by Ed Naha
Morton, overhearing, spun around. “My plan is better than Jones’s. I’d go straight to the Old Man if I could.”
Johnson offered a piece of sage advice. “Don’t mess with Jones, man. He’ll make sushi out of you.”
Kinney nodded his head, getting into the spirit of things. “Yeah, I hear Jones is a real barracuda.”
“Who asked you, twerp,” Morton snapped.
Johnson placed a gentle arm on Morton’s elbow. “Ease off.”
The mob of executives made their way to two massive golden doors which led into the OmniCon boardroom. Johnson, Morton, and Kinney took seats alongside the wall. The aircraft carrier-sized boardroom table was reserved for the Big Boys.
“Look at that!” Kinney exclaimed.
Placed in the center of the table was a massive model of a super-modern city: a cornucopia of bridges, spires, and gardens. “It looks like paradise,” Kinney exclaimed.
“Paradise with a price tag,” Johnson added.
The OmniCon board members took their places at the table while, at its head, a distinguished white-haired gentleman and a red-faced, angular executive exchanged words. The Old Man didn’t seem to be buying what Dick Jones, one of his key men, was saying. Jones was fighting to stay in control. He was known to have fits of anger that earned him the nickname of Mr. Punch in OmniCon circles; not only because he was prone to put his fists through things at key moments but because his verbal delivery and tall, lanky form made him resemble the masculine half of the classic Punch and Judy school of drama whenever he freaked out. Which was often.
Jones lowered his voice to a near whisper, causing the Old Man to lean forward more. The Old Man nodded his head. “What about this police thing? What seems to be the problem?”
“The Union’s been bitching since we took over,” Jones explained. “Now they have a media issue and they’re throwing their weight around. It’s the usual nonsense. We’ll turn things around in the second phase of our takeover. I promise.”
The Old Man forced himself to smile. “Very good.”
He turned from Jones. Dismissed, Jones sat at the left of the Old Man. The Old Man sat down and faced his executives. “All right. Let’s get started. As you all know, I’ve had a dream for more than a decade now. I’ve asked you all to share it with me. In six months, we begin construction of Delta City, a new community to be erected where Old Detroit now stands.”
All eyes in the room turned toward the spectacular model on the table. The Old Man focused his eyes on its gleaming spires. “Old Detroit has a cancer that threatens the entire city. The cancer is crime. And it must be cut out before we employ the two million workers that will breathe life into this city again. We have to be able to guarantee their safety before any labor unions will agree to enter the area.”
The Old Man paused for effect. The board members were visibly moved. “Although shifts in the tax structure have created an economy ideal for corporate growth, community services, in this case Law Enforcement, have suffered. Frankly, the police are having a hard time in Old Detroit. I think it’s about time that we gave them a helping hand. The sooner they take Old Detroit out of the headlines, the faster we can build.”
The Old Man turned to Jones. “Dick? Will you fill them in, please?”
Jones stood as the lights in the room went down. Morton sat sullenly next to Johnson. “Dick. A swell name for a swell guy.”
Johnson elbowed him into silence.
A panel above Jones’s head slid open, revealing a series of monitors. The monitors began flashing numbers on the screen. Jones smiled at the gathering.
“Take a close look at the track record of this company,” he grinned, “and you’ll see that we have gambled in markets traditionally regarded as ‘non-profit’: hospitals, prisons, space colonies.
“I say that good business is where you find it! As you know, we’ve entered into a contract with the city to run local law enforcement. But at Security Concepts, we believe an efficient police force is only part of the solution to the ongoing problem of urban crime.”
Morton eyed the faces of the board members. Damn it. Jones was winning them over. Jones realized this, as well, and turned on the charisma. “We need something more than traditional law enforcement, gentlemen. We need a twenty-four-hour-a-day police officer. A cop who doesn’t need to eat or sleep. A cop with superior firepower and the reflexes to use it.”
Jones walked over to the two golden doors in the conference room, pausing dramatically before them. “Lights, please.”
