The Automatic Detective Page 2

  "Thanks, kid."

  "You won't throw it away, will you?" she asked.

  "Are you kidding? This goes right on my refrigerator." It'd be nice to finally have a use for the old rusted machine. Right now, all it did was occupy space in my unused kitchen cubicle.

  The apartment door slid open. Gavin stepped into the hall. He still looked like hell, but he always did. Guy had gone straight past two-time loser to sixth or seventh by my estimation.

  "April Anne, get your ass back inside!"

  April wrapped her arms around me. "You better get to work, Mack." Her eyes flashed purple. "Your boss is going to yell at you, but don't worry. Just ignore him, and it'll be fine."

  She ran back into the apartment without looking back. Gavin threw me a hard glare before following her inside.

  I folded the drawing very delicately with overgrown metal fingers and tucked it in my pocket. It didn't even occur to me to scan the back. If I had, maybe what happened wouldn't have happened. But I didn't, and it did.

  That's the problem with having a hard memory matrix. Short of a system crash, you can't forget the mistakes you make.

  2

  Automobiles were considered outmoded pieces of junk in Tomorrow's Town. Too loud. Too inefficient. Too dirty. More importantly, too old-fashioned and too reliable. Empire's streets were clogged with the next generation of vehicular transportation. It wasn't only the big companies either. Any grease monkey willing to steal a design out of a Flash Gordon serial and submit it to the Big Brains could get a grant. The idea was that with all those different models running around, the cream was bound to float to the top.

  There were amblers, boxes that lurched along on pneumatic legs. Treaders that, imaginatively enough, rumbled their way on tank treads with all the speed and maneuverability of turtles. Hoverskids: able to accelerate like a rocket, turn on a dime, and come to a stop after a thirty-foot drift, hence the addition of thick rubber bumpers to the design. Gyropeds zipped gracefully in and out of traffic, except when the gyros jammed and then they were out-of-control typhoons of wrecking fury. There were the buzzbugs, so named for their humming plastic wings and bumblebee-inspired chassis. And the rotorcars, which usually stuck to the skyways. About the only thing all these vehicles had in common was their lack of wheels. Nothing in Empire rolled. Except for the unipods, balanced perfectly on one wheel. Smooth ride until you got a flat.

  The Bluestar Cab Company used each and every one of these vehicles as part of its fleet. Treaders worked best for a bot of my size, but I usually got stuck with a hoverskid. My weight often taxed the engine, usually resulting in a scraping of metal roadway every seventy-five feet or so, sending sparks flying. The cost of repainting the undercarriage came out of my paycheck. If I'd been paranoid, I might've assumed the dispatcher didn't like me. Especially since every shirt he owned had a patch for the Biological Rights League stitched on the pocket.

  Driving a cab was a decent job, and I was lucky to have it. When my boss yelled at me, I grinned (metaphorically) and accepted it. He wasn't happy about the hole in my suit, but since I was late for a pickup, he had me borrow a vest from Jung.

  Jung was a gorilla, an exhibit in the Empire zoo who had gotten smart enough to be granted citizenship. He was also a stand-up guy, or ape, or whatever.

  He handed me the vest. "Be careful with this one."

  "Thanks."

  I changed, tossing the ruined vest onto the bench by my locker. Jung, holding a book in one hand and half a grapefruit in another, picked up the vest with his feet. He poked his fingers through the hole.

  "That's a nasty burn, Mack," he remarked. "What happened?"

  "Cigarette," I replied.

  He stuck his nose back in his book, a beaten copy of Tarzan and the Ant Men. "Taken up smoking, have we?" Jung snorted. "Y'know, it's stupid for a robot to smoke. Particularly when he doesn't have a mouth."

  "Still makes me look cool." I checked the mirror and adjusted my tie. The movement popped a stitch in the new vest. Jung's shoulders were wide, but not quite wide enough.

  "You break it, you buy it," he said.

  The boss screamed that I had five minutes to make it across town and that if I didn't he'd call my probation officer and I'd get a demerit on my record and . . . blah blah blah. I didn't catch the rest because I keyed my audio filters to the sound of his voice.

