Chapter 8
HARV and I hit the street again, and a few minutes later we pulled into the parking lot of Randy Pool’s research and development lab.
Now before going any further, let me say that, out of pure necessity, I am a cynic and a skeptic at heart. In my career as a PI, I have seen a lot, done a lot and had a lot done to me. As a result, it takes a lot to impress me and even more to amaze me.
That said, I must also tell you that Randy’s lab never fails to boggle my mind.
On the outside it’s just this big gray box of a building, as boring as boring can be. But, as they say, you can’t always judge a fully interactive e-file by its icon.
I punched my access code into the door lock and slowly entered the building (experience has taught me to always enter Randy’s lab slowly and carefully).
As usual, the place was abuzz with the frenetic energy of high-tech genius run amok. Describing it as chaos gone way beyond wild is an understatement. There were bots running, walking, crawling, hovering and slithering (at least I hope they were slithering) everywhere. Test tubes bubbled, boiled and brewed away. Every wall in the building, including the ceiling, was covered with computer screens (you really have to wonder what he uses the ceiling screens for) and every screen was filled with a myriad calculations, logarithmic equations and simulation sequences.
I scanned the chaos for Randy and finally spotted him at the far end of the room, fiddling away on a tiny bot. His crop of red hair (always uncombed) and his pale white skin atop his lanky form made him look like the flag of New Sweden amidst the technological sea. He was so intent on his tinkering with the midget-sized mechanism that he had no idea that I’d even arrived.
As I neared him, the tiny bot suddenly sprang to life. It lashed out wildly with a claw-like arm and slapped him twice in the face. The force of the blow knocked Randy to the floor and sent me into action.
I moved my wrist in that special way that makes my gun pop into my hand and fired in one cool, swift motion. The specially designed concussive shell shattered the tiny robot into a million cybernetic splinters. I holstered my gun and gave Randy my best Marlowe smile as I moved towards him.
“Zach, what the DOS are you doing?” Randy shouted, not nearly as grateful to me for saving him as I’d thought he might be.
“That crazy bot just attacked you!” I answered, somewhat confused.
“Of course it did,” Randy said, as he returned to his feet. “It was supposed to. It is, or rather was, an S&M bot. It’s designed for people who have problems dealing with others but still long to be abused.”
“You’re kidding, of course.”
“I’m a scientist, Zach. I don’t kid,” Randy said, as he dusted himself off.
“You would not believe the number of advance orders I have on this.” He paused for a nano, looking at the rubble. “Needless to say, your atomizing the prototype is going to put the project somewhat behind schedule.”
“Sorry, about that. I really didn’t know.”
Randy shrugged. “Forget it. I’ll tell the customers that the delay is part of their abuse. No one ever said that science had to be prompt.”
Randy’s really a bright-side kind of guy.
“May I assume,” he continued, “that you are here for something other than prototype target practice?”
“I got a call from BB Star—”
“Oh yes, HARV told me all about that,” Randy interrupted. “Quite interesting.”
“I also had a little run-in with her hired help. My armor is going to need a bit of a tune-up.”
“Leave it here and I’ll have the repair bots get to it tonight,” Randy said as he began picking through the pieces of the S&M bot. “You can use the spare set until it’s ready.”
“Have you had any luck yet boosting the power to the muscle enhancers?” I asked. “I may be needing them on this one.”
“Ah, now.” Randy replied, almost sheepishly, “that’s an interesting story, actually. It turns out that most of my major backers don’t consider the enhancers flashy enough to continue funding. They are, after all, a relatively low-key device. Very subtle in their display.”
“That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?” I asked.
“But you see, Zach, our marketing demographics show that the public likes to see action that is more overt in nature.”
“You accepted the partnership offer from that entertainment conglom, didn’t you?” I asked, suspiciously.
“Well, I, uh … oh heck, of course I did.” Randy said. “They have more money than half the hemisphere and they’re very hands-off, provided that the higher profile products we create fit a certain mold. They’re very fond of pyrotechnics.”
“Special effects.”
“Exactly, therefore I’ve been working on your gun.”
“Right, you netted me about that, didn’t you?”
“Zach, I’ve sent you one hundred seventeen messages about the improvements and revisions that I have made to your gun’s hardware and firmware. You’ve responded to two. And those were about the color.”
I unloaded my gun and carefully placed it into Randy’s open hand. “You’re not going to change the color, are you?”
Randy didn’t even answer that one. He simply took the gun, motioned for me to follow and started walking across the room. He bumped into a few miscellaneous experiments as he moved (he’s brilliant but clumsy), causing some tiny explosions and a small fire.
“Try not to breathe that smoke too deeply,” he warned me as the janitorial bots swarmed into the area. “It’s probably a little poisonous.”
I held my breath and quickly followed Randy to the work station. He shuffled through some clutter on the work surface, searching for whatever it was he had in mind. I flinched every time he shook something (as did the janitorial bots, who were just now containing the chemical fire).
But whatever Randy was searching for, it apparently wasn’t at this particular work station. He let out a harrumph and quickly moved to a nearby, and equally cluttered, station and searched again. Two stations (and ten minutes) later, he finally found the object of his desire.
“Here we go,” he said, grabbing a small pellet from a plexiglass case.
“I’ve created a new nonincendiary offensive projectile. I call it the Big Chill. It’s for use specifically against life-forms who are highly resistant to energy and standard projectile weapons,” he stated proudly.
“Does it work?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” he stated emphatically. “In theory.”
“Is this the same kind of theory that states that if you put a thousand monkeys in a room with word processors, sooner or later one of them will create the next big HV show?”
“No, no. Of course not!” Randy insisted. “Although that works, by the way. My backers tell me that’s how they came up with ‘He Married the President.’ ”
“So, you have tested it?” I asked, being extra stubborn.
“Well, not exactly. Not on any actual, live, carbon-based organisms, that is. As you can imagine, volunteers for this type of thing are very difficult to find. Animal testing’s been outlawed for fifty years and, thanks to the new Clone Protection Act, you can’t experiment on clones anymore or even on a greeting card salesman.” Randy paused, then gave me a slightly reassuring smile. “I have computer simulated it though!”
“Computer simulated?” I wasn’t exactly bubbling over with enthusiasm.
“It has performed remarkably well,” Randy assured me. He looked up to the ceiling, “HARV, please show holo-program 38-3D.”
“Certainly, Dr. Pool,” HARV responded.
I have noticed, that HARV is a lot less sarcastic answering Randy’s commands than he is answering mine. I try not to take that personally.
HARV activated the proper holo-program and a shimmering three-dimensional light show appeared before us. The image of a beautiful woman with three breasts appeared in the middle of the room.
“Oooh, I do so love a man with brains,” the woman cooed.
“Oops,” Randy gulped, “I meant holo-program 83-D3, HARV.” He turned to me, “Science can be so lonely sometimes.”
“That’s more information than I need to know, Randy.”