THE ARGUS PROJECT
11: The People's Cyborg
The Marketing Department of the Terran Fleet provided the Kansler with various accessories for his rare public appearances. And his most elaborate, expensive accessory was - the Cute Squad. Being the end-product of a long tradition of children handing flower bouquets to powerful criminals, the Cute Squad consisted of 200 genetically engineered midgets - each chemically kept in a perpetual state of childhood.
A typical Cute had shiny eyes the size of tennis balls with five-inch eyelashes, garishly yellow hair, a pastel-hued skirt and an enormous sash. The sash was often made of starched fabrics so as not to get dragged along the ground - and, in case it was very long, was carried along in the jaws of a furry, pink robot puppy. The crowds adored the Cutes, who made millions in PP every time they appeared in public.
For the official arrival of Argus, the Cute Squad had trained its very best performers, and grown the largest flowers ever used. The Kansler checked every detail of the ceremonial preparations during shuttle transit - until his deputy officer advised him to rest. Reluctantly, the Kansler took a sleep-drug and spent the remainder of the flight in a state of unconsciousness. Even so, his sleeping body twisted with fits of anxiety, and he had nightmares of fiasco and humiliation.
There was one, ultimate control measure he could use if Argus still proved unreliable... but which would signal failure, if the public ever found out.
Argus himself sat awake, when not slumbering, in his flight cabin, watching the news channels, and made a search for boxing matches. He searched the public network for his old gym, and got a street-camera image of the place where it had been.
The gym, he saw, was rapidly being torn down; a team of robots and pygmy chimps were disassembling the pieces to carry them off. Gangs of pygmy chimps, a growing social problem, built their own slum houses from such scavenged house parts. No one knew how it had happened (the greenhouse effect was widely blamed), but in recent decades the Bonobo chimpanzee had evolved enough to function in a human society. The species spread from Africa to the Orient and Europe... without acquiring full recognition of human rights. The Bonobi bred quickly and their numbers were rising rapidly - but they lived short lives, abused by shady human employers and exploiters.
A transparent hologram was projected onto the new construction site, showing the Giant Panda's Final Resting Grounds branch that was to be built there. On top of its flat roof sat a huge robotic panda bear, waving at passing pedestrians and air-traffic, and called benevolently: "COME REST WITH ME!" Argus winced at the panda image, switched off the display plate, and sat watching the view of space through a porthole in the shuttle. He spent some time fantasizing about getting in touch with people he knew, once he got back to Earth.
But every imaginary scenario ended the same way... the friend/relative/mistress screaming: "But you're dead! We saw your corpse at the funeral! This can't be you!" and fleeing in horror. All that remained was duty.
Biting his knuckles, Argus thought: God, I miss my dog...
A flashing warning signal went off in the corner of his vision:
RELEASE TEETH!
Almost too late, Argus noticed he had nearly bit a hole in his own artificial hand. The dent began to repair itself automatically. He thought: Duty. Have to remember that. Mustn't disappoint the people back home. Even if I fail as a pilot, they need the encouragement. Mother Earth. Our home. My home...
Under heavy military escort, the Kansler's shuttle landed on Manhattan Spaceport. After the devastating Greenhouse Floods of the last century, the entire evacuated island had been converted into runways and launchpads; the Terran Fleet owned Manhattan with its launchpad towers, magnetic accelerator tracks and towering cargo shuttles.
The shuttle landing-pad stood surrounded by 2,000 soldiers, a few hundred guard-robots, and the Venusian Symphony Orchestra on a podium. The moment the craft settled, the 200-man orchestra played up the planetary anthem, "One Earth". The 2,000 Terran soldiers sang along in solemn unison - a tune created in the previous century by the World Council, after the big floods:
Green and blue, white and brown,
The civilian crowds were being kept at a respectful distance, while giving the Manhattan Traffic Control a logistic nightmare. Thousands of small flight-pods were buzzing about the restricted military area, trying to get a close peek at the proceedings. As the anthem ended, the Kansler stepped out of the shuttle, cheered on by the rows of soldiers.
