Rogue Autonomous

by Rahul Bhagat

  “You heard about the AV accident?” Martin asked.

  “Sir.” The kid was fully awake. “I didn’t do anything.” He looked frightened.

  “We’re not saying you did. Were you in that van at the time of the accident?” Martin indicated the parked vehicle.

  “Sir.” The kid nodded and shifted from foot to foot.

  “Did you see anything? Hear anything?” Charlie suddenly barked at the kid.

  “No, nothing.” The kid rubbed his earlobes and shook his head. He looked like a frightened deer staring at a headlight.

  “What?” Charlie roared.

  “No, sir, nothing. I was sleeping,” the kid said nervously.

  “Fucking hobo. This guy is no use.” Charlie turned around in disgust. “Let’s go,” he said and started walking back to the cruiser.

  Martin was caught off guard by the abruptness of events. He found Charlie’s behavior baffling. There was no need for him to have been so aggressive, and couldn’t they take a few more minutes to talk properly? What was this passive-aggressive behavior? Was Charlie holding a grudge against Martin because he hadn’t agreed to go back to the office? He looked at the door, and the young man was equally quick in closing it.

  As they walked back, Martin noticed the white van. He peeled away from Charlie. It was potential evidence and should be documented. To hell with Charlie and his urgent report.

  “Charlie, wait. We have to document 3-D image of the van,” Martin said. He noticed holes in the back door and fresh mount marks. Something large had been mounted at the back of the van and taken off clumsily. Dark scratches marked the white paint.

  “Can we please wrap this up?” Charlie asked impatiently.

  He waited inside the cruiser while Martin retrieved the camera drone and squatted to take it out of its case. It had been a long time since Martin had used one of the flying cameras. All he had to do was unfold it properly and set it on the ground; the drone would do the rest. It would take off on its own, circle the target, and construct a high-resolution, three-dimensional digital image of the object. Investigators used the images to inspect crime scene objects in greater detail, through immersive virtual-reality headsets.

  Martin was not sure if the rotors unfolded one way or the other, and he didn’t want to unfold it the wrong way and break it. The blades seemed fragile. He looked up and saw Charlie eyeing him with pity. Suddenly, Charlie got up, came outside, and grabbed the drone from Martin’s hand. Within minutes, the drone was up in the air, constructing a three-dimensional image of the van.

  SIXTEEN

  THE NEXT DAY, the investigators arrived at Dean Callaghan’s office. Except for a Greeter Bot, the reception was empty. The bot asked Martin and Charlie to take a seat; Mr. Callaghan was in a meeting. They waited in the sunny reception, all glass and steel, perched a hundred floors above the city.

  The wait stretched on. Every now and then, Martin would get up and ask the bot, but the response was always the same—Mr. Callaghan was in a meeting. After about an hour, an exasperated Charlie got up and walked over to the reception desk.

  “It’s two p.m. Can you check if Mr. Callaghan is finished with his meeting?” Charlie asked the bot.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the bot said. “Mr. Callaghan is still busy with his meeting.”

  Charlie had had enough. He grabbed the bot’s head and gave it a vigorous shake. “Hellooo. Can anyone hear me?”

  “Sir, I request you to please tak—”

  Before the bot could finish its sentence, a young woman scampered into the reception area. “Excuse me. What are you doing? What do you need?” she asked Charlie and looked at him as if he were some crazy guy.

  “We’re here to see Mr. Dean Callaghan. We had an appointment for one p.m., and it’s five after two now,” Charlie said with a matter-of-fact expression.

  “Please wait.” With a curt response, she disappeared back into the bowels of the office.

  Martin looked at Charlie and smiled. The guy was rough at the edges, but his method worked.

  A couple of minutes later, the woman reappeared with another person, a bodybuilder. His bulging muscles strained at the tight-fitting T-shirt.

  “Please, come with me,” the man snarled in a deep, growling voice.

  They followed the duo down a wide hallway with frosted glass doors on either side. People and bots passed them occasionally. The group stopped at a T-junction with a dark, heavy wooden door in front of them. The door had a large circle in the middle, and tiny figures were carved in wood inside the circle. The woman gently pushed at the door, and it swung inward silently and gracefully.

