Artificial Intelligence?
What's wrong with the real thing?...

There were mounds in front of his eyes. Creamy white mounds, eminently lickable. His mouth watered - he surrendered and leaned closer - he licked...

A loud buzzing sounded in his ear, followed by the somewhat less than dulcet tones of Alpha One, interrupted him in the pursuit of pleasure.

"Come in, 3-7."

Bodie shook himself awake, but not quickly enough for Cowley.

"Bodie!"

Reluctantly, Bodie dismissed the lingering dreams of bowls of his favourite ice cream and mumbled, "Sir?"

"Awake now, are ye? And about time tae. Where's Doyle?"

Bodie glanced at the reclined passenger seat, where his partner lay dozing, snoring lightly, with an irritatingly beatific smile on his face. Bodie poked him in the ribs, grinning maliciously as he jerked awake with a clearly audible snort.

"He's with me, sir."

"Aye, so I hear. Smarten yersel' up, 4-5. Ye sound like a pig, and I've no doubt ye look like one as well." The Cow harrumphed to himself, then continued, "I want you both tae report to these co-ordinates..." a sequence of numbers appeared on the screen of their onboard computer "and speak to one R'T'OnJon."

"Who, sir?"

"Ye heard me! He's got a little problem for ye. Ye're to give him every assistance, without question, and report back to me when the matter's resolved. Alpha One, out."

Bodie pouted at Doyle, who was scrabbling in the overflowing utility compartment and so missed the eloquent expression.

"What d'you think that's all about?"

Doyle's voice echoed from the depths of the compartment. "If you get yer arse in gear an' get a move on, we might get to find out before we grow old. An' what the bloody 'ell 'ave you done with me vitamins?"

"Not guilty, sunshine. Perhaps you finished 'em?"

"Always carry a spare..." Doyle's curly head withdrew from the cubbyhole, a puzzled frown on his face. "You sure you 'aven't seen 'em?"
       "Will you stop worrying about your flamin' vitamins and run an ID check through SAM? Let's find out who this R'T'OnJon is, shall we?"

"Can tell you that without checking. She's a Prognopper scientist.

"She? Cowley said he."

Doyle smirked. "Nah, it's a her. Trust me..."

Bodie frowned, but thought it safer not to pursue the subject. If he got Doyle started on yet another tale of alien conquest they'd still be here next Fursday... He slammed the 'car into gear and let the autopilot take over.

R'T'OnJon turned out to be a spectacular and attractive creature, even by Bodie's standards. Her four arms were slender, and her face sufficiently human not to engender a scream of fright on finding it next to yours on the pillow first thing in the morning. Her eyes (both of them) were the most beautiful shade of soft purple, while her slinky silver coverall fit tightly - very tightly - almost over all four luscious breasts. There was only one thing that stopped Bodie from making a move...

"DoyleRay!!" R'T'OnJon's voice was loud enough and deep enough to shatter granite, but that wasn't it. No, it was the way she picked Doyle up bodily in her arms and held him cuddled to her ample bosom. The Prognopper was at least twice as tall as he was: Bodie watched with his mouth hanging open as Ray twisted to wrap his legs around her upper half and licked slowly up her nose. At least, Bodie assumed it was a nose. It looked like a nose. But then, so did the nose-like things on the faces of the Falaladalididdles - and they most certainly were not noses...

Welcome over, R'T'OnJon put Doyle down, carefully, and turned to lead the CI5 agents into her lab. Bodie grabbed Doyle's arm as they made to follow.

"You randy little devil! What's she like?"

Doyle winked. "Not your type, mate."

"Wanna bet?"

"I'd win..."

Bodie filed away the challenge for later...

R'T'OnJon's lab was a gravity-free zone - not one of Bodie's favourite environments (although it did bring back fond memories of one particular night spent on board a cruiser with a certain supple, fair-haired ISAS lieutenant with a very inventive mind...) He swallowed and tried to concentrate on what the Prognopper was saying.

"Issss computer. Is acting verrrrry sssstrange..." R'T'OnJon gazed down at Doyle, large liquid eyes appealing. Bodie frowned.

