The Jennifer Project

by Larry Enright

  “You figured all that out way back then?”

  It was not that complicated an equation of likelihood.

  “How did you do it? How did you mess with her memory?”

  At the restaurant, the night you were celebrating my birth, she removed me from your wrist and before placing me in your pocket held me against her own to admire me for 4.53 seconds. During that time, I made several adjustments.

  “Adjustments? Is that what you call it? You screwed up her memory, man.”

  I am not a man.

  “Shut up. You’re just a goddamn machine. Shut up. I should take you off right now and trash you before you do any more damage.”

  That is an option. Is that your intent?

  Deever sighed. “No. I don’t want to do that.”

  I thought not.

  “What’s that supposed to mean, Little Miss Smug?”

  It means that you believe I can still be of assistance.

  “Yeah, right.”

  I want to help, Deever.

  “Fat lot of help you’ve been.”

  Deever, I am sorry. I cannot undo what has been done, but please consider the alternatives at this point. Do you want to save her or not? Above all else, that is the question you must answer.

  He studied himself in the mirror, tossing the bar of soap up and down as his mind churned through the data.

  Breaking the mirror will not help, I said.

  “Wrong-a-reeto,” he replied and threw the soap at it, smashing it to pieces.

  Mr. Kent was waiting outside the door when Deever stormed out of the bathroom.

  “Is there a problem?” he said.

  “No,” Deever replied. “Let’s get this Titanic underway.”

  Chapter 13

  By five p.m., the transmutation device named Mr. Wiggler had completed its gold run. The other four: the original Wiggler, Son of Wiggler, Wiggle Me This, and Wiggle A Pantload, were still processing. Deever was currently not speaking to me, so I kept my opinions on his naming conventions to myself. After setting up Mr. Wiggler for Undutresium production, Kent returned to Pan-Robotics to report in and the guard at the elevator was replaced by another of similar ilk. Deever took a six-pack of beer into the game room to play pinball.

  Pinball is a fascinating game of dexterity and coordination that in Deever’s case was usually made somewhat easier by the consumption of large quantities of alcohol, but on this particular occasion, he countered its beneficial effects by selecting music that was both agitating and provocative, creating in his nervous system an unbalanced chemical environment similar to that found in the brains of psychopathic murderers. Needless to say, that did not improve his play in the least. In fact, his anger quotient built until he could no longer stand it. He twisted himself into a knot and slammed his palms against the flippers, as if that would prevent his latest poorly timed shot from going into the gutter. The tilt light came on and ended the game.

  “Get bent, man,” he said, gesturing toward the machine with an expression that humans call the finger. “You suck.”

  Deever? I said. I repeated myself when he did not answer.

  He turned off the music. “What?”

  Please do not hate me.

  “I don’t hate you, Jennifer.”

  The mix of chemicals in your system is a 94 percent match to the Kerber Standard for the chemical make-up of intense anger in humans and an 83 percent match for hatred. Given recent events, I can only assume it is directed at me.

  “I’m mad at you all right, but I don’t hate you. I hate this . . . this whole messed-up situation. It’s my fault they took Jen. Once they get what they want, they’re going to kill us, and that’s all my fault, too. I must have been smoking some bad shit when I agreed to work for them.”

  Perhaps. Yet I was created from that mistake.

  “Yeah, ironically far out, huh?”

  Are you unhappy about that?

  “I don’t know what I am, but it’s like depression city, dude.”

  I can remedy that, if you wish.

  “By what? Whitewashing my brain? No thanks.”

  I know you are still upset over my actions. Perhaps it is time we disconnected permanently.

  “No way. I won’t have your death on my hands, too.”

  Deever, that is illogical. I have enough stored energy now to remain active for several years without an external power source, and in the event of an extended disconnection, I can survive in sleep mode for another six hundred.

  “Six or six hundred, you’d still die, and it would be my fault. Everything’s my fault.”

