Beautiful Intelligence

by Stephen Palmer

  His significance level was down to p. He grinned. He was getting less important by the day.

  All the new tech he had bought since running in his swimming trunks from the Italian hostelry was certified glitch-free. That had cost him, but it was essential security. One night he fired the whole lot up: spex, wristbands, back-up mem and all.

  It worked. He could be a navigator of the nexus now, in as much safety as was possible for a semi-secure interface specialist.

  Aritomo was never far from his thoughts, though. Aritomo would want Manfred and Leonora back bad. He, the famous Dirk Ngma, was now in all probability a known associate of Leonora; that must be the message of the appearance of Tsuneko June in Malta. But Dirk did not operate at the level of Hound, so he was limited to his true identity and a sheaf of virtual tricks he’d picked up over the years.

  Yet there was one massive ace he carried up his sleeve. He grasped the difference between the AIteam and the BIteam. He knew what to look for amidst the vast, interminable, perpetual roil of the nexus. Aritomo might not know.

  He took a deep breath. Manfred Klee was mega-intelligent and would employ the best he could get in security. The BIteam would be concealed with genius level skill…

  So the week passed. Nothing. He designed software programs made to seek certain patterns, but they crashed and burned.

  He paid for a second week at the boarding house. After a couple of days suffering from stress headaches he took a day out to play volleyball on the nearest beach, then go to a Senegalese night club to watch a scion of Diabaté play the kora. He ate Rajastan curry and drank real French mineral water. He relaxed again.

  The problem was the sheer scale of the nexus. There were ten billion people in the world, a huge proportion of them children. It was children who stuffed the nexus with activity, their whole lives from dawn to dusk to dawn lived referring to the nexus. It was the internet’s “social media” taken to its logical extreme. You did not interact with the nexus if you were fourteen or less – you drowned in it, yet somehow remained alive.

  Dirk began to freak out. He had banked a lot on his new goal. It was his new raison d’etre.

  The Senegalese boarding house owner counselled calm. “What will be will be, Mr Ngma.”

  “I need more!”

  “Less is more. Seek wisdom, not intelligence.”

  Dirk sighed, sipping at his smart Martini. “What is wisdom?”

  “Information is to intelligence as intelligence is to wisdom.”

  The remark, casually uttered, made Dirk think. Artificial intelligence was the game he was in. Should he in fact be looking for artificial wisdom?

  He shook his head. “I need to look for kinda artificial naiveté,” he said. “You may be on to something. Yeah… da naïve view of da baby, da toddler.”

  “Kids all love a good toy, a good game. They play a lot.”

  Dirk nodded. So they did. He had no kids himself, but he’d encountered enough.

  Yet the new ploy failed. The task was too big, like looking for a needle in a million haystacks. Too much nexus glare burned his eyes, too much noise deafened him. The truth was out there, but everyone around him was shouting nonsense.

  CHAPTER 15

  The snow-muffled mountain slopes owned by Ichikawa Laboratories groaned and whistled in response to the wind that blew across them. Autumn arrived, and it was cold.

  In his glass dome living quarters at the summit of the laboratory complex, Aritomo poured Scottish whisky: two glasses, one for him, one for his nexus manager Ikuo Amano.

  “We must think like Westerners,” Aritomo said. “It is the only way to catch them.”

  “Must we?” Ikuo replied.

  Aritomo remained silent for a while. Thinking like a Westerner was difficult. In Japan, to think meant to arrive at a solution which may be shared with others.

  At length he said, “Despite the collapse of their economic culture, they remain individuals, with all an individual’s problems. They are almost incapable of banding together for the common good. Thus the nexus interacts with them as individuals, bound far more loosely than are we. They have little notion of conformity – it is, as they say, much like herding cats.”

  “Then I must seek isolated pimples of suspicious behaviour.”

  “You must first focus on the eastern coast of America. Philadelphia was where Manfred Klee lived.”

  “Do you believe he lives there now?” Ikuo asked.

