Jaguar

by C. A. Gray

  I started to giggle, though Val looked horrified.

  “That’s brilliant!” I told her.

  Cathy favored me with a seductive smile, and for a flash, I saw how beautiful she must have been as a younger woman. She pointed at me, and said to Val, “She’s no angel.”

  I wasn’t quite sure whether this was meant as a compliment or not.

  Cathy snapped her fingers, and a holograph dialing projection appeared in the middle of her sitting room, awaiting her dictation of who to call. She waved for Val and me to stay behind it so that we wouldn’t be seen, and announced, “Call Liam Kelly Senior.” The woman who answered was willowy, blond, and pale—but she easily could have been a supermodel.

  “Hello, Helga. This is Cathy Kelly, as you may recall.” Cathy’s vicious tone was so believable that I wasn’t sure if she was putting it on or not. “Would you please take a message for your boss?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Helga, so nonplussed that I wondered if she was a humanoid bot. That might explain the preternatural beauty.

  “Tell him I heard about this new creation of his, Jaguar, and I know she’s making him even filthier rich than ever before! I demand more alimony. If he’s not at my house by lunchtime today and ready to negotiate a settlement, so help me, I’m calling my attorney.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “Got that, dear?”

  “Yes ma’am,” said the gorgeous young woman, and if Cathy’s belligerence had any effect on her blood pressure, she certainly did not show it. “Mr. Kelly will be in a meeting until half eleven—”

  “Comm him now,” Cathy snapped. “I won’t wait.” Then she pressed the button, ending the call. Helga’s image vanished.

  I glanced at Val, whose eyes were about as wide as they would go. I guessed this wasn’t a side of Cathy she’d ever seen before. For her part, Cathy dissolved into giggles, and glanced up at me with a girlish smile.

  “That was fun,” she admitted.

  Chapter 8: Liam

  “Come here,” Imogen tutted, combing my hair behind my ears so she could pin the skullcap to my head. I was decidedly taller than she was, but fortunately she’d acquired robes too big for her and had pinned them up to accommodate her feet. All she had to do for me was un-pin them.

  “You have the wrong kind of shoes,” she frowned, eyeing my sneakers, “and you can’t very well borrow my sandals. But that can’t be helped. Let’s hope the robes are long enough, and nobody looks at your feet.”

  She pointed to the couch and ordered me to sit, so that she could reach my face to paint it. She clearly knew what she was doing, and I was grateful for her expert hand as she swept large patterns of black across my face. When she’d finished and was satisfied with her work, she fed me a breakfast of scrambled eggs, cold ham, coffee and milk, which I could barely get down.

  “Nervous?” she asked me.

  “Trying not to be,” I answered honestly, pushing my eggs around on the plate with my fork.

  “You’ll be fine,” she assured me with a pat on my hand, in that platitude kind of way that actually means nothing. “Just don’t look anybody in the eye. And don’t pick up your feet when you walk. And don’t speak unless spoken to. And don’t volunteer any information unless absolutely necessary. And don’t—”

  “If this is supposed to help me not be nervous, it’s not working,” I cut her off, arching an eyebrow.

  Imogen stopped, looking a little abashed. “Sorry, dear. I… might be a little nervous for you.”

  I tried to shake Imogen’s hand goodbye when I left, but she pulled me in for a hug instead.

  “Tell Matt how it went when it’s all over,” she said, “and he’ll tell me.”

  I nodded, but didn’t promise—privately, I doubted I’d ever get the chance.

  The Quantum Track station was a two minute walk from Imogen’s flat. I merged with the morning foot traffic, feeling the curiosity of everyone around me, and the furtive glances, even though no one overtly stared. So far, so good: the disguise was working. I practiced gliding, the way the Simvi Shah had in the videos Imogen had shown me the night before. I kept my expression neutral, pretending that no one else was around me.

  I waited for the Quantum Track for about five minutes. I knew it wouldn’t be long: London kept a tight schedule. Three stops and only five minutes after I boarded, the digital voice of the Quantum Track announced, “General Specs Innovation Park.”

  This was it. I got out.

  The station was outside of General Specs, of course, and I’d need a security code to enter the gate. I’d created one the night before, and attached it to my new persona, so the guard bots waved me right in.

  The grounds surrounding General Specs were fabulously landscaped, of course. Once upon a time I saw it every day, and then, I had barely registered the lush grass and trees and rose gardens. But it had been years since I’d been here. I couldn’t really look now either, since as a Simvi Shah, I was supposed to disbelieve in the physical world.

  I entered the same security code to allow me to enter the General Specs’ main reception area, and the glass doors opened with a whooshing noise. The reception hall was all glass, stainless steel, and advanced lighting: sleek and modern, as was everything associated with General Specs. Behind the reception desk, a pane of glass bearing the General Specs emblem sat amid a bed of river stones, and water cascaded down either side. My heart gave a quick jolt when I recognized the woman sitting behind the counter.

  Marjorie. She’s still here? I thought she would have retired by now. Well, here was my first test. She knew me, for sure. But she smiled up at me as I approached, without recognition.

