The Robots of Gotham

by Todd McAulty

  “Yeah, actually, we know what it is. It’s some kind of badass soldierbot.”

  “There are too many unknowns. With luck, you may have avoided cameras so far. But you cannot avoid camera at HQ. If you step out of elevator on fifteenth floor, you will be identified.”

  “True. Unless the robot can do what she says—digitally obfuscate my image.”

  “She would require unrestricted access to Venezuelan digital systems to accomplish. I do not believe that is credible.”

  “Well, she seems to have unrestricted access to the Sturgeon Building. That’s a good sign. Sergei, we’re not getting out of here without taking some big risks. At the moment, this one looks like our best option.”

  “Even if she can access data network, we do not know her motives.”

  “If she wanted to turn me over to the soldiers, she could have done so long ago. Right now, that’s enough for me to trust her. I’m going to do this, and I need your help. Are you with me?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Good, because we have other things to worry about. The robot may know who you are, but the Venezuelans don’t. At least not yet. It’s possible I’m already caught in a trap, and they’re just stringing me along to find out who else is involved. To catch you. You know that, right?”

  “We are a team, my friend. Your fate is my fate.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment. But if I’m caught, I want you to unplug. Get off the air, before they can track you.”

  “Barry . . .” Sergei’s voice softened. “If you are caught, you will tell them everything. And soon. You will not endure Venezuelan interrogation for long.”

  That was a chilling thought. And probably one that I shouldn’t dwell on. But Sergei was almost certainly right. Technically, my status as a foreign national with a nonaligned country offered me at least nominal protection and would shield me from illegal detainment and interrogation. But if I were caught creeping around Venezuelan Military Intelligence headquarters, all bets were off. I’d be detained and probably tortured, and I would never see daylight again.

  “Whatever happens, we are in this together,” Sergei said.

  “Yeah,” I admitted. “Maybe you’re right. All right. I’m headed for the elevators.”

  “What is first step?”

  “I’m supposed to go to the fifteenth floor . . . find a guy named Nasir. A first lieutenant.”

  “He has data?”

  “Yes.”

  “He will not simply give you data.”

  “I’m supposed to bully him, tell him . . .” Crap. What the hell was I supposed to tell him? “Right, I remember. The Catalina Mission needs to secure the data. I’m supposed to be impatient and a bastard. That part could be fun, actually.”

  “You have credentials for mission?”

  “Credentials? No, I don’t even know what it is.”

  “Catalina Mission is military mobile laboratory. Very secret. You will not pass as representative of mission without credentials.”

  “Huh. Secret military labs . . . they’re always interesting. Maybe our friend Jacaranda wants something from the mission? If there’s a plausible reason for her to want access to the lab, then maybe there’s a plausible reason for her to help us.”

  “That is weak logic.”

  “At least it’s logic. Five minutes ago, we were counting on luck.”

  I made it to the elevators. The twenty-ninth floor was the top floor of the lower division; this bank of elevators would only go down. I punched the button; thirty seconds later, an elevator arrived.

  I stepped inside, pressed the button for the fifteenth floor. As the elevator got under way, I slowly unwound the scarf around my face, and put it in my backpack. Then I pulled off my cap and goggles and ran my hand through my hair.

  I stood up straight, glancing up to the left, where I assumed the cameras were. I gave them a wide smile.

  We’re all in now, I thought. One way or the other.

  XV

  Sunday, March 14th, 2083

  Posted 1:08 am by Barry Simcoe

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  The elevator stopped, and I stepped out into chaos on the fifteenth floor.

  I was in a small vestibule with a reception area. Magnetically locked doors sealed it off from the rest of the floor. The walls were glass, and I could see almost the whole floor. Surprisingly, it looked much like any other government office I’d ever seen—a great many cramped cubes, a small number of high-walled offices, and a few open areas. I glimpsed maybe half a dozen people walking quickly in the halls between cubes. It was after midnight; didn’t these people ever take a break from the tedious work of occupying a foreign country?

  I’d have to ponder that mystery some other time. The reception desk was deserted, but the vestibule was crammed with around ten soldiers, all waiting to board the elevator. They spared me no more than a glance. I was barely out of the way when they muscled their way inside. They were on a mission and anxious to get to it.

  One of their number shouted something in Spanish to a woman in uniform by the door. She nodded, pulling open the glass door and yelling at someone down the hall.

  There was an answering call, and a young man came running, his arms heavy with gear. She held the glass door open for him.

  The elevator was closing. The soldier held it open, calling impatiently. The two raced into the elevator, and the doors slid closed.

  The glass door leading to the offices was also closing. I took three quick steps and grabbed it before the magnetic lock engaged. I slipped through, into the supposedly secure fifteenth floor.

  “I’m on the floor,” I told Sergei. “Security is a joke. The reception desk isn’t even manned.”

  “There will not be secure data on that floor,” said Sergei. “Likely, it is administrative only.”

  “Maybe.” I started walking down the hall, trying to look like I belonged. “Let’s see what we find.”

