Schematic of Terror
a weekly serial by
Bryan Harrison
utilizing the environment and
character concepts established in the
Stephen Spielberg
film
Artificial Intelligence.


Chapter 4
Terra Unfamilia

-1-

Rachman froze when he heard a desperate call from behind him. He had been arguing with Linda about something, but her words quickly fizzled out, shrinking into white noise, indecipherable in the darkness that suddenly enveloped him. He turned away from that forgotten debate to search for the source of the cry. From the edge of a ragged and moaning landscape he heard the sound again. It was Massud calling! Rachman jumped up from his desk and over the balcony's edge, leaving Linda to fade behind him with the little dark haired figure at her side. His feet fell hard on concrete, then dirt, then something that shifted, wet and hot beneath him. He fought to keep balance but fell into the mess, which was suddenly blood red and stinking of burning metal and putrefied flesh. Fire rose from the ground to greet him in a flare of agonizing pain.

"Rachman!"

Rachmann rose from the grasp of the flame and the world corrected itself.

"Rachman!"

He shifted his confused gaze and the fire morphed slowly into a feminine form. Linda. He was in the study.

"Fuck!" he spat, forcing himself up in the chair. The disturbing remnants of his dream still gripped the edges of his consciousness. "Oh, damn. I just had a dream… a nightmare. Damn."

"Do you need to talk like that around the child?"

Rachman took a moment to grasp her meaning. Then he he sighed. An immediate response came to mind but he had learned the art of discretion, at least in regards to his wife. "Well…" he started. But he didn't finish. He didn't know what to say.

"Around me?" she added.

"Oh, yeah, well… " he started again, not yet having the clarity of mind to make an appropriate apology. He wasn't good at those anyway. "I … had other things on my mind."

"And your message was not very well received, Rachman." Linda stepped into the room and the light revealed the tightness in her face. Her slim features belied her age, but her anger was well represented. "Why did you bring her here, Rachman?"

He raised an eyebrow and shrugged a response.

"Allison," she explained. "If all you are going to do is treat her like a damn inconvenience then why did you bring her here at all?"

"She was for you," he said, dismissing the question with a wave of his hand. "Not in the mood for this now," he muttered. But she didn't seem to hear.

"Then every time you disrespect her, you disrespect me."

Rachman gazed at his wife intensely for a moment. A thousand angry retorts passed through his mind, but were discarded. They had once loved one another. Somewhere, deep inside, the remains of that love still simmered, he supposed. Her lips, now pursed in anger, were the same ones he had lived only to kiss so many years ago. Decades. Her piercing eyes had once looked on him with tenderness. He softened and fell back into the chair, feeling genuinely tired for the first time in long time.

"Massud Ramad was killed in an accident," he explained slowly. "I think I know who was involved but I'm a 'desk' now; another fat man in the office. I am out of the loop."

Linda snorted and shook her head. She'd seen this self-pity game before. "So this circumstance allows you to send Allison to me with these dirty, unnecessary words?"

"She's a damn toy, Linda!" he yelled, unable stop himself. The response came from somewhere inside, where this argument had been fought too long in solitude. "It's a fuc… a robot! Dammit! Why can't you see that? Why can't you…" He stopped there, finally managing to cap the stream of his frustration.

"Don't you dare insult me!" Linda responded. "You think I don't know that?" She stepped inside the study and slammed the door behind. "How dare you yell those words," she continued in a hushed tone, "What does it matter if she is flesh or not? She feels the sting of your words the same!"

"Ohhh… not now!" Rachman groaned and waved her away. "Don't I have enough to think about already without worrying about the fucking Mecha?"

"I will not allow you to denigrate her, Rachamn. Nor will I allow you to take me down whatever disintegrating path you have chosen to follow! This is still our house and as long as we share it you will respect…"

She was interrupted by a business-like, feminine voice. "Incoming Message" it said. "Would you care to hear or read this message from Department of …"

"Wait!" Rachman ordered. The house system paused. He thrust his finger up to silence his wife. "You are not the only one who deserves respect, Linda. I've got too much gong on to get wrapped up in your damed obsessions. I do not want that … I do not want Allison in my study anymore! And if you do not want her exposed to my damned language then keep her the hell away from my workplace. Now, I have business to attend to."

