The Truth Machine

by James L. Halperin

  “So when that former Renaissance employee showed you the code. . . .”

  “There was no such person.”

  “What?”

  “I made that up. I really got the code by hacking into Renaissance’s central research computer. Several weeks before I showed it to you.”

  Pete felt like an idiot. How could he have been so naive? But much worse was that Scoggins had stalled the Truth Machine project for over two years—on purpose. How could he do such a thing?

  “So you intentionally delayed the ACIP just to save your own skin?” Pete couldn’t imagine anyone being so unprincipled.

  “Mostly. At least that was the original goal.”

  “The original goal?”

  “Once I figured out how to make you override the ACIP for me, I realized there were other possibilities.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well the override itself is a damn valuable commodity. Also, I wanted more money—a bigger share of the ACIP.” The green light flickered. Scoggins was holding back again.

  “And?”

  “And to own as big a share of ATI as possible. Hopefully someday to control it.”

  “Control ATI? For what purpose?”

  “I think ATI might become the most powerful company on earth. It’s already by far the most profitable. Pete, if we work together, we could rule the world. Tell me you haven’t thought about that.”

  “Never. Not once.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  I’ll never be like that, Pete thought. But he can’t understand because he doesn’t care about anyone else. He wants power and money, the rest of the world be damned. How many innocent people have already died because of Scoggins’s greed? Perhaps he doesn’t deserve to live. Maybe I should just kill him. Maybe it won’t be so hard to pull the trigger.

  “How’d you plan to get more ATI shares? All I signed over to you was a bigger share of the Truth Machine project.”

  “Not exactly. The paper you signed gave me a 34-percent share in the ACIP project, net of any overhead allocation. Imagine having a monopoly on the entire television industry from 1955 to 1980, from the programming to the manufacture of the image screens. Or the personal computer industry, from chips to software, from 1980 to 2005. We’d have had an exclusive on a giant industry for 25 years.

  “I figured within 10 years, the ACIP division would be colossal. Everybody knows the government contract’s worth a trillion dollars in revenue, but the special 25-year patent was the real deal. That’s the part of the Truth Machine Bill all the analysts undervalued. And I’d get paid based on gross operating profits, not net. On that basis, the ACIP division would soon become much more profitable than the entire company. You’d have to start selling off your stock just to keep paying my percentage. Then I could buy your ATI stock on the open market.”

  Scoggins kept talking. He talked for almost an hour. Perhaps he was playing for time, giving himself a chance to think his way out. Or maybe he was actually proud of his depraved cleverness.

  The ACIP light remained green throughout.

  He has no choice, so he’s being absolutely honest, possibly for the first time in his miserable life.

  “It really was a beautiful plan,” Scoggins continued. “But I underestimated you. Are you going to kill me?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Where’s the document I signed?”

  Scoggins ignored the question. “Are you going to kill me, Pete? Maybe you should. That’ll prove once and for all that you’re just like me.”

  “If you tell me where the contract is, I’ll let you try to help me figure out a way not to kill you. But if you don’t tell me, I’ll make you wish you were dead.”

  Scoggins knew Pete wasn’t bluffing. A properly placed jolt from the CBP would be so painful that he’d have to tell Pete anything he wanted to know.

  “It’s in my files under ‘Harvard.’ Third drawer on the left side.”

  “Anyone else have a copy?”

  “Not yet, unfortunately.”

  “That depends on your point of view. Where’s the key?”

  “My left vest pocket. Will you show your true colors, Pete? Are you going to kill me now?”

  “Tell me, Charles, why shouldn’t I kill you?”

  “Can I have a few minutes to think about that?”

  “I’ll give you five.” Pete considered the concession generous under the circumstances.

  He had read some fiction and his troubled mind conjured up the image of Ian Fleming’s spy-hero, James Bond. Bond’s enemies, upon capturing him, could never bring themselves to do away with him immediately. Blinded by their egos and scorn for humanity, they found themselves strangely attracted to Bond, whom they regarded as an equal. Inevitably this mistake cost them dearly. Bond saw the situation more clearly, killing with unhesitating precision.

