Asimov's SF, June 2011

by Dell Magazine Authors

  She spoke from where she was and Metta amplified it for Huang. “There was blood on the stairs and landing. Found a sample. Metta'll let you know the DNA results.” CSI's eSpies were equipped with a different visual range than the standard issue. Between Griggs and Metta, they'd be able to get a good scan of the area.

  “Thanks. We've got a gunshot. Want to help look for the shell casing?”

  “No problem. Metta already asked me to.”

  “Ah.” Huang turned slowly, so Metta could see the area. Across the street hulked a stuccoed building with shields carved in the stone on each buttress. Construction scaffolding masked the lower half of the building, evidently part of an attempt to spruce it up. Behind the building, I-5 nearly touched its upper edge. Oblivious to the presence of a dead man, cars whizzed past a block away from Huang.

  How had a man in a wheelchair gotten to the rooftop without a working elevator? And why tea for two? He turned away from the corpse and paced along the edge of the building.

  The north and east sides of the building were on a corner facing the street. The west side of the building had a narrow alley separating it from the next. It had the usual dumpsters, boxes, and abandoned plywood, but nothing looked immediately interesting.

  Huang continued his slow circuit of the roof. Behind him Griggs filmed and photographed Patterson's body. When she was finished, the coroner transferred the corpse to a body bag and placed it on the gurney to take back to the morgue.

  With the natural turf roof, Huang had been hoping to find footprints or something useful, but Patterson's struggle had obscured any obvious signs. Between Patterson's wheelchair and the door to the elevator, he found a single screw in a patch of grass stained a deep red. “Hello. Can we get prints and contact DNA from this?”

  “We'll know in a moment.”

  Huang heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Griggs approaching with her crime scene kit in tow. Her deep chestnut hair was tucked under her cap, except for a wisp hanging next to her cheek. “Thanks for spotting this.”

  “Sure. Let me know when you're done so I can roll the wheelchair over.”

  She pulled out her high resolution camera and tripod and began documenting the screw, then bagged it and turned to the wheelchair, uploading images to Metta as she went. With a steady image, the AI would be able to run it through a series of filters to pull prints. Griggs said, “It'll be awhile. I'll need to document the rest of the scene before anyone contaminates it.”

  Huang stepped back, trying not to telegraph his impatience while she did her job.

  “Metta?” he subvocalized, “How long has the elevator been down?”

  “I've been trying to check on that since we got here, but can't reach the building manager.” Her image suddenly froze. “Shots fired at HQ.” Metta stiffened, seeming to look through him. “Officer down. Units 235 and 347 establish perimeter.”

  Huang held his breath, listening for gunfire as if HQ were close enough that he could hear it. Beyond his glasses, Griggs reacted to Metta's cry.

  “Three armed subjects in chassis room. The assailants are armed, I repeat—Amado! Two officers down.”

  How the hell had they gotten into Metta's chassis room? It was in the basement of headquarters with cameras monitoring it at all times. Huang turned on his heels and sprinted back across the roof. “Metta, can you give a visual?”

  He ran for the door, aware of the other officers springing into action behind him. “Metta, answer me. Who's there? Can you give a visual?”

  Car doors slammed on the street below.

  An image flashed onto his glasses. A man. No. Three men, in masks. One of the men reached for a cable attached to a filing cabinet—not a filing cabinet. Metta's chassis.

  Metta screamed. She froze.

  A static image of Mae West hung in Huang's peripheral vision, with her mouth open wide. Then the image winked out.

  * * * *

  As Huang loped up to the police precinct, an ambulance pulled out with siren already screaming. He swallowed, hoping it held one of the bastards who'd broken into the building. A line of police officers stood as a barricade, scanning the crowd for possible threats. Yellow police tape stretched down the block and civilians stood outside the perimeter pointing with feverish curiosity. The bulbous nose of a News satellite dish pointed to the sky as reporters thrust their cameras toward every policeman who passed.

