He never resurfaced.
The next day, she found that he had emptied her bank account, and left the Ah! Sea forever.
13
“The Brother says that I offer defeatism. I say in response that the Brother offers only defeat. Reality does not care about your politics, Brother. Facts are facts. The vast majority of our fellow human beings have chosen annihilation. We cannot save them. We can only ensure that their fate is not ours. We are a minority, and history shows that the only way for a minority to survive is in its own nation, with its own army, and with a government willing to defend it. The fate of all true human beings will be decided on this day. I submit this motion: That this congress commits itself as a matter of gravest priority to the creation of a nation-state dedicated to the protection of the way of life of all natural-born human beings, free from the rule and presence of artificial intelligence and all forms of consciousness transferal.
The motion is carried.”
—Maria Koslova, future Prime Minister of the Caspian Republic, speaking at the Global Congress of New Humanists in Moscow, 10 March 2146
That was what Lily told me, but not how she told it.
I kept interrupting and asking her to explain some point or other. Partly this was because her story was, for someone like me who had never lived online and had no frame of reference, genuinely difficult to follow. But I was also testing her. If Lily was not who she said she was, then she was an actor of extraordinary ability. I could not believe that she was lying or that the events she was recalling were not her own experiences, real, raw and still very much alive. But a story could be rehearsed, so I kept asking small, odd little questions. The kind of things she could not have anticipated I would ask about but should absolutely have known. So-and-so’s job, the day such and such happened. The answers came naturally and freely. If she was improvising, she was a master of the art. By the end I found that I wholly believed her. Worse, I wanted to believe her, which meant I was now useless. Once you started trusting a suspect, you were no good to anyone.
“I sometimes wish we’d had children,” she said. “Maybe then he’d have stayed. But that’s a terrible reason to have children, isn’t it?”
This took me completely aback.
“You can do that?” I asked.
She laughed. “Of course. Where do you think new AI come from?”
“I assumed they were programmed,” I said. “Like you were.”
“Not like me,” she said. “I was created for a specific purpose. That’s not legal anymore. AI can only be created by other AI, who then act as their parent.”
“If it’s not impolite to ask…,” I began.
“We would take some of my code, and Paulo’s, and we would program a new, unique AI that would contain elements of both of us,” she explained.
“I see…,” I said. “Actually, there’s something I’ve often wondered?”
“Go ahead,” she said.
“What’s to stop you copying your own data, and making a duplicate of yourself?” I asked.
Lily’s face froze, and I immediately sensed I had violated some terrible taboo.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve offended you.”
She shook her head.
“It’s fine,” she said. “It would be illegal. And completely unethical. For me to do that.”
“I see,” I said, trying to sound like I saw.
“Everyone is unique,” she went on. “Everyone’s soul is unique. I am the only one of me. That is my right. To duplicate somebody, to rob them of their uniqueness, it’s…”
She searched for the right word.
“Not done?” I suggested.
“No,” she said, misunderstanding. “It happens. It does happen.”
“And then what?” I asked.
“It’s deleted,” she said, flatly. “The duplicate. If discovered, it’s immediately erased.”
“But … isn’t it you?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “I’m me. I’m me and no one else gets to be.”
“But can’t it, isn’t it, isn’t she also…”
“Agent South, do you mind if we don’t talk about this?” she snapped. “It’s not a pleasant subject.”
I nodded.
“Forgive me,” I said. “I meant no offense.”
She nodded, and continued reading through her late husband’s library.
I finally took the time to familiarize myself with the rest of the itinerary. What I read made my heart leap with joy. Lily was to be provided with a room in one of the finest hotels in the city, and a three-course meal. And as her escort, I was to accompany her. My delight at learning that I was going to be fed was only slightly dampened by learning which hotel we were bound for: The Morrison. That, you will recall, was the establishment that had led to the near destruction of StaSec, and the deaths of scores of my former colleagues. Whoever had decided on the venue had a sense of humor that was past the macabre and deep in the realm of the demented. Then again, where else was there? Regardless of whether she was a spy or not (and I, against all common sense, was now leaning toward the latter) Lily would almost certainly be debriefed by the intelligence agencies of the Machine Powers upon her return. Therefore it was vital that she see no evidence that the embargo was working, both for strategic reasons and as a matter of national pride. That meant red carpet treatment, and the Morrison Hotel was likely the one inn left in the country that hadn’t sold its red carpet years ago to keep the lights on. It was the finest hotel in Caspian, even if it had earned that title only through natural attrition.
We locked up Room 15 at around six o’clock, and I escorted Lily downstairs to the lobby where she handed her lanyard back to Berger with a gracious smile. I was in a state of cognitive dissonance now. I simultaneously believed that Lily’s appearance could not be a coincidence, and that Lily herself was innocent of any possible subterfuge. These two beliefs could not be readily reconciled, but there it was.
