Sunrise Alley

by Catherine Asaro

  His shoulders hunched. "Why would he want that?"

  "Hell if I know."

  "He does know who you are." He wouldn't look at her. "But then, so does anyone in the EI field."

  Sweat beaded on Sam's forehead. She didn't want to be that well known. It had brought her nothing but problems, especially during the well-publicized ethics hearings at BioII. "Your EI matrix must keep a record of what happens while you sleep. Can you compare those with the records of your waking periods?"

  "Yes. Just a second . . ." He went silent for a moment. "I don't see any difference."

  "Maybe you should sleep now. We could see if that makes a difference."

  "I'm willing to try anything."

  Sam studied the screen on the dash, which showed only a dark highway now. "Mad, is that Shadow still behind us?"

  "Yes. They have fallen back about a mile."

  "How long before it repairs that wheel?"

  "Probably fifteen minutes. I am devoting more of my systems to the shroud that hides us."

  "Hide us from miniaturized systems, too."

  "I'll make sure no bees sting us," Madrigal said.

  "Good." Then Sam said, "Take us to the cabin."

  * * *

  Redwoods surrounded the small building. The smell of pine needles filled the air, and sparse underbrush crunched under their feet. Breezes whispered through the trees, the only sound in this remote location. Sam had never realized how much noise a city made, even in the latest hours of the night, until she had come to live in the wild, majestic reaches of northern California. The deepness of the silence had rattled her at first, but she soon came to find it a healing balm.

  The cabin had no outward sign of electronic, optical, or superconducting systems. It was isolated from all exterior input. Sam had it built that way during one of her "I reject all the technology that has made my life miserable" phases.

  However, she only carried her rebellion so far. Disguised in its innocuous wood construction, the cabin had heat shields to hide from infrared sensors, pheromone screens to contain scents produced by its inhabitants that wandering bee-bots might detect, and filters to remove bits of biological matter, like hair, that included traceable DNA.

  They climbed the stairs to the porch, which was shaded by a roof. After they reached the door, Turner ran his fingers over the rough wall of the cabin, which was built from wood, real wood, though Sam had chosen the most common pine available. She hadn't even considered redwood; the trees had become too rare.

  "How many houses do you have?" Turner asked.

  Sam pulled out her clever-card, which was coded to her fingerprints. "This isn't a house. Well, it is, sort of. It's my cabin." She inserted her card into a slot disguised in the door molding. "It used to be my retreat, before I bought the beach house." She pressed her thumb on the ID panel, another hidden concession to modern tech. In her more honest moments, Sam had to admit she had never really turned away from technology, she just attempted to hide her use of it from herself. The door swung open on oiled hinges.

  Turner spoke in a low voice. "I can't do something as simple as open the door to my own apartment anymore."

  She lifted her hand, inviting him into the cabin. "Because Charon changed your fingerprints?"

  Turner went inside. "Partially." He turned to her. "Even if he hadn't, it wouldn't matter. The door won't recognize the card of a dead person."

  Dead. It unsettled Sam more than she wanted to admit. In that sense, she was grateful to Charon. She liked Turner. She didn't want him to be dead. But he needed the rest of his life back, too.

  She came inside and closed the door. "Lights on."

  The table and standing lamps came on, shedding a warm glow. The living room looked the same as the last time she had been here, a year ago. The rustic furniture was upholstered in blue, rust, and goldenrod hues. A golden pine paneled the walls, and a hearth took up most of one wall, with bricks in rusty colors. Throw rugs warmed the floor. Only a thin layer of dust had accumulated; her cat-bots kept the place clean.

  "Hello, Samantha," Madrigal said.

  Turner jumped. "Is that EI everywhere?"

  Sam smiled. "Pretty much."

  "Hello, Turner," Madrigal said.

  "How do you know who I am?" he asked.

  "I just exchanged memory with myself in the car."

  His forehead creased with lines of strain. "Doesn't it bother you to have copies of your mind in different places?"