Linda stood her ground for a hot moment, but then surrendered in a simmering exit. The phone call she'd meant to mention, the one from Harland Grainer. the central focus of Ranchman's investigation as well as his natural enemy, was forgotten… or perhaps omitted. Later, she would not be sure.

"Read to me, " Rachman ordered his net-home module.

"Received today, 8:15 am, source: Department of Transportation Crash Investigation Home, general query box. Message: Please respond to attached address with a secure voice link. Any query to this address will be ignored."

Rachman felt a surge of excitement. It had obviously been sent from the general query box in order to avoid scrutiny. Too much traffic the keep an eye on there. This must be what he was waiting for.

"Respond to the attached address with a secured link to my personal vocal interface," Rachman ordered. Then he sat back, resigned to waiting some more.

-2-

The thing that made Julie scream had been lying in the brush on the outskirts of the security fence that ran the length of her upper class neighborhood. She often took long walks here during the daytime, when it was generally safe for solitary excursions. The path wound around the perimeter of her security dwelling and down along the northern border of an old restricted field with burnt out piping protruding from its center; then came back to the main gate off the Kings Highway bypass.

She was at the back end of the private road, just across from closed field when she saw the thing. It must have been an old broken robot, she'd decided. The unlicensed ones were known to hide in the forest. The vags that also lived in the forest, and were the main reason for the intense security measures, were known to use the abandoned bots for a while and then discard them when they became too decrepit for use. They were usually pretty old models and their 'skin' was usually worn and missing in places. Curious, she walked from the trail to see what kind of robot it had been.

The runaways were usually higher-function robots with enhanced personality traits: nurses, butlers, even gigolos. It was their complex initiative motivators and requisite survival programming that made them occasionally go rogue. But this one didn't look that old, she realized, as she got closer. She stepped off the side of the road and parted the brush to get a better look.

Then she saw the swastika inked in the thing's hairless head.

Then she saw the blood.

Then she screamed.

-3-

The setting wasn't as grim as Davich had expected. In fact, there was something strangely festive about it. A cool breeze danced across the top of the hill and low hanging clouds drifted above, cutting out the sun for brief periods and then letting its rays through again to cast an ethereal light on the proceedings. A small and growing crowd had gathered at the foot of the hill for the ceremony. They were family anfd friends, representatives and businessmen from all the major and minor districts. Massud had been as well respected by most as he had been hated by the rest. Parties from either side of that sentiment were represented here. The people who knew Massud as a friend seemed to understand the cultural nature of the service and had dressed in bright shades to celebrate his life. Those who were here only as a formality, were clad in grim, somber tones with expressions to match.

Davich eyed the darkly clad, whispering crowd. Among them were the usual suspects. There was Olmier from the Commerce Council, his giant Mecha minion in tow. Pratt and Scott Riley were there too; international traders, knee deep in the muck that had probably got Massud killed. And there were other familiar faces. Davich registered them all. He also knew that they were watching him too. Somewhere here, he was sure that someone was taking notes on them all. Some anonymous face with an electronic brain was probably gathering data for the investigation. He was sure Portnoy would have seen to that.

"Mr. Davich?" came a soft Indian voice beside him.

He turned to see an aged, dark-skinned, robed woman. He hair glistened silver in the sunlight. "Ms Ramad, It's good to see you again, though I wish it was under better circumstances." He cupped the old woman's hand tenderly in his own and touched it to his forehead. "Massud was a good man. I called him a friend. I respected him."

The small woman smiled and nodded her appreciation of his expressed sympathy. "Mariane has said many good things about you," she smiled, her old eyes burning into his own. "She cannot be here for the ceremony, but did not want us to wait for her recovery. Massud must rest."

Davich nodded his understanding.

Her eyes scanned his face. "The news feeds say it was an accident. They mention nothing about foul play. Have you… uh… found anything contrary to that report?"

