“If you lost your legs, would you feel whole?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
The bar was full with the post-happy-hour crowd, and there were no open booths or tables.
“Don’t you live near here?” Chelsea asked Johnny after surveying the crowd.
“Couple of blocks.”
“Why don’t we go there?”
Johnny’s hands trembled as he aimed his key for the lock. He felt as nervous as a teenager on his first date — more nervous, really.
Chelsea stroking his arm didn’t help.
Not that he wanted her to stop.
He got the key into the lock and opened the door.
“It’s not much,” he said. “The main attraction is the location.”
“Oh, it’s nice.” Chelsea walked in behind him, taking in the front room, which was decorated in what might be called contemporary mishmash — a largish sofa and a wooden rocker sat opposite a sixty-inch flat screen flanked by an orphaned dining room chair and an end table he’d assembled himself. The main function of the last two pieces was to hold the large JBL monitors that formed the heart of his sound system. There was a bookcase on the far wall, along with two baskets of dirty sheets and clothes.
“So, wine?” he asked, heading for the kitchen.
“Sure.”
As Johnny stepped into the kitchen, he realized he wasn’t sure if he even had any wine.
“Or beer?” he asked, turning quickly.
He was surprised to find Chelsea right behind him, a foot away.
Inches, actually.
Her eyes were wide and round, her face the color of a rose in twilight.
“Whatever you have will be fine.”
She stretched her neck, lifting her face toward his. He leaned closer, and they kissed.
Puppet Master
Flash forward
The laugh was deep and dark, the sort the Devil himself would make if he came to life.
“You control these people,” said the terrorist. “You put them on the stage like puppets.”
“I control no one,” replied Massina.
“It’s your time to die, Puppet Master. You and your city. Time for the apocalypse and God’s final glory.”
80
Chelsea turned over and opened her eyes, struggling to focus on the alarm clock’s small blue numbers. She saw a 5, but couldn’t make out what followed.
4.
8.
5:48 a.m.
Shit!
She needed to be at work at six for a test run of a new bot series. She swung her feet over the side and slipped out of bed, heading quickly for the bathroom.
Johnny stirred under the covers.
In the two months since they had first kissed, Chelsea had spent many nights with Johnny. It was a unique experience, first because he lacked “real” legs and generally, though not always, took them off to sleep.
But there were other things that made it unique, special. Most of the men she had dated were computer or science geeks, whizzes who fed that part of her. Johnny was the first man who fed something else, a part more physical, more emotional.
They had things in common. First and foremost, they’d had similar life-and-death experiences, and in the same places at the same time — she’d been there when he’d lost his legs; he’d been there when she was nearly raped and killed.
More: They were both Red Sox fans. They liked to take long walks and bike rides, especially by the water. They both liked to listen to indie music. They liked to share interests. Chelsea was starting to like alt-country, thanks to Johnny. Johnny was starting to appreciate fusion cooking, thanks to Chelsea.
But there was no denying basic differences: He didn’t spend his days thinking about computer code or how to best train a piece of software to be self-cognizant. And she didn’t spend her days thinking of how to preserve situational awareness while escaping a kidnapping attempt or consider the pros and cons of nonlethal shotgun charges.
They came at life from different directions, with just enough in common to meet at many different intersections. And that seemed to be what both of them needed.
And the sex.
Awkward and nervous at first—how do you make love to a legless man? — it was now comfortable and gentle, yet reassuring and fulfilling and all those other words teenage magazines promised and adult magazines said were difficult to achieve.
The fact that Johnny didn’t have his legs was always a fact, always something they were both aware of — how could they not be? And yet it wasn’t the only fact.
Caffeine. I need serious amounts of caffeine.
“See you later, Sleeping Beauty,” she said, grabbing her Nikes and tiptoeing for the door.
Chelsea made it to the lab with about thirty seconds to spare. She walked directly to the test board, where the test coordinator and a half-dozen other engineers were waiting. They’d already run through all of the pretest workups; the systems were green and recording.
Also waiting were eleven Smart Metal employees who’d volunteered to participate in the exercise. And it was an exercise: they were going to play soccer with Peter, who was sitting beyond the cones and taped field boundaries in the cavernous interior of Subbasement Level 3. Peter had not been programmed to play and had never even watched a game. Once the session began, Chelsea would give him a verbal command to join one of the squads. What happened next was up to him.
“Ready?” asked the test director.
Chelsea donned a headset and walked over to the robot. “Peter?” she said.
RBT PJT 23-A acknowledged by turning one of its claws. Chelsea looked back at the director and gave a thumbs-up.
A whistle sounded, and the game began, “red” with the ball and moving into “blue” territory. Blue was down a man but otherwise the teams were evenly matched.
“Peter,” said Chelsea as the whistle blew. “Observe game. Join on blue’s side.”
Peter reoriented his “body,” directing all of his visual sensors toward the field.
By the time Chelsea had returned to the bank of monitors, Peter had walked onto the pitch. He appeared to be observing, taking a spot near blue’s penalty area.
Eight different screens at the main test bench recorded the bot’s thought processes as it worked, with different analytic tools analyzing the data. Chelsea focused her attention on a tool that selected out open questions — queries by the AI engine as it proceeded.
Peter had tried to access Smart Metal’s information system to gather information about the game, but the system had been closed to it. So it turned its attention to the game.
Most of its attention. It devoted about 20 percent of its resources to trying to break through the security system barring it access.
An interesting decision, thought Chelsea.
One of the red players took a pass and began dribbling in Peter’s direction. Peter took a step forward — then promptly sat down. Play continued around it, but the bot remained frozen on the ground, not even watching the action.
Expecting a malfunction, Chelsea looked at the monitors. Peter’s “brain” was still operating normally, according to the data; it just wasn’t moving.
And it was still using twenty percent of its processing power to try to get into the Smart Metal system.