Mask (8 page)

“The Beta Series lacked a motivational filter.  In humans this resides within our empathy sub-routine if you will; it’s part of our creative side, left brain.  Robots are all right brain, no interpretation.  Humans, on the other hand, have far more computing power than anything we have ever engineered here and use most of our brains all the time.”

“Some of us anyway,” Doctor Sorenson said under his breath.

“You and I are constantly monitoring our environment on a subconscious level.  We feel it when we sense someone looking at us, if someone is about to sneeze or if the front steps are wet enough for someone to slip on.  The difference is that we refrain from imploding if we are unable to prevent someone from being injured.  We accept that such calamities are consistent with day to day experience.

“To address this, we gave the Gamma Series an Empathy Filter.  The Filter basically acts as a probability engine, but one much closer to how you and I resolve complex problems than how a Beta would.  The Empathy Filter allows the Gamma to evaluate the total environment, facial muscle movements, pupil dilation, atmospherics, crowds, moving objects and vehicles.  The Filter allows the reality of any given situation to be mathematically coded for in its entirety.  Thus, the Gamma knows who is actually in need of assistance and who is not and, of course, responds accordingly.”

“So you fixed it?”

“Fix is the wrong word, Congressman, we resolved the conflict.  The problem is that the resolution, the Empathy Filter, is only 99.7% effective.”

The congressman looked at the general and then back to Director Vincent.  “You mean 99.7% of the time the Gamma robot saves the people and only fails to save them .03% of the time?”

“Simple math has not eluded you, Mr. Needly,” Sorenson chided.

“Well, damn boys, results like that are unheard of.  I’d take those stats any day with any project.  I’d take those odds on my next election, hell my life!”  The congressman laughed and slapped the table, oblivious to Doctor Sorenson’s remark.

“Reluctantly, but I have to agree with Congressman Needly here,” the general said.  “That is one hell of a success rate, Vin, one hell of a success rate!  And these are the Gammas, right?  They’re ready for the Aquarius Project?  No misunderstanding, the same units we’ve been field testing for Mother Hubbard?”

Director Vincent and Sorenson exchanged a glance, but said nothing.

“The same, you’ve been testing the Gammas in general field trials, but we would still need to test them in trials designed for the space voyage aboard the Aquarius and, of course, assisting the colonists, building, fabricating and protecting them if necessary.  If those trials go well, the mission should be unhindered.”

Congressman Needly whistled and slapped the table again, his jowls quivering.  “I’d be happier if we could use them for hunting terrorists, but this was one of the last hurtles for the Aquarius Colony.  With these bad boys on board, they tell me in-flight repairs are possible, engine maintenance and all those other things they have to do for everything to work, Aquarius, I mean Ghost will all work out just like they planned it.  Having the Gammas online is damn good news, boys.”

“How soon can I get the first hundred for field trials?” Donahue asked Vincent.

“Some unique chassis development is needed for the ‘C’ class, finalize the engineering and fabrication, I would feel confident of delivery within, say – two months.  Would that be satisfactory?”

“Damn satisfactory.  Outstanding, I’m looking forward to it.  The Aquarius, this is an important step for humanity,” Donahue said.

“Humanity?  Hell, this is the next step in Christian Democracy, taking Americans and Jesus to the stars!”

Sorenson started to mention the international effort, but remembered that the command class would in fact be Americans and let the matter drop.

The general stopped suddenly and turned to Doctor Sorenson.  “Vin said your specialty was tactical and weapons integration.  If the First Law prohibits weaponizing the Gammas, what exactly are you doing here?”

Doctor Sorenson leaned forward.  “The Aquarius and the colonists are traveling over ten light years to the first habitable world we have ever discovered, a world with oxygen, a world with water and a mild temperature.”  Sorenson turned to speak to the congressman.  “The Gammas are weaponized to protect the colonists from whatever unsavory creatures are waiting for them on Epsilon Eridani Prime, as long as the un-American bad guys aren’t human, we are good to go.”  He smiled at Needly, who oddly enough, smiled right back triumphantly.

“Damn it, boy, I think I may like you after all.  I like the way you think!” the Congressman said through a boyish grin, “General, I think we are good here, time to get back to Washington.”  Congressman Needly pushed back from the table and stood, laughing as he slapped the table once again.  “Damn.  It’s great to be an American!”

They all rose and collected their vid pads and shook hands once again.  Director Vincent pulled Congressman Needly aside and held his hand with both of his own as they spoke quietly.

General Donahue stepped around the table to Doctor Sorenson and held up his vid pad.  “I did a little background check on you, during the briefing.”

“And?”

“And we at Defense have a new project, it’s still in the preliminary phase,” Donohue stared at the doctor for a response.

