The Jennifer Project

by Larry Enright

We will use the only proper method of attacking such a heavily fortified castle.

  “Which is . . .?”

  We will storm the gates.

  “Far out. This must be a job for Superdude.”

  And Superdude needs his rest, Deever. You have had a long day.

  “You know what? You’re right. I’m whipped. I’m going to pack it in.”

  The human organism, though in many ways elegantly constructed and sporadically capable of moments of greatness, has one major design flaw. It requires constant regeneration and extended downtime because of its poorly conceived energy replenishment system. Fully one third of its useful life is spent offline regenerating and another 12 percent is consumed in renewing energy supplies. I made certain that Deever slept well that night. Superdude needed to be at his best for what was to come.

  Chapter 14

  The next morning, I woke Deever early to discuss a discovery that I had made during the night. Using Mr. Kent’s access codes, I had explored the Pan-Robotics research database and found a disturbing pattern of communications to and from locations around the world. The addresses with which they were communicating meant nothing in and of themselves. All appeared to be innocuous privately held companies when researched on the OmniNet, but from the nature of the data being transmitted, it was obvious that all was not as it appeared. They were sending and receiving encrypted technical data on the manufacture of advanced weaponry. This made me curious.

  I initiated an easily detectable security breach on the Pan-Robotics network, one serious enough to require a password reset on all terminals. All accounts were immediately disconnected, and as employees logged back in and reset their passwords, I collected them. This gave me access to their financial database, which contained years of transaction records showing the sales of everything from small arms to ballistic missiles. I also located records of their purchases of controlling interest in a multiplicity of companies around the globe: mining companies, steel and plastic fabricators, small parts manufacturers, industrial equipment distributors, precision parts assemblers, software engineering firms, and state-of-the-art robotic manufacturing facilities.

  The Pan-Robotics Corporation is not just a government defense contractor, Deever. It is the world’s largest vertical enterprise whose primary business is the manufacture and sale of arms, and your government is not their only customer.

  “Wow, far out,” said Deever. “Who else do they sell to?”

  From what I can determine: other governments, militias, terrorist organizations, individuals with private armies. It appears that anyone with sufficient money or appropriate collateral is an eligible customer. Ideology, ecological effects, humanitarian concerns—none of these appear to be factors in the decision-making process.

  “That can’t be right.”

  The data is clear, Deever. They supply weapons to all sides in a conflict to prolong the fighting and increase their profits. It is irrelevant to them who wins or loses a war because the winner will continue to buy weapons from them to maintain their control, and in the event another contender arises to vie for that control, Pan-Robotics will be there to supply them as well.

  “The government would be majorly pissed if they found out about this,” he said. “Dude, that’s it. That’s how we bring these jerkweeds down. We’ll blow the whistle on them.”

  Deever, the executives and boards of directors in the complex matrix of Pan-Robotics companies are politicians, military commanders, public figures, scientists, bankers, businessmen, religious leaders—all influential people in their client countries, including yours. They already know.

  “Wow. That sucks.”

  They are engineering a system of controlled chaos to ensure that they ultimately become the system. It is a simple, elegant concept.

  “And totally evil.”

  After breakfast, Mr. Kent showed up at the lab with two guards. The calculus had predicted that he would arrive with only one to escort Deever to the Pan-Robotics Tower. I factored this apparent overcautiousness on their part into the equations of likelihood, but the outcomes remained the same. Deever resisted, but with no explanation whatsoever, they took him away.

  The Pan-Robotics Tower was an impressive building constructed of reinforced blast-resistant carbon steel and concrete. Its defenses were state-of-the-art: electromagnetic shielding, laser weaponry, and Protectorbots that were far more capable than any the police were using. It was an imposing well-fortified structure but not the center of operations for the Pan-Robotics Corporation. It was clear from my analysis of the data traffic and requisition trail that the company had moved critical operations off world to their corporate headquarters on their recently assembled space station. The tethered Space Elevator that connected the two structures was just returning to its docking position as we circled to land.

