What Are You Made Of?

by Gary Starta

  “Now forget about that baseball team. It’s up to us to take up new interests as we will be making a new home. So please get to work thinking up a fresh idea of something that will get you just as aggravated as baseball, hon.”

  Jon then allowed his muscles to relax and exited the holographic program to flop onto a nearby couch in protest.

  “Hey, stop that. You’re reminding me of that electrode procedure we had to endure. I felt like an electronic marionette,” Terry complained.

  “Well, just try to remember you saved a fortune on artificial skin and limb replacements. Every time we enter stasis we come out looking like the day we went in. Come to think of it this process could ruin my plastic surgery business. On second thought, complain all you want. I don’t want prospective patients opting for stasis over surgery,” Jon concluded as he wiped his sweaty face with a towel.

  “Okay, it’s official. You guys are definitely back to normal,” Linda commented as she entered the rec.

  “Listen, I have a great idea to sharpen your minds. I propose we all act in a play. Your mind needs the mental exercise of memorization just as your muscles need to be stretched and pulled. When we decide on what play we would like to perform, I will distribute scripts for you to learn.”

  “That’s fine by me, Linda. Just please don’t suggest Beauty and the Beast,” Jon pleaded as he pointed to his pudgy frame.

  Chapter 14: Old Habits Die Hard

  Don Volpicelli, Private Investigator, rapped his fingers on his kitchen table in an attempt to get a handle on the Phil Jackson case. Don’s gut instinct told him that Phil’s wife was wrong to suspect that the missing technician had intentionally disappeared to avoid alimony payments. From what Dana had told him, Phil was a very honorable— if misguided—human being. Volpicelli surmised that Phil would never just disappear from a job which symbolized not just a paycheck but a way of life. “How could Dana blatantly misjudge her husband’s character?” Don wondered. However, the P.I. theorized it kind of made sense that his neglected wife could not accurately read her husband. Don believed that Phil spent so much time with his coworkers that he probably confided his deepest fears and secrets with them. That being the case, it would probably be highly difficult to get the truth out of them. Volpicelli experienced many similar cases where a neglected wife learned that her husband was not fooling around on her. For some women, this was tougher to take as they now had to face that their partners were simply indifferent to them.

  Volpicelli assured Dana that he would scour the local bars to find Phil’s girlfriend. The private investigator digested enough of Dana’s disposition to know it would not be a wise move to rustle her cage. However, deep down he knew he would not start the investigation in that manner. Don was being paid $25,000 a day plus expenses to handle the Jackson case. He knew Mrs. Jackson only hired him to settle her financial matters. “It would be best to find out if this case was a criminal matter first in the interests of Dana’s wallet,” Don told himself. “That way I can refund most of her money and only waste a day’s time on this manhunt.” Volpicelli did not handle criminal cases as he watched enough of his friends on the force take a bullet. The investigator put in for early retirement and turned to the private investigation business as a safer way to earn a living. Many of his cases involved tracking down spouses expected of cheating or dead beat dads who weren’t paying support for their children. Granted, Volpicelli did not get an adrenaline rush from this work; but he could still stretch his investigative muscles enough to satisfy his hunger for mystery.

  Don decided to start with Jackson’s colleague Bob Schmitt. The seasoned gumshoe knew an attempt to question Schmitt directly on the matter of Phil Jackson’s whereabouts would mostly likely fail. The two men most likely shared an unspoken bond not to rat each other out. The fact that the two technicians had worked side by side for over a decade probably forged this bond stronger than a smoking-hot arc welder. Don deducted that if Phil was still alive, he would only risk contacting Schmitt in person as all other means of communication could be traced. Volpicelli swallowed the last few sips of his Columbian coffee and readied himself to stake out Bob Schmitt’s apartment complex.

  Jeff Turner (aka Vincent Conigliaro) dreamed of the new luxury air coach he would buy his girlfriend, Felicia Jenkins. Despite Turner’s convict lifestyle, the “freelance” courier knew he wanted to marry her. However, Felicia was a high maintenance girl. This was the kind of payday that could net Jeff his dream girl and a life of leisure on a remote tropical island.

