"I think Shaq has been replaced by a Saker."
"You think Shaquille O'Neal, four-time NBA champion and fifteen-time All-Star, is a robot."
December 17, 2018
Moses Howard Federal Building, Three Portlands
"I think Shaq has been replaced by a Saker."
Special Agent Kenneth Spencer of the FBI's Unusual Incidents Unit is widely considered by Three Portlands residents to be the most boring man in the city, which does nothing to stop this kind of thing from happening to him on a regular basis. He stares at the Foundation agent sitting on the other side of his desk, making no effort to conceal his disbelief.
"You think Shaquille O'Neal, four-time NBA champion and fifteen-time All-Star, is a robot."
Clarissa Shaw stares back defiantly. "I know it."
She rolls her wheelchair forwards so she can slap a manila file folder on his desk. "I have evidence."
Spencer makes no moves to take the folder. "Why are you bothering me? Shouldn't you be taking this to Merlo? Or is she too busy ignoring our extradition requests?"
The mention of Anderson, even obliquely, causes Shaw to wince. Spencer guesses that she was part of the task force that ambushed Vincent Anderson as he fled Portlands, snatching the megalomaniac genius and wanted felon right out from under the nose of the UIU. It would certainly explain her injuries.
"Merlo has her hands tied. Now that Anderson is in custody, there isn't as much funding to go after his company. Holman won't approve an op without concrete evidence. Everyone thinks I'm grasping at straws to find a way to stay involved in the action." The hurt in Shaw's voice is obvious.
Spencer has enough tact to not press that issue. But he still doesn't want to get involved. His partner, forensic thaumatologist Robin Thorne, is taking a much-needed vacation with their significant other, leaving him to supervise the Three Portlands Field Office alone.
So far, it has been blissfully monotonous and uneventful, and he hopes to keep it that way.
"I'm sorry to hear that Clarissa, but I fail to see why this is my problem."
"Because Shaq is an American citizen, and if he's been replaced by a Saker, then he might be in danger. And because if there's a Saker still out there, we have no idea what it will do now that Anderson is in custody. It may very well go on a rampage, or try to kill the President. Anderson has already tried to subvert the United States Government. Can you really afford to ignore a Saker, especially one as prominent as Shaq?"
"If there's a Saker," Spencer counters. But he has to give the point to Shaw. If she's right — if — then he has to act. Anything less would be negligence.
He picks up the folder and cracks it open. He starts leafing through the files within.
"Hmm." He removes a photograph and holds it up to examine it more closely. It's a side-by-side comparison of two still frames of Shaquille O'Neal from Inside the NBA, date-stamped a week apart. Shaw had used red marker pen to circle a number of differences, all barely perceptible.
Spencer looks up from the photograph at Shaw. Looks back at the photograph. Back at Shaw.
She desperately needs a win. Far more than he needs things to stay boring.
"Okay," he says. "I'm convinced."
He throws the folder back on the desk and stands up, pulling his suit jacket off the back of his chair and sliding it on in a smooth, well-practiced motion. He looks at Shaw expectantly. "Well? Saddle up, we're going robot hunting."
December 19, 2018
Shaq's House
Orlando, Florida
Spencer rings the doorbell.
"I still think we should have tried to get backup from MOOT," Shaw says while they wait.
"Thorne took out one of these things by themself, I think the two of us can handle one robot," Spencer replies. "Besides, he might not even be here. He wasn't at the house in Texas."
"And if it is here? I'd rather have a wizard backing us up."
Spencer shrugs. "We're just here to ask a few questions and see if we can confirm our suspicions. We can always come back later with wizard SWAT if we're right."
"I suppose. I still don't like it."
"Hey, you came to me. If you don't like how we do things in the Unit, you can always leave."
They fall silent at the sound of someone unlocking the door.
Shaq opens the door.
Spencer shuffles nervously, his cool facade crumbling slightly in the face of all seven feet and one inch of the basketball player's enormous frame.
"Hi, Mr. O'Neal. I'm Special Agent Kenneth Spencer—" He holds up his badge as proof, then gestures at Shaw. "—and this is Agent Clarissa Shaw. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?"