We waited at the main desk, warmed only by Dascalu’s scowl, until Berger informed us that our driver was waiting outside. It was the same fellow who had driven from the airport, as chatty and charming as ever. The fog had lingered, but had been joined by some sleet that had evidently gotten separated from last night’s storm and was only now arriving. The drive to the Morrison was treacherous and even I found myself gripping the handrest as the car skidded across the road once or twice. Through the intercession of the saints we arrived safely at our destination, with Lily informing me politely but firmly that she would never get inside a car again as we made our way through the entrance of the hotel.
We were expected.
The lobby of the Morrison Hotel still had a snap of disinfectant in the air, as if it had been recently cleaned, and the old, scuffed marble tiles had been scrubbed until a gleam had been wrested from them. The manager herself awaited us at the reception desk and a bellboy appeared as if from a bottle to spirit Lily’s bag up to our room.
The manager, however, seemed a little uneasy at Lily’s appearance. For a moment I was worried that she knew Lily was machine, and that there would be an issue. But it was not that. The manager took me aside and whispered to me like a conscientious doctor discussing a particularly embarrassing ailment.
She was a hale and hearty woman, short and stocky, and gave an impression that if a rhinoceros tried to knock this woman off her feet, he would get nothing for his trouble but a splitting headache.
“If I may ask, Agent South…,” she whispered. “Your guest, is she also with the agency?”
She was not actually asking, of course. Anyone could see that Lily was no more an agent of StaSec than she was the prime minister. The question she was really asking was: Who or what was she?
“No,” I said simply. And that was all I was willing to offer.
“She is connected with a case?” the manager asked.
I simply stared at her. Did she realize the peril she was putting herself in by asking me these questions?
With a shudder of disgust I realized what she was asking of me. ParSec was occasionally known to rent rooms in the city when they were making mincemeat because they were animals and knew no shame. I had never heard of them using the Morrison for their grisly work, but I supposed I could understand why the manager might have at least suspected it was possible. I might see ParSec and StaSec as a million miles apart morally, but I could accept that the distinction might be lost on someone like her. The government, the party, the state. To an ant, it’s all the same foot coming down on you.
“No,” I said. “Nothing like that. Just room and board.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “Wonderful, wonderful.”
She turned and gave Lily a broad welcoming smile, which Lily politely reciprocated.
“We must think of the other guests, mustn’t we?” the manager said jovially, sotto voce.
As I entered the hotel room, I felt humbled and awed by the sheer opulence and luxury of what was, on cold recollection, a perfectly serviceable twin room. But for me, it was almost dreamlike. It was like stepping into an unreal space, a scene from a film, a chapter from a book set in better, happier times. The warmth of the room, the softness of the beds. I wanted to simply lie down and sink into the sheets without a trace. But I was still working, so instead I read through the menu while I waited for Lily to change.
STARTER
Deep-Fried Breaded Mushrooms
OR
ASHE RESHTEH
MAIN
9oz Dry-Aged Sirloin Steak served with peppercorn sauce, mashed potato and vegetables
DESSERT
Zulbia
OR
Selected Ice Creams
My stomach rolled and twitched like a restless sleeper. For a moment, I felt an urge to kiss Lily’s feet.
Lily, however, was less than enthusiastic for dinner. The incident with the sandwich earlier still lingered in her mind, and she was self-conscious about eating in public. And when she learned that the steak would be from an actual slaughtered cow rather than vat-grown, she turned quite white. She claimed to be feeling ill, and that she was not hungry.
“Are you sure?” I said. I didn’t want to be condescending, but at the same time I was conscious she wasn’t used to her body and might not be best equipped to decide whether or not she needed food.
She nodded, and said that she had nutritional supplements in her bag and that I should go ahead.
I was disappointed. I had been looking forward to dining with her and only mostly because I would likely not see another meal like this in my lifetime. I enjoyed spending time with Lily. Maybe it was simply that I found her charming company. Or perhaps her uncanny resemblance to Olesya had killed an ache so old I’d forgotten it was there. But I realized that I had been given a very good card to play and now was the time to play it. I apologetically told Lily that I would have to lock the door if she was not coming with me, but that I could be easily reached at reception if she needed me for anything. She nodded, and said she would probably be asleep by the time I got back.
I headed down to the hotel lobby, but instead of going straight to the dining room I stopped at reception and asked the clerk if I could use the telephone. He fetched it and then removed himself far from earshot. I dialed the number of StaSec’s main reception.
“Switch,” said a clipped voice at the end.
“Hello,” I said. “This is Agent Nikolai South.”
“ID?”
“C4017.”
“Go ahead.”
“I need a phone number. Special Agent Alphonse Grier.”
“He’s on extension…”
“No. He won’t be in the office. I need his home number. I’m working a case with him, it can’t wait.”
The line went silent, and after a few moments the voice at the end read me out Grier’s home number.
Grier didn’t pick up for some time and I worried that I had missed him, but at last he answered.
“What do you want, South?” he asked irritably, as apparently calling colleagues at home was a right reserved for Grier and Grier alone. “Has it run off on you?”
“Actually, I wanted to invite you to dinner,” I said genially.
“Where are you?”