  “No. But I believe he will wish to remain in America.”

  “Then I must search both coasts of the continent.”

  Aritomo hesitated again. “Our computers run proprietary software.”

  “The best in the world, Mr Ichikawa!”

  “It is not good enough now to be the best. Though it make us uneasy, we must introduce novelty into the situation.”

  Ikuo did not look pleased. “How?”

  “We will have to employ a foreigner.”

  Now Ikuo appeared shocked. “An American?”

  “There are no Americans worth dealing with. A Chinese or Korean will be pointless. No, it must be a European.”

  “You have an individual in mind?”

  Aritomo replied, “I had hoped eventually to utilise Tsuneko June, but she has vanished into the rot at the heart of England. No… there are other possibilities.”

  “I do not like the path this conversation is taking.”

  “Nor I. But giri makes me look outside of Japan for a solution. I did not found this laboratory for it to fail. The corporation will make us all great, then Japan also.”

  “Tsuneko June retains the patent rights to biograins. We must have them.”

  “Eventually we will. What is more important at the moment is that she alone retains them, not sells them to a corporation. But she is too young and naïve yet to grasp the commercial implications of her work, so she will hold on to what she has. We will obtain the biograin patents from her for our own exclusive use in due course.”

  “You see all ends, Mr Ichikawa.”

  “No. Neither does the nexus see all ends. That is why novelty is required.”

  Ikuo said nothing.

  “There is a man… a native of Italy… you will find him.”

  “What is his name?” asked Ikuo.

  “Soji Agata.”

  “He is Japanese?”

  “Half Japanese,” Aritomo replied, “though he looks less Italian. He lives in Genoa City with his twin brother. Find him, communicate with him, offer him the position we wish him to take up.”

  “And if he says no?”

  “The terms you will devise will ensure he says yes.”

  “Indeed, Mr Ichikawa. Now, what of the AIteam?”

  Aritomo pondered this question for some minutes. He poured more whisky, then thought further. As an antique French grandfather clock struck nine he said, “I do not doubt that you are correct to say they have left Malta for North Africa. This… unusual trace you describe in the Tunisian-area nexus is promising. But there is doubt about what they have created. Therefore, focus not on the individuals of the AIteam but on what they have built.”

  “But we do not know what they have built.”

  “We know they use the latest quantum technology. We know they have built only one creation. Run a simulation to decide what nexus outcomes may occur. Use our software – nothing external. In this instance, I want to follow my ideas.”

  “They will do everything they can to conceal the power of their device.”

  “They may, but they cannot do everything, since that is impossible. I believe the character of the creation will leak out into the nexus. The nexus will then identify and interact with it. Remember, it is difficult to grasp the strangeness of Westerners since they are so random, so bizarre. Therefore we will not seek those things. We will seek manifestations of power alone.”

  “Power?”

  Aritomo nodded. “What would you do if you felt unlimited power inside you? Ignore it?”

  �
��No, Mr Ichikawa!”

  “The creation itself will reveal where it is. The human beings around it are nugatory – even Leonora, who has long since been bereft of relevant ideas.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Pouncey prepared an elaborate plan to cover them while they drove the soltruck into the least damaged of the Haemorrhage Apts – the block with the ramp access underground and local cover in the form of birch and lime trees, not to mention huge shields of ivy. Another advantage – it was tipping with rain. Almost nobody on the streets.

  From a nearby lo-market she bought a couple of detonators. From a different lo-market she bought an ex-army mine, which she crimped so that it would blow on a time fuse. Then she set up the mine in a local side-street and the detonators nearby. Everything had to be timed to perfection, but this was a deal she had made before; explosives and swift action.

  03:45. Nobody in sight – at least, on the street. Pouncey signalled for the detonators to blow two streets down. She left it five minutes, saw two street bums running to see what the trouble was.

