“Detective Roche?”
Allen and I turned to the man who had addressed me. He was average-looking with a rectangular face, thin hair, round spectacles, and a soft, calculating face. He was smart, and he knew it, but he wasn’t an asshole about it. His voice was gentle but stern, commanding authority but not demanding it. With hands behind his back and an upright stance, he compelled us to follow.
“We have much to discuss.”
CHAPTER 12
VANNEVAR BUSH’S OFFICE WAS on the top floor of GE, and just based on its doors, it deserved to be there. They were tinted glass, which gave visitors a faint look at the clutter inside without giving away too much. A flash of his wallet near a sensor unlocked the doors, allowing Vannevar inside, with Allen and me trailing behind. The doors shut immediately after, locking as if to prevent anyone from interrupting our meeting.
The walls were covered with awards, certificates, paintings, and portraits of famous men and women. There was a central desk covered in papers, a small workbench big enough to play with an Automatic arm on, a couch, two chairs, and a sleek circular coffee table in the centre. Above the desk was a chiselled wooden Automatic arm filled with ornate shapes and imagery. The thumb was sticking up and the fingers were curled in. The inscription read First Annual Vannevar Bush Engineering Award.
“I haven’t got all day, Mr. Roche. I’m quite a busy man. Keeping an entire race of sentient … things … alive, you know. So, please, do tell me how you plan to threaten my livelihood.”
The old bastard was pretty tough. He hadn’t the stature nor the commanding voice to say what he did with any sort of weight, but standing in his office was enough to make me feel like the Plate would crush me if I stepped out of line. I was at a loss for words.
“I never meant to say —”
“Oh, come now, everyone wants to threaten the Automatics. Politicians, law enforcement, thugs. You’re no different. And so, I’ve made a little Riot Act for dealing with you people. Hopefully then you will think twice before coming back to the Upper City to brutalize me with such trivial arguments —”
“Sir,” Allen interrupted.
Vannevar tilted his head to give the machine the floor.
“Detective Roche is no thug. There is an issue that requires immediate attention. He was nearly killed by a ‘headless’ Automatic.” Allen mimed quotation marks with its fingers. I smiled. It sure was getting smart.
“Headless?”
“A term we use for Automatics without a Neural-Interface installed,” I said. “Two Red-eyes recently shot up a speakeasy, killing six people. Three of those were cops either undercover or off-duty, and two of those cops were tied to a smuggling ring we’re looking to expose. One Automatic was apprehended and shot, and upon popping it open, we found that it had no Neural-Interface. Moreover, when I found it again a few days later, it was moving again, still with no NI. We were hoping someone might be able to explain how this is possible.”
“I see.” Vannevar placed his glasses on the desk and rubbed his eyes. “Was this an isolated incident?”
“We uncovered the machine in a graveyard past 90th. There were a few more machines there, most of them headless as well, that also tried to kill me.”
“How many is a few?”
“Twenty, I’d say.”
The old doctor got up from his desk and grabbed his glasses before walking to the far side of the office and pressing his hands against a section of wall near his worktable. Seams appeared, allowing access to a hidden room through a nearly invisible door.
“Come. Perhaps we can work through this problem together.”
We followed him through the door, and it was soon clear to us what the rest of the space on this floor was used for. A massive area resembling a factory floor sprawled out before us, filled with fabrication tools, workbenches, terminals, wiring kits likely more advanced than anything in the Lower City, and Automatic shells galore. In the centre of the room stood a fascinating display: an enlarged and exploded view of the innards of an Automatic, strung up by tough rods of steel and separated enough to view each and every part of the machine, while also being able to see how it all fit together. The surrounding frame seemed to be a Grifter model, but an old one: it had an angular head with rough edges, two small bulb eyes, a basic lockbox mouth, plated arms, and a barrel-chested frame to pad the interior wiring.
“Before I begin, I suspect you have your theories. You seem intelligent enough to connect the dots. So please, Mr. Roche, give me your proposal.”
I hated being put on the spot, but it was better than being ignored and talked down to. “An engineering comrade of ours” — Allen looked at me shiftily as I referred to Jaeger — “told us that he believes it involves the Cortex, which contains a gyroscope for feeding itself information about its relative location in the world. But it needs a reference for longitudinal coordinates, so it gets information from GE’s reference towers. We think it might have something to do with that.”
Vannevar nodded, curling his lips in thought for a moment before speaking. “Your theory is interesting. However, the Cortex is much more complicated than just a storehouse for data. It is that, but it serves many other functions, too. Take the device in question, here.” He grasped a nearby pointer, extending it and aiming into the centre of the exploded display at an octagonal piece about the size of my fist. “It contains a gyroscope, yes. But the Cortex is essential, as an Automatic is useless without it. I’m sure you understand why.”
I did my best to hide my ignorance. “Maybe give us a quick refresher, Vannevar.”
He scowled. “Dr. Bush.”
“Sure.”
“Ugh. Cretins …” Vannevar shook his head. “The Neural-Interface is the ‘brain’ of the machine, but it is useless without a way to