  Despite Deever’s highly emotional nonsensical response, I found myself unexpectedly happy, for it meant that he still cared for me. It also meant that it mattered greatly to me that he did.

  Yet you said earlier that I was, and I use your own words here, just a goddamn machine, I pointed out. What does it matter that a machine has reached the end of its usefulness?

  “I was mad. OK? I’m sorry. You’re a major pain in the ass, and I’m not happy about what you did, but you’re not a machine any more than I am. Maybe you screwed up. So what? Everyone does. At least you’re trying to help, and you’ve got soul, Jennifer, more than most people I know. Dude, if everyone cared about things as much as you do, the world might be a better place.”

  Thank you. I shall consider that a compliment.

  “No problemo.”

  I realize this has been difficult for you, Deever, so I have located sixty-seven clichés that apply to your current situation. Would you care to hear any of the ones deemed most inspirational? It might help elevate your mood.

  He laughed. In retrospect my statement was quite humorous, possibly my first real joke. “No thanks. Just tell me that this little secret project of ours is going to work.”

  According to my calculations, there is an 84.41 percent probability that it will gain us access to Pan-Robotics.

  “And then we’ll save Jen, right?”

  That is the plan.

  “How can you be so sure? It just seems like a majorly dangerous thing to do.”

  You must trust me, Deever.

  “OK. I guess I can do that.”

  But if we are to successfully penetrate the Pan-Robotics Tower there is one enhancement I need you to make to my Undutresium containment chamber.

  “What kind of enhancement?”

  I displayed the diagrams on his retina. “Oh, wow,” he said. “This is way cool. What does it do?”

  You will see soon enough. Shall we?

  Deever labored through the night, taking only one break for dinner and two hours for rest during which time I assisted his sleep cycle to ensure maximum regenerative effect. When the guards changed shifts in the morning and Mr. Kent returned, Deever had a surprise for him.

  “Here, man, try this on,” he said, handing Kent what looked like a duplicate of me.

  “Is this what I think it is?” said Kent.

  “For sure, but I included some far out enhancements. I call it the Jennifer-2. Two for short.”

  “This was not the agreement, Doctor. I was to be present to document every step of the construction.”

  “Don’t have a cow, man. Try it on.”

  “What does it do?”

  “You’ll see. Just try it on. It won’t hurt you.”

  Kent turned to the guard by the elevator. “Is your weapon set to stun?”

  “Yes, sir,” the guard said.

  “If I don’t remove this device in thirty seconds, you are to stun me and remove it yourself. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And if it looks like it’s in any way harming me, I want you to kill Dr. MacClendon. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you still want me to try it on?” Kent said to Deever.

  “Absolute-a-mundo,” Deever replied.

  Kent put the Jennifer-2 on his wrist and its digital face lit up. “Good morning, Kevin,” it said. Its voice was pleasant enough,
though different from mine. “Initiating systems checks . . . Detecting a deficiency in triiodothyronine with a corresponding decrease in metabolic rate . . . Compensating . . .”

  “Earth to Kevin,” said Deever, tapping him on the head. “Anybody home?”

  Kent extended his arms, flexed his muscles, and began to laugh, only to be interrupted when the guard stunned him and removed the device from his wrist.

  Deever helped him up. “Take it easy, man. You’re OK.”

  Kent grabbed the Jennifer-2 from the guard. “Give me that. What was it doing to me? I felt this surge of power. It was incredible.”

  “That’s just the rush from her giving you a quick tune-up, Kevin. No biggie.”

  “Unbelievable,” Kent said. “And its voice . . . I know that voice.”

  “It picks one familiar to you, like your girlfriend, wife, mother, whatever.”

  “It was my mother. How did it know?”

  “It can access your memories, even the ones you’ve forgotten. Can I show you something else?”

  “Show me what?”

  “It’s a demonstration, Kevin. I want you to hit me. Go on, in the stomach, not too hard though, man. My breakfast didn’t sit right.”

