Hammerjack (15 page)

He was dressed in an amalgam of the primitive and modern—crude handmade beads hanging from his neck, with a coat engineered for the most extreme climates draped over his shoulders. Below that he wore blue jeans, the cuffs tucked into waterproof hiking boots. His features were Eurasian: the eyes faintly slanted, the skin a rich brown tinged with yellow. Based on all the mountain gear, Cray had him figured for a Sherpa—a reference that was purely historical. Those people had been extinct for over a hundred years, their culture swallowed up like so many others steamrolled by the civilized world.

About the time the Assembly went into stasis.

“Dr. Alden, I presume,” the Sherpa said.

Cray studied him. “You have me at a disadvantage.”

“Of course I do,” the Sherpa replied. “That’s how we designed it.”

He offered Cray a seat at one of the tables, then sat down across from him. What followed was a long, complicated stare—the sophistication behind the Sherpa’s eyes a contradiction of his old world façade.

“So,” Cray started. “What is this, anyway? My dream, or yours?”

“It’s not nearly that complicated,” the Sherpa explained. “A series of common reference points generated to keep our minds glued to reality while we’re in stasis. All we did was let you in on the party.”

“You picked a hell of a construct.”

“It’s the easiest crossover we could find. If you had dropped in on one of our other horizons, the transitional shock would have killed you—or at the very least, made you insane. We’re not that used to company, I’m afraid.”

“Sorry to intrude.”

“What’s done is done.” The Sherpa leaned back, still regarding him with that pseudoclairvoyant expression—like he was already tunneling into Cray’s mind. “We’ve been under so long, it’s doubtful we could ever return to corporeal life. Lack of sensory input, you know. Same thing will happen to you, if you stay long enough.”

“Is that what you have in mind for me?”

The Sherpa laughed. “On the contrary, Dr. Alden,” he said. “None of this would have been necessary had you just allowed us to plug you in. All data, no images—
that
’s the way to do business. No messy subjectives to deal with.”

Cray looked back at the enigma across the table. The Sherpa sat there for a while, allowing him to work it out for himself.

“
You’re
the Assembly.”

“You see?” the Sherpa said, with a genteel nod. “You’re starting to adapt already.” He got up and walked over to the stove, stirring the coals with a poker as he explained. “Everything here is a logical representation, Dr. Alden—including you. Even so, our physical conventions are flexible. By combining ourselves into a single entity, we can facilitate more efficient communication.”

“Must play hell with the ego.”

“It’s a kick, actually.” He picked a pot up off the stove. “How about some breakfast?”

“Already ate.”

“Just as well. The food here tastes like shit anyway.” The Sherpa went over to the entrance of the tent, opening up one of the stray backpacks and retrieving a leather pouch. He tucked the pouch under his arm, then motioned for Cray to follow. “Why don’t you come outside and help me? I’ll fill you in on the details, then you can tell me how you want to proceed.”

“By that,” Cray asked, “do you mean I have a choice in the matter?”

“You have a great many choices, Dr. Alden,” the Sherpa told him, not sounding at all threatening. “But you’ll find there is only one sensible choice for you to make—if you wish to continue breathing.”

Sunshine came down like a hammer, filtered through the thin atmosphere of high altitude. The stark effect of the light was as chilling as the air that cut through it.

Cray had to shield his eyes from the brightness, neural illusion or no. Under the shadow of his hand, he peeked out at the panorama that surrounded him and was astonished by its beauty, complexity—and magnificent desolation. A barren moonscape of ice and rock crunched beneath Cray’s feet as he walked. Towering over that were the mountains, silent sentinels that rose over nine thousand meters into the sky. The hurricane winds of the stratosphere blew snow off the peaks into gentle plumes and anvil formations, brute force translating into ethereal art. The rendering of it all was sheer perfection, even if the technology that produced it was ancient.

The Sherpa led Cray toward a craggy stone monolith. It was little more than a pile of rocks, adorned with a number of strange items. Colorful banners, flapping in the breeze, were draped all over it, and as Cray drew closer he could see photographs attached wherever there was room to hang them. There were dozens—some old, some new, keeping vigil over a small pile of abandoned climbing gear that rested at the base of the monolith. Cray thought at first that it was a memorial to those who had gone up the mountains, never to return. But then he noticed that all the photos depicted only seven men—different poses, different settings, even different times—but always the same faces, over and over again.

The Assembly.

A tombstone for those who were dead, but not dead.

“I see the
Punjab
bodes well for us,” the Sherpa said, unwrapping the leather pouch he had brought with him. Out came a string of the colored banners, which flapped like kites, urged on by the wind. “Here,” he said, handing one end to Cray. “Help me hang these prayer flags. With the journey you’re about to take, you’ll need all the help you can get.”

“Sounds like you have a job for me.”

“Nothing
that
simple.” The Sherpa laughed. He walked the string around the monolith, securing his end between a couple of stones. “You see, we have this problem, one that requires a particular kind of expertise. There are some of us in the Assembly who believe that your unorthodox background would fit the bill perfectly.”

“
Some
of you,” Cray wondered aloud.

“The rest believe you should not be allowed to leave this facility alive.”

