"Keep a Close Eye On Your Robot"
Jan. 13th, 2025 07:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"Keep a Close Eye On Your Robot"
7/8/2016
I.
"It's a disgrace when you can't count on a ROBOT to be on time!" Gabby grumbled. Tapping one foot, backs of her hands against her hips, she pouted and exhaled sharply. At the entrance to Central Park at 59th Street, Gabby had been waiting for more than forty minutes. Only a few inches above five feet tall, slender in her baggy jeans and green polo shirt, her angry fuming was unconsciously cute rather than intimidating. The round gamin face under the curly brown hair, big brown eyes hidden by oversized sunglasses, just was not threatening.
At a wheeled cart nearby, Timothy Limbo was buying sodas and two hot pretzels with mustard. He managed not to smile because he knew that would annoy her further. They had been best friends since grade school. A bit under six feet tall, wearing his usual outfit of biker boots, worn-out jeans and a black leather jacket over a white T-shirt, Tim was friendly looking enough that people even in Manhattan started casual conversations with him. His mop of butter-yellow hair was way too long at the moment, hanging in his eyes.
He handed her a pretzel and watched as she bit off a huge chunk, then had to break off a smaller part to chew. "Doesn't she have her own phone?" he asked.
"Of course. Not only that, she can receive and send calls herself without a phone. She's got built-in wi-fi." Chewing grimly, Gabby added, "But she's not answering."
Turning to look in all directions, Tim asked, "Is she wearing the Elspeth get-up? The black wig, the lipstick, all that?"
"Yeah, it's her day to be Elspeth. Sometimes she passes as me, sometimes she's my supposed 'cousin.' I'm getting worried, Tim. What if something happened to her?"
Tim scoffed. "She's got a titanium alloy chassis. She can tie my motorcycle's handlebars into a knot. What could happen to her?"
"I didn't want to say anything, but she's been getting whacky again. Not menacing. Megan said the targeting and aggression has been completely removed. She's safe as a teddy bear. But she's making those random snarky comments again."
Popping open a can of root beer, Tim considered before carefully saying, "We know her original programming. Getting that all expunged must have had some effect."
"Yeah. She's an Infiltrator. She was meant to impersonate me to assassinate you and your team. But come on, Tim, she's been my roommate for almost a year. She's harmless. She wasn't able to put out a mouse trap. I'm worried for her, not about her." Gabby began a more manageable chunk of the pretzel and peered up and down the street. "Hey, Tim, how about sending a few of your little ghosts to look for her?"
"Sure, why not?" Going over to sit down on the low stone wall that encircled the Park, Timothy held out both upturned palms. Almost invisible in the afternoon sunlight, two swirling tornados materialized above his hands. They swooped around him like excited hummingbirds and flashed off in different directions. "Let me follow what they see, we'll find your robot pal."
Working on a chunk of the soft pretzel, Gabby dropped down next to her best friend and got comfortable. "I was so glad when Megan brought her back to me. I was really resigned to not seeing her any more. And I'll be honest, my pal seemed to have exactly the same personality and everything, for a while but then she started acting all whacko and sarcastic again."
"Mmmm," Tim responded vaguely. His concentration was divided between what the two caspers were perceiving, an experience roughly comparable to looking back and forth from one video screen to another. "Nothing yet...."
She knew that far-away tone. Trying to get his attention when he was following his friendly ghosts would only be counter-productive. Gabby fretted, not so much about the Infiltrator getting in danger as in its true nature being exposed. She crumpled up the paper napkin and realized she hadn't even tasted the pretzel.
II.
Waiting in the fortieth floor apartment overlooking Central Park West, Graham Thicke shuddered visibly. An unimposing man in his thirties with a weak chin and unfortunately protruding ears, his appearance was mitigated by his immaculate Harris tweed suit which was tailored to flatter him subtly. The Windsor knot in the narrow black tie was perfect, his leather dress shoes had not a flaw on their gleaming surface.
But the appalled expression on his face suggested he was witnessing some sewage accident. "I say, Wickett, this decor gives new meaning to bad taste, what? All the gold trim and furnishings, the hideously ornate Art Nouveau decorations, all the clutter with baubles on every available inch of space... it's beyond forgiveness."
"One does find it excessive, sir," said Ian Wickett in his mellow tone. As impeccably dressed as his employer, his attire including a bowler hat tucked in the crook of one arm, Wickett towered well over six feet four. His long face with its lantern jaw gave away some of his disdain for the scene.
Standing by the wide yellow-tinted window looking down at the tops of trees far below, the Infiltrator turned toward her new companions. The long black wig and bright scarlet lipstick disguised the fact that she was actually an exact duplicate of Gabby Marchetti down to the last eyelash and freckle. She had not spoken since they had been ushered into the apartment.
"Everything all copacetic, pet?" asked Thicke.
"No. The floor is always underfoot, the walls stop at the ceiling and the windows pane."
"Oh, very droll, darling," he replied. "I was afraid you'd give a sensible answer. Wickett, isn't she stimulating company?"
"Quite," said the larger man.
From the doorway came a hoarse woman's voice, "Thanks for waiting, you all want to come in here now?"
Mackenzie Schmidt waved to the three visitors. She looked the same as she had on many magazines and blogs about female bodybuilders, a short stocky figure with well-defined rounded muscles revealed because she was wearing only tiny shorts and a sports bra. Schmidt had her famous waist-length mane of curly reddish hair loose and her skin glistened with sweat. She was wiping at herself with a coarse white towel.
The next room had been stripped down to bare walls and floor to accommodate a variety of Nautilus machines and free weights. Several full-length mirrors allowed Schmidt to scrutinize her results. Lively motivational music played in the background as the award-winning bodybuilder stepped back to let her guests look around.
"Oh, quite impressive," drawled Graham Thicke. "I dare say the original demi-gods of the first Olympics back in whatever BC would have appreciated this equipment, what?"
