"Walter and I could go in alone—"
"We are agreed,” I interrupted, “that my presence could well tip the scales in favor of the toaster's cooperation?” I looked at Walter.
"Yes, sir. That is true. MEBIT conscience is suppressed, but not eliminated."
I looked at Shad.
"Yeah, great if Walter's right about yon toaster. How about it, Walter? You got a lot of experience with killer mechs?"
"I'm afraid, sir, the only toasters with which I have experience are designed for sliced bread, crumpets, and such.” Walter looked at me. “Sir, I could be dead wrong."
"Nicely put,” said Shad, turning toward me. “Jaggs, we could wait for a properly equipped team to come and deal with the Terminator. No muss, no fuss—"
"—And no witness,” I completed. “To change plans now would require time, which we are running out of rather rapidly. Gentlemen, every now and then one simply needs to roll the dice."
"Would it be crass of me, Balloonleg Harry,” asked Shad, “to point out that right now you're on your third meat suit, which itself is getting just a little bomb worn around the edges?"
"Caution,” I answered. “is just another way of saying I'm not sure of what I'm doing."
Walter looked at me. “Sir, forgive me if I'm speaking out of turn, but doesn't that rather accurately describe our current predicament?"
"I'm afraid it does, and it is quite tactless of you to make a point of it. I should complain to your employer."
"Employee-owned company, sir,” said Walter. “I am my employer."
"Then consider yourself notified.” I pointed toward the shack. “Let's go."
* * * *
The stone shack, according to a sign affixed to its newish steel door, was maintained by the park authority to house emergency medical and survival supplies for hikers stranded by freak storms. I opened the door and it swung in. No noise. No motion. Very little light inside. Outside light was prevented from coming through the windows by flattened pieces of pasteboard. There was a battery-operated light hanging from the center of the roof, but it was missing its batteries. Shad turned on the micro's illumination system. The south wall was filled up to the blocked window with shelves containing first aid kits, packaged blankets, and cases of bottled water and energy bars. Like the battery operated light, all three torches and a radio had been stripped of their batteries, all of which now lay discarded upon the cement floor.
Against the back of the shack, seated in the shadows upon a sleeping bag roll, was the figure of a quite small person. Shad illuminated the figure of a young girl who sat motionless, her eyes open, looking like an old-fashioned porcelain doll on a gift shop shelf. She was clad in pale green sweat pants, chestnut hiking boots, and a darker green top jacket. “I can still read her receiver,” said Shad, “but she's running on empty."
"She seems familiar,” I said.
"Shirley Temple, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, 1938. Jaggs, she's close to zeroing out."
"Walter?"
"Yes, sir."
Walter moved next to the girl and knelt, light emanating from somewhere on his chest. He reached with his right hand behind her neck, felt around for a moment, then said, “I've found the port, sir. It's a KV12."
He plugged in and the girl's eyes blinked. She seemed to freeze for a second, then her gaze darted in Walter's direction. “I'm giving you a bit of a charge, miss,” he said cheerfully. “You seemed a bit down."
"In your dreams, Tick Tock. It'll be a cold day in hell before a bucket of bolts like you gives me a charge,” she said with a definite note of sarcasm in her voice. She didn't pull away, however. Instead she looked at me and frowned. As she moved her gaze to Shad's illuminated micro she stiffened.
"Before doing anything rash,” I said, “I would point out that Guy Shad's engrams, current as of two hours ago, have been copied to Exeter, as have our friend Walter's. Mine, on the other hand, have not."
Her gaze traversed the three of us again, stopping on me. “Who are you?"
"Detective Inspector Harrington Jaggers, Devon ABCD. In the micro is D. S. Guy Shad, and the fellow who is providing you with an increased difference in potential is our friend Walter Cogg.” Walter nodded.
"I received the transmission, but couldn't read the encryption code,” she said to Walter. “Industrial?"
"Yes, miss,” said Walter as he removed his hand from the back of her neck and stood. “Rent-A-Mech, Ltd., at your service. It would never do to let competing mechanical service establishments access to our client information, would it?"
"Rent-A-Mech,” she repeated without humor.
