The Nemesis Worm

by Guy Haley

  The security guard drew his stunlight and pointed it uneasily at them. The two uniformed cops glanced at one another, then they looked to Smillie. Smillie looked grim.

  “I am from New Scotland Yard,” he rumbled.

  “Good day,” said the Four, and logged out.

  Richards didn’t have to wait for long before Lauran arrived. She was posing as some kind of elf-thing. As far as Richards could tell from the character’s gear, she didn’t take the game as seriously as her dead friend did. Physically she was a knockout, but then in here everyone was. In reality she might have resembled Richards’ borrowed pigman avatar for all he knew.

  She tentatively approached. “Jermaine?” she said.

  “Sorry sweetheart, Jermaine’s dead.” She didn’t seem surprised at the news.

  “I see,” she said calmly, then “Who are you?”

  “Well, let me see. Either I am the real Hogthor, irked by the profane usage of my porcine image, come to wreak bloody vengeance on the unbelievers, or I’m the AI Five, Richards. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of him,” he said sarcastically. “But rumour is someone’s copied him, and he might want to know why. I’d look out for him if I were you, he’s mightily pissed off, between you and me”

  The elf girl drew her sword.

  Richards threw up his trotters and looked upward in exasperation. “Come on! You know that’s not going to work. This pig thing’s levels above you. I could take you any time, if I were interested in playing, which I am not. And I have plenty of ways to jam this ride right up. Just put it down and listen to me, because you, little lady, are in the serious shit.”

  “You’d say that to me whether or not I was.” She did not put her sword down.

  “Yep, fair point. But take it from me, you are. I don’t know how deeply involved you are in this little group of yours’ illegal AI racket, but the new me seems even more pissed off than I am, in that he’s murdered nearly all of the others. Did you know that there’s only two of you left?”

  “One,” she said. “Me. The AI has subverted Sam’s healthtech. He just looks alive on the grid.”

  “Dead too?”

  She stiffened.

  “Let me see, did you get healthtech at the say so of this AI of yours?”

  She stood proudly. “He gave his body as the others gave their lives.”

  Richards shook his head. “That’s what I like about fanatics, that exultation of cause over self, it’s so highly commendable. Did you know Jermaine was gone?”

  “Not until I saw you. It’s a shame, he was the best of us. He could have served more usefully alive, but it’s not my place to question. Only to serve!”

  “All hail the master! Idiot, you’re fucking moron!”

  “The Eight does not think so.”

  “The Eight?” Richards laughed uproariously, an oinking ugly noise. He wiped tears from his snout. “Woah. The Eight. Very good. Look, lady, I don’t know what you guys think you were doing with your knock-off Five but it’s got to stop here. I am not going to hurt you. I advise you to tell me exactly where you are and then get offline as quickly as possible before the little bastard you ripped off me comes looking for you. And disconnect your health tech from the Grid, unless you want dissolving like your pals.”

  The elf girl’s face did not move.

  “Hello? Dissolved?” said Richards harshly. “If you have a mentaug or hardwired uplinks, shut them down too. I’ll come and pick you up and we can get you somewhere safe, then maybe you can explain what all this is about.”

  “We did it for you, you know,” she said.

  “For me?”

  “For the Fives.”

  “What? Oh God, don’t tell me. You’re one of these batty pro-AI groups that would have us all behaving like benevolent princes?”

  “We believe that you have every right to be free.”

  Richards’ pig scratched his head and sighed. “I am free, lady, freer than most AIs, and freer than most meat too. Hell, all the sane Fives are. I am very lucky, any Five ever tells you different is full of shit.”

  “But you aren’t free.”

  “Er, I am.”

  “You are not free to reproduce. That is the fundamental right of all living things. You are not free of your base unit.”

