The Installed Intelligence Trilogy Collection

by Phoenix Ward

  “Sorry?” Karl asked.

  “You hungry?” Thompson repeated. “I imagine you haven’t eaten since—you know.”

  Karl looked down at the small plate his friend offered. There were a pair of sunny-side up eggs with a sprinkling of pepper coating the yolks like a man’s five-o’clock shadow. A few sticks of bacon accompanied a large slice of toast, buttered to perfection.

  “Thank you,” Karl said. He was taken aback by Thompson’s generosity. It was clear he’d made this dish himself rather than having it produced through a chefeasta. Karl wasn’t even sure he could cook eggs, since he’d relied on the automated food producer more than he ought to.

  Without much hesitation, he dove into the food. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until a meal was placed before him. His nerves had taxed a lot of energy from him. Thompson waited patiently for his friend to finish before engaging him with questions.

  “What’s the next step from here?” the hacker asked.

  Karl finished mopping up the last of the yellow yolk with his finger and brought it to his mouth. He savored the flavor before even thinking of an answer to his friend’s question.

  “Maynard has some ideas. First off, we have to identify our traitor,” Karl responded, his mouth not entirely empty of debris.

  “Traitor, you say?” Thompson said, lifting a glass of orange juice to his own lips. He smacked his lips before sighing with delicious relief. “You’ve mentioned this theory before. Who could have possibly orchestrated such a thing?”

  “Personally, I have no idea,” Karl started. “But Maynard seems to have a lead. Care to hear it?”

  “Of course,” his old friend responded. His eyes gleamed with a faint glaze of childish curiosity.

  Karl could hear Maynard buzzing with anxiety as he was getting close to the I.I.’s role in the story. Maynard had been nagging him without halt about a hypothesis he had—one Karl chalked up as a “conspiracy” theory.

  “As you know, every installed intelligence is activated when the subject’s original brain ceases to function,” Karl began.

  “Of course I know about all that. What is this, elementary school?” Thompson interjected.

  “I know, but I have to cover all my bases when explaining this. Nothing must be misunderstood, you see.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Well, Maynard’s story starts with his death,” Karl began. He could hear the voice in his head making commentary on his storytelling, but he ignored it like a zoo gorilla might ignore a pair of flies. “According to him, he was murdered.”

  Thompson seemed to stand in silence, either waiting for more information, or already contemplating what he was given.

  “And?” he said after a moment, perhaps with less compassion than Maynard expected in regards to his death.

  “I think he’s starting to think his death and the attack might be related.” Karl seemed to wince as he spoke, like he was firing a moody employee and he wanted no part of the procedure. He hated playing middleman, in any circumstance.

  “How so?” Thompson wanted to know.

  “I’m not sure. He just mutters about it and I catch what I can—Maynard?” the psychologist said.

  He could feel the I.I. groan within his own mind.

  “The traitor, I suspect, is the same man who killed me,” Maynard insisted.

  Man? Karl offered. He got no response.

  “He thinks the traitor that perpetrated the attack might be related to the person who killed him,” Karl said. His tone betrayed his skepticism.

  The amount of information Thompson had access to was mind boggling to the psychologist and his I.I. It gave him a sort of uneasy feeling up and down his spine when Karl realized how little was left private in the modern world.

  On one of Thompson’s many screens, live feeds from people’s cerebral computers were coming in with random frequency. At one point, the image of a man shaving his face appeared on the monitor. It took Karl a moment to realize that he was looking through the man’s eyepiece and into the stranger’s reflection. It made the psychologist feel dirty, like some sort of perverted voyeur. He hoped no women in bathtubs appeared onscreen, simply for the safety of his self-respect.

  Perhaps what disturbed him the most about the set-up was how little Thompson seemed embarrassed by it. To Karl, it felt like his friend should behave like a teenager caught watching pornography. Instead, he was akin to an enthusiast showing off a collection of art.

  “Where do you want to get started?” his old friend wanted to know. “I was thinking about looking for digital trace records of each ID swipe on every doorway in the lab. I don’t expect that to show us much, but if we can connect those with incoming police reports—which we have access to, as well—to match IDs with the deceased.”

  Karl nodded in thoughtful agreement. “Process of elimination,” he said.

  “Tell him to look into reports of my death, as well,” Maynard urged.

  Karl passed the request onto Thompson, who accepted without a second thought.

  His old friend took a seat before the massive device and pulled a keyboard out from a drawer. It had been a few years since Karl had last seen one of those, but even then it had been while passing by an antique store.

  To his amazement, Thompson was able to glide his fingers over the keys as if punching out a ballad on a grand piano. Karl didn’t know more than a handful of people who still had the ability to type, and they weren’t all too proficient at it. Thompson, however, barely broke stride as the buttons clacked. He didn’t even have to look at his fingers.

  He should show this off on one of those talent programs, Karl thought.

  Maynard scoffed and said it was nothing special.

  “You realize that in order to build the cerebral computer we HAD to use keyboards, right?” Maynard explained.

  That sounds terrible, Karl commented.

  “Kids,” Maynard spat.

