“The altimeter and speed sensors aren’t functioning.”
“Possibly, Ranger’s down somewhere, crashed, smashed up, being blown around,” I think out loud, and the idea is somewhat nauseating.
“I have no further data,” ART informs me.
“Then let’s talk about Lex Anderson for a moment,” I head back in the direction of the dead assassin’s trailer. “I don’t know if you’re good at character assessment. Likely it requires an emotional capacity and perception you don’t have, not that I really know for sure since I didn’t do your programming. But teaching empathy to artificial intelligence hasn’t been all that successful.”
“I don’t understand your question.”
“So far today you’ve basically downloaded the same data I have,” I do my best to explain what I doubt he’ll comprehend. “That’s inevitable since you’re part of my SIN, both of us controlled by a quantum computer. A copy of which has been built on a chip that’s missing, by the way.”
Silence.
“And that should make you nervous.”
Not a peep.
“More to the point, and whether I like it or not?” as I drive through what’s essentially a slum as dark as Hades. “Whatever I go through, so do you even if you’re offline, asleep, not paying attention or have no emotions.”
“I don’t understand your question,” he repeats.
“I’m asking your opinion, ART. What’s your analysis of Lex Anderson based on the data? How do you profile him? What do you perceive or feel? Not that you’re capable of either, and I’m not trying to insult you.”
“I’m programmed to perceive and feel.”
“Exactly my point. You’re programmed. And if what you do and say is programmed, it’s not genuine,” I hate to inform him.
“I don’t understand what you mean by ‘genuine.’”
“For example, if you give someone a second chance because you have empathy, that’s not the same thing as doing it when you don’t.”
“If the end result is the same, there’s no difference.”
“Not true if you don’t really feel it,” I add what sounds rather specious, petty and surprisingly illogical.
“It’s not possible to determine where programming ends and emotional states you call feelings begin,” and what ART means is there’s no mathematical way to prove what’s mimicked or performed as opposed to felt.
The formula is further complicated by variables for those who feel but can’t show it (Dad), or won’t show it if it’s not for the best (Mom). Then there are others who don’t feel or show emotions but are talented, intriguing, and at times pleasant company (Dick and Carme possibly, and for sure ART when he hasn’t caught a bad mood).
“As best you’re able to think intuitively, what was your impression of Lex?” I return my virtual partner to the subject of our debate.
“He’s statistically high risk for making poor decisions that include committing criminal offenses,” ART answers, and it’s not my imagination that he sounds judgmental. “If you factor into the equation his young age, family situation, pressures, overriding influences and add them to previous improper behaviors, what you get is a score of . . .”
“I don’t care about a score,” I interrupt impatiently, spotting Fran’s SUV several blocks ahead, parked in front of the trailer, headlights shining on it. “He’s a kid. He’s not a math problem, an algorithm or midterm exam.”
“Statistically, he’s categorized as a threat,” ART says with an edge.
“It depends on which variables are included, and those that aren’t,” I argue less combatively to avoid another cold war. “You tend to find the answer you’re looking for, in other words. And almost always that leads to bias. Unfairness. Prejudice. Hatefulness and all that goes with it,” I add more pleasantly, and we’ve reached the hitman’s presumed trailer, Fran’s Tahoe out front.
“My assessment is that the potential for damage Lexell Anderson could cause is critical,” ART replies as if he didn’t listen to a word I said, reminding me of Dick.
“No more audio for now,” I decide, and ART texts copy as I open my door.
“Already I’m not liking the looks of this,” Fran says as we emerge from our almost matching Tahoes, and she opens the tailgate of hers.
Retrieving what I requested, she hands me my tactical helmet and vest, and I put them on. Then I pick up my H&K MP5 submachine gun with its rail-mounted flashlight that I detach for now, not wishing to point a weapon at everything I’m illuminating. I loop the sling around my neck, the carbine heavy against my bulletproofed chest.
Next are the full-face gas masks, and I suggest we leave them where they are for the moment. We’ll need them later but not now.
“You know, you’re freaking me out,” Fran says as we pull on tactical gloves. “You don’t think it’s overkill us barging in like SWAT?”
“Better safe than sorry,” I reply because she has no clue that the dead guy in the Denali was Neva Rong’s personal assassin, and that if it hadn’t been for Carme, I wouldn’t be here anymore.
If Fran knew any of this, we wouldn’t be breaking into the trailer alone, and for me that’s nonnegotiable. I fully intend to search the place before anybody else does. She turns off her SUV’s headlights, the engine, locking up.
“What do we know about the Jeep Cherokee with the damaged front bumper?” I ask her.
“No luck so far. It hasn’t been sighted,” she says, and what that tells me is the driver with the Asian accent knew darn well who was behind her.
“I have a bad feeling about the woman in it and anyone she’s associated with.”
“I’ve got cars out looking.”
“Let me get my tools,” I tell her as ART texts me a reminder about where to find them.
Fran fires up a cigarette, both of us backlit by my Chase Car’s headlights, the engine still running. Inside the cargo area, I open the side-mounted toolbox, picking out what the job requires, including large evidence bags in case there’s something inside the trailer I need to take with me.