Control

by David Mack

  Venek offered his right hand to Bashir. The doctor noted the man’s painfully firm grip, a habit he suspected the spymaster had cultivated to intimidate others. It was working, as far as Bashir was concerned, but he restrained his reaction to a subtle grimace. “Mister Venek.”

  “Doctor, a pleasure.” Venek moved on to welcome Sarina, then Graniv, and finally Data before he, Garak, and the four visitors all sat down. “Castellan Garak asked me to brief you with all the information we have about the intelligence service you call Section Thirty-one.” He pulled a data rod from his pocket and held it up. “And this is it.” His attention darted from one guest to another and back again. “Who gets the intel dump?”

  Data perked up and said, “Allow me.”

  The spymaster rolled the rod across the table to Data, who snapped it up and inserted it into a padd. “Enjoy,” Venek said. “And I hope you find what you’re looking for. Our files have so much raw intel, it would probably take most people twenty years to read it all.” No one seemed interested in enlightening Venek about the speed with which Data, Lal, and Shakti could assimilate new information, especially when it was already in a computer-readable format.

  Graniv leaned forward, her manner stern. “You all seem to take this Section Thirty-one for granted. Can one of you give me some deep background? Some context?”

  All eyes seemed to land on Bashir, who demurred with raised palms. “Don’t look at me. All I know is what little I was told by Agents Sloan and Cole—and I’ve no idea how much of what they said was true, and how much was utter fiction.” He nodded at Venek. “This seems to be your show, Mister Venek. What can you tell us about Thirty-one?”

  The Cardassian seemed grateful to once more be the center of attention. “Our intel has been assembled over the course of several decades. Some of it by signal intercepts, or SigInt, and some by capturing agents and”—he hesitated until Garak nodded his permission for Venek to continue—“compelling information from them. The bulk of our intel was amassed by the Obsidian Order, though some of our more recent files were provided by the Breen Confederacy and the Dominion during Cardassia’s brief alliance with them during the war.”

  Venek stood and switched on a large companel on the wall behind him. The first image to appear was a chart illustrating a hierarchical chain of command. “We have no hard data on the number of personnel employed by Section Thirty-one. They often use cutouts and other proxies. Such assets tend to be recruited locally, and they often don’t know who they’re really working for. Above them are the agents. There might be as few as four or five dozen of these field operatives, or as many as a few hundred. We don’t know for certain.” He highlighted the top tiers of the chart. “I think there aren’t more than a few dozen people in the command echelons of the organization. And the upper tiers—they could be as small as a half dozen people called directors, all of whom seem to answer to a single figure at the top: one who so far has never been connected to any name except Control.”

  Graniv was riveted. “And who do they answer to?”

  Bashir answered, “No one—that’s the problem. They claim their existence is authorized by some obscure clause in the original Starfleet Charter, but I’ve never found any text in that document granting Starfleet permission to spawn an illegal spy service.”

  “They work without oversight,” Sarina added. “No rules, no regulations, no laws. Thirty-one just does whatever it wants, and then it sets up someone else to take the fall. Every time.”

  Garak’s face shone with a manic energy Bashir had not seen in some time. “Permit me to give you a prime example of Thirty-one’s perfidy, Ms. Graniv. During the Dominion War, their organization developed a genetically tailored weaponized morphogenic virus to commit genocide against the Founders of the Dominion, in the hope that it would force them to accept a peace on the Federation’s terms. Now, I can tell by the look on your face that you think I’m spinning some wild yarn, but I assure you, it’s true”—he pointed at Bashir—“and that’s the man who found the cure and helped deliver a real peace to end that bloody conflict.”

  Amazed and appalled at the same time, Graniv looked at Bashir. “Is that true?”

  “In the broad strokes, yes. And it’s also true that I thwarted a project by a rogue agent of Thirty-one who tried to engineer his own army of Jem’Hadar on the planet Sindorin.”