  "Seriously, Mack," said Jung. "Is there a problem here?"

  I resisted the urge to shrug, doubtful the vest could withstand such a maneuver. "Nothing to be concerned about, but thanks for asking."

  "Some of the guys are going bowling tonight. You should come."

  "I have to get home early," I lied. "So how do I look?"

  "Like Gort if he sold out and settled for driving a cab," he mumbled as he hopped off the bench and loped toward the garage.

  "Perfect." I pushed my brim at a jaunty angle and followed him.

  Traffic was rough as usual. I had skin of an indestructible alloy and even I feared for my safety once or twice. There was a buzzbug stall on Quantum Avenue. Happened all the time. Nothing got perfected in Empire before it was replaced by something better. The Big Brains loved science for science's sake. Not that I would complain about that. It was the big reason why a bot could earn citizenship. Three percent of Empire's population was robotic, and these automated residents were a great source of pride for the Learned Council.

  I helped out on the stall by getting out and moving the damn thing myself. Those buzzbugs are light, one point twenty-four tons. Even at reduced power, my servos barely registered less than seven. It was gratifying using my muscle to aid my fellow citizens. Not that anyone thanked me. In fact, on the way back to my cab quite a few drivers screamed at me for blocking traffic. I liked to think there was gratitude buried somewhere in their rage.

  On Tuesdays I worked a short shift. It gave me time to take care of some personal business.

  My rehabilitation was very important to the Council. It was sort of a social experiment. Every other automated citizen was a standard factory model that developed the Freewill Glitch. I was the first unique design, and the first one created with sinister purposes in mind. Not even the Big Brains knew why some bots developed Freewill and other didn't. Some of the more philosophical types, particularly the leaders of the Temple of Knowledge, postulated the Glitch wasn't a glitch at all, but a divine spark granted from Ether. Most figured it was a hardware problem no one had isolated yet. I hadn't given it much thought myself. Theological debate wasn't part of my initial programming, and I wasn't interested in adding it to my files.

  The Council was taking a big chance on me. Even I couldn't be sure I had achieved true self-awareness. It could've all been a bug, and one day, my electronic brain might fix itself and I'd launch into that reign of destruction I was made for. All I knew was what the Council knew. I'd turned on my creator, demonstrated a desire to be a productive member of society, and passed the battery of psych simulation tests every automated citizen had to overcome. On any other bot, that would've been enough. Not for me. I still had to see a shrink.

  Doctor Mujahid was the premiere cybernetics psychologist in the world. Machines that behaved like human beings were her specialty. She was the first expert to diagnose a robot with the Freewill Glitch, and it was her hard work and respected opinion that pushed the Council's vote in my favor. She didn't have my best interests in mind. She was obsessed with studying yet another self-aware machine. To her credit, the doc never treated me like a case study. She was infinitely more comfortable around technology than people.

  Her receptionist was an auto named Herbie. She'd programmed him herself, and he was remarkably lifelike, but he didn't have the Glitch. The doc hadn't been able to reproduce it intentionally yet, despite her best efforts. Herbie was a video monitor atop sixteen mechanical tentacles. The subroutines to keep all those limbs untangled would've driven most programmers mad.

  Herbie glanced up from his desk, but kept typing on four different keyboards.
"You're late, Mack."

  "It's keeping with a theme for the day," I replied.

  Herbie didn't have a sense of humor. I would have liked to credit his artificial nature with that, but some bots, like some people, were too serious for their own good. His digital face formed into a frown. "Have a seat. Doctor Mujahid will be with you shortly."

  The doc's waiting room accommodated a wide variety of patients with an assortment of body types, and there were chairs big enough for me to sit comfortably. I found a spot next to a construction bot and a police auto and waited.

  Six minutes later, the door opened, and Doctor Mujahid entered with a woman and a little girl carrying a Gabby Goosey doll. The doc nodded and smiled in my direction, said something to the woman, patted the doll on the head, and went back into her office.

  "Megaton, you're next," said Herbie.

  The doc was entering data in her computer as I stepped into her office. She didn't look up. "Make yourself comfortable."