The room lights brightened, reflecting in Jones’s enlarged eyes. “Fellow executives, I’m proud to introduce the future of law enforcement . . . ED 209.”
Jones opened the doors dramatically, revealing the presence of a seven-foot-tall robot. The robot was a hunchbacked killing machine, its rounded torso bent backward on two powerful legs. On each side of the torso were bulky “arms,” with ominous 20-millimeter cannon muzzles located below the wrist. Jones returned to the head of the table as the robot shambled into the boardroom, its elephantine feet producing large “kaa-thumps” as they struck the carpeted floor.
The OmniCon members in the boardroom let out a collective “oooh,” as ED 209 took its place next to the table. Johnson turned to Morton. Morton glared at the robotic cop. “Looks like a goddamned Tinkertoy,” he muttered.
Kinney was all smiles. “I don’t know,” he offered. “I think it’s kind of . . . neat.”
Morton glared at the kid. “Where did you pick up such technical terms?”
A rotund, mousy man in a white lab coat and several overall-encased technicians scurried into the room after ED 209. The technicians wheeled in a control panel mounted on a cart. Jones beamed, gazing into the faces of the OmniCon crème de la crème.
“The Enforcement Droid, Series 209, is a self-sufficient urban law enforcement robot,” he said cheerfully. “209 is currently programmed for urban pacification, but that’s only the beginning. After a successful tour of duty in Old Detroit, and a great deal of positive publicity, we can expect 209 to become the hot military product for the next decade.”
Jones puffed out his sunken chest. “Imagine, gentlemen. A global army consisting entirely of Droids. Twenty-four-hour-a-day combatants that will save human lives by fighting wars in lieu of flesh and blood soldiers. Combatants manufactured en masse by OmniCon.”
The board members nearly broke into a round of applause on that line. Jones flashed a grin at the Old Man. The Old Man was smiling himself. Visions of dollar signs were practically dancing over the heads of the assembled.
Jones turned to the mousy scientist. “Dr. MacNamara?”
MacNamara turned to his technicians. The small enclave huddled over the control panel. MacNamara fiddled with the robot controls for a moment before stepping away from the cart. He turned to face the mighty Droid as one of the technicians twirled a dial.
Immediately, ED 209’s arms lurched to life. They flexed in the air in a mock body-builder stance. There were grins around the table. MacNamara, chuckling like a kid with a new Christmas present, faced the assembled. “Now, we’ll need an arrest subject for this little demonstration,” he said cheerfully.
Jones scanned the room. “Mr. Kinney? Would you come up here and give us a hand?”
Morton scowled as Kinney leaped to his feet and bounded toward the robot, a kinetic portrait of unchecked enthusiasm. “Yes, sir. Be happy to, sir. Okeydokey.”
Jones reached down to the floor next to the table and produced a sleek black case. Opening it, he pulled out a black-on-black SC-357 Magnum. Without a word, he handed the gun to Kinney. The fresh-faced junior executive gulped; eyeing, first, the gun and, then, the massive form of ED 209. Kinney was having second thoughts about being a team player. Morton was enjoying it.
Jones put a fatherly arm around the startled boy. “Mr. Kinney will help us simulate a typical arrest and disarming procedure.”
“I will?”
“Certainly. Now, all you have to d
o, Mr. Kinney, is to use your gun in a threatening manner. Just point it at ED 209.”
Kinney glanced at the smiling board members. The men around the table giggled like schoolgirls. A red flush of embarrassment appeared on Kinney’s cheeks. He shrugged and got into the swing of things. Screwing up his facial features into a scowl, but resembling a perturbed squirrel more than an actual street thug, he raised the gun toward ED 209.
The robot reacted instantly. He pivoted and faced the young executive.
Kinney began to tremble. Surprisingly, a soothing voice emerged from the mighty Droid. “Please put down your weapon. You have twenty seconds to comply. Your civil rights are currently in effect. You now have fifteen seconds to comply.”
The men around the table applauded. Kinney stared at the robot, a mixture of surprise and fright on his face. Jones, smiling paternally, nodded at Kinney. “I think you better do what he says, Mr. Kinney.”
