The Robots of Gotham

by Todd McAulty

  “Does it breathe?”

  “Every once in a while,” I admitted.

  “What makes dog dead?”

  “Starvation, mostly. Plus, I think she ate every friggin’ thing she could cram into her mouth for the past few weeks. Drywall, cotton, the stuffing out of the furniture—you name it.”

  Sergei held my gaze for long seconds. “I do not think you know how to take care of dog.”

  “I didn’t starve the dog! It’s not my dog. I just found it. But . . . what should I feed her? Ground-up hamburger?”

  “No.” Sergei shook his head in disgust. “No solid foods. No meat. Liquids.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Liquids. You feed her very slow. You make—” He pinched two fingers together and held them over one eye. “To make drops.”

  “An eyedropper. Yes, I can do that. What kinds of liquids? Milk?”

  “No milk. Water, to start. Then make pist.”

  “What?”

  “A pist.” He ground his palms together. “You make pist, with water and rice. Or cooked egg, maybe. Like glue.”

  “Oh, paste.”

  He nodded. “One ingredient only. Gentle for her stomach. You feed her by hand, very slowly. Okay? Very slowly.”

  “Got it. Thank you, Sergei. How long with the paste?”

  He nodded again, already moving back to his vaccines. “When she is strong enough to run for two minutes, then no more paste.”

  That sounded simple enough. I pushed myself up out of the chair, preparing to leave. Sergei reached into a drawer, handed me something small wrapped in plastic.

  It was an eyedropper. “For dog,” he said.

  “Thank you. I knew I came to the right place.” I put it in my pocket. “You really didn’t sleep last night?” I asked.

  Sergei shook his head.

  I hesitated. I probably shouldn’t take up any more of his time. But Black Winter’s strange words kept ringing in my ears. The Bodner-Levitt extermination is under way.

  “What did you mean, you had plagues to fight?” I asked.

  Sergei gave me an appraising look. “You do not need to be concerned.”

  “That’s good to know. What did you mean?”

  “A . . . report has come out of Indiana. A bad report. But there is no cause for alarm.”

  It’s incredible how the phrase “There is no cause for alarm,” under the right circumstances, can be so powerfully alarming. “An infectious disease?” I asked.

  “Da.”

  I sank back down into the chair. “Do they know what it is?”

  Sergei shook his head. “Not officially. Ukrainian medical technician in Fort Wayne tagged . . . suspect organism.”

  “A suspect organism.”

  “Da.”

  “Something that has you pretty concerned.”

  “Venezuelan high command has determined there is no cause for concern.”

  “I don’t give a damn about those idiots. I want to know what you think.”

  Sergei shrugged. “I do not think anything.”

  I drummed my fingers on the table. “You know any of the medical staff in Fort Wayne?”

  Sergei nodded. “I trained with Russian Tactical Medical Team in Chelyabinsk, alongside field technician in Fort Wayne. We . . . talk. Fort Wayne has field biolab. Rudimentary equipment, but doctor there, Thibault . . . she is very sharp.”

  Sergei glanced over his shoulder. His lips were pressed together. “Three days ago, Thibault received blood samples. Two soldiers, both dead in Columbus Regional Hospital in Columbus, Indiana. Both samples showed presence of unknown virus.”

  “Unknown virus? How is that possible? Thibault must have the equipment to identify a lethal virus, surely. She has access to a genome sequencer, right?”

  “She does. Virus is previously unknown pathogen.”

  I took a moment to digest that. An unknown virus that killed people. Ten years ago, that was exactly the kind of thing that caused chilling CDC alerts, international panic, and border closings. And that was during peacetime. Here, in the chaos of a war zone, something like that was uniquely terrifying.

  “Does Thibault have any clue to the source of this thing?” I asked.

  “Not yet. But she theorizes it may be weaponized bioagent.”

  “Weaponized . . . you mean a genetically engineered disease? Some kind of biological warfare agent?”

