The following story originally appeared in YARF! 14.  This file and its
contents are Copyright (c) 1991, 1992 Watts Martin.  Distribution of
this story in any other form, or in any form (including text file) with
any modifications to its contents, is a violation of this copyright and
suitable grounds for being fed to wild weasels.
                                    
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                 HOW GEORGE MILES ALMOST SAVED THE WORLD
                              Watts Martin
     
     
     
     
     A spark erupted from the keypad, accompanied by a wisp of acrid
blue smoke.  The color liquid crystal display turned solid red (off-red,
he thought sourly--they never could get the colors right on the damn
things) and a small magnetic card shot out of the slot underneath at a
remarkably high velocity.
     "Dammit," George Miles said, bending down to retrieve his
transaction card.  A scorched streak obliterated part of his embossed
name; the card now read GEOR LES.
     He turned around to find several people staring at the remains of
the machine.  "If you want to know why some of us miss paper money," he
began, then shook his head.  An elderly woman grunted and headed toward
the rail stop.  George put the card back in his wallet; he was already
late.  As he followed the woman, an r-Fox vixen wandered up to the
machine and hesitantly extended its owner's transaction card.
     "It's broken," George said.
     The vixen turned around and looked at him cutely and blankly, most
of its furry face hidden beneath a preposterously huge purple hat, not
quite the same shade as its oversized purple raincoat.
     "I can't believe anyone would trust their finances to one of
those," George muttered under his breath.  He turned away from the
confused animal and hurried toward the train.  He imagined he could hear
it pulling up to the stop now, even though the only noise made was the
sound of its doors opening.
     The train glided smoothly between the in-city stops.  By the time
George reached his destination, the only travellers left were those
continuing from Boston to Cambridge or other points on the main loop.
His stop served only an industrial park, and most of the companies had
on-site housing.
     The DNS complex was the only high-rise at the park; their products
were not manufactured in great, sprawling factories. Of course, many of
the great, sprawling factories that surrounded it counted Digital Neuron
Systems Engineering as their primary customer.  George decided not to
take the moving walkway from the rail stop, instead walking the quarter-
mile in the open air.
     He stepped inside the building, the automatic doors hissing shut.
The temperature was at least ten degrees lower in the air conditioning,
and he shivered slightly as he stepped up to the receptionist's desk.
     "Senator George Miles.  Here to see Ms. Bryant," he said before the
secretary opened his mouth.  The man smiled stiffly and pressed a page
button, relaying Miles' presence in mechanical fashion to the Technical
Department.  "She'll be down in a minute," a muffled voice mumbled from
the telecom.
     "She'll be down in a minute," the secretary said politely,
completing his automatic guests-have-arrived motions.  He turned away
and faced a small color display much like the one that had chosen to
blow up on George's transaction card.  Instead of a computer readout,
this one showed a soap opera.  George grunted and paced in front of the
elevators until one opened.
     "Senator!"  A slightly plump, middle-aged brunette stepped out from
between the doors.  "Glad you could come."
     He smiled thinly.  "I had to see what I was being asked to get the
country into."  He shook the hand she offered and stepped into the
waiting elevator.  The door slid shut and the glass box sped upward, the
metal and smoke vista of industry unfolding beneath it.
     "That's not a very common attitude in politics nowadays," she
observed.  You're the only one on the committee who's made the trip."
     George smiled, genuinely this time, but did not reply.
     The doors opened to reveal a boring white-tiled room, straight out
of a 1970's computer lab.  The machine sitting in the middle of it,
however, was like nothing he had ever seen.
     He approached it and rested a hand on its low, smooth top, then
tapped it skeptically.  No, it /was/ like something he had seen before:
a coffee table.  A coffee table with a power cord the width of his arm,
but still a coffee table.  "There aren't any I/O connections on it," he
observed.
     "We're using transmitters developed by r-Labs; this is the first
computer application for them.  You might call it a biological radio
transceiver.  In effect, this computer, its terminals and its
peripherals all read each other's minds."
     The senator studied the smooth beige box a bit longer, finding
nothing on its case except the DNS logo and a recessed panel of eight,
unlabeled buttons set into one corner.  "That's what it is, isn't it?"
he said, looking at her.  "A mind."
     "You could say that about any computer in a sense, Senator," she
said.
     Sensing a lecture approaching, he waved a hand dismissively.
