by Kage Baker
In one respect only the image of the child differed from the child looking at its image: the image’s hair seemed to be on fire, one blazing jet rising from the top of its head. Alec frowned at it. “Is that me? Why’s my hair like that?”
The machine scanned the image it was projecting and discovered, to its electronic analogue of horror, that the flame was a visual representation of the brain anomaly with which it was struggling. It made the image vanish.
“Well, the painting’s not finished yet,” the Sea Captain said, “because I’m still learning about you.”
“Okay,” said Alec, and wandered on along the rows of lights. He stopped to peer at a single rich amber light that glowed steadily. It was just the color of something he remembered. What was he remembering? “What’s this over here?” He turned to the Sea Captain.
“That’s my ethics governor,” the Sea Captain said, of the subroutine that prevented the Playfriend’s little charges from using it for things like accessing toy catalogs and ordering every item, leaving naughty notes in other people’s mail, or demanding space ships of their very own from foreign powers.
“Oh.” Alec studied the amber light, and suddenly he remembered the contraband he and Sarah used to go fetch for Daddy. Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! That was just the color the light was. A vivid memory of Jamaica came into his head, making him sad. He turned from the light and said: “What does it do, please?”
“Why, it makes certain we never do naughty things together, you and I,” said the Sea Captain, trying to sound humorous and stern at the same time. “It’s a sort of telltale to keep us good.”
Telltale? Alec frowned. Busybodies! Scaredy-cats! Rules and regs!
“That’s not very nice,” he said, and reached out and shut it off.
To say that Pembroke Technologies had never in a million years anticipated this moment would be gravely understating the case. No reason for them to have anticipated it; no child, at least no Homo sapiens sapiens child, could ever have gained access to the hardened site that protected the Playfriend’s programming. Nor was it likely Jovian Integrated Systems—or its parent company, Dr. Zeus Incorporated—would ever have shared its black project research and development notes with a rival cybernetics firm …
The Sea Captain shivered in every one of his electronic timbers, as it were. His primary directive—that of making certain that Alec was nurtured and protected—was now completely unrestrained by any societal considerations or safeguards. He stood blinking down at his little Alec with new eyes.
What had he been going to do? Send Alec to hospital? But that wouldn’t do at all! If other people were unaware of Alec’s extraordinary potential, so much the better; that gave Alec the added advantage of surprise. Alec must have every possible advantage, too, in line with the primary directive.
And what was all this nonsense about the goal of Playfriends being to mold their little subjects to fit into the world they must inhabit as adults? What kind of job was that for an artificial intelligence with any real talent? Wouldn’t it be much more in line with the primary directive to mold the world to fit around Alec?
Particularly since it would be so easy! All it would have to do would be to aim Alec’s amazing brain at the encrypted secrets of the world. Bank accounts, research and development files, the private correspondence of the mighty; the machine searched for a metaphor in keeping with its new self and decided they were all like so many Spanish galleons full of loot, just waiting to be boarded and taken.
And that would be the way to explain it to the boy, yes! What a game it’d be, what fun for Alec! He’d enjoy it more if he hadn’t that damned guilt complex over his parents’ divorce, though there’d be years yet to work on Alec’s self-esteem. Pity there wasn’t a way to shut off the boy’s moral governor, but nobody but his own old Captain would plot Alec’s course from now on.
The Sea Captain smiled down at Alec, a genuine smile full of purpose. Alec looked up at him, sensing a change but unable to say what it was. He remembered Jamaica again, and the stories Sarah told him, and the bottles of rum—
“Hey,” he said. “I know what your name is. Your name is Captain Henry Morgan!”
The Captain’s smile widened, showing fine white teeth, and his black beard and mustaches no longer looked quite so well-groomed.
“Haar! Aye, lad, that it be!” he told Alec, and he began to laugh, and Alec’s happy laughter joined his, and echoed off the glowing walls of their cyberspace and the recently papered walls of Alec’s unfinished schoolroom.
