The Civil Engineers Read online

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  The mobile laboratory had been erected in the southwest corner of Farmer Johnson's pasture. It consisted of two long metal desks, an array of laptops, two staff videographers from Cummings, a dozen portable air conditioner units, canopies, and ice chests stuffed with food and water.

  As the DATs weren't scheduled to have their weapons packages installed until Herschel and Roger took them back to the Detroit retrofitters in three months, basic gun handling was going to be simulated with paint guns. That part of their training was not going to happen for another four weeks, after the DATs had graduated to Phase Two. However, the two engineers had attached the power cords leading to the AIs' right hands. Chang thought that this would be a good time to test the hands for strength and accuracy, so he instructed Broussard to devise a few exercises which would further demonstrate their abilities to Colonel Higgins.

  "A stone house." Farmer Johnson mopped his sweaty brow with the sleeve of his shirt. "Since I was a child I wanted a stone house. It kept out the heat and steam. Somehow, though, I always ended up in cheap stucco." Chang, who was standing close by, merely grunted.

  It was the first of March and ninety-seven degrees in the shade, which (thanks to several stout oak trees) was where the Redstone team happened to be encamped. That high temperature, coupled with the forty-percent humidity, made the first day of Phase One acutely uncomfortable for all. However, Bautista, Herschel, and Roger had parked all of the computers in front of the portable air conditioning units, and they themselves looked as happy as clams on ice. This area had been dubbed Mission control. With just two wheeled work consoles (painted Navy blue with racing stripes on their sides) they projected digital versions of the comm screens and the DAT POV screens, as well as radio control over the DATs' electronic and manual locks. As per a last-minute addendum to the original DAT specs, a remotely controlled KILL switch was designed and installed in the AIs. That feature was also available to Mission control. Chang and the Boys had resisted the idea, deeming it as unnecessary and perhaps dangerous should it be accidentally activated, but Higgins had made it clear to them that their opinions on the matter did not carry much weight with Washington.

  The two free theory physicists from Gresko, Marcin Z and Kris Kwolski, would be working closely with them now to assist with the training and evaluation of the AIs.

  It had been raining off and on for almost a week leading up to the night before, and they were much relieved that Mother Nature had not sent another downpour to screw up the Master log's schedule. Farmer Johnson saw the aberrant weather for what he felt it was: a bad omen. "I am a child of the desert. This much moisture in the air so early in the year—it is the devil's doing."

  Chang threw off the old man's misgivings and continued to revel in the high spirits that had been floating the team for weeks now. After so much hard work and sacrifice and pure-dee-hell, the little toy from Nevada that could was finally becoming a lean, mean fighting machine. Even the normally staid Boys were relishing the opportunity to play their roles on such a momentous occasion. Chang squinted into his binocs. "I thought it had something to do with high dew points." His eyes found the three German Shepherds being heeled by their handlers ninety meters upwind. Impressive. It was hotter than blazes out there, and yet the men and the dogs stood perfectly still, totally focused in their direction on the row of DATs resting on their haunches about five meters from where Chang and the rest of the crew stood. Walters, Powell, Kris Kwolski, and Broussard had positioned themselves directly in back of the AIs. The Lincoln Hills Boys had the strongest relationships with the bots and would be able to better decipher and interpret their actions and reactions to what they would be observing today. Kuiper also wanted the engineers to remain close to the DATs so that they could monitor their attention levels and keep them on target. Unfortunately, the DATs had inherited from the MITS the highly disruptive habit of lapsing into "processing" mode whenever the notion struck them. With Colonel Higgins on the scene, acting as the eyes and ears for DARPA, the last thing they needed was the smartest machine on earth deliberately going into catatonia on the first day of exhibition. Eventually someone would have to come up with some viable ideas as to how to stop this undesirable behavior, and they might as well get started now rather than later.

  The colonel, who wore a blindingly white Stetson and perfectly gigged jeans, sat stoically atop an equally stoic chestnut mare. He resembled the iconic image of George Washington about to lead the troops across the Potomac, albeit in L. L. Bean-style.

  Both man and beast were streaming fluids beneath the wicked heat.

  Farmer Johnson was muttering to himself. "The world is different now." He wiped his dripping brow again and added mysteriously, "Many, many things can change the weather now."

  Chang stamped his foot with impatience. "Mr. Johnson, you're blunting my buzz. Can you move over there, please?"

  Farmer Johnson started to give him the evil eye.

  "And please don't do that."

  Johnson hurried away.

  Chang himself was now sopping wet. Out of nowhere a dark funk moved in and perched high above his head, ready to pounce. He walked over to Mission control and took up position behind Bautista and the comm screens. Then he called out to Walters, "Let's get this show on the road!"

  Walters gave a thumbs up. "Right-o!" He then gave three short toots on a whistle. The three dog handlers raised their arms to confirm that they understood that the training session was about to begin. The dogs were trotted out to the waiting obstacle course just a few paces away. In single file, one dog after the other crawled under barbed wire, jumped over large puddles of water, climbed walls set on fire at their edges, sniffed out dummy soldiers buried beneath a pile of rocks and sand, and finally finished up with the most impressive tactic so far: charging across an open field while their handlers shot round after round of blanks from an AK-47 directly at them. As soon as the canines had been rewarded and placed back in the heel position, the field erupted in extemporaneous applause. Even Colonel Higgins seemed impressed.

  The reaction from the DATs was tepid. One of them, Amadeus, turned around to look at Powell. "What is that?" The AI asked him.

  "Those are dogs, Amadeus. Remember? We watched those movies last week: Eight Below, The Call of the Wild, The Adventures of Lassie?"

  "I do not remember," the DAT replied.

  Powell turned around to see if Chang had caught that. From the look on the team leader's face, he had.

  Chang leaned over Bautista's shoulder. "Bring up their data screens, Mike."

  Bautista typed in some commands. "Done."

  Another screen appeared in the corner of each main comm screen. This window allowed the team to see which data streams a DAT was accessing in real time at any given moment.

  Powell gave Amadeus a pat on the shoulder. "Well, those dogs help soldiers, just like you will one day. How about that?"

  Amadeus had no response.

  Meanwhile, Sarah was busy calling up images of various dog breeds from NASA's Cray. The other comm screens show irrelevant activity or little in the way of activity that could be construed as a subjective interpretation of what the DATs had just witnessed. However, it was clear that the DATs were indeed paying attention.

  Sarah's comm screen went blank.

  Chang rubbed his chin. "That's weird."

  Powell snagged Walters's attention. "Are we ready?"

  Walters grinned. "Think so." He spoke to the AIs closest to him, David and Rose. "You guys ready to make some new friends?"

  He was met with glassy stares, although Rose did finally say, "No, thank you."

  Walters adjusted his baseball cap. "All right then! Let's go!"

  The two videographers snatched their cameras off their tripods and hoisted them onto their shoulders.

  With Walters leading the line, the engineers and the DATs began making their way across the soggy field towards the canine unit. Amadeus quickened his pace to a slow jog. Kwolski called him back. Ch
ang had wanted them to stay in formation.

  Back at Mission control, Chang watched them go. He knew that this was rudimentary stuff compared to what the robots were going to be doing down the road, but he still had butterflies in his stomach. He was watching history in the making.

  When the DATs were just a few meters away, the lead dog handler stepped up with his canine partner and extended his hand towards Walters. He was a clean-cut young man with dark, wavy hair.

  "Hello, sir. I'm Lieutenant Robert Jones. I'm team leader of the Avondale Patriots' K-9 unit, and this is my partner Maxx. It's an honor to meet you and the DAT Timberwolves."

  Walters pumped Mr. Jones's hand. "Thank you, Mr. Jones." As the cameramen moved in for close-ups, he began to recite the little speech that he had prepared for the occasion. "On behalf of the DAT Program, I would like to thank you and your unit for volunteering your time and talents towards helping us train the first fully operational robotic soldiers in history."

  The two shook hands again, this time for the cameras. The other two dog handlers gaped openly at the DATs.

  "We are just so honored to be a part of this," Jones gushed.

  Every DAT head swiveled precisely in his direction.

  Mr. Jones was unabashedly enchanted. "Jeez, they're beautiful."

  Walters looked back at his creations. He was right. They were beautiful. Bona fide works of art. "That's odd," he murmured. All of the DAT comm screens but one were flashing in capital letters: "RUN. RUN. RUN."

  Paula sprang forward, raised her right hand, and brought it down hard on Maxx's head. She then grabbed the dog around the neck and threw him to the ground. For a moment, Robert Jones just stood there, that awestruck expression still on his face. "What's going on?" he asked.

  Paula had Maxx completely covered with her body. The dog was struggling mightily to throw her off when he got enough wind to let out a blood curdling scream.

  "FUCK!" Powell shouted and he threw himself at the DAT. "LET GO! PAULA, LET GO OF HIM!"

  Walters began to furiously blow on his whistle.

  Chang thumped Bautista on the back. "Throw on the e-locks!"

  The German shepherd was still valiantly attempting to get to his feet, but the DAT remained firmly planted on him. Now Kwolski, Walters, and Broussard were all prying and pulling at the attacking robot along with Powell.

  Bright red blood began to spurt onto the green grass. The sight of it sent Jones, the dog handler, reeling. He began bleating uncontrollably.

  Bautista typed in the command. "They're not taking! She's overriding them!"

  Chang had to make a terrible decision very fast. "Kill it!" The KILL command would cut off the DAT's energy supply from their reactors.

  Bautista threw the KILL switch and screamed at what the comm. was still telling him. "NO JOY! NO JOY!"

  Chang pounded the desk with his fist. "DAMMIT!" He bolted out onto the field, taking one of the camera tripods with him. Colonel Higgins thumped his horse's sides and galloped after him.

  Powell gave Paula one last wrench about the shoulders. There was a sickening snap, and at last she was torn loose from the dog.

  He and Broussard began to drag her away from the immediate area.

  Walters looked down, saw what was left of Maxx the German Shepherd, and promptly vomited. While Robert Jones cried and tore at his own shirt, the other handlers grabbed their dogs by the scruffs of their necks and took off running.

  Chang arrived, out of breath. He surveyed the awful, bloody scene.

  Bedlam.

  Again.

  He fingered his crucifix some. Then he unbuttoned his shirt, removed it, and draped it over the body.

  Higgins's horse blew past him and headed for Powell, Broussard, and Paula, the videographers hard on his heels. Higgins pulled hard on his reins and the horse stopped on a dime right beside them. Powell's face flashed up at him. He knew what was about to happen.

  "Nooo!" he screamed at him. But it was too late. Higgins had already given the command. His horse was now in full rampant position, her front legs high in the air. Powell and Broussard had a fraction of a second to dive for cover before the hooves came down hard on Paula's head, crushing it. The DAT's body vibrated briefly, straightened itself out, and then moved no more.

  Powell rushed at the horse, blind with rage.

  Higgins calmly eased a burnished shotgun out of his saddle holster and pointed it at the engineer's forehead. "Enough blood's been spilt already today."

  Chang grabbed Powell. "GET A GRIP ON YOURSELF, ERIC! HE'LL KILL YOU, TOO!"

  Powell managed to calm his body down, but his eyes were still wild and dangerous.

  Chang released him and shouted up to the colonel. "He's fine! Everything's fine! Please don't shoot!"

  Higgins lowered the gun's barrel a few centimeters. He addressed Chang. "We appear to have a serious problem with the machine. I'm no scientist, but I'm ninety percent sure there's no way on earth you're going to fix it before they get their arms package." Higgins sucked in some air. "I'll make sure you get your money for the next twelve months. After that, it'll be pretty much a crap shoot. Now you can use that cash any way you'd like. Start over. Try something new. Either way you've got a long road ahead of you, so here's my two cents worth of advice. First: Suicide is never the answer."

  Chang looked like someone had just run him through with a saber. "What are you talking about?"

  "If you aren't thinking about now, you will be. So my advice is don't do it. Second: Get those other handlers back here pronto. We'll need to debrief them before we let them go."

  When Chang did not move right away, Higgins raised the shotgun and leveled it at him this time. "I meant now."

  Broussard tagged him. "I'll go with you, Allan."

  Chang nodded dumbly and the two men took off in the direction that the two Patriots had gone.

  The colonel pointed the muzzle at Powell. "You. Get someone to help you with the AI's body. Have it bagged and taken to my quarters. I'll return it after I've written up my report."

  Powell sluggishly obeyed and limped back towards Mission control.

  "You two." He turned to Kwolski and Walters. "Find something to wrap up the dog's body with. We'll need an autopsy."

  Kwolski and Walters exchanged nervous looks. "What about the other DATs?" Walters asked.

  "I'll round them up and take them back to Mission control." He pointed again with his gun. "Go on. Get the dog. And get Mr. Jones to help you if he's able."

  Higgins did not wait to discuss the situation further, but instead turned his horse around. He found the remaining five AIs sitting together, still in line formation. It would appear that they had not moved an inch in spite of all of the excitement that had gone on.

  Even as they surely witnessed the destruction of one of their own.

  Higgins kept the reins wound tightly around his left hand and his finger on the shotgun's trigger with his right. He had no doubt that should they decide to attack him now that he would have a roughly fifty-percent chance of making it out alive.

  He braced himself against the possible onslaught. "Let's go home now."

  Much to his relief, the DATs rose in unison and began the long walk back towards Mission control. Higgins followed behind them with loosely held reins, allowing a safe distance to open up between the machines and his horse.

  Suddenly, one of the DATs stopped mid-stride. It looked over its shoulder at the still prostrate body of the dead DAT and then all the way back at the colonel. Higgins saw the screen in the AI's forehead light up as several sentences scrolled by on a loop. Higgins steadied his weapon and inched the horse closer so that he could read the message:

  "Paula hurt the canine and the ungulate hurt Paula. That is called a balanced equation. Now ain't that a kick in the head?"

  Colonel Higgins stopped breathing. His eyes traveled down to the machine's name plate.

  It read "Bruce."

  21

  Freddy Fields sat in at the all-hands sta
ff meeting the next day. He explained that he was there to offer them his emotional support during the crisis and to discuss their options. Heads were hung low. Hearts were extremely heavy. The national security advisor was uncharacteristically gentle. "Gentlemen, to be blunt, yesterday was an unmitigated failure. Washington was gob-smacked when they heard the news. And Voode is anticipating a final briefing on the project from me sometime before July. I realize that you have worked very hard on the assembled intelligence project, and that you have achieved something that no one has yet to do. Yet ... the technology that we are trying to wrangle with, mold, and set on an autonomous course ... it may be beyond our reach now. Perhaps in a few years when we have a better understanding about what truly constitutes intelligence in the absolute sense will we be able to fully grasp how to inculcate those 'abstracts' like reasoning or mercy into an assembled being."

  Kuiper, his large eyes red and tight from stress, responded first. "We agree. Yesterday we experienced cascading failures ... on several tier-one levels. Unacceptable. And yet ... we also made progress. Only Paula went off the rails. That's a sixteen percent failure rate. That's within our safety envelope."

