"All right, so what do we know?" asked Charlie, pulling the rolling reception desk chair into Tommy's office.
"Helena Beame is twenty-eight years old," said Tommy, reading from the official profile he'd printed. "She's the daughter of Andrew and Melinda Beame, the founders of the Beame Corporation."
"That sounds familiar. Didn't they make toasters and stuff?"
"Correct. Twenty-five years ago, the Beame Corporation was one of the most successful producers of next-gen small appliances, including toasters and de-toasters. Eighteen years ago, they sold the company to AMT Appliance for just over three billion dollars."
"Wow. I'm assuming Helena was a trust fund baby?"
"More or less. There is no record of her ever having a job."
"Well, that could account for her staying off the government radar for awhile," said Charlie. "Anything else?"
Tommy shook his head. "Very little. There is mention of her short-lived marriage to Francis Heap and the following divorce, but nothing after that."
"So how much of that can we corroborate?"
"With official government profiles, everything."
"So what's the problem?"
"There's a date-stamped watermark on each of these profiles. It's small and well hidden in the code, but it's there--evidence that the profiles have been edited. This unit traced the address back to a long-defunct IB server. That's the major strength of the National Identity Database's security, every little alteration is logged, and though there are protocols for working around these logs, the evidence can never be completely erased."
"This isn't good. Something doesn't add up."
"This unit believes it's fairly obvious, actually," said Tommy. "We're being used."
"By the government? The government needs us to find some old domestic robot?" Charlie buried her head in her hands. Her temples were pulsating.
"There's more to it than that. Look at this picture again." Tommy flipped through the file, pulling out the photograph of Fifty-two.
"What about it?"
"This unit believed there was something not quite right about this picture the first time this unit saw it."
"Yeah, me too, but I couldn't put my finger on it," said Charlie, straightening up before craning her neck to examine the photo once again.
"Look at the background."
The robot in the photograph was standing in front of a row of boxes, of which only the top halves were captured. They seemed to stretch the length of the picture--black boxes with red and green lights tucked in the upper right corner.
"What are they?"
"Servers, and they aren't the type normally found in households, these are government-issue," said Tommy. "This unit doesn't believe that Fifty-two is a domestic bot. Notice anything else?"
Charlie scanned the photograph one more time before shaking her head.
"Wait a minute," she said suddenly. "Her eyes. They aren't lit."
Tommy nodded proudly. "This robot has not been activated. This photograph was taken before Fifty-two ever came online."
"I thought it was a portrait at first, but why would someone have a picture of a robot that hasn't even been activated? It's almost like a promotional shot or something."
"Maybe so. This unit can find no reasonable explanation."
Charlie's agape mouth suddenly twisted into a sort of grimace, and she leaned back in her chair, never taking her eyes off the dossier on the desk. "Hey, Tommy. Now that we know that these files have been tampered with, is it possible that they know we know?"
Tommy nodded. "Possibly. It's likely they've been keeping tabs on us all along."
A shiver ran the length of her spine, and she thought back to the noise she'd heard when she was all alone in her garage. The door had opened--she was more sure of that now than ever.
"Shit," she said, mostly to herself. "What do we do?"
"This unit believes we should keep looking. There's still a mystery to be solved, Charlie, and Fifty-two needs our help."
"We don't know that. In fact, we don't know much of anything right now. Listen, Tommy, I think we're taking this whole thing way too far. Let's just stop, okay? Can we stop?" Charlie stood up and leaned across the desk, her hands planted on either side of the open dossier.
"Stop? What do you mean, Charlie?"
"Whatever this is... playing this game. Please, let's go home. We'll come back for the couch tomorrow."
"This isn't a game, Charlie."
She threw her hands into the air. She'd always had an enormous amount of patience with Tommy, but it had begun to wear thin. She felt like a cable, stretched too far.
"Fine, then your fascination, I suppose. Come on, this is just like the trash thing and... like when I was a kid. Remember your Wizard of Oz kick? This is just like that. But this isn't sitting in my back yard pretending we're Dorothy and the Tin Man. There're feds watching us!"
Tommy shook his head, and stood up from his desk.
"This isn't a game, Charlie," he repeated, his voice gruff. For a split second, Charlie could've sworn she heard an intensity in his voice, something surpassing the very basic emotions in his programming. Tommy put on his coat and hat and stormed toward the door.
"Wait, where are you going?"
"To Heap's and then that garage on the South Side," he said, pausing in the doorway. "I've still got a robot to find."
"Tommy," she sighed after he disappeared out the door.
"Tommy? Wait! Did you say I?" she called after him, but it was too late. He was already gone.
She had no choice now. She had to go after him. With a deep breath, Charlie reached into her coat and pulled out an old revolver, looking it over to make sure it still worked before tucking it back against her body and stepping out into the dusk air, the gray sky overhead signaling the coming night and more rain, to drip like morphine for the city streets.