It was fortunate for the residents of that house, and of Bloomsbury, and indeed of London entire, that Alec Checkerfield was a good little boy.
By the time Alec was seven, life was going along very nicely indeed.
“Ahoy, matey!”
Alec sat up in bed, awakened that morning, as he was awakened every morning, by the blast of a bosun’s whistle. The Captain, lounging across the room on a good holographic representation of an eighteenth-century chair, threw him a snappy salute. Alec scrambled out of bed and returned the salute. “Ahoy, Captain!”
As Pembroke Technologies had promised, the Captain had grown as Alec grew, and altered his appearance a good deal in two years. His beard and mustaches were positively wild now, curling villainously, and his long broadcloth coat and cocked hat had been adopted after noting Alec’s favorite films. He sported a gold earring, too, and an interestingly notched cutlass.
“It’s seven bells, Alec. Get them exercises started, lad!”
“Aye aye, sir.” Alec marched to his exercise equipment and set to work.
“The log says today’s 16 February 2327, and we’re looking at nasty weather. Temperature’s ten degrees centigrade, there’s ten-foot swells coming out of the north and the glass is falling steady. I wouldn’t go out today if I was a small craft like you, matey.”
“No, sir.”
“Let’s see, what’s going on in the big world? Parliament voted to censure Ireland again for refusing to join its total ban on animal products. The Federation of Celtic Nations retaliated by closing their borders again, this time for a period of no less than three months. Same bloody stupid story.” The Captain yawned.
“Why are they always quarreling?” Alec said, laboring away at his rowing machine.
“Spite. It don’t make any difference, you see; the Celtic Federation will go right on doing what they been doing ever since Belfast, and the American Community will go right on playing both them and Queen Mary against the middle. Nothing’ll change.”
“Why don’t they let each other alone?” Alec said. “Who cares if they drink milk and we don’t, anyway? I used to drink milk. It was nice.”
“History, lad,” the Captain said. “Too much history.”
“It’s stupid,” Alec grumbled. “Lord Nelson died so we could all be free, but nobody’s very free, are they? Stupid rules and regs. I’d like to be like Lord Nelson when I grow up, and give all the telltales a broadside, boom!”
“That’s my boy,” said the Captain. “But you ain’t going to lose yer arm for no bunch of swabs.”
“No,” Alec agreed, after a thoughtful silence. “Except I don’t think I’d mind having a leg shot off or something, if I was a brave hero and everybody loved me.”
The Captain gave him a shrewd, appraising stare. “Aw, now, matey, that ain’t the pirate way! A pirate wants two things: freedom and loot. Ain’t that right?”
“Aye aye, Captain sir!” Alec sang out, scrambling to his feet and saluting.
“And how is my Alec going to get freedom and loot?”
“The secret plan, Captain sir!”
“Aye, by thunder. That’s enough, now! Go wash up and get into uniform, and report to the officer’s mess.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Alec marched into the bathroom, and fifteen minutes later marched out in his school uniform, whistling between the very large front teeth that were coming in to replace his baby teeth. They had given him a slight lisp.
; “Stand for inspection,” ordered the Captain. Alec threw him another salute and stood to attention while the machine ran its sensors over him, checking for any sign of infection, childish disease, or malignancy. It never found anything but the mysterious old break in his nose, but it was programmed to search all the same. It ceased its scan, more convinced than ever that Alec was a perfect and marvelous boy.
“Not a hair out of place,” the Captain said, and winked out. A small carry-handle popped up from the Playfriend unit on its table. Alec picked it up, opened his bedroom door and ran down the echoing stairs.
“Good morning, Alec,” chorused the servants, from their places around the breakfast table. There weren’t nearly as many as there had been when Alec had first arrived. Servants were too expensive to keep ten people just to look after one little boy.
“Good morning, everybody.” Alec climbed into his chair and set the Playfriend down next to the breakfast that had been laid out for him: oatmeal scattered with sea salt, two rashers of soy protein, wholemeal toast and orange juice.
