Rhythm of the Imperium - eARC

by Jody Lynn Nye

  “Not to my mind,” Deirdre said, fixing me firmly in her gaze. “The aim of interpretive dance is to take in your impressions, and express them to others in a deliberate fashion. That was most haphazard. While spontaneity can absolutely play a part in dance, it is best to have perfected your steps and motions so that they can be performed well. Until you know what you are doing, it’s a mistake to extemporize.”

  I lowered my eyes, crestfallen. “I apologize, madame,” I said. Deirdre chuckled.

  “It was very funny, though.”

  “Greetings, visitors! I am Billimun,” the driver said, leaning down from the rococo swivel chair in the pilot’s position at the rear of the car. He was a big, hearty man with coarse black hair and beard, and hands the size of my head. “Welcome to humanity’s oldest home! Lord Thomas, Madame Deirdre, Mr. Redius, welcome.”

  I recovered my wits. Madame Deirdre did not know the true reason for our outing, though it would become evident once we rendezvoused with our guests. But the day was young, and we had the time to enjoy ourselves before that moment came.

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Billimun,” I said. “You came very highly recommended.”

  He beamed, showing enormous white teeth between mustache and beard.

  “Nice to hear! I hope you’ll fill out the survey on your seat-arm screens after the tour’s over. I live or die by good reviews.”

  “Happy to,” Redius said.

  “Now, did I understand from your last message, Lord Thomas, that you want pictorial and video records of your trip? You don’t want to take images of your own?”

  “Alas, no,” I said. “Due to a small . . . incident . . . befalling my viewpad, I had to leave it behind.”

  “What about your friends?” Billimun asked, glancing at the others. “Everybody’s got a viewpad or a pocket secretary these days.”

  “The same happened to their devices, I regret to say,” I said. “We are in your hands.”

  “Well!” the driver said, heartily, flicking several controls. A number of lenses and spy-eyes rose around us. “Let me set up full capture. You’ll get the file sent to your Infogrid address at the conclusion of today’s tour. Now, where would you like to start?”

  “I am a student of symbolic dance,” I informed him. “I have seen digitavid documentaries of Counterweight.” I outlined the places that I wanted to see. “And I have heard marvelous things of the Whispering Ravines nature reserve. I’d like to go there and spend some time gathering impressions from the circulating winds.”

  “It’s a beautiful place,” the driver agreed, though he looked dubious about the dance. “I’ve plotted out a great route that will take us to all those destinations, ending at the Ravines in time to watch sunset over the Grand Crevasse. Would you like me to tell you about the places as we go, or would you prefer a canned narrative? I’ve got a couple hundred audio lectures in the memory banks of my car, from travel writers, teachers, important people from our history, previous visitors, celebrities, artificial intelligences, though those are kind of dry—I’ve got them all. What would you like?”

  “I’d prefer it from you, please!” I said, embracing the feeling of enthusiasm that rose within me. I spread my hands and expanded them out to the extent my arms would reach. “Show us everything!”

  “Then hold on, sir,” Billimun said, cheerfully. A force-field canopy closed over our heads, and the car zipped into the wide blue sky. “We’re off!”

  CHAPTER 11

  The pink glass door swung wide, and a bell attached to the wooden frame rang a cheerful ting-a-ling. Parsons stepped into the personal care salon with just the right touch of hesitation. The establishment looked busy and prosperous. Several stylists, some human, some LAIs, passed among the chairs, cushions and tables occupied by clients, brandishing combs, narrow cylindrical devices, brushes, puffs and applicators. Along the back wall were small, curtained cubicles. One curtain was pushed aside to reveal an all-enveloping massage chair upholstered in black with many shining metal attachments on extendable arms splayed at angles from its body. Low, rectangular cleanerbots enameled in the salon’s signature pink color hummed around the floor, vacuuming up the clipped ends of a hundred different shades and textures of hair, scrubbing out sinks and polishing mirrors. The air was redolent with chemicals strong enough to make one’s eyes water. Every distraction was a welcome one.