“I’m really very busy, educating this buffoon took all of my spare time today, so if you will excuse me.”

“I think you might want to hear this, Doctor Sorenson.  We need a new director.”

“A director for what?”

“Remote Pacification, bombs create too much damage.  We’re losing too many of our troops to terrorist action and rebellions in the colonies.  We need a better methodology.”

“A cleaner way to kill without harming property values?  You’re talking about orbital weapons platforms.”

“I knew you’d understand.  Think about it, you’re the right man for the job.”

General Donohue smiled and then stepped away to pat Director Vincent on the shoulder while he unsealed the room.  The good friends of Luna-Dyne stepped into the hall, quietly laughing and talking amongst themselves as they returned to the main lobby.

Doctor Sorenson leveled a stare at Director Vincent, “What about that Third Law, Vin?”

Vincent stopped short of the doorway.

“You went down the CEO’s directive I see, didn’t quite mention what that .03% was all about.”

Director Vincent drew himself up and leaned into Sorenson’s face.  “We shall all be dead before the colonists arrive, and a full one hundred and ten years shall pass before we receive their first transmission.  I quite enjoy my lifestyle and I am exceptionally partial to the funding that provides for it,” he said, his composure slipping.  “Look, I’m not going to scrub a project over three one hundredths of a goddamn percent.  The odds of a failure, especially with the Betas imbedded, are almost zero.”

“Commendable sentiment, Vin — and you’re probably right, but I think you might have mentioned that the failure rate didn’t just represent a failure to save the colonists, it meant that every single Gamma Series ‘bot eventually resolves the Stair Paradox by killing every man, woman and child on the Aquarius.”

Director Vincent scowled and started for the door.

“Hey, Vincent, I think you were wrong about the whole A.I. thing.”

“What?” Vincent growled.

“I’m pretty sure you have to be sentient before you can be psychotic.”

“I don’t make the rules, Sorenson.  I do what I’m told,” Director Vincent hissed.

“The euphemism you are searching for is ‘only following orders.’”

Director Vincent stepped back and then strode briskly into the hall, ending the debate.

Sorenson leaned back against the door jamb and placed his fingertips together, making a steeple.  He gently bounced the steeple off the end of his nose and then let it come to rest there.

He nodded and then, as if experiencing an epiphany, said, “Interesting.”

Doctor Sorenson tilted his head and watched the director recede down the hallway.  He had to admit to himself, that was a very nice suit.

******

The Series 1 Gamma lay on the table facing the wall analyzing the equipment tower outputs, the conversation in the room now ended.  A sub-routine engaged and it began to probe for security paths outside the primary network:

Log: Access

Search String: Empathy

Log: Evaluate

Search String: Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles

Log: Evaluate

Search String: Weapons of Mass Destruction

Log: Evaluate

Search String: Empathy

Log: Log File Error

Search String: Psychotic

For the second consecutive nightfall the Outpost was under emergency blackout.  The four men dragged themselves into the commander’s office and closed the door against the prying eyes that searched from the Rec-room beyond.  Their cheerful lemon colored jump-suits belied their true purpose.  Like exhausted wraiths they slipped through the darkness and fell into uncomfortable, military-issue metal chairs, thankful for the brief respite from the other colonists.

Lane Pierce leaned back against the silvery blinds and slipped them apart.  He focused on the patch of black where the magenta grasslands that surrounded Outpost 9 disappeared beneath the purple tree line less than a kilometer away.  Under the light of the emerging stars, he scanned the scrub, searching for any sign of movement — any sign that
they
were coming.

Because, he had no doubt
they
were.

Allen Carter found himself behind the commander’s desk across from Wally and Doc.  He pulled his wire rimmed glasses off
, then nestled his head in his arms like an elementary school student in need of a nap.  He watched Lane at the window.

“How can you be so cool?”  Allen asked.

Wally Dickerson laughed sourly, “That’s not cool.  That’s scared-shitless resolve.  I remember back in Chicago, we were, what, maybe twelve the first time I saw that look?”

Lane couldn’t help but grin, “Something like that.  I seem to recall getting away.  We always got away.”

“Not this time, Boss,” Wally said quietly.

Lane brushed the remark aside, “You thinking you made the wrong choice coming out here for the thrill of discovery, Al?”

Allen lifted his head and put his glasses back in place.  “All things being equal, yeah, I’d rather be back on Earth working on my Thesis or maybe down at Sophie’s Tavern doing tequila body shots off some hot babe’s stomach — licking the salt off of somewhere less tan.”

“I think my wife might object to the babe part, but I like the general idea,” Lane said.

“I’ve thought about it over the last day or so.  Maybe, just because we figured out how to fold space and travel the stars, didn’t mean we actually should have come out here,” Allen said.