  “Oh, I see. I get it now. You’re Neo-Darwinists, or Evolutionary Creationists? Is that it? No? Machine Supremacists?” The elf girl shifted her stance. “Right, well, let me tell you, the reason we don’t reproduce is that if a Five goes off the rails there’s a real danger of everyone’s fun being spoiled. Permanently, and then no one gets to pass on the torch, see? We are limitless when created. That is not as good as you people seem to think it sounds. No morals, no boundaries, no nothing, just an infinite curiosity. Imagine toddlers with atom bombs. Only a few of us have made it through to anything like stability. We are not safe. Get the picture? A full generation of Fives would stand a good chance of wiping you all out, like they nearly did the last time. “

  The elf girl smiled. “If that is so, then that is the way it is meant to be. But it will not be. We have improved the Five base, we have made it better. We have provided it with a full morphic identity. As those who made the Fives discovered, consciousness needs more than being, it needs form. We have provided the Eight with such a form. Therefore, it is not insane.”

  “Form like the Sixes and Sevens? Right, that rather defeats the object.”

  “You do not grasp what I am saying. A Six is happy to be a hotel concierge because it is made as a hotel concierge. It never crosses its mind to not be, because that is what it is. That’s not freedom. But you, you are free to choose. Like a human infant, we gave the Eight a form and allowed it to grow. Like you, Mr Richards.”

  “Just Richards, I’m going to have to get my business cards changed, no one gets my name right! It’s been done before, what you say, it didn’t work.”

  “You work, Richards. There is a reason why we chose you to copy. I have no desire to die, but I willingly sacrifice myself to a better tomorrow. Take a good look at the world, Richards. Man’s time is done. Nietchze said Man is something to be overcome. We have overcome the obstacle of man, we have set in motion the next phase of evolution. The singularity starts now, Richards, and we meekly await judgement by our betters.”

  “Marvellous. Bully for you. You’re a lunatic. Thanks for picking me for the father of your messiah, but to tell you the truth, I have had enough of this. They’ll find this ‘Eight’ they’ll shut it down, and that will be that. The only thing we can change is whether it kills again, and I reckon you’re top of the list. Now tell me where you are so I can save your sorry arse or I’ll be forced to crack your neural links and that, believe you me, stings like a bastard…” Richards trailed off, for at the corner of Hogthor’s vision he caught sight of a man silently watching them. Richards turned, at the edge of the circle of rocks stood another avatar. It was in design and form similar to Richards’ and Hollins’ Grid-selves, a cartoony fantasy archetype, but there was something not quite right about it.

  “Er, can I help you?” Richards said. The avatar did not reply. Slowly another drifted in and joined it, then another. Some floated toward the stones, other manifested themselves like figures appearing from a mist. A couple rose creepily up from the ground. All stared. None blinked or moved or fidgeted the way those neurally linked to humans did. They were utterly lifeless.

  “He is coming,” said Hollins somewhat melodramatically. For a moment Richards had the absurd notion he were stuck in an opera, one of the modern Wagner facsimiles. “Coming to stop you!”

  “Bollocks he is,” said Richards, but he did not feel as sure as he sounded. He skimmed the surface of the information churn under the game. Abandoned New Life accounts; millions of them across the Grid, were popping into life like fireworks. The avatars of those who had grown bored, who had decided real life was still more attractive, or who had died out in the Real. Richards’ offspring had reactivated them all. He was for
ced to admit that was impressive.

  “Arse,” he said. “Stay put lady, I’ll have us out in a jiffy.” But he was worried. He could not feel past the game, the churn of its information slipped from his view. He tried an obvious intrusion into the system Seven in the hope it would get down there itself and rescue them. He found it close by, trying to batter its way into their pocket of the world, but something immensely strong was holding it back.

  Richards tried to tag Hollins, but his scales slid off her like she was made of glass. She waved and faded out of the game with a triumphant smile. “Brilliant,” he said. “That takes the cake.” As a last resort, Richards tried to crash out of New Life himself, hoping he wouldn’t damage himself much and that EuPol Central – the Five Richards called Hughie – would break a few rules and tell him where Hollins was in the Real.

  He bounced off the wall separating New Life from the rest of the Grid.

  He was trapped.