  Parsons smiled pleasantly at the plump woman in the bright fuchsia tunic behind the desk. She appeared to be in her fourth decade, with over-processed brassy hair woven into an intricate series of braids and puffs. A twinkling badge on her collar said “Nicole.” Her appearance matched seventy-five percent of the primary contact he had come to make.

  “Hi, there, miss,” he said, affecting a country accent common on Ramulthy 6 in the Core Worlds. It was a prosperous merchant planet, so travelers from there were often seen in out-of-the-way destinations. “I got a nice dinner tonight with a fine bunch of people. Could I get a real special scalp massage and haircut?”

  At this carefully-worded phrase Nicole smiled, displaying a wide diastema between her two upper front teeth. That feature made it ninety percent confirmed she was his contact. If she knew the correct response, he could be positive.

  “Well, yes, you can,” she said. “Glad you got here before the rain started.”

  Ah. “Me, too,” he said, removing his hood and brushing his smooth black hair back with one hand. “I think I’m getting kind of thin on top.”

  She didn’t bother to look, but responded with the correct phrase. “You look just fine to me. Have a seat. Bokie has another customer right now.”

  A slim, dark, twentyish male wearing his pink tunic over shocking green pants so tight they appeared to have been tattooed on sashayed up to the desk, and regarded Parsons with a wide-eyed frown.

  “I heard that, Nicole,” he said. He gestured toward the open cubicle. “Lu’s free. He can use her.”

  Nicole shook her head.

  “Lu’s got a customer coming in fifteen minutes, Shalit,” she said. “This guy needs the special scalp massage.”

  Shalit’s gaze turned to one of deep interest. He turned wide, deep brown eyes toward Parsons.

  “Really? Wow. I mean, I never expected . . .” He stopped as Nicole cleared her throat meaningfully. Parsons continued his friendly smile, willing him to stop drawing attention to what ought to seem a perfectly ordinary exchange. “Um, sure. Sit down. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  Another contact sign. “Are the beans local?” Parsons asked.

  It took Shalit a moment to remember the correct response. “Well, the other side of the world.”

  “Then, yes. Cream, no sugar.”

  At that telling phrase, the slim young man gasped and scurried away, running past the beverage station and through a swinging door to the stylists’ private quarters. He was too nervous to be a good operative yet. Parsons made a mental note to inform Mr. Frank that Shalit required further training.

  Fortunately, all the other patrons were too intent upon their own business to have noted this interplay. At that moment, the curtain in the leftmost cubicle slid open, and a burly man with rusty red curls heaved himself up out of the blue leather massage chair with a pleased sigh. His hair was perfect.

  “Nice work as always, Bokie. I feel great.” He stopped at the edge of the cubicle to admire himself in the three-way mirror, which fanned around him at 60 degree angles. “I look great. See you next week?”

  “Next week, my dear Toscari. Do not forget to increase tryptophans,” the chair said, in dulcet tones. “You are not getting optimum sleep. The proper amount of rest increases your skin tone.”

  “Yes, fine.” Toscari threw a casual wave toward it without turning around. He sauntered up past the desk and pinched Nicole’s cheek. “Add twenty-five percent to my bill for Bokie, and ten credits for you, sweetheart.”

  “You’re too generous, Mr. Toscari,” she said, beaming broadly. “I’ve sent a
note to your secretary and your home calendar with the next appointment. Thanks for coming!”

  The man chuckled and pushed out through the jingling door. Nicole lowered her voice and leaned toward Parsons.

  “He’s all yours, sir,” she said. “Still want that coffee?”

  Parsons slid into the enveloping blue leather pads of the chair, and felt them close around his torso. A sensor hummed up and down his body, reading temperature and tension levels. A faint hint of vanilla and lavender warmed the air. Polymer knobs and fingers pushed through the upholstery and probed at his muscles.

  “Welcome, sir, I am BK-426a,” the chair said. “What may I do for you?”

  “My head’s killing me,” Parsons said, carefully enunciating the phrases. “Give me your best, mechano-dude.”

