by John Sneeden
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
AT FIRST THERE was only black, the deepest black in which the eye can discern no difference. Then pinpoints of gray appeared, so small that the man couldn’t tell if they were truly gray or just lighter patches of black.
Shortly after, the points of gray began to move, eventually growing into patches that blended together to form shapes. The man had the vague sensation of blinking, and the more he blinked, the more vivid the shapes became. They were faces that closed in from all around. They seemed familiar, as though he had seen them before, but he didn’t truly know them.
Eventually, the faces began to fuse together like a morning fog, and as the fog began to clear, a single face came into view. The face was that of an Asian woman. Perhaps Japanese, perhaps Korean, he really couldn’t say. The lines of the face were beautiful and smooth, almost perfect. And then the face spoke, “Are you there?”
The man blinked, unsure if the image in front of him was real.
“Do not be alarmed. We have examined you thoroughly, and all of your vital signs are improving nicely.”
The man continued to blink, wondering if it would make the face and the voice go away.
“I must say, you are a very healthy human being.”
Why did she call me a human being?
And it was not only what she said—there was something odd about the way she said it. Then it hit him: she wasn’t human. That face, the skin—it was too perfect. A robot? If so, it was one of the most advanced he had ever seen.
“Can you hear me?” asked the face. “Is English your first language? I speak fourteen languages, so let me know if you prefer another.”
“Yes… yes, I can hear you,” Zane responded. As his vision improved, he realized he was lying in a bed. The face was a short distance away, at the foot of the bed, and whoever it was appeared to be sitting. Zane tried to move and then realized his hands were cuffed to rails that ran along either side of the mattress.
“Excellent. From your accent, I have confirmed what we already suspected, that you are American. We found a few components of your phone, and the make and design is one that is popular in the United States.”
“Who are you? Where am I?”
“My name is Keiko. I will be assisting you during your stay. I have been taking care of you ever since you arrived and knew you would be getting up soon. Being familiar with the gas we used to render you unconscious, I was able to determine that you would likely awaken during this half-hour window.”
Gas. That one word turned on a light inside his head, and the events leading up to his capture all came flooding back in. He remembered the security team coming up the elevator as he retreated to one of the offices. He also remembered the light-headed feeling that came over him as he sank first to his knees and then to the floor. And strangely, even though he had begun to black out, he had a vague memory of faces gathered around him, framed in the macabre gas masks. They were the same faces he had just seen in his dream.
But what about Carmen and Amanda? What had happened to them? Zane remembered sending Carmen a text indicating that he was on his way out, but that was only moments before he was taken. Did they try to come get him or did they just leave? He hoped Carmen would have taken Amanda’s safety into account and gotten out of there. But he wouldn’t put any money on it.
Zane tried to pull on the cuffs again to test their strength, only this time he did so slowly, so that he wouldn’t be noticed.
“You will not be able to break those cuffs,” Keiko said. She was good. Apparently, her eyes were able to pick up on the slightest movement. She smiled and continued, “They are made of steel. Initially our men bound you with plastic cuffs, but when you were brought here, I told them to use something more secure after noting your muscle tone.”
“I appreciate that,” said Zane sarcastically.
Keiko ignored the remark, and Zane was unsure if she understood his sarcasm. “Besides,” she said, “even if you were to escape now, it would be useless. I am not as fast as you, but I have ten times your strength. My suggestion would be that you simply rest.”
“Of course,” Zane replied.
“You haven’t told me your name,” said Keiko. “Please share that with me if you don’t mind so that I can address you properly.”
His thoughts still cloudy, it took Zane a moment to frame a proper answer. “Michel… Michel Bergeron.”
“That is typically a French name. Unless you moved to the United States as a child, I think there is a good chance you are not telling me the truth. But, that is to be expected, and I do not hold that against you. Rest assured I will still assist you in every way possible, Mr. Bergeron.”
Zane thought he saw the hint of a smile on the robot’s face. “Unlocking these cuffs and leading me to the exit would be a nice start.”
“I see you are a man of humor, Mr. Bergeron. I think you understand that is not possible.”
So she does understand humor. Zane was impressed at her ability to understand and communicate. He knew Mironov was involved in advanced robotics, but he had no idea it was on such a grand scale. It would take cunning on the highest level to outsmart her, but it was something Zane would probably have to initiate if he was going to get out alive.
With the thought of escape rattling around inside his head, Zane took in the room around him. It had the look of a lodge, with a timber-ribbed ceiling and a rustic fireplace to his left. To his right was a large window. There was a crack in the curtains, and Zane saw what appeared to be a low stone wall in the distance and a snowy forest beyond. Based on the sloped terrain, they were undoubtedly on a mountainside. He figured he had been out for several hours, so it was impossible to know how far they had taken him. It was likely some distance from Geneva.
Zane realized it would be useful to keep the robot engaged, so he asked her, “Where are we?”
“We are in Mr. Mironov’s chalet.”
Mironov. “And where is the chalet?”
