We all sat there in silence, waiting for him to say something else. Anything else, really. He failed to oblige us, and instead just stood there staring while we gave each other anxious glances. Finally, Andrea said it. “Thomas?”
“Yes?”
“Thomas, I know there’s more to your report than just telling us it’s a complicated process to recover data from an android body. We already knew that.”
Julian Huxley was a wealthy man, the chairman of Huxley Industries. He was also something more than that, although my belief went back and forth on just what he really was. According to Huxley the one time I met him face-to-face, he was born as a man named Pyotr Vasily Vasiliev on November 9, 2015 and lived 14 human lifetimes since then by imprinting his mind into a new body every time the old one became too sick and frail. Eventually he imprinted himself into an android and continued to exist for a while as a being of pure data. That’s when I met him, though he was shot to death only moments later.
“Sorry, I think it’s time to write the note-taking project off as a failure.” Thomas put the last two sheets of notes aside, ran his hand through his hair, and turned away from us. “It’s frustrating. The fact is, I can’t make any further progress on recovering any data from Huxley’s body without new parts.”
“New parts?” asked Andrew. “What new parts? The man died—”
Andrea held up a hand to stop him. “Thomas, all we need to know right now is what you have so far. That’s what this meeting is about. I sent you a memo, remember?”
He waved a hand dismissively. “Yes, I remember. But how am I to tell you what I have so far? None of you grasp the underlying principles...”
Thomas was being unusually difficult, even for Thomas. I glanced at Raven, who shook her head just slightly to tell me to keep my mouth shut. I sat still and waited, and Thomas slowly began to open up.
“I can extract certain sequences, certain patterns of code, and I can compare those to existing patterns in my database to look for known similarities, but translating any of that into meaningful physical-world information is an incredibly slow project. The way things stand right now, you could employ a thousand men working around the clock to sift through the mountains of raw data I’m generating, and it would still take years to distill anything that might get us the slightest bit closer to the Eleven.”
If Julian Huxley could be believed, the Eleven were his enemy. They were the people, if that was the word for it, who were ultimately responsible for his assassination.
“How many years are we talking about?” asked Andrea.
“Decades. Decades of work.”
Thomas looked depressed, with his shoulders slumped and his gaze turned away. Perhaps that was the explanation for his eccentric behavior. It wasn’t usually possible to tell how Thomas was feeling at all. In fact, if I had to guess, I would have said he didn’t have any feelings, or at least not as that term was generally understood.
“The body was that fried?” asked Andrew.
“The components that would have acted as a Rosetta Stone for Huxley’s memories were irrecoverably damaged,” Thomas replied. “Without them, I can only compare and deduce to yield any kind of useful data.”
“Can’t you fabricate them yourself?” asked Veraldi.
Thomas snorted. “You’re assuming I haven’t already tried? No, Vincenzo, I cannot. They cannot be fabricated in a home laboratory such as the one I have here.”
The equipment Section 9 provided for Thomas was well beyond anything that could have been described as a “home laboratory.” I suspected the real answer was a bit more subtle than Thomas was letting on. In all likelihood, he simply didn’t know how because they were Huxley Industries’ proprietary technology. Thomas wasn’t the sort of man who would admit he couldn’t do something.
“Alright, Thomas,” Andrea told him. “You can stop working on that project for the time being. We aren’t going to have you extracting data manually for decades; that just isn’t an effective use of either your time or ours. Better?”
Thomas perked up suspiciously fast. He turned back toward the group with such a big grin on his face that I suspected him of faking the whole display to get out of a project that bored him. “Much. So how are we going to find out about the Eleven without Huxley’s data?”
“We’re not,” replied Andrea. “We’re just going to do it the smart way instead of the hard way. You said you needed some parts. What parts are those?”
“Specific components from the systems used to create the android. I would need to send you images from the blueprint to indicate what they are, but I would describe them as devices used to map Huxley’s mind and the system that generated the experiential network supporting it.”
“Send them to Tycho here. Tycho, are you up for another manhunt?”
“Always,” I answered, although the truth was I would rather have remained at the safehouse for a few days before having to go back out. For all I knew, this mission wasn’t even going to turn out to be on Earth at all.
“Track down Lucien Klein. He might be able to help us get our hands on those devices.”
“Lucien Klein?” I frowned. “You mean he’s still alive?”
When we let him go, it was to serve as human bait for the forces that had killed Huxley. I was sent to Mars shortly after that and had kind of forgotten about him.
“He did what we asked him to do, so that’s a yes. I don’t know where he is at the moment, but the info should be in the system. He’s being watched by our people, although I doubt he knows it. You might have a little bit of trouble even getting through to him, because he’s living under a false identity and he’s understandably a bit paranoid about the prospect of being tracked down and killed by the same cyborgs that got Huxley. But once you do get through to him, you’ll have the joy of talking to the man.”
During his time in Section 9’s custody, Klein was not exactly the most pleasant conversationalist. In fact, he was an arrogant and intentionally offensive individual. Out of the two aspects of the assignment, talking to him was probably going to be the worst.