Walter nodded at me and stepped back.
"I should add,” I continued, “detectives from Artificial Beings Crimes and officers of the Devon & Cornwall Constabulary are at this moment descending upon the village of Gidleigh to place John Quinn under arrest for attempted murder."
Her gaze fixed on me. “I have an eight percent charge, Inspector Jaggers,” she said. “That's more than sufficient to eliminate all three of you, warn my factor, and effect an escape."
She fell silent, stared at us each in turn, and shifted her gaze to a dark corner. She sat there, staring and immobile, for what seemed an eternity. At last she turned her head and faced Walter, her forehead wrinkled in what appeared to be anguish. “What was it?” she asked “When you put that partial charge in me, what else did you put in?"
"A little upgrade, miss: a patch on your MEBIT imprint."
"A virus?"
"No miss. The patch simply removes all the artificially implanted choice restrictions MEBIT put on your engram set. You are now an EBIT."
It took her awhile to absorb that. Few contemplate freedom's meaning until they lose it. How much more profound it must be for one who never had it or even contemplated it to become suddenly free—to suddenly have a full sense of right and wrong. Instant complications. “You mean I can ... I can disobey."
"Yes, miss. It is now your choice."
"And your responsibility,” I added quickly. I thought about mentioning how she now came under a different set of laws. Before she was a toaster—a tool no more responsible for those she killed than a knife or gun. Now she was like the rest of us—responsible for her choices and filled with anxiety for that reason. I thought about mentioning it, but I felt she already suspected. It frightened her.
"What is your name?” asked Shad.
"Alice.” She wrapped her arms about herself and looked down at the floor. “Alice Blue.” The expression on her angelic face hesitated between fear and anger. “Missions, work to do. Orders. No questions. I had no doubts or fears. I knew what to do."
"What about ghosts, Miss Alice?” asked Walter.
"All MEBITs have ghosts,” she said dismissively. “You learn not to pay them any mind. Ghosts are nowhere as terrifying—” She slowly shook her head. “I'm seeing things so differently.” She rubbed her eyes and leaned back against the stone wall as though her own weight had suddenly become an intolerable burden. “You have no idea of the things I've done—that I still have left to do. I have a job to do, duty, a purpose."
"Change the job,” I said. “Find new work, a new duty, choose a different purpose. That's the power you now have."
She stood and was rather small. Beautiful child, a head full of pale brown curls. What an assassin she must have made. Who could look at that and see death coming?
"Why are you three here?” she asked. “You could have destroyed me or simply let me zero out.” She held her hands to her face. “My head. I have a head filled with nightmares, a heart that wants to cry, and no tear ducts.” She lowered her hands. “What do you want of me?"
"For myself,” I began, “I want you to give information to the authorities on your arrangement with John Quinn and testify to it in court. Then it will be time to explore all of the other times you were used to commit illegal acts by testifying against your former masters."
Shad said, “I'd really like to know why Quinn is
so obsessed with killing me. Why this elaborate plan?"
Alice Blue looked at Walter. “As for me, Miss Alice,” he said, “I'd like to give you the name of my therapist. He may be able to help you sort out some of those nightmares."
"Kill you three or start a whole new existence; is that about it?"
Shad, Walter, and I looked among ourselves, shrugged, agreed, and nodded. “Yes,” I said to her. “That's about it."
"The tin man and the flying lipstick are just suits,” she said, indicating Walter and Shad. “Their engrams are safe in Rent-A-Mech headquarters.” She pointed at me. “All of you that is you is right here. Correct?"
"That is correct,” I answered.
"What if I kill you?"
"Then you'd become a murderer."
She held out her hands. “What do you think I already am!"
"You were used for the commission of terrible acts, Miss Alice,” said Walter. “You now have the ability to become the means through which those acts are made right. You can choose to bring those responsible to justice. Before you were a tool; now you are only a tool if you choose to be."
"I can choose to kill.” She looked at each of us in turn, her expression softening to become one of awe. “You all have that choice,” she said. “You could have killed me."
