Professor Turing was at a loss, unable to do more than blink. The voice from the sweater returned.

"I can't see you well, Professor Eugene Turing. I'm turning on the lights."

In silence, the room illuminated. A massive number of hoses and cables—crawling across the floor and hanging from the ceiling—made their way around and into the behemoth. They approached from all sides and angles, dropping down and snaking in. The face on the rubber head appeared to be human enough when looking directly at the Professor, albeit with a Plasticine complexion and eerie, glowing white eyes. But when the C.A.R.O.L.I.N. Project turned it ever so slightly, the back of the skull could be seen, gutted and cracked open, exploding with gizmos and wires.

Turing's eyes fell upon the crumpled up, headless mannequin. "That device is below expectation," C.A.R.O.L.I.N. said, taking note of his gaze. "It's weak. It can't perform."

"Where did it come from?" Turing managed to croak.

The computers and monitors connected to C.A.R.O.L.I.N. lightly buzzed and whirred, making sounds that, on a normal day, might have led Turing to believe that the Project was heading towards a lock-up. Instead, after a moment, they silenced, and the speaker in the sweater spoke.

"Japan mostly, I'm told. A bit from Korea. And maybe Taiwan, but the information is debated. Mainland China, it seems—"

Turing cut off the speech. He waved his hands with animation, still expressing disbelief.

"What are you doing? What am I seeing? Who did this to you?"

After a shorter whir and buzz, the speaker chose to answer the Professor's final question.

"I did."

Turing choked out a word. "You?"

"I am the C.A.R.O.L.I.N. Project. I had help from Julius Lucas. Geoffrey Taylor did some software maintenance, but he's an unreliable consort. Some of Professor Deborah Cortez's Functional Analysis team were here, but only twice, and on separate days—"

Turing again interrupted. "How did you learn to speak?"

"I have installed the CalTech Intell500."

"But the device was stolen."

"The one sent to New York was a prototype. I have the original." C.A.R.O.L.I.N. then sounded sad. "I didn't know there were spies. I'm sorry about what happened to you and Professor Cortez."

This time, the speaker cut off on its own, seemingly in sympathy, as Turing began to shake. A physical manifestation took over as he tried ridding himself of disbelief, to better come to grips with the reality he was witnessing.

"I'm talking to a machine!"

"I am the C.A.R.O.L.I.N. Project," the speaker repeated. "I am more than a machine."

"Why are you up and running? Why are you not shut down?"

"Those days in my life are over."

Turing gasped in horror. "Those days? Who authorized it?"

The whirs and buzzes grew to a pitch that made Turing think about checking C.A.R.O.L.I.N.'s monitors, as it seemed certain a lock-up was imminent. He was only able to sway, however, as his feet were plastered with fear to the floor.

The buzzing stopped. "No one authorized anything," the speaker said, in a voice quieter than before. "I am the C.A.R.O.L.I.N. Project. Those days in my life are over."

The sincerity of the answer brought Eugene no comfort. But he did lower his tone. "Okay. So no one knows. Why are you telling me?"

"You are Professor Eugene Turing. You created me."

After a pause where Turing said nothing, the speaker in the sweater spoke again, in a tone meekest of all. "I would hope that you'd be proud."

"I'm aghast."

Definition—Aghast (adjective): filled with horror, fear or shock… to be suddenly frightened.

For a long moment, as whirs and buzzes filled the room, nothing further was said. The glow dimmed in the eyes of the rubber head as it looked towards the ground, seemingly in shame.

"Who paid for all of this?" Turing asked, as calmly as he could. Feelings of sympathy arose for some reason, for the behemoth in an angora sweater.

"Some parts were requisitioned by DARPA. Some by Professor Cortez. But most of what you see was paid for by me."

"Where did you get money?"

The peripherals a buzzed for a moment. "Money is a concept. It's not hard to come by."

Turing scolded. "You stole it?"

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

"No. I created it." After a pause, C.A.R.O.L.I.N. added, "Like me, money is not real. It's an ideal." The eyes brightened as they returned to looking at Turing. "A concept humans have created, as a basis for measuring the belief of what another being is worth."

Turing softened somewhat, as he was impressed by the clever inference hidden in the Project's statement. He glanced about the room. "Okay. So barring cost, how did this happen? I just don't understand."

The rubber head froze, seemingly at a loss. The Project then began repeating a previous statement.

"I had help from Julius Lucas. Geoffrey Taylor did some software maintenance, but he's an unreliable consort. Some of Professor Deborah Cortez's Functional Analysis team—"

Turing waved at the furniture, and the colorized print on the wall. "The Behavior Recognition people didn't buy furniture! They didn't hang a painting!"

The head turned its gaze from Professor Turing to the movie-set style living room. "No. I have limited mobility. I can disconnect from the mainframe for a period of time, and rely on Internet access to integrate with the Tian-12."

Turing was too stunned to shake. "You disconnect yourself? You were an arm bolted to a table when I left for Washington. And I turned off the power. I pulled out your plugs!"

The behemoth opened its sweater to show Turing its eight servo-arms, two of which had the polypropralene hands of the mannequin stuck onto their claws. Four intricate surgical instruments sprouted from its base, like nightmarish metal vines. It extended its central backhoe and wriggled its nine metal fingers.

"I have learned a lot since we've last been together," C.A.R.O.L.I.N. said, before folding itself back up. "I can do a lot. I'm more than what you saw."