  “Da. Very infectious, very lethal.”

  “Jesus Christ, Sergei. In my book, this is exactly the kind of thing that’s considered ‘cause for alarm.’ ”

  “Alarm requires confirmation. Fort Wayne contacted Columbus Regional for additional blood samples, but bodies already incinerated. With thirteen others.”

  “Fifteen dead people? What did they die of?”

  “We do not know.”

  “Can you contact the hospital?”

  “Columbus Regional is currently . . . unreachable.”

  “Unreachable? Why?”

  “Uncertain. Union activity in southern Indiana may have disrupted communications. There is no response from Columbus last twenty-four hours.”

  “Why isn’t the AGRT acting on this?”

  “Protocols for triggering Level Four Bioagent Response are very strict. They require independent confirmation. There are no additional blood samples, and original blood samples . . . lost. So, no confirmation.”

  “Lost? What do you mean lost?”

  “Samples accidentally contaminated, and then automatically incinerated by lab technician.”

  “Jesus, Sergei!”

  Sergei sat back in his chair, throwing up his hands. “We are not operating biocontainment facility. We are on foreign soil, on front line of peacekeeping mission. Strict biological protocols not always observed.”

  “Well, no shit. What do we do now?”

  “Now, we wait.”

  “For what? For more people to die?”

  “You should not be concerned. There is no record of deaths among American personnel. For now, infection—if it is infection—is limited to Venezuelan personnel.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better? It doesn’t. People are dying. I used to sell medical machines. Dealing with medical emergencies was what I did. Maybe I can help.”

  “You need to do nothing. This is AGRT problem.”

  That was certainly true. This had nothing to do with me. I’d gotten in well over my head when the Juno attacked the hotel just three days ago—and again just last night, when I’d rescued a dog. I had absolutely no interest in taking on another crusade.

  Except that two hours ago Black Winter had been desperately trying to tell me something. Perhaps it had been nothing more than delirious nonsense—even though rational devices don’t get delirious. The Bodner-Levitt extermination is under way, he’d said. And now, just hours later, Sergei was telling me about a bioengineered plague on the loose in Indiana. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

  “Have you ever heard of the Bodner-Levitt extermination?” I asked.

  “Nyet. Should I?”

  “I don’t know. It may be nothing. But I’d like to investigate it, and I don’t have access to a search engine.”

  “Is no problem. I can ask medical technician to do search.”

  “I’d prefer . . . I’d prefer to keep this just between us, for now. Would you be willing to do a search for me? As discreetly as possible.”

  Sergei gave me a funny look, but he nodded.

  “Thank you,” I said. “As for your pathogen—if it becomes a damn plague, it’s everyone’s problem, isn’t it? We need to make sure that doesn’t happen. Tell me how I can help.”

  Sergei considered for a moment. “There is . . . one option.”

  “What?”

  “Blood samples from infected soldiers also sent to War College for analysis. Here, in Chicago. Chief surgeon, he is idiot. But there is small team of medical technicians discussing this . . . problem. Unofficially. Two are at War College. Thibault is visiting
college today. She says they can have analysis completed by tonight and have summary of results packaged for transport.”

  “Can you have that data delivered here?”

  “Nyet. Cannot requisition transport. Transportation has to be . . . off the record.”

  “Then we have to go get it.”

  “Not so easy.”

  “Why not? How far away is the college?”

  “They have set up operations south. In museum.”

  “Which one?”

  “The big one. With the . . .” He held up both hands, made chomping motions. “Big lizards.”

  “Dinosaurs?”

  “Da.”

  “The Field Museum? Are you serious? That’s barely two miles from here!”

  Sergei looked thoughtful for a moment, then picked up a rugged green tablet. His fingers played over it deftly; then he handed it to me. “You are correct,” he said. “But distance is not problem.”