The Infiltrator stood with arms folded across her chest. "The Nautilus machines are well-named, since the Nautilus organism is a soft squishy slug inside a hard shell." That remark earned her a caustic glare from Mackenzie Schmidt.
With a diplomatic throat-clearing, Wickett placed a genuine pigskin attaché case on a counter and undid the clasps. Nestled safely in fitted slots were six dark glass bottles that looked as if they would hold about a pint. "We are very excited that you have agreed to try NuBrawn, Ma'am. We are certain the results will be so satisfying that you may decide to give an endorsement."
"My name and likeness have a certain value," she said. "Especially if I win the European Women's class this summer in Geneva. But we can work out the details later."
At this point, Graham Thicke took over. "We don't want to put NuBrawn on the general market just yet. It's perfectly safe but one fears that society couldn't handle the masses suddenly becoming twice as strong. Aside from fights begun by overconfident people of impulse, a great number of accidents would claim victims. What did you say the problem would be, Wickett?"
"To be honest, sir, Americans already record themselves attempting foolhardy stunts. If they abruptly become much more powerful, they will risk their necks even more rashly. We don't want to be responsible, morally or legally."
"Fair enough," Mackenzie Schmidt said. "You've already said most of the ingredients include snow mountain ginseng, digestive enzymes and immunity boosters. But what builds muscle?"
"Ah, that must not be revealed just yet," Thicke said. "It's something not one person in a million would recognize. But I can say it is extremely rare and its growers forbid it to be given to anyone not of their school."
"School? What?!"
"Think of Shaolin monasteries or Tibetan lamaseries high in the Himalayas," put in Wickett smoothly enough. "Although I might suggest you think of the Aegean. Greece, perhaps."
The Infiltrator had started examining the exercise equipment. Like Gabby, who she had been modeled after, she was thin, with a flat chest, narrow hips and no distinct musculature in her arms and legs. She was not intimidating by any measure. The barbells seemed to particularly interest her.
"I believe it is time for Gabrielle to demonstrate the effects of NuBrawn," Thicke drawled. "She has been ingesting a spoonful before every meal for three weeks now."
"Wait, wait," Schmidt said. "I don't want her to hurt herself. That's two hundred and eighty pounds. It's the record for my weight class."
"She will be careful, ma'am. Gabrielle, if you would...?"
And the Infiltrator bent over from the waist, straightened and casually lifted the barbell up to face height, then overhead, holding it quite steady. She used one hand.
III.
Unfortunately, a middle-aged man in a business suit happened to be passing close by when Gabby said, "I don't want my roommate just randomly assassinating people." He paused in mid-step, shook his head and continued on his way without saying anything.
Seated on a green bench by a bus stop area, Gabby didn't notice the flustered bystander. "But I'm more worried about her safety," she went on. "What if she gets exposed? She looks completely flesh and blood even in bright sunlight but what if she decides to pick up a motorcycle and walk around with it?
When she goes kind of random and irrational, she does get crazy impulses."
Timothy had taken out his Link, an advanced Trom device no thicker than three playing cards in a stack, and was tapping on its screen. "I have an idea."
"Well, I'm glad ONE of us does!" Gabby muttered. "My brain is running around in little circles, knocking things over, screaming and crying....What idea?"
"Give me your pal's number. Okay. You use Verizon, right? Give me a second. I wish Megan was here, I don't know half of what these gadgets do. Now, call her."
A few seconds later, Gabby growled in exasperation. "Straight to voicemail."
"That's okay, I got the location," Tim said. "It's not far, we can walk there."
Hopping up, Gabby announced, "When I can't find my phone, I call it using my pal's phone and follow the ringing, it's usually under the car seat but a few times, the dang thing was setting on my dresser right in front of me."
Watching the screen on his Link, Timothy made a non-committal sound to show he was listening, although he really wasn't.
Under other circumstances, Gabby would have greatly enjoyed being out walking around with her best friend on a breezy summer afternoon. Her college Stonypoint was far enough out on Long Island that driving into the city took an hour and a half. With her classes and her job at a bistro, she had not been getting to Manhattan as often as she would have liked. So many museums, so many great stores...
On East 57th Street near the river, they stopped in front of a forty-story spike of chrome and glass holding luxury apartments. Parked next to an expired meter was a gleaming new Lincoln Town Car with illegally dark windows and an orange bumper sticker with the single word WHY? in blue letters.
"I think they stopped making these a few years back," Timothy said. "Hey, there on the back seat is a phone. And the blip on the screen is right here. Does your pal know anybody who drives a land yacht like this?"
Gabby shrugged, peering in through the nearly black rear window and seeing nothing. "Who knows? She drives me crazy sometimes, making friends and not telling me about them and then they think they know me and I don't have a clue who they are."
"I bet that happens to flesh and blood twins." Timothy was standing with his back to the car, almost leaning up against it. "I just stuck one of our tracer discs inside the wheel well. No, don't bend over to take a look! Now we can follow this car as long as it's within three hundred miles. If we get separated, you can go to the headquarters and anyone on the team can take over."
"Wish I'd had your tracking device when I was going out with that Craig guy," she muttered.
"I need a minute here," he said, tapping on the Link. "Honestly, I'm not great with these gadgets. They are way too complicated. Okay. DMV records is responding..."
"Wait, you're hacking into the Department of Motor Vehicles? Is that legal?"
"Nope, we KDF members pull major felonies all day every day. Here's the registered owner's license. Whoops. Oh, this is bad news."
"WHAT is bad news? Don't scare me, Tim."
"That car belongs to Graham Thicke, of Thicke and Wickett. They're a pair of lying, cheating, double-crossing, larcenous con men. Your pal is hanging with the wrong crowd, Gabby."
IV.
