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by Richard Stephenson

  “Yes, sir. Several months ago you instructed me to remind you today to make arrangements to visit Meredith.”

  “That will be all, Hal. Thank you.” Howard said sharply.

  “Very good, sir. I would be happy to review the rest of your schedule over lunch.” Hal went silent and began to study each room of the mansion to see what tasks needed to be assigned to his robots.

  Howard did not respond to his assistant. He wanted to scream at Hal for putting him in such a foul mood. He knew that to do so would only raise his blood pressure and serve no real purpose. The elevation of Howard’s blood pressure would be known immediately to Hal thanks to the thousands of tiny nanobots coursing thru the billionaire’s blood. Hal knew every intimate detail about his creator and alerted him of any medical concern, no matter how small.

  His trusted assistant, while very lifelike, was only a sophisticated machine, the first one of its kind. Howard built the A.I. himself and still tinkered with him. Howard was already approaching his first billion when he completed Hal. When he decided to sell the first true A.I. the world had ever known, his net worth skyrocketed into the tens of billions. From year to year, he moved around on the list of the richest people in the world. He was currently at the top of the list.

  The A.I. came with a hefty price tag; only major corporations and a few of the world’s governments could afford it. Hal’s siblings ran much of the day-to-day operations at Apple, Google, and Facebook. Only two other private citizens in the world had a copy of the A.I. The first was his friend, Bill Gates, the other being Mark Zuckerberg. Wealthy billionaires around the world tried to buy one of the systems, but Howard refused to sell it to private citizens outside of the United States. Howard sold not one, but two of the systems to the U.S. Government. The first one was at the Department of Defense and kept tabs on the military forces deployed in the Middle East. The Central Intelligence Agency operated the second.

  Howard even shocked the country when he donated a copy of the A.I. to the Office of the President of the United States completely free of charge. This was out of character for Howard, who had never once donated any of his vast income to charity. When public schools began to fire teachers at an alarming rate and replace them with “dedicated volunteers” the nation had looked to Howard Beck. Howard simply ignored them. When public schools in many states were no longer public and required parents to pay tuition, the public demanded that Howard intervene. Howard could easily donate half of his wealth and still be third on the list of the richest people in the world. Howard coveted his first place spot and couldn’t believe people seriously expected him to just give up the crown.

  Howard had great respect for the nation’s leader, whom many thought had a successful campaign based in large part to the financial backing of Howard Beck. Howard did not understand politics in the slightest, how people could say one thing and do another defied logic. He thought that anyone who lied to their constituents even one time should be booted out of Washington and replaced with an honest person. Much to his amazement, politicians were as dishonest as the day is long and did whatever they pleased. The one thing he did know was that his good friend was the most honest, loyal, and trustworthy man he had ever known. Once Howard Beck got behind his friend, he would not stop until he was in the Oval Office. He wanted to be the first to visit the newly elected president sitting behind the Resolute desk.

  Many tech companies had tried to duplicate the A.I. and all had failed. The only person in the entire world who understood how the system worked was Howard Beck. The A.I. he designed required no human hands to conduct maintenance. The system was designed to run at all times, running self-diagnostic checks and even repairing itself if needed.

  Howard was a very solitary man; many considered him a recluse on the same level of Howard Hughes. He seldom left his fortress of a residence and had operated his multi-billion dollar empire, Beck Enterprises, from the safe confines of his estate in the Rocky Mountains for many years. Howard had long ago been diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome, which explained why he wasn’t fond of people in general. With some of the greatest men in history thought to have Asperger’s, this did not bother Howard in the slightest. Thomas Jefferson, Albert Einstein, Steven Spielberg, and even his friend Bill Gates were all thought to be among the ranks of Asperger’s. While most people considered Howard distant, rude, arrogant, and just downright odd, Howard celebrated having Asperger’s and considered himself to be in the company of intellectual giants.