The color-camouflage of their uniforms had been programmed, so that seen from the air their ranks formed images - of the Kansler's face, of Earth, and of Argus. Naturally, Argus couldn't see this from where he stood behind the Kansler. All he saw were row upon row of cheering soldiers, and he wanted to hide away. He felt like a total fraud; he wasn't worthy of this welcome.
The Kansler smiled and waved at the crowds, reveling in the moment. He hadn't done this kind of stunt in some time, and he still loved it. How much easier it was, he reflected, to deal with other people when they were but dots in a mass - a dough - that he could knead into what he wanted. Masses of people always reminded him of minced meat lying in the open...
"Good morning, soldiers!" he shouted in a steely voice to the many floating cameras. A collective rumble from the ranks came in reply. As it died down he added: "This is a great day to be a soldier and citizen of Mother Earth!"
He made a feint of sudden emotion, fell to his knees and kissed the ground. On that cue, the Cute Squad rushed forth to greet him. Not one, but ten Cutes, all grotesquely large-eyed, crowded around him, carrying flower bouquets that were twice their height. Each bouquet contained ten chromo-roses, two feet wide, in various colors. The Kansler grinned benevolently as the midgets dropped their load at his jackbooted feet, then hugged and kissed each of them in turn. The most talented Cute shed large tears and whispered her undying love into his ear - perfectly timed so that all the cameras would capture it.
The Kansler wiped away a tear from the corner of his eye, waving at the Cutes who ran away, and addressed the troops again. The cam-bots carried his voice to every corner of the Earth.
"Yes, it is a great day! For I bring with me, back from the training camp, the man the Jovians couldn't kill - the great hero who volunteered to become the ultimate defender of the Earth! Welcome back to the homeworld, Colonel Haruman Clarke - now known as ARGUS-A!"
The Kansler turned to greet Argus... who remained in the doorway of the shuttle, paralyzed with anxiety. The deputy officer gave Argus a light forward push, and the black-clad cyborg took a hesitant few steps out onto the ground.
All around him, masses of soldiers fell silent. Argus saw thousands of pairs of eyes focus on him - and his artificial eyes actually saw each and every one of them in the clear daylight. Then he remembered his script. He made a one-hand salute, not too strict, and gave the other soldiers a steely gaze. Hesitating only a moment, all the 2,000 men and women returned the salute. Argus let his eyes zoom in on each and every one of them in a single sweep. So many of them had the kind of face he used to recognize on the panel-cleaning shift, in the boxing gym, or in the below-5,000 PP outback where he grew up. It could have been any of you guys, Argus thought to himself. Any of you could have been in my place. Don't - don't look at me like I was some kind of weird thing.
The Kansler turned to watch Argus, waiting impatiently for the speech he was supposed to make. A cam-bot hovered around his head and flashed a message: READY, COLONEL. He had the speech perfectly memorized. Lots of high-minded, noble-sounding stuff about honor, solemn duty, Mother Earth, courage in the face of danger, declarations of friendly loyalty to the Kansler... a committee had written it.
But there and then, by some newly acquired confidence or understanding, Argus knew the prepared speech would ring false. Without thinking clearly of why he did it, Argus briskly walked off the welcoming carpet and toward the nearest row of soldiers. The Cute Squad stood alert, waiting for the Kansler's sign to charge ahead of Argus and distract him. The Kansler held his breath, and let Argus walk... a wild gamble, but not any worse than losing face by trying to stop him.
Argus focused on the soldier who looked the least frightened, and walked up to face him from a few feet away.
"Morning, soldier. How's it going?"
The private was too perplexed to make a reply. Argus had no desire to play-act officer. He offered to shake hands. The young private looked nervously to the platoon sergeant, who glared at Argus, then shouted at the row of soldiers.
"Companyyy - at eeease!!"
Argus shook hands with the soldier and asked him his name.
"Xian-Johnson, Colonel, sir. Lenny Xian-Johnson."
"Just call me Argus. Kinda dumb, but the brass stuck to it."
