To Obey

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Jake looked to Susan for assistance, and she complied. “Ten percent of the population is still a significant number of people. USR doesn’t have a monopoly on genius.”

  Lawrence put a hand on Susan’s shoulder. “You’d be hard-pressed to find two people as intelligent as Calvin and Amanda.” He smiled mischievously, “Let alone convince them to reproduce.”

  “Lawrence and I are hardly slouches in the brains department,” Alfred added immodestly.

  Lawrence forestalled him with a raised hand. “But you’re right. We don’t have a monopoly on genius, and patents are only a deterrent to people with morals and scruples.” He shrugged. “Luckily, brains and integrity often do go hand and hand; most thinkers have pondered the potential effects of corruption, particularly their own, on society. We also have several advantages in this situation. First, we created the positronic brain and all its components and processes. Second, it’s a prohibitively expensive item that suppresses garage tinkerers and college students. Third, we patented enough of the steps along the way and shared so little of the technology that it discourages anyone from coming close to the developmental stages. Fourth, it’s staggeringly complicated.”

  Jake tapped his hand on his knee. Apparently, some of the discussion went over his head. “So, the upshot. You’re not worried, per se, about the positronic brains now in federal hands.”

  “No.” Lawrence removed his hand from Susan’s shoulder. “I was more concerned when I thought the SFH had it. They could have made life extremely difficult for Susan simply by revealing the true nature of John Calvin. Also, they would surely have used their discovery to discredit us and alarm the public in the most disconcerting way.”

  Susan nodded vigorously. She could easily imagine people accusing everyone around them of being a robot, could see them using it to justify murder. Every evil act would have a robot at its root. Anytime some antisocial human nightmare acted in a grisly manner, rumors would circulate that he was secretly a robot. Ironically, the worst features of humankind would be the ones blamed on technology; the precise failings a robot could never realistically manifest would became pinned indelibly to them. She now also understood why USR had stolen the body from the morgue.

  Susan realized it was time to force a choice on Detective Jake Carson. “All right, Detective. You know our every secret. Are you going to play ball with them…or us?”

  Jake froze, a trapped rat trying to look casual, without success. “What do you mean?”

  Susan did not let him off the hook. “I mean, you’ve already stated your life may depend on your cooperation with this federal agency.” She wished she had thought of this earlier. “I’m assuming they sent you here to gather information from us.”

  Jake hesitated only an instant. “Yes.”

  Alfred scowled. Lawrence sat up straighter.

  Jake sighed deeply. It was delay, but Susan did not read too much into it. She did not envy Jake his decision, nor his need to hedge. “It’s not as if I’ve learned anything they didn’t already know or figure out. The only really significant thing I could add to the discussion is the claim that the Three Laws can’t be uncoupled from the positronic brain; thus no clandestine code exists.”

  “Which is good for Susan, right?” Lawrence suggested. “Because the DoD no longer has a reason to bother her, and the SFH loses any reason to kill her.”

  Susan saw the flaws in that logic, but Jake was the one who gave them a voice. “They also have no reason to keep her alive, which, at the moment, might be more significant.”

  “How so?” Lawrence needed to know as much as Susan did.

  Jake sighed again, rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, and shook his head. “Cards flat on the table, faceup and all the way. Right, Susan?”

  “Right,” she promised.

  “Here’s the scenario as I see it.” Jake looked at every person present. “I may be the only nongenius in the room, but I am a detective and this is what I do.”

  Everyone nodded encouragingly, including Susan.

  “I believe that whoever shot John Calvin…um…” Jake caught himself. “The robot representing John Calvin…”

  Susan interrupted, worried the various attempts to avoid upsetting her would wind up hampering the story and any ideas that followed. “For convenience, can we all agree to refer to the mechanical man who raised me as John, John Calvin, Dr. John Calvin, or my father? My biological father is Calvin or Calvin Campbell. No confusion.”