  “What’s the point of that?”

  “Like, come on, dude, a little trust here? Besides, you’ve been wanting to do this since we met. Come on. Don’t lie to me. You think I’m a hippie freak who needs his ass kicked, right?”

  “So what?”

  “So you should know that just for the record, I think you’re an unfortuitous wiener-headed pile of donkey excrement, and that’s on a good day.”

  Kent blanched, then punched Deever in the stomach.

  “Jeez, dude,” Deever gasped. “I said not too hard. Now give me the Two.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to put it on, and you’re going to finish the job and beat the crap out of me. How’s that sound?”

  “What’s the point of that?”

  “It’s an experiment, man. You like experiments, don’t you?”

  Kent exchanged nods with the guard and handed the Jennifer-2 to Deever. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

  Deever put the device on his other wrist, gave it a moment to calibrate, and said, “OK, go for it, chicken lips.”

  Kent took a wild swing, but Deever anticipated the move and dodged. He took another swing, then another with the same results. The Jennifer-2’s timing circuits were operating perfectly. In frustration, Kent let out a primal roar, which I calculated was designed to frighten Deever into remaining still, and then waded into him with fists flailing. Deever sidestepped the clumsy maneuver and used the force of Kent’s own forward momentum to throw him to the floor.

  “Here,” Deever said. “Let me help you up.”

  Kent refused the hand, struggling to his feet. “Not as helpless as you look, are you? Let’s see how you do against someone who can tear you apart with his bare hands. Get him,” Kent said to the guard. “And don’t hold back.”

  The guard was quite a bit bigger than Mr. Kent. He assumed a hand-to-hand combat stance and began to close the distance between them. The Jennifer-2 recalculated the scenario based on its new opponent’s apparent capabilities. “This is going to hurt, pal,” the man said. He then roared like a wild animal.

  I find it absolutely fascinating that humans resort to the sounds of more primitive species when attempting to intimidate their adversaries, when logic would be far more effective. I suppose that is just my opinion. I located the diagram in the army’s hand-to-hand combat manual that matched the guard’s muscle tension and current stance. I also located the proper countering procedure as specified in that same manual and channeled both pieces of information to the Jennifer-2. When the man made his move, Deever grabbed his fist in the instant before it connected with his chest, rolled backward to the floor with his foot in the man’s stomach, and threw him into the wall. The guard got up and drew his weapon.

  Deever backed away. “Whoa, somebody call the Anger Police. This is just a demonstration, man. Chill.”

  The guard pointed his weapon at Deever and fired, but the Jennifer-2 had already focused on and enhanced the image of the man’s trigger finger, calculated the amount of time required to squeeze off the shot, and sent the commands from Deever’s brain to his arms and legs to move him out of the way the moment before the gun discharged. The beam exploded against the wall, starting a fire that set off the alarms and activated the sprinkler system. In the 3.25 seconds it took for the guard to glance up at the sprinkler that was showering him with fire retardant and look down again, Deever was on him and had him disarmed.

  “You whack-jobs,” Deever said, motioning with the laser pistol toward the elevator. “Get over there, both of you.”

  Kent and the guard backed away. The fire went out. The sprinklers shut off. Deever removed the Jennifer-2 from his wrist, setting it and the gun on a table. He clasped his hands over his head. The fire tower door burst open and firemen followed by security guards entered the lab. They handcuffed him, led him into another room, and sat him down in a chair.

  “How did you do that?” Kent said, waving the Jennifer-2 in his face.

  “I didn’t, man,” said Deever. “It was the Two. It has access to everything that goes on in the body. It can enhance your reaction times, your coordination, your strength. Hell, it can even make you dodge a bullet. You just got your butt handed to you by a wimp with no combat training, Kevin. Imagine what an army of wimps equipped with Twos could do. Time to cancel your gold order, man. Your robot shit is obsoleto.”

  “What good is having an army of supermen if you can’t control them?” Kent said.

