“Can I get you anything? Batteries? Extension cords?” Khan smirked. “Oil can?”
Mr. Gordons considered the offer from the man with the hook where most people would have a hand, observing that the man was similar to the android in this one regard: possessing a machined tool instead of an actual hand. Mr. Gordons’ hands, at the moment, were perfectly formed, making him appear the more human of the two. The android had even taken care to create warming elements beneath his leather exterior to simulate body temperature. Yet there was still something people found unsettling about the android’s touch, and Mr. Gordons quickly learned that it was easier to pass unnoticed among people if they were not repulsed by a cold, lifeless handshake.
He determined the hook-handed man was sincere in his offer. “You can’t always get what you want,” Mr. Gordons responded, accessing the lyrics to one of the million songs he stored in his memory banks. “But I am operating at peak efficiency, thank you, and am capable of recharging in a variety of ways.”
“Good to know.” Khan absently rubbed his hook with his human hand. “You’ll need as much energy as you can muster soon enough.”
“You are making a veiled reference to designates High Probability: Remo and High Probability: Chiun,” Mr. Gordons replied flatly. “I am not prepared to encounter them. They are a threat to my survival.”
Khan made a calming gesture with the hook that had replaced his hand. “You are correct. I am referring to Remo and Chiun,” he said. “They’re part of the plan, as are you. But I made you a promise that you’d earn a valuable tool for survival, didn’t I?”
The android called Mr. Gordons had been created to be an artificially intelligent assimilator, designed by NASA for deep space exploration. He had one primary objective programmed into him: survival. Upon overhearing that budget cuts would kill the project, he interpreted the situation as a threat and took steps to survive. He fabricated a humanoid body and went out into the world. His efforts at ensuring his survival brought him to CURE’s attention. Recognizing Remo and Chiun as a permanent threat to his survival, Mr. Gordons had first focused on eliminating the House of Sinanju. However, after several unsuccessful attempts, Mr. Gordons’ programming modified itself so that he now preferred avoidance whenever possible.
“There is a probability that you are lying to me,” Mr. Gordons said, his head cocked to one side in an imitation of consideration.
“I assure you I am not.”
“You lied to Dick Joplin, the Chief Executive Officer of Maidenhead Industries. You told him your name is Khan, yet you are not Asian. You have convinced him that the destruction of the bridges would not draw undue attention, which seems highly improbable. Why should you not lie to me as you did to him?”
Khan looked at Mr. Gordons evenly and calmly. “I thought we had already cleared that up.”
Nudging people into doing what he wanted was a natural talent Khan had honed all his life. Manipulating Joplin was almost insultingly easy, but convincing the machine intellect of the android had been like a very satisfying chess match. He had had to work for that one. It helped that he had been completely truthful with the survival machine.
Finding Gordons had been a challenge. Khan’s talent for identifying trends made it easier than it would have been for most people, but in hindsight he could not see how Gordon’s hiding place had not been obvious to everyone.
This disguise had been literary: a prolific author would hit a slump, go into seclusion, then come out with a bumper crop of strangely derivative novels that made millions from eager fans. Then that author would ultimately die in a tragic accident that left little in the way of a corpse. Shortly thereafter, another author would go into seclusion, and the pattern began anew.
Once Khan spotted the trend, he followed it backward until it dead-ended with Mr. Gordons.
He had not even bothered to knock on the door at the house in Virginia Beach, the last registered residence of an author whose scribblings had produced a vast number of men’s martial arts novels punctuated with social satire and sex. He knew the master of the house would already be aware of his presence. So rather than knock, he spread his arms and opened his hands. “I come without weapons or intent to harm,” he said in the precise language he believed Mr. Gordons would understand. “I wish to make you a proposition beneficial to your continued survival.”
As he spoke the last word, there was a small click and the front door swung slowly inward. Inside, the hook-handed man had found the android, draped in the trappings of the author’s skin and clothing, but with several cables extending out of his body and into the wiring of the house.
Mr. Gordons’ eyes had swiveled to focus on Khan. The android’s mouth moved, but his voice came from all around. “Hello is all right. I would offer you a refreshing beverage, but I have already calculated your lifespan will not exceed the time it would take to finish it. Also I do not maintain biological food or drink. I will give you three minutes to present your proposal. If you tell me lies, I will kill you.”
The man with the hook smiled and spoke. Three minutes later, he stopped. “Well?” he asked.
