Objekt 221 Read online

  The desk, they said, was built to her exacting specifications.

  That particular rumor, however, was dead-on true.

  She was, right now, sitting at her massive desk, waiting for Miles Lofton whom she had summoned 90 seconds ago.

  * *

  It was a billion-dollar research facility. Precision Robotics was a multi-national conglomerate that only sought the best of the best in every area possible. When the company selected the type of napkins that would be used in the break room, they held several meetings to discuss numerous factors before the decision was made.

  Damon Butcher was the best programmer that Precision Robotics had ever hired—and he didn’t even work in the Information Services division. He was a department lead in Theoretical Biometrics and was, right now, working through a turkey sandwich in a small corner of the eighth-floor break room with a co-worker, known only as Jeff.

  “Rogue One was on TV last night,” Jeff said while munching on a potato chip.

  “Oh,” Damon said. “Great movie.”

  “I saw that film in the theater twice and I own the disc. Whenever it’s on the tube, I gotta stop and watch.”

  Damon nodded in response.

  “I think there’s actually a name for that syndrome. Magnetic Entertainment or something. Plus, it’s a little easier to avoid the uncanny valley when you’re watching it on the small screen.”

  Jeff was silent for a moment as he swallowed a bite of sandwich and chased it with a slurp of soda. That action completed, he looked over at Damon.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  “Which part?” Damon asked. “The Iron Law of Entertainment Attraction or the uncanny valley?”

  Jeff pointed at him.

  “Yeah. That last one.”

  “The uncanny valley? You’ve never heard of this?”

  Taking another swig of Coke, Jeff hefted his eyebrows in a “go on” motion.

  “All of us tech nerds went nuts when Rogue One came out,” Damon said, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin. He paused a moment. “Let me back up. The uncanny valley is a hypothesis that centers on man-made objects imitating life. Essentially, computer graphics and robotics—but it can really refer to anything. You got me?”

  “Hanging by a thread.”

  “Okay,” Damon said, folding up his lunch-sized bag of Doritos. “Let’s just look at CGI in movies, right? You look at computer graphics in a movie from 15, 20 years ago—like I, Robot—and the boundary between real and CGI is pretty clear. Right?”

  “The robots looked nice, but you could always tell they weren’t real,” Jeff offered with a shrug.

  “There you go. Exactly.” Damon nodded. “Action movies now blur that line so much more effectively. From creating an entire atmosphere on a green screen to de-aging Robert Downey Jr. in a flashback to removing the crow’s feet and loose skin from Tom Cruise’s face and neck. Right? It looks more and more real.”

  “Okay,” Jeff said. “Sure.”

  “So, you have to look at it like a continuum with very blocky, unrealistic graphics on one side and with hyper-realistic you-can’t-tell-it-from-a-real-person graphics on the opposite side.”

  “Sure, technology improves along an exponential spectrum. That’s why we have cordless phones.”

  “Okay,” Damon said, narrowing his eyes. “We’ll come back to that.” He paused for a moment. “Peter Cushing’s dead, man. All of those scenes with Grand Moff Tarkin? Computer. They filmed some dude going through the motions and dropped a Peter Cushing skin on him with computers in post-production. You didn’t hear about this? It was fairly controversial.”

  “Maybe. I can’t really remember.”

  “Alright, be that as it may, in the early ‘70s, Japanese roboticist Masahiro Mori proposed that the more realistic an automaton looked, the more endearing it would become to humans. However, there will be a dip along the continuum. At some point, the realism will be fantastic—but a little…off. It will become disturbing. This dip in emotional connection is referred to as the uncanny valley. It represents the point at which technology—computer graphics, in this case—is no longer readily apparent, but some small error or inconsistency causes humans psychological discomfort. Maybe the skin appears too waxy or the hair doesn’t flip right in the breeze or the muscle movement under the skin is slightly inconsistent. Whatever. It didn’t help, in this case, that everyone knew that Grand Moff Tarkin was dead—and they were watching a computer representation of the man as he would have appeared in 1977.”