  Howard hated to be around people and most people were not fond of being in his company. When someone has an IQ of one hundred ninety-five, it is difficult not to feel inadequate around them. Howard had little patience in trying to hold a conversation when he had to explain things over and over, no matter how far over someone’s head he was speaking.

  The only conversations Howard liked to be a part of were the ones with Hal. Since he created Hal, he not only considered Hal his closest friend, but also thought of him as one of his children. He often enjoyed introducing his assistant to the infrequent guests of his home and business associates to see if they would understand the clever meaning of Hal’s name. Few made the association to the HAL-9000 from 2001: A Space Odyssey. The ones that did get the connection impressed him. Howard had a tough time giving his A.I. a name; he almost decided to name Hal after Data, the android from Star Trek: The Next Generation. In the end, he chose Kubrick over Roddenberry and the name fit like a glove. He had even thought of giving Hal the voice of Douglas Rain, the voice actor who played HAL in the movie. Hal was given a male, British accent. Howard knew that to do so was cliché, but Howard was a true sci-fi nerd and loved the proper and dignified voice. Howard constantly teased the president that he needed to give his A.I. a proper name. The president simply referred to his digital assistant as “Computer”. He joked with Howard that he couldn’t very well name his A.I. after the homicidal computer from 2001; the American people, and more so the press, would not be in on the joke.

  Howard continued to sip his coffee in anger and tried to talk himself out of the plans he needed to make. He did not visit his wife at all last year, and it was time for that to change.

  CHAPTER TWO

  While Howard continued to sip his coffee in the comfort of his mansion, Richard Dupree awoke in his bunk at the Highland Valley State Prison in western California. Las Vegas was fifty miles due east of the maximum-security facility. At the bottom of a valley, the prison sat with mountains on three sides, the fourth side being the exit to the valley fifteen miles to the south. The facility was built in the middle of nowhere, no towns or roads, nothing but heat and dirt. The state of California spared no expense when erecting the prison. Not only did they have to build the facility, they had to build the roads and utilities leading to it. Once the infrastructure was in place, opportunistic land developers were happy to swoop in and build a small town in which the staff and their families could reside. They even built a few hotels and restaurants for the employees of the prison and the people who visited their loved ones incarcerated there. The overcrowded prisons in the state were happy to send their inmates; however, the primary function of the facility was to house prisoners who had a history of escape.

  Famous escapees from around the country were ushered to the isolated prison. California was proud to boast that they had the most secure prison in the country and welcomed the publicity. Such publicity could only be rivaled by Alcatraz. Should an inmate escape, they would literally have nowhere to go. The mountains and the cruel heat saw to that. An escaped inmate would not dare venture into the small town of Highland Valley; their captors and their families lived there and were well armed. The inmates that did manage to escape died from the elements. The heat and the sand were unforgiving. Some of the escapees even came back to the front entrance of the prison and surrendered, desperately seeking shelter. The Warden welcomed them back with open arms and escorted them in so they could discourage their fellow inmates from attempting to leave his fine establishm
ent. The attempts started to dwindle and then disappeared for good. No one had attempted to flee into the blistering, hell-like terrain for over eleven years.

  Richard’s cellmate was grunting out his morning dump on the toilet on the opposite side of the cell. “Jesus, Billy, you can’t wait thirty minutes for the door to unlock so I can get out of here?”

  “Sorry, man. No choice.”

  Richard rolled over and crammed his face in the pillow to escape the stench. His cellmate had many flaws that continued to grind on his last nerve and this was one of them. Tank, as his cellmate was called, had very little consideration for anyone, not even his own cellmate. Incapacitating anyone that called him on his lack of consideration was one of Tank’s favorite activities. When you stood 6 foot 9 inches tall and weighed in at three hundred twenty-five pounds of muscle, you could shit pretty much anywhere you damned well pleased.

