The Jennifer Project Read online

  Days stretched into weeks. The last week of the term arrived, still with no word from her. The time had come for the university to hold its annual funding symposium, where its staff of research scientists presented papers with their findings and requested funding for the upcoming year. Corporations with money to spend on innovative ideas were there. Foundations were there. The government was there. Scientists from across the globe were there, too, all to hear the results of their efforts. As part of the group of researchers working on the artificial intelligence project for the government, Deever was expected to discuss ways of speeding up the AI’s intuitive reaction time. He was to present his findings and put forth theories on how to implement this in future versions of the AI. He was then to make his request for additional funding.

  His instructions were clear. It was all scripted for him, but Deever did not do what he was supposed to do. Instead, he began his presentation with a rambling description of a device he called the Wiggler, proceeded into a computer simulation of how it could both add and subtract protons from the nucleus of an atom, and concluded with the claim that he had created at a minimal energy cost atoms of element 79 from an equal quantity of element 82. In other words, Deever told them that he had transmuted lead into gold.

  “You wanted money. I gave you money,” he said to Dean Enloe, who followed him into his lab with two security guards after he had been laughed off the stage. “Forget all this grantwriting bullshit. Now you can make your own gold, man.”

  “Do you realize how absurd, how ridiculous, how utterly ludicrous this makes us look?” said Enloe.

  “The Scoff-o-meter is topping out. I get it.”

  “You’ve turned us into the laughing stock of the scientific community.”

  “Dude, you’ll be the one laughing all the way to the bank once my results are verified.”

  “No one will be verifying your results, dude,” Enloe sneered. He turned to the guards. “Escort Dr. MacClendon off the premises. He is no longer welcome at this institution.”

  Deever resisted. “What are you doing, man?”

  “You are a fraud, Dr. MacClendon. You’re finished here.”

  “What about the Wiggler?”

  “Everything in this lab belongs to us, bought and paid for with university money. What we choose to do with it is none of your business.”

  “But this is my life’s work.”

  “In that case, I would have to say that you have wasted both our money and your life. Take him away.”

  The reaction within the scientific community was as swift as Deever’s removal from campus. His research was publicly ridiculed by his peers and dismissed as nonrepeatable alchemy. The university apologized for his behavior, terminated his research grant, repudiated his findings, and filed suit against him for breach of contract. Dean Enloe sealed Deever’s laboratory until funding for a suitable replacement project could be found and barred him from ever setting foot on university property again.

  With no means of support, Deever was forced to apply for positions at other universities, but no school would have him. He tried private industry, but no company would have him, either. His reputation as a scientist whose work was a fraud followed him wherever he went. His genius had cost him everything, and his path soon took a darker turn. With no job and few assets, he ran out of money. His Biocard account was suspended. He lost his off-campus apartment and was forced to move into government subsidized communal housing. The only person who could have helped him was Dr. Crane, but his calls to her went unanswered.

  Those were difficult times but not just for Deever. The world economy was becoming increasingly unstable. The divide between rich and poor had widened to a chasm. Hunger was everywhere. Poverty was rampant and both had been fashioned into the political weapons of extremism. Violence had become a way of life across the planet, pitting rich against poor, country against country, race against race, and religion against religion. The civilization of homo sapiens was out of control and devolving into chaos. As fate would have it, Deever’s particular downward spiral deposited him in a soup kitchen on the lower side of City Center. A well-dressed man came up to him while he was eating dinner there one day and introduced himself with a business card.

  “Pan-Robotics,” Deever said, reading the card. “Looking for something? Because whatever it is, it’s that way.” He pointed out the door.

  The man extended his hand. “No, Dr. MacClendon. I’m looking for you. The name is Jones.”

  They shook hands.

  “Is this about Jen? Is she all right?”

  “Jen?”

  “Jennifer Crane. Last I heard she was on your Space Elevator heading for satellite city and that was like months ago.”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk in private, Doctor?”

  “Look around you, man. This is my world. I help keep the place clean, and they feed me when they can and let me sleep on the floor upstairs in a room with twenty other guys. Privacy isn’t one of the fringe benefits.”

  “Perhaps you would care to join me in my car, then?”

  Deever slid his tray into the center of the table, indicated to the others that it was fair game, and stood up. “OK.”

  They went outside and got into a chauffeured hover car waiting at the curb.

  “Sweet ride,” Deever said. “So what about Jen? Did something happen?”

  “This isn’t about Dr. Crane.”

  “But you do know her.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “I never said she was a doctor. You did.”

  “Clever. She’s fine, Dr. MacClendon, and back in the city. I’m sure she would appreciate a call from you.”

  Deever looked out the window at one of his homeless friends. They exchanged waves. “Yeah, well, that might be kind of tough. I traded my phone for food when they suspended my Biocard account.”

