"Who?” asked Val.
"This is going to sound crazy,” he said to Val, “but it might be the NYPD."
"I say.” I must have looked rather surprised. In any event, I certainly felt that way. “What led you to that conclusion?"
"The rat said something to me right before all hell broke loose. When you were on the phone trying to make sense of the report we received, Jaggs, I went to the cruiser and copied into this micro. From there I went directly to our alleged corpse. I was just about to do a scan on the deceased when the rat opened his eyes, looked behind me, then looked directly at me and said, ‘Hi, cheese eater.'” Shad issued the rat's words in a falsetto voice, replete with scorn and American accented syllables.
"What happened then?"
"The rat moved one of his front feet and I began getting the hell out of there. A second later it went boom. By the time this mech rebooted and I managed to dig my way out from under some turf that landed on me, it was dark, the area was ringed with crime scene tape, and everybody was gone."
"Is there some significance in what the rat said?"
"Yes,” answered Shad. “Cheese eater is one of the more affectionate names NYC cops use to refer to members of the rat squad: Internal Affairs Bureau.” He turned to Nadine. “IAB takes down crooked cops."
"Were you ever in Internal Affairs?” I asked him.
"No. But I never took a bribe and among some cops that's prima facie evidence you're chewing cheddar with the whiskered set."
I gently shook my head. “That makes no sense. You're thousands of miles, a couple of years, and several careers away from New York and its police force. Why try and kill you now?"
"All I can think of is some old crooked cop went a little dingy in the head and decided killing me was the answer to all his problems."
"Why didn't you put in a call for help?” Nadine asked.
"The blast damaged this micro's antenna. I tried a call and my transmission distance is down to under three kilometers. I had my scanner on looking for local traffic in case the cops, the army, or a hiker with his cell on came near when I received a transmission.” He looked at me. “It sounded like a generated voice. All it said was, ‘I received a weak signal. The turkey might not be done.’ Just like that. Only a key click for a response."
"That doesn't sound friendly,” observed Walter.
"That was my take on it. Both transmissions were clear, and I got automatic azimuths on both. I didn't attempt any more calls, but I traveled a few meters so I could triangulate the transmissions should whoever was watching me make another call. As soon as I moved, though, there was another signal, same voice—very high. Familiar but can't place it. The bearing showed it came from that tor just north of us."
"Steeperton?” asked Walter.
"Yeah. One word: ‘Movement.’ There was a long silence, then came the response. A voice that didn't sound generated at all said, ‘Finish it.’ Both communications were on hand radio frequency."
"You get a fix on the other party?” I asked.
"A village due east of here called Gidleigh. Nothing since, and that was three days ago. I know the guy's still on Steeperton, though. Every so often he downloads some information and I can pick up his satellite address. To conserve my charge I go hide in an old piece of tubing on the roof and go standby. My boy on Steeperton visited here searching for me when I was shut down. That's when he sucked the rest of the charge off that Vader prang."
I frowned. If it was a hitter, the fellow's reckless perseverance was remarkable—unless he was expendable. “Dependable and expendable,” I said. “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” I asked Shad.
"A toaster."
I nodded.
"What's a toaster, dear?” Val asked me.
"Originally it was a kind of robot certain terrorist, gang, and government types used for settling old scores and eliminating troublesome personages."
"Do you mean a hit man—person, thing...” She looked at Walter.
"I believe assassin will do nicely, madam.” He looked at me. “If I may, sir?"
"Please."
"It has to do with Modified Engram Based Intelligence Technology—MEBIT for short. The original point of artificial intelligence, of course, was to produce a mentally able, efficient, obedient work force that would do what it was instructed and make no demands."
"Slaves,” said Nadine.
"Exactly, miss. As the U.S. Supreme Court's majority opinion in Grant v. Hudder found—"
"Walter,” I cautioned gently.
"Forgive me, sir. In short, madam, the modified part of MEBIT intelligence was ruled illegal in the States, which prompted Parliament to do the same here. I can still recall the day all of us at Rent-A-Mech received our patches."
