+J.M.J.+

The Eyes Have It

A Minority Report/"A.I." crossover

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

This was going to be a much longer chapter, but I thought I'd divide it into two sections, keep you all in suspense. I had to alter the events/dialogue of "A.I." slightly to get this to work, but I think my fellow Mecha-huggers can forgive me for it. Things really start to move from now on….

Disclaimer:

See the Prologue

Chapter V: Glass Eyes

"Any luck at the Flesh Fair?" Anderton asked Fletcher the next morning. "Or is that a dumb question?"

"Yeah, you'd have heard from me a lot sooner if I'd lucked out," Fletcher said.

"What's this about now, Sherlock?" Stuyvesant asked, approaching them.

"We're only trying to cover all bases: I've been covering the Flesh Fair, in case they should pick up the lover model and the
Cybertronics kid," Fletcher explained.

Stuyvesant glared up at Anderton. "And this was your idea?"

"Yes," Anderton replied.

"What the h—l you tryin' to do, get yourself a promotion? Yer not gonna get my recommendation. And don't you start defendin' him, Fletch," Stuyvesant snapped. "You want that Mecha so bad, you go out an' comb the woods for it yerself."

"I had that in mind as well," Anderton replied.

Stuyvesant growled and stomped away to his office.

That morning, Anderton, Fletcher and a few others joined a search party still scouring the woods, looking for the David model. A few techs from Cybertronics had joined the search, as well as the Swintons, the young couple who had been testing the child-Mecha. The woods between Haddonfield and Barn Creek resounded with cries from the searchers: "David! You can come out now! We won't hurt you!" and "Hey, Joe, where'd you go?"

About one in the afternoon, the searchers paused for a rest and for the sandwiches and coffee which several members of a local church had brought to their field headquarters. Anderton caught up with the Swintons, whom he found sitting on a fallen tree trunk. The wife, a quietly pretty, dark woman in her early thirties, was having a hard time eating; her husband, an average-looking guy with slightly wavy dishwater blond hair, a shade older than his wife, kept coaxing her to eat.

"I just can't stop thinking about David," she said, trying not to sob. "It was cold last night. Will he be all right?"

"Of course. David was designed to take the cold better than a real child," the husband said. From his tone, he sounded like he was some kind of expert on Mechas.

"He IS a real child," the wife insisted. "He's just…different inside."

"David's a Mecha."

"He's no different than you or I, except for what he's made of."

"Monica, you're creating a scene."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to overhear," Anderton interjected. The husband looked embarrassed. The wife, Monica, dropped her gaze.

"Hey, it's all right," Anderton said. "You're under a lot of stress right now. I know what you're going through."

Monica raised her eyes to his. "Do you? Have you ever lost a child?"

Swinton started to object, but Anderton caught his eye.

"I have. I lost my son Sean when he was five. We were at a public pool, boys' day out. He was out of my sight for just a second. Then he was gone, just gone. My wife blamed me for it. Then as time went on and we didn't hear from missing persons, she wanted to move on, get another license, have another child. But I held back. I wanted to find Sean first. It tore us apart. We're back together now, and we have a daughter now, but getting back to semi-normal wasn't easy. Sean would be twelve now, and we still have no idea what happened to him. But we still have each other. Don't let go; it's gonna be hard, but don't let go.

"My name's Anderton: I'm with homicide."

Monica's face went pale. "Homicide?"

"Yeah, I'm covering the murder of Samantha Bevins."

"Do you think…that Mecha did that?" she asked.

"We have reasons to believe that Mecha is innocent. David won't be in any harm from it."

Anderton started to step away. "Thanks, thanks for talking with us," Swinton said, offering his hand. Anderton shook it; Monica gave him a thin smile, but kept her hands hidden in her elbows.

The search parties came up empty-handed, except for a secretary Mecha that had gone astray. But they found no trace of David or of Joe.

Anderton went home to have a quick supper with his family. He found Agnes curled up in Agatha's lap as the older girl sat on the floor of the kitchen.