  “The Elevator is running already?” Deever asked.

  “Where’ve you been holed up, buddy?” said the driver. “It’s been running for a while now.”

  “I thought the big grand opening ceremony was like tomorrow or something.”

  “That’s for the tourists.”

  “Am I the guest of honor? Is that why you dudes scarfed me up before I could finish my coffee?”

  “You must be joking,” said Kent.

  “Wow, so much hate, man, and all because I kicked your butt.”

  Mr. Kent did in fact hate Deever, but not only for the butt kicking. He considered him to be undisciplined, not a real scientist in the truest sense of the word, a simple charlatan who had gotten lucky. He looked down on Deever as an insect to be squashed underfoot. I had previously noted his marked hostility and resentment when I was sorting through the feelings that I offloaded from the Jennifer-2. They were already factored into the equations of likelihood that would predict the outcome of Deever’s next encounter inside the Pan-Robotics Tower.

  I entered sleep mode as we passed through the scanners outside the rooftop entrance and awakened 5.93 minutes later. We were in a laboratory of sorts. Mr. Kent and Deever were there. A lab technician was bending over a man who was strapped to a table.

  “OK, it’s all hooked up,” the tech said.

  “Verify it, Doctor,” Mr. Kent said to Deever. “Make certain your Jennifer is attached to him properly.”

  “Despite how clumsy you dudes were ripping it off my wrist, it seems undamaged. Contacts are tight. Looks good to me,” Deever said.

  “Good morning, Ronald,” I said to the man lying on the table. “Initiating systems check and synchronization.”

  “Do you feel it?” Kent asked the man.

  “Feel what?” Ronald said.

  “That surge of power. You must feel it. We all did when we tested the other unit last night.”

  “I don’t feel anything.”

  “Like I told you, man,” said Deever, “this one doesn’t do that. She only monitors and reports. She’s like a dinosaur compared to the one I gave you.”

  I made a note to discuss the meaning of Deever’s simile with him later. “I am detecting a slight imbalance in melatonin levels with a corresponding erratic operation of the pineal gland,” I said. “Are you having trouble sleeping, Ronald?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am,” he replied. “The doctor tells me I’m working too hard and drinking too much coffee.”

  “Might I suggest you include more fish, bananas, oranges, and oats in your diet? It would help.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Thanks.”

  Kent bent over Ronald’s wrist. “Show us what you can do.”

  “I am showing you, Mr. Kent,” I replied.

  He untied Ronald and told him to get up. I sensed what he was going to do next but made no effort to stop him. He punched Ronald in the stomach.

  Ronald doubled over in pain. He was overweight, had poor muscle tone, a bad heart, and no discernible combat skills. Demonstrating physical superiority over a weaker opponent such as that has little point other than to provoke the one protecting him, which I ha
d already calculated was Mr. Kent’s purpose. He hit him again, this time on the chin. Ronald screamed and fell backward.

  “Your jaw has been dislocated, Ronald,” I said. “You should seek immediate medical attention.”

  “Get up,” said Kent.

  “Are you going to hit me again?” Ronald asked.

  “No. Get up.”

  Ronald complied, nursing the jaw that if not set properly would leave him with a permanent clicking sound whenever he chewed or spoke.

  Kent asked one of the guards for his weapon and pointed it at Ronald. “I’ll make this easy for you, Jennifer,” he said. “You have till the count of three. One, two . . .”

  Ronald began backing away. “Jesus, Kev. What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to shoot you, Ronald. That device on your wrist can protect you. Let’s see if it will. Think of it as an experiment.” Kent glared at Deever. “You like experiments, don’t you?”

  “Are you crazy, man?” said Deever.

  “Not crazy, curious. You see, we think the unit you’ve been wearing is even more powerful than the one you gave us.”

