The Mysterious Case of Betty Blue

by Louis Shalako

  With no evidence of any criminal wrongdoing, there wasn’t much they could charge them with. LVPD assured Gene that they would be taking an interest in future in these particular individuals, and with that he had to be content.

  Gene had toyed with the idea of chaining himself to Betty Blue by the wrist—strange how it wasn’t chain her to me.

  His feet still hurt from hitting the tarmac, and there was this knot of tension in his gut.

  She was impressive up close.

  “Betty. Do us all a favour and just be cool, okay?”

  It was the one and only time she looked at Gene, right into his eyes, thereby acknowledging him in some way. It was one of those moments. His body tensed in the vicinity of the kidneys, it was that visceral. He wouldn’t give a penny for her thoughts under the circumstances. She looked away, and yet outwardly her emotions were neutral—completely absent in a kind of personal shield.

  It was strictly by the book with these two. Gene had a lot invested in this case, and in his career so far as far as that went.

  You had to keep them separated, although later in the debriefing process people might be put in a room together just to hear them talk. The machine would pick through it and look for code, slang, cant, argot, jive-talk, and try and analyze tone and mood.

  In the unlikely event they said anything of significance the machine would pick up on that too. Even just talk of home, family, friends, domestic matters, could be a source of valuable intelligence. The wives of criminals had to get their grocery money from somewhere. He wondered how that applied in this case. The nuances, the subtleties—the permutations were beginning to spin, now that he had them in the bucket.

  “Okay, Inspector MacBride. We’re off to the holding facility with these bozos—” The LVPD officer was referring to the Downie’s, being held as material witnesses.

  Federal law prohibited them from being released on their own recognizance. Trials were too expensive to have reluctant witnesses changing their story and mucking things up halfway through. They would be thoroughly debriefed.

  “And the others?”

  “Let ‘em walk.” Gene raised a hand. “Except for the dog killer.”

  The LVPD sergeant nodded. She would be charged with Canicide in the Second Degree, as it was difficult to see how it could have been premeditated.

  However, the law was clear and they had the chapel video recordings and the Downie’s testimony. That one looked like a goner. With cooperation and some kind of a plea deal, Amity would be looking at ninety-nine-years-to-life. Luckily for her, it was only the one count.

  “Yeah. That’s a bad rap, nice of you guys to nab that one for us.” He gave Parsons and Francine appreciative looks. “I’ve never seen such accurate profiling and prediction—nice work, and all the way from down east as well. We all, uh, thank you very much.”

  There were nods and mumbles from the nearest members of the LVPD.

  “Yeah.” It seemed pretty unanimous all around.

  Gene coughed into his hand, giving Parsons and Francine a quick glance.

  They had a dog killer in custody, and these folks were from the East Coast. Simple logic.

  That was really good police work, and some of the LVPD popped the face-plate and took honest-to-goodness looks at the prodigies.

  It was best to remain humble, of course. Such admiration never lasted long, in Gene’s experience.

  Boyd and Armitage, both with a major employer and tasked by them with the recovery of certain stolen goods, really hadn’t done anything illegal. Empowered to make a citizen’s arrest, they had simply been holding Betty and the Nettles character until they could turn him over to authorities. Armitage looked familiar to Gene for some reason. He was one devilishly handsome man. He might have been photographed in front of a chic Hollywood restaurant on some TV gossip show a few years back.

  He had that kind of weightless, worthless look about him.

  When they said they were holding them for authorities, they were referring to Mister Nettles, mostly. As for the dog, they said it bit Amity, but the law was clear and dogs were sacred animals. They, honestly, were just taking Betty Blue back to the factory.

  While they would be happy to cooperate in providing evidence and testimony in a trial, they had Betty in custody.

  SimTech was a big company and Gene was being diplomatic. He listed as much as he talked.

  Inspector MacBride knew all about how this particular robot had run amuck. Or amok, in the proper spelling. Naturally SimTech would be pleased to dispose of her and remit all damages. Naturally, this would be after making her available for expert witnesses of the prosecution to implement their own objective analysis. They agreed with everything Gene said, and were very polite—like fuckin’ Canadians or something.

  Gene wasn’t quite buying it.

  Not by a long shot.

  “All right.” He turned to Francine and Parsons.

  They were just piling into the cars to take Betty Blue and Scott Nettles to a secure federal holding facility, the only place Gene would feel safe with such a volatile cargo. They weren’t armoured, unlike most of the LVPD, and this was one valuable pair of runaways. They were still trying to get a flight. Parsons looked up from Gene’s phone screen and shook his head: still no luck.

  Parsons rode with Nettles. Gene and Francine were in with Betty, whose stony face ignored them.

  Francine gave an odd look. Her device was buzzing and rumbling in her belt pouch.

  “What? I though I told them—” She pulled it out and looked at the screen, eyebrows rising.

  “Shit.”

  She looked over at Gene.

  “What is it?”

  “Argh. Writs.”

  “What! Oh. Writs.” His hand flew up to his face and he rubbed his whiskered chin.

  Writs.

