Omega Point (4 page)

  "Another of yours?" said Sobieski.

  "No," said Otto. "But I've had run-ins with him before. Intel that Richards and I received recently has him working for or with someone I now know to be Kaplinski."

  "And Kaplinski? He was one of yours."

  "He was one of mine. Under my command, he went renegade. It's all on the file."

  "What can you tell us about him?" asked the Boer.

  "It's all on the file," said Otto levelly.

  "And our contingency plans, gentlemen?" Milton sat back. "What are they?"

  Sobieski frowned. "While Klein's team is searching for Vellini, we'll have three teams going into the Realm House itself, see if they can evade security and cut the wider Grid access to the Realms."

  "I'll be leading that attempt," said Henson. "The teams are ready to go when we get the green light."

  "You are going to physically isolate the Realms? That will be dangerous," said Valdaire.

  "We have full disclosure of the Realm House's security systems. We can do it," said Henson.

  "I meant to the Realms," said Valdaire.

  "It is a risk," said Sobieski. "But I think we can all agree that the loss of the remaining Realms is preferable to losing control of the whole planet to k52."

  "What," said Valdaire, "preferable because they are not real? The UN says otherwise."

  Sobieski looked exasperated, keen to move on. "If we are successful in isolating them, it should set the EuPol Five loose, and we'll have the time to leisurely devise a scrubber to wipe k52 off the map. There is the risk of potential damage to the Realms, but…" Sobieski spread his hands. "It's better that than nuking them."

  "I'm curious to know what he wants, and why he is doing this," said Swan.

  The Texan snorted.

  "Our role at the VIA is to understand why the machines do what they do – not even the Director knows that, and he's a number like me. If we don't interrogate k52, how can we stop this happening again?" said Swan.

  "Ask yourself, Swan," said Milton.

  "I have, but I am not k52," said the AI reasonably. "My conclusions are therefore irrelevant."

  "And what, Assistant Director Sobieski, what if it fails?" asked the South African. "What if your pet Kraut here doesn't bring this Waldo fellow back in? What if k52 dices your agents to dogfood? What then?"

  Sobieski looked at Swan. Swan twisted his wand in his hands.

  "Then, to borrow the Assistant Director's terminology, we will nuke the place. There's a stratobomber on tightbeam link to me only, targeting the Realm House with EM pulse-generating atomics, low megaton yield. It is an option of last resort."

  "How low a yield?" said the Boer.

  "Low," said Sobieski, "but once you take into account the energy released by the failure of the Realm House's tau-grade fusion reactor, there will be a big hole in Nevada."

  Swan looked round the table. "In addition, we risk a large amount of collateral damage to the Grid. We can buffer the overspill, but the Realms are deeply entrenched in the network."

  "And how much is that gonna cost us?" said Milton.

  "Thirty per cent of the Grid could be damaged. Estimated cost runs to 360 trillion dollars," said Swan. "Disregarding physical damage to the Real."

  The Boer slapped the table. "'Disregarding physical damage to the Real,' fucking number."

  "Then Klein, Chures," said Milton. "You better not fuck this up."

  "I have a lead. Oleg Kolosev." As Otto spoke the files were called onto the room's screens. "Old friend and partner of Vellini's. If anyone knows where to find 'Waldo', he does. Kolosev has also been arrested and convicted by the VIA. He tried to hide himself when he got out. Unlike Vellini, Kolosev has been unsuccessful, running home to the Ukraine. Richards and I use him sometimes. He's not of the same standard as Vellini, but they were close, and he may know where Waldo is. No matter how hard he tries to hide, he is easy to find, and he will talk for the right price."

  Sobieski narrowed his eyes, thinking. Then he spoke abruptly. "Klein, Chures, you're leaving for Kiev in the morning. Henson, prep your teams. Swan, continue your attempts to dig out the EuPol Five and shut off k52 from his choir in Europe. I want this wrapped up by the end of the week."

 

It was morning when Richards followed the bear out of the woods, his head banging.

  The woods looked worse by day. The pale fingers of dying trees thrust up through the rhododendrons, brown leaves as imperishable as old-school plastics choking the ground beneath them. Away from the sunlit path, blackness gathered thickly.

