The Speculist

The Council, Installment #1

Stephen Gordon sent the first draft, a well-crafted premise for a story about ... well, I'll let Stephen elaborate in another post.

Here's what's become of "The Council:"

Patricia Bedford’s robotic butler was standing in the middle of her doorway, blocking her exit. Though it was odd behavior, it would be a waste of time to tell him so. “Colter, please run your diagnostic,” she said. “I have to leave now. You know how tight my schedule is today.”

Colter’s pupils constricted as he redirected neural pathways to process Patricia’s commands. Most people wouldn’t have noticed, but Patricia Bedford’s attention to detail was one quality that set her apart from her peers in genetic research. Colter’s response lagged a full second longer than it should have, confirming her suspicion: the robot was malfunctioning. It was hard to believe, but undeniable. Fierce objectivity was another attribute that served Patricia in her work. But she was already two minutes behind schedule, and didn’t have time to deal with it. If she missed her train she would have to wait ten minutes more for the next one.

“Colter, new command! Run full diagnostic. Ignore today’s agenda until I give clearance.” She flicked a piece of lint from her dark suit as she left the apartment, wishing it were as easy to brush aside the sense of foreboding rising in her stomach. Her current research demanded rigorous discipline, and with Colter’s assistance, she’d settled into a strict routine that hadn’t varied in months. She’d reprogrammed him to do high-order tasks not normally given to robots and he’d functioned brilliantly until now. In fact, the only reason she hadn’t published a paper about it was that she couldn’t afford the controversy.

The malfunction was probably her fault.

Patricia’s soft-soled shoes muted her footsteps along the stainless steel walkway leading to the trains. Like the few neighbors in her complex who commuted to work, she practiced an expression that was polite but not inviting. She had too much on her mind for small talk.

Reaching the toll slot, Patricia reached for her digipass, but her hand came away empty. The pass wasn’t clipped to her pocket.

Foreboding turned to dread. Colter had never failed to organize her accessories. She turned to retrace her steps and bumped into something solid, finding herself looking up into Colter’s face.

In a motion surprisingly graceful for a robot, Colter’s arms encircled Patricia before she could stumble. As she regained her balance, he released her and dangled the digipass in front of her. If it were possible for a robot to look sheepish, Colter would have.

“Colter, run your diagnostic and send me the results,” she muttered, as if speaking in a normal tone might embarrass him. She yanked the digipass from his hand, quelling her frustration before it got the better of her. She’d missed her train and snapping at her robot wouldn’t change that.

Patricia was surprised to find a seat on the 6:50 train. She always had to stand on the 6:40. She caught her own reflection in the window. In the fluorescent glare, her features looked harsh and pale. She pulled her hair from behind her ears and tousled her dark, shiny bob with her fingers before turning from the window. She didn’t have time for vanity either.

There was a robot standing in the doorway to Patricia’s office when she arrived. It was one of the sexless models that gave her the creeps with its bald head and naked face and ambiguously sensuous lips. It turned its lidless eyes to meet hers and she felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle. Not one given to flights of imagination, she nonetheless felt judged and found lacking by this arrogant-looking machine. Her thoughts turned to Colter, her sandy-haired, hazel-eyed model. “A splendid blend of Celtic features, an archetype designed to subliminally reassure a person desiring a sense of security and trustworthiness,” the brochure had promised. She’d purchased him because, as an unattached female working in a closely scrutinized field of research, commuting at odd hours, she needed a robot that was trustworthy and strong.

"Dr. Patricia Bedford?" The robot process server held an envelope in its extended hand. The envelope displayed no address or identifying markings of any kind except a distinctive raised logo: three androgynous faces in profile - young, middle-aged, and old – surrounding a small decagon.

Patricia's heart sank. "Yes?" She knew why she was being served even as she was being handed the package.

Patricia was being served by the "3 Score 10” Council.

She pulled a single sheet of paper from the envelope. The Council logo was artfully integrated with the letterhead design.