  Inside, it was dark. The sweet fragrance of incense hung in the air. Once Martin’s eyes adjusted to the low lights, he realized they were in a large office crowded with furniture. They went past couches and coffee tables toward the back. A man fitting the description of Dean Callaghan was spread out on a beanbag. He had a virtual-reality headset over his eyes. His hands were in the air, and his was body tense; he appeared to be grabbing something.

  “Dean,” the woman said.

  “Not now. I’m in the middle of a move,” Dean responded curtly.

  The woman said nothing. She pointed her visitors’ attention toward a screen on the wall. A person was climbing the sheer face of a mountain in the midst of a blizzard. That was Dean playing a virtual reality game of climbing K2 in adverse weather. He was hanging precariously by one hand and reaching out to grab another piece of rock. His fingers grabbed the rock piece, and he tried to pull his body up. The piece of rock crumpled; he had made the fatal mistake of not testing the firmness first. He let out a loud curse and took off his headgear in disgust. The light level in the room went up to normal.

  A thin man with pale skin, grey eyes, and light-colored straight hair, Dean looked young, very young. Martin knew from briefing notes that he was in his thirties, but he looked like a twenty-year-old kid.

  “Dean, these guys are investigating the crash,” the woman said.

  “So? What do they want from me?” Dean yawned.

  “I don’t know; deal with them,” the woman said in frustration.

  Martin explained that they were there to interview Dean because he was victim’s brother; it was normal procedure. Dean appeared to warm up to that. When asked about his itinerary, he willingly recounted his activities on the day of the accident. Martin was mulling how to get to key questions without alarming Dean, when Charlie jumped into the conversation.

  “Mr. Callaghan, how would you describe your relationship with your mother-in-law?” he asked.

  “Rebekah? What’s your interest?” Dean asked. He used his elbows to prop himself on the beanbag. His eyebrows became furrowed, and the air of camaraderie was gone.

  “She is accusing you of engineering this accident,” Charlie said.

  “Really?” Dean asked. He took his time getting up. Then casually, he walked toward the front of the sprawling room and sat down on a stuffed couch. He picked up a bowl of orange-yellow berries from the side table and started eating.

  “Actually, it’s Rebekah who got her daughter killed,” Dean Callaghan said. “She did it to frame me.”

  “Huh…” Charlie shifted his weight from one foot to the other but didn’t say anything. He appeared to struggle with his next question.

  Martin felt a wave of frustration rise through him. Now Dean wasn’t going to cooperate with them. That idiot Charlie had blown any chances of gleaning information from him. Martin bit his tongue and kept quiet. It was going to be hard working with a technical investigator who knew nothing about interrogations.

  “Without me, Callaghan Enterprises wouldn’t be what it is today. Paige was no threat to me,” Dean said. “To be honest, without her, it would have been difficult to keep the control in the family.”

  Dean put the bowl down, opened the top drawer of the side table, and took out a case of cigarettes. Martin was surprised to see one. People in the twentieth century loved the crude source of sti
mulant, but it had long since disappeared from society. Dean lit up a cigarette and blew out a big cloud of smoke. Its acrid smell spread rapidly in the room.

  “Was there anything else?” Dean looked at his visitors and took another drag.

  “Your AV was customized for manual drive. Where did you get that done?” Martin asked. At this point, he wanted to salvage any information he could.

  Dean was about to take another drag from the cigarette, but his hands stopped midway. “I don’t keep track of small things,” he said. “How does it matter, anyway?”

  “It matters in our investigation, Mr. Callaghan. There was an accident; the vehicle had illegal modifications,” Martin said.

  Dean looked at the muscled man standing next to him. “Tae, where did we get it souped up?” he asked.

  Tae hesitated only a second. “It was upstate boss, Tomatsu’s shop,” he said.

  “Tomatsu’s shop.” Dean looked at the investigators and gave a sly smile.

  “We’ll need the address,” Martin said.

  “No problem. I’ll get it to you,” the bodybuilder said.