  “Fine.” Jake continued, “That whoever shot John intended to kill him. The assassin or assassins left without ever realizing the pulseless body on the floor was not made of flesh and blood. I believe Cadmium came in—”

  This time, Alfred interjected, “Cadmium?”

  “Color designation for the DoD Intelligence Exploitation Agency. It’s not technically classified, but they hold it close.”

  Susan suspected Jake had not slipped in telling them the name but had done so on purpose, so he would have difficulty changing his mind later if it came down to siding with Susan or the feds. That, in and of itself, made her even more suspicious. “Jake, as you’ve pointed out, you’ve known me all of two, three days, but you’ve been a cop for”—she had no idea how long, so she finished lamely—“years. Do you expect us to believe you’re siding with us against your own?”

  “My own?” Jake seemed genuinely bewildered. “You mean the NYPD?”

  “I mean law enforcement. This federal agency—”

  “Is not law enforcement.” Jake positively bristled. “I’m loyal to the NYPD, to the law I’m sworn to uphold, and to the residents of my city, whom I’m legally bound to serve and protect.” He added disdainfully, “Cadmium can go to hell.”

  Susan felt foolish for not knowing that. Apparently, Lawrence did not, either. “So, federal and local agencies can…butt heads.” He tapped the knuckles of his fists together.

  “Frequently,” Jake growled. “Right now, this whole thing is on lock-down by the U.S. Attorney, Southern District. We’re all under a gag order, effectively shutting down any communications between us and the feds, which may be the only thing keeping me alive right now. The cover story is that a DEA agent, acting on a tip about a kidnapped source, put them in a friendly-fire situation and Cadmium got the worst of it.”

  Susan guessed, “I’m the source. You’re the DEA agent.”

  “And I died in the firefight.”

  Susan tried to put it all together. “So…you’re dead.”

  “The fictional DEA agent is dead, not Police Detective Jake Carson. Right now, you, me, the U.S. Attorney, my dispatcher, and the cops who responded to my distress call are the only ones who know the truth. That’s few enough to keep it quiet for a while, but enough to ensure the information will get out there eventually.”

  Susan knew they had dropped some important threads to get to this point, ones that begged returning to. “The two guys who held me denied killing my father. They claimed to have found him shot and apparently dead, then discovered his true nature and managed to speak to him. Supposedly, he told them…” Susan remembered, and stopped suddenly short. With bullets flying around, bodies falling, and her life at stake, she had not bothered to consider her father’s last words until that moment.

  Everyone wanted to know. They practically demanded in unison, “What, Susan?”

  Susan’s voice fell to a whisper entirely against her will. “That I have the code.”

  The room went utterly silent. A dropping pin would have sounded like thunder.

  Alfred broke the hush, his voice regularly pitched but sounding more like a shout. “Are you saying there is a code? And you have it?”

  “I’m saying,” Susan said carefully, licking her lips, “my kidnappers claim my father said one exists. And I have it.”

  Lawrence asked the question on every mind. “Do you?”

  “Not to my knowledge, no.” Susan considered all the possibilities. “Maybe Cadmium lied. Maybe my father lied.” She looked at
Lawrence. “Is that even possible? Can a positronic robot tell a lie?”

  “Theoretically, I suppose. Positronic robots are thinking, learning robots who observe the world around them.”

  That opened a can of worms Susan did not want to contemplate at the moment. “Or maybe he told me the code at some point, but I just don’t remember it.”

  Jake added one more. “Or you have it and don’t recognize it as a code.”

  Susan furrowed her brow. “Didn’t you say, at some point, it’s safer to have them believe I have the code than to explain to them I don’t?”

  “Not exactly.” Jake tried to recall his precise words. “I believe I said it gave them a reason to want to keep you alive. At least until they extracted the code from you. If we convinced them no code existed, the SFH would no longer have a reason to kill you. On the other hand, the feds would no longer have a reason to keep you alive, and they might decide both of us know too much.”

  “But I don’t know anything,” Susan insisted.

