Chapter Two
TIME: 11:15 PM
PLACE: World Science Coalition Headquarters Building
COUNTRY: Vienna, Austria
"Clarkfork here...Yes, Commissioner, it's all been started. Investigation
of Prototype Subject 3 has begun on schedule, and is currently underway."
His eyes narrowed. "No, Sir, I don't think Subject 3 has acquired any know-
ledge on the matter. As you know, the Quantum Transformant Humanoid Project
was disbanded nearly twenty-six years ago, but we've gotten reports of a
former Project member using illegally copied Project documents to conduct
unauthorized experiments in the field of cybernetic human replication." He
listened. "No, not just cyborgs this time, sir. Complete, fully functional,
independently thinking human androids. And this time sir," Clarkfork leaned
forward in his chair, "I think Subject 3 was successfully completed and is
now functional."
His eyebrows furrowed. "I am very much aware of the import of the situation,
should that be the case, sir. The consequences could very well be disastrous
if the unit is actually functionING, instead of merely functionAL."
Clarkfork fell silent. "Um, I believe the individual was the late Professor
Kisaragi, sir. . . Yes, sir, I am pretty sure. . .I know, sir, but until the
definitive proof is found, we can't be 100% certain. All we have that con-
nects Professor Kisaragi are some charred fragments of what appeared to be
stolen QTH Project files in the ruins of his house. . . Yes, sir, I said
'charred'. . . Yes, sir; completely gutted, no survivors, I am led to under-
stand. Yes, there was a daughter at one time. She married and had a child
of her own. Tragically, she died several years before this clandestine
enterprise seems to have begun. At last report, the widowed husband and
daughter relocated to London, England. Oh, you were aware of that? I didn't
know." Again he fell silent, listening to the voice on the other end of the
line. His eyes widened, and his jaw dropped in amazement.
"I...did...NOT...know that!" he whispered. "An entire database downloaded
from his daughter's brain just before death, you say? That could indeed be
an interesting development! Just think...if a human's entire intellect were
transferred to a computerized, electronic brain, just think of the pos-
sibilities! And..." He sat bolt upright with a jerk, his face expressive of
acute consternation.
"I just realized that this could be very, very bad if it indeed happened,
sir. What would happen if the machine successfully assimilated the analog
rhythms of the human brain, and actually began to function, conduct mental
activities and even be persuaded that it were ALIVE? If we were to just
thunder into the scene and take over, the moral, ethical and legal ramifica-
tions could be devastating. And if the faintest spark of spontaneous free
will, emotion or imagination existed within the electronic matrix, the entire
game is up, and for nothing."
Clarkfork listened some more, and watched the rain spatter lightly across the
window of his office. Outside, the nocturnal life of the Koenigstrasse began
to stir. Young lovers strolling down the lamplit lanes; the typical enor-
mous, buxom Hausfrau striding through the mob of nocturnal hofbrau-goers, an
improbable number of Lagersteinen in her massive fists; the angry young bo-
hemian artist-errant prowling the streets for inspiration to render his can-
vas into another cry of impotent rage against the bourgeoisie.
"No, sir. I don't recognize an immediate threat, but if Subject 3 has the
parameters described in the QTH Project outlines, we could have one bloody
hell of a mess if it gets out of control."
The rain sighed against the glass.
"A.I., sir? Automated, artificial self-awareness? That was one of the
ancillary goals of QTH, but the primary objective was to create a weapons
system which was small enough to get in close to any military hot spots and
tough enough to take anything given to it and still dish out enough to make a
real difference. A.I. was deemed a high risk, but a necessary one. I mean,
what would happen if one of those machines were to develop a conscience and
decide not to fight, or worse, an inflated ego and turn on its own troops?
The result would be disaster." Clarkfork reached across his desk and picked
up a folder. Leafing through it, he began to read.
"Fortunately," he said, propping the phone receiver with his shoulder and
spreading the papers with his hands, "there was a failsafe. Should the unit
go renegade or consciously override its primary programming, there would be a
small activation mechanism in the possession of the commanding field officer.
When the button was pressed, an electric jamming impulse would paralyze the
unit and low-level incendiaries would render the unit permanently inoper-
ative. However, that renders a very touchy problem: If the unit was indeed
programmed for self-awareness, there might be ethical issues to destroying
what might amount to an artificial but very real life-form. That was one of
the reasons the QTH Project was disbanded in the first place; the problem of
whether those units would be actually 'alive' and therefore subject to moral
and ethical laws and privileges, or if they were simply following a complex
series of routines and subroutines within the cerebrocomputer matrix."
Outside, a polka band struck up a merry tune which drifted cheerfully and
incongruously through the rainy evening.
