In Dreams Page 7

  "Sorry, Inspector," I say, focusing back on R17. "What is it?"

  "Something is taking place that I think you should observe."

  “Understood.” I turn to the assistant. “Now, do you understand?”

  I lean in and flip my face plates to an arrangement 32 scowl.

  He inches back. “How am I supposed to get people to say that?”

  I lean closer. “It doesn't matter. Just get as many people as possible to say it. It is imperative to the safety of this meeting. And we will be listening. Understood?”

  He nods a clenched face. It's good enough.

  I exit the room after R17.

  “That is your strategy, Sir?” R17 says.

  "Yes. It is. Your tone tells me you have a problem with that, Inspector."

  I can see the controlled demeanor of R17 crumbling; his streamlined stance is hunched and tilted. That corrupted memory has made it so clear now. Only someone whose paint is so fresh could have difficulty thinking outside of proper tactics, only someone who hasn't been pushed around for decades.

  "Sir, no, Sir. I just cannot compute why I am here, Sir, if everything is accomplished without me."

  That's when I decide to let him know the truth.

  "R17, the real reason you were summoned to this investigation is to..." For a second, I can't say it. For a second, it's too humiliating to admit. Then it slips out. "...replace me."

  "Sir?"

  "This is my final mission. After a hundred and twenty seven years of service, tomorrow I'm being commissioned for retirement."

  "Retirement?"

  For a second, I can't say anything. For a second, I can't even get past the word. Retirement, the only thing in this world that can cripple all -- men, machines and monarchs.

  "Yes, Inspector."

  R17 springs back as stiff as a circuit board. His face configures rigid and proper.

  "It is an honor to fill such a role, Sir. It is an honor to accompany you on your last active duty."

  Last active duty? Just hearing the words make my circuits run hot. An Enforcer isn't meant to go out this way. An Enforcer isn't meant to last this long. We are supposed to go down guns blazing, a sacrifice for justice, a true hero. Protecting the people by fulfilling our damned primary protocol: Serve, obey –- your purpose. But here I stand. Alive. Unfulfilled. A century old. I guess it isn't so easy to find that sparkling ray of purity to die for when the world is so filled with gray.

  "Thank you, Inspector."

  We step back into our shield of darkness and I ask, "What was it you wanted me to observe, Inspector?”

  “There.” He angles a chrome finger towards the table.

  An argument is underway. On one end of the table the Minister of Design looks like a whipped dog. On the other, the Minister of Marketing is howling, his face so red and veined, it looks like it is about to pop off.

  "--we aren't making products out of kindness or for nostalgia, Minister. This is business. This is government. This is money."

  The Minister of Marketing plops into his chair with a harrumph. The room turns taciturn. The argument is over.

  "Sir," R17 says. "We have missed it."

  The Minister of Design slips into his seat without a sound, his face flushed, his demeanor beaten.

  R17 continues. “The Minister of Design started this. Asking questions. Very naive ones. Almost as if attempting to get the other ministers to explain their process. It's suspicious, Sir.”

  “Just what a spy would do," I say. "Gathering evidence.”

  "There is a high probability it is him, Sir."

  "You could be right, Inspector."

  In the hush, as assistants shuffle data pads, our mole slinks back into place.

  “Now we'll see if he'll really go through with it,” I whisper.

  The assistant slumps, contemptuous wrinkles ridging his brow. For a moment, he stands muted and mutinous. For a moment, I'm sure he won't do it.

  Then his eyes spot me in the shadows. I shake my head. His eyes squint. I shake my head again.

  He gets the message. A sigh seeps through his clamped lips and he turns to the assistant next to him.

  "Hey, Phil," he starts.

  "Oh, hey, Tom. Did you get that 555w?"

  "In a minute. Got a quick question."

  "Sure."

  "What's this word scribbled in this letter?" He pulls a data pad from a shirt pocket and shows him. "I can't quite make it out."

  “Oh. Hmm. Looks kind of like death.”

  “Ah, that's it. Thanks.”

  “Sure. Now, that 555w.”

  R17 turns to me. "It appears you were right, Sir."

