Analog SFF, June 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "You're always on a case,” said the AI. “Actually, that's why I called. My apologies for failing to warn you. Bit awkward, I know."

  "What do you want?"

  "My death was no accident,” said the AI. “Of that you can be sure."

  I wasn't sure about anything. We'd talked about it over the weekend. Arden had seemed depressed before he died, so suicide was a possibility. But the cops said it was probably an accident.

  The AI said, “I want you to find out what really happened."

  It's not that I didn't care. Just the opposite—I cared too much. A seasoned biodet avoided cases like that.

  The AI misunderstood my hesitation. “I can pay. A lot of the estate slipped through Yoobie's fingers—some of my patent royalties haven't been frozen."

  "Forget the money."

  "But . . . you won't take the case? I thought we were friends. I don't understand."

  I wasn't sure I understood either. “I'll look into it,” I told him. “Pro bono."

  "You will? Splendid!"

  Maybe it was because I didn't trust the cops. Or maybe it was because I wasn't such a seasoned biodet. But I was also suspicious.

  The AI shook its finger. “It was Yoobie. Yoobie had a hand in it, I'm certain of that."

  I didn't think so. If it had been a sabotage job, it was a clever one. Which would have required an unprecedented degree of competence from the Bureaus.

  I told the AI that I might need to dig through Arden's personal files later. It said it would “stick around” and provide access whenever I wanted. Then it logged off the comm.

  Unusual. Most AIs wouldn't have taken the initiative to call me. If they weren't terminated, they'd keep performing their preassigned duties, putting in digital appearances when the owner was unavailable and making low-level decisions using algorithms that were supposed to mimic the owner's personality and behavior. Or, if idle, an AI typically would have gone into standby mode.

  After washing up and downing a tasteless vegmix, I headed out. My vision remained blurry but feeling and motivation had come roaring back. A lot of things had been going wrong lately, and not just within our organization, because it was happening to Yoobie officials too. A number of suspicious and unexplained deaths had occurred—Arden, Yvonne, and a few others came to mind. Many of them looked like suicides. We knew Yoobie was suppressing the news about the deaths, which was normal since they always suppressed bad news.

  But when things start to go wrong, the government was a good place to start looking for the cause.

  * * * *

  A young woman with honey-colored hair and an angular face was waiting at the usual booth in Brohm's speakeasy on 33rd. To the microphone I said, “Bottle of Coke.” To my assistant I said, “I know I'm over thirty and my memory isn't what it used to be, but don't I have three assistants?"

  Barbara gave me a cool look. I've seen Barbara smile once, but that was when Jake slipped getting onto a conveyor and got his backside wedged between the rails, after which the supposedly nonslip surface became nonslip again and did a marvelous job of gripping the seat of his trousers and pulling the pants, along with hot red boxer underwear, down to his ankles.

  Barbara pulled out a comm from her purse. “Shall I call the others and tell them to get down here?"

  "You realize Yoobie often monitors public networks?"

  She smirked. “And responds to suspicious activity in an average of twenty minutes, in which case all the contraband will have vanished and everybody will be sipping Yoobie beer and discussing biodiversity."

  "Every once in a while they can sneak up on you.” Which reminded me of Arden, and the possibility that his suicide or accident was neither. “I'll contact Sandra and Jake later. Right now I've got a mission for you.” I pulled out my comm and transferred the necessary data to her device via a direct link.

  She looked at her screen and grimaced.

  "Something wrong?” I asked.

  "Same old crap. I go to the Bureau of Statistics and start filling out forms and initiate the month-long process to get the information we need, while you, I'm sure, will proceed to obtain it in a hour or two."

  "Right."

  Barbara slammed her comm into her purse.

  "We need to keep up appearances,” I told her. “Patience is a virtue. And a necessity if you have to deal with the government."

  "But that's just it! You don't deal with Yoobie. That's what I wanted to learn from you."

  Sometimes I suspected that we trained our new people too slowly. Particularly smart ones like Barbara. But you have to be careful.

