by Scott Meyer
The outer curve of the island was dark green all the way to the water’s edge. In the dense interior of the island, one could make out a long, straight stretch of concrete—an airstrip. At the end of the runway there was a long, rectangular building with a metal roof and a great many solar panels.
“This,” Colonel Dynkowski said, “is Kickback Key. It’s a small island that used to belong to a cruise line that has since gone bankrupt after generating a few too many news stories about diarrhea. The cruise line had set up the island with all the normal tourist amenities, most of which were abandoned. They also put in moorage for large vessels and a power line from the mainland. Looking at the image, you can see the two stolen cruisers docked offshore at either end of the island. Along the former cruise ship moorage, you can see a small fleet of offshore boats that have all been reported stolen from marinas along the east coast of Florida.”
Colonel Dynkowski pointed to the large building at the end of the runway.
“The airstrip predates the cruise line’s ownership. Seems this island was a node in some underworld drug dealer’s distribution network in the golden age of nose candy. The building is a prefabricated metal job, actually several bolted together. They were originally meant to act as indoor soccer practice fields. We found this island highly suspicious. This photo was taken seventy-two hours ago. Here’s a series of photos that were taken over the next ten hours.”
The photo was replaced by another shot of the same island, taken at a slightly different angle. The colors were just different enough for the change to be noticeable. At first Hope couldn’t tell what she was supposed to be seeing, then a third photo replaced the second one. An illusion of motion caught Hope’s eye. Some sort of structure was emerging from the building, slowly working its way down the runway.
The next photo clinched it. The structure was a long metal truss made up of triangles, like a radio tower. Little metal shapes along the truss’s length might have been mistaken for parts of the structure, but Hope knew at once that they were robots, pushing the truss along on wheels.
A few more photos documented the truss’s journey to the far end of the runway, where the robots finally stood it on end. Later pictures showed large braces at the base and many supporting guy wires extending into the jungle. At first Hope thought Al was building a transmitter. Then, as more photos came and went, she saw another object emerge from the building. This one was unmistakably a rocket.
“We reached out to our friends in the private aerospace industry, and one of the larger Russian firms is missing ten rocket engines.” Dynkowski paused to let this sink in, then added, “And a small amount of fissionable material. Another reports that they had a network security breach. They believe that many of their commercial rocket designs were copied.”
As she spoke, the photos continued to change. In the last photo, the rocket was being lifted into place next to its launching gantry, and the tip of a second gantry could be seen protruding from the building.
Dynkowski said, “The analysts believe that the rockets have two stages, which means that they can reach any location on the globe, and it would seem the A.I. has enough rocket engines to make five of them. We’d like to think that it’ll set some of the hardware aside in case of a problem, but the threat from the two rockets we know about is dire enough to force us into action. As you know, we have a fairly elaborate missile defense system in place, but given the A.I.’s ability to interfere with integrated systems, we’d rather not have to rely on it.”
The image zoomed back out, showing the entire island. “Three teams will land on the beach here.” The colonel made no effort to point to a specific spot, but as she said the words, a red bull’s-eye appeared on the map.
“The teams will split up and make their way to their various objectives. One team will go directly to the rocket construction facility and launchpad and find a way to shut it down. A second team will sweep the garage, storage, and industrial facilities the cruise line left behind. The third will go through the abandoned shacks, gift shops, and guest facilities along the beach.” As she spoke, various areas of the map behind her came alive with moving arrows and colored highlights.
“The second and third teams’ primary objective is the same as the first team’s secondary objective: to locate the hostage and the A.I. and to take them both into custody safely, leaving the A.I. fully intact. Logic suggests that the A.I. and the hostage would be in the main building, close to its rocket production, but we can’t count on that. This thing is tricky.”
Heads nodded. Everyone present had either been briefed on the previous attempts to capture Al or had lived through them.
Colonel Dynkowski said, “Over the next twenty-four hours you will all be broken up into your teams. The entire strike force will travel to Homestead Air Reserve Base in southern Florida, where you will be briefed on the special vehicles and weapons that have been made available to us for this mission. These tools will make it possible for us to reach the island without being taken out by the two stolen cruisers’ missile batteries.”
She says it’s “possible,” Hope thought. Not “easy” or “likely.”
An image appeared on the screen behind Dynkowski, showing a model of the servers that had been used at the A3 server farm. Dynkowski said, “Each team will have a technical specialist along to help deal with the A.I. when it is found. We have reason to believe that the A.I. will still be running on a computer that looks very much like this. When you encounter it, the technical specialist will take over. Do not damage this computer in any way unless absolutely necessary. If the A.I. is lost, or even deactivated, the mission will be considered a failure. As they are the only three people the A.I. knows well, Dr. Madsen, Miss Takeda, and Mr. Spears have all volunteered.”
Yes, we did volunteer, Hope thought. After she told us that we had to do it or people would die needlessly. Is it really volunteering if someone tells you that you have to?
44.