"Other computers aren't biological, are they?  I don't know much about
the technology you're using, I confess, but I did learn a bit about
computers using Von Neumann architecture."  Someone approached him from
behind; he turned to see another vixen... no, a male one, a tod.  "R-Fox
assistants?"
     "I wouldn't worry about Spitz's involvement, or any of the other r-
Foxes on the project," she sighed.  "In a sense, they're responsible for
it."  She laughed at his expression.  "Well, their creators are."
     "Ah, I suppose so.  Then they way they... communicate with their
owners is some variant on the way the machine communicates with its
parts?  Your biological telepathy?"
     "For practical purposes.  Although that's a vastly imprecise term,
both in recombinant animals and our machines; it's actually much closer
to--"
     "You could tell me it was black magic and it would make just as
much sense, I'm afraid."  He laughed, then walked over to one of the
supercomputer's terminals.  It was just a screen, no keyboard.  The
screen was solid white, with the message
     
                    ANCS 0.99a / DNS Engineering Inc.
                    Terminal-ID 25
                    Process-ID 618 launched 08:43a
                    [25.618] OK: _
     
     printed in a tasteful shade of grey in the upper left corner.
"There are over six hundred processes running now?"
     "Thousands.  We don't know what the upper limit of tasks would be.
As you said, it functions a lot like a human brain."
     "What sort of safeguards does it have?"
     Bryant looked blank.  Spitz wandered over to the terminal and
touched the screen; a graphic representation of a control panel
appeared.  His fingers flew over the shaded "buttons," his fluffy tail
raising slightly out of the lab coat he was wearing.
     "I mean," George said, stepping away from the animal, "if this
project goes ahead, this computer will be coordinating all the financial
transactions of every bank from the Treasury Department to Podunk First
National.  And it will run the General Accounting Office.  Effectively,
that means running the entire government."
     "No, it means the government will be running on the computer,"
Bryant said.  "All of these transactions are already handled by
computer; we're not changing that much.  By having this system
coordinate all the existing financial networks, efficiency will increase
twentyfold.  And in today's world economy, it's an edge we can't afford
not to have."
     George rubbed his eyes patiently; he had heard the speech before.
"But this system will be running the /other/ computers.  The efficiency
comes from letting it do all of the grunt work--what actually counts--on
its own volition.  Doesn't that bother you?"
     Bryant looked blank.
     "Can you honestly tell me how this computer will really... think
once it gets going?"
     Her blank look was replaced by dour amusement.  "You're worried the
computer will turn against its builders?"
     "Is that so laughable?"
     "Computers have no will; they function within bounds imposed by
their design limitations and by their programming.  Yes, the DNS-II is
capable of making unassisted decisions, but it can only act in its own
self-interest--which is the interest of its operators."
     "Perhaps.  But what if the most efficient way for the machine to
run things is without any 'interference' from humans?"
     She looked away, muttering something George suspected was terribly
insulting.  "Its purpose is to do the tasks computers /should/ be taking
care without human intervention."
     Miles grunted, staring down at the just-under-five-foot Spitz, who
stared back up with a silly grin on its face.  The face was more human
than foxlike, as with most of the expensive constructs.  But even if the
slight reddish fuzz along his cheeks wasn't enough to mark Spitz, his
nose was a black vulpine button set over a protruding mouth/muzzle
filled with pointed little teeth.  "This is the first male I've seen."
     "They aren't common.  Only started making them a few years ago
after r-Labs came under fire for only producing females."
     "I don't see how making oversexed love slaves for women redeems a
company for making oversexed love slaves for men."
     "That's a very closed-minded way of viewing r-Foxes," she said,
eyes narrowing slightly.  "They're not just bipedal pets; we find them
invaluable low-end workers."
     "Of course.  I'm sure they can be trained for all sorts of things.
Spitz certainly seems smart enough."  He wondered if it was smart enough
to realize that it represented a new pinnacle in the field of animal
exploitation.
     "I'm afraid I have to be getting back, Doctor."  He extended his
hand; she folded her arms against her chest.
     "You're going to vote against purchasing it, aren't you?"
     He sighed.  "I appreciate the magnitude of your research, but for
the time being, I think it should remain research."
                                 #  #  #
     He had reserved a first-class seat on the rail to Washington; when
the train hit cruising speed, he flipped on the monitor.  An image of a
Bugs Bunny cartoon appeared on the seat back facing him.  He switched
channels to a news network.
