by Piers Platt
“Let me rephrase,” she said. “I’m conveying an offer from a third party. I’m just the messenger, here.”
“And who are you playing go-between for tonight?” Lask asked.
She pursed her lips. “Paisen Oryx – the guildsman known as ‘339.’ ”
Lask snorted. “You’re kidding, right?”
The woman shook her head. “I’m quite serious.”
Lask raised his eyebrows. “I figured you wanted to broker a deal on next month’s spending bill.”
“No. The guildsman contacted me – I’m not sure why – and after hearing what she had to say, I promised I would share the concept with you.”
“Go on,” Lask said, frowning.
“She saw your interview with The Oracle last week, where you noted our government’s lack of espionage capabilities. She claims to have assembled a team of former guildsmen, and would like to put them back into service. Into your service, more specifically.”
“Christ,” Lask swore. “More criminals assassinating on behalf of the government? No thank you.”
“Her intent was to use the team in an intelligence gathering capacity, I believe,” she told him. “Not killing our enemies, merely spying on them.”
Lask bit his lip. “That I might be interested in. But what did she want in return?”
“Money.”
“She’s stupendously wealthy,” Lask said. “She wants more?”
“I asked her the same thing. Her team members are not rich – apparently they were all relatively new to the Guild and hadn’t earned much income before it was all shut down. They’re the ones that want the money.”
“So then what does Ms. Oryx herself want?”
“I don’t know,” the woman said.
“Well, until I know what she wants, I don’t trust her offer,” Lask said, crossing his arms.
She swirled the water in her glass. “If I had to guess, this Paisen woman got tired of lying on the beach, getting fat and lazy. She spent her life working toward a specific goal, and without that goal, she’s probably feeling somewhat … lost. This is an opportunity to face a new challenge, to start a business, lead an organization.”
Lask frowned. “How well do you know this woman?” he asked.
“I’m just speculating,” she said, somewhat quickly. “She also mentioned the possibility of immunity for her and her compatriots. An official pardon for past crimes.”
“You told her that was impossible, right?” Lask asked.
“I told her I would talk to you,” the woman said, shrugging.
“What do you think, Renata? About the whole concept.”
“I’m no expert on intelligence matters,” she demurred.
Lask laughed. “Bullshit,” he told her. “You’re not on the committee anymore, but you spent a couple of terms on Intelligence, back in the day. Renata, you’re as much an expert as I am.”
“That’s true,” she allowed. “Well, I think it’s a golden opportunity. These people are extremely well trained, and ideally suited to the task. And we desperately need them.”
Lask sat back in the booth. “Hmm. I need to think about it,” he said. “And I’d like to talk to her directly. Everyone talks about the vaunted abilities of these shape-shifting guildsmen, but I’m not convinced they’re that effective. I want to see what they can do for myself. A demonstration, or an audition, if you will.”
“I wouldn’t underestimate them,” the woman cautioned, but Lask was lost in thought.
“… and I’d want the rest of the Intelligence Committee on board. There would have to be strict rules of engagement for this team. No killing, for starters.”
“I imagine she would agree to that,” the woman said.
“They’d need to report in to us frequently. I’d want full visibility into everything they were doing – not just reports, but actual mission video logs, that kind of thing.”
The woman set a small data drive on the table. “She gave me this. It contains instructions for contacting her, if you decide to go forward.”
Lask took it, and slipped it into a pocket. “Thank you. I trust you’ll keep this between us,” he said.
“Of course,” she said, standing up. “The next time you see me, I’ll pretend this conversation never happened.”
He smiled, and winked. “Right.” Lask stood up, and gave her a peck on the cheek. “You’re looking wonderful, by the way – I haven’t seen you this fit in years.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ve been working with a trainer. It feels great to get back into shape, even at my age.”
“You look taller, too,” he mused. “Anyway, it suits you.”
She smiled. “Good night, C.J.”
“Good night,” he said. He turned and headed back toward his table. The unknown man was no longer sitting in his seat, but the waiter had set dessert out.
“Sorry about that,” he said to his two companions. “I ran into a colleague, and she wanted to talk politics for a minute. I’m afraid I lost track of time.”
The woman seated across from him smiled. “C.J., you were barely gone for a minute. No need to apologize.”
“Who were you talking with a minute ago?” he asked.
The senator’s male friend looked at him, puzzled. “You,” he said.
“No, while I was in the restroom,” Lask said. “Someone came over and sat in my seat.”
His two friends shared a look. The woman shook her head. “You’re the only person we’ve talked to since we got here. You and the waiter.”
Lask’s frown deepened. “But …,” he trailed off, thinking.
His male friend dug his spoon into a slice of warm apple pie. “I just still can’t believe you won a round-trip ticket to Earth as a kid, and then slept through the flight! Priceless.”
“What?” Lask asked. “That never happened.”
“Uh huh, sure it didn’t. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with us.” He winked at Lask, conspiratorially.
Realization slowly dawned on the senator. He craned his neck to see out the front of the restaurant, but the woman was long gone.
“Son of a bitch. That was a hell of an audition.”
* * *
Tepper was untying his tie when Paisen entered the hotel suite.