"Any luck finding the strays?" Lara asked him as he came in.

"No, 'fraid not," Anderton admitted.

Just after supper as he was helping Lara clear the table, Anderton's cellphone rang.

"Hey, Jack, you're gonna like to hear this," Fletcher's voice said over noisy music and a roaring crowd.

"Fletcher, where in heck are you?" Anderton asked.

"In my now usual seat at the Flesh Fair. I just snuck down to the pen: there's something in there that looks a lot like Joe, unless it's his brother, and there's a kid in there, too."

"Good God…have you called in a back up unit?"

"I'm gonna, just as soon as I get off here?"

"All right, I'm coming over." He hung up.

"Who was that?" Lara asked.

"That was Fletcher. "He's seen the two Mechas we're looking for," he said, going for his jacket. Lara caught his arm and hugged him.

"Take care of yourself, John," she said, and kissed him.

"I will," he promised as they let each other go.

"Anderton?" Agatha said. "I want to come."

He weighed the matter for half a second. "You can't come, it's too dangerous."

"You will need me."

"There could be trouble."

"You were in danger in Washington. I helped you then. I can help now."

"All right, but stay in the car, out of sight, understand?"

"I understand."

As they sped along the road to the fairgrounds, Anderton couldn't help remembering the rescues he'd made in Pre-Crime, the adrenalin rush of dashing to the scene of crime about to happen, of stopping someone in the very act of killing their spouse or their lover…or their child. Having Agatha so close only heightened the effect.

Agatha stayed put just as he had told her, for most of the way, but when they were almost there, Anderton heard her move behind him, on the floor.

"Anderton?"

"What?"

"When you get the young metal-man and the boy free, don't let them flee to the woods," she said.

"I won't. That's why I had Fletcher call in the back up." 

The festivities were just getting underway when Anderton arrived at the gates to the fairground, meeting up with the back up unit.

"I'm going in there first. This could take some time, so stand by until further notice," Anderton said, informing the two men and two women who comprised the back up.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Jack," one of the men, Castlebaum, said.

Anderton went in, alone, by the front gates. A ticket-seller, a beady-eyed slightly hard-bitten looking woman in a sweatshirt and baseball cap bearing the Flesh Fair logo, tried to stop him, but he held up his badge and ID. She stepped aside and let him in with a nervous smile as humorous as a skull's.

He quick-walked to the bleachers, scanning the screaming, rag-tag crowd that packed the tiers of seats, looking for Fletcher. He finally spotted his partner on the top row, close to the pen at the head of the ring. He climbed the steps of the section where he was, then stepped along the tier, trying not to step on anyone. He wedged himself in between Fletcher and a bulky teenager in a black tee shirt.

"Thank God you're here!" Fletcher yelled above the din, the crowd yammering and screaming, the heavy metal band on the staging directly above the pen blasting out an incoherent anthem. A motor roared in the middle of the ring as a leather-clad goon on a wolf-headed ATV, armed with a chainsaw plowed full tilt at a battered serving Mecha which stood chained to a block in the center of the ring. At the last second, the goon swerved the bike and sliced the Mecha in two at the waist. Sparks flew up amid spraying lubricants.

Anderton looked away, into the pen. He noticed several shadowy forms, a few closer to the bars of the pen more clearly visible. Then a spotlight panned over the front of the pen, flashing off the too-polished dermis and shiny eyes of three or four Mechas, including a tall, dark figure clad in lustrous black gone slightly iridescent under the madly flashing carnival lighting. It was looking away, at something small beside it, but it looked up. Black hair, and the eyes might be green…if it wasn't the long-lost Joe, it sure looked like him.

A younger man in a gray flannel shirt and jeans approached the cage and let himself in, armed with a scanner. Anderton couldn't make out what was going on, the spotlight had moved. A moment later, the tech came out, walking a little quicker, and went away.