  “And,” Sarina added, “Julian and I helped stop them from stealing a device that would’ve let them pilfer any tech they wanted, from an infinity of alternate universes.”

  Data cocked his head at an odd angle. “I have just reviewed the contents of the chip provided by Mister Venek. I believe we might have a new problem.” He stood and joined Venek beside the companel. He gestured at its controls and asked the spymaster, “May I?” The Cardassian signaled his assent and stepped aside. Data keyed in new commands faster than Bashir could perceive the strokes. The image on the screen was replaced by a map of Cardassia Prime, one showing a complex web of connections that touched every city and major utility. “We might not be as safe here as we had hoped. Federation technology has been imported to this world in quantities sufficient to compromise the integrity of its security systems.” He enlarged the part of the map that detailed the capital and its surrounding area. “Fortunately, those technologies have not been detected inside this building. But Thirty-one quite likely knows we are here—meaning we will not be secure here for long.”

  Venek confirmed Data’s report with a frown. “He’s right. I looked over the intel you brought us. If Thirty-one is even marginally competent, I’d expect it to have local talent recruited for a violent extraction op. And though it’s almost impossible to know until it’s too late, I’d also expect to find they’ve compromised the castellan’s guard corps.” He glanced at the companel and sighed. “But I have no idea where else to send you. The same threat will hound you on any populated planet ever touched by a Federation vessel.”

  Bashir was out of options, and as far as he knew so was Sarina. The spymaster’s report had also knocked down Graniv’s enthusiasm level a few notches. For once Bashir considered demoralization a good thing. Reining in our urge to rush into the black maw of the enemy might be the greatest favor Venek could do for us right now.

  Garak stood. “My dear doctor, as devoutly as I might wish to go on basking in your fine company, I fear Director Venek is correct. We can safeguard you and your friends on Cardassia only temporarily. If our facilities can be of aid to you, use them—but do so quickly. And, as you labor, perhaps spare a moment to consider your next port of call. While you still can.”

  Eighteen

  JUNE 2154

  If there were seasons on Vulcan, Ikerson had no idea how to tell them apart. The planet’s ochre deserts and vertiginously tall rock formations shimmered in a perpetual arid heat. Walking outside for even a brief time in the capital city of ShiKahr left Ikerson feeling desiccated. Furnace-like temperatures coupled with the planet’s bone-dry atmosphere leached the moisture from his body. In the half minute it took him and Admiral Rao to exit their transport ship and reach relative comfort inside the Vulcan Science Academy, all the saliva evaporated from his mouth, and his unprotected eyes began to itch.

  Vulcans moved through the VSA’s main hall in pairs and singles, all of them rendered anonymous by the cavernous space’s long shadows and their own deep-hooded robes. One of them intercepted Ikerson and Rao moments after they stepped inside. He pulled back his cowl to reveal his angular features and a close-shorn tonsure of hair silvered by middle age. “Admiral Rao,” he said, acknowledging the Starfleet flag officer, then continued, “Professor Ikerson. Welcome to the Vulcan Science Academy.”

  Rao wore a frown as thin as her patience. “It’s been a long journey, Professor Toraal. If it wouldn’t be an inconvenience, could we proceed directly to your office?”

  “Of course.” Toraal motioned for the pair of humans to follow him
toward a bank of lifts. “This way, please.” He led them across the main hall. None of the other Vulcans who crossed their path seemed to take the least interest in their presence.

  The trio had no company in the lift that carried them to one of the upper floors. When they stepped into the corridor, which was bathed in honeyed light that bent through tinted windows, Ikerson felt self-conscious about the volume and clarity of their footsteps on the polished stone floors, not least because Toraal seemed able to walk without making a sound.

  Toraal showed them into his office, a large but sparsely appointed space. On his long, crescent-shaped desk of gleaming obsidian stood a steel tray, on which was set a pitcher of water flanked by three tall glasses. “I took the liberty of having refreshments prepared,” Toraal said. “Vulcan’s climate can have a parching effect on first-time visitors.”

