Faces in the Game: Declan McGuinness Returns

By Tom Cadogan

In this future adventure, Gardai inspector Declan McGuinness leads a team that includes an Ethiopian inspector and a very sophisticated robot. The body of Daryl McGivern, the retired and eccentric CEO of an Irish American robotics company, is missing. The mystery of his whereabouts opens the door to the disappearance and apparent theft of hundreds of soldier robots. These robots, called soljabots, are internationally banned as weapons of war but, in a softer version, are being used as donations and "toy soldiers" in a war game. The war game was invented by McGivern, who was also one of the directors at Harp Society, a philanthropic organization. Harp has other directors who--along with a mysterious naval officer, Captain Jack Phang, a veteran of the South China Sea War--have different designs on the robots. Phang does not appear to be on anyone's database but emerges as an international person of interest and eventually a prime suspect in a larger mystery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9798885059404

Book preview

Introduction

Once again, we pushed the calendar forward, spun the hands of the clock, and moved to a future where sophisticated service robots become available to the very rich and well-placed. Such a forecast is not a big leap. Human communities have always had helpers and work extenders to solve the man power shortage. In the past, though, we had low-tech, low-cost solutions: indentured servants, slaves, prisoners, etc. All that was needed was a side step from moralistic and humanitarian roadblocks. Thousands of such helpers contributed to the construction of the Egyptian pyramids. Hundreds of thousands of African slaves helped to support the agrarian economy of the southern American states from 1619 to 1865. Of course, such solutions are anathema today and should not, in any way, be pursued. Nevertheless, the need for work extenders remains, so robots will be coming. And I’ll discuss this further at the end of the story.

I’ve had discussions with editors who would consider this story and my first to be science fiction. I think that’s too limiting a characterization because the future of science is only part of the picture. We need a wider lens. Looking ahead, I see three areas for conjecture: things that evolve—for the most part—in a forward direction, like technology; things that recycle, like culture and style; and things that never change. These days, the range of possibilities in almost every field of human endeavor would seem to make it more appropriate to talk of forecast fiction rather than science fiction. Forecast fiction covers more than just science.

The future of science is one context of reality, one side of the three-sided pyramid: past, present, and educated guesses. We can’t know the future, but we can get a good idea where it’s going by studying the other two sides. Take quantum mechanics. It’s been around since the early twentieth century but will probably be puzzling the experts into the next century and beyond. Does real space exist at the atomic level? How about gravity? Gravity needs space between objects. A is attracted to B by a mysterious force, but what does this mean if A occupies the same space as B? Do we even have the vocabulary to describe this, or does language have to play catchup to concept? I don’t think anyone really understands quantum theory even if the mathematics works. For that matter, who really knows what electricity is, even though we use it all the time and couldn’t live without it?

In any event, the label for the story’s genre will be influenced by how far into the future we go—the farther out, the more fantastical. Limiting the story projection to one or two hundred years makes the forecasting simpler and the possibilities more digestible. Precision is not possible, but the fiction should make sense. Science is driven by an inexorable wash of events and knowledge streaming from many sources and directions at once, so focusing on just a few things in the near term can help keep us from becoming overwhelmed and falling into the world of fantasy.

The effort at prognostication is also complicated by mixing in the items that recycle or seldom change much: emotions, culture, style, geography, even basic physiology. These have their own scale. For example, take one area: sexual attraction. It wasn’t any different in the sixteenth century than it is today, though attitudes about separating boys and girls in their formative years have changed over time. Science has continued to influence culture to the point that notions of sex, gender determination, and chromosomal development are no longer simple issues. So while cultural things have nothing to do with science, the two don’t exist in separate universes and must necessarily lean on each other for us to reach any kind of understanding.

Museums are built to encapsulate and memorialize culture, as well as science, even sometimes to enshrine it—the good, the bad, the ugly. Things put in a museum are expected to serve as reminders—placeholders. Many cultural and scientific things in our past can be comforting because they haven’t changed; after all, no one expects or wants everything to change. On occasion, an entire country may try to become a museum and lock ideas about change and status quo into a struggle.

I use the Irish as one example of a culture that can live in the past while at the same time embrace change. They’re surrounded by their museum and don’t seem to worry about interweaving change with the immutable. Change is not a dirty word, nor is it something to be accepted without some critical thought. Ireland is one country that figured out how to make the two work more closely together, in my opinion.