  Herschel made a sour face. "Just barely." He tapped his notepad with his pencil. "From what I can see, Paula was using her hand at close to one hundred percent of its available power. She wasn't just trying to restrain that dog, she was aiming to murder it. And she succeeded. And along the way, she bypassed all of her locks plus her KILL switch. If she figured out how to do that, we must assume that the other DATs can figure it out, too. To me, that's an unacceptable level of risk."

  No one disagreed with his assessment.

  "You are correct," Z concurred. "But, we lost control of only one robot. The majority stayed within control. That's significant."

  "So what are you saying?" Fields asked.

  "I'm saying that Paula was clearly motivated to exceed authority and take draconian action. Nothing in the MIT history would suggest such out-of-bounds behavior. Am I right?"

  He directed his question towards Chang.

  Chang barely acknowledged the question. His demeanor had turned markedly somber since yesterday.

  "So," Z continued, "I believe that she was acting on a trigger."

  "A trigger," Broussard repeated. "What, though? Both the MITs and the DATs are okay with animals. James and Jessie even had a pet hamster."

  Bautista joined the conversation. "I take the DATs and the MITs with me sometimes when I grab a smoke out in the pasture. Johnson's always got a gang of horses running around. The DATs don't pay them no mind."

  "Well, that's one piece of very good news," Fields said.

  Z turned to Powell. "Eric, in your report you mentioned that Amadeus didn't seem to know what a dog was."

  "Yeah. We had briefed them on dogs the week before, because they've never actually seen one in person. We looked at books and watched some movies with dogs in them. Mostly Disney stuff. He should have had some of that data in hard RAM at the very least, but he wasn't accessing it yesterday."

  "You think maybe the dog was the trigger?" Broussard asked.

  Z shrugged. "That I don't know. But I do feel that when something unusual happens, you must use detective work to determine what was the unusual factor in the situation. The DATs were familiar with soldiers, firearms, grass, horses, wooden structures, training environments. Us. They only things that they were not familiar with were the dogs. Apparently."

  Everyone thought about that for a while. As they did, the sense of utter failure dissipated somewhat.

  "What do you recommend then?" Fields asked.

  Kuiper spoke. "I agree with Z's theory. At least in theory." He smiled weakly at his own pun. "Let's put them to a test. A behavior test. Expose them to another dog—"

  The room erupted into vociferous objections.

  He raised his voice above theirs. "—taking all precautions to ensure the safety of the animal."

  "Hell, no!" Bautista shouted.

  "Use a cat then!" Walters countered.

  Z agreed. "The dogs are too valuable."

  Kuiper interrupted. "We should duplicate the events of yesterday as closely as possible. If we're going on the theory that a dog was the trigger, then we should use another dog."

  The room went as quiet as a monastery.

  Powell pushed his notepad away. "Then I'm out."

  "Me, too," Broussard added quickly.

  Chang sighed. "Me, too."

  Ten more people opted out.

  Fields raised his eyebrows. "I guess the nays have it. We'll use another animal." Fields turned to Susan Boward, who had been listening intently to the discussions without comment. "Susan, what do you believe we should be doing with the DATs in the meanwhile?"

  "We should be talking to them," she replied with the easy enthusiasm of a newbie. "They need to know that although we are very disappointed with Paula's actions, and that although what she did was very wrong and 'against the law' that we still love her and them. They need to feel that we are still supportive of them and that we will not abandon them or the training when mistakes occur."

  She crossed her chubby legs. "This might also be a good time to feel them out. Have them tell us about the event from their point of view. Check for any opinions from them as to why it happened. They probably aren't sophisticated enough to have formed concrete ideas, but any communication that they volunteer will be telling and, I feel, valuable."

  Fields nodded. "Yes. I agree."

  "And," she added. "Touch is critical now. We don't want anyone falling into isolationist tendencies just because something goes wrong."

  Someone muttered, "Amen."

  Fields slapped the conference table. "Okay, so we have a viable action plan. Does anyone have anything else to add?"

  Z raised his hand. "With Patrik's permission, of course, I'd like to take a peek at the neural net code."

  Patrik replied without hesitation. "Absolutely not."

  Fields gathered his things. "Well, that settles that. Gentlemen, let's get the test underway. Allan and Koop, I'd like to see you both in my office this afternoon, say 'round two o'clock, so that we can formalize this new action plan."

  "Certainly," Kuiper said brightly.

  Chang was decidedly less enthused. "Sure."

  But before training could continue, both Fields and Higgins wanted to make absolutely sure that the security issues had been thoroughly addressed. There were now serious legal issues to anticipate. An unpredictable robot that wantonly killed was the stuff of the darkest of science fiction. No one working on DAT could afford for this gruesome turn to become a full-blown reality. For if it did, DARPA would be soon dodging a hail of lawsuits from their own employees, and the DAT program would quickly go away. Along with hundreds of jobs, including their own. The new security mindset necessitated a complete redesign of the e- and m-locks, the RC KILL switch and the creation of a larger manual KILL switch on the DAT body that was accessible by any qualified handler. Fields assigned these items to Chang, Roger and Herschel on the Master log. The three men would have to work at a breakneck pace with little rest until they came up with a new security package that they all believed would provide error-free results.

  The next item for the duo was to contact Bill Johnson at NASA and arrange for another Behavior test using a dog. It was something that both men were loathe to do, but because of the serious nature of the original event and its explosive implications, they had little choice. But just to be on the safe side, they buried a requisition for the test with with a forgery of Charles White's signature attached to it within a pile of invoices that John Voode regularly signed. Voode would probably never know that he had signed a politically sensitive document, and Fields and Higgins would never be suspected of having created the document in the first place. Again ... loathsome but necessary subterfuge. The DAT program could not sustain another direct hit if it was to survive.

  The DATs were taken offline and taken back to the hangar's assembly
rooms. The Master log gave the engineering technicians forty-three hundred man hours—three weeks—to finish and test the AIs' compatibility with the new soft- and hardware.

  Broussard was on tenterhooks the entire time. Something wasn't right. He felt intuitively that there was another piece of the puzzle missing. He began to spend more time at the office, going over the DARPA specs, going over the transcripts from before, during and after the incident, watching home videos of the DATs during socialization the week before. Anything that he thought would shed light on why Paula would suddenly go berserk.

  Grace Montgomery noticed his extra efforts and began swinging by his cube in the evenings with boxes of takeout food. Occasionally, she would spend a little time with him, listening to his thoughts and concerns about the project. She appeared to be interested in the DATs and quite unsettled about the events in the pasture.

  One evening, as they were munching on vegetable tempura, he told her about his gut feeling about what had happened.

  "Something else is going on." Of course he had stated that belief to her several times before. "Something besides Murphy's Law."

  "Murphy's Law? What's that?" she asked.

  "It's an old engineering proverb. Essentially, it's the belief that what can go wrong will go wrong."

  "That's a pretty pessimistic way of looking at things."

  "Maybe." He shoved some broccoli into his mouth. "What we've got here is a large bug, a mega bug if you will. Now program bugs usually hide or go away once you start hunting for them hard enough. But I have a feeling that this one is so big that it's not going to turn tail and run. It's going to fight." He sighed with obvious frustration. "We can't be sure without examining the neural net's code, which kinda irritates me, but I'm sure that Patrik has his reasons for not sharing."

  She pointed to his computer screen. "What are you watching?"

  "That first screen is video of Bruce's assembly. The second screen is when they were assembling Paula."

  She stared at the pair of moving images. Four technicians dressed in surgical spacesuits surrounded each of the inert DAT bodies laid out on long steel tables. "And you're looking for what, exactly?"

  "I don't know. Discrepancies between the two operations."

  "But aren't both assembly teams following strict procedures?"

  Irritation crept into Broussard, and he had to remind himself that she was not an engineer. "Of course. But—"

  "Well, one difference is that this guy is perspiring a lot here." She was pointing to the video of Paula's assembly. More precisely, she was pointing at the helmet of the technician working near the DAT's head.

  Broussard checked the screen and hit the PAUSE button. "That's condensation on his helmet." He checked some of his notes. "The air conditioning was out for about twenty minutes and the room's temperature increased. But those suits have their own air supply, and its kept pretty cold to prevent the technicians from overheating. The warm air hitting his cold helmet caused the moisture." Broussard hit the PLAY button. "But that's no biggee."

  "Are you sure?"

  He became visibly annoyed. "A small increase in temperature would not affect the DATs."

  She pointed to the footage of Paula's assembly again. "Can you pause this and zoom in?"

  He made a show of sighing but did as she asked.

  "Look. There."

  Broussard peered into the screen. Two technicians were now bent directly over the work table that bore Paula. They were carefully attaching the front faceplate to the skull frame. And there, caught in midair, were three large globules of water falling from the first tech's helmet and directly into Paula's exposed brain.

  "Do you see what I'm pointing at, Neal?"

  His mind was racing. "Yes." Moisture could be just as damaging as excessive heat for a machine.

  "That condensation maybe caused a short circuit somewhere?"

  He looked at her.

  "I've actually been paying attention during visiting hours."

  Broussard chuckled. "So you're the one." He quickly scanned the other five videos again. "I can't find anything on the others." His tone was still bordering on being dismissive.

  "Hey, I know I'm not an engineer. I just noticed this one thing." She sounded a bit miffed. "But you're right. It's probably unimportant."

  "Now I didn't say that." Broussard leaned back into his chair, causing it to squeak. "I'm betting it's a coincidence. There's only a million-to-one chance that this would have caused mechanical disruption. But—"

  She completed his sentence. "What can go wrong, will go wrong. Murphy's Law."

  In spite of his doubts, Broussard went directly to Chang and discussed the situation with him. While the two engineers did not believe that the condensation was a direct link to Paula DAT's malfunction, it certainly had not been helpful, and steps would have to be taken to ensure that the error did not occur again. Chang acted surprisingly fast. He instituted a policy that one DAT engineer would be present any time a machine was being assembled or worked on. That engineer would be there to monitor the procedure, the environmental controls, the master log, and the assembly staff itself. Upon Chang's written approval, Broussard willingly penned himself in as the first official manager for DAT modifications.

  The next day found Alabama basking under clear blue skies and cooler temperatures. It had turned out to be a perfect Saturday afternoon to stage Redstone's first annual Hardware-Software softball game, hosted by Avondale's Chamber of Commerce. City and church leaders had rented out the town square park, decorated it and convinced twenty local vendors to set up tents to display and sell their wares to Redstone staffers and invited locals. Mayor Bridges, his beautiful wife, and their six children were on hand to throw out the first ball.

  Allan Chang's wife, Hillary, also made an appearance. Chang had sent for his family when it looked like the DAT program was going to stick, and they had been bunking at Redstone's employee quarters with him ever since. From all accounts, she was a lovely person and the perfect counterpart to her husband. Tall and big boned, she had an open face that fairly invited friendship.

  Although the game was being billed as a hard matchup between the two scientific units, all of Redstone had been invited to participate. The Hardware Harleys, led by team captain Eric Powell, consisted of engineers, technicians, and the most experienced players from the clerical staff. The Software Dragons, led by Patrik Patrik, embraced a cadre of hard-hitting cafeteria workers. Much to everyone's surprise, the Software Dragons had the game won almost from the beginning. When the score had risen to an embarrassing twenty-to-three, Bautista, pitching for the Harleys, began deliberately hurling his pitches into the arms and chests of many of the Dragon players. Grace Montgomery, official water girl, happened to be standing next to the second string umpires, Broussard and Hillary Chang.

  "Is Mr. Bautista always so ... excitable?" she asked.

  Broussard and Hillary looked at each other and answered in unison. "Yes!"

  "He's just showing off today," Broussard explained. "He'll calm down ... eventually."

  Hillary had an expression on her face that was part smile, part grimace. Like the kind an infant makes when it's passing gas. "That's what I keep telling Allan about Junior. Eventually, he'll find his groove and settle down." Allan Jr. had accompanied his mother to Redstone and was quickly gaining a reputation as a holy terror. The Changs were currently college shopping for him in Europe in the stated hopes of offering him a different, classical learning environment. Privately, people suspected that the besieged parents had simply run out of gas and were looking for the nearest exit.

  "Sure. Of course," Broussard and Miss Montgomery said supportively.

  A great deal of shouting and cat calls arose as Bautista walked his second batter of the day. The technician angrily threw down his glove, sauntered down to first base, and began cursing the offending player. After about three minutes of prolonged asinine behavior, Broussard covertly signaled Powell to step in. With a tip of his cap to
Tara McCarthy, Powell strutted confidently out to the mound to have a word with him ... and was shocked when Bautista greeted him with a fresh torrent of insults. Without thinking, Powell shoved the smaller man in the chest. Tara began yelling at him from the sidelines. Powell, distracted now, turned around to hear her better. Bautista seized the opportunity and kicked Powell in the shins. When Powell grabbed Bautista by the waist and slammed him into the dust, the Harleys and the Dragons cleared their respective benches. Some of the players attempted to bust up the fight, while others got in a few happy punches of their own.

  Broussard turned to Hillary with hooded eyes. "Violence is tiresome."

  When the game was over, Broussard, who had driven in with Bautista, asked Miss Montgomery if he could ride back with her to Redstone. When she said yes, without thinking he grabbed her hand and kissed the back of it.

  She was startled by the gesture. "What was that for?"

  "I don't know. You're a lady, and sometimes a lady's hand needs to be kissed. Even by a scoundrel like me."

  She giggled. "Okay. Super!" They walked to her car, and she let him open the door for her. She looked up at him with brightly shining eyes. Her face was the color of a summer peach. "You seem like the perfect gentleman to me."

  Before he could stop them, the words slipped between his lips. "I am when I'm with you."

  "Oh."

  He felt embarrassed. "Pretty corny, huh?"

  "I don't know," she replied softly. But the smile on her face never wavered, and he took that as a good sign.

  Two weeks later the AIs were back to an interim schedule that consisted of attending school under the watchful tutelage of Derek and Tara during the day, and then spending their evenings in the cramped quarters with the lot from Lincoln Hills. Training was suspended until the results of the behavior tests (Redstone's and NASA's) were in.

  Walters, Powell, and Broussard had no qualms about continuing their avuncular roles with the robots, but they were beginning to chafe beneath the constant scrutiny of their MP escorts, as well as the undesirable conditions of their makeshift apartments. Grumblings arose. They required privacy, room to roam, and fresh air on demand. They began to complain loudly and often. When Chang made the mistake of sticking his head into the common area one evening for a quick checkup before retiring, he was dragged into an empty corner by Powell and subjected to a flood of negative emotions from the engineer. He bemoaned his sorry fate, openly expressed his doubts about a loving and forgiving God, and wondered out loud whether or not life was truly worth living. Chang's relatively good cheer began to shrivel beneath the pressure of Powell's unhappiness. Two of the DATs, Amadeus and Sarah, were lounging on one of the couches across the room. Chang noted to himself that even they were beginning to look miserable. Which, Chang thought, was quite a feat as the DAT faces basically had no moving parts.

  Powell held up blameless hands. "Don't look at me."

