Renaissance 2.0: The Entire Series (books 1 thru 5)

by Dean C. Moore

  One man’s pet dog-machine did a mock sneeze, and the force was enough to blow it apart. Pity; it was a fairly lively adaption to give a dog.

  Another mechanical mutt encountered a real dog, and after the tussle, walked arthritically, its machined parts no longer able to give a semblance of real motion.

  One inventor’s mutt froze up, causing the owner to reach down with a can of oil. When that didn’t work, he was forced to take pliers and crescent to the assembled parts. When he set the dog down again, it charged headlong into a tree and crushed its head. After that, it stumbled about drunkenly, and fell over every time it got up. The owner picked up the creature and petted and carried it in his arms, consoled it, inferring it was capable of responding to emotion, perhaps as cover to avoid additional embarrassment.

  ***

  Further along the path through the park, a crowd had gathered. Chaplin approached to see what all the commotion was about.

  A couple of human-sized machine-men were slugging it out in a prize fight. Spectators’ hands were still exchanging bets.

  The rusted metal assemblies didn’t look all that capable of movement, but on that score proved quite surprising. Their punches, delivered metal on metal, hurt the ears. Their movements, their not-so-fancy-footwork, feints, tackles, holds, jabs, lunges, and wrenching spinal-twists, were the opposite of stealth. They made the kind of fear-producing sounds with the smallest of motions that Mort associated with the cocking of a shotgun, which Chaplin assured him had no similar equivalent in his era.

  Chaplin noticed several in the crowd sported these machine-men as bodyguards which looked capable of taking on ten or more men. How one would stop them, exactly, wasn’t entirely clear, as they were shielded just enough to make it uncertain where their vulnerable points were. A bullet, or projectile of any kind, wouldn’t do much to the metal joints. Chaplin thought, An explosive projectile, perhaps…

  He decided he wanted a couple of these machine men to take back to the factory to see what he could do to improve on them. They would make a welcome addition to the security team.

  The problem was how to entice the mechanical monstrosities away from their owners. If he flashed a lot of money, they could use the automatons to rob him of his small fortune, and keep the machine-men for themselves. Lucky for him, he’d taken it upon himself to leave the factory with a radio transmitter in hand. Now it was simply a matter of finding the radio frequency they were using, and jamming it.

  The imp’s modifications boosted the broadcast power on the signal Chaplin’s radio transmitter could emit relative to the competitors’ models. He took advantage of that to find the frequencies they were using, and jam them. He did more than that: he fried their control boxes from a distance.

  With the boxers going at it unimpeded in the circle of spectators, the two bodyguard machine-men were free to saunter off without drawing too much attention, except for the exasperated controllers working their radio frequencies, of course, and their owners.

  They looked far and wide for the culprit, but Chaplin remained inconspicuous; he kept his eyes on a newspaper he stole out of a spectator’s pocket, seemingly engrossed. His device was likewise much smaller than the controllers being used by the competition, allowing him to work it from inside his trench coat pocket, which also kept roving eyes off him.

  And the robots could outrun the humans. Chaplin capitalized on the longer range of his remote, and soon shook his human posse hot on the trail of the robots with which he had absconded. He had the robots running down one street, as he was coming up another.

  ***

  When Chaplin got back to the factory, the teens were showing off the retooled insect robots. They maneuvered them deftly into position along the catwalks and other fly-on-the-wall perches perfectly suited for keeping a quiet eye on intruders. The flying automatons buzzed around the shadowed aisles of equipment like fireflies, throwing sparks from the friction of their wings rubbing up against one another on a given setting. The small cameras and microphones attached to them, made the drones look like flying ants on safari with their saddle bags and shot guns. Their bug-eyes, doubling as lanterns, would alight briefly to assist the camera with capturing footage in dark areas. The cameras, mounted on top the thoraxes, trailed back to the rolls of film in the saddle bags, which could be retrieved later for grainy, not particularly sharp enlargements, considering the size of the film, but hopefully workable enough to provide useful intel. The boom mikes were either mounted below the thoraxes or disguised as long proboscises.

