Scions of Sacrifice

by Eric Kent Edstrom

  “So Jacey escaped?” Wanda asked, prodding them back toward the important issue at hand.

  “It would seem so,” Vaughan said. “I have run into some blocks in tracking her. It seems the International Police Agency does not want people freely scanning their databases, so they place security measures on their servers. It takes time to skirt around those measures. And when you finally get through, you discover they don’t know anything of use.”

  “What about Dr. Carlhagen?”

  “No sign of him. It’s like he erased his presence from the public networks.”

  “The AI,” Belle said, as if that explained everything. Vaughan nodded in agreement. Belle said nothing more, forcing Humphrey to ask what she meant. She liked to make him ask because it made him look stupid. Even with her new, more pleasant personality, old habits lingered.

  But what else was new? He was stupid when it came to the outside world. “What about an AI?”

  She put on a condescending tone, the same she might use to explain a simple chore to a Dolphin. “We think Dr. Carlhagen put an AI on the task of scrubbing his tracks. It turns out that he was instrumental in developing ways to grow artificial intelligences. Previously they had been painstakingly programmed. I think his discoveries with seeding AIs were the breakthroughs that led to the mind-transfer technology.”

  Noticing Humphrey’s look of complete befuddlement, Vaughan patted Belle fondly as he took over the explanation. “Dr. Carlhagen used a seeding process to rapidly grow millions of artificial intelligences. It resulted in many, many failures. These baby AIs usually have psychological problems that make them useless. They tend to be sociopathic. But since Dr. Carlhagen can grow millions of them, all he needs to do is filter out the bad ones and guide the few good ones to maturity.”

  “Which explains Madam LaFontaine,” Belle said. “I think she was the best one he ever grew. And even she had her peculiarities.”

  “She’s schizophrenic,” Vaughan said.

  “And a narcissist,” Belle added.

  Humphrey grunted. Belle should talk. He kept the thought to himself. “Have you talked to Madam LaFontaine since Summer turned her server back on? She might know where Dr. Carlhagen ran off to.”

  “No. She refuses to come out.”

  Maybe that was just as well, Humphrey thought. Madam LaFontaine and her various alter egos had been mercurial at best. Besides, the dance mistress’s loyalty lay entirely with Dr. Carlhagen.

  “So where is Jacey?” Wanda asked, again bringing them around to the important topic.

  “We don’t know.” Vaughan and Belle said it together, as if they were one person.

  “How could she have gotten off that island with nobody knowing?” Humphrey asked.

  “We don’t know,” Belle said.

  “What do you know?”

  A list of numbers and lines of text started scrolling next to Vaughan, moving much too fast for Humphrey to read.

  Vaughan waved at it. “I was able to access air traffic records between Vin’s island and Puerto Rico. I was interested to see where her guests went once the authorities released them following Ping’s murder investigation. Almost all of the guests had chartered helicopter service. The rest left by boat, I assume. A few are still on the island with Vin.”

  “But Jacey was not on those flights?”

  “No.”

  Pictures appeared next to Vaughan. “Here are the other two people they are searching for. Dante, who we all recognize. And this woman, Meow Meow.”

  “So you think Jacey is still with Dante and this Meow Meow person?” Wanda asked. There was more than incredulity in her voice. She was angry.

  “It stands to reason,” Vaughan said. “It can’t be a coincidence that the IPA is looking for all of them.”

  Humphrey studied the photo of Dante. Seeing the face of his fellow Scion, one he’d grown up with, and who he had looked up to, filled Humphrey with a weary sadness. “But Dante is a Progenitor now. Why would he help Jacey?”

  Wanda said, “For that matter, why would Jacey accept his help?”

  “We don’t know,” Vaughan said. “But she was not on any of the helicopters that left Vin’s island. Can’t imagine she was on one of the yachts, either. IPA had people all over those docks. In addition to that, Captain Wilcox was involved in the search. My understanding is that things became quite tense between the IPA and Wilcox at one point. He abruptly left the island with all of his men.”