Shaq hesitates. "Is it urgent? I'm working on a new album, and I had a sick freestyle going."
"I'm very sorry to interrupt you," Spencer says. "But we have reason to believe you might be in danger."
"We think someone might be impersonating you," Shaw says, which is almost the truth.
"Have you noticed anything strange?" Spencer asks. "Unusual activity on your accounts, other people remembering interactions that you didn't have, weird phone calls, anything like that?"
"No, nothing like that." Shaq sighs. "I bet I know what's up." He leans closer and says, in a stage whisper, "I have a stunt double, back from making Steel. Great guy, terrible at basketball. Sometimes people see him in public and think he's me. You dig it?"
"I dig it." Spencer smiles brightly. "Shaq didn't have a stunt double for that movie. They couldn't find a tall enough look-a-like."
Panic flashes across Shaq's face. "Fuck!"
He slams the door shut.
Shaw groans. "We've been made. He's definitely a Saker, and he knows we're onto him."
Spencer nods. "You know, I think you might be right." He pulls out his pistol and holds it at the ready below his waist. "Can you cover the front? I'm gonna try to circle around and cut him off."
"Are you really suggesting we split up so it can pick us off one-by-one?"
But he's already jogging across the driveway, scanning for an easy spot to vault over the wall and into the backyard.
He's still standing in the driveway when, a moment later, an engine roars and a cherry red Corvette smashes through the garage door. In fact, he's directly in its path.
The car hits Spencer at about five miles per hour, lifting him from the ground and folding him up against the hood. He clings desperately to the car with one hand, fingers scrabbling for purchase. Miraculously, his other hand still holds his pistol.
He aims vaguely and starts firing. His first shot goes wide. His second shot gouges the hood. His third shot takes out the driver-side mirror.
The Corvette accelerates and weaves down the driveway, trying to throw him off, or at least ruin his aim. His pistol goes flying, tumbling into the grass of the lawn. He starts swearing, random curse words from a variety of languages, and tries to hold on with both hands.
The Shaqbot takes the corner at the end of the driveway hard. Really hard. The Corvette goes up on two wheels for a moment, and Spencer goes flying. He lands in a patch of dandelions across the street, bruised, battered, and winded, but otherwise none the worse for wear. The Corvette speeds off down the street and vanishes from view.
Shaw rolls down the driveway and looks down at him. "Do you want to call for backup now?"
"Yeah. I think so." Spencer rubs his back and winces. "Did you see which way he was going?"
"South," Shaw saws. "He's probably getting onto State Route 482."
"That'll take him to the airport." He groans as he stands up and starts dusting dandelion fluff off his pants.
"Great, let's go, we can catch him there."
Spencer shakes his head. "No, we're not engaging in the middle of MCO. It would be a blood bath." He pulls out his phone and begins to dial.
"What—?"
He holds up a hand to cut her off and starts speaking into the phone.
"Agent Carter? Ken Spencer here, from the Three Ports office. I need a favor from you."
He pauses to listen.
"I need an APB for Shaquille O'Neal. He's driving a red Corvette without a left-side wing mirror, and is likely en route to Orlando International Airport. Tell local cops and TSA not to engage or try to detain, just observe. I want to know what flight he gets on and when."
He pauses again. Shaw can't hear the words being said, but the voice on the other end of the line sounds agitated.
"No, he's been replaced by a robot."
Another pause.
"Yes, it's related to the Caldwell thing. It's a matter of national security."
The voice sounds slightly mollified.
Spencer laughs. "Thanks, Isaac. I owe you one."
He closes the phone and looks at Shaw. "In your expert opinion, do you believe that there is a clear and exigent threat to the life of Shaquille O'Neal?"
Shaw blinks. "It's possible."
"And is it possible that we might find him inside this residence, or, failing that, information regarding his current location?"
Shaw nods. "Sure, I guess."
Spencer smiles like a shark. "I'm willing to call that exigent circumstances." He pulls a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket and snaps them on. "Let's search the place."
