The Installed Intelligence Trilogy Collection

by Phoenix Ward

  “But that’s enough melancholy for the morning,” the anchor said in a suddenly upbeat tone. “We’re going to take a short break here, but don’t get up because we have some important messages from our sponsors.”

  The image of the news studio and the sound of the man dissipated like an unfocused thought. Slowly, the image of a human form — walking against a stark white background — came into Beth’s mind.

  None of the person’s features could be discerned, but Beth could tell it was a woman. She didn’t seem to have any hair, but that could just be a trick of the lighting.

  “Freedom in a real world,” a man’s voice said.

  The woman kept walking until, gradually, light washed over her front. She was dressed in an elegant red gown, one that glittered like the embers of a fire. Her face was immaculate, perfectly symmetrical and without blemish or flaw. The only thing off about her was a faint seam in her black skin, one that glowed neon blue. The seam followed her jawline and appeared to connect with her eyes.

  As perfect as she was, she wasn’t real. At least, she wasn’t organic.

  “Sleek, beautiful, and strong,” the announcer said.

  The woman made a pose before slipping into a smooth, rhythmic dance. The camera started to encircle her, taking Beth’s vision with it.

  “The all-new StellarTek bodyshell.” As the words were spoken, the company’s logo appeared. “Ask your technician about ‘Perfection’ today.”

  Wow, Beth thought. Those bodyshells are starting to look almost like the real thing.

  Bodyshell technology had come a long way in the last thirty years, she acknowledged. It wasn’t long ago that installed intelligences were confined to computer hard drives, destined to spend years just floating in the vast nothingness of digital subspace. Someone, however, had seen the cruelty in that kind of existence and sought to free the I.I.s. Thus the bodyshell was invented.

  Looking back, it seemed like such an obvious advancement to most people. Giving I.I.s a robotic body that they could occupy was rather simple. No advanced artificial intelligence needed to be coded — no behavior written. They were just empty mechanical shells, like a suit an installed intelligence can slip on in order to step out into the world.

  At first, they were quite rudimentary. They lacked faces or intricate motor functions. They had no toes, and their fingers were simply a pincer. Even their voices came out rather monotone and artificial, clearly from some speaker built into the bodyshell’s head unit rather than from a throat or a mouth. Now, however, they were becoming less and less distinguishable from ordinary humans. If it weren’t for the neon seams or the off-temperature flesh of these newest models, there’d be no way to tell the difference without surgery.

  Beth’s C.C. asked her if she wanted to skip the next few adds, which she did. The news program returned as if it had been waiting just for her.

  “Thank you for joining us,” the presenter said. “Sadly, we seem to be a little short on good news today. Our next story is about the ever-growing Fog epidemic that has been shaking communities all over the globe for the last couple of years.”

  Beth sat up a little when the story started. She adjusted her seat so she could stare out the front of the autocar.

  “For those of you out of the know, ‘Fog’ is the street name for a new narcotic that supposedly integrates with the user’s neural implant in order to create an intense sense of euphoria, as well as vivid hallucinations. Initially deemed harmless by the Global Board of Health, the drug has since claimed over thirteen thousand lives in the form of O.D. deaths. This week, Seattle and surrounding areas saw its worse bout of Fog-related deaths with one hundred-twelve confirmed O.D.s.

  “Aside from its lethal potency, Fog is credited with a new wave of neurological disorders wreaking havoc on today’s youth. The way the narcotic interacts with the user’s neural implant — or N.I. — causes a large number of synaptic pathways to fry out and become forever unusable. The governor of Washington had this to say about the matter.”

  The video immediately cut to the artificial face of Sarah Williamson, the I.I. governor of Washington state.