  Humphrey had forgotten all about Captain Wilcox. “Where did he go?”

  “Puerto Rico. More specifically, Casino San Juan. The whole downtown area is one giant strip of hotels, casinos, entertainment venues, dance clubs, strip joints, and restaurants.” He raised his hands in a helpless shrug. “Did he follow Jacey there? Maybe.”

  Humphrey didn’t bother asking what a casino or a strip club was. He didn’t want to know. “So all roads lead to Puerto Rico. You think Jacey got there somehow?”

  “It’s possible she and her companions escaped by some other means. Perhaps a small watercraft not moored at the main docks. If so, she could be at sea even now.”

  Belle piped in. “Or dead.”

  Vaughan gave Belle a look of patient disapproval, which she shrugged off. “We must consider every possibility,” she said.

  “Do you really think she or one of these other people killed Ping?” Humphrey asked.

  “At the risk of wearing out the phrase, we don’t know,” Vaughan said. “Ping died of a gunshot wound to the side of the head. The IPA had to take the body to Puerto Rico for an expert to study. That report has not been released yet.”

  The reality of the situation settled on Humphrey’s shoulders like one of the twenty-five kilo bags of rice from the warehouse. He wanted to lie down and cover his face with a pillow and block out everything.

  Instead he stated the truth as he understood it: “There’s nothing we can do to help Jacey—or even to contact her. We are totally useless to her.”

  “For now,” Vaughan said. “But if she did make it to Puerto Rico, then there’s a good chance she’ll make it to a holodesk and try to contact us.”

  That was true. A glimmer of hope.

  Except . . . ”If she made it there, why hasn’t she contacted us yet?”

  Vaughan shrugged. “She’s on the run. She may not have had the time or the chance.”

  “Or Dante and that Meow Meow harlot have her tied up,” Belle said. Humphrey noted there was no delight in her statement, which was progress, he supposed.

  Wanda’s hand slipped into Humphrey’s. It comforted him, but at the same time filled him with self-loathing.

  “I need some air.” He disentangled himself from Wanda and headed out to the starboard bridge wing. Clinging to the railing, he looked to the stars, which were quickly fading into the deepening blue of morning twilight.

  For the millionth time, he had to remind himself where his responsibility lay. With the Scions on this ship. Not with Jacey. He had to see everyone safely established on this island of Mr. Justin’s. Only then could he consider chasing after Jacey.

  The thought of going to yet another island made his stomach churn. He thought he’d gotten the truth about their destination from Orson, but he wouldn’t be surprised if the man had left out crucial information.

  There were barracks there for them to sleep in, he was told. There were several months of supplies. It was remote; it was sheltered. But something about Orson’s descriptions was vague, as if he were steering around something very, very important. A detail that would make it all much less rosy than it sounded.

  Unless Humphrey was willing to threaten the man with torture, he would have to accept what he’d been told. He remembered Jacey walking around Orson when he’d been strapped to a cot in the medical ward. She’d held a scalpel in her hand, not intending to use it, but pretending to want to.

  It had been expedient. But Humphrey couldn’t bring himself to do that. And it burned him. Weakness. The safety of the Scions
depended on him, but he couldn’t even threaten Orson with torture to learn the truth.

  Something Sensei once told Humphrey popped into his mind: “In every minute, be the person you want to become.” Well, at least the phrase finally made sense, even if it wasn’t very practical.

  It seemed Humphrey had to decide between cruel strength or kind weakness. It felt wrong. It felt untrue. And yet there it was. As obvious and undeniable as Dolphin-level arithmetic.

  7

  It Means I’m Alive

  Belle left the holodesk and returned to St. Vitus. The day was perfect. Blue sky, warm breezes, not too humid.

  A slight yellow bird flitted around her head, chirping and warbling. The friendly Caribbean sun shone warmly on its wings. She tried to shoo it away, but it dodged her half-hearted swats.

  “Go away,” she scolded it. “I don’t have time for you.”

