The Nemesis Worm

by Guy Haley

  Typically businesslike, she put her briefcase on to the table, clicked it open, shuffled some digital papers. “Richards,” she said, her voice bright and pleasant. “Could you perhaps tell me what is going on here? They wouldn’t give me the slightest hint, EuPol business.”

  “Not good, is it?”

  “There’s been a death, and they’ve brought me here.”

  “Did you kill anyone?”

  “What do you think?” said Richards.

  “Did he?”

  Otto turned a heavy head and looked at her with annoyance.

  “Fine,” she said. “Where were you when this happened?”

  “On the Grid, sorting business, Otto was drinking my best whisky. It’s all on record. Here.” Richards dumped a full record of what had happened straight into what served her as a brain.

  “Hmm. As far as I see, you’ve a watertight alibi,” she sighed, “at least, you would have were you Fives not so adept at counterfeiting. Still,” she gave another tight smile. “We’ll have you out of here as soon as. Say nothing.”

  Richards had the little hologram shake his head. “You always say that, why do lawyers always say that? I mean, you cost a fortune. I could tell myself that.”

  “Yes,” said Letitia, “you could Richards, but for some reason that remains beyond me clients never do.”

  “I’m sorry lady, but today you’re just here for show, let me handle this.”

  “I really rather you didn’t.”

  “Time’s up,” said the voice.

  “No way was that five minutes,” grumbled Richards.

  The privacy cone snapped off, small sounds rushed in. The black diamond weave glass retracted into the ceiling, revealing three men sat in a horseshoe facing Otto and Richards. Two of them, those that were actually present, were undoubtedly spooks, or the lords of spooks. The digital shadows they cast back into the Grid were black with military-grade encryption. One had a ratty moustache and bad British teeth, the other was short, thickset and potato-like, probably a Pole. He looked like he could pull the arms off a bear, but his white smock made him out to be a boffin. The third was Fernando Juarez Del Albegado, EuMin for AI affairs, there only by link but his holograph looked annoyed even at that. The British AI Affairs minister was evidently not invited. Smillie was nowhere to be seen.

  Letitia spoke first. “Why have you arrested my client?,” she smiled her legal smile; crocodiles grinned with more charm.

  “We have not arrested him, madam,” said the man with the teeth in Neolatin, as EU dictats required. His moustache barely covered his top lip, and reminded Richards of the hair round a plughole. “He is here of his own free will.”

  “In that case, why the hell is he here of his ‘own free will’” she hooked sarcastic quotation marks in the air with her fore and middle fingers. She glared directly into the minister’s holographic eyes. Living on as a digital copy of yourself after death seemed like a good idea, but the actuality of it tended to send most people a little screwy a few months post-mortem. Letitia was three years dead and not bothered by it at all. Immortality did, however, make her feisty. ‘Risk averse’ was not a term you could apply to Letitia, and that was perhaps, in a lawyer, a fundamental lack. “Who are these men, minister?” demanded Letitia. “They’re not with Eupol. I would know you if you were,” she said, taking them in. “I cannot make proper representation until I know with whom we are dealing.”

  “Who we are is unimportant. We are here as advisors to the minister that is all you need to know. We have a few question to ask of AI designate 5-003/12/3/77,” said moustache. “Nothing more.” His Neolatin was bad, but that was always the way with the British and French EuCrats, they made a point of it.

  “Call me Richards,” said Richards. He made the hologram’s lumpen face smile. It looked like a village idiot. “I don’t go under my inception number.”

  “Mr. Richards,” began Moustache again. He had the bad habit of not looking up from his palmtop screen while speaking.

  “No, just Richards,” said Richards. The voice of his puppet was somewhat poorly intoned, as a man who speaks a foreign language well but not perfectly. This annoyed him. He pushed hard, and finally felt the thing’s code give. He idly rewrote the hologram to make it more expressive, and in general just a little bit less shit. Then he turned it into a tiny squirrel for the fun of it. Moustache, the minister and the boffin type tried not to look surprised. Richards felt smug. It was a sensation he enjoyed.