  “The worst of these Fog-related incidents are centered over the city of Seattle,” she started. Her avatar appeared to be reading from a prompter from behind a podium at the state capital. “Now, this drug epidemic shouldn’t be handled as a law enforcement issue, but as a health crisis. This is a plague. And like a plague, Fog seeks to destroy our society and our standard of living. This is not a cut-and-dry situation. Due to the semi-digital nature of the narcotic, it is not as simple as treating a chemical addiction or working out emotional problems. As of yet, there is no surefire way to detox Fog addicts without severe risks to their health. But hear me when I say that this plague will be stopped and the source of the drug will be crushed. Those responsible for corrupting our friends and family — for stealing so many lives — will face justice.”

  The news host was about to add in a bit more commentary, but Beth dismissed the stream from her consciousness. The autocar was slowing down now as it turned down a residential neighborhood.

  It came to a stop.

  Looking at the holographic barrier around the building she was parked in front of — the one that said POLICE LINE: DO NOT CROSS to anyone’s implant who looked upon it — Beth knew this was her destination.

  The Couple

  Marcus Gordon stood on the building’s stoop with a cup of coffee held in an outstretched hand. Beth made the short climb with a zen smile on her face, accepting the hot beverage with a thank you.

  “Dylan,” he greeted her, lifting his own coffee to his mustache-roofed lips.

  “Gordon,” Beth replied. They shared a moment of quiet while they sipped. “So what do we have waiting for us in there?” She nodded towards the apartment building’s front door.

  Snowflakes fell into Marcus’s orange, graying hair.

  “We’ve got an apparent suicide in there,” he said. “It’s just one corpse, but two dead.”

  “A mindshare?” Beth asked.

  Marcus nodded. “That’s why they’ve called homicide. Dunno why they bother. Perp’s already dead.”

  “We don’t get paid just to catch perps, Gordon,” Beth said. “We get paid to find the truth. Even if it’s obvious.”

  Marcus didn’t say anything in response as he slurped more coffee. Then he turned towards the front door.

  “You wanna go inside?”

  “Please.”

  With the hand that held his cup, Marcus pushed open the large wooden door leading to the building’s foyer. Beth stepped past him and out of the snow, shivering a little as the temperature around her shifted. It wasn’t a well-built apartment stack, but it was still well-heated.

  A small puddle by the mailboxes caught Beth’s attention. It seemed to be seeping through the walls, which also seemed to be stained by a break in some poor plumbing. It looked like the super hadn’t noticed it yet, or just didn’t care.

  “Which apartment?” Beth asked once Marcus closed the door behind himself.

  He nodded up the old fashioned carpeted stairs.

  “Fourth floor, first door on the left,” he replied.

  Beth started ascending the flight as soon as Marcus finished speaking. He struggled to catch up with her.

  “So what am I walking into here, Gordon?” she asked.

  “It’s a married couple,” Marcus started. “The husband is the one with the organic body, so he’s our main suspect, I guess.”

  “Mhmm,” Beth hummed. “And?”

  “Their names are Simon and Janice Mendez,” Gordon explained, struggling to catch his breath as they climbed the stairs. “Neighbors heard a gunshot early this morning, and the responding officer found them.”

  “What was their relationship like?” Beth asked.

  “Well, according to psych records,” Marcus started as he missed the handrail and stumbled a little, “they were the perfect happy couple.”

  “So, wha
t happened?”

  “Their son died,” Gordon replied. “After that, they reportedly fell out of love.”

  “Yet they stayed together?” Beth asked.

  “Habit, I guess,” Marcus replied. They rounded a corner and started up another flight of steps.

  “Hmm,” Beth hummed. “How did the son die?”

  “Suicide,” Marcus answered.

  “And the mother?” she asked. She glanced over at her partner. “Her first death, I mean.”

  “They called it a ‘broken heart,’ ” Marcus said. “So emotionally burdened by the death of her son that she couldn’t go on. In reality, though, she drank herself to death. Happened about ten years ago.”

  “So, despite the dismal state of their marriage, they decided to undergo a mindshare?” Beth asked, more as a thought than as an actual question.

  She didn’t have to look back to know Marcus was shrugging. They rounded the last corner and arrived on the third floor. Marcus pointed to the door on the left, then gestured for Beth to lead the way.