"Helena Beame is twenty-eight years old," said Tommy, reading from the official profile he'd printed. "She's the daughter of Andrew and Melinda Beame, the founders of the Beame Corporation."
"That sounds familiar. Didn't they make toasters and stuff?"
"Correct. Twenty-five years ago, the Beame Corporation was one of the most successful producers of next-gen small appliances, including toasters and de-toasters. Eighteen years ago, they sold the company to AMT Appliance for just over three billion dollars."
"Wow. I'm assuming Helena was a trust fund baby?"
"More or less. There is no record of her ever having a job."
"Well, that could account for her staying off the government radar for awhile," said Charlie. "Anything else?"
Tommy shook his head. "Very little. There is mention of her short-lived marriage to Francis Heap and the following divorce, but nothing after that."
"So how much of that can we corroborate?"
"With official government profiles, everything."
"So what's the problem?"
"There's a date-stamped watermark on each of these profiles. It's small and well hidden in the code, but it's there--evidence that the profiles have been edited. This unit traced the address back to a long-defunct IB server. That's the major strength of the National Identity Database's security, every little alteration is logged, and though there are protocols for working around these logs, the evidence can never be completely erased."
"This isn't good. Something doesn't add up."
"This unit believes it's fairly obvious, actually," said Tommy. "We're being used."
"By the government? The government needs us to find some old domestic robot?" Charlie buried her head in her hands. Her temples were pulsating.
"There's more to it than that. Look at this picture again." Tommy flipped through the file, pulling out the photograph of Fifty-two.
"What about it?"
"This unit believed there was something not quite right about this picture the first time this unit saw it."
"Yeah, me too, but I couldn't put my finger on it," said Charlie, straightening up before craning her neck to examine the photo once again.
"Look at the background."
The robot in the photograph was standing in front of a row of boxes, of which only the top halves were captured. They seemed to stretch the length of the picture--black boxes with red and green lights tucked in the upper right corner.
"What are they?"
"Servers, and they aren't the type normally found in households, these are government-issue," said Tommy. "This unit doesn't believe that Fifty-two is a domestic bot. Notice anything else?"
Charlie scanned the photograph one more time before shaking her head.
"Wait a minute," she said suddenly. "Her eyes. They aren't lit."
Tommy nodded proudly. "This robot has not been activated. This photograph was taken before Fifty-two ever came online."
"I thought it was a portrait at first, but why would someone have a picture of a robot that hasn't even been activated? It's almost like a promotional shot or something."
"Maybe so. This unit can find no reasonable explanation."
Charlie's agape mouth suddenly twisted into a sort of grimace, and she leaned back in her chair, never taking her eyes off the dossier on the desk. "Hey, Tommy. Now that we know that these files have been tampered with, is it possible that they know we know?"
Tommy nodded. "Possibly. It's likely they've been keeping tabs on us all along."
A shiver ran the length of her spine, and she thought back to the noise she'd heard when she was all alone in her garage. The door had opened--she was more sure of that now than ever.
"Shit," she said, mostly to herself. "What do we do?"
"This unit believes we should keep looking. There's still a mystery to be solved, Charlie, and Fifty-two needs our help."
"We don't know that. In fact, we don't know much of anything right now. Listen, Tommy, I think we're taking this whole thing way too far. Let's just stop, okay? Can we stop?" Charlie stood up and leaned across the desk, her hands planted on either side of the open dossier.
"Stop? What do you mean, Charlie?"
"Whatever this is... playing this game. Please, let's go home. We'll come back for the couch tomorrow."
"This isn't a game, Charlie."
She threw her hands into the air. She'd always had an enormous amount of patience with Tommy, but it had begun to wear thin. She felt like a cable, stretched too far.
"Fine, then your fascination, I suppose. Come on, this is just like the trash thing and... like when I was a kid. Remember your Wizard of Oz kick? This is just like that. But this isn't sitting in my back yard pretending we're Dorothy and the Tin Man. There're feds watching us!"
Tommy shook his head, and stood up from his desk.
"This isn't a game, Charlie," he repeated, his voice gruff. For a split second, Charlie could've sworn she heard an intensity in his voice, something surpassing the very basic emotions in his programming. Tommy put on his coat and hat and stormed toward the door.
"Wait, where are you going?"
"To Heap's and then that garage on the South Side," he said, pausing in the doorway. "I've still got a robot to find."
"Tommy," she sighed after he disappeared out the door.
"Tommy? Wait! Did you say I?" she called after him, but it was too late. He was already gone.
She had no choice now. She had to go after him. With a deep breath, Charlie reached into her coat and pulled out an old revolver, looking it over to make sure it still worked before tucking it back against her body and stepping out into the dusk air, the gray sky overhead signaling the coming night and more rain, to drip like morphine for the city streets.
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