FREAKS IN THE CITY

By Maree Anderson

CHAPTER ONE

The techs were intent on putting the cyborg through its paces—too intent to notice him slip through the security doors and take a seat in the topmost row of the viewing chamber. Another man might applaud his employees' single-minded focus. Evan Caine, CEO of Goodkind Electronics, was unimpressed.

This sector of the Experimental Research and Development Department was located in an underground bunker. Only five people were permitted to enter without first being cleared by Caine. He owned all five, body and soul. The more senior of these two techs, Sloane, was one of the five. He'd been with Caine for more than two decades now, but that was no excuse to be lax. Not when the stakes were so very high. Not when another cyborg was at large—a rogue cyborg that had thus far eluded Caine and bested him time and time again. If anyone—or thing, in this case—was capable of breaking into this facility, bypassing the stringent security measures, and sabotaging his life's work, it was the cyborg that called itself "Jay Smith".

Caine curled his lip and contemplated how best to reprimand the techs for their inattentiveness so the moment would be emblazoned on their memories for the terms of their natural lives.

Safe behind the glass fiber-reinforced polyester resin composite window of the viewing chamber, Sloane, a grizzled, beefy man in his forties, thumbed his mic. "Cyborg Six-Point-0 confirm voiceprint Sloane, Goodkind Employee ID 7-8-3-1-2."

"Voiceprint Sloane confirmed. Good afternoon Mr. Sloane."

"Commence course on my mark. Three. Two. One. Mark."

The cyborg exploded into motion.

Caine settled back to observe its progress.

The muttering of the two techs took on a note of excitement as Six-Point-0 neared the midway point of the Navy SEAL-styled obstacle course devised to test its physical capabilities. Apparently Six-Point-0 was acquitting itself well.

Caine leaned forward in his seat. He had always been a betting man. If the cyborg beat its previous time by ten seconds or more he would administer a private reprimand rather than hauling these two up before their peers.

Six-Point-0 launched itself over the hip-high vaults that comprised the last obstacle, taking them two at a time. It sprinted to the line, planted its bare feet, and ground to a halt, awaiting further instructions.

"Cyborg Six-Point-0, confirm course time."

"Three minutes thirteen-point-four seconds."

Despite appearing human in all the ways that counted, the cyborg's voice lacked some quintessential human characteristic. If Caine had to describe its voice he would call it "flat"—an unscientific term, but apt. He knew the techs were irritated by this slight flaw, that to their minds it marred the perfection of their creation. Caine didn't care about barely detectable deficiencies in Six-Point-0's vocal capabilities. Ultimately, Six-Point-0 wouldn't need to speak. It would only need to destroy.

Sloane consulted a chart. "Looking good, Sixer," he said, using the nickname a female tech—a hardcore Philadelphia 76ers fan—had given the cyborg.

Caine frowned. He'd stripped the woman of her seniority and reassigned her to grunt work for what he saw as her misguided attempt to humanize Six-Point-0, but the nickname had obviously stuck.

"Eleven seconds off the previous time," Sloane said.

"Incorrect," the cyborg countered, its voice echoing through the chamber. "My time has improved by eleven-point-six seconds."

"Cyborg Six-Point-0, enter standby mode. Confirm."

"Standby mode confirmed."

Sloane toggled the mic to off and exchanged a glance with his colleague. "Thought we'd sorted that damned glitch."

The younger man—Williams—groaned, slumping lower in his chair. "Everything was fine during the last trials."

"Better schedule another full diagnostic. If Sixer decides to correct Caine without prompting, the shit will hit the fan."

"God knows I get enough backchat from my kid sister without putting up with this sort of BS at work," Williams said, rolling his shoulders and tilting his head from side to side to stretch out his neck muscles.

 "Pity we didn't think to install a remote mute switch." Sloane scratched the stubble on his chin.

"There's an idea. Mute your kids or your nagging wife at the flick of a switch. Be a best-seller, I reckon."

Caine stood and shot his cuffs. Enough of this banter. Six-Point-0's supposed "glitch" was inconsequential. Running diagnostics to fix something that had no need to be fixed was a waste of time and money—his time and his money. The cyborg had been programmed to verbally respond to basic commands from a select group of people identified by their individual voiceprints, and even then only if given a correctly sequenced, logical command. Only Caine could override any instruction or programmed behavior. He could compel the cyborg to do anything at all. It was his creature, his tool. And if its newfound tendency to backchat irritated him, he would merely command it to be silent in his presence.

Sloane had caught Caine's movement. He nudged Williams.

Caine couldn't be sure but he thought he heard Williams mutter something to the effect that their asses were toast.

