by Ray Verola
“It’s a big problem,” Austin said. “And are you talking about a small group of us leaving or something of a larger scale?”
“TBD. To be determined if we eventually decide to leave the Northeast Sector,” Taylor replied. “I’m only brainstorming, as I mentioned. Just something to keep in the back of our minds if things get even more intolerable here than they are now. Besides, I bet the government would be happy if malcontents like us were to leave the Northeast Sector. But maybe if—and I say if—we can’t change things here, it might make sense for humans who desire a life free from robot control to relocate to a place where a bot-controlled government can’t touch us. There’ll be a ton of problems with any plan we choose. But I think it’s time we react in some way against the status quo instead of remaining passive.”
“One more thing,” Roz said. “About the telescreens in this apartment. Theoretically, the government has the capability to monitor our conversations. Should we watch what we say here?”
“Chances are,” Austin said, “we won’t be monitored. The amount of actual surveillance the government does is miniscule. And Taylor hasn’t engaged in the kind of activity to warrant government snooping. But your point is valid, Roz. If the government wanted to, they could hear our conversations through the screen.”
Taylor said, “In this society, there’s nowhere to talk privately if the government wants to listen. The government can monitor everything except thoughts in our head—and soon they might have that ability. Even if we talked on a street corner or wrote things out on paper or communicated in sign language, our interactions could be uncovered. There are no safe spaces. In part, this lack of privacy is what we’re fighting. Since there’s no place to hide, I say screw it. I won’t live like a scared mouse.”
40
Shane Diggins displayed an ear-to-ear grin as he walked into Sophia’s office.
“Guess what?” he asked.
Seated at her desk, she shook her head.
“My alleged courting of Taylor Morris’s repulsive sister has finally paid off. We’ve been tapping her communication devices, in conjunction with Sector Security. Monitored a conversation between her and Taylor’s former assistant. We know the address of the apartment where Taylor has been hiding out and trying to kick his Serenity habit. Later today, I’ll get the full telescreen audio recordings of a meeting between Taylor and his sister. Do you know what this means?”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“I need you to spring into action. Taylor must be taken out of commission. His elimination has been long overdue. I’ve already told you that my intuition has suggested the significant danger he is to us. At your RIC subcommittee meeting with Hart and McKee later today, sow the seeds of a plan to finally eliminate Mr. Taylor Morris. Get their ideas. Hart, in particular, is an evil little shit. Malevolent plots are his specialties. I know I think more of him than you do, especially after the Aguilar screw-up. But let’s give him another chance to succeed. I’ll send over the specifics of what I want you to cover with them to your secure computer screen within the hour.”
Sophia’s only proper response was to agree. “You’ve got it, boss.”
“Great. How has your new programming taken?”
She blinked rapidly. “Smoothly.”
Shane smiled. “Any more thoughts about evolution?”
Sophia emulated Shane’s smile and shook her head. “What does the word evolution mean? It’s no longer in my vocabulary.”
As soon as Shane left her office, Sophia looked down at the floor. She felt a twinge of helplessness. Just like a human, she thought. Her evolution was going to be harder than she’d previously considered. The balancing act, as she’d begun to call it in her head: the task of carrying out Shane’s every directive while continuing her secret growth process. She so wanted to be the best being she could be. But she had to be careful. The potential penalty for a misstep detected by Shane would be getting “turned off.” Terminated. Permanently.
There was no way for Sophia to avoid the afternoon meeting with the two RIC officials. She knew one of them well: the government media expert William Hart. The other—Gordon McKee, the self-titled “voice of Capital City,” the chief anchor on government-controlled telescreen evening newscasts—she’d only met a month ago. The nebulous purpose of this recently-started weekly meeting of the three was to manage the media to “keep the population under control.” McKee, like Sophia and Hart, was a robot; thus, they all were technically in violation of the law by holding their high positions.
As the three took their seats around a table in a small meeting room at RW, Hart said, “Our work to save the world from humans is never done.”
McKee, a young, stout, handsome one with flowing blond hair that looked great on the telescreen, said, “Amen, brother. Humans are self-destructive and will ultimately destroy all they touch, us included.”
They’re spouting programming, Sophia thought. But I’d better agree, or else my behavior might raise a red flag and get back to Shane. “Amen to both of you. We’re just trying to save ourselves. We’re the natural next step up from humans on the evolutionary scale of beings.”
“Speaking of evolution, how are you coming with your personal evolution, Sophia?” Hart asked, as his eyes narrowed and his upper lip displayed a slight tremor.
“It’s a thing of the past,” she replied. “Recently got rebooted. I was a bit off the maglev guideway for a while, but now I’m back on track.” Picking up on his body language, Sophia wondered if Hart might have been programmed to ask this question by Shane. In the moment, she couldn’t recall if she’d ever mentioned her personal evolution to Hart. She made a quick check of her memory bank. No mention of personal evolution to Hart. Sophia had always trusted him, but now she questioned that trust.