Kinney allowed the gun to drop to the floor. It landed with a thud on the deep pile carpeting. He shrugged and turned to the board members.
ED 209 continued to talk in a cool, detached voice. “If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you.”
On the far side of the room, both Morton and Johnson noticed the startled, anxious look on the face of the mousy scientist. MacNamara made eye contact with the head technician. Both men ran over to the control cart. ED 209 continued to chat. “You now have five seconds to comply.”
Jones glanced anxiously at the cart. Kinney stood there, smiling like an idiot before the talkative Droid. His smile faded as the Droid slowly began to raise its left arm.
“Three . . . two . . . ,” ED 209 continued.
Kinney turned to face the Old Man. The Old Man glared beyond Kinney at the control cart. Kinney glanced over his shoulder and, seeing the arm proceed on its upward arc, attempted to flee along the lengthy boardroom table.
The executives at the table gasped and dove onto the carpeted floor as ED 209 calmly traced Kinney’s retreat. “One,” he intoned. “You are in direct violation of Penal Code 1-13, Section 9. I am now authorized to use necessary force.”
The Droid fired an extended burst from its upraised hand/cannon. Kinney was caught from behind. His chest burst in an explosion of blood and light. His body tumbled through the air, landing with a crash on the fragile model of Delta City in the middle of the table.
Morton and Johnson were on their feet. Morton dove for a phone, screaming, “Medical Concepts, get a paramedic team to the 151st floor right now.”
Johnson stared at Kinney’s tattered form. Rivers of blood ran through the streets of the delicately designed Delta City. ED 209, satisfied that its job was done, lowered its arm. Executives trembled beneath the table. Technicians twisted dials and knobs on the control cart frantically.
Only the Old Man, at the head of the table, remained calm. He sighed, gazed at both the broken body and the mangled model city and turned to Jones. “Dick, I’m very disappointed.”
Jones tried to be casual about it all, wiping bits of blood and gore from his suit. “I’m sure it’s only a glitch . . . a temporary setback.”
Dr. MacNamara waddled up to the old man. “It wasn’t ED’s fault. He didn’t hear the gun drop. The carpeting here is so thick . . . heh, heh . . .”
The Old Man ignored the babbling man in the white smock. He fixed his gaze directly on Jones. “You call this a glitch? We’re scheduled to begin construction in four months. This ‘temporary setback’ could cost us fifty million dollars in interest payments alone.”
“Well . . .” Jones countered.
Morton was suddenly standing between Jones and the Old Man. “Not necessarily, sir,” he said cheerfully. The Old Man turned his attention to the wiry young executive who had appeared from nowhere.
Morton grinned and continued. “Perhaps you’re aware of the RoboCop Program that was developed by myself at Security Concepts as a contingency for just this sort of situation.”
Jones’s face began to redden. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Morton. I’m sure this is something we can take up in my office at a more appropriate time.”
The Old Man waved Jones away. “Wait a minute, Dick. Maybe what we need here is a fresh perspective.”
Jones glowered at Morton as the Old Man went on. “Tell me about this plan of yours, Mr. Morton. How long will it take to implement?”
Morton was so happy he was bouncing on the balls of his feet. He didn’t notice that he was standing in a puddle of Kinney’s blood. “We’re ready to go, sir,” he replied. “We’ve restructured the police department and placed prime candidates according to risk factor in high danger precincts. With the prevailing conditions in Old Detroit, I’m confident we can produce an effective prototype in ninety days.”
A wide grin broke across the Old Man’s craggy face. “Good. Very good. Get your staff together, Morton. I expect a full presentation in twenty minutes.”
The Old Man patted Morton on the shoulder and strode out of the room. As he left, a group of paramedics rushed in. They weren’t expecting what they found on the board table.
“Holy shit,” one said.
“They should have ordered mops and pails.”
Morton trotted to the other side of the room and took Johnson by the hand. “I did it,” he exclaimed. “I did it!”
Johnson gazed past Morton’s shoulder and watched Jones at the far end of the table. Jones glared at them both and slowly lit a cigarette.