  "Bother me?" Madrigal asked.

  "Yes." Turner stood very still, listening.

  "Not at all," Madrigal said. "It lets me be many places at once, a feat Sam would like to do herself. Unfortunately, like most humans, she is too limited to accomplish such a useful trait."

  Sam groaned. "Enough, Mad."

  "Sorry." Then Madrigal said, "But it's true."

  "Mad!"

  "I hate having my EI code copied," Turner said.

  "Why?" Sam and Madrigal both asked, simultaneously.

  "It makes me feel . . . stolen. I don't like copies of myself evolving without my knowledge."

  It was the first time Sam had heard an EI express such a sentiment. But she could see how a human might feel that way. "How many copies of you exist?"

  "Only this one, I think."

  Sam suspected Charon made backups, but she didn't want to upset Turner. He walked into the cabin as if he wasn't certain he belonged there. Then he sat on the couch, stretching out his legs while he put his head back. As he closed his eyes, the cushions under and behind him shifted, and shifted again, straining to release at least a modicum of his muscle tension.

  Sam sat near him on the couch. Impulsively, she touched his hand. "How much sleep do you need?"

  He opened his eyes, his gaze lingering on her hand as she withdrew it. "Maybe three or four hours."

  "We shouldn't stay here any longer than it takes to rearm the car." She had always felt strange about storing supplies for her car here, afraid she was overreacting, but she was grateful now she had been scared enough to stock the place. "We can sleep while the car drives, though. Madrigal will wake me up if anything happens."

  He nodded, then closed his eyes again. "That sounds good."

  "You can use my room now, if you want. I'll wake you when it's time to go." A flush spread through her at the thought of him in her bed. Flustered, she crammed her hand in the pocket of her jacket and pulled out her mesh glove, a glittering black skein she knew she should treat better than to crumple up like this. "If you need anything, let me know with this."

  "Thanks." He took the offered glove and gave her a wan smile. "If I have any nightmares, I'll give you a page."

  "You do that." Sam wished she could fix the nightmare his life had become.

  He started to speak, then hesitated.

  "Yes?" Sam asked.

  His voice softened. "You pretend to bristle with spines, but underneath you're very kind, Sam Bryton."

  She didn't know what she had expected, but that wasn't it. Embarrassed, she said, "Oh, you know me. The ol' porcupine." Giles and Linden Polk both used to call her that. She needed spines to protect herself in a world she could master scientifically but that she had never been either hard or cold enough to deal with on a personal level.

  "I wish I had spines." His voice caught. "They would help keep the nightmares at bay."

  Sam knew she should get moving, but she couldn't leave him like this. He had an odd look, as if he feared to lose himself. His neural matrix had to be forming an immense number of connections right now. Were he an unaugmented human being, her leaving right now to stock the car wouldn't cause psychological harm; for a fledgling EI, how people interacted with him during these crucial weeks would determine the patterns his matrix was establishing. This was the time an architect did some of her most important work. But she couldn't think of him as an EI; he seemed so much like a man.

  "I didn't think EIs had nightmares," she said.

  "Maybe it's my matrix doing cleanu
p." Turner touched her hand the way she had done with him. "I need to talk to you. To—to understand what I am. But what I need—what I want, what I need, they aren't the same. I'm scared Charon will find us."

  She put her other hand over his. "We can talk in the car. All you want."

  He averted his eyes. "Thanks."

  "You sleep now. I'll wake you up when I'm ready."

  "All right."

  As they stood up, Sam was aware of his athletic grace. She showed him to her bedroom, a wood-paneled room with wicker furniture, round throw rugs, and a four-poster bed covered by a flowered quilt. The potted plants were even thriving, which meant her cat-bots were tending them well, unlike real cats, which probably would have eaten them for dinner. Her cat-bots had better success with plants than she had ever managed, mainly because they never forgot to water them.

  She lingered with Turner in the doorway. "Rest well."

  "I will." He was watching her face. "Sam . . ."