The blowsy teenager with the orange hair, now clad in a blue sequined halter-top with white fringe falling past her red satin hot pants, came out, haranguing the crowd, stirring them up. She sounded like some insane cross between a cheerleader and Adolf Hitler. The tech, or whatever he was, came back a moment later, Johnson at his heels; they went into the cage, where Anderton made out their forms, moving about the small figure next to Joe.

A moment later, the cage door opened again. Johnson emerged, dragging out an eleven-year old boy—or at least, that's what it looked like until the light caught on his (its?) glossy skin. The boy clung to the other Mecha's hands, even as the dark young figure tried to peel him off, but Johnson dragged them both into the ring, into the spotlights.

Good God, they had Joe.

"Looks like they got our missing Mechas…plural," Fletcher said, as the crowd started to die down.

"Give 'em a minute," Anderton said, reaching for his two-way radio transmitter. "Castlebaum, move the escort into the perimeter. Get ready to receive."

Johnson and his cortege had reached the center of the ring, to a carnival bag-toss device. Two beefy ring goons chained the two Mechas to the middle of it. The taller Mecha, definitely Joe, slipped its arms protectingly about the smaller one, David. The child clung to his companion's arms as if for dear life, his too-bright eyes wide in fright, darting about the ring. For a moment, Anderton thought of Sean.

"Ladies and Gentlemun! Boys and Gerls and childthren of awl ages!" Johnson's throaty voice boomed over the loudspeakers. The crowd had gone almost deathly quiet. The teenaged girl in front of Anderton let out a whimper of fright.

"What'll they think awv next?" Johnson continued, gesticulating toward his two captives, their images amplified on the widescreens above the stands.

"See here," he said, gesturing at David, as he circled the platform. "A bitty bot! A tinker toy! A living doll! We all know why they made them: to shteal yer harts! To r'place yer awn childthren. This is the latest generation in a series of insults to human dignity. The next step in their grand scheme to phase out awl of God's little childthren. To make us awbsolete."

With men like Bevins and Johnson, it might not be so bad if part of Orgakind was obsolete, Anderton thought, sourly.

"Anderton," Fletcher hissed, just above the murmurs of the audience.

"Not now."

As Johnson continued his harangue, several of the ring goons brought in several buckets of steaming acid.

"Meet the next generation of choild, designed to do just thaht! Behold the newest and most insidious threat to Orgakind!

"Do not be fooled by the artistry of this creation. No doubt thar was talent…genuine human talent…in the crafting of this simulator."

One goon had climbed the ladder behind the bag toss, while another, on the ground, handed him up one of the buckets of acid.

"Yet with the very first strike, you well see the big LIE come apahrt!" Johnson boomed.

"Now, Anderton, dammit! NOW!" Fletcher hissed.

"One second more," Anderton said, Agatha's dream playing in his head.

"And it is not alone…with it comes yet anuther insult to mankind…mankind of flesh, and blood and bone…a metal love-god, a masculine form divoine…meant to shteal the harts awv yer woives and yer gerls, lurin' them away, a prostitute selling itself to this one, now to that one. But as you know, it was such a craithure as this that horribly mawled the dahghther of a prominent local citizen, leaving this gerl in a state nawt fit to descroibe befar a fam'ly awdience."

"Family audience be damned," Fletcher growled.

The goons had filled the buckets above the Mechas heads. Some of the acid dripped down, hitting the sleeve of Joe's jacket.

"Don't burn me! Don't burn me!!" the boy-Mecha shrieked. "I'm not Pinocchio! Don't make me die! I'm David! I'M DAVID!"

The crowd's murmurs grew louder, more agitated. "That thing is alive!"—"That's not a Mecha!"—"Let 'em go, Johnson!" one woman shouted, "Mecha don't plead for their lives! Whose child is that?"

Fletcher started to bound down the bleachers, but Anderton grabbed him by the back of his neck, pulling him back.

"Let me handle it! Follow me!" he snarled.

"I'm David! I have a Mommy!" the child screamed.

"It's built just like a boy to disarm us," Johnson interposed. "See how they imitate our emotions now." The showman stopped and picked up something on the ground. "Remember that no matter what perfarmance this sim puts on, that we are only demolishing artificiality." He held up the object he'd plucked from the ground. A red beanbag.

