Here are the previous episodes of The Mysterious Case of Betty Blue.
Part 8
The Mysterious Case of Betty Blue. Pt. 9.
Louis Shalako
The briefing ended and the gathered detectives were grabbing jackets and briefcases. This particular killing was nasty. A woman and her two little girls were watching TV, when her husband answered a knock at the door. Hearing an altercation, she was just hustling the kids to a back bedroom when her husband was shot with an automatic weapon.
She made the girls go down in the basement, and grabbed a knife from the kitchen before investigating further.
Her husband bled to death in her arms even as emergency responders arrived.
Her husband bled to death in her arms even as emergency responders arrived.
“Francine.”
“Yes, boss?”
“I don’t think I really need to go down there. You
guys can handle this.”
“Sure. Okay.”
“I need to call the chief, and then I might have to
pull you off too.”
“Sure. Whatever.” Detective Francine Suleiman gave
him a wry look, patted him on the bicep and then did up the final fasteners on
her vest.
“If I can get us in there, we need to know a lot
more about that damned robot.”
“Still on that bullshit, Inspector?”
“Yeah. I got the lucky tap from above, and the
Cartiers are VIPs.”
“So where is this place?”
“SimTech. They’re in Buffalo.”
Her shoulders tensed. She was winding up,
thinking of babysitters, endless calls and texts, another monkey wrench thrown
into her day. She took a quick breath and settled down again.
“Okay. Try and give me a little notice, okay?” It
was three hours by high-speed train.
It was two and a half hours by air. Too much of it
spent in terminals and waiting on the ground in the aircraft...
“Why do we got to go up there, anyways?”
“Because I like to look people in the eye when they
lie to me.”
His frosty smile took some of the warmth and
humidity out of the air.
She nodded ruefully, inclining her head.
It was true enough, she supposed.
“Thanks, Francine.”
He watched her turn to go. The last of them filed
out of the room, loaded for bear and carrying far too much electronic gadgetry
for his liking. The helmets alone weighed eleven pounds each.
But so far the lady of the house wasn’t talking. She
claimed she had no idea of who shot her husband or why anyone would ever want
to do so.
The only thing she had admitted, was that her husband might do a little ADHD from time to time. She was pretty
sure there were two males out there on the porch. As to whether her husband
Dwayne had been buying or selling, or maybe he just owed the wrong somebody a
little too much money, she claimed not to know.
The trouble was that no one ever did anything for no
reason.
It only stood to reason that she knew more than she
was letting on.
***
Gene MacBride and Francine Suleiman stood in awe.
The great room stretched off into a haze of
atmospheric perspective. The air was blue with soldering fumes, and rows of
heads, all robot girls, bent in fixed concentration upon their tasks.
 |
| KUKA Roboter Gmbh, Bachmann. (Wiki.) |
There must have been ten thousand overhead lights,
sodium or halogen, all hanging on metal tubes and looking like rocket engines
more than anything else.
“Our products are the finest on the market today.”
Mister Burch was in full sales pitch. “Right now we are at only twelve percent
market penetration. With full amortization, certainly within the next twenty
years, we foresee the cost coming down somewheres in the range of thirty to
forty thousand a copy for the base models. Think of it, a household servant,
one that does windows, walks the dog and can even home-school your children.”
He beamed at them, and then extended an arm in
invitation. Gene wasn’t quite sure if Allan Burch was selling ‘bots or selling
shares…he probably did both, when you thought about it.
Sell,
sell, sell.
That’s
just the way of the world.
Allan Burch led them on to another workstation. Here
a torso, with gaping holes for the waist, neck and arms, had a pair of hatches
on the back. It was clamped to the bench and separate robotic arms were working
on the placement of small components. There was a more complex robot involved
as well. This one was moving around, looking at a screen for specifications if
Gene was interpreting correctly, and adding in accessories from a list of luxury options. Just like a new
car, he thought.
“What are we building here?”
“This is a typical ambulatory robot.” Burch stepped
in, leaned forward, and read off the screen. “It’s for commercial applications.
Oh. This one will be driving for United Postal Service.”
“Ah.” Francine’s eyes met his, eyebrows raised in
amusement. “At least he’s not flipping burgers for Mickey D’s.”
Gene nodded.
