward for you, after all you've done so far... the Fleet takes care of its own. The entire leisure district of Old Copenhagen has been electronically secured, so that you may spend the whole day and night there - and it's 100% cam-free!"

  "No cameras? How is that possible?"

  "War produces new technologies, Argus. Some of which are yet classified. Let's just say it involves satellites, fine lasers and interference patterns. No matter who tries to shoot a still picture or movie of you, the image will be scrambled out of all recognition. Just be careful what you say."

  "I don't deserve this attention."

  "We invested so much in you, you deserve something in return. It's all for Mother Earth, Argus."

  Nodding mutely, Argus thought that he hadn't felt real dirt, grass or anything smacking of "Mother Earth" ever since he became a cyborg. He wanted to roll around in the grass again, throw a frisbee to a dog, dance with a woman, smell her hair... have a son.

  "You're a lucky man, Islington."

  "Thank you, Colonel."

  12: A Night In Copenhagen

  A day later, Argus was sent on shore leave in Old Copenhagen.

  This lowland coastal city had, miraculously, managed to preserve some of its old architecture when the Greenhouse Floods struck in the 21st Century. The big amusement park Tivoli , with its quaint old houses and creaking mechanical rides, still existed - though a newer section had been added to the park, with more current amusement technology.

  All other soldiers and pilots had been evacuated from the area, apart from agents in uniform, keeping the area under surveillance - this Argus was told of in advance, so that he would not waste time mingling with the agents. The Fleet gave him a large credit and instructed him to wear his uniform and overcoat at all times, always claim to be a lookalike, and not cause bad publicity. Apart from that, he had carte blanche to do as he pleased. They dropped him off a truck and he was on his own. Argus looked away from the small group of uniformed agents in the street, and walked off...

  ***

  Something had changed about Earth, Argus thought. Or his eyes had... The streets and buildings seemed not so smooth as they used to. Cracks and dust were in every corner. The faces of people seemed older, fatter. The smells were different too - even if his sense of smell wasn't improved, he noticed that he himself didn't smell as much as... all other people. And the sounds... much sharper, edgier, the constant talking flowing through his head like a torrent of voices.

  As Argus strolled through the narrow alley, a pygmy-chimp in a wheelchair rolled up next to him, and tugged at his sleeve. "Got some spare PP for a poor ex-gladiator?" the chimp's voice-box asked in an almost human tone.

  Argus looked down at the poor creature's dark, pleading round eyes. It was a male, its face permanently battle-scarred. He pressed his thumb against the chimp's smart-card and transferred a few thousand points to his account. "Thank you very much," the voice-box said formally - and the chimp actually grinned with joy. "Hey," the ape added, and its smile died, "You... smell... plastic. Sorry."

  Argus patted the chimp's hairy, thin shoulder and walked on. His uniform itched. "Frictionless," the Fleet people had called it, but he had to restrain himself to avoid scratching his back and shoulders. The first excuse he got to take it off, Argus promised himself, he'd never put the damned nuisance back on. Around the corner, from a slummy dance-house, came some music that made him curious. The cheap sheet-diode sign above the entrance read:

  WEAR CLOTHES AND WE LET YOU IN

  Walking into the brightly lit joint, Argus found it was old folks' night - the place was crammed with men and women who couldn't afford rejuvenation treatments, and were letting their bodies waste away. He hadn't seen that many wrinkled faces and sagging bosoms since the charity boxing-match in a retirement home for people past 150... six years ago.

  "Please hang up your coat, sir," said the aging lady in the wardrobe, a laconic fast-talker. "Dress code, you know. 18th-century 'retro' night. Please pick a costume. Hey, pick a skirt if you like."

  "Heh... none of those costumes are large enough for me. Just came from an Argus theme party. Is it okay if I keep my costume on?"

  He opened his shirt to reveal the naked, ink-black cyborg body. The wrinkled wardrobe lady gave him an appreciative long look, and nodded at him to enter.

  "Tell the deejay I'm just dressed up," he added to be sure, and blew the old lady a kiss. "Thanks."

