Artificial Evolution

by Joseph R. Lallo

  The receptionist glanced aside. In a subwindow, Ma pulled up a data access feed—just one of many backdoor access points that Black Hill would be furious to learn she’d been able to install. The receptionist was evidently checking the credentials, tracking down the forged request they had inserted earlier, and scrolling through the procedure for authorizing an unscheduled private session.

  “Okay, Dr. Planchard, everything seems to be in order. I just need to confirm your identity. I’m sending an access code to the contact on file. When you receive it, please read the code aloud.”

  Michella’s eyes shot open. They’d run through this as a possible security hurdle they would have to clear. Ma had claimed it was “unlikely” that Black Hill would deem a second point of verification necessary, and her capacity to circumvent such a security measure was “probable.” Neither word had filled Michella with confidence. Six more windows popped open as Ma went to work. Michella wasn’t an information technology expert, but it looked like Ma was accessing various network layers. A jumble of commands and text swept by, listing off technical buzzwords more quickly than Michella could read them. Finally the screens dropped away, with the exception of one that displayed the words “Packet Redirect Successful.” Another window popped open displaying the security message.

  “It says CY3HK-MMLK5-XVXL2,” the simulation stated.

  “Hold, please,” the receptionist said. Her video feed cut to a splash screen displaying an image of the blocky prison exterior with the prison’s logo overlaid.

  Michella shook her head. The prison had a logo. It may as well have been a university. The receptionist popped back up after a moment.

  “He is being pulled from common hour. When he is situated in private viewing room 4, I will transfer the connection. Is there anything else?”

  “No, thank you. That’s fine.”

  Again they were dumped to the splash screen. Michella’s eyes darted about, briefly wishing there was someone else in the room to share in her disbelief at how easy it had been to circumvent the communication control of a major prison.

  “Is something wrong, Ms. Modane?” Ma asked.

  “No, no… it’s just that… that went flawlessly, and effortlessly. Shouldn’t it be more difficult to speak privately with a man who very nearly orchestrated the destruction of two whole star systems and who may be part of a pan-global terrorist organization?”

  “Complex predictive algorithms are being utilized to make sixty-thousand reroutes per second to stay ahead of the malicious access detection software in place on their network. Massive computational resources were utilized to craft a photorealistic audiovisual facsimile with real-time interaction. The system was previously prepped for access by multiple incursions by Garotte over several years, and the initial access was facilitated by access codes found on a data disc that was physically stolen by an associate of Garotte during an infiltration mission. No part of this was effortless, though I am pleased to know that I have made it appear so.”

  “Ah. Then I guess I should be worried about the sort of thing you could do if you put your mind to it. So to speak.”

  “There is no need for the qualifier ‘so to speak.’ While I do not have a brain, I feel it can be rightly said that I have a mind.” The various data windows, still open from Ma’s interception of the message, began to scroll again. “They are transferring the connection. The connection will initiate with the simulation in place, until we can be certain that the feed is not being observed in any way.”

  “Good thinking.”

  The splash screen updated with the words “Transferring to Private Viewing Room 4.” Shortly after, the video feed switched to a man with a graying crew cut: William Trent. The prison makeover had been extensive. In addition to the haircut, he was dressed in a high-visibility orange jumpsuit, though it fit him well enough to have been tailored. Knowing the clientele of this prison, it wasn’t unreasonable to suspect that it had been. He was in his midfifties and had the intense expression and penetrating stare worn by all men of influence when presented with an unpleasant but necessary task. Visible behind him was a taupe-painted wall that was utterly featureless. He was seated on a backless stool, and his hands were held behind his back unnaturally. A guard in a snappy blue uniform was hunched behind him. After some clicks and beeps, Trent slowly swung his arms in front of him and rubbed at his wrists. The guard clicked the pair of removed cuffs on to his belt and rumbled something about Trent knowing “the drill,” then departed.

  The words “Audio Muted” appeared on the screen.

  “Visual and network sensors indicate that the room and the connection are not being observed in any manner,” Ma said.

  “Good, then let’s—”

  “Out with it!” barked Trent. “What’s gone wrong now?”

  He glared at the screen. Michella grinned.

  “Now there’s an interesting way to talk to your therapist. Leave the simulation up, but put it on manual and unmute,” Michella said. When the image in the corner of the screen smoothly shifted to her own expression, she spoke. “Do you recall the details of our last session?”

  “Of course I remember. You were giving me bad news. It seems your purpose is to give me news of the remarkably creative list of screw-ups and failures that your goddamn organization has assembled. What’s gone wrong now?”

  Michella raised her eyebrows.

  “Don’t give me that look. Just tell me what went wrong!”

  “Listen to me, William, I—”

  “… Who is this?” he said, his voice a low rumble and his face transmitting homicidal intentions with remarkable clarity.

  “You may as well drop the simulation,” Michella said.

  The image at the corner of the screen faded to Michella’s own face, and a spectrum of emotions rushed across Trent’s face. First, there was confusion, then recognition, and finally seething hatred.

  “Modane…”

  “I’m happy to see you remember me, Mr. Trent.”