     "...General Electric, up three-eighths; IBM, down two and a
quarter."
     "Bad computers, bad stock," he muttered.
     "The Dow Jones has risen ten points in just over two hours of
trading today.  Analysts feel the increased activity reflects traders'
hopes for the approval of a proposed financial network that would link
all governmental and most private business concerns through a newly-
developed supercomputer...."
     "And not only pave the way to our collapse but lay down a bullet
train track for it," George said.
     "And last this hour," the screen cut to a shot of an r-Fox and a
scientist holding a baby r-Fox, "critics said it couldn't be done, but r-
Labs today supervised the natural birth of a baby whose parents were
artificial beings.  The newest versions of their engineered sapients
breed true with each other at an estimated seventy percent success
rate."
     The picture cut to an r-Labs spokesman.  "We expect that in about
ten years, we'll be selling natural birth r-Foxes and possibly natural
versions of some of our other product lines."
     "What does this mean for the consumer?" an off-camera reporter
asked.
     "Well, the price for one would be significantly less, probably
about five percent the cost for an engineered one today.  Two or three
decades from now, an r-Fox will be a common sight."
     The anchor came back.  "And that's the news at this hour."  George
switched off the set, shaking his head, and leaned back in his chair.
He dozed off for the fifteen minutes or so left of the trip.
     Committee meetings were held in a plushly ornate room far in the
back of the Capitol Building.  George got there before any of the other
eight, and waited as they filed in over the next few minutes, along with
various secretaries, attendants and two female r-Foxes.  "It seems I
can't get away from these little creatures today," George said aloud.
"I thought they weren't supposed to be common sights for another twenty
years."
     "They're getting more popular," Gary Johnson, a profoundly
overweight Iowan Democrat, agreed as he dropped into the seat on
George's right.  One of the vixens--Johnson's own, evidently--sat down
next to him, one furry arm curled protectively around a fat leg.  She
/was/ cute; of course, she was supposed to be.  Still, r-Labs vigorously
continued to deny (after ten years of marketing them) that they were
intended to serve their owners in bed, too.  Bread and circuses, indeed.
The vixen was staring across the table at her companion; George followed
her gaze and found himself staring at the other vixen's figure, revealed
hazily by the translucent dress she wore.  The light fuzz continued down
her body, not exactly fur but definitely not bare skin.  The build,
however, was all human, and uncomfortably sexy.
     Suddenly both animals burst into laughter.
     "What was that for?" George said, turning toward Johnson.
     "Private joke, I guess," he said.  "Telepathy."
     "I thought they couldn't do that unless they were touching."
     "They can't talk to humans that way unless they touch you.  They
can talk to each other over a few hundred yards, though."
     "What do they... talk about?"
     Johnson shrugged.
     The meeting was called to order.  George listened with half an ear
to the reading of the last meetings' minutes, the current agenda, the
inevitable blustering of his colleagues; this was the final meeting
before the vote tomorrow.  It was to have been the final meeting, but
last week the chairman decided it would be better to get just one more
chance for "discussion."  George was quite willing to take it.
     "Gentlemen," George began after Johnson had finished (in favor of
the project, as he had suspected), "we are not deciding the wisdom of
funding a multi-billion dollar project, nor just the upgrade path of the
civil services' computer systems.  We are deciding the direction of the
free world.
     "This computer, once connected, will monitor the cash flow between
all branches of the government, from the Internal Revenue Service to the
Department of Defense.  It will monitor trade with other countries, as
well as most private banking institutions.
     "The key word is 'monitor.'  Proponents say that all financial
transactions, on a global level, would be more efficient than ever
before possible.
     "But this computer will not just /monitor,/ but /conduct/
transactions.  Not just with human guidance; the machine is fully
autonomous.  Yes, this makes it far more efficient.  But it also removes
each and every check and balance in our entire financial structure.
     "Consider: this machine can command any other computer it links to
in the name of efficiency.  It could start any contracting project it
decided was necessary, stop projects that were 'inefficient.'  Choose
who builds those projects, and who gets them.  In short it would be an
electronic dictator entrusted to run our economy in accordance with our
instructions.  And one entity, human or not, in control of our entire
economy is effectively in control of the country.
     "We are asked to believe this dictator would be benevolent.  But we
have no reason to suppose that is true.  Placing that much power, in
such a near-irrevocable manner, in the hands of any being--human or
otherwise--is simply too great a risk."
