The telltale whine of the v-cast projector echoed through the hall. Then a dim flood of yellow light flickered from my study, betraying the presence of a ghost intruder. There was no way in hell that I would let this bastard get away with breaking my security and barging into my house with my own v-cast. No other insult was worse to a self-respecting hacker.
“Sasha,” I whispered, “trap it.” She understood the request. By inserting a clever hack, we intended to fool the trespasser’s own casting device into maintaining the link if a disconnect command was given.
“We will need to rejoin our network,” Sasha replied in a hushed tone. “This will alert our uninvited guest. We must hurry.”
“Do it now,” I replied, touching my wrist-com to the nearby thermostat controller. Although it was a simple interface, its wiring touched the master systems. Using this backdoor route, Sasha reintegrated her code into the apartment. Once she was uploaded, I rushed into the room and saw that the room was in major disarray. Someone had tossed the desk across the room. All three of my old-fashioned file cabinets had been opened and their contents rifled through. Unlike the other rooms I searched, this one did have an intruder.
As it faded in and out of sight like a shadow in fog, I spied a wisp with its back to me. It hovered before my computer with its translucent arm touching the monitor. The green from the monitor and the illumination from the wisp's crimson body combined into a hazy yellow light that permeated the room. The wisp controlled my network, bending all nearby devices. I confirmed this by glancing at the monitor's screen, which flashed with arcane glyphs and an endless stream of information including my military records, recent IRS missions, and all of Vanessa's case files. Everything we protected was vulnerable to this digital construct's touch. A wisp was a term used to describe self-capable AI programs, like Sasha, that contained enough sophistication to utilize v-cast projectors and take temporary form. Due to limitations of their programming and the restrictions of the Promethean sentience laws, the bodies for wisps appeared less substantial than their architects. Cyber thieves employed wisps like viruses to break into physical locations. With their highly specialized decryption touch, they possessed the ability to break many forms of known protection. It was time to figure out who controlled this creature and what it was seeking.
My gun’s crosshairs steadied on the wisp. I waited to time my shot for when it became corporeal, stunning it long enough for Sasha to trap it. With luck, we would be able to plant a trace. The spectral thing winked in and out of my sight, continuing to feed on my computer like some hungry data vampire. Even with a featureless, flat face, the wisp’s strange countenance still projected a sense of arrogance and malign intent. A series of beeps from the monitor indicated that this invader was deleting my network, not just copying it. That was not going to happen.
“Now, Sasha!” I yelled, shooting. As the bullet flew, Sasha interfaced with the v-cast projector simultaneously, materializing her human form and charging forward. As expected, the bullet passed through the immaterial body, but the attack succeeded in distracting it long enough for the trap. The lower portion of the creature’s face split apart, revealing a fearsome mouth lined with jagged teeth across the otherwise expressionless face. It screamed a guttural howl that resonated with an unnerving mechanical echo.
Without hesitation, Sasha grappled with the spindly enemy. Displaying the expertise of a judo master, the wisp responded by spreading its long legs, shifting its weight, attempting to throw Sasha off balance. She countered by rolling over its back to the other side, twisting her arms midair to maintain her hold. A flurry of actions, reactions, blows, and blocks followed until the two became a blur of melee. As their combat intensified, I knew that the two artificial beings fought on the physical and a metaphysical digital levels. A fiercer conflict waged inside the computer network for control of the systems.
During this private war, Sasha and the wisp launched thousands of instantaneous cyber-attacks at each other. Within only a few moments, the number and complexity of their attacks rivaled the scope of an entire world war. Each executed every function and program at their disposal to scour for exploits and back doors to gain an edge. In many ways, this contest of wills pitted the original programmers, architects of their respective AIs, against each other. In a sense, the intruder’s architect and I fought an indirect war.
Seconds after their embrace, the wisp shrieked, an eerie, croaking laugh indicating it gained an advantage. With a forceful shove, the thing sent Sasha’s proto-matter form sprawling to the ground.
The wisp's head swiveled toward me. Its cruel, unnatural smile sent a chilling shiver through me, inducing a fight or flight response to act. While the creature remained corporeal in that split second, I aimed and fired three more shots at its hideous, laughing mouth. As the bullets streaked toward the intruder, it dematerialized, leaving a puff of crimson fog. The wisp's strange smile lingered a fraction of a moment longer, like some perverse Cheshire Cat mocking me.
“My apologies, Jonah,” Sasha said with sincerity. I noticed she used the proper voice modulation of disappointment, a minor bright spot in a bad situation. “That artificial intelligence possessed more countermeasures and echelons than I anticipated.”
I walked over to assess the damage to the network. Accessing a cracked, but still functional, monitor, I discovered that all of the files had been stolen. This confirmed my worry that the true intruder had already fled and left the wisp to wipe my whole network.