  I sat down on the special couch. Yes, she made her patients lie on a couch. She liked the traditional feel. The only difference with her couch was the wire jack in the side for the patient to plug in.

  "Taking human patients now, Doc?" I asked.

  She was so engrossed in her typing she didn't reply.

  "The girl," I said. "Human, wasn't she? Or have the Big Brains finally developed that full human simulacrum they keep talking about?"

  The doc paused. "Oh, no. Not yet. Can't get the skin right. But I wasn't treating the girl. I was treating the doll."

  If Gabby Gooseys started thinking, I wouldn't be so special after all. For some reason, I found that disconcerting.

  "I believe the subject is only experiencing some minor program anomalies. Still, it is an interesting development." She stopped typing suddenly. "Please, plug yourself in."

  I studied the jack. I didn't like it. I was a closed system. I didn't believe in casual interface. Good way to pick up a virus.

  "Please, Mack."

  I opened the port where my belly button would've been, had I been human, and inserted the jack. Immediately, a stream of data poured across the big screen opposite the doc's desk. The endless lines of code meant nothing to me, but it was mildly disturbing seeing the inner workings of my electronic brain reduced to a string of letters and numbers. If there was a divine spark hiding in there, I couldn't find it.

  The doc liked to talk while she analyzed my electronic psyche. Small talk at the beginning. She said you could tell a lot about a bot just by the way he carried on a regular conversation. There were nuances in speech that spoke volumes apparently. Knowing this and assuming anything I might say, no matter how seemingly innocent, could be turned against me, I kept my end of the discussion short. Very short. One word responses, if possible. Which didn't do much to showcase my social readjustment. I couldn't help it. Suspicion had wormed its way into my personality template.

  Finally, Doctor Mujahid asked the Big Question. The one I dreaded because I always knew it was coming and I didn't know the answer.

  "So how are things, Mack?"

  I considered the question. "Good."

  The lamp on her desk flickered. I noticed because it was an antique, the kind only the very poor or very rich used nowadays. Still needed light bulbs. She circled it, studying it with mild interest. She was probably diagnosing the bulb with an Edison complex or photon envy.

  "Good how, Mack?"

  "I don't know," I replied honestly. "Just good."

  The lamp flickered again, and she ran her fingers along the shade as if to comfort it. "Well, Mack . . ." She trailed off, which meant she was thinking. She was also saying my name way too much. Meant she was thinking hard. About me. Possibly about my future. The way she was staring at that screen made me nervous. I could tell because whenever I was nervous, a static bar would appear in the lower half of the screen.

  "Tell me, Mack. Have you gotten a chance to look at those books I sent home with you last time?"

  "Sure."

  The lamp flickered again. Outdated piece of junk.

  "Have you been working on your delicate coordination, Mack?"

  "Sure. I've been building models. Cars, planes, rockets."

  "And how's that going, Mack?"

  "Pretty good." The lamp sputtered, and I felt inexplicably guilty. "You should get that replaced, Doc."

  "Oh, it's working fine," she replied. "You see, Mack, whenever you lie, your vocal synthesizer emits a subsonic whine."

  "Really." I sat up. "Do me a favor. Don't tell my poker buddies."

  She ignored the joke. She had less of a sense of humor than Herbie. "The pitch is too low for human hearing to detect, but I've keyed the microphones in my office to listen for it and to make my desk lamp flicker when they do."

  She let that sink in as I reclined. She studied my lines of scrolling code without saying anything.

  "I'm working on the models," I said. "I am. But so far, they keep breaking."

  "How does that make you feel, Mack?"

  "I don't know. It's no big deal."

  The lamp, that obnoxious little stoolie, flashed again.

  "It stinks," I grumbled. "Okay, it stinks. My hands weren't designed for stuff that delicate. I get a couple of pieces glued together, then whammo, I'm suddenly looking at a lump of crushed plastic."

  "Any progress in the attempts, Mack?"

  "I got half a sports car put together. That was pretty swell until . . ." I raised my hands and wiggled the thick, metal fingers.