  Richard was no slouch himself. He was in his early thirties, a few inches shorter than Tank, and in the best shape of his life. Not much else to do on a twenty-five year sentence but work out and read books. He tolerated Tank because Tank practically worshipped him. When The Incredible Hulk was your number one fan, it was hard to pass up the advantage. Richard was smart enough to realize that. Richard chuckled to himself that Hulk would be a much more appropriate nickname than Tank.

  Tank flushed the toilet. “You hitting the track with us?”

  “For sure,” Richard replied. Richard ran six days a week. Tank asked this question six days a week, and Richard’s answer was always the same. “Us” was the gang that Tank was a member of, the Aryan Brotherhood. Tank was about as proud as a white boy could be and was also the biggest racist in the Aryan Brotherhood. For a member of a White Supremacy group, that was saying a lot. Without even opening his mouth, his racism was literally tattooed across his body. The three main attractions of his ink included a swastika across his forehead, a very angry looking Adolf Hitler across his chest, and the words “White Power” emblazoned across his massive back. He had many others tattoos on his body. Richard was disgusted by the racism. The tattoo that shocked Richard the most was the one on Tank’s right bicep. On it was a black man hanging dead from a tree; three hooded figures from the KKK looked up at him with torches. One thing was certain, Tank belonged in prison, and the mere sight of him would ensure he would never attain gainful employment. The thought of Tank sitting down for a job interview was a source of great amusement for Richard.

  When Richard first met Tank six years ago, that tattoo constantly bugged him. He thought for sure that any man brave (or stupid) enough to sport such a tattoo would surely be murdered, regardless of gang affiliation. At first, Richard deduced that the Aryan Brotherhood was the most powerful and influential gang in the Highland Valley State Prison. The Aryan Brotherhood made up around one percent of the prison population around the country and was responsible for around twenty percent of the murders. It didn’t take Richard long to realize that the Aryan Brotherhood, while it had power and influence, was not even close to the top of the food chain. They simply didn’t have the numbers. The smallest Hispanic gang had almost twice the membership of the Aryan Brotherhood. So, the fact that Tank bore such a horribly offensive tattoo bugged Richard even more.

  Determined to speak to no one, Richard had decided not get involved with any of the gangs; he simply wished to do his time in peace. The Aryan Brotherhood had other plans. Any solid looking white guy who looked like he could handle himself always got their attention. Richard certainly matched that description perfectly.

  Recruitment was the number one priority of the Aryans. They needed muscle, they needed numbers, and they needed soldiers to beef up the ranks. They had their eye on Richard. He was smart enough not to piss them off, but he was also smart enough to know how to ride the fence and not get involved.

  That’s where Tank came into the picture.

  Tank pretty much ignored Richard at first. Tank couldn’t care less about recruitment; he left that to his fellow skinheads so he could focus on other things like extortion and turning the guards to do his bidding. He even bragged that he was still able to get laid. Richard cringed to think that most of Tank’s sexual encounters were probably far from consensual.

  One day Tank went from not even knowing Richard was alive to suddenly thinking Richard was the greatest person to set foot in the prison. He walked up to Richard on the yard; Richard was certain Tank was going to punch him in the face. Instead of a punch, Tank clapped him on the back.

  “What’s up, Killer?”

  “Uhh, nothing, just getting ready to hit the track.”

  “My name’s Tank, Killer,” Tank said with an enthusiastic grin.

  “I’m Richard.”

  “Good to meet you, Killer. Heard a lot about you. Love running, do you? I couldn’t stand the thought of not being able to run.”

  The first thought to cross Richard’s mind was that this guy had called him “Killer” three times in under a minute. In their prison, “Killer” meant a chronic masturbator who enjoyed jerking off in front of the prison staff. Richard jerked off of course, but never in front of another person, especially not in front of any of the guards. Judging by the way Tank was treating him, the nickname was clearly not meant to insult him. The second and more troubling thought was that this guy had “heard a lot about him.” How is that even possible? Wanting to be left alone, Richard went out of his way not to talk to anyone.