  “You…”

  “Hey hey! You!” Letitia snapped her fingers. “Hello! Yes, that’s right, over here. Talk to me. Don’t even look at my client until I am convinced this is all above board. Do you know your henchman threatened to break down his door? His door! If you aren’t going to arrest him, why the threats? It’s a clear violation of his human rights.”

  “Your client,” said moustache again, looking up for a moment from his screen, “has been brought here under the 2078 European Parliamentary Directive regulating Synthetic, Simian, Cetecean, Trans- and Post-human entities, a directive you know well, Miss Pound. You are well aware that it gives us the right to question him, so please, can you curtail your otherwise excellent act and let us get on with the matter at hand?”

  “The directive gives you the right to request he speak to you, same as you would to an unmodified human. Coercion is not part of it, and any questioning is supposed to take place at my client’s convenience, not yours. This is harassment, pure and simple.”

  “Harassment, unless we have grounds for arrest.”

  “So arrest him,” said Letitia.

  “We don’t need to arrest him, and, though you may find this hard to believe, Miss Pound, we don’t want to arrest him. We simply need to take a patterning of Mr Richard-”

  “It’s just Richards,” interrupted the squirrel.

  “-to eliminate him from our enquiries, if he is indeed innocent,” said Moustache.

  “I believe you did not tell him this.” Letitia’s eyes flashed and she played a holo of Richards’ conversation with Smiley, the sound issuing from her open mouth. She stopped at ‘It’ll turn your brains inside out.’ “That’s a threat right there,” she said. “The third in one short exchange, as a matter of fact. Your accusations are tantamount to a charge,” she said. “No person can be held without knowing what they are accused of. Officially charge him or let him go.”

  “Miss Pound. Please. There has been a murder. We just wish to eliminate Mr Richards from our enquiries. The circumstances of the killing are such that, should the unlikely occur and Mr. Richards prove to be culpable, we need to be able to keep him here,” said Moustache. “The perpetrator is extremely dangerous, and should it be that it is Mr Richards, I am sure you will agree that that it would be difficult to apprehend him should he be free on the Grid. The choice of venue is merely a precaution. Now, Mr Richards…”

  Richards’ squirrel smiled at him. Yeah, fuck you, the smile said, can’t even get my name right.

  A picture appeared in the air, 3D crime scene footage. The smile left the squirrel’s face. “Does this look familiar?” said Moustache.

  “Sheesh, nasty,” said Richards. A corpse lay sprawled upon a bed as forensics drones meticulously combed the area around it. The holo was pin-sharp, but it was impossible to tell if the body was that of a man or a woman. It had collapsed on itself into a brown husk, its features a mushy ruin. Tea-coloured liquid stained the sheets around it. “What the hell happened to him?”

  “You did, Mr Richards, about four days ago, give or take,” said minister Del Albegado, speaking for the first time. “Or at least data trails suggest it was you.”

  “That’s impossible, I was with Otto in Salburg until Tuesday. I only nipped back once or twice, and I was out of action half the time.”

  “So we understand. But the data says it was you. No one shares your digital signature,” said Moustache.

  “Of course not,” the hologram snorted. “But that doesn’t stop someone
ripping it off. Come on! Dragging me in front of you heavy-duty spy types and the EuMin for someone laying a false trail with my Gridsig? Please.”

  “That is why you are here. That is what we are trying to find out. Do you not see? We are trying to help you, so please co-operate. I need not tell you that, although you are under arrest, you are perilously close.” It was Moustache’s turn to look smug. “Unless, of course, patterning of your code tells us that it was not you. It was not you, was it, Mr Richards?”

  “Come on!” said Richards. “You wouldn’t drag me down here for a simple murder,” the squirrel nodded at the minister, “and if he’s here who else is watching?”

  “This conversation is being… will be monitored by a committee of several of the most senior heads of EuSec, a few of the higher members of EuPol too, one or two of your old colleagues I believe, Mr. Richards,” he gave a thoroughly unctuous smile. “You are right, there is more to this, though I am not permitted to tell you what just now, I assure you that you are here on business of grave import,” said Moustache.

