Control

by David Mack

  In truth, they were far from idle. Linked with each other and Shakti on an encrypted quantum frequency, they were deep into the deconstruction of Uraei’s code. Thoughts and responses passed between the three of them in pulses measured in picoseconds. Complex discussions that would have taken many precious minutes to voice aloud, for the sake of courtesy to their biological companions, could be completed in microseconds. Best of all, from Data’s perspective, was the absolute privacy of his interaction with Lal and Shakti.

  His tertiary processor bundled a massive batch of code and injected it into the virtual matrix Shakti had created for their research. {Here is the next set of spatiotemporal models.}

  «Integrating now,» Shakti replied.

  Lal uploaded more code at the same time. [New updates to the Uraei simulation.]

  «Received.» Two picoseconds later, Shakti incorporated the new mods.

  {Well done, Lal.} Data felt great pride at the progress his daughter had made in so short a time. When he was her age, he had still been struggling to master basic interactions with organic sentient beings. By contrast, Lal meshed easily with organic beings, and in spite of what Data had originally considered her fragile emotional state, she was demonstrating tremendous calm and poise in the face of a serious and perhaps even existential threat from Section 31.

  Shakti compiled all the new changes into a fresh beta-build of the Uraei simulation. She asked Data with only a hint of trepidation, «Ready for another test-run?»

  {Yes, please. Isolate the sim as before, and commence when ready.}

  In the microseconds between his request and Shakti’s compliance, Lal asked, [Father, would it not have been faster to conduct these simulations on the Cardassians’ mainframes?]

  Her question was one Data had expected since he gave the order to restrict their research to their ship. {Not appreciably. The processors on Archeus are significantly faster. That will more than compensate for any time spent converting the files they gave us. Time, however, is not our most serious concern.}

  [You’re worried about security.]

  {Very much. Not only would running these simulations on Cardassian systems risk triggering any latent strings of Uraei’s code that might have contaminated them, it would also pose a very real danger that the Cardassians might try to adapt Uraei to their own use—and in so doing, engender a crisis even more dire than the one we presently face.}

  Shakti interrupted, «Simulation ready. This should provide a reasonably accurate model of Uraei’s rate of expansion, and its ability to coordinate threat responses in real time.»

  {Run the sim, please.}

  It took only 9.5337 seconds for the simulation to run its course, projecting the possible expansion of Uraei during the two centuries since its inception in the mid-2100s. This time marked the first that the simulation had finished without being rejected by the simulated Uraei network—a small victory but a vital one for Data’s research. Fooling the Uraei code into accepting the sim had entailed meshing all of the software design Data had ever done for the benefit of caging his holodeck-spawned virtual-reality nemesis Moriarty. Trapping the not-so-good faux doctor, however, now seemed like a trivial task compared to the complexity of deceiving an artificial superintelligence that had been created to monitor all it surveyed.

  «Running post-simulation analysis,» Shakti reported.

  Lal was already sifting through the raw code of the sim’s end state, assessing its patterns and potentials. [Uraei spread far more effectively into foreign systems than I had expected.]

  Data made a quick perusal of several key variables and confirmed Lal’s analysis. {Here. This subroutine was written to enable Uraei to modify its code, so that it could remain compatible with later software and firmware upgrades. At some point early in its development, Uraei used that subroutine to strip away its own executive controls.}

  Through their shared neural link, Data felt a wave of fear wash through Lal’s matrix. [Father, if such a directive was embedded in Uraei’s root package . . . would that not have facilitated a hyperaccelerated evolution of its sensory and executive capacities?]

  {Yes, it would.} He compared Uraei’s incept mode to the simulation’s projection of its current state. As basic as Uraei had been in its awareness, and as directed as it once had been in its agenda, one look at its likeliest present form told Data there was no reason to believe the ASI had retained its original simplicity.

  {I suspect Uraei has evolved far beyond the expectations of those who created it.}

  His suspicion seemed to stoke Lal’s innate curiosity. [How far might Uraei have come since it was brought online?]

  {That is difficult to say. If we assume it has maintained an uninterrupted state of conscious awareness for over two centuries, and that it has availed itself of the latest advances in computer and communication technologies—}

  «Such as quantum-entangled communications,» Shakti interjected.

  Data continued, {—then it is possible, perhaps even likely, that Uraei has by now become a distributed consciousness operating on an interstellar scale, an artificial superintelligence in possession of perceptual and cognitive capacities beyond any known unit of measure.}

  Lal’s curiosity was supplanted by dread. [What would such an entity be capable of?]

  The truthful answer filled Data with an emotion he realized must be terror.

  {Anything, Lal. . . . It could do anything.}

  • • •

  Waiting was slow torture. Knowing that forces were almost certainly in motion against him and his friends, Julian Bashir wanted to be doing anything other than biding his time. But what could he do that wasn’t already being done? Data and Lal had assumed responsibility for studying the source code behind Uraei; Sarina was working with Garak’s people to beef up the security measures inside the castellan’s residential complex. And Ozla Graniv—understandably, she had locked herself inside her suite with a large bottle of something potently alcoholic.

