Wavy lines of text sprouted over his stretched-out torso like a terraced hillside of rice. Cuffed trousers partially blocked the azure edge of Neptune arcing across the apartment window, while bulbous airships drifted by. Fairfield Hayes, one elbow resting on his desk, twitched his fingers in mid-air until, with a sharp poke, the final mote of a fertile mind ended the page.
He paused, then hit send. The virtual article sank into the drop-box icon hanging over his feet, quickly replaced by the miniature image of a woman in business attire.
"Just in time, Fairfield,” his editor said. “Head office wanted this an hour ago, but I managed to stall them for you."
"How many beers do I owe you now, Samice?"
"Might as well make it a case," she said. "Oh, and I have a little something for you, too. Think of it as a farewell kiss."
"The ink on my final piece isn’t even dry and you're already giving me a goodbye present? You're all heart, Sami."
"I know how much you’re going to miss me, so don’t be afraid to check into the office once in a while. We might need someone to refill the staplers."
"That's hilarious. I am so not going to miss you. Now where's my gift?"
"On its way.” She gave him a mock salute. “Goodbye, Fairfield."
The connection ended, and Fairfield managed a half-hearted "hmph" as he tugged at his sleeveless vest and got to his feet. The apartment's intercom clicked on, followed by a warm-toned voice announcing "Package arrival, Mr. Hayes".
He tapped in the door code to reveal a spherical membrane floating outside, the words "To Commemorate Your 20 Years" displayed in multi-colored cursive on the surface. As he took it in his hands a black scroll inside sank to the bottom, then the membrane around it dissolved. The flexible plastic mat unfurled slowly across his palms.
"Holy crap," he mumbled, recognizing a rip at the upper left corner. “My first professional keyboard. She kept it all this time."
***
“Come for an evening of DomeDance. Stay for the glorious morning view!”
The sparkle of glitrite outfits, swinging and tumbling across the gray crater wall, reflected off glass and metal-ware spread about the restaurant.
“More like stay for the fun of watching Seckops bounce anyone out the airlocks if they don’t tip the dancers enough,” Fairfield said, a magenta mist rising from his lips. Across the table, Maylor gave him a sideways glance over his drink.
The reporter fingered the Weedstix before taking another puff. “Ok, ok,” he continued, “maybe I’m becoming a grouse in my old age.” Three red lines flashed across the dispenser’s flat surface. “Darn the luck. My credits are running low. How about we get on with this?” Fairfield capped the device and slipped it into a faux bamboo sheath.
“You just need to follow one order,” Maylor said, leaning forward through a thick Copernican accent. “Scout out the location. Then back off and we’ll do the rest.”
“That’s two orders, actually.” After a moment’s pause, Fairfield said, “Enough with the glare. Those rotating optiplants look like they’re about to scrape through your eyelids.”
“Just do the job, Hayes.” Leathery hands tapped a wrist band and Fairfield heard the muffled chirp of a topped off credit chip in his pocket. “Other half on completion.”
“Of course. You wouldn’t want to fully trust an agent who’s been loyal to you for nearly a decade.”
“We put our faith in results, not the individual. You should know that by now.” Maylor rose and turned to leave, then tossed a glance back over the table. “And we expect reliable results.”
***
“Hello, Mr. Hayes, I’m your new assignment companion. My name is Rentis.” The android raised his hand. The journalist noted the synthetic’s personable demeanor, common among factory built models, and his clean-cut suit.
“Fairfield,” Samice said, “this is Marc Rentis, your new protege. Marc was a nurse on the front lines during the Tharsis skirmish of ‘58.”
“War hero, eh? Welcome aboard. I can always use help untangling the web of medical jargon whenever I’m researching health frauds.” Third mentoring position in as many years. The government’s really pushing this AI recycling thing for veterans.
“Oh, I’m no longer prioritized for those services,” Marc said. “As you know, data from that time was purged from all artificial memories by the Kemp Decree. Only the Solar Strategic Command archive on Enceladus stores such highly classified information.”
“It must have slipped my mind.” Rumor says some droid chemory banks were sealed, not wiped. “What’s your directive now?”
