by J. S. Morin
On the wall of the Project Transhuman building, a split-screen image showed. One half was of a younger Alex Truman, age eight, standing with a child’s portable computer in hand, reciting. There was no sound, but the other half of the split showed a zoomed in view of the portable’s screen with scrolling text from a school assignment.
As the Alex on stage promised an open vote and that humanity had passed beyond petty grudges over elections, the younger Alex wrote of how the identification of supporters and detractors was a key factor in the maintenance of political power.
The video cut to another presentation by the younger Alex just as the speech poked gentle fun at the naysayers who would have disagreed. This time, the accompanying text was merely a list of politically charged words.
Bureaucrat…
Regime…
Cronyism…
Naysayer…
The list kept on going, but as candidate Alex shifted topics, the video kept pace.
Next, there was video of Benito Mussolini playing on a smaller screen behind student Alex. This time, the video took up the whole face of the Project Transhuman building with captioning of the assignment being presented. “Mussolini fell short of Hitler’s relative success because he failed to inspire his people to greatness. He needed to find a way to elevate those like himself above everyone else, to make them feel like they are stronger than anyone imagines. By becoming the focal point of this illusion, by being the one who promised the path to a deserved destiny, Hitler inspired his people while Mussolini failed. His armies didn’t fight like the Germans did.”
A copper tang in his mouth made Alex realize he was biting the inside of his cheek until it had bled. He swallowed back the blood and demanded, “Who did this?”
“We can’t say for certain,” Wendy said cautiously. “It was woven into the Earthwide news feed in real time. Anyone watching remotely saw it.”
“Polling is bad, needless to say,” Irene added.
“Abby?” Alex suggested, scanning the room for anyone willing or able to tie his rival to the sabotage.
“No,” Wendy assured him with a shake of her head. “Not personally, at least. There was a twelve-millisecond delay when you switched topics. Even with a copy of your speech notes in front of us, none of us could have done it so quickly.”
“A robot,” Alex said through clenched teeth. “Someone who gained access to my pre-emancipation files, no less.”
“Just on technical feasibility, it had to be,” Wendy agreed.
Leslie remained silent. She met Alex’s eye but had nothing to say.
Front-runner. At least Wendy and Irene were trying to help sort out this twisted mess of deception. Maybe it was time to reconsider who should mother his children.
“Suspects?” Alex asked.
“You’ve stepped on a lot of mixed robot toes,” Gerry said with a sigh. “Eve’s got a lot of friends. Might be that one of them decided to take matters into their own hands when Abby wasn’t going to get the job done.”
“Any Holly could have both hacked the feed and accessed those sealed records,” Wendy suggested, conveniently lumping her own mother, Holly39, into the list of potential offenders. It was noble of her to volunteer a robot she loved like a flesh relative.
“Or any Charlie, for that matter,” Gerry added. “Thirteen’s always had it in for your dad.”
“The whole Human Welfare Committee had the access,” Leslie chimed in.
“Wendy, best guess, if someone wrote an automated script to disseminate those sealed files during a broadcast, what’s the minimum latency they could achieve?” Alex asked. He had his own ideas, but he wanted the opinion of a born programmer.
Wendy shrugged, staring at the screen, which Gerry had paused on a particularly unflattering image of Alex and Mussolini sharing body language. “It’s not an algorithm. That’s just a gut feel. If someone went to the trouble, of course it could make robotic speeds.”
“So it could have been Abby,” Leslie suggested with a sly, hopeful smile.
Gerry leaned back and threw his feet up on the break room table. “Not a chance anyone would believe that. Abby’s got the technical skill of a pre-invasion dropout.”
Alex aimed a warning finger at Gerry. “Underestimating an opponent is dangerous. Especially a Madison clone. But it doesn’t matter. We can’t accuse anyone of this. We file a grievance with the Privacy Committee and Human Welfare, and let Eve potentially investigate her own daughter.”