"Let him who is without sim…cast the first stone." With that, Johnson stepped to one side.

A pause. Anderton took his chance and started down to the field. As he and Fletcher hit the ground,something whizzed past their heads. A beanbag. Anderton watched it reach its target…

It missed the bagtoss completely, hitting Johnson on the forehead. Another clipped him on the nose. A third hit him in the gut.

Beanbags, cups and other things rained down on Johnson. The crowd, probably mistaking Anderton and Fletcher for their own kind, freed form the delusion, rushed the field. In the melee, Fletcher got knocked down. Anderton threw himself over his partner, covering him, keeping him from getting trampled.

"Castlebaum, call in the riot squad! They're tearing this place apart!" he shouted into his transmitter.

Anderton looked up to see the tech and the ring goons unchaining the two Mechas. Freed, the two fled the ring, heading for the west entrance, out through the gate, towards the woods. Anderton helping Fletcher up first, they ran after them. But though both men were in top condition—even Anderton, who was just past forty that year—they couldn't match speed with two things that couldn't tire.

The two Mechas, the boy and the young man, vanished into the shadows of the woods. From the look of things, if they kept up that pace, those bots would soon reach the New Jersey Turnpike on the other side.

"Well, Sherlock, now what do we do?" Fletcher asked, as they turned back.

"Let's go back to the car, first," Anderton said.

Inside the car, Anderton leaned back in the driver's seat, trying to refocus from the disappointment trying to distract him.

Without raising her head, Agatha peered out between the front seats.

Fletcher, glancing back, jolted at the sight of her. "Jack, we got a stowaway."

"I know, she's the famous Agatha Lively I've told you about," Anderton said, welcoming the distraction. "Agatha, this is a friend of mine. This is Carton Fletcher."

"Hello, Carton," she said.

"Hi. Uh…wow…you mean she's—I mean, you're, y' know, uh…" To Anderton, he hissed, "Ees-shay one of the ee-pray og-kays."

"Yeah, and don't let Stuyvesant know she's even in American airspace, or we'll both be facing suspensions."

"Does she know about…the Bevins case?"

"She's seen the whole thing."

"Wow." After a pause, he asked, "Okay, now where are we going and what are we doing?"

"I'm just figuring that out," Anderton said. "If you were a lover-Mecha on the lam, where would you go?"

"I dunno, some place where there's a lot of other lover-Mechas and do the needle-in-the-haystack thing," Fletcher said.

"And what's the closest place like that, besides that street, because you're avoiding it since that's where all this bad trouble started in the first place?"

"That would have to be…Rouge City."

"That's what I had in mind. Okay, we got our majority report…Agatha, do you know anything?"

Agatha was quiet. "They run through a woods. They come to a road. The young metal man finds a car stopped by the roadside. He tells the boys who own the car where they can find girls of the same composition as he, that he and his companion, the boy, need conveyance there. They drive up a road to a bridge that enters a statue-woman's mouth."

"It's unanimous," Anderton said, starting the cruiser. "We're going to the last city your mama wants to hear you've been to, Fletch. And if she complains, tell her you went only to answer the call of service."

"Better put my libido on standby," Fletcher said.

As they started to pull out, something darted in front of them. Anderton stamped on the brake.

Someone knocked on the window. Anderton hit the power button for it.

The Weegee Wannabe stuck his thin, weaselly face in at them. "Look where you're going next time!" the short guy snapped.

"I'm sorry, you rushed by so—" The short guy stormed away before Anderton could finish his apology.

"I'm sure of it: that guy is spying on us," Fletcher said. "I don't care what you say."

"I'm beginning to think he is," Anderton said. "Agatha, do you know?"

Agatha said nothing as they pulled out of the fairgrounds onto the route. Then she spoke. "He is going to see the older man who accused the young metal man."

"Frazer Bevins," Anderton muttered, as they pulled onto the exit for the New Jersey Turnpike.

To be continued…