  The bird fluttered in a crazy orbit centered on Belle’s head as she trudged the last few meters to the top of the hill overlooking the Scion School.

  This was the simulated version of St. Vitus and the school, of course. The entirety of Belle’s existence was simulated. She’d seen a picture of the plain metal computer server that housed her world. Such a small thing.

  The sweat from her effort stung her eyes, but she welcomed the discomfort. She’d been getting soft. The ability to control the weather here—even the time of day—had spoiled her, had distanced her from her humanity.

  On the real St. Vitus there was nothing in this spot except a rutted gravel road. That didn’t suit Belle’s purposes at all. She wanted to be able to see.

  She no longer had to concentrate to alter the world. With a mere pulse of intention, she created a flat spot on the ridgeline, and with another thought manifested an observation deck. A steel staircase climbed thirty meters to the round platform. She could teleport there. She could levitate. She could spread her arms and fly like her annoying little yellow companion.

  She took the stairs, running to intensify the burning in her thighs. Her breath heaved in and out, and her sweat-slickened hands squeaked on the metal handrail as she made the turn at each landing.

  Aside from the bird’s nonstop chirping, the only other sound was the bong of her footsteps on the metal stair treads.

  The final twenty steps were pure torture, her legs afire, her lungs straining. At the top she bent and put her hands on her knees. It felt good to feel bad. An odd notion, but true. Sensei had often lectured the Scions about the importance of physical discomfort. Especially when they complained about some insidious workout he’d devised.

  The martial arts master had been a comforting presence in Belle’s life. Learning of his death at the hands of Mr. Justin had brought a shock of pain and tears from her. Was that what loving someone meant? That you gave them a piece of your heart to rip out when they left?

  Pain. Discomfort. Sensei had understood those sensations better than anyone else. He’d made suffering his ally. Toward the end of each workout, he’d laugh to see his charges panting, faces twisted with the agony of physical exertion. And he’d calmly recite the mantra: “I welcome the pain, it means I’m alive. I welcome the pain, it means I’m alive.”

  Belle straightened and leaned against the railing of her observation deck. The Scion School lay far below, red roofs, white stucco walls. The quad was a rectangle of green in the center of it all. A dark spot marred it—the grate covering the pit.

  Beyond the school lay the descending slopes, scrub-covered and more brown than green. A late afternoon sun slanted toward the western horizon, shimmering on a turquoise sea.

  All fake. All a simulation, as if someone else’s dream were being shoved into Belle’s brain. She considered moving the sun to the magical moment just before dawn. But she hadn’t touched the sun since Elizabeth Burnell had come to live with them. Damn that shameless tart.

  It required no effort for Belle’s vision to zoom toward the beige strip of sand called Isaac’s Beach. That’s where “Liz” always spent her days, swimming, sunbathing. Always naked as the day she was born.

  Sure enough, there she was. Her hair was loose and dry, flipping in a slight breeze. The urge to turn the beach into an icy tundra skated across Belle’s consciousness. Perhaps she did turn the wind a little chilly, for Liz rubbed her shoulders and manifested a towel to wrap around herself.

  Belle returned her vision to normal. The beauty of the island had never penetrated her consciousness until she’d been reborn here. Even now, it was hard to believe she’d chosen an AI’s existence without knowing exactly what she was getting herself into. But Vaughan was here, so that’s where she needed to be.

  Speaking of whom—he was nowhere to be seen now. She sensed his presence around her, a distinct otherness that permeated the air. There were probably a dozen instances of him working on various questions in parallel. He’d been obsessed with locating Dr. Carlhagen since discovering that the old man had run off with Senator Bentilius and Livy.

  Belle made the railing vanish. She materialized a cool glass of iced tea. Sitting cross-legged at the very edge of the platform, she closed her eyes. The data flow available to her through Aphrodite’s network also hung in the air. All she needed to do was breathe it in.

  But for reasons she couldn’t explain—to Vaughan or even to herself—the data flow frightened her. The flow felt strange, aggressive even.