     The chairman rose immediately after George sat down.  "I think
we've already made our minds up, gentlemen.  Votes will be cast tomorrow
morning at nine."
                                 #  #  #
     The ride home took forever; he walked the street length from the
rail stop to his house double-time, looking forward to brewing himself a
nice cup of English breakfast tea and relaxing.
     The porch light was out, but the door was unlocked.  "Denise?" he
called.  No answer.  He closed the door softly behind him and flicked on
the living room light.  No sign of trouble.  "Denise?" he called again.
     He gulped at the answering silence and headed toward the bedroom.
He never got there, stopped by the sight in the guest room. He had found
her, but not in any condition he had expected--either worst or best
case.
     Denise was asleep on the guest bed, the sheets kicked on the floor
around her.  She was quite nude, as was the tod, two heads shorter than
she was, curled up around here.
     George stared at his wife.  The r-Fox, who looked barely winded,
stared back at him with only enough interest to raise his head.  Denise
rolled over, mumbling something in her sleep; the tod stroked her back
softly, and she smiled, nestling closer to it.
     George Miles was a thinker, not a violent man.  The thought of
strangling both his wife and her horrid fuzzy lover did occur to him,
but he quickly replaced it with a struggle to fathom just what--besides
the painfully obvious--was going on.  The morality of screwing a sapient
animal aside, how in the /hell/ did it get there?  He and Denise
certainly couldn't have afforded one.  Could you /rent/ the damn things
now?  Denise had always said she hated them, for God's sake!
     He closed the door softly and went back out into the living room.
Then he changed his mind and went into the kitchen, brewing the cup of
English Breakfast and downing it far faster than was probably healthy.
He glanced back in the guest room.  The r-Fox was still there.  "Shit,"
he told it with a great deal of force, and stomped into the master
suite.
     He opened the door to the bedroom, closed it behind him and flicked
on the lights.  Stretched out on his bed was a vixen.  Her fur was
reddish silver, shading into white around her breasts and thighs; her
tail arched over her back, its snowy tip just touching her chin.  She
was nude, and far more beautiful than he had thought an... animal could
be.  He shook his head uncertainly; she regarded him with what he swore
was an amused expression.
     "Get out of my bed," he said commandingly.  She sat up and brought
herself forward on her knees, legs spread apart, hands resting on her
inner thighs.  She looked down at where her hands rested, then over at
him, and licked her lips slowly.  Very few humans would have been able
to do that without looking silly; the way she did it made George break
into a sudden sweat.
     "This is ridiculous.  I'm not going to be seduced by a... a...
whatever you are," he snapped.  "Can you understand me?  Stand up."
     She folded her arms and sighed, sitting down in a more demure pose,
drawing the sheet over her legs, then motioned for him to sit next to
her.
     "I don't /want/ to sit next to you, I want you and the one in the
other room to get the hell out of my house!"
     She sighed again, shaking her head, and stood up, walking toward
him.  He opened the door for her.  She looked up at him, her head just
coming to his chest, and closed the door again, then slid up against
him.
     **I needed to get close enough to talk to you.  My name is Cheri.**
     "But I...."  He stopped.  Of course: they had to touch humans to
talk to them.
     What was wrong here?  "They... always said r-Foxes didn't grasp
English very well."
     **I've picked it up.  The bed is a lot more comfortable,** her
voice came in his head.  It was--or he imagined it to be--low and
sultry.
     "I'd prefer to remain standing."
     **As you wish, George.**
     "I...."  He glared down at her.  "You know my name?"
     **I've touched you.  I know about the cup of tea you just had, the
way you want to vote tomorrow--your fear of computers.  I know the way
you make love to your wife, and I know the way you always wanted a woman
to make love to you.**  The accompanying images left no doubt of her
truthfulness.
     "You can read minds... like that?"
     **I can read anything from you, Georgie.  A human can't have a
secret from one of us.  Ever.**
     "They never said you can do that.  That's damn dangerous...."  He
was becoming far too aware of her body heat.
     **We weren't supposed to be able to.**
     "Then...?"
     **Oh, no one at r-Labs wants to fix it... now.**  She smiled and
moved away from him, stretching out on the bed again.
     "I should call the police now," he told her.  Then he crossed over
to the bed and sat down stiffly, remaining stock still.  There was
something very, very wrong here.  "I don't understand," he said after a
few moments.