  "Who else am I supposed to look at? Why don't you guys quit griping all the time? You're bringing them down."

  "Hey, Allan, they know how to tune us out. Besides, I'll bet they feel the same way we do."

  Chang needed to change the subject. He had his own laundry list of grievances against the world and truly did not want Powell to add to those numbers. "Has anyone offered any explanation as to why Paula did what she did?"

  "No, not really." Powell answered with a hint of dismay, no doubt offended that Chang had changed the subject. "But something odd happened. I was showing David some guitar chords the other day, and somehow we got to talking about her and what had happened and he said, 'She was protecting the soldier.'"

  Chang pursed his lips together. "'Protecting the soldier?' Who? Lieutenant Jones?"

  Powell sucked in his cheeks. "I guess so. But they know the Patriots aren't regular Army. Maybe there's still some confusion there."

  Chang took out an electronic pad and made a note to himself. "Weird."

  "Weird, indeed," Powell replied. "Maybe they're going cuckoo being caged up with us all the time."

  "Here we go ... "

  "I'm just saying. We need new digs. Being shoved together like sardines in a can is making all of us a little edgy. And with the MPs watching our every move ... . Can't you talk to somebody about this?"

  Chang rubbed his forehead. "Not now. I've got a good bead on Fields, and he isn't going to consider any new ideas until after we run the test with the new subject. You'll have to sweat it out until then."

  Powell smiled. "Fun-tastic," he replied sarcastically.

  Chang read the acute disappointment in the engineer's posture. "Look, I'll look into it in a few days. But I can't make promises."

  Powell jumped up and gave him a bear hug. "Great! Oh, one more thing." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "When you have that conversation, can you see about me getting something away from Neal and Mike?"

  "Away from Neal and Mike? Why?"

  Powell shushed him, glancing nervously over his shoulders.

  "They're killers," Powell whispered.

  "Eric, is that a news flash for you?"

  "No. But killers are always segregated from the other inmates. Remember?"

  "We left Lincoln Hills months ago."

  "Our bodies left Lincoln; our natures didn't. Now you and Mr. Fields can dress those two up any way you want, but it doesn't change the fact that they both murdered people in cold blood. I have to work with them, but I sure as hell shouldn't have to live with them. Not anymore."

  Chang's eyes grazed the floor. "I'll see what I can do."

  Three weeks after that terrible morning in the south pasture, Allan Chang, Christian Kuiper, and Van Walters met with Grace Montgomery in Freddy Fields' empty office. They had a proposal to present to her.

  "We'd like to invite you and your cat to participate in the next test," Kuiper said.

  Miss Montgomery began to demur almost immediately. "No. I don't believe that I could do that."

  "Miss Montgomery," Walters began smoothly. "The robots have been worked on extensively. They have new and reinforced safety features that I guarantee cannot fail. Also, we devised the test so that the test animal has a one hundred percent safety zone around it at all times. A DAT could not get close to it even if it wanted to."

  Grace Montgomery still looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Why my cat? Can't you obtain one from a shelter in Avondale?"

  "We could get a shelter animal," Walters agreed. "Totally out of its element and scared out of its mind, which could possibly skew the results."

  Chang offered a comforting smile. "Mr. Bojangles knows the lay of the land, and he's pretty familiar with everyone. So we could scratch that unknown from the equation."

  "I understand," she admitted. "It's just that he's so miserable. I don't think that he'll perform well."

  Kuiper chuckled. "No worries! We don't need him to sing and dance. He just needs to be a cat. Very low bar here. And he'll be safe. We have constructed a reinforced shark cage that will be welded shut and bolted to the ground. Herschel has cut their hand power by ninety percent, and we've reworked all of the locks. Trust me: He'll be fine. And, if all goes as planned, Mr. Bojangles will be the most famous cat in the history of science."

  "Well ... "

  "And I'll talk to Mr. Fields about maybe letting you spend more time at home."

  Her eyes lit up. "Really?" She pushed a few strands of hair out of her face. "That would be dear. I've been so exhausted lately."

  "Excellent!" Kuiper was delighted at her positive reaction. "I'll talk to Freddy this afternoon, and we'll see if he can arrange to have a home office installed at your apartment right away. That way you can cut the commute and get your workday off to a quicker start. How does that sound?"

  The exuberance slid from her face but she remained plucky. "Great. Yes, of course, thank you!"

  Chang had a meeting with Fields the very next day. He laid out the situation with the Lincoln Hills team and offered a few suggestions as to how to resolve it.

&
nbsp; "I've already looked into it," Fields said with an oddly flat voice. He looked disheveled, and there were purplish circles beneath his eyes, as if he had not been receiving enough sleep. "Grace is going to investigate whether we can get temporary housing for the boys in Avondale. The rest of the staff can either remain at Redstone or find something on their own."

  "Excellent."

  "We'll keep an in-house detail on Broussard and the other one. Those four can bunk together in one residence."

  Chang lied fluently. "I don't believe they'll mind that."

  "And some of the DAT's will be going with them. We can't have any kinks in socialization."

  "That they will mind."

  Fields covered a noisy yawn with his hand. "Don't care."

  Chang stood to leave. "Okay fine." And he left it at that.

  Once he returned to his office, Chang began ramping up the staff for the next behavior test. He split the Lincoln Hills group into two. With Broussard on self-appointed QC duty down in Assembly, Powell and Bautista were assigned to assist Herschel and Roger with the modifications to the cage that would hold the test subject. After Kuiper, Z, and Kwolski spent a few days re-imagining the electronic locks on the DATs, they were to give their functional flow chart to Walters so that he could create a mock-up of the desired program. Patrik and his girlfriend were reportedly entertaining relatives from Amsterdam, and much to the relief of everyone, he was only going to be available via email for the next four weeks. Chang had even created jobs for the MITs, James and Jessie. In their new roles, they were to support the staff as office assistants: sharpening pencils (and the occasional pen), assisting with making coffee and tea, ordering supplies, and cleaning the miscellaneous equipment. They appeared to relish having something to do, and Chang did not let up in giving them opportunities to take on more responsibilities.

  Every so often they would ask Powell or Bautista about Dana and Sharon Zyck. At first, the two men just figured that the MITs were merely being curious. Then, when the questions became more pointed and the men's answers to them patently less satisfying, they requested a meeting with Chang. After hearing their story, the manager was sufficiently concerned to look into the matter with Fields. One week later Fields's office mailed him a single sheet of paper that contained a single statement:

  On 16 September an unusual event occurred at the Lincoln Hills state penitentiary which resulted in staff and inmate casualties.

  Chang could not decipher that but had a good idea that it was not indicative of good news. There had been news reports of at least a dozen prisons being hacked into over the past two years. Most of the time the prisoners had been murdered. Prison personnel were rarely the targets of these heinous crimes, but it had happened. Dana and Sharon Zyck had no doubt been one of those unlucky few. Not long afterward, on a day when his head had been too busy juggling DAT problems, he offhandedly told the MITs that the Zycks had gone up to heaven to be with Jesus and would not be returning. The little spider bots appeared to take the news in stride, but when the rest of the human staff learned of what he had done, the situation quickly spun out of control. The DAT team went ballistic. Walters seemed especially peeved and even went so far as to publicly berate his manager for indoctrinating the MITs in "religious fairy tales." Even Susan Boward privately weighed in on the matter, telling him that he may have set off a chain reaction of machine-based logic that might have serious repercussions. Chang bristled at that and reminded her that the spider bots were not within Higgins's purview and that via the proper chain of command, none of her business. Things quieted down but it soon became clear that Boward's words were going to prove to be prophetic. In short order the MITs become withdrawn and then scarce, completely abandoning the duties that had seemed to keep them happy just days before. Jessie, in particular, began to spend hours crouched by Powell's cube window, scanning the skies during rain or shine. When Broussard learned of the problem he, too, was angry with his boss and complained to Bautista about it. "Chang's losing it."

  "I told you that three years ago."

  "Now we've got a couple of useless, depressed robots on our hands."

  To which Bautista responded philosophically, "Sometimes depression happens."

  22

  It was three full days before Chang had an opportunity to get back to Powell and the others about the housing issue. At the next all-hands staff meeting, he let everyone know that the Avondale city fathers had agreed to provide some staff with short-term leases on several homes in one of their master planned communities. All lease contracts would be handled and paid for in full by Redstone's human resources department. Furnishings, bedding, and utensils would be paid for out of the engineers' own pockets. Before the elation could spread, Chang told them that this offer was for the Lincoln Hills engineers only; the rest of the team had the options of either remaining in the Administration building gratis or finding a rental in town at their own expense.

  "When?" Broussard asked eagerly.

  "Next week Miss Montgomery will take you guys out to look out the houses and the neighborhood." Chang addressed the entire team. "Folks, we hope to have everything finalized by the time the results of the behavior test are in."

  He then turned to Walters. "Van, the DATs will be bunking with the boys. They'll be on rotation with Software on the weekends."

  That news was met with instant and energetic opposition.

  Broussard, in a rare public show of anger, slammed his pencil to the conference table. "No!"

  Walters lashed out. "Dammit it, Allan, we're scientists. Stop trying to make us into babysitters."

  Chang looked vexed. "Look. We're trying to save the world here. How about a little more team spirit?"

  "Screw team spirit!" someone shouted from the back of the room.

  Z stood and addressed the room of disgruntled men. "Gentlemen, the AIs are new life. They are very much like human children. They require 'babysitting' now."

  Powell looked disgusted. "Z, unclench. They're just machines."

  "No!" Z objected. "They are not! They are new life forms. Life that you have helped to create. And we must all take daily responsibility for them." He softened his tone. "The sooner that you face these facts, the better for all of us."

  Powell stared directly at him. "You are out of your mind."

  "And," Chang continued, "last but not least, we're headed to Chicago in two weeks. Right after the behavior test. Principals only, plus the AIs."

  "What for?" Derek asked.

  "A little R and R. A little business. Should be fun. Patrik's got some personal matters to attend to so he's opting out."

  The news was met with a thick wall of indifference. As everyone knew, at this time of year Chicago's weather was just as disagreeable as Alabama's.

  "How about Montana instead?" Rogers asked.

  Chang let out a pfft of air. "Don't think so, but thanks for asking."

  "Allan, why not wait until we have all of the data in from the next behavior test?" Broussard asked. "Taking them out might be premature until we know what's going on."

  "Don't worry about it, Neal," Chang replied. "We've got it worked out."

  After the meeting, Broussard and Bautista pulled Chang aside. Broussard was doing the talking for both of them. "Can we lose the MPs once we move?"

  "No," Chang replied.

  Broussard gritted his teeth. "Why not? What? You think we're going to get out there and start raping and pillaging?"

  Chang eyed them warily. "What I think is irrelevant. You and Mike are under military jurisdiction. And you weren't pardoned when they scooped your butts out of Nevada. You're still in jail, guys. Only now you've got Lucite bars."

  Bautista made a fist and slammed it into his open palm. "Allan, this is wrong and you know it."

  Chang squared his shoulders in order to make himself look bigger in front of the two convicts. "It's the law. Sorry. But if you want it changed, you can either talk to Mr. Fields about it or build a time machine and go back to a time w
hen you didn't have multiple murder convictions on your resumes. It's up to you."

  Bautista bared his teeth. "Freddy Fields can kiss my Flip ass!"

  Chang didn't miss a beat. "I'm sure he'd be happy to consider it."

  Bautista cocked his head sideways. "What's that supposed to mean? Well, what's the BFD anyway? You can track us with GPS."

  Chang's eyes gave nothing away. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  Bautista stepped forward. "We're LoJacked. Right?"

  Chang shrugged nonchalantly. "No idea."

  "Yeah, you got 'no idea' like you got no idea about whether your wife's pussy smells like soy sauce."

  Chang's eyes flung themselves onto Broussard. They had a murderous sheen to them. "Leash your dog, Neal."

  Bautista became livid. "Who you calling a dog, man?"

  Chang balled his fists. "The one doing the barking."

  Bautista was getting ready to swing on the manager when Broussard stepped forward and hooked him by the throat. "Too far, Mike."

  Bautista struggled to free himself. "LET GO OF ME!"

  Broussard let him go but stayed pressed up against him. "Make this right, man."

  Bautista cocked his head to one side and spat in the opposite direction. Chang began to walk away.

  Bautista called out to him. "Chang!"

  Chang stopped in his tracks but did not turn around. "What?" There was pure fury in his voice.

  Bautista hung his head. "I'm sorry. I was out of line. I meant no disrespect to your family."

  Chang kept walking.

  The following week found the team back at the south pasture. Along with the regular team members, Susan Boward was in attendance as were two Army sharpshooters stationed inside a nearby feed barn. The gunmen were insurance. "Just in case," Chang had muttered to Walters earlier that morning.

  If anything, the day was hotter and more humid than it had been one month ago. Farmer Johnson's earlier premonition still hung in the air. Farmer Johnson and his oldest son, Clay, were seated comfortably in the back of their shaded pick-up truck which they had parked near the pasture gate. As they were outside the DAT arena, no one paid much attention to the deer rifles resting casually across their knees. Johnson had a hundred longhorn cattle and about a dozen quarter horses visiting from the north pasture that day. He had let it be known that not one of them was expendable.

  Mr. Bojangles had been placed in the shark cage with a pet umbrella, cat food, and water. Grace Montgomery allegedly had pressing matters at home and could not attend. Two technicians stepped in and locked the heavy door to its frame with three one-pound locks. The two videographers caught their movements from several different angles. Chang was in a director's chair seated directly behind the mission control staff. Bautista, Roger, and Herschel were at the computers. The new RC KILL switches were placed slightly above their heads and painted bright red. Walters, Kwolski, Powell and Broussard were out on the field, doing stretches with the AIs. General Higgins kept his distance, seated atop his horse near the eastern fence. Every now and then he would raise his binoculars and pretend to be looking at points of interest among the gentle slopes of the distant hills. The mood was calm. Chang decided that the test was a go. He lifted his arm to signal Walters. Walters acknowledged and he and the others began to walk the DATs over towards the shark cage with the videographers in tow.

  The first hour or so was uneventful to the point of being dull. The DATs seemed to be more interested in the shark cage itself rather than the small animal relaxing inside.

  Time dragged on. Morning became late afternoon. The team of humans began to break up into discrete clumps. Tara and Derek had discovered a stream up pasture and were showing Rose and Bruce the various tiny life forms inside. As far as Chang could tell, the DATs were reacting normally with each new introduction.

  Across the way, near the obstacle course, Z and Kwolski were busy lecturing Broussard and Walters about harmonic waves. Occasionally Z would whip out his writing tablet and start furiously scribbling graphs and equations to bring home various points. The engineers from Lincoln Hills took turns looking either enthralled or utterly confused.

  Powell had his arms folded over his chest and appeared to be unconvinced. "So, what is free theory physics again?"