Gerry put up his hands, still lounging like a hooligan in a rented suite. “Not to be a downer here, but the instant polling algorithm is hating you right now. This made it look like you’re putting on a puppet show for everyone, and they’re the puppets.”
Alex paced. Finally, someone willing to address the real issue: the voting impact. “How bad?”
“Flipped the numbers,” Wendy reported, scanning a live data feed. “And slipping by the minute. Presumably, the people outside are hearing secondhand about the feed version and watching for themselves. Abby’s ‘head-in-the-sand’ movement is gaining inertia on us.”
Alex’s smile twitched in appreciation at the attempt at gallows humor despite their grim prospects. “Well, Gerry said that Abby wasn’t getting the job done on her own. Maybe it’s time to put her in the firing line once more before the voting file opens.”
“How you plan to do that?” Wendy asked. “I hacked Abby’s school files already. Nobody’s squeaky clean, but there’s nothing dirty enough in there to build a comeback on.”
Alex clasped his hands behind his back. He strode up to the screen where the modern candidate stood before the failed dictator. “Since the optics are all wrong right now for strong-arm tactics, I say we fire the most democratic weapon in our arsenal.”
“Isn’t it a little early to demand a recount?” Irene asked.
Alex smirked as he shot her a glare. “No. I need to challenge her to a debate.”
And a debate was the perfect forum for a last-gasp gambit he’d hoped never to use.
Chapter Fifty-Four
It was the evening of the debate, and the next morning, the voting would begin. Abby paced the prep room, failing to appreciate the historical trappings surrounding her. Though hung with modern video screens and cluttered with tables, chairs, and political advisers who had once simply been friends, the chamber sat beneath a colossal monument to freedom.
Abby had wanted the debate in Paris, home to Earth’s largest population of humans. Alex’s people had called that home field advantage, and eventually the two sides had settled on Liberty Island. The arrogant frontrunner was taking a tour of the monument above while Abby fretted with last-minute debate preparations.
“And if he claims that Eve is a robot at heart?” Rosa prompted.
Abby closed her eyes and held out her hands as she paced. “Bedtime stories and songs.”
“And if he counters that robots can mimic all that?”
“He was raised by original robots, so he should be able to tell the difference.”
“Good,” Rosa said. She set down the portable computer and gave a satisfied sigh. Billy clapped her on the back. Nigel merely clapped.
Instead of relaxing along with her friends, Abby waved a hand in circles, prompting Rosa to continue. “Keep ‘em coming. I need this.”
“Abby, you’re worn to a nub,” Rosa said. She slipped behind Abby in her pacing and guided the candidate to a chair. “You’re as ready as you’re going to get. This is just stage fright.”
“I’ve never been on stage with the stakes this high. My crash-and-burn level is usually a scathing review. If you don’t keep my mind occupied, I’m going to need whiskey.”
Nigel raised a finger. “Not the time, I know, but have you considered maybe cutting back on the drinking?”
“You’re right,” Abby replied dryly. “But if you’d like to be right and useful, figure out Alex’s ruse. He didn’t rope me into this debate to browbeat me with words. You said yourself that the
risk here is low. Public opinion isn’t riding on who has the more comprehensive platform or who smiles the brightest on a video feed. He has something cooked up, and I need to know what.”
Rosa shrugged.
Billy looked away.
Nigel sighed and shook his head. “Alex is done. Social algorithm shows him bottoming out at about 32 percent support. His ceiling looks to be about 46. At this point, Alex’s best play is to retrench, question the validity of the election process, and go back to working through the existing committees.”
Rosa smiled sadly. “Kinda makes us redundant around here, but whoever white-listed Alex’s school projects for the whole planet just assured you a victory. Relax. Be yourself. Go be charismatic and approachable.”
“Pick one or the other,” Abby remarked. “Relaxing and being myself won’t look anything like what you’re imagining. There are over five hundred people out there, with more robots in attendance than ever. Practically the entire voting population is on hand. Nora109 emptied out the dormitories at Oxford. Kids as young as five are being told they’ll tell stories of being here to their grandchildren.
