Kirst paused and sighed.
"I think I see what's coming,” I said. Now that I thought of it, there was a slight resemblance between Barbara and Arden Kirst. But I hadn't noticed the connection because I hadn't been looking for it.
Kirst went on. “Did you know that even in our age of advanced science and technology, there isn't a foolproof contraceptive?"
I nodded.
"She didn't want the baby. She insisted on an abortion. And Yoobie agreed with her.” Kirst's eyes grew hard and cold. “It was at this point, I think, that my infatuation with our government finally withered and died. And the relationship I had with this woman quickly turned acrimonious."
"But you fought it. The abortion, you held it up with lawsuits. Right?"
Kirst nodded. “Until I exhausted all avenues. Oh, there was no chance that I'd succeed. Yoobie would see to that. The fetus was doomed. Or would have been, had it not been for me."
"You delayed it long enough for the fetus to live outside the mother."
"Yes. It's not that I'm against abortion—when both parents agree. But that child was just as much mine as it was hers.” It paused. “I'm not entirely sure why I wanted it so badly. It's hard to explain. I guess I wanted someone to love and someone who would love me back. Real love, not the kind of love that adults have for each other. Not conditional love, but the unconditional kind of love that bonds parent and child.” It sighed. “Or so I thought."
"How much did you bribe the doctor who was supposed to perform the abortion?"
"Nothing. I didn't have to. Yoobie assigned the doctor and determined the course of action, as it does for all health issues, but fate smiled upon me. I knew the doctor. More importantly, I knew he had a habit of making some money on the side by writing bogus prescriptions. Some of my students had gotten into trouble because they had been caught abusing these drugs, and I discovered the source. It happens a lot. I suppose if Yoobie would pay doctors more, this sort of thing would happen less."
"Okay, you didn't pay him, you threatened him. Either way, you—I mean Arden Kirst—got your hands on a baby that couldn't exist. At least not legally. The mother was anesthetized, probably after the doctor started talking about ‘complications,’ but the operation wasn't what she'd expected. She never found out, did she?"
Kirst shook his head. “I couldn't tell her, or the child would be . . . I don't know what would have happened."
"Don't you think that was a little unethical?” I paused. What good would it do to lecture an AI?
"It was a lot unethical,” admitted Kirst. “I'm not proud of it. But the whole damn system is unethical. A monstrosity of lies, incompetence, tyranny—"
"I know, I know. I'm on your side. I'm an Op, remember?"
"She was beautiful. You should have seen her. Little toes, fingers, a nose so small I was scared she couldn't breathe. When I held her in my arms, I knew I had made the right decision. And she was healthy; she overcame the prematurity. And she's as smart as they come. Smarter than even her mother and father put together!"
"You had to find the means to get Barbara—what's her real name, by the way?"
"I called her Eve.” Kirst shrugged. “I thought about calling her Andromeda, after the galaxy, but I got caught up in the whole mystery of her birth. And it was a struggle to support her when Yoobie keeps such thorough track of every citizen. I couldn't have done it by myself."
"This was when you joined the Opposition?"
"Exactly. They didn't trust me at first. They saw my S.R.C.B. and the young age at which I'd earned it, and they probably dug up old essays I'd written for the school paper. Do you know that I once seriously advocated the public flogging of anybody who takes Uncle Barry's name in vain?"
"Extremism will do that to you. Warp your mind, I mean."
"Anyway, they told me to go stick my head up Uncle Barry's arse. But then I showed them my child. I told them to find her ID, if they could. Find out who she was. They took DNA, RNA, protein samples, everything. Nothing was in the databases. She couldn't exist—but she did. I told them the story often enough that they finally believed it. And they helped. We got a rotating set of numbers, kept building new files, new backgrounds. It was a real pain. I also had to hide the child, which wasn't too difficult because Cleo divorced me the minute she found out about the lawsuits I'd filed and so forth. So I could live in peace with my daughter, even though I couldn't admit having her. Schooled her myself. And then I met Nadia."
