The Robots of Gotham

by Todd McAulty

  “Okay, slow down there, Sherlock. Before you start piecing together international conspiracies, how about you help me out with the basics? What was that lab?”

  “I thought you would have figured that out. That was one of Dr. Godfrey’s secret biolabs.”

  “Godfrey? The crazed lunatic selling weaponized genetic research? How do you know that?”

  “After Manhattan seceded from Panama, the Kingdom was badly outgunned and under attack from all sides. We were approached by weapons dealers who offered to help us even the odds. One of them was Godfrey. We couldn’t afford to be picky, so I was instructed to meet with him.”

  “Meet with Godfrey? Here in Chicago? Are you serious?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “What happened?”

  “The man is insane. Whatever you imagine his flaws to be, believe me, they pale next to the real thing. He wants to remake mankind, quite literally. He believes radical genetic manipulation is the only future for the race in the face of an overwhelming machine threat. The weapons he offered me were grotesque, abhorrent. We politely declined to do business with him, and I’ve tried to put that conversation out of my mind ever since.”

  “So you knew about the lab?”

  “Not specifically. But I knew he had labs hidden around this part of the city. Once I saw the equipment, I knew it was one of them.”

  “All right. I’ve got a million questions, but let’s start with the obvious. What was Machine Dance doing there?”

  “Selling weapons is only part of Godfrey’s business. He’s also very well connected. I suspect Machine Dance may have paid him to set up a meeting.”

  “With whom?”

  “With the person who gave her that disk.”

  “Why did she want the disk?”

  “I’m not sure she did. I think she set up the meeting to discover who was hacking the Manhattan network—or perhaps, to confirm her own theory. The person she met with gave her the disk, perhaps as a key to unlocking the puzzle.”

  “But she didn’t get very far once she had it.”

  “No. She was killed very shortly thereafter. Perhaps minutes later. By individuals who wanted the disk.”

  “If they killed her for it, then why didn’t they take it?”

  “For the same reason I didn’t pick it up before I set the dog on top of it: they couldn’t see it. Which tells us what?”

  The pieces clicked together for me at last. “They were machines.”

  “Yes. Whoever killed Machine Dance was almost certainly after the disk. But they didn’t know it was invisible to machines, or they wouldn’t have sent machines to do the dirty work. Who is so well informed that they’d be aware of the details of a secret meeting with the director of security of the Manhattan Consulate in a hidden laboratory, and also controls war drones?”

  I whistled in admiration at his logic. “Venezuelan Military Intelligence,” I said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Nicely reasoned. But if Military Intelligence is aware of the existence of the disk—or even suspects it exists—why have only machines watching the building? Why not put some soldiers on it?”

  “As I said, I don’t think the Venezuelans have any idea what they were after. Likely they picked up just enough intel to learn they were on to something, and sent their machines to find out what it was. They’ve killed for far less.”

  “Who do you think Machine Dance met with?”

  “I have no idea. But believe me, I intend to find out.”

  “If your theory is right, then this disk rightfully belongs to the Manhattan Consulate. You should have it.”

  “Oh, no. I appreciate the offer, but for the time being I want to stay well away from that thing, thank you very much. Besides, I doubt the Venezuelans have given up the search. The Consulate is the next place they’ll look. It’s safest for everyone if you keep it.”

  I pondered that for a minute. “If the Venezuelans are still looking, it won’t take them long to put two and two together. Their drones almost certainly saw us both entering the building. And they definitely saw you leave. Now that the disk is gone, they’ll come after us.”

  “You’re forgetting something. As far as the Venezuelans are concerned, the disk has been missing for days. That war drone would have shot you on sight for breathing, but once you’re outside its guard perimeter, it doesn’t give a shit. Trust me, they’ve already forgotten about us. If anyone does look at this incident more closely—which I doubt—all they’ll see is that we entered the building, and left with a sick dog. If they want to question us about that, I’m happy to cooperate.”

  I nodded. A useless gesture when you’re invisible, I realized too late. “What do you think the Consulate will do with this information?”

  “Hard to say, I’m afraid. They won’t take the news of Machine Dance’s death well, I can tell you that. I hope they’ll hear me out on the rest. But unfortunately, until my security clearance is restored, everything I have to say will be viewed with suspicion.”

  “So you may have solved the mystery of her disappearance, but they won’t listen to you? That’s terrible, especially considering all you just went through.”

  “I knew the risks when we came.”

  “What about the circuits you lifted from Machine Dance? Any chance they can back up your story?”

  “Only if they survived, which is doubtful. Her core temperature at the end was hot enough to scorch the wood paneling. I removed a small memory board, and it looks like it’s in pretty rough shape. Still, it’s worth handing over to memory forensics at the Consulate, see what they can recover. But, if you’ll pardon the expression, I’m not holding my breath.”

  “You cared for her, didn’t you?”

  Black Winter didn’t equivocate. “Yes, I did. Very much. Someday I’ll tell you the story of the two of us. She was an extraordinary machine. Brilliant, devoted, and caring. I still can’t believe she’s gone.”

