Martin"s Secret

The interior of the voluminous, fortified bunker almost a hundred feet below the Hillsborough River included the specialized neurosurgical operating room where Martin underwent his fusion procedure. The factory also contained research and developmental operations for advanced artificial muscle and skin, a plant that fabricated flexible robotic skeletons and a high-tech research clinic complete with four top-secret assembly bays for robotics. It was the only ACR facility in the country that could engineer, design and fabricate advanced robots even though policy dictated some parts be made in secret locations around the country.

Fererra had gathered department heads in a large conference room adjacent to an assembly station where scientists and staff were working on various robotic components designed for specialized tasks.

From his end of a white, seamless futuristic conference table, Fererra took in the dubious faces of researchers as they animated their skepticism with curious chin-scratches and stony displays of incertitude. Some were barely able to conceal their contempt for the corporate cop’s invasion of their sanctified domain.

Researchers assembled along the perimeter of the conference table were chatting when Fererra cleared his throat to silence them.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ll get right to the point. I flew down from New York to solve a unique problem, to remove a rogue agent who is threatening to expose your highly classified works to a woefully unprepared global audience.”

“Exactly what do you mean by ‘threatening’“? If you’re speaking of Martin Harbach, just because we can’t contact him it doesn’t mean he’s up to no good,” piped a senior staffer.

“Allow me to speak freely,” continued Fererra, ignoring the question. “Advanced Cybernetics and Robotics remains a unique brand for one reason. We eliminated competition and regulatory burdens by researching and manufacturing our classified products in-house with the covert cooperation of a thankful government. We are empowered by sanctioned isolation and secrecy.”

“Cut to the chase,” said Randall Renfroe, general manager of the corporation’s top-secret Tampa facility, an expert on hybrid neurological fusing. “I presume, as operations manager, you’re here to gather information. How can we help?”

“Precisely,” said Fererra. “Martin is our worst nightmare - collectively and individually. He is a walking, talking, automatic teller for the dispersing classified information; he’s capable of spewing our most guarded secrets to friend and foe. He is the textbook definition of a rogue agent suffering a systematic meltdown. Now, I understand that some of you know him and may even be fond of him - but don’t let your emotions override good judgment. He’s not the same. The Martin we all know is dead, but the killer in his body today is very much alive, and he will kill again if we don’t stop him.”

Renfroe’s hand shot up and Fererra nodded.

“To some extent, all of us at ACR are in the business of killing, so until myself and my staff know who he killed and why he killed them, it’s impossible to judge Martin’s behavior,” said Renfroe.

“Let’s be clear,” said Fererra. “Defending Martin is a waste of breath. In the past, when an agent went rogue and my team was called in to clean up the mess, this sort of internal friction was tolerated for the sake of corporate unity. But it’s going to be very different this time,” he promised in a tone slathered with authority.

“How so?” delved Renfroe.

Fererra fixed a level gaze on him. “Martin is now a threat to national security. He was your project, your responsibility. Unfortunately, what you created is a billion-dollar Frankenstein armed with AI,” he bellowed. “Now, he’s my responsibility. You produced a recipe for disaster and Martin is out there baking that pie as we speak. As a patriot and the company’s operations manager, I’m here on a matter of national security, just as all of you are here to benefit this company.”

“I’m as patriotic as the next guy, but Martin wasn’t a Frankenstein when he left here,” defended Renfroe, pushing reading-glasses up his nose a notch.

“Fererra’s out-sized paunch growled and he swiped at moisture trickling from large pores in his ashen forehead with a damp handkerchief.

“You may have heard about an ACR jet crashing along the coast some fifty miles north of the city this morning,” he said. “What you may not know, is that Martin was the pilot - he stole the jet. Now he’s on the run and we believe he’s close to understanding the global financial opportunities that full-awareness would present.”

“Was his survival confirmed?” asked a project supervisor.

Fererra blotted his forehead, peered out sternly at the group from under bushy brows, and chose his words carefully.