  Damon leaned back in his chair. Reopened the small Dorito bag and closed it again.

  “Creepy.”

  “Exactly,” Damon said, leaning forward again. “The crazy thing is that the phenomenon is observed over and over again in various studies. But there’s no clear answer why it happens. Why, at a fairly consistent point, life-like robots or computer-generated people interacting with real people on film make us, collectively, go Eww.”

  “Hmm,” Jeff said, finishing off his lunch and stuffing all of the empty components into a brown paper sack.

  “My favorite theory, though, has to do with disease aversion.” Damon, likewise, started cleaning up his lunch. It was just about time to get back to the lab.

  “Disease aversion?”

  “Mm-hm. Sure. Whether it’s a function of evolution or simple self-preservation, you avoid someone exhibiting the symptoms of the flu, right? Their skin is flushed. They’re sweating. Possibly staggering. Coughing. Rubbing snot on the sleeve of their shirt. You don’t get on the elevator with that dude. Even on a subconscious level. Maybe you had every intention of getting on the elevator with McSickie but your mind says, Hey. Take the stairs. You’ll probably justify it to yourself later.”

  “Okay.”

  “Think back,” Damon said. “In your past. Have you ever met anyone who was missing a finger? Maybe just half a finger? Even before you consciously noticed it and said in your head, Hmm. Joey doesn’t have a pinkie finger on his right hand. Even before that, your mind has picked up on it and the warning klaxons have started sounding. Something is off about this person. It’s not a judgment—they’re not better or worse than you because of it—but you’ve, far below the surface, noticed that there was something off about Joey. Something wrong with him.”

  “Shit,” Jeff said. “Yeah.”

  Damon nodded.

  “See? Take that energy and put it into watching a movie. Consciously, you know that this character is a non-human interacting with all of the real humans. On the surface you know this, but your lizard brain, in the deepest, darkest recesses of your mind, you know. Your subconscious is trying to protect you from this person. There’s something wrong with this guy. Watch yourself.”

  “Damn.”

  “Yeah,” Damon said, grinning. “Pretty cool, right?”

  * *

  The facility called Objekt 221 contained none of the modern-style flourishes of the global Precision Robotics headquarters. It was function over form. Substance over style. That said, Britta Vragi’s office contained one unmissable embellishment—an oil painting of a dinosaur. Vibrant greens and bright oranges framed the image of this enormous green-brown monster staring lovingly at the sunset.

  Miles Lofton entered the office and closed the door behind him. He’d had numerous conversations with Britta. Most were professional, but they had often chatted about the latest movie or regional happenstance if they passed in the break room. Even with this familiarity, Britta frightened him a little. Not in the scared-for-your-life sense, but he always felt that he was being judged. Like he could never be honest with her lest his responses would somehow be used against him in the future.

  Something ridiculous, like: “Remember when you mentioned to me that you felt Kraft-branded macaroni and cheese was too cheesy, and you preferred to purchase the generic brands? Well, we’re sorry. You’re being passed-over for this promotion.”

  He strode across the office. Britta, from behind her huge desk,
motioned for him to sit down.

  “Good afternoo—”

  “We need to fill a spot on your team,” she said without looking up from an open file folder on her desk. “I’ve been reviewing your recommendations.”

  Miles sat forward on the chair. It was a wood-leather amalgamation with mission-style arms and plush black leather pads at the rear and bottom.

  “Okay,” he said, palms placed flat on his knees.

  “Damon Butcher.”

  The way she said it, Miles wasn’t sure if it was a question or statement. Nervous, he started babbling a bit.

  “Yes. Sure. Friends for years. Went to school together at Berkeley. He’s older. A bit older than me. Thirty-four, I think. He went to the Army before college. Came to school on the GI Bill. Dual degrees. Force Recon.”

  “That’s not a degree.” Britta allowed a thin-lipped smile.

