Jake breathed a sigh, but Susan found it impossible to share his relief. It could have gone worse, but what happened was bad enough. At least three people had died, one of Port Authority’s finest among them, for a code that did not and never had existed. Though the shortest person in the group, Susan pulled herself up to her full height. “Jake, there’s going to be hell to pay, isn’t there?”
Jake made a gesture that encompassed the area. “This isn’t enough hell for you, Susan?”
“I mean . . .” Susan did not know how much she could tell the Port Authority Anti-Crime detectives without risking them. “Federal officials will be talking to police officials. Things will be . . . getting arranged and handled.”
Jake gave Susan a meaningful look. Clearly, he did not want her to say more, but he could create more problems by directly stopping her. “There will be a lot of talk going on, I’m sure.” He added carefully, “Why?”
Susan gave him the strongest look she could manage at the moment. “Because I insist on becoming a part of any negotiations.”
Jake closed his eyes. And groaned.
Chapter 17
Wearing her best dress khakis, cleanest shoes, and the nicest blouse she could find in her minuscule wardrobe, Susan Calvin was escorted to a taxiway off runway 22L, part of the cargo area on the quieter east side of John F. Kennedy Airport. She had arrived in an armored limousine, accompanied by two men who had identified themselves as agents from the United States Secret Service, and escorted by two black sport utility vehicles.
Nate had been returned to the Nineteenth Precinct evidence room, apparently part of the agreement he had made with Jake to allow him to assist with Susan’s rescue. She and the detective had spent a few hours at the Emergency Room. She had received no treatment, but Jake was held for observation, now sleeping off painkillers prescribed for three cracked ribs and deep bruising over his spine and right kidney. A million questions later, the police had allowed Susan to return home. She had floundered in bed for hours until the two men in sunglasses and dark blue suits had appeared to bring her to the airport.
Susan had considered resisting, even after they assured her their employers did not mean her any harm and she had no obligation to accompany them. Then, one of them said, “We were informed you requested a role in any negotiations. This is the only opportunity you will receive.” Those words had galvanized Susan. A quick change of clothing later, she joined them. They scanned her with an inscrutable handheld device that probably ascertained she did not carry any weapons or explosives, and she was on her way to JFK.
Now on the tarmac, the two men who had accompanied Susan in the limo joined several other secret service agents, equally quiet and professional. “Come with us, please, Dr. Calvin,” one said.
Susan followed, and the others closed in beside and behind her as they approached an enormous red, white, and blue airplane with UNITED STATES spelled across its side in large black letters. The tail displayed an American flag and a serial number against a brilliant white background. Military, Susan guessed, or governmental. She had no idea what to expect but refused to allow anyone to dominate her or decide her future. She had stood up to superiors in the past: the neurosurgeon who had believed himself infallible; the attending who had dismissed her ideas as folly, then took credit for them when they saved patient lives; government agents who threatened to kill her and everyone she loved. Kendall had often accused Susan of verbally castrating those who opposed her, a comment that never failed to infuriate her. Now she embraced it, as well as the memory of a noble friend who had believed in her and died for his loyalty.
The men stopped at the entry door, which opened for them. Ducking their heads, the two in front stepped through in single file. Susan continued trailing them into the plane. They escorted her to a table more suitable to a dining room than a jet, with four cushioned seats. Three of them were already occupied, the two on the far side by people she recognized from news chits and screen images: Secretary of State Daniel Eisenberg and Attorney General Amber Lee. The third was a strapping man who appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties with stony gray eyes and a face that radiated confidence.
The unknown man patted the seat beside him. “Please sit, Dr. Calvin.”
Susan drifted to the indicated chair, taking it before she could think to do otherwise. She sat directly across from the attorney general, studying the somber, half-Asian features and trying not to look or feel awed. “Why have you brought me here?”
The secretary of state leaned toward Susan, looking as serious as any man can. “First and foremost, Dr. Calvin, to apologize.”
That took the wind out of Susan’s sails. She had expected to have to go on the attack; she usually did. Opening with an expression of regret, an actual admission of culpability, had changed everything. Clearly, the murder of prominent and innocent U.S. citizens on American soil went too far, even for a covert organization serving the Department of Defense. When it happened in a public location like the Port Authority Bus Terminal, there was little room for plausible deniability.
Eisenberg continued. “We have learned that the head of a DoD Intelligence Agency became convinced that your father, then you, were hiding a formula or code that we needed. We are deeply troubled that he took it upon himself to obtain this code and also by the methods he used. We want you to know that we do not support or condone his actions and that we are sorry for the grief, pain, and troubles he and his team caused you.”
Susan did not know how to reply, so she simply studied the man and woman in front of her.
The attorney general spoke next. “Dr. Calvin, you need to know that we have surrendered him for prosecution in the murders of Drs. Ari Goldman and Kendall Stevens. We have compensated their families to the best of our abilities. Of course, nothing can bring them back to life or ease the grief, but we have done what we can.” Lee glanced around the table at her companions, both of whom nodded. “We would have turned over the actual killers, but apparently they both perished in the Port Authority terminal shootings.”
