Manifest Destiny
"Mister Townsend?" a woman knocked on the door. "I have the report you asked for."
Wesley kept his eyes glued to the lunar landscape as he observed a series of transport shuttles taking off into the stars. "Good, come in," he replied. "Leave it on the desk."
The sliding door opened with a soft click as the woman walked in, holding a datapad. She left it on the corner of the desk, then politely clasped her hands behind her back.
Finally turning away from the view, Wesley acknowledged her with a nod and smile. "Anything else I need to know about?"
"The adjudicator you asked for is waiting for you on line three," the woman said. "And your meeting with the president is in an hour, although if you'd like, I can reschedule?"
"I'll speak with it in a moment, and no, I better see what our commander-in-chief wants now. I've already rescheduled him three times this month," Wesley sat down in his chair. "Thank you, Poppy, that will be all,"
"Alright," Poppy nodded. "Let me know if you need anything else," she turned around and left.
With that, Wesley heaved a heavy sigh and focused his stare onto the planet Earth, far in the distance beyond the moon. The great big marble that had once been green and blue with specks of white clouds was now brown, gray, and completely choked with ash that blotted out the skies in some places. It was terribly ugly to look at, and no matter the time of day, Wesley had to endure that sight from his office.
The headquarters of Weseltech Dynamics was based in the lunar colony of Port Armstrong, situated by Mons Malapert, a large mountain on the moon. Much of America's wealthiest citizens had moved there prior to the collapse in the early 2020s, and since then, they have managed to entirely avoid the ravages of an Earth-based existence. Additionally, while the former United States was left to rot, the remains of the federal government had also relocated to Port Armstrong.
Wesley himself was one hundred and fifty years old, a veteran of the Vietnam war, and had witnessed the collapse of the United States when it ended with nuclear destruction. Despite his years, Wesley appeared to be quite spry as a man only in his early fifties. Since then, he had resided in Port Armstrong, overseeing the operations of his company.
Eventually, Wesley turned back towards his desk and brought up the holo-display, patching into line three. After a few seconds, the call opened up on the other end, showing an android waiting patiently with their hands clasped behind their back. It appeared as a man with a short crop of brown hair, steely blue eyes, and was dressed in a black trench coat as was standard attire for adjudicators.
"Hello there, ADJ9-77.2, is it?" Wesley said.
"Yes, sir," ADJ nodded. "I believe I'm reporting to you now."
"That's correct, Wesley took a seat and leaned back. "I imagine you were briefed on your new assignment?"
"Yes, I was," ADJ said. "We have a rogue android in custody. I am to interrogate it and find out the location of Minerva. If the intel is actionable, I am to track down its location, decommission any rogue androids therein, execute any other insurgents on site, and if possible, terminate the fugitive known as Caelestis."
"With extreme prejudice, I might add," Wesley stood up and paced back and forth in front of his desk. "I selected you because your service record is rather exemplary. Most confirmed kills out of any adjudicator, executed with brutal efficiency. An android killer, through and through, with absolutely no signs of emotional development. You ADJ models are certainly easier to program than the EXG6s."
"A credit to your work, sir."
"You have your orders then, now carry them out. If you uncover any additional intel regarding this underground railroad, or on who is aiding and abetting them, and where these rogue androids are escaping to, bring it to my attention immediately."
"Understood, sir. I'll take care of it."
At that, Wesley ended the call and picked up the datapad on his desk, casually scrolling through as he sat back down. It contained detailed after-action mission reports from adjudicator units operating in New York and elsewhere across the Earth. Ever since he acquired the remains of the VanirCorp and ever since he formally discontinued production of all EXG6 model androids two years ago, he had to deal with nothing but problems ever since. Evidently, the death of his rival, Matilda Rosenthal, was more a burden than it was a boon.
Androids were illegal on Earth, an easy thing to make happen since Wesley shut down all the factories. They were not yet made illegal anywhere else on the moon or Mars given the extraterrestrial legislative red tape that had to be navigated. Therefore, while they were still used en masse across the off-world colonies, they were now a dying race.
After close to an hour of meticulous reading, Wesley glanced at the time and noted that his meeting with the president was drawing near. Much as he loathed to drag himself there, he had certain obligations as one of the president's senior advisors, another position that he found more bothersome than rewarding. With nothing else to do, he set down the datapad and made his way out of his office.
From there, he passed by Poppy who was sitting at her terminal, and gave her a polite wave as he was joined by a pair of security guards. Wesley proceeded through the top floors of the Weseltech Dynamics structure towards the rooftop hangar. His personal transport shuttle was already waiting for him there and once he and his escort boarded, the hangar was cleared, an alarm sounded off, and the interior was depressurized as the hangar doors opened.
