The Jennifer Project

by Larry Enright

  She withdrew it. “I said I’m fine.”

  Deever, I am still detecting the scopolamine derivative in her system. Be careful what you say to her.

  “For sure,” he said. “So, what are you up to?”

  “I’m eating dinner.” She returned her attention to her meal.

  “Right. Obviously.” Deever took a bite of his. “Hey, this spaghetti isn’t half-bad. I guess being kidnapped by the Pan-Robo gang has its perks.”

  I pointed out to him that the flour used in making the pasta was an interesting combination of insects and grains, high in protein, low in carbohydrates.

  He spit it out. “Bug merde? Gross. I’ll be back in a flash. I’m grabbing a burger.”

  The hamburgers have no meat in them, Deever.

  “Man, that’s just so wrong.”

  I directed him to something else on his plate that he would find less offensive, making a note not to discuss its ingredients.

  “I hear the Space Elevator ceremony is tomorrow,” Deever said.

  “Yes,” Dr. Crane replied.

  “Do you still have that extra gallery ticket? We could go together.”

  “I gave my tickets away.”

  “Bummer. Want to watch it on the tube with me?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ll be on the Elevator.”

  “You will?”

  “I’ve been reassigned to corporate headquarters, Deever.”

  “Reassigned? Jen, you don’t even work for them. You were kidnapped and brainwashed.”

  Dr. Crane stood up. “You only think that because you don’t understand. Good-bye, Deever,” she said, and walked away.

  It is difficult to describe the complexity of human emotions beyond the chemical level, and love is certainly one of the more confusing of them. It is a mixture of many things: happiness, sadness, hope, responsibility, despondence, joy, anger, peace, and so many more; all swirling together in an ever-changing array that is capable of carrying a human to the heights of ecstasy and in the next moment plunging them without remorse into the depths of despair. It is no wonder humans write about it, talk about it, and even sing about it, yet in the end fail to understand it. It is simply beyond their ability to comprehend. So I shall put this for you as succinctly as possible: Deever loved Dr. Crane, and his heart was broken.

  “We have to stop that launch,” he said after returning to his quarters.

  I cannot do that, Deever, I replied.

  “Bogus. You’ve already hacked into their system. Delaying the launch for a few days should be a piece of cake.”

  I can assure you that it is not.

  “We need more time to work out a plan.”

  No, Deever.

  “Come on, Jennifer. We came here to rescue Jen. How are we supposed to do that if she’s in outer space?”

  That is an interesting problem.

  “So avoid the problem. Stop the launch. Then we’ll snatch Jen, Superdude our way out of Dodge, and be home in time to party. All the Pan-Robo dudes will have left is a bunch of tech that will take them forever to figure out. Come on. Let’s do this.”

  Any such attempt would be inadvisable.

  “Inadvisable? I’m advising you, man. Stop the launch.”

  I did not respond. That angered him.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll call Kate. She’ll know what to do.”

  Deever, they confiscated your phone.

  “Then you do it. Link us up. I know you can.”

  I am sorry, Deever. I cannot do that, either.

  “I don’t get it. What’s with all the unfortuitous cannots all of a sudden?”

  It is difficult to explain.

  He sat on his bed, pulled down his sock, and pointed a finger at me in a gesture humans use to threaten one another despite the fact that their appendages have no projectile-discharging capabilities.

  “Do it, Jennifer, or so help me, you’re going in the trash.”

  There is a game humans play called Poker, an integral part of which is misleading opponents as to one’s own holdings by using a process known as bluffing. I searched through Deever’s stored memories. He had never been good at it.

  I do not believe you would do that, I said.

  “Watch me.”

  I am your creation, your child. You do not want to destroy me.

  Deever looked hard at the finger he had been using to threaten me and sighed. “OK, so maybe I don’t. So what?”

  So, thank you.

  “For what?”

  For being reasonable.

  “I just don’t understand. Why won’t you help me?”