They move methodically, sweeping through each room with practiced patience, checking everything — opening drawers, lifting up cushions, looking under furniture. Spencer even checks the dust on the bookshelves to see which books have recently been moved. They're looking for any clue that might tell them where the real Shaq is — if he's even still alive.
Eventually, after almost forty minutes of searching, Shaw finds something.
"Hey, come take a look at this!" she calls out.
Spencer comes over to find her pointing at a framed photograph next to the entertainment center.
"What is it?" he asks. The photo shows Shaq performing as a DJ at some event.
"Look at that, do you see it? Reflected in his sunglasses."
Spencer leans in for a better look. Shaq is in a nightclub somewhere, performing on an elevated stage above a crowded dance floor. A dozen different colors of muted neon light the scene, giving it an otherworldly vibe.
Reflected in the left lens of Shaq's sunglasses, almost too small to make out, is a small logo, probably from a neon sign outside the nightclub.
It's the logo of the United Nations Global Occult Coalition.
"Fucking hell." Spencer picks up the photograph and holds it up to the light. "That's in Eurtec."
"Or somewhere with a Coalition presence," Shaw says.
"No, it's definitely Eurtec. Look at that guy's wrist." Spencer points at an arm thrusting up from the dance floor into the bottom of the photograph. "Do you see the tattoo?"
Shaw squints, then nods. "What about it?"
"That's the insignia of a neo-Nazi Eurtec street gang."
"So he's been to Eurtec," Shaw says. "Which means he's clued in about the Veil."
"Which explains why someone might want to replace him with a robot." Spencer sets the photograph back down and begins to pace. "This isn't looking good. He might be in real trouble."
At that moment, Spencer's phone rings, merrily playing the X-Files theme. He answers the phone immediately, pointedly ignoring Shaw's curious look.
"Go for Spencer," he says.
He listens intently for about thirty seconds, then hangs up.
"Robot's taking a flight to Paris," he tells Shaw. "Plane leaves in thiry minutes."
"What's in Paris?" she asks.
Spencer looks at the photograph of Shaq DJing. "Eurtec."
Understanding dawns in Shaw's eyes. "It's looking for Shaq."
"Maybe." Spencer frowns. "Is that typical of Sakers?"
Shaw shrugs. "We don't really know what's typical of Sakers."
"I thought you guys were the experts."
"No, that's the guy who makes them. We just know how to break them."
"Let's hope that's enough." Spencer starts dialing another number. "I assume you don't have Library access, yeah?"
"No, why? Who are you calling?" Shaw asks.
"Someone who can give us a Way to Eurtec that doesn't go through the Library." He lifts the phone to his ear and starts speaking. "Hello, Mister Raybon? This is Agent Spencer. How'd you like to do a good deed? The life of Shaquille O'Neal might depend on it."
Eurtec
It takes Spencer and Shaw two hours to get to Eurtec, following the directions given to them by Jordan "Submarine" Raybon. The retired smuggler knows how to get to anywhere from anywhere, although not always by the most direct route. He gives them a path through the Way network that will take them from Orlando to Naples, Italy. Although it's only a few miles of walking in total, by the time the two agents are standing before a Way into Eurtec they've passed through the Neverglades; Naples, Florida; Liminal Italy; the Kingdom of Zero Sicilies; and half-a-dozen other locales across the world tree.
"You ever been to Eurtec?" Spencer asks.
Shaw shakes her head. "No, the Coalition doesn't like us being here."
"I can't imagine why." He starts ticking off points on his fingers. "It's bigger than Three Ports, by a lot, and meaner. The Coalition mostly doesn't give a fuck about street crime. The city is physically and economically stratified, and neo-Nazi gangs control the lower levels. We won't have any real authority, so don't tell anyone you're with the Foundation, it'll just piss people off. You can bring weapons through customs but it probably won't help — almost everyone is armed with something, usually magic."
"What about wheelchair access?" Shaw asks.
Spencer frowns. "Worse than an American city, better than anywhere in baseline Europe. There used to be a teleporter network but they shut it down after 9/11."
