by Ed Naha
Lewis’s form was replaced by that of Ellen Murphy, writhing in bed as an unseen Murphy made love to her.
“His wife, his kid . . . and you,” Tak whispered.
Lewis felt her face redden. “Shut that off, will you?”
Tak did as he was told. Lewis’s lips began to tremble. “God, he’s really hurting.”
“Not likely,” Tak replied, matter-of-factly. “They were pretty selective about what sectors of his brain they utilized during the reconstructive surgery. His emotional range is virtually nonexistent.”
“Then why is he dredging up his memories at all?” Lewis asked.
“I dunno.” Tak shrugged. “Maybe he’s just curious.”
Lewis glared at the scientist. “You’re wrong,” she said firmly. “He’s more of a man than you know.”
Lewis turned and strode out of the room, leaving a puzzled Tak and Garcia behind.
“What’s the matter with her?” Tak asked.
“She’s a cop,” said Garcia. “What more do you have to know?”
[ 6 ]
RoboCop guided his TurboCruiser through the well-kept Detroit suburb. He glanced at the shrubbery. Nicely trimmed. Flowers bloomed. How far this all seemed from the hellishness of Old Detroit.
He scanned the streets, purposefully. A young boy, no more than twelve years of age, darted from his home and ran up to a mailbox. The mailbox bore the name “Murphy.”
RoboCop slowed the car.
The young boy looked up.
Something within Robo churned painfully. The boy, his face beaming, gazed into the car.
Robo tried to avoid the young boy’s stare. He gunned the gas, sending the cruiser accelerating down the street. The twelve-year-old named Jimmy turned and sprinted toward the house, stumbling over his bicycle as he ran.
“Mom!” he shouted. “Mom! Get my camera!”
Ellen Murphy emerged from the nicely painted home, alarmed. “What? What is it?”
Seeing his mother’s concerned face, Jimmy sighed and ran past her. “Never mind. I’ll get it myself.”
“What happened, Jimmy?” his mother asked.
Jimmy trotted out of the house, screwing the lens onto his camera. “RoboCop!” he said, charging toward his bicycle. “He was right here! Right outside our house! I saw him!”
Jimmy leaped onto his bike and pedaled furiously down the street, attempting to catch up with the TurboCruiser. Ellen watched him go.
She stared down the empty street, her face ashen. Her body suddenly unsteady, she braced against the doorway for support. It didn’t offer the type she needed.
Miles away from the suburban tract, a lone police TurboCruiser charged back in the direction of the Detroit skyline.
Its driver, his metallic hands clutching the wheel, tried to put as much distance as possible between the suburb and himself. He pressed down on the accelerator.
It would never be enough distance.
Never enough.
[ 7 ]
Something was abuzz at OCP. Rumors concerning the robotics R&D team were circulating up and down the halls like wildfire. At this point no one could say whether something wonderful or something dreadful was going on down at research and development, but everyone was excited nonetheless. Where rumors went, the Old Man followed. And it had been some time since the Old Man blew a gasket. It was really something to see.
Dr. Juliette Faxx was impressed by neither rumors nor the prospect of seeing someone develop heartburn. She had her own agenda. She walked coolly down the hall, her long dark hair cascading over her shoulders. With ice-white skin and dark brown eyes, Faxx had the kind of looks men would die for. In fact, some OCP wags insisted that that was indeed the case.
Faxx took it all in stride. Women were always jealous of beauty, and men always disdained that which they could not possess.
Faxx strolled down one of OCP’s massive product-display hallways, her young assistant, Jenny, falling into step behind her.
“Good morning, Jenny,” Faxx said. “What have we got this morning?”
Jenny consulted her notepad. “General Gonzaga canceled: Apparently there’s been a coup. But there’s a gentleman from the private sector interested in defense robotics.”
Faxx shrugged, entering a large pristine showroom displaying models of all of OCP’s robotic triumphs, past and present. A tall angular man sporting a cocked top hat and a raven-haired woman dressed like a pop star stared at the displays. Faxx frowned. Great. This is just what she needed today: two eccentrics.