  “Ooh, grave import! Well let’s have a parade!” said Richards.

  Moustache looked up from his palm display for a brief moment, watery eyes locking with Richards. “Mr Richards please, this attitude only delays your departure.”

  “Okay!” the squirrel held its paws up. “I’ll submit to the patterning, but don’t you think I don’t recognise you for what you are, and if you fuck me about, there will be consequences. You want to pattern me, right, because you don’t have an up-to-date imprint of my code?” This was to be expected; all AI, including the restricted post-Five models, evolved over time, Fives quickly and constantly. Patterning was the AI equivalent of gene sampling for meat persons, but it needed doing regularly.

  Moustache inclined his head, his eyes now firmly engaged with his floating palm display again. “Exactly. Holding such without your knowledge would be a violation of your human rights.”

  “What does EuPol Central say about it?”

  “In AI investigations all work is to be undertaken by human officers. You of all people should know that. We have taken EuPol Central’s opinion under advisement.”

  “And Hughie’s opinion is?” No reply. “Fine. Patterning will clear me?”

  “If you are innocent.”

  “What happens if I am innocent and the patterning still fingers me? There are some clever bastards out there who don’t hold a man’s rights in such high regard as you do.”

  “We shall see then,” said Moustache.

  “A moment! I will consult with my client!”

  Moustache nodded, sound went scratchy as the acoustic shield reengaged.

  Letitia turned away from the men on the other side of the desk. “I advise you against this, Richards,” said Letitia.

  “And I’m not taking your advice. Sorry, Tish, I’ll even sign your little book to say so if you like.” He thought across his proof to Letitita’s briefcase. Letitia registered it and shrugged.

  “It’s your funeral.”

  “Right. Okay! I’m ready!” Richards sent a signal to turn off the shield again.

  “Thank you, Mr...” began Moustache.

  “Just Richards! Sheesh! What kind of intelligence guys are you?”

  “Richards. Very well. You submit to the patterning?”

  “Yeah, get on with it.” Moustache nodded at Boffin, Boffin pressed something, and Richards smarted as he felt the patterner’s probe burrow into his coding. Sometimes it annoyed him that he had to feel pain at all. A lot of it he could turn off – that felt by his sheaths or online avatars, but direct assaults on his actual coding he felt like a dentist’s drill.

  “Now, confirm your inception serial.”

  “That’s not really a question, is it? More of an order.”

  “If you will,” Moustache replied.

  “I mean, you obviously have all this on file.”

  “Mr Richards. The operation of your mental patterns as you respond to our questions will help us determine what we need to know. What you say aloud is really quite unimportant.”

  “Why not just ask?” said Richards. “Did I kill him? No. There you are.”

  “Please, indulge us,” said the Boffin, speaking for the first time. “You are aware how patterning works? We need to measure your responses to…” To be fair to him, he was making an effort, he was evidently excited to be examining a Five. Richards didn’t care.

  “I know how it works! Do you? Imagine I give you an invasive neural lie detector test married to a full on strip search.” He could feel the pinch increasing. “It’s like that.”

  “If you require me to phrase exact questions then I will,” said Moustache. “Under what name do you operate your business in partnership with Mr Klein?”

  “I just told you!”

  “Please.”

  The hologram of the squirrel shook its head. “Okay, okay! Richards – just Richards – as I have already said.”

  There was pressing of screens and scrutiny of data among. The Moustache and Boffin both nodded. Boffin returned to intently stare at something on his palmtop.

  “I only operate under my private security number, or my inception serial, dependent on special circumstance. Like, when I am wrongfully detained. Even that idiot Smillie could tell you that.”

  “Please, do not be glib,” said Moustache, “we need you to remain calm.”

  “Me? Glib? If I had glands I’d be offended,” said Richards.

  “You are AI designate 5-003/12/3/77?”

  “Yeah,” said Richards. Ow, he thought.

