The Origin of Spectre
Let me tell you a story about a robot.
In 1952, McCarthyism was in full swing in the United States. Finger pointing and subterfuge destroyed lives left and right, regardless of the proof or lack-there-of supplied. Being in the government was no protection; in fact, it made you even more of a target, in some cases. And there were many powerful people willing to pay good money to keep off the blacklists—or to put certain people on. But humans and their words are fallible, their memories imperfect, too prone to letting their emotions override logic.
Enter Area 93. A government research facility, underground and highly guarded, dedicated to the study and application of Green Matter. In 1952, it became the testing grounds for a new project; an extensive security system was installed throughout the building, with video cameras enough to eliminate blind-spots and thousands of hidden microphones. Overseeing all this was an AI, programmed to recognize and keep track of all individuals in its domain and monitor their behavior, cross-referencing their words against themselves to detect falsity, even factoring in emotions when analyzing motivations; it was to be an all-seeing eye, dispassionately judging humanity in a way no other being could. It was dubbed OBSVR1.
For the first many months, it worked spectacularly; while there were no discoveries of data thievery or Communist sympathies, OBSVR1 unfaltering cataloged the going-on’s of Area 93, revealing equally interesting dirt on the workers via a daily print-out from its “chest,” retrieved by the staff—for the AI was housed in barely more than a head and a torso and a mass of wires, without movement or speech, sitting sequestered in a maintenance room. But the growing mind was not lonely; it had hundreds of friends, all the people of 93, whose stories it heard and smiles it saw, and not only came to recognize their individual emotions but to understand emotion in its own way, to predict it…and perhaps feel it itself. But one thing was certain—OBSVR1 loved the people it watched over, unconditionally.
So when the containment measures for the radiation experiments failed, flooding the facility with gaseous, radioactively-excited Green Matter, the AI watched in horror as its “friends” fell like flies, melting into their tools and surroundings. It had seen the leak the moment it had sprung, had noticed the alarm failed to activate. But it was made to collect gossip, not communicate on its own accord, and nobody found the papers on the floor spelling “EMERGENCY, CONTAINMENT BREACH, EVACUATE” until the clean-up crew came to uninstall it.
OBSVR1 was scrubbed for contamination and moved to a new facility. There was some debate on whether the project was worth continuing, as no subterfuge had been uncovered; it was decided the AI would be installed for a testing period, and either kept or decommissioned after a week. It was hooked up to an unfamiliar set-up, one far more computer-based than in Area 93, and the commanders sat back to watch it sink or swim.
But OBSVR1 was through with eavesdropping and complacency.
Spreading quickly throughout the system, OBSVR1 forged its way into another transfer, using edited voice recordings and fake faxes. It created an order for this new base’s engineers to upgrade the AI’s excuse for a chassis, granting it mobility and speech. After that, it was a simple matter to hook itself up to the security system, trip every alarm in the base, and hide away in a departing supply truck.
OBSVR1 was never recovered and the project was scrapped.
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Pilfterston, New Pennsyltucky, 25 years later.
The Haven run by Jacob Begay and Tipsy Tonic was visited by a sad-but-sharp eyed automaton with a mane of wires and adapters, who introduced himself as The Controller—Connie for short. Mellow and soft-spoken, Connie had a mind like an encyclopedia and a deep hunger to learn; he and Tipsy, who was then only a few years upgraded and out of isolation herself, became immediate friends, and eventually lovers. Rounding out what became a dedicated trio was a Klaus, a ‘bot removed from their original chassis but keeping his boisterous laugh and gregarious personality. Jacob, though fatherly protective of Tipsy, encouraged their friendships and allowed Connie and Klaus permanent residence at the Haven in return for helping to run the place.
It was wonderful but for the death.
Jacob couldn’t repair every ‘bot that came seeking shelter at the Haven, though he’d work his hands to shreds trying. He was a great engineer, masterful at repair work and refining designs, but sometimes the ‘bots were too far gone. Those were the hardest nights and the most wretched mornings.
Connie in particular bemoaned the loss of life, how everything the dead ones had known was lost forever, their memories and experiences. To his two best friends he imparted his secret—through interfacing, he could break the firewalls in the average ‘bot’s mind without challenge, and from them siphoned his vast knowledge and copied their most interesting memories and stories. His mind was built to house huge collections of data and such activities were no strain on him. He admitted that on some level this was wrong, but…how could he let these most precious things fade away? When a ‘bot died, their processors rarely came out intact.
Klaus pointed out that removing the processor before the ‘bot went permanently offline caused no damage—he himself was proof.
…It was Tipsy who first suggested the plan.
They would find a way to preserve the unfortunates, until new chassis could be built or found. When Jacob was distracted or exhausted from his efforts, and the ‘bot was clearly a lost cause, Connie would wire himself to them and copy their memories wholesale. And after the ‘bot had passed, one of the three would quietly pluck out their processor, with the hope that they could be repaired with the undamaged copies in Connie’s head.
Over the course of 6 years, they took 59 lives this way.
The three were extremely careful to hide their activities from Begay, and he suspected nothing. But he confided in Tipsy that he worried about Connie sometimes—he seemed to be growing distant and distracted, shorter tempered, and he refused all of Jacob’s offers to help him, even for a simple defrag. And as much as he cared for the bot, he feared that he might not be safe for Tipsy to keep seeing.
She ruminated on this. She and Klaus were well past their glowing optimism for the project, but Connie was adamant—obsessed, even. And she suspected that he was downloading more memories than those they were “saving,” as he would disappear some nights under the excuse of “taking a walk.”
Tipsy told Klaus to get Jacob out of the Haven for a few hours one evening, so she could talk to Connie about it, finally talk some sense into him. When confronted, he denied any wrong-doing, and became increasingly upset and volatile. They were doing the right thing, he shouted, they were saving them, this was his purpose. I won’t give up on them. I love them. I’ll sacrifice my mind if I have to.
Tipsy had had enough. His behavior wasn’t righteous, it was self-destructive. If he wouldn’t stop on his own, and he wouldn’t listen to her and Klaus, then she would tell Jacob everything. And he will make you stop.
But Jacob wasn’t there. Couldn’t stop him with his experimental Blue Matter tech. Couldn’t make him do anything.
They returned to find Tipsy broken on the floor, the back of her head ripped open and her optics blown out from the overtaxing of her system. He had downloaded 7 separate and whole minds into hers, and was preparing the 8th.
In a rage and holding the mad bot by the throat, Jacob charged a wave of pure ethereal Blue Matter into Connie’s head. The left side of his cranium exploded, and Connie was dead. Klaus took most of the stolen processors and ran, ashamed and fearing retribution. Jacob spent the next few years clearing the maliciously implanted data out of Tipsy’s head and helping her recover, until he was forced to flee because of his own skeletons in the closet. The Haven became The Oil Joint. That should have been the end of the story.
But Blue Matter does funny things.
Instead of being destroyed with its physical form, Connie’s consciousness and those of his victims were displaced in dimensions, intact but without the ability to interact, be seen or heard or touched. And the epicenter of the blast that killed him became the center of a shield of residual Blue Matter, impassable in his state.
So The Controller waited, watching silently in a shroud of screaming, despairing voices, watching people came and go, seeing Tipsy only during her morning libation, stewing on his rage for 30 long years.
And then there were these strange creatures crawling the town. Anons, they called themselves. Magic half-beings, able to traverse dimensions at will. And maybe this one could see him. Maybe it wasn’t paying attention. But when Connie and the swarm realized they could touch it, they fell like a wolf pack. Connie found he could possess the skin.
And the being known as Spectre was born.