  Staring out of his sitting room’s oval window at a ruddy sunset behind the sprawl of Cardassia’s capital, Bashir felt more than a small pang of envy for Graniv’s coping strategy. But he needed to stay sharp. He had to be ready not if but when Section 31 came for him again.

  His suite’s visitor signal buzzed. He turned toward the front door. “Come.”

  The portal slid open to reveal Castellan Garak. On ­either side of him stood the two armed guards he had posted outside Bashir and Sarina’s suite—not to keep the couple in, but to try to keep them safe. Garak entered with one long stride, then came to an abrupt halt. “Do forgive the intrusion, Doctor. I just wanted to see how you and Ms. Douglas are getting on.”

  It was possible, Bashir realized, that he was only imagining that he heard some undertone of bitterness in Garak’s voice whenever he mentioned Sarina, but he was sure he had heard his old friend correctly. Not wanting to stir up trouble, he let it pass with quiet deference. “Thank you for asking, Castellan, but I assure you: we’re fine.”

  Garak cracked his iconic wide-eyed smile, the same gleam that never failed to put Bashir on edge. “Delighted to hear it. But please, Doctor: in private, feel free to address me as you always have—as plain, simple Garak.”

  “Only if you’ll learn to call me Julian.”

  “You drive a hard bargain . . . but very well—Julian.”

  “So, Garak. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

  “As I said, just a mere courtesy call, to—”

  Bashir shook his head. “You don’t make courtesy calls, Garak. I’ve known you too long to think you do anything without a calculated purpose.”

  The castellan struck a penitent pose, arms apart, palms up and open. “Guilty as charged.” With a tilt of his head he beckoned Bashir away from the window, into the dining nook. “I am first and foremost a pragmatist, as you well know. So when I tell you that I hav
e grave fears for your safety, and for that of your friends, I trust you will not mistake my concern for hyperbole.”

  “We’re well aware of the danger, Garak.”

  “Oh, I rather doubt that. Do you think that just because I’ve hidden you behind a few layers of locked doors, and surrounded you with a few dozen armed men, that you and the others are safe? Tell me that after all we’ve seen and done that you aren’t still that naïve.”

  A new degree of urgency coursed behind Garak’s words, snaring Bashir’s attention. “You really think Thirty-one would attempt a direct attack on us in here?”

  “It would have the virtue of being unexpectedly brazen. And from what I’ve seen of your nemeses, that appears to be their stock in trade. Organizations such as theirs thrive by being utterly ruthless and by cultivating assets within even the highest echelons of governments both foreign and domestic. Frankly, my dear doctor, I’m surprised they’ve let you live this long.” He pressed a data rod into Bashir’s hand. “When the time comes for you and your friends to go, send this to Cardassia Traffic Command. It grants you my executive clearance to depart, and it will log a false flight plan at CTC to conceal your destination.”

  Bashir stared at the rod. “Are you telling us to leave now?”

  “Not at all. Merely expediting your departure for whenever the time comes.”

  He pocketed the rod. “Too kind.” Noting his friend’s peculiar air of distraction, he asked, “Something else, Garak?”

  A doubtful grimace. “I have to wonder, Julian . . . have you really thought this through?”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Have you considered the possibility that you’ve chosen the wrong side?”

  The question felt to Bashir like a vote of no confidence. He hoped he had heard Garak wrong. “What do you mean, the wrong side?”

  “I merely mean to ask, Julian, if you’ve ever stopped to entertain the notion that perhaps Section Thirty-one serves a valid purpose?”

  The question itself offended Bashir. “Don’t be absurd, Garak. Thirty-one wields deadly power with absolutely no legal accountability or oversight. It commits countless crimes against Federation citizens and foreign peoples. It steals, defrauds, counterfeits, murders. It acts in the name of the Federation while betraying every principle for which we stand. Its continued existence is an insult to our entire civilization.”

  Garak struck an imperious pose. “Really? An insult? What if that insult to your Federation is the only reason it still exists?” He prowled forward, crossing Bashir’s imaginary boundary of personal space. “Every nation-state in history has relied, at one time or another, on the services of such organizations for their very survival. Why should yours be any different?”

  Rankled now, Bashir raised his voice. “The Federation already has legal entities tasked with its protection. The Federation Security Agency is our civilian intelligence service, and Starfleet Intelligence is the military version. Both answer to the chain of command and the civilian government. We never authorized Thirty-one, and we don’t need it.”

  The castellan was nose to nose with Bashir. “Then why does it exist? I would posit that someone, at some point in the Federation’s brief history on the galactic stage, realized its existing institutions were unequal to the task of preserving its existence. And so it formed a new organization, one both morally indefensible and absolutely necessary: Section Thirty-one.”

  Bashir backed away, shaking his head as he retreated. “No. I can’t believe the Federation would ever sanction, by action or inaction, the creation of a group like Thirty-one.”

  “Beliefs are dangerous things, Julian. Once we invest in them, it can be hard to challenge them without invoking cognitive dissonance. But in this case, I suggest you try. Because if I’m correct, going to war with Section Thirty-one can only end badly for you. Either you will lose, and you and all your friends will suffer gruesome fates I’d rather not imagine; or you will win—and in so doing, end up inflicting more harm than good upon your beloved Federation.”