  “What the hell is this?”

  “A more interesting question is why you would seem to be ordering around your therapist and demanding information from him. And while I’d love to hear how and why you’ve managed to set up an information mule, I’m not sure how long we will remain in contact, and I have some crucial matters to discuss with you.”

  “What makes you think that I’d say anything to you?”

  “I’d spent quite a bit of time coming up with a convincing list of reasons, but I’d say at this point the most valid reason is that I’ve now got the name of a man who’s been acting as an illegal messenger for you, and if you don’t work with me during this conversation, I’ll turn my attentions to him. That ought to be a fascinating thread.”

  He didn’t have a reply, but his face once again warned of significant and creative violence in the not-too-distant future.

  “Are you familiar with an organization called the Neo-Luddites?”

  His expression remained utterly unchanged. “The group that attacked Weston University. Yes, Ms. Modane. To my great displeasure, I have witnessed a number of your reports on that particular group. I believe the security staff like to taunt me with images of you, considering your role in my fall from grace.”

  “Then you’ll know about their military background. You have a military background, don’t you, sir?”

  “I fail to see the relevance.”

  “You were also the VectorCorp Security head. Is it accurate to say you’d have knowledge and authority over any software countermeasures to data theft that might be in place on VectorCorp Security ships?”

  “Of course.”

  “And what if I was to tell you that analysis has suggested that proprietary, noncommercial drive-wiping software of VectorCorp origin was also in place on a Neo-Luddite vessel?”

  “I would accuse you of slander and demand you present proof.”

  “I believe that could be arranged,” Michella said with confidence. “Let’s move on for
now. Are you familiar with the current crisis on Movi?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice had the enforced steadiness of a poker player rigidly maintaining a bluff.

  “I suppose that’s possible. After all, the whole planet was cut off from the rest of the galaxy a number of days ago. I understand there’s some disinformation flying around about the cause. Let me summarize. A robotic specimen was discovered on Myer-Delta. It was of unknown origin, and it was discovered due to a Neo-Luddite squad attempting to retrieve it. The robot turned out to be a self-replicating machine, one that can only be reliably disabled with EMP weaponry. The squad of Neo-Luddites were armed almost exclusively with EMP weaponry. They knew what they were looking for, and they knew despite the fact that even the automated monitoring system failed to pick up so much as a single frame of video of the robot.”

  Trent was unmoved. Michella continued.

  “The robot escaped containment and quickly produced enough replicas to destroy the lab that was studying it. This was following contact from the military requiring that research be discontinued pending military review. Following the robot escape, the military immediately instituted a quarantine and commenced preparations to devastate the entire surface of the planet. This suggests they too are aware of the threat the robots pose. Neo-Luddites and the Teeker military both responding as though they are fully aware of what to the rest of the galaxy was a threat so unknown it was assumed by many to be extra-terrestrial is something I find very disturbing.”

  “There are some things the public is not meant to know.”

  “As a journalist, I’d have to disagree. And I’ve got quite a bit of information.” She began tapping through the images, schematics, and videos, piling them into the video feed. “The world will be finding out about this. And it will be finding out about the Spark Light Region. And cooperation between VectorCorp and the military in the cover-up of the real disaster in the Spark Light Region. And the link between that event, the rise of the Neo-Luddites, and chain of leadership in VectorCorp’s Security division.” She punctuated each sentence with a new image and presented each point like a prizefighter delivering hooks and jabs, but Trent had no reaction at all. “I’ll be blunt, Mr. Trent. I believe you are a Neo-Luddite, very possibly their leader, but certainly the reason they’ve had a surge in both success and resources lately. I believe when we removed you from your position of authority and took away the personal army you’d crafted out of VectorCorp Security, you found a new one. I believe you’ve been using the Neo-Luddites as your field operatives, feeding them intelligence, guiding their actions, and giving them supplies. I believe you’ve been doing it from within the prison, possibly from the very first day that you were locked up. And I believe that you are behind this disaster. Have you got anything to say for yourself?”

  He leaned forward, gazing at the screen, and slowly his expression began to change. He tapped at the schematic presented.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked, for the first time showing what may have been concern in his voice. “This is a complete mechanical scan. The specimen on Movi was mostly organic, and the laboratory was destroyed by the time a mechanical device could have been studied.”

  “Interesting. Now you know all about the situation.”

  “Tell me where you got it!”

  “We have been conducting our own investigation on the robots,” she said.

  “You removed one from the planet…” He delivered the words with rumbling anger peppered with disbelief, as though he’d just watched her drop a match into a crate of dynamite. “The Gen-Mechs are a plague. They will devour planets and spread. They can’t be stopped. The only hope to even slow them is to starve them out. Eliminate as many as you can and the raw materials they need to repair and restore themselves.”

  “The proper precautions have been taken. We are seeking a solution that doesn’t involve destroying a whole planet.”

  “You have no clue the task you are undertaking. Greater minds than yours have tackled this problem… You think you know what happened in the Spark Light Region. You know nothing. You couldn’t dream of the destruction, the sacrifice. We will be lucky if the destruction can be limited to a single planet. Who could you possibly have found to…? The inventor. You’re on Big Sigma, with Karter Dee.”