  Z lit up, visibly happy to have someone show some interest in his work. "Eric, if you remember your ancient Greek philosophy, then you will remember that it encompassed all aspects of science: mathematics, biology and astronomy. It was only later that men began to chop it up and study only one or two aspects of it. Specialization has obscured the mother science and allowed most modern scientists to be raised as ignorant orphans. But with free theory, we are free to choose from any established body of knowledge that we feel will induce a correct answer, because we have reunified the diaspora back into the whole so that we examine a problem or situation using the full breadth of known science. In fact, we even incorporate the arts-music, dance, theater, what have you-into our reasoning."

  Powell scoffed. "Now that's just plain silly."

  Z slapped his own chest with sheer joy. "And 'silliness' is actually one of our most important tools. Even Master Einstein believed this."

  "I'm thinking that was a mid-life crisis."

  "Mr. Powell, everything is connected to everything else by the same energy. That's how we solved the MIT dance riddle."

  The young engineer perked up. "Explain your theory."

  "Well, we discovered that the sound waves from Dana Zyck's laughter were almost identical to those that the two generators outside your laboratory made. We believe that at night, when the MITs were essentially alone, those generators were the only sounds that they heard. They may have associated the generator sounds with feelings of comfort and security, much like when a human fetus begins to develop its consciousness surrounded by the sound of its mother's heartbeat. Both Mr. Zyck and the generators emitted noise in the key of F. That key comforts them. And they are responding rhythmically to it. In essence, dancing."

  Powell chuckled and crossed his big arms. "What a load of malarkey."

  Z's lips stretched into an unhappy line. "Is this crazy talk to you?"

  "No, no," Powell replied, backtracking so as not to further offend the more senior man. "I'm confused, that's all."

  "Eric, we're all connected to the same energy. Some people call it chi energy. Others have labeled it 'spirit' or life force. We believe that it's the universal electromagnetic force. It's plugged into every star, every planet, every painter, every spacecraft, every robot, every grain of sand, every atom. We can measure it. And we can even manipulate it."

  Powell bumped Broussard's arm. "Right. But you've got to be careful, because we all know about the dark side of the force."

  And now it was Z's turn to look confused. "What is your meaning?"

  "The dark side of the force. Star Wars? The movie?"

  Z offered them a weak smile. "This country tends to brush reality in terms of fantasy. Sometimes this is profitable; sometimes not."

  "Fantasy is better than reality any day," Broussard said. "Why do you think porn generates a billion dollars a year in revenues ... even now?"

  That confused look washed over Z's face again. "What is your meaning?"

  Broussard was flummoxed. "Z, you've heard of porn, right? I mean, you're from Poland, not Jupiter?'

  "Are you talking about pictures of naked women?"

  Powell chuckled. "Naked everything."

  Z scowled. "You would better spend your time in meditation."

  "Yeah, that'll keep the creative juices flowing," Powell replied sarcastically.

  "Look. Why don't you men leer at just one special woman instead of a hundred? With one you will not be led astray."

  Powell's attention was beginning to stray. "Now you're starting to sound crazy."

  To the northeast, along the pasture's eastern fence, Susan Boward and Kuiper stood next to Colonel Higgins's horse, content to lob bits and pieces of casual conver
sation up to him as he did not seem inclined to dismount any time soon. Bautista, along with Herschel and Roger, was holding down his chair at mission control. In between sips of lemonade, he watched as David and Sarah slipped away up pasture and west, towards the tree line that formed a natural border between them and twenty acres of Johnson's cucumber and watermelon crops. Sarah, who was slightly in the lead, was exhibiting distinct stalking motions, making precise stops and starts every few seconds as she kept her eyes fastened on some invisible object in the tall trees. Bautista alerted Chang and via Chang, everyone else. Elated but also apprehensive about this new behavior, without thinking, the various groups converged and followed after them.

  A raucous murder of crows flew into the tippy-top branches of one of the trees. David and Sarah's heads simultaneously rotated upwards to get a look. And then they froze.

  Bruce and Rose jogged over and came up behind them. Suddenly, Sarah and David crouched very low to the ground, as if they were about to lie down upon it. And then they launched. Ramrod straight, their bodies vaulted straight up into air like guided missiles. As they cleared the lowest branches, Sarah arched her body into a half-circle and performed a nearly perfect back flip, sticking her landing on one of the sturdier branches. David landed normally just a meter behind her. The two were now only a couple of meters from the crows. One of the DATs took one step forward. This startled the birds and they noisily flew away down towards the obstacle course and landed on the rafters holding up the rope ladders.

  The team stood beneath the tree and gasped in unison. Chang had his crucifix out again.

  "Uh, they must be fifteen meters off the ground. I'm sure that wasn't in the DARPA specs." He twisted around to look at Broussard. "Was it?"

  Broussard looked at Sarah and David and then looked back down at Chang. "Maybe."

  "Maybe?" Z asked.

  On the ground, Bruce and Rose playfully took off after the crows parading up and down the rope-ladder scaffolding, and did not seem to mind at all when all of the birds once again took to the air.

  Sensing a new crisis forming, Broussard began to babble a little. "Well, you know that the legs are spring loaded for 600 psi. That's for gear shifts one through six for horizontal movement and between zero and three meters for vertical movement. But then there's that seventh gear at 550 foot pounds that's designed for vertical movement between zero and twenty meters. That gear gives them access to seventy-percent more torque, which can be dangerous, so we've locked them out of that option. In the seventh gear, we are assuming that they are in commanded combat mode."

  Kwolski was listening in on their conversation. "You are saying that the DAT's are built with the very high vertical movement but that it can only be accessed by them after they have been given a verbal command during fighting?"

  "Well, verbal or comm link."

  Colonel Higgins rode over to listen in. Farmer Johnson and his son followed him.

  Walters rubbed the back of his neck. "The MITs hopped around a lot. Remember?"

  Broussard nodded. "But they weren't jumping ten meters from a dead stop and rotating one hundred and eighty degrees into a blind landing. That's an aerial maneuver."

  Chang stroked his chin. "Maybe there's a glitch between the primary and secondary brains?"

  Broussard, Powell, and Walters looked dubious.

  He turned to the colonel. "Each DAT has two brains: one controls all of the thought processes and the other all of the body movements. That's the secondary brain and it's slaved to the primary. The secondary brain, what we call the leg-and-rudder brain, receives a skeleton command from the primary about how it wants the body to move. The secondary then creates a detailed movement plan based on the skeleton command. But it has to submit this plan to the primary for a 'yes' or 'no' answer before it can execute it. All of this is done with a transceiver; a DAT has a lot of moving parts at any given moment so the data transfer rate between the two brains has to be quite fast."

  "I see," Higgins replied. "So this transceiver is malfunctioning?"

  "Not in the sense that you're thinking. It's a SmartDevice, so it has a lot of decision-making latitude."

  "So it's making the wrong decisions?"

  "Not necessarily. Look, this is all brand new stuff ... for everybody. As Neal's research showed, it could be a Black Swan event."

  "What's that?"

  "Something totally unexpected."

  The colonel impatiently flicked his reins. "Let's start with the known before we consider the unknown. If it's a purely mechanical problem, can you fix it?"

  Chang stole a glance at Walters. "If it's just a simple glitch in the hardware-a power surge or something-of course. If not, then we're going to need some time to figure it out."

  "Unfortunately, we don't have much of that."

  Chang put his crucifix away. "Van, how long to go through the code?"

  Walters sighed. "We're talking maybe a million lines. Two months, give or take a week. And that's just our code, not counting Patrik's neural program. Also, like you said, we have to consider that it's not a bug at all, but something external. At this level of sophistication, the error rate can rise exponentially."

  "Well, that eases the mind," Higgins replied sarcastically.

  "But," Broussard interjected, "we actually may have a bigger problem on our hands. If it isn't a glitch in the transceiver or the CPUs themselves, then either somebody just passed them the command code on their own— "

  Chang finished his sentence. "Or they just blew past their locks again." The team leader's eyes became unfocused and wandered off.

  Walters was scowling. "Great. Either we've got rogue employees or rogue robots." He looked expectantly at Chang. "Well, what are we going to do?"

  Z looked thoughtful. "Could there be some sort of RF interference coming from elsewhere?"

  Broussard considered that. "Maybe."

  Z turned to Chang. "It might be best to not form any conclusions yet. I did not sense any aggression on their part. They may have simply been overly curious. Perhaps this is their first opportunity to see crows."

  There was some weak agreement there. But of course, even if that were true, the fact that the AIs were still being able to bypass their controls—seemingly at will—was still staring them all in the face.

  Chang struggled to keep the dead tones of defeat out of his voice. "I'll have Bautista run some more tests. We can use a large sampling of video of various objects, animals, reptiles, people and machines, etc., and see which ones are triggers."

  Herschel, who rarely spoke in a group setting, half-jokingly suggested that they also consider enrolling the DATs in a gymnastics class. Powell suddenly looked around. "Hey, where's Amadeus?"

  There were only four DATs with them.

  The terrible thought reached Susan Boward first. "THE CAT!"

  The team dashed back to the shark cage. The door was wide open, and inside, in a back corner, a bloody smear with a few tufts of dark hair floating on top. Amadeus was about ten meters away, his back to them, casually resting in the glow of a patch of slanted sunlight.

  Someone screamed.

  At that moment the sun ducked behind a large cloud, dimming the pasture with a forebodingly grayish light.

  Powell began to walk in circles, squeezing both sides of his head. "No-no-no-no-no!"

  Walters again turned expectantly to Chang and practically screamed at him. "Now what?"

  A frisson of rising alarm was spreading through the team.

  Chang took the clipboard that he was holding and threw it in Amadeus's direction. "Honestly? You guys lost me about three weeks ago." He glared in Z and Kwolski's direction. "Free-theory physics isn't my specialty. So kids, write this down: Allan doesn't know what the hell is going on here, and he is sick and tired of everybody expecting him to pull a rainbow out of his ass every freakin' week. SO I SAY FUCK IT! I'M GOING HOME!"

  Bautista pumped his fist in the air. "Yes!"

  Z looked sympathetic. "Allan, we'll just hav
e to go over all the comms for the past twenty-four hours."

  "Make that forty-eight," Broussard interjected. "And we'll have to recheck the locking systems and maybe start thinking about how to restructure them. And then there's the code ... " Suddenly, the future seemed very dim. "If that proves necessary."

  Chang closed down. "You do what you want. I'm out. If you need someone to hold your hands, call Mr. Fields." He stomped off towards the pasture gate.

  Mike snickered into his hand. "I didn't know Allan knew how to cuss."

  Walters crossed his arms, his focus now back on the tree line. He watched as Sarah and David clumsily half climbed, half fell their way back to earth. "Shut up, Mike."

  It was almost dusk and the pasture had vast swatches of greying gloam pooling up in the corners. Miss Montgomery entered the south pasture from a side entry gate. Farmer Johnson had promised her that it would be unlocked and simply asked that she relock it once she had finished. The only sounds were the hundreds of crickets chirping like mad in the hopes of attracting a date for the evening. Two nearby cows watched her.

  She greeted them with a slightly nervous "hi." They just stood there and stared at and then through her.

  The smell of marijuana hit her nose. She looked around but did not see anyone. The Redstone executive dropped the large burlap sack that she had been carrying onto the ground and pulled out several items: a tall pair of rubber boots, a large hammer, a garland of dried flowers strung on wire, and a white cross. She leaned against a fence post and pulled on the boots, then grabbed the other items and carried them to a spot not far from where the team had been the previous week. She stooped over, holding the cross firmly in her hand, and then proceeded to drive it into the hard soil. She must have hit a rock because the object stopped moving about three inches in. She tugged on it.

  "Hey."

  Grace Montgomery spun around, startled. It was Michael Bautista. Two of the DATs were with him. She nervously checked their name plates. It was Rose and Bruce. She breathed a sigh of relief. She didn't think that she could face Amadeus right then.

  She reflexively took a step back.

  "Oh. Hi, Michael."

  Something wiggled through the grass and old hay that bordered the wood plank fence. In the gathering darkness, she had the terrifying thought that it might be one of the hundreds of snakes slithering around Redstone and Oh my God, I'm terrified of snakes—

  The two MITs, Jessie and James, cleared the silky blades and popped out into the open. They scuttled over to where Rose and Bruce sat.

  Ms. Montgomery did not like spiders much either, but naturally she gave no hint of any ill feelings towards the smaller AIs. That would surely be one of those 'unpardonable sins.'"

  "Here," Bautista was saying. "Allow me." He reached for the cross, pulled it out easily, took the hammer from her hand, and then drove the cross into the ground properly.

  "Thank you." She smiled. She took the garland of flowers and arranged them about the shoulders of the cross.

  Bautista took a deep drag off a fat joint and watched her. When she was finished she regarded her handiwork.

  "That for your cat?"

  "Yes. Farmer Johnson said that I could leave it up for a few days."

  Bautista nodded and pinched out his cigarette. He walked around until he was facing the front of the crucifix. The two DATs followed closely at his heels, watching his every move. He solemnly lowered his head. Rose and Bruce did the same. The two MIT spiders became very still. "God, the good book says that a bird don't fall to the ground without You noticing. So I'm taking from it that You consider that an animal's life has worth. Tonight we pay respect to Mr. Bojangles, Miss Montgomery's cat. He was an okay cat who gave it up for a good cause. May he rest in peace. In Jesus's name. Amen."

  There was a minute of silence. Miss Montgomery reached out and tapped Bautista's arm. "Thank you."

  Bautista did not answer. Instead he relit his joint and headed back to the unknown piece of pasture from where he had come. Jessie, James, Rose, and Bruce obediently followed a few paces behind him.

  23

  Fields kept his word. Seven days after the death of Mr. Bojangles the Lincoln Hills boys went house hunting. Chang and his son, Allan Jr., rode with the boys and their MP escorts on one of Redstone's shuttle buses out to the Oakmont Canyon housing division in Avondale. Grace Montgomery, Susan Boward, Tara, and Derek rode with the DATs in a second shuttle. From all outward appearances, everyone seemed pleased about the outing. The trip itself seemed to take only minutes. As the shuttles turned down a wide, tree-lined street, they were confronted with enormous stretches of black tarpaulin that had been strung together along one side, blacking out two full blocks of front yards and homes.

  Powell whistled. "Is this for us?" he asked Chang.

  Chang himself seemed somewhat surprised. "I guess so. Miss Montgomery is aware of our need for privacy."

  Powell surveyed the eerie scene with bugged-eyed wonder. "Privacy is one thing. This feels like an invasion. The neighbors must be pretty upset."

  "Don't worry about it," he replied evenly. "Everything's fine."

  Bautista snorted lasciviously. "I'll bet somebody greased a few palms ... and other body parts."

  Broussard gave Bautista a hard nudge in the ribs.

  "What?"

  Broussard pointed at Allan Jr.

  "Oh, right." He made a little bow in his manager's direction. "Sorry. My bad."

  The homes available for their selection were spacious and sunny. Miss Montgomery cheerfully led them from room to room, house to house, pointing out an especially well-appointed kitchen or an exceptionally landscaped backyard.