So in our imagined future Ireland—and world—we will deal with two unchanging phenomena: the good heart that nourishes philanthropy and the soul-destroying greed that perverts it. But while some things never change, much does. For example, artificial intelligence and quantum computing will combine to put potential developments on a roller-coaster ride. Robotics will become a combination of biotechnology and mechanical engineering, driven by very advanced computer and neurological developments. Villages will become increasingly global, and mobility will be easier as the workplace becomes a changed experience. Underlying everything will be the manner in which we acquire, store, and use energy. All the science presented may be reasonably forecast without resorting to fantasy. Still, a little fantasy is not a bad thing, and the Irish I know are good at that too.

Chapter 1

Afigure stood to one side of the large window on the third floor of the McGivern castle, a pose practiced by someone trying to avoid detection while watching activities below. It was late afternoon, but the light was enough to overcome the slight mist. Things were quiet and secure. The figure slowly sipped a cup of hot black tea.

The McGivern castle or mansion was a facility built to carefully match and blend in with the ancient castles or manses near the isle of Innisfree and throughout Sligo. It was a very expensive, meticulous project, which took ten years to plan and complete, not counting the time required for government approval and inspections. Advanced energy efficiency and communications were built in but cleverly concealed so as not to intrude on the historical and archaeological significance of the site. The landscape maintained a natural but beautiful rusticity—no English gardens here with their tailored, manicured appearance. There was indigenous growth with lots of acute angles and multiple earth tones—no sweeping, closely cropped lawns.

A heliport could be hydraulically raised and lowered at a nearby lake, and a cleverly disguised hangar was hidden in the trees, abutting the lake. Actually, the council officials and preservationists approved the construction of a heliport on the land adjacent to the mansion, but McGivern didn’t want this. To him, appearances and authenticity were important—expense not so much. The construction foreman asked him why he didn’t get an aircar (drone, as it was called) on pontoons or floats and avoid the expense of the helipad—in other words, land directly on the lake. McGivern said pontoons would have added weight, reduce efficiency, and upset the aerodynamics—all reasons the foreman considered minor. But of course, McGivern was holding the purse and made the final decisions.

A fifteen-meter tower was attached to the north side of the castle. The tower housed stairs and a lift that traveled to the first and second floors and to the roof with no third-floor stop—to all appearances. All floors had exterior windows, but there were no visible interior or exterior entries to the third floor. In actuality, the third floor of the McGivern castle had now been occupied for over a year; but no one, except Daryl McGivern, McGivern’s guest, and Buddoaka the service robot knew this.

In these times, the technology of robotics was very sophisticated, but there were very few service robots in Ireland. They were not only very expensive, but many persons were afraid of them, wary of what they thought robots might do on their own. Service robots were discussed using the personal pronouns he or she but, other than their names or in some cases their humanoid form, had no claim to sex or gender. Robots like Buddoaka had to know how to do a million things, mostly learned by an artificial intelligence, continually adjusting and adapting to the directions and actions of their human hosts. For example, a small drive containing physical massage programs could be inserted in a service robot, providing the framework to accommodate thousands of different flesh and blood clients. By combining biological and mechanical features, the robot would learn from and adjust to each, performing with the softness and fluidity of human flesh or the rigidity and strength of metal—whatever was needed for the job at hand—and always responding to the wishes of the client.

Buddoaka was now sleeping and recharging, replacing its plastic flesh with hydraulically supplied new cells and reorganizing and restoring its quantum core computer and biological systems. Few robots with his level of sophistication existed, and only billionaires and the well-placed could afford or have access to such technology. As the retired CEO of the largest robotics development and manufacturing enterprise in the world, McGivern Robotics International (MRI), Daryl McGivern—Buddoaka’s owner—didn’t find acquiring robots to be a problem.

Below in the distance, the surface of the lake developed a myriad of quivering corrugations while a low rumble filled the misty air. The heliport was rising in the lake. A large square of gray-green rose slowly in the water, pushing aside swathes of bright-green growth, scurrying frogs and slime. When fully exposed, the helipad came to a halt, and the rumbling stopped. Buddoaka crisscrossed the wet metallic platform with a squeegee, leaving a smooth glistening surface. He later returned with a sedan-sized drone, which he rolled out of the hangar beside the lake. In minutes, the figure in the window could see Daryl McGivern exit the mansion and board the drone aircar. The craft soon whirred to life and rose slowly from the lake helipad. It circled in the late afternoon sky and then headed southeast toward Dublin. Hopefully, thought the watcher, there would be no difficulties and everything would go as planned.

