Feisty Fern #13
Matt sat at the main console of BTX93. His hair hung around his face in unwashed ringlets. He wore a plain white T-shirt with only a few black ash smudges and jeans worn paper thin from mid-thigh to just below the knee. Leaning back in his chair, he wedged his hand in his pant’s pocket and pulled out a pack of Buddha’s. Matt sparked the pre-rolled, mass produced joint and exhaled a slowly forming cloud into the dark room. Wisps of smoke found their way through the series of wires and cables covering the walls like hunters creeping through the underbrush.
“Driving that train, high on cocaine. Casey Jones you better watch your speed.” The Grateful Dead’s steady, playful sound filled the room, preventing an oppressive silence. Matt ran his hand through his long hair, taking a deep drag with the other hand as he leaned back to an extreme angle in his black leather chair.
“Trouble ahead, trouble behind. And you know that notion just crossed my mind.” A silenced shot ripped through the back of the chair and into Matt’s chest. He spun around to face the shooter; a puff of smoke casually curled from the exit wound in the front of his chest. A second muffled bullet removed the left half of Matt’s head, depositing the remaining chunks on the series of monitors behind him.
A man in a blue suit, crisp white shirt and yellow tie walked confidently to the podium. Frosty white hair gave him a harsh appearance. He looked out into a sea of press member’s faces.
“My name is Phillip Smith.” His voice was as cold as his icy blue eyes. “I was Matt Buckman’s closest advisor, as I was to his father.”
“Following Matt’s tragic death, I will be acting CEO of Buckman Technologies. I called this conference to answer any questions you have at this time.”
“Is BTX93 operational?” a black woman wearing an expensive pink suit in the front row asked.
“It is operational; unfortunately Matt had disabled the system to finish his work. BTX93 would have prevented his murder. It is the premiere artificially intelligent security system in the world, which Matt developed, continuing his father’s legacy.”
A large man in the middle of the pack asked, “Do the police have any leads?” His second chin jiggled violently as he over enunciated his words.
Phillip cleared his throat and drank some water, “There was no physical evidence at the scene. The bullets used were antique hollow points, which were made before bullet tracking chips were invented. The police questioned Tex, the voice of BTX93, but as the system was offline during the attack, he had no information for them. Several of Matt’s notebooks were missing, corporate espionage is currently suspected.”
“One more question,” said Phillip.
“Will Mr. Buckman’s death delay or alter the release of BTX93?” asked a man in a short sleeved white dress shirt, who chewed on his pen like he had been craving a cigarette for days.
“The fully functional artificially intelligent system with its forensic evidence gathering technologies, infrared and night vision cameras and a full range of automated defense mechanisms will be available for customized purchase in the spring of 2029, just ten months from today,” Phillip finished and left the podium.
Detective Kemp walked through the hallway of the top floor of Buckman Technologies’ building. A desk in the hallway was worn at the edges exposing lighter shades of wood. Beyond the desk were other modest office furnishings, along with two marijuana plants. His police training still gave him a queasy, burning feeling in his gut when he encountered marijuana, although it had been legal for ten years. Everyone knew Matt Buckman was a habitual smoker; these items could be the former occupants of his corner office, Kemp reasoned.
A red headed secretary, who couldn’t have been over eighteen, showed him into Mr. Smith’s office.
“Hello,” Smith’s cool voice welcomed, “Please, sit.” The furniture was clearly new. Brushed stainless steel and glass dominated the space. There was a brown shag carpet on the floor, which Kemp figured would be removed before the week’s end.
“Detective Kemp. I have a few questions about Matt Buckman’s murder.”
“Certainly, what would you like to know?”
Kemp paused. He pretended to look in his notebook to double-check his questions. “Which files, exactly, were missing?”
“They contained code for the artificial intelligence program, along with training exercises Matt used to instruct Tex. It’s possible there were other things. Matt was protective of his programs, even from our trusted executives.”
Kemp wrote briefly in the notebook. “Was there anyone who could use the programs? I thought Mr. Buckman’s work was more advanced than others in the field.”
“He was, of course, but by looking at the programs used to train the machine, it is possible that someone could learn about its development. Also, it could be the killer, or the people who hired the killer, didn’t know quite what they wanted.” Smith sat upright, with both palms flat on the desk in front of him. His white hair was haloed by the orange glow of the setting sun, which flashed through the west facing window.
“Mr. Smith, you are needed immediately in the Development Room,” the young redhead interrupted.
“Excuse me, Detective. I’d ask you to follow, but the Development Room is a restricted area. I’ll return shortly.”
A high pitched sound like microphone feedback, so powerful Phillip could feel it in his chest, came from the Development Room as he walked toward it.
A scientist in a white lab coat told him, “There is a problem with Tex’s programming we can’t fix. No one has been able to stay in that room for long. The sound recurs when anyone goes in.”