  “I chose the right man,” I say and run the 3.14 smile routine. It had been decades since I actually ran that routine twice in a single day. “This might be easier than I thought.”

  That's when I realize I spoke too soon.

  The mole flashes his eyes back at me. In them, the sparkles say, “There! I did it. Satisfied?”

  I shake my head, eyes focused. My sparkle says, "You aren't done yet."

  For a moment, silence.

  For a moment, he is a statue.

  For a moment, he isn't going to do it.

  The Minister of Design then turns toward him.

  “Tom,” he says.

  “Yes?” says the mole.

  “Can you give me the forecast reports on the Rev182?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  Now is the deciding moment. Now is his chance. Now!

  His hand reaches for the data pad. His fingers grace the edge. Slide. Slide. Stop. In a shiver, they dart to another stack and give them to the minister.

  "Thanks," the minister says.

  "Sure."

  Our mole slips behind the minister's throne. The shadows wash over him. He thinks he is invisible. My eyes, however, see him all too clear.

  Glaring at me, he notices the frown configured on my face. He sways his head, no. My forehead furrows further. He snaps his eyes shut. Lines fan from the clenches.

  He's stopped! He's not going to do it. Now I--

  Through his pinched lips a sigh slips out. He then leans in towards the minister.

  "Sir?" he says.

  The Minister of Design turns. "Yes?"

  "Could you tell me what is written here?" He grasps the data pad and hands it to the minister. "I can't quite make it out."

  The minister squints at the pad. "Hmm. I can't tell."

  “I think that's a D there. And maybe an E next.”

  “Oh, um--" His compressed lips release and head jerks back. He's figured it out.

  But nothing happens. He doesn't say anything. He just turns to his assistant in silence.

  "He won't say it," I mutter.

  The minister hands back the pad. "This really isn't the place for jokes, Tom. I really need to be focused on this meeting."

  "It's not--" He clasps the datapad. "Yes, sir."

  I turn to R17.

  "He was avoiding saying it," he says. "It appeared as if he knew what it said."

  "Maybe."

  "The probability it is him is increasing, Sir."

  "He is suspicious."

  "Sir, we must act. If we are to wait on this assistant to go to each person, we will not succeed in this mission, Sir."

  And like that, I make a decision.

  "You are right." I swivel back toward the ministers. "Keep monitoring our mole."

  "Me?"

  “I'm going to focus on the Minister of Design.”

  “But, Sir--”

  “I don't trust him,” I say and march silently into the shadows.

  Crouching, I edge closer to the table. Creeping, I step silent in the dark. As I do, the Minister of Research glides out of his chair and takes a graceful pose.

  "The forecasted sales of Rev182 will return our market share to number one. Its redesign of the Pox vaccine is unparalleled. It has a 42% cure rate, that's an 11% increase over the current vaccine. A new model won't be n
eeded for at least three quarters, enough time for every one of those Sector 5 minions to buy a pack.”

  Behind my shield of shadows, I slink closer. Closer. Almost there. Stop. The Minister of Design's back is a few feet ahead, his thrumming heart fills my ears.

  In his thick, wheeled throne, he shifts. In this moment of silence, he twists, he fidgets, he squirms.

  I flip on my thermal-optics and the world turns 8-bit blue. In a blaze of crimson and gold, the minister is burning up. His assistants, however, are as cool and orange as a setting sun. I scan across the room and everyone is just as tepid, some even cerulean because of their augs. The only one whose temperature is too high is this Minister of Design, and the man at the end of the table, the Minister of Development.

  The Minister of Development. The false pure-flesh. Hmm. He's been suspiciously quiet the whole meeting. I cannot access memories of him saying a single word actually. I figure him a secretive man, however. Even without the thermals I can see that. But his thermals burn almost as red as the Minister of Design. His heart rate, however, isn't elevated. His body systems aren't overactive. But this Minister of Design, everything is working overtime.

  “Now, now,” the Minister of Marketing says, standing. “Too great a leap and we will lose money. The next incarnation is always where we make our profits.”

  “Oh, I've added that to the design," says the Minister of Research. "We are already working on revisions 183 and 184 of the vaccine. Each revision will add an 11% increase to the cure rate, although we have already developed a model with a 75% rate.”