In these days, all aerial vehicles, from dinner plate to minibus size with self-flying capability, were referred to as drones. If a drone was flown manually, it would automatically revert to self-control as soon as it detected any intrusion in its vicinity. When McGivern’s drone reached the Shannon environs that evening, it weaved itself through the maze of running lights and spinning propellers that filled the crowded airspace.

Following the departure of McGivern, Buddoaka returned to the routine of his daily chores. With the approaching night, the castle would have to be locked down, and all security protocols put in place. The heliport was lowered back into the lake, and sensors were raised at various points along the perimeter of the property. The soft, subtle exterior lighting turned on, prompted by a photocell; a small rotating aviation warning light sprang to life at the top of a pole on the tower. The light sent out a narrow laser beam that could be easily detected at medium altitudes. The windows on the third floor glowed dimly, obscured by heavy drapes mechanically drawn earlier that evening.

Buddoaka arrived on the third-floor landing of the lift, carrying a dinner tray. The tray, with its steamy covered contents, was placed in front of the watcher who was now seated at a leather-covered table behind a computer terminal. Buddoaka removed soiled tableware, china, and linen using the same tray he arrived with. The door of the lift closed soundlessly behind Buddoaka as he left. The watcher went to a small refrigerator in the back of the room, returned with a frothy ale, and toasted Buddoaka by waving the bottle at the closed door of the lift.

The computer terminal was lit up, displaying a background of shag carpet overlaid with a portrait of Daryl McGivern. The words Faces in the Carpet were sprawled across the top of the screen. The watcher entered a code and tapped the screen a few times; and a menu came up with five choices: Game, Codes and Passwords, DARPA Project, Standing Orders, History.

*****

The following morning, as the sun cast long shadows across the tarmac, a maintenance worker driving a small electric utility truck was making his rounds at Dublin International Airport. He was passing a private hangar when he was startled to see a small drone aircar parked with the canopy popped open. As he navigated closer, he saw a white-haired man lying on the floor of the drone, near the controls. The man wasn’t moving.

Sir, are you all right? The worker circled the body, shining his torch on the man’s face for better clarity. The man was White, possibly in his sixties or seventies, and had no detectable pulse. He was dressed in a business suit, and his exposed skin was pale. The worker decided not to touch the body or check the suit pockets. He would leave that to others.

He called the police, who arrived in minutes with a medical examiner. This was surprising because the worker expected to see paramedics descending from the medical vehicle. He also expected the airport police to be cursing the interruption of their morning tea, and in this part, he wasn’t disappointed. The medical examiner, Dr. Scrubs, turned out to be a service robot—another surprise. The police said paramedics were not available because they were called out to an accident on the other side of the airport, which took priority.

The ME robot told the police that the man had been dead less than nine hours and appeared to be poisoned with cyanide. Service robots had extraordinary sensory abilities, though a more thorough laboratory screening would be obtained for the official record. Food crumbs that tested for cyanide were found near the body, along with a half-eaten Zippy Krunch bar also positive for cyanide. The crumbs, energy bar, and wrapping were bagged by Scrubs and placed in a medical case. Homicide could not be ruled out—a tragic accident perhaps. There was no reason to suspect that anyone would commit suicide with an energy bar. Still, it was unlikely that the poison was put in the energy bar during the manufacturing process. Nowadays, these things were very rigorously controlled.

The robot ME slid a two-part stretcher under the body; secured the parts together; and, unassisted, lifted the whole stretcher into the medical van. Crime scene imagery and forensics information would all be recorded in the medical robot’s brain. The body was then transported to a medical forensics facility in Dublin where it was subsequently identified as belonging to the secretive billionaire philanthropist Daryl McGivern. McGivern, a man in his seventies, raised the interest of the highest level at Gardai headquarters as soon as the death was reported.

Superintendent Murphy knew the press would be all over this incident and wanted Inspector Declan McGuinness, one of his best and most trusted officers, to handle the investigation. Declan was currently on a training assignment but one which could be interrupted without repercussions. Murphy announced to the press that Declan was in charge even before he officially assigned him the case. But there was another reason Murphy wanted Declan.

Shortly after the incident, Murphy received a call from someone with the Defense Research Agency in the United States who wanted details about McGivern’s death. It seems McGivern’s company was involved in a classified project and was sharing information with the US. The man provided no details but said his agency was sending over an investigator to work with the Gardai and would greatly appreciate their cooperation. Declan’s name was provided as a point of contact.