  During the tour, Chang hung back with his son, who spent his time making funny faces at the DATs or throwing rocks at birds. Every once in a while his father would wearily scold him and ask him to behave. And every time his son would either flip him the bird or blatantly ignore him. Eventually Susan Boward became aware of what was going on and decided to say something.

  "Allan?" she purred. "Is everything okay?"

  Chang seemed surprised at her question. "Sure. Why do you ask?"

  "Your son seems a little distracted." She made a smoothing motion over the colorful fabric of her Kafkan dress. "I only mention it because he's interacting with Bruce and the others in a way that they probably don't understand right now."

  "He's just a little stressed out. He misses home."

  Boward smiled. "Of course," she said indulgently. "But children are resilient. He'll adjust."

  Chang suddenly looked dubious. "His grades are in free fall again. He'll be going off to college soon. My wife really wants him to be able to do this ... "

  Boward kept up the pep talk. "I've spoken to Allan Jr. Your son seems to be a bright, strong-willed young man, and fully capable of getting his act together."

  Chang sniffed. "Yeah? Well, that's good to know. Thanks for the prognosis."

  She smiled graciously. "Anytime." Boward cornered Tara and Derek. "Keep an eye on Mr. Chang's son. He's a little monster."

  As the group walked through the last house on the tour, Broussard took a moment to get a better sense of Grace Montgomery. She was more attractive than pretty, even with her red hair and peaches-and-cream skin. The main attractions were those racehorse legs that went on forever. Today she wore a conservative yet snug-fitting dress that rode her slender knees.

  He felt a tingling sensation. Oops! Get your mind on something else.

  He gazed around at his surroundings. They were in the laundry room. It was large and bright and rimmed with maybe a dozen large cabinets. Why would anyone need so much storage just to do laundry?

  Eventually, Grace drifted back into view. He watched her expertly juggle competing lines of conversations from Walters and Chang, careful not to let either feel coddled or ignored. Broussard smiled to himself. The lady was definitely a pro. Which could be a tad intimidating for some men. Miss Montgomery did not have Diane's treacly nature (which sometimes d
rove him nuts, but never left him guessing as to where he stood with her). The Redstone executive was a far different animal, one that bespoke of Swiss boarding schools and cool Sarah Lawrence reserve.

  Powell sidled up to him in the vast family room. "Nice pad. A body could throw a lot of epic parties here."

  Broussard did not respond. He quickly buttoned his jacket and strolled upstairs to the master bedroom suite. The room was big enough to fit his entire Redstone apartment in. Twice! A body could throw a lot of epic parties here, too.

  From the tall bay window he could see out over the covered houses across the street and into a large park area about one block over. The squared park was surrounded by approximately forty houses. In its very center stood a rather tentative jungle gym where maybe five or six small-boned children could comfortably play.

  Broussard cast his gaze about and froze. It was about six in the evening. Dinner time. And practically every family from every house was eating on a dining room table parked in their front yards. His mind flew back to Port Arthur, and he felt a chill race up his spine.

  He sensed someone behind him. "Do you like the view?" He turned around. It was Grace Montgomery.

  "Very much so," he said pleasantly. "Question."

  "Yes?"

  "Maybe things have changed, but since when did we start living on our front lawns?"

  Ms. Montgomery peeked out and smiled. "I know. It's funny, in a sad, tragic way. Ever since the big fire in Los Angeles, people just feel safer spending most of their time outdoors."

  "I still don't get it."

  Walters, Powell, the others, and the AIs were now on the second floor as well and soon joined them at the window.

  "Well," she explained, "the fires started in homes and apartments first."

  Broussard's eyebrows knit together. "That doesn't make any sense. The transmission pipes running under the streets to the houses should have blown first."

  "That's what the experts said, but apparently they were wrong."

  Powell picked something out of his teeth and plunked it onto a faux ficus tree. "The experts weren't wrong. The physics were wrong. And that's not very likely." He waggled his fingers in the air. "Must be outer-space aliens. Oooo-weee-hooo. Miss Montgomery, can we draw straws for the master bedrooms?"

  Bautista was in the en suite, rapidly opening and banging shut the expensive cherry wood cabinets. "Nah, they're gonna make us duel at dawn." He drifted into the bedroom and threw his next words in Bruce's direction. "That's how a real man solves his problems!"

  Susan Boward's face turned stormy. "Please don't tell him that."

  Bautista rolled his eyes. "I was joking, lady."

  Broussard glared at him. "Settle down."

  Bautista yawned loudly. "This is boring."

  Grace Montgomery tapped Broussard's elbow. "Let me show you the entertainment room."

  Broussard gladly followed her out and down the hall to an oversized open area. From the card tables, old-fashioned pinball machines, and sports equipment dangling from the walls, it was clear which members of the family would be doing the entertaining.

  "We can easily make a few changes and turn this into a playroom for the DATs."

  Broussard smiled. "Or you could leave it exactly the way it is. I think they'd get a kick out of it."

  They made their way back downstairs.

  She stopped near the front door. "You could throw some pretty fancy parties here, Neal."

  He laughed out loud. "Now, Miss Montgomery, just who would I invite? All of my 'friends' are back in Nevada."

  She dipped her head and a perfectly cut sheath of her hair fanned forward. "I'd come," she whispered.

  "Pardon me?"

  "I would come to your party."

  Broussard's hands began to perspire. "Would you? Awesome. Um, you wouldn't be bringing a boyfriend along with you, would you?"

  Her head pulled up. She was blushing like crazy. "No, of course not. Why do you ask?"

  "I don't know... . Are you seeing someone?" he blurted out.

  "No." She lowered her face again. "Are you?"

  He cocked his head to the side. "Seriously?"

  "Well, I ... ."

  "No. I'm not seeing anyone. Hey, Avondale looks like a pretty cool little 'burb. Lots of things to do. Besides hanging out on the front lawn, that is."

  She brightened instantly. "There's a church that some of us attend. It's non-denominational. They've got a coffee bar and a great band!"

  "Oh. Wow!" He could not think of anything else to say that would not sound like a flat out lie.

  "Would you like to attend with me?"

  "Me?" He thought about that for a moment. "Uh, well ... sure! Why not?"

  "Super! How about this weekend? Are you free?"

  "As a bird. Well, almost."

  They both laughed, and as they did, some of the sadness that he had been experiencing since losing contact with Diane subsided. And that felt good. The others noisily descended the wide staircase, laughing and talking.

  Something nudged Broussard from below. It was Bruce. "Please take me outside, Uncle Neal."

  But Broussard's attention was definitely not on work today. "Scram, junior. Can't you see I'm talking to a lady?"

  "My name is Bruce."

  "Of course." Broussard gave the DAT a loving shove. "Now scram, Bruce."

  The DAT turned and walked dejectedly back to where Derek and Tara were waiting with the other DATs. The teachers greeted him with big, consoling hugs.

  Miss Montgomery watched him go. "I think you hurt his feelings," she whispered.

  "He's fine," Broussard replied.

  She smiled and pulled her satchel in close. "We've got to get back. But I'll email you with the directions tomorrow if that's okay."

  "Perfect," he replied.

  She moved off to chat with Chang and Susan in the kitchen.

  Powell appeared. "You trying to get a leg up on this place?"

  "No."

  Powell's face registered surprise. "Neal, were you trying to put the moves on the Ice Princess?"

  "Not 'trying.'"

  Powell held up his hands. "Whoa! 'Scuze me! Moondoggie scores!"

  "Keep your voice down," Broussard hissed at him.

  Powell's eyes became flinty. "I guess she likes bad boys. Real bad boys."

  Broussard clinched his fists while the other engineer pranced out of striking distance.

  Bautista walked over. "Why you let Eric piss all over you like that? I'd knock him out."

  "Because I don't want any more blood on my hands." He stole a look at Grace Montgomery. "Not now." Powell began making silly faces at him from the rear of the foyer.

  Broussard managed to brush off his mounting irritation, but there was no doubt in his mind that since leaving Nevada, Powell had become increasingly irksome.

  Getting to church on time the following Sunday was not proving to be easy. First he had had to wait for the MP escort day shift to arrive and "prep" his car for off-base travel. Then he had made the mistake of stopping by the office to collect some breadboards for circuit testing later that evening. Before he could slip out unnoticed, Chang had paged him and called him over to the computer room. He found him and Bautista hovering over one of NASA's proxy servers. Chang was looking especially peeved.

  "Neal, take a look at this, will you?"

  Bautista punched up a screen that contained a series of numbers and bar graphs.

  Broussard examined the data. "What exactly am I looking for?"

  "An explanation," Chang responded. "This is a readout from the Cray showing our data consumption for the past seven days. According to this, we've been averaging five gigs per hour."

  Broussard whistled. "That's a big phone bill."

  "Exactly."

  "You find out who's running up the charges?"

  "The MITs. Any idea why?"

  Broussard gave his brain a mild wracking. "I was with them last week. James told me that they were doing file checks on names
and addresses."

  "And apparently going through every directory on the Internet in the process." Chang stretched. "Mike, print this out for me, please. And Neal, please let the bots know that we're limiting their usage to one gig per week."

  "Got it." Broussard checked his Casio. He was fifteen minutes behind schedule. "I'm sorry. I've gotta run."

  With the permission of the MPs, he slightly exceeded the speed limit and pulled up at the church's packed parking lot just in time. As he hurried up the stairs that led to the stone vestibule, he had a momentary fear that the walls of the church would burst into flames the moment he set foot inside. He actually stopped and weighed the odds of that happening. Well, either they will or they won't. Fifty-percent odds. Not great, but not terrible. He got moving and soon was standing inside a place that just one year ago he never imagined he would see again. Cool drafts of air met him and helped ease his mind.

  He found Grace Montgomery exactly where she said she would be in her email: at the coffee bar. She was wearing a modest but figure-hugging dress. Her thick hank of hair was tucked beneath a hat that resembled a flying saucer. He imagined that she had been going for a chic Parisian look, but that hope had been dashed on her broad, all-American features.

  They greeted each other with handshakes, ordered two frappuccinos and spent a while engaged in shop talk. When it was time for the service to begin, she reached inside her handbag and produced a small Bible.

  "I didn't know if you had one," she said in as gentle a way as possible.

  "Actually," he said, retrieving his own pocket Bible from inside his jacket pocket, "I do. It's my uncle's, but I've had it for years."

  "Oh."

  "You seemed surprised, Miss Montgomery."

  "Not at all," she politely lied. "And, please call me Grace."

  "I will. And, don't worry. Even the devil believes in God. So, I guess I'm in good company."

  They sipped their drinks.

  "Oh," Broussard said with a start. "I almost forgot. I brought you something."

  He reached into his pocket and withdrew a medium-sized velvet bag and gave it to her.

  She seemed delighted. "How sweet of you! What is it?"

  "Open it and see."

  She pulled on the bag's silk tassels until it opened. Out came a small book covered with Chinese characters.

  "It's a collection of poems by Pen."

  She examined the book's cover. "I don't know him."

  "Well, he was the son of a seventeenth century Japanese merchant. He became a Tibetan monk, but not before falling in love with a young woman. It was forbidden love. He couldn't live with her or without her, so he self-immolated."

  Grace's face fell. "Oh, how sad."

  "Not really. He believed that he would love her again in the rebirth."

  She brightened considerably. "I see. Well, that's a bit romantic." She tucked the book away inside her purse. "I'll read this tonight."

  "No hurry." He finished his drink. "Take your time." People began to hurry past them. "Looks like they're getting started."

  The sermon turned out predictably to be about repentance. Broussard tried to focus on the meat of it for as long as he could, but his mind kept traveling. First to the smell of Grace's perfume hitting his nose every few seconds. Then to the question of what the MITs were up to. Then to the anger that he felt at having to be chaperoned everywhere by the MPs. Dammit, he was still in a cage. And then he thought he heard his Uncle Curtis's voice admonishing him. "Neal! No cursing in God's house!"

  Afterwards, he waited while Grace spoke to several other parishioners, and then he and the two MPs walked her to her car.

  "Did you enjoy the service, Neal?"

  "I did. Thank you for inviting me."

  "You're welcome. Anytime you want to come, just let me know."

  Broussard sighed with mock resignation. "If only I could get away from those darn DATs."

  She touched his arm sympathetically. "Oh, come on. They're adorable."

  "Yes. Adorable pains in the ass."

  The parking lot began to empty out.

  He opened the car door for her. "Miss Montgomery—Grace—would it be possible for me to see you again?"

  Her eyes registered mild surprise but her answer came easily and quickly. "I would love that."

  "It's a deal." His escorts signaled their readiness to leave.

  She placed one white-gloved hand into his and gave it a gentle shake. "You've been a perfect gentleman."

  "You deserve nothing less. I'm now going back to my apartment to spend some quality time with those adorable AIs."

  She covered her mouth with one gloved hand and giggled. "Bye!"

  He was now smiling so much that his mouth was beginning to hurt. He ordered his mouth to close.

  As Broussard drove back to his quarters, his mind was a jumble of disparate thoughts. The DAT Program had hit the third rail. How much should he worry about that? He was still serving three consecutive life sentences. All of the worrying in the world could not change that. Okay. All of that sucked big time. But, he could finally drive a car down a beautiful highway (albeit with two unattractive police officers in the back seat). And he had just spent the morning with an intelligent, intriguing woman.

  He rolled down his window and let the air rush in and caress him. He still did not know for sure what had happened to Diane. Did he want to know? If the program ended, would they send him back to Lincoln Hills? He was starting to have feelings for Grace Montgomery. Eric was a prick. Her white gloves had been spotless. As clean as he suspected the rest of her body was. What was going on with the MITs?

  He turned on the radio and bore down on the accelerator.

  Overall he felt pretty good.

  Bruce and David were waiting for him at the front door when he returned to his apartment.

  "Hi, Uncle Neal!" they said in unison. Kuiper had finally given the DATs a complete set of punctuation marks.

  He bent down and hugged them both. "Hey, guys. What are you two up to?"

  Their comm screens remained blank.

  He rephrased his question. "What were you doing before I arrived?"

  "We were helping Mr. Bautista pack boxes because he is sleepy now," David answered.

  Broussard could see Bautista splayed across the couch with an empty bottle of vodka propped up against his crotch. "Because Mr. Bautista is drunk," he said disgustedly.

  "Yes," Bruce said. "Because Mr. Bautista is drunk and sleepy now."

  Broussard waved hello to the MPs playing cards in the tiny kitchen. Then he went to his room, changed into a t-shirt and shorts, grabbed a can of soda and took the DATs for a walk down to the employee lounge. It was empty, save for a couple of hardware designers whose names he could not remember. A side door led to a large outside patio. He decided that they would unwind there. Only the outdoor AC units made doing this at high noon a possibility. They walked out and sat down on one of the benches. The air conditioning units were working just fine, and the air was a comfortable temperature. David and Bruce lay down fully on either side of him. David extended his forelegs out in front of him before daintily crossing one over the other. As he did this, a bosomy female staffer in a low-cut blouse walked by.

  "Oh, he's so cute!"

  Broussard kept his eyes straight and level. "Yeah, he's just a regular little dandy."