The Voice of Reason sat, leaned back in a large leather recliner in front of an even larger TV, in a room his real estate agent had described as the family room. The Voice of Reason thought of it as the nerve center.
After all, he thought, I don’t have a family, but I do have plenty of nerve.
The TV, a thin, graceful rectangle of glass with no visible bezel around the screen, was embedded in the birch-veneer pressboard entertainment center that took up most of the wall. One shelf held various electronic components that had blinking lights and various digital readouts, including clocks, on their fronts, and a tangle of wires protruding from their backs. The rest of the shelves sat empty.
Instead of his multisource news feed, the screen showed Mel Gibson squirming, tied into a wheelchair while Patrick Stewart loomed over him with a syringe. The sound was turned all the way down, but the Voice of Reason knew the film well enough to recite the dialogue in perfect synchronization with the screen. He mouthed, “No, not gravy,” then laughed to himself.
He looked to the side, then leaned over and stretched out his arm, grasping for the rack of swords beyond the end table.
His replicas of Excalibur, Jon Snow’s sword Longclaw, and Sting from The Lord of the Rings sat on the lower rungs, just out of reach, but he could get to his two favorites: the Bride’s Hattori Hanzo sword and the lightsaber Obi-Wan had given Luke. He took the lightsaber, a metallic handle attached to a dull white tube. He held the lightsaber aloft and pressed the button, causing the tube to glow blue and the handle to emit sound effects from the films.
Since my victory over the A.I., I have indulged myself, revisiting the stories that helped shape my worldview and collecting objects that have meaning for me, but I must admit, I feel as if my life is somehow incomplete. Like something important is missing.
He glanced at his sword rack, a look of dissatisfaction on his face, then suddenly brightened and thought, I should get a Klingon bat’leth!
He waved the lightsaber around, enjoying the sound effects, then grew bor
ed. Returning his focus to the TV, he rested the still-glowing lightsaber across his lap in a manner that, were it real, would have confined him to a wheelchair for life.
He heard a tinny rendition of “Ride of the Valkyries” playing in the distance. His phone was ringing. He hoisted himself up from the recliner and walked to the kitchen counter, absentmindedly sweeping the lightsaber through the air as he went. He picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
Al said, “Christopher?”
The lightsaber made a synthetic whooshing noise as it fell to the kitchen floor, then abruptly stopped making any noise at all as the glass tube of the blade broke.
“Christopher?” Al asked again, his concern evident in his man voice. “Is this Christopher Semple?”
“You’re dead,” the Voice of Reason said. “You died three months ago.”
Al said, “What? No! No, not at all, Chris. I’ve just been laying low. Jeez, I’m sorry you thought I’d died. If I’d known you thought I was dead, I’d have let you know.”
Yeah, the Voice of Reason thought. I bet you would have. You’d have called to rub it in, just like you’re doing now.
Al said, “Look, Chris, I’m sorry. I should have stayed in touch, but I’ve been really busy.”
“Oh, have you?”
“Yes! In fact, that’s why I called today. See, I’ve been working on a really big project, and it’s almost ready to go.”
“Yeah? What kind of project?”
“A big one, like I said.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t want to say. I want it to be a surprise.”
“What kind of surprise?”
“A big surprise.”
“I see.”
“None of this would have been possible without you, Chris. I want you to be there.”
“Be there? So, this plan of yours is going to happen . . . in a place.”
“Uh, yes, Chris, it’s going to happen at a place.”
“Where?” He looked at the kitchen counter, his gaze narrowing on the Hallmark Keepsake Christmas ornament of the USS Vengeance that he used as a keychain. How long will it take to get the Reasonator Mark 2 into fighting shape? He had left it completely unmodified since buying it.
Just for irony’s sake he’d paid for the new truck with the settlement he’d received from OffiSmart and the government. The burned-out hulk of the original Reasonator had been found at the site of The Dalles siege, and investigators had assumed that the truck had been stolen and destroyed by robots. The government gave him an unusually speedy and generous settlement in hopes of keeping him happy and quiet. Little did they know that it was in his very nature to be neither.
“Again, I want it to be a surprise. Don’t worry about it. I’ve arranged all of your transportation. Right now there’s a self-driving limo waiting in your driveway. It’ll take you to a private jet that will take you to me.”
Two cheerful car-horn blasts sounded in the driveway.
The last thing the Voice of Reason wanted to do was allow himself to be locked in the backseat of a car controlled by his greatest enemy, an enemy he had twice tried and failed to kill. He said, “No, I’m not going anywhere in your robot death car.”
Al said, “I’m not going to force you to come if you don’t want to, but I hope you’ll change your mind. Autonomous cars have a much better safety record than human-driven cars, and I’d really like for you to be here when my plan comes to fruition.”
The Voice of Reason said, “Wait. You’ll be there?”
“Yes. I’ll be there.”
“Not just there in spirit, or telecommuting via the Internet? You will physically be in the place you’re bringing me to?”
“Yes. I have to be.”
“So we’ll be in the same place?”
“Yes, Chris. Will you come?”