  Turner struggled to focus his thoughts on exactly how to commit the two perfect murders. There would only be a pay day if he could wisely use the tools Mercer had provided for him. Jeff couldn’t tell DNA from an IRA but he knew that the genetic coding sequence would provide investigators with a satisfactory explanation for the homicides as well as his ticket to the Bahamas. Turner packed the phony DNA samples into two airtight containers labeled with the names of the two unfortunate space techs. Planting the skin and hair follicles on the bodies would solidify an airtight plan, Jeff surmised.

  He then put the containers into a duffel bag with a hammer and a knife. Despite Mercer’s objections to utilizing courier service equipment, Turner thought it would be beneficial to don his company’s work outfit to gain access to the apartment buildings. A delivery company crate—utilized to deliver life size statues—as well as a mechanical dolly were pilfered by Turner to help move the first victim’s body. The inexperienced killer-for-hire planned to execute Schmitt first as he would probably be less paranoid than Chuck Paterson. Turner planned to save his energy for killing Paterson as he knew the technician would have his guard up for any unusual behavior by a stranger. Mercer had filled Turner in on how Chuck had petitioned the investigative reporting bureau at National News Network. In Turner’s warped mind, Paterson was a ‘’first class rat” who deserved to be exterminated. Jeff believed the path to filling your wallet is a noble albeit solitary one. He therefore had no use for colonizations of new worlds. As a case in point, he told the automaton bank teller to go fuck itself in no uncertain terms when it offered him stock in the Ceres future economy.

  All Jeff had to do now was wait for nightfall—which turned out to be the hardest part for the criminal’s weak willpower. Turner paced his apartment’s floor and smoked artificial tobacco to bide his time. In between puffs of smoke and the wearing of his carpet, Turner’s hand reached for his data net device several times to call Felicia. However, the street punk decided against sharing his revelation with his love until it was time to flee the continent.

  Darkness finally settled upon Reston, Virginia at 6 P.M. Turner quietly rolled his ground coach up to Schmitt’s apartment building half an hour later. He discarded his artificial cigarette butt onto the ground as he stepped from the vehicle and blew smoke out of his nostrils. Jeff then proceeded to unload his crate onto the dolly. He wheeled the container around to the back of the building as he planned to stuff Schmitt’s body into it before placing it in his vehicle. “Mercer doesn’t think of everything like I do,” Turner thought in praise to his own ingenuity. “How did he expect me to transport an unconcealed body in the middle of a residential neighborhood? I should get a bonus for this idea,” Jeff selfishly reasoned.

  Once the crate was in place, Turner rang a random door chime to gain access into the building. Jeff was let in promptly as an elderly woman recognized his Round-the-Globe uniform from the building’s view cam he was standing nervously in front of. The woman, who was anticipating the delivery of a gift from her grandchildren, was not suspicious of the delivery man who kept his face concealed with his hand. Unfortunately for the woman, she would wait patiently for the next two hours for a delivery which would never come.

  “Now it’s time for the cat and mouse game to begin,” Turner told himself as he positioned his data net video system to monitor the hallway for movement. He then donned a pair of gloves to conceal his prints.

  Jeff waited the next two hours in
hope that Schmitt would exit his apartment for a breath of fresh air or perhaps take a pet for a walk. He did not want to allow Schmitt the advantage of suspicion by knocking on his apartment door. At approximately 8 o’clock, Turner’s gamble paid off as Schmitt opened his door to walk his golden-colored Labrador retriever, Maxwell. Jeff sneaked up behind Bob and smashed a ball pin hammer into the back of his skull. He gave the dog a menacing scowl as he dragged the lifeless body back into the apartment. The confused pet scurried down the hall without making a sound to the good fortune of Turner. Once Jeff had the body behind closed doors he took a few minutes to regain his breath. Turner then placed Schmitt’s limp hand around the hammer’s handle. He followed this act by accessing a second data net unit from his jacket to create a link with the hall monitoring unit. When he saw no one else was moving through the hallway, Turner grabbed the dead body underneath its arm pits and dragged it outside. The newly-anointed murderer then went to work to place the body inside the crate at a feverish pace. Ten minutes later, Jeff confidently wheeled the crate out to his coach as he believed no one had witnessed the incident.