  "Dangerous," the bear commented. "Dangerous and full of death." At that he'd shaken his enormous head, remembering something better. "We had best stick to the road."

  Richards was suffering the combination of his arrival and what he suspected was a mild concussion. Every sunbeam that filtered through the canopy stabbed at his eyes. His lips were swollen, one eye bruised shut. He was miserable with human suffering, too stiff and sore to feel angry at the length of time it took for a meat body to heal. The roll of the bear's shoulders as it strode along filled him with nausea, and the reek of his clothes as they warmed intensified it, so he focused on the twinkling drive to keep it at bay. The parade of stones soothed him. When the sun was strong enough, he saw that each one was a tiny skull carved from quartz, all as different as snowflakes. He knelt down and picked one up.

  "I wouldn't do that if I were you, sunshine," murmured the bear.

  Richards put it into his pocket.

  "Suit yourself." The bear shrugged.

  Richards stood stiffly. "What's going on here? Aren't you going to give me a hint, or are we sticking with violence?" he asked. His lips hurt.

  The bear glowered at him. "Prisoners don't get to ask questions," it said.

  "Regulations?" said Richards.

  The bear ignored him.

  The road narrowed, weeds growing thickly between the skulls, until it petered away. A rhododendron blocked their path. The bear swiped it out of the way, and they were out of the woods.

  "Wow," said Richards.

  They stood at the lip of a vertiginous slope. Close-cropped grass fuzzed the ground. Where the drop bottomed out a shining sea of wheat rippled with waves. Rich green copses rode the crops like sombre ships at anchor. Clouds lumbered through the sky, flat bottoms topped by extravagant mounds of cotton, patches of brilliant blue interspersing them. Sunbeams stole through gaps and played like searchlights over the land, teasing from the crests of hills vibrant rainbows, making a trillion diamonds of the wheat.

  And so it went on, until the swell of the prairie disappeared into a haze of pollen, the horizon masked by the obscure romances of plants. In the distance a thunderhead arched up, an anvil of dark rain, illuminated sporadically from within. It was the kind of hyper-real landscape one only ever found in the most realistic of online environments, realer than real.

  "Wow," repeated Richards, shielding his eyes. "I don't think I'm in Kansas any more," he said in his best Dorothy voice. The bear did not react favourably. It was not one of his finest impressions, he'd admit.

  "Ahem," said the bear, pointedly. "Prisoners should be shutting up."

  "Up yours, Toto," said Richards. "On what grounds are you holding me prisoner?"

  The bear adjusted its tiny helmet and clenched its great paws, the set of its shoulders speaking of enormous tension.

  "On the grounds that there's a war on, and that you are not where you are supposed to be. We've had his lot come in through the woods before, trying to trick us. I've got strict orders, keep an eye on the house, round up anyone I see, take 'em in. That'd be you."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," said Richards. He suspected though: k52. Had to be.

  The bear leaned in close and sniffed at him. "No. I suppose you don't. You don't have the scent of one of his about you. Hang on a minute…" The bear sniffed again. "You're people!"

  "Look, mate, you've got it wrong, I'm not people," said Richards.

  "Don't you bloody 'mate' me, sunshine. I'm no mate of yours! You're people." He jabbed his claw into Richards' chest. "Bloody people. Coming in here, lording it over us. This place is supposed to be a sanctuary." The bear's tirade collapsed into a growl.

  "But I'm not people. I am an AI. If I'm not mistaken, like you."

  The bear squinted at him. "Hmm. You look like people, smell like people, but…"

  "Yeah?" said Richards encouragingly.

  "You don't feel like people," admitted the bear.

  "I'm not. The name's Richards. I'm a Class Five sentient."

  "Ooh, la-di-da, Class Five," said the bear, waggling his claws and doing a tippy-toe dance from side to side. "Sorr-eee. If that's true, what are you doing here?"

  "Just passing through."

  "Right," said the bear, folding its arms. "I've heard that before. What's your serial number?"