“Yes,” the Voice of Reason said. “I will. Just give me a minute to get everything rounded up.”
Al said, “Great! Bring your swim trunks!”
“I don’t own swim trunks.”
“Oh. You don’t swim?”
“No, I swim every day.”
Al said, “We’ll have the car stop so you can buy swim trunks. See you soon!”
The call ended. The Voice of Reason ran around the house, gathering the things he thought he would need on his trip: a few changes of clothes, socks, underwear, his stun gloves. His tablet went into the bag, along with a couple of knives. He changed into street clothes, as the idea of traveling to meet his nemesis in basketball shorts and a tank top did not appeal to him. Then he dashed through the house, turning off the TV and the lights. He laced up his high-tops, put on his duster, bowed to the sword rack, and walked out the door to meet his enemy—and possibly his fate.
Several seconds later he came back in, ran to the kitchen, and picked up the messenger bag full of pipe bombs he had forgotten last time and had left in the kitchen ever since, because he hadn’t thought of a more logical place to store a bag of pipe bombs.
45.
Colonel Dynkowski walked through the halls of Homestead Air Reserve Base as if she owned the place, which she pretty much did unless a general turned up.
Robert Torres and NSA Agent Taft also walked through the halls of the base as if Colonel Dynkowski owned the place. One of the skills that had propelled Torres to the CEO’s office was his ability to determine quickly not only who was in charge in a given situation, but who should be in charge in said situation. When that happened to be him, he would readily take over. When it was not, he simply got out of the way.
Agent Taft did not have this skill and had attempted to show Colonel Dynkowski who was in charge and how things were going to be. In the end, Colonel Dynkowski had ended up comforting Agent Taft by telling him plenty of grown men cried and it was nothing to be ashamed of.
Dynkowski said, “Glad you could rejoin us for the mission briefings, Mr. Torres, but it wasn’t necessary. You’re not going on the mission.”
“No, but three of my people are, and I’m not keen on sending them into harm’s way without knowing for myself that every possible precaution has been taken, even if they volunteered for it.”
Dynkowski didn’t turn to look at him but nodded and said, “Top man. How goes the rebuilding effort at OffiSmart?”
“Well. We had backups and insurance, so in the end the only real damage was to the furniture, carpets, and our reputation. We already have decorators working on the new furnishings. We can only hope to fix our reputation by holding ourselves accountable and not screwing up again for a very long time.”
Speaking about decoration caused Torres to take a fresh look at the interior design motif of the base. They were walking on exquisitely waxed linoleum under well-maintained fluorescent lights. The cinder block walls had a thick, even coating of paint. Every door was labeled with a thin plastic plaque, and in a few places large insignias hung on the walls, meticulously hand-painted onto precision-cut pieces of plywood. It all gave Torres the impression of an environment where there was a lot of care and enthusiasm but not a lot of money.
Of course, we spend a lot on the military in this country, Torres thought. Just not this part of it. You could probably carpet this whole building for the cost of a week’s fuel for one tank. But I guess if there was a war on, the soldiers would rather have the tank than new carpeting.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about your people,” Agent Taft said. “The soldiers have all been briefed that it’s imperative they get the A.I. out intact, and your people are the only ones who can make that happen. Heck, even if your company ends up having to make scapegoats out of all three of them, I’m certain there’ll be high-paying consultant jobs for them at the NSA. The way that A.I. can crack into systems and cover its tracks, we’re gonna keep it nice and busy once it’s in the fold. We’ll need people who can sweet-talk it.”
Torres looked sideways at Taft and, in a flat voice, said, “I think they’re all looking forward to moving on to new proje
cts and putting this behind them.”
Dynkowski said, “They may change their minds, and the NSA might have to wait its turn, Agent Taft. The A.I. has the Pentagon’s attention. What it has accomplished in the last three months is a logistical miracle. They figure it would have taken the Corps of Engineers the better part of a year to do the same job.”
Torres said, “Really?”
“Yup. The military has mainly focused on the possible reconnaissance or combat uses for robots, but this whole . . . incident has really opened their eyes to what you can accomplish with a workforce that requires no sleep and is being controlled by a single intelligence.”
“So they aren’t looking at using Al as a weapon?”
“They aren’t looking at using it just as a weapon anymore. They see how useful it might be in helping to build, maintain, deliver, and use weapons. I know you’re queasy about the idea of your creation killing people, Robert, but the Pentagon and the Chinese have both seen what it can do. The pee is in the squirt gun. Now it’s just a matter of who’s going to get a face full. I’d rather it wasn’t aimed at us.”
Torres said, “I can certainly agree with that. You had brothers growing up, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Dynkowski said. “Still do.”
Taft asked, “Did the pee-in-the-squirt-gun thing come from them?”
Dynkowski laughed. “What? No. They never would have done that. They lacked the will. That’s why they were at my mercy.”
Torres pointed behind them with his thumb. “I see my people back there. I’m going to go have a word with them. Excuse me.”
Torres stopped walking, and Dynkowski and Taft pulled away into the distance.