  Huang flashed his badge, even though he knew both officers flanking the front entry to the building. Tension was crackling across everyone's nerves. Bowes nodded to him, only taking his gaze off the crowd long enough to see Huang. “Chief wants us to send everyone over to the old courthouse. They've got a temporary HQ set up there while CSI goes over the building.”

  Huang pulled out his PDA to make sure it was on. “I didn't get a call.”

  Bowes shook his head. “Radios are down. Metta ran dispatch. Pass the word if you see anyone, huh?”

  “Was that Amado in the ambulance?”

  Bowes scowled. “Fitzgerald. Bastards killed him.”

  Stomach twisting, Huang jogged the two blocks to the Courthouse where the giant statue of Portlandia looked out over the city. She seemed to have a disapproving frown. Inside, a uniformed officer made Huang show I.D. before directing him up to the third floor. One of the holding rooms for jurors had been commandeered for the precinct's detectives.

  Woodrow Delarosa looked up as Huang entered and said, “We got Huang. Who's that leave?”

  Sigmundson, over by the window, picked up a notepad and said, “We're still waiting for an update on Fitzgerald.”

  “Guys . . .” Huang stopped, rage squeezing the breath out of his body. “He's dead.”

  Movement stopped in the room and Delarosa swore. “Okay, we'll get these bastards. Banks has put me primary on this. Here's what we know so far—shortly after eleven an unknown number of assailants entered the precinct. They shot two of our guys, Amado and Fitzgerald, and got away scot-free with our department AI. We got nothing on these bastards because all the surveillance is locked up in that machine and our guys were all clustered in the wrong areas.” Delarosa shook his head. “That thing goes down and everyone forgets how to set up a perimeter.”

  Delarosa's dislike for Metta had been the subject of a lot of departmental jokes, but this was pushing boundaries. She'd been kidnapped and he was acting like she was nothing more than a computer. He continued ranting. “Until we turn up someone who saw the bastards—”

  Huang raised his hand. “I saw some of them.”

  “How the hell? You were across town.”

  “I asked Metta for a visual.” The ceiling fan clicked as it spun overhead, seeming to count down the minutes.

  Delarosa stared at him, mouth open. “I'll be damned. So far, you're the only one who thought to do that.”

  “I didn't see much.”

  “You did better than me.” Delarosa snorted as if he couldn't believe that Huang had done something useful.

  “I—How is that possible?”

  “Shit. . . .” Sigmundson said, “I just thought she was malfunctioning at first.”

  “She's one of your partners. How could you think that?”

  “She is a machine.” Delarosa rubbed his eyes. “I've worked with other police A.I.s They're all the same. They're all Metta. There are differences, ‘cause they change with experience, but they all start as the same set of routines. Still machines.”

  Huang bit back the argument that AIs were people. Organizations like AIM, the Artificial Intelligence Movement, had been fighting for AI rights, but hadn't won many battles. Still, he didn't see how anyone who spent time with Metta could deny that she was a thinking being.

  Delarosa tapped his pencil on his pad. “Okay, here's what I want. Sigmundson, you take Huang into the next room and get his testimony while it's fresh. I'll divide the neighborhood with the rest of the team and we'll start canvassing.”

  Huang asked, “Any idea on motive?”

  “Of
ficially?” Delarosa shook his head. “But since the only thing they took was Metta, I figure they want access to everything she monitors, which just happens to include every godforsaken camera in the city. Goddamn machine is the biggest bleeding security breach this system has got.”

  Metta wasn't just a machine, she was a colleague, but Huang kept his lips sealed around that thought, and followed Sigmundson out of the room.

  * * * *

  Huang wiped his hand across his mouth as he stood outside Patterson's condo. Notifying the next of kin was never pleasant, but he couldn't put this off, no matter how much he wanted to focus on finding the dirtbags who hit HQ.

  On the fifteenth floor, the doors opened onto a small foyer with a gleaming marble floor. A fountain trickled in one corner and wall sconces provided graceful uplighting. Across from the elevator, dark wood double doors waited for him. Huang subvocalized, “Swanky.”