  “You know who killed John Calvin, why they killed him, and the existence of a mythical federal agency, including its color designation.”

  Susan turned on him. “I didn’t know that until you told me.” The suspicions she had put on hold returned in a rush. “Is that why you told us their code name? To make me a target?”

  “Don’t be stupid.” Jake huffed out an irritated breath. “I mean, act like the genius you are. I don’t even know their official name; that’s classified information. I told you their color designation so you can use it to your advantage. Believe me, you already knew enough to make you a plausible target before I said a word, if for no other reason than because you called me, and that resulted in the deaths of fellow agents.”

  “Only because they threatened to kill me.”

  “Your reasons are irrelevant. To them, it’s war, and you ratted out their buddies.”

  Susan quelled rising panic and the urge to bargain with people who could not change the situation.

  Lawrence stepped in for Susan. “Don’t you think it’s more likely they’ll shy away from the entire situation? I’m sure they have ways of denying any claim Susan could make. The feds know how to make people look foolish.”

  Jake stiffened, as if torn between two opposite replies. “In ordinary circumstances, I’d agree with you. But, in this case, they’ve already shown their willingness to kill civilians who get in their way.”

  Susan knew exactly who he meant. “Sammy Cottrell.”

  “I believe the assassins who shot John got in and out quickly, without anyone knowing. Cadmium came later, probably following the exact same tip. They intended to question John but found him apparently dead. So they searched the apartment to see if they could find any hint of the code. They discovered John’s identity, managed to get a few last words from him but not the code itself.” He paused a moment, and his brow suddenly furrowed. “Wouldn’t the Second Law of Robotics force John to give up the code if he had it? Doesn’t it say something about having to obey all human orders?”

  Susan immediately saw the flaw in Jake’s reasoning. “The Second Law states a robot must obey orders given to it by human beings except where it conflicts with the First Law.”

  “All right,” Jake said with consideration. “But how would revealing the code defy the First Law? Speaking doesn’t injure a human being.”

  “Not directly.” Susan had no problem following her father’s robotic logic in this instance. “But giving up a code that would allow weaponization of positronic robots could harm many humans.”

  Jake closed his eyes, then opened them slowly. “Can a robot make that kind of intuitive leap?”

  Lawrence reminded, “We’re talking about positronic robots. Thinking, learning robots who observe the world around them.” He made a gesture toward Susan. “Have you given any more thought to the possibility of working at USR, Dr. Calvin? Is the idea of psychoanalyzing robots seeming any less frivolous?”

  Susan chuckled but lacked the enthusiasm of the last time they had discussed this subject. The jokes no longer seemed funny. She wondered if she had received the code and forgotten or not recognized it for what it was, or if John Calvin had deliberately lied, in the belief that doing so protected Susan’s life as per the First Law of Robotics. The whole thing seemed at once terrifying, strange, and curious. “How do you know the original assassins didn’t kill Sammy?”

  “Because that would not have left enough time for Cadmium to question John Calvin or search your apartment. Based on the brass removed from your walls, the assassin or assassins used suppressors on at least two different twenty-two-caliber guns. No one heard John Calvin die. Sammy’s scream, and subsequent shooting, was the event that brought police attention to the murders. And I now think I know what caused her to scream.”

  Susan suddenly did, too. “Strange men leaving our apartment…with John Calvin’s head.”

  “The bullet that killed Sammy Cottrell was a nine-millimeter.”

  Chapter 19

  When Kendall Stevens returned from work that evening, he discovered Susan sitting on his couch, her head bowed over an enlarged and extremely crumpled photograph, her color sickly pale. Dropping his palm-pross on the patterned chair, he rushed to her side, sat beside her, and put an arm across her shoulders. “Susan, what’s wrong?”

  Susan’s voice emerged wobbly, and she glanced at her Vox. It was nearly seven o’clock. She had sat in the same position, studying the picture of Remington and herself, for longer than an hour. “I finally got around to reading and listening to the messages I missed with my Vox off last weekend.”

