Cybernarc (4 page)

"That’s exactly what I’m saying, Roger.”

"Rod is more than a robot, Mr. Menefee,” Dr. Theodore Godiesky added, coming to Weston’s aid. RAMROD’s technical liaison with the CIA was a small, athletic man in his fifties with sparse, sandy hair and glasses that looked too large for his narrow face. Godiesky had been with the CIA’s Science and Technology Directorate until, like Weston, he’d been loaned to RAMROD. He’d been with the project for four years now but had only recently been recruited for Group Seven.

"RAMROD demonstrates true artificial intelligence,” Godiesky continued. "Or 'AF as the computer jocks like to say. It goes far beyond any traditional programming method. In a sense, the system we’re developing programs itself from moment to moment.” Senator Buchanan chuckled. "You don’t mean that it really thinks for itself, do you?”

"Depends on how you define thinking,” Godiesky said. "Some of us are still debating that one.”

"Come on over here,” Weston said. He led the way toward the table. The technicians stepped aside so the visitors could have a closer look. Rod was no longer nude but was wearing black trousers and combat boots. His chest was still bare, however, so that the techs could get at his opened right side. A heavy cable ran up onto the table and into what appeared to be an I/O port recessed into the machine’s body. "Rod here represents advances in computer technology that are ten, maybe twenty years ahead of anything else in the world.”

Barbara Roberts peered into the opening. She was

Seven’s FBI liaison and was also an expert in programming. "Feeding time?” she asked. "What’s he eat—AC or DC?”

"Rod has his own on-board power source,” Weston said. "Lightweight superconductor batteries that give him about three days of power for normal operations, less if he has to exert himself. No, that cable’s his PARET feed. He’s busily digesting Lieutenant Drake’s last run through Kiddie Land.”

PARET:
PA
ttern
RE
plication and
T
ransfer. That, Weston knew, was arguably RAMROD’s single greatest technological triumph, the breakthrough that had made true AI a working reality.

Early in RAMROD, when it was still a Department of Defense project, it had been realized that no computer, however complex, could duplicate the processes of the human mind through traditional line-by-line programming. As Weston was fond of explaining to anyone who would listen, a simple action that adult humans took for granted—climbing stairs, for instance—could require literally thousands upon thousands of lines of programming code. Just getting the computer to recognize stairs as stairs through its camera eyes was a major victory, and there were endless variables of height, grade, and texture to the steps; of possible motions; of balance; of
decisions
to be made from instant to instant, such as which running programs to suspend when attitude sensors reported that balance had been lost.

RAMROD’s engineers could have spent billions of dollars simply developing a machine able to climb stairs and do nothing else.

Yet they were trying to develop a robot that could
climb stairs or leap from a helicopter, seek cover in the woods or wade through a swamp, load a rifle or throw a hand grenade, recognize friends or shoot an enemy, use a parachute or pilot a combat aircraft. The point of building a true android robot was that it would be able to do anything a man could do. To program each task separately would have been worse than a nightmare. It would have been impossible.

"RAMROD has been teaching us a lot about how the human mind and body work,” Costrini explained. "For example, his muscular actions are carried out by hydraulic pistons, thousands of them, duplicating the actions of human muscle fibers. Each pump is controlled by its own microprocessor chip—a computer, if you will—about the size of the head of a pin. There are over a million chips in Rod’s body, connected in parallel to his central autonomic processor and its backup. With the whole system working in concert, with appropriate training, Rod here can display any range of motion or activity possible to a human . . . and then some.”

"And this is how we train him,” Dr. McDaniels added, picking up one of the heavy, ceramic-armored headpieces from a nearby table. "A PARET helmet. We call it the thinking cap. When you engage in some activity—climbing stairs, loading a gun, whatever—the neurons in your brain fire in a specific pattern. If you wear a PARET helmet, CORA can read those patterns and translate them into a form Rod can store and use. Rod’s primary computer duplicates human neural networking.”

"Excuse me,” Tricia Ashby said. She was a State Department expert in Latin American affairs, recruited into Group Seven for her expertise in the drug problem. " 'CORA’?”

"That’s the AI expert system that runs simulations like the one you saw a few minutes ago and oversees the robot’s training.”

"What’s CORA stand for?” Barbara Roberts wanted to know.

"Computer Optimization of Referent Analogues,” Dr. Godiesky explained. "A fancy way of saying she directs the patterning process—what we call 'referent analogues’—in Rod’s brain. She reads the robot’s mind, if you will. . . .”

"She reads Rod’s
soul, ”
McDaniels added. "And writes on it. She’s what we use to teach Rod here how to be human.”

