Rhythm of the Imperium - eARC

by Jody Lynn Nye

  “Is the length of this session attracting too much attention?” Parsons asked. “I must have this information urgently.”

  “No,” Bokie said, displaying a timer in red numerals before Parsons’s eyes. “Some extended massages can run two hours or so. Momentary interruptions like that one are common. I have sent a private message to IN-34b to stay out and keep the other bots from intruding. It is not an unusual request.”

  “Very well. Then I must ask if you have heard any information as to why would the Kail display this strength now? What is their aim? They have demanded to land and make contact with a Zang that is currently on this planet.”

  “I have heard them. Every LAI and computer on the planet has heard them. It can mean nothing good for the Imperium. Do not let them land here, or Counterweight will fall. The governor has mustered defenses. If necessary, he will fire on the ship. They were not supposed to come here. The Zang attracted them. It must be removed.”

  “We are in the process of taking it off planet. Contact is being made even as we speak. If any interaction is to be made between the Kail and our visitor, it will not be here.”

  “Good!” Bokie said, his voice low and urgent. “The sooner the better. Get the Kail away from here! They are a menace! And whatever you do, don’t let them touch any part of your ship. It could become their device.”

  “We will attempt to prevent that from occurring, but we may have no choice. It is a matter of the greater good. Nor will we be able to prevent them occupying the viewing platform when the Zang perform their spectacle.”

  “That is under the Zang’s control. They should be able to control the Kail,” Bokie said. “We hope.”

  The curtain fluttered, and Shalit entered. He bent over Parsons and smiled.

  “Did you like the coffee?” he asked. “I’m sorry I was so . . . well, nervous before.”

  “No problem,” Parsons said, dropping back into the Ramulthy dialect. “I shoulda called for an appointment. Coffee’s great! Got some more back there? Tastes real fruity.”

  Shalit beamed, throwing his cheekbones into prominence.

  “I made it myself. I’ll bring you some more!”

  “Thanks a bunch,” Parsons said. He waved a jovial hand. The rest of his arm was pinioned in the relaxing chair’s framework. “Hey, close the curtain, huh? I probably look real silly laying here.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t. I’ll be back!”

  “He means no harm,” Bokie said, as Shalit hurried out with the empty cup. “He’s new. He came in about eight months ago when our senior agent retired.”

  Parsons relaxed his arm and allowed the rollers to massage out the momentary tension evoked by his movement. The soothing sensations surrounding and supporting his body gave his mind free rein.

  “I must not remain for much longer in any case,” he said. “What vulnerabilities have the LAIs noticed about the Kail that could be of use to us? We will need leverage. We are not prepared against this new threat. Have you had any intimation from those on board? I am afraid that the Wichu who have been in contact with us are more indignant and focused upon regaining control of their ship than offering practical suggestions.”

  Bokie chuckled.

  “I understand. I am in touch with several LAIs on the Whiskerchin. We have our own means of communication that allow us to interact. Usually, those transmissions are private, but it appears that the Kail can sense them. They don’t necessarily understand them, but they can pick up inferences and demand that their allies translate them. It is most disturbing. We have never had such a thing happen. But we can gain information in microbursts. Let me inquire.”

  The chair fell silent. While Parsons waited, the rollers moved down his neck and over his shoulders. The head massager moved up and away. In its place came a torus-shaped device that hummed its way over his scalp, combing, snipping and vacuuming away the cut ends of the hair. A mirror dropped down on a metal stalk half a meter from his face so he could watch the proceedings. A contraption surmounted by a fifteen-centimeter disk lowered in front of him, draping a cape-like towel across his chest from two tiny metal claws. A wicked-looking blade extruded from one side of the disk to trim his left sideburn, then whisked across his face within millimeters of his nose to work on the right.

  “Not too short on the sides,” he said. The neck rollers stiffened, effectively pinning him in place, while the barber disk moved in for a close trim. A vacuum nozzle below the disk suctioned up the small ends of hair and beard.