  Pete wanted to liken himself to Bond, a man who tried to save the world from evil. For a split second, he imagined Goldfinger had taken Scoggins’s place in the chair.

  Or am I more like the villain?

  Suddenly Goldfinger changed into James Bond, and back to Scoggins again.

  What’s happening to me?

  He couldn’t take murder lightly. He had never killed before and was groping for a way to avoid it; apparently the stress was making him delusional. As the seconds ticked away, Pete wondered whether he had passed the point of no return. Indeed, if Scoggins survived this night, wouldn’t his next logical move be to try to do away with Pete? Was there any way to avoid murder without jeopardizing his company, his goals for the world, his freedom, and perhaps his life?

  “Okay, your time’s up.”

  Scoggins answered the only way he could. “I can’t think of any reason for you not to kill me.”

  “What would you do if the situation were reversed?”

  “I’d have killed you five minutes ago. But you say I’m not like you. I guess we’ll see.”

  “If I let you go, what will you do? Is there any way to prevent you from trying to kill me?”

  Scoggins hesitated. “I need 10 more minutes to think about that.”

  “Okay.”

  The most likely answer, Pete thought, is that no matter what happens next, he’ll try as soon as he has a chance. Maybe he always planned to murder me, but there would have been no hurry—until now.

  Still, Pete hoped they could devise a formula to prevent it. But it would have to be foolproof. Maybe they could create evidence to surface upon his death, or reprogram the ACIP somehow so that Scoggins would require his future complicity. But this notion was farfetched, especially when dealing with someone so treacherous. On the other hand, even considering a murder would have been incredible just hours ago.

  While Pete waited, Scoggins reached into his left vest pocket and pulled out something about the size of a thumbnail. He started to bring it toward his mouth.

  What the hell’s he doing? Of course! He knows if I can’t get into his files tonight to recover the document, I’ll have to keep him alive until I can. That’d give him ample opportunity to escape—and try to kill me first. He’s planning to swallow the key to his files!

  Suddenly Pete was afraid. Again, it was no longer Scoggins sitting in that chair, but another man with a horrifying face he had never forgotten: the face of 24-year-old Daniel Anthony Reece, Jr., his arm rising, stone in hand, ready to strike Leonard.

  Shoot him now, Petey, whispered Leonard’s voice. Hurry!

  Pete aimed the CBP and pulled the trigger.

  Scoggins’s free arm dropped and the microchip key fell onto the floor.

  Charles Scoggins was dead.

  * * *

  Pete shook uncontrollably, sobbing like a child. He needed somebody to talk to, but was thoroughly alone.

  If only I could go back in time and change everything. If only I’d listened to David and not hired Scoggins in the first place. If only I’d called the authorities and turned Scoggins in—turned both of us in. Going to jail would have been
better than killing another human being. I’m no better than Reece!

  Sitting on the floor with his arms around his knees, he chewed on his tongue and began rocking. He couldn’t stop.

  If only Leonard had survived.

  He gnawed hard on his tongue, still sore from biting into it the day before. His shaking began to abate, but he took more than an hour to regain his composure.

  He didn’t rush it; he would need all his faculties for what was to follow.

  Finally he went upstairs to Scoggins’s office and retrieved the document. Returning downstairs, he deactivated the handcuffs and dragged Scoggins’s body to a windowless room down the hall, the records destruction room, where the most secret and sensitive ATI documents were brought to be shredded and incinerated. Pete opened the incinerator latch, lifted Scoggins’s body, and dumped it in along with the document.

  Then he energized the incinerator.

  There was something therapeutic about pulling that switch. Maybe when Scoggins was ignited, Pete’s guilt over Leonard’s death would somehow burn with him. Regardless, there would soon remain no trace of Charles Scoggins’s body or the physical document he had tricked Pete into signing.

  Pete didn’t encounter a single person in the ATI building that night, except for the guard seated at the lobby desk. He checked out of the building, went home, and looked for Jennifer. She wasn’t there.

