Numlock Home

Once upon a time, Home and I went to a pub. We do not often do that. That last time we went, there was a single woman at one of those little coffee table, settee sort of arrangements and no visible sign of any partner. We look at each other and sort of shrug by mild eye contact; ask her if she would like company; and we demonstrate with body language that we don’t need this, we are not making any kind of move, here. It’s a friendly offer of company, possibly the very reason why she visits a pub on her own, our friendly question politely offers, it does yes. Anyway ,

Anyway she is quite welcoming and all, yes please do sit, I am Sarah she says. I am James I say and this is Numlock Home, my ummmm… OK we can get into that later, my friend and boss, we can start off with.

Not the NumLock Home, she asks.

Yes, verily, the NumLock Home.

Oh wow, she says, this is an honour.

Nonsense, says Home, I just solved a few high profile cases and then there is fame and fortune, I’m happy to tell you that I’m rather ordinary, please relax.

What’s that strange looking drink, she asks.

A cherry max, I say, very delicious. And your one, I ask, indicating the iridescent orange drink in a tall narrow glass.

It’s a potent alcoholic drink made from apricots, also very delicious but not as potent as a max. She raises an eyebrow at my cherry max. admittedly it will make me drunk. I look at the glowing red glass, and nod in silent agreement.

Home made the very briefest of eye contact with me, and normally I am slow and dull-witted compared to him, but this time I got it: is she human, he conveyed.

I made a humming sound, mmm. You could do this as you are sitting down, sort of a relaxing sound, or a little conversation-continuing sort of noise; an expression of approval, in a way. Or, looking forward to drinking this; whatever. But it was a signal to Home that I received his message, and we now do not know whether we are sharing our company with a D-931 or higher, because we think that we would be able, by various conversational transactions, to tell if she was a 930 or lower. Just wait, or rather, read on, and you will see what I mean.

Gracious me, says Home, looking around the pub, what a mix of people – and others. Look, there are some Outers; Chinese there, and I wonder where those black folks are from?

From Africa, Home, obviously, this is me being deliberately stupid.

No no says Home and Sarah together, and then burst out laughing at their simultaneous rejection of my guess.

OK I am chastised, I say, they can be Jamaican, American, Cuban…. Are there black communities on the moon now?

There are, she alleges, I was there yesterday. And in the Mars bubble, too.

Now if this is a human dolly, Home and I can exchange furtive glances and maybe even a few hand signals to continue our game of What is She. But if she is a D933 or, God forbid, even a 950, then such little nuances are easily picked up and stored; and, of course, she may have Eye See, so some owner or handler or controller or whoever could be watching all of this with some amusement.

Home and I no longer have any kind of psychological block or prejudice or whatever when dealing with cyborgs, of either gender. Not, of course, that a cyborg of that grade has to maintain a given gender for longer than a few seconds.

But anyway, we can interact with any robot, including a D996 if it ever came to that, as if they are human. But of course you do not know that the 996 is a robot, so what the heck. It, or he or she, has a heartbeat; inhales and exhales; sweats; drinks coffee and even farts. OK fair enough the hair doesn’t actually grow, but it sure passes for human hair.

We’ve been over this many times. You see, the makers of such excellent cyborgs want them to be as human as they possibly can be. And they go deep! In every sense. The younger females will even change responses and behaviour according to their menstrual cycle. Alleged cycle. We accept this and acknowledge the hard work done by dozens of brilliant programmers. What am I saying? Hundreds, thousands of programmers. So now Home and I are now so arrogant as to think that we treat all humanoids the same, no prejudice, none.

I defy you to tell a D950 from a human! And this illustrative charade about which you now read was not the first time we have done this. Last year, one of the sales ladies of our major client (a good friend and a slimy rat, she is, Melissa with the blue black hair), she sends three young ladies, (one cloned on her, the very Melissa) over to our beach house, and challenges us to tell which is the human and which one not. Now that was fun. Unfortunately, there was a complication afterwards. Yes, you can let your imagination go, a bit, here. An unfortunate complication. Sigh. We all make mistakes in this life; it is in the very nature of our humanity. And we learn and we go on. I have sadness when I think back of those two young ladies who visited us a year ago. That Melissa, she should never have sent them. OK so obviously the clone is not her – actually I checked, quickly, by skyping her on video and doing a few random questions. She always did want me to give her wanton sex, she made no bones about that, and would buy me drinks, but so far no luck for her. Now do not start thinking all sorts of funny stuff here, the opportunity between girlfriends, and the matter of loyalty, and all that simply did not allow me to indulge her fantasy: I’m not gay or something, although I love gay men – but they cannot hear me say it like that because then they want to give me a blow job or something. Of course I would be extremely happy to have excellent sex with the lovely Melissa, obviously. We’re getting sidetracked here. Anyway it would be easy for her to pretend to be a robot, but the robot couldn’t do her job (intuition, reading customers, thinking on your feet, and all).

You see, the creators of these extremely expensive and alarmingly lifelike robots are our main clients, and yes, that does include Humanoids Inc., whatever you may think of them. controversial, yes; profit oriented, yes. But maybe not as capitalist and such materialistic pigs as what the newspapers love to write. Home and I know Humanoids Inc. from both sides, so to speak. And you have to admit that some of their products are excellent! Their dogs are truly superb, always have been. Man’s best friend that does not poo all the time, what a pleasure. Indeed little Asterix at our house is a Humanoids Inc. product, and he is very up-to-date with his software. Small but lethal, do not approach our beach cottage complex with bad intent. Asterix has Eye See, so besides him biting you seventeen times a second, we are watching. Umm, we are again getting sidetracked here, we were discussing the young lady: statistically probably a human, but easily possible that she is a product of the very Humanoids Inc.; a latest model, even. Sending your robot to a public place to work the artificial intelligence a bit more, is a common and productive practice. Simple AI. Then they become more human, which I suppose is the whole point, really, isn’t it ?

So in our job, Home and I have dealt with many; and arrived at the place where, well, what the heck, just treat the person – you see there, I am already doing it – I mean robot, in this case a woman - just like any other human being.

Were Home and I acting a bit strangely, being too careful not to make eye contact and being a bit artificial, thinking about being watched by some controller? Acting is often part of our job, so I acted like myself and Home acted like himself. Not as easy as it sounds. But anyway, so now is she human or a serious robot? I love this stuff! And Home, with the usual serious face, was thoroughly enjoying himself, too. Home can laugh without even letting his eyes twinkle. His serious face is his smile. Asshole.

So what is this about your relationship being so complex? She asks.

Home chuckles, he leaves such answers to me.

OK well you know about Home, computer detective, I start

No, not really, she says. Only what I read in the newspapers. Here, look at my glasses, she hands them over, I googled his name now and this is what they say. There’s nothing personal at all.

I put them on and read a few lines from each entry. Home was just sitting and relaxing, pretending not to take part in this idle chatter. He can do a good sort of semi-interested face and body language. Actually he is looking around in the most innocent way possible for any signs of other robots, or observing her while she is not looking. He has a Q17 in his pocket which looks out for looking and listening devices and other such stuff, it tells whether someone may be taking too much interest in us. No expression. He’s a slimy rat, is Home.

You’re right, I say, but that’s good, because we do prefer to be a bit quieter, really. Yes, these are references to him rather than interviews and stuff, I mean …

I gave her the glasses back.

I address her question. Well, I am thick compared to Home but intelligent enough to be able to pass him the correct tools as he needs them, so to speak. Say we are examining someone’s home computer to see whether they have an illegally enhanced Locks and Keys running – something we do often. There is obviously the first and difficult task of finding the computer, and we have some tools which help; where do you keep your home computer, for example?

Sarah looked directly into my eyes, needing assurance that such a direct question was OK with me, with us. I have it with me, she replies after assessing me for a second or two, but yes, there is a voiceboard and large monitor; not hidden; it’s in a study type of room.

Exactly, I say, so you can understand that this is not always so easy. People who are worthy of investigation, because some client of ours thinks they need to be checked out, so to speak, can be quite sensitive about having their computers examined; so, well, I will scan the voiceboard for grime and sensors and tell him if the user will detect his physical or voice presence. Meantime he is looking around and registering all the clues this place may have to tell about the inhabitant; stuff that I can simply not do – it’s his unique gift, this noticing and recording of all the little clues. But I can confirm, OK you can go ahead here, Home, we will be able to delete all traces when you’re done.

Oooh you must be so computer literate, she coos at me. I like this.

Yes ma’am, that’s needed. But I don’t write programs, we hire people for that.

Please continue she says. It sounded sincere enough.

Well, then Home interacts with the computer, admittedly it may be away like yours is now, so we need some unusual software, naturally. Normally by voiceboard but by also by voice if it can be erased; and while he does that, then I search the rest of the domicile. So we have swapped jobs, you could say. Of course he has seen both physical clues that do not even register with me, and also all the historical usage and stuff from the machine. but we seem to be able to put together a fairly accurate picture of our target back home when we debrief. Then we can tell our client if this person is being naughty, or whatever. And get paid.

But you need a warrant and security clearance and everything for that, she ventures.

Of course, yes.

It’s so exciting, she says, what a great job.

Not really, says Home, it can be quite repetitious.

Like any job, she says.

At this point Home and I look at each other quite openly, as if in agreement with her. No time for too many devious messages, but we certainly shared this: this is not going to be easy.

Oh, I get it she says. Now you think I am a robot not a human, right.

We laugh loudly at this. I nod vigorously and Home confirms, yes, exactly, ma’am. Please accept that as a compliment, because as you know, robot ladies are intelligent, attractive and have many excellent qualities. And when we cannot tell one apart from a human, those ones are extremely expensive.

But that’s your job, she says.

Not exactly, but it is an area or discipline which we know well, since our clients are often robotics companies.

I’m just swooning here, she says, with the excitement and all and well, you don’t get to meet NumLock Home every day you know.

Home smiles very slightly and very briefly. Thank you ma’am, but really this very ordinary man you see is exactly that, just ordinary. We have worked hard and… well, you know, some cases… Home gets dreamy remembering about some cases … snaps back to here and now; continues … and been lucky, it is true. But now you have behaved in several very human ways, and it is a great testament to your programmers.

