The Earth as we once knew it has changed dramatically, altered and moved in a direction I never would have expected…at least, not in my lifetime. I’d had a boyhood filled with bright, sparkling days of endless summer sunshine, with clear, blue, crystalline skies and fresh, clean air. I’d experienced the joys of swimming in lakes and ponds, jumping heedlessly and exuberantly from docks or banks, splashing handfuls and spewing mouthfuls of brisk water in carefree, youthful abandon. I’d had the opportunity to ski and hike in knee-deep, white, pristine snow along the backwoods of my granddaddy’s property in West Virginia, plowing around cedars heavy with a coating of fresh powder and excitedly tracking the deep prints left by rabbits and deer around thickets and shrubs. I’d watched the seasonal migration of ducks and geese overhead while lying flat in an old hay field, the air so full of the graceful, lively flocks that, sometimes, it seemed the sky was nothing more than a playground for their boisterous, ear-splitting antics. I can remember verdant green hills and clear blue water and sunsets which painted the evening skies with vibrant golds and reds and oranges, the combining tendrils of fiery hues holding on and streaking across the expanse of the horizon like running watercolors, until the purple and indigoes of night ultimately extinguished the dying light of day. If I close my eyes, I can still see it all so clearly…

…until the moment I reopen them. Then, reality hits too hard and I’ve just found it easier not to think back to those days of my boyhood. I’m living and working in the here and now and it does me…and those around me…absolutely no good to sit and mourn for what we once had. As my daddy used to say, we’ve made our bed and, now, we have to lay in it.

The trouble is, this ‘bed’ we made didn’t just start with my generation but began long ago when there were no thoughts of what the quest for civilization and industry and technology could do to the environment and, for that matter, life on the planet as a whole. It was almost an innocuous enemy, stealing into day-to-day life, sneaking up on us until it was almost too late. We’d strangled ecosystems with plastic bags and Styrofoam cups and enough discarded aluminum cans to build several hundred-thousand skyscrapers. Raw sewage floated in streams and rivers and landfills were rapidly changing the contour of the landscape into barely disguised rotting masses of heaped, stinking garbage. Uncountable tons of waste were dumped into the oceans, fumes and toxins were emitted from factories and automobiles, and the decline or extinction of many species of insects and animals heralded the beginning of the end for mankind. Still, populations refused to recognize and change, even after scientists issued stern warnings concerning Earth’s ozone layer and global warming.

Farms and settlements gave way to towns and cities as populations grew and swelled, stretching and expanding the boundaries of every country around the world. Fractions arose, disputes were waged, and wars erupted and were fought with an arsenal of armaments so vile that it only brought more devastation to the environment. Oil fields were burned, tankers were sunk, bioweapons employed, and, still, governments persisted in exhibiting deadly force against their enemies, all in the name of world power and, oddly enough, of peace. Bombs were dropped, military personnel and civilians alike perished, and Earth almost became a choked, angry cinder amongst the heavenly jewels sparkling in the rich ebony of the expansive universe.

Just when it looked as if we were on the fast track to extinction, we’d unexpectedly heard from beings outside our own galaxy. It was then that Mankind had stopped killing itself. It was then that governmental heads of state and bureaucrats and muckedy-mucks ceased the arguing and the name-calling and the sure path to genocide by heeding the voices of our alien visitors. Only, in my eyes, it’d been a damn shame it took something like that to get our collective heads out of our asses and an even a bigger shame we couldn‘t have done it all by ourselves. We’d been so busy trying to kill each other…and, by default, our planet…that we’d forgotten about how really small the Earth is in the grander scheme of the universe. Obviously, Big Brother was alive and well and had been watching from afar, not caring one iota for the mess we’d gotten ourselves into. The aliens gave us a spark of hope, right when everything appeared hopeless.

Within the past five years, Earth has made a remarkable recovery, though some things will never be the same. We can’t bring back all those things we lost during the years of madness, like certain, extinct species or, more importantly, the millions of innocent victims that perished so carelessly and so needlessly along the way. We lost several generations during the chaos, biotoxins killing the very young and the very old in just a matter of mere weeks. The world-wide body count had been staggering.

Adding to the horror of the human toll, every country around the world lost priceless artifacts and treasures because of the planned military strikes and the random suicide bombers, including those housed within the Louvre Museum in Paris to the Great Pyramid of Giza to the Great Wall of China. The Christ the Redeemer statue in Brazil was toppled in one attack while the Vatican in Rome was reduced to rubble in another. The Statue of Liberty came down in a rain of shattered pieces, as did the Masjid al-Haram mosque in Mecca, the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem, and the State Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg. The bombs destroyed indiscriminately, taking away our past as well as our present.

The alien visitors, who’d remained aloof and unidentifiable to most while they‘d helped us begin healing, did an admirable job of fixing what they could before they left us alone again: we now have breathable air, our oceans are, once again, fairly clean, and any weapons of mass destruction once belonging to any of the nations of the world have been confiscated and taken away, destroyed somewhere out there amongst the stars. The aliens didn’t come to rule or subjugate…they came to offer us another chance to live but left with one stipulation: no biowarfare and no weapons of mass destruction. Ever.

I don’t think they’re willing to give us another chance and, I believe, would blithely turn their backs to us if we ever got into that shape again. Honestly, if we ever got like that again, it would serve us right to cease to exist. We just don’t deserve this planet.

So, life continues. Yes, there’re still disputes between countries and, sure, there’s still military forces stationed around the world, keeping a watchful eye trained on problematic areas, but, now, there’s a real sense of apprehension when it comes down to any real warfare. The aliens took what bioweapons we all had secretly stockpiled away but they left the scientists who had the knowledge to recreate them within our midst. The potential for disaster remains…and that makes everyone real uneasy.

Oh…and they left something else, too. Something that is about to change my life forever.

I knew what it was, right from the moment NCIS Director Tom Morrow’s personal, handwritten, sealed instructions appeared mysteriously on my desk late one Friday evening, and I’d immediately realized no formally worded complaint or privately delivered appeal I could ever mount would keep the inevitable from happening. It was a done deal, plain and simple, and no matter what I thought or said or did would make one scrap of difference to anyone. The die had already been cast by those ‘visionaries‘ who, more than likely, had absolutely no background in law enforcement and sure as hell would never listen to someone like me. They’d taken their directions straight from the alien visitors, following a path set up to help protect the world from future ruin, and never wavered in their quest.

I’ve never held an illusion to who I really am in the grand scheme of life. Hell, no. I know I’m just considered a small cog in the wheel of this sizable mechanism, a minor player in the overall, dramatic presentation, a peon among the movers and shakers and intellectuals who run this and the other federal organizations across the country. No, what I thought didn’t amount to a hill of beans to anyone but me and my current team of agents. The decision had already been made by those in power, the appropriate paperwork submitted, accepted, signed, and filed away…probably years ago, when the alien visitors were still hovering nearby…and all those with the proper level of clearance considered this unprecedented assignment nothing more than merely a temporary but necessary stepping stone in a mostly unknown, closely guarded, secret governmental plan for the future of the Nation’s…and, eventually…the world’s law enforcement community.

And I was going to be intimately involved, right from the moment of implementation, whether I wanted to be or not. But let me make one thing perfectly clear: I don’t take lightly to being anyone’s stepping stone. Oh, hell, no.

Tom Morrow knows exactly how I feel about this subject, knows precisely how I’d react when informed of the decision, so his tightly worded, bluntly written missive went to great lengths to clearly remind me of my sworn duty to my job, my country, and, yes, even to Mankind itself. What a fucking, manipulative bastard.

The Director has an uncanny way of maneuvering around any roadblocks I can erect when we disagree on procedures or protocols and is never above using our long-time friendship to get what he wants. And he’s remarkably good at his job, brilliant in fact. He would, predictably, use his finely trained oratorical skills to sway me to his way of thinking, twisting my outward defiance and words of refusal until I submit…or, at least, stop voicing my disagreement so loudly. He knows he can always depend on me to do the proverbial ‘right thing’ when it comes to the safety and protection of those who are, first and foremost, in the service of the United States of America: the fighting men and women of the Navy and the Marines.

Did I mention he’s a bastard? Well, he is.

He knows how I feel about those in uniform, knows I took this job years ago, after my own honorable discharge from the Marines, so I could specifically help those associated with that branch of the military. But the fact he also willingly pushes the limits of our personal friendship and sometimes strains our strong professional bond just doesn’t seem to bother him one, single bit…not like it does me. He sees this as a positive direction for NCIS, sees it as the ‘new frontier’ for law enforcement, sees it as a chance to really begin making a difference in the battle against the ranks of continuing terrorism across the globe.

I can only see it as one, big, honking FUBAR.

To make matters even worse, current NCIS Assistant Director Jen Shepard is viewing the whole event as a feather in our caps and has declared the selection of *her* agency as the prototype’s testing ground a combination of her intense, highly influential lobbying skills and plain, old-fashioned good luck. I almost couldn’t stomach seeing that wicked, scheming gleam in her eyes or the shark-like glitter of her small, white teeth when she announced the committee’s choice at a recent supervisory agents’ meeting. It still just about makes my stomach turn each time I look her way..

But that was nothing compared to the predator-like air that hangs around her every day now. She watches everything from a position up by the high railing just outside MTAC like a hawk, her cool, sharp eyes looking down on us at our desks, making sure the training we’ll be needing to ‘handle’ our newest addition is thorough and extensive and very exhausting, and has taken, at times, to almost screeching and hissing when anyone or anything goes contrary to her wishes or ruffles her feathers. It almost seems as if this is what she feels she’s been waiting for her whole career…and all I can see is we’re about to make the biggest mistake of our professional lives.

This prototype we’ll be receiving soon, this ‘Agent Assistant Android‘ unit…or Triple A as it’s been whispered about around the communal water cooler…is going to be her new pet project and, unfortunately, I know she plans to drop the…thing…solely in my lap, per Tom Morrow‘s instructions. All the team leaders have been doing the same time-consuming prep work, have been grooming to handle the specifics of making this…thing…an integrated part of the organization but I know, without a doubt, it’s going to be coming my way first. I’ve seen the signs, can read Shepard’s body language pretty damn well now, and know when the official announcement comes, it’ll be my name she utters. The other supervisors know it, too, and there’s a strangely combined undercurrent of relief and jealousy running the gambit through the individual teams. They’re secretly glad they won’t have to personally fool with this new, unwanted addition but, like everything else, they’re envious of the prestige and honor the placement is supposed to bring to the ‘hosting‘ team.

Prestige and honor. Give me a fucking break.

Nevertheless, I’ve been making sure my agents are prepared for the inevitable. It’s the least I can do for them. They’ll be working side by side with this…thing…and have to be able to understand the hows and the whys and whats of it’s systems, prepared to use it’s programs in sync with our other ’normal’ procedures, and be able to rely on it for quick, accurate assessments at crime scenes and when interviewing potential suspects. It’s supposed to make all our jobs easier but I don’t know how in the hell that’s all going to be accomplished. I can tell both McGee and Todd are already building up walls, have heard them snidely whisper comments about ‘Robocop’ or ‘Data’ or ‘Gort’ to each other when they think I’m not paying attention. That’s okay…I have no idea what I’ll be calling this…thing…either, so those fictional names are all good to me, too. But what *does* bother me is the divide this is causing between us and our colleagues. I’ve seen their strained, almost-forced attempts at keeping personal connections with the members of the other NCIS teams intact and, unfortunately, have witnessed some failures. This is pressure none of us needs at this point.