He gathered his shoulders and took a deep breath. "Ms. Ramad, I cannot officially investigate your son's death," he said, a disappointed apology in his voice. "I'm not in that department anymore. But I can guarantee you that I will not let any stone remain unturned. There are many people who I think…" Davich stopped short, his eyes widening. He could not believe who was approaching.

"Hello, Rachman. Ms Ramad," Harland Grainer said as he grew near. His shark black eyes flicked back and forth between them, pinpoints against his angular, pale features. Behind him two expensive looking Mecha wore dark suits and darker expressions as they waited for their owner's commands. "Let me express my deepest sympathy for you son's untimely departure," Grainer said smoothly and reached out to cup the small robed woman's hand. She did not pull away from this gesture. Davich suddenly realized that she didn't know who Grainer was. She couldn't know, he decided, for she returned his embrace with a warm smile and expressed her gratitude. Davich bristled, but kept his tongue. He knew that this was not the time or place to speak his mind. Grainer touched the woman's small hand to his forehead as was the custom, and then turned to Davich.

"And Rachman, I know we've started off on the wrong foot in the aftermath of this unfortunate occurrence, but I am sure that we can work things out." His smile was so superficially sincere that Davich wanted to rip it right off his face. But he just fixed the man with a knowing glare. An awkward silence grew between them. Grainer suffered this for a moment and then nodded in apologetic understanding.

"Maybe some other time then," he said and walked towards the foot of the hill, his silent metal servants in lock step behind him.

Davich wasn't aware that he'd been holding his breath until he let it out. "You should be wary of that man, Ms Ramad," he warned in a whisper. But the old woman silenced him with a hand on his arm. She shot him a sharp expression and Davich realized he had been completely wrong. This woman knew exactly who Harland Grainer was.

"My son had many enemies, Rachman. Some were overt in their animosity, but others were more clever. I can play that game too." She smiled then, and winked. Her face grew serious again. "My daughter in law has told you what she saw that night?"

Davich nodded slowly, suddenly uncomfortable.

"And?"

He wasn't sure what to say. What could you say about hallucinations of animated headless corpses? "I am looking into it, " was what he settled on.

"Find them Rachman," she said and squeezed his hand with a grip that surprised him. In her eyes was a darkness that belied her frail demeanor. "Whoever they are. You find the bastards who killed my Massud!"

The ceremony began. Each concerned party shared their words at the podium and then Massud's ashes were set into the breeze to flow out over the risen ocean. As if on cue the wind had kicked up suddenly. They didn't even need the simulators. Massud would be happy about that.

-4-

"It was a map."

"A map?"

The voice on the other end made a sigh. "Yeah, a map. A chip with all the updated autopilot codes on it. That's it, that's all that was missing. The papers didn't mention it, but the managements of all the local neighborhoods have been notified."

Davich didn't buy it. "Why only that?"

"I don't know. That's your job."

Technically it wasn't, but Davich wasn't going to go there. Why would someone go to such trouble to get a map? "Are these exclusive?" he asked.

"Well, yeah. Obviously," the voice replied, testily. "They have all the updated access codes for all the local 'lockups'." That was slang for the gated communities the wealthy inhabited.

"All of 'em?"

"Every damn one."

Davich grimaced as the first piece of evidence against Grainer's involvement was relayed to him. It was possible that whomever had caused the car to crash was only after that chip. They would have to have known that Massud would be in possession of one. It was an obvious assumption that he lived in a lockup, since that was the only place the bypass road led, but would it be obvious that he'd have an exclusive update on all of them? Either way, Grainer wouldn't need to steal one. He'd have access to any of them. He had business partners in them all.

"Fuck!" he said.

"Sir?"

"Nothing. Thanks, and if anything else comes up… eh?"

The voice at the other end said nothing, but Davich thought he heard another sigh.

-5-

Spacer was glad to see Davich. "You're not going to believe this," she started as he rushed through the busy precinct and into his office. She'd just received a field update and there had been something found that he should know about.