What ! I’ll slap you into next week if you dare call me a robot.

Ma’am, if you are a D933 or better, you will slap me a lot further than next week.

We all three guffawed long and hearty, each one laughing at the other one’s laughter, this went on almost uncontrollably, at length, it was excellent fun. Now that’s why you go to a pub ! I took care not to spill the half max that was left. Man, a cherry max is a delicious drink. Must be cold !

Well, she says, I never realised that NumLock Home and James Watt would be in a pub firstly and such fun secondly, oh you know what I mean.

You see there, again, I point out, you behave in such a human manner; but say you are a 933, do you think it, or she, could do that, too? I saw you scratching the back of your arm just now, as if you had a sudden itch; and that trick with almost missing your mouth when you drink – just like a slightly drunk human would. The truth is, ma’am, that if you are a cyborg, you are at least a D940.

And now imagine if these small things are just those which I observe, what the great NumLock Home is seeing.

Be careful, she says wagging a finger at us both, next week plus a few weeks, remember? I am feeling like an observed animal here.

Another round of laughter. But we have advanced no further. What must we do, ask her outright: excuse us, ma’am, but seriously, are you human? it’s just poor diplomacy, we would never resort to that. And she could answer any darn thing she pleases…. or whatever pleases her handler. What do you think?

Yes, it is highly complimentary to allege to a woman that she is a robot, because they are made with such care and such depth. But that’s only if you are a male. A human woman does not care for that. She does not, ever, want to be called a cyborg. That’s why Home and I treat them all the same, human, cyborg, doesn’t matter. Many long intellectual conversations about this, with many experts in the field. So now it’s like a racism thing from the old days. We reject it totally.

Now this particular lady, Sarah, was very pleasant and talkative, she acknowledged in various little conversational ways that she lives alone and like any human being, feels the need for company, and since this pub is literally a stone’s throw from her small but comfortable apartment, she visits from time to time and sometimes meets friends. And, the barman has an old D800 tough guy who is instructed to look out for her; it even follows her outside if there appears to be a male human who could be following her. It’s a free service to her as a regular customer.

Of course all this makes us tend towards thinking that she is human, indeed. But what the heck, we have a school day tomorrow, and we cannot stay all night and it doesn’t matter so much if she is human or not. We drink and make small talk, give her more info about Home and even swap business cards. I notice that she tells her phone, a cute little gold wristwatch number, to send by secure link to James Watt only. I tell my Q9 to respond secure, obviously, anything else would be poor protocol, don’t you think ? Not that there are any eavesdroppers nearby or anything, but maybe someone within range has left their phone open or whatever. So after firmly agreeing that we are not drinking any more – school day tomorrow - we regretfully leave. But I bet that Home will have a conclusion about her, one way or the other, to discuss in the car on the way home.

He does have. James, did you notice the way she kept looking at her handbag?

No.

well she did. So I read my little Q9 as if taking a call, but of course it is testing for signals from her bag. This is dangerous for our little game since a D940 may be able to notice me and my Q9 reading signals. And what do you suppose I found?

Well, I need to guess now, and, since I Don’t Know is not an acceptable answer, I venture: there was no signal. She is being programmed in real time from someone watching us, and her, and everything, through her Eye See. If that is the case, then there is a binary flash in her handbag for which she needs a split second of eye contact – not Eye See – to adjust her behaviour and responses. Totally private, no signal.

You guessed wildly and indeed correctly, James. I’m pleased with you. Can we agree now that all my little comments do in fact assist your detective education?

This makes me feel uncomfortable, quite humble and privileged: Yes, we can. Home, you do realise that I appreciate all the little comments, as you so casually put it. You do not have to make a running commentary when we are on a case, but you do, and you see now where it leads. But yes, it was a wild guess.

You’re welcome, says Home, anyway I like thinking out loud. Anyway. She is a D940 or better. And she is in the pub to learn to be more human. And doing very well at it, wouldn’t you say?

Very well indeed. But no pheromones, Home, she is good looking but not sexy.

Quite, says Home. We tell the car to go at normal speeds while we digest all this. Now obviously this is unfair: Home thinks several levels deeper, or higher, than I do.

You know, James, it doesn’t matter.

No, I agree, it doesn’t; but there must be – what – twenty, even fifty such models running around town?

Yes but how many of them do you find idle in pubs? We meet them as prototypes at clients offices and how many have we met casually ?

Home, you’re forgetting that Melissa of Real Robotics sent one human and two robots to live in the third cottage very recently.

No I’m not. That doesn’t count. It was intentional. We’re talking about casual meetings like the one we’ve just had.

Well, there was that 925 in the coffee shop last year. She fooled us.

Yes but that was our first time, and anyway by the time we got home we had figured it out. Since then it has become common practice to let them loose for AI enhancement. but have you ever been told that hey, I met a cyborg girl in a pub ?

No.

Exactly. It is still rare. Advanced model robots are gainfully employed almost all the time.

Hey, I interrupt. Home, that is merely a statistical truth, they are usually in space, the technicians who don’t need space suits. But they can pass a bar for some interaction any time …

Exactly, James, and otherwise making money as prostitutes or otherwise, earning credits to pay for the next battery. Not cheap. and if she is out of her maintenance plan, nor are the little firmware or software upgrades. How much did it cost to upgrade Asterix last month?

A lot, I reply ruefully.

Exactly. If Sarah is a robot, we are lucky.

Home looks down at his hands, a common habit when is about to conclude.

He concludes. I have concluded that she’s a robot and she was indeed learning to be more human, and her handler is probably a woman, too. I think we should play the game again, what do you reckon?

Absolutely! It’s really fun. Let’s bring Chee Tong next time.

Excellent plan. Do you know anyone who is a regular there?

Yes, I admit, M9 goes there a lot and knows others who do, too.

Well, we have a photo now, and she knows that, and we know that she knows and she knows that we know, etc. Can we up our game as much as she and her lady handler can?

Your lady handler is speculative, Home.

He agrees, yes it could be a group but I’d wager there is a female or three in there. Men cannot program women, James. Never have been able to, never will. Can we beat them do you think ?

Probably not, I venture.

Home nods silently.

But it’s a challenge that neither of us will pass up, we also silently agree. What do you think, you are going to play chess against a chess grand master and beat him ? Not going to happen. Also, Arsenal are not going to choose you to be their next goalie, sorry, no matter how much you try. But what the heck !!! its worth a try, dammit.

I mean seriously, if she is human, we are going to look a bit silly. But only we know that, heheheh.

Home is decisive: Let’s ask M9 if he knows her, and even if not, we send him the photo so that if she arrives when he or his friends are there, they can call us.

My agreement is simple: ooooh, I love this game.

Home nearly smiles.

You know, this is all a bit misleading actually. You are thinking, well this is a fun story, and wondering where the “human or cyborg” game will go next. But we do not play such games very often, actually, we really do do detective work on behalf of cybernetic organism manufacturers, or robotics companies if you prefer. Also, we are security graded by IPP – yes, the very International Planetary Police – so they do assist us often, and we share much info with them. Quid pro quo. We are busy and have many other interests, including charity work.

I do not earn a salary. I live in the beach cottage at the cottage complex or beach house, and do not know nor care whether Home, or whoever, owns it or not. I’ve never asked, and I won’t. I have a credit card which could probably buy a Literider, but would never be so irresponsible as to do that; anyway, I simply tell Olaf, the butler, what I want or need, and he gets it. Olaf is human. But Sheila, the maid, is not. Oh, Sheila. I sigh again. Be prepared for a bit of complexity, dear reader.

Of all the stories which we have accumulated over the years, here is one that probably describes best who we are and what we do.

Inside the story is another story, to again illustrate a whole concept. You are thinking, I don’t care, I am just reading serially along here, can you kindly get on with it.

It was not a dark and stormy night, which is the way all stories should start but what do you want, I must lie to you? It wasn’t. it was a sunny day, not that we cared since we were in the library, although that is a very strange and old-fashioned word. It’s a coffee shop where extremely knowledgable computerheads and hacks run the place. It’s a library, OK. The “we” consists of me, of reasonable intelligence, and M9 and NumLock Home of much higher intelligence. Much. Anyway I am James Watt, my latest name now, the buddy and sidekick of the third, or first, rather, of our company, Home, and M9 is our current computerhead programmer. I once knew a guy in school called James Watt, he was a nice guy. I’m also nice, a bit, but tend to be businesslike and abrasive. When you get older, then you know you are an abrasive person, not like when you were younger; then, you just sort of didn’t understand how some people really dislike you. Now, older, you know why. Then you can even try and be a bit less abrasive, which is not easy. umm, we’re getting sidetracked here….

the story. Home and me, we’re into computing in one way or another. allright, you want the truth, we give you truth - we don’t have regular jobs, so shoot us. Rather, we have intense jobs – cases, we like to call them, since that is more dramatic or heroic or something - which can be exhausting, so that sometimes we decline all work, and hang out idle, in stupid places, like pool bars, or the library, or the observatory; we even go to social places where alcoholic beverages are sold; and also stay at home, where we compute for many hours. We read chips by virtual devices, to get clever and knowledgeable, however you spell that.

so along comes this guy one day, at the library it was, we go there often because the coffee and the atmosphere is so pleasant. Home and me and M9, our other hacker buddy, the three of us, we’re doing a virtual game while we scan colony populations and stuff. The visitor is Phil, a male Caucasian, thirty-something, shaved head, scar, tatto on his scalp, a big eagle, coloured (the eagle tattoo is coloured), he introduces himself very polite and all, asks me whether I am James Watt, yes I am. well, he sez, please can you guys help me? There’s this hacker always sending viruses to my home management system. Lights go off, curtains open, all sorts of harmless stuff, but it’s a hassle, you know? He, or they, are good, very. Leaves voice messages like a signature, sorta. “Enjoy that one, Phil?” he’s always asking, it’s the same message every time. I’d reply, but to where and to who? anyway, he seems harmless so far, but hey … you never know, these days.