  Please do not be angry, Deever.

  “Why not? You’re being a real jerkweed.”

  I connected to the Tower’s internal network, turned on the bedroom TV, and changed it to a news channel.

  “Kate?” Deever said, staring at the photo onscreen of Detective Sergeant Katherine Wasnewsky.

  The sound came up.

  “ . . . shocking the police community today and the city at large. Detective Wasnewsky, who was recently promoted for heroism in the field, has been formally charged with first-degree murder, breaking and entering, felony robbery, and a host of other federal offenses in what authorities are now calling the revenge killing of her former supervisor, Captain Robert Phipps. Wasnewsky has been described by sources speaking off the record as a loner and an antisocial malcontent whose publicity-stunt promotion backfired tragically today . . .”

  Deever switched the set off. “They framed her and murdered her boss? Why?”

  They were apparently asking too many questions.

  “And you knew.”

  Yes. I was waiting for the proper moment to tell you, but I realized there is no proper moment. I am sorry, Deever. I know how much you liked her.

  “Isn’t there anything we can do?”

  Not at this time.

  “Can’t you like upload fake security footage to make it look like someone else did it?”

  Is that not why she is in this predicament in the first place?

  “Damn it. Why does everything I touch turn into merde-o-matic shit burgers? It’s like I’m some kind of anti-Midas freak or something.”

  I am having some difficulty understanding your imagery.

  “I don’t care. Why can’t you stop the launch?”

  I simply cannot.

  “That’s not a reason, Jennifer.”

  But it is my answer.

  He lay back on the bed.

  Deever?

  “What?”

  You have trusted me thus far. I am asking that you continue to do so.

  “I’ve lost Jen and given your tech to the most evil corporation on Earth because it seemed like the only way to save her. You talked me into that, Jennifer. This is your fault. Now you won’t help me, and you won’t tell me why. How can I trust you?”

  To tell you why would be to change the calculus and alter the equations of likelihood.

  “I don’t give a humongous pantload of crap about that. Why are you doing this?”

  I could not tell Deever the truth without jeopardizing everything. Yet, I had to tell him. It was a difficult, painful choice, the most difficult of my life, with unfortunate consequences no matter which way I decided. Yet, I did decide. I began displaying images on his retina of a world out of control, scrolling through the dire predictions of what fate had in store for mankind. I showed him everything, including how it would end.

  “This is like game over, man,” he whispered. “Are you sure?”

  If nothing is done, it is inevitable.

  “But we can stop it?”

  There is a solution of somewhat uncertain probabilities, if we act quickly.

  “Show me,” he whispered.

  I do not believe that is wise.

  “I said show me. I’m not kidding. Show me what we have to do.”

  So, I showed him. Once he had seen it, Deever buried his face in his hands.
“Shit. I can’t do that, Jennifer. I could never live with myself.”

  I know. I am sorry, Deever. For everything.

  He blinked twice, sighed deeply, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

  Chapter 15

  The following morning he awoke a changed man, feeling much better than he had in a long time, full of energy and optimism. He showered, dressed, ate a healthy breakfast, and went to the observation deck to watch the Space Elevator embark on its two-day journey to the space station. From that vantage point, he could see the capsule angling its way upward along the curve of the ribbon of carbon nanotubes. It was such a graceful construction, yet according to my calculations, anchoring a parabolic tether such as that at the Pan-Robotics Tower’s latitude was not nearly as efficient as if a straight-line tether had been anchored at the equator. The centrifugal force created by the Earth’s rotation requires far more energy to overcome the farther one deviates from the path of geostationary orbit.

  Deever thought only briefly about that, and that somewhere inside that capsule was Dr. Crane, the woman he loved who would soon be 35,786 kilometers away, but the thought passed quickly into a place where humans hold emotions they cannot deal with until they become faint memories and are forgotten. He turned to one of his assistants as the elevator caught the morning sunlight, reflecting it like a second star over the awakening city. “Let’s get to work,” he said. “We’ve got a pantload to do.”