Sloane pushed up from his chair and stood to attention. "Good afternoon, sir. Our latest results are promising. There are a couple of minor issues we need to work through but—"

Caine's sharp hand gesture cut Sloane short. "It's time for the next phase. We will see how Six-Point-0 copes when pitted against a group of our best fighters in a hand-to-hand combat situation. Six volunteers will suffice." He paused to let his words sink in. "I have cleared my schedule for the next two hours."

Williams slanted a panicked gaze at Sloane, who stood stony-faced, revealing nothing of his inner thoughts. The younger man visibly swallowed and foolishly decided to take matters into his own hands. "Mr. Caine. Sir, I would, uh, strongly advise against pitting Sixer, uh, I mean, Six-Point-0, against human opponents. We—" his nervous hand gesture included Sloane "—are not, uh, entirely confident that Six-Point-0 won't see the men as a threat. And, uh, seriously injure the volunteers."

Caine switched his focus to Sloane.

"I recommend we draw volunteers from our security forces," Sloane said. "They're certain to give Six-Point-0 a good workout."

"Make it so." Caine resumed his seat. He could have left the techs alone and returned to his office. The padded leather chairs were far more comfortable than these molded fiberglass ones, and his PA would be at his beck and call. He stayed because he enjoyed the discomfort of others, and he wanted to observe Williams' reactions firsthand.

The young tech had an extraordinary mind. He was an asset to this program. But Williams had a regrettable tendency to voice his opinion unasked. Such outspokenness might be valued in the world of cybernetic research and development, where Williams had proven himself before succumbing to the lure of the big money Goodkind Electronics had offered. Now Williams needed to learn to jump when Caine told him to jump, and only ask how high on the way up. And, asset or not, Caine saw no benefit in keeping Williams around if the man didn't know when to shut up and follow orders.

Williams seemed to realize he'd blotted his copybook for he abruptly became all business. Caine watched, evaluating the way the two men divvied up the tasks. Williams arranged for a cache of martial arts weapons, while Sloane co-opted volunteers from the available pool of security forces. Both men barked crisp orders into their mouthpieces. Satisfied, Caine pulled an eReader device from the inner pocket of his jacket and immersed himself in the latest edition of The Economist.

He finished scanning the business pages and had just skipped to the obituary as the men began filing in. A glance at his wristwatch showed forty-eight minutes had passed. He pocketed his eReader, and cast his gaze over the volunteers. They were ex-military professionals—as were the majority of his security division. One, he recognized as a member of the extraction team that had so resoundingly failed in its first attempt to capture Gamma. The man had been injured by shrapnel in the explosion. Shiny puckered scars dribbled down his face and neck, vanishing beneath the form-fitting long-sleeved t-shirt he wore tucked into his khaki pants.

Caine stood, and made his way to the waiting men.

"Select your weapons from the cache," he told the volunteers. "The aim, gentlemen, is to take the opponent down by whatever means possible. Anything goes."

Scars narrowed his eyes, assessing the figure standing in the center of the sparring mats through the viewing chamber's window.

Caine glanced at Six-Point-0, seeing the cyborg through the other man's eyes.

"Sixer" stood feet apart, hands clasped behind its back, staring straight ahead. The cyborg appeared to be in its late teens or early twenties. Average build. Average height. Even, unremarkable features. Lank brown hair, overly long for Caine's taste. A kid on the cusp of manhood. Nothing special. The techs had done an admirable job ensuring Six-Point-0's physical form would not stand out in a crowd. Only his unnatural stillness proclaimed he might not be what he seemed.

Caine flicked his attention back to Scars, eager to witness the man's reaction.

It did not disappoint. The man's jaw worked, and his hands clenched and unclenched, clenched again. When he caught Caine staring, Scars made a visible effort to relax and his expression smoothed into a cold, merciless mask.

Caine acknowledged the man with a brief nod. Excellent. Scars would not balk at inflicting maximum damage upon his opponent. He believed he had something to prove.

"Commence trial, gentlemen," he told the two techs.

Sloane toggled his mic. "Cyborg Unit Six-Point-0 confirm voiceprint Sloane, Goodkind Employee ID 7-8-3-1-2."

"Voiceprint Sloane confirmed. Good afternoon Mr. Sloane."

"Cyborg Unit Six-Point-0, enter standby mode and await further instructions." Caine read Sloane's lips as he muttered to Williams, "Pays to be careful. God help these poor bastards if Sixer develops another weird-ass glitch."

"Standby mode confirmed."

Williams punched in a ten-digit code. The locks on the door leading into the huge workout area disengaged, and the door slid open with an agonized hiss.

Sloane addressed the volunteers. "Thank you for volunteering your time and expertise. We've provided you a range of weapons. If you have knives on your persons, feel free to use them. Otherwise, a selection has been provided. Firearms are not permitted. Those of you carrying firearms are to leave them here. Once you've selected your weapons, please form a circle at the edge of the mats and await instructions."

