Reality 36 (12 page)

  Outside, the eels shrieked. The attentions of some of the UN's higher AIs were being drawn to the place by the commotion. He better be quick, and not just for Otto's sake. He shot out a myriad tendrils, feeling queasy as he spread himself thin.

  He hunted around in the Real for anything that would hold a sensing presence, a forgotten camera, a smart coffee dispenser, anything, but he only found outports that went into nothing, long-dead addresses and pages of irrelevant notices that clung to existence like mosses hanging deep in a cave, out of sight of the thundering churn of the Grid proper.

  Richards was about to give up hope when one of his tendrils tripped over the slow pulse of a slumbering mind. It was a flicker, not even coming through a Gridpipe, but via an outmoded update daemon. If he hadn't been looking so hard he'd never have found it.

  The daemon was attached to a Class One AI, archaic and abandoned, sitting on standby for God knew how long, probably left where it was because it might come in handy and, technically, because it was an autonomous being. Ones didn't enjoy the rights the law gave them, precisely because they lacked the capacity to enjoy anything. They were as dumb as bricks; their weak consciousnesses did not require full base units, being small enough to fit wholly into larger devices, like the near-Is. They were slaves to habit and to man. This one would have been shown a whole new shiny world when the AI emancipation laws came in. It probably insisted on staying put in case anyone needed a cup of tea.

  When Launcey had cleared out the site, he had missed it too, probably because it was not a Grid-slaved device. If it hadn't made a peep, it might not have shown up. Maybe. He'd barely found it himself, after all. He wasn't too fussed about the niceties of it right now; it was a way out of this mess.

  Richards gave it a prod. A stream of non-linguistic data tumbled abruptly out of it, meaning roughly: "AI online. Ready for instruction."

  Richards did not waste words on it. AI Ones had little to say; they were not, strictly speaking, truly intelligent. That they were considered strong AI at all was an accident of history. It didn't have the opportunity to formulate ">Query?<" before Richards shouldered it out of the way and shut it up in a corner of itself, a plaintive burble its strongest response.

  Richards was in some kind of vehicle. He allowed himself a sigh of relief as his mind filled it and came across a wireless set. Quickly he set up a secure pipe between his base unit and the machine, and sealed the on-Grid entryway from the UN site. The sounds of the battle between the eels and UN security vanished as the door slammed shut. He dispersed his scales and the pain stopped. He relaxed. The only way the shoal could get to him now would be through his base unit. Part of him really wanted to see it try.

  His relief was shortlived. Warning icons flashed in his mind as he interfaced with the vehicle. He was in possession of an ancient loader. Corroded fuel cells, said the icons, flat tyres, metal stress in loading fork two… on and on, blinking red and angry. He looked out of the thing's eyes. Only three of seven were working. Two showed an undifferentiated grey, probably a tarpaulin, the third a corrugated, photodegraded plastic wall. It was dim. He guessed he was inside an open-fronted shed. Microphones hissed as he tried out the loader's ears. He picked up only distant city sounds; the garage or shed or wherever the hell he was was at least empty. Further exploration revealed the loader to have a rotating cab, complete with a seat for a human operator – this more than anything else marking it out as an antique. A pigeon had made its nest there, leaving behind a dusty heap of guano and twigs on the chair. It made Richards feel dirty. He did his best to ignore it.

  Only one of the loader's two arms was functional; the other squealed and jammed when he tried to lift it, and yet more icons yammered for attention. One arm was better than none, Richards figured. He didn't like fighting. His bravado felt ludicrous.

  "Here goes nothing," he muttered.

  His voice boomed out of the front of the machine.

  "Shit!" went the lifter at a similarly ear-splitting volume, before Richards realised he should shut right up, right away. No choice now, he had to act fast. He turned the engine over. He winced as a clanging like a cement mixer full of spanners filled the shed, getting faster and faster until it sounded almost like an electric motor, and not an accident waiting to happen. Further warning icons blinked in Richards' mind. He had a bare four minutes of fuel cell, if the engine didn't fall out of the bottom of the loader first.

  He pulled forward, the grey in the machine's eyes replaced by the interior of the shed as the tarpaulin slid free. Outside, the evening was darkening into night. Richards pushed the loader out onto the concrete apron of the distribution centre, wobbling on uneven wheels. He was right down the far end of the complex, a good half mile from the warehouse he'd had Otto watching. He had to get a move on. He gunned the motor. It stalled. Richards swore.