This…thing…hasn’t even arrived yet and we’ve already been all but ostracized by our peers. What’s going to happen when it’s finally present? Honestly, I shudder to consider the possibilities.

“Boss.”

Tim McGee’s soft voice pulls my attention away from my unproductive musings and I quickly glance in his direction, realizing the scowl I have on my face is probably what’s making him look so nervous. I keep my smirk minimized and can’t help but wonder if he’ll always be this edgy around me. Frankly, I hope so…or at least until I decide to retire.

“What?” I ask, adding a bit of bark. Not too much…wouldn’t want him to start stammering.

“I…I…”

Too late. He’s stuttering already and it‘s not even noon.

“Spit it out, McGee,” I huff and cut my gaze toward the pile of paperwork near my right hand. It contains more about the…thing…that should be arriving at NCIS headquarters today but I’m doing everything in my power to ignore it. I’ve already read enough crap to know I’m not going to like it, no matter what the combined experts at MIT, Stanford, the European Robotics Research Network, or the Naval Research Laboratories have to say about it. Hell, there’s so many foreign countries involved in this project, including Germany, Japan, and Great Britain, this…thing…may not even speak English. I push that thought roughly away and sigh. When nothing else comes from McGee, I raise my eyes back toward my junior agent. “Well?”

“Security just called,” he swallows raggedly and his eyes are as big as saucers. As in, *cups* and saucers…not *flying* saucers, though, realistically, either analogy would probably work in this instance. Since our little indoctrination into the wonders of our distant, celestial neighbors, that distinction now has to be made. “You’ve got a visitor on the way in.”

I frown openly, not caring if it makes his stammering any worse. “*A* visitor? Singular? Not more than one?” I can’t imagine anyone allowing that…thing…to move unaccompanied anywhere among humans…not without causing all kinds of complications or, in my opinion, stampedes. I shrug and shake my head. “It can’t be our Triple A then. Must be some liaison or company flunky, here to shove more crap in our faces before it arrives.”

“Could be that pretty redhead that picked you up from our last crime scene,” Caitlin Todd offers with a gracious, but knowing, smile. She props an elbow on the surface of her desk, drops her chin to one, closed fist, and coyly arches an eyebrow my way. “You still haven’t given us her identity, you know.”

“And I never plan to,” I deadpan back quickly, not wanting to open my personal life up to anymore speculation…especially not with them.

“Oh, come on, Gibbs, just a name would be fine,” she persists and I have to wonder when she got so bold. True, she’s been with me longer than McGee but they both know I don’t do ‘personal’ while on the job…or any other time, for that matter.

I just grunt in response and, when the elevator dings, look quickly over the dividing panels to see who disembarks. The metal doors part and out comes Valdez and Reynolds…and someone else I don’t recognize. He’s tall and fairly young and walks with an easy, open gait. He says something quickly to Valdez, catching the Hispanic woman by surprise, and she whirls to face him, her usually stoic face breaking into a pleased grin. They exchange some words, a few of which I can barely hear, and I realize immediately they’re communicating in Spanish. I frown, taking in his finely tailored suit and his carefully coiffed hairstyle, instantly recognizing him for what he is: just some damn, company lackey. I should have known.

Just as Valdez begins to turn and raise a hand to point in my direction, I slant my focus away from their position and heave a heavy sigh. I don’t need to continue watching to know he’s going to be heading my way. After all the information I’ve already read and absorbed about that…thing…why would I now need some posturing messenger to bring me more? I can hear the soft footfalls on the thin carpeting in front of Todd’s desk and know he’s already entered my team’s work space.

“Agent Gibbs?” The tenor voice is strong and steady but I don’t look up. Let the turd wait a bit. This is my turf and this will be played my way.

After a few silent moments, I decide he’s waited long enough and speak but I continue to keep my eyes on my work. “You here about that …” I scramble around in my head to find the correct designation. It probably wouldn’t be good to call it a ‘thing’ right now, no matter how much I want to say it. “…Agent Assistant Android?”

“Yes, I am.”

Crap. “That’s what I thought.” Throwing my pen down, I push slightly back in my chair, and lace my fingers loosely behind my head, looking up and getting my first real look at the tall man. He offers a small, closed-mouth smile but there’s no humor or friendliness reflected in the depths of his green eyes and I can tell he’s assessing me just as much as I’m assessing him. I let my gaze travel downward, as far as the desk between us will allow, and even though the dark suit hides much, I can tell he’s in good physical condition. Probably plays squash or polo or some other expensive, dumbass, rich-boy, sport. When I slowly work my way back to his face, he’s got his head tilted at a strange, almost bird-like angle and is waiting patiently. There also seems to be a knowing look in his eyes and, maybe, a bit of a smirk, too, and I really don’t like that expression at all. If fact, it really pisses me off. “Well?” I snap. “I’m waiting.”

“You’ve received all the pertinent details concerning your unit? Understand all the specifics?“

“God, I hope so,” I sit up tiredly and cast a wary eye his way. “You’re not here to deliver any more company crap, are you?”

“Crap?” There’s a fleeting, slightly bewildered expression that almost concerns me. Almost but not quite. “No, no more company crap.”

“That’s good.” I’m inordinately relieved. I decide to just get this little chitchat over with as quickly as possible and let this strange, corporate minion get back to his boss. Both Todd and McGee haven‘t done a lick of work since pretty boy waltzed into our space and they need to get back on track. Immediately. “So, you’re here to deliver the thing?” I barely contain my wince and try to gloss over my flippant wording. “Our Triple A unit, I mean.”

“Yes. Your Triple A unit.”

He just stands there, staring at me with those peculiar eyes, and I have to wonder if he’s actually some company bigwig’s mentally damaged nephew, entrusted to do nothing more than deliver simple notices and fetch coffee for his doting uncle and his corporate associates. But I immediately have to rethink that assessment because there’s clear intelligence in that gaze…and an innocence that’s pretty unnerving. I stand up and round my desk, facing him toe to toe.

“So, do we have to go through some protocols to switch it over from your guidance to mine,” I growl irritably, ready to end this oddly disconcerting confrontation, “or is it already set to the parameters of the new assignment?”

“It’s ready to go.” There’s a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth that almost makes his face look boyish…and, dare I say it…charming. He reaches into the depths of his inside, breast pocket and reveals a crisply folded sheet of paper, his slim fingers passing it to me without hesitation. “Just put your signature and date on the appropriate lines and deliver it to Director Morrow.”

“That’s it?” I ask, opening the sheet as I begin to walk toward the staircase leading up toward MTAC and Morrow’s office.

“That’s it.”

“And when can I expect delivery of the…” I barely catch myself this time, “unit?”

There’s a slight hesitation and I pause on the first step to look back at our visitor, seeing his perplexed expression. I frown but wait.

“Agent Gibbs,” he takes a few steps toward my position and looks up at me, “I think there’s been some type of misunderstanding.”

Well, crap. Now what? “Exactly what *kind* of misunderstanding?”

“Your Triple A unit is already here.”

“At NCIS headquarters?” I ask for clarification.

“Yes, that‘s correct.”

“In one of the labs?” I think my query is a pretty logical assumption and the…thing…is probably getting a careful once-over from Ducky and Abby and any other tech who’ll be working with my team. And, as much as I hate to admit it, now that the day of delivery has finally arrived, I’m a little anxious to see this remarkable bit of technology, too.

“No, not in one of the labs.”

Okay, not in the lab. I’m momentarily stymied by this negation but my thoughts instantly fly to my next option. My eyes automatically track up toward Morrow’s domain and, thinking back on the months of Shepard’s unflattering, unfettered glee, I can just about imagine how she’s running her coveting, greedy, little hands all over the…thing…and salivating with a disturbing kind of pseudo-lust. “With the Directors then. Must have been delivered before I arrived this morning.”

I haven’t even taken a half-step before he’s opening his yap again, stopping me cold before I have the chance to move. “No, Agent Gibbs…not with the Directors.”

I turn to face him fully, ready to ream him another asshole, my anger and frustration almost getting the better of me now. Almost. I’m tired of his presence, tired of his non-specific answers, and extremely tired of his weirdly manufactured little smirks.

And then it hits me…hard. I don’t want to believe what my gut is telling me but there’s just no denying the evidence. And I could kick myself for overlooking the obvious. *He’s* the damn Agent Assistant Android unit, in all it’s fabricated, fake, flesh-like covering and it’s fancy, fine-fabric tailored glory, and it makes my real skin crawl to think I didn’t have a fucking clue to his true identity when he walked off the elevator only minutes ago. I level my gaze at the human imposter and, this time, it offers me a genuinely warm, sincere, human-looking smile. My stomach clenches and churns in rising anger and utter revulsion. Nothing made by man should ever look this lifelike. Nothing.

I suddenly find I hate this…*thing*…even more than ever.


TBC

Karel Capek must have been an alien.

Yeah, I know, someone once said the very same thing about Albert Einstein…on a television show or in some movie, way back when the Earth was a totally different place…but that absurdly comical declaration just doesn’t seem so, excuse the expression, ‘out there’ now as it once did, for either of those guys. In fact, it may just explain a hell of a lot to how they came up with some of the stuff they did back in their day.

Oh, sure, Einstein will most likely be remembered for his theory of relativity, his brilliant work in physics, and his genius intellect but he also grimly foretold the probable annihilation of mankind by our own hands, due to our single-minded quest to split the atom way back in the late 1930’s, and tried like hell to get world leaders to heed his warnings of the coming catastrophe. Did they listen? Nah…

But it’s Karel Capek who I keep thinking about these days, particularly his incredibly prophetic writings concerning artificial intelligence and the nature of robotics. Okay, it’s not actually me who’s doing all the thinking. It’s McGee. I didn’t even know who the hell Karel Capek was until he told me a couple of days ago but, now, he sure has managed to grab my interest...even though I act like it’s all nothing but a bunch of useless crap. McGee just can’t help himself, especially since we’ve got a real Triple A unit in our midst, and he never seems to tire on inundating the members of my team with quotes and facts and summaries he accumulates from sources I don’t even want to think about.

According to McGee, Capek is the person responsible for introducing the word robot to the public, way back in 1921, and not, as I so erroneously thought, noted science fiction writer, Isaac Asimov. Capek coined the word robot to describe a being characterized in one of his early plays, a creation used by humanity as nothing more than serf labor, destined only for servitude and drudgery, it’s only purpose to make life easier for those who owned it.

Hell, now that’s how I want and expect robots to be. Give me an enclosed area where a little, molded, disc-shaped, programmable vacuum can trudge silently across carpets and floors, sucking up tufts of lint and particles of grit and stray paper clips or rubber bands and I’m as happy as a dog with two dicks. Ecstatic even. Those are just mindless, automated, relatively cheap constructions that bump harmlessly into walls and furniture and, more importantly, don’t have the ability to walk or talk or look anything like a human being. And, if they accidentally get in the way of a passing person, a well-placed kick can get the offending mechanism right back on track…or scuttling over into some far, out-of-the-way corner.