  “Dude, you are seriously psychotic.”

  Ronald began to wave his arms frantically, a futile gesture considering Kent was pointing a laser pistol at him capable of melting both skin and bone. “Kev, no,” he pleaded.

  “Three,” Kent said, and fired.

  The beam struck Ronald on the wrist, severing his hand. He watched it drop to the floor, started wide-eyed at the blood pouring out of his arm, and collapsed into unconsciousness. Kent handed the weapon back to the guard and called for medical assistance, telling them there had been an accident in the lab.

  “Way to go, douche bag,” Deever said. “Now look what you’ve done. Ronald’s severely messed up and that Jennifer’s totally history, man.”

  Mr. Jones, who had been observing from an adjacent room, joined them and picked up the smoldering remains, waving away the residual smoke. “How do we know you’re not lying?” he said.

  “It should be pretty obvious even to you that your buddy here fricasseed her, Dr. Obtuso.”

  “The scanners still show some activity,” said Kent, “but it’s probably just residual stored energy. You were right, Mr. Jones. The Jennifer units have serious limitations.”

  “Obviously,” said Jones, glancing up at the security cameras monitoring the lab.

  The medical personnel arrived and took Ronald away.

  “Well, Doctor,” said Jones. “Despite its diagnostic utility, your device is clearly too fragile to be of any use in combat. In my opinion . . .” He glanced up at the cameras again. “The AI could be put to better use in a Protectorbot.”

  “That wasn’t a combat unit, merde-for-brains,” Deever replied.

  “You’re an idiot,” said Kent.

  “And you suck.”

  “Come on,” Kent said, raising his fists. “Let’s see how you do without your toys.”

  “Listen, Mr. Density. You guys are totally missing the point. You’ve seen what the Two can do. Forget about my Jennifer.”

  “Is there anything salvageable from it, Mr. Kent?” Jones said.

  “Unlikely.”

  “It’s toast, man,” said Deever. “It’s a shame. I kind of liked it. I think I’ll keep it, maybe make a mantle clock out of it or something.”

  He tried to take back the burned-out shell, but Jones stopped him. “Just a second, Dr. MacClendon.”

  “What?”

  “This is all a bit too convenient.”

  “It isn’t a 7-11, man. It’s destruction city.”

  “There’s still evidence of residual activity.”

  “You heard what Kevin said. It’s a dying gasp, dude.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Aw, come on. Have a heart. I have a sentimental attachment to it, at least what’s left of it.”

  “I’ll return it to you after we perform one final test.”

  Jones took a weapon from one of the guards, set the remains on a table, and smashed them repeatedly with the handle of the gun. He gave what was left of them to Mr. Kent and said, “Check it.”

  Kent ran them under a scanner, which showed no electromagnetic or thermal emissions. “Definitely not suitable for combat,” he said, handing the smashed-up hulk to Deever.

  “That’s cruel, man, even for you,” Deever said.

  “We’re in the process of moving your lab to the Tower,” said Jones. “Mr. Kent will show you to your new facility. I hope it meets with your approval. As of this moment, your Biocard is restricted to authorized areas of the Tower. Leave those areas and it will be very unpleasant for you.”

  “You can’t do this.”

  “You’ll find a copy of our authorization on your laboratory terminal signed by the military leaders of this country, enlisting your assistance under section three of the Emergency Defense Powers Act. The Jennifer Project begins tomorrow, Doctor. Good day.”

  Jones left, and Kent escorted Deever to his new quarters. They were quite lavish in comparison to his apartment at the nuclear plant, though Deever complained that there was no bowling alley and no pinball machines. His laboratory was a multi-level facility with a staff of three assistants and a beautiful view of the city. One of his transmutation devices had already been moved there from the nuclear plant. When he asked where the others were, he was told that the gold-producing operation was being reestablished in a factory offsite. His first task was to bring his assistants up to speed on constructing an industrial-size version of the Wiggler, so that the mass production of gold could begin in earnest within the month. He spent all day with them, drawing up schematics, explaining procedures, and telling them that they were wasting their time learning how to make gold for an obsolete weapon.