  "Yes?"

  He cupped his hand around her cheek. "Thank you."

  She resisted the urge to turn her head and press her lips into his palm. It was too intimate, too soon. "I'll be back soon."

  "Don't take too long."

  "Don't worry." She did her best to project confidence. "We'll be fine."

  She just wished she believed her own words.

  IV

  Night Flight

  Sam ran up the stairs, her bare feet slapping the marble floor, her silk pajamas blown against her body. Heat from the fires scalded her face. An explosion shook the ground . . .

  Earthquake! Sam struggled to awake. She had gone through a few tremors, but never one this violent. She sat up—and hit her head on a hard surface.

  "Ow!" She strained to see in the dim light. As her mind cleared, she realized she was behind the wheel of her car. The "earthquake" had been Turner shaking her. He was sitting on the passenger side now. Given the way he was rubbing his forehead, the "surface" she hit must have been his head.

  Sam flushed. "Sorry!"

  "I didn't mean to startle you." Even in the dim light, it was obvious his face had turned red. "But I had a warning. I thought you should know."

  "A warning?"

  "My systems have experienced electronic activity."

  She smiled. "I doubt any place exists on this planet that hasn't experienced electronic activity."

  "This is different. I recognized an anomaly in the modulating wave." He was sitting sideways, facing her. "It has distinctive sine and cosine components."

  Sam pulled herself upright behind the wheel. "You can pick up electronic signals?"

  "Yes."

  "And Fourier analyze that waveform?"

  "Yes."

  "How many components of the wave?"

  "I calculated it out to several thousand."

  Sam sincerely doubted this was a skill required for most bellboys, even those at a Hilton hotel. "Can you transmit your analysis to Madrigal?"

  "I think so." His face took on an inwardly directed expression.

  Madrigal spoke. "I've received and analyzed his signal. My shroud should be hiding us from it."

  Relief washed over Sam. "Good."

  "Shall I speed up the car?" the EI asked.

  "Can you do it safely?" Sam asked.

  "Here, no. But the road widens in a few miles. I can there."

  "Keep it safe, Madrigal, but go as fast as you can."

  "She has a remarkable architecture," Turner said.

  "Turner." Sam didn't know how to moderate her words, so she just spoke plainly. "I know of no human who can detect modulation of a signal wave without equipment, do a thousand-term Fourier analysis in his head, transmit the results to another EI, and admire its structure in the process."

  He had been relaxed, sitting with his head leaning against the headrest, but now his posture stiffened and he sat up straighter. "I'm not the only human being augmented by implanted biochips."

  Sam suspected the original Turner Pascal hadn't known enough about biomech technology to realize that what he had just done far exceeded the capabilities of such biochip implants. It wouldn't take long for an EI with access to the world meshes to study the basic technology, but he didn't seem to have had much exposure to the world outside his lab.

  "Biochip technology for the human brain is in its most rudimentary stages," she said. "It's too risky. It causes brain damage." She regarded him intently. "An EI, though, could easily do what you describe."

  "What do you expect me to say? That I'm an android? I'm not. I can't be what you want, Sam. It isn't me."

  She couldn't help but smile. "That's new."

  "It is?"

  "Usually when the man says 'I can't be what you want' to the woman, she's saying something like 'show me more of your emotions,' not 'be an android.' "

  Turner went very still. "You said 'the man.' "

  "Yes." Her voice softened. "You seem human to me. A man, not an EI."

  "You said 'the woman,' too."

  Sam blinked. "You have doubts I'm a woman?"

  Turner reddened. "None, believe me." He started to lift his hand, then set it down again. "The 'woman' in such conversations is usually the man's lover."

  A flush spread through Sam. "I didn't mean that."

  This time he didn't stop. He reached across the seat and took a curl of her hair. "I love the way this looks, so wild and tousled."

  "Turner, don't." She pulled her hair away. She would have liked to stroke his, too, but she couldn't take advantage of the situation that way. "You don't have to prove you're human to me."