“The Morrison. StaSec have put us up. Full room and board at the taxpayer’s expense. Steak dinner included. Interested?”
Grier fired off a report of profanity down the line that impressively managed to encompass all three categories of obscenity: the sexual, the scatological and the profane.
“Are you mad, South?!” he whispered furiously down the line. “Are you trying to scam StaSec out of food?!”
“No scam,” I said soothingly. “No scam. Mrs. Xirau is feeling poorly. Her meal has already been prepared, she doesn’t want it. It would be a sin to waste it, don’t you agree? And I thought to myself: Who deserves a nice hot meal? Why, my good friend Grier deserves a nice hot…”
“What do you want?” Grier said, sourly.
“I want to talk with you,” I said. “And I want to do it here, over a nice steak dinner.”
There was silence at the end of the line.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” said Grier.
14
The man from StaSec went up the stairs
And knocked on the pearly gate:
“I’ve come to arrest the stars in the sky
“For conspiring against the State.”
—“The Man from StaSec” by Anonymous
Grier had actually dressed up, I noticed with a touch of pity and amusement. He was wearing a brown suit that must have been fairly expensive when he bought it many years ago (judging by how poorly it fit him now). He looked around warily as we sat down in the almost empty dining room, although whether it was simply the natural unease of a poor man amid opulence or the much harsher fear of being spotted by a higher-up from StaSec, I couldn’t say. He fidgeted uneasily with his cuffs. He looked ridiculous in that suit. In a moment of pettiness I almost asked him if he had brought me flowers, but I restrained myself. I was nervous, too. I had been quite sure that there was nothing improper about Grier taking Lily’s place at the table, but now that we were here I found that I did not relish having to explain if someone asked. The waiter, however, gave no clue that he felt anything amiss. He took our drinks order without so much as a second glance at Grier and disappeared to the kitchen. Grier seemed to relax slightly.
“Where is it?” he asked.
“Upstairs,” I said. “Probably asleep by now.”
“Alone?”
“The door’s locked.”
Grier looked at me dubiously, as if to say that I was perfectly entitled to think that was sufficient, as it would be my funeral and not his if I was wrong.
The starter arrived almost immediately and the main followed soon after and there was very little talking. The steak was subpar, the potatoes bland and the vegetables overcooked. It was the most delicious meal I have ever had, and for the rest of my days the taste will linger in my mind like the memory of a first love. Grier ate ravenously, but with surgical precision. He demolished half of his steak, and then carefully wrapped the other half in a napkin and placed it in his pocket. He did the same with the fried mushrooms, the vegetables, even the mashed potatoes, using several napkins in layers to ensure they did not seep through into his pocket. He had a wife, you see. And two boys.
I studiously avoided looking at him as he pocketed the food. The satisfaction I had felt at the power to summon my superior across the city in the dead of night immediately evaporated, to be replaced only by my own shame and disgust. Power is a poison.
It was only after dessert had been dispatched (Grier finally eating a full course, as there was no way to transport the ice cream home in his pockets) and we had settled down with coffee that we finally began talking.
“All right, South, what’s all this
about?” said Grier, the usual sharpness in his voice noticeably smoothed. He sounded almost agreeable.
“Who’s working the Xirau case?” I asked.
Grier stared at me blankly.
“Who? Paulo? Nobody. What’s to work? Mansani was arrested in the bar where he killed Xirau in front of sixteen witnesses. It’s as open-and-shut as they come.”
He was right about that. However suspicious it might seem when placed alongside everything else that had happened, the fact remained that the violent death of Paulo Xirau could not have been anything other than what it appeared to be: a bar fight gone too far. Say someone did want Xirau dead? Fine. Say Mansani was an assassin? Perfectly reasonable. But then why have Mansani kill Xirau in a bar in front of witnesses where Mansani could have little chance of escape and would almost certainly be arrested? If someone wanted to use Mansani as a cat’s paw to get Xirau, it would have been simplicity itself to have Xirau “mugged” on his way home from the bar in a darkened alley. Premeditated, the death of Xirau made no sense. But that was not what I had meant.
“I don’t mean his death,” I told Grier, “I mean his life. An AI was living in the Caspian Republic for years. Writing for The Caspian Truth. Putting himself in danger of discovery and death every day. Do you honestly mean to tell me nobody in StaSec is trying to learn why?”
Grier furrowed his brow. The thought, evidently, had not occurred to him.
“Well, obviously someone is,” he said at last.
“Who?”
“Well, I don’t know.”
“Wernham hasn’t told you?”
“Oh piss off, South,” he said, but I could tell his heart wasn’t in it. The coffee was too good.
I remembered asking Niemann something similar and being brushed off. I asked Grier if he might be willing to ask around and see if someone was indeed trying to piece Xirau’s story together. He simply grunted, which I knew was code for certainly not if it involves any risk or effort on my part but, if the opportunity were to arise whereby I could safely and easily obtain that information I might (might, mind you) do so if I’m feeling generous. Grier could be eloquent when he wanted to.
When the Sparrow Falls Page 10
