Android: Golem (The Identity Trilogy) (26 page)

“Yes, a total learning environment. However, the true exponential of the programming was unknown. Higher-end bioroids, like yourself and Floyd 2X3A7C, have started questioning their true natures.” He paused. “I wonder…is self-discovery an innate part of police work?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s something I must look into. It’s most interesting.”

I returned to our focus. “I am a bioroid. An android.”

“Yes, yes you are.” Dr. Kent’s mild blue eyes studied me. “But some of you are apparently trying to become more.”

“I’m not trying to be anything more than I already am.”

“Do you know Floyd 2X3A7C?”

“We have met.”

“Have you talked?”

“Only about investigations when there was overlap.”

Dr. Kent nodded. “You should talk to Floyd 2X3A7C at some point.”

“Why?”

“I think you might find it…intriguing.”

“Have you talked to Floyd 2X3A7C?”

Dr. Kent shook his head. “No. Never face to face. I am on the board that oversees his diagnostic when he comes in. He’s a most fascinating study.”

I was intrigued, but I had other questions.

“One of my colleagues has given a name to bioroids showing signs of this transitioning. She’s calling them ‘emerging near-human transcendents.’” Dr. Kent paused. “Are you familiar with philosophy?”

“Much of the field of philosophy has been reinterpreted for the criminal justice system, particularly the studies of the nature of guilt and punishment. I am familiar with that science.”

“You’ve heard of Immanuel Kant?”

“He was a professor of philosophy in Prussia. He taught at Konigsberg University and lived from 1724 to 1804. He is said to have created German idealism.”

An amused smile pulled at Dr. Kent’s lips. “Yes. One of the major foundations of Kant’s approach to philosophy was transcendence. He believed that an individual’s view of the physical world—through experience and that individual’s senses—was more important to an individual recognizing the world than giving the individual the definition of the physical world. To paraphrase and probably make the whole idea too simplistic: Kant believed that the world was fully interpretive, and that the interpretations depended on the individual.”

I considered that but didn’t truly understand what Dr. Kent intended his summation to mean.

“My colleagues believe that some bioroids—and you’re one of them—are transcending the neural channeling you were encoded with and are close to becoming individuals.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Imagine our surprise.”

I couldn’t, but my sense of unease once more increased. I sat back in the chair and broke the mirroring.

Dr. Kent sat up in his chair and smiled. “Tell me about your partner.”

I did. For an hour, I told him about Shelly and her husband and her children. I told him about the job experiences I had shared with her that had eventually led to being around her family.

“She treated you like a human partner.”

I thought that was a fair assessment. “She insisted.”

“Was that her choice?”

“I put no onus on her, if that’s what you mean.”

“I didn’t expect that you did. Do you think she made that choice on how to view you, or do you think the choice was made for her because of the way you related to her?”

I didn’t know. I had never considered that. Sitting there then, I didn’t feel comfortable with the possibility that my behavior had forced Shelly into some kind of emotional reciprocity. “Do you think I did something wrong?” The possibility, though I could not see how it was possible, bothered me.

Dr. Kent grinned and shook his head. “No, Detective Drake, I don’t. While talking to you, I find it easy to relate to you as a human being. Your design and neural channeling is impeccable.”

“Thank you. Haas-Bioroid takes pride in making outstanding products.”

That made Dr. Kent laugh.

I stared at him.

“Sorry. I forgot that complimenting you activated the subroutine to shill for the corp. Evidently, your transcendence isn’t going to obviate all the coding Haas-Bioroid has installed within you.”

“Does that diminish your view of me?”

“Do you care?”

“I’m curious.”

“Interesting.” Dr. Kent took out his PAD and made a few notes. “Curiosity is your strong suit, is it not?”

“It is.”

“Have you ever wondered why?”

“No. Curiosity is an important tool in the work that I do at the police department.”

Dr. Kent put the PAD away and chuckled. “Actually, that was meant to be a joke.”

I tried, but I didn’t see the humor. “All right.”

A quiet moment hung between us as Dr. Kent studied me further. “The problem with being near-human is that you become near-vulnerable in ways that Haas-Bioroid has never foreseen.”

I had to curb the impulse to correct Dr. Kent and insist that Haas-Bioroid didn’t make defective products.

“You were with your partner when she died?”

“I was.”

“I saw that in your file. How did that make you feel?”

Not for the first time, I gave that serious thought and tried to find a name for the unease that filled me. “Troubled.”

“What do you think you should do?”

“When a man’s partner is killed, he’s supposed to do something about it.” The words came immediately to me and I wondered if they were a subroutine that I’d been unaware of, or if I’d written it for myself based on the ficvids Shelly had lent me so we would have more to talk about on stakeouts.

Dr. Kent waved that away. “I assumed the police department had their way of dealing with such circumstances.”

I didn’t bother to correct him on his view of the NAPD, or mention the fact that they didn’t condone vengeance of any sort. At least, they didn’t condone such an act publicly. I knew of instances where partners did take vengeance on criminals, for one transgression or another.

“Have you heard of post-traumatic stress disorder?”

“Yes.” I had dealt with citizens suffering from such ailments after returning from the war on Mars.

“Witnessing the death of your partner had to be very hard on you, Detective Drake. I believe that this has affected you in ways that couldn’t be expected. You are the first bioroid to be partnered with a human, correct?”

“Yes.” Floyd worked out of Commissioner Dawn’s office. He worked without a partner, operating solely on investigations the commissioner wanted him on.