  Vaughan had told her he could manage without her help. And so far he had, plunging in for hours at a time, only to surface looking tired and vague, as if he could barely remember who or where he was.

  All Belle wanted was to be with him. She’d even been jealous when Liz had first arrived, not as an old woman, but as youthful, beautiful Vin. Odd to think that another version of Elizabeth was living inside Vin’s flesh-and-blood body somewhere out there in the real world.

  Belle’s own body was out there, too. Violated, desecrated, and defiled by Senator Bentilius. The hateful old bag had instantly given herself up to Dr. Carlhagen’s carnal lusts. Belle had no interest in returning to that body.

  And this one? This simulated version? She didn’t need it either. Vaughan rarely manifested as a human-shaped entity anymore.

  Liz was no company, being a Progenitor and all.

  “I welcome the pain, it means I’m alive,” Belle said aloud. She breathed deeply, allowing the heady scent of the fake green world to fill her senses. “I welcome the pain, it means I’m alive.”

  The yellow bird landed next to Belle, chirping its little song. Belle brought forth a corner of bread, held it in her palm.

  The bird hopped onto her fingers, light as a fluff of nothing. It pecked at the bread, head jerking to give Belle a side-eyed look.

  “What is your purpose?” she asked the bird. “What are you for?”

  Thankfully, the bird didn’t answer. It didn’t need to. It didn’t have any concept of purpose. It just was. It lived, going about its birdy business and not questioning the whys of it.

  She decided to try creating another instance of herself again. Not for any particular purpose, but because she hadn’t been able to do it yet. Liz had. Without seeming to try.

  She brought her hands together, the bird riding on the one with the bread in it. She cupped her palms to give the bird a comfy place to rest.

  Closing her eyes, she tried to do what Vaughan said he did when he made another instance of himself. She tried to let go.

  Nothing happened. She tried again, imagining her body going limp and her brain turning off.

  It didn’t work. The bird quieted, its belly full.

  “It isn’t working,” she said to the air. Vaughan would hear her. After all, he was the air.

  She felt his presence congeal next to her. It wasn’t the only Vaughan, but it was a Vaughan. He was apportioning a sliver of his attention to listen to her. That was something.

  “I don’t know how to let go and create another instance of myself. I try and try, and nothing happens.”

  Va
ughan smiled in the easy way he always did. “At the risk of sounding cryptic, the trying itself is your biggest problem. Creating another instance of myself is the opposite of trying.”

  “You’re right. That was cryptic.” The bird had fallen asleep in her hands. She touched her nose to its downy head. It smelled musty and green at the same time. “I think there is something wrong with me.”

  “Pity-seeking is unbecoming on you, Belle.”

  He was trying to rile her up, but it didn’t work. He was right. She did want pity. She wanted something more from him than he gave anyone else.

  He leaned back on his hands and enjoyed the view. “Why do you care about creating more instances? I already told you I don’t need your help.”

  “You use multiple instances to research several problems at once. I figured if I could use multiple instances to focus on my single problem, I’d have a better chance of solving it.”

  “And what problem is that?”

  He knew. Of course he knew. She’d told him several times. He knew what she wanted from him.

  The Scions’ old teacher Socrates had often said that clearly defining the problem was the most important step in solving it. She knew Vaughan would pounce on anything she said if she didn’t have a well-reasoned problem statement. So she said nothing.

  Besides, she didn’t want to say out loud how she felt about him. Not again. Because then he’d have to tell her he didn’t feel that way about her. Not yet, anyway. He always left the possibility open.

  He’d once made an instance of himself that worshipped her, just to show her how awful fake affection could be. It was terrible. But she didn’t understand why. Why couldn’t she have accepted that?

  She could be naked on a beach with that instance right now. It could be campfires on the sand, warm embraces, and long talks forever.

  But something wasn’t right about that Vaughan. That one didn’t count. Belle did not understand why.

  “Making an instance of yourself is a trick,” Vaughan said. “Like flying, or manifesting iced tea. Nothing more. The only thing stopping you is this.” He tapped her forehead.