Susan had suspicions about whether the last statement was true or if Cadmium had scapegoated their dead. She had no way to prove it, either way, and had to satisfy herself with the knowledge that at least the man who orchestrated the murders would face justice.
Lee continued. “Dr. Robertson has been exonerated, of course. He and the robot were released from custody.”
“Was he compensated as well?” Susan did not know why those particular words came out of her mouth. The anger and irritation that had suffused her since figuring out Pal had tricked her seemed impossible to shake. No one would ever play with Susan Calvin’s emotions again; she would apply her great intellect to every interaction in her life. Any person who spoke to, about, or with her would undergo an inspection that only a robot could emulate. Anything she did would happen with slow deliberation and absolute certainty.
If the others knew Susan meant Nate rather than Lawrence, and facetiously, they gave no sign. The secretary of defense addressed the letter of the question. “Dr. Robertson refused remuneration. Instead, he requested that the government announce an official stance in favor of positronic robots to the general public, to assure them of the absolute safety inherent in the Three Laws of Robotics.”
A smile eased its way past Susan’s irascibility. Lawrence had already thrown his life savings into U.S. Robots and Mechanical Men. He considered himself responsible for every employee, especially the few, such as Susan’s parents, who had contributed their own money and dedicated themselves to the company. It made sense that he would channel any windfall into assuring its success.
Lawrence was not only the genius John Calvin had frequently named him; he was the ideal of what a corporate CEO should be: the visionary who created the uber-complex positronic brain, a balance of charisma and integrity, intelligence of the academic and emotional kind, a man of sterling character. Already
eager to work for and with him, Susan could scarcely wait to start her robotics classes and obtain her new doctorate, to become the world’s first robopsychologist and dedicate her knowledge and skill to USR.
“Commendable,” Susan said. “And did you agree to Lawrence’s wishes?”
“With pleasure,” Secretary of State Eisenberg said. “It would be tough to overestimate the value of USR to our nation.”
Susan appreciated that. The primary leaser of USR’s robots, the U.S. government used them as far away as Mercury and as close as the nearest post office. She turned to face the man beside her. The others at the table had needed no introductions, but she did not recognize him.
The man seated beside Susan took his cue. “Dayton West, Colonel U.S. Army, retired. I’ve accepted the vacated position of the former chief of operations for the agency you know as Cadmium. I want you to know, Dr. Calvin, that I take my duties seriously and am committed not only to keeping our country secure but to serving it with honor. I am well aware of the mistakes my predecessor made, and I will not repeat them or, hopefully, any others. Cryptographers have examined the information your father sent you, and it’s clear that you solved the puzzle correctly and it hides nothing further. I am convinced that the code the citizen group calling itself the Society For Humanity, and my predecessor, sought does not exist and never did. You can rest assured that my organization will never bother you again, and I do not believe the SFH has the capacity to do so, either.” He stopped short of apologizing for the murder of Susan’s parents. The SFH, not Cadmium, had been responsible for that travesty.
“As to your compensation,” Lee started.
Susan stopped her with a wave. “Madam Attorney General.” She hoped she used the proper address. “I would prefer that any money due to me goes toward extending the promise you made to Dr. Robertson. I would like to see symposiums in every state in the country teaching our populace about the Three Laws of Robotics and what makes the positronic robots produced by USR safe.”
Everyone at the table appeared surprised. Susan realized she probably should have asked for a larger apartment, a bit of spending money, at least. But she knew USR would come through with a regular paycheck that would support a modest lifestyle. Like her parents and Lawrence, anything she could do to assist USR’s success would, ultimately, come back to her a hundredfold.
The secretary of defense and the attorney general looked at each other. Eisenberg spoke. “Dr. Calvin, I want you to understand something. If you want something from us, you need to request it at this meeting. It’s not like with friends where you can barter a favor in the future. Our association ends with this meeting.”
Good. Susan had had her fill of governmental intrusion. She wanted nothing more than to dedicate the rest of her life to robotics, preferably in an office that did not require security more complicated than theft protection. But this isn’t just about me. “I do have one request.” She looked from one to the other, uncertain whether they could honor it. “Mr. Secretary, Madam Attorney General, I’m concerned about Detective Jake Carson. He’s on probation because he risked his job and his life to keep me, and others, safe from . . .” Susan hesitated. Jake had told her Cadmium was a code designation, not technically classified but definitely held close. However, since Colonel West had used it, she felt justified in doing so as well. “Cadmium.” Warmth suffused her, and she tried to intervene before her blood reached the boiling point. Instead, she put what bothered her into words. “They shot Jake in the head and in the back.” Against her will, tears formed in her eyes. She forced the image she had relived too many times away; she needed all her wits about her one more time.
A brief silence followed her pronouncement before Lee spoke. “Dr. Calvin, how would you like us to handle your concern about Detective Carson?”
