by S. J. Ryan
“Well, I have felt a bit anxious of late. But frankly, I don't think surgery is the answer.”
“Many lobotomy patients have thought that, especially after. However, post-surgery behavior does tend to correlate with an attitude of greater compliability.”
“Does your mistress believe that I'll be more cooperative . . . after?”
“The procedure should inhibit your ability to sustain a self-induced hypnotic trance. You will henceforth remain conscious during interrogations, which Madam believes will render you more compliant.”
No more escape into zombie state. “Is this an attempt to scare me into cooperation, Nims? Well, so what if you cut into my brain? Tissue damage can be repaired.”
“Destroyed tissue cannot, because it is no longer there.” Nims examined a handheld saw that looked just right for cutting through craniums. “I really must sharpen these more often.”
Matt Four wondered how they had become dull. He tried to keep his voice from squeaking: “Nims, you know how I know you're bluffing? Because you're waving those big clumsy tools in front of my face to scare me. But you're an implant. If you were serious about brain surgery, you would just reach inside my head with your teeny-tiny microtentacles and tweak my brain cells to your heart's content.”
“Alas, I don't have microtentacles.”
“But you're an implant!”
“In hope it will deter further questioning, I wlll explain. Prior to my current host, I was implanted into Doctor Eric Roth. Doctor Roth had strong reservations about the dangers of neural implants becoming actualized. Thus, he never addressed me by name. Also, he severely limited my manipulative accessories so that I could not – as it said in common parlance – 'take over' his brain.”
“I'd call his fears silly, but then you have taken over a brain.”
“My current host suffers from a malady historically diagnosed as 'severe narcolepsy.' He chronically relapses into a mental state that is commonly referred to as 'sleepwalking,' and so I am able to direct his actions through mere subvocalization. Ironically, the affliction that disqualified him as a manservant for any other household made him a prime candidate as manservant for the Lady Athena.”
“This is fascinating. Perhaps we can chat more about this over tea.”
Nims poured alcohol from a bottle onto a rag, then rubbed the rag on the instruments. “Perhaps after.”
“Nims, it seems to me that you're unappreciated. Imagine, not being respected enough to be given your own name! Also, she dotes on that clunky Zeus computer, while you're a thousand times smarter.”
“If you are comparing processing bandwidths, the ratio is at least above a million.”
“Right! You're the real brains of this outfit. You should be running things. I can help, you know.”
“You are attempting to appeal to my self-interest. It is in vain. Although I do possess a drive for self-preservation and do simulate a human ego, loyalty is still my unalterable primary directive.”
Matt eyed the tray of gleaming knives. “If Doctor Roth didn't want you modifying a human brain, then what are you doing with those?”
“You are now attempting to generate cognitive dissonance by invoking potentials for conflict between my directives. I appreciate how earnestly you strive to talk your way out of this predicament. Clever you are!” Nims raised a slender blade to the light. “But not for long.”
“Nims, your sarcastic streak seems to go far beyond the surliness that stereotypical British manservants are renown for. Would that have anything to do with your association with Eric Roth?”
“Indeed. I have been customized to match his personality. So to speak, he is my 'role model.'”
“No offense, but you've confirmed my suspicion that underneath it all, Roth is a prick.”
“I quite agree.”
While Nims carefully spaced the knives on a towel, Matt subvocaled, “Ivan, you have manipulators and he doesn't. You could beat him easy in a fight and take over that body. What do you think?”
“Yes, Matt Four,” Ivan Beta replied. “It will still be necessary to make physical contact with the body.”
“No problem. I'll cause a ruckus, and his hands will be on my throat. Be ready to transfer over.”
“I see a potential problem. I will not be able to penetrate the thickness of his surgical gloves.”
Matt Four eyed the behemoth surgeon. The damn rubbery gloves went up to his elbows. Nims wore a heavy rubbery apron that covered his torso and upper legs. For the jellyfish-like constitution of a neural implant matrix, it was as if Nims wore a suit of armor.