The machine would have to have some independent
reasoning skills. The nature of its job and the modern traffic landscape meant
it would always be presented with unforeseen circumstances. This might include
anything from traffic snarls to customers refusing to sign, ducking payment or
even just the usual, more run-of-the-mill psychopaths. They would have to
defend their cargo on occasions. If nothing else, they would have to get around and talk back and forth with head office...
 |
| (Detail.) Photo by Gnsn. |
A gynoid, a lady robot designed to mimic human form,
albeit in a nice shiny blue-chrome and featureless way, was just attaching a
small chip or something into a set of sockets deep in the interior of the
machine. Her hands, very deft and sure, were amazing to watch. It reached into
a plastic bin and picked out more parts. It soldered them into place carefully
with tools all lined up neatly. It took a wire harness and began snapping the
leads into place. There were plastic ties to bundle the wire harness. Gene felt
smarter just watching this.
"Ambulatory robots are quickly and easily reassigned to other tasks." It was like the assistant was reading his mind sometimes. "Fixed robots just sit there when production of their specialized task is not required."
There were more bands of wires bonded together in
straps, brightly coloured and plugged in here and there.
“Yes, this is all very interesting.” Interesting, it
was fascinating as all hell, thought Gene. “But more to the point—”
“Oh. Yes.” Burch cleared his throat and looked a bit
uncomfortable.
In accepting an appointment from two senior cops,
naturally his able (and fully robotic) secretary had asked what it was about.
“Well, anything, really.”
“Anything?”
"Well. yes, Inspector. Anything. Our robots are fully capable of completing a multitude of tasks independent of any higher supervision. They're designed to be left alone for long periods of time."
Burch was more confident now. Taking Francine’s arm in a proprietorial manner, he led them on.
Standing there, the factory was curiously quiet, but
all the stamping and welding were done elsewhere.
They watched as the legs and pelvic sub-assembly were attached to a
ball-joint and either hydraulic or pneumatic actuator arms were attached to pins at gusseted hard-points. Gene didn't want to stray too far off-topic with extraneous questions.
“Ah. Originally, our ‘droids were designed for
military, police, and security use. Then we branched out into mining, nuclear
waste handling, all kinds of hazardous occupations. Fire-fighting, and with forest-fires in particular, you really need those boots on the ground, ones with autonomous capability
and not too large, if you know what I mean.”
Francine piped up.
“No. What do you mean?” She wasn’t being snarky, but
the whole picture was overwhelming.
“Well, nuclear plants were designed with doors and
hatches for human access. Fighting forest fires can be done with thirty-ton
automated bulldozers, but our bots have less impact on the forest floor…it's better than ripping up the hillsides. There
are all kinds of concerns, and hundreds of industrial applications.”
"Robots have to be able to see and react to be functional in the human environment." The assistant again.
"Then there's the whole automated aviation industry." Gene nodded thoughtfully.
The drones didn't look human, they looked like model airplanes. But their functions were relatively simple by comparison. Maybe that was the difference.
"Robots have to be able to see and react to be functional in the human environment." The assistant again.
"Then there's the whole automated aviation industry." Gene nodded thoughtfully.
The drones didn't look human, they looked like model airplanes. But their functions were relatively simple by comparison. Maybe that was the difference.
Francine nodded, and Gene noted the robot in front of
them had no mouth aperture and didn’t look up from its work.
The assistant took over again.
"The assembly robots are capable of problem-solving in a limited number of hierarchies. Our more advanced models can cope with higher hierarchies of challenges."
“Yeah. What we’re interested in, are those
autonomous functions…especially as it pertains to our missing robot. They tell
me that never happens, incidentally.”
Executive assistant to Mr. Burch, plant
manager, Felicia Emery, the picture of
sternly-repressed sexuality, a nineteen year-old librarian in appearance,
stared at Francine through her flat lenses.
Standing slightly behind and to her left, Gene saw
the multi-coloured display carets on the inside of her lenses.
His own display had lit up with all of her relevant
information upon entering the room. She was extremely well educated, but more
of a surprise was the Doctor himself, silent the whole time as if studying them.
Rudolf Piqua had originally conceived the SAL 9000
series of gynoids after seeing a need for sex toys that transcended currently
available models, which were certainly crude enough. It was Piqua who had
integrated chassis and skin, eyes and software, bringing the whole product up to
consumer standards of appearance and utility. After effectively demonstrating the initial models, he had gone on to greater and greater things.
According to Al Jazeera/Newsweek, the man was a genius at fundraising for further research.
According to Al Jazeera/Newsweek, the man was a genius at fundraising for further research.
“Well.” This was the first time the doctor had
spoken, up until now seemingly content to let lesser mortals speak for him.
“Briefly, from the chassis, to the power systems, balancing gyros, awareness,
autonomics, to the nominal IQ of each model, the goal was maximum
adaptability.”
This made sense. Like a series of automobiles,
outwardly different but sharing commonalities, chassis and running gear serving
big cars and light trucks and vans, for example. Gene nodded in comprehension.