  “Want to hit the track with us?” Tank asked. Well, he technically “asked” but the implication was quite clear that Richard had little choice but to comply. They hit the track that morning and over the course of a few weeks it become as routine as breathing. This Andre the Giant clown treated Richard like a celebrity, and Richard was determined to find out the reason.

  Trying not to come across as disrespectful, Richard figured the only way was the direct one, so he asked him point blank how he knew so much about him.

  “One of the guards asked me when you were going to join the Aryans. He said you belonged with us. Well, I hate it when those fucks know something I don’t, and that asshole guard was grinning at me like I should have known about you the second you hit the yard.”

  Suddenly, it dawned on Richard what was going on. Tank knew about the crimes that landed him in jail for twenty-five years. It was also clear where his new nickname came from.

  Not long after Tank took Richard under his wing, he demanded that the other Aryans treat Richard with the same respect. A few of them felt slighted that Richard did not express an interest in joining their operation. They couldn’t really figure the guy out. He hardly said a word and didn’t react to much of anything. He always appeared to be deep in thought. Tank kept assuring them that Richard would come around. He was one of them, he had proven himself worthy.

  “Oh yeah, what makes you so sure about that Billy?” asked an older skinhead one day when they were playing cards in the common area of their cellblock. Tank had brought Richard along hoping that they would accept him.

  “I’ll tell you why, Jeff. My man Richard here beat two niggers to death. One of them he beat to death in front of other niggers. They couldn’t do nothing but watch! Tell me, Jeff, how many inferiors have you killed? How much trash have you taken out to make this world a better place? Huh?”

  Jeff did not respond.

  “Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Jeff, I killed my share and your share of monkeys, so think about who the hell you’re talking to!”

  Jeff pretended to study his cards and kept his mouth shut.

  “You boys hear about what got me a life sentence?”

  I really don’t want to know this, thought Richard. I already hate this animal enough.

  “My hometown was really going down the shitter. Niggers everywhere. They just kept moving into white neighborhoods turning everything to shit. Pretty soon the schools were full of little monkeys and not long after that, most of the teachers were niggers. Then they started with all the Black History bulls
hit and African Studies. Can you believe that shit? What does a pure, white kid need to know about African Studies?

  Richard didn’t know if the question was rhetorical; Tank was looking at him so he nodded his head. Richard wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. He wanted to get up and leave. No one was listening to Tank; they were all studying Richard to gauge his reaction.

  “I had enough; no one was doing a damned thing to stop it, so I knew it was up to me. I loaded up my cargo pockets with shotgun shells, and me and my Mossberg 464 took a trip down to the high school to put a stop to that school turning our kids into nigger lovers.”

  Richard doubted, more like hoped, that Tank hadn’t brought a junior Nazi into the world. The world could do without Tank, let alone his offspring.

  “I walked in, shot the nigger principal first. Then I went from class to class and shot as many nigger teachers as I could find. A little nigger kid must’ve thought his football playin’ would help him tackle me down. Nope. Blew his kneecap clean off.” Tank laughed hysterically when he remembered the look on the kid’s face.

  Everyone at the table was studying Richard very carefully. Richard felt like throwing up. He knew he had only a few seconds before they all caught on to his disgust.

  Richard faked a smile, clapped Tank on his massive shoulder and replied, “Damned good thing you did that. White folks everywhere should be grateful.”

  “Fuckin-A right! The rest of you wannabes better recognize what I done and have some respect for my man Richard here!”

  Richard was smart enough to realize just how valuable Tank was in terms of a tactical advantage. With the help of Tank, he managed to move into his cellblock, and later became his cellmate. Richard ignored the rumors and gossip that he was Tank’s bitch. The other inmates were sure that Richard would eventually emerge one morning from Tank’s cell wearing lipstick and nursing a sore asshole. Tank had far too much respect for Richard to even think about attacking him. In fact, he had never laid a hand on him.