Unknown (18 page)
Authors: Unknown
“
ENOUGH!” For an infinitely small moment the man’s calm was gone, replaced by the sort of feral rage I’d felt when I saw why my friends had been taken. It lasted the barest fraction of a moment then was replaced by the clam professional mask I had seen when I came in. “What do you want?”
Let me make this quite clear. I do not like this plan. I don’t like sinking to their level and I feel soiled by doing so. That did not mean that I couldn’t take a small bit of perverse joy at seeing this guy twitch.
“
I take it we can now discuss matters as equals?”
Coda
What You See Here
Victory is ours, and now not only the existence of advanced quantum processors known to the world, but also diagrams, schematics, and even the programming language that is required to write something that runs natively on these things. Nobody can seal the technology away, because now that people are talking en mass first one government will allow general usage, then another, and another, and soon the rest will have to open up to the possibility either to keep their businesses from falling behind, or because of sheer demand by the public.
It's been months since I'd gotten back home. Granted one can't just leave home, work, and family, and not have to deal with any messy aftermath, but my earlier reluctance to pull from random bank accounts does not extend to specific people who I feel does not deserve the money. That helped smooth over my transition and caught me up on missed bills.
Legion helped me find the best way to go about cleaning my record up. I'd even managed to keep 'Six. Even though quantum computing has since hit the larger business and consumer markets, diminishing it’s edge in many respects. We've been through too much and I won't just throw it away because of a silly thing like losing it's shiny newness. Pity I got fired for being gone from work; win some, lose some I suppose.
Evil plot foiled. Hero returns battered, bruised, and suffers losses. Curtain Closes. What next? I hear there’s a security firm interested in hiring me as a consultant.
As for this record? Officially I was never involved in any of it, because none of the players involved ever existed in any official sense. What you see here could be a true account of one of the most interesting and stressful months of my life, or it could have less substance to it than Nixon’s belief in his own innocence. The Internet is full of lies, half-truths, and stories so strange they just might be real. Naturally I like to believe it happened, because the alternative is my mind having checked into the Crazyland Motel, but I cannot make your mind up for you. Either you believe me or you do not.
END OF LINE
"Father!" The machine screamed into the night. "Father come back!" It resembled, if only in passing, a human skeleton made of metal. Granted there were differences, such as its torso being largely a solid piece rather than a hollow container for the other vital pieces of life. It had no lungs, no vocal cords, or even lips to articulate words, but it managed to scream into the frozen wastelands outside the compound it and its 'father' had been for the past month.
From somewhere in it's skull the robot heard its father's voice. "Do not worry over me son. Go back inside before your hydraulics freeze." The voice sounded calm as it spoke. "I had to leave so that you won't be found. You aren't ready to face the world, not yet anyway." There was a soft chuckle as the machine slowly turned from the frozen wastelands back to the sterile corridors that lay within. "I scarcely think they're ready for you anyway."
As it walked, the machine passed never-used rooms. Some of these contained shelves of books. Others contained exercise equipment. He knew this place. Father had spent the last of his wealth in building this place in secret, away from prying eyes. Yet few of the things he had put there for his use had been used. The man did little in that month outside of work on his 'son', sleep, and discuss philosophy.
It could have used the elevator to go down to the more oft used places in this building, but it chose to walk instead. Memory tests, study, then train with the sparring program. Its mind did not need to study in the conventional sense, but study provided time to form questions, theorize on why this or that was better than another. That and its father had told it that he preferred to read and test new knowledge to make sure it stuck instead of simply downloading everything. Oh they had long 'discussions' over the merits and flaws of skill and knowledge implants verses traditional learning. Most humans wouldn't have the option of learning the way it did, but its Father had things wired into his skull years past to allow for at least some of the same functionality it could call on.
Two hours studying history followed by an hour writing out, by hand, a report on how it would have dealt with both the logistical and moral problems it had gone over. After that it would work Forms for awhile, shifting from one stance to another in a fluid dance of eastern fighting methods, forms meant for wielding a sword, or perhaps a mace. Finally, before turning a little music and working on an art project that had occupied much of its free time it would have to work on Faces.
A silvery coating oozed from places in its chest, back, legs, arms, and head. This ooze slowly covered the robot so that it had all the proportions of a genderless human. Slowly it formed clothes for itself, first the shape, then the texture, and finally the colors of each garment. He always started with the black and white suit. It was simple, dignified, and somehow comforting. This suit had pockets, would move in a naturalistic manner, and like the rest of him could change in density from syrup, to as hard and ridged as bullet-proof ceramics. Still, it was only the suit that changed.
Beneath the plain suit was a silver colored hairless being. Soon that changed to an angular faced Caucasian with storm grey eyes. Brown hair grew from its scalp rapidly till it was long enough for it to gather itself in a pony tail by a braided yellow and green cord. At no time did his hands move to do any of this. He smiled once his hair was arranged and gave it a toss before smiling with satisfaction. Hair had given him trouble at first, so he felt like flaunting his new found control by making it long.
Now that he had a face and clothes he set to work on repeating the Forms. He would have to keep his shape no matter what, and unlike the clothes, which did not neat maintaining, his face, hair, and his other features needed constant maintenance, updating to show realistic expression, emotion, and the like. This was supremely difficult, but he was doing it!