Gabby had pointed out a Starbucks across the street and they had managed to get a seat which gave a view of the town car. As soon as they settled down, Tim had sent a casper to hover near the car. He ordered an iced tea and chicken salad sandwich, while she got a cinnamon scone and black coffee. By the time she felt obliged to ask for a refill, Tim was telling her scandalous stories about the Midnight War. He had gone into unnecessary detail about the misdeeds of 'the Perverts From Dimension X' case a few years earlier. "We never saw any of the Purple Molesters materialize after that," he concluded.
"You know what's spookier than that? You wanna know?" asked Gabby. "Those vague shapes you sometimes get a glimpse of out of the corner of your eye but when you turb your head, they're gone? I think they are your Purple Molesters...or something worse!"
"Geeze, Gabby, I thought I was supposed to be scaring YOU!"
This protest made her laugh out loud. "Hee hee, I'm so bad. I guess I better get another coffee but then my bladder will be tugging on my sleeve and pointing toward the ladies' room."
"Hold on. My casper is seeing something. Yeah, coming out of that apartment building, it's your pal and two men, looks like Thicke and Wickett all right."
Before that final sentence was completed, Gabby had whirled and rushed out of the Starbuck's, heading across the sidewalk directly into traffic. Lunging right behind her, Timothy clamped an arm across her chest and lifted her up off her feet, jumping back out of the way of a white SUV that would have clipped her hard.
"Oh," she said in a very small voice.
Tim let her go. He was breathing heavily, not from the exertion but from emotion. "Oh my God. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"
"Sorry, sorry, thanks Tim, come on!" Seeing people crossing at the intersection, she sprinted forward again and this time made it across with Tim right behind her. They were only seconds late. The Town Car was turning right at the next corner and was gone from sight. Gabby did not try to chase it, but stayed where she was with her shoulders slumped and head drooping.
Timothy squeezed her shoulder. "It's okay. We can find the car wherever it goes, and we have Thicke's address."
"You're right," she said. Seeing a blue-topped taxi heading their way, she put two fingers in her mouth and gave a loud shrill two-note whistle. To Tim's complete astonishment, the taxi immediately swung over to stop right in front of them.
"How did you do that?" he asked. "Grabbing a cab first try..."
She chuckled as she got in the back. "Maybe it's my gralic power!"
As Tim got in next to her and closed the door, the driver grunted, "Where to, sweetheart?"
"Umm, just head in this direction," she replied and gave her friend a puzzled glance.
"We might be getting a text message or two, we're trying to meet someone," Tim added.
"Long as youse pay, we can ride around in circles all day," the driver said.
Leaning closer to GABBY, Tim said in a low voice, "It's not so bad. Thicke and Wickett are scammers and con artists, but they avoid violence. I don't think they're going to get your pal into too much trouble."
"Arrghhh! I can't understand why she's doing this! I taught her not to run off with strangers, she knows better."
"Sometimes she's your sister, sometimes she's your daughter," Tim said.
She blinked and smiled. "Yeah. Fair enough. I guess from now on I need to keep a closer eye on her."
"Driver, take the next right," Tim said, watching the little green blip move across the grid on his screen.
IV.
The apartment in the Schuler Building was not palatial but it was certainly comfortable. Two windows looked down sixty stories to Sixth Avenue. There was a good amount of open uncluttered space, with the kitchenette and bathroom in an L-shaped annex. Nick Scapilatti seemed very tidy, even a bit excessive in how neat and clean everything was. The big walnut desk in one corner presented a bare surface free of papers or coffee mugs. No clothing was in sight, not a jacket thrown over a chair or a pair of shoes that had been kicked off. The coffee table in front of a huge TV had nothing on it but a remote control.
Gong to answer the buzzer, Mark Scapilatti showed that apartment reflected his personality exactly. On a Sunday afternoon, he was wearing dress slacks, a light blue short-sleeved shirt and plain slippers, all spotless. He had obviously shaved closely that morning. Levin opened the door, said, "Please come in," and ushered his visitors to a hard-looking couch with two small cushions at opposite ends. As the Infiltrator followed Thicke and Wickett in, Scapilatti shook her offered hand and said, "Miss Marchetti."
When everyone was seated, Scaplatti took a plush easy chair facing the couch at an angle. "So. Mr Frobish and Mr Ogilvy, you were going to demonstrate the effectiveness of your product?"
Graham Thicke, known that day as Colin Ogilvy, smiled cheerfully. "Quite so. Our associate here has been taking a large spoonful of NuBrain every morning for the past month. If you would, sir, pleasew select a book from your shelves. The more obscure the better."
Taking his time, Scapilatti came back with a thin paperback which had its covers held on with Scotch tape. "Here you are, THE ELYSIUM READER from 1968. I can't imagine it sold well, the publisher was only in business for two years. It's a collection of short stories by European writers."
"Perfect." Thicke handed the book to the Infiltrator, who was sitting between the two con men. She began rapidly leafing through it, barely seeming to glance at each page. When she was done, she handed the book directly to her host.
"I can't say I enjoyed it," she said. "All style, no substance."
"Now, sir, if you would select a page at random?" prompted Thicke.
"Very well, let's see... Page 24?"
"It's from 'The Cruelty of Hope' by Simone Latrelle," the Infiltrator responded instantly. " '...there came a time when the most splendid sunset seemed washed out, all wine was sour and even the laughter of children sounded harsh and discordant. Nicole knew she needed to escape from the city before the concrete and the bricks became part of her.'"
"Amazing! Word for word, and she knew what story it was..."
"A photographic memory would prove invaluable to your work, sir," Wickett offered.
"Yes, I handle copyright and trademark infringements," said Scapilatti. "Being able to instantly memorize briefs and motions would give me a huge advantage. I must take advantage of your offer, gentlemen."
Thicke had brought his attaché case and he now opened it to produce a one-ounce vial of dark green glass with a stopper. "Here is your introductory sample. We would like you to drink it now, and we will return with a full bottle tomorrow. This way you can get a hint of what ongoing consumption will do for you."