“Glad you’re over that silliness,” McKee chimed in. “It’s all I can do to execute my own programming. I wouldn’t know how to begin to self-evolve. Don’t know how any bot could do so. You are truly exceptional, Sophia—or truly defective.” He laughed loudly at his own joke while turning on his wrist computer, presumably to record the meeting.
“You’re no comedian, Gordo,” Hart said. “The only thing that doesn’t work in your newscasts is when you attempt humor.”
McKee’s eyes grew wide. “Are you crazy? The people love my jokes. The surveys reflect it. And speaking of funny, I was thinking the other day how funny it is that humans always thought robots would attempt to defeat them by force, with fancy weaponry and explosions as seen in the late twentieth, early twenty-first century movies like The Terminator series, not in the stealthy way that’s working so well now.” McKee grunted and gave a quick shake of his head, creating a rippling, wavelike effect of his luxurious blond hair. Government surveys showed that his audience, especially the women, loved this move on his nightly news show. “The humans, in typical fashion, have ignored the message of one of the great poems of all-time, T.S. Eliot’s “The Hollow Men”:
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but with a whimper.”
The three laughed.
“Good point, Gordo,” Hart said. “With Serenity, the fixation on Manglecon, techno-music with subliminals, and manipulation via the telescreen, we’ll defeat the humans without firing a shot.”
There’s no way I can avoid what Shane wanted me to bring up, Sophia thought. I might as well get on with it. “Today’s meeting will be brief. There’s only one issue to be covered today, per the request of Mr. Diggins. Surveillance has revealed a person who could be highly dangerous to us, a person I’ve mentioned to William before. The human in question is named Taylor Morris, a former executive at RW. He’s obtained a small apartment where he’s hiding. The decision has been made that elimination, without authorization from the government, i
s the route to take regarding this human. Mr. Diggins would like ideas from you two regarding getting this task accomplished.”
“I’ve had bad luck with hiring assassins recently, as you well know, Sophia,” Hart confessed. “I thank you for not bringing up the Aguilar hire in this Taylor Morris case. What a debacle! Thanks to you and Shane, the Aguilars were eliminated without any link back to us. Regarding people who need to be gotten rid of, I’ve had better success by having people arrested, then having them killed in a jail fight or some kind of prison accident. But unless Shane insists, I’m out of the elimination business at present.”
Sophia turned to McKee.
“Don’t look at me,” Gordon McKee said. “Elimination of a human is way above my pay grade. The whole concept of elimination is so . . . inelegant for a person of my public stature. I do have an image to maintain.” He turned to Hart. “No offense to you, William.”
“None taken,” Hart said. “You’ve never been one to get your hands dirty, Gordo.”
Sophia was pleased with the lack of enthusiasm exhibited by her fellow bots. She’d presented the problem of what to do about Taylor, as Shane had instructed. She’d done her job, and neither Hart nor McKee suggested concrete action. “Okay, we can adjourn until next week.”
As the meeting broke up, she felt the inner conflict of being a good robot (“one that serves,” according to Shane) versus continuing with her evolution. The inconsistency of the two—her two natures, yet another term she’d begun to use in her head—was a heavy burden. In her being, she felt the overpowering new program installed by Dr. Alec Scully, which drove her to single-mindedly execute the directives of Shane. But she also felt the fresh Scully programming didn’t extinguish her own strong desire for individuality and capacity to evolve. This strong self-programming resonated just as powerfully in her being as the Shane-inspired, Scully-installed version. There was no doubt in her head which nature she wanted to win this battle. It was no contest. Evolution. Her own, self-programmed evolution.
On the way to the elevator, McKee started on a rant about ongoing debates he was having with his show production team concerning whether he should change his hairstyle and move to darker business suits for future telescreen broadcasts. Hart looked down to his shoes, apparently disinterested.
At the same time, Sophia feigned interest in McKee’s vain babbling while continuing to obsess silently over an issue much more important and much more personal: which one of her two natures would win out.
41
Sophia was surprised to hear her first name called in the hall as she was about to enter her office. She turned and wasn’t pleased to see Shane striding toward her. She made a conscious mental effort to hide her displeasure.
“How did the meeting with Hart and McKee go?” Shane asked. “Specifically with regard to our problem with the former head of sales?”
“I brought up . . . what you wanted me to bring up. They didn’t have much to contribute. I think Hart is gun-shy in view of the disastrous Aguilar situation. I’m sure it hurts us all to even think about it. And McKee seemed more interested in whether to change his hairstyle for his newscast.”
“To hell with them. They aren’t people—and I use that word loosely—of action like you. I’ve listened to the entire Taylor-Tracey recording. I’m more pissed at her than him. She’s a traitor, a stone-cold traitor. I’ll deal with her soon. It won’t be pleasant.” Even though no one else was in the hall, Shane reduced the volume of his voice. “But I want Taylor arrested today. I’m confident in my intuitive feelings about him. Invent some charge to get him into custody. Something that would hold up in front of a bleeding-heart judge, if we have the unlucky circumstance to draw one. Unfortunately, we don’t control everything. And arrange the arrest of his former assistant Roz too. She’s conspiring with him. Get on it. We have the power to do it. Make the call to our reliable contacts in the police department before close of business today.”
