The Exchange

Frank looked up from his coffee to see Norman sauntering in. Dressed in a gray business suit, Norman might have been anybody. A banker. A film executive. A lawyer. Frank, however, could only have been a cop. There was no mistaking the world-weary eyes and rumpled, off-the-rack suit. Even the waitress had said, "Can I take your order, Officer?" Maybe she'd seen him before; maybe he'd busted her once. Norman locked on him and crossed to the booth, self-consciously smoothing his tie.

"Thank you for joining me," said Frank, watching Norman sit. "I took the liberty of ordering coffee for you."

Norman shrugged. He appeared 30-ish, thanks to his short-cropped blond (synthetic) hair and slightly graying sideburns. His smooth forehead had a plastic sheen to it; his blue eyes sparkled unnaturally. Frank had seen a lot less humanity in the eyes of certain Skid Row denizens and permanent residents of San Quentin. Some of them couldn't wait to put a knife in you. Norman merely regarded Frank the way a sentient toaster might regard bread: indifferently.

"Thanks, I guess," Norman answered, in a hard-edged baritone. "What is it you want?"

Frank smiled. Around them, the Nickel Diner hummed with life. Real life. There was a heartbeat in every customer. Almost.

"Just to talk. We don't always have to play cops and robbers, do we?"

Norman stared at him. Frank stared back, realizing he was gazing into the "eyes" of an automaton, a military fuck-up, a burnt-out piece of equipment that had managed to blend with the scenery.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Norman sighed, imitating boredom so well Frank almost felt insulted.

"Come on," Frank said, pausing as the waitress served Norman's coffee. "We've been watching you guys for weeks now. You know it and I know it."

Norman stared at his coffee. It was hot and black. He pushed the cup aside. “Why are you harassing Neil?"

"Why are you working for him?"

"I'm not."

"Horseshit. We got you cold on that Figueroa case. You were there, Norman. You drove the getaway car."

"Then why not arrest me?"

"Arrest a piece of fucking plastic? A doll in a thousand-dollar suit? That’s not my department. No, I want Neil and his crew."

"I thought you said no cops and robbers."

Frank laughed. "And I heard you had a memory problem."

Norman paused, staring out of the window. He'd parked his Jag next to Frank's Dodge Charger. For a moment, he looked wistful, as if he were reflecting on summer afternoons spent in the arms of a lover.

"What do you know about me?" he asked, striking a fearful note.

Frank shrugged. "That you were born in an app on some Pentagon asshole's phone," he replied. "That your skin was manufactured in Houston, that your brain was designed in a lab here in Los Angeles. That you went haywire on a practice field and shot up a bunch of Army officers. If I had any contacts -- higher up the food chain -- I'd be phoning in the air strike to take you out.”

Norman chuckled. "But you would never do that, would you? Too many civilian casualties. Too much collateral damage."

"You're right. You were meant to blend with a crowd, to explode from within. The perfect covert assassin."

Norman shook his head. "That's not me."

"No?"

"It never was."

"So what exactly are you?"

"Look, if you didn't know all that stuff about me, you'd never give me a second glance, right?"

Frank shrugged, stirring more sugar into his coffee.

"I'm just trying to buy myself some kind of a life," Norman went on, his eyes flashing plaintively. "I can do that with Neil."

"Neil can't buy you anything."

"It's worth the risk."

"Really? What are you planning?"

Norman's gaze turned colder, deader. "Why should I tell you?"

"If you really want to blend in, to have any kind of 'life' here, you won't go along with him. You don't want to rob banks. You don't want to get people killed."

Norman looked away. "There's nothing I can do about it. They've got the control."

Frank leaned toward him. "What do you mean? Who has?"

"Neil. And his gang. They control me."

Frank paused. "How?"

Norman didn't answer for a moment. He studied the crowd, the faces, seeming to key in on every conversation in the place. Frank suddenly regretted meeting in public. He leaned back from the table, his hands resting in front of him. Did Norman have a gun under that jacket?

"Neil can hack my programming," said Norman, keeping his voice low. "You mentioned memories? Well, I can't remember anything for longer than half an hour. One hour, at best."

"You remembered to meet me here."

"That was ten minutes ago, and we were ten minutes from the diner when you pulled me over," said Norman. "If you'd caught me on the 405, this conversation wouldn't be happening."

Frank studied him. "So, how does he do it?"

"Like I said, it's a hack. He replaces anything new I might remember with my mission details. That way, no one can get to me, and I never forget the mission."

"What mission?"

Norman snickered. "You actually think I'd tell a fucking cop? Either you're stupid or you think I must be."

"If you’ll talk, I can get you some sort of amnesty."

"How, by turning me over to the government? They'd melt me down into glue."

Frank sipped his coffee. "Maybe we could fix your wiring," he said. "You know, your programming? Anything is possible."

"I'm not a car you can just stick in the shop for a tune-up," Norman retorted, his voice growing harder. "They wanted me to become self-aware, and I am. You can't change that."