  Thank God, he thought.

  Then he saw the note she had left:

  Dearest Pete—

  I’ve gone back to Princeton. If you want to talk about it, give me a call. If you don’t, it was wonderful while it lasted. I love you and will never forget you.

  No regrets, Jen.

  Pete decided not to call Jennifer—or ever to see her again. If he planned to look at himself in the mirror, it was the only decision he could make. He was now a murderer and she would be better off without him.

  I love her, but I don’t deserve her.

  He desperately wanted to cry. He tried, but was too exhausted, so he went straight to bed and slept—for 15 hours.

  Haywood Thacker called Pete at home on the afternoon following the murder. “Have you seen Charles?”

  Were it not for Thacker’s call on his emergency number, Pete might have slept even longer. “N-Not since l-last night. We both left pretty late.”

  “He never checked out of the building and now nobody can find him,” the ATI general counsel explained. “He doesn’t answer calls even when we use the emergency code. What were you guys working on?”

  Pete had already considered how he would answer that question. He lied slowly, deliberately. “We thought we had a problem with the ACIP, but it turned out t-to be a f-f-false alarm.”

  “I think I’m going to call the police and report him missing.”

  “G-G-Good idea, Haywood. I’m sure h-h-he’ll turn up, b-but it’s better to play it s-safe.”

  CHAPTER 33

  THE SECOND OFFICIAL SCIP

  Dallas, Texas

  August 25, 2024—Scientists from all over the world convene in Portland, Oregon, for the first annual International Nanotechnology Conference. Microsoft founder and Chairman Emeritus William H. Gates delivers the keynote address. Gates predicts, “Nanotechnology will ultimately exert an even greater positive influence on the human race than the computer.” Nanomachines, built at the molecular level and already often smaller than human cells, can be designed for diverse purposes. But for the time being, medical research dominates the field.—Two massive nuclear explosions evaporate the entire Tonga Hills region of Ghana, killing or critically injuring an estimated two million persons and contaminating an area of several hundred square miles. The Ivory Coast government emphatically denies any involvement in the detonations.

  Randall Petersen Armstrong’s sanity at the moment he murdered Charles Scoggins is a moot point. Regardless of the condition of the various nether regions of his brain, non-invasive tests have proven that there had never been any significant damage either to his neo-cortex or to his amygdala. Therefore he was unable to avoid the two greatest emotional inconveniences all sane human criminals experience: guilt and fear.

  The police first visited on August 17, when Scoggins had been missing for six days. Surprised it had taken them so long, Pete was equally shocked at how short that meeting had been and at how few questions the police had asked. The disappearance had been a major story; after all, Scoggins was a famous and influential figure. Pete assumed the pressure on the Dallas Police Department to find him was intense.

  On the two-week anniversary of the disappearance, the police were back. Thacker sat with Pete in the conference room on the 60th floor of ATI headquarters as Detectives Austin Stevenson and Sandra Miller questioned him.

  Stevenson began. “Mr. Armstrong, I’m sure you’re aware that we’re recording this session.”

  “We are, too,” Thacker interjected.

  “Of course. You have no obligation to speak with us at all, so we appreciate your cooperation.”

  “No problem,” Pete answered, shaking visibly. “I’m as anxious to g-get to the b-bottom of this as you are.” God, I hate lying.

  “Apparently you were the last person to see Mr. Scoggins on August 11th. What were you both doing here so late?”

  “I th-thought there was a defect in the ACIP software. We went down to the lab to test it. F-Fortunately it turned out to be a mechanical problem—the CIR, um, that’s cerebral image reconstruction machine, had a faulty chip—just a $7 item. It took us a few hours to f-figure th-that out and replace the p-p-part. We b-both left the lab around midnight.”

  After about 20 minutes, Sandra Miller took over. “Can you help us clear up some discrepancies?”

  “I’ll t-try.”

  “Do you have any idea why there’s no record of Mr. Scoggins leaving the building?”

  “He could’ve left through the fire exit in the b-back.”