"Nadia knows about Eve, I assume, even though she didn't tell me."
Kirst shook her head.
"No? You're kidding. You never told her? That's—never mind. You didn't tell me either, and you probably avoided telling anyone else you didn't have to. But you got hold of the old number of Nadia's daughter, along with enough data to construct a file in the system that could answer almost all the queries consistently."
"That's right. I mean the Ops in my cell did. Our cell, I guess I should say, since you belong to it too. They're much better with computer systems than I am. I love Nadia, by the way. In case you're wondering."
"I'm not. I mean, I have other priorities at the moment. Like staying alive and out of rehab. And finding out just what kind of machine you are—and what Arden was working on."
Kirst's eyes brightened. “Emotions. The secret to intelligence, Ellam. And—"
Someone banged on the door.
I froze. Helpless and unarmed—Yoobie threw you into rehab if you even hinted you had a desire for a gun—I was trapped. Had Kirst's AI set me up?
A voice came from outside. “Hello? Is anybody there? We'd like to hold our meeting now."
Kirst frowned. “Why don't people follow the rules? They're supposed to use the computer to reserve a specific time to use the conference room."
The voice grew more insistent. “Hello?"
"They're probably not going to give up,” said Kirst. “We'd better let them in. Just tell them you were downloading some data."
I inserted my comm into the outlet. “That's just what I'd like to do—download data. Send me Kirst's lab notes."
"May I ask what you intend—"
"Do it,” I said. “Now."
My comm's input light started blinking.
"While you're still here, I need to tell you something,” said Kirst. “I don't want to . . . it's hard for a father to admit—"
"Hello? Who's in there?"
"Just a minute!” I yelled.
"My daughter killed me,” said Kirst.
I gaped. “She what?"
The door rattled.
"She's dangerous,” said Kirst, “so be careful. We'll talk more later. Just watch out while you're on campus. Good luck!” The image disappeared.
I recovered from the shock and opened the door. “Sorry, be done in a second,” I said calmly, as if nothing had happened. You learn how to do this as an Op or you'll find yourself babbling incoherently in rehab. “Come on in."
A dozen people walked inside, some of them giving me curious glances. But the screen in the center of the room displayed “authorized visitor's download,” which seemed to allay their suspicion. When the comm light stopped blinking I unhooked it and left.
* * * *
I spent the whole night in the rental car, parked at the institute's garage. The car was too narrow for me to stretch out in the back seat; the driver seat reclined, though not all the way, so I ended up with a stiff back and a sore neck. And not enough sleep, for two nights in a row. I woke up around dawn feeling like hell. Déja vu.
But I'd spent part of the night productively studying the data I'd obtained from Arden's house and the lab notes the AI had transferred. The most important bits involved genetics and intelligence. Not my specialty, but I'd learned something while working for Kirst.
Kirst had made a significant discovery, or at least he'd thought so. Considering the advanced capability of his second AI, which was surely based on the new findings, I'd say he'd been right.
People had
been using computers to process data for a long time, but nobody had ever figured out how to configure them so that they could make decisions and inferences that are similar to human intelligence—in the fraction of human beings that had any these days. The problem was that scientists didn't understand how humans did it, so how could anyone program a machine to mimic the process? Programmers tried using logic circuits, complicated rules of problem-solving, patterns, and brain-like devices in the attempt to make an advanced AI. Success up until now had been limited, though artificial neural networks continued to be promising.
Arden Kirst found an important component of human intelligence and, in the process, the means by which computer experts could implement that component in a digital system. According to Kirst, emotions are the primary means by which humans process data. Data without emotions are just valueless, disconnected numbers and facts. That was the theory, anyway.