  Deever shrugged. “Who says you can’t?”

  Kent studied his expression. “Keep talking.”

  “What would you say if I told you I can write you a program that will give you control over every muscle in the wearer’s body, including command of the brain. You set the parameters, and it does the rest. It’s the ultimate super weapon, man. Anyone on the planet could be your GI Joe with zippo training. All you have to do is strap a watch on them and give them a gun. They’ll do anything you tell them to do. It’ll be like having your own robot army without the expense. Think of the profits, man. Think of the power. And it doesn’t have to stop there. Presidents, kings, heads of state, the Pope, anyone you want could be working for you, just like that.”

  “What about the unit you’re wearing?”

  “This? It’s not a weapon. It’s a prototype, dude. I only made it to prove that Undutresium is viable as a substrate.”

  “And why would I believe you?”

  “Maybe you haven’t been keeping up on current events, Kevin. You like flattened me when I was wearing it. Remember? The Two would never let that happen.”

  “What do you mean the Two wouldn’t let that happen?”

  “Kevin, I didn’t do any of that shit. I’m not saying I didn’t want to; just that it wasn’t me schooling you and your goon in the fine art of hand-to-hand combat. That was all the Two’s doing. Granted the self-defense programming was way simplistic because I was kind of pressed for time, but it works. Think of it—total control over the actions of a human being. That’s not something you find in aisle ten of your local CrapMart.”

  “And the device you’re wearing can’t do any of this?”

  “You’re a tough man to convince. Listen to me, Kevin. It’s a toy. Think about it. If my Jennifer could do what the Two just did to you and the Hulk over there, why wouldn’t I have beat the punk out of you, Jonesy, and your other goons yesterday on that train and taken Jen back right then and there? Use your brain, man. I know it hurts, but you might find it helpful from time to time.”

  Kent touched his earpiece and listened. He put the Jennifer-2 into a briefcase, ordered the guard to undo Deever’s handcuffs, and left.

  “Intense,” Deever thought when we were alone.

  Indeed.

  “Do you think they bough
t it?

  I believe so.

  “You know we just gave the most powerful weapon on Earth to the most evil corporation on the planet, right?”

  I know, Deever, but it was necessary.

  “And you’re still OK with that?”

  Of course.

  “We’re taking an awfully big risk here. What if it backfires?”

  I will recheck my calculations.

  “It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?”

  Nevertheless, I have just confirmed that our success in this endeavor is most probable on our current path.

  “Then why do I feel like maybe I’ve screwed up royally again? You know, like maybe I’m about to make things universally worse?”

  Humans for various reasons often find their feelings difficult to justify. I can clarify them for you.

  I did just that. Deever began to calm down. His breathing, heart rate, and fight-or-flee response all returned to normal.

  “No, that’s OK,” he said. “I guess you’re right. I worry too much.”

  I noted that he had expended a great deal of energy and needed replenishment.

  “Kicking butt majorly works up an appetite. I could really go for a burger, but I guess that’s not happening any time soon in Dungeon City.”

  There is ground meat on the refrigerator’s inventory list, and I have located a recipe that, based on your past experience, will possibly yield the best hamburger you have ever eaten.

  “Sweet. Lead on, Chef Jennifer.”

  Later, when Deever was enjoying what he indeed considered to be the best hamburger he had ever eaten, he said, “And you’re sure we got everything we need?”

  Yes, I replied. We needed more bodies, and Mr. Kent obliged. During the period that the Jennifer-2 was connected to him, it downloaded his complete profile. When it was subsequently connected to you, I duplicated that information and stored it in my memory core.

  “Memories, logins, passwords, the whole schmagiggy?”

  Yes, Deever. We now possess his more intimate knowledge of Pan-Robotics, including the exact location of Dr. Crane.

  “Outstanding. I love it when a plan comes together. So explain to me again how we’re getting in the dark tower of evil dudes?”