  The three of them listened to birdsong and the faint human conversations coming from passersby for the better part of an hour. Finally, Broussard felt like some conversation of his own.

  "So what else did you two do today?"

  "We drew pictures of horses," David replied. "I drew a picture of a racehorse with a ribbon on her hair."

  Broussard acted impressed. "You did? Was it a pink ribbon?"

  "Yes. Because she is a girl horse and she wants to look pretty."

  Broussard chuckled. "I'll bet she does, David."

  David's posture changed ever so slightly. "Uncle Neal, why did that horse hurt Paula?"
r />   "Because Paula did a bad thing," Bruce interjected.

  "Hey, hey. Wait a minute, guys. What happened to Paula was an accident. The horse did not want to hurt Paula. It was an accident."

  Broussard could tell that the DATs weren't buying that explanation.

  "Look," he continued strongly. "Paula made a mistake that day. And then we made another terrible mistake that day and Paula got hurt. That's all. It was not the horse's fault. Now, I want you both to understand that, okay?"

  They replied in unison. "Yes."

  David spoke up. "I'm glad that you did not make a mistake and hurt Amadeus, too."

  Broussard scratched the velvety skin behind the DATs ears. "Me, too." He leaned back and placed an arm around each of the robots. Almost as an afterthought, he said, "I sure wish I knew why Amadeus hurt Mr. Bojangles."

  "Amadeus was protecting the soldier," Bruce told him.

  'Protecting the soldier'? Broussard was perplexed. Where was this coming from? "Which soldier? Bruce, there were no soldiers there."

  "Yes. Amadeus was the soldier."

  "Oh. I see." But Broussard was floored. "What was Amadeus protecting himself from?"

  "Destruction." A faraway look was creeping into the AI's glass eyes.

  "Did Amadeus think that the cat was going to de—"

  But before he could finish his question, Bruce had lapsed into full processing mode. Both he and David had exposed as many of their solar cells as possible to drink in every drop of sunshine and had now powered down into torpidity.

  A dozen different thoughts flew in and out of the engineer's head. He had to talk to someone about this. Normally, he would not bother anyone about work stuff on a Sunday, but this latest bombshell could not wait until tomorrow.

  He waited until Bruce and David came back online, and then he led them back to the apartment. He found Bautista still passed out on the couch, and there were no MPs. He looked at the clock and remembered that the shift change was different on the weekends. The evening shift would be arriving in one-half hour. That would give him some time to go over things with Chang. He was about to pick up his phone when he heard the knock at his front door. With Bruce and David flanking him, he hurried to answer it. It was probably Walters, whose apartment was right next door. He flung the door wide open ... to find Major Hillerman and Lieutenant Brady standing there. Large duffel bags were slung over their shoulders.

  "Hey, Broussard. Long time no see!" Hillerman sang out.

  Broussard was profoundly surprised and confused. "Hey, fellas. What's up?"

  "Personnel change. Effective immediately," Hillerman replied.

  "What?"

  Brady was all bristly smiles. "Didn't they tell you? We're your new roommates."

  Freddy Fields was alone in his bed, sound asleep. His dreams were montages of robots and talking ferris wheels ... reams of paper blackened with columns of numbers and scientific hieroglyphics ... . Even asleep, he was annoyed by how utterly tedious his work was becoming—

  "Get up."

  Fields turned over on his other side.

  Parts of his brain were awakening, and they noted the sudden rush of warm air fly by the bed.

  "Get up."

  Fields woke up. The room was silent and black. He looked at his bedside clock. It was three-twenty in the morning. Christ. Now I'm going to wake up feeling utterly exhausted again.

  A floorboard creaked in the corner of the room. He looked in the direction of the sound and was unfortunate enough to catch the sight of what looked like a dim shape float past his window. He groaned. Please, not again. Fields shot out of bed and switched on the light. "What in God's name is this?"

  The bare floor was cold to his feet. He stood trembling in the center of the room, quite alone. He spent the next half hour inspecting and re-inspecting the black spaces in his closet and beneath his bed.

  24

  The Friday before the DAT team was to leave for Chicago found Neal Broussard on his first real date in almost seven years. He had a new Porsche, courtesy of Avondale Foreign Motors, and was wearing a tailored, Italian-made suit that cost well over five thousand dollars. He picked up Grace at her apartment in Avondale and then drove her to the town's most popular Italian restaurant, Prego. His police escort followed them in a separate vehicle, maintaining a discrete distance. The maître d' greeted them like old friends, whisking them away to a window table near the room's midsection. Their table candles were lit, setting the proper romantic mood. Broussard ordered a bottle of New York Merlot and two filet mignon entrees for them both.

  "This is like a dream," he told her, savoring the genteel atmosphere.

  "Working on the DAT?" she asked.

  "No—well, yes. But just being out and smelling fresh cooking, watching children play and grass grow—"

  She giggled.

  "Okay, maybe watching the grass grow isn't all that scintillating, but ... there's so much happening in the world. You can easily miss the little things."

  "I agree."

  He looked at her directly in the eyes. "When I asked you to go out with me tonight ... . Don't take this wrong but, I almost hoped that you were going to say no."

  "Why?" she asked.

  "Why? I don't know ..."

  "Neal, I work in HR. I've read your record. I know why you were sent to prison—"

  "For murder," he whispered harshly. "I hurt—I took the lives of three people. And I'm going to spend the rest of my life paying for that."

  "Well, those were serious crimes."

  "Don't you think I know that?"

  Her demeanor turned solemn. "Neal, what happened?"

  He started thinking backwards. "I was working in San Francisco. There was this guy named Hal. Hal Beamer. Nice guy; solid engineer. Knew his stuff. But, for some reason he got on this one manager's shit list. The woman had a reputation, and people were telling him that maybe he should transfer to another business unit but ... I don't know. Maybe he thought he could handle it. Anyway, Hal became Veronica's latest whipping boy. One day he had had enough, and he went over her head to complain. Things started happening, lawyers got involved, and pretty soon it was a stinkfest. Veronica wanted him fired. I guess it ended up being too much for him because one day he showed up for work, took the stairs to the roof, and jumped. That was rough, but what was really hard was that we heard on the day of his funeral, she and the HR guy went out and celebrated. I guess any threat of a lawsuit went off the roof with him.

  "It was wrong. What they did was wrong. Maybe I felt that if someone didn't stop them, that it could happen again. But, guess what? Wrong answer! I got angry and handled the situation with a gun. And you know what? That's what's happening to this country now. With the Advance South."

  Grace paused before speaking. "I don't know what if anything is really going on inside the collective mind of the Advance South, but I know you. A little. And I know that at that moment, you must have felt that it was something ... something that you had to do."

  "I'm sorry. Murder is something that you should never 'have' to do. Take my word for it; it just creates more misery." He looked around. "I wasn't thinking clearly." He stared at the table. "I blew it. Their lives and mine."

  The sounds from the restaurant took over and put a damper on his rising emotions. Grace focused on her meal and left him alone with his thoughts.

  Finally, he said, "On the positive side, I've got a new ride and the prettiest girl in town is on my arm. A man can't ask for much more than that."

  "Actually, he can. Neal, have you ever stopped to think about what is really going on? What you and the DAT team are doing here is making a big difference. If nothing else, it's creating good jobs for people and giving them something to hope in. That's worth a lot."

  Broussard looked askance. "Absolution?"

  She gave a little shrug. "Maybe ultimately a slice of eudemonia." She placed a slender hand upon his own. "Whatever it is, it might be worth a pardon."

  "A pardon? From whom?"


  "The president. And if what I heard is true, Van Walters and Eric Powell have already beaten you to the punch."

  Broussard was dumbstruck. "You're kidding me?"

  "Afraid not. And something tells me that given enough time, that man is capable of getting anything he wants."

  She was obviously referring to Walters.

  "He plays on a different level." Broussard slowly shook his head. "I don't know. For one thing, the FOVOC would never go for it. Heck, I don't know if I would go for it." He took a deep breath. "Wow, I really haven't had a chance to think about where I'm at now." He leaned back in his chair. "When I was in prison, all I thought about was getting out. Constantly. I wasn't thinking about why I was there, just that I didn't want to be there. But things have changed. I've changed. Three people. Gone. I don't know if you ever get a free pass on something like that."

  "Okay. But maybe, just maybe, you can help those people—the families that you've hurt—more by looking at the situation from the outside. I mean, who knows how much more effective you'd be for DAT if you didn't have this great burden to carry around all the time. And if they're successful, then you'll be successful, and then maybe you'd be able to really step up and contribute to the FOVOC. To the loved ones of those you hurt. I mean, at this point, that's about all that you can do for them, right?"

  Broussard did not say anything.

  "Neal, you can't undo what you've done. But you have an opportunity to take this in a different, more positive direction."

  Broussard looked into her smoldering grey eyes. "Grace, do you know what you're talking about?"

  She laughed and the sound was girlish and sweet. "Sometimes. When I haven't had too many glasses of wine."

  They heard familiar voices. Both he and Grace looked up to see Z and Kwolski lumbering over. Both men were wearing grey t-shirts with the word POLOGNE emblazoned across the front.

  The four Redstone employees exchanged greetings.

  "Miss Montgomery, you look so attractive tonight," Kwolski said with unusual enthusiasm. He was the younger of the two scientists, but his shy nature allowed the older Z to give people a more lasting impression. Kwolski was almost an afterthought.

  Grace blushed. "Thank you!" She rose from her chair. "Excuse me, gentlemen. I have to go powder my nose."

  As soon as she was out of earshot, the two men sat down at the table.

  Z spoke first. "We've been helping the DATs in their music studies. And, we are teaching them how to perform proper dances. They enjoy it, actually. Kris has even taught them a polka."

  Broussard's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Now that I'd like to see."

  "And you should!" Z said with a twinkle in his eye. "Please come by the gym sometime. We practice every Friday evening between six and eight."

  "Sure, sure." The conversation lagged. "So, are you two eating here tonight? The food has been excellent so far."

  "No," Z responded. "We had our supper at the grill across the street. Actually, we were taking the sights in when we saw you and Miss Grace in here and decided that now was an opportunity to speak with you."

  Broussard frowned. "Oh?" He rarely enjoyed discussing business during pleasure. "What about?"

  Z leaned forward. "We need to repair the DAT neural net as soon as possible. The bug in it will grow exponentially if we don't squash it now."

  Broussard smiled. This was going to be a short conversation. "I agree. Tell Fields."

  Z grew serious. "Mr. Fields isn't open to discussion about it. He and Allan are under great pressure to get the AIs ready for the combat trials."

  Broussard shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I don't see where I fit in. I'm not the project manager; he is." He gave the situation some thought. They were right, of course. The net was a brilliant yet flawed piece of work, and that 'bug' was hiding out in maybe millions of lines of machine code and DNA sequences. Factor in the fact that Patrik wasn't allowing anyone to peer review his work, and you had a nearly impossible task. "Call Chris Kuiper. He seems reasonable."

  Z's expression grew even more stern. "I did, and he's reluctant to say anything because it will disrupt the schedule."

  Broussard sighed. That it would. "Then my advice is either you come up with another computer geneticist who can somehow duplicate Patrik's algorithms and we code from there, or you manage to get hold of the original code itself. That's all I can tell you."

  Both of the physicists were nodding. "You've told us enough."

  "Because I don't make the executive decisions around here. That's somebody else's job."

  The scientists were bowing and smiling. "Yes, yes. Thank you, Neal."

  Grace returned and the visitors stood to leave.

  Z waved good-bye. "It was good to see you both." And then the two men left the restaurant.

  Grace sipped her wine. "What was that about?"

  Broussard gazed at her shiny hair. "Nothing, really." He took another bite of his now cold food. "Though I must admit that I'm pretty pleased about the interest Z and Kris have taken in the DATs. I mean we are all slammed with work, but they always find time to spend with them. Maybe it's a gay thing."

  "Oh? Are they a couple?"

  Broussard shrugged. "I haven't heard. But you rarely see one without the other. And they're European. One plus one, you know."

  "I see. Well, they seem happy together. It's important to have someone special in your life."

  He looked directly into her eyes. "I agree."

  After dinner, Broussard suggested that they take the more scenic service road back to Redstone. Grace seemed happy with the suggestion. They meandered along for a few minutes until Grace directed him to a narrow paved side road about ten minutes southeast of Avondale. Tall, stately trees and carefully tended lawns soon turned into rows of granite crosses and statuary. A weathered stone told the story.

  Cypress Lawns Cemetery

  They pulled into a shallow parking lot and got out. Grace thrust her hands into her trench coat, and together they walked quite a distance to a corner of the graveyard. She stopped in front of a marble cross about one meter high. On it were carved the words:

  Charles H. White

  Beloved Husband and Son

  "The course of true love never did run smooth."

  Broussard read and then reread the epitaph. "Shakespeare." He stepped back and took in the delicate scroll work decorating the top of the monument. There was a single rose chiseled into one corner. "Was he a friend of yours?"

  "My husband."

  Broussard's jaw dropped. "Husband? You're married?"

  "Well, I was. He's deceased now."

  "Oh."

  And then they both burst into laughter.

  Broussard covered his mouth. "I'm sorry. It's bad form to laugh over the dead."

  "Is it?" she asked.

  "I'm sure it is ... somewhere!" And they laughed again. But not for long.

  "Grace, I'm so sorry. I didn't know. I wouldn't have been so bold with you if I'd known ... "

  She patted his arm. "I didn't tell you. It happened quite suddenly. And I never stopped using my maiden name so you could not have guessed that we were related."

  He looked back at the headstone. "To lose your mate. What a great loss that must be."

  She wiped away a tear. "I've only just now begun to process it."

  He placed his rough hand on top of her soft one. "It's a process. Trust me. You'll get through it."

  "I know. I have family and terrific friends who are helping me." She looked up at him coyly. "And I have your friendship. I hope."

  He squeezed her hand. "Don't hope for it. Know it."

  "Thank you," she whispered as another teardrop rolled down her downy cheek. "I still love him, you know. Silly woman that I am. We did not have a perfect marriage, but it was a marriage."

  He sighed. "I envy you," he told her. "I had a wife once and we had everything but a marriage. And, there's a girl that I'm seeing. Was seeing. She was in California. I haven't heard from her since the ear
thquake."

  "Oh, Neal, I'm so sorry." They fell silent, letting the sweet smell of freshly mown grass bathe their senses. "Did you love her?"

  "I—" He had started to say yes. "I don't know. She was there for me during a dark patch in my life ... when no one else could be. I just don't know."

  She looked at him with those smoldering eyes, now almost silver in the sunlight.

  "I believe it's okay to have a little confusion about relationships. That's why I had Charles's stone written that way. Love is rarely easy or sharply defined. Except perhaps in the beginning, when you're both so besotted that nothing else matters."

  He nodded.

  Grace looked past him. "When I first met Charlie he'd just lost his two front teeth in a rugby match. He looked utterly ridiculous. And yet I was very attracted to him."

  She laughed. To Broussard it sounded like delicate bells, wholly wondrous and pure.