  His own device hummed in his hip pocket just then and he pulled it out and had a look.

  “Who in the hell?” It was the Right-to-Life Foundation.

  His jaw dropped as he opened the document and read the first paragraphs.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  Francine was slumped in the right hand side of the car, with Betty staring straight ahead in between them.

  Francine gave a brief shake of her head.

  “What now, Boss?”

  “The Right-to-Life Foundation has filed a brief on behalf of the unborn fetus of Betty Blue and Scott Nettles.” Gene’s face lifted and he found himself transfixed by those deadly eyes as the robot herself turned to regard him.

  He tried not to swallow and Francine sat up a little.

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Blue. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Gene snapped the thing off and stuffed it into his pocket again.

  He thought she would speak, say, ‘That’s Mizz Blue…’

  To you, you son of a bitch.

  One could hardly blame her.

  He looked at the back of their driver’s dummy plastic head. If nothing else, it gave you something to talk at.

  “Driver. Can you please step on it? We haven’t got all night.”

  ***

  One and a half hours later, they were aboard the Silver Bird Airlines flight. Gene contacted the chief as it looked like they’d be on the ramp a while.

  “You got ‘em! Good work.” The chief, porcine and expectant in a calm and self-assured manner, sat up straight.

  This would be all over the nightly news.

  “Can you give me a thumbnail briefing?”

  “Ah—I don’t know about that, Chief.” Gene was appalled.

  That was the trouble with electing chiefs of police, he supposed—anyone could win, especially with the party-political machinery backing him up.

  “There are certain issues involved. We’re already getting writs.”

  “Writs?” The chief’s face clouded.

  One of them was from a foundation founded about four minutes ago, noted Gene. They were all getting in on the act. I
t would do wonders for fund-raising. This had all the hallmarks of a hot-button issue. Until the next one came along.

  “So…what are the issues involved?” The chief went up just a tad in Gene’s estimation.

  “Hmn, Well. Is Betty Blue stolen property? If so, then Mister Nettles may be in a lot of trouble. And yet I really haven’t charged the gentleman with anything yet.”

  They could keep him in custody for up to fourteen days, in his particular citizen-class, which was a straight D-minus all across the board. They could ding him for up to ninety days on Mental Health Suspicion, but that seemed premature.

  The chief pursed his lips as if to speak, but Gene soldiered on.

  “Is Betty Blue Mister and Missus Cartier’s property? If so, is she property with a mind of her own—otherwise the Cartiers are looking at some public liabilities, not to mention possible charges. I’m sort of thinking reckless endangerment or negligence. This is all pie in the sky at the present moment. I wouldn’t mind some guidance from the Public Prosecutor on this one. The assault victims do have rights. They have made certain sworn statements. They can also afford some kind of ramshackle legal assistance.”

  The chief’s eyes went left…

  “Is a mind sufficient to indicate life? Up until now, all the experts say no. But was this a malfunction, or was it simply the irrational act of a living individual in human terms?”

  If it was a malfunction, the company that built the machine might be looking at some serious liabilities. They would begin by denying everything. It wasn’t all that hard to read the future sometimes. Gene thought the chief read the notes provided, as the man’s eyes began to glaze over. Apparently not.

  The chief’s eyes centered up and the jaw dropped, and then his eyes slid to the right.

  “Is Betty a new form of life? Then we must define her rights before we can try her.” Gene’s eyes glittered.

  Francine sat rigid. She couldn’t believe her ears.

  “Does Betty have the right to self determination? Did she cause damage, or did she steal from her employer? So far, we have no complaint from the Cartiers—not a signed one, anyway.”

  The chief licked his lips, staring at Gene fixedly.

  “Even when she first walked off. What was that…desertion? Of what, and from what?”

  “Okay. Go on.” So the bugger was listening then.

  Gene took a breath.

  “What about their unborn child.”

  The chief interjected.

  “And the rights of those who feel it is the anti-Christ…okay, okay. I’m starting to get it now, Gene.” The chief settled back in his chair.

  He picked up a stylus and made notes!

  Unbelievable.

  “…surely a state-ordered abortion would be premature, and would possibly violate Mister Nettles’ rights, and there are advocacy groups already on us on that score.”

  The chief winced.

  “Yeah—I hear you.”

  “It might violate Betty’s rights as well. There’s nothing illegal about a robot being a surrogate-uterus for a human family. They used to do it in test-tubes, you know what I mean, anyways, but this way is so much more…ah, social. It’s not a frickin’ glass tube for conception, the baby can hear the mother’s heart and all of that. But not one has ever had custodial rights. They have, so far as we know, never borne a child for their own sakes and on their own initiative.”

  It was a bit obscure, but the chief knew what he meant. Gene was aware of Parsons’ ears twitching as he tried not to stare too obviously over Gene’s shoulder at the screen.

  “Congratulations, incidentally.” The chief’s tone was priceless.

  Gene grinned.

  “Don’t forget that they are now married. That one makes my head spin.”