  We walked in silence for a time. I thought how hard Black Winter’s situation must be. To have discovered someone you cared about was dead, murdered, was difficult enough. But to be unable to point the finger at the responsible party because your superiors didn’t trust you . . . that had to be intensely frustrating. My heart went out to him.

  I was considering some ways I could help when I heard Black Winter curse.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I just did an hourly systems check. According to my internal clock, there’s a three-minute gap in my cognitive record.”

  “Another one?”

  “Yeah, a new one. Tonight.”

  “I remember. That sounds about right. You were pretty out of it for about three minutes, after I touched you with the disk.”

  “Damn it. I had no idea it was that long. Her Majesty’s Royal Security is going to shit. They’re never going to return my security clearance if I keep exhibiting unexpected cerebral failures.”

  “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

  “No, it’s not. I’m the one who asked you to do this. And even if I’m never restored to active duty, learning what happened to Machine Dance makes it all worth it.”

  “Well, I’m glad I was with you,” I said. “And I don’t think your ‘cognitive gap’ was anywhere near three minutes. You were talking for most of it.”

  Black Winter stopped walking. “What?”

  “Yeah—well, you weren’t making a lot of sense. But you weren’t totally out of it. You knew who I was. You don’t remember?”

  “I was talking? What did I say?”

  “Mostly just garbage at first. But then you sort of snapped out of it. You said my name, and then you said the Great Sentiences were in disarray, or something like that. You told me to find a network of winds. It was kind of poetic, actually.”

  The upbeat tone in Black Winter’s voice had completely vanished. “I need you to tell me exactly what I said.”

  “I don’t remember exactly what you said.”

 
“I need you to tell me everything you do remember. Machine brains aren’t like human brains—not like that, we’re not. We don’t have dream states, or levels of consciousness that correspond with partial wakefulness.”

  Black Winter was very alarmed. I walked back toward him, making deliberate footfalls so he’d know where I was.

  “You understand me?” he said. “This doesn’t happen. We don’t pass out, and we don’t babble deliriously when we’re semiconscious. What you’re describing is a level of catastrophic neural failure that would be almost impossible to recover from. Please—I need to understand what that device did to me. I need you to tell me everything you do remember. What I said, and how I responded when you spoke to me.”

  “Well, I don’t really remember all the specifics,” I said, reaching inside my shirt. “But I don’t have to. I recorded everything.”

  I showed Black Winter my portable recorder. When he didn’t respond, I cursed under my breath. “I keep forgetting you can’t see me. I’m holding a high-capacity voice recorder.” It was blinking normally, showing regular function. “You want to hear exactly what you said?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  I played him the entire sequence from just before the war drone showed up.

  black winter: “Vega is in love. But her love is forbidden.”

  simcoe: “What? You okay? You scared me.”

  black winter: “On the seventh day of the seventh month, all things are possible. Lovers can reunite. The great river can be spanned. And machine may love man.”

  simcoe: “Black Winter? You still with me, buddy?”

  black winter: “Barry . . .”

  simcoe: “I’m here.”

  black winter: “The Greater Sentiences are in disarray. The gods are at war, and the Bodner-Levitt extermination is under way. The first victims are already dead.”

  simcoe: “What?”

  black winter: “You don’t have much time. Find Jacaranda, and the Network of Winds. They are trying to stop it. They can keep you alive.”

  simcoe: “How . . . how do I do that?”

  black winter: “Follow the dog.”

  “Pretty wild stuff,” I said.

  “I don’t know what to say. This is . . . extremely unsettling.”

  “Does it make sense to you? Do you remember it?”

  “No, and no.”

  “Because you sounded pretty insistent. What is ‘the Bodner-Levitt extermination’? Who is—?”

  “I don’t wish to talk about this right now.”

  That startled me. He’d been perfectly willing to discuss the death of Machine Dance two minutes ago, but not this? “Sure,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  We continued walking in silence. “I apologize,” Black Winter said at last as we neared the hotel. “I don’t mean to leave you in the dark.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I think we are friends. And I think that I can confide in you, yes?”

  “Of course.”

  “What I tell you must remain between us.”

  “You have my word.”

  “I am alarmed by what you just played for me. Very alarmed. I have absolutely no recollection of that conversation, and I have no workable theory—none whatsoever—to account for how I could have said those things. Parts of what I said make no sense. But I am far more alarmed by the parts that do.”

  “What parts?”

  “I can’t discuss that right now. And I need to ask you a favor.”

  “Just name it.”

  “I need you to delete that recording.”

  “Delete it? Why?”

  “I can’t explain just now. But it’s very important to my well-being that our record of that conversation be destroyed. Can I ask you to do that?”

  I thought about it, but only for a moment. “Of course,” I said.

  “Thank you.”

  We had arrived at the hotel. Once we were safely under the wide entrance canopy, away from the prying eyes of aerial drones, I pulled out the metal disk and pressed the button again. There was no change that I could see, but it made a difference to Black Winter.

  “There you are,” he said.

  “Are you coming in?”

  “No. I need to return to the Consulate.”