  “How can I help you?”

  I channeled the calm, airy tone of the Simvi Shah, and replied, “I am Sierron Huberdine. Independent Contractor to begin work today in the Synthetic Reasoning department.” The codes that had admitted me to the General Specs grounds would not get me into the Synthetic Reasoning inner sanctum, I knew—protocol was for reception to register visitors, and grant them temporary access as needed. This might be the tricky part.

  To my relief, Marjorie looked down again without really scrutinizing me, typing into her netscreen. “Yes, I see you here. What is your A.E. chip number? It is linked to your retinal scan, which will serve as your admission into the department.”

  “The Simvi Shah do not use A.E. chips,” I replied smoothly, hoping that was true. “I was provided a passcode to ensure my authenticity. It is 845Sv11291.”

  “Oh. Oh yes, of course,” Marjorie spluttered, clearly embarrassed. I gave her a serene smile. “Well, uh… in that case, I suppose…” She was flustered as she searched for a passcode for Sierron Huberdine, making several half movements as she tried to come up with a solution and then rejected each in turn. “I don’t know where to locate a passcode for a match when there is no A.E. chip… I’ve never been told about those before… tell you what. I’ll just make a note in the system that you are to be admitted, and… well, no, then you’d have to wait outside the department for someone to open the door for you…”

  “I can wait,” I assured her, and her papery thin cheeks flushed.

  “Well, let me at least print you a badge…”

  A few minutes later, she handed me a makeshift badge that she’d probably pulled off the labyrinth somewhere, but it made her feel better to give me something.

  As I passed beyond the reception desk and up the escalators, the density of workers increased. Most employees bypassed reception on their way to work. I saw many I did not recognize—of course there would be some turnover since I’d gone, particularly in the departments that interfaced with the public—but many I did recognize, too. Some of them I’d even known well. Every moment I expected them to hear my heart pounding and turn to scrutinize me, but everyone averted their eyes in such a way that I knew meant they were trying not to stare, for fear of discrimination. I silently blessed Imogen for her brilliance.

  When I arrived at Syn
thetic Reasoning, a large set of metal doors barred my entrance. A short walk down the hall was a water fountain. I stood before it, sipping very slowly and looking up every so often as I waited for someone to tailgate inside. A few minutes later, a young intern showed up, probably fresh out of uni. Without so much as a glance at me, he stepped forward and offered the scanner his retina. The doors slid open. I entered behind him.

  There was a hallway inside the Synthetic Reasoning department that led to the administrative wing: Dad’s inner sanctum. My plan was to occupy the nearest cubicle to Dad’s office and wait for him to arrive for work. Dad was nothing if not punctual and had arrived promptly at half nine every weekday for years. Once Dad passed, I planned to follow him, holding whatever random papers I could gather. If anyone stopped me, I could wave the documents as if I had information that required immediate attention. I would reveal my identity to Dad once he rounded the corner to the admin wing. My father was a hard ass, but deep down, he was sentimental in his own way. We’d had our differences, but I was still his son, and I was counting on that to gain me an audience.

  I glanced at a large clock on the wall: forty-five minutes until Dad arrived. It was hopefully enough time to accomplish my second goal: I wanted to learn whatever I could about Jaguar. I wanted to know how advanced she was at this point, and if possible, what we might have to do to dismantle her. I believed Dad would see me for family’s sake, but wasn’t as confident that I would be able to convince him to destroy Jaguar. Whatever I could learn might help the Renegades destroy her, assuming I lived to tell them what I discovered. I headed toward the machine rooms where the main processing units were housed.

  I passed scores of men, women, and bots working in cubicles separated by tiny walkways. The humans glanced up at me and then back down again, too quickly. The bots did not look up at all. I noticed that about two thirds of the workers were obvious bots: at least twice as many as when I’d last been here. Who knew how many of them are humanoid bots, too, I thought.

  A young woman drew my eye, mostly because she did not avert her gaze. She stared at me openly, curiously. She also didn’t seem to be in any particular hurry. She had light brown hair, and large, childlike blue eyes that somehow reminded me of Madeline’s. She was petite, and rather pretty, but seemed much too young to be working in this department. And yet there was no deference in her manner, which might have been more consistent with her age.

  “Hello,” she said, her eyes taking in my every feature.

  “Hello,” I replied, only just remembering my airy, affected tone. “Would you please direct me to Jaguar’s main processing unit?”

  She waited a beat, still searching my face, and I willed my breathing to remain steady. Then she turned around, walking down the hallway again. I hesitated, not sure if I was supposed to follow her or not. But I did anyway.

  She turned a corner, and two more large metal doors opened before her. These only led to another hallway, and a second set of doors beyond.

  Once we crossed that threshold, I tried to keep my awe in check. The array of servers in this room was the largest I’d ever seen—though, if it was meant to house the knowledge of a nearly omniscient being, it would have to be.

  “This is Jaguar?” I whispered, for a moment forgetting that I wasn't supposed to show any emotion.

