The Darwin Project Page 7

  “And then?” encouraged Toby.

  “I soon realized there was no escape. Same with me friends. The brownshirts were screaming. Me an’ me buddies, we stayed cool, like. Most of us were shipped local, you know. The brownshirts, the troublemakers, they were sent all across the country. I think it was the ringleader who ended up in Anchorage, an’ he was wearing only a tee an’ shorts. They’re sending him back this afternoon, I heard.”

  “Where did the bots send the other troublemakers?”

  “One ended up in Ft. Lauderdale an’ two were sent to Washington D.C., I heard. The other one I think was sent to New York.”

  “Did they suffer injuries?”

  “Oh, yeah, they suffered. They had broken ribs, broken arms, an’ one with a broken leg. He was the one who claimed the bot ran over his toe. Not sure they’ll be so eager to pound on a bot, next time.”

  “And yourself? We can see your black eye and scratches on your face. Your hand?”

  “Only cut, accidental, like. I don’t mind the bots, most of us don’t. We think they’re characters. They even play practical jokes on us.”

  “What?” asked Rick. “What kind of jokes?”

  “Oh, we’ll find our lunches have been pressure-packed, or our cell phones keep going off with silly messages. All harmless stuff.”

  Toby sat back in the couch from where he’d been videoing. “Bots with humor? I’d never heard of that happening.” He silently planned to question Darwin when he had an opportunity. “When are you going back to work?” he asked.

  “The doc said me hand will be okay for Monday. So no lost time, an’ that’s a relief. The warehouse manager said they’d pay us full rates for the shift an’ also pay some comp. They’re picking up the medicals, too. The brownshirts have been kicked out, I heard. Good riddance, I say.”

  “An adventurous night?” suggested Toby.

  “One night like that might be okay. Don’t want too many, though.”

  Toby laughed. “I can imagine. Marco, thank you very much for your story. I hope the bots look after you in future and don’t pack you up and ship you out again.”

  “Toby, you’re very welcome. An’ you, Rick, an’ you, Miss Billie. Can I get you all another cool one?”

  “I have to drive,” said Billie. “But thank you anyway. That was an interesting story.”

  “I agree,” added Rick.

  Toby concluded, “Marco, I’ll broadcast our interview tonight. You and bots with a sense of humor—and possibly with a sense of honor—will be famous. Thanks again.”

  When they were heading back to Bel Air, Billie said, “Bots with a sense of humor? I don’t know whether to be amused or alarmed.”

  Rick said, “Alarmed.”

  Toby didn’t reply. He was focused on a similar set of questions. Should humor, he wondered, be part of the Lovelace test? Could—or even should—all the bots be tested? It was a topic he wanted to discuss with his missing uncle. That thought dropped him into the black abyss caused by not knowing where Nate was nor what had happened to him. He rubbed his temples. The worry was getting to him.

  oOo

  Chapter Eleven

  As they drove back to Bel Air, Rick was listening to a radio station via a small ear insert linked to his cell phone. He said, “Billie, how quickly can you get downtown? There’s something happening on Hill Street, near the Diamond Center. I think it’s at Pershing Square.” He explained to Toby, “It’s something to do with bots, according to the jay.”

  Billie said, “If the traffic remains light, we’ll be there in ten minutes.” She took back control from the vehicle’s computer. “I’ll move us along a little faster, to make sure.”

  Toby asked, “What’s happening?”

  “I’m listening to one of the underground stations. Dark253, if you know it?”

  “Sure, I know someone there. He’s one of their evening jays.”

  “There was an item a couple of minutes ago, and the jay said to get to Pershing Square if you were looking for some Saturday afternoon entertainment.”

  “Any indication of what?” Billie asked.

  “The item made a reference to the new blue bots, the ones that are some kind of police constables. The announcement also mentioned a protest, but I don’t know if the bots are protesting or dealing with the protesters.”