  The trick to looking like you belong is to move quickly and with purpose. Don’t gawk, always be in a hurry, and know where you’re going. Accordingly, I moved briskly down the hall, turning left without hesitating when I ran out of hallway. I strode down the thin path without turning my head left or right.

  What I found was about a hundred and eighty cubes and maybe fifty heads. There was a definite air of excitement. Something was up. People were gathered in the aisles between cubes or hunched over monitors in small groups. No one was in uniform. A woman dashed out of a conference room, grabbed a small tablet, ran back. Small teams shouted back and forth.

  Too late I noticed that the path I was on led me toward two soldiers stationed outside a high-walled office. They noticed me the same instant I noticed them. I hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, and then continued forward resolutely. Hesitation was death.

  I kept my eyes fixed straight ahead, using my peripheral vision to scan for an exit. There were windows on my right and five or six high-walled offices on my left, most of them dark and with doors closed. Past the soldiers there was a narrow corridor leading off to the right, toward a small cafeteria.

  Both soldiers were staring at me now. I gave them a nod as I approached, allowed my gaze to casually drift right. A sharp right turn just ahead of the soldiers, and I could make for the cafeteria.

  One of the guards stepped forward, signaled me to stop. I did. He asked me something in Spanish, too fast for me to follow.

  “Primer Teniente Nasir,” I said.

  “Nasir?” the guard repeated. He looked toward the other guard, who shrugged.

  The first guard turned back toward me. His manner was still courteous, but a little too attentive for my liking. He repeated his question in Spanish.

  “Primer Teniente Nasir,” I said stubbornly.

  That was my plan. To r
epeat that name every time they asked a question. It felt good to have a plan.

  A man strode out of one of the offices to my left. “I am Nasir,” he said. He was about forty-five, rail thin, with a rumpled uniform and two days’ worth of beard. He spoke slowly and deliberately, with an Arabic accent.

  The guards were as surprised as me. I recovered first. “I’m from the Catalina Mission,” I told Nasir. “My name is Peters.”

  “Ah—excellent,” he said. “Thank you for coming so quickly.” He waved me into his office.

  The guards weren’t done with me yet. The one who’d been talking to me barked something at Nasir in Spanish. Nasir, who seemed to struggle with Spanish almost as much as I did, furrowed his brow and agreed with a nod and wave of his hand, then closed the door.

  “I apologize for the state of the office,” he said as he walked around his desk to take a seat. I wasn’t sure if he was talking about his own small office, which was neat and smelled of coffee and sweat, or the entire fifteenth floor. “We are dealing with an intruder.”

  “I was informed. He hasn’t been caught?” I said.

  “Not yet, but soon. He was on the roof—there are only so many places one can go from the roof.”

  He sure had that right. But his words were a reminder that I probably shouldn’t dawdle, regardless of how refreshing it was to chat with a soldier who wasn’t trying to shoot me.

  “I’m here to secure the colonel’s data,” I said. Sergei had mentioned the colonel’s name, and I mentally kicked myself for having forgotten it already. Hayworth? Hayfield? “The mission feels it is no longer safe.”

  “Oh, I agree,” said Nasir. He seemed genuinely relieved at my words. “I sent a message to ComSec just fifteen minutes ago. I agree completely.”

  Wow. That was interesting. Fifteen minutes ago this poor sap sent a warning about the safety of crucial data, and five minutes later a robot on the roof knew all about it. It looked like our friend Jacaranda had precisely the kind of access to the Venezuelan network that she claimed.

  “The data needs to be moved off-site,” I said. “Immediately.”

  “Well, I’m not certain the colonel would approve—”

  “We’ll deal with the matter of the colonel’s approval later. You agree the data is not safe here?”

  “Not at the moment, no. But—”

  “Lieutenant Nasir, we are in a highly volatile situation. We have an intruder in the building. No one knows where he is, who he is, or what he’s after. But in my experience, intruders are usually after the most critical data. If you agree, then I’m afraid I must insist on a copy of the data immediately.”

  “The data cannot be copied,” Nasir said, a little taken aback. “It is on a secure, non-networked drive. It can only be accessed from the sixteenth floor.”

  Whoops. Of course it was. I should’ve known that. “Don’t assume the data cannot be copied, regardless of your precautions,” I said, trying to recover. After a stumble, always go on the attack, my Stratford debate coach used to say.

  “Of course, of course,” said Nasir, dutifully swallowing that line of bullshit.

  “Let me see the data,” I said.

  “Of course,” he said. “This way.”

  Nasir led me out past the guards, who were in conversation with a couple of women who’d come out of the conference room. They barely glanced at us. Nasir led me to a stairwell, which he unlocked. We ascended the stairs.

  The sixteenth floor had wholly different security apparatus. There was a guard stationed outside the door, and both a security keypad and a retina scanner. Nasir identified himself to the guard, then bent over and let the scanner flash his eye.

  Nasir’s picture popped up in blue and white on a small display next to the scanner. The text below the image read:

  e. nasir

  Nasir stepped back, blinking, waiting for me to do the same.

  “Ah,” I said. Both the soldier and Nasir waited expectantly. A red light on the scanner strobed, twice per second.

