“The blast damaged this micro’s antenna. I tried a call and my transmission distance is down to under three kilometers. I had my scanner on looking for local traffic in case the cops, the army, or a hiker with his cell on came near when I received a transmission.” He looked at me. “It sounded like a generated voice. All it said was, ‘I received a weak signal. The turkey might not be done.’ Just like that. Only a key click for a response.”
“That doesn’t sound friendly,” observed Walter.
“That was my take on it. Both transmissions were clear, and I got automatic azimuths on both. I didn’t attempt any more calls, but I traveled a few meters so I could triangulate the transmissions should whoever was watching me make another call. As soon as I moved, though, there was another signal, same voice—very high. Familiar but can’t place it. The bearing showed it came from that tor just north of us.”
“Steeperton?” asked Walter.
“Yeah. One word: ‘Movement.’ There was a long silence, then came the response. A voice that didn’t sound generated at all said, ‘Finish it.’ Both communications were on hand radio frequency.”
“You get a fix on the other party?” I asked.
“A village due east of here called Gidleigh. Nothing since, and that was three days ago. I know the guy’s still on Steeperton, though. Every so often he downloads some information and I can pick up his satellite address. To conserve my charge I go hide in an old piece of tubing on the roof and go standby. My boy on Steeperton visited here searching for me when I was shut down. That’s when he sucked the rest of the charge off that Vader prang.”
I frowned. If it was a hitter, the fellow’s reckless perseverance was remarkable—unless he was expendable. “Dependable and expendable,” I said. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I asked Shad.
“A toaster.”
I nodded.
“What’s a toaster, dear?” Val asked me.
“Originally it was a kind of robot certain terrorist, gang, and government types used for settling old scores and eliminating troublesome personages.”
“Do you mean a hit man—person, thing...” She looked at Walter.
“I believe assassin will do nicely, madam.” He looked at me. “If I may, sir?”
“Please.”
“It has to do with Modified Engram Based Intelligence Technology—MEBIT for short. The original point of artificial intelligence, of course, was to produce a mentally able, efficient, obedient work force that would do what it was instructed and make no demands.”
“Slaves,” said Nadine.
“Exactly, miss. As the U.S. Supreme Court’s majority opinion in Grant v. Hudder found—”
“Walter,” I cautioned gently.
“Forgive me, sir. In short, madam, the modified part of MEBIT intelligence was ruled illegal in the States, which prompted Parliament to do the same here. I can still recall the day all of us at Rent-A-Mech received our patches.”
“Instead of MEBITs,” said Shad, “they’re now EBITS. A baseball joke in there somewhere—”
“About the toasters,” I interrupted.
“Yes, sir,” Walter turned toward Nadine and Val. “MEBIT operated beings, bios and mechs, are blocked from disobeying, disagreeing with, or altering their instructions. As killers it makes them highly intelligent, persistent, and resourceful, if a trifle rigid. If apprehended.” Walter looked at me.
I thought about that for a moment, remembering several famous cases from when I was with Metro. “Actually, they cannot be apprehended. If old bill is closing in and it looks bad for the dex, he zeroes himself out. Scrubbed clean.”
“Some New Jersey gangs used to rig theirs to explode,” said Shad. His micro faced me. “Jaggs, I could’ve run off that Vader prang for another couple of weeks. I thought the toaster drained it to force me out, but dexes are high energy. Maybe he’s running low, too.”
“How does he know you haven’t left the hill or zeroed out yourself?” I asked.
A mischievous little cackle came from the micro. “You know how superstitious most mechs are?”
I looked at Walter. “Are we being insensitive?”
“Not at all, sir. D. S. Shad’s observation is quite true, although bios with artificial intelligence are the same as mechs in this regard. My therapist ascribes the phenomenon to the shortcuts taken to devise MEBIT. The early versions of artificial intelligence weren’t very artificial in that the basic engram patterns were simply copied from various humans. They erased all the identity memories—life experiences, embarrassing encounters at summer camp, credit account numbers, that sort of thing—but there wasn’t any way to eliminate the feelings connected to those memories.”
“I cannot imagine what that must be like,” said Val.
“It is quite like being haunted, madam,” stated Walter. “Even with the patch, all EBIT AI’s are filled with feelings to which they cannot attach experience. It gives one the continuous sense of having misplaced or forgotten things of importance. Often this feeling manifests itself as a form of schizophrenia. In my case I always felt as though I was being watched. When voices began talking to me, I sought a therapist. Many AI operated beings believe in ghosts. For some the spirits even appear to take corporeal form.”
I looked at Shad. “And?”
“Well, I’ve been transmitting little ghost plays nights to my buddy over there on Steeperton.”
I cleared my throat and said with a ghostly timbre, “‘I wear the chain I forged in life. I made it link by link—’”
“Nothing Dickensonian. He’s been looking me up on the net while he’s sitting there in his little shack in the dark. So nights I’ve been sending bits from my old insurance commercials.” He treated us to a series of ghostly aflaks and we all laughed. “One of the visitors yesterday left a blue candy wrapper on the ground. Last night I put my illuminated end in the wrapper and gave him a light show. “I don’t know if I scared him, but if he buys a policy I need to talk to the company about my commission.”
“Weren’t you afraid of frightening him off?” asked Nadine.
“He’s still got a job to do,” Shad answered flatly. “What I’ve done is let him know the job may not be finished. He’ll keep at it until either his battery dies or the fellow in Gidleigh calls him off.”
“Where could he have obtained a live artillery shell? An antique? How could he sneak it into the country?”
“Good questions,” he answered.
Someone rang me on my wireless. Unlike the mech wireless, not at all an unpleasant sensation. Instead of buzzing, vibrating, or playing some annoying tune, the knowledge that I had an incoming call simply appeared in my head. As Val and Nadine returned to their pastries, I motioned for Shad and Walter to listen in. It was Matheson.
“Jaggers. How are you doing, old fellow? Enjoying your time off?”
“Well enough, Superintendent. The family and I are having an outing—a picnic.”
“Excellent. Fresh air, a good hobble. Best thing for you. I have a few things regarding that matter out at Hangingstone.” I debated cutting him off in respect to our listening audience on Steeperton, but thought better of it.
“Very well, sir.”
“Sci-and-Tech finished running the IDs on the DNA collected at the scene. Shad, of course,” he began.
“Yes, sir.”
“The rat amdroid bio, though, is a Fantronics, Ltd. product. That particular rat was purchased by a costumer: Celebrity Look-alikes of Bond Street, London.”
I looked at Shad, a quizzical expression on my face. “Celebrity rat?” I mouthed.
“Ben,” said Shad. “The rodent lead in the motion picture Willard?”