  “Yeah?” Kendall encouraged, his gaze zeroing in on the picture in Susan’s lap.

  “There’s one from…my father.”

  It took a moment for the words to sink in. “From your father? You mean, before he…died.”

  “After,” Susan said.

  Kendall blinked, opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and blinked again. “Ghost writing?” The feeble joke did not work, apparently the best his shocked mind could conjure. “From beyond the grave?”

  Susan sat back, finally tearing her gaze from the photo. It did not matter; the image had become burned onto her retinas. She could see it flashing on the off-white ceiling. “Sort of. A delayed text, set to send at a specific time.”

  “Which was?”

  “Saturday night. I did glance through yesterday to see who had messaged me, but I missed this one.” Susan suspected her mind had passed it over as normal, focusing on the more troublesome police and hospital calls. “While waiting for you, I thought I’d finally read and listen to them all, and this popped up with the others.”

  Gently, Kendall took the photograph from her hands. “You really loved him. Didn’t you?”

  The conversation suggested Kendall referred to her father, but his attention lingered on Remington. She told the truth. “Achingly.”

  Kendall used the arm across her shoulders to draw her to him. “I miss him, too, Susan. He was an extraordinary man. It would be difficult for anyone to follow in his footsteps.”

  Susan nodded, idly wondering if Kendall’s words had underlying meaning, perhaps justifying his performance, or lack thereof, the previous night. If so, she did not rise to the bait, and he did not press it.

  “So, what words of wisdom did your father impart from heaven? ‘Don’t forget to tip St. Peter?’”

  Susan did not take offense. Humor was Kendall’s way of dealing with upsetting situations. She brought up the appropriate message on Vox and extended her arm to him. Though not in a position to see it again herself, she had memorized every word and symbol:

  No1 evr loved any1 > I loved u. R spiritual plce. Dad.

  Kendall read swiftly, then seized Susan’s wrist with his free hand to hold it steady while he reread the message. Finally, he looked at Susan. “When do you think he wrote this?”

  Susan harbored no doubt. “As he was dying.”

  “My God,” Kenda
ll whispered. He drew her fully into his arms. “It must have taken everything.”

  Susan had no idea if that was true, but Kendall still did not know John Calvin had been a positronic robot. “I’ve been contemplating it ever since I got it.”

  Kendall relaxed his grip, apparently picking up from Susan’s tone that she was past the need for comforting. He released her fully. “I get that he’s saying no one ever loved anyone more than he loved you. But what did he mean by ‘R spiritual place’?”

  “Here,” Susan said, poking a finger at the park bench in the picture. “Right under Remy’s butt.”

  “Wha—?” Kendall needed more. Anyone would.

  Susan explained briefly, “My father gave me this picture, in pristine condition and neatly framed, of course. It took me a while to put it together, but I remember the conversation we had at the time. He suggested that since Remy was buried in Ohio, we use the bench as a de facto gravesite. Our spiritual place to commune with Remy’s spirit.” She caught Kendall’s hands. “We need to examine that bench.” She sprang to her feet, ready to leave immediately, certain her father’s cryptic message tied directly to the events of the last few days.

  Kendall also rose but demonstrated none of Susan’s excitement. “Susan, we need to talk.”

  “We do,” Susan admitted. “You couldn’t possibly guess how much I have to tell you.” So much, in fact, she could not figure out where to start.

  “Mine will only take a moment.” Kendall crouched in front of her and took her hands.

  For a panicked instant, Susan thought he was about to propose marriage, but the sadness in his eyes made it clear he had no intention of doing so. Whatever he wanted to say wounded him deeply. Susan banished her plans to the back of her mind.

  “Susan, I’ve given it a lot of thought last night and most of today, and I’m concerned you might be right.”

  “Right about what?” Susan asked carefully, reminding herself Kendall had no idea what had happened to her over the last few days. To him, the normal events of daily living still held significance.