Cray had already considered that possibility. Still, hearing it intrigued him.

“At any rate,” the Sherpa went on, “cooler heads have prevailed—at least for now. I cannot, however, guarantee how long the situation can continue. We are all anxious to resolve this matter, Dr. Alden—and we demand results quickly. Mysterious enough for you?”

“I don’t care for mysteries. What’s this all about?”

The Sherpa answered the question with one of his own.

“What do you know about bionucleic technology, Dr. Alden?”

Cray’s first reaction was to laugh. It was an outburst that ceased as soon as he saw his host didn’t respond in kind.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Just tell me what you know.”

“Only what I’ve heard,” Cray said, stalling for time as he figured out how much he should let slip. He was privy to a lot of things he wasn’t supposed to know. “There were some ventures that fooled around with the idea a few years back, but they could never make it work.”

“And why was that?”

“Same problem everybody’s had with conventional SIs.” Cray shrugged. “The input matrix is too unstable. It falls apart after a few cycles.”

“Putting up the last barrier that stands between humanity and true synthetic intelligence,” the Sherpa finished for him. He then leaned toward Cray, conveying the quiet urgency of a conspiracy. “What if I told you we had breached that barrier, Dr. Alden? Would it interest you to learn more?”

Cray’s most abject fears and impossible hopes were conveyed in that request, because they were one and the same. This was more than a secret the Assembly was telling him. It was confirming the existence of God.

Or at least the creation of Him.

“Tell me,” Cray said.

“Yes?”

Phao Yin lay in the dark, synthetic pheromones swarming around him like microscopic insects. They were everywhere: on the sheets of his bed, in the fibers of the rugs, smeared across his bare skin. He smelled like street species, and in spite of himself he liked it.

“We ran the tests you requested.”

Yin turned over, toward the link next to his bed. It was always like this, those rare occasions when they spoke with him—the same remote condescension, as if they were dealing with a lower form. In that respect, they weren’t much different from his masters in the Assembly. And like the Assembly, they had no idea who they were dealing with.

“What did you find?” Yin asked.

“Indications are positive.”

He released a deep breath. “You’re certain?”

“Mortality factors were activated at the time of Zoe’s death,” the disembodied voice told him. In spite of the subject matter, it remained devoid of emotion. “Are you aware of anybody who was in close proximity when the event occurred?”

“Only one.”

“Do you know where that person is?”

“Yes.”

“What is your reach?”

The fingers of Yin’s hands curled together into claws—a reminder of his physical body, his physical nature.

“My reach is more than enough,” he said with assurance. “I will, however, have to wait if I am to avoid complications.”

“We are not concerned with complications.”

“I will take action as soon as it is feasible.” Yin bit down on the words, suppressing the anger behind them. “There is no need to alter the plan.”

“The plan has already been altered,” the voice argued. “First with Zoe, now with this new development. There are those who feel that you are not up to this task.” A long silence ensued. “What shall I tell them?”

Yin thought of Cray. Had the Assembly not ordered him to Vienna, the man would already be on the table in some
Inru
lab. The thought gave Yin momentary pleasure, but for the moment it would have to remain a fantasy. He had not come this far only to be thwarted. Yin would make his move against the Assembly, but only when he was ready.

“Just tell them to be prepared,” he said, and snapped off the link.

Yin rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, trying to regain the nirvana that the evening’s murder had inspired. His need for amusement had rendered two more corpses, one for each side of his bed, quietly cooling in the fragrant air of his bedroom. Yin had granted them a peaceful death—fast poison in the guise of neuropatches—for violence was not his motive. He only wanted their company, but without any of their needs and desires.

That nirvana, however, was fleeting, gone with the voices on the other end of the link.

Fools,
he thought, quelling his bitterness.
This is the price I pay for ambition.

And what a grand ambition it was. Yin had to console himself with that, in spite of the setback with Alden. He would find a way to spin it to his advantage, Yin knew—but in the meanwhile, he turned his mind back to the objective. The Assembly, of course, suspected nothing. They probably thought Yin incapable of such treachery, with his street credentials and gangland origins. It was the reason they had advanced him along the circle of their power but had never allowed him to enter. To them, Yin was
inferior
—useful, but inferior, an attack dog who would remain loyal as long as he was well fed.

But Yin was more hungry than that. Wealth, like murder, was a temporary diversion. It only aroused his appetite for what the Assembly decreed he could never have.

Real power.

The power to move nations. The power to destroy worlds. The Assembly embodied that power, like no other force in history. They were universal, absolute, untouchable.

How could Yin resist a challenge like that?

Below the stars, the purple twilight curve of Earth’s terminator carved a crescent slash through the fabric of night, opening up an abyss of blackness that beckoned the irresistible plunge, hypnotic in all its magnetism. He could almost feel himself falling, and liking it.

Synthetic intelligence.

The whisper-whine of the SOT’s ramjet engines, more felt than heard, was a welcome intrusion into Cray’s thoughts, helping to arrange concepts on the blank slate inside his head. All the things he knew or thought he knew—all the preconceptions that had become so much bullshit—presented themselves for inspection and were quickly dismissed. Science was like that: law today, superstition the next, a kick where you felt the most vulnerable.