The PRISM Conspiracy

By Mary Schlegel

An incredible job. An exasperating android. An all-too-human secret.

Fresh out of art school, Abigail Huntley gets the chance of a lifetime working for Sphinx Architecture. Her remarkable talent has also landed her a remarkable work partner: a cutting-edge android named Rory, who appears so completely human that Abigail struggles to rememb

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outcast Media
• Release date: Sep 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781735313337

Mary Schlegel

Mary Schlegel grew up spending as much time outdoors as indoors, acting out imaginary adventures with her dog and horse, fancying herself a Medieval princess, and devouring literary fiction. She is now a full-time mom, homemaker, author, and artist. She writes fantasy and science fiction that are heavily inspired by her love of nature, science, and Medieval history, and her style is influenced by the literary authors she loves to this day.Mary is an unashamed tea fanatic, and was formerly a professional tea taster and brewer. She also has an unusual superpower for finding four-leafed clovers everywhere she goes, including foreign countries. She considers free-climbing a two-hundred-foot cliff on the coast of Northern Ireland, and working on a dinosaur excavation in Colorado to be among her more remarkable accomplishments. She, her husband, and their growing family live in the Ozark Mountains of Missouri.

Book preview

Chapter

One

Abigail reached the security gate and dug madly in her duffel-bag-sized purse for the temporary clearance cardkey she had been issued. She found it, swiped it, and dashed through to the security door, where a bald, dark-skinned, barrel-chested guard waited to check her employee ID. He took a small device from his belt and used it to scan the barcode on the back of the card, then looked at the photo and name on the front.

Abigail Huntley, Design Department. He read it aloud and raised his eyebrows as though impressed. You an artist?

Yes. It’s my first day, Abigail explained, gesturing at the temporary ID. My first day and I’m already running late.

Well then, don’t let me keep you. He inserted his hand into a slot in the wall. There was a beep, and then the click of the lock on the door releasing. I’m Bruce, by the way.

Abigail forced herself to smile politely as he stepped aside and she hurried past him. It’s nice to meet you, Bruce.

Hold on, don’t forget your ID! You’ll need that to get into the Design Department upstairs!

Abigail turned back and grabbed the card from him, her stomach in knots of anxiety. Thank you. I’m sorry. It’s nice to meet you.

Hey, hey, Bruce said, I know you’re nervous, but just take it easy, okay? You got this, girl.

Abigail drew a shaking breath and nodded.

See that door over there? Bruce pointed to the end of the narrow hallway that the door had let them into. Go through there and take a left, and take the maintenance elevator to the fourth floor. That’ll let you out right in front of the Design Department doors, faster than going around through the main elevators.

Abigail nodded. Okay. Thanks again. She hitched her bag back up on her shoulder and headed for the door Bruce had indicated.

The straight skirt and high heels she had worn in an effort to look competent and professional kept her from actually running. Instead she resumed the ridiculous fast-forward shuffle she’d used to get here from the parking garage after missing the shuttle.

Moving again after the brief pause at the door brought her attention sharply to the fact that her feet were getting raw and probably blistered.

I am never wearing pumps to work again.

She burst through the Design Department doors and found herself directly in front of Mr. Williams’ office. Darn—couldn’t she have at least come out closer to the ladies’ room so she could put herself together before seeing him? Of course that would only force her to cut even closer on time than she already was, but…

An attractive thirty-something woman spoke up from behind a desk outside Mr. Williams’ office.

Miss Huntley?

Yes?

The woman stood and extended a hand over her desk. I’m Nira Bishop, Mr. Williams’ secretary. I am so sorry, but he received an unexpected call and he’ll be just another few minutes.

Thank God. Abigail breathed a sigh of relief, which Miss Bishop apparently took as one of disappointment.

I am so sorry, Miss Huntley, she said quickly. I know how eager you must be to get started—

No, no, that’s actually a blessing in disguise. I’ve had… Abigail looked down at herself and shrugged. It’s been a morning.

Miss Bishop’s face was sympathetic. The break lounge is right down the hall, if you need a few minutes. I’ll gladly cover for you if Mr. Williams’ call should end before you get back.