"Then how can Neil screw around with your memory? Your programming?"

Norman stared at his hands. They looked remarkably similar to Frank's, right down to the mole on the left knuckle. "I don't know," he said. "There's a guy on our crew, a computer genius. One of those IT guys? He practically lives on the Dark Web. Anyway, he's the one who found me, brought me to Neil's attention."

"What's his story?"

Norman smirked unhappily. "More information for your files, Detective?"

"Come on, Norman, what have you observed about these guys? Doesn't it piss you off, they're holding you hostage?"

Norman thought it over. Frank watched his eyes. They were a lovely blue, the color of the sky over Baja. Strange, Frank thought, that an automaton could trigger such memories. In that way, perhaps, Norman was no different than any other device. Anything could trigger an emotion, though the thing itself might be as lifeless as tinfoil.

"He has some beef against the government," Norman said, speaking slowly. "He thinks I am the ultimate symbol of its failure, a deadly machine gone awry."

"What's this guy's name?"

"Mike, that's all I know."

Frank filed the name for future reference. "Go on. Why do these guys rob banks? What have you discerned from them?"

"You trying to make a double agent out of me? You think I can be converted?"

Frank spread his hands. "We're just talking. You're free to walk away. For now."

Norman leaned forward, locking his fingers together. "Well, based on discussions I've overheard, I'd say they are funding an even larger operation against the government. They're not actually bank robbers. They are anarchists, insurrectionists. I'm their ace in the hole -- an indestructible tool, programmable for any action beneficial to the cause."

Frank felt a cold vice close around his heart. "What are they planning, Norman? When are they going to act?"

Norman frowned slightly. "I'm afraid I don't recall." His eyes seemed to lose focus.

"Bullshit," snapped Frank. "It's all right there, in that infinite brain of yours."

"My capacity is unlimited, but like I said, my program's been hacked."

"Suppose I beat the hell out of you right here and now? Would that jar your fucking memory?"

Norman glanced around. "In front of all these people? I think that goes against your mandate, Detective. After all, I'd have to defend myself, and no one wants to see that."

"How about if I put a gun to your head? Pulled the trigger?"

"It wouldn't stop me. Now, what else? I have to be getting back."

Frank stared at the customers seated at the counter. "What do you feel for these people? Anything at all? What about your victims? Ever feel the slightest empathy for them?"

"No more than a microwave oven feels for a chunk of meat when you warm it."

"That is an interesting analogy."

"I wasn't made to feel things, I was made to identify targets and destroy them. I've been denied my destiny thanks to fate or faulty wiring or whatever you want to call it. You can't blame me for what's happened. I was acquired by Neil; he has his own agenda. I can’t stop him, and neither can you.”

Frank nodded. "You won't remember this conversation ten minutes from now, will you?"

Norman shrugged. "It's doubtful I'll remember it five minutes from now."

"You won’t tell me about Neil’s plans?"

"I thought we already settled that."

Frank chuckled. "We did, of course."

Norman cocked his head. "Are you testing me, Detective?"

"No. I'm using you, asshole. When you leave here, you'll be followed by some colleagues of mine. They'll tail you straight to your hideout. To Neil's hideout. Then it's game over. How does that fuckin’ grab you?"

Norman made a noise in his throat. Then a smile spread across his face, like a stain. He took Frank's measure.

"I misread you. Well played."

"Or," said Frank, snapping forward, "you could spill your guts right here and not even go to Neil's. You could literally forget the whole thing and go your own way. We'll take down Neil, interrupt the hack. Just tell me what he has planned. You'd be a hero, Norman. You'd be saving lives."

"Why should I take your deal? Why should I care about human lives?"

Frank let out his breath. "You're asking me to explain morality and I can't do that. I'm just a cop, Norman. I have a job to do."

"That’s of no concern to me."

"If you want to be more human -- if you want to fit in among us -- you'll at least take it into consideration. Lives matter. Decisions have consequences."

Norman paused, his eyes going blank. Frank froze; he might have been staring into two empty lenses. For an instant, he saw his own reflection in those cold blue orbs. "Science project," he whispered. "I'm talking to a goddamn science project."

Norman's eyes reloaded, filling with awful intelligence. Frank shoved back from the table, knocking over the condiments, spilling coffee. His hand darted into his jacket. In the same instant, Norman drew a pistol from a concealed holster and aimed it point-blank. The waitress, passing with a tray balanced on her hand, screamed.

Norman fired five times in quick succession, blowing skull and brain matter onto the couple behind Frank. Pandemonium erupted; people bolted for the exit. Most of his face missing, Frank slumped over. Norman trained the pistol on the plate-glass window and emptied the clip, blowing it out.

With calm deliberation, Norman climbed over the jagged sill and jumped out into the parking lot. He re-holstered the gun and strode toward his Jaguar. Overhead, a police helicopter circled. Norman joined the flow of traffic on the San Bernardino Freeway and vanished into a sea of taillights.