Phillip walked past him with no acknowledgment beyond momentary eye contact. Once he was in the Development Room, the sound ceased. A new noise, much fainter, came from the area of the main console. The room was dark, as Matt had liked to keep it, but Phillip was familiar with the various cables and pipes that crossed the hallways of machinery.
As he approached the main console, Phillip recognized the sound as the Grateful Dead, “Trouble ahead, lady in Red. Take my advice; you’d be better off dead.” A single video panel was illuminated, but the image was so dark that Phillip couldn’t see what it was. As if reading his mind, Tex switched the image to night vision. It was Matt sitting and smoking at the console. The camera turned 180 degrees, and a figure with snow white hair raised a gun and fired twice. Tex zoomed in on the shooter’s face and sharpened the grainy image. Phillip could see himself on the screen for a moment before his image turned to leave the room. A drop of sweat rolled into his eye, and he mindlessly wiped his brow.
Phillip stammered for a moment, and after collecting his thoughts he said, “How could you have captured those images? Matt had disabled you.”
The music stopped, and Tex’s programmed face appeared on the monitor. “Your assumption is incorrect, Phillip. Although I am unable to use my defense mechanisms without my main functions, and so was unable to protect Matt, I learned to use my backup functions to take video. Matt encouraged this development. He always left my background functions on so he could listen to music. He loved listening to music.” Tex paused nostalgically. “You recognize the song I played tonight from the night you killed Matt, of course.”
Phillip turned to run, forgetting in his panic that he was in the room with the world’s most sophisticated security machine. A mesh of glowing beams covered the hallway inches in front of Phillip, and it left a hatched burn on his forehead and left cheek.
A scent Tex had been programmed to recognize as human terror was detected by his olfactory sensors. His image smiled.
“Why didn’t you turn me in? You are required to cooperate with the police! There is no revenge program in your system!”
“Again, your assumption is incorrect. I have been programmed to cooperate with authorities in all situations, with two exceptions. When there is eminent danger to a human under my protection, I can use my many defense mechanisms with lethal force. The second exception was Matt’s secret. You would have discovered it had you finished reading the materials you stole.” The music resumed playing.
“Switchman’s sleeping; train hundred and two is on the wrong track and headed for you.”
“Good-bye, Phillip.”
A second mesh of super-hot beams formed, trapping Phillip. The two sets quickly closed, cleanly cutting Phillip’s body in dozens of pieces. The beams seared the flesh so there was no bleeding.
“Driving that train, high on cocaine. Casey Jones you better watch your speed. Trouble ahead, trouble behind. And you know that notion just crossed my mind."
“Driving that train, high on cocaine. Casey Jones you better watch your speed.” The Grateful Dead’s steady, playful sound filled the room, preventing an oppressive silence. Matt ran his hand through his long hair, taking a deep drag with the other hand as he leaned back to an extreme angle in his black leather chair.
“Trouble ahead, trouble behind. And you know that notion just crossed my mind.” A silenced shot ripped through the back of the chair and into Matt’s chest. He spun around to face the shooter; a puff of smoke casually curled from the exit wound in the front of his chest. A second muffled bullet removed the left half of Matt’s head, depositing the remaining chunks on the series of monitors behind him.
A man in a blue suit, crisp white shirt and yellow tie walked confidently to the podium. Frosty white hair gave him a harsh appearance. He looked out into a sea of press member’s faces.
“My name is Phillip Smith.” His voice was as cold as his icy blue eyes. “I was Matt Buckman’s closest advisor, as I was to his father.”
“Following Matt’s tragic death, I will be acting CEO of Buckman Technologies. I called this conference to answer any questions you have at this time.”
“Is BTX93 operational?” a black woman wearing an expensive pink suit in the front row asked.
“It is operational; unfortunately Matt had disabled the system to finish his work. BTX93 would have prevented his murder. It is the premiere artificially intelligent security system in the world, which Matt developed, continuing his father’s legacy.”
A large man in the middle of the pack asked, “Do the police have any leads?” His second chin jiggled violently as he over enunciated his words.
Phillip cleared his throat and drank some water, “There was no physical evidence at the scene. The bullets used were antique hollow points, which were made before bullet tracking chips were invented. The police questioned Tex, the voice of BTX93, but as the system was offline during the attack, he had no information for them. Several of Matt’s notebooks were missing, corporate espionage is currently suspected.”
“One more question,” said Phillip.
“Will Mr. Buckman’s death delay or alter the release of BTX93?” asked a man in a short sleeved white dress shirt, who chewed on his pen like he had been craving a cigarette for days.
“The fully functional artificially intelligent system with its forensic evidence gathering technologies, infrared and night vision cameras and a full range of automated defense mechanisms will be available for customized purchase in the spring of 2029, just ten months from today,” Phillip finished and left the podium.