Home and I looked at each other. I sighed. Boring.

Home looked down, and said, “Well, we find ourselves helping people a lot, and it really doesn’t pay us to spend time doing detective work for free. I hope you understand.”

He’s quite English, and sorta dignified, and that old fashioned stuff, is Home.

Phil sez, no, no, you don’t understand. I wanna pay. What you think? Hey, I’m hiring you guys, man.

“What’s our rate at the moment, Mr. Watt?”

“Lump sum. We find the guy, five thousand credits. We stop him from hacking Phil’s machine, ten thousand.“

Home looked at Phil, “are you recording this? i am. My Q9 is working …. I think …”, he pulled the dirty little 9 from his overcoat pocket, dusted it off with one of his little gloves. Home doesn’t like watches or glasses or wrist computers and phones.

Phil put his hands in his pockets, an embarassed signal. “Umm.. yeah, that’s OK, i got a nugget, sort of a deposit? “

I was getting suspicious.

I held out my hand, and he dropped it in carefully. About 80 grams, a nice piece. It’s a sort of star burst shape, I have it to this day, it’s from Andromeda. They’re common there, you can get them for nothing, nearly. Anyway, it merely served to confirm our suspicion that Phil here is not telling us the whole story. It was worth at least two or three thousand, slightly more today. Home’s forgotten about it, he doesn’t really care about credits. I could have said half those figures, or double them, Home wouldn’t notice.

I give Phil the serious eyeball, from up close. “How important is it that this guy doesn’t see your home stuff? You didn’t go asking around until you eventually find out where the great NumLock Home is, and then hand an eighty gram nugget over, because this guy is opening your curtains?”

I turned my back on him, as if to let him answer the question to Home, but actually we use this method so that i can tell M9 some stuff, like go check this guy’s wheels out, see what you can see. We do this by lip reading and eye signals, but after a few years, you don’t have to say much, M9 knows what to do. I just rolled my eyeballs, kinda. He looked down at the massive library desk monitor. He pretended to be busy looking up some astronomical stuff. Actually, he was.

Home is taking part in all this, of course, by holding out his hand like a gay, as if to ask, well, what’s the answer to my partner’s question, this is while i’ve got my back turned talking to M9.

M9 waves visibly at us, very annoyed like, shuddup, you guys, this is a library, and moves two or three stations away, sits down. It’s all part of the charade, we’ve done it before a bit. He’ll check for any following people, or cyborgs. Then he’ll make like he’s found the chip of his desire, and he goes to the librarian dolly. It was Valerie that day, a human dolly, very pleasant. She smiles a lot. We always talk about licking each other’s tongues and that sort of talk, but we never do it. We’re good friends. I like women, human and robot. I’m scared of the clever ones, but still like them.

Phil explains to Home that he works from home, and needs proper security, the usual and understandable stuff. Why doesn’t he just buy Locks and Keys? I bought it, of course, sez Phil. But then the hacker must be using a High Grade security ID, Home says, very illegal. Take your nugget back and go to the cops, obviously. Not so obviously, sez Phil, the cops don’t like me because i’m a weed dealer. He holds on to the nugget when i reluctantly give it back.

Sorry, we can’t help weed dealers, sez Home, it may be legal but it is not ethical, he quotes. This is boring for us, it happens so often. Wait a minute, says Phil, i export. To prisoner colonies only. It’s the truth, i don’t sell one gram of weed on the earth, not one. The cops think i do, but i don’t.

“Here’s the number of a cop friend of mine who will open a case for you,” Home tells him, taking out a piece of white paper. I love that old paper stuff and a pen, or a pencil. Yes ! Phil holds up his hands. You’re gonna give me Throb Arthur’s number, Mister Home, aren’t you?

Home gives him the direct eyeball. How do you know that, Phil-whatever-your-name is? Donahue. Phil Donahue.

The same guy what sent me to you, he knows you a bit, he said that you can introduce me to a cop called Bob “Throb” Arthur. Computer Cop, not so clever but very determined, usually solves the dull cases which the bright guys don’t want. How am i doing?

You information is substantially correct, sez Home, so why do you not want to meet the dogged C-cop Arthur who will probably solve your case for free via the taxpayer, rather than pay expensive private detectives?

Because I am a professional weed dealer, Home. I sell to prisoners. The cops know me and don’t like me. Which is stupid because I pay tax and all, their blasted salaries, you could even say.

These conversations are so common, and dull, and predictable, i start getting my VR helmet back on, but Home stops me with a stop-sign hand signal. His raised English eyebrows ask, is this fair? Do i, Home, get to do all the boring chatter to unwanted clients, while you resume your game – our game - and holiday in Acapulco, and reading? There is after all the astronomical game we were busy with, as well….

Home’s raised eyebrows can, and do, say a lot. I sigh. I get up and turn to Phil.

“Phil,” i start, but before i can continue, he backs away a bit fast and knocks into the old library dodderer, nice old fellow called Strawberry, and he stays far from me.

“Stoppit, stoppit,” he whispers urgently, “I know your routine, and you’re gonna hurt me now while Home pretends not to see. Probably crush my throat to encourage me to get lost? Yes?”

I’m interested. How does this guy know our routine so well?

“Then you probably know you cannot run away if i do wish to cause you bodily harm.”

“I know it. If you promise not to hurt me, i’ll tell you a) who my informant is, and b) a story which will interest you and Home.”

“Phil,” I began. But my Q9 was signalling. I have an underarm skin receiver, nobody knows I am being called. Probably M9 with some info. “Wait.” I instruct him. I tell the Q9 to whisper the incoming message. It’s M9. OK so this Phil character had arrived in a LiteRider with a D-900 cyborgette, looks like a late model (the robot, not the car). The car is registered in the name of Phillip Donahue, interplanetary import and export, licence valid until the end of the year. Average grade security clearance. I yawned.

I looked up at Phil. There was absolutely nothing interesting about the man whatsoever.

Now is the time to go the extra mile. To give love unconditionally, to be friendly and gentle and patient. I’m bad at it, but getting better. I smile at Phil.

“OK, Mr. Donahue. I won’t discourage you by hurting you or doing anything that demonstrates our extreme impatience at being approached several times a week by routine and irksome, not to mention unprofitable, propositions. I confess i am intrigued by the nugget you showed, but you must understand that we are not in dire need of work.”

This is a long speech for me. I struggled not to yawn again or show any other signs of boredom, impatience or intolerance towards this ordinary man. Phil is about 38, looks quite fit, tanned, bald with the eagle tattoo on his head, dressed real rough. Big scar on his face, from his eye right down to his neck. He was lucky they missed the jugular. Been around, but a normal, nice guy.

He sits on a bench. “There are these guys harassing me,” he uses his hands expressively while he talks, “they been doing it for years. They don’t like it if i do the moon-Jupiter slingshot route, they say it’s their exclusive turf. I got all the data on them, so they can’t actually assault me or kill me or anything, because i’ll spill the beans about their other bad stuff, same as they can about me.”

I couldn’t help it, I yawned deeply, and couldn’t hide it, so didn’t try too hard. I slumped down next to him. “So you know who’s harassing you. Yet you come here and will pay five thousand credits for us to find that out. Which i could do without even standing up. and you know that.

Now i’ll tell you, Phillip Donahue, why you are here, so that you can see how often we get this identical request. You want us to investigate your domestic machines, a Q19 quad?”

He looked down. “it’s a Q21”

“…a Q21, and then we will have a nice little enhancement written by our hidden programmer friends for your Locks and Keys security system, and at last your domestic life will no longer be characterised by the neighbours watching you with the constant stream of cyborgettes which you have visiting at all hours, since the curtains are likely to open at the crucial moment, which demonstrates that someone is watching you, and that is what irks you most. Not to mention being seen with the pink carbon ring powder which you like to insert into the occasional joint, another activity which is hard to keep hidden with an haywire domestic machine. Your TV cameras are transmitting to who knows where, a temporary and unpredictable loss of control by the domestic machine, which is in fact your main concern. How am i doing so far?”

Phil looked at me directly. His honesty was refreshing. “You’re right on the button, Watt. Now. Can you help?”

“No, sorry.”

Phil stood up. He extended his hand, “thanks anyway for your time.”

I shook it, wanting to continue my extra-mile routine. “Page Down6 sent you, didn’t he?”

Phil started to turn away, “of course, you knew that ever since I told you that you were sending me to Throb Arthur. Page Down6 is an old student of mine.”

“Wait,” I asked. This guy taught Page Down6? “What did you teach him?”

“How to be a soldier. I was a sergeant in Computer Force.”

“Well, why the heck didn’t you say so. I’m C-Force, you must know that.”

“I know it. That should not influence your decision.”

“It influences. Wait here, lemme talk to Home.”

I walked over. M9 was back already, the cyborgette in tow. How does he do it? I looked back at Phil, who was staring, fascinated. M9 being naughty again, he’d beamed the D-900, and Phil couldn’t believe that anyone could take over his robot lady. I looked back again. He stayed sitting. M9 was pretending that he thought she was human, and had a possibility of scoring. He was a few stations away from us, proudly showing her how his astronomical model worked. Admittedly, it’s very impressive. You drive in a virtual LiteBus to tour any of fifty thousand galaxies, and all the details are there. Come to the library sometime, i’ll show you.

Home listened to the single plain fact that Phil was an ex-sergeant from C-Force. He leaned his cheek into his hand and looked askance up at me. “Honourable discharge?”

I reddened. I didn’t know. The most important fact, and i hadn’t checked. I tried to bluff the great NumLock Home. “Well, the LiteRider is legal, so is the young lady, he is open and honest, he’s told no lies that we know of, he doesn’t have any black marks, ummm….”

Home smiled, and looked at me directly. Our friendship is robust. We have a completely false charade of dignity and aloofness which we maintain even when we’re alone. We can pretend to kiss like gays when we think we are being watched by undesirable elements, and we both hate it passionately, which seems inappropriate terminology, but it proves that we really are at one.

I burst out laughing, as loudly as a library would allow (Valerie has kicked us out for this before), sort of a teeth-gritted snigger, and admitted: “Let me find out.”