  She turned away from her husband's grave, and the two of them began to pick their way back to the car. "I don't believe that I'll ever marry again, though. To love like that and lose that person so unexpectedly .... To take such a risk. I know that I could never go through that again."

  "I don't want to marry again, either," he said. "But I feel that I'm ready to love again."

  She patted his hand. "I'm happy for you, Neal."

  They drove back to Redstone in comfortable silence. Before they parted ways she said, "Don't forget what I said about the pardon. Please."

  "I won't," he promised.

  Broussard approached Chang about the matter the next day. Much to his surprise, his boss said that he would back such a move and that he would bring up the matter to Fields at the next opportunity.

  The three chartered buses slowly rolled through the fog that had been creeping around Avondale's ankles all morning. Their windows were heavily tinted, and the destination boards merely read "Chartered." They took the old farm-to-market road out of Avondale, heading northeast, and fifteen minutes later were knocking on the back gate of Redstone. Once their paperwork had been processed, the bus drivers were pulled off and led to a small windowless room while four heavily armed MPs, each wearing plastic protective suits, boarded each bus to conduct thorough searches. One hour later they had their equipment and boots back on the ground, and the drivers were allowed to reboard. The engines were started up again, and the buses were waved through the automatic gates. A Jeep came out of nowhere to escort them to a nondescript shack one kilometer down the empty road. A weathered sign outside greeted them: "Wash Room." A single MP stepped outside, gun at the ready, and held up a halting hand. The buses stopped and once again the drivers got out. The guard trained his weapon on them while he radioed the front gate that the buses had arrived. After the front gate guard cleared their transmission, he then motioned for them to step inside, his eyes riveted on their progress, which caused him to miss the three dark forms that emerged from behind the lean-to and silently slip onto each of the buses.

  The night before the trip to Chicago, Broussard was on a hunt for Allan Chang. He finally found him alone in the employee lounge watching a sports game on television. The usually formal Chang was dressed in a dingy bathrobe and women's house slippers. A large bowl of popcorn sat atop a squat beverage cooler. From the looks of things, Chang had already chugged his way through several cans of beer.

  "Got a minute? he asked.

  Chang waved him over.

  "What's the score?"

  "The Dolphins are down by six, first down and goal. But even if they don't score here, they've got plenty of time on the clock."

  "Got it." Broussard enthused with feigned interest. "Hey, Allan, Van and I searched through all of the comm logs for the past four weeks. Nothing jumped out. So that's sort of good news. We also sat down about an hour ago and came up with some new ideas about the locks—"

  Chang held up his beer. "I want to place the Master log on pause. At least until we get back from Chicago. I want us out of panic mode. So relax. Chase skirts. Shop. Just stay legal."

  "Are you sure? Did you talk to Fields?"

  "Don't second guess me."

  "I'm not, but—"

  "There's also a problem with the teacup nuke cores. We're getting tiny temperature spikes."

  Broussard looked concerned. "How much?"

  "A few hundredths of a degree Centigrade." He briefly closed his eyes. "Kramer's team wants some time to talk with the designers, and that's probably going to generate a few days of balls-to-the-wall work."

  "You think it's related to our problem?"

  "At this point: no. Down the road: Maybe. In either case, it has to be addressed. We don't want anyone getting any unnecessary radiation exposure."

  "Or having the AIs become nuclear bombs," Broussard added.

  Chang wriggled his toes. "Right. Koop's going to design a new protective vest for us to wear. They should be ready when we get back from our trip." Chang yawned. "Let's hope they work."

  Broussard looked thoughtful. One more big-ass problem. Well, at least this time it was going to be somebody else who had to do the rainbow-yanking. His mind drifted to earlier that morning when Grace had passed by his cubicle. She had been swaddled in thick clothing nearly up to her ears, but she had not been able to entirely hide her shapely body... . He stopped those thoughts in their tracks. A man did not merely lust after a woman like Grace Montgomery. He stopped and savored her. Inhaled her essence and tasted it for depth and complexity.

  "Neal," Chang was saying. "You're a good engineer. One of the best I've seen. But you never asked one really important question."

  "What's that?" His mind slowly drifted back to the conversation.

  "Remember when we were doing the original Enlightened Dead tours? Connie dragging the MITs down to see all of those people suffering. Did you ever wonder why?"

  "Not really."

  "Exactly. I'm not judging you. Nobody got it. Even I didn't at first. Then it hit me. Connie wasn't going down there hoping that she could force higher thinking into the MITs via express Zen; Connie was down there hunting souls."

  "I don't follow."

  "Connie was a dual major at Georgetown. Her first degree was in psychology; her second in theology."

  "So? She was raised Roman Catholic."

  "I'm aware of that. But what you aren't aware of is that she always took a priest along with her. And not your ordinary priest, but one sanctioned by the Pope himself."

  "Okay, mildly disturbing. What's your point?"

  "I did a little bit of investigating. Two people actually died while they were visiting the ward with the MITs. Neither of these individuals had immediate family. Both were Roman Catholics. And both of them had Connie, this priest, and the MITs at their bedside at the moment of death."

  Broussard did not respond.

  "Neal, at the moment of death the soul departs the body and returns to God."

  "Allan, that's your interpretation of what happens," Broussard retorted.

  "Or maybe, if there's a priest praying for intercession right at that time, maybe that soul goes elsewhere. Like into a one-centimeter-square titanium box in back of the MIT's master chip."

  Now Broussard could not hide his mounting irritation. "Okay, one: I cannot believe that we're having this conversation. And two: There is no box like that on the MIT."

  "Yes, there is. It was always there. You probably saw it a hundred different times and never paid it any attention. You never asked, 'What is this?'"

  "What? This is crazy." But he began to search his memory, and the image of a mute black box fastened in tightly against the rear edge of the master chip emerged. He peered into Chang's brown eyes and Chang smiled.

  "The ghosts in the machine." The manager cut away to watch the Dolphins score a touchdown and he jerked his beer into the air with jubilation. "Good boys." He turned back to Broussard. "Neal, the MITs are the first documented robots with real assembled intelligence."

  "Well, now intelligence is pretty subjective.
They are well made machines, I'll give you that."

  "No, Neal. They have intelligence. We have ... confirmation. They are capable of logical reasoning and making decisions independent of and in some cases in defiance of the preference laws. And we don't know how they are doing that. And anyone who tells you differently is either ignorant or a liar."

  "Allan, come on. James and Jessie are about two evolutionary rungs above a hay baler."

  Chang scowled. "Now you are being ridiculous. Why do you think NASA kept its wanger stuck in the Lincoln Hills lab? You think they had nothing better to do? On the eve of a civil war? Grow up. But you're correct in one very important respect: Without the tours, the robots are less than ideal. They behave like the very good code that you and Eric and Van believe they are." He pulled his robe up around his pale legs. "Neal, we had other data on the MITs. Bill Thompson's team created their own MIT."

  "Bill Thompson? The IT guy?"

  "Bill Thompson runs NASA's advanced robotics division."

  "What? Since when?"

  "And their MIT performed adequately until it began to receive daily exposure to people in the last stages of life. "

  Broussard was droll. "With or without the witch doctors?"

  "Both."

  "And?"

  "That's classified. The point is it worked. MIT performance shot up one-hundred fold. To this day, we don't know the mechanics of what it is that makes this happen, only that it does happen."

  Broussard was now displaying open rebellion. "Is that what this little trip to Chicago is all about? Trying to find Connie's so-called philosopher's stone?"

  "Yep. Plus, it looks like the DATs will probably be based in Illinois after training." His mood shifted into low gear. "If we get that far."

  Broussard was almost laughing. "Whose souls this time? We're at war, you know? It's going to be a job finding enough genteel dying folk with enough peace of mind to sit still while you steal what's left of their lives."

  "Ex-military."

  Broussard threw up his hands. "Oh! Well, that makes sense! We're going to put super aggressive combat bots in a room full of traumatized soldiers to mellow them out!"

  Chang was unfazed. "These men are all high-ranking officers with years to reflect on both the pros and cons of war. Neal, we aren't building AIs to one day attend a cotillion. They're going to war."

  "Do these men know what you are asking them to do?"

  "No, because we don't know what we're asking them to do."

  Broussard let out a long breath. The hyper patter of verbal jousting coming from the television's sports commentators swelled and quickly died. Chang's mood deflated as it became clear that once again his team was behind the eight ball. "Everybody knows the Dolphin's quarterback's got a bum elbow. He's been throwing short for the past three games. But the coach has him throwing to Judson, who couldn't catch a cold on the short pass. Boneheads. They deserve to lose."

  "Allan, this is going to make us look foolish. We won't be able to publish anything."

  "You don't know," Chang growled impatiently. "All I'm saying is that we are probably dealing with more than just a few programming missteps here."

  "It sounds like you don't know what it is you're dealing with."

  "Exactly."

  Broussard was starting to feel embarrassed for the guy. "That's imperfect logic." His eyes roamed the walls. "Thousands of years of hard-won scientific method boils down to a shaman shaking his fist at god. Francis Bacon must be spinning in his tomb." Without thinking that anything he was hearing or saying was in the least bit humorous, he suddenly laughed out loud. The laughter was long, vibrant, and strangely satisfying to him. He felt the psychic weight of seven years of living life at full-tilt insanity drain from his body, through his feet, and out through the floor. His form immediately felt lighter. His eyes closed as he let his body recalibrate itself. Normal. Normalcy was returning to his being. Ahhhh. It felt oh-so-good. He caught the tail end of something Chang was trying to tell him.

  "I'm sorry, Allan, but it's all pretty hilarious. Absolutely the funniest thing I've heard in years. Thank you!"

  Chang's chin dipped into his chest. "Well, I'm happy that I could provide you with a few laughs."

  "Me, too," Broussard responded happily. He stood up and yawned and stretched. "Maybe a vay-cay is a good idea. Catch you later. Hope your team wins."

  25

  NATO Consultation, Command and Control Agency

  Belgisch Park

  The Hague, The Netherlands

  NC3A General Manager Ari Javaras was uncharacteristically flustered. The gold hands on his Rolex glinted like daggers in the weak sunlight as he pulled into the Pasteurstraad garage. He was thirty minutes late for the E-VA meeting, had mistakenly grabbed his flight bag instead of his work satchel and now sat fuming upon discovering that a stranger's car was parked in his designated slot. He resisted the urge to roll down his window and spit on the trespasser, but knowing that security cameras would record the act, he settled for some heartfelt swearing and then jammed his Mercedes into second gear and spitefully kept it there as he spent the next twenty minutes careening around and around the parking structure's six levels until finally he spotted one free space on the roof. He checked to make sure that he had his smart pad and then scrambled over to the adjacent administration building.

  After passing through three security checks, the portly official was able to stop by his office and grab his assistant before heading to the Queen Juliana Room where the E-VA Panel was assembled to hear the latest reports on the Earth-Venus anomalies. The two were ushered through the heavy blast-proof doors into the gilded room by two armed guards, exactly one hour late.

  Already seated were John Voode, the director of DARPA in the States; the British minister of defense, Lord Cedric McCool; the NATO commander, Pierre Luday; Dr. Lawrence Wynns of the Royal Observatory; Dr. Ike Tanaka, senior astrophysicist from Kyoto University, Japan; Dr. Raymond Mighdoll, chief geologist of the United States Geological Survey; and two stenographers.

  Javaras waddled to his chair at the head of the long conference table. "My apologies for being late. Some imbecile took my parking space." He sat down and his assistant passed him a copy of the agenda. He took a few moments to read it before speaking. "I would like to thank you all for coming on such short notice. Because of the sensitive nature of this meeting, I felt it best that we discuss these reports face to face so that we do not lack clarity in future meetings. I hope that your schedules were accommodating." Javaras placed his forearms upon the table and tented his stubby fingers. "Before we begin, I would like to make it clear that I do not want this briefing to be cluttered with partisan politics or worse, partisan science. Here, today, we just speak the facts. Is that understood?"

  Everyone nodded.

  Wynns, Tanaka, and Mighdoll hoisted their briefcases and laptops onto the table and began to busy themselves with equipment set-up for their presentations.

  Javaras said, "I believe that Mr. Mighdoll will be presenting his report first on the earthquake. Am I correct?"

  Dr. Mighdoll raised his hand. "That is correct. I just need a moment to set up the computer for the graphics—"

  "Mr. Mighdoll, just go to the blackboard and make your drawings there. The panel is capable of following along."

  "Very well," Mighdoll responded without a hint of displeasure. "Thank you." He stood before the large blackboard that had been placed near the middle of the conference table and began. "Man has known about and lived with earthquakes and tidal forces since prehistoric times. We have also known about their bigger brothers: the mega thrust earthquake and the mega tsunami. These forces are fortunately very rare because as they occur at magnitudes several times higher than regular quakes and waves, they are considered catastrophic events and are generally regarded to have been set into motion by external forces, ie., forces striking the ground or water from above. But they are natural.

  "For the past year, normal, natural phenomena are behaving in
manners anything but normal or natural, and it's simply going to be impossible to say with certainty why some of these anomalies are taking place, but we can construct a fairly good theory. Let's consider the mega tsunami that followed the mega thrust quake off the western coast of America last year, which we now know as having a magnitude of sixteen-point-oh."

  He picked up a piece of chalk and drew a diagram of two wave actions.

  "When the Pacific Ocean experienced the sudden tectonic plate movements undersea, two waves were created at the point of disruption, at 35 degrees north latitude, 142 degrees west longitude." He drew a crude map of the western hemisphere and circled a spot equidistance between the Hawaiian Islands and the American west coast. "As customary, one wave traveled east towards the continental United States and the other one west, towards Hawaii and Asia."

  Voode leaned forward in his chair. "Yes, that sounds right."

  "However, for some unknown reason, the westbound wave stopped cold at 148 degrees west longitude and then reversed itself, heading east, following the first wave at more than 1126 kilometers per hour." He chalked this second wave with eyes and a nose, giving it a sinister quality. "This has never happened before in recorded history. And, in the absence of our finding a plausible theory as to why the westbound wave backtracked, we must assume that this type of wave action has never happened in pre-recorded history either."

  "Well, that's quite an assumption." That was Lord McCool. "Recorded history covers about sixty-five hundred years. The earth is thirteen billion years old. Lots of unusual phenomena could have happened in between."

  "Absolutely! But if it did happen, it would have defied some pretty established laws of physics as we currently understand them."

  Lord McCool looked bored. "Go on."

  "We have satellite pictures taken aboard the International Space Station that appear to show the second wave stopping and then heading for the American west coast. Please refer to Attachments I, II, and III."

  The geologist paused long enough to give the panelists enough time to look over the photographs. Mighdoll knew that they were spectacular; he had selected them himself. But Voode looked skeptical.

  The DARPA director adjusted his eyeglasses. "In light of the various 'mysteries' that are plaguing our satellites even now, and other mechanical data collectors, how can we be sure of this?"