Just someplace to cool down and put myself back together would be wonderful.

Miss Bishop nodded. There are restrooms just off the lounge, too.

Abigail thanked her and headed for the door she had indicated. Her feet were intensifying their protest now, aching and stinging with every step.

The ladies’ room was dark gray—all of it, floor, walls, fixtures, and ceiling, everything sleek and pristine in its design. Abigail kicked her shoes off and stood letting the coolness of the glossy tile floor soothe her stockinged feet.

Miraculously, her stockings weren’t shredded from her run. After readjusting her clothes, rubbing down her neck and arms with a wet paper towel, and re-doing the French twist in her hair, she felt surprisingly refreshed and put-together. Okay, so maybe today wasn’t a total disaster.

When she returned to the outer room, Miss Bishop stood up again and smiled. Perfect timing! Mr. Williams’ call just ended. He’ll be with you in just a minute.

But it didn’t even take a minute. The words were barely out of Miss Bishop’s mouth before the translucent office door slid open and disappeared into a slot in the wall. The man who emerged wore a suit that probably would have paid a year of Abigail’s rent. His watch probably cost more than her car…when the car was new, fifteen years ago. The image he presented was an all-too-sharp reminder of how lucky she was to have landed this job. Not just anybody got hired by Sphinx Architecture right out of art school.

Right, then. With her perspective properly adjusted, Abigail drew herself straighter and smiled her most professional smile—if one smile could be more professional than another one. Whatever.

Well then, is this Miss Huntley? the man asked Miss Bishop.

It is indeed, sir.

Mr. Williams walked forward and offered Abigail his hand. A pleasure to meet you, Miss Huntley. I apologize for the delay.

It’s no trouble at all, Mr. Williams, Abigail assured him.

Please, come in.

Abigail followed him into the office and paused as the door whispered shut behind her, staring around the room. It was bigger than her entire apartment…and she didn’t want to even think about how much the furnishings must have cost.

On the wall hung a gallery of sketches, paintings, 3D renderings, and photographs, some in low-profile black frames, others in wider, more decorative ones. The one nearest the door—a photograph of twin skyscrapers joined by a web of walkways, staircases, and suspended platforms that, when viewed from a distance, formed a silhouette of a person seated at a table reading a book—immediately caught Abigail’s attention.

She didn’t need to read the plaque at the bottom of the frame to recognize the building that had made Sphinx famous. The Library of New Detroit had awed the public, inflamed the imaginations of engineers, artists, architects, and builders worldwide with its challenge to everything anyone had ever dreamed possible, and changed the face of the architectural industry forever. It had been used as a case study in countless advanced classes, from art to physics and everything in between.

We’re so pleased you’ve chosen to join us, Miss Huntley, Mr. Williams was saying, strolling across the office to his desk. You’re going to be a wonderful asset to our design team.

Abigail bit back a plethora of automatic responses like I’m going to try my very best, and I hope so. Confidence, she reminded herself. Self-assurance. Nothing that might indicate uncertainty. She’d landed this job because she was good enough to land it.

Thank you, Mr. Williams, she said instead. I’m so pleased to have been invited to join your team.

Excellent, he said with a brilliantly white smile. You won’t be doing much actual work today. Today will be more about getting you settled into your office and introducing you to your work partner.

Abigail perked up. So you’ve found a partner for me?

Mr. Williams chuckled. I apologize, it doesn’t normally take this long, but you were a bit of an exceptional case. Your scores on the assessments were so polarized that it took quite a bit of effort to locate a partner who could balance you out.

Was that a good thing? A bad thing?

I’m…sorry? Abigail ventured.

"No, no, please don’t apologize, Mr. Williams said. Your scores were the highest we’ve ever seen, and revolutionary creativity is what made this company what it is! That being said, revolutionary creativity has to be paired and balanced with good, solid science if it’s going to work."

He stopped behind his desk and smiled. Basically what I’m saying is that your job is to cook up the craziest ideas you can, and his job is to figure out the math and science to make it work.

His job. So her partner was a man.