Clarkfork studied the fingernails of his right hand. "In essence, sir," he
continued, "Professor Kisaragi seemed at the onset of his own activities to
be on the very threshold of what the QTH Project had aspired towards, but
with very different goals in mind, and using a radically different approach.
We're still going through his papers, trying to replicate his achievements."
He listened. "Well, in addition to his A.I. work, Kisaragi appeared to be
able to literally create chemical distillations based on EMOTIONS. Yes, sir,
that's exactly right. He could make 'angry,' 'sad,' 'happy,' or any emotion
into a literal crystalline substance. I believe that according to his
design, he intended for those crystals to function in the same factor as a
human heart. I know there is no 'blood,' per se, save in the epidermis, but
the crystal would serve to concentrate and channel the electric impulses of
the chassis' inner circuit network. In fact, we have created one of them
right in the laboratory for study. I believe it is the emotion for anger.
We've also managed to replicate the actual trans-titanium chassis and
protein-polymerase dermal covering for our own QTH unit itself. Instead of
being a simpering flower-child, this unit will be a full-fledged fighting
unit, ready to see duty in the heaviest military situations our society has
to offer."
The wind outside the office drove the rain against the window, creating a
static-like hissing against the glass.
"That's right, sir. We've created a QTH unit, based on the old project
schematics and Kisaragi's own work...well, what survives of it. What we're
waiting on is the final verdict on the actual nature of this unit. What kind
of mental pattern should we install within it, and would it be truly 'alive,'
as our own definition of life pertains to this circumstance. Anyway, we call
it 'Subject 4,' codename: Sable."
Clarkfork reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a pen and tablet of paper,
and began writing.
"Yes," he said. "Uh-huh...Okay...I understand. My contact will be waiting
outside Queen's Hall in London, and he will present me with additional in-
structions about how to obtain Subject 3 and determine if the unit actually
falls within the parameters of being 'alive.' Also, I will be given a list
of names to assemble on the questioning committee, and who would preside over
them. Oh, you can? Who is it, then?" He paused for a moment, listening,
and then resumed writing. "Mayor Justice Light, of Cosplay City Experimental
Community. I understand. He is to preside over the research committee and
determine just how 'alive' Subject 3 actually is, and to determine a
plausible course of disposition if consciousness and self-awareness are
actually merely being simulated rather than truly manifest. I understand
perfectly. Thank you, sir. Very well; goodbye."
Clarkfork hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair to look out the
window and study the night. "Imagine," he thought. "We've been struggling
and struggling for decades to achieve A.I. in machines, all without success,
and one man achieves it, and he uses his knowledge to bring his daughter back
from the dead. How morbidly intriguing. And the irony of it is: He died
before he even had a chance to be aware of his success."
There was a knock at his office door. "Come," he grunted.
A young aide craned around the door. "I think you might be interested in
this, Mr. Clarkfork," he said, pushing a newly-printed sheaf of newsbulletins
around the jamb.
"Well, bring it in."
The young man approached the desk and handed Clarkfork the papers. "You have
instructions to act on this matter immediately, sir."
Clarkfork grunted, absently dismissed the aide with a wave and began to read:
POSSIBLE UFO SPLASHDOWN IN WESTERN PACIFIC
At approximately two-fifteen this afternoon, radar tracking instal-
lations in Japan, Australia, Russia and the American forces at NORAD
tracked what appeared to be an unregistered air-or-space vehicle of
unknown origin descending from an orbit of about five hundred miles
over an area of the western Pacific Ocean, approximately sixty miles
offshore of Japan. The object had followed a definite sub-orbital
trajectory and was observed on radar to undergo deceleration
maneuvers just before disappearing from scanner screens. Sensor
buoys were dropped in the area immediately thereafter, and planes
were combing the area without success. The UN is recommending that a
representative of the World Science Coalition take immediate action to
oversee the procedure and lend what advice and assistance the parties
conducting the search might deem necessary.
"So it's done," grunted Clarkfork, his mouth twitching slightly in disap-
proval.
"Done, sir?" asked the aide.
"Never mind. It appears that I'm going to make a little side trip after my
initial business trip." He looked up at the aide as he rose from his desk.
"I want you to book a two a.m. flight to London for one, one way. After
that, I need a plane ticket from London to Cosplay City Experimental Com-
munity."
"That's a rather odd travel agenda," commented the aide. "Sir, if I may,
could you..."
"No, you may not," Clarkfork clipped the young man's anticipated question
short. "This is strictly confidential; is that understood?"
"Clearly, sir," said the aide. "Your reservations will be ready within a few
minutes."
"Thank you," replied Clarkfork. "As for now, I'm going home to pack."