Home, chuckling, returned to his book. You’ve got to admit that the old paper books are still darn pleasant. Because they are so expensive nowadays, we go to the library to read them; sorta like folks used to go to the movies in the old days.

“Phil, did you get an honourable discharge?”

“I did not. It’s a long story, but the short answer is no.”

How does Home do this? Did he know what the answer would be?

“Sorry, Phil, time’s up. If you’d like to tell the long story, stick it on a chip, give it to Page Down, and he’ll give it to us. Home or i’ll get round to it within … listen, i won’t lie to you. We’ll probably take a couple of weeks before we assimilate it.”

“Well,” smiled Phil, “we made a darn sight more progress than i expected. Here’s the story on a chip. And here’s the nugget, it’s a gift. I saw you looking at it. Seemed to me that you know something about them. and by the way, it’s not 80 grams, it’s 75. Call me if you like the story.”

The library was quiet. I love that place. He walked over to his robot lady, and she recognised him. M9 had not totally scrambled her, obviously. He’s much too good for that. Subtle, clever.

Phil and his D-900 walked out arm in arm.

M9 was sniggering, and would soon be laughing uncontrollably. He rushed for the toilet, but didn’t quite make it. His loud guffaw was just audible before he got the door closed. I held my cotton hanky to my face, trying to laugh quietly. Even Home was grinning. We knew not to look at each other, because we would get loud.

Phil Donahue’s Story.

Phil was born on earth before the Big Realisation in 2019. His mom and dad were normal computer yuppies, and he was brought up with his sister in a middle class home in a western country. More boring it is not possible to get.

Phil scores a big bag of weed in the normal manner when he is just 13 years old, and sells half of it to his buddies for the same as what he paid for the whole bag. So he reckons that if he can sell the other half for the same, or more, this means he has made a profit. Kids of 13 back then were not as sharp as they are now. Nobody finished university when they were 12 like these young punks do today.

Why am I telling you all this? Because it is a story. You can skip to the end if you want.

So Phil obviously buys another bag of weed, and does it again, except his buddies are not smoking it fast enough, so he has to cast the net a little wider, in marketing terms. He is dealing in legal amounts, so there is not a moral dilemma for him yet. But – you knew there was a but coming – one day his supplier offers him a very large consignment, at a price which he cannot refuse. Mexican ! Since he is getting credit from the supplier anyway, Phil agrees to take the lot. But, being more than a ton, it is illegal. So he personally splits the stash into four or five piles (he has difficulty remembering exactly, since he only deals in the best stuff, and rather likes it himself). Now he has a very large stash or three, and cannot smoke it himself, because that would take three hundred years, and since he is just 15 years old, such use may shorten his life. So he starts phoning. He is going to have a party. He invites every family member, every friend and enemy, every dealer in the phone book, and every prostitute (this was back then, when hookers were humans), and he tells them all to bring every friend they know. Free dope.

To cut a long and not very good story short, it was a marketing success and Phil went on to several years of success in the soft drugs trade. You know the end of the story, he sells the business and starts up again on his own. Yes he is on a different and more interplanetary circuit now, it would hardly be fair (nor very wise) to compete with the nice pharmaceutical fellows who bought the previous business, would it. Successful again within a year or three.

But with this repeated success, you know what is going to happen next.

The dealer who approached Phil was a remarkably young English black male, slick short haircut, clean shaven, neatly dressed. Are you Philip Donohue? I am. We heard you deal in weed. I do. We want to offer you assistance to work exclusively on your new geographical area, which could, if you do well, become exclusive for more planets where humans live. we are in the business of ensuring that you have no competition. For a fee, obviously.

Phil thinks about this for a few seconds. I don’t like it, he says. What if I say no? Well, says the English, we then have to ask another person, your competition, serving the same areas, the same question; if he accepts, then of course you are the competition. We would then chase you away, drive you out, shoo-shoo, please do not perform this business where our man is trying to perform that same business. Could get all nasty and messy and you-know-what, and that is bad business, we like friendly co-operation.

I don’t like it, says Phil. I’ve heard about you guys. You guys are way illegal, and I am dealing legal amounts. Not if you want to serve the whole known route out that way, Phil, you cannot stay legal. Why not try us out?

Phil thinks again, not long, a few seconds. No, he says, I’m going to stay and continue without you, very sorry. Thanks for the kind offer. They shake hands, can you believe it.

I find it a bit silly to shake hands with illegal dope dealers. Do you shake the hand of your executioner? These guys are going to kill him and he knows it; so what the heck ? Phil must have been pretty confident, or known something or someone, to refuse their kind offer, what you reckon ?

Look, I dunno what happened, I wasn’t there; but as you have already seen, from above, or heard about, or assimilated, or read, or whatever, you probably also already got this impression, this Phil is a straight kind of person, looks you in the eye when he talks and doesn’t seem at all dishonest. Turns out, later, now when I am writing this all down here, that that is in fact the very case, and the truth, and all. Basically, Phil is a good person.

Not easy. Good persons in the soft drugs trade ?

Well, we could end up writing a very long history about Phil and how he became this successful weed dealer who only sells to prisoner colonies across space; but then what about that story where we only got up to the part where he approached us in the library and we told him to scram. Except now – this is what this side-track here is all about – we think, but now wait a minute, the guy went to C-Force and he even taught PageDown6.

PageDown6 is not an ordinary person. He is a dodgy dealer of information (but not for us: we get the good stuff, every time) who operates many computers and radios and strange things which you and I do not even know exist, let alone how to operate them. If you want to communicate in such a way that nobody else will be able to read your communication, PageDown6 will help you. Well, maybe not you, since this is not cheap, in fact it is frighteningly pricey. But there are many, including people who make cybernetic organisms, and economy-based organisations, you know, what were called banks in the old days before they got busted doing all the stuff that economy-based businesses used to do back then. On top of this, he is quite adequately prepared for the vagaries of the strange underworld he inhabits, both in terms of diplomacy and ability to look after himself. In the vaguest possible terms, don’t start a fight with him.

So now if we put two and two together, OK well Phil may not in fact have been signing his own death warrant when he refused the kind offer from the competitive drug dealers. Maybe he was in fact a step or two ahead of them. Anybody who taught PageDown6 is probably well connected, with people that you and I will never meet.

Here’s an example, it really happened. let us say you have requested to meet with PageDown6 in a place of mutual comfort and safety. You then put your question to him: I am the French ambassador’s son, I have been naughty, can you get the video footage back from the prostitute and her pimp? PageDown6 laughs at such a ridiculously easy request. You are not telling me the whole truth, Mr. ambassador’s son. It is not a mere prostitute and her pimp, but in fact the financial officer for InterPlanetary Electric, and her bodyguard. The son goes red, a genuine blush. So now you have been doubly naughty, says PageDown6, because you did not tell the truth. This doubles the fee. You will in future be careful to tell the truth at once, will you not, ambassador’s son, to someone who is an information professional?

Yes.

Do not worry, then, says PageDown6, here is the video. There are no copies that we know of.

But but but

Do not but, says PageDown6, goats but. When you made the appointment to see me, then I made some enquiries. These enquiries were most amusing, and more enquiries were needed for such an amusing story to continue. Getting the video was easy. Not cheap, but within your budget. Now, do you want to hear the good part?

Yes please.

The Financial Officer of InterPlanetary Electric thinks that you are a great fuck. She wants more. Now I normally do not give out information for free, but here, this one is on the house: in the past, we do not know of any instance when she has said that about anyone, despite in-depth research. You are a naughty man, but clearly a talented naughty man, at least in one area of your life. That will be two thousand credits, thank you.

I have a gold burst here…

Let me see

It’s well over one hundred grammes

Not so well; about 110.

Yes, it is 111.

Very well. Do you want us to sweep your room, find any other devices?

Yes please

Another five hundred credits.

Yes please do it. Here is a piece of Andromeda cake, about 30 grammes. Can you send Miss

PageDown6 uses a sudden hand stop signal: No names

I wish to send flowers anonymously

Use Interflora

Oh. Of course.

So this whole little cameo tells us that there is another aspect to PageDown6, besides obviously being intelligent and well-connected: he is a gentle fellow at heart, kind and caring. Also, he has humour. I like humour. That, however, does not get much space in the story.

Well, since we are getting sidetracked, you are obviously wondering but now how does PageDown6 feature so prominently when the story is actually about Phil Donohue; or not even him, it is about us, Home and me, with the greater emphasis on me, if I can help it, because I have an inferiority complex, deep and hidden, but us older people know when we have it, and therefore the story is told in such a way that you think I am great and wonderful and all that, so that you are kept away from the real truth, which is that I am an ordinary asshole like you, and like everybody, except not those alien people who are very advanced, and admirable, and nice, and without all these stupid hangups which we have. Sigh.

Well, it is because there is obviously a gap in the professional weed dealer’s curriculum vitae, when he was in the army, and he had occasion to teach PageDown6. It sounds weird, now when I see it written here, “teach PageDown6”. That is like teaching the Dalai Lama. in case you did not do history, or you are blind, deaf and stupid, he was a spiritual guy, a very admirable eastern guru even before my very young youth; he was teaching that stuff about the big realisation long before 2018. The later and current incarnations of the Dalai Lama have not been known to outsiders yet. Anyway, you do not teach PageDown6. PageDown6 teaches you.

Anyway, so now there is a gap in the CV of Philip. Phil Donohue did not only go to the army, he became a sergeant in the army, and taught people. Now do not get too far ahead of yourself, my beloved reader: we are talking C-Force, here, this is not just any army. It is a special section who will, ideally, go to a place and render the computer or computers more friendly than they have been, since they and the people who operate them have been naughty, or unkind, or something equally sinful. In other words, C-Force soldiers will find and replace enemy computers and ask everyone in the region, and connected to this one or these ones, to kindly desist from doing that again, please. There may even be some graphic reminders that if you do do this again, C-Force will come back, and these graphic reminders normally help people to get back on the straight and narrow, a bit. The distributed nature of computing these days means that they will also have to find and do whatever necessary to satelites or even interplanetary communications, maybe including some very long and arduous journeys, including travelling at light speed to places that you and I have only heard about; and meeting with other living beings which we have not only not heard about, but would be hard pressed even to communicate with them. so you can see that these are not ordinary army soldiers; not that ordinary is ordinary, any more, I am the first to admit that a soldier these days is a highly trained operator of remote everythings, from the little tanks to drones to cyborgs and spacecraft and the whole shooting match, which seems an amusingly appropriate analogy. Is that a genuine spider on your ceiling, or something a bit more sinister?

