Interlude 1

"Diagram"

Peter Renblow reflected that anyone who though designing robots was easy, quick or intuitive had no right to even open there mouth during the design process, as he flicked through another page of designs. And then you got people who handed you a bunch of concept art work, a thirty page statement of purpose, a deadline and then said "Get cracking," watching for any sign of disagreement. BNL expected god results, and they were expected quickly. Peter looked out the full length window of sound proof glass on the left side of his office and watched the spectacle below.

Dozens of assembly lines twisted across the factory floor like a ball of snakes. An army of robotic arms filled a thousand tasks, assembling parts of robots, fusing them together. It was like a ballet, a million parts working in concert. True, there were people on the floor doing spot checks on assembly or making sure everything happened just right. But they were outcasts, standing out like roses on the moon. It was like the entire factory hadn't been built by human hands, and was a relic of some clockwork god.

Peter turned back to the designs before him. He realized it was a cross section of an EVE probe, and chuckled bitterly. The thing was a joke. It was a simple botany examination probe, meant to be stored on the star liners to explore Earth if Operation Clean Up took longer than expected, and for that it was pretty good, and he really was impressed by the micro processors they'd installed so it could recognize thousands of plant species. And yet someone of the project team had set their hearts on giving it a military grade assault weapon. It was his job to put the final approval stamp on any project that come through the Americas robotics office, but due to the red tape and chaos of the Operation Clean Up planning, he'd been notified half a year of the probe's final design after the production of the probe had ended.

And now the silly thing was now an example of what head office wanted in their new project. Peter ran his hand through his short grey hair and yawned. He checked his Rolex, the gold bright against his dark skin. It seemed like the day had slipped away into night, as the little hand reached the ten. He'd been going over the project specifications for six hours. He pulled out a copy of concept art, and chuckled again. The thing was a joke. It looked liked someone had watched too many kids cartoons. It had lots of showy flash, extra flairs of spines and spikes. Peter absent mindedly scratched out an arm that ended in an absurdly large gun. He sighed as he noted a pair of missile racks on the back. The head was a big square, a big square target. He wrote a note that they needed to change that in design. This was the basic model, and he hadn't had the heart to bring himself to look at the designs for the command models.

He set the concept work down and pushed his chair back. He stood and yawned again. He needed a cup of coffee, and a stretch. He was on auto pilot as he left his office, locking the door behind him as he stepped into the hall. His footsteps were muffled by the thick carpeting as he walked to the break room. He pulled open the door, and stepped onto the tile with a click. He was surprised someone was still here.

"Hey, Kilpatsky, late night too?" Peter said as he walked over to the liquid synthesizer.

Edwin Kilpatsky sat up a little, a turned towards Peter. He was young, still in his late twenties. His curly red hair was, and there were bags under his eyes. He was young for chief programmer of the robotics division.

"Oh hey, Peter. Turns out I've got another all nighter. Turns out that field testers found an error in the programming on at least half dozen robots on the star liners . Makes 'em erratic, and they won't follow orders. Head office wants it fixed before we hit production status for the robot crews. And you?"

"Got a pet project dumped on me. I really don't even know where to start," Peter said as he punched in the code for a cup of coffee. A cup slid out a slot and landed in the holder. The spout came down, and with a clunk, the coffee poured out.

"What is it?" Kilpatsky said as he stirred his own coffee, which had long gone cold, idly as he scrolled through lines of code on his laptop.

"Some kind of military project. They want … I don't really now. I'm half convinced it's a joke," Peter said, pouring a little cream into his coffee.

"Care if I make a guess?'

"Sure," Peter replied as he sat down across from Kilpatsky.

"They gave you the House of Myths, didn't they?"

"Nail on the head, Kilpatsky," Peter said, leaning back in his chair, "how'd you know?"

"They sent one my programming teams a list of software we'd need to design. A lot of experimental stuff. Learning intelligences, real time target identifier, mostly stuff we haven't got down pat yet. What do they want from you?"

"High strength steel plating for the outer shell, high durability internal hardware, and more than few high powered weapons. And all ready for a workable concept ready for a phase one prototype by next month."

"Leads to the question of why."

"Who knows? Maybe it really is just a pet project that got slipped into the Clean Up bill. Maybe the executives know something we don't, and got worried," Peter said, gulping down a large portion of his coffee.

"I can tell you one thing Peter; this project will be keeping us up for the next few months. I think I may have to move into the office."

"At least we'll be suffering together," Peter said, standing, balling the paper cup up, "Well no rest for the overworked. I'll be here another hour or so if you need me."

"See you tomorrow, Peter," Kilpastsky replied, already turning back to scanning the lines of code. Peter waved over his shoulder and walked out.

Peter didn't go home that night. In the morning, he found himself still at his drafting table, pencil in hand, long lines of half remembered notes and design changes. There was a little drool on one of the concept pieces, already defaced by several large cross marks across egregious design ideas. He sighed, and leaned back in his chair, checked his watch. Eight thirty, an hour before the factory lines started the new days run, as well as everyone got in.

He checked his pockets, and took out his cell phone. When he flicked it open, he noted he had two missed messages. He clicked a button, and a small list of contacts came up. He pressed the call button when he scrolled over the one marked home. He put the phone to his ear and waited. His wife picked up the phone on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Dana, it's me Pete."

"Pete, where have you been? I was worried about you."

"Got a project dumped on me from on high, and it's not like I could say no to head office."

"Couldn't you bring it home or just look it in the morning?" Peter was sure he could hear a tone of condemnation in his wife voice. She was pushing him to work less, less nights where he got home at dark o'clock or not at all. And he had been cutting back, realizing he was a man of fifty eight trying to keep up in a world that favored the young,

"It's hush hush right now. An in-house thing, business secrets and all that."

"And who's going to steal a project from BNL? There's no competition."

"Who knows? Anyway, any news?" The design offices were almost an island in a communication sense. It wasn't uncommon for the engineers to be a few days behind current events with the ever increasing work load.

"Well, Don came by with his girlfriend."

"Really? I thought they had a dinner reservation somewhere."

"Apparently it was overbooked. So they stayed and had dinner with me."

"What his girlfriend's name? Jane? Jacky?"

"Jacquelyn, dear. She works security or some such at a warehouse complex downtown. It seems like you've missed the better part of two years."

"Meh, so I could bother to learn her name."

"Right, Pete. So anyway, are you coming home soon?"

"No, I've got to get this project organized and a design team doing the preliminaries by noon.

"Honey…"

"I'll try to get home after lunch. See you then."

"Love you, Pete."

"Love you too."

Pete shut the phone. He stretched his arms. He checked his watch again. He yawned and stood. He walked over to his window and watched the first people move onto the factory floor, ready to start the production lines right when the shift started. A million thoughts swirled through Peter's mind. And he came down to one question, which he spoke aloud.

"What's the worst that can happen?"

Author's Note: Just a quick Update. Thanks for all comments so far.