"Instead of MEBITs,” said Shad, “they're now EBITS. A baseball joke in there somewhere—"
"About the toasters,” I interrupted.
"Yes, sir,” Walter turned toward Nadine and Val. “MEBIT operated beings, bios and mechs, are blocked from disobeying, disagreeing with, or altering their instructions. As killers it makes them highly intelligent, persistent, and resourceful, if a trifle rigid. If apprehended.” Walter looked at me.
I thought about that for a moment, remembering several famous cases from when I was with Metro. “Actually, they cannot be apprehended. If old bill is closing in and it looks bad for the dex, he zeroes himself out. Scrubbed clean."
"Some New Jersey gangs used to rig theirs to explode,” said Shad. His micro faced me. “Jaggs, I could've run off that Vader prang for another couple of weeks. I thought the toaster drained it to force me out, but dexes are high energy. Maybe he's running low, too."
"How does he know you haven't left the hill or zeroed out yourself?” I asked.
A mischievous little cackle came from the micro. “You know how superstitious most mechs are?"
I looked at Walter. “Are we being insensitive?"
"Not at all, sir. D. S. Shad's observation is quite true, although bios with artificial intelligence are the same as mechs in this regard. My therapist ascribes the phenomenon to the shortcuts taken to devise MEBIT. The early versions of artificial intelligence weren't very artificial in that the basic engram patterns were simply copied from various humans. They erased all the identity memories—life experiences, embarrassing encounters at summer camp, credit account numbers, that sort of thing—but there wasn't any way to eliminate the feelings connected to those memories."
"I cannot imagine what that must be like,” said Val.
"It is quite like being haunted, madam,” stated Walter. “Even with the patch, all EBIT AI's are filled with feelings to which they cannot attach experience. It gives one the continuous sense of having misplaced or forgotten things of importance. Often this feeling manifests itself as a form of schizophrenia. In my case I always felt as though I was being watched. When voices began talking to me, I sought a therapist. Many AI operated beings believe in ghosts. For some the spirits even appear to take corporeal form."
I looked at Shad. “And?"
"Well, I've been transmitting little ghost plays nights to my buddy over there on Steeperton."
I cleared my throat and said with a ghostly timbre, “'I wear the chain I forged in life. I made it link by link—’”
"Nothing Dickensonian. He's been looking me up on the net while he's sitting there in his little shack in the dark. So nights I've been sending bits from my old insurance commercials.” He treated us to a series of ghostly aflaks and we all laughed. “One of the visitors yesterday left a blue candy wrapper on the ground. Last night I put my illuminated end in the wrapper and gave him a light show. “I don't know if I scared him, but if he buys a policy I need to talk to the company about my commission."
"Weren't you afraid of frightening him off?” asked Nadine.
"He's still got a job to do,” Shad answered flatly. “What I've done is let him know the job may not be finished. He'll keep at it until either his battery dies or the fellow
in Gidleigh calls him off."
"Where could he have obtained a live artillery shell? An antique? How could he sneak it into the country?"
"Good questions,” he answered.
Someone rang me on my wireless. Unlike the mech wireless, not at all an unpleasant sensation. Instead of buzzing, vibrating, or playing some annoying tune, the knowledge that I had an incoming call simply appeared in my head. As Val and Nadine returned to their pastries, I motioned for Shad and Walter to listen in. It was Matheson.
"Jaggers. How are you doing, old fellow? Enjoying your time off?"
"Well enough, Superintendent. The family and I are having an outing—a picnic."
"Excellent. Fresh air, a good hobble. Best thing for you. I have a few things regarding that matter out at Hangingstone." I debated cutting him off in respect to our listening audience on Steeperton, but thought better of it.
"Very well, sir."
"Sci-and-Tech finished running the IDs on the DNA collected at the scene. Shad, of course," he began.
"Yes, sir."
"The rat amdroid bio, though, is a Fantronics, Ltd. product. That particular rat was purchased by a costumer: Celebrity Look-alikes of Bond Street, London."
I looked at Shad, a quizzical expression on my face. “Celebrity rat?” I mouthed.