Taking the vial, Scapilatti sniffed it warily, then downed it with a gulp. "Tastes a bit like vinegar, to be honest. Tell me something, Mr Ogilvy. Why aren't you and your partner takng this formula?"
Thicke was returning the empty vial to its niche and closing the case. "Supplies are sadly very limited. Even when we raise some more capital and go into serious production, the process is time-consuming. I fear it will never be available to the great unwashed masses."
"Perhaps that's for the best," observed his partner. "They would merely memorize baseball statistics and television schedules."
V.
In the parking lot, an unreasonably smug Graham Thicke kissed the back of the check that their client had filled out a few minutes earlier. "A full day's dishonest work is so satisfying."
Towering over him by a good four inches, the impeccably groomed Ian Wickett unlocked the back door of their Town Car and held it open. "Miss Elspeth, if you would?"
The car sagged noticeably as the Infiltrator got in the back. Although she looked as if she would weigh not much than a hundred pounds, in fact her dense construction made her weigh four times as much. She folded her hands in her lap and looked up at her new partners in crime.
"Mr Thicke and I must go to the branch of our bank. It's only a block or two away." Wickett touched the brim of his bowler. "We shan't be gone long."
"I will wait," the Infiltrator replied compliantly enough.
As Wickett closed the door, his partner scoffed. "I say, using a checking account in this day and age. It's positively primitive."
"It is old fashioned, sir."
"I expect our next sucker errr client will be using a telephone mounted on the wall, where one asks the operator to ring a number. Quite an image, what?"
"Very droll, sir." The two longtime grifters strolled out of the parking lot and up the block. As soon as they were out of sight, Timothy Limbo and Gabby Marchetti ran over from where they had been lurking by the side of the apartment building. Gabby tapped on the rear window of the Town Car and said, "I think we need to talk."
VI.
Forty-five minutes later, Graham Thicke was studying the menu at the Skytop restaurant off Rockefeller Center. His usual expression of amiable absence was in full swing. "One can't go TOO wrong with smoked salmon, can one? I mean, even Americans can't make a piece of fish three times as large or fill it with salt and sugar, can they?"
"I shouldn't think so, sir," Wickett replied.
"And potatoes au Gratin, with asparagus in Bearnaise sauce. Perhaps strawberries and cream for dessert. Wickett, what about you?"
"I shall have the same, sir."
"Good, good. Miss Elspeth, you may of course order anything."
"Pork chops with a dish of applesauce, a baked potato with sour cream, peas and carrots. cherry cheesecake," came the immediate response.
That seemed to perplex Thicke. He scrutinized the wine list as if trying to read a map of an unfamiliar country. "Hmm. Hah. White wine of course for the fish, but maybe a rose would be acceptable this once. Dash it all, what a nightmare."
"Might I suggest champagne, sir?" offered Wickett.
"Yes, yes, that would suit me down to the ground. We can toast our new associate."
The meal arrived and was consumed with great enjoyment, as neither of the men had eaten that day. As the plates became nearly cleared, the pace of eating slowed and conversation began. Wickett and Thicke were exceedingly sanguine, from the excellent food and champagne and from the substantial loot they had amassed that day. They began reminiscing about past heists, schemes and ruses that might be useful again. At one point, Thicke gloated how both NuBrawn and NuBrain contained only a mild stimulant which gave slight euphoria and a burst of energy. This was enough to fool those trying the samples.
Finally, when not a crumb remained and the bottle was empty, Gabby Marchetti pushed back her chair and stood up. "That really was excellent, gentlemen, thank you so much. I must be going now."
"Steady on, old girl," Thicke objected. "We have more sheep lined up to fleece tomorrow."
She gave him a saucy wink and the cryptic comment, "I'm not who you think I am." With that, she strode briskly out of the dining area and into an elevator which conveniently dinged open as she reached it. At the table she had left, a befuddled Thicke and Wickett stared at each other as stricken as if she had dived out the window.
In the lobby, Tim and the Infiltrator were waiting on a well-padded bench by the door. Without the black wig and lipstick, the robot resembled Gabby in such minute detail that a side-by-side inspection could not have told them apart. All three stepped out into a pleasant summer twilight.
"Hee hee, I got a free meal without having to kiss a blind date," Gabby said. She handed a Link over to Tim. "Did you hear the conversation?"
"Clear as mountain water," Tim said, "and all recorded. A juicy confession to hand over to the NYPD. But, to be honest, those two never seem to go to trial. They're slippery as all hell."
"Let's walk back to the headquarters," Gabby suggested and started moving south. "What a gorgeous night. I'm not a bit tired."
As they strolled leisurely along, doing a little people-watching, Tim asked the Infiltrator, "So, 'Elspeth,' you're not going to pull another attempt at crimebusting?"
"No," said the robot. "When I saw those two career criminals, I decided to try luring them into incriminating themselves. I did not think the plan through. I was acting as an accomplice and could not report them without being implicated myself."
Standing on the curb waiting for the crossing light, Gabby stopped staring at a tall thin West African in a green and yellow dashiki. She turned to her best friend. "In any case, I don't want you pulling another stunt like this. We can't afford to have people learn about you. I don't want to have to ask Megan to do a diagnostic on you, okay?"
"I understand," said the Infiltrator. "Detective work is beyond my capabilities. I do not understand people."
And Tim and Gabby said in unison, "That makes three of us."
1/13/2024
;
7/8/2016
I.
"It's a disgrace when you can't count on a ROBOT to be on time!" Gabby grumbled. Tapping one foot, backs of her hands against her hips, she pouted and exhaled sharply. At the entrance to Central Park at 59th Street, Gabby had been waiting for more than forty minutes. Only a few inches above five feet tall, slender in her baggy jeans and green polo shirt, her angry fuming was unconsciously cute rather than intimidating. The round gamin face under the curly brown hair, big brown eyes hidden by oversized sunglasses, just was not threatening.