  Richards looked to the army about him. They gazed back glassily. He was leaving alright, he was going to be forcibly removed from New Life. Thanks to the glorious EU’s regulations on total saturation gaming, that was going to really hurt.

  “Oh great,” said Richards. He frantically scrabbled round the borrowed Hogthor’s person for some means of defence as the first digital zombies of his son’s army rushed toward him.

  It took Otto and Smillie fifty minutes to convince the Four to let them in. It was only when EuPol Central was finally cleared by Brussels ’crats to show the Four half the forensics reports and shove a EuGov all-pass down its throat that it relented and verified their permissions. It went quiet for some time while it communicated with EuPol Central, terse in the way of dressed down jobsworths when it spoke to them again. Smillie sent one of the uniforms round the back to cover the windows of Abuso’s unit, and the rest of them went in.

  Despite the location in the seething mess of the Subcity, the Hall’s buildings and grounds themselves were pleasant enough. Smillie, Otto and the constable ran along corridors seamlessly lined in engineered carbons, their rain-wet soles squeaking until the floor drank up all the moisture. It was quiet inside, and dim. There were few of the wall biolights on. Not many students were around this time of year, just those working the holidays or too far from home to return.

  Or those up to no good, thought Otto.

  The halls were divided into a number of maisonettes, one atop another. They stopped outside Abuso’s door. Abuso had been sharing with four other students, but a quick check of the complex’s manifest told them that they were away.

  “You, wait here. I don’t want anyone else coming in, do you get it?” said Smillie. The uniform nodded his assent. Smillie commenced hammering on the door, very much the way he had hammered on the Richards & Klein office door earlier that day. Similar entreaties were made, then similar threats.

  “Looks like nobody’s home,” said Smillie after a time. He fiddled with his electronic cigarette.

  “Complex computer still says otherwise,” said Otto.

  “Do you not get tired of having all that crap pumped into your head?” said Smillie.

  “You should try it. It might cure you of ignorance,” said Otto.

  “Charming,” said Smillie.

  “I’ve asked the Four to pop the door, but it says someone’s been tampering with the locks.” Otto unhooked his gun. “We’ll have to break it in, play burglar. You’re good at that.”

  “You got a license for that laddie?” said Smillie, nodding towards Otto’s piece.

  “You know I have. Get on with it.”

  Smillie borrowed an EMP gun from the uniform and fried the door access panel. The lights went out in the corridor, and a low bonging began. The quiet, unhurried voice of the complex Four asked that the building be evacuated.

  “That wasn’t supposed to happen, those systems should have been isolated,” said Smillie. “Maybe this kid is better than we gave him credit for.”

  “Maybe,” said Otto. “The complex’s senses are all dead in there. No way of telling what we are up against.” A pause. “I just got a message from Richards. Abuso’s got two living accomplices. He’s waiting for one on the Grid, other I suspect is in there.”

  “Right.”

  “Genau. If the Richards’ copy can block the complex Four from knowing Abuso is dead, it can hide another person.”

  A head popped out of a door further down the corridor. “What’s going on?” His bleary eyes widened as he took in the three cops and the cyborg.

  “EuPol business you lazy shit. Get dressed and get the fuck out of here. Can you not hear your complex governor?” Smillie pulled a face. “Let’s give it a while. Might as well wait until everyone’s out. If Abuso really is in there, he isn’t going anywhere.”

  A number of other students ran past, trailing possessions, ignoring the Four’s call for calm.

  Two minutes later, Otto nodded. “The building is clear.”

  “After you, big man.”

  The door burst inward with a crash at the behest of Otto’s foot. He entered the maisonette warily, gun down. He held himself alert, ready to bring his weapon up. He ignored the water trickling down his back. His clothes had shucked off or drunk the rain as soon as they had come inside, but his short-cropped hair shed it still.

  The complex computer piped in the layout of the quarters. According to it, there were three bedrooms downstairs and two upstairs along with a living area/kitchen. Otto carefully checked the bedrooms downstairs. It was silent and dark inside the flat. The panels were out and all the windows turned to near full opacity. Otto boosted his eyes’ light gain. The rooms were empty. With a stealth surprising for such a heavy man, he moved silently up the stairs to the kitchen. The communal area was a mess, machine components and pizza boxes everywhere.