  As Jeff attempted to load his deceased cargo into his vehicle, a figure emerged from a private air coach to get a better look at the proceedings. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Volpicelli muttered to himself as he saw what looked like a man’s belt protruding from the container.

  “Yes, you will be damned,” whispered a familiar voice in his ear. The attacker then grabbed Volpicelli from behind before he could turn around. A struggle ensued. Volpicelli found he could not wrestle himself free as two arms were wrapped around his throat.

  Volpicelli could not place a name with the voice, but he was sure it was a former police official. The PI used a voice activated command of “Please don’t!” which instructed the data net unit inside his jacket to begin recording.

  “Why the hell are you doing this?” Volpicelli asked in order to elicit a verbal response. However, the attacker was too shrewd to provide any more clues to his identity and did not speak again until Turner had driven off with the body.

  The attacker then pushed Volpicelli to the ground to allow himself time to train a weapon on him. Don raised his hands in the air as his eyes squinted to focus on his nemesis. Even though the attacker was wearing a black ski mask, there was something about his stature that reminded Volpicelli of a former colleague.

  After a few minutes of silence, the investigator blurted out, “You’re Renee Mercer. This all makes sense. You left the precinct to go to the space association and now you’re cleaning up its mess.”

  “Well, that lucky guess has just cost you your life, Mr. Volpicelli. At least I have the guts to go for the glory unlike you, Don. What is it you do again?” Mercer asked while brandishing his weapon.

  “Oh yes, I remember now. You handle adultery cases.”

  “It’s an honest living, Mercer.”

  “You mean it’s a pathetic living. Now keep your mouth shut and get back into your vehicle.”

  Mercer then struck Don over the head with his weapon and placed the detective in a sitting position behind his vehicle’s steering wheel. Once Renee was satisfied his victim was unconscious, he began to alter the auto coach’s GPS navigation system. He manually instructed the system to drive the coach into a thickly wooded region where it was sure to crash into a tree.

  “It’ll be viewed as just another unfortunate motoring accident,” Mercer stated triumphantly. “You should have upgraded to the luxury model, Don. Then I wouldn’t have been able to manipulate your guidance system.” The security executive sadistically watched the coach take flight.

  “That kind of felt like the good old days,” said Renee in reference to his abusive crime fighting techniques. “Maybe I should finish this job to make sure it’s done right.”

  A half an hour later, Jeff Turner was cursing himself as his ground coach had navigated itself to the residence of a Chuck Paterson— however, this man worked as a pizza maker and lived in Arlington. Now Turner would have to scramble to get back to Richmond to find the right Chuck Paterson.

  What Are You

  Made Of?

  Part III

  Chapter 1: Natural Causes

  Peter Ciprelli wanted to devote the final months of his natural life to the construction of a holographic municipal building. He wanted its design to be as distinctive as the structures created by the ancient Greeks.

  Ciprelli knew his body would soon be too weak to perform the actual task of construction, however that function could be handled by his forthcoming android body. The inspired architect drew plans for the building night and day as he purposely avoided both Karen and Anna as much as possible. Peter did not want to be reminded of the dilemma he had immersed himself in just a few nights ago. “Everything will work itself out naturally when I die,” Peter stated. In a few seconds, Ciprelli laughed to himself at what an absurd statement he had just made. If anything, things would work themselves out “artificially,” he corrected himself.

  The one question that still burned in his mind was the idea of procreation. McElroy had promised the ill scientists that their new android bodies could experience the pleasures of sex; but the doctor did not confirm if the artificial bodies could produce and deliver babies. “I have been working too hard,” Peter scolded himself. “Androids can’t be designed to reproduce—or can they?” he wondered aloud.