Jenny handed Faxx a readout. “Here’s his credit sheet.”
Faxx smiled in approval at the man’s credit forms. The man named Cain had money to burn. “He’s certainly financially qualified,” she acknowledged. “I’ll handle it from here.”
“Yes, Dr. Faxx,” Jenny replied, slowing her pace.
Faxx walked briskly into the room, affixing a salesperson’s smile on her face.
Cain and Angie had been walking by a display showing a full-sized model of the ED 209 robots and had paused before a full-sized RoboCop statue. Angie nudged Cain. The angular man turned and greeted Faxx with a wide, friendly smile.
“Good day, Mr. Cain,” Faxx said.
Cain executed a slight bow. “Doctor. You look lovely today.”
Angie wasn’t as impressed. “Love the blouse.”
Faxx was startled. “I’m sorry. Have we met before?”
Angie produced a high-tech Filofax from her studded black-leather purse. “Juliette Faxx, Ph.D., psychology, graduate summe cum laude Harvard University, three years’ private practice, now director of marketing, Security Concepts, OCP.”
Faxx cocked her head inquisitively. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Angie nodded toward the Robo statue. “Yeah. He’ll take one of those.”
Faxx laughed softly. “I’m afraid we’re unable to accommodate you.”
“Hey!” Angie frowned. “His money’s good.”
“I’m sure it is,” Faxx conceded, “but even if we had one to offer, it wouldn’t be available to private accounts.”
Angie shot Faxx a blistering look before leaning toward Cain. “Guess you have to own a country to get a RoboCop, honey.”
Cain was not dissuaded. “Get somebody on it. Somebody with an accent.”
Angie typed a note in her Filofax, while Cain grinned slyly in Faxx’s direction. “You don’t have to own a country to fight a war, dear doctor.”
“OCP is committed to peace, not war,” Faxx pointed out dutifully. “Maintaining the peace.”
Cain emitted a good-natured chuckle. “Maintaining the status quo, you mean. Keeping the people down. And you used to be a psychologist. A healer.”
He turned to Angie. “You see, Angie? It’s like I said: All it takes is money.”
Faxx glared at Cain and the two made eye contact, Faxx barely suppressing her rage. Turning her back on the jaunty man, she gestured at small prototypes of robotic weaponry. “We do offer the private sector an impressive line of robot security systems. The auto-gatling series, for instance . . .”
Cain remained in place in front of the RoboCop statue. “Why’d you only make one RoboCop?” he asked.
“I’m not sure I know what you’re—” Faxx began.
“I mean,” Cain said, pointing to the statue, “all you need is a brain. The world is full of brains!”
Faxx tried to hide her discomfort. “What? Whatever are you talking about?”
“Brains,” Cain said, pointing a finger at his own head in exasperation. “The only way to make smart robots. So you waited until a cop, um . . .”
He snapped his fingers, and Angie consulted her files. “Murphy,” she replied. “Alex J., gunned down in the line of duty.”
Cain flashed a smug smile. “See? You used his brain. Popped it right into that classy chassis.”
Faxx was totally dumbfounded. The cybernetic techniques used in the construction of the RoboCop prototype were classified information. Angie seemed to read t
he doctor’s mind. “It’s all in your computers.” Angie shrugged. “No big secret.”
“Are you saying that you accessed our databanks?” Faxx snorted.
Cain raised and lowered his gangly arms innocently. “Not me, no. I have people who do that for me.”
Cain leaned toward the RoboCop statue, scrutinizing a small printed legend concerning the prototype. “Angie?” he asked. “What does this say?”
Cain lowered his torso so Angie could softly read the printed words into his ear. Cain nodded, then faced the doctor. “See? I have people who read for me, too.”
“You seem to have people who do almost everything,” said Faxx coolly.
“Not almost.” Cain grinned.
Angie consulted her files, still checking out the Robo model. “Nothing here that we don’t know already,” she announced.
“Except one small point.” Cain nodded.
Angie motioned with her head toward Faxx. “You’ll have to ask her.”