“No pressure, of course,” Abby concluded.
What she’d hoped to accomplish, Abby couldn’t say. There was no calling off the debate. If there was a way to drive voters back to Alex Truman, chickening out at the last minute might just do it. Maybe she just needed the catharsis of getting that burden out for everyone to acknowledge. If she couldn’t lighten it, maybe she could at least recruit a few hands to share it.
Rosa put her arms around Abby. “It’ll all be over soon. Remember, once you win, you turn the position into a figurehead and let the committees keep on course like nothing happened.”
“All this,” Abby muttered, “just to have nothing change.”
Ten minutes later, Abby was on stage with the Statue of Liberty looming behind her and Alex Truman’s smug face looming beside her. They stood behind adjacent lecterns, separated by a mere three meters. With the rest of the crowd spread out in a sea below them, he might as well have been seated in her lap.
The two of them were on display together, a mismatched pair set to differentiate even further from one another.
This debate was to be free form. Neither side had come up with a mutually agreeable moderator, and the event had been announced, planned, and anticipated to the point where the lack of moderation was going to placate anyone as a reason for canceling.
“Good evening, everyone,” Alex called out, stealing the initiative as master of ceremonies.
Fine. Let him.
“Thank you all for coming out tonight,” Abby said. “This is an historic moment.”
“A historic moment,” Alex corrected. Abby felt her face flush. She knew both were correct, but an argument over grammar would reflect poorly on both of them. Taking the bait would just lower the level of discourse when a simple, straightforward debate favored Abby by a wide margin.
She ignored the jab, remembering the two tenets Nigel hammered into her. Don’t let Alex reframe the debate; be the better person. Alex had tipped his hand that this wasn’t going to be a congenial night of policy discussion. “Tomorrow’s election will set the course for humanity’s partnership with robotkind for generations to come.”
“It will change the face of humanity’s dealing with robots,” Alex insisted. “We’ve had decades already of monarchic rule. Humanity deserves better than a singular voice representing us, one that becomes more robotic by the year.”
Abby cast a glance to her opponent but kept her focus on the crowd. So many metallic faces. So many pairs of glowing eyes fixed on her. There were plenty of humans present as well, percentage-wise far more than the robots had sent. Alex’s supporters mingled in the crowd, spread out, those wrist-mounted dark-energy weapons worn prominently.
A chill cut through Abby to the bone. Could that be it? Was Alex preparing an assassination attempt? He wouldn’t be the first dictator to rise to power over the corpse of a rival. But to be so blatant, so bald-faced about it. Abby flushed away the idea in an instant, though its odor lingered in her thoughts.
“In this age of specialization, how many of us are truly fit to govern?” Abby asked. “How many of us have spent our adult lives learning the intricate tangle of modern committee structures, understanding how to navigate centuries-old power structures to serve humanity’s best interests at every turn? How many of us would enjoy the sweet taste of power that came with it?”
There were murmurings in the crowd. As Abby paused for effect, Alex jumped into the silence. “And yet, you don’t have any interest at all,” Alex countered. “In fact, neither does your mother. You’ve been acting as a medieval knight, championing Eve Fourteen instead of letting her defend herself. If she cared about keeping her position, she could have acted personally.”
It was shocking to listen to Alex falling face first into a bear trap. “I’d argue that anyone who likes the taste of power ought never to be given the chance to gorge himself.”
“I see,” Alex cooed. He looked so slick in his suit coat and red tie, like a Halloween costume of a late twentieth century presidential candidate. “So, is the addictive nature of power the reason you don’t want the office? Can’t handle a little alcohol, so you’re steering clear of authority’s ambrosia as well?”
Abby’s face warmed. The platform swam. How many people knew she overindulged a little now and then? Dad knew, of course, and he was supportive about it. If Mom had figured it out, she was as good as a black hole for keeping secrets. None of her friends would have been so cruel as to let such a thing slip. Dr. Ashley… she couldn’t have been a Truman supporter, could she?