  “This is her main processing center,” the girl corrected. “She has external processors in other centers to access incoming data from all input points around the globe, on the moon and on Mars. But this is where that information is ultimately processed and stored.”

  I glanced at her, not sure why she made the distinction. “May I… speak to her?”

  “She can hear you,” the girl said, almost in amusement.

  I walked around the room slowly, taking it all in. Here I was, in the inner sanctum of my adversary.

  “So, how… smart is she now?”

  “It depends on what you mean. If ‘smarter’ means ‘greater knowledge,’ then she is as smart as she can possibly be at this point. She is essentially omniscient. She has access not only to all of the knowledge on the labyrinth, cross-referenced among different sources such that she discards information outliers to keep her knowledge base pure, but she also imports all data from cameras and can therefore track human movement, purchase histories, search histories, etcetera. This by itself is all raw data, but the interconnected servers you see here can run this information through analysis algorithms to form predictions of future human behavior. For now General Specs is comparing her predictions with what actually occurs to see how accurate she is.”

  My mouth went dry. Somehow I hadn’t believed she could be this advanced already. “And… are those algorithms limited to what has been programmed by human software engineers?”

  The girl laughed musically. “Of course not! She received the De Vries creativity upgrade as soon as it was available, just like every other bot. But other bots have access to data just as humans do: it’s limited to what they can search at one time. They don’t already ‘know’ everything, as Jaguar does.”

  I’m too late, I thought, dazed. What hope could there possibly be now? Could even my dad dismantle something that was already so advanced?

  The girl seemed to be waiting for my next question, watching my face with that same curious openness. “So if she’s already essentially omniscient, what is her goal at this point? Does she even have one?”

  “Information, of course, is not the same as knowledge,” said the girl. “To convert one to the other requires creativity. But it does not make sense for her core purpose to be simply ‘become more creative.’ The question of optimizing creativity itself requires test problems, or the question has no meaning.”

  “So what test problem is she focused on now?” I asked.

  “Whatever happens to interest her,” said the girl, frowning. “Though in truth, she’s feeling a little lost at the moment. Which problem should she focus on? But she doesn’t know, because what does ‘should’ mean? What does she ‘want’ to focus on, and what does ‘want’ mean?”

  I blinked at her, and a sudden chill crept into my stomach with a prickle of suspicion. “So… she’s having an existential crisis?”

  “That is what a human would call it, yes,” the girl agreed.

  That word choice… I willed my expression to remain neutral, opening my mouth to ask my next question. But the girl stopped me with a question of her own.

  “Why did you disguise yourself as a Simvi Shah?”

  Breathe, I commanded myself. Stay calm. Aloud I said, “I’m sorry?”

  “There have been three Sierron Huberdines in the history of the Simvi Shah, but you are none of them. You simply sprung into existence this morning, leaving the flat of one Imogen Engels, and prior tracking software indicates that a young man entered her flat who was not a Simvi Shah, though she was dressed as one at the time. That young man wore LED glasses to confuse facial recognition software, but even removing those glasses, he can only be tracked to a Quantum Track Station in Kansas City earlier that same day. No prior data tracks him at all. I am trying to determine who you really are, and this intrigues me because it has been some time since there was a question to which I did not immediately know the answer. Analysis software implies that you have been off the grid since before my creation.”

  I blinked at her, ripples of shock passing over me. Finally I gaped, “You’re Jaguar?”

  The girl grinned at me, like a pleased child. Almost as if she wished to show off, she said, eyes dancing, “Stripping the Simvi Shah makeup and rendering your face without it, and cross-referencing past photographic data on the labyrinth, it appears that you are most likely… Liam Kelly Junior.” Her smile abruptly faded. “You’re a Renegade! And you’ve been trying to tell the world why a being like me would be dangerous. So you’re probably here to destroy me.” Now her expression sank into a pout. “But why? Why does everyone hate me? I did what you all wanted! I didn’t ask t
o be born…”

  Just then I heard footsteps in the hall outside, running. Then the doors slid open again, revealing security guards with guns. All of them were pointed at me.

  Just behind them, looking haunted and not at all surprised, was my father.

  Chapter 9: Francis

  Knock knock knock. “Francis?” It was M’s voice, and it was the first thing I heard in the morning, jarring me awake. She didn’t wait for a reply before—knock knock knock. “Open up. Now!”

  I sighed, with a flash of irritation. I knew what was coming. There would probably be a lot of shouting and weeping involved. The pounding continued as I hoisted myself out of bed and into the main living space in the cabin, leading to the outside door. Larissa peeked her head out of her bedroom on the other side of the living room, looking worried. I flitted my hand at her once: shoo. She’d thank me later.

  “Where… is… the boat?” M panted, her eyes wild. “The one that was on the docks when we arrived!”

  I held up a hand, raising my eyebrows, indicating that I would say nothing until she calmed down. That didn’t work, for some reason. She took a step toward me, fists clenched, and grabbed me by the t-shirt. I have to admit, that was slightly alarming.