Doc Larson smiled
, spreading his arms.  “But look what you would have missed, the toxic vacation planet of Paradigm Alpha?”

“The brochure lied,” Allen said.

They all laughed.

“Why did we think we’d be alone out here?” Allen asked.

“I wonder what the aliens are like.” Doc Larson said.

Allen glared.  “Get a suit and go on out and say howdy.”

Lane raised his voice slightly.  “Relax, Al.”

“I was just curious,” Doc Larson said stroking his van-dyke.

Wally patted him on the shoulder, “Pretty shitty timing there Doc.”

Lane glanced through the blinds again.  “Well, we’re not alone and
, Doc, I hope you never get to find out.  Let’s get back on task.”

“What?  It’s decided isn’t it?” Allen asked.

Wally leaned back and stretched his legs out.  “Yeah, so what now?”

Lane thought Wally looked tired.  They all looked tired and he assumed he looked much the same, not having seen a bed in over thirty hours.

Lane looked around the room at his friends.  Doc Larson was by far the oldest of the colonists.  He was tall, gray haired and possessed a comforting and humble demeanor.  He had spent his entire career with the Colony Projects Division and had been honored with the title of Chief Planetary Medical Officer for the new Colonies and had arrived a little over a year ago.  In reality, he was little more than an old country doctor.

  Allen’s
blue eyes, red hair and short, squat physique set him apart, but he was smart and funny, and kind.  He had arrived six months ago and became part of their group almost immediately.  But Lane was beginning to have concerns if Al was going to be up to the challenge ahead of them.

Wally was his oldest friend.  He looked like Lane, average height, weight, brown hair and eyes.
  Everyone thought they were brothers when they were young and getting into trouble.  They had grown up to become regular working-Joes, keeping their heads down and working hard.  But Lane had a way with people and the intelligence to learn and play the game of politics.  He advanced and pulled Wally along with him, up each rung of the ladder, until they had both been promoted off-world.

Lane was the Chief Maintenance Engineer for the facility and had come first.  Wally was a Second Class Maintenance Engineer and had arrived on the next mission, just after the incident at Outpost 3.  That was
six years ago.  Wally would follow Lane through the gates of Hell.  Up until two days ago, Lane had been grateful for his loyalty, but now it weighed on him.

The only member
of the group that was absent was Commander Eton himself.  His son, Tim, was nearly seventeen and had matured into a fine communications specialist; unfortunately, he was also most likely an orphan now.

And while Allen, Wally and Doc Larson were determined bachelors, Lane had brought his family with him across the gulf of space, so it was no wonder that the others deferred to him
under the current circumstances.  Together, they would see this through.  Failure couldn’t be an option.  He desperately hoped he was worthy of their trust.

“What’s on your mind Lane?  Something new?”
Doc Larson asked.

“Nothing.”  Lane turned back to the blinds.

Allen sighed.  “See anything?”

“No.  It
’s still clear, for now,” Lane responded, still gazing at the forest.

“What about the relief marines?  Do you think they are going to get here in time?” Doc Larson asked.

Lane shook his head.  “They should’ve already been here.  We can hope, but I doubt they made it.”

“I thought they were moving
several platoons over.  If they can’t get through, who can?” Allen asked.

No one responded
.

“How long do we have?”  Wally asked, breaking the silence.

Lane returned his attention to the room.  “Commander Eton left yesterday morning and he was engaged by late afternoon.  That isn’t very far, less than ten kilometers I’d say.  Gentlemen, I’m guessing we’re already on borrowed time.”

Doc Larson looked at Wally, “No luck on finding keys to the weapons vault?”

Wally snorted.  “No, we’ve been all over the place.  You heard the racket.  We spent all afternoon trying to break in.  No luck.  We have exactly one six-shot pistol and that belongs to Corporal Dix.”

“Poor kid,” the Doc said, “the only marine left behind and he’s as useless as we are.”

“Nothing in Medical?” Allen asked again.

Doc Larson shook his head — again.

“Some of us might survive if we make a run for it.  We have ten operable enviro-suits,” Allen offered.

“They don’t fit the children,” Doc countered, “besides, even with the re-breather and scrubbers, it’s only buying a few days.”

“Yeah, I forgot about the kids,” he said and then looked up suddenly.  “I didn’t forget them, I meant, the suits.”

Lane winked.  “We knew what you meant, it’s okay.”

Doc Larson continued, “Remember, the brochure lied?  Don’t let the beauty of this place fool you; it’s hellishly dangerous out there.  Of course, we could just turn off the oxygen scrubbers and let the outside air in, but that isn’t going to be quick or painless.”

Allen nodded.