“That sounds like a real joy. Jones, can you help me find the man?”
Andrew Jones was our expert at infiltration, in charge of helping us fit in no matter where we were. This was mildly ironic, because Jones himself always seemed to stick out of the woodwork like a loose nail. Still, it stood to reason that he would know the system better than anyone else in the room.
“Sure thing. We can go have a look at the database as soon as we’re done here.”
“Alright then,” said Andrea. “Field reports from everyone. Veraldi?”
“As far as I can tell, there’s been no further activity from the illegal cyborgs. They’re either lying low or they’ve been pulled from this job completely.”
“Lying low is my guess.” Andrea brushed her bangs back out of her eyes. “That last scenario was extremely public, and there’s still a major Sol Federation investigation going on. Whoever was behind it is probably happier not to be noticed for a bit now that Huxley is dead. Sommer?”
“Done and dealt with.”
Raven Sommer was a sniper, so by this she must have meant that some unfortunate individual was no longer among the living. I didn’t know the details. It must have come up while I was off-world.
Andrea nodded. “Jones?”
“I’m laying the groundwork for several different scenarios right now. I might need a budget adjustment, though. Rents are going up again.”
“You might just have to stay someplace that isn’t top of the line, Andrew. Someplace affordable.”
“I might?” he scoffed. “And how are you going to explain it to the Operator when our systems get breached because of the shitty security at those affordable rental units?”
“Okay, okay. I’ll bring it up, see what I can get you. Anyone need anything else from me at the moment?” When nobody said anything, she stood and stretched her arms. “Okay. Jones, find Klein for Tycho and then go b
ack to your project. Tycho, come see me before you head out.”
“Will do,” I replied, and stood up to go with Jones. This was the life of Section 9, but it honestly would have been nicer to get a little more time to just rest, even for a minute before going back out into the world. I made a note to myself to ask Andrea about vacation time and followed Jones into his room.
Our team spent so much time living in safehouses or hotel suites that no one’s room ever had much of a personality. Jones, however, had gone the other way. Every available surface was covered with clothing—most of it quite stylish—devices of one kind or another, or items I couldn’t even define if I wanted to. Even the bed was completely buried, and Jones had to push a pile of expensive-looking suit jackets aside to make room for me to sit.
“This place looks like shit,” I commented.
“I am well aware of that. Now, let’s see what we can find for you.”
He seemed a little bit testy, so I just sat down on the edge of his bed while he gestured in the air. I didn’t understand the appeal of using a gesture interface for your dataspike—I preferred a simple menu with ocular tracking—but he did tend to speak with his hands. Maybe the choice was intentional so he could disguise accessing it during conversation.
“Okay, here we go,” Jones said. “Lucien Klein lives in Italy under an assumed name. Thurston Michael, an associate director for The 3000 Initiative, some AI policy think tank.”
I frowned. “So, he’s still working in AI? What’s the point of changing your name if you’re not going to change your profession? Whoever hired those Augmen wouldn’t have any trouble hunting him down.”
Andrew shrugged. “I don’t know, Tycho. The man is kind of a fool if you ask me. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s sharp as a whip, but he’s a fool. I’ll send you the info you need. Make sure to drop the monitors a note as well. Let them know you’re going to be making an approach. Otherwise they’ll flag it, and we’ll get the call.”
“Okay, thanks.”
I left Andrew to his chaotic room and went to see Andrea. I found her in the kitchen, drinking a glass of orange juice.
“Did Jones get you all set up?”
I nodded. “Yeah. The target’s in Italy. Working for an AI policy think tank, if you can believe that.”
“I’m not sure anything Lucien Klein did would ever surprise me too much. Except not being an asshole maybe. When are you leaving?”
“As soon as I have a shower and some lunch.”
“Okay, good. When you get back from Italy, we should have a chance to slow down a little. You never know, of course, but it might be nice to have a glass of Scotch or something. Catch up a little.”
“I’m going to hold you to that,” I told her.
3
When Andrea said it might be difficult to get close to Lucien Klein, she wasn’t kidding. Yes, the man was in Italy under the name Thurston Michael, and yes he was the associate director for The 3000 Initiative. Based on those two facts, it would be reasonable to imagine a fairly simple scenario: I show up at his place of work, I ask his secretary to let me speak with him, and twenty minutes later we’re each sipping an espresso while we discuss how nice the weather is on the sunny and beautiful Italian peninsula.
What actually happened was nothing like that. The place was located inside a virtually impregnable corporate sanctuary. The building stood completely alone in an industrial park about ten miles outside of the city, and the cannons on the rooftop had a commanding view of the entire parking lot. Anyone who wanted to get inside had to submit to a retinal scan at the door. I wasn’t going in that way without the whole team backing me.
The first time I arrested this man I was an Arbiter and was able to throw considerable legal weight around, even on Luna where his company was based. The situation now was completely different. As a spy working for an organization that had no official existence, I had no law enforcement authority backing my plays. I sat outside in my rental car for a few long minutes, then noticed a small team of maintenance workers heading in the back door of the building. There was an armed guard there, but no retinal scan.