  “Most considerate,” Rao said, showing greater discipline than did Ikerson, who beelined for the pitcher, filled one of the glasses, and downed half of it in two desperate gulps. He looked back to see Rao regarding him with mild reproach. “Pour me one, would you, Professor?”

  “Of course, Admiral.” Ikerson filled a second glass and handed it to Rao. “Sorry.”

  She ignored the apology and kept her eyes on Toraal while she settled into one of the guest chairs in front of his desk. One demure sip of water later, Rao asked Toraal, “So, Professor Toraal, what was so important that you needed us to come all the way to Vulcan?”

  Toraal moved behind his desk and activated a surveillance-­blocking device, which he set in the middle of his desk. After its function indicator switched from red to blue, he spoke. “I have detected anomalous executive-level activity by Uraei that, to be frank, I find troubling.”

  It was exactly what Ikerson had feared when weeks earlier he had received Toraal’s handwritten note, delivered through an intermediary acting under the cover of the mundane pretense of needing his signature for a delivery. The missive had not stated why Toraal, who had been read into the Uraei project less than a year earlier, needed to see him and the admiral, only that it was urgent they come together to see him as soon as possible.

  Rao, however, affected a bored demeanor. “What kind of activity?”

  “Deployments of personnel.” Toraal used a panel on his desk to launch holographic projections of the evidence he had amassed. “Reallocation of material resources. Shifts in the prioritization of offworld intelligence efforts. Even orders for new starship-design research. None of it authorized by any agency or elected official of the Earth or Vulcan governments.”

  The admiral shrugged. “So what?”

  Ikerson was appalled by her willful obtuseness. “So? Uraei isn’t supposed to take autonomous action. It’s supposed to be a passive monitor that files reports when it detects significant patterns, then reverts to its previous state while legal agencies respond.”

  Toraal’s focus on Rao sharpened. “Quite correct. Uraei’s recent behavior does not comport with its original parameters, as defined in the brief your office shared with me.” He glanced at the scads of evidence that continued to multiply in the holographic projection above his desk. “What we see here suggests that Uraei has exceeded its core programming and has begun to exhibit characteristics typically associated with an artificial superintelligence.”

  “One that works for us,” Rao said. “I don’t see why this should be an issue.”

  “Perhaps because you fail to recognize how rapidly an ASI can develop.”

  “Toraal is right,” Ikerson added. “There’s a reason no one’s ever released an ASI like Uraei into the wild before. Without proper controls, it could evolve in ways we can’t predict.”

  Rao turned her withering stare on Ikerson. “Correct me if I’m mistaken, Professor, but I was under the impression you had engineered those sorts of controls into Uraei before it was brought online. Are you now saying otherwise?”

  “No. I’m saying there’s a danger Uraei might develop the ability to circumvent its original control matrix. And if Professor Toraal’s data is accurate—”

  “I assure you it is,” Toraal said with a hint of defensive pride.

  “—then we need to be prepared for the fact that Uraei might need a tune-up.”

  The admiral’s frown deepened, and her brow creased with displeasure. “Dare I ask, gentlemen, what such a ‘tune-up’ might entail?”

  “My preliminary recommendation,” Toraal said with clinical dryness, “would be to expunge Uraei from all current systems and vessels, so that it can be reengineered into something more surgical and better constrained.”

  “That might be for the best,” Ikerson said.

  Rao glowered at them. “Absolutely not. I won’t hobble our best line of defense because a few isolated directives make you think your little program has outsmarted you.”

  Ikerson was aghast. “Admiral, that’s a grotesque oversimplification of—”

  “Spare me, Professor. If Uraei had been incepted with a more robust threat response, it might’ve stopped last year’s Xindi attack. But your system had no legal means of taking preemptive action. Did you ever consider that?”

  “I’m not sure I’d want an ASI making those kinds of decisions for us.”