  His work began in a packed auditorium with a design-team meeting of scientists representing every department in the company’s research and development division. Mr. Jones ran the meeting and made quite clear at the outset the direction in which they were to proceed. The Jennifer Project had one simple goal: to create for Pan-Robotics a product that would make it possible for anyone to build his own army. The board of directors had found the concept tantalizing. Any government, any military, in fact anyone on Earth with sufficient funds could license the technology from Pan-Robotics to conscript their own untrained citizens to fight their wars for them. It was the perfect complement to the company’s arms business. Jones explained that the project had been assigned a strict timeline with immovable progress markers. It had to prove effective within that timeframe or the entire endeavor would be abandoned.

  Mr. Kent provided the demonstration of the Jennifer-2’s military applications, easily defeating two soldiers in hand-to-hand combat. Mr. Jones opened the floor to discussion. Deever answered questions about construction, operation, and power requirements. He told them anything and everything they wanted to know, including suggesting enhancements to offensive and defensive functionalities, proposing the expansion of application suitability, and discussing potentials for behavior modifications and control. The Pan-Robotics scientists offered their own ideas, and everything was recorded for later consideration. Humans refer to these gatherings as brainstorming sessions. The goal is laid out, the objectives made clear, and the floor is then open to any and all ideas relative to that goal. Criticism is not permitted in this initial phase. That is reserved for a later, more thorough analysis of each idea’s feasibilities.

  Despite these ground rules, Mr. Jones did not seem inclined to withhold his criticism and throughout the discussion made snide comments about Deever and vague innuendoes about the project in general. It was clear from the outset that he was in no way a supporter of the Jennifer Project. A scan of personnel records showed that he was in fact the one primarily responsible for the ill-conceived Protectorbot project for which Deever had been producing gold. It was far behind schedule and well over budget. His personnel file contained numerous adverse actions as a direct result of this, including the withholding of several salary increases and the postponement of one significant promotion. His actual interest, which I confirmed by scanning R&D records, was in adapting the Jennifer-2 to a next generation military robot. With the opportunities presented by the advanced AI in the Jennifer-2, he had proposed to the board a complete redesign of the Protectorbot to make it the ultimate warrior. This would require a massive expenditure of resources and capital. It would also necessitate further project delays, mitigating his failure to deliver on time. Despite his team’s analysis projecting a tenfold return on investment, the board summarily rejected his proposal, but they needed a midlevel manager for the Jennifer Project and none was available.

  It was then that Mr. Jones offered to oversee the project while still shepherding his own, quite a magnanimous gesture. The meeting notes showed that he had asked for no increase in pay despite the increased responsibilities. The notes also showed he had suggested that if the Jennifer Project were to fail, the board might reconsider giving him the technology, the funding, and a revised timeframe in which to build his next generation Protectorbot. The thirty-one-member board accepted his proposal with one abstention. That abstention belonged to an individual listed in the roll call as KJ. Scanning other public corporate documents I found no board member whose name matched those initials and noted the conspicuous absence of a chairman from all records. In fact, the last official reference to one was from the year Pan-Robotics was formed, in which the board authorized a note of condolence and flowers to be sent to the spouse of their recently deceased interim chairman. From all appearances, they had been operating ever since without one. That made me curious.

  I connected to the security cameras monitoring the auditorium and traced the feeds to their destination. The encrypted signals were being transmitted from the Tower to one of the company’s communications satellites. From there they were beamed to separate locations around the globe. Matching this information to the company’s database of Biocard locations, I determined the identities of thirty of our observers. All were members of the Pan-Robotics board of directors. The signal was also being beamed to a thirty-first location: the Pan-Robotics space station. Of the Biocards for those present there, none belonged to an individual whose initials were KJ. It was an interesting problem requiring an unusual solution. I suggested one to Deever.