  I leaned over until my head was almost level with the scanner. “Ah . . . what is the make of this scanner?” I asked.

  “¿Qué?” said the guard.

  “The retina scanner for the door,” I said. “Who is the manufacturer?”

  The guard spoke to Nasir in Spanish. “It is a standard scanner,” said Nasir. “It is the same as you have at the mission.”

  “I’m not so certain,” I said.

  Sergei’s voice was in my ear. “They are asking you to submit to retina scan?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m just not so certain.”

  “Do not agree to retina scan,” Sergei said, his voice urgent. “They are one hundred percent effective. You will be immediately identified. Cameras will not matter after that.”

  The guard was giving me the stink-eye. Nasir was speaking to him in Spanish, but the guard was largely ignoring him. He walked over to me, poked two fingers at my eyes, and then jabbed the same fingers into the scanner. The message was obvious: Scan your goddamn retina.

  I said nothing, just looked the guard up and down with what I sincerely hope was a look of detached amusement while I stalled.

  My options were pretty clear. I could run. I could try to overpower the guard. Or I could scan my goddamn retina.

  No options at all, really. I smiled, bent over, and let the machine flash my retina.

  There was a slight delay while the machine confirmed my identity. I blinked away the afterimage, waiting for my name to appear on the display.

  The brief delay gave me time I desperately needed to think. In a second the words b. simcoe were going to appear on that wall. The guard wouldn’t be alarmed by that, not immediately. But Nasir might, considering I’d told him my name was Peters.

  What would Nasir do then? Sound the alarm? Perhaps not, if I could prepare him in advance. It was a one-in-a-thousand shot, but if I could just—

  My image popped up on the display. A decent-enough shot of me, looking surprisingly sharp in a Venezuelan uniform. Below the image was my name:

  d. peters

  The door buzzed open.

  “Gracias, Capitán Peters,” said the guard.

  “Damn,” I whispered, despite myself.

  “This way,” said Nasir.

  Nasir hadn’t noticed anything untoward. Sergei, however, shared my surprise. “Venezuelan retina scanner on sixteenth floor has identified you as Peters?” he asked, incredulous.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “That is not possible.”

  “Indeed,” I said. I smiled cheerfully at Nasir as he glanced back at me.

  “One minute,” said Sergei. There was rapid typing.

  Nasir led me into the sixteenth floor. It looked very different from the floor below—it was darker, far more cramped, with plenty of locked offices. If there were windows, they’d been thoroughly screened off. I didn’t see any people at all. Most of the floor seemed to be taken up with tall machines, blinking in lonely isolation in secure glass enclosures. The entire floor seemed bathed in a dim green light, like the interior of a submarine.

  Nasir threaded through narrow corridors and stopped in front of a sealed glass enclosure. It was larger than most of the others. Inside were no less than four computational towers, a portable communications array, a heavy hazmat suit hanging from the ceiling, two cabinets, and several less-identifiable objects.

  Nasir was fingering something around his neck nervously. It looked like an electronic key.

  “This is the colonel’s?” I said, nodding at the sealed compartment.

  Nasir nodded.

  “Open it,” I said.

  “Only Colonel Hayduk can—”

  Hayduk! That was the asshole’s name. “Lieutenant Nasir, please don’t waste my time,” I said. “The colonel informed me you could get me everything I need. Now, please. Open the compartment.”

  Nasir hesitated for a second, then pulled the key out from around his neck. He held it against the glass wa
ll to the side of the door. A section of the glass glowed bright green. I saw a brief flash of text on the wall, and the door popped open.

  “Peters, Damian,” Sergei said in my ear. “Capitán. He is in the AGRT personnel records. He has your photo.”

  “Fascinating,” I said as I entered the compartment, looking around.

  “A complete record of military service. Commendations from four previous COs. Detailed medical history . . . a concussion, suffered during a soccer game. An ear infection in 2077. Expat assignment to America, January 2083. Posted to Catalina Mission, under Major Carlos Arrente.”

  I heard Sergei rock back in his chair. “It is a flawless forgery. I do not understand how this has been done. If robot has accomplished this, she has access to Venezuelan military network at the highest levels. And your personal biometric data.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Quite a surprise.” For Nasir’s benefit, I glanced around, as if commenting on the décor.

  It was cramped in here. In addition to all the computational hardware, the colonel had added a few homey touches as well. There was a small wooden desk with two charging stations for mobile devices, some personal data equipment, and a mat on the floor with three pairs of leather shoes. There was a rag neatly folded beside a can of polish next to the shoes. Apparently the colonel liked his shoes freshly shined.

  Given all the equipment, I thought I might have to rely on Nasir to point me in the direction of the data. But the moment I walked in, it was obvious what I was looking for.

  Right next to the desk was a high-security personal data station. Before this one, I’d only seen pictures. They’re ideal for the paranoid multimillionaire or security-conscious CEO. In essence, they give you everything you need from a modern network portal . . . everything except a connection to the network. They are completely isolated from any kind of network access. They’re unhackable because you can’t access them—not without being in the same room. The only way to talk to one of these babies is by standing right in front of them.