Abigail wanted to ask more about him, but she simply smiled, not wanting to seem over-eager or reveal the anxiety she’d wrestled since her assessment scores came in. Well, I look forward to meeting him, she said.

That last call was to let me know that he’s on his way. He should be here any minute. Mr. Williams chuckled again and ran his fingers absently over the surface of his desk. I suppose I should warn you, he won’t be much in the personality department. Probably not much for conversation, either.

Abigail frowned. Sir?

As I said, in order to balance out your inordinate levels of creativity, we had to find someone at the opposite end of the spectrum. Your brain functions on pure creativity. His is completely logical and mathematical. You’re both exceptional. In fact, you are both the only ones to have ever tested at your levels in your respective areas.

Great. So she was getting partnered with a human calculator who probably had the personality of a white wall. That should make for some fun days sharing an office. Well, you can’t win ’em all.

It’s rather ironic, all things considered, Mr. Williams remarked.

How so?

Well, that you should test at the same level in your own field as he did in his, when… He appeared to be searching for words…and nervous about finding them.

Sir? Abigail asked again. What was going on?

He smiled. I have to admit, Miss Huntley, I’m a little unsure of how to have this conversation with you. I’ve never had to do it before. As I said, you are an exceptional individual.

This was getting weird quickly. Abigail said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

Rory—your partner—is an android.

Abigail stared. An android, as in…a robot?

Mr. Williams chuckled again. A word of advice, to protect you from making the same mistake I did: Don’t ever call him a robot. The people who designed and created him seem to consider a robot something much more crude and primitive, while Rory is a highly advanced and sophisticated artificial intelligence.

Abigail hoped the warmth in her cheeks didn’t mean she was blushing.

But between you and me, for all practical purposes, Mr. Williams continued, yes, he is a robot.

Why would you pair me with a robot—er…an artificial intelligence…android?

As I said, you are an exceptional individual. Your assessments were so far off the charts on the creativity and originality scale that we had to find someone equally far off the charts on the mathematics and physics scale. It just so happened that the only one who ranked that highly was Rory.

It made sense, in a way. When Abigail had first applied to Sphinx, the assessment team had explained that the partnering program worked like a seesaw—the further from the center you were, the further from the center on the opposite end your partner had to be, to balance you out and make you as effective a team as possible.

So she was so creative and artistic that it took a robot—er, android—to balance her out? Was that a good thing? It kind of made her feel like the company’s problem child, the last thing in the world she wanted to be.

I hope this isn’t too much of a shock to you, Mr. Williams continued, and no one will think less of you if you’re a bit uneasy around him at first.

Uneasy? What reason was there to feel uneasy?

Mr. Williams saw her concerned expression and smiled reassuringly. Don’t worry, he looks completely human, although personally I think that makes it a bit harder to adjust. But, maybe you won’t have any trouble with it. You’re bright and imaginative.

A soft tone sounded, and a screen in the top of Mr. Williams’ desk lit up. He moved to the desk and swiped a finger across it.

Yes?

The representatives from PRISM are here, sir, Miss Bishop’s voice said.

Excellent! Send them in.

The office door withdrew into the wall again, and two men in slacks and button-down shirts entered the room. Of the two of them, the one on the left was shorter, rounder, thinner-haired, and wore glasses. Interesting. Glasses were outdated and obsolete, and not many people used them anymore.

The taller man stood rigidly straight, hands still at his sides. His face was expressionless, but not blank—his eyes were focused. Remarkably focused, almost piercing. Both his hair and eyes were surprisingly dark for his fair skin. His hair was combed and gelled perfectly into place—a bit too perfectly for Abigail’s tastes. She preferred some personality, which this man didn’t seem to possess in abundance.

Actually, now that she thought about it, he didn’t seem to possess any personality. At all. His black slacks and light blue shirt were perfectly fitted and completely wrinkle-free. Everything about him was perfectly nondescript and nondescriptly perfect. What was more, he stood virtually motionless, only moving his head and his eyes, which fixated intently on everything he looked at.

Mr. Williams came around the desk, beaming, and extended his hand. Well, here he is! We were just speaking about you, Rory!

Hello, Mr. Williams. The expressionless man lifted his right hand, and Mr. Williams shook it enthusiastically.