Of course, that’s not a Roomba sitting at the desk directly across from Caitlin Todd right now, so I don’t suppose I’ll be utilizing that little maneuver anytime soon, no matter how tempted I may get to drive my foot into it‘s creepy, mechanical ass. No. It’s that damn, life-like Triple A unit I find myself staring at, watching it acquaint itself with it’s new surroundings, opening drawers and rifling through file cabinets, examining every, single stack of note pads, every box of pens and pencils, every container of paper clips, large and small, and, I swear, arranging items on the desk’s surface as though it’s planning on placing a picture of it’s family somewhere near the computer monitor.

If it does, I’m going to take out my weapon and just shoot it.

No, really. It may look like a duck and it my quack like a duck and, hell, it may even walk like a duck but it is not a duck, no matter how realistic the package is presented, and I refuse to treat it as anything other than what it is: a robot.

Back in 1942, Isaac Asimov referred to his creations as positronic robots, though I really don’t give a rat’s ass what he called them then. What I do care about are his Three Laws of Robotics which, theoretically, have been programmed into this unit’s subconscious mainframe, three specific rules that all robots in Asimov’s books were supposed to recognize, acknowledge, and follow, making them, essentially, decent tools for human beings. Tools…nothing more, nothing less. They never harmed or allowed a human to come to harm, they obeyed all rules except when it led to the harming of a human, and they protected humans and themselves, as long as no harm came from the protection. Looking at our new Triple A unit, I can clearly see it’s going to be more than just some simple tool and, frankly, may even prove to be a major pain in the butt.

Crap. I must have sighed or growled or made some other quiet, unexpected sound of displeasure because, now, it’s looking straight back at me, sitting perfectly still, hands poised somewhere near the desk lamp, and those damn green eyes focused intently my way. I don’t even want to think that it may actually be able to sense my feelings. God, no. We exchange silent, steady gazes for several long moments, and it looks as though neither one of us is willing to break eye contact. Well, if it thinks I’ll be the one to cave in, it’s going to get it’s first, real lesson in human stubbornness and, really, what better coach could it have? None. I can do stare-downs better than anyone in the building, hell, maybe even all of D.C. It won’t be me looking away, that’s for sure.

I sit back and get comfortable, ready to go the distance, when Todd suddenly clears her throat and the unit glances immediately her way, it’s focus on me broken by the soft sound of her own uneasiness. I’ve still got my eyes on it, so I’m slightly surprised when I see a small smile curve the solemn line of it’s lips, the mouth quirking up at one corner. I instantly look to find out what’s causing this change in expression and see that Cait is returning the smile and leaning forward on her desk…and, oh, look…she’s got her ‘game face’ on.

Huh. This should be interesting.

“So,” she says with an obviously forced nonchalance, “now that you’re a member of our team, just what are we supposed to call you? I don’t think Triple A is very appropriate, do you?”

The unit shifts a bit on the padded seat and calmly folds it’s hands together on the work surface but I see the quirky, little smile has vanished and the green eyes have dropped to study it’s clasped fingers. “The biochemist who gave me my final, human programming is Gianmarco Nozzo and he said I could be referred to as ‘DiNozzo’, if that was acceptable to my human counterparts.”

“Hey, I get it! Like those who originally came from certain areas in Italy.” McGee’s cheerful voice abruptly draws everyone’s attention and I have to wonder what in the hell he’s referring to now. He looks directly toward Todd and completely ignores me and…it. “You know, Cait, like Leonardo da Vinci came from the Vinci region in Italy.” At her continuing perplexed expression, he rises from his seat and takes a few steps in her general direction, stopping in that open, no-man‘s-land that floats between all of our desks. He shakes his head and smiles. “Joe DiMaggio’s ancestors probably came from the Maggio region and Brian DePalma’s from the Palma area.” I can see he really wants her to understand. “That’s how names used to be recorded. They used the ‘da’ or ‘di’ or ‘de’ to mean ‘from‘. ”

Todd frowns again but she eases slightly back in her chair, tapping a slim finger on a manila folder that I know holds her latest report. “So, Robert DiNiro and Leonardo DiCaprio’s ancestors came from Niro and Caprio?”

“I don’t know,” McGee shrugs honestly. “Probably.” He glances over at…it…and nervously shoves his hands into his pockets. “So, were you constructed in Italy?”

“No,” comes the quick reply, the green eyes now alert and directed at my youngest agent, “I was…”

Interesting. It actually is hesitating.

“…created and manufactured in Cambridge at MIT’s CSAIL. Doctor Nozzo works…”

“MIT?” McGee interrupts, stepping closer to it’s desk, his voice full of exuberance. I can easily imagine the glee on his youthful face, even without seeing it. “You were created in the MIT labs?”

“Yes. Partially.”

Well, crap. Now, they’re going to bond.

“What’s CSAIL?” Todd asks as she moves to join them, her interest piqued by McGee’s enthusiasm.

“It’s the Computer Science and Artificial Intelligence Laboratory.”

McGee’s not even looking at her as he answers the query and it almost seems as though he can’t take his eyes off of the new unit now. New unit. Sounds like it should be an air conditioner or an entertainment center or something…less human looking. Wonder if I can shove a CD in it’s mouth and make it sing? I should rein them both in right now and remind them of the work we have to do before we can leave for the day but I’m hoping they might actually use some of their finely honed investigative skills and find out what it meant by that ‘partially’ response. If it wasn’t completely created at MIT, just where in the hell did the other parts come from?

“Do you know Professor Katz or, maybe, Doctor Clark?” McGee is actually asking it about some of the people he must have known when he attended MIT and I’m hard-pressed to keep my mouth shut. This type of questioning isn’t relevant right now. “Or how about Professor Arvind?”

“No, I’m sorry,” the Triple A is answering softly, “I never actually met those you’ve named, though I have heard of them. I’m very familiar with the Senior Research Scientists who I came into contact with after being activated. Perhaps you know Professors Knight, Poggio, and Katz?”

I’ve got to nip this direction of questions/answers in the bud before it gets totally out of hand or they’re just going to spend the rest of the afternoon comparing notes and not really getting to the heart of the matter. I quietly clear my throat and, as expected, Todd glances my way.

Come on, Cait, I know you can do this. I wordlessly send my message and hope she catches my drift.

She arches an eyebrow at me while we do the silently exchange thing and then she turns back to…it. See, there’s a reason she’s my senior field agent.

“So, DiNozzo,” she says the name haltingly and I can hear the wince in her voice. Good. I’m not the only one feeling a little uncomfortable about this thing having a human name. “If you weren’t put all together at MIT, then where did the other parts come from?”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t put together at MIT,” it corrects her gently, “I said I wasn’t completely created at MIT.”

Todd is nodding but she‘s got that bristle-up-her butt look brewing around the edges of her eyes. She crosses her arms and leans a hip against it’s desk, looking down her nose at the unit.

“Okay,” she almost sneers, “where else were some of your parts created?”

It tilts it’s head to one side and studies her posture before answering and I can clearly see all friendliness it may have exhibited earlier toward my agent is long gone. Hhmm…could it actually be touchy about the subject of it’s own creation? Sure seems that way to me.

“Some came from Japan, some from Germany. Many places actually.”

I can’t help myself because, frankly, after listening to McGee talk about Karel Capek and me thinking about Albert Einstein and Isaac Asimov, the question I need answered is too damn pressing. “Any alien technology floating around inside there, too?”

Both McGee and Todd seem a bit startled by my quiet question but, hey, even they recognize a good one when they hear it. The unit leans to one side, angling it’s head to gaze around McGee’s body so it has a clear view of my seated position, and I can see something different shift within those strange eyes, something that looks an awful lot like anger or displeasure before it evaporates into a polite blankness. But that can’t be right because this is just a machine. Granted, it’s supposedly a miracle of biochemistry and synthetic biology and semantic software but, if it also includes alien technology, it may also have something I don’t even want to think about.

“Yes.” It answers calmly.

Well, crap. There it is: alien technology on board. I’m going to have to find one of those damn, little, diamond-shaped signs I periodically see hanging in some new parent’s car window and stick it to it’s forehead. That’ll scare people away for sure.

I’m not surprised to see both Todd and McGee take a hesitant step away from it’s desk but it makes me grin nonetheless. They’re just as uncomfortable with the idea as I am.

Just as I get ready to ask for more specifics, my desk phone rings and I grudgingly answer it. It’s the Assistant Director and she wants me to escort the unit down to Ducky’s domain, so he and Abby can give it a thorough once-over and, knowing Abby, ask all kinds of interesting questions. I tune Shepard out as she continues to drone on in my ear, absently watching as Todd and McGee slowly retreat to their own desks, leaving the Triple A alone to continue it’s casual exploration through the office supplies. It’s sort like watching a big child who‘s been plopped into a new situation, the long, finely tapered fingers touching and examining the stapler, then the letter opener, and, finally, an opened package of chewing gum someone must have tossed inside a drawer while temporarily using the desk. The unit carefully turns the slim rectangle over and over, pausing once to read the label, and then places it as far to one edge of it’s desk as it can, the green eyes warily staying on the package for a few moments longer before finally rising to meet my gaze again.

I think this is where we left off just a little while ago but I’m in no mood to play staring games with it now. I’m dimly aware of the AD finally hanging up, so I do the same, placing the handset back in the cradle. Time to get this little traveling show on the road.

I push back and get to my feet, keeping my eyes on the Triple A unit, and I tip my head to one side, gesturing in the direction of the elevator with my chin. “You’re with me.”

I don’t wait for a reply or pause to see if it’ll follow. It’s a damn robot and that’s what it’s programmed to do: follow orders. Can’t get any more simple than that.

We enter the lift almost in step but it moves immediately toward the back, turning to stand silently just behind my right shoulder. I don’t like it there, out of my line of sight, but I’m sure as hell not going to tell it to move. I can stand the short trip down to autopsy but just barely.

Both Ducky and Abby are waiting and, like a trained pair of circus monkeys, they spring into action as we enter the cold, sterile room, bracketing the Triple A on both sides. I swear, they’re fairly salivating with unbridled expectation.

“Wow,” exclaims Abby, almost a bit breathless, her pale eyes wide with undisguised wonder and her fingers reaching to stroke boldly down one, hairless cheek. “Well, hello, handsome.”

The unit surprises me, though I guess I should have known it wouldn’t be offended or act inappropriately, and offers Abby a polite smile in return. The green eyes openly roam her animated face and shift quickly down her to neck, instantly focusing in on the tattoo not covered by her clothing. I’ll bet it never saw anyone like *this* at that fancy MIT laboratory.

“Hello,” it responds almost genially…and then raises a finger to lightly trace part of the inked design. I have to restrain myself from reaching out and snapping it’s wrist, wanting nothing more than to get this thing away from Abby’s skin, but it looks as though this is going to be a mutual admiration session…for all three of them.

