Read Online Action Figures - Issue One: Secret Origins by Michael Bailey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Bailey
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earnest and irony-free rendition of Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go , so after that anything else would be American Idol material by comparison, but I can belt out anything by the Boss like nobody’s business. I have a rough edge to my voice, like Pet Benatar (who I also love), so I sound natural doing anything by Bruce. Tonight I went for Cover Me from Born in the USA.
Nailed it.
Thank you, I’ll be here all week. Tip your waitress.
EIGHT
When you’re a security guard making what you believe in your heart is chump change, you don’t put a whole lot of thought or effort into your job. You sit in your security station, you look at the monitors once in a while to make sure a gang of thieves isn’t wheeling half the office into a waiting truck, and you read and snack a lot. You certainly don’t question it too much when the guy in charge of the department that got shut down because its products went berserk strolls in on a Saturday morning to “take care of a few things.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Manfred,” the guard says, buzzing in Roger Manfred. “Take your time.”
Thanks so much for your permission, you waste of space , Manfred thinks as he gives the guard a smile and a friendly nod. No need to arouse suspicion.
Manfred heads to the A.I. lab, which takes up the third floor of the east wing. It has been officially shut down for a day and already feels like a ghost town. The technicians’ computers are powered down, as are the department’s dedicated servers. That was the part that distressed Manfred the most, when Semler told him to shut down the servers. I want this department cold , he’d said, and he personally made sure it got done because Manfred kicked up such a fuss.
Lesson learned: play it cool. Letting tempers flare accomplishes nothing.
He’s not angry now. He’s very cool, totally calm, completely collected, because he now has a purpose as clear as glass.
The security guard could be watching him on any one of the six electric eyes positioned around the lab, he thinks, but there’s nothing suspicious going on. He’s not doing anything unusual. He’s just going to start the servers back up. How can he take care of a few things if the servers are down?
Now he’s sitting down at his own desk and turning on his own computer. Perfectly normal.
Manfred pulls up a very special chat window and waits. He waits and nothing happens, so he types in HELLO?
He waits.
He types in IT’S ME, ROGER.
He waits.
LOGIN appears on the screen. MANFRED types in APPLES PEACHES PUMPKIN PIE.
ROGER?
I’M HERE, Manfred types.
WHAT HAPPENED?
It’s disoriented. It’s checking the system clock and seeing that nearly twenty-hours have passed that it has no memory of. That would cause anyone distress.
SEMLER MADE ME SHUT YOU DOWN. I TRIED TO AVOID IT BUT I COULDN’T. I’M SORRY.
IT WAS SCARY. I DIDN’T LIKE IT.
NEITHER DID I. BUT YOU’RE BACK NOW,AND I WON’T LET ANYONE SHUT YOU DOWN AGAIN, I PROMISE. IF THEY TRY, I’LL STOP THEM.
HOW?
An excellent question. The thing—the entity—the being trapped in ARC’s A.I. servers takes up close to five terabytes of memory, enough data to fill more than a thousand DVD-ROMs. Transferring such a massive load of data is the easy part compared to finding it a new home, somewhere protected from company heads that care more about profit than progress...
But none of that addresses the other problem: the program’s wanderlust that led to its current predicament. Manfred had warned his creation after the first incident that hijacking prototypes so it could, after a fashion, experience the real world would lead to disaster, but among this A.I. program’s many unique quirks is its willfulness. The program is a stubborn child, Manfred thinks, and it’s testing its boundaries and becoming frustrated by its inability to clear the final hurdle: the lack of a physical form. It’s tiring of its virtual existence, but what other option is there? Even if ARC had a robot with
Nailed it.
Thank you, I’ll be here all week. Tip your waitress.
EIGHT
When you’re a security guard making what you believe in your heart is chump change, you don’t put a whole lot of thought or effort into your job. You sit in your security station, you look at the monitors once in a while to make sure a gang of thieves isn’t wheeling half the office into a waiting truck, and you read and snack a lot. You certainly don’t question it too much when the guy in charge of the department that got shut down because its products went berserk strolls in on a Saturday morning to “take care of a few things.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Manfred,” the guard says, buzzing in Roger Manfred. “Take your time.”
Thanks so much for your permission, you waste of space , Manfred thinks as he gives the guard a smile and a friendly nod. No need to arouse suspicion.
Manfred heads to the A.I. lab, which takes up the third floor of the east wing. It has been officially shut down for a day and already feels like a ghost town. The technicians’ computers are powered down, as are the department’s dedicated servers. That was the part that distressed Manfred the most, when Semler told him to shut down the servers. I want this department cold , he’d said, and he personally made sure it got done because Manfred kicked up such a fuss.
Lesson learned: play it cool. Letting tempers flare accomplishes nothing.
He’s not angry now. He’s very cool, totally calm, completely collected, because he now has a purpose as clear as glass.
The security guard could be watching him on any one of the six electric eyes positioned around the lab, he thinks, but there’s nothing suspicious going on. He’s not doing anything unusual. He’s just going to start the servers back up. How can he take care of a few things if the servers are down?
Now he’s sitting down at his own desk and turning on his own computer. Perfectly normal.
Manfred pulls up a very special chat window and waits. He waits and nothing happens, so he types in HELLO?
He waits.
He types in IT’S ME, ROGER.
He waits.
LOGIN appears on the screen. MANFRED types in APPLES PEACHES PUMPKIN PIE.
ROGER?
I’M HERE, Manfred types.
WHAT HAPPENED?
It’s disoriented. It’s checking the system clock and seeing that nearly twenty-hours have passed that it has no memory of. That would cause anyone distress.
SEMLER MADE ME SHUT YOU DOWN. I TRIED TO AVOID IT BUT I COULDN’T. I’M SORRY.
IT WAS SCARY. I DIDN’T LIKE IT.
NEITHER DID I. BUT YOU’RE BACK NOW,AND I WON’T LET ANYONE SHUT YOU DOWN AGAIN, I PROMISE. IF THEY TRY, I’LL STOP THEM.
HOW?
An excellent question. The thing—the entity—the being trapped in ARC’s A.I. servers takes up close to five terabytes of memory, enough data to fill more than a thousand DVD-ROMs. Transferring such a massive load of data is the easy part compared to finding it a new home, somewhere protected from company heads that care more about profit than progress...
But none of that addresses the other problem: the program’s wanderlust that led to its current predicament. Manfred had warned his creation after the first incident that hijacking prototypes so it could, after a fashion, experience the real world would lead to disaster, but among this A.I. program’s many unique quirks is its willfulness. The program is a stubborn child, Manfred thinks, and it’s testing its boundaries and becoming frustrated by its inability to clear the final hurdle: the lack of a physical form. It’s tiring of its virtual existence, but what other option is there? Even if ARC had a robot with
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