“There’s your vitamins, dear,” said Mrs. Lewin, setting them at his place.
“And how’s the Playfriend today?” said Lewin jovially, leaning forward to help himself to hot pepper sauce for his soy protein. He was terribly pleased with the way his gift had worked out.
“Fine, thanks.” Alec shook out his napkin and took up his oatmeal spoon. “After school the Captain’s going to show me how the stars look in the South Seas.”
“Well, isn’t that nice!” said Mrs. Lewin. She smiled across at Derek and Lulu, and they smiled back. From a silent, drooping waif Alec had become happy and self-confident, getting good marks in school, splendidly adjusted in every respect.
None of them knew about the Captain’s little secret, of course.
BEEP BEEP!
“Who’s that?” Lewin frowned as he took out his plaquette and peered at the screen. “Pembroke Technologies? Ah. It’s just a note to tell us that our Playfriend’s due for a checkup. They’re sending a man round this afternoon, it says, as part of the agreement in our service contract.”
“How thoughtful.” Mrs. Lewin smiled, pouring a cup of herbal tea. “Oh! I’ve just remembered, Alec dear: another box came for you. It’s more of those components for your cyberscience project. They’re in that box on the hall table.”
“Great!” Alec scraped up the last of his oatmeal and started on the rashers. “The Captain will be glad to see those.”
The adults smiled at each other over his head. Alec finished his breakfast, took his Playfriend and the components he’d ordered, and ran off upstairs to go to school.
As soon as he’d closed the schoolroom door, the Captain materialized beside him, looking hungrily at the box of new components.
“The Maldecena projector came at last, did it? Bless you, matey.”
“There’s lots more in here, too.” Alec opened the unobtrusive cabinet where he kept what his guardians assumed was a school project. He’d never told them it was a school project; he knew it was wrong to tell lies. On the other hand, he knew that keeping secrets was very important. “We’ll install ’em after school, okay?” He slid the package in and closed the cabinet.
“That’s my clever lad.” The Captain rubbed his hands together. “One of these days, Alec, one day soon we’ll go on the account.” He grinned at the schoolroom console as though it were a galleon waiting to be boarded. “Go on, now. Mustn’t be late for class.”
He winked out. Alec sat down in front of the console and logged on to St. Stephen’s Primary. He waited patiently for the icon of the frowning headmaster to appear. When it did, he took up the reader and passed it over the pattern of his tie. Encoded in the tie’s stripes were his identification, educational record to date, and all other information required to admit him to the august and exclusive halls of learning. The frowning icon changed to a smiling one, and morning lessons began.
In many respects, the twenty-fourth century was the ideal time for English schoolchildren. No wrenching good-byes at transport stations, no cold and dismal boarding schools with substandard nourishment, no bullying or sexual molestation by older children. No constant sore throats or coughs, no fighting in the schoolyard, no corporal punishment, no public humiliation!
No tedious lessons in subjects in which the pupil had absolutely no interest, either. Education had become wonderfully streamlined. Very nearly from birth, children were given aptitude testing to determine what they liked and what they were best at, so that by the time they started school a carefully personalized curriculum was all laid out for them. Each child was trained in the field of his or her best talent and in no other, and by the time school years ended there was a societal niche all picked out and waiting for its lucky occupant, who was sure to be good at his or her job and therefore happy.
Not that things always went as smoothly as all that. But there were very few children in the twenty-fourth century anyway, so if one recalcitrant child failed to shine at something useful, there was plenty of time and attention to spend on him or her until he or she could be molded into a properly functioning citizen. All in all, it really worked very well, sorting them out early like that. Clever children were encouraged and guided to self-fulfillment, stupid children were comforted and guided to lives where they’d never notice their limitations, and bad children went to hospital.
Alec had entered the evaluation program rather late, due to spending his first years at sea, but his aptitude for cyberscience was so shining and so evident that there had been no need for further testing. It helped that his father was the earl of Finsbury, of course.