  Cautiously, having left his clothes in the wardrobe, he made his way into the bar, trying to look casual among the crowds of elderly customers. One couple saw him, laughed and asked to have their picture taken with him. He hesitated, but their enthusiasm was contagious. He put his arms around their shoulders, and the couple's PA robot, an old-fashioned floating ball, shot a few pictures. They thanked Argus, and praised his convincing Argus costume.

  "Click war bonds!" Argus said, mimicking his own PR tour, and left the couple - hearing them argue.

  "You must have set the focus again. I told you a thousand times, Ray, honey: don't fiddle with the focus!"

  "I didn't touch the farking focus! Farking cam's broken or something. See? It's all static."

  This is too weird by half, Argus thought. What am I doing here, all naked among these dirt-poor, dressed-up prunefaces? Don't even know how to dance a "minute", minuet, whatever...

  A loud voice over the speaker system interrupted Argus's thoughts: the DJ, from his overhead booth, had noticed his presence.

  "I have a message to the man in the Argus costume: Sir, this is 18th-century theme night. But since you and the lady in the bodysuit make such a nice match, we'll make an exception, just for the two of you. Ladies and gentlemen, leave some space on the dance-floor for tonight's young couple!"

  A spotlight on the dance-floor answered Argus's unspoken question. The orderly minuet-dancing crowd parted like a zipper, and he saw her - dancing alone in the crowd. Almost in an instant, he knew it had to be her. He switched to infrared vision, and knew.

  Venix. The name that matched his search.

  Her shape, appearance and movements were exquisitely sensual.

  The "bodysuit", that revealed her every shapely form, he recognized as identical to his artificial skin - and it was matt white. A thick black stripe ran from her neck, down between her legs, and continued up her spine. The white "bodysuit" covered all of her, up to and including her neck; only her head and hands were completely lifelike and human.

  From her head flowed very long light-red hair, that seemed to float as it moved about her face - he couldn't understand how it was done, but the hair framed her cheekbones in the most enchanting way. The finely shaped feet, also seemingly clad in white, though thinner than his, were so strong that she supported herself almost completely on her toes, like a ballet dancer with toes of
steel.

  Like him, or so he perceived, her body contained no flesh and blood; yet her movements were so natural, the turning of her hips and limbs so graceful, she struck him as more human than he was. In a moment, their eyes met across the room - she stopped dancing and froze still, one arm enveloping her torso, the other curved above her head.

  Her light-blue eyes widened in surprise, and her oval face made such a vulnerable expression, that his first thought was he should rush forth and cradle her in his arms.

  His next impulse was to walk up to her, and offer her his hand; so he did.

  "May I have this dance?" he asked, feeling like an awkward youngster again.

  "You... you're..." she said, her voice throaty and light, and she gestured to touch him, as if to make sure he was the "real" Argus.

  "Yeah, yeah. Come on, let's dance."

  Argus grasped Venix' free hand, feeling its warmth, and locked eyes with her. Her mouth remained half-opened for a moment; then she smiled, and reached for his other hand. The wardrobe lady, standing in the DJ's booth, urged the DJ to play something faster.

  "I only play oldies tonight," he objected petulantly, crossing his arms. "No blimdub, no Venusian trance. That's my final word."

  "At least play late 20th century, floor polish! Something quaint with a beat."

  She pointed out a song on the DJ's screen index, and he nodded. "All right, happy people," the DJ announced in his smarmiest tone. "We're making a brief jump from the pre-Revolution Era, two centuries ahead, to when our great-great-grandfathers grooved to the likes of this - in 1990, the historic year when the First Cold War ended!"

  Suddenly, a high-pitched, rich female voice shouted through the room, a command to action: "EVERY-BODY DANCE NOW!"

  The aged men and women, in their plush 18th-century costumes, needed only that command to get into the music. Venix took a step away from Argus, and struck a challenging pose with one hand on her hip. Argus thanked his superhuman speed for the precious microseconds he needed, to grasp the rhythm of the song.