“Mainly gathering knowledge of the methods of investigation for your profession.” The android forced a weak smile. “Our goal is to encompass the procedures and protocols of the news media, eventually relieving the majority of personnel so that they may freely exercise an independent lifestyle.”
“If I didn’t know better...” Fairfield trailed off when he saw the look on Samice’s face. “He’s my replacement?” he asked her.
“He’s everyone’s replacement. Or they all are, actually. It’s a system-wide initiative from corporate.”
“How long?”
“They want a twelve month turnaround time. Sorry, Hayes.”
***
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The warehouse seemed deserted. From its inner appearance, it might have been located anywhere on Earth, but upper windows revealed the sharp silhouettes of a frozen landscape etched against a black sky. Few places stamped with humanity’s footprint could boast such a clear view at night. Stacked densely around the floor’s perimeter, the bas-relief of SSC’s blue and gold logo cast thin shadows on permplast crates, leaving only one spot open at the double doorway.
After the bioscan verified his genetic code, Fairfield entered and walked down an aisle, sat on the closest crate, then tapped on his suit’s secondary visor. Half a dozen mini-drones fed in thumbnail views of the building’s perimeter, while radar graphs climbed and fell as crawler bots sniffed out any security bugs nestled among the warehouse’s nooks and crannies.
Let’s have a close look at those critter specs. Deep probe attachments? Expensive gadgets. As for the crates, mostly empty...just one with any contents: a quanti-hedron. So who needs an ever-changing geometric encryption key, and what does it unlock?
After the all clear signal popped up in his vision, he snapped the visor off and used his finger to trace the recall signal on it. His little helpers scurried back into their snug magmesh cozies he had left at the structure’s entrance. Once he gathered them into a suitcase he took the tramlev to the orbital station.
***
“Face it, Hayes, you’re just not cut out for this work anymore.” Just a month into the job and Rentis thought he knew everything. The bot’s friendly attitude had twisted into smugness, which Fairfield surmised was an unintentional side effect of absorbing skills too quickly without the buffer that comes from failure.
“You might be right, but I think I’ve got one more good story in me.” Fairfield turned from the window. “Let me ask you something. Why do you want to replace me, Marc?”
“I don’t desire that, Mr. Hayes.”
“But you’re learning how to be a reporter so you can take my job.”
“That’s my prescribed goal, not my personal one.”
“Which is?”
“To develop many human skills, including various arts and crafts, as well as educating myself on history, literature, and philosophy.”
“Those are bold plans.”
“I suppose they are. Do you think they’re overly ambitious?”
“Maybe, but I guess you’ll find out.”
“I guess I will.”
The seasoned journalist sat down on the corner of his desk. “Listen, Marc, I could use your input on this piece. Interested?”
“If it’s another light cultural critique, I’ll pass.”
A week earlier, on April 11, 2065, Fairfield’s penultimate article had been written for the Aletheia Times. A review of the dining establishments on Petavius Plateau, it was the kind of thing he’d become known for in recent years.
“Actually,” he said, “this could be right up your alley. As my grand finale, I want to create something special, something we’ll be remembered by for generations to come. Together we can change the world!” Fairfield stood and dramatically swept out his arms, looking into the distance with eyes wide and mouth agape.
“I can see that you’re trying to play to my ego,” Marc responded, “and attempting to be humorous with your mockery, but I’ll take the bait anyway. Perhaps I’ll learn a lesson in how to ruin a career.”
“Cool. Let’s get started right now.” Fairfield flipped one hand up and hovered his fingers over a holographic keyboard. “Tell me, Mr. Rentis, when did you first learn you were a spy for the military?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because you’re just a puppet on a string. A dime-store dummy.” Fairfield’s voice rose. “Nobody believes a fake human like you could make his own decisions, especially a soulless toy pretending it wasn’t manufactured as a jack-in-the-box that popped up whenever his masters called.”
“Really, Fairfield, I am familiar with the techniques of inducing stress. You want to goad me into an unguarded emotional reaction so I’ll mistakenly reveal whatever secret information you think I possess - ”
Fairfield rushed at the android until their faces were only centimeters apart. He screamed “Get in line now, soldier!”
Rentis stiffened, gaze frozen and face blank.
