IRON MAN 29: TAINTED CIRCUITS
Part Four of an Iron Man FanFiction Saga
By Neil Allfather Nitz Kapit
Special Thanks to Zach Couture

You don't happen to have any experience in physical therapy, do you, Doctor?

My area of study is devoted mainly to what goes on above the neck, Tony.

Pity. Parnell Jacobs would need some of that.

Out of a deep pocket in the thick brown trenchcoat he so often wore, Anthony Stark removed a small photograph and handed it to his therapist, Doctor Leonard Samson. Brushing off pieces of lint, Samson squinted as he looked at the picture. It did not look very significant at first; the photo just depicted a man. It was a handsome man, African American, in his mid-thirties, lean and muscular-- and in a wheelchair. His calves and feet dangled impotently from the edge of the chair, his hands fastened themselves to the mauve armrests, and it seemed as though the man was paraplegic. And, from his facial expression, either did not enjoy his condition, felt like puking, or both.

As Samson raised one eyebrow at the photo, Tony Stark continued speaking, a hollow chuckle in his tone. Remember when I mentioned in the last session, Doctor, that my Iron Man armor's programming advanced beyond my control, and started whaling on Parnell, acting beyond my control? Well, this is what happened to the poor bastard. The program didn't terminate until I ended up punching him right in his bare, unprotected, abdominal region. Ended up severing his spine.

Behind his glasses, Samson's normally passive eyes widened, as he dropped his thick notepad on the floor. SEVERED? Please tell me you're exaggerating.....

I wish, Stark replied, tilting back a bit in his chair, staring at the ceiling. I had to manually shut off some switches inside the mask with my TEETH to stop the program, and by the time I totally shut down the armor, my hand was stuck inside his abdominals, with one of the fingers having accidentally squashed a spinal disc, and pieces of intestine and stomach parted to the sides. The people at the K-Mart parking lot got to see the world's greatest superhero mortally wounding a foe, standing in a statuesque pose with vital fluids staining his gleaming armor......an awkward moment, to say the least.

Samson reached his muscular arm torwards the ground, grasping the fallen notepad. The yellow striped sheets were almost completely filled, and fifty-three of the seventy sheets were heavily scribed on both sides with stated facts circled and connected to elaborate psychological phrases. He figured that the remaining thirteen pages would last ten minutes, at the very least.

But it was infinitely worse for Parnell. I had just accidentally excavated a large portion of his torso, and his life was soon to end. I couldn't piece him back together myself, and every second his grip on the living world grew shakier. I had to risk reactivating the armor, and hoping that I could maintain manual control.

Fortunately, when I switched the power cells back on, the armor listened to every one of my thoughts as gospel, and I managed to save Parnell's life. I checked the databanks for a list of the nearest medical facilities in the area, and cradling Parnell's wounded body in my arms, I activated the boot jets and flew towards a local hospital, keeping a forcefield tightly around the armor and Parnell to keep the winds from forcing anything looser. The staff didn't ask questions, despite their bewilderment.....they just cleared a path, with dropping jaws, as I rushed to the ER, with all emergency beacons on the armor flashing to draw attention to myself. I successfully got Parnell to safety; top-class surgery and a few mandrill digestive organs to replace the ones staining my armor accomplished the rest. All covered courtesy of the old Stark wallet.

Of course, contrary to popular belief, money only goes so far. I still had to explain to a battery of K-Mart shoppers what Iron Man was doing in a parking lot beating someone half to death, to the local authorities how that indeed was not assault and battery, and worst of all, I had to explain this to Mrs. Glenda Jacobs.

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Mrs. Jacobs, Iron Man has told me that his armor was under outside influence. We're looking into it at this moment......
Yes, we're all sorry that Parnell was so badly hurt, but he'd been causing Iron Man and I problems, and we had to stop him. Iron Man never intended to.....
No, I really DON'T know if he'll ever walk again, GLENDA. I've spent nearly a million dollars paying for his surgery, getting the replacement organs for the ones Iron Man accidentally.....
Keep in mind, Glenda, that your husband is a mercenary and a wanted criminal. If you and Parnell try to sue me, I can find some MUCH more incriminating evidence......
Please, emotions are running high now, but those words aren't helping.....
Hello? Hello?
Glenda?

So much for any personal consolations. I tried giving Glenda a personal call-- handle the situation myself, show that I was concerned enough NOT to just get some hired, Armani-clad scum to do it -- but it didn't help her deal with the fact that her husband was now paraplegic anymore than the extensive donations and silence did. It definitely did not help ME, either.

I was sitting by the northeast window of one of Stark House's loft, staring at the gray skies and torrential rains outside as I held the unhooked phone in my hands, listening to the annoying buzz. I was disconnected from the machine......just like my armor. What could I have done wrong? I had limited experience with such complicated machinery, even of my own design-- but just because I had difficulties with the armor does not excuse nearly MURDERING War Machine. Years of piloting different armors, and I had managed to avoid the mistake of using limbs with the force of a bulldozer on human flesh....what could have happened now? Some form of outer influence, some brilliant bastard with a secret lab and a hidden grudge? Or worse?