Abigail did a double take at Mr. Personality. Rory? This was an android? He looked so…so human! Of course, it did explain the lack of personality and expression, but she hadn’t realized…

In spite of herself, she moved closer to him, staring. As she watched, his chest expanded and contracted just like a breathing human’s would. He blinked! His skin looked so real! He even had eyelashes, and there was the faint suggestion of a shadow on his cheeks and chin. How had anyone managed to create a machine so incredibly lifelike?

Mr. Williams turned and gestured to her. Rory, this is your work partner, Miss Abigail Huntley.

Abigail jerked herself out of her daze as Rory turned and offered his hand. She took it tentatively, unsure what to expect, but his grip was firm and warm and oddly…human. She thought she could feel a faint hum beneath his skin, some kind of mechanized vibration, but couldn’t be sure whether it was real or her imagination.

It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Huntley, he said. His voice was quiet and soft, his inflections minimal.

Thank you…Rory. It felt odd calling him by his first name, especially when he had called her Miss Huntley, but no one had told her the rest of his name—if he even had one. Did you give a robot—android—a last name?

It’s nice to meet you too, she added.

Excellent. Mr. Williams grinned at them before turning to the man who had accompanied Rory. Thank you so much for bringing him. Miss Bishop will just need to scan your ID to confirm the receipt. You’ll give Mr. Chapman my thanks and regards, won’t you?

Of course, the man grunted. He started back towards the door, but then stopped and stared hard at Mr. Williams. "You’re sure you’re all set?"

Absolutely, Mr. Williams assured him. Don’t worry about a thing. It’s all well in hand here.

The man left without another word, and the office door slid shut once again.

Mr. Williams sighed with apparent satisfaction. Well now! There are just a few things we need to take care of, and then I’ll show you two to your office. Don’t worry about getting any work done today—I haven’t sent any assignments or bid opportunities to you yet. Today is all about you two getting your work space set up the way you want it and getting… He paused, searching for a word. Learning to work together. Getting acquainted with each other.

Abigail resisted the urge to scoff. That shouldn’t take long.

If you’ll both just come with me, Mr. Williams said.

They followed him out of the office and down the hall through a door marked Restricted Area—Authorized Personnel Only. The carpet gave way to tile, and the professional aura of the outer offices gave way to the sterile atmosphere of a hospital.

The place was a tidy composition of white walls, stainless steel, and clean lines. So drab and depressing! Abigail sincerely hoped the office she had been assigned to would be better—or, if it wasn’t, that she would at least be allowed to do some decorating. They had hired her to be creative, after all, and this place was a bona fide creativity killer.

Hello, Bethany, Mr. Williams said to the blonde-haired, white-jacketed young woman who met them. This is Abigail Huntley and Rory—our new team members. We’re just here to get their microchips.

Bethany nodded and grabbed a tablet from a nearby countertop. We’re ready for you. Right this way.

Abigail groaned inwardly as they trailed back through doors and hallways like ducks. They had told her from the beginning about the microchip all Sphinx employees were required to receive. It was a small price to pay for the chance to work here, but she’d still been dreading it. The link they’d given her to read during orientation assured her that the microchip was tiny, the discomfort of the insertion minimal, and that after a few days she wouldn’t even notice it anymore. Still…

Bethany took them to an exam room and set down her tablet. There was a gray box mounted on the side of a locked white cupboard; Bethany inserted her hand into a slot in the box, and the cupboard opened with a beep.

Inside were rows of what looked like thin glass straws with plastic caps in various colors.

ID numbers? Bethany asked.

Rory produced his temporary ID card from his pocket instantly, moving only his right arm while the rest of his body remained motionless. Abigail pulled one strap of her purse off of her shoulder and spent fifteen seconds pawing through the contents before she located hers.

Bethany held Rory’s card against a panel on the side of the scanner box. There was another beep, and a mechanical arm inside the cupboard selected one of the tiny vials and loaded it into a small white plastic box that was square except for its curved underside.

Meanwhile, Bethany had pulled on a pair of blue medical gloves. Rory?

He stepped forward.