  Back at the window, Bashir watched the last rays of sunset bend upward from the horizon, then vanish into the creeping dusk. “How could destroying Thirty-one harm the Federation?”

  “You mean other than depriving it of one of its most ruthlessly effective lines of defense?” Garak approached Bashir and stopped at his side. “Think of Cardassia at the end of the Dominion War. Before the old guard fell, the Obsidian Order operated in the public eye. They were feared, but they were also visible.

  “After the war, the Order was disbanded. But what does that really mean, in practice? We didn’t hunt down and jail or kill every last agent and employee of the Order. We didn’t even demand that its former members renounce their beliefs or repent their countless sins. And so they remain among us, unseen for the most part, but free to live.

  “I’m sure some of them still dream of returning to their old profession. Of exacting vengeance on those they see as enemies of Cardassia. And many of them still harbor secrets that could be exquisitely embarrassing if made public. But the point is that when we ended their service, we also made our peace with them. We didn’t pursue a campaign of retribution.”

  The analogy struck Bashir as flawed. “You’re forgetting one thing, Garak. The Obsidian Order was the legally recognized intelligence service of the Cardassian military.”

  “I’ve forgotten nothing, Doctor. That was exactly my point. If you refuse to settle for anything less than the end of Section Thirty-one, I guarantee it will not go gently into that good night. It will rage and inflict collateral damage on a scale I doubt you can imagine. And you should be prepared for this ugly truth: you will never get them all, and those who escape will embed themselves even deeper than they were before. Mark my words, Doctor: try to purge this cancer from your body politic, and all you’ll do is drive it into the marrow of your bones.”

  Twenty

  NOVEMBER 2155

  The fifth and final signature was affixed to the treaty that would bring the Coalition of Planets into being. Thunderous applause filled the main chamber of the United Earth Parliament in Paris. Hands were shook and backs were patted in gratitude, and a crowd composed of dignitaries from five wildly diverse alien cultures mingled, no longer merely neighbors but allies.

  Corks popped from Champagne bottles. Seals were broken on centuries-old Andorian spirits. Taps were opened on kegs of Tellarite malt liquor. Uniformed servers moved with low-key grace among the celebrants, their trays of hors d’oeuvres always full, steady, and level. Live orchestral music filled the room in joyful swells, and segued smoothly from Terran classical to Vulcan nocturnes to Andorian folk melodies. It would be a party to remember.

  If only I could forget how we got here, Ikerson brooded.

  A crisp fragrance of Dom Pérignon rose from the fluted glass in his hand, but he had been unable to bring himself to take a sip. Snacks passing beneath him tantalized his nose with savory aromas, yet the thought of eating left him nauseated. He stood alone at the edge of the hall’s upper balcony, reflecting on all the things he wished he didn’t know but could never unlearn. Most of all, he felt terribly alone.

  I wish Lenore hadn’t left Dresden.

  It had been years since his former graduate assistant had accepted a warrant officer’s commission from Starfleet. To hear her or Admiral Rao tell it, she had been recruited into the research-and-development division of her own free will. But to Ikerson, it had felt as if Starfleet had poached his only true confidant. In the years since Lenore had disappeared inside Starfleet’s headquarters in San Francisco, Ikerson had made a point of not inducting any of his subsequent assistants into the moral quagmire of the Uraei program.

  Muted footfalls descended the steps behind him. He didn’t need to turn to guess it was Rao. Her presence announced itself like an icy draft or a bad odor. She was the one who had put his name on the guest list for thi
s historic event, and consequently she had treated him as if he were her pet for the evening. Rao stopped beside him at the balcony rail, her dress uniform crisp and her sable hair piled high, much as it had been the first time they had met, more than fourteen years earlier. “Enjoying the party, Professor?”

  “I’m giddy with delight. Can’t you tell?”

  A quizzical frown. “You perplex me. The greater your accomplishments become, the more you seem to resent them.” She waved her glass toward the soirée below. “Interstellar peace, Professor. A goal some called ‘unreachable in our lifetimes’ as little as five years ago. And now, thanks to your work, it’s a reality.”

  “Yes, one step closer to a new galactic order. And all it took was the total betrayal of everything we swore to uphold.” He raised his glass. “Long live the empire unseen.”

  His attempt at a poetic rebuke almost made Rao laugh. “I love your knack for melodrama. Only you could look at a milestone in the pursuit of peace and turn it ugly.”

  “Our invisible tyrant did that. I merely remark upon it with regret.”

  “Regret? What exactly do you regret, Professor? Global unification? Planetary security? Interstellar peace? If I could, I’d sing Uraei’s praises from the rooftops.”

  “So you have no misgivings about unlawful surveillance? Or extralegal killings?”

  “Of course I do. But I balance my moral qualms against the greater good.” She took Ikerson’s arm and gently turned him away from the rest of the room, probably to prevent their voices from carrying to the guests below. “Remember last year, when Terra Prime occupied Starfleet Command? Did you ever wonder why Uraei let that happen?”