Davich held up a hand that told her to wait. "I might believe it, whatever it is, but I want to find out later. I need some things analyzed, Eileen, can you get me someone off the roster?"

"Eileen?" she echoed, not used to such familiarities from her hot-tempered boss.

Davich chuckled at her suspicious expression. "Sorry… went to a funeral today… feeling a little sentimental, I guess. But I need to have some crash debris studied."

Spacer pursed her lips and shook her head. "Boss, do you have evidence from the site?"

Davich only returned her questioning gaze silently.

"Do you know what you are getting yourself into?" She asked, knowing she would get the same response.

"Don't worry about me Spacer! I've been in this situation before. I can play the ropes when I have to. Grainer is involved in this shit somehow. I know that. I just don't know how yet. But I am going to find out. I promised his mother."

Spacer eyed him cautiously. He needed to step back. She knew he knew that though. Pointing it out would do no good. She kept her tongue and waited for his next move.

But before it came Terrance Portnoy suddenly walked into the room. They stared at him as if he was an apparition from another world. In a way he was; a world where peoples careers were bought and sold over lunch.

"Capt Davich. Lt Spacer. Good to see you both." Portnoy nodded at them, smiling casually, as if coming here was part of his daily routing. "Capt, Davich... uh, Rachman… can I talk to you? Alone?"

Spacer glanced at Davich and excused herself. Her information could wait. She didn't want to be here when the shit hit the fan anyway.

When Spacer was gone Davich started uncomfortably. "Terrance, I don't know why you came all the way down here but I have not done anything out of regulation. So you don't need to…"

"No, no, no…" the Chief stopped him with an upraised hand. "I did some thinking and I have made a few changes of plan." He closed the door and cleared his throat. "I've been around…" he waved a hand between them, "we've been around for a long time, Rachman. We both know what goes on. But this … this is a new low. Don't think I am not aware and concerned about the issues you raised. And believe me, I'd love to have you on this investigation. You know that, don't you?"

Portnoy waited a moment for Davich to acknowledge this.

"But, my old friend, the fact that you were close to that man and the fact that you're not on the street anymore puts you out of the loop. But I trust you. We both know how important trust is, don't we?"

Davich didn't respond. What was Terrance getting at?

"I can't put you on this, pure and simple. But I know you've been nosing around, Davich… and before you start denying it, I don't care. That's not why I'm here."

"Then why are you here?"

"I pulled a few strings and called in some markers. I took over the Ramad investigation from the locals. It's the State's now."

Davich was glad to hear the local's wouldn't be screwing things up, but he still wasn't involved. "If I am not on it, how does that matter to me?"

Portnoy replied with a wink. "Well, I want you to meet someone, Davich. Someone I know won't get distracted by any 'offers' he might receive from people who want things kept quiet." He opened the door and gestured to someone that was waiting just outside the room. "It's someone that I want you to supervise in the investigation. He's a little unorthodox, perhaps. But he's dedicated, a quick learner and most of all, trustworthy."

A dark haired young man strode briskly into the room. Trim, in a dark suit, medium height, slightly shorter than Davich. His features were smooth, his sharp eyes catching everything, it seemed. When they alighted on Davich they seemed to take him in all at once. There was obvious intelligence in that gaze.

"Davich," Terrance smiled, "this is Investigator Erik Tigue. He's from a new… ahhh, Special Investigations department. Erik, this is Captain Rachman Davich and you will be answering directly to him from now on."

Special Investigations? Davich pondered this for a moment and then glanced at Tigue.

"Hello, Captain," the young man said quickly, his hand outstretched. "I've heard many good things about you. I'm looking forward to working with you and learning whatever I can from your years of experience."

Davich accepted the compliment hesitantly and took the man's hand in his own. He felt the strength of Tigue's grip, looked into the man's too-alert eyes and finally realized what was going on.

"You can't be fucking serious," Davich muttered.

Not exactly appropriate language, Erik thought. He stored the captain's apparent propensity for vulgarities into a profile update. Then he finished the gesture of familiarity and executed 'disarming smile' and 'patient stance' until the 'shock' in the Captain's face diminished.

(cont...)