by Emma Newman
“I like your art, very much,” he says. “But I confess that I only became a fan after I realized how useful you could be. My husband isn’t imaginative enough to come up with the idea of sending an artist to Mars. He’s one of those people who only says they like a painting after they’ve heard how much was paid for it. I bet he made you think it was all his idea to send you there.”
“Yes, he did.”
Travis nods. “Well, it was mine. As I said before, it gives you a reason to go and explore.”
“So where does my dad come into this?”
“I know someone who was an old friend of his, someone who secretly supported the commune. Did you ever find out what that was really about?”
“What? It was just a bunch of hippies who got tired of the corporate machine, wasn’t it?”
“I’m sorry, that isn’t the correct answer,” Travis says and I curse the fact we’re not actually conversing. “The commune you grew up in was a cover for activists who needed somewhere safe and remote to live. Your mother and your father were at the top of the European gov-corp’s most wanted list for about ten years, before our mutual friend got them out of trouble and gave them new identities. They tried to live in plain sight, pretending to be part of the system, but they couldn’t hack it, so a bunch of them got together and went to Scotland. Before it all went wrong with your dad, your parents were some of the most exciting political radicals in Norope. Your mum has written books that are now being used as the foundation for the next generation of activists.”
“Activists? My mum and dad? Don’t be ridiculous. And my mum isn’t a writer; she was a software engineer and now she’s a potter.” He just stares at me. I haven’t asked a question. “What kind of activism?”
“They wanted some basic human rights to be included in gov-corp citizen-employee contracts.”
“The definition of basic human rights changes with pay grade,” I say, unimpressed. “What kind of thing, specifically?”
“Well, your parents believed people had a right to digital privacy.”
The idea seems absurd to me, like an old bastion of a bygone age that only the most romantic and naïve would wish to defend. Digital privacy was one of those old-fashioned ideas that died in the ’30s along with “true democracy” and online anonymity. Ideas that couldn’t fit in the modern world and caused more harm than good—surely my parents knew that! Travis must be mistaken. “Which old friend of my dad’s do you know?”
“I’m sorry—I can’t tell you that. It would endanger him. All I’m willing to say is that they go back a long way and he tried to protect your father, but his enemies were too good at their job.”
“Okay, I’ll play along. Let’s pretend my dad was always telling the truth. Who put the voice in his head?”
“The European gov-corp. Or rather, unscrupulous people hired through a succession of shell companies and front organizations so the money couldn’t be traced. They were trying to destroy the commune. The fact that they didn’t is a testament to your father’s strength of character.”
“Yeah, he just destroyed my family and nearly killed my mother. What a hero.”
In the silence that follows, I become aware of such a resistance to the idea that it’s my father who is the victim. It feels like being told we actually lived in a palace or that I used to be an opera singer. Ridiculous.
“Wait. If the commune was this big secret thing, then why are you telling me this?”
“I’ve read your psych profile; I know you would never betray those people. I’m telling you to make you understand that I know far more about your family than you might imagine. That I really do know enough to help him.”
“And enough to hurt them too. Are you threatening me?”
“Do I need to?”
“JeeMuh, you actually predicted I would say that. You are one dodgy bastard, Mr. Gabor.” Again, I am glad this is not a real conversation.
“I haven’t told you how I can help yet. Are you able to be briefed now?”
I can digest all of this later. It’s time to get what I need and leave, as quickly as possible. “Yes. Principia is already blocking me from examining a specific area.”
He nods. “Yes, narrowing in on a specific area is the first step.”
I sigh. The program running his responses has misinterpreted what I said. “How do I stop Principia from interfering when I find the area I want to investigate?”
“Once you have a suspicion that something is being hidden—perhaps Principia is denying access to you or to cam drones—you need to pick a location that’s within a couple of kilometers from where you want to go. Make the trip to that location several times and film each trip. Audio and visual only is fine. I need you to build up a good amount of data so it can be used to create fake trips in real time to trick Principia into thinking you’re somewhere you’re not.”
JeeMuh, I had no idea that sort of thing was even possible! He’s talking about hijacking the connection between my brain and Principia, sending data that the AI will think is coming from the lenses in my eyes and being processed in my chip! The sort of thing I thought was just stupid spy mersive stuff.
Travis must have thought I’d know this was possible; he’s not giving me a chance to process it all before the next instruction. “Once you’ve done it at least three times, put the files containing those recordings into this folder.”
He points at the wall. All of my paintings disappear and the wall is replaced with a gray background with my own chip’s file structure displayed. Fuck, it’s like he’s showing me the inside of my own mind. I watch as he drills down five levels and locates an innocuous folder labeled “Mars textures research” in the area where all of my art mersives are kept.
“Don’t put anything else in there; that’s really important. Your chip has been loaded with a randomizer, the sort the gaming companies use to generate landscapes that look fresh from limited data. That’s the first part. Any questions so far?”
“But gaming companies recorded environmentals for their mersives. Can’t we just use that data?”