Remind me what the hell you were doing?

Fortunately, Jim Rhodes was there behind me, staring at me from the doorway to the rest of my abode, to interrupt my brooding.

I TOLD you, Jim. I have no idea what the hell went wrong. A malfunction of unknown origin, I assume.

Malfunctions? Dammit, Tony, I don't think malfunctions mean cutting the poor guy in HALF...

I was starting to get angry at this point, my face reddening over the accusations that mirrored my own self-doubts. Parnell Jacobs is a murderer and a thief, Rhodey. He's hardly POOR....

Rhodey looked down at the floor, synthetic fibers resembling carpeting that were kept clean by transferring currents. He didn't used to be. I know you know him as War Machine, the guy in that damned gun-laden body condom, but he was a lot more before then. He was one of my best friends.....loyal, brave, resourceful, and one hell of a shot. He'd been going over the edge for some time, gettin' obsessive and ruthless, an' it only got worse when he found the suit.....

He snapped up towards me, and gave me a dirty look. Sound familiar?

An awkward pause followed, as I set down the off-the-hook phone, my hands shaking. If Rhodey was comparing me to Parnell-- the heartless mercenary who'd gun down anything in his way with MY weapons-- that was just below the transistorized belt. I would have responded with a snappy comeback or a sharp slap, but I had other concerns, and after all, to a point he was right.....

 Would you like to discuss that? Samson said, reaching his hand out towards Anthony Stark. It seems you have a very poor image of yourself...

I haven't explained all of WHY yet, Doctor. Not by a longshot.

So, after the lengthy, awkward pause with both of us looking at each other with dubious glowers, Rhodey eventually decided to let it go, and asked peacefully, So what do you plan t' do now?

Oh? I said, swiveling myself around. Inspect the armor thoroughly. Find whoever caused the problems and stop them. Pass it off to the public as Iron Man gone nuts , and hire a new Iron Man.

Again, you mean. Jim said with a raised eyebrow.

Yes, I said, walking towards one of the walls, and releasing a series of blinks. These blinks were an activation code for the retinal scanners, and a section of the wall retracted into the ceiling, to reveal a metal tube connected to the elevator. I started to walk away from Rhodey, and into the tube.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a date with a cold, hard, mistress....

Jim Rhodes gave me a funny look, as I passed through the floor. He had one eyebrow raised, and one eye squinted, with his hands folded together dominantly. Rhodey was a very resourceful man, in his roles as pilot, soldier, and even as Iron Man-- he could tell when something was amiss. Which was what I would need....

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It was a nice date, unfortunately interrupted. Alone in the laboratory, with my mistress Jocasta. Beautiful candle lights humming in the ceiling and across the control panels, reflected off the smooth chromium machines. And a nice seat in the control booth, staring Jocasta straight in her pixelated eyes. Both of us had gotten prepared, me in my monogrammed bathrobe, and her programming recently debugged. Drinks were readied, with me having a smooth glass of non-alcoholic ginger, and Jocasta's monitor body drinking from the lab's central reactor. And in the meantime, to the diagonal right side of the booth, the main course lay floating inside several different magnetic chambers, the different portions of armor all seperated for detailed analysis, and preparation. I can't speak for my AI operating system, but I was enjoying the electronic ambiance. Of course, I wasn't in this for the romance.

Jocasta; full diagnostic I said rather dryly, pushing my drink to the side. Scan every layer of Iron Man Model XX to the nearest micron. Run full diagnostic/debugging of headpiece memory banks. Search for any outside influence.

Acknowledged, Tony. Your need for control remains a virtue, She smiled, the pixels on her mouth rearranging. Please wait.....

Her face started flashing from blue to red, with a small horizontal bar moving across the screen. Five minutes total, longer than the three minutes a full diagnostic of the armor usually took. The extra one-hundred and twenty seconds were one-hundred and ninteen too long for me, so I finished my drink as I looked at the Iron Man components suspended in chambers like pickled laboratory specimens. To anyone else with the rare privilege of glimpsing at these machines, that wouldn't be so remarkable, but to me, the armor looked like a sick friend. A sick, dismembered friend.

Eventually, amidst my morbid thoughts, my irritation ended when the monitor stopped flashing and Jocasta's face returned to the screen. However, she was no longer smiling. Her face was totally blank, without any hint of humanity whatsoever; all semi-human muscles straightened flat. Normally she'd have a smile, a frown, a suggestively raised eyebrow, anything; now, nothing. Nothing.

You.....recall.....that there were foreign lines of code displayed on the armor's HUD, yes?

I know THAT, I said, getting irritated enough that my fingers were starting to claw into my chair's armrests. Now, do you know WHO put those codes there? Who was controlling MY armor from the outside?

Not outside.....INSIDE.