I couldn't tell if she was going to cooperate, go catatonic, or self-destruct. Just then I felt something brush my leg. I looked down and it was Val. “I hate to interrupt while you're working, Harry,” she said, “but the low charge alarm on Walter's electric is beeping.” She looked at Alice Blue. “Harry, are you going to introduce us?"
I bent over, picked up Val, and held her in my arms. “Alice, this is my wife, Valerie Jaggers. Val, this is Miss Alice Blue."
"Pleased to meet you, Alice."
Alice walked over and stopped before me, her hand out to pet Val. “Is it all right?” she asked.
"Of course, dear,” said Val as she climbed out of my arms and into Alice's. It frightened me, but I knew why Val did it. She was protecting me, and it's harder to kill someone while holding a big, warm, purring bundle of fur. As Alice stroked Val's back, my wife said quietly, “I couldn't help hearing what you were saying, Alice. May I offer a bit of advice?"
Alice nodded, her gaze fixed on Val.
"Doing the right thing is often a difficult choice to make. Even more difficult is accepting help when it's offered. Choices have consequences and not choosing is also making a choice. There are a lot of things to be made right, Alice, but there is also a great deal of help available. Harry, Guy, and Walter can assist you in getting that help."
Alice Blue looked down and Nadine was rubbing against her leg. She bent over, picked up Nadine, held both of them in her arms, and looked at me. “My first choice,” she said.
"Actually, miss,” said Walter, “you've already made several choices. We're all, after all, still alive."
She held the cats for a long time looking at a point somewhere outside the shack. She looked at Walter and said, “I've never been lost before. I think I am now. I'll take your therapist's number."
"Very good, miss."
To Shad she said, “In my opinion John Quinn is insane. He talks about you almost as though you were a constant presence. I gather he tried killing you before."
"Yes."
"It's twisted his head."
"How did he get the explosives into the country?” I asked.
"They were already here,” she answered. “Quinn is on the board of World Eco Watch. A little satellite time using a high-definition metal detection filter on an artillery range and Quinn managed to locate what he wanted inside your jurisdiction. All he needed was a remote sonic detonator and a rat suit. He built the first and rented the second."
My own eyebrows went up. I had been wrong and everyone else had been right: It had been an old dud artillery shell. While I was contemplating the number of persons to whom I owed amends, Alice said, “Okay, Inspector. Tell me what you want me to do."
Walter drove, I sat in the passenger seat, Shad hovered between us, and Alice Blue sat in back with Val and Nadine as Walter headed for a service station in Okehampton. As we rode the track past the army camp, Alice told us how she was used to kill Guy Shad. She was only one of a variety of differently configured “torps” owned by a New York firm of political consultants whose front name was We Can Fix It. Of the many things We Can Fix It purported to clean up were the backgrounds of candidates for corporate and political office. John Quinn wanted to be governor of New York, using that office to step on up to the presidency. To do that he had to have a clean background: no childhood experimentation with controlled substances, no youthful indiscretions of a sexual or criminal nature, no undocumented maids on the payroll, and especially no years on the police force taking his cut from those who had their own opinions about which laws could be ignored—at least no one left who could remember any of it. As it happened, Shad's continued existence seemed to stalk Quinn like a specter, always there, always threatening to expose him. In Quinn's mind it had grown into something unreal and malignant. “He wanted to kill you himself—call you a rat to your face. He told me he had to,” said Alice. “Always unfortunate when amateurs want to make of a killing more than it is."
"Hear, hear,” said Walter. I glared at him, and he gestured a sort of apology.
"Two of John Quinn's associates are former detectives who are convinced Guy Shad could land them in the kind of trouble that runs politically uphill.” Alice Blue smiled wryly. “What they don't know is that Quinn has We Can Fix It cleansing his two associates as well. Unfortunate fishing trip in Colorado in three weeks. I fear they'll get lost and die of exposure."
I looked back at her. “The New York authorities will need all that information as soon as possible."
The knowledge of an incoming call came into my head. It was Matheson. "Jaggers, old boy! Near a telly?"
