by Migration
Rikku, who had an open viewpad on his knee and was making notes with a stylus, gave Korshak a quiet nudge, as if to say I told you.
On the rostrum, Sorba continued, “I will remind you of some of the things you have heard that you may have forgotten. The fiscal sages of the old order knew and were in communication with this reality. That was what gave them mastery over a whole world. Sofi, despite its material achievements, could never equal them. There are some of us today, who are rediscovering that reality. In our day-to-day routine – and especially in our dealings with others outside of the order – we tend not to discuss this side of our activities. This is partly because the time is not ripe yet for a proper understanding and acceptance of what we have to offer. And not least, to avoid our being thought guilty of the kinds of trickery resorted to by our neighbors, that I alluded to a moment ago.”
Sorba’s voice fell, drawing the last iotas of attention like a receding light. “But I will now share something with you that I would not normally divulge, even in a gathering such as this, because it is pertinent to what I have been saying. Those among us who have attained, shall we say, a deeper level of contact with the reality that lies beyond the senses, are sometimes privileged with knowledge that is not explainable within the framework of the perceived one-way cause-and-effect relationship that the nature of physical reality imposes. In short, events that have yet to come to pass can reveal themselves to us.” Sorba shrugged dismissively. “Among certain religious systems that I remember from past years on Earth, that entertained aspirations or pretenses of that nature, it was known as prophecy. We choose not to glorify ourselves with any such appellations, but accept it simply as a fact of the condition to which our explorations have led us.” He turned his head for a moment to gaze at the row of cowled Genhedrin.
“I’m sure I don’t have to remind anyone here of the serious situation we face as a result of our growing numbers and the finiteness of our material resources – a situation that will persist far into the future, beyond the lifetimes of any of us. Nor do I need to comment on the irresponsibility of the Envoy project, which intends to send an invaluable portion of those resources away to where they can be of no tangible use or benefit in helping to alleviate the situation. Many voices are being raised across Constellation to contest the decision. And yes, we add ours to them because it gains us sympathy and visibility, which advances our cause.”
A thoughtful expression came over Korshak’s face as his eyes followed Sorba’s to look again at the Genhedrin. The first problem he faced was determining the whereabouts of Tek. All members of the order were required to attend the daily General Meeting, he had been told. All? Right there, just a matter of yards away, was a perfect means for concealing a member of the company that might otherwise have trouble passing muster visually. Interesting.
Sorba continued, “But let me tell you now that, useful as they may be in elevating the public consciousness, the fears are ungrounded. So you may all sleep easily and devote your energies to other things. Why do I say this? Because the vision of the future that I have seen reveals that Envoy will not become a reality. Can I prove it to you? No, because demands for proof are applicable to the mechanical reality of matter and forces that we have risen beyond. It is something that I know with a certainty based on faith, which I am asking you to share. The same faith that gave the Dollar” – Sorba half turned and raised an arm to indicate the large $sign suspended above the stage —” hegemony over Earth. And the faith that will see it rise again one day, over Hera! I leave this message with you, so that when the reality unfolds as has been foreseen, then all of you, too, will believe.”
Sorba straightened up at the rostrum and looked squarely out at the hall. “Prosper and Prevail!”
“AMEN!” came the mass response.
Furch came up to Korshak and Rikku afterward, amid the figures milling and dispersing in the foyer outside the Assembly Hall doors. “What did you think?” he asked eagerly. His face was still radiant after the revelations.
“It exceeds all my dreams!” Rikku enthused. “I’ve truly arrived at my destiny.”
“Well, you did pick a somewhat exceptional day to begin.”
“No, I mean it.”
“And you, Shakor?”
“Can I wait until we see what happens with Envoy?” Korshak replied. He knew it wasn’t the right answer to give but said it anyway.
Furch looked at him reproachfully. “You know, you only erect your own barriers to advancement with such an attitude,” he said.
“I’m sure the company and support here will change it,” Rikku put in. “Remember, Shakor has had an unusual, solitary situation to contend with.”
“I’m glad that you understand,” Korshak acknowledged.
Furch was looking at him strangely, his head inclined to one side. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you were the newcomer that Archbanker Sorba was talking about just now,” he said. Korshak grinned faintly, shrugged, and said nothing.
“Well, Rikku and I have things to do this morning,” Furch told him. “Is there anything you need me to help you with?”
“No. I think that Banker Lareda has arranged for me to introduce myself in the workshops. My past experience should make me useful there.”
“Do you know the way?”
“I’m sure I can find it, thanks. And I have to collect some things from my cell first.”
“Very well, then. We’ll see you later, Shakor. Possibly at lunch.”
Korshak was tempted to say that he wasn’t up to prophesying things like that yet, but thought better of it.
He made his way through to the dormitory section of narrow passages and doors, and ascended two levels to the tiny cell he had been given, designed to accommodate two but with no other occupant at present. It contained two cots, chairs, closets, and standard viewpads for use as study terminals, a shared table and set of shelves, and a washbasin. Inside, he closed the door, made sure it was secure, and then retrieved his bag from inside the closet he was using and set it down on one of the cots. Lois had obtained it from Lubanov’s people somehow and shown him how to use it.