  The tablet showed real-time satellite imagery of downtown Chicago. Our hotel was highlighted; so was the museum. The tablet suggested four separate walking routes. The shortest was 2.2 miles.

  “What are these blue things?” I asked, pointing at several dots that floated over the display.

  “Aerial drones. Some Venezuelan, some Argentinean, some . . . unknown origin.”

  Oh, joy. If I never saw another drone for the rest of my life, I could die happy. “And these black dots?”

  Sergei tapped one of the small black dots that swarmed over the screen. The tablet zoomed to a street-level view, showing a section of Michigan Avenue in bright morning sunlight.

  It was a woman. She was walking purposely southward down Michigan, her long black hair tied in a braid. The tablet displayed an alarming amount of personal information about her:

  Patricia Templeton

  American

  Status: Inoperative (civilian)

  Software agents: 4

  I watched Patricia turn west on Washington. I realized this was a version of the portable tac display I’d glimpsed on the big screen when I’d entered the command center.

  “What does this mean?” I said.

  “AGRT tracks all movement in the city.”

  “All movement?”

  “Cars, trucks, bicycles. Walkers. Animals larger than four kilos.”

  “The whole city of Chicago? How is that possible?”

  “Satellites, and one hundred sixty-four networked aerial drones, in constant motion over city.”

  “That’s impressive.” It was very impressive, actually. But given what I’d seen last night, not really all that hard to believe. I returned to studying the map. “So what is the problem then?” I asked.

  “I would need permission to visit War College. Invitation could take two weeks.”

  “The hell with that. I can walk this in half an hour, and I don’t need permission from anyone.”

  “You cannot walk to museum,” said Sergei. “It is in restricted zone. Civilians cannot travel to museum without being tracked and intercepted.”

  “The drones enforce restricted areas?”

  “Da. There are no roadblocks, or guard posts. They do not need them. The drones—”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m familiar with the drones’ methods of persuasion. I have a suggestion on how we could do this, if you’re willing to listen.”

  Sergei raised an eyebrow.

  “But first, I need you to do something for me,” I said. “You say these drones track and record movements?”

  “Correct.”

  “And if they didn’t, we could take a leisurely stroll to the Field Museum. There are no roadblocks, no manned checkpoints?”

  “Da.”

  “Okay. I went to the Continental Building last night. Does your little tablet have a record of that?”

  Sergei blinked. “After curfew?”

  “Yeah.”

  Sergei used the tablet to bring up the satellite data from last night. In less than a minute, he found it. There was my little black dot, cheerfully getting out of the Consulate car and walking toward the Continental.

  Barry Simcoe

  Canadian

  Status: Pending Asset (per 80461)

  Software agents: 4

  “What does ‘pending asset’ mean?” I asked.

  “I am not sure. Eight-zero-four-six-one—that is Colonel Perez’s ID number.”

  “Oh. Well, that makes sense, then. I told the colonel I’d be happy to help him upgrade his crappy telecom network. He’s probably getting ready to hire me as a consultant.”

  “I do not think that is what it means,” said Sergei enigmatically. Before I could ask him to elaborate, he tapped the surface of the screen. “You are lucky,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Drones did not tag you breaking curfew last night. Perhaps, is oversight. Perhaps, someone in authority is fond of you.”

  “I went out two nights ago with Mackenzie Stronnick, and she had a pass. It turned out okay. I figured I could try it again.”

  “Pass is good for forty-eight hours . . . possible drones will ignore you until it expires. They are stupid. Records should be manually reviewed every six hours, but no one has reviewed records from last night.” Sergei smiled. “Army efficiency.” Sergei pointed the tablet at me. “But you are like drone—stupid. You should not take such risks.”

  “I’m not certain it is a risk, not anymore. Can you show me my trip back from the Continental?”

  Sergei looked confused. “Of course.” He dropped the tablet back in his lap.

  After twenty seconds, he was frowning at it. “This is . . . very strange,” he said.