“I did consider that, but for one thing, I’d have to buy access to them and someone could follow the money. For another, they aren’t as accurate as you might think; it was only a couple of kilometers around the base that was recorded, even though the games companies claim they have far more. The areas outside of the zone actually recorded were generated using satellite footage that’s decades out of date. Gathering your own data is the simplest way to do this.”
He wants to feed the software with realistic data; I can understand that. But I’m not a cam drone, designed to capture environmentals. “What if there are slight variations to my route? I can’t guarantee I’ll look in exactly the same directions each time. How can I be sure there won’t be gaps in the environmental recordings?”
“Slight variations are good; they give the software more varied data to crunch. It’s sophisticated enough to handle any small gaps.”
“Have you put anything else in this chip?”
He smiles. “Only the software that does the rest of what we need it to do to fool Principia and get the data home.”
He looks so pleased with himself I’m almost tempted to end this now and send a message to his husband. But that threat over my family holds me in check. If he does really know people close to them, it would be easy for him to find out everything he’d need to make their lives difficult. Whether it’s screwing with their online lives or revealing their activist activities, he has enough money and power to be a real threat. And if he really can help my father, surely that also means he can interfere with the care he’s already receiving. Men as handsome as he is shouldn’t be allowed to be this clever and unscrupulous. It isn’t fair. “What do I do once I’ve saved the files into that folder?”
He leans forward, and the recording of him gives the distinct impressi
on that he’s excited. “The next time you go outside, you tell Principia your route and then one minute into that route, say the words ‘Ergo Elephantine Erasmus.’ I know it sounds weird; I just really wanted to make sure you don’t ever say it by accident. Once you say that phrase, the other bit of software I’ve popped into your chip will take over the tracker dialog between the geolocator and Principia. It will trick Principia into thinking you are making the same route, and if it or anyone else on the crew chooses to examine your visuals, they’ll be shown the route you recorded. You can do this several times; the fake data being played for anyone caring to watch will be different each time.”
“But won’t I only have the same amount of time as the fake trip?”
“You will be totally safe for that duration, yes. The geolocator will give fake readings until you return to the location where you give the code. Theoretically, the fake footage of your route can be generated indefinitely, but if someone is watching your feed closely, they will notice repetition after a bit of time. Principia knows Mars too well to be fooled by it for very much longer than the footage naturally lasts. Keep it below that length of time and you should be okay.”
I shake my head. “There’s another problem here. How can I review anything I record when I’m hidden? Principia has already doctored cam footage.”
“You do it all inside your head. Record with full immersion and don’t let it save automatically. Before you start recording, specify that you want it to be saved to this folder.” He navigates to another folder in my brain. “You can immerse in it at any point. Edit and save within this folder. When you have something concrete, keep it saved there but rename it ‘ready for home’ and it will be sent back to Earth, via Principia, without it knowing.”
“How?”
“The same way that all of your messages are sent, just through a back door. It’s dark web stuff. You don’t need to know how it works—just trust me on that. It’ll dump the data in a dead drop location for me to pick up on Earth when I’m safe to do so.”
I close my eyes, giving myself a moment to make sure I understand the plan. I gather data to feed to a secret program hidden in my chip so that Travis’s tech can trick Principia into thinking I am somewhere else, so I can go to the area it has been hiding from me. It’s clear that Travis knew that Principia would be a problem when he planned all this out.
“And say I get what you want. What happens then?”
“Let’s take it one step at a time.”
I don’t like the sound of that. “So I won’t be able to just send you this data and then forget about all of this?”
“I wouldn’t want to make any promises. But I can assure you that as soon as that data lands in the dead drop, your father will be given all the care he needs.”
“Fuck you very much,” I say with a tight smile. “End mersive.”
13
THERE ARE FAR too many assumptions in Travis’s predicted dialog tree for my liking, but I can’t deny that he has planned well. While I’m still annoyed that he is using me just as much as his husband is—and for a far riskier task—I do feel a strange relief that he made all this happen. I was never comfortable with the sense that I’d been picked out as a result of pure kismet. It simply didn’t fit with my view of the world. I wasn’t that lucky—or that unfortunate, depending on my mood at the time. It always felt too unlikely on some level that a multibillionaire would come to dinner, let alone be so impressed by my art that he would want to spend millions to send me here. What else has Travis been doing behind his husband’s back? I dread to think.
At least I never have that concern with Charlie. He is as he appears to be, and even though that can sometimes be infuriating in its dullness, it is reassuring too. I’m too hard on him sometimes. It wasn’t his fault I pretended. And I can’t blame falling pregnant squarely on him either. As much as I want to.
It bothers me that Charlie didn’t mention the footprint, or my concerns about the others here. If it had been something I’d mentioned several times, I could let it go. He gets bored of my circular thinking, not understanding that sometimes talking this sort of thing through repeatedly is my way of processing it. I haven’t mentioned it before at all though. Principia must be screening the messages. But then I remember the NDA and groan in frustration at the lack of satisfying answers. This is the thing people don’t talk about with AIs. They’re delighted to have them find music they’d like, or take care of menial admin tasks—like rating every bloody thing under the sun—but they don’t worry about coming into conflict with them.