  Rather than taking offense, he laughed softly. "You think a man would only be attracted to you because he's trying to prove he isn't an android?"

  "Well, no."

  "Good. Because it's not true."

  Sam caught her lower lip with her teeth. He smelled good, like the ocean, with an underlying scent she couldn't identify but that seemed male, sensual. Maybe she needed more air. She had avoided men in the six years since her husband had died. She had mourned Richard for so long. Perhaps time really had eased the pain, or maybe she just hadn't met someone who affected her until now. What a mess.

  Turner was watching her face. "I'm sorry. I was out of line."

  "No. It's okay." Sam didn't know what else to say. So she changed the subject, motioning to the night outside. "Someone out there is making a signal you recognize?"

  "Charon uses it in one of his encryption schemes."

  "Can you pick a message out of it?"

  "Unfortunately, no. I don't know the code."

  "Are you sure he sent it?" She was talking too fast, distracted by her heightened awareness of Turner.

  "I can't really say." He gestured upward, as if to encompass the mountains and sea. "This area doesn't have as many signals as a city, but it's still full of them."

  "Madrigal is shrouding hers." A thought came to Sam. "Turner, are the filaments of your matrix spread throughout your body?"

  He tensed. "That doesn't make me less human."

  "I didn't mean that. It could protect you. An EI rarely has its matrix filaments all in one spot. Most matrices also have more redundancy built into them than in a biological brain."

  His shoulders relaxed. "Yes, mine is like that."

  Thinking out loud now, she said, "So it isn't likely the entire matrix ever goes dormant." To Turner, she said, "When you put yourself to sleep on the yacht, did you do it any differently than tonight?"

  "Not really."

  She finally figured out what bothered her. "Except that you couldn't wake up before unless you heard my voice."

  "That's right."

  She thought of the tales from her childhood about the beautiful young woman who would awake only if Prince Charming kissed her. That sort of made her Princess Charming, except without the perk of getting to kiss the fair youth. She doubted any of the maidens had the advantage of an EI brain, though. "Did you detect Charon's signal while you were asleep on the yacht
?"

  "I've no record of it." He watched her intently. "Are you thinking Charon couldn't find me until I found you, because I keyed my wake-up to you?"

  "That could be what happened." It would make her a target. For all she knew, he and Charon had planned this together. It was difficult to teach an EI to lie, but he was more sophisticated than any EI she had worked with before. It didn't fit, though, neither with his behavior nor with what she knew after two decades of research on the development of EI matrices.

  "There is another way Charon might have found us," Turner said.

  She doubted he meant himself. "What's that?"

  "Your friend, Giles. You called him. Then that car came after us."

  Sam would have decked a lot of people for that suggestion. "Giles would never betray me."

  "For enough money or power, anyone will."

  Her gaze never wavered. "Not Giles."

  "Anyone."

  "I wouldn't."

  He spoke dryly. "That's because you already have more money and power than most anyone could ever want."

  Sam shifted in her seat. "It makes no difference."

  "Doesn't it?" Bitterness touched his voice. "You don't know what it's like to live without."

  More lay behind those words than any suspicion of Giles. "Is that what it was like for you?"

  "It was better after I got a job." He looked out the windshield, his face pensive. "I can't see anything out there."

  Sam let it go. "It's overcast. No moonlight."

  "Do you think we should do anything about the signal?"

  "I'm not certain. I thought driving to San Francisco would be safer than contacting anyone. Even with our signals shrouded, someone might eavesdrop. But I'm beginning to wonder if speed is more important than secrecy. Maybe I should get in touch with my NIA contact now." Calling Thomas Wharington a "contact" was a bit of an understatement. He served as director of the MIA, or Machine Intelligence Agency, one of the two divisions of the NIA. He was also head of the Senate Select Committee for Space Warfare Research and Development. "I can reach him using the mesh in this car."

  He turned with a jerk."No! Charon will trace the call."