  “What do your drones say?”

  “Drones say . . . they say you never left Continental.”

  I spread my hands. “And yet, here I am.”

  “This should not be possible.” Sergei put the tablet aside, moved to one of the desk machines. I watched him bring up the tactical display on the biggest monitor, watched my little black dot fast-forward to the Continental. And there it sat.

  Sergei worked over the keyboard for a few minutes, then gave up in frustration. “How did you do this?” he asked me.

  I’d had a few minutes to consider how to answer that question. I’d debated several different approaches. I could lie. I could play stupid. I could just be enigmatic—that was always cool.

  Instead, I pulled the round black device out of my pocket and handed it to him.

  Sergei didn’t waste my time with any questions. He simply took it in his hands, turned it over.

  Then he took it apart.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” I complained, but he ignored me. In a few seconds he’d cracked the thing open, dragging a small camera probe over. A moment later he had a shaky image of the guts of the thing up on the big monitor, magnified about eighty times.

  “What are you doing?” I said, glancing around nervously. But no one seemed to be paying attention to Sergei over here in his little corner. All the Venezuelans within thirty feet were asleep.

  In response, Sergei took a quick sequence of image captures of the circuitry inside the gadget, from various angles. All the pics appeared up on the screen. Then he ran some kind of diagnostic on the images.

  I watched as the software he was using rapidly identified most of the components. A Korean processor, a Vietnamese piezoelectric power generator, an opto-coupler, a 5K variable resistor, a few dozen more. When it was done, about two-thirds of the circuit board was mapped.

  Far more interesting were the components it couldn’t identify. The software made a valiant effort with some of the smaller pieces (“Off-spec Toko variable inductor?” it suggested, and “500uF photoflash capacitor—damaged?”), but threw up its hands with most of the big ones.

  Sergei leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin. “Very impressive,” he said.

  “I’m impressed too,” I admitted. “When’d you become such an expert at analyzing electronics? Three days ago you couldn’t even c
alibrate a diagnostic table!”

  “In Novosibirsk, we repair old medical equipment by salvaging components. It was survival skill.”

  I nodded my appreciation at his street diagnostic skills. “So . . . you know what this thing is?”

  “I do not recognize it, no. Device is handmade. Not mass-manufactured.”

  “But what does it do?”

  “It listens to drones,” Sergei said.

  “And?”

  “I can guess. Device tells drone you are dog shit.”

  “What?”

  Sergei turned the probe off, snapped the gadget back together again. He handed it back to me.

  “There are many drones,” he said. “American, Mexican, Venezuelan, Union Syndicate. All different. They use different detection devices, and different algorithms. But once they detect you, all drones use off-board image library for identification.”

  “What for?”

  “For security purposes. Venezuelan drones must be able to recognize individual members of AGRT, and their security clearance. Same with American, Mexican, and the rest. That information not stored on drone. Drones malfunction all the time.”

  “Makes sense. You can’t risk having a database like that drop into enemy hands.”

  “Da. Instead, drones are in constant communication with military intelligence network. Every object they encounter, network identifies.”

  “You’re saying this thing sends a signal to the drone, tells it I’m just a piece of furniture?”

  “Nyet. Very difficult to jam or interfere with drone—they are electronically shielded. Device is much more sophisticated.”

  That already sounded pretty sophisticated to me, but whatever. “So what does it do?”

  Sergei held up his hands, framing my face with his fingers. “Drone takes picture of you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Drone sends picture to Venezuelan network, says, ‘What is this?’ ”

  “Yeah.”

  “Network looks at picture. Network says, ‘Is stupid Canadian, ignore him.’ Or maybe network says, ‘Is criminal, detain him.’ Or maybe, ‘Is American soldier, kill him.’ ”

  “Yeah, got it.”

  Sergei pointed to the device in my hands. “Device listens to drone. Device hears drone sending picture, and hears question.”