“I believe that this relationship, like so many others in human lives, has been both good and detrimental to you.”

“Shelly did nothing wrong.”

Dr. Kent cocked an eyebrow and made another note. “You’re still defensive of her. Fascinating.”

I forced myself to keep quiet, though I knew I had more to say. I also recognized that it would do no good to say it.

“I meant no ill to reflect on her.”

“All right.”

“What I’m suggesting, is that the discomfort you’re feeling is a natural product of your relationship with your partner. I think this is what the trouble was in the diagnostic. The programming was trying to quantify whatever is going on in your mind. In time, these feelings will pass, or at least become more acceptable.”

I could not imagine a time when that would be the case. “How long will that take?”

“I don’t know.”

I didn’t care for the answer. “What if these feelings don’t pass?”

Dr. Kent shrugged. “Then we’ll have to spend time with you, see how it affects your performance, and figure out what we need to do to help you.”

“Even if by ‘helping me,’ you erase who I have become?”

Dr. Kent smiled at me. “We’re not there yet, Detective Drake. Let’s take one day at a time, shall we? Let some time pass and see if your PTSD isn’t something your programming takes care of naturally. You were designed to be self-correcting.”

“All right.” I waited for a moment. “Was there anything else?”

He shook his head. “No. You’re free to go.”

“Thank you.” I shook hands with him a final time, then I saw myself to the door.

Chapter Twenty-One

I returned to work the next morning without going home and spent the first three hours at my desk working leads on cold cases. At 1106, Hansen buzzed in. I connected the comm and his face appeared in 3D on my desktop.

“Good morning, Drake.”

“Good morning. You seem somewhat ebullient this morning.” I wondered why, and thought I would lead him into the discussion.

“I’m having a good day. Do you want to know why?”

“Yes.”

Hansen laughed. “That’s what I like about you, Drake. Your sense of humor.”

I didn’t comment.

“The lead you fed me about Adrian Graham paid a dividend.”

I waited.

“I combed through his credaccounts and found a tie to a loan shark that I just got the DA’s office to roll out a bench warrant request for. I can prove that the cred Adrian Graham got from killing his girlfriend was transferred into the loan shark’s accounts, and I can prove that the loan shark—one Gerald Loggia, scumbag—had his boys put Adrian Graham in the hospital only a few days before Graham took out the insurance policy on his girlfriend.” Hansen held up a hand, his thumb and forefinger only a few millimeters apart. “I’m this close to being able to slap a conspiracy charge on Loggia.”

“Congratulations.” I pulled up Gerald Loggia’s file. It was extensive, but mostly low-level crimes against individuals. If he’d challenged a corp, they would have buried him.

“So, forward me all the background stuff you did on Graham.”

I did, and he started a little because the files started popping into view on his PAD.

“Thanks.” Hansen leaned forward and examined me. The 3D representation made it look like he was going to lean into me. “You do something to your face?”

“I was shot in the face.”

“Yeah, I heard. I didn’t think you could be hurt.”

“I can be.”

Hansen nodded. “I’m glad you weren’t. You’re doing wonders for my career.” He paused. “And I like the new look. You look tougher.”

Tougher
?

“Thanks for the files.” Hansen blanked the comm.

I sat there for a moment, then ran a hand over my face because I was curious. I couldn’t feel any changes under my fingertips. The injuries to my face had been repaired. The last time I’d looked at my face had been when I’d been left staring at the one-way mirror in the interview room.

I opened up the desk PAD and set the vid to record me. I’d seen Shelly do the same thing to fix her hair and makeup.

The face that looked back at me from the 3D was unmistakably mine. The silver eyes and the lack of expression were normal. But there was something different in the jawline and chin, and in the forehead. They were subtle adjustments, but they provided a different countenance to my face.

To someone like Hansen who saw me on a semi-regular basis but never paid much attention, I wouldn’t look much different. But to me, the changes were monumental.

Change wasn’t normal for me. I looked the same every day. Shelly had despaired of that, trying to add articles of clothing to provide some difference. Once, to amuse her, I’d even briefly tried a wig. She’d tried to like it, until lunch, when she’d finally taken it from me and thrown it in the trash.

“Some guys are meant to wear hair, Drake. Apparently, you’re not one of them.”

I’d accepted her judgment.

I pressed my fingers into my face. The synthskin was supple as always, and at room temperature unless I controlled that. It was my face—and it wasn’t.

Curious.

I wondered if the changes had taken place as a result of the bullet wounds. If so, that meant my facial mapping subroutines were off. That was troubling, too, especially in light of my conversation with Dr. Kent.

I accessed my personal repair files and pulled up the features program that governed how I looked. I actually had a few dozen facial expressions I could use, but after I had tried a few of them on Shelly, she had asked me never to do that again. Her children had been another matter. They had liked the facial expressions. None of them looked particularly human, but they had been a source of delight to the kids. They had giggled every time I performed one.

Thinking about Shelly’s kids made me feel more unsettled. I thought about Dr. Kent’s PTSD theory and didn’t care for his diagnosis. I had read up on PTSD on my way back down the Beanstalk, and the fact that it could last a few days or a few years was troubling. I did not want to feel the way I did for long.

I studied the 3D map of the face my programs kept on file. It looked the same as the face I now wore, but I was certain that my face had changed. Wanting to corroborate my findings, I accessed my files on the Moon at Haas-Bioroid. I used my police identification to get me through the security measures. The files—at least these files—were open to the NAPD since they had me on a long-term loan. I had to wait for the second and a half of subspace lag to pass, then I logged my request.