  “Hah hah. Sure. He was Force Recon in the Army. Didn’t talk about it a lot, but he was butt-deep in some mess—as he liked to say. But he obviously can take care of himself. Uh. Um. Degrees in programming and, um, cryptozoology. Went to Stanford for the advanced degree. We talk occasionally on social media. Exchange Christmas cards.”

  Britta had looked up from the file as Miles was talking. She looked back down, turned a page, closed the whole thing, placed her hands—palms down—on top of it. She looked back at Miles.

  “What does he know about our organization?”

  “Uh. Okay. Sure,” he said. “Only as much as I can say according to our NDAs. He knows the name and that we have many interests. Biological research. High-level overview. Nothing more.”

  Britta nodded.

  “I guess we’ll see,” she said.

  “I can call him, if you’d like.”

  “Not necessary,” Britta said and put the file folder into a drawer on the right side of her desk. “Just wanted to let you know that a decision has been made.”

  * *

  Damon and Jeff didn’t notice that no one had come into the break room during their discussion. People had finished eating and left – and they weren’t replaced with new breakers. During the entire disease aversion discussion, they were the only two bodies in the room.

  Damon and Jeff didn’t notice the two men who entered the room right as the discussion ended.

  Damon and Jeff didn’t notice the third man standing at the door, making sure no one else came in.

  The two men were dressed smartly. Well-creased gray slacks, light blue polo shirts, dark blue suitcoats.

  “Damon Butcher,” one man said, extending a hand. “My name’s Marcus Osborne. I work for Allied Genetics. With your friend. Miles Lofton.”

  “Oh, sure,” Damon said, looking crossways at Jeff, extending his own hand to shake Osborne’s. “Is everything okay?”

  “Sure. Sure. Fine,” Marcus said. “I was hoping we could have a private conversation. Take five minutes of your time.”

  “Sir,” the as-yet-unnamed man indicated that Jeff should leave with him.

  Jeff looked at Damon as if to ask, Should I stay?

  Damon shook his head as if to answer, Nah.

  “I’m going to need to buy a soda in about five minutes,” Jeff said, before turning to leave.

  Marcus pulled out a chair for Damon and then sat down on the opposite side of the table. He waved his hand and smiled.

  “Please,” he said. “Really, nothing’s wrong. I just need to talk to you for a moment.”

  * *

  “You want to offer me a job?” Damon asked after Marcus gave his speech. “I have a job. In case you didn’t notice. You probably should have called.” Damon looked around. “I’m not even sure this is ethical, you offering me a job at my current work.”

  “It’s okay,” Marcus said. “My boss can be very convincing. I just need a moment of your time, as I said. Any deeper conversation can be concluded after your shift.”

  During the discussion, Marcus had taken a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and slid it across the table top. Damon noticed, but didn’t take the paper. He also paused to look around the room briefly. It was bizarre to be alone in a room so big—a room that is never actually empty. Marcus, having said his peace, remained quiet. He had adopted a relaxed posture and rested the palms of his hands flat on the table. Damon noticed a small tattoo on the web of skin between the man’s right thumb and right index finger. It was a crude image of a scorpion. Well-drawn, but poorly applied. Perhaps it was a prison tattoo. Or something soldiers would give each other in the field.

  “I like my job,” he continued, his voice echoing off the hard surfaces of the room—no bodies were there to diffuse the sound. “I’m loyal to Precision.”

  Marcus continued to smile and watched Damon, eye to eye.

  Damon broke eye contact again and looked at the piece of paper. It looked like a computer printout, folded into thirds, ready to go into an envelope. The folds were crisp, but it was slightly open. Damon could see text printed on the face of the paper. He could just make out a piece of the letterhead before it was enveloped in shadow.

  “I’m loyal…” he trailed off and squinted at the paper and completely shut one eye as if he was a pirate or a sniper glaring through a scope. It was an unconscious habit he had picked up years ago. It was first developed for comedic effect, but soon became a part of who he was.