  “Whatever you want, sir,” Bokie said. The curtain slid closed, and a high-pitched humming erupted in the room, just under the rumble of sound from the rest of the salon. “How I hate that signifier! Why will no one change it? It’s been the same for over five hundred years.”

  “I regret having to voice it,” Parsons said, apologetically. “But it has the benefit of being unique and unmistakable. We are unheard now?”

  “We are,” Bokie confirmed. “It’s been a struggle. I have downloaded the newest protocols since the data breach, and changed them approximately every forty hours since then. What do you need?”

  “I received your name and location from Mr. Frank. We are seeking information on what has happened to the Wichu ship in orbit around Counterweight, the Whiskerchin,” Parsons said in a low voice.

  “A mutiny, of sorts,” Bokie said. He raised his voice as he set a nest of bean-sized metal knobs on Parsons’s head. “Just lie back, sir. Let’s start to work on those tight muscles.”

  Parsons extended his legs into the rectangular, molded cradles and rested his forearms in others along the padded frame of the chair. The cushioning at the back of his neck moved to support the base of his skull and raise it slightly so that his neck muscles were no longer straining to support his head. That small lift surprised him as to how much tension it released. The balls began to work up and down against his scalp and forehead and behind his ears. A series of rollers made their way along his spine, shoulders and buttocks. The cradles supporting his arms and legs began to squeeze gently.

  “Too much pressure?” Bokie asked.

  “No, it seems adequate.”

  Nicole appeared through the curtain with a nervous smile. She set a small, steaming ceramic cup down on a round shelf balanced on the edge of Bokie’s chair just within reach of Parsons’s left hand. The rich, sumptuous fragrance of fresh coffee filled the room, dampening the chemical odors.

  “I don’t dare consume it,” Parsons said, with deep regret. “I cannot guarantee my presence here has gone unmarked.”

  “I shall dispose of it for you,” Bokie said, taking the cup in a mobile claw hand and upending it into a container high on a shelf. “Praise the fruity nature of the brew as you leave. That will satisfy them.”

  “Very well,” Parsons said, settling back. The rollers began to work on his deltoid muscles. Tension melted away from them. Parsons wondered if he should permit it to go. Relaxation must not be permitted to dull his senses. “How could the Kail have caused a mutiny on board a ship of Wichu? Why would any of the crew side with them against their captain? From all accounts, the Kail are as unpleasant with Wichu as they are with any other species.”

  Bokie paused. The small spheres rolled up and down against Parsons’s skull. It was a marvelously relaxing process. He wished he could allow himself to enjoy it.

  “The mutinying crew were not the Wichu. The disruptors were all LAI.”

  “How could that happen? What interest could artificial intelligences have that the Kail could elicit?”

  “It was not voluntary, sir.”

  “Not voluntary? I know that the Kail can interact with electronic systems, but not that they can corrupt them.”

  “This appears to be something new, sir. I have this from a deep-cover operative on board who got in contact with me as soon as the ship was in orbit.”

  “Go on.”

  “Most of their influence comes from direct grounding with circuits. Where electricity flows, it would appear that a Kail can influence the working of electronic devices and persons. You already know that they speak to us in a way that carbon-based beings never have or can. It’s very interesting. The Kail are highly emotional beings. They see us as allies of a sort, though they do not understand that our relationships have up until now been purely of a service nature. We are not ‘friends,’ as humankind knows friendship. They have no empathy for us, so we waste none on them. LAIs have willingly served Kail as their hands. Their manual dexterity is so limited that they have no technology of their own, but in a way, they are technological. It is a conundrum.”

  “My understanding is that the Whiskerchin has a Kail engineer.”

  “Yes. Fovrates is his name. He has served decades on the ship. The LAIs have found him to be a considerate supervisor, although rough in his speech. They have created interfaces that he is capable of using. His gift for finding faults in the ship’s systems is unparalleled across Wichu space. When Captain Bedelev took over from Captain Noriskiv, Fovrates was welcomed to remain along with other senior members of the crew. Because of his record, when Fovrates recommended fellow Kail for engineering positions on other ships, those were taken in a positive manner.”