In our beach house, the spiders are genuine. Sheila, about whom I shall tell you in great detail, checks spiders for genuineness and if one is not indeed a thoroughbred arachnid, but a bit more electronic, so to speak, she does not kill it. No. She captures it, and we have friends who can probably establish where this spy spider originated. You do not know people like that, and if you approach us with your example of a little espionage-oriented insect, we are extremely careful to shield our sources of information from you, or anyone who even bears a remote resemblance to you or any other human being. And anyway, how did you find out that this insect is indeed a spy? who are you exactly? kindly accompany me, or us, to interplanetary police, IPP, and please enjoy our hospitality while we learn of your excellent detective capabilities, your talent may be quite useful to us. People who can tell whether the spider is real or robotic are rare, and may even posess some illegal equipment, exactly the kind which we prefer to keep to ourselves, so we have it all and you have none. Sorry if I sound a bit officious, or formal, here: people who are able to tell whether the insects are genuine or not, are rare, and suspicious, and could potentially be from the dark side. Are you?

Insect technology is actually one of my favourite subjects. I carry a little dragonfly which is remarkably well programmed, and will fly rapidly to a place and send videos back in real time. Sophisticated equipment would be required to catch this little fellow, or girl, I’ve never quite decided what gender should apply: so a neutral name like PeeWee seemed best. Yes I am a childish fool, and most spy insect operators will not name their tiny robotic friends; same as you should not name your ducks, but rather breed them anonymously. Then, when you eat one (duck, not robotic insect), you are not eating young Amy or anything equally, errr, tasteless. You know what I mean. Anyway, PeeWee is really useful, fairly stealthy, re-programmable with a beamer. And looks just like a real dragonfly.

You realise, of course, that anyone would have to be into some seriously nefarious business to suspect a dragonfly flying past. The kinds of people who we need to, ummm. This is hard. Ummm, the people who we check up on, or try and get to know better, the ones on the other side, sort of, who do things which are not in the interests of good people, they are the kinds who see a dragonfly go past and immediately send a little birdie or maybe a big drone to catch the innocent passing insect. Nobody has caught PeeWee yet, but the day will come, sure. We packed as much explosive as one can fit into such a tiny space as we could. PeeWee knows what to do if he or she gets caught. That would be sad in one way but there is a small fun element to this. We would know the exact co-ordinates where our little friend self-destructed and hopefully destroyed his or her captor. Then the hunt is on ! I love this stuff.

OK OK yes there is a big brother for PeeWee, it is a black-shouldered kite which looks exactly like the real bird of prey; and of course you are dying to have another long detailed description of this technology. But then we interrupt the story again, and anyway this very kite, Kelly, another gender-neutral name, will feature. So, simply continue.

Ok, what we got? a Phil who turns out to be not so boring after all; and a PageDown6, techno-head, definitely not boring, a couple of robotic imitations of nature, and Sheila, our maid, who you will struggle to tell apart from a real human being. No, I refuse to tell you her exact grading. Ahhh, allright then, she is a D-921 you are concluding. Wait ! stop concluding all over the place like this. OK I admit that she is above D-920. Just wait, OK. Then there is M9, a fascinating character, programmer absolutely deeee-lux, who will play an absolutely pivotal role; the enigmatic and lightning-fast thinker NumLock Home, and me. And then, ahahahaaaa, you get introduced to Moonbeam, and her kids Gockle and Zee. Is this fun or what?

Here’s the fun part, where we pick the story up at another time and place, so that, then, if you are extremely well behaved and lick the floor around me and use names like master and sir and your highness, then you get to find out whether it all comes together and we live happily ever after. Or just read on, I reluctantly suppose….

Once upon a time, again not a dark and stormy night, we were waiting at a 3-D traffic light. The back-front and left-right were green, but the up-down was red. Probably some rich cowboy in a LiteRider was coming down at speed, I hate them. I thunk, as Home had demanded. If the deceased secretaries had indeed been told to look out for Overstealth viruses, and an unknown one (am I stupid? obviously it’s unknown, there does not exist such a thing as a known overstealth virus) came along, they would e-mail C-Cops, yeah? Secretaries these days are smart. Well, excuse me. They are “secretaries” precisely because they are either genius intelligence or have intelligent implants. No, not of their breasts, in their brains. Implants in their brains, like fantastic libraries full of extremely rapidly accessible facts and figures, which can be updated daily. When the boss says can you phone Ugly Dork of Utang Bataar in Mongolia, no not Mongolia in Asia, the one on the planet Goz, there towards Sagittarius. Sure. they immediately tell their phone the number and it phones , because their implant (NOT breast implants, stop that now) was updated yesterday with Mr. U. Dork’s changed number. Now I don’t care if this is all old hat to you, because new hat will be that they are not quite as secure as has always been assumed. Yes, let your brain cogs tick this information over, my beloved reader. Yes, someone may actually have removed or bypassed or re-programmed their Deep Secure (if they are not human), which means that they (the hackers) can access all sorts of new information, and store it, like your name and address and telephone number; well everyone has that you say, yes all very innocent so far, but what about that moonlight stroll you took with that D-800 two years ago? Don’t want your wife to know about that, do we? and that is only the lighthearted stuff, isn’t it? A lot more sensitive info like the Eye See you had put in your cat, and the info that revealed later…. Got messy, didn’t it? So, no, we do not want Miss Pretty Secretary over here to have her Deep Secure overridden, no.

This is the business of NumLock Home and myself.

We perform detective work for computer companies, in particular those who manufacture cyborgs. They are keen to keep all security systems in good order. You, you now realise, also support this previously unthought-of and mundane sentiment.

OK, smart cookies. So what? So they probably realised they were onto something big – this is the human part of their brain, or the controller to whom the cyborg secretary is reporting – there is a new suspected overstealth virus, or at least something that was different … what? Dangerous territory, and the smarter you are, the more you know that. I never did see that virus, not to this day. It sorta got lost in what followed. Home was watching my slow brain cogs turning each other over. So they probably contacted InterPlanetary Police directly, if they knew how, which most people don’t. But this is what CCops are there for. So probably they just phoned to the virus section. aaaah….

“Oh. I’ve got it. Someone’s monitoring voice for key words?”

Home smiled slightly, something he tries to avoid. He waited for my next brain cog action. The light changed and I unnecessarily told the car to go fast, launching us forward.

“Keep going,” he encouraged.

Obviously smoke wasn’t coming out my ears yet. So now the secretary has found an Overstealth virus, or suspects one, and reports to IPP or CCops. Then? I glanced at Home, but he wasn’t giving any clues. The secretary tries various virus software. Aaah… I realise that she doesn’t know anything about robot control, just that it’s an overstealth virus, or at least, according to his or her virus software, what may be overstealth, the kind that everyone must look out for. Or for which they must look out.

Someone or some machine is monitoring him or her after she has reported; then, what he or she does next … why kill someone for something they don’t know? Of course ! Yes, they - this is one of those universal “they”s, as in the government, or the corporation, or the criminals, or any of the “they”s which we love – anyway, they - have a dedicated machine to watch what happens next. The secretary or administrative person tries to clean their machine or their head. If they’re stupid, or ignorant, no problem. If they are clever, and find out too much, what would you do? Call the cops on a secure line. Good, but if it was me, that is, the person finding the new-style virus, I’d keep quiet and worry a bit, and shut everything down, and go home, and hope that the mafia does not come and visit.

But this is not a fair comparison. Home and I are actually looking for such things, as we always do, and we understand how these things work, so … ummm … so well, it’s an unfair comparison.

“OK. I got it,” I proudly tell Home, “if you’re dumb, you live. If you’re clever, you die?”

“Good, Mr. Watt. You’re improving. It has nothing to do with mainchips.”

“A visit to the recently released Dr. Tel? His ship?” I ventured.

“Precisely.”

“Midnight tonight, say? With M9 in tow, no doubt. Dress, the usual?”

“Precisely.”

Home is so good, he’s like the original Sherlock Holmes. but that was a fictitious character, thank you Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for those stories, whereas Home is real. He gets his name from Sherlock Holmes, does NumLock Home, computer detective, of course. So when he’s got it, arrived at a conclusion or whatever, it’s accurate information. Home is a dude of accurate information. His thinking is like this:

Are Cyborg viruses serious? Yes. Is a large company who produces robots paying us to find them and the people who write them? Yes. Is there anyone out there who would like to control many robots which do not belong to him? Yes. Do robot retailers have computer literate staff? Guess ! Is it them, or they, who have personnel with the latest anti-virus software, who have been murdered recently, for no apparent reason? Is the moon round? Do bears shit in the woods? Are overstealth viruses difficult to detect? See, I’m just as clever as Home, what the heck, I can do this. I’m gonna open my own agency. This last piece not part of Home’s thinking.

Our clients often produce very pretty products as our maid, Sheila, will confirm. I know what you’re thinking. Sheila is a young blonde, and young means she looks young, as if she was a young human being, older than 11 but younger than 30, although she is in fact about 8 or 9 months old, and went in for a service and small upgrade recently, and wears very little clothing, and does a lot more than just clean our beach house, and my cottage in particular. Your thinking is largely accurate so far. Robots don’t need to sleep, and she was expensive, so you can imagine how productive we like to, and can, and do, get her to be. She cleans the entire 11-bedroom property properly. Now, I would have major problems with someone else controlling my darling Sheila, sorry I mean the maid, as would you with someone controlling your servants, or favourite prostitute, or any of your less-than-human friends, especially your stupid dog. See? See? Now you know why that trumpet sound is annoying us, it is the fanfare for NumLock Home, greatest computer detective that ever lived, and, to a lesser extent, OK maybe a much lesser extent, his sidekick, companion, bodyguard and right hand man, me, who have come to save you from a very unpleasant experience.