Declan was in Brussels attending a conference on the latest developments in cyber security when Super Murphy rang his cell. He welcomed Murphy’s call because he needed the distraction. Declan found himself stewing too much over the latest impasse with his wife, Honey, who would be awaiting his return in Dublin. Declan was free every day after sessions, and Honey knew this. She frequently called to remind him that he needed to be thinking about retirement, his daughter Caitlin’s trip to the US, or his excessive separation from family. Declan was getting weary of Honey’s daily intrusions and questions. He knew he had some decisions to make but wanted more time to explore his options.

With this new assignment, he could now put Honey off without appearing disingenuous. He just needed more time. He knew he was procrastinating in the vain hope that events would be self-correcting. The new assignment also meant he would have to say goodbye to the diverse group assembled for the Brussels conference. Most of the conferees came from various countries in Europe, but a few were law enforcement officers from Africa and Asia. He made some good contacts and hoped he could connect sometime later with many of these folk.

Superintendent Murphy mentioned the interest on the part of the US and said that he had given Declan’s name as the principal inspector on the McGivern case. A Dr. Tomlinson from the US Department of Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA) would be in touch with him. Tomlinson was a robotics expert and an intelligence investigator. Murphy was given notice by the minister of justice and the chief superintendent that he needed to show Tomlinson every courtesy. He told Declan that he would arrange a meeting with Tomlinson after he returned to Dublin. The press was not to be told about any meeting with DARPA.

Chapter 2

One of the officers at the Brussels conference was Inspector Garth Davilio from the Ethiopian Federal Police. By this time, Ethiopia had managed to survive a long period of civil strife and emerged as a fully functioning democracy with a first-class security force. Declan took a shine to Davilio from their first meeting when he sensed a curious familiarity. Garth was a handsome young man with skin the color of creamy mocha. In the fashion of the day in Ethiopia, he had some of his skin tattooed with lightly colored patches of iridescent bronze and magenta. The blend of these biodegradable colors with his native melanin was stunning in the right light.

Inspector Davilio, an African Italian born in Ethiopia, perked up when he heard Declan’s name on the first day of the conference. Each attendee was asked to introduce himself and provide a brief bio. Garth recognized the name instantly; his older brother had attended Ohio State University with Declan years earlier. Garth developed a bit of hero worship after listening to the stories his brother told about Declan. In those days, Declan was a young Garda who seemed to have a penchant, or maybe the good luck, to be assigned to great career-building cases.

Declan admired Garth’s brother for having the righteous tenacity to stay uncompromised while surviving in the EFP, which, at the time, was a considerable accomplishment. The old EFP was a highly political and corrupt organization. He saw similar worthy traits and coping skills in Garth and could tell he had the makings of a very capable detective—a good person to have in one’s corner.

Super Murphy had emailed some information about the new assignment. Declan decided he would share this with Garth during the lunch break the day after he received Murphy’s call. The material included a digital photo of the victim, Daryl McGivern.

Wait, Garth said. I know this man—that is, I’ve seen him before.

It says he’s a retired low-profile billionaire, Declan returned. Where would you have crossed paths with him?

It’ll come to me, Declan. It was a younger man but the same face.

Garth had purchased an art book for his nephew entitled Faces in the Carpet. The author or artist evolved drawings from the random patterns in a shaggy carpet, which eventually became realistic portraits. Garth’s nephew was half Italian too, so Garth didn’t think portraits of White faces would throw him off. Besides, he thought the idea of creating faces from the random patterns in carpet was very creative and would be inspirational for his nephew who liked to draw. He was never sure his nephew appreciated the book, but that was another story. He finally took the book back, dog-eared though it was, and now had it scrunched in the bottom of his travel bag.

When he saw the photo of the poisoned billionaire in Declan’s notes, Garth was surprised that one of the drawings in Faces resembled a younger version of the same man to a startling degree. The names belonging to the portraits in the book were all listed on the acknowledgment page and thus confirmed the victim’s identity. This piqued Garth’s interest, and he figured the other five billionaires shown in the book would now have to be questioned, along with the author—if they were alive. All of the portraits belonged to board members of the Harp Society, a shadowy philanthropy headquartered in Dublin. The bios were very spare; but the Harp Society board of directors was an interesting group: McGivern, who made his fortune in robotics; Justin Cameron, the pharmaceutical giant and onetime Belfast prosecutor; Homer Slavin, former CEO and chairman of Quantum Industries; Jules and Sly Coffey, owners of Carbon Affiliates; and David Knosterman, a former Kenyan foreign minister and the current head of Spidey Social Networks. All but David Knosterman were retired but active to varying degrees in their enterprises. The book was out-of-print but might be on the internet.