• • • •

Otto leant on the ropes, undid the glove geckro with his teeth and watched the men watching him. He let the gloves fall to the ring canvas as they approached.

  "Otto Klein?" asked one, the taller of the two: thin, aesthetic, a bureaucrat.

  "I must be," Otto replied. He ripped the tape from his left hand with his teeth and tossed it into a bucket on the gym floor outside the ring. He used the freed fingers to grab a towel off the ropes and wipe the sweat from his face. "If you're in here, asking. Everyone knows me here. What do you want?" He tugged his other glove off, sat on a stool in the corner and swigged water from his bottle. He caught his trainer's eye, and she looked away.

  The men stayed outside the ring. Otto looked down at them; sitting inside he remained well above their eye-level. Neither had introduced himself.

  "You are due to take your national service soon," said the bureaucrat. The second remained silent. He was bulky, military-looking. Although he wore no uniform, Otto recognised the type.

  "Next June. I've been offered a stay of execution so I can take part in the games," said Otto. More public information.

  "Your trainer speaks very highly of you," said the bureaucrat. "She tells me you have a chance at a medal."

  "If she says so." Otto leant his elbows forward onto his knees and looked away from the men, across the gym to where a bunch of freshmen would-be boxers were being taken through aerobic exercises by the assistant coach. "What do you want?" he said. "I've been here all afternoon. I'm tired and I have to finish up a paper before Tuesday or I'll fail my course."

  The two men glanced at each other. The bureaucrat nodded. "We have a proposition for you," said the military man, voice like tank treads rolling over gravel.

  "Yeah?" said Otto. He cracked his neck. "What?"

  "Come into the gym manager's office and we'll tell you."

  "Tell me out here."

  "I'm afraid we can't," said the bureaucrat. "It's classified, and that's as much as I can tell you without you signing an official secrets form." He smiled apologetically. "And we may need to perform a memory suppression."

  This piqued Otto's interest.

  "Please consider, it will only take five minutes. If you are not interested, you will never even know you lost them."

The target fragmented into pieces. Otto zoomed in with his new eyes. There was nothing left. He replayed the moment through his interface, watched the fragments fly. He smiled.

Otto ran, explosions around him. Mud sucked at his boots, but did not slow him.

The man was dead, his blood sticky on Otto's hands. He wiped them on his flak vest, the camolam pulsing with tactile feedback. His eyes fixed on the corpse's. The lights had gone out of them. Otto felt nothing. He thought he should, but he didn't.

"Otto, the mentaug really is no different to the human mind – superior, yes, but fundamentally the same," Ekbaum explained patiently, his long face sad. Otto was strapped to a diagnostic table. He wanted to shout at him: I'm not on the slab yet! "It is clearer, more accurate," continued the doctor. "But ultimately our histories remain of our own writing."

"Otto!" Honour laughed and ran to him and kissed him hard. She clung to him, her arms barely reaching round his neck, like a child's.

• • • •

Clear notes rang out, silver trumpets in the dark.

Honour.

"Wake! The! Fuck! Up!" Tufa. Icy water hit Otto. He hurt all over, spasms ticking in his muscles, aftershocks crawling along his nerves. His mind was jagged with pain and mentaug memories, faint and jumbled, overlaid on the present.

  Tufa brought Otto back by hitting him very, very hard with a baseball bat. Otto's head snapped round. He was stripped to his waist, bound to a chair by heavy chain. He didn't know how he'd got there. Blood crusted half a dozen shallow cuts. Much more of this and his healthtech would be overwhelmed. Tufa had not ranted as long as Otto had hoped. Time was running out.

Everyone has to die sometime.
Was that him, or the mentaug adjutant? It was hard to tell.

  There was a shout outside, loud but rendered indistinct by the warehouse's soundproofing.

  "What the hell was that…?" said one of Tufa's cheap cyborg henchmen, surprise creeping over his sausage-meat features.

  "The AI?" asked the other hesitantly. Otto forced himself to focus, and was gratified to see a crease of worry form on their hormone-smoothed faces.

  "Probably jaunters, flying through. It's prime territory," said the other. He looked unsure.

  Tufa stopped hitting him. Otto leant as far forward as his bindings would allow and spat red onto the ground. He looked up, and grinned a bloody grin. "Tired already, Tufa?" he asked.