  Dean got up. “In the future, talk to my lawyer first. I don’t have time for these silly things,” he said and dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

  The follow-up with Tomatsu didn’t lead them anywhere. The guy kept insisting that he’d bought the controller override from an illicit website. He claimed ignorance, confessing that it was a technology-demonstration model, and just kept repeating that he bought the part, installed it, and it worked. He knew nothing else.

  It was a waste of time.

  SEVENTEEN

  MR. STIRLING, AN old man with big glasses and copious white hair, fiddled with the controls of a Gossip Bot. Dean Callaghan wanted to speak with him, and he didn’t know why, probably about the company again. If that was the case, then he would like to keep it short, and by being outside, he could make excuses about finishing yard work.

  The bot, which was basically a humanoid robot with a display screen instead of a face, dialed Dean’s number and followed Mr. Stirling into the yard.

  Dean’s image appeared on the screen. He was sitting behind an impressive-looking desk in his office.

  “G’day, Dean. Good to see you, mate. How ya going?” Mr. Stirling said.

  “I’m good, Mr. Stirling. How are you?” Dean asked.

  Personally, Mr. Stirling didn’t much like Dean Callaghan, but he never let personal preferences get in the way of business. He gave Dean a perfunctory smile. “Supah. All good, all good.”

  “So how is Perth?” Dean tried to make small talk.

  Mr. Stirling picked up a dead brown snake. “We just had this curious fella visit our house. See what happened? Bad idea. Tell me, Dean, what’s goin’ on in the big city of New York?”

  “Mr. Stirling, I’m ready to buy Lunar Mining Company,” Dean said, his excitement barely contained.

  Mr. Stirling groaned. His suspicion was correct. Dean again wanted to badger him about LMCo. He took a deep breath and wished he really had another buyer.

  “Not that song again.” Mr. Stirling barely hid his annoyance. “You’ve been singin’ it for years, Dean—LMCo, LMCo, and you can’t even get your board to agree. Mr. Callaghan, why you wastin’ my time? I’m not goin’ to sell it for pennies.”

  “Listen, Mr. Stirling…” Dean said. “My sister is dead; I have the majority control. I can pay your price.”

  “Wha’? I’m sorry to hear that.” Mr. Stirling was shocked. He looked at Dean distastefully.

  Dean gave a sly smile. “That didn’t come out right. Listen, it was a terrible accident, and I’m going to miss my little sister. But what’s done is done. We have to move on. The world doesn’t stop for anyone.”

  The businessman in Mr. Stirling took control. “So do you have the votes and the money?”

  “I do, Mr. Stirling, and I’m ready to cut a deal,” Dean said. “ Rebekah can’t block the move this time. She’s no longer the custodian for Paige’s voting rights.”

  “I have some new conditions.”

  “New conditions? What new conditions?” Dean asked. He didn’t look very pleased, which Mr. Stirling found very gratifying.

  “I would like a revaluation.”

  “Why a revaluation?”

  “Because we’ve developed a breakthrough technology in ice mining, Mr. Callaghan. Its potential is unimaginable. I seriously believe the valuation should be double, if not more.”

  Dean got up from his chair and started shouting. “Double. What the hell! No way! What is this magic technology that has suddenly doubled the valuation of your shit company? You know, Mr. Stirling, now that I can buy it, it appears as if you are becoming greedy and jacking up the price.”

  “Now hold it right there.” Mr. Stirling defended himself forcefully. “The technology is supah. My scientists have been workin’ in stealth mode for years.”

  “What is this thing?” Dean asked, a little curious.

  “Truly revolutionary. Finally, a practical model for radiation sublimation. Ice mining will be as easy as stickin’ a straw in and suckin’ out the water. No diggin’, scoopin’, or heating.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” Dean said.

  “Come over for a visit, mate. We have the data, prototype video in action. Bring your experts,” Mr. Stirling said.

  EIGHTEEN

  DEAN OCCUPIED ONE of the end chairs in the boardroom. Beside him, the ceiling-to-floor glass wall provided an expansive view of Central Park and downtown Manhattan. It was twilight; the sky was painted with broad strokes of black interspersed with orange and pink streaks of clouds. A spaceplane took off from Middletown, across the bay in New Jersey. Its yellow-flamed dot rose in the darkening sky, and Dean followed its upward path intently.