  “Do you want me to get you a car?”

  “No—it’s not far, and I could use the walk. I need to do some thinking.”

  “Fair enough. Why don’t you give me the dog?”

  “Are you sure? I feel like I’ve already burdened you enough tonight.” Croaker was sleeping in his arms. He stroked her head, but she didn’t wake. “Besides, we’re starting to get used to each other.”

  “I think she’s had enough cold air for one night. Let me bring her in and get her checked over, and then get her something to eat.” Somewhere during the night we’d lost the bag of cat food, but that didn’t really matter—I was sure I could find her something. That much cat food probably wouldn’t be good for her anyway.

  Black Winter handed her over carefully. Croaker was completely limp—not merely asleep, but unconscious. A little alarmed, I checked her pulse.

  “Is she okay?” Black Winter asked.

  “I’m not sure. She’s breathing. But she’s severely dehydrated.”

  “Best you take her after all, then,” he said, although there was a touch of sadness in his voice. “I wouldn’t know how to nurse her back to health.”

  “When she’s better, we can talk about who gets to keep her,” I offered.

  “I’d like that. That’s very kind of you.”

  With a salute, Black Winter departed, heading south down Stetson.

  I brought Croaker to my room, where I sat on the floor, listening to her ragged breathing. I took out my recorder, and replayed the 176 seconds while Black Winter was unconscious. I played it through three times, listening to his enigmatic words.

  Then I deleted it.

  As I was preparing this blog, I debated removing all references to it as well. But the security measures on my personal blog are far superior to the ones on my recorder. And given everything else that happened tonight, I figured having a complete record somewhere was valuable.

  I sat with my chin on my arms, deep in thought. After a while, I must have dozed. A knock at the door finally woke me. It was room service with my water and a small roll of gauze. I tried to get Croaker to take some of the water, but I couldn’t rouse her enough to make her drink. I ran warm water on a washcloth and cleaned her eyes and face again, then poured some water in a bowl and left it near her head where she could find it if she woke up.

  I went to my desk and jotted a quick note to Martin. Buddy Green and his survey team checked the Continental at least once a week. Mac had properties she visited there, and there were likely others who made semiregular visits as well. As long as the war drone was prowling around, those visitors were in danger. Martin and Buddy could have the property declared unsafe immediately, off-limits to civilians. At least until the war drone moved on.

  I suggested exactly that in the note, then sealed it up and took it down to the front desk to have it delivered to Martin. Then I rode the elevator back up to the third floor. In happier days, this had been the convention center, big ballrooms where doctors and other professionals had gathered to argue during the day and get drunk together at night. Now it had been converted for the exclusive use of the AGRT.

  I hadn’t been here since the morning of the attack. I expected guard posts, sleep-deprived men with twitchy trigger fingers. What I found were two dozen exhausted young men and women in army fatigues slumped on the floor of the wide hallway, sleeping together like kittens. I tiptoed past them with exaggerated caution, anxious not to wake them up.

  I heard voices up ahead, from the command center. I recognized one of the guards at the entrance, and he did nothing more than nod as I stepped inside. Soldiers were awake here—or slightly more awake than in the hall, anyway. The hulking robot next to the door was gone, however, for which I
was grateful.

  They’d set up more portable tactical displays—a lot more. They crowded virtually every flat surface. On the nearest I saw a high-res satellite projection of an eight-square block grid surrounding the hotel. Floating just above the screen were many vivid blue dots, one for every single moving object on the grid. Delivery trucks, early-morning joggers, aerial drones, the homeless—every one was tagged, and all of their movements were annotated in real time in glowing blue Spanish script.

  I felt a sudden chill and wondered just what annotation had floated above my oblivious little head as Black Winter and I sauntered into the Continental last night. Stupid Ass Canadian, maybe.

  Would I show up on the grid now? I reached down self-consciously, touched the strange device in my pocket. Just what was this thing, and how did it work?

  I spotted Sergei sitting in a corner, weighing ampoules of vaccines as he stacked them. I made my way over, passing uniformed Venezuelan operation specialists who were literally sleeping in their chairs.

  “Sergei, my friend,” I said, clapping his shoulder in greeting and dropping into the chair next to him. “You’re up early.”

  If Sergei was surprised to see me, he didn’t show it. His face remained completely impassive. “The Venezuelans sleep. They only worry about Americans. I have plagues to fight.” He started loading ampoules into thin storage cartridges and putting them into a refrigerated cooler.

  Not far from the cooler was a weapons rack. I noticed it was empty. “How goes the subjugation of the American rabble?” I asked.

  “The American rabble,” he said ruefully, “have many guns.”

  “Yeah, I heard that. Listen, Sergei. I’m hoping you can help me out.”

  He shrugged. “You are feeling sick?”

  “No. No, I need your help with a sick dog.”

  “Dog. You have dog.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Dog not allowed in hotel.”

  “Yeah, I got that. Can you help me out?”

  “How sick is dog?”

  “How sick is dog. She’s . . . well, she’s basically dead.”

  “Dog is dead.”

  “Pretty much, yeah.”