  “I know. Tracking you down wasn’t easy.” Jones handed Deever a cell phone.

  “What’s this for?”

  “Consider it a gift. Use it to call your friend. It’s prepaid for one week.”

  “Thanks, man, but why?”

  “We need your help, Dr. MacClendon.”

  “With what?”

  “Gold.”

  Deever sighed. “This is one of those TV shows where they secretly film you and then make fun of you, right? Haven’t you guys had a big enough laugh at my expense?”

  “No one is laughing, Doctor. Pan-Robotics needs gold, industrial quantities of it. Frankly, we need more than we can afford on the open market, potentially more than the world’s available supply, and we need it quickly.”

  “I’m a fraud, remember?”

  Jones produced a tiny gold nugget from his pocket. “We found this in your lab. It’s pure gold.”

  “How did you get that?”

  “Pan-Robotics purchased the entire contents of your laboratory from the university. I understand Dean Enloe was more than happy to recoup some of his investment in you.”

  “You have the Wiggler?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So let me guess, you can’t figure out how to make it work.”

  “Our scientists have been unsuccessful so far. They say your documentation is incomplete.”

  “More like nonexistent.”

  “They tell me they need more time. I’m not so sure that will help. In any case, time is a luxury we don’t have.”

  “So you want me to show you how to run it?”

  “No, Doctor. We want you to come work for us. We want you to make gold for Pan-Robotics. In exchange, you’ll retain all patent rights to the device. In addition to the lucrative royalties, you’ll receive a generous salary, your own lab, an apartment with all the amenities, anything you want.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “There is no catch.”

  “There’s always a catch, man. Why do you need so much gold?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Then I
guess I’m not at liberty to work for you, Jonesy.”

  Jones raised the car’s glass partition, sealing them off from the chauffeur. “What I’m about to tell you is classified information. It is not to be repeated to anyone. Do you understand?”

  “Right. Classified.”

  “I’m quite serious, Doctor. Disclosing what I am about to say, including that Pan-Robotics will be manufacturing gold, could result in criminal prosecution.”

  “You don’t have to threaten me, dude. Just spit it out.”

  “I’m asking you to do your patriotic duty. I’m asking you to do something important for your country. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah, I get it. It’s a military contract. Don’t tell me. You dudes are building a new Protectorbot, and you need the gold for the components, right?”

  “Not just a new Protectorbot, Doctor, an army of them. It’s a revolutionary design, entirely revamped AI, state of the art robotics. Think of it. No more citizens fighting and dying for their country. No more brave men and women coming back missing arms and legs. No more costly psychological rehabilitations. None of the expensive aftereffects of war.”

  “Expensive aftereffects. Wow. That’s so messed up. I’ve got a better idea. Stop the wars. Way less hassle.”

  “Someday we will, but not today. Today our country is involved in conflicts on every continent. We are the ones defending ourselves and our allies from those who would threaten our way of life, Doctor. We are the world’s police force. We must remain strong. We must stay one step ahead of our enemies.”

  “Good speech. You should run for office.”

  “Dr. MacClendon, I’ll be frank with you. The first prototypes of this country’s next-generation robotic soldiers are already in the military’s hands for testing. Once final approval is given, Pan-Robotics will need that gold for their internal components. We’re desperate.”

  “Not interested.”

  A vagrant came over to the car and began washing the windshield, demanding a handout in return. The driver got out, and they argued.

  Jones pressed a button on a control panel at his side, darkening the windows. “Our psychologists advised me that this would be your initial answer, so I am prepared to offer you an enticement beyond the appeal to your sense of patriotism.”

  “No kidding?” Deever said. “What would that be?”

  “I know how frustrating it must have been for you dealing with the likes of Dean Enloe. He doesn’t understand genius like we do.”

  “Ancient history, man.”

  “What would you say if I told you that I’ve already gotten the approval to fully fund your speculative work in artificial intelligence if you agree to make gold for us?”

  “I’d say wow, majorly tempting, but I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Make love not war, man.”

  “We’re not in the business of making war, Doctor. We’re in the business of preventing it.”

  “I see you didn’t miss your checkup at the spin doctor’s. Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t do war, dude.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  “Come again?”

  “The research project that you were involved in at the university, what exactly did you think was its purpose?”

  “I don’t know. Some bullshit AI work the government wanted done.”

  “And who do you think was funding that bullshit AI work?”

  Deever met Jones’s gaze. “No way, man.”

  “Your group was developing the combat AI for a future series of Protectorbot. Of course, you had no way of knowing that. You didn’t need to know. Your particular role was to lay the groundwork for a method of improving the intuitive reaction time of the unit, to make it a better killing machine, Doctor. You’ve been making war not love for years.”

  “I’m out of here, man,” Deever said, and tried to hand the phone back to Jones.