For most people, that wouldn’t even be an issue. Unless they have a lot of money, or the sort of role that requires the most advanced chips and close contact with an AI, most people don’t even find themselves in this situation. And it’s the not knowing that makes it worse; Charlie could just have overlooked it.
I can’t take my concerns to anyone else. The specter of my mental health will rear its irritating head again, not to mention the possibility that they could all be in on it.
I have never felt so alone.
When in doubt, gather more data. That’s the only thing I can do. I need to determine whether the messages were censored, and even though I can’t prove that definitively, I can see whether Charlie and Mum simply forgot what I’d asked them. It’s harder in Mum’s case; she may be deliberately not addressing the subject. It’s not like I’ve asked her why she took up pottery.
I’m reminded of what Travis said about her writing and about my parents’ activism. It still seems silly, but when I really think about it, their attitudes to corporate life and general Noropean society were always counterestablishment. They uprooted us, turned their backs on good careers and went to live in the Highlands, for Christ’s sake. Surely activism is just a sneeze and a “bless you” from that sort of decision.
Looking back on the commune with adult knowledge, I see it’s true that some sort of funding would have been needed. I’d always assumed that everyone had set it up with savings and cash from liquidated assets, but how could they have had any? The lure of corporate life is all about earning the sort of lifestyle you want through a particular branch of either the gov-corp or one of the international corporations operating in Norope. There’s no incentive to buy a house now; in the collapse of the ’30s, it all got so irretrievably fucked that only the emerging gov-corp—which had effectively eaten all the banks—could actually afford anything. The “solution” was touted as “neosocialism,” but really it was all about reestablishing top-down control. Allocating housing and deducting rent from corporate salaries were the easiest ways to incentivize people to climb the ladder. As Dad always said, “If you know the people on the rung above you get a bigger box, you focus more on climbing the ladder than on questioning why.”
The adults I grew up around thought it was all bullshit and opted out. It was only careful legal wrangling that stopped them all from being classed as nonpersons and therefore made vulnerable to all the programs designed to minimize the number of such societal outliers. Self-sufficiency was a big part of it, as was some sort of sponsorship, which had never really been explained to me. It wasn’t commercial sponsorship, the sort of thing that would have required we cover our handmade houses with smart-ad triggers (there was no point in such a small community, after all). It was legal sponsorship. Perhaps that had something to do with the mutual friend Travis mentioned. Someone who was obviously still plugged into the system, given what Travis had said about not wanting to risk exposing him.
When I get back to Earth, I’m going to get answers to all these questions. I’ll make Travis explain it all, and if he doesn’t, I’ll threaten him. He won’t want his husband to find out what he’s done.
But then, with the sickening feeling of a heavy stone pulling my stomach downward, I know how stupid I am to think that. It’s far more likely that he’ll never speak to me once I’m back, to minimize the risk of a
ny of this being discovered. And even more likely, he’ll have me killed. Does that even happen in real life? With all that money, surely it would be a simple thing to have me offed by some paid assassin?
Not as easy as sabotaging my return home, or having someone here cause an accident.
Or something like Principia. I can see it unspool so easily in my mind: I send the answers Travis wants to the dead drop and then he sends a message to Principia, either hacking it or simply making an irrefutable financial case for my death. Then the next time I’m outside, Principia fiddles with the air supply in my suit, or directs the rover over unstable ground, or fails to warn me of a dust storm so I’m caught outside, making it so easy to cover up a variety of murderous acts.
JeeMuh, I am so fucked.
There’s no point panicking though. The best thing I can do is find out what Stefan Gabor is hiding, then work out the best way to use that information. I don’t have to send it to the dead drop, after all. I owe no loyalty to Travis whatsoever.
What I need to do is get outside and record the journey to the edge of the crater again. Principia can’t keep up the story of a dust storm indefinitely, so I’ll paint if it doesn’t let me go outside. I just need to be smart, keep my head and think before I communicate anything with anyone else.
Before tackling Principia, I record a quick message for Charlie and Mum, reminding Charlie about my concerns—without actually saying the word “footprint”—and asking Mum to tell me about Dad and believing him again. It’s highly improbable that an AI as sophisticated as Principia is applying a really basic keyword-flagging filter, but the caution still makes me feel better.
I put in a request to go back to the crater again, near the footprint but not those exact coordinates. Unsurprisingly, it is denied because of the dust storm that I don’t actually believe is real. But with all the sensor arrays running through Principia, there’s no point trying to verify it.
Painting is better than doing nothing and it will give me something to send in a progress report, which is due soon. Breaking out the canvas and paints, arranging them on the desk to wait while I find the easel, is all so comforting. I unscrew one of the oil tubes and give it a quick sniff. I’m home again, music on, Charlie in the bedroom, Basalt lying across my feet like a heavy, breathing rug. I miss that stupid dog so much. JeeMuh, I miss him more than my husband. What kind of a human being am I?