Very quickly, the whole platoon crowded in to shake hands with Argus, and another platoon looked to join in. His arrival was a success, the Kansler saw - and also understood that Argus's presence easily stole his show. The Kansler had to suppress his surging rage, and managed to smile and wave. His carefully crafted image did not allow him to mingle with lowly privates and civilians - the persona he had chosen was that of the devoted guardian and father figure, always present but lofty and distant. It annoyed him that Argus instinctively had chosen an opposite persona - the folksy Everyman.
And the Kansler thought: I smell disobedience. Individualism. Rebellion. He - it - must be taught a lesson. Not now. I must choose a better time. Soon you'll learn what you are, cyborg - property.
The Fleet's Intelligence Department monitored Argus's doings and sayings closely, ready to jam the public channels if he should happen to stray too far from the script. After a few minutes, the Kansler gave a com-link command that sent the guard robots to escort Argus away from he soldiers. The cyborg made only symbolic attempts to linger with the soldiers, and followed the escort without trouble. He walked after the Kansler and his deputy, across the carpet and into a tunnel that led to the spaceport's underground complex.
"Kansler... how did it go?" he asked tentatively. For such a big man, he struck the Kansler as an overgrown child, pleading for fatherly approval. Excellent, thought the Kansler. Just as I thought, he's become conditioned to looking up to me.
"Just fine, Colonel Clarke," the Fleet's commander replied without looking back. "You're much more relaxed around the soldiers now, than you used to be."
"Yeah... thanks, Kansler..." Argus mumbled. "Permission to speak freely, Kansler."
"Yes?"
"I... I have trouble recalling things... aren't there old colleagues I ought to visit here, or... um... would you recommend I didn't see them, the way I look now?"
"You should know, Colonel. You have no friends, neither here nor on Earth. Your personal aide, he flew your shuttle on your last Earthbound visit - and he died when it crashed in Kuwait."
"Yeah, of course. But... you see, Kansler... there's this lady I met once, and -"
Stopping in his tracks, the Kansler turned toward the taller cyborg and raised an eyebrow. "I have misjudged you, Clarke! During your previous career in the Fleet, you never struck me as... particularly interested in women. Or anything else. I always admired your single-mindedness, that devotion to your work."
Argus tried to swallow, but couldn't. His new body was not built for it. "Well, you know me, Kansler. Duty comes first..."
"Precisely. Now come here, and let us prepare for the first stop on the publicity tour. We can't keep the Marketing Department waiting all day."
In the remaining minutes of their walk toward the local Marketing office, Argus had plenty of time to think over the meaning of the Kansler's last remarks.
What the hell was that all about?
The dead man that Gus Thorsen had replaced having no friends, no significant others... and in hindsight it seemed only slightly odder, that no one had mentioned Clarke's biological relatives. Maybe, Argus speculated, Clarke had been one of the many clones born and then rejected by a fickle parent... poor bastard might well have been raised by robots, just like Gus Thorsen's girlfriend Benazir. Such embarrassing details were of course glossed over in the official files - yes, that could be it. No one ever boasted about being "floor polish" - a discarded clone...
A new curiosity stirred in Argus; he wished he had known the total stranger whose identity he had assumed. He recalled that Clarke had been quite visible on the public networks shortly before the plane crash that killed him - a sort of poster-boy for the Fleet, being groomed for promotion, no doubt, and that Argus Project. But who was Clarke? A career-obsessed loner? Or just a nobody like Gus Thorsen, hand-picked to become a cyborg soldier? What if Clarke might somehow be connected to his own previous life?
If their superficial likeness was more than coincidental... no, he thought, it sounded too far-fetched, like that soap-opera series where a group of identical clones were brought up separately. And so he dismissed the idea.
Through the rest of the day, while busy with the work at hand, a nagging sense of having lost an unknown brother refused to leave his mind...
***
"Wheee! Please lift us again, Argus!" the little boy shouted happily.
"Sure! Hold on, people."
The group of twenty people grabbed hold again. Argus walked into the pit below the platform upon which they stood, and lifted the platform on his arms a second time. A load of more than three tons, and the strain upon his limbs was almost nothing. The crowds around them applauded and took pictures.
Another three times he made the trick, until the Kansler's deputy reminded him of their tight schedule. As he entered the waiting shuttle to take him to the next public appearance, Argus waved at the crowds and shouted the lines from his script.