  “Why not? Have you analyzed the actions it did take? I did.” Rao stood and dismissed the holograms above Toraal’s desk with a wave of her hand. “Uraei made thousands of changes to shipping and transport schedules, to public events and private itineraries, all in the months before the attack. By my best estimate, it saved more than three hundred thousand lives that day—including those of some very prominent figures in both our governments. Imagine how many more lives Uraei could’ve saved if you hadn’t tied its hands.”

  Ikerson had no easy retort. How could he possibly argue in favor of condemning three hundred thousand people to die for the sake of shackling the very thing that had saved them?

  Toraal seemed unburdened by such doubts. “Granting the kind of power you propose to a synthetic entity such as Uraei could enable it to take control of our entire culture.”

  Rao was unfazed. “As long as it keeps us safe, I could accept that.”

  “Even if it meant surrendering your free will to that of Uraei?”

  “What makes you think Uraei wants anything different from what we want? In the six months after the Xindi attack, Uraei delivered intel to multiple agencies that helped prevent another dozen attacks from being carried out. Those interventions saved millions of lives. So, no, I won’t just let you delete Uraei and leave billions of people defenseless while you tweak your code. And unless you can prove to me that whatever changes you want to make would yield something objectively better, I’m disinclined to let you or anyone else tamper with Uraei at all.”

  Her intransigence seemed to push Toraal past the limits of his Vulcan stoicism. “Do you not see what Uraei is already doing? It is acting in a manner that is expressly extralegal, and in direct contravention of the laws of your United Earth, your treaty of alliance with Vulcan, and even the current draft charter of your proposed Coalition of Planets. It must be stopped.”

  “You make it sound like a war criminal. But its infractions are so minor and obscure, I’m not sure a JAG officer would even know how to classify them. And what you both seem to be forgetting, Professors, is that whether you like it or not, Uraei is effective. It saves lives.”

  She reached across the desk and keyed commands into the holoprojector’s control panel. New translucent images snapped into monochromatic existence above the desk: vids and images of protestors gathered in small groups at key sites all across Earth.

  “This was in today’s latest intel dump from Uraei. Clues that suggest a nativist, anti-Coalition militia group calling itself Terra Prime is being formed on Earth. A new threat to our security is taking shape right now, as we speak. One we’d know nothing about if not for Uraei.”

&
nbsp; Toraal met Rao’s assertion with a baffled expression. “How can you call them a threat? They have done nothing illegal, engaged in no violent action—”

  “Yet,” Rao cut in.

  Undaunted, Toraal finished, “They have broken no laws and should be free to assemble and engage in protest without being subject to the chilling effects of government surveillance.”

  “They are,” Rao said. “No one’s stopping them, and Uraei’s not the government. It’s just an independent, forward-thinking artificial citizen who makes a point of sharing its observations and concerns with the proper authorities. Any citizen could do the same.”

  “Any citizen that was tied into all our datanets and communications infrastructure, you mean,” Ikerson said, knowing that needling the admiral might cost him a needed ally.

  Rao shut off the hologram. “Wake up, Professor. We live in a universe tailor-made to kill us, surrounded by hostile cultures eager to send us to our collective grave. And the only thing standing between that malevolent cosmos and your fragile ass is the artificial intelligence you created. So if Uraei has become an evil, it’s a necessary one.” She walked to the door, opened it, then paused and turned back. “And I’ll be damned before I let you turn it off.”

  Nineteen

  It was most unlikely anyone was spying on Data and Lal. They were secure inside Archeus, with all the outer hatches ­secured, the canopy over the command deck tinted opaque, and their actions shielded by the vessel’s myriad active counter­espionage measures—many of which had been devised by Noonien Soong himself. No signals would enter or leave the ship without Data’s express consent; of that he was certain.

  All the same, had someone been able to observe him and Lal at that moment, he or she would most likely have come away perplexed. Viewed from without, Data and his daughter appeared to be silent and motionless, seated beside each other at the main console, facing a bank of dark screens. An eavesdropper might mistakenly conclude the two androids were recharging, or even tandem dreaming by means of some positronic miracle.