Ducky’s smiling now, too, alert eyes scanning the unit from head to toe, his blue gaze all but sparkling behind the lenses of his glasses. “Welcome to NCIS.” Unbelievably, he’s offering his right hand and I have to fight down my urge to force the unit away from my old colleague. “I’m Doctor Mallard but you, my new friend, may call me Ducky.”

The Triple A instantly shifts his gaze to the extended hand and turns to accept the kind greeting, taking the aging flesh and bones into it’s gentle, careful embrace, the slightly reserved smile blossoming into a full-fledged grin, showing perfect teeth and all. “I’m honored, Doctor Mallard.” It lowers it’s head slightly and then looks back up from under a dual fan of thick lashes. “Ducky.”

And, like Abby and Ducky, I’m suddenly impressed….for about one, split second. I swiftly remember what it is and why it’s here and have to wrestle that traitorous feeling quickly back under control. I’m not going to fall under this thing’s artificial, programmed, charming spell.

Charming? The unsuitable word echoes around in my mind until I’m almost dizzy and I’m sucking in a deep breath to steady my momentarily rattled thoughts. Where in the hell did that come from?

I growl softly low in my throat, catching the attention of the nearby trio, and move to make my exit. “It’s all yours.” I call over one shoulder. “You know what Shepard wants, so send her the report when you’re finish.”

I almost make it to the door, when I hear the Triple A’s voice call out to me. “Agent Gibbs.”

Crap.

I halt at the doorway and turn, hoping the chill in my gaze can be felt across the distance. “What?”

The damn thing takes one step toward me and offers a small smile. “Thank you for giving me this opportunity. I won’t let you down.”

What? What the fuck is this shit?

Anger suddenly washes over me like a tidal wave swamping an ant colony. I speedily retrace the steps separating me from the unit, closing in on this new, unwanted intruder, and get right into it’s personal space…if it even has anything personal. I can feel my rage and resentment simmering right under the surface of my cracking façade and have to fight to reign it in. Ducky’s abruptly at my side and his tight hold on my right arm helps to ground and steady my erupting emotions.

“You listen to me, you glorified walking manikin, I did not ask for you to be a part of my team,” I want to clear the air of any misconception quickly…and, maybe, let it know I’ll never accept it as a member of my team. “The SecNav sent you to NCIS and the Director sent you to me. I didn’t ask for you, I don’t want you, and I sure as hell don’t plan to give you any ‘opportunities’.” I sneer the last word and can see it’s eyes grow wide and the smile slip off it’s face and, unbelievably, even it’s shoulders slump just a bit. I shake my head at the almost-human response to the rejection. “Just stay out of my way and do as you’re told. Understand?”

“Jethro,” Ducky’s soft voice holds a slight measure of reprimand…maybe even disappointment…but I know he’s only trying to calm me down.

“Understand?” I pointedly ask the Triple A again, ignoring Ducky and Abby and the spark of common sense trying, ineffectively, to douse the flame of anger in my mind.

The unit nods once, it’s face quickly blanking of all emotion. “Yes, Agent Gibbs. I understand.”

“Good.”

I pull my arm from Ducky’s grasp and whirl away, heading straight back toward the elevator. I’ve got to get away from that…thing…got to put some distance between it and my fist, as swiftly as I can. I can barely stand the short wait it takes for the compartment to arrive back on this floor and catch myself actually reaching out to try to pry the doors open faster when it appears, the need to get away burning a hole in the pit of my belly and churning up the juices.

I can’t seem get into the elevator quick enough and, when I finally do, I slam the palm of my hand over the button that will take me back to my work floor, only vaguely satisfied when it illuminates and the movement begins. Almost instantly, I activate the ‘stop’ control and have to bend over, bracing myself with hands on knees, taking several deep, calming breaths. I’ve got to get a hold of this aversion, got to get myself under control, and got to let go of the past…

…because that’s the root of what I’m feeling right now and, deep down, I know it.

Both Tom Morrow and Jen Shepard are aware of my past experiences with the Navy’s Warfare Human System Integration Lab, they both know how my unit of Marines was used as guinea pigs during the testing stages of it’s Military Operations in Urban Terrain missions, and they both know how only a handful of us survived because of a flaw in the artificial intelligence’s programming. Granted, it all boiled down to human error but when those around me were bleeding and dying and we were screaming for assistance, hoping to find some relief from the situation, there was no actual human being to hear our voices and come to our aid. Just some damn robot. What they both don’t know is how that experience scarred me.

I slowly straighten up and swipe a shaking hand across my brow, not surprised to feel a fine sheen of slick sweat. The shouts and cries of my injured and dying buddies will never be forgotten…nor will my inability to get them any help. I’d felt powerless and useless and completely frustrated. Worthless and impotent but, in the end, so much smarter. Those of us who survived that fated, failed mission vowed to never rely on anything but another flesh and blood Marine again. Ever.

And, now, I find myself saddled with another robot, expected to treat it as part of my team and integrate it into the workings of the agency’s directives. Work with it and teach it and, ultimately, trust it.

Not damn likely.

I may not have been able to stop the unnecessary deaths of those Marines all those years ago but I sure as hell can make certain nothing like that ever happens to my team because of this new…thing. I swallow down the bile that’s been working it’s way into the back of my throat, wince at the acidic taste, and reluctantly reaching out to slap the elevator’s restart button.

Damn Tom Morrow and damn Jen Shepard and, more importantly, damn that Agent Assistant Android unit. One of us is not going to survive this assignment.


TBC

“Three may keep a secret…if two of them are dead.”
Benjamin Franklin

The act of keeping a secret can, sometimes, be a difficult, frustrating, and energy-sapping task, driving even the most steadfast person right to the brink of distraction. It can be like a persistent tickle or an unrelenting itch playing constantly at the back of the mind, sleeping only periodically and then awakening at the most inopportune of times, abruptly clawing it’s way heedlessly, determinedly, up into the back of the throat and spilling out into the mouth like an ugly blob, attempting to escape the dark, wet confines and be expelled through betraying lips and teeth. There may be a momentary feeling of remorse, once the secret is passed on, but, more times than not, it also seems to bring a significant amount of relief to the teller and, usually, a sense of self-importance. At other times, the secret is passed on almost as soon as it’s given, from one person to the next, the special, concealed tidbit not even harbored long enough to know any real suppression. It almost seems to go directly against human nature to keep secrets, as if sharing the private fragment of knowledge will, somehow, validate the importance of trying to keep it unspoken and unshared in the first place.

But I don’t feel that way…never have…and am perfectly content to keep all my secrets hidden within the deepest recesses of my psyche, locking them in tight and keeping the bolt fastened securely. No one else needs to know that I loved my mother more than I loved my father or about the hidden stash of porn I found in my grandfather’s closet right after he died or how, in the days before the Earth changed and livestock was readily available for slaughter, I used to sometimes get extremely turned on while watching men eat meat. No, I have no desire to share those few items with anyone and I plan to keep them secreted away, taking them with me to the grave. Not because I feel they would damage my professional ’status’ with my colleagues and peers. Hell, no. I don’t give a flying fuck what they think of me personally; that’s for pansy-assed, pencil-pushing, pompous politicians…or teenaged girls.

Oh, I’ve got more secrets than just that small handful, some focusing around my time as a sniper for the Marine Corps and some concerning my short but extremely meaningful first marriage, but those almost seem insignificant to this one presently eating away at my soul and, I suppose, it’s because this secret could directly effect the members of my current team and not just me. I’d never recklessly put them in danger, never willingly expose them to a situation like I endured with my comrades-in-arms all those years ago while still in the Corps, and never irresponsibly risk their lives over the potential failings of some man-made, alien-influenced, hunk of fabricated metal…or whatever the hell it’s made of. I like to think I learned a lesson from that experience…a very hard lesson…but one I will never forget. The human race can’t afford to lose any more good people, especially at the hands of something designed, theoretically, to assist us toward a goal of planet-wide unity and stability.

We’ll see.

So, I’ll play along for now and closely watch this Triple A unit, keeping my secret to myself and my eyes wide open to what it really is: an interloper, a weak link, and an unwanted, human-looking burden around my neck. Morrow and Shepard couldn’t have chosen a better albatross for me to bear.

The elevator dings and I glance quickly at the display located at the corner of my computer monitor, knowing the unit should be returning relatively soon. I don’t want to seem anxious or eager, so I keep myself from looking that way but it’s damn hard. That thing has been with Ducky and Abby for an inordinately long amount of time and I’ve been tempted once…or twice…to give them a call, just to check to make sure they’re both all right and haven’t fallen prey to faulty programming or some short-circuiting mechanism. Yeah, that would be a real kicker, wouldn’t it? Two of the most important members of the entire NCIS establishment taken out by one rogue, defective, experimental android. This place would never be the same…and I would be the one to personally put that worthless shit pile of artificial intelligence permanently away, scattering the pieces with my own hands and making sure whatever alien technology I find in the remaining mess is ground to a fine pulp under my heels.

I take a deep breath and hold it in for a moment, trying to calm my fears and my anger, because I can hear Abby disembarking from the elevator…probably with the unit right at her shoulder…and she sounds like she usually does: bright, happy, and fairly bouncing with barely restrained enthusiasm. And, more importantly, unharmed. I glance her way and see I was right. She’s talking continually to it, smiling and babbling, and the thing is just nodding and trying to stay up with her long, energetic strides. The look on it’s face is almost comical, like it just doesn’t know what to make of the young woman’s liveliness, but it seems content to listen and make the periodic bobbing motion with it’s head, a small smile playing around the corners of it’s mouth.

But there’s something else I can’t help but notice now, something that sets my teeth on edge and makes my ire rise once again: it’s walking with a more relaxed, laid-back gait and looks, unbelievably, like it’s just been out for a couple of drinks with some close friends. I don’t like that appearance on it at all. As I look closer, I can see it’s impeccably dressed form is vastly different, too. Now, it almost seems casually attired. The suit coat is off and draped nonchalantly over one shoulder, the tails of the carefully pressed dress shirt are untucked and hanging out, the collar is unbuttoned and the tie is missing, and the long sleeves are rolled up to just below it’s elbows, exposing strong looking forearms covered in a slight dusting of very real looking hair.

It looks human…and I have to forcibly swallow back the bile that rises unexpectedly into my throat.

I can see both Todd and McGee have stopped their individual tasks as Abby approaches, their eyes quickly flicking surreptitiously back and forth between the approaching duo, and I’m perfectly aware they’ve just been hanging around for this reason. They could have headed for home an hour ago but both weren’t about to leave for the day without seeing what would happen when the Triple A came back up. They want to hear what the examination revealed and, more importantly, they want to hear what Abby and Ducky think about our newest NCIS tool.

“Gibbs!” Abby almost squeals with delight as she moves past Todd’s desk and throws her arms out wide, her pale eyes shining with devilment. “Congratulations, it’s a boy!”

McGee barks out a quick laugh and swiftly averts his face. I shoot him a stern look that goes relatively unnoticed before refocusing my attention totally on my boisterous tech.