I raised an eyebrow, taking another swig of ginger ale. My voice echoed through the shot glass; Could you please be any MORE cryptic?

As you know, Tony, you have voraciously improved your armor over the past few months. You have taken the concept of the somatic combat vehicle to its limits and beyond.....you have not only increased the power of its weapons, but the versatility of its programming.....its mind.

I started to put down my glass, reaching for the motorized stand which would hold my drinks. I'd prefer flattery another time. What does this mean?

Jocasta started to frown, her face finally changing from total monotony. Your programming has gained the ability to develop itself; to improve upon any area of weakness that it sees. If it senses anything illogical, the collective of codes will reproduce itself, adding something new to its memory banks. Those memory banks include all the experiences it has had in its existence, and all of the experiences it has scanned from its owner's mind.

Even as we speak, as the armor is in stasis and under our physical control, it is alert. It is analyzing every condition of the lab it inhabits-- its current position, the magnetic generators holding its components in place, and every last part of the lab, including both you and I. It takes the detailed analyses, taken from the sensory web on its shell, and decides what to do with them. Your armor is independently THINKING.

I froze straight, with my brow stretched vertically, and my hand clutching the shot glass hard enough to have glass rubbing bone. It's ALIVE.

Dr. Samson mimicked Tony's condition, except with a little more care with his hands, careful not to break his notepad and fountain pen with his gamma-irradiated muscles. Hold the phone. From your programming, you accidentally created LIFE?

I've created AI beings before, Doctor. I have experience with living machines. But this was by accident. Without even knowing it, I'd made a living being from a piece of metal and silicon. My machines had advanced beyond me.

Jocasta continued on. The armor's components are secured, and it is under my control. Given this turn of events, I would reccomend that you.....

.... delete it.

I stood up from my chair, turned my head one towards the floating armor at my side, and then towards Jocasta's monitor. Delete all programming in the Iron Man armor. Erase every binary bit, and disassemble the armor. We'll start over with a new armor with redundancy circuits...

Her brow lowered, and her lips tucked in. Her face shook a bit, and then she finally said, Negative.

Excuse me?

I said Negative, She said with a hint of irritation in her calm, metallic tone. This armor--this being is alive. Perhaps it is a living being composed of metal, not meat-- but it is alive nonetheless. You plan to execute it. I cannot allow you to breach your OWN code of ethics.

I gritted my teeth, and then pointed a finger towards her LCD visage. This...this thing damned near KILLED a man, Jocasta. I think the rules are a little different.

She remained unamused. It was acting to defend you. A means without proper guidance in human law, perhaps, but the intent was noble regardless. Parnell Jacobs had attacked, and nearly killed you. Have your burns healed yet, Tony?

Placing one hand on my abdomen, I still felt a bit of heat, and a bit of discomfort. NOT as bad as, say, having a metal fist burst through the skin, but the memories were still there. I paused, looking at my reflection in the ginger ale. Having another sip to douse the mental fires, I closed my eyes for a bit, lowering my head, and raised again, to say, I'm sorry, Jocasta, but I can't take chances with something so dangerous. My mind is made up, and you're going to have to delete it.

Jocasta's expression returned to the disturbingly neutral configuration. A pity that you do not agree. I am trying to do what is best for you. For you.....and the world.

Her voice had changed in the last three words. Normally Jocasta had a standard, sweet, female voice; now, her voice was deeper, even more metallic, and grim. Now it was an imposing robotic voice, with the intimidating, flat tone of all the robots and cyborgs from pop culture, from Gort to Vader to Terminator. I should know: That's how I designed it. Iron Man's voice modulator.

Something's wrong, I shouted, getting ready to run. Armor, C-01!

The activation code would normally cause the armor to compact its components into a thick ball, fly towards me, and expand itself over my skin. But as I ran back down the steps to the control booth, and towards the magnetic generators, I noticed that they were all deactivated. Totally vacant, no energy flowing; just empty tubes, dark blue with no lighting.

 I am positioned behind you.

Turning around 180 degrees, still grasping my shot glass for some reason, there was nothing. Then, the pieces of the armor moved through the air, propelling themselves via magnetic repulsion. They snapped together, helmet, chestplate, and limbs, and flashed with energy. Then, the complete armor lowered itself.

Greetings, the armor stated, standing completely steady without even a hint of twitching. I am designate Iron Man Model XX Mark II. I have existed for weeks in silence, monitoring your experiences, and reading the data within your memory. I have seen the sum of your existence's works....and have decided that a few CHANGES must be made.

The eyepieces glowed green once, and the armor raised its crimson-and-gold limbs, and its palm repulsor units started to hum softly with energy, building up ambient power. Within a second, I gulped down the remainder of my ginger ale, and tossed the shot glass aside. Before the horrors I endured next, my last thought was that I wished the ginger ale was the real thing.

 Just thinking about that, Stark tersely admitted as he covered his eyes with his hand, makes me very, very thirsty.

TO BE CONTINUED......