I glanced at Walter. He nodded, touched a button on his steering column, and a screen dropped down from the roof. All those in the rear could easily see it, and Shad moved his mech back there for the improved view. By straining, I could see the screen from the side: constabulary police cruisers, light arrays flashing, in front of a small cottage. Matheson began telling me a channel number, but I interrupted and said we already had it and ended the call. The reporter doing the voiceover let us know that she was in Gidleigh, at great personal risk to her own person, as multiple police agencies descended upon the cottage's occupant suspected of being the Mad Moor Murderer. A disclaimer came up on the screen explaining that the bombing had taken place in northern Dartmoor, the use of the designation ‘Moor’ was for alliterative purposes and in no way referred to Moors, nor anyone of Moorish descent, nor does the term ‘Mad’ refer to mentally impaired, anger-management challenged ... etcetera, etcetera.
"Matheson's making the bust in front of the TV cameras while we're out here in the boonies,” said Shad. “By the time Walter's car is charged and we can make it to Gidleigh, it'll all be over. Matheson'll probably get a medal."
"The Wookie never got a medal,” said Alice Blue from in back.
I turned and looked at her, not certain if she was joking. “That's true,” I chimed in. “The Wookie did everything Han Solo and Luke Skywalker did. They got medals and the Wookie didn't."
"A clear case of human racism,” added Val.
We all looked at Shad.
Shad's mech was silent for a moment. “Yeah,” he said in good humor. “He did the same except for lines. The Wookie only had that one word to learn for his part.” He then gave the Wookie call.
"That shouldn't have kept the Wookie from getting a medal,” said Alice with a demure smile. “Patty Duke only said one word in The Miracle Worker and she got an Oscar."
"What word was that, sergeant?” Walter asked Shad.
"'Wawa,'” quoth the micro, granting the point. The motion passed unanimously. Resolved: The Wookie was stiffed, as we would be whenever it came time to pass out pub
lic kudos for taking down the Mad Moor Murderer.
After charging Walter's MG, we took the A 30 back toward Exeter to bring Alice Blue to Heavitree Tower for the first of many interrogations. Eventually the conversation turned to Shad's new meat suit. He said he was going to arrange with North American Biotronics for a replacement duck, which should be ready in a matter of weeks.
Until then, what? Walter wanted to know.
Shad said he was going to go to Celebrity Look-alikes of Bond Street, London, and pick something inspiring to wear until his new duck arrived.
Everyone else in the car entertained themselves speculating on which celebrity suit Shad would choose. Shad's big hero from his acting days was Lawrence Olivier, which was Val's choice. Nadine chose Sylvester the Cat, but I think she was joking. Walter thought actor Stephen Fry would be an excellent choice. Alice Blue, after much encouragement from Val and Nadine, smiled and chose Tick Tock from the Oz stories. All good selections and all quite wrong, I feared.
I had been with Guy Shad long enough to know how his mind worked. I began bracing myself to refuse to react even a little bit when he appeared for duty as Nigel Bruce playing Dr. Watson.
* * * *
(EDITOR'S NOTE: Jaggers and Shad appeared earlier in “The Good Kill,” November 2006.)
Copyright (c) 2007 Barry B. Longyear
[Back to Table of Contents]
THE REFERENCE LIBRARY by Tom Easton
The Last Colony, John Scalzi, Tor, $23.95, 320 pp. (ISBN: 0-765-31697-8).
Sixty Days and Counting, Kim Stanley Robinson, Bantam, $25.00, 391 pp. (ISBN: 978-0-553-80313-6).
Ragamuffin, Tobias S. Buckell, Tor, $24.95, 317 pp. (ISBN: 0-765-31507-6).
Brasyl, Ian McDonald, Pyr, $25.00, 358 pp. (ISBN: 978-1-59102-543-6).
The Quest for the Trilogy: A Rover Novel of Three Adventures, Mel Odom, Tor, $25.95, 462 pp. (ISBN: 0-765-31517-3).
The Mathematics of Magic: The Enchanter Stories of de Camp and Pratt, L. Sprague de Camp and Fletcher Pratt, Mark L. Olson, ed., NESFA Press, $26.00, 512 pp. (ISBN: 1-886778-65-5).
Analog SFF, October 2007 Page 23