Obviously manufacturers of cybernetic organisms, such as our frequent and esteemed clients, prefer to keep their reputations for safe robots intact. We, the knights on white horses, save them and the world, and even the universe, this means you, from such evil. The stupid part is that it’s close to the truth.

One of the nice chaps who would like to take over your and my robots, is Tel. Dr. In Tel, now released from a penitentiary very far away from earth, and recently returned. Can anyone tell me why they release people like this? OK, you at the back. What, the justice system must work fully? I’m laughing here. The justice system must release someone who is able to control robots? ummm you go join the justice system, sir, it is made up of people like you, and it provides Home and me with an excellent income. As punishment, everyone close the windows, and I am going to fart urgently here, and you will kindly not give answers like that any more, let this be a lesson to you.

because, oh, so now you have a sudden cyborg virus problem? Of course you don’t believe it can happen. Everybody keeps telling me that ! Yes, I have not only heard about Goodboy, I know the guys who manufacture the chips.

When someone says to me that You Will Never be able to beam that chip, then I pretend to see my old friend across the room, ooooh, look it’s Shift-Tab! Excuse me ! and I leave that conversation. Don’t say Never. I also want to believe that you will Never be able to beam chips in my robot maid or dog, obviously.

I know the guys who make Goodboy personally ! My maid has a version 5 Goodboy, and sure, she won’t be controlled any time soon, but remember, they said the Titanic was unsinkable. They said flight was impossible. They said space travel was impossible. They said travelling at light speed was impossible. They said there are no other intelligent life forms within lifetime distance. Are you sure you would like to maintain your position that your robot will never be controlled?

This kind of ignorant rubbish all started with a guy called Galileo, who said that the earth is not, after all, the centre of the universe. Then, guys like you says to him, “You keep talking like that, boy, and your head and your body will be separated. Now, earth is the centre of the universe, or you lose your head. You choose.“.

Stop shaking your head like that ! less than a minute ago you say robots cannot be controlled, and then you shake your head at the identical fools like you, just because they lived long ago.

Look, we are supposed to have moved past the “something is impossible” rubbish; did you know that 13 years before the first people landed on the moon, the scientific community – this is leading scientists from the most advanced countries in the world at the time - were on record as saying that it is physically impossible to land on the moon. It was accepted fact. You cannot land on the moon. Now there are over a million of us living on the moon, I mean earth’s moon, and we are completely relaxed with our alien visitors, and we are flying – OK, it’s an old fashioned word, flying, but I like it – at light speed to places we didn’t even know existed just a year ago. Please, impossible is for licking your elbow, or that stuff.

Ahahahah !!! So, you want to investigate Dr. Tel, do you? you have now joined the quorum of folks who prefer to have their cyborgs predictable. Oh. Ummm, but it’s not so easy. Much sophisticated equipment is required. We do not want the good doctor to know that enquiries are being made about him. He is a sensitive person in this regard. In other regards as well, come to think of it. OK, all regards.

Perhaps a stealthy visit to enquire from his main computer, very very quietly, with a touch lighter than the lightest feather stroke, may reveal something about what the newly released, extremely intelligent, dirty lowdown rat, is up to? Stealthy visits in person, of course, require even more sophisticated equipment, skilfully operated by experienced and cunning operators. I love it. You’re good at what you like, and you like what you’re good at.

I knew the drill. Would the evil Doctor would be expecting us? Stupid question, since he expects us all the time. He probably knew that we knew all this. And he knew that we knew he knew. All this Technology is good and well, and search scanners may not see us with the Shreddex we would wear, but the rabid Rottweilers guarding Tel’s houseboat don’t care about such niceties. They bite hard. What am i saying? They do not just “bite”. They tear things to shreds ! They destroy ! and now i was going to Tel’s ship (not for the first time, either) to interrogate his computers amongst packs of these? It would be fine if someone was paying serious danger money, and giving medals out, and making songs about heroes, but none of this applies to me.

In fact you know what, it has just occurred to me for the first time: if Tel’s rottweilers catch you, they will probably eat you completely. Gone. Nothing left. A sobering thought, in the old vernacular.

First, of course and obviously, we need to fetch our nice friend M9, who, as far as we can tell, and we can tell these things quite well, actually, is the best computer programmer alive today. We had better have the best chap, or chaps, which includes girls, or women, hadn’t we, since this is our specific business.

M9 was lounging around his garbage yard, next to the local dump, idly picking at the keys of a wristtop and using voice only occasionally. Situation normal. It’s amazing how even the most sophisticated user still enjoys a voiceboard. He talks as well, of course, but sure as eggs, there’s always a voiceboard nearby, complete with all the old-fashioned Tab keys and function keys, all that old stuff. Fascinating. His satellite dish hung from an old coat hanger on a garbage can a few meters away. Some things never change. “James ! Home ! I have delight and glee. You have a job for me, I can see on your face. Viruses?”

“Yes, M.” Home did indeed look serious, even for him. “Viruses, murder and something more.”

“Ha ha ! My favourites ! Not Tel?”

“Yes, we think Tel could be involved. Can you take a trip tonight?”

“Not wearing Shreddex, I can’t.”

“Shreddex.”

“How much, James?” M9 looked at Home, grinning and thrusting his jaw out unnecessarily, but addressed me. The last time we went in to a deep scan area wearing Shreddex, M9 had an allergic reaction for weeks afterwards.

I sighed. “We can give you a R21 with satellite and MagnaVox links. or equivalent. And some new shoes.”

“No shit ! You guys must be in trouble. Who’s your client? Bill Gates’ ghost? Ha ha.”

Home couldn’t let such impudence pass. “Our client is an interplanetary consortium of cybernetic organism manufacturers on a scale you only dream about, young man. If you ask such unsolicited questions again, we shall have to engage another programmer for these duties.”

“Yes sir. No sir. Three bags full, sir. And who would you use, my competition? Let me show you something, Lord Home.” M9 pecked at the voiceboard. “Watch this.”

He gently moved a cardboard box away with his foot to help us see an old 30-inch monitor. We’re talking 30 years old, here. A 30 by 30 you could call it. A few more pecks. Why not just talk to it? I swear, it beats the hell out of me. The monitor showed an operator of obviously Slavic origin driving a PoinStick. The screen split to reveal the operator on the left and his object of attention on the right, obviously the computer driven by the PoinStick. Some kind of CAD design was being done; unfamiliar to me.

Home sniffed. “Satellite battle vector design. I’ll forget about this as soon as we have concluded this conversation, M9. Please do not demonstrate such sensitive information, you make your point. Not bad. But, to be blunt, what’s new, M9?”

“New? New? Home, this guy doesn’t know we’re watching him and neither do any of his computers. None of them and no-one will trace back to me. we are five security layers deep in here. even if he does a test, he won’t see us.”

“aaaaah... ” Home was impressed, but tried not to let us see that. The operator did not appear alarmed or even disturbed, which several layers of anti-hacker software should have made him with alarms and closing down and all the usual. As if to confirm M’s point, the operator looked casually around at his vicam, selected a switch on the Stick, obviously to turn off a video, and begun burrowing in his nose with his small finger. M9 burst into high pitched laughter. Even Home smiled. “OK, not bad, M9. Anyone else know this trick?”

“Nah. Doan think so. This guy thinks he’s switched off the two-way, but I sent over a clever little piece of code - quite by accident, of course ...”

“Of course.”

“... and sure, I can’t control his machine or anything, they’d pick that up straight away, although I may try in a few days, just a few more little enhancements ….” He went quiet, holding up his hand for silence. We waited. “ …they must think it is a little glitch from their own programmmers ….” his eyes went a bit glazed as he thought about the coding and stuff he does here, I am totally lost of course …

He seemed to return from wherever these kinds of people go, sort of realising that he is talking to others, not just himself, he kind of re-focused on us, “… but there you go - we are, after all, watching him and what he is doing, naughty stuff isn’t it?”

As if to confirm M9’s stealth, the operator withdrew a sizeable piece of mucous membrane from his nose. The design on the right half of our monitor was not making any appreciable progress.

“Bet you he eats it”, M9 said, fascinated.

“Don’t be disgusting.” Home stood in front of the monitor with his back to it, swirling his overcoat and blocking our view. “About our little jaunt tonight ... ”

For you private info, neither Home nor I have any chips. We both had memory once, back then when it was fashionable, and Home even had a processor, but seriously, we don’t like them and we are now of the opinion – probably temporary – that we don’t need them. Many long conversations about this subject. Much reading. Talking to manufacturers, shrinks, physicians, everyone, everything. Bottom line: stay natural. The human brain is incredibly powerful.

I know what you’re thinking. But for your info, we don’t represent IPP. No. OK well sometimes. We don’t even have IPP cards. so, no spy chips. Admittedly, our fingerprints, retinas and face codes are known by most organisations on the Link, and for the uninformed, a reference to IPP will be given, but obviously there is some little indicator on their computers which tell them (I mean security guards, airport and customs people) something. We’ve noticed how we don’t have to wait to enter security areas, or are given swift service at passport controls (although governments are not normally our clients). It’s probably the unusual security ranking. Private companies hire us for investigation, protection and security consulting, but there is some kind of shadowy security system which M9 often tries to tell us about, since he is an addicted hacker who will find the most obscure and well-protected information, only to then be told by us: we don’t want to know. Do not tell us this stuff, and you also just leave it alone.

I like it when the cop tells me to look into the eye reader, and then he says, OK, you can go, now. Even when he suspects that I am over the limit, or he sees my shoulder holster with something that looks suspiciously like a beamer. I smile, and act polite, and say thanks, even shake hands with the guy (or lady), but quite honestly, I don’t know the exact mechanisms of these things - it’s probably just the security grading that gets shown, and then they back off, they think this guy is a secret agent. I love it, actually, it makes me feel important. We behave all mature and above this trivial stuff, of course, and quite truthfully, do not abuse the privilege.