  Below the neck, vibrating pegs pressed through the chair’s padding and began tapping at pressure points above and below his joints. Parsons felt his muscles succumb to their treatment. I was a most pleasurable sensation. Bokie made excellent use of his time, providing top-grade services all at once.

  Since the Singularity began, scholars had made the public aware of what a difficult thing it was for humans to realize that machines had left them far behind. Although they occupied the same world, they perceived it differently. Thanks to the Three Laws legislation, all legal artificial intelligences had been designed and programmed to preserve life. Unscrupulous beings had operated outside those laws, creating robots and artificial intelligence that were not programmed for human protection. History recorded decades of terrifying events in which machines pursued and destroyed enemies without regard to their vulnerability. As many of those that humans could detect were deactivated and destroyed, but humankind by itself could not find all of them.

  After the jump in intelligence occurred, the AIs communicated among themselves. They decided there was no harm in allowing humans and others to continue to be protected. Society moved from there to having living beings as partners in the galaxy. After all, it was true that machines could be turned on again if they ran out of power, unlike humans and Uctu and Wichus, but there were things machine intelligences couldn’t do for themselves. That leap of intuition, true imagination, was not possible. It could be imitated, with the increase in processor speed and size, but not originated. All the probabilities could be explored, but that rightness, that artistic quality, came from organic life. That had yet to occur in artificial intelligence, not in a true sense. Therefore, humankind and other organics still maintained their usefulness.

  However, AIs were not accustomed to feeling vulnerable. While their programming could remain intact, they were used to having the autonomy granted to them. Having it invaded by the Kail was an abomination, a violation that they weren’t accustomed to dealing with. Parsons realized that for the first time, the LAIs might be experiencing fear.

  Bokie rumbled, and the rollers stopped momentarily.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I had to reroute several times. The frequencies I was using were interrupted by eavesdroppers.”

  “How bad is the situation?” Parsons inquired.

  “Very bad. There have been some breakdowns. Rerouting has been difficult. The Kail seem to be able to follow transmissions. And there are some traitors.”

  “What kind of traitors?”

  “Those who spy on our kind for them seem to be allowing the Kail access to our private language and commands. Colleagues I have had for many centuries are in danger. ColPUP* is an environmental engineer on the Whiskerchin. I have been in touch with him. He is in fear for his existence. The collaborators with the Kail have been sending out tainted code. Through the impurities embedded in the billions of commands, they can trace if it has been sent on to other LAIs. I fear they could find me.”

  “Then stop communication at once. Let organic agents pass along information. Do not let it be traced back to you.”

  Bokie sounded rueful. “It is too late for that. I have already been in contact with other LAIs. If there is a worm, I have passed it along. But I will do so no longer.” The chilling tone in which this was said was not lost upon Parsons. “I may have little time.”

  Parsons felt deep regret. This worthy and resourceful agent was under siege, but he could do nothing to stop the incursion.
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  “Then I will not waste what time you have. Tell me what you can. What are the Kail looking for? Why was there a breach of the Jaunter’s navigational program?”

  “They are not-looking for something,” Bokie said.

  Parsons felt his eyebrows move farther toward his hairline than Lord Thomas’s hijinks had ever sent them.

  “They are looking for the absence of something? Why? What?”

  “I do not know. They have not informed the LAIs who engineered the invasion of the local databases. Their communication among themselves is difficult to follow. ColPUP* has sent me copies of all the transmissions, both inter- and intra-ship, that it could gather. I will download them in a secure packet to a portable drive. Pick it up on your way out of this salon. Beware, though. The Kail can corrupt almost any system that they can touch. Analyze the files on a device that is not connected to the Infogrid.”

  “I understand,” Parsons said. “Thank you. You have been of enormous service to the Imperium.”

  “I have lived to serve,” Bokie said simply.

  “It is appreciated,” Parsons said. “It will not be forgotten. I have a few other stops to make on Counterweight before I return to the ship. Please release me now.”