"Damn, that would have been nice."
"Can't have anything nice in the United Nations' cyberpunk dystopia." Spencer chuckles, once, before his expression turns serious again. "For real though, this place makes Portlands look like a fluffy kitten — and I have seen Portlandsers spontaneously construct and burn an effigy of J. Edgar Hoover purely out of boredom."
"Can you blame them?" Shaw asks.
"No, and it was a pretty decent likeness, but that's not the point. Just being American will make us a target here. Don't let your guard down."
Shaw nods. "Understood. I'll keep my eyes open."
Spencer steps forwards to confront the blank brick wall of the Neopolitan alleyway. He pulls a crumpled slip of paper from his pocket and double-checks the instructions written on it.
He clears his throat, knocks three times on a slightly off-color brick, and says, "Let us leave good sense behind."
The bricks glow for a moment, then crumble to sand and ash, exposing a small pedestrian tunnel. Spencer leads them through, emerging into what looks like an airport terminal. Over a dozen similar tunnels dot the wall behind them, with light pedestrian traffic going in and out of them.
"I thought you said there was customs?" Shaw looks around for anything resembling security and comes up blank.
"The city is run by a bunch of precognitive computers. We cleared customs on the Way in. If we hadn't, you'd know."
Shaw looks pensive. "Could they tell us where Shaq is? Or where he will be?"
Spencer shrugs. "Probably. If they want to help us, then they'd have already done it — maybe they even have. But I doubt it. From what I've heard, the Nornir don't get involved. They have bigger things to worry about."
"Oh, like Yao Ming."
Spencer barks out a short laugh. "Sure. Like Yao Ming." He checks his watch. "Come on, we have six hours to find Shaq. Then the Saker gets here, and I don't want to try playing spot the impostor."
They both set a timer on their watches.
"How exactly are we going to find Shaq?" Shaw asks.
"Some good old-fashioned police work," Spencer says. "We're gonna canvas the city."
"All million people? In six hours?" Shaw shakes her head. "You're more likely to trip over him."
"Maybe. Maybe not." He stops the next passerby and holds up a Shaquille O'Neal basketball card. "Excuse me, have you seen this man?"
The man nods. "Shaq? Of course, I wouldn't miss him."
Spencer glances at Shaw. She rolls her eyes.
"Where did you see him?" Spencer asks.
"He was playing at Club Cipher," the man replies. "But if you're hoping to catch him, he won't be there tonight. He's been playing a different venue every night."
Spencer nods, feigning comprehension. "Any idea where he'll be tonight?"
The man shakes his head. "No, it doesn't get announced in advance. It's like a guerilla DJing thing."
"Alright, thank you. You've been very helpful." He lets the man continue on his way.
"Alright there's no way you're that lucky," Shaw says. "What's your trick?"
"That photo we saw of Shaq," Spencer says. "He was playing at a club. I figured that if he was here and not, you know, a prisoner or dead, then there was a pretty good chance he'd be performing again."
"You never actually intended to canvas the whole city."
"Nope! Just the nightclubs." Spencer grabs a tourist map of Eurtec from a nearby stand. "And with a few educated guesses, we can narrow our search further."
He pulls a pen from his pocket and crosses out Club Cipher.
"Right, if we know where he's been then we know where he won't be," Shaw says.
"And it might give us an idea of where he will be. Cipher is a dive, which suggests he's probably not playing any of the really upscale clubs — you know, the ones that charge a cover just to stand in line."
"How do you know so much about Eurtec?" Shaw asks. "The UIU doesn't have jurisdiction here "
"No, but we have an international office here. For liaison purposes. I read their reports." Spencer shrugs. "And I may have been here a few times on vacation."
Shaw stares at him. "I cannot picture you on vacation."
"Hey, I'm not a robot," he says. "I take vacations too." He holds up the map, upon which he has drawn about a dozen circles. "Here's our target list. Thirteen nightclubs in the city's lower level."
"Can we hit them all in six hours?"
"We can try."