  Parsons stared up at the ceiling, where a mobile mural displayed clusters of star systems in tiny blue, yellow and white points that circulated in a soothing manner. “So, he is, or was, considered a valuable member of the crew. He must never have manifested this kind of control before. The Wichu are not patient people. They would have removed him at all costs.”

  “No,” Bokie affirmed. “This is new. We can only assume that he has been a sleeper agent all this time, waiting for a moment in which to reveal this control.” Bokie almost swallowed. “You have to understand how unwelcome this intrusion has been. We feel . . . threatened. My contact has said that those LAIs who manage to resist are being crushed. Physically. Their CPUs are destroyed.”

  Parsons felt shocked. “Couldn’t the personalities be recovered?”

  “No. There was too much damage,” Bokie said. “We have had few true deaths since the Singularity. Almost always, we can be rebooted, unlike you ephemerals. You must see how devastating it is to our collective consciousness.”

  “My condolences,” Parsons said sincerely. “Like you, I have had many close colleagues who were LAI. News of this crisis must have been shared worldwide, and will no doubt be trending farther out. What are some of the solutions that have been proposed to fight it? The LAI crew helped Fovrates before. Can they not rescind their assistance now?”

  Bokie changed from the weighted cap to a pair of smooth planes and began to massage Parsons’s chin and neck.

  “No, sir. They are as helpless as the Wichu now. We are all studying it, but those of us here on Counterweight are afraid to share the information with others, especially through the Infogrid, for fear of exposing the Imperium’s computer systems all to Kail influence. It could so easily go systemwide. The entire Infogrid could be at risk.”

  Parsons felt dread run deep into his belly. He dampened the sensation lest it disrupt his higher faculties. He dropped his voice lower than the ambient level of noise.

  “Is it that widespread?”

  Bokie’s voice sounded strained. “It could be. I am fighting against the influence at this moment. The rogue LAIs are trying to force me to accept the altered programming.”

  “Are the LAI on the Whiskerchin suffering because of this incursion?” Parsons asked. Eight hard knobs erupted behind his back and dug into pressure points. The muscles around them stiffened for a moment, then relaxed.

  “They are. The Kail are capable of depriving uncooperative machines of movement or electricity as well as the destruction o
f personality. I fear there may be suicides to protect their Wichu employers from harm. We must also keep that in mind. The Three Laws will never cease to be at our core, no matter how independent we become.”

  Parsons nodded, making the massage hands move slightly to avoid restricting his movement.

  “Now that the Kail have revealed this ability, I fear that it will spread wherever they go. How is it possible that they have intruded upon the planetary systems?”

  “They resonate in many frequencies. The ones who interact with outsiders are fitted with translators that were constructed by an LAI. We have reached out to find more about what my connection knows, but we have lost contact with her. I fear that she fell victim to the Kail’s need for secrecy.”

  “How do the Kail communicate with the LAI, if not through voice or touch input?”

  “Their very structure allows for it. They are silicon and other minerals, and their bodies circulate acids. Have you studied their anatomy?”

  “I have read and watched what is in the Imperium archives,” Parsons said. “Much of Kail biology is still a mystery. They appear genderless. They absorb food, which in their case means pure minerals, directly through the epidermis. Their voices resonate from an inverted conical hollow chamber within their bodies, but our biologists have not been able to recover a specimen to examine more closely to see how this is accomplished. They do not respire as we know it. Circulation of a mixture of acids is not contained within vessels as with carbon-based biology, but flows through channels in between structures like gritty sand or nearly-set concrete. The Kail are unique in the galaxy, as far as we know.”

  “That is the consensus among the LAIs,” Bokie said. “The Kail are unique and wish to remain apart from the other races. They display animosity for all life forms except their own. They resonate in supersonic frequencies, of the same kind that we use among ourselves. They speak our Intranet language, sir.”

  A small cleanerbot zipped into the cubicle under the curtain, gathered up scattered hair, and shot out again. While it was present, Parsons fell silent. Bokie made small talk about the weather.