At a wheeled cart nearby, Timothy Limbo was buying sodas and two hot pretzels with mustard. He managed not to smile because he knew that would annoy her further. They had been best friends since grade school. A bit under six feet tall, wearing his usual outfit of biker boots, worn-out jeans and a black leather jacket over a white T-shirt, Tim was friendly looking enough that people even in Manhattan started casual conversations with him. His mop of butter-yellow hair was way too long at the moment, hanging in his eyes.
He handed her a pretzel and watched as she bit off a huge chunk, then had to break off a smaller part to chew. "Doesn't she have her own phone?" he asked.
"Of course. Not only that, she can receive and send calls herself without a phone. She's got built-in wi-fi." Chewing grimly, Gabby added, "But she's not answering."
Turning to look in all directions, Tim asked, "Is she wearing the Elspeth get-up? The black wig, the lipstick, all that?"
"Yeah, it's her day to be Elspeth. Sometimes she passes as me, sometimes she's my supposed 'cousin.' I'm getting worried, Tim. What if something happened to her?"
Tim scoffed. "She's got a titanium alloy chassis. She can tie my motorcycle's handlebars into a knot. What could happen to her?"
"I didn't want to say anything, but she's been getting whacky again. Not menacing. Megan said the targeting and aggression has been completely removed. She's safe as a teddy bear. But she's making those random snarky comments again."
Popping open a can of root beer, Tim considered before carefully saying, "We know her original programming. Getting that all expunged must have had some effect."
"Yeah. She's an Infiltrator. She was meant to impersonate me to assassinate you and your team. But come on, Tim, she's been my roommate for almost a year. She's harmless. She wasn't able to put out a mouse trap. I'm worried for her, not about her." Gabby began a more manageable chunk of the pretzel and peered up and down the street. "Hey, Tim, how about sending a few of your little ghosts to look for her?"
"Sure, why not?" Going over to sit down on the low stone wall that encircled the Park, Timothy held out both upturned palms. Almost invisible in the afternoon sunlight, two swirling tornados materialized above his hands. They swooped around him like excited hummingbirds and flashed off in different directions. "Let me follow what they see, we'll find your robot pal."
Working on a chunk of the soft pretzel, Gabby dropped down next to her best friend and got comfortable. "I was so glad when Megan brought her back to me. I was really resigned to not seeing her any more. And I'll be honest, my pal seemed to have exactly the same personality and everything, for a while but then she started acting all whacko and sarcastic again."
"Mmmm," Tim responded vaguely. His concentration was divided between what the two caspers were perceiving, an experience roughly comparable to looking back and forth from one video screen to another. "Nothing yet...."
She knew that far-away tone. Trying to get his attention when he was following his friendly ghosts would only be counter-productive. Gabby fretted, not so much about the Infiltrator getting in danger as in its true nature being exposed. She crumpled up the paper napkin and realized she hadn't even tasted the pretzel.
II.
Waiting in the fortieth floor apartment overlooking Central Park West, Graham Thicke shuddered visibly. An unimposing man in his thirties with a weak chin and unfortunately protruding ears, his appearance was mitigated by his immaculate Harris tweed suit which was tailored to flatter him subtly. The Windsor knot in the narrow black tie was perfect, his leather dress shoes had not a flaw on their gleaming surface.
But the appalled expression on his face suggested he was witnessing some sewage accident. "I say, Wickett, this decor gives new meaning to bad taste, what? All the gold trim and furnishings, the hideously ornate Art Nouveau decorations, all the clutter with baubles on every available inch of space... it's beyond forgiveness."
"One does find it excessive, sir," said Ian Wickett in his mellow tone. As impeccably dressed as his employer, his attire including a bowler hat tucked in the crook of one arm, Wickett towered well over six feet four. His long face with its lantern jaw gave away some of his disdain for the scene.
Standing by the wide yellow-tinted window looking down at the tops of trees far below, the Infiltrator turned toward her new companions. The long black wig and bright scarlet lipstick disguised the fact that she was actually an exact duplicate of Gabby Marchetti down to the last eyelash and freckle. She had not spoken since they had been ushered into the apartment.
"Everything all copacetic, pet?" asked Thicke.
"No. The floor is always underfoot, the walls stop at the ceiling and the windows pane."
"Oh, very droll, darling," he replied. "I was afraid you'd give a sensible answer. Wickett, isn't she stimulating company?"
"Quite," said the larger man.
From the doorway came a hoarse woman's voice, "Thanks for waiting, you all want to come in here now?"
Mackenzie Schmidt waved to the three visitors. She looked the same as she had on many magazines and blogs about female bodybuilders, a short stocky figure with well-defined rounded muscles revealed because she was wearing only tiny shorts and a sports bra. Schmidt had her famous waist-length mane of curly reddish hair loose and her skin glistened with sweat. She was wiping at herself with a coarse white towel.
The next room had been stripped down to bare walls and floor to accommodate a variety of Nautilus machines and free weights. Several full-length mirrors allowed Schmidt to scrutinize her results. Lively motivational music played in the background as the award-winning bodybuilder stepped back to let her guests look around.
"Oh, quite impressive," drawled Graham Thicke. "I dare say the original demi-gods of the first Olympics back in whatever BC would have appreciated this equipment, what?"
The Infiltrator stood with arms folded across her chest. "The Nautilus machines are well-named, since the Nautilus organism is a soft squishy slug inside a hard shell." That remark earned her a caustic glare from Mackenzie Schmidt.
With a diplomatic throat-clearing, Wickett placed a genuine pigskin attaché case on a counter and undid the clasps. Nestled safely in fitted slots were six dark glass bottles that looked as if they would hold about a pint. "We are very excited that you have agreed to try NuBrawn, Ma'am. We are certain the results will be so satisfying that you may decide to give an endorsement."
