SIA headquarters was located in the northwest block of the Government Sector in a megascraper that towered above the others. City police guarded all government installations but none was as well protected as the SIA. Its defenses began several meters distant from the entrance doors where a translucent screen-like sculpture spanned the length of the block. This construct was not simply modern art. It was a graphene barrier impervious to all forms of electronic surveillance. Its bonded atomic weave could only be penetrated by the heaviest of weaponry. It protected the agency that protected Periculum.
Fin steeled himself for the daily ordeal of passing through security. Cybernites were by law forbidden from entering the SIA. Fin was the sole exception, approved specifically by Council decree. Despite this, he remained cautious when approaching the building, especially after having been shot at once by an officer who was new and hadn’t seen him before. Announcing himself to the guards by stating his name, badge number, and position, Fin walked slowly toward the barrier holding his SIA-issued Pulser by the tip of its barrel. He held his ID badge plainly visible in his other hand. The guards scanned his tattoo, checked his ID, took his Pulser, and waved him through the building’s first line of defense.
At the outer lobby security station, Fin passed through the full-body scanner, setting off the alarms as he did every day. The guards took him aside and made him strip in plain view, then patted him down and complained loudly about his being a security risk because the scanner was unable to penetrate his dense polyclonic tissue. How were they supposed to guarantee that there weren't any explosives imbedded in his body that could be detonated once he was inside? Were they the only ones who remembered that the Eastern Bloc used suicide bombers? Why did they think Cys were banned from the building in the first place? They weren’t interested in Fin reminding them that he was programmed to be loyal and that no suicide bomber had ever gotten through the Periculum Shield. They wanted him barred from the facility the same as every other piece of Cy trash. After announcing to anyone who cared to listen that they would be lodging another complaint with the union in a yearlong series of complaints, they gave him back his clothes, gun, and badge, and pointed him to the changing station.
Inside the station, Fin donned his SIA uniform. The standard uniform was black. Fin’s was, by law, gray. He bagged his street clothes and gave them to the attendant to recheck thoroughly before storing in a secure locker. He then took the elevator up to the forty-third floor. Fin’s cubicle was outside Ben Clayborn’s office at the edge of a sea of cubicles in which junior agents spent long days researching and long nights analyzing data for their seniors. No junior ever saw actual fieldwork until promoted to a higher grade, if promoted a higher grade. Few ever were. Because of Fin’s special assignment as Clayborn’s partner, he was the sole exception. Fin had been in the field since his first day on the job.
He sat down at his desk and straightened his keyboard. Beside it was a small sculpture, cactus-like with its many pointed surfaces, angular and abrupt in design. To Fin, it resembled some kind of desert plant that he imagined the Great War had made extinct, as it had so many other living things. It was constructed of the same polyclonic material that was used to make Cybernites. Dr. Shepherd had given it to him as a gift on his first day of work. Fin repositioned it squarely with his keyboard.
“You’re in early.” The words came from Ted Bailey, the junior agent who occupied the cube on the other side of the divider. Bailey was a fit young man, but like most of the juniors, he carried the burden of overwork in the heavy bags under his eyes.
“As I am every day,” Fin replied without looking up. “Was someone at my desk?”
Bailey poked his head around the corner, scowling at Fin’s back. “Why the hell would anyone go near a Cy’s desk?”
“I do not know, but something is not right.” Fin studied the sculpture on his desk more closely. “I believe someone has broken off another piece of my sculpture.”
“That’s a real shame. Do you want me to organize a pity party or hand you a trashcan?"
“Neither, thank you.”
“I see you’re getting some quality time in with your workstation before the boss shows up.”
Fin continued logging in to his computer. “Agent Bailey, I cannot interface directly with machines in that manner.”
“I never said you wanted to screw your terminal, Blue Boy.”
“But you implied it, as you have so many times over the past year.”
“Well, it does have an open mini-port. I’ll bet you could figure something out. You’re smart, right? I mean smarter than us. That’s why a shit Cy like you got assigned to the field right off like that, isn’t it?”
Fin looked up at the Lawspeaker overhead, anticipating the amber flash that never came. In the year he had worked there, it had never activated and never fined anyone for bad-chatter or any other infraction of a Council decree. “I am not here by choice. My assignment to Agent Clayborn is a Council experiment.”
“That’s right,” said Bailey. “I almost forgot. It’s not your fault you’re an experiment standing in the way of my promotion. How could I be so stupid?”
“Will you ever grow tired of having this discussion?”
“Believe me, once I get promoted, you’ll never hear another word from me again. By the way, did you see that the new list is out?”
Fin noticed the incoming message on his screen marked “Promotions” and opened it. “I see,” he said.
“I guess you also see that I’m not on it . . . again.”
Fin swiveled around to face Bailey’s anger. “I am sorry, Ted. I realize how difficult this must be for you.”
“You do, do you?”