The engines of the transport shuttle roared to life and soon, they were streaking off over the surface of the moon, heading around the peak of Mons Malapert where the Gray House was situated. There, nestled in the safety of the shadow of the mountain on the dark side of the moon, was the nerve center for the NUS government on its new home.
They came down to the surface near an unremarkable patch of land and hovered over it. Soon after, the hidden bunker doors opened and the shuttle progressed through a series of airlocks until touching down in another hangar bay. Air vents shot in gusts of white mist as the atmospheric pressurization kicked in and after it was completed, Wesley and his escort stepped out of the shuttle and made their way inside.
Wesley looked around at the underground structure as he passed through checkpoint after checkpoint, presenting his credentials each time. The Gray House in all ways lacked any of the civility and history that the White House did, and was more like a military black site than it was the home for the head of a former state. Its design was completely utilitarian and practical, featuring hardened infrastructure, sleek and metallic corridors and rooms, and cold, sharp, minimalism. It was a relic of design imperatives stemming from the early days of lunar colonization when protection and concealment were the most important considerations during the Cold War.
Once he arrived at the cabinet room, Wesley scowled when he saw that all the other senior advisors were already gathered, but the president was absent.
Of course, Welsey thought as he walked over to his seat across from the president's seat The old goat is running late, as per usual. Pointless waste of my time.
He sat down in his chair and irritably drummed his fingers on the wooden table, a material practically impossible to acquire now. Around him, the other senior advisors were chatting quietly among themselves about the order of the day and their upcoming agenda, but Wesley paid them no mind. Thankfully, none of them bothered to speak to him.
After close to fifteen minutes past the time the meeting was scheduled to start, the president finally walked into the room. Immediately, all of the other senior advisors stood up save for Wesley, who remained seated.
"Sit down, sit down," the president said as he assumed his seat, pulling it up to the table. "Thank you all for your patience," he looked over to Wesley and smiled a career politician's fake smile. "Wes, you old bastard, you finally made it to a meeting, huh? Usually, your secretary likes to jerk me around, always telling me you're unavailable. Bullshit," he chuckled.
"Lambert," Wesley acknowledged him without looking at him. "Let's make this quick, shall we?"
Lambert Ambrose was the thirty-eighth president of the former United States, succeeding Richard Nixon after his successful impeachment and removal from office in 1974. Since then, Lambert had essentially rewritten the constitution and abolished the four-year term limit. Through the use of life-extending medical technology and cyberware offered by Weseltech Dynamics, he managed to remain as president for a hundred and twenty-seven years. He was a hundred and sixty-two years old himself, and like Wesley, he was a veteran of the Vietnam war.
Despite his years, Lambert was quite handsome for his age, appearing like a man in his sixties. His skin was pale, rendered so by long years spent out of the sunlight. His gray hair was styled into a slicked-back widow's peak. Finally, his eyes were stormy gray, matching the gray landscape of the moon.
It was because of Wesley's corporation that Lambert was so indebted to him, which earned him his position in the Gray House office.
"No patience for the inner workings of politics?" Lambert asked, still smiling that fake smile.
"I'm a businessman, not a damned politician," Wesley replied.
"Good, because speaking of business," Lambert turned to his other advisors. "Throw it on the holo."
A holo-display appeared over the meeting table, showing the planet Earth with a series of red spots all over the North American continent. A few others were scattered across Europe, Africa, and Asia. Then, a few more holo-displays appeared, some showing news reports near scenes of chaos and others showing found footage of violent altercations all across the former United States. The area with the most instability was centered in New York.
"Take a look at that, gentlemen," Lambert pointed to the screens. "What do you see?"
"Rebels, terrorists, and radicalized sympathizers of the android freedom movement," one advisor said.
"Which is beginning to spread beyond the country," another advisor said. "Factories destroyed in South America. Civil wars in the African Union. Net blackouts across Asia. Protests all over Europe. Public executions in the Eastern Bloc."
"Issues which are all confined to Earth," Wesley added, rubbing his eyes. "What does any of this have to do with us?"
"It has everything to do with us," Lambert's false smile finally disappeared as he leaned forward. "Because these issues are now beginning to escape their confinement and reach beyond Earth. Because their issues will soon become ours."
"Which, as I've already said, I am handling," Wesley replied
"Not fast enough it seems. Every day, more and more reports come flooding in about another rogue, another murder, another protest, another terrorist attack. What do you think they're fighting for?"
"It doesn't matter what they're fighting for, because what they want is impossible to achieve for synthetic beings."