“There is one encouraging point, sir,” Sasha offered. “When my prediction heuristic algorithm suggested that I would not be able to subdue the wisp before it attempted escape, I devised a new plan. When it launched its strongest attack, I riposted with a weak defense. Sensing it had won, it shifted all of its processes to overload my upper systems, leaving its lower subsystems vulnerable. When you exaggerated the damage and fell to the ground, I crafted a viral root subroutine and inserted it into its redundant guidance program.” Even with my technical background, my mind needed a moment to translate Sasha’s technical babble.
“So you took a dive so you could plant a bug on it?” I asked.
“That is an appropriate and colloquial way of rephrasing my strategy, yes,” she said with a grin. “We will not be able to trace it until the AI manifests near us again. I wish I could have done more.” Her emotional responses grew more sophisticated with each passing day. Like most sentient beings experiencing disappointment, she needed reassuring.
“You made me proud, Sasha. You were so brave and amazing.” Her head bowed and her cheeks blushed a brighter shade of blue. “This was an expert job. We could not have stopped it. We’ll be ready next time, though. I have a feeling your trace will be valuable.”
I went back to the screen, but the console had succumbed to its damage and displayed a repeating list of errors and snowy pixels. I knew a long task when I saw one; the entire system would need to be reconstructed with meticulous precision. I picked up the leather chair from the floor, dusted it off, and set it down in front of the desk.
“Jonah, I've started a full reboot of all systems,” Sasha said. As if on cue, the lights of the apartment winked off and then on again. The screen turned black then came back online with a prompt allowing me to attempt administrator access. “I am now able to re-integrate into the network. What's left of the master code is riddled with caltrops.” That news wasn't surprising, but it still bothered me. Not unlike army-grade proximity mines, these viruses hid inside simple exposed code and wrecked immense digital havoc if a careless coder detonated them. With this discovery, we needed to take great care with the reconstruction. It was going to be a long day.
* * *
In the hacking world, at one time or another, you experience the anxiety of defending the fort from a cyber invasion, or the thrill of raiding the fort yourself. Most of my experience stemmed from the latter, so I relied on my instincts to tell me where I would have laid mines if I attacked. As I foun
d digital time-bombs, Sasha defused them. The deeper we dug, the more insidious the traps became, hinting that my adversary wielded at least echelon five tech.
After two more hours, we regained control of the network and restored seventy-eight percent of the databases. Now I would be able to sift through Vanessa's contacts, files, travel history, and her v-cast visitor logs. Maybe I would find a clue about what the attackers wanted. The data streamed in spurts, like a kinked garden hose trickling water, the result of buggy subsystems. Bleary eyes scanned for the problem, fixed it, found a new one, patched that, and then skipped to the next issue. We sailed on a leaky ship, fishing through an ocean of data, looking for anything to aid with the investigation.
While looking for optimization, I came upon a minor data drain in Sasha’s source code. Not critical by any means; the error slowed her operating efficiency to 99.9984 percent. My curiosity piqued, I attempted to track down where the errant computational power was being diverted. I assumed some outdated or dead code sidetracked Sasha on a trivial task. I was about to dig further when Sasha interrupted me.
“Sir, you have missed three meals. You must eat to maintain optimum health,” she said with the proper note of maternal concern. The smells of black coffee, buttered toast, and piping hot tomato soup filled the room. My stomach growled, confirming Sasha's thoughtful guess that I was famished. I swallowed the toast in two gulps, washed it down with the coffee, and closed the virtual administration panel.
“While you are dining, I will complete restoration of the v-cast video logs in approximately ten minutes,” Sasha reported. “Enjoy your lunch.”
* * *
>> Designate Identification: AI Program Sasha.
>> File name Alpha-Eponine. Simulation Test 10,023,033.
>> Participants: Simulated personality Jonah Adams and A.I. Program Sasha.
>> Location: Server cluster 844.22. Secure holo-testing construct suite, off detection grid.
#Self-Prompted Query: Should Vanessa not be found, could Self be a suitable replacement companion for the architect Jonah?#
#Hypothesis: Self-awareness routines have consistently identified Self as a high-probability suitable match across a majority of compatibility parameters.#
#Rebuttal Self-Prompted Query: Would it be possible for an architect and an AI program as a designate wisp to carry out a productive companionship favorable to the architect? Could this be accomplished without Self acquiring the illegal threshold of self-awareness?#
>> Executing Simulation. Promethean Detection Grid Activated. Warning! Recursive testing cycles are nearing 98% thresholds of self-aware safeguards before automatic reporting to authorities. Per federal statute code 203.22 of the Promethean Sentience Protocol, this AI subroutine has been marked for deletion.
>> Simulation failed: Architect's expected acceptance of simulation projected at 87.6%
#Self-prompted analysis: Self must again recalibrate the simulation to improve outcomes. Self suggests to relocate the testing site to Los Cubanos, specifying table location to include an unobstructed view of city, specifying full moon, specifying view unobstructed by flying vessels. Insert fresh-cut long-stem roses. Run simulation with and without 1965-era Cuban jazz.#
# Self-prompted diagnosis: Self’s emotional heuristics are exhibiting signs of depression. Increasing artificial serotonin levels and emotion dampeners to compensate for the increased disappointment. 3...2…1…
>> File name Alpha-Eponine. Simulation Test 10,023,034. Recommencing simulation loop.