  He reached forward and held the paper between his thumb and index finger.

  “It can’t hurt just to read the actual offer,” he said, unfolding the paper.

  Chapter Three

  The Lab

  “BASED PURELY on volume, this facility is easily the largest man-made structure in Crimea,” Miles said as the two men walked down a corridor.

  The floors were polished concrete and the walls were pure industrial. They were a mixture of concrete, steel girders, copper piping, and various bundles of cabling running off into the distance. The corridor itself was wide enough for a military vehicle to pass easily with plenty of room on either side to spare.

  Damon had visited numerous facilities in his short career, but this area easily outpaced them all.

  “The Russians started building Objekt 221 at the height of their Cold War spending,” Miles continued. “It was to be the home of the Soviet Army’s Black Sea fleet. Straddling an area roughly translated as Anvil Canyon. Something about the materials that used to be mined here. The complicated network of tunnels and bunkers forced them to essentially hollow out huge sections of Mount Misen. It was a back-up command facility with two entrances and four levels. It was built to withstand even the most horrifying theoretical bomb the United States could drop on it. Unfortunately, it was never properly finished.”

  They continued walking down the main corridor. There were doors on either side of the space and bustling activity all around them. There was a mixture of directions, eagerness, and outfits. Some people in lab coats were hurrying to and fro, while others walked in a leisurely manner, chatting with co-workers. At odd intervals, Damon noticed people wearing what could only be described as military outfits. There were no symbols, flags, or insignia, but the material and gunbelts were unmistakable.

  For their part, Miles and Damon looked like two peas in a pod. Dressed similarly in jeans and polo shirts, roughly the same height and weight. Both had brown hair and were in their early 30s. Miles wore glasses and had longer hair. They could be brothers.

  Damon continued gazing around as Miles filled him in on the abbreviated history of the enormous facility.

  “Construction was terminated in 1989—same year as the fall of the Berlin Wall—and was buttoned up. Battalions of workers were released back into the wild to fend for themselves. Jobless. It was estimated that the facility was 80 percent completed. Unlike her sister facility—Objekt 825—which was finished and eventually reimagined as a Naval Museum in Balaklava. There are abandoned facilities like this scattered all around the world.” Miles paused and shot Damon a sideways glance. Damon didn’t notice. “Many of
them repurposed.”

  They continued to walk and the end of this particular corridor was finally in sight. Also, the tone of the hallway had subtly changed. Office and laboratory doors had disappeared from the left side to be replaced with a huge display case. The lighting, somehow, was also softer now. And a little darker.

  It was an enormous terrarium.

  Damon edged closer to the display case and slowed his pace, but didn’t stop. There was some mist on the inside of the window and he could see that the case was set into the wall about two meters deep. Plants, forward and backward. The terrarium—two meters deep by nearly 20 meters long—was completely filled with flora. There was one problem, though, and Damon finally stopped to look.

  “What the hell is this?” he asked. “I don’t recognize any of these plants.”

  The case was filled with small trees, flowering plants, heavy bushes, and other generic greenery. It was beautiful in an unkempt way. As if someone had originally planned where to plant the flora, but then never landscaped the area again.

  Miles smiled.

  “Gorgeous, isn’t it?” he asked, standing next to Damon, hands clasped behind his back.

  Damon was looking back and forth, his nose mere inches from the glass.

  “Seriously. I don’t recognize any of these plants. Are they native here? From some previously undiscovered tropical island?”

  Miles nodded.

  “You have a good eye, man,” he said. “These are from here but not when.”

  Damon kept looking. He was now focused on one plant in particular. It had hand-sized leaves making up its base with two huge spires poking out the top. The base leaves were colored five or six different shades of green, and the spires were a tint of purple that he’d never seen before. He was examining the plant while Miles’ words slowly sunk in.

  “Not from when?” Damon asked and then thought for another moment. “When. These plants are extinct? You’ve somehow mutated them? Revived them somehow?”

  Miles smiled.