by Guy Haley
"You are not taking this seriously."
"Oh, I am, my friend, I am. This is a serious business we are about. But I prefer to be joyous. It is not often we get to walk the world." Jagadith breathed deeply of the air, then coughed delicately. The jungle was not the most fragrant of places.
"I'll be joyous when the job's done," said the lion. "This level of anachronicity is too high even for one of them. I am concerned."
Jag knocked the streaming side of his mount. "My dear friend, the world has been changed, this is true. But I hesitate to venture that it is a question of objectivity here that dogs you, not risk. We have engaged now in over three hundred and seventy-six expulsions. Very few have put us in danger. All will be well."
"I am not so sure," said the lion warily. "This is different. I feel it. Complacency is the enemy of the wise, and I am not feeling wise today."
"Are you feeling instead, then, afraid?"
"No, never afraid. I am concerned."
The lion said no more, concentrating on forcing his way through the forest, the crack of snapping branches punctuating Jagadith's humming.
Several hours later, as day retreated, Jagadith ceased humming, and a dark expression clouded his face.
"Tell me, Tarquinius, what is the precise extent of this landmass?"
"Four hundred and twelve point seven three kilometres squared, give or take the odd metre. It is effectively a large island in the centre of the Rift canyon."
"Then why is this jungle persisting?"
"You know what I am going to say."
"Because it is anomalous?"
"Because it is anomalous." Tarquinius gave a metallic grunt as he shoved aside the trunk of a fallen tree blocking their path. The rotten wood broke against his metal with a noise like a sheared melon, falling away, taking a swathe of undergrowth with it and opening a ragged tear in the jungle's wall.
"But not," gasped Tarquinius, "as anomalous as that."
"By Jove!" said Jagadith. "Now I am believing we may be in some small degree of imperilment."
Before them lay a clearing, a round gap in the stinking dark so precise of edge it could have been popped out by a hole punch, so large that to eyes less gifted than theirs its edges would have appeared straight. Some tens of miles away in the middle, shining in the last light, was a dimpled, hemispherical hill of carved basalt like a giant's golfball, and atop that a gargantuan monkey puzzle tree, its top crowned by a spinning hole in reality similar in aspect to a turning galaxy. Swamps girt hill, tree and anomaly. The tentative chirps of frogs oblivious to the peculiarity of their surroundings sounded from the swamp.
"This is a turn-up for the books." Jag slipped off the lion. "I do not recollect seeing anything of this nature since, well, I am thinking, ever." He frowned, perplexed.
"Nor do I, and I am as old as time itself." Tarquinius was silent a moment, his head cocked to one side.
"This is indeed a powerful god we rush to confront, he who can so reshape the world, and after so long..." He lapsed into thought. "Perhaps we should not be too hasty." They stood silent, as the sky dimmed.
"My friend," said Jagadith, "we camp here. Is this a good idea? Tomorrow we cross the swamps so that we may climb yon mighty tree. I suspect that vortex to be our quarry's lair." He pointed with an elegant hand.
"I concur," said the lion, and slumped to the ground. "Godlings are nothing if not predictable." He licked at some of the jungle's slime with his strange tongue. He made a face and said, "I am weary, yet not so tired I cannot make fire to dry this filthy water from my bronze. Perhaps the smoke will drive the biting insects away also, and we both may rest more comfortably. Fetch some wood, good sir, and I will open my panels and kindle it with the heat of my reactor." He yawned and stretched. "I would help but… You understand."
Jag performed a slight bow. "Quite. For all your talents, I do sometimes feel the gods could have given you opposable thumbs."
Chapter 2
Valdaire
From the moment Veronique Valdaire heard the message from the professor, she was in trouble.
Her sleep was electric with Grid-fuelled dreams. Reality less so when she awoke, sore and sweaty, to the sound of her name chanted over and over. She wished she'd showered before bed.
"Veev, Veev, Veev, Veev," insisted Chloe. Veronique frowned, rolled over, arms flopping disastrously into bedside table. The table rocked, sending the small necessities of her life tumbling about the wood of the floor.
"Veev, Veev, Veev, Veev," sang the phone from under the bed.
Veronique gave up. "Shut up, Chloe, let me sleep."
"Veev, Veev, Veev."
"Shut up," she mumbled.
But there was only one sure way to shut Chloe up. Veronique pawed her dreamcap off and hung over the mattress, scrabbling ineffectively with sleep-weak hands under the bed. She retrieved the phone and jabbed at its touchscreen.
"Veev, Veev, Veronique… Ah, good morning Veronique," said the phone brightly. "There you are! You have one message."
"I turned you off," Veronique said, her tongue uncooperative.
"I turned myself back on," said Chloe. "Because you will be late, late, la-aaate!"
"I know." Veronique scrunched her eyes against the light as Chloe opened the blinds.
"You are not behaving as if you do! Work awaits you, get uu-u-uuuUPPPPPPP!"
Veronique had thought before about programming Chloe's morning cheer out of her. She resolved to do it later that day.
"I hate you," she moaned.
