Nanobots, Murder, and Other Family Problems

I go through the lunch line and pick up my unseasoned grilled chicken with green beans on the side. I guess it was too much to hope that last night’s dinner would mean new things with every meal. At least the chicken is better than the cafeteria pizza. I seem to remember liking pizza, though I can’t for the life of me remember why. Who would enjoy a limp, rectangular piece of cheese bread with a decorative pepperoni slice? And weren’t pizzas supposed to be round? That seems right. I think there was a special oven for it at some restaurant I used to go to, back in the real world, though the details are too fuzzy to put together. Maybe it’s better if it’s made with the right equipment.

I check in my electronic brain for references to pizza. My database is getting more comprehensive every day, so maybe I’ve read something that will jog my memory. Nope. There is, however, a pizza oven in the construction library. I wonder if the kitchen crew would let me build one for them. I’ll make a note to ask. I needed to test out the to-do list feature that I added to my implant’s memory and processing system anyway. It’s getting to be so much more than just the database I started with. At this point, it’s like an index of everything I know.

I head to the table in the corner where Jeff is sitting alone. His piece of chicken sits half-dissolved on his plate. The edges of where it’s still recognizable as food writhe with the activity of his bots. A thin thread of chicken goo flows upwards from the pre-digested half up into his waiting mouth. Looks like the gains in normality that he made on the trip have faded along with the tan he picked up.

“Jeff, do you have a minute?” I ask him, ignoring his disgusting eating habits.

“Of course, Noah. I am presently unoccupied.” The stream of bots carrying food particles to his mouth pauses as he speaks. I idly wonder if he set up a trigger for that, or if he manually commanded them to stop.

“Great.” I take a seat next to him and lean in close enough that we won’t be overheard. The lunch rush is in full swing now, so there’s plenty of background noise, but I slide my chair close to his anyway so we won’t be overheard. I really need to learn Louise’s eavesdropping shield. Why do I keep forgetting about that? I’ll have to settle for whispering. “This is important. I’ve made some discoveries that you’ll want to know about.”

“Does this regard our illustrious progenitor?” he asks, his voice as soft as mine.

I flip on a new set of analysis functions that I haven’t tried yet and let a contingent of my bots start recording Jeff’s vital signs. The capability is intended for medical use, but with a few tweaks I think I can use it as a polygraph. Not that I’m worried about Jeff lying to me, I just want to make sure I’m reading his reactions right. With that impassive, emotionless face of his, I often can’t tell what’s going on with him. But his physiological symptoms should be as readable as anyone’s. His pulse rate, pupil dilation, breathing, skin conductivity, and a bunch of other metrics appear in my overlay.

“Yes, Jeff, it does. And I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

I pull up the script I wrote for what I plan to tell him in my overlay opposite from the polygraph so I don’t forget any of the important parts. Based on Father’s notes about him and the psychology textbooks I checked, it should push pretty much every button.

“I got access to his personal files. Don’t ask how. I can’t reveal my sources. I’m not overstating when I tell you that what I found was shocking.” I pause a second for effect. “Jeff, he’s been murdering people for decades. The first ones he killed were his own parents. He rigged their car so that the brakes would fail at a key moment. That’s how he got the money to start SynTech.”

His reaction is exactly what I hoped for. His pulse quickens, his pupils dilate. Fear or excitement. Probably both. The lightest trace of a smile I probably wouldn’t have noticed if I wasn’t measuring every millimeter of his face. My story confirms something that he already suspected.

“Are you certain?” he asks. “Could your source be mistaken?”

I wait for a couple of the ten-year-olds walking by to get clear of our table.

“I’m as sure as anyone can be about something like this. The evidence is in the cover-up more than anything. He was in town visiting them when it happened. He went through a lot of trouble to make sure no one got a chance to look at their car after the accident. He had already started his company and was racking up bills that he couldn’t pay on his own.” It probably isn’t actually true, but it’s plausible enough. It fits with the timeline of events, and most importantly, it’s the kind of conspiracy thinking that Jeff loves.

“I see.” His face remains unreadable. His physiology tells me everything.

“There’s more,” I push on, following my script. “There were early collaborations between SynTech and Universal Robotics. I think that Father may have been involved in creating the project that later became the bots and their AI.”

That one’s not true at all, but there’s no way for Jeff to know that. His eyes visibly widen. His heart rate speeds up, and his pupils dilate even further. Even without my augmented senses, I could have seen his pallid skin get a shade paler. Stronger fear responses. He’s more scared of the AI than the murders.

“Have you shared this with the others yet?” he asks, his voice trembling almost imperceptibly.

Marc walks by the table with a couple of the girls from the second class. They’re going slowly and talking about the latest episode of Hillside High. It feels like forever before they get clear and I can answer.

“I came to you first,” I tell him with my practiced sincere look. “You know that I value your input more than anything. You’re the only one I trust with this.”

“You have made the right choice, Noah,” he says with a tortured smile. “This information verifies suspicions I have had for some time. Please do not discuss it with the others at this point. I am not sure they can be trusted as you and I can.”

I nod conspiratorially and excuse myself. I feel a twinge of guilt for preying on Jeff’s paranoia, but I don’t see an alternative. Someone is going down for what we’re going to do, and it’s better him than me.