Johnson led Morton out of the room. He shook his head slowly. This guy didn’t even know he was in trouble.
The two entered the glass elevator alone. Morton began shuffling about. He was almost doing a tap dance. Johnson had never seen Morton so jazzed before. “That’s how it’s done in the big leagues, Johnson,” Morton bubbled. “You see an opening and you go for it.”
Johnson stared out of the glass elevator and watched the floor rise up to meet them. “Just watch your back, Bob,” he cautioned. “Jones is going to come gunning for you.”
“Fuck Jones. He fumbled the ball and I was there to pick it up. Touchdown for the home team.”
A mental picture of Kinney’s surprised, lifeless eyes flashed through Johnson’s mind. “Too bad about Kinney,” he said softly.
Morton forced himself to calm down. “Life in the big city.” He shrugged lamely.
The elevator stopped. The two men emerged in a dimly lit corridor.
“When do we start with the RoboCop prototype?” Johnson asked.
Morton heaved a gigantic sigh. “As soon as some poor schmuck volunteers.”
[ 6 ]
Murphy leaned on the side of the TurboCruiser, surveying the burned-out buildings around him. A little over a decade ago, Old Detroit had still been a vibrant area; poor, but teeming with families and old-timers who had lived there for generations.
Above him, the moon peeked in and out of dark, threatening clouds.
He glanced at the lone operating burger stand on the block. Lewis, her helmet off, was paying for a couple of coffees with a credit card. Murphy eased his revolver out of his holster and practiced doing quick draw tricks.
Lewis walked over with the coffee and Murphy executed a double twirl, gunslinger style, slipping the revolver back into its holster.
Lewis smiled, handing him the coffee. “Pretty fancy moves, Murphy.”
Murphy grinned sheepishly. “My kid watches this cop show—T. J. Lazer. This Lazer guy does that every time he takes a bad guy out.”
“And you didn’t want to disappoint your kid, huh?”
“Role models can be very important to a young boy.”
Lewis sipped her coffee, smirking. “Uh-huh.”
Murphy shrugged. “Okay. So I get a kick out of it, too.”
Lewis eyed her new partner. “Married man, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Happily?”
Murphy thought a moment. “Yeah. I suppose.”
“You suppose?”
“
Well, I am happy. Lucky, too. I mean, I have a family to come home to at the end of the day, right? A little antidote for the insanity? But, sometimes you just get so tired . . .”
“Physically or mentally?”
Murphy sipped the coffee. “I wake up tired, Lewis. I’ve been a cop all my life. I came into the job wanting to save the world.”
“Make the streets safe for the good folk.” Lewis nodded.
“Something like that. But, you know, the longer you’re at this, the more it grinds you down. You find yourself treading water. Hoping to get through each day in one piece, hoping you won’t have to drill anyone.”
“I know,” Lewis said. “I do know. Imagine what it’s like being single. I come home every day to a cat.”
“You like cats?”
“I hate cats.”
Murphy chuckled. “Masochism twenty-four hours a day, huh?”
Lewis drained her cup. “I figure I’m on a roll.”
“I wanted a dog once. My wife didn’t go for the idea. My son didn’t go for the idea. Nobody wanted to walk him. He wound up getting fish.”
“Fish are nice,” Lewis pointed out.
“Ever try to teach a fish how to be loyal?”
“They must be a bitch to paper train, too.” Lewis smiled. Murphy grinned back. Lewis had a nice smile.
A sudden thought occurred to Murphy. “Hey. I’ll be right back. I’ve got to call my wife.”
“I don’t think so,” Lewis replied, turning her head toward the car’s dash. A beep-tone shrieked. The dash lit up. Lewis stuck her head in the open driver’s window. Information began appearing on the grid. The grid-map lit up, tracking a moving blue dot.
The ComLink line began yammering. “All units in the vicinity. 211 in progress. Grid plate 107, sub-sector 16. White panel van heading north.”
Murphy made a move to get past Lewis and into the driver’s seat. “That’s us, pardner.”