Cain turned to Dr. Faxx. “How long is he going to be alive?”
“Interesting question,” Faxx admitted. “All his parts are, of course, replaceable.”
“So,” Cain concluded, “if nobody destroys his brain, he might live forever. Touch the eternal.”
Faxx pondered this. “We trust the unit will be functional . . . for a very long time to come.”
The conversation drew to an abrupt halt when a beeping noise emerged from Faxx’s coat pocket. Reaching inside, she produced a pocket pager and brought it to her ear. Her face tightened. “Yes, sir,” she said into the two-way transmitter-receiver. “I’ll be right along.”
She turned on her heels and walked away, calling to Cain over her shoulder. “My apologies, Mr. Cain. I have to go. Jenny will be in shortly to help you with anything the young lady can’t read for you.”
Cain watched her go, grinning like a maniac. The woman obviously liked her toys. Cain liked toys, too. He thought they had a lot in common.
[ 8 ]
The Old Man marched furiously down one of the glistening corridors at OCP headquarters. Behind him, a grim-faced Johnson and a sweating roboticist named Schenck struggled to keep up with him. Dr. Faxx emerged silently from an elevator and joined the small parade. Things were not looking good. Schenck, his left arm in a sling, was gesturing wildly with his right hand.
“Sir,” he whined, “once again, I must emphasize that this project still has a way to go before we’ll be ready.”
“Five months, Mr. Schenck,” the Old Man intoned in a low, powerful voice, “and ninety million dollars. I would like to see what you’ve got to show me!”
Schenck nodded like a marionette with cheap strings. “We have isolated the problem. It’s not the technology. It’s the candidates.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” the Old Man barked back, his lips twitching.
“I believe I can show you, sir,” Schenck wheezed. “If you’ll step this way . . .”
Schenck eased open a door leading to an OCP robotics lab. The Old Man stepped inside.
Johnson and Faxx entered the room as well, following Schenck to a video monitor. Schenck popped a tape into the video system.
“What the hell is this?” the Old Man demanded. “A tape? Ninety million dollars for a tape?”
“It’ll explain itself, sir,” Schenck offered lamely. The Old Man, Faxx, and Johnson stared at the screen as a videotaped Schenck gestured proudly at a pair of titanic metal doors. The doors swung open and a gleaming, sleek cyborg entered the room. A technician attempted to shadow its every move, still working on the cyborg’s chest with a small welder.
Another technician adjusted the cyborg’s blank, mannequinlike face. A flurry of electrical pulses slowly brought the face to life, giving it distinct features and a personality of sorts.
“State-of-the-art destructive capability commanded by a unique combination of organic and software systems,” the videotaped Schenck announced. “In every way an improvement over the original.”
The cyborg’s still-forming face emitted a silent scream, its features contorting in a mask of pain and shock.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the on-screen Schenck cooed grandly, “it gives me great pleasure to introduce RoboCop 2!”
The cyborg shuddered and, pushing the technician away from its chest, grabbed the welding tool and turned the ice-blue flame on its face. Sparks burst forth from its skull. The two technicians scrambled to safety as the cyborg’s head exploded in a sudden eruption of flesh and microchips.
The Old Man sat in stoney silence. Schenck fast-forwarded the tape to yet another unveiling.
A second cyborg stood behind a videotaped Schenck. “. . . the future of urban pacification. Ladies. Gentlemen. RoboCop 2!”
This time, the fully finished cyborg gazed vacantly around the room. Its eyes fell upon a shiny slab of metal. It bent over to gaze at its own reflection. Recoiling in horror, the cyborg let out a heart-wrenching shriek and, raising its metallic hands, ripped its own head off.
Schenck fast-forwarded the tape again.
The Old Man’s eyes had narrowed themselves to slits now. He was seething.
On the screen, a third cyborg materialized. A videotaped Schenck was in the middle of his spiel when the cyborg glanced down at its stiff, Olympian body.
“. . . proud to present . . .” intoned the video Schenck.
The cyborg, traumatized by its metallic self, drew its pistol with a roar.