Mr. Gordons rose from his position and strode toward the man until he was inches away. His face remained placid as his eyes shifted in their sockets until they locked in on Khan’s. His lips parted without expression.
“I’m a believer,” he said, sound resonating from speakers around the room.
That had been two months ago. Khan understood this was a relative eternity to an artificial intelligence, and was careful to consistently yet truthfully reassure Mr. Gordons that things were going according to plan.
“Things change,” the android said. “But a pattern is present, and a formula remains.”
Khan smiled thinly. “I’m glad you still feel that way, Mr. Gordons. Yes, I admit I have been lying to Joplin, and I am going to lie to him again,” he said flatly. “I do this to push him in the direction we need him to go. It also makes him the obvious scapegoat when our friends finally get around to calling about these bridges.”
“Our friends?” Gordons inquired. “I was not aware that I had friends. Nor you.”
“I was being sarcastic.”
Mr. Gordons faced him, unblinking. “I see. So you expect designates High Probability: Remo and High Probability: Chiun to insert themselves in the future.”
The hook-handed man chuckled. “Oh, yes,” he said. “In fact, I’m counting on it.”
“I do not understand,” Mr. Gordons replied. Inside, the subroutines that perpetually calculated and recalculated the android’s survival odds produced a number low enough to initiate a warning message from his operating system. “Experiential data dictates attracting the attentions of the House of Sinanju is antithetical to survival.”
“It certainly is,” said Khan. “But you don’t need to concern yourself about your own survival.” He absently rubbed his hook again. “Trust me,” he said. “We’re both going to come away from this with exactly what we want.”
Then he and walked the short distance from the apartment he had secured for Mr. Gordons to the high-rise offices of Maidenhead’s California headquarters. He felt proud of himself, and not without good reason. Mr. Gordons, an artificial intellect ruled by cold logic, was on his side. Now he was off to inform the Maidenhead CEO to accelerate their plans. He had no concerns at all about convincing him to agree.
After all, Dick Joplin was only human.
· · ·
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
Khan smiled, unperturbed. He had anticipated Joplin’s reticence, and would have felt disappointed if there had been no challenge. “Dick. Dicky. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the results. The numbers are up, right? Without those bridges, air traffic has skyrocketed.”
Joplin frowned and absently ran his fingers through his 1970s Bee Gees haircut, whitened with age. “Yes, our air freight revenues are trending upward. But barely. We still trail FedEx, UPS, DHL…”
“I didn’t promise that you’d be the industry leader,” he countered. “Just that you would make money. And a rising tide raises all boats, right? Besides,” he added, subtly shifting his voice to a conspiratorial tone, “if you suddenly emerged as the leading freight carrier, that might raise a red flag. The last thing you want is another person finding out about this.”
“Speaking of that,” Joplin said, taking the bait, “how did that egghead in our biotech division ever learn we were behind that first bridge collapse? That’s just not possible.”
The man shrugged. In truth, he knew that Professor Sweet had never known a thing. But he had told Joplin that Sweet found them out and that he was going to reveal it all in his press conference. Joplin believed him. Khan had no intention of revealing Professor Sweet’s true intentions for the press conference, the announcement of his 3D genetic printer, or the role that either played in his plans.
“Maybe he was walking past the right door at the right time,” Khan said. “Maybe he’s a deductive savant. At this point, what difference does it make? We destroyed his credibility with the press. The man can’t even take a telephone survey now without his answers being suspect.”
“I still don’t know why I couldn’t have just fired him,” Joplin groused. “Or why you didn’t…you know.” He made a slicing motion across his neck.
“That seems harsh,” the man replied amiably. “The professor seems like a good man, and I’m sure he’s good at his job. Whatever that is,” he added dismissively. “Biotech makes money, and you really can’t afford to shut off any potential revenue streams at this point, can you?”
Joplin nodded. “I suppose,” he agreed. “Maybe I should find out what he works on,” he added.
“One project at a time,” Khan said, standing suddenly. “Right now, it’s important that we keep our focus on the air freight operations. And the fewer open routes there are across the Mississippi, the more people have to ship by air, right?” He faced Joplin directly, his eyes boring into the CEO’s own.
“We need to think bigger,” Khan said with intensity. “We need to aim higher.”
Dick Joplin stood unflinching, silently considering the path being laid out before him. “You’re right,” he said finally. “We need to aim higher.”
Khan smiled. “I’m so glad you agree.”