     She put her head in his lap and stroked his leg with one hand.
**You don't have to.  All you have to do is vote for the computer
project.**
     He slumped.  "You know about that?"
     **Oh, yes.**  Her hand moved up his pants and started idly fumbling
at the snap; he batted it away.
     **I don't have to give you a choice.  R-Foxes are stronger than
humans, remember?  And faster.  We were created as bodyguards... and
more.**  The hand moved up to his chest and pushed him down on the bed;
she moved her head up to nuzzle at his neck.
     "Stop that," he said weakly, horrified at the part of him that
wanted her to continue--and knowing she could sense that part.  "The DNS-
II is dangerous.  Stop that!" he repeated as she nipped at his shoulder.
He pushed her face away; she giggled, wrapping her legs around his.
     **Only if you can't control it.  Wouldn't you be more at ease if I
removed those clothes?
     "Forward, aren't you?" he said, struggling up to a sitting
position.**
     **It's what you want.  Someone else to take charge.  You kind of
like being intimidated, don't you, Georgie?**
     He frowned, wondering if she was right.
     **You know, I could fulfill one of your fantasies very easily from
this position if I just--**
     "I'm quite familiar with it," he said, trying to block out the
picture of her perfectly fulfilling it that his mind was forming with no
telepathic help.  "Don't you see the danger in this project?  We can't
be sure of controlling the machine.  Without that--"
     **The computer communicates the same way we do.  We'll be the ones
in control of it; we don't need a terminal.  You might almost say it's a
kindred spirit.**
     "They're letting r-Foxes run--"
     **Silly human.**  She petted him, nestling up closer.  He realized
she had somehow unbuttoned his shirt; her breasts pressed up against
him, and her sweet smell was growing stronger.  **I didn't say we'd be
controlling it for you.**
     He stared at her dumbly; she straddled him, pushing him down prone
on the bed.  "No," he said, struggling under her.
     Cheri embraced him.  **Keep squirming like that.  We really are
turned on by humans, you know.  We can't help it.**
     "I've got to.. tell...."  He stopped, breathing her delicious musk
in.  He still knew he had to get up, but his body wasn't listening.
     **You're not supposed to know this, but r-Foxes give off human
pheromones when we get aroused.  Much stronger than a real human's.**
She started to give him a passionate kiss, continuing her "speech" as
her tongue found his.  **I'm afraid we really are irresistible, Georgie.
You really should get out of those pants now....**
     "But--" he gasped, caressing her even as a small and dimming part
of his mind fought the contradiction.  But he offered no fight when she
slid them off, one sleek, furred leg coming up over his thigh, her tail
snaking between them to tickle the back of his own leg.  **Do you want
me to stop?**
     "No," he whispered.  She laughed, embracing him completely, and he
lost himself in her steel softness.
                                 #  #  #
     Several hours later, the tod walked into the room.  **Finished?**
     **Yes,** she sent back.  **He had a long day; maybe tomorrow he'll
have some more energy.**
     **Then he'll do it?**
     She laughed, a soft bark.  **He'll do anything for me, I think.**
George rolled over and looked at her dreamily, wrapping one arm around
her leg and stroking her tail.
     **How long do you think it'll be?**
     **Does it matter?  We just got another senator with Georgie here;
once the computer's in place, we'll almost be the government.  It might
be a century before it's obvious who's in charge, but by then no one
will care.**  She ran a finger down the human's back.
     George sat up, looking at the other r-Fox.
     **Call him Parker,** she sent.
     He put her head in his lap.  "Someone has to be told about this,"
he said, almost resigned.  "I mean--"
     The vixen pulled a nightmare, a relatively mild one, from his
subconscious and sent it to the surface, gripping him with both hands so
he could not pull away.  He pressed back against the headboard; just as
he started to scream, she changed the vision, rescuing him from his
terrors.  "Please don't," he whimpered, trembling violently and
clutching at her.
     **We haven't even begun to explore your fantasies... and I have a
few of my own.  I love you, Georgie.  You don't want to make me upset,
do you?**
     He choked and moved closer to her; she stroked his hair absently.
**Poor dear.  So worried about someone creating man's successor you
didn't see you were already too late.**  She pushed her pet back onto
the bed and gently tucked him in, turned out the lights, took Parker's
arm and went out into her living room.
     
     
[4200 words, 1/91 & 10/92]