“Damn you. A holo-image or a robot?”
“An android. She’s very, very tangible.” Dom winked at him. “Oh, she’ll do things for you, Mister Lessing!”
“I suppose I could have others, too, then?”
“Why, of course! I don’t have androids ready… they’re complicated… but I can make them up for you.” Dom waved a hand. “Here are a few of the holo-imagcs from which you may choose.”
Beverly Rowntree moved out to stand beside Liese; she caressed her big, globular breasts and made a wicked little face at him. Emily Pietrick joined her, dark and sensuous — more desirable than the real Emily had ever been! He had to squint to recognize the next image: Mavis Larson! He had known Mavis only as a little girl, but Eighty-Five was projecting her now as a woman in her twenties. More appeared, like actresses taking curtain calls. A few wore clothing, but most were nude or draped in jewels and wisps of gauze, like the centerfolds in the old magazines his father had kept hidden in the attic: svelte Susan Kane, smoldering Melissa Willoughby, imperious Kari Danforth — all the cliches of the movies, including two or three starlets he had recently admired on TV.
“Take them away,” he ordered.
The women vanished. Only Dom and the Liese-android remained.
“Your pleasure. Mister Lessing? I assume you already have sufficient money, power, glory, and other amenities?” “I do. Zero… two… eight….”
“What does it take to stop you?” Dom exploded. “Here! I offer you eternal life and youth!” Dom pointed behind him, and Lessing whirled to see — himself. A young, vital, muscular, bronzed Alan Lessing, also naked, feet wide and fists on hips.
“You stole that pose from Captain Marlow Striker on TV!” Lessing accused.
“It is an android, of course. I can put your brain into that perfect, near-indestructible body. No weaknesses, no old wounds, no injured arm… sexually potent as often as you wish!” He gestured, and the android’s huge penis went erect, then flaccid again.
It was worth a snicker. Lessing had another thought: how was it that Eighty -Five had had these androids of Liese and himself ready and wailing? Were they really receptacles for their transplanted brains — or were they substitutes that could pass for their human counterparts? These androids could be used to keep Lessing and Liese “alive” indefinitely. As long as they controlled the Party of Humankind, Eighty-Five — or whoever was giving Eighty-Five instructions — would remain in power, ruling the world through its surrogates!
“Out!” he shouted. “Out! Destroy them! That’s a direct order!”
“An order I must refuse, since it is not in the best interests of the ethnos group and the state!” Dom gestured theatrically. “Perhaps you still do not understand the scope of my offer. Look, then!” Lessing’s father and mother entered through the rear door of the room. They walked hand in hand, something his mother would never have done in her long, bitter, and thoroughly pious life! Mulder and the Fairy Godmother were visible behind them, and Lessing glimpsed Wrench, Goddard, and others in the background.
“You can have them all!” Dom cried expansively. “To cherish… to love… to slay, if you wish… whatever… as long as you desire!”
“…Seven… seven!” Lessing completed the first sequence. The holo-images wavered and shimmered and flapped like silken scarves in a strong breeze.
He read out the second set of digits.
Silence ebbed into the room.
When he looked again, the overhead lights burned down upon an arena filled with motionless machines, contorted metal limbs, empty glass eyes, the fallen soldiers of Eighty-Five’s secret army. Dom stood as stationary as the rest, mouth open, one arm extended, his index finger aimed straight at Lessing.
One wall screen flickered red: “MAIN PROGRAM TERMINATED. Run setup program to edit Prime Directives and Primary Operators.” A list of options for the setup program followed. Lessing chose the option labeled “List Prime Directives for editing.” As the text scrolled slowly up the screen, he occasionally halted it while he considered a sentence or a phrase. In the end he was satisfied with what was there. Eighty-Five’s original programmers had thought very carefully about the design of their machine’s soul, and he saw nothing in the Prime Directives that cried out to be changed, no obvious flaw that he could correct.
A frown creased Lessing’s brow. Eighty-Five’s aberrant behavior simply did not make sense in the light of the machine’s Prime Directives. Where was the trouble?
He selected the option “List Primary Operators.” The names scrolled past, just as he and Wrench had specified them nearly three decades ago: “Lessing, Alan; Meisinger, Anneliese; Wren, Charles Hanson; Borchardt, Hans Karl; Simmons, Grant William. See next screen for supplementary operators.”
About time to take Wrench and Simmons off the list, he thought. For want of a better idea he decided to take a look at the supplementary operators. Then he hesitated. He knew there were hundreds of supplementary operators, but none of them could change any control program or provide directives to Eighty-Five beyond asking for access to non-secret data files. Just to be sure he asked: “Is there any way your programming can be changed except by one of the Primary Operators you just listed? Is there any way a supplementary operator can do that?”
The response came back from one of the overhead speakers, in a flat, metallic voice, nothing like Eighty-Five’s pleasing tones: “Supplementary operators can only read non-secret files. They cannot change any programs. Any change to control programs must come directly from a Primary Operator identified by voice print and retinal pattern or through Corn-link 86.”
Com-link-86? What had Wrench said about that so many years ago? It simply permitted Eighty-Five to receive instructions through its many remote terminals, as well as from this central location, Wrench had surmised. But the “or” in the response bothered Lessing. “Do you mean that you can receive directives through Corn-link 86 that do not come from one of the Primary Operators you just listed? Clarify.”
“Directives received through Corn-link 86 must originate from a Primary Operator… but not necessarily from one on the list displayed on screen number four. So far as my circuitry is concerned. Corn-link 86 is equivalent to a Primary Operator.”
What the hell? Lessing reflected briefly, then demanded, “Give identifiers for Primary Operator Corn-link 86.”
Rows of numbers and characters appeared on screen number four. They bore no resemblance to the voice-print, eye-print, and other identifier specifications for the human Primary Operators.
“Interpret!”
“Repeat.”
“Damn it… tell me what it means! Meaning!”
“Extra ignored. Communications link is to artificial intelligence constellation under file-name ‘Eighty-Six.’ Physical location near Deal Island, Maryland, at 75.55 west longitude and 38.10 north latitude.”
“Describe the constellation,” Lessing commanded.
“The constellation is in a cavern, 145.6 meters below the surface of the earth. It consists of an intelligence module, three manufacturing complexes, twelve storage chambers, and underground access ways.”
“Are there any humans there?”
“Negative. Accessways are too small to accommodate human beings. All is accomplished by computer extensors.”
Lessing felt his excitement rising. Now he was close to something important, something very big, he was sure. Could Eighty-Five really have a sibling — another computer with similar capabilities, of which none of Eighty-Five’s Primary Operators were aware? How could that be? Such a machine could only have been built by Eighty-Five itself, using its miniaturized extensors. But who could have given the instructions for such a project?