  "First you learn to walk,” I said. “Then run, and then fly—"

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah. You don't trust me. That's the trouble."

  A bot brought my drink. I noticed the table was otherwise empty. “Buy you something?"

  "I had a peppermint earlier."

  "Have another."

  "No, thanks. Too many refined carbs really aren't good for you. Just because the United Bureaus forbid something doesn't mean you should eat or drink it all the time."

  I took a swig of Coke. “You've got a lot to learn about freedom.” I belched and hoped Brohm's carbon dioxide scrubbers were working. We worked hard to undermine Yoobie's authority so that we could preserve as much freedom as possible. You've got to enjoy freedom to the fullest whenever you have the opportunity.

  Barbara frowned and slipped out of the booth. “Excuse me, I've got a date with a bunch of bureaucrats."

  She took one step and accidentally bumped into Sandra, who had just reached the booth along with Jake.

  Sandra rubbed her shoulder. “You want to watch where you're going, Barb?"

  "Why don't you show up on time?” said Barbara, as she stormed away.

  Jake and Sandra sat down at the booth. My two older assistants worked together well, complementing each other; Jake was tall, wide, and jovial, and Sandra was short, thin, and serious. Jake looked at me and said, “I'd ask what's bugging her if the question hadn't become so monotonous."

  "Give Barbara some time,” I said. “It takes more than two months to settle into a job."

  Sandra gave me a skeptical look.

  Jake leaned toward the order mike and said, “I'll have a root beer, Coke, cheeseburger, and an up-yours-Yoobie bar. Oh, and a side order of dark chocolate, please.” He shrugged. “I'm starting to engage in more sensible dietary choices."

  "What's up today, boss?” asked Sandra.

  I told them about my conversation with the AI.

  "Wow,” said Sandra. “That's big. Arden Kirst was one of the leading geneticists at the Crogan Biomedical Institute, wasn't he? If his AI thinks something was up—"

  "An AI that may or may not be his,” I corrected.

  Jake rolled his eyes. “Always suspicious, aren't you?"

  "That's why I'm not in rehab watching an I.V. shoot neuro-corrective drugs into my system, and promising to be a loyal Yoobie voter in the next election."

  A bot brought Jake's order. Sandra commandeered the root beer.

  Sandra said, “Most people don't need drugs to convince them to elect pols who give them money."

  "Which means we're dumb,” said Jake.

  "Your job,” I told them, “is to visit the Crogan Institute and learn as much as you can about what Kirst was working on.” I transferred some background information on Kirst's publications. “And check to make sure his AI matches the one who visited me. I've given you the specs."

  "What's your job?” asked Jake, his cheeks smeared with cheese.

  "To make sure my assistants do theirs."

  Sandra was about to say something when the alarm bell rang. An instant later a bot rolled up to our table and tilted it, collecting every scrap into the incinerator in its belly. Another bot wiped our faces and squirted masque in our mouths. We rinsed and spit into the bot's cuspidor.

  I got up. I told my assistants to hang around for a few minutes, then I headed for the exit. Bots were handing out bottles o
f Yoobie beer, and the stereo system was now tuned to United Bureaus Public Radio.

  Just as I got outside and stepped onto the busy sidewalk, a U.B. Public Relations officer stopped me. Tall, blond, and gorgeous. She must have been high-ranking because she displayed an S.R.C.B. on her green uniform.

  "Smile, citizen,” she told me.

  I smiled as she aimed the spectrometer. A bored-looking assistant in khakis stood behind her.

  My rinse job must have missed a tooth, because the instrument reading gave her pause. “We've been alerted of contraband in the area, citizen,” she said cheerfully. “Have you seen any illicit substances this morning?"

  "No."

  She glanced skeptically at the spectrometer's output. The instrument had probably detected a trace of refined sugar from the soda. She also looked at her ID machine. “Well, Mr. Ellam K. Troy, what have you been doing this morning?"

  "I just walked through a crowd of rock-and-rollers."