  No one answered him. He swallowed against the silence.

  A face appeared in the mirror next to the doors—a man with pale blue skin and chiseled, almost Arabic features—and Huang realized that it was an interface. A cloud of smoke surrounded the man, wrapping about his head like a turban. “Welcome, Detective Huang. If you will step into the library, the lady of the house will be with you shortly.” Smoke swirled around the AI like a Djinn as he gestured to the doorway by the mirror.

  An AI as a butler. It seemed extravagant to employ an AI for such a limited task. Most companies that invested in an AI did so to manage a large organization, not just a household. Huang stepped through into a small room, wallpapered with books. A large desk squatted below the only window. On the desk sat an ornate brass lamp like something out of Aladdin. The AI appeared above an actual freaking lamp, which must have concealed an interface. Huang bowed at the waist. “You have me at a disadvantage. May I ask your name?”

  “This one is called Qadir.”

  Huang straightened, noticing the phrasing of the sentence. “Called?”

  “This one is a Quimby model, but the master prefers that this one be called Qadir.” A small tea-cart trollied forward and a mechanical arm lifted a porcelain teapot. “Would you like some tea while you wait?”

  Huang shook his head. “No. Thanks.”

  The door to the library opened and a petite woman entered. Qadir suddenly appeared to genuflect. “My lady, may this one present Detective Huang?”

  Even with six centimeter heels, Mrs. Patterson stood no more than 165 centimeters, but with the confidence of a much taller woman. She paused in the doorway, regarding Huang like a cat. Then she smiled and flowed forward with her hand extended. “Good afternoon, detective. The last time detectives were here it was because Neil had gotten himself into trouble. What's he done this time?”

  He took a breath and looked to where Metta should be as if she could brace him. “Ma'am. I regret the necessity of my visit. Earlier this morning, your husband died.”

  The casual charm and grace fell out of her face, revealing a woman older than she had first appeared. “Pardon me?”

  “Please, sit down.”

  “No. No, thank you, I'll stand.” She lifted her chin. “Are you telling me that Neil is dead? You are quite certain?”

  “I'm afraid so.” Huang winced. “I hate to do this, but I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Of course. . . .” She walked away from him, one hand covering her mouth. “I thought he was at the office. Working. How did . . .?”

  “He was shot. He was found on the roof of one of your buildings in the waterfront area. At Everett and Water. Do you know who he might have been meeting this morning?”

  She nodded. “Yes, he had a breakfast meeting with Magdalena Chase. But she would never—we're on charity committees together. She wouldn't.”

  Huang waited for Metta to fill him in on who Magdalena Chase was and let the pause stretch out into awkward silence before he caught himself. Aggravated, he yanked the VR glasses off, not even sure why he had still been wearing them.

  Qadir cleared his throat.

  Mrs. Patterson scowled. “Well? What is it?”

  Lowering his head in a bow, Qadir said, “Pardon me, madam, but Ms. Chase called last evening to reschedule.”

  “What time was that?” Huang asked.

  “10:17 p.m., sir.”

  “That seems late to cancel. Did she say why?”

  The AI shook his head. “This one regrets that she did not, but with my lady's permission this one can transfer the recording to your Metta.”

  Huang breathed sharply through his nose against the reminder. “Perhaps later.” He turned his attention back to Mrs. Patterson. “Do you know what time he left this morning or where he might have gone if he wasn't going to meet her?”

  She shook her head. “Neil and I sleep—slept.” One hand tightened into a fist by her side. “We did not share a bed any longer. He had night terrors. A remnant from the war, you see. So I only know that he was gone when I got up. I thought he was downstairs in his office.”

  “Was there anyone who might have wished him harm?”

  “He had business rivals, but no one that would kill him.”

  There was something that Metta had said earlier. What had it been? Something he was going to follow up on. He darted his eyes to the left as if she might suddenly appear and remind him. He grimaced and asked a different question. “Qadir, do you have a record of when he departed?”

  “Madam, may this one be permitted to answer the detective?”