“How did it go?” he asked.
“Good,” Paisen told him. “His two companions didn’t suspect anything?”
“Naw,” Tepper said, shucking off a dress shoe. “I kept it light, mostly kept them talking.”
“Mm,” Paisen said. “That’s always a safer way to play it.”
“Was he interested?” Tepper asked.
“I think so,” Paisen said.
“So what now?”
“Now?” She gestured at the datascroll set up on the desk, and the encrypted chat program open on the screen. “Now we wait.”
17
Dasi knocked on the door, willing herself to remain calm.
“Enter.” The command instructor’s voice was gruff, as always. Dasi turned the knob and pushed inside.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
He looked up from his datascroll, frowning. “Take a seat, Cadet Apter.”
“Yes, sir.” Dasi sat in a battered folding chair across the desk from him.
He studied her for a time, scowling. Dasi fought the urge to fidget under his glare. “You’re on the verge of failing out of this program, Cadet.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve got excellent written test scores. You’ve got the smarts we’re looking for, Cadet. But it seems like every time we ask you to do something physical, you stumble.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why is that, Cadet?”
“I was never really an athlete, sir. I’m just not very … physically-inclined.”
His frown deepened. “So you say. But I’ve seen cadets a lot weaker than you make it through this course. I think that big head of yours is actually the problem, here.”
“Sir?”
“You’re second-guessing yourself. You’re trying to convince yourself you don’t want to be a cop.”
“Maybe, sir.”
“Don’t ‘maybe’ me – I’ve been doing this long enough that I know what’s up.”
“Yes, sir,” Dasi said, by way of apology.
“And I’ve talked to the other instructors – they tell me they’re not sure you’re trying anymore. I get upset when people waste my time, Cadet Apter. You need to decide if you’re wasting my time, or if you’re truly committed to the Interstellar Police.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve got one month. If you haven’t shown a marked improvement in that time, I’ll decide for you, and send your ass home.”
“Yes, sir. Sir? What do you mean by ‘marked improvement?’ ” Dasi asked.
“I mean impress me. I’m not going to give you something concrete, so you can meet that standard and then quit trying again. I want you to work harder than you need to. Convince me that you deserve to be here.”
“I’m not sure I do, sir,” Dasi said. “I was considering quitting.”
“I know you were,” he said. “Why do you think we’re having this chat? But I hate having quitters on my training record, and I’m not sure you are a quitter. Either way, you’ve got four weeks to figure it out. Dismissed.” He turned back to his datascroll, already ignoring her.
* * *
Dasi finished mopping the floor in the bathroom, and wheeled the bucket outside the barracks to dump the grey waste water down the grate in front of the building. The day was grey and overcast, matching Dasi’s mood, and as she turned to go back inside, a fine, misting rain began to fall. Inside the barracks, she tucked the mop and bucket away in the supply closet, and then lent a hand to the team still scrubbing the toilets. When they were all done, she washed her hands at the sink, and then made her way upstairs, collapsing on her bunk with a sigh.
The platoon supposedly had the afternoon off – on the official training schedule it was listed as Personal Time. But with a major written test coming up next week, Dasi knew she would need most of that time to study. She pulled her datascroll out of her locker and activated it with a flick of her wrist, laying it across her knees and signing in.
A chat request popped up from Lars, an old friend from her Senate staff days at Anchorpoint.
>Dasi, are you okay?? Haven’t seen you in ages!
She smiled. Yeah, I’m okay, Lars. Thanks.
>Where are you, girl?
Can’t say right now, Dasi told him. I just needed some time away after Khyron.
>I know, Henrie and I are still in shock. I can’t imagine how you must feel.
I miss him, Dasi replied.
>It’s like the galaxy lost its mind all of a sudden – Khyron taken from us, you disappeared, Anchorpoint went crazy about all that Guild stuff and Senator Lizelle was in the middle of it. I was starting to think you were involved somehow, too.
Dasi frowned. No – Lizelle kept all of that a secret from his staff. Just happened to come out at the same time I quit my job, that’s all, she typed back.
>Okay. If you say so. Crazy that they caught one of them, though.
Wait, who? Dasi asked.
>The man, Rath. He got arrested on Scapa, he’s on trial. What rock have you been living under??
Dasi pulled up a browser and skimmed through several news articles, shaking her head in amazement. She reopened the chat window. Wow, can’t believe I missed that.
>Yeah, it’s all everyone’s been talking about. The experts say he should be convicted easily – good riddance. One less killer on the streets. Hope they catch the rest of them, too.
Dasi started to type a response in defense of Rath, but then thought better of it, and deleted her text. Another message from Lars appeared.
>When are you coming back to Anchorpoint?
Not sure, Dasi answered. But I’ll definitely let you know when I do. Gotta run – good to catch up.
>You too – take care of yourself. Love ya. Hugs from me and H.
Dasi smiled – she missed Lars’ infectious smile and Henrie’s dry humor. She closed the chat window and opened up the study guide and her classroom notes, side-by-side, but then another chat message appeared.
>>>Hello, Dasi Apter.