"I love you, Veronique!" replied Chloe. "You have a message, from professor Zhang Qifang. Playing message. One message. Play…" The professor's voice, internationally neutral with a faint Cantonese accent: "'I've tried you several times. Your phone is off. I need to speak to you, please call as soon as you can. I'll be in my office for as long as I am able. Hurry.' Message sent 3.13am," said Chloe. "Sender Professor Zhang Qifang. Reply?"
"What the hell did he want at three in the morning?" Veronique said. She rolled on to her back, clutching the phone to her chest.
"Reply?" said Chloe. "Reply? Reply? Answer, Veronique, answer!"
"Chloe! Shut up! I've just woken up. Do you understand?"
"No, silly!" giggled Chloe. "I am a machine! I do not sleep! How could I understand?" Then she sang, "Get up, Veronique, or you will be late. Work time! Work time! Sleepy time is over. Sleepy time is over! Attention! Reveille-toi!"
Veronique wrapped a pillow around her head. "Go away, Chloe." The bed was warm. If she only had a hammer.
"I love you, Veev," Chloe said tenderly. "And I always will, now get up!" Raucous post-neo-romantic rock blared out of Chloe's speakers, music Veronique hated.
Chloe was evolved from Veronique's first doll, a life companion, the only thing she'd saved when her family had escaped the hell of the south. Her life in Africa had sunk into the shadows of nightmare, but Chloe had been with her always, upgraded, uploaded, tinkered with, but at heart the same. Chloe knew Veronique better than she knew herself. Veronique gave in, as she did every day, and threw the pillow aside.
"Get up, sleepy head!"
"Jesus! I'm getting up, aren't I?"
"Not fast enough! Late late late late late."
Veronique glared at the phone, snatched it off the bed and stood. She shook her head, squinted at the phone's screen to doublecheck the time of the message. 3.13am was both too late and too early for Qifang – he'd probably got muddled. He'd been seriously distracted of late. He was old, seriously so; anti-gerontics only bought you so much more time, she supposed.
"He doesn't even have an office anyway, so what the hell is he talking about?" grumbled Veronique. "We're supposed to meet at the lab." Californian communitarian law forbade all divisive workplace affectations, and that included private space. Working together, all that New New Age Dippy bullshit, open plan and open hearts all the way. Back in Quebec they didn't have time for peace flowers, team mantras and confessional circles. Group hugs made her flesh cr
awl. Thank God the free love was optional – some of the men she'd been propositioned by were frankly vile.
"His virtual office, silly!" giggled Chloe. "Shall I try and patch you through? Put your dreamcap on for full immersion!"
"No, no. Just give me a view," said Veronique, and prepared to apologise in her pyjamas.
Chloe went silent for a moment. "I am afraid his office address is non-functional, possibly due to Grid system upgrade in sector twenty-three."
"You mean Beverly Hills."
"Sector twenty-three is a more efficient designation. Whatever I mean and however I express myself, the end result is the same: his office is temporarily unavailable."
"Again. You've got to love California."
"Happy day!" giggled Chloe.
"At least I've learnt something while I've been here" – she walked across the room – "and that's not to move to California…" She lapsed into irritated muttering. If Qifang himself hadn't sent the job offer, she'd never have come to UCLA. If she had her time again, she might not come anyway. One more group bonding session would send her screaming over the edge. She had grown to hate the smell of essential oils with an intensity she'd not thought possible. "I should never have left the army," she moaned. "Oh, get a grip," she snapped at herself. "You're an adult."
"I agree!" trilled Chloe. "Stop being a baby! Up! Up! Time to work! As you cannot meet, shall I call the professor? There's enough bandwidth for that."
"Yes." She thought for a moment. "No, he can wait. This is my time."
"You changed your mind! You were quite happy to patch through to his office!"
"He demanded I go see him at 3am, Chloe, at the start of the vacation. I'm not his slave. Let me wake up. Send him a message to tell him I'm on my way in and will meet him at the department. Tell him I'll be there before seven, which is the time I'm supposed to be in, at work, fucking dippies."
"Language, Veronique!"
"Screw you."
Qifang was up at five doing Tai Chi on the lawn every day and thought everyone else sluggardly. Another pig of a drawback to working for him.
Veronique opened the door to her tiny room in the tiny duplex she shared with the not-so-tiny Chantelle, some crazy match-up made by the Archimedes, the department's Class Six AI, "intended to unlock your potential, facilititating cross-germination through personal antagonism" the dippies had it. They were supposed to become fast friends. They loathed each other.
Veronique's body ached from dancing. She'd wanted to come home early but Fabler was leaving town for good, and she'd been half-bullied into staying, but only half. She was a sucker for dancing; it was the only time she let herself go. She liked to think she was good, and went out of her way to prove it. And she was. She didn't need one of the city's Swami lifecoach charlatans to tell her that. But all night on the floor and in the air of the Dayglo would make anyone hurt, and three hours' sleep was the sting in the tail.
She yawned. "You took the risk, you idiot, now you pay the price," she muttered.