  “Keep it,” said Jones. “If you change your mind, call me. My direct line is on speed dial.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “This generous offer expires at the end of the week. Take my advice, Doctor. Don’t make an already unpleasant situation worse.”

  Chapter 3

  Deever watched the hover car lift off, rising above the buildings until it merged with the other traffic on the digital highway system that crisscrossed the sky over City Center. He called Dr. Crane.

  “Jen, it’s me.”

  “Deever, where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you. Is everything all right? What happened? They told me you were fired from the university.”

  “I’m good, more or less. What about you?”

  “Me? I’m fine. Are you free? I’ve been so worried about you. Want to grab a bite to eat?”

  “I’m a little short on funds at the moment.”

  “My treat. Where do you want to go?”

  “The Wing Bucket?”

  “Can’t we go someplace nicer?”

  “It’s right around the corner from where I’m staying, and I could really go for some nachos and brewskis.”

  “OK. I’ll be there in a half hour.”

  They met inside the restaurant and were seated in a booth.

  “Deever, you look terrible,” she said. “What happened?”

  He told her.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she replied.

  “How about I told you so?”

  “Deever, why do you do these things to yourself?”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time. All Dean Enloe ever thinks about is making money, so I set up the Wiggler to make gold for him. Then he gets all pissed off. I don’t get it.”

  “And it really works?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  “I thought so, too. It was going to be my ticket to more funding. Now I can’t even find a job. But enough about me. How was outer space?”

  “Deever, it was amazing. Being in space, seeing the Earth from up there, the stars . . . It was unbelievable. And the Space Elevator was incredible. It travels at six hundred fifty kilometers per hour, not much faster than a maglev, so you hardly feel it. And it’s so quiet in space. It really changes your perspective on things.”

  “I’ll bet. Hey, what’s with the disappearing act? I thought you said you’d be gone for like four days.”

  “One of the carbon nanotube filaments tore, and we had to figure out why before they went live. Sorry it took so long. I asked them to let you know that I’d be delayed, but I guess you didn’t get the message.”

  “They wouldn’t even admit that you worked for them.”

  “They are pretty paranoid about security.”

  “That’s for sure. So, a filament tore. That sounds majorly dangerous.”

  “It was fine. Really. There are multiple backups.”

  “So what, did an alien with scissors like attack it or something?”

  Dr. Crane laughed. “No, a manufacturing issue. It’s resolved now and I’m on to my next project.”

  “On Earth, I hope?”

  “Yes, Deever, on Earth. I’ll be doing some miniaturization work for Pan-Robotics.”

  “On what?”

  “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

  “Oh, that kind of work.”

  “Deever, they made me sign a nondisclosure. I’m sorry.”

  “No problemo. I get it.”

  Their food came, and Deever started right in.

  “Wow,” said Dr. Crane. “You must really be hungry.”

  “More like starving.”

  “Where are you living now, Deever?”

  “Around the corner.”

  “Where? There aren’t any apartments around here, at least not ones that are safe.”

  He told her about the soup kitchen.

  “Deever, that’s crazy. Why don’t you stay with me?”

  “We tried that once, remember? I didn’t make such a hot roommate.”


  “This is different. It’s just till you find another job. Besides, you’re destitute.”

  “I’m not destitute. Let it be known. Deever MacClendon is not destitute.”

  “You smell destitute.”

  “That bad?”

  “If this place didn’t already reek, I doubt they would have let us in. Come on, Deever. Be reasonable. You’ll never get a job using a flophouse as your address and looking and smelling like this.”

  “Oh yeah, Little Miss Know-it-all? For your information, I got a job offer today.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “Pan-Robotics.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Turns out they were fronting the money for my research at the university. Bastards. They own the Wiggler now, and they want me to make it work for them.”

  “I didn’t realize they were into nucleosynthetics.”

  “They aren’t.” Deever leaned across the table and whispered, “I’m not supposed to say anything, but they want me to make gold for them. They need a pantload of it for their new Protectorbots, but they can’t figure out how the Wiggler works, and they’re running out of time.”

  “Deever, that’s wonderful.”

  “It is?”

  “It’s a job.”

  “I’m not into warmongering as a career choice, Jen.”

  “I know that, but this isn’t the same.”

  “I’m not going to let the military-industrial complex use my invention to feed their war machine.”

  “Deever, every scientific achievement that mankind has ever come up with can be used for either good or evil. The Chinese invented gunpowder for celebratory fireworks displays. It was a wonderful thing. It wasn’t until later that someone figured out how to use it in guns to kill people.”

  “Yeah, well . . .”

  “And do you think Einstein wrote his groundbreaking paper on the photoelectric effect because he wanted the military to use his ideas to create satellite-based mega-lasers?”