  Billie’s estimate was, as usual, precise. Ten minutes later, she parked in one of the commercial parking areas. Toby saw her wince at the hourly rate and said, “Business expense, I’m sure. Tell Drexel to include it on his bill.”

  “I intend to; don’t worry about that. I’m more concerned about security. This is exposed, and I don’t have any backup. Stand there for a moment while I send Drexel a message.”

  Rick said, “Do you really think there’s a risk?”

  “You saw those two when you arrived at LAX Thursday evening. They weren’t planning on being cuddly and kind.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “What’s Drexel’s reply?”

  “Apart from questioning my intelligence? The support team he promised earlier will be downtown in twenty minutes.”

  “You can blame Rick and me, you know.”

  “I did. He didn’t take much notice.”

  Toby shrugged. “He’ll get used to it. We’re a block away from the square. Let’s go.”

  He set a challenging pace, and Rick and Billie had to move quickly to catch him. Toby was headed along Hill Street towards the stairs onto the square.

  Rick said to Billie, “You could have parked here, under the square.”

  “It’s too expensive. Besides, if there’s any kind of protest, we’d be exposed.”

  The nearby street and stairs onto the square were crowded; word must have circulated quickly of whatever was the pending event. Toby pushed his way through towards the center of their focus. He was in midst of a Toby In The City recording and was oblivious to his surroundings, apart from whatever was in front of him.

  A squad of clumsy-looking, man-sized bots had gathered on the level portion of the tiled surface of the square; the bots were colored light blue and had small cameras mounted like multiple eyes. These, Toby recognized, were a recent design, described by law enforcement organizations as junior constables. The bots were bipedal and were demonstrating their agility. One was demonstrating Irish step dancing and its successful performance was attracting onlookers. More of the bots joined in, to a ripple of applause. Toby could feel the reverberation of their rapid steps on the tiles. A blue bot, off to one side, was juggling what appeared to be large melons; mounds of broken fruit on the tiles indicated his failures. Another blue bot began to turn cartwheels, and it was quickly joined by three others in a synchronized formation. The applause grew louder. Toby counted fifty blue bots, and more were arriving. He laughed to himself when he noticed the upturned cap in front of the bots; it already contained some dollar bills.

  He couldn’t determine where they were coming from and Billie suggested, “I think they’re coming up from the parking levels.”

  Toby signaled his agreement; he was in his full Toby In The City mode. For a few seconds, he did not notice either the sudden hush of the onlookers or Billie urgently tugging at his sleeve. At last, as her urgings grew more vigorous, he turned and asked, “What’s up?”

  She pointed towards the end of the square. A group of brownshirts had arrived, armed with metal rods and heavy hammers. The crowd edged away and the blue bots, alerted by the movement, halted their displays and turned towards the newcomers. Toby continued recording.

  “This will be interesting,” he said.

  “It’s time to get out of here,” urged Billie. “This has the makings of a major fight, and you are exposed.” She turned to Rick and said, “Help me convince Toby we should get out of here.”

  “He invented stubborn.”

  Billie shrugged; she hoped Drexel’s backup team was not too far away.

  The blue bots, in a coordinated move, arranged themselves in
to two squares with the front rows facing the approaching brownshirts. Each square contained twenty-five bots. Four other bots, larger, with dark blue echelons painted on the central core of their bodies, stood two to a square, as though in command. All their movements were well coordinated.

  The brownshirts hesitated, and a small group, presumably the leaders, held a brief discussion before directing their followers forward. Toby turned back to the blue bot squares. The outward facing rows now held weapons that looked like lengths of machined steel. The bots inside the square had removed their heavy upper limbs, handing them over to their companions so they could be used as defensive weapons. The partially limbless bots could stand but needed their peers in the perimeter row to defend them. It was an interesting interplay of group dynamics.

  A squad of brownshirts, about ten, moved up to confront one of the defensive squares. Toby could not hear what they were saying to the bots, which in turn appeared to ignore the challenge. One of the brownshirts swung a long bar at a bot. The blow was fended off without harm to the intended victim.