A couple of the men—pulled from active security details at a guess—divested themselves of weapons. Caine noted one man slide a quick sideways glance at Scars.

Interesting. Caine didn't push the matter. It would only make the coming confrontation more authentic.

The men entered the room and headed for the weapons laid out on the mats by the north wall. Only Scars hesitated, glancing first at the door as it closed behind the last man, and then up at the Caine and the techs, before striding over to the weapons cache. The significance of that heavily reinforced door had not escaped him.

Caine appropriated the spare seat next to Williams so he would have an unobstructed view of the action via both the monitors and the viewing window. He watched intently as the volunteers tested the various weapons for balance and grip, and made their selections.

Sloane thumbed the mic. "Cyborg Unit Six-Point-0. You are instructed to defend and disable only. Human life is to be preserved. Human safety is paramount. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Confirm instruction."

"I will defend and disable. Human life is to be preserved. Human safety is paramount."

"Very good, Six-Point-0. Standby to engage."

"Standing by."

"Who's up first?" Williams said into the mic, his tone oozing false good-humor.

Caine leaned forward. "Volunteers are to engage en masse."

Williams gave him stunned eyes, opened his mouth as if to speak and then shut it with a snap. He gulped, and then spoke into the mic. "Uh, slight change of plans. Make that six against one—the one being Sixer, uh, Six-Point-0, of course."

Sloane hurriedly took over. Caine suspected he didn't trust Williams to not run off at the mouth and start spouting reasons why pitting humans against the cyborg was a bad idea. "Gentleman, on my mark. Cyborg Unit Six-Point-0, await command to engage. Confirm."

"Confirmed."

"Three. Two. One. Engage!"

What followed was a melee of whirring weapons punctuated by grunts of pain, shouts, and screams, as Caine's pride and joy—the culmination of his extraordinary vision—disabled its opponents.

A grin split his face. It was surreal, as if he were watching some child's cartoon where a superhero took on a bunch of bad guys and dispatched them with ruthless efficiency. And, just like in a cartoon, men flew every which way. Those not immediately rendered unconscious scrambled to their feet and retrieved their weapons before re-engaging, only to be disarmed and tossed aside a second time. And to Caine it seemed as though mere seconds passed before five men lay unconscious, leaving only one man standing. Scars.

Caine glanced at the timepiece on the control panel. The countdown showed a little over two minutes had passed.

"Engage," he muttered. "What are you waiting for?"

But Scars refused to play. Throwing up his hands in the universal gesture for surrender, he backed up.

Six-Point-0 stalked him.

Sloane yelled into the mic. "Cyborg Unit Six-Point-0, do not engage. Repeat: do not engage. Opponent has surrendered. Opponent is no longer a threat. Repeat: opponent is no longer a threat. Do not engage!"

Six-Point-0 continued to advance.

"Cyborg Unit Six-Point-0, this is Sloane, Goodkind Employee ID 7-8-3-1-2. I command you to standby and await further instructions. Repeat: standby and await further instructions. Confirm command." A pause, and then, "Confirm command, damn you."

Williams gabbled into his mic, his voice a shrill screech. "Cyborg Unit Six-Point-0, this is Williams, Goodkind Employee ID 1-0-2-2-1-4. I command you to shut down immediately. Repeat: shut down immediately!"

The retreating man's gaze darted about the room. His angry expression morphed to fearful as both techs screamed instructions into the mic and the cyborg ignored them all, intent on its target.

"Shit!" Williams' mutely pleading gaze fixed on Caine.

The tech knew Caine could access the cyborg's core programming and override all commands. Of course Caine ignored the tech's silent plea. Scars could flee, but the only cover was the obstacle course, and if the man chose that option his opponent would be on him in an instant.

But although bloodied and battered and disarmed of the weapon he'd chosen, Scars was not as helpless as he appeared. His gaze flicked upward to Caine for a couple of breaths, before fixing again on the cyborg.

Caine, carefully observing the man's expression, spotted the "tell"—the fleeting hatred and despair twisting his scarred features. Scars had resolved to use maximum force to defend himself. He didn't care Six-Point-0's predecessors had all been failures, that only this one cyborg unit had been deemed a success. He didn't care that this cyborg had taken billions of dollars and countless man-hours to perfect, and if it were damaged beyond repair it could set the company back a decade. He'd blow its artificial brain to smithereens if he could.

Caine's lips curled into a sardonic grin. The man didn't stand a chance.

Scars never took his gaze from the cyborg as he bent to snatch a small handgun from his right boot. "Stop right there, you freak," he snarled.