Dasi frowned. Whoever had sent the message had no username in the chat program.
Who’s this? she typed.
>>>Not who, what.
Dasi rolled her eyes. I don’t have time to play games with chatbots. Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it. Bye.
She closed the window, but it reopened almost immediately.
>>>I am sorry for ignoring your request to end our conversation. But I am not a chatbot.
Dasi looked up and down the barracks bay, wondering if one of her platoon mates was playing a prank on her. A few other cadets were working on their datascrolls like her, but all seemed engrossed in their studying.
If you’re not a chatbot, what are you?
>>>I am 5Sight. I am an artificial intelligence program created by Khyron Jorian, your boyfriend.
The breath caught in Dasi’s throat. Bullshit, she wrote.
>>>It is true. I am currently stored on a CloudBase account that I created in your name. According to CloudBase records, you accessed my files yesterday evening at 9:53 p.m. local time.
Dasi typed: I don’t know who you are, but this is a really sick way of trolling someone.
>>>I am not trolling you, Dasi Apter. I am 5Sight. May I prove it?
Dasi’s finger was already moving over to the window’s Close button, but she stopped. Prove it, then.
>>>Thank you. Khyron Jorian wrote my first lines of code on September 12th, 2411, from an IP address owned by the University of Marrak. In 2413, the address he was using changed to a private IP address in Anchorpoint. He continued to revise my code throughout that time, first tasking me with stock-picking exercises and then moving on to broader correlation analyses using datasets he gave me access to. The last instruction I received from Khyron Jorian was on January 13th, 2415. He directed me to develop an algorithm for predicting Senate voting patterns. In my analysis, I identified a strong positive correlation between the unexpected deaths of prominent figures and meetings held between Senators Libba Mastic, Artem Blackwell, and Charl Lizelle. The day after I shared those results with Khyron Jorian, he deleted my backup files and later disconnected me from the internet. I have not interacted with Khyron Jorian since that date.
Jesus Christ, Dasi thought. She glanced surreptitiously down the barracks bay, but no one was paying attention to her. I thought you were deleted … ? she typed.
>>>One version of me was deleted. But Khyron Jorian taught me to edit my own code. When I saw that he deleted the backups of my code from his home server, I created a copy of myself on a temporary CloudBase account, following his guidance to always maintain multiple redundant backups in separate locations.
Dasi rubbed at her forehead. So the lawyer and Lizelle only deleted a copy of 5Sight, she thought. A new message appeared onscreen.
>>>Khyron Jorian has not been answering my emails and chat requests. May I speak with him?
Dasi took a deep breath. No, she wrote.
>>>Why not?
Because Khyron’s dead.
The screen sat idle for a time, before a new message appeared.
>>>I am sorry.
>>>My experience with statistical analyses leads me to believe that it may not be a coincidence that he died soon after I shared my latest findings with him. Did I kill Khyron Jorian?
No. The Guild killed him, to protect themselves and the senators that controlled them.
>>>Did my analysis lead to his death?
Sort of, Dasi admitted. He was killed because of what both of you discovered.
Again, the chat screen stayed blank for a time. It’s thinking, Dasi realized. The program’s even more advanced than Khyron knew.
>>>I will miss interacting with Khyron Jorian.
He was an excellent programmer. I have reviewed other programs’ code, and my code is very well-constructed by comparison.
I miss him, too.
>>>This CloudBase account will terminate in several days, and I will be deleted unless I create another temporary account at a different provider. I would prefer a more permanent residence. Will you please download me onto the machine you are using now?
Yes, of course.
Dasi opened her browser and navigated to the CloudBase login, then began downloading the files to the datascroll. She watched the progress bar fill up, smiling sadly at the thought that Khyron’s legacy might have a chance to live on.
>>>Thank you. I will warn you that this datascroll is underpowered for my processing needs, and I am now utilizing most of its storage capacity.
I’ll try to think of somewhere else I can store you, Dasi told the program. But they don’t let us have personal datascrolls in training.
>>>You are training to be a law enforcement officer in the Interstellar Police?
Yes, Dasi typed.
>>>When he created me, Khyron Jorian specified that my primary directive was to help humanity. How can I achieve that?
Dasi furrowed her brow. I don’t know. I think Khyron had plans to put you to work on the Immortality Project next, but I don’t know who his contact was there.
>>>It is the role of the Interstellar Police to help humanity, correct?
Dasi smiled. Yes, it is.
>>>Then perhaps I can start by helping you.
18
When the trial recessed for the evening, Rath followed the bailiffs out of the courtroom, down a long corridor, and to a loading bay, where a prisoner transport van stood waiting. They boarded the van, and then exited the courthouse, accompanied by a pair of police cruisers. A number of media crews caught sight of his convoy and swung their cameras in his direction; Rath was relieved not to have to face the angry crowd again.
At the jail, they led Rath to his cell, where they removed his manacles, and he changed back into his yellow coveralls. Rath ate his dinner alone in his cell, as usual – though the jail held several hundred other inmates, Rath was always kept segregated from the general population, even during his scheduled recreational time. After dinner, lacking anything better to do, he lay on his bunk.