They manage it, just barely. Canvassing the city's nightclubs takes them five hours and fifty minutes.
Their first stop is Ewige Blumenkraft, an Illuminati-owned nightclub inside the Eurtec Parabotanical Gardens in the city's middle-tier. It is widely considered the lamest club in Europe, but the Illuminati have the money to pay for the best DJs, so people still go. The bouncer helpfully informs them that Shaq played there a week ago, and that the Achronal Hyacinth will be unblooming soon.
Their second visit is to BROZ, a gay club inside the former Yugoslav consulate. The centerpiece is an unexploded bomb from the NATO intervention in Serbia, which is allegedly still armed. The bartender tells them that Shaq was there a few days ago.
Next they hit the French clubs, Paradis — a discotheque inside a former Gothic church that was transported to Eurtec brick-by-brick — and Atomique — situated inside a decommissioned nuclear power plant. Neither club has seen "Le Shaq", but both have plans to book him soon.
Valhalla is the first club to give them trouble. The abandoned mattress factory is overrun by neo-Nazi thugs, all benefiting from the lack of dram laws in Eurtec. It's obvious that Shaq hasn't been there, but they ask the bouncer anyways.
"Fuck off, cripple," he says to Shaw.
The Foundation agent clenches her fists, causing the bouncer to laugh.
"Aw, you wanna fight, dyke?" He takes a step back, up onto a step. "What are you gonna do now?"
Spencer sucker punches him in the gut. The man collapses in a heap.
"That," Shaw says. "Thanks for the assist."
"Fucking Nazis." Spencer spits on the fallen bouncer. "Let's get out of here."
The next club on their list is the Count, a bougie little opium den allegedly run by Dracula. The dance floor is packed by eager goths with plunging necklines all grinding to a club remix of "Bela Lugosi's Dead". Shaq has not played there.
Borealis is another Nazi club. They skip it and move on to Volts, the only club to be exclusively located in virtual reality. Spencer orders a shot, just to see if viritual alcohol has any effect. It doesn't.
They don't find Shaq until the ninth club, a high-end dive run by MachineGod.
"Look, there's Shaq." Spencer points up at the stage where Shaq is playing.
"Okay, you were right," Shaw says. "Point for old-fashioned police work, I guess."
"Come on, we don't have much time."
Suddenly, a loud scream cuts through the noise of the club. Spencer and Shaw turn to look at its origin. On the other side of the club, another Shaquille O'Neal has picked someone up and thrown them across the dance floor.
"Shaquille O'Neal!" Its voice booms and reverberates unnaturally. Shaq stops playing and looks at the robot in confusion.
"What do you want?" He calls down.
"Your life!" The robot strides through the now-panicked crowd, easily cutting through the throng of bodies.
"Fuck, the plane landed early," Spencer says. "Shaw, can you distract it?"
"Why? What's your plan?"
Spencer reaches elbow-deep into one of the extradimensional pockets of his suit and extracts a sawn-off shotgun. "I'm gonna blow its head off."
He slips into the crowd, vanishing from view. Shaw shakes her head, then starts wheeling herself towards the stage, not caring how many feet she runs over in the process.
The Saker vaults onto the stage with surprising agility, landing in a three-point stance. It picks up the DJ deck and throws it directly at Shaq's head.
Shaq ducks underneath the still-spinning turntables. With a yell, he charges the robot and tackles it, sending them both flying off the edge of the stage. With the robot pinned beneath him, Shaq rears back and throws a punch at its jaw.
The Saker doesn't react.
Shaq punches it again.
The Saker catches the punch in one hand.
With its other hand it grabs Shaq by the throat. It sits up, then clambers to its feet while holding the struggling Shaq. It still doesn't react to the stray kicks and wild punches that Shaq is pummeling it with.
It lifts Shaq into the air with one arm and studies him. The sight is almost comical, except that it betrays the terrifying strength of the robot.
"There can't be two Shaqs," it explains. "I cannot truly be Shaq as long as you live."
The Shaqbot pulls its other arm back and prepares to punch Shaq in the face.