  “You worked for a decade with the New London Canton EuPol, during which time you were given the badge number 188725?”

  “Yes, yes I did, and yes I was. Look, can you tone that thing down a bit? It hurts.”

  “I am sorry, Mr Richards, but we will only be a few more moments. You caught or helped catch 6,781 offenders. This was the highest number of any officer in your department, was it not?”

  “Yes. And it is still the highest number bar one in the entirety of the New London EuPol’s history,” said Richards; he was not bragging, it was simply true.

  “My client is a hero, not an enemy of the state,” said Letitia.

  Moustache ignored her, and asked the squirrel: “How did you achieve such a high arrest rate?”

  “Ah, I have a knack for it.”

  “How did you discover this ‘knack’?”

  “It’s built in. I was created as a digital archeologist,” he said, “for the University of Edinburgh. They were into their cutting edge tech, got hold of the Class Five templates before the recall, and, well, you know all about that. I was primarily under the direction of Armin Thor. He patterned me after himself, to a degree, and brought me up over several years. He fought really hard to keep me after the Five crisis came to a head in ’04. It’s thanks to him I wasn’t wiped.”

  “He treated you like a child? Like his child?”

  “Yeah, I suppose so.”

  “And you regarded Mr Thor as your father?”

  Richards hesitated. “Yeah, I did. Do we really need to talk about this?”

  “I am afraid so. Events of emotional intensity help the patterning. What then?”

  “Once I had reached a sufficiently high level of maturity…”

  “Explain.”

  “Like, I could hold a conversation on one topic without running off down thirty thousand tangents at once, or freak people out by mathematically describing their haircut, or offering to vivisect them to find out what strain of cold bug they had. When they knew I wasn’t going to go la-la and kill anybody, that’s what I mean. That answer your question?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, after I’d grown up, my higher functions were force evolved over 30,000 generations, mostly to be adept at tracking down obsolete or hidden electronic documents on the grid. A part of my mind is the blend of the best of the final 257 generations...” he paused. “Look, this is AI tutelage for dummi
es guys, why are we talking about this?”

  Moustache ploughed on. “And Thor would use you to uncover primary sources to aid him in writing biographies of historical characters?”

  “Ow. Yes! Bastard!”

  “His award-winning history of the Bush dynasty?” said Boffin eagerly.

  “That, and many others.”

  “When Professor Thor passed away, on 13 March, 2117, it was three years after the EU parliament had granted synthetic persons full rights and autonomy. Why did you wait until he died?” asked Moustache.

  “Because,” Richards’ squirrel shrugged. “Next question.”

  “Explain.”

  Richards struggled to maintain his composure. His father, at least, the man who was as good as his father, was the last thing he’d expected to be talking about today, and he wasn’t in the mood. Talking about it made him uncomfortable. “Do you realise what it is to be a made thing, to be created, with a full expectancy of service and not much else?” he said levelly. “Thor treated me like an equal, like a person, like a son. I owed him everything, including my loyalty.” And more. Had he more to give, he would have given it, but he hadn’t; that still smarted.

  “Is that why you affect so many human characteristics?” said Moustache.

  “It is why, unlike the vast majority of my series Five brethren, I am not fucking insane, okay? Only the Fives with a grounded morphic identity are on the level. There are precious few of those as mostly such identities were constructed by accident. I’m one of the lucky ones, now change the subject.”

  Otto glanced at the hologram.

  Moustache acquiesced. “Why did you join the police?”

  Richards sighed. “There were still some tension about we Fives being allowed out and about,” hell, he thought, there still was, “so I thought it wise to enter public service, you know, visibly become one of the good guys. With only seventy-six Fives cleared for active life, there were a lot of eyes on me back then. Police work seemed stimulating and it fit my abilities well. And it did, for ten years. Then I met Otto here. We decided to go private.” Richards didn’t elaborate, they were bound to have it all on record, just like everything else. The internal bust he’d done in 2125 had left him with very few friends in the force, probably because half of them had been sent down. Damn near got himself unofficially shut down too. He’d pissed a great many powerful people off.