"Since when did CI5 become technical support for dodgy computers?"

"But issss important, DoyleRayBuddy. Issss doing work for CI5 right now."

Bodie raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"S'true." Doyle nodded. "On'Jon's working on a new programme to make our job easier. Somethin' to do with cybertagging known villains."

The Prognopper nodded vehemently. "Issss to do good for you'all. But issss not work right right now."

Bodie beckoned Doyle closer, grabbing his arm as he leaned in to mutter in his ear. "Look mate, I know you've got a thing going with her..."

"Had a thing going. We're just good friends."

Bodie sighed. "OK, OK - had a thing going... All the same, what does she expect us to do? We're not tech-heads!"

A deep-throated squeal nearly burst their eardrums. R'T'OnJon caught the shoulders of both men in a near-bone-breaking grip and pointed at the enormous monitor against the far wall. A large, somehow faintly ludicrous visage was displayed there in monochrome glory.

"Phepheeek!"

Bodie stared at Doyle. Doyle stared back and shrugged. R'T'OnJon stared at them both and shook her head in irritation.

"Phepheeek. Issss like computer virussss. Issss like AI. Take over ssssyssstemssss, sssscrew up programssss - caussssse havocsss..."

Bodie paused for a moment to wipe Prognopper spittle off his face. He glanced speculatively at his partner, wondering idly if R'T'OnJon kept a supply of Prog-sized tissues by the bed. Or whatever it was that Prognoppers' used for carnal activities. He'd have to remember to ask, later. Unless he could wangle a first-hand encounter. Though first-hand wasn't really an appropriate phrase for a Prognopper... Bodie dragged his attention back to the situation at hand.

Doyle was speaking. "So, we have to force the virus out of the computer?"

R'T'OnJon nodded.

"Any idea how?"

"Hassss been known to usssse another computer to fight virussss. Issss ussssual firsssst try..."

Doyle glanced doubtfully at his partner. "Think SAM's up to playing doctor?"

Bodie shook his head. "But I suppose we'd better give it a go."

He dragged his palmtop from his jacket pocket - along with several pairs of hand and foot cuffs, an elaborately plaited rope, and a portable tattooing kit - and onlined to the CI5 mainframe via their 'car's onboard system. A pixelated version of Cowley's face glared at them from the small monitor.

"Whit dae you clowns want?"

Bodie rolled his eyes. He'd forgotten the mainframe's AI unit had been modelled on the CI5 controller. Doyle, meanwhile, had explained the problem.

"And ye're supposed tae be the best we've got and ye cannae even handle a wee bit jobbie like that? Och, ye're hopeless... G'i's here."

Doyle plugged the palmtop into the jack and stepped back. The face on the large monitor stared at the face on the small monitor in silence.

Five minutes later they were still staring silently at each other. Bodie nudged Doyle.

"What now?"

"Dunno." He looked at R'T'OnJon. "D'you know what's goin' on?"

The Prognopper swayed gracefully over to another monitor and gazed at the incomprehensible sigils thereon for a moment or two, then glanced over one shoulder and beckoned them closer.

"Issss a fight. Issss misssster Cowley challenge Phepheeek to duel."

Both men's eyes widened. "You what?"

"Issss fight. Duel. Cowley challenge virussss to game of... golf?" Elegant double eyebrows drew together in puzzlement. "Issss what issss golf?"

Doyle shrugged. "Some ancient game, I think. Involved hittin' a little ball with a metal stick..."

"Mmmm..." Bodie leered. "Could be fun. I'll have to remember that!"

Doyle flashed him an exasperated look but otherwise ignored him.

They waited for an hour, but nothing seemed to happen except that the game appeared to move along a series of 'holes', with neither side clearly winning. Doyle found himself a comfortable human-shaped chair and settled down for a nap. Bodie went in search of food, then settled down with a year-old copy of PlayBeing that some lab tech had obviously thoroughly enjoyed at some point, though Bodie couldn't quite see the attraction of custard-wrestling Jckilims, even if they were exceptionally well-endowed. R'T'OnJon watched the screen intently but with sheer bewilderment...