"My name and likeness have a certain value," she said. "Especially if I win the European Women's class this summer in Geneva. But we can work out the details later."
At this point, Graham Thicke took over. "We don't want to put NuBrawn on the general market just yet. It's perfectly safe but one fears that society couldn't handle the masses suddenly becoming twice as strong. Aside from fights begun by overconfident people of impulse, a great number of accidents would claim victims. What did you say the problem would be, Wickett?"
"To be honest, sir, Americans already record themselves attempting foolhardy stunts. If they abruptly become much more powerful, they will risk their necks even more rashly. We don't want to be responsible, morally or legally."
"Fair enough," Mackenzie Schmidt said. "You've already said most of the ingredients include snow mountain ginseng, digestive enzymes and immunity boosters. But what builds muscle?"
"Ah, that must not be revealed just yet," Thicke said. "It's something not one person in a million would recognize. But I can say it is extremely rare and its growers forbid it to be given to anyone not of their school."
"School? What?!"
"Think of Shaolin monasteries or Tibetan lamaseries high in the Himalayas," put in Wickett smoothly enough. "Although I might suggest you think of the Aegean. Greece, perhaps."
The Infiltrator had started examining the exercise equipment. Like Gabby, who she had been modeled after, she was thin, with a flat chest, narrow hips and no distinct musculature in her arms and legs. She was not intimidating by any measure. The barbells seemed to particularly interest her.
"I believe it is time for Gabrielle to demonstrate the effects of NuBrawn," Thicke drawled. "She has been ingesting a spoonful before every meal for three weeks now."
"Wait, wait," Schmidt said. "I don't want her to hurt herself. That's two hundred and eighty pounds. It's the record for my weight class."
"She will be careful, ma'am. Gabrielle, if you would...?"
And the Infiltrator bent over from the waist, straightened and casually lifted the barbell up to face height, then overhead, holding it quite steady. She used one hand.
III.
Unfortunately, a middle-aged man in a business suit happened to be passing close by when Gabby said, "I don't want my roommate just randomly assassinating people." He paused in mid-step, shook his head and continued on his way without saying anything.
Seated on a green bench by a bus stop area, Gabby didn't notice the flustered bystander. "But I'm more worried about her safety," she went on. "What if she gets exposed? She looks completely flesh and blood even in bright sunlight but what if she decides to pick up a motorcycle and walk around with it?
When she goes kind of random and irrational, she does get crazy impulses."
Timothy had taken out his Link, an advanced Trom device no thicker than three playing cards in a stack, and was tapping on its screen. "I have an idea."
"Well, I'm glad ONE of us does!" Gabby muttered. "My brain is running around in little circles, knocking things over, screaming and crying....What idea?"
"Give me your pal's number. Okay. You use Verizon, right? Give me a second. I wish Megan was here, I don't know half of what these gadgets do. Now, call her."
A few seconds later, Gabby growled in exasperation. "Straight to voicemail."
"That's okay, I got the location," Tim said. "It's not far, we can walk there."
Hopping up, Gabby announced, "When I can't find my phone, I call it using my pal's phone and follow the ringing, it's usually under the car seat but a few times, the dang thing was setting on my dresser right in front of me."
Watching the screen on his Link, Timothy made a non-committal sound to show he was listening, although he really wasn't.
Under other circumstances, Gabby would have greatly enjoyed being out walking around with her best friend on a breezy summer afternoon. Her college Stonypoint was far enough out on Long Island that driving into the city took an hour and a half. With her classes and her job at a bistro, she had not been getting to Manhattan as often as she would have liked. So many museums, so many great stores...
On East 57th Street near the river, they stopped in front of a forty-story spike of chrome and glass holding luxury apartments. Parked next to an expired meter was a gleaming new Lincoln Town Car with illegally dark windows and an orange bumper sticker with the single word WHY? in blue letters.
"I think they stopped making these a few years back," Timothy said. "Hey, there on the back seat is a phone. And the blip on the screen is right here. Does your pal know anybody who drives a land yacht like this?"
Gabby shrugged, peering in through the nearly black rear window and seeing nothing. "Who knows? She drives me crazy sometimes, making friends and not telling me about them and then they think they know me and I don't have a clue who they are."
"I bet that happens to flesh and blood twins." Timothy was standing with his back to the car, almost leaning up against it. "I just stuck one of our tracer discs inside the wheel well. No, don't bend over to take a look! Now we can follow this car as long as it's within three hundred miles. If we get separated, you can go to the headquarters and anyone on the team can take over."
"Wish I'd had your tracking device when I was going out with that Craig guy," she muttered.
"I need a minute here," he said, tapping on the Link. "Honestly, I'm not great with these gadgets. They are way too complicated. Okay. DMV records is responding..."
"Wait, you're hacking into the Department of Motor Vehicles? Is that legal?"
"Nope, we KDF members pull major felonies all day every day. Here's the registered owner's license. Whoops. Oh, this is bad news."
"WHAT is bad news? Don't scare me, Tim."
"That car belongs to Graham Thicke, of Thicke and Wickett. They're a pair of lying, cheating, double-crossing, larcenous con men. Your pal is hanging with the wrong crowd, Gabby."
IV.
Gabby had pointed out a Starbucks across the street and they had managed to get a seat which gave a view of the town car. As soon as they settled down, Tim had sent a casper to hover near the car. He ordered an iced tea and chicken salad sandwich, while she got a cinnamon scone and black coffee. By the time she felt obliged to ask for a refill, Tim was telling her scandalous stories about the Midnight War. He had gone into unnecessary detail about the misdeeds of 'the Perverts From Dimension X' case a few years earlier. "We never saw any of the Purple Molesters materialize after that," he concluded.