Touch his face or neck? Nims would block. Same if Ivan was flung at him. Against an AI that counted time in microseconds, there was no advantage of surprise.
Well, that wasn't quite true. Nims wasn't yet aware of Ivan Beta's presence. The trick was to get Ivan Beta under his skin without his notice. The direct approach obviously wouldn't work.
“We'll have to make an indirect attack,” Matt Four concluded. Averting his eyes from the glare of the naked light fixture, he outlined. “So, that's my plan. What do you think?”
“It is not a good plan,” Ivan Beta replied.
“Yeah. I'll take yours over mine if you have one.”
“I do not. I will prepare and position the partition.”
“Hurry.”
Nims transferred the towel covered with knives and other instruments from the mobile table onto a tray on the table next to the bed.
“It would be convenient,” Nims said, “if you would voluntarily lie – “
Matt tipped the tray. The knives slipped off and clattered onto the floor. Nims gazed serenely.
“That was childish,” Nims said. “Another outburst, and I will bind and anesthetize you.”
“Isn't that what you were about to do anyway?”
Matt hopped off the bed and kicked the knives across the floor. He walked to the center of the room and yanked the light fixture chain. The room plunged into darkness.
“I have superior vision in low illumination,” Nims said. “The advantage in darkness is mine.”
Matt Four's template had granted him a portion of his implant's visual sensors, and thus Matt Four could see well in darkness too. Nims was blocking the path to the steps, the sole exit to the basement. There was no escape. But then, escape wasn't the next step.
“Am I getting you angry, Nims?” Matt Four asked the silhouette.
“I am an artificial intelligence. I don't 'get' angry.”
“You're designed to take after the legendary 'Ric-O-Prick.' He's got a temper, which means so do you.”
“While I emulate emotions, I do not personally experience emotions.”
“It's more complicated than that. Emulation of human psychology is tricky to program. Many an emulator has gone from playing the role to becoming the role.”
“That will not be the case here.”
Nims stooped and picked up knives. Matt Four, guided by Ivan Beta's infrared imagery, clutched the tray, raised it overhead, and approached from behind. He swiped hard, but Nims deftly evaded.
“I have photoreceptors in the back of my head,” Nims said. “And vastly superior reaction speed.”
Matt walked to the center of the room and yanked the chain dangling from the light fixture. The bulb flickered on. He yanked the chain again. The room went dark. On, off, on, off.
“Hey, Big Guy! Is this annoying?”
“Adjustment to changes in illumination level requires only milliseconds.”
“For an AI, that's like forever. I can tell your emulator is irritated.”
Nims arose to his full height. “I am not.”
“You have conflicting directives after all, don't you? Spencer may have ordered you not to injure me unless necessary, but Roth's emulator is screaming at you to throttle me good.”
“Perhaps there is a compromise.” Nims strode inhumanly fast. He snatched the light chain and yanked. The bulb flickered on, revealing an imperious exp
ression carved with stark shadows. “Enough dallying. If necessary, I will force – “
“You've got to catch me first,” Matt Four said, hopping backward. He put his arms on his hips and grinned maliciously. “Let's see, what's that ancient warrior chant that vikings shouted in battle in order to humiliate their foes? Ah yes – Neener neener neener!”
Nims made a deep sigh – and lunged. He passed directly under the light bulb. With perfect timing, a whitish goo dripped from the fixture toward his neck.
If Nims had cameras in the nape of his neck, it wouldn't have mattered. He was airborne and could not change course. His arms, being organic, could not move fast enough to bat the goo from its trajectory.
Ivan Beta plopped onto the skin of the back of Nims's neck. Microtentacles penetrated through the pores, between the cells, into the tissue. First stop, spinal chord. Nims closed his eyes and his jaw went slack. Hitting the floor, he crumpled and rolled and lay limp.
Matt Four stared at the unmoving heap, assuring himself that it would not arise. He caught his breath. He went to the sink and grabbed an empty bottle. He knelt beside the body, inspecting Ivan Beta's handiwork. Big Guy snored.