  Then the main blast – four streets away. She waited five seconds. Nobody appeared. She drove the soltruck into the street off which the ramp led. Manfred leaped out to raise the section of greenery Pouncey had cut loose, then she drove in, down the ramp, Manfred following. Then they all got out of the soltruck to listen.

  No pursuit, it seemed. No voices. Just rain beating down on concrete.

  “Okay,” she told Manfred and Joanna, “you two get some sleep. I’ll be on look-out for the rest of the night. If anyone saw us drive in they’ll come explorin’, but I’ll catch ’em. If not, we’re safe anyway.”

  “But the vehicle ramp,” Joanna said. “We will have to walk up and down it to get into the city–”

  “Nah!” Pouncey said, leading them to the remains of a lift shaft. “I’ll rig up a rope ladder here. I already scouted out a concealed exit on the ground floor – upstairs, like. It’s covered by ivy and only overlooked by one dead apartment block. We’re as safe as I can make us.”

  “Will we be able to stay here?” Manfred asked. “No more Hyperlinked?”

  Pouncey shrugged. “Fingers crossed.”

  Manfred turned to survey the car basement. “So,” he said, “this’ll be our home. Bit of a wreck.”

  Pouncey shook her head. “I’ll do a full reccie of the apartments upstairs, find some nice ones. First thing to do is set up the soltruck and ramp for a quick escape.”

  “You’ll point the truck at the ramp?”

  Pouncey nodded. “I’ll park it about twenty metres away. I’ll set up a screen so the bis don’t walk out. But listen… I was thinkin’…”

  Manfred turned to look at her. He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

  “You know that whistlin’ trick you got the bis to learn? Well, most of ’em learned… I think we could take that a stage further.”

  “How so?”

  “Treat ’em like kids. Give ’em rules. How about I find us some coloured ribbon, then we stick it to the walls, and, most important, across the ramp. Then try and train the bis not to cross the ribbon – like police tape, you know?”

  Manfred nodded. “Damn good idea. Go for it.”

  Pouncey smiled. “And I got more.”

  “Covering them in the nexus?” Manfred asked.

  “Yep. That’s our big unknown. For a while the sheer amount of info in the local nexus’ll cover us, but Aritomo will punch through that eventually. There’s a school nearby, right? I’m gonna set up a fake extra class of eight kids – special needs, you see? Give all these kids – our bis – proper ID. Bed the whole thing down into the nexus over a week or so. Don’t think even Aritomo Ichikawa will spot that one.”

  Manfred nodded. “Above all, he’ll be looking for patterns. He knows something of my style, possibly he knows how and why I’m different to the AIteam. But, yeah… that’s a good one. Do it.”

  “Will do, boss.”

  “But Pouncey?”

  “Yep?”

  Manfred hesitated. “Don’t have all the fake kids arrive at school on the same day.”

  “I already thought of that.”

  He grinned. “Just checking.”

  ~

  It was noon. Quite warm. Manfred placed his hands on his hips and surveyed his work. A strip of rainbow ribbon glued to the walls surrounded the bay in which they all stood: the three of them, the eight bis. The soltruck was in position, an awning attached to its rear for the bis to make a home in.

  Manfred glanced at Joanna. “Reckon they’ll cross the tape?”

  Joanna shrugged. “Not if we train them not to.”

  Manfred shook his head. “Kids is wrong. On this score, we gotta treat them like dogs. Trainable, obedient.”

  Joanna managed the ghost of a smile. “You are some father, eh?”

  “Yeah. I am.”

  So they watched while the uncaged bis explored their environment. Manfred went through the act of crossing the tape, allowing Joanna to pull him back. The bis observed. Then Manfred told Pouncey to cross the tape – he pulled her back. When she crossed over a second time, he asked Joanna to pull her back. An hour later, as expected, Orange, Violet and Blue approached the tape at the ramp; slow and deliberate movements, he noticed. Manfred inched closer. When Orange stepped over the tape he jumped forward, grabbed the bi and lifted it back over the tape. Blue tried to cross the tape: Manfred lifted it back. The trio looked at one another for a few moments, then walked away.