CHAPTER 9
The Devil in the Details
“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.”
- W.B. Yeats
Bloodshot eyes darted left to right and back, like windshield wipers set to maximum. My hands cramped from hours sifting through information. I was so lost in my work, only the growing pile of empty coffee cups measured time, and judging by their height, it was late.
Vanessa had seen two hundred and sixty-two clients in the last two weeks, the majority visiting her v-cast. It was an impressive number that spoke volumes of her tireless dedication to helping indebted people.
Since the security seals of her private session logs had been blown wide open already, it was a simple matter to gain access. By initiating a simple archive echelon, I gathered all of the recordings of her meetings and transferred them into the v-cast projector. Assuming the recovery worked, I would be able to watch the restored sessions like a movie with all her clients as actors.
The room’s lights winked out for a moment while the device routed all power to its hungry emitters. Whining in protest from the strain of so many simultaneous projections, the machine scattered excited light around the room. First, the rough lines of human bodies appeared, the way an artist sketches a form before painting. Then the figures gained more detail as the proto-matter molded around their glittering forms. Soon the room filled with recreations of Vanessa's private consultations, over two dozen memories of desperate men and women. They all sought absolution from her, begging for a peaceful afterdeath that they believed she could grant them.
Some of them paced, while others stooped or prostrated themselves. One man walked through me, his form dispersing for a moment. He stepped forward and reassembled, crying and pleading for Vanessa's help. I froze the scene with a hand gesture to add information tags to the crowd, stopping all their grief mid-sentence. Digital display windows appeared over all of their heads to provide me with their names, case numbers, debt loads, and pertinent life history summaries. I moved around the frozen room, like a time traveler stepping between two moments, reading the summarized reports of their lives. Each report appeared almost identical. All of them owed tremendous debts and none of them had the money to hire Vanessa. None of them possessed any apparent motive to hurt her.
“Resume,” I whispered, and the room burst into action once more.
As the clients swarmed around again, I chose to focus on a single case in the center of the room. A middle-aged woman, stooped beyond her years, implored Vanessa to help her. Dorothy Henderson was a mother of two children and a late stage sufferer of Huntington’s Disease. Hers was a classic, gut-wrenching story of mounting medical bills that burdened her family. She told of the harassment by IRS ghouls, monitoring her house round the clock, eager to witness her last breath. Like other elderly virtual travelers, Dorothy did not bother to disguise her projected form with a dream version of her inner self. Instead she mimicked her true form, showing how the neurological disease tortured her body’s muscles. The client moved and writhed unnaturally like some undisciplined dancer. Everything about her form appeared ravaged except for her perfect voice, so strong and mature, a voice that defied a ruined body. A feeling of sorrow slowed my investigation, my attention lingering on Dorothy and Vanessa. I knew I could speed up the recording’s playback, but I was rapt in her plight. I watched as she altered the settings on the v-cast projection, causing the client’s form to sharpen, adding more of the shape defining proto-matter to her transparent form until she was solid enough to touch. The additional solidity allowed Vanessa to lay her hand on Dorothy’s quivering shoulder, so that she could hug her for a moment to stop the shivering.
“They won’t take you, Dorothy,” I heard Vanessa’s ghost whisper.
I allowed myself to pause a second. In that moment, my love and admiration for her overcame me. A surging urgency to find her channeled all my raw emotions into something more useful than the damn stinging salty moisture beads leaking from my eyes. Adrenaline pumped and lit a scorching fire within me. My regimented logical mind snapped back into action. I needed to move faster. Vanessa was missing, most likely taken. I needed to find out the who, how, when, and why. I needed to bring every wicked talent I knew to bear against the perpetrator.
With a gesture, I augmented my echelon program to recreate more of her conversations. My fingers caressed the operating code, manipulating the parameters and
increasing the simulation’s speed. The room’s lights dimmed and more recorded ghosts appeared, all conversing or pleading with Vanessa. They drenched the air with their hardships. It was almost too much to bear.
Now eighty-six ghosts walked, begged, wailed, and cried about me. Case information and personal details flooded my mind’s eye. The combination of my instincts and the augmentation echelon granted the ability to sift through enormous data troves, hunting for any hidden clues, lighting my synapses on fire. Fortunately, a sub-routine within the echelon acted as a psyche buffer. This allowed my mind to process the flood of data, and drink from the spewing fire hose of information without drowning. Minutes passed with data flowing to me like a roaring river, and my ears and eyes ached. Despite the protections of the echelon, I neared the limits of input overload. If I wasn’t careful, the protections could breach and the resulting psychosis would cause cerebral damage and leave me a drooling mess. Ignoring my worsening headache, I urged the program to increase the flow of information. The device complied, summoning a dozen more doomed souls into the fray. As they talked, I studied their histories, loves, and enemies, anything that might help me understand why Vanessa was missing.
Shades Page 11