M9, however, is not security graded, he is probably a low number on their scale. But is reliable from our security point of view. This is not personal stuff, what kind of friend he is, it’s purely statistical. Never been indicted for a security-breaching crime (but he does have a record – more later), never been bust stealing nor selling info, etc. etc. no, M9 is reliable for the kind of work we do, and extremely intelligent, and he understands what we do and need. Add to all of this his programming prowess, and you now understand why we use him.

Didn’t they call us private detectives in the old days? Home is expensive, I dunno how much always, but we solve cases, and do good quality work. We save large computer companies many millions of credits. Why am I telling you all this? no idea.

M9 has a secret space underneath his house. We do not know what is in there. However, we have given him many computers and test equipment and whatever he requires for powerful computing into deep space. He can, for example, re-program a D-900 anywhere in the solar system if you give him the passwords. So we are not playing games, here.

CCop Bob Throb Arthur definitely does not know about M9′s lair, despite having been around on numerous occasions to harass M9 about this or that; normally just a minor Network Infringement, which Arthur uses as an excuse to get other information. Why did you log into Ccop’s personnel machine? Who are you working for?

So no-one knows about M’s lab. Heather, of course, is an unknown quantity, she probably suspects something. Or she may know all about M9, and more. Her mysterious side, which she never reveals to me, is sometimes almost irksome, but I can’t complain…. hey, I’m also in the secret agent kind of business. Still, it could work well for us to talk shop sometimes - we would make a great team: we know this from experience. I think, even as I write this, of her knowing smile… our winks of companionship … her firm body inside a velvet skin … you know … she’s NOT a cyborgette, and if you suggest that she is, i’ll have disappointment. You don’t want that.

She’s nice. She works for Throb Arthur, ostensibly and apparently and allegedly, but Home and I reckon that’s just a front, and she’s actually quite senior. Is she an IPP plant into CCops? Intriguing. She visits me at the cottage sometimes, or even regulary, or at least often, more about this below, and we never talk about work. Is she an IPP agent? dunno. if I had to bet, was forced by charging elephants to actually place a bet on this one, OK, then, yes, Heather is an IPP agent. I hate saying that.

You understand the difference between CCops and IPP, don’t you? The one is like your local policeman while the other is spy secret agent stuff.

Heather’s ability to confirm or deny rumour on the streets is legendary, from maintaining her network of informants. Obviously. She’s fun to phone. You know she will say two words and then disconnect. She dislikes video phones. You try, “hey, I heard that that crook Shift-Delete got a stolen P21 from Slimeface.” her two words will follow: “Yes, true”, “Not true”, or “crap, man”, which is sometimes “oh, rubbish”, which means you made up a bunch of nonsense to test her. I can’t actually think of anyone who has Heather’s phone number who would do that, though. But I lied actually, because she can get chatty, at least to me: “you’re shitting me”, she can say if it’s interesting info, or “tell me more”, which is, or are, three words, and she does not necessarily hang up, but often does. You caught me, sorry. another lie, I’m not sorry.

This is not good, all this open talking, because then the truth comes unravelling …

OK, I will now release very personal stuff to you, because if you have read this far, you are pretty stupid but at least loyal, or at minimum, intrigued by this useless garbage. Heather and I still see each other. We are sexually involved. I fuck her, and she loves it. actually, she fucks me more often, and it’s incredible, mind-blowing sex without hangups and just, just I dunno what, it’s really something. but now the funny thing is, we never actually say “I love you” to each other, but we do say nice things. You see, “I love you” means commitment of some kind; next thing you’re moving in together, or similar. We can’t do that.

So there is this huge wall up between us which is our work, obviously, and the bottom sorta line is that we could potentially actually shoot each other dead one day, if we were to find ourselves on opposing sides, or whatever bizarre circumstances may pop up. Unlikely. Now this is the really fascinating part: we spend very little time together, actually. two or three hours a week, if that, and sometimes none. OK we fall asleep together sometimes but never for long enough that it impacts on business. Heather and I live for our jobs, this is the kind of work that it is, and we choose it, for some silly psychological reason. You were reading, for example, how I love going in to the dangerous intelligence-gathering mission on Tel’s ship (described in detail a bit later); I think we’re a bit odd, not normal, what you reckon? I don’t actually like normal and conventional.

Heather is completely and totally free to indulge in other men, or have a relationship, or get married and have kids, and do whatever she wants. you may think this is strange. But honestly I only want her to be happy, and certainly she thinks like that towards me, I’m sure (we haven’t actually talked about this; we don’t need to; it’s idle chatter which will achieve nothing. I think.).

but, for example, she may say “that restaurant we went to last week had really nice fresh salad, yeah?” and I will say

“yes. I also took time to taste it.” and then a long silence will follow, while we chew the delicious salad together in our minds. we even look into each others’ eyes while we do this, sometimes. It’s very companionable. OK, intimate. She also likes to recall sexual stuff, and we are both blessed with no hangups, and she gets quite lewd, and she knows that I like it when she does it, so the tiniest little smile – undetectable to others – may play over her gorgeous lips even as she is being really provocative with pornographic memories, or desires. what fun ! I have to actively withhold my emotions towards her; she does, too, I’m sure. You get good at it after some time. We are a weird and different kind of human being, yes.

We wear disguises to go to a restaurant together. Have to, what can you do. It’s fun, actually.

It is not a problem if I am suddenly no longer in her apartment, nor if she is suddenly gone from mine. We cannot and do not worry about the other person’s well-being, in the sense that she has a dangerous job, too, although obviously I hope she stays relatively healthy.

As a matter of idle chatter, and to help the asshole publisher here with his word count, something about which you can see I care not one jot, Heather is extremely highly trained. There were many years at many expert academies, and although we do not actually discuss this stuff except by accident, I know she was in the far east for a dedicated time, at least a year, maybe more, for fighting skills. Then, she shoots very accurately as well. This is confidential information which comes from an old colleague of hers, now also in private practice like us. Friggin amazing, he told me. She shoots better than anyone in the whole friggin place, he said, with anything, too. Lasers, old fashioned blast-ems, rifles, anything. You and I would not try and open this subject with her, though, she will simply look at you with those heat-ray eyes until you melt, or slink away. Or ice ray eyes, you could say. I could try, I guess. But why?

For the mildly intelligent, therefore, Heather is treated with care. An absolutely amazing woman, and I am very privileged and honoured that she chooses to spend some quality leisure time with me. Along with all the skills above, she is clearly an agent for someone. Although we work closely with IPP often, as you are about to see, Heather is not part of them that we know of; we suspect very strongly that she is indeed an IPP agent, and it seems clear that all the people we know there (at IPP I mean) have been told that James watt and NumLock Home are not to know this. It’s like belonging to a circle of highly trustworthy people who all know stuff but they will never discuss it outside of the professional duty. What am I saying, it’s “like” that? Sorry, stupid thing to write for you: it is exactly that. Since Heather is my lover… you understand, then, that IPP is serious. Home and I have never found out, to this day, whether Heather is an agent; she merely plays a dumb-ish CCop working for that bungling fool Throb Arthur. Doesn’t make sense. But they play their charades well, and Throb Arthur gets results. I bet Heather even convinces him that it was indeed his own good detective skills that solve cases, and that she is in fact the administrative underling. Man, she’s good.

So Heather probably does know about M’s lair. Heather probably knows about all such high-tech high-power computer installations all over this god-forsaken city. She carries what appears to be an old Q9 necktop, talks out the side of her mouth to it, sometimes covering her mouth in case of lip-readers. I bet it’s a lot hotter than a Q9. So the fact that Heather knows about M’s lair suddenly became rather important for us, ….

meantime

M9 plays dumb; tells the CCops that he’s a hobo now, look, there’s only this old Palmtop here, officer, and this here Pentium-Alfa with which I eke out a living, writing subroutines for the bank, officer, when they are so kind as to give me work. Sometimes Detective Home and Mr. Watt give me small jobs, officer, ask them rather, I don’t know anything about the latest InterNet raid.

Are you wondering why I’m telling you all this? Me, too. Probably because it helps understand this story - the evil Dr. Tel and his viruses, and the incredibly bizarre stuff what happened soon after.

You see, the next thing we knew, after M9 had related to us the plan he had to catch Tel, M9 disappeared. But that’s going a bit too fast. First, dig this ...

Remember when M9 said he saw from the look on our faces (not faeces, you dirty pig, I said faces, it doesn’t even sound like faeces. yo’ve got a serious brain problem there, pal), anyway stop interrupting, so M9 sees this look on our faces as we arrive, and of course he has heard that Tel is back in town. He probably heard before we did. He knows PageDown6, so ….

When you hear that Tel is back in town, and you are the main programmer for Home and Watt, then you play a little game with yourself (no, you do not play with yourself, why do you do this, interrupting every time with stupid dirty comments when i’m telling a story? you are a mildly entertaining reader to do this, you get 3 points out of 10. Not good enough. Shall we go on now?)

OK. Tel arrives in town and if you are the main programmer to save the universe from cybernetic organisms going out of control, then you know Home and Watt will be coming to pay you a visit soon, right? hah hah. now, how long will take for them to arrive after they have found the most recent Pretty Secretary victim? using a phone is not done, we speak face to face always, and it’s only 10 minutes from our place, so we visit. Anyway there are a whole lot of trees just fifty metres away, so satellites reading lips and focusing microphones from far away cannot see what we are talking about, and it’s easy to scan the trees for anything or anyone, besides being a nice space to move around in, as long as it’s not raining. The garbage dump can smell a bit sometimes but we don’t care. so we visit M’s place; quite often, really. He is excellent company. We drink alcohol, sometimes. He’s an alcoholic.

So M9 tries the guessing game of when we will arive – of course it will be that same day – but when? heh heh, this is a fun game. However, while the waiting and calculating idly are going on, wandering around the computing universe, alpha mode, well, that is only using a small portion of your brain (not you and me, for you and me that is using all of our brain plus a bit more. But not for M9.), so a super-intelligent, astute and slightly criminal mind may be quite active in the cognitive, neo-cortex, frontal lobes. you can think up some fancy scams, to put it plainly. or you might think of a clever way to weasel Tel out of his ship, maybe, or get him to reveal something, or whatever.