“Yes. Dr. Shepherd explained the psychology of how my insertion into the SIA hierarchy in this manner could result in resentment among my coworkers. At my last check-in, we specifically discussed your constant antagonism because you have been trying for a promotion without success for three years, which is actually two years longer that I have been employed here.”
“I can’t even get assigned as a probie partner. But you . . . you got field agent on your first day.”
“You and the others are blaming me for something that is not my fault. I was created for this. I did not choose it.”
“But you could choose to end it. Cys do have that right, don’t they?”
“Yes. The Artificial Intelligence Act affords us the same suicide rights as humans. Are you asking me to kill myself?”
“I’d even spot you the five credits and point you to the nearest self-recycle booth.”
“There are easier ways to remove me as an impediment, Ted.”
Bailey tapped the shoulder holster holding his Pulser. “You got that right, Cy boy.”
“I was referring to reassignment, promotion, or resignation.” Fin’s desk phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID. “Forgive me,” he said. “I must take this call.”
Bailey returned to his cubicle.
Fin answered the phone. “Hello, Dr. Shepherd.” He listened, then replied, “Of course. I understand. Yes. I’ll take care of it right away.”
The procession of agents showing up for work had just begun when Fin left his desk. By the time he returned, the cubes were filled with other junior agents and the outer offices with their seniors. Ben Clayborn caught Fin’s eye before he sat down and waved him in.
Clayborn’s office was one of the larger corner ones. Each senior agent’s office had a window, but the corner ones had windows on two walls. Clayborn’s were blocked by dark shades. Fin had asked him about that once. His reply had been that he wasn’t interested in an artificial sky and of a bunch of other buildings, but put a lake or the mountains out there and he’d rethink the shades. His desk was piled deep with stacks of different colored folders. His rarely used workstation was more a bookend for them than a tool for investigations. Each folder’s color had some particular significance in a filing scheme that Fin had yet to decipher and Clayborn to ex
plain. Individual folders came and went as new cases were opened and old ones closed, but the piles never seemed to shrink. CLayborn was shuffling through one of them when Fin entered and bowed.
“God be with you, sir,” Fin said.
Clayborn motioned him into his guest chair. “Sit down, Blue.”
Fin picked up the pile of folders occupying the seat, placed them on the carpet beside the chair, and sat down. “How are you today, sir?”
“Shitty. This damn polyclonic knee is aching like a son-of-a-bitch.”
“It hasn’t entirely healed yet, sir. You need to give the artificial tissue time to bond properly with your own.”
“That’s what the med-tech said and that was two weeks ago.” Clayborn popped a pill and downed it with a pull from the flask he always carried in his jacket. “If this damn thing doesn’t stop hurting soon, I’m going dig up that little shit who bushwhacked me and kill him again.”
Fin looked out the window.
Clayborn mistook his wince for a smile. “You think that’s funny, Blue?”
“No sir,” Fin replied, touching the cheek that was swollen and sore.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” said Clayborn. “You look like you swallowed a balloon.”
“It's these mouth sores again, sir.”
“Maybe you should see the doc.”
“I am fine. It will pass. Did you enjoy your excursion to Cytown with your friends last night?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“None of your business.”
“May I ask you something, sir?”
“Not if it’s about last night.”
“Why is the SIA so heavily guarded?”
Clayborn ignored the question and began sorting through another of the many stacks of folders on his desk.
Fin continued, “The Periculum shield protects us from all external attacks and the crimes committed in the city are hardly of a nature sufficient to warrant such extreme security measures. I just find it curious.”
Clayborn looked up, annoyed. “We’re the damned Security Intelligence Agency. What did you expect, dancing flower children?” He dropped the stack of folders on the floor and grabbed another.
“Perhaps if I knew what you were looking for, I could help you find it,” Fin offered.
“I don’t need your help. Close that door.”
Fin shut the door.
Clayborn looked up from the folders. “Anything new on the mole? I’ve got my weekly with the commander later today and I don’t want to show up empty-handed again.”
“The leads I was pursuing did not pan out. I am sorry, sir.”
“’I’m sorry’ isn’t going to cut it. Do you know how many breaches we’ve had since you came onboard? A dozen."
“I believe the number is fifteen, sir.”
“And do you know how many there were before this little experiment of Council’s to see if a Cy could do better than us?”
“One, sir, and as I understand it, there was never any direct proof that anything was stolen.”
“Bingo. Any idea what that looks like to the commander?”
“No, sir.”
“Like Doc Shepherd’s big idea of helping us out has only made things worse. Council’s getting itchy. Come on, Blue. Give me something, anything.”
“Did you ask the commander to give me clearance to analyze the security systems to determine how the mole is circumventing them?”
“He said, no way. They don’t even give that kind of clearance to God.”
“How am I supposed to discover how a deep-cover operative managed to erase all record of his presence in Central Stores?”
“Use that big brain they gave you.”