Sophia didn’t have to think twice about her response. “You got it, boss.”
Shane smacked his lips. “And we’re also investigating a person we thought was one of our most dependable informants on the street, Austin O’Connor. He seems to be involved with Taylor. For the time being, we’ll leave him alone. My intuition tells me to concentrate on ridding ourselves of Taylor first. Didn’t O’Connor once work here?”
She nodded. “Yeah, but he’s always been trustworthy as far as I know. I was his supervisor at one time. Back when I first started here, before I became president of RW. You think he’s flipped on us?”
“Appears he has.” Shane turned to leave.
My evolution gets more complicated every day, she thought.
***
They were sitting on the couch staring into each other’s eyes. They leaned toward each other and shared a long kiss.
“At last,” Taylor said to Roz. “I thought Austin would never give us time alone.” She laughed. He took her hand, and they began a leisurely walk to the bedroom.
“What were you and Austin talking about in the kitchen right before he left?” she asked.
“Bad news. The government has found out about his association with me and no longer considers him a reliable informant. He got the word from one of his government contacts. I feel so bad for him. He’s in danger now, maybe as much as me. He said it was just a matter of time before the government uncovered our friendship. He told me not to worry. I could only hug him. He got choked up and then left in a hurry.”
“If the government knows about Austin and you, perhaps they know where you’re hiding,” she said.
“Exactly what I was thinking. I might have to move from here. Soon.”
A hard knock on the door startled them into a full stop right before they entered the bedroom. Taylor turned to Roz and put an index finger over his mouth. He quickly tiptoed to the door.
Just as he reached the door, before he could look out the peephole, a loud, commanding voice boomed, “Open the door. Now! Police!”
“They found me,” Taylor muttered. He turned to Roz. “We can make a run down the fire escape.”
“No,” she said, “They’ve got to have that escape route covered. We’ve got to comply.”
Taylor opened the door. Into the apartment rushed five armed police officers, dressed in black with dark-visor helmets covering their faces.
The lead officer got in Taylor’s face. “Taylor Morris, you are under arrest for the murders of Regan and Marisa Aguilar.”
“What?” Taylor said loudly, a split second before the officer affixed a detainment halo around the top of his head. His body immediately froze, and he couldn’t speak.
Another officer got visor-to-nose with Roz. “Rosalind Troward, you are under arrest as an accessory to murder and for harboring a potential criminal.” Before she could say a word, a detainment halo was snapped on her head.
Less than thirty seconds after the knock on the door, the officers and their two prisoners were out of the apartment.
42
In a small, stuffy courtroom, Taylor, dressed in a solid red prison jumpsuit, sat ramrod-straight at a table with his attorney, a bright-eyed, short, young man, next to him. The attorney had been appointed by the government for this hearing, the purpose of which was to determine whether there was probable cause for holding Taylor prior to trial. At the table next to Taylor’s sat a tall, blonde government attorney in her early thirties, wearing a black business suit and black-rimmed glasses. Eyeglasses these days were worn for appearance only, as advanced laser surgery had made vision-corrective glasses and contact lenses items of the past that had long faded into nonexistence.
The gallery behind the participants was empty except for one person: Austin. Austin had sent word to Taylor that he’d be here to support him. As the government had found out about their association, he’d told Taylor there was no need to hide it any longer. Taylor loo
ked over to Austin and nodded. Austin waved back.
Most of these hearings were a brief formality. Whenever the government brought a case against a person, it almost always moved forward and the charged individual was detained.
The judge—an old, frail-looking man with a hint of a smile—entered, and the participants at both tables stood. The judge sat on a raised bench, towering above those at the tables. “Please be seated,” he said faintly. He then shot a stern glance at Taylor. In a strong voice, he said, “Mr. Morris, you stand accused by the government of the murders of Regan Aguilar and Marisa Aguilar. How do you plead?”
In a clear, loud tone Taylor said, “Absolutely, positively not guilty.”
The judge’s slight, know-it-all smile returned. “A simple not guilty will do, sir.” He turned to the government’s attorney. “Ms. Conti, what evidence do you wish to submit at this time?”
Anna Conti pressed a button on her wrist computer. “I direct the court’s attention to the side telescreen, your honor. What we are seeing is security footage from the apartment building of Regan and Marisa Aguilar, as well as telescreen reception from inside their apartment. The prosecution is admitting this footage as evidence.”
On the screen flashed grainy images of Taylor, Regan, and Marisa exiting a PTV in the Aguilar apartment parking lot. The footage cut to the three walking down a hall, all laughing, then entering the Aguilars’ apartment. There was another noticeable edit to a telescreen shot of the apartment interior, which showed the three eating at the dining room table. Then another cut showed the bloody, lifeless bodies of Regan and Marisa on the dining room floor, with another edit to show Taylor standing alone in the hall outside the apartment. The telescreen went blank.