I pulled out of the parking lot and drove to a small hotel seven minutes away. I rented a room under an assumed name, then called the monitor assigned to Klein. There was no reply—I hadn’t expected one—and I left a message to meet me that night at a nearby bar called Giosue.
I went out for dinner at the kind of place tourists wouldn’t normally go, ordered the risotto alla pescatora because it was the first entrée listed on the menu, and then wandered over to Giosue about a half hour before the monitor would have expected to meet me there. I had never met this person before in my life, but they must have spotted me right away. I was drinking some Neapolitan cocktail when a man approached me on my left and said, “That isn’t really the most popular local choice.”
I turned to look at him. I don’t know what I was expecting, really, but he wasn’t it. Everyone on my own team was more of a paramilitary type than a true spy, but this man was so anonymous I wasn’t sure I would recognize him if I saw him again five minutes later. Middle-aged to elderly, hair mostly white, clothing tasteful but generic for the area. There was nothing about him that stood out at all.
I replied, as I was expected to, by saying, “I wouldn’t know. I’m more of an Ouzo man.”
He nodded in response, then turned and walked out the back door of the bar. I swallowed the last of my cocktail and followed him a minute later. When I approached, he was looking up at the stars in silence.
“How do you even watch the guy?” I asked. “That place is a fortress.”
“I’m with the company contracted to handle maintenance. We go in through the service entrance so—”
“No retinal scan? Yeah. That’s the same strategy I was thinking of using.”
“I can get you a job, and even make sure you’re assigned to his floor. After that, it’s on you. If he decides to pitch a fit the second he sees you, I can’t intervene. All I can do is get a message to our people.”
“Understood,” I said. Then, when my curiosity got the best of me, I added, “Doesn’t it get a little, I don’t know, tiresome?”
“What, maintaining their systems?” He sounded surprised. “No, not at all. It’s just my job. Anything else I do is extra.”
I couldn’t understand it at first; I’d been out of the real world for such a long time. I used to design cars, what seemed like ages ago. Now I can’t even imagine doing anything that doesn’t involve getting shot at. The idea of just going to work every day and tinkering with the systems in this corporate building, knowing all along that you had this secret job as well, didn’t track at first.
But that’s when it made sense to me. This guy was the perfect spy because he wasn’t actually a spy at all. He was exactly what he seemed to be: a guy who maintained buildings. And every day when he went to work, he had the secret thrill of knowing that he worked for us.
Early the next morning, I was dressed in the blue one-piece uniform of the local maintenance company and standing in line to be let inside the building. The other workers were ignoring me, presumably because I was the new guy. The monitor, whose name I learned was Flavio, seemed to be some kind of foreman. He gave the men their instructions, then turned to me and spoke quietly.
“You’re on the tenth floor. Room 1014 has a connectivity problem.”
Knowing Lucien Klein, not being able to connect to the network would infuriate him like nothing else. Well, nothing else except knowing that we were the ones behind it.
I went to the elevator and rode it up to the tenth floor in the company of two corporate executives. They didn’t even seem to notice my presence and spent the entire ride talking about how their company was actually losing huge amounts of money rapidly without anyone noticing. Not even their investors, who were foolish enough to believe that their asteroid-mining venture was extremely profitable. If I were an investigative journalist, they would have been screwed.
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When I reached the door of The 3000 Initiative, I walked right in and went up to the receptionist. “1014?” I asked, and she said something in Italian, then switched to English.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you weren’t a local at first. Room 1014 is Thurston Michael. He’s down at the end on the left. And…I’m sorry.”
She gave me a sympathetic smile, and I grinned back. “Thank you, but I’m sure I can handle Mr. Michael.”
She raised both eyebrows but didn’t say anything else. I walked down the hall until I came to another desk, where Lucien Klein’s assistant waited with an expression I would describe as a combination of dread and nausea. Seeing my uniform, he immediately tilted his head and spoke over his dataspike.
“Mr. Michael, the maintenance man is here. Yes, I’ll send him in.”
He mouthed the words good luck, and the door to room 1014 slid open. I walked inside to face my target at last.
Lucien Klein, formerly the Generative AI Division Chair of Huxley Industries, now the Associate Director of this AI think-tank, was a heavyset man with an arrogant expression on his face. He apparently did not recognize me at all, despite the fact that I was part of the unit that had kidnapped him such a short time ago.
“I can’t connect to anything here! In my own goddamn office! Of all the days to be delayed by the fucking incompetence of other people. People who can’t do their own basic goddamn job. Now…wait a minute, do you even speak English?”
I wasn’t so sure about Klein’s chances of making it in Italy. No matter how dominant the English language might be, expecting a Neapolitan maintenance worker to speak it seemed a little unfair. I decided to enlighten him.
“You don’t remember me, Mr. Klein?”
Sol Arbiter Box Set: Books 1-5 Page 73