  “Did he generally leave that way?”

  “I have n-no idea, but it was l-late. He was, um, is, a pretty c-careful person. Th-there’ve always been crank calls, death threats, th-that sort of thing. S-Some people didn’t want the ACIP b-built, and n-n-now that it’s b-been approved, the th-th-threats have been getting more f-frequent. M-Maybe he thought he’d be safer th-that way.”

  Miller pressed him again. “At about 8 p.m. on the evening of the disappearance, you asked Mr. Scoggins to meet with you—privately. He immediately deactivated his wristband and never turned it back on. Frankly that seems a bit suspicious.”

  “We have, um, a l-lot of trade s-secrets here. We’d hate for our competitors to get hold of them. I d-didn’t want to record us analyzing proprietary software. It cost us billions of dollars to write. S-Security is a big issue with us.”

  Miller’s blue eyes bore into him. “At 11:04 p.m., you returned upstairs to Mr. Scoggins’s office for several minutes—alone. We have it all on digital record. Can you enlighten us as to why?”

  Pete, aware that the upstairs monitors had still been on, had an answer ready. “Charles sent me to get the CIR unit spec sheet from his files. He had the thing in pieces on the lab table, so he didn’t want to leave the room. I was only g-gone a few minutes.”

  I hope they don’t ask me about the document, he thought to himself. I know they can identify papers from digital archives. What if they figure out it was really the same document I signed on August 7?

  “And I assume he was fine when you returned.”

  Pete thought he detected a trace of sarcasm in her voice, but couldn’t be sure. Damn. They’re going to nail me because of that document.

  Thacker interrupted. “Detective Miller, is Mr. Armstrong a suspect?”

  “At this point, we’re not sure there’s been a crime. But frankly, if Mr. Armstrong would be willing to answer a few more questions under ACIP scrutiny, we could eliminate him as a suspect right away.”

  Thacker turned to Pete. “I think we should meet in private to discuss this.”

/>   “Th-that won’t b-be necessary, Haywood. If it’ll help th-them in their investigation, I’d be happy to have them S-S-SCIP me.” He turned toward Miller and Stevenson. “When would you like to do it?”

  The August 7 digital recording in Scoggins’s archives remained the potential nail in Pete’s coffin. If the authorities ever compared it to the August 11 recording, they would be able to prove that Armstrong had lied to the police, because on August 7 he’d signed the very same document that he later claimed was the spec sheet for the CIR.

  But they never thought to make such a comparison.

  In fact, so many papers were signed in the usual course of ATI’s business that no one bothered to ask a single question about the document that Pete had signed in Scoggins’s office just four days before the disappearance.

  Pete’s SCIP took place six days later at an ACIP testing station in Houston. It lasted less than 90 seconds.

  “Mr. Armstrong, have the Dallas police questioned you regarding the disappearance of Charles Scoggins?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you been completely truthful in answering their questions?”

  O Captain! My Captain! “Yes, I have.”

  “Do you have any information that might be relevant to this case other than what you’ve already given to the police?”

  Our fearful trip is done. “No. I’ve t-told them everything I know.”

  ‘Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Armstrong.”

  The ship has weather’d every rack. The prize we sought is won!

  CHAPTER 34

  QUARTER-MILLENNIAL

  Washington DC

  July 4, 2026—Over 20 million Americans and well-wishers from every nation on earth converge on Washington, DC, to celebrate the 250th anniversary of the birth of the United States. President Matthew Emery presides over the Quarter-Millennial Celebration, which is broadcast throughout the world on every communication medium, attracting the largest viewing audience in history.—Armstrong Technologies, Inc. is awarded a $46 billion annual government contract to administer scips at all customs and immigration stations throughout America and its territories. Congress also continues to debate legalization of limited ACIP usage by government and private industry for job interviews.—President Emery submits a bill that would lower federal tax rates by 23 percent across the board. Greater compliance and a near elimination of tax fraud has produced an enormous budget surplus for the tax year 2025. The bill is expected to pass Senate and House essentially unaltered.