“Abby!” Cait’s voice has that scolding, slightly appalled tone it gets when she’s unsuccessfully trying to recapture the prim and proper little Catholic girl she might have been when she was twelve. But there’s a hint of a smile playing around her mouth, too, and I know she thinks Abby’s remark is funny. “I think we can all tell DiNozzo represents a male.”

“Well, he represents a male a lot more than I bet you can imagine,” she almost crows in delight, her dark eyebrows arching wickedly and her mouth forming a knowing smirk. “A *lot* more.”

The statement makes me frown. Just why in the hell would it be made to…

“Why would an android need sexual organs?” McGee’s pertinent question silences my concerns and aptly asks exactly what I’m thinking. “They can’t biologically reproduce.” He hesitates for a moment, his expression slowly turning a bit sickly. “They *can’t*, can they?”

“Well, no,” Abby begins, rolling her eyes, and I know I have to change the direction of this conversation immediately, before she has the chance to gear up and proceed with her explanation. “Reproduction requires…”

“Abby,” I growl out my displeasure and wait as she swings her gaze back my way. She drops her chin slightly and looks at me from under the fan of her dark lashes, like some wayward child, and I have to resist the urge to reach out and smack her impertinent, little ass. She can play ‘coy’ all she wants with others but she knows I don’t do that game. “Just stick to the relevant information.”

“But, Gibbs,” there’s a slight, petulant whine to her voice, “penises *are* relevant.” My stern gaze makes the dark pout slowly slip from her face. She sighs deeply and then immediately hands me the thick folder she’s brought up from the lab, her quick mind recognizing my mood. “Okay, here’re the results of the tests Ducky and I ran and the conclusions of our examinations.” She turns just a bit and watches as…it…silently retakes the seat behind the desk that’s been assigned while it works here. “It’s just as the information we received months ago described…with that not-so-little penis surprise added in…” she’s smiling as she turns back to me and I have to wonder just how ‘personal‘ she got with the unit, “and all the systems check out like they should. As far as we can tell, he’s a real close cousin to that rocking H7 humanoid robot created by Doctor Nishiwaki and his colleagues from the Digital Human Research Center in Tokyo several years ago…only better.”

Better. Right. I’ll be the judge of that…and, maybe, even the jury and the executioner before this is all over.

“Oh, it’s much, much more than merely ‘better‘, my dear Abigail,” Ducky’s cultured voice insists from somewhere to my left and I glance over to watch as our medical examiner enters from the area just past the spare desk located near McGee’s position. He stops and looks pointedly at me. “Our new unit is an ingenious mix of technology and biology, it’s body equipped with visual, auditory, and other sensory capabilities that slightly exceed human abilities. It understands written and verbal communication,” he turns to take a few steps toward the Triple A, “and is even fluent in a host of foreign languages, aren’t you, my new friend? But, best of all,” his blue eyes swing back toward me and I can see his pleasure simmering just under the surface, “it has the ability to reason and can mirror our own extensive, contextual knowledge of the real world.”

“And that’s a good thing?” I have to ask, knowing I should act more pleased with their report but I’m just unable to share in any of their unnerving enthusiasm at this point.

I can’t miss Ducky’s frown or his knowing look. I’ve never related the tale of my past experience with robots to him but I think he suspects something has turned me sour to them. He’s a sly, old fox and knows me much too well, so I’ll have to be careful if I plan on maintaining my secret. I try to keep my expression as bland as possible and just wait for his response.

“Of course it’s a good thing,” he replies steadily, still watching me closely with those knowing eyes. “The alien technology it carries allows it to process a range of human characteristics. It has emotions, creativity, intuition, will, sexual identity…”

“I’ll say it does,” Abby mumbles tartly under her breath and McGee strangles back another laugh, turning it into a soft cough before completely stopping.

“Wait a minute,” Todd is rising from her desk and moving toward the Triple A’s position, folding her arms across her chest and looking down at the silent, seated unit. It’s clear, green eyes stare back at her steadily but I’ll be damn if I can detect any expression on that manufactured face. “If it has emotions, how is it we’ve not seen any of them yet? I mean,” she shrugs and tries not to look embarrassed by her query, glancing quickly away from the unit, “if it has emotions, shouldn’t we be seeing them?”

“Ah, I see. Just what did you have in mind, Caitlin?” Ducky asks a bit shrewdly, tilting his head to one side.

“Well, I don’t know,” she sounds a bit exasperated and I can understand her attitude. So far, all I’ve seen are a few small smiles and some strangely child-like expressions but, other than that, nothing. “Does it even laugh?”

“Has it heard *you* laugh yet?” Ducky asks pointedly, waving a hand distractedly toward McGee’s position without looking at the young agent. “And don’t equate that stifled bit of noise we just heard from Timothy as a true laugh.”

“I guess not,” Todd confesses but still looks confused. Yeah, join the club, Cait…I feel the same way. “What has that got to do with anything?”

“This unit,” Ducky moves close and places a hand lightly on the Triple A’s closest shoulder, “is programmed to respond accordingly to the emotions it receives from it’s new team.” He casts his gaze toward each of us and ends, of course, with me. Yep. Sly, old fox. I remain stoic until his eyes finally shift back to Todd. “He needs to have close contact with each of you, personally, one at a time.” Now, just wait one damn minute. I didn’t expect *this* shit. “He will learn from each of you and will respond appropriately.”

Ducky tilts his chin down and studies the unit’s bent head and I suddenly see something I never expected from a robot: it’s cheeks are slightly flushed, like it’s embarrassed or self-conscious by the line of our questioning, and, unbelievably, it seems to be uncomfortable with the conversation going on around it. That can’t be right. Since when can a damn robot have feelings like that?

Since alien technology, I suppose. Well, crap.

“Awww,” Abby is moving close to it and hikes a hip up on the edge of it’s desk, looking down at the bent head and trying, I guess, to administer a little comfort, “don’t be upset, Tony. Everything will be all right.”

“Tony?” McGee squawks out, confusion falling over his face. “I thought it was going to be called ‘DiNozzo‘.”

“We just can’t keep calling it ‘DiNozzo’ every time we speak to it,” Abby’s adamant, her eyes sparking with indignation. “How cold is that?” Her stare flashes a bit in annoyance. “It needs a first name, too, *Timmy*.”

“What‘s wrong with ‘DiNozzo‘?” Todd asks and I feel a strange flush of pride. Straight Cait goes right to the heart…always. “It’s an android. Who gives androids first names anyway?”

“Historically speaking,” McGee is rising from his seat and I have a sinking suspicion the Elf Lord is about ready to rear his ugly head, “robots have been given human names since their inception.”

“Human *first* names?” Todd stresses, not looking one bit convinced.

McGee nods and takes a few steps into the fray, rubbing his hands together briskly. Crap, here we go. “Well, sure…um, kind of.” Does he really think *that* will convince anyone? “There was Robby the Robot…”

“Tim,” Todd is frowning now and lets loose a small sigh, “I don’t think ‘the Robot’ can be classified as a last name, so Robby was probably it’s only name.”

Atta girl. Let’s spread the common sense around a bit more, can we?

“Well, then,” but McGee doesn’t look deterred in the least by her observation and is pressing on, “there’s Andrew Martin from Bicentennial Man and Roy Batty from Blade Runner…”

“I think you both are missing Abby’s point here,” Ducky sighs, blithely interrupting, and I’m not really sure I want to know where he’s planning on taking this exchange. “Our new unit is going to be working side by side with all of you, absorbing and processing the way you interact with and react to other human beings and situations. You’ll be providing your names to witnesses and to potential suspects, you’ll be identifying yourselves while gathering information from other agencies but, more importantly, the whole idea of having this remarkable tool at our disposal is to let it become an active, functioning, contributing member of this team. To successfully accomplish this, it must appear, by all standards, to be human in every way. What could be more simple than providing it with a complete human name?”

There’s silence as we all turn our thoughts inward and digest Ducky’s words. I don’t know what the others are thinking but, as much as I believe my old friend truly is being honest in his assessment of the situation, I can’t agree with him. Nothing will ever or can ever take the place of a real, live human. It goes against everything I believe. There are split-second decisions that sometimes have to be made, when life hangs in the balance, decisions hinging on experience and familiarity and training, and no amount of alien technology imbedded within some artificial intelligence will ever be able to do the work of one, fully functional, human mind.

Todd softly clears her throat and shifts her gaze back to Abby. “So, why ‘Tony’?”

Abby offers an open, sincere smile. “Well, his primary creator is the well-known Italian-American biochemist Gianmarco Nozzo and I just thought it would be nice to give a good, Italian boy a good, Italian name.”

“I like it.”

The Triple A’s sudden statement takes me by surprise, hell, it takes *everyone* by surprise, as does the genuine smile of gratitude it bestows upon Abby. There’s pleasure reflected in those green eyes and, I swear, if I didn’t know any better, I could really believe it was actually a living, breathing human.

But it’s not…

“Okay, enough of this,” I cut through all this needless crap and get back to what’s really important here. Name or no name, that thing will answer to whatever I decide to call it, if anything at all. I level my gaze at Ducky. “This ‘close, personal contact’ you say it has to have with each of us…why’s that so important?” And, more precisely, how do I get out of it?

Ducky’s walking back in my direction and pointing toward the folder in my possession, like I should have already thoroughly read what Abby just handed me only moments ago. “Personal rapid imprinting is part of the transfer process and it will allow Tony,” he casts a quick, almost-fatherly look toward the still-smiling android before gazing back at me, “the opportunity to get to know each of us much faster than say, oh…the months and years we’ve all had by just being around each other.” He arches a knowing eyebrow and lowers his voice conspiratorially. “It’s all quite painless, Jethro. All you have to do is spend some time with our new team member and it will simply learn from what it observes.”

And that’s exactly what I don’t want it to do. Not from me anyway.

“You mean, I can take it home with me?” Abby asks, a bit too gleefully for my liking and I immediately get a strange vision of uncomfortable body piercings and of dark eye liner and of morbid, satin-lined coffins. The thing looks spooky enough to me already…I don’t know what I’d do if Abby turned the unit Goth.

But what really yanks my chain is the thought of this thing actually being alone with Abby, even in her own, familiar surroundings, and my stomach instantly forms into one, tight knot. Ain‘t never going to happen, not if I have any say in the matter. “N…”

“Yes.” A sharp, curt voice cuts me off before I can even complete my growled, negative response and I look up to see Jen Shepard slowly descending the stairs, her eyes keenly focused on the Triple A unit where it sits calmly at it’s desk. She smoothly comes the rest of the way down, a vision of professional calm and control, and lets her gaze rake over all of us, making sure she has our collective, undivided attention. “You all will be spending time, individually, with our new unit to insure a successful, complete imprinting but only after Director Morrow and I have had our own opportunity to do so. It’s vitally important that this remarkable addition is indoctrinated correctly,” her eyes find mine and lock and, I swear, I can see a spark of fanaticism gleaming in those blue depths, “and I’m relying on each of you to do your best to ensure a smooth transition.” Crap. “I’m, also, depending on you all to uphold the standards of this agency. Our number one priority has been and always will be to protect the people, families, and assets of the United States Navy and Marine Corps worldwide and this new addition,” her eyes swing back to the seated ‘addition‘, ”will enable us to do our jobs more efficiently. So,” she turns to face a very serious looking Abby, “as soon as it’s completed the imprinting process with Director Morrow and myself, you can work out a rotation that is acceptable to all but,” those eyes are instantly back on me again, “I believe it would be best if Agent Gibbs does his imprinting before anyone else. Do I make myself clear?”