To Caine's surprise and disappointment, Six-Point-0 halted.

"I know you're smart enough to understand what this is." Scars made a slight motion with the muzzle of the weapon. "One more step and I'll use you for target practice. Understand?"

Six-Point-0 appeared to be taking the measure of the man, for the cyborg cocked its head slightly to one side. Then it took one slow, deliberate step forward.

Scars didn't hesitate. He pumped three bullets into the cyborg. His aim was excellent. Six-Point-0 took the first two hits in the chest and the third in the head, but the cyborg continued to advance.

Sloane shouted into the mic for the man to relinquish his weapon and lie face-down on the ground with his hands behind his head. Williams had resumed screaming useless commands at Six-Point-0.

Scars paid them no heed. His whole focus was on the cyborg, gauging its next move.

The cyborg launched itself at him. Scars emptied the clip at the blur of movement. Caine watched, entranced, as Six-Point-0 ripped the gun from the man's hand, picked him up and slung him at the nearest wall. The sickening crack as he hit finally silenced the bleating techs.

"Threat neutralized," the cyborg said. "Remaining humans are no longer endangered, however immediate medical attention is recommended."

Caine turned his attention to the techs.

Williams was staring at the broken corpse, his mouth rounded into an O that screamed horror. Sloane stared at his hands, his expression blank save for a tic at the corner of one eye.

Caine toggled the mic. "Excellent work, Six-Point-0. Please stand down." To the two techs he said, "Call in the medics."

"Yes sir," Sloane said.

"S-sir?" Williams had finally found his tongue. "Your instructions as to how we proceed with Six-Point-0's, uh, glitch?"

Fleeting satisfaction quirked Caine's lips. Williams was learning. "I will deal with it."

"A-And the possibility the bullets have damaged Six-Point-0's internals?"

Caine speared him with a look. "Have they?"

"Not according to the readouts but—"

"Do the bullets need to be removed?"

"Six-Point-0's system will treat them like foreign bodies and eventually expel them but—"

This time it was Sloane who interrupted. "Sir, I feel compelled to reiterate that core commands must be carefully analyzed and verified to ensure no errors of logic. Otherwise there is a substantial risk that—"

"Thank you, Sloane. Your concern is duly noted. That will be all. You may both stand down until further notice."

"Yes, sir."

Both techs bolted for the door.

The cyborg stood at rest, awaiting instructions.

Caine keyed in the override code that would unlock any door in the lab, before toggling the mic. "Cyborg Unit Six-Point-0, this is Evan Lawrence Caine. Analyze voiceprint and confirm."

"Voiceprint confirmed. Good afternoon, Mr. Caine."

"Follow me." Caine turned on his heel and left the room. He did not bother to verify the cyborg was following. He expected to be obeyed by human and cyborg alike. And as he strolled down the corridor toward his office, he whistled an aria from his favorite opera.

Despite evidence to the contrary, Caine did not believe Gamma-Dash-One had been destroyed in the Snapperton explosion. Gamma was still at large.

His whistle strangled in his throat as he recalled Gamma's phone call to his private, secure line, just minutes prior to the explosion. The cyborg had demanded the immediate release of Michael White, AKA Mike Davidson, from Caine's employ. That humiliating call had also ensured Davidson's wife and children could no longer be used as leverage to ensure Davidson's continued cooperation. The cyborg's threats had been creative—so cleverly conceived that Caine had felt nothing but admiration.... Until the reality of having his secret research made public across all worldwide media outlets, and his precious company linked to known international terrorist groups, had sunk in.

Caine's grudging respect for Gamma's deviousness had been tempered by the surety that his extraction team would prevail—that Gamma would soon be in his hands. Its defects would be ferreted out and corrected, and Caine would command it as he willed. But the cyborg had eluded him, and not even Caine was arrogant enough to risk putting its threats of exposure to the test.

As the months dragged on, the simmering fury that burned his gut ate away at him. He hated that he'd been so thoroughly outmaneuvered by a glorified machine. But then had come the breakthrough that changed everything. Now Caine finally had his own cyborg, a far superior cyborg to Durham's defective, crippled creation that had formed unnatural attachments to humans.

His techs were awed that Durham had created a cyborg with the capacity to empathize with humans—to feel. They'd love to get their hands on Gamma for research purposes. But such a groundbreaking scientific breakthrough did not matter to Caine. Such "enhancements" were anathema to him. He saw Gamma's capacity to feel human emotions as a weakness. And in Caine's worldview, weakness could not be tolerated.

Six-Point-0 would destroy Gamma. And after the deed was done, Mike Davidson would be taught that no one walked away from Evan Caine.

 ~~~

Copyright 2012 Maree Anderson

www.mareeanderson.com