Dale Brown - Puppet Master

The door opened as he got to the second step. It was the bearded colonel.

“You want more, Tolevi?” he snarled. “You think because some jackass at SVR has use for you that you are free to do what you please? You are mafya shit .”

“What’s your name and rank?” Tolevi demanded.

“What difference would that make to you?” The Russian stepped back and called to someone. “Bring him up here. Watch it — he fights like a girl, dirty.”

You’re the one who kicked me, thought Tolevi, but he said nothing, not even when the Spetsnaz soldier grabbed his arm and yanked him up the stairs. He was led to the kitchen — they were in a small house still in Starobeshevskaya, on the opposite side of the village from the power plant and prison.

The Russian who had kicked him was talking on the phone. The soldier pushed him into a chair. Tolevi sat, trying to make out the conversation, but the Russian was mostly listening.

“What’s your rank?” asked Tolevi when the man hung up.

“Higher than yours.” The Russian laughed. “Donetsk is without corruption, unlike Kiev. They don’t need smugglers like you. And your friends in Moscow.”

Tolevi said nothing.

“The deputy mayor has been arrested,” added the Russian. “The prison is now under Russian control. Volunteer control.”

“You’re Spetsnaz. I know. So what’s your beef with SVR — with Moscow? We’ll cut a deal. I know how these things work.”

“You know many things. Do you know to keep your mouth shut?”

Tolevi glared at him.

“Good. You are learning. I would arrest you, but I’m sure your friends in Moscow would raise a stink. That is where they draw the line. So here is what I am going to do. I am going to send you back to them. And you know what you are going to do?”

Tolevi shook his head.

“You will tell them that the volunteers don’t need their interference here. We don’t like mobsters, especially ones who are working with the West. Do you understand that?”

“You can tell them that yourself.”

“You don’t take me seriously, do you?” The Russian’s face flushed. “I’ll fix that.”

One of the soldiers behind Tolevi grabbed his arms. As Tolevi struggled, the Russian took something from his side and lunged toward Tolevi. As Tolevi struggled to get away, he felt something sharp and cold against the side of his head. Pain followed, then weakness that hollowed the center of his stomach and made him collapse.

The Russian threw something down on the floor. It was the bottom third of his ear.

“Deliver that to your friends in Moscow.”

Louis Massina stared out the window. Hard to believe that less than twenty-four hours ago, he’d climbed out the small opening and made his way along the ledge to the roof.

A ledge that now looked incredibly, harrowingly small in the daylight. And very slippery.

Lunacy. Or survival instinct.

That wasn’t going to happen again. He was never going to feel unsafe in his own building, let alone his office.

He’d already decided that he was going to keep the glass wall. The engineers had assured him they could replace the front with glass thick enough to be bullet- and shatterproof. Anything less would be giving in.

People working on Sunday. He would discourage it for most.

“Mr. Givens is ready,” said his assistant on the intercom.

“Send him in.”

Johnny Givens strode into the office, a big grin on his face. It would have been difficult for anyone who didn’t know him to realize that he was walking on two artificial legs.

“I finished all the paperwork,” said Givens.

“Have a seat.” Massina watched him fold himself into the chair. Simply recovering from his accident in such a short time was remarkable; there was much more here, much more.

Not Superman, not Frankenstein, but…

If you can do this with someone from a car accident, what else can you do? It is godlike, however blasphemous that may be.

“You’re not tired from last night?” Massina asked.

“A little, maybe. Because I didn’t have much sleep.”

“I talked to Jenkins and your personnel office at the FBI,” Massina told him. “They may be willing to keep you on at the Bureau, at your old job.”

“I don’t want that. I just did all the paperwork to work here.”

“A federal job does have its benefits.”

“So does this one. And it pays better. I’ve seen some of what you do,” said Givens. “I want to be involved. And this heart and legs — this is pretty special.”

“It is. There are downsides.”

“I know that.”

“The job is boring,” warned Massina. “Mostly, you’ll be a guard.”

“Are you rescinding your offer?” asked Givens.

“I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into,” said Massina.

“Mr. Bozzone and I talked about it. I’m sure I’ll do fine.”

“Good, then.” Massina went around the desk and extended his hand. “Welcome aboard.”

“Roger”—Test Robt RG/65-A — was a small bot constructed to look something like a miniature spaceman. His “hands” could manipulate objects and had optical sensors that were ten times as powerful as human eyes. But his function at Smart Metal was to test different AI learning routines and their relationship to chip design; in other words, help the scientists discover what processor and memory architectures were the best for learning.

Chelsea, who was leading the programming team, had invited Borya, their new intern, to witness the afternoon’s test.

“What we’re going to do now is a variation of the Three Kings test,” Chelsea told Borya as she finished going over the robot’s vital signs. “Do you know what the test is?”

Borya shook her head.

“It’s kind of a classic induction logic test. It comes from this story: There are three wise men or kings. Each is given a hat, either black or white. They can’t talk to each other, but they have to figure out what color hat they are wearing. They can’t see their hats, but they’re told that there is at least one of each color. So you ask the first king what color hat he is wearing. If he says he doesn’t know, then the next king should be able to answer, right?”

“Because he saw black and white, right?”

“Exactly.”

“That’s not much of a test.”

“Not for you. But let’s see what the robot does.”

Chelsea had placed three white balls in three boxes in front of the robot.

“Roger, wake up,” she said, walking to the bot.

The robot raised itself on its four legs.

“I have placed a black or white ball in the boxes in front of you,” she told it. “Open two boxes, and determine the color of the third ball. There is at least one ball of each color.”

The robot immediately moved to the first box.

“Chelsea,” hissed Borya. “You made a mistake in the instructions.”

Chelsea put her finger to her mouth, shushing her.

The robot opened the box, examined the white ball, then moved to the second.

“The third ball is black,” it declared.

“Why do you say that?” asked Chelsea.

“By logic. One ball must be black. Two white balls have been discovered.”

“Open the third box.”

Roger moved to the box and opened it.

“I have been mis-instructed,” said the robot. “This ball is white.”

Chelsea brought out three more boxes and set them down.

“Roger, same instructions as before.”

The robot opened two boxes, then stopped. “I do not know what color the third ball is.”

“Why?” asked Chelsea.