“We think Martin Harbach not only survived the crash but that he is headed this way. He’s seen to it that tracing credit-card purchases are the only way we can track him and he withdrew a lot of cash, so we’re a step behind.”

“Wait. How do we know who crashed the jet? Someone on the inside could have remotely sabotaged it, or even shot it down. Martin should be able to fly anything with wings,” she argued.

Fererra’s eyes narrowed to slits at the implication and he shifted his tactics.

“I’m going to level with you all,” he said. “At this point, the CEO and Board don’t know or care why the jet crashed - their concern is that Martin survived, along with a woman he kidnapped in Colorado. We learned too late that their chutes were spotted by eyewitnesses. We have a trail of three dead bodies and a female hostage. I’m here to make damn sure he doesn’t smash that pie in the Board’s collective face. Now, anyone who disagrees with the Board’s assessment should say so now so we can hook up a conference video with the CEO.”

Despite some shrugs and a stream of argumentative exchanges, the room seemed largely resigned to the notion that Martin had crossed a line, even if they weren’t sure exactly why he crossed it. They were contractors sworn to discretion in all company matters and their generous pay and pensions were payments for their loyalty as much as their works, something made very clear in their contracts.

Fererra figured Martin had made friends on the inside and that he would have to deal with pockets of mutiny within the ranks. He played the CEO card early in hopes of squelching such resistance.

The room grew louder as the ambiance melted into contentious glances and glares mostly from researchers and aimed at Fererra and his team. However, despite some dinged egos, in the end, everyone pledged their cooperation.

Components of Martin’s quantum-computing software had been created elsewhere and he was living in a plush company condo in northern Virginia when, without permission or assistance, he breached protocol at the Pentagon meeting. His AI powers increased as the company’s ability to control the implant diminished until he was deemed a security threat.

After arbitrarily disobeying orders at the Virginia complex, the Board sent him to Colorado for debriefing and the proposed fix. However, when he walked away from the Colorado clinic, the company had declared him an enemy double-agent. His attempted capture would be messy at best and might spark an investigation of ACR by Congress. Even worse, Martin might flee the country and export his artificial knowledge to the highest bidder. That’s why the Board declared him an enemy, a dysfunctional super-agent roaming the world with enough classified knowledge to ignite a nuclear arms race.

If the U.S. government found out about Martin, ACR headquarters might be relegated to a basement at the Pentagon under the supervision of politicos and bureaucrats from the Department of Defense. That scenario would see the company wither and die under political pressure and transparency imposed by the behemoth, myopic, self-serving DOD bureaucracy. The Board was not about to let that happen.

They had argued that the manipulation of classified information could at worse result in a world war involving multiple nuclear exchanges. Brutal dictators of languishing populations would embrace Martin’s fully-aware powers at any price. The risk was too great; Martin had to be eliminated before he contacted any governments - especially the U.S. government - as far as ACR officials were concerned.

Grant decided it was time to play good-cop before the scientists’ alliance to Martin, or wounded pride, caused them to withhold information crucial to the investigation.

“What Mr. Fererra wishes to convey is that we’re all on the same team. Operating from different perspectives is not an option in this case,” he told the group in a more sanguine tone than Fererra. “In theory, we have a defective agent potentially in possession of classified information, terabytes of such information. He must be contained, and I can assure you, we are acting on orders from the top of the organization.”

“Let’s say we all agree that Martin must be ‘contained’. What do you need from us?” asked Renfroe.

To that end, Fererra directed Luther, Grant and Jack to interview department heads connected to Martin’s case and gather pertinent information. Luther would work with compound security. Fererra ended the meeting with a patronizing speech in which he drubbed on about how the world was unwilling and unprepared to accept superior forms of artificial intelligence. The coercive rant included the promise of a sizable reward for anyone who confirmed Martin’s location to his investigative team.

“The leaders of many nations discretely respect our corporate sovereignty and the stand-alone accomplishments we’ve made in the field of cybernetics,” proclaimed the operations chief. “We must eliminate any threat to the company because the very fate of the world may depend on your cooperation here today.”