He checked the book website and was surprised to see that the site was still active and had been recently updated. Parts of the site could not be accessed without the proper ID and password, but he thought some of the cyber gurus at the conference might be able to get around that. At the first session the following morning, he told Declan and showed him the book.

It’s serendipity, Declan said. Who could guess that we would cross paths at this conference and that you would have that picture in that book?

Let’s hope it’s serendipity and not just coincidence, Garth said. Serendipity is a good thing. Coincidence could be good or bad.

It’s all good, Inspector, Declan said. Let me borrow your book and make some page copies. Is there any chance you could be available to work this case with me, or am I speaking out of turn?

I’d love to, Declan. But what’s my excuse? Garth didn’t want his pessimism to hold sway, so he added, "Maybe I could find that one of the guys in Faces has a connection to Ethiopia."

Let me try to work something out, said Declan. As long as you’re okay with the idea. There’s one more thing I need to tell you: the death of McGivern has also drawn the interest of the US Defense’s DARPA. Apparently, they had some classified project going on with McGivern. I’m guessing it had to do with robotics.

Now I’m really curious, Mac, Garth said. How do shag carpets and cartoons fit into that? We have lots of cyber gurus here. Why don’t we see how we can work them into that website and get some answers?

No, Declan said, the yanks classified this project ‘Secret.’ We have to respect that. I’ll ask this guy, Tomlinson, first. If he wants information from us, he will be quickly convinced that the flow goes both ways.

Think about this, Mac, Garth said. The US Defense Department shouldn’t have any interest in a project run by the Harp Society, an international philanthropy. This is all about robotics, like you say, in which case McGivern Robotics is the place to start.

Tell you what, Declan said. If we can get you on the team, we’ll split up, and you can visit McGivern’s headquarters in Dublin while I touch base with Tomlinson. I have a probationary Garda that I want to bring in by the name of Patricia Duffy. She can learn from the both of us. Also, Duffy’s presence at your interviews will give you the legitimacy you need to poke around in Ireland.

The Ethiopian Federal Police had a difficult time agreeing to the release of Garth Davilio. As it turned out, Garth’s commander at the EFP was indebted to the Irish Guard members on a UN Peacekeeping Force that saved his home village from marauders five years earlier. He regarded all things Irish as a positive and was easily coerced to make a deal, provided the EFP commissioner also agreed.

The commander recognized David Knosterman’s name when he was given some of the details of the Faces connection. Besides being a Harp Society board director, Knosterman was a former Kenyan minister who, years back, had to bail himself out of some kind of scrape. The commander was curious there might be an African link to the matter. The EFP commissioner, also curious, subsequently approved Garth’s temporary transfer. The arrangement was to be that Declan and Super Murphy would assist the EFP on a smuggling case in return for Garth’s one-month assignment to Declan. Garth was told to pack his kit and join Declan in Dublin.

First things first. Diplomas were to be handed out at the conclusion of the conference in Brussels, but Declan and Garth wouldn’t be around for that ceremony. Garth wanted some time back home in Addis Ababa before he set off to Dublin. He arranged to have his diploma mailed to his home address. He doubted anyone would believe he knew much more about cyber security than he did before the conference, but his official record would gain another notch. What Garth acquired was the knowledge of who could be helpful if he needed computer assistance, and this was not insignificant.

It was early evening when Garth was met at the airport in Addis Ababa by his girlfriend, Tanya. She was comfortably dressed with a lot of skin exposed for maximum impact, not her usual more modest garb. She knew Garth was coming back after a weeklong conference in Brussels and would probably be anxious for a little social contact of the meaningful variety. Tanya was tattooed with iridescent patches like Garth, but the colors were placed to accentuate her ample curves. She spoke English with a slight accent, worked as a secretary for a shipping firm, and helped out in her father’s business.

I have just the change of pace you need, Garth, she said after kissing him.

You are the only change of pace I need right now, Garth said. Why don’t we just stare at each other across a martini and a steak?

Yeah, we can do that, she said. But how about some classic Ethio-jazz in the background while we bat our eyes at each other?

Outstanding, my sweet, said Garth. I love that dense, wonderful fusion stuff, but you knew that. Also, I don’t mind seeing you bat your eyes—as long as it’s at me.

The Dark Angel was a small club in the center of the