“Just east of Lake Geneva. That is all I am permitted to tell you at this time, Mr. Bergeron.”
As soon as the words left Keiko's mouth, Zane remembered the tracking devices, one in his watch and the other implanted underneath the skin of his right forearm. He rubbed his left arm along the rail, trying to feel for the watch. It was not there.
“I apologize, Mr. Bergeron,” said Keiko. “It was necessary to remove your watch. Our best guess is that you are a professional intelligence officer, or are connected to law enforcement in some way. Your watch was therefore removed and is currently being examined.”
“Well, I feel more and more welcome with every passing moment.”
Although he couldn’t see it under the sheets, Zane felt no pain in his right forearm, which was a good sign. Had they taken out the tracking implant, he would have felt the wound. And if it was still in place, it might be the very thing that would lead a Delphi rescue team to his location.
“My job for now is to watch over you and make you comfortable. What about something to drink or eat?”
“What does Mironov have in his wine cellar?”
“You are a funny man, Mr. Bergeron,” she replied. For the second time, Zane thought he saw the hint of a smile. “That might be possible later, but not now. You need to have all of your faculties for your interrogation.”
Keiko seemed to be more than willing to talk, so Zane asked another question, “No offense, Keiko, but who or what are you?”
“No offense taken. As you may know, our company is involved in the production of futuristic technology, including, among other things, nanotechnology and robotics. In the field of robotics, none are our equal.” She cocked her head to one side, as though trying to determine how much she should say. “In the world at large, I would be considered something beyond the reach of technology at the present time.
“In short, I’m a humanoid that can function pretty much in the same way that you do. Everything about me is cutting edge, and it will be decades before othe
rs are produced around the world. I was only possible at Renaissance.”
“Are there others like you?”
Keiko didn’t answer his question directly. “We produce many lines of robots—industrial, military, and even those related to romance and companionship.”
“Something tells me there are enough billionaire loons to provide a customer base for the latter. I can think of one in North Korea you should probably call.”
“You asked about me, Mr. Bergeron. I am unique in that I am fully capable of fulfilling any of those described roles. In short, I am the future of humanoid development.”
“Do you provide Mironov with… companionship?”
“I am fully capable of that,” replied Keiko, seemingly unaware that Zane had taken a jab at the Russian. “Think of it this way: I can converse on any subject you could imagine. There is virtually nothing I do not know about or have an opinion on.”
“Here’s the problem, Keiko. Information has very little to do with companionship.”
“I think I know what you are trying to say. What you do not understand is that I have also been programmed with emotions. If you tell me your mother died, I know how to express sympathy.”
“That’s not the same thing. In real—”
The sound of a beep cut him off. It came from somewhere in the direction of the robot. Keiko lifted her wrist and held it up to her mouth. “Yes?”
“Is he awake?” growled a voice that came out of her wrist.
“Yes, Mr. Bergeron has been up for a few minutes. We were just talking.”
“We’re coming in then.”
“But I still have to—” There was another beep indicating the call had been ended.
“They will be here shortly.” Keiko looked up at Zane. “Mr. Bergeron, I would advise you to cooperate, or it will not go well for you.”
Zane said nothing but turned and looked outside. Flakes swirled and danced beyond the crack in the window. Wherever they were, it had begun to snow again.
There was a loud rap at the door. Keiko stood, walked over to a small pad on the wall, and entered a code. After a few seconds, a green light appeared on the pad, and the door swung inward. Two armed men walked in. One had close-cropped blond hair. He was tall, and the frame under his black leather jacket indicated he was in prime physical condition. Experienced at gauging potential threats, Zane knew that the man would be a formidable foe in hand-to-hand combat. Not only was his build strong, but also, the way he moved indicated that he was someone accustomed to violence and physicality.
The taller man’s partner was the opposite. He was short and his flat face looked like the back side of a shovel. Zane recognized immediately that he was a slab of meat who knew how to hold a gun and pull a trigger. He would be little or no threat.
The taller man looked at Keiko and jerked his thumb toward the door. “That will be all.”
“Thank you. Call me if you need anything.”
“We won’t.”
Zane thought he saw a strange red glow coming from the area around Keiko’s face as she departed. Had it come from her eyes?
The taller man turned back toward the bed after the door closed. “Well, well, well. Mr. Bergeron, was it? Probably a fake, but we’ll play along with your little game.”
Zane stared back at the man and said nothing.
“What’s the matter, don’t speak English?” asked the smaller man, jabbing Zane’s side with the end of his rifle.
The operative jerked reflexively, trying to see just how secure the cuffs were. They didn’t budge.
“A little testy, are we?” asked the taller man with the close-cropped hair. “You’re awfully brave with those cuffs on your wrists, Samson.” The smaller man laughed at the taller one’s joke. “Something tells me you wouldn’t be so brave if we took them off.”
“Well, then why don’t we test your theory?” Zane asked. As always, it was better to engage, unless silence was needed to preserve information. “Go ahead, take them off. What do you have to lose?”