"Ben,” said Shad. “The rodent lead in the motion picture Willard?"
"Go on, sir,” I urged Matheson.
"The customer was a D. Lipper of Kensington. I glanced at Shad in his micro. Before he became a duck and a telly advert star, back when he had been in the NYPD, Guy Shad's name had been Donald Lipper. Hard to read emotional reactions off the chassis of a micro.
"Interesting sense of irony,” observed Shad.
"He paid the full amount in cash," Matheson continued. "His money was good, name and address both phonies.No description."
"Superintendent, what about surveillance records?"
"For what they believe are obvious reasons, Jaggers, Celebrity Look-alikes do not allow cameras of any kind on premises. We're running the records of the street cameras right now, but Celebrity has hundreds of client visits, inquiries, pickups, and deliveries every day. Given this fellow's proclivities, he was probably in disguise when he rented the rat meat suit."
"What about the person who handled the sale? Someone with a downloadable memory?"
"A human natural, as our luck would have it. The agent who handled the sale can't remember one rat customer from another. Rat bios are quite popular costumes for some disquieting reason—school outings, club meetings, university bashes—that sort of thing. The fellow didn't copy into the rat suit on the premises. Presumably he has the use of a stasis bed elsewhere. I may be jumping the gun, but I'm reopening the inquiry as a possible homicide."
I glanced down at Shad in his flying lipstick. “Thank you. Is that it, sir?"
"An additional unrelated matter. Quite interesting. Birdshot was found in—among Shad's remains."
"Yes, sir,” I answered, looking at Shad's micro. “When Shad was an officer with Northern New England Wildlife Protection I believe he was wounded during a duck hunting season."
"Really. Well, Jaggers, it appears that two of the pellets have been positively matched to a registered microscopic barrel map of a shotgun purchased in Burlington, Vermont, eleven years ago. The purchaser was a bloke named John Quinn."
"John Quinn, you say?"
"Yes. He was once in law enforcement in New York City. Chief of detectives, actually. Eventually became commissioner. Seems to have gotten into politics. Running for state governor or something. Don't suppose there was anything they could do about a duck hunter shooting a duck in duck hunting season, eh?
"No, sir."
"Well, that's all I have, Jaggers. Enjoy your picnic and best to Val."
I bid Matheson good-bye and looked at Shad. “John Quinn?” I said.
He was silent for a very long moment. At last he played his memory recording of the rat's last words. “'Hi cheese eater.’”
I looked at Walter. “You watch the American news. Have you ever seen this Quinn on the telly?"
"Yes, sir. Former police commissioner Quinn is frequently invited to appear on American news programs to reflect upon various law enforcement issues. Polls place him at least twenty points above his closest rivals in the coming primaries. There is also speculation that after capturing the state governorship his goal is the White House."
"What do you think of the cheese-eater recording?"
Walter turned toward Shad. “May I hear it again, sergeant?"
Shad played the recording.
"Sir,” said Walter, “that sounds very much like John Quinn doing his impression of Mickey Mouse imitating Bluto with a New York accent."
"Bluto?” asked Nadine looking up from her mouse morsels at Shad.
"Popeye's rival for the hand of the fair Olive Oyl,” said Shad. He repeated the cheese eater recording, then played the mysterious transmission he had picked up from Gidleigh: “'Finish it.’”
"Is that Quinn?” I asked Shad.
"Yeah. I think so.” The micro faced me. “John Montgomery Quinn. I don't get it, man. I was even going to vote for the guy.” Shad flew in slow, measured circles. “Damned near kills my partner when he blows me up with a bogus rat. Two years ago he shoots me in the ass with a shotgun. Twelve years ago...” Shad's micro stopped moving, hovered motionless for an instant, then streaked out from beneath the shelter. I had Walter help me up and serve as a crutch as I followed. The rain had stopped leaving a dank heaviness to the air. When I found Shad he was down at the original position of the hanging stone, his lens aimed at the pool at the bottom of the crater.
"What is it, Shad?"
He was silent for a long moment. When he spoke his voice sounded strangely vulnerable. “Jaggs, are you familiar with an old Al Pacino cop flick titled Serpico?"