That was his favorite well-worn line. Fererra naturally loathed researchers and scientists. Nevertheless, this crisis originated here in the bowels of Tampa and he needed to know what kind of defense the white-coats’ beloved hybrid was capable of mounting. Stomaching the condescending prudes and their pompous, self-aggrandizing jabberwocky peppered with six-syllable, scientific jargon was necessary if to finding Martin’s fatal flaw.

“He’s close, very close,” claimed a voice from the end of the long, metallic conference table that was dotted with high-end tablet computers.

“And you are?” Fererra asked.

“Name is Rence Mohauffer. I assist in the design of post-fusion software to track androids and high-priority agents like Martin. Only difference is, we usually track them to save them, not kill them.”

“In Martin’s case, I’m afraid your work is a huge disappointment.”

“Hey, I know where he’s been and where’s he headed. I assume that’s the kind of information you’re looking for,” Mohauffer stated emphatically.

“We need to talk, privately,” asserted Fererra, unaccustomed to such bravado coming from a laboratory geek.

“Any time,” said the youngish lab worker with red hair and ruddy complexion and crooked eyeglasses.

“Now is the time,” said Fererra.

“Where? It’s not like I have a private office. I work in a cubicle,” he replied.

“We’ll retain use of the conference room for as long as the interviews take,” informed Fererra, addressing the entire group. “Now, I’d like everyone to go about your day until you hear from a member of my team,” he instructed with the authoritative tone of a federal judge.

“Mr. Mohauffer, please remain seated. I’ll start with you.”

Renfroe rose from his chair and glared with dark solemn eyes at his scruffy subordinate before shifting his gaze to Fererra.

“Mr. Mohauffer is one of the best when it comes to development and installation of microscopic GPS tracking software. But there is little he can tell you about Martin.”

“Which is precisely why I want to talk to him. Finding Martin is my top priority, and we are running out of time,” said Fererra.

Renfroe turned and peered authoritatively into Mohauffer’s deep-set, ferret-like, eyes that beamed defiance from behind crooked eyeglasses.

“When Mr. Fererra is done with you, report to my office,” he ordered in the manner of an overbearing boss.

Renfroe turned his gaze to Fererra.

“The company has decades of work and a fortune tied up in Martin Harbach. He should be restrained, not hunted down like a common criminal and killed like an animal. He is a human being, and would only employ violence in self defense.”

“Human being? Is that what you think, or what you choose to believe?” asked Fererra.

The oily skin on Fererra’s scalp glistened beneath his thin hair and his eyes blazed through the narrowed slits of their lids. He harbored a barely concealable resentment for lab-monkeys like Renfroe. After all, in his view, it was Renfroe’s mutated hybrid that landed him in front of the CEO. But he figured as facility director Renfroe was in good standing with top brass within the organization and for the time being he’d need to conceal his raw contempt for the facility manager.

“It’s what I know,” said Renfroe.

“You don’t seem to understand. It is decided. We have an impending global crisis on our hands,” argued Fererra. “No one man can be allowed to unilaterally draw from the world’s quantum library of scientific knowledge just because you made a mistake.”

“Martin didn’t sign up for this,” said Renfroe. “He was used by the company, told he would receive an artificial intelligence implant that would be useful to him. They told him it was medically and politically benign, part of a life-saving treatment.”

That’s a far cry from the freak we’re searching for,” said Fererra as the puffy mound under one of his eyes began twitching.

Renfroe calmly shifted his attention to Mohauffer.

“Keep me informed of Martin’s whereabouts. I want to hear from you by the end of the day or the moment you locate him, whichever comes first.”

“Yeah, sure, no problem, boss,” said Mohauffer, peering over his spectacles while adjusting them on his nose. Fidgeting with his glasses was a nervous tic and he seldom managed to level them.

“I’ll be expecting the same courtesy of you, Mr. Renfroe,” said Fererra. “By authority of the CEO, I’m ordering you to notify my team the moment you know of his whereabouts.”

Renfroe fired an ominous side-eye at Mohauffer before leaving.