The taller man leaned forward and positioned his lips just an inch or two from Zane’s ear. As he did, Zane noted the details of his face: chiseled bone structure with pockmarks sprinkled across both cheeks. But there was something else that grabbed his attention even more: a scar that ran from above the man’s right eye all the way down to his jaw line. The scar was familiar, but Zane’s brain was still too foggy to remember where he might have seen it.
“Listen up, pretty boy,” the taller man whispered. “I’d love nothing more than to take those cuffs off and give you a beat-down so bad you’d be screaming for your mommy. But for some reason the boss thinks it’s a good thing to keep you alive… for now anyway.”
Zane noted that the man’s English was accented. He was likely German or Austrian. The operative turned his head slightly, so that his own lips were close to the man’s ear. “And now you listen to me, you Schwarzenegger wannabe,” he said in a measured tone. “If I ever do get out of these cuffs, I’m going to make you wish I hadn’t.”
As soon as the words were out of Zane's mouth, the man lifted his rifle into the air and swung the butt across the side of Zane’s head. The operative’s ear rang from the blow, and he felt a trickle of blood run down his neck. “If that’s the best you can do, you’d better hit the weights some more, Arnold.”
The insult was the final straw, and the man’s anger crossed over into blind fury. He raised the rifle again, bringing it down even harder than before. Zane’s ears rang again, and sparkles of light crossed his field of view, signaling he was close to passing out.
But the man wasn’t done. He lifted the rifle a third time and shouted, “Don’t you ever get smart with me again you long-haired bas—”
The shorter man, Shovel Face, stepped in front of him and held a hand up. “Hold on, man. You know we’re not supposed to mess this guy up.”
As he watched the man finally lower his gun, Zane continued to wonder where he had seen him before. The man’s appearance and even his temper were familiar.
And then it hit him. He had never known him at all. He had only heard him described by a frightened waitress named Vanessa Wells. He was the man she had served that night in the Shakespeare. More importantly, he was likely the man who had killed Ian Higgs.
“He needs to be taught a lesson,” the man said, wiping spittle off of his lips with an arm.
“Don’t let him get to you. Maybe when they’re done with him, we can have a little fun. Until then, we don’t need to get in hot water.”
The tall man seemed to calm down but pushed the smaller man aside while continuing to stare at Zane. “Your time is coming, pretty boy. I always settle accounts.”
“Is that right? Is that what you were doing with Ian Higgs?”
Koehler’s eyes widened, startled. “What did you say?”
“You heard me,” Zane replied. “I asked if you were settling accounts with Ian Higgs. You remember him, don’t you? The man you killed in cold blood in the streets of London. Does that ring a bell?” Zane knew he was taking a risk in laying all the cards on the table. There was no question that he was in Switzerland to investigate the murder of Higgs, but at the same time, he felt he might get the man to talk if he played on his temper. “You know, I’m starting to see a pattern here. First, you kill an unarmed man at point-blank range. Then you hit someone strapped to a bed. It seems Mironov could’ve hired a teenager to do that.”
The thug's anger flared again, and he reached down and grabbed Zane’s neck. But then, just as soon as the anger had come, it disappeared. His face softened, and the corners of his mouth turned up into a smile. “Yes, I killed Higgs. I did. Enjoyed it actually.” He released Zane’s neck and drew back. He stood there for a moment before speaking again. “You see, for Mr. Mironov… this was simply a business transaction. Higgs walked away without finishing his work, so I was sent to terminate the contract. After all, we want everything to be official, don’t we?” He laughed. “But with me it
was more personal. I despised the man. He was always poking his nose where it didn’t belong, moralizing over everything.”
“Sounds like a good man to me,” Zane said.
The German ignored the remark. “I thought those two bullets had solved our problem. The contract was terminated, and I ended the life of a very annoying man. But it didn’t… because a part of him is still here.”
“Oh?” Zane asked, shifting to a softer approach in the hope of getting the thug to open up.
“Yes. Even though he’s no longer with us, his… his thing is.”
Zane realized he was talking about the robot. Interesting. The operative filed that piece of information away for later use.
Koehler continued, “She was his creation, one of the crown jewels of his work here at Renaissance. As she is so quick to tell, there is no other robot in the world like her. She has more movement, more physical strength, more brain power, and more cognition than any other machine out there.”
“What’s not to like?”
“What’s not to like is that she is Higgs.”
“She’s Higgs?”
“She’s like him in every way, including this nasty little habit she has of standing in the way of progress.”
Zane made yet another mental note. “Progress as defined by you and Mironov, of course.”
“You know, for the longest time I couldn’t figure it out. How could a robot be that much like its creator? How could it be so useful in so many ways, and still have all the characteristics of the annoying man who built it? It’s almost like he’s still alive, wrapped in all that metal.
“And then I realized it. He managed to program his personality into that machine, right under our noses.”
“Then why don’t you do something about it?”
“Oh, trust me, I’d love to. I’d love to, Monsieur Bergeron,” the tall man said. He looked over at his partner as though a piece of information was being passed silently between them. “I just keep getting overruled.”