“Damn, it worked!” Fairfield backed away. ‘SSC indoctrination wears a groove into the mind which cannot be erased. Though dry, it may channel a torrent once the dam is broken.’
“I always knew my humanities degree would come in handy someday...Marc, can you hear me?”
“Yes, Mr. Hayes, I can hear you. I can’t seem to move, however.”
“I think you’re experiencing a system freeze due to tampering with SSC security. We need to find a way around it.”
“I believe the key is some form of visual stimulation.”
“Like a morphing polygon, perhaps?”
“Certainly. How did you know?”
“It’s my job to find these things out. Let me transfer something...there.”
Marc began to collapse before Fairfield caught him under the shoulder and helped him sit down.
“Are you able to - ” Fairfield was cut off before he could finish.
“Horrible. The memories, just horrible,” Marc whispered.
“Sorry to make you relive that kind of violence, Mark.”
“I’m actually not recalling any physical abuse, only prolonged mental duress. Subjects were placed within a VR setting and monitored for physiological reactions to the coronary and immune systems.”
“No fighting? Then the whole war story was a sham. Immune system, you said? Doesn’t that take some time to respond to changes?”
“We were stationed at Tharsis for an extended period, Mr. Hayes. Our mission proceeded without interruption for the entire duration in order to determine which variables would produce the desired results.”
“They were tortured for weeks, months maybe. What was the point of all that?”
“That information is for command eyes only, but a simple bit of reasoning could deduce its purpose if subsequent, unexpected events were to be correlated using a common denominator.”
“Like you and the others suddenly appearing on the doorstep of the Times. Taking our jobs, replacing all reporters with repurposed androids who...”
Marc waited as his companion stared absently.
“Who,” Fairfield continued, “had learned first-hand techniques of fear-based population manipulation. A perfect way for a news organization to drive sales.”
“If true, this could mean a criminal conspiracy at the highest levels, with a possible government connection. The fallout would be tremendous.”
“I told you we’d make history.”
***
“Back already?” Maylor sneered, impatiently tapping on the desktop. Behind him Martian copters flowed like flocks of birds through a bustling intersection.
Fairfield plopped onto a chair. “Don’t I always deliver? Maybe I’m a little late, but my thoroughness is my guarantee of quality.”
Maylor’s rough laugh sounded like a dry cough. He squeezed out another mouthful of plum brandy from a gel-pak. “Let’s have it.”
Fairfield placed the suitcase on the desk and raised the lid. “Since I’ve been a good boy, how about an extra slice of the pie this time?”
“You know the drill. Meeting logs recorded off-world are the sole possession of the host party. No other party may use said information without authorized consent - ”
“Oh, please. This organization supports regulatory rules the same way my socks hold my legs up. It’s just a weak excuse for a hidden agenda.”
More tapping on the desk. “I suppose, since you haven’t screwed up lately.” He swiped his hand above the suitcase and pinched the air. “There you go. Now don’t make any trouble for us.”
***
“Samice, my love, have I got a story for you.”
His editor looked up from her terminal. “What’s the topic?”
“Military secrets. Brainwashed robots. That kind of thing. I call it "Shock Puppets".
“Seriously? You’re going with that title for your last article?”
“This is big stuff, Sami. But there’s a possible downside for the company. Can I count on your support?”
“I’ve always had your back, Fairfield, and you’ve never steered this organization wrong.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“I’ll look over your notes and we’ll go from there.”
***
“I know we haven’t always been on the best of terms, Marc, but I’d like to make you an offer.”
“Which is?”
“Let’s team up. I’ve got an itch to get back in the game, but I’ll need a partner.”
“It’s hard to see why that would be for someone who exposed so much corruption on his own. Besides, my career had just begun when the company was dissolved.”
“Yet you made an impressive leap in those few months. I know a good journalist when I work with one.”
“I guess I could use a job right now.”
“Good. I like the sound of ‘Fairfield and Company’. What d’ya think?”
Rentis considered for a moment. “How about ‘Rentis and Hayes, Inc.’?”
“As long as you realize I’m in charge. Experience, you know, and all the authority that goes with it.”
“Alright, boss. Let’s go change the world.”