"You know what's spookier than that? You wanna know?" asked Gabby. "Those vague shapes you sometimes get a glimpse of out of the corner of your eye but when you turb your head, they're gone? I think they are your Purple Molesters...or something worse!"
"Geeze, Gabby, I thought I was supposed to be scaring YOU!"
This protest made her laugh out loud. "Hee hee, I'm so bad. I guess I better get another coffee but then my bladder will be tugging on my sleeve and pointing toward the ladies' room."
"Hold on. My casper is seeing something. Yeah, coming out of that apartment building, it's your pal and two men, looks like Thicke and Wickett all right."
Before that final sentence was completed, Gabby had whirled and rushed out of the Starbuck's, heading across the sidewalk directly into traffic. Lunging right behind her, Timothy clamped an arm across her chest and lifted her up off her feet, jumping back out of the way of a white SUV that would have clipped her hard.
"Oh," she said in a very small voice.
Tim let her go. He was breathing heavily, not from the exertion but from emotion. "Oh my God. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"
"Sorry, sorry, thanks Tim, come on!" Seeing people crossing at the intersection, she sprinted forward again and this time made it across with Tim right behind her. They were only seconds late. The Town Car was turning right at the next corner and was gone from sight. Gabby did not try to chase it, but stayed where she was with her shoulders slumped and head drooping.
Timothy squeezed her shoulder. "It's okay. We can find the car wherever it goes, and we have Thicke's address."
"You're right," she said. Seeing a blue-topped taxi heading their way, she put two fingers in her mouth and gave a loud shrill two-note whistle. To Tim's complete astonishment, the taxi immediately swung over to stop right in front of them.
"How did you do that?" he asked. "Grabbing a cab first try..."
She chuckled as she got in the back. "Maybe it's my gralic power!"
As Tim got in next to her and closed the door, the driver grunted, "Where to, sweetheart?"
"Umm, just head in this direction," she replied and gave her friend a puzzled glance.
"We might be getting a text message or two, we're trying to meet someone," Tim added.
"Long as youse pay, we can ride around in circles all day," the driver said.
Leaning closer to GABBY, Tim said in a low voice, "It's not so bad. Thicke and Wickett are scammers and con artists, but they avoid violence. I don't think they're going to get your pal into too much trouble."
"Arrghhh! I can't understand why she's doing this! I taught her not to run off with strangers, she knows better."
"Sometimes she's your sister, sometimes she's your daughter," Tim said.
She blinked and smiled. "Yeah. Fair enough. I guess from now on I need to keep a closer eye on her."
"Driver, take the next right," Tim said, watching the little green blip move across the grid on his screen.
IV.
The apartment in the Schuler Building was not palatial but it was certainly comfortable. Two windows looked down sixty stories to Sixth Avenue. There was a good amount of open uncluttered space, with the kitchenette and bathroom in an L-shaped annex. Nick Scapilatti seemed very tidy, even a bit excessive in how neat and clean everything was. The big walnut desk in one corner presented a bare surface free of papers or coffee mugs. No clothing was in sight, not a jacket thrown over a chair or a pair of shoes that had been kicked off. The coffee table in front of a huge TV had nothing on it but a remote control.
Gong to answer the buzzer, Mark Scapilatti showed that apartment reflected his personality exactly. On a Sunday afternoon, he was wearing dress slacks, a light blue short-sleeved shirt and plain slippers, all spotless. He had obviously shaved closely that morning. Levin opened the door, said, "Please come in," and ushered his visitors to a hard-looking couch with two small cushions at opposite ends. As the Infiltrator followed Thicke and Wickett in, Scapilatti shook her offered hand and said, "Miss Marchetti."
When everyone was seated, Scaplatti took a plush easy chair facing the couch at an angle. "So. Mr Frobish and Mr Ogilvy, you were going to demonstrate the effectiveness of your product?"
Graham Thicke, known that day as Colin Ogilvy, smiled cheerfully. "Quite so. Our associate here has been taking a large spoonful of NuBrain every morning for the past month. If you would, sir, pleasew select a book from your shelves. The more obscure the better."
Taking his time, Scapilatti came back with a thin paperback which had its covers held on with Scotch tape. "Here you are, THE ELYSIUM READER from 1968. I can't imagine it sold well, the publisher was only in business for two years. It's a collection of short stories by European writers."
"Perfect." Thicke handed the book to the Infiltrator, who was sitting between the two con men. She began rapidly leafing through it, barely seeming to glance at each page. When she was done, she handed the book directly to her host.
"I can't say I enjoyed it," she said. "All style, no substance."
"Now, sir, if you would select a page at random?" prompted Thicke.
"Very well, let's see... Page 24?"
"It's from 'The Cruelty of Hope' by Simone Latrelle," the Infiltrator responded instantly. " '...there came a time when the most splendid sunset seemed washed out, all wine was sour and even the laughter of children sounded harsh and discordant. Nicole knew she needed to escape from the city before the concrete and the bricks became part of her.'"
"Amazing! Word for word, and she knew what story it was..."
"A photographic memory would prove invaluable to your work, sir," Wickett offered.
"Yes, I handle copyright and trademark infringements," said Scapilatti. "Being able to instantly memorize briefs and motions would give me a huge advantage. I must take advantage of your offer, gentlemen."
Thicke had brought his attaché case and he now opened it to produce a one-ounce vial of dark green glass with a stopper. "Here is your introductory sample. We would like you to drink it now, and we will return with a full bottle tomorrow. This way you can get a hint of what ongoing consumption will do for you."
Taking the vial, Scapilatti sniffed it warily, then downed it with a gulp. "Tastes a bit like vinegar, to be honest. Tell me something, Mr Ogilvy. Why aren't you and your partner takng this formula?"
Thicke was returning the empty vial to its niche and closing the case. "Supplies are sadly very limited. Even when we raise some more capital and go into serious production, the process is time-consuming. I fear it will never be available to the great unwashed masses."