“Hey!” Schenck squealed on screen. “Hold on, guy!”
The cyborg sent a shot slamming into Schenck’s arm, sending the robotics expert twirling over a computer console. The others in the room hit the floor as the cyborg began firing his pistol randomly. Finally, satisfied with the commotion it had caused, the cyborg raised the gun to its head and blew its brains out.
Schenck turned the video machine off. The four sat in silence, a small smile on Faxx’s face. Schenck was covered with enough sweat to qualify him for irrigation. The Old Man glared at him. “I’m listening, Mr. Schenck.”
“W-we’ve tried everything,” Schenck stammered. “But there just seems . . . well, there’s an emotional quotient that we just can’t control.”
The Old Man was aghast. “Robots with emotional problems?”
“Not robots . . . sir,” Schenck corrected. “Cyborgs. Cybernetic organisms. We use living human tissue, and, frankly, that’s our whole problem. It’s not the hardware. We’ve tried, to isolate the glitch—use only the parts of the brain that control motor functions—but each time we try . . . we . . . well, you saw.”
“The candidates were all fine men,” the Old Man declared. “Respected police officers. I reviewed their files myself. I can’t see how—”
“If I may suggest something, sir?” Faxx injected.
“Certainly, ah, Dr. . . . ah . . .”
“Police officers might not be the best candidates for our purposes,” Faxx concluded.
The Old Man clearly didn’t understand. Faxx leaned flirtatiously closer to the despot, allowing him to smell the perfume on her hair. “Police officers are generally . . . macho,” she continued. “Body-proud. Sexually active. It’s not hard to imagine that, finding themselves stripped of all that, they become suicidal.”
Johnson frowned. “But we take all that away from them. We don’t use the parts of their brains that give them personality.”
Faxx shrugged. “Something obviously survives. Look at Murphy. He managed to reclaim not only his human memory but an unmistakable sense of personal identity.”
“Then why hasn’t RoboCop killed himself?” Johnson asked.
“Ah,” said Faxx, smiling and crossing her curvacious legs, “but he will. All the signs are there. Look at the unnecessary risks he takes. That’s hardly in his program.”
Johnson didn’t seem pleased by the direction in which the conversation was heading. “With all due respect, Doctor Faxx, your area of expertise is marketing, and what we’ve seen is clearly not ye
t ready to be sold. I think we should defer to the experts.”
Faxx shrugged. “Perhaps you’re right. I wouldn’t presume to be an expert in robotics. I’m only suggesting that, as Mr. Schenck explained, hardware is not your problem. It is the human factor.”
The Old Man smiled at the woman. “Whatever your ideas are, I’m most interested in hearing them.”
Johnson rolled his eyes as Faxx continued. “If a new subject could be found—someone to whom the prospect might even be desirable . . .”
“But how would we find people like that?” the Old Man queried.
“It would require a screening test,” Faxx admitted. “But there are people such as I’ve described around. In fact, I’ve met a few of them.”
“I’ve never met anyone who wanted to be a robot,” Johnson grumbled.
“Cyborg,” Schenck corrected.
“Shut up, Mr. Schenck,” the Old Man said.
“I have,” Schenck replied.
Faxx gestured at the array of robotic parts stored in the room. “It seems a shame to waste all this fine expensive work, doesn’t it? Surely the cost of screening a few new candidates would be negligible. I can’t help but think it might prove to be very worthwhile for OCP.”
The Old Man nodded and got to his feet. “Of course it would be worthwhile! Begin at once!”
He walked toward the exit, a bounce in his step. He turned and waved at Dr. Faxx. “And report to me directly.”
Faxx smiled and waved her hand. “Thank you, sir.”
Johnson followed the Old Man out of the room in silence. Something had just gone down with the Old Man that Johnson didn’t like. It smelled bad. For the first time in a long time, Johnson was afraid. He had seen what robotic experiments could do if not handled correctly. The result was always the same: bloodshed.
Maybe that was the odor he smelled.
PART
“One should forgive one’s enemies,
but not before they are hanged.”
—Heinrich Heine
[ 9 ]