  Richards ran off his full code, and then the complex equations required to furnish the bear with a quantum key to verify his identity. Out on the Grid, this kind of encryption was done instantaneously; here things were different. For a start, Richards had to speak the formulae aloud. The bear looked off to one side. "Hang on, sunshine, this might take a moment, network's all done in."

  Five minutes later, it looked back at Richards. "Ready?"

  "Ready."

  "OK, on the count of three, one, two, three…"

  "47,319," they said together.

  "Any sign of messing?" said Richards.

  "Nope," said the bear. It examined him head to foot. It relaxed, not much, but enough to let Richards breathe easier. "Alright. But I'm watching you. A Class Five, come here? What do you need a place like this for?" The bear pulled a branch from a tree and hurled it out over the plain. The branch cartwheeled through the air and was lost in the crops below.

  It turned back round and jabbed a claw at Richards.

  "Fond of pointing, aren't you?" said Richards.

  "Careful, sunshine," the bear said. "I'm taking you in to get this straightened out. Don't think I trust you. We'll see what the boss has to say about it." It drew itself up to its considerably full height, spreading its arms wide. "No funny business. It's a fair old way to Pylon City."

  "Promise. Cross my heart and hope to die."

  "Don't get funny with me, you little sod. You better behave. Will you?"

  "Do bears shit in the woods?" said Richards.

  "I told you," said the bear.

  "Yeah, I forget. That's where popes perform their ablutions. Sorry."

  "Fuck.
Off
," said the bear, and squared its sloping shoulders in a way that suggested actual hurt was not far distant.

  Richards changed tack. "Perhaps we might get on better if we were formally introduced?"

  The bear sniffed disparagingly. "Right. OK. Maybe. Me, I'm Bear. Sergeant Bear."

  "There's a surprise."

  "Watch it, sunshine, you're pushing your luck. No one knows I found you. Get too cocky and I'll forget regulations altogether, got it?" He adjusted his helmet. "You can stick to 'sir'." Bear cupped his hands round his mouth. "Oi! Geoff! Geoff!" he shouted. "You can come out now, I reckon he's harmless." Bear looked at Richards suspiciously. "Mostly," he added.

  There was a rustle as of something big forcing a passage through the trees, a sound that became a crash as a battered, three-legged purple giraffe fell onto the lip of the slope and squeaked pitifully. "That's Geoff, my corporal. Come on, Geoff! Get up now."

  "Man, you're part of a crack outfit," said Richards and whistled. Bear gave him the kind of stare only bears can and waddled over to help up the corporal. Richards noticed a rattling as he moved, a noise he'd previously put down to the gravel path.

  He looked at the bear closely.

  "Beans? You've got beans in your arse?" The giraffe was a caricature in plush of the real thing. The bear's nose was scuffed plastic. Something clicked in the simulated mess of buttery tissue between his ears. "Hang on, you're
toys?
You, the giraffe, the dog-man?"

  Bear looked back from where he was helping the struggling Geoff to his three feet. Richards caught sight of crude stitching where the giraffe's right foreleg should have been.

  "My, aren't you the sharpest tool in the box? Course we're toys. We can't all be Class Five AIs like you, mister." Bear shook his head and pushed his friend up to his feet. "But not that doggy dude, no. He's just a screening programme, not as sophisticated as us, eh, Geoff?"

  The giraffe squeaked.

  "The cheek of it," said Bear.

  Richards understood. Virtually all playthings in the more fortunate parts of the Real had some form of embedded electronic mind. Often this was rudimentary, but some had been furnished with brains right up to strong-AI classification before the emancipation – like Valdaire's phone, Chloe, incepted as a life companion, although Valdaire had gone further than most by constantly upgrading Chloe and eventually removing her from the doll she initially inhabited. Life Companions were helpers, online and off, invisible friends, teachers, comforters and confidantes rolled into one. But when they were outgrown, and their owners lacked Valdaire's technical flair, where did they go? Here, apparently, thought Richards.

  "This place is some kind of sanctuary. You said it," said Richards. "A hidden world for abandoned toys? Now I've seen everything."

  Geoff squeaked and nodded enthusiastically. Bear glared at him. "Geoff, that's classified!"

  Geoff squeaked apologetically.