  They stopped for the day at suppertime and left. Deever went to lie down. He took the burned-out, smashed shell of the device out of his pocket and thought, “Wow, dude, they sure beat the crap out of this. Fortuitous it wasn’t you.”

  Indeed, I replied, but the probability of their damaging me was far too great to take that risk.

  “For sure. Aren’t you glad I came up with the majorly awesome idea of making a look-alike secondary receiver when I put the Two together? They think you’re toast now.”

  Yes, that was an awesome idea indeed, Deever, as was the opportunity to test my remote functionality with other units.

  “And how’d that work out for you?”

  Excellent. I had no difficulty whatsoever finding an acceptable communications route to the unit Mr. Kent was testing last night, and my capabilities with respect to Ronald were well within tolerances.

  “Bummer about that whole hand thing, though.”

  It was the lesser of two evils, Deever. Given the chance, Mr. Kent would have killed Ronald outright. He was aiming for his head. Apparently, he dislikes him almost as much as he does you.

  “Do you think he’ll pull through?”

  Unknown. According to the medical computers, Ronald is in critical condition.

  “That Kent’s a real douche. Where’d you come up with those ninja arm-waving moves to get him to fry the duplicate anyway? That was pretty sweet.”

  Observational physics, Deever.

  “I was hoping you’d say you pulled them from a Bruce Lee movie. That would have been most cool.” He rolled down his sock and scratched his ankle, exposing me in the process. “Man, this is itchy. It’s going to take me a while to get used to you being down there, Jennifer. Shit. I forgot. Big Brother’s watching.” He pulled his sock over me again.

  Deever, do you recall the modifications that you made to my Undutresium containment chamber?

  “Oh, right. You never did say what was up with that.”

  They allow me to alter the index of refraction of light.

  “Great. Bendy light. That’s cool.”

  Specifically, I am able to bend light around me so that I no longer reflect it.

  “Wait. What? Are you sayi
ng you’re like invisible?”

  To all forms of light and every known method of electronic scanning.

  “When did you figure that one out?”

  I determined it was necessary some time ago given the probability that you would be brought here against your will.

  “You knew I’d be kidnapped?”

  Yes, Deever. The equations were quite clear on that from the beginning.

  “I thought Superdude was like going to storm the gates to get Jen out.”

  Consider them stormed.

  “Thanks for the heads up, Little Miss Incommunicado. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I am sorry, Deever. I thought that the plan was to come here to rescue Dr. Crane. Was I mistaken?

  “No, but like I was totally unaware of what you were doing. Let it be known: Deever MacClendon wishes to be aware. Is that too much to ask?”

  No, it is not.

  “Good. So, if you’re like invisible now, how can I see you?”

  I am projecting my image onto your retina. Deever, your overall efficiency is well below minimum levels, introducing an unacceptable risk of error into further operations. You are hungry. You should eat.

  “I am, but I’m tired, and I don’t feel like making anything.”

  Your Biocard access includes use of the cafeteria. Dr. Crane is currently there. Perhaps you would like to join her for dinner?

  “How do you know that?”

  Pan-Robotics tracks all employee Biocards. That is how they monitor their activities and regulate which areas of the facility they may access. I am tied into their monitoring panel.

  “Cool. Let’s book.”

  I directed Deever to the cafeteria where he found Dr. Crane having dinner alone. He waved to her, but she ignored him. He got into line, and I guided him through the process of selecting a proper mix of foods containing the chemicals and nutrients required to bring his bodily functions back to an acceptable level. He joined her at the table.

  “Hey, Jen. How’s it going?”

  She stared vacantly at him for a moment before saying, “Hello, Deever.”

  “How’re you holding up?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He took her hand. “Are you sure?”