Oh, I understand all right. It’s crystal clear. I understand that Jen Shepard continues to push her weight around, continues to force me into situations she knows goes firmly against my finely honed instincts, and continues to punish me, in her underhanded, egotistical, and self-serving manner, for ending our torrid affair several years ago. The woman may be a NCIS public relations dream and she may have a savvy statistical mind but she’s been nothing but a nightmare for me since our split. If Ducky and Abby hadn’t been around, I probably would have asked for a transfer to somewhere as far away from DC as possible. Then Cait came along. And then McGee. There’s no way I could leave here…or them…willingly now, no matter how much grief Shepard still persists in throwing my way. No, the only way I’ll be leaving is in a body bag.

Which, considering this new assignment with this Triple A unit, may just happen a lot sooner than expected.

Shepard steps back over toward it’s desk and nods once. “Say your goodbyes for the night and come up to my office.”

“Yes, Assistant Director Shepard,” the thing responds without inflection.

I watch from the corner of my eye as Shepard starts back up the steps, her slim body held tight and her back ramrod straight, and I have to wonder what I ever saw in her in the first place. True, the bloom of her youth is fading fast but it’s that icy level of cold, calculating, callowness that really is changing her attractiveness for me. I began seeing it right before I broke off our affair and, since then, it’s almost all I can see in her. And whether she would ever believe me at all if I told her, the combination of those characteristics is making her an ugly person, inside and out.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you Monday morning,” Abby is smiling at the unit, a girlish grin spreading across her face.

“Yes,” the Triple A nods and rises from it’s seat, offering it’s right hand in a gesture reminiscent of what it received from Ducky upon it’s arrival. The smile that graces it’s face is open and full of happiness…and I have to avert my eyes. If I keep seeing those surface, human qualities and traits, all the subtle smiles and blushes and grins, I’m bound to eventually forget all the technology that’s actually housed inside it and I can‘t afford to do that. “Thank you so much for being so nice to me, Abby.” It continues. “I hope we’ll be able to spend a lot of time together in the future.”

Over my dead body.

Abby giggles and I glance back just in time to see her accept it’s hand. The contact is brief but, even then, I silently will it to let her go.

Ducky quickly says goodbye, gets a shake, too, and then is gone. The Triple A is standing by it’s desk, it’s eyes tracking back and forth between Todd and McGee, like it doesn’t know who to approach first, trying to decide on the proper etiquette for such a situation. It doesn’t even glance my way…for which I’m glad…but I’m suddenly interested in seeing what it will do. Both Todd and McGee are standing equally close to it’s location, so it could go either way, though a real gentleman would probably approach the woman first.

I hold back a snort because, of all the properties this thing supposedly possesses, I’ll just bet none of those damn brainiacs that put it together ever considered including lessons in good manners and propriety. When it suddenly moves toward Todd, disappointment floods my mouth because, really, I want it to fail.

“Goodnight, Agent Todd,” it offers with a smile, hand extended, but Cait doesn’t reach out to accept and the happy expression instantly evaporates.

“Look, DiNozzo…er, Tony,” she stumbles a bit as she tries out the names, her hands slipping well out of reach to the small of her back and her eyebrows angling downward in annoyance, “we don’t usually shake hands with each other when we leave.”

“No?” It asks with keen interest, clearly digesting the new information. “Then, how do you say goodbye at the end of the day?”

“Well…” Cait begins to explain but I don’t want to hear any more of this crap. Let it learn it’s social lessons from someone else, some other time.

“I usually say, ‘Get the hell out of here’,” I snarl rather roughly, turning cool, stern eyes it’s way. “Or I say, ‘Don’t drag your ass in late on Monday morning’. Do us all a favor and just take your pick and leave.”

“Gibbs…” Todd whispers in that offended, little tone again but I merely turn away, tuning out this stupid display of politeness. I don’t have to be civil to it; it’s just a fucking machine, for God‘s sake!

I angrily flip the folder under my hands open and blindly scan the first page, acutely aware of my two agents quietly gathering their belongings and silently stealing away. They want to get out of here as fast as they can, now that the little dog and pony show is over, but specifically since they can sense my foul mood. I keep my eyes down and wait until I hear them enter the elevator and the door seal behind them before closing my eyes and relaxing back in my chair just a bit. The tension headache that began to bud when Shepard arrived is in full bloom and I’d just about give anything for a good, stiff drink right about now. I could tip my head back and take a big, old swallow straight from the bottle, feeling the burn and waiting for the lulling effects. Yeah…

But I’ve got to work my way through all this information before Monday, I’ve got to familiarize myself with Ducky and Abby’s findings, and I’ve got to do whatever I can to ensure my team will stay safe and alive and unharmed. In other words, I’ve got to know my enemy.

I sigh, knuckle away the tiredness from my eyes, and begin to truly read the first page…

“Agent Gibbs.”

Crap. I don’t fucking believe this.

“Why aren’t you gone?” I grit out. I don’t want to look at that thing again today, so I keep my head bent over the report, but my anger is back with a vengeance.

“You don’t like me.”

Well, no shit, Sherlock. What was your first clue?

There’s no way I can ignore it now, not with all the things I want to say to it churning up inside my gut. I push roughly back, sending my chair slamming against the cabinet directly behind, and rise to my full height, leveling my gaze at the thing. I get even madder when I realize it’s actually got a couple of inches on me in height and that’s enough to send all rational control out the door for me.

I round the desk and park myself toe-to -toe with the thing. “No, I don’t *like* you. In fact,” I’m aware of someone in my periphery hurrying toward the elevator, trying to escape before the shit hits the fan, but I quickly tune them out. Almost everyone is gone now, this late on a Friday evening, so if there’re still people on the floor, hopefully they’ll have enough common sense to make themselves scarce. “I actually *hate* what you represent.”

I detect a mild flinch and a flicker of hurt in the green eyes but I casually brush it off as nothing more than part of the unit’s programming. It asked, so I’m going to tell.

“You’re not a real human, no matter what this packaging looks like,” I poke it brutally in the chest and feel vindicated when it takes a slight step back. “You can pretend all you want and you can learn how to do the job, but you will never…*never*…take the place of a real, live human being.”

“I never expected to do that.” It says softly, green eyes searching mine intently. “My purpose is not to replace a human here.”

“Bullshit,” I snap out. “That’s *exactly* your purpose. Scientists have been trying for years to create a ‘better robot’, proclaiming the need to help alleviate mundane, repetitive chores for people, to free humans from unnecessary tasks, using rhetoric to camouflage the real reason.” I step back into it’s space and try not to be impressed when it remains unmoving. “Well, they succeeded in doing that long ago. And, now, with the help of our friendly, neighborhood aliens,” I accidentally spit as I speak, a hot, wet dot of moisture landing squarely on one perfectly unblemished cheek, “robots like you will, one day, be sitting at my desk.“

It calmly brings a hand up and serenely smoothes the moisture away with the back of it’s fingers. There’s no need to apologize for my social blunder; I know it and, now, it knows it. Besides, I’m just getting worked up; I’ll probably be showering it with spit real soon.

“No robots like me will be sitting at your desk, Agent Gibbs.” It states emphatically, it’s eyebrows angling down and a slight furrow appearing between it’s eyes.

Well, what do you know…the damn thing actually looks irritated. I get ready to launch into my next round but, unbelievably, it essentially cuts me off.

“When my assignment here at NCIS is completed, all the information I’ve accumulated, everything I’ve learned from you and those I come into contact with, all the experiences I’ve garnered will be downloaded into the consciousness of a newer, better android…and I will cease to exist.”

What?

“What?” I hiss out in disbelief. That can’t be right. Can it? “You mean to tell me,” I point at it’s body and wave my finger about in a small, circular motion, “this is just temporary and you’ll get a new …” I cast around for the correct word but can’t seem to find it, “shell?”

It tilts it head to one side and then lowers it’s eyes. “No. I will no longer be of any value and will be disposed.”

Disposed. Like garbage. Crap.

I’m suddenly not feeling as angry or as tense as I was just moments ago. In fact, I don’t know what the hell I’m feeling right now. It’s still a damn robot and it still pisses me off but…

…this new information is confusing as hell.

“Agent Gibbs.” It says my name with such obvious respect that I have to look it straight in the eyes. “I will attempt to do everything in my power to follow your directions and be the best…tool…I can while here.” It hesitates and purses it’s lips together tightly, looking unsure and way too human. When it speaks again, the voice is subdued and *almost* pleading. “Would it be possible for you not to tell the other agents what I’ve revealed to you?”

I have to swallow before I can respond. There‘s a tightness in my chest that feels strange. “Now, why would I do that?”

It shrugs and then looks briefly away, the green eyes tracking to McGee’s desk and then over to Todd’s, before swinging back my way. “I believe your team would respond to me differently if they knew of my final fate.”

And I think it’s right. Hell, Abby would probably start bawling as soon as she found out. I’m not sure about Todd or McGee yet but Ducky would, more than likely, be upset by the news, too. I sigh but keep my face blank.
“I’ll think about it.”

The unit smiles and nods, relief evident on it’s face. “Thank you.” It takes a step back and shoves it’s hands into the pockets of it’s slacks and offers me an almost-rakish grin. “Well, I guess I’d better not keep the Assistant Director waiting any longer. Goodnight, Agent Gibbs.”

I merely stand in front of my desk and watch until it climbs the steps leading to MTAC and the offices upstairs before returning to sit at my desk, the words repeating hollowly over and over in my mind. I can’t even begin to think about reading this report now and the lure of a drink is too much to ignore any longer.

I hastily gather my belongings and flick off my desk lamp, a sudden thought freezing me in my tracks while my fingers are still on the switch. Unbidden, my gaze travels up to the doorway where the Triple A disappeared only moments ago and I curse under my breath, finding yet another reason to continue my dislike for the damn thing.

I’ve now got *another* secret to keep. Crap, just what I don’t need.


TBC

The study of human genetics has advanced tremendously over the past several years, aided primarily by the exceptionally generous and vastly significant assistance of our alien visitors, before they finally withdrew back to their own little corner of the universe, but with all the toxins and pollutants mankind had dumped into the environment…added to the horrendous impact of the unleashed biological weapons during those unspeakable moments of political madness…some populations around the world are, tragically, just never going to fully recover. The worst of the destruction may have taken place in the more populated and more ‘important’ cities across the planet but many third world nations, most who’d endured years of internal conflicts and famines prior to our near-catastrophic event…like Bangladesh and Afghanistan and Haiti…are virtually gone now, victims of the indiscriminate and deadly poisonous vapors that spread from country to country and of their own government’s complete lack of foresight and common sense. The birthrate, planet wide, is at an all-time low, food shortages, in many regions, are at record highs, and most families find it difficult enough to provide the bare necessities when there is nothing more than just a husband or a wife to feed. Children, it seems, are at a premium and, now, only for the very rich…or for those living on food-producing and sustaining farms or ranches. The biological imperative and desire to reproduce, it appears, has temporarily been replaced by the need to merely survive, even though the fate of the world, ultimately, hinges on repopulation.