"A cop classic. What law enforcement officer hasn't...” My voice trailed off as I realized to what Shad was alluding. The real Serpico wouldn't go along with the other cops in bribe taking. His fellow cops, uncomfortable with such reckless behavior, set up young Serpico to be killed. Back in the NYPD, I-never-took-a-bribe Detective Donald Lipper was asked to back up some other cops in taking down a fugitive. Detective Lipper was first one through the door. As Shad put it the day I met him, “The next thing I knew all the bullets in the world were headed in my direction, and I was fricassee."
"When I was killed,” said Shad, “Chief Quinn was the head of the Detective Bureau. Nothing left of me but memory. Chief Quinn came by the hospital to talk with me about coming back to the force when I'd copied into my replacement meat suit. That's before my agent got me the duck gig. Funny thing, though."
"What?” I asked.
"On that visit Quinn accidentally knocked over a cup of coffee into the chassis of my memory unit."
"Embarrassing."
"Yeah, not to mention lethal. Lucky the hospital kept patient memory units on continuous sync with its main engram bank."
"Lucky. I say, Shad, Quinn wouldn't happen to have bomb disposal unit experience, would he?"
"Funny you should ask. Thirty years ago John Quinn started out as a firecracker.” He paused a moment, then said, “Four attempts at killing me and still at it."
"One must admire the fellow's resolve,” Walter observed.
"I don't want to jump to conclusions, Jaggs,” said Shad, “but I'm beginning to suspect Quinn wants me out of the way."
"Is there some reason?” I asked. “Do you have anything on him?"
"Other than a couple of attempts at killing me, I can't think of a thing. I know five or six really crooked detectives, though. I'm guessing if they had to sit in front of a committee they could put a substantial knot in Quinn's political panties."
"I suppose we ought to do something about it, old fellow—I mean before candidate Quinn reaches the White House, attains control of a brace of plasma bombs, and accidentally vaporizes Devon."
Shad turned and aimed his lens in the direction of Steeperton. “Unless we can convince that dependable expendable fellow over there to roll on his employer before he zeroes out, all we'll be left with is a dead hunk of machinery and a prime suspect off scot-free."
"What do you suggest?"
Shad's micro looked at Walter. “When I was hooked up to Walter, getting my battery topped off, I got a look at his package. You know he's got more than two hundred thousand recipes on file?"
"Any involving duck?” I asked Walter.
"One hundred and sixteen, sir. All quite excellent."
"He's got some other stuff in there, too, Jaggs. Gives me an idea."
* * * *
The time and power requirements of Shad's plan left very little charge on Walter's MG and not a great deal of light left to the day by the time we finished preparations. Afterward Walter drove us down the hill and parked the car where the track came in from the Taw Head ford, the last of the rain clouds in the east reflecting the setting sun's light. Val and Nadine remained in the MG equipped with a cell phone whose preprogrammed number for a police ambulance could be entered with the stroke of a single paw. Walter, Shad, and I continued north. Shad hovered, Walter walked, and I leaned rather heavily on Walter as I limped along. In twenty minutes or so we reached a gentle track that came up the southwest side of Steeperton Tor. Twenty additional minutes of climbing, slowed by having to wait for me, and we were at the top, looking across massive stacked granite plates of the tor to the shed-roofed stone observation shack upon a rise at the north end of the rocks.
The roof looked to be in much better condition than that of the shack on Hangingstone Hill. I turned back and looked toward the southwest. Hangingstone was a hundred or more meters higher than Steeperton. The air was still and cool. At this distance the shack on Hangingstone was but a darkened dot on the horizon against a sky of delicate pinks rapidly being swallowed by the darkness of the approaching night. It was quite moving. I glanced down at the MG, another dark dot, and imagined Val in there waiting for news of how all this would end.
"Jaggs?” called Shad.
I turned around. Walter was looking at me and Shad was hovering next to him, also looking at me. “Sorry. Getting a last look at things. After all, I am the one who doesn't have a copy back in Exeter."
Analog SFF, October 2007 Page 22