  "We can't," Mighdoll conceded. "But we also have eyewitness accounts from three commercial pilots in the air over the quake's epicenter that corroborates this. They actually saw the second wave stop and reverse itself. Their depositions are located in Attachment IV."

  Javaras looked pained. "But how? Why?"

  "This is just conjecture here, but we believe that the first wave was created as a clearing wave, one that would take down large buildings and freeway systems and also saturate the ground in order to give the second wave, the wave superior, more traction over uneven turf. Akin to a one-two punch." He paused to give weight to his next statement. "In my opinion, this type of wave action is unknown to man."

  McCool's eyes were drilling holes into his head. "You said 'created.' Why?"

  Mighdoll did not respond.

  "I asked you a question."

  Still the seismologist remained mute.

  "Because," the minister of defense continued in suddenly scornful tones, "the implication in using that word is that there was an intelligent force behind this disaster. Was that your intent?"

  Mighdoll's eyes darted to Tanaka's, full of uncertainty. "I have no further comment, sir. You and the panel will have to draw your own conclusions."

  Lord McCool became effusive. "But you are the experts. We can't base any sound ideas about what if any actions to choose if we don't have all of the pertinent data before us, yes?"

  Mighdoll's jaws tensed. "I don't want to get drawn into a discussion about the supernatural."

  McCool smiled. "Nor do we."

  Mighdoll squared his shoulders. "Then I'll amend my statement." He turned to the stenographers. "Please delete the word 'created' from my previous statement. Thank you."

  The women nodded and made their adjustments.

  Javaras seemed pleased. "I'd like for us to move onto the next item on the list."

  Luday, the NATO commander, examined the agenda. "'Venus Stabilization.' Mr. Tanaka and Mr. Wynns, you now have the floor."

  Mighdoll marched back to his chair as Dr. Tanaka pulled a short stack of files from his briefcase. "I have handouts for everyone," he said.

  No one declined his offer.

  "As you know, last year all registered satellites and telescopes everywhere were dysfunctional for three days, from September 3rd to September 6th. The cause of these malfunctions has not yet been determined. Then one month later, on October 1st, we discovered that a comet system—now known as the Polar Gang Comets—had moved through the inner solar system."

  "Is that common?" Luday asked.

  "Is what common?"

  "Is it common for comets to travel in groups?"

  "We have some evidence that would seem to indicate comet clusters, or swarms, can form in the Kuiper Belt and gain entry into our solar system. And there is some buzz in the astronomical community that a series of asteroids or comets caused the Great Extinction AKA the K-T Event, and not just one supersized body. But to answer your question: No. Comets are the Lone Rangers of the Universe. What we experienced two years ago was a highly different arrangement of mass. The Polar Gang Comet System contained no less than fifty individual comets. That kind of compression is unheard of."

  Lord McCool deliberately downplayed this explosive information with an indulgent smirk. "Gentlemen, I ask that you stick with the facts and refrain from hyperbole. Continue, please."

  Dr. Tanaka slowly blinked once and then continued. "Our second surprise was that the nuclei of these bodies contained vastly different material than from other comets. A typical comet is made up of dirt, ice, some water, carbon dioxide, frozen gases, mostly toxic stuff, and that's it. The heads—the nuclei—of the Polar Gang contained very large amounts of nitrogen and oxygen and lesser amounts of building block matter, iron, silicon, and nickel."

  Wynns addressed the panel from his chair. "Gentlemen, it wasn't just the amount of comet matter that was so unusual. The average size of the heads was over two hundred kilometers across. That's five to six times the normal size."

  He went to the board, erased Mighdoll's drawings, and drew two planets in orbit around a sun. Then he inserted a copious amount of tiny objects hurtling towards the planet farthest from that sun. He pointed to the planet. "If this were Mars and it was hit with the Polar Gang Comet System, we might soon have the second life-sustaining planet in our solar system."

  That tidbit of information had everyone's attention.

  "Where was the Polar Gang headed?" Luday asked, obviously intrigued. "Into the sun?"

  "That's where they should have gone," Wynns replied. "But instead they went to Venus."

  A hushed silence fell over the room. Tanaka began drawing geometric pictures on the far left side of the blackboard. At its center was drawn a nondescript planet which he labeled "Venus."

  "However," Wynns continued. "Even if Venus was suddenly flooded with fresh, liquid water, it wouldn't stay there long. It is thought that Venus does not have a magnetic field, or at least not one strong enough to produce movements in the crust like on Earth. Because of this, Venus cannot easily disperse her heat, and that heat gets trapped in the atmosphere with other gases causing the surface temperatures to rise. Venus is so hot that any water—even large amounts—would quickly boil away."

  He took up a piece of blue-colored chalk and shaded in a large area of the blackboard Venus. "And yet we now have clear evidence that Venus not only has a significant amount of water on it, but that we can see this clearly because the planet no longer has the thick clouds of gas in her atmosphere. Two impossibilities."

  Javaras rubbed his eyes. "Two realities."

  Wynns shrugged. "Maybe.
Maybe not. Some of us are of the opinion that something is affecting the reliability of our equipment; what we are seeing out there may not be there at all. Or at the least, a distortion of what is there." He waved away the abstraction. "In any case, let's assume that it is true and that Venus has suddenly been endowed with all of the attributes of an earth-like planet. Literally overnight. Which, by the way, is the third impossibility." He pointed to a rhombus that he had drawn with a single vector arrow drawn through its middle.

  "Well, how could these things happen?" He motioned to Tanaka, who began to draw force lines along the board.

  "Dr. Tanaka, several members of the Royal Observatory and I have developed a theory which attempts to explain these anomalies. We do not believe that plate tectonics was the sole contributor to the Super Quake and the subsequent mega tsunamis. We believe that the earth was hit by a blast of dark energy." He pointed to the angled rhombus. "Actually a sheet of dark energy, maybe a hundred thousand square kilometers in size. Moving at half the speed of light and entering our solar system either right before the Polar Gang Comet System or right after it. This is also probably why we experienced total satellite failure those three days and why it still isn't one hundred percent two years later. As it passed near Earth, a corner of it hit the Pacific plate, causing massive crust displacement and setting off the temblor and the unprecedented waves. However, the bulk of this energy kept going and scored a direct hit on Venus. The planet absorbed maybe a million yottajoules of energy in one second. This much force could have cleared Venus's atmosphere, jumpstarted her internal magnetic field, and then helped it to create pathways and energy to and for plate tectonics."

  Voode's eyes rolled. "That's preposterous."

  "It's a theory," Tanaka said. "One of many to be sure. But the best one so far."

  Mighdoll joined the conversation. "There is a new crack in the earth's crust that measures six thousand kilometers long and two kilometers wide. With only slight deviations, it is a perfectly straight cut from top to bottom. And deep. It may extend into the upper mantle. It may have even breached the outer core. Normal tectonics would not produce such a precise fracture nor could it have wreaked so much damage to the crust."

  "Picture this," Tanaka said as he erased the first rhombus diagram and drew another. This figure was drawn in a nearly perpendicular angle to the center of the Earth. "If this sheet of energy hit the Pacific plate in an upright position, it would be in an excellent position to make that precision cut into the earth."

  Voode purpled. "Gentlemen, even if we accept the fact this sheet of energy caused the initial earthquakes and waves, how can we sit here and believe that this same mass of energy was almost sixteen hundred kilometers away minutes later to block the westward tidal wave and roll it back towards the American coast?"

  Tanaka was placid in his response. "Easily. Imagine throwing a flat rock across a pond. What does it do? If you're lucky, it skips. That's what happened here. The dark energy skipped across the earth. On its second contact with it, the impact was more shallow and hence little plate disruption. But it was there—sixteen hundred kilometers away—to redirect that westbound wave."

  Javaras peered at Tanaka's illustration. "So you believe that this energy, which resembles a plate of glass—"

  Tanaka interjected. "A plate of glass possibly ten thousand kilometers across."

  "Struck the earth—"

  Mighdoll corrected him. "Part of it did."

  "Part of it hit the earth, gouged a longitudinal crack in the crust six thousand kilometers long, which generated the earthquake and tsunamis, and then this energy field skipped away, towards the Hawaiian Islands, and then stopped long enough to block a tidal wave that was almost a kilometer tall."

  Mighdoll nodded. "That is correct."

  Lord McCool spoke now. "Mr. Mighdoll, does it make sense to you that this sheet of energy, traveling at such a fantastic speed, would suddenly come to a dead stop, wait around for say one-half hour so that it could somehow act as a seawall against millions of cubic meters of water moving at over eleven hundred kilometers per hour, and then start back up again to dash off and cold cock yet another planet?"

  Tanaka fidgeted with his piece of chalk. "Yes. And no. The field may have been so large that it took that long to pass the earth. Or maybe it somehow got trapped by our gravity."

  McCool's frosty cheeks turned pink. "Which is it?" His voice was harsh and shaming. "You can't say because you don't know! Neither of you has a bloody clue as to what's going on and you cooked up this brilliant scheme to blame it all on some mysterious Force X, which conveniently for you, cannot be seen or detected or verified in any way except in your excitable imaginations! Why not just do the manly thing and come forward and say that you failed at this task? Or get a note from your mothers saying that your dogs ate your homework!"

  The two scientists just stood there, letting the waves of condemnation buffet their bodies.

  Javaras spoke up. "Gentlemen, thank you."

  Wynns and Tanaka slunk back to their chairs, thoroughly whipped.

  The general manager tapped a finger on the table. "Do we know for sure that the comets hit Venus?"

  "We are reasonably sure," Mighdoll responded. "Eighty percent sure. It's circumstantial evidence at this point. But that doesn't invalidate our conclusion."

  "But it is more speculation than theory?"

  "Not at all," he shot back with as much indignation as he thought prudent.

  Javaras appeared irritated. "Forgive me, but you are all missing our points. Since 'dark energy' is itself speculation—it being something that can't be detected or measured—then any hypothesis that contains it must also be speculation."

  "I disagree," Wynns replied defiantly. "You can have 'imaginary' factors. Mathematicians use them all the time. Besides, the Australians believe that they have confirmed the existence of dark energy. If you look at Exhibit XIII, you'll see a condensation of their research ..."

  Lord McCool was regarding the three experts with the intensity of a cobra two seconds before striking.

  Voode was doodling.

  Javaras sighed. "Thank you. We'll give it a view later. Let's move on. I want to briefly touch on this last item titled 'Songs in the Key of F.'"

  Mighdoll looked to be somewhat embarrassed. "One of our colleagues thought this item important, so to be polite we allowed it on the agenda."

  "Please proceed."

  "Two months ago NASA's Chandra X-ray Lab picked up persistent sound waves coming from Venus. These waves correspond to 35049 hertz, or the note of F."

  Voode was now clearly exasperated. "And this means ... ?"

  "We have no idea," Mighdoll replied. "Look, we don't know if it's relevant or not. But it is another unusual development."

  "Yes, I agree." Javaras gave a subtle signal to the other panelists. "Gentlemen, we thank you for your hard work. It has been very ... I would like to say 'enlightening,' but to be frank, 'confusing' is the better word." He pushed his papers aside and looked the three scientists dead in the eyes. "Off the record, can you tell us what you really think may be going on?"

  Wynn, ignoring the implications of the question, considered the general manager's words for a moment before answering. "If my colleagues would allow me to speak on behalf of us all ..."

  The others nodded their assent.

  " ... It is our opinion that some great and unknown force entered our solar system undetected and caused biblical disruptions of air, land, and sea on at least two planets."

  McCool was wearing his smirk again. He had a fierce reputation for being one of the more outspoken atheists in Parliament. "Isn't it possible to assess an unusual situation without invoking religion?"

  "Sir, it was only a matter of speech. However, in this case it is appropriate. What has happened is unprecedented."

  Voode snorted derisively. "Well, the Advance South and their fan-atics would certainly love to hear that."

  Javaras's eyes were at half mast. "The religiou
s will see a divine hand at work; the secular an extraterrestrial one."

  "But," Wynns countered, "the scientist will simply see it for what it really is: a heretofore unknown force of great power that is waiting for us to evaluate its source and composition and then give it a proper name."

  Javaras ignored him and instead began to reminisce. "Right after graduate school, I spent a year in Spain as a kickabout. I was young and foolish, so it wasn't long before I needed money. I'd managed to convince one of the better car mechanics in Barcelona that I could work on automobiles. My older brother had taught me a few things. I figured that I could learn the rest off the cuff. Everything went well until he asked me to rebuild the engine of a client's Jaguar. Now a Jaguar is a sleek beast whilst together; a million inscrutable pieces whilst taken apart. I didn't know the engine from the transmission. I felt angry that I'd fooled myself into believing I could handle the job, and then utter and absolute terror at being found out. To make a long story short, I was fired." He paused for several seconds. He had made a point of not addressing anyone directly, but it was painfully obvious that this trip down memory lane was for the benefit of the scientists.

  "Gentlemen," he continued. "We are facing a great unknown. We are feeling weak and impotent, angry and frightened. But that will pass. You will learn the necessary lessons and move on. And soon you will have the correct answers for us. I have that measure of confidence in you."

  His words hung in the air to quietly incite harmonious feelings on both sides.

  Tanaka angrily picked up his papers and slammed them back into his briefcase. "These are the correct answers."

  Finally, Voode scratched his chin and pushed his notes away. "Young man, as Mr. Javaras was just explaining, we all make mistakes. Hell, during my first year in the Navy, I accidentally shot my ex-oh."

  Luday offered a tight smile. "I crashed my first jet into a barn after attempting a low-altitude pass over my girlfriend's house."

  One of the stenographers timidly raised her hand. "When I was at university I helped my boyfriend rob a pub." A few eyebrows went up. "We were quite strapped at the time," she explained.

  Lord McCool looked directly at Javaras. "And I'm the 'imbecile' who stole your parking space."

  Tanaka and Mighdoll arrived at Rotterdam The Hague Airport four hours later. Their nonstop flight back to New York City would be arriving shortly. The two men sat together in the spacious lounge, two of only five paying passengers.

  Mighdoll pulled out a pocket notepad and wrote down a few words. He showed it to Tanaka.

  It read, "I have two thoughts that should not be discussed in public."

  Tanaka's face registered faint surprise and nodded.

  Mighdoll took back the notepad and wrote several lines. He again handed the notepad to Tanaka.

  It read, "My first thought is that Javaras didn't believe us because he doesn't want to believe us. Chasing down some phantom planet is outside his scope."

  Tanaka nodded and continued to read. "My second thought is that we're reached a dead end. I think it's time we called somebody in the United States."

  Tanaka reread the note, sighed and then balled it up and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. He spoke. "Maybe."

  Sunlight was shining through the large windows that allowed passengers to see the aircraft aprons below. Up and beyond them, Sol was low in the sky, plump and fiery red.

  Tanaka removed his reading glasses and used his shirt sleeve to wipe the lenses. "Have you noticed that without a timepiece to tell you, you'd never be able to determine whether the sun was rising or setting just by looking at it? Its image is the same, coming or going."

  "Your point?"

  "Before we make that call to the States, we first need to find out what time it is there."

  End of Part One