  And Nettles had used somebody else’s name, which was the same as his name. Only the address and the birth date were wrong. On the other hand, people got married under professional and new names all the time. But how in the hell would it look in court? Mister Scott Nettles is charged with pretending to be…(drum roll please)…Mister Scott Nettles. The jury would laugh their heads off, the prosecution would immediately look foolish, and the case would look frivolous, and everyone knew exactly how that would go. Who cared, really? But identity was a serious issue.

  Francine was madly typing on her own device.

  ‘Uterus.’

  Gene covered his mouth for a moment, tempted to bite the back of his hand or something.

  The chief was being patient, but it wouldn’t last.

  “Gene.”

  “Ah, sorry, sir. Ah, the uterus is another issue.”

  “What?”

  Parsons, eavesdropping as best he could, cringed at the tone.

  “The uterus is a human uterus, grown in a lab, installed in a product, and owned by Mister and Missus Cartier.”

  The chief wilted, knowing the implications couldn’t be good.

  “This, ah, raises another whole can of worms. If there is a controversy about whether a woman has control, or any sort of rights at all regarding her own uterus, let’s just think about this for a moment. Whose uterus is it? Can they have joint ownership, or just who exactly paid that bill…?”

  The chief was trying to follow along, and at the same time appalled.

  “Whoa. Run that by me again? You mean Mister and Missus Cartier, right?”

  Gene nodded.

  “What if some jury decides that Betty Blue has the right to do this? What if a jury decides that Missus Cartier has the right to do it, and somebody else comes along, and a trial by law determines that the thing is a threat to humanity. Their lawyer will advise them to fight it every step of the way. It is, after all, only their right to own an appliance that is involved…”

  He looked the chief straight in the eye, although he was close to running out of steam.

  “I can’t help thinking that the insurance company, I forget the name of the company, if the claim had been settled, would…in my sort of opinion, own Betty Blue as scrap. That might have turned out to be a real bargain for them. At some point, a corporation would own that kid.”

  Gene had just about had it, by this point.

  “As far as I know, it is still illegal to own another person. Even parents can’t do that, chief.”

  It would be precedent-setting law, wouldn’t it?

  “This case is pure lawyer-food, all the way, chief.”

  Gene heaved a deep sigh and quit while he was still ahead of the curve. If robots were unpredictable, and had minds of their own, then they would either become uninsurable, like life insurance for soldiers, or the rates would skyrocket. This had vast commercial impact, now that the things were becoming ubiquitous.

  The chiefs hands went up to his head, then they slowly fell again.

  “Gene. Only God can create life. That’s a Constitutional issue, one that had already been defined.”

  Gene nodded as Francine exhaled in a rush.

  Shit. He was right. Score one for the chief.

  “It’s better if we just let everybody else do the talking for a while, sir. Let them define the terms and the agenda.”

  In the meantime, Gene would pray for enlightenment.

  The chief thought on it, and Gene reflected that this was no time to bring up the issue of slavery. Plantation owners with slave labour owned the children of their slaves. A good lawyer might argue that while slavery was illegal, the products of a self-replicating machine could be owned by somebody or some corporate entity somewhere. Even then, they still might cite plantation law as precedent for the legal concepts involved. Law had to come from somewhere.

  Were robots slaves?

  No—they were machines.

  Until Betty Blue came along.

  “So what in the hell are we going to do?”

  Gene sighed deeply.

  “We’ll be back in a couple of hours, sir. In the meantime—”

  “Yes?”

  “I could really use a good c
up of tea.” He needed that cup of tea very, very badly.

  “Hmn, hmn. What are the suspects saying, if anything?”

  “Betty Blue just ignores us and stares straight ahead. Yet I don’t think she’s catatonic or anything like that. She has ruthless self-control. As for Mister Nettles, he’s quite vocal. Nothing we can really use so far.”

  “Vocal?”

  “Ah, yes, sir.”

  One row ahead on the other side of the aisle where he could be shot by both Parsons and Francine easily, Mister Nettles’ ears and neck burned red. There was nothing wrong with his hearing.

  “And where do you plan on holding them, Gene?”

  “Oh, Lord. Some place where nobody can get at them, chief. Any ideas on that score would be greatly appreciated.”

  The chief gave a short, sharp bob of the chin.

  “I’ll put my thinking cap on.”

  Gene nodded. The chief meant it quite literally, but Gene had never been able to overcome the squeamish thought of plugging a nine-volt battery into your head.

  Whatever gets you through the night, he thought after signing off.

  ***

  The cat-shot was a kick in the lower back as always, and the climb out at seventy degrees, hanging upside-down in the straps, along with the usual buffeting, only made his mood darken.

  They were cruising through the night sky at ninety thousand feet, thankfully, right side up now. They had the back row of the cabin all to themselves thanks to experienced and cooperative flight attendants, only one of which was a robot.

  Parsons was eyeing up Francine’s leftover steak, and the half of a baked potato still sitting in her tray.

  “Go ahead.” He took the platter and she put up the in-flight table and then adjusted her seat in the reclining position.

  “Gene. Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “Honestly, if they made it through airport security…”

  “With the sniffers and the dogs and all the frickin’ human security, we’re lucky we made it on the plane.”