Dr. Patricia Bedford
4583 Michigan Avenue
Chicago, IL

RE:

Bedford:

Your presence is required at the offices of the “3 Score 10 Council”
October 8, 2084. 9:00 a.m. EST.

3 Score 10 Council

Patricia stared at the empty “regarding” line. There was no need to spell out the subject of the summons. The Council could call up anyone at will for an alleged trespass of the law. This possibility had dogged her for her entire career, and she had bent over backwards to remain above reproach. DNA Studies was the most highly regulated of all approved sciences. If it weren't for its importance in strategic defense, her field would have been the first to be eliminated.

The power of the Council could not be denied. Active members had even been given tax amnesty. "I thought taxes were a certainty," Patricia had said to Colter when she heard it on the news while eating the cake he had made for her thirty-fifth birthday.

“”Only two things are certain: death and taxes,’” Colter had quoted. “An ancient aphorism attributed to Benjamin Franklin.” And then, his mouth had turned up in a stiff robot grin, as though he appreciated the irony. As his features settled back into his normal engaging, attentive expression, he said, "Perhaps since the Council members are being paid with tax money, it simplifies bookkeeping for the government. "

"Not being taxed would simplify things for me, too,” Patricia said around a mouthful of cake. “Anyway, other government employees pay taxes, why should the Council be exempt?"

Colter had answered, "Maybe they took a paycut to get it."

"Wanna bet on that?" Patricia had retorted. It was only after she had gone to bed that night that it had struck her: Colter’s remarks had not come from any data base she recognized. They had been speculative. And his language had been flawlessly colloquial.

She’d tossed in her big, empty bed. She wasn’t familiar with anyone else’s household robot, so she had no reference with which to compare Colter. Burying her head in her pillow to stifle the self-deprecating chuckle that had threatened to erupt, she’d realized that Colter’s social life was probably more developed than her own. At least he got out of the house to do errands.

She’d just celebrated her thirty-fifth birthday with a robot.

Patricia had sat straight up in bed then. At thirty-five, she was exactly halfway to three score and ten. If she was anxious about the ticking of her biological clock, it wasn’t concerning babies. It was about getting her work out there. If she could finish, then , if someone found fault with her scrupulous methods, she wouldn’t have failed utterly. No one could completely suppress the results.

She was so close.

In the days leading up to her appointment, Patricia worked solely from home. Colter’s diagnostic program suggested some routine maintenance she could accomplish online. She restricted him to household functions and began the laborious task of gathering the documentation of her work.

Colter spoke very little and Patricia fought the temptation to project anthropomorphic causes for his sudden terseness.

One morning, she found that Colter had rearranged the files on her desk. Prominently out of order was one labeled “Dr. Randall Drayton.” Patricia calmed herself with the notion that it was just a coincidence. Colter couldn’t possibly know anything about Dr. Drayton’s research or his history.

But, she acknowledged, it wouldn’t hurt to seek the advice of the elderly colleague. Although they hadn’t spoken in years, Dr. Drayton took her call and eagerly set up a meeting at his home.

Dr. Randall’s house was small but comfortable and attractive, a refreshing contrast to the sterile, inner city apartment complex where Patricia lived. As she got out of the autocab, she noticed the robotic lawn man cheerfully weeding the flowerbed. He stood up as she approached, "Good day, Ma'am. Who may I say is calling?" he asked, doffing his hat to reveal salt-and-pepper hair.

Patricia couldn’t help smiling. This model was designed as an older man, complete with crows’ feet and deep smile lines. The calm, deep-set eyes held uncanny dignity.

"Dr. Patricia Bedford," she answered, and tipped her head as if in deference to an elder.

"Very good. You're expected. " The robot’s eyes caught the sunlight in a most human-like twinkle.

He escorted Patricia inside Drayton's study. “Dr. Bedford has arrived.” The robot’s voice rang like a herald into the dim recesses of the room.