“Perhaps if you asked the commander to relieve me of my other duties, I could better focus on my real mission.”
“And blow your cover as the experimental robot agent that everyone thinks will replace them someday? No chance in hell of that happening. Finally,” Clayborn said, extracting a yellow folder from one of the piles.
“Is that the Fitzwilliams case?” Fin asked.
Clayborn ignored the question, flipping through the nanoplastic printouts.
“The mineral cartel investigation?”
“No.”
“The Eastern Bloc infiltration file?”
Clayborn looked up from the folder. “Are you going to keep doing that, or are you going to shut up so I can finish looking this over?”
“My apologies, sir.”
Clayborn closed the folder. “Did you catch the news this morning?”
“My job description includes scanning the updates every morning.”
“What’s your take on the robbery and murders in the Industrial Sector last night?”
“Brutal and senselessly violent.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“What did you mean, sir?”
“We’ve been assigned to the case.”
“I see,” Fin said. “And that is the case file. May I ask why it is yellow?”
“No.”
“Did CSI uncover any more than was made public in the reports?”
Clayborn nodded. “They found traces of three highly regulated substances outside what was left of the warehouse.” He handed Fin a printout from the file. “My guess is that’s what they were after and they torched the place to cover it up.”
“These chemicals are the primary ingredients in Creep,” Fin noted.
“Bingo.” Clayborn gauged Fin’s reaction. “What’s the matter, Blue? You don’t look so happy.”
“This is the work of the Death’s Door Gang, sir.”
“Does that bother you?”
“Creep is a disease.”
Clayborn shrugged. “I don't particularly like the idea of scumbags dealing drugs either, but it keeps the robots in line.”
“My people are suffering and dying because of that drug. I buried one yesterday.”
“You mean you tossed his carcass in a can? That’s nice, Blue, but no one gives a shit about your people.”
“I will never understand that attitude.”
“Here we go again.” Clayborn drummed his fingers on his desk impatiently. “Tell me, who created us?”
“Sir?”
“You heard me. Who created man?”
“According to science, your species evolved from lower life forms. According to The Word, God created man. All the physical evidence points to the natural explanation being the most likely, but many believe there are things we cannot measure or understand completely, things such as faith, hope, love, and God.”
“So much for the one word answer. Back to the pop quiz—who created you?”
“Humans did.”
“And there you have it. We’re the ones who belong here, not you. This is our world. We’re at the top of a food chain you’re not even on. That’s why no one gives a shit about Cys. Get it now?”
“Creep is a bio-specific psychoactive. It only affects Cybernites. If humans do not care about us, why are we investigating a crime that is clearly not in our jurisdiction and involves no humans?” As he asked the question, Fin realized the only possible answer. “One of the victims was human."
Clayborn nodded. “They left that little tidbit out of the reports for the time being.”
“Because he was politically connected, I assume?”
“The mayor’s son," Clayborn said. "Not sure what he was doing there, but it looks like a classic wrong place wrong time shit mess to me. The old man went crying to Council and they passed it off to us.” Clayborn got up and checked his weapon. “The perps left a witness, another kid who was screwing around on the grounds with his buddies when it all went down. He took a hit and the DDs left him for dead. His buddies weren’t so lucky. The locals are holding him in the secure wing of Eastside General.”
“Can he identify any of the perpetrators?”
“Don't know, but we’re going to have a little chat with him and find ou
t.”
Fin took out his Commlink and began thumbing it.
“What are you doing?” Clayborn asked.
“Loading the mug shots of every known Death’s Door member, associate, and suspected associate, and randomizing their photos with an equal number of unrelated felons, Periculum residents, and Cybernites to ensure that any identification made by our witness is admissible in court.”
“If this was the DDs and that kid makes any of the perps, I don’t think we’re going to need his testimony in court, Blue.”
Fin put his Commlink away. “I sincerely hope you do not plan on beating confessions out of them as you did in the case of Green-3529.”
“You know I only do that to Cys. No, I’m just saying that the DDs won’t go down without a fight, and they fight to the death.”
Clayborn and Fin took a Levcar to Eastside General. The local detective in charge of the case met them at the entrance to the secure wing.
She nodded to Clayborn. “Ben. How are you doing?”
“Not bad, Jan,” Clayborn replied. “You?” He offered her his flask.
She declined. “I’ve been better. What’s that doing here?” she said of Fin.
“Blue’s with me.”
“God be with you,” Fin said, extending his hand.
She ignored it.
“I am Agent Fin,” he said, withdrawing the gesture and bowing. “Pleased to meet you.”
“I didn’t know SIA was using Cys now.”
“We’re not,” said Clayborn. “Blue’s a Council experiment, like a lab rat.”
“No kidding? How's that working out for you?”
“Don’t ask.”
“With all due respect, ma’am,” said Fin. “We understand this is a local police matter, but we are here to interrogate your witness. So, if you will please excuse us.”
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