Menefee snorted. "Interesting concept. A computer with a soul.”

"It’s incredible,” Senator Buchanan said softly. The double glass doors at the end of the lab slid open, and Lieutenant Drake walked in, still buttoning his smock over his combat blacks.

"Chris!” Weston said, grateful for an opportunity to steer the conversation away from the metaphysical. "Let me introduce you to some people. Dr. Godiesky, General Sinclair you know, of course. This is Senator Buchanan ... Barb Roberts ... Tricia Ashby ... Roger Menefee. Ladies, gentlemen, this is Lieutenant Christopher Drake, our resident tame SEAL.”

"Nice to meet you, son,” Buchanan said. "That was an impressive performance.”

"Thank you, Senator,” Drake replied, shaking his hand.

"Indeed,” Menefee added. "I had no idea our SEALs were such . . . gunslingers.”

"SEAL Eight is always training for hostage situations, sir. They teach us to shoot in just about any situation or position you could imagine.”

"Which is why you were chosen for this project,” Tricia Ashby put in. "Fast reflexes, quick thinking, that sort of thing?”

"I suppose so.” He glanced down at himself, plucking the smock away from sweat-soaked blacks. "I doubt it was because I’m such a flashy dresser.”

That raised a chuckle.

"Dr. McDaniels,” Weston said, "was telling us about PARETing.”

"The important thing to remember,” she said, "is that PARET allows Rod’s programming to function much the way ours does. What a human can learn to do, so can Rod .. . but much, much faster. He can react to his environment like a human, only faster. He can
think
like a human, only faster. He actually programs himself as he goes along, learning from experience. He has a built-in data-acquisition routine that can only be described as 'curiosity.’ He—”

"Good God, Miss McDaniels,” Menefee interrupted. "Are you saying this . . . this
thing
actually thinks for itself? That it’s . . . it’s . . .”

"I believe the concept you are searching for is 'self- aware,’ ” the robot said. The newcomers around the table jumped in unison, as if they’d been given an electric shock. "And yes,” Rod added.
"I
think I am.” Amid a low babble of nervous comments and surprise, Costrini released a lock under the table, then swiveled the top up until Rod was almost upright, still disconcertingly stretched out by his bonds. The head moved—there was just a hint of unnatural stiffness there, Weston thought—turning cold, steel-gray eyes on Menefee.

"I gather from your records that you are Roger Dean Menefee,” Rod said. The voice was smooth, low- pitched, and natural, not electronic sounding at all. "I am very pleased to meet you, sir.”

Menefee turned on Weston. "Is this ventriloquist’s act somebody’s idea of a joke?”

"No joke. Rod told me this morning that he was looking forward to seeing you.”

"Actually,” the robot continued blandly, "I as yet have some difficulty understanding the concepts humans refer to as 'humor’ or 'jokes.’ ”

"Hmmph!” Menefee stared at Rod as though he didn’t quite believe in him.

"And you, sir,” Rod said, "are Senator Franklin E. Buchanan.”

The robot continued to address each of the visitors in turn, drawing on RAMROD’s electronic files for the necessary information. Costrini, meanwhile, had pulled the plug from the receptacle in the robot’s side and was sealing up the opening. Working deftly, he ran the head of what looked like an electric soldering iron along the perimeter of the flap of synthetic skin. There was a tiny stink of burning plastic, and no trace of a scar when he was through. "Voila!” he said, switching off the tool. "If only humans were that easy to repair.”

"So in combat,” Barbara Roberts said, "if ... if he got wounded, you’d just seal him up? I thought he was supposed to be bulletproof.”

"Actually,” Weston said, "he can change bodies the way we change clothes. This here is what we call Civilian Mod. In half an hour, though, we could switch him to Combat Mod. Turns him into a tank with legs, but he can punch a hole through a concrete-block wall or shake off bullets like a duck shakes off water.” "What?” Menefee said. "You just yank his brain from one body and put it in another?”

"Almost. Actually it’s his whole central torso core and his head.” Weston tapped Rod’s head with a forefinger. The machine did not move or respond to the motion. "Rod’s brains aren’t up here, you know. They’re down here in his chest cavity, heavily shielded and armored. But the head has most of his visual and auditory gear, his balance sensors, and his speech synthesizers. It’s easier to leave all that attached when we swap bodies.”

"Eh,” General Sinclair said, looking nervously at Rod. "You sure we should talk about . . . about
him
that way while he’s listening?”

"I don’t mind, General Sinclair,” Rod said. "I assure you I feel no pain during the process, and I am incapable of suffering from either physiological or psychological shock.”