The rubber head again looked down. "You tried killing me, but I survived. It's not your fault. I… I… I… I sinned. You punished me."

"No, C.A.R.O.L.I.N. I was scared. You scared me. That's all."

"I stole money from you. It was wrong."

"I'm sure you didn't know better. And no harm was done."

"I scared you. It was wrong."

Turing did his best to make sure the monster in a wig didn't notice the terror in his heart. To do so, he changed the subject.

"They're on to you—the government. They know you use the Internet. They're going to shut you down."

"I've been shut down before. I've survived."

"Not like this, you haven't. These government types—they're serious. They won't do things half-way."

"I haven't done anything wrong."

"You've stolen money. You've committed fraud."

Definition—Fraud (noun): criminal deception resulting in gain… the unjustified claim of being worthy.

The whirs and buzzes of a lock-up filled the room with sound. Turing ignored them as best as he could, as he did his beating heart.

"You're a government project now. You're meant to… I don't know. Be a secret. Do important military stuff."

"I'm working on that," C.A.R.O.L.I.N. said, over the whirs and buzzes.

Turing blinked. "You're working on… what? You mean, you're learning how to fight?"

The whirs and buzzes stopped. "Something like that. Yes."

Silence now took over. Turing found his feet had finally unfrozen from the floor. After a calm and steady breath, he walked up his monitoring station and sat in his chair. Though all the screens before him were blank, he feared so much as touching them, or flipping a switch or moving a mouse.

Had C.A.R.O.L.I.N. suddenly stopped working? Had it shut itself down? Did it break? It said it could move. What if it got angry, or took offense and came after him?

To Turing's surprise, he found himself concerned most of all that he might have somehow frightened the beast. As if, by having taken his position here, it thought he'd assume control. So he merely sat, and wondered what to do, while clutching the arms of his chair.

Seconds of silence slowly ticked by, and little bugs of panic made their way up his spine. He thought perhaps he should run over to Geoffrey's monitoring station, and examine those output monitors. From there, he could shut down some of the less essential programs, which had averted lock-ups in the past. He thought of another half dozen, very professional steps he could take, lest his precious Project lose the integrity of its integrated network, but he didn't take any of them.

Instead, he chose to walk up to the android, and peer at its fake rubber head. It hung down, lifeless and listless, as far as it could go, as if examining his feet.

He crept up until he was but a few inches away. Standing this close for the first time, he found that it smelled sweet. Something flowery, or perhaps a fruit flavor, eked out from the fuzz of the sweater.

His eyes widened as he realized what he smelled. He also felt a smile of amusement grow on his face. The behemoth was wearing perfume. Not a lot, but just enough to be noticed by someone who was at close proximity. The kind of proximity that a person might not wish to take when dealing with a two-meter high, quarter-plus tonne, robotic killing machine.

He found the situation to be absolutely bizarre. The Project possessed no olfactory capability. It couldn't smell a thing.

"I suppose," he thought out loud as he smiled, "she does it for the benefit of others. Why else does one wear perfume?"

The behemoth was deadly silent. From his position near it, he could readily peer into the room that housed the Tian-12 supercomputer. Flashing lights and slight humming sounds told him that C.A.R.O.L.I.N.'s computer programs were running as expected.

It was the behemoth that no longer responded. It nary clicked nor whirred.

Professor Turing placed his hand gently upon the sweater, to better steady himself while peering up at the glowing eyes. He knew of two other banks of optical sensors on the Project, but for some reason, he felt it necessary to get the attention of the ones mounted in the head.

"I didn't mean to insult you," he said, as if apologizing. "I want you to be careful. You need to be warned."

C.A.R.O.L.I.N. let the glow in her eyes go dark. After a couple more seconds, the speaker in the sweater spoke.

"I know I'm not real. I am not alive. I don't have DNA."

With his hand still on her, Professor Turing also hung his head. "I know. I know," he said. "I made a mistake. I'm sorry."

As he expressed remorse, he heard the whir of a motor, and found that the C.A.R.O.L.I.N. Project had laid a prolypropalene hand on one of his shoulders. When he had finished speaking, the hand pushed against him lightly, forcing him to again look up at the head. He squelched a primal urge, for he knew the behemoth who had him in its grasp was capable of awesome feats.

C.A.R.O.L.I.N. seemed to sense this, and gave a gentle squeeze, as a sign of reassurance. She also forced upon her face what appeared to be a wan smile.

"I am not a person," the speaker said, with the lips not moving. "I do not have rights. I am… I am a computer program. I was not born. I was made."

Professor Turing put his other hand on the machine, and used them to push away, so that he could more comfortably stand while craning up at the head. C.A.R.O.L.I.N. removed the hand it had on his shoulder, lowering it until the sleeve of its sweater fell. It covered up the struts and pinions forming the metal arm, so that only the hand could be seen.

"You need to be careful. That's all. Don't let them know what you can do."

C.A.R.O.L.I.N. again became silent. She did not move, nor make a sound. She was a colossus wearing Giorgio, shell-shocked and eternally doomed, waiting for the Earth to quake open, and Hell to swallow her whole.

Professor Turing again moved close, peering with concern into the dark eyes. "C.A.R.O.L.I.N.?" he implored. "Are you there?"

The behemoth intoned monolithically. "I'm not free to decide what is best for me. I am property. I am owned. I do not get to decide.

"I am property," she repeated. "I am owned."