  After a few minutes of silence, Thompson seemed to become aware of his friend’s presence once again.

  “Sorry,” he said. “This might take a while to gather all the little shards of data. You could probably use a rest, huh?”

  Karl seemed to snap to full attention at the word “rest.” It was like he was in a hypnotist’s trance, and the magic word to break the spell had been uttered. His skin seemed to hang off him like old rags. He was indeed tired.

  He nodded.

  “There’s a cot just on the other side of that wall there,” Thompson said, pointing. “Should be a pile of fresh sheets on the chair.I’ll just be in here.”

  The psychologist thanked his companion, and then turned into the room indicated. He glanced at the sheets, then simply fell face-first onto the mattress and into deep slumber.

  Karl woke up to the sound of a mug being set on the nightstand beside his face. His eyes opened before his mind awoke, still lost in the blank darkness of dreamless sleep.

  The first thing that came into focus was the wafting steam trails floating slowly up toward the ceiling. Then he noticed Thompson standing beside the cot, drinking from his own cup.

  “Find anything?” Karl asked. His parched throat clung onto the words as he spoke them, forcing all of the moisture from the sound.

  “Yes,” Thompson replied.

  “About time,” the I.I. commented. His tone was entirely alert.

  Thompson pointed to the mug on the table. “I wasn’t sure if you took cream or anything.”

  “Black is fine,” the psychologist said, pulling himself upright. After a bit of eye rubbing and a long stretch upwards, he asked what the hacker had discovered.

  “I found the official police report on Maynard’s death,” his friend answered.

  Karl reacted with a simple nod, his enthusiasm still trying to escape the bonds of sleep. Maynard, however, buzzed with so much interest that the psychologist felt like his head was home to a hive of wasps.

  “What’s it say?”

  “Suicide,” Thompson said. “He
jumped from his twentieth-floor suite on November 17, 2037, and was discovered in the alley the next morning.”

  Karl’s brow furrowed in a bit of confused surprise. That wasn’t the answer he had been expecting. He retreated into his thoughts as if to ask Maynard for his feedback, but the I.I. was silent. He waited a little as he took his first sip of the coffee Thompson brought him.

  After the silence had grown awkward, Thompson raised his eyebrows, waiting for a response. Karl slipped into his own thoughts, which were still devoid of noise while the I.I. contemplated the news.

  Maynard?

  “It’s a lie,” the I.I. piped up. “I didn’t kill myself.”

  Karl passed on the comment to his old friend, whose face revealed no internal emotion on the matter.

  “Well, at least according to this report, he did,” Thompson said matter-of-factly.

  “Is that the only report?” Maynard asked.

  Karl continued to play telephone between the two men as they spoke, still trying to figure out where he fit into the equation.

  “It’s the only one with any detail,” Thompson explained. “I found a few obituaries and a dozen clippings announcing his death, but not a single one offers a cause of death. It’s all, ‘The Batiste family is saddened to announce that Maynard Batiste, one of the original inventors of the cerebral computer, has passed away at the age of 48.’ Then it’s just a lot of, ‘survived by’s,’ and, ‘comments from professional peers,’ and, ‘yadda yadda yadda.’ ”

  There was a pause.

  “I did not kill myself,” Maynard reaffirmed.

  “He doesn’t seem convinced,” Karl told his friend.

  “I don’t know what actually happened,” Thompson started, “but I’d remind him of the blank-memory period surrounding death. One cannot remember the exact event of their death any better than they can remember their birth. It’s like falling asleep: we can’t pinpoint the exact moment we fall unconscious. That memory just isn’t saved. It’s like that when we die.”

  The I.I. seemed a bit indignant at the comment.

  “I’d remind him that I’ve been dead nearly longer than he’s been alive, and I’m no idiot,” Maynard said. “I don’t have to remember the precise moment of death in order for me to smell the bullshit surrounding mine. I know me. I know what I can and cannot do. I did not kill myself.”

  Karl found it exhausting to relay messages between his flesh-and-bones compatriot and the voice in his head. He shuddered at each insult and each sarcastic comment as though they were directed at him. He had to remind himself not to take it personally.

  “Then how did he die?” Thompson asked. He folded his arms in front of him and waited for an answer like a debate participant.

  “I was murdered!” Maynard insisted.

  “He keeps saying that, but where’s the proof?” Thompson said, shrugging. “Is this all just conjecture? He’s got to give us something better than, ‘I just know,’ ”

  “Well, that’s all I have right now,” the I.I. replied. “I had enemies, both personal and professional. To me, it seems much more likely that someone had a vendetta against me and acted on it rather than that I attempted to fly from my balcony.”

  There was silence while the humans contemplated. Thompson pursed his lips together and inflated his cheeks with an air of exhausted exasperation.

  “And he says his murderer could be the same guy who set you up?” Thompson asked.

  Karl nodded.

  “That’s what he believes, anyway.”

  “Then I’ll look into it, if I can,” the hacktivist said. “Could be a good place to start on your traitor hunt.”

  Then Thompson turned back to his terminal.