  The detectives entered the apartment, passing another wall of holographic police tape. Beth sniffed the air as she crossed the threshold.

  “Poor ventilation,” she commented.

  Three other people moved about the apartment with purpose and focused expressions. Beth recognized the field coroner, but didn’t know the other two cops. They looked like rookies, making a little side talk as they half-focused on their tasks. One seemed to be taking holographic images of the scene, while the other was setting up equipment for the coroner.

  “Body’s over there,” Marcus said, pointing to where the coroner was kneeling. Beth didn’t notice it at first, but he was kneeling over the corpse, beside the living room coffee table.

  She walked over and put her hand on the coroner’s shoulder. Startled, he gave a little jolt before turning around. When he recognized Beth, he gave a relieved sigh.

  “A bit jumpy, Peter,” Beth said.

  “Ah, well, you know, working around death all the time can make someone a little skittish,” he replied. “You’re well, Beth?”

  “Still kicking,” she said. Then she nodded to the body just before them. “What can you tell me about this guy?”

  “Guy and gal — remember,” Peter corrected her. Then he looked back down at the corpse. “The body belongs to Simon Mendez, Sr. In his implant was Janice Mendez. She had no backup.”

  “How long have they been dead?” Beth asked.

  “About six hours, give or take,” Peter answered.

  “May I?”

  “By all means,” the coroner said.

  He stepped aside as Beth came closer to the body. She got down on her knees and started putting on a pair of neoprene gloves she had retrieved from a coat pocket.

  Simon Mendez, Sr. appeared to be in his mid-sixties, though in rather good shape for his age. His muscles were toned, particularly his calves.

  Maybe a runner? she mused. Or possibly a cyclist. I wonder whether the husband or the wife was the athlete.

  Beth reached down and moved the dead man’s head with her gloved hands. It didn’t take much rotating before she saw the gaping gunshot wound that replaced a majority of his scalp. The way the gory flesh extended away from the skull told Beth it was an exit wound. With no apparent entrance wound on the man’s head, she deduced that he must have placed the firearm in his mouth before blowing his brains out.

  “We have the gun used?” she turned and asked the rest of the room.

  “That’s right,” Marcus said. “.32 caliber. One of those cheap Targus smartguns.”

  “Any other guns in the residence?” Beth inquired.

  “None,” Marcus replied. “Neither of them was a collector. Based on the wear and make of the gun, we’re guessing it was purchased for this purpose alone.”

  “Any prior incidents? Other attempts? Anyone who might want to cause them harm?”

  “Nothing like that,” her partner said. “The neighbors didn’t even know their names when we talked to them. They kept to themselves.”

  Beth turned back and looked at the corpse while she thought.

  “Maybe there was some bad blood about the son’s death,” she started to say. “A lot of couples tend to lose affection for each other after the tragic loss of a child. Maybe one of them harbored resentment towards the other until it just couldn’t be withheld anymore. The alcoholism couldn’t have helped things, especially since they had to share the same body.”

  “It’s a good theory, but we don’t have anything to verify it,” Marcus said. “No security footage, no revealing social media feeds, nothing that gives us a good hint either way.”

  Beth stood up slowly, looking around the apartment. None of the dozen or so vases above the fireplace had been knocked down or even misplaced by the murder-suicide. A glass of wine sat perfectly undisturbed on the coffee table. Nothing about the home seemed disheveled or out of sorts.

  “It doesn’t look like there was a struggle of any kind,” Beth observed. “Whoever pulled the trigger — likely the husband — was in total control of the body. There was no resistance.”

  “Maybe he locked her out of the controls,” Marcus suggested.

  “Perhaps,” Beth said, looking closely at the photos that lined the couple’s fridge. “But maybe she was resigned to the decision.”

  “You mean it was mutual?” her partner asked.

  “I’m saying it’s possible. There’s not a whole lot to go on.”