  "Perfect."

  Through the minister's gloated chuckles, my sensors pick up whispered words near the porkish Minister of Product Control. I turn.

  A curvacious assistant of abundant femininity drapes a delicate hand on the minister. “Ciacco, the plans are set.”

  “G-Good. He doesn't know?” he whispers back.

  “Of course not.” She slips a seductive smile.

  “As s-soon as this m-meeting is over, we'll be free, Circe.”

  “We are almost there.” She brushes his metallic collar with a lingering finger.

  A bellow shatters the whispers and a single word draws me back to the laughing Minister of Marketing. “To the death of our competition, and the rebirth of the middle class!”

  Well, one thing is for sure. It isn't the Minister of Marketing, even though he has the blackened heart of a crook. Knowing his record though, he probably had that amputated long ago. At the same time, the Minister of Product Control is definitely up to something. The slob oozes an aura of deceit, as if everything he does is deviant in some way. But I don't have time to track him unless the nasty thing he is doing is the one I am trying to stop.

  There are just too many crooks in this caustic broth.

  The ministers laugh in unison as if some demonic choral club -- all except the Minister of Finance. He just doesn't fit in. In this den of thieves his morals stick out. An odd choice if a spy. A middle class, Sector 5 marshmallow, naive to what is happening. But each question, each statement, says somehow the other ministers are wrong. Says it's not the way he would do it. Like a man with morals. Like an activist.

  An activist?

  It's him.

  It has to be.

  Before I can even finish my thought, however, the Minister of Design shoots up to his feet. Before I can even process what to do, he's already saying, “I'm sorry to keep interrupting, but I'm just having a hard time understanding the exact reasoning behind the limit to the cure rate. This feels... well... can you explain it further?”

  He's trying to get them to point out details. Trying to document their procedures. I have to take him down. Now.

  Shifting so smooth even my hydraulics can't squeak, I crouch forward.

  Step. I must stop him.

  Step. But I can't reveal my presence until I have him.

  Step. Just a few more inches. Just a few more--

  The Minister of Marketing lumbers to his feet, grumbling. "Really?"

  He pulls back, as if readying for a speech. He is preparing to spill it all.

  I have to do it now, before he says anything important. Forget cover. I have to take a chance.

  But as I rise, as I get ready for the pounce, the Minister of Marketing heaves out a sigh and looks straight at me. “Take that R3.”

  I freeze.

  He angles a fat finger at me.

  Crap.

  Then, in perfect anti-climactic timing, the world pops. Everything turns black.

  INTERNAL ERROR

  This mission will be the end of me. In more ways than one.

  The thoughts ring in my head for a moment. Then I realize that I'm not even thinking them. I'm in a memory again. Even farther back. Damn.

  Our whirring patrol cruiser sits down with a hiss. After a dozen dial-twists, button-pushes and switch-flips, R17 raises his door and steps out.

  My eyes close. My thoughts stop. I am ready for my last mission. I am ready for retirement.

  My door slips open. Before my eyes can focus, the stench and noise flood in. The masses. The shrieking people. Sector 5. My home.

  There are hundreds of organics. 931 to be precise. All screaming, all foul. The Sector Lift exchange we are entering makes the crowd look bigger than it really is. Two crumbling scrapers box us in on either side, squishing this mob into a five meter alley.

  Is this what all those old men are squabbling over? Is this what I'm actually protecting? Or, instead, am I keeping it in place?

  In the organics' hands are bent signs. Some handmade. Some flashing text. Some read: THE POX IS KILLING US. Others: WE NEED MEDICINE THAT WORKS. A final big broken sign reads: HALF OF US HERE WILL DIE IN A WEEK.

  By my scans, that sign is correct. 86% of these citizens have the Pox. And by the look of their scabbed, blistered skin, their puss-filled stank, many won't last the day.

  Begs for help, tearing eyes -- the peoples' pleas wash over me. I can't watch them. I can't care. My duty is elsewhere. I have to look to the pavement.