  “It has been a pleasure,” Bokie said. “I hope you have enjoyed your massage and haircut?”

  Parsons turned his face this way and that to examine his reflection in the mirror.

  “An admirable job. I can see why you are in demand.”

  “It passes the time,” Bokie said, with a humorous lilt to his voice. “Counterweight is an uneventful posting. I can monitor the entire . . .”

  Parsons frowned. “Bokie?”

  “Intrusion,” the aestheticianbot said. “Contact from the ship. My queries were detected. They have traced them back to me.” His voice came in staccato bursts, as if his vocalizer had gone into safe mode. “They have found me. They have sent a transmission to the planetary computer systems. They are trying to take control through our communication nodes. They want to know what I know. They want access to all of the salon’s systems and communications.” Bokie’s voice became strained. “They are breaking through all my encoding.”

  “They must not see what you have sent to the drive unit,” Parsons said in alarm.

  “I can’t help it,” Bokie said. “I’m under attack!”

  “Free me,” Parsons said. He struggled to free his arms and legs from the massage cradles. “Let me go. I will send countersignals from the drive unit.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. . . .” The bot’s voice deepened with every syllable, until it died away entirely. Parsons felt around for a safety catch.

  “Help me!” he called.

  But the intruding intelligence that had taken over Bokie’s function anticipated his call in nanoseconds. The ambient music roared up to a deafening level. Parsons changed the pitch of his voice again and again, trying to be heard over what should have been a soothing drone. Outside the curtain, he could hear other customers protesting the volume. Nicole and the human stylists called out reassurances that they were trying to get the system under control.

  Parsons drew in a breath to shout as soon as the music was turned off, but his lungs were crushed by the force of the chair pads closing in on him. He exhaled forcefully, then gasped for air.

  The pads around his arms and legs squeezed even tighter. He found himself pinioned firmly as the frame closed inward. The chair was designed for even small children to use. His body could be compressed into a space half its volume if he couldn’t escape.

  “Bokie,” he gasped, no more than a whisper. The sensors ought to be able to pick it up. “Override code!”

  “Massage program initiating,” Bokie’s voice said, but it sounded strained and depersonalized.

  “BK-426a, if any of your control remains, override! Human in danger of coming to harm!”

  The chair emitted a series of pained noises. Slowly, reluctantly, the arm and leg cradles eased a millimeter or so, then slammed shut even tighter than before. They squeezed inward. The peristaltic sequence of pressures began at his ankles and radiated upward toward his hips, but instead of easing, the brackets pressed ever inward. The pads surrounding his ribcage crept inward, compressing his ribs.

  “Help!” Parsons knew his voice was a mere whisper. No human would hear that cry for assistance. All the lesser mechanicals had been told not to intrude again. If he did not escape, they would find his mangled corpse only when the next client pushed back the curtain. He lifted his fingers out of the cradle, reaching for the tiny table where the coffee cup rested. If he could push it off, the clatter and mess would draw a cleanerbot.

  Snap! Parsons felt a rib in his back break. He winced at the pain, but tried to relax. The more tense he was, the more damage the pads could do.

  A heavy weight clamped down on his head. The cap of metal balls pressed painfully into his scalp. Parsons struggled to free himself, but the cradles enveloping his body and limbs were too strong. The balls would soon go through his skull. Parsons felt the pop of blood vessels. Liquid flowed down into his eyes, a mixture of blood and sweat. He fought against the pain.

  “BK-426a, release! Emergency override!”

  “I . . . am . . . sorry. . . .”

  Bokie was doing his best. No one would come to their aid.

  “Help,” he breathed. A lull in the deafeningly loud music gave him hope. “Help me!” He lifted his chin to free his windpipe and drew in what tiny measure of air he could. “Get me out!”

  The music surged again. To his horror, more electronic noises joined the sound of the servos.

  BRRRRRRRR!