  Chaplin realized all these engineering modifications couldn’t have taken place in the little time he’d spent at the park. When he pressed the matter, it was revealed to him that the add-on devices had been liberated from Virgil’s own lab; the boy, evidently the Einstein of their times, had cashed in on his impish nature to stay a few steps ahead of Chaplin’s devious intentions. Chaplin howled with the delight that the “biggest mistake of his life,” inviting this kid onto their team, was turning out to be the biggest boon to his operations.

  Feeling rather proud of his efforts by way of his engineering team, the imp was acting all puffed up. Chaplin didn’t mean to steal his thunder, but that was the size of it when he said, “Meet my new friends,” and walked in the automatons.

  In the ensuing gasps and swoons and feet rushing to the machine men, the imp was all but forgotten.

  The teens soon had the automatons rough housing with one another. “Don’t break them!” Chaplin shouted. “Leastways, until we learn how to modify them.”

  He strolled up to Virgil and rested his hand on his shoulder. Together, they studied the robots. “You know, they’re going to need a lot of work, those broken down tin cans.” The term, inherited from Mort, was already growing on Chaplin: “robots.” Less messy than automatons and machine-men.

  The kid’s face lit up. “They are rather pathetic looking.” He sighed dramatically. “Maybe I can breathe some more life into them. I expect to be properly remunerated, of course.”

  “As soon as I look up what remunerate means,” Chaplin said.

  “Yeah, those bigger kids’ll be back to worshipping me in no time.” Virgil crossed his arms. “They’re not very smart, are they?”

  Chaplin was about to agree when Mort nudged him in a better direction. “In your hands, I imagine they’ll get a lot smarter. Be a true testament to your own genius to foster it in others.”

  “I suppose,” he said less than jubilantly. But Chaplin had planted a seed. He figured that was the best he could do while the kid was under the spell of his own ego.

  Had he developed a strong bond with this child over the years, Mort thought, only to fail him in some way, leading to still more trauma for the lad? Mort was still in search for the one big thing that had drawn him back to this period, as enchanting as it was. Maybe it wasn’t one big thing, but a lot of little things, building to critical mass. His relationship with Decker had been suffering due to inattention and brewing jealousies. Maybe by the time he had exited this life, he’d experienced enough failed relationships for him to be determined to do better next time. Whatever the reason for his return, he hoped he got brownie points for attacking the problem in earnest, come time to pop his head back in his other reality, his twenty-first century timeline with Gretchen and Santini. Maybe progress to goal, provided it was measurable, still translated to psychic energy recouped that could be put to good use in the present (circa 2012).

  The subject of tensions between he and Decker raised, however, it was time to do something about that. He stole up the stairs to Decker’s office.

  He opened the door to the office to find Decker surveying the plant below, and his atomic powered jet fully assembled. He was sipping whiskey on the rocks. Decker never drank, so presumably this was in honor of the project reaching completion at last. Considering they hadn’t done a test flight yet, “complete” might not be the right word. Nonetheless, he’d hit a milestone.

  “Congratulations!” Chaplin e
xclaimed. “I see you finally fit that bird together.” He hoped the remark hadn’t come across as too ribbing. It sounded better in his head.

  “I guess now we see if the engine thrust is too great for the fuselage and wings to bear. The plane might just disintegrate in the air. And as to the pilot... I still haven’t figured out what to do with him if he is forcibly ejected from the plane, assuming he survives the plane coming apart on him.”

  “A parachute,” Chaplin said, with a little coaxing from a voice in his head named Mort, which Chaplin may have felt no differently about than all the other voices in his head.

  “I don’t hold out much hope that at the speeds at which this bird’ll be flying, the pilot won’t be dead the instant anything goes wrong. He’d have to be thrown clear of the plane first.”