Genes and gene expression play a strong role in emotions and mood. Genetics doesn't explain all of human behavior, but it influences almost everything to a certain extent. Genes code for proteins such as enzymes that catalyze the synthesis of neurotransmitters to carry messages between brain cells, along with receptors that receive the messages and reuptake molecules that terminate the message. How much and what kind of proteins get made will strongly influence a person's feelings and emotions as well as how the brain processes data.
In a complicated way I couldn't fully understand from Kirst's notes, emotions modulated the processing of data. The theory held that emotions are the links by which the brain connects data in meaningful and intelligent ways. In this view, emotions are not byproducts of human intelligence, they are the origins of human intelligence. Rather than being the results of thought or perception—I feel sad, for example, because I failed a test—emotions are essential links in the generation of intelligence. Emotions place a value judgment on passing or failing a test, for example, which would otherwise have no implication and would pass thoughtlessly from the mind. The more complex the emotions, the more complex the intelligence.
Maybe Kirst was right and maybe not. But his ideas had apparently inspired some computer experts to fashion remarkable AIs by mimicking the process in digital systems.
Kirst's theory had also inspired another development, but the data weren't clear about what it entailed. There were even signs that Yoobie had something to do with it, because I found several official documents related to “factors under discussion.” Kirst and Yoobie? That made no sense at all.
I'd finally fallen asleep even though my head had been spinning like a vortex. When I awoke, it was still spinning. If I didn't get out of that car and stretch my legs I would go crazy.
I'd parked on the eighth floor. Avoiding the elevator, I took the stairs to the ground floor. Early morning sunlight streamed in; the sun had come up, the sky was bright blue. Blearily I walked outside. I kept walking, basking in the sunshine.
Ten minutes later I saw the Yoobie agent who had been at my residence the other day. And she saw me.
I turned around and started walking quickly back to the garage. I could hear her following.
How had she found me? Street sensors? Satellites? Yoobie seemed anxious to talk to me.
This time, I began to think, I'm in over my head.
Just as I reached the garage I heard a voice call out, “Citizen Ellam K. Troy!"
I raced into the garage, sprinting to the stairs. The elevator wasn't an option because she could shut down power if she wanted to. With pumping legs and fists and lungs on fire I reached the door to the stairs. I made it in plenty of time.
But the door was locked.
Of course. I'd forgotten that they always keep the first floor doors locked from the outside. The stairway was an emergency exit, and they didn't want people using it as an entrance. To go up you had to use the elevator.
I could hear footsteps behind me. Caught.
One little mistake. That was the first thing you learn as an Op. All it takes is one little mistake. They get you, they put you in a room with an I.V. and a bunch of people wearing white coats who shake their heads and wonder aloud at your obvious psychiatric needs because you can't accept that Yoobie is the answer that solves all problems. So they fill you full of drugs so that your brain turns to mush and you drool and babble. Then they reeducate you, and the first words you learn to say are, “Uncle Barry is my shepherd, I shall not want."
The footsteps were right behind me. I turned around, fists ready. She'd zap me, but I was going down fighting.
An explosion in the street sent both of us diving onto the plasticrete floor. When I looked through the wire fence that enclosed the ground floor of the garage I saw a burning car parked at the curb.
The Yoobie official and I exchanged a stunned look. Cars don't blow up—there's nothing inflammable in them, except for the illegal ones that have so many safety features that accidents never happen. And it'd been so long since I saw anything burning that my gaze was riveted on the dancing orange flames.
She hopped up and ran toward the carnage. I took two steps, then I stopped and slowly turned around. Standing behind me in the shadows was Barbara. Or Eve. But force of habit would keep me calling her Barbara.
"Let Yoobie deal with the car,” she said. “Nobody got hurt. All they'll find is a bunch of broken, melted composite materials from the car of a professor I don't particularly care for, and the residue of an explosive chemical mixture that I placed in it thirty seconds ago."
"I know who you are,” I told her.
"Congratulations.” She waved a black object at the stairway door. It popped open, and she kept it from closing with her foot. “I warned you that you were in trouble. And what do you do? You wander around outside like a lost child."