  “That’s right. We’re working with the man who thwarted your attempt to open a wormhole and destroy two star systems. And if I’m right, then he and his crew have been consistently thwarting your further attempts at whatever you’ve been using the Neo-Luddites to achieve.”

  Trent sat for a moment, his face impassive but his eyes revealing a churning mind. “Have you been able to read the data from the Gen-Mech?”

  “We have.”

  “How much progress have you made?”

  “Some, but we need—”

  “You need an early generation data dump and schematic,” he supplied. Again there was a heavy silence. “An exchange. I assume Mr. Alexander is with you?”

  “He is.”

  “Diode Station 888, nine hours. Mrs. Daniels. Bring your data. Make no direct mention of me, or there will be consequences. We’ll consider this a test, Ms. Modane. For all of our sakes, I hope you pass.”

  Before she could question him further, he closed the connection on his end. Michella didn’t even take a moment to blink.

  “Find out where Diode Station 888 is and get Trevor. He’s got a job to do.”

  Chapter 22

  “Nine hours. Nine hours. Nine hours,” Lex muttered, marching through the hallway of the lab, heading for the door. As luck would have it, he’d just completed a test on Karter’s follicle stimulator, so he had two eyebrows to furrow in confusion and worry. Squee trotted along beside him, trying to keep up as Solby ran excited circles around her.

  “Why do you keep saying that?” Michella asked.

  “Because it’s nine hours! Not nineteen, or ninety?”

  “Eight hours and thirty-nine minutes, more accurately,” Ma stated.

  He jabbed anxiously at his slidepad, pulling up star charts and plugging in values.

  “That’s basically the straight-line distance between here and there divided by the maximum speed of the SOB.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “I can think of two. First, I said maximum speed, not maximum safe speed. I’m going to be redlining the engine the entire way. And that’s the straight-line distance. We might not be able to go in a straight line. There are things like planets and stars to worry about. Gravity fields, nebulas, debris clusters. Things you don’t want to go whipping through at multiples of the speed of light. Most ships go way out of the way, taking huge detours through very carefully maintained and monitored routes to ensure safety. Even freelancers like me take some time to plot out paths that are at least moderately nonsuicidal.”

  “You make it sound like space is crowded.”

  “It isn’t, it’s mostly empty. But mostly is a word that gets you killed when you mistake it for completely.”

  “It isn’t as though I’ve had a chance to negotiate for more time. Can you do it?”

  “I’m heading for the door, aren’t I?” he said. “Ma, is the SOB fueled up?”

  “Fueled, tuned, and sixty-seven percent complete with its start-up procedure. I have loaded a route through the debris field into your navigation system and loaded your star charts and threat assessments with the most up-to-date data available. I have also resupplied you with food, water, and hygienic supplies.” As if choreographed to intercept them at precisely the right moment, a mechanical arm holding a data chip rolled out from a side hall. “The data for the exchange is on this chip. I have included the encryption key in a mission briefing that I have also downloaded to the SOB computer.”

  “Thanks, Ma. You’re a lifesaver.” He took the chip. “This is going to be rough.”

  “This really seems like something you’d be more enthusiastic about. Pushing the ship to the lim
it. Fancy flying and all that?”

  “When’s the last time you slept, Mitch?”

  “During the flight here I got a few hours in.”

  “Not me. I got a few catnaps in between jukes and plotting routes. And then I spent however long we’ve been here getting pummeled and singed by Karter’s inventions, and now I’ve got nine hours of knife-edge flying ahead of me. And not the exciting kind. The ‘stare at gravitational sensors, make minute adjustments in order to avoid being thrown off course, and pray we don’t hit any particularly dense dust clouds’ kind. So, again, it’s gonna be rough.”

  “You’ve got to do it.”

  “I know. I’m going to do it. It’s just going to be rough, and I’m not looking forward to it. Ma, did you include anything with lots of caffeine in it when you resupplied me.”

  “I am afraid not. In the time available, I can offer you… Processing… A pack of Vice Stix.”

  “Better than nothing. Thanks again.”

  “As they are rather highly valued by Karter, I will need to charge you for them.”

  “How much?”

  “It will raise your owed amount to seven million one thousand five hundred credits.”

  “Seven million. Seven million…”

  “This is a curious new verbal tick you have developed,” Ma said.

  “How much is the tab without the Vice Stix on it?”

  “Precisely seven million.”

  “But I didn’t have a tab before! Karter is doing a free estimate right now!”

  “In order to release his current findings to you, he required a promise of payment.”

  “And how much have I earned from my testing?”

  “Three million.”

  “So I still owe four million?”

  “No. You originally owed ten million.”

  “Fantastic. It’s been a while since I owed massive amounts of money to a lunatic. Nice to be on familiar ground.”

  “Do you still wish me to supply you with the Vice Stix?”

  “Let’s see… pay an extra fifteen hundred credits and eat some nasty caffeinated meat, or potentially pass out, blow myself up, and doom a whole planet. Yeah, I think I’ll take them.”