  “So make the seat ejecting, spring loaded maybe, or itself rocket propelled. And have the plane’s canopy be a window that can be popped free to clear a path for him.”

  “You’re feeling inspired today. You just saved me a month of pointless agonizing,” Decker said, with a friendly tone Chaplin hadn’t detected in a while.

  “Don’t mention it,” Chaplin said, taking credit for Mort’s idea. Isn’t that how it usually goes? Mort thought.

  After a bit of hemming and hawing and averting his eyes, Chaplin got down to business. “It may come as a surprise, but I didn’t come up here to talk engineering. In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve drifted apart. We got off to a great enough start, what with so much in common between us, but then we rapidly got lost in our own little worlds.”

  “I guess that’s how it is for men like us.”

  Eyes lowered, Chaplin said, “I must confess, I had ulterior motives, jealousy for one. I started to feel like an appendage, not all that necessary. It’s hard living in your shadow.”

  “My friend, if it weren’t for you, I’d be absent a muse. If I stand tall, it’s because I stand on the shoulders of giants. It has been you holding me up all this time.”

  “Well, that’s very nice of you to say, of course.”

  “What can I do to convince you?” Decker asked.

  Chaplin knocked one of the perpetual-motion balls on Decker’s desk against the other hanging balls. “Working together on a project would be a good start.”

  “Done. I’m ready to jump in on that ejection seat idea of yours. More brilliant than anything I could have come up with, by the way. Maybe it is you who are standing on my shoulders.”

  Mort puffed up, as did Chaplin. “Very well.”

  Walking down the stairs, Decker got a look at the two robots wrestling with one another, and the “fireflies” illuminating dark swaths of factory floor. “What the hell?”

  “They’re the latest additions to our security. The robots, which we will improve on, needless to say, will give us some well needed muscle around here, not to mention dialing up the intimidation factor.”

  “Just make sure our robots are bigger and badder than theirs,” Decker said. “Never considered one of those things breaking in the plant. Robots, you say? As opposed to automatons? Well, it’s easier on the tongue. And the fireflies, not that they don’t brighten up the place—in more ways than one?”

  “Mechanical insects adapted for spying with miniature cameras and microphones. And, oh yes, they have stingers like bees for injecting venom to incapacitate or even kill an intruder, or unscrupulous competitor.”

  “Just don’t go upstaging my plane, Chaplin. Or I’ll be the one walking around with a jealous heart.”

  Chaplin laughed. “Fraid I can’t take credit for any of it. Stole the machines from a couple inventors.”

  Decker nodded. “I remember when I was so far ahead of the pack, I had to wonder if I was born to the right era. Now, I can barely keep up.”

  “We live in interesting times. No doubt about it,” Chaplin said.

  “‘May you live in interesting times.’” Decker seemed to savor the words. “Isn’t that a Chinese curse?”

  “Ahem.” Chaplin loosened his tie around his neck. “Let’s hope we have better luck navigating the rapids of change than the Chinese emperors depicted in the I Ching.”

  FIFTEEN

  “What am I looking at?” Decker, who didn’t ordinarily involve himself in security matters, couldn’t help being drawn in as he walked by. He hovered at the workbench, holding the airplane piece he was intent on machining, and gawked.

  “These are snapshots of Weinermeyer’s estate, showing us what he’s been up to, provided by our trusty little spies.” Chaplin held up one of the flying robo-insects for him that had been retrofitted with a camera and lights. He affectionately squeezed the back of young Virgil’s neck. The prototype’s eleven-year-old inventor, ever eager to lap up praise, raised his fists in the air triumphantly.

  Decker examined the insect under his eyepiece. “We sell these to the government, we’ll have more than enough money to pay for my latest engine designs.”

  “You’re missing the woods for the trees.” Chaplin gestured, directing Decker’s eyes back to the screen.

  “What are you using as a medium to record the images?” Decker asked, continuing to focus more on the magic that went into procuring the images than what was actually on the screen.