"You warned me?"
"Who else knew you might get into trouble?” She inclined her head toward the doorway. “You waiting for Yoobie to catch you again?"
I hesitated.
"Fine,” she said. “Do what you want.” She went inside.
The door swung on its hinges. Just before it clanged shut I got there and prevented it from closing, although not in the way I had intended. Two of my fingers got caught between the door and the wall. I said ouch in a creative sort of way.
Barbara opened the door and rescued my fingers. “I'm not sure you're worth the trouble, but come in anyway. I've got some first aid in the lab."
She led me through another doorway that somehow slid open in the wall. From there we entered a tunnel lit by organic LEDs stuck to the cinderblock walls. After a couple of turns to the left, Barbara opened a similar door in another wall by using the black wand, which I assumed emitted a code of pulsed electromagnetic radiation or exerted some specific sequence of electric or magnetic forces.
My hand throbbed in pain, although I could tell nothing was broken.
I found myself in a well-equipped biological laboratory. Barbara gave me some antiseptic ointment and bandages. I stood beside a DNA sequencer and wrapped up my fingers. “Why did you warn me?” I asked.
"Well, someone had to. I realized that you were going to get at the truth sooner or later. Since you wouldn't have listened to me at the time, I had to get your attention in some way or another."
"I'm not sure I've gotten to the truth yet."
"I knew you'd say something like that."
"How did you know I was here?"
"You talked to Daddy's AI, and then when you didn't leave campus I made the clever deduction."
"You didn't answer the question."
A buzzer went off.
"Time for me to change solutions,” said Barbara, stepping to a long lab bench that ran the length of the eighty-foot room.
I watched her weigh some chemicals on a microscale and mix some solutions in a couple of beakers. The way she handled the equipment I could tell that she was no novice in the lab.
"You didn't answer my question,” I prompted.
"I monitor the institute's security sys
tem from here. I spotted your car. Nice one, by the way. You have a carbon signature even a blind Yoobie scientist could detect. And this morning I saw the Yoobie agent. Yoobie agents always trigger the alarms."
"You knew the AI called me?"
"I told it to."
I watched as Barbara used a micropipette to pour drops of solution into a matrix of tiny wells in a large plate.
An idea suddenly struck me. “It was you, not Kirst. You're the one who made the discovery,” I said. She'd probably spent her entire childhood in a laboratory. What else was there to do for a smart young person who couldn't mingle in society because she didn't officially exist? “You came up with the link between genes and emotions and intelligence, didn't you? Arden took credit, but you're responsible for it. Right?"
"You can hardly blame him for taking credit. He couldn't tell them about me, could he?"
"Who killed Arden Kirst?"
Barbara frowned. “He did.” She peeled latex gloves from her hands. “I need to let these experiments cook for a while. In the meantime, how about we go somewhere and talk?"
"What happened to your father?"
"The drug has a few side effects,” said Barbara, with little emotion. “My father became addicted to a psychological state called dysphoria."
* * * *
I was astounded when she lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
We were sitting in a small room with Spartan furnishings. Three chairs—two with cushions—a ratty sofa, and a folding table. She'd offered me the sofa but I sat down in one of the cushioned chairs, and she took the other.
She saw me staring at the cigarette. “I know it's a vice. But tobacco relaxes me like nothing else."
"Where did you get it? I thought Yoobie sprayed tobacco plants into extinction."
"There's probably a lot you don't know about Yoobie. But everybody knows how incompetent they are. Idiots! Their response to any problem is to banish the symptom—they attack the result of the problem, not the cause. They ban tobacco, guns, junk food, red meat, drugs, nukes, carbon dioxide, and they'd ban alcohol too if they didn't make a fortune in tax revenue on Yoobie beer. Not only have they failed to solve problems, they've managed to make almost everyone in the country a criminal."
Analog SFF, June 2010 Page 20
