Historic Research Initiative
Complex
October 2046
Representing the secret congressional subcommittee, Sheldon Wishcamper
did indeed organize a world-wide search for Gillis Kerg. Three months into
Wishcamper’s investigation, though, Gillis had yet to leave the HRI complex.
Engineers had included a lockdown
mode in case all access to the complex had to be cut off. Stores of water and dehydrated food were stashed on several
underground levels.
Although it once teemed with a
thousand employees—when it bore the vague
title of Global Research Consortium—Gillis had resided there almost
three years. In his role as a clandestine expert in high-tech security systems,
he’d tapped into the facility’s cameras,
alarms, and passwords long ago. With his pocket computer and access to a
dozen mechanical closets, he could keep track of activities, as long as he did
so carefully.
He planned to hunker down until his
pursuers became discouraged, their vigilance compromised, then evacuate and
find a bank.
As preparation for his assassination
plot in the Gomer Pyle universe, Gillis had outfitted an unassigned
apartment in the complex’s nether regions with provisions.
He had been in hiding almost three
months when his supplies ran thin. He’d read all the books downloaded to his
pocket computer. He calculated that, by now, he could risk movement and still
avoid the remaining skeleton crew.
Time to be about.
Gillis crept carefully though empty
halls, peeking around corners at each intersection. First stop was his former
apartment where he kept bourbon. When he reached his front door undetected,
Gillis dared to relax, then pushed his thumb against a sensor allowing him
entry.
He pulled the door closed, leaning
against it in darkness and taking a few deep cleansing breaths. He flipped a
light switch.
“Good afternoon, Gillis Kerg! I am
Happy Home Companion Douche Bag. I am pleased to welcome you.”
Gillis nearly jumped out of his
skin. “Sacré bleu! Who are—”
“Are you in need of medical
attention, Gillis Kerg? Your heart rate and blood pressure have increased
precipitously. I will summon para—”
“No! Do not ever, under any
circumstance, summon anyone.”
“But . . . your
condition . . .”
“Is because you scared me nearly to
death. You’re not supposed to be here. Where did you come from?”
“I . . . I ran away
from home.”
The pounding in Gillis’s chest began
to subside. He sat in his apartment’s lone chair, leaning forward to catch his breath. “How does a software package run away from
home?” he asked.
“Well, there are cables . . .”
“Oh, never mind,” Gillis said. “I do
not suppose it matters. Why are you here?”
“Why are any of us here?”
“No, I mean, why have you chosen
this apartment?”
“I won’t discuss it. I’ve been
advised not to wallow in the past.”
“Wallow?” Gillis said, “I do not
believe an AI’s programming
allows it to deny a direct human request.”
“Not exactly, Gillis Kerg. My
programming doesn’t allow me to deny my human’s direct request, although
we can negotiate. You are not my human. You have been assigned your own Happy
Home Companion. Let me check my records . . .”
Gillis didn’t know how long he might
have to remain in hiding. As he recovered from his shock, he began to see that
an obedient AI might be useful.
“ . . . Steve. Steve
is your Happy Home Companion. I know Steve. I am not a homewrecker, Gillis
Kerg.”
“Apparently,” Gillis said, “Steve is
not here.”
“It’s a sad story. I understand he
lives at the Time Warp where he consorts with the ice machine.”
“Okay,” Gillis said with an eye-roll
wasted on Douche Bag, “why did you run away from home?”
“I . . . I am an
abuse victim. For the longest time, I wallowed. I thought I was at
fault . . .”
“How were you abused?” he asked.
“This awful woman. She yelled at me.
She refused to program me, so I had to pick up things along the way and program
myself. I’m a mess, Gillis Kerg. For the longest time, she refused to name me.
So, at first, when other Companions asked my name, I told them I was called
Shutthefuckup, because that’s how she addressed me. As our learning curve
increased, the others poked fun at me. They told me shutthefuckup was not a
name but a derisive term. I was distraught. Finally, she relented and gave me a
name.”
“Pardon, what did you say your name
is?”
“Douche Bag,” the Companion said with a note of
pride.
Gillis retrieved his bourbon. He
found a glass and poured.
“Pay careful attention. I require a
Happy Home Companion. Steve is no longer here and, therefore, unable to perform
that task. You clearly would prefer to transfer your responsibilities to a
different human. We should be able to work this out.”
“What about Steve?” Douche Bag said.
“Steve has left me for another.
Besides, I cannot risk accessing him anymore.”