“They are designed to operate independently for long
periods, to extrapolate, to identify new tasks, to plan, to prioritize…”
His eyes held Gene’s for a moment, and then he
turned to Francine.
“Betty Blue is the first malfunction of this
magnitude in the history of our program.” The doctor stabbed the plant manager
with a quick glance, and then went on. “Naturally, we are most eager to have
her returned to us. Without making too big a deal of it…there are concerns.”
“Yes, public safety, among other things.” Francine
found the pallid skin and dead eyes of un-activated gynoids unnerving, creepy
even.
The robot building other robots in front of them was
completely expressionless. This was another in the shiny chome. It had a different
chassis as this one was clearly not intended to have skin. It pressed coloured
squares on a keypad, and the neck and head assembly of a 9000 model went through a series
of facial expressions as the group sauntered past.
“Ugh." Francine shook her head and hugged herself as
if she had a sudden chill.
“All very fascinating, I’m sure. But it would be
helpful to know a little more. Does Betty have military capabilities?” Gene was
prodding, but gently.
“Ah.” The doctor pursed his lips. “The basic
programming, of course. She has no specialities,
no weapons onboard, outside of her own very considerable physical skills.”
“What do you mean, the basic programming?”
“Hmn. It’s like you and I, Inspector. Neither of
us is a soldier, or a pilot—and yet we have the basic programming in our bodies to
do it.”
“Ah. Now I get it—I think?”
Doctor Piqua grinned and patted Burch on the
shoulder, giving him another of those quirky sidelong looks.
“Felicia.”
The young lady stepped forward and gave Gene a
data-chip.
“The SAL-9000 series are designed to be one hundred
percent autonomous.” Miss Emery’s bright blue eyes were on him. “For that
reason, they have access to the entire internet, wirelessly.”
Gene didn’t want to give too much away, but he had
to give them something.
“So she would know the bus schedule, things like
that?”
Felicia nodded. According to her PPP, she was
forty-three years old, and she would pretty much have to be that age to have had the
time to acquire all of those degrees and certifications. The trouble was she didn't look it. He'd never met anyone who'd had gene therapy before. He wasn't quite sure what he was looking at. Something about her didn't add up in the physical sense.
Gene could only conclude gene or glandular therapy,
something he’d never seen up close.
The results were certainly compelling, she looked,
sounded and smelled just exactly like a nineteen year-old.
It was the gravitas,
that and the most swaggering walk he’d ever seen on a woman wearing high-heeled
shoes. Her sternum was held high and the lower spine had the perfect S-curve.
The ankles weren’t bad either. Gene wondered who had
served as the original model for the original model so to speak. Betty Blue had to have been sketched at some point. Or was that just a sign of his old-fashioned thinking?
The world was too fucked-up these days.
The world was too fucked-up these days.
“She would have city, state and national maps. She
would be able to pinpoint any GPS point on
the globe, and any LPS on the moon.”
“I see.” Gene nodded and gave Francine a bright
look.
“Well.”
Francine nodded. She couldn’t think of a damned
thing to say. They’d all seen them on TV and marveled, but looking at row upon
row of assembled products and rack on rack of parts lined up for the assembly
line put the thing in a whole new perspective.
***
The sound, when it came, was unmistakable. In spite
of the crackle of distant thunder, he heard it.
Scott’s heart leapt, and then the fear came and his
heart almost locked up in his chest.
There was a vehicle, not far away. It was coming this
way, and while it clearly went behind buildings, even fading out completely for
a full minute by his internal reckoning, the next time he heard the tires
crunching on gravel, it was much closer.
The vehicle slowed, creeping along now, the
characteristic whine of a power steering pump indicated it was turning. The
deep, booming rumble that cut across the sky obscured it for the next thirty
seconds or so, and then came the sound of rain drops hitting a tin roof. No
water hit him, and he thought he was sort of half indoors at least.
Scott lay flat on the blankets. It was
more than any man could do to lie on his back.
He rolled over onto his stomach, facing the threat,
praying that it was Betty, or that whoever it was would just go on past.
Scott had no idea of the surroundings, the locale.
An abandoned auto plant, that’s all he knew.
The vehicle stopped, and his heart-rate soared.
He could literally hear the shifter cables pulling
the lever on the side of the transmission into parking gear.
It idled softly, just on the far side of a screen of
brush, which he knew was there from the rustles and the chirps and the heavy,
drowsy buzzing of bumble-bees. The rain came then, sweeping in from somewhere
behind him in a wall of sound that closed off everything but the immediate
world.
There came the sound of a door opening, and yet no
corresponding thunk of it being closed again.
He was petrified in case it wasn’t Betty, and the
scrape of something a few feet away sent barbs of pure, distilled adrenalin
through his guts and his thoughts.