It had the look of being well used, and was of a modest-size backpack design, as would be appropriate for anyone spending time on a place like Plantation. One of the things that was unusual about it, however, was the adjustment slide on the right-hand strap, which, when pressed the right way, opened out on one edge and came away as a flat box-shape with one of its sides open – like a pair of square, parallel jaws. Korshak detached it and turned to the table where the two viewpads were lying. Taking one of them, he turned it around and located the quartz aperture at the rear that the unit’s infrared signals passed through to communicate with equipment built into the room. He slipped the jaws around the edge of the viewpad, positioning it such that the aperture aligned with the interface disk on the inside of the hinge piece, and clipped the attachment tight.
One of the first things Korshak had discovered was that novices were not permitted regular phones – he wasn’t sure yet how far this might be the case with other ranks also. Lubanov’s people must have known it, too, which made Korshak suspect that more had transpired than Lubanov’s merely “wanting” to put somebody inside the Academy as Lois had been told. But the inmates needed to study, and if life was not to be made impossibly restricted, that would mean having access to the general Constellation web and the resources that it served. The model of viewpad provided in the novices’ cells didn’t include regular communications capability. However, to be usable it had to send command information into the web as well as return desired information from it. The attachment that Korshak had fitted over its input-output port enabled information from a chip built into the backpack slide to be multiplexed into the outgoing signal. Equipment operated by Lubanov’s office would detect an identifying header in the signal and extract whatever message had been piggybacked on it. The only thing needed now was a means of creating and inserting such a message, and of retrieving w
hatever came back the other way.
Korshak turned to his bag again and took out a handheld reader of the kind used for perusing documents and other information stored in removable chips. Such devices provided a convenient way of carrying many books around, and again would be a normal possession for somebody of an intellectual bent leading a reclusive existence. Except that Korshak’s reader wasn’t normal. One of the books in its stored library contained a page that looked innocent, but which had been contrived to include every character and mark of the language somewhere at least once. Touching the appropriate sequence with the point of a pen caused the message thus spelled out to be written into a location on the reader’s removable chip. Inserting the chip into the viewpad attachment would then impress it onto the next outgoing signal, using Etanne’s own communications infrastructure to convey it to its destination. Incoming messages worked the other way, and became viewable on the reader.
Korshak activated the viewpad, and using its symbolic repertoire composed a command for access to the web archives. When the requested page appeared, he extracted the chip from the viewpad attachment and inserted it into the handheld reader. Interrogating it produced a code signifying that a message had been received. He had been expecting a response to the one he had sent the previous evening to test the channel and confirm his arrival. The screen displayed:
Your test received. Please acknowledge. Nothing further here for now. Standing by.
Korshak grunted, cleared the screen, and brought up the composition page to prepare a reply. It seemed they were in business. The corners of his mouth twitched upward at the aptness of the term.
THIRTY
Masumichi Shikoba had been growing increasingly nervous while he waited, with the result that when the house computer finally chimed and announced the callers at the door, he practically leapt up from the stool where he had been fiddling with a piece of circuitry on the bench. A shot on the wall screen showed Andri Lubanov standing outside as expected, along with another man that Masumichi didn’t know. Leaving Kog standing switched off in a corner, he went through to the hallway to receive them himself. Lubanov’s manner of cool, dispassionate efficiency had always unnerved him to some degree. Now, on top of that, Masumichi’s mind had been conjuring up all kinds of visions of the trouble that his deviousness, compounded by the theatrical attempt to cover it up, might have gotten him into. Why else would the head of the bureau that handled the more sensitive of Ormont’s dealings want to come here in person, with the reason being given that it had to do with Tek?
Lubanov was of lean build but comparatively broad across the shoulders, with a straight mouth, austere, hollow-cheeked features, and pale blue eyes set beneath a broad, round brow and hair that was close-cropped even though thinning. He slipped off a light topcoat as he entered, revealing a gray two-piece suit and a straight-neck shirt of the same hue. The man with him was younger, with a somewhat fleshy face and full head of straight yellow hair, combed to one side.
“We were slightly delayed,” Lubanov said. “This is Hala Vogol, who works with me. And Hala, Masumichi Shikoba – the key person behind the next generation of robots that we can expect to see.” Masumichi acknowledged the introduction with a slight bow. Vogol returned a nod.
Masumichi turned to the doorway opening into the lab, but at the same time indicated the spiral staircase. “We can go up to the apartment if you prefer. It’s more comfortable up there.”
“Down here will be fine. We won’t keep you long,” Lubanov returned.