  More brownshirts moved forward and attempted to strike the bots with their weapons. The bots defended. This pattern of movement was repeated three or four times. One of the brownshirts, apparently a leader, shouted an instruction. Brownshirts swarmed both squares of bots, raining blow after blow. None of their attacks appeared to penetrate the defenses of each square. The brownshirt leader shouted again, and his men drew back.

  The leader and three of his companions held a brief conference. They spoke to their men and then stood, as though waiting for someone or something. A mechanical engine roar from the street caught Toby’s attention and that of most of the bystanders. A monster military vehicle was edging onto the square, its heavy tires biting into the stonework. Toby recognized it as a mine resistant ambush protected (MRAP) armored military vehicle; he thought it was a Buffalo model, the later design that the military had used in Iran. It weighed about 25 tons.

  The brownshirts cheered. The bots remained in their squares, each moving fractionally so that one side faced towards the military vehicle. They were under serious threat. The brownshirt leader conferred with the vehicle driver. Toby assumed they were discussing tactics, presumably intending to simply drive over the bots.

  Toby caught sight of the movement of bystanders from the side of the park where the underground parking exit was located. Billie grabbed his sleeve at the same time, to draw his attention. He zoomed the camera lenses built into his glasses. There were six large bots making their way up from the parking garage. They loomed over the bystanders; each one was at least ten or twelve feet tall, and they had tracks instead of wheels or limbs. They had powerful upper limbs ending in what appeared to be hydraulic clamps. Toby smiled. This was going to be an interesting conflict.

  The tracked bots headed to the squares formed by the blue bots and turned and faced the MRAP and the brownshirts. The perimeter bots in the squares had handed back the metal limbs volunteered by their companions, and now all the blue bots were mechanically complete. The tracked bots moved forward towards the MRAP, with the blue bots following. Toby refocused his lenses. There was something different about the smaller units, something he couldn’t identify.

  The bots didn’t hesitate. Six of the smaller bots leaped up onto the MRAP pulling cables that were connected to the larger tracked bots. They jumped down to the other side. The brownshirts tried to interfere but were blocked by the solid formation of protective bots. Toby heard the engines in the heavier units roar and realized when he saw sparks flying, that the bots had wired the MRAP to power generators.

  Brownshirts near the military vehicle promptly moved away to avoid the high voltage shocks; those inside the vehicle followed their lead, exiting as quickly as they could. A handful of blue bots climbed into the MRAP; the vehicle was now in their possession. A group of blue bots turned to face the brownshirts. The crowd of onlookers gasped when they realized the bots were aiming small weapons at their attackers. The bots fired at the brownshirts, who fell to the ground, writhing in pain. The weapons were tasers; the bots were reacting with minimal force.

  More blue bots stepped forward, aiming their weapons. The brownshirts broke and fled. They had no defense against the powerful electric shocks. The bots restrained the fallen brownshirts with plastic ties. Sirens were sounding in the distance, the sounds coming towards the park. Toby thought it would be interesting to observe the local police reactions to the fracas; however, it might not be prudent to be involved.

  Toby removed and reversed his glasses. He said, “Well, there you have it. Another episode of Toby In The City. Perhaps far more interesting than you expected. This is Toby signing off. Thank you for watching.”

  He checked his vblog metrics—this one had the largest audience yet, approaching a million.

  Billie tugged his arm.

  “Come on, let’s get away from here.” The sirens were close, and people were moving away.

  “All right. I want to have a closer look, first.”

  When Toby approached the group of blue bots, initially they ignored him, and then, as though they had received a signal, they formed three straight rows facing towards him. The blue bots in the MRAP jumped down and added to the lines. They were silent, their camera-eyes intent on Toby.

  He said, “Well done, guys.”

  The robots saluted.

  Billie pulled Toby away.

  oOo

  Chapter Twelve

  Billie led Toby and Rick back to the Tesla. She had successfully conveyed her worry to Toby that they had been exposed for too long in downtown LA.