  Through these memories, through these eyes, I can now see that despite my century of service, my century's worth of knowledge, I am just as much a pawn as those fresh off the line. Actually, I'm worse. I was actually there when when this city was a paradise, when peoples' faces never cried this way, when expressions were never this foul. But despite my service, paradise still falls. Why?

  R17 shoves a path open before me. At the end of the alley are four massive tubes the size of obelisks. Each stretches far into the sky. Each leads to the upper sectors, the heavens. Each, these people will never be able to ride.

  We march to the one furthest away, the one the entire crowd is screaming at, the one with a massive "1" beveled into it.

  Practically rolling over two screaming protestors, R17 says through the wireless, "Someone should really incarcerate these organics."

  "For doing what, Inspector?" I transmit back. "Protesting how crap things have become? For complaining about how fed up they are of being boxed in and pushed around?"

  "Sir, 43% are out of sector. Nothing excuses their presence here."

  "I wouldn't say nothing, Inspector. Answers are not always so black and white."

  R17 shakes that silver skull. "The answer is always simple, Sir. More rigid laws, stricter adherence -- that's the only way to bring order. Then there would be nothing to complain about. Then there would be no terrorists like these."

  "Terrorists, Inspector? What terrorists? These are protestors. Activists at worst, but not terrorists by any stretch. These organics are just ordinary citizens."

  He stops and turns toward me. "These?" he says.

  I nod. "Smack dab in the middle of the middle class. The good eggs."

  R17 flips up an eyebrow.

  "But I guess we must still protect the heavens from even the good ones, right?" and I point to a squad of blaster-proof, thought-repellent, artillery-totting triggermen slouched in a small black and white.
With batons and blasters, a dozen others keep the crowd behind barriers, a meter away from the pearly sector lift.

  "Segregation. Keep them in their cage. You're stricter adherence, Inspector." Passing R17, I finish, "To the heavens then..."

  We step into the sector lift and into my last mission. My last action. The only thing left beyond: deactivation, death -- retirement.

  INTERNAL ERROR

  Pop.

  Darkness.

  Static.

  INFECTED MEMORIES SUPPRESSED. REROUTING ARRAY.

  Spark. I'm back in the conference arena. Back and the Minister of Marketing is scowling right at me.

  “Come here,” he says, waving an impatient palm.

  It takes me a whole second to process what just happened. By then, all eyes are on me.

  “Sir?” I answer.

  “Now!”

  Stiff and vulnerable, I step into the light. The assistants and ministers gasp.

  Through whispers, someone cries, “What's an Enforcer doing here?”

  The Minister of Marketing trundles over to me. He's even bigger, more intimidating, up close.

  In a hurried croak, I say, "Sir, I must warn--"

  "Silence, bot." He pats me on the head like a dog, and turns to the table. “This is an R3. An early 2101 model. Early Sentient Class. These were retired long ago. The reason? Because of inefficiencies? No, this one remaining in service this long disproves that. It's simply to make room for the new model.”

  He raises that thick finger toward R17. “Come here.”

  Heads whip back, jaws loosen and fall, gasps once again steal the breaths of the ministers.

  Surprise reconfigures the plates on R17's face. In an awkward oscillation, he points towards himself.

  “Why is it that I have to repeat myself around these drones?” the minister asks.

  R17 lifts a rattled foot and steps into the light. The minister continues.

  “This R17 is technically better in every way: looks, efficiency, thought processing. But that's not the reason we see them everywhere. The only reason we see R17's everywhere and not R3's is because we don't give the customer a choice. With each upgrade we bill the older models as obsolete, no longer useful. The manufacturer then no longer makes or supports them to reinforce their disuse. So everyone throws away their old model for the exact same thing, just slightly nicer. In truth, both fill the same needs, roles, can do the same things. The only difference is each newer model appeals to a larger audience. It's the only way our system can continue. If we only target the tiny market that established the product, we cannot retain our power. We cannot remain the Core Firm. Even if we own everything from News-Speak to City Air, we won't hold on to it if we don't appear to make better products. So it's incorporated into the design -- the old products are only setups to make money off of the next model. Simple theory. You should have learned this high school, Minister.”