  “What is it Peter?” Anna spoke from the bedroom.

  “Nothing, honey. Just go back to sleep.” Peter had discovered that Anna dealt with the illness by sleeping nearly round the clock. There wasn’t too much the scientists could do now anyway as the side of the planet they settled on was currently experiencing the equivalent of an earth winter. In the springtime, most of the planet’s first inhabitants might very well be dead. It was expected that that time would be used to cleanse the Ceres soil of its radiation poisoning. Hydroponic crops would then be grown to make up for the loss of food production. Peter found it ironic that artificial beings would probably be cultivating the artificially-cultivated food.

  Plans were also underway to construct what could quite possibly be known as the first android-made lake. Peter envisioned his holographic municipal building to be erected near the lake so its reflection could shine onto the water’s surface. The creation of the building brought children to mind for Peter. He pictured them playing around the grounds of the building. Peter later envisioned them growing up and getting married at what he affectionately wanted to call “Town Hall.”

  “If McElroy had more time, would he be able to invent an artificial birth process for the androids?” Peter knew of course that any offspring would not be born of flesh and blood. However, a combination of two unique and independent android bodies could conceivably produce an artificial child who would be created in their likeness.

  Peter did not want to have his sperm saved to impregnate a healthy humanoid female. He only wanted to have a child with his forbidden love—Karen Hiroshi. If android procreation could be designed, he wanted to be the first parent of an AI. “There’s no rule that the baby has to grow inside the mother,” Peter thought. He could recall that plenty of children were grown outside the womb until federation law prohibited any birthing assistance by genetic enhancement or cloning. (This artificial birthing method was allowed to be continued for raising livestock much to the chagrin of animal rights activists.)

  “But this is a new planet, with new ideals,” Peter imagined. “The procreation of artificial life would represent a new race of beings that could rightfully claim Ceres as their birthplace. Every other being on the planet would in effect be aliens.”

  Peter could envision the planet’s governing body ratifying new laws in his building’s court room. “A constitution by its inhabitants and for its inhabitants…” Peter mumbled as he caught himself drifting off to sleep. Ciprelli took comfort in the fact that he would help usher in a new race of beings. He then fell soundly asleep until the next day.

  While some pe
ople look to build things up, others seek to tear things down. Mikola Petrovsky and his destructive thoughts had continued to maintain a low profile ever since the incident with the Starkman boy. Mikola utilized the opportunity to take stock of his life and how he had struggled for his success. He and Nadia had met in the Ukraine where they were born. Mikola studied engineering full time while his wife worked to support them. His first application to work for the World

  Aeronautics Association’s satellite location in his hometown had been rejected. Petrovsky then worked diligently at some odd jobs while his wife went to school for physics. When Nadia graduated, Mikola applied for their citizenship in the federation’s Northern Alliance which included the United States and Canada. Mikola knew he could not achieve greatness working in a satellite office. His ambition drove him to apply for a research and development position at the W.A.A.’s world headquarters in Virginia. Mikola wasted little time unpacking his belongings in his new home as he studied engine design and star ship schematics both day and night. Mikola was more than ready to ace the association’s entrance examination when he received news that the space organization would interview him.

  Mikola boldly spoke to his future bosses at the interview by telling them what was wrong with their ship design and how he could fix it. “I will help launch the vessel that takes us to new worlds,” he proclaimed. Although association officials were taken back a bit by his arrogance, they eventually decided they had nothing to lose by hiring such an eager worker. The association still had to prove to the government and its financial backers that they had perfected a self-repairing ship that could safely transport the citizens of Earth to new worlds. So far they had not exactly been able to wow the politicians with new technology. In eight months, Petrovsky provided a theory to build the largest hybrid powered ship ever made. The ship would convert space matter whenever possible to save on fuel consumption. It took another two years for Petrovsky’s design to be rigorously tested and proved feasible. Mikola was soon promoted to Chief Engineer of Research and Development for Star Ship Design upon its implementation.