Only then, Susan realized she had not made an actual request. She remembered their conversation during Jake’s first recovery. He had nearly broken when he realized the NYPD might never let him back on the streets. He had told Kendall and Susan, “Best-case scenario, I spend several weeks disarmed and suspended, then several months on the rubber-gun squad before reassignment.” Ultimately, he had wound up in his current position hoping to prove himself capable of keeping his gun in its holster. After what had happened in the terminal, they would almost surely fire him. “Jake’s job means everything to him. I need to know he’s still a working detective, preferably back with his original squad.”
Daniel Eisenberg sighed. “Dr. Calvin, we have no jurisdiction over the NYPD. As I understand it, they have a desk job for him.”
“No,” Susan said. Police investigative work was as much Jake’s life as robots were becoming hers. She could not bear the thought that protecting her had deprived him of everything that mattered. “It’s not fair. He’s the best cop in the city.”
Colonel West said softly, “I’ll take him.”
Susan froze. Slowly, she turned her head toward him. She could scarcely believe she had heard him correctly. “What?”
West continued without repeating, “As I understand it, my group has lost several men. Detective Carson has exactly what I need: competence, intelligence, reliability, and the willingness to put his life on the line in the cause of right. I’d take a hundred of him.”
“Jake an agent of Cadmium?” The irony proved overwhelming. Susan could not help laughing. She tried to speak, then laughed again.
The colonel did not appear to take offense. “It’s not so farfetched. He’s certainly skilled enough; he outmaneuvered several of his predecessors. He obviously prefers . . . active employment.”
Jake, an agent of Cadmium? When Susan considered it more carefully, it did not seem so absurd, at least not now that the organization had new leadership, a man who promised to restore the agency’s honor.
Jake, an agent of Cadmium. This time, it almost sounded plausible. “Of course, it’s his decision entirely. Wish I could be there for it, though.”
Lee grinned. “I’m sure you’ll be the first civilian to know.”
West could not help adding, “If this Cadmium you speak of existed, that is. Which we all know it doesn’t.”
Though physically and emotionally weary, Susan joined the banter. “From this point on, it’s pure fiction to me.” She added with veiled warning, “And I’d better never see it.”
Colonel Dayton West made a gesture of promise across his chest.
• • •
The office of Lawrence Robertson brought back painful memories to Susan, though the blood and bullet holes from their encounter with Cadmium agents had been cleaned up so well, she could not find a trace of them. She sat across from Lawrence, in a pulled-up folding chair, but nothing could wipe the smile from either of their faces. He looked a bit older, wiser, more tired than Susan remembered, but she supposed the same adjectives could be applied to her. “Thank you,” Lawrence said for the fourth time.
Each time Lawrence thanked her, he repeated the previous reasons and added another, always pertaining to the events of the last week. “For what now?”
“For never giving up on me and Nate. For risking your life, and those of your friends repeatedly to see justice done. For believing in the positronic brain and USR.”
Susan had heard all of those, so she waited for the addition.
“For agreeing to come work for us as our robopsychologist.”
“Robotherapist,” Susan corrected, “but only until I’ve received my doctorate. Then you can call me your robopsychologist.”
“Fair enough,” Lawrence said. He opened his desk drawer and handed her a cylindrical device about the size of a small pistol. Susan instinctively recoiled.
“It’s not a gun,” Lawrence promised. “It’s an electron—” He stopped himself from speaking the last word, his face reddening. “Okay, it is a gun of sorts, but it only shoots harmless electrons.”
Susan exa
mined it suspiciously, without taking it. “Harmless to whom?”
“To humans. To animals. To plants. To anything biologically living.” Lawrence turned it over in his hands to demonstrate. “See, no bullets. Take it.” He proffered it again. “This one’s yours.”
Reluctantly, Susan accepted the electron gun and thought back to what Alfred had revealed when he talked about positrons being the opposite of electrons. “It’s for robots.”
Lawrence explained, “One burst at the cranium, and the positronic brain pathways are permanently neutralized.”
Susan added Alfred’s addition, “Releasing enough energy to fuse the robot brain into an inert ingot.”
“Yes,” Lawrence admitted. “You’ve been talking to Alfred.”
Susan looked over the device. It would easily fit in her pocket. “Why do I need this?”
Lawrence sighed. “Because it will be a large part of your job as USR’s robopsychologist to evaluate individual robots’ tendencies and abilities, their character, for lack of a better word. It does us little good to send the government out touting the safety of our positronic robots if they aren’t.”
Susan did not understand. “Aren’t what?”
“Safe.”
Reluctantly, Susan placed the electron device in her pants pocket. “Isn’t that the point of the Three Laws? Aren’t all positronic robots inherently safe because of them?”
Lawrence sat back, clearly finding the explanation difficult. Susan could read something odd in the dark eyes that dodged hers. “Susan, the robots in a particular line are constructed identically, yet the positronic brain makes each of them at least a bit unique. Identical twins share a lot of the same experiences, but they’re still individuals. Everything that happens to one and not the other draws them further apart, at least when it comes to brain processes.”
“Okay.” Susan knew Lawrence had not gotten to his point, the superficial one or the deeper one she was starting to dread.
Isaac Asimov's I, Robot: To Preserve Page 34