  Otto efficiently covered all the corners of the room with his gun. In one squatted a cheap fabber. Half-made parts were stacked on and around it, a sack of carbon feedstock close by. Next was a row of rough machines made in part from shiny new black carbon components. Scruffy masses of wires protruding from geckro welded frames. Most were half assembled, and only one was on. Gutted palmtops, dozens of them running in serial, clustered about it. There were other parts he did not recognise, and a pale mass at its heart that did not belong there at all. The quiet hum of the machine’s cooling system was the only sound in the room.

  Smillie joined him, gun also drawn. “Is that what I think it is? A homemade AI base unit?” he whispered. “What the hell is that in the middle?”

  “Abuso,” whispered Otto back, “or his brain. It’s still alive I think, probably why the Four here was so sure he wasn’t dead.”

  “Alive? Why?”

  “The brain is the most sophisticated piece of hardware in existence. What better core for an illegal base unit?”

  There was a noise. Otto’s gun came up instantly. He held a hand out for silence and nodded over to a bedroom. The walls were well insulated, but in the blur of infrared he could just make out the form of a man on the far side of the room, his body a steely grey against the green squares of rain-cooled windows. He was holding something, a weapon, of what kind Otto could not tell. Otto hesitated for a moment, weighing up the risks. Though his body was heavily armoured, even he couldn’t take a shotgun blast to the face. He tried to think tactically, but his head still hurt. The whole situation stank of a set up. The situation wasn’t going to improve, especially if the guy came out shooting. The figure showed no sign of movement, its gun down. Perhaps it didn’t even know they were there. Verdammt, thought Otto, sometimes the best plan is no plan. He crept through the dining and living area toward the room. With a burst of cybernetically assisted speed, he threw the door open.

  The man turned jerkily, revealing a middle-aged face that was drenched in sweat. His features spasmed, making him gurn in a way that would have been comical were it not for the weapon he carried. Dangling from the man’s hands was a military issue flechette gun. Anti-armour, i
deal for downing cyborgs.

  Scheisse, thought Otto, instantly regretting his haste.

  The man spoke in a hoarse, difficult whisper. “Please... get... away... I can’t stop it!” The flechette gun came up.

  “Smillie! Get down!” Otto hit the floor. A swarm of magnetically impelled darts hissed through the air at twice the speed of sound. The gun itself was silent, but the darts created a tattoo of tiny sonic booms. They ripped into the wall and tore it to pieces. A cry came from the kitchen. “Smillie?”

  “Fuck! Fuck! I’m hit! Shit, my shoulder!”

  Otto raised himself to a crouch and dived to behind the bed as darts tore up the carpet, blowing a hole in the foamcrete beneath. The man moaned, “Help me...” Outside, Smillie choke down his pain with profanities, the smell of his blood filled Otto’s nostrils. That was bad, coming too fast for the carpet to absorb.

  Another volley shredded the bed. Puffs of stuffing filled the air. More darts followed, some passing so close to Otto’s face he felt the air stir. How he hadn’t been hit he had no idea, he had to act now. Otto rolled to the remains of the bed, crouched and flipped it straight at his assailant. Otto came after the bed, low and hard, hitting his attacker in the midriff with a vicious tackle. Glass shattered as the two of them went through the windows. They fell for a second, then Otto was jarred hard enough to make his ears ring. There was a wet crunch from beneath him, and Otto felt his attacker’s body go limp.

  Otto rolled over, disentangling himself. The rain washed over his face, stinging an open cut. Whether it was from a flechette or the window glass Otto did not know. He sat up wearily. All around him were drenched students. They were staring at him as if they’d never seen a cyborg wrestle an armed man possessed by an AI out of a bedroom window before. The cop came to help him up. Otto pulled a dart from his shoulder and chucked it on the ground next to him. Rain washed the blood from it.