“As you wish.” Masumichi led the way into the lab, with Vogol following at the rear, turning his head in bewilderment at the tree growing up through its hole in the ceiling. Then his expression changed to one of interest and curiosity as he took in the profusion of immobile robots, partly assembled robots, countertops with bits of robots, and racks of electronic equipment filling the room. Masumichi moved the stool that he had been using across to his desk, which was wedged in a corner beneath loaded bookshelves and a graphics station, and moved a box to clear space on another. Vogol sat down, but Lubanov paused to study the exposed wiring and crystal-matrix arrays of an opened head. Masumichi lowered himself into the chair facing them.
“Integral telescopic and microscopic vision,” Masumichi supplied. “At least, that’s the idea. So far we’ve only tried out bench simulations.”
“Hm. Interesting.” Lubanov turned away and moved forward to prop himself loosely on the unoccupied lab stool, his weight still supported by his legs. “About a month ago, Tek went with you on a visit to Istella,” he said without preliminaries.
Here it comes, Masumichi thought. He swallowed and struggled to maintain a neutral face, which he felt was radiating his thoughts like a neon sign regardless. “An essential part of equipping artificial intelligences is to give them exposure to as wide a range of experiences as possible,” he replied. “It emulates the world knowledge that humans acquire in the course of living. Istella seemed to offer a suitable extreme.”
Lubanov’s eyebrows rose. “So I would imagine. But he went astray there, and you asked Korshak if he’d try and track him down for you.”
Masumichi licked his lips and nodded, at the same time interlacing his fingers to prevent his hands from shaking. He was overreacting even in his own eyes, but found he couldn’t prevent it. “Korshak has worked with me over the years. He knew Tek.”
“Yes, he’d owe you, too, wouldn’t he,” Lubanov said. “You arranged his escape from Arigane, along with his wife.”
“That’s right.” Was there anything Lubanov didn’t already know? Masumichi had gone over the questions that he anticipated and tried to rehearse answers. How did Tek come to be alone? Where were you when he disappeared? But already it seemed futile. Lubanov could probably tell him. He braced himself.
But instead, Lubanov asked casually, “Have you seen or heard anything of Tek since?”
Masumichi shook his head.
“So you don’t know where he is?”
“No.”
“I thought they had electronic communications access. Can’t you locate them through that?”
“They have the ability to close it down. It’s a bit complicated to explain, but it has to do with the internal psychology that we’re trying to develop.”
Lubanov nodded that there was no need to go into it. He looked at Masumichi for a few seconds longer, and then said, “Actually, Tek is on Etanne. So is Korshak. They’re both inside the Dollarian Academy there. We have a means of communicating with Korshak. But for reasons that needn’t concern us for now, we would also very much like to gain access to Tek. But that’s not possible at the moment, for the reason you’ve just given. We’re hoping that Korshak will be able to persuade Tek to cooperate in changing that. What we’d like is your help in setting up whatever would be needed at this end. That’s why we’re here.”
As Lubanov spoke, Vogol produced a notepad and pen from his pocket. Masumichi blinked. That was it? All they wanted was some technical help? His personal life had nothing to do with it? He found himself wanting almost to laugh out loud in relief. He opened his hands expansively. “Well, of course…. What do you wish to know?”
“What kind of communications does Tek have?” Lubanov asked. “Regular web video and data pickup? Some kind of special interfacing? Or what?”
“Regular Grade 3 two-way web capability,” Masumichi replied.
Vogol scribbled a note. “So you can talk to it via standard web devices: phone, viewpad….”
“Correct – provided Tek has it enabled.”
“So Tek can hook into Etanne’s grid?”
“The internal local-distribution grid, yes. But not the interworld trunk beams. We never had any need for something like that.”
Vogol wrote some more and looked up. “Isn’t there something called a neural interface, too? How does that work?”
Masumichi was momentarily surprised that they knew about that; but then, if they were in touch with Korshak it made sense,
he supposed. “It’s a technique for bypassing the conventional interface devices – touchpads, screens, helmets, bodysuits – and coupling the robot’s senses directly into the operator’s brain,” he replied. “Likewise, motor commands from the operator go the other way and drive the robot’s actuators. To a limited degree, it creates the illusion of actually being the robot.” Masumichi grinned, restored to his normal self now. “It’s an interesting experience, and quite an ingenious technical feat, even if I do say so myself. Kog, over there in the corner, is equipped with the current version. Tek had an experimental prototype fitted as an add-on.”
Lubanov was looking interested. “Are you saying that the remote operator can see and hear what’s going on where the robot is?” he checked.
“Exactly.”
“And take over its movements, again as if he were there himself? Look for things? Examine things?”
“Well… yes.” Masumichi was at a loss to guess what might be the point of this.
“What kind of interface does the operator use?” Vogol asked.
In answer, Masumichi got up, walked around to some shelves, and came back holding an intricate head harness made up of metallized straps, stretch panels, and tapes thick with pickups and microwiring. It extended down over the ears as two side pieces to join a collar that hinged into two halves, from which a cable terminating in a jumble of connectors protruded toward what would be the rear of the wearer.
“This connects to an antenna unit that beams to the robot,” he said.
“Beams?” Vogol repeated. “Are you saying it needs line of sight?”