He then changed in mi
d-dance. Black suit became Cossacks robes, became greatcoat covering an army uniform, which went back to being his suit. His features too changed. Male became female became old, then young, then back to the face and features he first wore. He could not sweat, but he would have been drenched by the end of that if he had the capacity. Again he allowed a satisfied smile. There w
ere flaws, naturally, things he needed to improve, but on the whole he was pleased with his progress.
The silvery-skin flowed back into hidden compartments within its metal skeleton as it left the workout mat. There was no need here, and he had his mind on other things. Perhaps he would listen to folk music tonight. That might make a nice contrast with last night's techno marathon.
On his way to the sound room he paused at his father's room to look at a thing propped by his bed. Had he lips he would have frowned. Tools belonged in the workshop. It hefted the wrench with ease and would have offered another frown at the tool's condition. The once brilliant yellow paint had dulled over time, and more often than not was gone. The head of the thing especially troubled it. Granted this was a very large tool, something that could double as a bludgeon if need called, but this... if Father wanted a weapon for hand to hand fighting there were better options.
It shrugged after shouldering the tool. After the tool was returned to its proper place it would indulge in song. Should it start with Native American, or Russian? Choices.
They thought the post was pointless, and that guard duty had been punishment for some infraction that they had performed. Because they viewed their task as a burden rather than a duty they were lax with procedure and uncaring about those that came and went during their shift. While it might have been true that their placement had been a punishment they had gravely undervalued the importance of where they had been stationed.
When it approached them it wore a bland and somewhat forgettable face. They paid it no mind as it approached until it had been too late to do anything. It didn't need to kill them. That would have been more of a mess than it had time to deal with. instead once it had incapacitated both men with darts filled with narcotics it drug the bodies to the nearest restroom and left them bound and gagged by shredded pieces of their uniforms.
The next hurdle it encountered was a receptionist armed only with knowledge of who normally came and went as well as the feeling that her job had been important enough to stay sharp and on task. It wore a familiar face when she saw it approach. It smiled and answered her questions, showed an id that matched that face, and had its left hand and right eye examined by machines tasked with telling which people were allowed where. Though it passed all of these tests the receptionist hadn't been convinced and, after it continued onward to its objective, she called her superior to voice her concerns with their latest visitor.
Unfortunately for the intruder procedure also had wiggle room for people who had such feelings about visitors. As a result of this woman's unease the next barrier between it and its objective had men with needles and probes. Though it had been prepared with blood and hair samples they made their checks with little warning and not enough time to place these faked items where they would have helped.
While it waited, it remained outwardly calm and unconcerned. it lacked fear, anger, worry, or any other emotion that would have flitted through any human mind in those tense moments before its carefully lain plans were to be dropped. However, even without emotion, it was advanced enough to understand that it would need to alter its plans to include the alarms and darts, audible and otherwise that rang through the outpost it had targeted.
Moments after the alarms rang it moved. Men barred its way, but were incapacitated with the same sort of darts that had been used on the other guards. it continued onward, not even slowed by the men with pistols that fired on it. These it chose to ignore. They weren't in its way and they weren't able to penetrate its shroud. The man it had come for had been close. He waited, patiently while he made notes of the intrusion and smiled. His assassin tore open the door.
Well done Legion.
When all was said and done the world was largely unchanged by these things. To be sure some would have noticed the fall of the Order after key members all turned up dead of unrelated accidents. Some whispered of government conspiracies and cloak and dagger operations. Others spoke of an irate wizard that had pulled strings, literal as well as figurative, on the matter. Neither, in this instance was true. Death had simply come to collect his due.
Drake went back to the life he had before he had been called on to service the Lord of the Lost. He rarely spoke of that service except to one other, and only then after making sure she wouldn't repeat the story to any others, especially those in the magical or supernatural communities. He had no desire to put up with people who thought they could turn his one-time association with that feared and hated figure to their advantage.
His Roadmaster that needed at least a month of hard work before it could be driven. He now had several Mythics that were fully capable of tearing him apart as enemies. He hadn't even been paid for the strange work Death wanted of him. None of that, however, mattered to him. Drake felt at ease despite all of this; for he had done things to help set the world just a little righter, and in the process had learned that even Death has a sense of humor.
A month after the Order had officially disbanded Drake was forced from his work by a knock at his office door. When he opened it he saw Death. After the initial shock wore off, or at least faded to the point where useful conversation could be had, Death let himself inside.
"I," Death's voice was softer now than it had been the last time they spoke, "came to discuss payment."
Drake couldn't think clearly, a thing that was likely due to having a personification of Entropy showing up at his door. "A wha? You're saying you can't pay?"
Death chuckled dryly. "I thought you might want to hear my offer then decide if you want it or money." Drake nodded but kept quiet. It wasn't every day, after all, that Death made deals. "One hour. Once that hour is up you may take anything you wish from my fields."
One hour's worth of time with the largest rummage pile in existence. Drake was interested, as he had, since a child, enjoyed picking through yard sales, things people had discarded as broken or unfixable, and attempt to find some use for them. How could he pass this up? "What are the conditions?" Death offered a boon, but he did not think that it would come without strings.
