He hefted the gun in his left hand. It felt solid, re-assuring as always. A thing of power, a thing of control, and wrapping his fingers around the grip gave him the rush of adrenaline he wanted.

A moment of hesitation, and then action. He kicked the door in and sprang forward, into the dizzying light flooding the warehouse in front of him. He trotted between shelves of grey boxes, the room strangely silent, empty almost. Strange. People should be here, somewhere.

He reached the metal steps up to the second level, took them briskly. Still no movement. His hand started shaking, the oddness of the silence unnerving. Looking left, looking right. No one. Not a breath, not a footstep - nothing.

The pale green door was unlocked, and he turned the knob slowly. Sweeping through suddenly, he almost threw up. Gilotti’s head lay on the desk in a slick pool of blood, hardly as alive as he had hoped. Someone had been here before him, and his edginess returned quickly: a trapped animal.

No body slumped in the leather chair. Light flickered overhead and he twitched. No body anwhere in fact, just Gilotti’s head staring at him obscenely as he moved around the room. The mouth was turned up what seemed a mocking smile.

Panic. He reached the door in a stride. Still no movement, no noise, no sign of human presence anywhere in the warehouse, just the lights burning above. They seemed brighter suddenly, glaring.

Click. He heard the noise from across the room and spun to where he thought it came from. Echos. The lights began to shut off, row by row. He scrambled down the steps, then, a greyness spreading his way. Running between the shelves toward the door.

Then black. He stopped running, disoriented, the firearm clenched still but awkwardly powerless in the dark. Panic again, stronger this time. A flicker of light from his right, then blackness, then another flicker. Flashlights, he realized. Another flicker across the room in a different place, then another and another and another.

Shit, he thought, there’s five of them!

Footsteps. Boots. Probably police. Maybe even their trained “confrontation” team.

Clickclickclick. A bullet punched through the flesh in his right arm. He twisted, almost screaming, throwing himself to the floor. Clickclickclick. Sounded like a staplegun firing. He fired into the darkness, a ringing in his ear, crawling then, quickly away from where he had been seconds before.

Light, behind him, sweeping. Targetting. Flattened himself against a shelf, the metal digging into his back, arm burning bloody murder. The light swept by again, and in its blaze he saw a second figure motioning forward. Hand shaking, he fired at it once, twice, three times.

Obviously hit, the man pivoted, thrown backwards by the force of a round hitting his shoulder. Odd, though Greg Muller. It’s just a pistol.

Clickclickclick. Three round burst, and he couldn’t breath. He died there, blood filling his lungs. It hurt to die. It hurt a lot.

“And that’s how it’s done,” the technician said. “Greg Muller has died fifty-three times so far. His behavior hasn’t been modified very much, but if you watch some of the output graphs, his emotive responses to stimuli have changed quite a bit in some areas.”
“What now?” the student asked, laying his pen in the spine of a notebook.
The technician shrugged. “We boot him up again, and he gets killed again, and I do a crossword puzzle.”
Frowing, the student said, “Aren’t you supposed to teach me something?”
“Yeah, sure. Can you read a graph?”
“I’ve read the textbook, if that’s what you mean.”
“Great - so now you’ve learned something.” He pulled a pencil from his breast pocket. “First, you don’t need me to teach you what you already know, and second, I like games that involve paper, a pencil, and four letters that mean ‘leave me alone’. Any guesses?”
“Look, at least show me how to fix some of the programming parameters - I mean the stopping power of a handgun -”
“I don’t care about the programming parameters, and if you do, go read the textbook, for crying out loud.”
The student scowled. “Maybe you should care,” he said.
“Make me.”
A pistol in the kid’s hand. “Alright,” he said, and fired three rounds into the other man’s chest.
He died, then, his blood filling his lungs. It hurt to die. It hurt a lot

“Think he’ll ever learn?”
“Dunno. He’s a tough nut. Maybe that bad egg we’re always talking about.”
“And lazy. Look, Josh, go home. We can pick this up tomorrow.”
Josh settled back in his chair. “We’re just getting started, Dr Cohen, we can’t give up now!”
“We can, and we will,” Cohen said, pointing at the door. “That way. Your wife is going to leave you if you keep this up.”
“Guess a few hours of sleep won’t hurt our precious technician.” He shuffled some papers together, grinning. “Won’t hurt me, either.”

He hefted the gun in his left hand. It felt solid, re-assuring as always. A thing of power, a thing of control, and wrapping his fingers around the grip gave him the rush of adrenaline he wanted. But it felt wrong all of the sudden, like a punch to the gut. Something very bad was in that warehouse, something about to go awry. Panic, then. He tossed the gun aside, running as fast as he could. It felt good to run, strangely. It felt free.

“And that’s how it’s done,” the technician said. “Greg Muller has died sixty-one times, and that’s a wrap!”
“What now?” the student asked, laying his pen in the spine of a notebook.
The technician shrugged. “We boot him up again, and he runs away again, and I get a sparkly new badge on my boy scout sash.”
Frowing, the student said, “Aren’t you supposed to teach me something?”
“Yeah, sure. Can you read a graph?”
“Well, then, let’s compare his first reading with this one, and maybe one day you’ll figure out how to condition your barber to hate you less.”
“My barber?”
“Have you seen your hair?”

“That was… easy,” Josh said, frowning. “Do you think he’s figured out it’s a sim or something?”
Cohon shook his head. “No neural feedback, no leakage, no nothing.”
“Mind if I check the figures one more time?”
“Josh - go home, man. Your wife is going to leave you if you keep this up?”
“You don’t mind?” he asked. “I mean, checking the pattern scan and the -”
Cutting him off, Cohen said, “Not a bit. And your son has a soccer game. Don’t forget it.”
“How’d you know about that?”
“I know a lot of things.” He smiled, clapping Josh on the shoulder. “Go enjoy yourself.”
“Guess a good soccer game never killed anyone,” Josh said. He shuffled some papers together and stood to leave.
Dr Cohen nodded, satisfied, as Josh left. “And they say they never get anywhere,” he said. He spoke the password, and the neural connection severed. He opened his eyes.

Tags: fiction