Twelve
TWELVE
McCoy stalked back and forth between the workbenches, glancing at his watch and muttering. It was 8:32 and that useless son-of-a-bitch was nowhere to be seen. His white lab coat swirled about him like a highwayman’s cape. He paused by a Bunsen burner to wipe his glasses clean of condensation, remembering the time that John had hidden them for a “laugh”. He imagined John face down on a guillotine block, his hands swinging a heavy axe toward that willowy white neck of his. He didn’t want to fire his friend, but if he had to, he would certainly enjoy it.
He sat down at his desk and began to draft a letter on his computer.
“Dear John, I am most aggrieved to inform you that...”
Too much like a “Dear John” letter. He erased it and began again.
“Mr Johnson, your tenure at this prestigious University has been tragically...”
He stopped; much too formal, too Dickensian. He owed the man at least an ounce of personality, even if he was a complete ass. His finger stabbed at the backspace, tapping out the rhythm to “Whole Lotta Love” by Led Zeppelin. The door clicked open. There he was.
Clad in a crumpled white coat and glasses fresh out of a carrier bag in his car boot, Bruce swaggered into the room. He remembered his cover as he saw McCoy at the desk and brought his step short, moving awkwardly as John Johnson would. He made an attempt at a nonchalant greeting.
“Morning, McCoy.”
The words were a struggle in this higher register, the syllables scrapping schoolyard rivals at the back of his throat; textbook Johnson. McCoy’s square rimmed glasses and bald head glinted unerringly beneath the bright laboratory lights as he looked him straight in the eye, giving him the patented McCoy Bullshit Detector Test. His goatee danced on his chin as he spoke.
“You look terrible Johnson, you goddamn creampuff. You ever even heard of ironing?”
Bruce looked down at his coat, pulling the creases tight at the bottom.
“You should try ironing with a prosthetic arm, it’s only been two months; I’m still adjusting. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you I was going to be gone a couple days, it was an emergency, all very last minute. Some bad stuff went down.”
McCoy shook his head; his thick-rimmed glasses flashed in the bright morning light.
“It’s not me you should be apologising too; you need to speak to Jefferson. He’s the one that wants your head on a silver platter. He’s not in yet today though you lucky bastard, so spit that apple out your mouth and let’s get this prep started. Time’s getting on. You sort the frogs into boxes; I’ll make sure the scalpels are still sharp.”
McCoy disappeared into the backroom. Bruce let out a sigh of relief. Goddamn, Johnson was a pussy. This was the best cover he could have ever dreamt up, though he still couldn’t remember the finer details. He felt groggy, a bit green about the gills.
He walked over to the frog tank and began scooping them into their individual boxes. They felt strangely appealing in his hands, like Plasticine. The frog seemed to look up at him with black beady eyes as he squeezed it by the midriff. It made a wet popping, slurping sound as it exploded against the glass walls, plastering the other frogs in its innards. Bruce giggled like a young boy pulling wings from a fly. McCoy bustled back into the classroom with a tray of scalpels.
“What are you laughing about this early, fool? That shit should be illegal before ten AM.”
Bruce scooped up most of the obvious gore and threw it in the bin. He said the first thing that came to mind.
“I just remembered yesterday. I saw a blender fighting a cat in a skip; tore its throat out. A woman called it demonic.”
McCoy looked interested; his moustache wriggled about like a hairy caterpillar trying to climb into his nostrils.
“Demonic? How’d you mean? You seen the news at all the last couple days? It seems a whole bunch of machines have gone off-the-rails, so to speak. Lifts falling with no faults found, cars driving off bridges of their own accord, it’s been bugging me. What was with the blender?”
“Like I said, it killed a cat. A woman brought it out to throw away. She was bleeding, like the blender maybe attacked her too. I thought it seemed weird. There must be something in the water.”
McCoy stroked his chin. Bruce could hear his brain ticking.
“These incidents are being reported all over the country. Actually, on the news this morning they said a driverless digger went crazy in Paris too, tore up a shopping mall. I think read something went down in the US too. There’s speculation about cyber terrorism or a glitch maybe, affecting the Internet of Things. Let me look it up.”
Bruce finished boxing the frogs and placed them on the bench at the front of the room. The students began to file in, their excited chatter dying the moment they hit the door. They took their places in silence, unzipping bags and rustling pages. He stood at the back of the room, the invisible man, watching out the window as McCoy began the lesson.
He thought about the haywire machines. There had to be some kind of connection, some kind of problem with their programming, a gremlin in the system. A brunette caught his attention as she played with her hair, bored by McCoy’s monologue. The sun loved her. Her pretty almond-shaped face glowed in the classroom gloom. As she let her hair drop, he couldn’t help noticing the way it fell back from her ample bosom. He imagined his hand tracing the same line. He turned his gaze to McCoy as he saw her move to glance back. So, the machines were rising. What the hell was wrong with the world? He hoped that Skynet was purely fictional. He ran his good hand through his hair; he felt naked without his hat.
