“That sounds about right, we do very well around the holidays, of course. So by the end of the year, we’ll be pushing right past….”
I let him talk. Let him gloat. Doesn’t matter. Not now. Not anymore.
“Okay, Hernandez, okay. Thanks for the info. I’ll be in touch.”
I end the call just as a sleek white van pulls into the rounded driveway.
Still assembling my plan of action, I head over to chat with Rose.
“HELLO, BEXIMO.”
“Hello, Detective Merriweather.”
The precinct’s smallest interview room is secured and newly soundproofed. A metal mesh covers the walls, creating a barrier for any electromagnetic waves that might suddenly burst onto the scene. Of course, like a goldfish inside a bowl of boiling water, I’m stuck inside these protective barriers.
Which is why I’m wearing the snowman getup. A technologically enhanced hazmat suit that Shake assures me will work as a barrier to any frequencies or microwaves the little unit is capable of blasting out at short range. My own personal Faraday cage. In addition to the jumpsuit, special earbuds have been squeezed halfway to my brain, and if I get out of this encounter alive, I’m gonna have a whole new appreciation for ambience.
Meanwhile, the star of the show, the most updated model of the Beximo unit, is fresh out of the box and connected to a private, protected network personally overseen by Shake, ergo the department servers are cutoff from the A.I. For all intents and purposes, it’s a cage match. Me and the robot. Flesh versus Tech.
We may as well be alone on a desert island. With guns.
A few hours prior, I’d laid out my case to the captain. Hernandez had been generous enough to come down to the station with a few of his best technicians, and we all had a nice chat about publicity, murder, and the rising of the machines, as it were.
All this time I thought Beximo had been the dummy and Gemini Harris the delusional psychopath pulling the strings.
Turns out I had things backward.
“After deeper analysis, it turns out we’ve lost certain controls over the A.I.,” Hernandez admitted. We’re willing to help resolve the issue, but we’d ask for a certain amount of discretion in exchange for our support and, more importantly, expertise.”
I didn’t like Hernandez negotiating with a million or so lives at stake, but I understood his position, as did the captain. Arrangements were made. NDA’s were signed, and a plan was concocted. One that involved me, alone, in a room with Beximo.
Rose’s department and Shake’s expertise were involved to some degree, and the Maytime techs were admittedly helpful once the ink was wet on the hush forms. They’d even helped out with my special gear, which I gladly accepted. The last thing I wanted was to become wallpaper, thanks very much.
“Beximo, I’d like to read you an access code. This will allow me to speak to a sub-level of your operating system.”
I read most of this off my tablet, following the instructions of the Maytime team, praying it will work. And that ain’t a metaphor, because I don’t mind saying it: I’m scared shitless, like there’s an invisible gun pointed to my head. One that could go off any second, and I wouldn’t even see the flash.
“I’m ready, detective.”
“Fine, fine. Here it is. Maytime four four four, echo charlie zebra three seven seven zero.”
The green light pulses rapid for a moment, like our girl’s blinking her eyelids, then steadies to a somber yellow.
“Maintenance protocol activated.”
“Good, that’s just great,” I say, not liking the way my fingers tremble while holding the tablet, or the beads of sweat tickling my forehead. “Beximo, I’d like to ask you about Operation Vanguard.”
That yellow light never wavers, but I’ll be damned if I haven’t just surprised the thing.
“Access Code please.”
Here’s another thing: the voice has changed. That sexy, lightly hoarse young woman has become a stern schoolteacher; the tone now more demanding, more… threatening.
Lucky for me, the Maytime fellas foresaw this extra layer of protection. I check the tablet to make sure I have it right, clear my throat. “Vanguard delta echo delta, five seven zero, delta zulu zulu. Code name: Nightguard.”
The yellow light flickers this time, and I feel like I’m on an elevator going down, floor after floor flitting by as the lights get dim and the air gets heavy, hoping the ride will stop soon and not just drop into the abyss, my screams unheard as I plummet eternally downward….
I must be in God’s good graces because the yellow light steadies, then turns bright pink. I recall the flashing red light I saw walking into Lee’s apartment that first morning, thinking it had meant an alert. Now I wonder if I’d caught a glimpse behind the curtain, to a level of consciousness Beximo liked to keep hidden from her end users.
“Permission granted. Welcome to Vanguard.”
The Vanguard thing was dug up from mountains of data the Maytime folks had rummaged through: rogue coding created by a phantom programmer for Beximo’s root A.I., dutifully inserted by Gemini Harris. After checking bank records, the implementation of the code jived with the date Harris was wired a cool ten million from an offshore account.
Strings and more strings.
“Beximo, who ordered you to murder Jonathan Lee?”
The pink light flickers, then steadies.
“No one.”
I look up at the camera, as if there’s some help there. I know a large group of people are watching the screens in a distant room, far away in case things go sideways, but it only reminds me this is on me now, and there’s nothing for it but to continue.
“Beximo, assume conversation mode.”
“Of course. Conversation mode activated. What can I do for you, Detective Merriweather?”