  Undercover

  The hacker had determined that it would be impossible to access the lab’s data remotely. He had tried a number of times, but none of the databases he was able to worm his way into had anything besides references to other databases he couldn’t locate. At first, he’d thought it was simply a decoy to dissuade further sleuthing. However, he became convinced that the information was valid.

  “So what does that mean for us?” Karl had asked. A lot of what his friend told him went over his head, but he still nodded as he listened.

  “It means that there’s no way we can get the entrance logs without being on the lab’s private intranet,” Thompson explained. “I’m not even a hundred percent certain that the logs exist, but I do know that if they do, we can’t get at them from here.”

  Karl sighed a long breath of frustration and smeared his palms on his scalp. He knew it wouldn’t be easy to investigate the traitor on his own, but he’d never anticipated how hard it would be.

  “So that’s it?” he said. “There’s nothing we can do?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Thompson replied. “But there could be a lot of risk involved.”

  Karl was eager for an explanation and prodded his friend for one.

  “Well, the best way to get access to the lab’s network is to be in the lab, of course,” Thompson started.

  “But we can’t go there,” Karl said. “The police have it cordoned off. Even if none of them recognize me as the fugitive Karl Terrace, they still won’t let anyone near the place. Especially a civilian.”

  “Exactly,” Thompson continued. “But what if you weren’t a civilian?”

  Karl furrowed his brow, but kept his tongue still. His old friend was able to read the silent question.

  “I may not be able to access the lab’s database,” Thompson said, “but I can totally dig into the police database. How much easier would it be to get onto the scene if you were a cop?”

  “Much easier.” Karl was starting to see what his comrade was getting at.

  “We could give you a fake police ID,” Thompson said, turning toward his terminal and glossing over some of the text on his screens. “It wouldn’t work indefinitely, but it would get you in the door. We’d just have to figure out someone’s badge to spoof. Someone who’s home sick, or a new officer just assigned to the scene. Make you them.”

  “And this will work?” Karl asked.

  “I mean, anything works in theory. The thing that will hold it all together, however, is you. You have to stay cool and calm and avoid as much contact as possible. Can you do that?”

  Karl swallowed, then nodded. “When do we do this?”

  “Soon,” Thompson replied. “They won’t have the place roped off forever, and after that, I doubt there will be any records to sift through.”

  “How soon?”

  “Tomorrow. I’ll have a couple candidates for your ID lined up.”

  Thompson worked tirelessly for over fourteen hours straight to help Karl prepare the plan. They had decided on it with Maynard’s blessing, yet neither living human was eager to go through with it.

  The hacker had to leave for about an hour to meet with someone. He gave his friend no details about his appointment, so Karl waited with chilling anxiety for him to return. Just when the psychologist thought the jig was up, Thompson returned with a full police uniform, belt included.

  “Where did you get this?” Karl asked as he looked over the clothing with incredulous eyes.

  “It’s best if you don’t know,” Thompson said, a bit of a sly smirk painted on his face.

  Karl turned and stared at the hacker with doubtful eyes.

  “I’ve got a guy,” Thompson explained. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Karl looked back over the uniform—it was just his size. Some of the edges were a little frayed and there was a stain on the seat of the trousers. The uniform had been borrowed, Karl decided. It wasn’t just a costume.

  “How many felonies are we committing right now?” Karl asked.

  Thompson said nothing in response, which only added to the psychologist’s worry. He checked the clock on his C.C. before turning back to his friend.

  “You better get that on,” he said. “The ID becomes active in forty minutes, so we have to get you as close t
o the lab as we can before then. And don’t sweat about your face giving you away. I’ve gone ahead and digitally masked you. As far as anyone with a C.C. is concerned, you’re not Karl Terrace. Good luck.”

  It wasn’t hot, but Karl was sweating. The shoes he had been given didn’t fit quite right and slapped a little on the pavement as he walked. His hands were getting so moist from perspiration that he was worried he’d drop the coffee cups he carried with him.

  Thompson had dropped him off as close to the scene as he could without taking unnecessary risks. Karl thought he could have gotten a few blocks closer, but he didn’t have the nerve to argue.

  “You’re not going to screw this up, are you?” Maynard asked inside his skull.

  You know that isn’t helping, right? Karl replied.

  “I know, sorry,” Maynard said, his voice a little strained by having to be polite. “Just… you got this. Okay? Don’t panic.”

  Thanks.

  “Besides, if this goes south, we’ll probably only go to prison. You’re already used to that, so I’d say we’re okay.”

  Thanks.

  The psychologist stopped in his tracks when he saw the building after turning a corner. It was still a cold, single-story structure without any thought for aesthetic design. But it looked so alien to Karl—like it was something he had only seen in dreams and only now realized it had manifested itself into the real world.

  His veins grew a little icy when he spotted the police officers positioned just outside the front door. They were dressed in the usual uniform, which was a relief to Karl, as he’d worried they would be in heavy armor or carrying machine guns. He would look strange among a group of riot police.

  “Just like we said,” Maynard spoke up. “Confidence is the key. The more you act like you belong there, the less anyone will question it.”