Caroline Dixon obviously thought a lot of herself. But Brodie suspected her shtick was hiding something—or defending against something. He just needed to figure out what. He said, “Magic implies illusion. A misdirect.”
Dixon nodded. “And you’ve both fallen for it multiple times.” She looked at Brodie. “We built a weapon that mimics a man. Because of that mimicry, you’ve both assigned agency, intelligence, and inner consciousness to a machine that possesses none of those things.”
Brodie looked her in the eyes. “Are you calling us suckers, Caroline?”
She smiled. “No, Scott. I’m calling you human.”
Up ahead, Howe, Spencer, and Mendez stopped at a long, narrow single-story concrete building with a flat roof. A Ranger with an EMP-equipped rifle stood outside a steel door, and parked nearby was a white Military Police sedan. Brodie noticed metal bars over a small window on the far end of the building.
Taylor asked, “They’re keeping the robot in the brig?”
Dixon replied, “Just another part of the illusion.”
The Ranger on sentry, a Black corporal in his early twenties named Powell, saluted Howe and Spencer, then unlocked the steel door and swung it open. They all walked into a room with a drop ceiling and fluorescent lighting. In the middle of the room stood a metal table with two bottles of water, two notepads and pens, and three metal chairs. At the far side of the room was another steel door, which was guarded by a young MP with a holstered sidearm, a specialist whose name tape identified him as “Kemp.”
Colonel Howe gestured to the table. “Agents, please have a seat.”
Brodie and Taylor sat on one side of the table, facing the door that evidently led to the holding cell.
Howe said to Powell, “At the ready, Corporal.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Powell took a few steps closer to the holding cell door and raised his EMP rifle.
Howe said to Brodie and Taylor, “I don’t anticipate an issue, but in light of what happened we are exercising extreme caution.”
Brodie said, “Good idea.” He felt his SIG Sauer M18 pistol in the pancake holster beneath his suit jacket, and it occurred to him that he was completely unequipped to provide for his own safety against the real threats at this place. He eyed Corporal Powell’s EMP barrel attachment and wondered if it, like the D-17s, was a prototype—and whether it was also prone to malfunction.
Sergeant Mendez said to the specialist by the cell door, “Bring it in, Kemp.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” Kemp unlocked the door, swung it open, and said in a commanding voice, “Walk forward and sit in the chair directly ahead of you.”
The MP stepped aside, and Brodie could see into the holding cell. There was a cot against the wall, but he couldn’t see anything else through the doorway.
Then he heard shuffling feet, and the jangle and drag of chains. A tall figure appeared in the doorway and ducked its head as it walked through the open door. Taylor gasped.
It was a D-17, towering over every human in the room. Its arms were in front of it, with manacles on its wrists connected by a heavy foot-long chain. Another set of chained manacles looped around its ankles.
The robot shuffled into the room. Its movements were uncannily human. It took small, careful steps, so as not to lose its balance from the short chain connecting its lower legs.
Its many servo motors and hydraulics were surprisingly silent, and the only sounds were of its metallic footsteps and the dragging chain. Its bucket-shaped head with the single black slit looked straight aheadand above where Brodie and Taylor were sitting. Corporal Powell kept his rifle trained on the robot and followed it as it walked.
Brodie eyed the chains and manacles. The MPs could have just as soon strapped this thing to a gurney and wheeled it in. But cuffing it, holding it in the brig, making it walk in chains… it was oddly humanizing.Just another part of the illusion.
The robot approached the table, still not looking at them, and Brodie spotted the numeral 20 etched on its breastplate. It clutched the back of the chair with both of its manacled hands, slid it away from the table slowly, then eased itself down onto the chair. It tilted its head down slightly, fixing its sensors on Brodie and Taylor.
Brodie said, “Hello.”
The robot did not respond.
“What is your name?”
The robot replied, “Number 20.” It sounded human, like a male voice of about-average pitch, with no affect. Brodie saw no visible speakers, and the voice seemed to emanate from the center of its head and was slightly muffled. It turned its head to Taylor, then back to Brodie.
Brodie said, “My name is Scott Brodie, and this is my partner, Maggie Taylor. We are special agents from United States Army CID. Do you know what CID is?”
“No.”
“We are criminal investigators. We are here to investigate the murder of Major Roger Ames, by you.”