"Remember, we're all in this together!" - "Earth needs your support!" - "Click a hit or two to cheer up our boys out there!" - "Click war bonds!"
Well inside the shuttle and taking off, Argus let out a sigh.
"How many left? Wait, I know - fifty-six appearances across all timezones, eleven left. I almost miss having to sleep every night..."
The deputy yawned, and replied: "I wish I were you, Colonel. It must be great, never to get tired..."
"Heh... who says I can't get tired?"
He looked out the window, at the hologram being projected on the clouds: a large animated image of himself, and and enormous text.
HE'LL FIGHT FOR US - HE'S OUR 'GUS!
Argus told himself that the chill running down his spine was just another ghost-reflex.
"Are you all right, sir?" asked the deputy. "Excuse me for saying it, but your face..."
"What about it?" Argus asked; when the deputy held up a mirror, he saw. "I look... older." He pressed his fingertips against his artificial forehead, and wondered if he could just smooth out the new worry lines with sheer brute strength. He looked to the deputy, whose younger face expressed some concern. "How did you get to become the Kansler's deputy, Islington? Don't take it the wrong way - just curious."
The deputy, a captain of unassuming countenance and gifted with the ability to make himself invisible to the attention of others, shrugged. Only a cyborg with the hyper-sharp senses of Argus-A would have noticed the movement of his shoulders.
"I... well, I... guess I happened to fit the criteria of a deputy, sir. Loyal, stable, diligent without being ambitious. That's Fleet efficiency, sir - every man in his right place, working together for Mother Earth."
"Have you got a family?"
"Why certainly, sir. I talk to them every day. You want to see their pictures? My youngest one became four years old last week. Gave him a... you'll laugh at this... an Argus-A action figure, fully voice-controlled, runs on solar cells just like you! In fact, those toys share some components with your design... ah... apart from your mind, of course..."
"Tell the Kansler I need some shore leave, and soon. Need it badly."
It was as if the crowds were draining him of life. The more he repeated the same phrases to the people out there, assuring them that he was "just one of the guys", the more it sounded like a lie. And he had heard every word uttered in the crowd, even the less nice ones. More than once, he had snapped up a stray comment: "...the poor man, puts up a brave face despite what's become of him..." or even: "...cybernetic freak..."
Shortly, the Kansler called from Manhattan Spaceport; Islington informed him of Argus's request.
"You do look a little weary, Argus. What do you say about a shore leave. I hereby abort the remainder of the tour schedule for your part, and let the rest of the tour be done by Marketing's lookalikes and holograms."
"Thank you, Kansler. I really appreciate it. About my shore leave... where can I go, now that everyone recognizes my face? The Moon?"
When he heard the words "everyone recognizes my face" and "the Moon", a quick streak of worry passed across the Kansler's middle-aged, potato-nosed face. Then he smiled, too much so.
"We have thought of everything! In fact, I fixed a little reward for you, after all you've done so far... the Fleet takes care of its own. The entire leisure district of Old Copenhagen has been electronically secured, so that you may spend the whole day and night there - and it's 100% cam-free!"
"No cameras? How is that possible?"
"War produces new technologies, Argus. Some of which are yet classified. Let's just say it involves satellites, fine lasers and interference patterns. No matter who tries to shoot a still picture or movie of you, the image will be scrambled out of all recognition. Just be careful what you say."
"I don't deserve this attention."
"We invested so much in you, you deserve something in return. It's all for Mother Earth, Argus."
Nodding mutely, Argus thought that he hadn't felt real dirt, grass or anything smacking of "Mother Earth" ever since he became a cyborg. He wanted to roll around in the grass again, throw a frisbee to a dog, dance with a woman, smell her hair... have a son.
"You're a lucky man, Islington."
"Thank you, Colonel."
Colors of our Mother Earth,
For all peoples home and hearth,
How we love you, Mother Earth,
To the ends of time!
From your bosom, all life sprung,
You are always lush and young,
We will protect you,
We will cherish you,
To the ends of time...
THE ARGUS PROJECT INTERNET EDITION (c)A.R.Yngve 1999, 2000, 2004. All rights reserved. May not be copied without permission.
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