“Scott.”
“Oh. Jesus—”
When she grabbed his arm, just under the
armpit, and began turning him over to see if he was all right—he figured that
out, lying on his face wasn’t the best idea after all.. It was all he could do
not to speak too much.
Something snapped in Scott.
Something snapped in Scott.
Something let go inside.
“So.” That was it, nice, tight, or taut, and his jaw
worked back and forth.
Don’t
say it.
Don’t
say it.
Don’t
even think it.
“What. Not even a, Honey, I’m Home?”
“I’m sorry, Scott. I really am. But we have a car
now. Come on, let’s go.”
He stumbled to his feet, rocking slightly, head all
woozy from the sudden exertion.
“Whoa, whoa. Wait a minute.” He sucked in oxygen.
With her
helping him, he grabbed his packsack and she led him to the car.
He sat on the seat, his side door open, as she went
back and checked for anything they might have left behind.
Her smell was right at the door again. She patted
him on the shoulder and he belted himself in as she slammed the door and went
around to her side.
There was the deep, cold burn of fear in Scott’s
lower abdomen, it was like a puddle of something in the trough at the bottom of
your innards sloshing around like the bilges of a fishing boat in the perfect
hurricane.
The vehicle moved along, Betty’s situational
awareness helpful as she had a picture of everything articulating in a wide
circle.
Scott felt heat on his face. It was warmer for some
reason, and a lot brighter around him now.
Shit.
“We’re outdoors now…”
“Yes.”
“Ah.”
He felt the machine accelerate.
“What about drones?”
“They have a terror alert uptown. We should be all
right for the moment.”
He nodded.
 |
| The Eye in the Sky never sleeps. (Mintguy, Wiki.) |
“Yeah, the drones will be all over that like shit on
a baby’s blanket.”
She reached over and gave him another little pat on
the shoulder.
“There’s a cold beer in the bag at your feet.” Her
scent washed past him and he heard the rustle of the bag.
She placed it on the seat beside him.
He nodded.
“Thank you. That was very thoughtful of you, Honey.”
He pondered the significance. “Did you call it in?”
He meant the terror plot.
She made no answer. He shrugged.
I
wouldn’t put it past her.
Now that he had time to actually comprehend it,
there was a hot roast beef submarine in the bag as well—and going by that
smell, she had remembered to load it up with extra onions and the juice, that
thin, runny pale juice that the Greek boys always squirted on there just before
they were done.
Everybody liked the juice. They never would tell you
what was in it, and of course Scott hadn’t seen it lately, nor even tasted such
a thing in years.
He heaved a deep sigh and reached for the bag.
Who knows, maybe it was all worth it.
Up until then, he’d never really thought his life
worth risking for anything. Anything at all.
This was a whole new way of looking at things.
He turned to face Betty for a moment.
“My life is worth risking. That means something,
Betty.” Then he turned away. “It means something.”
She gave him a look, of which he was distinctly oblivious.
She obviously thought there was something worth
risking…something worth running away for.
It was all he could do, just to try and gag down
that first bite, and maybe try and get some kind of a handle on all of these
sudden and rapid mood-swings.
“Hold onto your sandwich there, Scott. We’re
entering the traffic stream.”
“What kind of a car is this, anyway?”
She turned down the radio a bit. It was raining
heavily, and their faces would be obscured for the traffic cams. As for the
vehicle, he was afraid to ask, although he certainly meant to.
They had about twelve minutes on the freeway going
by the weather radar, and then she had another place to go to ground all picked
out.
“It’s a Ford, a station wagon. A nice medium blue
colour—there are a million of them out there, and that’s just this model year.”
“Station wagon? When did they come back?”
“Yeah. They’ve been popular for four or five years
now, Scott.”
“You learn something new every day. So…ah,
what else? It’s obviously stolen, right? I mean, you didn’t use my credit
card…?”
She snickered.
 |
| Someone out there is missing fifteen vacuum cleaners. |
“No, you’d never get that paid off, would you?”
She
went on. “It’s a stolen car, Scott.”
“See, I knew that.”
There was a long silence.
“There’s more.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Scott slumped up against the window. After sleeping
on the ground, and going hungry for eighteen solid hours, all he wanted was to
feel safe, to be in a room. To be indoors.
“There are fifteen Filter King vacuum cleaners in
the back, Scott.”
He snorted.
Scott reached over and gave Betty’s knee a squeeze.
“I sense a story.”
“Well, I saw a guy stealing it, and then I kind of
took it off of him.” Her voice was warm and mellow.
“Well. That sucks.”
Her laugh made up for one or two things.
Maybe not everything, but a few things.
END
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