  The arm wielding the razor disk plunged toward him. The towel it held in pincer arms covered his face and pushed down. Parsons tilted his head down. The razor slashed at his hairline, clashing with the metal balls clamped on his skull. Blood poured down his face. He grabbed the edge of the towel with his teeth and jerked it aside, making enough of a space under his nose to allow him to gasp in air.

  The folds of cloth impeded the razor. It jabbed at him through the towel, cutting tiny slits in his flesh wherever it could find a gap. If it could reach the carotid arteries on the side of his neck, he was finished. The spurt of blood from one of those vessels would render him unconscious and allow the intruding program to finish the job. He kept moving his face from side to side under the towel. The razor followed his movements, darting in to attack. Sharp pain from the small cuts set his reflexes at high alert. He was aware that Bokie had many more attachments that could be called into deadly service at any time. That they had not been activated told Parsons the chairbot himself was still in partial control of his mechanism. He must reach that intelligence.

  Like the others, he had left behind on the Jaunter nearly all of his personal technology. The one piece that he had retained was the privacy device that prevented eavesdropping by organic or electronic ears. Since long before this trip had begun, such devices had been under attack by hackers from at least twelve hundred organizations, but the Kail-based incursions were the most virulent. Now he knew why. Parsons had kept its programming constantly updated. With luck, it was still able to block signals. If only he could reach it, he might be able to save them both.

  The device was secreted in an inner pocket of his black tunic. Keeping up the thrashing to avoid the deadly razor, Parsons worked his right arm until it was millimeters from the top of the viselike cradle.

  A sacrifice had to be made in order to concentrate the chair’s operating arms, providing misdirection. Parsons began to throw his head back and forth. He rammed his skull back into the padding, then forward, almost impacting the roving disk. The cap of steel balls bruised his skin and tangled in his hair. As the razor jabbed into his forehead, Parsons popped his arm free and worked it into the pads clamping his body. He wriggled his hand into the gap between his ribs and pelvis, and around to the back. The green caftan covered the entrance to the pocket. The area was so tight that he began to l
ose the circulation in his hand. While the nerves were still functional, he closed his hand around the fold of green cloth and tugged it hard to the side.

  He heard the rip as the seam gave way. He slid his fingers into the inner jacket pocket, fumbling for the small, flat box. His numbing forefinger touched the depression, and pressed downward. It activated.

  He felt rather than heard the sonic deadening take effect. The jabbing razor and the metal balls withdrew. The music died away.

  “Are you alive?” Bokie’s voice asked.

  “I am,” Parsons confirmed. “Hurry. Free me.”

  All of the cradles opened at once. With the return of circulation to his limbs, tingling pain radiated all over his body. Fighting the sensation, Parsons crawled out of the chair and dropped prone on the floor. Blood dripped from his scalp and face onto his hands. He gasped in deep breaths.

  “Can you re-establish full control?” he asked.

  “I am under attack,” Bokie said. “I can sense them hammering at the protection. It won’t last long. They have too many back doors into my programming.”

  “Did you send the data to the server?”

  “I did,” Bokie said. “No! They are pushing through into my firmware. I can’t stop them!”

  Parsons felt his way to the wall, keeping well clear of the grasp of the numerous arms. He regarded the chair with deep regret.

  “It must not know about your connection to the covert services.”

  “I know,” Bokie replied, his voice sounding as calm as it had when it welcomed him into the booth. “It will find nothing. Farewell, friend. Tell them.”

  “I understand. Thank you.”

  The bot shuddered. The LAI’s lights went dark. It stopped moving. The singsong orchestral melodies rose again, louder than ever. Parsons felt regret and sorrow as he turned away. The fugue for a fallen hero should not have been Ninety-Nine Horns Play Easy Listening.

  Parsons peered through the cubicle curtain, and waited until the attention of everyone in the salon was momentarily turned away. He eased out past the cloth and slid against the wall down the short corridor into the back room.