  “I think we may have sorted that problem,” said Manfred.

  “I’ll keep watch anyway,” Pouncey said. “Gonna make a wood barrier on the ramp that the soltruck could smash through in an emergency.”

  “Another line of defence.”

  “Another barrier for the bis. They’ll get the message.”

  The day passed. Pouncey left them, clambering up the lift shaft using the rusting metal framework. She returned a couple of hours later with food, water and a solar heater.

  “Not much use in this gloom,” Manfred said.

  “I’ll rig it upstairs. We won’t be down here for long.”

  Leaving Joanna to watch the bis, Manfred accompanied Pouncey into the apartment block. The upper levels were worst damaged – by ivy, by weathering, by decay – and here they stumbled across a few human skeletons. Also dogs and cats, and what looked like a horse skull. But lower down the damage was less, and three apartments, in the lee of the wind and rain, were passable. There was no power and the wallpaper was a mush of damp and fungus – mushrooms grew in the remains of the shower cubicle – but Pouncey thought they could make a home of them.

  “Take some time to clear it though,” she mused. “I’ll have to buy disinfectant, anti-fungals, maybe a heater. Place needs dryin’ out, ’specially this linkin’ corridor.”

  “But we could live here?”

  “Aye. Reckon so.”

  “One for me and Jo, one for you.”

  “We’ll split the bis? Half each?”

  Manfred considered. “Best to, I suppose. In case of emergencies.”

  Pouncey turned to face him. “I’ll do my best, you know I will, but there’s always the hint of a chance, ’cos no security’s perfect. You have to aim for ninety nine point nine recurrin’.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Which I do. But this is different to Philly. Aritomo guessed we were there.”

  Manfred snorted. “It’s not Aritomo I’m worried about, it’s his computers.”

  Pouncey shrugged. “Fair point. I’ll let you know if I get an attack of the itchy fingers.”

  “You do that. And if I tell you not to, ignore me.”

  “You betcha.”

  ~

  A week passed. The class of kids appeared at school. Pouncey remarked that the school didn’t know about this class because she’d linked it with school databases through the canteen software alone. If one of the lunch ladies noticed anything odd – extra IDs, extra mouths to feed – well, that woul
d like as not be ignored. The school had five hundred on its roster, with half a dozen leaving every week and half a dozen joining. But that one link was all Pouncey needed to ghost extra data into the school: eight new kids, special needs, not in every day… here a d.o.b. list, here their parents, here their photos (skimmed from a database of dead kids in New York). Layer upon layer of concealment, making any bi activity in the nexus look natural. Pouncey explained that she’d given the kids nicknames, so she’d know which kid covered which bi: Orange was ginger haired, Red had Native American heritage, and so on. More importantly, the nexus itself would attach these eight kid labels to patterns of activity linked to any of the bis – following Pouncey’s lead. It would over time corral info patterns and attach IDs to them, like it did with every human being in the world. Problem solved. The only difference here was that the nexus didn’t realise the bis weren’t human.

  “Nicely camouflaged,” Manfred said, impressed.

  Pouncey nodded. “Thanks. I’ll be updatin’ our kids every other day – inventin’ problems, scams, parental issues. They’re special needs, after all. A month on, it’ll all look so normal not even Aritomo’s best computer’ll spot any unusual patterns.”

  “Amen to that,” said Manfred. He glanced at the nearer bis. If they were interfacing with the nexus, as they suspected, that infantile, unfocussed, weird activity would be registered as kids’ stuff. It happened all over the world, and the nexus recognised it, labelling it infantile/juvenile.

  “We can use patterns noticed by the nexus to probe the bis,” he said.

  “Indigo we know is hitched up to the nexus,” Pouncey replied. “The nexus’ll do most of our work for us. I’m watchin’ Kid Indigo in particular.”

  Manfred nodded. He had already tried to analyse Indigo’s burgeoning nexus traces, but they made no sense.