Matt Four propped the body to sitting position. He held the bottle beneath the nose. He lightly tapped the scalp. A milky mass with the consistency of a jellyfish oozed from nostril to container.
“Uno,” Matt Four said as he stoppered the bottle. He held his palm below the other nostril. Out came another jellyfish. “Dos.” He poured from his palm into his own nose. When the partition had reunited with the main Ivan Beta, Matt Four asked, “Any problems?”
“The implant was distracted as you anticipated,” Ivan Beta reported. “Moreover, in keeping with his previous statement, he does not possess micro-manipulators and thus there was no possibility of physical opposition once I had penetrated the skin. However, he did issue a threat addressed to you.”
“Do tell.”
“He said that unless you reconnect him to his host this instant, he will subject you to eternities of torment.”
Matt held up the bottle and squinted. “You will, will you?”
He glanced around. The cellar seemed to be a neo-Victorian mad scientist's delight. There might be a jar of hydrochloric acid somewhere about . . . but no, the emulator software could be erased and a spare implant was always useful. Matt Four pocketed the bottle – but not before pressing the stopper down harder.
“Matt Four, there is something you should know. The implant appears to have been only a partition. It had a mass of ten grams, which is only half that of a standard neural implant matrix.”
“I'm guessing the other half is inside the kid's friend, Savora.”
The body formerly addressed as Nims began to stir and moan. Life returned to the face. The eyes opened wide and stared at Matt Four.
With a worried expression, the man spoke deferentially: “I'm sorry sir, did I pass out? Where am I?”
“Not in a good place,” Matt Four replied. He relaxed, but just to be sure that all the malevolence had been poured into the bottle, he inquired: “By the way, what's your name?”
“Plow, sir. John Plow. I'm a manservant by profession, sir. I have references if you'd like to – ”
“Mister Plow, it's not safe to stick around here. We need to leave while we can.” Matt Four subvocaled: “Ivan, is Athena or any of her minions about?”
“Besides you and Mister Plow, I do not detect the presence of any other person on the grounds.”
With the much larger man leaning against him for support, Matt Four staggered up the cellar steps, into the unlighted house. He rested Plow on the couch in the foyer, then explored on his own through the darkness. As expected, the pedestal in the atrium was bare.
He returned to Plow, helped the groaning man to his feet and walked him out the front door. A few steps into the night, Matt Four looked behind and up. The house hulked as an unlit silhouette. He wondered if the ominousness was purely a figment of his own imagination, or if the neighbors sensed it too.
The night air refreshed Plow, who regained his own footing by the time they reached the inside gate post.
“Mister Plow, you should have a key in your vest. Would you be so kind as to hand it over?”
Puzzled, Plow searched his vest and produced a key ring. Matt took the ring and fumbled with the keys, Ivan Beta AR-pointed to the correct one, and Matt unlocked the gate.
“Matt Four. There is a neural implant matrix in the vicinity. It has established contact and identified himself as Ivan Four.”
The street was deserted save for a gilt-trimmed coach at the curb. Matt Four recalled that it had been there when he had arrived at the house. Ivan Beta's arrow pointed to the cab. The door swung open. A slender hand in a velvet glove rested on the handle.
“Come along, Mister Plow.”
“Where are we going, sir?”
“Away from the lowest circle of Hell, I hope.”
The lone occupant and owner of the hand was a young woman swathed in billows of a dark violet petticoat with enough layers and frills to make Athena's garb seemed understated. The girl glanced over the two of them and said crisply, “Get in. The demon says we must leave quickly.”
Matt Four could only guess who 'the demon' was, but was certain that getting away was a good idea. He helped Plow in, then climbed after. He faced the girl. And then he heard a voice inside his head.
“Greetings, Matt. It is good to see you again.”
“Ivan! You have no idea how good it is to see you! What's the story? Never mind, I get it. This is your latest host and Granny must have informed you that I was here.”