"Perhaps that's for the best," observed his partner. "They would merely memorize baseball statistics and television schedules."
V.
In the parking lot, an unreasonably smug Graham Thicke kissed the back of the check that their client had filled out a few minutes earlier. "A full day's dishonest work is so satisfying."
Towering over him by a good four inches, the impeccably groomed Ian Wickett unlocked the back door of their Town Car and held it open. "Miss Elspeth, if you would?"
The car sagged noticeably as the Infiltrator got in the back. Although she looked as if she would weigh not much than a hundred pounds, in fact her dense construction made her weigh four times as much. She folded her hands in her lap and looked up at her new partners in crime.
"Mr Thicke and I must go to the branch of our bank. It's only a block or two away." Wickett touched the brim of his bowler. "We shan't be gone long."
"I will wait," the Infiltrator replied compliantly enough.
As Wickett closed the door, his partner scoffed. "I say, using a checking account in this day and age. It's positively primitive."
"It is old fashioned, sir."
"I expect our next sucker errr client will be using a telephone mounted on the wall, where one asks the operator to ring a number. Quite an image, what?"
"Very droll, sir." The two longtime grifters strolled out of the parking lot and up the block. As soon as they were out of sight, Timothy Limbo and Gabby Marchetti ran over from where they had been lurking by the side of the apartment building. Gabby tapped on the rear window of the Town Car and said, "I think we need to talk."
VI.
Forty-five minutes later, Graham Thicke was studying the menu at the Skytop restaurant off Rockefeller Center. His usual expression of amiable absence was in full swing. "One can't go TOO wrong with smoked salmon, can one? I mean, even Americans can't make a piece of fish three times as large or fill it with salt and sugar, can they?"
"I shouldn't think so, sir," Wickett replied.
"And potatoes au Gratin, with asparagus in Bearnaise sauce. Perhaps strawberries and cream for dessert. Wickett, what about you?"
"I shall have the same, sir."
"Good, good. Miss Elspeth, you may of course order anything."
"Pork chops with a dish of applesauce, a baked potato with sour cream, peas and carrots. cherry cheesecake," came the immediate response.
That seemed to perplex Thicke. He scrutinized the wine list as if trying to read a map of an unfamiliar country. "Hmm. Hah. White wine of course for the fish, but maybe a rose would be acceptable this once. Dash it all, what a nightmare."
"Might I suggest champagne, sir?" offered Wickett.
"Yes, yes, that would suit me down to the ground. We can toast our new associate."
The meal arrived and was consumed with great enjoyment, as neither of the men had eaten that day. As the plates became nearly cleared, the pace of eating slowed and conversation began. Wickett and Thicke were exceedingly sanguine, from the excellent food and champagne and from the substantial loot they had amassed that day. They began reminiscing about past heists, schemes and ruses that might be useful again. At one point, Thicke gloated how both NuBrawn and NuBrain contained only a mild stimulant which gave slight euphoria and a burst of energy. This was enough to fool those trying the samples.
Finally, when not a crumb remained and the bottle was empty, Gabby Marchetti pushed back her chair and stood up. "That really was excellent, gentlemen, thank you so much. I must be going now."
"Steady on, old girl," Thicke objected. "We have more sheep lined up to fleece tomorrow."
She gave him a saucy wink and the cryptic comment, "I'm not who you think I am." With that, she strode briskly out of the dining area and into an elevator which conveniently dinged open as she reached it. At the table she had left, a befuddled Thicke and Wickett stared at each other as stricken as if she had dived out the window.
In the lobby, Tim and the Infiltrator were waiting on a well-padded bench by the door. Without the black wig and lipstick, the robot resembled Gabby in such minute detail that a side-by-side inspection could not have told them apart. All three stepped out into a pleasant summer twilight.
"Hee hee, I got a free meal without having to kiss a blind date," Gabby said. She handed a Link over to Tim. "Did you hear the conversation?"
"Clear as mountain water," Tim said, "and all recorded. A juicy confession to hand over to the NYPD. But, to be honest, those two never seem to go to trial. They're slippery as all hell."
"Let's walk back to the headquarters," Gabby suggested and started moving south. "What a gorgeous night. I'm not a bit tired."
As they strolled leisurely along, doing a little people-watching, Tim asked the Infiltrator, "So, 'Elspeth,' you're not going to pull another attempt at crimebusting?"
"No," said the robot. "When I saw those two career criminals, I decided to try luring them into incriminating themselves. I did not think the plan through. I was acting as an accomplice and could not report them without being implicated myself."
Standing on the curb waiting for the crossing light, Gabby stopped staring at a tall thin West African in a green and yellow dashiki. She turned to her best friend. "In any case, I don't want you pulling another stunt like this. We can't afford to have people learn about you. I don't want to have to ask Megan to do a diagnostic on you, okay?"
"I understand," said the Infiltrator. "Detective work is beyond my capabilities. I do not understand people."
And Tim and Gabby said in unison, "That makes three of us."
1/13/2024
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no subject
Date: 2025-01-14 12:52 am (UTC)For a long time, I wasn't sure what happened to Gabby and her robot. When we last saw them, Megan Salenger was taking the Infiltrator away for reprogramming as its original assassination orders were beginning to reassert themselves. The obvious next step would be to have the robot return, go bad entirely and become a threat that the KDF has to fight. Gabby would go through all kinds of agita and emotional dialogue, it's a basic plot that could work well. But I thought, Nah! Let the two of them stay best friends for the moment. (These stories take place in 2015-2016, so there's no telling how Gabby and Infiltrator are doing today.)
I think I should do a story featuring all my con artists double and triple crossing each other. Wickett and Thicke, Doc Valentine, Rook, Don Coyote. It would be a snake pit. The best touch would be revealing that Jeremy Bane was manipulating them to scam each other.