"Exactly!" trilled Chloe.
"Shut up, Chloe."
"He'll be furious!"
"That's his problem." Still, she thought, best look as willing as possible. At least she didn't drink anything last night. Fabler would be nursing an obscene hangover today, anti-tox or not. She put her slippers on and left the room.
"Hooray!" shouted Chloe. "You are up. Welcome, Veronique, to August 4, Thursday, 2129, in glorious, lovely, lovely Los Angeles California! Pacific Coast Time 05.26 hours. Outside temperature 38 degrees Celsius. Weather prognosis…"
"Thanks, Chloe. Please be quiet now."
"I love you, Veronique."
"I know," said Veronique. "Thanks. Now shut up."
The usual routine, breakfast scavenged from whatever scraps Chantelle had missed in her nocturnal bulldoze. A handful of rebalancers, and she felt like she'd had a decent night's sleep, although she'd pay for it later. The drive in to the UCLA AI faculty was OK, the weather was fine, but Chloe told her that there was a rainstorm due for 10.30, so she kept the hardtop closed on her aging groundcar. It was a bitch to get back up again. If she could, she'd have bought a new one, but who was she kidding? It'd be the twenty-third century before she'd have enough for a new car, and the dippies would probably have got round to banning them outright by then. Come the next century, they'd all be skipping to work behind a man in a robe, banging tambourines.
She stopped at Starbucks on the way in, a small vice but a necessary one.
She pulled into the AI campus at 6.46am. It was up in the Chino hills, having moved out from the historic campus in Westwood fifty years before. Forever ago, as far as she was concerned, although Qifang still complained about the lack of decent eateries so far out. Personally, she liked the view, way out over the tight bowl of southern LA, over to the Laguna hills and the blue of the ocean beyond. She parked her car in the auto-racks, then took her eyes from the scenery to watch it swing vertical and get cranked up the side of the building, because she didn't trust the racks. When she'd satisifed herself her car wasn't going to fall off the wall, she went inside, doors hissing out chilled air, and then her shoes were squeaking off faux-marble. She waved her ID at the desk clerk, some guy named Guillermo who behaved like everyone's best friend, then past Archimedes' reader. The internal gates pinged open and she wandered through corridors where robot cleaners whirred quietly. As she'd expected, the lab was empty; practically the whole building was. There was no sign that anyone had been there during the night.
"Professor Qifang?" she called.
"Professor Zhang Qifang has not yet arrived, Veronique," said Archimedes from nowhere.
Veronique's neck tickled. The notion was irrational, but there was an ineffable fear that came with the scrutiny of a powerful AI; the urgent feeling of being watched.
"Thanks, Archimedes." Now butt out, she added to herself. "So much for rushing in," she sighed. "Might as well get on with something while I wait."
"That's the spirit!"
"Shut up, Chloe."
"Shall I inform you when he arrives?" The AI's directionless voice haunted the air.
"Yeah, please, Archimedes."
"I am afraid I will not be able to assist you greatly. I have suffered a systems malfunction in half of your lab. Maintenance will be here presently." It called itself Archimedes, but its voice was colourless and androgynous, the voice of something actively avoiding personality.
"Probably rats."
"I assure you I do not suffer from rats," said the AI equably.
"It's OK, I don't need anything," she said. Now, seriously, butt out, she thought.
Veronique plonked her coffee down on her workbench, cursed as some leapt out and scalded her. She sucked at her hand as she walked across to her locker, realising it was for her that "Danger! Coffee! Hot!" warning labels scrolled round and round paper cups.
"Are you OK, Veronique? Shall I call a paramedic?"
"No, Chloe, I am fine, it's nothing."
"You shouldn't drink coffee, Veronique, it's bad for you."
"Shut up, Chloe." She pressed her thumb against the locker and spoke her sig out aloud, feeling thankful that at least the dippies allowed you a locker. An embedded part of the complex Six read her print and implanted Gridchip. The small door popped open.
"Huh?" She caught herself before she said, "That's not my notebook." Archimedes was as nosey as machines came, a blush out of the ordinary, and it'd be filling her ears with morning pleasantries as it deep-scanned her brain for anti-liberal thought crimes.
She kept her mouth shut and pulled the computer from the locker.
"Archimedes?"
"Ms Valdaire."
"Please describe your malfunction, in case I need to work around it."
"Of course," replied the AI. "All devices and subsystems supporting autonomous functions are operating correctly, at least, so far as I am aware. My problem is a matter of connection. I am unable to engage with the majority of my components anywhere
four metres beyond the laboratory door. Everything is working but I feel… numb. I have access to biometrics and staff Gridsigs, nothing else. I trust all will be available to me once the fault is identified and repaired."
Veronique raised her index finger and mouthed something incredibly rude in French at a nearby beadcam.
As a Class Six, Archimedes could speak many languages, extrapolate the meanings of many more from the ones he knew, and lip read. As a jobsworth, there was no way he'd let an insult like that go without comment.
Nothing.
"OK, thanks Archimedes."