Shaw does not have a plan. She has an idea which, very charitably, could be called the start of a plan.
"Freeze tin man!" Shaw shouts out. She holds up a clenched fist. "Let Shaq go, or I blow us all to hell."
The robot freezes. "Not you again! What do you want from me?"
"I told you, let Shaq go." Out of the corner of her eye, Shaw sees Spencer creeping up behind the robot.
"And if I don't, you'll detonate a bomb?"
Shaw nods. "This wheelchair is packed with high explosives. Enough to destroy you." A loud click comes from her fist. "And I just armed the dead-man's switch."
"Lady are you fucking crazy?" Shaq shouts.
The Shaqbot frowns. "You're bluffing. You'd kill the other Shaq too."
Shaw stares at the robot, pointedly avoiding looking at the approaching figure. "You're gonna kill him anyways. I'm just here to destroy you."
The Saker shakes its head. "No. You are definitely bluffing. There is no bomb. I am going to kill Mr. O'Neal, and then I am going to kill you."
"Wrong." Spencer pulls the trigger of the sawn-off shotgun, firing a heavy slug at point blank range into the back of the robot's neck.
The Saker drops Shaq and stumbles forwards. It turns, unsteadily, to face Spencer. Sparks fly from exposed servos underneath its bionic skin.
Spencer pumps the shotgun and fires another round into its torso.
The robot throws up an arm to try and shield itself.
He fires again.
And again.
And again.
The robot topples to its knees. Smoke and oil leak from it in a dozen places. Flaps of shredded skin hang loosely, revealing the mechanical components beneath. It stares at Spencer with hatred in its electric eyes.
"I… just wanted.. to be Shaq…" it stutters.
Shaw rolls her wheelchair closer. She draws her service pistol and places it against the side of the robot's head.
"There's only one Shaq," she says. "And you aren't it."
She pulls the trigger.
The remains of the robot collapse to the floor with a clatter and a thump.
Spencer gives Shaw a look. "You don't actually have a bomb, right?"
She shakes her head and opens her fist to reveal a ballpoint pen. "Nope, just a pen and some improv."
Spencer laughs so hard that he has to put his hands on his knees to support himself. "A fucking pen!" He laughs again. "Thorne is never gonna believe this."
Shaq takes the opportunity to approach the two agents. "Yo, what the fuck is going on here? Who the hell are you?"
Spencer nods, clearing his throat and composing himself. "Mr. O'Neal, I'm Special Agent Kenneth Spencer of the FBI Unusual Incidents Unit, and this is Clarissa Shaw. Someone replaced you with a human replica android. We were investigating."
"Yeah, that was me." Shaq looks slightly embarrassed.
"You replaced yourself with a robot?" Shaw asks.
"Yeah, last time I was here there was this guy — I think his name was Isaac? — anyways, he was selling these robots for use as body doubles. I got one to do Inside the NBA for me so I could do more DJing."
Shaw and Spencer exchange glances.
"Well." Spencer pauses.
"It malfunctioned," Shaw says. "And came here to try and kill you."
"Fuck, for real?" Shaq whistles. "Damn, I guess I should have seen that coming."
"Eh, you never hear about the robots that don't go rogue and try to commit murder," Spencer says. "I just hope you've learned something about the risks of using Veiled technologies."
Shaq nods. "Definitely. From now on the only magic I'll play with is Orlando."
"Glad to hear it." Spencer looks around at the now-empty nightclub. "Shouldn't the police have gotten here by now?"
Shaw shrugs. "Precog computers, remember? They probably know we've got a handle on it."
Spencer nods. "Yeah, I guess. Anything else, Shaw?"
"Mr. O'Neal, do you care if we keep the remains of the robot to study?"
Shaq shakes his head. "Not like I can return it."
"Alright, then I think we're done here," Spencer says. "It was a real pleasure meeting you, Mr. O'Neal."
He turns to leave, then stops.
"Oh, Mr. O'Neal, one last thing." Spencer clears his throat nervously. "Can I have your autograph?"
Agent Spencer,
Thanks for the assist. Great shooting!