There was no time to piece together the path her little struggle had taken to squirm free into the wider world. Maybe it just hadn’t been so carefully curated a secret as she’d believed. This wasn’t about her. There was no reason to debate Abby’s fitness for office; she was only running to maintain Eve Fourteen as chairwoman of the Human Welfare Committee. Any position and privileges that shook out in the process, Abby would brush aside.
“Dark energy isn’t the most dangerous force you play with,” Abby said, turning her full attention on Alex. “You stoke fears and try to turn reasoning people into a mob. Charisma politics have killed more humans than anything short of an interstellar invasion.”
“Human minds, unleashed, are the strongest force in the universe,” Alex said, pounding his fist on his lectern just hard enough for the thump to carry over his microphone to the crowd. There were cheers in the brief pause he allowed. But where Alex had jumped on Abby’s pause for effect, he also timed his own cadence not to leave any opening to lose his momentum. “We fought off those aliens. We rebuilt. We rebounded.”
“Robots did all that,” Abby pointed out. Was Alex really being this obtuse? The flaws in his arguments yawned like chasms. “All the human race had died. We owe those robots everything for bringing us back.”
“Owe them?” Alex scoffed. “Humans made them. The original thirty-three are alive today because of their magnificent technology. Mankind’s greatest achievement. Charlie7 saved us. A human in a robotic body.” Alex went on to name each and every one of the Project Transhuman team. He rattled them off, shouting over Abby’s attempts to get a word in edgewise until she relented and allowed his rant to play itself out. There was only room for so much breath in one body.
“Humans, every one of them,” Alex said with a dramatic flourish of his hands. “They gave their lives to their work. They lost their lives in the invasion. They were reborn in metallic flesh. We never needed the mixed robots. They were a choice, a way to make a thinking workforce to toil for centuries at genetics without complaint. I can’t begrudge the series of decisions that has led to my existence and presence here tonight, but I will not fall into the trap of believing the robotic propaganda that we need—or have ever needed—robots. Humanity doesn’t need the mixes. They needed us.”
There was a commotion in the cro
wd as Abby formulated her rebuttal. Someone was pushing their way from a few rows back toward the stage. Abby’s first thought was that it was one of Alex’s armed followers, spurred to rage by his incendiary rhetoric.
But it was a robot.
Dressed in plain coveralls like a Kanto factory worker and clad in a shining new chassis from one of the latest models, Abby couldn’t put a name to the robot. He charged forward and drew a long, slender object from inside his coveralls. “I can’t take any more of this,” the robot said in a voice stripped of personality. It was one of the default drone interface vocal patterns, a clear attempt to hide his identity. The unknown robot aimed a short cylinder in Alex’s direction, and in a crystalline instant, Abby knew what was happening. “History will judge my actions!”
“Get down!” Abby shouted.
Her feet moved before her brain could formulate an opinion on the matter. Alex had frozen with wide-eyed disbelief plastered across his face as he stared into the eyes of his assassin. Abby covered the three meters that separated the candidates in two beats of her hammering heart.
The robot aimed.
Abby lunged, diving with an arm outstretched to knock Alex clear.
The night air cracked. Humans in the crowd screamed. Abby and Alex collapsed to the concrete floor in a heap. In a daze, Abby rolled off the young man whose life she had attempted to save. To her dismay, his white, button-down shirt was crimson with blood.
The crowd stampeded. Alex’s armed followers fought the tide of humans and robots, blasting the assassin to scrap metal before he could fire again.
“No… no…” Abby moaned. She’d wanted to defeat Alex Truman. Sending him packing back to his lab to work on dark energy theory would have been fine by her. He didn’t deserve to die. Earth had progressed past the need for anyone to die.
A blood-stained hand inched toward the back of Alex’s head. He issued a groan and felt for the spot where his head struck the concrete. “Hey. That’s my most valuable possession. Watch it with—what happened to your arm?”