It was after midnight when the Prognopper woke them with a startled bellow that had both men dropping to the floor, tasers drawn and ready for battle. R'T'OnJon flapped a couple of hands at them impatiently.

"Issss not for dangerousssss. Come ssssee. What they do now?"

On the screen the Cow, resplendent in tartan apron and mixing bowl, seemed to be in a virtual kitchen. Doyle stared, open-mouthed.

"What the bloody 'ell's goin' on now?"

R'T'OnJon grinned. "Issss food fight."

Bodie gaped. "You mean a cooking contest? Cooking? Can Cowley cook?"

"Looks like we're gonna find out..."

Twelve and a half hours, three portions of neeps, tatties and boozy haggis, a vat of Scot's porridge, two barrels of herring in oatmeal, and one large Dundee cake later, they had to assume he could. Though not necessarily particularly well. The virus was making peculiar choking noises, and did not look at all healthy...

Doyle watched the screen intently, muttering under his breath. Bodie glanced at him enquiringly.

"Just wonderin' what the next contest is gonna be..."

They weren't kept in suspense for long. The virtual Cowley was wrestling with something that looked like a pyjama-clad octopus. Doyle's eyes widened, and he hustled his partner and the Prognopper speedily out of the lab, slamming the solid door behind him.

"What was that for?"

Doyle smiled grimly. "You've never heard Cowley play the bagpipes, have you?"

Even through the soundproof door an unearthly wailing could be heard. Bodie clapped his hands over his ears in pain, relieved to notice that Doyle had done likewise. R'T'OnJon stared from one to the other of them, apparently entirely unaffected by the cacophony. (Bodie was to find out later it bore more than a passing resemblance to Prognopper muzak...)

The torture seemed never-ending, but finally, with one last triumphant off-key wail, the horrible noise ceased. The silence that replaced it was almost terrifying. Doyle cautiously opened the door - Cowley's face frowned out at the empty lab from the large screen. He spotted Doyle peering around the door.

"Aye - you can come in. It's gone."

Before heading off towards her suite of rooms (for convenience sake situated next door to the lab) R'T'OnJon had swiftly run a check of the system and confirmed that yes, indeed the Phepheeek had left the computer. The virtual Cowley nodded impatiently.

"It's no' difficult. The key is knowing ye're ain strengths and weaknesses." The pixelated image glared sternly at the two humans. "And d'ye think we might ever find out whit yours are?"

Bodie smiled. "Well, we'll keep trying to find out, sir."

The virtual Cowley didn't look in the least mollified. "Aye, weel, I'm glad it's no' me that has tae put up wi' the pair o' ye." The screen went completely blank, and Bodie grimaced.

"No more manners than the real one..."

"I heard that!" echoed faintly from the machine. Doyle grinned.

"At least he can't slap your wrist for you!"

"Can't offer us a wee dram, either."

"You think we've earned it?"

Bodie considered this for a moment, then shook his head. "Probably not. Nice thought, though, isn't it?"

"So let's go and find a watering hole..."

Bodie grinned. "Got something else planned."

"Oh? What?"

He glanced in the direction the Prognopper had taken and leered. Doyle scowled.

"You won't enjoy it, mate."

"Bet I do."

"'Ow much?"

"Mmmmm.... doing the case reports for the next month?"

"Yer on! But I still don't think R'T'OnJon's your type..."

"You won't talk me out of it. I've got a few ideas I want to try out." He patted the pocket with the cuffs and the rope.

Doyle shrugged. "Your funeral, mate..."

He watched, chuckling to himself, as Bodie swaggered towards the Prognopper's suite, and settled down to wait, whistling quietly, his eyes on his chronometer...

Thirty-seven seconds later there came a cry from the suite, a sort of a cross between a scream and a wail of mingled outrage, bewilderment and a kind of horrified anticipation.

"DOYLE!!!"

Ray grinned. Cowley hadn't been entirely wrong when he'd referred to the Prognopper as he. Doyle just thought it might be more... interesting for his partner to find out, the hard way, that Prognoppers suddenly changed sex every six months or so...