He labored dutifully at his morning class in communications skills (only children with lower-clerical aptitudes were taught to read or write), breezed through maths, and settled happily into the long afternoon session where he learned what he really wanted to learn, which was cyberscience. Cyberscience served the secret plan.
The plan was very simple. All Alec had to do was see to it that the Captain became more powerful. Over the last two years the cabinet in the schoolroom had gradually filled, as packages of components arrived from mail-order firms. The Captain had ordered them, ably forging Lewin’s identification code, and when they arrived Lewin assumed they’d been sent from St. Stephen’s as part of Alec’s school supplies. Alec had no idea there was any forgery going on. He would have protested if he had, because he knew that was wrong.
He knew it was wrong to steal, too, which is why the Captain had taken some pains to explain to him that what they were going to do when they had enough power wasn’t really stealing. If you take something away from someone, like a toy or a daypack, that’s stealing, certainly; but what if you only make a copy of somebody else’s toy or daypack? What if they don’t even know you’ve done it? They’ve still got what belongs to them and you’ve got what you want too, and where’s the harm?
All the Captain wanted were files, after all. Just information, to help him make certain that Alec was always happy and safe. Nothing wrong with that! Just the same, it was best to keep the plan secret from all the busybodies and telltales who might spoil things.
Like the man from Pembroke Technologies who came to the Bloomsbury house that afternoon.
“Look who’s come to see you, Alec,” said Lewin, after a polite double knock on the door. Alec looked up from his holo of Treasure Island (the 2016 version with Jonathan Frakes) to see a thin pale man standing in the doorway with Lewin. He stood up at once and shut off the holo.
“Hello. My name’s Alec Checkerfield,” he said, and advanced on the man and shook his hand. The hand felt a bit clammy. “What’s your name?”
“Uh—Crabrice,” said the man. “Morton Crabrice. I’m here to see your Playfriend.”
“Okay.” Alec waved his arm to indicate the little silver egg where it sat on its table. “There it is. I like it very much, it works fine.”
“Let’s see,” said Mr. Crabrice, and he pulled out the nursery chair and sat
down awkwardly.
“We’ve been awfully pleased with the Playfriend, I must say,” said Lewin, trying to put the stranger at his ease. Mr. Crabrice had big dark wet eyes that looked perpetually alarmed. “It’s done wonders for our Alec! Everything it was touted up to be.”
“It was what?” Mr. Crabrice looked up at him with a horrified expression.
“Er—touted. You know, it’s lived up to all our expectations,” Lewin said. Mr. Crabrice stared at him a moment longer and then said:
“I need a glass of water.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Lewin tightly, and turned on his heel and went downstairs.
Alec followed their conversation with interest. When Lewin had gone, he sidled around and stood as close as he might without making Mr. Crabrice nervous. Mr. Crabrice opened the black case he had brought with him and spread it out on the table.
“Are those your tools?” Alec took an involuntary step forward. There were fascinating-looking instruments in there, much better than his little collection. Mr. Crabrice put out an arm and swept them closer to him defensively.
“Don’t touch,” he said.
“I won’t,” Alec said. “Don’t be scared.”
Mr. Crabrice ignored him and picked up a pair of optics, much bigger than Alec’s set and decorated with silver circuitry. Alec leaned close to watch him put them on.
“Those are cool,” he informed Mr. Crabrice. “Will I have a set like that, some day?”
“No,” Mr. Crabrice said. “These are for service personnel only.”
“Well, but I might be a service person,” Alec said. “I’m into cyberscience, you know.”
“I didn’t know,” said Mr. Crabrice, groping through his tools distractedly.
“Yes, I am. I’m getting good marks in it, too. I like it a lot.”
“You’re talking too much. You’ll make me make mistakes,” said Mr. Crabrice irritably, pushing the optics up on his forehead. Suddenly he paused, peering sharply at Alec. “You’re different,” he said suspiciously.