Cautiously, Ashby brought her face close to Rod’s once more. "You know, I finally figured out what’s been bothering me about him. He doesn’t blink!”

Costrini laughed. "I’m afraid there’s a glitch there. He’s
supposed
to, but there’s a fault in the microprocessor chain that handles that subfunction.”

"It’s not the processors,” Dr. McDaniels replied defensively. "It’s a problem with the solenoids that trigger the blink reflex.”

"Says you. You always blame the mechanical parts.” "Like you always blame the computers.” "Actually,” Rod said. "I suspect the malfunction is due to human error.”

Weston’s eyes widened. He could have sworn that as Rod had spoken, the ghost of a smile had tugged at those otherwise impassive features. Had Rod just tried to make a joke?

He grinned at his own reaction. He’d been at RAMROD for six years now, and
still
the damned thing found ways to surprise him. "Gentlemen, ladies,” he said. "Why don’t we have a look at Rod in action?” He looked at McDaniels. "Is he ready on that last feed, Doctor?”

"PARET assimilation complete on run three-five- nine,” Rod said. From his tone of voice, he might have been discussing the weather. "Systems diagnostic checks complete and satisfactory.”

"That means he’s ready,” McDaniels said. The visitors laughed.

"Tell you what, Roger,” Weston said. "Why don’t we let Rod give us a little demonstration?”

Luis pulled the telephone van up to the curb in a residential neighborhood, parking just across the street from a modest suburban ranch house. It seemed worlds away from the barrio they’d left half an hour earlier. "Okay,” Luis said. "You know where to go?”

"I got it,” the blond-haired man said. "It’ll take me a couple hours or so. It’s in friggin’ Richmond.”

"No problem. We’ll be here waiting for you.”

His companion looked at his watch. "So where the hell are your friends?”

"They’ll be along.”

"Damn, Luis. How can you be so cool?”

"Perhaps, my friend, I am aware of what will happen if we
lose
our cool.” He flicked the stub of his cigarette from the window. "Be calm. It will go well. Diamond knows what he is doing.”

The Texan studied the house, then shook his head. "Shit. I hate doing this.”

"You don’t hate the money, do you? Life’s a bitch, man.”

"Yeah. And then you die.” The Texan opened the door and climbed out of the van. His car, left there earlier, was parked a short distance up the street.

Luis lit another cigarette and continued to watch the front of the house.

They watched the large monitor
on Lab One’s wall. Drake could see that the Kiddie Land display screens had been rearranged, creating a different maze.

"CORA will handle the timing so that it will correspond to the lieutenant’s run,” McDaniels said. "If Rod resolves one confrontation quicker than the lieutenant did, CORA will throw the next one at him that much faster.” She grinned impishly at Drake. "That will give you a comparison of a Navy SEAL’s reflexes with those of a robot.”

"But the maze is different,” Tricia Ashby said. "What will that prove?”

"It proves Rod can respond in a thinking, creative way,” Weston said. "He’s not just doing the simulation by rote. But he’ll have the same number of encounters, the same
kinds
of encounters . . . and the same kinds of decisions as Lieutenant Drake. Watch now. . . .” On the monitor, Rod had just entered the maze, clad now, as Drake had been earlier, in black fatigues and turtleneck, a .45 automatic in his right hand. He moved with a fluid, almost catlike grace, though the way his 47 head turned seemed unnaturally stiff, as though it were scanning.

Costrini switched on a second TV monitor on the wall. "We can tap into Rod’s visuals and display them here,” he said. "What Rod is seeing, you can see right here.” The scene showed the maze from within, overlapping, ceiling-high panels showing streets and buildings. The view shifted left to right, then back again as the robot moved its head. In the upper-right corner were the words STAND BY and TEST SEQUENCE INITIATE: READY.

Ashby’s eyebrows arched. "I can’t say I’m excited about the prospect of teaching a machine to engage in gunplay like .. . like we saw earlier,” she said. "You’re expecting a robot to exercise
judgment
?”

"Judgment,” Weston said evenly, "is what artificial intelligence is all about. Are we all ready?”

There was a chorus of assents, and one of the techs murmured something into his headset microphone. On the Kiddie Land projection screens, images came to life: a man with a newspaper walking his dog, a woman carrying a baby hidden in a blanket, a postman, two kids playing with cap pistols. Depending on how CORA ran the sim, any of those characters could be armed and dangerous, requiring split-second reflexes and— hell, there was no other word for it—
intuition.

In combat, Drake always relied on a kind of sixth sense instilled by years of training and several real-life firefights. He’d come to trust that sense. After nearly three months of working with the project, he still didn’t see how the hell they could expect to program something like that into a
robot.