  “We’ve got one of Drexel’s men behind us and two more in front, about fifty yards further along the street. They have a vehicle and driver near where we parked, so expect to have company for the drive back to Bel Air,” she said.

  “All right,” Toby said. “I’m not trying to cause trouble for you, understand. I suppose I’m mentally rejecting this high-exposure environment.”

  “I understand. There were thirty or forty brownshirts in the square. We would’ve been in trouble if they had recognized you.”

  “You’re that certain they’re after me?” quizzed Toby.

  Rick listening to their conversation, said, “Those guys at the airport seemed to be trouble.”

  “Exactly,” Billie said.

  Toby sighed. “Very well. I’ll follow orders.”

  Billie held his arm as they walked along the street, as though offering her sympathy for the unexpected constraints.

  As they were about to enter the parking area where they’d left the Tesla, two black Suburbans braked noisily as one stopped in front and the other stopped behind them. Billie squeezed Toby’s arm, released it, and stepped back, three feet or so away. Toby and Rick halted at the same time. Two men jumped out of the front vehicle.

  One said, “Which of you is Nate Travers?”

  Toby looked at the speaker and said, “No one here by that name.”

  “And who are you?”

  “Rupert the Unwieldy,” Toby replied, straight-faced. He had commenced recording his next session of Toby In The City when the vehicles stopped.

  “Don’t be a fuckin’ smartass.” The speaker held a small handgun. “There’s someone here called Nathan Travers.”

  “Not me,” said Billie from behind her two companions. The SUV behind her was worrisome.

  Rick shook his head.

  Toby said, “I told you my name.”

  “Fuckwarts.” He apparently spoke to someone remote, using an ear attachment. “No one called Nathan Travers here, boss.” He listened for half a minute. “Okay, keep your panties dry. That wasn’t clear in the briefing.”

  Toby turned to Billie and shrugged.

  The man with the handgun and penchant for language said, “All right, enough screwing around. Who’s Toby McIntosh?”

  “You mean the Toby who broadcasts Toby In The City, that vblog?”

  “What was that, smartass? I
have no fuckin’ idea what he broadcasts.” Apparently, he received another message via his ear technology. “Fuck. You sure?” He turned his attention back to Toby. “So you’re fuckin’ Toby?”

  “No, not at all,” Toby denied. He said to Billie, “Are Drexel’s men in control?”

  “Yes,” Billie replied. “We’ve got blue bot reinforcements, too.”

  “Good.” He turned back to the language expert. “I’ve had enough of this.” He stepped forward, grabbed the man’s throat with one hand and with the other grasped the man’s gun, twisting it so that it was aimed back at his potential assailant. The man screamed as the twisting maneuver broke two of his fingers. A blue bot fired its taser at the other attacker, while Billie swung a high kick at the man behind them.

  The taser victim collapsed with a scream. Billie’s victim couldn’t scream; his jaw was broken. Toby shook his man by the throat. He ignored Drexel’s security team and the three or four blue bots coming around the side of the Suburban. He squeezed both the broken fingers and the man’s throat. He ignored the choking sounds. Toby shook the gun out of the man’s grip, and it fell to the ground. He squeezed the broken fingers again.

  “I’ll ease off your throat if you want to talk.”

  The man’s eyes were bulging. His face was red. He tried to nod, and Toby took that as a yes, and he eased his grip on the man’s throat. Rick had recovered the handgun.

  “All right, fucker,” Toby said. “Who sent you?”

  “You—” The man coughed, trying to breathe. “You will suffer. I swear.”

  “Not from anything you do. You’re going to jail.” He tightened his grip on the man’s throat and broken fingers and squeezed harder. The man tried to scream; the result was a choking, gasping sound.

  Billie said, “Sir Rupert, ease up. He’ll have a heart attack or something.”

  Toby shook his victim one more time and dropped him to the pavement. The man lay there, gasping and moaning.