  “Yes, yes. Cooperate thoroughly.” She waved her hand as if shooing away a fly.

  “The master departed at 7:12 a.m. He did not tell this one where he was going.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “No, sir. The master was not in the habit of sharing his thoughts with this one.”

  Qadir's constant use of the third person when talking about himself rankled Huang. What kind of bizarro interface was this to demand from an AI? Sure, Metta was—had been working as Mae West, but she'd picked the persona. He had a hard time imagining anyone choosing to be this servile. “May I ask what sort of vows Qadir has in place?” Huang worried the inside of his lip.

  An AI's testimony was admissible in court, the same way a surveillance video would be. On the other hand, Qadir might have a vow to obey his master, which would make lying to protect Patterson a priority. Whereas an AI like Metta had an honesty vow, which prevented her from lying. Her testimony would be considered incontrovertible, but Qadir's might be suspect.

  “I don't know. Neil handled that.” Mrs. Patterson pressed her hands to her temples.

  Huang leaned forward and picked up a cup. It was a blue and white rice pattern with no similarity to the tea set on the roof. The mechanical arm unfurled from the cart and lifted the teapot. The steam smelled dry and papery, like a poor quality black tea. “Tea, sir?”

  “No. Thank you.” He set the cup back down and turned to Mrs. Patterson. “You've been very helpful, but there might be questions we want to ask you in the future, so please let me know before you go out of town.”

  * * * *

  When Huang got home late from work, his mother bustled out of the kitchen wielding her cane like a weapon. “What wrong?”

  How could he even start to explain what had happened? “Things got strange at work.”

  “How strange?” Even with the cane, she tried to take his bookbag as she gestured to the couch. “Sit. I bring tea.”

  He pulled the bag away from her. “Ma. You don't have to do that.” Seventy-one years old, and she still felt like she had to wait on him.

  “Not me, then who? You not take care of self, so,” she glared at him, “I take care of you. Maybe you not want me here?”

  As had happened every night since his mother had moved in with him, Huang gave up. It was easier to let her have her way. Even though she liked to practice English, he switched to Mandarin because they seemed to fight less in her native language. "Some tea would be very nice, if it's not too muc
h trouble."

  She beamed at him, her wrinkles swinging upward in a many-creased smile. "No trouble at all, poor thing. What may I get you?”

  "Your choice.”

  She bustled out of the room, as if she had not had a hip replaced five weeks ago. Huang watched her go and shook his head. Maybe he wouldn't have to explain why he was home late.

  He pulled himself off the sofa and headed for his computer. Sitting down, he powered it on and called up his A.S. search engine. Single-minded, the engine was built to be the world's best research assistant, but, like all A.S., the artificial savant had no intuition, no true intelligence.

  Huang stared at the screen and typed in a keyword he had never felt the need to research before.

  Metta

  His mother came in and fussed while he was looking at sites, but otherwise left him alone with his tea. He nearly laughed at the irony in her choice. She had made him a cup of gunpowder tea. Each leaf was rolled into a tiny dark ball, which would open at the bottom of the cup. Summer, freshly mown grass.

  With each site, the A.S. refined the search, noting when Huang was skimming and when he paused to read, until it refined the search to only the relevant results.

  Although the basic program was the same for every police station, each Metta customized herself to fit her environment. Over time, the AIs would sometimes choose different names or revamp their generic interface. They had the option of upgrading their hardware accessories, but the basic chassis which housed the AI's brain was as integral to them as the skeleton was to the human body. They had to have a chassis to function; the software wouldn't run in any other environment.

  Huang sat for a moment looking at the screen, wishing that Metta would help him decide what to do next.

  * * * *

  At HQ, Huang went through the motions along with everyone else, but the work load magnified without Metta's help. The chief brought in an A.S., but the artificial savant did a fraction of the work Metta had done. The halls were full of officers grousing about having to do their own paperwork.

  In the late morning, before he had time to hit the road for investigation, Griggs showed up at his desk. “I don't have a lot for you, but thought you'd want what I've got.”