If anything good could have possibly come out of all the misery and death and destruction the existing peoples of the world have endured, it’s the realization that independent governments had to provide certain, basic needs for their surviving citizens, free of cost, if the administrative bodies in power still expected to maintain a measure order, some type of strong, logical, working leadership, and, most importantly, the sense of restored stability. Those elected officials in the White House could no longer afford to listen to a select handful of corporate lobbyist or wealthy, self-interested magnates to mandate what was best for the country but had to look beyond what once greased the wheels…and the palms…of former greedy, materialistic, and unscrupulous lawmakers. The needs of the many certainly outweighed the wants of a few now.

Following the pattern put in place by our wise neighbors in Canada, a national health care plan was established and implemented, finally allowing and insuring every surviving citizen in the US the right to fair, affordable, and equal medical care, regardless of age, social status, or employment. Large health care companies, who’d lost billions of dollars during the worst years of the global atrocities, buckled, folded, and went under, many going bankrupt when the court systems forced them into paying the lawsuits brought against them when they attempted to withhold payment for medical services rendered during the worst of the biological warfare. It was the beginning of the end for establishments like those and the American public was, finally, able to find some relief in an otherwise bleak existence.

Communities formed and planted neighborhood gardens and orchards, using seeds and saplings donated from agricultural companies and universities worldwide, as everyone pitched in to ease the need of recouping some of what we’d lost. There were roof gardens and vegetable plots and edible plants growing in just about every available space of soil and the Earth, once again, began to look green and thriving. Ducky, with his bounty of endless antecedent wisdom, loosely compared the agricultural reawakening to what he’d witness as a young boy during World War 2, when victory gardens had virtually sprung up in every backyard across London…even those that had been all but obliterated by the German bombing raids.

Scientists also used technology introduced by the aliens to provide the Earth with clean, efficient sources of power, finally breaking the strangle-hold the oil producing nations once had on the world, and easing the seemingly rampant need for fossil fuels. Gasoline is still used sparingly, especially in those countries whose governments persist in holding on to ‘the old ways’, but it is quickly being replaced with the newer, more economical, readily available substitute, taking away another hardship and freeing mankind to use work earnings for food and shelter and, sometimes, a rare evening out.

There’re still sporting and cultural events, there’re still walks in the park and days by the ocean, and people are just trying like hell to recapture some normalcy in their lives. Life, it seems, does go on.

But not all is well.

The world is still occupied with pockets of discontent and, as expected, the forces of evil continue to plague those who now just pray for peace. As I study the weekend’s update from the Terrorism Research Center, I can’t help but wonder if we’re just on the fast track to annihilation…again. Reports have surfaced that British police have probably been infiltrated by Al Qaeda sleeper agents, the protests in Pakistan continue, and the Armenian president has ordered a State of Emergency. As much as I hate to hear of these incidents, I have to breath a small sigh of relief. Homeland Security’s Advisory System has the US at Level Blue today and, even though I know there’s plenty of unhappy and disgruntled citizens across the country, at least our terrorism problems have, for now, subsided. It’s a small blessing but a blessing nonetheless.

There’s movement up by the railing near the Directors’ offices and I instinctively look up to see what’s happening. It’s Morrow and Shepard. I came in early today, so they must have been here at the crack of dawn, preparing for the work day. I know the Director is planning on attending a conference in Geneva toward the end of the week, so they’ve probably got a lot to discuss. I don’t like the idea of Shepard running the complete show for the time he’s going to be gone but there’s not much I can do about it, except focus on my job and stay off her radar.

They step toward the metal barrier and pause momentarily to look back at a figure directly behind them and I immediately recognize the android that’s been assigned to my team. The Triple A unit is listening silently as they speak to it, nodding every now and then, those strange green eyes shifting back and forth as they address it. I don’t know what the conversation is about…not sure I want to know…but it looks solemn and, maybe, even a little subdued this morning. I can’t help but wonder if it’s time with Morrow on Friday and Saturday and, then, it’s stay with Shepard yesterday and last night has tempered some of the emerging spunk I started to see before we parted ways on Friday.

I sigh softly as I think of the secret it’s asked me to keep, letting the air hiss quietly out between my clenched teeth, and look back to the folder under my hands. It’s the data on the Triple A, in all it’s minute, detailed, and precise glory, and I have to fight back the urge just to chuck the thick binder into the trashcan beside my desk. It would be so easy to discard the hated, printed material but after closely reading the information…and rereading it again…I’m not sure I wouldn’t be compelled to just dig it right back out of the metal receptacle. There are things contained in that careful collection of facts that disturb me…but things that intrigue me as well.

I glance back up just in time to see Morrow turn away, heading toward the secure entrance of MTAC. As soon as he’s safely within and the door resealed behind, I can’t help but notice how Shepard reaches up to adjust the unit’s tie, her fingertips lingering just a tad too long at the base of it’s throat for my liking. It’s too creepy to see her treating that thing like some prized toy…or object of desire…and I have to fight back a shudder of revulsion. I force my eyes away and am relieved when I hear McGee and Todd entering from somewhere to my right. They must have been on the elevator together but, as close as I was watching the scene above, I never even heard it arrive.

But I’ll act like I knew they were there all along.

“Morning, Gibbs,” Todd chirps brightly, peeling out of her jacket as she rounds the corner into our work area. “Have a good weekend?”

I grunt out a ambiguous sound but am secretly glad for the distraction. She looks well-rested and seems in high spirits this morning, so I’ll wait a little while longer before dumping the news of our plans for the day on her. I know I should be grateful there’s not been any murders or rapes, any thefts or assaults, or any fraud or arson reports since my arrival but that means we get to spend another day hacking away at cold cases and doing that relatively mundane activity seems to grate on all our nerves. Neither Todd nor McGee will be very happy once I give those orders, even though we all know how important it is to bring closure.

“Good morning…Tony,” McGee offers a bit reluctantly, hesitating by Todd’s desk, and turning to face the steps.

We all watch as the unit descends, rather quickly, and I can’t help but notice how it’s somber expression has disappeared and how it now appears more happy and…relieved? My eyes track suspiciously back to where Shepard had been standing only moments ago but she’s gone, the door to her office slowly closing just as the unit finally arrives in our area. It greets McGee with a smile and shifts it toward Todd, hoping, I suppose, to kill two birds with one stone.

“Good morning.” It tosses out softly, casually, to everyone.

Okay, I have to admit, seeing it dressed in the same suit and tie it wore on Friday makes me wince a bit but not because I give a rat’s ass about it’s limited wardrobe selection. Oh, hell, no. If this is the only thing it has to wear, that’s fine by me. But it looks too much like a Fed right now, all dark, slick fabric and stiffly pressed, starched shirt, and I can’t allow that if it’s going to be even half-way successful in merging with my team. It’s important to be able to connect with witnesses immediately and, regardless of what the FBI thinks, their dress code leaves a lot to be desired in that arena.

I roll my lips tightly together and grunt again, the thought ringing hollowly in my mind. Since when do I want this thing to be successful?

But my eyes can’t help taking in Todd’s slacks and blouse and McGee’s chinos and sport shirt; both look clean and respectable and ready for a day that could bring the need to kneel in slicks of mud or shimmy around in foul dumpsters. They know the hazards of the job, both probably have spare clothing stashed away in drawers or lockers, and would never come to work dressed like they were going to a funeral but this thing doesn’t know squat about squat it seems. Just what in the hell did it do all weekend long? I was under the impression Morrow and Shepard were going to indoctrinate it to NCIS codes and standards and do their little ‘imprinting’ sessions along the way but I would have thought they’d clear the air concerning comfort and appropriateness on the job. Then, of course, both Morrow and Shepard have been out of the field for some years and are now considered bureaucrats by most of the agents here. Maybe I should suggest that it, at least, remove the jacket but that thought suddenly irks me, too. I suppose I’ll have to find a bearable compromise somewhere in the middle because it bothered me to see it looking so relaxed after spending time with Abby and Ducky on Friday.

Crap. I don’t need to be thinking about this shit now. We have a job to do.

“Okay,” I grit out, watching as McGee scampers the rest of the way to his desk, leaving the Triple A standing alone, “now that we’ve all made nice with each other, let’s get to work.”

The next two and a half hours are filled with blessed silence, except for the initial grumblings from Todd and McGee, the rustle of paper turning on individual desks, and the soft, private inquires into phones. McGee catches the first break by backtracking credit card records in a case revolving around the disappearance of a young Naval petty officer three years ago and it lights a fire under all of us. As I grab my coat and weapon, a sure sign to my agents that we’re heading out to follow McGee’s lead on foot, my desk phone rings and I snatch quickly at the handset, slightly frustrated at the interruption.

“Gibbs,” I identify myself gruffly.

It’s the on-duty supervisor at the firing range, Frank McGregor, instructing me to accompany the Triple A unit to the area for standard weapons qualification. Immediately. I don’t have time for this shit now and tell him so but he just about chews my ear off, using some of my own favorite words to let me know how unhappy he is with the Assistant Director’s specific orders to close down the entire range to all other agents until that damn thing is put through the paces. I only half-listen to the rest of his tirade, catching a few ‘shitheads’ and ‘fucks’ McGregor succinctly tosses in along the way, because I’m beginning to feel just as frustrated as he does. I don’t even know why I have to accompany the thing and say so to McGregor but all I get back is more yelling and more cussing. Damn.

My gaze rises abruptly to the object of our shared ire and I can see it’s staring right back at me, one eyebrow raised and it’s mouth twisted into a wary, guarded expression. It almost seems to know this conversation, somehow, concerns it and it knows I’m not happy. Well, no shit.

I slam the phone back into the cradle, my eyes never leaving the Triple A’s face, and feel a bright spark of pleasure when it jerks slightly at the harsh, sharp sound. Good. It needs to know I don’t like disruptions like this, especially when I can taste the prospect of solving a cold case in the air.

“McGee,” I direct my words to my youngest agent but keep my eyes on the unit, “you and Todd go on without me. Seems like I have something else to take care of before I can catch up with you.”

“Got it, Boss,” McGee’s instantly up and gathering his belongings, as is Todd, but I can feel his worry and unease. He hesitates in front of my desk and I can see his wide eyes moving back and forth between the Triple A and me, trying to assess the situation. “Boss…”

“Go on, McGee,” I snap out quickly, not in any mood to try to soothe his worries. Todd also hesitates near the front of her desk but, wisely, she just shakes her head and leaves. Cait’s been with me long enough to know when to execute a strategic retreat and this is one of those times.

I wait until they load into the elevator before I move away from my desk and finally approach the Triple A. It’s still as a statue, watching my approach with huge, measuring eyes, and remains in it’s seat as I loom over it’s position. I like this arrangement, with it having to bend it’s neck slightly back to keep me in it’s sight, and feel a strange, sudden wash of power. I lean forward, watching with hidden glee as it leans somewhat back, spine pushing into the cushioned padding.