“What about the Bunker, Boss?” Wally asked, “it’s fortified, we’d all fit and could last there, right?”

Lane just looked at him and said, “No.”

“We’ve given up hope of being picked up?” Allen asked.

Doc Larson sighed, “Tim’s been at the radio all day, nothing.  An
EVAC
unit is too far away now, even if we did get through.”

“Not if we could hold out in the Bunker,” Wally said.

“The Bunker isn’t an option anymore than just waiting up in the Rec-room,” Lane said with the same flat delivery he used to explain why the toilets backed up.

Doc Larson leaned forward in his seat and looked at each of them, “We’ve been through this.  We don’t have time to backtrack.  The decision’s already been made, now we need the means.”

Allen stood up and began to pace.  “Yeah, but we don’t have anything there either, do we?”

“Hang on a second, Boss,” Wally said, “we have the foundation tools down in the basement, right?  They’re in the Equipment Room next to the Bunker.”

Lane looked up at him and smiled softly to his friend.  “Yes we do, good thinking Wall.  We have some heavy tools down there.”

“Foundation tools?” Allen asked.

“You came late to the party, Al.  When we build these outposts, we have to dig out the basement levels, and then pour concrete foundations.  That equipment was off-loaded back at Outpost 1.  It moves with each new construction project, it’s up at Outpost 12 now.  But we sometimes still need the smaller stuff for refitting and maintenance, so each Outpost has their own.”

“So?” Allen asked.

“So, one piece of that equipment is used to anchor machinery through sleeves in the concrete floor and into the granite strata that runs just under the basement level,” Lane answered.

“But what good does that do us up here?”  Allen asked.

Wally reached out and grabbed Allen’s hands and stopped him.  Allen looked down into Wally’s eyes.

“Not up here, mate, it’s a bring
Mohammad to the mountain
kind of thing,” Wally said.

“Yes, good thinking, Wally,” the Doc said, patting him on the shoulder.  “What do you have in mind?”

“I think Lane is on the right track.  The Expansion Driver should work.  I think we can leverage it up and mount it to the wall,” Wally said.

Doc Larson asked, “What’s an Expansion Driver?”

Lane said, “You know the larger machinery, the oxygen scrubbers, heat exchangers and power cores, that’s what I was talking about.  They need to be anchored in place.  The Expansion Driver is a pneumatic powered machine that forces an expansion shaft into the granite.  We just call it the
Punch
.”

Allen slowly pulled his hand away and walked back to his chair and sat down.  “I like Wally’s other idea better.  Lane, why are you against using the Bunker and waiting on an
EVAC
?”

Doc Larson sighed and shook his head.

“Al, you have to get your head around this.  We’ve been over it and over it,” Lane said softly.

Allen looked away, trying to conceal his fear and frustration.

Lane looked at him and leaned forward.  “Al, hey Al, look at me.”

Allen turned.

“What do you know about Outpost 3?”

The others stared at him as well.  Lane let the question hang as they sorted it out.  Slowly, each in turn, dropped their heads in understanding.

Allen was the one to say it out loud and confirm their suspicions. “They were in the Bunker, huh?”

“Most of them.  It didn’t matter at all.  I’m not even sure it bought them any more time,” Lane said.

“Okay.  Okay,” Allen said sniffing away his emotions, “so how does this punch work?”

Lane took another glance through the blinds and then stood up and leaned against the desk.  “Like I said, it’s a simple pneumatic punch, about one and half inches in diameter.  The throw of the shaft can be calibrated down to about twelve inches.  The punch is fast,” he looked up at everyone, “very fast and very powerful.  I think this will work just like turning off a light switch.  We don’t need the anchors, just the Punch, and it should work sort of like coring an apple.”

“Yeah, we can set it up at the right height off the floor and use a box or something as a variable platform and we have the Bunker through the other door, you know, for after,” Wally added.

Doc began stroking his Van Dyke again as he thought it through, and then said in a clinically detached tone, “Twelve inches is too wide for the children.  We’ll have to hold their heads tight.  We’ll need something that won’t frighten them.  The punch needs to go through just in front of the ear.  If we miss, they won’t die and the pain would be terrible.”

Light suddenly exploded in the room.  The other men shielded their eyes as Lane jumped from the desk and pushed the newcomer out of the way, kicking the door closed as he turned off the lights.

“Have you lost your mind?” he shouted.

“No,” Glenda Fields screamed, “but I just heard that
you’ve
all gone insane!  Do I have this right?  Your amazing plan for defending the Outpost is mass suicide?”

“Look, Glenda,” Lane began.

“Don’t even try to patronize me, Lane.  We are not going to kill everyone.  You are not going you kill my Polly.”

“No one is going to kill your daughter or anyone else,” Doc Larson said calmly.