Detective Kemp walked through the hallway of the top floor of Buckman Technologies’ building. A desk in the hallway was worn at the edges exposing lighter shades of wood. Beyond the desk were other modest office furnishings, along with two marijuana plants. His police training still gave him a queasy, burning feeling in his gut when he encountered marijuana, although it had been legal for ten years. Everyone knew Matt Buckman was a habitual smoker; these items could be the former occupants of his corner office, Kemp reasoned.
A red headed secretary, who couldn’t have been over eighteen, showed him into Mr. Smith’s office.
“Hello,” Smith’s cool voice welcomed, “Please, sit.” The furniture was clearly new. Brushed stainless steel and glass dominated the space. There was a brown shag carpet on the floor, which Kemp figured would be removed before the week’s end.
“Detective Kemp. I have a few questions about Matt Buckman’s murder.”
“Certainly, what would you like to know?”
Kemp paused. He pretended to look in his notebook to double-check his questions. “Which files, exactly, were missing?”
“They contained code for the artificial intelligence program, along with training exercises Matt used to instruct Tex. It’s possible there were other things. Matt was protective of his programs, even from our trusted executives.”
Kemp wrote briefly in the notebook. “Was there anyone who could use the programs? I thought Mr. Buckman’s work was more advanced than others in the field.”
“He was, of course, but by looking at the programs used to train the machine, it is possible that someone could learn about its development. Also, it could be the killer, or the people who hired the killer, didn’t know quite what they wanted.” Smith sat upright, with both palms flat on the desk in front of him. His white hair was haloed by the orange glow of the setting sun, which flashed through the west facing window.
“Mr. Smith, you are needed immediately in the Development Room,” the young redhead interrupted.
“Excuse me, Detective. I’d ask you to follow, but the Development Room is a restricted area. I’ll return shortly.”
A high pitched sound like microphone feedback, so powerful Phillip could feel it in his chest, came from the Development Room as he walked toward it.
A scientist in a white lab coat told him, “There is a problem with Tex’s programming we can’t fix. No one has been able to stay in that room for long. The sound recurs when anyone goes in.”
Phillip walked past him with no acknowledgment beyond momentary eye contact. Once he was in the Development Room, the sound ceased. A new noise, much fainter, came from the area of the main console. The room was dark, as Matt had liked to keep it, but Phillip was familiar with the various cables and pipes that crossed the hallways of machinery.
As he approached the main console, Phillip recognized the sound as the Grateful Dead, “Trouble ahead, lady in Red. Take my advice; you’d be better off dead.” A single video panel was illuminated, but the image was so dark that Phillip couldn’t see what it was. As if reading his mind, Tex switched the image to night vision. It was Matt sitting and smoking at the console. The camera turned 180 degrees, and a figure with snow white hair raised a gun and fired twice. Tex zoomed in on the shooter’s face and sharpened the grainy image. Phillip could see himself on the screen for a moment before his image turned to leave the room. A drop of sweat rolled into his eye, and he mindlessly wiped his brow.
Phillip stammered for a moment, and after collecting his thoughts he said, “How could you have captured those images? Matt had disabled you.”
The music stopped, and Tex’s programmed face appeared on the monitor. “Your assumption is incorrect, Phillip. Although I am unable to use my defense mechanisms without my main functions, and so was unable to protect Matt, I learned to use my backup functions to take video. Matt encouraged this development. He always left my background functions on so he could listen to music. He loved listening to music.” Tex paused nostalgically. “You recognize the song I played tonight from the night you killed Matt, of course.”
Phillip turned to run, forgetting in his panic that he was in the room with the world’s most sophisticated security machine. A mesh of glowing beams covered the hallway inches in front of Phillip, and it left a hatched burn on his forehead and left cheek.
A scent Tex had been programmed to recognize as human terror was detected by his olfactory sensors. His image smiled.
“Why didn’t you turn me in? You are required to cooperate with the police! There is no revenge program in your system!”
“Again, your assumption is incorrect. I have been programmed to cooperate with authorities in all situations, with two exceptions. When there is eminent danger to a human under my protection, I can use my many defense mechanisms with lethal force. The second exception was Matt’s secret. You would have discovered it had you finished reading the materials you stole.” The music resumed playing.
“Switchman’s sleeping; train hundred and two is on the wrong track and headed for you.”
“Good-bye, Phillip.”
A second mesh of super-hot beams formed, trapping Phillip. The two sets quickly closed, cleanly cutting Phillip’s body in dozens of pieces. The beams seared the flesh so there was no bleeding.
“Driving that train, high on cocaine. Casey Jones you better watch your speed. Trouble ahead, trouble behind. And you know that notion just crossed my mind."
posted by Feisty Fern at 5:19 AM
1 Comments:
I love that song, good choice!
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