“You have a weapon?” I ask with deadly calm.

It nods once. “Yes, Agent Gibbs.”

“You’ve been trained in it’s use?”

Again it nods. “Yes, Agent Gibbs.”

“By who?” I ask because I can’t imagine the scientists at MIT or whoever the hell programmed this thing to have done a very thorough job. Then, again, maybe it’s a killing machine and is just hiding behind those fascinating eyes and child-like expressions, disguising the danger contained within. The thought makes me straighten back up but I’m sure as hell not going to step away.

“I went through a nine hour course at Quantico, instructed by Sergeant Edward Tesch.”

What?

“*Eddie* Tesch?” I ask in disbelief, immediately recognizing the name. “With the Provost Marshal’s Office?”

“That’s correct.”

Damn. I’ve known Eddie for years and he’s one of…if not *the*…best instructors the Armed Forces have got today. You take one of his classes and you either come out knowing all you should or you were never meant to handle a weapon in the first place. Okay, so this changes everything. If the Triple A successfully went through Eddie’s course, then our trip to the firing range should be short and sweet. I sure wish I had time to call Eddie to find out how things went.

“Get your weapon,” I order and begin the short trek to the elevator, knowing it’ll follow immediately, just as it did once before. I’m swiftly calculating how long it will take us to get to the range, how long it will take the unit to get through the qualification session, and how long it will take us to catch up with Todd and McGee. If all goes as I suspect it will, we should hook up with them right near lunchtime.

Three long, frustrating hours later, McGregor and I are all but pulling our hair out…and for the balding firing range supervisor, that’s saying a lot. He’s yelled and cussed and threatened the Triple A unit with roboicide, making me bark out a startled laugh at the unexpected warning. But nothing I say or McGregor says is making one bit of difference. The Triple A unit simply refuses to put it’s rounds anywhere on the silhouettes that would be considered a kill shot.

“I’m not programmed to kill a human,” it repeats again, for about the hundredth time, the furrow between it’s eyebrows growing deeper as time passes. It’s obviously agitated with McGregor’s insistence and my support of the supervisor’s instructions but the damn thing is just so persistent. “Please, I can’t go against my programming.”

I almost feel sorry for it now and I find myself looking away.

“Look,” McGregor huffs out, all but deflating in the presence of the unit’s unyielding determination. “Let me offer a scenario, okay? What if a member of your new team is caught in an ambush by those you’re trying to arrest and you’re the only one close enough to help. Are you just going to let him…or her…be killed by those assailants?”

The unit looks toward me for help, an almost desperate haze in it’s eyes, but I remain silent. I want to know the answer to this one, too. This is what I’ve been dreading all along and the memories of my first encounter with that military robot flashes before my eyes. My buddies were dying and screaming for help, begging and pleading…and that hunk of useless metal just remained at one side and observed. And even though that was years ago and that robot back then sure as hell didn’t look anything like this one does, I have to know if this one is going to react to violence any differently.

“I’m capable of firing disarming shots…” It attempts for a compromise but that’s not going to work for McGregor or me.

“That’s not good enough,” McGregor is shaking his head, “and that certainly won’t get you qualified for duty as an NCIS agent.”

“But you’ve seen my groupings on the silhouettes,” the unit takes a step toward McGregor. “I can put them anywhere you want…”

“Except the head or the heart,” McGregor finishes bleakly.

The Triple A nods. “That’s correct.”

McGregor sighs and turns to me. “I’m sorry as hell, Gibbs, but I’m going to have to fail it.” He looks me right in the eye and winces. “Shepard’ll shit.”

He’s right about that. This news will send her into a rage. We all know the unit can shoot, there’s no doubt about it now. His careful placement of single shots and double-taps are pretty astounding but his diligence at keeping the rounds located on the shoulders or upper thighs of the silhouettes is nothing but disappointing. If I go back to headquarters and present her with this news, I may as well start packing for reassignment in Anchorage.

Crap. I can’t leave the rest of the team…not now.

I take a step toward the troubled unit and wait until it’s gaze shifts my way. I can easily see the turmoil within it’s eyes and, somehow, know it expects me to come up with a viable solution.

“Look…” I can’t believe I’m actually going to say this and the word almost sticks in my throat, “DiNozzo.” The unit immediately senses a change in my attitude and looks hopefully at me. “I want you to forget all about human beings right now. Can you do that for me?”

The frown instantly reappears and I know I’ve just confused it again. “I don’t understand.”

There’s an almost plaintive tone to it’s voice but I just ignore it and push on. “What do you really see when you look out there?” I gesture toward the silhouettes at the end of the range. “Tell me.”

“Representational outlines of humans.” It states emphatically. “Silhouettes of people.”

I nod and start to reach out to touch it’s closest shoulder but hesitate, stopping myself at the last moment. I don’t really want to make contact with it and, as my hand drops away, I can see it’s eyes slowly tracking the movement. I take another step closer but shove my hands deeply into the pockets of my jacket, carefully blanking my face of expression.

“Representations,” I repeat to it with confidence, willing it to understand. “Those aren’t real humans out there at all, are they?” I question softly, urging it to go beyond what’s theoretically presented. It’s important to get past this temporary roadblock; we can face the real problem later on, after I can figure out what the hell to do about it. “Those aren’t real humans.”

It cocks it’s head to one side and considers my statement and, I swear, I can almost see the gears turning and the light bulb go on when it finally understands. The smile that breaks out makes me grin, too, even though I try to hold it back, and I turn away before the unit can see it’s affect on me.

“I think it’s ready to try again, McGregor,” I announce to the firing range supervisor, feeling a bit more confident than I had only minutes earlier.

This time, it’s nothing but sheer beauty in motion, a range supervisor’s wet dream, and a quick glance toward McGregor proves he’s just as thrilled as I am…maybe even more. The handgun is smoothly drawn repeatedly from the holster, muzzle always pointing straight downrange, the elbow bent at the correct angle, and the groupings are tight and exact, all in the center of the silhouette’s chest. The unit progresses through each stage of the evaluation and even continues through those that are usually used for technique only and not considered part of the standard assessment. It’s taking a little more time but, by now, we’re both so happy just to have the Triple A’s cooperation that we’ll stay out here until it’s completely finished.

After speaking to Todd on the phone and explaining the holdup, we load up in the sedan and head back to headquarters. The trip is quiet, subdued, and, even though the Triple A did extremely well in the scenarios presented at the range, I can’t stop thinking about Asimov’s Three Laws of Robotics and how screwed this whole experiment is going to be because of them. Even so, the Triple A *did* willingly shoot at the silhouettes before I talked it into performing kill shots, hitting the shoulders and thighs with remarkable accuracy, so those once-fictional laws seem to already be slightly bent…but just not far enough. If the plan is for governments to, someday, produce an army of non-human ‘super soldiers’, to use as world-wide security and guardians, there’s a lot of tweaking to do.

“Am I going to be going home with you tonight, Agent Gibbs?” The unit is asking, keeping it’s eyes trained on the road ahead. I’ve already used my notorious driving skills to try and coax another flinch or jerk from my silent passenger but it seems to have developed a rather nonchalant attitude in a relatively short amount of time. It’s question, however, startles me.

“What” I ask, even though I heard it perfectly clear the first time.

“Am I going home with you tonight?” I can sense when it turns to look my way but I don’t want to look into those eyes now. I just continue to concentrate on the road, even though my mind is flying around for an answer.

Crap, I knew this was coming, I just didn’t think it would be happening so soon. I don’t want this thing in my home, even though I know it won’t be a difficult ‘guest’. The reports I’ve read indicate it ingests some type of supplement to sustain the organic sections of it’s…body…and it will drink small, controlled amounts of water but it needs very little sleep, using only brief times of rest to reenergize itself. Ducky was very specific about the ‘amazing alien technology’ it holds within and went into great depths to explain the workings but, to tell the truth, I don’t give a rat’s ass about things like that. It’s not like I plan to provide a home-cooked meal or tuck it in. Hell, no.

“Tonight’s not a good night,” I toss out matter-of-factly. No night is, I want to add.

“Tomorrow then.” Persistent little twerp.

“Nah, tomorrow’s not good either.” I’m going to growl if it keeps going like this but, when it speaks again, it takes me by surprise.

“May I go to Abby’s?”

“Hell, no!” I snap and swerve suddenly to the right, mashing hard on the break, and coming to a complete stop on the side of the road. I totally ignore the honks of other drivers and turn in my seat, making sure the Triple A can see my full expression. “You are *not* going to spend any time with Abby…or Todd, for that matter…away from the office.”

“But my imprinting requires…”

I cut it off before it can go any further, anger quickly taking over again. “I don’t give a good God damn about your imprinting, you understand? I want you to stay away from…”

“I won’t harm them,” it interrupts quickly. “I…I like them.”

I huff out a breath of disbelief. “You *like* them? You think that’s going to convince me to let you go into their homes, alone, overnight? I don’t think so.”

“Assistant Director Shepard said you’d probably resist.”

“Well, she’s right.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You know what? I don’t care.”

Throwing the car back into gear, I pull out into the flow of traffic and try to get us back to headquarters as soon as possible, effectively putting an end to this useless conversation. I’m fuming inside. The first thing I plan to do when I get back is have a little heart-to-heart with Shepard. She needs to get her head out of her ass and take a good look at what this thing really is and, more importantly, how the problem on the firing range is going to affect it’s performance. All the imprinting in the world is not going to change that programming one little bit.

I storm back into the office and make a beeline for my desk, completely ignoring the Triple A as it follows in my wake. I rip off my jacket, toss my weapon and badge into a drawer, and debate whether to give that red-headed bitch any warning or just go storming up to her office. I barely notice that Todd and McGee are not at their desks but I do notice the gasp of surprise that comes from the unit’s space.

I glance in it’s direction and am floored by what I see. It’s face…it’s face is a mask of hurt and one fist is clenched tightly against it’s chest, like it’s in pain or has just been given some terrible news. I can hear a soft sound emanating from the unit’s computer, the sound of singing, and I find myself traversing the space to find out what the hell is going on.

What greets me makes my gut clench.

There’s an old-fashioned oil can resting squarely in the center of the Triple A’s desk and on the monitor is a clip from that Judy Garland movie, the one Kelly always loved, The Wizard of Oz. On the screen the Tin Man is dancing in a stiff, robotic
shuffle and singing, over and over again, ‘If I Only Had A Heart’.

Jesus.

It’s a message, pure and simple, and it galls me to think there are others in the building who are going out of their way to harass the unit. I look over the dividers, to see if anyone in the vicinity is watching this little drama unfold, but there’s no one that looks even vaguely suspicious. That doesn’t mean the responsible party isn’t here…it just means they are very good at subterfuge. We are, after all, NCIS agents.

I reach across the still figure of the unit and press the key that will end the Triple A’s torment. It looks up at me and, I swear, there are tears in it’s eyes.

“Thank you.” It whispers before tipping it’s head back down.

Ah, hell.

“Get your things together,” I instruct, knowing I’ll probably regret this later. “You’re going home with me.”

TBC