  "Ah,” she said. “And their perfumes—"

  "Intoxicatingly cloying,” I said, making a face.

  "That explains it. Where are they?"

  I pointed toward an art school nearby.

  "Dirty little gangbangers,” muttered the officer. Her shoes clicked on the plasticrete as she headed toward the school.

  Her assistant took two steps and then stopped beside me. Staring at me—making sure I was watching him—he tapped his comm twice, then hurried to catch up with the boss.

  I waited until I rounded the corner to pull out my comm. Dozens of people were walking or belting past me, so I punched the “private” button and put the comm up to my ear.

  "Good morning,” it said. “I observed a small speck of dust on your E.R.C.B. badge of merit."

  I slipped the comm back into my pocket while a chill ran up my spine. I hadn't recognized the man, but the message was up-to-date in the codebook. We issued that kind of warning only when a member was in grave danger.

  * * * *

  The community bus looked full, and I was in a mood for some privacy anyway, so I hoofed it two blocks down the street to a rental agency. Along the way I sent out warnings to all three of my assistants: stop what you're doing and hide. Jake and Sandra affirmed receipt at once. Barbara didn't. Great—yet another thing to worry about.

  The rental agency's business thrived this morning, as it usually did when the buses were crowded. A line snaked all the way to the door, which was underneath a guide rail. Cars hummed overhead. A heavy scent of ozone hung in the air.

  A beefy guy with a proprietor's badge came out. “Sorry, bud,” he told me, “we'll rent everything we got before your turn comes up.” He pushed me out and started to close the door.

  On the chance that he was one of us, I quickly said, “Uncle Barry loves me!"

  He hesitated, and I knew I'd struck gold. He closed the door, but a minute later he returned. He'd recognized this week's emergency code phrase. “You're in luck,” he said, ushering me inside. “We got a crate I wouldn't rent to nobody except a guy like you in dire need."

  I palmed payment, leaving a ring of sweat on the platter.

  A moment later I was in the best “crate” I could have asked for—a highly illegal carbon-belcher with a turbojet to supplement guide-rail power. A cowcatcher mounted on the front tossed slower vehicles to the side and a grappler leap-frogged the other car's rail attachment so that I could pass, leaving in my wake a trail of wildly oscillating cars. And probably seasick passengers.

  Still no word from Barbara.

  Just because someone wanted to put me in the recycle factory didn't mean that they were also after my assistants. But that was the way these things tend to work. If the boss gets knocked off then so do the underlings, because nobody knows what they might have been told or what they could find out if they had access to the boss's comm.

  The first thing to do was find out who wanted little old ladies to be planting their geraniums in my ground-up and sanitized remains. That might be hard to figure out. Most detectives have a lengthy list of enemies, and those of us who specialize in biology tend to get involved in the messiest cases—family disputes, violent crime, and affairs of the heart and other organs. Mostly other organs. Add to that my membership in the Opposition. You could probably stand anywhere in the city and spit on the shoes of half a dozen people who'd consider me good potting material. I'd spent so much money escaping enemies that I was already in debt up to my chin.

  Did Yoobie finally peg me as an Op? Maybe, but if I hadn't made any mistakes then that must mean somewhere, somehow, a smart U.B. official existed.

  Could it have been a false message? Doubtful. All of our guys are careful—or at least competent—otherwise even Yoobie can catch you. And you don't want to think about what happens after that.

  I had nothing to go on but a hunch. That hunch involved Arden Kirst.

  * * * *

  At the Bureau of Statistics I detached the car from the guide rail and piloted it to a garage. Yoobie sensors detected the turbojet exhaust and undoubtedly alerted a patrol. I quickly exited the car and disabled Yoobie video monitors with a video-frequency scrambler. The car's autopilot engaged the weak battery-powered engines and floated up to the ceiling with its fans, attaching itself using magnetic stabilizers. An automatic adjustment of the nano-paint did an excellent job of camouflage.

  No success pinging Barbara's comm. Maybe I'd gotten too soft lately. Discipline had become lax.