  “How do we even know it was the husband who initiated it?” Marcus asked.

  Peter remained silent as he analyzed his samples, likely immersed in his neural implant to the point of being unable to hear their discussion.

  “We don’t,” Beth answered. “It’s just a guess at this point.”

  “Well, we’re not here to guess.”

  “No,” Beth said, looking around. “No, we’re not.”

  Her eyes locked onto a thin plastic strip that ran along the top of the walls, right where they met the ceiling. With a raised eyebrow, she pointed to it.

  “Is this a security band?” she asked. “I haven’t seen these in ages.”

  Marcus nodded in reply, but Beth had her back to him.

  “They don’t work anymore, though,” he said. “Essentially just part of the decor. Doubt they could remove it easily without causing massive damage to the walls.”

  Beth frowned. “You’re sure they don’t work?”

  “We checked it with the super. They’ve been deactivated for at least eight years, when the current owner bought the building.”

  “That’s inconvenient,” Beth commented. She looked back at the deceased Mr. Mendez. “I’m sure you would have mentioned if he or she had left a note.”

  “Of course,” Marcus replied. “There was nothing of the sort. Nothing on the Net, nothing here in the apartment. We’ve even checked with their employers and searched their belongings there. It seems like it was a spur-of-the-moment decision. Maybe during a heated argument?”

  “Or maybe there was no one to leave a note for,” the woman said. “You said their son was dead? Have you checked to see if he’s been installed?”

  Marcus gave an uncertain shrug. “His records are a bit more complex than we assumed. We still haven’t been able to figure out if he’s got an I.I. out there.”

  Beth’s ears seemed to perk a little as she looked at her partner.

  “Interesting,” she said, her eyebrows cocked. “Look into that. Could be a lead. In the meantime,” she turned to look at the deactivated security band, “finding some footage of the murder would be useful.”

  “I dunno what to tell you,” Marcus said. “I don’t think we’re going to learn much else until the report on Simon, Jr. comes back.”

  Something brushed past Beth’s leg, breaking her focus and giving her a start. Looking down, she saw a bit of orange saunter by her before jumping up onto the sofa. It was a cat, and it started grooming itself as if nothing was out
of the ordinary.

  Beth turned to the other two with curious eyes.

  “Is this the Mendezes’ cat?” she asked.

  Both Marcus and Peter nodded, the coroner apparently finished with his internal task.

  “Name’s Screwball, I believe,” her partner said.

  “Did we check him for an implant?” Beth inquired.

  The two men shared a look of realization before shaking their heads. Beth smiled after a small sigh of victory.

  “Let’s get this cat to the lab,” she ordered. “He may have seen the whole incident.”

  Theories

  Beth couldn’t focus on the files she was reviewing as she sat alone in her office. Instead, her mind wandered to memories from long ago. Back to when she was a child — after the terrible surgery.

  When she was just seven years old, Beth had a tumor growing in her brain. No one knew about it until one day when she fainted on the playground. The other kids had circled her and tried to prod her back awake, but eventually, an ambulance was called.

  Her parents came into the hospital room just as the doctors finished scanning Beth’s brain. The experts were arguing quietly in another room as Beth’s mom came to hug her, and her dad brought her some chocolate.

  Then the doctors came out and explained the situation. They said that if something wasn’t done right away, Beth would be dead before her eighth birthday next month. Her parents didn’t know what to do. Their options ranged from invasive and life-threatening surgery to terrible illness-inducing chemical treatments. All outcomes looked bleak, so they decided to go with the one option with the best chance of a full recovering: surgery.

  Beth wasn’t even able to return home before they began preparing her for the operation. It had all been a blur to her, like she was still out on the playground and this was all just a dream. But it wasn’t.

  The thing she didn’t realize about the surgery before going under was the cost associated with it, even if it was successful. She thought, if the slim chance of her survival happened to succeed, then she would just be all better and tumor-free. However, the tumor had formed around some crucial parts of her brain, as well as the neural implant she had received at birth.