  "Very good, Mack." She pushed a button on some gizmo on her belt, and the screen flashed a specific program. "Your manual dexterity subroutines are coming along nicely. Shall we move on to your social integration?"

  She phrased it like a question, but she wasn't asking. We always came back to this. The doc said it was the most important issue I had to work through. I didn't agree, but I was uncomfortable talking about it, so maybe she had a point.

  "Have you made any friends, Mack?"

  "Couple," I answered, and the lamp didn't blink this time.

  "Have you been engaging in active socialization as I advised?"

  "Sure."

  "How often?"

  "Two or three times a week."

  Blink, blink went that tattletale bastard.

  "I don't remember exactly."

  The lamp called me on this, too. It was a weak lie coming from a bot that could remember every moment of every minute of my brief life.

  Doc Mujahid sighed. "Mack, full communal assimilation is the most difficult, yet most important, hurdle of the automated citizen."

  "Is that so?" She'd gone over this before, but she was going to give me the entire speech again. Even if I could open the file and play it for myself beat for beat.

  "Artificial entities have very little to ground them in daily life," she said. "They don't eat, hence they don't enjoy the simple pleasure of food. They're asexual, hence they don't enjoy the social act of dating, seduction, and sexual intercourse. They are not, generally speaking, abstract enough in their thinking process to take pleasure in recreational reading, art, or other forms of cerebral distraction enjoyed by biological entities."

  Inwardly, I smiled. The doc had a habit of making machines seem like people and people seem like machines.

  "Most bots blessed with true intelligence find complete assimilation through their intended purpose. Construction autos continue to build, police drones continue in their law enforcement capacity, and so on. But you, Mack, were intended for antisocial purposes. This contradiction puts tremendous stress on your systems.

  "Now, despite these concerns, I think you're making excellent progress."

  She clicked the screen off and went to her desk. "But there's still a lot to work on. Here's what I need you to do. I need you to start socializing regularly. Daily, if possible."

  "I don't know. I'm pretty busy."

  The lamp flickered. I guess it didn't agree that standing around in my apartment, staring at the re
frigerator, was all that important.

  Doctor Mujahid kept talking. "Continue on the models. Look at those books. Read one. I recommend starting with Treasure Island. I think the violence of the story will be a healthy outlet for your aggression indexes."

  "Whatever you say, Doc. But my aggression index is under control, really. I swear."

  The damn lamp disagreed. I unplugged myself and stomped delicately across the office. "I'm doing fine. Really, I am."

  Blink, blink.

  I snatched up that little bastard and crushed it in one hand. I particularly enjoyed the shattering of its blinky little know-it-all lightbulb head. Doctor Mujahid frowned slightly as I set the mutilated antique back on the desk.

  "Some of the guys are going bowling later tonight, and they invited me along."

  She started retyping. "Don't be late, Mack."

  3

  Empire's got its problems, but it does have one virtue. It doesn't believe in wasting anything. Everything gets recycled. There are a couple of reasons for that. Empire dislikes old, useless stuff. The Learned Council won't tolerate anything sitting around taking up space, even if it's buried where no one can see it. They also love the concept of remaking broken stuff into something shiny and new and functional. There's an entire chapter in the Codex of the Temple of Knowledge that preaches the good word of reprocessing.

  The downside of this passion is that the recycling centers are the most toxic, polluting facilities in town. They're also extremely dangerous. All that weird science is perilous enough when working properly, but by the time it gets shuffled into the centers, it's downright deadly. The staffs are almost always entirely automated. It's one of the few jobs without a human worker quota because even the Biological Rights League isn't crazy enough to fight for that opportunity.

  Once in a while you get a biological stubborn, tough, and crazy enough to survive the job. The recycling center I stopped by was run by one of these. Vinny was a tall guy, lanky, oddly proportioned. He was probably a mutant, given his occupation and strange shape, but I'd never seen an inch of skin beneath his jumpsuit, overalls, long rubber gloves, thick-soled boots, rebreather mask, and goggles. Some abnormal stuff sprouted from his head. It could've been hair, but I wasn't willing to bet on it.