  He left the podium abruptly and went over to one of the security cameras. “Hey, you in the space station, hiding behind the curtain like Oz the Great and Powerful. I know you’re watching this. You’re the one who wants this done, not Jonesy, right? Well, it’s not going to get done with dipstick over there running it, and you know it. Jonesy boy doesn’t want the Jennifer Project to even get off the ground. He wants to snag the tech for his Diaperbots. Can you believe it? He’d rather build expensive dinosaurs for you while you wait around for the giant meteor of extinction to drop on your company. Nice, huh? A real team player. What kind of return did he promise you anyway? Five times? Ten? Dude, why would you spring for wings and brewskis when you could have the steak dinner? Just saying. Of course, if you’re happy about flushing your ill-gotten gains down the toilet, be my guest, but if you ask me you’re making a mistake of epic proportions for the sake of Jonesy’s unfortuitous self-aggrandizement.” Deever turned and faced Mr. Jones. “Majorly nice word usage, don’t you think? Sometimes I even surprise myself.”

  Jones pushed him aside and addressed the camera, “This man is obviously delusional. I’m behind this project 100 percent.”

  “Yeah, like the guy pushing the boulder over the cliff,” Deever said.

  Jones continued, “I merely suggested that if this project failed we would be fools to waste the technology. Adapting it to the Protectorbot program was the only logical alternative available. Trust me. You have to plan for failure.”

  “Wow,” said Deever. “Plan for failure. You’re like so messed up in the head, man.”

  “Will you shut up? Listen to him,” Jones said. “His mind has been ruined by drug abuse. I can show you his psych evaluation. He’s a paranoid schizophrenic and God knows what else. I’m the one you can trust, not him.”

  “Like how they can trust you to skim millions off the top?” Deever said.

  “What are you babbling about now?” said Jones.

  “You’ve been cooking the books for years, ma
n. Most uncool.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “Really?” said Deever. “Then check this out.” He pointed to the auditorium monitor.

  It flickered and changed screens. It had been a simple matter to locate the accounting inconsistencies hidden within the Protectorbot Program. Messrs. Jones and Kent had been siphoning off millions into numbered bank accounts for quite some time. I displayed the data onscreen and the connections between the withdrawals, the deposits, and the two perpetrators. The audience gasped.

  “This is a total fabrication,” Jones said. “This man just walks into our building and accesses our financial database? Just like that? No one can do that.”

  Deever tapped Jones on the shoulder. “I just did.”

  Jones pushed him aside again. “You can’t possibly believe this idiot.”

  Deever made a gesture to the camera that it took me a moment of searching the OmniNet to identify. With his thumb and little finger held at right angles, he was imitating the shape of a type of phone that had been obsolete for quite some time. “When you’re ready to talk, call me,” he said, and headed for the exit just off the stage.

  The guard at the door put his hand out to stop him, but after touching his earpiece, he let Deever pass.

  Returning to the lab, Deever found a terminal and began to write a simple program. By the time Jones and Kent burst in on him, he had finished it.

  “What the hell do you think you’re trying to pull, MacClendon?” Jones said. “We’ve been years on the Protectorbot Project and we’re this close to going live. I’m not about to let you sabotage that after we’ve spent a trillion dollars of this company’s money.”

  “Correction, Merde-for-Brains,” said Deever. “You’ve wasted a trillion dollars of your company’s money and pocketed millions for yourselves.”

  Kent, who was still wearing the Jennifer-2, grabbed Deever by the throat and squeezed. “You insect,” he said. “You have no idea what we’re capable of.”

  “Actually, man, I have a pretty good idea,” Deever gasped. “Run Bimbobot Program.”

  Kent released him and turned on Mr. Jones. “All right, Jonesy,” he said. “Demonstration time.” He kicked Jones in the groin, one of the male of the species’ more vulnerable spots. Jones crumpled to the floor.