  Curtly, Chaplin explained, “The film base is made of vulcanized rubber with a few inorganic compounds stirred in. The overlaid silver nitrate emulsion is highly flammable. Makes a damn good combustible when the pictures show up something of note. Just fly the insects at the target.”

  “Tell me those are artifacts arising from your remarkably brilliant yet crude manner of rendering images.” Decker sounded as if he was suddenly seeing the forest for the trees.

  “Nope.” Chaplin spoke with a resoluteness not usually found in scientists. “That, my friend, is evidence Weinermeyer has been inspired by his foothold in household kitchen appliances and in bomb-making to combine the two enterprises.”

  “To what end?”

  “Watch and see.”

  Hopping from landing to landing, the flying insects kept upgrading their vantage points on the factory hidden in the basement of Weinermeyer’s castle. Of course, the storyline was helped along by the fact that Chaplin and the boys had spent the better part of the morning editing the footage together under a microscope, painstakingly splicing one still photo against another.

  At the end of Weinermeyer’s assembly line was a wall full of portraits of famous and influential people, the power elite. Under each portrait was a drawing of the kitchen appliance disguising the bomb he intended to deliver to them.

  Decker made the final connections for himself. “He’s planning to destabilize the economy by systematically taking out the movers and shakers.”

  “In the vacuum, he can insert his own cronies, who, you can bet, will ensure future cutting-edge business enterprises will be under his purview, and get all the government coddling they can handle.”

  “I don’t need any more resistance in Congress to my ideas, Chaplin.”

  “Rest assured, the kids and I have this situation well in hand.” Chaplin squeezed the shoulders of two of his older lads and smiled his appreciation. They, too, hungry as always for praise, brightened at the thought of their role in things.

  “Well in hand,” said Dunstan, the eldest of the teens, a robust youth. The other teens snickered at the shared joke that Decker had not yet been let in on.

  “That’s my man, Chaplin, steering a path for me through this mad mad world so I can possibly make a difference. Do carry on.”

  Decker, walked off, returning his attention to his engine work, and leaving Chaplin and the boys to handle the rest.

  ***

  “Remember, lads, their robots are bigger. So ours have to be stealthier. Sneak attacks only.” Chaplin eyed the youths, who were spaced evenly apart on deck chairs above the submarine, which had surfaced so the boys could wield the remote controls on the robots in charge of the ground invasion of Weinermeyer’s castle.

>   The boys had to keep track of the action through telescopes enhanced for night-vision. “This’d be a lot easier,” Dunstan said, “if we could be up close to the action.”

  “I’m not risking the lives of my precious children, who I simply love too much.” Chaplin was getting in the habit of laying it on thick as there was a lot of loving missing from their childhoods that he had to make up for in his role as adoptive father.

  Virgil smiled. “You heard the man.” He shouted down the conning tower to the crew below. “Let the games begin!”

  Chaplin had left Virgil in charge of the campaign as chiseling away at his megalomania wasn’t exactly an overnight process. He checked in on the action through his binoculars.

  In the spaces between the deck chairs, portals opened up. Seconds later, the bombing campaign commenced.

  The shells fired out of the cannons below deck wore away at the edifice.

  Less than an hour later, the medieval fortress had been reduced to a pile of rubble. Admittedly, the blasting power of their meager shells was greatly assisted by the explosive force of Weinermeyer’s own kitchen bombs.

  The boys took the plugs out of their ears, and readied themselves for the next phase of their operations. “Commence stage two!” Virgil shouted.

  It was the robots’ jobs to peel away at the rubble to see if there was anyone alive down there. Weinermeyer’s body had to be found and confirmation of the kill established. Chaplin refused to rely on Weinermeyer being cooperative enough to stand around and wait to be blown to bits by his own bomb factory. He might not have had the chance to make it out under their sustained shelling. But he might also be alive, ensconced in one of the hidden passageways below ground. To find out, first they had to get past the robots roaming the estate.