***
The front door to the WSC building swung open and then shut, admitting a
trenchcoat-clad figure to the rainy Vienna street. Clarkfork trudged along
the sidewalk on the way to the parking lot and his car, his mind racing like
a runaway locomotive over the events of the past few hours. The object NASA
had tracked from Saturn's orbit only a few days before had indeed reached
Earth, as anticipated. Its speed had been many, many times faster and more
purposeful than anything natural, such as an asteroid, comet or meteor, and
had even surpassed all known artificial sources. Charkfork had been stunned
at first, realizing the object had traversed nearly one billion miles from
the ringed Saturn system all the way to Earth in the same time it took any
manned spaceflight to reach the moon, a mere fraction of the distance.
Nothing, absolutely NOTHING known could have come close to that kind of
speed. The object hadn't been travelling even close to the speed of light,
but Clarkfork wouldn't have been surprised if it actually possessed that
capability. When the news had reached his superiors, they had wasted no time
in informing him that they wanted that object, no matter what the cost. They
already had agents in position, talking to the President of the United
States, the Prime Ministers of both Japan and England, and nearly every other
major nation of the world. It seemed that their wish was very close to being
granted. Now it was up to one man to bring all the threads of the web
together. That one man was he himself, Aigram Clarkfork.
Clarkfork's mouth curled in a wan smile as he unlocked the door to his car, a
1998 Fiat, and slid behind the driver's seat. His rainsoaked coat made a
slimy track on the upholstery, but he didn't care.
"So what am I," he remarked. "Am I the vanguard to an entirely new and
unknown type of science, or just a cleanup crew for the big guys in the
network?" His smile turned slightly bitter. After all these years as a
field investigator for the WSC he was still doing the lion's share of the
dirty work. He'd been in more ugly situations than most people could even
dream of. He'd been spied on, shot at and imprisoned more times than he
could count. However, every time the WSC scions had intervened to get him
out of harm's way, and "rescued" him, only to send him out on the next mis-
sion. He'd been to nearly every political hot spot in the world, on assign-
ment as a field observer for both sides, making notes on the weaponry invol-
ved, the effectiveness thereof, and any possible improvements which could be
made. Although the WSC was primarily a science organization, it had its
fingers in many of the world's pies, including weaponry and ordinance,
agriculture and even political decision-making with regard to the environ-
ment. Only recently the WSC had been able to send investigators into the
former Soviet-bloc countries to evaluate the situations within, and formulate
effective remedial strategies. Clarkfork himself had just returned from
Bosnia-Herzegovina only three months before. As he had been evacuated from
the front lines, a Serb sniper had caught his range. Clarkfork still had an
aching shoulder from where the bullet had winged him.
With a sigh, Clarkfork broke from his reverie and started the engine. The
Fiat purred its way out of the carport and onto the street. The nighttime
scene slowly pulsed bright, dark, bright, dark as the car passed beneath the
streetlights. At last, Clarkfork pulled onto the Johann Straussplatz where
his flat was located. He pulled to the curb and left the car, heading for
the stairs.
"Okay," he muttered to the empty air within his apartment, "Here we go
again." He packed quickly, only taking the essentials and little else.
Three suits and a suitcase full of necessities, his shoes, wallet and of
course his passport. Suddenly he paused. He was holding a black holster
with a sinister black handgrip protruding from it. He frowned. Should he
take his gun, or not? He pondered a moment longer before he made his
decision, tossing it almost casually into the suitcase.
The rain still dripped limpidly from the heavens as Clarkfork at last pulled
away from the apartment building. He flipped on his cell-phone and dialed
rapidly, his eyes never leaving the street ahead.
"Clarkfork here," he said to the unseen voice who replied to the signal.
"Are my reservations ready?
"Yes sir," replied the voice on the other end. "You are to proceed to the
Vienna airport and take the two a.m. flight to Paris, and then catch the
Channel Subway to London."
"What? No direct flight?"
"It couldn't be helped, sir. There was an airtraffic tie-up in Heathrow, so
we tried the next-best thing. You should get to London by seven-fifteen
a.m."
Clarkfork's brow furrowed, but he said nothing. If the situation couldn't be
helped, it couldn't be helped. The WSC had an extremely wide reach, but it
couldn't control absolutely everything.
"Very well," he said. "I'm on my way right now. Direct all my incoming
calls and memoes to Haderlitz in Office 14 until I get back. Understood?"
"Clearly, sir," replied the voice. "Good luck on your trip. And one more
thing: Your contact has already been apprised of the situation, and has the
item you will be needing. He will be waiting outside the Queen's Hall at
eight-fifteen. You will know him because he will be reading a "New York
Times" newspaper.
"Eight-fifteen at the Queen's Hall, reading the "New York Times. Got it."
Clarkfork hung up the phone and the fiat continued on towards the airport.