  Ionic columns grandly adorned the entrance to Stats. A thin mid-morning crowd trickled in and out. Rows of potted flowers emitted a rich aroma. I walked by some roses, flowering courtesy of the dearly departed.

  "Citizen,” I said, nodding to a local pol as I ascended the steps. He saw my E.R.C.B. and returned the greeting.

  When I entered the building, a bot unplugged itself from the battery recharger and rolled its three-foot frame into the nearest booth. “Good morning, Ellam K. Troy,” it purred. “How may I serve you?"

  "I believe,” I said, ensuring no one was close enough to listen, “it's my turn to serve."

  After a pause, the bot said, “No, I think it's definitely my turn."

  "No, it's mine.” I pulled out my comm and examined the bot's input receptacles until I found a promising target. “Don't you remember? You double-faulted."

  More electrons coursed through its circuits. “Citizen, are you searching for tennis information?"

  I found an adequate interface plug for my comm and inserted a cable. The protected data I wanted could only be downloaded from a hard link. “Nyet,” I said. That kept the machine preoccupied for another few seconds while it tried to figure out if I was Russian or if I had mispronounced “net.” I attached the plug.

  "Citizen,” said the bot, “I have detected—"

  "Have you located the swertzer?"

  "Please repeat, citizen. I do not understand."

  I watched the blinking light on my comm as my search program churned through the databases. Meanwhile, I had to keep the Yoobie bot in chaos, but not so confused that it would call for a human supervisor, and not so threatened that it would call for a security guard. Fortunately, Yoobie had to wire their AIs to handle the lowest common denominator. If you made the bot think you're an average citizen—slow on the uptake—then their algorithms churned through mountains of data trying to make sense of what you said, which consumed too many resources for them to do much else. It was the only time I ever gave thanks for an ineffective educational system.

  "Swertzer, switzer, swalzer! Don't you know what that is? What kind of bot don't know that?"

  I waited for it to decide which version of the word I really meant to say. The light still flickered and I started to sweat. My heart seemed to beat in synchrony with the light. Any minute a supervisor could stick his head in the booth.

  The bot said, “Are you referring to Emerald Salker, the professional tennis player?"

  It always amazed me that everything had some kind of connection, however tenuous
, with almost everything else. I'd never heard of that guy.

  The light stopped blinking. I detached the cable at once.

  "Yes, thank you. His last win?"

  "Emerald Salker is female. Her last major tournament victory occurred at the United Bureaus Open, two years ago."

  I pocketed my comm. “Thanks, little buddy. That's it."

  "Are you satisfied with this visit to the Bureau of Statistics?"

  "I think I got what I wanted."

  When I returned to the garage, a Yoobie patrol was just leaving. They'd gotten tired and had given up the search for my car, and were in all likelihood heading back to a speakeasy for a doughnut. I ordered the car to pick me up and attach to the nearest guide rail under legal power. The cowcatcher retracted into the nose cone. No sense alarming Yoobie when you don't have to.

  "Where to?” asked the pilot module.

  "Just drive."

  Barbara's comm still didn't respond. Without knowing where she was, I couldn't help. If something hadn't happened to her she'd get the message I had left, and there was nothing more I could do.

  My comm had finished digesting the downloaded data. I'd retrieved all the recent requests for information concerning Arden Kirst, along with oblique references and indexing activity. I configured the comm to project the screen onto a flat surface—the roof of the car was the best one available. I had to hunch uncomfortably in my seat, but the large area let me scan a lot of data at once.

  Nothing important leaped out. But in the three days prior to Kirst's death, there was a significant spike of activity at the Crogan Biomedical Institute concerning Professor Arden Kirst. Although I didn't have time to sift through the data, the activity was likely the result of a multitude of queries. Shortly before Kirst died, he'd become a popular man.

  Then I configured my data-mining algorithm to search in Kirst's data file and my file for cross-references. It pulled out anything the two files had in common. If the threat on me was in some way related to Kirst, there must be some sort of link between us.