The students settled into the dissection process and McCoy turned his attention to his computer. Bruce walked around, checking on the students and setting them straight. Luckily, the brunette needed lots of help. She caught his eye as he told her about the reproductive system of the frog; his heart began to pound in his chest. She was beautiful. Her smile made him stutter. He walked quickly back to his perch at the back of the room, bent slightly forwards. These stupid laboratory trousers were way too loose.
After the lecture, as Bruce cleared away, McCoy came out of the backroom clutching a wad of freshly printed sheets. He handed Bruce the warm front page.
“Check this out. I found a whole bunch of stuff tagged “#machine-consciousness” or “IoTglitch” that happened this week. The glitch tag has even been trending on Twitter the last couple days. There are loads of blogs and a couple articles, this is the pick of the bunch though.”
He tapped the page in Bruce’s hand. The print-out was from the BBC news website. The headline read:
“UK RAP SUPERSTAR ADDED TO THE “SEX-TOY FATALITY” LIST”
“What the fuck is a “sex-toy fatality” list?”
He couldn’t help but say it out loud; it was too ridiculous not too. He read on:
“MASTAH BLASTAH, THE TOP SELLING UK HIP HOP ARTIST HAS BEEN FOUND DEAD IN A BRIGHTON HOTEL ROOM. His body, discovered by a maid yesterday morning, was later identified by a close family member. Police issued a statement to the effect that Blastah, real name Archibald Swanson, had suffered “horrific anal trauma” and stated that his death was being investigated as part of the ongoing “sex-toy fatalities” case. So far, eight women and three men have been the victims of these horrific accidents, related by the brand of sex-toy used found at each scene. All were from the popular “Dildorama” company’s range of orgasm inducers. Police are working alongside the company to establish the events that led to the deaths. They have stated that they believe there is no individual suspected in connection with the incidents as no forensic evidence of an outside party have yet been found. Early indications are of a massive technical failure. Dildorama have so far declined to comment.”
“That’s some crazy shit, huh?”
McCoy looked like the cat that got the cream.
“Check out what else I found. These pages here are all incidents involving mechanical sentience in the last three days alone. There have been 37 reported incidents globally to date, like this one. A combine harvester killed a family of farmers in Ohio. Perhaps most worrying of all though, is this leaked memo. A US submarine fired on a Russian boat without an order. That story is still unconfirmed by the official press, but it’s all over social media.”
Bruce scratched his head, longing to pull the brim of his hat low over his eyes as he thought.
“That blender was real enough too. There has to be something connecting all these incidents.”
Internally, he was reeling. Mastah Blastah was dead and the only suspect was a butt-plug. Case closed. His heart beat faster as he thought about Jimmy and Sophie. Fuck them. They were fucked up anyway. The world was a better place without them. Still, how would he get paid now? He couldn’t remember who had given him the brief. That was odd. There had to be a client. McCoy coughed, bringing him back to reality.
“I’ve been thinking about that. There is something that connects all of these machines. In fact, it’s pretty obvious really; the EBM eMotion chip. It’s been in vogue for a year or so now. It’s everywhere, in everything. It’s the beating heart of the IoT.”
McCoy pushed his glasses back up his nose.
“I believe what we could be seeing here are examples of a new form of Artificial Intelligence. The machines are learning. These journals I found certainly seem to agree.”
He passed Bruce another stack of pages.
“You found all this just now? What are you, Johnny 5?”
“The machines appear to have gained sentience, perhaps through their ability to access the internet. It is, after all, a form of shared consciousness in itself, the internet, sort of a twenty-first century embodiment of the Zen, “One mind” principle. Some academics are talking about a “technological evolution”. Remember Professor Hawking’s warnings about AI?”
McCoy looked proud of himself. Bruce thought for a moment.
“This could be massive, McCoy. Aren’t those chips in virtually every new appliance? Shit man, it’s all gone a bit Skynet, hasn’t it? I can’t get images of mushroom clouds out of my head.”
“Too much sci-fi will do that to you, John. I admit it is worrying though. I’m going to keep looking into it. I’ve been talking online with a group of scientists in Switzerland at CERN, and another think-tank in London. There is also a rather strange side to this tale that has yet to be explained. Eyewitnesses have reported some machines, like the digger, appear to be exhibiting “animalistic” tendencies during the events. One guy said that it moved “like some kind of dinosaur”.”
“I thought you’d left the government spook-stuff behind you, McCoy, you go on about it often enough! What was all that bull about starting a new life, about doing something positive for humanity?”
“Well, it doesn’t hurt to keep up with old friends, John. There’s no class in this afternoon so I guess you’re free to go. You should check in with Jefferson before head out though, clear the air.”
“I guess I have to. What are you doing later?”
McCoy sat back at his computer, his eyes darting from Bruce to the screen.
“You have time for me now, do you? Come over if you want, we can work on this. I know you always like playing detective.”
“See you at eight.”
“Don’t be late Dick Tracy. And take a shower first. I’m telling you this as a friend; you stink like a dead dog.”