  The chair of the board, Mr. Ted, said something that brought Dean’s attention back to the meeting. He licked his fingers and smoothed unruly strands of hair from his face. He looked at Mr. Ted, a bald man with a severe face, and wondered if he ever smiled. He had never seen Mr. Ted being cheerful. His nemesis, Rebekah, was also looking at Mr. Ted with her smoky eyes; her fidgety fingers were busy playing with a hair band. She always pretended that Dean didn’t exist during board meetings. She had a habit of referring to him in third person, which annoyed the hell out of him.

  Mr. Ted spoke. “The board heard Mr. Bennett’s recommendations. Any need for additional discussion?”

  The members kept quiet.

  “Motion to adopt the resolution. Those opposed, say, ‘Nay,’” Mr. Ted said.

  There was silence in the room.

  “Those in favor…”

  A chorus of “aye” filled the room.

  “Okay, the motion is passed and the resolution adopted,” Mr. Ted said. “Mr. Bennett, please take steps to implement your recommendations and report to the board in ninety days.”

  Mr. Bennett nodded reverently.

  “Is there new business?” Mr. Ted asked the members.

  “Yes, there is,” Dean said immediately. “The CEO of Callaghan Enterprises has a proposal for the board to consider.”

  A murmur swept through the crowd. Rebekah gave Dean a dirty look. He returned her a cunning smile.

  “Mr. Callaghan, you have the floor. Please state your proposal,” Mr. Ted said with a formal tone, just like his stiff demeanor.

  Dean got up with a big grin on his face. “I propose a friendly takeover of Lunar Mining Company. The company will—”

  Rebekah’s mocking voice interrupted him. “Oh no… the little boy is at it again. He wants his toy!”

  A surge of anger washed over Dean, but he checked himself. He gritted his teeth and took a long breath. “Mr. Chairman, do I have the floor?” He turned to Mr. Ted.

  Mr. Ted coughed and shifted in his seat. “Mr. Callaghan, you do. I would remind board members to maintain decorum, please.”

  Dean continued speaking. “This company might look like a rusty old business, but believe me on th
is.” He nodded, slow and deliberate. He wanted these idiots to know where he was taking the organization. “LMCo is a perfect foothold for us. It’ll give us the launchpad to the asteroid economy. And we need that for our future growth.” Dean leaned forward, his palms flat on polished mahogany. “If Callaghan Enterprises doesn’t reach out to the skies, it will remain an earthbound company, a small, insignificant enterprise that doesn’t matter. No one cares. Growth is in space, in the asteroid belt, and that’s where we’re going.” He went on extolling the virtues of LMCo for a few more minutes and then sat down, feeling good about his little speech.

  Mr. Ted let out a little sigh. “Mr. Callaghan, we have gone down this road before. It’s quite evident that a majority of board members believe this venture is an unnecessary distraction from our core competency, and we have no business sticking our noses in areas that we know nothing about. I’m not putting this up for vote again.”

  “Well, that’s too bad, Mr. Chairman,” Dean said. He had come prepared. He had known this was what they would do, even after he had become the majority shareholder. Probably, they thought he didn’t have the courage. They were going to find out soon.

  “If that’s your final decision, then I guess I’ll have to dissolve the corporation and take it private,” Dean said and leaned back in his chair.

  Pandemonium broke out in the boardroom.

  “You can’t do that,” Rebekah screeched, forgetting to refer to him in third person. “You monster. You’re responsible for my daughter’s death. You’re a cold-blooded killer.”

  Anger rose again, and this time, Dean let it loose. “You better watch your mouth, you sleazy bitch,” he snarled, “or be ready to be hit with a libel suit.”

  “Everyone, calm down.” Mr. Ted raised his voice. It was effective. Peace returned to the room immediately. “With the sudden demise of Paige Callaghan and according to Sr. Callaghan’s will, Dean does control more than fifty percent of voting shares, and he can, if he so chooses, dissolve the corporation. The question is,” Mr. Ted said solemnly, “do we, or do we not, wish to go along with Mr. Callaghan’s vision?” He looked at the faces around the table.