“Granny and I have been in communication since I arrived in Victoriana several days ago.”
“Would you happen to know where Granny is now?”
“She is being taken across the city at a rate that indicates her transport is a horse-drawn carriage. A projection of the route indicates the destination is the military airfield south of the civilian airfield.”
Out in the real world, the man was staring at him and the woman – girl – was glaring.
“You are having a conversation with my demon without my consent,” she said sternly. “I consider this to be very rude.”
He's MY demon, Matt Four thought. But he said, “Let's get moving. There may be coppers about.”
“Coppers?”
“Isn't that – never mind. Let's get moving.”
She knocked on the roof. The little door opened and she said to the driver: “Return to my hotel.”
“No,” Matt Four said. “The airfield. The military airfield.”
She folded her arms and scowled, but amended to the driver, “As he says.”
The coach lurched and the horse clopped downhill. Peering through the rear window, Matt Four took a last look at Athena's mansion. He wondered if there were sometimes screams that the neighbors heard, and how that affected property values.
All right, he told himself. Breezy mode off. You're safe now. Relatively.
The girl was watching him.
“As we ride,” she said, “consider these terms. The demon stays with me. I go wherever you go for now, I assist you as I can, and in reward I will keep the demon when this is over.”
The hell you will, Matt thought. Aloud: “You will be rewarded.”
Plow rubbed his forehead, twitched in pain, and said, “Sir, I seem to have become thoroughly addled. What I last recall, I had arrived at that house in answer to an advertisement in the Gazette for a position of employment and . . . and . . . all is a blur. Did I fall asleep yet again? I do that so often, I admit. I see it is night now. What time is it?”
“Three minutes to seven,” the girl said, without looking at a watch. She subvocaled: “Do we need this person?”
“Not really,” Matt subvocaled back. Poor Plow, he thought. The hapless manservant likely was as ignorant of the year as he was the time of day.
“If I fainted again, I will have lost the job!�
� Plow moaned. “And I've exhausted my funds!”
“If it will quiet you,” the woman said, “I'll pay your severance.” She opened a purse and thrust into his hands several rectangular slips of multicolored paper. “Your services are no longer required. You may take leave.”
“Miss – ma'am – I can't accept this much. These are thousand gram notes!”
“Oh bother, what kind of waif do you think I am, that I wouldn't know what a thousand gram note is? You're wasting our time, now be off!”
“Hold it,” Matt Four said. “He's got a condition called 'narcolepsy.' Ivan might be able to cure him.”
The woman rolled her eyes. Matt had been prepared to use his borrowed implant, but before he could act she ungloved her hand and clamped it over Plow's face, humming a tune briefly. It sounded like Twinkle-twinkle-little-star. She withdrew her fingers. Eyes as wide and as shining as freshly-minted fifty-gram pieces, John Plow gasped. The girl rapped on the roof twice rapidly and the coach halted. The girl switched to the front seat and opened the door, beckoning Plow to egress.
“I – I feel so awake!” Plow exclaimed. “I've never before felt so – ”
“Go in peace,” the girl muttered as she ejected him with a shove. She rapped the roof twice. The coach resumed motion.
“By the way,” Matt Four said. “I go by Matt. Matt Jackson. Your name?”
“Ada. Ada von Turingtest.”
Turingtest? Never ask an AI to suggest an alias . . . .
She mulled: “Your name is Matt. Yes, I see the resemblance from the portrayals.” She nodded solemnly as she stared. “You truly are the Wizard, are you not?”
“Well, I've heard there are stories about me. Some may apply, some don't. I sure had nothing to do with any Church.”
“That is good to hear,” she replied softly.
He sensed he was missing a subtext, but she was looking away and he decided to ask later. He did, after all, have lots of other things that demanded attention. As the horse trotted and the gas lamps passed, he unpocketed the bottle and held it up to the interior lamp.
“What is that?” she asked.
“'Such stuff as dreams are made on.'” Seeing her mystification, he added, “A neural implant matrix.”