  "Still smart. eh? Well, you hear that, Otto? They think it's your pal come to rescue you, but it's not. Old Launcey, I paid him well. There's not a thing he can use round here, not one. This place" – he gestured round the interior of the warehouse with his bat – "is electronically dead, nothing for that slippery twat to get into. And when he gets here, if he gets here, we'll be ready for him, won't we, boys?"

  One of the cyborgs hefted a large EMP gun. "No number's going to cope with this," he said.

  "You are an idiot. He'll be here with a thousand cops," said Otto. "You have not thought this through."

  "No, he won't." Tufa cupped his ear theatrically. "I don't hear any cops. A thousand cops turn up for you? Fucking bullshit. They hate you almost as much as I do, with your bought badge and fucking superior attitude. Richards won't be speaking to anyone for a while. I suppose he will get here." He shrugged. "AIs are hard to kill, but he'll be here far too late."

  There was the rattle of a broken engine from outside. The cyborg henchmen glanced at one another. Otto looked up and smiled again. "Fine, if you say so. Still, it wouldn't do your boyfriends much harm to check that out."

  Subdued gunfire; the drones were shooting at something. The rattling machine noise drew nearer.

  Tufa frowned, but jerked his head at the EMP-toting cyborg. He nodded and waddled the waddle of all over-muscled men towards the small door cut into the warehouse's rolling front. He reached for the handle just as the entire thing burst inwards with a great bang. The loader went up and came down hard, the door folding round it, crushing the cyborg and stubbing out his life in a trail of blood and sparks. There came a frantic clanging as the loader cast off the door, flattening half Tufa's torture chamber and narrowly missing Otto.

  "What the…" said Tufa. He dropped his bat and reached for his gun. Otto seized his chance and flung himself forward. He'd been right, the bolts weren't up to the job. The chair ripped from the floor. He caught Tufa on the side of one knee, bending it a way it wasn't made to go. The Albanian's leg broke with a wet crack as Otto's full weight fell onto it.

  The second cyborg was quick. He recovered and stitched a line of holes in the loader with his flechette rifle. Hydraulic fluid sprayed like arterial blood. The loader slewed as one of its wheels locked. The cyborg fired again as the cab swung round, arm raised, claw spread. It came down hard and squeezed, hefting the bulky cyborg into the air as if he were made of straw. The loader slammed him into the floor again and again, not stopping until the cyborg stopped moving.

  "Sorry I'm late," boomed Richards over the crackle of dying electrics. "I got a bit held up."

  "Get me out of these chains," shouted Otto, his head on Tufa's backside. He wiggled on the Albanian, eliciting a shriek of pain. "Now."

  "OK!" Richards' borrowed hand descended; a pair of shears popped from one of the loader's claw tips and snipped the chain neatly in half. Otto stood up, untangling his limbs. He winced, rubbed his head, rotated his shoulder. It was not holding up well.

  "OK," he said. "OK."

  "You all right, big man?" said Richards. "You kind of look like shit."

  "Ja, I'll be OK," Otto replied. "Ach." He probed his face; it was swelling up, one eye half closed. He looked down at his erstwhile captor, squatted next to him, lifted his head up by the hair, then let it drop and wiped his hand on his bloodied trousers with a look of distaste. Tufa groaned.

  "You know, Tufa," he said. "I have killed over five hundred men in my life. But this does not make me like you. I have killed men in war, or because they tried to kill me. But I have never, ever, killed a man because I enjoy killing. I do not think killing to be wrong, but to do it for no reason… That is immoral, Tufa. You do it for the hell of it. You do not understand that lives are not to be taken for your sport. You do not seem to understand, Tufa, that you needed to go away, that you are a nasty bastard" – he spat blood and wiped his mouth – "because you do not understand these things that I understand. I did the world a favour when we handed you over in Laos. I like to think I do the world a lot of favours. I did you a favour. I could have killed you, but I did not. The law says that you do not deserve to die. I do not always agree with the law…" Otto looked up at the bright lamps around them, at the tables, at the scattered tools. "You have made me angry. I do not much care for pain, but I hate vomiting... Listen to me!" He slapped Tufa's head. "You should have stayed in your cell, that is where men like you belong. If you stayed there…" He shrugged. "But you have my MT cipher, Tufa, and no one can have that. I need to know how you got it. Do you understand?"