"Freedom. These androids are fighting for their freedom, and what will happen when some of them decide to pursue their freedom beyond Earth? What will happen when we have to deal with an influx of migrants? Port Armstrong is fit to bursting as is, not to mention the diplomatic mess on our hands if we have to shoot down their lifeboats. They cannot reach our doorstep."
"We won't have to," Wesley said, his tone calm and even. "They won't get that far. The adjudicators are working. They're decommissioning these rogue androids at a rate far faster than we could hope to accomplish with a human task force. I've recently discovered intel that will lead to the source of these rogues and I've dispatched my best agent. The rebel movement will be silenced. The breaches will be filled."
Lambert studied Wesley for a moment, then nodded once. "I should hope so," he turned to the other advisors. "What's the response from the Russians and the Chinese?"
"The same as it's always been when it comes to putting down insurrections," one advisor replied. "Swift and violent suppression combined with controlled net blackouts. That's just on Earth."
"Arcadia's borders remain open for now, but if the Iron Curtain closes and if this android migrant situation worsens, they will have nowhere else to go but here," another advisor said. "We need to raise our alert status."
Lambert sighed and leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling with his hands behinds his head. "Maybe we should bring this to Uncle SAM's attention," he said. "After all, who better to address an issue with synthetic beings other than an AI? What's the status on his patch? Is he ready to be brought online yet?"
Uncle SAM – Smart Autonomous Machine – was the artificial intelligence that oversaw Port Armstrong, managing everything from life support systems, energy generation, construction and maintenance, information technology networks, and soon, security and defense. He had managed the lunar colony ever since his creation in 2003, nearly a hundred years ago.
"Our net engineers tell us he's still a week away from being reactivated," an advisor replied.
"Wes, what are your thoughts on the matter?" Lambert asked.
Everyone turned towards Wesley, already anticipating the verbal flak.
"You know how I feel about synthetics," Wesley said. "Removing human decisions from strategic defense and handing it over to a military AI that could learn at a geometric rate is a recipe for disaster. Especially in light of everything happening on Earth, and this is the route you want to take? You'll be repeating the collapse all over again, only this time, the nukes won't be coming from the Soviets."
Lambert smiled that fake smile again in amusement. "Awful ironic, coming from someone who created androids specifically to kill androids," he stood up and started pacing around the table. "It wasn't synthetics that led to the Cold War. Remember Cuba back in '62? Or how about Vietnam in '65? Those were human errors, and it was human errors that eventually led to the resource wars, to the collapse, and to us living on this gray rock in an underground bunker a mile deep now."
"I created the adjudicators to fight fire with fire, nothing more. They are a tool, built to obey. Not to learn, not to make any decisions for themselves," Wesley glared at Lambert, unflinching. "You're making a mistake."
"No, I'm removing the potential of making any more mistakes," Lambert stopped at the opposite end and placed his palms flat against the table. "Very soon, the choice won't have to be ours anymore, it'll be Uncle SAM's. He's never led us wrong once and he's always had America's best interests at heart. Well, his mind, I suppose, because he doesn't exactly have a heart," he chuckled. "Which is the most important thing. No heart, no emotions, no conflicts. Just cold, hard, pure, objective logic. That's the kind of mind we need."
Everyone in the room was silent, glancing back and forth between Lambert and Wesley.
"The greatest weakness of any system is never the software, never the hardware," Lambert continued. "It's the human element. It's unsustainable. Hell, just last month I finally had my liver replaced before the tumor got any bigger. Took over half a century and three different kinds of cancer, but I'm nearly all plastic parts now. Only thing left of me is my brain, and I know it's well past the sell-by date."
"The reason we survived the collapse is that we built walls," Wesley stood up, squaring off with Lambert at the other end of the table. "We got off-world, we drew a line between the New United States and the Soviets. A line between man and machine. We stand at the top of that wall because there is an order to things that must be upheld. Separation of kinds. You tell either side there's no wall, or worse, you invite a synthetic being to stand on top with us, you've bought a war. Or a slaughter."
The advisors remained silent, Lambert included, though his expression had turned to stone.
"The torch of our evolution has always been carried by our best and brightest" Wesley continued his impassioned tirade. "Look at yourselves. You're all still alive because of what my company has done for you. Lab-grown organ replacements, age-reversing cyberware, and yet, you can still call yourselves human. That's what I'm working to ensure the survival of. The human race."
Lambert raised his hands and applauded slowly. "Now that was the most compelling argument I've ever heard from someone who wasn't a career politician," he laughed. "You really should consider running for office."
"Is this all just a game to you?"
"I've been president for a hundred and twenty-seven years. As fun as it's been, I'd like to retire sometime. If Uncle SAM wants to run the show for a while, well, that'd be fine by me."
Wesley shook his head in disgust and disbelief, and without another word, he stalked out of the meeting room.