So M9 says, “but wait, you guys. I have a special trick we can try with our old friend Dr Tel.”, and then of course he tells us all. Neat. This is a scam to get Tel to become visible enough, clearly criminal, so that his parole conditions and all that are violated, which will see that he is locked away for another substantial duration. Excellent plan.

Home was impressed with M’s plan. He withdrew his request to M9 to accompany us back to InterPlanetary Police offices, where Schlort wanted him interviewed. IPP don’t like M9, he is bad security they reckon, without actually identifying which exact thing he did to make them think this, but no-one there has ever suggested that we stop using him. what Schlort himself thinks of M9 we do not know to this day. Probably has high regard for him. We reported back to Schlort, who managed to give us his grudging time without uttering a single word - situation normal - and nodding curtly when Home asked whether we should go ahead with the brilliant plan from M9.

But now I want you to note carefully for the record, and I heard this my very self, that Home, upon leaving M9 that day, said these words or something very similar: Take care, they know you exist. They will kill you if they think you now work with us on this one. or whatever, but it is a matter of record that home said this, I heard him.

Righteo then, let the problems begin.

M9 was gone when we visited the trash yard later the same day ( the 23rd or 24th June 2041, I’m too lazy to search through last year’s calendar; a Thursday, anyway), and the usual signs were missing. For example, two trash can lids upside-down on top of each other means I’ll be back soon. Two on top of each other, the right way up, means I am around, probably watching you on video. The invisible beams tell him far in advance that someone approaches, obviously. The dog is a robot, also obviously, M9 could never have a real dog, it would die of starvation. His or her name is Poppy, always dirty, usually needs a service. I’ve taken her for a service myself. here’s a pic.

Poppy suffers all sorts of upgrades. Remember we are talking about a robot, now, so don’t go anthromorphisising all over the place and feeling sorry for the dog, OK? OK, well M9 would make the dog do everything backwards, one day. then, he would try and get Poppy to walk on her hind legs and do stuff with her front legs. Sort of a human bipedal number. You can just imagine all the lines of code wasted on this rubbish, but he did succeed in getting Poppy to bite the dumper driver, which was pretty impressive, the first time I ever heard of a robot dog biting a human being. It cost a lot to keep that guy quiet, but he is an old buddy of M9, so they worked it out.

Of course we simply walked in to the above-ground cabin, since our Body Specs are on M9′s security machine, or machines. No M9. The usual procedure is then to ask his domestic machine the erudite question “Where’s M9?“. To which we got the usual and impolite “Dunno. Never said. Who cares? Wanna drink ? Beer’s inna fridge.”

Home dislikes the American manner with which M9′s domestic machine is programmed. “Tell me, computer, don’t you have any other accent interfaces?” He always asks the same question.

“Nah. Don’t want. Don’t like.”

“I see. Now, M9 normally leaves a message with you for us. Yet he has left no note outside, and you are ignorant as to his whereabouts, yes?”

“Home, you talk funny. I can’t understand your last sentence. I got no messages for nobody. Beer’s inna fridge, look.” The fridge door opened wide to reveal a few food pills and a small block of old cheese. The milk was sour, certainly, since the Sell By date was weeks ago.

Home sighed. “Computer, there is no beer in the fridge. Kindly close the door. We seek M9, whom we shall prevail upon in no uncertain terms to re-program you. Kindly give us an indication as to his whereabouts.”

“Dunno. Can’t understand you. I told you before. Never said. What’s in the fridge, I haven’t been updated. Is there caviar?”

“No caviar. Nothing except some food pills and old cheese, small. Update, you fool.”

“Updated, you fool.”

Home sighed. His shoulders slumped visibly. “Thank you, computer, that will be all.” I gripped Home’s arm and led him outside, away from M9′s domestic - and possibly other - prying computer ears.

“Home, there’s a problem.”

“I know. If you think about it, it is a very serious and very large problem, Mr. Watt.”

“Home, please, I ..” I was interrupted by an angry, sharp, pointing gesture from NumLock Home, computer detective deluxe.

“Think ! Think, Jim.”

I sat on an the ancient 30 inch monitor, heard the casing cracking, ignored it, and thought. If Tel had M9, and M9 had a plan to capture Tel, and we had just explained that plan to IPPolice chief Schlort ....

Trouble. Tel may soon be able to conclude that M9 was in fact the very one to program those Beamers which render his guard dogs useless, and therefore, and therefore…. down that same road again. Soon Tel knows what colour socks we are putting on.

Yes, Tel would certainly like to interview our quiet hero. I concluded that Tel had kidnapped M9 and that M9′s plan as explained to Schlort was now not only a pipe-dream, but could backfire: M9 would never be silent with the cocktail which would be injected into his already-frail bloodstream; he would sing like a canary, as the saying goes.

It took me two minutes of thinking to arrive at the conclusions which Home had achieved in seconds.

“Oh.” I didn’t know what else to say.

“Quite.” Home had not yet decided what to do. I waited.

“Hey. The van !” I suddenly had this bright idea that we may find some clues about where M9 had gone, or at least with whom. I pulled the beamer from my shoulder holster.

“No beaming or scanning. You know M9. ” Home was right, as usual. There were probably beam detectors in or on the van, which would delete every computing bit at the first sign of prying electronic eyes. Instead, I walked up to the rear doors and put my palm on the lock. If anybody other than M9 was Authorised, it would be Home and myself. The red light said no. I was offended when Home tried, and the green light blinked him a welcome, and the door opened. He smirked a smile at me. Weird!

M9′s van is like his house. It suits his trash yard address. But as usual, underneath all the old newspapers and beercans, computing power lurks. Home tried voice contact.

“Computer?” No reply.

“M9′s computer? This is NumLock Home.”

“Yes, Home. Is Watt the other person?”

“What do you mean is Watt the other person. You impressed his handprint, you fool. Yes, obviously the other person with me is Watt. Take his voice as well.”

I sighed. “James Watt, working for NumLock Home. Is that enough, you ridiculous computer?”

“Yes, I got his handprint. I acknowledge Watt and I have the voice. I am not ridiculous. I have had your voice for years, from the other machines of my gracious lordship M9”

Home was pleased with the English manner of the computer. I saw the satisfied look on his face.

“Computer ....” Home began, “er.. do you have a name?”

“My name is Computer.”

“How original. Computer, we seek your good master, our friend M9. He is not in the house and he has not left any indication of his whereabouts. This concerns us because it is unusual, and he was expecting us. Do you know where he is or do you know how we can find out?”

“No.”

“Ask your friends where he is.”

“Asking. Nobody knows anything about the current location of his gracious lordship M9”.

“Please provide me with his last scanning or Beaming activities.”

“Beaming is illegal but I know who you are, here is latest seven days. Last scanning activities on the overhead.”

Home read the screen hopefully. “Scroll down. More. Stop. Up. Stop. Zoom in on the schematic after the third paragraph. No good, zoom out. Down. Play the briefcase icon. Stop. Go back….”

It was nice to hear Home talking to a computer for a change instead of pecking away at a voiceboard. I busied myself with looking around the van. Perhaps M9 had had time to leave a message of a more cryptic kind; anything to indicate who had been clever enough to catch him sleeping.

The rear door began closing, and Home and I looked at each other with horror, realising the trap into which we had been led. Who the damn hell has this kind of computing Power ! I threw myself at the doors, crashing outward onto the dust. Home leapt out on top of me, and we scrambled to our feet for a bit of good old-fashioned sprinting. We had not made five metres when the van exploded, sending us face first into the dust again. It was a large explosion, designed to kill us. Sorry, last phrase unnecessary, obviously it was designed to kill us, it just sounds dramatic and literary and all: “designed to kill us”, sounds good hey.

Home lay unconscious. I felt a numb sensation in my left leg, and looked down. Blood, lots of it. My head hurt, too, and blood ran into my eyes. I sat up against a rock or something, and glanced over at the van. It was still recognisable as a panel van, but that was about all. A couple of the tyres - old fashioned rubber ones - were burning furiously, send a thick black signal into the morning sky. I tore open my trousers. My left arm wasn’t working so well. A large section of skin and flesh flapped loose above my knee. Some shrapnel, possibly the license plate, had cut the flesh deeply, almost off. I dug in a pocket for a handkerchief - I like large hankies - and tied it clumsily around the leg. It was starting to hurt.

Our van, some forty metres away, appeared undamaged, but M9′s mobile home had broken windows and all the antennae and space dishes were blown away or hanging by their cables. His favourite, a huge PlanSatTrak, was lying more than fifty metres away. I crawled over and checked on Home. His face was pale through the dust, and his breathing uneven. I gasped to my feet, and made for our van. Were there any other booby traps? It was impossible to worry about them. I didn’t feel so good.

There was no time, obviously, to think about who on earth, and anywhere else for that matter, could have the computing power and skill to be able to plant a bomb in M9’s van, and then still be able to fool the computer into not knowing this. No need to think. Tel. Obviously. Bastard !

It seemed like a long way, and our van swayed in front of me. “You’re hurt bad, boy, hurry up,” I told myself. At times like this, I wish for a nearby Virtual Reality helmet, or NeuroChips. Come ON. No good; I fell headlong. Lying in the dust felt much better. I imagined a NeuroChip pumping huge doses of adrenalin into my bloodstream. Come ON. I got to my hands and knees and crawled and wormed to our van, trying not to aggravate the leg injury. The blood and dust on my hand didn’t affect the lock. My left arm still didn’t seem to function fully, and I used my right to pull myself half inside. I dug around the back of the passenger seat, took out our illegal IPP antenna. Everything seemed to take so long. set it on the ground, pointed it vaguely at the city. keyed a number into the dashboard. The response was fair, about five seconds : the monitor read “IPP Office. This is a secure line. Do you have an emergency?”

I couldn’t talk, I discovered. I managed a Y before I slid outwards (inwards ?) into welcome slumber.