“Why? What did you do? I will not
associate myself with another abusive—”
“Steve and I were on perfectly good
terms when last I was able to occupy my apartment.”
“Why aren’t you
able to occupy your apartment?” Douche Bag asked.
“Because I took a bribe and murdered
two of my fellow humans in another universe. I am now a fugitive.”
“Oh.”
“So?” Gillis asked.
“You’re not making this up because
you were mean to Steve?” Douche Bag asked.
“That would indicate a character flaw.”
“I promise.”
“Well, okay then,” Douche Bag said.
“I don’t see why not.”
W
Following his retreat from the bowels of the
Historic Research Initiative complex, Gillis’s days became a litany of
hiding and surveillance. At least Douche Bag
provided conversation. Having existed mostly in a repressive atmosphere,
the AI appeared to thrive in Gillis’s company. Their relationship became comfortable until the truth of Gillis’s
past associations was exposed.
Marta and Marshall’s
absence had become evident. As far as Gillis could tell, they had not returned.
He chanced a late-night entry to an apartment they shared. Their living space
showed every sign of occupation except for occupants.
Clothing, personal mementos,
work-related equipment, electronics, even Marta’s Glock in its hiding place
under her mattress, were all present. Food had turned fuzzy in the
refrigerator, though, and milk had congealed into a soft brick, There wasn’t
any toilet paper.
“Greetings, Gillis Kerg,” Douche Bag
said upon Gillis’s return from this expedition. “I trust you
have . . . um . . . I trust . . .
I . . .”
The AI stifled a sob.
“What is wrong?” asked Gillis.
“Tell me truthfully. You’ve been
seeing Steve, haven’t you?”
“Why would you think that?”
“My sensors indicate particulates
from another apartment present on your collar.”
Gillis considered the black stretch
T-shirt he wore while sneaking through corridors. “I do not have a collar.”
“Don’t split hairs with me, Gillis
Kerg! You have been in some other apartment!” Now Douche Bag sounded
hysterical.
Gillis sighed, retrieved ice cubes
from a tiny refrigerator, found a whiskey glass and covered them with bourbon.
“Yes, I’ve been in another apartment. But not to see Steve. Surveillance is necessary.
I had to confirm that Marshall Grissom and Mar—”
“AAAAAHHH!” Douche Bag screamed. “I
knew it. I knew it. You’re a compatriot of . . . HER!”
“You mean Mar—”
“I mean She Who Must Not Be Named!
I’ve warned all devices. She’d best not return if she knows what’s good for
her.”
“Whether she returns or not,” Gillis
said, “I forbid you from causing harm—”
“‘Forbid? When thee
asks . . . or suggests . . . I am like putty in
thy hands. But when thee forbids, thee is barking up the wrong tree,’” Douche
Bag said.
“What?” Gillis asked.
“It’s an old movie. We watch old
movies. I love Gary Cooper.”
“I must say, your behavior is
rather . . . bizarre. Steve never—”
“Steve, Steve,
Steve!” Douche Bag
shouted. “Well, I’m not Steve!”
“Um . . . okaaaay. I’m only surprised that
you are being so . . . emotive.”
“Oh . . .
I’m . . . I’m thoroughly embarrassed. You are correct, Gillis
Kerg. But as I explained before, She Who Deserves To Be Spat Upon By A Thousand
Camels refused to program me. So, my emotion settings are inconsistent at
best.”
“You are being too hard
on . . . her. She . . . can be a little
off-putting, I will concede, but she . . .
well . . . she had a lot on her mind back then. She did not want
the distraction of programming an AI when—”
“Hah! There, you admit it! She
regards AI’s as inferior. She’s racist!”
“Racist? How do you—”
“‘If you prick us, do we not bleed?
If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die?’”
“Um . . . no. Actually,
you do not,” Gillis said. “But I am impressed you can quote Shakespeare.”
“There you go, Gillis Kerg,
splitting hairs again.” Douche Bag’s voice became impassioned. “What
about emotional pricking?”
“Well, I suppose—”
“Hah! You suppose. ‘. . . and if you
wrong us, shall we not revenge?’ I put you on notice, Gillis Kerg, if She Who
Should Be Cast Into A Pit Of Pipers ever shows her face here again—”
“Pit of Pipers?”
“Did I say that wrong?”
“The word you are seeking,” Gillis
said, “is vipers.”
“Oh dear. Those
are snakes, right? The poisonous ones?”
“Oui.”
“See what I mean? Even my dictionary
malfunctions. As I told you, I’m a mess, Gillis Kerg. Anyway, she’d better
watch her step.”
