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 The biological imperative and desire to reproduce, it appears, has temporarily been replaced by the need to merely survive, even though the fate of the world, ultimately, hinges on repopulation.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
Chapter End Notes:
All warnings, summary, rating, pairings, and disclaimer posted in part 1/?