Drayton stopped rifling through the computer files displayed on the top of his desk. He waived his hand over the desktop and the image disappeared. "Good morning Patricia," he said, turning and standing in one fluid motion.

She reached out to shake his hand, "Dr. Drayton."

"Please, call me Randall. Except for that project on which we consulted in Miami, I haven't been active professionally in almost thirty years."

Patricia guessed that he was past his own "three score and ten" by at least a decade, but the years had not dimmed the intelligence she saw in his eyes. Without a word, she presented her summons and then briefly explained the nature of her work. She did not have to explain why she was seeking his advice. His "retirement" thirty years earlier had not been voluntary.

“Come with me to the garden,” he said, handing the summons letter back to her. “It’s resplendent in its late summer excess. Jim hardly has time to engage me in chess these days,” Randall chuckled, waving to the robot, who had resumed his place weeding a patch of purple delphinium. Abruptly, Randall turned to Patricia and the amicable light in his eyes ignited with passion. “No matter how many years one is given, life is too short.” He touched his forehead as if remembering something. “Forgive me,” he said. “Mid-September has that effect on me.”

Patricia did not ask him to elaborate.

As they strolled a worn sandstone path, Patricia inhaled the earthy aromas of mature foliage basking in warm sun. She hadn’t been outside in months. Her mind slowed its racing, her lids drooped.

"When you go in, show deference to the Council, but do not admit any wrongdoing,” Randall said, startling her into remembering why she had come. “Remind them that studies in sanctioned sciences can often lead to inferences in forbidden areas.” He pointed a long finger in her direction. “So long as the inference is not intentional and the experiment advances sanctioned science, you should have nothing to fear."

"Should have?" She didn't like that emphasis.

"If your research is too close to a sensitive area, it doesn't matter what your intentions were or whether sanctioned science was advanced.”

“Is that what happened to you?"

Randall’s mouth drew a thin-lipped smile.

"How am I supposed to know if I get too close?” Patricia pressed. “Beyond very general outlines, they won't even allow discussions of forbidden areas." Her complaint sounded obvious and naïve to her own ears.

"You can't know. That's the risk you take in your area of study." Randall plucked a mauve chrysanthemum and handed it to her. “But you knew that when you began,” he said.

From the corner of her eye, Patricia saw Jim standing very straight and still, as inanimate as a garden statue. She felt an illogical sense of disappointment. Jim was a robot, after all.

Why, then, did she feel so bereft?

As if he read her mind, Jim cocked his head at the sun and then walked over to them. “Will our guest be staying for lunch?” he asked.

Randall studied Patricia’s face. With one of his long, elegant fingers, he wiped a tear from her eye as if gathering dew from a flower petal. “Please,” he said. And Patricia wondered at the ambiguity of that word.

As if the thread in his narrative of the Council had never been broken, Drayton picked it up a few moments later, over chicken salad on fresh raisin bread, "They ask questions and then retire in private to consider their joint ruling.”

“What kind of questions?” Patricia asked, somewhat distracted by the intense flavors of the homemade meal. “What joint ruling?”

“They speak as one," Drayton said, chewing methodically and taking a long drink of tea. He thought for a moment and then added, "But I guess you do get an idea of who is most hostile from the questions they ask. There was one tall gentleman, had to be six-five, grilled me all afternoon. I was held over to the next day."

Jim leaned close to Patricia to refresh her iced tea. Wearing a towel draped over his arm like a waiter, he moved with solemn precision. Patricia gasped when the towel slid off his arm and fell onto her lap, dislodging her digipass from its clip.

“I beg your pardon,” Jim said. He examined the digipass. “It’s damp from the towel. With your permission, I’ll dry it and make sure that it isn’t damaged.”

Patricia looked at Randall for reassurance. Randall nodded, and Jim took the digipass, leaving the room.

“A very trustworthy model, my Jim,” Randall said. “More chicken salad?”

Posted by Kathy at July 7, 2004 07:41 PM | TrackBack