Right hand, please.

Rory extended his hand, palm down. Bethany pressed the back of his hand against the curved underside of the box and locked another piece into place underneath his hand.

Ready? One, two, three, Bethany said, and on three the machine made a thumping sound.

Rory didn’t flinch in the slightest. Of course he didn’t. He was an android. Crap. Abigail had hoped that with him going first she would at least get some idea of how much pain to expect. Dingbat.

Alrighty, all done!

Rory withdrew his hand and stepped back. Abigail tried to get a look at his hand to see what kind of mark it had made, but he was standing to her right and she couldn’t. What was his skin made of, anyway? Vinyl? Latex? Silicone? How did it not mess up a machine designed to perform injections on human skin?

Bethany pressed a button, and the device started humming. The used vial slid down a clear plastic tube and out of sight, and, once Abigail’s card had been scanned, the machine selected another one. Abigail moved closer and could see a tiny black tube inside the vial. Her employee microchip.

She took as discreet a deep breath as possible to calm herself as Bethany placed her hand against the device and locked the bottom panel into place.

Ready? One, two, three.

Abigail flinched as something sharp thumped against the back of her hand. It was over so quickly that her brain didn’t have time to register much pain, but a stinging ache was already settling in as Bethany released her hand and she stepped back.

All done, Bethany said again. Just treat the injection site like you would treat a cut, and avoid touching it as much as possible so the microchip can get settled in place. You won’t even notice it within a week.

Despite the warning, Abigail couldn’t keep from venturing her left hand over to feel the back of her right hand. It was tender and sore to the touch, and she could feel the oblong shape of the microchip resting between the tendons and bones like a huge splinter.

A compulsion to get rid of it, get it out of her at any cost rose inside of her. That awful bump, and the twinge it caused when she moved her hand…

She wasn’t about to sacrifice her once-in-a-lifetime chance of working for Sphinx just because she didn’t like the feeling of a microchip—a simple security protocol—in the back of her hand. Still, she couldn’t help asking: So, this stays here forever?

Bethany shrugged. Should you ever stop working for our company, we’ll simply deactivate your code. Of course if you want the inactive chip removed, it can be done with a very minor operation.

Abigail nodded, trying to appear reassured and comfortable with the idea of a piece of electronic equipment being embedded in her body. People had been doing stuff like this for decades, she reminded herself. She was going to be just fine.

Your chips are already activated; from now on all you have to do is put your hand into the scanner slots, and it will open any door you have authorized access to. Mr. Williams smiled at them and chuckled—again. Congratulations! You are now the official property of Sphinx Architecture.

Technically Abigail supposed that was true of Rory. He was just a machine after all, right? A piece of property that could be bought and sold…even if he did look eerily like a person. It had seemed like Mr. Williams was referring to her too, though. Maybe it was just a joke. Abigail had what her mother called an eccentric sense of humor, and jokes often slipped by her. Mr. Williams was probably joking, she reasoned. But if he was, the humor of it went over her head.

Chapter

Two

And this, last but not least, is your office, Mr. Williams said, walking in and extending his arms to both sides.

The room was spacious—not nearly as big as Mr. Williams’ office, but still bigger than Abigail’s living room and kitchen put together. It was positioned against the edge of the building, the outer wall curving with the building’s contour and made up completely of windows that offered a view of the cityscape. Not a spectacular one—they were only on the fourth floor, after all—but it would do. And, if Abigail wasn’t too turned around, it faced east, so she would get to watch the sunrise on early mornings.

Two sides of the room were lined with cabinets and countertops in light-colored wood with sleek, featureless handles of stainless steel. In the center of the room stood a drafting table, a table inset with metal rulers along its edges, three computer desks, and a table with a digital surface for generating 3D holographic blueprints. The far right corner of the room offered two easy chairs and a coffee table. Even with all of it, there was still plenty of space around the room and in between the pieces of furniture.

Mr. Williams turned to them and smiled. Well?

Well, Abigail echoed, it certainly appears to be more than adequate.

I’d advise you to spend some time inspecting the cupboards, Mr. Williams said. "They’re labeled, but a label only has room for so much specificity. You