***
TIME: 8:15 AM
PLACE: The Entrance to the Queen's Hall, London, England
The man had been waiting for nearly an hour. Impatiently he checked his
wristwatch again, and glanced off into the distance. Big Ben, the mighty
bell within the Clock Tower, had just "GONGED" out the quarter-hour. He
sighed and tried to make himself unobtrusive, hiding behind his newspaper and
pretending to read. The midmorning hubbub of pedestrian and automotive
traffic became an undifferentiated drone to his ears. He had been instructed
to give important information to an American WSC agent who was supposed to be
arriving soon from Austria. No specific time had been given, but the in-
structions had been quite specific. Wait in front of the Queen's Hall until
a man addressed him with the proper greeting, and then hand over a small
object, wrapped in rough brown paper. That was all there was to it. A loud,
snorting HONK came from the river as a weatherbeaten freighter ship
shouldered its way beneath the Tower Bridge.
"Pardon me, Sir," said a voice. The man looked up and saw what appeared to
be a nondescript gentleman, perhaps aged in the mid forties, with thinning
hair combed neatly back from a high forehead. Blue eyes glinted out from
beneath rather heavy brows.
"Yes?" was the reply. "What do you want?"
"My name is Julius Caesar. Is there a store nearby in which I can purchase
some truffles?"
The man pricked up his ears, hearing the required phrase.
"I'm sorry," he replied, "but truffles are out of season. Actually," he said
suddenly, fishing around within his coat, "I happen to have one here. You
may have it, with the Queen's compliments." He handed over a plain brown
package which contained the precious paper-covered item.
"Thank you very much," said the stranger, "And, I might add, the President
thanks you. Please give my regards to the Queen."
"Before you leave," said the man, "I must ask: Are you a great fan of snipe
hunting?"
"Indeed I am," came the reply. "In fact, I've heard tell of a big one
getting shot out east. Over the water, so I hear tell."
The man's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Really?" he inquired.
"Undoubtedly. Just after practice at nine, in fact." The second through
sixth words had been inflected a bit more strongly than the others.
"Does the Mayor know?"
"Not right now, but I will inform him."
"Very well. I'm afraid I must be going, however. Very good to meet you at
last, Julius."
"Likewise, indeed."
The two men stood back from each other and the first individual hurried off,
quickly getting lost in the crowd. Clarkfork stared after, fingering the DVD
within his pocket. On that disc were the names of all individuals who were
to be summoned for the impending action against Subject 3, as well as all the
diagrams, specs and parameters of the entire QTH project. It was now his job
to turn this disc over to the proper analysis in order to determine whether
the project had truly, albeit posthumously, achieved its goal. All he had
left to do was return to the WSC headquarters and start the ball rolling.
However, on the way home, he had a little side trip to make, one involving
the new establishment of Cosplay City. He had one uncomfortable twinge, how-
ever. He knew Justice Light personally, and he was well aware that getting
him to play adjunct prosecutor would be extraordinarily difficult. According
to his sources, Clarkfork knew that Mayor Light had been in steady contact
with Subject 3 and seemed to regard it (Clarkfork was careful to avoid the
pronoun "her") as an extremely valuable asset and tool for ridding Cosplay
City of a tremendous share of its crime network. True, the city had a long
way to go before being perfectly safe, but wonders had indeed been done, most
of them by the implementation of Subject 3. None of this was out of keeping
with Subject 3's behavior parameters, but several additional activities were.
The unit had been observed undertaking a number of activities which in humans
might have been considered idle, and was even observed once playing tennis.
As innocuous as that sounded, it was much too unusual, perhaps dangerously
unusual, to be ignored. Subject 3 had to be investigated and quickly in
order to ascertain exactly what was causing these extraordinary lapses of
protocol, without letting the unit fall into a total programming rebellion.
Should that happen, the failsafe initiator would have to be used, and a one-
of-a-kind piece of workmanship would be forever lost, perhaps never to be
replicated.
He flipped open his cell-phone and began dialing.
"Commissioner?" he said. "Clarkfork here. I'm calling from London with news
that the item has been secured. I am now on my way to Cosplay City to over-
see the recovery of our prize there." Suddenly he froze, his eyes wide.
"Someone beat us to it?" he demanded, his heart like ice. "Have you any idea
at all who, sir?"
He listened.
"The prize is now located in maximum security at the Cosplay military aero-
drome," he said, echoing the words he had just heard over the phone. The
frigid grip loosened slightly. "That's a very bad situation, sir, but not
anywhere near as bad as it might have become. At least the military beat the
public to the punch this time." Clarkfork was rapidly decompressing. "In
fact, all we need to do is have the military feed the public some cock-and-
bull story and get to work." He listened for a moment and then gave a thin-
lipped smile. "Absolutely, sir. You are quite right. EXACTLY like
Roswell."
Clarkfork heard the "click" of the phone line being disconnected on the other
end. He folded his cell-phone and returned it to his coat pocket, and then
began to look for a taxi to take him to Heathrow Airport.
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